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A Night On The Town

With

Tattletale Grey

Oh my Head! From my whiskey-soaked breath to your sin-starved eyes, here's the shit:

Every now and then, a sweet young thing such as myself will be minding his own business trying to seek the mesmerization that only a little whiskey can bring. But that never means shit to the gypsies, tramps and thieves that plague my world like locusts. They MUST (as in: obsessively) seek out my attention.

In such an instance, yours truly was parking it at a local pavilion - a certain joie de vivre known as the Boiler Room. After a particularly grueling day on Wall Street, nothing could have been nicer than a lovely little Maker's Rocks. I didn't get the first one sucked down before this little Apple Brown Betty comes wiggling his tight tenderness before my very own two eyes. As it turned out, it wasn't an accost from some mindless chigger, but was, instead, none other than Grape Fruit from the Grape Sluts.

As always, he was credit-heavy and cash-poor. So after a few Angry Bitches (on me), we proceeded to 'get to the point.' The courtship was tender and brief and amounted to no more than a grope from the Grape in the bathroom. But it was enough. Onward to my Hell's Kitchen Estate.

But first…no trip to the Kitchen is complete without stopping in to see the gang at Cleo's Ninth Avenue Saloon. While there, Waxy van Carmichael tried to steal my little Fruit away from me. But, after a small squabble and a threat to expose his cubic-zirconiaesque fraudulence to the public, Grape Fruit remained mine alone.

The trip to Cleo's wasn't an entire wash though. Mr. Cash Colossus was there, peddling love and grandiose notions. He let me and Grape Fruit borrow his stun-gun, which led to two hours of vast entertainment between us. After my game of cops & robbers with my special one, I escorted him to a taxi (you're welcome Fruity) and went back to Cleo's to claim once again my sacred solitude.

I wasn't in the door two seconds before Waxy 'introduced' me to Latte Love- THE notorious Brazilian hustler. It's so strange when one realizes that they've been sharing martini tears with a world renowned love master. Up until then I thought he was just Joe Blow, another hot ne'er-do-well. I was astonished! Had this sweet innocent I'd been rattling on to all these months about my missed periods and hostile husbands been duplicitous in his identity? Apparently.

"So?" I said, obviously inquiring about this deception, "you're the famous Latte Love?"

"Indeed" was his only submission.

After his request to "view the bottle" upon asking for a new & vital vodka, I thought his pretension unpardonable and ran away as quickly as my sore ass could carry me. The cab ride to Dick's was worth a mention.

The cab as I recall was yellow. The driver: a steamy little number from one of those exotic lands like Ilikalickastan or some such shit. At the moment, I happened to be dressed like a cowgirl and it had completely slipped my mind. So, when I sat in the front seat (as is my habit - it's so much more human), and as he pulled out his little arabian pony (I never pay for cabs but, instead, offer trade), it confused me when he became shocked at my own little display of pulling some pud. "I no do that," he said. "What are you talking about?" I asked. "That!" he screamed, pointing at my peppy little friend down below. The dear heart really thought I was a woman; or he didn't want to be reminded that I'm not. Alas, I could go to Mohammed's mountain, but the mountain couldn't come with me.

Onto bigger and better…And was he ever! Matt Teduski, the big, hot, Polish coverboy was running around, showing off his bejeweled cockring and man-sized kielbasa. He wouldn't accept any of my advances unless I dressed like a boy. I promised I would and we went back to my place to play 'Marines.' "Man down in the trenches!" Phenomenal! After Mr. Teduski, I may not need many more nights on the town at all. Let's hope.