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tequila
'Do a shot', Donna demands after dinner, as the waiter lays a tray
of tequilas in front of her. 'Everybody do a shot. House rules.'
As the Cuervo Gold swoops down my throat, the male
stripper heaves into view. Heave being the operative word. He must
have needed a forklift truck to get those thighs into his trousers.
His quadriceps are the size of Donna's waist. His wrists are sequoias.
You could hollow out his giant head and use it as a birdbath.
But the Urban Foxes don't really care about outmoded
sexual stereotypes. They don't care that the stripper is a walking
satire, a male Jane Russell. They just want to bounce peanuts off
his ass and deep-throat bananas out of his palm.
Done that.
We clatter on five-inch heels into the Manchester
night, laughing like drains.
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