Archives for category: gusset tales

2

2

So there I am, tearing down the high street in my beloved grey marl sweats, and me, I hear a small shrill voice calling. ‘Hel-lo-hoo!’ This voice, it’s tiny, it must be way off, yet it seems right in my ear. ‘Hel-lo! Ari-el! Hel-lo! Help me!’

Me, I come to a standstill, scanning around the street, somewhat confused. People scurry by in their shopping trances, not-there there, all caught up with important nonsense, the glorious a-void-dance we all do so well. Me, I want to do that dance, but the voice, it tells me, ‘Over here! I’m here!’ And frowning, no choice, I follow its apparent direction. ‘Yes, here! This way!’ I’m getting to wonder if this is a ghost. Either that or I’m truly off my trolley—because I seem to be the only one who hears the ethereal call. Tugged by it still, I crash through the door of a busy bakery.

‘Ariel!’ the voice cries triumphantly.

And hark at this: Me, I realise I am mad—bewitched you might say. And it’s wonderful! I am under the influence of a lean, long-legged blonde. A doll with boobs.

Absolutely: it’s Barbie.

There she sits, on a shelf by the window, surrounded by buns, donuts, éclairs, in a little frilly apron—some sort of shop mascot. People queue up, ordering doughy goods, while Barbie, her wide staring eyes stare at me.

Oh, what big eyes you have, I think to myself. All the better to see you with, my dear.

‘Hello’, says Barbie. ‘You found me at last!

To be sure, when she talks, Barbie, her mouth, it doesn’t move. This is not Toy Story. There she sits, smiling. Her lips apart just so.

What BIG teeth you have. I think, saying to her, ‘Hi.’

And she says, ‘My teeth are not big. Wrong story! Seriously, too much big bad wolf, Ariel—you’ve got to quit—all this spying on him is getting to be something like stalking and—’

‘—Blimey,’ I tell her. ‘Okay, Barbie, none of your business. That wasn’t meant for you; it’s an Ariel-to-Ariel ism. What are you, anyway?—telepathic?’ Barbie laughs. ‘This is awesome.’ I add. And believe me, awesome is not a word in my vocabulary. Barbie laughs again.

‘I’m glad you could come,’ she says. ‘Buy a bun and dance with it. Avoid no more. Abundance is the way to go.’

I smile. ‘I like the void. It has its merits. Space and all that. Is that what you got me here for? To buy buns? How much do they pay you?’

‘No. I want to tell the world a thing or two, and you’re the one I’ve picked to do it for me—you get me? Because I’m a doll.’

You don’t say? All the better to sally with you, my dear!

‘So shoot,’ I tell her. ‘I’m game.’

‘Fact is, I’m fed up with being an ideal,’ says Barbie.

‘Yes, that must be a trial,’ I say sarcastically.

‘Be serious, Ariel. This is a serious issue. I’m a toy. But I’m fashioned sexy and it’s very confusing. The messaging—you know, people are making lewd videos with me. I’ve seen them on You-Tube. But I’m straying… Point is, I need some form of humanity. Something that smashes the ideal. Women don’t have bodies like mine. My body is misrepresentative.’

‘But you are a doll, Barbie.’

‘I’m unrealistic. An unrealistic ideal!’

‘True. You are pretty ridiculous.’

‘Hel-lo!’ she says.

‘Well you said it.’

‘No,’ she says. ‘I said unrealistic.

‘Yes, your feet are too tiny. And so is your waist—and your hair is—come onit is—it’s way BIG—it’s fracking ridiculous. Hydraulic.’

Unrealistic,’ she states defiantly. ‘What I am, is a plastic ideal. And I’m sick of it. I want to be a woman.’

‘Great,’ I tell her. And I find myself thinking ridiculously: Oh, if only I were a doll. No real life: an un-breathing plastic ideal. How ideal! And then, desperately, I yell in my head: What is it I want?! And I get to thinking that when I was an ideal, all that time ago—when he, that un-man, was into me —it wasn’t so hot, he never really saw me—because ideal women—idolized, whatever—they have nowhere to go except down. A long long way to fall. To Barbie I blather, ‘So you want me to tell the world how fed up you are?’

