Rules are there to be broken...
The most shameful is the violation of my own code. Some would be surprised to hear I have a code at all. I do. I have the gentlemen's code: No friends' girls or sisters. OK, so no one adheres to the sister rule. It's just not practical. Honestly, if you met Belinda you would agree. It's a totally unsupportable proposition, like no sex before marriage or going to a bar "for one".
But friend's wives or girlfriends are out of bounds. Absolutely prohibited. Verboten. Except in exceptional circumstances. Like Charlie, for instance. She was really quite exceptional. And she had terrific circumstances.
So I do have a moral code, I am just unable to follow it, particularly when faced with the gaze of a beautiful woman, an unexpected smile, or pretty ankle. I would vehemently deny, however, that I am some kind of sexual predator. Predators devour their prey. Predators and prey do not devour each other.
I have been bad, but I hope not evil. For my sins have all been for love, lust or laughter because from an early age I've felt I was born to love women and be bored by men and their tiresome egos.
But I don't just love their intoxicating beauty, I love their company, their obsessions, their desires, their secrets, their every little aspect. The things that make them laugh and cry, the way they think, they way they love, they way they move, smell, smile and shout. I love them when they're young and delightful and when they're mature and amazing. J'adore la femme.
And that is where the trouble started...
