Author, A. J. Llewellyn

..Once we’d refueled, we could jump on the freeway heading north to the Ojai Valley.

Cruising down Century Boulevard, they all seemed to be intrigued by everything. Bruce Two pointed to a billboard announcing the end of the world on May twenty-first. I couldn’t believe it was still up there, even though this proclamation had been a fiasco for the nutty preacher, Harold Camping. How come nobody had defaced the damned thing? Where were all the L.A. street taggers when you needed them?

Bruce Three thought this was “bloody funny, mate.” And, of course, he took a picture.

I found myself defending my city, trying to assure him the billboard’s presence was a mistake. “It shouldn’t still be up there. They all thought the world would explode and there’d be no need to take them down.”

He nodded, not in the least bit interested. At the corner of Sepulveda, his eyes popped open wide.

“Christ! Struth! Is that a prostitute?” He pointed at a young woman in a skimpy gym outfit, carrying one of those ubiquitous yoga mats everyone carries in L.A. She’d just walked out of 24 Hour Fitness.

“No. She’s waiting to cross the road.” Too late. He pressed the switch and lowered his window.

“Excuse me,” he shouted at her. “Are you a genuine prostitute?”

Lord, was I embarrassed. His friends in the backseat roared with laughter. She looked mortified, and I gunned the gas, almost getting into an accident. Of course, he took a picture.

I seethed all the way up La Cienega Boulevard. The Bruces asked how to pronounce it. They were pretty funny. I wondered how they all got selected as the men of Beach Body Brigade. Turns out the first two were professional models who had no idea their agents had submitted them to the contest. Bruce Three had won a magazine contest run simultaneously.

“Yeah,” he said in a casual tone. “I got hired because I have a huge dick.”

“Excuse me?” I was so startled, I almost rear-ended an SUV with a sticker reading,I want to die in my sleep like my grandfather…not screaming and yelling like the passengers in his car, on the back window.

“He didn’t ask me for one,” Bruce Virgil chimed in.

“Me neither,” Bruce Owen said.

“The photographer…what’s his name? Duke? He asked me for a nude photo. He said the company wanted a big dick for the new Mega Underwear line.”

I didn’t know what to say. Oh, boy. That sounds like Duke. He’s such a horn dog.

“Wanna see it?” he asked. The other guys in the back seat were laughing their asses off.

My slippery hands, thanks to Bruce Three’s tanning goop, fell off the wheel. Was he barking mad?

His friends in the back laughed.

“I have a girlfriend,” he said, his face turning red. “I just thought you’d like a gander. Not here or anything. You know, later. In the loo, maybe.”

If he was straight, why was he so eager to show me his cock? I turned to look at him. Bits of tissue had stuck to his skin and his face now looked like an abstract painting of red, orange, and white dots.

“Good for you.” I felt this was the safest response. “Not that I’m a size queen or anything.” Oops. I’d just told them all that I was gay.

“They’re poofs too,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. His voice grew louder. “I am not.”

“Really?” Bruce One asked. “Then why did your cock get so hard when I rubbed your crotch on the plane?”

“I was asleep. I was dreaming of my girlfriend.” Bruce Three had darkened to a frightening shade of plum. Only a man in deep denial could get this upset…