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Darkness surrounds me like a tomb, only this tomb feels like a desert instead of a cave. It smells of stagnation and dank, untouched memories. The only sound is the shrill _scree-_song of the locusts outside in the trees, penetrating through the vent under the far eaves.

Sweat pours down my brow. It stings my eyes even as I blink it away. I shake my head, knowing that should I wipe my face with the back of my hand it will leave a trail of ancient insulation and dust. So I fight the urge and pull the string that has wrapped itself around my ear.

Click. Nothing. "My kingdom for an extension cord," I mutter to myself in the dankness. thatKing Lear or King Richard? Erskin knows the attic better than me anyway. Why did he send me?

"Didja find it yet, Cyrus?" my ten-year-old cousin Walter shouts from the bottom of the attic's folding ladder.

"What does it look like, you dummy?" I snap back down, leaning down to one side. "The damn bulb's burned out."

"You shouldn't talk like that. It's not nice."

That's right, Walt and them are from Atlanta, where men don't swear and ladies don't work.

"Shut up and find me a flashlight, will ya? Go in the office, it's in Uncle Artie's desk." Walt sticks his tongue out at me, looking more like a donkey than he already is, and clops down the hall. Amazingly, he returns a couple minutes later with my father's old torch from his World War I days and hands it to me as I bend down to meet him.

"Welcome, carrot-breath," Walt pouts.

"Thank you," I placate, rolling my eyes before swinging the flashlight's beam around the dingy space above our family plantation house. There's a load of old crap up there, but I stand to inherit most of it so I can't complain too much. I locate the extension cord looped up around the neck of a weathered and flaking rocking horse, set it on my shoulder and come down. Walt's taken off after having lost interest like the hyper colt he is. I fold the ladder and let its springs pull them flush with the ceiling before heading to the interior service staircase that runs along the back wall of the house.

Erskin should've sent Junior. I don't know why he didn't. Junior's the strongest of us three DeKade boys, and the oldest. He's the one good at fixing trucks and putting all manner of machinery to order, not me. Sure, he came back from the Nazis kinda shell-shocked and slower than I remember him, but he's still my big brother. He can still do stuff, though most of the time he's downright lazy.

And Ken...well, Ken's the reason I was after the extension cord in the first place.

Through the tiny stair windows I hear Momma still fussing up a storm down on the lawn. I don't need to pay attention to know she won't shut up about Ken and how he's the first donkey to compete in the Kentucky Derby. We all know that's where he is right now with Dad, who took him all the way to Louisville from our place in Alpharetta, and who's probably in the stands with a mint julep in one hand and a clove cigarette in the other, pointing and telling anyone who'll listen whose boy is his. Like the buck teeth and dopey-long ears don't do that enough already.

At the landing I skip the last few steps and leap through the kitchen door, almost losing my balance as my left hoof skids across Erskin's freshly-waxed tiles. "Got your God-forsaken extension cord. Junior coulda done it quicker though."

"Creezy, Cyrus, watch yourself on that floor now!" the big gator says, regarding me with horror. "You know I can't get those tiles anymore. They're Japanese." He hooks his ladle over the edge of the big pot of cabbage stew he's cooking for after Momma's Derby party and bends to inspect the tiles I slid on. "Lucky for you they ain't scratched, else your daddy'd about whip you." Then he stands back up, his six-three towering over my five-nine. His lips break open into his winning Ipana smile. "Or he'd send me to do it for him, in his absence."

"You're awful," I say, flinching when I feel his claws on my rump, but in a good way. He's been like that for the past three months; figured me out pretty quick, and I don't blame him for pouncing like he did. Getting it while it's good, before I leave for Georgia Law in a few weeks. If Dad knew, he'd kill me. No, he'd kill Erskin and send me off to reform school, but Erskin's got more than twenty years on me and used to be a carny for Ringling, so he's the good kind of wily. We're better than getting caught. Won't make me any less of a lawyer, anyway.

