| The Siren: Channeling Marilyn Monroe in a Kate Moss World |
| by Lisa Wines |
Channeling Marilyn Monroe in a Kate Moss World(Continued from Page 1)Betty Boop had a butt. These days, across America, from Los Angeles to New York and all the way down into the fragrant kudzu-hung Gulf Shores of Alabama, women young and old starve themselves towards an impossible zero-sized goal. And for what? Do men really want us to die of skinniness? Or is it the media who plant a poison pill, making all of us wish we could look just like the Olsen twins? But me I have escaped to Paris. The city of light. The city of love. And the city of food, of real food, and of real women. A city where I can proudly declare that one, just one of my thighs, is the size of one, just one of the Olsen twins. And this delectable, snowy-white thigh of mine is warm, and soft and cushy, and waiting to support any man who has a taste for a real woman, instead of, well, a bony little boy. Ah, Paris, where we eat real food. You will never catch me picking listlessly at a sprout salad, with dressing on the side, no-carbs-if-you-please. No, soon after my real man orders a ruby-red Chateauneuf-du-Pape, I’ll be digging into a succulent filet mignon, doused in sauce béarnaise, and accompanied by creamy pommes boulangère. My crusty baguette will soak up the last of the beefy juices, until my plate shines. With a dainty lick of my fingers in my now ruby-red pouty lips, I’ll close my long-lashed eyes with sheer pleasure at the taste of mousse au chocolat blanc and a tiny, decadent, delicious dollop of, dare I say, crème fraîche. The Atkins dieters among us just passed out from the thought of it all. May they not hit their heads on the icy sidewalk like their unfortunately deceased Diet Demi-God, but instead receive enough of a concussion to knock some sense into them. Life is about pleasure, darling. Life is rich, and golden, and luscious. My real man watched me, with the barest of deliciously painful patience, while I derived deep satisfaction from every sip, from every lick, from every bite. I drove him wild in the plushest of back seats, as our driver whisked us off to the Opera. 'No, no! Not yet, my darling. You must wait. You know how good it is when you wait.' And then, after the opera, we ascend to my real man’s Paris aerie, where we sip Champagne and eat chocolate-covered strawberries, watching the sun rise over Sacré Coeur. I’m too much of a lady, too discreet, to reveal the details of what happened next, but let me just say that under the sacred, ancient shadow of the tallest hillock, the commanding spire of Montmartre’s fabled church, I leaned in closely to whisper in my real man’s ear, “So, where shall we go for lunch?” All this, you too can have, if you would only just pack on a few more carbs. |
