Last week a 39 year old male fellow countrymen drove onto the premises of a high school, decked out in a schoolgirl uniform, pink brassiere, tastefully applied makeup, and nothing underneath. He exposed himself to the young pupils outside and entered the institution of learning in an attempt to become one with the giggly throng of innocence and purity.

Perverted? Maybe. Understandable? Certainly. No, this was not his punishable offense. That was when he chose to outbid the Prime Minister of Japan for the garment.

Now before you start glowering at me with your judgmental eyes, let me explain something to you. Yes, the men of my country have a deep and profound fascination with the little sailor suits our petite princesses drape over their pert post-pubescent bodies, but our respect is cultural, not sexual.

As is the case with any scholarly past time, it takes a sensitive and highly refined mind to enjoy the delicate intricacies woven into its cultural fabric….the fabric of our dimple-faced sirens.

Courtesy of Wikipedia

In the west, I’ve heard the intellectual class enjoys reading novels. Well, we see schoolgirl uniforms much in the same light as you see books. Instead of merely using our eyes, we embrace the sensations of touch and scent. Brushing my fingers over each wrinkle and stain, engulfed in the gentle musk, I imagine the main character and the subplots that surround each torn hem, each crease. I wonder where this nubile creature went, and what lowlife antagonist deprived her of her sacred innocence. The journey always ends with a deep and fulfilling climax that not even the most intriguing novella can provide.

In the west, you call your intellectuals, bibliophiles. You could just as easily call us…well, intellectuals is fine.