Can Can

The plan was simple enough, another themed party, which we love doing, this time around Bastille Day. So, all things Gallic, including the bottles of Sancerre that had been ageing nicely in the cellar. The emails with the attached flier went out to the usual suspects, as we like to call our various friends and neighbours, a group built up over two decades of living in a relatively posh suburb on the edge of our city -- like-minded, some more open-minded than others, but all up for a bit of fun. No one was short of a bob either, so things like Sancerre, or dressing up in expensive fancy costumes ordered from the internet weren't an over the top extravagance.

The flier said come as your favourite French actor/performer/character and be prepared to do a little performance as that person, with a bottle of Sancerre for the best effort. I tried to work out which of our friends would come as Bridget Bardot. Would it be one of the single women, gorgeous Katrina or one of the Carolines, we have two as friends, which can be confusing at times. Or would it be one of the wives ... Andrea, Toni, Patricia or Sharon?

Maybe not Toni, then again maybe none. There were plenty of other gorgeous French women they might wish to emulate, all of which made for quite a nice fantasy. All the above women were beautiful and dressed, or even a little undressed, as Deneuve, well, enjoy the night and try not to be too obvious about perving on other blokes' wives as they were doing the same to your wife.

I decided to be Maurice Chevalier, got the hat and the cane, and started learning the words to Thank Heaven for Little Girls. I thought I could have a bit of fun with that, weaving my way among the ladies, maybe getting in a kiss or a squeeze. Andrea, my wife, and I began working on the catering. Baguette, bouillabaisse, beef burguignon.

I asked Andrea which actor or performer she had chosen, but she said she hadn't decided, which I thought a little strange since she's usually all over these things, going on-line to purchase a costume well in advance in case it needs some adjusting, as with the dress for our Greek night. The plunging Aphrodite neckline needed a small tuck to stop her breasts from falling out: "You wouldn't want all your mates to see my titties, would you," she had said.

"I am sure there would be no complaints, as long as I could see their wives' titties in return," I'd said at the time, quietly thinking that was never going to happen, though as it turned out there were quite a few who had, ahem, taken the plunge with Aphrodite type costumes that night. Titties didn't quite fall out, but there were ample bosoms on display, something which none of the men appeared to be too upset. Mind you, Jack in his toga, with no undies if you please, won the prize for the most revealing costume that night.

Jack was Toni's husband and a bit of a, well not quite a sleaze, but into all sorts of sexual double entendre. So, it didn't surprise anyone that he knew that the Greeks wore flimsier togas than the Romans and turned up accordingly. Of note though was that Toni was far more modestly dressed than Jack, or the rest of the other Aphrodites. I remember being a bit disappointed. Of all the girls, she has the most-ample of bosoms.

As our French night drew nearer, there was still no indication from Andrea about her costume choice, but there were some interesting phone conversations that ended quickly whenever I came by. I gathered some plotting was going on. All good fun. Jack told me he was coming as the Marquis de Sade, which didn't surprise, given his predilection for all things sexual.

Neville, Patricia's husband was trying to decide between Napoleon or Marcel Marceau while Allan, Sharon's husband, who's a bit overweight these days, was coming as Gerard Depardieu. But none of us blokes had any idea of what their wives were coming as, though, we learned over a few drinks at the pub, all of us had experienced the phone calls that suddenly ended when we came into the room. Around this time the girls were meeting for coffee a lot more often than usual. I knew something was happening, but what, well we all agreed, we'd have to wait and see.

French night arrived. We decorated the house in a few Gallic things, some flags, a little model of the Eiffel tower we had bought in Paris of a street vendor. I had a CD of French songs which I put on. After we'd got on top of the decorating and the cooking, Andrea and I went off to get into our costumes. She said she would change in the spare bedroom.

When she came out, she had her hair tied up in a bun, was wearing a sloppy-jo, lycra pants and sneakers and carrying a tote bag ... nothing that looked particularly Gallic at all. I was about to make a comment but thought better of it, let's wait and see. As the guests arrived, it was obvious a theme was emerging.

