DYLAN'S JUNIOR YEAR AT COLLEGE
Chapter 13
DONNY MUMFORD
After picking up Frankie and Beth at their dorm, Chubby drives us across campus, asking an obvious question, "Who knows how to get to this place?"
Beth confidently answers, "It's easy to get to. Drive down 114 a couple of miles, the frat house is on the right, not far from the campus. I was there two or three times last year." I ask, "What exactly are we looking for?"
and Beth says, "You can't miss it. It's a really big brick house with a wide front porch and columns, like a Southern plantation mansion. And it's surrounded by trees." Huh, personally I know very little about fraternities, and what I do know was gleaned from other students, who themselves have never been a fraternity member. Frankly the idea of pledging to a fraternity never crossed my mind when contemplating college. It seems as though it would isolates you within that smallish group, and then there's a snooty, elitist element to it as well. None of the Greek letter houses are on campus, so understandably I don't personally know even one frat brother. The off campus properties are owned by the fraternities, bought many years ago by founding members. Current members are mostly offspring of previous members and they pay something like $2500 a semester for room and board. That's pretty much all I know about the topic, and I can't vouch for any it; it's merely what I've been told.
Something soon becomes apparent: the frat house is not 'just down 114 a couple of miles', like Beth said. Robby drives for ten minutes without finding anything remotely resembling a frat house. Frankie says, "Maybe you should have driven the other way on route 114." Robby exhales exasperatedly, and mumbles, "If I drove west on route 114 for five minutes we'd be in fuckin' Lawrence." I look at Beth, "What's your next best guess how we get there?" No longer confident, Beth sounds confused and frustrated, like somehow it's Robby's driving that's screwed things up. She says, "Frankie, back me up with this. It's off route 114, right?" Frankie mutters, -"If you say so, Beth. I've never claimed to know how to get there, and if we go any further on this road we'll be in Middleton." None of us thought to bring one of the notices that were displayed all over the campus. If we had, we'd at least know the address and could load it into the GPS. Here we are, four college students driving forty-five miles an hour without knowing where we're going. Brilliant!
Robby pulls into a small strip mall, stopping at a Dunkin' Donut shop. He asks three guys loitering outside, "Any of you guys know of a frat house in this general area?" The three goofs shake their heads, and a buck-tooth kid about sixteen years old, says, "Not exactly. Why do you wanna know?"
Robby goes, "Yeah, sure, why do I wanna know. Jesus!" Muttering, "assholes"
under his breath, he pulls away, saying to us, "We'll go back to the campus and get the address." Beth says, "I'm sorry, I thought it was off this road." Frankie says, "Well, we got pretty drunk before we went to the fraternity party last year, Beth. All I remember is the house being big and in the woods somewhere." I'm thinking it's a good thing Rob had those beers earlier; they've mellowed him out a little. Getting lost is the kind of thing that tends to make a person feel stupid, like running out of gas makes you feel stupid. Also, getting lost in a group tends to get people turning on one another. Mostly I feel dumb for assuming these air-headed girls would know how to get there. It's worst for the driver of course, and even with half-a-load on I know Robby's on the verge of becoming a little testy and snippy.
No one says anything as Robby drives back the way we came. The girls, still clinging to the possibility we drove right by the frat house are swiveling their heads looking for it. When we're almost to Stop & Shop we see Chubby in the Jeep drive past us in the other direction. Chubby and Robby both blow their horn, and then pull over to the side of the road, and back up.
Smirking, Chubby yells over to us, "Don't tell me you guys are done for the night already." Robby yells across the street, "We haven't been there yet.
Nobody thought to figure out how the fuck to get there. I've been driving around without much of a clue." Chubby's grinning, "So you're that guy who's driving a hundred miles an hour the wrong way down a dead-end street, huh?" Robby goes, "Something like that, yeah." Chubby goes, "Turn around and follow me." Robby makes an illegal U-turn and follows Chubby, who almost immediately turns off route 114 up a winding road. Robby and I look at Beth, and she defensively whines, "I told you it was off this road."
Less than a mile up the windy road Chubby turns into a driveway and we hear loud music coming from the frat house, that we still can't see through all the trees. We go around a bend in the road and there it is, a hundred yards ahead. It's a big house alright, with a porch across the front and some pillars. The house and surrounding grounds are as brightly lit as a crime scene. Two fraternity brothers are stopping each car. We're the third car in line and, while we wait, Frankie says, "Oh yeah, that's right. We'll need to pay a couple bucks for plastic cups. The cups give us access to the beer kegs. I remember that much." Huh, it's pretty dumb of me, but it never occurred to me we'd need to pay. That was stupid; why would the fraternity be giving strangers a free beer party. In fact the main reason for having a frat party is to make money for their fraternity. Secondarily, the fraternity brothers throw these parties to attract girls, who the frat boys hope to fuck. We drift up one space closer and Robby brings a smile to my face when he mutters, "I hope you girls brought your wallets with you," and Frankie goes, "Hey! Our dates should pay for us." I snarl, "We're not your dates!"
Beth says, "Why are you so grumpy, Dylan? Frankie was teasing you guys about paying for us." I mutter, "I knew that, and I'm not grumpy. I was teasing you back."
In front of us, Chubby's got his head out the driver's side window commiserating with the two frat guys. All of a sudden they break out laughing, giving Chubby a high five. Still snickering, there's money exchanged and three bright red plastic cups are passed to Chubby. Danny and Golden are in the Jeep with him. I don't know where John Beverly is tonight. I'm surprised he's not with Chubby. When Chubby pulls away, Robby pulls up to the two fraternity brothers. One is a normal size frat boy, who's kinda cute, while the other one is huge, scary looking, and looks like he's thirty years old.
The cute one smiles, asking, "How's everyone doing tonight?" Robby, still annoyed about getting lost, ignores the friendly greeting, and mutters, "What
are you charging for the cups?" The cute frat-boy smiles and says, "You're in luck, it's bargain-pricing tonight. A mere fifteen dollars a cup, and you can drink till you drop. It's Coors beer tonight, boys and girls. Beer directly from the clear cool springs of the Rocky Mountains... or some mountains. I'm pretty sure the mountain is in Colorado though." I'm staring at the side of the cute, smart-ass frat boy's face as I pass Robby fifteen dollars. His facial features remind me of Seth. The guy must feel me staring at him because he turns his head and looks directly at me. I stare back while smelling the back of my hand, and he winks then turns his attention back to Robby. Beth says to Frankie, "I got this girlfriend," and gives Robby a fifty dollar bill for both their cup fees. Robby hands all the money to the frat guy who collects the money, returns change for the fifty, and then the bouncer-guy passes Robby four cups. I suppose he also breaks legs when necessary.
The heavy-duty plastic cups have the fraternity's Greek letters on the side as well as a number. Mine has the number 267 and Robby's is 268, so I guess that's how many $15 cups they've passed out thus far. There are cars behind us so the number will definitely be going up. I'm guessing they'll be a frat boy observing each tapped keg to insure only their cups are being used. A simple, but effective way of making sure everyone pays for their beer.
Robby parks next to the Jeep and I hop out to exchange a quick hug with Chubby. He says, "Be good tonight, bro," and I mutter, "You too, Chub." I bump fists with Golden, "Whassup, Golden?" and Danny gives me a hug, then a bigger hug for Robby. Happily I see Beth's going right over to Golden, and she sticks to him like white on sugar. That brings a big smile to my face.
Robby's not as lucky though as Frankie is almost in his skinny jeans with him. I can't figure out what she hopes to accomplish. Chubby and I lead the way, joining a loud throng of college-age guys and girls in the front yard.
