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Summary
It had started because Hob had a bit of a thing. That was reasonable, he thought. You couldn’t live for six greedy centuries and counting without accumulating a few things. Exhibitionism (fourteenth through seventeenth centuries, naturally); corsets and heels (eighteenth century); goths (late twentieth century). And so on. Perfectly normal.
But this, this was the oldest Thing. His ancient Stonehenge of a Thing. His perfectly-preserved bog body of a Thing. If he was the oldest human, then this was the longest-lived Thing. It was dry-aged, cask-aged, new-aged. It was underpainted with mysterious fluids and had provenance papers that would make the men at Sotheby’s blush and adjust themselves at their desks. It was worn as soft as the Shroud of Turin, and as wrinkled and delicious as a new Judean date from a resurrected 2,000-year-old seed. It was the leitmotif of all his lust and desire. If the British Museum ever did an exhibition on the history of Things, they would steal it and put it on display.
Or, a short and silly story about husbands: one newly human, and one with a very old kink.