splendor in buenos aires for LEL

girlontape has been trying to fathom the art of the histeriqueo aka the argie mating dance. Here's how a friend once described it:

-If you LIKE the guy, you must never let the word YES cross your lips.
-Does anyone ever actually get laid by doing that?
-All the time. You just never verbally agree to it.
-How about in the sack...are you allowed to moan yesyesyes in a moment of passion?
-In bed anything goes, but it becomes meaningless as soon as you re-enter real life.
-Is there ever a point where it's ok to play it straight?
-Hmmm...not really. Unless you're like, married to the guy or something. And even then...it's dicey.

Being a proud psychobitch just like sinead, girlontape at first rashly dismissed these orwellian instructions for they smacked of female obeisance to quaint virgin-whore dichotomies and let's face it: we all know nice girls are doomed to a lifetime of boring sex.

To our heroine, manipulating a man into bed was akin to hiding behind a tit job, faking an orgasm, not knowing where your g-spot is, letting your mother give you shit about your hairstyle: so splendor in the grass...so last century...and no way was girlontape gonna end up like deanie. After all she had her dancing feet, some cute dresses and a rock 'n roll heart, which in her book are more than enough for any self-respecting, hot-blooded psychobitch to earn her share of good clean american fun, as her friend george puts it.

Imagine her puzzlement, then, as the better the chemistry, the faster her dashing suitors would flip out for no apparent reason. Can't we all just get along? was our heroine's constant inner cry as, time and again, her freedom-loving spirit was met with bizarre temperamental outbursts, uncalled-for promises, demands & declarations, unnecessary macho posturing & petty lies, histrionic recriminations and all manner of below the belt punches.

The name of the game, it seemed, was dirty pool...unless you played the histeriqueo card: no sooner did girlontape apply this retro notion, than scores of perfectly charming, good-willed, mentally healthy, incredibly hot tattoed boytoys with rock 'n roll hearts showed up on her doorstep. Oh bud....bud...I'm not a nice girl! I'm not a nice girl! our heroine chanted inwardly as, flipping her hair and feigning indifference, she stepped into the latest candidate's super sexy muscle car and let him manfully drive her into the sunset.

ps. picture of my four-footed baby for you, LEL.