Love, lust, passion and perversion: thank you, I'll take them allAn essay concerning the four pillars of the perfect relationship.
First lust...We've all got our triggers: those little things that turn us onto someone. Seemingly insignificant nuances of personality or physicality that, should the initial attraction blossom into a relationship, become the "thing" that kick-started the whole affair.
Off the bat, I'm a sucker for a pair of well-developed forearms - with the shoulders to match. I know, how typical of me. I'm a little embarrassed for being so easily pleased. Ah! But that's just the beginning and only the most basic of requirements. That is to say, love is still a long way off. At this point I'm merely mildly interested. I'm well aware, at this juncture, that I'm slavishly satisfying the tiny, atavistic part of the brain that screams "He must be strong! How else is he to guard the cave entrance and dispense with marauding sabre-toothed tigers"? Physical indicators of strength are not emphatic evidence of his being any sort of decent human being: Henry VIII bears absolute testament to this fact and, therefore, closer inspection will be necessary. If those forearms are obliged with a moderate smattering of hirsuteness, all the better. And here I reveal the favourite of my somewhat unlikely lusts: I adore how the little hairs at the wrist curl over a watch strap. There's something wholly manly about it. There are many sights which please me: the sweep of the River Arno viewed from the Ponte Vecchio, for example, or the fall of diffused light at dusk onto French meadow grass in June. But, a male forearm, innocently open to my voyeurism where I may gaze upon a tableaux of healthy musculature, watch strap and tiny curled hairs is right up there with the best of them. Lust! Oh, how I love the very word. One may roll it around the tongue indefinitely, but its potency doth not wither. |
Then passion: always in fashionShould the forearms and shoulders pass muster, my attentions then turn to matters of taste and pursuits: or, as I have labelled them, "The Passions".
Hmm, a thorny subject indeed for, as even the least read or experienced are well aware, one woman's meat is another gals poison - or worse - tofu: utterly and irredeemably tasteLESS. Taste, or lack thereof, may be measured and accounted for in a million ways and I would not dream of suggesting that my own choices should be enjoyed by all. Rather, I prefer to experiment with the choices of others whilst keeping my own passions for the most intimate of sharing. Exclusivity can thus confer taste (with the exception of large-scale lottery winners who still shop locally). So what forms of passionate pursuits are apt to send my alabaster bosom into breathy heaves of delight? Anything requiring the wearing of tweed, naturally. Thus true aficionados of hunting, shooting and fishing are always of interest. Similarly, those whose heartbeats quicken at the call of la chasse (likely to be Gallic and large of nose) will be also scrutinised. A man with a passion for overly demonstrative adventure sports - of the type requiring garishly coloured Lycra or neoprene garments - is unlikely to find any benefit whatsoever from tweed. This sadly means a good many fine forearmed boys will go a lifetime without experiencing the joy of hairy-frictioned warmth which ensures a tweed wearer always has a smile on his face. However, there is light on the horizon as tweed becomes increasingly popular among younger men. This is a joyous development for a gal inclined towards a gentleman thus attired, as the humble high street ripens into as a good a hunting ground as any sizeable Oxfordshire village at the start of grouse season. But clothes alone do not make the man. To be suitably attired is important, however, more important still is the passion behind the plus-fours. Carrying out a pursuit with a skilled hand denotes many hours lavished on practice to ensure a display of masterful confidence in the chosen arena. Such confidence, unutterably knee-weakening to the observer, imbues many a sportsman with the essence of Atlas himself. I must pause, here, to exclude the pointless and vain pursuit of football: never having sparked upon my radar as anything more than the preserve of the overtly egotistical. Confidence is one thing. The type of mean-spirited arrogance so often displayed by professional footballers, on and off the pitch, is simply infantile showing off and heartily unattractive to all but the most easily pleased lady. A man devoted to his pursuit, be it the quiet patience required for fly fishing (to be applauded for the rubber waders alone), or the intense focus and honed forearms employed on the tennis court, may be relied upon as the unwavering and mentally-determined sort likely to be first with the snow-shovel to free one's motor car from a drift. Furthermore, such types are most often equipped with a variety of sporting articles which may be put to extremely satisfying use outside of their intended purpose. Which brings us, very neatly, to number three on our list... |
Perversion... there's no need to shout about it.
