Girlfriends are not necessarily the people that you like best. They are merely the people that got there first. (Join the queue bitch). But if I had gone to the Fortnum and Mason’s of love affairs I would have actually chosen her. Quite alot of the other skulls I’ve knobbed I would have missed. But then as you well know my dear readers, I have never shopped in Woolworth's.
She was a Super Model. My Super Model. With her super muddle. Who was she? Christina Estrada cannot be named for legal reasons. She was class in a special way. I was déclassé on Class A. Her natural mode of transport was Concorde - the carriage of a king. My natural mode of transport was ambulance - the carriage of a queen. She had a soft spot for me ( in the head ). I had a hard spot for her. She was thin and I was holy. Diety with deity. We were bejewelled. The world bedazzled.
She was pretty good looking for a super model. She had that air of great quality about her. A face of marvellous beauty which one sees rarely in the world, perfect in its hardened classicality - a Greek face translated into American. What when drunk one sees in other women I saw in her sober. Clearly If you get simple beauty and nothing else you get about the best thing God invents. Most men when they cannot catch a Golden Eagle settle for a tinned chicken. But this eagle took me like a rabbit.
Have you ever knobbed a super model dearies? No I’m sure you haven’t. Let me tell you it’s pretty odd. What we all want is an object that reflects a truly ideal image of ourselves. Stripped naked when you see perfection staring back at you there’s not much you can improve upon. It is a bit like looking in the mirror. For me not you.
I was amazed that she would fuck me. Hadn’t she read about me for Satan's sake? I am someone who has raised living to a new low. I have spent my life sitting in a sewer and adding to it. She on the other hand was about as wild as a pension plan. Banging on about Yoga, vegetarianism, abstinence and other diseases of the soul. There is, after all, a certain spiritual calm that comes from having money in the bank.
And girl did $he like money. I didn’t think she would fornicate with anyone whose salary was inferior to her own. Her tiny piggy eyes lit up alternatively by greed and the sound of her own voice. Generally I don’t care what comes out of a woman’s mouth as long as I can come in it. But this was too much even for me. Her conversation was the nearest thing to eternal life that we’ll ever see on this planet. She dived into a sentence and you never saw the cunt again. Indeed, silence was the only golden thing that she wasn’t interested in.
The one tenth of the personality that breaks the surface and the nine tenths that lie, like an iceberg waiting, quietly and ominously below. Do we kill love with a sword or a kiss, by violence or cowardice? If treachery is inseparable from faith then I was hanging by a thread and the clock was ticking. Time was becoming visible - each stolen kiss grabbed like a thief in the night as I waited for the knife.
And come it did. I was in bed alone with the bone and the phone. It rang.
It was my Super Model. She was also in bed but she was not alone. She was with her Mother:
“Darling your on Television. Mummy and I think you look yummy.”
Me (desperately) : “Oh Lord. What am I wearing?”
Super model : “Red suit. Black Shirt”
I knew it was going to be bad. I was being interviewed on a programme about whoring. I started talking very loudly down the phone to try and distract her. It was no good. I heard myself down the line saying :
“I’ve slept with over a thousand prostitutes...... I wish I was more ashamed“
Two days later a story appeared in the paper about us going out together. It said that my super model had previously been with a billionaire but was now with “Sewer Life” Horsley. It said that her last man owned South Africa and had bought her a diamond so large it had to be kept in a bank vault with an armed guard. Would I, the interviewer asked, be buying her a rock? “What. Of crack?” I replied.
I can’t imagine why but I was dumped for another billionaire. If I am rejected without equivocation, I try to accept the fact good naturedly. Your Mother’s a prostitute and I defecate on the corpse of all your past ancestors. Oh of course no woman marries for money : they are all clever enough, before marrying a billionaire, to fall in love with him first. And yes everyone says that looks don’t matter, age doesn’t matter, money doesn’t matter. But I never met a girl yet who has fallen in love with an ugly old man who’s broke.
Your lucky if you like the girl your in love with. But perhaps I am being too hard. We do not criticise a shark whose whole existence is based around devouring and occasionally reproducing - I mean they’ve got no other hobbies. Let’s face it Romance without finance is no good.
Women’s talent generally resembles the wings of a chicken. It enables them to run, though not to soar. I have always treated women as nannies, grannies and fannies (did I forget trannies)? but my super model was special.
But it had to end. I am in love with myself. By adoring her I was being unfaithful. And worse than this by being monogamous I was making one woman happy but all the other women in the world unhappy. What right do I have to do that?
The arms that close most tenderly around you are still a chain. And happily my darling readers I have lost my chains and I am wearing again my crown. I am free forever from the damp, dark prison of eternal love. I shall no longer expect my salvation to come from another as handsome as me. Oh well. I thought I was in love. But it turned out to be benign.