A Family Man Doth Not A Good Man Make

image from yahoo.com

For almost 15 years it has been raining men in my workplace. Having been in the sex industry since 2005 I have laid eyes on enough men to know that it does not take a good one to have a family.

The term ‘Family Man’ sits across the table from ‘House Wife’. They each have a role to play  within the family, as well as a dynamic between the two of them as partners, and  as parents.  An expectation of traditionally appropriate thoughts, feelings and behaviours is applied to each of these individuals through the use of these terms. 

On Monday morning I woke to the news that Family Man Senate candidate Steve Dickson was filmed groping a dancer in a Washington DC strip club. More than the groping itself, my brain exploded over the term Family Man. It enraged me to note, once again, a friendly colloquialism  being employed in the defence of a lecherous misogynist who has been caught out doing something creepy, or plain old,  from paddock-to-plate wrong. In the case of Steve Dickson, I would question some of the lessons being taught to the children of this Family Man. Either directly or by osmosis. 

I got to thinking, what does it take to be a Family Man…? What are the bare minimum steps one must take to get there? Can any man be a Family Man? I knew I had to crack the code and solve the mystery of the Man before I got out of bed. Before I could even put my thinking cap on I had made a comprehensive and practical list.

  1. Unprotected coitus resulting in pregnancy of sexual partner.
  2. Have one or more kids.
  3. Coparent kids while occupying the same house.


In the list above there is a lack of personality traits that describe what kind of human being it takes to raise a family in a responsible, healthy way.  All the qualities we were taught as kids to nurture and carry forward with us in our dealings with others. Things like kindness, strength, honesty, integrity, intelligence, reason, courage, patience, respect, and love are missing. Technically they are not compulsory in theory or universal in practice.

Family Man‘ when used in defence of inappropriate and abusive behaviour is fundamentally negligent.  The term does not dilly dally with the specifics. No time to lose, it throws a blanket on the burning man, suppressing the details and allowing him to be inferred with a myriad of positive attributes that he does not deserve credit for. It subtly plants the idea that the terrible behaviour definitely happened when the guy got caught out, but not necessarily any other time…. The term allows our thoughts taper off into this comfortable logic so we can wash our hands of adjusting our own behaviour accordingly.

Do you really think that he only acted like that, the one time that he happened to be called to account? 

Why are we repeatedly asked to disregard the moral delinquency of men? To throw the ideological Family Man at us is manipulative, particularly when the man has demonstrated abusive behaviour. We are being asked to put him first. “Think of what will happen to his family if you take him away? Keep the wife and kids out of this, they haven’t done anything wrong. Is it really worth breaking up the guy’s family?

Perhaps the questions we should be asking are more along the lines of, “Is this man a healthy role model for his children? Is this man’s family suffering due to his demonstrated **insert offence here? Does this behaviour carry on into the family space?” Needless to say, domestic violence and abuse occurs within the home, and if any of these abusive men have children, then they are by definition, a Family Man

Words have meaning. It would benefit all of us to pay more attention to them.

Although less beguiling than Family Man, Man Baby is truer to form. Putting a man in a strip club is an easy way to determine his substance. Nothing catapults the baby out of the man like the word “No” and a perceived right to have whatever he wants, whether it is attached to a woman or not. 

Time to apply relevant terms to people who are purportedly pillars of our society. Looking forward to the revised headline that reads “Man Baby Senate candidate Steve Dickson was filmed groping a dancer in a Washington DC strip club.” 





* If you would like to read more, click on Family Man as it appears each time in this post. Every link will take you to an article on various fathers and husbands showing us examples of what it takes to be one.

** The footage available may be triggering, to women in general but particularly to sex workers and any woman who has been harrassed or assaulted in a public environment.





Jinxed January

Wasting my peach on a racist homophobic bigot in the distance.

Stripper life in January is notoriously bad in Australia. We dance to the sound of tumbleweed drifting across the empty floor. A gentle, dull emptiness overlapped by music playing too loud at a party nobody shows up for. The merry sound of loose change jangling in your bag becomes a taunting reminder that you probs only made enough dosh to buy two emergency packets of chips outta the vending machine downstairs to save yourself from spewing when you get too drunk too fast. The tight arse spectators multiply. Us dancers know the variety well. The I-don’t-go-for-dances-I-buy-the-girls-drinks kind. Although they appear all year round, they flourish in January. Empowered by the high ratio of strippers to men. The generosity they imagine themselves extending being negated by the fact they insist they be in control of what you spend their money on. Drinks. Not your rent. Not your children. Not your food. Not your vet bills. Drinks. Not even a bag of dicks to go with your low level January brand of hummus.

