American Thighs (6 page)

That's all he could think about—what if I get a big boner right in the middle of The Procedure? And wouldn't you know it? Out of ALL the waiting rooms in ALL the world, HE has to be in the ONE that is NOT filled with forty-five-year-old
Ladies' Home Journal
s. No, indeed, everywhere he looked, there was nothing but
Cosmo
s and
Glamour
s and other girl-porn mags—and the cover of each and every one of them offered such informative articles as 50 fantastic positions to try in bed and elsewhere! and men's new sexual needs! and your orgasm guaranteed! and 7 bad-girl bedroom moves you must master! and put the porn on! He's trying valiantly to avoid seeing those headlines and the nearly naked females displayed on every page—he's focused ALL his attention on a brochure with nothing but drawings and photographs
of people with frown lines and wrinkles, entitled, Why You Need Botox. This is helping him to remain both calm and limp until they finally call him into The Room, and what he sees there, while not particularly calming, does succeed in producing a heretofore unrivaled condition of Limp.

The Syringe. He walked over to it and addressed it, “Oh, my God.” And although he now admits that it was a very tiny needle, at that moment it did take on railroad-spike proportions to him. As the nurse left the room, with instructions to undress and drape himself with the little paper blankie, she assured him that it would, in fact, All Be Over Soon.

After a discreet interval, the nurse reentered the room, made straight for The Syringe, and approached him with it. It was then discovered that Jud had failed to remove his underwear—which you would THINK could have been accomplished without specific instructions, given the location of the Mole and all. But anyway, after more undressing and redraping, the nurse once again stood over him with the sharp object and she asked him to please, ahhh, hold, ahhh, move, ahhh—I'm sure all the hemming and hawing was his and his alone; no doubt SHE very matter-of-factly and maturely asked him to shift his penis to one side so that she could give him the injection to numb the area. As he was relating this tale, I was thinking to myself that it was most humane and considerate of her not to just grab it herself and yank it to one side and jab him with the needle.

Although, as it turned out, what she DID was even more
potentially damaging to his psyche. He's got his limp little guy protectively in his hand and the nurse and her needle are looming large, he can scarcely breathe, and, I'm sure in an absolutely good-hearted attempt to soothe his fears, she says, “JUST A LITTLE PRICK…” To which he replies, “That is just not right—that's just adding insult to injury.” It took her a moment to realize what she had just said to him and then it was a long, long time before either one of them could quit laughing. I haven't quit just yet.

On the very same day, though, a good friend of Jud's was also going to visit a dermatologist. Now, what are the odds, I ask you, that TWO men who KNOW each other would be going for a “well-baby” checkup on the same day? I found that astonishing. Anyway, they ran into each other the day after their respective appointments and exchanged doctor stories—Jud's, of course, got belly laughs—the friend's experience was not so much fun. He was told that if his biopsy was normal, he'd get a card in the mail, and if it was not, he would get a phone call. He got a phone call. When he realized who was on the phone, friend said, “I HOPE you're calling to tell me you're out of cards!” and the answer was, “No, you have melanoma.”

Now, the “good” news is that it was caught very, very early—BECAUSE HE WENT FOR A CHECKUP—and so his prognosis is excellent, but I hope what we ALL take away from this is that where your body is concerned—HIGH MAINTENANCE pays off.

O
kay, y'all know that, in my opinion, if you are under the age of forty, you are Larva—I find it amazing that you have all your hands and feet, even—that is how very “early” I know (from experience, personal and painful) your development to be. So, not long ago, a little Larva Queen wrote to me, all excited about her recent purchase of what she referred to affectionately as a “sex lamp.”

According to her, this lamp shed ju-u-u-ust the right amount of light on The Subject, which I took to mean her own nekkidity for the viewing purposes of some significant other(s). Oh, my, that did take me back down—a very steamy road.

I can remember—very well, remarkably—the time in my life, so very long ago, when even broad daylight was no damp
ener for my ardor. I won't go so far as to say that my fearlessness extended to include fluorescent lighting—no human female form can stand up (or lie down, as it were) to THAT—but the brightest natural or even incandescent light gave me no pause, no second thoughts, before stripping down for a little slip 'n' slide.

There was even a time, after I discovered the gym, that I would say I was possibly a bit on the brazen side regarding the illumination of it all. Nor was it necessary for me to consider the effects of gravity—either on my ability to perform in any position(s) or, more important, on the appearance of any part of my person—from my face on down—to the other person involved who might have occasion to open his eyes during the performance and, as a result, SEE any part of my person.

