A handsome man with a quizzical-yet-confident look approaches you on the beach.
“Heyyyyy?” he purrs, the inflection tilted into a last-minute question.
“Are you, um, sure you’re hitting on me? You seem unsure,” you say between sips of your margarita.
“Yessssssss?” he says, a little offended now, his toned arms clutching his own hip bones for dear life. You don’t fault him for it — they are so perfectly hold-able.
“Ok. What’s the story behind the tattoo?” You feel the Jose Cuervo seeping into your bloodstream at the exact right moment, giving you the courage to openly trace the fine lines of his abs with your eyes without a hint of bashfulness.
“Heh heh, funny you should mention that...in college they used to call me the vag shark.”
“Vag shark? As in vagina shark?”
“Yes.” He leans in, his voice all definitive statement-y now. He lowers his head and takes a sensual sip from your drink, his complex sapphire eyes never leaving yours.
“Vagina shark... as in, you violently toss a vagina back and forth until the recipient dies?”
“Yessss — wait, what??? No!”
“You’re irresistibly drawn to the scent of blood?”
“No!! I mean, I don’t mind period sex, but — no! that’s not why—”
“You can’t help but hum the Jaws theme as you get down to business?”
“Ugh!!! Forget iiiiit???” Uh-oh. You have shaken his confidence. And now you can’t help but enjoy watching Vagina Shark's perky tush sway gently back and forth as he walks off into the sunset, a misunderstood predator just looking for a mate.
Yours in thirst,
Julia (@jaypugz)
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