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It starts on the Fallopian Speedway
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She asks if I only write about men, which I tell her is redundant. I also answer, “Yes, but sometimes I write about them as race cars, hyenas, vaginas, or God.”
She smirks like she wants to smile, but it’s stuck halfway out her door. Her happiness has
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"I didn't ask you to unhook my bra." her words were blunt and bitter in blue and white iMessaging font.
A gap of an hour went by and he grappled with what to say next.
"I'm sorry." was all he finally came up with. "I thought you wanted me to. You
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