Princess Grace of Monaco
July 1998
PRINCESS GRACE OF MONACO
Once in a generation, maybe not even that often, is born to a rich guy in Philadelphia a girl child so pretty, so perfect, so downright untouchable, that he names her Grace, and this is the child who grows up to be the paragon we have come to know as Prince Grace of Monaco. Before Princess Grace was Princess Grace, she was Grace Kelly, the prettiest and most perfect Mainline Deb who ever came down the Schulkyll Expressway. But don’t get me wrong. Grace may have been perfect, and I’m talking 1940’s and ‘50’s perfect, which was way more perfect than shitty ol’ befouled 1990’s perfect, but she wasn’t so perfect and clean she wouldn’t commit The Act of Darkness.
This is what made Grace so fab. She had the platinum hair, just so. She had the turned up nose that she was born with---she didn't have to resort to cheap medical tricks to get hers. She had the perfectly proportioned body, toned with country club sports like swimming, tennis, golf, and making out in Packard limos. She had that Catholic girl thing going for her, with the cross with the dead Jesus around her neck. You can be sure that Grace didn’t wear a big ol’ scary low-caste Goth cross. Hers, if she wore it at all, had to have been dainty and gold and delicate and tasteful and classy. And this cross said that her sex thing was a special thing, a protected and consecrated thing, not available to just any slob with a dime for a taxi dance.
Now bear with me, because I’m going somewhere with this, somewhere special. Grace had that exquisitely tasty, consecrated, rich girl sex thing which said: Don’t even THINK about it, shit head! You’re never going to come within a hundred miles of my patoochie! You’re just not good enough! You know what you’d have to have to even get within sniffing distance of what I have? First of all, one million billion jillion dollars. Second, you better be famous, a king among men, an all-around hotshot. Third, you better be sexy and suave and debonair and able to order a martini at 21 with an olive, and aplomb. Fourth, you better have damned sharp wheels. Some hopped up, off-the-rack, Chevy or Ford will not do, my friend. This girl doesn’t take a tumble for just any yabo off the street!
Here’s the thing about Grace. She was that one girl in a million whose shit didn’t stink. I know what what your father told you: That no matter how beautiful a girl is, no matter how much you worship her, no matter how shiny her hair is, no matter how daintily she minces through rain-puddled streets, no matter how delightfully perfumed her shampooed tresses are, her shit still stinks. And that’s a great truth that I normally wouldn’t dispute.
But there ARE exceptions. Exceptions who come along once in a generation or maybe even less often than that. Exceptions with fabulous little short noses and gorgeous green eyes and perfectly platinumed hair. Such a one was Grace. The woman simply didn’t shit shit. She shitted melon balls and little sweet-smelling packets jammed with nutmeg and citrus products and oriental spices and sandalwood shavings. Myrrh and frankincense, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. That’s what you woulda found in the bowl if you had happened to use it after Grace if she had happened to forget to flush.
And my sources tell me that DID often forget to flush because, because, she was DIFFERENT. Because she KNEW that anyone who happened to come upon what she had made after she had made it would be GRATEFUL to her for NOT flushing. Because what she made was unlike almost anything that any other mortal babe in the history of mankind had ever made in all the long generations of humans-taking-dumps. Something special. Something like ambergris, whale puke, worth its weight in gold, prized by perfumiers the world round.
But I’m not going to stop there. It wasn’t just that Grace’s shit didn’t stink. It was also that she deigned to share herself with us, the unwashed masses. You see, normally, a fabulously perfect rich girl like Grace wouldn’t want to expose herself to the attentions of scum. What do they need us for? It’s us who wish we were them, not vice versa. But Grace was different. She stepped out of her perfect world of class, country clubs, martinis, good dye jobs, and hot rich-people-sex, and into the foul, foul, corruption which is Hollywood.
Why? Because she was a good Catholic girl who knew we needed her. She saw that we were horny and had no class. She realized that she could bring a ray of sunshine into our dark, troglodytic, existences.
That’s why Grace became a movie star. Do you think she needed the money? Hell no! Her daddy was rich. Do you think she needed the attention? The girl couldn’t step onto her front porch without a gaggle of lustful jillionaires trying to get a sniff of her perfumed behind. Why, then, did Princess Grace subject herself to the slimy gropings of studio execs and paparazzi and dykey wardrobe mistresses and over-eager autograph hounds? Because she had a heart as big as all outdoors. Because what she had was too good to keep to herself.
