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Though not so foppish as to be considered a true dandy, A.J. Raffles was never the sort of man to slash the budget for his suits of clothes, and wore perhaps the best-tailored suits of any gentleman of my acquaintance. His appreciation for beautiful objects he often made clear--though to my eye, nearly every bauble he owned for only as long as it took to make arrangements for a meeting with his fence looked like nothing more than potential pound-notes in some other form--as well as an appreciation for a pretty face or figure, along with his stolid sense that his own arrestable offenses were a sort of artistry. It was just so with his wardrobe, about which he was very particular and somewhat vain. And in that area, at least, he and I found common ground for appreciation.I shall tell now the details of my favourite of his suits, and pray indulge me a particular fascination with dressing and undressing the man--one which drives me to distraction in a fashion I’m told is extreme, but only by Raffles himself, and with an amused twinkle of his eye which reassures me he is interested rather than repelled. As such, he allows me to act his butler rather frequently, which fills me with a sort of bashful pride of a morning, and of an evening, drives me half-mad and into his bed.The suit is of a summer-weight, polished silk, and in close quarters, one can notice tiny loops and knots of the threads here and there; its texture is smooth beneath the fingers, unless touched so lightly as to nearly not touch at all, when those charming imperfections tickle and catch. The jacket is cut slim to accentuate his fine, slender waist, with two vents and a double lapel. I find a buttonhole of lavender-blue most flatters it, as the suit is of a pale silver-grey reflecting tones of blue in soft light.Its buttons are thin but sturdy mother-of-pearl, glowing pink and blue and ivory as if each was a jewel. Sliding them into or out of their slots, I am aware of their careful perfection, and I linger over the job as I fasten the man in behind them, but rush when I am set the task of freeing him. The waistcoat fits like a second skin over the fine, soft cotton of Raffles’ bright white shirts, and its buttons, though smaller, are equally lovely, and at times equally frustrating.Collar and cuffs are stiff and clean, and about his slender neck I take my time with the tying of his cravat--the robin’s egg, or the platinum, or the blush-pink, which flatters his complexion best--plucking and rolling each fold until it is perfectly elegant, like the man himself. When I dip in my fingers to undo the silk, Raffles will sometimes touch my wrists, to slow me if I seem too eager, or catch me fast by the jaw and kiss me quick, as our faces are inevitably so near. There are rows and rows of cuff links from which to choose, and when I catch a glance of them beneath his jacket cuffs, out in town, or at a ball, I am reminded it was I who chose them, with affection and esteem, and who fastened them on, and who will later remove them, and I feel again that mixture of self-esteem and primal longing that comes from sharing close proximity to Raffles as I dress him.His trousers are high-waisted and close-cut, and to see him walk away without a jacket is enough to make me weak, as the curve of his backside is perhaps the most perfect example of the male human form as ever I have observed, rivaling even those marble gods and beauties that stand silent in museums. Raffles’ legs are long and slender, ending in long, narrow feet I enrobe in silk socks, some sheer as chiffon, held fast by hose garters I reverently snap into place over his muscular calves. All his shoes are Italian-made, of softest leather, and even the dull ones shine.Beneath all, of course, is his union suit, with small, inviting buttons of its own--bleached wood, or horn--in fantastic number. Beneath his evening dress, Raffles wears the new fashion in mens’ undergarments woven of fine, black silk, and even I, pouring forth this lusty missive, feel it prudent to refrain from further rapturous descriptions thereof.A.J. Raffles, thus attired, may wear a top coat and hat, carry a gold-inlaid walking stick, or an engraved cigarette case. His watch chain may glimmer as it undulates against his abdomen. He may choose any of a number of rings to decorate his little finger. No matter these additions, or their later subtraction, he is a sight to behold, and a treasure to be held, all undone, close and hot, in my wiling, waiting arms.