My neighbor Jack is no exception. He has that polished, varsity look, like life has stroked him smoothly, evened out his edges. Worse still, he has woken me many times hosting late-night parties for gangs of college jocks. Someone inevitably pisses on my mailbox or falls asleep along a row of my freshly planted bulbs. I wake to roars of laughter and fragments of conversation about women’s bodies. “Tits,” I heard them scream last month. “Tits, show us your tits!” And I looked out my window in time to see a frail woman being passed over the heads of the partygoers in Jack’s backyard. Although she wriggled and winced with anxiety, she pulled off her shirt to reveal a black push-up bra. “Not your bra, baby, your tits,” someone called, but the woman drew the line there, and was allowed down after much begging and squirming in the air. My straight girlfriends frequently remark how handsome Jack is when they see him shooting baskets against his garage.
