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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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