Fuck me, what a night. Who the hell goes out on a Monday night? This mother fucker that's who {emphatically points both thumbs at chest}. Get some freaks out on a Monday I'll tell you. And fewer preditors too, I'd gladly take slimmer pickings in exchange for less competition, any day of the week.
So Barry texts me, he's a spotter of mine, bartends at a local hole in the wall, gives me a heads up if he sees any prime targets and I head over there. True enough, a quartet in full swing, loud, happy and drinking heavily. I get a beer ( bottle, not draft, need portability also looks better) and put a ten in Barry's jar (hey, information is a valuable commodity).
I wait my chance, happens soon enough, a stray from the herd, up to the bar for a refill, about 5'10", short black hair. A sly sidle, a line, an act of generosity ("allow me"), make her laugh, let the accent work, overcome the age concern with a joke ID check (gets her age, 29, and address) confirmed touching, confirmed laughter, a couple of common interest bonds (faked) and we're in. In like Flynn. The accent works every time.
Deal closed, friend separation complete, we head for the Cadi. Make out, whip of her top and check the dashboard clock. 58 minutes from bar entry to tongue entry, perfect timing. All of human civilization is based on the passing of knowledge from one generation to the next, so here's my advice to the younger generation: Butter Your Toast While It's Warm. 'Nuff said.
Did I tell you I got the new iPhone 3G? Awesome device. Typing this on it as a matter of fact. It even corrects my spelling as I go. Plus GPS navigation. So I whip it out as Slutty McSlutterton goes down, type in her address and rest it between her shoulder blades. Perfect fit. That Steve Jobs is a fucking genius.
