How The Women Got Plastered and Patrick Got Busted
Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15
Foreword: When I wrote "Rubber Dicky, I Love You", I got a lot of mail about it, mostly positive, and several people, like a fellow I'll just call Pat, who happens to be in a wheel chair, asked if I could do a companion piece to this one, where a boy got to have the fun, instead of a girl. Pat suggested breasts might be compared, in some way.
I thought about it for a while, and wrote this story. Just in case you think I'm going soft, I didn't write this for Pat because he's in a wheel chair, or because he lives in Australia, which is where I'd live if I didn't live where I do. I wrote it because it was his idea, and it turned out to be a good one. At least I think so. You, of course, will have to be the judge of that.
I have no idea how this happened to me, and I don't know what to do.
OK, I know how it happened, on a cerebral level ... I just can't quite BELIEVE it happened. I mean, how many almost-seventeen-year-old guys have seven women ... on tap, so to speak? Oh, sure, I know all almost-seventeen-year-old guys DREAM of getting to feel, and rub, and suck on six women’s tits, not to mention ...
I'm getting ahead of the story, though. I'll just tell you what happened, when I was almost seventeen, and since then. Then maybe you'll understand why I'm so wigged out about all this, as my grandmother would say. My grandmother has a lot to do with this story, but then ... well ... you'll see.
I'm Pat, Pat Turner, and I'm a certified Mensa type genius. It all started when I got into the gifted program in High School, and got to go off campus to the local State University, where I was allowed to take a class. I did that during the summer, between my Junior and Senior years. I had always thought about being a doctor, so the class I chose to take was Biology, 101.
Well, actually, I suppose it started long before that. Technically, I suppose it started when I got caught staring at my mother's breasts.
My mother is Lonnie Turner. She and Dad got divorced when I was about seven. It was messy, and I don't see a lot of him. That has made it hard, because I'm the only male in the family, and I'm surrounded by women. There are my two sisters, Randi and Tabitha, or Tabby, as I like to call her, and then there are my two aunts, Aunt Vanessa and Aunt Christy. And, of course, my Grandmother is around a lot, since she only lives a few blocks away. She's Grandma Mona, and her last name is Turner too, because she got divorced, like my mother. I never even met my grandfather.
Divorce seems to be the family curse. Aunt Vanessa is divorced too, and my sister, Randi, was going to get married, but she and her boyfriend broke up a month before the wedding. She always said she was the generation to get it right - to kick the bastard out BEFORE they got hitched. She laughed, whenever she said that, but her eyes weren't laughing. The other big joke was to call Aunt Christy the "black sheep" of the family, because she is happily married. Her last name is Mulligan. She didn't mind being the black sheep in the family. She said they have a lot of sheep in Ireland.
Anyway, my mom and her sisters are very close, so they're always around, at least on a lot of evenings, and on quite a few weekends. Being the only male among six women is one of those good news, bad news kinds of deals. The good news is that, in this case, I was surrounded by good looking women. The bad news was they were all independent, and all of them except Tabby, who was only fifteen, and Aunt Christy, who was married, had a lot of mistrust for the males of the species.
I can't tell you how many times I heard "Stop acting like a MAN!" That usually happened when I was trying to get my own way about something. Of course, the other thing I heard, pretty often, was "You're almost a man now ... ACT like one!"
You can see how frustrating life can be in this situation.
I said all these women were good looking. I'll probably get in trouble if they ever read this. Actually, I'll have to run for my life if they ever read this, but I changed the names and all that stuff, so maybe not. Anyway, my mom is thirty-seven. She's about average height and built like a brick shithouse. They all are, really. Even Tabby, at fifteen, was well on her way to being curvy. Most of them, except for Tabby and Aunt Vanessa, have about the same shade of brown hair, though they all wear it in different styles. Tabby and Aunt Vanessa are blond. Me too, for that matter. Aunt Vanessa is thirty-four, and Aunt Christy is twenty-eight. Randi is nineteen, and goes to Wickham State University full time. Since I'm already in trouble for telling their ages, at least my mom and aunts, I may as well tell you Grandma Mona is fifty-four. She had my mother when she was really young, like seventeen, but then they did that in those days, so I suppose it's no big deal. She says Aunt Christy is her "marvelous little accident", because she only meant to have two kids. I think that had something to do with her divorce, but I'm not sure. Anyway, she also says that's why only Aunt Christy has stayed married. That didn't make any sense to me, until I also found out that my grandfather, who I never met, wasn't Aunt Christy's father. I wasn't supposed to find that out. More on that later.
