ABSTRACT
Because the sky was amber-red because I saw a shooting star because a perfect summer night compelled mehow many, do you think, can I expect to see? I walked along the beach and out the pier The pierwhere headlamps of arriving cars, circling, hunting, played like searchlights. I went out in search of Slavic dick, and love. And found-Trpnje's not the place for midnight assignations on the pier. The men were there, so I suppose their dicks were present too. I couldn't prove it, though. Moonless nights with wind the shade of possible romance and just the right amount of fishiness may always make me think of men: of those I've had--the best, the finest group of men I could imagineand those I've just imagined, walking on the pier, unzipped-phosphorescent fishes flashing backinviting as the Real seldom is. And Jugoslavian men, impossible to catch, provide themselves --a living, willing sacrifice to sexas subjects for the perfect fantasy.
