Chapter 9: Bimbo Philosophy 101 — Sugar and Spice

Bimbos don’t angst.

The constant witty repartee, interspersed with Livia’s intensity and Mimi’s idiocy, built up a rhythm in my mind, a pulse that kept me constantly living in the moment, trying to stay two steps ahead of the conversation in my mind. Now it’s gone — Tempest and Audra have a backlog of tables before coming back, Livia and Mimi have left and I’m enjoying my sweet honeydew and cantaloupe balls with a quiet languor that begets introspection. Left alone in a void suddenly free of verbal fencing, my thoughts drift and Mimi’s words come back to me, letting me actually digest their meaning.

It’s ... honestly a pretty striking concept. Everyone has mood swings, down days, self-doubt and bouts of depression (the normal, not clinical, kind) — except, apparently, our resident hypnotic bimbo. She can just look in a mirror, say a trigger word and make that all go away to live in a pink fuzzy haze of transhuman idiocy. The cynical part of me wants to say that’s an addiction, a downward spiral, destructive escapism — but Mimi has a ton of hats to wear in the Trips, and she seems to be exceedingly competent and reliable at all of them. It can’t be called an illness if it does no harm, can it? Besides, how many people still think ‘pickup artist’ is just a suave euphemism for a predator? I struggle with that all the time — I’m hardly in a position to judge others’ fetishes or lifestyles.

I’m still slowly gaining understanding of the bimboification fetish as a concept, trying to feel out what it means, what it implies — and why it appeals. Livia’s got a glib line she uses to summarize it to girls who don’t get it, apparently. “A bimbo is like any other kind of submissive, except she trades in the whips, knots, blindfolds, dungeons and electrostim for Versace shoes, tight dresses, excessive amounts of glitter and addictions to cute animals and the color pink. Does that really seem like such a bad deal?”

It doesn’t, honestly. I can see the appeal there — the mental bondage of idiocy to press the submissive buttons, but all wrapped up in a bubblegum pink motif more naturally appealing to girls than the hard-industrial sex-dungeon aesthetic.

Being taken advantage of is apparently part of the whole bimbo fetish — it’s not as obvious with Mimi because she’s a lesbian and homosexuality is often so subtle and hidden, but the rare few other hypno-bimbos out there are apparently ... very easy to talk into sex by men, and enjoy that element of their kink both for the feelings of helplessness it causes and the fact that idiocy turns any would-be suitor into a charismatic dominant with a lot of power over her.

I know that sounds dangerous, O Nervous Reader, but it probably actually isn’t. I suspect it would have to work like any other kind of hypnotic command or imposed reality — if the subject stops being comfortable with whatever is happening, the trance breaks or the subject just mimes an action rather than actually doing it.

Mimi is apparently comfortable with a lot, however. She told me a story once about her visit to a sauna back in Surfer’s Paradise, during the time I was in training. She had made casual conversation with two other fit, short-haired thirty-something women — she didn’t say this, obviously, but I’m going to assume this was the other two women talking normally, and her throwing in her usual supply of inane comments to firmly establish her intelligence level to her new ‘friends’. Anyway, this trio ended their spa visit with a soak in the steam room — nude. The other two women apparently told Mimi that steambaths are great for losing weight and improving one’s figure — the more you sweat, apparently, the more weight you lose.

Mimi, of course, believed (and believes) this unquestioningly. She asked how to best achieve this, and one of the ladies told her that the formal ways are little exercises in the steam room — but there’s also an informal way, a kind of whispered sauna secret for a select clique of women that leads to far more rapid weight loss. I’m sure you can guess where this is going, right?

It’s apparently also etiquette, I heard, for the newest member of the sauna to patiently service all the others, in sequence, on her knees, before she gets any herself. So that’s exactly what Mimi did — she went down on two pretty, fit-bodied strangers voraciously, their bodies glistening with sauna-sweat, bringing them both to orgasm with her mouth and fingers before they double-teamed her to return the favor, all while operating on the belief that this was a weight loss technique.

