#palms

Bashed my head against the wall and looked up to a vision of an overly tanned bleach-blond with a hoop earring and a turquoise singlet.

A short waisted skin-tight turquoise singlet.

Resting on the edge of a tight, high waisted jean.

With no belt.

And running shoes.

There were 4 possible explanations.

1.  I was hallucinating.

2.  I had been given a forecaster’s glimpse of the direction current tragic fashion was taking.

3.  I had been transported back in time.

4.  I had been transported to Kempsie.

It took me a minute but I did come to the realisation that I was spread eagle on a cheaply carpeted floor.

One with which I was all too familiar.

In full view of all Palms patrons.

It’s at moments like these that I question the value of my private school education.

But not my pilates instructor.

Sure it’s $80 per private session.

But I managed to just spring back up there, with the speed and grace of an elite athlete.

I smiled and bowed for my audience.

Who whistled and applauded.

And then with the speed and grace of a seasoned alcoholic I sprang to the bar and ordered a Wild Turkey and a beer chaser.

The easiest way to take yourself right there.

And right there I went.

And shortly thereafter to the toilet.

With @sexy_asian_nerd, in Clarke Kent glasses, buttoned up polo & chinos.
Locked ourselves in cubicle and started going for it.
In not very mild mannered fashion.

Would have been fun had security not been hot on our tail. 
Shame of being busted sucking cock in the toilets compounded by shame of being in the girls’ toilets.

We were roughly escorted from the premises, my shouts of “But I paid 20 bucks to get in!” buying us no favour.


DNA Magazine


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