in one of my stakes, I looked through my
legs and saw a pair of tanned feet in
homemade sandals, strong, naked legs,
and a dead squirrel dangling by its tail
from a fist. I stood up, spun around, and
there he was, Loincloth Man.
What Tom did not mention was that
Loincloth Man was totally hot—he was
somewhere in his late thirties, had a
ripped, lean, savagely tan bod and
shaggy brown hair with a matching
beard. He fit the part perfectly—Modern
Day Tarzan, Slayer of Buffalo and
Ladies Alike. Which, stunning as he
was, instantly made him a little bit
suspect in my mind. That and the fact that
his loincloth was impeccably tailored