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Shopping for Jeans should be a type of community service.
It’s worst of all when you have, in your youth, already owned the Holy Grail of jeans - a pair that made your bum look the best it could ever look and your legs as long as a foal’s. The jeans were legendary in your head, but the minute you bought them you were anxious. Anxious about what would happen in the future when those jeans wore out and you could find no pair to fit as beautifully around your derriere. Each wearing of them, although wondrous, was tinged with fear of the future, you couldn’t even enjoy the time you had with them, and instead you anticipated the immense loss.
“Wow, your arse looks incredible in those jeans!”
“Thank you, but make the most of it. When these wear out I will no longer have an incredible denim arse, it will all be over for me. You might want to take a photo, or make a rubbing.”
I think that this is how it must feel for beautiful women – at some point as a teenager, they realise they are beautiful from the reactions they get from scaffolders and their friends’ dads. From the moment they realise this though they are petrified of the day when their beautiful exterior wanes and they no longer receive such awestruck receptions.
My Holy Grail jeans were found in the basement of a really seedy second-hand Levis shop in Camden. I think I must have bought them on my very first visit to the shop, for I would never have gone back otherwise. The fear started there. From then onwards I would revisit Camden on a monthly basis to try to find a duplicate pair. Many pairs were bought, but none were quite as spectacular. They were 501s – it was the late 90’s – and they made one’s bum look wonderfully succulent. Two tightly confined buttocks, with a seam lodged suggestively right up in-between. A little crease under each cheek, highlighted the flesh, the meat, the living body, moving about in there. Walking behind a woman in well fitting 501s was hypnotic, like walking behind a racehorse, the undulating, swaying buttocks, muscular, powerful, inviting. Yes, horses arses are inviting - just ask flies.
And then fashion goes and ruins everything. The cut of jeans changes so regularly, that one minute your jeans are in, then they are so horrifically out that you must beg the charity shop to take them.
“Didn’t you see the sign? I’m afraid we don’t take anything with a high waist and a straight leg, goodness, even the rag man won’t take THOSE!”
Five years later they are back in again. Whenever I hear Passenger’s song ‘You let her go’ I think of my ex jeans. I am of the school of thought that once you find the cut that gives you the best possible arse and legs that your arse and legs are capable of then you should stick with it, regardless of fashion, because fashion gets led in strange directions by fickle, strangely proportioned people who have no bums, who therefore want everyone else to wear jeans that take away their bums too.
I foolishly thought that if I could find one pair of jeans that looked right, then there would, in the future be others, that my bum could move with the decades, but no, it was only ever really happy in that one pair of vintage 501s from the 90’s.
Nowadays I put off shopping for jeans for as long as possible. There is never a day when I feel strong enough. If I could afford one of those Vitamin IVs that millionaire businessmen have before long flights or marathon sex sessions with high-class hookers then I would have nine of those.
Each denim brand has about twenty different varieties of shape and cut, so for each brand you have to try on at least five styles (this during the first wave of trying on, and the waves are many because they only let you take six at a time to the fitting room), and then at least three different sizes in each of the five styles. Brands, cuts, styles and sizes, how many were going to St Ives’s?!
While you are trying on a mountain of denim you still have, in the back of your mind, the legendary jeans. Is this really the best I can expect my bum will look now? Do I have to accept no bum and comically tapered, stumpy legs? Surely someone somewhere makes the right cut for my crack? It’s incredible the difference the cut of jeans can make to your shape. Just a slight difference in waist height, pocket positioning, crotch depth can make you look horrendous or really horrendous. There are so many considerations that a mental ‘fit checklist’ is required when trying on each ‘jean’:
How would my bum look if I was standing with my legs together at a bar ordering martinis, and my date was sitting down looking at me from about ten metres away?
How would my bum look if I was being frisked by the police, at night, legs akimbo?
How would my legs look if I was riding a horse, side-saddle, wearing orthopaedic shoes?
What would happen to my tummy if I crouch down to rescue a bald fledgling that has fallen from its nest? Fleshy overhang?! Multiple creases like a roast belly of pork?
How would my arse look if I was walking through Paris in 9-inch heeled over-knee suede boots, an oversized camel jumper and walking a pair of haughty Borsoi?
How would my arse look if I was fighting off a mugger on a tube train? Or if I came out of a public toilet without realising I had toilet paper trailing from my foot?
How would they look if I was bending over and turning to look behind me in a mirror in a jeans shop?
My bloke always had his own very specific way of trying on clothing. He would stand in front of the mirror looking as though he was warming up for a run. He would shake his arms out, kick out each leg in turn, tweak his neck left and right, rotate his shoulders vigorously. Eventually he would actually go inside the changing room and put on the garment. When he emerged he would spend ten minutes fiddling with the cuffs and sleeves, buttoning his jacket right up to the neck. He was trying on trousers. Finally he would look in the mirror and stand in positions that I had NEVER seen him stand in, except in front of a mirror, in a shop. My favourite was the legs wide apart, leaning forward like Michael Jackson in the Smooth criminal video, arms about to grab two imaginary Smith and Wessons from an invisible holster stance. It looked as though he was letting some pee dribble down the inside of his leg and out of the bottom of the trousers without it touching the fabric. If he looked good in that position then he felt they were worth purchasing, makes sense now I think about it.
