What, you expected something on the budget? -- BB

You all know where the sex organs are, but has it occurred to you that every inch of a woman, her entire body, is itself a sex organ? It no doubt has. From her fragrant hair to the soles of her feet the body of woman is a topography of mind-loosening emanations demanding exploration to the point of exhaustion, if not madness. What a pity then that most of us men have paid it scant attention in our haste to plunge down that hideaway scissure to ambrosial epiphany.

Women who love women have not made that mistake.

I suppose for hetero women and our queer brethren a man's body is equally beautiful. But, aside from the agreeable idea of irrumating a hard cock (belonging to a young androgynous male, bien sûr), it is beyond me how anyone can kiss a mouth surrounded by stubble or deal in any way with hairy chests, hairy armpits and hairy extremities, not to mention big thick bones. The bodies of men may be appealing to some, but, I ask you, where is the glory?

The glory is woman.

But let's be clear about one thing: while the attributes of women are endless, here I am only dealing with their sexual attractiveness. For the connoisseur not every woman qualifies, although she probably did at one time or other. The sexual beauty of a woman's body can be compared to the life of a grand cru wine. At first it is too young, as yet undefined. Then, while drinkable, it has yet to reach its potential and is best left to age. When a fine wine reaches maturity, it will remain ripe for the drinking for many years. After that it tends to become flabby and, finally, undrinkable.

Does this sound sexist? Only to those for whom sex is meant to be little more than the act of procreation, especially to those for whom it is an irritating diversion to profit-making. But the enjoyment of sex is, or should be, an art form. It should be an end in itself, which, when completed, becomes just another aspect of the whole person, whose capacities on this planet of lowered expectations are, in reality, unlimited.

Pornography will always be with us and occasionally it suffices. But the truth is, regarding pictures of women is to reduce them to sex objects, not to mention turning the mulierose scoptophiliac into a slavering isolate. No, I'm afraid that nothing short of hands-on consensual lovemaking in its almost infinite diversity is the route to holy sanity.

Having said that, there are certain paraphilias where consent may not be given explicitly, but may also not be exactly withheld. On these trembling occasions there must be a tacit, unspoken understanding, a sort of physical telepathy. If the connection is made, an explosive level of illicit desire is inevitable.

Please bear in mind that while I am talking about the sexual attributes of the female body, these cannot be separated from the inner woman (for wont of a better term). I'm not sure what you call it, but some women, whether beautiful, cute, plain or ugly, are more arousing than others, and that has to come from somewhere deep inside. Her spirit? Her soul? Her quick? Whatever it is, when I encounter a woman who has it, I'm like a helpless satellite to her every movement for as long as our paths converge.

I don't care much for the larval idea of intelligent design, but if there is a God, She gets an A+ for Her erotic design.

-- Benoît Balz