fucking men with camouflage fetishes

I suppered with Hotel Boy last night and he's shamed me into going back to the blog world. I'd abandoned it not because I was fed up with not being publicly recognised (although I do feel I should be); but because of all annoying things a full-time job has foisted itself upon me. I'm back in the knicker business and thus on most days, up to my eyeballs in knickers.

Tearing myself away from all things small and lacy what I really want to explore is the recurring theme of men in my life and their odd camouflage fetish. I found myself yesterday writing a Dear John email of sorts to the chap I've been shagging - let's call him Porno Man (will explain another time). He was getting the flick due to a sighting of him in army camouflage patterned pants. I know it's only my opinion but they are truly a fashion faux-pas. I think of macho-mustachioed gay men - bare chested and leather capped. Not a potential father for my offspring.
Tragically this camo-pant shiver of horror was not the first to tingle my spine. Perhaps it's my destiny. Previous point in case: Last year when shagging Man-Recovering-From-Open-Heart-Surgery, I, Woman-Recovering-From-Broken-Heart - had to squeeze my eyes shut very very tightly to get over the glimpse of a camouflage patterned vest this lover was sporting. One hand hastily hoisting camo print polyester - it crackled (John Paul Gaultier polyester - still no excuse and further proof of Gay Man Wear). His other hand pushed eagerly on my head downwards to his slightly small penis. Hmm Porno Man's penis is also of questionable size; another coincidence?

Through tightly shut eyes and necessary blow-job focus I maneuvered the fleeting camo shock to the back of my mind. Simultaneously I countered that his outerwear was tastefully top notch; his upper east side townhouse to die for; and the discovery of a personal, delightfully-dirty turn-on: I totally got off getting fucked amidst a Museum-worthy collection of Richter, Ellison, Prince, Cattalan, Schnabel, Kentridge bla bla bla works of art.

Oh yes breakfast brought to one in bed by live-in housekeeper was also a little something which helped sweeten the nasty underwear blow. Perhaps I've been too hasty with Porno Man. With all these similarities a suggestion of a house-keeper-cum-chef, and contemporary art acquisitioning I may have to reconsider my hasty "Dear John".