I have to go through all of my own position scenarios for each pair I try on. I get to the fitting room; the assistant opens the black lead-weighted x-ray curtain for me. I walk in. Where are the mirrors? Where is A mirror? Where is the light? In G Star Raw you have to come out onto the shop floor to look at yourself. In front of everyone in the store, and an irritated, disdainful assistant, you have to go through the above described ‘fit checklist’ – and you can still NEVER see your own arse properly. I have to do the ‘turning away from the mirror and suddenly looking back to catch my arse by surprise’ stance, over and over again. I never sweat as much as I do when trying clothes on - my whole face goes red and shiny (I lie, its almost constantly like that) my boob cleavage starts to drip (actually it does that too, quite often) the slimy backs of my knees cling to the denim (that is definitely only when I’m jeans shopping) It is one of the most arduous, self confidence annihilating activities, and you have to deal with your disappointment at the sight of your bottom in public.
“No NO! NO! I KNOW it has looked better than this. I KNOW how it SHOULD look, I once had the perfect fitting jeans, strangers said nice (but filthy) things to me in the street when I wore them. No-one would say a word to me in these horrors!! “
“Is it nothing to do with the fact that you are at least 15 years older now madam?”
“How DARE you?! My face has certainly wizened over time, but somehow I have maintained much of my arse turgidity. I put it down to continually clenched buttocks due to IBS.”
I have photos of me in my perfect arse jeans, but never a photo of me from behind – Why? Why? Why?! Idiot – that would be the picture I would take around to the shops and say “Have you got anything that can do THIS?” I would want that photo sitting on my casket at my funeral; I would show it to my grandchildren (before I’m in the casket) who would develop immediate respect for me.
“Oh Grandmamma, please will you read me the story about the girl with the perfect arse jeans?”
“Oh, alright then my darling. Once upon a time there was a girl who dearly wanted a pair of jeans that would make her arse look incredible. She set off one Saturday morning to the enchanted mall (just off the magic wishing M25) She tried on pair, after pair, after pair, but nothing was quite right.
The skinny jeans with stretch in them crept down her bum and left her with a saggy crotch - like a little girl’s tights. They flattened her pert little bottom and made it look like a suburban road-wide speed bump. As she stared at her reflection in the mirror she looked as though she had scopic hips, fat thighs and short, bowed legs. ‘If my hips were too narrow, I had emaciated thighs, a great shelf of an arse and knock knees then these jeans would be great. But I don’t!’ So she flung them out of the fitting room in a temper.
The boot cut jeans made her legs look long and athletic but she immediately felt as though she were a foreign exchange student, or an American country singer - she started to crave a rucksack to put on both shoulders and some cowboy boots. She pulled the jeans off before all of her style drained away out of the legs.
The low-waisted jeans were the pair that she was most hopeful about. The girl pulled on the jeans, they clung beautifully around her bum but in order to stay up they had to hug her hips so tightly that all of her flesh was pushed upwards where it squeezed out between the waistband of the jeans and the hem of her t-shirt like butter cream. She was not a chubby girl but as she bent over in the mirror she was horrified to see a vast slab of back flesh looking grey and clammy behind and several inches of stomach overhanging at the front. She stood up straight very quickly and removed the jeans with her eyes closed, whilst holding her breath.
When she pulled on the ‘boyfriend’ jeans (without even undoing the flies) she felt wonderfully skinny, her stomach looked as flat as a flat thing as it disappeared into the pubic-bone-skimming waistband. She was delighted to look so emaciated and knew that it was very good to get lots of air to one’s nether regions in the eternal battle against thrush, but her bum had entirely vanished and she could sense that the low crotch would start to chaff her inner thighs as she walked.
By this time she was tired and in a foul mood so she hurried home to shout at her boyfriend, that always cheered her up.
On Sunday the girl woke up with renewed vigour, having taken her bad Saturday out on her boyfriend, and went out shopping again, this time to the big City of Londinium where the streets were paved with chewing gum. But her search was just as futile, she tried on dozens more jeans and got so frustrated that she shouted at someone else’s boyfriend.
She was just about to give up and buy some jeggings when she stumbled upon a dingy little shop in the base of an old Oak tree in Camden. As she went downstairs, six foreign shop assistant squirrels asked her, one after the other, if she needed any help. She hadn’t even got down the stairs yet.
“I’m fine thanks, just browsing.”
The squirrels went back to hovering around the rails of jeans, nervously chewing on hazelnut husks.
The girl honed in on a rail of jeans that looked like her size, she skimmed through them and one pair stood out – they looked as though a very nice, toned bottom had already worn them in and enjoyed some very nice compliments whilst inside. She asked to try them on. The six squirrels squabbled over who would put the pair of jeans in the changing room for her. The six squirrels then waited outside anxiously. The girl slipped on the jeans, turned to look at her bum in the mirror, which glowed, and she felt as happy as any girl could feel. She bought the jeans (the squirrel with the longest, sharpest claws got the commission) and the girl left the oak tree feeling happy.
As soon as she got outside though she felt instant panic. ‘No jeans will ever be as good as these jeans.’ She thought. ‘I have found my perfect jeans, but I am so young, they cannot possibly last me til I die, what will I do when they wear out?!’ She tried to put these thoughts aside and she began to wear the jeans, though only on special occasions or hot dates. Whenever she wore them she felt as though her arse was a glowing beacon of pertness, she felt good, but scared of the inevitable day when the jeans would die.
Soon enough, when she wore the jeans she began to avoid sitting down, or leaning against anything, or walking too briskly, in case she wore out the denim too quickly. Eventually she became so fearful of the end of her perfect arse era that she decided not to go out at all. She couldn’t wear the jeans, and she wouldn’t go out in anything less flattering so she stayed at home, pleased to think that the only memory that would remain of her would be a few sightings when she had possessed what appeared to be the most perfect bottom in the world.
