THE OBSESSIVE TEXTS

One of my friends has indicated that I dwell far too much on certain facets of the female human, while another individual claims that my writing is not nearly exciting enough in that regard. As the second person mentioned has indeed published works of an exceedingly rancid nature under a necessary nom de plume, perhaps he might be said to know of what he speaks.

Yet personally, I presume them both wrong. Good scribbling can stimulate, without in any way being blunt or blatant. One can suggest any number of wonderful images, yet not mention anything by name. And physical characteristics need no discourteous descriptions.

In the vignette below I touch upon all these matters.
But I shall assert that it is safe for work.
Totally clean and wholesome.


DE TENERITATIBUS VITIUM

She realized that she needed her Latin dictionary, which was on the top shelf. The study of early mediaeval literature required, always, a review of certain words imperfectly translated into English.
She put down her volume and pushed the ladder into place, then mounted to the top, and reached over. Her pleated skirt ruffled upwards in the draft, and would have flashed a view of an ivory silk petticoat with flowery lace edging, had anyone been watching. Stretching to grab the book taughtened her crisp white cotton blouse and exposed a golden upper arm, and she wobbled dangerously from the effort.
Good thing she had removed her shoes, as even so slight a high-heel would have been risky. She only wore them because they made her feel taller.
In many ways being short was not an advantage.

Her tiny naked toes tensed for traction on the hard rubber of the treads.

She had never seen it described as 'rimula' before. How deliciously depraved! No wonder this dictionary was one of her favourite works!
And why on earth did she keep putting it back up so high? It should be right next to her seat, a constant companion!

It struck her presently that it was time for tea. She went to the kitchen and put on the kettle. Gently her hands fondled the smooth porcelain of the teapot as she rinsed it under warm running water. Definitely a black tea.
But which?
A robust Assamese, or fine Ceylon with that evanescent floral quality?
It was a quandary, and she furrowed her brows in concentration.
Two dark and delicate moth antennae, curved and tense.
Assam, definitely. She craved something strong.
A beverage that required creaming.

When she was back in the living room, she put the second cup down on the table next to the armchair, kicked off her shoes, and tucked her feet under as she curled up comfortably. This was perfect, now all she needed was a smoke. After consideration, she pulled her favourite pipe from the rack -- a flawless Peterson System Standard 303 (that's a full-bent apple shape with a military mount, fyi) -- and opened the tin of Rattray's Old Gowrie (a broken flake). Only a year ago she would have smoked Erinmore, which has a top-dressing that reminded her of a summer orchard where she once played as a child, but she had grown away from aromatic Hibernians since then, and now preferred the pure subtleties of pressed Scottish flue-cured tobacco.
Upon touching flame to the bowl, a gentle whisp of incense-like smoke curled toward the open window. Her face softened, girl-like, as she relaxed. The dark hue of the pipe contrasted marvellously with her pale skin, though she did not know it; the shape of the briar bowl complimented the lovely curving line of cheeks and chin and emphasized a perfect girlish femininity.
Lips parted slightly, as she exhaled a puff of smoke.
Late afternoons were meant for languor.
Flake tobaccos require slowness.
Relaxed stimulation.

Happy toe-twiddling.

Plus hot milk-tea.


*      *      *      *      *

As you can see, it touches upon every single erotic trope known to man: literature, languages, cloth, colouration, toes, tea, porcelain, and tobacco.
Shapes and textures are mentioned, time and place suggested.
One can easily imagine the person and the circumstances: a small woman with a very keen mind, and good taste. She is all alone in the house, wearing nice clothing, engaged in several dreamy activities of both an intellectual and a sensual nature.
There is even a subtle note of charming vulnerability: dangerous wobbling while grabbing the dictionary, which makes you want to reach out to steady her on that high ladder, lest she fall and hurt herself.
In all ways a perfect woman.

What happens next is anybody's guess.

"She anxiously awaited the bowl of mussels in broth which the waiter would bring. It was so nice to go out for dinner with her friend. This was something to which she intensely looked forward, and it was a pity his job took up so much of his time. His presence was enjoyable, his physical proximity exciting."

Or:

"It was fun to go to the cigar bar with a fellow-pipesmoker, especially one with a devilish gleam in his eye. It kept the young single bankers from bothering her, and she especially enjoyed seeing their evident envy.
'How on earth did that old codger end up so lucky', they seemed to think. What they did not understand was that wit, kindness, and the comforting smell of Latakia were infinitely more attractive than youthful arrogance and pin-stripe suits."

Even:

"Both of them finished their smoke at nearly the same moment. It always amazed her that without even consciously planning it, they put just enough tobacco in their pipes to last the stroll over the crest of the hill, so that by the time they reached her street they had cleaned and put away their briars. As they turned the corner and her doorway came into view, she clenched his hand, hard. It was big, strong, and warm. So very lovely to spend a while with him after dinner!
Before she mounted the steps, she leaned up and kissed him. He smelled nice! A smoky autumnal scent adhered to his whiskers. One day, she would invite him in."


I find all of this quite dreamy. Don't you?

The only thing NOT mentioned is a necklace, which you'll just have to imagine.
Perhaps pearls that highlight velvety skin, or a locket that by its pending placement accents a discrete feminine definition.

[The same young lady, or perhaps her cousin, in a very similar book-reading and pipe-smoking scene, can be found here: "What's for dinner?". The novel mentioned there is The Sandglass, by Romesh Gunesekera. Yes, a young lady with a pipe and a book is a recurring theme. 
As well as a pleasant tale-spin tool.]

By the way: all proper young women should absolutely consider a Peterson System Standard 303 as one of their first pipes. It's a shape that can suggest both good breeding and exciting stubbornness, besides accenting the lovely curve of the cheek. Plus it isn't too capacious, so it is absolutely perfect for a mid-afternoon smoke, right around tea-time.



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