An afternoon in June. Under a bright blue dome of a sky, boys paraded around like Speedo models and dressed accordingly. Cher’s "Believe" wafted through the air from two different houses, off sync. Since it was only Thursday, our witless but ever-giggling, wretchedly visible neighbors weren’t in residence yet. In a blazing stroke of architectural stupidity, our outdoor shower directly overlooks their deck. I’d done some heavy yardwork, and without the annoying onlookers – they either cheered or booed depending on the drugs they were on – I washed off in solitude under our outdoor shower. There’s also a clean shot to the front gate, which opened, to my horror, just as I was washing my most rarely-seen-in-public region. Jack Fogg waved a cheery hello, raised his eyebrows, and disappeared into the house.

"Where’s Sammy?" I asked when we met again upstairs, I having scooted into some gym trunks, Jack into his standard Madras shorts. "Don’t mention that name," he snarled. "Yesterday I caught him in my own bed with the Indian delivery boy!" I tried to look sympathetic, but the mental image was like Spanish Fly. "He had the balls to tell me he had a craving for chicken vindaloo!’ It’s happened before. Sammy’s insatiable. But the delivery boy?!"

Classic! Harvard ’89 was offended not by Sammy’s cheating but by the trick’s caste! I said nothing but "You want a drink?" "Sure – what are you mixing?" "I dunno. Let’s see what we have." I found some bourbon while Jack leaned into the open refrigerator. "Voila!" A hand emerged clutching a plastic lemon. "If there’s sugar I’ll make bourbon sours." "Snap to!" I barked. My command pulled Jack out of the fridge with a faint blush. "Syrup! Not sugar!" "Yes, sir," he replied, his cheeks reddening, and swiftly made us the most enormous bourbon sours I’ve ever seen. Sours go in 5-ounce glasses. Jack Fogg’s required 12-ounce tumblers.

I plunked down on the couch. Jack Fogg plunked down right next to me. We clinked. "Cheers!"

I still harbor a robust jealousy toward Jack Fogg. He’s well built and handsome and an Ivy League A-lister, whereas I’m Shrimp Boy from a two-bit town north of Pittsburgh who went to a college nobody’s heard of. But there I was in gym trunks getting blotto next to an equally shirtless Jack Fogg, who, noticing that I kept glancing at his blond chest hair, actually flexed. "These things are mighty fine!" I declared after emptying my glass. "Which?" he said with a leer. "The drinks or my pecs?"

Time began to careen: Jack returning with two more flagons of bourbon sours... guzzling them while rating our housemates’ dicks... Jack’s hand stroking my inner thigh.... My head was spinning but the rest of me remained in firm control as I grabbed his wrists and leaned into him with enough force to pin him on his back with his arms over his head. Miracles occurred. Then I urged him onto his belly. So much shorter am I than he, I accessed his entire backside with ease and pulled down his Madras shorts, revealing his fuzzy perfection. Reader, I porked him.

Jack Fogg’s Humongous... Bourbon Sour

2/3 cup bourbon

3 squirts lemon juice

1/2 teaspoon simple syrup

Mix the three together, add ice, be sure to have a couple of condoms and some lube in a nearby drawer, and serve. Avoid the conventional cherry unless you plan to do something very unconventional with it.

Jack Fogg’s Humongous... Bourbon Sour

2/3 cup bourbon

3 squirts lemon juice

1/2 teaspoon simple syrup

Mix the three together, add ice, be sure to have a couple of condoms and some lube in a nearby drawer, and serve. Avoid the conventional cherry unless you plan to do something very unconventional with it.

Craig and Kyle were Splitsville after the Judy Carne fiasco. Their heartbreak was my joy, since I’d been praying to Eros and darker forces since that ghastly night at Rolf’s. One bleak night I snuck to the beach, drew a rudimentary pentagram in the sand, lit a "Coconut Creme" scented candle I found in the back of drawer, and spilled goat’s blood around it all in a shaky circle – OK, it was canned beef consommé. The hot if equally bogus Eros rituals will go undetailed, other than to say that the body is a wonderful toy. Anyway, Dan had to do some deft rescheduling so Craig and Kyle wouldn’t share any more weekends, but after some cajoling of Chipper, he switched around enough housemates to keep Kyle away from Craig, who was sitting in ashes in a sackcloth muumuu from Lane Bryant.

Surprisingly, Robbie stepped up. In fact, he became such a mensch (Yiddish for best dude; antonym of douchebag) that we wondered if he’d been forced into psychopharmacology. Turns out he had. He’d fallen into depression after being fired as news producer for Simonton Austin, the ridiculously closeted CNBC star who we’d all seen either shepherding or purchasing boys in every bar in town. Robbie told Kyle (who blabbed) that Austin groped him in his dressing room after snorting something brown – Robbie didn’t know what it was – and Robbie shoved him off. The next morning he found a pink slip on his desk and was out the door within the hour. This was just before the housemates’ rent was due, and Kyle paid Robbie’s share. Even Robbie couldn’t be an arrogant dickhead now that he was living on handouts. The Cymbalta didn’t hurt either.

Last Saturday, we were lying around the pool puffing some old-fashioned herb, which freed Robbie to tell some refreshingly self-deprecating stories. His first sexual experience was a catastrophe; at 16, after a swim meet, he got so turned on by one of his teammates in a gang shower that he spontaneously came right in front of the kid, who immediately did the same. His first true love: his film professor at the tiny Quaker college he’d attended. His worst habit: sneaking farts in crowded rooms. (This we already knew.) And my favorite – the inspiration for that evening’s cocktail:

Robbie had moved to New York at 22. On his third night in the city he wandered into an Irish bar near his one-bedroom, three-roommates apartment. The bar was a typically skanky dive, but a few slumming preppies counteracted the resident rheumatic drunks. Robbie, clad in a pink gingham sleeveless shirt, pranced to the bar and ordered a daiquiri. The geezer bartender reacted poorly. "You’re either under age or a fag," he snarled. "Which is it?" "Fag, sir," Robbie helpfully announced and was promptly thrown out of the bar. This cruel injustice struck us all as hilarious, so much so that I ran to the harbor to buy lime juice and rum.

The Daiquiri

Unless you completely lack self-respect, do not use frozen concentrate.  For 1 mid-sized cocktail:

3 tablespoon white rum

1 tablespoon lime juice

1 teaspoon superfine sugar or to taste

Put everything in a cocktail shaker filled with ice, shake, and quickly pour into a festive glass. If you do not own festive glassware, get your sorry ass onto eBay and buy some.