[ 1 ] The Way Fashion Works

Through my years of study of the male phsycie, I've diagnosed that they are, in fact one hundred percent, completely about sex. Every single simple minded one of them. Through their chiseled, bronzed bodies, their flawless passes in football, these specimens are all about getting laid.

Their opposites, the much more delicate and painted creatures, they use their shirts as a way to intimidate and intoxicate. By going through meals with only enough to be considered as "just not that hungry", these images of beauty could very well be cut out from the latest issue of Vouge or Us Teen. Wether they realize it or not, the way they dress makes one quiver in their Jimmy Choo's, if not of the strong willed and mind. With their slim figures exposed by a tight fitting cloth, it's pretty obvious what all of the male population is thinking of at the exact moment one of these models to be passes their way.

Everything lies under the shirt. The shirt must be appealing to the eyes, yes, but so must be what it hides. Now, let me get this placed on the table under a brightly lit light for all to see. Girls look at something different then guys when their shirts are off.

When, lets say at the community pool - a prime example, and a girl is removing that layer considered required at most respectable dinning establishments exposing the skin in a way so as to not leave much to the imagination, guys eyes aren't checking out her bikini pattern.

Now, I'm not going to pretend that when a shirt drops to the ground and a guy is standing there that I don't look at his bare chest and the fruit of his labor in the gym. A two pack is good. Four packs are dandy. Six packs are more than enough reasons to party. An eight pack and well . . . The male anatomy. There's just something so appealing about it.

I've never had a penis myself, I'm a proud owner of a vagina, but from what I can insightfully assume, those with them like to see things. Where you can find the things they like to see would be just under that Armani button down blouse. To be honest, that's something that guys adore. Something we find annoying when shopping, they hang posters of on their bedroom walls. Oh, how we differ.

But that would be something of a different topic entirely. The things beneath that Armani button down blouse, hardly being concealed, are the things that can be used to manipulate and barter with. For example, how else would the school's head cheerleader pass History? Surely not by studying diligently the material or completing the assignments, that's for certain.

One button undone on a button down shirt would appear stuffy and unappealing. With two of those buttons undone, the shirt could be considered as, "cute". A third button undone, attention is drawn in a subtle way. When a fourth is not in its place, the shirt might as well be off. It's serving no purpose other than to be an accessory to an outfit that it matches flawlessly (much like men and the women that they hang off of the arms of like Dooney and Bourke purses).

Matching is key in a world where grade point averages are something only thought of at the end of a four year period. When traveling through the halls of a building larger than any museum in the state, it's important to have the appearance of perfection. Give the people what they want to see, an image of shear beauty, a vision that does not provoke question in the minds of teenagers searching for an idol to worship.

There of course must be a goddess housed and praised in every temple. The walls of this academic facility which withholds the awesome might and influence that the high school gods possessed was referred to as a heaven and hell simultaneously. Citizens of age would flock and flee from the mention of the dreaded and welcomed center of learning.

These cleaned daily halls must shine if they are to be touched by goddesses Italian leather heels or gods Wallabies, and that's just what they did. Adults would not be able to resist the charm and lure of such creatures with such an undeniable perfection. After all, every teacher can be replaced if not willing to cooperate with a being of higher rankings wishes.

Four buttons undone on an Armani button down blouse would be all the persuasion needed to convince an authority member of the teaching methods of some of the more respectable teachers. If that wouldn't be convincing enough however, there would always be mommy's and daddy's money to fall back on.

Mommy's and daddy's money could also buy some more shirts, too. Although an entire closet full of form fitting, designer, and hand embroidered cloths would never be enough for the most up to the date latest trendy gods and goddesses. If those parental units, if they could even be called that, wouldn't be all the wiser of their precious little angel's laundering. All that would be needed would be the number of a bank card and an ATM, and all of mommy's and daddy's hard work would be in the palm of their tanned hands.

Shirts are what can make or break a deal, really. Say for example that the star pitcher for the Baseball team wore nothing when asking a girl of his choosing (most likely the large chested blonde with the short skirt that sits two rows from him in Biology class), his chances would be highly increased. If he had been wearing his lose fitting, turtle neck sweater that his grandmother had knitted him as a present for Christmas, he would have had to go and repeat the process over again once wearing somthing else entirely.

