With this post I am on such thin ground I can feel the ice breaking under my feather weight.
Today I found the assertion that “Erotic lovers view marriage as an extended honeymoon, and sex as the ultimate aesthetic experience”. Be that as it may. I most certainly would never describe sex as the ultimate AESTHETIC experience. It’s gore. If not blood most certainly sweat. Enter condoms – that most evil of inventions since Lord Byron used dried oxens’ bladders to keep population under control; condoms re-instated AFTER a brief and most marvellous interval in the sixties and seventies. The contraceptive pill. Happy days. All we were concerned about was NOT getting pregnant. Yes. Those were the days. Now sex is sex with surgical gloves on. How I do my washing up. Barrier method: Marigold – yellow – guaranteed to keep a skin between hot water and my fair hands. I hate condoms. With a vengeance. Seriously. Has anyone ever considered the exhilarating surge when sperm, unhindered, hits the end of a woman’s tunnel and what it does? No. Thought not.
Where were we? Aesthetics. To me rubber is as un-aesthetic as it can get. Enough to drive you back into the nunnery and dream of better times.
PS Don’t forget to wash your hands next time you touch anyone (by accident)
PPS I wonder how sperm feels being tripped up at the first hurdle
Sweethearts, pass me a handkerchief. It doesn’t need to be starched, only clean.
Come to think of it, and to take attention away from what is really on my mind and shouldn’t tell you anyway: Wasn’t it lovely when people still carried handkerchieves? I am sure it’s one of the reasons I like “Gone with the Wind”. Clark Gable (what did I see in him?) passing that conniving Vivien Leigh his pristine hanky. Oh the romance of that gesture! Since all of you are too old to bother watching that film again you will never know whether I have just made up that scene or not. Just remember to carry something (preferably white) when you meet me. I may graze my knee. Or get shot (in the foot).
Yes. Insert sigh. Now it’s all tissues. Paper. Disposable. Commendable and most hygienic. Yet you can’t make a knot into a piece of tissue. It’ll tear. Admittedly, unless clumsy, a long string of toilet paper will let you make a knot. But then: Who carries a roll of toilet paper with them? I don’t. Other than when on holiday on Corsica. My sweet and tiny grandmother used to make knots in her (lacy, white) handkerchief when she wanted to remember something. No Filofax or iPod in those days. It puzzled me. Greatly. How can looking at a knot you made earlier that day or ten ago possibly jog your memory? I still don’t know. And I smell a rat even before I see it.
Off to do some ironing. No, not handkerchieves. Toiletpaper.
Feeling better now. Hugs and kisses,