It’s the pits.

Almost enough to make Tradie breakup week in late December seem like a fond memory of good times with fabulous Neanderthals. Walking through clouds of beer farts clutching the sweaty hand of a guy who’s already asking if you’re gonna let him finger you for $100 suddenly seems like a romantic stroll with a wonderful ape who merely wanted to exchange fluids with you and after all, gave you enough money for a comforting visit to Macca’s drivethru on your way home. I guess, in the end, it was pretty sweet of him to offer you a dip of the dirtiest looking speed you had ever laid eyes on. At least you always make bank at Tradie breakup.

Jinxed January has bled into February this year. Each year it seems to run a little longer. The certainty of money becomes less and less.

Stressing about how I told the racist homophobic bigot in the the distance that he was a racist homophobic bigot and now definitely won’t be getting money out of him.

Or is it just me? I guess the downside of having danced for 13 years is that I remember how good it used to be, how fun and easy. Having to hide money in my locker because my garter was weighed down by all the cash. Stripper problems. That was then and this is now.

This shit is for real. 

I am a normal girl. I like flowers and sunshine like most other girls. This was my work life tonight. 

 Me: Hey how’s your night going?

He: Nah I’m going staunch. I just wanna snort drugs off your arse crack

Me: Ok babe. Just keep seeping those std’s out your penis

(Walk away)
5 mins later in the smoking room when he tries to scab a cigarette
Me:No I don’t think so. I thought you were just going staunch and wanted to snort drugs off my arse crack?

He: Yeah I do. 

Me: like I said, keep seeping them std’s out your dick. Seeping. Such a great word. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to use it. I’m not into financing the bad habits of dirty misogynist. 

He: I’m not a misogynist. I’m just a pig. 

Me: No…pigs are too cute. You’re just a sexist imbecile. Well done. You’re now getting a talking down by a stripper in front of a room full of people. (Guy nodding in the background, everyone else is silent. It’s not comfortable. It’s all I can do to maintain my smile)

He: why would you even say that? (Obvi trying to imply I’m the one with a problem with what I do for a living)

Me: Cause from what I’ve gathered about you so far, you’re a horrible person with little man syndrome who comes to places like this to try and demean us. Textbook misogynist. 

He: Oh am I? 

Me: yes you are. Imagine that? A woman smarter than you are and not reduced to tears by your attempt to demean her. 

He: I wasn’t aggressive to you. 

Another dancer: yes you were rude from the start!

Me: truckers keep on truckin. You’re actually a caricature of a shit character in a shitty movie no one wants to watch. 

He: Says she with the dirty regrowth 

Me: Regrowth is my personal choice as a free woman. 

He: Fucking feminist. 

Me: No. I don’t think there are feminists anymore babe. Just misogynists, sexists, then the rest of us normal people. 

Guy witnessing the scene: boom
Sigh. PS – this guy is married. Poor woman. 
As much as I slayed this utter fuckwit and I’m proud of myself for maintaining a smile the whole way through, I was shaking by the end and am still saddened by it all. Night after night having to persevere, having to fight to be treated like a human being, fight to be afforded the respect that should be given freely. It’s enough that I am also now fighting with myself to keep my eyes dry. Even though I’m home safe now, the accumulated effect of this, on top of the 3 customers who asked the price for extras, for me to allow them to touch or kiss me, to take me home – it’s too much. It’s awful that this behavior is so prevalent and yet people seem surprised to hear of domestic violence, sexual assault, sexual coercion. The media focuses on it every now and then as though it’s a recent developments, a sudden epidemic. It’s not. This is our culture. This is the world we live in. This behavior is never outwardly endorsed but it is ignored and thus perpetuated. 

Westerners have no right to be be critical of other cultures and religions when this shit is so prevalent in our society.  If you want to see what the real cultural climate is, work in the sex industry for a week and have your eyes opened. 

Chocolate, Vanilla or Strawberry?

