Only The Thong Survive

Sir, I may not be twenty-one. I may not be able to drink in your bar, but I’ll be damned if I don’t drive others to drink, and if you know your business, that’s all you should care about. If you hire me, I may not be the prettiest boy in your club either, but I sure am pretty and nobody looks at my face anyway so why should you? And while I may not look like a big guy, mister, I assure you that all of this—it’s muscle.

But you know what? I know you care about all those things, but I don’t care about a one of them. Not at all. All I care about is stripping. I was born to strip. People who know me say I was even born naked.

Well, of course they’re trying to flatter me, but you get the point. If I had anything to say about it, I’d say I was born in this thong. It’s leather, you know? And as much as I love stripping for you and everyone and most importantly for myself, this leather thong is as naked as I get. One more thing: if there is a part of my person’s anatomy where you see thong, that means no touching there. Understand? That’s the forbidden zone you damn dirty ape, so don’t even try. Nothing comes between me an my thong.

Yes, my thong has a name, and no I’m not telling you. Not cuz I’m not proud of it but because I respect its privacy just like it guards mine. See? We are a symbichotic team with a big tea and and extra lemon, just like the ladies like it.

I don’t have to tell you this. Any of this. This especially, but I’m gonna: I was almost a secret agent. Even had a special passport and ball point pen with a poison tip and 24 hour military style digital clock and I was learning to skydive already, but my thong couldn’t get a clearance. Not because it couldn’t make any mercenary double-spy give up the most sensitive of dirty war secrets, but because it couldn’t get a security clearance. You see, this thong is made of Argentinian leather, and it seems there’s a rule against that. You might as well know too that it’s the only damned leather I’ll wear. So screw ‘em. Screw ‘em all.