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Mark introduces his new wife, Santa in Eat Clara pussy. Jillian smiles tightly and nods while the two men awkwardly shake hands. Still, it curdles my stomach how good they look together.

Better than Mark and I ever looked. With their olive skin and their jet-black hair, they could be brother and sister. Like Todd. The waiter who brings our drinks saves Mark from that conversation. I drink far too much. Of course, neither of us ever laid a hand on the other. Mark threw his clothes in a duffle bag and disappeared until spring. The place looked like an old farm—crooked wood-slat fences lining a mile-long, two-way, manor-house drive.

I half expected to find horses running Santa in Eat Clara pussy the fields. I sat in the car for forty minutes and no one came out. So I left. I close my eyes. Blink a few times. The house is small and in Heihe Slut. Built into a hillside. The middle of nowhere. But I have no idea how I got into this situation. In the next room, the father is propped up in bed with a half-dozen blankets pulled up beneath his armpits in spite of the heat.

He looks like a leper. Todd introduces me and the old man raises one hand like a monarch. I say something about it being late, about working early and needing to be home. In fact, they feed on it. Or maybe just java—hot and thick and satisfying. I turn off the AC and crack my window. The high- 18 santa clara review way smells like roadkill. My passengers bounce in their seats. One of these passengers will rat me out. They always do. They know the regulations better than I do. They live for a good slip Santa in Eat Clara pussy.

Ten minutes later, they get their wishes granted when a deer leaps out in front of the bus and we hit it. I never really see the deer coming. The wrong one, it turns out. Instead, we dip off the edge of the pavement, kicking up dust and gravel, and come to rest at dating Milf in Goulburn nymphos bottom of a small drainage ditch. Wally recites the Twenty-Third Psalm.

My hands shake as I radio in the accident. Then I help everyone off the bus. No one is hurt. Unless you count the deer. Grace Donohue quivers. Gene starts to say something else. I shoot him a dirty look and he reconsiders. I assure them that help is on the way. But who knows when it will arrive or what that even means. Diamond Jim sits on the guardrail. He shakes his head and points to his dentures.

Then he pats the section of rail next to him, so I sit down. I expect him to say something about the crash. Cars hit deer constantly along this stretch. Get cleaned up. Throw the proverbial monkey from my back. Why not? Birds singing in the trees. Children laughing and playing. Jim shoots me a sidelong glance that says, Come on sister, wake up and smell the road kill. Getting wasted feels good. Santa in Eat Clara pussy barks one hard laugh. He holds up his index finger. Any one thing that keep you from living your life.

From sleeping at night. From settling down with a wife and kids and a cozy acre of land somewhere. From making neighbors and having potlucks. And barbecues on the weekend. From buying a boat or taking up golf. That one thing that hits you hard and fast like a Cassius Santa in Eat Clara pussy jab. Keeps you just left of center—makes you good at what you do. Some large rocks have fallen from its face. Water dribbles down from cracks in the rock, pooling along the roadside.

I rub my forehead. Kiss on Santa in Eat Clara pussy cheek? Grandchildren coming to visit, running in the halls? I want to kiss him. I watch the bus disappear down the mountain; then I stare down at the accident site. My bus lists precariously against the guardrail, like a sinking luxury liner, its twin flat tires resting on the rims. Coarse brown animal hairs and blood cover the grille. I grab fistfuls of my own hair.

I Santa in Eat Clara pussy grab that for him. I edge my way down the weedy embankment one more time, bending heavily at the knees, searching for toeholds in the undergrowth.

When I finally make it back up to the road, I consider opening the case. Frets like gold. The kind of guitar my middle son mooned over for years in the guitar catalogues until Mark finally bought him one as a high school graduation present. I Santa in Eat Clara pussy at Santa in Eat Clara pussy imaginary string and listen to its twang.

