DYLAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR
Chapter 35
by Donny Mumford
Immediately after our last class of the first day back from spring break, Robby and me run for the pickup; we gotta be fast so Robby can drop me off for my shift at Stop & Shop and then make it back to Merrimack in time for his baseball game. He'll be the starting second baseman for the first time this year and I'm gonna miss it, which Robby claims is bad luck for him. Robby drops me off at the door with a quick, "Love ya," then he takes off with a squeal of the pickup's tires. Walking into the store I'm thinking about the boner popping 'nooner' sex we had earlier today as I pick at the back of my jeans because my ass and the back of my thighs are covered with Robby's cum. The 'nooner" went on longer than it should have so I never had a chance to clean-up at the apartment. If I'd tried cleaning-up we'd have been late for class, and that's a no-no in Professor Holly's course. That lunchtime fuck was something special though, worth the discomfort I felt all through that boring class, and the discomfort I'm still feeling now. I've reached back a number of times feeling for wetness, but the cum hasn't soaked through my pants back there; it's still sticky and damp on the back of my thighs though, so it must have drooled down my legs instead of pooling in my underpants. If it soaks through my jeans while working, I'll purposely sit on some spilled Coke or something; that way I'll have an explanation for the wet spot at the seat of my jeans. In the office while signing in I run into Rudy, the new part-timers' boss. He's not much older than me. Rudy's a high school graduate who's making a career at Stop & Shop. He started working as a part timer in his junior year of high school and then came on board as a full-timer after graduation. Three years later he replaced Alan-asshole as the part-timers' supervisor. I hold out my hand, saying, "Good afternoon, Rudy, I'm Dylan Newman." Rudy frowns, doing a quick handshake, "Someone called for your schedule yesterday, but I forget his name. I see he got the information to you, Newburg, nice to meet ya." I mumble, "It's Newman, Rudy," knowing he's really bad with names. He ignores my correction and points to a notice on the bulletin board, explaining, "I've rearranged things for the part-timers. You'll find your assignments on the board, hour by hour. It's my intention to alternate the bagging and the parking lot work evenly; they'll be no more of the same guy working the parking lot for carriage round-up, for example. Also, all you boys are gonna be cross-trained on the cash register. I started as a bag boy and know how tired that old idea is that the girls get assigned the cushy jobs. I can't send females to the parking lot because it's against policy, but they can sure as hell bag along with the boys. The same with the stock room and shelving assignments that used to been given only to you guys, so now these jobs are gonna include the women too." I go, "Way to go, Rudy!" and he gives one of his rare smiles, saying, "Fair's fair, right?" I go, "Yeah it is." Then, while I'm checking the notice on the cork-board to see what I'll be doing for the next three and a half hours, I'm thinking, "Jeez, Rudy's one of only a few boys I've ever met who looks worse when he smiles. He's not good looking in the first place, but that smile makes him look like a geek." Oh well, he's the straight people's problem, not mine, 'cause he sure as shit ain't gay.
I'll be stocking shelves for the first hour, then I'll relieve Cory Dunlevy for bagging duties, and then Cory will go to the parking lot and the kid collecting carriages, who I don't know, will stocks shelves for an hour. Then we all switch for our next shift, apparently. I'm scheduled for an hour of cash register training on Friday; how hard can that be? Yeah, Rudy's the man! I like this new routine because it breaks up the monotony and it's more equitable. Walking to the stock room for instructions I feel a touch on my arm, and hear, "Hiya, Newman," spoken too close to my ear, so I jump a little. Jesus! It's Cory who's snuck-up on me. I go, "Oh, hi Cory. You startled me, dude." Then, in kind of a rude, challenging way, he says, "Jumpy about something, are ya?" Cory doesn't have his interpersonal skills fully developed yet. He comes off like a grumpy pain-in-the-ass most of the time. I go, "Yeah, I guess so. Whassup?" He snorts, asking, "Why does everyone ask that 'whassup' thing? It's stupid." I go, "It's just something to say. How ya been?" He says, "I've been working double shifts, that's how I've been. All you spoiled college kids were on spring break last week." I mutter, "That's a news flash, Cory." He asks, "Where'd ya get the tan and that ridiculous haircut? And you got you're other ear pierced too. What the fuck? You look girlie, or are you going for the pirate look?" I ask, "Why so bitchy today? Did I do something to upset you?" I'd like to have said, "Go fuck yourself!" but I feel kinda bad for him because he's had a shitty life. Cory mumbles, "No, it's not you, sorry 'bout that. Things aren't good at home, dude. Some A-hole boyfriend of my mother's moved in with us, and he don't like me anymore than I like him. Didn't mean to take it out on you though, but that haircut is weird." I go, "I'm sorry for your troubles, Cory, but this haircut is not weird; it's extremely stylish. It's almost like the one Albert has. You know, the kid in the meat section. No one rags on him about his haircut." Cory goes, "That's because his haircut is not like yours. Al has a 'fade'; clippers on the sides and it gradually gets longer as it goes up to the top." I say, "Well okay, his is a a fade, but the hairs on top of his head aren't any longer than mine." I rub my eighth-inch buzz cut, self-conscious about it again. I haven't thought about it much the past couple of days, until now. Cory does his favorite thing, he shrugs, waving his hand, then says, "Forget the haircut, how 'bout the girlie earrings?" I go, "For your information, many professional basketball players, and a lot of other guys too, are rocking the two earring look lately. The year is two thousand and twelve my friend, get with the times. I'm looking good, dude; that's just the way I roll." He chuckles, saying, "I like you, Dylan. It's easy to get you riled-up. I've been kidding you! You're cool, I'm the one who isn't." I punch his shoulder, saying, "Glad we got that clarified. Ya wanna go bowling?" He goes, "Duh! That's why I'm talking to ya. When can you go?" There's nothing especially warm and fuzzy about Cory, and sometimes I wonder why I bother with him, but like I said, I feel bad for him. And, maybe I could have done more with Connor the last year or so too. Plus, the incredibly sad story of the Jersey Boy is still in my head too; not that Cory's gay, but ya don't need to be gay to get bullied. He's a senior in high school and there's no way it's going smoothly for him there; not with his attitude. I go, "This Wednesday we're on the same shift again, how 'bout we go after work? Or better yet, you can grab some dinner at my apartment with me and my homeboys before we bowl. There might be another kid coming with us too; you'll like Connor though." He's like, "Pump the breaks on all that shit, Dylan. I wanna bowl a few strings of candlepins, not change my life meeting a bunch of strangers. You got roommates too, right?" I mutter, "Yeah, so what; they're awesome dudes. And the kid who might go bowling with us is someone you'll like." He's chewing the inside of his cheek. Then he mumbles, "This shit's too much like a fraternity rush, or something. I gotta think about it; anyway our shifts starting now. Talk to ya later." I go, "Yeah, okay," thinking, 'What the fuck would you know about a fraternity rush? Ya turd. You don't even go to college!' Damn, he makes me mad. I try to be nice to him, and I get shit-on for my trouble.
