Two guys and a chick walk into a coffee joint inside a casino on the Las Vegas Strip on a Sunday morning at 6:30 a.m.
The chick: Top shelf. Gorgeous figure. Loose cascading brunette tendrils. Short strapless dress (shirred, red). Long shimmering legs. Exhibiting signs of significant chemical enhancement.
The guys: Swarthy. One in a sport coat. One in a plaid shirt.
They situate themselves and order beers all around. Red and Sport Coat sip tentatively, Plaid with more gusto. Red waves to and fro like a frond of kelp on the ocean floor while Sport Coat's hand rests upon the ivory skin of her back. The food arrives. Red eats more heartily than you would expect, pouring every drop of syrup upon her stack of pancakes.
Then, perhaps in response to the fortification, Red turns to Sport Coat and raises her hand to his cheek. The touch quickly transforms into an embrace as they start to kiss so tenderly, you could practically weep. The kiss goes on and on.
Deep into the action, Sport Coat reaches around and cups Red's breast, only in passing--but not without intent. After lingering a moment or two, his hand drops down. Without taking her lips from his, Red feels around for his hand and moves it back up to cuddle her breast again.
Sport Coat walks. Red wobbles. As Plaid finishes his beer and motions for the bill, they suck into the casino.
I dunk a fried potato wedge into a dish of Srirachi, place it in my mouth and relish the burn.
* * *