MODESTY
Modest: the art of enhancing your charm
By pretending not to be aware of it.
Oliver Herford
French women have decided they get a lot more mileage out of a loose filmy caftan than a bared breast. More and more French women have refused to go topless and I know why. They have learned the power of suggestion is far stronger than reality. It is not what you see that will excite the object of your affections; it is what he HOPES he will see.
I learned this lesson years ago in the early fifties when girls covered up or else they were expelled from schools, barred from restaurants and hidden in the back seat of the convertible. At that time, my female hormones whipped into a frenzy and erupted into wild desire at anything male including the dog. My first impulse on seeing a man was to rip off my clothes and say “Here I am” in as sultry a tone as I could muster.
However Mother Nature had not been kind to me. I was so skinny I resembled a sanded post and there were very few hints of curves or indentations on my form. I knew all too well that nudity was not my strong suit. That was when I discovered saggy blue jeans and my father’s shirts.
Other young ladies of the times wandered around in sweaters that told it all and jeans so tight they had to skip when they walked. When you saw them, you saw it all. There were no surprises in the bedroom or even when you were groped behind the oak tree in their front yard. There it was: just like that apple Adam could not resist.
In those days, I dressed to hide what I lacked and I draped myself in loose jeans that suggested the possibility of a plump bottom and my father’s over-sized shorts that hinted at a bosom that was not there. The result was that I had hordes of men following me, trying to get into those jeans and I do not want to discuss how many times I intercepted a hand about to plunge down my shirt to get a grip on a fantasy.
Indeed, I was a huge social success until the big reveal and the inevitable disappointment that followed, But this was the fifties when that reveal didn’t happen until you got the ring, the china, silver and the pretty white dress. By that time, it was too late.
Now I am well into my dotage. My body has descended into my shoes. My wrinkles, sags and bags resemble a discarded sponge and my legs are so splotched they look like tubular Kandinsky paintings. Once again, I am faced with doing a bit of concealing if I want to tempt anyone into taking me out for dinner. I wear filmy tops and flowing feathered gowns with glittery spangles to redirect the eyes of the beholders from my sagging chest and bony ankles to the colorful glitz that hides them. The result is that I have not paid for a glass of wine in ten years. French women have caught on to my secret and I am sharing it with you. Never ever give anything away until the money is in the bank…so to speak.
