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...           "Cuckold!", they laughed and pointed. They did not cringe. They did not pity. They laughed at me. And I turned, embarrassed, to look across the street. Michael was there. No, it was Mick. Mick was talking with the young men from across the street. Those twins, with their hair gel and baggy pants.

            And I turned again, to look back at my neighbours. Kyle was sitting in his therapist's chair, beside the barbecue. And he thrust a fork in my face, and on the end was the most grotesque thing I have ever seen. Marked by the blackened grill marks. Dripping with oil. Stabbed by the two prongs of the fork. Bulging. Erect. This was no sausage.

            I woke up with a jolt. That was all I remembered of the dream. Never before had my unconscious mind flaunted a message so - so disturbing! I leaned over the bed and vomited.

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