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He planted his hand on the small of my back and with a wink that looked like a neurological tic kept edging his long fingers down the back of my pants. He asked me if I was campaigning for Nixon.

He was an enthusiastic kisser with lots of saliva and a tongue as active as an electric eel. When my hand brushed his crotch "by accident," I discovered under the cashmere another considerable charm of his person. I was willing to ignore the Nixon comment and make a date.

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