"You could always tell what kind of a person a man thinks you are by the earrings he gives you. I must say, the mind reels."
Its like a cinematic dream you want to crawl into and completely dissolve in. Each frame so perfectly poignant in aesthetic splendor, the minimalism of the modern world seems dreary by comparison. How marvelous it would be to simply step inside such a vision and be wrapped up entirely in bygone era. The nostalgia, the romanticism for the past, the glamorous notion that trivial daily routines require perfectly shined shoes and pouting lips, heavy with rouge. There lies an emptiness in today’s stripped away nature of social decorum, a longing for the propriety of public behavior so specific that the suppressed raw emotion beneath could not help but have been of a more concentrated variety. Excess in all forms.
The evening begins with dabbles of eau de’parfum poured onto dainty wrists from a glittering glass bottle, one of many that shines amidst the collective treasures assembled luxuriously upon the vanity. In the background a record plays the dulcet tones of a crooning Sinatra.
The sinful silhouette of the curvaceous female form put on display in a skin-tight sheath, the man pressed close up behind, dragging up a zipper that he knows with delicious anticipation he will be sliding down later that evening. Male impulses becoming loosely veiled in the privacy of a hotel suite; the primal urge to assert his lust over the enticing female all but irrepressible as it runs through his blood.
(It is the sad truth that men don’t wear cuff links enough. French cuff shirts are so sexy. There is a sense of class about it, of power and dignity regarding one’s appearance. )
And then there is the moment at the lounge: the climax of the pristine romantic scenario. A backdrop provided by The Savoy: the lofty ceilings hewn out of creamy stone surfaces. Regal palm trees hold a court of posterity amidst the bustling white-coated waiters. Round tables are set with rich clothes and fine china, a bouquet of flushing red roses arranged in the centre of each. A harp, piano, and violin meld in a harmonious melody of champagne bubble bliss, lulling thoughts into hazy dreams and soft pleasure.
He smokes his cigarette with candor, surveying the room. High-backed chairs with embroidered upholstery, and crisp linen napkins folded into precise points. No detail was left unexamined, for this was the culmination of ultimate luxury.
And then his eyes lift, the silverware gleams in the dim illumination; the stairway, as if spotlighted, beckons the attention of the entire room…the music swells, the crowd dissipates. She is the only being in the room retaining his attention; he is transfixed and allows his gaze to wander over her. A pale pink gown swirls in decadent froths, her luxurious mink coat (a gift from himself) rests elegantly upon her slim frame. Diamonds sparkle upon her open neck and hang in large orbs from her ears, a dainty gloved wrist bearing a matching strand. Her hair is coiffed into a perfect wave with the ends curling lusciously at the nape of her neck, her lashes dark and thick, lips plump and glossy. She smiles abashedly upon catching his hungry stare, and struts eagerly over to him, men glancing at her in open attraction as she passes them by in oblivion. Her face concentrated on his, the attention of the room at her disposal, charmingly unawares. Her eyes flash dark blue with a tingling want as she kisses him flush on the lips.
Its like a cinematic dream you want to crawl into and completely dissolve in. Each frame so perfectly poignant in aesthetic splendor, the minimalism of the modern world seems dreary by comparison. How marvelous it would be to simply step inside such a vision and be wrapped up entirely in bygone era. The nostalgia, the romanticism for the past, the glamorous notion that trivial daily routines require perfectly shined shoes and pouting lips, heavy with rouge. There lies an emptiness in today’s stripped away nature of social decorum, a longing for the propriety of public behavior so specific that the suppressed raw emotion beneath could not help but have been of a more concentrated variety. Excess in all forms.
The evening begins with dabbles of eau de’parfum poured onto dainty wrists from a glittering glass bottle, one of many that shines amidst the collective treasures assembled luxuriously upon the vanity. In the background a record plays the dulcet tones of a crooning Sinatra.
The sinful silhouette of the curvaceous female form put on display in a skin-tight sheath, the man pressed close up behind, dragging up a zipper that he knows with delicious anticipation he will be sliding down later that evening. Male impulses becoming loosely veiled in the privacy of a hotel suite; the primal urge to assert his lust over the enticing female all but irrepressible as it runs through his blood.
(It is the sad truth that men don’t wear cuff links enough. French cuff shirts are so sexy. There is a sense of class about it, of power and dignity regarding one’s appearance. )
And then there is the moment at the lounge: the climax of the pristine romantic scenario. A backdrop provided by The Savoy: the lofty ceilings hewn out of creamy stone surfaces. Regal palm trees hold a court of posterity amidst the bustling white-coated waiters. Round tables are set with rich clothes and fine china, a bouquet of flushing red roses arranged in the centre of each. A harp, piano, and violin meld in a harmonious melody of champagne bubble bliss, lulling thoughts into hazy dreams and soft pleasure.
He smokes his cigarette with candor, surveying the room. High-backed chairs with embroidered upholstery, and crisp linen napkins folded into precise points. No detail was left unexamined, for this was the culmination of ultimate luxury.
And then his eyes lift, the silverware gleams in the dim illumination; the stairway, as if spotlighted, beckons the attention of the entire room…the music swells, the crowd dissipates. She is the only being in the room retaining his attention; he is transfixed and allows his gaze to wander over her. A pale pink gown swirls in decadent froths, her luxurious mink coat (a gift from himself) rests elegantly upon her slim frame. Diamonds sparkle upon her open neck and hang in large orbs from her ears, a dainty gloved wrist bearing a matching strand. Her hair is coiffed into a perfect wave with the ends curling lusciously at the nape of her neck, her lashes dark and thick, lips plump and glossy. She smiles abashedly upon catching his hungry stare, and struts eagerly over to him, men glancing at her in open attraction as she passes them by in oblivion. Her face concentrated on his, the attention of the room at her disposal, charmingly unawares. Her eyes flash dark blue with a tingling want as she kisses him flush on the lips.
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