I sat next to a woman who, when she got up, had on bright fuchsia undies beneath white, nylon exercise pants. My panty-line alarm went off to the point of insanity since everyone on the bus starred at her rather ample ass as she got off. And I mean everybody. You couldn’t help it, like following the bouncing ball.
Who possibly could find this attractive.
I mentioned it to my pal Camille when we met for drinks at the St. Regis.
“She was prowling for a date obviously,” Camille said while applying more gloss she did not need.
“You do know how much I hate all that grease on your lips. It looks as if you’ve been eating pork chops.”
“You need more after 5 o’clock, how else will men know they want to kiss you.”
“Even if they dared, they’d side right off your face.”
“I didn’t hear that. And I’ll bet the girl with the pastel butt would agree with me. You just don’t try to get picked-up anymore Susannah, that’s your problem.”
“First of all, the man who finds a pink ass attractive is not the man I want to meet. Next he’ll assume my bra lights up, if I actually wore one.”
“That could be fun.”
“What’s happened to you Susannah. Your Connecticut is showing again and it’s so boring.”
“Hey, I don’t see you prancing around with a panty-line the width of a tire, so shut-up.”
“It’s just not my style, however I get it. You need to be bold to get noticed nowadays. There are too many women to choose from. They’re becoming like sling-backs in the spring. ”
“Camille, no more wine for you, do you hear me?”
This conversation depressed me. Between the indelible image of a rear the size of a birthday cake and Camille’s gloss that somehow got all over my wineglass, I wanted to escape. Camille’s no spring chicken and neither was that woman wiggling off the M13, so there’s something desperate about their efforts even if they could be perceived as noble.
I don’t want a thong that talks. I don’t want lips that could lubricate Japan either. You know what I want? A bath, a book, and a BLT without the B. How can it be a BLT without bacon you’re wondering? Well, it originally would have it, but I’m after the grease, not the pork, that sinks lavishly into the bread, a little like Camille’s gloss.
UGH, why did I say that? Now I’ll have to switch to a PBJ (peanut butter and jelly).