I know this is sounding a little disjointed, but I have to tell you lots of things, to help you understand what happened, and I think of something else I need to say about every twenty seconds, so be patient. It'll all make sense in a little while. The other problem is that, despite me being a genius and all, there were all these things I didn't know about. Things happened because I didn't know about them, so this narrative will be sprinkled with that too. My English Lit teacher says I write really well, and she's one of the best teachers I have, so at least take her word for it, and read on for a while. I promise, it will all make sense, eventually.
So, my mom, my grandma, Aunt Vanessa, and my older sister all think men were put on the Earth to make their lives difficult. And I'm a man, at least sometimes ... according to them. You see how this is going. Aunt Christy is only a little more than ten years older than me, and she doesn't hate men. Tabby, at fifteen, just thinks I'm stupid, but I don't think that has anything to do with being male. I'm just her brother, so I got awarded natural stupidity.
There's one other person you need to know about. He's my Uncle Danny, who is married to Aunt Christy. He's the same age as her, and he's Irish, with flaming red hair. The Irish have a reputation for their anger and wild emotional side, but he wasn't like that very often. Not only that, he's the only man in the entire world, as far as I can figure, who is immune to the slings and arrows all the man-haters in my life throw around with great regularity. He ignores them, for the most part, but he's also a really nice guy, who can talk about anything, and do that while he repairs almost anything. He spends a lot of time at our house, fixing this and that. I'm not allowed to fix things, even though I'm technically a genius. I'm more "man" than I am genius, apparently.
They take out their frustrations on Danny. I'll give you an example.
One Friday night, the whole crowd was at our house. We have a home theater setup (which Danny installed, of course) and everybody had brought a DVD over. Then they sat around and decided what to watch. None of the man-haters go out on dates, and Tabby isn't allowed to date until she's thirty. That's according to my mother, who has never smiled once when she said that.
So, there we all were, gathered in the family room to watch a movie. Just because they hate men doesn't mean they all look butch. No way. They love feminine things, including lounge-wear.
Like most adults, they had things bass ackwards.
When I was younger, and didn't notice women all that much, the lounge-wear was conservative. It covered everything. At least that's how I remember it. As I got older, and began to get very interested in women ... at least women outside my own family ... who might actually be normal ... they started wearing things around that can only be described as advertising their sexuality. You know the stuff I'm talking about. Skimpy stuff. Stuff you can almost, but not quite, see through. Stuff that emphasizes all the female parts. THAT kind of stuff.
There are some kind of mystical rules about this, that men aren't allowed to be privy to. For instance, Tabby was wearing a T shirt one time that plainly advertised her nipples. She also had on a pair of panties, which was quite usual. Aunt Christy and Uncle Danny were coming over, and Mom made her change panties. The reason she had to change her panties, according to our mother, was that one could see through them. So Tabby put on another pair of bikini panties, which you couldn't see through, but that CLEARLY showed her camel toe. THAT was fine. No see-through underwear allowed, but if you want to show Uncle Danny the SHAPE of your pussy ... that's just peachy.
Her pussy was kind of peachy, come to think of it.
Anyway, on the night I'm giving you the example of, everybody except Grandma and Aunt Christy were dressed like that. Uncle Danny sat down, reached for a throw pillow, plopped it in his lap, and said "Christy, why do you keep bringing me over here. You know what these women do to me."
There were giggles.
Aunt Christy leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
"You're much more fun when you've been around them like this," she said, licking his ear.
"I feel like one of Pavlov's dogs," said Uncle Danny. "I get here and BAM! - the reaction sets in."
He was like that. They were obvious about teasing him with their bodies, and he was obvious about noticing it. Except that he was a complete gentleman about it. He never made it obvious he was leering at anybody, and he carried on conversations like he wasn't hard as a rock. They all knew he was hard as a rock, but he was special, and it was OK for him to be that way.
"Speaking of reactions," said Aunt Vanessa, "When is it EVER going to be my turn to borrow Danny?"
