Eventually, maybe two minutes or less, after his staring marathon, he vanishes into the first floor of the A-Frame. I’m left with my soap and shampoo and removal of oil. Under the steaming spray I take care of my business, turn off the hot water, exit the shower, and with intent, grab the small cotton—not the large one that can semi-cover half the county—towel that feels like a soft bunny, just about wrap around my middle. Hereafter, I exit the bathroom in the miniscule towel, enter the living room area, and…
Jack is queer. There’s no doubt in my mind that he isn’t since he’s excited. I comprehend this semi-fact because I, without any discretion whatsoever, of course, take in the view of his rounded and hard tube of d**k beneath the convex structure inside his jeans. It’s positioned upwar
