La Belle de Jour Sans Merci

This is CLEARLY the way forward! I'm leaning over my desk and spanking myself with a shatterproof ruler as we speak for not coming up with the idea sooner!

You see, now that Dr Brooke Magnanti, aka the entrepreneurial Belle de Jour, has unmasked herself, I spy a gap in the market.

"What!" I hear you cry. "Isn't the Web already awash with eager young strumpets spilling the

on every last grunt, groan and thrust with older, often incompetent, sometimes physically deformed MEN?!!"

And you would be right, of course. You can't turn for tripping over shagographies in three volumes; for stubbing your big toe on racy, fully illustrated confessions of hookers with PhDs quoting Sartre while turning tricks with the knowing chirpiness of 

Paul Daniels.

But still, it could be the start of something big — first a blog, then a book followed by the television adaptation  (Kate Moss has a pleasingly schemie look about her that could play out quite well on the small screen...

... if EastEnders don't want her).

Then after the telly, the film.  A Homeric bonk saga, wherein "rosy fingered dawn" becomes the title of a Sapphic sequel to 'Rita, Sue and Bob Too'.

And, finally, the ultimate prize.  A bi-weekly magazine serial published by DeAgostini.  Each issue will come with a component and a step-by-step guide to building your very own classic sex toy (final cost: £756.58 and that's excluding batteries).

With stakes this high, I need a hook — an edge, a USP — to set me apart from all the other eager young skanks.  

How about (drumroll) the sex diary of a married woman!  From the soft porn connoisseur to the prurient religious fundamentalist, there'll be something for everyone.

samedi, le 9 mai

I woke slowly, the milky light of dawn spilling

through the crack in the curtains.  Something had woken me, 

something urgent.   What was it?  It danced tantalizingly out of reach,

tapping lightly yet insistently to be let inside,

to be recognised and acknowledged.

Then I remembered.  It was the same thing that had woken

me every morning for the last 15 years, the same

six and a half inches of hope triumphing over experience.

It could work, it really really could!  And, thinking about it, how many blog entries would I actually have to write?  I mean, with a hooker they, like, have LOADS of sex.  Imagine all that writing up at the end of a long, exhausting night faking orgasms in inappropriate underwear?   Poor cows.  They can't even leave it 'til morning, what with theses to deliver and lectures to attend and stuff.

Me, I'm married — a whole other ball game with the added bonus of no tea-bagging.   As it stands, I reckon I could easily manage to have sex once a month, leaving roughly twenty-nine days in which to draft, write, edit and proof a blog-post.  

Bubbling with excitement, I divulge my audacious plan to conquer the marital-sex-blog-diary-world to El Hombre.  He looks pensive.  To be honest, he looks a bit grey.

"Once a month?"
"Well, only if you're up to it,"  I soothe.  I need him on board for this.  Literally.
"Once a month?"
"Er, yes?"
"And again, once?"
"Yes, yes," me, getting impatient. "Once.  As in only one time."
"Sex is to become a once-a-month occurrence?"
"Oh, don't look at it like that.  'For an occurrence to become an adventure, it is necessary and sufficient for one to recount it.'  Jean-Paul Sartre.  Now there was a man ahead of his time..."



Acknowledgments: This post could not have been written without the tireless determination and unwavering stamina of Twitter's finest: @A_M_Tweedsmuir, @sallonoroff and @TomMcLaughlin76.  Have one for me!