Dylans Junior Year at College

DYLAN'S JUNIOR YEAR AT COLLEGE

Chapter 32

by Donny Mumford

It's a cold Saturday night as I walk across the parking lot to Rob's pickup truck. Getting in and firing-up the engine everything feels weird because Rob's usually doing this. Not tonight though because he's upset about Frankie's impending abortion so going to a party is the last thing he feels like doing. Frankly I'm not in much of a party mood myself but I promised to give Golden and a few of his freshman friends a ride to the party. He'll give me a call when he's ready to go and in the meantime I'm on my way to buy some booze at McLoon's package store. The plan is to kill some time in Daryl's dorm doing a little front-loading. Every college guy in his right mind knows not to arrive at a party when it kicks-off, and it's never a good idea to arrive totally sober either.

At the package store I buy a half-pint of bourbon and two six-packs of Rolling Rock beer. While paying for it I'm mentally kicking myself in the ass for not planning ahead and buying this stuff in New Hampshire where it costs at least a third less. The bourbon's for Daryl, who doesn't like beer, and the beer is for me because I don't like bourbon. Funny thing is, I don't know anything about tonight's party except that it's at a house on route 114 next to the Dunkin Donuts' strip mall. One of the freshman baseball players said the party is a BYOB affair, and then I heard somebody else say they'll be selling booze at the party. I'm told the guys throwing the party are freshman baseball players who rented the house in lieu of dormitory living. Apparently the house is like a small unofficial frat house which is kind of a cool deal, especially for freshman.

Parking at a lot near Daryl's dormitory, I bring one of the six-packs and the half-pint of bourbon with me as I knock on Pony's dorm room door. His roommate, Tom Higgins, opens it and goes, "Yo, Dylan, whassup, dude?" The smell of pot is unmistakable so, while bumping fist with him, I ask, "Are you

numb-nuts smoking weed in here?" Tom closes the door, saying, "Nah, well yeah, but we're blowing the smoke out the window." I go, "It ain't working, Tommy. I could smell pot in the hall outside your door." He giggles, muttering, "No shit, you can smell it outside, huh?" I nod, "Yeah, um, where's Pony?" He snickers, "He's in the lavatory combing his hair again. I told him I'll buy him a mirror so he won't need to spend so much time in the john."

A couple of weeks ago I gave Pony a regular haircut, as it's called by many. He's like me in that we've both had buzz cuts like forever, until recently. Now that we let our hair grow-out, combing it is a new experience.

That's pretty lame, but there it is...

Everyone will be in a partying mood tonight and I'm gonna try joining them for a few hours so I can put Frankie's and Rob's situation temporarily out of my mind. Tom points at the six pack of beer I'm holding, and goes, "Yo, can I get one of those beers?" I pull one out of the plastic holder and pass it to him, and he goes, "You da man, Dylan!" Ten seconds later Pony comes in, shouting, "Dylan, you're here!" They both seem a little high. Pony and I do as much of a hug as I can manage while holding a half-pint of bourbon in one hand and the beer in the other. Pony goes, "How's my hair look?"

I mutter, "It's very, um, regular looking." Tom burps, then goes, "Dylan, you're Pony's idol, dude," and Pony yells, "Shut-up, Tom!" I ask, "How much pot have you two knuckleheads smoked?" Tom says, "Like one joint, man. Hey, can I come with you guys tonight?" Pony goes, "Yeah, Dylan, can Tom come?"

I'm like, "Sure, but I've already got four or five other guys I'm driving to the party, and I've got Rob's pickup, so...." He mumbles, "All those guys in a pickup truck with that tiny back seat, huh?" I nod, "Yep, it'll be challenging" and Tom goes, "Those guys can get in the truck-part, the bed in back... whatever it's called." I shrug, "Yeah, whatever. Um, are you sure you only had one joint?" Tom goes, "One joint each, yeah. We just finished them." So they had two joints, not one like he said before...

Pony asks, "Is that bourbon for me?" I say, "Yeah, I thought we'd do a little front-loading to prime the pump, ya might say." He nods, "Jeez, yeah, you think of everything, don'cha?" I put the beer and bourbon on the desk, "You never heard of front-loading, or as some call it, pre-partying or pre-gaming? Ya know, getting half a load on before going out." He goes, "Oh yeah, but we called it pre-funking at Drexel." I mutter, "That's funkin' lame," as I pull a can of beer free and pop the tab, asking, "You got a cup, Pony?" He shakes his head, "No, but I'll take a few slugs of bourbon right from the bottle," and he picks up the half-pint, unscrews the cap and take a drink making a face. Then he goes, "Rot gut!" I'm like, "It's all rot gut to me." That's not actually true though; Tracy's given me a few shots of expensive liquor that was most definitely easier to swallow than other shots I've had.

Turning one of their desk chairs around, I sit on it backward with my arms on the back of the chair looking at Pony and Tom as we drink and talk about running. Three or four days a week Pony and I are still doing the three mile run. Tom's a long- distance runner, or he was when a member of his high school track team. Like most high school athletes though, he wasn't talented enough to make a college team. Tom's about my size and not bad looking although I don't believe he was ever what I'd consider 'cute'. He has brown hair and eyes, and a modest beard that needs shaving or trimming. His regular haircut style is shaggy and probably two months past-due for a haircut.

The subject changes from running to talking about tonight's party, and it's like they don't know any more about it than I do, but that's not unusual. Word of mouth will spread about a party at such and such a place, and everyone feels they're invited. Assuming you don't get there too early you'll usually be able to blend in. Occasionally there's a bouncer at the entrance checking ID or checking that you have a ticket or arm band, or some such shit. That's rare though.

I'm on my second beer before Pony asks, "Um, what are we waiting for?" I tell him, "I already told you. This guy, Golden Summers, will text me when he and his boys are ready to go." Tom says, "Golden Summers? You gotta be shitting me with that name. Is it a nickname or something?" Shaking my head as I swallow a mouthful of beer, I go, "Nope! That's his real name. He's a baseball scholarship freshman. He's also the team's barber and he was gonna give me a haircut today beings I'm the roommate of one of the team's co-captains, but his clippers broke." Tom says, "Hey, your Pony's barber though, right?" I shrug, and he goes, "Dude, I need a haircut bad! Can you do something with my hair before the party?" Doing a big noisy exhale, I say, "Not now, Tom. Tomorrow maybe," but he hops up and goes through the desk drawers, saying, "I've got these wicked sharp scissors. Just do what you can with scissors, okay?" Pony goes, "Don't nag Dylan, Tom! For chissakes, we're showered and dressed for the fuckin' party."

Tom ignores Pony as he hands me the scissors, saying, "I'll put a towel on my shoulders," as he picks one up off the floor, adding, "If I could sit in the chair you're in, Dylan. Wouldn't that work?" I reluctantly get up, muttering, "Yeah, sure, Tom." He's a bit of a flake, but he has good hair.

Pony mumbles, "You're an asshole, Higgins, for taking advantage of Dylan being a good guy." Then to me, "You don't need to do this, Dylan. Here let me have the scissors. He's my roommate, so I'll do it for him." Grinning, I give him the scissors as Tom gets up yelling, "No, Pony! You don't know how to cut hair!" Pony said, "Sit the fuck down, Tommy. I can do this." Tom reluctantly sits down, muttering, "You better not fuck this up or when you're asleep some time I'll get my revenge." Tom's clutching the ends of the towel so that it's tight around the back of his neck, saying, "Dylan, if you see him doing something fucked-up, would you tell me?" I'm grinning, "Oh for sure, Tom," as Pony and I roll our eyes at each other.

Pony takes another slug of bourbon, gasps, "Oh shit! that's gross," then he cuts a jagged line across the hairs at the back of Tom's head, "Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch," as the scissors cut through two-inch-long hairs that drift down the back of his head leaving behind a gaping bare spot of scalp.

It's about an inch above the hairline and all the way across the back of his head. Tom's hand goes back feeling where the bare area is. Pony's bent over

laughing his nuts of and pointing at where he cut. Tom yells, "What'd you do, Ponti?" using Daryl's last name. Pony can't stop laughing and I start chuckling along with him. Tom's fingers are rubbing over the bare scalp, saying, "I feel bristles, then hair above and below the bristles. That can't be good, right, Dylan?" Now I'm laughing as hard as Pony, who's still bent over gasping, "I can't catch my fucking breath." Tom begins snickering himself now because laughing's contagious. While laughing, he's saying, "I'm gonna get you back, Pony." Taking a deep breath, tears of laughter in his eyes, Pony hands me the scissors, saying, "That's the funniest thing I ever saw. The hair just fell away leaving his scalp showing." Tom's still feeling the bare line across the back of his head, asking, "Can you fix this, Dylan?" Pony starts laughing again and Tom joins in, gasping, and between snorts of laughter, "You're dead, Pony! You'll wake-up bald one morning."

Getting my laughter under control, I snap the tab on my third beer; then, wiping tears from my eyes, I'm like, "Okay, sit the fuck back down, Tom. I can fix it, but it'll be wicked short." He sits, then reaches over to get the last can of beer from the six-pack. Pony's got half the half-pint of bourbon left. I ask, "Who's got a comb?" then I see one among the debris on the desk and pick it up. The scissors are not barber scissors, but they're very sharp, so they'll do. Using the scissors-over-comb method I comb hair up and cut off the amount above the comb. Starting at the back of his head I cut his hair in an upward taper that covers the bare spot, but because of Pony's random cutting it needs to be a very short haircut. Done the back, Pony says, "Jesus, you're amazing, Dylan. That's perfect." I go, "I'll finish it after a smoke. You guys were blowing smoke from joints out the window, right?" They nod their heads, so I go, "I'll do the same with a cigarette."

