I'm not a refined girl.

You ever noticed those articles women's magazines run every Christmas? Every year
it's the same rhetorical question. "Why, oh why," they ask, "Do men give us black
'n' red trashy lingerie when we women crave well-cut cream silk?" Those articles
pass me by. Fuck that, I say. Give me trashy, give me luminous, give me vinyl.

I like having my nipples poke out of stuff. Preferably in public. I like
amusement parks, flashing lights, loud hot music and avalanches of hot sweaty
vanilla sex. The only quiet thing about me is my voice, a teensy baby drawl.
Makes men come *real* close to hear what I'm sayin'. I'm one of nature's
show-offs. Hot pink's my color. I'm a Gemini.

Last summer a gust of wind swirled my cotton skirt as I teetered down the steps
outside my lawyer's office. For a coupla seconds I was left naked from the waist
down apart from a thong and heels. No one in sight so, forcing my skirt down with
one hand, I swiveled to see who might be following me. A pair of gray suits in
their 50s were a few steps behind. The expression on their pudgy faces made me
hot and giggly all afternoon. You have no idea how much fun it is being gorgeous.
I love my long golden legs and my high firm bum. I knew they wouldn't forget that
eyeful in a hurry.

But, like most of us, I don't always like who I am. Sometimes I get a yearning to
be tasteful. Austere. Subdued. Chic. That's when I blow half a month's salary on
the perfect camel trenchcoat.

Of course when I get it home I realize I haven't any of the other stuff to
complete the look. No silk scarf (apart from a leopard print), no boots (unless
you count the only-for-bed ones with the 5 inch spike heels) and no cashmere
sweaters. No sweaters at all. I like things that cling and outline my great tits.
I like everything to cling. Apart from men.

I like men like I like steak and fries. Hot and to order. I get them too. Just
ask, that's my motto. I don't usually have to say much, just look up under my
eyebrows and glitter a bit. They get the message fast.

@---}---}-----

One Saturday I'd just thrown all my Japanese stuff out. About three months ago
I'd decided to simplify my life.  I'd bought all sorts of things to give my home
that tranquil Oriental feel but it just hung around collecting dust.  Have you
ever noticed that? You buy something to simplify your life and you just end up
with more stuff. Expect it would have worked better if I'd got rid of some of the
other stuff. Who can tell. It's all in the bin and long gone now...

But that was my frame of mind. Yet another attempt at streamlined style had
bitten the dust. I felt too fussy, too cluttered - too me. I was in the mood to
be somebody else. I was walking downtown to meet a friend, thinking all the way
that I was over-the-top, and too dramatic and probably just fuckin' coarse. I was
castigating myself over my lack of Zen serenity. By the time I got to The Jolly
Hobnob my bottom lip was sticking out.

"Fucksakes, Antonia, what's the matter with you?" squealed Gloria as I pushed
open the door. Gloria sounds like a Cockney off the telly. About as subtle as a
parakeet, and as tactful as a monkey. "You look like someone's asked you to suck
a dead horse's dick!" And she screeched this charming little quip at me from
about 15 feet away. The whole bar looked round, grinning. It's not a small place.

I'd have laughed normally, but there was a man in the bar. Fuck, there's always a
man in the bar - men in the bar - but this one was drop dead, wet pussy
delicious. "Hush, darling" I cried brightly. "How's work?" I nipped over, climbed
on the barstool she'd saved and started chatting very quietly, very fast. This
had the effect of making her lean towards me, at which point I hissed "Shut it,
you daft cow. Have you seen what's over in the corner?"

"Yes, of course I've seen, but he's spoken for."

"?"

Don't ask me how I'd clocked him so fast but I had. Tall, crisp blond curls off
his forehead, noble brow, face like a god. Most noticeable of all: his perfect,
perfect body. And so cool. Snowy t-shirt, perfect jeans, boots, slight tan.
Nothing else.

A woman came back through the swing door from the loo and sat by him. She touched
his face possessively. I could have smacked her. Smooth black bob, perfect
understated style. Fuck the bitch.

I'm brilliant at watching men without them noticing. When I start taking an
interest in a man I keep it quiet until I've made up my mind. It's only when I've
decided I'll have 'em that they ever notice me looking. Because once I start
looking it's not long before they come over.

I've always gone for the pretty ones. I like their silky skin. I like having
something nice to look at. I like people noticing how gorgeous we look together.
Someone once told me that's why I get so many disappointments. I always go for
the packaging, and I never check the contents until much later. She was probably
right, though the silly bitch never doubted her own boyfriend until the skinny
little runt fucked off with her best friend. Who was a bloke, as it happens. So
she wasn't exactly the world's expert on character reading. Anyway, this guy in
the bar was mouth-watering. He looked really deep and soulful too.

After Gloria and I'd been chatting a few more minutes I slipped off my stool and
walked as elegantly as possible round towards the loos. I chose a path that took
me as close to his table as possible. Fuck, she was Italian. I could hear her
speaking in the most sexy accent. Italian. Elegant. Her clothes were all black
and camel. Her shoes must 've cost a fortune. I should have been a detective. I
can notice so much in one glance when I want to. She should be dead. Fuck her.
Not that I'm competitive or anything.

