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“I just realized that I am a PATHETIC dancer!” I exclaimed unabashedly. “So did I,” Angelina chimed, her singsong laugh only serving to tickle me further. “You’re an amazing dancer, Angie,” I said in awe, realizing that I had just nicknamed her. “It’s okay to call you Angie, right?” Angelina’s expression softened from one of hysterical laughter to one of pleased complacence. “Yeah. Billy Bob calls me that.” I nodded. “Okay. Angie.” She seemed overcome for a moment, then snapped back into her perky, energetic self. “Whew!” She said, tugging at the neckline of her tank top. “It is HOT!” With that, she lifted her shirt over her head with the grace of a ballerina and tossed it to the floor. She was wearing no bra.
I felt my breath catch in my throat. My eyes were then fixated; Jack the Ripper could have emerged from the washroom and I wouldn’t have even blinked. I gazed at Angelina’s breasts, so full and tanned and heavy. Exquisite. She must have known right off. “Get a little nervous, did you? You’ve seen naked women before, huh?”