I drove up Winchester Road (in Southeast Memphis, Tennessee) toward Mendenhall Road looking for a Wal-Mart store to buy socks. I’d left the Benjamin L. Hooks Public Library with plenty on my mind still thinking about a book which had caught my attention, in its introduction, a man, the author, who’d spent time in prison. He described how he’d had sex with other men while in prison, but he, as a heterosexual, did not really derive any sexual pleasure from the men he had sex with. He explained in graphic detail what is was like to penetrate another man, and why the act, for him, to stick his dick in another man’s ass, had meant nothing more than the desire to dominate control and power over the individual, “to break him,” he wrote. I thought about the ways in which men think about the power of their sex organs. My cell phone buzzed as I finished my last Belvita breakfast biscuit, washed it down with the final swallow of sweet creamy coffee, before swiping my phone to glance quickly at the notification just received: an email from Detroit author J. Paul Ghetto with a fresh Kindle copy attachment of his recently released novel, The Truth About Harry Goodman.