Professor. Come on.
You know you want a piece of this Grade-A-prime-cut-extra-tender-plump-and-juicy-satisfaction-guaranteed manly deliciousness. Quit playing.
Go ahead and deny it all you want. I’m patient. I know you’ll realize sooner or later that I’m just too irresistible for you to keep reading that newspaper while I spit my game. Just put down that article and come look at my column. You know, the column in my pants.
I’ve got all day, and you ain’t goin nowhere.
Ok, maybe you are going somewhere. But baby, what’s the hurry? You’ve got “things to do?” Baby we all got stuff to take care of. I don’t care if you make it to your son’s little league game any more than I care about the WNBA. I’m just tryna upgrade you from my soup-and-salad course to my saucy pasta pomodora entree girl. With extra prosciutto. And some garlic bread.
So put down that bat and step away from the minivan. Your boy won’t notice you’re gone until the third inning – and besides, you and I don’t need no ball game to do a little seventh inning stretch. Just grab your mitt, catcher’s mask, and your son’s fruit roll-ups and follow me back to my apartment. You’re the type of cougar a lion like me could go extra innings with.
Wait a second, girl. Didn’t I tell you to put that bat down? I’m into some weird shit – but not that weird. How ’bout we exchange that Louisville Slugger for a vuvuzela and some astro-glide? Seriously, stop pointing that bat at me – OW! That hurts! Why you gotta hit a player just for tryna hit? We’re all on the same team here, girl.
Listen, you’ve had a long day. You should take off those shoes, lay down, and let me rub them feet. So put down your phone and relax. I don’t care who you’re dialing – Wait, did you just dial 911?
Baby, that’s cold. Next time you have office hours I’m not coming in.
Happy Valentine’s day.
