How to prove you can never be too old or too stupid

An excruciatingly long and sordid tale of the seedy world of a middle-aged female accountant.

As part of “the top ten things to do to prove to yourself you’re still alive after having brain radiation,” I resolved last week to do something out of character, something outrageous, something that I hadn’t done in a very long time. So I decided to visit a sex shop.

Now the last time I went into a sex shop was 22 years ago. What can I say? I’m a middle-aged boring accountant, for God’s sake. I’m supposed to be repressed. Nice English girls don’t do that sort of thing, what? (Incidentally, I don’t watch porn either. Sorry to burst your bubble folks, but I require something with at least a hint of a plot.)

So anyway, last week on the way back from a particularly torturous Company Tax Update Lecture, I called in at the local sex shop. Once upon a time, before the UK became a totalitarian state, the sex shop used to be in a quaint little stone-clad shop in the centre of town, with pretty net curtains, a charming green wooden door and a bell that “tinged” when you went in. In fact it could just as easily have sold muffins rather than ye olde rubber dildos with pink ribbons and bobbles on. Mmm…bobbles…fond memories…

Anyway…where was I? Oh yes…well nowadays the sex shop has of course been chased out of town by righteous pitchfork-bearing yokels, and has been forced to relocate to a large grey anonymous warehouse on an out-of-town industrial trading estate. It’s now a large grey steel building, with no windows, a dirty tar-macadam parking lot, and the entire thing is surrounded by eight-foot high barbed-wire security fencing, that is patrolled at night by sniffer dogs. Maybe the dogs are there to protect the sex toys – who knows? All I can tell you is that it doesn’t leave you with a warm, romantic feeling driving up to this place. And having your vehicular details recorded by a row of large security cameras doesn’t do much for the inner erotic glow either.

Now I can model fine art nude, I can show my nakedness to thousands of folks on the internet without a second thought, but I have NEVER felt so self-conscious as I did that evening, as I parked up and walked into the store. A single, middle-aged professional female dressed head-to-foot in tasteful faux-fur, with fifteen video cameras following my every movement. Big Brother was watching this strange old accountant with deep fascination.

Once inside, I was so petrified with fright that it took a while to actually get my bearings. The place was vast. Grey walls, red carpet, one or two old guys wandering around aimlessly. It was very dark, and I couldn’t see the other side. As far as I could tell, the place was mostly full of dirty movies. Rows and rows of porn stretching down the aisles as far as the eyes could see under the yellowy dim light (which was no doubt intended to both simulate a sultry and erotic feel for customers, as well as saving electricity, as this highest quality establishment was clearly run on a shoestring.)

I edged nervously round a huge dangly rubber mask, which appeared to have a giant black nine-inch penis instead of a mouth, and approached the shop counter where the storekeeper was buried behind the financial section of The Times (The Times ? In a porn shop? Surreal.)

“Um, excuse me,” I enquired in a rushed, squeaky kind of voice. "Um…do you have any…um…you know…glassware? I need something for a photographic shoot next week. I’m a model. My husband is the photographer. In fact he’s very well known for fine-art photography. It’s all very tasteful, you know, so I really would appreciate your guidance.”

Of course I was babbling incoherently at this point. Completely shitting myself if we’re being honest. My heart was pounding, I had absolutely no clue what I was saying, and only sheer bloody-minded determination not to be labelled a total wimp was keeping me from turning and running as fast as I possibly could.

The owner of the shop slowly lowered his newspaper and observed me. He looked about my age, very distinguished and intelligent. He looked me up and down slowly and impassively, taking in the Italian fur, the high heels, the briefcase and the beetroot-red blushing face. To his credit, he didn’t react at all. His eyes remained completely expressionless, but I noticed that his lips twitched ever so slightly.

“Glass dildos, end of aisle 3,” he announced in a deep, slightly bemused voice, and then disappeared behind the stock prices again.

Emboldened by the normality of his acceptance, I actually relaxed a little. Maybe this wasn’t so bad? In fact, it might be kind of fun. Hey, maybe middle-aged professional women did this all the time? Maybe my accountancy colleagues popped in here most nights on the way home from work too, after picking up the milk and the ready meals for their partner? Oops dear, better not forget the giant rubber penis mask too.

Aisle 3 was very exciting

Anyhoo, I sashayed down the narrow DVD aisle, knocking aside Bertha’s Big Bulbous Bazookas, Martha’s Mighty Mammaries and Big Bertha III: Revenge of the Mighty Wonga. And then I reached aisle 3. I stopped. My eyes widened. Well, quelle surprise! What an impressive display of plumbing supplies there were! Balls and strange shaped objects for orifices that I never even knew existed. Talk about a rapid education. To a 40+ has-been like me, this was an extremely steep learning curve. I felt rather out of my depth, to be honest. So you’ll appreciate that I was delighted and very relieved to see something I recognised amongst the vast and bewildering display of debauchery, the one NORMAL everyday object amongst all this porno paraphernalia. And it was elegant too.

A large glass bottle-stopper, with a narrow neck and an exquisite blown-glass ball on the end, with a single real goldfish suspended within the glass orb. (Actually it might have been a plastic fish but it certainly looked real enough.) It was laid in a beautiful blue velvet and silk cushioned box. I was enchanted. I experienced that well-known inner erotic glow of woman’s “must-have-shopping-lust.”

“Ooh, pretty glassware!” I thought. “That will go nicely in my bottle of chardonnay at home. Perfect for dinner parties. That will certainly impress my guests. Right, that’ll do. I’ve seen all there is to see. I’ve completed my mission. I’m no longer a middle-aged wimp. Now let’s get out of here. FAST.”

