...Dawn’s pinkish light filtered through the gray as Burl drove on, now well into the Adirondack Mountains. Gradually, his destination became clear. Even to him.

After six hours, Burl pulled up, with a spray of snow, in front of the Sodom Sin Mountain Ski Resort. He planned to have a few hot toddies in the lounge and a slow, comfortable screw in one of the guest rooms.

Feeling slightly out of place at ten o’clock in the morning in a ski lodge in his ensemble, Burl chose an unobtrusive spot near a window and ordered a hot buttered rum. Outside, the snow fell steadily, making Burl think of the last bukkake party he had attended and how he had come home to AJ accusing him of smelling like bleach.

“How droll,” Burl muttered when a waiter, clad in tight black jeans and cable knit sweater, set his drink before him. A cinnamon stick, carved into the shape of a circumcised penis, garnished his mug. Burl glanced around quickly to ensure no one was looking, removed the stick, stood, dropped his jeans to the tops of his thighs, bent over and inserted the garnish deep inside himself. He sighed when he felt its tingle.

Glancing around once more, he put himself back in order, sat, and sipped his potable with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. In spite of the diversion—“Shouldn’t that be perversion, hon?” AJ taunted in the back of his mind—Burl knew it would take a lot more than a stick of cinnamon to satisfy him.

“Hi there! Wanna get lucky?”

Burl jumped, and the cinnamon stick ejected and rolled to one side of Burl’s ass cheek. He squirmed and turned to see a man who reminded him of a middle-aged Tonya Harding, albeit a Tonya Harding with a bleached-blond crew cut and soul patch. The man strained the seams of a pair of button-fly Levis cut-offs so short Burl wondered what was keeping his balls in place, a skin-tight rayon midriff top with the Seattle Sonics logo across its front, and a pair of Nike high tops. His bird legs bore the stamp of a bad artificial tan. The guy had one pierced ear from which dangled a pink feathered roach clip.

Pure class, Burl thought and then noticed his new—and grinning—friend was missing a canine.

The blond sat down. He reached over, winked, and gave Burl’s ass a pat. “Is this seat taken?” He cackled at his own wit. Burl leaned back, trying to avoid asphyxiation from a nearly lethal mixture of English Leather cologne and halitosis.