Being a sex symbol is a heavy load to carry, especially when one is tired, hurt, and bewildered.
Everyone’s just laughing at me. I hate it. Big breasts, big ass, big deal, Can’t I be anything else? Gee, how long can you be sexy?
A photographer once told me that my two best points are between my waist and my neck.
A sex symbol becomes a thing. I just hate to be a thing.
You feeling me, boy. You like my style. Pretty blue eyes and that sexy smile.
You’re fronting like you don’t want it, but deep down inside, you wanna get all up on it.
Cute enough to make you look twice, sweet enough but not too nice, a little crazy but not too wild, the kinda girl that’ll make you smile.
Her beauty stops them dead in their tracks. Her smile lights up a room.
I walk in the room like ba-ba-ba BAM. All the boys stutter, “da-da-da d*mn!”
I’m sweet, petite, about five feet, the cutest shorty you’ll ever meet.
I’m the chick looking fine with a little waistline. Got all these boys checking it from behind.