(Ed Note: The performance artist in me has been seeking a minuscule fissure in the veneer of personal correctness behind which we conduct most of our life. Apparently, she's found it... Matt (the world's sexiest guy who knows about shoes) has generously agreed to let me use a montage of pics he sent me recently. Of course, he has no idea in what crazy context he's about to be portrayed. Thank you Mattie! Or sorry...)
The year is 1987. George Michael plays endlessly on AM radio. Cell phones are the size of Geiger counters. Hair is the height of cell phones. Girls just wanna have fun.
Except this one:
She prefers to imagine fun. Everything she knows about fun she learned from Hollywood Husbands, which she hides under her mattress lest the housekeeper discover it while tidying up. Frankly, fun concerns her. But not enough to put the book down.
Next door, a boy moves in. He's from Australia, visiting relatives for the summer. He's older and mysterious with an accent she can barely understand. Occasionally, they chat on his porch. For some reason, her reminds her of Jack Python. He's got a number of friends though he's only just arrived. They all go driving together and, when they get back, his friends seem quite amused. They think she's prissy. They try to set him up with other girls. He seems to like those girls. His interest in our heroine wanes.
But she can't seem to get him out of her mind. What is it? Boredom? Infatuation? Hormones? Slowly, she realizes, it might benefit her to change her ways. She considers how Madonna might approach this dilemma. She buys some new shoes:
She wonders how on earth one walks in these things - and what to wear them with:
A binge at the mall, during which she spends all of her birthday money from the last 3 years, yields some choice finds. They make her punchy...
...Increase her confidence:
She buys some makeup. Tries a cigarette. Considers him while she's smoking. Smokes some more.
One day, on the way to the library, she runs into him on the street. He tells her how, um, different she looks. His friend, who's with him, does not make fun of her after she continues on her way. Instead he stares at her well-proportioned bottom. He suggests our hero invite her to the Motley Crue concert that Saturday night. He's welcome borrow his friend's Camaro:
(Apparently the back is roomier than it looks.)
She says yes, and begins to assemble a suitable get-up. This, to match the car?:
Or this?:
What will he wear, she wonders? A knock at the door reveals it:
He really does have the hottest biceps.
And his shoes are freakin' awesome.
You gotta know that, like every good smutty book, this doesn't end well. But it sure is fun while it lasts.
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