Every Friday night for the last 20 years, the party girl made the rounds at the local bars, getting smashed, singing karaoke, and finally, at closing time, selecting the lucky guy to take her home where they had wild, random, stranger sex.
Now pushing 40, as she sits alone at the bar, used up and no longer attractive or desired, she asks the bartender, “Where did everyone go?”
Me and Gandhi are quite alike you know.
We both dug the chicks, for starters.
If you were a jar of jam, I bet your lid wouldn’t pop when I opened you.
You’ve been opened before, like lots of times right?
As we huddled next to the fire, our huddling turned to closeness which turned to kissing which turned to extreme kissing which turned into a night of passion.
I confess I brought on that ice-age so you’d huddle with me.
Sweat glistened on bodies joined in carnal dance, trickled over softly rounded landscapes, dipped into secret valleys, while the frenzy increased. After echoes of the last soaring crescendo diminished, the slickened bodies separated, heartbeats slowed, and passion cooled the weeping love had ignited.
Put me in the corner for time out.