Chapter 1

We’re left behind. My Uncle Cliff’s boyfriend of three months and me. His name is Sam. Sam Schmidt. I call him Sam the Jew. I know I shouldn’t…but sometimes I’m not a nice guy. Sam’s a book editor from New York City. He’s thirty-six. Twice my age. A rock-hard hunk who causes me to go dizzy. Beautiful from toes to head. Thick curly onyx hair. Bottom of the ocean blue eyes. Clean-shaven. Dimples. Six-two or maybe -three. He wears a size thirteen shoe, which tells me his dick is big. Penny loafers. There’s a penny in each one. His navy-blue Kenneth Cole polo shirt is snug against his ripped chest and his pecs and abs pop like inflated rafts. The material is so tight around his arms that it causes his biceps to bulge. I give Uncle Cliff props: he knows how to pick boyfriends and I want to jump on Sam while we’re alone, maybe ride him, and prove to him that I’m a bad guy. Because deep inside we all want to be bad guys. I think. Or tell myself.

I have to look away from him or I go hard. I’m eighteen and boys like me always become hard. Eighteen and nineteen year olds use me for just about anything sexual these days. Use your imagination and you’ll understand what I’m talking about.

He sits in my mother’s recliner like a king: legs separated ever so slightly, upright back, royalty all the way. The one where she works her Sudoku puzzles while my dad watches the Steelers play football, or other sports. Sam looks up from the book he reads. Something by David Leavitt. A hardback. He catches me popping a stare at him, studying his good looks, licking my lips, drooling. “What, Timothy?”

“No one calls me Timothy. It’s Tim or Timmy.” Never Timothy. What the fuck?

“I’ll call you Timothy.”

“Whatever.” I roll my eyes. I’m good at this. All the guys who I blow tell me this.

“Go put some clothes on. Cover up your shit. Don’t be running around here half naked in your Speedo.”

“You don’t like my yellow briefs?” I swing my dick in his face, flirting with him.

He pushes me away, shakes his head. So adult. So annoying. So…Sam the Jew.

It’s almost six in the evening. Summer heat boils the almost-purple horizon. The family has left for ice cream. They took two cars and drove into town. I’m not good enough to join them for such a pleasure. I’ve been bad recently. I’m grounded for the rest of summer. And I have to be watched. Closely. My parents don’t trust me now. They will never trust me. It’s Sam’s turn to watch me. Poor bastard.

What I do: I purposely strip out of my summertime shorts and a T-shirt and run around the lakeside cottage in nothing more than a pair of canary yellow briefs that accent my balls and dick. I strut my swimmer’s build for him: flat stomach, broad shoulders, narrow trail of dark hair beneath my navel, plump package between my legs, hairy inner thighs

Maybe he wants my shit.

Maybe he doesn’t.

Some older men do. I can name a few. Sure I can.

I’m a troubled young man who wants to find out if Sam the Jew is into me. Will he fuck up his relationship with Uncle Cliff and bang my bottom? I can only hope so.

My mind drifts…Last November, the Saturday after Thanksgiving, an older man fucked me. He was thirty-five-years old, bald, and showcased tattooed arms, chest, and back. More tattoos than I could count. Called himself Jason. I didn’t care what his last name was. Picked me up at a bar called The Den in downtown Pittsburgh. Took me back to his dungy flat along the Ohio River.

Told me his boyfriend was in Seattle and he wanted to fuck around behind his boyfriend’s back.

Told me, “I know he’s cheating on me. So I want to cheat on him. A dick for a dick.” He winked at me, smiled. It was a devilish smile. One I could appreciate.

Asked me, “Do you ride cock?”

I did.

Was more specific with me, “Do you ride eight-inch cock?”

I did.

On top of him, pleasuring the both of us, I studied his inked chest: bullfighter, ostrich, angel, dice, unicorn, covered bridge, waterfall, two crosses, an apple, violin, and so many other colorful items. Beneath his left nipple was the word killer

I should have asked him about that when he came inside the condom that separated our moving bodies.

I didn’t.

Should have.

I come to…

My family leaves Pittsburgh and comes to the cottage next to Lake Erie every Fourth of July. My parents, Vivian and Ray Titan, own the place. I’m their only child; spoiled rotten. It’s a huge place and has four bedrooms. Most agree it’s more of a house than a cottage, but this is what we call it. Vivian’s two sisters came: Rita and Marge. Marge brought her two daughters, Lisa and Lynn. And Ray’s queer brother came, Uncle Cliff. This is Sam the Jew’s boyfriend. The place filled up quickly. You can barely breathe. Bring oxygen.