Bowling for Boners
By Rob Rosen
“The usual, Matt,” he said to me, plopping down a fiver, mega-watt smile radiating off his face, blue eyes twinkling beneath the fluorescent lighting.
I crouched down and found his favorite pair, size thirteen. Guy had big-ass feet. “Here you go, Pete. Lane twelve. All yours.” Lane twelve was reserved for the pros. Bowling association paid the dues. “Big tournament coming up, huh?”
He grabbed for the shoes and nodded. “One week away. High stakes. Top three compete in Maui.”
I grinned. “Good luck. And aloha.”
He turned, hollering over his shoulder, “Mahalo, dude.”
I watched him saunter away, staring at his perfect little ass, encased in tight rayon shorts, bulging calves flexing with each stride. I pushed down on my burgeoning stiffie and willed myself
