"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaah. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuckkkkkkk. Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Feel it. Come on. Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Fuccccccccccccccccccccccck. Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Grrrrrrrrrrrr. Come on almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Feel it. Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Come on. Come on. Come on. Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah."
Was I entertaining a gentleman caller recently?
That extended sweaty gurgle was expelled next to me on a cardio machine at the gym on Friday. I was minding my own business, sweating and stinking up myself, while the straight guy on the machine next to me belched all that unnecessarily erotic talk inches from my ear. Even though I shot him some passive aggressive, come-on-really? looks, he kept heaving and groaning until he finally hit the STOP button and got off.
Sorry. Pun semi-intended.
Anyway, I felt cheap. Cheaper than usual.
He could have at least asked me for my number or slid me a fifty dollar bill.
Another ode to masculintity...
Also on Friday, I witnessed this exchange between two mini-gays in front of a neighborhood bar that needs not be named. They were tugging a Louis Vuitton duffel purse back and forth like it was an Olympic event.
MINI 1: Let go of my bag, bitch!
MINI 2: Don't storm off again.
MINI 1: Leave me be bitch!
MINI 2: Calm down.
MINI 1: Just let me go - and LET GO OF MY BAG! I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU!
MINI 2: Come on.
MINI 1: This is always how it end up, you not letting me LEAVE YOUR SORRY ASS!
I didn't stay for the rest of the exchange. I hope the bag's OK.