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Give 'Em The
Old Razzle-Dazzle
by Sarah E Edgson
Any sexual fantasy involving such assorted
paraphernalia as washing-up liquid, a blender, and a bichon frise just doesn't
quite cut the mustard with me.
Conversely to very bad, plot-challenged movies becoming blockbusting
chart-toppers when lavishly drenched with special effects, sex does not
necessarily bloom with extras.
No prodding with props for me, sweetie.
I will confess to a certain indulgence, a brief dabbling in the closed
quarters of frissoned intimacy.
I had heard, many moons ago, that the key to a rich, long-lasting and
satisfying sex life is variety. Variety that is, of an entertainment
kind, not in the wife-swapping sense. Unless, of course, you actually
consider that to be perfectly fine and, ahem, upstanding.
These are my deadly sins. Feel free to indulge your own. Just don't frighten
the horses.
No, variety, my breathless television hostess informed me over the tube, was
the absolute must in a successful relationship.
She suggested the usual; flowers, champagne, candles, exotic underwear. I
rolled my eyes. She then went on to describe a scenario that apparently met
with rousing approval from her own paramour, a love scene centred around
clingfilm and strawberries.
"In for a penny, in for a pound," I thought, and off to market I
jiggy jig-jigged.
The clingfilm was easy-peasy, the strawberries not so. This is England, dear
reader, and the Home Counties at that. Fresh strawberries all year 'round???
Don't be so continental.
All I could find were tinned strawberries, the kind you put in pies. I
ruefully considered that strawberries are strawberries, as sex is sex; intent
would prevail.
I adorned myself as instructed, a strawberry atop each nipple, my body encased
in clingfilm, and waited...
Diane Keaton once said, that Woody Allen taught her the joy and benefit of
laughing during sex. I'm sure this has its place in a healthy exchange between
two consenting adults, but not when one of them sounds like they're
about to have a coronary.
Allegedly, it was the strawberries, that traditional premise and promise of
English Summers. Fresh are apparently sensuous; tinned, squashed and not even
remotely red are not.
The clingfilm apparently made me look "like a sausage". And diseased
at that.
In latter years, I have stuck to a more traditional approach. It has served me
well.
You may call it variety; to me it's just vaudeville.
Copyright Sarah E Edgson 1999
To read
more of Sarah's articles, go to:
http://freespace.virgin.net/sarah_e.edgson/default.htm
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