The Girl Your Mama Warned You About (or, The Tale Of My Day So Far)
You find her in a strip bar. Last dance of the night; she meanders around the pole, embracing the brass, shooting suggestive glances in your direction with every second spin. Business is slow at this hour, and she's determined to delicately extract the last of your fortnightly pay packet. Of her colleagues, she has the brightest hair and the darkest gaze. Glitter flies as she leaps halfway up the pole; spiralling gently yet powerfully back to the stage. Her eyes deal the death blow and you give in, taking a seat by the stage.
Your cash barely brushes the surface of the stage before she sweeps it up. Snapped neatly behind the lace garter, it bounces before you as she kneels, level with your eyes. She leans in close and smiles: "You're a good man".
One note, one piece of clothing. Two notes. Three notes. Four, because you want her attention just for yourself, even though there's no one else at the stage to rival you. Five, and the long wait to payday begins.
The brass pole stands forgotten.
Your next meeting is in a classroom, two days later. The bright hair gives her away, but otherwise there is no trace of that vixen who lovingly cleared your wallet. She sits in the back corner with a few friends, attentive to the complex shorthand on the projected screen. Sneakers on the chair in front, jeans hems torn and faded, a plain black t-shirt sporting a geeky joke, and an incessantly scribbling biro. You lean forward slightly and the notorious university swinging desk falls away, scattering your books. She looks over with a shy giggle and smiles at you. Her friend whispers something in her ear, and she throws another glance at you before returning to her notes, captivatingly poised and relaxed with a furiously intense concentration.
The lecture ends; you line up to ask the lecturer what you missed when you overslept last week, and she lines up to ask which questions from past exam papers would be most suitable for practice. As she leaves, the words form in your head; but you part you lips to speak and she rushes off, head down, in the direction of the library, accidently brushing your arm in her path.
Your words stand forgotten.
You find her in a strip bar. Last dance of the night; she meanders around the pole, embracing the brass, shooting suggestive glances in your direction with every second spin. Business is slow at this hour, and she's determined to delicately extract the last of your fortnightly pay packet. Of her colleagues, she has the brightest hair and the darkest gaze. Glitter flies as she leaps halfway up the pole; spiralling gently yet powerfully back to the stage. Her eyes deal the death blow and you give in, taking a seat by the stage.
Your cash barely brushes the surface of the stage before she sweeps it up. Snapped neatly behind the lace garter, it bounces before you as she kneels, level with your eyes. She leans in close and smiles: "You're a good man".
One note, one piece of clothing. Two notes. Three notes. Four, because you want her attention just for yourself, even though there's no one else at the stage to rival you. Five, and the long wait to payday begins.
The brass pole stands forgotten.
Your next meeting is in a classroom, two days later. The bright hair gives her away, but otherwise there is no trace of that vixen who lovingly cleared your wallet. She sits in the back corner with a few friends, attentive to the complex shorthand on the projected screen. Sneakers on the chair in front, jeans hems torn and faded, a plain black t-shirt sporting a geeky joke, and an incessantly scribbling biro. You lean forward slightly and the notorious university swinging desk falls away, scattering your books. She looks over with a shy giggle and smiles at you. Her friend whispers something in her ear, and she throws another glance at you before returning to her notes, captivatingly poised and relaxed with a furiously intense concentration.
The lecture ends; you line up to ask the lecturer what you missed when you overslept last week, and she lines up to ask which questions from past exam papers would be most suitable for practice. As she leaves, the words form in your head; but you part you lips to speak and she rushes off, head down, in the direction of the library, accidently brushing your arm in her path.
Your words stand forgotten.
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And on the new profile pic! Love it!