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“What time do you get off?” a female voice purrs from my left side. I turn slowly, waiting for the punch line. Traditionally, that question is followed by one of two options: “Because I want you to get me off.” Or, “Because I can’t wait to get you off.”
Maybe she’s a witch. Hypnotizing me with her witch tits.
For the next two hours, I find myself trailing behind Bonnie as if I’ve got a dick-sniffing bloodhound on a leash.
Anyway, she’s about half my size, and I hate throwing my back out bending down to kiss a girl.
If I’ve learned one thing from rom coms, it’s that you are not allowed to be friends with someone you’re attracted to.
“I’m not afraid of commitment, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” “Uh-huh,” she says. “I’ll commit the shit out of you.”
Time to wipe up my smudged mascara and be a bad bitch. Fuck love. Build the empire.
