Your mindful author is aware that his chronological advance serves, amongst other depressing items, as a ready-made rationalization to further facilitate his - since teenager years - nascent curmudgeonly tendency. Knowing one's achilles heel doesn't, necessarily, serve to abate impact, but it can, at least, mollify deterimental impact by galvanizing one to seek out more appropriate avenues of alternative interest.
Therefore in the same vein that the straight razor & strop were a better shave (plus infinitely more environmentally sustainable) than any current beard technique employed, may your humble scribe point-out the geo-political altering fact (as I'm sure you'll agree) that present day offerings for naughty bits are equally dismal to any discerning gentleman. Besides being infinitely too vulgar, the barrage of plastic in today's models' overall form + demeanor is appalling to anyone outside a hedge fund manager with long positions on various silicon manufacturers. With the advent of the Paris Peace Talks to end the Vietnam War, Mr. Hugh Hefner stopped being suave and his magazine slid, unfortunately, into the mire of the unwashed Id's percolating trough of abasement.
All that true, there is, my considered cognescenti, a source for some lovely (and, rest assured, only mildly compromising) snaps of less than modest lasses from days not too distantly gone-by. It's nom de plume is Vintage Pulchritude; full credit goes to its author for this post's photographic entries. A lovely website in layout and, as these offerings attest, of course with regards to content, the originator and/or perputuator of this Internet project should be given a mini-MacArthur grant for the utter civility of his effort, at the very least, and considerable taste, in the most appropriate accolade.
Despite erudite wading through and wallowing in the meat of the ole 'Harvard Five Foot Stack', it is a sublime truth to which I can attest that the images of slightly less than fully dressed ladies often are the purest expression of visual delight that many a male experiences. It's a shame - not to try mock appeasement as a closet Feminist/Steinem-nite - that this more civilized form of erotica has been lost to the present day pay-per-view potty portals of pornographic putrification. [Lattermost sentence is my entry for this year's "Willie-boy" Safire 'Nattering Nabobs Of Negativity' Alliteration Award]
Another virtue of these photos is their depiction of real, i.e. curvy, women. A veritable cornucopia of shapes is on delectable display by those whom - one can only hope - willingly shared their appeal for future generations of appreciators. No matter your particular fancy or epoch, you will find a heart-stopping pic of an ideal (and without today's requisite, it seems, stare of surliness or, in nauseating opposition, victim-at-the-scene-of-the-crime countenance). Lacking the pretense of modernity or contrived artiness, these images are in general superior to even the upscale alternatives available today from private photographers of tasteful boudoir scenes (not that these more au courant folks cannot foster some lovely moments with their own considerable talent).
Any petition to march against prostitution outside of several legal counties in Nevada has my willing signature because, inevitably, the mistakenly appelled "victimless crime" feeds the coffers of organized crime in some fashion. However the appeal of these women is equally as convincing as one of the few concrete reasons life can be beautiful, at least from the vantage point, I would submit, of the less-than-completely-prudish gentleman of moderate to fully Cary Grant-like refinement.
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