The first thing most women usually do when they come to my house is slip into a bathing suit. I like women and in many situations, I really like them in bathing suits so this phenomenon should be one of the big perks of my life. It’s not (it turns out my wide sells swimsuits). Having perfect strangers in bikinis primping in every bathroom of my house on a sunny Saturday afternoon seems like a rockin’ start to a real-life adult entertainment scene but it’s not like that. It’s much more like the slow torture that accompanies a trip to the mall. Have you ever been forced at gunpoint to shop with your wife? For clothes? Do you recall the awkwardness? Can you remember the cackling sound that seventeen women make when they talk about fabric and shades of violet and geometric patterns and how good they would look if they could just lose those last fifty-six pounds?
Living In Bikini Bottom
