Not only do I have a friend with benefits but he recently upgraded his coverage, tantalizingly, to include death and dismemberment. He's a Chillicothe trombonist. We met cute after I misfingered him in an all-brass police lineup when I was in the middle of a rimming tour of America's breadbasket. He wanted out of Ohio or Missouri or Illinois and I was nowhere to begin with so I ditched the tour and we ended up in or on Oahu or O'ahu. We briefly touched upon the mysteries of human existence at the Halona Blow Hole north of Haunama Bay off the Kalanianaole Highway. The majestic spray, the crashing surf, the flailing arms of that preoccupied lady. We passed a box of Bugles back and forth on a geologically confessional outcropping. I told him I'm at odds with myself and he said he sometimes feels the forces of darkness crowding around him and one time they touched his ass. I told him dissatisfaction is my bread and butter and he told me it pained him to say it but he might need oral surgery. His eyes were hard like organic chemistry but his voice was soft like a dog's earflap. In this manner I grew accustomed to waiting for him to finish speaking so I could continue. Did this mean love? We sometimes disagreed and I quickly learned that his approach to conflict was fellational, and then some. He told me my words were unconvincing but my anus was very persuasive. Would I mind if he turned the tables? A little Pacific rim? In no time flat I had sand in my shoe and the sensation of being freshly exhumed. His tongue probed me like a finger rooting between sofa cushions for missing keys. I'd never felt so plumbed. We flew back to the mainland where we could resume contiguously, but on approach to LAX we were buffeted by ironies and battered by doubts. I wanted to seal the deal but he was prone to mounting suspicions, so in the Slanting Sunlight Room at the Alta Cienega I showed him all I'd learned about bottoming from below.