"You never complained," the gator says, squeezing so tight it stings through my pants.

"Why didn't you send Junior?"

Erskin goes back to his stew, his thick tail waving his bottom half all around. Sometimes I wonder if he'll ever let me underneath that thing.

"Let him be, boy, he's helping your Momma out yardways."

"Yeah, I saw him. Helping out laying in one of her Adirondacks," I mumble.

"I say let the woman have what she wants, she been through plenty," says Erskin tersely, moving over to his cutting board and its pile of carrot coins. He brings it over and slides the whole mess into the pot with the edge of his cutting knife. Next will be the Tabasco; he never cooks anything without it.

I decide to let it be. No use in arguing about Momma to Erskin; he'll always be on her side because I'm the kid and I got no business telling my elders how to live. Holding up the cord, I ask, "Where do you want this, then?"

Erskin waves me off with his claws. "That's your Momma's business, since she the one with the radio. You know where they're at."

"Okay," I say, but before I can turn to go the gator grabs my other arm, the one not holding the cord, and bends, his jaws sidelong my head.

"Imma want some later on, durin' that race. You think you can do that?" Soft wisps of sugar-cane breath tell me he's been chewing on our mojito fixings while mixing up the juleps. Sweetest smile you could ask for on a predator. It worked on me, after all. It's working on me now. At least my pants are tighter.

"Momma's going to want me to stay and listen to the Derby. It's kind of important." I swish my tail against his arm to let him know I'm not just blowing him off, but he seems unfazed.

"You know I got that radio up in my quarters, you been there enough times." Sure, I've been there plenty, but those times I wasn't paying attention to the radio. Come to think of it, we could have used that radio to drown ourselves out.

I look up at him, at those great green eyes, and I know I can see more than horns in that soul of his. Don't know what he sees in me, besides himself that is, but I'm grateful he sees something. Makes it tougher to keep his gaze.

"She's gonna notice if I'm not there."

"She don't care as long as you're out helpin' Erskin with something needs doing," the gator replies without missing a beat. "She already delegated you to me. You stay with me and no one comes lookin'." His words have weight, too. I can't not trust him after having known him most of my life, and after having Biblically known him just recently. We'll be able to listen to the Derby while in the midst, anyway. Just thinking about it makes up my mind, plus I have to get myself decent before going outside to face the family.

"Alright, fine," I say, "but if she won't let me and I don't come, it's not because I don't want to." Erskin lets me go, patting the muscle where he was grabbing. The little nubs of his eye ridges arch and dip, arch and dip.

"No worry, it'll be fine. Cuz it's Cyrus, and Cyrus is one fine young man. Now go find your Momma."

I go from the heat of the kitchen into a whole other kind of fire. Maternal fire. Concern for the youngest and brightest son who is smart as a whip but can't manage any kind of labor, else he'll put a dent in one of his finely sculpted thick nail tips.

Momma spots me as soon as I come through the back doors and onto the veranda. Big old cotton-clouds shade parts of the fields to the south and east of the plantation house, where Dad's workers (Momma's parents still call them "the freemen") gather up tobacco, the silhouettes of their ears (or the absence of them) and tails the only indicators of their species. At the end of the veranda sits most of my immediate family, except for Dad and Ken, who's probably troughing up the water like it's the Dust Bowl all over again.

"Cyrus, honey, we were getting concerned," Momma says as she stands and walks over to me in that genteel float the upper Georgia crust has mostly left by the wayside. Her dress is the color of peaches, her mane done up in tight chocolate curls. She's the only lady I know--yet--who dresses in her Sunday best for a radio broadcast. Dad has said she did the same for Roosevelt's fireside chats.

She reaches for the cord but I wave her off. "It's okay Momma, I got this." Momma makes a few fretful noises for her own sake but leaves me to it. Under the gazebo, the little white Zenith unit sits on its own table surrounded by Momma's Adirondack chairs (one of which contains--surprise--Junior's bulky, snoozing frame) with their own side tables in between. I plug in the radio, then run the cord back to a wall outlet just inside the house.

