Yesterday a male friend said to me: Felicity, you’re turning into a prude.
I responded how any right-minded woman would respond. I turned off the shower off and told him to get out. Then I refused to towel him down or help stuff him back into his tiny leather posing pouch. In fact, I sent him on his way with a flea in his ear. Well, perhaps not a flea. It was actually my tongue but you know how these goodbye kisses start. First it’s a peck on the lips and the next thing you know is that you’re hanging off his earlobe.
The fact is that I’m 26 now which means in two or three years times, I’ll be 27. That makes a girl reassess her priorities. If that means that I’m not quite as willing to bend as far or spend as many hours on my knees as I used to, that’s surely just a girl taking care of her body. It doesn't mean that I’m any less of a woman, does it? And there’s something to be said about a girl maintaining certain standards. Yet reach a level of maturity when you realise how important it is to always look good, dress well, and don’t try to climb a policeman just because you've had one too many glasses of the strained pooch.
Take my friend Tabatha. Plenty of men already have but that just tells you that she’s definitely an example of how a girl can go wrong.
It began when she got a heart tattooed on her little toe. Due to her obsession with stiletto heels, she has very bad toes. Her little toes are so deformed they resemble a couple of earthworms after a mallet attack so you can imagine how small the tattoo was. For a long time, even her friends didn't know she had the tattoo on her toe but I suppose it was her way of quietly rebelling against conformity. However, after a while, tattoos became commonplace and she finally showed us the heart. I wasn't impressed but Tabatha said it made her feel ‘unique’ and I wasn't surprised when, shortly after, she had a parrot tattooed on her shoulder. It was quite a big parrot: blue, with a yellow head, and with a streak of danger in its on outward facing eye. I never liked it myself but Tabatha was quite proud of the work, even if she could never see it herself except by a complicated system of three mirrors.
Anyway, I lost track of Tabatha for a while, probably because things were said, mainly by me, and mainly about parrots. But when I saw her earlier this year, she’d dyed her hair jet black and had graduated to six inch chrome plated heels and wears a leather corset in the middle of the day. She’d also had Picasso’s Guernica tastefully tattooed across her chest and rather small breasts. She’s a real walking tableau of scenes from human history. Her right arm had Ghandi preaching non-violent civil disobedience and on her left she has Nelson Mandela meeting the Spice Girls.
The thing is, she tells me that she’s more popular than ever. Men find her immensely attractive, which I find hard to believe. Sex with her must be like getting intimate with Wikipedia. In fact I can imagine myself now writing her into one of my erotic short stories…
‘He kissed the ape of her neck, which wasn't a typo, it was actually an ape, waving back at him. She purred with delight as he moved down to her shoulder and kissed her repeatedly on the Finnish Railway Museum which he discovered via a careful annotation was originally founded in 1898 and was originally located in Helsinki before it was moved to Hyvinkää in 1974.’
No, it doesn't work for me but perhaps it works for you.
But you have to forgive my maudlin mood. I think I’m beginning to regret kicking a six foot five inch drummer out of my shower. And he looked so sad as he climbed back into his Salvation Uniform outfit…
Oh, fiddlesticks! I think I’ll go see if I can catch up with him. He can’t have gone far. Not carrying his big bass drum…