|
xmag.com
: August 2002: I Hate Sex |
If
there's one thing I hate, it's sex. But if there's
another, it's strippers! Those goddamned bitches
have it way too easy. I don't know how it works
in other parts of the country, but here in Vegas,
strippers straddle the top of the food chain. They
rake in mountains of cash, all for a few hours of
air-humping and eyelash-batting. Now, as a small-time
hustler myself, I share their life's purpose--to
extract as much money as I can from men, with a
minimal amount of effort. But those Silicone Sallies
up there on the pole
have a much easier time of it than I do. And that
pisses me off!
Just
look at the pages surrounding this very article:
Lipsticked Lolitas, sucking on lollipops and lounging
about in lacy lingerie. It must be nice to lead
such a laid-back existence--I doubt my sugar daddy
would appreciate me showing up for dinner in my
pajamas! And those platform stilettos--I could hardly
make it through a four-hour chip-hustling session
at the craps table wearing heels like that! I'm
telling you, those lucky, lazy broads are living
the life of luxury. A flash of the gash and a lap
dance, and the money comes rolling in.
They
don't even have to put out! Here I am slaving away
at the Bellagio, suffocating under the wheezing
bulk of some rutting old oil tycoon just to make
a few bills, while mere blocks away down at Déjà
Vu, some bitch is scooping up major bling with her
mucous membranes. And all she had to do for it was
slap her tits in some guy's face. Or steam up some
Japanese pervert's glasses with the sultry jungle
breath of her nether-mouth. Meanwhile, I'm scrabbling
hand-over-foot for a few trinkets from Tiffany's.
It's disgusting!
Speaking
of disgusting, let's talk cellulite. I bust my ass
at the gym to look trim and firm under the bright
Vegas lights--there's a lot of competition for those
high rollers. But my dancer friends have no such
trouble. They can lie around all day scarfing Godiva
chocolates and watching Jerry Springer, because
when they get to work, they have the blacklight
on their side. Forget diamonds--a blacklight is
a girl's best friend! You lusty club-goers never
know what that sexy mood lighting is hiding from
your passion-glazed eyes--stretch marks, pockmarks,
spider veins, and birthmarks shaped like the Virgin
Mary.
But
even if the flaws do show, it's no big deal. Stretched-out
sows all flappy from childbearing can still rake
it in, dangling their protruding birth canals in
the face of all. Once I saw this stripper-mom whose
inner lips pouted out from her velvety folds like
a navel orange. But men threw buckets of cash at
her! I guess there's a perverted bastard out there
for everyone! Like this one dancing friend I have,
who was blessed by God with pointy, ultra-long nipples.
"Dugs," she called them, and she was glad to have
'em one night when some sicko offered her as many
benjamins as she could thread her teat through,
using a hole he had poked in the middle of each
bill! That bitch made rent in a single night! Meanwhile,
I'm breaking my back chatting up wealthy wrinklies,
pretending to be interested in the price of oil
and the miracle of Viagra. What's up with that?
Well,
enough bitching already! As they say, if you can't
beat 'em, join 'em--I'm changing careers. I'm gonna
be a dancer, and I ain't talking about the American
Ballet Theatre. I'm gonna shave my pussy, strap
on a pair of seven-inch platform stilettos, and
wave my asshole in some perverted businessman's
face. I may even fart on him--if he sends enough
money my way!
|
|
|
© 2003 Xmag, LLC. All rights reserved. copyright | trademark | legal notices |
|