Their heels are thin as needles and high as the Big Ben, and their boobs bulge over the front of their dresses like a fat mans belly over the edge of his sweatpants. They clutch their purses and giggle while they frantically try to hide their booze from the bouncers. All night they systematically scan the club for male booty, the guys willingly objectified.
They are the queens (in the non-homosexual sens of the word) of the British night. They are the Oranges.
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