Way back, before the conspiracy started, women knew their place and wore sensible clothes. The primary purpose of their long skirts and dresses was to cover up and hide everything underneath; legs bottoms, knickers and that naughty little crevice in the front which is the cause of half the world's problems. Out of sight if not out of mind was the idea, and that was an unbroken rule for hundreds of years. The great cover up went on right through medieval, Tudor, Victorian and Edwardian times, and other than a brief period in the nineteen twenties when hemlines went up a tad, (They had to start a war to stop women being silly in this way) it seemed that legs would stay out of sight for ever.
Then some time during the nineteen sixties, (No, I don’t know exactly when; I write erotic books, I'm not a historian,) hems went up and up till the average skirt was little more than the width of a watch strap. Suddenly sleek silky thighs were in the public domain for the first time, and girls would strut the Kings Road in an endless game of panty brinkmanship, now you see them, now you don't. For most men, following a girl upstairs became the leisure activity of choice, and I know a man who still has the same erection triggered by following a particularly toothsome little creature up to the top deck of a number eleven bus in nineteen sixty nine. But the point that I’m making is that the girls in question weren’t wearing sex shop erotica but what had become a routine off the hanger chain store garment so they could maintain an attitude of bewilderment at all the mayhem they were causing; for Gods sake, I’m fully dressed, so what’s the big problem?
The same psychology applies to the transparent nightdress. OK, with one of these inflammatory garments we may not be dressed for the office or the street, but technically we are dressed, so what’s the problem if we open the front door to the milkman? That breasts, nipples, bottom and our artfully trimmed pubic hair is on full display can be conveniently overlooked. It's just another weapon in the female conspiracy against the male of the species, helping us to drive them to quivering arousal, but still able to maintain an attitude of innocent confusion to the whole business. How can we possibly blame men for spanking us as often as they do? We're all guilty as charged
Vargas (see my first posting about him) clearly loved the transparent nightie and joined in the conspiracy with relish. A good number of his illustrations featured his women with their lush bodies adorned in a sheen of the thinnest gossamer which instead of shielding their nakedness only served to eroticise it. I’ve given you a few of these to which I’ve added appropriate captions, and I hope you get as much pleasure at looking at them as Vargas clearly got from creating them.
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