Prostitute
A skimpily-dressed young woman, standing on a street corner, stuck her head and cleavage in my car window and asked,
“You looking for a girlfriend?”
I said, “I’m looking for a wife.”
“I don’t do that,” she said.
I drove around the block until I saw two more women, early twenties, long legs. They approached my car, leaned in, and asked, “Hey mister, you want twins tonight?”
I said, “You don’t look like twins.”
They said, “Then how about a sandwich? A three-way?”
I said, “I’m looking for a wife.”
The prostitutes said, “Forget it. Too kinky.” They turned their backs and walked away. I drove down the street and found a tired-looking, older woman sitting on the curb, chain-smoking.
She said, “What do you want?”
I said, “I’m looking for my wife.”
She said, “What took you so long?”
I said, “Get in, honey. Let’s get you home. You need a shower.”
