Miss Makeover: "My boyfriend's like that. It's almost impossible to make him come."

By on August 30, 2010

FOXY BOXING

Have you ever tried to elicit sympathy for a badly sprained wrist? If you have you’ll know that you won’t get any. There’ll much ribaldry from so-called friends. “My boyfriend’s like that. It’s almost impossible to make him come.” “You lost your vibrator.” “Run out of batteries?” and on. And on. Perhaps you have fewer sex industry/ amateur trollop friends.
Don’t whatever you do mention that it received a further painful jolting during a bitch fight – which is when everyone’s eyes light up and they demand details. Forget about ‘poor you! how dreadful. There, there,’ or a consoling hug. (Cue Kramer) Catfight! Catfight! They want to know about black girls fighting and I suppose you do too.
Just as I had got used to the new world order – piercing agony every time something stressed the bruised tendons – I was given a further jolt aboard a London bus. Herded off the tube in Camden and onto a crowded substitute bus it soon became apparent that I was going to get an exciting lesson in how the new woman behaves. She’s vibrant, sassy, ‘feisty’ (needlessly aggressive, pointlessly rude.). Apparently the Japanese are extra quiet and polite because of being crowded together. We do things differently in London.
The dispute was probably because of a collision on a crowded, cramped bus. It was made much worse by the aggressor being a short fat coal-black diesel dyke and the innocent party being tall, thin and light skinned. I was already pissed off because of ten minutes of pugilistic foreplay, (they were right behind me). Then I got off at the same time as the squat, stumpy one. As we approached the stop, the taller one threw fried food in a bag at her tormentor – which missed and hit someone polite and quiet. A short comedy fight then broke out, flailing arms, bloodcurdling threats, no punches landed. As one was fat and the other thin this could well have been a homage to Laurel and Hardy.
During this, the dumber, ruder one grabbed my sore wrist – badly bruised during some late night dancing. Later on, I told whoever would listen about my ordeal but no one cared. They were more interested in the dueling doxies. You just can’t beat boxing bitches – preferably in a bath of whitewash or custard. Well, wrestling women may be a close relation to love-making lesbians – as pointed out on Seinfeld – but it’s no fun for the ringside spectators. Not in real life anyway. It did give me more excuses to dance with Lady K, its unique painkilling properties being most efficacious and I suppose I could snare some clients interested in bandaged women. The Japanese like that sort of thing. Maybe I should check Tokyo out…

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