If you think seeing a naked woman is a disappointment because what you had imagined was so much better than what was there, may I suggest looking at it in a new way.
Maybe instead of pondering the tentacles and mouths beneath her clothes, you could ponder the bright things that lurk beneath her skin. You can look at her glistening pussy lips and wonder, my god, what rivers must run through her body to create that overflow of wetness. You can look at her breasts, dark and sensitive and soft, feeling in your hands like the greatest of treasures, and come up with multiple theories as to what lies beneath them that could possibly make them mould so perfectly to your touch and respond so enthusiastically to your tongue.
Her body is so much more miraculous and dream-worthy and mysterious when naked than when she wears clothes.
The mystery has never been what might be found under her clothes; that is just something of hers she letyou enjoy because she thinks you to be clever. The mystery is in imagining what writhes under her skin that makes her body move the way it does; what worlds are inside her that create a gravitational pull so unyielding; what makes her body a fertile ground, enough to grow the tenderness of her gaze, the audacity of her courage, and the ferocity of her tongue.
The mystery has always been how you plan on maintaining your cleverness for just long enough to convince her to let you stay with her, there, and naked, too, beside her.
2. At some point, we carried around little plastic eggs with tiny screens on them — in these screens lived our hearts, our pets, our raison d’etre, our very own Tamagotchi. We loved them, we listened to their tiny electronic screams of malnourishment, and we occasionally forgot to pick up their poop for long enough that they died a tortured, poop-filled death. They were perhaps our first foray into the life-consuming world of electronics and self-absorption, later to be fully manifested by Facebook.