They both bum cigarettes off me and the three of us, huddled at the open window, drink beer and smoke cigarettes blowing our exhaled smoke out the window. I see smoke coming from windows up and down the dormitory. Fuckin' college student, ya know? After our smokes I send Pony out to the car for the other six-pack while I do the rest of Tom's haircut. Like I said, he's got healthy thick hair that's kinda fun to cut and I cut a lot of it off; that's the fun part. It gives my fetish a nice little buzz too. His haircut turns out to be a version of short hair on the sides and back with long hair on top. Basically the haircut Golden's been giving everyone using clippers. I'm able to replicate it with comb and scissors and while doing it I'm reminded of the haircuts Sonny used to do for me with only a comb and scissors. Usually against my will, but that's another story.

Anyway, I'm pleased how the haircut turns out and Pony wants this haircut now. I tell him, "Next time, Pony." Actually Tom's haircut would look even better if I had the trimming clippers to edge around and behind his ears.

Oh well, few things are perfect in this life. Tom goes to the lavatory to check out his haircut as Pony drinks some of my beer after another swig of bourbon. I take the bottle and take a swig of whiskey myself, then get the can of beer back and swallow a lot of it. Pony leans over and kisses my lips sweetly, saying, "Because of you I like this Merrimack College. There was no 'you' in my last college, so Drexel blew." I ask, "Hey, does Tom know we're gay?" Pony's eyes open wide, "God, no! And don't tell him." Shrugging, I'm mumbling, 'Why the fuck would I tell him? I was just curious because you guys seem to get along so well." He nods, "Yeah, Tom's cool, but he's not gay."

It's after ten o'clock when Golden finally texts me that he and his boys are ready 'whenever I am'. Tom's all smiles about his haircut telling me three or four times, "I knew it'd look good. My haircut, I mean." Pony goes, "What the fuck did you assume we'd think you were talking about... your dick?" I say, "Drink up, boys. We're heading out momentarily." Slightly high and drunk, Tom hugs my shoulders, saying, "Thanks, Dylan." Then he needs to take a piss before we leave, and Pony's like, "Jesus Christ, you just came from the lavatory." Tom goes, "Fuck you, Pony! I was thinking about my hair then, and now I'm thinking about a piss." I mutter, "High and drunk is no way to go through life, boys." When he gets back he opens his hand showing Daryl the makings for a couple of joints, saying, "Look what I got for us, Pony. I bought papers and pot from Smithy in the lavatory while he was taking a shit." Pony goes, "Ewww! TMI, Tommy. Jesus!" Then they each roll joints for later.

We get our coats on and Pony puts the half-pint bottle in his coat pocket.

There's only about an ounce left in it. I've got two cans of beer left from the two six-packs. As we go out the front door of the dormitory building, I say, "You have the keys, right Pony?" He goes, "Keys? Why would I have the keys?" I'm like, "Because, ya dumb shit, you used them to open the pickup to get the other six-pack." He's like, "Oops, yeah that's right. Um, I left them in the truck on the front seat." I swat the back of his head, then get him in a headlock as we stagger forward a few steps. He wrestles free chuckling, saying, "Gee, I hope the pickup is still there." It is, and we get in. Me in the driver's seat and Tom riding shotgun with Pony in the middle. I go, "Swell, that leaves the small backseat for four or five guys."

Tom snickers, "I hope they're small guys."

We see they're not small guys when I drive right up to the five of them standing outside Golden's dorm. They've all holding, or drinking from cans of beer as I open my window and ask, "Anybody want a ride to a party?" Golden says, "We'll pile in the truck bed, Dylan. It's only a mile or so down 114. It's the house past Dunkin Donuts." I go, "Yeah, I know, but I'll get five reckless-driving tickets if the cops see me driving with you guys in the back of the pick-up. Three of you can fit in the back seat." Hearing this, with much cursing, laughing, and wrestling among themselves all five try getting in the door next to Tom. He's leaning against the dashboard with the back of his seat pushed forward as three guys make it into the cramped back seat. Golden and a cute kid, the one he called Dickie when cutting his hair this afternoon, are the two left out. They climb up onto the truck's bed.

So now I'll only get two tickets. A really tall guy in the backseat holds his hand towards me, saying, "I'm Pat," I bump his hand with mine, saying, "Dylan," then point my thumb to my right, saying, Pony and Tom." Pat says, "These two assholes with me are Chuck and Brad." I mumble, "Nice to meet you," and drive away from the curb. All five of these guys are freshman, but they look older, except for Golden and Dickie. The three freshman in the backseat could pass for twenty-one with no problem, while Dickie could pass for sixteen and Golden... huh, he could pass for twenty-one too. He's nineteen but looks older than me.

It's a short ride, mostly through the campus and then a mile west on 114.

We get to the right house but there's no place to park. The very end of Stop & Shop's parking lot is fifty feet from the party-house with a four-foot-high chain-link fence in between. I drive around to the entrance of Stop & Shop's parking lot, then park at the furthest spot from the store, which is the closest spot to the house. There are twenty-some cars parked here already, obviously belonging to people at the party because no one in their right mind would park this far away from the store. We all pile out and walk to the chain-link fence talking loudly, and some guys laughing about something. I say to anyone who cares to listen, "You know where the pickup is parked. When I leave, whoever's in the vicinity will get a ride back.

Everybody else is on their own."

Pony's right next to me, saying, "Don't lose me tonight like you did at the frat party, Dylan. I'm sticking with you." I nod, "Whatever, Pony," and Tom goes, "What if they aren't selling beer?" I mumble, "I'll go buy us some, but someone is probably selling it here." We step around the chain-link fence getting too close to route 114 and the fast moving vehicles. The house doesn't look too good from the outside. It needs painting and the front porch doesn't look solid. Actually it looks like it's about ready to collapse. Golden's on the rickety front porch, saying, "The sign says, "Entrance in rear," and he hops off the porch, asking, "Hear that bass?" That's all you can hear through the walls; the steady 'thump, thump, thump' sound of the speakers pumping out bass for some rap song probably. We all start walking along the side of the house to the back. Dickie says, "That tune that's playing is, 'All Day' by Kenya West."

Huh, I'd like to meet this cute kid, Dickie. He's walking with Golden and when I get next to him I tap his shoulder. He looks back at me with a ready

grin, and I go, "Hey, Dickie, how was the ride in the back of a truck?" He

smiles, "Was that your truck?" I nod and he says, "It was cold, man. How'd you know my name?" Now he's walking with Tom, Daryl, and me. Golden walked ahead with a guy who's gotta be six-feet-six-inches tall. I go, "Oh, I was in Golden's dorm waiting for a haircut and I heard him say your name."

Dickie goes, "Oh Jesus," and he rubs his fingers up the back of his head, and sort of whines, "I've never had a haircut this short. Golden didn't even ask me, he just cut it all off." I go, "Not all of it, you've got hair on top of your head, " and I ruffled through his hair with my fingers, saying, "Dude, I saw the look on your face after your haircut. You stood up feeling the back of your head and your expression reminded me of the expression on the face of sheep right after they're sheered to the skin." He laughs, then asks, "Do you think it looks okay?" I nod, "Yeah, you're cool," and I rub the back of his head again. This time he pulls his head away. Balls! That's a bad sign; it indicates there's a strong possibility Dickie is straight.

No shit, only nine out of ten guys are.

He leans his head in front of me and sees Daryl on my other side, and goes, "Yo, Pony!" Daryl looks over, then holds his fist out in front of me so Dickie, on my other side, can bump it, saying, "Whassup, Dickie dude?" Pony asks, "So you know Dylan too?" and Dickie goes, "Um, no, I don't think so." I tell him, "I'm Dylan," so Dickie chuckles, saying to Pony "Oh yeah, I just met him," and he steps behind me to get over next to Pony, who tells me,

"Dickie and I spent a lot of time together during the two-day orientation at the beginning of the semester. It was freshman orientation, which is what I wanted to hear even though I'm a sophomore. Ya know, because this is my

first year at Merrimack."

We step through the squeaky-hinged door in the seven-foot stockade fence that's around the back yard, and there's the party. Or part of it. The backyard is overrun with guys and girls. Naturally everyone is drinking, but there's also the unmistakable smell of pot with many students openly passing joints around within their groups. There's also a big backyard fire-pit with a fire roaring in the middle of it. Lots of people standing around it, and even though I'm fifteen feet away on a cement patio off the back of the house I can feel the heat. Dickie asks me, "Did you see where Golden and Pat went?" I don't know who Pat is, so I look at Pony, who asks, "Who's Pat."

Dickie says, "A really tall kid. He's a starting pitcher on the team, all the way from New Orleans." Tom interrupts, "Fuck, there's nobody selling beer out here," and I mumble, "Let's try inside." We walk through the noisy backyard crowd toward the back door. Outside we can hear rap music, but once we open the door it becomes unbearably loud. I'm not a fan of rap, but I don't hate it. When it's this loud though, it's pretty hard to take. The house is jammed with guys and girls and at least half of them are too young-looking to be college students.

We're in what they call a 'mud room' and through the next door is the kitchen where we find three guys behind a long table selling draft beer in sixteen-ounce plastic cups, plus shots of liquor: rye, scotch or tequila for $2.50 a shot. There are lots of guys drinking from cans of beer too, so it looks like we could have brought our own. Too lazy to go out and buy more booze I'm going buy it here paying three times what it's worth. The guys behind the bar are all on the baseball team, but they're not freshman like someone told me. They're seniors, looking older than that if you ask me.