Now, this would be horrifying in the abstract, but when Mimi told it as a story she spoke with the kind of soft eyes, awed tones and remembered arousal that one uses for a Best Sex Ever story — she was obviously over the moon about the whole experience. I have no idea if it actually happened naturally and for real, or if it was a hypnotic fantasy scenario Livia crafted for Mimi, or if Livia somehow set it up by suggesting it to the lesbian couple behind the scenes. I know Mimi enjoyed it profoundly, though, and I’ll admit that hearing her narrate the encounter with her high-pitched bimbo voice definitely made my jeans feel overly tight. It’s not Mimi’s only “taken for a ride in both senses” story, either.

Normally, I prefer smart women to dumb ones — though let me be honest, O Astute Reader: I’m a dog. If a bimbo has a great bod and is down to fuck, and it doesn’t seem to come from a place of low self-esteem or something else destructive ... sure, I’ll bang the hell out of her. Good times! But, if it wasn’t obvious, I’m a lot more intrigued by the brassy Tempest than the sweet daddy’s girl Audra — whereas Livia is the exact opposite.

From whence did the ideal of the bimbo come? The word, I will later learn, actually dates back to the 1920s and originally referred to tough men, then became unisex, then dropped out of popular use — it’s recently come back big time, though, as a pejorative for dumb, pretty women. But it’s not the etymology that matters — it’s the archetype. I guess there have always been superficial women who got by on their looks, and jokes about their intelligence go back almost as far.

Jayne Mansfield codified the sexy, dumb blonde stereotype in pop culture, I think, with her appearance in Debonair and her later film career in the fifties and sixties. Much like Audra and Mimi, it was a cultivated image for her which brought with it fame and prosperity. As the blonde ideal became popular, however, there was of course backlash. Back in the sixties, posing for Debonair was genuinely prestigious for women. Feminists loathed this, seeing it as exploitation and degradation, and seized on the bimbo caricature of centerfolds as a way to fight against the magazine’s cultural impact. This conflict is not yet settled, though the feminists have gained a lot of ground since the sixties.

Our society teaches men to adore and desire women, but it also teaches women to loathe and revile men. The bimbo rejects that. Bimbos love men. Bimbos love cock in exactly the same way men love pussy. Hollywood feminists created the modern, pejorative image of the bimbo as a caricature, a cautionary tale, a figure of everything women shouldn’t be — which should be held in contempt and is thus the acceptable target of jokes.

But it is the nature of acting for a good actress to empathize with her character, and the ones who played the most iconic bimbos gave to them a kind of warmth, sincerity and simplicity that somehow won the sympathy of audiences male and female in spite of the social engineers’ intended narrative. When you watch Night of the Comet for the first time, you care when Sam dies, in a way you just don’t in a typical slasher film — she’s adorable, and unless you’re a feminist you have to admit she adds value to the world. Even if you can’t admire them, you find you want to see girls like Chrissy Snow and Holly Golightly succeed and be happy — if only because their happiness permeates through to the world around them.

Bimbos thwart the complex, paradigm-shifting webs of social theory and euphemism-laden Newspeak feminists craft by being too dumb to understand them. Bimbos love sex, because they don’t stop to think about all the reasons women are taught to think about that sex is gross and demeaning. If it feels good — physically or psychologically — no more complexity than that is needed.

These days, anyone who picks up an issue of Cosmopolitan can read articles categorizing, analyzing and deconstructing dating and relationships. The modern woman is pushed to analyze these things, and arguably to over-analyze them. The submissive woman, in particular, gets to see every little gesture and touch that most excites her labeled as a ‘danger sign’ or ‘red flag’ to show that any right-thinking woman should reject such a man. Stress is a natural byproduct.

Measuring up to the interpersonal ideals set by Cosmopolitan can be as taxing and self-destructive as measuring up to the physical ideals set by Debonair. Once you work that out, it’s not so surprising that some women find sexual liberation in freedom from thought, from analysis and categorization and the relentless, subconscious, cynical deconstruction that tears down all romantic ideals in the name of advancing esoteric, out-of-touch academic theories like feminism, Marxism and post-modernism.

Despite the appeal, however, it’s honestly also a complex fetish to actually live. A bimbo is not just a stupid woman, and it’s not even a stupid woman that can be easily taken advantage of — the bimbo may get off on the power dynamics of being taken advantage of, but that’s not the real point. Nobody thinks of inbred, obese Bertha the stereotypical redneck from Nebraska whose greatest claim to fame is her tragic attempt to trim her pubic hair with a lawnmower as a bimbo — a moron, sure, but not a bimbo. There is a requisite glamour inherent in the word that is just not there.

