Chapter 11: The Big Balloon Bikini Blowout

Livia’s getting the new costumes ready when I meet with her. “Hey, sleepyhead. You seemed a bit zoned out after the teaser last night, so I let you be. We’re still on schedule, and Mimi made eggs and bacon. Come get some before it’s all gone!”

We quickly slide into intensive preparations, though I find myself perhaps a bit more tempted than usual to ogle Livia. I don’t think she notices, which is good — not cause she’d mind, but because I don’t want there to be clues before I make my move. As I’ve noted, the bustier was a write-off, and it is apparently a tricky garment to replace — requiring custom fittings and tailoring. So for our Spring Break show, she has a different custom garment that we were able to prepare with services accessible during our road trip. It’s an interim outfit that’ll be retired when the stretchy dress shirts arrive from Remedial Corporate in Canada, but I still love it.

I can only describe it as a cross between a tuxedo and a leotard. The innermost layer is a stretchy cotton bodystocking, and it’s actually quite enticing — it’s tight and very form-fitting, and if she doesn’t wear underwear people close to her (and our own 35mm cameras) can not only make out breasts and nipples, but pussy lips as well. Not as risqué as the teaser she did in grade twos, but still a subtle, unexpected eyeful. She did wear either underwear or some subtle padding on our road trip shows, but she isn’t planning to at Summers. It will, in that sense, be a big debut for the new costume — and will make sure that people still pay attention to her with all the other flesh on display.

However, this bodystocking is carefully printed and colored to resemble a man’s dress slacks and white formal shirt, and she wears a tie with it. There is also a suit jacket to wear over it, which had some rubber in the interior to make it more form-hugging than a normal male suit jacket without showing that overtly. The end result is both ravishing and naughty. When Livia’s fully dressed, she looks like she’s wearing a normal tuxedo. Add the top hat, cane, showstone and dress shoes and she looks the closest she ever has to that archetypal pulp magician she so admires the image of.

Now, I think she would look absolutely gorgeous in a normal tuxedo — it suits her bombastic and aggressive persona, and her curves are ample enough to be apparent even beneath full formal wear. But this secretly rubberized jacket turns up the heat — the “phwoar factor,” as she calls it — massively. Her curves are visible like she’s wearing a catsuit while the viewer’s mind is telling him that she’s wearing something mundane and decent (if vaguely suggestive by the cross-dressing). The more the gaze lingers on her, however, the more the mind takes in the lascivious elements of the ensemble. When she takes off the jacket, it goes from respectable to “that’s lewd as fuck, and yet damned if I can describe why”.

One important point about this printed bodystocking — it tears easily, and Livia patiently explains to me back in Richmond that there are certain chemicals she can use that will make it tear even easier. I’m sure she’s planning some naughty cinematic moment with that in a future show — but she wants the prop to be consistent from the beginning, so people wouldn’t suspect anything until said naughty moment actually happens. The thing about the old bustier, she said, is that while it was sexy it also simply couldn’t be gotten off in under twenty minutes. It might as well have been a chastity belt, which had the potential to be ... inconvenient in moments a suitable mark demonstrated a degree of sexual pliability that would make Livia want to be less clothed in a quick, dramatic and showy way. I took quite careful note of everything she said.

I am not going to be as blessed in the clothing department, but it is essential to our plans and the theme of the show. My first Decan costume is a triple layer of swimwear — a very scandalous Speedo, with form-hugging spandex jogging shorts over that, and then loose-hanging swimming trunks over that. (You’ll understand the layering soon.) For the second Decan, the dirty-talking contest, I need to be a total dork so as not to intimidate or upstage the other guys. Livia chose my attire, leaning heavily into the cheap and sleazy.

I will be going on stage in a tacky white polyester leisure suit, with an underlying purple shirt and a tie in clashing, overly aggressive Hawaiian patterning. It’s a fashion disaster, but that’s necessary. I can’t overtly outperform the guys we have chosen as a pickup artist or alpha male — at least in the second Decan — so there is need for self-deprecation. I accept the logic of that. I have some plans of my own for the third Decan ... but I’m not sure if they will come to fruition or not. The script is just that I’ll take off the jacket and keep the rest of the leisure suit.

