A Bridget Too Far

By Edwin F Jones

London cabaret artiste, Bridget, has a problem. After she is treated with disrespect from her boss, she goes too far with her reaction, leading to the destruction of both her career and personal life. Her further calamities become national entertainment as she is left struggling to return to normality. Unfortunately, her ex-boss has other plans for her future. The question is, how far will Bridget go?

An outrageous comedy of sexual misadventure and the extremities we will go to in the name of love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edwin F Jones
• Release date: Dec 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310705960

Book preview

A Bridget Too Far.

By Edwin F Jones

Copyright 2014 Edwin F Jones

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes Thank you for downloading this eBook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favourite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

Dedication.

For my all family; thank you for giving me the freedom to be myself, the support to get through the tough times and the love to make me see a better future.

Chapter One.

Bridget Brown is down. Even the glare from the bulbs around her dressing room mirror cannot instil a glimmer of joy in her tonight. After the second part of her, as always, spectacular performance in Guy’s Bar she faces a long drive up to Edinburgh. Or rather, Gordon does. She has no idea how Cherry had managed to talk her into this insanity, she is so manipulative, and a total Diva to boot. Cherry is such a control freak that Bridget had once heard that a few months ago Cherry had taken a little too much control and sucked a man’s foreskin right off. Some of the girls blamed her aggressive streak on her parents for making her train for the Highland Games, many others blamed the booze, but mostly we blamed her Scottish blood.

But pleeeeeaaaassse?! Cherry had whined, much in the same way a nine year old might after bravely building up the courage to ask for a glass of wine with dinner, only to be laughed at by their parents.

No! Absolutely and positively NO! Gordon had shouted.

Plea-ea-ea-ea-se! C'mon me wee Darlin'?!

I’ve said NO, leave it out Cherry, I will not do it! Gordon felt a little flush of embarrassment as he stamped his foot, feeling angry that Cherry was bringing him down to the same childish behaviour.

But later that evening, while Bridget was getting dressed, she decided to overrule Gordon, purely out of her love of performance. It had been a while since she was last in Edinburgh and it was festival season. Cherry was ill, that was plain to see. Her lip liner was drawn on a wonky angle, and at many points, ran over the edge of the lipstick. She was just short of having a lipstick mark on her teeth to complete the transformation into her mother.

Bridget and Cherry had been the best of friends ever since the night that Cherry had kicked the shit out of Ben. Bridget reflects over her memories while gently rubbing blush into her cheeks to emphasise her distinctive high cheek bones.

It was four years ago now. Ben was Gordon's cousin. He had never been fond of him. Bridget had never met him. It had happened during one of Bridget's first ever shows, where she simply acted as a backing singer for an ageing Cher impersonator. It was the first time that she had been photographed to appear on the posters and flyers, which had been what prompted Ben to do what he did, probably spurred on by his conservative and religious mother. Ben had hurled false and damning accusations to a shocked and embarrassed Bridget during the show, for which he was promptly thrown out of the venue. Bridget was none the wiser that, as the show continued, Ben had been placing photocopied pictures showing a fully nude young Gordon on the posters outside. He had removed the head from the old photo's so that he could stick them to the posters with Bridget's head attached to Gordon's body. Cherry had gone out for a cigarette, and when she saw what it was the Ben was doing, she turned on Ben. Something that he had shouted to the stage earlier had struck a nerve with Cherry, and now she had the full entirety of her pent up rage let loose on Ben. It took three passersby to pull Cherry away from the fight, and Ben was quite badly injured. Not as badly injured as he looked, for, as they had been fighting, Cherry's sweat had taken her rather heavily applied eye shadow (ironically named bruised red) and this had splattered all over Ben's face. After the show, Bridget had found Cherry at the bar.

Are you Cherry?

Aye Darlin'. Wha'ov it?

I'm Bridget. It was my cousin that you beat up. I want to buy you a drink.

The connection between them was instant. They spent most of the night talking. And not just the usual drag-queen topics, but meaningful conversations about families and relationships, and after several cocktails they talked until closing time about the meaning of life. They left for their separate taxi's waiting for them outside, passing through the brighter lights of the entrance, and as they walked side by side, Bridget noticed that there was some blood splattered on Cherries woollen shrug. Cherry, let me take it to wash, it's the least I can do... Bridget had offered.

This auld thing? Don'ye worry aboo' it darlin'. It's so the season before last that I shooda throon i'out. Bu' it me favourite, llama wool which I sprayed with silver glitter.

