I love a good tale.Who doesn't?
And I have never bothered to let the facts get in the way of telling a yarn.
Why would you?
The dull and the ignorant may have their stories, but usually they are batshit boring involving the return counter at Marks and Spencer's and a particularly arduous pair of black slacks.
Yawn.......pass me the nail gun, my eyes need new holes in them.....
No, if you are going to regale your audience with a thrilling piece of narrative worthy of an extra slice of cheesecake and a fresh bottle of Pinot Griz, you'd better get your patter in order.
The punters want salacious details and they want names.
They want to hear words that make their insides wriggle and squirm and their outsides go all hard on the soft tissue parts.
They want to hear things that make them secretly repeat every detail over and over in their heads so that they can dine out on that same story to a new audience a week later.
Thank Christ there are no intellectual property rights on gossip.
Yet.
So when it comes to earning my keep at the dinner table, I set my mouth to 'hyper' my brain to ' creative licence' and my moral compass at 'zero'....which is where I manage to keep it most of the time anyway.
I have told this story in person to others, and possibly on stage at one point, although those days are somewhat hazy.
There was a time in my life when I 'Lunched'.
I have lunch now, in fact, almost every day.
But this was when I 'Lunched'.
I was a 'Lady' who 'Lunched'.
Truth be told, I was never terribly good at this job.
Don't get me wrong, I loved and I fancy was rather good at, the 'sex in return for money' part of this arrangement.
I was even good in the kitchen ( and the living room, and the bathroom, and....oh COME ON, you know that joke was in there).
But it was the dreadful hours between sending the kiddies of to school, and waiting for the return of the Great White Hunter that got me into trouble.
Hours and hours of endless " what the fuck am I doing ?" meant I fell into a hole of selfworthlessness.
It was shit.
But every cloud has a silver lining....and mine was the material I gathered for those moments when you are out to dinner with a bunch of the girls and someone mentions that they had a HIDEOUS experience just the other day at Marks and Sparks......
"Did I ever tell you about the first time I met The Bottle Blondes of Stepford Cove ?" I shout " The ones who all had their beavers electrocuted"
That usually gets us back on track.
Here is the story I tell.
I once had lunch with a group of women- obviously I can not actually NAME names, as not all of them are finally divorced and living back in the motherland with their kids and his alimony- but these woman were the real deal.
Actual middle aged, middle class women living the dream of being married and never having to work except inside the bedroom and then, not even, if he found a quiet bit of tart on the side who knew what the deal was and stayed in her place........or if he was secretly gay.....
Anyhoo.
These women were 'lead'- and I use the term loosely- at this time by a striking, rather Amazonial, big titted, high waisted, fake tanned behemoth of A type personality whom we shall name 'Babs', for the sake of an argument.
Babs was everything the others aspired to be.
Not only were her ducks in a row in terms of her retirement plan- her womb having pumped out several genetically correct offspring with the same DNA as her benefactor- but everything about her shrieked success.
Her house was bigger and better than most, her diamonds were larger and crasser than most, she had a husband who didn't actually drool at the dinner table and her thighs - whilst admittedly being vacuumed free of fat at least once every two years- looked great in Jodhpurs, even on non riding days.
She was The Biz, as the bookies say.
I had never laid eyes on her until that lunch, but I had heard The Legends.
So I sat down next to Babs, and personally, I think she was curious to meet The New Girl.
" Your hair looks lovely" I said.
My Mama didn't raise no fool, I know how to crack open a conversation.
"mmm, thanks" she replied" I had it done this morning....I get it done every two weeks....the roots that is.....I have too....on account of my husband, you see....he doesn't know I'm not a natural blonde"
Now, curiously I had met her husband the week before I had met her.
He didn't seem any more intensely stupid than most......
" Oh really?" I asked, not actually giving a fuck and clawing desperately at the neck of a bottle of chardonnay. Why the fuck do they still insist on using corks in France? " do tell...."
" Well, when we met, I was blonde and he said he really liked blondes, and in those days, I used to shave my nads, you know, as was the fashion"
20 seconds, at most, and she was talking to me about her vagina.
" uh huh" ....dear God, this is going to be a long day.
" Then, when waxing became more in vogue I just did that, and I was always careful not to let him go down when the hair was growing back, plus I hid my roots"
45 seconds and cunnilingus was on the table- so to speak.
" But these days it's so much easier, ever since I went and had all my pubic hair lasered off, full Brazilian, clean as a whistle, front and back, no hair anywhere on or in any of the cracks. Yup, when it comes to my punani, I am as bald as a badger"
60 seconds. Max.
From "Hi, I'm Babs" to " My pussy is naked and my husband doesn't know the real me" is less than a minute.
That's got to be SOME kind of a record, surely?
But this was not new territory for these women.
Within minutes I knew exactly whom else at the table had gone the laser route, and who still waxed or shaved, or merely trimmed.
I knew which their husbands preferred and why.
I also knew the upkeep of those same husbands genital hairwear.
When you do nothing but shop and drink -with domestic staff do the other things- the details of private grooming make excellent public conversation.
Numbers and price lists are valuable commodities, and there is a certain hierarchy to be set in place and maintained by the mention of 'THIS' name in a beauty salon or 'THAT' plastic surgeon.
I guess none of it shocked me really, pardon the pun ( hells bells, I've used electricity on my genitals, but only with a trusted companion and always with a safety word).
Perhaps what surprised me was that her partner of 15 years was unaware that his lady love was living a lie.
Would he REALLY have loved her less as a brunette?
She will never know.
And nor will he.
Curious, no?
That same group of women used to take- still take- regular Girly weekends to the mighty Burumgrad Hospital in Thailand for a lube, a tweak and an oil change.
I can not tell you how many post operative breasts and hairline scars I have been subjected to over a plate of fresh scallops and a bottle of crisp dry white.
I do not judge these women.
If I had the cash, I would ditch this whole ' going to the gym' bullshit for a week on my back in Bangkok with a drip and a drainage tube.
Trust me.
Huffing and puffing will take it all away, but NOTHING short of a well trained butcher is going to smooth it out.
So that is my story.
I once met a woman whose life was so tenuously tied to her identity that she removed who she really was lest the people she loved rejected her for being herself.
It's not a very happy story when you put it like that, not really, but it's a true one.
It could have been a story about having too much money, and not enough sense, or vanity, or brainlessness, or blatant attention seeking or any of the things we like to point and laugh at.
It could have been an 'I'm better than you' story, or a 'it serves you right' story, or a 'you get what you pay for' story.
Instead it's a story about a woman with no pubic hair.
A cougar, with a bald pussy.
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