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Sandy's Say: Steamy Cricket

...“Hey, guys,” she piped up. “I’m off to a fancy dress Valentine’s Day party this evening. The theme is ‘Red Hot Fantasy. Dress to Seduce.’ What can I go as? Any ideas?”...

The conversation wanders along unexpected paths at the school cricket match, as Sandy James reveals.

To read more of Sandy's deliciously frank columns please visit http://www.openwriting.com/archives/sandys_say/

Cricket was rather raunchy this Saturday. Not an adjective which one usually associates with the game, I realise. If I am truly honest, it was not so much the game itself but the conversation amongst the spectator parents in the grandstand which took an earthy trajectory.

I blame Virginia. She started it.

“Hey, guys,” she piped up. “I’m off to a fancy dress Valentine’s Day party this evening. The theme is ‘Red Hot Fantasy. Dress to Seduce.’ What can I go as? Any ideas?”

At that moment we became an uncharacteristically tactful lot. We cricket parents are all of a certain age where we battle with that demon called ‘middle age spread’ but Virginia struggles (or has given up struggling) more than most, to the point where her foolish husband was once overheard grumbling into his beer, “There’s at least forty kilograms there that I’m not legally married to.” Put it this way, no one was suggesting anything too revealing or tight fitting.

“How about you go dressed as a nun with a whip hanging off your belt,” suggested Juliette diplomatically. Juliette ought to know about these things as her father is famous for boasting that he had named his three daughters after women in a French bordello. Her sisters are called Krystelle and Bernadette. It’s lucky that they weren’t born boys as their father had intended to name them after Roman soldiers. They would have been called Atticus, Maximus and Horatio.

“I’d have to go as NONE,” lamented Hymie. No one doubted that this was the truth. Poor insipid Hymie had been miserably single ever since his wife had run off with a much younger man (well endowed with a Maserati and a mansion) who had been sending her flirtatious looks during shull at the local synagogue. Overnight his obedient wife had transformed into a kugel cougar. Hymie blamed the new transparent, glass mechitza which the rabbi had had installed. Instead of separating the men from the women as it was meant to, it facilitated subtle perving between the sexes.

“I’ll lend you our whip,” offered Juliette. “I’ll just ask Steve first if he thinks we might need it tonight.” Everyone laughed. They thought that she was joking. Steve flushed bright red and turned his eyes towards the score sheet in front of him, without replying.

“Oh, he’s too busy scoring,” noticed Juliette. “Not in THAT way, you know. Just with a boring old pen and paper.”

Fortunately, at this point, tea was served.

Steve stood next to me sipping his tea, looking unusually stressed and with dark rings under his eyes.

“Are you okay, Steve?” I enquired. “You seem especially tired.”

“I’m exhausted,” he replied. “Work is extremely demanding at the moment.” (Poor man, I thought to myself. Demanding job. Demanding wife.)

“What work do you do?” I asked.

“I’m a medical supplies manufacturer. We make things such as syringes, bandages and rubber gloves. We are currently supplying thousands of body bags to Haiti for the victims of the earthquake, which is why I am working overtime.”

“Surely they could find a supplier closer to the source of the disaster?” I queried.

“Well, our body bags are particularly sought after as they have double seams which do not leak,” Steve enlightened me, creating far too graphic a picture for my liking.

“Hey, Steve,” interrupted Virginia. “Do you manufacture those other items made from latex?”

“Yes,” Steve blushed for the second time that afternoon. “We distribute them in Africa as an anti-AIDS device.”

“Great. Do you think that you could lend me some large ones to hang off the belt of my habit tonight then?” asked Virginia.

It was then, right there next to the hallowed turf of the school oval that Steve, single handedly exposed his entire gender by confessing to something that womankind has secretly suspected for eons.

“Actually, Virginia,” he mumbled at the ground, “the ones marked ‘large’ are our smallest size. It is an ego saving, marketing ploy because we’ve yet to find a man anywhere in the world who will admit to being anything less.”

Howzat gentlemen! The bails are now off on this illusion. Put that myth in your urn and smoke it.


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