(c) Jay Alden
As Roscoe stumbled out of Kiwi’s, nearly head-butting the alley’s opposite wall, he let out a burp that smelled like five shots of tequila and a rum and coke.
“Whoa! Easy there, buddy,” his friend Tyler said, trying to steady the drunkard. “Are you okay?”
“I gotta piss like for real so bad,” Roscoe slurred.
“Okay, so why don’t we go back inside and you can—”
Tyler was interrupted by a sigh of relief and the trickling of urine against brick.
“Or you can pee on a wall. That’s classy.”
Twenty seconds later he asked, “Are you done?”
Roscoe grunted and faced his friend, still exposed.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” he bragged.
“Okay. No more rum for you,” Tyler said quickly.
“It gets bigger, too. A lot bigger. Like a horse.”
“It’s beautiful. Please put it away.”
“Whatsa matter, sexy? I know you want it. I see the way you look at me sometimes.”
“Come on. I’m gonna hail a cab.”
“You can go for it if you want. I give you permission,” Roscoe smirked stupidly.
“As much as I want to, I think it would screw with our friendship.”
“We could be more than friends. Like right now.”
Tyler’s heart skipped a beat.
“Let me make you a deal,” he said. “We go home now and tomorrow when we’re both sober we talk about this seriously. Okay?”
“Okay, smokey. Just one thing first.”
Roscoe pushed Tyler against the wall and kissed him long and hard.