An afternoon in June. Under a bright blue dome of a sky, boys paraded around like Speedo models and dressed accordingly. Cher’s “Believe” wafted through the air from two different houses, off sync. Since it was only Thursday, our witless but ever-giggling, wretchedly visible neighbors weren’t in residence yet. In a blazing stroke of architectural stupidity, our outdoor shower directly overlooks their deck. I’d done some heavy yardwork, and without the annoying onlookers—they either cheered or booed depending on the drugs they were on—I washed off in solitude under our outdoor shower. There’s also a clean shot to the front gate, which opened, to my horror, just as I was washing my most rarely-seen-in-public region. Jack Fogg waved a cheery hello, raised his eyebrows, and disappeared into the house.
“Where’s Sammy?” I asked when we met again upstairs, I having scooted into some gym trunks, Jack into his standard Madras shorts. “Don’t mention that name,” he snarled. “Yesterday I caught him—in my own bed—with the Indian delivery boy!” I tried to look sympathetic, but the mental image was like Spanish Fly. “He had the balls to tell me he had a craving for chicken vindaloo!’ It’s happened before. Sammy’s insatiable. But the delivery boy?!”
Classic! Harvard ’89 was offended not by Sammy’s cheating but by the trick’s caste! I said nothing but “You want a drink?” “Sure—what are you mixing?” “I dunno. Let’s see what we have.” I found some bourbon while Jack leaned into the open refrigerator. “Voila!” A hand emerged clutching a plastic lemon. “If there’s sugar I’ll make bourbon sours.” “Snap to!” I barked. My command pulled Jack out of the fridge with a faint blush. “Syrup! Not sugar!” “Yes, sir,” he replied, his cheeks reddening, and swiftly made us the most enormous bourbon sours I’ve ever seen. Sours go in 5-ounce glasses. Jack Fogg’s required 12-ounce tumblers.
I plunked down on the couch. Jack Fogg plunked down right next to me. We clinked. “Cheers!”
I still harbor a robust jealousy toward Jack Fogg. He’s well built and handsome and an Ivy League A-lister, whereas I’m Shrimp Boy from a two-bit town north of Pittsburgh who went to a college nobody’s heard of. But there I was in gym trunks getting blotto next to an equally shirtless Jack Fogg, who, noticing that I kept glancing at his blond chest hair, actually flexed. “These things are mighty fine!” I declared after emptying my glass. “Which?” he said with a leer. “The drinks or my pecs?”
Time began to careen: Jack returning with two more flagons of bourbon sours… guzzling them while rating our housemates’ dicks…Jack’s hand stroking my inner thigh…My head was spinning but the rest of me remained in firm control as I grabbed his wrists and leaned into him with enough force to pin him on his back with his arms over his head. Miracles occurred. Then I urged him onto his belly. So much shorter am I than he, I accessed his entire backside with ease and pulled down his Madras shorts, revealing his fuzzy perfection. Reader, I porked him.