Taking a big breath to cool down, I go into the stock area and report to Rita, who's a housewife working part-time, but somehow she's the boss in here. She sees me, and says, "You're Dylan, right?" I go, "Uh huh," and she says, "There's your cart; it's full of items that customers decided they didn't want when they were at check-out. You need to redistribute all those miscellaneous products to the correct locations and re-shelve them." I'm frowning, thinking, "This sucks!" She asks, "Where's, Davidson, um," looking at a list of names, she adds, "Robert Davidson?" I take a page from Cory's book, and shrug, mumbling, "I don't know; who's he?" She shakes her head, saying, "Oh, never mind, just please get these items back on the shelves. Rudy has one hour allocated to redistribution although no one could do it in less than two" I nod, thinking, 'It'll take closer to three hours,' and push the overloaded shopping cart out to the main floor. This'll be a pain in the ass. First, two cans of soup go in isle eight, then I push the carriage to isle twelve to re-shelve three boxes of cereal, then to the produce section to unload a cucumber, a bag of radishes, five pounds of potatoes, and a head of purple cabbage. Why do people take stuff up to the register if they don't want it? Morons! "Hey, that looks like fun, Dylan." "Huh?" I turn around, and then smile because it's Matthew Flowers. I ask, "Do you have a relative who's in a rock band, by any chance?" He says, "You're thinking of Brandon Flowers, he's the lead singer for the 'Killers'." I knew that of course, it's the reason I asked that rhetorical question, but I reply, "Oh yeah, that's the guy." Matthew says, "I meant to ask you something when we ran into each other yesterday." I ask, "What's that?" He points to my head, asking, "Where'd ya get that cool haircut?" Can I believe this? He brings-up the exact topic I was thinking about yesterday when I glanced over at him; I mean his haircut, not mine. He used to have long hair; then, before spring break I spot him with his current hairdo, which is an amateurish buzz cut with some bare patches around the sides and back. Obviously someone cut it for him, a friend or family member, who's never used barber clippers before. I go, " Oh yeah," and rub my head again, mumbling, "This is my latest attempt to be cool, haha. I got in cut in Florida during spring break." He goes, "It is cool, guess that explains your tan too; the Florida trip, I mean. "I go, "Awesome spring break, dude," and hold out my fist, which Matthew bumps with his." He goes, "My friend talked me into cutting my hair for me; ya know, to save money. Big fuckin' mistake on my part! It didn't start out being this buzz cut I have, but it ended up like this. Embarrassing!" I go, "It's much different than your normal hair style, fer sure." Then worry that he might wonder about me noticing what his hair style before this was. But, what the hell, people notice stuff like that, don't they? I mean straight guys too. Matthew doesn't appear to give it a thought though, as he goes, "Dude, I haven't had this hat off my had in two weeks, heh heh." Taking advantage of this golden opportunity, I say, "Barber clippers in the wrong hands can cause havoc. I've been cutting my friends hair since I was ten, and I'm as good as any barber I've ever been to myself, and better than most." He raises his eyebrows, asking, "Hey, are you and me friends yet?" I go, "Absolutely! This is the second time we've spoken to each other, isn't it?" He laughs, muttering, "Wow, you make friends fast! That's cool. Could you cut my hair in the style haircut you have?" I go, "Yeah, of course; just last week I gave an awesome haircut like this to a good buddy of mine. I'll be glad to do it for you anytime." He goes, "Hey, that's cool, I'll hook-up with you in a week or two. Gotta let the bare spots grow in first, ya know." I go, "Just say the word when you're ready, Matthew. Me and my roommates from Merrimack have an apartment in the Royal Crest, that's just down route 114; I'll give you the haircut there." He goes, "Hey, that works. Yeah, I know the place. Thanks, Dylan." Then he asks, "You working tonight too?" I go, "Nah, I get off at six, how 'bout you?" He says, "I'm done at five, thank God! haha." I mutter, "Well, I gotta get back to my exciting task, Matthew, nice talking to ya.," I pick-up a bottle of Lysol trying to think which isle contains cleaning supplies. Matthew says, "Yeah, me too," and goes back to twirling the tops of plastic bags of grapes and placing them neatly in a pile. Nice display work there.
As I push the carriage away, I'm thinking, "Well I'll be goddamn! My lucky streak continues". He didn't exactly say his 'boyfriend' cut his hair, he said 'friend', but it sounded like boyfriend to my ear. Wouldn't that be something. This is exactly what I mean about gays gravitating to each other. Some kind of unspoken communication. Not that I know what it is exactly, but it must be present. The 'gaydar' thing addresses that, of course; although I can't say I'm particularly aware of my own gaydar, if I even have any. Then there's always the very real possibility Matthew's straight. That'd be too bad. Anyway, I can't believe he brought up the very subject I was thinking about yesterday; his fucked-up haircut. Damn, I'm on a roll lately. About forty-five minutes into my redistribution project, when I'm deep in thought about what this upcoming summer might have in store for me, Cory again startles me by saying, too loudly, right next to me, "Okay," causing me to jump again. He'd drifted up right next to me, without making a sound somehow, then he spoke close to my ear again. I go, "Yipes! Ya got me again. Make a sound or something so I know you're coming." He goes, "You've got fucked-up nerves, Newman. You sure you're not concealing some big dark secret?" I mutter, "I'm sure. Whassup?" He shakes his head, going, "There's that same stupid question again. Is that all you can think to say?" Again the thought enters my mind to say, 'No, how 'bout I say this: Go fuck yourself!', but I don't. Instead I ask, "How's your shift going in the bagging department today? I'll be replacing you in about fifteen minutes." He answers, "That's a convoluted sentence; the bagging's going boringly. I just came off my break. It's slow this afternoon and we're standing around a lot. That real thin girl, Debra, is working the cash register I'm bagging at, and she never stops asking me personal questions. I'm so fuckin' sure I'll tell her my personal history." I mutter, "Restocking all these different items ain't a lot of fun either." He makes a face, like, "Whaddaya gonna do." then says, "Anyway, I've decided to try the dinner thing at your place this Wednesday before bowling. It's not my thing, meeting a lot of new people, but you're a good guy, so what the fuck, ya know?" I'm like, "I hear ya, Cory. I'm glad you're coming over, you'll be fine." He points at me, saying, "I'm holding you personally responsible if it sucks!" Like I said, he's not good at personal interrelations. He needs a little work interacting with his few fellow humans. I go, "It won't suck. How could it with your rosy disposition?" He gets a stern look on his face, asking, "Was that a shot you just took at me?" I go, "No, of course not, Cory. I was kidding, like you were earlier about my haircut." He nods, "Okay, I thought that's what it was. I gotta get back to bagging for Olive Oyl, Debra, before she complains to Rudy." I go, "You bet, Cory..." and he asks, "Do you find it hard working for a boss that's not much older than you?" I go, "Ya mean, Rudy? Nah, he's fine; better than Alan Snyder, fer sure!" Cory's, like, "Yeah, that's one way to look at it. I guess Rudy's okay. See ya," and he trots back to his station. I don't know how Chubby's gonna respond to Cory's personality, but it should be interesting.
