Hetty made up this game. It's called hypothetical sex. The only time we speak of l'amour is hypothetically and that suits me.
The phone rings. Hetty starts without even saying hello...so typical.
"You sleep with someone really famous and get to keep one item of clothing from their wardrobe the morning after. Stolen or given. Who and what and why?"
She hangs up.
I stop and think. It doesn't take long.
Speed dial Hetty.
"Grayson Perry."
"No."
"Yeah."
"Not Jarvis, you always mumble filthy things about him...."
"I don't want his clothes, I only want a lock of his damp beige hair..."
"So Grayson? Page boy bob, crazed lust for justice, sardonic epithets...what's your point? Do you want one of his urns? That's not in the game Loella."
"No Hetty, the fuck is for the frock. I want a really super naff baby pastel Peter Pan collar hoop skirt monstrosity. I can wear it when I go to the next political uprising action thing with Vivienne Westwood. I want it because then I can be double drag...a femme dressed as a man dressed as a woman. Hetty are you still there?"
"Mmmmm, you are so high brow Lo. The Frieze art fair has really gotten to you I fear...."
She's right I'm really pretentious when it comes to sex with the famous.
"Who are you sleeping with?"
"None of your business."
"Hypothetically silly...."
"Oh GOD don't be THICK child, it's always Bryan...."
"But Hetty you have a complete Tory uncle complex, tell me why, bore me again. I'm going to carve his name on your tombstone.."
I made sure I was comfortably seated because I knew Hetty had a LOT to say about Bryan Ferry. Too much really....
"Because...no chest hair. And because ALSO it's really really HARD to imagine him without Crolla boxers. You know I am very fond of a remote gaze over my shoulder and into the middle distance. Also I have ALWAY'S wanted to know if his forelock tickles and also the silence. So hushed! It would be like being molested in a bank vault I think....and I don't imagine he'd say much except very polite and encouraging things like "splendid" and "rather nice" and then, you know, after I agreed to sign the waiver, and finished my glass of Perrier Jouet I could just let my cocktail dress drop to the Persian carpet, think of England, Scotland and hopefully Wales and then after all of that... His sheets would smell like Sicilian lemons and there would Penhaligons bath oil to wash away all the SIN and Sulka bath robes and in the morning while he purrs in the gloom I would walk into his massive Palladian dressing room and try on tuxedos in nothing but a pair of black silk high heels. So Helmut Newton. I want to sniff his cravats. I want to run my hands deep inside his silk coat pockets. Patent leather dancing shoes. French soap. Midnight blue Pantherella socks for God's sake! His clothes ARE the sex, if you see my point..."
"Yeah" but I am nose yawning....
I am exhausted. I just had a virtual three way with Hetty, Bryan and um, I am dressed like Little Bo Peep. But somehow I don't feel dirty. Hetty is so pathologically tasteful and hey, hypothetically speaking, my naked proletarian posterior might end up on an urn.
Grayson if you are reading this....I would still respect you in the morning. Utterly.
Now hand over that bonnet!!!