Fuck Bobby's mix tape. I rip it out, pretending to be grumpy while he grins at me. I tune the radio to classic rock. I luck out. Lynyrd Skynyrd. I belt out the lyrics. No, I can't sing worth shit but, hey, it's rock, so enthusiasm makes up for lack of talent.

"Mitch," bobby says, "anyone ever tell ya we don't even live near Alabama?"

Still banging my head, I yell, "Yep. You did. Still don't give a fuck."

We grin at each other. It's like each song triggers the same memories in both of us.

I do a pretty fine job of pretending I'm wrapped up in the music. I don't think Bobby caught the way my eyes kept shifting to him.

The pickup has a bench seat, like the Self-Righteous Fuckhead's Caddy, but it's not as wide. Bobby drives with both hands on the wheel. I wish. I wish for it as hard as I can. But his hand never drops to the vinyl and begins a crawl towards my thigh.

I watch Bobby fish a cigarette from his pack. Watch him put it to his lips. Watch his grease-streaked thumb snap the lighter. Watch the flame. Watch his neck muscles work.

I wish again. I wish I'm not so far gone that I'll make that kind of move on him.

"OK, Mitch, you can shut up now." Bobby says around the cigarette. "I ain't got that many neighbors but those I got, well, I don't want 'em to hear your singin'. They're the kind of folk who bitch about cats fuckin', if ya know what I mean."

We call it "the shack." Bobby rents the shack from Aunt Janice. It's a tiny clapboard thing with a tin roof. I think in the old days sharecroppers might've lived in it. When we were kids, we used to come out here to see Aunt Janice. Then she moved into Peachville and let the shack run down. I guess Bobby fixed it up after he rented it for Heidi and himself.

Wow. Heidi. In the shack on a semi-permanent basis.

Bobby parks his pickup in the drive under the giant old oak. Back in the day, the shack sat beside the highway, surrounded by dusty peanut fields, almost alone. Not anymore. Other houses have sprouted up. Not close, but visible. Not many, but some. Looking around, I get a weird feeling, like I'm fucking a girl and someone's eyeing me through a peephole. The sky, at least, is just as fucking huge as it ever was.

"Well, we're home," Bobby says. His door creaks open and he swings a leg out. "Let's get you situated."

The birds sound the same. The highway used to be lonely as hell but as we trudge towards the porch I hear three, four cars roll past. The oak's shade is fucking awesome.

"You get the couch," Bobby says, tossing his keys on the table. The screen door clatters shut behind him.

The couch is narrow. It sags at both ends. My eyes flick to the bedroom door. Then I scan the wall. It's been painted over, but I find the round plug right where the knothole used to be. It's not been evened up with the surrounding wall.

Chuckling, Bobby says, "Yeah, well, I had to plug that hole. Heidi's Mom used to sleep over, and I didn't want her watching!"

It feels good to laugh with Bobby again.

"Now don't ask to sleep with me. You're a fucking ox! I like ya but you got too damn big!" He slugs my bicep, fakes shaking out the pain. "Ow! Besides, I'm afraid what might happen."

That's a jab, but it's playful. To keep my charade up I just shake my head at him. He grins and turns. My eyes follow my cousins tempting ass as he trots toward the kitchen.

You look at me, Bobby, and I'm straight Mitch. But you turn your back on me, Bobby, and I'm queer Mitch.

With a butt like that he's right to be skittish.

I tuck my little bag with all my possessions behind the couch. Bobby walks out of the kitchen, clutching his bong and his baggie. He grins. I see the offer in his eyes. He's eager to share his stash. My mouth waters. God, I want it. But.

"Um. I can't get stoned. I'm not even supposed to be around stoners."

"You're shittin' me!" Bobby looks thunderstruck. "What the fuck, man? You're free!"

"Probation's kind of a ... second-rate freedom. I gotta report downtown tomorrow. They test for drugs. Not piss tests. They test your hair."

"What? They cut off your hair? But you ain't got none!"

I scratch the stubble on my scalp. "I got enough. Hair tests pick up anything. You can't beat 'em. They can pick up if I'm around someone smoking weed."

Bobby blanches. His arms, tense with enthusiasm for the bong and his beloved weed, go limp. "Damn."

"Look, cuz. I don't wanna cramp your style. You still got a clear view out the back?"

Bobby brightens. "Oh. Fuck. Yeah, that'll work! Christ, Mitch, there for a second I thought I was going to have to give up weed. For you I'd do it, but sheesh!"

"You mind if I grab a shower?"

"Knock yourself out."

Bobby trots back into the kitchen. Watching his butt, I sway like a drunk. Or like his ass. It's his fucking Jockeys, man, making me dizzy. I can't take my eyes off them. The screen door opens. I watch him start to turn. I whip my eyes away. The screen door bangs shut. Now I'm safe. Alone. Except for the mess going on inside of me.