"Cyrus! Cyrus, it's working!" Momma shouts even though I can hear the radio just fine. I've been around enough Tommy Dorsey to know it when I hear it. "Now, I know I remember Arthur telling me which station it was on. Cyrus, do you remember? I could swear I remember him saying, 'Ida, just switch it over to such-and-such station and it'll be just like you're there.'"

"I think it was 1320, Momma," I say.

"What Cy said," mumbles the not-so-asleep Junior, thinking he's helped some. He's got his big-brimmed straw hat pulled down over his face but his tail lashes against the stone under him. There's a glass there too, on the other side. That would be his Scotch, straight, two rocks. Since before the war.

"Thank you, Junior," says Momma, giving me her polite just-don't-bring-it-up look. I don't; there's no point. Junior came back in one piece and that's all that matters to her. Mentally, I'm not so sure all the pieces are still there. Momma turns the dial and Tommy Dorsey garbles away, reforming into the voice of an energetic man talking about thoroughbreds. That's the one.

"Ida!" Grampa yells from just beyond the gazebo, where he's watching the workers like a hawk. He's never trusted his son-in-law to hire decent men, but they've never let us down. "Where is your man with our refreshment?" Grampa may not have been born until after the South lost the fight, but he's still a Confederate at heart.

"Is there lemonade, Grampa?" Walt asks, and Grampa gives him the withering look of a man who regrets having agreed to watch a colt for two weeks while my aunt and uncle took a vacation in San Francisco.

Instead of answering, Momma turns to me. "Do you have any idea where Erskin might have gone with our mint juleps?" She elongates the "you" as if her finding the answer rests squarely on my lightly-yoked shoulders. And since I'm the go-between for today, it does.

"No," I elongate right back, "but I can find out." Back toward the house I go at a trot, dripping more sweat onto what was recently a fresh polo shirt.

Erskin guesses my question before I can say a word. He's panting, and I can't tell if the glisten on his skin is perspiration or steam. His eyes dance brightly from the ingredients to the glasses.

"Don't ask me where the damn drinks are, boy. Just start muddlin'!"

Muddling I can do. Muddling I am built for.

"Grampa's getting antsy," I say, taking a few leaves and rolling them between my fingertips. The fresh sharp aroma stings my sinuses. While Erskin chips away at the icebox, I grab cocktail glasses for everyone and arrange them in a row. He brings a handful over and fills a glass and I follow with the whisky, mint and a sugar cubes: two for Momma, three for Gramma, none for Grampa because to him men don't need sugar (or water) in their whisky. I make one with three cubes for myself, and leave Erskin's glass alone because he doesn't like mint. Heathen.

"Your Grampa can kiss my scaly ass," replies the gator, even as he moves faster. "He still out there makin' sure the guys don't pocket the plants they supposed to be picking?" He takes a bottle of my father's gin from the opposite cabinet and fills his glass straight up to the top.

"No lime?"

"Don't need no pussy lime. This is gin, boy!"

"Grampa's old, cut him some slack."

"He obviously old enough to pine for the good ol' days." Erskin checks the stewpot before setting the ladle off to the side and turning the heat down to a simmer. Out comes his big serving tray, onto which we put the juleps, some cheeses and crackers, cucumber sandwiches, and a big baguette with butter. "Here we go. Up!" He hoists the tray into the crook of his neck, balanced perfectly, and leads me outside.

Momma's going on again about Ken as we approach from behind. She occupies the chair closest to the radio, with Grampa and Gramma next to her, and now the Greadys from next door have taken up residence in the two open chairs next to Junior. They are weasels of substantial means: he of the oil and nut business, she of the gold-digging business. One has only to look at Darla Gready's ermine-white coat on this balmy May afternoon to know how difficult (read: expensive) it must be to keep a year-round winter coat like that. But Patrick Gready owns a sixty-foot sloop down Brunswick Yacht Club, so I doubt he cares.

