CHAPTER ONE
Medals, Robes and Gowns
I loved life and I loved being me, although as grand as my life currently was, there always had to be an Ill Wind howling somewhere that threatened to upset my tenuous state of happiness.
Was I happy? Yes, I was, absolutely; but alas, woe is me, I was also … Ughhh … I was also in love.
I’m sure there’s an old saying that proudly declares, Love Is A Many Splendored Thing … and maybe that’s true, but gee, Love really sucks when you love someone who doesn’t give a fuck about you.
Maybe I’m being too harsh, because this person probably did give a fuck about me, she probably even liked me, but when it came to love, she was in love with the same person I was … herself.
Burnt and blistered by love, I rang my best friend Marcie on Thursday night and asked, “Whatcha doing on Monday night?” And NO, Marcie wasn’t the someone I loved, I mean get real.
Marcie was a scaled-down version of me, and I would never fall in love with someone who was anything like me, because I have standards.
Marcie said, “Nothing, what’s up?”
Waiting until the air re-inflated my lungs, I gushed, “Come on over on Monday night, and we’ll watch the Brownlow Medal together!”
The Brownlow Medal was an award for the best player in the Australian Football League (or something like that) and Marcie was the same as me, because we knew fuck all about football, so her reply came as no surprise. “The Brownlow Medal? Piss off, even if they paid me, I wouldn’t watch that boring shit!”
I’d anticipated her reaction, so I said enticingly, “Marce, come over and watch, because someone we know is going to be there.”
“Someone we know?” she asked, then she said flippantly, “Hey Dickhead, I wouldn’t know a footballer if I bumped into him on the street!”
The enticing lilt of my tone obviously hadn’t enticed her, so it was time to drop the theatrics and revert to language she understood, and I said gruffly, “You stupid fucker, it’s not a footballer.”
After a moment of silence, she asked, “So who is it?”
“Who’s your favourite female on the planet?”
“Who’s my favourite female on the planet? It’s the same as yours, Evie.”
“Exactly, so come over on Monday night and we’ll watch.”
My stupid little friend was silent again (which is really unusual for her) then she asked with growing anticipation, “What are you saying, Evie’s going to be at the Brownlow Medal?”
“Yeah, apparently the Brownlow Medal count is a big thing for people who watch football, and Evie sub-contracts to an Agency, and she’s going to be there.”
“So what, if we watch, we might see her?”
“Yeah, somebody was telling me that the cameras rove around the room and focus on the players and their dates, and there’s also a Red-Carpet thing where the dates show off their dresses.”
“Jeez, my Evie on National TV, yeah, I’ll pop over and have a look.”
MY Evie … crikey, my best friend was a dick, all the same, I was excited by the prospect of watching the telecast with her, or more realistically, masturbating with her while we watched the cameras zero in on the most ridiculously gorgeous woman on the planet.
Whenever I saw Evie, it was always at work, and she’d strut into work dressed in her casual clothes, then she’d slip into her skimpy and sexy outfits, but I’d never seen her in an elegant gown.
I suspected that when I saw her dressed to impress, I may fall more in love with her, so I said, “Come around about eight o’clock.”
“Sure Slutguts, I’ll see you then.”
And see, that’s another reason I could never fall in love with someone like Marcie. I was considerate enough to tell her about this exciting event, so she should have said something like, I love you DARLING, and thanks for letting me know about this, you’re a real TREASURE! Instead she blurts, Sure SLUTGUTS, I’ll see you then.
Admittedly, me and Marcie had been calling each other crude and unflattering names since we were about fifteen, but we were mature adults now, and … (errr … hang on, maybe I should clarify that and just say we were Adults), and when your best friend rings you and tells you about a nice surprise like this, aren’t you obligated to thank that best friend, and more importantly, shouldn’t you be required to end the conversation by giving the best friend a sweet or dainty nickname, rather than calling her Slutguts?
But no, not Marcie, stupid little Wanker-Turd-Moron-Fuckface that she was.
Anyway, in preparation for this exciting night, I assumed I should try and find out what the Brownlow Medal count was all about, so I searched the networks last Brownlow Medal count, then I watched it, or I watched a bit of it, because God, it was so freaking boring.
The first bit was okay, because it was the Red-Carpet bit, and it showed all the footballers walking in with their dates, and some reporter chick was interviewing the players, then she focussed on the dates and asked them questions.
Typically, the questions weren’t about who the girls were or what they did, and they weren’t about what aspirations or goals the girls had, they were about whose gown they wore, and whose shoes they were wearing.