Bobby's ass. Bobby's sweet country boy ass. It's so small, so innocent, nothing spectacular, but it's Bobby's ass, and I've got to have it.

Bobby's lighter snicks. A moist bubbling sounds. Prolonged. Mouthwatering. God, I want to join him out there. Get stoned. Man, that's the only way I ever felt right, you know?

"Whatcha waiting for, Mitch?"

"Just, uh, checkin' out how the place has changed."

"Yeah! Remember that night?"

"Oh yeah. Can't forget that night."

I snatch a towel from the shelves and locked the bathroom door behind me. I stripped. My hardon rears out of my crotch. I don't dare touch it. Not yet, anyway. I'd blast a hole in the wall. Flood this tiny bathroom with gallons of Mitch Grant's finest sauce.

A little digression here. Sorry, but I can't help it. When my cock's hard, I'm an arrogant son of a bitch. Reading this next bit, you might think I'm bragging, but if you think so, you're an idiot.

Back in the day, when I dropped my underwear ... well, goddamn, just the look in the girl's eyes was almost enough to make me spunk like crazy. I got a whang that'll make a Shetland pony cross his legs and, beet red from shame, slink off to whimper alone in the paddock. Before Johnson bulked me up, I was a lanky guy. A stripling. Cut, defined, just like Bobby is. My scrawny body magnified the effect of my huge dong. I mean, I'd strut towards my girl, and they'd just stare. It was like I had a magic wand between my thighs.

Some girls panicked at first sight.

That's waaay too fucking big!

You ain't gonna split me open with that thing!

Get that damn thing out of my face!

I loved it when they said shit like that. I handled their complaints the old-fashioned way. I slid my hand between their thighs and diddled their clits, cooing at them, thrusting my hand into the oily gash until, finally, all they could do was moan.

More than a handful complained as I stuffed them.

You're pokin' my breastbone!

Take it out, goddammit! I've gotta piss!

My fancy hip work silences them. Their legs cinched round my waist while I pumped, softly, steadily, irresistibly. We just stared at each other. There was always that moment, when she moaned and melted, and I knew she was mine to use forever. They rolled their hips, and they whimpered, and they slobbered, and they submitted, while Mitch Grant did what God put him on Earth to do. I fucked and I fucked. Man, a chick's eyes will spin like pool balls if you do 'em right ... and when you see that, you know you're a god yourself.

Jesus Christ, some of them ladies left the back seat of my car drenched

I loved pussy. Loved pussy so much I always, always, always told Bobby the tale when he couldn't be there to share the experience.

I pull the shower curtain closed. A brief cold-water blast doesn't soften my rod. Hell, nothing would, unless I fucked my way through a cathouse full of underage Mexican whores.

The water turns warm. I soap myself. I crack the bathroom window to let the steam escape. I get more than a whiff of smoldering weed.

I can't blame Ogden for what's happening to me. Things started to go wrong back in high school.

Bobby and I had just turned seventeen. Our birthdays are about three weeks apart, his in mid-April, mine in early May. It was spring. And goddamn, man, my sap was running. I was a horny fuck. When I wasn't screwing I was jerking off.

High school locker room. Guys changing from clothes to shorts and shirts. Showers running in the background. Bragging. Boasting. Roughhousing. The placed reeked of armpits. Bobby had PE the period before mine. He was stripping off sweat-soaked cotton gear. I was stripping off my clothes. Bobby ditched shorts, shirt, and shoes, leaving him in those briefs. He shot me a grin and went on bullshitting with Curtis Godwin.

It was that casual grin, man. It was supposed to mean nothing. Simple acknowledgement. Hey, Mitch, how's it goin'? The locker room setting did something to his grin. It was like a wizard let off a spell. Suddenly, I felt like we were eleven again.

Let me tell you that right now my cock is slamming hard against my belly. I can feel it leak.

Bobby's butt wasn't girlish. Not at all. Bobby was -- is -- two or three sizes too small to qualify for a bubble butt. What took my breath away? What started my heart pounding back in the locker room?

The arch of his back.

The last time I'd noticed that, hell, we were eleven, wrestling together in our underwear. Bobby's back was like a French curve, you know, the kind you see on those cheap plastic protractors. There was something perfect about that line of his spine.

I know what that curve means. It means you're looking at a natural born slut.

You see that curve in a girl's back when she's wet for your prong. Especially when she's sneering at you, strutting around a parking lot, telling you that she's not interested in white trash. Don't believe the bullshit your fed about the value of your mind. Your soul. You're flesh and blood, an animal who wants to mount from behind. A protruding butt means someone wants to get fucked.

