A View From a Broad by Bette Midler Read Free Book Online Page A

everyone by surprise, especially me. Inevitably, of course, the good wishes and good feelings expressed by those present at Parties and Celebrations thrown to honor somebody else’s success are as forced as the mincemeat one is often made to eat at them. But being as great a lover of fakery and fraud as I am of accusation and scandal, I had a grand old time.
    So my decision to go to Charles Jourdan was not completely frivolous. I needed a new pair of shoes for yet another fete to which I had been invited by a very noble group of English men and women who thought I might be amusing for an afternoon. Oh, yes, what a rara avis I was to those who had never been to the slums of Honolulu. I provided them with such delight. You should have heard this particular bunch gasp and swoon when I stuck two fingers into my bowl of haggis, mistaking it for a bowl of poi, a gloplike staple of the Islands. How I regaled them with tales of the South Pacific and the North Bronx. And how they regaled me with their stories of Forthright Industrial Action and the Truth about Ale.

    After luncheon, things really picked up. I was quietly staring at an enormous painting of the lady of the house, trying to decide if she was holding in her lap a small dog or a rat with a bow in its hair, when a young woman of serious demeanor approachedme. I’d say she was about thirty-five and had never been—or, having been, was disappointed. She was all in black wool except for a red hat topped all over with what appeared to be a salade niçoise. As she approached, I could see a solid determination in her eyes that seemed totally at odds with the whimsical hat. In fact, everything about her was about as solid as solid can get. As she came striding towards me, she held out her hand for me to shake. Fearful of what she might do to my fingers, I gingerly gave her only two.
    “I’m Cecily,” she said as she relaxed her grip.
    “Bette Midler,” I responded in my most English Garden manner.
    “I know,” Cecily said, “of course. That’s why I’m so anxious to speak with you.”
    She practically towed me into a quiet corner.
    “Well, darling,” she said to me in that tone the English consider chatty, “I have the most extraordinary idea. I want to use your face and your money in what I consider a daring—and brilliant—scheme of mine to produce a special designer line of diaphragms and douches.”
    I looked around to see if anyone had heard. Then I had to laugh. But Cecily was dead serious, and her reason for thinking the venture worthwhile was a most curious blend of politics, hedonism and outright greed.
    “The diaphragm,” she told me over high tea, “is an object that heralds pleasure. Why must it look like some hideous prosthetic device that just came out of a hospital supply room? Ditto, you see, for the douche. Is there any reason,” she went on firmly, her tomatoes bouncing up and down in place, “that these items, so intimately connected with feminine delight, should be not only unattractive, but positively repellent? Think about it, darling. Isn’t this state of affairs the result of a sexist, puritanical society still resisting the idea that sex for a woman can be a beautiful, joyous occasion free of guilt and anxiety?”
    I must say I was intrigued. Old Lettuce Head was really hip. Sensing my interest, Cecily nibbled on a scone and went on.
    “. . . what a rara avis I was to those who had never been to the slums of Honolulu.”
    “There is no doubt in my mind, dear. What the world needsnow is a hand-painted diaphragm and douche set that comes complete with its own design-coordinated carrying case—you know, something a woman would be proud to take anywhere. Of course, what’s most important . . . Are you following, dear? What are you staring at?”
    “Your veggies, Cecily. They seem to be heading for a tumble.”
    “Oh, bother,” Cecily said, readjusting her hat, which by now had slipped down nearly to her nose, “what a