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64 DENISE DUHAMEL Six-Fingered Sestina When I was six I thought sex was a kiss— I sucked my thumb until my mother coaxed it out of my mouth. She was cross about my crossdressed Six Million Dollar Man doll. I’d coaxed him into Barbie’s sexy stretchy seersucker frock, then had him kiss my tiny Dawn doll’s sun-kissed cheekbone. I made the sign of the cross with Dawn in my fist—Dawn who constantly sucked in her gut. She was only six inches tall, half the size of Barbie, but doubly sexy because she was new on the market. She coaxed little girls into toy stores, who, in turn, coaxed their mothers with a kiss to buy. Sex appeal crisscrossed with commerce until suddenly I was sweet sixteen, a sucker for Bonnie Bell lip gloss and “sucking face” with Tommy Walden who coaxed his hand up my shirt. He had a sixth finger—an extra little boneless pinkie—that kissed my nipple, a cross between a pencil tip and a gumdrop. His sextet of a hand was a sex magnet. I was curious if he sucked that extra digit as a baby. Or if, when he crossed his fingers, he twirled that boneless one around his real pinkie, coaxing it like a short Dawn around a tall Barbie. Tommy kissed like he also had an extra tongue, sixty mile-per-hour pre-sex play. Once he coaxed me to kiss his nipples while he sucked Tic-Tacs, watching a Cross-Your-Heart bra commercial on channel six. ...

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