This makes me so excited, says Andrea as she holds up the credit card with a personalized Detroit Pistons logo on it. She is just another person who likes Detroit sports, I assume. Or, as I’ve learned over the years, a girl from a suburb of Detroit who pretends to like sports so boys from other Detroit suburbs will notice her.
Yeah, Pistons. Woo-hoo. I try to muster up some hometown pride but I obviously fail to care about national associations of anything athletic. I totally boned a Piston, like, four hours ago.
I boned a Piston. He had no hair and no eyebrows, but he was sexy in a way. Powerful, you know?
I pretend to know how a powerful guy with no hair and no eyebrows can be sexy, but, truthfully, I don’t really get it.
Andrea is a hot girl. Not a pretty girl, but a hot one. She wears too much eye makeup. She has a fake tan. She always straightens her dyed hair. She mentioned to me, in passing, that she has a child but has clarified many times that she knows how attractive she is. I can’t help it, you know?
I guess I kind of know.
Other women talk about Andrea behind her back. It’s really easy to see through her. I mean, you can tell how insecure she really is.
I know this could definitely be true. I also know that women who are the most insecure are the ones who point out others’ weaknesses without being asked.
He told me I was the hottest white girl he’d ever slept with.
So you had a good time?
Oh yeah. He was big. He was big everywhere.