NAKED IN A PUBLIC HIGH SCHOOL

                                  Naked, in a Public High School!

I used to be in the habit of not wearing underwear, to “want my ‘boys’ to move and float freely”.

When I purchased a fine suit of clothing, and was asked by the tailor,”which side I wore it on”, I  would reply,”It moves like a flag in the wind!”

However, that fashionless quirk once caused a serious’ costume malfunction’ that backfired to  jeopardize my career and my  life!

One day, as a  faculty member who taught Comparative World Religion,  I  discovered, after the  bell had rung,  that my pants had  ripped on a nail from my chair..

I approached and peevishly asked another colleague, the sewing teacher, who had a sewing class next door to my classroom, if she could possibly repair it, while I waited?

She smiled and said that it would take her only a moment, to fix it.

She was a tiny and sweet old lady, with her hair done up in a white bun, whose classroom clattered with sewing machines,closely attended by an all girl population.

She had smiled and had agreed and had told me to remove my pants, and to wait inside the  men’s teacher’s bathroom, around the corner from my classroom.

  I was to surrender those pants to her monitor, outside of the bathroom door and she would retrieve them to me, repaired, “in a nonce”.

Two minutes after I had done  that, however, bells everywhere clanged loudly in a rhythmic series of ‘threes’.

As I stood there half naked,  clangs of the fire drill bell rang out, and in profound shock, I heard the muted sounds of all students lining up, en masse to exit the building!

The silence of the building, now emptied, chilled me to the marrow; I waited, semi naked and alone, grieving, for seven long minutes!

I began to panic with the truth that I had NOT that morning worn underwear!

Alone, in an empty senior high school,  and suddenly half naked,  I had felt forgotten, left behind in a third floor faculty bathroom, during a fire drill, forgotten like a package left under a theatre seat,

standing around in a faculty men’s room with no pants or underwear on!

Grief and self pity weighed upon me, heavily. No staff entered.

I was so frightened about my present condition that I could scarsely breathe, yet again suspiciously

aware of larger and  sinister forces of the Universe,  at work behind my ‘life’s curtains’..

After  seven or eight minutes of utter silence, while I marinated in  fretful agony, I heard  the herd multitude sound of 3200 shuffling pairs of shoes, returning.

More time passed, but there still was no friendly knock at the door,  and no repaired pants.

Half naked, I was hamstrung to make my way back around the corner of the hallway to the sewing room to investigate, for I was completely without pants AND in an agony,  as well without  underwear!

As time progressed, I began to panic.

A cold chill and then a bitter warmth of

 horror  suffused throughout me.

 I could have simply covered my grommets with my removed shirt, but
 I had surrendered to
heart-pounding panic.
 Common sense melted, and submerged, inaccessible, to me.
There were teenage girls chatting audibly everywhere, beyond the faculty men’s bathroom door.

The nightmare of scandal paralyzed me.

I poked my head out of the bathroom door, and as a talking head, managed to call out to a random passing male pupil, to ask if he “could assist me.”

Would he “please go to the sewing room, just around the corner from the bathroom and call on the sewing  teacher to return to my rescue, with my sewn pants?!”

After  a long minute, the unknown Good Samaritan pupil returned to me.
He said  that “he’d be late to class, but that the room was dark and empty.”

“And that the program posted on the door, announced that the sewing room’s teacher was at a scheduled break, for lunch!”

She had forgotten all about me,  because the fire drill had distracted and scattered her thoughts!

I  began to imagine what would happen to me, if after lunch, she simply left for the day!

 Fear resolved into the righteous anger of indignation; I almost exploded with rage.

Plaintively, a talking head from a faculty restroom, I begged this unknown pupil to not continue on to his approaching class.

I would give him a note to excuse his lateness, and as a service to me, begged  “would he please, in God’s name, run down three floors to the teacher’s cafeteria, in the basement, to find and relay my panic stricken message to that sewing teacher!!!?”