After an hour I'm not even half finished with my redistribution project as Rudy comes by, asking, "How's your shift going, Donny?" I tell him about the time-consuming mission I'm on, and he says, "The next kid scheduled for the stock room will pick-up wherever you leave off, don't worry about it. Haha, I used to hate doing that too so I put an hour limit on the job just to break some balls. It's a fuckin' tedious job and should require two and a half hours at least." I go, "Huh!" and he says, "Yeah, in the good old days I'd bust my ass trying to meet Alan's deadlines, but they were unrealistic too. Hey, take a fifteen minute break now, then replace Raymond bagging for the next hour, or until I shift things as needed." I ask, "Who's Raymond? You mean, Cory?" He looks at his sheet, then says, "Oh yeah, Cory. Which one's he?" I point him out and I can see Rudy trying to memorize Cory's face, while repeating the name to himself. He apparently is aware of his difficulty remembering names, so I don't correct him with mine. Donny? What the...? Do I look like a 'Donny'? Please! I go outside for a cigarette during my break, and say "Hi," to a kid named Shaun, who's on break too. He's lighting a cigarette, sitting on the bench we all sit on when smoking. The bench is outside the building's side exit and customers need to walk the gantlet of cigarette smoke when they use this exit; there's usually at least one smoker here. Considering how expensive cigarettes are, and how many anti-smoking commercials there are, it's kinda surprising so many kids still smoke, especially those making our pitiful wage. Shaun looks like like he's thirteen or fourteen year old, but he's actually a high school junior, so he's probably seventeen. What the fuck, I'll ask him. Exhaling smoke from his nose and mouth, he goes, "Hi, Dylan. How do you like the new schedule that whats-his-name has us on now?" I go, "Rudy? It's cool, especially for me because that asshole Snyder used to always send my ass out in the cold winter weather to round-up the freakin' shopping carts in the parking lot. Now everyone has to do it." Smoke drifts from his mouth, as he mutters, "You too, huh?" I go, "If ya don't mind me asking, how fuckin' old are you?" He goes, "Seventeen, I'll be eighteen soon, and I know I look younger than that, but it is what it is." That phrase, "it is what it is," was made famous by the Patriot's head coach, Bill Belichick, and now everybody says it. I go, "Yeah, I get that a lot too; I'm two months away from my twentieth birthday and people think I'm like seventeen or something. It's sucks!" Shaun nods his head, sucking on his cigarette as I study his face. Youthful, as I said, and he's got Connor's very pale complexion, dark hair, and blue eyes, but with sort of a flat face, although he's cute in an unusual way. Shaun's another kid that's really, really, cute when he grins; he's like Matthew in that regard. There's nothing gay about him though, which is a damn shame. Small kid, about five foot seven and very thin, but his hands are thick; they don't go with the rest of him. He's rockin' what I used to think was a long buzz cut, but he'd just gotten a haircut in the last week and now I'm thinking it's suppose to be a flattop, although it's just wrong somehow. Probably cut by a woman at SuperCuts, none of them know how to cut guy's hair. You see a lot of bad haircuts on kids around here; men too. Shaun's got very dark brown hair, like I mentioned, and he's probably of Irish decent too, like Connor. Shaun's first name would indicate that, I suppose; I don't know his last name, so I ask, "What's your last name, Shaun?" He goes, "Sullivan, what's your's?" I mutter, "Newman," then think, 'My last name could be Irish too. Hmmm?' Shaun has fuzzy hair, it's not luscious like Connor's, who I'll be giving a haircut in a couple of hours. Asking Shaun, "Whaddya call this haircut of your's, Shaun," and I reach over and run my hand over his head; his hair is unbelievably soft. He leans his head away from me, saying, "It's a fucking flattop, whaddaya think? What's your's called?" I go, "Short buzz cut. Where do ya get your haircut?" He says, "SuperCuts, where else? What's with all the haircut questions?" I mutter, "I cut my friend's hair, so I'm asking these questions for research reasons. I just wondered, that's all." If he had leaned his head towards me, instead of away from me, I might have something to think about. Yeah, except he's too young for me anyway. And now, because I touched his hair, he's probably wondering what's up with me, but I'm in this weird sexually aroused situation lately and my antenna is up all the time, and the urge to touch is strong.
Shaun steps on his cigarette butt, mumbling, "I gotta get back to work. Hey, maybe you can give me a haircut sometime; you any good?" I go, "Better than your barber, dude. That's for damn sure!" He chuckles, then goes, "You're a trip, Newman. Yeah, I'll give ya a try next time." He's standing now, about to leave, then he asks, "How much you charge for a haircut?" I make a circle with my thumb and forefinger, saying, "Nada, zero... I do it for my friends as a favor." He makes a fist with his too-large hand, and says, "I like the sound of that, friend," chuckling and grinning his awesome grin as I bump his fist with mine, as I'm saying, "That's the way I roll. Shaun," he goes, "Well alright then," and walks away running his hand through his soft hair, probably thinking how he's gonna be saving nineteen dollars, which is the going rate for haircuts around here. I grope myself for a second, thinking, "Get a grip, Dylan!" The rest of the shift goes by okay, but in my last hour Matthew comes up to me holding a girl's hand. She's not as good looking as Matthew, but okay if you're straight I guess. He says, "Dylan I wanna show my girlfriend your haircut. She's worried how I'll look with it. Hope you don't mind being a model for a second." I mutter, "Huh? Oh, no problem." I think for a second about that photographer in 'The Houe Of Blues' last winter who said I should be a model. Ewww, drop the thought of that guy, that entire situation was another one of my bad decisions. The girl is real bubbly, she says, "Hi, Dylan, wow; it's short! Oh, I'm Tina, by the way." I say, "Hi,Tina-by-the-way." Matthew looks at her, and mutters, "Yeah, it's uber short, but it's all outlined with razor detail and I think it's a way cool hair style." Taking a chance, I ask Tina, "By any chance were you Matthew's barber for his last haircut?" She does a loud shrill squeal, excitedly saying, "It's was my first time. It's not so bad, is it?" I go, "Yeah, it is." She does a fake pout, saying, "You're mean." Then to Matthew, "We had fun doing it, didn't we?" He mutters, "One of us did." She rubs my head, saying, "Oooh, you have beautiful blond hair, Dylan. You should let it grow long, so it's over your ears." I say, "I probably won't do that, I like short haircuts." She says, "If you let it grow in a little I'll give you a free buzz cut like Matthew's." I open my eyes wide, saying, "Maybe I'll pass on that, Tina. I don't want to have to wear a hat twenty-four/seven, ya know?" Another shrill squeal, "Matthew, did you tell him you never take your hat off?" He says, "Yes, I did, because I don't take my hat off, not until my butchered hair grows back," and she hits his arm, saying, "oh, you!" Matthew says, "Thanks for enduring this, Dylan. I'm gonna have you cut my hair like yours in a week or two, if it's okay with you." I'm watching Tina's reaction to that, as I say, "Sure thing, dude." She says, in a stage whisper, "We need to have a discussion about this, Matt." He looks at me rolling his eyes, mumbling, "We just did, Tina," then, "See ya around, Dylan," holding out his fist again, so I bump it with my fist, muttering, "Later." They go off hand in hand. At least Matthew's not pussy-whipped, but I guess I need to scratch his name off my fantasy list.
About fifteen minutes before I'm done for the afternoon, I sneak off behind the scratch ticket machine and text Robby asking him if he can pick me up at the store in fifteen minutes or so. He texts back right away that he'll be outside the side door, but he's got some bad news for me. I frown at my cell phone wondering what the bad news could be. Fifteen minutes later I'm outside waiting for Robby, thinking, 'I had a decent shift today; some interesting boys, but that breakthrough with Matthew had an unfortunate turn when he showed-up with his girlfriend,Tina. Oh well, there's still Shaun, although there's a very slim chance he's gay.' It was fun thinking Matthew might be gay, but I'm still happy he wants the haircut; just not as excited about it as I was an hour ago. God, I think about boys morning, noon, and night. Fuck it though; it's fun flirting around a little bit. Too bad there's so few gay boys; what's the ratio, one out of ten? Something like that. Robby drives up with his great smile, making me feel like he's real happy to see me, which naturally makes me feels good! There's something odd about the way he's steering the pickup though. I get in the passenger side with an equally big smile for him because I am very happy to see his cute face. Then I see he's got his left arm in a sling. "What happened, Robby?" He goes, "Oh man, I wrenched my shoulder; it popped out of the socket. It was wicked painful too. It happened when I slid into third base with a triple. Dude, I wanted that triple so bad I guess I went into the bag awkwardly and my arm caught on the bag as my body kept moving forward; my left arm popped-out of the socket. Hurt like a mother-fucker too." I go, "Jeez, that sucks, Robby." But my first thought is. 'Can he fuck with that shoulder of his aching so much?' Priorities, ya know? Robby answers my unasked question, "We're gonna need to go real slow in bed for a week or so, Dylan. This thing is hurting! But the trainer says it's not as serious as it could have been. When they got me in the club house he was able to manipulate it back in the socket, but I've never felt pain like that before. Some of my teammates came in for morale support so I couldn't cry-out like I wanted to. I was gritting my teeth so hard I'm surprised I didn't chip any of them. Jacoby, this year's captain, patted me on the back afterwards, saying he was proud that one of his teammates 'manned-up' like I did. It almost made the ordeal worth going through. He knows I'm a tough kid now, for all the good it'll do me this year 'cause I'm out for a week to two weeks and that'll be most of the rest of the season. I'm so disappointed, Dylan." And he has tears in his eyes when he says it, which he wipes away with the palm of his good hand. Now I do really feel sorry for him; Robby loves playing baseball more than just about anything! Sometimes I think he loves it more than me, so this is a hard blow for him. I go, "I'm really sorry, Robby, I know how much it means to you." He says, "See, it brought me bad luck that you weren't there to watch me. That's the most fun, I mean you watching me play." I mumble, "Yeah, I know. If I wasn't working, I'd have been there, you know that." He nods, murmuring, "I know..." and somebody blows their horn 'cause we're blocking the guy from backing out of his parking spot. Robby yell, "We're moving, asshole," then jerks the pickup into drive and the tires squeal as Robby pulls away from the curb. I ask, "Can ya drive okay, you want me to drive?" He says, "I was gonna asks you to until that asshole blew his horn. I'm so frustrated, Dylan!" with more tears in his eyes. I don't know what to do. It's Robby's left shoulder, so his left arm is in the sling. He can drive with one hand well enough to get us home anyway, but he's in pain making any abrupt movements. Poor kid.