"You should have seen Kenny's face when he saw he qualified," Momma's saying. "My little foal, all grown up and handsome, going to compete with some of the best horses in the country."

"If not the world," addsGrampa. "Thank you, Erskin." He takes his julep and drains a good third of it.

"Mister DeKade," the gator responds, bowing and distributing the rest.

"If not the world." Momma pronounces each word clearly, staccato. "I only wish I were there to cheer him on with Arthur." By which she means she didn't want to suffer the long hot car ride north.

"You'll be there in spirit, of course," Darla says, by which she means Momma won't have to be at Churchill Downs in person to watch my brother lose his one and only chance at the Triple Crown, a dream he's had since he was eight years old.

I look around. It's all just posturing. Grampa and Gramma are there to lend moral support, the Greadys will get a bigger kick out of it if Ken loses, and Junior never cared in the first place. Dad cared enough to get him to Louisville, and he wouldn't put his name on the line if he didn't have faith in Ken to win. Would he?

None of it is real. None of it. The only part of it that was, was the part when I kissed my big brother goodbye (ignoring my inevitable involuntary reaction, happens every damn time) and told him I loved him and to bring me back a couple roses from that blanket they throw over the winner. At least I know I meant that part.

Momma is in the midst of one of her affected sighs when she jumps at the sudden trumpet fanfare on the radio. "Oh! Oh! It's starting, everyone quiet down, it's starting!" I feel nauseous. When I look over at Erskin, he's giving me a quizzical look. No way can I hide all the disgust and sudden sadness turning my stomach to knots. The gator jerks his head in the direction of the house and I shrug: Why not?

"If y'all will excuse us, Cyrus and me're gonna tend to things in the kitchen."

Looking stricken, Momma balks. "But Cyrus, honey, you'll miss the whole Derby! That's what we're all out here for, to cheer your brother on!"

"We got a radio in the house, Missus," replies Erskin. "We'll be shoutin' Kenny on just about as strong as the rest of you out here." Momma looks skeptical for all of two seconds before her trust in the gator gets the better of her.

"Alright," she sighs wistfully, taking a dainty sip of her julep, pinky outstretched as far as she can manage without losing her grip. "It won't be the same without my baby boy, but one must take care of oneself sometime." Junior rolls over in his chair as if the statement were aimed squarely at him.

"The 'baby boy' is going to law school in a couple weeks," I say flatly, to which Momma shrugs. I will never escape.

"Come on, 'baby,'" says Erskin with a barely-concealed chuckle. "Let's get in and get to workin'." We still have a good amount of time before the starting gun, but I doubt we'll finish the deed before Ken starts his run. No, shouldn't be awkward at all. I down the rest of my julep as I follow him back to the house. I feel a soft glow in my mostly empty stomach, and realize it's just what I needed.

As soon as Erskin gets inside the kitchen he sets his tray on the counter and turns to me. "S'wrong with you?"

"Nothing," I lie, mildly taken aback by the gator's astuteness. I should have known better than to think he wouldn't notice the change in my attitude. My face must have told the whole story.

Erskin nudges his big snout against mine and grabs my arms so I can't look away from him. We both know I don't last long like this. "Don't fib to me. I saw that look you gave your momma out there. Like you was fixin' to slap her."

"I didn't know it was that obvious."

"Next time you'll know now." His nostrils huff warm, sweet air into mine and my pants tighten again. He backs off before it can approach anything like a kiss, and runs his thumbs behind the straps of his overalls. "I'm looking out for you, Cyrus. Like I looked out for Kenneth. Your momma might not notice, but when Arthur comes back and he sees it, he knows when your gears are turnin'. What you gonna say then?"

"Hopefully I'll be in school then, and I won't have to worry about things here."

"Things? Like me?" If Erskin had ears, they'd be drooping.

"You know what I mean! Junior being...himself, Momma coddling me and still acting like some debutante."