But how could my cousin, who'd stood hip-to-hip with me as we plowed a pair of chicks perched on the tailgate of a pickup, be a slut?

Hang with me here. I gotta jerk myself. Fuck yeah, it feels awesome to jerk myself. To move my hand on my shaft. I groan. Maybe I should stifle it but, hell, Bobby knows I beat off whenever I can. What's going on in his shower is nothing weird.

Time for a little play. Just to let off steam. I'll try to edge but I doubt I'll make it.

My mind splits. Two images, like a pair of testicles competing for the honor of the first shot, go to war in my brain. One image is a memory. Real -- or at least as real as memory ever gets. The other is what should've happened, if the world had genies who granted wishes.

The memory?

Locker-room. Teenaged guys, brimming with testosterone and sweat, half-naked.

White Jockeys looped around Bobby Allen's ankles.

Mitch Grant, stunned, suddenly silent. Not the first time Mitch had seen his cousin's nude ass. But those other times Mitch hadn't been drunk on a jock cocktail. The musk of jockstraps, the tang of armpits, the rumbling sounds of newly masculine throats, the spice of piss.

Mitch was a statue.

Smooth, dimpled buttcheeks. Contrast of alabaster midsection and golden thighs.

A dance began in Mitch's boxers. He shied away from temptation, turning to his locker, hiding it. Hiding the sickness that was bubbling up out of some dark pit in his brain. Lengthening dong unnoticed as it is stuffed into overstretched jockpouch. He was safe.

What was going on?

Two cousins chatted by the locker room exit. Typical between class conversation. Nothing worth remembering, except that one cousin was normal, and safe, and just as loveably goofy as he'd always been. And the other cousin wanted to fuck the other up the ass.

The fantasy?

White Jockeys looped around Bobby Allen's ankles. Smooth, dimpled buttcheeks. Contrast of alabaster midsection and golden thighs.

Male voice chortled. Look! Look! Mitch has got a hardon!

Thirty pairs of eyes turned. Widened as boxers drop. Gasps of astonishment? No, admiration. Big country boy balls throb. I stood straight and proud. Eyes bore in on Bobby. His ass. Power ripples.

What's a matter, Mitch? You ain't getting' enough?

Underclassmen scurried out of the way. Sweaty muscles brush the sweaty muscles of the upper classmen. Awed silence prevailed. The hard-cocked stalker advanced. The mirth in Bobby's eyes flickered uncertainly. Was this a game, like the time they wrestled on sleepovers?

Something was in control here. Everyone was its puppet.

Bobby smirked. Until advancing hardon overwhelmed him. Tinge of fear haunted Bobby's expression. Has Mitch gone bonkers?

Trembling hand seized Bobby's elbow. Lithe body whirled. Fist rammed between shoulder blade. Oomph! Bobby slammed face first against lockers. Metal clanged.

Laughter and catcalls died when the maniac kicked his legs apart.

The stance. The line up. The feel of male buttcheeks squirming on prong. Terrified look thrown over victim's shoulder. Maniac's blood blazed.

The thrust.

They heard his howl all the way on the other end of school.

Take it out! Take it out, Mitch! For God's sake, Mitch, take it the fuck out of me!

Maniac refused, because, goddamn, Bobby's asshole was the best thing the maniac had ever felt.

Rut. Brutal. Merciless. Why?

Been watching you since you were twelve.

Victim twisted, seeking escape. Futile. Innocence never survives. Sacrifice and power was everything.

"Fuck!"

Juicing like a stallion, I paint the shower tiles with five-foot-long gouts of sperm. I shoot so hard I almost tumble into the tub. My head spins. Silver spots boil before my eyes. Strands of spunk hang from the piping. The knobs

"Jesus."

The shower spray washes sweat from me, but not the sin. That's fine. I've come to realize I'm made for sin. Sin and Mitch Grant are peas from the same pod.

The bathroom door snicks open.

"You done, Mitch?"

"Yeah. Fuck, that was a good one."

"Man, try not to make so much noise the next time. The shack's old. Yell like that again, you might bring it down."

"No promises, buddy." My cock lurches.

"You used to be better. You got a short trigger."

"Well. Ogden. Can't be helped, you know?"

Bobby sniggers. "Back in the day, you'd have run out the hot water!"

"It's bene a while," I say feebly.

"Um. So, you didn't get no action in Ogden."

My prong jumps. "Um. Um. Yeah. A bit. But, you know, um, a blowjob ain't the same as cunt."

"No shit. 'Specially from a dude. Get the fuck out of there, I got so much damn oil on me I can't even sit down!"

A little later, I stretch on his couch, listening to the water run. Bobby whistles cheerfully. It sounds normal. Just like the old days. I can almost pretend I'm not a sick fuck.