I watch him closely as we drive the short distance home. When I texted him for a ride, he wasn't like most guys with an injury like his... most guys would have said 'No, I can't pick you up, Dylan. My fuckin' arms in a sling and I'm in pain!' Not Robby though, he is a tough kid! As he awkwardly parks over the lines, I mumble, "I'll park it, Robby." He's pissed, "Goddammit! I can't do anything with my shoulder killing me like this. My arm's half numb and the other half is aching!" Slamming the pickup into park, he climbs out cursing, and I slide over behind the wheel to park the truck between the lines. Damn, this pickup seems huge compared to Chubby's and my Jeep. Robby says, "Grab my backpack, will ya?" I grab both our backpacks and then hop out and lock the pickup. "What are you taking for the pain, Robby?" He takes a plastic container from his pocket and looks at it, mumbling, "The trainer gave me these, um, Motrin. I took two an hour and a half ago; I'll take two more in a little while." We trudge up the flight of stairs to our apartment with Robby muttering, "Ow! Goddammit!" a few times when he accidentally moves his arm. In the apartment he says, "The trainer said to put a small pillow between my arm and ribs; I forget why." We don't have a small pillow, so I fold a towel and Robby uses that under his left arm, mumbling, "I don't notice any pain reduction. I gotta sit down," which is what he does. I get a pillow off the bed and reposition it this way and that until I get him in a position where his shoulder isn't touching anything. Robby says, "This is good, Dylan. Thanks, man. Oh jeez, this sucks!" Chubby comes bustling in now, saying, "I saw Ears on campus and he told me what happened, Robby. Sorry, dude. Bad friggin' break. I hear it was an awesome triple though!" Robby mutters, "Thanks, Chubby. My shoulder's killing me." Chubby and I shrug at each other, not knowing what to do. Then Robby, noticing the awkward silence, says, "I'm good now, guys. Don't worry," then he asks me, "What are we having for dinner, Dylan? I'm hungry." Relieved to have something constructive to do, I say, "I'll check the freezer," then, "Wait a minute, it's you're turn for dinner, Chubby." He goes, "I need to take a raincheck on that one, dude. I'm taking Samatha out to dinner tonight. She's hinting that if I'm good she'll put out for me, and dudes I'm desperate for some of that." I go, "With her?" He chuckles, saying, "Yes, with her. You wouldn't understand, bro. But tomorrow, I'm in charge of the dinner and that's a promise. Gotta take a shower now. Sorry about the shoulder, Robby... that really sucks, man!" and he pats Connor's head, then smiles at me, asking, "Can you loan me twenty bucks? I don't have time to get to the ATM machine." I get a look of astonishment on my face, and he goes, "I know, I know... I just worked through spring break and I've got the money, but it's in the bank. I'll pay you back." Rolling my eyes, I pull my money out of my pocket, muttering, "Jesus, I only got twenty-five dollars on me." Chubby gentle slides all the bills from my hand, saying, "Oh, that's better yet. You'll get it back tomorrow, Dylan. What are buddies for?!" Off he goes to his bedroom.
Robby and I grin at each other. Robby says, "Better him than you or me," referring to Chubby getting laid tonight with a, gasp, girl! Then he chuckles, asking, "How would you like to, not only buy her dinner, but then you still gotta screw her afterwards?" We both go, "Euuuu!" and do a uncomfortable little laugh. I say, "I'll check the refrigerator, Connor's coming for a haircut, like I told ya before, so I told him to come for dinner too." Robby's like, "Of yeah, that's cool, and dammit, I was going to give him the haircut too. I can't do it with one arm like this; you'll have to do his haircut, Dylan." Thinking to myself, 'Ya can't do it with two arms either,' but instead I lie, hoping to make him feel good. "Yeah, I guess I'll have to do the haircut now, but I told Connor you were doing it and he was excited about that. Oh well, next time maybe." Robby's like, "Hell, you can do it probably better than me anyway." In my head, I go, 'Duh, ya think?' But I don't say it. Instead, I check-out our food supply. I was at Stop & Shop for three and a half hours where there's every kind of food imaginable, yet I never gave a thought to buying any of it. Dumb! Of course, it is Chubby's turn, but I didn't remember that until a few minutes ago so that's no excuse. Looking in the freezer I see we have have half a rack of baby back ribs. Ah ha! Pork and beans; I know we have baked beans in the pantry. I say, "How 'bout baby back ribs cooked with baked beans, Robby?" He asks, "Do with have apple sauce and stuff for a salad." I check and report, "Why yes we do." He goes, "That's gold then, sounds delicious." I put the ribs in the microwave to defrost, and get out a casserole dish and spray it with Pam. If I missed that step it'd be a bitch to clean the dish later. Opening two cans of beans, I'm thinking that there's really only enough ribs for two good eaters, so I find two cut pork chops in the freezer, and defrost them too. I like to cook, so I'm not really put out having to prepare the dinner again tonight. Robby groans, then asks, "Would you get me something to drink, Dylan, so I can take more Motrin? And then I need to lay down until dinner; how long will that be?" I get a glass of orange juice, saying, "At least an hour and a half, Robby. The pork needs to cook a while in the juice of the beans to be tender, the way we like it." He goes, "Okay, maybe I can take a friggin' nap and forget this pain for awhile." He swallows the pills and drinks the whole glass of orange juice, then I help get him comfortable on the bed, which proves to be harder than you'd think. It ain't easy because he can't have any pressure on his shoulder. There's no way we're gonna be doing anything sexy for a few days at least. I want to be pissed about that, but my concern for Robby even overrides my concerns of a sexless few days. Overrides it momentarily anyway. He finally says, "This is good, Dylan. I feel comfortable, but throw that conformer over me, okay? And thanks, I love you for being so nice about this." I go, "Don't be silly, it's the least I can do for my boyfriend." He smiles, mumbling, "I like the sound of that, Dylan. Thanks..."
Back in the kitchen I wonder at the unexpected twists and turns of life. Who could even imagine this happening? Especially when Robby and my sex has been at it's best lately. Damn! Fate sucks! Oh well, time to concentrate on the dinner. I set the oven at 350 degrees, and pour both cans of beans into the casserole then add catchup, a little mustard, some barbecue sauce, brown sugar, and dark Karo syrup to the beans. I cut up a sweet onion and throw that in along with two hot cherry peppers; oh yeah, some sweet and spicy baked beans. Stirring it all before laying the pork on top of the beans and then pour Karo syrup on the ribs and chops. They're overlapping, but that won't matter. Adding a half cup of water, so there's lots of sweet zesty liquid to surround the pork, I top it with a tight lid and put it in the microwave to give it a head-start, then pop it in the oven on a tray which will catch the overflow when it gets bubbling. Okay, now I make the same salad dressing I made last night, cutting the head of iceberg lettuce into quarters, then wrap one of the sections in Saran wrap for future use. The other three I put on separate salad plates, cover them with Saran wrap and put them in the refrigerator so they stay cold and crispy. Opening a jar of apple sauce and pouring it into a bowl I sprinkle the top with a little nutmeg and cinnamon and put that on the table. Then set the table with paper napkins and silverware and take our last French bread role out of the freezer to let it defrost by itself, and I'm done. Smoking a cigarette on the balcony, thinking about the great sex Robby and I have been enjoying lately, I get an indication from my cell phone that I'm getting a text message. Looking at it I see it's from Connor, the text reads, "I'm outside your apartment, front door's locked." Oops, out here I didn't hear the bell, so inside I go to let him in. We always keep the door locked, ya can't be too safe and if we don't lock it the door won't stay closed. Connor's smile is a combination of happiness and shyness. Even with me he's shy when he first greets me. With others he's shy all the way through until it's time to say goodbye. I go, "Connor! Awesome that you could come over tonight," and I give him a two arm hug. He's wearing his backpack for reasons unknown. Some kids don't go anywhere without their backpack and I often wonder what's in there that they'll need at the mall, for instance. Connor goes, "You're the awesome one, Dylan. Um, where's Robby and Chubby?" I go, "Chubby's in the shower and Robby's napping. Did ya hear about his accident?" Connor shakes his head 'no' with a look of concern on his face. He's so attractive, and without thinking about it, I kiss him, quickly on the lips. Connor blushes and grins, muttering, "Thanks," and I lead him inside. He holds up a loaf of Italian bread, saying, "Um, I didn't know what to bring, ya know? Is this stupid?" I go, "Absolutely not! It's perfect! That's so nice of you, Connor; we'll eat it tonight with dinner. Thanks, dude." He moves his head around and blushes again, like he's self conscious about something, although I cant imagine what. Giving his shoulders a hug, I mumble, "Our loaf of bread probably wouldn't have defrosted in time for dinner, you saved the day!" Of course that's a lie because bread is awesome for freezing and quickly defrosting at room temperature, but I put the French bread back it the freezer and put Connor's Italian loaf on the cutting board for later.
