There comes a time in every woman's life when she has to go get her man. My time was now. That's what put me on a jet, somewhere over the Caribbean, in this hootchie-momma outfit I'd let my friend Charlene talk me into. Everything I normally let hang out was trussed up like a turkey, and the things I always kept covered were out there swinging in the breeze.
Clothes may make the man, but they change the woman. I'm a thirty-something African-American with junk in my trunk and a chest that women go under the knife for; I always dress to downplay that. I want folks judging me for my mind, not my body.
In this stuff, every time I stood, my chest ended up in some man's face. And when I walked, my butt swished like a Whirlpool on agitate.
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