May 17, 2010

SAM SHARPE

There is nothing, and I mean nothing, sexier than a woman entering a room wearing a slinky cocktail dress, a pair of high heels and the confidence that comes with an understanding of her sensuality, her sexuality. Her one of a kind blend of mind, body and soul. See, sometimes the most meaningful messages we send are the ones we don’t speak, the ones we communicate through actions, through gestures. Through the clothes on our back. And what that woman tells the world is that she’s ready, and ready on her own terms.

In my last missive, I talked about the role that curiosity plays in the development of healthy, passionate and mutually satisfying sexual relationships. This week’s topic is an offshoot of that. Today, I’m talking about the importance of dressing to impress, of helping to drive the curiosity, the sense of anticipation and expectation that whets an appetite. Everyone knows that you dress for the job you want. Why not dress for the sex you want also?

Let me be clear here. I’m not talking about dressing as a nurse, soldier, or prostitute in order to assume a role or to act out a sexual fantasy (although that is not frowned upon in Casa Del Sam Sharpe). I’m talking about the subtle wardrobe decisions we make each day that can help to drive the engine of our sexuality.

Say you and your man are going out to the bar with a group of friends for drinks. Start the flirtation. Now. This minute. Wearing your favourite jeans? Fine. Just don’t pair it with that pink sweater your mom bought you that just screams

“I’m a good girl”

Or

“I don’t ever have sex”

Or

“I’m going home to knit”

Put on that slinky camisole and remind your man just how nice your neck and back look. Accessorize with a chain of pearls that highlight just how glorious your collarbone is. Let him see your body. Let him now that you own it, you like it and you want to enjoy it. With him.

I’ve already told you about how not dressing for success contributed to the unraveling of one of my past relationships. Trust me, it happens all the time. Too many of my married male friends complain about how the mother of their children only dress like…

…the mother of their children. Short skirts have gone the way of the dodo bird. No more fitted tops. No more push up bras. Breasts that used to be displayed and played with are now just “feedbags”. The cleavage that used to harden a thousand erections is now strictly a receptacle for baby drool, loose change and grocery lists.

This is why I love the summer. This is why I curse the gods for the winter that forces us to bundle up. It robs me of the miracle of spying a perfect “high C” ass wrapped inside the finest designer denim, all but imploring me to “put a ring on it”. It robs me of the spectacle of a fine ass woman wearing a floral print summer dress, hair pulled back into a pony, panther like stems grounded by the most delicate feet that momma nature ever tucked into a pair of sleek yet comfortable flats.

I want to talk to that woman. I want to know that woman’s name. I want to know what makes her tick. I want to know what makes her laugh. I want to know where she likes to be touched. I want to her to get to know me. I want to kiss that woman. I’m willing to wait for as long as necessary. I want her to let me inside. I want her. I want us to have fun. Together.

See that’s the thing about dressing to impress. All the outfits that promise the most fun when you put them on are even more fun to take off.

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