JD’s snores become loud and louder.

When he wakes, we have breakfast together. It’s somewhat an uncomfortable occasion for me because he doesn’t wear anything more than a pair of thighs-and-hips-snug, white boxer-briefs. His ripped, six-three frame still has its golden June/July/August suntan, and his nipples resemble spikes. Light sweat coats his ripped abs and no-fat pecs. And the brown tangles of hair around his navel are somewhat damp, which tells me he has slept most of the morning away in the moderate and comfortable sunbeams like a sleek cat, overzealous in dreams. Of course my eyes stray to his thick and veined thighs and calves and biceps and shoulders and ...

Jesus, he’s remarkable to study. A total eye-catcher. An art piece by Michelangelo or Da Vinci or Raphael. A masculine portrait of severe beauty. The well-constructed male. Beauty of the supreme man. A replica of the male gender at its finest. Art at purest form and find. The elitist when it comes ...

We have coffee and bananas together. He’s on one end of the sofa and I take residence on the opposite end. I can almost bare watching him unpeel the piece of arched fruit and stick the tip of its rounded end inside his semi-opened mouth -- one inch, two inches, three inches, four inches -- and collapse his teeth and lips around its length. How exhilarating it is to see the meaty flesh vanish inside him. Excitement unravels between my legs. Heat forms under my arms. Sweat begins to bubble on my forward.

My blue-blue eyes flash with alert. So bright and aware of my attraction to him. So alert this morning. So alive. They travel to the area beneath his dented and curly-hair-covered navel to the white package between his thick thighs. Here, my glance hangs for a second, two seconds, three seconds, or longer; I lose track of time. His part is quite the sight to see in the tight cotton and cause me to lick my lips, abandoning all thoughts of consuming my breakfast banana. The limp and arched joint at his center is nothing short of five inches long and two inches thick. And yes, since I know you are curious and have desires of your own while enjoying my boner-gossip, I can see its cut cup: a perfect line just beneath its domed top, and the additional piss-hole at its apex where he shoots his banana-colored ejaculate from.

He chews ... chews ... chews ... chews and swallows. Takes another bite. Larger this time. Chews and swallows. I watch the food slide down the length of his corded. I can’t see it fall into his gut but know where it goes. Rushed, he takes a sip of the hot coffee, rinses his mouth. A second sip. Stares at me. Asks, “You going to eat your banana, Joey?”

“Sure. Yeah. Of course,” spills out of me. I sound inept, unable to put a sentence together, nervous as all hell.

“Big day today.”

It is. For both of us:

Etan College is making him a full-time head coach of the Etan Eels football team after eight solid years as an assistant coach and part-time health professor. He’s excited about the position, glad to take the title, because it’s well-earned. He’s worked so hard for the position. And it’s solid tenure for him; a firm benefits package, and a full-fledged career at thirty-three. He’s established now. And rightly so. Not many men his age have accomplished what he has. I’m proud of him. And he’s proud.

As for me ... Penny Cage of Vexon Auto is dropping off my new, 2022 Mazda CX-30 in JD’s driveway. I might have paid too much for it, but the thing is a beauty: sleek, brushed red-and-black, loaded all the way. And so much more reliable than 2002 Honda Civic that sits there now.

“Tonight we celebrate our wins with drinks,” he says, finishing the banana, and downing the remains of his coffee.

“Sounds like a plan.”

I watch him carry his peel and coffee mug to the kitchen. There’s no way I can help myself and check out his ass on his travels: bulbous, tight, eye-catching, slappable, the perfect peach.

On his return, he says, “Heading to the college. Papers need signed to seal the deal. A late lunch with the administration. You know how it goes.”

I hear him, but don’t respond. My stare concentrates on his “sex lines” that fall into the white briefs: long, narrow, chiseled. Goddamn, is he the hottest man on the planet. Too hot. Fiery. Perfect in unthinkable ways. The best of the best. Thor-like. Immortal. Superhuman and ...

“Did you hear me?” he asks. He stands next to my face. He’s so close I can almost lick his balls and dick in the white material that covers his man-goods.

“I did. You have papers to sign down at the college. A lunch too.”

“You did hear me. Good boy.” He pats my head as if I’m his pet dog. I’m okay with this. Maybe I want to be his pet. Who am I kidding? I do want to be his pet. If I can only have a bone, preferably his.