Gage lay awake maybe hating the gay drapes. He couldn’t make up his mind; they were safe but très shapeless. Did he dare to open them, and share his barely-there hair to the world (maybe with flare), making them stare? Going with his impulse, he stood and obeyed himself, slowly pulled the chain that opened the drapes, and then turned towards a rebellious shelf. Wigs and breasts, he felt French and set the jet-black bob a la tête, while pressing the best breasts against his heavy chest. Garments, like cement, stuck to him 100 percent, he was eminent in latex, and it pleased all the gents. Having the chance to glance around the room, his mind zoomed in on the never-been-used broom.
“What a flirty, perverted, stern, burning, but purely just dirty tomb,” he fumed.