Lifting his eyes, Lasso stopped cold. Before him, a young man was laying flat – on his regular park bench. It was midday in Seattle, more specifically, midday above, and south of Seattle. This bench was set on a hill, high above the city. From here, both stadiums could be seen, as well as the Columbia Center – but not the Space Needle. The Needle was too far north.
On the bench laid a man who looked to be in his early twenties. He was dressed in dirty steel-toed boots, dingy jeans, and a gray long-sleeved sweatshirt. On his head, the man had a black beanie-hat pulled down over his eyes and nose, leaving only his lips and clean-shaven chin exposed. His skin was dark, with an olive tone.
Italian? – Lasso wondered as he approached.
As lasso got close enough to see over the back of the bench, he spied the man’s noticeably veiny hands at his own crotch. Out of the zipper-hole of the dirty jeans rose the most spectacular erection. Olive in color, like the man’s chin, the cock was similar to a perfectly vertical tower – with rays of sunshine, mixed with moving shade, washing over it.