The life of a bimbo is, by definition, not gritty. The bimbo never suffers for not thinking — at least, not in non-kinky ways. A bimbo is a woman who doesn’t have to think, who can get away with not thinking and not suffer any negative consequences. The archetypal bimbo is Daddy’s Little Princess, but there’s no Daddy here. Livia fills Mimi’s Mommy role, I guess, but they’re not into incest so they don’t say it that way. If a bimbo isn’t a kept woman, she has to be pretty and sexy (and shrewd) enough to actually live off the societal favor that results from that — Julie Brown’s satirical bimbo anthem is harder to pull off in real life than you might think.

Regardless of the language used, however, a bimbo needs a ... a minder, I guess, for the fantasy to work. It’s not just about being dumb; it’s about the subconscious feeling of security one gets from knowing one is allowed to be dumb, and that one doesn’t have to stress over a contrived plan to make next week’s paycheque cover both rent, bills and debt. Do that enough, cram for enough exams, and thinking itself becomes painful by negative association. The bimbo knows that as long as she’s a good girl, her roof and bills and shopping sprees will be taken care of. She’s pampered. It’s as inherent to the fantasy as being dumb. That’s appealing. It’s a kind of relaxation deep enough to soothe the fiercest neuroses.

I can understand that. Despite being from a rich family, I haven’t always been well-off — I’ve been the starving college student and even a couch surfer at times, after I offended my parents but before my first book hit it big. Bimboification doesn’t appeal to me, though. While I find dominant and sexually aggressive women sexy and enjoy occasional femdom-play, I’m not ultimately a submissive myself — I like wielding power more than I like being bound to it. It’s not just that, though.

A male bimbo is a meathead-jock; I know, as I’ve dealt with them. When you take the fantasy across gender lines, you get more implied violence, a world of thuggery and macho competition that simply doesn’t appeal to me. That, or you’re a sissy (really not my fetish) or “himbo” — a vindictive feminist joke at the expense of men everywhere, created by women horrified at the idea of bimbos and eager to retaliate against the perceived offense. Suffice it to say that himbos get none of the good treatment from any quarter of society that their female peers do.

The bimbo idealizes sex, and the hypno-bimbo does so very literally. To them, sex has no flaws; they’re all massaged away in a pink hypnotic haze of pleasure that by its categoric nature cannot be examined. The bimbo is a profound optimist possessed of an amped-up sex drive, unshakable confidence in her own ravishing beauty and a complete lack of inhibition in her own sexuality. I see that in Mimi, and I see the joy she takes in it, and it uplifts me — normally making me willing to put up with her more annoying behaviors in good candor even if, to men, she can only ever be a friend.

My contemplation of the bimbo nature is interrupted — I’m shocked out of deep reverie by the delicious duo as they set our bill on the table.

“Did your gal-pals ditch you?” Tempest asks, scorn and sympathy mixing in her voice.

“They had to leave early to take care of some preparations for our road trip,” I tell the girls. Both waitresses fail to fully cover expressions of delight at their absence. “They won’t be back, but I don’t have to join them right away.”

I’m at the centerpoint of a U-shaped booth. The two waitresses immediately sit down beside me, one on each side, in a manner I’m pretty sure was planned out and choreographed between them. I’m trapped, and I don’t mind one bit. I suspect they noticed Livia and Mimi were gone a while back, while I was thinking about Mimi, and hurried their other tables out of the way so they’d be free to come sit with me here.

Audra smiles at me. “That was a real great tip! Anyone ever told you that before?”

“Well,” I tell her with a sly smile, “not when referring to a payment.”

Tempest is skeptical. I feel her hand come to rest on my thigh, but it’s presence there doesn’t match her facial expression or tone of voice at all. “Why the sudden generosity?”

“Well,” I reply, “I’ve heard a rumor that if you leave a big tip for your waitress at a Remedial, she’ll sometimes give you a kiss in exchange. Since I already got the kiss — and since it was so nice — I figured I owed you the tip. Don’t worry, though — it’s just a tip. When I say ‘only the tip’, you can take me at my word.”

“You know,” Audra tells me, “we split the tips here, so we should probably split the earning of them as well.”

