...bisexual.
And here’s a shout out to all the ladies who make out in bars. It doesn’t make you a lesbian. It makes you a tease.
From Boston’s “The Weekly Dig”
Dear Strait Girl
Never again. This is how it always goes with you people: I tell you I’m a lesbian, and you immediately bark out a military order for me to kiss you (dance, dyke monkey! DANCE!!!!! DANCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!). We make out for ages. You make all kinds of lascivious tongue moves, like you’re auditioning for a lesbian porn flick, but with absofuckinglutely no soul in it. I run my hands over your ass (which seems to be in the advanced stages of rigor mortis), feeling like a dirty old man molesting a department store mannequin. After a while, I start entertaining fantasies of taking you home, busting out all the skills I’ve acquired over a lifetime of dykery, and slowly, gently, sweetly, thoroughly ravishing the straightness right out of you. I think, If she’d just relax a little, she’d enjoy herself … after all, she started it she thinks I’m hot right?
And just when I’m starting to get all turned on and nervous and sweaty and hungry for more, you start giggling. That’s when I know I’ve been had. I fell for it again. I’m on Candid Camera. I bought the Brooklyn Bridge.
Thanks for reminding me how tiny my dick is, Drill Sergeant Barbie. I hope the next guy you snog laughs at your tits.