Flashback: seven summers ago.

Locale: Old Curtain Road, a country lane snaking between drowsy trees and banks of high grass. Muddy pools of water fill shallows in the red clay ruts. If you ignore the grunting, you can hear a liquid muttering. That's the nearby Tanner River.

Time: late afternoon. Sunlight is hazy and golden. The air is warm, except when cool exhalations of the Tanner waft through the trees.

Scene: Smoke tinges the air. Sniff it. It's pot smoke. A pale blue mid-sized pickup, half-pulled off the road, lies at the center of the cloud. The tailgate is down. So are the jeans of the two spunky teens whose asses clench and pump. Neither teen can remember the name of the woman he's fucking. Both women are seated on the edge of the tailgate, knees up, heels hooked on the rusty metal, thighs spread, their eyes fixed on the enormous dongs plowing them. Both slobber from pleasure.

"Good shit, ain't it, Bobby?"

But Bobby thinks Mitch is talking about the weed. "It always is, cuz, when it's yours!"

Mitch, cap pushed back so sweat can escape, just rolls his eyes. "Let's go for it!"

Hips churn and sway. The women squeal in a way they haven't since high school. They've forgotten how much fun it can be to be treated as so much meat. Spend a few minutes with cocksmen like these cousins and you'll remember that being meat isn't a bad thing. Sloppy vulvas squelch. Giant cocks corkscrew. Ropes of fishy goo, glutinous as KY, descend from the tailgate's edge. Trust me. It's not KY.

Mitch, in his passion, throws a superb hip twist into his woman, a dyed blond who owns a real estate firm in Peachville. It feels so good she gags. Bobby happened to be executing the same extravagant maneuver. Mid-thrust, Mitch's sweaty buttock brushes Bobby.

Foul. Rule #1 when straight men do it is no guy-on-guy touching.

Bobby freezes, balls-deep in his woman, who's the wife of a deacon. Surprised, he stares at Mitch, waiting for a joke. Some sort of acknowledgment that, hey man, you know, be cool. Be cool.

His cousin's face, twisted from effort and pleasure as he does his trademark imitation of a stallion, is inscrutable. Bobby shrugs. Resumes piledriving. Mitch didn't even feel that butt-on-butt touch.

Wrong. Mitch felt it. Mitch initiated it. It's his way of re-bonding with Bobby. Because that weird, quavering moment in the locker room earlier this week left Mitch shaken. Alone. Cut off from the guy who always had Mitch's back.

Mitch hides his turmoil well. He throws his head back and hammers away. The blond woman babbles, begging him to stop ... then to keep going ... then to do it harder. She loses control of her bladder. Dainty sprays of urine soak Mitch's pubes, but he doesn't notice. Sweat courses over his graven muscles. Down his spine and over his surging buttocks.

"Oh fuck!"

Mitch's roar blasts the birds from the trees. Semen boils up in his balls and charges down his urethra. Spouting, snarling, spitting, Mitch fills his woman's womb with a lake of cum.

Bobby gets caught up in the spell.

"Oh man oh man oh man!"

Mitch's eyes flick over to the deacon's wife's legs. His cousin is buried so deep Mitch can't even see the root of Bobby's cock. As Bobby's spasms subside, Mitch's eyes flick back to gaze down, coldly bemused, at the panting blond.

"Hope you weren't kiddin' 'bout them pills," Mitch says. "'Cause if you were, your husbands gonna ask you nine months from now why this redneck baby popped outta you."

Mitch withdraws his giant cock, slack, glistening with oil and beaded with sperm. The blond woman thunderqueefs, eructating about half a pint of Mitch's spunk. Strands of it float in the urine puddled on the tailgate.

"Well, ladies. That was sweet."

Not bothering to hitch up his jeans, Mitch leans across the woman -- too dazed to think; sprawled in the pickup's bed; arms and legs akimbo; an albino sperm serpent slithering out of her bubbling cunt -- and drags a big toolbox towards him. The lid clangs open. Mitch plucks out two bags of weed. Both girls perk up.

"Um," the blond woman squeaks. "If ... if you want to, uh, you know, you know, double the supply, you can go again. If you want."

The deacon's wife nods enthusiastically, eyeing Bobby's wiry frame with coy appreciation.

Mitch and Bobby share a triumphant grin. Then Mitch kneels between his woman's knees. Her scent and his mix in a heady miasma. Making like a knight presenting a scarf to his lady, he extends one bag of weed to her. The blond sways up to a seated position and takes the baggie. Bobby, when elbowed, takes a baggie from Mitch and repeats the ritual with the deacon's wife. Palming her baggie, she giggles.

