[The first sentence of the worst gay novel ever written.]
As the bus station locker slammed shut with a clang, I reflected blissfully on having escaped from the bitter, windswept plains of Montana and on Muffy’s predictably overjoyed reaction which I could virtually see (although of course she was not present at the time, being, as I then thought, cleverly hidden in the darkly handsome Raoul’s huge Bel Air mansion but actually unbeknownst to me trapped in an unused bomb shelter in Tarzana with six bikers) and happily considered my future in this city of angels, where the casual boulevard pickup of the hot new boy in town could lead to a fabulous life in a dazzling glass and stucco mansion in the hills and a career as an important film star or maybe director (not to mention getting to meet handsome, tanned body builders instead of the sheep to whom I had become accustomed, although I would never stop being grateful to my little friends) when I suddenly realized with a sharp pang in my lower abdomen, a couple of inches to the left of that remarkable organ with which I hoped to impress the rich and famous in this glitziest of cities, that the key was locked inside.
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