Naked Truths by Jo Carnegie Page B

glasses, bushy eyebrows and a large hairy mole on her left cheek. The man obediently stood up and went round the desk. He looked at least a foot shorter than the woman, and as skinny as a schoolboy. He stood there limply as she undressed him.
    As if in slow motion, Caro watched the woman push him on the bed and climb on top. It was like a hippopotamus mounting a field mouse. Her huge white thighs almost covering his entire body, she started furiously rocking back and forth.
    â€˜Oh my God!’ Caro came to her senses and yanked the curtains shut. She stood there, not quite believing what she’d just witnessed.
    The bedside phone rang, and Caro went to answer it. ‘Hello?’
    â€˜Darling, is that you? You sound a bit odd.’ It was her mother.
    Caro sat down on the bed and began to giggle. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Oh, my goodness!’
    â€˜What are you laughing at?’
    â€˜Mummy, you really don’t want to know! All I can say is, I’ve just seen the game “doctors and nurses” taken to a whole new level.’
    On Monday evening Harriet decided to go for her first ever run. She’d gone out that lunchtime to Lillywhites, the huge sports shop at Piccadilly Circus, and on the advice of the gum-chewing shop girl, invested in new trainers, an extremely short pair of cycling shorts, and a ‘Shock Absorber’ sports bra. It certainly did give one a shock, Harriet thought, as she struggled to get it over her head. She could hardly breathe! At least it was all so tightly packed there was no chance of unwanted movement. She gave herself a quick once-over in the mirror and, rather alarmed by the amount of flesh on display, set off.
    It had been an overcast day, and the sky was drab shades of black and grey as Harriet headed for the large park several streets down from her flat. After a few uncertain stretches on the path, she set off one way at a leisurely pace. The park was quite busy, as fellow-runners pounded past her and people wandered home from work. Harriet made her way past an ornamental lake with ducks floating lazily on the surface, thrusting their heads under the water intermittently. Things seemed to be going OK so far! Encouraged, Harriet glanced at her watch. She had been running for three minutes and twenty-seven seconds.
    Two gorgeous young women approached from the other direction, each in tiny outfits showing off their Paris Hilton-like physiques. Deep in conversation, they glided past like two graceful gazelles on the Serengeti.
    After five minutes, Harriet started to struggle. By ten minutes it felt like her lungs were on fire, her legs two dead weights underneath. As she rounded a corner, she could see a group of well-built young men standing around on the grass. One of them was holding a rugby ball. A few turned to stare as Harriet approached. She adopted a determined expression; what was that she’d read in
Zest
magazine about pumping your arms to run faster?
    â€˜Check out Paula Radcliffe!’ one cheered.
    â€˜Did you know your arse is hanging out?’ shouted another. The group hooted with laughter.
    Flustered, Harriet put on a final sprint to the fading sounds of catcalls. Rounding the corner, she came to a shuddering halt and gingerly felt her behind. To her utter mortification, her shorts had ridden up and her right buttock was hanging out. Face bright red, and not just from the physical exertion, she fled home. From now on, she was wearing tracksuit bottoms.
    An hour later, Harriet was sitting in front of the television with a large, straw-gold glass of Chardonnay. Now her face had returned to its normal colour and the bum-flashing episode was fading by the minute, she was feeling rather good about herself. Must be all those endorphins; Harriet vowed to go running twice a week from now on. There was something else she had been meaning to do as well. Reaching over to the coffee table, she turned on her laptop.
    A homepage flashed up, dozens of