I was dating a guy in NYC a couple of years ago whom I suspected, might be obsessed with anal sex. I suspected this because he used to fumble around my downstairs with his penis, like someone making their way through somebody elses house during a blackout wielding nothing but a broken torch to guide them. I’d lie there staring at the ceiling, naively wondering if he was having trouble finding the correct hole. You know, the one that naturally lubricates itself, is directly adjacent to the clitoris and stretches in an accommodating manner. This fumbling business happened a lot. The next clue, was the off handed comments he would frequently make referring to anal sex.  Months later, when I was back in Australia continuing a relationship with him, he sent me a dick pic. It was awful on so many levels.

Two things stood out the most, the pubes that had been given the haircut of a Gregorian monk, and the anal porn captured in a freeze frame in the background. Both things, disturbing in equal measures. One of my girlfriends was crashing at mine during this period and I showed her the picture. She gasped. Then laughed. Then turned the lights on for me, illuminating the fact that yes, this manchild was obsessed with anal sex. Just as I’d suspected! Ding!! She pieced the puzzle of the photograph together with a conversation I’d had with her once about being bored with the sex because he always had to finish by flipping me over, pushing my face down in a pillow and pounding one out.


To this day, she still cannot believe that I can be so dense. So unquestioning. So simultaneously inexperienced but experienced. It wasn’t obvious to me. I’d been in relationships for the better part of twelve and a half years since I was a teenager and had been terrorised by a small number of shit dicks in between (the trauma caused by weird ass, marshmallow, enoki mushroom, mini winni dicks was so real that Shit Dick is #1 on my Deal Breaker List).

I’ve had anal sex before. When I was 19. It hurt like Hades and the experience can only be likened to having a sword shoved up my arse. I told him so. I also asked him if he actually really wanted to have anal sex or was he just joking, to which he replied….

“No! I’ve done it a few times before. But I wasn’t that into it…you know….sometimes you pull out and get a whiff….”

Thereby eliminating ANY chance that he had of me exploring the option again. Deny, deny, deny. All that attempted anal probing. For nothing. What an idiot. If he weren’t such a closet anal prober, he would be able to plan in advance and be with someone who keeps a bathroom cabinet shelf full of spare douches. Denying himself his best chances of world class whiffless butthole surfing.

Like a small child who had tried to sneak his spoon into the neapolitan icecream tub and steal aaaaaall the chocolate flavour and having the lid slammed down on him. Cutting the spoon off in the nick of time as it blindly wandered the stripes, pretending it wasn’t sure if it was the strawberry, vanilla or chocolate flavour that he was attempting to lodge his spoon in. He would’ve got further if he’d been honest about it. I told him this as we remained friends for a couple of years after the demise of our vanilla dating experience.  Until I visited NYC again in October last year. I was supposed to stay at his place in the East Village for five nights. I had expressed several times before hand that there would be no spooning, no kissing, no sexing for it was neither my vanilla, strawberry nor my chocolate stripe that enjoyed the aggressive, porn computed tappings of his spoon. I drew the lines of clear platonic borders and I expressed this several times, but his ego was beyond borders. Total waste of a good spoon. Strong. Rock solid. Upstanding. I warned him, the lid to my tub of icecream closed to him in 2013 and was not about to open any time soon aka ever.

I ran away after two nights. Lids to all of my flavours safely sealed, without danger of intruders. Since returning to Melbourne, there’s been only two fumblings. Both with inflatable spoons that just haven’t quite had enough in them to make it smoothly into even the vanilla tub, let alone work its way over to chocolate. I consider myself as in the midst of a drought. Waiting patiently for a solid, unwavering, good looking spoon to come along and hang with my forkables. A spoon that isn’t attached to a lying misogynist with anal shame and mummy issues would be great.

The Apple Rose

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When I left for the USA at the start of October, the thought of letting someone in made my body curl inward. The suggestion of sleeping next to someone made me want to cry. Going to work had been such a struggle. Speaking to people, sexualising myself, being sexualised, disrespected, adored – all of it was too much. Breaking my own heart and deciding on having my womb raked when I wanted to keep the autumn leaves was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make.