Connor's standing in the same spot I led him to initially so I say, "Um, I was smoking a cigarette when you texted, ya wanna join me?" He stutters, "Ah, um, that is... well, I forget my cigarettes." I go, "We'll smoke your's some other time; I got plenty. Come on out on the deck with me. It's pretty nice out there tonight." It's quarter to seven so we'll be eating late again tonight. We go out and I pick-up what's left of my cigarette and shake one out from the box for Connor. He mumbles, "Thanks, I hate always bumming smokes off of you." After Connor lights-up there's an awkward silence. Connor is more relaxed after he gets into the flow of things, so it's usually a little awkward at first. To fill the void I explain Robby's situation and then ask Connor if he'd like his haircut before dinner. He asks, "Do we have time?" I go, "Most definitely, as soon as we finish our cigarettes." Done mine, I flick it off Connor's arm. He chuckles, picks it up and drops it over the railing to join the one I flicked off the railing last night. They're both near or on the balcony below us. Connor says, "You do that on purpose don't you?" I mutter, "Yeah, for chuckles," and when Connor's ready he drops his butt about where he dropped mine, with me hoping no one's outside from the apartment below. Back inside the apartment I peek in on Robby and find him sleeping. That's a blessing for him. As I'm getting out the barber equipment Chubby emerges from his bedroom looking clean and cool. His hair's combed just right, his face is shiny and bright, and his earring looks cool too. He's wearing my best button-down shirt, the one mom gave me for Christmas from A & F, on a big sale. I look at Chubby and remember what Robby said about Chubby and me having some of the same facial features, and I'm shocked to realize that Chubby's nose is like mine. I glance at the mirror on the wall and I'll be damn, they're very similiar. Oh boy, I like that! Funny I never noticed it until Robby mentioned it during our reunion a few nights ago. Chubby rubs his hand in Connor's hair, saying, "My bro giving you a haircut tonight, I hear," and Connor mumbles, "Hi, Chubby. You look cool." Chubby goes, "You sound surprised by that, Connor. Dude, I always look cool! And you ain't looking too bad yourself! Is he, Dylan?" I go, "Ya got that right. Hey Chubby, we have the same nose. Have you noticed that?" He goes, "Yeah, lots of people have a nose, in case you didn't know." I go, "No, I mean... oh, never mind." Chubby says, "Oh man, what ya cooking? It smells delicious." I tell him, and he says, "Damn! I'm sorry I'm gonna miss that; it's one of my favorites. Hope ya didnt forget the Karo syrup." I go, "Get serious." And Chubby asks Connor, "Ya got a joke for me, Connor? I need one so I can tell it at dinner and be a hot shit, ya know?" Connor thinks, then asks, "You guys heard the one about the retired Floridian Italian men?" Chubby and me shake our heads 'no', grinning. I say, "Tell us, Connor." He goes:
"Well, six retired Italian guys in Florida are playing poker in the condo's club house when Guido losses $500 in a single hand. He stands-up, clutches his chest and drops dead. Showing respect for their fallen comrade the other five men stand while finishing the night playing cards. Two hours later, one of them asks, "So who's gonna' tell Guido's wife?" They cut the cards and Pasquale picks the low card and has to inform the wife. The guys tell him to be discreet, and he says, "Discreet? I'm the most discreet guy you've ever met. Leave it to me." He goes to Guido's house and says to the wife, "Your husband lost $500 in one hand of poker tonight and he's afraid to come home." The wife yells, "Tell him to drop dead already!" Pasquale says, "Okay, I'll go tell him."
We all groan a little, but then chuckle. Connor's looking like he wished he'd told another joke, so I say, "Cute joke, Connor, more a smile type joke than laugh out loud, ya know. I liked it!" Connor's doing that shy movement of his head again, and I can't help but hug him and sway him back and forth. He's docile in my arms, as Chubby's saying to Connor, "You don't understand; that's a perfect joke to tell a girl. Like Dylan says, it's cute and it don't have any curse words in it to speak of. Thanks, man!" and he pats Connor's shoulder. Connor looks more pleased with himself now after getting the endorsement from Chubby. All the guys feel protective of Connor's shyness; hope the guys in the Army are too. Chubby gives me a one arm hug, muttering, "I'll get that money back to first thing tomorrow, Dylan. Thanks." And then he's out the door, looking and smelling good. I look at the door he just went through feeling my special love for him. He may appear to be taking advantage of me at times, but I can remember many instances where it's the other way around. Chubby and me know each other inside and out, and we know how to be supportive of each other too, financially and in every other way you can think of. If anything, Chubby's done more things for me than I've ever done for him. Connor asks, "Where should I sit for my haircut, Dylan?" I always cut hair on a tile surface because it's easy to sweep-up the clippings, so I turn one of the stools around on this side of the kitchen bar, away from the kitchen, and pat the seat. Connor pulls his sweatshirt over his head like all the guys do for their haircuts. I have a plastic cape, but it's geeky and no one want me to put it around them. That's the reason I don't get a cloth one. Connor has a nice body, not skinny, but not a bit overweight either. He just doesn't have a lot of definition to his body like Chubby, Dodger, and Robby have in their taut bodies. Well, mine too actually. The Dickers brothers work-out because they're athletes, Dodger in swimming and diving, and Robby with baseball of course. Maybe some people don't consider swimmers or baseball players as being real athletes, but that's just because they don't know shit about athletes. Connor has the natural delicious personal scent the others have, although they're all different, and maybe it's just me that's wired correctly enough to enjoy it. When the barber equipment is plugged in, laying on a sheet of newspaper on the bar next to Connor, I comb his hair amazed at how much it's grown in six, or has it been seven weeks. I ask, "Okay, what's your final decision for a haircut style?" He says, "Do ya think it's long enough to cut it like Chubby's? He looked cool tonight." Damn, he asked me to cut it like Chubby's last year once too, and now, like back then, I feel a tinges of jealousy. I like it when Connor wants his hair cut like mine, whatever my hair style is at the time. Well, to be accurate about it, he did ask me about him getting a haircut like I'm rollin' with now, and I discouraged him, so I guess I shouldn't feel bad. I say, "Absolutely, Connor. You'll need to train the hairs on top to lay down with some gel for a week or so, then they'll lay down on their own." He says, "Well, if it's okay with you, that's what I'd like this time." Then he quickly adds, "I'm torn between a haircut like yours and the one Chubby has, but you didn't seem to think I'd look that good in yours so I'm just following your advise." Connor always wants to be sure no one's feelings get hurt, that's Connor for ya. I go, "You'd look good in any haircut, Connor, you're so fuckin' good looking it's sick." He goes, "Aw, you're always saying that, Dylan, and thanks, but you always know what I say about that." To keep it loose, I go, "Yeah, I do. Why do you think I say it to you?... haha. He says it anyway, "I always say you're the best looking, cutest kid, I've ever seen." I go, "That's bull, but I like to hear it just the same," and I punch his bare arm lightly. He mutters, "It's not bull."
