Wretched Refuse posted this link today so never one to miss an opportunity to revisit a steamy thought that I once – or maybe twice – had, here’s a bit of fun I posted a few months about toys, pillows, the washing machine and the erotic invitations lying around the average home…
The housewife sitting on the washing machine to get all heated up during the spin-cycle is an old joke which raises a few sniggers.
But it contains a truth about our ability to find stimulation and eroticism in all kinds of household objects.
Some of these are electrical, some obvious, some edible but many – at first glance – would seem to have no sexual currency at all. This last group is often the most interesting.
We each find an erotic charge where we want to.
Close your eyes, squeeze your thighs together and take an imaginary trip around the average house.
Over there is the comfortable arm of a soft chair; there, a coffee table at which one might squat, legs astride.
A fruit bowl is filled with colour, tender skin holding in a flood of juice.
In the bedroom, the crisp sheets are turned down and out peek two soft, plump pillows.
There is a line of clothes in the closet, all kinds of materials for touch to sense, a feast of colour for the eye. There are soft shoes spilling out onto the floor, all shapes and sizes, heels and flat; used and new; shiny, shiny, knee-length boots of leather; dress shoes with toes pinched tight. Kinky boots, one and all.
Look at the corner of the bed, just right for riding, or how about the smoothly-turned bedpost?
A big rough teddy bear sits in the corner, its stubby arms ready to be held flat, its belly stuffed and plumped.
Two mirrors reflect back at each other. A figure between them could see his or her reflection bouncing back and forth into infinity.
From the bathroom comes the slow, steady drip of water from the shower-head, curved, cupped like a hand.
The sun drenches a wicker chair in the suburban conservatory.
In the garage, a gym and games room bursts with tactile, humpable objects. An exercise bench cries out for inner thighs. Exercise balls await to be straddled.
The baize of a pool table tingles and crackles under fingertips.
There, hung on a hook on the wall, is a riding saddle and a thin, black whip.
The Polish film-maker Walerian Borowczyk saw the things we surround ourselves with as anything but neutral.
In his four-story film, Contes Immoraux (Immoral Tales, 1974), he creates a shockingly erotic segment featuring actress Charlotte Alexandra.
Charlotte stars as a girl whose dedication to God reveals itself as a burning lust when she is unjustly banished to her room.
And there Borowczyk’s fetishism and eye for the erotic in everything becomes almost stifling.
As she touches items like religious objects and Victoriana in the closed room, the objects are vested with a sexual charge. Their touch seems to awaken her.
Charlotte kisses a small wooden idol and touches the faces in the picture on the wall. Then she finds a book containing pornographic sketches.
Believing that the Holy Spirit delivered the naughty book to her, she undresses and caresses a cucumber, which she slides between her thighs.
The scene is filmed in silence, except only for the noises of the sheets crackling against her skin, her growing gasps and the cucumber entering her. (I drew heavily on this scene when depicting Lady Gemma’s sexual awakening in ‘Pantsdown Abbey’.)
In another of his films, Behind Convent Walls (1977), a nun finds a large timber chip from a woodcutter’s block and carves it into a dildo, while another sister enjoys the eroticism of her violin (and why not?).
Away from this pretence of art, punter-led resources like Yahoo groups give some insight into all our sense of the object-erotic.
If you look hard enough you can find videos too, which show women masturbating by riding pillows and – in one case – a large, stuffed gorilla wearing a strap-on.
Cuddly toys, indeed.
Young people looking for no-strings-attached sex are looking forward to the launch of a new app.
‘Pure’ will offer sex on-demand by simply asking users their gender and the gender of their preference. It will show them potential partners who answer ‘Okay’ or ‘No Way’.
“If these new location-based, on-the-fly apps are largely for hooking up … perhaps more people out there are looking for quick sex than had been originally thought,” said Dan Slater, author of Love in the Time of Algorithms.
READ MORE HERE
Author Richard Stephenson recently published an interview with me on his blog…
What do you think is the greatest challenge about being an independent author?
First, finding time to write. We all have to work. We all have other commitments. But when you have to write, you HAVE to write. So other things have to suffer.
Secondly, marketing your book. Nobody will buy it unless they know about it.
READ A FULL INTERVIEW WITH ME HERE
Living at Pantsdown Abbey during the early years of the twentieth century, as this story begins, is the 9th Earl, a most handsome, broad-shouldered figure in his 46th year who has enjoyed a long, happy and fruitful marriage to Caroline, the Countess of Pantsdown, who is every bit as easy on the eye, and just two years younger.
The pair was coupled together in the usual way for English aristocracy – and they are of course distantly related – but their relationship is a true and loving one… even if on some occasions what each is truly doing is loving another. Or at least lusting after another. The Earl liked to think of himself as the Roman Emperor Hadrian and of the Countess as his wife, Sabina. There would be dalliances but they always returned to the other with courtesy.
They had three daughters. Lady May, aged twenty-four, Lady Gemma, twenty-two, and young Lady Charlotte, nineteen. They were ladies in search of a suitor, ladies with little to do but look fine and spend long days developing the tautness of thigh and buttock which may flourish through spending long hours in the saddle.
Each, though they did not quite yet know it, had their own special charms to dangle before the menfolk of the area.
All three had inherited their mother’s fine figure and their father’s sharp wit. Sharp wit, you understand, in comparison to other members of the aristocracy, then a largely humourless breed.
Each had strong backs, backs which the erotic writers of Greece mythology would have them arch like swans in the most intimate moments.
Each had the confident gait of a lady awaiting a fortune and a handsome suitor.
Lady May was the thinnest. But it was a slimness that held two firm breasts and a narrow face which gave little of her emotions away.
Lady Gemma – flame-haired like her mother – was the most aloof. Her cutting tongue disguised a rampant desire to shred the constrictive frigidity of her breeding. In other words, she could not stop thinking about it.
Finally, young Charlotte. A free spirit. A dreamer. The stable boys queued up to prepare her for a day’s ride. But, as yet, like her sisters, she had been no man’s.
TAKEN FROM ‘PANTSDOWN ABBEY’ BY PIPPA MAY
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