The Nude Review


Hedonism II




















































































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Women In Lingerie
women in lingerie
Finally, The Truth. 
We Love You...

She's touching herself, and it drives me mad with desire. One hand on the bottom of her camisole, giving it a lift, showing me the gentle curve of her belly. The other hand addresses the thin, delicate strap, ready to slide it off her shoulder, releasing her full bosom into my waiting—well, whatever. Wisps of hair menace and frame her face, and I ache to reach out and brush them back, tracing the curve of her cheek with my excited fingers before that strap ends its duty.

I have rediscovered a boyhood wellspring of secret delights: the women's lingerie section of the old-fashioned catalog. Page 238 of the J.C. Penney Spring/Summer 2000 catalog holds my secret love, in bralette and hi-cut brief. Or is it the lower right-hand corner of page 245, or perhaps the demure and dusky beauty at the bottom of page 252?

Printed in four colors on slick, cheap paper, the new economy at the bottom of each page, it has not lost its power to tickle a few dormant memories to life. I can smell the bleach of the laundry room, my secret lair as a youth, where J.C. Penney and Sears Roebuck catalog played their private lap dance beneath my wild-eyed fascination.

Just think of it—all that lusciousness, all those adjectives, all those bouncing bosoms barely restrained by wisps of lace, lovingly described by the copywriter.

"Fits like a second skin." "Smooth and silky soft." "Caressing." "Enticing." "Plunging neckline."

And the names of the various styles roll off the dripping tongue: Enchantress. Soft Embrace. Smooth Compliments. Simply Gorgeous. Beyond Beautiful. Skin to Skin. Body Language.

Deconstruct with me, if you will, my romp through this wonderland of barely clad beauties. The secrets of their allure unfold.

They touch themselves. On every page, they touch themselves. A hand is lifted to a strap, as if to slide it from a silky shoulder. A hand brushes back the thick and restless mane of hair. Best of all, a hand disappears between her thighs, just where the illustration stops, leaving to the imagination her hand's destination and intent.

Those wisps of hair, straying wantonly away from sleek pageboy or casual chignon, clearly the result of a quick but delicious frolic before the lights-camera-action demands of their modeling career. It cannot be an accident that most have long hair.

The poses. Women in real life, at least in my experience, do not pose often enough. They do not stop in the act of undressing to cross their arms at the waist, hug themselves, and push up two beautiful mounds, with nested cleavage awaiting my touch. They do not lie on their sides, heads propped on an elbow, soft, rounded curve escaping from the top of a strapless demibra with maximum lift push-up plunge. They do not look down at themselves, as if in admiration of their own full-figured beauty, complete with scalloped lace detail. They do not simply sit, gaze meeting me squarely in the eye, to allow me to admire the frosted honeydew ensemble with its two skinny straps and its flattering demi shaping, on page 250.

And the gaze. Ah, the gaze. On every page, they look at you. The most commanding, the most powerful of the images are those that look at you. Less effective are the thoughtful ones, eyes dropping demurely to the side. They are less apt to have the loose wisps of hair, I notice. Most are somewhat serious. Thoughtful. Gauging my ability to satisfy their needs. Challenging me to try. Some manage to achieve an air of mystery in their sidelong glances, but I prefer the bold frontal assault. Except for that one on page 253, wearing the elegant twist full-figure underwire in two-way stretch jacquard....

I am having way too much fun with this. Please forgive me.

What is my point?

First, that some of the power of these images stems from roots deep in memory—those early encounters with the combined powers of imagination, testosterone, and imagery.

Second, that much more of their power—for me, at least—stems from their very wholesomeness. These are not the leering lecherous wenches of Victoria's Secret, with out-thrust bottoms, hands on knees, feet tortured in the highest of spike heels, with bosoms thrust intrusively into my face revealing no hint of modesty. Modesty—it serves larger purposes than one might think.

The big-book catalog women could actually be someone's wife, someone's girlfriend—and God forbid, on page 271, someone's terribly happy grandmother. They are real, not airbrushed—except for that suspicious lack of nipple in the most see-through of bras.

Yes, put our imaginations to work. The mind is the most reliable sex organ of them all.

Please, please, women everywhere: Understand that the digitized size 2 impossibilities of the supermodels are not the images we grew up with, not the images that stimulated our wildest fantasies that we now unleash on you. Draw your inspiration from J.C. Penney, from Sears, from Montgomery Wards. And occasionally, for the sake of your man, cross your arms and hug yourselves for a moment.

There you have it. That is our secret, the secret of men, the truth, told in the simplest of language.

The porn markets are a giant bore to most of us. Real women, with softly rounded bellies from the bearing of beautiful children, are the real thing. Women, women of all shapes and sizes, mind you, enjoying private moments in their undergarments, without a leer or pout—these are the women of our fantasies who have been with us since the first crack of our hormonally charged vocal cords.

You have all the power in the world. Please be kind with it. You now know our secret. 

We still love you.





copyright 2001 The Nude Review