Sexually interactive. 1:1
Do you suppose…
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Register discount.
“So, you were right,” my friend Mercedes finally conceded the other night. “She’s…”
“Busted,” I reiterated what I had been drilling into her for the past several months, an effort to assuage the sting of rejection left by the abrupt exodus of an aesthetically, not to mention emotionally, unworthy former lover.
“Well…Not quite ‘busted,’ ” still – she attempted to soften the blow, “So much as…”
“Slightly damaged? Like, take that can up front and request a few nickels off?”
“Yes! NO! Yeah…Shoot.”
“Mmhmm,” I nodded, grateful that she finally seems to have regained some perspective. “Register – discount.”
Go on; use the phrase yourselves. Physical insults are cheap and cruel when tossed in the subject’s face, but everyone has experienced a similar pain and sometimes we must stoop to private pettiness in order to achieve closure and enlightenment.
You know how everyone else knows you’re NOT gay? 1:5
The look of panic in your eyes as I intercept you en route to the dance floor, in view of your friends and most of the other patrons at a predominately straight club.
Just simmer, pal. Alright?
The lust may be palpable in both my look and touch, but I ain’t gonna rape yah. No one now thinks you’re gay simply because my hand is on your bicep. Actually – and this goes for ALL lady lovin’ lads – you should be fucking flattered that a homosexual finds you attractive enough to make such a bold move despite the absence of any definitive indicators of your sexual identity.
So, dude,
Next time you are approached by a gay counterpart, respectfully contract those pupils and deny our advances graciously. Unless you’ve been quietly contemplating same-sex experimentation…
Then, shit! Remember my name and look me up on Facebook, boiii.
Recession douche.
“You’re the one coming home with me,” I reassured the latest acquisition to my booty call log, Saturday night. “But first this other guy wants to buy me a drink, so…Free booze.”
“Of course,” he encouraged. “Who can say no?”
“Riiight?! Okay. I’ll be back.”
And off, across the dance floor, to the bar I flew!
What? Don’t you look at this post like that. Times are tough. There’s nothing wrong with taking advantage of a little ingestible generosity so long as I never actually have sex for money. You know, like cash.
Alright, okay. No gift cards either.
“You make me want to be a top.”
In a community comprised largely of lazy bottoms, the aforementioned declaration is almost as romantic as if it were, “a better man,” with which it was completed.
Take me – and I’ll take what I can get.