"I'm serious," says the blond. "My husband won't be back --"

"Ladies, ladies, ladies," says Mitch. "Me and my business partner --" he claps Bobby's shoulder "-- would love to oblige you. But we've got, you now, got a business to run. Other customers."

Mitch's woman, searching for her panties, asks, "So how big's the discount this time?"

Mitch tucks his cock into his jeans. "Oh, well. That was some mighty fine fuckin'. I think you ladies can have it on the house. What you say, cuz?"

Bobby's long fat shaft stood up proud at the suggestion of another go. It thrusts out of his unbuttoned fly. He looks at Mitch, ready to object and say, no, he wants another round. But he sees the look in Mitch's eye, shrugs, and says, "Yeah, I think that's fair."

A little later, the pickup bounces down the lane. Behind it, a trail of dust hangs in the sultry air. Bobby drives, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Cap pulled low. Arm hooked out the open window. The deacon's wife sits next to him, eyeing the smoldering cigarette with annoyance. Mitch sits on the other side of the cab, the woman perched on his lap, giggling and hanging off his every word.

"Do you even remember my name?" she asks coyly.

"Hey, Bobby, pass me a joint. Thanks, buddy. Yeah. It's Hayley."

"Brenda!"

Mitch fires up a joint. "Do you remember mine?" He passes it to Brenda.

Brenda tokes. "You're Mitch Grant. Everyone in the county knows you."

Mitch cocks and eyebrow. "How old do you think I am?"

Brenda studies Mitch's handsome face. The tanned skin is smooth as polished bronze. There's stubble on his chin and upper lip. His build, though, is thin. He sports a faint dusting of hair around his nipples. A wedge of fine hair descends into his jeans from his navel.

She looks as if she's about to admit something naughty. "Seventeen!"

Mitch sniffs. "Wrong."

"Well, how old are you?"

Mitch trades a look with Bobby. "Tell 'em cuz."

Bobby's eyebrows furrow as if about to broach something serious. Then he busts out laughing. "Fourteen, ladies! Can you believe it?"

Had it not been for the magic of THC, suffusing the space between neurons with a golden glow, no doubt brainwashing would've kicked in, and both women would've howled with mock outrage. You can blame THC for keeping the women from asking the obvious question: how did fourteen year olds get this pickup? As it is, all they do is tug their thighs together, hiding the remoistening of their panties.

The truck pulls into the Thyme and Sage shopping center. Both women tug on wedding rings. Mitch and Bobby watch the women stagger to their cars.

Mitch yawns and slugs Bobby's upper arm.

"Hit the road, cuz. We gotta get ready for tonight." Mitch sniffs. "Can't date Heidi smellin' like some old woman's cunt, can I?" Mitch laughs.

"Yeah!" Eagerness shines out from Bobby's eyes. "You know, I think Nicola's finally gonna put out!"

"Why the fuck do you date a girl who doesn't put out on the first date?"

Bobby shrugs. "Dude, Nicola's hot."

"Cuz, I don't think she's into white guys."

"She will be," grins Bobby, "when she sees what I got!"

"Well, I'll pick you up in the Honda. I'm not toolin' around in this piece of shit."

"Fuck you, Mitch!"

Sunset. Mitch Grant, scrubbed and presentable, emerges from the house. He and his Dad chat in the garage. Then Mitch, whistling and tossing his keys, trots to his coal-black Honda. Dad watches with suspicion his son's back. Where does his son get the money to make the payments on that sweet Honda? Dad's afraid. Very afraid.

Heidi emerges from the Bolton house so sweet, so bright, so wholesome you'd think it was the fucking 1950s. The moment Mitch's Honda makes the left turn out of her subdivision, the Twenty-First Century puts in an appearance. Heidi puffs on a joint. Her thighs are spread, and three of Mitch's finger's squelch in her cooze while she moans. Mitch is an animal, crude and untamed, but goddamn if he doesn't make Heidi feel the things worth feeling.

Heidi giggles. "I think your cousin still wants to fuck me."

"Babydoll, I know he does. You're a hot babe, and he's a hot-blooded man!"

Heidi chokes on a too-strong puff. "I might like sex, but I'm not a slut. You tell him that."

Mitch just grins.

Mitch, diddling while he drives, almost brings Heidi off three times. They pull up to the Allen house. Bobby piles into the back, chatting Heidi up. Heidi burns with slow resentment as they drive to Nicola's house. Heidi gets downright snarky. From time to time Mitch sees in the rearview mirror a hurt look haunting Bobby's eyes. He wants to soothe Bobby, explain she's just frustrated, but Mitch knows Heidi won't appreciate that kind of honesty.

