“Ohh, Margot, look at that ass,” someone whispers loudly behind me. Someone who sounds elderly. And horny. “What’s a pounder?” an equally elderly-sounding, though far more confused, voice replies. “Is that what each cheek weighs?” Goldie squeezes her eyes shut and pinches her lips together, and I can’t tell if she’s trying not to cringe or trying not to smile. Possibly both. “I don’t know, but he could pound me,” Margot’s friend says. “Greta. Steve’s barely been in his grave for a week.” “So add about forty years, and that’s how long it’s been since I had a good pounding. I didn’t marry him
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