Furniture for Lovers

I found it! I found the place where hookers buy their furniture. It's all there -- the round, fur-trimmed king-sized bed dripping semen, the love seat shaped like lips, the chairs that look like high-heeled shoes in hot pink or leopard print, the chaise lounge with 12-foot long tongue. Rolling Stones Lips, um, comes, to mind here.

Now I know where my neighbor, Next-Door Whore, buys her stuff.

I went in and browsed. I was giggling uncontrollably. Snorting a little. The salesman looked as serious as a pimp on payday. I tried to stop. I really tried. Couldn't.

"Omigod, teehee, would ya look at that?"

He wanted to throw me out, but he had real customers. An old man draped in Italian silk who still managed to resemble an unmade bed with a woman of indeterminate age in painted-on capris and nylon halter topped by a fur jacket, probably weasel. She was wearing 8" heels, which made her taller than anyone in the store except my husband, who was trying to hush me without putting his hand over my mouth in public. I used to be an embarrassment to my parents. Now I'm an embarrassment to my husband. I am consistent.

The other couple was looking at The Bed. In the window. I loitered and would not be distracted because I thought they were going to try it out. In the window. And I wanted to be there when they did. With my camera.

The woman clattered noisily into the display and sat on the bed. She bounced a little on her butt that was showing the tiniest bit of discreet crack. I was trying to see her shoes. I wanted to know if they actually had round heels. I almost fell into her lap.

"Can.I.Help.You," growled the salesman. He did not smile. I did not feel welcome.

"Oh, no. I'm just looking," I chirped sweetly. I used my "Puppy, puppy, good puppy" voice. Her heels were not round. You should not believe everything you hear.