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O C T O P U S After cueing, he stretches TV height, runs a couple of Fahrenheithot -hormoned, tricep-bicep-and-vein-bulging arms your ass-wise, while in full sostenuto, lays out each syllable of your name. Then all his pockets fill. You eye the beer he bought you, even lean in to watch him voodoo the geometry, the physics, the smack of cue-to-green, fingers sliding off-rack, the sudden weight of his thumbs hooked to your jean belt, his cigarette sucked so his Hi heats your ear, the way his hand arcs around to powder the tip damned, destined to drop to your nipple, waist, crotch as if will is nothing you can accuse him of, glancing shark-like at a green ball, the scene so early on your rights-radar you sip at the beer, you lean back to gossip with the ham-thighed matron handing out nuts (his?) who might be married to him. Buttercup? he calls her, Hit me again. And for once she does, educationally, a straight-on punch. 43 ...

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