Being in a sticky situation has never made me blink an eye.
Shalome gets results!
Well, that girl is long gone. I am at an age where my looks no longer get me out of trouble. Now I have to become normal. I have to start following rules and obeying laws. Crap!
What kind of a society do we live in where a lovely lady becomes 30 and all her privileges get taken away? When did my beautiful batting eyes turn into drunken eye twitches? How did my lovely melodic voice become a harsh raspy screech? Why can’t my smile penetrate the minds of the unsuspecting?
Well here I go, like a riches to rags story, a girl lady trying to make it in this cruel harsh world.
Wish me luck!
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don’t worry. like all good fags, i won’t let my hag fall too far into the gutter.
no, i won’t let you become that one, 45ish woman you and i saw that one time at the flame club who, bad skirt, wrinkles, and all, decided to attempt sexy stripper dancing on the ‘dance floor’ (i.e. strip of linoleum) in front of the bar in the flame club and then, clumsily fall over while we sat there and snickered.
i will allow you, though, to go into aforementioned bar, dressed up in a sequined pants and shoulder-pad sequin studded onesy looking frigtheningly similar to whitney houston and traverse and tap dance that same worn linoleum ‘dance floor’ to Bel Biv Devoe’s ‘poison’.
that is fucking funny.
in the same vein, you can’t let me become that leather-faced with stubble, old tranny sitting alone at the end of the bar in the merc, teasing and ‘provocatively’ whipping her hair back and forth, side-to-side only to fall off her bar stool onto the floor to reveal her green briefs, bulge and all.
but, you certainly can allow me to enter the old tavern, in hot pink, way-too-short jogging shorts i found at the bottom of a heap of used clothes in prague, and buy a drink and the proceed to the back patio and get up on the table and do a dance for all.
ok? deal.