Men have it easier when it comes to apparel over all. What they basically have to do in the mornings is to shower, towel dry their hair, pull on some of Ralph Loran's clothing, and walk out the door.

Women on the other hand have a much longer list of things to do before one can be deemed, "appropriate". Shower, pick out an outfit that could hardly have been anymore costly, blow dry hair, curl or straighten said hair, apply make up in accordance with skin tone and outfit, and then manage to walk down the stairs in three inch heels.

Pish, and guys think that they have it rough when they wake up thirty minutes before they have to be some where. They should try waking up with three hours until their expected.

As a whole, the opposite sex is quite unappreciative of how much work goes into a ladys appearance everyday. They can pass by it absentmindedly, or can merely ogle at what lays beneath the shirt that she's wearing. These goddesses constantly are worshiped and with the amount of time that goes into perfecting their perfection to be worthy of such devotion, who's to say that they shouldn't be? They've earned their temple, servants, and status, have they not? Do they not deserve praise?

"Miss Lace," my Geometry teacher called. "Miss Lace, are you even awake?"

My lids opened lazily to a class staring at me. I felt something wet on my face, and wiped the drool that had begun to fall from my mouth. With a yawn, I straightened up in my cold, hard desk and looked to the middle aged teacher standing in the front of the classroom.

"Yes, I am. Thanks for asking." I replied while my arms rose over my head to stretch out their muscles. "Was there a reason that I needed to be conscious though, madam?"

Her forehead grew wrinkled and her brows furred together. "Yes, do you have the answer to number forty-two?" She crossed her arms in annoyance.

I looked down onto the paper that I had scribbled my homework's answers on the night before and went down the line of numbers until I reached number forty-two. There the paper had become wet from my own drool and my writing could not be legible. In the pit of my stomach, I felt my intestines give a turn.

"I'm going to have to say," I thought of a number that sounded reasonable in my mind quickly. "Eight."

With a wicked smirk the teacher walked from the front of the classroom, to the back and stood directly in front of me. Arms still crossed over her chest, she leaned down, looking me straight in my eyes. "I'm sorry, miss Lace," she kept her voice loud enough for the deathly quiet room to hear every word. "But that is completely wrong. The correct answer would be, 'the definition of a rhombus'. Please see me after class." And with that she turned on her heel and made her way back to the front of the class.

I rested my head on my desk once again, too tired to care what the teacher had to say. My lids began to feel heavier and heavier. Just as they were about to come crashing down, I felt a lite poke in my side. My head turned in the direction I felt the touch from, and noticed that not a student was looking at me. I was about to lay down my head once more when I noticed a sloppily folded note strewn on the top of my desk.

With a glance up towards the teacher to see that she had her back turned, I unfolded the note and read the words that had been scribbled neatly in tiny letters along lite blue straight lines. I smiled to myself and folded the note back into the form it was originally in when I had found it.

"Miss Lace," my teacher turned to face the front and noticed my placement of the note on my desk's corner. Her voice was curious with a hint of malice, and one of her bushy brows rose causing her already wrinkly forehead to become even wrinklier. "Is that something you would like shared with the rest of the class?"

I looked up from the folded note on my corner to her disgusting face and smiled. With a large toothy grin I said, "no, not particularly, Ms. Bates."

Her face became smug while she took strides with her short, stubby legs to reach the rear of the class room. When she had become placed directly before me, with a quick hand she picked up the paper and smiled at me with my own expression. Looking me straight in my eyes, she began to unfold the note. Once she had unfolded it, she looked down and read quietly to her self those little, neatly written words.

"What is this supposed to be?" She asked, her voice angry as she crumbled the paper in her hand. "Some kind of joke?"

My smile was that of an innocent child, warm and sweet. Not her tone or her words fazed me. "Is there a problem, Ms. Bates?"

"Stay after class, Miss Lace." She was obviously quite flabbergasted. "We need to have a serious discussion, and I think you know about what."

And with that she made her way back to the front of the class, precariously perching herself upon her two stubby large legs. Smirking soundlessly to myself, I thought of what her life at home must be like. I wondered if she knew of the world and its inter workings or thought only of what would position her ahead of the game. Although she seemed to be on the lower level of the totem pole, she was still higher ranked than myself in the worlds eyes.