Straight girls don't bother with flirting. They don't seduce you. They don't even buy you a drink. They just order you to kiss them. Like drill sergeants. I expect them to make me drop and give them twenty.
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I get a little annoyed by this, but I always do it anyway. It's like a public service.
So I start kissing her, and she's usually all lascivious at this point, doing all kinds of tongue moves like she's auditioning for a lesbian porn flick, but with absofuckinglutely no soul in it.
But she's hot, so I make out with her anyway, and I run my hands up her sides and over her ass and through her long girly girl hair. She doesn't move at all, or touch me back, so I try harder, looking for the sweet spot in the small of her back that will turn her on, feeling like a dirty old man molesting a department store mannequin.
This is the point at which I start entertaining fantasies of taking her home, busting out all the skills I've acquired over a lifetime of dykery, and slowly, gently, sweetly, thoroughly ravishing the straightness right out of her. I think, If she'd just relax a little, she'd realize how hot this is...after all, she started it....she thinks I'm hot...right?
And just when I'm starting to get all turned on and nervous and sweaty and hungry for more, she starts giggling. That's when I know I've been had. I fell for it again. I'm on Candid Camera. I bought the Brooklyn Bridge.
(Giggling. Insult to injury. Tell me, men with little dicks: do they giggle at you, too?)
Dance, dyke monkey! DANCE!!!!! DANCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!