We’re proud of our plans for the first Summers show — a potential Escalation at that — but we’ve hired an expert camera guy in Lauderdale, and the plans are a lot less technical in general. So Mimi will be more free, and we all thought this is an excellent opportunity to make her (and her specific fetishes), a bigger part of the public face of the Trips overall. Mimi’s new outfit actually outshines both of us put together — but it will debut at our second show at Summers, not this one, so I’ll get into it in due time.

For now, she’s going to wear a workman’s overalls and a cap — likely the most covering clothing worn by anyone in a one mile radius of Summers — to set up continuity and foreshadow her bit in the next show. Even that is a custom outfit — it has concealed mesh “gills” in the back despite looking like a normal maintenance suit, so that Mimi can wear it in the Florida sun and not get broiled alive. We do plan to replace Livia’s bustier and get back to her SexCon look eventually, but Mimi’s costume design is — in theory — going to be her permanent look for the foreseeable future, if the audience responds well to it. At least, when she isn’t being whatever character actor one of our routines needs, from bad cop to valet to snarky assistant.

I have two free hours. That’s when I call Melody. I also make some other preparations, carefully outside of anyone’s sight. The three of us meet up at two-thirty, and hit the stage at Summers at exactly three.

The intro is harsh. It’s actually the hardest opening to any of Livia’s Escalations to date. The crowd wants girls, flesh and naughty contests right away, but our sense of narrative requires us to build up to them. So the comedy patter falls on deaf ears and we start losing the crowd. We do bring out Mimi in her overalls, ponytail and nerd-glasses and introduce her as our techie, and she grins and waves to the crowd awkwardly.

Livia pushes through some stage magic routines very quickly, as it becomes obvious the crowd is uninterested. Livia does get a cute nerdy girl to reach into her hat and win a complementary vibrator, however. She gets quite a razzing from Gloria Sun and Lucy Langtry in the announcer’s booth over it, however.

The main theme of the first Decan is going to be balloons, so Mimi wheels our balloon pump prop out on stage. It’s a needlessly big and gimmicky machine (with a little, mundane motorized pump concealed inside it) with electrodes sticking out, voltmeters on the side and a general mad science aesthetic. I use the machine to inflate balloons and very quickly make a balloon giraffe, tiger and kitty. This bit had patter and was supposed to take about seven minutes, but I glance at Livia, read the crowd and we silently, mutually decide to skip the patter and speed-run it. I get the animals done in under a minute — I’ve done a lot of practice with balloon twisting over the three weeks before we hit Lauderdale, and make record time here.

“I just love a man who’s good with his hands,” Gloria Sun says as I work.

“I’ll bet this isn’t the first time he’s handled something long, hard and erect with those hands,” Lucy Langtry throws back. I’m not sure if it was a masturbation joke or a gay joke, but either way I don’t especially mind. Her tone suggests watching it might also be a fantasy of hers, and given where this routine is going I’m happy to have the announcers hyping me up as a sex symbol rather than tearing me down.

“You know,” I tell the crowd, “a wonderful way to pick up girls is to show them a trick that makes them laugh. With that in mind, I’d like to invite the Asian cutie in the red striped bikini in the third row up on stage for a second.”

Said Asian cutie giggles and makes her way up to the stage. Her name is Brenda, and she’s plump but quite well endowed — especially for an Eastern girl. I admire how confident she is in her body despite weighing twice what most of the girls here do, and her cherubic smile is enticing. The escorting her up part is actually quite important to the act. I will make eye contact and test the waters, and invade each girl’s personal space as much as I feel she’s able to have fun with.

We quickly figure out that the girls in the Summers audience are a lot less concerned with personal space than most — they’d have to be pretty much by definition, to feel comfortable in the tightly-packed mass of horny, often shirtless Spring Break dudes. They still respond, though, when an attractive, bare-chested man gets unusually close to them — but the response is less likely to be negative. We’re going to make good use of that.

I gesture to the folded animals and ask our first volunteer what kind of gift she’d like me to make for her. The scripted gag is that I’m going to make her a balloon animal, and it will have a cock, and this will make her blush, and we’ll use the opening to make jokes about how it’s a Freudian slip, and something must be making me horny (with something, of course, being the volunteer) — leading into Livia’s penis-themed standup bit. Our cherub somewhat demolishes the script, however, when she just up and says, “Make me a big, firm cock.”

