Mother, to my great pleasure, did not laugh at my adolescent fumbling, and just stared at me through the mirror, sitting upright, with hands flat upon...the top of the table before her."Do you want me to stop mother?" She did not say a word, and just continued to stare at me with a odd wild look in her blue eyes. My hands gently pressed the unclasped halves apart, moving up to slip the harsh straps from her pale smooth shoulders. Again I pressed her, "Last chance mother - after this, nothing will. Damn-just missed a paddy wagon, a police vehicle I fetish harder on for its unknown element of what really goes on in the windowless back area. But back to the club. I know it well. I close my eyes. I’m there. I smell Curve men’s cologne and cigarettes. Some guy took his shirt out of the dryer too soon. Mold-scent circulates. Add bad breath and you’ve got salsero death. In the closeness of Latin dancing, everything’s gotta smell good. For that I pop Dentyne two at a time every half hour. Get. More

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