Post V-Day

The only really great thing about Valentine’s Day is the bling. Glitter, hearts, roses, satin panties, and—this year’s choice for me—pink cupcakes. Oh, and tequila. The other good thing about V-Day is the desperation and callous predation that seems to strike a large number of the population. I used to discount it until I came out as bisexual. All of a sudden, I was meeting women who were "tired" of men and how they were all assholes. Me, I’m really tired of male bashing; any kind, really. But I’m not above benefiting from the fallout.

I hit up the steam room at the gym last night—to sweat out the alcohol smell so I wouldn’t have to stink up my bed, not to reap any heartbroken babes. For all my erotic fantasies involving bath houses and saunas, you’d think something would actually happen there. But hey, it’s Bally’s. And I’m The Official Lesbian, even though I refuse to wear the cape and mask. So all I get are bi-curious wannabes, I’m-cool-with-that pseudo-liberals, or the cold shoulder. Yesterday was different, though. I got The Official Bitch hitting on me.

I’ll call her Margot, because that’s her real name, and I don’t give a damn if she doesn’t like me naming her. Besides, it adds a little something to the whole yuppy flavor of her personality. I can’t even say why I don’t like her, since she’d never talked to me before. But ugh, she was a total fucking hard-as-nails walking cliche when I met her last night. Yeah, in the steam room. This isn’t even a new scenario for me. She ignored me completely, then noticed I was ignoring her, and was quite content about it. So she had to ruin it by making conversation. She easily extracted the fact that I wasn’t a cashier or someone with another low income. She told me how hard it was to find the right man, (they’re all such assholes, after nothing but her money and tits) then hit on me. And ironically, put her hands on me. Yeah, go the fuck away.

I am immensely turned off by people who think you have to meet some financial or social standard before they can grace you with simple courtesy. And women who’ve been hurt or disappointed by guys who think they can use other women as a substitute. Gimme stale pink cupcakes over all such any day.

But you know what? I’d probably have been all over that if she’d even been halfway attractive. Such is the hypocrisy of my libido.

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