That’s…Not a compliment. 1:4
“I wasn’t sure I was attracted to you, at the club,” a boi told me as he stroked my hair, late one night, last fall. “But you have a nice shape.”
“Why –” I struggled, drunkenly, out of the crook of his arm, turning to stare at him, flabbergasted, “would you tell me that?”
Fortunately for him, I had to rush to the bathroom and hurl up a half gallon of vodka Red Bull, effectively removing the pressure to atone for his backhanded flattery.
He got a similarly bittersweet taste in his own mouth, though – when I kissed him full on the lips after returning to bed without brushing my teeth.