I began in enabling anger to quietly  mentally curse that little M.I.A. sweet old sewing teacher lady.

Visceral waves of roiling hatred, blossomed towards her as yet unknown direction:  a violent trip on a stairs, chest pain,  a car accident.
For the raw cruelty of
her  broken promise had left me nightmarishly naked and cruelly  exposed, in a vengeful universe that clearly sought my ruin, a universe eager to crush me.
I still wonder what awful fate  befell that innocuous,  mindless woman, from my laser focus of evil intent upon her soul and bones..?
What reactions would my teenage students have had?
 I had unleashed demons towards her uncertain direction,  in guiltless spiritual retribution for my terror and
 mind numbing shock, and for the dire jeopardy, she had unintendedly immersed me in.
For in truth, though I was cringing, naked and hiding in a faculty bathroom, just outside that door
I was surrounded outside perpetually by an ocean of ogling female pubescent teenagers in a public high school.
And this sewing teacher had made me face a gruesome naked and nightmarish predicament.
My rage had calmed me,  empowering and less disabling than elecrtic waves of extreme panic, shame, and horror. skinny ass teens with tiny breasts

Staff  laughingly later told me, that she was good natured, but she was notoriously  forgetful.

Wish I’d known that.

I  surely died a thousand private deaths, for

as I waited

my career’s professional life swam before my eyes.

What if there HAD been a REAL fire?!

After many more horrified minutes, suddenly, there she was , knocking on the teacher’s bathroom door, embarrassed but holding my returned and repaired pants up to me.

She apologized profusely for having forgotten all about me!

That unknown student had been a Godsend.

She likely never recounted this horror tale to anyone, afterwards, as it likely also faded into the recesses of her mind.

I never once, after that experience, left my house for any reason whatsoever, without underwear on.

 “Don’t get caught with your pants down”, had a horrific new meaning :  always wear underwear and bring along an extra pair of teaching pants.

Simpsons Fox cartoon

(“I was arrested once in Germany for public nudity. I thought it was a topless beach – it was. . . . .a shipyard”

Madonna)

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IN THE BATTLE OF THE SEXES, CAMOUFLAGE PREVAILS

IN THE BATTLE OF THE SEXES, CAMOUFLAGE PREVAILS

“Sex is not the answer.

Sex is the question.
The answer, is ‘YES’!”
(Woody Allen)
Since sex is less than five or ten percent of a marriage, those who marry just for sex, find imposing reasons later on in the relationship, to not confine sex, within the parameters of their marriage, but remain as faithful, as their options and opportunities.
After all, man DOES need woman for the artistry and complexity of friendship, for filial fun, cute socializing, profound partnering, and deep soul intimacy, but they may not ALL BE with the SAME woman.
Women wander sexually, as well, as statistics reveal, that every other wife strays to another’s arms, for love making.
I often thought that women had it better ; if I were a woman, without any love, I’d be down at the docks,  no underwear, waiting for the fleet to come in, with my skirt pulled over my head.
But these days, older and more jaded,  I’m a cheap date, for myself, and even after sexy-self-love, I don’t even take myself out to dinner or to a movie..
There surely HAS to be some more dignified way of expressing desire and passionate love for another human being, because the human body is a sad marvel, with its waste disposal plant, immediately adjoining its amusement park.
Sex, is forever something that parents are loathe to discuss with their children; when I was a child of seven, they mentioned the fearful danger of sex, saying, “not to play around with sex, because it was,”playing with fire.”
At seven years old, I recall thinking,
“Well, I HAVE a hose…
But one who marries, just for sex, is buying a 747 jet, just for the little bag of peanuts. Surely, there’s other ways to get peanuts, if that’s all that you really want.
Yes, men are more shallow than one would imagine, and will  as soon marry for breasts, as love love, an idea so repulsive and childish, that it takes much head shaking, to comprehend.
Yet when men themselves, in later life themselves develop breasts, they chafe ingloriously,  upset about those clearly unmanly acquisitions.
                                                 