Grace was like Mother Theresa. They were both good Catholic girls, but Grace probably endured a busier and more varied sex life. What they shared was a desire to uplift the downtrodden, or at least give them a sniff of what they were missing. Mother Theresa crept into the slums of Calcutta and embraced the suppurating sores of lepers. Grace plunged into the sewers of Warner Brothers and 20th Century Fox and became a sexworker for God.
Because of her work, Grace had to ball a lot of guys who were not in her class. That’s just the way it goes in Whoreywood. Actresses schtupp their leading men. Grace got it on with Gary Cooper, and Clark Gable, and William Holden, and even Der Bingle himself, Bing Crosby. She also made a movie with Jimmy Stewart, but it’s hard to imagine that they got it on because Jimmy loved his wife Gloria with a love which was faithful and true. Still, you never know. Things are different for hotshot movie stars. Maybe they’ve found a way to fool around with the leading ladies and still be faithful to their wives. You just never know.
Anyhow, Grace must have suffered hideously while those big, famous, lugs sweated over her perfect body, licking sweat from behind her shell-like ears, sucking on her perfectly manicured toes, getting lost in the spun gold of her tresses, taking her roughly from behind like the evil hound-dogs they were. But she was party to those innumerable Acts of Darkness because she loved US, the fans, the huddled masses, the lumpen proles. In order to do her best work in front of the camera, in order to get the fire and ice up there on the forty-foot screen, Grace had to talk the talk and walk the walk.
It wasn’t enough that she be dropped off in a limo at the studio gates and then be carted back to her rich-girl world when the long day’s shooting was done. No. For Grace to do this movie star thing right, she actually had to be INTIMATE with show folk. She exchanged bodily fluids with the aforementioned scum. She allowed those stud-muffins to soil her perfect body in the privacy of her boudoir, on the moonlit greens of the Los Angeles Country Club, on the Plains of the Serengheti, in Santa Barbara resort hotels, while snorkeling in the Caribbean, in barber chairs which permitted any number of angles and adjustments, under the boardwalk, on the decks of tuna trawlers, and just about anywhere else you can imagine. And when those horny bastards roughly took our darling Grace, do you think she enjoyed one single solitary moment of their ministrations?
HELL no! This was Grace Kelly, good Catholic girl. Sure, she might delight in a night wrestle in a Mainline jillionaire’s Bucks County gazebo, because that jillionaire was a righteous part of her girlish world. But those lowlife movie stars who helped themselves to heaping handfuls of her lightly perspiring, golden body were as foreign to her as Venusians would be to us. When Grace Kelly banged, and was banged by, Clark Gable in a darkened studio dressing room, it was as strange to Grace as if she had been taken up in a flying saucer and forced to do rude, crude, and uncouth things with an extra-terrestrial---an extra-terrestrial who probed her perfect, golden, lightly perspiring body in all her most private and delightful crevices.
Now think about it. Grace probably gave head to some of those horny movie apes. She probably got stinking drunk with them and then laid back and let them tongue her from stem to stern. She probably did stuff so sordid and untoward that she pretended to forget ever having done it. But you can be sure she NEVER ENJOYED ONE SECOND OF ALL HER SEXY ADVENTURES. Why? Because she was Grace Kelly, good Catholic girl.
Grace had been trained by special, sex-hating nuns to loathe pre-marital sex and pre-marital men. And it wasn’t just pre-marital sex she had been trained to hate with a passion, with a vengeance; it wasn’t just pre-marital sex she equated with self-crucifixion and Christian martyrdom. She also abhorred marital sex. THAT’S the hallmark of a really good Catholic girl. Especially a really good Irish Catholic girl. Every time she did it with Prince Rainier she hated it…hated it, hated it, hated it….reminding herself she was only doing it for procreation, or as part of her connubial duty and obligation to her husband. Because she was a good girl, the BEST girl, the prettiest and most perfect colleen.
