I don't know whether you go to many weddings, or what impression they make on you. On the one hand a lot of people dressed to the nines, on the other, some look clearly as though they need some help on the fashion coordination front. Most people drink far too much. I always detect a certain eroticism, maybe connected to the fertile rites surrounding the event. This shows itself to me in some women having gone to a lot of effort with their appearance, and it having come off fairly well. Tastefully revealing dresses, the thought of nice, expensive underwear being worn for the special day, maybe even the odd hat or two to add to the atmosphere of refined frivolity.
I had an unusual encounter at a wedding some years back, and as I have a good memory (useful at least as a source of masturbation fantasy), I recall the words and events of that day very well.
Joanne(one of my wife's work colleagues) and Peter( grossly overweight son of a local business magnate) were to seal the knot at a wedding ceremony held at Peter's parents' place. The fitting location was St Georges Hill, Weybridge, Surrey. If you don't know it, this is the gated community of dodgy ranch-style mansions set in the Surrey commuter belt, home to overweight businessmen, pillars of society and the odd rock star . . . and Cliff Richard.
I wore a respectable navy blue suit, nice shirt and tie; very straightforward stuff. My wife wore a long dress and looked very nice. We all met at the house after the church ceremony, had a few drinks and I got into conversation with one of my wife's female friends whom I knew from one or another company function of hers that I had been to.
As I was talking to her she said, "Look at that, she doesn't leave much the imagination, does she?"
I looked across the large room to see a girl who indeed did not leave much to the imagination. It was only possible at a wedding, at least in daylight hours. She was very dark, Mediterranean looking, medium height but wearing quite high heels. She was wearing a flouncy pink dress that was fairly see-through, showing a black thong beneath. She could have passed for a hooker had it not been for an expensive Louis Vuitton handbag, expensive looking shoes, and as I saw when she turned around, an attractive and intelligent looking face. My instant impression was that this girl was not the dodgy "slapper" type, but actually a very classy girl who just enjoyed showing off what she had.
So, more small talk, a couple more glasses of champagne, outside for a quick ciggie (yes I am afraid I do) and then into the large gazebo that had been set up for a buffet for the guests. No expenses were spared here. They served excellent wine, and I am at least sometimes a discerning wine drinker, and great food served by a professional catering team.
As I queued for the buffet I put some melon and ham on a plate. A female voice next to me said, "A bit 1970's isn't it, Melon and Ham?"
I turned to see Miss Pink Dress. "Could be," I replied, "but then I am a child of the 1970's."
I introduced myself, and this young lady, whose name was Helena, told me that she recognized my name and that I was sitting next to her at a table. Back at the table we got into conversation. I asked after the origin of her name and she told me her parents were Yugoslavs (Serbian) but that she had grown up in this country. Over the food we exchanged some details about our backgrounds. It turned out that she was a hotel manager in London, and like me spoke several languages. This I guess gave us something in common.
A few people had remarked on her somewhat risque appearance, but our conversation was flowing quite naturally and I did not feel self-conscious.
After the dinner it was back to the "ranch" for more drinks and chat. I was sitting with a group of people on chairs and sofas. Helena was in the group and occasionally our eyes met. She smiled confidently but with a touch of wistfulness. On a more profane note I had noticed that she was not wearing a bra. She had a great skin color to compliment the Mediterranean appearance as well as quite a seductive perfume. A number of less than salubrious thoughts were beginning to go through my mind.
"I've run out of cigarettes," Helena said suddenly. "Any idea where I can get some?"
"Yes, there is a petrol station at the end of the road," replied Joanne, the bride. It was by now 10.00 p.m. and pitch black dark.
"Simon, why don't you walk up there with Helena?"
Nobody present seemed to bat an eyelid, so I pulled my jacket on and off we went.
