Nights in White Satin
What is sexy? And why is one thing sexy for one person and totally silly for another? Then there are the stereotypes, the icons of sensuality that society has placed on a platter and served up for our carefully programmed titillation.
Eons ago I spent the night at a friend's house. He wasn't there, it was a last-minute thing with me staying overnight with his dog who was recovering from surgery (don't ask). Because the friend hadn't been expecting me to spend the night his house hadn't been friend-proofed. I didn't care about the gay porn at the bedside or the sex toys on the bathroom counter. But the satin sheets drove me crazy. Don't get me wrong, the were clean and fresh -- it wasn't that which bothered me. It was the fact that I, quite literally, slid out of bed twice. No, really. It was like sleeping on Crisco (which, for all I know, might be an actual fetish).
But the stereotypical setting for seduction, the no-doubt costly satin sheets, were a hilarious disaster. How do people actually have sex on those things? Maybe the friction holds you down. All I know was that sleeping there was almost hazardous to my health.
There are other things that are almost comic-book sexy that I've never seen the attraction of. I don't, for instance, do sexy underwear. Victoria can keep her damned secret. I have no desire to squeeze into a bustier or put on stockings with garters. Garters, for god's sake! And why would I want to torture myself with a bra designed by the Spanish Inquisition? I'm sure men like it, and no doubt Husband wouldn't object if I owned something other than cotton, but I just can't see myself spending money on lingerie that I could be spending on books or music.
I realize that turn-ons are a very personal thing. And I logically understand that people have all sorts of interests that just fail to interest me. Some things I get, even if they don't "do" me. I see the sexiness of a Playboy centerfold, the playful sensuality of the Petty girl, the romance novel setting of candles and music. But I also get that if I walked into a room lit with candles, with fuck-me music on the stereo and rose petals scattered on the bed, I'd probably burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all. Sorry, I just happen to find spontaneous bursts of lust to be far more enticing than a stage set, no matter how carefully choreographed.
It's like Valentine's Day. I can't be extra in love just because the calendar tells me to be. And I can't get in the mood if I'm sliding off the damned bed.