They're also doing a brisk business; all three busy selling both shots and beers.

The beer label on one of the quarter keg reads, 'Heineken' and the other indicates 'Miller Lite'. The Heineken is $3.00 a cup; Miller Lite is $2.50 a cup. Pony says, "Do a shot with me, Dylan." I go, "If you'll do a beer with

me." He nods, saying, "My treat." We only need to wait a minute before a redheaded bartender, asks, "Whaddaya need, boys?" Pony says, "Two shots of VO and two Miller Lites." The redhead goes, "You got any ID?" Pony blushes and frowns, looking over at me. I shake my head, meaning the guy's kidding.

The redheaded guy shows a really nice smile, saying, "Just breaking your balls, kid," and he pours two shots into plastic shot glasses, then draws two

sixteen-ounce beers, saying, "As a special price to you, my friend, that'll be ten bucks and don't be shy about tipping." Pony gives him a twenty and I can see him adding in his head, then mouthing silently, 'Special price?' He gets his change and we back away, miraculously not spilling any of the shots and beers. Tom's at the bar now with Dickie, waiting to buy a beer.

Pony holds up his shot, saying, or I should say 'yelling', "Good health, dude," and we throw the shots down our throats with me thinking, 'That one's for you, Rob'. The whiskey is just as ghastly as ever, but I know what to expect by now and gulping some beer helps. The stink of marijuana smoke is heavy in the air, much more so in here than outside. Cigarette smoke too, so I say, "Let's try another room, Pony." Already we're separated from the other guys we came with in the pickup, but this place is more crowded than the frat party a couple of months ago. It's amazing, but looking at the front of the house from the outside you'd hardly know two hundred guys were packed in the house and backyard. The road noise from route 114 helps cover our noise, and the high stockade fence in back helps deaden the noise too.

We slide by and through groups of guys and girl into what must be the living room. The furniture is totally occupied though, and some of the occupants are deeply involved in making-out. The pot smell in here is unbearable so I nod toward the next room that turns out to be the dining room. The table and chairs are pushed against the wall and some couples are dancing. I shout in Pony's ear, "Are we having fun yet?" He shouts back, "This is cool.

Don't ya think?" I shrug, but no, I don't think it's too cool. Chugging half my beer, I light a cigarette and Pony grins as he pulls it from my lips to smoke it himself. He's looking cute tonight, and the beers I had at the dorm room helped me with that appraisal. Pony's tried to comb a pompadour in his hair like I combed for him when I gave him the haircut... fuckin' cute! We gotta find someplace where I can spank his ass and fuck him hard.

We watch the dancers while finishing our beers. Dropping our cigarette butts in my empty plastic cup, I take Pony's empty and set it on a tables that's against the wall, yelling, "You did okay with that beer, do you want to try another one" and he shouts, "A shot for sure, but I can't decide about another beer." Pony's doing some slurring and the word 'decide' sounded suspiciously like 'deshide'. We both end up getting another shot and beer, and this time we take them outside where it's cold, but you can at least breathe. Compared to inside, the marijuana smoke out here is now almost unnoticeable. Holding up our shot glasses, I say, "To college life" and we drink down the burning liquid. I go, "Jesus! That sucks," and Pony goes, "Yeah, it does." Tom Higgins and three guys I don't know come over and all of them are sophomore classmates of Daryl's. They start talking about their classes and some of the assholes in class with them. Mocking guys who aren't present is a fun pastime. It's sophomore stuff though, and I'm not paying much attention to it. I'm checking out the guys although there's not much to get excited about. Tom, with his haircut that I just did for him is kind of interesting, but I'm pretty sure his haircut has a lot to do with that thought.

The others are not good looking, although for all I know they may be awesome guys. Awesome guys who aren't good looking.

The music has changed to club dance music now, which is better than rap, but not by a lot. Finished my beer I'm definitely feeling a buzz from the front-loading and then these last two beers, plus the two shots. My mind drifts to Rob at the apartment and what he's probably thinking about, but I'm supposed to be getting away from that for a few hours so I force myself not to think about it. I drift off to get another beer leaving Pony, who's busy laughing his nuts off again, this time at a story one of the not good-looking guys is telling. Inside the house the first person I see is an interesting looking tall guy with wide shoulders and a baby face. His face is shaped like a slightly rounded 'V'. His chin is small and his face widens from there. That description sounds awful, but he is far from awful.

Strawberry-blond silky hair that's kinda too long, but not by much. There's no part or anything, his hair just lays on his head shining in the overhead lights. He has a peaches and cream completion with pale whiskers growing like Robby's grow, meaning a skimpy mustache that doesn't quite reach all the way across his upper lip, then some chin whiskers as well as some along his jaw.

Like I said very much like Robby's so-called beard. This tall guy has a cute youthful face, like I said, but it just doesn't go with his body or the clothes he's wearing. He's burley and tall at six-feet-three-inches. That's my guess and his arms and hands look thick. That face belongs on a shorter, much slimmer body.

Naturally he catches me staring at him; don't they all? With all these people in here it's so crowded the girl next to me is literally against my side from my shoulder to my feet. All these people and this big dude picks me to glance at catching me staring at him? He doesn't avert his eyes either, so I wait an extra second before I look away. I can feel my face getting red as I make my way to the right, where the bar is. No shot of whiskey this time; just a sixteen-ounce Miller Lite. Taking my beer, I'm afraid to look up because I don't want to make eye contact with that guy again. His green eyes freaked me out a little. So intense! Lighting a cigarette, I contemplate fighting my way back outside to hook-up with Daryl again. My other choice is tolerating the pot smoke in here where it's at least warm. I can see out the window that the backyard is even more crowded than before so, what the fuck, I slide to my left and make my way into the living room again. I'm thinking I'll grab one of the upholstered chairs if one is vacant, then sit and watch the parade of high school and college guys go by.

No luck though. The upholstered chairs are in use with girls sitting on the arms of some, and there are two couples who look like they're very close to having sex on the sofa. The loud talking, uproarious laughing, and the music sort of combine into a roaring background noise. This place blows because it's not big enough for this many people. There's no place to go for temporary relief from everything. I look at the steps, which are also pretty much occupied, but upstairs might provide some temporary relief, plus it's where a toilet is likely to be and I need to piss badly. Getting over to the stairs, bumping into people with no one saying excuse me or sorry as we collide, so I don't either. At the steps I look up to see if there's even a path I can take through the making-out couples. There's also a couple of zonked-out guys laying precariously on the steps. Jeez, those two guys look like they're about fifteen. If this place gets raided somebody's ass is grass.

I squeeze past a guy and girl making-out on the bottom step, then glance up right into the intense green eyes of that big strawberry-blond guy. We make eye contact for a second, then I look away. He's coming down the steps so I forget about the bathroom, turn around and make my way to the other side of the living room. Goddammit! That big asshole is going to knock my block off if I make eye contact with him again. He's very attractive, but it's so weird how his face just doesn't go with his body. It's disconcerting! I don't mean his head is too small for his big body, because it isn't, but he's too, um, good looking in a clean, youthful, choirboy kind of way. Um, it's incongruous seeing that face on that burly body of his. Plus, he's dressed like a biker with a black-leather motorcycle jacket that's covered with insignias: a swastika, an eagle, and other symbols I don't recognize.

He's wearing over-sized dirty jeans with rips at the knees, and engineer boots. Black turtleneck sweater under the jacket... and then the shiny choirboy's face.

Finished my beer I decide to get another one to take outside and hook-up with Pony, or maybe Chubby, who said he might stop in and see what's happening after checking-out a sorority party that John Beverly knows about. Okay, it requires some smooth maneuvering on my part to get past everyone and then when I turn toward the kitchen I bump face-first into a leather jacket with a swastika right in my face. Looking up, and of course it's him. He grins, puts a hand on each of my shoulders and turns me around, shouting, "Can I talk to you for a minute?" I turn back around to look at him, asking, "What about?" He grins, saying, "I think you know." I'm like, "No, I don't! Sorry, but I was on my way outside to join my friends." He goes, "Sure, but I want to talk to you about something before you do that. Just for a minute, okay?" and his strong hands on my shoulders turn me around again, "There you go. That's right, walk straight ahead." Standing in front of him he looked even bigger than he did from a distance. He urges me forward, then leans his head down next to mine, and says, "Isn't amazing how many unattractive guys are here tonight?" I mutter, "What?" as a shiver slides down my spine.

Naturally I'm curious what he has in mind, and with all these people here nothing bad could happen, right? Anyway it'd be awkward struggling with him in the middle of the room, so I walk through the crowd as best I can. He walks behind me with his hands still on my shoulders guiding me... one of his fingers is lightly rubbing the back of my neck. Hmmm, could sub/dom sex be a possibility? As we make our way through the crowd it's obvious nobody much cares if they're bumped into or jostled because it's simply unavoidable. Plus, just about everyone is either drunk or high, or both. At the stairs, he says, "Go on up. We'll get away from these uncouth contemporaries of ours." Well, I still do need to piss pretty badly so I start up the steps with the people on the steps trying to give us room to get by. At the top he says, "What's your name? I'm Peter O'Neil." I go, "What do want to talk with about me, Peter O'Neil?" He asks again, this time with some authority behind it, "What's your name?" What the fuck, so I tell him. He says, in a calmer voice, "It's very nice to meet you, Dylan. Um, go on... just down to the end of the hall."