When, I wonder, does simply "liking something a great deal" cross over the invisible threshold of perceived decency and morph into perversion? Maybe the common perception of perversion is any element of sexual conduct which elicits extreme fervour - over and above common-or-garden "arousal". For my part, I believe perversion does not always have to be sexual.
I don't immediately assume everyone has a perversion, but I would encourage one and all to do as much field research as required in the hunt for their very own.
My own, well documented on these very pages, is of course latex. My relationship with it is long, although I didn't immediately recognise my early involvement with it as a perversion. Rather, it began as a voyage of discovery at the suggestion of another - who was already vastly more acquainted with it than I.
Being the epitome of sincere discretion, I shall not divulge the gentleman's identity. Suffice to say he was a good deal older than I and thus I deferred to his years of experience. At first, I found his desire for me to wear latex an amusing predilection. Rapidly however, I realised that he was not merely content to have my latex-clad form presented for the purpose of quick gratification. Oh no! Here was a man for whom minutely co-ordinated rituals formed the backbone of his interest in the shiny black stuff.
So precise were his fetishes, and so joyous his delight, that I became obsessed in perfecting my role as enabler. For example, absolute shine was required , but he wanted me to arrive thus shined: no mean feat when one is not double-jointed in sufficient measure to polish one's own rear quarters. Thus, the services of a willing young valet were employed to deliver the buffing, with the strict instruction that he was not to consider his position inclusive of any form of perks over and above the obvious.
I once asked my gentleman why he didn't wish to undertake the enjoyable task himself: "Because," he intoned with characteristic languor, "when I set eyes on you, I want immediate and untainted perfection". Hmm, perhaps perversion is merely a cover for obsessive compulsive disorder after all.
Thereafter, I became ever more determined to achieve a greater quality of finish each time. I was becoming a pervert in my own right - even if I was piggy-backing on the whims of another.
Once buffed and presented, my amour would spend an inordinate amount of time simply looking at me - requesting me to turn this way and that. I, the willing show-pony, practised and developed many different poses in order to display myself as perfectly as possible, rearranging lamps and candles to ensure my glossy curves would always be viewed to their best advantage.
So, what would follow this strutting parade? I can imagine what you're thinking: much buttock-slapping, rollicking, squeaking and rolling around on the hearth rug. Ah! No. I tell you truthfully that never happened. Not even a'once. "Crazy fool" I hear you cry and many would undoubtedly agree, but I came to understand and appreciate his reserve. He was a man of rare tastes. Everything he did was measured. He never rushed anything.
His whole existence was one perversion after another: he would listen only to Wagner when showering, would delectate and eulogise for hours over the process of cooking and eating and, when he removed his cufflinks or signed a cheque, it was akin to watching Michelangelo take up his chisel and create heaven itself.
Every nuance of his personality and actions inspired me. I became obsessed with developing my perversions accordingly, whilst also creating new and interesting ones all for myself. He taught me much, but the greatest lesson was the seductive ideal of quiet pleasure - that even the most basic of actions may be savoured and elevated to art. Restrained behaviour can be the most alluring, glamorous and thus perverse of all conduct.
I don't immediately assume everyone has a perversion, but I would encourage one and all to do as much field research as required in the hunt for their very own.
My own, well documented on these very pages, is of course latex. My relationship with it is long, although I didn't immediately recognise my early involvement with it as a perversion. Rather, it began as a voyage of discovery at the suggestion of another - who was already vastly more acquainted with it than I.
Being the epitome of sincere discretion, I shall not divulge the gentleman's identity. Suffice to say he was a good deal older than I and thus I deferred to his years of experience. At first, I found his desire for me to wear latex an amusing predilection. Rapidly however, I realised that he was not merely content to have my latex-clad form presented for the purpose of quick gratification. Oh no! Here was a man for whom minutely co-ordinated rituals formed the backbone of his interest in the shiny black stuff.
So precise were his fetishes, and so joyous his delight, that I became obsessed in perfecting my role as enabler. For example, absolute shine was required , but he wanted me to arrive thus shined: no mean feat when one is not double-jointed in sufficient measure to polish one's own rear quarters. Thus, the services of a willing young valet were employed to deliver the buffing, with the strict instruction that he was not to consider his position inclusive of any form of perks over and above the obvious.