"Just the way she is. She spoiled before she married, and now Arthur spoils her more." Erskin shrugs. "What are you gonna do? Sit and be sore like it does some good?" He's turning on his Deep South charm like every time I get upset, and it's working. His mellow toothy smile counters my anxiety.

I look out the kitchen window at Momma gesticulating in the air for her parents and her friends. "She doesn't care any more than the rest of them do."

Erskin looks out after me. "She prob'ly don't."

"You don't care?"

"I can't change her, and she got her reasons. Don't mean she doesn't love Kenny any less." I don't understand, but I think if I sat and ruminated I just might. Erskin isn't in the habit of talking out his ass unless it's on purpose to make a point.

"Kenny's gonna run, and he's gonna lose," I say, "and Momma will fret for a few days for his sake and move on as if it were just one more inconvenience."

"Sounds like you want him to lose too, boy. Least, you're expectin' him to." Whatever erection I had is gone completely. What Erskin says has some truth to it, but not enough that I can't prove him wrong.

"I want him to win more than anything. Because I want him to be happy."

"Me too. All I ever wanted." I hear how much he cares for Ken. Probably for all three of us boys. I've known him sixteen years, and now I'm going away. Just like Ken did. We're all leaving. I cling to his chest, breathing in his musky, earthy scent and I'm six again.

"Would it be silly to say I don't want to go to college?"

"Not at all, but you'd know it's a lie." Erskin encircles me with big, leather-smooth arms and strokes down my back to my tail. I shiver. "You too smart not to go to college. Make your daddy awful proud, the both of you. Junior can't help what the war did to him. Like I told Kenny, you do your best to live and love like I taught you."

"What?" I draw back, but not so much that I'm not still pressed groin-in to him, feeling his pressure against me as he leans.

Erskin just smiles. "That race gonna be on soon. We better get upstairs then." So we leave the kitchen and I follow him up the staircase, around the landing, to the rear corner of the house. I know the room well, with its simple guestroom décor and just enough room for one to stretch or two to snuggle. After he's locked the door, Erskin snaps on his little Bakelite radio. Already tuned in, it blares an inane interview with some hoity-toity actress who is only in Louisville to be seen and nothing else. She catches my ear just the same.

"--see how he'd be able to compete by looking at him, but the numbers don't lie, do they?" the actress asks.

"They sure don't," answers the announcer. "Ken DeKade is among the best in this year's field, folks, but you sure can't see how a donkey can best these stallions out here today. The numbers _don't_lie, and the tension is thick here at the Downs. People talk of a riot if this long shot comes through, and while most doubt that will happen, most also doubt DeKade's ability to run a track. The fastest two minutes in sports will tell."

"I bet that lady walked off laughing," I say bitterly. "Bet she's never run in her whole life." Erskin's warmth surrounds me again and it all melts away. He holds me about the waist, rocking the both of us in his room as we listen to the blather and I imagine how my brother must be feeling at this moment. If it were me, I'd be sick to my stomach. Like closing arguments at the trial of the century.

"Do you think he's nervous?" I ask.

"I'd worry if he wasn't," replies Erskin, pressing close. "Hope he took care of himself in the stable like I told him to."

"What?" I stutter for the second time, but the gator holds me in his rhythm.

"Just what it sounds like." One of his hands makes its way over the front of my pants, finding my hardness. "Some people run better with tension, some better with relaxation. We found out Kenny was the second kind."

I should be shocked. If it were anyone but Erskin, I might be.

"You were close to Ken?"

"I love him like I'm lovin' you," the gator replies. "Still do. Wasn't sure if I'd tell you, but I didn't think you'd be sore at me." He runs his fingers the length of my covered shaft, cupping my sac as much as he can through the fabric. "Not sore at all, I guess."

"His lady friend doesn't know then."

"Don't need to know. I'm not stealing her man, nothing to worry about." I'd be reeling if Erskin's fingers weren't working my fly open and fishing out my cock. I let him without protest.