I guess that makes you.. Bridget slurs. ...my Knight in shining llama!

It had been from that moment on that the pair had become inseparable, eventually moving into an apartment together. The downside to this arrangement had been Cherry's manipulative nature and Bridget's inability to say 'no'. Her mind wanders over the conversation just yesterday, which had led Bridget to agreeing to do the Edinburgh show .

I’ve warmed up some soup for you. Bridget had gently said before walking through the door into their living room. She plastered the biggest fake smile that she could muster. Experience had taught her that when Cherry is told no too many times that you enter the room cautiously and at your own peril.

Cherry was curled up on the sofa, and looked up at Bridget with mascara runs down from her much softer than usual blue eyes. She gave a little grin, which sent a tiny shiver of fear down Bridget’s spine.

Thank ye. Cherry said, sitting up. 'Av ye changed yer mind aboot daein' 'e show?

For a split second, the pulses and throbs in Bridget’s brain said ‘tell her no...’ Oh, how wicked! She wanted so much to snigger, but it would give the game away. But imagine the reaction! It was too good an opportunity to pass up at; Cherry’s hissy fits were legendary entertainment, enjoyed, it seems, by all except Cherry.

She placed the tray with the bowl of soup and a glass of bloody mary onto Cherry’s lap and took a large step back, before taking a deep breath and with just the tiniest hint of a smirk to her lips said No.

The scream from Cherry’s mouth felt as though it came from the very depths of torture, the flames burst wild within her eyes and the tray, soup and bloody mary were flung dangerously close to the window, with a sharp clang of the silver tray, and a shrill blast from the shattered glass, thick red juice reaching almost to the high ceilings, the green pea soup falling to the floor, splattering the beige but already stained carpet. DO E' FUR ME YOU FECKING BITCH! She screamed, her eyes emitting a laser beam that would make ordinary folk run for the hills. But not Bridget, whom was far from ordinary, the explosion of laughter tore from her stomach sending her into a doubled up posture.

Cherry started growling like a dog with every exaggerated breath, and this only served Bridget a reason to laugh harder, and so deep that she gasped for breath. It was only the fear of making herself cry that stopped her from the full force of her little joke; she did not want to go through that make-up routine again before the show.

I’ll do it! She gasped out.

Aye? Cherry asked, her mood instantly lightening up like a fat girl sipping on a diet coke.

Say no again!

Now, that would be practically suicide; Cherry’s mood swings had a government safety limit of just one per day.

Yes, I’ll really do it. Just so long as you clear up that mess before I get back on Tuesday. Bridget had said, pointing a wiggling finger, laced with many overbearing rings and tipped with what could be confused as bright red dragon claws, as she scanned the entirety of Cherry’s face.

Her thoughts are interrupted with the suddenly boisterous opening of her dressing room door.

Come on Bridget! Guy yells as he bursts his way in.

All right, I’m coming! There’s nothing like building up the anticipation in this place, is there? She snaps, grabbing the now warm glass and glugging the last of her Jizz Juice cocktail, thirsty from the stuffy heat of the atmosphere inside the windowless dressing room, which smells of the sweat of a football team mixed with the grace of Coco Chanel’s number 5.

Guy just scolds at her, and as she passes him on her way out the door, she feels a sudden and stinging smack onto her right buttock. Fuck! she yells as she trips on her full length blue sequined dress with her awkwardly high heels. Her ankle twists as she goes down and she lets out a cry of pain.

She looks up to see Guy laughing at her. A shudder of pain leaps through her heart, she actually thought that Guy was a great boss, and a good business man. With him at this bar, Bridget could develop her act with a loose method of accounting. The bigger that her act became, the bigger the crowds, which put more and more money in the tills. She had been filling Guy’s Friday night slot for the past eight weeks now. She was just about to book her appointment to get her real breasts put in and felt confident that she could pass it off as a show expense. But she never had Guy down as such a dominant boss. He had, until now, shown her great respect for her work, and great appreciation too.

And that’s why men should never wear high heels! Guy roars. Bridget feels her heart stop for a beat, her ears shocked at the comment that she would not expect from the owner of a Drag Queen cabaret club. Now get out there and make them DRINK!

Bridget says nothing, tries to stand, not realising that her heel is now firmly attached to her dress. As she stands with defiance, aiming to glare the same death beam that Cherry could, straight into the eyes of Guy, her dress tugs hard against her recently slapped bottom and the dreaded sound of ripping accompanied with a gust of refreshingly cool air against her stinging cheek. Her laser beam only just reaches Guy’s eyes, just in time for him to see her fury followed rather too soon by her embarrassment and humiliation of having her bare buttock exposed.