The girl grew old and died a recluse. One man who went to her funeral remembered that she had possessed the greatest arse he had ever seen, but no one else remembered anything about her. The jeans were bagged up and sent to a charity shop. They were bought by a shrunken old man who wanted some trousers to wear whilst digging his vegetable patch. He tried them on without even looking in the mirror. The other old geezers at the allotment thought that he had the best arse of anyone at the National Society of Allotment and Leisure Gardeners Ltd. When he eventually wore them out he dressed his scarecrow in them. Some weeks later his scarecrow was sexually assaulted and the jeans were bagged up and given to the police for forensic evidence.
The End.”
“Oh grandmamma, will I ever find the perfect pair of jeans?”
“But darling, don’t you see, the girl who found those jeans was not happy. Because of those jeans she felt that the only good thing about her was her arse, and only if it was in those jeans. She wasted her life and only one person remembered her by the end.”
“Yes but he thought she had the best arse in the world. That’s all I want.”
“Well you are a shallow little whore and let me tell you this young lady, I once had a splendid arse. But now, now it is wrinkled and droopy and old but it is still better than your arse will ever look because you have your father’s fat arse genes. So there. Now sleep tight you little Lolita whore, we can go and feed the ducks tomorrow.”
I foolishly made the choice to head on down to Headstone Tunnel in the Peak District.
It's been a few years since I visited and it seems I'd forgotten how brutal the climb down the steps was on the knees! Each step on the steepest parts has an elevation of about 400 to 500mm. When you're built for comfort like me and on top of that lump you're carrying a backpack weighing 10 kg, it ain't so easy to climb!
So I can safely say that I will never visit this place again. Certainly not loaded down with camera gear!
The Jacaranda trees are exploding in full high intensity colour at this time of the year, leaving thresholds of purple carpet across the ground beneath, and in the air vents of anyone foolish enough to park underneath them.
See below for the purple carpet, while you listen to Deep Purple during a very interesting VIDEO.
Seasons Theme
When your mayor struggles to rival the cognitive abilities of a lettuce... What to do? The remedy seems obvious: consider a replacement – for the survival of children, pedestrians, and any semblance of common sense...
Lorsque votre maire peine à rivaliser avec les capacités cognitives d'une laitue… Que faire ? Le remède semble évident : envisager son remplacement – pour la survie des enfants, des passants, et de toute forme de bon sens...
Twitter : @LeSaccage
le.grand.saccage@gmail.com
Se non ricordi che l’amore t’abbia mai fatto commettere follie, allora non hai amato.
William Shakespeare
La luna piena è sempre uno spettacolo magnifico... la sua luce ipnotica fa sospirare, anche per il contrasto con il grande buio tutt'attorno.
Luce scattata con Canon 800D e tele a 600mm, da dietro casa mia
Buona giornata
#luna #moon #full #piena #luce #mari #crateri #buio #dark #cielo
Please support this HERE:
ideas.lego.com/projects/6be76f8d-1a36-4f9d-b170-5ae3318170e8
I am a very serious person...
...99.9% of the time.
I despise chickens and all chicken-related things (books, humor, art, etc.). Even the sight or mention of a chicken makes me groan inside. Then why in the world would I choose to build this?
Occasionally, when my mind is tired, not knowing what to think or even why to think, I fall into absurdity. In short, I cave. My seriousness leaves, and in its place stands incoherent gibberish. I embrace what I don't like, even if that means chickens.
So in a way, this creation represents the utter nonsense that can spout forth from a brain that really is not thinking clearly.
Speaking of that, Chicken Little is a story about some foolish young fowl who has a piece of something fall on its head (it may be an acorn, or a leaf, or a raindrop; who knows?). It goes berserk and insists that "The sky is falling!!". Thenceforth Chicken Little makes a huge fuss over it and gathers fellow animals to go warn the ruler of the area. The group meets a sly fox (what other kind of fox would there be?), who convinces the gullible animals that the way to the ruler goes right through the fox's lair. They enter the lair and the fox eats them all. (Or, if you like the other versions better, they escape and warn the ruler, but still turn out to be incorrect about the sky.)
So I think that that image of hysteria is what I've captured in this obnoxious little build. Whenever I feel like blurting out whatever my immediate reaction to my circumstances is, this chicken can remind me to always think before I speak, lest I believe the world will end and thereby fulfill my own prophecy through my own ignorance.
Don't worry, I promise that the next creations I submit will be serious in nature. This one is not a new precedent for me.
This chicken is a bauble-head; it has a technic axle as its neck that would need to be flexible if this were to become a set so that the head could wobble. The wings and tail can flap.
And yes, that is a canoe.
Ok there are several things that everyday me never does. One of which is depicted in this here video (and boy is it obvious) Not sure if it's a side effect of this particular dress, or if I was just in a silly mood. I had some music on and thusly decided to do what passes as my attempt at dancing. Very much out of character for me, but seems like a good way to finish the week off. I'm off on my travels at the weekend so probably won't be around much for the next week or so. I shall see you all on the other side. Kisses Francesca.
Harry Potter action figure from Bandai/SH Figuarts Shot on 2x anamorphic lens and with practical effects,
Prints available via my website, www.tommilton.co.uk
A half-empty store window in Northport, MI, on a snowy winter's day. The sun came out for a very brief time.
