I don't know if you are going to find this story sexy. I have read a lot of the stories on this site, and I notice that most of them are about fantasy women - hot blondes/redheads with DD breasts and great bodies who, in that great throwaway phrase that conceals so much effort, keep themselves in 'great shape'. Most women are not like that. Most of us are not happy with how we look. Most of us are unsatisfied. Most of us are never going to be the fantasy women that most men dream about - and, guys, we know you know it.
I am no exception. If I look at the pictures of me when I was a little girl, I was cute the way all little girls are cute. But as I grew older, and other girls got more attention, I began to realise that I am not the kind of woman that men dream about. When I was old enough to start sleeping with boys, it was an unusually long time before I managed to get one to sleep with me. And when he did, he had his eyes shut. Most of the men who sleep with me keep their eyes shut. And next morning, they don't look at me.
What do I look like? I have brown hair and grey eyes. I don't like my face. My nose is too long, a blade down the middle of my face. I am not an incredibly fun-loving, outgoing person and you can see it in my mouth, which is wide and has narrow lips and which turns down at the corners. My jaw is kind of square. I once had my hair cut short when I was a teenager and I was repeatedly mistaken for a boy - I didn't make that mistake again, and now my hair goes down to my shoulders. I am short-sighted and have to wear glasses. My eyes are small, narrow, and dark, with bags underneath them, part of my ever-so-lucky genetic inheritance. I hardly ever wear makeup because of my job, which I'll get to in a minute.
The rest of my body doesn't make very happy. I have never been, as they say, a Big Girl. My breasts are 32AA. Okay, I am flat-chested, may as well say it out loud. I've been called it so often that I now say it myself, so no other bastard can hurt me by getting it in there first. I barely need to wear a bra unless I want people to see my nipples, which most of the time I don't. I wear layers instead. My legs, on the other hand, are as strong as hell, because my only hobby is cycling. My hips are narrow and my bum is square and hard, like a bloke's. Well, like some blokes. Most of the blokes who have slept with me do not have square, hard bums but flabby ones. I don't seem to attract really good-looking guys.
I realised early on that one of the ways to console yourself for looking like me was to eat, and briefly when I was twenty I had a serious problem with overeating. First, my weight got out of control, then I became bulimic and threw up most of what I ate, and the fat melted off me once more. It has pretty much stayed off since then; I don't seem to be able to be one of those girls with a plain face but a great body. I am skinny.
I managed to defeat my bulimia by learning how to cook, first by teaching myself and then by going to cookery school. Being a cook gives me control over the one thing in my life that gives me any real pleasure - food. (Well, I have control over my cat as well, but only up to a point.) I am a good cook, though I say so myself. I make great demi-glace, I can whip up a bearnaise sauce in a matter of minutes without having to do it over a pan of water, I do not get flustered, I do not forget things, I know how to chew the ear off a commis-chef when the mirepoix isn't diced to the correct size, I can cook you a perfect steak every time, even if you're one of those weirdos who likes it well done - I can even bake, which is a specialised skill that a lot of my peers find scary and arcane. I am the kind of cook that chefs like on their team; I am one of the boys, even though I am a girl. I can also handle the alcohol and drug abuse that tends to go with being a hard-working restaurant cook. I like a drink and a smoke once in a while. But basically, I am known for being very, very good, very disciplined and very reliable. And a fucking hard-assed grill bitch who takes no shit from anyone.
A couple of years ago I was headhunted by one of my former bosses and recruited to a top-flight catering company, one that specialises in cooking for VIPs and celebrities and rock stars who want to give elaborate private parties. I like it, although it's not as exciting as cooking in a really good restaurant on a busy night, when your whites end up soaked in sweat and you come away with a few extra burns on your already scarred and blistered hands, and you end up getting drunk with the other guys, exhausted but triumphant, and maybe even having a quick sympathy fuck...okay, okay, that last bit doesn't happen very often, but it does happen (occasionally). The catering gig is relatively low-pressure. Most of the pressure is about making sure that everything is what the client wants, which does not necessarily mean that it's what the client asked for. Most clients do not know what they want.
I was about to meet a client who knew exactly what he wanted.
Okay, so you must be wondering when I'm going to cut all this boring shit about my job and get to the sex part. Because, believe it or not, there is a sex part. Yeah, I'm as surprised as you. The story about the big-nosed, red-faced, no-makeup girl with no tits and a square ass does include a sex part. Am I selling you on the whole idea? I wonder. Because right now I am living a very different life than I was living just four weeks ago. And it has to do with the sex part. It has everything to do with it. The story I have to tell is intimate, very sexual and - for me, at any rate - very, very personally embarrassing. But that's part of why I not only have to tell it, but want to tell it.
It all began when we were told that a very famous and very well-travelled and very rich rock band was going on tour, and they had very specific dietary requirements. They wanted their own personal caterer to travel with them. They were coming to see us, and the singer - who was recognised as pretty much the leader of the band - would choose one of us for the job. We will call the singer Don, which is not his real name, and I wouldn't want you to think that it's Don Henley, for whom in any case I would've refused the gig because I've never been able to stand the Eagles.
So we were all more or less excited, me somewhat less so as I am not an easy person to impress. It wasn't a band I was a huge fan of, in any case, but some of the guys in the company would have killed to be the personal caterer for Don and the boys. Not me. I was interested in going tour with a band just to see what it was like, but I'd be bringing my iPod with the best of my CD collection installed.
The great day arrived, and we lined up in our clean whites to await the inspection of the mighty Don. I have to say, there is something about certain very famous people that is different from the rest of us. When Don entered the room, he just was the most important person there, full stop. He had charisma, I had to admit. And he didn't look so bad, although he said goodbye to fifty some time ago. He was very tall, had a lot of hair, was wearing something that involved really expensive-looking jeans and a scarf and shades that looked like they would have cost me a month's salary, and he had a smile for everyone.
