Контент 18+ When I was a kid the only naked women I ever saw happened when one of the other boys from the neighborhood managed to ‘borrow’ his dad’s Playboy magazine from its hiding place under some mattress or when — clever little bastard that I was — I would pretend to be reading the ‘educational’ National Geographic journal in hopes of being treated to photos of naked African ladies roaming around with buckets of water balanced on their heads.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but now it is clear that this mass nudity among beings from the Darker Continent was acceptable because they were viewed as ‘specimens of a lower culture’ who, not being truly human, therefore should not be thought any more offensive than a herd of giraffes or zebras. The white women in Playboy, on the other hand — flawless in measurement and always sporting a rack of snow-white teeth — were meant to represent some kind of ideal beauty and perfection.
Stepping aside from the semantics of seeing the alabaster chicks as ‘nude’ and the African mommas as ‘naked’ (after all, rich ladies ‘perspire’ while poor women ‘sweat’) — I have to confess that neither scenario aroused me very much. The other lads would align themselves in a gasping ‘circle jerk’, and I would just get bored. And, in fact, the damsels in Nigeria or wherever they lived were in reality no more sexy to look at than, well, zebras and giraffes.
Why? And again Why? First, green as I was — and believe me I knew NOTHING — there was already something in me that apparently went deeper than it did in my mates, and which understood intuitively that the Playboy pics were merely posed (and therefore fake) and that the so-called perfection of the models was more suggestive of department store mannequins or what we would now call air-brushing, than real women. I couldn’t have articulated it then, but somehow I knew it.
And I also learned that a mob of naked people milling around together is about the least sexy thing in the world. As the years went by, I would occasionally come across some magazine article about nudist colonies, and, sure enough, I had the same reaction every time: bunches of naked homo sapiens does NOT stimulate any sort of erotic response. In fact, it’s the opposite: trying to imagine some of these waddling satchels of goo actually having sex is akin to imagining an orangutan playing a violin.
Over the years I was a sportsman, but I also worked periodically in hospitals and nursing homes. The contrast (and its underlying emotional aspect) remains phenomenal. As an athlete, I sought for (unsuccessfully in my own case) and idolized physical perfection. The bodily magnificence of the male and female champions was beyond compare; it even suggested immortality (alas!). But in the nursing homes — warehouses for the old and dying — I worked, in the most hands-on way possible, with representatives of the human form gone to rack and ruin, and often what I saw was so hideous as to be almost frightening. To think that sooner or later we come to this !!!
I learned that very old people, when naked during a bath or bed-linen change, have forfeited all sexuality (even when a photo of the same woman at a younger, more winsome age stares hauntingly at you with laughter in her eyes from the bed-stand), and it is just as obvious that very young children who are allowed by their parents to romp naked on a summer beach are not supposed to evoke a sexual reaction (though, pitifully, it seems to occur among the sick and strange).
So the human package is designed to stimulate a visual sexual awakening only during more or less specific time frames in the life cycle and even then in reduced situations: alone, with a partner, or maybe in some kind of ‘kinky’ tryst involving a menage-a-trois or perhaps (but only now and then) a porn flick where the guys and gals swap partners when the director blows his whistle. (95% of the time that doesn’t work either because, again, you know it’s as fake as professional wrestling.) But nobody wants to go to Wembley Stadium to stare at 100,000 fats asses, pot bellies, and sagging tits. Far more appealing is a flock of birds winging over the horizon or a pack of piranhas stripping some fool who fell overboard clean down to the bone.
Moreover, even when we are talking about one single woman (or man, if that’s your thing) in the nude, sheer nakedness by itself is not enough. Not ever. The desired response (no matter what the soap-sharing boys in the locker room say) is stimulated by the power of suggestion, and very, very often this power is generated by people who fall way short of Playboy-style perfection. It may be her eyes, it may be her thighs; it may be her nose, it may be her toes — but the real deal comes from the subtle, never the blatant. In my not humble opinion, true sexuality does not arise from ”perfection” but from the right combination of imperfections.
I remember long again looking through a photography magazine in a bookstore. Some of them art truly wonderful. Anyway, once I saw a photo in black-and-white (color would have ruined it) of a slender woman probably in her mid-thirties standing naked in what appeared to be the open doorway of a barn, probably in the American Midwest (but not necessarily.) Her narrow face was hard and smoothly-sculpted and draped by a generous cascade of dark hair. The face was not smiling but neither did it suggest hostility. It just stared at the camera. The breasts were as well-shaped as the head, but pale and ordinary, the nipples small and rigid as birds’eyes. Yet what really stood out was the wild sprawl of jet-dark pubic hair. Nowadays women shave it all off, and I have grown used to it — even to like it — but time was, a vast crop of Sicilian curls around the crotch of a woman was enough to send Eric LeRoy into spasms of delight.
I guess what it was, was this: her uncompromising stare seemed to indicate an innate loneliness that craved fulfillment but would never ask for it; the stark pubic swirl was raw and animal-like in its pure earthiness. As a man, a beast, a creature of the earth, I salivated with a primal hungry to go crazy inside this coldly erotic female.
It had nothing whatsoever to do with being a good boy or a bad boy. It had nothing to do with sexual politics or Feminism or rape or ‘inappropriate behavior.’ And it certainly had nothing to do with Playboy magazine or a tribe of Africans wandering around a savannah near the jungle.
Just an ordinary woman standing at the edge of a barn. In real life maybe only another dull, predictable, bored housewife. But in that photo somehow emotionally chilly and wildly vulnerable at the same time. Well, she was what she was.
Many, many times in this life (including in Moscow), I have glimpsed women along the street or watched them (with tactfully averted eyes) in the metro, and been overwhelmingly attracted. Women I will never see naked and, if I did, I would soon discover that they were not terribly unlike hundreds of others. But…there is something about them. Wouldn’t it be incredible to be the man waiting in whatever building among the endless rows of buildings — to be the guy sitting them when she came in and said “Honey.”
Clever women, I see, are most charmingly naked when in fact they are still nestled inside the chosen attire of a skillful goddess. The man waits for her to undress and loses his mind in the imagining…
===Eric Richard Leroy===