“Barron is finally 18,” Lindsay whispered into his pillow. His leathery tongue scraped across the satin of the pillowcase with an audible rasp.

Images flashed as he gooned, nearing, nearing, nearing the bright flash of orgasm and retreating, hand throttling his weak erection, seizure, the inward falling never landing.

He imagined the autistic attention of Barron attending his asshole adroitly, the fumbling of his giant hands as they groped and pulled and squeezed and pinched. Lindsay’s other hand stretched out his scrotum to a thin film of scarred flesh, his two tiny testicles smashed like faces against a window frame.

“Big strong millie-tarry man,” he gasped. Barron in uniform. Barron throwing a potato-masher grenade. Barron in an SS uniform beating Lindsay in a Zyklon-B shower, the Prussian Blue residue matching the giant boy’s blue blue eyes.

“Ah, Gawd, Gawd, Gawd, Gawd!” Lindsay cried as his prostate clenched, then clenched and clenched. Barron paragliding into Lindsay’s cavernous anus. Lindsay’s hand coming down on a platoon of Barrons as they fought in Ukraine, scooping up dozens, Putin laughing as Lindsay shoved them into his mile-wide mouth and chewed on their tiny sharp bones.

“No, no,” Lindsay screamed. “I will not lose this goon! I will not ejaculate!” The skin of his penis sloughed off as he jacked it, fist hammering into his full bladder. “Finally 18, finally, he’s finally 18, 18, 18. It’s OK because he’s 18.”

“GOON!” he screamed, praying that the other guests in the hotel complained. Barron pounding on his door, Lindsay answering in a negligee and torn stockings. Cop uniform, tight on Barron. Both trudgeons at rapt attention.

“Nooooo!” Lindsay moaned as he came, goon lost, spent, sweaty, crying.

“Finally 18,” Lindsay said, the salt of his tears burning lips and tongue.