“You don’t have to be so formal, boy,” he said, lifting his ass up off the seat to lower his zipper and pull out his meat. What do you say, boy?” He stuck his cigar into his mouth and pulled on it, the thick, pleasant smell hanging in the air between us. We were looking one another in the eye, face to face, when he said, “We’ve got about a forty-five minute drive out to the lake and I figured you could suck my dick on the way out so you don’t get too bored. He was still wearing his tie and a business shirt from a council meeting earlier that day and a Stetson straw cowboy hat.
The truck cab smelled of the rich, masculine aroma of a burning cigar. “I’d’ve brought the Escalade, but I always take the Silverado to the lake cabin, and I didn’t want my wife getting suspicious,” he said as I settled into the passenger seat.
The Councilman picked up me at nine that evening, driving an old Silverado pickup from the eighties.
