Lips are the outward sign, the emblem of desire, and lipstick is the ink in which we graffiti that message on our smile, our pout and pucker. When a girl blows a man a kiss she is sending him a piece of her soul.

There is an erotic charge prising the top from a new lipstick, leaning into the mirror and painting your masterpiece. Lipstick has its own unique taste and lingers on your tongue like semen.

Lipstick comes in phallic-shaped tubes. With just a breath of imagination, it feels as if you are holding a miniature penis, rubbing the head over your half-opened lips before squeezing down to spread the oily soft blush evenly over every curve and into every corner.

A girl’s red lips imitate the hot blood coursing through the lips of her labia, a sign that she is healthy and ready for breeding. She may not know that. He may not know that. But this is the design, the primeval impulse to redden our lips.

Your facial lips and the butterfly lips of your vagina are connected by a fine invisible circuit. When you take a hard cock into your mouth, the feeling of pleasure zips in pulsing waves down through your body and rings the bell of your clitoris. The vulva swells with blood and the sensation is carnal, exquisite, the essence of femininity.

Pampering your down-turned lips kills time when you are out on a date with some creep boring you to death. You can go to the loo, pull out your make-up bag and fantasize about all the people you would prefer to be with: Brad Pitt, Robert Pattinson, Eddie Redmayne, Cameron Diaz.

Lipstick stains on a cigarette filter summons to mind noir evenings of decadence. A girl with carmine lips smoking is obviously a girl who does not intend to go home alone that night.

Empty lipstick cases are like spent cartridges from the eternal war that is love. A used tube has the quality of those books you are reluctant to give away and they line the shelves in my bathroom, mementos of nights to remember.