My Man Max Romance is Also A Fetish by Miss Makeover

By on August 11, 2010

Romance is also a fetish. I keep my love for My Man Max fresh by preserving a few holy relics. I have a shirt of his I never washed. There’s still a trace of his scent, his body blend of coriander deodorant and manly musk. Some girlies look good in their man’s shirt. He’s much bulkier than me, burlier than the proverbial brick out house, so I look like a kid dressing up in Daddy’s clothes. Looking at him I can hear his voice, smell his mix of very little Calvin Klein Eternity, sweat, sex musk and enough testosterone for the average Rugby team. (Actually, as Rubgy players seem to spend a lot of time getting drunk and showing each other their bottoms perhaps I should withdraw that libel.). He’s so masculine even a unisex after shave can’t make you question his sexuality.
It’s been a decade since there was an advertising campaign which pushed attractive Alpha male sexuality at the public. If the self-hating Soho admen ever wanted to follow up on their Gillette campaign (‘The best a man can get’) they could just hire Max. He’s conventionally handsome, also rugged enough to earn respect from other men. He goes to work in a crisp white shirt where he earns lots of money. The only thing’s missing from that earlier ad is a baby to dandle on his knee.
I’d have his children. Maybe not just yet. but then I don’t think I’m ready. And neither does Max. Which may be why he’s constantly driving around rich men’s playgrounds like Monaco and St Tropez. Maybe he wants an heiress. Or a model. Or, gulp. someone younger than me?
Say it ain’t so.

I’m two-timing my girlfriends. Scarlet Fever is in one instant message box and Miss Plum is in the other. Like a typical addict I have to have too much of everything. One brilliant online conversationalist just isn’t enough. It has to be a threesome.
I have been intimate with them both for the regulation two times each – once at their place and once at my home. Which is polite, I think. Anything more would be too needy or smacking of lesbianism, which, as Dame Edna points out, always leaves a nasty taste in the mouth. They both taste wonderful, all over, front and back, but it’s better to have friends than lovers. Leads to less bloodshed.
They both courteously listen to me wittering on about My Man Max for a few sentences each. I try to restrain my from telling Scarlet Fever to take her anti-anxiety medication for the hundredth time. And fail. Which always makes her upset. But what can you say to a terminally anxious person who has a six quid a month cure for anxiety sitting unused in her bathroom cabinet? Maybe she’s too anxious to take it. Whether sixty fags and a gallon of tea are an adequate alternative is debatable.
Then Miss Plum informs me that one of her many men has taken offence over some triviality.
“Is that the blog where you called him a self-pitying wanker?” I ask.
“Honestly! He won’t talk to me now. Some people…”
She’s joking but not really. Many people’s default setting is now transmit rather than receive. Miss Plum is set to World Service Broadcast. Here is the news. There is the public blog – scandalous enough to destroy reputations, careers and marriages. And there is the private blog. Intimate details – length, width, distinguishing marks, whether Madame gushed or not. (Female Ejaculation, this season’s must have) Funny noises her vibrator is making as it reaches the end of its useful life. (Probably groans of relief as they head for the knacker’s yard. If she rides her rabbits as hard as she rides her men.)
Some say you can judge the insanity of a woman by the number of her cats. Miss Plum is a two-catter. Not incurable but definitely on the sick list.
It’s the usual dichotomy. I’m the hardest Domme bitch on earth. But I’d give it up instantly for a real man. Meanwhile any real men who may be lurking about are on their third divorce and unable to fund her corset and shoes habit. Not to mention Breakfast at Tiffanys, with matching jewelery, real leather and real furs, caviar and everything else out of season. If it’s expensive she wants it. She’s one of the most efficient money-torching systems I have ever seen, enough to make the most fat-headed, fat-walletted city boy slink off home, credit card hid somewhere dark and inaccessible. Although knowing her wicked way with a strap-on there won’t be much point hiding valuables where the sun don’t shine.
Scarlet Fever, in the other message box is complaining that no one will treat her as a lady. I once saw her orally pleasured (‘licked out’ as she would have it, the mucky mare) on a dance floor. I’ve lost touch with the Tatler crowd, Society and all that archaic nonsense, but as far as I’m aware that’s still thought to be a faux pas. However, anyone would react the same given enough pure mdma and ghb. She’s hauntingly beautiful, but also haunted. Early on I tried exorcising her – love, massage, sympathy – but it’s a job for a professional. Call Ghostbusters. Or the Vatican.
They might know someone who can handle the job.
What the ensorcelled see are: big blue eyes, hollow cheeks, bones impatient to rip through their thin flesh coat. Enormous red lips.
Do we need a female Mick Jagger? Well, we’ve got one now.
Her blonde hair and prominent cheekbones also recall Kate Moss – before she’s been crusted with make up. Before she’s been retouched. Council house siren. In which there is no shame: Mummy and Daddy didn’t give her a flat in Chelsea so she’s marooned somewhere tubeless, where hoodies cluster like poisonous mushrooms.
Then there’s the child, beautiful, intelligent, but also a little vampire sucking her future away. No wonder she goes for it whenever she can get out.
Last night I saw her suck a man as porn stars do. The difference being the man – no porn star, far from it – yelped as his pierced equipment was strongly sucked throatwards then disgorged then all the way back again before he could find the breath to protest. Easy, partner. Steady as she goes.
I can’t do normal sex in public, or, making love if you want to be girly about it. But I can watch. It’s a little bit like watching people dance. Do they know what they look like? Would they do it like that if they had seen themselves? Even our sex play now comes from pornography rather than from…well, what should it come from? We have to learn somewhere.
Martin Amis, Little Miss Bossyboots, has a typically pretentious phrase for this. ‘The obscenification of everything.’ Which is clunky. I know he’s being deliberately ugly, apparently proof of being cleverer than everyone else, but the phrase itself is obscene. Anyway, the old dear is referring to sexual overkill in the media and the general public’s rude clothes, behaviour and language. Some of which might be justified. Much as I hate the entire Jade Goody clan I couldn’t see the benefit of Big Brother showing a mother footage of a young man orgasming onto her daughter. Or showing it to us. It’s almost enough to send you back to Jane Bleeding Austen.
“What about me?!” screams Miss Plum, who isn’t used to be being ignored.  Sorry. Kicking and screaming to be let out of the other message box is Miss Plum.
I’m sure she won’t mind me saying this (“Yes, I bloody will”) but she is a lady of fuller figure. She’s ample. Sufficient for a good slap-up meal. Having gorged on her lovely big titties for a luscious hour or so I feel I can say that. As my mother was a cold, small, thin, thin-lipped misery it’s nice to be able to suck on the breasts of a woman whose laugh can shatter glass. I wouldn’t ring her up if you have a hangover – or at least hold the receiver a little way from your ear if you do.
I tell Scarlet Fever about this fisting fiasco. She has to one-up me of course.
“Kinky Steve prolapsed last night.”
“Nice,” I message back.
In America people are routinely called assholes. Kinky Steve practically is an asshole, an ever-ready anus, an orifice, a hungry, dark void waiting to be filled. He spends about an hour with an enema bag before venturing out so this process is not as distasteful as you might think. He’s as clean as a whistle – one which had had an extremely thorough enema and a bloody good polish afterwards. Even so. It might be some time before Martha Stewart, queen of graceful living, does a programme on the correct rubber gloves to wear for fisting. (“Elbow length of course, if a thing is worth doing it’s worth doing well!”)
“Me and Miss Plum did him.”
“At the same time?”
“Yeah. We shook hands inside his bottom. It was an amazing feeling,”
“It took guts, I suppose.”
Sorry. James Bond might have said it, I suppose. One day, when they get round to showing prolapsing onscreen he probably will. Although the only way anything so gross could get on a cinema screen would be if it had have been caused  non-consensually.
Anal rape or any other form of torture is fine. Anal sex is usually not allowed or has to be part of some grueling ordeal – Brando in Last Tango, spilling his guts metaphorically as he reached inside for his real childhood traumas, just as Maria Schneider was invading his ass.
Apparently people are stretchered out of Chuck Pahlinuik’s readings of Guts, a story where a masturbating teenager meets a gruesome fate after some anal play with a suction pipe. Hope I didn’t spoil this important cultural experience for someone. Perhaps they shouldn’t let so many nerds into his readings. Perhaps this culture should grow out of horror as a genre and the diversity of sex could be celebrated. Next thing I will be telling you it would be nice if the President of the free world could speak English. Or if there was a cure for cancer. Or if men and women could get on. Then we’d all be pointlessly happy. What would God have to laugh at?

