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No one else's mother decorated the living room with Mel Ramos nudes (I still dream about pale women making love to ketchup bottles, to gigantic cigars). So it was only natural that I'd grow up feeling funny links different from the other girls in my class. Instead, I was close to funny links the oversexed boys who knew about the same things I did, boys educated via porn funny links and older brothers. I did my best to further their education with invitations to feel my new breasts or with open-season kissing practice. And it's only natural that, when I grew up into the red-haired vixen my mother had once been, I'd end up in a similar place. I have my mother's hair, her breasts and her complexion, but my father's skinny limbs. I radiate sex. My mother passed sex on to me like other mothers pass on manners. So why wouldn't I repeat the sins of my mother? I'm twenty-three, fresh out of college, where I've fucked my way through the core curriculum and written a glorious thesis on Dorothy Parker.
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