Hangin' with the dudes

Being a Lezbaneze tribal chief, there is a certain level of acceptance into the boys club that I'm allowed.

Like if a hot girl is walking down the street in front of the office, they might call me in to approve the selection.

If a certain actress is delicious in a new movie, where she is scantily clad, I'm often panting in agreement with the boys around the water cooler.

But my favorite time...lunch. No salad here!

I just mowed through a basket of wings with not one insecure feeling in my femininity. Sucked on my fingers, double dipped in my blue cheese, quadruple used my napkin till the paper pulled off on my fingers in sticky, orange clumps.

Then I ordered more blue cheese....and napkins.

All the while talk of baseball picks, old girlfriends and co-worker gossip, swirled around the table. I didn't even have to participate! I just kept sucking on my Thai BBQ wings. No one expected me to be 'on'. I didn't have to entertain.

And there were breaks in the conversations that weren't awkward silence. Just the dudes...chillin'.

Schweet!

We all paid separate, to wrestling for who's gonna pay for who. Then we skated out of the place, our foursome of full bellies, burping our approval of the fine meal, on the way to the car.

My over all feeling....boys are gross. Right up to the point that I wanna be just as gross. Then they are just fine.