Spray-On Disposition

May 30, 2010

I’m headed to a gathering at an ex-baller’s legendary $20 million party crib later this afternoon, having been invited by one of his best friends, who wants me to work for him. The manse will be flooded with hot chicks, who the guy who wants me to work for him has repeatedly – over the course of many months- referred to as freaks.

My somewhat-estranged sugarbaby – who claims to no longer be into partying but who didn’t return my text from Friday before 5 PM because she “passed out” - refused to go, so I invited The Dominatrix so I wouldn’t be socializing alone and for social-proof of being with a hot, tattooed-chick, not to mention so I’d have someone to trade in the likely event the party turns frisky and moves from the pool to the baller’s much-written-about 100 square foot bed.

Otherwise preparing for the party, I also looked at some zits on my chest and decided that it would be behoove me to get a tan. Since I just had laser hair removal on my upper arms the other day, natural sun and a UV rays were out of the question since they could leave permanent skin damage, so I went to a neighborhood salon for a tan of the spray-on variety, which tend to be more expensive (this one was $25, versus from $7-12 for a one-time UV tan around here), but which show more immediate results and with which there is no risk of burn.

The guyinist owner of the salon bonded with me from minute one of my first time there, and his hot stripper girlfriend seemed to be hitting on me to the level of making me uncomfortable the one day I went while she worked the front desk, but one thing I’ve hated about this tanning salon is the third person that works the reception desk – a less than 5′ tall, erstwhile thin chick, who’s a little bit of a butter-face, has a stud- piercing above her lip, and is consistently cunty. Nearly every time I have visited the salon when she was working, the same thug has been around the reception area, and every single time I have been there when that receptionist was working, she has scowled at me like I was bothering her for patronizing the business she works for. The fact that she would scowl at me even when the thug wasn’t there was somewhat unusual since petite chicks – especially petite chicks that aren’t all that hot – tend to like me, though I chalked-up her disdain for me to the piercing, since chicks with piercings tend to add a couple of points to their own self-ratings – and, truth-be-told, I tend to add those points, as well.

Today, she was there again, but something was different. In fact, a lot was different:

1. there was no thug in the reception area.

2. her face had gotten so much fatter that I wouldn’t have even thought it was the same chick were it not for being the same salon and for her having the same piercing.

3. all of a sudden, she went from being a stick to having massive breasts protruding from a halter top.

4. as I suspected after some closer examination, she was very, very preggers

5. most of all, she was suddenly nice. Really nice. Incredibly nice and accommodating. Nice as you would expect a girl to be who is 8-months pregnant, not wearing a ring with the thug nowhere in sight, and working a minimum-wage job at a struggling business in a recession. Nice as in “I’m-desperate-for-a-sucker-to-come-along-and-pay-my-bills nice.”

A spray-on disposition, indeed.

Suck it up, cunt. I already know who you really are. Now fetch me a shower cap. Hookers are way less expensive than you.

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