July 31. Summer is pissed. The night is sticky and hot. Thunder rolls overhead as heat lightning blisters the dark heavens.
I sleep in nothing more than a pair of damp boxer-briefs the color of oil. I toss and turn for an hour…two hours…three hours…and eventually fall asleep.
A dream carries me back to the previous day and meeting Keith Rutger for the very first time. Again, he is bare-chested in the steeping sun, perspiration-covered, and surprised to see me. This time he does not sport a gun.
Instead, he unzips his khaki shorts, pulls out a ten-inch slab of veined c**k, and chants to me with an ear to ear smile, “Get on your knees and blow it, Islip. You know you want to. Shove all ten inches of it down the back of your throat. Eat my seed. It’s time you and I get down to some man-to-
