"How To Take Your Clothes Off" by Jack Murningham
 

        Given world enough and time, slowly. Slowly, like a glacier melting
   beneath a blowtorch. Like a grandmaster's moves across a chessboard.
        Or fast, of course. Mad dash to the bed. No seam unsacrificed.
   Not clear who removed what. Just get there, just be there, trembling
   and exposed as a squid on the sand. Begin at the frontiers. One shirt
   button, no more; the waistband, no zip. When satisfaction is
   guaranteed, anticipation should be prolonged as long as possible.
   Undoing just the waistband hints at the longed-for removal of pants,
   but stalls the train in its tracks. The hint remains floating upon the
   ion-charged air. Aroma before taste. Image before reality.
        Then move to the shoes. For pants to come off smoothly - later,
   so much later - the shoes must have already been finessed.
   Removing men's shoes is also a last checkpoint before committing.
   Shoes tell a man, they say, as do socks, stench and the size of the
   dogs. If his feet are clean (and big enough), the rest of him probably
   is as well. You can have him in your bed. Of course, if you are
   undressing yourself (God forbid), shoes are the biggest hitch to the
   unfurling of your birthday self. Removing shoes and socks are the
   undressing equivalent of putting on a condom: rhythm-breakers that
   require deft timing - and years of practice. Your best bet: have a
   neo-Japanese shoeless policy in your bamboo-matted
   pied-à-terre. Otherwise, in a pinch, it often is enough just to maintain
   unceasing do-me eye contact while unobtrusively slipping off the
   offending footwear. And, despite the testimony of porn, socks should
   never be left on, unless it's by the woman and you are making love
   next to the fireplace of a snowed-in cabin in Vermont.
        Socks and shoes removed, undressing becomes a
  full-fledged artistic medium. Shirt, then pants? Pants, then
  shirt? Who's to say? Let imagination and circumstance rule
 the day. I, for one, am a great fan of pants going first (on a
 woman) but skivvies going last. I like a woman standing in her
 knickers, barefoot, shirttails down over her ass. I slip behind
 and lift her hair with my right hand, kiss the back of her ears,
 the top of her neck, the inset dip of her clavicle, while my
 wandering left languidly releases, in turn, each pent and
 aching shirt button. A man undressing himself should stand
 straight at the back with tummy tucked and dungarees
 unbuttoned and lift his shirt over his head in one confident
 motion. This lets his traps, delts and rhomboids ripple as they
 are wont, and allows the viewer to imagine the man as a
 miner hitting the showers or a sweaty young swain taking a
 drink from the pump after an afternoon of bailing hay. For
 less sightly torsos, this technique still applies - only execute
 more quickly, and with a swaggery Clintonian confidence.
        Finally, there is nothing left but the unmentionables, tight
 and white or pugilistic for men, flossy or controlling, lace or
 cotton for women. Cotton is best for both genders, dark
 boxers for men, pale low-cut briefs for women. A man's
 underwear should probably be removed soon after his
 pants, as erections tend to poke through in a most
 unappetizing way; a woman's, meanwhile, should be left on
 as long as is feasible, maximizing her mystery, complexifying
 the narrative, upping the ante. Some virtuosi recommend
 removing underwear with your teeth; better to pinch each side
 and slide them smoothly up or down her legs. A brief pause
 should always be made at the ankles, a sly wink to the fact of
 it being done, to the final obstacle surmounted. And now,
 naked, people can get down to the business they were made
 for, the glorious (or at the very least, vigorous) conjoining of
 souls that find themselves unvested.