The crowd cheers, and I finish the construct in record time. (I make her a balloon penis, though I probably should have been quicker-witted and made her a rooster instead.) Brenda takes her gift, blushes, and starts to act out obscene things with it on stage — licking it, then sliding it between her legs and grunting. The crowd cheers. She’s got guts, I’ll say that — and it does win the crowd over; I give her a full two minutes to perform her improv.

When I sense she’s running out of actions, I lead her off stage and back to her seat as Livia cracks jokes. Brenda sits down, holding the big balloon cock in her lap. She will continue to lick it, and keep trying to make eye contact with me, through the next several volunteers.

“You know,” Gloria Sun says, “that girl has real enthusiasm and passion, and she knows exactly what she wants.”

“And such skill,” Lucy Langtry adds sardonically. “You can tell she’s had lots and lots of practice.”

That’s harsh, but the plump cutie doesn’t seem to care.

I address the crowd. “Boy, Brenda sure knows what she wants, doesn’t she? I hope she isn’t making any guys in the crowd feel ... inadequate.”

Brenda cackles as she slides the balloon cock in between her breasts inside the bikini top, giving it a titjob. Other girls and guys laugh too — but a few guys do look nervous.

Livia rolls her eyes and takes on a sardonic tone. “Riiight. Because lads, we all know what every girl really wants is a dick so huge it will tear her vaginal walls, pulverize her cervix, keep on going right through her intestines, penetrate her stomach, slide up her throat faster than expired Thai food on its way back out and pop right the fuck out of her mouth like the freaky tentacle in one of those banned Japanimation cartoons — and that’s when he only gives her the tip! Am I right?”

The audience is a bit shocked. Livia looks mouth-watering in her figure-hugging pseudo-tux; the guys in the audience want to bang her, and the girls want to be her. But cute girls just don’t say things like that; it creates a dissonance. It’s a wise move in the long run, I think — there’s lots of centerfolds in the world, and even a fair few at Lauderdale for Spring Break. By breaching a few norms and using shock value material, Livia makes herself stand out from even this elite crowd — good or bad, people will certainly remember the hot girl who said things girls aren’t supposed to say.

I take on an exaggerated salesman tone and agree with her unironically. I’m a high-energy, enthusiastic dolt in this routine; I practiced the persona a lot to get it down. “That’s right, Livia! But fortunately, we’ve got a miraculous new product here that might help any of the dudes in our crowd that feel they’re not quite up to snuff!”

“Do we really have to shill this dodgy bollocks, Marcelo?”

“Yes, Livia! Yes we do!”

Livia reaches one foot forward and touches a subtly concealed trigger on the stage. Out of nowhere, a six foot long inflatable pops up, shooting into the air. It looks like a tube of ointment with a screw-on cap. We both reach up our arms to catch it as in floats back down to us, and end up holding it aloft like some kind of championship trophy. The gadget to inflate and release is actually quite clever — Livia repurposed the inflatable air bag from a car to build it. A lot of work went into getting it to trigger just right — Livia bought a dozen air bags from a used car lot to experiment with.

The crowd laughs as we fumble around with the inflatable. Once we get it under control, I flash them a manic grin. “Yikes, that was a wild one — there’s a lot of high-caliber, renegade masculine energy in this here tube! Ladies and gentlemen, this is Exxon-AmTrak brand penis growth gel, now containing less than two percent radiological waste material!”

Livia laughs and shakes her head. “I suppose you’re going to try to convince us that this is the one that really works?”

“I sure am, Livia, and it sure is! I’ve only been using this miraculous product for three weeks now, and I’ve already grown eight new penises!”

Livia rolls her eyes, forcing a Vanna White smile. “Really? Wow, Marcelo, that’s amazing! And for only twenty-nine ninety five, it’s a real ... uh ... wait, Jesus, what the bright blue Christ did you just say?!”

I just grin madly, keeping up the dim but high-energy salesman persona. “Yeah, no kidding! Pretty incredible, huh? The one on the back of my neck is kinda irritating, though — I can’t even turn my head without getting myself off!”

The crowd is perplexed and horrified, but also giggling in spite of themselves at the nightmarish imagery. I turn my head to look around, scrunching up my face and giving an exaggerated, lewd moan. Livia looks disgusted. “Oi! No! Bad pickup artist! No one wants to see your O-face! It is a truth universally agreed by lesbians, gay men and straights of both sexes that a cute bird’s O-face is amazingly erotic, but a bloke’s O-face is bloody terrifying and needs to be cast down into the same hell we normally reserve for telemarketers, Maggie Thatcher’s used dildos and vuvuzela players at weddings!”

