"Dr Skillthere is wonderful," wrote Fanny to her sister Conny, more correctly known as Constance, Lady Chatterley. But what could Conny know of passion? Fanny had been in the FANY1 during the Great War, and knew what Passion meant. Conny was a saint, of course. No wonder her sexual urges, frustrated by her crippled husband, were sublimated into gardening. But no matter how you cut it, root vegetables and holly-hocks are not the same.
"He writes me the most gloriously passionate letters", she continued. And then, out of a desire to show off and a vague sisterly awareness that Conny might appreciate something to to help her keep hot on the cold winter nights while she lay alone in her pitiless marital bed, she copied out a section of one of Dr Skillthere's letters for her sister. Fanny's hand trembled slightly as she rewrote his words to her. She loved it when he talked dirty. She did not envisage her sister, naked as a strumpet and warmed by firelight and her lover's drifting hands, lying on the floor of the game-keeper's cottage two days later, reading it aloud to Mellors, the laughter coming in great gasping breaths as they shared the good Doctor's worst thoughts. But sisters are like that.
My darling Fanny - how did your parents consent to give you such a name? You are so glorious! So pure! So perfect! I shall not call you Fanny any more, except in public, my darling darling one. I shall call you 'Pudendum'!
"An' what does 'Pudendum' mean, Conny?" said Mellors, as he stroked Constance's back.
"It is the medical term for cunny", said Conny.
"Fanny and Connie?" said Mellors, thoughtfully. "An' y'r brother is Dick?"
"Richard? - Yes, I suppose he is," said Conny. "Shall I go on?"
"Aye," said Mellors. "Aye. But read me more of yon daft besom's letter first".
I shall call you 'Pudendum', read Conny, it shall be my private name for you. Darling I just want to take you in my arms. I want to stroke you, feel you quiver. I love the way that I can make you shake from your sternoclavicular joint2 to your lowest distal interphalanges3 with the lightest touch on your rectus abodminus4. I want to run my fingernails across the rough texture of your grid-iron scar5 then onwards to the area the French call 'the Mons of Venus'. What do the French know of love, my darling?
Conny turned a laugh into a tactful gasp of pleasure. No need to hurt the deliciously filthy son of the soil by showing what she knew of French loving.
I love the musky smell of the scretions of your apocrine glands 6, and the way the hair curls so softly in your axilla7. The contrast of your dark, delicious curls against the pale glory of the skin sets the blood throbbing in my superfical temporal artery8. The soft, soft skin of your ante-cubital fossa 9induces waves of sensation from my L2 to my T3 10, my dearest darling.
"Arr, 'e's a wordy b*gg*r, this Doctor of 'ers," said Mellors.
"A vocalising sodomite?" murmured Conny.
The first touch of the tip of your glossa11 on the lobule of my pinna12 makes me tachyapnic13 with pleasure, and I know it is only the beginning of hypocapnia14.
I want to whisper it in your ear; you have the most delightful cavum and counter helix15, my dearest love. I want you to feel my hot expiration16 enter your canal17 and know that your tympanic membrane18 is vibrating in response. Oh, the responsiveness of your vibrations.
I want to shout it on the mountain top, publish it in the BMJ19, how much I love it when your erector spina muscles20 contract and you ullulate21 repeatedly with pleasure.
Oh, the look of sated languour when your levator labii superoris and frontalis muscles22 relax and your blepharons23 droop as your gross brain wave activity calms and you drift softly into sleep.
"Aye, 'appen you like that, wench," said Mellors, who had stopped listening a while ago.
Conny did not like to tell him that the products of her Batholin glands24 he was happily enjoying were caused, not by his clumsy, muddy fingers, but her sister's report of the good Doctor's skill there.