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Sex can get expensive, even if you’re not paying for it.
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Sex can get expensive, even if you’re not paying for it. Is sex really just about luxury? Perhaps not. But certainly, all luxury does and is truly about sex: luxury is sexy; and the reality is, what makes something luxurious is really all about what makes it sexy. What do you think about when you think of luxury? Diamonds, yachts, private jets, big cars, fluffy bathrobes, satin sheets… the same things that get me hot. When I think of sparkling diamonds and bespoke dresses, I think of men slipping the former on and the latter off. Private jets mean you can enter the mile-high club without that awful, awkward bumping of elbows and knees. Big cars mean big back seats; fast cars mean speed, adrenaline, danger, excitement... you know, a night in bed with an<b> illicit </font></b>lover. As for satin sheets… well, that’s just too easy. Sex and luxury are inextricably linked. Take boutique hotels, for instance, which go for thousands of dollars a night. In Thailand, large, spacious villas open out on to infinity pools overlooking the ocean. In New York, floor-to-ceiling windows offer views of the glittering skyline and fast-paced city. In India, former royal palaces offer bathing rituals in tubs filled with rose petals and lavender. Experts spend sleepless nights coming up with all kinds of ideas and gimmicks, but when it boils down to it, the best hotels are simply designed for great sex. And it works. In Thailand, I can’t wait to f*** underwater in my private pool; in New York, all I can think about is being taken from behind as lights flash and cars whirr past down below; in India, I want to be massaged with scented oil and then licked from head to toe, smelling of roses. In the past few years, an entire “luxury” sex industry has come up. No longer do you have to browse for a skanky on a deserted street corner in a questionable part of town. Now you can order a “luxury escort” online, and dictate what she should wear, and she’ll show up to your place with manicured nails in a chauffeur-driven car, smelling of Chanel No 5. No longer are vibrators made of cheap plastic; you can buy a $10,000 gold and diamond vibrator from LA’s famous “luxury erotic emporium”, Coco de Mer. (Angelina and Brad love the place.) No longer must Internet sex be had with ugly paupers; new membership-only websites screen for looks, income and fetish (for a fee, of course). Dirty sex can be had in environments cleaner than ever before. And that’s exciting because, in this case, luxury is making things more mainstream, accessible and widespread. But, in some ways, I’m a purist. I sometimes miss dirty sex on dirty sheets, and the thrill of having to balance your ass just so – to avoid any leftover germs on the sink in the plane’s loo – while you’re being pounded by a man with one leg on the toilet lid. I remember when handcuffs weren’t silver-plated and I had to make do with black ribbon from my little sister’s cupboard. Making do is a great exercise, a great way to have great sex. Making do makes you more creative, superbly ingenious. Making do isn’t about luxury; it’s about pure desire. |
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