College age for the most part although I notice some partiers who couldn't possibly be twenty-one; not that anyone seems to care. The crowd extends along the front of the house about a hundred feet, then back from the front porch about thirty feet, almost to the first line of parked cars. Then there are guys and girls leaning against cars, while others are inside them, perhaps doing sexy things. The music is loud and so is the crowd, but how could it be otherwise? It's not even ten-thirty, so as the throng increases I expect it'll get even rowdier, maybe reaching border-line obnoxious status.
There are six quarter-kegs of Coors beer at stations along the front porch. The porch is the closest the fraternity's guests are allowed to the house. That's if I can believe the signs indicating, "NO TRESPASSING!' Then, in smaller letters, 'Except for those interested in being castrated, in which case take a number at the door.' Oh brother, really! Apparently frat boys
tend to mature slower than most. There are four porta-potties at the edge of the property, which is to say at the edge of the forest. When we drove in I noticed a gravel road going off to the right that would take us a back to Merrimack's campus in two or three minutes. So this frat house, while secluded in the woods, is only a couple minutes'drive to the college.
Tonight is strictly an outdoor affair, and most everyone is dressed more like one would dress at a ski lodge rather than at a suburban college frat party.
Naturally clouds of pot smoke drift above the crowd and there's an electric vibe in the air from equal parts youthful energy, stupidity from all the bad choices being made, and a large dose of testosterone, mostly from the guys, but some from the girls as well. It's invigorating being here with so many members of the same tribe, so to speak.
We wait in a short line, then fill our cups from a quarter keg of Coors beer. Being outdoors has the advantage of smoking being allowed, so we light cigarettes stepping away from the porch with our beers. Exhaled cigarette smoke mingles with the marijuana smoke floating in the breeze all around us. Due to the number of guys and girls here, our group quickly gets separated, and now Chubby's the openly person I know who's in my vicinity. I ask him, "Do you think fifteen dollars for these twelve ounce cups is a bargain, or a rip-off, Chub?" He says, "Let's do the math, bro. Quarter kegs cost about $70 and there's eighty-two twelve-ounce servings in a quarter keg, which mean each cup of beer cost the frat house about eighty cents. If we assume a six pack is about the maximum quota for most girls, then the fifteen dollar cup cost the frat house less than five dollar's worth of beer; in other words a ten dollar profit. Ten dollar profit times, lets say a minimum of a hundred a fifty girls, so that's a nice chunk of change. Now, on the other hand, a lot of the guys will drink more than that. Let's say some guys drink, or waste, twice as much as a girl. The fraternity still makes more than a five dollars profit from every guy." I go, "Seems fair enough considering they need to go through all the trouble of setting everything up, renting the port-potties, and dealing with the money and cups and all that kinda thing, plus cleaning up afterward." Chubby goes, "Yeah, but mostly it's fun for them; it's what these asshole do. Plus, look over to the far end of the porch." I look way down to the other end of the porch and see shots of liquor being served for two bucks a shot, and the two frat boy bartenders can't pour it fast enough." Frankie and Beth are in line for shots, and there's Danny and Golden, so Robby's probably there too. The girls said they'd need some shots to catch up to the front-loading us guys did at the bar. Oh man, my poor boyfriend is going to be hungover like a motherfucker tomorrow!
A husky guy is at the tap filling his cup. He sees Chubby and goes, "Yo, Romaro, I can't believe these guys are letting Framingham boys mingle with us Wellesley boys?" Chubby goes, "Arthur! Jesus, ya know, every time I see you I think: breath mints." He mutters, "What's that supposed to mean?" and walks off with a fairly nice looking girl. "Who was that, Chub?" he goes, "A would be bully from Wellesley. He hung out at the Dairy Queen when we were in high school, and we had a couple of confrontations. That slob had halitosis like you cannot believe, bro." We talk about incidents we've both had
at the Dairy Queen in our younger days, but the exclusivity for Chubby's attention doesn't last long. Ten minutes into our first cup of beer he's already switched his attention to hit on a pretty African American girl, while her girlfriend is hitting on me. The girl tells me her name is, Sandra, and I tell her my name. Sandra is a big girl, and I don't mean fat, because she isn't fat. She's just big! She's also being condescending to me, which I can't figure out until she asks me, "What grade are you in, Dylan?" which can only mean she assumes I'm still in high school. I assume that because no one asks a college student what 'grade' you're in? They ask, 'what year are you in?'.' Also Sandra is not pretty like her friend. Um, to be more exact she's not pretty at all, plus she's pushy, probably because she's misconstrued that she's stuck with a high school student. Using her misconception to my advantage, I tell her, "I'm a senior at Haverhill High. I came with my big brother, Stewart, who I need to find, and I mean I need to find him right this fucking minute. He told me not to get lost. Excuse me," and I slink away. She didn't look overly disappointed about my departure. On second thought, Sandra looks kinda like an unattractive guy wearing make-up.
Maybe he/she is a guy.
It's taken me a few minutes to get used to the cacophony of loud voices shouting over each other and the overdone loud laughter, plus the blaring music. It was initially sensory overload, but the noise quickly becomes merely
acceptable background noise. I prefer loudness over quietness anyway. I mean, even clearing your throat in a quiet library room, for example, gets people looking your way with frowning disapproval. When I was going to church in Georgia and the minister's voice was the only sound in the room, someone would always cough and it was automatic that others had to cough then too. It was like an irresistible urge to at least clear your throat a little.
Weird, but true.
Casually making my way around the periphery of the large crowd, smoking my
cigarette and sipping my beer, I'm trying to appear as if I'm going someplace, instead of aimlessly wandering around. At this point I'd be glad to run into anyone I know, even Ear Henderson or Harry Black, or anybody. How can there be so many people here who I don't know? Then I see Lawyer Ross dancing with a girl in the middle of the dance crowd. The large contingent of dancers stretches all along the front of the house and extends up to near where the cars are parked. Most everyone here has been drinking for a couple of hours, so the beers we had at the bar earlier are important . If I were completely sober I might consider a lot of these guys and girls a tad obnoxious. And another thing: although I'm not exactly small at five-feet, ten inches tall, there are so many bigger guys and girls here. I'm slightly above average for modern men's height, but looking at most of these college students, everyone here seems huge compared to me. Even a lot of the girls look big with wide shoulders and thick wrists. Ewww! Or maybe it just seems like that because I'm watching a group of especially oversized individuals at the moment, and then that Sandra person was bigger than me as well. So many big people gyrating and waving their arms in the air, obviously thinking they're dancing when they're actually just jumping around. Jesus! And just imagine, in the eighteenth century the average man was five-feet, four inches tall. That's the average, which means a lot of men were shorter than that. If there was a time-machine in the eighteenth century, a college-age eighteenth century little twerp would feel like a midget transported to this frat party. I'm staring at Lawyer again, remembering our kiss and thinking how handsome he looks tonight. Unlike most of the guys I can see, Lawyer can dance, and appears to be having a good time doing it. Maybe I'll hook-up with him later.
I'm finished my beer, so now I actually do have something to do... get a refill. As I'm dodging people, bumping into some, making my way to one of the quarter kegs, someone grabs my arm from behind. Looking back I see a grinning Danny Monday, sans a beer cup. I'm like, "Danny? You're not drinking tonight?" He follows me towards a beer keg, saying, "Some asshole stole my cup. I didn't want to bring it into the porta-pottie with me, so I put it on that wall and when I came out it was gone. Half full of beer too. The cup was gone and so were the guys I was with. You take a few steps and you get lost in this crowd." I go, "Yeah, well that sucks!" We're standing behind two
guys waiting my turn at the Coors tap. I tell Danny, "For now you can share my cup, and then we'll steal someone else's for you." He chuckles, and the guy in front of me, another big guy, this one with lots of red hair, turns around and says to me, "Once you're in here, and you've already paid the cover charge, you can get a replacement cup for a couple of bucks on the other side of the porch." Danny says, "Hey, good to know. Thanks, man." I fill my cup, take a couple of swallows and pass the cup to Danny, saying, "C'mon, we'll get you another cup."
