silence between them could be heard over the sound of the forest every time one of them stopped talking. The obvious stood like a heavy musk, or a day gone all sticky in desperate need of a shower. The situation could not be named so they simply didn't try. They'd talked about the Rangers trading players to the Reds, the heat, women, joked about homos in the park, then back to sports.

"Teixeira is the kind of hitter the braves needed. He's a fucking slugger is all I'm saying. I mean look at Jones, they might get Andrus too."

Christoff struggled to control his breathing. Hard to believe he'd gotten a hard on talking about baseball. Had the guy noticed the slight swell in him and how he kept ogling the place where their thighs could come together? They'd been talking for an hour and he started to feel a connection. The sun was down and for a moment, maybe their bodies had forgotten about the sex that hung heavy between their legs. The Mexican had been first to call them back to it. He'd focused again on how he'd be sleeping in a van, his voice a timbre that made Christoff sweat where he wanted to be touched. He imagined them rolling about trying to keep cool on a thick shag rug throughout the night. Christoff had never done it in a van and hoped for an invite.

The guy went on telling him about getting kicked out for 'sleeping with some fat bitch named Lisa.' Christoff laughed slightly at the syncopated reenactment of required events. It was actually good he thought, or maybe they were just caught in the moment, still the story was charming in the telling. Christoff struggled to remember the guys name but couldn't, it wasn't Juan or Jose which was what most of them used. This one had perhaps given his real moniker...

"Silvio," that's what he'd said. He wanted to tell Silvio to forget the girl, forget women altogether but the words caught in his throat like a dry cough. He suddenly felt he would gag if he spoke. He was reminded a little of Miguel.

Christoff had worn the jeans he'd picked up from a resale store a week before. They had faded in the crotch and been worn thin from rubbing with light sandpaper to emphasize some guys hard-on. The idea of his cock being so obviously close to where another's had been turned him on. He'd imagined the story that the denim told, the erections and endless leakage of pre-cum. Maybe they'd been worn on construction sites, or been the clothes of an auto mechanic with a wife at home who knew nothing of his need to be with another buck. Maybe he envied gay guys for their proliferate sex. The blood in him ran warm like seamen on the skin. Christoff thought of Silvio laying cement, and working on roofs as he flattened one foot behind him against a tree and thumbed the spot unconsciously causing his cock to swell beneath the outline of worn fabric. He stopped long enough to realize what he was doing.

The Mexican saw, but didn't see. He kept on talking about Maria and the three kids though only one of them was his. The timber in his voice wavered from inward conflict. "My other daughter lives up in Galveston with her mom and grandmother" he was going on. Christoff reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet to show the