The Marquis de Sade, replete with wig and fancy jacket, was accompanied by Toni, her hair in a bun and wearing, yes, a sloppy-jo (which she filled amply), lycra pants and sneakers and carrying a tote bag. Ditto Patricia, Sharon, Katrina and the two Carolines much to the puzzlement of the men-folk, who maintained the pact of silence, even Jack, who could usually be relied upon to say something totally inappropriate. Something was happening.

Dinner was great. Well I should say that modestly, given it was mostly my cooking, but it was. And the Sancerre washed it down, as they say in all the restaurant reviews, nicely. Then we moved, along with a few more bottles of wine, out into the huge family room -- now sans family who were at University - where Andrea declared it was performance time, and the boys had to go first.

I sang along with the Maurice Chevalier CD I had obtained for the night, moving between the women. All went to plan, a great little excuse to give them a kiss or a bit of a squeeze. I particularly enjoyed it when my arm brushed against Toni's ample bosom in the process of giving her a kiss. Totally accidental, of course.

Aaah, a kiss, that allowed for an unscripted segue for Allan, who pulled a big plastic nose out of his pocket, put it on and then recited some lines from Cyrano de Bergerac about a kiss.

And what is a kiss, specifically? A pledge properly sealed, a promise seasoned to taste, a vow stamped with the immediacy of a lip, a rosy circle drawn around the verb 'to love.' A kiss is a message too intimate for the ear, infinity captured in the bee's brief visit to a flower, secular communication with an aftertaste of heaven, the pulse rising from the heart to utter its name on a lover's lip: 'Forever."

He then walked over to Sharon, his wife and gave her a big kiss. "Awwwwwwwww shucks: we all went and gave him a round of applause, then each of the other ladies demanded a kiss as well. That big plastic nose kept getting in the way, but he persevered, much to the delight of the ladies.

Neville put on a beret he had in his pocket, stood up and declared he had settled on Marcel Marceau ... and had nothing to say on the matter. He was booed back into his chair.

Then suddenly, all went quiet, it was Jack's turn. He had made no secret that he had come as the Marquis de Sade and that he was looking forward to giving everyone a bit of a spanking. He stepped into the middle of the floor and took a small whip from the inside pocket of his fancy coat. It was like the ones in Fifty Shade of Grey.

"It's called a Sir Flogger," he announced, "and Sir is ready to do a bit of flogging! Since it's a French evening, I am looking for a willing derriere or two, or three, female of course."

No one volunteered, a stern, if you will forgive the pun rebuttal, if you will forgive another one. Then Toni spoke: "We're all just a bit tired of your stupid antics Jack, the toga with all your bits showing, now wanting these women, not me though, I am sure if I had volunteered you wouldn't have approved, to show you their behinds so you can whip them, and all the time you're telling me I can't do this, and I can't wear that. You're the flog, no knighthood involved, sit down, you've lost, it's the girls turn."

At that Andrea let out a big whistle, then called out: "It's show time girls, to the spare room. Gentlemen, and in this instance, I will include you Jack, entertain yourselves before we return to entertain you."

With that, all the women grabbed their tote bags from where ever they had left them around the room and headed off down the hall. We "gentlemen" looked at each other. Jack was a crumpled figure sitting in his chair, unaware that his crumpledness was going to get even worse in the next little while. None of us knew what to expect. Then Andrea re-emerged, still in her sloppy joe and lycra, put a CD into the player and grabbed the remote.

"No touching or looking," she said and then disappeared again.

We could hear lots of giggles from the spare room, then some rustling in the hall way before some music began to play ... a few discordant but vaguely familiar notes, and the ringing triangle, my mind taken off that as all the girls swooshed out into the middle of the floor, wearing tight red bustiers and big flowing skirts and high heels.