The hall at the top of the stairs goes in both directions, but he pushes me to our right where we pass two bedrooms with the doors closed. There's the sound of bed springs creaking, along with some grunting and heavy breathing behind both doors. He lets go of my shoulders and grips the back of my neck, squeezing a little too tightly. I try shrugging my shoulders and pulling away, but he squeezes even tighter while pushing me forward. At the end of the hall there's a door with a blue-book taped to it. The handmade sign says, 'NOT WORKING/USE OTHER BATHROOM'. Someone's neatly printed the sign using a Magic Marker. I venture toward the sign and Peter reaches around me

with his free hand and opens the door, then turns on the light. It's a bathroom of course, and directly ahead is a disgusting stopped-up toilet. He pushes me inside, then closes the door behind us, saying, "Ah, some quiet at last, huh?" I say, "I need to take a wicked piss, but I'm afraid it'll overflow that obscene toilet." Peter goes, "Nah, it can take one or two more pisses before overflowing." I look doubtful so he goes, "Seriously, I took a piss in that toilet just before you saw me coming down the stairs. Go ahead and take your piss." I say, "This is very weird, um, don't ya think? I mean being in the bathroom... the two of us." He goes, "This is the only semi-private spot in the whole fucking house." I go, "Whatever. Um, I'm kinda shy when it comes to peeing. I can't get started with someone watching." He chuckles, "Okay," and he takes two steps backward and goes out the door.

Good! I get my dick out and it's like, "Aaaah," as piss is released and that feeling of relief when the stream starts flowing and you really, really had to go. I'm looking up at the ceiling so I don't need to see the gruesome stopped-up toilet. I'm also thinking that this Peter person just might be who I was hoping I'd run into. A nice looking dominant type gay guy to give me a hard dominant fuck. I mean what else could he want to talk about if it isn't sex? If only he weren't so big, but then that might turn out to be a good thing, now that I think about it. Just my luck though, he'll probably have a three-inch dick.

As I'm zippering-up, feeling much better, Peter steps back in, saying, "Put the seat down, Dylan." I go, "Eww, no fucking way! I'm not touching that thing." I hear the doorknob's lock click, then my world shuts down and all I hear is a slight pinging sound in my right ear, "Ping...ping...ping".

For ten seconds or so I have no idea what happened or where I am. Then, as my mind begins to clear it occurs to me he slapped the right side of my head with his big beefy hand. I'm sitting on the floor next to the toilet.

Jesus, my hand goes to the side of my head as I mutter, "What the fuck's wrong with you?" but there's no energy or force behind my words. Even to me it sounded like a whine. He says, "Get up and put the seat down like I told you."

With a hand on the rim of the bathtub I pull myself up and, more than a little bit flustered, mutter, "Okay, fer chrissakes." With my head still ringing, I roll off some toilet paper and use it between my finger to drop the seat on the floating unmentionables." Oddly, there isn't any noticeable odor. Water is a good odor-blocker, apparently.

He says, "Turn around now and sit on the seat. I want to asked you a few questions." The side of my face feels swollen and hot. I tenderly touch it with just my finger tips. Huh, it doesn't seem to be swollen although the ringing in my right ear continues. I should be frightened, but I'm not. I've decided to cooperate and see what he has in mind, or maybe that's not a conscious decision so much as I've been smacked into a submissive frame of mind. It's impossible for me to tell which one it is at this point. The unexpectedness of that outrageous slap has me disoriented. Tentatively, mindful of another smack on my head, I slowly turn around and sit on the toilet lid. Peter kneels down facing me, resting his big forearms on the top of his thighs, and asks me seriously, "How old are you?" His face and hair are as amazing and his green eyes glow from the overhead bathroom light. It makes his strawberry-blond silky-looking hair shine. My head is still spinning a little from the slap, as I mumble, "You hit me," and he smiles beautifully, "Yes, I did, and I'll probably do it again unless you quickly get less dense." Then he chuckles before saying, "And please don't tell me it's true what they say about blonds," and he laughs lightly. I shrug, not really comprehending, mumbling, "What do they say about blonds?"

I'm on a floor again next to the bathtub. The bathtub is exactly where it was the last time I was down here. Someone is picking me up as church bells gong loudly, and maybe a choir is singing. My eyes are not focusing and when my head begins clearing I'm again sitting on the lid of a toilet seat.

I ask the room, "What happened?" A voice says, "I slapped you again." Huh, who the fuck is this maniac? My eyes are beginning to focus, as I mumble, "Oh, it's you. Why the fuck do you keep doing that?" Grinning, he rubs my head, saying, "Because I can. I'm a bully and proud of it." Rubbing my temples with the fingers of both hands, I mumble, "You don't know about my brother, do you?" He goes, "Nope, and I don't care about him. I don't care if he's the Navy Seal guy who killed Bin Laden, or if he's a fictional comic book super-hero you've made-up in your dazed state. In either case I'm not trembling with fear about your brother." Smelling the back of my hand, I do a little smile, saying, "And then there's my boyfriend who goes into lunatic-mode when someone is unkind towards me."

Peter shrugs, "I don't give a shit about him either. Who I'm interested in right now is you. Would you confirm for me that you're gay?" Frowning, the bells still ringing, I go, "Yeah, I'm gay. What about it?" He goes, "I just wanted to be doubly sure, although it'd be a miracle if you weren't gay." My head is clearing quickly now, and I can look him in the eyes. So I do that and slowly. without any anger, say, "I forget what you said your name was, and it was probably a lie anyway." Taking a deep breath, I continue, "I'm going to get up and leave this disgusting bathroom. If you stop me, you'll need to worry about more than just my boyfriend's and brother's revenge. Cops and probably the FBI will be all over your ass because you've already committed a number of crimes such as assault and kidnapping. And with your unusual looks, you won't be hard to find. So, you've had your bullying-fun, and now it's time to say goodnight."

I'm feeling extremely dizzy after saying that long speech, and frankly I can't even remember exactly what my point was in the first place. He claps his hands half-heartedly, saying, "Good speech, Dylan! Especially impressive considering you're probably still more than a little woozy." I'm frowning and now feeling a little sick to my stomach, as he says, "You forgot my name, huh? It's Peter," and he gets up and runs cold water in the sink, then holds a washcloth off the towel rack under the water. Putting the cool washcloth on my forehead, he says, "I didn't especially like smacking you, but you weren't giving me your undivided attention. As far back as I can remember I've been bigger and stronger than my peers and when frustrated I just naturally resort to bullying tactics. Sorry about that." I frown at him again pulling the cool washcloth out of his hand and holding it against my forehead, "Did I mention you've already committed crimes against me that could get you put in jail." He shrugs, "Yes, a minutes or so ago you listed an array of crimes, except you won't turn me in, will you?" I'm like, "I ask you again, what do you want from me?" and he laughs easily, then says, "I already told you, but getting slapped made you forget."

Tossing the washcloth in the sink, I go, "So tell me again." He nods his head and his silky hair moves around on his head, then settles back in place, "I want to ask you a few questions. One was your name, and you told me it's Dylan Newman. Secondly I wanted to confirm that you are a homosexual, which you confirmed. Now we're to my third question which is, how old are you?" I exhale noisily, not sure what to do in this situation, then mutter, "Twenty-one. Why do you want to know?" He laughs softly, then goes, "Liar! You're not twenty-one. Please give me your wallet before I hit you again."

Thankfully the sick-stomach feeling has passed. Glancing around and realizing there isn't any way to get by this big psycho so, to avoid a third smack, I take my wallet out of my back pocket and hand it to him, mumbling, "We'll add theft to your crimes now." Taking the wallet, he looks at me with a serious expression, saying quietly, "I almost smacked you again. You'd do yourself a favor by not talking unless I ask you to." Okay, now that's a little scary! Finally fear creeps into my brain and makes my body tighten up.

I'm keeping my mouth shut for the moment while I try thinking.

Looking at my driver's license his eyebrows go up, then he glances over at me grinning, saying, "Awesome picture for a license, don't ya think?" He puts the license back in my wallet and hands the wallet to me, "Good! You didn't lie. So, now I know your name, and where you live. I know you attend Merrimack College because I saw your college ID next to your license, I know you're gay with a boyfriend, and you've recently turned twenty-one. All good stuff." He takes his wallet out and pulls out his driver's license, then hold it in front of me, saying, "You know my name and, as you can see from my license I'm nineteen. What it doesn't tell you is I'm a senior at North Andover High. At my age I should be a freshman in college, but when I was twelve a car hit me while I was riding my bike. I missed most of seventh grade because of that mishaps, and I had to repeat the grade. Consequently, I'm not only bigger and stronger than my classmates, I'm also a year older.

There were a number of operations after the accident, and a lot of pain while rehabbing, which has left me prone to getting testy at times, but I'm a pussy cat inside though." It's also has left you crazy as a junk yard dog. I'm frowning at his bizarre speech, wanting to ask how'd he knew I was gay? I don't ask though because of the 'testy' aspect of his personality, and because I definitely want to avoid another smack on the side of my head if at all possible.

He's still kneeling in front of me with his forearms resting on the top of his thighs as he goes, "I'm guessing you're primarily a 'bottom', right?"

I nod my head one time, and he chuckles, "You're hesitant to say anything, huh? That's good 'cause it tells me you're smart and a quick learner.

Here's what I'm proposing: you and I have sex in this bathroom with you assuming your normal 'bottom' position." I shrug and he snorts out a laugh, mumbling, "Now you're just breaking my balls, ain't ya?" I shake my head, almost grinning. How can he be kinda cool one minute and then the next minute try knocking my head off my shoulders? He goes, "Okay, you can talk." I ask, "How'd you know I'm gay?" He spreads his hand like it's obvious, saying, "You were staring at me and your eyes said, 'Fuck me, you big bastard'." I'm like, "Really?" He nods, "Yep, didn't anyone ever tell you about your eyes?"

