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Now I wish I had gone all the way with Mary Allison
in the front seat of her mini-van in '86.
Oh, haven't you ever felt a woman leaning forward
inside herself, holding out her soul
like a flower to be picked?
Merely doing nothing in these situations
can be an act of athletic dimensions,
like keeping your mouth shut in an argument,
or not flinching when the bull rushes past,
which in this case would be, I guess, the wild Hereford of desire
charging past
the Matador of sexual opportunity.
Well, she didn't need my fingerprints all over her.
Having just escaped from her Frankenstein first husband
she was naturally looking for somebody just like him.
Still, she was like a soft crust, it would have
felt so good to push my finger through, to the soft center,
and to lick the finger after.
I remember her mouth so clearly.
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