Female Genitalia

Female genitalia..it's all over Twitter..it's graphic, meat on the slab stuff. The pubic region waxed, plucked, shaved, lasered, labia exposed, held wide open by manicured fingers...the face is almost irrelevant, but she's invariably smiling..

I'm slightly bewildered about what I am supposed think about these images? The photographer must want me feel something... I feel nothing. I could take a feminist stance I suppose, and say that the images exploit and degrade women, but I'm not going to. How about psychoanalysis? I'm not going there either..I'm not even really interested in starting a discussion about these images...they're there...get over it billierosie.

What I can say is that I don't find the images, even slightly erotic. They don't turn me on and I think that it's mostly because they don't tell a story...there's no narrative. There's not a "what happens next" in sight, nothing is there beyond that one graphic moment, they are frozen in time.

Here are some French vintage images that I purloined from the Web…I'm sure that in their time they would have been considered shocking...but for me, they are lyrical, they have class…there is a "what happens next"...my story, will be different to yours, there are many diverse directions to meander, and that, for me, is where the fascination lies.

And I neglected to add Courbet's wonderful painting "The Origin of the World" (1866)

MY DINNER PARTY by Mistress Angelica

It's a private world, an exclusive, reclusive world and I am privileged, honoured, for just one night, to be a part of it. To say that I was amazed when I received Mistress Angelica’s invitation to her dinner party, is a sweeping understatement. It’s been a long time…we’d not exactly lost touch, Christmas cards crossed in the mail…birthday cards, if we remembered, but the last time that I recall seeing her, was at the end of our final year at Cheltenham Ladies’ College.

I knew that any event organized by Mistress Angelica would be precise, choreographed…an exercise in control and etiquette. My invitation had instructed my attire for the event…black, I was to wear black, from head to toe. I was given a certain amount of freedom as to my shoes…I could choose sandals, boots or pumps with killer heels, the only stipulation was that my footwear be made of leather.

Mistress Angelica’s choice of venue is alluring…her chateau in France…it adds to the piquancy of the evening…heightening my expectations of the exotic, the erotic.

The night of her dinner party and Mistress Angelica’s subsequent book, My Dinner Party, are accurate in detail…I should not have been surprised by her skill with language, crafting her sentences and paragraphs with words to make your heart ache…her ability to evoke sensation, atmosphere and the overwhelming scent of female pheromones…but I was. I had forgotten those school days of long ago, when she would pen her tales, giving them only to the select few, to entertain us, to arouse us.

The words on the pages of the novel are lyrical, the careful placing of the words speak of refinement…the story, apart from a couple of interludes, is told from Mistress Angelica’s point of view. It is she who tells the reader how the beaten slave feels when she runs her whip over his open wounds. She describes the tremor shuddering over his skin, conveying his palpable pound, pound, pounding of what will happen next. Her slave does not have a point of view…he is property and nothing more. She observes her guests’ demeanour, our ripple of excitement, when one of us is allowed to touch the slave or when he is ordered to kiss a booted foot. His abject humiliation is intoxicating, her control and the lengths she will have gone to in his training is irresistibly devastating. It is as if we have visited another universe with different laws of physics. The evening is a slow seduction…drawing on our five senses…scent, taste, touch, hearing and vision.

My Dinner Party is wonderful erotica. Mistress Angelica allures and tantalises her reader…she spins a web of intrigue…like any great fiction writer the reader is left wondering…is this true…or is it an elaborate fantasy? We don’t know and it doesn’t matter…you will be disturbed, shaken, aroused…you will probably experience all three. Mistress Angelica’s talent as a writer is not to be underestimated, it’s erotica at its finest…the subtext in her sentences conveys matters of sexual orientation. Her slave’s submission is in his DNA…her place as a Domme was written into her developing mind set while she was still in her mother’s womb.

My Dinner Party, by my dearest friend, Mistress Angelica is erotica with class…panache. If you love erotica, read her book, I guarantee you will not be disappointed.

My Dinner Party, by Mistress Angelica is at Amazon UK and Amazon US  Mistress Angelica's Chemin De Fer is at Amazon UK  and Amazon US

WORSHIPING YOUR WIFE

WORSHIPPING YOUR WIFE
“IF YOU WANT YOUR WIFE TO BE A GODDESS, WORSHIP HER.” — CLAIRETTE DE LONGVILLIERS


WORSHIPPING YOUR WIFE: Six Steps for Turning Marriage Back Into Passionate Courtship


For those who, for whatever unaccountable reason, have not yet read the book, Worshipping Your Wife, here is a 750-word Readers Digest or Cliff Notes version:

WORSHIPPING YOUR WIFE: Six Steps for Turning Marriage Back Into Passionate Courtship

“Boyfriends need to understand that if women are worshipped, the world will be a better place.”
—Nicole Kidman

“If you want your wife to be a Goddess, worship her.”
—Clairette de Longvilliers

“The thrill is gone.”