Huh, actually someone has... a couple of times. I go, "Hell, no. My eyes don't talk." He goes, "Yeah, they're very expressive. So, do you wanna? You and me?" Hell, yeah! I go, "I'd rather not. You rang my bell twice and I still feel dizzy and a little sick to my stomach."

He says, "How about this? You and I go downstairs to get a beer and some fresh air. Then, when your bell stops ringing, we'll have a fuck together."

Staring at him and frowning again. Huh, this suggestion of his doesn't compute with his previous violent tendencies. He's a walking contradiction. I finally ask, "Why the hell didn't you just ask me about sex in the first place? Why smack me around before asking?" He goes, "It's simple. I wanted to establish convincingly who's dominant here, as well as, who's, um, not. I think we've established that, right?" I mutter, "I'll say." He stands-up offering me his hand. I take it and pull myself up off the toilet seat. He puts his arm around the back of my neck, saying, "You're gonna be my obedient 'boy' for the night, right, Dylan?" Not wanting to seem eager, I go, "Maybe," and he grins, "C'mon, let's get a beer and some fresh air." We go down stairs in single-file because the same guys and girls are still occupying most of the area on the steps. Peter keeps one of his big mitts on my shoulder as I'm trying to figure out which of this big apes' personality is the real one.

At the bottom of the stairs the noise assaults my senses mightily, especially after the quiet of the bathroom. Peter says, "Get both of us a shot of something and a beer. Here," and he hands me a twenty-dollar bill, adding, "I'll be outside the front door, not the back one." I nod, and he looks me in the eyes, "Don't fuck this up, boy. It'll be no trouble finding you again," and I almost smile. Damn, I had a premonition this might be the night for an hour or so playing sub/dom sex roles with a dominant dude. Those smacks were a big price to pay though, but now that he's satisfied I'm okay with being his submissive boy for a while, no need for more smacks. As I make my way to the kitchen I'm wishing he was older than nineteen, but then it works even better that he's younger than me, and yet still more dominant.

That thought make me smile. Sub/dom sex rocks, but only when done sparingly and for a relatively short period of time. Preferably without any smacks on my head. Obviously most guys don't get aroused by being dominated during sex, but it adds a scary thrill to sex for me. An extra thrill to sex, which is already the most awesome pastime in the world. The scary thrill is like the one you get on a thrill ride at an amusement park. You love it, but it still almost makes you wet your pants. A touch of danger even though you know it's mostly benign.

I buy two shots, then pour each into separate beer cups so I don't spill any making my way through the crowd. The cups of beer are filled right to the top so I chug some from each. Then, with my fingers holding the shot cups

together in my left hand, and my fingers inside the beer cups holding them

tightly together in my right hand, I start making my way out the back door

because it's closest. Outside I slip around to the side of the house and walk to the front. Peter's sitting on the front step of the rickety porch watching the traffic fly by on route 114. As I come around the side of the house he looks over smiling, "Well ain't you the clever one avoiding going through three rooms with four cups of booze. Hey, are your fingers in my beer?" I go, "Yep, and I didn't wash my hands after taking that piss." He laughs out loud. Then says, "Where's the change from the twenty?" I go, "I left it as a tip," and he laughs out loud again. See, things are going to be okay with this Peter person.

Standing next to the steps, I pass him one of the whiskey cups, then a beer cup. He asks, "Have you ever played golden showers?" I shake my head, "Nah, I'm not into piss although I once drank a little of my boyfriend's and it wasn't so bad. It didn't do anything arousing for me though 'cause I don't have that fetish. So no, I'm not into golden showers." Peter mumbles, "Me neither," and he holds up the cup with whiskey, saying, "To you," I reach over and tap his cup, then flash down the whiskey. I'm gasping and coughing for two seconds before swallowing some beer, as he goes, "Jesus, what rot gut booze, huh?" I go, "I'm not a shot and beer guy." He goes, "Neither am I, but it's kinda mandatory for some reason. Peer pressure ya know?"

I go up two steps and sit next to him, then give him his ten-dollar change from the twenty. We drink our beer for a minute or two without saying anything, then I mumble, "Um, Peter, overall you don't really strike me as the bully type." He goes, "But yet I am. And because I bullied you in the bathroom we've established the pecking order between us. Also it's obvious that because of my bullying you're excited about me fucking you. Am I right? You want me to be your dominant 'top' for the night." I go, "Well we're discussing that possibility. That's what you said in the bathroom." He drinks some beer, then says, "Yeah, that's what I said in the bathroom, but it's like this: I don't run into someone of your, um, quality, very often. In fact, I never have before tonight. Consequently, heh heh, I'm pretty much committed to fucking you."

Avoiding that for the moment, I'm like, "Huh. Let me asked you something.

Ahh, do you think your face goes with your body?" and he snorts a laugh, then coughs spitting out a mouthful of beer." After coughing a couple more times, his eyes watering, he says, "Holy shit, where'd that question come from? But, as a matter of fact, I've wondered about that myself a few times.

I'm very good looking though, wouldn't you say?" I shrug, "Yes, in an unusual way you are attractive, but you've got like a big man's body and a, um, choirboy's face." He pats my shoulder, "Thanks, I like that description,"

and he runs the back of his fingers up the side of my head, asking, "You gonna be my boy tonight?" Hmmm, as much as I'd like this to work out, something isn't right with this guy. I mean he seems so normal one minute then the next he seems dangerous. Yeah, but that's partially what makes his proposal enticing.

Peter finishes his beer and drops the plastic cup off the side of the steps where he dropped the whiskey cup. "Let me give you the lay of the land, so to speak. Firstly, you being a submissive bottom and all, I assume you're

used to being spanked, right? I spank asses before fucking them." I drink some beer so he goes on, "You see, I've been doing this since I was thirteen. A few of my fellow students at North Andover High School have enjoyed being my boy for the night, but I don't really have any friends there due to me being older, and a bully too... heh heh." I not sure if he's putting me on about all this, but there's those two smacks to consider so I'm trying for an optimistic outlook. He likes to hear himself talk apparently as he goes on, "So, in my experience I find a hard spanking reinforces who's the boss. Any problem with that?" I shrug, "I've been spanked before. Um, haven't you gotten in trouble at school for spanking and fucking guys?" He shakes his head, "No, and it's isn't always guys either. I'm bisexual, but with either sex it's always consensual, um, one way or the other. Plus, I'm only

talking about a couple incidences per year. I prefer being selective rather than prolific." I'm like, "Huh, jeez..." He asks, "How about sucking cock? You got a problem with that?" I go, "Not really." He says, "Good, we're basically on the same page. You'll do what I say when I say it and we'll be cool. I only know one way to fuck and it's hard and fast... and always with a good sturdy condom.: That's good to hear. Patting my shoulder, he goes, "Okay, the last thing is this: do you get turned-off kissing another guy?" I go, "Mostly it depends on the guy."

When it doesn't seem like he has any more to say, I mumble, "If there's nothing else, I'm gonna get another beer. Do you want one?" He says, "No, not now, and you're not getting one either," and he swings his arm with his hand open, aimed at the side of my head again. This time I move just enough so he swats across the top of my head instead of hitting the side. I look at him with a startled expression on my face and he calmly says, "You're forgetting who's the boss here. You ask me if you can get another beer; not tell me you're getting one," and he grabs the back of my neck squeezing hard, muttering, "Do you understand me?" Both my hands go to his hand trying to pry his fingers loose from the back of my neck. He literarily shakes me, snarling, "Put your hands down!" I drop my hands and he lets-up the pressure on the back of my neck a little, but still holds on. Now he's back to speaking softly, saying, "Relax!" and he shakes me again laughing a little.

This is a very strong nineteen-year-old, who apparently has a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality.

I try relaxing, but he swats the top of my head again anyway, asking, "Are you going to do what you're told, or do you need another swat across your cute face?" A flicker of a submissive trance skitters past my mind, and I get docile, murmuring, "Okay." In a pleasant voice he murmurs, "Then please do what you're told, okay? Jeez, you submissive types are so unpredictable." I'm unpredictable!? That's good one coming from this nut. Taking a deep breath, I try relaxing even more until I'm almost slumping. He chuckles, "Good, Dylan, good. Get nice and docile for me, that's my boy! You've done this before, haven't you?" I take another deep breath feeling like there's no bones in my body and realize I'm in a slightly submissive frame of mind, I murmur, "Sure I have." There's something missing, although I can't decide what it is... nothing's perfect though so I'll settle for this tenuous submissive sense, hoping it gets a lot better.

He lets go of my neck and grabs a fistful of hair at the front of my head, and now he's rough and talking nasty again, saying, 'Don't disappoint me.

Not get up!" I guess he wants us completely into our sub/dom roles now.

When we're both standing on the top step my eyes are level with his Adam's apple, so he's five or six inches taller than me. Plus, he's got an extra seventy-five pounds on me, probably all muscle. That's intimidating. Peter pulls on my hair, saying, "Get going." I open the door and go in with him close behind; so close his thighs hit my buttocks with every step. Because he has a fistful of my hair at the front of my head, it pulls my head back and when we come into the room it quiets down for a half a minute as everyone gawks at us. It quiets down except for the screeching music of course; that's still blaring away.

