The Boy Next Door didn't really live next door. He lived at one of Lane's mother's rental properties, a five-unit building on La Jolla. When Rosa got sick in the summer of 1992, it became Lane's job to distribute the paychecks to her employees: a live-in nurse, a properties manager, a janitor, and the Boy Next Door, who was in charge of mowing the lawn and trimming the hedges at his apartment.
One day when Lane was busy, he asked me to do it.
I found the Boy -- we'll call him James -- cutting the hedge around the building while his pet beagle watched.
He was as tall as me, shirtless: a slim, tanned physique, hairless, small nipples. Curly brown hair, a round face with blue eyes. A cute college-aged twink.
"Hi, are you James? I'm Boomer, Rosa's son's um...roommate. He sent me over with something for you."
"Sure, I've known Lane for a long time."
The rest of the story, with our date and when it gets scary, is on tales of West Hollywood.