Dating with a plucked chicken is not easy. As I move about a bar, I spy an attractive lawyerly-type. I flip my hair back, give the come-hither stare, and raise my lemon drop to my lips and slowly swallow.

Full of swagger, he says, “You’re too cute to be by yourself.”
“I’m not by myself now, am I?” I pointed my cleavage in his direction.

At my place, he was spending too much time on the foreplay—-I was ready to go. His hand slipped between my legs and then retracted.

“What’s up with that?”
“What?” My cheeks reddened.
“Are you a porn star ?”
“Uh, no.”
“What’s with the clear cut forest?”
“Um, I just read that it’s the new trend.”
He peered below. “It looks like one of those hairless cats.”
I covered up and withdrew.
“I didn’t mean anything. Besides what am I supposed to do with this?”

In my haste, I hadn’t checked out the goods. Glancing downward, I saw a diminutive member, disproportionate to its owner.

“I suggest you find a different kitty for that pitiful trouser mouse,” I chortled.