But it was clear I wasn't going to get anywhere that day. So I forgot him, had a
great afternoon with Gloria going round the bars and popped back late in the
evening alone. There they were again. They were with a man I knew. YESSS! So I
mooched over, ever so chummy: "Hello, Stevie -- who 're your friends?" - you know
the sort of thing. Within a few minutes I was sitting with them and we were all
mates. Their names were Zach and Louisa. Zach hardly said a word -- Louisa did
all the talking, in her irritatingly pretty accent. She was an international
consultant. He was some sort of designer. Turned out Stevie wasn't the only
person we had in common. I'd guessed that. I can be very sweet when I want to be,
and I wanted to be. By the time we parted they would have to say hello when we
met again. Which was just what I'd planned.

Now *I* knew who *they* knew I could find them easily. The weeks went by and
every time I saw him I drooled over Zach. He always wore the same thing.
Perfectly cut white t-shirt (new every day, I suspected) and one of a selection
of pairs of classic jeans. They all fitted delectably, showing his magnificent
body while never so tight as to look sleazy. I used to play with my clit in bed
at night just thinking about his tight bottom in those pants. I used to want to
lick his perfect forearms with their light tan and blond hairs. I was having fun
stalking something I couldn't get straight away. I was bored with men being so
fucking easy.

I quickly worked out something about Zach and Louisa's relationship. It might be
pretty serious but it was very volatile. They fought viciously, though briefly.
Tantrums and reconciliations, on her side mainly. She flared up, she snuggled up.
At least that was the impression I got. They didn't fight in public. Until one
Saturday night, late and drunk (unusual for her) the Italian girl slapped him and
walked out. That was your big mistake, Louisa.

He was leaning on the bar, rubbing his cheek and smiling a little. I moved
closer, using the press of people as an excuse for a lot of body contact.

"You poor old thing, Zachy! Does it hurt?" I cooed, smiling. Men love to be
babied. Take their aches and pains seriously and they'll follow you anywhere.

"It's Louisa. She never stops nagging," he said. "I think she's going to drop
me."

For the first time I gave him the full-on headlight fuck-me gaze. "Sweetheart," I
said, "If she's fool enough to drop you, believe me I won't let you hit the
ground."

It didn't take more than a second or two for him to get the message. I smiled. I
have a smile I use for this. It involves a very clear mental picture of sucking
the guy's cock. Somehow it seems to transmit. They definitely get the right sort
of idea. Can't tell you how often it's worked. When your lovers move into three
figures it seems a bit uncool to keep counting....

As he realized what I meant, he slid an arm round my waist. I shifted my hips
slightly to emphasize my narrow waist and warm flesh. I widened my eyes at him
again. "She has no idea what she's missing," I murmured. "You must have known I
like you."

"No, but I couldn't help noticing you. I mean you know Louisa's really special to
me, but she was always complaining. I can never do anything right. You're always
having a laugh. And you know you're gorgeous...." he trailed off as he nuzzled
against my neck. He was a bit drunk too.

She threw him out next morning, and he simply turned up on my doorstep. It'd been
Louisa's flat. All he seemed to own was an expensive leather holdall containing
the t-shirts, the jeans and some beautifully polished designer boots. He didn't
have either socks or underpants. He had no books, no CDs, nothing. He was so
minimalist. His cool was everything I'd ever wanted. I was blasted by him.

I live in a one-bedroom flat filled mostly with me, make-up and my clothes
collection. The best thing about my flat is the woman who cleans. Three times a
week she clears the clutter of perfume bottles, eyelash curlers and lingerie from
my floor. Oh, well - at least she hasn't got to do much in the kitchen. It's a
lavish little kitchen, but completely clean. I don't cook.

But over the last three years she's found so many unmentionable things in the
rest of the flat I've worked out she must either be planning blackmail or just
getting some sort of education. Once it was a tube of lubricant and some
second-hand carrots under the bed (he wanted to explore his female side), another
time *two* pairs of men's underpants, one time she even found a man... He was too
hung over to move and I had to get to the airport. She looks at me as if she'd
like to say "I hope you realize you're a slob, you overpaid, promiscuous slut."
But she hasn't dared say it yet, and she's incredibly reliable. So I keep her.

She was the only thing Zach liked about the flat. The first day he arrived she'd
just left. It was a Friday. The place looked neat and shiny. It always does after
she's left. The effect usually lasts half an hour after I get home. Zach hated
this. Order was his god. He never said anything, just composed his limbs and sat
stiffly in the tidiest part of the room like a cat in a sulk.

The first day he didn't say anything much. Over the weeks I'd hung round him and
Louise I'd heard her voice all the time. He mostly sat, looking inscrutable,
thoughtful. but I was getting used to his intellectual silences. He stood there
by the sofa looking round approvingly at the clear surfaces and spotless floors.
I flung my arms round him and kissed him. With both hands he tilted my head and
started to kiss me with velvety artistry. His tongue was cool, his kissing
expert. He smelt so clean, my tongue could even feel how spotless his teeth were.
As perfect as a god. But our kissing didn't progress. He broke gently away,
t-shirt still crisp.

"I'm hungry," he announced, pleasantly. "Let's go out to eat."

But as we were strolling to my nearest nice place, the one where they know me, I
suddenly realized this wasn't a good choice. Because where they know me they know
I'm not minimalist. Let alone chic. I mean it wouldn't be quite as bad as "Hi,
Antonia, you lush. Your usual rare steak, quart of chocolate ice cream and two
bottles of house white?" but my reception there might not make the impression I'd
like.

So I went all breathy