When I started the Ladies High Tea and Pornography Society, my girlfriend A and I always joked that the unofficial rule was that while hats and gloves were required, everything else was optional. While we said it often enough, the truth was that Ladies High Tea was a pretty casual get together, and rarely did it become even slightly sexual, even with a slight tendency towards vintage fashion.

I've always had an erotic draw towards formalwear, however. One of the hottest fictional characters in the world to me is Jeeves, because a competent man in a suit is basically my pornography. I mean, part of it is that I'm reasonably high femme, and seeing a partner dress up for me tickles my senses in some indescribable ways. The layers upon layers, carefully applied, and the orderly way they all come together is just sensual, as I imagine the time it took to meticulously structure the outfit. And the accessories, especially for mens wear! Suspenders, waistcoat, pocket square, cufflinks- so many little ways to show off a sense of style and uniqueness, and men don't get many opportunities to get creative with their clothing. It just gets me so fucking wet when they do. I love that P and N are both super into letting me dress them in short shorts and glitter, or bow ties and shiny shoes.

I love to be dressed up too, of course. The stockings, the heels, the carefully chosen jewelry, the dress I need a lover to zip onto my body... it's a ritual, and one where the dressing is as hot as the undressing. As I swoop my eyeliner over my lids, as I apply my lipstick and twirl mascara over my lashes, I shiver to think about that makeup running down my face later from sweat, spit, and happy tears. I dress this way as a challenge, and perhaps as a promise. I may not be fit for public consumption, but I can play the part.

I was reminded of how sexy formalwear is recently, when I went to a wedding with N. It wasn't a typical wedding, mainly as it involved friends of mine and therefore was highly likely to be populated by perverts and nerds. Also, because the bride had asked to see my date naked, preferably having sex, presumably with me, during the reception. She's an artist and had enjoyed his body from afar before, and I was a little surprised but happy to oblige, if he was down. So I slipped on a nice dress, making sure to wear black lingerie that was ready to be cut off, just in case... and I made sure to tell him how much I was looking forward to the ripping of fishnets and lace under his hands.

Well, N and I got dressed way before we needed to, as I misread the invite and had us fancied up hours ahead of time. It didn't take much suggestion for us to start to make out, you know, to take up some time. We got to that point of hot and bothered where we definitely wanted to fuck, but... it took us an hour to get ready, and every minute spent putting ourselves back together would be another minute not having teh sexx.

So we kept all our clothes on. No rolled down tights, but right through a hole already ripped through the crotch of the fishnets (carefully, because we didn't want to destroy these until it was the right time). No pulling down of pants, either, but pulling his cock out from the fly. He kept his jacket on. I kept my jewelry on. It was all very elegant, if not necessarily in line with our usual "wholesomeness" kink (which is a whole 'nother blog entry).

At first, it was delicate, trying not to catch cufflinks on lace. Soon, I didn't care if I squirted all over my tulle skirt, I just wanted him inside me as quickly and roughly as possible. N, being quite a giver, obliged me with one hell of a fucking. I remember thinking to myself "I wonder if his tux is going to be smeared with my come, will it need dry cleaning" for a split second before deciding that I hoped it was, and also, fuck it. I have scratched on my upper arm from where he braced himself, his cuff link digging into my flesh. Even better, with his flatmate entertaining in the other room, we had to be incredibly quiet, whispering sweet and filthy dirty talk, whimpering in pleasure, biting knuckles as we came.

While I wrapped my mouth around his post-orgasmic cock, savoring the taste, N grinned down at me and told me that this tux may not have been washed since the last time he wore it. Apparently it gets most of its use at sex parties. This is probably part of why we're dating... I have a thing for the sort of man who wears a cummerbund and nail polish to an orgy, what can I say. And we went to that wedding, smelling of sex instead of perfume, my hair "styled" by our vigorous pounding and a touch of hairspray. It was only right, I think. Later he ripped my bra, panties, and tights off my body as we rolled around on the soft fur of the Liberator faux fur throe. Pure, extravagant luxury, grabbing handfuls of silky fur as your lover grabs handfuls of you. Mmm.

Now I'm kind of aching for another reason to see N in a tux, to be honest. Dry cleaned or not. What can I say, I like the gutter, it's nice there.

"Solidarity is created by shared discomforts, which is caused in part by the civic-minded desire to be pleasing in the eyes of one's fellow citizens," says Lord Whimsy in one of my favourite essays, "The Perils of Sportswear". "Comfort isolates us from one another, and should be seen in the clear light of day for what it is: a killer of nations." I don't know if I'd go that far, but I certainly feel that dressing up for one another indicates a bit of care for what others think, and I find that hot.

I want my lovers to show off for me, as I show off for them.

Wearing a full tuxedo, or an evening gown, suggests a sacrifice for fashion... a masochism I can get behind.