Hey, you, girl at that surreal vacant-house party. Yeah, you, the one who found herself alone in that empty room with the shirtless tattooed guy. You didn't notice, but there were some people in the closet cheering you on. No, not in a pervy, creepy way. We ducked in there, much like R. Kelly
, to avoid a police raid. A raid, I should note, that did nothing to interrupt your tryst with shirtless dude. As the police skedaddled, shirtless guy turned all hands. The shirtless-yet-comely guy was totally hot for your bod. But your virtue triumphed over sexy time. For that, you earned many a silent "you go, girl" from the closeted peanut gallery. But the best part was when you ended the brief make-out session and told him that maybe tonight he should find someone else he doesn't respect and fuck her instead. Ah, snap! Dawson's Creek
writers only aspired to that level of angst and brevity. You might not have made his night, but you certainly made mine.
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