Ain’t (tat)too bad I didn’t do that.
Back in college, I had the bongrilliant idea to ink the title of the 1940s jazz standard, “I got it bad and that ain’t good,” on my inner thigh.
Then I woke up – amongst a fall out of cheese puff powder – and recognized the slew of incurable STDs that particular strain of lyrics might imply. Thankfully so, because no matter how good a(n un)certain number of Los Angelenos can attest me to be, there ain’t many anywhere who would still want it bad after unveiling such a flagrant forewarner. At least not without proof of recently and officially documented sexual health.
A jungle cat it is, then. An ode to my carnal ferocity AND a nod towards my fascination with magnetic and libidinous, middle aged women. All tat jazz…
None of the eluded secretions.
