Literally Dirty

Dear Butch,

I watched you the other night at the bar.  We were both attending a concert at a swanky jazz club.  You were charming a woman, possbily a date.  Your stories were spoken at a low tone, encouraging the lady to lean closer into you to catch each inciting detail.  You played with the top of your wine glass, making slow circles along the rim with a steady hand.  Your posture was strong and confident. You wore a black suit that fit you like a glove, styled with a pocket sqaure and bow tie.

I was swept away with you elegance and grace, finding myself jealous of your company.  So you can imagine my glee when I found myself in the restroom with you standing behind me in line.  Fantasies of a quick, passionate, and silent fuck started playing through my mind.  The line was long enough that we started to chat and then flirt.  I was already swooning over you from the distant observation and you were enjoying the fitted fifties style dress I was wearing.  Our conversation ended when it was our turn to step into the stalls.  I managed to freshen my lipstick and boost the twins up before I stepped out of the stall.  I opened the door at the same time as you, and I knew I could seal the deal at the sink.  I was ready, prepared and painted with my best assets on full display.  And then you smiled, winked, and walked right out the door skipping a hand washing.

If you can’t bother to wash after using the bathroom, what other dirty secrets do you have up your sleeve?

Love,

Femme

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