Jesica just changed everything.
The Long House wouldn't be just a place for dags to hang out.
She was sitting at the table next to Mr. Gambling Eazy. She was wearing a white 'fuck me' dress.
She could have just come back from a wedding or a christening. She looked that white and pure.
Her features screamed of Indonesia.
She even told me so.
I had just finished a five-hour walk, covering about twenty kilometers, yet Jesica still wanted to chat with me.
My shirt was drenched wet from sweat.
No one at the Long House cares.
No one is ever going to say I smell.
In polite company, such uncouth behavior is very unseemly.
I played it cool with Jesica.
My man was belting out tunes, drowning out the din with loud and out of tune rants to whatever was playing out of the Juke Box.
I played it cool and sweaty. A few times I looked behind me at Jesica, admiring her shapely crossed legs and trying to get a peek up her white dress. Surely she must be wearing white panties.
The music was getting maudlin.
Indonesian love songs have been known to drive a man to suicide.
I bolted but not without saying goodbye to the lady in white.
Thoughts, those kinds of thoughts, did somersaults in my mind.
This was no good. I really wasn't sure my knee was ready for it. Besides, she looked like Mr. Gambling Ezy's girl, and the last thing I wanted to do was tromp on his turf.
It would take a few more sessions at the Long House to figure out who she really was. A few Indonesian whores were sitting at another table.
But I'm not one to jump to conclusions. Seems Sunday's brings them out in gorgeous flocks.
The Long House wouldn't be just a place for dags to hang out.
She was sitting at the table next to Mr. Gambling Eazy. She was wearing a white 'fuck me' dress.
She could have just come back from a wedding or a christening. She looked that white and pure.
Her features screamed of Indonesia.
She even told me so.
I had just finished a five-hour walk, covering about twenty kilometers, yet Jesica still wanted to chat with me.
My shirt was drenched wet from sweat.
No one at the Long House cares.
No one is ever going to say I smell.
In polite company, such uncouth behavior is very unseemly.
I played it cool with Jesica.
My man was belting out tunes, drowning out the din with loud and out of tune rants to whatever was playing out of the Juke Box.
I played it cool and sweaty. A few times I looked behind me at Jesica, admiring her shapely crossed legs and trying to get a peek up her white dress. Surely she must be wearing white panties.
The music was getting maudlin.
Indonesian love songs have been known to drive a man to suicide.
I bolted but not without saying goodbye to the lady in white.
Thoughts, those kinds of thoughts, did somersaults in my mind.
This was no good. I really wasn't sure my knee was ready for it. Besides, she looked like Mr. Gambling Ezy's girl, and the last thing I wanted to do was tromp on his turf.
It would take a few more sessions at the Long House to figure out who she really was. A few Indonesian whores were sitting at another table.
But I'm not one to jump to conclusions. Seems Sunday's brings them out in gorgeous flocks.