The guy who was 50% responsible  claimed absolutely no responsibility, he did not help me when I asked, he expected thanks for telling me I was doing the wrong thing by considering the alternative which he did not welcome. This cavernous human being was so incredibly awful that I had to send that little spirit on rather than let it enter this world with him as a father. This misguided, egotistical narcissist was so lacking in sensitivity as to flippantly tell one of my dearest and most intuitive friends about how the other girl he got pregnant two weeks after me was so cool about it, she just dealt with it like you’re meant to, without making a fuss, without being difficult, without being a bitch and making him feel bad. This moron was so self involved that he would say this to a woman in her second trimester of pregnancy while she stood with her face perfectly composed, hands lightly shielding her belly from anything he had to send forth to the baby girl growing in there. She called me when she arrived home, shaking with rage and disbelief. I was at work, about to go on stage. I was trembling. I was still pregnant. My legs felt like they’d disappeared, as though my torso was hovering above 6 inch heels, each guiding the other out into bright lights and an onslaught of loud.

My friend had withstood the pathetic tirade of this squirming lumbricus as only a queen can, “I will not be conquered by a fuckwit Billie. I just won’t, and nor will you.” This woman knew the extent of he and I. She was our number one supporter in the beginning but swooshed her skirts in his blind little face at the end. Dismissed by royalty. He’ll be flailing, nothing more than brainless matter at her feet til kingdom come, taking any breath shared in the same room to mean she doesn’t see him for who he is, as if the sharing of oxygen alone will absolve him of himself. What a douchebag. What a dickhead. I could not curse a child with him for life, when in 8 weeks I went from one of the happiest versions of myself to the most broken B side mix tape of the shittiest band ever known to man. Imagine how fucked up you’d be, if you had to have him as a dad? Imagine the cycle of pain and suffering as this child, my child and his, spun its way through relationships with family members, partners, its own children? I could have no part in this. Cycles have to be broken.

By the time I left Australia I’d emerged from the worst. I still didn’t smile from my heart, but I wasn’t overtly grieving or consumed by anger either. I went straight from La Guardia to Brooklyn and a guy I’d never met in real life before. He took me out of NY and away to East Hampton the evening I arrived. It was so calm and pretty out there. He was fun and silly like the old me. He reminded me of all my favorite parts of the girl who had been buried in snow for months. There was a rose bramble growing in a car park over some whitewashed  fencing. The roses smelt like rose, lemon and apple. Felt like all the answers were sitting in that moment when I had my face in those petals and let my heart fall in. Sharing those seconds, elongated with magic, a stranger standing right beside me, face mushed next to my face, arm resting against my arm. I was suddenly clear. My thoughts felt like my own again and I laughed when I realised that somehow, I felt beyond safe with this man. That moment felt like home. He had absolutely no idea. I hadn’t breathed a word of anything to him. It wasn’t an outpouring of secrets and acceptance of my darkness that brought me close to him.  I don’t know why. I felt like myself. I exhaled. Finally. All my shit, started to melt off me. I could feel myself as broken but getting ready to stir and shift the pieces. Later that day I wrote. I hadn’t written anything much for months. I hadn’t had the reserves of strength it takes to put all this down and still be able to press on with my day having played the painful history over in my head. The reality of it sitting in solid, ordered characters confronting my face with lines and lines of pain in words on paper.  That afternoon I lay on my stomach in the lounge room and I wrote. I wrote with my hair draped over covert tears as they made their escape down my face before I myself absconded from the room and passed out for hours. Exhausted. My Home Fire cooked our first supper like a boss named Jesus and I woke up to a table laden with food and butter and warmth.

I forgot about it until a couple of weeks later when I’d moved on to North Carolina. When I dug it up again I found my little love prayer for the future. Loneliness is inherent in most people i know, or maybe it’s just me. But we are creatures to love and be loved. That’s just how it is.



I want to breathe unhindered.

To feel the cold wind,

the golden syrupy sunshine,

to smell the apple rose right down to where my heart lies beating,

whispering in rhythms.

Tell my all of the magic that emanates from simple things.

I want to give my love to someone and know it will be treasured,

to show myself.

Give my heart and have it held in open palms,

a baby bird to be cared for.

Share my joy with me.

Feel the same light glide inward across fingertips that keep me safe from any darkness they made themselves.


Cradle my head.

Uncrush my heart.

Dint by dint.

Scratch by scratch.

Smooth the scars from my skin.

Kiss my lips with dew drops.

Press flowers into my hair.

Love me.

Without fear.

Let my face always look upwards to yours and trust my neck wont break.

My head won’t roll.

My heart won’t bleed in rivers from me,

cascading down my legs,

pooling at my toes.


Vibrate. With me.

Let each cell jump with joy and noticing.

Have each moment this smile lingers,

bask in the assuredness of its immortality.

