Anatomy of an Oyster

Who’s buying my dinner tonight?

Dripping sweat from scalp to white lace panty line, it’s barely June and I’m wondering who’s buying my dinner tonight. The summers of my early twenties were bystanding ketamine races on Driggs and revenge bedtime procrastination. Mid 20s were feeding boys and men cherry Italian ice from Wawa in pickup trucks outside Philly, listening to Funkadelic tapes…