coolkayaker1
Well-known member
I've had my eyeballs peeled for a tiny falsetto looker for a while now. Call me a fetishist, but I actually wanted an older one.
Finally spotted one--the elusive buggers, as fearful of broad daylight as a roach--and when she shot me that cyclops-stink eye, I threw up in my mouth a bit, so startled was I.
You see, I was just moseying around, kicking a can, minding my own business, when I caught a flash of the crushed-velvet blue nap in her case. Then it was her: that thin neck, the pinched waistline, those hardwood curves resplendent in black-white-black-white-black-white jewelry. Ooo, la-la! Granted, this little nonagenarian is a touch antique, even for my esoteric tastes. But still, she's managed to retain that youthful body-shimmer if you stare at her just right (try it: one eye fully closed, the other staring at the far wall).
To put it bluntly, I was saltwater taffy: as gooey and overly-sweet on her as a lousy confection. So smitten was I that, had she asked me for my left incisor, I would have handed it to her, with a pair of bloody pliers, on a goddamned silver platter!
It's a wonder that I could think straight enough to ask her to my place for a nightcap. But I did. Astonishingly, she said "Yes". No conditions or anything!
Pssst. It's the next morning. And (whispering) she's still here, smoking a Camel filterless and making herself an omelette with the rancid eggs from the back of my fridge.
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