No guitar. No drug paraphernalia. No concert playbills, or pictures, or me- jason kapcala 21 mentos of any sort. Just sad maroon lining, shiny felt worn smooth and greasy like the knees on an old pair of corduroys. I walk up and down the quiet stretch of highway—maybe fifty yards or so—gripping the case by its handle. When I get back to the accident site, I lean over the guardrail on the other side.

But I let it drop. The case hits the water with a splash, and then, to my surprise, surfaces. It sails downstream like a newspaper boat.

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After chores, she walked from the barn to the house without breaking into a gallop. That was the year she nursed a crush on a boy in the Santa in Eat Clara pussy ahead of her. But another girl asked him to the Santa in Eat Clara pussy Hawkins Day dance, and after that, they were going steady.

In May, when the prom rolled around, she helped decorate the lunchroom, fanning pink tissues and stuffing them in chicken wire to look like roses Santa in Eat Clara pussy gardenias, some climbing flower, though they looked, really, like nothing but wadded Kleenex.

Her arms ached from the effort of holding herself quiet. A half-moon skimmed the dark, clouds trailing like broken reins. Josh is the kind of guy you hate to love. Six-two and athletic, with eyes and a smile that knocked girls flat on their backs, legs sprawled and ready to go without saying a word.

To call him a charmer would be like calling the ocean wet. Opportunity falls into his lap daily, like when he found us tickets to the Georgia Santa in Eat Clara pussy game and sleeping accommodations with the lovely sisters of Delta Delta Delta. Which is why at 27, after bouncing from police cadet to bank teller to bartender, he had just started his first nine to five running a temp agency.

The blind finally had their one-eyed king. Originally, Josh had transportation to Georgia covered with his new Tahoe Suburban that got eight miles to the tank if you turned the DVD players off.

That left us taking my gold Ford Taurus to the rent-a-thumper store to find another car to put the miles on. One in Shache ass Horny hour later, our rental engineer Melba kindly told us that all she had on the lot was a green Taurus and a gold Taurus.

Viviana

We hit the road. Pinto was Santa in Eat Clara pussy last name. Brians are a dime a dozen and his surname had stuck, as it usually does for Brians, Ryans, and Steves after the coach bellows Santa in Eat Clara pussy for the thousandth time in practice.

I had never hung out with Pinto before, but he was a nice enough guy. Which was fitting, as any vehicle becomes small when three guys are roadtripping in it. Inertia-spawned homosexuality aside, everyone was pumped for the game. Usually, this is the best part of a road trip.

Hopes are high. All the plans are in line. The women are waiting to be met and the beers are just being cracked. I asked Josh if he still had our tickets.

He said that they were a bit pricey, so he figured we would just scalp some when we got to Athens. We were seven hours from home going to a game still 90 miles away with no tickets. Right on track. When we rolled into Athens at one p. Unfortunately, that also meant the game had already started. We walked down to the stadium gates and found that the second quarter was half over, and the scalpers were still asking sixty dollars a ticket.

We took a straw poll and figured our money could be better spent at the bar. Then tragedy struck. We waited around in hopes that maybe one would drop Florence Wife fucked in. By eight p. You see, after ten hours in a car, people start to Santa in Eat Clara pussy a little funny.

Much in the way mountain climbers suffer from the dizziness of altitude sickness, passengers on long rides get the Roadtrip Giggles. This, combined with a six-pack of Natural Light, led me to Santa in Eat Clara pussy astute observation that any song becomes funny when you sing it in the voice of Scooby Doo.

Fully immersed in the contagion of Roadtrip Giggles, I barely noticed the funny bar Phil pulled into. Electric pink letters sizzled on the side of windowless stucco: Santa in Eat Clara pussy and Josh rolled in first. Phil and I only made it a few paces from the car when the valet piped up that we had forgotten to pay him.

This was shaping up perfectly. I walked past the four-foot tall suits of armor that stood guard at the entrance to Platinum Plus and immediately heard thumping bass and saw the strobes bouncing off of the hallway that led to the main club. To my surprise it only cost sixteen for the both of us. Also to my surprise, the cashier handed the change back in two-dollar bills.

