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Buttons

I have a terrible time with names, I mean even after hearing them 5 seconds later, I couldn’t tell you what a client’s name is. But I will remember his face, the conversation, and what he likes sexually, even years after having first met him, as long as 3 years later! How is that for a memory. It works to my advantage at times, and at others has sent the odd guy running for the damn hills.

I remember one particular gent, who came to me, and being some what a few sheets to the a south westerly wind, regaled me with the latest endeavors he was currently involved in. Namely he had just opened a shirt factory in a favorable third world country where rules, like working hours and age of workers were not something people troubled themselves with. He even went so far to tell me all about the extra thick buttons on his shirts and how they were hand produced. I was quite taken with these, and even offered to divest him of said garment, so I could rub my grubby litte mits on the lovely pearly buttons. Well the deed was done, he left, and about 6 months later he came back again to see me.

The first words out of my mouth were, “So, how is the shirt factory going?” A look of utter horror crossed his face. His reaction was to grab the upper part of my shoulders and start to demand, how did I know he had a shirt factory? I looked at him and told him, he had told me all about it. I then proceeded to repeat almost the entire conversation in order, down to me taking off his shirt which had hand produced MOP buttons on them. At which time, I looked at the shirt he was wearing and low and behold it was the same one! I then said you are wearing the same shirt right now! He had by this time turned white with shock. He couldn’t remember the encounter he was apparently so drunk. And here was yours truly telling him, in great detail, about a night of his life he had completely forgotten. He paid, and left, never to be seen again. I was rather disappointed, I was looking forward to molesting those buttons again.

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