Books and A Nightie

STRANGE INTERLUDE Literature and Lingerie? 

IF I COULD ONLY SEE a nightie simply by reading a book that would have been a find. It would have been quite a blast, a nail-biter if I could somehow weave the pages of a novel and insert it into the intricate patterns of a provocative lingerie (that would have been a boner, no less). But the world is so full of surprises. They say opposite attracts, but that’s too easy for us to handle. And I don’t even know if this two can mingle easily, let alone jive at the right stroke. A book about whaling perhaps in contrast to a trailing see-through on its way to a romantic evening could end up as part of a weird lobotomy if you would consider the imagination. Nevertheless, this two, despite its glaring differences, somehow share a strange interlude. 

We wonder how an inanimate object like a book could form some kind of a connection with another inanimate object like an underwear. By the looks of it, there has to be an anomaly involved somewhere. Unless it talks about the latest lingerie in town or the development of an edible panty that this analogy could somehow generate an unlikely nerve, enabling these sex-starved executives and impressionable teens to go hunting for some good time. But the connection goes beyond mere appearances, and sometimes the subtleties in it are expressed inexplicably that you begin to question your own set of prejudices about the written page, that two-piece wardrobe, and even sex itself.

A book is a book is a book. And I often wonder about it. Of all the things that could be associated with a lingerie we suddenly find ourselves glistening on the pages of a potentially boring read, say, Introduction to Economics (The Third Edition), because at the outset, there is nothing particularly sexy about it. In fact, book reading is fast becoming a premature ejaculation lately, a washout, a thing of the past. And I basically don’t consider an e-book an engaging read that could potentially stimulate the imagination, or perhaps the libido for that matter; it is simply reacting to the situation. So let us go back, you and I, to the basics, organic if you will because going back to its original form we could somehow decipher the study of economics as an entry pass to the wonders of brassieres, or panties, or even the possibility of getting laid.

The secret to a fulfilling life is stashed inside the pages of a book. The economics of the trade requires us that this unusual transaction is really based upon the assumption that those who can’t and will not read are incapable of appreciating a nightie in front of them. Like supply and demand. There is already an overload of books out there, but the problem is nobody’s reading them anymore. If only they could extract something out of those pages and incorporate them into their lives, into their everyday conversations, into their perceptions about love and life, into their dealings with one another, into those things they normally take for granted, like having that talk just before going to bed, I’m sure a two-piece phenomenon is well on its way. The demand, again, requires us (guys in particular) that the supply should be on a consistent basis, a consistent reading for us to have that kinky night with our girlfriends, with our nighttime lovers, and even with our wives.

For all its intents and purposes, a book can actually save us from a boring session at night. The opposite sex is still out there, prowling and scouring for a little of bit of everything, and we can actually have them simply by referring to our own little libraries. They (books) may appear as props to a naughty evening ahead of us, the tools of the trade, but they could lead you to a little bit of everything, the minute details so indispensable to a meaningful existence, to a meaningful relationship. The wit behind every book, whether a how-to-series or the menacing aspects of mountain climbing has its own utilitarian twist as far as seeing that voluptuous figure in the dark goes. A kind of condiments that could add up to an already sumptuous meal, it gives an added punch to an already enticing cuisine.   

"...no better way to perk up those tired, frigid nerves than by immersing yourself to the potentials of book reading, that is, if you have this unearthly urge to flesh it out later on."  

Although far it is for me to suggest that we should all go to the nearest library and read frantically, so we could all end up on the right side of the bed the morning after. No, Sir, not that. The world is so full of information right now that the idea of going beyond it is almost always taken for granted. We need a bit of perking up to make it more palatable away from that customary menu. And no better way to perk up those tired, frigid nerves than by immersing yourself to the potentials of book reading, that is, if you have this unearthly urge to flesh it out later on. 

Of course, it takes a lot of talent or cunning to be able to enjoy the benefits of seeing someone dressed only with a nightie (complete with some intoxication and some candle lights glittering on the background). But that only happens when you have done your assignment, when you have already laid the foundations of those sentences in relation to a paragraph, when you have already ushered that damsel in distress with what this strange economics has to say about her sexy smile, from her deliberate needs to her unlimited wants. So don’t expect to see some tits if you haven’t shared a corny quote or two. No, no, no, no. Sounds like a lot of work, isn't it? But that’s the only way to a really promising future.