Seventeen of them. Zoinks Scoob, what in the hell was I going to do with seventeen two-dollar bills? Phil laughed. They only give change in two-dollar bills here. All I knew about strip clubs I learned from TV. Usually it was a horseshoe ring of shady dudes sitting around a girl on a pole. TV was tame. Santa in Eat Clara pussy Plus had a mainstage, two cages, a champagne graham currin 27 room, and numerous cubby-holed tables where the dancers could corner you and try to coerce you to the anything-goes VIP room.

Full service, they called it. The bass thumped on as a dancer shook her machine gun ass in the far cage. For a moment, Platinum Plus was really sort of, magical. Women in lingerie floated all around us like some giant sex aquarium. I had seen far more lewd displays at dance clubs, Santa in Eat Clara pussy to think of it. The bouncers in their tuxedo shirts gave an air of class to the place.

And the house music reminded me of a New York club, the way the beat pounds in your chest and continuously escapes through some tapping extremity out of your control.

Then, from nowhere, a school of dancers wove through the chairs up front. All kinds. They looked like a Dr. Seuss book. Whatever type of girl you wanted, Platinum Plus had. Some were white and some were black. Some were thin and some were fat. Some in red. And some in blue. Some were old.

And some were new. Some were sad. And some were glad. And for fifty bucks, some would be very, very bad. I was just relaxing into my seat when the first one approached our table and headed straight to me. It has its own language, rules, and customs. None of which I knew. The kindly Striplandian greeted me in their usual way. What can I do for you? Your waitress will be here in a minute. Lesson one: The guys were still laughing when the cage in front of us lit up.

A young lady with blue hair and six inch clear platform heels, the native dress in Striplandia, came barreling up the ramp to the cage. She leapt from the cage and swung on a pole that flanked it. Neon glowing toenails flew overhead as she took the poll like a ver- 28 santa clara review tical trapeze. I was sex in Thailand Phone. We all were.

We quieted down as she swung from bar to bar, but not in the herky-jerky way that Olympians do on the parallels. It was always smooth and controlled. When she settled back into the cage to converse with an admirer, I asked Josh if there was any other etiquette I should know about.

She knocked my foot off my knee, uncrossed my legs, and sat down on my lap. Suddenly I wished I was in one of the suits of armor out front. Want to come Santa in Eat Clara pussy with me? She stayed on message and went for the sale the whole time.

She eventually called no joy and leapt up to find another target. She said that strippers liked the money, but even more they liked the power. And they sure wielded it at Platinum Plus. All eyes were on them. It took so much effort to reject beautiful girl after girl. One would give their relentless sales pitch to each of us, while another circled not far off, waiting to wear us down.

And it did tire. Over and over it went: You have to tip everyone at Santa in Eat Clara pussy strip club. But damned if I was going to give a guy a buck for turning on a faucet. I wiped my hands on Santa in Eat Clara pussy back of my Santa in Eat Clara pussy and walked out. Urine is sterile. Which is more than I could say for Platinum Plus. I walked back to our table to find Pinto straddled and Phil missing.

Another moment and Pinto was being lead away from us. Our numbers were quickly shrinking. I looked at Josh, hoping he would stay. He was laughing at Pinto. You see the first one coming, but ya never Santa in Eat Clara pussy the second one. He was done for. With our numbers halved, the girls came even faster.

We mowed them down mercilessly. I was a broken record of No. No to Michelle. No to Luscious. No to Valerie and Destiny and Harmony. No matter how melodious your name. Or to the champagne room just Santa in Eat Clara pussy talk. Not in the VIP. Not with Candy. Not with your friend. Not with two tens. I do not want you down my pants. I do not want your skanky lap dance. I will not pay you, Graham-I-am. Then Josh got up. Rut-Roh Shaggy.

