Her tongue forced an unexpected wisp of sebum across my stunned uvula. There had been discussion about current nicotine addictions, yet I was certain my ninth Kettle One ground sweeper would have muted all undesirous compounds.

Feenix was part of the aerodynamic hook squad, HyperSkinSnacks, Ltd.

I met this purple lipstick, fire wand in the basement vape shadows of The Falconer, a twisted macabre dungeon hook-up spectacle in lower Fountain Valley.

Unbeknownst to me, there were multiple variation rotations associated with the tricky term “hookers”. In some crispier arenas, superlative carnivals of industrial pierced skin soldiers would hook spin from embedded steel connects with mobile indoor iron giraffe cranes which provided challenging levels of altitude.

A production would commence after final skin secure to beam was validated by a mischievous, generously caffeinated, caged tuxedo smile named Roy.

The mesmerizing audio-visual dangle exhibition would jettison each flower cake faced, aerial performer for eighteen to twenty-two minutes while they painted amazement upon horrified bleacher-based skin suits.

Fate brought Feenix into my crosshairs, I simply wished there would have been a verbal sensory admonition about the underling process.

Time would reveal Feenix was not the star performer, merely a velveted twinkle pants thirst trap moving up in the family swing shine joy business.

Skin irritations were gruesome casualties in this evolving therapeutic pain management industry.

As our evening progressed into her freshly Simple Green coated boudoir, a galaxy of seeping epidermis lesions would spring to life across Feenix’s freckled back.

Family was family which explained the reasoning all performers were contractually force threatened to book the calloused twitch misfiring piercing fists of her aging Parkinson riddled Uncle Raven.

I was hooked.