A OneNote Chorus Line

Although I love the female form in all its clothed or naked splendour - any and every attractive curve of a tummy where it meets the top of the thigh; the longitudinal horizontal valley across the gentle swell of a, almost but not quite, flat belly; the perfect comma of a perfect navel.

Even as I adore the graceful convex arc from the bottom rib to the top of a sculptured hip; or the fabulous sweep of flesh from the centre of a woman's back that descends rapidly then precipitously to the tipping off points of the intimate, ultimate, twin ski slopes of the derriere.

The tiny beginnings, hints really, of folds that separate cheeks from firm rounded flesh that descends to form those delicate caves behind the knees then gathers quickly to rush down and surround tensed calves, shapely ankles and even shapelier pointed feet.

In spite of arched shoulders and impertinently taut breasts that hover over perfectly contoured ribs. Delicious.

That shape. To give it full justice, how does one describe the perfection that nestles in a sweep below the appealing jaw line of any woman? Yes, all that above but including the rising sweep of a woman's bosom, the delicately or densely, light or dark, twin tipped orbs of femininity. Is there such a description as a Décolleté Area? Might I suggest gorgeously complicated female symmetry that is visually and emotionally startling? And visceral delight comes to mind.

A crowning head of sleek and shiny or soft and billowing hair that frames a delicately featured symmetrical visage turns me on, but it is the female body, working in perfect harmony. God! Full well-formed hips, working in faultless juxtaposition to every other part of the female body… Simple movements like walking set it off. Or swaying, or hip swinging, causing all the curves and arcs and hollows and sweeps of the female body to display the timeless object we all love. Graceful, sinuous, sensuous, sensual Beauty.

 I worship it all... And it is why I am so pissed off with every OneNote-song-length-chorus that the younger generation call music – or a track - during the excessive duration of which all any faintly pretty ex-cheerleader with a pert arse, pursed lips, a mildly matured voice – and with a surrounding dance troupe of over-developed plumpers - can manage to do to bugger it all up is to shake her soddin' Booty!