Fledgling writers are sometimes keen to learn the daily routines of professionals. Perhaps if they lived in the South of France and wrote three hundred and fifty words a day before getting pissed and shagging other people’s wives, occasionally confessing their sins before committing them again as soon as possible, they would be Graham Greene – The Shit in the Chateau as Philip Larkin called him.
Jeremy Reed, a pervy poet who dabbles in erotica, starts every day by raising his pen to the sun, perhaps an attempt to draw its fire.
His poems are very good although I wouldn’t know where to put myself if I saw him live, apparently he throws tinsel in the air between verses. He wears make up, digs gender bender pop and has been described as an ‘effete pseud’ by none other than Andrew Motion, the most boring poet laureate in history, the dullard who blackened Larkin’s reputation by depicting him as some sort of Hull-based Jack The Ripper. (he liked spanking magazines and had more than one girlfriend. Move over Caligula…)
Reed has also written some supercharged pulp for lunatic fringe publishers Creation – most of whose books reads like an orgy in an abattoir – but it is his dedication to his art that interests me. He writes poetry every single day in multi-coloured inks, the more lurid the better. (Greens, reds, purples. Maybe someone should make him some perfumed ink.)
I always preferred the moon to the sun but I’m not keen on creeping about the garden holding up pens at the dead of night. I thought of wiping my keyboard with a pair of Eva Vortex’s knickers which still smell of her perfume. (Bought off her website. If anyone’s wondering about a grown woman behaving like a fanboy she is well worth a look. If you like impossibly beautiful transsexual fetish Goddesses…) She was my desk wallpaper for a while.
I do have a model of Thoth, the Egyptian God of writing blue-tacked to my keyboard, come to think of it.  (Which may be as, er, eccentric as Mr Reed.) And a fat lot of fucking good he’s been to me, the beak-faced berk. (“Is this wise? Insulting the oldest God of writing?”) I take that back and from now on I shall raise my pen to the moon-topped Thoth every day. Before surfing around aimlessly for the next sixteen hours, squeezing out the occasional sentence, which is more likely to be pervery than poetry and giving up as often as possible.

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