Do Provocative Clothes Make a Woman Hot?

Do Provocative Clothes Make a Woman Hot?

(Casual Encounters w4m) 

The streets of SF are dripping w/ sultry, sexy women. High heels, short skirts, tank tops, push-up bras, and the promise of more lingerie hiding under silky fabrics.

My question is this: just because a woman actively or even aggressively shows her beauty and sexuality on the street, does this mean she’s actually hot in bed? Are these suggestively dressed women open to the heat you bring them and can they help you release that animal in yourself?

When you get these women home, do they deliver on the promises of their clothes and fuck-me heels?  In other words, are the ones who LOOK hot the ones that ARE hot when you get them out of their seductive trappings?  If so, then maybe I’ll rethink my wardrobe.

In general, I pride myself on being pretty direct, and Craigslist is a great place to do that. I can shamelessly put out a post on Casual Encounters like “Fuck Me Now – Doggy Style,” but I thought I might try a more discreet approach this day.  After all, lots of people on Craigslist say discreet is good.  (Actually, most of them say ‘discrete’ is good.)  Sitting on the patio of another of my favorite outdoor cafes in the city, the uber-trendy Revolution on bustling 22^nd Street, drinking coffee and watching the parade of gorgeous people on a warm summery day, I thought I’d try the indirect approach.  You never know when a smart, thoughtful, opinionated guy might turn out to be hot, too.

I’d been with a guy a few days before, and we were having a great time.  Rowdy, rambunctious, playful sex, we were really tearing up the place.  I suspect he had primed himself with some coke before he came over, but whatever he’d done, it was working for us.  The music was loud, the beer was cheap and good, lots of laughter.  During a break in the action – condom change, maybe, I don’t really remember – he said something like, “You’re not hot, but you are really nasty and fun and this is the best sex I’ve had in years.” 

I’m not hot?  I’m not hot!  What was he getting at?  If this wasn’t hot, what was?

I’d really been wondering about the women on the streets of San Francisco. Having located this near-insatiable heat in myself, after so many cold years of marriage, I wondered which of the other women on the street felt as I did – hot and bothered most of the time.  Coming from the land of snow and mud, where a fashion statement was a pair of insulated boots in a color to match your parka, I was unaccustomed to observing women in city garb.  Leg-baring skirts, heels that encourage bulging calves and protruding asses, silky stockings (not to mention the ripped ones –what is that about?), push up bras under low-cut blouses that send tattooed breasts exploding out the top… 

Quite frankly, I find a lot of the gear women get into – especially the impractical shoes – foolish.  Panty hose and warm days are a recipe for a yeast infection, short skirts leave me uncomfortably cold most evenings in windy San Francisco, and push up bras, at least the kind that lend support to these breasts that have endured forty plus years of gravity, are uncomfortable.  Why would a woman bind her feet into something that pinches her toes, distorts her foot and throws her back out of alignment, and that virtually ensures her inability to stay balanced on the bus?  She must think it’s attractive to someone, but I really wanted to know:  did this mean she was ready to fuck at a moment’s notice, as I was?  One night I actually leaned out my window at 3 am and offered to mug a woman tap-tap-tapping by in stupid shoes – she was asking for it as far as I was concerned.

I had wondered if part of why I had so little success connecting with people in person was because of my clothes. Jeans, boots, sweaters, leather jacket – maybe men think I’m gay?  I wanted to know if people could see my heat through my no-nonsense clothes, and if the women who were flashing their stuff were as willing as I was. 

Of those who understood the question and didn’t just hear the “good parts,”, those who answered me said that clothes had little to do with how hot a woman was.  Several thought I was a guy posing the question.  (“I once dated a goth girl dressed really sexy. Fucking log in bed man, assuming you’re a guy.”)  Another sent me a poignant story about a beautiful, dolled up girly-girl everyone at his office had been ogling and hungering for for months. He got her into his bed one night after an office  party, only to find her horribly scarred beneath her enticing clothes, and nearly unresponsive to him. 