On the way to the Cineplex, Nicola bitches about how tiny the back seat his. Mitch suggests Bobby lay down so Nicola can stretch across him. Soon, Nicola's slim brown body sprawls atop Bobby. She seems pleased to be close to him. Mitch feels good. From time to time, he checks out Bobby's groin. Bobby keeps shifting it. Finally, Nicola gets the idea and cups it. Hot damn, Mitch Grant is a good fucking Samaritan if ever there was one! Mitch and Bobby trade winks via the mirror.

After the flick -- a superhero saves the world, killing millions of innocent humans in the process, but, hey, it's the Twenty-First Century, that's standard operating procedure -- they sit on the Honda's hood and bumper, talking, laughing, sipping the warm beer Mitch stole from his Dad this morning and stashed in his trunk. Everyone is twined around someone. Heidi suggest a drive. The guys crush cans against their foreheads and pile into the Honda. Bobby and Nicola lip-lock in the back seat. Heidi nibbles Mitch's earlobe.

On the cusp of the turn onto Old Curtain Road, Mitch sees alternating blue and red lights flashing somewhere way down the lane.

"Fuck!" he snarls, pressing his bulging groin against Heidi's palm. "Betcha that's Rusty." He drives on, making a U-turn just before the bridge over the Tanner, passing Old Curtain Road again on the way back to Peachville.

"But where can we go?" Heidi implores.

Mitch shrugs. "Dunno. Dunno."

Nicola stretches in the seat while Bobby suckles her lips and hunches his hips. After a fond peck on the nose, Bobby rises.

"Um. Mitch."

"Yeah?"

"You remember Aunt Janice's shack?"

"Yeah."

"Um. She's using it for storage. I been takin' stuff out there for her, so I got the key."

"We're there, dude."

Lit by moonlight, the front room -- where one day a transformed Mitch will crash on the couch -- is piled high with boxes and unwanted furniture. It's also dusty, which makes Nicola gag. So she, Bobby, and a fat joint inhabit the front porch.

The back room, one day to be Bobby and Heidi's bedroom, is empty. Moonlight ghosts in through the uncurtained window. A shaft of second-hand moonlight stabs in through a knothole in the wall between this room and the front. A mattress leans against the wall.

"Out of my way!" Heidi storms past.

She topples the mattress. Unseen dust makes them sneeze. Mitch and Heidi hear laughter from the porch.

"You're not gonna say gobble-gobble?" Mitch asks. He hates that movie.

"Gobble gobble." Heidi throws herself on her back onto the mattress.

Mitch dives between her thighs, leading with his tongue.

Squawking, Heidi juices bam-bam-bam in an actinic fusillade of ecstasy. She might as well be in the heart of a thunderstorm. Several times, as she clamps her thighs together, she comes perilously close to crushing Mitch's skull. Not that Mitch minds. Her juices are tangy and he lives for slobbering on her clit.

The soft conversation on the porch subsides into chilly silence. All that can be heard are Heidi's moans and Mitch's slurping.

But, of course, Mitch wants service too. He slips his tongue free of her gash, head rising slowly, eyes blazing, grinning like a wolf. Heidi gets the message. In a flash Mitch is on his back. His shorts fly somewhere. In the dark room, Mitch's ginormous shaft is a dim silhouette. Nevertheless, both feel it. Cock dominates.

Heidi slobbers on the shaft. It's too fat for her dainty jaws to engulf. But her lips are soft, her tongue frantic, and -- so long as you don't point this out to her -- she's eager to worship before this altar of masculine power. Her tongue swipes slowly the long distance from Mitch's balls to his drizzling cockhead. She's clever, too. She doesn't seek to get Mitch off. The only reason Heidi Bolton lives is to feel Mitch's schlong pistoning in her dripping slit.

Mitch folds his arms under his head, enjoying the blowjob. It takes his mind away from what happened in the locker room earlier this week. That incident made him feel like a denizen of Atlantis when the continent started to totter and shift beneath him. You can't think about guys that way. You can't think about family that way. Pleasant images flood Mitch's mind. Cheerleaders. Foxy ladies in bikinis at a car wash. Some powersluts he watches on XTube.

Footsteps thud in the front room. Hasty whispering. A snicker. A hiss.

Mitch's eyes slide to the knothole. The faint light streams in. Then something blocks it. Mitch raises his left hand into the moonlight streaming through the window. He crooks one finger, beckoning Nicola to join them.

"Shit!

Footsteps stomp across the front room. The screen door slams. Another pair of footsteps chase after the first.

Deal with her, Bobby.

Then he hears the arguing. Sharp. Unforgiving. Oh man. Poor Bobby. You've blown it.

A sharp thump. Something in the tone makes Mitch think of his spoiler, not too firmly affixed to his Honda. Goddamn it, if Nicola slugged it and broke it, she'll pay. She'll fucking pay! Mitch doesn't care where she storms off to. He'll find her.

