La Poulette

Tastes like chicken.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Only the shadow knew.

Each time he leaned across the table I found myself just inches from the perfectly preened topiary that was his 3-day shadow, the startlingly bushy monobrow and the fleshy purplish lips. Everything about him screamed MOI rich young Saudi sleazeball playa and TOI - if you play your cards right - my woah-MAN. He was showing more cleavage than S. (a.k.a. Exhibit a) and I, which on that particular evening just happened to be saying something. His hairy chest was adorned with gold bling galore and his hair was slicked back in a way that let you know his monthly wet-look-hair-gel bill helped keep the hair cosmetic industry in business. Since he happened to be friend of a friend of S.'s who'd come to Brussels alone for the night, the task of entertaining him for the evening inevitably fell upon us. An adventure, we couldn't resist, Playa Boy could have done worse. We quickly fell into the required adoring-escort-service-girlie-giggle routine, took the fact that he'd interrupt our conversations with regular trips to the bathroom so as to indulge his snow addiction in stride and we knew how to drown that Don Perignon at the VIP club he'd suavely hustled us into by paying the doorman a modest 200 euros - as one does when one is secure in the knowledge that money does indeed grow on trees.

Mad Magazine used to run a comic series entitled What Evil Lurks in the Hearts of Men?The Shadow Knows. It featured various social situations with people acting appropriate to the occasion, while the shadow projected on the wall behind them revealed their true colours. That evening S. and I were model hostesses, providing Saudi PlayaBoy with the perfect dose of appropriate ego-stroking feminine behaviour. But projected discreetly on the wall behind us, our shadows slapped their knees in hysterics throughout his Who da Man? act and rubbed their hands in glee at the bottomless hilarious-anecdote potential of the evening. Which reached its climax when he leaned across the table once more, a gleam in his eye, his voice lowered to the sort of confidential tone used among friends who...understand...each other and said: "Don't you just love the feeling when you look at your reflection in the mirror before going out and think to yourself: Man! My shit is TIGHT, tonight!"

Oh how we smiled coquettishly at that, oh how we laughed conspiratorially along with him, oh how our eyes sparkled, mischievously flashing "Playa, your shit is tight and our shit is tight and we hear ya, Big Daddy!
" But what evil did lurk in the hearts of us two girls at that moment?


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