I comb his hair down on top just to be sure it's long enough; it stands right back up, but it's definitely long enough, maybe a little too long. Connor quietly says, "I like when you comb my hair. I shampooed it twice in the shower before coming over to be sure it's clean for you." I can seldom help myself when a cute boy is sitting there on the barber stool with his shirt off, so I do what I usually do; I get an arm around Connor's neck and squeeze my cheek against his. God, he smells so boyish! Connor, unlike Shaun Sullivan earlier today, leans into me and moves his cheek against mine, while pulling at his crotch. I give him a big wet kiss on the side of his forehead, mumbling, "You're so special, Connor." He gasps, and leans back against me so far he almost falls backwards off the stool. I straighten him up as he whispers, sounding out of breath, "Can we do that kissing thing again, Dylan? You know, the one that made me cum in my pants in the cupola?" When I hesitate, he says so quietly I can hardly hear him, "Pleeeease." I glance at Robby's and my bedroom, then quietly say, "Just a second, Connor," and walk over to look in the bedroom. Robby's breathing steadily, in a merciful deep asleep. Pain like he's experienced makes a person exhausted. I quietly close the bedroom door and walk back to Connor. "Okay, Connor, I'd like to do that kiss with you 'cause you're delicious. Some gay boy is going to be so lucky to find you; I just hope he's worthy of you." With Connor still sitting, and me standing at his side, I get his face between the palms of my hands to turn his head towards me a little, and gently kiss his lips, then kiss him with feeling and he kisses back wonderfully. Connor's learned this kissing style, my style, quickly. I thought, one time, that he must be practicing with someone, but I don't believe he is; not since he told me I'm the only person we hang-out with who knows he's gay. My tongue goes in his mouth and our tongues do a slow dance of pleasure. One of my hands is behind his head now and my other one caressing his chest and belly. Connor's openly playing with himself with his left hand, his right hand is holding onto my side. A long French kiss gets a moan from Connor. I slide my tongue out and drag my wet lips and tongue around his cheek, then do what Robby does to me; I lick a lot of my saliva up the front of Connor's nose and lick across his lips, then get my tongue between his lips and he opens his mouth to suck on my tongue. Conner's hips start humping forward slightly. He's moaning continuously now, his eyes closed. My arm goes around his shoulders as his docile body lays against me. I get my tongue in his mouth and we do another luscious French kiss for a full minute as Connor begins the squeaky noises that sound like he's in pain, but of course he isn't. Then, just as I'm about to do the lick up the front of his nose again both his arms go around me as he's moves sideways on the stool. He hugs his body against me humping his hips, low grunting sounds in his throat, then a hard hump of his hips, almost lifting his ass off the stool, followed by a few lesser ones. His body relaxes against mine for a second, so he must have just climaxed. He does a long, quiet, "Mmmmmmm, ooooh, mmmm," rubbing his face against mine, spreading our spit on both our faces before he nestles in against me, at rest. He lays against me calmly now, his eyes still lightly closed. Obviously I've got a boner in my pants, but I didn't approach orgasm although it did feel really good down there. I've been getting fucked regularly, and Connor hasn't, so he spunks easier than me. Well, he always has actually. I hold him like this for a minute or so letting him enjoy the wonderfulness of climaxing, and then quietly say, "I'll get you some clean underwear before the cum soaks through to your sweatpants, okay?" He says, "Did I make another fool of myself, Dylan? I just can't resist the chance to, you know, do stuff with you. When I slept with you after my embarrassing drunk last Saturday night, it was the most perfect night of my life. We did the double-shot in the morning, remember?" I ruffle his awesome head of hair, mumbling, "You did the double-shot, dude, I did the single shot." He goes, "Oh, yeah, that's right." Quietly, I suggest. "Why don't you go into Chubby's bathroom and I'll pass some boxer shorts to ya." That's what he does.
In the bedroom, I find that Robby's still sleeping. I grope my shrinking boner staring at him for a minute, then grab the newest, clean, pair of boxer shorts I have, which are also a Christmas gift. I've worn them numerous times but they're clean now. Passing the shorts to Connor in Chubby's bathroom, he asks, "What should I do with my wet underwear, Dylan?" I say, "Give them to me, I'll put them with my dirty clothes and wash them when I do the wash." "They're pretty messy," he says, and that makes me smile. I mean, yeah, they probably are pretty messy... heehee. "Just hand then to me, I'll take care of them," and his hand comes out holding a pair of white boxer shorts. I take them from him and because I'm a perv, spread them open to see the damage. There's a large wet cum stain on the front of course, but no tread marks at the crack like there would be if these were Dodgers, haha! Robby probably wiped these with a washcloth before handing them to me because there's no drooling cum on them, just the big wet spot. In the bedroom again, I pick-up a few of my dirty clothes from the pile in the corner and drop Connor's on the pile, then cover them with the dirty clothes I'd picked-up. No sense in Robby seeing a pair of cum stained boxers that he knows don't belong to him or me. Connor's sitting sheepishly on the stool when I return and he's probably feeling a little remorseful; feeling he's done something he shouldn't have, which is how I felt sometimes afterwards when I'd walk four miles to fat-Carl's to nag him to fuck me. Some inexperienced gay boys have remorse, like Connor and I experience, after early sexual encounters, but then later we want to do it again. I go, "That was awesome, Connor. I loved it, you're a great make-out, dude, you really are." He perks-up a little, but says, "I feel like I made an ass of myself. It's like I can't control myself around you, or something." I go, "No way, Connor. Did it feel good?" He's shaking his head 'yes' muttering, "Way better than good. I love your mouth, heh heh; and you." That's the second time he's snuck in that 'I love you' card. Once when he was drunk and just now. I say, "Right back at ya, dude!" and squeeze his neck. He mutters, "You know what I mean," and I go, "Yeah, I do, and I'm flattered beyond words, but I got this problem: I'm in love with Robby and you're joining the Army. Love me if it makes you feel okay, but only until you find your true love." He says, "I'll never find someone like you again." I go, "Find someone better than me, Connor. Someone more like yourself, that should be your goal, and it's not gonna be easy because you're so special, but you'll find him. I know you will; give it time." He nods his head, but I don't think he believes me. And where'd I get all that good advise anyway? Hope it's good advise. Connor takes a deep breath and straightens his slumped shoulders, saying, "Okay, Dylan, I'll look for that guy, but do you mind if I keep a little hope in my heart that you somehow fall out of love with Robby and fall in love with me? I mean, sometime in the future, after I get out of the Army." I go, "It'd be better if you found someone better than me, Connor, you deserve someone better. Trust me on that." He sighs, then quietly says, "I don't want to be argumentative, but I don't think a boy better than you exists; I won't bug you about it anymore though." I have tears in my eyes standing behind him; it's sad when someone falls in love for the first time and that love can't be returned. I put my hands on his shoulders and squeeze, managing to say, "You never bug me, Connor. And thank you for your faith in me; I wish I had as much in myself." Then another shoulder squeeze as I make myself get out of my sentimental frame of mind, and try to sound upbeat, going, "Let's do this haircut now, okay?" He says, "Yeah, sure, and thank you for being so nice about everything, Dylan. You treat me better than any person I've ever known my whole life." Jesus! Will he stop with this; he'll having me bawling. I get absurdly sentimental some times; hope it's not a girlie trait! I cry too easily too. Connor probably wouldn't have been able to say all these sweet things if we were looking at each other, but his back's been to me the whole time. I go, "I don't deserve your admiration, but I appreciate it tremendously. And you'll have me crying if you keep it up." He quietly says, "Sorry, but I feel brave now that I've finally been able to tell you how I feel. I'm glad I said it too, because it's from my heart, and I needed to tell you." I mumble, "Thank you, Connor," and I hug his neck and kiss his cheek, muttering, "You're so special I can't even put it into words." And he is too, and actually I can't put it into words, I didn't just say that for something to say. But I turn on the clippers now, hoping we're done talking like this because it's just intensifying the compassion I have for Connor, and the serious worry in my heart for him in the Army. He's too gentle and sweet a soul for the rough characters he'll encounter. And I'm not saying he's feminine, because there's absolutely nothing feminine about him.
