Thongs ain't what they used to be

THONGS AIN’T WHAT THEY USED TO BE

“Penny, this is Julie, Julie meet Penny,” slurs the not-so-blushing bride.

         “Hi, we meet at last,” says Julie warmly. “ Heard so much about you.”

         “Don’t believe a word of it, I deny it all,” replies Penny. Ah, the old ones are the best.

         Now introduced, they scan each other rapidly, with minimum eye movement, as only women can do.

         Penny sees an elegant, dark haired extremely slim but curvy lady. Not beautiful, but with an attraction that expensive clothing and accessories have enhanced extremely successfully. Assured but not conceited, refined but easy going. Despite the fact that Penny would normally have hated this woman on sight due to her size ten clothing, she cannot help but feel they are going to get along well.

         Julie sees a pretty, also dark, homely woman of larger than average proportions. Not obese or even fat, more cuddly. Yes, cuddly is an apt description. Her warmth and genuine love of people emanate from her instantly. Shame that she has chosen to cover her fuller figure with concealing, baggy clothing. Lacking the confidence to say, 'Hello world, I’m a big girl and you can take it or leave it, please yourself.' Julie would have liked to have influenced Penny’s choice of apparel for the wedding, likes to see women make the most of themselves. Maybe later they will discuss such things; maybe Julie can offer a few tips.

         But for now they sit at table seven, the one allocated to friends and distant family. They watch the youngsters gyrating on the crowded dance floor.

         “Lovely mover, the girl in blue isn’t she?” remarks Penny. “Gorgeous figure too. I used to have one like that in another life.”

         Julie remains silent, a contented smile spreading across her face, lighting up her deep brown eyes. Penny, for the moment, is unaware of the reason for that smile.

         They are both suddenly distracted by a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the table. So engrossed have they been in thought and conversation they have failed to notice the third presence. Both turn to look and both are amazed at the fact they have failed to notice her. Now, this one is fat. No other word for it. In contrast to their glossy dark heads, the hair is long, straight and steely white. Piercing blue eyes, hooked nose, under which, from her expression, an offensive smell lingers. In contrast to Penny, this woman is obviously proud of her size. Wants to take up as much space in the world as possible. Flamboyantly dressed, she oozes confidence from every pore of her immense body.

         “Hi, “ says Penny. “This is Julie, the bride’s aunty. I’m Penny, the stepmother’s sister.”

         “Elaine,” stated curtly, more spat than spoken. “Groom’s cousin.”

         “We were just saying,” continues Penny, never wanting to dismiss anyone as a complete waste of space, “how lovely the girl in blue on the dance floor looks.”

         “Personally,” replies Elaine, “ I think her outfit is far too revealing for her age and those sorts of hip movements are only inviting trouble. I’d certainly never allow my daughter to expose herself like that.”

         “Excuse me,” says Julie sharply, yet politely, despite her anger. “But that happens to be my daughter you're talking about.” Penny now understands that earlier smile, lost now, exchanged for a look of deep indignation.

         No apology is forthcoming. “Well, I am entitled to my opinion,” shoots Elaine. “As a feminist I find it difficult to accept that today’s girls will still wear clothing that exposes their bosoms and outlines their pants in an attempt to attract men. My husband married me for my mind.”

         Julie and Penny share the same thought silently. No need to voice that one. Penny, now realising that all hope of polite conversation is lost, decides to put her wooden spoon skills into action. Oh, the joy of a wind up. It wouldn’t be a wedding without a showdown would it? Go for the jugular, girl.

         “Actually, it’s always been my ambition to wear a thong. Tried it once but the elastic complained loudly and the strip at the back disappeared completely up my arse.”

         Julie, despite her recent anger, splutters, but is intuitively ready to add more vigour to the stirring. “Ah shame, but don’t give up hope, Penny. Ladies undergarments can be so amusing. My husband loves to see me in thongs, my lover prefers those crotch less things you see in discreet magazines, but I often choose to go without. Let the air circulate. Much healthier, no panty line and saves on washing too.”

         They ignore the even sharper intake of breath from the opposition. “Not very practical on a windy day though,” replies Penny, “and what about the males crawling under the table to retrieve the imaginary coins they’ve dropped?”

         “Well obviously the situation is dependant on the weather. As for the peering up the skirt problem, I always remember to keep my legs closed.”

         “That’s not what I’ve heard,” quips Penny, brave enough now to risk the cheeky remarks with this like-minded woman. The bond had been almost instantaneous and obviously mutual.

         “You do realise, I hope,” snarls the voice from the other side, “that if you were wearing no underwear and you were raped that under a court of law you could be held responsible. I am a Magistrate you know.”

         “Feminist, Magistrate, Prima Donna, Prig. You have a lot of titles, Elaine. Regarding the underwear situation, may I offer you some advice? Take all your WXX cotton-gusseted passion killers to the local Oxfam shop. You’re obviously so far up your own arse you won’t need them much longer.” Penny rises from the table. “ Come on Julie, fancy a dance?”

         They head for the dance floor and kick off their shoes; deliberately swaying their contrasting-sized hips. Then, simultaneously they turn and shout, “One last word on the subject Elaine...KNICKERS!”

         “Weddings are very emotional aren’t they?” comments Julie.

         “Yep, even the cake is in tiers.” Ah, the old ones are the best.