He chatted to all of us. I know now that he is a superb actor, because...well, you'll see. At the time, anyone could have been forgiven for thinking that he was seriously interested in meeting every candidate.
When he got to me he turned that famous grin on me and removed his shades.
'Well, hello,' he said, and I thought, What a sleaze. I looked up at him impassively.
'I'm Don,' he added, as if to explain. His accent was up in the stratosphere somewhere, en route from South London to Beverly Hills.
'I know,' I said. 'I'm Deirdre.'
'I dunno how to pronounce that,' he said, the grin widening as if he were genuinely amused.
'Most people call me Dee,' I said, and then felt like an idiot for making it easier for him. I am not impressed by someone pretending to find me cute, when in reality he just wants to move on to the better-looking women in the room, my colleagues Carrie, Jen and Paula, who were and are all sexier than me.
'Then I will too,' he said amiably. 'So Dee. How would you make sauce gribiche for someone with a cholesterol problem?'
'Same as always,' I said, recognising the trick question. 'The cholesterol in hard-boiled eggs isn't the bad kind. Use extra virgin olive oil and it's fine.'
'Very good,' he said, nodding. 'Can you bake?'
'Yeah,' I said.
'Cakes?' he added with one raised eyebrow and the hint of a dark twinkle. I don't know why, but I felt myself blushing, and the fact that I was doing so made me so annnoyed that I blushed harder.
'Yeah,' I said. 'Though it's tricky if you have a cholesterol problem.'
'I don't,' he said. 'My keyboard player does. So we won't give him any, will we?'
I felt myself shaking my head no. He laughed.
'Brilliant,' he said, 'you're hired.' He turned to my boss and said 'She's perfect.'
I was stunned. Not as stunned as some of the others, who'd been kissing his arse from the minute he entered the room. Some of them were looking at me with something like hatred, but fuck it, they'd get over it. I felt a bit dazed as Don's assistant began to hand me tour itineraries, diet sheets, contact numbers and lots of other essential information.
Two hours later I was in my street clothes in the back of a car, being driven to the airport. I'd packed my cat off to my mum's, dumped a bunch of clothes in a suitcase, grabbed Saulnier's 'Repertoire de la Cuisine' off the bookshelf and crammed it into my jacket pocket, and now I was wondering what this new life as a rock band's caterer was going to be like.
When you are as famous as this band, you don't travel on public transport. I was not surprised to find that they had their own jet. I was pleasantly surprised to find that it had a galley which, although cramped, was well equipped and sensibly stocked. I was shown to my own cabin, which was about the size of my closet at home and which consisted of a bed and a tiny ensuite shower cubicle.
And for the next couple of days, I learned the ropes. I personally spoke to each venue we went to and each hotel that we stayed in, and ensured that the proper food and drink was available for the band and their entourage. I whipped up snacks and light meals on demand, making the best of the electric hob and narrow oven. I was up each morning at six to prepare breakfast, and I went to bed each night after one, only when the whole band had finally dropped off. I thanked my stars that they were all so old, and liked early nights. Their manager told me that back in the 70s, they were able to go for days on end without sleep.
And the rest of the time, I trudged along in their wake, anonymous in my scuffed leather jacket and jeans, my Access All Areas card hanging round my neck, the least cool and least conspicuous member of the whole team. A constantly changing gaggle of girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, potential girlfriends and plain old groupies swarmed around the glamorously damaged band members. All of them could have and probably had modelled for Playboy, nearly all of them were blonde, half of them were younger than me (I am 28) and they had all had boob jobs. Only Don seemed not to have a female partner of some sort or other. They fluttered up to him all the time, and he would flash that grin and nuzzle them a bit, but he seemed to be able to make them go away without offending them. Sometimes he would catch my eye from across the room, while some catwalk model was trying it on, and he would flash this hugely amused twinkle at me, as if to say 'Ridiculous, innit?'
Okay, well, we are approaching the sex part, and I am now officially embarrassed.
It was on the fifth day of the tour, after the LA concert. We had been driving from the hotel to the airport for an overnight flight to Tokyo when I had suddenly received a cellphone call from Don. 'I fancy some cake, Dee, love,' he'd said lazily. 'A nice big Victoria sponge with jam and cream. In fact, make three in case the other lads get peckish in the morning. That's not a problem, is it?'
This was my first taste of a rock star's whims. I was going to be up for at least another three hours making the damn cake. 'Not a problem,' I'd said through clenched teeth. He'd rung off without thanking me.
We'd boarded the plane and taken off, and as soon as we'd climbed high enough to take off the seatbelts, I'd gone to the galley to change into my whites and get baking.
Something must have been wrong with the heating in the galley, because it was sweltering in there. Just taking out all the ingredients for three Victoria sponges had me dripping with sweat. I cursed, and nipped down the corridor to my cabin.
I took off my whites and stripped down to just my panties, then put the whites on over them. I slipped my feet into a pair of sandals. Normally I wear sturdy shoes while cooking because you don't want to drop hot fat on your bare feet, but baking a few cake was a low-risk job, even for someone as knackered as me. I went back to the galley.
It was boring and physical work, creaming the butter and sugar, blending it with the flour and eggs, and whipping the cream. But within forty minutes, I'd got a decent batter together and the oven was at the right temperature. I wiped my forehead, took off my steamed-up glasses and wiped them on a clean cloth. I glimpsed my reflection in the darkened window, looking out into the night sky over the Pacific - my face was shiny and I knew it was red.
Then the door slid open, Don eased himself into the room and slid the door shut behind him. He turned his charm on me.
