wine and cheap perfume

Annie naired my bikini line on Wednesday night and I howled like a teenage wolf. It hurt so bad it was just weird, and afterwards there was this weird glue residue all over my crotch that made it difficult for me to walk. Then, she let me slather her in gobs of makeup. I even put this long blond weave thing into her hair and crammed her rack into a tiny black push-up bra. The icing on the cake was that she let me photograph it all. There's nothing quite like the sensation of watching your butch girlfriend slowly transform into a girl right before your very eyes. When it was all done she leaned forward to kiss me, and I swear I've never felt gayer in my entire life. I thought, I am kissing a perfectly coiffed female right now, I might as well be packing, with a large set of prosthetic balls nestled between my legs and an empty beer can in my hand. The funniest part about it was the way she kept posing for the pictures. She got really into it. She wrapped this Moroccan blanket around her shoulders and peered up at the camera with this perfectly trite blend of vulnerability and seductiveness. She did the pouty thing, the slightly drunk/retarded American Apparel thing, and the straightforward big-smile Cosmo thing.
Then I worked my first night at Girlsroom. There was this herd of moderately unattractive femme girls who got really drunk off of well gin and kept high-fiving and exclaiming: "Yea bi POSSE!!" throughout the night. I was thought, okay, you kind of don't go to a lesbian bar and start hollering about all of your quasi-hetero pride.
Yesterday morning I woke up to discover two portly construction workers leaning out the window of the building across from ours, staring and pointing at my naked body while laughing hysterically. It's like, thanks guys. You'd think that when most guys see a dangerously attractive blond sleeping buck naked next to her equally naked tattooed girlfriend, they'd have some other sort of reaction then utter and complete knee-slapping hysteria. Nope.
Last night at the bar, this gay named Paul told me that if he "batted for my team," he'd be all about me. I was like, "thanks." Whatever that means. He was like, "no, seriously." And I was all, I get it. I also get that you're not really gay, you're one of those weird straight guys who fronts like he's gay for God knows what reason. Like Jake, for example. Yesterday Monica bleached the living fuck out of my hair, and it looks pretty darn good, if I do say so myself. Unfortunately, no one has noticed besides me.