Housewives Love Clowns - A Story (Part 1)
Posted: 05 Dec 2010, 00:51Housewives Love Clowns
By Trouso
Part 1
Claire’s bedroom was awash with morning sunlight. The charity garden party was that afternoon and after all the work that had gone into organising it she felt considerably relieved that it was now less likely to be spoiled by rain. Her husband, Tony, had left early for work by taxi so she would have the car today. Claire was chair of the committee and had to help with some of the setting up, but she didn’t have to be there until one-thirty as the super-reliable Miranda would be supervising the set up the stalls this year. She had got all the housework done yesterday, including making Tony’s dinner for this evening (he could heat it up in the microwave, she thought) and would savour the extra time this morning she would have to get herself ready. She stood and regarded herself in the bedroom mirror, tousled her wavy blonde hair and considered the prospect of a shower.
After a long, hot and invigorating shower during which she washed and conditioned her hair she stepped back into the bedroom and began to dry it with the hair dryer. It was going to be a “good hair day” today. As she thumbed though the dresses hanging on the rail she mused about the rest of the day, the event and how much money they were going to raise for the hospice. There was a prize draw for which all the tickets had now sold, the star prize being an ipod touch, which had been donated by a local firm. They were to be selling cakes, jams and other knick-knacks on various stalls and they had even got a clown, who was going to preside over a pie in the face contest featuring a few local dignitaries, including the mayor and the vicar’s wife, who was always a particularly good sport.
Claire knew she needed to be well turned out as photos might well be taken of her and her colleagues holding cheques for inclusion in the local press. The regional TV news might even be there, so she spent quite some time choosing the right outfit. Skirt and jacket? — No, she thought. What about this? — A bit too dowdy. This?— Too dark. She settled on a low cut summer dress she had worn only once before, blue with a small but subtle floral pattern that came just above the knee. It had been quite expensive and she pondered over whether it was practical to wear it when dealing with food and such like on the stalls. I don’t have to get quite as involved this year, she thought and put it on over a pair of hold-up stockings. Perfect. The sun was still shining and so, knowing that the ground would be firm, Claire confidently chose a good pair of heels, not too high, but elegant enough and topped it off with a nice cream coloured cashmere cardigan.
Claire loaded the cakes into the back of the gunmetal grey Audi estate. Just then, her mobile rang. She managed to find it in her handbag and answered. It was Miranda.
“Oh Claire, can you bring another bottle opener, perhaps more than one if you have one.”
“Of course. You’re lucky you’ve just caught me about to leave…”
“There was one more thing, Claire…Oh, sorry I’ve got to go. I’ll tell you when you get here.”
“OK.” Claire wondered what it could be and hoped nothing had gone wrong.
She arrived at the vicarage at about twenty past one. It was a fine scene, resplendent in bunting with stalls and attractions abound, there appeared to be a good turn out of local folk. The vicar greeted her and helped her unload the cakes. Everything went swimmingly for the next hour or so and Claire floated around mingling with all and sundry as she basked in the glorious sunshine and the success of her inaugural event as chair of the committee. It was at this point, just before the pie in the face contest was to begin, that she caught up with Miranda.
“What was it you needed to tell me?” Claire asked. Miranda looked decidedly embarrassed and apologetic. “Sorry, I should have told you over the phone — You look lovely, by the way.”
“Thank you, but what was it?”
Claire glanced over Miranda’s shoulder at the two pie volunteers chatting to each other, dressed in old jeans and hospice tee-shirts and the clown who was steadily adorning the pasting table with cream pies.
“Er, I’m really sorry, but the mayor has been taken ill today and, well, we need to make up the numbers at the pie throw. We wondered if…”
Claire flushed and became acutely aware of her clothing and felt somewhat overdressed and a sinking feeling came over her as she realised what was possibly about to happen. She also became conscious of her good underwear next to her skin and the firm quality of her shoes.
“Two’s enough, surely.” Claire asserted, nervously.
“Well, the thing is, when we heard about the mayor we felt we needed someone…important…to take part and everyone seems to have got the idea that you would be the perfect candidate. Oh, please, Claire, we’re relying on you. It’s for the hospice.”
