I thanked him but politely declined since I don't really drink, plus I heard him complaining to a friend while sitting on the front porch earlier that afternoon that he couldn't get laid in a whorehouse with fifty dollar bills coming out of his pants. Not that he was hoping to get me liquored up so he could seduce me or anything, but I didn't want to give him any ideas.
Lord, how hard up am I that I have to imagine the possibility that I might have just narrowly escaped a ravishing? He was probably just being nice and here I am, acting like a nervous old spinster, imagining perverts hiding behind bushes or something. I kind of wish there were perverts, at least then I'd have something tangible to be nervous about. There's something a little bit pathetic about me jumping at imaginary schlongs.
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