Teenage fantasy of hostie with the mostie
10th October, 2006
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Models have never really interested me, which is just as well, as I have never met one who has acknowledged my existence. When I was a teenager, they were the stuff of which fantasies were spun and, while apologising in advance to models the world over, I recall that my single male peers and I firmly believed that if you could ever convince one to go out with you, you were "in like Flynn".
A bloke who existed on the periphery of our group, mainly because few of us could stand him, was said to take out a model and whenever he walked into the pub, there would be much nudging and winking in his direction. "That's the bloke taking out the model," we'd mutter into our beers, envious in the extreme and secretly hoping he would be stricken with impotency or, at least, a particularly nasty social disease. Nothing, of course, could compare with scoring a date with a "hostie", a member of the aircraft cabin attendant species. If you took one out, unimaginable carnal delights were yours. There would be no awkward misunderstandings. You'd buy her a steak and a couple of Bacardi and Cokes at the Breakfast Creek Hotel and by the time she was halfway through her baked potato, she'd be pawing at your thighs, eyes ablaze with passion. Apart from their insatiable libidos, it was said that in their flats, hosties had hundreds of miniature bottles of spirits and thousands of packets of salted peanuts they'd smuggled off aircraft. Hosties, then, were an answer to a boy's prayers. Not only were they a tap on the shoulder bed-wise, but once you'd talked your way into their affections and bed, you could then get stuck into the free Bundy 'n' Cokes and peanuts. Even better, the next morning she'd probably have to fly off to some distant port and be absent for several days. This would afford you an excellent opportunity to come back the next night and ask out her flatmate, who you were certain had given you a libidinous look when you'd walked in and who obviously fancied you. This, at least, was the theory, one in which my mates and I believed fervently and which was the subject of many Saturday afternoon discussions over several dozen drinks. It occurred to me a number of years later that one of the reasons we were such spectacular social failures was that by the time we actually went out on Saturday nights, we were all hammered. It was, however, a tragedy that I never took out a hostie, for in my head I had the entire scenario scripted. I don't think I even knew anyone who took out a hostie. None of us did but they were, we knew, definite "goers" because someone who had a mate whose brother's mate of a mate had taken one out had said so, and you won't find a more authoritative source than that. It was these thoughts and others that came flashing back as I watched a fashion parade a few days ago in the Myer Centre, fashion parades being one of those few spectacles on which males can allow their eyes to linger lasciviously without being gently kneed in the groin by their partners. "Lovely frock," you mutter as some vision of loveliness appears in a bra-less, see-through creation. There was, however, one jarring note. The models over whom I once drooled and who had so assiduously ignored me would float into a bar with feline grace. They would not so much walk as slink. The class of 2006, however, came charging onto the catwalk like a herd of rugby players. Clomp! Clomp! Clomp! They walked as if they were heading off for a shift at the meatworks. Megan Gale alone moved with consummate grace. The rest appeared to be practising for the next grape-crushing season. Apparently model schools now teach them to walk as if they're wearing lead-soled shoes. That's it, I'm afraid. I've gone off models, devastating news I'm sure for legions of them clomping up and down catwalks around the country waiting for a call from the bloke who used to lust after them. |