“It does seem only fair,” I agree.

Then she kisses me. It’s hot — she’s nervous, which is strange given that this is not her first rodeo; I get a thrill when I realize just how much she wants to play with me. Our tongues brush against each other, and she finally giggles and pulls away from me. She looks simultaneously adorable and naughty with her bubblegum pink lipstick smeared — and her nipples tenting her stretchy uniform top like crazy.

“You taste like bubblegum,” I tell her. “It’s nice.”

“You taste like raw sex,” she tells me back. “It’s nicer.”

Tempest clears her throat, interrupting our moment. She tucks the five twenties I tipped back into the breast pocket of my jacket on the coat-rack by our booth, along with the receipt. “Marcelo ... we’re not making this transactional, okay?”

“Yeah,” Audra says. “You need to learn we’re here for more than just the tip.”

I give her a slight smile. “You don’t say.”

Tempest is acting angry, but there’s a subtle vibe here and it isn’t anger — more satire, perhaps? “You’re charming, Marcelo Ambrose Knight, but you need to learn a few pointed lessons about women.”

My glance lingers overtly on Audra’s chest for a second before I reply. “You mean like how to make women pointed?”

Audra giggles and covers her breasts with her hands, blushing.

“No!” Tempest snaps. “I mean in not treating women like objects, or as conquests to be won in a verbal sparring match.”

In contrast to Tempest’s sharp rebuke, Audra cuddles up close to me — and I feel her hand on my other leg. What can I say — chicks dig the tight leather pants.

“How have I treated you poorly?” I ask Tempest.

She puts on an exasperated look. “Really, Marc? You’re smooth, I’ll admit that, but everything you’ve said to us tonight has been hollow words in desperate pursuit of a cheap thrill.”

I’d put more stock in her sincerity if her hand didn’t slide around to grope my cock hard right as she said the words ‘cheap thrill’. Now, the thing about tight leather pants: they may look great, but they also affect blood flow. When you get an erection in them, it’s going to be a real rager — and there might also be some deep Freudian element of my psychology that really, really grooves on the concept of being felt up by a woman as she gives me a deeply ironic, condescending lecture. So, I get hard pretty rapidly and excessively in response.

Tempest’s hand slides past my groin and touches Audra’s. The petite blonde jolts slightly, and the two women’s gazes meet. “Temp,” Audra says in a very guarded tone. “Don’t do anything reckless you’ll regret later.”

I quirk an eyebrow at Audra, trying to soften her concerned scowl with a playful look. “Really? I think you’re being a bit unfair. Tempest doesn’t seem like the type to do anything that crazy or reckless. She’s just cultivating a persona. I can relate to that.”

Tempest is totally the type of girl to do something crazy and reckless, and just bought my dare-phrased-as-an-offhand-compliment hook, line and sinker. The two glance at each other, and Audra looks nervous — the words “I’m calling your bluff” might as well be written on Tempest’s face.

“You don’t know me, Marc,” Tempest scolds. “I don’t deal in these personas you’re so fond of. I’m an honest, down-to-Earth girl — what you see is what you get.”

Tempest tugs at my belt buckle, but can’t get it open — so she guides Audra’s hand right over it. Audra undoes it effortlessly one-handed, and Tempest slowly pulls down the zipper as she meets my gaze. “I was too forward in kissing you. I realize that now. Physical intimacy is something that needs to be grounded in understanding and deep emotion, Marcelo,” she chides.

“Without that basis, it’s just hollow. For women, there is no casual sex. All sex is emotion. Women can’t fuck just get our rocks off like men do — our soft little minds just aren’t capable of it. We need more. Get to know me a bit, take me out, show me that you’re serious and are there for the long haul. Once I feel more comfortable with you, then we can kiss again. You won’t need patterns or routines to get there.”

Tempest’s eyes glitter. She’s not just screwing with my head in a really sexy way — she’s satirizing all the ‘good girls’ she’s known that look down on anyone working at this kind of place. Audra’s hand, chill from holding a water pitcher, snakes into my boxers — and suddenly, I feel cool air on my hard cock as it springs free of its painful constraint.

Tempest’s hand wraps around my erection tightly and starts stroking. “Sweetie, you’ve got to be more sincere with women,” the only woman I’ve ever met who I truly think has put as many hours into rehearsing her canned openers as I have tells me. “Just be yourself, and you’ll find a girl that likes you for who you are.”

