And thus it is that of all our dying traditions, the secret life of the British male aristocrat has remained among the best-preserved. For centuries, furtive toffs have crept to the eighteenth-century enclaves of Shepherd's Market and Soho to enjoy light flagellation or a bit of French from girls with Eliza Doolittle vowels. Brothels are booming despite the credit crunch, and recent imports of talent from the Baltic States have made die-hard Tory males reconsider their position on joining Europe. There may not be much mileage for the heritage industry in this, but it's frightfully good news for any girl lucky enough to land herself a lover whose name is in Debrett's. Englishmen of a certain sort may not have the intellectual élan of the French, or the operatic charm of the Italians, but with good training (think enthusiastic Labrador puppy), they can be rather spectacular lovers.
For a start, they're so touchingly grateful. Let's face it, free love hasn't been all it was cracked up to be for the girls. The average Manhattan metrosexual expects a taut ride through half the positions in the Kama Sutra, a gourmet organic breakfast and an underwear collection from Agent Provocateur, and even then he doesn't call you.
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Of all our dying traditions, the secret life of the British male aristocrat has remained among the best-preserved.
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He certainly won't stand up when you leave the table — or give you $100 for the powder room. But the Englishman is still so convinced that sex is something nasty which women obligingly tolerate, that any hint of enthusiasm on your part transforms you, in his eyes, into a cross between Zola's Nana and Angelina Jolie. Admittedly, his technique may require a little guidance (aristos learn from their ancestral bloodstock — hence the lord who consulted the family doctor about infertility, only to discover he'd been buggering his wife for years), but once you've shown him that "clitoris" isn't a place his great-grandfather used to govern, he'll happily go down for hours — at least outside the shooting season. And, marvelously, Englishmen don't do emotions, which means you don't have to listen to post-coital rants about his relationship with his father or whether his shrink's right about his co-dependency issues. You can also get as drunk as you like without his thinking it's at all peculiar, and he won't expect you to shower at any point in the proceedings.
Contrary to our reputation, excess has always been a British inclination. We couldn't content ourselves with a few colonies, and these days we can't content ourselves with continence. But properly played, the Englishman's will to conquer can have cataclysmically delightful consequences. Noblesse will always oblige — even if he does keep his socks on.
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