His tongue was dry and scratched. His arms ached from the exertion of hacking through the dense thicket. He though he could see his goal, the heaving mound. But it was covered by thick thatch, so how could he really be sure?
I actually picture you EXACTLY like that Tony Soprano av you were so fucking proud of. A big, dumb WOP bullying people, so fucking proud, slowly lumbering his fat ass across a beach with a big grin on his face like he owns the world.
The first sign of trouble came in the form of a few coarse hairs protruding from his conquest's flat, tanned stomach starting just below the belly button. But the heady combination of scotch, lust and yearning kept him moving forward.