We've finished my cup of beer by the time we make our way to the other side of the frat house. Passing by the front porch I see there's now a DJ in charge of the tunes, and I think how different this is from the DJ at that club in Georgia; the club made from rental storage units. There the DJ played music for a cowboy line dance, but here the DJ is fucking around with mostly club dance music, which gets more drunks moving and thinking their dancing. The porch isn't just across the front as I thought; it runs completely around the house and when we turn the corner there's a frat boy behind a card table passing out replacement cups at three dollars each. From the pile of bills in front of frat boy, Danny's not the only one who lost his official fraternity cup. While he waits for three girls in front of us to buy cups, the girls holding up the works by giving frat boy a whole lot of shit for needing to re-pay for a cup, I spot a beer pong game. There's an actual ping pong table for this game. Many times beer pong is played on a kitchen table or a counter top.
His replacement cup in hand, Danny and I fill our cups with beer and walk over to see what's up with the game. There's a million ways to play beer-pong, and a twist here: they're playing for money. To get in the game we need to challenge the winning team which requires us getting our name on a list, so I go up to the frat boy running the game and give him my name. There are nine, two-man teams in front of my name. We watch for a while to understand the rules for this version of beer-pong. It appears the winning team determines how much beer goes in the cups, plus the number of cups on the table. The more cups the more likely a ping pong ball will land in one.
Nothing really new here. When a ball goes in a cup of the other team, the guy chugs the beer with the ping pong ball floating in it. The first team member, who eliminates four cups of his opponent, wins five dollars from the loser.
The winning team continues to control the table, taking on the next team.
There are maybe fifty rowdy, and in some cases seriously inebriated, college guys and girls cheering and screaming the contestants on, especially while a loser is chugging beer. We watch the same girl lose three times in a row in about ten minutes. She drank the equivalent of three cans of beer in ten or twelve minutes. We haven't seen anyone throw up yet, but it's coming, and my money is on her.
After watching the game for a while Danny and I go over and sit on a brick wall that separates the forest from the fraternity grounds. Danny shakes his head, unhappy about something, then says, "Jesus, the minute we got here that Frankie girl dragged us over for two-dollar shots of tequila. Rot gut tequila no less! Horrible shit." I say, "Yeah, I saw a couple of you guys in the line. I don't know how you got to the other side of that crowd so fast." He shakes his head again, "Frankie's pulling on Rob's arm and we start jogging. I was thinking I'd hang out with Rob, but she monopolizes his time." I nod, "Yeah, I noticed that myself. Did Rob have more than one shot?"
Danny says, like it's obvious, "Yeah, of course. The girls were buying the shots and passing them to Rob. I saw Rob have at least three. That Frankie bitch is really, um, persuasive, to put it nicely." Then Danny laughs, "Fuckin' Golden though. He took the shot in his mouth, made a face, and spit it out all over some guy's sneakers. The dude with the sneakers was obvious though. Didn't even know he got spit on. This place is nuts." Looking around, I go, "Yeah, it is a little nuts. Still, I'm surprised we didn't show up for at least one of these parties the first two years at Merrimack. I mean, underage is no problem. They don't appear to care how old you are as long as you've got fifteen bucks." Danny nods and drinks some beer, then he goes, "And this place is nicely isolated, so no worries about the cops showing up." Then we talk about how we're doing in college so far as juniors; just normal conversation. Danny seems a little wistful though, a little down.
He has a very nice way about him this year though, even acting sort of deferential to me. No more big shot baseball player like he acted at times in the past. I don't know, I think he's very likable, that's basically it.
The DJ moves away from rap songs, I'm happy to say. It's a relief when he goes back to more conventional club music, and I don't even like club music. Not unless I'm dancing to it. Repeated beat with a repeated phrase from a
singer, or just the beat without a vocal at all. It's music that's only good for dancing, if you ask me. Still it's a relief from the rap stuff. I ask Danny, "You wanna dance," and he blushes, "Nah, I can't dance." I mutter, "Neither can half the guys dancing over there." We both light cigarettes and put our hoods up against the chill, then laugh because we did both things at the same time. He grins, jokingly saying, "Hey, stop mimicking everything I do." Yeah, he's much more likable than I remember from last year.
What I'd like to do is quiz him about what's up between him and Rob, but I don't know how to do that without sounding accusatory, or like a jealous lover. And I'm not jealous, just curious. That's what I am... curious. I go, "Why do you think Frankie's so intent on hooking-up with Rob? I mean, she know we're gay." He says, "Have you ever heard of fag hags?" I shrug, "Sure, but aren't they like unattractive girls who settle for the company of gay guys because straight guys won't have anything to do with them?" It's Danny's turn to shrug, "I don't really know much about it actually. Frankie and Beth don't even know I'm gay; only about ten people in the world know for sure."
Huh, I didn't realize he was mostly closeted. I go, "I'm not sure how to put this, Danny, and no offense intended, but haven't you ever had a boyfriend? I mean, I'm not talking about how you and Rob have been, um, friends. I
mean a guy who you're boyfriends with." He looks at me, "No, not really.
I've never had a real boyfriend, nothing like that. My only sex is basically the occasional pity-fuck Rob gives me when he feels sorry for me, but you know all about that, don'cha? I'm sure he's told you how pathetic I can get," and he laughs nervously, adding, "I know, I really need to get a life."
What the fuck? I say, "Rob's never said a word to me about you two doing anything sexy. Not a single word." He looks at me and his face turn bright red. He goes, "Oooouu, wow, really? He's never mentioned anything about us? Oh man, I feel like such a dorky loser. I fuck everything up!" I go, "No, its okay," and give the back of his neck a squeeze. He leans against me, mumbling, "Please, please, please, don't tell Rob I said anything. I'd die of humiliation." This is weird...
After a minute or so Danny apparently realizes he's almost laying on me and he abruptly straightens-up, and says, "Sorry, I was leaning on you, um...." I mumble, "Don't be silly," and he says, "My life blows, Dylan! My home life sucks because my parents are getting a divorce, yet they still live in the same house. I love them, but it's hard to respect either one. Neither wants the other's lawyer to claim they abandoned the household, so neither will move out. They don't talk, except to yell something horrible about each other, but through me. It's like, 'Daniel, please tell your mother she's a cunt for demanding everything I've worked my ass off for these last twenty-five miserable years with her.' Then she'll say, 'Danny, tell that gutless... well, you get the idea. Anyway, being away at college is a relief, except I worry about what they'll do to each other. The gloom of their feud hangs over my head even here." I put my arm across his shoulders, "Gee, I'm really sorry for your troubles Danny. Feel free to unload on me anytime you feel like venting. I'm a good listener and I'll lend a sympathetic ear."
He turns his head and kisses my lips quickly, saying, "Thank you, Dylan. It means a lot to me that you care, and I know I'm acting dorky again, but thanks anyway. You're a really good guy." I go, "Yeah, I know. Everybody tells me that," and he sees me grinning so he knows I'm kidding. He laughs, saying, 'Well, you are."
He's done his beer, and I've hardly touched mine. He gulped his down in between sentences telling me of his private misery. I'm wondering how many shots of tequila he had, and how much that influenced his willingness to bare his soul to me. At the nearest beer keg, Danny's refilling his cup, mumbling, "You won't say anything to Rob about, you know... what I said." I shake my head, "Nope, I promise." We walk back to our spot on the wall, and he says, "You know; well, obviously you know. I was so hot for you, and I mean from the first time I saw you. That time we, um, did it together was one of my favorite experiences ever." Jesus, I hardly remember it at all, but I go,
"Yeah, it was really nice," and, interrupting this awkward discussion, I hear my name yelled out, "Newman, you and your partner are the next victims!" meaning we're up next for beer pong. Saved by the bell!
