By Hannah Tomlinson, a doctor married to a doctor
FOOD we’ve got covered. Culture is rigidly stratified. But why are there no ways to make love that prove you’re better than the masses?
The middle-classes, so superior in every other way, surely deserve their own bespoke styles of sexual congress. Instead, once our Boden clothes are removed and our sexual organs engorged, we have no option but to go at it like a costermonger and his wife.
Even an elegant act of fellatio, as seen in French New Wave cinema, is no more than a dirty blow job once Love Island’s viewers get their collagen-stuffed lips around it.
Whatever we try to get up to in the bedroom, once we investigate it transpires that the lower orders have been up to it for absolutely ages. We felt we were pioneering artisanal anal, only to discover they call it ‘up the bum no babies’.
And pornography? Well, there might be an abstract painting up behind the sofa in enviably open-plan middle-class homes, but the bumping and grinding is off-puttingly proletarian. All those muscles. All those tattoos.
Tantric sex may sound sufficiently elitist to put off the unwashed, with its focus on chakras and eight-hour orgasms. Unfortunately it’s indelibly associated with Sting. His father was a milkman in Tyneside, and it still ends with a tawdry ejaculation.
So, apart from to produce our child prodigies, it’s better if the middle-classes avoid sex altogether. It’s simply too affordable and common. Get a Peloton instead.