This was one of the exceptions:  “I have found that to be true. I am a fireman in the bay area.”  There was myth-buster.  Maybe firemen aren’t as hot as I always thought they were, either, under their seductive rubber gear. 

MJ answered this post a couple of hours later, with a well-written if brief response (“Hell no, most of them are too concerned with messing up their hair, makeup or nails.”), a picture of himself and his motorcycle buddies, a jolly looking bunch, and a link to his post, where he described himself as handsome.  I hit him back with a picture and a bit about me, and he told me he was close to my age, a writer with a day job, in something about computers, like pretty much everyone else in the Bay Area.  I love my computer, don’t get me wrong, but I have a tough time relating to some of the esoteric high-tech jobs guys want to talk about sometimes.  He assured me he preferred a no-nonsense woman without the ‘hair neurosis’, who wasn’t afraid to don a helmet and strap her hands across his engine.  I worried a bit that even my mascara and lip balm would be too girlie for him, but pressed on anyway.  He really was a great writer, and seemed to have a lot of insight into himself, if little to say about who he was looking for.  It could have been a red flag that twice he mentioned that some people find him arrogant and conceited, but I missed that, charmed as I was by his expressive prose, a rarity in my email box reserved for CL communiqués.

We were on the verge of making a date to meet when he broke the news about his hair:  he said that some people were turned off by his long, curly, red ponytail.  There had been no sign of a ponytail in the pic he’d sent, and I had to stop and think for a minute.  Did I care?  I’d never really thought about it, and I hoped not, but just to be sure, I asked for a picture of it. 

Well, it was pretty striking.  At least halfway down the back of his leather motorcycle jacket, kinky and very, very red.  A few more feet of it and it and Rapunzel could have used it to make her escape easily, using the kinks for extra grip.  I was taken aback.

I emailed him back that I was indeed surprised to find myself a bit freaked, and offered him the option to back out, to dismiss me as a “shallow, time-wasting internet bitch.”  He replied that he’d always wanted to fuck a shallow time-wasting internet bitch, and that he’d see me on Sunday.  Well, then.  He insisted his given name was MJ, that that’s the name his parents had given him, so I adopted the moniker STWIB.  I filed his number in my cell phone as ‘MJ Ponytail”, so I would know who he was when he called.

We’d agreed to meet at The Lone Palm, another of my favorite haunts nearby, also dark and mysterious, but a bit classier than my regular flat-out hookup joint.  This place was more like six blocks from my house, my equivalent of playing hard to get.  When you meet someone at a bar a block from your place, you’re pretty much saying you’ve agreed to fuck him before you meet him.  Six blocks seemed at least a bit more coy.  

We had a good time at the bar, even though he drank soda water.  Some of the older guys have trouble getting it up when they’re drinking, so I respected his choice, hoping that was the reason.  He was very funny, kind of sarcastic and bordering on rude, but I was enjoying myself.  Halfway into my second beer – the point where I’ve generally decided or not whether I’m going to fuck a guy – I leaned close to him and said, “Kiss me.”

“Give me a dollar.”  I grabbed a dollar from the tip the people next to us had left (I know, poor form), and collected a very hot kiss from the guy.  It was time to go to my place, for sure.

He was good.  We were good.  We really got going there, and I was open enough to allow him to fist me, only the second time I’d felt that released.  I was vaguely distracted several times when he would fling that ponytail out the way, but I found if I just held on to the thing, I could keep it from interrupting the flow, as it were, and used the control to regulate the depth of his kisses.  When we had finally spent ourselves, it was too late for him to make his way home on BART, so he spent the night.  Sleeping with someone is somehow more intimate than fucking them sometimes, and when he left in the morning we agreed we’d meet again. 

