Being of an age that has seen female parts in just about every shape, size, shaved, groomed, spiked and hirsute, I can’t say I’ve ever found a ‘favourite’, since I’m with Maria Muldaur and Southside Johnny on this, it ain’t the meat, it’s the motion.
Most men, it is widely claimed, fall into one of two categories on the subject, tits or ass, although given today’s multi-choice alternatives, I don’t think those simple choices are any longer relevant or applicable.
Personally, although I’ve always been an ‘ass’ man, I’ve never let it get in my way if the flesh is willing. Big women, small women, skinny, tall or ropey, it makes no difference if the lady can’t, er, dance.
Similarly , with female genitals, methinks today’s obsession with hair or no hair, cosmetic alterations and so are manifestations of a society uncomfortable, literally, in its own skin. One of the most erotic experiences I’ve ever had with a woman, was on a flight to Paris from Mauritius. And it was a conversation.
You might call me old fashioned and, even if I am, so what? If there is a mutual willingness and desire, there should be nothing that can get in the way of two people taking it to the limits of their collective imagination and beyond.
So, there was one lady, I remember with relish and also for the fact that she went against every apparent trait needed to compose my favourite woman, she was taller than me (5’8′) and about twice my weight (70kg or 154lbs) but she was funny, intelligent and so on, for a bit of fun. We met at a party and she took hold of my tie (yes, I was in a suit and tie) and she asked me, ‘who taught you how to tie a knot?’ and I said, defensively, ‘I don’t know. I taught myself.’ And she said, well, drawled, really, looking deep into my eyes so I couldn’t move, I was transfixed, ‘weeellll, you’re doing it wrrroong.’ and she was pulling me, by the tie, to the bathroom and I shuffled, awkwardly, captivated, foot by foot and stuttered, ‘it’s a Windsor knot.’ Then she let me go and pushed me back against the bathroom door while she sat on the edge of the bath and looking at me with a smoky, heavy lidded look, she whispered, ‘a real Windsor needs a double cunt.’ But I’d stopped listening and my tie was on the floor, as she raised her dress and I could see her stockings and she wore no underwear but her hand led my eyes to her physical illustration of this sartorial composition.