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Milk He whispers sexual favors in a hustler's ear while digging for unfiltered cigarettes. He accepts twenty bucks from a Friday night lover. The tips of sugar daddy tongues lick the pierced belly button of a washboard stomach. Cigarette ashes are dead like electrocuted insects at untied shoelaces of dirty Reeboks. Men hustle for yellow-haired asses, for a back seat blow-job and lines of cocaine on a sun cracked dash board pick pockets bone clean for eight-inch thick wallets. The federal faces of Benjamin Franklin are tucked in beige bras between prosthetic titties of Transsexual whores in red-hot wigs who spit profanity like pits from prunes. Stiletto heels are pressed against plaid shirts stained with gravy from a truck driver who lies drunk, slumped in a pool of puke in the parking-lot of Motel El Comino.
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