We walk over and discover there's a one-dollar fee to get in the game.
It's collected by a frat guy who has a wad of dollar bills in his hands. These
frat guys don't miss a chance to make a buck. As I give the guy a dollar, Danny says, "No brag, Dylan, just fact... I fuckin' rock at beer pong."
And I soon discover, in fact, he does! Our opponents are a guy and a girl team. They both fits my earlier description of big people. Both over six feet tall with wide bodies. The girl has a wide mouth as well, one that she uses a lot to loudly slur out inane inappropriate bullshit. Her boyfriend looks
like a farmer, if that can be used in describing someone. Straw colored hair hanging in his eyes, big hard looking hands and sort of a 'golly gee' expression on his face. They both are coatless, playing in t-shirts, and at the most it's forty degrees. Oh, and they're also so drunk I don't know how they won their last game.
Frat Boy not only collects the dollar entrance fee, and holds each players five dollars stake, he's also the announcer. He looks at Danny and me and calls us, "The pretty-boy team is challenging, um, Bonny and Clyde."
There's some drunken cheering as we walk to the end of the table. Opposite me is the wide-mouth, Bonny, while Danny's playing against Farmer Clyde. Frat Boy says, "Ping-pong away teams!" As challengers we go first, so I look at Danny, and he dumps the ping pong ball on the table about where the net would be for a real ping pong game. The ball bounces high and comes down in one of Farmer Clyde's cups of beer. Danny and I slap hands and smirk as Farmer gulps down the twelve ounces of beer. I'm next, and my ping pong ball skips off the rim of a cup, and there's a chorus of boos from the peanut gallery. Dumb shits!
It's Farmer Clyde's turn now and his ping pong ball is bounced too hard and ends up off our end of the table. Danny snares it before it hits the ground. Some jeering from the crowd, then Bonny flicks her ping pong ball and it bounces off the front of my cup near the end of the table. Danny's right back at it casually flipping his ball that bounces right into another one of Clyde's four cups. Clyde mutter, "Fuck me," and gurgles down another twelve ounces of beer, taking almost a minute to do it. My ping pong ball skips off a cup, bounces once, and just makes it over the lip of Bonny's first cup. She yells, "Lucky motherfucker!" and drinks her cup of beer gulp, gulp, gulp, then throws the cup over her shoulder. Frat Boy, yells, "That's a penalty score for Pretty Boys' dream. Drink another cup, Bonny, and don't fuckin' throw the cup this time." She glares at him. He smiles sweetly, saying, "You were warned about throwing cups last game." The look on her face gets Danny and me snickering, while trying not to. Her eyelids are half closed as she mutters, "Motherfucker," and now we're laughing along with a lot of the gallery. Bonny picks up the second cup and begins drinking it,; half the cup of beer running down the front of her t-shirt, so now there's hooting and hollering from the crowd, yelling, "Tits, tits, wet t-shirt contest." Jesus!
Farmer Clyde is concentrating his balls off this time, analyzing where to land his ping pong ball. The ping pong ball looks like a hollow marble in his over-sized hand. He finally gentle lets it go and the ball bounces nicely, but just misses one of Danny's cups. Danny goes, "Oooh, that was so close, Farmer Clyde," and he gets a hard stare from Clyde, who's mumbling something we can't quite make out... something to do with a pitchfork. Danny and I can't stop chuckling. We've both scored two cups against our opponents, to their zero cups. I luckily got that bonus cup when Bonny threw her cup in drunken frustration. Anyway, Bonny's up again and this time she just drops her ping pong ball on the table like she doesn't give a shit where it goes, and of course it plops in one of my cups. She yells, "Drink, motherfucker, drink!!" Balls. I'm not good at chugging. Chubby just lets it roll down his throat without swallowing. Not me; I'm gulp, gulp, gulp, but I get it down, mostly. Some of the beer accidentally-on-purpose gets spilled when I pretend the cup is empty. A muttered, "Ooops," from me, as Bonny and Clyde scream, "Foul!" Frat boys was talking up some babe at the time and missed my accidental beer spillage, so I'm good.
Danny says, "Good job, partner," then he casually plops another ball in one of the two remaining cups in front of Farmer Clyde. Farmer screams, "Hustler!" No one pays any attention to that, so he downs another cup of beer.
Wow, I gotta admit I'm impressed he can get another cup down without hurling. My next ball lands in nothing, and the same for Bonny's, then Farmer Clyde's ping pong ball hits the side of a cup and skitters off the table.
Danny casually plops another ball into Farmer's last cup. Clyde's eyes are like saucers as he mutters, "Fuck this," and he knocks the cup over to a chorus of boos as he stalks off, with Bonny yelling after him, "How 'bout a little moral support, ya asshole!" She and I both take five bounces of our ping pong balls before I luck another one in her cups. She does her routine of half chugging the beer and half spilling it on her tee shirt, with the wet t-shirt chants starting up again. I don't think Bonny even knows where she is by now.
Encouraged by my partner, "Finish this off, Dylan, and lets get outta here." I'm like, "That's what I'm trying to do, Danny." One more ball in her cup is all I need, while she needs to sink three in my cups. No chance; she's cooked! Danny's already collected his five dollar stake, plus Farmer's five dollars. I'll certainly be doing likewise momentarily. I mean, Bonny is so smashed it'd be blind luck if one of her balls ends up in one of my three
remaining cups. We bounce ping pong balls three more turns before one of mine goes in her last cup. She does the same thing Farmer did; she knocks the cup over without drinking it. The peanut gallery sings out, "If you can't play sports, be a sport!" although it's a ridiculous stretch calling beer pong a sport.
After collecting my money, I tell Frat Boy, "We forfeit the next game,"
and he calls the next two teams on his list to the beer pong table. Danny and I do a chest bump, chuckling and showing each other the five dollar bill we won, like we won the lottery. We're wandering around casually checking-out and commenting on how sexy certain guys are, and glancing now and then at the large crowd dancing. There's a lot more people here then when we first arrived, so what time is it? I do a routine glance at my cellphone: it's almost twelve-thirty. Surprising that we've been here two hours. Danny's still thinking about the beer bong contest, mumbling, "It was hardly a fair fight considering those two were so smashed." I go, "Shall we give them their money back?" He goes, "Fuck no! I'm just saying..." I'm like, "Look at it this way, Danny: just imagine how drunk the two guys were that Bonny and Clyde beat before our turn." He nods, chuckling, then we booth say, "Fuck 'em," and bump fists.
As we're walking away from the beer pong area, Frat Boy is busy wiping the beer off the ping pong table and making up a new rule about knocking beer cups over. Shortly we're enough away that we can barely hear the peanut gallery booing something, or someone. Sipping our beers and smoking a cigarette, we make a wager. Our five dollar winnings from beer pong goes to the first one who spots someone we know. Filling our cups again, we bicker about our booze-influenced contest, citing technicalities, like: after spotting someone we know, it needs to be proved he or she knows whichever one of us spotted him or her. Danny says, "Jeez, I'm not sure that makes any sense."
I'm like, "It's no good pointing at someone and making up a name: 'Hey, there's Joe Blow who's in my Friday class'. Ya gotta really know the person."
We're a little bit drunk by now, but I'm thinking I'll spot Lawyer because I know where he was dancing earlier. Huh, naturally he's not there now. Then I try getting Danny talking about him and Robby again, but he says, "I've said too much," and I mumble, "You haven't said enough," and we're both drunk enough to sing a couple of lines from that alternative rock band, REM's song 'Losing My Religion'; a song made before either of us were born. It's like some tunes just keep getting played on the radio as classics. With our arms across each other's shoulders, we sing: "Oh no, I've said too much, I haven't said enough. I thought that I heard you laughing... um, um, um" and we can't remember any more lyrics. We do a hug, mumbling, "Cool." And it's weird that Danny and I have been sort of on the same wave length all night. I've underestimated what a good guy he is. Not that I ever really disliked him in the first place.