“I see,” I say, keeping my voice level.

“You need to understand that the girls that work at a place like this are really just like any other girls you might meet on the streets,” Tempest lectures. “The only place we’re some kind of wild sex maniacs is in your imagination, and in the fantasy Remedial sells. In real life, we’re boring normal people just like you, and it’s pretty demeaning for you to assume we actually want guys like you to hit on us at work. It’s a tough job, you know.”

It suddenly clicks with me — having listened to what I told them, Tempest and Audra worked out this satire-routine as a way to try out demonstrating value on me. Inwardly, I cackle in delight, though it doesn’t reach my face. They’re showing me their insight, cleverness and moxie — and boy, they’ve really hit it out of the park. This encounter is vividly etching itself into my memory. There’s no way I’m going to think of them as generic conquests or mix them up with other girls after this!

Tempest and Audra’s fingers are interwoven as their hands slide gracefully up and down my throbbing cock. We’ve all got these slight smiles tugging at our faces — it’s honestly a miracle no one’s busted up laughing yet. I glance around the restaurant — patrons seem absorbed in ogling one of the rollerblade waitresses, and the other waitresses are focused on their own customers. It really just looks like Tempest and Audra are chatting with (and probably upselling) me — no one could imagine the monkey business going on beneath our table.

Honestly, to a hypothetical watcher this must feel like a scene from a Hollywood rom-com — provided you keep the camera angled above the table, of course. If you don’t, it would be classified as a rather different kind of film really quickly. The idea, that it’s all Hollywood-wholesome from the table up, amuses and excites me intensely.

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying for an apologetic tone. “I’ve worked so hard at making women enjoy it when I hit on them — sometimes I forget that no woman can really enjoy sex the way men do. I understand that now, and I’ll try to do better in the future.”

Audra giggles, delighted at my understanding and lampooning the cliché, but Tempest stays stern and stoic. “Can’t you see that your incessant desire to pick up women is rooted in your own feelings of inadequacy? You really only want a balm for your low self-esteem, so you tell yourself you’re taking pleasure in a physical act.”

No, no ... I’m pretty sure I am enjoying a very real pleasure right now. I think she knows that, though — she stops stroking for a second to actually feel my cock, to appreciate its raw force and hardness and throbbing power. I look into her eyes; beneath the dripping, rich, kinky irony, I feel that in gripping my cock, she’s also touching a part of my soul. Other women have told me exactly what Tempest just did, but in utter sincerity. She knows that, and finds it as vacuous and hilarious as I do. Her satire hits me so hard I almost pop off on the spot. I think she senses that, though, and slows the pace a bit so she can get what she wants.

“You need to learn reciprocality,” she tells me. “Treat women with the same respect, dignity and candor you expect to be treated.”

Under the table, Tempest guides my hand under the elastic of her plaid skirt and panties. She’s already really wet, and it only takes me a second to slide first one, then two fingers between her slick, puffy lips. She grinds against my hand, clasping it tight with her thighs — and uses an ‘adjusting my posture to be more prim’ gesture above the table to cover the squirming.

I reach out my other hand to Audra’s pussy, and she hesitantly lets it in. She’s not as wet, but tighter — I get only the index finger in, and use my thumb to work her clit.

“So, have you learned your lesson?”

“I’m ... learning,” I tell her coyly.

Audra grips the side of the table with a white-knuckled hand and bites her upper lip, struggling not to shout out or draw attention as an orgasm wracks her body. “Mmph!”

“We don’t have all day,” Tempest tells me in a dry sardonic tone.

“Then pick up the pace,” I quip back dryly.

She arches an eyebrow at my challenge, then grips by cock unusually tightly while keeping the movement slow and gradual — yet much more stimulating overall. Her sharp green eyes pierce me deeply. There’s real feeling there — pleasure, contempt, bonding in mutual rebellion against a staid monogamous morality, affirmation. I absently wonder how many months of cautious formal dating it takes most other people to get this kind of emotional connection. It’s not even like I did it, with all my charm and smarm — this is Tempest’s big show as much as it’s mine.

