Hoodwinked
By Rob Rosen
I left Portland at the crack of Don, Don being my trick from the night before, his tight little ass swaying as he shut the hotel room door behind him. It was, as asses went, a mighty fine one—crack, as I mentioned, included. Still, there was no use crying over spilt, well, come; other adventures lay before me.
Lay being the operative word.
But f**k the foreshadowing; I was up and out the door in no time flat, my four-wheel-drive rental zooming across slick pavement. Rain turned to snow, snow to sleet as I passed the town of Sandy, climbing from a thousand-foot elevation to two, to three, heading to Mount Hood, the cabin rented months earlier for my yearly writing retreat.
Ski season was drawing to a close, winter but a distant memory everywhere else in the coun
