Most of the time, I’m straight. I mean, I love my wife. I like fucking pussy. But there’s something about being in LaCrosse that leaves me starving for dick. On hot, muggy days in July, I walk along the Mississippi and watch the riverboats glide by. I hear the splash of their paddlewheels and the cries of eagles flying past the sandstone cliffs. I feel the quiet whoosh of barges moving slowly through the thick, muddy water, and I remember my best friend, Daryl.
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The green grove of academia is mowed down as sexual hijinks sweep hallowed halls and secret chambers. It’s all elementary… fresh pledges are fresh meat… low men on the totem pole… the bottom of the food chain. And for six unsuspecting collegiate hoping for admittance to Phi Epsilon Chi, little do they know what they’re in for – a raucous night of ritual hazing that’ll separate the men from the boys. Freshmen, beware, ‘cuz mayhem rules!
PART FOUR
The Smoke rose from the grill, on the patio as the juice from the steaks dripped onto the burning coals. The smell of charcoal fluid and meat greeted Heath when he opened the front door. He looked out onto the patio where his dad, in cut-offs and a ribbed, tank T-shirt, stood watch over the grill. He alternated between swigging from the longneck bottle of beer in his left hand, and poking at the embers with the tongs in his right. Dropping his equipment by the door, Heath wandered onto the patio. “Smells good.”
