The Trampoline Man
It was eight minutes past five on a balmy summer’s afternoon in Paris when a beautiful voice reached out to me. I had my head in a dumpster as I tried desperately to heave a refuse sack full of fifty empty bottles of bubbly over, up, and in.‘Spliff?’ the voice enquired. It had a French edge, laced with irreverent, languid overtures, but more than anything its offering carried hope. I was about to turn and reply when the dumpster lid came crashing back down on me, garroting me across the...
Gay Male