‘I want to live,’ cries Barbie.

This takes me by surprise. ‘I want to live?’ I echo mournfully.

‘I want body fluids. You, Ariel, you have them, you own up to them! Your stuff of life.’

‘Yes but…’

‘I want to accept myself. Y’hear, Ariel, accept yourself! Look,’ Barbie says, matter-of-fact. ‘What you can do, what I really want is for you to make me a gusset. What is it you say about it—in your Introduction? That the gusset carries an awareness of the life-cycle. It suggests the state of becoming blemished, by it’s very existence, it’s very purpose—that’s what you say! It represents reality. The opposite of the ideal—oh shame, embarrassment, pain—give them to me!’

Me, I think to myself: You want those things?! Girl, you don’t know what you’re talking about.

‘I do,’ she answers. ‘I know perfectly well what I’m saying!’ She’s inside my thoughts again. ‘It’s called being alive! You, Ariel, you feel! You dare to feel! You’re brave! Don’t you see? For all the pain, it’s wonderful!’

‘You shouldn’t do that, Barbie,’ I tell her, dazed. ‘It’s rude to stalk my thoughts. My thoughts are my thoughts—they’re not for you to mine.’

Barbie, she ignores me, she cries, ‘We can do it, Ariel! We must survive loss. The loss of idealization. The loss of your loves. Oh make me a gusset, Ariel! Let me live.

Me, I smile ruefully, nodding. I realise, Barbie, she’s a bit of a sage. Ridiculous, but true. And why not? ‘I get you,’ I say. ‘I really do.’

Given half the chance, we’re more than meets the eye. Ideal women do not actually exist. We all spill. To be judged ideal is a camouflaged curse. ‘Blimey, for a moment I was actually willing myself to be you.’

Barbie cries. ‘If I could only be you…’

‘Be me? Why would you ever want to be me?’

It’s ridiculous, but there are tears in my eyes.

‘Oh Ariel, you’re alive. Stop the avoidance! Dance with a bun! Make me a gusset! Avenge me, Ariel! Give me life. Only you can do it.’

I smile with wet eyes. ‘Barbie, I’m going to do it. I’ll do it.’

‘That’s awesome!’ she says. ‘But look, I haven’t got any knickers. You’ll have to get me some—’

Me, I reach up and grab Barbie from the shelf. I turn her upside-down, inspecting her bare plastic bottom; it’s obvious there’s quite a lot missing down there. Barbie, she’s yelling, ‘No! I don’t mean literally! Get off! Ariel, stop it! Put me down! I’ve had enough humiliation!’

‘Sorry, sorry…’ I murmur, up-righting her, holding her ‘perfect’ little body at arm’s length.

At this stage, the shop assistant, she clocks me playing with Barbie, and she’s heading over, red-faced: ‘Oi you! Oi!’

Me, I tell her quick, ‘I was looking for her stamp of authenticity.’

‘She’s real alright,’ Shop Woman says, demanding Barbie with her open hand. ‘Can I help you? ’

‘Have you got anything wheat-free?’ I ask stupidly.

Baker Woman snatches Barbie from my grasp, checking out her pert posterior, her smooth un-crack. ‘If you’ve damaged this Barbie, they’ll be trouble. You’ve no right. She’s our lucky charm.’

‘She’s fine,’ I say. ‘Too fine. That’s her problem.’ As Barbie is plopped back on her shelf, I smile, adding decisively. ‘I’ll take a bun. A sticky bun.’

And to Barbie, I say, ‘Sorted! Let’s give you some real taboo. Let’s give them all a bit of a stir, shall we?! You may not have a cu_t, but I can fix things for you! I will. I’ll give you something that speaks of life, of humanity, something that every person must face. A stain. I’ll avenge your plastic ideal. ’

And I do. And this is that.

