August 25. I find their apartment on Hostetter Street: J-7. Their door is closed. The apartment building’s hallways and stairwells smell like Lysol. Not that I mind, of course, since the place is spotless. I stand outside their home, decide to tap on the wooden door painted a milky white hue, and wait for either Parker or Jimmy to answer the door whilst twirling my thumbs.
Three locks are opened. Parker stands in the doorframe in nothing more than a pair of cotton boxer-briefs, which are the color of midnight stars. Here, I study the man’s body from head to toe. His jock-like shoulders, thin neck, and bulging Adam’s apple appeals to me. He has a thin layer of brown hair that covers his pumped chest, which is accessorized with pink n*****s the size of quarters and a comma-shaped navel that