All the man-haters asked to borrow him, from time to time, even Grandma, and everybody always laughed. Aunt Christy always promised to set up a schedule for them, or said she was still working on the schedule she'd started, but that it wasn't ready yet, so they'd just have to be patient. The poor guy sat there with a boner almost every time he came over, but of course, he knew it was all just fun and games. He was the only man around, which meant all the women played this game of claiming a little bit of him, even if it was only to be noticed, or appreciated as good looking, or whatever. It was about as dysfunctional a situation as you could imagine, but it seemed to work for everybody. I don't know. Maybe Danny just liked to have a boner all the time.
The problem was, that they didn't pay any attention to me.
It's not that I wanted to lust after them or anything. But they WERE good looking, and there WAS a lot of flesh exposed, and it DID affect me. Of course I was just "Pat", and nobody expected me to react like Danny did. And, of course, I couldn't react to it in any of the ways Danny could. I'm telling you, it was torture.
Which brings me to the day I mentioned earlier, possibly the day it all started.
It was breakfast, and it was Saturday. I was sitting at the kitchen table, minding my own business, eating cereal, when Randi walked in, in what seemed like the official dress around our house - T shirt and panties. My mother was wearing the same thing, though her T shirt actually went to her hips, instead of exposing a pierced belly button, like Randi's did. She was fixing toast when Tabby came in, also in a T shirt and panties. None of them were wearing a bra.
So I stared. Any guy would, right? I like breasts. I never met one I didn't like. Well, actually, I hadn't ever gotten to really meet one, but you know what I mean.
I think I might have been daydreaming a little, because my mother's voice surprised me.
"Pat, don't stare at my breasts," she said. "It isn't polite."
I realized that was, in fact, where I was staring. There were two other women in the room, each with a set of breasts. My eyes slid to Randi.
"And don't stare at your sister's breasts either," scolded my mother. "What's wrong with you anyway?"
As I said, according to IQ tests I've taken, I'm a certified genius. My response was quite natural, from that perspective.
"Mom," I said calmly. "I'm a seventeen year old boy."
"No you're not," said Tabby, sounding triumphant somehow. "You won't be seventeen for another month."
I stared at HER breasts for a few seconds. She actually blushed.
"It's rude, Pat," said my mother. "No matter how old you are."
I may have been a certified genius, but I was still only sixteen.
"So, how come Uncle Danny gets to stare at everybody's breasts ... and I don't?"
Well, it went downhill from there, but as I think about it, that may be the spark that started the little glow that burst into flames, that turned into a conflagration that almost consumed me.
The glow, as it turned out, got going in my Biology 101 class. If you've never taken college biology, you may not know that part of the course of instruction is to track the changes in the human body over time. I mean long periods of time here. For instance, five hundred years ago, people's average height was five foot, four inches. People were lighter, and smaller over all, by comparison to people of today's world. The theory is that lifestyle had to do with that. Five hundred years ago people didn't consume twenty-five hundred calories a day. They also worked a lot harder, and went everywhere they went on foot, whether it was their own, or on top of some animal, whose feet did most of the walking. Basically, as people's lifestyles changed, their bodies changed too. It's part of what's called evolution.
Anyway, we had to do a term project. I thought and thought about what I could do, and I was thinking about it while I was sitting in traffic one day. The car in front of me had one of those magnetic ribbon things stuck to the back. It was pink, and it said something about breast cancer on it. I listened to public radio, from time to time, because you get a better spread of news, and that pink ribbon reminded me of a story I'd heard about the increase in breast cancer all over the world, and how nobody could agree on why it was happening. I didn't think I could do anything in the area of breast cancer itself for my project, but it got me to thinking about breasts in general.
I was also enrolled in a summer art class at High School, and the class took a field trip to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. At one point I found myself in a gallery of paintings, and I noticed that, in all the paintings of nude women, none of them had huge knockers. In fact, most of them had decidedly small ones.
I looked around. There were women everywhere, and there were all sizes of breasts on those women, from flat, to huge. Genetics might count for some of it, but lifestyle had to be playing a role too.
Thankfully, my art teacher was a man, Mr. Barducci. I had a really good relationship with almost all my teachers. More than once a teacher had said "What an INTERESTING question, Pat!" Maybe it was that, or my IQ, but, for whatever reason, I was able to talk to most of them on a level that was much more relaxed than the average student-teacher relationship. I went to find him.
