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I want love. Sex and love on-the-fly. What a God, and she says to-him, I will give you sex - free of charge. Like there was a choice. There was no alturnatricks. I have to-be a free-lover. There is no free-lunch for the whamed. How do I give-away sex, without getting a bad-reputation ?
"She puts-out." Scene 937 act 17 - Snap. She is the talk of the tongue. Boys talk like wild-sire. If I am paid for it, I am a Prostitute. Somebodys gettin' a free-lunch here. Where are the heterosexual male-prostitutes ? Professionals with no-tell integrity. Go on a trip, I believe is traditional, for young ladies of means, collateral-college age, before career and marriage, and getting-not the sexual satisfaction of gettin'-snookered.
I got-took myself in New Orleans. My excuse was I was-drunk. How much did I spend on a woman buying her champaign - glass after crass, and getting to-sit with her in a booth in the rear, where I got on my knees, but it was a No-No. She was my Miss-Perfect with a wet-touch. But-she was not allowed to date the customers. I was a flirt, and that-night a flirt per-vert. I am in New Orleans. It is Mardi Gras and we had just-seen John Glenn, the first-astronaut, to around-the-world, launch from Cape Canaveral. One woman ran-away, when I told her I was a tail-waiter waiting on tales, with a tell-trail heart. She was truly aghast. Where did I live ?
This was a topper. Here is a woman hustling-men for drinks - intimating for money, and he is buying for bubble-sex, after ordering a screwdriver, and she never-heard of down-south in the heart-of-Dixie. "Where did she live ?" These were Iconical-women, not-working on their own, but for bar-owner pimps, hired to say anything to get a drink-bought, or at-least so - she never heard of a wet-martini.
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