“Raisins are no substitute for your fat d**k, Patrick.” Still, Goose ate them.
Watching him perform oral s*x on a Milky Way the next evening really stoked my s****l frustration. As he moved his mouth up and down, up and down, not just the full-size bar, but the giant size, it reminded me of the night spooky rising black shadowy stalks had looked on as he’d done the same to me at the side of the road. This time, he ended up with melted chocolate all over his face and hands, and that was almost sexier. Working his tongue to clean both afterward—the whole show, really—was payback for the raisins, I figured.
Just one week after that, Goose and I, Toto and Wilbur, were all packed into the car to begin our road trip to Tennessee and Daniel and Jefferson’s tree.
“I miss our copilot,” Goose sai
