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     The wine cascaded down the lonely throat; I gulped a breath of            fresh air to bully the liquid within me. 

At 47 I was a percolating prosecutor of young flesh. My roving eye ferries across the noisy pub to seep my prey for the night.

The intoxication always breed a mood of nostalgia, And I returned nights after night in semi permeable attires to asphyxiate my pain. The dancing bodies, the rhythmic giggles and the world didn’t ever give me the scope to be theirs, and I lurked in a corner waiting to be taken …

Taken to befriend the bed, taken to satisfy the sexual fantasies of the juvenile, taken to be a piece of sheer perusal for the night.

the first time I had felt a degree of dissonance, when stripped of my virginal assets...I had sniveled in fetal pose for days but initial exploitation numbed my emotions and made me what I was today. I drag my flesh towards exit and walk into the red mustang to smolder in the arms of the rustic for tonight.


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