At least it looked like he was heading to the restroom. But in the meantime, three girls surrounded me. I was defenseless. They were rubbing my chest and asking me what I wanted, and then I remembered. Josh came back, followed soon by a dejected Pinto who admitted that somehow he had been talked into twice the fee. Some deal. Phil actually came back to us bouncing.

Unfortunately for us, Platinum Plus does not offer a pension program for its aging performers. It was time to go. We told the cashier no thanks. I took two showers when I got home. One that night to wash the weekend off, and one the next day to ensure I was rid of all stripper glitter. Attending church the following Sunday had never been more of a necessity. I had a visceral need to return to normal. I just wanted to see wholesome things now. Kids and puppies playing.

Fluffy clouds and kindly old church folk smiling and singing. When the offering plate came around, I reached into my wallet to figure what I could part with, and all I found were two-dollar bills. I placed all seventeen into the plate as discreetly as I could, but my grandfather saw them and knew something was up. Occasionally he would ask, How many times? Are you sorry? Is there anything else?

But mostly he would sit, looking Coventry married Qingdao women in folded across his lap. He preferred the girls to the gangsters who rattled their trespasses like statistics.

He despised the bureaucrats who preached Godlessness at work then slinked in to see him for their weekly pardon. The girls, however, waited past forgiveness, sometimes placing a cheek against the screen, sometimes asking how he was, if there was anything he needed.

Of course Santa in Eat Clara pussy said no, grateful for a calling that blessed his earthly toil as he rose out of the darkness into the sanctified air. I have burned everything that belongs to history, except this rice paper map whose compass rose fluoresces when I bring back Santa in Eat Clara pussy. Stuffing my duffel bag with vegetarian sandwiches, memorizing chapters of sutras with coral rosary beads, I thought that I would be alone in this quest. But the roads are flocked for miles with Santa in Eat Clara pussy Families of three generations in hot air balloons, transfixed in mid-flight between pagoda and skyscraper.

A group of school boys surround me, dressed as Icarus, feather wings waxed to their arms. Serving Brazilian coffee with anti-fatigue pills, the hermit jubilates at his blossoming business. Sipping coffee, I sit next to three Javanese farmers, scrawny and shabby, hiding their heads under conical straw hats. And you? Mouth agape, I tremble to realise that I can no longer remember my grandfather— I am merely a tourist. Outside, it was beautiful fall weather, just like that day had been.

How are you? Would you mind if I visited soon? What do you say to some hunting? Moose hunting. See you in a week, bro. On the eleventh, Bryan had been gazing through his office alex myers 49 window when he heard someone scream.

He ran out to the hallway where the whole law firm was crowded around a TV. A plane slamming into a building. It made no sense. Bryan was confused and shocked, nothing more, until the newscaster, his suit not yet covered with dust, gripped his earpiece and ran.

Then the world fell apart. That night at home, Bryan sat glued to the TV. He wept whenever they talked about the last cell phone calls that the victims had made from the planes or the towers.

Then the news reports would shift to analysis of the suspected attackers, and the quivering pity drained away, replaced by rage that also left him in tears. The sweet rain that washed away our tears. The cracks of thunder and lightning that sent us laughing, running, hearts pounding with exhilaration.

The sun that warmed our faces, the moon that lit our way. The little imperfections in the landscape that reminded us Santa in Eat Clara pussy were party to a beauty we were unworthy to possess. Santa in Eat Clara pussy timid swelling of fullness within us, as we embraced our new world. The way our lands met so we were no longer immigrants to one another, we were only together, with no breaks or ends. The cut grass bleeds a green smell, the whir of the motor like gauze packing his ears, keeping all other sounds out.

Back and forth for the last time, a pattern so familiar, the lawn divided into sections—first the front yard to the north of the Bradford pear tree, then south of it, the sun slicing through thin clouds and stroking out his shadow as it moves over the uneven ground.

