This water-logged brochure was enough for you to contract a strain of wanderlust. It’s what pulled you on down to the Sioux reservation in Redwood County, Minnesota. It’s what loomed your double-knit fantasy about hooking up with a little Siouxzie-Q (after all, the testosterone-half still percolates downstream), winning five or ten grand on black 33 (your lucky number on a cold Friday) at The Jackpot Junction, the reservation’s casino/hotel, and then marching on Washington down to Ralph Nader’s pad or someplace like that.
In the back of your mind you knew the whole thing was a frisbee in a hurricane and now you’re trying to make the best of it. The sex has taken a turn for the conventional, that is, until you start to involuntarily lactate. This happenstance only gets Mehitable more excitable and pretty soon it’s as if that quarter-munching rainbow-colored zebra ride outside your childhood laundromat went on a bronco-bucking fritz. You notice the jiggles in her midsection and all you can think about is that lyric from a Tom Waits piece, Pasties and a G-String, that went: ‘Crawling on her belly, and shaking like jelly, And I’m getting harder than Chinese algebrassieres’.
Go to page 4.
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