So I flung some cash vaguely in the direction of the (by now openly laughing) shopkeeper and fled home at warp speed, still shaking from the adrenalin rush of my success. Once back safe in my home, I needed an urgent drink to calm down, so I uncorked a bottle of our finest chardonnay, and popped little Goldie in the top. A perfect fit. Very snug. My fishie looked gorgeous, tasteful, elegant, shiny.
I toasted my victory over fear, pronounced myself “a survivor” and “truly living life!” and mentally pictured myself showing off my elegant glassware purchase to my yummy mummy pals at our next posh dinner party. Mmm. Truly I was a woman of the world.

I wandered into the living-room to show Rich.

“Erm…very pretty…er…you do realise it’s a butt-plug, right?” he said not unkindly, struggling desperately to keep a straight face.

Oh. My. God.

Remind me NEVER EVER to think of myself as intelligent or educated again. Clearly I know nothing.

And yes, of course I’m still using it as a wine stopper.

What kind of girl do you think I am?

A tasteful still-life of ye olde modelle’s elegant hand-blown glassware

An excess of SPAM

Alas no Friday rantathon today, as Rich is away on business. But when the boss is away, the minions do play, so as he isn't here to stop me, I'm going to indulge myself with a dodgy post. Apologies. Normal service will be restored shortly.


Some readers may have noticed that we’ve been sneaking in the occasional dodgy picture. This has happened for a reason.

About three months ago, my comfy-bear-zone, my inner moral judgment meter, simply vanished. I woke up one day and it was gone. Poof! Suddenly I had no discernable artistic morals. Poor Rich didn’t know what the hell had happened - suddenly his repressed and staid wife had turned into a model who was champing at the bit to explore her new boundaries. A model who was eager to tick the “higher” box on her modeling profile. In short…he had woken up to SPAM (Sad Porny Ancient Model.)

Poor Rich! Can you imagine just how strange this must have been to cope with? How challenging? This was the photographer whose personal comfort zones were originally waaay wider than mine. In fact I used to think he had no limits, and that I was significantly holding back his art. But then the roles reversed completely and suddenly. The poor chap didn’t know what hit him. He’s been humouring me so far, but I strongly suspect that nowadays his artistic taste definitions are much narrower than mine.

I’d love to say this epiphany was a result of some sort of higher spiritual awakening, or a sudden enlightenment. I’d love to say I suddenly achieved artistic kundalini. Heck, I thought I could even explain it by calling it a mid-life crisis! But alas it has turned out that it’s simply my trusty tumour, which is squishing the part of my brain that governs moral and artistic judgment.

Wow! Just how cool is that?! Imagine waking up one day and suddenly experiencing permanent removal of all the psychological barriers, all the social conditioning, all the stuff that tells you “nice girls don’t do this sort of thing - especially not middle aged yummy mummies!” But suddenly - my limits of defining nude art are gone! It’s a strange feeling to be sure. And not unpleasant - in fact, since this has happened, my modeling life has been a total hoot !

Now don’t get me wrong - I still think tacky, badly-shot porn is gross, but this is simply a personal judgement of style, not a moral objection. My division between eroticism, porn and “what is art?” has simply disappeared. It’s kind of like having a big light-bulb switch on in your head…suddenly absolutely everything can be classified as art, depending on how well it is shot. Quality rather than content. Of course this has been obvious to most of you for years, and certainly I knew this in theory, but I never really understood it properly until now.

Sure, erotic art is usually black and white, porn is colour, but there’s a heck of a lot more to it than that.
That morning three months ago, in a blinding flash of tumour-induced psychosis, I finally realised that porn, erotic art and “dodgy photography” were all one. I realised that good erotic art is all in the lighting, the angle and (most importantly) the TASTE of the image. I even “got” Mapplethorpe’s penis shots, which previously made me want to puke. Finally I realised what he was trying to say - I recognised the power and message in his work.

What makes those few square inches so off-limits to photography? Why the heck do people look at a close-up shot of a woman’s nether regions and think “ugh, that’s revolting?” It occurred to me that such revulsion to a normal and beautiful body part is simply a result of Western social conditioning. Westerners are simply not allowed to think such body areas are beautiful, or if they do, they’re not allowed to admit it, let alone paint or photograph it. This contrasts significantly with less developed societies, such as certain “undeveloped” tribes, who view the sexual organs as powerful expressions of beauty, the source from whence all life comes. These tribes freely depict sexual imagery in their art. They are surely more enlightened than us, who are repressed by centuries of religious and social bias. If a photographer shoots that sort of image nowadays, he usually dares not show it, for fear of being exiled, rejected, labeled as a pervert. All for choosing to show the power and beauty of sex.

Truly excellent erotic photography is simply a result of clever lighting techniques, how the model is positioned, combined with a good dollop of artistic imagination. Plus there‘s a high level of respect for the model required too. But if the photographer is skilled enough, if he has the vision, and if he has the highest standards of personal taste, those few square inches can be depicted as artistically as any other image adorning the walls of the National Gallery.

So I guess what I’m saying to all you gifted photographers out there is - Pussy Art can be good art too.

So go shoot pussy! Make it tasteful, make it powerful, let it express your inner desires and your vision, as well as reflecting the soul and beauty of the woman. And don’t be afraid to show it either! If people are repulsed by your art, that’s their problem, not yours. It’s simply because they haven’t risen beyond their social conditioning and personal limitations.

And maybe they are a little afraid of it too.



Our resident SPAM muses on her new career with a tasteful piece of elegant hand-blown glass.

(Boy, am I in trouble when he gets home tomorrow!)