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I saw the mouth outside of an Irish-American bar on Twentieth Street. She was leaning against the rain break surrounding the building. She had the prettiest teeth I have ever seen on a mouth: evenly matched, reflectively white as they glimmered with her every move in the sour streetlamp haze. Her ruby red lipstick went all the way around her, and I could feel my appreciation, right then and there, beginning to grow, to edge self-consciously upwards. Her corners tended up, and the whole of her smiled.
I am not in the habit of picking up any stray mouth as soon as I see it, and I was sure if I tried I would have no luck, but something was pushing me. The lift of her lips was as broad as evolution, and my hands were aching to pry into the depths of her gums.
So we left the downtown and headed into the near carpet-dull suburbs, getting a room at a modest and inexact hotel: one of those you might stay at with the family when you are making a blue shifted road trip. It had doors opening from the parking lot outside, so no embarrassing parades through the lobby were necessary. I sprung for a room with one king bed. It smelled like kitty litter deodorant, but neither of us cared.
And she was a wonderful mouth. She could make a sound with her lips that would seem to come from the dark strength of underwater flora, and her teeth would grind like sandpaper on a stripper’s behind. There were obviously those two contrasting sides to her. I fell into her incisors and sang simple lust to her molars. I lolled about her lips like a cat on a warm afternoon exploring every inch of the sun on a carpet. I felt pity for the maids who would reclaim the room the next day, as lipstick was everywhere like the blood of a machine driven sacrifice.
I had intended to rise in the morning, head out to breakfast, leave cab fare on the table. I pulled back the sheet for a last stroke of the brazen, snake hearted lips and there she was: a tongue now. Long and languorous she stretched nearly the length of the bed: dimples rough on the cheap one-man sheets, the tip curled around one of the extra pillows.
What can a normal man, with normal urges and wants, do? I could have been out like the sound of a tape dispenser. I could have left a twenty, balled my memories into my socks, and bolted. But the way that tongue might curl; the things she might be able to do as a tongue; the growth of her experience as a mouth salaciously imbued with the texture of a tongue: the imagination of this kept me transfixed.
The tongue released its grip on the pillow, flattened itself out, and then began so seductively to roll itself up. The saliva was drying on the sheets, but remained crystal beads against her thundering pink. I called the front desk and stretched my credit card limit for another night.