After he gets his nut.

Well, this all means Bobby's crouched on the porch, puffing on the joint, sullen and hurt. Mitch long ago taught Bobby that the best way to handle a drama queen is to take away her audience. Bobby won't go trotting after Nicola. Not unless he's really horny.

"Come on," Mitch groans, hauling Heidi up. "Let's have some fun."

Heidi stands over him, fits Mitch's fat cockhead between her folds, and sinks down, growling like a cat as each inch stretches her. Mitch handles the thrusting. Heidi savors her marvelous view: Mitch's low-fat abdomen working under her. Mitch savors the feeling of cunt juice trickling through his pubes for the second time that day.

Mitch hears scuffling sounds from the porch. A fight? No, can't be.

"Sorry, babe," mitch rasps. "But you know I can't get off like this."

He sits up, grabs Heidi by the waist, and gently flips her onto her back. As he rolls on top, Mitch notices something's blocking the light from the knothole again. Mitch grins. He raises his hips high. High enough so his cockhead belches from Heidi's cunt, chased by a lewd queef. Then he slices downward again. Heidi's groan makes the walls vibrate.

Man, he must be hot to see Heidi in action.

Fire flashes down Mitch's spine. He pummels Heidi. Gotta put on a good show. Heidi responds, moaning, ululating, squeaking like collapsing metal. But surely Bobby doesn't want to just hear her, does he? So, as Heidi ricochets between mattress and Mitch's groin, he shifts her, turning her inch by inch, each bounce angling her crotch so Bobby can see it an action.

"Babe," Mitch croons, "Time for the good stuff!"

Again, he lifts his lips high. His fat balls, dripping sweat and cunt juice, sway between his thighs. Every inch of his shaft glistens with oil. Her cunt burbles, open, gaping, inflamed and pink. Surely it's been opened so much Bobby can see her fucking ovaries. Mitch stabs down. Heidi shrieks. Again, he rises high, feeling like a Tennessee walking horse strutting its stuff. Again, he slamfucks her.

Roaring like a blast furnace, Mitch paints her womb with spunk.

A little later Mitch wakes. Heidi dozes beneath him. He pulls free. His dong stretches then pops loose. He staggers to his feet. Heidi doesn't move. Mitch walks into the front room. Bobby sits under the window. His limp dong hangs from his fly. The glowing tip of the joint blazes up.

Mitch, grinning, pads over to the knothole. Holy fucking Christ. The wall beneath it is slathered in jism all the way to the floor. It's so thick, so copious it looks like candle wax oozing down the wall. Already a dinner-sized plate of spunk spreads across the dusty floorboards.

Bobby sniggers.

Mitch faces his cousin. His cock doesn't betray him. It doesn't lurch into fearsome stiffness. It simply hangs in a big arc over his musky balls. Everything is one hundred percent innocent.

"Dude. I know you want her. Get you some. She's out of it."

Bobby looks pained. "Mitch. I don't do that."

"You get sloppies off me all the time, cuz."

"From girls who want it. Not some chick who's passed out."

Mitch shrugs. "Suit yourself."

"I think I'm gonna give up on Nicola."

"That's the smartest fucking thing I've heard you say." Mitch scratches his nuts. His dong begins lengthening. "Well, I'm good for another go. Then we'll split and hunt for your psycho. If she ain't back by then."

Bobby smirks. "I'll be watchin'. God, Heidi's hot!"

Mitch struts back into the bedroom, cocky as hell. He's confident he's beaten this queer thing. He knows he's proven to himself -- all that really matters -- that he's not a faggot. Whew.

Never let anyone tell you Warden Joe Bell ain't a saint. Wiping up spunk after our fingering, I just knew the next humiliation would be an underwear-clad -- or naked -- march through Ogden. But I'm an asshole even to think such a thing. Joe Bell was kind enough to let me and Johnson get back in our orange jumpsuits. Yeah, Joe Bell's a real peach. A fine American. A hero.

Don't misunderstand me. The Walk was fucking hell.

The hooting and the catcalls began the moment the cell block door slid aside.

"Whoo! Look at that! Some prime beef! And the skinny cracker ain't bad! Gonna get me a piece of that!"

'Fresh pullets! Yum!"

"The cracker's ass in mine!"

"Yo, dude! Wanna have my kids?"

I've seen prison flicks. I knew the deal. Most of the inmates' shit wasn't anything more than I expected. I didn't let 'em scare me. I swaggered. I strutted. The catcalls grew louder. Johnson, though. Johnson just took it in stride.

"Don't let 'em get to you," he said. "Stick close to me and I'll be your buddy."

One guy and one guy only rattled me. Made me clench my sphincter. Frank Bailey.