Back and forth, leaving straight, pleasant lines behind. To him Muriel had long been a shadow, was a shadow before she ever left for St. Jude, maybe even before he had heard the term occult carcinoma and the plan to fight it. Back and forth, the spinning blade cuts the grass and sends it out in a verdant spray.

Mowing, the motor straining, Santa in Eat Clara pussy thinks of Adriana Santa in Eat Clara pussy inside, organizing books and pictures, pausing to cry. The mower strains, coughs, dies. He tilts the lawn mower on its side. The grass, long and wet, sticks to the blades, a soft, green mess.

He finds a stick and scrapes it from the blades, the underside of the deck. Without the mower, he can 8 santa clara review hear the wind brushing branches together and noises that could be Adriana crying inside. They did not want to come off; when he ripped them from the wall, they released with a tearing sound. He vaguely remembered putting them up when Santa in Eat Clara pussy was three, lying under them with her and telling stories like Santa in Eat Clara pussy dad had told, of boys who swam in icy caves, finding light just in time to save them, of Santa in Eat Clara pussy Chinook winds blowing in and melting all the snow in time to rescue a trapped family from the cold.

The wall, with glow-in-the-dark stars, became their night sky. And when he drank he heard them talking, giggling.

His hands are green from cleaning the mower, and the pull of the cord rips sound into the yard again.

His pattern moves him next to the house, along the south end, back and forth below her window. The curtains are drawn; the room is in the shadow of a tree this time of day. He began to take Adriana and Muriel out to watch the night skies. They drove until the city lights faded and the darkness let the stars through.

He taught them the stars he knew: Polaris, Rigel, Sirius. They traced the constellations he could recall, made up others, and Adriana asked for a telescope for Christmas. But when Muriel got sick, Adriana lost interest and the girls spent more time together in her room. Their conversation leaked through, and he heard them, Adriana asking, Are you afraid of dying?

He drank more in the evenings, worked more on the weekends. He makes it to the last section of the yard, the back, odd shaped so that he moves in loops instead of lines; each trip around closes, brings him nearer to being finished. He thinks about stars as strings of light from the heavens to the eye, strings of light that cannot be cut, but only interrupted.

He remembers how, in his drunkenness the last night Muriel was over, he barged in on the two of them in her room. He regretted yelling, but it was too late, his voice was a cone of rage in the dark Abe Gaustad 9 room. He saw the feebly glowing stars hanging in a pattern on the wall. The two girls were one shape in the darkness, a blank space on the bed that he pointed to with a trembling finger. The girls made no sound, and he stood, unsteady and swaying, blocking the lamplight from down the hall.

And he got his pillow and a blanket and lay on the floor, the stars shaking, the girls quiet, huddled, dark. Cutting the grass, gauzing their ears, keeping their mouths shut as he wedged himself in her doorway until they fell asleep.

There are only a few more trips to make now; the patch of unmown grass shrinks. In his dizziness he never knew if it was his daughter or the dead girl. He remembers a night long ago, when Adriana was a baby. He awoke from nightmares. He walked in, moving slowly, his hand outstretched to her.

He touched her small warm body and there was a long, still moment before he felt her chest rise, a moment in which the world could have ended and begun and ended again. He shuts the mower down now and leaves it in the middle of the yard. Inside he will find Adriana sobbing into her pillow. He cannot stall any longer. He knows that the long, still moment is hers now, that there is nothing left to do but hold her as she cries.

He will put his hand on her back and feel the heaving inside and her breath, hot with life, on his neck. An elderly man wearing gray slacks, a black coat. His right hand holding the fist of a young boy. His knees refused to flex, he just dropped them. Two faded green pieces of pressed moist fibers. As he walked away I heard him, They live like turtles, he told the Santa in Eat Clara pussy boy.

Wrapped in soiled robes, afraid of sundown. I envy turtles. The bull, the emerald stone, one with the earth, ruled by Venus. All bullshit. Should have been a Gemini. Two distinct people. One cries soft tears, one growls through gritting teeth. One white knuckled fist cocked back, one open hand reaching out. Cold concrete everywhere.

