Beaver Power!

I had the MOST FABULOUS birthday celebration, ever!

I decided since I never meet men who take me to the races I would treat myself and my friends to a special day out and booked a day at the Epsom Derby.

We arrived early-ish with a monster picnic which we shared around enjoying the sunshine, and then I placed my first bet.

In the paper that week (in a section I never usually read) I had spotted a horse called "Sienna Storm" and put a fiver on him- the tickt nearly had me faint with the astronomical odds as Sienna appeared to be the total outsider.
Needless to say, the old mare lost, but hey, I had better luck with some of the others- BEAVER PATROL made me shriek with delight when I won around 40 quid!

Power to the beavers I say!

Wandering around the outside of the track sans shoes clutching a glass of bubbly, I encountered a group of guys all sporting the same tie- one of them around his head, City Rambo style.
He beckoned me over and I half expected the immortal line: "hey, if I can make you come with one finger, imagine what I could do with the rest of my body...!?" but thank fuck this line never came.

Instead we had a brief chat which climaxed in one of them poking my upper arm and the others complimenting my hat and eyes whilst they sipped DP 1988 straight from the bottle.

Dope boy's long-lost brother turned up wearing a "shirt like a deck chair", flatmate had to leave in time for a ball that evening, Canada boy only made the last 2 races and my Spanish friend arrived at 3pm after she'd been the one adamant to meet at Waterloo for 10am!
LOL!

It was the hottest day of the year and some of my friends developed odd patches of red divided up by bag and bra strap-sized strips of white, whilst all that alcohol went straight to my head and the strawberries and cream went straight to my thighs.

I had packed a frozen cake which kept the contents of the picnic box nice and cool until we ate it. The cake, not the box!

Suddenly the races were over, the sun still beating down and I discovered I'd have to hurry up to make my own dinner reservation, so I asked the identikit-tie-boys for a lift into town on their hospitality double decker bus.
They agreed and Spanish girl, Canada boy and Friend B (Dance's snogging partner from Friend A's birthday) piled on.

Within minutes, I was flirting with an extremely gorgeous guy from Barbados, drinking wine and soaking up the sunshine on the top deck surrounded by 200 totally drunk men in identical ties, my hat flattering in the breeze.

Once in London, the atmosphere suddenly became more electric, and the guys started singing a totally silly song which instructed them to take off their ties, socks, shirts, trousers, and, you guessed it, eventually pants too!

So there we were, driving down King's Road with 4 totally naked boys at the front of the bus, streaking to the world (and in particualr patrons sitting outside the Bluebird restaurant), wobbling their willies at passersby.
Friend B averted her eyes in horror (she has only ever slept with one man, remember), Spanish girl shrieked in my ear and I kept howling: "Naked boys, naked boys" to a random tune, alerting the stares of Sunday evening strollers in Kensington. Loads of people took pictures, and I expected all of us to get arrested, but we didn't come across one police car and I suspect the bus driver was totally clueless about what was going on above his head.

One of the guys (the one with the soft lips and the girlfriend, who I'd kissed briefly at the races) had an absolutely microscopic cock but didn't seem to care. So much for the uninhibiting qualities of alcohol!

Eventually just as we reached Knightsbridge, the guys got dressed again but then one of them remembered me saying I would get naked if all of them stripped off (GROAN! famous last words!), so to the cheer of "Get your tits out for the lads!" I eventually succombed to flashing my nipples at them outside Harrods.
First the left one, then the right one, out the top of my cleavage. I mean, I wasn't exactly going to take my posh dress off, but under all that peer pressure I had to keep up some end of my bargain.

After all only around 5% of them had actually got naked, so I only revealed a small percentage of my body! Frigid Friend B nearly fell off the bus in shock.

It all got a bit much however and I was horrendously late for my own dinner, so Canada and I got the bus driver to stop and let us out in South Kensington, whilst the guys kept cheering: "Get your tits out, get your tits out..."
Just then, Dance boy rang to find out where I was. I tried to explaing, but he hung up, repulsed by the cheering crowd I suspected.

The other girls stayed on the bus, too drunk, tired or confused to hop off together, and Canada and I persuaded a random guy in a convertible Merc to take us and the picnic box to the nearest bus stop.

From there we finally got to the restaurant an hour late, greeted by the rest of my party who had had to kill an hour in each other's presence but didn't seem too bothered by our late arrival, thank God. Maybe they were feeling guilty they hadn't come to the derby, who knows!?

I opened my presents and cards, had a yummy lobster and stopped drinking for the moment. Dance had got me a great book and written a really sweet card, but somehow the spark wasn't quite there.

I danced with him at the club after dinner, he didn't buy me a drink again but danced with me like he wanted to ravish me, however it was all show.

Some of my male friends were confused by us, my neighbour had to endure a range of questions whether he was "my new fella". She didn't really know how to answer that, knowing about the Colonel, Dolphinboy and my feelings for Cashmere as well as the fact that despite meeting Dance in February we haven't had sex, but for the rest of the world we must have looked like a couple very much in love with a five-star sex life...

We all left at midnight, exhausted from the heat and the drinking and the long day (well we are all getting seriously old now), and apparently noone got laid despite Canada and Friend A taking off in the same direction.
No snog from Dance either, how strange...