Naturally everyone continues gawking at us; gawking at me mostly and my face gets red and hot. Even though I don't know any of these people, it's still embarrassing for me. I hear a couple of snarky remarks, like: "Yeah, Peter, don't take any shit from these college assholes," and a whispered, "Holy shit! Look at that!" and another person stage-whispers, "O'Neil's got himself another pussy-boy." Most everyone I know would hate this experience, and a part of my brain hates it too, but the part controlled by my penis is getting off on it a little bit, and hoping for a full-blown submissive trance before we're through. It's been months since my last one with Ryan in Georgia. It happened on a regular basis there.

After the short initial shock of seeing us, the place goes back to being extremely loud and raucous. A young-looking kid comes up to Peter, asking, "Pete, can you give me a ride home later?" Peter yanks on my hair, and says, "Probably, Rich, but I can't promise anything other than a ride, if you know what I mean. Look what I got here." Rich says, "You da man, Pete," and he pinches my ass hard. I yelp and they both chuckle, then the sweet-looking kid asks, "Hey, can I watch you do this kid, Pete?" My hands are on Peter's wrist again trying to get him to let go of my hair, but he pays no attention to that. He tells Rich, "Nah, not this time," then he gets us moving up the stairs again as I'm hearing a lot of slurred speech from intoxicated or stoned individuals. Pot smoke is still thick in the air, but less so when we reach the top of the stairs. When I hesitate at the top, he says, "You know where to go." I lead us to the bathroom then open the door and Peter turns on the light. He lets go of my hair and there's half-a-dozen longish blond hairs stuck to his hand. Hairs he pulled out of my scalp. He wipes them off, saying, "You're my submissive boy now, ain't cha?" I frown trying to analyze my condition, as he goes, "Get totally undressed and do it fast without saying one fucking word until I tell you to." Undressing quickly my hearts beating fast, I'm full of nervous anticipation because it's something new in that I've never done it with him before. Common sense tells me there's no real danger with a house full of people, but I push common sense to the background.

Standing naked in this small bathroom in front of the clogged-up toilet, I'm feeling small next to Peter. I watch him pull his pants down just below his big balls and, oh jeeesus, Steve Church should see this. Peter has a cock I'm estimating to be ten-inches-long, although not especially fat. It does have a large, Ray-like, mushroom head though. It's actually grotesque looking, but then a small cock on a guy this big would be kinda grotesque looking or freakish-looking too. He's got his cock in his fist just staring at me until I begin feeling uncomfortable. I'd like to ask, "What?", but don't need another slap so I docilely wait for instructions while feeling a tingling in my groin. Stroking his long cock, he finally mumbles, "Turn all the way around slowly so I can see what I've caught for myself tonight" and when I slowly turn around, like I'm modeling my body, he goes, "Wow, boy, you're the real deal, ain't ya? Looks like I finally got lucky." He wiggles his forefinger, like, 'Come here'. Taking a small step towards him and, all of a sudden, he's got his arms around me with his body tight against mine.

The zipper of his jeans scratches my thigh as he grinds against me fondling me with his hands, rubbing from my ass up my back and up the back of my head. All the time his cock swings between his legs bouncing of the inside of my thighs. My face is mostly against his neck as he hugs me taking big noisy breaths, humping his hips against my stomach; his long cock getting really hard as it's now pressing against my right leg. He's screwing this up, is what he's doing! He continues his fondling and humping for a minute or so as he makes low sounds of arousal in his throat. His bicep muscles rubbing against my naked skin feel freakishly hard. When he backs away he's fully boned-up. Again he

grabs a fistful of my hair yanking me around as he sits heavily on the toilet seat pulling my head down almost to his crotch. I'm thinking he wants me to suck that big-headed cock of his, but he lets go of my hair and lifts me up, then drops me across his lap with his boner under my belly. My feet hit the bathtub on one side and my hands are on the dirty floor near the sink on the other side with my crotch pretty much on top of his. Without hesitating the sounds of the palm of a hand slapping skin rings out in the bathroom, "SMACKSMACKSMACKSMACK!" Right away I'm trying to get off his lap squirming and struggling, yelling, "OW! OW! OW! STOP!" Then more, "SMACKSMACKSMACK!" sounds as tears form in my eyes. He stops abruptly and lifts me up to sit me on his lap facing him, a leg on either side of his big thighs, his boner sticking up between us. "Shhh, shhh," he says, "You said you had experience with spanking. Shh, stop crying!" I mumble, "I'm not crying. Why are you telling me to stop?" He goes, "Because I saw your fucking big-baby tears, that's why." I'm like, "Well that hurt like a mother-fucker!" He rubs tears off my cheeks, grinning and saying, "Aren't you kinda old to be crying?" I mumble, "I just fucking told you I wasn't crying. My eyes were watering because it hurt like a mother-fucker." I'm keeping my voice level because I don't want to piss him off enough to give me another slap across my face. Oh, I guess there's no imminent danger of that as he hugs me against his chest tightly as some of the metal insignia on his leather jacket scratch my skin.

More fondling, his hand all over my back and head. Then he pushes me away from his body and moves his legs wider apart. My legs spread along with his, my limp cock hanging there between them. He takes my cock in his big hand and strokes it while squeezing it tightly. I grimace at first, but when it begins getting hard I grunt, leaning forward and putting my hands on his shoulders. Using the fingers of his other hand he rubs the skin around my groin, saying, "It's a very faggy thing shaving your pubes, but if you insist on doing it you need to be diligent about it. You've got like a five o'clock shadow down here." I don't say anything as the stinging on my buttocks has most of my attention. When it begins lessening to a manageable level, my attention goes to the sensations coming off my hardening cock that looks small in his over-sized hand. Stroke, stroke, stroke, as he quietly asks, "Who's your daddy, Dylan?" I make a face, then give him the answer he needs to hear, "You, Peter." Big smile, "You Peter, what?" I go, "You're my daddy, Peter." He grabs a fistful of my hair again jerking my head back, murmuring, "Yes I am," then he abruptly let's go. Jeeezus, this crazy bastards' so inconsistent I can't maintain any semblance of a submissive sense. I mean, what's with his immature foundling of me like it's the first time he's ever had another guy in his arms, and then he follows that up with an over-done spanking, and that's followed by jerking me off and hugging me again.

With his legs spread, mine are spread too and it feels like I could fall off backwards at any second so my hands drop down to hold onto the top of his thighs; thighs that feel like granite. By now he's stroked my cock into a pulsating boner. Letting go of it he looks me in the eyes, murmuring, "Awesome penis ya got there. You are one special queer boy," then he says, "Is it okay if I kiss you?" He's not supposed to ask! I look down and he puts a hand on either side of my head, holding it up a little and kisses me with a lot of desire. I don't even need to kiss back because he's a really into it. Again it's like he's a kid let loose in a candy shop. My face is hot and a little red when he takes his lips away. I almost feel embarrassed for him at how excited and aroused he seemed during his kiss. He's now saying, "Jesus, you smell and taste really good, boy. This is really awesomely hot. You and me are going to be getting together frequently, and your boyfriend can go fuck himself." Really? We'll see.

I've learned not to pay a lot of attention to dominant guys' declarations.

They're all pretty pleased with themselves and say things they can't always back-up. My ass is still stinging some and there's a burning sensation but it's not real bad, and the spanking is behind me, so that's good.

Anyway, a good thing about my buttocks is they both can take it and so can my rectum. He asks, "Are you okay?" I take a big breath and says, "I guess so, but..." He goes, "But what?" I shrug, "Never mind, yeah, I'm okay." He gives me a cute look, and I still can't get used to that youngish face of his, and then him being such a brute at times. This dude has got a serious mean streak in him.

I'm feeling stupid sitting like this on his big hard thighs as he runs his fingers through my hair. He's doing whatever he wants so I'm feeling a little submissive, and helpless. It's not a good sexual submissive feeling th ough, so my cock is quickly losing it's hardness. He says, "If you're okay, I'll finish your spanking now," I'm like, "Peter, wait... um, I already said you're my daddy and my dominant top, so why do you need to do anymore spanking?" He says, "So you don't forget." Oh fuck! Nothing I say is going to

change his mind so, to avoid a head smack in addition to the spanking, I let out a exasperated breath, mumbling, "Okay, I'm ready." He goes, "You're ready, for what?" I think for a second, then mutter, "I'm ready for my spanking," and he goes, "You've almost got it right, but you forgot who you're talking too." I mutter, "Oh, okay. I'm ready for my spanking, daddy." He laughs, then says, "Good pussy-boy," and he picks me up like a feather to lay me across his lap again. It's a repeat of the first spanking with me, this time, initially trying to take it. Quickly though I can't help but get into all my yelling and begging him to stop just like I did earlier. He eventually does stop, and his cock, sideways across my stomach is like granite, so he gets off from spanking. Others do too I suppose.

He's rubbing my burning butt cheeks as I squirm on his lap, hating on him;

hating him with a passion. He waits until I stop struggling, then gets a hand towel off the towel bar, wets it with cold water and lays it across both my butt cheeks. He apparently is of the opinion a wet towel cure everything. The cold wetness does feels good though as I'm taking deep breaths wiping my eyes. Now I want more than anything to be done with this and away from him. This isn't doing anything for me except causing me pain. He basically doesn't know what he's doing; he sucks as a dom! Rubbing my back he starts talking again, like he's having a normal conversation, "You've got a really nice body, Dylan, and your skin is so smooth and beautiful. I had a girlfriend for about two months earlier this year who loved rough sex. You do too obviously, and also like you, she had beautiful skin. Sex with a member of the opposite sex is so different though. I loved it, but I love a guy's body too. Especially a primo one like yours."

