Sol.: Sex Machine to the Chicks

April 10th, 2012

The ladies, they love me.

Now I don’t want to come off as overly confident, but it’s true. They can’t keep their hands off me.

It’s almost as if I need a personal bodyguard to keep them away–or a long stick, at the very least.

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking: “Who is this arrogant prick?”

But let me explain.

This is all based off of fact. I experience it on a daily basis. Women throw themselves at me. They compliment my good looks and boyish charm.

Hell, I’ve even had women sing me songs, and ask me to marry them afterward.

Of course, being the gentleman that I am, I politely decline and I thank them for their kindness. But hell, it’s not easy being beautiful.

Ooooh — we love Sol….


I mean, look at me. It’s not their fault. I’m pretty much cream-of-the-crop material.

Take, for example, what happened to me  the other day.

I’m sitting in the ER, doing my thing. A patient comes in by ambulance and I go into the room to take care of her.

All of a sudden, she starts telling me how sexy my voice is and how great of a body I have.

She calls me the most handsome man she’s ever seen. She says my shoulders are big and strong and that I have arms like the gods.


Hot dang! Me, too….


Who am I to judge her for her sense of taste? It all sounds pretty accurate to me.

I do my job and walk out of the room. Another satisfied customer.

After, I walk up to Darlene, the nurse, and fill her in on what just happened.

“Chick in room ten wants me,” I say. “She was practically drooling over me. Damn I’m sexy.”

“She’s 87,  Sol. And she has dementia.”

“So what?”

“So, dick, she’d probably say the same thing to a bed pan.”

I didn’t pay Darlene any attention. She’s just hating.  Shit, a woman’s a woman.

Plus, that old bag has great taste.

Editor’s Note: Sol‘s last post for The Third City was Creative Cussing….

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