I’m a moderately invested feminist, and I’m sure I’d be pissed off if I went to a significant social occasion and the only questions the reporter chick asked me were about whose stuff I was wearing, because that’s sexist.
I couldn’t give two hoots about football, and if I was the reporter chick, I’d flip the sexism around and ask the football players whose Trousers and Shoes they were wearing, and then I’d focus on their dates and say, I understand your date is a chance to win the Brownlow Medal, but let’s forget about him, because I want to know everything about you!
It probably wasn’t relevant, because I was never destined to be a reporter chick who interviewed couples on the Red Carpet on Brownlow Medal night, but even if Evie was hooked up with a player who had no chance of winning the Brownlow Medal, the reporter chick would HAVE to interview the ridiculously gorgeous Evie, because she would be the Belle Of The Ball, and then … hmmm … I guess I’d find out whose gowns and shoes she wore, and I could buy the same stuff.
Actually, to dress ridiculously gorgeous women like Evie, maybe the exclusive Fashion Houses had a base-starting price of around $10,000- for their gowns, and now that I think about it, that’s weird, isn’t it?”
You could dress Evie in a hand-me-down, twenty-dollar dress from an Op Shop and she’d still look Smoking Hot, so there should be a rule or a law that says stunning, elegant, original, one-off dresses are only allowed to be sold to plain or average girls like me, because that evens things up a bit.
Then again, I was a reasonably sensible young woman, and while I loved new clothes, I doubted whether I’d ever spent more than $5,000- on my wardrobe in an entire year.
Anyway, the freaking telecast went for more than three hours, and believe it or not, some guy was reading out the votes for each individual game, and he’d go, Carlton versus Adelaide; one vote to Somebody, two votes to Somebody Else, and three votes to Some Other Guy … and then the audience would clap and cheer, and I’m thinking, Seriously, they call this entertainment? It would be a reasonable guess to suggest that more than seventy per cent of the viewers who watched this garbage would be males, and the Network obviously realised this, because the cameras regularly zoomed in on the tables, and not surprisingly, after briefly focussing on the player who had just received the votes, the cameras then zoomed in on the gorgeous young woman in a low-cut dress sitting next to him.
If the cameramen were red-blooded heterosexual males, the cameras might stay focussed on Evie all night, so I decided that I needed to tape the telecast.
*
When Monday night finally rolled around, I was super excited, although my excitement gradually waned as I waited for Marcie to arrive, so to relieve my boredom, I tapped into my computer and asked, How long do orgasms last?
And yes, I did tap in because I anticipated that a few orgasms might explode if we saw Evie in an elegant gown, although when the answer appeared, I was shocked. The site stated that female orgasms can last between ten to thirty-five seconds (and just quietly, I’d be happy if all my blows went for thirty-five seconds).
Being honest, I’d had my fair share of ten-second orgasms over the journey (and that’s not my fault, because I have a volcanic and temperamental clitoris) all the same, the range seemed accurate, although when I saw the male orgasm range, I almost fell off the chair.
The site stated that male orgasms can last between ten to sixty seconds, and I immediately thought, No, that’s not fair! That’s SEXISM at its most blatant!
Freaking Male Privilege.
Don’t get me wrong, I love guys, I mean I’m a prostitute, and my job revolves around helping men blow, but now that I had official scientific data about the length of the respective gender’s orgasms, I felt deflated.
If we’re trying to narrow the equality gap between the genders, the Governments shouldn’t worry about putting more women in the Boardrooms or in high-ranking positions in the Public Service, they should devote all their time, money and energy to narrowing the gap between the orgasm length.
How come men can orgasm for almost twice as long as women? That just seems so discriminatory, so I urge the Governments of the world to get together to find a solution to this dreadful imbalance.
I assumed that when I saw Evie all dolled up and dressed in an elegant gown, my first orgasm for the night would unfortunately be much closer to the ten-second range rather than challenging the thirty-five-seconds, but whatever, a blow’s a blow, and if this stupid telecast went for more than three hours, I was determined to blow at least three times.
And then if somebody asked me, Hey, did you watch the Brownlow Medal count? I could gush, I sure did, and I came three times!
If you understand that your night is simply going to be about ogling the woman of your dreams and playing with your puss, you need to be prepared, and after undressing, I slipped a single article of clothing on; my knee-length satin robe.
*
Of stupid friends I have, Marcie has always been the stupidest, but at least she was punctual, and a few minutes before eight o’clock, my doorbell rang.
