There I was, with Camille, at a cocktail party given for an artist we know, when I notice this very handsome guy across the room being chatted up by a big, busty blonde.
Women who look like Pamela Anderson fascinate me. From a distance they stop traffic, up close is another matter. There’s nothing hot about a fiberglass face along with a body that was purchased on Visa. Actually I feel a few wrinkles can be comforting to the person you’re talking to, but that’s just me. I will say boobs the size of cantaloupes do get you in the door, sideways perhaps, but inevitably inside the party.
I waved to Camille who was circling the room like a well-heeled hawk.
“There is nobody interesting here,” she said nibbling on jumbo shrimp, “you’d think we’d have a better buffet to pick from.”
“But you’re eating 4-star shrimp Camille.”
“Yeah but I can’t go home with it.”
I have to hand it to Camille; her libido never quits, it’s on sleep like her iPad, raring to go 24/7.
Suddenly I looked up to find that cute guy looking my way. Hmm, what happened, did the blonde bombshell bomb? He then, to my surprised delight, started to flirt from afar.
What do I mean by flirt? Smiles, shrugs like it all eludes him; a little eye rolling when the big blonde tried again. It’s what I refer to as ‘noncommittal flirting.’ It’s fun for 5 minutes until something else more appealing catches your eye, but then something out of the norm occurred.
He started to grab his crotch. No, not like a baseball player or the TV repairman, it wasn’t unconscious. It was more of a seductive gesture as if we were canoodling in a hallway.
What did I do?
I looked behind me to make sure it was me he was being smutty with, I mean how disappointing to find you were merely standing in the way. Turned out it was me, unless of course he liked the fat bartender.
Clearly this fella was flirting in code, one that I was expected to crack. Trouble is I’m very practical so say he was transmitting, ‘my place or yours,’ I’m thinking more along the lines of ‘lice;’ is that why he’s scratching?
He also kept rubbing his belly. Hmm, what could that mean…did he want me to cook?
“Susannah, what are you doing?” asked Camille who was watching me watching him.
“I’m having a sexual conversation with that guy over there.”
“You mean the one that keeps touching his balls?”
“Do you know him?”
“Heavens no. Rule number one Susannah, if a man plays with himself so blatantly in public he couldn’t be all that interested in playing with you in private.”
“I’ve never heard that rule before. Maybe he’s just being playful and a tad provocative Camille.”
“You don’t say, well no more wine for you.”
“You’re always telling me I make snap judgments especially in regards to men. This is me being open-minded.”
“Actually it’s you being stupid.”
As the evening wound down I never did get to actually speak to ‘the scratcher.’ Last I knew he was making crotch contact with an Asian art dealer from London. She seemed quite smitten but that easily could be blamed on jet lag. Camille always says it pays to be Asian if you fly a lot since you always look tired anyway (she said it, I didn’t).
All in all I had a pretty good time. I got to flirt and be curious reminding myself I’m still alluring to someone even if he was a bit of a freak. But let’s face it, one woman’s freak is another woman’s Lancelot.
As for Camille, she collected 6 business cards and a waiter who made her a little kitty bag, as she prefers to call it, of shrimp.
We stopped at the deli for Haagen Dazs before going to her house for dinner.
What did we have?
Shrimp and ice-cream.
It was divine, not to mention cheap. Camille however did come down with a mean case of hives I imagine from all that shellfish.