Night. Night air heats the crotch. Night is when history is made. Boys are made at night too. I should know - I’ve made boys by the the battalion. Mostly after the sun’s gone down. I do my best fucking in the evening. I can suck bigger dicks after midnight.
I love the late hours.
That night in April was a bastard. The last hitch left me off on the outskirts of a town called Stone Quarry. I never knew they grew stone quarries down in western Missouri. Maybe some pioneer from Vermont on the original Planning Committee got homesick. Did I give a fuck? It was pouring, nearly three in the morning, and _I had $2.11 in my pocket.
Stone Quarry’s downtown thoroughfare, Quarry Street, offered the usual cowtown sin spots clustered on one single block: movie, adjoining ice cream parlor, gas station, bar, and furniture emporium. All shuttered. The building directly across the street from the gas station had a porch and a light in the window. It was a commodious stucco house with some of the stuccos unstuck, slightly ramshackled. Those big three-story buildings usually turn out to be city hall or the local courthouse. This one had a sign tacked onto the porch railing. Unlighted, but visible if you peered at it.