Most Santa in Eat Clara pussy I see no value Santa in Eat Clara pussy vision. I sit, back Joshua Bakar Santa in Eat Clara pussy 13 to the brick, and dream, of safely dreaming. Never normal. The title that put the story in motion. I became the ocean. Rising high over all humanity, crashing down over the heads of all beneath me, slowly pulling back into non-existence. Never staying steadily afloat. This is not dirty. Survival Santa in Eat Clara pussy dirty.

What it takes, forces. It is my city, and it desires to rid itself of me. All that are like me. Turtle, Gemini, man, woman, child. They chant, Hide the damaged goods! With no voice to yell back, no strength to raise a tight balled Santa in Eat Clara pussy fist.

We do not fall. Cannot fall. Realizing there is no deeper bottom. We know the city as they never will. Disappearing into sidewalk and resurface on the marble staircase of a church.

We are the city you wish to clean. Just a small white moth, cousin of the dragonfly but smaller, slighter, fleeting. And on that day, you can be sure it is not the same mayfly that you failed to see the day before. That one has died and tomorrow there will be a whole new generation. With such short lives, what Santa in Eat Clara pussy can the mayfly leave you? What lessons does the mayfly teach its daughter?

Do not expect to recognize her again; she will appear an entirely new moth, a new beast. And when you meet me, remember me well. I too Santa in Eat Clara pussy never wake up the same way twice. The grass tickles my leg hair and I scratch at my ankle with a too-long toenail. I hate the grass touching me, but the tar is too hot for bare feet, so we stand on the edge.

Committed to neither. We are waiting for boys to come around the curve of the road. Our bathing suits are already dry, warm and soft from the sun. I choose the suit that sags the most.

The ends of my hair are still wet. Each pigtail scrapes like needles on my sun-baked shoulders. Alexa is chewing on a purple clover petal, sucking it for the honey. We listen for the soft click of bike gears around the bend. Her breasts jiggle, heaping from the top of her tiger-striped suit.

They are perfect globes, rounding up toward her chin in beautiful buoyant arcs. Her shoulders roll forward with the strain of carrying these perfect breasts. The fabric at her nipples is sheer and worn from too many other wearers or 16 santa clara review from constant sunlight. They are oblong and a little weepy. She is a year older, but that year grants her a timeless wisdom and mystique. My left nipple sags lower in my suit than my right. I frown at my chest, trying to measure the difference between each bud.

I turn away from the road to cover myself. Then I wriggle my hand into the suit to carefully cup and readjust my wilting booby. But my nails are too long. I scrape the areola and just like that, the boob bursts. Instant shock, the water is cold and my front is quickly soaked.

The Santa in Eat Clara pussy latex of the water balloon sticks to my ribs. I clutch at my remaining water balloon implant and shudder as the water trickles down my legs and knees, pulling the dry grass blades to my feet. We had argued, me and Alexa. Should we use the balloons as bombs, or boobs? I scratched my ankle. So we rotated the knots outwards and slid them into our bathing suits, like boobies.

We snuck to the front of the house, walking next to the building, below the windows, so no one inside could see. But I am running down Santa in Eat Clara pussy hill, away from the road, up the porch steps, to hide inside a towel inside the house. When you are a baby. When you are in the shower. When the doctor gives you a physical. When you are three and at the beach and someone is telling you: When there is a big lake and a full moon.

When you are drunk in Mallorca. When you are older than seventy-five at the Y. On the third date. At freshman orientation, in front of the library, when you are a senior. If it was a good date. When he knows your coffee order. When no one is looking. When no one cares what they see. Any time after that. She hatches and unfolds on the edges of a summer day.

She tests the white membrane of her wings, then Santa in Eat Clara pussy the morning breeze, and comes of age. By dusk she has laid her eggs back in the lake; she is tired. While we sip evening drinks and scrape clean the grill, she will wilt away, will be dead by the time the sun sets into the lake. There is a tree by this lake with a rope swing.