It felt like there was no choice and so reluctantly agreed. She looked down at her pristine clothes.
“I’m so sorry”, said Miranda, “I was going to tell you on the phone. I suppose you would have had chance to dress down a bit. But now you’re here they’ll expect you to do it as you are. It’s a bit more outrageous you see.”
Claire stared at the table, now heaving with pies. “What are they made of?”
“They’re cream and jam,” Miranda explained, “the local supermarket donated it and all the sponge bases and crusts. We’ve been whipping it up all morning to get it nice and dollopy.”
Claire looked and felt mortified. There wasn’t time to get changed now. Miranda placed her hand on Claire’s arm. “Look, don’t worry, it’s quite likely it won’t happen to you, the names of the volunteers will be drawn out of a hat.”
“Look”, said Claire, with some added desperation, “Can’t you fix it for me not to get chosen? This dress cost a fortune.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Miranda gave Claire a sympathetic look and walked away.
Presently, Claire was lead over to the Pie attraction where she was lined up with the other ‘volunteers’, a young chap who worked at the hospice and of course the vicar’s wife, Margaret, a sporty lady in late middle age. A big cheer went up as it was announced the new chair of the committee would be taking part. Claire smiled at the gathered onlookers through the gritted teeth of a cold sweat. Butterflies danced around her stomach as the announcements were made.
To her considerable relief the name pulled out of the hat by Chaz the clown was that of the vicar’s wife.
Surely no one had expected her to do it off-the-cuff like that? Thank goodness. Claire was about to walk away, elated by her reprieve, when Brian, one of the committee members, had whispered something to Chaz the Clown which prompted him to take the microphone once again.
“Wait a minute! We’ve just had news of an amazing pledge…” Claire stopped in her tracks and listened to the clown. “…£1,500 has been offered for me to pie the chair of the committee, Claire Bridesmead instead. And as I understand it, she’s wearing her good clothes.”
Claire had that sinking feeling again but she smiled dutifully again in defiance of her utter horror. She nearly stumbled as she made her way over to the chair. Shaking like a leaf, but continuing to grin and bear it, she was relieved to be able to sit down. Very conscious of her lovely clothing about to be wrecked, not to mention her hair, she clasped her hands together on her lap in anticipation of what was coming. A crowd of joyous faces before her, feeling extremely apprehensive, she listened for what seemed like an eternity as the Chaz the clown made a show out of the event with a long preamble. The clown bent down and whispered to Claire, inaudibly to the crowd, “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. Just enjoy it.”
As he continued to address the crowd, wielding a big, sponge based flan loaded with thick cream, cameras clicked and flashed as he repeatedly brought the flan close to Claire’s head before withdrawing it again, to the various yelps and cries from the onlookers. Claire was braced in anticipation of the first contact, which seemed to be being endlessly delayed. She even wondered, for a split second, that it wasn’t actually going to happen after all — all a joke to wind her up — when she was jolted back in her chair by an almighty pat of chilly wet cream. She felt a couple of dollops fall onto her lap and lace her neck as the soggy sponge was withdrawn and tossed to the floor. All she felt she could do was gasp and laugh as she wiped cream out of her eyes, her senses, brimming with dairy and sugar. She could see a splat of jam-seamed cream cradled in her lap and just didn’t know what to do with her creamy fingers, instinctively not wanting to get any more on her clothes. Then came the next one, announced by another ice-cold slap square on the face. This one consisted of a thin layer of cream over a lake of sloppy strawberry jam that Claire could feel cascading right down her front. The audience registered this with yelps of mock disgust. She kept her eyes and mouth firmly closed as she felt the base being drawn back over her head before being massaged gently over her scalp; meanwhile more of the pie’s creamy contents were dropping onto her shoulders. She wiped her eyes again and could see the faces of the crowd and felt a kind of hysteria come over her and continued to laugh. She looked down again to see the large slick of jam in her cleavage and down the front of her dress. She felt sticky and a bit wet and sensed the presence of her nipples beneath the dress and weight of the cold preserve. No time for reflection as once again another pie was on its way, this time it was slapped firmly onto her crown. Another cold shock and a sharp intake of breath, but her vision was only affected this time by a curtain of cream that oozed out from it. She wiped this away. Claire could feel that cream and jam were cascading on all sides now. She lifted her arms to remove the plate and the sponge base that the clown had left on her head, her soft hair was plastered with the stuff and some sticky locks clung on as she lifted it away and discarded it by her chair. She couldn’t think of a time when she’d ever, ever been this messy before.