Taking the wet towel off my ass, he asks, "Feeling okay now?" I mumble, "Yeah, sort of, I guess." I'm being careful how I answer him because he's obviously got a serious screw loose in his brain and I don't want him snapping out again. He gets me on my feet and, as I've come to expect, he grabs a fistful of my hair and uses it to pull my head down until I'm on my knees.

He says pleasantly, "You know what to do." I pick up his slightly firm cock, that was granite-hard a minute ago after he spanked me. The head is a mouthful alright, and a shiver of fear skitters down my spine realizing I'll be taking it up my ass momentarily. Peter says nothing, and instead starts breathing noisily and in fifteen seconds he's taking gasping breaths, seemingly deeply aroused already. All pretenses of being a hard-ass dom is lost in his sexual arousal. As for me, I'm not sensing even the small submissive trance I felt earlier. He has this goofily weird way of going, "Oooh, ooh, ahhh, whoa," constantly while shuffling his feet as though his age has caught up with him, and he's merely a horny over-sized boy getting his cock sucked for the first time.

Precum doesn't bubble out of his piss slit, it shoots out in three fast watery shots. He moans, "Ahhhh, mmmm, aaah fuuuck," as he pushes my head away with the head of his cock flopping out of my mouth before I even licked the shaft. He's got another rock-solid boner from me sucking the head for thirty seconds. He pulls a condom out from the back pocket of his jeans that are hanging below his ass, but his hands are shaking as he tries to rip the packet open. He gets flustered and hands it to me, mumbling, "You do it. I can't get it opened." It's an extra-large condom packet that I easily rip it open and then get my fingers gooey rolling it on his long cock. The head bulges out the end looking like a malformed apple. As I'm wiping my f ingers on the roll of toilet paper he stands, grunting, "Turn around and hold onto the toilet." There's no force in his voice, just gasping desire. What a bummer! I was expecting good sub/dom sex but he way overdid the rough stuff, and now he's like a quivering novice fucking for the first time.

It's obviously too late for me to back out now though. My cock boned up slightly while sucking the head of his cock, but he got a boner so fast mine didn't have a chance to get very hard. My bare feet are on the dirty tile floor as I reluctantly hold onto the edge of the toilet seat, a hand on either side. I'm wishing I had a bottle of Purell Hand Sanitizer so I could use the whole bottle. He pushes the head of his hard cock against my asshole with me holding my breath. There's no dominant thrust or smack on my ass; instead a surprisingly considerate, very slow attempt at penetration while I listen to his heavy desperate breathing. I feel like giving him a spanking. Then all I can think about is the pain from my anus. The stretched lips painfully expand until the pain is almost my whole world. I gasp, my eyes and mouth tightly close as I picture in my head that apple-size cock head ever-so-slowly spreading me open. It's inevitable he's going to keep the pressure on until it pops inside me, but it's taking forever. Then I scream out as the head finally squeezes past my sphincter muscle and spreads my insides. Intense pain as I grit my teeth and wait an agonizing minute until the pain begin to let-up and slowly turns into a dull ache. I can take a breath now as the hurt starts to level out. The head feels enormous inside me, but it's beginning to feel good now that my ass has expanded enough. Peter grunts, "I'm going to cum." What the fuck....

His hips thrust and the head of his boner goes two inches further up my ass as he moans and shakes pushing that fat cock further into my bowels. His whole body shudders as he squawks, "Waaarra!" and I feel the ball at the end of the condom enlarge inside me as he climaxes. Unbelievable! Peter was gasping, almost whining like he's in pain as he was climaxing. My cock is flaccid between my legs as he partially supports himself with a hand on either side of the toilet seat next to my hands. His open jacket hangs on either side of me and I smell the leather. Peter's body has a neutral scent with a hint of bath gel. He's breathing deeply with the two of us like statues in this odd position. The pain really hurt at first, but the whole thing from start to climax was less than two minutes; that's my best estimate. It was very soon after his cock got past my sphincter muscle that he shot his load. Some dom! I still don't say anything though because I'm not sure if he's still acting the crazy bad-ass role smacking me, or if he'll continue with his current novice overly-excitable role.

It's probably only a minute or so, although it seemed longer to me, before he murmurs, "Oh God, that was so fucking good," then another deep breath before adding, "Give me a couple of minutes and I'll start fucking you."

What? Getting his arms around my chest, we're both standing up now with his knees bent so his still fairly-hard cock is level with my asshole. It's like when dogs fuck, the head of the male's dick swells-up so much they're locked together until the male climaxes, which can take a while. In our case one of the males, the 'top' one, has a swollen mushroom head on the end of his ten-inches of hard penis inside me locking us together. I'm dreading the thought of the hurt in my ass when he jerked that apple out quickly. Peter takes another deep breath, then he turns us around taking little steps keeping us docked together, as he's mumbling, "I had to get that premature ejaculation out of the way. I'll be good to go again in ten minutes or so." He gently sits down on the toilet seat holding me off his lap so the last seven inches of boner doesn't shoot up my rectum. Worried about that, I'm holding my breath again.

He says, "Whoa, you're heavier than you look." I'm concentrating on being docile so I don't slip out of his hands. He says, "Maybe the head of my cock will soften enough in a minute or two that I can let you sit down on my lap. That'll get me aroused mightily, heh heh, and then I'll fuck the shit out of your ass." This really is a terrible example of sub/dom sex. I want to get away from this nut-case, but how do I do that? Peter goes, " Hmmm, I think I'm gonna do you doggie style, and you, boy, are still instructed to keep your mouth shut." Well, if I said anything he'd need to let go from one of my hips in order to smack my head, and then I'd sink all the way down on his giant pole, so I'm quiet as a mouse.

By now my rectum has expanded sufficiently that I've got this awesome over-stuffed feeling in my ass. It's sending off mighty tantalizing sensations both from my wickedly stretched anus and from my squashed prostate gland.

Oh fuck, there go my shoulders shuddering as I let out a moan, "Aaaah, mmmm, oooh." He chuckles, "Feels good now, does it?" I squirm a little getting the slightest bit of movement on his huge pole. This is the fullest I can ever remember feeling, and there's seven more inches to go. I can feel his cock getting harder again, and the head especially. I thought he said it would soften-up. But wow, the inside of my rectum feel spectacular now as Peter says, "I'm letting you slide down now. I'll do it slowly 'cause I know you've never experienced a cock like mine. Do not scream out." He drops me an inch and it hurts so I grunt and he says, "Oh, come on and take it like the good pussy-boy I expect you to be." So he's back to being the dominant bad-ass again.

His hands are sweaty on my hips as he lowers me. The pain continues, like something is ripping inside me, but he's taking it an inch at a time so I gotta give him props for that consideration. Another inch as he exhales a moist breath on the back of my neck, then another inch and more moist exhales from Peter. He's still fully clothed of course; his pants down far enough so his full bare ass is on the toilet seat. Another inch with my cock limp again from the pain and the fear he'll drop me all the way. My buttocks finally settle on his hairy thighs as he takes a deep breath, murmuring, "This feels so fucking good I can't begin to tell you." Sweat's running off my forehead as I continue holding my breath and then, just like that, the pain fades and I moan with relief, "Ooooh, fuck, yeah. Mmmm, oh man, yeaaaah,"

then I remember I'm not supposed to say anything. Cringing, I'm waiting for the smack that never comes. He goes, "Okay, lean forward slowly. I've got you," and between the two of us I get down on my hands and knees, but during that re-positioning his cock pulled out about five inches. When he pushes it back in a spurt of cum shoots out of my cock that somehow got hard again.

He goes, "I'm going to fuck you until I get a second orgasm, so after you climax I expect a pussy-boy like you to continue hanging in there. If not, you'll feel my hand smack the side of your head again." The bully's back in

town! He slides his huge hard boner back, the mushroom head dragging the sides of my rectum backwards with it, creating a sensation I remember from Ray Reeves fucking me during that strange summer with the posse boys. Peter pulls his boned-up organ all the way back and then, taking me by surprise, plows it back up my ass fast and hard. I got used to everything slow and easy, and now this. After slamming it up my ass he immediately withdraws about seven inches as I moan, "Ahhhh, oooh, mmmm," and he shoves it back in all the way fast and hard again, and continues doing it with males' fucking sounds, "Slapslapslapslap!" ringing off the tile walls. Powerful pleasure sensations ripple through me. They're so intense I squirm, arching my back on my hands and knees and moan with sexual pleasure forgetting about everything up till now. I'm sliding forward slightly every time he hammers that pound of hard cock up my ass, and then I slide back on the dirty tile floor when he's dragging it back out fast. He's well coordinated moving ten fat inches smoothly back and forth. The huge apple-head spreads my bowels going in and I can almost feel them shrinking in the wake of the head as he pulls it back. By now I'm making a fool of myself moaning and cooing and groaning, but the enormous amount of stimulation on all the sensitive nerve ending of my rectum have overwhelmed my senses.

"Slap, slap, slap, slap," sounds and both our moans of sexual pleasure are all I hear. As he gets more and more aroused his strong hands on my hips begin pulling me back into his hard thrusts. I feel helpless knowing I couldn't stop this if my life depended on it. He's too strong, his boner's too big, and he's greatly aroused. Then, just like that, I feel a familiar submissiveness drift over me and I finally can revel in the knowledge I'm being dominantly fucked again. My body flops around as he grunts and groans moving his huge boner fast and hard, "Slapslapslap," back and forth in my ass.