“Boyfriends need to understand that if women are worshipped, the world will be a better place.”
—Nicole Kidman

“If you want your wife to be a Goddess, worship her.”
—Clairette de Longvilliers

“The thrill is gone.”

It’s the lament of so many married couples. Husbands and wives drift apart, physically and emotionally, or maintain alliances of custom and convenience, keepers of a flickering flame.

Love has its seasons, as John Gray reminds us in Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. It's folly to expect eternal springtime, perpetual romance.

But what if it's not necessarily true? What if love can be rekindled, even the all-consuming passion of first love? And not rekindled briefly, for just a season, but “ever after,” creating that fairytale future couples dream about when saying their vows?

That’s the extravagant claim of Worshipping Your Wife: Six Steps for Turning Marriage Back Into Passionate Courtship. Yes, courtship—because that’s when guys and girls find each other most mysterious and magnetic.

Here's the entire six-step program in a nutshell—nominally addressed to husbands, but most effective when hand-delivered by their wives (or girlfriends), with salty or salient passages underlined.

The husband needs to:

Step 1: Realize that "the thrill is gone" and that he wants to get it back

A man will do anything to win the woman of his dreams. Should he lose her, he will do anything to win her back. Why, then, is he not willing to do anything, on a daily basis, to keep her contented? Because husbands don't perceive that a wife can be lost if never again wooed or won, that marriage is also a crisis, deserving of extreme efforts.

Step 2: Save his sex energies for his wife

The dirty little secret is that passion doesn't ebb, magic doesn't vanish—not for most husbands anyway. Their fantasy life continues unabated, only focused away from their wives. With visual erotica a mouseclick away, too many husbands, while technically faithful, yield to imaginary infidelity. And, at the risk of sounding Victorian, chronic masturbation, solo and secretive, can rob a marriage of its binding energies.

Step 3: Make her his fantasy

The solution is for the husband to make his wife the centerfold of his inflamed imagination, as she was during courtship. When a husband begins treating her with that same homage, the deadening scales of familiarity will dissolve and he will see her restored to full, feminine mystery and radiance.

Step 4: Court her every day, attempt to win her anew

Let the dragon-slaying, and sonnet-making, and gift-giving continue. Also: In courtship, the man proclaims his romantic ever-readiness, but the woman decides when (or if) sex will happen. It is a wonderfully workable formula, attuned to the dynamics of male and female sexuality. Let the man be hopeful all day long, striving to earn or seduce ultimate favors. Let the wife initiate and announce the main event ("Gentlemen, start your engines!"). Sex will be better and hotter for both--and more frequent.

Step 5: Pamper her and pitch in around the house

Is it unmanly to pamper your wife? Is it insulting, or infantilizing to open doors for her when she's perfectly capable herself? Should a husband stick to gender-specific chores--washing the car, hauling out the garbage? The courtship model makes quick work of such debates: You can't do enough for her! And, in today's
two-income marriages, the woman ought not be expected to tie on the apron the minute she parks her briefcase. Let her log a few after-work hours in the La-Z-Boy (with a magazine and a Merlot). It may pay erotic dividends later that night.

Step 6: Dare to be known by her

Most men aren't comfortable discussing intimate or emotional issues--even sexual fantasies. But the more a marriage returns to the courtship model, the more a husband's thoughts—and fantasies--turn to his wife during the day, the more he will have to share with her at night (or other private times). Opening up to her will serve to strengthen emotional and sexual bonding--and preclude any temptation for a "misunderstood" husband to unburden himself to another woman.

Summing up

“To me it’s pretty simple,” began a memorable post I found in a wife-worshipping message board. “It’s all about doing what I can do to make my wife happy. Because when she’s happy, I’m happy. It doesn’t take much once you get the hang of it. Every single day I just pretend we are dating and I try to win her heart.”


Worshipping Your Wife, by Mark Remond is available at Amazon UK

and at Amazon US

billierosie draws on the theme of Female Domination in her book Rebellious Slave, available at Amazon UK and Amazon US

Also, try Enslaving Eli at Amazon UK and Amazon US

DESPAIR

From The Guardian newspaper. “Poem of the week”, 1st September 2008.
Charlotte Mew's work had already attracted the interest of Ezra Pound when, in 1912, Alida Monro spotted the poem, "The Farmer's Bride", in a copy of The Nation. She was "electrified". She immediately committed the verses to memory.

In the following year, Alida and her husband, the Georgian poet Harold Monro, started up the Poetry Bookshop in Theobalds Road, near the British Museum. Not only a shop and a poets' meeting place, it was also a publishing venture dedicated to the work of younger writers. In 1916, the press brought out the 17 poems that form Charlotte Mew's strikingly original first collection, “The Farmer's Bride.”

