I’m staring at myself in a mirror lit by lights bright enough to extract a confession from the hardiest of spies.
“You look great. You’re too good for them,” says Geezer, about as convincing, and as miserable, as an episode of Eastenders.
“Can you say it like you mean it?” I ask.
He carries on squirting decongestant up his nose. This brand does contain speed but it’s still a peasant’s way of getting high. But then, he’s a peasant.
Some most unattractive snufflings later he remembers his duties.
“You’re gorgeous, hun.”
Well. I wouldn’t go that far. The face staring back at me is indeed attractive. Forty winters have yet to ‘besiege my brow’,(I am currently celebrating my third twenty-ninth birthday). The said dread winters may yet ‘dig deep trenches in my beauty’s field’ but we now have much better make up than whatever was available to Shakespeare’s beloved bum boy.
If only I didn’t need so much time in front of my mirror, just to achieve the same result. The last person I need to see is the mad tart caking on the make up. And why bother? When most men would shag the rotting corpse of Andrea Dworkin. It’s got a pussy, hasn’t it? What’s wrong with you? You queer or what?
“You look fine,” says Geezer wearily.
“Don’t ever take up life coaching,” I tell him. “You’d starve.”
My Man Max would know how to feed me with some sincere, spontaneous compliments. All git-boy Geezer can come up with is the palpably insincere ‘Have you lost weight?’.
Weight is one of the few things I’m not neurotic about. The Class A diet has always worked for me. You could chop out a line with these cheekbones. But when does ‘thin’ turn into ‘haggard’? When preening I am aiming a little higher than what a mere man might like. I wish to be judged by a jury of my peers. I need hardly tell you their criteria is not whether I look attractive to men but whether I terrify anything with a dick. Breasts must be thrust up and out, cleavage deep, waists squeezed into corsets and lipstick must be red and gleaming. Which simultaneously attracts and repels the enemy.
I tease and tweak my hair. I could soften up and let it loose but I prefer this tight, dark helmet. Louise Brooks with a touch of evil.
I like to be in control. I spend a long time putting on and taking off make up. Until it looks like I have no make up on. My skin is presentable but if the eyes are the window to the soul then mine need cleaning.
“Tight lace me please, darling.”
Geezer is always keen on this duty, taking a sadistic glee in ‘doing me up like a kipper’.
You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, and you can’t wear this corset without cracking a rib. I have achieved the cavernous milky-white cleavage, pretty good considering what little I had to work with. My waist is tiny, my rear view is discreetly saucy, debonair yet screaming out for a fondle. My face is perfectly made up but I look upon the wreckage of my soul and despair. Just one look and you know this broad has been through the wringer.
Where are my shades? I can do chic zombie as well as anyone else.
I put on an enormous pair of wraparound 70’s sunglasses, just about right for Miles Davis after a three day binge. All this just for one fat, old client. They don’t deserve me.
Geezer starts to fiddle with various of my erogenous zones, which is a sort of compliment I suppose. Too little, too late though.
Where oh where is My Man Max?