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82 Hot Popsicles Some days he only has the regular, cold ones. Still, he loves roaring down oak-canopied streets, his truck clanging “Night on Bald Mountain“ as he shrieks “Hot popsicles!“ and the kids who’ve boiled out of their houses, waving Mom’s limp dollar bills, stampede back inside, wailing. The days his truck plays “Stars and Stripes Forever,“ he’s a hero, trying to make an All-American buck selling popsicles bought cheap because they melted and re-froze. “Hot popsicles,“ the trade calls them—texture more granular, shape less perfect than ideal; but what do kids care, if the color’s there, the sugar’s real? Not hot as in stolen—he wouldn’t stoop to that!—hot as in spicy: Szechuan popsicles, Mexican cayenne popsicles. Hot as in exciting, explosive, desirable—hot car, hot wire, hot date—but also the metaphysical, theoretical popsicle that keeps its sex-toy shape while steaming hot as any toddy, cappuccino, or spiced wine: something to lick on a January night as flames pogo in the fire pit, and snow feathers the house. Ahhh, for a last hot popsicle before bed—solid and sizzling, substantial as those dreams where the lost love-of-your-life comes topless to your birthday party, and you kiss her breasts in front of everyone. You’re all adults; sexual attraction is good. She tastes like hot cherries, perfect for the popsicles I mean. ...

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