Whenever the refinement of luxury has reached a high point, the woman shows herself well-behaved only by compulsion, and makes no secret in wishing that she might rather be a man, so that she could give larger and freer playing room to her inclinations; no man, however, would want to be a woman.
Ha. Pshaw. Who's well-behaved by compulsion?
One of the highest points I ever had in my life was when I finally got over the lowlife I chained myself to. I was completely compelled to soak his underwear in bleach each day (light rinse) and teach him a quiet lesson about cheating. He was allergic to bleach. Poor thing in his nice clean tidy-whites. Nothing a big tube of rash cream wouldn't cure, after a few weeks, the first time...not so much the second. By the third time, I think it might have fell off. I dunno. I'm sure he wished for "larger" and "freer" Fruit of the Looms to help house his "inclinations."
Pure luxury, bleach is.
I'm quite happy with my own sense of refinement and feel no desire to switch.