As a young woman, marcperkel sex

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   As a young woman, my mother was already pot-bellied, saggy-breasted, bony-kneed, eyeglassed and pockmarked. She picked her nose, scratched her sex head until her fingernails were lined with dandruff. Despite all this, she was coquettish, fluttering a bony hand over her mouth sex as she laughed and laughed at the unfunny jokes of carnies, mechanics, my grandfather, my friends. In many ways, my mother acted like a small child: she was often naked; she didn't understand peoples' motivations for what sex they did and in her bewilderment would make things up; she had temper tantrums that would switch swiftly to a coy, sunny mood, then back again.    I don't know if anyone ever loved her. Certainly my father did not. Then she had me. On the day I was born, she said, she looked into my enormous, alert blue eyes and that was the one time in her life she was sure there was a God. Because, she said, there was no way she and my father could have created something so perfect and beautiful and pure.
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