A couple of weeks later, he came to the city again, and we met for dinner at Cha-Ya, a Japanese vegetarian restaurant in the Mission.  As I approached, I saw a guy in what looked like a red coonskin cap entering the place, and realized with a start that it was MJ.  The matted – almost felted – hair that topped the unlikely ponytail did indeed look like a hat from afar, and not a flattering one.  He was already seated by the time I made it that last block, and didn’t get up to greet me. 

He claimed to enjoy his tofu pudding, a nasty, gelatinous block of boiled veggies embedded in tofu.  It reminded me of something my mother used to make called “Mildred’s Pink Salad,” a Jell-O, cottage cheese and diced vegetable affair my sibs and I used to slip under the table to the dog. 

As before, I was drinking Sapporo and he wasn’t.  The conversation was slow.  The guy wasn’t saying much, and I felt kind of like a bug on a pin.  I was aware of saying some inane things I can’t remember now, to try to keep things moving.  When he said he wanted to retire to the desert and raise mule deer, I said something lame that must have pissed him off, because he really stopped talking at that point.  But I nervously yammered on, trying to breathe life into the evening, as I watched him masticate on this slimy tofu stuff and got more and more turned off. 

After dinner, he said he wanted coffee.  I figured at his age (late 40s), the coffee was going to help him stay up for a while, and that was a good thing.  I said I had coffee, milk and sugar at home.  “You’ve really got it all, don’t you?”

“Apparently,” I said, in a flirty, girlie voice I barely recognized.  I was stumbling all over myself, in the absence of any clear communication from him.  Strolling with the evening’s party kids, I touched a hole in his Carhartt jacket, tag removed, lest he appear label-conscious, I assume, and the first time I’d touched him all evening.  I really just needed to get fucked at that point, and even though this arrogant guy was kind of pissing me off, I was prepared to overlook that.  We headed toward my apartment, but he ducked into Muddy’s at 24^th and Valencia before we got there, and ordered himself a big coffee, without asking me if I wanted one.  I didn’t, but still.  I just wanted to get naked and on with it.  We sat out front and shared more halting, banal chatter, and when I thought he had to be nearly finished his caffeine intake, I gestured in the direction of my apartment.  “Shall we?”

“No, I don’t think so.” This said with the same smirk he’d worn most of the evening. 

“Are you serious?”  He said nothing.  “I can’t tell if you’re kidding or not.”

“No, I’m not kidding.  I just don’t see it happening.”

“See what happening?”

“Us.”

I still couldn’t tell if he was serious.  His sarcastic way made it difficult to know, but I was having a hard time believing he didn’t want to have sex again.  Didn’t all guys want to have sex, all the time, pretty much?  Wasn’t that what made them guys?  We had been very, very good at that together last time, and I sure did. 

He said I wasn’t the woman he was looking for, that he didn’t see us having a life together.  And I thought I jumped the gun sometimes.  I told him that while I was indeed looking for someone to have a life with, I wasn’t looking for it in every moment, and certainly not in that one.  I was just looking to get laid, and I’d sat through the mushy tofu shit and the halting conversation and was ready to overlook the ridiculous ponytail and the mat of uncombed hair that held it in place, in exchange for a good go-round.  I needed the exercise.  I didn’t say all of that, but I was thinking it. 

“Hope that doesn’t hurt your feelings,” was his oh-so-polite nod to any girlish sensitivities he thought I had, as he stood and aimed himself at the BART station, not my apartment. 

“No biggie.  It’s all good.  See ya.” 

It was a funny feeling walking that last block, a block I hadn’t expected to be walking alone.  I was sort of relieved, and sort of embarrassed, and sort of stung.  And of course still more than sort of horny.  Damn.

And wouldn’t you know it?   The batteries on my vibrator were shot when I got home.  Some nights are like that.

What I learned from MJ:   Always keep lots of extra batteries on hand for emergencies, tofu and pudding should never appear in the same sentence, and while the clothes may not make the woman, the hair apparently makes the guy.