Tell Me Who You Are
By R.W. Clinger
We’re left behind. My Uncle Cliff’s boyfriend of three months and me. His name is Sam. Sam Schmidt. I call him Sam the Jew. I know I shouldn’t…but sometimes I’m not a nice guy. Sam’s a book editor from New York City. He’s thirty-six. Twice my age. A rock-hard hunk who causes me to go dizzy. Beautiful from toes to head. Thick curly onyx hair. Bottom of the ocean blue eyes. Clean-shaven. Dimples. Six-two or maybe -three. He wears a size thirteen shoe, which tells me his d**k is big. Penny loafers. There’s a penny in each one. His navy-blue Kenneth Cole polo shirt is snug against his ripped chest and his pecs and abs pop like inflated rafts. The material is so tight around his arms that it causes his biceps to bulge. I give Uncle Cliff props: he knows how