I stop moving my head, and look very chastened. I’m back to my natural persona by this point, dropping the high-energy salesman bit. “Sorry, my dudes. I’m with Livia a hundred percent here. Guys, we’ve all been there, right? Nothing kills a nice hard boner like watching an otherwise hot porno and then the director decides to cut away from Amber Lynn writhing in ecstasy to Randy Spears’ O-face and just hold there for some inexplicable reason. Literally no one wants to see that!”

That gets a blushing laugh from many of the dudes in the crowd, who apparently do in fact relate. Lots of guys own a secret stash of X-rated video tapes, but that doesn’t mean they like to talk about it.

“I wouldn’t know,” Livia says archly. She actually would — Livia’s moderately into porn herself, but we decided during scripting it probably wouldn’t be telegenic to advertise that. Most girls aren’t, and it would make her seem even sketchier to the girls in the audience. “Wait a second — what does the Lord of Seduction need with porno tapes, anyway? I always figured you’d just go for the real deal.”

I shrug. “Some nights you just want to veg and rub one out, not focus on satisfying a partner.”

“Sure, Mister Knight, sure. We all believe you.”

Livia pulls out her ‘sexy scientist’ glasses and puts them on, acting out reading the fine print on the giant inflatable tube. “Warning! Product may cause unintended side effects, though none are as disfiguring or grotesque as the intended behavior. Documented effects include osteoporosis, irreligiosity, pyrokinesis, radioactive bowel movements, outbreaks of lambada street dancing and inexplicable belief in the electoral viability of third party tickets, as well as transformation of cats into dogs, feminists into go-go dancers, Leonard Cohen into a melodic vocalist and Chicago Bulls fans into mentally competent adults with a realistic outlook on the world.”

Livia looks up at the crowd with an absolutely priceless “ick! what the fuck did we just advertise” panicked look. She flair-conjures a pair of scissors and uses it to violently stab the tube, deflating it. I visibly wince and step back a bit as Livia channels her inner Norman Bates. Finally she looks up, a faint gloss of sweat on her face making her seem even sexier.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we do not endorse this product after all! No one should endorse this product! It’s not a sane product! There are worse fates in the world than having a small wee-wee, like being an atheistic penis mutant with radioactive diarrhea and Randy Spears’ O-face — or even worse, a Chicago Bulls fan! Please forget the last ten minutes, and do not associate the Sexy Scandal Spectacular with Exxon-AmTrak brand penis growth gel in any way!”

Livia elbows me lightly in the torso — but I double over, clutching it like I’m in agony. “Oww! Right in the fifth ballsack!”

She turns to me and tries to whisper, but of course it’s ‘accidentally’ caught on a hot mic. “Marc, quickly! We need something exciting to make everyone forget this last bit!”

She’s gesturing wildly with the scissors. I back away, acting intimidated. “Yikes! Crazy girls with scissors are scary.”

She chases after me. “Oh, calm down. You’ve basically got nine lives on that front at this point. You can still hit on me. I don’t know what will happen to my self-esteem if you don’t hit on me. I mean, you hit on everyone.”

“Hey, you can’t become a world-famous pickup artist if you’re not willing to aim for volume.”

“I guess that’s why you picked Brenda. Regardless, there’s worse things on God’s green earth than girls running with scissors.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, like girls scissoring with the runs. Take my word on it, that’s the bad kind of memorable date.”

“Eww!”

“Yeah, now we need something to make the audience forget that mental image too!”

“Let’s get a real hot babe up on stage as a volunteer! Guys will instantly forget (and maybe even forgive) any bad comedy filler as soon as some smoke show revs their engines a bit!”

“What am I, chopped liver?”

“No, just overdressed.” I turn to the audience. “Okay, folks, we’re looking for one amazingly hot volunteer to step up to the plate and lead our show out of the land of gross-raunchy and back into sexy-raunchy territory! If it makes you feel more comfortable volunteering, I don’t actually have extra penises — you all just thought that sounded credible due to the astonishing number of satiated women I tend to leave strewn in my wake!”

