went down in my own slightly buzzed reality that evening. It was as if I hit an invisible sexy button underneath the bar, or so I imagined. Although, the mirror in the ladies room may have told a different tale than my bar stool was whispering to me.
Skinny gals pranced around and drank water thinking they looked hot, because they really did—damn it! Without fail, when I had a couple of drinks a glow would come over me. I felt like I was the queen bee in my very own skinny kingdom. I know I'm not the only red-blooded female who has experienced this not-so-mysterious phenomenon. Hence, the many cheerful ladies who start to perk up in the friskiness zone after a happy hour. I apologize profusely if I am spilling a martini glass full of some "girl code of silence” over here. I certainly would not want to step on any manicured toes. What the heck, there is something to be said of being able to walk into a bar one size, and after a few drinks, magically become a size foxalicious!
7). Mr. Tattoo
Right after our pit stop at the tiki bar, Trent and I went for a walk. Trent spotted a tattoo parlor. Regretfully, Trent and I walked into the charming store of pain and torture. In a weak attempt to be bold and hold onto my fleeting youth, I decided to have my left nipple pierced. It seemed like such a fabulous whimsical plan at the time. I was suffering from a mild state of braveness, momentarily thinking, I was slightly cooler than I actually was.
The hotel had a tattoo and body-piercing masochist who was working that night—lucky me. I had stepped right into a situation that I knew was a full-blown recipe for disaster. The guy who pierced my nipple was an extraordinarily tattoo-laden dude. So from outside appearances, it seemed that when he was slow at work he practiced body art on himself—for extended periods of time. I had stepped right into a situation that I knew was a recipe for disaster. The tats had taken over most of the young guy's body. Mr. Tattoo had a few friends in the store with him, and he asked me if they could watch him perform the piercing and put me entirely on the spot. So of course, I said yes in an unusually high-pitched tone. In my head I was screaming, no way you mental patients, but fear had temporarily strangled my vocal cords.
The sinister needl e was the size of a small toothpick. The evil man took his sweet time inserting it into my nipple. I found that peculiar, because I recalled when I had my ears pierced as a kid the piercers seemed to be in a bit more of a hurry. My danger receptors were kicking into high gear! He stopped halfway through my inflamed nipple, as if to savor the moment and lick his chops. If I had a nice bottle of Chardonnay I may have cracked it over his head to get him away from me! I so badly wanted to say, stop it, you depraved man! But, I allowed him to keep going, for the vain reason that I did not want a flipping hole in my left boob with nothing to show for it. “Frick nugget, what have I done to myself now”, should have been tattooed across my forehead. It was a little late in the game to start complaining about being captive and topless on a cold metal Frankenstein table.
My legs went numb, and I had to remind myself that I said okay to th e whole mini-operation in the first place. I should have said, “Please sir, may I have another?” When he finally finished his torture session, I had my shiny silver trophy—it hung from my extremely irritated and aggravated nipple. My nipple region had swelled to five times its original size and was burning like a wild forest fire. That escapade went well beyond the hidden threshold of a good time and straight into a shadowy conservatory of unadulterated pain.
Holy, Hell, fire-town! My bastard nipple of hurt like nothing I had ever experienced before! I think my lady-bug went numb from fear because she thought she was next on the chopping block! My clitoris was hiding in my pants like a baby crab in its shell. I was in
Skinny gals pranced around and drank water thinking they looked hot, because they really did—damn it! Without fail, when I had a couple of drinks a glow would come over me. I felt like I was the queen bee in my very own skinny kingdom. I know I'm not the only red-blooded female who has experienced this not-so-mysterious phenomenon. Hence, the many cheerful ladies who start to perk up in the friskiness zone after a happy hour. I apologize profusely if I am spilling a martini glass full of some "girl code of silence” over here. I certainly would not want to step on any manicured toes. What the heck, there is something to be said of being able to walk into a bar one size, and after a few drinks, magically become a size foxalicious!
7). Mr. Tattoo
Right after our pit stop at the tiki bar, Trent and I went for a walk. Trent spotted a tattoo parlor. Regretfully, Trent and I walked into the charming store of pain and torture. In a weak attempt to be bold and hold onto my fleeting youth, I decided to have my left nipple pierced. It seemed like such a fabulous whimsical plan at the time. I was suffering from a mild state of braveness, momentarily thinking, I was slightly cooler than I actually was.
The hotel had a tattoo and body-piercing masochist who was working that night—lucky me. I had stepped right into a situation that I knew was a full-blown recipe for disaster. The guy who pierced my nipple was an extraordinarily tattoo-laden dude. So from outside appearances, it seemed that when he was slow at work he practiced body art on himself—for extended periods of time. I had stepped right into a situation that I knew was a recipe for disaster. The tats had taken over most of the young guy's body. Mr. Tattoo had a few friends in the store with him, and he asked me if they could watch him perform the piercing and put me entirely on the spot. So of course, I said yes in an unusually high-pitched tone. In my head I was screaming, no way you mental patients, but fear had temporarily strangled my vocal cords.
The sinister needl e was the size of a small toothpick. The evil man took his sweet time inserting it into my nipple. I found that peculiar, because I recalled when I had my ears pierced as a kid the piercers seemed to be in a bit more of a hurry. My danger receptors were kicking into high gear! He stopped halfway through my inflamed nipple, as if to savor the moment and lick his chops. If I had a nice bottle of Chardonnay I may have cracked it over his head to get him away from me! I so badly wanted to say, stop it, you depraved man! But, I allowed him to keep going, for the vain reason that I did not want a flipping hole in my left boob with nothing to show for it. “Frick nugget, what have I done to myself now”, should have been tattooed across my forehead. It was a little late in the game to start complaining about being captive and topless on a cold metal Frankenstein table.
My legs went numb, and I had to remind myself that I said okay to th e whole mini-operation in the first place. I should have said, “Please sir, may I have another?” When he finally finished his torture session, I had my shiny silver trophy—it hung from my extremely irritated and aggravated nipple. My nipple region had swelled to five times its original size and was burning like a wild forest fire. That escapade went well beyond the hidden threshold of a good time and straight into a shadowy conservatory of unadulterated pain.
Holy, Hell, fire-town! My bastard nipple of hurt like nothing I had ever experienced before! I think my lady-bug went numb from fear because she thought she was next on the chopping block! My clitoris was hiding in my pants like a baby crab in its shell. I was in
Similar Books
