What can YOU say in six sentences?
Reynardo in a form-fitting, yellow-toned shirt, in a rattan lawn chair on a summer evening, a couple of tiki torches flickering, dispenses advice to neighborhood teenagers. He is a little older, has tawnier skin, has lived in two countries – Venezuela and America – whereas they have never traveled beyond suburbia.
Reynardo, the patio guru, opens a pack of king-size Viceroys and shakes it in offering -- along with a Zippo that clinks decisively when it shuts -- without a break in conversation.
Hey, never trust a priest with facial hair; hey, never trust a priest, period; only drive cars built between 1957 and ’64; girls with heavy eyebrows or downy sideburns are the hottest because they are more like men and have the male sex drive."
He speaks with such assurance that they never doubt him, and late at night when the crowd has drifted home, there is always one girl who feels the magnet's pull, sneaks back to find his screen door open, to find the sheet pulled back in welcome.
The sweet-sour smell of him, the darkness, the soft guitar concerto on the radio all wrap her in desire, and she receives his-hand-his-mouth-his-cock greedily but also shyly, alas not knowing that sex will never be as good as this again, not exactly.