If I can't Get Boinked in a Medeival Castle...

If I can’t get boinked in a medieval castle OR cathedral then I’ll write about it.

That’s an attention getter. And it is true.

I don’t want to detract literary interest from my novel. It is not a bodice ripper. Good grief, bodices didn’t exist in 1224 AD! I’ve researched it and would be happy to discuss the fashion of the day. I even have a few re-creations. And, no, I don’t have costume sex.

The Middles Ages have always attracted me. Disney’s “Sleeping Beauty” was a childhood favorite (and Tchaikovsky!!!). That opening scene, the castle. And let’s not forget Samson the horse. History and archaeology still fascinate me. But those castles and cathedrals…How disappointing in elementary school. Middle school, too, we never studied the good stuff. In high school I begged for medieval Europe. A compromise, the Industrial Revolution, starting in the Middle Ages. One of the few art projects I ever did that wasn’t a horse (that’s a different story) was a cathedral. Got an A. Oh, and my abject disappointment in discovering the Crusades were not about religion, but a zealous quest for wealth and power (there’s nothing new under the sun).

But the images of a mighty destrier and great stone edifice persisted, taking on erotic proportions with age.

An evening of horsemanship at Medieval Times, Anaheim, Calif., rekindled the fascination. I started rewatching old movies. Unsatisfied, I began researching for myself. And the voices started in earnest.

But, I promised sex in the title…what do sex and real estate have in common?

LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION

Ultimately, I suppose it is all about the castle sex and cathedral sex.

My first trip to Europe was Paris precisely, and Notre Dame. OMG! Let the orgasmic fantasies begin. I was panting and had tears in my eyes. All those lit candles…that was nothing to my flame. Ste. Chappelle, more of the same.

One of my favorite cathedrals is St. Stephans in Vienna. There is this little spiral stairway, with a carving of the artist looking out a window…dude. Everywhere my husband and I walked, I was thinking: Right here, right now! Curse these jeans! Over and over and over.

I realize now in writing this blog, the same modesty that prevents my husband from ravaging me in the vestibule, censures me from further personal exposition. Effectively binding my tongue, wasting a lingual communion, a paradise lost in biblical proportion.

How I swayed beneath the thick, stone columns, engorged and reaching to the sky.
Penetrating the space within, thrusting heavenward. Each one a salient reminder of our sacred purpose: And woman shall desire her husband. And they shall lie upon the high alter and give thanks and praise. And praise and thanks. And a husband shall desire his wife, and they change positions, with more thanking and praising. With the laying on of hands the alleluias burst forth. The holy water flows. And they rest; and it was good.

You get the idea…pretty tongue in cheek…or _ _ _ _ _ in cheek to be more accurate. My husband may be modest, but he is happy.

It’s the same with castles. All that erect, hard stone. Projecting towers in phallic magnitude, arousing a sense of power and safety focusing onto the drawbridge and gate house…inviting, encapsulating; begging admittance, promising a welcome.

Peering out from the crenellations, sea birds soar below us on the salty breeze that pushes up rustling my hair, delighting the senses as I rock back and forth back forth, like the rise and fall of a ship, I ride the rhythmic swell of my love, pounding, pulsing, a relentless surge crashing against the fortress wall, wave upon wave, until the banks flood and all too soon, love spent, the tide ebbs.

I can be silly here, it’s a blog. But seriously, I do fantasize (size does matter) about having sex (with my husband--he’s the stuff fantasies are made of) in medieval locations.

***I am not soliciting on line medieval sex fantasies; please don’t send pictures or letters suitable for Penthouse. This is not a porn site or partner exchange.

This is one of the reasons I write, and people I talk to ask about it.***