But she went ahead and had lots of pre-marital sex anyway. She had sex with jillionaires and movie stars and ballboys and busboys and stableboys---not because she enjoyed it, because she didn’t, she was repulsed by it and felt soiled by it, but because she loved US, her lowly filthy fans, with all her perfectly coiffed head and heart and soul. She did it all for us, but are we grateful. Sadly, many of us are not. We’re so needy and self-absorbed that we cannot bear to realize the sacrifices that Grace made on our behalf. We wallow in cesspools, but when we look up, we see the stars, we see Grace, little understanding the suffering and stains that she endured so that we might be lifted upward from our benighted, apelike, plights.
And I’ll tell you something else. When Grace had extra-marital sex, she hated that, too. But that didn’t stop her from having plenty of it---for OUR sakes, God love her. And if she had out-lived that hound dog hubby of hers and had post-marital sex, she would have hated ever minute of that, every groan, every moan, every droplet of sweat, every steamy endearment. But that wouldn’t have stopped her from having plenty of it---once again, for OUR sakes.
Because that’s the kind of girl Grace was. A good Catholic girl. A very very good Irish Catholic girl. The kind of girl who was too pure and pretty and rich and fit and class and retroussee and fragrant for this filthy, carnal, septic tank we call Earth. But the kind of girl who allowed herself to be ravished by the bodies and imaginations of her lessers, no matter how much it repulsed her to do so, because a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. Grace so loved her fans that she gave her only begotten, way way perfect body, that our souls might be redeemed, or at least partially refunded. And now she’s gone. But the memory of her sacrifice shall live forever on screen, in fanzines, in the lubricious and heavily publicized lives of her offspring, and in the inflamed imaginations of us, her insatiable fans. Father, forgive us, for we know not what she did for our sakes. And even if we do know, there’s no way we can adequately thank her for allowing us to have a second chance at a sex life, vicariously, through hers. Amen.
PRAYERFUL POST SCRIPT: When Grace tumbled to her death, flying off a narrow mountain road into the bottom of that Riviera ravine in her luxurious, leather-lined, Mercedes, she gave her last gasp for us. We, the unwashed and yearning millions, had been living through her for decades, and she was quite used up.
Grace, sick to death of crucifying herself to satisfy her public’s bottomless appetite, must have longed mightily for the end. She probably yearned for the end so terribly that she put a hoodoo on her own poor brain as she sat behind the wheel. The hoodoo burst a blood vessel, causing a ministroke and forcing her to drive fast and wild and out of control around a narrow hairpin turn and voila!, suddenly she and her playgirl daughter Stephanie were airborne, sailing over a narrow gorge. Grace’s deathwish was limited to herself, so it was she alone who suffered the fatal blow when the Benz hit the bottom. Stephanie escaped with cuts and bruises, free to live another day as the heiress, along with her sister Caroline, of her mother’s heavy legacy. Now Grace’s fans try to live through her daughters’ madcap tabloid antics, but this, of course, is impossible, because the daughters lack their mother’s icy purity. Yes, they have her brow, her magnificent physique. But they also carry the genes of their Gaullic, sensualist, father. They are clearly committed to carnal pleasure, unalloyed by the exquisite reservations of asceticism. Their juicy, hungry lips say so, their lupine eyes, avid for playboys and romantic misadventures, say it again.
Beautiful as they are, they lack what their mother had, a magnificent ambivalence. Grace was torn apart by the wolf of lust, which she both loathed and loved. We, her fans and devourers, danced in her heart, where lust and repulsion threatened to tear her apart. Finally, we trampled her and she was no more. Now she belongs to the ages, or at least, to the pages….of the tabloids and coffee table books…and to our own prurient imaginations.
If we want to return again to the cool, anguished, paradise which was Grace, we can depend no more on current bulletins, but must refer to our memories. There, in our records of the past, Grace will always be breaking the surface of aquamarine waters with her crown of gold; there, thanks to the images she surrendered to Unholywood’s invasive lenses, she will never stop flirting with a wheel-chair-bound Jimmy, leaving poor Gary to face alone a trainful of thugs at high noon, fretting that Bill will be shot down over the Bridges of Toko-Ri. In our memories, Grace will always be 25 and the perfect mix of virgin and slut, movie star and heiress, insouciant snob and calculating social climber.
We study her perfect brow and try to fathom what was going on inside her head and finally find nothing but our own feverish thoughts and desires……lethally projected onto hers…..
