“Sex, lots of it and the dirtier the better,” This was Bertram’s answer; short succinct and said with a twisted smile on the left side of his mouth. My question was, what is it that makes some blogs grow at the rate of a Russian vine and mine dawdle along in the slow lane for what has now been three quarters of my blogging year? If the answer is sex, the question is can I be bothered?
Well yes I can, up to a point it would seem, because I was in no time rummaging through my bits of paper to find the advert that I had stashed away for such a time as this. Finding it, I read it out to Bertram, asking him what he thought. It read:-
“Ladies of only too certain an age wanted to add a little zest to intimate club meeting once a week. A strict out look and an interest in dressing up an advantage. Please WRITE with photo showing imaginative use of gear.”
So, encouraged by some louche comments from Bertram and a rather unsettling feeling in the base of my belly, I got the bowler hat off the top of the wardrobe, blew the dust off it and cobbled together an outfit from my old basque and a few yards of spotted net. The legs still look good in fishnet and I kept reminding myself that Marlene was still doing cabaret with a thigh-high slit up her skirt, well into her eighties. I could see the gleam in Bertram’s eye growing ever brighter, as I showed him each evolutionary phase of the outfit. “Dream on” I said to him, thinking at that moment that I could do with someone altogether younger and much more likely to go the course without wheezing. I’ve always been a terrible tease, so I wacked the boots with my riding crop ( Lidl’s Horse and Equestrian Spring Event £2.99) and told him strictly to concentrate on his role as my David Bailey.
We took some time choosing the right pose and the digital camera clicked away. I liked the one with me leaning hazily against the bookshelves but Bertram said that the double edition of Madam Blavatsky’s Secret Doctrine just above my head gave out the wrong message. I had to trust Bertram’s experience in this matter, what with his years of researching internet porn for that book he’s always on the point of writing. He thought the photo of me with my leg up on an Ikea kitchen chair was much sexier, as it showed more crotch. “So much for subtlety”, I said grumpily. “Subtlety isn’t something you need to aim for with fetish, darling”, was his reply, so we stuck a print of the photo in an envelope, stamped and addressed it and stuck it behind the clock on the mantlepiece.
I was starting to have qualms about the whole project. Who these days does this sort of transaction by snail mail? I could see a roomfull of wrinkled old codgers with drool running down their chins and gleams in their eyes. Could I be strict with the geriatric? “Don’t worry Allie,”said Bertram when I voiced my concerns over lunch,”I’d give you a good seeing-to any day”. I kept my thoughts about the irrelevence of this remark to myself and suggested we nipped into Spank, our local fetish shop to find an outfit, in case I was called for an interview.
There we spent a very merry hour. I’ll rephrase that. Bertram spent a very merry hour, chatting up the assistant, who was far too young to be wearing thighboots in red patent and a rubber pinefore dress with large buttons in suggestive places. I, in the meantime, struggled into and out of several latex cat suits with the help of copious amounts of talc. The bottle green one with holes cut out for the flesh coloured latex tits looked amazing, especially with the red wig. Bertram didn’t recognise me at first, but then nearly wet himeself laughing. I didn’t buy anything. By the time I had struggled out of the hellhole of latex I had got myself into, I had a headache and my hernia was telling me something. Not even Hogwash by Louis Jordon, being played on the shop hi fi, could lift my mood. Hogwash indeed I thought to myself, made my excuses to Bertram, who was still being inappropiate with Miss Redboots and came home to a good book.