Martin’s Bitch.
‘So I bought an apartment by the riverfront,’ said Martin, then gulping a gin and tonic. ‘Course, she don’t know- she’s already sniffing around for half my portfolio.’
Thus far, the school reunion had been a dour affair. ‘Sounds messy,’ I mumbled.
Martin thrust his smartphone into my face, curating a brief exhibition of gynecological selfies. ‘She’s a Bitch!’
I reserved judgement – though her vagina appeared first class.
‘So how’s you?’ said Martin.
‘Fine,’ I said, lying cheerfully.
‘Any skirt?’
‘Nothings serious.’
‘Best way.’
Indeed, later that evening, The Bitch’s gynaecological selfies saved the expense of hotel porno.