Summary

I'm considered by women to be 'manageable'. Many have attempted to tame me, and all have succeeded in a matter of days. I'm like an old baseball glove, beaten down by life with a lingering leathery musk. It's completely coincidental that I cover my body in mink oil daily.

My goals

I'm thinking about opening a topless cleaning service for women. I would parade around older women's homes lightly dusting their trinkets. I would wear white gloves and cutoff jeans. Nothing else. The old birds would purr as I would wipe my feathers across their china, making subtle eye contact. I would see the sadness in their eyes, longing for the touch of another. Sweat would bead on my face as she bends over to pull up her diabetic socks. After the brief, shameful sex, she would pay me in quarters and ask if I need a ride home.

She would always sneer at me out of the corner of her mouth as if she knew something I didn't. The brandy would slowly drip her swirling glass, staining the new white carpet. "Better wipe that up," she would purr. Her ancient, gold teeth shimmering in the hot autumn sun. As I bend over to wipe the floor, she abruptly stops me. "No honey...here," as she gestures to her antique loins.

My best features

My ridiculously long eye lashes. Food gets in them a lot. I stare a lot. It's not that I'm rude or have special needs, I'm just interested how some individuals have lived as long as they do.

Favorites

I really want say books are for prisoners. Talented Mr. Ripley. Game of Thrones. LOTR. Crime and Punishment. Mein Kampf. Sam Harris. Dan Dennett. Kurt Vonnegut. Stephanie Meyer.

I'm looking for