The routine continued with a brief pause in the pieing, Claire wondering, momentarily, that it was over when Chaz the clown produced a soda siphon and threatened the audience with it. She witnessed them recoil as he just as quickly withdrew it and pointed it, to their resounding delight, back towards Claire.
“Looks like you need a wash, Claire”, he shouted.
The soda water fizzed out with some pressure and soaked Claire’s face. The water was freezing but unexpectedly refreshing. The clown waved it around at her cleavage and down at her feet. “Oh, no!” Claire heard herself gasp, partly as a reaction to the cold and partly at the realisation that her shoes had got wet and might, too become damaged. The crowd laughed heartily.
Claire was outwardly gasping and laughing and began to squeegee handfuls of slop from her hair and the front of her dress.
“How about a sandwich?” said the Clown. She could sense him behind her approaching shortly before a pie appeared on either side and, with some force, were brought together around her head. Engulfed once again, the sound of the crowd was muted as cream squished into and around her ears. The clown proceeded to smush and massage her head and hair with them until the sponges disintegrated, at which point he discarded the paper plates they had been sitting on.
Just as she attempted to clear her ears, she felt once again the cold slap of a flan against her chest. Another sharp intake of breath as the crowd laughed and cheered and more pies followed. Chaz the clown threw one down in Claire’s lap and then wiped another over her back and shoulders. All she could do was gasp at the sheer audacity. At what point would she insist that this was brought to a stop? Not yet, it seemed. Through her frantic, excited breathing as she cleared her eyes she could see Chaz the clown and he made eye contact with her. His knowing look was frozen in time for a moment. He knew what he was doing and knew she could tolerate just a bit more. It was for charity, after all, wasn’t it?
A fresh pie was duly planted in Claire’s goo marbled face and another particularly jam heavy item was plopped onto her feet. Claire was now goose pimpled and shaky, and covered from head to foot in pie filling and smashed crusts, but continued to giggle with nervous abandon.
“I think it’s time for a wash-down now, Claire,” announced the clown. He produced a weighty looking plastic bucket from behind the table, which was now almost clear of projectiles. “Do you like chocolate?”
Claire, of course, had to nod in agreement and closed her eyes and braced herself as the bucket’s contents were gradually and delectably emptied over her. The sauce was runny, but sticky gooey and wet and Claire felt it gradually engulf her head, and cascade down her hair, shoulders, cleavage, back. It slid over her lap and down her legs. As Chaz the clown gently let the bucket drop over Claire’s head, she was now in darkness, and could barely hear anything, her ears still full of gloop from the pie sandwich. She felt completely soaked to the skin and the wet was now right through her knickers at the back and was seeping through to her crotch at the front.
The bucket was shortly removed and Claire was invited to stand, hand held aloft by Chaz the clown as would befit a champion boxer. The crowd cheered and Claire couldn’t help but feel in her heightened state, somewhat ecstatic. Chaz gave her a towel and, with the help of the soda siphon, a couple of quick bursts cleared her ears enough to hear again.
During the next few minutes, Claire was photographed with various cheques and asked how she ‘felt’ by the local TV news, to which she repeatedly replied, “Very messy!” She was cheered and congratulated by everyone as she was lead indoors over waiting plastic sheets to the bathroom at the vicarage where she shut the door behind her.
She regarded herself in the mirror for a second time that day, but this time she was faced with a brown, gooey, bedraggled mess. Her hair hung in sticky rat’s tails, the costly dress and cardigan were reduced to wrinkled, glistening creamy brown cloths that clung to her body. And her beautiful shoes, that she had just been squelching around in were clearly not going to see another day. She prized them off and was about to undress when, through the noise of the continuing festivities outside, she heard a knock at the door.
