My friend Pebbles is a wild thing. In the old school rock and roll Harley Davidson-riding kinda way,not in the weak-willed silly teen movie type. She's a lot like me,but the difference between us is that while I'd probably go to a strip club to watch,she'd be working the poles. She's more brash,in your face,louder and abrasively honest. In other words,the waitress straight out of a novel about a small town with a bar everyone goes to because of her lip,rack and unsolicited over-the-counter opinion.
Pebbles doesn't understand the meaning of boundaries. She says and does exactly what she wants to do,a lot of the time regardless of whether or not that makes you uncomfortable. So you can imagine the conversations we have about sex. I don't know why people keep trying to make *black* virgins blush. A,an impossibility because I'm black,and B,an impossibility because really,nothing shocks me anymore. Anyway.
Pebbles is cute. She's not exceptionally pretty,but she works a little oomph into it and men - and women - flock to her like cars to a petrol station during a shortage. Watching her in action,you'd think it was a holy ritual. There's a certain flair Pebbles has. It's not just flirtation. She takes her talent very seriously.
I saw her today. She was looking really good; in fact,better than usual. (sic) I asked her what the occasion was,she said she was going to get her some. I smiled. She said she was even wearing underwear (Pebbles rarely wears underwear),so I was like this must be special...and she nodded and said 'Matching. French cut.' Rawrr. So I waited with her for a while...dude finally called and said he wasn't going to be able to come. (sic) Pebbles could've dealt with this minor disappointment,but I think what got her was the sexy lingerie she had taken the trouble to don. Apparently,it really sucks when you go through preparation and anticipation then you have to settle for vibration.