Answer me in songs,

speaking five tongues.

Dance with me in rhythms nobody else cares to know.

Leave the giant blooms of the oriental lily.

Wade through heavy curtains of its smell they made.

Leave its stems in the crystal vase to stew in money.

Walk a little farther.

Come, bury yourself in me.

I am the apple rose.

IMG_1034Final two photos taken by Misha Jenkins on Instagram @miloscameros.

The Kindness of Strangers

There’s something to be said for the kindness of strangers.

Earlier in the year I found myself dealing with the consequences of a 10 week encounter with a narcissist. I cannot claim faith to accuracy and call it a relationship but the aftermath can be likened to wading through a quagmire of tepid feces. It was that good. On top of this, my dog fell suddenly ill with auto immune disease. The process of tests, financial draining, her fast deterioration into an ongoing illness, watching the light in her eyes dim, the energy in her limbs fail, pushed me beyond the brink of any sadness I had experienced up to this point. This is surely my year to learn some lessons, as two days before my birthday, I found out I was pregnant. To the narcissist. Bleh. Just when I thought my basket was full.

I spent my 35th birthday at work. Thankfully a place that has a few precious stars who blink at me through the darkness, let me share their radiant light, and hold my shoulders to help me get me off the floor, look me in the eyes and tell me that I’m strong when I had forgotten this was ever a word that I could apply to myself. One of these wonderful girlfriend’s of mine introduced me to her regular customer and he took a shining to me. He’s a tricky one to be booked with for an extended period of time. In general conversation he begins on a subject but doesn’t wait for a reply, barrels over the top of you, completing 32 segways and 33 subject changes by the time he takes a breath for air. He is a sweet soul but somewhat disconnected. Literal. Confused by the patchwork of social mores, the tones and rhythms of conversation. My girlfriend left the room to go and do her 20 minutes on the stage and I was alone with him. He made the observation that I looked sad and asked me why. I told him about my dog who is the closest person I have to me. I told him that nobody in the whole wide world, loves me the way she does. That she is the only person I have who would put me first. Take a bullet for me. Lay starving next to me, rather than eat my arm to save herself. That I don’t know how I would face a day, in the current climate of my world, if she were to die. That this is what I truly believed. That is how I truly felt. I’ve never been so terrified of the possibilities of my own action unto myself, should her heart stop beating.

In this moment, for just a few minutes, the customer changed. He suddenly became a friend. He engaged with me in a way many of my close friends hadn’t been able to. They once made jokes as I sat with tears running down my face, squawking about how big my tits were now. How amazing! What a coup! What a silver lining! I couldn’t even keep company with most of my own girlfriends during this time. They meant well, but I could not laugh at the situation I was in. I did not know what choice to make. I felt like an anchor of sorrow attached to a decrepit dingy, that had already been dredging the bottom of a stupid shitty pond for 7 weeks since I found out my dog was sick. How could people not be tired of my tears? I avoided dinners and celebrations. It was all too loud and overwhelming, enhancing my already hormonally enhanced anxiety. I was alone no matter where I was.

In a small room, at my place of work, this stranger looked at me, and spoke to me with such genuine love and kindness. With the innocence and well wishes of a child who understands the feeling of sadness, but doesn’t understand why it has to be a part of life. He did not seize the opportunity to overstep the mark and touch me. He did not try to take what he could get, while the getting was good. Nor did he condescend to me, or raise himself above me to give sage, unsolicited advice. His human heart spoke to mine with such compassion and truth. The likes of which I’m not sure I’ve ever encountered from a stranger before. We are pen pals now. He never fails to surprise me with the words he wraps me up in. The most comforting embrace. The most gentle tendrils of kindness permeating my every cell, to make me feel the ‘ok’ is in there somewhere. This man has been a gift to me. He is special. If someone had suggested that the kindness of a stranger whom I met at work, while I was pregnant and naked and feeling so very alone in my heart, would be the thing that would resonate with me, I would have broken at the suggestion. But he appeared. And thankfully my heart was still open enough to accept his love.

He writes to me,

‘Hang with the ones that are positive and positively reinforce you and your ideas, the ones that make you feel free… Be amazed and bedazzled by all the cool aspects of life, interact with truth and the beauty of all your skills and entirety of your shining being will beam out.

