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Hello gentle Americans. Recently, I met a man at the GOP Convention. Why was I there? The well-to-do gentleman I was dating at that time purchased the tickets, and I never refuse a free meal. Besides, it allowed me to wear that conservative strand of pearls that I save for funerals and Republican fundraisers. FYI, the man I came with was not the man I ended up with.

While I was at the bar getting myself a white wine spritzer, this gorgeous raven-haired man with the most piercing blue eyes asked me, "Are your tits real?" It was an extraordinarily bold question, but I like bold, and I replied, "Why don’t we go to the coat room so you can find out." Slipping the Mexican lady working the coat room $100 dollars, he told her to scram. Taking a summer fur from a hanger, we laid it down on the hardwood floor and began our carnal journey.

With the dexterity of a circus juggler he unhooked my bra, at which point my fake boobs proceeded to fall to the ground. He had a look of shock in his eyes as he watched them bounce into the corner. His shock soon turned to intrigue, and he began to unzip his fly growling, "Suck it!" I slunk down his chiseled body, resting my mouth against his prodigious bulge, placing my wet lips against his Calvin Klein underwear.

The heat from my mouth left a wet spot against the cotton, and he moaned in pleasure saying, "Suck it, you nasty whore." Personally, I did not need that filthy noun at the end of the sentence. In his defense, how else would you describe a lady lying on a summer fur, with a stranger, in a coatroom, with her tits in the corner?

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