"Hey, Mr. Barducci, can I ask you a question?" I asked.
He smiled and nodded.
"In all the paintings I see around here, the women all have small breasts. Did all women back then have small breasts, or did the painters only paint the ones with small breasts?"
He blinked. "That's an odd question," he commented. I think he was under the impression I was pulling his leg.
"No," I said. "I mean it. It just seems odd. If you look around, all the women around here have breasts of varying sizes. But not in the paintings. I'm taking biology at Wickham State, and that's what made me think about this."
It took him a few seconds to decide I was actually serious, and was asking a serious question, instead of just being a boy.
"Well," he said, bringing his hand up to his chin. "Actually, back then, a woman was thought to be more beautiful if she was heavy." He looked at me to see if I tittered. I didn't, and he went on. "You see, back then, people were so poor that they were rarely fat, so women who were heavy were those who were privileged. They had access to more of the comforts of life, and didn't work as hard, so they were considered more attractive than a woman like that would be today."
"That all makes sense," I said. "But it doesn't answer the question about the breast size."
"To be honest," he said, "I don't know about that. I do know you're right. Most of the famous paintings of nudes, including the paintings of imaginary women, like goddesses and such, all have modest breast sizes. I don't know why, though. That is kind of interesting, now that I think about it."
So now, besides just thinking about breasts in general, I was thinking about how, if old paintings were anything to go by, that women's breasts had been getting bigger and bigger as the years went by. Well, some women's breasts anyway.
But that's how evolution works. Some of the natives develop differently than others, and, if that development gives them an edge, then their genes get passed on, while the ones that weren't as successful fade out.
So THEN I got to wondering why, if it was an evolutionary thing, larger breasts would be preferable to smaller ones.
Now I admit, right up front, that if I was given a choice of seeing large ones or small ones, I'd ask to see both, but I also knew that, if it WAS an evolution in breasts, there had to be some kind of evolutionary reason that it had happened. Either that, or it was just a result of better diet, which allowed things to grow better than they had in the past.
The next thing I did was talk to my Biology professor. I called her Cat, instead of Caitlin, like almost everybody else did. Her last name was Ziersinnskannova, which was Russian. Her husband was an immigrant to the United States, and drove a truck. Nobody could pronounce her last name, so she just told everybody to call her Caitlin. She was really different in other ways too. She was very slim, and her haircut was just weird. Half her hair was regular, except that it was bright red - I mean lipstick red - and it came to her jaw. The other side of her head was either shaved, or had a quarter inch of hair on it, depending on how she was feeling. She was incredibly smart, which may have had something to do with why the university would hire her, even though she looked a little freaky. I had to have her permission to get into her class, and she interviewed me.
The reason I called her "Cat" was because, besides her last name being unpronounceable, she called me "my little genius" in class, which pretty well ensured that I wouldn't make any college-aged friends. I didn't really mind though. I was just there to get credits and find out whether Biology was my thing or not. And she let me get away with calling her Cat.
She was sitting at her desk, going over papers.
"Hey, Cat," I said, announcing myself.
"Well if it isn't my little genius," she said, looking up. The front of the Dutch boy cut of her hairy side tended to fall across her face, so you could only see one of her eyes. "What kind of fascinating discussion are we going to have today?" she asked, smiling.
"I need to ask you something about breasts," I said.
Her expression didn't change. "Go ahead," she said.
So I told her about the museum, and my conversation with Mr. Barducci, and my thoughts on whether it was environmental, or genetic. I ended with my question. "So does a larger breast make more milk? Or maybe better milk?"
She laid her pen on top of the pile of papers and leaned back. Now I could see both eyes.
"There are sometimes issues with production," she said, her voice in that kind of drone that means a person is speaking from memorized facts. "however, none of them have anything to do with size." She folded her arms. "Large breasts may produce more milk, however, the only situation that would be critical in is if there were multiple mouths to feed. The average baby can't consume what the average breast will produce. Some almost always goes to waste."
"Great," I said, ready to leave.
She held up a hand, signaling me to wait.