I’ve always been friendly and polite, and with a beaming smile on my face, I opened the door and said brightly, “Hello Fuckface, it’s lovely to see you.”
She rocked back when she saw me, and she asked in surprise, “Jesus, it’s eight o’clock and you’re wearing a robe?”
When you’re dealing with really stupid people, sometimes you have to lower yourself to their level, and I looked down at my robe, raised my gaze to look at her, then I said mockingly, “Goodness me, you are clever and perceptive.”
I’m not sure she understood my mocking tone, because she asked suspiciously, “Are you wearing anything underneath?”
In situations like these, one can choose to respond verbally, although if you’re an unstable nymphomaniac like me, you can let your actions answer the question, so I undid the sash of the robe, peeled it open, then put myself on full display.
Marcie stared at me for ten seconds (and she looked at my puss) then she turned away and huffed, “God Jemma, I can’t get pissed or wasted tonight because I’m working tomorrow, so there won’t be any hanky-panky tonight.”
I had been expecting her to carry on like a wanker, so I said enticingly, “If you let me control what happens tonight, I might have a present for you.”
“A present? What it is?”
Again, actions speak louder than words, so I strolled over to the mantlepiece and picked up the key and held it up for her attention.
“Is that my key to the unit?”
Good grief, how is she; Is that MY key to the unit?
Marcie had been obsessed with my older sister Darlene for at least a decade, and Darlene also had a key to the Unit. She still lived at home, and once a week, either on the Friday or Saturday night, Darlene and her handsome boyfriend would use the Unit as their own personal Fuck Pad.
I replied officiously, “I may give this key to you, but there will be a price.”
I hadn’t got around to doing my robe up, and after running her gaze over the exposed flesh that my open robe displayed, she grumbled, “So what, you’re blackmailing me?”
“I wouldn’t refer to it as blackmail, I mean you’re a stupid dick, and I’m simply persuading you to stop being a stupid dick.”
“It is blackmail Slutguts!”
Hmmm ... I’d said, If you let me control what happens tonight, I might have a present for you … so I guess technically, I was blackmailing her, but when you’re a nymphomaniac, the normal rules of engagement don’t apply. And the normal rules of engagement don’t apply because it wouldn’t be fair … to nymphomaniacs.
Hoping to swing my stupid friend around, I said instructionally, “Marcie, I’m going to see Evie all dolled up and wearing an elegant gown, so I can’t be held responsible for what happens tonight.”
Cocking her head, she asked, “You remember me telling you about Chris?”
Chris was the poor guy she’d just started going out with, and after sparing a moment to silently wish him good luck (and also wonder what was wrong with him) I replied, “Of course.”
“Well, he’s kinda like my boyfriend.”
“I haven’t even met him yet, but I feel sorry for him already,” I quipped, then I asked, “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“The relationship’s in the very early stages, and I’m still trying to train him to suit my requirements, so it’s way too early to cheat on him.”
“Don’t be an idiot, girl-on-girl stuff isn’t cheating, it’s experimenting, and besides, you’ll be experimenting with your best friend.” I replied gruffly, although when I thought about my response, a flush of embarrassment coloured my cheeks, Experimenting with your BEST FRIEND …
Sure, the normal rules of engagement don’t apply to unstable nymphomaniacs, although whenever I was forced to remind myself that we’d been best friends since we were five years old, I did feel a little bit naughty, or wicked.
But then again, to me, lust is always a more powerful emotion than common sense or propriety, and when I was dressed in nothing but (a still open) robe, and when I was only minutes away from ogling my Dream Lover, I could banish the naughtiness and wickedness to the back of my mind.
In response to my statement, Marcie muttered, “Jeez, you are freaking crazy.”
Still holding the key up, I asked, “Do you want to pop in one night and see your other Fantasy Gal?”
She dropped her head and mumbled, “Fuck, the things I have to do to try and make a fantasy come true.”
“Don’t be such an idiot,” I snorted, “I’m not going to tie you down and pluck your fingernails out with a pair of heated pliers, I’m going to lick your pussy and give you an orgasm.”
She gazed at me, then said shyly, “Hmmm, when you put it like that, I guess I can allow myself to be used and abused.”
Finally, we were heading in the right direction, and after I gave her the key, I advised, “You should thank me, because I’m sure I’m the loveliest person who’s ever used and abused you.”
“You’re not the worst,” she replied, then gazing lovingly at the key, she whispered, “Hello Beautiful key, you’re just what I need to unlock a ten-year-old fantasy.”