Ned Mansour - Beautifoto Model
Please check out my Role Play Story
The Reception Game
Based on actual experiences instigated by my ”Peeps”
Comments and Feedbacks are profoundly appreciated and reciprocated
A rather roguish Game of Dare played and pickpocketed out at a fancy dress wedding reception
Cadence Abbot,Craig Abbot,Ginny B. and Brian Mc
Mystery Chicanery thief jewel tomfoolery prank pickpocket romance trick shenanigans
The Reception Game
Chapter 1
A forethought
“The wedding was a bit over the top. The bride wanted her girl’s dresses to be something they would wear out again. A nice thought, but the gowns she found were a little too long for anything but formal evening wear, according to our girls who were asked to be part of the bridal party. The maid of honour wore a red silk version; the six Bridesmaids wore theirs in black satin.” Each of the girls had also been presented with a matching collection of Swarovski rhinestones “traditional classic darlings”! The jewellery, when added to the girl’s ensemble, further enhanced the red carpet like the atmosphere of the Bridal party coterie’!
^^^^^^^^^^
Intro of the story proper:
“A few years ago, “Ginny” was watching some type of show when I heard her squeal out. Our Golden Retriever ‘Sam’ meandered back in to see what all the fuss was about? I obediently followed. Ginny pointed out to us a model who was wearing, rather fetchingly I might add, a long black satin gown. That’s m’ gown Ginny exclaimed, you remember, the one I wore at “Sheila’s” wedding, the one where my necklace was sn…., But at that point her attention was diverted back to her program. Squirrel I teased as Sam and I watched with her.
It was a gown strikingly very similar in colour, cut, and material to the one worn by Ginny ( and me sister) at a chums wedding years before ( and winningly worn several times hence I might add). It is a pretty thing to behold my charming Ginny sporting it, and in its time, it has born witness to a few goings-on that most ladies wearing a gown like that would never encounter…….”
Chapter 2
Story Proper begins
*************************************** ****************************************
This story is true and is really pretty much told as it happened.
What we did may sound daft, but read and understand the circumstances, plus realize we all were pretty well lit up with the drink.
I will plead guilty at having enhanced certain aspects of the story.
For indeed, the truth can be stranger than fiction… and coincidences occur, both sweet and bitter….. as I’m sure someone once said.
So here goes it….
My twin sister and our friend “Ginny” were invited to join a school chums bridal party. The groom didn’t have enough to go around so my sister’s boyfriend “Brian” and I was pressed, not unwillingly, into service.
As I stated earlier, the wedding and reception were both over the top posh. So much so that our opinions, and subsequent escapades, were still coming up amongst us as a topic of conversation at our local haunt The ‘Poet and the Peasant Pub’, kept by Brian’s Auntie and Uncle...
www.flickr.com/groups/poet_and_the_peasant__pub_/
The Wedding proper was held at the local Cathedral. A rather decadent place built with a hearty clash of gothic/ medieval styles; with black stone towers, Lancet arches, and fly away buttresses.
Inside one finds white marble columns, oak pews blackened with age, intricate woodwork and ghostly while statues. All lit with hanging diamond shaped antique glass lights and colourful lead glass stained windows depicting a horde of medieval era religious scenes.
I twas a fine backdrop for the rather glamorously attired guests in attendance. The wedding ceremony itself would have been an interesting tale in and of itself, but that telling will await another day, for mine has its’ beginnings at the Reception.
The Reception was held in the basement, a grand place with an opulent ballroom, well-stocked bar room and elegant dining area. The subterranean basement was decorated richly along the same grand lines as the interior of the ancient Cathedral above.
We were some time at the reception when my Ginny , who had been held up on her way back from the loo by a snobbish dowager feeling the need to criticise someone, regained her seat by plopping down with a loud woosh.
That was a chore, being picked apart by that “lovely !” creature. she exclaimed cynically, whilst adjusting her loose brooch. We all just smirked. I had received the same treatment from the lecturing prig earlier that evening.
Well, to be honest, my twin sister and Brian just actually were smirking at that. I believe my attention at the time was rather more occupied on the area where Ginny’s Brooch lay, which was the proper cause of my smirk! (naughty me)
Finished, Ginny than leaned against my sister, and, still reeling from being inappropriately chided, made a snide comment about the flimsy clasps on the shimmering jewelry they were wearing. My Sister, touching her necklace, told her, “ no worries, luv, no one would nick them anyways, they are only rhinestones”. Except my ring isn’t, said Ginny looking down at the ruby ring she was wearing on her pinky. My sister, thinking a minute, retorted “Then one never knows… “, It looked like she was going to add something to that, but at that point the band restarted, and we joined the swarm of fancy dress gowns, silky dresses, suits and tuxes worn by the chic guests as they herded to the dance floor.
As we headed off, I was still perplexed about what had been going on in Sis’s head that made her come out with that reply, and I swear she had stolen a look at me while saying it. But as I had watched her pull at an earring to emphasize how loose the sparkling jewel was, a seed was planted in my head about a subject I myself had always found rather intriguing, pickpocketing jewelry!
Chapter 3
Chicanery
Much later that evening, found Brian, my sister, and I alone, and probably more than a little drunk (always a precarious time with us). As Sis and Brain chatted on about a topic I had soon lost interest in, I started to watch Ginny, who had been asked to dance by some twit with shifty eyes in a red silk shirt, (open collared), who had rudely cut in on us. As I watched Ginny’s swishing gown liquidly move and flutter about in quite an interesting exhibition, I found meself mesmerized by the beckoning manner in which her healthy display of rhinestones were tantalizingly sparkling about( as they had been all evening). I looked back at my sister, and her own show of jewelry, also sparkling up nicely against the smooth black satin backdrop of her own matching gown...
Still not being able to shake me twin’s earlier comment about nicking jewels, nor its answer, out of my head, I waited for a lull in conversation to finally chance asking my twin about her comments.
