“Why are women… so much more interesting to men than men are to women”? Wondered Virginia Woolf.
That cannot be true, is not true. Indeed women are interesting to men like men are interesting to women. And the difference is only in the selection process of whom to be interested in. Women choose power and security, while men can be less discriminating. Perhaps they are not tethered to the attributes women get enamoured about. Can you, a woman, deny that you are not interested in men and do not hallucinate about a Casanova, about the macho quintessential man – the Lawrence of Arabia? I can see your disapproving grimace, the moue. You are offended and outraged by what you may call my crudity. You do often see candour as outrageous. Don’t you?
But I resent your accusations and I ‘m also embarrassed and peeved by your comment that I’m lewd and that I disrobe you, rape you all the while without feeling your skin, your flesh. You say all men are hideous and licentious. You are right in feeling that I’m a rapist even if I have not violated your body by touch. Yes you are right I disrobe you; my eyes can scan the deepest secrets of your pulchritude, your body, the tantalizing beauty of your being that titillates me to no end. I feel embarrassed when you notice my longing eyes, my skilful glances in the sly at the heave of your bosom, my eyes roving into the deep chasm in them; my gape at the fatal curve of your hip, the irresistibility of your rump; when the puckish gentleness of the breeze gently violates you- blowing aside the pallu of your sari, to feel the enchanting navel; the wheat tanned skin of your nape , and your back that you deftly display with the sartorial skill of your blouse; the low waist jean that clings at the partition of your rump, while you consciously expose the flesh below your navel and the naevus there about ; the light weight skin thin short knitted top that enhances the contours of your torso, while you wantonly gives me a peek to the straps of your bandeau and the wealth of your bosom; the contrived innocence in your lovely eyes that bewitches to no end and sometimes the lustful and ravishing glances that you throw at me.
Didn’t this confession satisfy you? Now tell me why wouldn’t I want you?
I was brought up to respect you, to not abuse you physically and by word of mouth. I have been truthful to my conditioning and what I believe in- not to violate women. Not to force a woman to yield to a wild amorous fantasy that may plow me. I fantasise you as you would me. Can you be honest here?
I must say that your garb, your sex appeal is hard to resist. Often the empyrean beauty of your being is overshadowed by the voluptuousness of your robes that is aided by sartorial skill and the sparse use of the fig-leaf. Often you barely wear enough and flirtatiously expose. You hide behind the argument, it is your body and you have the sole right over it; you have the right to wear what your are comfortable in.Certainly! You do that I know to impress, to attract me, to draw you to someone, potently and instantly. I agree that you and I choose our robes, douse our flesh and skin with fragrances (that begrudges even the Gods) with skillful intent to impress, to appeal. You may be confident but your fig up that often is not in sync, is flirtatious and is universally aphrodisiacal.
I do not ask you to move about cocooned in black cloak, head to toe with tiny vents for your nostrils and your eyes, lest my amour becomes roguish and go berserk. I do not ask you to weave into cocoon like a pupa. I assured you, I know not to violate a woman. But I refuse to be cowed by your statement that it is your body and you have the right to expose it as you wish. Yes you may. So do me. But when I’m what I’m there is always in the inappropriateness that you show that would make me want you, make me feel that you want to let out the beast in me. Choose your grab to suit the time and place. If you walk in the street square in a high hemmed negligee, that is very silky muslin like outlining your lingerie, sans buttons venting your voluptuous bosom you are only a temptress inviting any. Why do you tauntingly smile at me reclined in from the hoarding aloft the rise in the square tantalisngly and wearing a casual tee that seems to be licentiously and purposefully pulled down at one shoulder revealing the ivory coloured straps of your brassiere?
You even walked about with in an organised way as sluts in New Delhi. You called that a “Slut parade”. Didn’t you by using the term “slut” defile yourself and violate the many among you? There and then you told me, you confessed that you are aware that sluts and hussies are dressed in such way that would provoke the carnal beast in me.
You may brand me vile, satanic, and slobbering male chauvinistic squalor swine. Yes you may, but first make me convinced that my statements here are rubbish and are fulminations of a chauvinistic pig.
Believe me your beauty is given to you with unrestrained abundance by Nature and the many artificial gimmicks you borrow to enhance it, to take it to a level where you would succeed to entrance me, to provoke me- might stumble me , might unleash all restraint that I guarded with care. And that thinking you have is naïve, is perilous to you and me.
Believe me, I admire you, respect you but it is you who can make me crave lustfully and it is you who can make me behold you in awe, in awe of Nature and her creation that is you.