----FIN----
PRINCESS GRACE OF MONACO
Once in a generation, maybe not even that often, is born to a rich guy in Philadelphia a girl child so pretty, so perfect, so downright untouchable, that he names her Grace, and this is the child who grows up to be the paragon we have come to know as Prince Grace of Monaco. Before Princess Grace was Princess Grace, she was Grace Kelly, the prettiest and most perfect Mainline Deb who ever came down the Schulkyll Expressway. But don’t get me wrong. Grace may have been perfect, and I’m talking 1940’s and ‘50’s perfect, which was way more perfect than shitty ol’ befouled 1990’s perfect, but she wasn’t so perfect and clean she wouldn’t commit The Act of Darkness.
This is what made Grace so fab. She had the platinum hair, just so. She had the turned up nose that she was born with---she didn't have to resort to cheap medical tricks to get hers. She had the perfectly proportioned body, toned with country club sports like swimming, tennis, golf, and making out in Packard limos. She had that Catholic girl thing going for her, with the cross with the dead Jesus around her neck. You can be sure that Grace didn’t wear a big ol’ scary low-caste Goth cross. Hers, if she wore it at all, had to have been dainty and gold and delicate and tasteful and classy. And this cross said that her sex thing was a special thing, a protected and consecrated thing, not available to just any slob with a dime for a taxi dance.
Now bear with me, because I’m going somewhere with this, somewhere special. Grace had that exquisitely tasty, consecrated, rich girl sex thing which said: Don’t even THINK about it, shit head! You’re never going to come within a hundred miles of my patoochie! You’re just not good enough! You know what you’d have to have to even get within sniffing distance of what I have? First of all, one million billion jillion dollars. Second, you better be famous, a king among men, an all-around hotshot. Third, you better be sexy and suave and debonair and able to order a martini at 21 with an olive, and aplomb. Fourth, you better have damned sharp wheels. Some hopped up, off-the-rack, Chevy or Ford will not do, my friend. This girl doesn’t take a tumble for just any yabo off the street!
Here’s the thing about Grace. She was that one girl in a million whose shit didn’t stink. I know what what your father told you: That no matter how beautiful a girl is, no matter how much you worship her, no matter how shiny her hair is, no matter how daintily she minces through rain-puddled streets, no matter how delightfully perfumed her shampooed tresses are, her shit still stinks. And that’s a great truth that I normally wouldn’t dispute.
But there ARE exceptions. Exceptions who come along once in a generation or maybe even less often than that. Exceptions with fabulous little short noses and gorgeous green eyes and perfectly platinumed hair. Such a one was Grace. The woman simply didn’t shit shit. She shitted melon balls and little sweet-smelling packets jammed with nutmeg and citrus products and oriental spices and sandalwood shavings. Myrrh and frankincense, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. That’s what you woulda found in the bowl if you had happened to use it after Grace if she had happened to forget to flush.
And my sources tell me that DID often forget to flush because, because, she was DIFFERENT. Because she KNEW that anyone who happened to come upon what she had made after she had made it would be GRATEFUL to her for NOT flushing. Because what she made was unlike almost anything that any other mortal babe in the history of mankind had ever made in all the long generations of humans-taking-dumps. Something special. Something like ambergris, whale puke, worth its weight in gold, prized by perfumiers the world round.
But I’m not going to stop there. It wasn’t just that Grace’s shit didn’t stink. It was also that she deigned to share herself with us, the unwashed masses. You see, normally, a fabulously perfect rich girl like Grace wouldn’t want to expose herself to the attentions of scum. What do they need us for? It’s us who wish we were them, not vice versa. But Grace was different. She stepped out of her perfect world of class, country clubs, martinis, good dye jobs, and hot rich-people-sex, and into the foul, foul, corruption which is Hollywood.
Why? Because she was a good Catholic girl who knew we needed her. She saw that we were horny and had no class. She realized that she could bring a ray of sunshine into our dark, troglodytic, existences.
That’s why Grace became a movie star. Do you think she needed the money? Hell no! Her daddy was rich. Do you think she needed the attention? The girl couldn’t step onto her front porch without a gaggle of lustful jillionaires trying to get a sniff of her perfumed behind. Why, then, did Princess Grace subject herself to the slimy gropings of studio execs and paparazzi and dykey wardrobe mistresses and over-eager autograph hounds? Because she had a heart as big as all outdoors. Because what she had was too good to keep to herself.
