FUCKIN iVIBE

Valentine’s Day at The Bare Elegance. Shit, I’m tired. When are we closing? The last thing in the world I want to do right now is flirt and pretend to be turned on. Ugh, a girl just sprayed the most sickening perfume; it’s burning my eyes. Aerosmith is playing. A new regular brought me raspberry chocolate. I hate chocolate. Does he know that? Nope. I hate roses too. I like pickles, whiskey, aged Amsterdam gouda, and Casablanca lilies. But in here, I’m just a girl, and girls like chocolate. That’s why they were eaten within minutes when I brought them into the dressing room.

 

Cargo Pants came in tonight. He brought my Valentine’s Day present: an iVibe. It’s a pink vibrator that connects to an iPod. The volume changes the intensity. He told me about it a few days ago. I asked him how much it cost and that I’d rather have the cash (so much for romance). I don’t really need this device. I have my trusty back massager plugged in under my bed. He said he couldn’t afford to get dances tonight but really wanted to bring me the iVibe and would I like some tequila? Fine, why not.

 

I thought I could pull off my perfect mental state before his visit, but he was already in the club when I got here. How annoying. I only had about four pulls of my Crown, and the soma hadn’t kicked in yet. I said hello and told him I’d be just a few minutes. I did the minimum for makeup and headed to the bathroom like a bat out of hell. Cargo Pants requires an upbeat Shannon, the I’m-really-interested-in-what-you’re-saying, Shannon. This sometimes requires uppers.

 

Fuckin’ iVibe, what am I going to do with this thing? Can I sell it on eBay? What are the chances that he’ll be checking eBay and Craigslist to see if I sell it? I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Maybe I’ll just regift it.

 

 

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