I didn't know who the fuck he was, but I didn't miss him. His cell was ground level, had a great view of the central aisle, and he was alone. Stark naked, he leaned against the bars. Ever see a shark's eyes go cold and white right before they strike? Frank Bailey's eyes were like that, glaring from his obsidian face. Being watched by him was like being bacteria under a microscope. The moment our eyes locked cold sweat began drizzling from my armpits. Something about Bailey creeped me out right down to my bones.

Bailey's body was so bulked up with muscle ... well, he was Mount Everest and Johnson was a zit. Iron-hard cords ran from his ankles up through his thighs -- which, I tell you, were as big around as my waist -- then across a flat belly, chiseled from anthracite. He was so cut his big black iron pectorals were fucking striated. Dreadlocks, slim as mambas, tangled like octopuses at an orgy, hung to his waist.

Dong. Prong. Cock. Shaft. Goddamned, Frank Bailey was hung.

Soft, his thing swayed between his thighs. It hung below his fucking knees. The foreskin looked swollen. Bailey's monster was thick. Thick as a pair of 2x4s. I am not kidding you. Don't tell me I was hallucinating. I was there for everything. You weren't. Think of the biggest, blackest cock you've ever seen. Ever imagined. Triple it. And you still aren't even close to picturing how huge Frank Bailey's Satanic dong was.

"Close your mouth, you faggot!" a guard snickered. "They'll --"

"He's mine!"

Bailey's roar shut down the whole cell block. Except for two or three voices echoing from the upper cells. That hooting sounding like soldiers chanting Yes, sir! to their sergeant.

"Isn't that right, mon?" Bailey's purr was pure Caribbean.

My butthole was still slick with the goop the faggot orderly had used. Swallowing nervously, I clenched. Looked away.

"Yeah, mon. You know it. We meet up later for some kissy-kissy, right?"

Bailey grinned the way a fat man grins at a Golden Corral buffet. He began belly dancing, pumping and swiveling his hips. Would you believe me if I told you I heard his chiseled abs clanking? They looked like scale mail. Slow-motion waves wriggled down Bailey's black hose. Every time the head slapped his calf a beef on beef sound, heavy, sticky and moist, echoed.

"Bailey," called my guard, "stop that or he'll shit himself."

Bailey jabbed a finger at me. Held my attention with it. Turned it downwards ... exactly where he wanted it. Then he thrust his hips violently. Huge nigger dong swung forward through the bars, swung back, then begin to stiffen.

"We have some good times together, cracker, you and Frank Bailey will!" A Charles Manson look deranged his face.

"Bailey," called Johnson. "Don't do that. He's new."

"Don't play nicey-nice. You just want little cracker ass for yourself."

After we marched past Bailey's cell, the hooting resumed.

"Old Bailey's gone sweet on you," chuckled a guard. "Hey, Ed! Call the blood bank! This little runts gonna need a few pints after Bailey's done with him!"

"Man," I whined, "there's rules! He can't do that to me!"

"Yeah, punk, there's rules. But we can't be everywhere, you know? So, if we don't see it, it don't happen, you know? Now, if you want --" the guard cupped his bulging groin "-- we can cut a deal so I'm always close."

I snorted. "Fuck that."

All the guards roared with laughter. "Then, you cracker faggot, you're in for a rough time!"

"I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, we hear that a lot. Then we hear guys like you complaining they can't tighten their buttholes anymore so they keep shittin' themselves! Know what I mean?"

The game started that night in my cell. I woke up wondering why my underwear was down round my thighs. My cellmate's hand cupped a buttcheek. I knew how to handle this -- a priest had tried to molest me back when I was eleven. I whirled and caught him in the jaw with my elbow. He went down, squawking, but not for long. He was twice my size and by all rights he should've been able to take me. I fought like a cornered badger. All that time at Choctaw point paid off. In the end, he slunk to his bunk, sobbing and bleeding. I laid awake all night, waiting for the other shoe to drop. In the morning, the guards unlocked the cell. I thought they were going to take me to solitary for fighting. Nope. They took me to breakfast. Their don't-give-a-fuck attitude -- and memory of that giggling faggot fingering my butt -- clued me in to how the game was played in Ogden. It was played according to very sick, perverted rules.

I hung out with Johnson at breakfast. He was at ease, wolfing down his scrambled eggs. Guys bulked up like Johnson need their calories.

"You know," Johnson said, chirpy as a man who's just scored, "there's some good pussy to be had in this joint."

"I don't get into that fag shit."

Johnson just shrugged and kept on chewing.

Frank Bailey, sitting three tables away with a pair of buddies eighty percent his size, watched me with his evil shark eyes. I chickened out. I didn't stare him down. Maybe that was my big mistake. Maybe that's where it all went wrong.