The History of Gin
or
A Fox's Tail
Is Life Existential? You Decide.
by ' Colorado ' Gumi
...I n s p i r e d By T r u e E v e n t s...
Chapter 12
The Manolos of Wrath
Ginger Mullins shopped for shoes with the explosive predation of a crocodile erupting from a pool to lock jaws on the head of some hapless gnu drinking at the water's edge. Only difference is... Ginny didn't subsequently eat her shoes, preferring instead to stop at Starbucks for a yummy Frappuccino after "the kill."
This time was no different.
It was the summer after her second year at Cornell law. A week or more ago Gin had bought a new gingham frock and sorely needed a cute pair of mules to go with it -- As usual nothing in her closet, even the shoes she had in mind when she bought the dress, would do at all. Craving a kill to sate her mounting appetite Gin began the pre-hunt ritual that tunes mind and body for the task at hand.
Like a lioness sniffing the air for scent of game afoot, Ginny first called her particular friend... the blond one... to elicit hints of prey in her territory. After enumerating a half-dozen brand-new totally-disgusting sounds and emissions her boyfriend had released in the past 24 hours, Gin surreptitiously pumped her friend for information and learned there were several fresh opportunities involving unadvertised discount sales to the west of her lair. Clutching this intelligence coup to her bosom, Gin continued the conversation only as long as was politely decent and hung-up quick as she could. She was more excited than the American naval cryptographers when they figured the Japs where headed for Midway. Now it was bath time.
Gin's apartment is only somewhat larger than her bathtub. In fact her tub is a veritable Mediterranean Sea of a bath, with gentle tides of crystalline water lapping picturesque shores. Water tumbles... no, Ejaculates... from two impressively curvaceous faucets situated about where Libya would be. These faucets -- shining a golden hue except where encrusted with some green stuff that really should be cleaned off -- spew twin cascades that arc gracefully o'er this yawning sea to splash somewheres east of Sicily. She launches into these waters from the Gibraltar end -- Truly the only things missing are Greek tankers and nude French persons.
Ginny doesn't just "take a bath" here. She offers her lithe, naked body to the gods upon this aquatic altar and the gods, gawking the whole time, gratefully accept. Also in the process she gets clean. It's really something to witness.
Gin drifted in these serene Mediterranean-esque waters for several extra minutes as stress and tension oozed from her body before emerging, a Venus, to towel her bronze skin and chestnut hair into beaming vitality. Stopping to pluck copious lint from her belly button, Ginny then completed the myriad tasks typical of a woman preening in the bathroom. Cheerful as a lark, she did "The Hustle" to some 70's tune on the radio all the way from the bathroom to her bedroom and began to dress. Though not wanting to wear panties, she did anyway... selecting a pink thong from her much envied collection of Victoria's Secrets. She put on her particularly flattering denim skirt; it fit tight through the hips then draped with a decided Western flare. She didn't wear a bra, just a tight pink bare-midriff top with spaghetti shoulder straps. Perhaps the thong was a little too daring with the skirt but she didn't care today; anyone who saw her buns would be blinded by their searing naked beauty anyways. Slipping into her favorite closed-toe sandals, she was locked and loaded.
Ginny didn't shop for high fashion so much as stalk it. Approaching the environs of her most productive hunting ground, she caught the scent of fresh leather in the air... leather stylishly tooled by swarthy Italians exuding garlic and testosterone. Following her nose she padded up to a new place named "Chez Shue."
Gin entered the boutique and politely inquired if Manolo Blahnik had a low, wedge-heel casual mule. Looking her up, then looking her down and deciding here was a fair target for his personal blend of venom the clerk responded that Manolo Blahnik was a House of Design, not a piano bar. "Signore Manolo" didn't take personal requests -- One buys the styles he creates, not the styles one wants. He suggested Wal*Mart might have what she needed, probably for less than ten bucks.
Gin's smile bared gleaming teeth... she savored prey that offered sport before it was brought down. Casting about with an acute feline eye, she spotted a low Blahnik ballerina slipper that struck her fancy. The clerk, sensing opportunity to snub her further, had turned his back and scurried off on the pretense of helping another customer. Ginny calmly followed his sinuous track, licking her lips in anticipation. Now sensing a fatal miscalculation of her aggression, the clerk scampered from customer to customer to avoid the pounce, but in seeking a receptive audience his fawning inquiries merely urked everyone. He eventually found himself cornered by Gin, who fixed him with hungry brown eyes and inquired about the slipper. With the irritating hauteur of someone barely living above poverty who thinks serving the nobility makes one their superior, he responded something along the lines of "Sorry missy, we don't have your size."
At that moment if Gin had been a samurai and the clerk a cheeky peasant, her long sword would have sung from the scabbard tucked at her waist and swiped through his body -- entering on the right side were neck meets shoulder and exiting on the left below the armpit -- in a fluid motion barely perceived before death. But being a New Yorker, she performed essentially the same act with a few choice words. She then called the store manager on deck and harranged her like Lord Nelson dressing down a junior officer he found especially repellent, punctuating each point with a fist pounding the counter like a broadside. She concluded with a tirade to the effect that the "Illuminati" lay awake nights quaking at the international machinations of her powerful father and his cronies. The clerk, emasculated by Gin's devastating tongue, fled to the back for a good cry. On returning, red-eyed and docile, he bore the shoes she requested in the size she specified along with the offer of an additional 10% "employee" discount. Just to pull his chain Ginny feigned a change of mind, running him through several other styles, in a wide assortment of color and size, before returning to her original choice.
