I chose the tequila path early and shaped myself with the glamour of duty filling my vision, driving, pushing me to achieve a perfect flavor – my natural sharp tart blended with secret sweet to forgive the tequila and salt – and perfect body – not so big I can’t easily find the mouth searching for the shot’s grand finale, but not so small I can only play once – all so I could live the stories the shriveled old wedges tell, stories of comforting unbearable heartbreak and of raucous unfettered laughter and of women whose clothes are loosened or lost completely and of the fleshy desperate kisses (oh!) how I longed for a touch of salty lips, for the promise of foreign flavor – tomato or cheese or lust – but on this, my coming out night, my debutante ball, I am freshly sliced, still full of juices, dropped on a stool by clumsy fingers, forgotten and unable to call for attention now this great hunk of meat has descended upon me.


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