![]() ![]() ![]() But if you do dare, there's a glorious smell of freedom floating around your trousers and giving the finger to society, making whoever an instant anarchist. For her, we're noble savages, a kind of grey area outside the respectable, minutely organized community, an untamed wilderness it takes a lot of guts to step into. Someone might argue we're zoo animals for her. She's been here before, and everyone gives the ice-cold shoulder, yet she still turns up again and again. Naturally, no one goes and sits with her. Not so much imagining as secretly hoping. She's the type who dons the camouflage-green combat trousers, wraps a bandanna around her head and paints herself with black lipstick, imagining all the lesbians in the joint'll have the hots for her. “Like that breeder-woman sitting at the bar, who thinks it's a buzz to go into a gay joint and has no doubt heard somewhere that this is one. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |