koliqosu

He looked like a preppie. And this wasn't a place preppies hung out, or at least not a place they hung out looking like preppies. This preppie didn't appear to care. He had the madras shorts, top-siders (no socks, of course) and the requisite two polo shirts. I couldn't see the logo on the one underneath but I had no doubt it was adorned with the same horse and polo player as the outer shirt. I didn't know, still don't, when prepsterism escape the Northeast but at the time it was unusual, except on a campus, to see a prepster in Lincoln, Nebraska. And, like I've said, I'd never seen one inside A.J.'s Adult Emporium. The 7-11 Big Gulp didn't quite go with the outfit either. The bugle in his shorts, on the other hand, was perfectly in keeping with the ambiance of A.J.'s, to say nothing of the fact it was a quite enticing bulge. I'd love to see more. That lovely virus, HIV, had yet to escape the coasts, though it soon would. That ugly, evil fucking thing didn't even have a name yet. I spent my time worrying about herpes. Quaint, huh? I don't know if the guy who owned the place was really named A.J. or if the toothless, malodorous crypt-keeper sitting behind the counter was the owner. What I did know is he'd start bellowing if you hung out too long without dropping some tokens. I stepped into one of the booths, dropped a token, and stabbed the selector button with my elbow until something with a couple of nice hard cocks started playing. I left the door open. A.J., if that was hi