Chapter 11

Once, July 27, I spy on the two blue collar workers outside of Michael Block’s apartment. Inside my Lexus, parked on Oates Way, thirty feet from the Olive Apartments, I watch Dayton and Block sexually mix in Apartment 1J. The blinds in Block’s living room are open.

My tenant cordially supplies the landscaper with an ultimate temple-splitting rump-lick. The star of the hour has Block pinned over a Danish Modern sofa, spreads his asshole open with busy fingers, and darts his tongue/lips/face in and out of Block’s tight man-hole.

The landscaper becomes open-mouthed and grips the sofa with claw-like hands. His charming eyes become wide and his face turns a scarlet hue. Although I cannot hear the scene from my distance, I imagine Block moans, uttering an almost howl of sorts, dizzy and mystified under my tenant’s tongue-touch.