Today’s cheese is St Felicien

Who can deny the desire to surrender to pleasure, to give yourself, totally, completely over to bodily, earthly desires and to attempt to quench lusts; vice-ridden, degenerate lusts, over and over, without ever being satisfied. To continue to seek, to quest for still greater moral corruption, more intricate and exquisite delicate pleasures.

Such degeneracy comes in various guises. Saint Felicien is, at first glance, not the most obvious of seducers. But then, they rarely are.
But look again. Look, don’t leer, at its silken skin. This is no rind, you clumsy oaf. Firm tenderness is needed. See its soft flesh and how easily it gives to your touch. It teasingly retreats but not far. It is there for you. You can see it, unctuous and oozing. Waiting for you. It is offering itself to you whilst remaining in control. Leading you on, urging you to taste it, to seek it out. Take it greedily. But teasingly. This cheese will not be simply devoured. Allow its perfume to fill your head. You are giddy now. There was bread somewhere, a knife too but such civilised thoughts are long gone.  Use your fingers.

Although it offered itself to you, you are the one left offering yourself. Your ego has been surrendered and the id is in charge now. Release yourself, free your craving, your need, your wants and let it take you. Take you completely.

Go on. Smear it, spread it. It is rich and creamy and so, so very bad. But yet, that’s what you crave. Abandon yourself.

Your seducer is white. So white but with a hint of palest yellow. Its unpasteurised, cow’s milk paste runs white from beneath its silken skin. It suggests naivety and immaturity. The cheese may be young, maybe four or six weeks old, but this is no Lolita, no Byron. The fragrance and aroma of such desire is buttery, clean and new. Its coating mouthfeel is simply cream, firmer, just, than a clotted cream but no more. It is slightly salty and maybe the slightest hint of sharpness but no more. This is beguiling, divine seduction. You know what’s happening, and you know you shouldn’t. But you will.


Allow St Felicien to take you and subtly abuse you. Surrender to its wiles and its subtle but total corruption of your soul. Sip at the warm spicy nectar of a fine Cotes du Rhone as you succumb.


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