Peter sees I've become docile and mutters, "About fuckin' time, boy. Let yourself go earlier the next time we do it," but I hardly hear him as my climax builds and builds. Once he started fucking in earnest it's only took a minute for me to finally become submissive to him. My head drops to my forearms that are flat on the floor. I raise my ass submissively to the alpha member of our team. He slaps the side of my ass, muttering, "You're my boy now, ain't ya?" His words come from far off as I hold my breath at my impending orgasm and then, "Eeeee!" my hips try uselessly to hump again Peter's grip as a long stream of shimmering cum shoots out my super-boner in a hard fast stream that burns on its way out. Then again with the, "Slapslapslap,"

continuing as I gasp and shiver and shake at the series of rolling sensations from around my groin and the screaming pleasure from my ass. Then a few after-shock sensations with my shoulders shuddering and I sigh contentedly for a few seconds, but there's no down-time to savor my orgasm as the assault continues on my ass.

"Slapslapslap," sounds now aren't as sexy to my ears as they were a minute ago, and now my anus is beginning to get a burning sensation, and a soreness inside me grows and gets worse. I spread my legs and drop my ass to let a different area of my ass take the brunt of it, but that doesn't help. I'm over my submissive trance, mostly groaning in pain again. Peter's making desperate whining sound now so hopefully he's getting near the end. Another uncomfortable minute of hard thrusting with him holding my hips, me limp as a dish rag, his ten-inch boner impaling my very sore rectum with full thrusts, then it's Peter humping against my buttocks and I assume filling the condom with another load of spunk. Then he stops humping to do a couple of deep breaths as he slowly pulls his cock out of my sore ass. I grimace at the struggle getting the engorged head out. "Owwww," from me, then, "Ow! Goddammit!" His cock is out and I feel grotesquely wide-open back there. I can't seem to make my ass muscle clench. It's a weird feeling as I'm basically laying on the floor like a discarded condom. Then, realizing suddenly that I'm on this dirty floor, I start dragging myself up. Peter's sitting back on the toilet seat again with his head back, still breathing deeply.

Grabbing the rim of the bathtub, I pull myself up. My ass is slick with the lubricant off the condom. Peter goes, "Ya got a good ass for fucking, and wow did I get off good the second time. The first one was building-up over a month or so since my last sex." He snorts out a laugh, then says, "Being

horny and then spotting you staring at me with those naughty eyes. Oh man, I thought, 'Peter boy, this is too good to be true,'" I'm leaning against the sink looking at him and trying to figure out if he's as unbalanced as he seems when, using his authoritative voice, he snaps, "Turn around!" and I

do it even though I'm not sensing submissiveness now. He chuckles, and drops the stern voice to say conversationally, "Holy shit. I couldn't get my fist up your ass, but I opened it up wide enough that your fist would fit up there. Goddamn, that's a round thing of beauty right there. It's gonna take a good couple of hours for that asshole to shrink back to anything near normal; if it ever does."

Except for yelling, 'Owww! and Goddammit', I haven't spoken a real word for twenty minutes and my voice cracks when I ask, "What do you mean, if it ever does?" He says, "I've Peter-ized you, heh heh. You're not the first one either." I'm like, "What...?" and he makes a big circle with the thumb and

forefingers of both hands, saying, "Your asshole; it's stretched past the point of no return. It might never get back to normal tightness. Certainly not like it was before." I'm frowning as he says, "Ya know, guys with big cock who fuck you will thank me, and you should too. Heh heh, guys with smaller cocks will probably curse me." That scares me so I forget about him smacking me again and yell, "Don't give me that shit. My anus has always recovered tightly." He shrugs and gets up to pull off the condom. Lifting the clogged-up toilet's lid, he snickers and drops the condom in. It floats on top of the disgusting water, then the big ball of heavy cum drags it under and he closes the lid. Looking at me, he asks, "You get fucked a lot, do ya?" I shrug and he goes, "Don't matter. My boner's over four inches in circumference and the heads bigger than that, plus I've had my big salami up your ass for almost twenty minutes. Your asshole ain't ever going to be like it was before I broke it in. You'll see." I frown at him with my heart beating fast. Could he be right? I feel back there and pull my hand away. It's a freaky feeling being opened that wide.

He's pulling his pants up, saying, "Get dressed and I'll buy you a shot and a beer." By now I despise him, but I try not to sneer. I just want to get

away from him. He says, "You're gonna be sticking real close to me, kiddo;

I'm not passing this opportunity up. I'll fuck you again in an hour or so. This next fuck will go much easier and smoother for you since I basically fixed your asshole for ya. No charge," and he kicks one of my sneakers over to me, saying, "I told you to get dressed, boy!" What a mean prick! Picking up my shirt, I put it on then pull on my underwear and pants. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub I'm putting my socks and shoes on watching him to make sure he's not getting ready to smack me again. While putting on my jacket I'm planning how to get away from my latest mistake. This was a mistake alright, and even the hot climax I had wasn't nearly worth all the other shit I had to put up with. Goddammit, I did it to myself again.

Yeah, wanting the sub/dom sex Ryan used to provide so easily got me into this mess. It wasn't even traditional sub/dom sex, certainly not like I was hoping for. He couldn't pull it off from the beginning, and consequently I only experienced a little submissive trance there a couple of minutes before climaxing, and then forgot about it dealing with the soreness in my rectum as that animal continued fucking me. I gotta get away from him and chalk this up to another bad choice and a huge disappointment. And it seemed so promising too. He simply doesn't know how to do it. Actually he's right about him being a bully because that's what it was: a bully's version of sub/dom sex. Too rough at times with no continuity. He was an overly mean prick one minutes and the next he's conversational, and then without reason he gets super bitchy again.

Peter puts his big arm across my shoulders as we walk out of the bathroom.

"You and me are gonna be like Siamese Twins, boy. Your daddy is going make a project out of you over the next couple of months. A half dozen hard fucks and your asshole will be so loose you'll barely feel a smaller cock going in." I'm not listening; instead I'm thinking how he never even bothered to ask how I was, or fished for compliments about how good he fucked like every 'top' I've ever been with does. Peter doesn't care about anything except his own sexual pleasure.

After taking a mere three steps I know I've got to walk oddly. My ass hurts too much, so I need to do that squatting walk to relieve a little pressure off my rectum muscles. It's an awkward bowlegged-like walk with my ass sticking out a little. Peter chuckles, 'Yeah, bowlegged, huh? You're not the first one I got walking bowlegged. And wait'll I do you again. You'll eventually get used to it though. No problem." Going down the steps I hear whispers from behind guy's hands, "O'Neil's got another notch in his belt; another bowlegged fag bites the dust." And from another, "Shhh, don't attract that crazy fucker's attention." There are other snide comments I block from my ears; instead thinking real hard about what a dumb ass I've been tonight. The smacks on the side of my head where, duh... a clue to get away from him when we came downstairs for the shots and beers. A clue Peter is maybe not someone I want to have sex with. At least he wore a condom. Yeah, nice rationalizing, dummy.

Waiting to be served at the kitchen bar, he whispers in my ear, "Don't look so dejected. The next time will go easier for you, Dylan. Your anus has been broken in now, and like I said before, you should thank me." How the fuck many times is he going to pat himself on the back. He's full of shit anyway because my ass is going to be okay, although maybe not if he fucks me again. I say, "Look, Peter, don't throw a shit-fit, but I'm much too sore inside to do it again." He tightens his arm around the back of my neck, saying, "You'll be okay. And we are doing it again, so I don't want to hear another word outta you about that. Got it?" and he tightens his arm even more.

My hands go to his arm as I say, "I got it! I got it, Peter." He mutters, "You pussy," and then he orders, "Two beers and a couple of whiskey shooters." I say, "Peter, be reasonable, I can't do it again. I'll scream for the cops or something." Passing me all four plastic cups, he mutters, "Carry these. We're going outside to drink them." I go, "Okay we'll have a shot and a beer, but I can't do it again." He says, "Ha, guess what, you are doing it again. One more word outta you and I'll do the spanking again too."

Outside it's still as crowded as ever and it's still cold. He takes one of the cups of whiskey from me, saying, "Drink your whiskey." Frowning at him I drink it. Ghastly stuff as I guzzle beer after swallowing the VO. He holds out his cup of whiskey, "Drink this too, and stop acting like a cunt."

I go, "I can't drink... and he raises his hand, saying, "I'll slap you so hard it'll knock you on your ass." I drink his whiskey and chug some beer.

That one had me on the verge of throwing up. He mutters, "I'll get you drunk and maybe you'll stop whining about your pussy hurting."

This guy is bipolar or something. His emotions go from one end of the scale to the other. He says, "Stand closer to me," and he puts a hand in my pocket, saying, "You ain't going anyplace." Taking a big breath, I drink some beer wondering how I'm going to make my escape. Lighting a cigarette, I say very nicely, "Peter, we can have a good relationship. We don't need to do it again tonight though. My ass is not recovering at all, really. I'm hurting." He shrugs, "Oh, that's a shame because I've been just thinking that I might even go for thirds as well. Resign yourself to that. You're my boy and I'm your daddy tonight, and daddy knows best." I start to object when I get a tap on my shoulder, and hear, "Dylan! I've been looking all over for you." I turn, and go, "Chubby! Hey.." Peter pulls his hand out of my pocket, startled by my yell. Chubby nods at Peter asking me, "Who's the baby-faced gorilla, bro?"

to be continued... Donny Mumford thinat20@yahoo.com

donnymumford@outlook.com

========================================================

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

========================================================

Please consider a tax deductible donation of any size to nonprofit Nifty to help with the expense of maintaining this ginormous free story site. Thank you very much.

http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html