Lesbians love dinner dates, the trick is to master one irresistible dish. In college, I’d cook the “eggplant boat” on every first date. After just a few bites, they’d inevitably jump in bed with me. Afterwards, they weren’t as interested in my skills in the kitchen, as my skills in the bedroom.
The construction worker fetish never did anything for her. She almost didn’t notice the Mexicans on her roof. In their splattered blue jeans and straw hats but when Ricardo strutted onto the job with his overalls and bandana, like her daddy used to wear. Her nipples suddenly stood at attention.
She cradles his balls and uses long strokes to circulate orgasmic energy from his erect penis to his heart, leaving a kiss between his nipples. She concludes the session by offering seamen to Shiva. Afterwards, he presents his police badge and says it’s unlike any therapy he’s ever had.
Despite the casting director’s expert opinion, the writer insists I play the lead. As if her rape-redemption story wasn’t psychotic enough, she says I remind her of herself. I’m sorry but the story stirs up memories I’d rather keep locked within my personal basement than have to relive onstage.
As a kid she rubbed a “magic lamp” and hoped that when she grew up she could walk into a room and everyone would notice her but somehow belly-dancing in a empty Middle Eastern restaurant was not what she had in mind. She hates her job. Stupid second hand lamp.
Sploop! She squirts plain organic yogurt into her cunt with a plastic turkey-baster and lays back on the bathroom linoleum. Painted toenails stretching skyward as she counts: fifty-nine. Mississippi. Sixty. There. That should take care of her Candida. Down with the slippery microscopic bastards so she can finally fuck again.