Whistling "The Battle Hymn of the Republic", Ginny swaggered from the store with her prey, intend on concluding the fine hunt with a refreshing Frappuccino. In her wake the clerk was busy matching a jumbled mountain of empty boxes to the associated mound of rejected shoes.
This time was no different.
It was the summer after her second year at Cornell law. A week or more ago Gin had bought a new gingham frock and sorely needed a cute pair of mules to go with it -- As usual nothing in her closet, even the shoes she had in mind when she bought the dress, would do at all. Craving a kill to sate her mounting appetite Gin began the pre-hunt ritual that tunes mind and body for the task at hand.
Like a lioness sniffing the air for scent of game afoot, Ginny first called her particular friend... the blond one... to elicit hints of prey in her territory. After enumerating a half-dozen brand-new totally-disgusting sounds and emissions her boyfriend had released in the past 24 hours, Gin surreptitiously pumped her friend for information and learned there were several fresh opportunities involving unadvertised discount sales to the west of her lair. Clutching this intelligence coup to her bosom, Gin continued the conversation only as long as was politely decent and hung-up quick as she could. She was more excited than the American naval cryptographers when they figured the Japs where headed for Midway. Now it was bath time.
Gin's apartment is only somewhat larger than her bathtub. In fact her tub is a veritable Mediterranean Sea of a bath, with gentle tides of crystalline water lapping picturesque shores. Water tumbles... no, Ejaculates... from two impressively curvaceous faucets situated about where Libya would be. These faucets -- shining a golden hue except where encrusted with some green stuff that really should be cleaned off -- spew twin cascades that arc gracefully o'er this yawning sea to splash somewheres east of Sicily. She launches into these waters from the Gibraltar end -- Truly the only things missing are Greek tankers and nude French persons.
Ginny doesn't just "take a bath" here. She offers her lithe, naked body to the gods upon this aquatic altar and the gods, gawking the whole time, gratefully accept. Also in the process she gets clean. It's really something to witness.
Gin drifted in these serene Mediterranean-esque waters for several extra minutes as stress and tension oozed from her body before emerging, a Venus, to towel her bronze skin and chestnut hair into beaming vitality. Stopping to pluck copious lint from her belly button, Ginny then completed the myriad tasks typical of a woman preening in the bathroom. Cheerful as a lark, she did "The Hustle" to some 70's tune on the radio all the way from the bathroom to her bedroom and began to dress. Though not wanting to wear panties, she did anyway... selecting a pink thong from her much envied collection of Victoria's Secrets. She put on her particularly flattering denim skirt; it fit tight through the hips then draped with a decided Western flare. She didn't wear a bra, just a tight pink bare-midriff top with spaghetti shoulder straps. Perhaps the thong was a little too daring with the skirt but she didn't care today; anyone who saw her buns would be blinded by their searing naked beauty anyways. Slipping into her favorite closed-toe sandals, she was locked and loaded.
Ginny didn't shop for high fashion so much as stalk it. Approaching the environs of her most productive hunting ground, she caught the scent of fresh leather in the air... leather stylishly tooled by swarthy Italians exuding garlic and testosterone. Following her nose she padded up to a new place named "Chez Shue."
Gin entered the boutique and politely inquired if Manolo Blahnik had a low, wedge-heel casual mule. Looking her up, then looking her down and deciding here was a fair target for his personal blend of venom the clerk responded that Manolo Blahnik was a House of Design, not a piano bar. "Signore Manolo" didn't take personal requests -- One buys the styles he creates, not the styles one wants. He suggested Wal*Mart might have what she needed, probably for less than ten bucks.
Gin's smile bared gleaming teeth... she savored prey that offered sport before it was brought down. Casting about with an acute feline eye, she spotted a low Blahnik ballerina slipper that struck her fancy. The clerk, sensing opportunity to snub her further, had turned his back and scurried off on the pretense of helping another customer. Ginny calmly followed his sinuous track, licking her lips in anticipation. Now sensing a fatal miscalculation of her aggression, the clerk scampered from customer to customer to avoid the pounce, but in seeking a receptive audience his fawning inquiries merely urked everyone. He eventually found himself cornered by Gin, who fixed him with hungry brown eyes and inquired about the slipper. With the irritating hauteur of someone barely living above poverty who thinks serving the nobility makes one their superior, he responded something along the lines of "Sorry missy, we don't have your size."
At that moment if Gin had been a samurai and the clerk a cheeky peasant, her long sword would have sung from the scabbard tucked at her waist and swiped through his body -- entering on the right side were neck meets shoulder and exiting on the left below the armpit -- in a fluid motion barely perceived before death. But being a New Yorker, she performed essentially the same act with a few choice words. She then called the store manager on deck and harranged her like Lord Nelson dressing down a junior officer he found especially repellent, punctuating each point with a fist pounding the counter like a broadside. She concluded with a tirade to the effect that the "Illuminati" lay awake nights quaking at the international machinations of her powerful father and his cronies. The clerk, emasculated by Gin's devastating tongue, fled to the back for a good cry. On returning, red-eyed and docile, he bore the shoes she requested in the size she specified along with the offer of an additional 10% "employee" discount. Just to pull his chain Ginny feigned a change of mind, running him through several other styles, in a wide assortment of color and size, before returning to her original choice.
Whistling "The Battle Hymn of the Republic", Ginny swaggered from the store with her prey, intend on concluding the fine hunt with a refreshing Frappuccino. In her wake the clerk was busy matching a jumbled mountain of empty boxes to the associated mound of rejected shoes.
To Be Continued