"How did that come about, exactly?"

"Men have needs, or have you not noticed that lately? Kenny's need was a nice tight fist at first. Then it was a warm muzzle. I told him it'd cost him."

I hesitate to ask even though I'd go mad if I didn't. "What cost?"

"Same thing you give me free."

"Oh, shit."

"He been places you ain't, too." Erskin begins to fist my length, bumping up against the flare and flinging pre onto the floor. I hear his overall clasps open, the sound of laundry pooling on the floor. My pants and boxers quickly join and his slick tip slides up against my tail.

"How come you never let me?"

"I don't recall you askin'. But not today, not while I got you here." He shoves me forward. I catch myself on the bureau, my chin right down near the radio. The little speaker moves while the announcer describes the athletes lining up in the starting gates. Ken is in number four, between a palomino named Rudy Arnault and a paint named Hooper something. One minute to the pistol.

Erskin pulls open a drawer to my right and unscrews the lid off a jar. Seconds later he's slicking up my tailhole, grunting as he puts the remainder on his shaft. He takes his time sliding his tip around the edge of my entrance, spreading the grease but driving me crazy. I know he can see me clenching, and I know that gets him off. Placing it at the ring, he pushes just a bit.

"Who do you think finishes first, me or your brother?" The thought of Erskin's cock up inside Ken sends a new violent shudder through me. I envision Ken in his shirt and short running shorts, his legs tensed, his hooves freshly shod and glinting in the Kentucky sunshine. Just waiting...

The pistol reports.

"And they're off!" the announcer shouts.

Erskin hilts himself, making me yelp. Thankfully the window's closed. Thankfully, I'm used to his girth.

From outside I can hear Momma yelling encouragements to her radio. "Go Kenny! You can do it!" She seems to be the only one excited. I'm sure Dad is screaming himself hoarse in the stands. As Erskin holds my head down and tugs on my hip, Arnault takes an early lead, followed by a few names I can't understand because the announcer is either garbled or speaking too fast. Or because my ears are mashed up against the bureau.

"Kenny wanted me gentle at first," growls the gator, "but then he begged for it rough-like. Bet you never thought your big brother'd act like you do when I'm all up in there." Now that he's put the picture in my head, it won't leave. First I see him on Erskin's bed, all spread while he gets his hole worked over. Or bent over the bureau as I now am, bearing back on that thick meat with his spindly legs supporting them both. I see him on all fours, sweating under the gator's heaving body, working himself to a shattering climax while seed sluices from his hole and down his balls.

I'm going to college in a few weeks. Ken goes to the same college. Just the mere thought of that proximity sends the heat building behind my dappled length through the rest of my body. It concentrates on that special button Erskin hits on each thrust and I spasm against the bureau, spraying over the engraved wood and brass hardware. Thankfully I keep my braying to myself.

Around the back straightaway, an Andalusian named Carlos has broken away and taken the lead. Arnault is close behind, but the announcer can't stop mentioning Ken back in third position. "Look at that donkey go, folks! He's coming even with Arnault now, just look at him. What a Derby to remember. Even if he doesn't win, his place in history is forever cemented!" It will be, too: the first donkey ever to compete in a field of horses on a track. Now go, Ken! Put 'em in their place!

"Two turns...to go," I pant. Erskin grips me harder about the waist and slams up under my tail. His head isn't too big but damn if the base of it isn't stretching me wide.

"I'll beat him, boy, don't you worry."

"I'm going to miss this."

"Maybe Ken'll help you out."

"Ohhh, fuck, are you kidding?"

"Just gotta ask, Cyrus. Speak your mind, it's nothin' he ain't done. Ah, there we go, right on time..." A shift to his hips and ten claws in my rump tell me all I need to know. Around the back turns Carlos gives up the lead to Arnault, and Ken moves in right behind the palomino as they approach the final straight.

