Sunny
The private lift door slides away, framing a silken apparition.
Obviously wearing nothing underneath, her erect nipples punctuating my journey over silk, to her succulent lips, with a shock of short cropped. absolutely white hair.
Biting her bottom lip, with a melting glance, before erupting into an avalanche of effusive introductions.
Taking my hand, as we bumped, one to another, pinballed to the penthouse terrace
overlooking the Thames.
It was drinks!
I had meet Sunny before, so the low-key nature of drinks for over a hundred people, was to be expected!
Sunny, a handsome, middle aged, British women, with pleading eyes, had lived in South Africa, for most of her mature life.
Steaming through four marriages to a series of wealthy, South African industrialists, accumulating personal wealth like moss on a rock.
The current husband, a wealthy manufacturer of Bendy Toys.
Our initial introduction was when the husband drove in his gold Rolls Royce some mutual friends and I to his weekender just out of London.
As the conversations evolved, it became clear he was an arrogant, pretentious prick.
A born manipulator.
Gossip, having it that he took the patent for Bendy Toys from the inventor, leaving the inventor penniless, while going on to develop an internationally successful business.
He was worth a mint!
It took only one car trip, listening, the judgements flowed.
Yes judging, condemning.
I know! I know!
As the Rolls crackled up the marble chip drive, sliding to a stop at the front door of the 16-bedroom weekender.
The Doric columns like sentinels either side, framed the door, as it swung open, to announce the vision, the radiance, that is Sunny.
The radiance wrapping around me, warm, in a mist of perfume, stamping red lip seals, as we each unfolded from the Rolls.
Sweeping us into a white-on-white interior of opulent simplicity, right down to the B&O stereo.
The co-ordinated hostess wore, of course, all white, skintight slacks, defining every undulation, every curve.
Tanned to perfection, a rippling cleavage, constrained within the gossamer thin,loose, chiffon white top.
Wafting perfumed currents, trail blazed us into the gathered multitudes, pulling me deeper into her world.
Sunny flowed through to the garden terrace, beautifully green, in a cool designer contrast.
Greeted with drinks served by the help, the Bush Babies, were on display.
The convict colonials, captivated, intrigued, dazzled, were drawn into the chasm of extreme wealth.
Empty and bottomless, but for the glow of Sunny.
Leading the initiates by the hand, my green T shirt, almost part of the colour scheme with a melting white gelato, running down the cone at the front.
Sunny’s head turned, looking over her shoulder, nailing me with her green eyes.
Ran her tongue, in a slow, sensuous slide around her red lips.
Saying nothing, she did not have to, I was gone!
The perfume permeating my skin, into my very being, a total intoxication.
Only on the drive back, did the haze lift, but not the ache of the hangover.
In silence, replaying my own mind games, conversations.
How?
How can she?
BE!
With this prick!
Just for money?
At what cost?
I gleamed, a sadness in her eyes, with momentary flashes of a deep insecurity, in between intolerable silences, before convulsing words kick started again, in the usual frenetic exuberance, about everything or nothing in particular.
Fencing with the devils!
Sunny’s sadness visibly deepened, her eyes furtively glancing everywhere, her smile, with a radiant half-life, sadly, fading.
Then the London invitation.
Like a reluctant puppy, I went to drinks.
The private lift door opening, to the apparition of Sunny, illuminating her world, the London penthouse, overlooking the Thames.
Weaving through the flotsam and jetsam on the terrace, swimming against the rip, finally giving up, in fatigue, in frustration, escaping into the lift, taken, spat out into the street.
I walked alone, in the depths of this emptiness, the emptiness, of affluence, of privilege.
Even the morbid, muddy Thames, dancing in delight with reflected lights.
There is a beauty in all things!
Reflective, musing on the abuse of wealth and privilege through association.
Populated by shallow, untalented people, who are obviously successful.
Reflective of my own, sarcastic, judgemental, hypocrisy!