Lots of groans and eyerolls, but also lots of raised hands. The next routine needs a perfect volunteer, though, or the whole first Decan could go off the rails. I scan the crowd carefully, and finally settle on a long-legged brunette bombshell in a navy two-piece. She’s built like a bikini model, and I’ve already guessed that she is a bikini model. She seems to have a very fun, laid-back attitude toward her body, while still having a bit of modesty. That’s really important. We get her up on stage and I butter her up. “Come on up! Wow, you’re absolutely gorgeous. Why don’t you tell us your name and a bit about yourself...”

“Michelle,” she says, “Michelle Morris, and I’m from Puerto Rico with family roots in Cuba, and I’m a Capricorn!”

Yup. Definitely a bikini model, and one who’s heard the standard question roster before. “And your measurements?”

She grins. “36-26-34, baby, and it’s all natural.”

This is where Livia steps in. “So, tell me Michelle, do you believe in the existence of Indigo Children, extraterrestrial mollusks, the Nibiru Ascension, ritual metempsychosis and the Mongolian Death Worm?”

She blinks as her brain derails, not immediately picking up the subtle Ghostbusters reference. “Um ... uh, what?”

“Yes or no?”

“No, I guess.”

Livia smiles calmingly. “That’s a good answer. It will probably lead to you living a longer life than many more inquisitive minds. So tell me, possum, what do you find most attractive about a man?”

If you’re wondering, O Perplexed Reader, what the point of this is, well, it’s threefold. First of all, throwing her off balance initially will make her more likely to go along with the routine. Secondly, we just got every conspiracy theorist that watches this to do some grassroots marketing for our show. Thirdly and most obviously, Michelle’s cute when she’s flummoxed and it’s just funny.

I’m standing behind Michelle. I wrap my arms around her belly playfully as she and Livia banter and see how she responds. She doesn’t seem at all bothered by the closeness. There’s some desire in her Aura, but also pride. I think she’s actually a smart girl, and figured out that our show is a bigger deal than it looks, and is thinking about exposure. Well, she’s about to get some, in both senses of the word. “So tell me, Michelle from Puerto Rico, are you by any chance involved in modeling?”

“How did you know?!” she gasps, either genuinely amazed or at least decent with a stage persona.

I place my open palms on her hips and slide my hands up her body gradually and sensually. She flinches slightly at the contact, but permits it. When I reach her underarms I guide her arms into the air until she’s holding them out in a Y-shape above her, like she’s at the apex of a stretch. “Tell me, you guys,” I ask the audience, “is this not obviously the body of one blazing hot bikini model? I mean, can’t you tell just by looking at her? I bet everyone here wishes they could see her O-face!”

This pleases the crowd, and they roar. It pleases Michelle Morris as well. She’s a bit turned on, but moreso she’s exuberantly happy. I get that vanity is probably a bigger motive to her than lust — and, I should say clearly, I respect that. The lady clearly works hard on her body; there’s nothing wrong with enjoying a chance to show it off. One cannot condemn vanity as a vice while living shamelessly immersed in lust as a virtue, after all. They’re symbiotic to each other.

“You know,” I say to Michelle (and the crowd), “I bet I know the perfect gift to melt your heart.”

“I’ll bet you do,” she throws back playfully.

“Hold that pose for just a minute,” I tell her.

Livia and I work very quickly to make a balloon bikini that Michelle can actually wear. We practiced this a lot, playing with different designs and looks. We choose, quite intentionally, light powder blue and soft pink balloons for the design; Livia does the bottoms and I do the top. Michelle, posing in front of us, can’t see what we’re making until Livia walks up and hands her the bikini. “We’ve made you a balloon bikini! What do you think of it?”

The bikini top is three balloons in a kind of grid, knotted at the center. It’s fairly covering and chaste, actually, though the balloons might be slightly translucent. “It’s pretty,” she says back, not quite sure how to answer that. “I like it.”

“You said you do modeling,” Livia says. “Would you be willing to model this lovely bikini we’ve made?”

Michelle bites her lip and glances at Livia, then me, then back to Livia. She’s a smart girl. I’m pretty certain she at least suspects how this routine could end up going for her already. But after a moment of thought, she gives us a cheerful nod. “Sure!”

