Sometimes I’ll meet a Baldwin, sometimes a baller…I even met a Kennedy back in ’72. But most of the time they look like this:
I love the smell of cheap cologne tossed in refried beans—said no female ever
I’m guessing he hit Taco Bell and half a dozen gorditas before dousing himself in a sexual cocktail of tequila shots, Axe, and Drakar Noir…when that fails to spring his lady trap, boys like him end up here…getting a private lap dance for 25 bucks…tipping optional.
I actually like performing on the main stage. I just pretend I’m doing yoga. You’d think it’d be an Olympic event by now with all the flipping and twirling, spinning and flexing.
Lap dances on the other hand…I can’t even. So much chafing. And this Barney has pit stains, too many buttons undone on his “going out” shirt…which by the way must it always be bedazzled? And are the colors designed to induce vertigo? Perhaps working in concert with the creepy, overly-intense eye contact...to what? Hypnotize me? So I’ll take off my g-string faster? Fall madly in love with him?
Worst of all, he’s riled up. Blood plumps his veins. So close to the surface…I just want to pop him like a Capri Sun.
But I use self-control like a good girl.
Tonight’s Game Night, and I’m just whetting my appetite...
S