“What?”“There was…something on her face.” I said. “What, a big jizzwad?” she cackled. “Actually, yeah.” “Really?” she said, ...yes widening. “Fuck, how’d I miss that one.” She threw her head back to suck down the last of her beer, but I swear she lingered on it a little, almost like she was giving it a quick blowjob. “So,” she grinned lasciviously as she plunked her bottle on the table, “that gross you out? Never seen anything like that before?” I was getting tired of her prodding and of. She slept with many of the Light House managers. But you would only know this if you saw them getting into a car after closing time or the smug look on the asshole’s faces as he walked in the next day. So, as I was saying, the women resented her, not only for being different, but for her beauty. They invented names for Sam behind her back: Sam the dirty tramp, Sam and her clam, Slut, Whore. You get the idea. But by far, the most popular name they had for her was Wild Thing. Because this was. More

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