Grace was like Mother Theresa. They were both good Catholic girls, but Grace probably endured a busier and more varied sex life. What they shared was a desire to uplift the downtrodden, or at least give them a sniff of what they were missing. Mother Theresa crept into the slums of Calcutta and embraced the suppurating sores of lepers. Grace plunged into the sewers of Warner Brothers and 20th Century Fox and became a sexworker for God.
Because of her work, Grace had to ball a lot of guys who were not in her class. That’s just the way it goes in Whoreywood. Actresses schtupp their leading men. Grace got it on with Gary Cooper, and Clark Gable, and William Holden, and even Der Bingle himself, Bing Crosby. She also made a movie with Jimmy Stewart, but it’s hard to imagine that they got it on because Jimmy loved his wife Gloria with a love which was faithful and true. Still, you never know. Things are different for hotshot movie stars. Maybe they’ve found a way to fool around with the leading ladies and still be faithful to their wives. You just never know.
Anyhow, Grace must have suffered hideously while those big, famous, lugs sweated over her perfect body, licking sweat from behind her shell-like ears, sucking on her perfectly manicured toes, getting lost in the spun gold of her tresses, taking her roughly from behind like the evil hound-dogs they were. But she was party to those innumerable Acts of Darkness because she loved US, the fans, the huddled masses, the lumpen proles. In order to do her best work in front of the camera, in order to get the fire and ice up there on the forty-foot screen, Grace had to talk the talk and walk the walk.
It wasn’t enough that she be dropped off in a limo at the studio gates and then be carted back to her rich-girl world when the long day’s shooting was done. No. For Grace to do this movie star thing right, she actually had to be INTIMATE with show folk. She exchanged bodily fluids with the aforementioned scum. She allowed those stud-muffins to soil her perfect body in the privacy of her boudoir, on the moonlit greens of the Los Angeles Country Club, on the Plains of the Serengheti, in Santa Barbara resort hotels, while snorkeling in the Caribbean, in barber chairs which permitted any number of angles and adjustments, under the boardwalk, on the decks of tuna trawlers, and just about anywhere else you can imagine. And when those horny bastards roughly took our darling Grace, do you think she enjoyed one single solitary moment of their ministrations?
HELL no! This was Grace Kelly, good Catholic girl. Sure, she might delight in a night wrestle in a Mainline jillionaire’s Bucks County gazebo, because that jillionaire was a righteous part of her girlish world. But those lowlife movie stars who helped themselves to heaping handfuls of her lightly perspiring, golden body were as foreign to her as Venusians would be to us. When Grace Kelly banged, and was banged by, Clark Gable in a darkened studio dressing room, it was as strange to Grace as if she had been taken up in a flying saucer and forced to do rude, crude, and uncouth things with an extra-terrestrial---an extra-terrestrial who probed her perfect, golden, lightly perspiring body in all her most private and delightful crevices.
Now think about it. Grace probably gave head to some of those horny movie apes. She probably got stinking drunk with them and then laid back and let them tongue her from stem to stern. She probably did stuff so sordid and untoward that she pretended to forget ever having done it. But you can be sure she NEVER ENJOYED ONE SECOND OF ALL HER SEXY ADVENTURES. Why? Because she was Grace Kelly, good Catholic girl.
Grace had been trained by special, sex-hating nuns to loathe pre-marital sex and pre-marital men. And it wasn’t just pre-marital sex she had been trained to hate with a passion, with a vengeance; it wasn’t just pre-marital sex she equated with self-crucifixion and Christian martyrdom. She also abhorred marital sex. THAT’S the hallmark of a really good Catholic girl. Especially a really good Irish Catholic girl. Every time she did it with Prince Rainier she hated it…hated it, hated it, hated it….reminding herself she was only doing it for procreation, or as part of her connubial duty and obligation to her husband. Because she was a good girl, the BEST girl, the prettiest and most perfect colleen.
