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Kitty's: Girls, Girls, Girls

It was a trailer with a fence
And blinking light bulbs.

Clouds of perfume floated thickly
With Marlboro Red smoke.

Women, mid-thirties
With cliché whore clothes
And make-up on.
Backs of their thighs
Lacerated with cellulite.

I was nervous,
Couldn't seem to get it right.
Not after a blow job.
Not after doggy-style.
Not after backdoor.
Not after a twenty-minute hand job.

And as the time ran out,
Just when I was feeling guilty,
A little dirty to boot,
After we were done,
She asked how old I really was.

I said sixteen.
She laughed,

"I'd take a clean white Carson High boy
over any
old oily Mexican
any day."

And with that,
I came into the warm waters
Of the bowl she held washing off my prick.

My semen belly-up,
Intermingled with
Sanitary soap bubbles.

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