Ahhh, there's nothing like a proper knee length belted mac for making you feel and look like a grade A pervert. Particularly when what's visible below said mac is freshly-shined black moulded rubber stockings and seven and a half inch stiletto heels, as it was when I deigned to horrify a perfectly respectable woman in a hotel lobby.
I'd like you to picture the scene, because I find it incomparably amusing. Dressed thusly -
I held my head high and took three brave steps out of the lifts into the hotel lobby… where we were faced by an average middle aged couple. The bloke, bless him, gave us a cursory glance and walked on. The woman gave us a genuine triple take.
The first look was barely registering our obstruction of the path to the lift.
the second was a gawp of enthralled disgust. A thinly veied 'people like you really exist?' Indeed. And the fact neither of us are the fat, balding loner men associated with such stereotypes but in fact, may I say it myself, relatively attractive examples of the species probably did nothing for her confusion.
She made herself look away, of course, and then couldn't resist a look back. The last one was definitely fascinated contempt, for some reason aimed far more squarely at me than my actually more rubbery date, and then when she attempted to avert her eyes, they went to the floor, got stuck on my shoes and I almost tripped over it as I continued to saunter along, suppressing a lot of giggles.
Was all that really called for? Other than the overtly sexual connotations, there was nothing obscene or visually offensive about it - so the thought process is then 'what am I missing out on, here? What pleasures do they know of that I don't?'
A fair few, if that face was anything to go by, you miserable trout.
It's half eleven, madam, we're consenting adults. Let's face it: what you don't like about this picture is that I am having more fun than you. Does my composure in such hip tilting shoes threaten you? Does my comfort in attire that speaks such filthy volumes about my proclivities unnerve you? Does it make you uncomfortable? Good. Does it maybe turn you on a bit? i do hope so.
So here's to you, Ms. Face like a slapped arse - not only were you the source of much immediate amusement which i'm still having a chuckle at several days later, but I thought about you. Oh yes. However many hours later, drowned in pounding music, surrounded by darkness, enjoying the admiring stares of strangers whilst being thoroughly fucked, what remained intact of my outfit still on, apart from where it counted, I thought of you. I thought how absolutely horrified you'd be by the entire scene, let alone my inadvertently involving you in it. I knew you'd be entirely appalled and just maybe the tiniest bit jealous, and nothing turns me on quite like that. If only you knew.
Other hilarity includes being bumped to a suite bigger than my entire flat because they'd originally allocated us a room with two single beds pushed together. The temptation, had they not been cooperative, to spill the contents of two suitcases of kink onto the reception desk and inform them that really, a double room would be better would have been overwhelming. And it might have sidestepped the moment when room service knocked a bottle of latex polish off the table. Or we once again spectacularly failed to notice something conspicuously dodgy in full view before ordering food. And actually, it's just occurred to me that I may have been upside down on the sofa reading in none too conservative underwear and a duran duran t-shirt when they came in, and that on the scale of the weekend's weirdness, this was normal enough to have escaped my attention until reflecting several days later.
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