He straightens-up on the stool and I cut his hair exactly like I cut Chubby's last Friday night. One half inch attachment on the clippers that I run up the sides of his head and the back, bringing the clippers over the crown so the hairs at the very back, on top, are half-inch bristles; the rest of the top hairs will lay flat, forward, and the front hairs at his forehead will flip up. Cute! All the boys who I give haircuts to have great hair, and Connor's definitely no exception. I use a comb and the bare clippers to take a quarter inch off the top hair and even-out the front hairs. Then do a little tapering with scissors and comb at the neck and at the top of the sides. Then use gel to comb the hairs on top down; the hairs in front stay up on their own. Outlining around the ears and neck finishes the haircut except I stretch it out, for both our sakes, by doing little, basically unnecessary clipping here and there. Finally, not being able to draw out this intimate time with Connor any longer, I hand him the handheld mirror, saying, "Ta da! All done." Connor goes on, unnecessarily, about what an awesome job I did, although I gotta admit it is a very good haircut. And he does look really good with this style. I remember me thinking the same thing the other time I cut his hair like this. There's something sexy about cutting a buzz cut though; and, like I thought when I was ogling Matthew's hair Sunday, maybe I've contracted a touch of Dodger's fetish, caught it from him... haha. Not that that's a bad thing, not at all. Dodger has a lot of fun with it; most people enjoy their fetish, whatever it may be. I've recently admitted to myself that I've a submissive fetish; being submissive makes it extra hot when I'm with a sex partner who knows how to be dominant. I mean, come on, what fun would it be to act submissive to a sex partner who doesn't get it? He'd just think I'm a wimp, which I guess I am when I'm in that trance-like submissive state of mind. It doesn't bother me though, 'cause I know I'm not a wimp, not when I need to be tough. When I need to man-up I do it. I have these thoughts while Connor's praising my haircutting ability and I'm putting away the barber equipment. I mumble my thanks to Connor for his enthusiastic response to his latest haircut, then grab a broom and a dustpan to sweep-up the hair on the tile floor, but Connor takes the broom, saying, "Please let me do this, Dylan. I want to help." He does a meticulous job of cleaning the area, then puts the broom and dustpan away. I tell him, "We still have a half hour before dinner, do you want to have a smoke outside with me?" He goes, "I'd like that, but would it be okay with you if I worked on stuff I need to do for class tomorrow instead? I brought my books." I go, "Absolutely, Connor. You don't need to ask me, just do what you need to do, dude." He grins, "Thanks. I'm never sure what's appropriate; guess I haven't had much experience going out to a friends place for dinner." I squeeze the back of his neck, mumbling, "You're priceless, Connor. How 'bout working at the kitchen table until we're ready for dinner?" He smiles at me, then goes, "Yeah, that'll be perfect, Dylan. Thanks," and he gets some papers and a book from his backpack and gets to work. Conscientious boy!
I wander into the bedroom to check on Robby, then go outside to smoke and wonder about stuff some more. I wonder why Willie hasn't called me, and if I should call him. I'm half afraid he'll just show-up and it'll be more than awkward; especially now that Robby's hurt and needs my help doing things. I'm also wondering what kind of a sex life Robby and I are going to be able to handle with his shoulder so painful, and decide I'm not optimistic about that. The problem's made worse because of my abundant sexual activities the last ten days; it's been unprecedented and stopping cold-turkey might be very difficult. Then I wonder why the hell I was so sure Matthew was gay when he never gave any signs of it. It was projection on my part, I guess. I also have to wonder why I'd hoped he was gay, because what did I think him being gay had to do with me? I wonder what it's like being straight too, especially being straight with a a shrill girlfriend like Tina, Matthew's girlfriend? And what would it be like to put my penis in a girls slit, her vagina; I think that's the right term for it. A girl's soft body with those awful breast of soft stuff. I guess they're soft; my mother's are when she hugs me. Of course, mom hugging me is nice; I love my mom, but with other girls I don't think I'd like that at all. I was born with the homosexual gene, that's all there is to it. I feel I'm lucky, but straight boys probably think I'm flawed, and I guess if you go by the numbers I am. Or could it be that the vast majority of males are the flawed ones and only us gay boys got it right? No, that couldn't be because there'd be no births if everyone was perfect like us gays are... hahaha. Ah, another mystery of life; way more mysteries than answers in my life, but I'm very happy in my ignorance. I also wonder, and worry, about how someone as wonderful as Connor can be dealt such a hard life, and yet he seems to thrive in it better than much more privileged kids, like Willie. I'll bet Connor, with all his disappointments is happier than Willie when everything's considered. I hope Connor's happy. I wonder how Chubby and me can have the same noses with different mothers and different fathers, and I wonder how many boys I interact with every day are secretly gay, but can't act on it, or maybe can't even admit it to themselves. There's a lot to wonder about, but is it healthy to do so? I mean, it just shows me how stupid I am about so many things. And, is it Connor that's gotten me into this pensive mood? I wonder about that for a minute, then yell out, "Stop it, Dylan! Stop it!" while shaking my head to clear it of things to ponder. Wow! That yelling helped get me back to reality. I take a deep breath, then go inside.
Connor's looking at me when I come in past the sliding balcony doors. He's got a questioning expression on his face. "Was that you yelling just now, Dylan? Is something wrong?" I go, "Not where you're concerned, Connor. I just yell sometimes to get it out, ya know? Yelling at yourself can change your own mood, right?" He goes, "Um, if you say so. Can you help me with this?" I go over and spend ten minutes working on some problems in his "Educational Technology" course. Not that I know anything about it, but it helps if I look-up definitions while Robby tries to match the technology to a proper application. It's an exercise in his work-book for this course. Connor hasn't picked a major, none of us have, but he's leaning towards Education & Teaching. That is, after his three year tour of duty, or is it two? I'm not going to ask him because it might bring him down and Connor seems relaxed and happy at the moment, so I'll leave it like that and hope his happy mood continues. When dinner's ready I go into the bedroom and find that Robby's awake. He takes a deep breath, then mumbles, "This really sucks, Dylan. I tried to get up, but it puts pressure on muscles near my shoulder and the fuckin' aching starts-up again. Can you put your hand behind me and push me up, um, without touching near my left shoulder. I go, "Sure," and that's what I do. Sitting up, Robby swings his legs over the side of the bed and walks cautiously into the living room, where Connor asks, "How ya feeling, Robby." Robby tries for a grin, but it's more like a grimace, he mutters, "Not real great, Connor," then he brightens, and says, "Hey, Connor, you're rocking' Chubby's hair style now, dude." Connor goes, "Yep, I saw Chubby earlier and his hair looked cool, but yours does too, Robby." Robby runs the fingers of his free hand through his own hair, asking, "How long's it been since I had a haircut, Dylan?" I go, "I don't know, it's been awhile, dude." He mutters, "I'll wait until I get out of this sling and feel better. I don't want to diminish the haircut experience with you," and he gives me a sly grin. I grin back, mumbling, "Nah, we wouldn't want to do that." Connor makes a popping sound with his lips, probably thinking about the experience we just had with his haircut. Then he blushes when Robby and I chuckle at him. He says, "I don't know why I made that sound." I squeeze his shoulder, saying, "Lets eat," and that's what we do, with me complimenting how delicious the Italian bread is. Then I say to Robby, "Connor treated us to this awesome loaf of Italian bread." He goes, "Oh, yeah? It's really good! Great for dipping in this sweet and tangy beans sauce too. God, I love this dinner, Dylan!" I mutter, "Thanks, man," and Robby goes, "Dude, you cook better than my mom, but please don't mention that the next time ya see her." After dinner we have cigarettes and talk for awhile on the balcony. Back inside the apartment Robby takes two more Motrin, and says, "That was a great meal, let me treat you guys to ice cream at Treadwell's." I go, "I'm in!" but Connor says, "How 'bout if you drop me off at the dorm, you guys treat me to too many things. I feel like a mooch." Robby pats Connor on the back, saying, "Sorry, Connor, you're stuck with us; we're kidnapping you and taking you to Treadwell's and we're going to force-feed you ice cream too." Connor murmurs, "Thanks, Robby. I never met guys like you before. I'll pay you both back when I'm earning money in the Army." Robby goes, "See that you do, mooch!" and he and I both laugh even though it's not particularly funny. We just want Connor to loosen the fuck up. He does loosen a little, mumbling, "That's the name I'll go by from now on, Mooch Neary.