She looked at me, having to think back a bit about the question, ( As I said, we were more drunk than sober by then), placing a nicely ringed finger to her lips, while regrouping her thoughts. Got it, she exclaimed! Proudly remembering what had triggered her memory, and with that, she started to explain.
When she was a tyke of about 7, there was a show that she had seen on the tele that centered on this group of people trying to reform a thief. Believing that he had turned a new leaf, they threw a fancy dress dance for him in honour of his new ways. During the dance, he cut in and danced with each of the three ladies who had been trying to teach him the errors of his ways. From one he slipped off her long diamond earrings, from a second her diamond necklace was lifted away, but me sister was unsure what the scoundrel took from the third. Sis had reckoned that the earrings and necklaces that she and Ginny were wearing that evening, looked a lot like the ones worn by ( and nicked from) the ladies on that show.
Now, as me twin described the thief’s antics, certain emotions awakened, rearing their tantalizing heads; my mind began wandering in some deep waters, pulled bout by some deep personal emotions. Cause I had been sitting on the couch with her when as quite young children, we had seen a repeat of that episode.
As it happened my sister had been outside earlier playing dress up in one of mum’s old party frocks and was still wearing it, along with a set of costume pearls. Suddenly, that day, I wanted nothing more in the world than to lift the pearls she was wearing. I simmered over it for the rest of the program, getting to the point of actually laying my arm on the back of the couch, inching my fingers towards the clasp of her pearls laying there upon the back of her throat. But then the show ended, and I got no closer to stealing anything more than a touch of a quite soft old evening gown. After the show ended, I warily suggested we go back outside and play Robin Hood (my sister has always been into his story).
We did, and as Sir Robin led her to his hideout, conveniently located through a thicket of Hawthorne’s, the pretty Maid Marion’s pearls mysteriously melted away.
That is when I had I had my epiphany, hitting me like a brick wall! Waiting till sis finished her story, I pointed out to Ginny, and asked the pair, If Ginny had been the third lady he had danced with, what jewels do you think he would have found easiest to lift from her while dancing?
Chapter 4
A Devious Dare
Brian, always the more pragmatic of the group, snorted, that rot only happens in stories and movies mate!
I said I would bet it can be done!
This quid says I can lift a piece of Ginny’s jewelry with her never noticing. Sis chimed in, you wouldn’t dare, but she was looking at me like she knew the answer already. Brian caught her tone, and took me up on it, betting me the quid that I couldn’t get away with lifting her necklace,( I liked his choice, it had been a necklace that “Sir Robin” had first lifted from me sisters neck that day in the woods long past).
At this time the music ended, and Ginny swished back to rejoin us. As we played mute about our plans, we welcomed the damsel back and acted like there had been nothing in the world goin on amongst us while she was out dancing.
We drank and talked for a bit more, and I was all but certain that Brian and my sister had all but forgotten the wager.
But I hadn’t, nor had I been able to keep my eyes from studying the glittery rhinestones Ginny had draped around her pretty throat. When a slow song started up, I rose and asked Ginny to a dance. I caught Brian’s eyes, and read the dare reflecting in them, so we were still on with the wager.
Leading Ginny to the dance floor, we embraced, and danced to the pretty song beginning to play, it twas a slow romantic one ( lady in red If I recall correctly). Ginny was absolute pure heaven in my arms, and I found me self so entrapped by her charms, that all ambitions to be a thief and make an attempt upon her lovely rhinestone necklace fell to the wayside.
As the song was ending, I caught a look from Brian across the dance floor, noticing that he smugly was looked at Ginny’s throat. I did not want to lose me quid on principle (I swear), so as the dance ended I held onto Ginny, waiting. Soon a second song started, disappointedly a more fast-paced one with a Latin beat. I spun Ginny around onto the floor before she had time to catch a breath, we danced, like the song which played says:
And we… danced like a wave on the ocean, romanced
We were liars in love and we danced
Swept away for a moment by chance
And we danced, danced, danced
And dance we did, hot, furious and fast. A couple of times I spun Ginny around, and the poor girl already a bit tipsy, fell against me, giggling. About the third time I spun her, she stopped, and dropped backside into me and began to do this sort of gyrating move, slithering up and down my front side, with her hands held high above her head, her longish ginger hair had fallen over one shoulder, exposing her necklace in all its fine brilliance. As her warm, sweaty figure slipped up and down against mine, I watched the back of her throat, eyeing the necklace as it sparkled opulently in the dim lights. I started Studying, intently, the sparkly chain with its simple hook in eye clasp.
She brought her hands down behind me back, crossing them behind me waist. My right hand went to the front of her waist, holding onto her squirming, satin slippery sweating figure, pressing her warm body tightly against me.
My left hand went up to her shoulder, gliding along with the glossy slick fabric of her black satin gown until I reached her necklace. It only took seconds for my fingers to lift up, and slip off the hook from its” eye”, letting the shimmering chain slither down the front side of Ginny’s satin clad breasts. My right hand left her waist, and traveled nimbly, tingling, all the way up the front until my fingers grasped the dangling chain. My left hand let go, and the necklace whisked down the front of her perking bosom, tightly covered by the glossy black satin bridesmaid gown. The whole bit of thievery took me only a few chords of the music, but it seemed to be carried out in slow motion in the process.
We finished out the song, me basking in the fact that my gyrating partner was innocently unaware that her shiny necklace had been pinched, and was now residing in her dance partner's vest pocket!
I will admit feeling a twinge of regret that it no longer could be seen glittering from around its’ mistress’s now bare throat.