Livia holds the balloon bikini bottoms at knee height in front of Michelle. “Now, step into these, yes, one foot at a time, and be careful of the balloons with your stilettos. Good, good. Stand with your legs a bit apart.”

I hold Michelle’s shoulders as she steps into the balloon bottoms. Livia pulls them up, wiggling them slightly to get them around her hips. It’s actually a fairly snug fit. Michelle giggles as we work. She has to stand with her thighs slightly but appealingly separated, though, in order to fit the inch-wide balloon between them. It’s a subtle but saucy visual touch. We’re professional; there’s no groping or teasing ... yet. I get Michelle to hold her hands straight in the air and slide the bikini top down over her. It needs to be stretched a bit to get there, but fits fairly tightly over her breasts. Michelle grins excitedly and claps her hands when we finish, squeaking slightly. She seems to be enjoying this a lot. “Now,” I say, “why don’t you show us some poses?”

There is clearly nothing this girl wants to be asked to do more, and she breaks out some fairly sexy poses on stage. There’s a level of absurdism to this — I think her modeling repertoire tends to the sultry and smoldering rather than girlish and playful; her most natural props are probably a vintage Rolls Royce and a thick fur coat (with nothing on underneath, of course). When you mix that particular style of moves with a balloon bikini, you get some good (if subtle) comedy. But it’s sexy comedy. I doubt the audience gets the humor of this consciously, but the dissonance adds to the playful undercurrent and they like Michelle posing sexy and cheer anyway. Which is good — she really seems to like getting a rise out of the audience.

Meanwhile, Livia pulls out an expensive camera. She takes a pair of spectacles out of her jacket pocket and puts them on, along with a French beret artist’s cap that makes her look comically pretentious. She scrutinizes Michelle as she poses with a coldly critical look. With just a few props and body language, Livia pulls an instant change, and both the audience and Michelle are now viewing her as a high-end fashion photographer.

Livia cuts off the posing quickly. “Stop, stop,” she says. “This is no good. I mean, look at yourself!”

Michelle looks down at herself. Now, in our script, the girl chosen is supposed to be confused, and we explain what’s wrong, and what will have to be done to fix it. But, as I said, Michelle’s a model, and smart. She gets what’s wrong nearly instantly, although I’m not sure if she just walks into our setup blindly or plays along knowingly for the sake of our show and being a good sport. Either way, she sets herself up perfectly. “The color composition’s all wrong!”, she says. “It clashes.”

Livia nods thoughtfully. “Yup. Marcelo, can you fix that?”

If Michelle didn’t intend to play along with our setup, she at least realizes what she walked in to just then. She bites her lip in sudden hesitation. “Oh, my,” she says.

I reach up and unhook the clasp of her bikini top — the real navy bikini, not the balloons over it. I don’t ask permission, but I do give her a few seconds to object, get angry, freeze or do anything else that shows me she’s really not up for this. She doesn’t, though — she purrs softly, as if my initiative pleases her. I put my hand over the balloon top to hold it in place and slide her real bikini top off. The crowd cheers, excited. I untie her real bottoms, too, and pull them out of the balloon ones playfully. She expected that less, and shivers faintly.

“Well,” Lucy Langtry says from the announcer’s booth, “this is certainly getting interesting.”

She’s leaning forward to ogle Michelle, and flashing some of her own nipple as her suit jacket falls open in the process.

“That lady’s a real trooper,” Gloria Sun agrees.

“Wonderful,” Livia announces imperiously. “That looks perfectly delish! Now, Michelle, run your fingers through your hair.”

It dawns fully on Michelle at this point that she’s allowed herself to be smooth-talked into getting buck naked on our stage save for some strategic balloons. She suddenly looks nervous and demure is a way I find unspeakably erotic, without being truly harmed or violated. It’s the perfect intersection of vulnerability and excitement, a beautiful new ingenue being pushed out of her comfort zone. She’s blushing furiously, but the familiar poses give her confidence and she looks great doing it. Her new attire squeaks as she moves, which adds a perfect frisson of embarrassing ridiculousness to the predicament we’ve maneuvered her into.

“Brill!” Livia gushes. “Now, possum, give me your saucy poses. We want sexy, we want raw, we want the bedroom eyes. I mean, just look at these blokes in the audience. Look em right in the eye. You’re already their dream girl — now show them that their dream girl is feelin’ just a wee bit randy!”