We're chuckling as we sing the song again, trying to remember more of the lyrics. Then Danny stops, and goes, "Wait! Look over there," and he's pointing toward the parking lot. It's not nearly as well lit up there, but some light filters to the closer parked cars. We're looking at a guy and girl making out. I ask, "Is that Golden Summers and titsie, Beth? Then I quickly add, "And this doesn't count as seeing someone first because we spotted then at the same time and we're still not sure if it's who we think it is."
Walking closer, I go, "Yeah, look at the guy's long hair. That's Golden alright," but Danny's looking at something else a few cars over from Golden and Beth. We both stare with our jaws dropping, then slowly look at each other.
Danny whispers, "Is that who I think it is?" I nod my head, "Um, if you think it looks like Robby and Frankie swallowing each other's tongue, then I guess it's who you think it is." Danny's like, "Has he had girlfriends before?" I go, "Not that I know of. I mean, fuck, he was terminally shy in high school, and since then it's been pretty much him and me... um, and you, or whoever. I guess there could have been a girl or two; but no, that's almost incomprehensible to me. I mean... fuck, I just don't know..." Danny says, "Who the fuck is she anyway. I mean, I know who she is, but where the fuck did she come from, and how all of a sudden...?" We're both baffled and I don't know how I feel about what I'm seeing. Robby said the other night he was curious about what it's feel like doing 'it' with a girl. Yeah, he definitely said that, but I don't mention that to Danny. Actually I feel kind of weird that maybe Danny's feeling embarrassed for me.
He quietly says, "Lets back up and get another beer, Dylan, or maybe a shot of bourbon." We turn around and walk back the way we came with Danny asking, "Are you okay, Dylan?" I snap at him, "Of course I'm okay! So what if Rob's sucking mouth with that pushy cunt? You said she was pushy yourself an hour ago, right?" He says, "Actually she was pushy right after we got here making Rob to do shots." I mutter, "Whatever!" Actually I can't think straight right now. What if I saw Robby making out with Danny, or even some guy I don't know? Would I be shocked? No, not shocked. We have a sort of open relationship, so why should this be such a shocker? I don't know exactly why, but it is. I'm not feeling especially jealous because I don't consider Frankie competition at all, but I'm fucking curious about both their motivations. I go, "Danny, whatever you do, don't tell Rob we saw them making out.
I want to see what he has to say for himself." Danny goes, "Sure thing, Dylan, but promise to tell me what he says. That is if, I mean, when he brings it up, okay?" I nod, "Yeah, that's a deal, bro." Danny said, 'When he brings it up', but he started to say, 'If he brings it up'. He's got a point too. We'll see if Robby tells me about it.
We talk ourselves out of a shot of bourbon, but we do get another Coors refill. Then, probably trying to get my mind off Robby and the cunt, Danny talks me into continuing our game of who can spot someone in the crowd first. It's nice of Danny to try getting my mind off that unpleasant scene. I'm trying to be blasé about it, without a lot of success. Truth is I'd like to be on my own right now so I can think about it, but I won't leave Danny unless we run into someone he knows. Then, maybe fifteen minutes after leaving the parked cars area, we hear, "Dan, hold up." Turning around, Danny chuckles, saying, "It's my roommate, Phillip. He's a nut." I'm relieved he's now got someone to hang-out with. I say, "You win again, Danny," and pass him my five dollar bill. This is the first time I've met his roommate, so Danny introduces us, "Dylan, meet my roommate, Phil Cathings." We bump fists, mumbling, "How ya doing?" and Danny tells Phil about the beer pong game, finishing with, "And now you just won me Dylan's five dollar winnings," and then he explains our wager as we all stand against a light post at the side of the dancing crowd.
Phil doesn't seem like a 'nut' to me. He's a quiet guy, unassuming, and average in every way, except he wears eyeglasses. You see fewer and fewer eyeglass wearers as more and more people take advantage of Lasik Laser technology. Not everyone can, of course, because it cost upwards of $2000 an eye.
Phil's an inch or so shorter than me with a soft looking body, and a little overweight. Brown hair and eyes. His hair appears to be an overgrown regular hair style, with a part on the side. He's maybe a month overdo for a trip to the barbershop. Phil's most notable facial feature is his nose; it's too small for his round face and full cheeks. I light a cigarette as the roommates commiserate about a problem with their dorm room. Something about a draft from the room's window, and what Phil did today to correct it. He got some kind of insulation at ACE hardware that he thinks will solve their problem. Then two girls join us, one of whom Phil surprises me by saying, "Dylan, meet my girlfriend, Ronnie, and her friend, Alicia Cole." How snobbish of me to be surprised Phil would have a girlfriend. The girls say, "Hi, nice to meet ya," then to Danny, "Hey, good looking, how you doing tonight."
Alicia Cole hits Danny's shoulder, saying, "Well, are you gonna be my date for Ronnie birthday party, or not?" Phil says, "He'll go. Won't ya, Dan?"
Danny mumbles, "When is that again?" I'm gulping down the rest of my beer, then say, "Excuse me, I need a refill," and I hold my empty cup up. Danny looks at me, like I'm abandoning him, and I guess I am although he's with his roommate.
The thing is, with Danny's roommate and the two girls joining us, I don't see any prospects for an especially good time moving forward. So, I'll take
my chances on meeting someone a little more, um, interesting. Not that Danny wasn't interesting, because he was. There was a developing situation though; one where being with Danny all that time was making me a little horny for him, and I don't want to be tempted to do something I'll regret as I get drunker. Danny's not only cute, he's sexy too... sexy cute. I began having feelings for him when he acted so vulnerable telling me about his troubles, which included pity sex from Robby. The poor guy, but him and I having buddy sex tonight wouldn't solve any of his problems, and might make some for me. Ya just never know what troubles others are dealing with; we all tend to hide them. Hell, I've been hiding my true feelings, my confusion about Robby and Frankie from the minute I saw them making-out. I didn't want Danny to know just how fucked up I think that is. And I'm not mad at Robby so much as I'm disliking that conniving bitch, Frankie. So, around Danny I was blasé, like I'm not worried about it one bit.
Walking away from Danny's little group I glance back and get a last glimpse of him. As usual, Danny's showing his agreeable, affable smile and going along with... whatever. He's a really good guy. Then, as I'm making my way to the closest keg I see Lawyer again. I'd like hooking-up with him, but there are approximately a hundred people between him and me. And, of course I'd love to hook-up again with Chubby except he's almost certainly with some girl, and he's probably already gotten laid at least once. I really need to talk to him about him being oversexed. Tell him there's more to life than that, and how a one track mind is often a wasted one, and other things like that. Granted, my mind is in a fog at the moment, desperately endeavoring to get the picture of Robby's mouth on Frankie's out of my fucking head.
