real blonde, fake tan

Once a week the real blonde fake-tans in clamshell beds until she’s
orange.

She brags about getting sex from her husband when any of the 12 men listening would happily tit-fuck her to death (she’s got so much up top they’d die first).

Her tinny voice does not please the ears. But God, the Body. She shows off the strip of skin above her backside. The shade is always flawed.

After tanning, her hips and vagina must look like art deco from the early 1990s,
pink squiggle surrounded by orange. I want to drink her.

She once told me she has low-esteem, maybe because she assumes I can’t get past the padlock of her confession. She’s probably right. The most I’ve promised her sexually is she won’t end up on the internet.

Huge breasts sun-kissed orange. Drink.