“I’m taken,” he told me, checking me out in the rearview mirror from the backseat of David’s caravan. “I see you looking at my crotch. You can’t get there.”
“What’s his name?” I asked, caught. The V-area of his crouch bulged, twice the size of a normal man’s. Obnoxious in size. Massive. Porn-stuff.
“Kenito. He’s Spanish. He’s from Madrid.”
“How long have you two been lovers?”
“Three years. He’s not separated from his wife as of yet. Her name’s Casita. She’s a real b***h and hates Americans, especially queer ones who f**k her husband.”
I turned on Interstate 79 and headed south. “Does Mr. Right have any children?”
“Three sons. They play soccer and are brilliant. Two are in their first year of college.”
“What does Kenito do?” I asked, driving him to the small airport outside Templeton
