Eat at Mo’s

...if you like your meals spicy with a side of ho. Let’s rewind a bit. Last week I went to a little steak place on the corner of Why Me Blvd. and No Shame Ave. As I’m heading inside my friend says, “Oh, this place is apparently known for being a spot where men come to meet hookers”. *looks into camera* Exsqueeze me!? Initially, I didn’t think much of that little tidbit. But after say 20 minutes, you could tell something wasn’t quite right. It was a brothel cleverly hidden inside the bar area of a dining establishment. You could spot the women who'd accidently wandered in oblivious to the goings on of this place…and you could tell who the ‘tutes were in an instant. Yes, prostitutes.

Apparently Herve Leger plus Christian Louboutin divided by class equals I’m a hooker at Mo’s because every white man in a 100 mile radius decided we fell in the latter of the two categories. Just our luck, black women seem to be in high demand in the underworld of hookery. These dudes were on us like white on brown rice. One stalked me from across the room, then made his move. Before I knew it he'd welcomed himself into my personal space. Once inside this sacred area, he proceeded to ramble off obscene desires in what I believe to be English. I managed to shake him. But he didn’t go far. He kindly helped himself to a sample of the entire table. Fondling us with his dirty words, undressing us with his senile eyes. I decided enough was enough when he ever so gently suggested that he and I get a room. *moves eyebrows up and down rapidly* We did what any respectable sistahs would do. We enlisted the help of nearest angry black man to scare him off. After Father Time let us be, the younger men started wandering over to gawk at us. I felt like an animal in the effin zoo. Dudes would trot on over to take a gander, but luckily stayed a healthy distance away. Almost like there was some invisible force field of class keeping them at bay.

After about 2 hours and 32 unspoken invitations for a romp in the hay, we got the hell out of Dodge. As we exited stage left, one of the ‘tutes tossed us a glance and hopped into her Maserati. I swear I heard her say “you broads ain’t got enough stamps in your passport to f*ck with me” as she peeled out of the parking lot. But maybe not...


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