Today lots of people are angry about the Daily Mail front page, which shows a photograph of two powerful female politicians and invites us to speculate on their lovely, lovely legs.
It’s an embarrassing piece, no doubt, but rather excellent timing for me. Because today I have a guest blog from none other than a Daily Mail writer! Enjoy.
A Daily Mail writer tries his hand at erotica
Women: what are they? A question, perhaps, for the philosophers. Though I fancy myself no philosopher it is certainly one that I ponder vigorously every morning, in the warm cradle of my bed. When I have finished, I dress and set out into a world that seems – I wonder, can it be true? – populated by more of these creatures each day.
The tale I wish to relate to you concerns one such woman. As fine an example of the species as you should ever hope to meet. As this is primarily an erotic tale, I shall begin with a description, though you’ll forgive me if my words seem perhaps a little cold and clinical in nature. This is the first time I try my hand at writing to arouse, my pen is more used to doling out truth and justice than lurid tittilation. Nonetheless, I shall attempt it.
This woman I speak of is a mysterious, arousing nymph of the kind that would not look out of place in a string bikini on a beach. Her body speaks to me with the compelling clarity of a UKIP press spokesman. No doubt the PC brigade will string me up for it, but I confess to having noticed that this woman has legs. Breasts, even! Be still my heart! In a tight-fitting skirt and heels that say ‘I mean business’, she is wanton in her determination to seize my attention. Each morning she greets me with a coquettish ‘Hello!’ and – because this temptress, like others, cannot resist the opportunity to tease and peacock in front of an old man – she clings to our intercourse for a while longer with a question or flirtatious comment.
‘Excuse me,’ she wheedles invitingly ‘I’ve already asked you once this week – could you please stop letting your dog shit on the pavement?’
The sauce pot! This talk of pavements and dogs can mean only one thing: why, the bitch is in heat! I am far from a happily married man, of course, being an avowed bachelor since my wife left me. And she knows just the way to attract my attention – with a yell here or a complaint-to-the-council there. I chuckle inwardly to myself: these women, with their wiles, will never entrap me.
Yet. And yet. I am surely powerless to resist for too long. Did I mention that she has legs? Oh yes! Paraded ever-so-invitingly each time she leaves the house. I may be a bachelor but I know a come-on when I see it. Despite external appearances I am a modern man: I know that beneath those legs she has thoughts. And it is pretty clear what those thoughts are: she wants to rub up against me. To agitate my member in the most foul and delicious way. She wants me to enter her like a ferry enters the ports at Dover. To besmirch and defile her the way immigrants are defiling our once great nation.
I recall what she said to me just six weeks ago when she moved in:
‘Nice to meet you, John,’ she whispered huskily (names have of course been changed to protect my reputation). ‘My name is ____’ (her name escapes me). ‘I’ve just moved in and I was wondering if you know which day they collect the bins?’
Hussy! Harlot! Strumpet! These words came to my mind unbidden, yet I pursed my lips – for I am not one to state the obvious, and I am still smarting from that sexual harassment débacle in 2014.
‘The bins?’ I replied. ‘Why the bins are taken out as often as your gorgeous legs, you absolute minx.’ Though naturally wary of the mysterious creature known as ‘woman’ I am nevertheless schooled on the basics: each responds well to a compliment.
Alas, though, there our first encounter took a turn for the rather bizarre.
‘I am not a f***ing minx,’ she shrieked, shrilly. I confess at this point I thought my goose cooked: was she one of those feminist harridans, determined to eradicate the male species? Perhaps not, for her next words were surely designed to soften the blow to me, and draw me yet closer: ‘I am just a woman who wears clothes.’
A woman who wears clothes. A woman. Who wears. Clothes.
I linger on the words only so you too can appreciate the gift contained within: the promise, of course, of a woman who does not wear clothes. Good God in heaven, it was crystal clear! She was inviting me into her beautifully-styled late-Georgian home for a naked romp! She was expressing a desire for me to see her womanliness sans garments! My manhood leapt to attention, rising more rapidly than house prices in North London. As if to stamp and seal the invitation, she turned her back, sashaying off away from me in an attempt to display to me her female bottom.
That was our first encounter, then, and things have sizzled pretty hotly from thenceforth – hot enough that no doubt we shall soon be issued with a warning from those Brussels bureaucrats who seek to micromanage everything from the way we cook bacon to the temperature of our toast! Just my little joke, forgive me. I mean to say only that the fire of our passion could be quenched by no man (or EU busybody). It raged on as she treated me to all the seductive weapons in her arsenal: playful teasing re: dogs fouling the pavement, a neverending parade of lascivious outfits (tracksuits, jeans, dresses, and that suit that I mentioned before with the legs and breasts and whatnot). In week six she even escalated our secret role play by instigating a visit from the police!
Yet it is with regret that I must report our dalliance has ended. Today I received a letter: handwritten. Her cursive script licked the page the way I imagine licking not one but both of her legs. No perfume, of course, for this strumpet is not one for formalities. Just my name written at the top – the terse, directness of it echoing the manner in which I imagine her moaning it in bed: ‘John.’
Oh to be your John! To be John for you while you caress my body and I look upon yours. Woman! Oh wonderful, womanly woman! With womanly curves and womanly wiles and womanly requests that I refrain from trying to get a look into your front windows!
The rest of the letter I shall not bore you with, for after that first luscious ‘John’ it descended into such a terrible hormonal ramble that I confess I could not make head nor tail of it. Words like ‘arrested’ and ‘harrassment’ leapt out at me, but so did ‘sexist’ – a glimpse of a mixed message, perhaps? The word ‘sex’ taking the sting out of an otherwise clearly pre-menstrually motivated mistake.
It is no matter. For I carry with me the memories of my love, even if she turned into a sour-faced bitch in the end, willing to call the police on a man for committing the heinous crime of simply being a man! Of shyly proffering a chivalrous compliment!
At the start of this erotic vignette I posed a question: what are women? Maybe we will never know for sure. Yet I will not abandon my studies of the species, I press on. Albeit now sporting one more battle scar, and – dare I say? – a little more worldy wisdom.
I bid you adieu – leaving erotic tittilation to those less woman-weary than myself, and I return instead to my humble search for the truths on which our country is built.
Obviously this is satire.