Treadwell's features many flavors of their homemade ice cream for cones, sundaes, and other stuff too. It's right down route 125 about five miles. I drive us in Robby's pickup. It crowded at Treadwells and Connor will only accept a small cone of pistachio ice cream, which I was thinking of getting; not small, but pistachio. Instead I get a regular cone, it's a big two-dip cone of black raspberry ice cream. Robby orders the regular size cookie dough ice cream. We sit inside to enjoy our cones. Lots of Merrimack kids are here, so we wave or ask, "Sup?" to the ones we know. The ice cream is awesome and so is the waffle cone. Connor says, "This is the best ice cream cone I've ever had," and both Robby and I laugh because Connor says that about everything; it's always the best Easter dinner he's ever had, or best dinner at a restaurant etc. Then I say, "Hey, wait a minute, Connor. You didn't say my dinner was the best you ever had." He goes, "I swear to God, scout's honor, that's the best baked bean and baby back rib casserole I've ever had! I mean it, swear to God! It was so good I forgot to tell you 'cause I was savoring it so much." He's grinning, a little more relaxed finally. He says, "I say everything with you guys is the best because it is, I don't just say it to be polite; I really mean it." Robby goes, "I'm hurt. What about me; what am I the best of?" Connor says, "Your the best freshman second baseman I've ever seen, swear to God!" Robby and me are chuckling. Robby asks, "How many freshman second basemen have you seen?" Connor wrinkles his forehead, thinking; then he says, "I don't know the exact number, but you're definitely the best of them... hands down, and I swear to God that's the truth." I go, "Well, alright then, Robby! You're the best freshman second basement I've ever seen too, swear to God," and I point up to heaven like David Ortiz does every time he hit's a home run. Robby goes, "That's fuckin' touching of you two since I'm the only freshman second baseman on the team, and I'm betting you haven't seen too many other college baseball games". Connor says, "No, not a whole lot, but you're still the best, swear to God." I shrug, and say, "There it is then; it's official." Robby mutters, "Is there some kind of a token award or trophy that goes with that?" I look at Connor, and he says, getting into the swing of things, "Not that I'm aware of at this time," and Robby asks, "Ya swear to God?" Connor nods as he licks his cone, muttering, "Swear to God." We goof around like we're middle school students a while longer; than I drive Connor to his dorm and he tells us this was the best night of his life," and Robby and me say it with him, "Swear to God." It's almost like a gift seeing Connor happy and relaxed, laughing and having goofy fun with us other goofs.
On the ride back Robby's quiet, and I'm beginning to think he was probably in some discomfort at Tredwell's but didn't want to be a drag, so he participated in all the nonsense with the rest of us. I mumble, "Nice seeing Connor have a good time and open-up a little, wasn't it?" Robby says, "It sure was, Dylan. You're a good friend to him, and he needs a good friend, and deserves one too." I say, "Thanks, but you're a good friend to him too." Robby mutters, "I try," then he says, "I might as well admit it; I've been thinking about this, and I simply am not going to be able to have sex with you for a couple of days, at least... I'm hurting too much, I can't fuck you, Dylan. As much as I long to do it, I can't with this fuckin' shoulder of mine. Can we try some oral sex, maybe?" I go, "Bank on that, dude. Don't worry about it, it's not like we're sex fiends or something. A few days, a week, whatever... that's fine." He mumbles, "You're the best, Dylan, but maybe I am a sex fiend because I'm gonna miss it something terrible." I go, "Well, sure! Me too, but we're good." It's only ten o'clock when we get back to the apartment, but Robby's beat so we strip to our boxers and he sits on the edge of the bed. I suck his cock on my knees in between his very nice legs; especially nice legs for an athlete. I get him hard, but as soon as he gets a little aroused his shoulders twitch and all I hear are muffled, "Ow, uh, ow," so I stop and look up at him. "This isn't going to work either, is it Robby?" He says, "No, goddammit! I'm so sorry, Dylan, but every time I move it aches. It'll be better in a couple of days.... I hope." I pat his thigh, getting up on my feet, saying, "Jeez, Robby, it's alright. I understand," and then give him a sloppy kiss on the mouth. He mutters, "God, I love you, Dylan." I go, "Me too, Robby, let me help you get cleaned-up". We both drop our boxers in the bathroom and I put a plastic covering on his sling and then help him wash under the shower. Shampooing his hair, I go, "Damn, how long has it been since your last haircut? I know you asked that earlier, but I didn't realize your hair was getting so long." Robby says, "I want a buzz cut for the summer, Dylan, but it can wait till my arm and shoulder heal." I go, "Yeah! How 'bout the summer, Robby? That's something good to look forward to, fer sure. I can't wait to get back on your grass cutting crew. I'm gonna be the hardest worker on the crew, and have the most positive attitude of everyone. I wanna be the perfect employee for my boss." Robby tells me again, "You know I can't show you favoritism 'cause my dad says that would ruin the morale of the other boys on the crew. And, um, I'm sorry, but he's right. I'll probably need to be a little harder on you to prove there's no favoritism because the guys aren't stupid, they'll know or find out from the grapevine that we're best friends. I hope you don't get mad at me." Fuck that! Get mad at him? Him saying he'd need to be hard on me made my dick come alive and move between my legs, from my right thigh to my left. I give it a nice squeeze. Damn! What Robby said was hot, almost a dominant statement. If Robby's gonna get tough with me on his crew, maybe I can get by without Willie this summer. Yeah, but I can't say right now that I want to get by without him. I gotta be honest with myself, and why hasn't he called me? I say to Robby, "I'm not about to disappoint you, Robby. You can count on me to do the dirty work for the crew, I'm your man for that, so you don't need to worry about it." Robby's nodding his head, then he looks at me, and says seriously, "It's good we had this talk, Dylan... um, it's been on my mind as we get closer to the summer break." I reach over and hug his waist, then I get a towel and dry his hot body, being careful not to jolt his shoulder, "We'll be a great team forever, Robby." He say, "I know that better than you do, Dylan. You still don't realize how high my compete level is when it comes to you. I'm not particularly worried about Worthington because I go balls to the wall for something I want badly enough, and especially when I must have it, and you're the 'it' I'm talking about. I'm not taking any prisoners, I'll win you and I don't care if it takes me all my life." I'm shocked at the intensity Robby's putting out. Then, the thought of him trying to kill that psycho, Joel, slips by my mind for a second making me wonder about that again. What would Robby do if he doesn't get what he wants? Never mind me, what if it's something else; could this all American boy be dangerous? Then I get a grip, 'You asshole,' I think to myself, 'Robby's a wonderful, sweet, caring, and even sorta naive boy who I love with all my heart.' I say, "I know you're competitive, Robby. Wish I was a little more like that."
Then I step in the shower to wash myself, as he's saying, "Don't you change a thing about yourself, Dylan. I love you just the way you are; I'm happy to take the good with the bad, not that there's much bad where you're concerned. Truth is, I wish I was more like you and I'm working on that." Hmmm, I'm thinking, 'That's a cryptic remark from Robby!' He's back in the bedroom now, pulling on boxer shorts with one hand, cursing quietly as he jolts his injured shoulder. Then he goes into the kitchen for more Motrin. He's about as dangerous as I am. And this abstinence will be a good test to see just how much will power I have. I'm determined to go as long as a whole week without sex; I'll be a martyr for Robby. Then, straining my neck to see where Robby is, I take a chance and jerk-off in the shower using my soapy hand while thinking of Robby fucking me, and I soon have myself a nice orgasm. Will power, my ass!
to be continues... Donny Mumford thinat20@yahoo.com
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