February has always been a lucky month for me. For one thing, it’s Emma’s birthday this month. I won’t disclose the exact date, and it’s rude to tell a woman’s age, so I won’t say how young she is. [Those of you with an inquisitive turn of mind could work it out from various clues, but I’m sure you’d prefer to get a life.] In previous years we have usually booked into a hotel to celebrate, but we have decided to discontinue that tradition. Hotel rates are exceptionally good value, but the weather has proven too unreliable. They promise more snow this month. So how will we celebrate? A nice meal at home (already planned, from amuse-bouche to After-Eight mints), a bottle of rosé (we don’t like Champagne), and hopefully a naked romp in front of the fire. Watch this space.

Okay, just once more, I promise, and then I’ll go away (for a while). I have never understood why mainstream poets are reluctant to describe what it really means to be in love - the activities rather than the feelings. If you want to read poems describing the delight of pussy-eating, for example, it’s no use turning to your average anthology. You need to search the Internet. Boucher’s poem which I quoted from yesterday continues: “I want to kiss the pink pearl /that adorns its delicate rim /to polish it till it glows.” I know that many of you are not turned on by poetry, but if you don’t find those words beautiful, you really do have no soul. I also love the poem by Robert W. Birch that begins,
xxxxCradled between your tender thighs

xxxxI lift you to my mouth.

xxx The abundance of your wetness greets me

xxxxand my mouth overflows with your warm essence.

xxxx Your sweet taste is on my tongue

xxxx and your fragrance delights my senses.
Beautiful! You can find the rest of his poem here.

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