Not paying attention to where I'm going, I bump into a guy causing him to spill some of his beer. Oh shit! Wait, no problem, it's Steve Church, Ryan's roommate. He goes, "Hey, Dylan! Don't tell me you're drunk." He's standing with a group of three guys and three girls, none of whom I know. I say, "Sorry, Steve. Yeah, I guess I am a little drunk. How ya doing?" He finishes off what's left in his cup, and then says, "Good, I'm doing good. You're looking awesome as usual. I like that hoodie." Steve's a really friendly guy, always smiling and youthful looking with those rosy cheeks of his. Yeah well, I guess I'd still have to say he's average looking overall. Brown eyes and brown hair that needs cutting. Happily he doesn't introduce me to anyone; instead, running his fingers through his shaggy hair, he asks, "Are we still on for tomorrow's haircut, Dylan?" I nod my head, mumbling, "Absolutely, but you'll need to come to my place because, um, I don't have wheels, um, to come to your dorm." He goes, "No problem! I wouldn't expect you to do haircut house-calls, and for free no less," and he rubs my shoulder, adding, "I'll borrow Ryan's Mini. What time should I show up?" I go, "Text me in the afternoon, okay?" He says, "Good deal. I've a feeling I'll be sleeping through most of the morning, but right now I need a refill," and he turns his cup upside down to show me it's empty." I'm like, "I'll walk with you and top off my cup." He nods at me, then says to a tall heavy-set guy, "Yo, Mickey, I'll catch up with you guys in a few minutes. I need a refill."
Mickey says, "I'm getting ready to bag this place, Stevie, so if you want a ride back, ya better be ready to leave in like twenty minutes." Steve goes, "Yeah, one last beer," and we walk around and in between people as we're heading for the front porch. Steve says, "That's my bud Mickey Doyle. We were roommates freshman year." I go, "Uh huh," without asking why they split-up as roommates, but if Mickey was a roommate of mine I'd split up too. He's too fucking big and he'd take up too much space in a dorm room.
Actually, right now I'm exerting my world class willpower not asking Steve about Ryan, but if Steve needs a ride back to his dorm that means Ryan didn't come to the party. As it turns out, I don't need to ask because, as he's filling his cup, Steve tells me, "Your buddy, Ryan, stayed in tonight. On a Saturday night no less! Can you believe that shit?" Shrugging, I go, "Is he ill?" Steve steps away from the tap, gulps down some beer; then, smiling again, he goes, "I love me some beer," ignoring my question. I can't leave it along though, so my willpower caves-in a little, as very casually, I'm like, "Um, I'm sorry, but did you say Ryan's sick, or... ?" I'm topping off my beer at the tap as Steve goes, "No, I don't think he's sick. I asked him if he wanted to join me and some of my buddies tonight at this frat thingie, and he said 'no thanks'. I'm not a nagger like you and him, so I didn't pry as to why he was staying in," and Steve laughs giving my shoulders a quick hug so I'll know he's kidding about the nagging comment. I'm thinking Ryan probably wasn't up for being the new guy in Steve's group of friends.
We're walking back to his group with me asking, "You getting anything from any of those girls," nodding my head at the three girls in his group. He goes, "Man, I'd like to hump that Marcia bitch. She's the one in the blue ski jacket with the sexy lips. Unfortunately I'm a nerd, faithful to the love of my life." I go, "Your girlfriend back home, huh?" and he's like, "Yep, sweet Malinda. We're in love... and in heat," and he laughs again, saying, "Look here," as he takes his wallet out, telling me, "I've got her picture." He shows it to me and the girl is okay looking. Nice smile. I say, "Cute," and he nods, "Yeah, she is. We've sort of been going together since like the third grade. It's crazy, huh?" I shrug, "Sounds like wedding bells, Steve." He goes, "Probably, yeah." We're back with his group, and I tell him, "Well, I'll continue on my way to find my brother or Rob, and make sure I've got a ride back." He pats my shoulder, saying, "Tomorrow, right?" I mumble, "See you then, bro," Walking away I'm mentally patting myself on the back for not being more inquisitive about what Ryan's been up to. Anyway, if there was something out of the ordinary going on with him, Steve would have come right out with it. The lad has no filter between what he thinks and what comes out of his mouth. It's like that crack about Ryan and I being nags. I mean, Ryan is a nag for sure, but I'm not.
After making my way all the way across the front of the frat house, going in between and around what has to be four hundred dancing guys and girls, I'm now approximately where we were when we first got here. The dancing crowd is so thick it's impossible to see who's dancing with who. Not that I give a shit. Looking around, I don't see Robby, Chubby, or anybody else I came with; but, oh my God, is that Hoodie Boy filling his cup at the tap? It's the very tap we all used to fill our first cups of beer over two hours ago. I'm kinda surprised that the keg's not empty by now. Making my way to the tap so I can verify my Hoodie Boy sighting. Getting a closer look of him is necessary because I've never seen him without his hood up. There's something about this guy that definitely reminds me of Hoodie Boy though, and maybe it's his body type. Yeah, but this guy has a rather unruly head of dark brown hair that doesn't really fit in with my mind's picture of him. When he walked pass me yesterday I noticed his complexion was pale, so I just assumed he had light hair coloring, like blond or light red hair.
When I'm maybe six feet from the tap, the guy who might be Hoodie Boy is finished filling his cup, and he turns around. It's Hoodie Boy alright, and he gives me this incredible grin, pointing at me, saying, "The staring Bleacher Guy," which makes me grin, pointing back at him, saying, "Hoodie Boy."
We meet three feet from the tap and slap hands, still grinning, as he's saying, "Jesus, man, don't you know staring into a guy's eyes is taboo? Guys will think you're queer or something." I'm rubbing the back of my wrist against the bottom of my nose, mumbling, "I am queer, so it's okay for me to stare. What's your excuse?" He goes, "Holy shit! You're queer for real, I mean I should have said gay, not queer... my bad." He takes hold of my upper arm, my bicep, and pulls me out of the way as three girls are trying to get to the tap. We walk over to the side near the corner of the house where he lets go of my arm, asking, "You're really gay? You're not just breaking my balls, right?" I go, "Yeah, I'm gay. So, tell me, how do you get away with staring into another guy's eyes?" He chuckles, "I don't do it, dude! I mean, except for you. I'm always the first one to quickly advert my eyes after making contact with another guy's eyes. That's why it weirds-me-out that I kept staring back at you. It was like that kid game... who can make the other kid blink first?" He has a pleasant voice although he talks fast, and yet doesn't seem rushed. How's that possible? We drink some beer while looking into each other's eyes again until he blurts out a laugh, spraying a mouthful of beer. He's considerate enough to turn his head and not spray me with the beer. Then, grinning, he shouts, "Stop that fucking staring!" but he's laughing too. He takes my arm again and pulls on it, saying, "C'mon, lets get away from these loud mouth drunks,"
and we walk in amongst the parked cars, away from the mass of people dancing.
The only other time I've been part of a crowd this big was at Fort Lauderdale. The crowd noise and music is only nominally quieter here, but we lean up against someone's SUV and Hoodie Boy holds out his hand, I take it and he says, "I'm Daryl Ponti, but I was nicknamed 'Pony' by a kid in my first grade class. He thought that my last name was pronounced 'pony' at the time." He said all that without taking a breath, and he's still holding hands with me, but not shaking hands. I'm strangely comfortable with him as I smile, "Oh, the kid felt the word 'pony' has a silent 'T', is that it?" He shrugs, "Who knows. I told my older brother about it and he insisted on calling me 'Pony' to tease me. Then, well some nicknames just stick with you forever, stick like Crazy glue. My nickname is actually my biggest burden in life, so far anyway. Do you have a name?" I tell him my name and then he shakes my hand, saying, "It's nice to meet you, Dylan. This is my first year at Merrimack. I'm a transfer from Drexel, which is a smallish intercity college in Philly. That's in Pennsylvania. I didn't like the intercity part so I transferred here to a smallish suburban college to see if I like it any better, and I don't so far. I haven't made any friends yet, basically just my roommate, although I admit it's only been a week." Really fast talker! I go, "Oh, well then, we'll be friends," and he says, "Yessss! That's number two! One of each."
