Charley
As
we leaned over the coffee table and figured it out Charley made his
move. By the time I turned to push him off he had gotten his rocks off
on my pants. His tongue was rolling out of his wide-open mouth and his
eyes were rolling back in his head as he splooged me.
“Charlie
Clemmons!” yelled Dora, who was scandalized by this breech of etiquette;
she angrily pointed her cigarette at Charley’s odiferous dog bed on the
other side of the room. “You go lay down you bad dog!” Charlie was
happy to comply and go have a short nap on his musky palette. He would
have smoked a cigarette if he had had one.