"In most cases, a woman's breasts adjust production to the rate at which her baby feeds. If the baby eats often, her breasts produce enough to feed often. If there is longer between a baby's natural hunger cycle, her breasts will produce more slowly. In either case, though, there is usually extra, regardless of the size of the breasts."
"OK!" I said. "Thanks!"
"One moment," said Cat.
I must have slumped, or something. She snapped at me, the first time she'd ever done anything even remotely like that. "Don't be impatient!"
"Sorry," I said. When you're a kid, and nothing is really at stake, you always apologize to an adult, even if she's a weird looking adult. I stood there and waited.
"Is this related to your term project?" she asked.
"I expect great things from you, Pat," she said.
"I'm only in High School," I reminded her.
"No, you're not," she said firmly. "You're in my class ... a college class. I have great faith that you will do something interesting and illuminating."
"Do you want me to tell you my plan?" I asked. "I haven't got it firmed up in my mind."
"No, I want you to surprise me," she said. "I just wanted you to know I have great faith in you, that's all."
"Thanks," I said. I meant it. She might look weird, but she was smart, and I knew that. Plus she was an adult, and adults didn't tell you stuff like that all that often.
"You can go now," she said.
So, eventually, I thought up this project, wherein I would try to design a test to see if big breasts was an evolutionary thing ... or not.
What I figured was that, if men were attracted to a woman with larger breasts, then that was the purpose they were serving on the evolutionary scale - to attract a mate. On the other hand, if men were NOT attracted that way, in some identifiable way, then I would hypothesize that it was just a function of lifestyle.
Obviously, the way to start, was to get a bunch of men lined up, and give them choices, and see how that turned out.
Of course, when you're only sixteen, it isn't as easy as that. The first thing I thought of was getting pictures. But where does a sixteen year old get a couple of hundred pictures of breasts. And it had to be pictures of ONLY breasts, and not the whole woman. If there were other identifiers, that could skew the results.
I thought about putting an ad in the paper, saying I needed to take pictures of a couple of hundred breasts. I gave that idea up almost as soon as I thought about it. Even if a bunch of women answered the add, they might not be the ones I needed, and I was sure they'd want to be paid. I didn't have any money. And, even if they agreed to do it for free, that assumed I wouldn't be attacked by some jealous husband or something, and that I wouldn't get raided by the cops during the photography sessions.
It was a good idea. I just had to figure out a way to pull it off. The glow of that idea lay in my mind, and I worried at it, like I was trying to chew a piece of beef jerky.
Then, on another Friday night, the answer was suddenly presented.
It looked like T shirt and panty night at the Turner house. Everybody but Grandma was there, and Aunt Vanessa was staying the night in Randi's room. The only woman not dressed in a T shirt and panties was Aunt Christy, who had on a T shirt and terrycloth shorts, which was just about the same thing. There were breasts everywhere, and I suddenly noticed that they were ... different sizes.
I got a book, and opened it, sitting back in an arm chair. I held it up so I could look over the top of it, and look around.
Tabby was the smallest, and, in my opinion, about the same size as those women in the paintings. Of course, she was the youngest too. Randi was next biggest, just a little smaller than Aunt Christy. My mother and Aunt Vanessa were about the same size, though my mother's breasts looked heavier. She was older, of course, and that might account for that. I wondered what the shapes of all those breasts looked like. I mean I wondered if they were the same basic shape, only larger and smaller versions. That seemed likely, since there was a genetic factor here. I thought about Grandma. I knew she had them, of course, but I hadn't actually stared at her breasts.
I got excited as I thought about this. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I got excited about the breasts themselves. But that wasn't it. At least not then. I had the full range of breast sizes, right there in my own house. If I could get photographs of them, and line them up, my test subjects would have a full line of breasts to look at, and could then choose which set was most attractive to them.
I got so excited about it I talked to my mother.
Well, I started to talk to her. Then it kind of fell apart.
"Mom?" I said the next morning. It was Saturday, and there were just the two of us in the kitchen, so far.
"Hmmm?" she responded, from the stove.
"You know that class I'm taking at college?"
"Yes," she said, not turning around.
"We have to do a term project," I said.
"Yes," she said, still stirring scrambled eggs.
"I thought of one, but it's kind of weird. I really think it could be cool ... but it's weird."
