Poker

Seventeen POKER

The young man in both love and heat is a poet: her pubic hair, he muses of his muse, the color of whey. And what is whey? And what is its hue. He does not know. (The colors of whey vary, so perhaps he is right.) Even if he has studied geography, it is poetry when he compares her slit to a graben floodspate.
Her body: prostrate, on the back, on Drake’s bed.
Her skirt: short made shorter, hiked hem above navel.
Her hand: three kings.
Her right big toe: in Drake’s mouth as he kneels before the bed.
‘So can I move up?’
‘No.’
‘Right.’
‘The thing about poker,’ Drake had lectured, ‘is that it doesn’t matter what game you’re playing: the same hierarchy of hands applies.’
He dealt her another hand.
‘What do you have?’
‘Two sevens.’
‘Can I move up?’ he asked around her toe.
‘Yes.’
‘Nope,’ he replied, spitting out her toe. ‘Quite often in five card hands especially, something less than a pair wins, like ace high. So we should at least include one example of a hand with nothing but something like ten high—’
Voila! He dealt her a hand with an ace and four loners.
‘Move up!’ she cried.
‘Thank God, your toe was beginning to look like a large raisin,’ which she heard as reason but quickly calculated was wrong and the main thing was that he could now move up, as he did, with slow, short, soft kisses all about the tops of each of her feet as he shuffled the deck without looking before dealing five cards that rotored with class up to and landed upon her chest, between her breasts. As luck would have it, she had a pair of bullets and his lips were allowed to spend several dealt poker hands smooching her ankles.
The next hand he watched himself shuffle, which allowed him to arrange to give her the necessary two pair, allowing for a move to the lower calves.
Three of a kind was so slow in coming, he cheated again after a few hands. He rolled her onto her stomach when his lips and tongue reached her knees so he could explore the first found fold of her felicitous form, but she rolled again when he had proffered three kings, for the front of the thighs are the better path to the inner and up her.
By now she was unable to restrain her hips and was breathing irregularly. When Drake moved his lips upward and inward and his head hair touched her spated graben, she moaned breathily, sucking in, trying to capture what had already fled.
He was assembling the cards, preparing to shuffle when she gripped his ears. ‘Look at me,’ she said, ‘straight, flush, full house, four of a kind, straight flush, and this…’ pulling drake’s mouth to her soaking vagina…’royal…straight…flush…’
Drake didn’t know much about the anatomy of the penis, but he felt as if there were a tiny pirate inside his capo di capo who was about to bring a cutlass down on a tense rope.

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