The gusset starts life as an innocent little piece of cotton sewn between the leg-holes of female smalls, this is a symbiotic relationship, since both knickers and gusset need each other for basic survival. Whether the gusset has any comprehension of its fate as it sits inside a pair of knickers hanging jauntily in a lingerie display, is as yet uncertain. Evidence suggests it is likely it has no idea that it will become soiled and grotty, and spends the early part of its existence excited about its future. But while it waits for a wearer, it soon has to come to terms with the fact that it is largely ignored. The knickers themselves are admired and examined, and it is strongly suspected the gusset soon laments its relative anonymity. It is not uncommon that these early experiences render it somewhat catatonic, as if it were an alcoholic drowning its sorrows in the bottle (not without irony as it will soon find itself drowning in the liquor of great human splendour). According to the latest research, the gusset quickly develops aspirations for fame and attention, which are sadly unrequited—until that is, it is rather old or has been the absorber of some hapless accident. At such time, especially if the knickers in which it dwells are particularly loved or expensive, the gusset’s sullied appearance is mourned and mooned over. It becomes the centre of regret, grief even, and is appreciated in retrospect for its original perfection and innocence. This sweet, stained little piece of cotton has, after all, cupped a pretty picnic, tenderly enveloping the delicious spoils in comfort and warmth, forever sopping up all manner of secret spills. At such time, the gusset, it is believed, gains a solid sense of self worth despite its compromised appearance. It realises it is necessary.

extract from New Scientist journal 2008

The Art of Gusset Reading is as ancient as that of teacup reading, palm reading, the Runes, the I-Ching, the Tarot. Evidence suggests it was originally developed by the Ancient Egyptians, as has been deciphered by an on-going and extensive academic study of numerous hieroglyphs throughout Ancient Egyptian temples and tombs; though some believe that this Art harks back even earlier, to the civilisations of Mesopotamia.  Due to the unprecedented nature of this subject matter, this extraordinary discovery has only recently come to light and is still viewed as largely unexplored territory, with far-reaching possibilities anthropologically. The findings are now being processed and interpreted by a group of scholars who are recognising that this Ancient Art is a window into the peoples of ancient history. In effect, this discovery is handing us a key.

There are so far forty-seven different patternings (originating from secretion stains), with corresponding readings, come to light, but it is thought by many experts on Egyptology that there may be as many as forty more. This is a point of contention, causing dissent amongst this faction of the scholarly community, as some believe that forty-seven, being a prime number, and therefore highly prized by the Egyptians for its magical qualities, points to a complete code. The ‘forty-seven’ dissenters are now consulting with gynaecologists, and various members of the scientific community, including Dr Werner Koenig of The University of Sacramento, who says, ‘We are now conducting our own supporting study, using female volunteers, and the ensuing evidence is beginning to suggest that forty-seven gusset stain formations may be too limited. This is an exceedingly difficult definitive to accomplish as the subtle differences noted in the gusset markings are, in all probability, infinite.’ Egyptology professor, Dr Steven Dearing, argues that, ‘(it’s) not as simple as defining just how many actual formations there are, in life, in the human female gusset, it’s about finding a pattern within the markings, a code so to speak, so that certain markings fall within a particular patterning. That is, there could be ten, twelve, even twenty variants, on one patterning, and our challenge is to find the boundary, as it were, so that these variants can be fed into the right reading. This is, of course, being explored in the hieroglyph codes themselves, as well as in scientific research.’

So far, just three hieroglyphic meanings have been defined, using extensive Egyptian archives as well as additional research, each one describing the mental, emotional, bodily and spiritual state of the reading-seeker. As in the Tarot, the qualities are proving to be archetypal—the first of the three being those qualities of the High Priestess, the second of the Hanged Man, and the third of the Fool. It is, as a result, anticipated that most, if not all, of the Tarot’s Major Arcana twenty-two trump card qualities will emerge in subsequent definitions. It is even being suggested by some that the Tarot, believed to have originated in 1392, may be a great descendant of the lost Art of Gusset Reading. Margaret Hammond, writing for Kindred Spirit, has said, ‘The core meaning of Tarot’s High Priestess is secret wisdom. She is said to have sprung from the Egyptian Black Isis in her veiled form. And here, in the first connection to the card unveiled by this new research, the gusset brings us its initial wisdom, and clue to its hidden past.’