There was a radio on, on the counter, playing oldies. Something came on and she started swaying her hips, in time with the music. She was wearing her short robe and panties again, which wasn't at all unusual. I watched her butt move, and felt myself respond to that.
I looked away. This wasn't at all what I was trying to do.
She turned around, an eyebrow raised.
"And?" she asked.
Her robe had a tie on it, but it gaped a bit where the closure went between her breasts. I realized I was staring at them, and averted my eyes.
"Maybe I could talk to you about it later," I said, chickening out.
"What's wrong with now?" she asked.
"Tabby might come in," I said. It was a lame excuse.
"And why couldn't Tabby hear about this project of yours?" she asked.
"It's ... kind of adult," I said, digging myself in deeper.
"Adult?" She sounded surprised. Why did everyone in this family think of me as a little boy? "What kind of adult?"
So I haltingly launched into an explanation of how we talked in class about how bodies change, and why, and how I went to the museum, and how I noticed that all the models in the pictures had small breasts, and how breasts seemed to have gotten much larger since then, and how that had to mean something.
I didn't give her a chance to break in. I think I was babbling a little. Anyway, at one point, she just moved the pan to a burner that wasn't lit, and sat down across from me, staring at me like I'd grown a third eye.
I rambled on, telling her my idea of taking pictures of breasts, to show men, so they could choose which kind appealed to them more, so I could tell if it was evolutionary or not, and about then, Randi walked into the kitchen.
"Shit!" I thought. Why couldn't I have been more organized about this, so I could explain it more quickly?
Of course Randi had no idea what I'd been talking about. She ignored the two of us at the table. My mother's mouth was hanging open.
"Like I said," I muttered, darting a look at Randi, "maybe we should talk about this later."
"We'll talk about this right this INSTANT!" my mother gasped. "If you think I'm going to let you go off and take a bunch of pictures of naked women, then you have another think coming, mister!"
Randi turned around, a box of cereal in one hand, and a very interested look on her face.
I flushed. I tried not to, but I couldn't help it.
"That's not it at all," I said hastily. Too hastily. I was, after all, suggesting that I needed pictures of breasts. My mother's reaction to that didn't bode well for the rest of my "plan".
I stumbled on, in a panic. I should have just shut up, but I didn't.
"It's not like I was going to go out and ask strangers to let me take pictures of their ... to take pictures of them," I whined.
"Well, then," asked my mother archly. "Just who, exactly, did you plan on taking pictures of?"
"Couldn't we talk about this ... privately?" I begged.
"Young man!" she barked. "You have just informed me of your intent to take pictures of naked women! We'll talk about this right now!" she insisted. She was agitated.
"Not naked women," I complained. "Just their breasts!"
Randi started laughing. "I knew men were perverts," she howled, "But I had no idea my own BROTHER was one of them."
I put my head in my hands, my elbows on the table.
"Just their breasts," my mother repeated. "And whose ... breasts ... did you plan on taking pictures of? As you MAY have just heard me say, I'll not have my son out soliciting strangers to get a peek of their breasts, and TAKE PICTURES OF THEM!" she thundered.
"Not strangers!" I wailed, lifting my no doubt blotchy face. I was in full panic mode now. "YOURS!"
That wasn't at all how I wanted to broach this tender subject. I dropped my face down into my hands and moaned.
There was a moment of silence, so long, that I began to wonder if I had magically gone deaf.
"Mine!" Her voice rose to that range you hear at operas ... you know ... the one that can break glass? Her horror at the idea was SO obvious that I had to mitigate it somehow. Again, I opened my stupid mouth.
"And the others," I squeaked.
"What others?" asked Randi. She was obviously loving this.
"Yours," I gasped, "and Aunt Vanessa and Aunt Christy and Tabby. Grandma's too." I almost passed out as the words left my lips. "They're all different sizes!" I gasped, sealing my doom.
I knew my life was over. If I was only grounded until I was thirty, I'd be the luckiest guy on earth. I got up to flee. Who needed breakfast now? It was probably better that I hadn't eaten anything. If I had, I'm quite sure I'd have thrown it up.
"WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!" screeched my mother. "YOU GET RIGHT BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!"
All that did was make me run faster. I tripped on the stairs, and fell, banging my shin painfully. I almost welcomed the pain, as I crawled up to my room.
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