3 December 2003
At a Mud Pack Party populated almost entirely by gay men, what great peril might beset the sole female guest?
Without a strong field of candidates for a ravishing behind the rose bushes (if I had rose bushes!), it comes as no great surprise that in reality our hapless guest's greatest hazard was embarrassment. Why? Well, surely at the discovery that with one exception, the blokes at the party knew more about the products on offer than she did! To clarify, I plead guilty to thinking that exfoliating was something a deciduous tree does in the autumn.
As predicted, it was an evening of frivolity. As the mud crept across ever more faces, then gradually set to resemble dry creekbeds, we were treated to such utterances as the muffled, "I can't move, my face is frozen!"
In case you were wondering, Heather reached her sales target by ninety something dollars and tomorrow night becomes an "Executive Sales Leader". Without our mudpacks then, she would have fallen just short! If you were there, thanks for playing a part in her success and if you weren't, THEN EMAIL HER WITH YOUR ORDER!
True to my word, my guests are safe from being publicly mudpacked, so the images you see here are of myself and James only. They're scary enough!