But she went ahead and had lots of pre-marital sex anyway. She had sex with jillionaires and movie stars and ballboys and busboys and stableboys---not because she enjoyed it, because she didn’t, she was repulsed by it and felt soiled by it, but because she loved US, her lowly filthy fans, with all her perfectly coiffed head and heart and soul. She did it all for us, but are we grateful. Sadly, many of us are not. We’re so needy and self-absorbed that we cannot bear to realize the sacrifices that Grace made on our behalf. We wallow in cesspools, but when we look up, we see the stars, we see Grace, little understanding the suffering and stains that she endured so that we might be lifted upward from our benighted, apelike, plights.
And I’ll tell you something else. When Grace had extra-marital sex, she hated that, too. But that didn’t stop her from having plenty of it---for OUR sakes, God love her. And if she had out-lived that hound dog hubby of hers and had post-marital sex, she would have hated ever minute of that, every groan, every moan, every droplet of sweat, every steamy endearment. But that wouldn’t have stopped her from having plenty of it---once again, for OUR sakes.
Because that’s the kind of girl Grace was. A good Catholic girl. A very very good Irish Catholic girl. The kind of girl who was too pure and pretty and rich and fit and class and retroussee and fragrant for this filthy, carnal, septic tank we call Earth. But the kind of girl who allowed herself to be ravished by the bodies and imaginations of her lessers, no matter how much it repulsed her to do so, because a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. Grace so loved her fans that she gave her only begotten, way way perfect body, that our souls might be redeemed, or at least partially refunded. And now she’s gone. But the memory of her sacrifice shall live forever on screen, in fanzines, in the lubricious and heavily publicized lives of her offspring, and in the inflamed imaginations of us, her insatiable fans. Father, forgive us, for we know not what she did for our sakes. And even if we do know, there’s no way we can adequately thank her for allowing us to have a second chance at a sex life, vicariously, through hers. Amen.
PRAYERFUL POST SCRIPT: When Grace tumbled to her death, flying off a narrow mountain road into the bottom of that Riviera ravine in her luxurious, leather-lined, Mercedes, she gave her last gasp for us. We, the unwashed and yearning millions, had been living through her for decades, and she was quite used up.
Grace, sick to death of crucifying herself to satisfy her public’s bottomless appetite, must have longed mightily for the end. She probably yearned for the end so terribly that she put a hoodoo on her own poor brain as she sat behind the wheel. The hoodoo burst a blood vessel, causing a ministroke and forcing her to drive fast and wild and out of control around a narrow hairpin turn and voila!, suddenly she and her playgirl daughter Stephanie were airborne, sailing over a narrow gorge. Grace’s deathwish was limited to herself, so it was she alone who suffered the fatal blow when the Benz hit the bottom. Stephanie escaped with cuts and bruises, free to live another day as the heiress, along with her sister Caroline, of her mother’s heavy legacy. Now Grace’s fans try to live through her daughters’ madcap tabloid antics, but this, of course, is impossible, because the daughters lack their mother’s icy purity. Yes, they have her brow, her magnificent physique. But they also carry the genes of their Gaullic, sensualist, father. They are clearly committed to carnal pleasure, unalloyed by the exquisite reservations of asceticism. Their juicy, hungry lips say so, their lupine eyes, avid for playboys and romantic misadventures, say it again.
Beautiful as they are, they lack what their mother had, a magnificent ambivalence. Grace was torn apart by the wolf of lust, which she both loathed and loved. We, her fans and devourers, danced in her heart, where lust and repulsion threatened to tear her apart. Finally, we trampled her and she was no more. Now she belongs to the ages, or at least, to the pages….of the tabloids and coffee table books…and to our own prurient imaginations.
If we want to return again to the cool, anguished, paradise which was Grace, we can depend no more on current bulletins, but must refer to our memories. There, in our records of the past, Grace will always be breaking the surface of aquamarine waters with her crown of gold; there, thanks to the images she surrendered to Unholywood’s invasive lenses, she will never stop flirting with a wheel-chair-bound Jimmy, leaving poor Gary to face alone a trainful of thugs at high noon, fretting that Bill will be shot down over the Bridges of Toko-Ri. In our memories, Grace will always be 25 and the perfect mix of virgin and slut, movie star and heiress, insouciant snob and calculating social climber.
We study her perfect brow and try to fathom what was going on inside her head and finally find nothing but our own feverish thoughts and desires……lethally projected onto hers…..
----FIN----
posted by mobydoug at 3:37 PM
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