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Acetate Ace by Willie Smith

Posted 4/12/2020

 

 

Nylons on her crossing legs zing – nectar off a razor licked. Likes in her liquor a twist. Although herself a card, all she fails to know about cards you could into Candlestick about crowd. Despite which she likes to play like she plays wicked whist. Whatever might be whist. Flips also in that cocktail a thimbleful of centipede pickle.

Me, on the other side, hunch on the edge, feeling time suicide. While she sweats to hide the ho and the hum; the better to collect the check – holding down the bile of a thousand eyes launched at her ladyship.

Do I catch her behind the mask reminding herself to toe the line between the bore of lust and the boredom of just another job… hips from the mind taking the wheel, cornering like a pro defaulting to the amateur of, oh, not SO many years ago?

But as she kicks off heels, steps from the skirt, approaches the well-hung co-star, I stow such thoughts. Board the goodship Self Help, words crisscrossing, crotch telegraphing skull to squirt – on the spade of her ass – the ace.

And so our minds meet in the meat I in the dark on the balcony beat.

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