Must have been past midnight in a part of town where street lights work badly or not at all.

You’re barefoot, wearing nothing but your polo shirt, the night air chill on the semen damp between your butt cheeks and streaked down your thighs. Dale in his car, coasting along beside you, keeps telling you to get in, that you can’t walk around naked in this neighborhood, that he’s got your wallet, keys, and phone.

You’d rather walk all the way home, naked or not, telling him to go fuck himself, stick the phone, wallet, and the keys up his ass. But you know he’s right. You can’t keep walking through this neighborhood. Either the cops would pick you up, or your ass would be the featured piñata for another party like the one you’d just left.

He doesn’t say he’s sorry. He asks, instead, what else he could have done.

You keep on walking. There’s no cause and effect with this guy. Blame doesn’t enter into his figuring.

If you get in his car, you’ll have to sit in your assy mess, smearing it all over his upholstery.

You stop. That, at least, would serve him right.

It’s no use arguing with Dale. He gets his way. In the end, Dale will have his way.

So you get in, sitting in all that jizz, not saying anything as he steers out of the neighborhood.

“What ever happened to Connie Frisco,” you ask.

“Who?”

“Connie Frisco. The old guy, the one trying to speak Spanish, kept talking about Connie Frisco. She never showed?”

“Connie Frisco?”

“I thought she was the one you’d fixed up for all of us. She never showed. Was I the back-up plan? Everybody’s all worked up for this Connie Frisco, but she doesn’t show, so they all had a go at me?”

“You looked like you were up for it.”

“All that tequila going around? A guy’d be up for anything. Doesn’t mean I went looking for it.”

Dale blows hard through his nose, then says, “you cut me off man. I needed to think of something. They asked me—gun to my head—”

“They didn’t look the type to carry guns.”

“—it was like a gun to my head, okay—and the old guy asked me, what’s the one thing I valued the most, and I’m thinking nothing. Not this car. Not the furniture in my apartment. The stereo? It’s crap. So, I’m thinking—these guys boxing me in—I’m thinking it’s you. We’ve been pals since high school, right? So I say the only thing I got worth anything is my best friend, thinking they’ll see they can give me some time, you know, like I’ve got resources I can tap, right? Not thinking for a minute they tell me to bring you along.”

You’d run into Dale at the Cash and Go with a carload of guys. Going for some easy pussy, he said, and you should come along.

You and Dale have known each other a long time. The way Dale is, you figure you’re about the only guy close to him. But you had to stop hanging out with him. He always seemed to be broke and tapping you for money. Always in deep shit with scary guys, he’d tell you. Always scary guys. Never anyone normal. Every time, he’d promise it was the last time, promise that he’d pay you back. But that never happened. You finally cut him off. You’d give him a lift if his car quit, you said, you’d clock in for him at work if he was hung over, you said, but no more cash. He was pissed for a while, you could tell. But then he showed up at the Cash and Go, inviting you along for pussy.

You didn’t know any of the guys in the car with him. So you figured maybe they were the guys he owed the money. They didn’t seem all that scary. You figured, if they were the guys, it was all patched up from the way they were laughing and joking.

You decided to go. Not for the pussy, but to let Dale see there were no hard feelings. It was a party you’d rather not attend, but it was something to do on a Saturday night besides stay home drinking your own liquor.

Dale held the door and had you slide in the back seat, between him and a tubby guy. A short guy was up front, at the wheel. Next to him, riding shotgun, was an older guy, slick and tanned. He was talking low to the driver, sometimes in English and sometimes in a stumbling, broken Spanish. You could make out he was talking about somebody named Connie Frisco. Not a name you recognized from around town. You figured she was their pigeon, and the old guy was giving directions. You’d leave the pussy to them, just go along for the ride, if it meant you and Dale were square again.

Dale rattled off some introductions, but you didn’t catch their names, him talking so fast. The older guy seemed in charge the way the others talked to him, respectful. The older guy handed a bottle of tequila back to Dale who took a pull and passed it to you.

It seemed strange at the time how you ended up with the bottle more often than the rest of them. Now you get why, but at the time you were trying to be polite taking small sips because the bottle kept coming back around to you.

