Your erotic stories

I saw him across the room being greeted by the host. I felt the blood drain from my face. I thought for a moment I was going to faint. I was attending the exhibition of a third rate painter's work, for which, as a freelance journalist, I was to write a review for a minor local paper. I had got sick of the sugary pink and white creations, and was standing around with a cocktail called, I believe, "A Landmine." It tasted of dishwater and kerosene.

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