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why can't I call you sweetie? I mean, your girlfriend is nowhere to be seen and I don't peg you as the type suffering from male insecurity 'cause a queer called you cute. I don't see a switchblade in your back pocket and guns don't solve anything, so what's the problem? what is the matter? I hope youíre not going to give me that, if-I-was-gay-you-would-be-the-first-guy-I-would-ask-out speech, because if you are, give me time to put my hands over my ears and hold my breath. Flattery won't get you anywhere, it makes my gums bleed. But you don't want to hear about my problems. You have no need to know about the guy who took all nine inches like a pro or the time a man got screwed so good, he thought it was god. Why can't I call you sweetie, or honey, or suga pie, or baby, or sweetheart? I mean nothing by it. Iím aware you have a nice girl waiting for you at home. A girl who keeps the bed warm, who cuts up your meat into tiny pieces, who irons even your underwear and you both share that fantastic apartment with the fantastic view of the state's capital that fantastic bathroom with his and her towels. The medicine cabinet mirror large enough to curl her hair in, to shave your perfect Jewish face in. How could I forget, when you remind me every single chance you get.
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