There has to be some sort of a relationship between these two seemingly warring forces, a book, and a nightie, and to some, the manifestations are too glaring for us not to take notice. It comes in circles, to start with, a mental lip lock before the real thing is exposed. And, if possible, there has to be an argument, a violent one, before an amorous affair could take place. A combination of nervous intuitions, wet dreams, foolish desires, and some unfounded fears brought about by so many years of reading and rereading the same stuff all over again. In fact, a nightie is actually a culmination of something you have read aggressively since puberty, where it all started, like a conservation which started out as something innocent and ends up relishing itself under those warm sheets and on those soft, sticky pillows. There has to be a reason somewhere before she agrees to undress and undress good and to see that damn light at the end of that tunnel, but if you don’t have the backing of a Das Kapital, for instance, then there’s going to be a revolution somewhere.

READ THROUGH For a full night ahead 

BUT THIS IS WHAT MAKES life so awesome: books and bikinis, novels and nipples, classics and clits. How can you possible delve what goes on inside every meaning (in this case a nightie) if at the outset you disregard the words printed on it, as expressed fully by any book? An understanding should first be considered before any undressing could take place. If this is a crash course for guys (or girls if they are aggressive enough) who are incapable of raising the flag at Mount Suribachi at night, then so be it. Not that I’m condoning or propagating the idea of infidelity or adultery or the quashing of a marriage contract, but that paperbacks, eroticism, that intense passion for life, in all of its quirks and fetishes, is almost obligatory for a fruitful union, whether legally married or not. We cringe at the sight of a beautiful woman clinging on the arms of a forgettable Morpheus simply because he knows how to do things, taking charge of the same; never mind if he looks exactly like, well, forgettable. Maybe that’s the reason why some people say that there is no God because those who have been blessed by beauty almost always wake up on the wrong side of the bed. The choosy you become the more you get the least of your brethren.

Women are suckers for these types of books, and men usually fucked up on those things. Although they melt at the sight of a gigolo, they tend to prolong the agony---they basically wanted to hear if there is something going on in between the ears. While guys are trying to figure out what exactly is this painting all about, women, on the other hand, only wanted to hear the figuring out. And they flirt, too, mind you, but when it is reciprocated on cue they may curse you to death, or even slap your face without hesitation. Everything should be planned also. Don’t ever leave the house without giving instructions about what you have in mind, the itinerary at least, and then, later on, they complain about how boring the entire trip was, so plain, tedious, so Sunday school, lacking the magic of a paperback novel. So it creates a kind of psychoses on both houses. Everything should be planned, but there should be some magical moment along the way (somewhere in People’s Park, I think). That’s tough. And if you don’t have the readiness of what you have read earlier that day, essentially everything will fall apart.

But as far as guys are concerned, life is simply a matter of occurrences. If some dude gets to see a cleavage on his way to work, then his day is done. And sometimes, that’s just the way it is (at least for the majority of that machismo crowd). Men basically don’t see the sense why they need to feel absolutely in line with what they (girls) have read in a novel the other day which, in the first place, has nothing to do with what goes on in the streets or in the workplace. Let’s just get on with it, and move on to the next. Ideals about love are just hang-ups, desires that are unrealistic, and that a novel is a total waste of time. Modern society is in a hurry, so why bother slowing down, spending some time in a rundown bookshop or segregating a crappy bibliography. If I could just pop up the ultimate question, and drag her to the nearest altar, so I could say my “I dos”, then that’s it, the “genuine meanness of it.”

So plain. But why all of a sudden, after almost a decade of being together, she suddenly woke up one morning not feeling anything anymore towards her husband? She somehow finds herself running around, trying to recreate that magic she initially found in him, not minding the kids at times, just the desire to have that moment of carelessness again, that freedom, that thrilling child-like carelessness, serendipity unlimited. And besides, he wasn’t there anymore because he was so busy trying to make their relationship, their marriage, their commitment to one another, the best thing there is, while she wallowed herself in pain, thinking of something else, something that doesn’t have to do with what’s best for everybody, or the right thing to do, but in having that sort of yearning beyond the confines of fidelity and companionship, something that enables her to feel alive, to gloriously feel, once again, how it is to be buried under that cloud of happiness.