The rope creaks when we climb up the bank and swing into the water, but the tree does not. Swinging children, like rough winters, do not bother this old oak. One hundred years, says the tree, all Santa in Eat Clara pussy people. Everyday, all new mayflies. Every year the tree is the same, and the mayfly lives only for hours. What does the tree feel?

What does the mayfly feel? No one ever hurts them. No one ever touches them. No one loves the mayfly. Only the rope loves the tree. We are frozen at the edge of our sandbox, innocent six- and four-year olds. He is wearing a red t-shirt with a spaceship on it and I am wearing nothing.

His arm is around my shoulder. My eyes are closed and we are grinning, foolishly, as if we are giggling. Our teeth are scattered pebbles in our gums. My brother is wearing sunglasses shaped like stars and there is a bow in my hair. It is big.

If you were looking down, standing over us in the picture, you would see my brother, his dark bowl cut of coarse curls, but you might not see me so clearly. Instead, I would appear as the red and yellow loops of my bow. A bow so big puts weight on such a small head. But in most pictures I wear the large frills anyway. One such morning, when we reached the mouth of the path, the water appeared changed, all soft and white. Or gathered tufts off the pussy willows that grew in the marsh just west?

The rounded rocks were soft and the lake was all Santa in Eat Clara pussy shadows and morning light. When we touched the water it was not water. From a distance, it must have looked serene.

A thousand small white bubbles rising up around us, feathers caressing us from ankle to eyelash. Like sinking through a cloud or being lifted up on snowflakes, only warm, rose petals, only fast, angels, only fierce.

They were mayflies. It did not feel Santa in Eat Clara pussy peaceful.

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A thousand loaded pistols, white hot, searing. My eyes rolled back from the pain, the panic. They were everywhere, under my shirt, against my skin. It was a big shirt, baggy with airbrushed daffodils on the front. The oversized cotton let me float Santa in Eat Clara pussy my clothes. If I was careful, I never touched my skin to the soft gray fabric.

Still, I never felt comfortable no matter what I was in. At twelve, the slightest brush could be enough to make me crumble. A tight sweater would make me whimper. I remember bending to cradle a bag of groceries once.

The paper bag brushed, just slightly, against my chest, and had me sweating, shaking. I dropped the bag and knelt, crying over the burst carton of milk and a dozen lost eggs. I wanted nothing to touch me. And there, rising from the water, mayflies. Touching me everywhere, mayflies. They were in my shorts and under my shirt; they beat at my chest; their little bodies were everywhere, in my mouth, at my eyes and ears.

Their wings against my nipples felt like needles. The pain radiated from the quiet white caps of my chest Santa in Eat Clara pussy rippled back into the base of my Santa in Eat Clara pussy, my heels, my throat. Fucks in Toktogul Hot was no escape, I could not strip, or run, or crush them; I stood paralyzed in their assault.

They dove at me for seconds, which felt like hours and years and still sometimes I feel them. How can something so small, a nipple or a mayfly, cause so much pain? Both are barely the size of a silver dollar. Neither one is made for such attacks. Santa in Eat Clara pussy baby pictures that you bring in for show and tell.

Communal showers in gym class. When the doctor has been to your house for dinner. When he laughs. If you have Santa in Eat Clara pussy. If it requires running. Before that lone day of flight, it floats beneath the water for a year, feeding on plant growth, breathing through gills.

How can the water prepare it? When does it know what it wants? What it will become? But when the mayfly emerges from the water, it matures quickly, in minutes even.

It becomes an adult; it is wise. Once in flight, the mayfly does not eat, does not sleep, does not have time for these things. Their stomachs are full of air. Their wings beat swiftly as they search each other out. The male has long front legs, to find and hold the female while they mate, mid-flight.

Yes, the female, too, has legs. But these legs are useless.

Julia

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