Chapter 5
The Race to be unnoticed
We made our way back to the others, Brian had a smug look on his bearded face, I knew he was up to something. As I sat down, he whispered double it or nothing mate, that she notices it’s missing before we leave. I nodded, taking him up on it.
So, the game was still on, and for the last two hours that we stayed at the reception poor Ginny became the unknowing centre of our somewhat devious game1
Brain, eagerly waiting for Ginny to notice her missing necklace, tried, for the most part, to remain mute. I sweated it a bit, but his saboteur’s tactics failed.
I’ll admit I hadn’t thought it out before agreeing, but what probably should have been a suckers bet, with a million ways for Ginny to notice her necklace was playing hooky, apparently was going with the long odds for me to win.
I sweated it a bit, but no-one else amongst the crowd pointed out, or even seemed to care that Ginny was no longer wearing her necklace! Even the bloke in the open-collared re shirt, who managed to steal Ginny away for another dance, failed to say anything. Which made me a mite curious as to where his attention span had been focused.
Even when me sister tried to help Brian out by playing with her own jeweled necklace while she held Ginny’s attention during the conversation, and then again in the ladies' powder room flashing her necklace in the mirror, she failed to cause a reaction!
Through all this, the poor creature never quite caught on that her necklace had been lifted from her throat! Unscrupulously nicked away on a whimsical bet while innocently dancing!
And continued danced with me she did, all of us thoroughly enjoying the rest of the evening’s attractions, along with the bit of fun we were having at poor Ginny’s expense.! But I made damn sure that our poor victim had the time of her life for my repentance.
Then during our last slow dance, I did start to harbour the prickling thought of trying for another of Ginny’s baubles. But the thought of winning 2 quid from Brian, who in his time has won a bit more from me than I from him, kept my thoughts of further thievery in check! I knew my spirit was weakening. Fortunately, we left soon afterwards….
Chapter 6
Innocents Abroad
We finally left the reception after midnight and made our way along the ten city blocks back to the hotel where Ginny and my twin sister shared a joining room with Brian and meself.
Ginny walked calmly with us, unaware of the picaresque devils that were us, keeping pace beside her. As were making our way through a short cut in a wooded Provincial park, we stopped in a small isolated glen and circled around Ginny. Sis was grinning as she asked poor unawares Ginny; So luv, whatever did happen to your necklace? Gin’s reaction was absolutely, rewardingly priceless.
Ginny, a relatively innocent soul, who is prone to believing most anything told to her, started, and her hand went to her throat, feeling about fruitlessly, as her rustling glossy gown and remaining jewels glistened darkly sparkling in the full moons’ light.
“M’ necklace, why it’s gone? , where did it go! she pleaded helplessly, her thought patterns and speech a little slurred by her rather intoxicated condition. We then got into it, playing dumb along with her, and tried to figure out the “mystery” I said the last time I saw it was when that seedy bloke cut in, and I ran my hand up her back, feeling the shivers going down her spine, did the blighter touch you like that, then luv. No she said, then thought hard, no she repeated, he couldn’t have, he was a proper gentleman, and it was only rhinestone like your sister said.
I don’t know said Brian, never trust any gent who doesn’t wear a tie to fancy dress! He had to ‘ave been up to no good, that one!
My sister then commented that the bloke may " have not noticed no difference", and she held out her own necklace, I’m glad he didn’t ask me to dance.
No, Ginny shook her head, her long earrings flickering a frenzied fire out from her let down ginger hair, no one could have lifted them like that, I’d have felt it….I’m sure of that…!
She looked desperately around at us, then seeing the look on upon our faces, Ginny froze with the realization that we had all been up to something, and, then a smile of relief showed up on her pretty face, as I held up her necklace, sparkling in front of her eyes. A sly look of understanding that we had been up to something crept into those dazzling green eyes, as she told us now to spill it out.
We explained the whole tale as Sis helped Ginny place her necklace back on. Ginny, with her usual good humor, said she had never noticed a thing, and it probably was a good thing we weren’t real thieves because if her necklace had been diamonds, it would have been worth a small fortune. And shame on us for having her believe it was that poor blighter in the red shirt.
We wouldn’t’ make very good thieves I agreed we drink too much. She just smiled, a curious-looking gleam creeping up into those witchy green eyes of hers. Let’s get going before we meet a real thief then, urged my sister, all this talk about someone thinking our jewels are real is giving me the right chills.
Our drunken little group then merrily, if not a little more guardedly, made our way home...
Chapter 7
Farewell My Lovely
This next bit is my favorite.
We rode the elevator up to the boy’s room, as the girls called our room, where we drank beer, danced to music and talked on a bit about the reception. The girls stayed in dress and I happily soaked up the rather pretty picture the pair of admirably attractive girls presented with their long sheets of straight hair now just hanging down, their “diamonds” sparkling and all other assorted frills enticing.
About two hours later found Brian and myself sitting on the couch in kind of a hazy stupor while holding onto our beers. Ginny and my sister were standing directly in front of us, holding beers of their own and giggling over some girlish nonsense, the hypnotic swaying of their longish glossy black satin gowns slowly putting me to sleep.
Brain, draining his beer, got up to get another, bumping against my sister and playfully grabbed a handful. My sister started giggling at him as he sauntered off grinning, turning her figure so the brooch at the centre of her gowns’ waistline almost whacked me on the nose. Half asleep I reached over and gingerly lifted it up.
Looking up at the girls I saw that neither was paying no never mind towards me. Ginny, however, laid a hand on my twin's shoulder, drawing her close so she could whisper some girlish secret about Brian. I continued on and was able to undo the brooch and slip it carefully off without notice. I slipped her jewel into my pocket; waiting until I could think, now that I did the deed, just how I would tease her about it.
