So close, the smell of their aftershave invites you closer. Touching but not. An inadvertant brush of body parts, an adventure in your head. The new extremes of freakishness.
I used to curse Ken for the seasonal experience on the tube. But in the age of Boris - at a time of no job stability, looming recession, long hours and no boyfriend - I am finding the experinece to be a totally new one. I read once in a book that getting rich enhances your libido. I think that the writer (a man) was subconciously writing for other men. Women, in this instance as in many others, react exactly the opposite.
The stress is making me anything but impotent. If I were to see a doctor about it I would discuss the pangs of craving I get (i.e. of a sex starved nympho) and ask for a little blue (or pink perhaps?) pill that will put me back in ice queen mode.
Feel the market. The deep meditaion and understanding of the gurus I've always looked up to, and a passage in Lair's Poker (or was it "Ugly Americans"?) I'll always remember. I think this has become mixed up in my Buddhist-yoga chanting and the deep market yearning for a saviour in this sticky situation and is fueling my S&M fantasies.
Commuting on the tube is at the moment the most I'm getting.
And the hot and sticky environment is getting to me.
Bodily sweat and Ralph Lauren aftershave (especially the blue one) are making me feel freakishly aroused.
But tonight I'm invited to a fantastic Mayfair establishment for a cocktail party (the perks, ah the perks). I have opted for my signature designer dress, new Dior boots and a string of pearls.
I say: add two glasses of champagne to that and I'd better not be taking the tube home.
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