"I loved Keith's dick to the point of religion. I made up names for it like a primitive tribe might name its god over and over. The hooded stranger. The red-headed cyclops of love. Snyrdle. I found adorable the little blue-green vein that traversed the dorsal side of Keith's great dork like an erratic highway on a tubular map of New Mexico. I marveled at the way the big thing swerved decidedly to the right (like much of the American voting populace during the summer of '79, as the Carter administration could be heard gasping its last) as it grew hard at the sight of me."
Chapter 50 of Larry Duplechan's Eight Days A Week: