Congratulations Extravagantly Dressed Homeless Person!

Walkin' down the street, it's no surprise that a classy hobo, a hobo like you, would bust out of his cage and bounce/flounce around like a true ponce, shuffling about in his finest rags.  It's a thing you do sometimes, show off your swag, rain never touching you, silk shoes, suede coat.  You'll dance all around outside the subway station and today, of all days, you'll settle down into your sitting spot, underneath a tarp, outside of a book shop, and a woman will walk by.

She'll be, as they used to say back in olden times, a real looker, this woman: she'll have legs up to the place where her legs stop and then, above those legs, giant, firm tits that will rest comforably beneath her shoulders and a clavicle that makes you mumble to yourself:

"Achima mummy, I'm gonna baste your turkey."

This woman, this strange woman on the street, this real looker, she'll look at you and she'll pull out her purse and put on some lipstick and she'll murmur at you:

"Sikh?"

You'll nod and lick your own lips and then this woman, this strange lipsticked looker woman, will take your hand in her hand and walk you from your sitting spot to a hotel where she'll give the receptionist a credit card, drag you back to a room and wash you, carefully, painstakingly, with a particular focus on your penis.  When she's finished your penis, withered from disuse, will be making a gesture at an erection while this woman, this strange rich looker of a woman who will no longer be wearing lipstick, who will instead be holding your half-limp penis in one hand, will look up at you and say:

"Was clothes make the man," before she lets your dick fall from her palm, stands up, puts on a towel, and walks back out to the motel room proper.

Congratulations Extravagantly Dressed Homeless Person!