I once asked my gentleman why he didn't wish to undertake the enjoyable task himself: "Because," he intoned with characteristic languor, "when I set eyes on you, I want immediate and untainted perfection". Hmm, perhaps perversion is merely a cover for obsessive compulsive disorder after all.
Thereafter, I became ever more determined to achieve a greater quality of finish each time. I was becoming a pervert in my own right - even if I was piggy-backing on the whims of another.
Once buffed and presented, my amour would spend an inordinate amount of time simply looking at me - requesting me to turn this way and that. I, the willing show-pony, practised and developed many different poses in order to display myself as perfectly as possible, rearranging lamps and candles to ensure my glossy curves would always be viewed to their best advantage.
So, what would follow this strutting parade? I can imagine what you're thinking: much buttock-slapping, rollicking, squeaking and rolling around on the hearth rug. Ah! No. I tell you truthfully that never happened. Not even a'once. "Crazy fool" I hear you cry and many would undoubtedly agree, but I came to understand and appreciate his reserve. He was a man of rare tastes. Everything he did was measured. He never rushed anything.
His whole existence was one perversion after another: he would listen only to Wagner when showering, would delectate and eulogise for hours over the process of cooking and eating and, when he removed his cufflinks or signed a cheque, it was akin to watching Michelangelo take up his chisel and create heaven itself.
Every nuance of his personality and actions inspired me. I became obsessed with developing my perversions accordingly, whilst also creating new and interesting ones all for myself. He taught me much, but the greatest lesson was the seductive ideal of quiet pleasure - that even the most basic of actions may be savoured and elevated to art. Restrained behaviour can be the most alluring, glamorous and thus perverse of all conduct.
Love: a muti-faceted feelingI loved the aforementioned gentleman. I felt easy and comfortable in his strange world of minutely co-ordindated rituals, and cut adrift from safe moorings when parted from him.
But, I was young, and presently my hunger for ever-more exciting diversions led me away from his quiet, rarified world in search of colourful noise and new adventures. I can say, from the vantage point of my self-assured forties, that I have loved with fervour and absolute abandon at every turn - even when the object of my affections may not have rightly deserved as such. I have always believed love easy to come by, and easy to fall from. Whenever I hear someone say: "Oh, I could never say the words", or "I've never been in love", I feel terrible for them. Those three little words, so innocuous, spread tolerance and make the world a better place each and every time they are uttered. And, to love, what could be simpler? It really isn't difficult. The difficult part is determining a set of standards by which that love may endure. Too many are not prepared to put in the effort to maintain the emotional state of simple love. Which is a shame, really, because a few moments every day to consider why we cherish the one we're with would do much for divorce statistics and unhappy break-ups. The counter-argument is, of course, that because love is so easy to come by, lots of people find it in lots of places - and I am no exception. So, what is it, about love, that I love? Simple chemicals play a part, and we are, after all, just animals. I know the smell of my amour blindfolded, and I am powerless to prevent my own chemicals responding accordingly. But mere sniff is never enough. I know I am in love by the need of him - to think of him when we are apart and be aware of the physical jolt inside me, a pull towards wherever he may be. When all my senses are engaged in his presence, that is love. When my lips involuntarily speak his name whenever I think of the shape he makes in the empty space before me. When his physical presence soothes and excites me in equal measure. And when to be parted from him would cause me to cease caring for life itself. There are many other colours to love, and we all experience the emotion differently, just as we all have different thresholds for pain, or fear. For me, the verb "to love" is a condition of being wholeheartedly enraptured and consumed, pretty much in every circumstance. True, domesticity tamps down the flames of lust, passion and perversion, and perhaps that is right and proper. Not even I would wish to be caught taking out the rubbish all dressed up in a costume of high fervour for the gawping delectation of the bin men. But, (and here I leave aside every shred of my inherent theatricality and love of the show) true love is SO simple that even in the throes of the most unglamorous of tasks, I look at him and feel wholly alive, protected and safe, excited and utterly fearless as to what the future may hold for us. There's a certainty to the way I love: when I'm in it, I'm in it up to my neck, wholeheartedly and without boundaries or compromise. For me, anything less is merely going through the motions. |