By Trouso
Part 1
Claire’s bedroom was awash with morning sunlight. The charity garden party was that afternoon and after all the work that had gone into organising it she felt considerably relieved that it was now less likely to be spoiled by rain. Her husband, Tony, had left early for work by taxi so she would have the car today. Claire was chair of the committee and had to help with some of the setting up, but she didn’t have to be there until one-thirty as the super-reliable Miranda would be supervising the set up the stalls this year. She had got all the housework done yesterday, including making Tony’s dinner for this evening (he could heat it up in the microwave, she thought) and would savour the extra time this morning she would have to get herself ready. She stood and regarded herself in the bedroom mirror, tousled her wavy blonde hair and considered the prospect of a shower.
After a long, hot and invigorating shower during which she washed and conditioned her hair she stepped back into the bedroom and began to dry it with the hair dryer. It was going to be a “good hair day” today. As she thumbed though the dresses hanging on the rail she mused about the rest of the day, the event and how much money they were going to raise for the hospice. There was a prize draw for which all the tickets had now sold, the star prize being an ipod touch, which had been donated by a local firm. They were to be selling cakes, jams and other knick-knacks on various stalls and they had even got a clown, who was going to preside over a pie in the face contest featuring a few local dignitaries, including the mayor and the vicar’s wife, who was always a particularly good sport.
Claire knew she needed to be well turned out as photos might well be taken of her and her colleagues holding cheques for inclusion in the local press. The regional TV news might even be there, so she spent quite some time choosing the right outfit. Skirt and jacket? — No, she thought. What about this? — A bit too dowdy. This?— Too dark. She settled on a low cut summer dress she had worn only once before, blue with a small but subtle floral pattern that came just above the knee. It had been quite expensive and she pondered over whether it was practical to wear it when dealing with food and such like on the stalls. I don’t have to get quite as involved this year, she thought and put it on over a pair of hold-up stockings. Perfect. The sun was still shining and so, knowing that the ground would be firm, Claire confidently chose a good pair of heels, not too high, but elegant enough and topped it off with a nice cream coloured cashmere cardigan.
Claire loaded the cakes into the back of the gunmetal grey Audi estate. Just then, her mobile rang. She managed to find it in her handbag and answered. It was Miranda.
“Oh Claire, can you bring another bottle opener, perhaps more than one if you have one.”
“Of course. You’re lucky you’ve just caught me about to leave…”
“There was one more thing, Claire…Oh, sorry I’ve got to go. I’ll tell you when you get here.”
“OK.” Claire wondered what it could be and hoped nothing had gone wrong.
She arrived at the vicarage at about twenty past one. It was a fine scene, resplendent in bunting with stalls and attractions abound, there appeared to be a good turn out of local folk. The vicar greeted her and helped her unload the cakes. Everything went swimmingly for the next hour or so and Claire floated around mingling with all and sundry as she basked in the glorious sunshine and the success of her inaugural event as chair of the committee. It was at this point, just before the pie in the face contest was to begin, that she caught up with Miranda.
“What was it you needed to tell me?” Claire asked. Miranda looked decidedly embarrassed and apologetic. “Sorry, I should have told you over the phone — You look lovely, by the way.”
“Thank you, but what was it?”
Claire glanced over Miranda’s shoulder at the two pie volunteers chatting to each other, dressed in old jeans and hospice tee-shirts and the clown who was steadily adorning the pasting table with cream pies.
“Er, I’m really sorry, but the mayor has been taken ill today and, well, we need to make up the numbers at the pie throw. We wondered if…”
Claire flushed and became acutely aware of her clothing and felt somewhat overdressed and a sinking feeling came over her as she realised what was possibly about to happen. She also became conscious of her good underwear next to her skin and the firm quality of her shoes.
“Two’s enough, surely.” Claire asserted, nervously.
“Well, the thing is, when we heard about the mayor we felt we needed someone…important…to take part and everyone seems to have got the idea that you would be the perfect candidate. Oh, please, Claire, we’re relying on you. It’s for the hospice.”
