posted Fri, 03 Sep 20040
My friend Lindley and I are at lunch at this nice-ish place: Le Petit Bistro. (We had decided to splurge.) It’s not a nightclub. It’s not a bar. It is a place for ladies who lunch and for businesspeople to entertain customers.
This woman walks in. She is stunning: tall, with long, shapely legs, slim hips and breasts that usually don’t occur naturally on someone with as little body fat as she has. Her hair is long, straight and white blonde. The blonde that some of us were as children but are not now, at least not without the help of chemicals.
This skirt is a little longer than the one our dining companion was wearing.
She is wearing stiletto heels. A tight blouse. And skirt so short that you can almost see her hoohah.
I stare, which I can do because her back is to me. Lindley whispers, “I’ll tell you about her when we leave.”
We eat and gab and have a great time, shooting occasional glances at the miniskirted one. She leaves just before we do. As we are walking out, we notice the hostess and two waitresses watching her through the window.
“I know exactly what you are watching!” I say.
They blush, then laugh when I say, “Because we were watching her, too!”
“She comes in here a lot,” one of the waitresses confides. “I wonder if she knows that you can see her underpants when she is sitting. She always sits facing people! The worst is when she wears the skirts that button up the front. They pop open and you can see….”
“If she were my daughter, I would tell her to go get dressed before leaving the house,” the hostess says. “Maybe I’m just old fashioned.”
When we get into the car, Lindley tells me, “I used to model with her when I was sixteen! She’s got to be at least 47 or so. She comes from this fabulously rich family.”
“She KNOWS her underpants are showing when she sits in that skirt,” I say.
It’s so fun to have lunch with friends who will gossip with you.
The end of the line
1 year ago