Brian stopped on the way back and reset the music, a slow song came up. Sis went to him, and the pair started dancing. I rose and took Ginny by the hand, followed suit, leading her to the bit of a dance floor we had cleared. She was again, pure heaven in my arms and my hands slipped liberally up and down her smooth, slinky gowned figure.
Ginny smiled! I knew that smile and realized that something was going on behind her pretty green eyes.
She flicked back her sheet of ginger hair and leaned against me. I saw you, she huskily whispered, her voice putting a tickle in my ear. Saw me I asked, not getting it. I saw you lift that dame’s diamond brooch, Ginny said in a sultry voice as she looked over towards where my sister was dancing, (no, she was actually swooning), in Brian’s arms.
Now mate, you see that one over there, in the black dancing with the bearded gent? I looked over, as she continues, look at ‘er necklace, I have a fancy for diamonds, and if you don’t want me to call security, I suggest you get hers for me, darling, she said with conspiracy-like tones, acting like she was some old-time actress in a movie. I loved the devilishness of Ginny’s role play idea and it did not take much to toss me, whole heart and soul, into the assignment!.
Chapter 8
To Please a Dame
Now wide awake, I got fully into Ginny’s game. As we continued dancing, my eyes watched Brian and me sister, taking careful inventory of all the “dames” sparkling jewelry. Sis turned, and caught my eyes looking her over, she blushed, and not knowing what was really going through my mind, smiled at me. As I smiled back, my eyes drinking her fetchingly attired figure up!
I was imagining that all of her ample collection of rhinestones so prettily positioned on her figure, were real diamonds. And that I was an actual thief plotting to nick her lovely sparklers. I looked into Ginny’s eyes. You have a deal miss, I whispered, making my voice deep and throaty, as I imagined meself as some, albeit drunk, Humphrey Bogart type character in some grittily shadowy film noir style black and white movie.
The song ended and a second, even slower one began playing. Brian and my sister were still locked into each other’s arms, but I felt that the time to make my move was now. Throwing Ginny a wink, I went over and cut in, Brian looked drunkenly at me like “whattsup chap,” but Ginny was right behind and swirled him conveniently away before he could properly react.
And as I took the pretty, wide-eyed with innocence looking “dame” into my arms I found it exciting that she was oblivious to my nefarious intentions. Naïvely unaware, that in indifference to her own words earlier, someone did now want to nick the jewelry which was quite so merrily dangling from her svelte figure. Now, don’t forget at this point to me she was no longer my sister, but a sweet innocent victim weighted down with desirable loot. And I? I was nothing more than a suave thief deliciously hungering after her bright baubles, albeit, a slightly inebriated suave thief!
I bided my time, appearing to look into my twins/victims half-opened eyes ( she was really quite lit by this time, as we all were), my mind was working overtime on how the best approach to reach my objective. Then it came to me, quite clearly, and so Bob became my uncle, and I began his suggested approach…. And if I would have dared say so at the time, I executed my bit of jewel thievery like a pro…. That is if there are actually pros at this sort of thing1?
Employing the same method that I remembered the thief using in the Gilligan’s Island episode to remove his dance partners necklace, I began to compliment my twin on how devastating her and Ginny looked both looked that evening (no lies), slowly moving my one hand up the slick material of the gown covering her back as I whispered my praise. Easily I reached the dangling part of her hook and eye necklace with its’ glittering rows of “diamonds”. She ate it up, blushing and closing her eyes, naively cooperating by tilting her head down, exposing even more of the back of her throat, and laying bare the chain of her “diamond” necklace. As she fawned over my words of (not false) praise, I subtly lifted up the chain of her necklace, whilst my free hand held her ever so her tightly around the waist. For the second time that evening, I could feel the heat emanating from my victim's squirming figure. As well as again feeling me own heart pounding a storm.
I gently used my free left hands’ fingers to unhooked the clasp, and let the necklace fall over her one shoulder. Sis never felt it hanging, or noticed it as I peeled it off her chest (whisking along her gown smooth as silk) and pulled it over her gown’s satin shoulder till it slipped sparkling down behind her. I held it hanging loose behind her back for a few turns, still pouring out the compliments, until I pocketed it, letting it join her purloined brooch.
Meanwhile, Brian had left Ginny to go to the loo, and I saw Ginny, who had been eagerly watching all of it, give me a wink. Then she turned and stole out the apartment door, her longish slinking gown slipping through behind her as she closed the door. I made ready to make some excuse to break away from my sister and head after her with my loot.
But just as I opened my mouth to make that excuse, Sis pulled her arms behind me head, and laid her own head back on my shoulder and closed her tired eyes, getting into the music’s deep beat. One of her longish rhinestone earrings just hung there sparkling, mocking me to touch it, and like Ginger's diamonds, I saw them as quite ripe for the picking.
With the prize within my grasp, I momentarily forgot about the departing Ginny, and I made my move. I found meself trembling a bit, as I reached up and placed my hands gently alongside her ear, her eyes still shut, my victim smiled prettily. The rest of the maneuver was surprisingly easy, as I glided my fingers down and slipped it off the earring in one effortless motion. The sparkling beauty came away from her sweaty ear as smoothly as an ice cube moves along a steaming hot grill ( I actually did have a thought like that).
I held it in one fist for a bit, watching my victim, she had not felt so much as a tickle on her earlobe, as I had removed her earring. Relishing in my success, I looked at it dangling and shimmering in my hand behind her back. Then, as I secured her diamonds away, I thought about trying for the other. But thought better of it, knowing Ginny was just waiting on the other side of the door.
