Memoirs of Quasi Bond Girl
When I hear the term, “La Demoiselle” I think Glamour Puss, I think Super Woman, I think Bond Girl… The closest I’ve ever got to being a Bond Girl was having a threesome in the maharani’s suite in Udaipur’s Floating Palace. It’s the same place where Octopussy and her coven of kittens lived in the 1983 Bond film. We’d been at a black tie party on the ceremonial boat, I was wearing a backless gown with a thigh high split and nothing much else save for a spray of perfume and a sprinkling of diamonds, and with the champagne and the heat and the dramatic Indian sunset, one thing led to another…as it so often does.
But of course being a Bond girl isn’t all about sex, Champagne and flawless proportions. You also have to be able to fly a plane, kick ass, double cross, triple flip, and compose your splendid features into the most impermeable poker face when the need arises.
I had to put this last skill to the test only recently when visiting Vegas. We were embroiled in an intense game of poker in the Bellagio. The stakes had escalated a lot quicker than I think my date had anticipated. But he kept at it, mainly because his primary opponent was such an intolerable character that we all became desperate to take the guy down a peg or two. He had one eye on the cards, one on my breasts the whole time he was playing, and while one hand silkily caressed his chips the other silkily caressed the bum of whatever waitress approached him with a top up of Ruinart. At a certain point in the game our playboy friend Domingo sidled up beside us to inform us under his breath that he had just spent the last hour upstairs in the hotel’s presidential suite having wild sex with our opponent’s wife. It took all the strength I could muster to keep my poker face intact when the wife returned to the table, flushed and doused in perfume, and lent in to plant a little kiss on her husband’s cheek.
Of course, feeling like a Bond Girl is easier when you’re in your Provocateurs. Any woman who bought the white Lexxi bikini this summer will no doubt have had her very own Honey Rider moment emerging from the sea – or even down the local lido for that matter. Personally whenever I feel my Friday night could do with an injection of Pussy Galore, I shake myself a martini, squeeze into my most cleavage-enhancing bra, After all, even Pussy Galore is a woman of many parts.
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