Monday, September 24, 2012

Topless Turvey Town

So ... the princess fucked up. And now the whole world knows that Kate Middleton has nipples. I don't know. Maybe she was drunk. I only went topless in public once and I know I was damn tipsy at the time.

The funny thing is, I'm a little disappointed in the princess. I became an INSTANT fan of Miss Middleton the moment she came on the scene and one of the things I loved about her was her perfect, modern ladylike charm.

She seemed smart, strong and stylish all on her own - and then when she, a commoner, bagged a prince for keepsies, I mean - wow. That's workin it out, chick. Especially because she seemed so perfectly suited for the job. She had none of Lady Di's vulnerability or awkwardness (which, being only 19 when she married her prince, took years for Di to overcome). Kate was poised, charming and absolutely beautiful. Plus her manners seemed impeccable without being too stiff. She was so perfect that according to Perez Hilton and others, she hadn't even gotten drunk ONCE in university after she started dating the Prince. I mean ... not even once? Amaaaaazing in this day and age - especially because she also had just enough "edge" to still seem cool - despite her penchant for primary colors and, on occasion, old lady hats. (This never getting drunk thing is not true btw - more on that later!)

I love Kate so much, one of the most relaxing parts of my trip to Green Bay to visit the cuz had to do with her. It was at the Mitchell International Airport in Milwaukee just before my flight home. After a day of sightseeing with Kelly (including a very ladylike lunch of tea and sandwiches at the beautiful Whistling Creeks golf course on Lake Michigan), I found myself with about 90 minutes to kill at the airport before my flight left.

I found a nice, quiet bar, got myself a table in the corner and ordered my first glass of wine for the day, a 9oz glass of pinot grigio (congrats to Mitchell for having the choice of puny 6oz glasses or yay-size 9 oz glasses!). I also had a copy of a celebrity magazine, in this case "Hello."

I'm not a huge consumer of celeb zines, but I often like to buy one when I fly because you can easily kill at least an hour or two of travel time floating around in a numbing, glamorous bubble. Makes the flight go by faster "reading" (and I use the term loosely, cuz it's really more like look-scanning) about pretty Hollywood people living in fabulous houses having movie star/rock star/reality star problems - which are waaaay more interesting than my own. I don't know - it's just fun. I sometimes feel embarrassed to be flipping through such fluff when all the business people around me are reading "The Economist" or "East of Eden" or whatever (I'm serious - the suit beside me was reading Steinbeck), but it's not an excruciating embarrassment. I can deal with it. (Though I think if I was a famous writer with a Pulitzer prize I'd probably save this guilty pleasure for the First Class bathroom).

Anyway, this time around I bought "Hello" because it featured a big spread on Kate - and her style. Her clothes, her hair, her skin, her bod. So I sat there in the airport with my big glass of wine and I not only scoured every word about Kate, I even jotted down a few notes about her beauty routine (i.e. she uses Lancome Hydra Zen Neurocalm Day Cream, is on the Dukan Diet, and keeps that shiny mane healthy with Kerastase Ritual Collection blah, blah, blah). I was so lost floating around in my fancy Kate cloud that I almost missed my plane!

I simply don't know what it is. I just love her. To me Kate Middleton makes everything seem ... well, possible. If that makes any sense.

So ... when rumor started to surface that Kate had been photographed sunbathing topless at a friend's estate in Provence, I was gobsmacked - as the English say. It can't be! Don't tell me! Kate? Topless? Gadddd! Say it isn't so!

Now I don't consider myself a prude in any other way, but - as I mentioned - I've only gone topless in public once in my life and I was very, very drunk when it happened. It was a couple of years ago at the Moorea Beach Club at The Hotel in Las Vegas (fuh-abulous btw!). When we paid our 50 bucks to get in (worth it not to have to listen to screaming kids and bad music at the public pool), the fellow at the door said that "tops were optional for the ladies." I'm like, oh great. Fantastic. Well, looks like the husband's gonna have a good day - and I'm going to be writhing around feeling like a jealous square. Because until that point, you see, I had never gone topless before. Not even when I was in the south of France in my twenties and all the fabulous French women around me were letting it all hang out.
So when the bouncer at Club Moorea announced/warned that it was a topless pool, I braced myself.

When we walked into the groovy pool area, sure enough there were four beautiful young girls sunbathing topless, lying next to each other on loungers. Perfect, perfect, perfect, even MORE perfect. I suspected The Hotel must've been paying models to show their breasts as day jobs. Not a stupid business practice all things considered. Still, my top stayed on.

The wine FLOWED that day. OH MY GOD. We had our own waiter/butler type dude and he did not let my big plastic glass get close to even half empty before he hurried over with another one. You gotta love NOT having to order wine, right? Anyway, I remember drifting around with Mark in the infinity pool, then dog-paddling over to the deck to slurp down my wine on a perfect sunny day. Ahhh ... it was so much fun, the hubs and I even did that thing you hate that drunk couples do in pools: we hugged each other's wet bodies and swam around in semi-seductive embraces, laughing way too hard and then whispering way too quietly and then laughing way too hard again. Sorry. Very rude.

Of course all that laughter stopped when another set of boobs walked into the pool area. I'm sure this girl was also a paid boob model with no modesty, sent into the fray to increase business at The Hotel. The girl was in her twenties somewhere. Very small boned, very tanned, very toned with long black hair - and perfect breasts. I'm pretty sure they were purchased from some plastic surgeon genius in Brazil, they were just that stunning. Taut nipples - you know, the kind of shiny ones? High, firm, full breasts themselves - and YOUCH - did they stand out from her ribs in a haughty "Hey, aren't I sexy?" kind of way. (I wonder why I have such clear memories of other women's breasts ... huh). She lounged there. All. Day. Long.

By this time, I was drunk enough that I was starting to feel falsely confident about everything. You know. Thighs, hair, career ... even breasts. I started to feel competitive with all these hot, young chicks and their stupid breasts. The hubs had been daring me all day to take off my top ... so finally ... I untied the back string of my hot-pink Billabong bikini top and literally flung it at him. I felt sexy, bold, mischievous - and free.

Of course, not long after that I tucked under a beach towel and passed out from all the wine. But my hubs has the picture of my bikini top on the next chaise to prove I was an exhibitionist for a day. Despite the fact the same video footage also shows me huddled in the shade under my beach towel, eyes closed, hair wet, cuddled up and snoozing. By the way, drinking in the sun is a real potent combo, isn't it? I was so hungover the next day I didn't even recognize my own hands. I know that sounds like a weird description of a hangover, but there's no other way to put it. I looked at my hands and they looked like someone else's: my mother's, in fact. After she'd been on a weekend bender. Yuck.

Anyway, that was the first and only time I've taken my top off at a pool or beach. And it was all around pretty pathetic, so I was scandalized to hear that my ladylike Princess - the girl of lace dresses, permanent smiles, and - occasionally - old lady hats - had actually been caught red-breasted on film.

I know it's not a big deal to most people, going topless. But I'm still of the opinion that boobs are sex objects. Sex organs, in fact. So until men can walk around commando (and any time someone wants to pass a bylaw on that one, I'm all for it), I think I'll keep myself to myself.