I wrote the little Queen back and told her that I was tickled for her that she'd found herself that little sex lamp and I hoped she'd be putting it to good and regular use. For me and mine, though, we will be using that often tried and always true device that we have come to love and revere. That would be, of course, the sex DARK.

Undress for Success

If you are currently Larva, you are, as I have stated many times before, a Precious, Darlin' GIRL and you need to get as nearly
naked as the law allows and run up and down the road—because, dear ones, I keep telling you, a CHANGE is gonna come.

Not only do you need to be well lit for lovemaking, you need to be outfitting yourself in a manner befitting your young and precious darlin'ness. The time for high-necked, long-sleeved, calf-length muumuus is coming soon enough. That time is coming for you EVEN IF you never gain a single ounce—your skin will simply beg to be camouflaged if not completely covered. Hardly anybody wants to see an old lady's thighs and/or bosoms.

I say hardly anybody because there are, of course, exceptions. Old MEN will want to see all your old lady parts, but ONLY IF there are no young parts in the vicinity for them to observe. So, if you are going to your thirtieth class reunion and you still look hot—by all means, go for it—within reason. I would say go right up to the very edge of the line—one side of which will make you enviable, the other side of which will make you pitiful. Given the choice, we will almost always pick envy over pity, yes?

One more caveat about even such a gathering guaranteed to garner a group of mostly geezers, like yourself: be certain that none of the guys from your class have recently cashed in their early-model wives on some newer sportfuck editions. I don't care how much of your precious darlin'ness you have managed to retain, the comparison will not be favorable. Much
better to let him look ridiculous for showing up with Teen Angel than for you to look ridiculous for trying to look like her little sister.

 

A Brief Aside Regarding the Unfortunate Emulation of Youthful Fashions by Those No Longer Qualified

 

Those of us of a Certain Age will recall when Yardley cosmetics ruled the world and fashion model Jean Shrimpton was our Supreme Goddess. Twiggy was in that hierarchy somewhere—what a combo—and photographs from that era attest to the pandemic proportions of the worldwide outbreak of ugly.

Jean Shrimpton was, of course, stunningly gorgeous and she had impossibly stupendous hair as well—while Twiggy was just bizarre. She weighed about sixty-three pounds and most of that was eye makeup. Not a tit to her name, all knees and elbows, and she actually DREW on eyelashes with some early incarnation of the Sharpie—she had a total clown face.

One look they shared—and passed on to us, thanks to the cosmetic wizards at Yardley of London—was WHITE lipstick. Any and all colors of lipstick were frosted, at the very least, but the MOST popular shade was a pearlized white that looked good on NOBODY and yet—we ALL wore it. We were united in our desire and attempts to resemble corpses.

Okay, now, if you go back and look at photos from that time, of yourself, of anybody you knew—hell, go back and look at
Jean Shrimpton—EVERYBODY looked like crap in that lipstick. And remember, if you can, those few moms of friends—they might have been a few years younger than your own mom, but they were moms nonetheless—and they wore the white lipstick, too—do you remember how much WORSE they looked than we did in it—if such a thing is even possible? How can you look worse than dead?

Well, fast-forward to today, if you will, and consider the current style of nude lipstick—which is a misnomer because nobody has TAN lips. There is no ethnic group on the planet that I have ever seen whose members have lips that are the color of grocery sacks—it is simply NOT a naturally occurring lip color and it is HIDEOUS—on everybody. There is not a living soul, of any age, or any color, who looks BETTER with a little bit of beige on her lips.

A girl of fifteen to, say, midthirties can at least get away with it—they're pretty much gorgeous no matter what they do to themselves—but if you are over forty and you put that almond-colored crap on your mouth, it may well indicate to the world at large that you KNOW what the current fashion is—but you will LOOK like dog-doo in it.

And don't be ironing your hair, either. We did that already, remember? It was unattractive then—just as it is now—it will ruin your hair now, just as it did then—AND on top of everything, you will look silly.

While we're on the subject of self-humiliation—don't be
going out to where young people hang out and think that THEY think you are so cool. I promise you, they do NOT think you're cool. They think you are goofy and pathetic—if not downright gross. They are laughing and not even behind your back—they are laughing in your face—which you would realize if you put on your reading glasses. They will face-laugh at you all night until you get too close to them, in which case they can't get away from you fast enough. Unless, of course, you are buying the drinks, in which case they will be nicer to you but they are still laughing at you and being grossed out.

