Sex Slavery

So, I'm off to the London Comedy Writer's Festival for the weekend tomorrow.  For some reason, my mother has it in her head that because I'll be alone I'm going to get kidnapped off the street and sold into sex slavery.  Blimey.  I couldn't even pull a rotten tooth out of the abscessed jaw of a long dead Jackal so I doubt any prospective pimp would eye me up and think I'd be worth the investment of time, criminality, and financial return.  Well, not unless it was for some sort of specialist market I guess.

I was discussing this with my cousin and she agreed that neither of us was up to the ol' enforced prostitution thing.  I ruefully reflected on the hurt I would feel when my imagined punter walked into the room I was being held in and (in my head) I saw him recoil in horror at the sight of my naked body and tatty looking growler.  My cousin likened her own muff  to a barnacle covered figurehead from the prow of a ship.  Y'know, all seaweedy and frightening. We both sort of sat in silence on either end of the phone at this point, nodding to ourselves in understanding and unity.  It's a bloody shame for us.  I became lost in thought and heard the argument with the kidnapper/pimp who would be refusing to give a refund to the horrified punter who would in turn be saying that he wasn't paying good money to have a go on THAT old box and in the end my abductor would kindly tell me he was going to take me back to where he found me as I wasn't earning my keep and he was making a hefty loss on me.  Serves the evil bastard right for picking a victim after an afternoon snorting Charlie if you ask me.  He won't make THAT mistake again!

So yeah, I've probably over-shared.  Collectively, my cousin and I would like to stress that our clunges (?) Clungi (?) Clunga (?), our LADY GARDENS are well tended, fragrant and lovely and if anyone wants to have sex with either of us they would NEVER recoil in horror, no siree (cough) and our inability to pull is down to us being so perfect we seem unobtainable to men.  Erm, it's not because we're repulsive Harpies who've gone weird over time.  Ok, so my cousin did recently punch a baked potato which caused her to lose a fair amount of skin off her hand but y'know, these things happen!  I accidentally burned all the skin off one of my breasts by boiling my pants in a large bowl which I'd placed on a wobbly surface so these things can happen all so easily.  Oh,  and it's not because we exude 'fuck off' vibes whenever we meet people either.  OK, so I kinda DO give off 'fuck off' vibes accidentally quite often but not all the time.  Hell, I should probably stop here.  I'm going to London tomorrow and my Mother thinks I'm going to be preyed on by weirdos.  We'll leave it at that.  I'm not the weirdo.