You Grab Your WHAT and Stick It WHERE?!
Vincent was a dirty looking queer. I met him in a creative writing class I took back in college. The originality he lacked as a writer he made up for in flamboyance and heart. He spun these elaborate yarns about death and dismemberment with a few homo-erotic descriptions thrown in for good measure. We didn't have a whole lot in common except for the fact that Vinny was a goombah. Moreso than that: Sicilian! He was a self-described "club fag" and declared it proudly to any who hadn't already assumed so by his feminine mannerisms. I envied his show(boat)manship, as I, too, was an ego maniac.
Wherever Vincent went, you'd hear that loud, obnoxious lisp displaying his colorful vocabulary. One of my more humorous memories was challenging him to talk "straight". He got pretty good at it, too. He'd walk up to strangers and start in on them like he was a news anchor. Good times were had by all. I liked Vincent. He was a slut, though. He was a HUGE slut, and proud of it. That always bothered me a bit. I'm sure by now his butthole is as loose as his morals. (I still preferred him to that faggot Jason Chard). It was around this time that I was faced with an unpleasant sexual advance. Vincent gave me sound advice on the matter, but cooler heads surely did not prevail.
To Be Continued. . .*Tune in Thursday for the dramatic conclusion!