White Owl

Some nights ago I conferred with a young stripper sporting silver flapper-style parted hair combed cleverly.  So young, little bird face.  She couldn't understand how I had come to be seated at the odd table where she'd found me.  Everyone had been swishing back and forth without sitting down for a chat.  "No one ever sits there," she observed.

She was an artist.  I presented her with an advertising card on which I drew an ornate picture frame.  With considerable industry, she filled it with a big rose-like flower [stamen, pistils] into which a fat bee was probing.
Later, when I was talking to another blonde, Carmen of Key West, a nudist who cannot live each day without being buck daylight naked.  She had turned down an offer of marriage from the gay [Key West is a gay capital] heir [needed family cover] to a retail empire and just gave birth to a baby whose father [her current bully boyfriend] treats her like a "mindless bimbo because he runs a limo service and thinks he is all powerful." [But I saw in the cards a return to Key West once she got her degree in pop music production.] Curvaceous Carmen, Scorpio [She knew what I would say before I said it.] lubricious lips, lacivious eyes, loud hair. [Out tits popped, "Ooops, you got a free peek!"] On stage, Opal cavorted, eyeing me to catch my glance while Carmen and I were taking it back and forth.