To myself on my 24th birthday.
“Well I ain’t gettin’ any younger,” I replied to my booty (says he’s going to, but never does) call, yesterday. “In fact, today is my last day as a 23-year-old. Wrap your cock and present it to me soon.”
Doubtful that I’ll hear from him before my celebration fades into that of America’s most beloved, tequila-soaked Mexican festivity. Hooking up on a personal holiday would be too much of a commitment for the boi who has made it clear he is “Not interested in what a ‘date’ might imply. [Just] some fun. No strings, sweaty fun.”
Can’t say I’ll turn it down whenever – if he ever – does get around to inviting me to get down, again. On my 8,760th day of life, however, I have accrued enough wisdom to know that I need to cease in contributing to this seduction. It will take some will power, but applying this realization and asserting some self-respect is the best gift I could give myself.
Now on to a rousing evening of adult recess, 24 rounds of flip cup, and the opportunity to replace the aforementioned tease’s number with at least cinco mas.