Sure, I was an Unstable Nymphomaniac, but Marcie was worse, she was a Freaking Lunatic, because out of everybody in the world she fantasised about my snobbish, dominant and controlling sister.
*
We were sipping our wine while we watched the Red-Carpet interviews, and there were a few seriously good-looking women hanging off the football player’s arms (and just quietly, a few of the footballers were freaking hot as well) but when the interviewer called the next couple up, my jaw almost hit the floor, because there she was.
My major Girl-Crush, or Female Obsession was on the screen, and she was smiling a demure and humble smile, and I knew the smile was fake, because Evie knew what she looked like, and she knew who she was, so I can confidently declare that the woman of my dreams was never demure or humble.
Her glorious blond hair had been styled professionally, and her extremely attractive face had been enhanced by carefully applied make-up, and she was wearing an elegant, body-hugging, low-cut red gown.
The elegant gown proudly showed off her mesmerising cleavage, and the gown was slit right up the right side to reveal most of her perfect leg, and even though I was struggling to breathe, I wondered what the male viewers would be thinking right now.
Most guys couldn’t care less about couples being interviewed on the Red Carpet, but for those male football fans who’d tuned in early and seen my Fantasy Woman, they’d be blown away, and if they were watching the telecast by themselves, I’m sure they’d be tempted to ponder, Hmmm, I’ve probably got time to have a quick wank before the vote count starts.
And for those male viewers who were watching the telecast with a group of friends or with their female partner, they might be tempted to fire off a message to the TV network; Hey guys, looking forward to the Vote Count, but favour if you could, tell the cameramen to keep their focus on that smoking hot blond in the red dress!
The interviewer spoke to the stupid footballer for what seemed like an eternity, then she focussed on Evie and asked her a few questions, but I didn’t hear the questions, and I didn’t hear Fantasy Woman’s replies, because blood was pounding in my ears.
I have a guy like mind, and seeing the woman of my dreams presented so provocatively, I stared at her cleavage, ogled her exposed thigh, and with her full painted lips moving, I did the first thing that flashed into my mind.
Marcie was surprised when I sprang to my feet, then after I completed my next purely instinctive move, she asked testily, “Jesus, you’re already naked?”
It’s a scientific fact that if a young woman who isn’t wearing any underwear sheds her lovely robe, she will be naked, and it’s so typical of Marcie to ask such a stupid question. I shouldn’t be surprised, I mean I’m sure she would’ve copied off Beth just to scrape by with a Pass mark in Science in her final school years.
Admittedly, I didn’t even pass Science in my final year (mainly because I was too much of a wimp to copy off Beth) but I still knew about the Laws of Gravity. What goes up, must come down, and if I got blazingly aroused, clothes that I was wearing would hit the ground.
Trying to educate my moronic friend, I puffed out, “She’s not wearing a bra, and her nipples are erect.”
She focussed on the screen and cooed, “God, so sexy.”
I gave my lovely pussy an introductory tickle, then I said, “You can see most of her superb right leg.”
“Hooo, she’s so freaking hot.” she whispered reverently, and I added gushingly, “I’m so nuclear that I’m struggling to understand what she’s saying, but whenever I see her lips move, I fondly remember what her lips are capable of.”
“Ohh yeah, my lover’s lips roaming here, there and everywhere.” she drooled, and no Marcie, she is not Your lover, she’s simply the stunning professional who accepts your money then … blows you off.
I desperately needed someone to blow me off, and I think I was drooling as I wheezed, “We know she isn’t wearing a bra, and I can’t see any pantie lines, so apart the gown and shoes, she probably isn’t wearing anything else.”
Marcie was always reluctant as I tried to push things forward, but after seeing our heroine in the stunning gown, and after listening to my insightful observations, she glanced at me.
In a rare flash of modesty, I stopped tickling when she focussed on my groin, and that was quite silly, because I needed her to understand that if she didn’t tickle me, I’d freaking do it myself!
She swung her gaze back to the TV, and a moment later she exploded off the couch and turned the lounge room light off, then she danced out of her clothes.
Pleased that the moron was finally being co-operative, I said sweetly, “Okay, cuddle in and get to work on me.”
“Fuck off!” she snorted, “My Lover looks sensational, so we’ll both start working on me!”
God … seeing Evie dressed so elegantly meant that my orgasm might be lucky to challenge the Ten-Second barrier, but when your naked best friend is such a freaking idiot, you need to compromise, so I cuddled up to her, then very quickly, we both went to work on her.
