What has become of the erotic art of undressing a lover? This is a part of foreplay that seems tragically overlooked in modern sex. Maybe I've slept with the wrong men. I am willing to admit that in this I have been heavily influenced by cinema. I won't apologize; sometimes it really is better in the movies.
Put it this way, when you have a new lover, there is a process of unveiling that occurs psychologically, spiritually, and physically. Peeling back the layers of an onion (oh, unfortunate metaphor!). This is the process of knowing the other. It's at the heart of mating rituals; we court each other, whether it's for a night, a month, or a lifetime.
For me, the act of undressing for the first time is far too potent to be reduced to some manic upheaval of garments. Nor should it occur fully supine, with each struggling awkwardly to get the damned jeans over knotted-up socks and uncooperative joints. Jeans are SO resistant to nudity, but they do look good on.
Anyway, here's how I envision it: undressing is like a dance. One partner, regardless of sex, may take the lead. Standing or at least seated is preferable. While you are unbuttoning my blouse, I want you standing in front of or behind me, as you wish, kissing my neck, grazing your hands across whatever part of my body you like, just so long as there is intermittent contact. Let the anticipation build. This is not a race. Are you so bored with sex that you just HAVE to get it over with? Are you scared I might leave the room if you don't seize the day? I will fuck you, I promise. Stick around, and so will I.
Do not try to pull clothing up over my head or off my wrists, legs, or hips without properly loosening all fasteners. You can put my fingers in your mouth while you unbutton my cuffs. You can lick my stomach when you untie the sash at my hips. Promise me you will never, NEVER pull my shirt up over my head again at the same time you remove my bra. In fact, don't even THINK of unfastening that bra before you get the shirt off (at least get it completely unbuttoned).
Don't you want to see the bra? It's black, it's lacy, and I paid 80 Euros for it in a swanky little shop in the Marais in Paris. I'm not even a girl who is particularly into lingerie, but I tried to branch out, for you. So behold the fucking bra, alright? Cup my breasts from behind, right after you turn to face me toward the bedroom mirror. Make me look at us for a moment, then take my chin and bring me back around to your mouth, or keep me facing the silvery Narcissist's window so I have to watch you get into my panties. You might even like it enough you'll want to do this again sometime.
Linger awhile, be creative, try not to behave like you are participating in a Wild West Land Grab. You can do that later, when I will, upon occaision, be fired up and trusting you enough to let you ravage me. And I will like it. Just not tonight, on our first night together.
(Here's a somewhat odd semiotic article on just this topic. I didn't read it in its entirety, but it popped up when I Googled tonight's subject):