And that is why men should never wear a g-string! Her brain tells her, in the voice of Gordon.

Oh yes! Do the show like that! Guy laughs, pointing to her buttock. You can actually see my hand print!

Ha! He’s admitting to smacking me! Show them, show your loyal fans what a bastard he is! He’ll soon regret it...

And with a carefully calculated turn that would make sure that she didn’t see herself in the mirror, Bridget spins around and heads for the stage, where the other performers are waiting for the second half of the show to begin.

Gentlemen, and gentlemen dressed as ladies, Lady Bra Bra says into the off stage microphone, delivering, as always, a louder cooing sound from the audience. This pause gives Bridget her opportunity to seize the microphone from Lady Bra Bra.

I’ll do it. Bridget whispers. She takes a deep breath. Please welcome back your fabulously fruity host, and just recently sexually abused by her own fucking boss, Miss Bridget Brown! She keeps an eye on the door to the stage, knowing that Guy will have heard that in the corridor. The crowd are roaring and Bridget has built up enough energy to zap her laser beam once again. She stares intently on the door, carefully picking the focus point that she believes will be where she will make first eye contact with Guy the very second that he walks through that door. Right on cue, the door flies open and Guy’s furious eyes are greeted by a stare that would make your brains explode with fear. Bridget times the transition from stone cold hatred to falsely happy with an over-the-top fake smile, turns from the rapidly approaching Guy, and steps out onto the stage. She side steps many curtsies to her applauding audience, keen not to show her buttock until just the right time. When she is perfectly central she glances into the wings to see Guy standing calmly, yet with such ferocity in his eyes that Bridget knows that she has taken it too far. She thinks to herself that she better go out with a bang.

I hope that you’ve had a nice little spanking during the interval. I myself have been spanked so hard by Guy that his hand print remains on my buttock, see? She turns and bends over and the crowd roars with laughter. She spins back round sharply glaring at her tormenters. I’m not joking, my boss really did do this to me. She yells, in a higher and more hysterical pitch, much to the amusement of the audience. So you think that it’s funny when a lady such as I gets assaulted do you? Shall I start auctioning off my left buttock for the highest bidder to spank? This only serves more reason for the crowd to laugh. She sighs as she realises you’re a man in a dress, no one will take you seriously.

Well fuck the lot of you. She says, throwing the microphone onto the floor. As she storms off, nearly to her exit, and her inevitable clash with Guy, her mind pings a line that would at least keep her sense of pride, so she turns back around, plasters on her smile and walks elegantly back to the microphone. She is conscious of bending down with grace and dignity, by keeping her knees together and twisting slightly sideways as she dips down, keeping her torso vertical and her chest pumped toward to the crowd. She sweeps her arms majestically, much as a swan extends its wings, and scoops up the microphone. She thinks for a moment that she has pulled it off, but her balance is slightly off as she goes to stand, tripping backward slightly, but holding on. Her face is joyous like an exaggeratedly happy clown as her mind runs over the genius line that she will deliver. She stands with such gusto and force, like a phoenix from the ashes of humiliation, and as she does so, the remaining bottom half of her dress tears clean off and she stands upright to reveal her left testicle hanging from the side of her g-string. The audience go wild with laughter and for some reason Bridget feels the start an erection for the first time in eight years.

She runs off the stage, almost in the tears of humiliation, pushing her way passed Guy, who is laughing too hard to shout at Bridget. She runs into the dressing room, scooping up all of her belongings into her travel bag and runs out to her car. She is quick to pull away, trying to concentrate; there is a lot of traffic heading out of Soho and the streets are filled with large crowds of people, some a little too tipsy, and this makes Bridget a little nervous. Her mind is consumed with the rage of injustice which she feels towards Guy; she questions whether or not to go to the police, but her mind tells her that they will take her just as seriously as the punters in the bar did. What the hell had got into him? Bridget cannot decide if it is better or worse by the fact that Guy is straight, as if it would be okay to be sexually abused by your boss if he was genuinely sexually attracted to you, but Bridget feels that in this instance Guy has behaved with nothing more than cock-teasing and hetro-intimidation. Well, Bridget decides to play one final card, the fat lady singing card; it will deliver some justice to Bridget. Thinking deeper about it, it is a justice that she can achieve without all the hassle of dealing with the police, which in her experience always ended up being just a waste of time anyway.