My best guess would be that books are no longer part of the interior design. I wish I could take for granted the idea of having a book in the house because the lack of it sometimes could have some serious repercussions, i. e., his wife is living outside the box, living outside of herself even. Maybe that book probably gave her something to look forward to, something to expect despite the weighty, constant demands of that dirty laundry or the sound of those plates on the kitchen sink. The reason why he wasn’t able to enjoy the sight of her lingerie sparkling under the luscious lights in some one night cheap hotels merely because the reading between the lines had been thrown out of the window, into the dark, failing to keep up eventually with that lustful stare (to his wife, of course) in order to spark some fire every night. He is no longer that boy-toy she read about in some coffee shop across the street, no longer that dashing knight with some heavy armor shining in between his legs? Needless to say, he has to have that book to win her back and win her good.

"Somehow it is safe to say that, at the end of the day, all we really need to do is secure that book and have a full night ahead."

Yes, I am basically talking about romance, the finer things in life. And I am simply referring to a book as a representation of that crazy, oftentimes sensuous thing, that spark that hasn’t been used since saying "I do". And these romantic ideals, sad to say, are no longer a part of that intricate machine we call a relationship. We sacrifice a whole lot about it in favor of a more practical reason for being, setting aside those nerves that are in need of some touch only a book, ironically, could probably offer. Somehow it is safe to say that, at the end of the day, all we really need to do is secure that book and have a full night ahead.

We talk about a clitoris, but we somehow failed to appreciate the curves just outside of it when her hips could actually raise the bar of our very manhood. We talk about some boobs, but we were incapable of caressing its nearest joint when her arms could actually move us into kingdom come, especially when it is laced with a silky sleeveless. We talk about her legs, but we missed a really big beat about her delicate feet, which is more humorous than the rest of her. We talk about her butt, but we skipped a better part of her nape because it is always hidden and we thought it is hideous because it has all the sweat on it, when it is the very humanity that could stimulate the undressing of the whole world. But the question is, are you ready to taste the forbidden fruit?

It is almost impossible to follow through a serious relationship. An infatuation leading to an exchanging of vows could end up in a matter of days. That’s how volatile the weather has been. A lot of climate changes over an extended period, and the velocities that go with it can be so brutal. It may be quite spurious to recommend a book for us to live happily ever after because it only offers a way out, out of the linear misgivings of an unfulfilled relationship. No couple in their right mind would take that vow just so they could work their asses out for the rest of their barren life. I certainly wouldn’t want them to have what Kafka has suffered for so long that “sex is the punishment for the happiness of being together.” Whatever it was that made Kafka capsulized the entire Western civilization, his statement, ironically, is now gaining fruition to a lot of relationships around, a tortuous solitary confinement.

I read a news the other day that anybody could be imprisoned if and when he could not at some point “deliver the goods” to his partner if he could not show some love to his lawfully-wedded wife; if she could not give him what he wants. Alienation of Affection. I’ll probably remember that case as the term for that unusual discomfiture. And so these two encompassing entities, a book, and a nightie could not have come at the right time and moment, when the demand for some affection glosses over the supply of alienation now prevalent in our society, in our community, and even in our families.

I refuse to believe that we should all go pragmatic about what we really feel about each other. Some books would only cost you P20 when it is on sale. You don’t have to spend a lot for you to have that romantic evening with your lovey-dovey. Whether the lingerie used is expensive or cheap, it doesn't make any difference at all; the same subliminal atom runs through them. Sometimes all it takes is a walk, a talk, and some stupid time with each other for you to have that romantic getaway you've always wanted.

Perhaps it’s all just a matter of conditioning. In a recent article I read from FHM about how to get more sex (according to recent studies), the magazine has this to say about the proposition---read-more-of-their-stuff. “Seriously, the more often you fantasize about sex, the more likely you are to have sex and the more sex partners you are likely to have,” so says the Psychological Bulletin. So this is positive thinking all over again, the more you think about it, the more it becomes you. The more you read about it, the more you understand the politics that goes with it.

A woman is more attracted to a failure than a success because every woman is fascinated by an active love, so says Chekhov. Active love. At times the only difference between scoring and seducing a girl is merely on its activity, the execution, the way you present yourself even when nobody’s watching, the way you respond to that book when it has encroached on your biases, when you are naked in front of a mirror, and even the way you accept the possibilities of a forbidden love. Nobody said it would be easy. It entails a lot of work, and it is all too important not to forget about it. The greater the work you put in (the harder you read), the greater the romance (and the nightie) that would be.

IT TAKES TWO Sometimes you need to read between the lines

(photos: www.pinterest.com, snstoman.wordpress.com, favim.com, Before Sunrise)