|by Tony Larson
Mickey had a moustache when he was 14. Stature tall as a flagpole with the blunt edges of a sofa not new. He cruised around the neighborhood in a two-seater pedal street buggy. We'd pedal it to the the pot dealer. Mickey's inflections were black, coming from a white mouth. His whole family talked the same way. West coast black. Living in tract homes. Where the accent came from is a mystery.
His sisters and mother were big breasted women that really lived in a time unsuited to them. In 1849 they would have been whores. The kind that all lived together in a big two story house and winked at the pale riders sludging into town, tongues thick with dirt and obscenities. Women cut from this kind of tree blinded and destroyed men in one stroke, as they pleased. It could be a subtlety as small as the way they adjusted their bra straps.
Mickey knew about chicks first, and it was his sisters tutelage for sure.
One afternoon, the oldest one stuck her tongue down my throat, and extended it into my lower intestines. She said it was a french kiss and that chicks liked it.
It was pretty rad, but when I tried it on Christine McCutcheon she yanked her head back and kind of choked.
I couldn't wait for my next lesson. I had to nail this kissing thing.
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