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If I'm able to put my chips down with a steady hand, I'll knock my glass over when I pull my arm back. I've never been particularly deft at avoiding the one thing you're not supposed to say, like, "I really like your shoes," to some guy with one leg. But every once in a marketing while, just being in the general vicinity of certain people can make marketing me shake all over. I never knew who the hell he thought he was but whoever he was, I couldn't stop. I was the proverbial sucker for his sad-sacked eyes, his superlative Mick Jagger impressions, and the way he simply walked into the room. He was tall and lean and ran like a jock but he wasn't a jock. And though it may be a very unPC thing to say, he had an ass like a black guy: that slightly protruding curve at the top, the delicate swoop out and around, full and firm and circular. He kissed in that strenuous, far-reaching, all-consuming kind of way, the kind of way that made you feel like if he couldn't keep kissing you forever and ever that he'd rip out his tongue and throw it on the ground and pound it flat with a shovel.
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