Billie the Legend can do anything and everything by looking after herself and her pals and embracing intelligence, empathy, and day after day braveness

And as I said in an earlier screed:

“take care,

sleep well…

remember to think of those that love and care for you when you lie in bed,

feel comforted in their embrace…

and you will sleep….

plus talk when you need to,

to the ones that will really listen (and not judge),

the ones that really do support you 100%”

All the best and thanks for your email esteemed buddy.”’

It’s these encounters that make me wonder “How lucky am I?” and to know that I would rather reveal myself in both sorrow and joy, than to stay hidden and let these people pass me by.

There are not enough words to give thanks to the strangers and friends, work mates and  birds flying overhead, fleeting moments of beauty, acts of kindness, that have supported me through this year. Coming out at the other end with a smile on my face is a testament to all of those people and little things that were there for me the whole time. Even when I wasn’t ready to open my eyes and see them.


* Thanks for the tattoo D.Ferguson, another kind stranger. Two words that always help me from an old friend from across the sea C.Lambert

* Image of “Big Bird Alone Under Lamplight in Central Park” by another angel of mine A.Rovedo

One Word Means Everything. 


I don’t request permission to do what I do.

I’m playing for keeps in a one woman band.

I’ll dance until my bubble bursts. Flooding the stage with words of yours that have no meaning.

Throw your bills in my direction. You are desperate for feeling.

You are empty. Confused. Devoid of purpose, or relation.

Little boys crying alone.

Mothers who don’t want them.

Fathers who are no where, and never were somewhere that meant something.

You scrape for pale imitations of limitless feeling. You paint your world ever so accurately with absolutely nothing.

But from the flood will emerge one word. Just one…

Hometown Blues

I don’t feel songs anymore.  

I only feel wanting without being wanted. 

Spending monies to break my ass. 

Standing alone, speaking 5 tongues, dancing 5 rhythms and regretting them all. 

Without hands with which we touch, we remain alone. 

To receive is to give. 

Everything is everything. 

Your Monopoly money is no good here. 

Hometown is no where is nothing. 

Broke asses. 

It’s time for us to go. 


Locker Room Series: #1

2013-08-03 13.01.58 The locker room is where all the best shit goes down. The one liners. The rambling. The complete and utter lack of glamour. It’s where a moment will happen and I’ll stand as an observer thinking “How the fuck is this my life?”. If I were still as prudish, fearful and judgmental as I was before I started dancing, I swear I wouldn’t have had even 25% of the laughs I’ve had. Life is too funny to be a righteous fucktard.

His Name Was Chocolate

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While I was sitting with another man, a beautiful dark African guy came up to me and asked if I would take him for a dance. I told him that I was booked but would come and find him afterward.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Chocolate.’ His voice was sexy and low, rumbling back at me with a thick, deep African accent. The corners of his mouth unfurled, and his lips parted ever so slightly to reveal a slinky smile.

‘OH MY GOD!!!! That’s my DOG’S name!’ I exclaimed. Loudly. With far more excitement that it was worth. Double dropping dexamphetamines has consequences.


‘That’s my dog’s name!’ I repeated. Only slightly decreasing the force of my statement. Again, consequences. Tsk tsk.

He was not impressed. He mumbled something under his breath about ‘Chocolate….mmmumna mmumna….dog.Ugh! Mmumna…blah blah.’

It became clear all of a sudden that several things had been lost on me during the course of this extremely brief interaction. The imaginable sexual prowess of such a man with that dark Chocolate flavouring had failed to be imagined by me. The disco fantasy of a hot black man rolling by the name of Chocolaaaaaate… like a loud whisper between songs on a dance floor that lights up with coloured checkers from below, had been lost on me. The legendary proportions of his African easter bunny and how it might spill forth into my own small Asian fusion treasure box of special secret XOXO sauce dumprings, had been lost on me.

My heart rate had not increased, all a flutter, due to the prince before me, but rather due to the duo of white pills before him. Any chance of a hand in hand digression onto a dance floor, followed by sweet salty chocolate disco dumpring dirty time shriveled up and died in that moment. The impact had fizzled. The Chocolate sex soldier had partially melted in his foil wrapper and now stood less than at attention. Downtrodden. Chest no longer puffed. Chin no longer skyward. Left in the box. Staring at his half melted cunt conquest combat boots.

‘Just call me Choc.’ He said.

Then he turned and walked away. Hands in pockets, shuffling his chocolates about through his jeans. Just to make sure they were still positioned where they were meant to be.

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