“So it’s nothing like elephantitis?” “No, Adelle.”

“That’s good ’cause my Uncle Morey-he once got bit by a mosquito and

his yahoos swelled up like melons.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Did he recover?”

“Oh sure-but he never ate melon again.”

Being the good neighbor she is, Adelle Frish has delivered a fresh batch of brownies next door to inquire about the condition of young Billy Henshaw after his recent fainting spell. His mother, Tippi, had assured everyone that he was perfectly fine, nothing to be concerned about and was still adjusting to a sudden growth spurt, which had led to similar collapses during their Christmas Eve fondue dinner and at Old Orchard Mall in Skokie. But Adelle wasn’t convinced; hence her surprise visit.

“I’m feeling much better, Mrs. Frish. Thank you for the brownies,” Billy informed her shortly after her arrival before he grabbed two more of the delicious chocolate bars and escaped to his room, leaving his mother alone with the nosy woman.

“Giraffe Syndrome? Never heard of it.” Adelle greeted Tippi’s explanation-and the doctor’s diagnosis-of the boy’s condition with skepticism, which prompted her elephantitis inquiry. “My cousin Rhoda has been deathly afraid of giraffes her entire life-ever since one spit on her head at age five on her first and only visit to the zoo. You do know their tongues are almost two feet long.”

Mrs. Henshaw does not know this-and right after her neighbor leaves, she will Google “giraffes” on the computer to confirm this interesting tidbit of information.

Meanwhile, behind his locked door, Billy is reliving the exact moment when he opened his eyes the other day to find himself looking up at the smiling face of their sexy new neighbor, Adam McTavish, and as he lies there on his bed, listening to Goldfrapp’s “Ooh La La” on his iPod shuffle with his right hand wrapped around his saliva-covered cock in the rapturous motion of self-pleasure, the boy is completely unaware that the object of his secret desire is now engaging in a bit of conversation with another man.

* * *

When his mother’s doorbell rings, Steven Frish is deeply engrossed in a chart on the fascinating correlation between how many minutes actor Matthew McConaughey appears shirtless in his films (exposing his well-toned pecs of perfection) and how much money each movie has made.

And who ever said Entertainment Weekly isn’t hard-hitting, in-depth journalism worthy of a Pulitzer? God love’em, the young man thinks to himself-with tongue firmly placed in cheek-as he puts down the magazine to greet the visitor.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he replies while staring in shock at the familiar face now standing on the doorstep.

Flashback to last October when Steven participated in the annual Chicago Marathon for the third time and ended up in the emergency room, suffering from extreme heat exhaustion (as it was unusually warm that day-a record 87 degrees). Yes, he would be the first to admit that he was an idiot for staying in the race as long as he did-but he was also a healthy, horny homosexual who was hoping to become better acquainted with the gorgeous hunk running in front of him (who had some mouthwatering McConaughey pecs of his own). Unfortunately, instead of crossing the finish line with Mr. Wonderful, he ended up puking on his own shoes and being cared for by his mother for two days.

“I’m Adam-from next door.”

“And I’m Eve,” Steven now says as he shakes hands with Mr. Wonderful while trying not to dissolve into a fit of giggly giddiness over the man’s magical reappearance in his life.

To be continued . . .

———————————————————————–

Marc Harshbarger lives in Chicago with his partner and two spoiled cats, Shubert and Mr. Grant. His first novel, Deep Dish, was published last year. He is currently a staff writer for Q Netwerk and can be contacted at m.harshbarger@q-netwerk.com. You can find out more about Marc at www.myspace.com/deepdishdrama.

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