Busting out of her bustier more than everyone else was Toni. Jack's eyes nearly popped out of his head and he made to get up and speak but before he could Toni shouted: "Stay right where you are and say nothing. You had your stupid moment with the toga, now it's my turn."

With that the music became even more familiar, the rousing chorus of the Can Can and the girls were off, reeling around the room, lifting their skirts, swishing them around to reveal garters and stockings. Oooo la la, someone called out who definitely wasn't Jack, as his wife seemed to be lifting her skirt higher than the other girls, and in the direction of every other male in the room. There might have even been more than a little show of bush through some sort of see-through underwear.

The music headed towards its finale and with a grand gesture, the girls whipped off their skirts. There they all were in these tiny little bustiers, garters and stockings and the thinnest of G-strings. Yes, there had been bush with Tony, and there was bush everywhere, whole forests. The girls turned their back to us, wiggled their derrieres, and let out a loud scream of delight as the music finished. Wow, that was great, I thought. I noticed that apart from Jack, all the other blokes had a smile and we began too hoot and holler, just as another piece of music started. Burlesque, saxophone, slow and dirty.

Toni moved to the middle of the room, eyes fixed on Jack, as the other girls stood back. Andrea disappeared fleetingly, then reappeared with two large feather fans which she handed to Toni. The rest of the girls lined up on either side of Toni and waved their hands in her direction, to tell the audience she was now the main act.

She replaced one feather with another, covering her body, then revealing a little of it as she changed feathers. All the time, she was moving provocatively, staring at us blokes with a seductive look on her face. Then Andrea and Sharon stepped in from the side and held the feathers, while Toni turned her back on us. The next thing, her right hand shot up, and it was holding the bustier, which was then tossed away. Jack was paralysed, mortified, pick your description. Andrea and Sharon then gave her back the feathers and she turned to face the us, again fixing a steely look on Jack, and then a beautiful smile for the rest of us.

She began exchanging the feathers again, quickly at first, so if we saw her ample bosoms, it was only for the briefest of moments. But then she slowed things down, and there they were, and then they weren't, and there they were, and then they weren't, those ample, magnificent breasts about which I had often fantasised. Again, she turned her back to the audience, and put the feathers behind her back, which meant those ample, magnificent, gorgeous breasts were on display, just not to us.

At that moment, the rest of the girls lined up either side of her, their backs also facing us. They began removing their bustiers, then held them above their heads, gave them a twirl and threw them away.

Toni turned towards the audience, with the feathers hiding those ... I am running out of adjectives ... breasts. The girls all looked at each other, put their hands on their hips, and as Toni flung open the feather fans, they all turned around, and put their arms in the air. It was titties central. Blokes didn't know where to look, except Jack, who looked down, really down.

The girls all had tassels on their nipples, and proceeded to rotate them, all except Toni, whose breasts were totally bare and just hanging there. Then they all formed a little group in the middle of the floor as the music reached its end and bowed, jiggling their titties even more as they did.

Then it was exit stage right, into the spare room, where there was lots of giggling, tittering some might call it, before they all returned with their hair tied up in buns, wearing sloppy-jos, lycra pants, sneakers and carrying their tote bags.

"Did we win," said Andrea? What else could we say, though if a vote had been taken, Jack might have abstained.

He had got his comeuppance for his grotesque behaviour at the Greek night. Speaking of comeuppance, there was a fair amount of that once the party was over and Andrea and I headed for the bedroom.

"Did you like other men seeing my titties?" Andrea said. "Did it turn you on?" Since my own eyes had been fixed on Toni's, I had not thought that the other blokes might have been looking at Andrea's. It turned me on, I discovered, the idea of other blokes seeing my wife's titties.

A hand snaked under the covers. "I thought so," Andrea said. "If it gets you this hot and hard, I guess I am going to have to do it again. You should say thank you to Jack, Toni was so embarrassed and angry by his behaviour on Greek night, she wanted to get him back. She mentioned that to the girls when we were having coffee and it grew from there."

As did something else, which I then put to very good use.