That’s certainly not her legal name or her birth name, by the way, but at this point if you try and tell me it’s not her real name we’re going to have a long and tendentious philosophical argument. She’s a tempest at heart — powerful, destructive, uncontainable, furious and passionate. Sometimes it’s pretty nifty to be a cliché, honestly.

“You know,” I tell her in a casual tone, “I think I’m just about ready to give you my answer. You might want to get a napkin ready ... you know, to write it down.”

Audra is staring wide-eyed at me and Tempest, struggling not to bust up or freak out. She clearly doesn’t want to jinx whatever is happening that’s aweing and arousing her so. She still can’t believe we’re having this droll, casual conversation as we rub each other off under the table.

I erupt messily all over their hands. I’m not sure why it excites me so, the mental image I have of those perfectly manicured hands, long fingers and neatly painted nails smeared with my seed when I can’t even see it. A jet of my cum strikes the underside of the table so forcefully that it makes an audible hissing sound, and Audra flinches slightly.

I meet Tempest’s deep green eyes and make her shiver with Eyefucking, just a little bit, and beneath her sardonic stoicism I see her soul dancing. It’s enough motivation to send another huge strand of sticky cum spraying out. I can’t see it, but I can visualize the brilliantly white goo clinging to the bronze skin of her elegant wrist. I wiggle my fingers around inside her. There’s a distinct sheen of sweat on her luxuriously bronzed skin — on one hand, I hope no one notices it, but on the other I find it transfixingly erotic.

“You know,” I say in my best contemplative tone, “on giving it careful consideration I think that while your ideal of sincerity has some benefits I can also see some distinct points — data points, that is — that suggest some women find a more affected personality genuinely appealing. So I’m sorry, but I really can’t concede to your arguments.”

“Well, that leaves us in a bit of a sticky situation,” Tempest says. Her eyes sparkle, hoping I’ll bust up laughing. I don’t, though inwardly I’m cackling like a maniac. “Hopefully we’ll have another, uh ... uh...”

Tempest’s orgasm is more subtle than Audra’s — she’s not a screamer, but she shakes her head very sensually, making her already flashy hair look even flashier and her silver hoop earrings swing about wildly. It reminds me of one of those shampoo commercials targeting women, where they try to imply the model is having an orgasm from how nice the shampoo feels. This time, though, instead of herbal shampoo it’s two fingers right up her wet cunt and a thumb on her clit while she’s in plain sight of both strangers and her oblivious coworkers.

Her faint gasping and panting is sublimely satisfying to me. Watching the brassy composure on her elaborately painted glamour-girl face fall apart at the literal wiggle of my fingers fills me with impish glee, like a child pushing over a really impressive Jenga tower in slow motion. It’s enough motive to send a final, delayed burst of spunk across her now-relaxed hand.

Tempest recovers with surprising speed. “As I was saying, hopefully we’ll have another chance sometime to persuade you of the error of your ways.”

I nod. “I’ve got a feeling we’ll cross paths again at some point in the future. This has been a memorable enough conversation, after all.”

Tempest nods. The girls’ hands slide away from me, under the table, and they covertly wipe them clean. “I do enjoy a good, vigorous debate with a true gentleman — a real rarity in this line of work, I must say. Wouldn’t you agree, Audra?”

Audra is dumbstruck into silence, though after a second or two she recovers enough composure for a breathy monosyllabic reply. “Yeah.”

“Well,” Tempest tells me with the false good cheer of a television spokesmodel, “in spite of our differences of opinion, I do hope you’ve enjoyed your first visit to Remedial — and I hope it won’t be your last!”

“Yeah,” Audra agrees, lacking Tempest’s glib eloquence.

Tempest brings her hands up to her face and gently licks the side of one. “Mmm,” she says as the duo get up to walk away. “Caviar.”

I get out of the Remedial with the jacket I came in wearing around my waist to cover any embarrassing stains and drive away in the Crimson Lady. When I get back to the Great Beast, the crib is locked as Livia promised it would be. It’s only on Monday when we’re on the road that I take out the bills in my jacket pocket and notice the written note on the receipt Tempest returned to me.

“You apparently owe Audra a debt. Chumps pay up with bills. Studs pay up with their tongues and their cocks. I have a shovel for welchers, too. When you’re ready to cover your debt, call me at 555-343-2323 and Audra at 555-453-8734...”