Last night I saw a bluesy, alt-country foursome called Whisptertown 2000. As I watched the female lead singer all my thoughts were far from boring, nice guy thoughts. She wore black satin shorts that barely covered her ass. When she bent over to retrieve a tambourine off the stage I saw the bottom of her cheeks poking out.
Her top was matching black satin with a see-through lace back. She had no bra on. I checked. There were no straps. She had the most wonderful, full breasts. I could see her nipples, illuminated under the yellow glow of the stage lights, erect and pointing straight to the back of the room.
But it was her legs, which really got to me. She was a milky white Tina Turner. She wore four-inch heels, which made her ass pop. Her thighs were so thick there was no room for air to pass between them.
Her voice was far from pretty. She reached for testosterone when she belted her bad girl lyrics. Her long, wavy, dirty blond hair was a tangled mess covered in sweat. Pieces stuck to her face as she rocked her skull to the rhythm. She sung about how she wanted to make her man a "tight rope walkin' fool." She pounded her heels through the stage with ever strum of the guitar. Her hips, ass and breasts bounced with ever thump of the bass drum.
Between songs she moved her hair from her face, flashing her big, brown eyes at the crowd.
Every guy in the club wanted to take her home. I wanted to take her home.
She hovered around me after her set, smiling and giving me the eyes as she drank through her glasses of Jameson.
She was an open invitation. But gone is the guy who drinks half a dozen Crowns on the rocks. Gone is the guy who smokes an entire pack of cigarettes while watching a concert. Gone is the guy who knows how to work his way into a badass woman's pants.
Now I'm "mentally healthy." Now I order one drink and slowly take baby sips, making it last the entire night.
Gone is the guy who would've gone drink for drink with her until the bartender shouted for last call. Gone is the guy who would've said, "I've got a few bottles of wine at my apartment, should we move this party?"
Now I'm leaving before the last song is played. Now I'm worried about beating traffic. It's well past my bedtime and I have a busy day tomorrow. Now I'm struggling to fall asleep thinking of those thighs.
I don't want to be good anymore.
"My name is Michael Cuglietta. I only shop for clothing while visiting other cities, foreign and domestic--unless of course I'm hitting up the outlets outside of my fair city Orlando, Florida.
"In my free time I write, bathe, and, occasionally, sip fine wines—much of the time concurrently. I also play basketball a week of every year during the NBA playoffs when i imagine i was born of different parents.
"If you like tits, you're a friend of mine, which is odd because I have few friends yet it seems most people favor tits.
"I also own a brand new Acura. I can be reached at cuges57@yahoo.com."*
*Bio note by Tyke Johnson