Now that got your attention, you filthy-minded fiends.
I know what you’re thinking. Here’s yet another blog about the much-hyped erotic CLITerature that you (that’s YOU) have languidly and seductively spread out on your shelf, or discreetly tucked away on your Kindle.
There’s no denying it. I see you. You know who you are. I know who you are.
Tushy a-swaying ahead of me. That minxy little rictus spread across your lips. Skipping down the street like a frisky filly on heat. A billowing aura of pheromones leaving its sensual scent in your wake, solely for me to trip up over.
Oh I see you. We all see you.
But no, I have – so far – abstained from the advances of Monsieur Le Gris. I’m not saying I haven’t PRICKed up my ears in curiosity, but the literary snob and general rebel in me has meant that I have chopped off M. Le Gris’ cahoonahs to spite his…erm…face, and mine too. Do I have cahoonahs? *mental note to check.
As far as I’m concerned, he can keep his pistol COCKed and locked, and firmly holstered. I remain STIFF and RIGID in my viewpoint on this.
So whilst you (that’s YOU) are revelling in your rejuvenated libido and flicking your pheromone-soaked hair in my face with every toss of your head, I am lagging behind you like a depraved scatological bag lady, laden with canine carrion, bearing my own 39 shades of grey in my less-than-bang-tidy bangs.
Finally, I reach the crux of my rant. On this very morn. The morning of my 39th birthday, I found all 39 shades of grey in one single strand of hair.
So, you see, you had it ALL wrong.
I woke up to find a frizzy, sinewy, pubic-like straggler in my fringe. It wasn’t there yesterday. Today it was. Glaring back at me in the mirror. Smirking and skilfully dodging my diligently dextrous digits.
The little fecker.
I managed to pinch it firmly between my nails. The wily, wiry, crotch-vagrant ducked and just curled more. I swear I heard its heinous, clamorous cackle reverberating through my tresses.
A girl’s weapon.
A hair’s nemesis.
I squinted through my fringe and pincered the deviant rogue, then tugged. With a loud, euphoric ‘GOTCHA!’, I was freed of the evidence of my impending middle-age. Then I sulked. Passionately.
So it’s official.
I am officially suffering from Syndrome 39. An official medical term – officially on loan from a good (41-year old) friend – who assures me that I WILL have a year filled with age-related crises, I WILL want – if not have – Botox, I WILL spend the next 365 days fervently seeking the Elixir of Life within several bottles of Bacardi-cum-Rosey.
But – she assures me – ultimately, once I walk face-first into the brick wall of Fortydom, all suffering will fall by the wayside and I WILL feel empowered as a woman and, on a deeper, subconscious level, I will accept my advancing years with grace and dignity. I may even go down look down on my own literary snobbishness and sniff M. Le Gris’ paper crotch.
However, for now, I am gracefully struggling to embrace the inevitable signs of aging. I hope at 40, I am able to accept the predestined with as good a grace as I can muster, but right now it scares the vajazzle outta me.
Do you fear getting old and all it entails?