Page 32 of Pelvic Flaws

“I mean it, Katie. This is your first date since your divorce, because you can’t count pickled egg man, and I’m so pleased for you. You actually like Dex and it doesn’t matter whether he sees them or not, they’ll make you feel sexy and he’ll see that and he’ll bloody well love it. Plus, I told you he was totally looking at your tits earlier.”

We both started to laugh and then I pulled her in for a hug.

“Thank you, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d be bored shitless,” Mandy replied. “Now, go and put the damn underwear on.”

Ten minutes later, I was standing in front of Mandy in a white lace bra and thong. I actually did feel sexy in the underwear, just like Mandy said I would. They weren’t those ridiculously small knickers that rested just under your belly. These were high and covered up the roundness and the stretch marks.

“The bra fits well, actually,” Mandy said.

As I adjusted the lace up the crack of my bum, she grimaced and scratched her head.

“What?” I asked.

“You do know it’s not 1986, don’t you?”

“Yeah, why?”

What the hell was she getting at? I had no idea.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“That!” Mandy cried with a disgusted tone, pointing in the region of my vagina.

“My fanny?”

“Is that what it is? I thought it was the bloody Black Forest. Bushy is not fashionable anymore, Katie.”

I looked down and shrugged. “You’re not bare down their either. I’ve got pubes, so what.”

“But no one wants to see them,” Mandy said, a little curtly, I should point out.

“And no one will.” I stared at her wide-eyed. “I told you, it’s a first date and probably the only date I’ll have with him, because you know I’m going to cock it up somehow.”

Mandy groaned. “Oh shut up, no you won’t. Well, not unless you show him that growler.”

“Mandy! Please don’t call my fanny a growler.”

“But it is,” she replied with a frown. “It looks like a shaggy dog. In fact, you remember Gnasher, Dennis the Menace’s dog, well it looks like that.”

I turned to the mirror and looked at my reflection. Okay, so there were a few strays poking out at the sides of the white lace, but it wasn’t that bad.

“When was the last time you had it waxed?” Mandy asked.

“Ooh no,” I cried. “I’ve never waxed down there. I had my legs done once and was asked not to go back because I screamed so much and slapped the girl across the head. What?” I said as Mandy gasped. “It was a natural reaction.”

“It’s not that,” she replied. “It’s the fact that you’ve never had it waxed. Oh my God, how are we even friends? I can’t be friends with a woman who has her frizz on show on the beach.”

“Don’t be so ridiculous. I shave it when I go on holiday.”

“You go on holiday with a stubbly bush. Shit, I’m booking you into the salon tomorrow.”

“To get it waxed?”

“No, to give it a perm and a colour – of course to get it waxed, you idiot.”

I shook my head and wagged a finger at her. “Nope. Don’t you dare. I’m happy with shaving and hair removal cream, thank you.”

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