I laugh because I suppose by saying, 'one of each', he means a straight friend and a gay one. We finally let go of each other's hand and both of us drink some beer with me purposely staring into his dark blue eyes again. He grins as he drinks, then says, "Okay, stare all you want, but I'll stare right back." I shrug, asking, "Do you mind if I smoke?" He shakes his head, saying emphatically, "Not at all! I've been inhaling second hand smoke all fuckin' night anyway. Um, do you think I could bum one of those cigarettes from you? I'm trying to quit, but drinking brings on the urge something fierce." We light up and, for something to say, I ask, "How come you're not wearing your glasses?" He makes a cute face, then says, "Oh, I left them back at the dorm. Actually I don't really need them. As I kid I had blurred vision in one eye. Astigmatism, ya know? It cleared up in middle school, but I sometimes wear the glasses anyway to look studious, plus I think I look cool with those horn-rimmed glasses, don't you?" I nod my head, smiling because he's funny with his speedy way of speaking. I'm like, "Let me ask you something, Pony; has anyone ever mentioned that their hearing can't keep up with the fast way you speak?" He goes, "No, nobody ever has." I go, "Huh,"
and he laughs. Then he gets serious, "We're friends now, right?" I go, "Definitely," and he says, "I'm only telling you this because you're queer, um, gay, and I trust you. There's something about you that makes me think I can confide in you. Anyway, once in eleventh grade a big kid fucked me, then again at the beginning of last summer, without going into detail, I got drunk and another guy fucked me up the ass. Ya know, both times with a condom, the proper way and all. What I wanted to ask you is, do you think you and I could try that, um, like tonight?" Holy shit!!
I stare at him a few seconds, figuring he's breaking my balls, then I go, "To do that we'd need to be much better buddies, Pony. That's kind of an intimate thing to do together, ya know?" He shakes his head, "No, I disagree.
That guy who I did it with last summer... I'd just met him, and I haven't seen him since." I ask, "Well then, are you saying you're gay, but you haven't had much luck finding someone to, um, be gay with?" He goes, "Nah, I'm not gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that..." and he laughs, "That's from a Seinfeld rerun from the nineties." I go, "Yeah, I'm familiar with it." He says, "Actually I'm probably one of the straightest guys you'll ever meet. I've fucked two or three different girls. Mostly one night stands.
Fuck 'em and leave 'em." I blink my eyes, muttering, "Uh huh." He asks, "You don't believe me?" I mutter, "I have some doubts about you being the straightest guy I've ever known." He says, "Why, because I let two guys fuck me?" I snort out a laugh, "That did cross my mind." We drink some more beer, then both of us drag off our cigarettes while doing the eye contact thing again. Grinning like dorks, we exhale at the same time, and he says, "Have you had time to think about it, Dylan? What I said about the gay stuff. You fucking me." I nod my head, still grinning at him and, still not knowing what to make of all this. Another drag off my cigarette, then I mumble, "I don't know what to make of you, Pony Boy." He goes, "Well, I'm drunk, that's true. Sober I'd never have the nuts to ask you to fuck me, but I'm not drunk in the way that I won't remember anything tomorrow. I'm not nearly that drunk, although I have been that drunk two or three times in high school, and then last year at Drexel once or twice." Probably he got that drunk working up the balls to ask random guys to fuck him. I keep that rude thought to myself though.
Anyway my head is dizzy trying to keep up with his fast-flying monologues.
I'm smelling the back of my wrist again, my cigarette between the fingers of that hand, as Daryl's saying, "You know how I broke myself of that habit?" I shake my head and take my wrist away to drag off my smoke. He says, "I rubbed Neem oil on the back of my hand." I ask, "What the fuck is Neem oil?" He goes, "It's a type of vegetable oil pressed from the Neem evergreen type tree, and it has a strong unpleasant odor. It's used in organic farming and medicines. My mom is into organic everything." I'm looking at his clear, pale face thinking he looks so clean and new, sort of like Professor Peter's complexion, or better yet, Connor's complexion. Yes, Daryl's complexion, along with his dark blue eyes and dark brown hair remind me of Connor Mealey. Striking contrasts of the pale complexion against the dark brown hair and dark blue eyes. Very attractive if you ask me. I mumble, "I'll have to get me some Neem oil, I guess."
Finished our latest cups of beer, we head back to the tap for another refill. I'm still looking around for either Chubby or Robby; the two guys with transportation. They wouldn't leave without me unless they both thought I was with the other. Hmmm, I get the urge to check that both the Jeep and pickup are still here. It's coming up on one o'clock in the morning, getting colder and, considering our earlier front-loading and our beer guzzling for the last two and a half hours, it might occur to someone to get some sleep.
Walking away from the keg, I say, "I'm going to walk up among the parked cars to check that my ride is still here." He goes, "Do you mind if I walk with you?" I shake my head, "Of course not. You're awesome company, I mean considering you're someone who transferred from Drexel." I was making a joke, but he goes on to tell me the good and bad points of his Drexel experience. Pony Boy is quite the talker.
I find both the Jeep and pickup parked side by side, just like we left them. Pony asks, "This your Jeep?" I go, "It's half mine and half my brother's. That's my boyfriend's pickup next to the Jeep." He goes, "You really have a boyfriend, huh?" I go, "Yep, we've been boyfriends for like three years,
although we've known each other longer than that." He leans against the pickup, saying wistfully, "I've never had a boyfriend," and I go, "I thought you were, um, a straight heterosexual." He blushes, "I meant, I've never had a real girlfriend. Of course I've never had a boyfriend, although I have friends that are guys, ya know, boys that are friends of mine... oh, you know what I meant." I go, "Let me get this straight. You've had sexual intercourse with two or three girls, but never had a girlfriend." He makes a face, like, 'Yeah, that sounds farfetched,' and says, "Okay, I lied about the sex with girls, but I want to do it. It's just that I'm a terrible procrastinator." I go, "Like putting off having sex with girls, and putting off getting your hair cut." He laughs as he runs his fingers through his unruly dark brown hair, and says, "That too, uh huh." I say, "I give haircuts. You can come to my boyfriend's and my apartment tomorrow and I'll give you a free haircut. Another guy is coming over for the same thing." He says, "Do you have clippers?" I go, "Of course I have clippers," and he says, "Good 'cause I always get a buzz cut. And thanks for offering,; I'll happily take you up on that generous offer. What's your address?" I take his cellphone and type in the address and my cellphone number; then log his phone number into my cellphone. Handing the cellphone back to him I'm looking at his three inch long hair, asking, "Buzz cuts, huh? When exactly was the last time you had a buzz cut?" He goes, "Hey, like I said, I procrastinate. It was, let's see, um, Easter I think. My old man got on my ass about it."
I'm enjoying Daryl, as I mumble, "Easter, you mean Easter this past year?"
