Oestrogen Genie
'Are you sure Morris invited us to that party?' a husky voice
quizzed her companion in a tight red satin dress, as they slid
into the back seats.
'Well if he didn't it was nice of them to let us wait for him but
they seemed reluctant to let us put on any dance music and liven
it up a bit.' An ample brown cleavage added.
'Look Morris said there was a party and he needed some HOT GIRLS
to make it swing.' The satin dress responded.
'I must say the food was strange.' The brown cleavage observed.
'And the guy sitting reading the book at the head of the table
with a tea towel round his shoulders.... he was a bit creepy.'
'You know what I think,' the thoughtful and hitherto silent one
interjected. 'I think it was a Jewish party. A Bar-whatsit or a
foreskin cutting do.'
'Of course, that explains it, good job we didn't stay!'
'I don't actually think we had any choice.'
The truth seemed to have dawned on them like the last breakfast,
the last cigarette and the arrival of a firing squad, but they
elected to make the most of the rest of the evening.
'Driver take us to the West End.' Streetgeezer was unable to
reply. He fought to speak but was gagged by hormone-enriched
Chanel and Givenchy. These women could have had any man they
wanted for breakfast. Even in his wildest dreams, Streetgeezer to
them would have represented no more than a Kit-Kat snack and a
weak coffee from the tea trolley. These women were... Haitch.
Owe. Tee. HOT..... and on HEAT like four blazing blowlamps. A far
cry from the adolescent girlies trying on a bit of glamour for
the night, or the worn out, run down housewives having their
monthly night out to re-live adolescent girlie-hood. No, these
were WOMEN of sufficient maturity to have perfected the art of
womanhood. They had practised and studied; exercised and
moisturised, in solarium and salon; like Fellinis of femininity
they had reached the pinnacle and were extending the limits of
sexuality.
Their whole bodies, their auras, the car, East Finchley, had each
in turn become part of an expanding erogenous zone. Men asleep in
Highgate would be turning in their sleep as the cab drove down
Great North Road. Listless like an unplanned shopping trip they
would be waking with a mysterious, unsatisfied feeling, aware of
something, but unaware of the four smouldering bodies scorching
the upholstery of the innocent minicab. The collective emanation
of these sirens might have been the mysterious cause of
unexplained traffic mayhem; their musky odours could have induced
ardours as far away as Brent Cross or Bounds Green. As they
passed Stringfellows in St Martin's Lane one of them told the
others, 'It's a pity I never took you there when I had the
chance, I USED to be a life member.