He knew how to, no nonsense, do this.So, there I was, out in the woods, naked and on my back on the trunk of a 1964 copper-colored Lincoln Continental...convertible—about the last four-door convertible every made—with my knees hooked on the hips of a gaunt rocker and holding his joint for him, while he crouched over me, knuckles pressed into the trunk of the car, and slow fucked me. We hadn’t discussed what I got in return for this, but as I followed rockers and gave them what they wanted just to. The music turned off and a cute little blonde stepped out of the car. At least she was dressed professionally in a mid-thigh black skirt and a smart looking white blouse. “I’m sorry that I’m late Mr. Carrol, I’m Missy, the barista screwed up my latte and I had to go back to Starbucks for a new one.”She wasn’t helping her case since she’d basically told me that her fucked up coffee was more important than my purchase of a million-dollar home. Besides, what happened to people drinking just plain. More

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