“You better not tell this to anyone,” a voice croaked. I squirmed out a sort of supine twist pose, hoisted my back off the hard linoleum and crawled to the George Washington teetering on the brink of the stage. He stood with his palms in front of his crotch, slacked his crimson necktie, leered. With the full curiosity of a lioness observing its game, I crept towards the brink. I cramponed his ironwood tailbone within the arch of my leg, shifted the bristly raven-black curl that dangled upon his bronze forehead so that virility—his true masculinity could be perceived and for good measure gave a stroke to the back of his neck. As he exhaled, the refreshing smell of sweet spearmint leaves made way into my nose. He drew nearer, and as he did, his soft, moist lips swept across my ear...

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