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...in the middle of the sentence, she got up from the oak table,
and walked out. She in her ravishing red velvet dress that has
been worn out for many years. Threads hung from it until they
dragged along the beer-soaked wooden floor. She dragged her
tapestry of filth with her, like the slutty Vegas whore she was.
Walked right out away from me, passed the yellow hissing lights
and drunk couples who only dream of copulating in pornographic
films. Passed the midget on the bar stool who is smothering his
oversaturated moustache in the clevage of a buxom blonde bitch.
She walked swiftly in that red old dress, I could hear her
thighs move back and forth, swish, as they rubbed her pubic
hairs together like velcro...

 2001 David Greg Harth @ 1515 NYC