"Come on Ken," I whisper as the top of my head bumps up against the wall. Erskin shoves his knees between mine, spreading me open and lowering my hole so he can go slit-deep.

"Do the dash, son," says the gator. "Do your goddamned dash." His fingers begin to tremble, his claws so deep I swear they're drawing blood.

The announcer continues, "Around the final turn ladies and gentlemen, and what a sight! DeKade just a few lengths behind Arnault, but...gaining, fast! He's found a second wind! Look at him go! Just absolutely phenomenal, I wish our listeners at home could see this. DeKade, drawing even with Arnault with just fifty yards to go! Listen to that crowd!"

"Go, go-ooohhhh please, heh...heh..." I can see Ken even as my vision is filled with the ivory knobs of Erskin's radio. I imagine myself as Arnault, struggling to keep up while spitting clods of dirt thrown by my brother. I see ticker tape, roses and champagne. And, when he comes home, lots of cabbage stew.

Erskin goes faster and harder as if the effort will somehow transport itself over the radio waves and aid Ken's hooves. My brother takes the lead and then some, and the crowd behind him erupts in such a noise that it sounds like static. I smile more at that than at the gator's massive sigh, followed by a guttural growl as he slams twice more into me and twitches through his release. The new warmth supplements the tingle of my afterglow.

And on the radio, as Erskin slumps over my back sweaty and panting, we hear three words repeated: The donkey wins, the donkey wins. We listen for another minute before I snap the radio off.

"Nothing but chatter andscreamin' anyway," says Erskin, who plants a gentle kiss on the back of my head before pulling away and staggering to the bathroom for a towel. I waddle across the room to collapse on the bed, still tingly and pleasantly sore.

"I knew he could do it," I say towards the bathroom.

"You knew nothin'," replies the gator over the sound of running water. "You were hoping like the rest of them and got surprised." He pops his head around the doorframe. "Not that I'm not proud of the son of a bitch, pardon my French."

"Whatever you taught him seemed to work." I use the washcloth he throws to wipe up my backside. Even through the window I hear Momma going on and on to the Greadys, though I can't make out a single word. Then it occurs to me that we've probably been gone longer than I can explain.

"I suggested," says Erskin. "He trained it up. That's all Ken out there on that track."

"Momma or someone's going to be in soon. We should get back," I say, but the gator's already buttoned all up when he steps out of the bathroom.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he asks. "There ain't been no cornholin' upstairs anyhow." He seals the sarcasm with a dramatic wink. "You still got your pants around your ankles."

I smile and sit up, fiddling myself back in and look over to the radio.

"You comin'?" asks Erskin. "Thanks, by the by. You have a way of makin' a man feel special."

I know I'm blushing. "Welcome. Give me a minute, nobody's going to miss me." Nodding, the gator turns tail and plods downstairs to meet Momma and undoubtedly fulfill her request for more juleps all around.

After doing up my pants I go back over to the radio sitting silently on the bureau. I wipe my cum from its drawers and the floor but pause before taking the cloth to the sink. I turn the knob slowly until it clicks on, turning it slowly until I can barely hear it.

"--this afternoon, and I have to tell you out there in radio-land it was both a pleasure and an astonishment to see Ken DeKade take the purse for the 1946 Kentucky Derby. But as you heard, he's got all the humility and dedication of a true blueblood despite the odds stacked against him. What a race, and what a fine young man in that donkey. We might have a Triple Crown winner, but time will tell. For now, I said it before and I'll say it again. The donkey wins."

I click it off again. Downstairs the clopping of hooves centers around the kitchen, where Erskin is probably wishing I would get my ass down to help him. I can't stay up in his room forever. I can't stay at home forever either. I'm going to miss Erskin, but I'll be back, and so will Ken. Thinking about my upcoming year at UGA Law has me nervous and excited for the wrong reasons just as much as the right.

But I do know one thing for certain: when I head over to Athens for the school year, Ken and I will have a talk. And whatever comes of that, the donkeys will win.

8/31/2011