Anyway, I can remember my very favorite dress of one particular summer. I wore it while dancing with wild abandon in the nightclubs of Cozumel, Mexico. I learned recently that there are no longer any nightclubs in Cozumel. Well, there are still some on the grounds of the big resorts that have made their home outside of town on the beautiful island, but all of the ones on the main drag—the ones where my seester, Judy, and I frolicked, lo these many years ago—are gone. The cruise ships have killed them off.

The tourists who come in on the big ships are there for only a few hours during the day and the ones who come to stay in the big resorts never come in to town—so no need for anything downtown after dark. Sigh. Even Carlos 'n Charlie's closes at, like, ten pm now, for crying out loud.

But my favorite garment from the summer of 1985 was a black sundress that was up to here, cut down to there, and had
no back at all until slightly below my waist. Lord have MERCY, that was a HOT dress! I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss the days of being able to wear a dress like that—but believe me, I KNOW they are GONE—goner than the discos of Cozumel. If I thought I had to try to squeeze into a dress like that today, I'd just hang myself with the spaghetti straps and consider it lucky if they'd go around my neck.

Suffice it to say, I took full advantage of my fleeting time in Larvadom—this was evident, even in my earliest incarnations as The Sweet Potato Queen. My very first Queenly Outfit was my sister Judy's 1964 prom dress. Judy at eighteen was somewhat more on the tiny side than I was at age thirty. Consequently, the dress would not zip all the way up, but I did not let that deter me in the slightest. I simply zipped it up to the waist, locked the zipper, and tucked the resulting flaps of the unzipped portion inside and VOYOLA! I had a backless green formal gown! Backless was a good look for me then—actually much better than frontless, truth be told.

I'll never forget what Raad Cawthon, hot newspaper columnist, said to me when he saw me in that dress. He said, “Damn, girl, you've got the most beautiful back in Hinds County.” Which, to this day, is still one of my favorite compliments I've ever received.

Our first “O-fficial” SPQ Outfits also reflected my enthusiasm for age-appropriate nekkidity. They were heavily augmented swimsuits and they were, naturally, backless. Of course,
the padded butts were so heavy, we had to wear tights and, even at that, be careful we didn't inadvertently moon the crowd, and the padded boobs were likewise likely to pull the straps off our shoulders, so we had to put a tie around the straps in the back to hold them up.

The next Outfits reflected our gradual move away from our fat-free youth and into the more mature garb befitting our Post-Larvahood status. The necks were high, there was some flesh revealed on our backs, but it was greatly reduced, and we wore the longest gloves available. They were not swimsuits but mini-dresses.

By and by, we found we could still get away with the basic design of these dresses, but they had somehow become shortened just from hanging in the storage closet. How this happened remained a mystery until someone (whose mutilated corpse was later found being eaten by rats in an abandoned Dairy Queen—the identity of the murderer[s] remains a mystery but the reason for the killing was, of course, immediately clear) suggested that perhaps it was not so much that the dresses had shrunk but that our recently acquired FAT was making them too short.

The message of the deceased could not be ignored (even though silenced) and so an arrangement of ruffles was contrived to lengthen the offending skirts sufficiently to conceal the excessive thighage. Before much more time had passed, however, it became necessary to take further action in the cam
ouflage and concealment of our ever-burgeoning bodies. It was also getting to be time to increase the size of our augmentations considerably, since by this point we had gotten so fat, it no longer looked like we were augmented in any way. We just looked like fat girls whose dresses were too tight. This was not the look we were going for.

The current Outfits are e-normous. I insisted that the tits and asses for these suits be of sufficient size that no matter HOW FAT we ultimately get, our waistlines will appear waiflike in comparison. We are happily growing into them.

In acknowledgment of the painful fact that our Larvadom has long since been left trampled in the dirt and that we are actually, in fact, rapidly approaching Peri-Geezer status, the latest outfits reveal absolutely NO actual flesh. The nude-colored fabric of the upper portion of the dresses gives the ILLUSION of naked without the horrifying harsh REALITY of it.

The swimsuits of my Larva years were shockingly tiny for the times. Today, of course, they'd be considered granny panties, but nonetheless, a great deal of my personal square footage was displayed in those suits. However, even if I woke up tomorrow and found I'd turned into a twenty-one-year-old “10,” I can't imagine that I'd go out in public in a thong. I don't care how cute your behind is, I don't want to see all of it and I don't think I'm alone in this.

Today, I'm not so much interested in going to a nude beach—I would love to find a BLIND one, though.