Charlotte Mew (1869-1928) also wrote short stories; perhaps it was her prose-writing that led to a notably elastic treatment of the poetic line. Her style is elegant; graceful. She brings musicality to her vivid, naturalistic speech rhythms. Though she never seems to have written free verse, she was unafraid to mix meters and experiment with different line-lengths. It's said that she asked that the poems of “The Farmer's Bride”, should be typeset sideways, so as to accommodate those with unusually long lines.

Mew's poems amount to a slender but remarkable body of work. She brings to Georgian poetry not only a distinctive technique but an unusual, in many ways un-English, sensibility. She read widely in French, and in her younger days frequently visited Paris and Brittany. She was attracted by Catholicism, and there is a sensuous, Southern colour in much of her work.

The intense, hopeless romantic love that she often depicts, reflects her own emotional entombment. Both a sister and a brother had been confined to mental hospitals. Charlotte and her artist sister, Anne, vowed never to marry, because of the fear of hereditary insanity. Most of Mew's romantic attachments were to women, in fact, but she moved in a Bloomsbury less liberated than that of the Woolfs, enclosed in a shabby gentility where lesbian longings were hardly likely to be fulfilled.

The speaker in "The Farmer's Bride" tells his story with powerful immediacy, and no attempt at concealment. His dialect is tactfully indicated. Mew's paternal grandfather had been a farmer on the Isle of Wight, and she made childhood visits there. Perhaps this is where both the tale and dialect originated.




Albrecht Dürer (1471-1528)

The changing seasons that a farmer would naturally register in terms of work patterns, serve here to sharpen unbearable emotion. Three summers have passed since the ill-omened wedding: autumn is fading to winter, and the sense of wasted life is building. The terrified bride seems to be on the edge of madness. She communicates only with animals and birds: that she is wild and elusive like these creatures is beautifully suggested in the tripping dactylic rhythms (e.g. "shy as a leveret"). The rhyming scheme keeps giving way to couplets, as if to express the increasingly headlong passion of the speaker. He had once had better things to do "than bide and woo". Now desire is his whole, futile occupation. We realise this especially at the end, when he exclaims, first of all, not over the woman's hair or eyes, but over "the soft young down of her". He must have watched her closely, studied while she slept, the texture of her skin. How much longer he will be able to resist raping her is the unasked question. The shadow of that, and the possibility of eventual madness and death for them both, drives and darkens the whole poem: and yet it is still a love poem.

After her great year of writing, 1916, Mew became less and less productive. Unable to recover from Anne's death in 1927, she was admitted to a sanatorium for treatment for "neurasthenia". Perhaps it was the fear that the family madness had caught up with her that drove her to a horrible suicide by swallowing Lysol, a concentrated cleaning product. The newspaper report of her death referred to her as "Miss Charlotte Mary New, a writer of verse". The 20th century has since made up for its neglect, and she is now highly regarded.

Dark, ominous clouds gather. You know that the violation will happen. It is inevitable.

Here is Charlotte’s poem.

“The Farmer's Bride”.

"Three summers since I chose a maid, Too young maybe - but more's to do At harvest-time than bide and woo. When us was wed she turned afraid Of love and me and all things human; Like the shut of a winter's day. Her smile went out, and t'wasn't a woman - More like a little frightened fay. One night, in the Fall, she runned away.


"Out 'mong the sheep, her be," they said, 'Should properly have been abed; But sure enough she wasn't there Lying awake with her wide brown stare. So over seven-acre field and up-along across the down We chased her, flying like a hare Before our lanterns. To Church-Town All in a shiver and a scare We caught her, fetched her home at last And turned the key upon her, fast.


She does the work about the house As well as most, but like a mouse: Happy enough to chat and play With birds and rabbits and such as they, So long as men-folk keep away. "Not near, not near!" her eyes beseech When one of us comes within reach. The women say that beasts at stall Look round like children at her call. I've hardly heard her speak at all.


Shy as a leveret, swift as he, Straight and slight as a young larch tree, Sweet as the first wild violets, she, To her wild self. But what to me?


The short days shorten and the oaks are brown, The blue smoke rises to the low grey sky, One leaf in the still air falls slowly down, A magpie's spotted feathers lie On the black earth spread white with rime. The berries redden up to Christmas-time. What's Christmas-time without there be Some other in the house than we!


She sleeps up in the attic there Alone, poor maid. 'Tis but a stair Betwixt us. Oh! My God! the down, The soft young down of her, the brown, The brown of her - her eyes, her hair, her hair!"


(N.B. Searching the Web, I came across several different ways of how this poem was presented on the page. As Charlotte had specified a sideways typeset, to accommodate the longer lines, I like to think that this layout here is the layout she would have preferred.)