The Boss has this list of the top ten woman’s features. Thin ankles are number one. His buds think he’s an idiot because tits and ass aren’t even on the list. And some of the stuff are on it that his buds never thought about. Like thin ankles. If you got those going on and the rest seems to fall in place, so you show those sinuous synapses to the earth as often as you can. You got ‘em, why not? They’re finer than those on that lil’ Weimeriner bitch a couple of streets over. The Boss says she’ll only break my heart, and teach me nasty habits like sniffing crotches.
The Boss has a rough time of it, though, especially when he’s out with his buds and has me in tow. The other night we’re at a local bistro and I let a short ‘ruff’. The Boss knows by now I don’t say much but when I do, he knows to listen. Sure, enough, I had spotted a fine little chicklet all decked out.
“Chew, what da ya think of those tied-up heals? You gotta better view than me.” He ain’t checkin’ her out. He’s on the clothes.
“Finer than three-day old road kill.” I save that comparison for the good stuff.
“Shoes? What the fuck you lookin’ at, Dude?” one of his buds pipes up, the one with the oversized sweat shirt, holey warm-up pants and in need of a shave. It’s Saturday night, for Christ’s sakes! Please don’t come to my wedding. Ever.
“Nice touch with the beading around the neck line. The back scoops like the front, looks good comin’ and goin’. Not over done. Right length on the leg for the proportion. Chewey likes her shoes, too.” He just started talkin’, like the Boss do at times.
I get up on my feet and check to see if there’s enough slack in the leash to grab a warm-up pant leg. No way I’ll get my jaws around the trunk of ankle. Hmmm… fat ankles. I flop down again.
The Boss has a rough time of it, though, especially when he’s out with his buds and has me in tow. The other night we’re at a local bistro and I let a short ‘ruff’. The Boss knows by now I don’t say much but when I do, he knows to listen. Sure, enough, I had spotted a fine little chicklet all decked out.
“Chew, what da ya think of those tied-up heals? You gotta better view than me.” He ain’t checkin’ her out. He’s on the clothes.
“Finer than three-day old road kill.” I save that comparison for the good stuff.
“Shoes? What the fuck you lookin’ at, Dude?” one of his buds pipes up, the one with the oversized sweat shirt, holey warm-up pants and in need of a shave. It’s Saturday night, for Christ’s sakes! Please don’t come to my wedding. Ever.
“Nice touch with the beading around the neck line. The back scoops like the front, looks good comin’ and goin’. Not over done. Right length on the leg for the proportion. Chewey likes her shoes, too.” He just started talkin’, like the Boss do at times.
I get up on my feet and check to see if there’s enough slack in the leash to grab a warm-up pant leg. No way I’ll get my jaws around the trunk of ankle. Hmmm… fat ankles. I flop down again.
Inspired by Lang's 'Still Rainin'':
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XlVzniEgOjQ
Well, I be damn! A closet cyber-slut. Tell the Boss I'll be watching for him to step over the line.
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