me!”
“Well, don’t encourage them then.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, first of all get to know them before you sleep with them and if they are full of BS, then run like hell. Also...now I don’t know whether I should say this...”
“Go on, you might as well now.”
“No, maybe not...”
I gave her one of my stares. They are supposed to look tough, but they tend to just look daft when I do them.
“Tell me!”
“Well, you could stop looking like you do.”
This was Flo’s tactful way of telling me not to dress like a tart. Problem is, I like how I dress. I love nothing more than looking in the mirror just before I go out on a Friday or Saturday night and instead of seeing my scraggy hair or blotchy complexion, I see something stunning. I don’t hate myself when I look in the mirror on a Friday or Saturday evening. I know I am going to catch the eye. I know men are going to turn their heads when I enter a room. I like people liking me. I like men thinking I am hot.
Before my implants, I had always had breasts that looked like they belonged to an eleven year old girl in a training bra. So, when I had my double Ds done, at twenty two, I wanted to show them off. People think I am being ridiculous when I say that after the op was the first time I really felt like a woman. To me, the breasts came as part of a package along with the blonde hair, the extensions, the nails, the make up, the short skirts (or short shorts) and the barely buttoned tops. I loved Flo but she was a bit of a minger and part of me thought she was only saying this because she was jealous about the way I looked and the way I was guaranteed to pull every week and she was guaranteed to get a bus home alone. I would dress down when I was older, not now, not at twenty four.
All of a sudden, I got the shock of my life!
“Shit, Flo, where’s my car?”
“What do you mean?”
“I left it here this morning and it’s not here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure it’s not here. Can you see it?”
“I meant, are you sure you left it here?”
“I leave it here every day, Flo, you know I do. Right here, next to the parking meter and it’s gone.”
I was absolutely devastated. I loved that car. It was a red Corsa, but not just any old red Corsa, it had been Zara-tised. It had a totally pink interior, fluffy pink seats, two pink fluffy dice and a couple of Playboy bumper stickers, including my favourite one which said, ‘Blondes Prefer Gentlemen’. I called her Charlotte or Charlie for short. Someone had kidnapped my Charlotte.
The more I thought about it, the more I could not get my head around the fact that it had been nicked. The type of person who would want a car with a pink interior is not the type of person who would pinch it. If you look like me, you do not want to risk spending time in prison or even risk breaking a nail, breaking into a car. I began to panic.
“Oh my God, Flo! What am I going to do? That car meant everything to me.”
I need a tough cookie like Flo as a mate, to get me through times like this.
“Right Zara, calm down. First thing you need to do is ring the police to report it stolen.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can, Zara, be brave.”
“No, I can’t. I left my mobile on the passenger seat.”
“OK, don’t worry, you can use mine,” Flo said, reaching into her bag, then passing me her mobile, “you need to ring your insurance company too. Let them know it’s been stolen. They might give you a courtesy car until you get it back.”
“Flo, I just can’t believe someone’s nicked, Charlie. I spent a fortune on her, kitting her out, getting her just how I wanted. I’ve just joined David Lloyd’s gym too, I was supposed to be having an induction tonight with Martin and some girl in the shop said he was dead fit.”
“Zara, your induction with Martin at David Lloyds’ is the least of your
“Well, don’t encourage them then.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, first of all get to know them before you sleep with them and if they are full of BS, then run like hell. Also...now I don’t know whether I should say this...”
“Go on, you might as well now.”
“No, maybe not...”
I gave her one of my stares. They are supposed to look tough, but they tend to just look daft when I do them.
“Tell me!”
“Well, you could stop looking like you do.”
This was Flo’s tactful way of telling me not to dress like a tart. Problem is, I like how I dress. I love nothing more than looking in the mirror just before I go out on a Friday or Saturday night and instead of seeing my scraggy hair or blotchy complexion, I see something stunning. I don’t hate myself when I look in the mirror on a Friday or Saturday evening. I know I am going to catch the eye. I know men are going to turn their heads when I enter a room. I like people liking me. I like men thinking I am hot.
Before my implants, I had always had breasts that looked like they belonged to an eleven year old girl in a training bra. So, when I had my double Ds done, at twenty two, I wanted to show them off. People think I am being ridiculous when I say that after the op was the first time I really felt like a woman. To me, the breasts came as part of a package along with the blonde hair, the extensions, the nails, the make up, the short skirts (or short shorts) and the barely buttoned tops. I loved Flo but she was a bit of a minger and part of me thought she was only saying this because she was jealous about the way I looked and the way I was guaranteed to pull every week and she was guaranteed to get a bus home alone. I would dress down when I was older, not now, not at twenty four.
All of a sudden, I got the shock of my life!
“Shit, Flo, where’s my car?”
“What do you mean?”
“I left it here this morning and it’s not here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure it’s not here. Can you see it?”
“I meant, are you sure you left it here?”
“I leave it here every day, Flo, you know I do. Right here, next to the parking meter and it’s gone.”
I was absolutely devastated. I loved that car. It was a red Corsa, but not just any old red Corsa, it had been Zara-tised. It had a totally pink interior, fluffy pink seats, two pink fluffy dice and a couple of Playboy bumper stickers, including my favourite one which said, ‘Blondes Prefer Gentlemen’. I called her Charlotte or Charlie for short. Someone had kidnapped my Charlotte.
The more I thought about it, the more I could not get my head around the fact that it had been nicked. The type of person who would want a car with a pink interior is not the type of person who would pinch it. If you look like me, you do not want to risk spending time in prison or even risk breaking a nail, breaking into a car. I began to panic.
“Oh my God, Flo! What am I going to do? That car meant everything to me.”
I need a tough cookie like Flo as a mate, to get me through times like this.
“Right Zara, calm down. First thing you need to do is ring the police to report it stolen.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can, Zara, be brave.”
“No, I can’t. I left my mobile on the passenger seat.”
“OK, don’t worry, you can use mine,” Flo said, reaching into her bag, then passing me her mobile, “you need to ring your insurance company too. Let them know it’s been stolen. They might give you a courtesy car until you get it back.”
“Flo, I just can’t believe someone’s nicked, Charlie. I spent a fortune on her, kitting her out, getting her just how I wanted. I’ve just joined David Lloyd’s gym too, I was supposed to be having an induction tonight with Martin and some girl in the shop said he was dead fit.”
“Zara, your induction with Martin at David Lloyds’ is the least of your
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