She worries (as she so often does) that she is taking it too far. Perhaps she should follow Gordon's method of thinking; logical, rational and without malice. She approaches a fork in the road at Camden Town and with a elongated sigh of self deflation she moves over to the right hand lane, heading back towards home, Kentish Town, where her and Cherry live, to get changed and collect her things for her trip to Edinburgh. But as she passes the Black Cap to her left, her mind retreats to the period of her life not too long ago when Guy had persuaded her to give up her regular hostess job at the Black Cap to work for him. It had been hard going for Bridget to build enough of an act to get a job at the Cap, it is famous for its top cabaret acts, and now she had no idea of what work would come her way. Probably more of the boring corporate events, which for years had torn Bridget away from the mainstream scene, harsh work for when you are trying to build a loyal following. She has a flush of anger towards Guy. Her mind is consumed with rage and she justifies to herself that she will enact her revenge, and suddenly moves back over to the left hand lane, almost hitting a taxi, and heads toward Hampstead, accelerating to pass the amber traffic light before it turns red, leaving behind the sound of the taxi's horn ringing in her ears.

She wastes no time in getting to her destination, pulling up outside the three story town house and gets out of the car. She feels a moment of embarrassment as two passersby notice her strange outfit, her top half still in her elegant and lavish dress, and the bottom half in a pair of muddy jogging bottoms, left in her car by a young man from Essex that she had met on Hampstead Heath a few months ago. The man’s wife would have questioned him as to how he had got so muddy, so he had left them in Bridget’s car. To complete the image, her feet still donned her stilettos.

She paces furiously toward the red front door, her shoes clacking loudly and echoing down the quiet street, up a couple of steps, and pounds on the door with a heavy brass handle. She turns for a quick scan of the street behind her. Two passersby have stopped near to Bridget’s car, one of them pretending to be looking for something in her handbag. Across the street, there are another two onlookers, not hiding the fact that they are interested in what is going on.

The door opens just a little and Gloria stands for a moment glancing out of the slight gap.

Bridget? She asks.

Yes, I’m Bridget Brown. You remember; I work for your husband, Guy.

Yes, of course I remember you; we met at his birthday party. Are you okay? Gloria asks, opening the door a little more, but with slightly more suspicion.

Not really. Bridget replies. I thought that you might like to know that Guy sexually abused me tonight.

Gloria lets out a little chuckle and opens the door a little more. She gauges the onlookers on the street.

What’s so fucking funny about that? Bridget yells. Your husband sexually abused me!

Please, keep your voice down. Would you like to come inside to discuss this in private?

No. These people here, Bridget says as she swings round with her arm extended to highlight the expanding audience have heard my accusation and seen that you laughed at it. I’m sure that they too would like to know why it is that you laughed?

Well, Gloria says with another little chuckle you don’t honestly believe that he would, do you? With you? My husband likes women, and you are a man! she lets out another little laugh as she gauges the audiences’ reaction. Now if you don’t mind, please take your paranoid hysteria away from our house before I call the police.

Over here sweet’eart, I’ll take you away for a little sexual abuse! A man yells from the opposite pavement. You’d like that, love! He belly chuckles with his fat friend.

Bridget snaps her head round to face the man. Fat man, baby dick. That's the rule, trust me, I’ve seen enough to know. Judging by the size of your gut, I wouldn’t feel a thing if you sexually abused my bellybutton. Bridget returns her attention back to Gloria. Deny it all you want, I came here to let you know what your husband has done. Perhaps you should ask him yourself before dismissing me. Have a wonderful evening.

Bridget storms back to her car as the fat man gives her a wolf whistle. She gets in and drives off, heading back home.

It takes her only ten minutes to reach her apartment complex, her pent up rage diminished by some speedy driving. As she pulls into the car park, she spots what looks distinctively like Guy’s car. Surely not? But just to be sure, she uses her mobile to text Cherry. She waits for just a few moments for the reply.

Yes it’s Guy, he wants to talk to you. What shall I tell him? Xxx

Good question. Bridget thinks it through it in her mind, the idea of a showdown is appealing to Bridget’s pent up anger at Guy’s wife for not taking her seriously. And maybe Guy wants to apologise. He is a good boss and Bridget really does like working at his bar. Perhaps she’ll let him grovel for a bit, before making some demands. What would be her demands? How far can she push him?

As Bridget gets lost in thought she gets distracted by shouting. It’s Guy that she can hear, he is on his phone just outside the door to the apartment block, walking directly towards her car. Bridget ducks down in her seat to avoid being spotted.

"... I don’t know