“What do you think?”

Constance lifted her leg.

Showed her ass.

Pressed a nippletip between thumb and forefinger. Snapped it like a trigger.

She threw her other arm over her head like a ballerina and aimed a freshly depilated armpit at Veronica’s face.

“You could use a little more of that below the waist, Constance.”

“If you insist,” Constance smirked.

She herky-jerked her clit with her fist.

“No,” Veronica giggled. “I meant the depilatory, silly dolly. Your pussy’s beginning to look like a mangy collie.”

“Thought I’d get a trim this afternoon,” Constance mused. “Not that there’s anything to lose. I’ve got nothing pressing lined up.”

“Still,” Veronica snorted. “You never know when something might pop up.

Besides. You should always take pride in every aspect of your appearance.

Endear yourself to yourself, I always say.”

“Any other criticisms of my physique?”

“Well, the color of your tan seems a little weak. I mean, it’s even and all that. And I know you’re layering it on slowly-”

“I still want to look white,” Constance said, reclining back into sunning position. “You know, there are still a lot of people around who think I’m some kind of spic bitch.”

“Everyone makes mistakes, Constance. And yours was just a little one.”

“Yeah,” Constance blurted. “I married for love. Tell me about it.”

“It might have worked out. If he had, like, changed his name to something-less-uh-more. Tee hee! Something like yours.”

“Right. But you know those Latinos. Arturo Mondragon Bourbon would not have liked to have been known as anything like a Meester Eastwick-Westbrook.”

“In Europe you can get away with that.”

“I’m not exactly royalty-”

“He wasn’t either-not really. Was he?”

“That remains to be seen. In any event, I won’t let it happen again-”