I finished out the dance, taking my sister's hand with its dazzling bracelet and rings, and admired them while I kissed it, the “Dames” Bracelet tantalizing slipped down along her wrist and brushed against me knuckles. At that moment, we both heard the toilet flushing, and my twin looked over her shoulder laughing. As she did do, I saw an opportunity opening up and taking her dangling diamonded bracelet in me fingers, tugged it down ever so discreetly. Surprisingly the clasp popped opened ( right about being flimsy luv, I silently agreed with my twin’s earlier statement)!
I daringly pulled it free from around her wrist and slipped it in me pocket just as she turned back around to face her dance partner. I could see in her eyes that she had not felt nor noticed anything out of place.
“I’d better be off after Ginny”
I said, clearing my throat, and then, with no fanfare, let go of her hand. It dropped to her side, rings flashing, purloined bracelet gone from where it had, with cheeky regally, had been holding shimmering court all evening.
“Nice doing business with you!”
I said, bemused as I watched the puzzlement creep into her half-awake eyes while I backed away from her towards the door.
And that chaps, is how I left her. With my grainy black and white movie still playing out in my mind.
She just was standing there puzzled, a wealthy lady in fancy dress, unknowingly watching the dashing stranger leave, along with the “fortune” in her jewels she had foolishly been wearing in a dive like this!
. She innocently watched me as I left the room with her “diamonds” in my scoundrel’s possession!
Chapter 9
A Quite Curious Encounter
Ginny came swishing into view from around the corner as I shut the door with a subtle click.
I smiled fully as she came up to me and started to say something to her, eager to caw about my evil deviousness.
She smiled and place a finger to my lips. Her hazel green eyes smirked as she said “Not yet lad, let’s take a walk away from here, what needs to be done next is best done in secret.”
“You mean the jewels “ I started to ask but she shushed me.
“That and ... other things laddie she said with a sly look in her eyes!
So we took the stairs down and made our way out into the unusually light foggy evening!
For the world was now ours, as we made our journey together, hand in hand.
We ended up making a very long stroll in the Provincial Park, and reentering the same isolated, secret glen we had been in earlier.
It was not until then that We proceeded to continue acting out the role-playing game we had started at the apartment.
Ginny went to the middle of the clearing to wait, pretending she was smoking, like a moll from a gangster movie.
I circled and watched her sparkling figure, black shiny gown and glittery diamonds, moving without purpose in the shadow of the glen.
And as I did, my thoughts wandered a bit, and I remember reflecting ( not for the first time) how in the older black n whites, the heroine, or villainous, is always wearing gowns, elegant long gloves, and jeweled to the sparkling hilt.
Then she walks alone to and then waits in some dark alley or other desolate spots for her contact, or hero to show up, much like Ginny was acting out now.
So how is it that those fancy dressed and well jeweled unescorted dames, always manage to get to those spots and can wait around in them alone, in those movies, and nary ever meet a ruffian who strips them of those pricy looking sparklers they are flaunting about?
Just saying!
After murmuring a brief prayer that my thoughts were not about to be tempting fate of that type to occur to us now that I had been thinking it, I came out of the shadows and approached Ginny/femme Fatales.
Keeping my left hand in my pocket like I was carrying a heater.
“Hey sister, I said, been waiting long?”
“No, she whispered, did you get the goods.”
“Hot as ice I said proudly.” producing the necklace I had liberated from the dancing “dame” and dangled it hypnotically in front of her eyes.
As I showed Ginny my take from “the dame”, she squealing over the fact I was able to acquire the “Broads” necklace of dripping “ice”.
Playing a thief’s role, I kept mum about Acquiring the Dames earring, no honour amongst thieves I thought mischievously.
Which in the game we were playing, proved to be the right move.
As Ginny admired the necklace we both laughed over what the “dames” reaction would be when the jewels were discovered missing.
Then suddenly my cohort got a serious look in her eyes!
Then she, putting her hand inside the skirt of her gown, raised it and stuck it into my side like a pistol.
“Now lad, the Dames fancy broach, and I won’t yell bloody murder
for the Bobbies now, will I!”
I sighed dramatically while I reached into my pocket and handed the sparkler over. She looked at it delighted, then stowed it
“So luv, do I make a proper Femme Fatale or not ?”
“Not bad my luv, but not evil enough, should ave riffled me pickets!” I said, pulling out the glistening “diamond” earring.
“Really !” She’s shrieked, checking her ears as If I was holding her on of her own!
Realizing she still had em, she smirked
“Took those off her to? Just like a man to always take a lady for all’s she’s worth!”
“Well, with double-crossing Dames like you around, a poor pickpocket has to make his living somehow!
Besides, I left her an earring and her rings! Didn’t I now, luv?!
“Are you sure you didn’t take them also you weasel and are holding out more on me lad!” Ginny teased as she tried to put a hand in my tux jacket pockets
I grabbed her and we began to struggle as I tried to grasp onto her slippery figure laughingly.
As we snickered, Ginny caught my eyes and then we got off on a tangent about jewel thieves, then jewel thieves in love, and ended up re-enacting the “lure” scene from the movie ‘To Catch a Thief” ending up producing fireworks of our own making, as “the femme fatale “ Ginny lost all her jewels as well as her perceived “innocence”...
“kiss me you fool!” Cut, roll the credits...
Later, and a wee bit disheveled, the two of us then made our way back home, as the cock crows, receiving a few odd looks from the occasional early morning lorry drivers.
The End
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