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xmag.com : November 2005: By Storm Large

I’m a lover not a fighter. I am typically a lovey-dovey, sweetheart of a girl. Yes, I'm big, loud and opinionated, often using off-color remarks to make my point. I’ve said some nasty things about the government and organized religion, sure, but in essence I’m a big softy. However, in the pursuit of peace, I sometimes have to switch modes from SNUGGLE to KILL.
I once went to a party at a club where there was supposed to be piles of hot, nubile chicks running around topless with shots of vodka for the guests (a liquor promotion thing). But the OLCC (Overtly Lying Cheating Cunts) had shown up just shy of my arrival and deemed the premises under threat of closure should any offending mammary peek its way into plain sight. So all but a handful of women split, and the ones that stayed were of the desperate 3AM last-chance type, the women who, if you were sober, you would want as much as an old wad of chewed gum stuck under a barstool at the Magic. Even more appealing was the sorry pack of drunken idiots who had come solely to see some titties for free and hadn’t yet realized that the show was off. So it’s me, a dash of nasty sleestack pirate hookers and roughly 250 drunk and super-frustrated dorky guys.
To complicate matters, the party was for a venomous radio personality who reigned king of the He-Man Woman-Haters Club. He had already whipped his throng into a heaving sweaty mass of hate-belly-bucking, beer-farting yorking elephant seals with nowhere to vent their frustration. The air was thick and hot with smoke, beer breath, and a funk that smelled like hot dog water and feet. No cute girls, no free hootch, and a whiff of “RAPESTOCK” in the air. I decided it was best to go.
Unfortunately, three giant twits had decided that I was very attractive and wanted to talk to me. I could only assume that’s what they wanted since one of them grabbed my entire head with one hand to push my hat in my face. What a flirt! I set my hat right and smiled up at the guffawing, bleary-eyed lady-killer who was now very much in my way.
I imagined he must’ve been thinking, “Grabbing girl’s head funny; me look COOL.” I wanted to ask if his hands were smarting from his poor knuckles being dragged around everywhere, but decided quickly that action would be better. So I guffawed back at him and, with one hand on his hot, squishy chest, shoved him a step back. I smiled a big fat smile, as if he and I were in on some big joke. His little piggy eyes dimmed a bit as if he thought, “Hmmmm... Girl strong; me not feel cool now. Me should say something.”
“Yer pretty tough for a girl, huh?”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t always been a girl.” I giggled back.
Suddenly he gave the wind up and BANG! A smack-n-grab of my entire right ass cheek.
I wheeled on them. The towering porky trio were chuckling. “Har-har... He sure got YOU!” So I chuckled back, “Har-har... Yeah, you SURE got me. That was a GOOD one!” My vision went a little soft and a howling wind noise rushed up into my ears. I waited a second or two, wound up and, still giggling sweetly as if laughing with them, open-handed roundhouse bitch-slapped the guy so hard that he spun around and dropped his beer.
I kept laughing. His friends stopped laughing, and the spurned Lady Killer found no humor in the situation whatsoever.
Feeling I had totally blown my chances of ever scoring with this stud bull, I thought it best to leave. His eye was watering and his fat pink face was markedly red and puffing out on one side. With some diplomacy and a cheap “look over there!” trick I managed to escape.
I don’t understand the appeal of grabbing a stranger’s goodies. It doesn’t get you laid, a lot of times you won’t even get looked at, and it could get you seriously dusted off. Last time someone grabbed my stuff I sent most of him to the hospital (the rest of him was stuck in clotted chunks in the punk rock rings I used to wear). It is, let’s just say, a pet peeve of mine.
I really am a lovey-dovey sweetheart of a girl....Just don’t touch me.





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