The town’s not that big, but they seemed to take forever, Dale constantly passing the bottle, making sure you got another swig, until they reached a part of town you didn’t know. A lot of rundown houses, scrubby yards, and maybe one working streetlight. The guy driving strained to read off the street signs. Suddenly, he called out something like Almera, pointing toward the street sign as he steered over to park.

Tubby and Shorty got out of the car chanting pu-ssy pu-ssy pu-ssy. Dale tried shushing them with his hands, but there was too much tequila in them.

You stumbled over the broken concrete, and waved off the helping hands. You tried making a joke, blaming the city. You didn’t want them thinking you couldn’t hold your liquor. Which you couldn’t if it’s tequila in your glass.

Inside, a couple of other guys were already there. One of them in a chili pepper tee-shirt. The place was done up like a Mexican whorehouse, with scarves over the lamps, the candles around the pictures of the Madonna, and the Spanish guitar music on someone’s iPhone. Since you’d never been in a Mexican whorehouse, you guessed it was all meant to be a fair imitation.

The sulfurous smell of weed was thick and a dancing coal pulsed as the joint passed between the guys sucking smoke. You took a drag when it came your way, but not too much. Enough to show you were game. You hadn’t smoked anything in a while and didn’t want to start hacking like a nube.

No one seemed in much of a hurry, so you asked Dale when the girls were going to show. Soon, he said, soon, talking around the cigarette clipped in the corner of his mouth. He offered you another hit on the bottle passing around, as someone pushed the weed at you.

You rested your ass against the edge of the table trying to clear your head, not trusting your own knees at the moment.

At first you thought Tubby was steadying you against the table.

I’m fine, you said, but Tubby was unbuckling your pants. Getting ready for pussy, he said. Which made sense--sort of—if she was on the clock with these guys. They didn’t want to waste time when Connie showed. You wanted to tell them you didn’t plan on taking a turn, but you may have mumbled, and he probably didn’t get all of what you said. If everyone planned on being naked, you figured to go along. To be helpful, you lifted first one leg then the other and pointed your toe so he could slide your pants off the rest of the way. You didn’t have shoes on and didn’t remember taking them off. You wished you could remember.

The music got louder and the talk was mostly a broken Spanish, like school boys practicing on each other.

You looked around for Dale as Tubby helped you off with your underwear. You tried to keep track of where it went, because you’d like to have them back when it was time to leave. He gripped your balls and hefted them, like some kind of meat inspection for the USDA.

You snorted a laugh at the idea of the girls showing up in a hazmat suit and hood. That made Tubby chuckle, too. His hands were rough and scratchy, which you didn’t appreciate, but at least they were warm.

The skinny one, who was there when you came in, went to help get your shirt off, but you took hold of the hem, keeping it on, and Skinny stopped trying when Tubby said it was enough.

You did notice you were the only one bare assed, ready for the girls. All that tequila they gave you, a couple of hits on the weed, and now they were offering to let you go first when the girls got there? Very gentlemanly, for guys who didn’t know you.

A couple of the guys helped you onto the table and laid you back. That was actually better and your head didn’t swim quite as much. They lifted and spread your legs. They had your arms stretched up over your head and pinned to the table while a finger, covered in a cold greasy wad of something, finger-painted your asshole, and between your ass cheeks.

Your pecker got hard, pulsing at the fingering. You thought maybe Connie was finally here. She’d have to ride on top because you weren’t sure you wanted to get back up on your feet. The fingering stopped.

A slim, supple rod slid into your ass and you flinched hard against the intrusion. For a moment your ass put a chokehold on the fleshy tuber, gripping it. A few deep breaths and your muscles gave way, breaking the clinch, and whoever was on the other end of that rod began stroking kindly, pushing in with easy pokes until the whole length was inside you, a growing brushfire in your ass. It stroked along, building intensity, your breath pulsing in rhythm, until you felt it hold, then jerk as a warm wetness filled you, then pulled out.

You wondered if that was all there was to it, but a rough hand gripped your cock and another thick, fleshy tuber slid into your anus. This one meant business, like it was headed for your lungs, taking a shortcut through your guts. Long and hard, you wondered if you had room for it. With one hand twisting your pecker, another hooked around your thigh to lever in deep, this one slid out then slid in again, pushing further, reaching deeper, like it really might come up and out the back of your throat. You were grunting along.