BB's dirty thoughts, Mar 6

I refresh the water in the lilies and rosies sent to me by a friend in light of the dox, and settle in for the first of this month's BB's dirty thoughts.  

(Thanks to overwhelming voting in favour of it, we are shifting to 2x a month long form, but there may yet be things sprinkled in!)  

When I was a girl, I dreamed of hedonistic fetish and excessively fantastical orgies and carnal delights... I read quite a bit, and had a young, ripe body that was Deeply ready for sexual exploration. More than once did I have my nose in a romance novel, on a beach cliff, lush forest or just in my car, seeing luxury and decadence in my mind's eye. I think orgiastic bliss of highly consenting bodies of many genders made some of my first masturbation material, in my mind's eye.

(To this day, my brain remains my most erogenous zone, as it is with many women. There's some porn that's utterly Pavlovian to watch and enjoy, but almost nothing is going to be better than what's upstairs.)  

This delight would evolve in several directions over time, but one... was L'orgie de la Belle Époque.

The Belle Époque was a point in French and European history, about 1870 to the outbreak of World War I, in 1914. Historian R. R. Palmer glowed over it; "European civilisation achieved its greatest power in global politics, and also exerted its maximum influence upon peoples outside Europe." and Julian Barnes, perhaps less kindly... "It took me some years to clear my head of what Paris wanted me to admire about it, and to notice what I preferred instead. Not power-ridden monuments, but individual buildings which tell a quieter story: the artist's studio, or the Belle Epoque house built by a forgotten financier for a just-remembered courtesan."

It was an economically glorious era, lovingly titled a Golden Age for it's place between the Napoleonic wars and the brutal European conflict that would occur after it. Neon had begun, and Art Nouveau; literal, music, theatre flourished. Being a writer was a noble and affable, financially viable profession, socialites and courtesans held fame, and Paris was the final word on artistic, medical and scientific innovation. Walkable neighborhoods. French Imperialism was in the center of it's power, and the world payed attention to the Folies Bergere and it's ruffled skirts, watching for the newest cultural standard, the foundation of the cinema and the world's first screenings, an entire generation raised on the kinky Les Fleurs du Mal. The very centre of haute couture.

The cabarets, the bistros, the music halls. The corsets. The feathers. The lifestyle boheme, the cabarets of Montmarte.

See then, behind the red curtain of the backstage, led down a hallway lit by gas lamps and silkily patterned wall-paper... a place of stockings and writhing hips and gin and pearls gently draping down a lady's orchid, to match the syrupy honey dripping from her.

The lace masks, the anonymously handsome jaw, the social ideology of free love alive as it was in the 19th century (even if it was more largely popularized in the 1960s), Paris a hotbed of thoughts, politics, opulent luxury, and of course, nothing more than love. Affairs were heated, but allowed to be short lived. Any wise gentleman was fitted for a rubber condom, where we get the nickname "rubber". The stroke of a mole artfully placed on a lady's chest, the rolling, heady, eye-rolled pleasure of having one's throat filled by cock after cock. The patterns in a lady's garters, and the powders huffed from creamy thighs, as golden champagne and sea-glass coloured gin slips down the throats of artists greedy for expanded mind, for a more experienced body. Love letters passed between gay hands. Holding a raspberry over the lips of your lover and not feeding to her until her orgasms, smashing the fruit against wine-soaked lips as she crests, offering her the sharp twang of the berry's sweetness as she loses sense of all time and place.

Excess, my loves. It is all about that sense of excess, corsets and stockings and tux coats left on, only the necessary parts of a man revealed, encasing him in his finery as he fucks like a god. Our ideas of fashion have evolved so much, but calling such Efforted artistry and personal expression "superficial" would be a crime (and, quite possibly, still would be now, to those who put in the effort. I certainly do.), seeing means and taste as a quintesstial part of the package. But it's more than just the trappings... it's the statement of what it means to go hedonistically overboard, like the Romans. The dizzying-yet-refined allure of every sort of nicety at casual grasp- slick leather, soft fur, spurt after spurt of pearl necklaces to adorn a lady's pearl necklace. Turning to you left to see lazy admissions of infatuation. Rough, eye-rolling and sloppily lubricated sex to your right, making a phallus unleash FERALLY inside his partner, only to let the pretty thing beneath them swallow the combination of fluids. Having your feet massaged as your German instructor gently strikes your breasts for pleasure. Trying to read a poem as you're given the tongue lashing of your life. Small, lubricated objects pressed inside you far enough to make roses explode behind your eyes. The RUSH of the colours, gold, red, black, cream. The highs afforded by the cross-section of science and entertainment. The soft glow of the lamps by the Siene at night, and the easy-going rain. The dizzy sensation that Scott Fitzgerald himself once cried over, realizing he had everything he wanted and would never be so happy again.

These are the sorts of times and places that occupy my mind when I let my fantasies wander. Opulent palaces of the Middle East and space, castles amidst forests, vampires infesting beach towns, or finer, elder fanged ones doubling for the attraction and fear of aristocracy in Middle and Eastern Europe.

But always, beloved reader, so I come back to that one theme:

Excess. Overstuffed pussies, luxury layered upon luxury, flooded hearts, ecstasy.

"In order to dress, one must know how to "choose", and in order to choose, one must know oneself well. But when one knows oneself well, one must overcome the horror that one has of oneself." -Pierre Véber