He laughs, then says, "How 'bout what I asked earlier. Will you fuck me? I've got my roommate's car. We could warm-up in there." I'm like, "Aww, it's late, Pony," and he take hold of my arm pulling me a little, smiling and saying, "C'mon, Dylan, the car is just over there." Why the fuck am I hesitating, especially considering the sorry state of my side-sex situation. I ask, "How old are you anyway? You're a freshman, right?" He goes, "No, like I told you, I'm a sophomore! I was a freshman at Drexel. I turned twenty in August." If I can believe that, because he looks and seems younger. I don't know how much of his BS I should believe." We're walking while finishing the last of our beers. He drops his empty cup and I go, "You might need that for a roadie on the way back to your dorm." He shrugs, looks at the cup lying on the gravel parking lot, then gives it a kick, saying, "Nah, I'll share your cup if I need a last beer.' Pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, he goes, "Just so you know, I've got a condom," and he takes out a worn-looking condom packet. God knows how long it's been in his wallet. I take it and check it out, saying, "It looks intact to me." Then, as I hand it back to him, I'm like, "Since you've got your wallet out, let me see your driver's license." He shrugs, muttering, "Sure, why not," and hands it to me. Okay, he is twenty, so I guess he did transfer here as a sophomore. My 'bad' for doubting the lad. I hand his license back to him, saying, "Nice picture." He snorts out a chuckle, saying, "I'm very photogenic, don't ya think?" I go, "Apparently. If a driver's license pix looks good, you're photogenic as hell." He says, "'l'll get the car heater going and we can warm up first, okay?" I go, "Well, we'll warm up, but for the rest we'll need to see about that." He looks at me, and I go, "Well, dammit, Pony, being honest with you, I feel funny about this, and I guess I'm not sure why. Are you positive you don't still have your cherry?" He sort of shrugs, "Jesus, Dylan, I already told you. A guy in high school, an eleventh grader, fucked me first. Then a couple of years later the guy at the shore fucked me hard, and the prick spanked the shit out of my ass. He was a big old fucker, like maybe thirty years old, but kinda nice looking. Both of those fuckers got my rocks off big time too! Ya know, I guess I liked the eleventh grader's fuck the best of the two." Oh my God, ha ha ha. Well I gotta give him props that he doesn't avoid the subject matter by using euphemisms for the word, 'fuck'. Connor would always do that.
Pony's gotta be partly lying of course, but I don't know what parts. He goes, "I know what you're probably thinking. Because I really like getting fucked, you're thinking I'm gay. I'm not though. Okay, I'm probably slightly bisexual, but only a little bit. Mostly I'm a straight dude. That's how I see it." I lightly punch his arm, smiling and asking, "Are you familiar with the word, 'delusional', or how about the word, 'rationalizing'?" He goes, "I hear what you're saying, but I know myself. It feels good having a guy's hard cock up my ass, that's all I'm saying. Dildos don't feel the same at all, but none of that mean I'm gay." I'm not going into dildo territory, so I let that slide for a minute, then ask, "What's wrong with being gay, Daryl? It's nothing to be ashamed of." He says, "It has nothing to do with me being ashamed. I'm obviously not ashamed to blatantly ask you to fuck me, it's just that I know in my heart of hearts I'm gonna get married and have a family, like most everyone else." I mutter, "Yeah, sure you will."
We're at his roommate's car now. It's a twelve year old Oldsmobile four-door family sedan. He unlocks it and we get in. Pony fires up the engine and as we're waiting for the heater to work, I ask, "Is your roommate here at the frat party?" He shakes his head, "Nah, he's got a nasty flu. The poor bastard is throwing up and shitting at the same time. In the lavatory, not in our room." I go, "Duh!" and he says, "Tom's a really nice guy though, so I lucked out with him as my roommate. And we didn't choose each other as roommates either; we were late getting accepted and just got assigned as roommates." To tease him, I ask, "Did you ask Tom to fuck you yet?" He laughs, "No, I haven't gotten around to it, plus he doesn't stare into my eyes like you do." I'm chuckling again, "But seriously, you are lucky to have a roommate you get along with." He nods, "Yep, I barely know him and yet he let me use his car tonight. I drove here alone hoping to meet someone like, well, someone exactly like you. Has anyone ever mentioned that you're an awesome looking dude?" I'm like, "No, not really. Um, so you want to make a few friends, huh?" He shrugs, "Of course I do. You know that tall guy I was talking to? He's in my Lit. class and seems like a nice guy, but it was, Tom, my roommate, who I was with at the baseball park when you and I were doing our staring contest. Then I saw you again when I was late for class yesterday morning, and now a third time tonight. It could be just good luck on my part, but I think it's karma... destiny." I chuckle, "What's your sign," and he goes, "I don't believe in that bullshit, but I'm a Leo." I'm like, "Yeah, I don't believe in that bullshit either. I might be the same sign as you though." He goes, "Is your birthday in August, before the twenty-third?" I mumble, "Yeah, it is. Holy shit, it is destiny." The way I said that he knows I'm not being serious, so he laughs, then mutters, "We both don't believe in that bullshit, right?"
The car is warmed up, and Pony looks at me asking, "Should we get in the back seat?" I go, "What the hell, why not? We're old enough to make our own decisions about sex, and you're an attractive guy with a pleasant personality. I'd be crazy to turn down your generous invitation, but what do you have in mind for foreplay? How am I gonna get a boner?" He goes, "I know what the fuck foreplay is. I'm not an idiot. What's your favorite foreplay?" I say, "That depends on who I'm with. Why don't you tell me the foreplay that was involved with those other two guys?" He lets out an exasperated breath, "Okay, to be honest I'm not sure exactly what you meant by foreplay. The eleventh grader just had me drop my plants and bend over. He rubbed his dick on my ass a bit, took a deep breath, rolled on a condom and fucked my ass until we both blew our loads. My ass was sore, but not for long. The guy last summer, the older guy, told me to get undressed and..." I interrupt, "Where were you with this so-called older guy?" He shrugs, asking, "Do I really need to tell you everything about my private sex life? It's personal." I go, "Was it in a rest room along the boardwalk, with a stranger?" He goes, "What if it was? I'm not some experienced hot shot with a boyfriend the last three years like some guy I know." Ignoring that, I say, "This stranger got you to undress and he fondled your youthful body, right?" He goes, "That motherfucker was hugging me, trying to kiss me while he was dry humping my ass for like five minutes before he got it up." I say, "Were you a willing participant?" and he says, "I was once he started fucking me, before he got it in me though I was like fighting him off. Then, like I already told you, it felt really good." I'm like, "Sounds like rape to me," He shrugs, "I wasn't about to make an issue of it." I go, "One last question, "Did the stranger wear a condom?" He goes, "Well yeah. I already told you that. Jesus, I'm not getting fucked without a condom."
Ya know, I want to do this. Daryl is a cute twenty year old who's struggling with the fact he's gay, but needing it so badly he resorts to sex with an older stranger in a dirty public lavatory. I bet that older guy couldn't believe his good fortune. He's probably still jerking off thinking about how cute Daryl's ass is. I go, "Okay, you say the guy was kissing you and you were fighting him off, so I take it you're not into kissing with another guy." He laughs, "Well, who the fuck is? I mean, that's way too queer.
Fucking isn't nearly as queer because straight guys fuck their girlfriends up the ass sometimes too. I mean, I know taking it up my ass is a little gay. I already told you I'm slightly bisexual." I can't resist saying, "Except so far in your life the minimal, bisexual gay part, represents the entirety of sex you've had in your young life; I mean sex that involves another person." He shrugs, "Yeah, so far." Figuring I'll freak him out a little, I mumble, "Well, since making-out isn't your thing, I guess you'll be sucking my dick and getting me hard so I can fuck you, right?" He turns on his bucket seat to face me, saying, "You know, I've wondered what that would be like.
I've never done it though, so I might bite you or something." Whoa! I didn't expect that response. Pretending to be frustrated, I go, "Oh man, I guess I'm gonna need to show you how it's done." His eyes light up, "Really, thanks! I've watched videos and read about how oral sex, sucking a cock, should be done, but ya know..." He's unbuckling his pants, adding, "If you're willing to guide me through it by demonstrating first, I'd feel much better about trying it on you." I'm looking at him suspiciously, so he goes, "What?" I mutter, "If you're fucking with me...."
to be continued... Donny Mumford thinat20@yahoo.com
donnymumford@outlook.com
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Hoping some readers may be interested, there are books of mine published and available on Amazon.com. Anyone who has Kindle can download them for next to nothing. The books are usually around ten dollars. They are about a 19 year old gay boy (Oliver) who has a far different life than Dylan's. And there is a new book, 'Mike, his Bike and Me'. Please at least check them out by typing my name on Amazon.com. Information about the story in the books can be found in some detail there. Thank you.
Donny Mumford
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