Are men more juvenile in their primitive sexual drives and emotional makeup, and are women, indeed, far better human beings than men, providential, sensitive, charitable, strong and beautiful?
This DNA primate difference can be demonstrated, at a very young age: if you place a group of five-year-old girls, in a room together, they sit, talk and relate to each other with civil chatter, sharing, and with often surprising wisdom.
 But, if instead, you place a group of five-year-old boys, in a room together, they will soon roll all over the floor, like shaved gorillas, lost in individual combative power fantasies.
Nevertheless, our lingering social notion is that men are more important, more apt and more likely to be leaders,  a hard social prejudice to quell.
Equality,  in passion, is immediately easy to demonstrate:
When a cop on the beat encounters a young couple making love in the tall grass, in a park, he does NOT tap their shoes with his nightstick to angrily demand:
” All right, now, WHO’S in charge, here ?!”
Progress is being made and HIStory, will eventually become HERstory..
But women are still naive, and are not the least bit aware of men’s glandular functioning concepts towards women:
When men view a woman’s public, licentious exaggerated undulations, in dance, consummated sexual fantasies unfurl
deep within men’s psyches, visualized fantasies/daydreams dominate, of private encounters, with these licentious, and actively lithe women.
For women, seen by men, rarely grasp that their public dancing, is clearly nothing but overt symbolic sex.
Is this why is it still a man’s world, and so much easier, in society, to BE a man?
We equate physical beauty with inner goodness, which has allowed nice-featured  and handsome psychopaths like Ted Bundy and Jefferey Dalmer to serial (successful) murder so many duped women and duped so many gay men .
Men are suckers for a pretty (merely perfectly symmetrical) face and will sacrifice marriage, family and children for a dalliance with one..
But, it’s easier to BE a man because, as a man:
Each solitary, individual feature on your face always stays its birth shade and original color.
(Methinks, that If men wore makeup, most would be disconcertingly prettier than many women.)
If a man chooses, he might, perhaps, consider a cosmetic shave, but ONLY to some parts of his face and neck.
You, as a man,  can always wear shorts despite how awful your legs do look.
Your last name, regardless of marital -legal battles, stays put.
People do not ever stare at your breasts and your nipples when you’re happily chatting with them.
You are genetically and socially blind to any but the biggest wrinkles in your clothing.
Calorie intake and belly size are never a crucial consideration.
You always have the consummate and total freedom of choice about the growing of a mustache.
You don’t have to remove all of your clothes just to pee.
You can wake up just as attractive as you were when you went to bed, rather than have your beauty somehow deteriorate, during the night.
You can more easily, socially, defend your space, with knee-jerk displays of violence.
Woman, as the pretty sex, is a relatively new idea.
Pirates who wore the perfumes, jewelry, silks and frills echoed this olden concept of male beauty; a classical nude in statue, was almost ALWAYS male, historically, in ancient Greece and Rome.
This classic maleness model of beauty oddly reversed itself in the eighteenth century and women became the “pretty sex”, instead.
Throughout the animal world, whether it flies or swims, the male is STILL the colorful sex, the female, the drab one.
But since the eighteenth century, sexual and cultural reversals have oddly persisted in human affairs, and women instead have become the pretty sex.
Today, women who carry a few extra pounds, live longer than the men, who mention it…
Straight men, do not adorn themselves towards being highly polished- exceptions exist for politicians, actors, sports-stars, head gangsters, and police detectives, for within these men, narcissism, a sinful sense of entitlement, and monumental ego all loom.
In those megalomaniac ‘types’ , highly-polished self-preening is also accompanied by bullying.
But the question remains, for the sake of guile and deceit: how curried and airbrushed is too curried and airbrushed?
The first thing I look at, when I see a polished, curried woman, is her eyebrows; if they’re natural, it’s a blast of honest sexuality that curls my toes.
