Cleavage, Heels and Flattery
October 27, 2011 § 36 Comments
My tactless friend has told me that a plankton of certain renown in her circle has found herself on her own in her early fifties and has le tout London after her. Someone else has told me that this paragon has no fewer than eight men circling and I am thinking, how the fuck…? How she does it according to my TF is straight-forward and threefold: cleavage, heels and flattery.
A thread of comments on this blog has recently concerned the sartorial choices of plankton. I have not waded in myself because I cannot get myself overly worked up about clothes. Not terribly interested, but if I am on the pull, as I think we used to call it in my twenties, then I push the boat out as much as I can. I seem to remember owning one or two Result dresses. Only the other day I wore a new little black dress to meet Long Shot, nothing too OTT for a weekend afternoon; simple. It was groovy and sexy but not out-and-out-mutton-dressed-as-lamb. I had worn it a couple of times and it had given rise to many compliments, and did indeed on the day from someone who hadn’t seen me for ages and raved about how I looked, so I must have been doing something right even if LS himself didn’t exactly openly marvel (though I wouldn’t have expected him to, on first meeting). I had a better cleavage in my youth before weight loss and breast-feeding, but I can still bring it on with the aid of a good bra. Having never exposed it to the sun, it is still quite youthful, and thankfully doesn’t look like the surface of cooling gravy, yet. (Never room for complacency; never say never!) I’m not very good at heels. One lover, a transvestite, asked me to put some on during sex. I brought out the highest pair I had but he was disappointed, told me his were higher. These days I have a couple of pairs and wear them when necessary, even though they invariably cripple me.
So I can do cleavage and heels with the best of them, which brings us to flattery. I can do that too. Flatter, flatter, flatter. Gift of the gab, bit of the blarney, call it what you will. I can talk the talk; course I can. And I always love asking them a million and one questions about themselves and actually enjoy listening to the answers (now, there’s a talent!). And men seem to lap it up. But maybe successful-lady-in-her-fifties is doing CHF in a way that I am not, because fuck all good it’s ever done me. I mean, it hasn’t exactly been working for me, somehow, otherwise I wouldn’t be in this plankton position, would I? LS and Smidgen, for whom I have done a good deal of CHF, should by rights, and if she’s anything to go by, have fallen for me hook, line and the rest, and would now both be beating a path and fighting over me, ho hum. I haven’t made quite such an effort to cripple myself and truss my tits up like a turkey and flatter for Europe when it has come to PS and KN, and it doesn’t seem to have deterred them.
Men, eh? Fucking weirdos. Give me another 47 years and I still won’t have got to the bottom of them.
Still, I had better start on a dedicated program from now on of jostle, jostle; clicketty-clack; flatter, flatter. Like this CHF specialist lady in her fifties, whatever she’s doing. Like there’s no tomorrow.