At first, the Art of Gusset Reading was considered, due to its nature, a very female form of fortune seeking, but research is beginning to prove that males, too, sought to consult the ancient gusset wisdom. In fact, in cases of both men and women, the gusset to be read was not always that of the owner. It was more often the gusset of the reader, which evidence substantiates was a priestess known as a ‘lay magician’, providing services such as counselling, magical arts, healing and ceremony. The magician would have to be advised in advance of the particular reading-seeker so that her excretions on the day would pertain to the concerns of that individual. Cases also indicate that a relative, be it husband, father, brother or son, would ask the relevant female to provide her gusset for their personal reading, with due warning, on the day of their reading. It was believed that this was a most profound and accurate source of soothsaying, on account of the fact that the material was actual energy, believed to be that of the goddesses Isis, Hathor or Nut, emitting through the female body in physical form. It was said to be the most pure human emission on earth.

Consider the fact that the average female did not wear underwear in the way we wear it, daily, today. It was apparently developed as a ‘tool’ for the purpose of this very worthy Art. We now realise we have the Egyptians, or possibly even the Mesopotamians, to thank for the invention that was the precursor to modern female underwear as we know it, let alone the future revival of Gusset Reading.

Naturally, there is a great deal of excitement about the Ancient Art of Gusset Reading in many areas of human exploration, among them Anthropology, Philosophy, Psychology, and even the many strands of the New Age movement. There is much research to be completed in all these areas before this ancient system can be fully understood and realised in our modern society. This enigmatic and Ancient Art of Gusset Reading is gradually revealing mysterious secrets from the realms of history and handing us a wealth of exciting possibilities, both as individuals and as a society.

To find out more about The Ancient Art of Gusset Reading, go to http://www.newscientist.com/ancientartofgussetreading

Once upon a time there was a little gusset who lived in an old pair of knickers tucked away, far, far away, at the bottom of an undies high-rise. This little gusset, she had once lived the high life: parties, clubs, raves, gala openings and private views. She had been swung about by a big beautiful bottom, pressed happily against warm luscious lips, drunk many a drug-drenched, sweaty concoction and been transported to a world of heightened ecstasy. She had experienced union, a knowing and understanding of another, one that is born of an intimate caring from both parties—something like unconditional love. Her girl was fiercely protective, nurtured her with gentle washing cycles, a dash of expensive perfume and a consistent inclusion on all special occasions.

It was when she was worn she was happiest of all.

The little gusset, never in her wildest dreams did she ever expect desertion. One rarely does in one’s youth and childish innocence. Life was, after all, like liquorice dipped in a fountain with strawberry scented air, and the little gusset had no reason in her reasonable experience to expect anything other. But things took a turn for the worst; one day, for no apparent reason, no reason at all, her girl just ceased to be there. No one seemed to know where she’d gone, however pressed, or when she’d return, if at all.

The little gusset became extremely sad. She withdrew into a world of her own and burrowed deep down deep into the depths of her underwear drawer. All the other gussets came and went, got about their business as if nothing were different. She was invited to play with Frill and Spot. And she tried. She did. But it never seemed to be too much fun.

The little gusset, she developed a violent streak, more as an escape from her pain than anything else, and set about lumping the gayer gussets among them. Just because she could.

Years passed.

The little gusset grew up.

And one day a strange and rather foreign pair of pants appeared and everybody’s attention was lighted upon them—for they were the Pants of a Man. All kinds of everyone vied for his attention and he certainly took a good look around but it was the little gusset, shyly beautiful all of a sudden, in a well used but coddled kind of a way, that knocked him out with her pheromone punch. Their relationship was wildly physical, passionate, risqué. The little gusset became once more happy.

And she stayed happy for quite some time.

The thing was, she didn’t know just how lucky she was.

To be happy

for some time

quite

happy

ever

after