If they’ve been removed and severe Groucho-Klingon brows, of crayola, or worse,  tattooed eyebrows, I experience an anxious ‘turn off’  and a social warning of duplicity, and then, all of my antenna are up, and waving..
But, why are so many women who look like floss, patina and veneer, the very shallow types, who a man has to pay, for an intelligent conversation?
It is, In truth, because they have long cared ONLY about their outsides, and not ever about, their ‘insides’.
‘Beauty’ television commercials and ‘beauty’ magazine ads feature graphics of highly curried women extolling Western society’s virtues of vacuous, narcissistic women, who gaze back at us, made over into a man’s surreal vision of what ‘beauty’ should look like..
In Maine, at a lobster restaurant, I went to the register to pay and behind the counter, opening the register, was a tall, strikingly handsome, buxom woman, in a formal ballgown who sported a large handlebar mustache.
Her startling visage has stayed with me, for many years, resplendent and role indigestible..
It’s a cultural facade and mirage of the sadly discarded true value of beauty, which always comes from within.
 A man in our culture says,”You’re beautiful”, before he says, “I love you”, and thus a woman is wrongly taught , that if beauty fades, then love must also fade.
Poorly informed, desperately seeking love, she runs scared to the beauty parlor, nail salon, hair stylist, cosmetic facial and breast implant surgeons, willing to suffer to maintain an airbrushed, curried, artificial “beauty” , so that “love” will not also vanish.
Men perpetrate this hoax until they themselves believe it.
Men admit that they LOVE women who look hot and who act hot;  homespun, often unwilling women, by comparison, are like radiators, men have to keep touching, to see if the heat’s coming up.
Yes, men are more shallow than one would imagine, more vain than women and more duplicitous in satisfying their hormonal drive.
Thus, using men’s sex drive, women, culturally, have been taught guile and deceit from a tender age, to ‘trap a man’, by using their physical, sexual allure:
They shave armpits,
shave legs and mustaches,
dye their hair,
use eye-liner,
mascara and false eyelashes,
face makeup,
(“Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut, and still think they are sexy”)
face foundation,
earrings,
tints of rouge blush,
sport uplift brassieres,
apply perfumes,
apply lipstick,
go for Botox or plastic surgery to erase facial wrinkles,
surgery for the installation of silicone fake breasts,
wear high heels,
designer fingernails,
contact lenses,
  paint fingers and toes.
They put on things, to make them look bigger, and things that make them look smaller;
then, they meet a man, and  they want, “honesty”!
Man, refuses to accept that makeup glamour fools the eye and deludes the heart, until he awakens after the wedding to see his bride without any makeup, and in shock thinks, “WHO is THAT?!”
Can such preoccupation with sexual camouflage avoid extra-marital diversion , and allow longevity and truthfulness towards a meaningful marriage?
Many couples who have lasted together forever, don’t have to work hard  to get along  in marriage.
“When you work too hard to make the business of marriage work, you get tired, and when you’re tired , you get annoyed, and  arguments start, and when arguments start… you’re out of business ..'”
(George Burns)
I remember being stopped and asked once, at Disneyland, by a graying and aged couple to photograph them, for they admitted that it was none other than their fiftieth anniversary.
I saw the way he held her hand and how they hugged and kissed as I struggled to find and frame the picture.
I wondered what wisdom and marital advice they might share, for too  many, marriages end in divorce.
Marriage, for too many men,  is just like a tornado: in the beginning, there’s sucking and blowing , and later on … you lose the house.
Whatever happened to the woman and to the man who could not live, without each other?
He went East, and she went West, and they both lived.
My wife went over to speak with his wife to comment on how sweet they looked together.
I returned the camera when he slowly made his way to me and I asked him the $500,000 lulu question:
“What’s the secret to being married, so successfully, for so long?”
He looked confidential and wise and peeked to see if his wife was engaged in conversation before he spoke:
“You gotta cheat”, he whispered.
Men are like linoleum floors. Lay ’em right and you can walk all over them for thirty years. ~ Betsy Salkind