In today's cultural environment I can't exactly say this is a problem, but there are naked guys everywhere. I mean seriously, like, about eighty guys in this house right now (some of us are in the back yard). I'm not a homo, or a homophobe. I'm just a guy—just a guy who wants to eat his British banger in his Speedo without there being a bunch of naked guys everywhere snorting cocaine.

There's a nasty froth coming to the surface, so I put the banger in my mouth, get out of the hot tub and go to my room. It smells like corn nuts, which is self explanatory. I dry off, log on to ratemycock.com, upload 4 new pictures of Martin Scorsese and update my profile on Match:

Hi Ladies! I'm just your regular straight guy whose looking for a good time. I have a degree in journalism from Columbia and my favorite writer is Gore Vidal. I'm in between jobs right now and living with some homosexuals. I try to be gay friendly, especially in today's cultural environment, but sometimes it's distracting. I like to snowboard, work out, and ride my jet-ski. And I really like having sex with hot chicks, so poke me!

Next thing I know Ted is behind me, poking out of his robe.

"Don't you know how to knock?" I ask.

"Right," he says, "do you see this?" His penis is 8 ½ inches long, calls it Fellini.

"Yes I do."

"Do you want to touch it?"

"Fine," I sigh. I grab Fellini and move my hand back and forth, applying pressure in inverse correlation with the pulse I feel in my palm.

What happens to Fellini is what would happen to any honest man. I go to the kitchen to wash off my hands and notice a bunch of zucchinis floating in the sink. "Hey, is this for the ratatouille or the ass bang?" I ask.

"Ass bang," say twenty guys simultaneously. It's frustrating, because I hate to see good produce go to waste.

I wash my hands in the bathroom, go back to my room, and log on to ratemycock.com. Martin Scorsese gets a 43%, which is not inspiring. One user commented, "Wok the fuck? You dim sum you lose sum." I take out my penis pump from under my bed to make Martin Scorsese bigger, but a man's domain is a man's domain.

Outside my window dusk is upon us, but no one seems to be slowing down. People are still living it up in the hot tub; Conner is lubricating a bowling pin; Ryan just put a lamb on the grill. I worry for his Stanley Kubrick—it's awfully close to the coals.

The mailman is muffling in the closet. I get my duct tape and bind him tighter. "If you're not going to mail me my letter, then you're not going to mail any," I tell him.

"Mmmm!" he screams inside his mouth.

That's how this whole thing started, with this gay trial period, the kidnapping and all. Tracy didn't just break up with me, she sucked off a guy on the porch while I watched Uncle Buck and called me a pencil dick latent homosexual. I wrote her long desperate letters—old fashioned ones that you put stamps on. I wrote so many, waiting for her to write back, checking my mail box every twenty minutes.

Forever stamps don't last forever, nothing does. Not the inverted adolescent love Tracy and I had, or the mailman in my closet. He makes it four days without water. It's even been on the news. The police say they are close.

I try to take a nap but the ass bang has begun. I close my eyes and imagine Fellini, Kubrick, Coen Bro, Spielberg, and Ford Coppola all throbbing and crimson. We call our circle jerks the Academy Awards. My prostrate is out of control, so they all wear goggles. Martin Scorsese points at the ceiling, his pulse like a slow-motion rave. Fuck a goat if I care, it's all the same. Nobody can truly ever enter another person. Everything is so sad.

I lie in bed churning myths about girls in my head. I miss tits. I can hear the wind wheezing through the gill-like palm leaves in abrasive harmony, making the sound of some faraway siren, always coming, but never coming closer.