It’s Called Dirty Blond For a Reason

7 Jul

Yeah, I was hung up on her. She was as smooth as a baby’s butt and as hard as old snow. Called herself, Glenda. She had a way of bothering men to the point of distraction and sometimes murder.

More than once I’ve watched her eyes glitter like cruel diamonds as a couple of mugs strapped their egos to their fists and painted each other’s teeth red. Yeah, don’t include me out.

I played “Chivalry Ain’t Dead, Yet” with some bohunk the size of the Brooklyn Bridge with an I.Q. to match. He nearly busted my neck but I got in the first sock in the puss and his meaty paws didn’t have a roll of quarters neatly tucked into them.

Glenda purred as to how “skillful and sexy” my fisticuffal technique had been. Later, I would wish that it had been me that had been sent to the E.R. instead of that slavic Goliath.

‘Cause then Glenda and I might not have gotten so “intricately involved” as she put it in that exquisitely perfumed whisper of hers. Then I might not have handed her my heart like a dead fish in yesterday’s newspaper. Then I wouldn’t have caught her yesterday with that two-bit lounge singer with the one-bit voice.

A blonde since she was sixteen but now a not very pretty redhead.


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