It felt like there was no choice and so reluctantly agreed. She looked down at her pristine clothes.
“I’m so sorry”, said Miranda, “I was going to tell you on the phone. I suppose you would have had chance to dress down a bit. But now you’re here they’ll expect you to do it as you are. It’s a bit more outrageous you see.”
Claire stared at the table, now heaving with pies. “What are they made of?”
“They’re cream and jam,” Miranda explained, “the local supermarket donated it and all the sponge bases and crusts. We’ve been whipping it up all morning to get it nice and dollopy.”
Claire looked and felt mortified. There wasn’t time to get changed now. Miranda placed her hand on Claire’s arm. “Look, don’t worry, it’s quite likely it won’t happen to you, the names of the volunteers will be drawn out of a hat.”
“Look”, said Claire, with some added desperation, “Can’t you fix it for me not to get chosen? This dress cost a fortune.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Miranda gave Claire a sympathetic look and walked away.
Presently, Claire was lead over to the Pie attraction where she was lined up with the other ‘volunteers’, a young chap who worked at the hospice and of course the vicar’s wife, Margaret, a sporty lady in late middle age. A big cheer went up as it was announced the new chair of the committee would be taking part. Claire smiled at the gathered onlookers through the gritted teeth of a cold sweat. Butterflies danced around her stomach as the announcements were made.
To her considerable relief the name pulled out of the hat by Chaz the clown was that of the vicar’s wife.
Surely no one had expected her to do it off-the-cuff like that? Thank goodness. Claire was about to walk away, elated by her reprieve, when Brian, one of the committee members, had whispered something to Chaz the Clown which prompted him to take the microphone once again.
“Wait a minute! We’ve just had news of an amazing pledge…” Claire stopped in her tracks and listened to the clown. “…£1,500 has been offered for me to pie the chair of the committee, Claire Bridesmead instead. And as I understand it, she’s wearing her good clothes.”
Claire had that sinking feeling again but she smiled dutifully again in defiance of her utter horror. She nearly stumbled as she made her way over to the chair. Shaking like a leaf, but continuing to grin and bear it, she was relieved to be able to sit down. Very conscious of her lovely clothing about to be wrecked, not to mention her hair, she clasped her hands together on her lap in anticipation of what was coming. A crowd of joyous faces before her, feeling extremely apprehensive, she listened for what seemed like an eternity as the Chaz the clown made a show out of the event with a long preamble. The clown bent down and whispered to Claire, inaudibly to the crowd, “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. Just enjoy it.”
As he continued to address the crowd, wielding a big, sponge based flan loaded with thick cream, cameras clicked and flashed as he repeatedly brought the flan close to Claire’s head before withdrawing it again, to the various yelps and cries from the onlookers. Claire was braced in anticipation of the first contact, which seemed to be being endlessly delayed. She even wondered, for a split second, that it wasn’t actually going to happen after all — all a joke to wind her up — when she was jolted back in her chair by an almighty pat of chilly wet cream. She felt a couple of dollops fall onto her lap and lace her neck as the soggy sponge was withdrawn and tossed to the floor. All she felt she could do was gasp and laugh as she wiped cream out of her eyes, her senses, brimming with dairy and sugar. She could see a splat of jam-seamed cream cradled in her lap and just didn’t know what to do with her creamy fingers, instinctively not wanting to get any more on her clothes. Then came the next one, announced by another ice-cold slap square on the face. This one consisted of a thin layer of cream over a lake of sloppy strawberry jam that Claire could feel cascading right down her front. The audience registered this with yelps of mock disgust. She kept her eyes and mouth firmly closed as she felt the base being drawn back over her head before being massaged gently over her scalp; meanwhile more of the pie’s creamy contents were dropping onto her shoulders. She wiped her eyes again and could see the faces of the crowd and felt a kind of hysteria come over her and continued to laugh. She looked down again to see the large slick of jam in her cleavage and down the front of her dress. She felt sticky and a bit wet and sensed the presence of her nipples beneath the dress and weight of the cold preserve. No time for reflection as once again another pie was on its way, this time it was slapped firmly onto her crown. Another cold shock and a sharp intake of breath, but her vision was only affected this time by a curtain of cream that oozed out from it. She wiped this away. Claire could feel that cream and jam were cascading on all sides now. She lifted her arms to remove the plate and the sponge base that the clown had left on her head, her soft hair was plastered with the stuff and some sticky locks clung on as she lifted it away and discarded it by her chair. She couldn’t think of a time when she’d ever, ever been this messy before.
The routine continued with a brief pause in the pieing, Claire wondering, momentarily, that it was over when Chaz the clown produced a soda siphon and threatened the audience with it. She witnessed them recoil as he just as quickly withdrew it and pointed it, to their resounding delight, back towards Claire.
“Looks like you need a wash, Claire”, he shouted.
The soda water fizzed out with some pressure and soaked Claire’s face. The water was freezing but unexpectedly refreshing. The clown waved it around at her cleavage and down at her feet. “Oh, no!” Claire heard herself gasp, partly as a reaction to the cold and partly at the realisation that her shoes had got wet and might, too become damaged. The crowd laughed heartily.
Claire was outwardly gasping and laughing and began to squeegee handfuls of slop from her hair and the front of her dress.
“How about a sandwich?” said the Clown. She could sense him behind her approaching shortly before a pie appeared on either side and, with some force, were brought together around her head. Engulfed once again, the sound of the crowd was muted as cream squished into and around her ears. The clown proceeded to smush and massage her head and hair with them until the sponges disintegrated, at which point he discarded the paper plates they had been sitting on.
Just as she attempted to clear her ears, she felt once again the cold slap of a flan against her chest. Another sharp intake of breath as the crowd laughed and cheered and more pies followed. Chaz the clown threw one down in Claire’s lap and then wiped another over her back and shoulders. All she could do was gasp at the sheer audacity. At what point would she insist that this was brought to a stop? Not yet, it seemed. Through her frantic, excited breathing as she cleared her eyes she could see Chaz the clown and he made eye contact with her. His knowing look was frozen in time for a moment. He knew what he was doing and knew she could tolerate just a bit more. It was for charity, after all, wasn’t it?
A fresh pie was duly planted in Claire’s goo marbled face and another particularly jam heavy item was plopped onto her feet. Claire was now goose pimpled and shaky, and covered from head to foot in pie filling and smashed crusts, but continued to giggle with nervous abandon.
“I think it’s time for a wash-down now, Claire,” announced the clown. He produced a weighty looking plastic bucket from behind the table, which was now almost clear of projectiles. “Do you like chocolate?”
Claire, of course, had to nod in agreement and closed her eyes and braced herself as the bucket’s contents were gradually and delectably emptied over her. The sauce was runny, but sticky gooey and wet and Claire felt it gradually engulf her head, and cascade down her hair, shoulders, cleavage, back. It slid over her lap and down her legs. As Chaz the clown gently let the bucket drop over Claire’s head, she was now in darkness, and could barely hear anything, her ears still full of gloop from the pie sandwich. She felt completely soaked to the skin and the wet was now right through her knickers at the back and was seeping through to her crotch at the front.
The bucket was shortly removed and Claire was invited to stand, hand held aloft by Chaz the clown as would befit a champion boxer. The crowd cheered and Claire couldn’t help but feel in her heightened state, somewhat ecstatic. Chaz gave her a towel and, with the help of the soda siphon, a couple of quick bursts cleared her ears enough to hear again.
During the next few minutes, Claire was photographed with various cheques and asked how she ‘felt’ by the local TV news, to which she repeatedly replied, “Very messy!” She was cheered and congratulated by everyone as she was lead indoors over waiting plastic sheets to the bathroom at the vicarage where she shut the door behind her.
She regarded herself in the mirror for a second time that day, but this time she was faced with a brown, gooey, bedraggled mess. Her hair hung in sticky rat’s tails, the costly dress and cardigan were reduced to wrinkled, glistening creamy brown cloths that clung to her body. And her beautiful shoes, that she had just been squelching around in were clearly not going to see another day. She prized them off and was about to undress when, through the noise of the continuing festivities outside, she heard a knock at the door.
Roll on part II!