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Show he returns to our house for dinner, sits across from me cracking lobster claws, spearing the white flesh on tiny forks and dipping it into melted butter. Balding and dressed in Aloha shirts open to reveal his hairy chest and the curve of his belly, he neglects to wear underwear. His penis hangs out. While sitting on the lawn chairs on our lanai, talking with my mother, his bourbon sweating drops of water onto the patio blocks, his penis lies like a cat against his thigh, taking a breath of fresh air, pointing its pink head right at me. He is two people, really, the man and his dick. When we visit his house, Scott and I lock ourselves in his bathroom and look through the stack of Playboys he takes no pains to hide. Years ago his wife left him. Now a Captain in the Navy, he rambles his officer's quarters alone, leaving him plenty of time and space to spend with himself. Every time he comes to our house, he kisses me full on the lips, wet kisses that seep into my skin, sometimes the quick thrust of a tongue. One afternoon we all ride to Bellows beach together. Mr. Grunawalt drives a lemon-butter Jeep Wrangler without any sides. He suggests that Karen, Stacy, and I ride with him over the Pali. Seeing no way to decline, I accept. You ride in front, I say to Karen, You 're the oldest. You can handle his thing. No way, she replies. You do it. He's your friend. He's not my friend. Come on Stacy, you do it. It will be a great story. She agrees, already relishing the tale. We climb in the Jeep, Karen and I in the back, and Mr. Grunawalt sets out. His penis appears from his bathing suit before we leave the carport. Not even the backseat protects us from its presence. In fact, we are riveted on his thighs. 161 |