DYLAN! By Donny Mumford

DYLAN!

Chapter 1

My best friend, Chubby, and I live in Framingham, Massachusetts, a suburb of Boston. This morning, we're on our way to high school, tempting fate by taking the shortcut down Circle Avenue. If I found where I left my homework quicker this morning, we wouldn't have had to use the dangerous shortcut. We congratulate ourselves on surviving the run past the ferocious brown and black German Sheppard with its bared, shark's teeth, its head as big as a watermelon, and it's scary, loud, deep throaty growl charging us at a hundred miles an hour. It's on the flimsiest rope that somehow stopped the beast two feet from our asses.

I almost peed myself when it was running down the driveway, Chubby yelling, "Oh, Dear Mother of God!" when that monster hit the end of the rope and flipped over on its broad back. Too bad it didn't break its fucking neck, but it got right back up to begin barking loud enough to wake the dead.

We quickly jogged away as an old lady screeched out, "Stop teasing my dog! Fucking kids in this neighborhood..." Chubby and I exchanged terrified looks, and then he silently mouthed, "This is your fault, Dylan." I nodded to acknowledge that it was indeed my fault, and we ran hard and were almost off Circle Avenue and onto the main drag when that fat fuck, Freddy Chavez, stuck his foot out and tripped Chubby. We didn't see the prick sitting there on a stool in front of his car, waxing it or, who knows what he was doing. Freddy says, "Oops, the little fairy fell and got a boo-boo."

I'm horrified, rushing over to Chubby as Freddy yells, "Chico, get the fuck out here. These two smartasses were teasing our old lady's dog again".

Chubby had gone down hard and slid four feet on the blacktop driveway. His jeans ripped at both knees, blood seeping out of the brush burns. He yelled at Freddy, "You ugly motherfucker, Chavez!" and then here comes Freddy's brother, Chico. "What'd you call him, faggot?" and a round-house punch bounces off Chubby's skull with a hollow "thunk." I jump on Chico's back, grabbing him around his dirt-ringed neck with one hand and going for his eyes with the other. Freddy rushed up behind me to give me two hard punches. The first knocked the wind out of me, and the second bounced off my backpack.

He dragged me off his brother and another punch in the softest part of my belly, followed by a hard shove up against his car. I flop down on the

sidewalk, seeing stars and trying to get my breathing started. I need to start breathing soon as I hear Chico's voice say, "Check the fuckers' pockets, Freddy. That skinny shithead scratched the door of my car when he stumbled into it. I ain't paying for that; we'll get the money off

them.

Chubby and I were wearing skinny dungarees, and Freddy's fat hand couldn't get in our pockets, so he pulled off our sneakers and jeans. Chub's jeans were big enough around the waist to come off with a couple of tugs on the pant legs. Mine were old and too tight for me, so with the Chavez brothers each holding onto a leg of my jeans, they dragged me halfway down the block, laughing like mad, before they could get the jeans to pull off over my hips. With each new pull and drag, my head bounced on the cracked sidewalk; then, a massive air intake came into my lungs, and I breathed again. Thank you, God!

In the struggle, my underpants got half pulled off, which interested Chico. He came back towards me, panting a little with his tongue licking around his lips. He hesitated a second and then grabbed my boxers at the waistband. I said, "No, don't," just before he ripped them off me. His eyes got big and shiny, absorbing the image of my soft cock and shrunken nuts. Then, he seemed to snap out of it and looked toward sirens. While groping his junk, he mumbled, "What the fuck...?".

Someone had dropped a dime on the Chavez brother's shenanigans. Freddy motioned with his head for Chico to get in the car. After throwing our dungarees in the back seat, they casually drove down the street right past the police car as it flew by them in the opposite direction, its lights flashing and siren blaring; the dumb fucks. The cops, who have never done anything for me, almost drove right by us, too, and for all the good they did, they might as well have. But they slammed on the breaks and backed up to where we were sprawled out on the littered sidewalk without pants.

They looked at us, then looked all around, sitting there on their fat asses in the cruiser. After checking the scene, they returned to staring blankly at Chubby and me. The black cop finally said something to the white one, and they both chuckled and, with bemused looks, they called for an ambulance. Chubby was sitting up by now, holding his head in both hands, blood drooling from a cut in the back. I was taking off my shirt so I could cover my dick. Both the cops put a hand over their mouths, laughing at me.

When asked finally, we told them exactly what happened and who did it, but three people from the neighborhood told a totally different story before we were even in the ambulance. They said we were teasing that friendly dog and cursing at the old lady who owned it, and when her sons tried to get us to move along, the little one, pointing at Chubby, swung at Freddy. Two of the liars were adults, and one was a

teenager with cornrows, who kept giving Chubby and me the finger whenever the cops weren't looking his way.

What a cluster fuck that whole scene was. I asked the cops indignantly, "Do you actually believe a word of this BS? Who would pick a fight with the Chavez brothers? Us two? Look at us!" I pointed at little Chubby and skinny me, "Are you serious?"

The cop said it's our word against the witnesses. One of the paramedics gave me a blue hospital pajama bottom to wear. I called my Mom on the paramedic's cell phone. That would have been the end of this nightmare, except Chubby passed out on the way to the hospital, so the nightmare

continued. All I could think of as I watched the paramedic give Chubby oxygen was the sound Chico's huge fist made when it connected with Chubby's head and then the "boink" when the back of Chubby's head hit the sidewalk.

At the hospital, I was taken for an XRAY of my ribs, which turned out negative. I just had bruises from the three punches. They hurt and were turning yellowish purple, and I had cuts on the back of my head from being dragged on the sidewalk, but I was okay.

Chubby was being examined for a concussion and other things. Sitting in the waiting room looking for our Moms to arrive, I thought about me and Chubby. He's been my best friend all my life. I have memories of Chubby from about age four. We played together every day and slept together many nights until about age ten. Jeffery Romero is Chubby's real name, but I've never called him that. He got his nickname as a toddler, mostly because he was never chubby, even as a baby.

Chubby and I both just turned seventeen, which makes us the two youngest juniors at Framingham High School, as almost every junior is eighteen or soon will be. That's our only claim to fame, being the youngest juniors in Framingham, Massachusetts. Being the youngest sucks, by the way, but summer vacation is only six weeks away.

My mom and Chubby's mom have been best friends forever, and Chubby and I are, too. I'd guess our moms both must be about thirty-five by now. I know they were both pregnant with Chubby and me at age seventeen. I get to officially be a bastard, literally, as my Mom never married the boy who made her pregnant. As far as anyone knows, he's still in the Navy. I learned, years ago, that he'd been under the impression Mom was

going to abort me. She didn't because Tris, Chubby's mom, had gotten knocked up, and those two best friends, with all the wisdom of teenage girls, thought it would be fun to have babies together, and thank God they did.

Anyway, the Hispanic boy who is Chubby's father married Tris but died on the steps outside their apartment right after Chubby was born. Man, what a way to start and end a life. Chubby's Dad died from an aneurysm in the brain. It's sad. He went out to get the newspaper one morning, sat down on the curb, wet his pants, and then passed out after asking the mailman, "What's happening to me?" Chubby was one week old. Chubby carries a picture in his wallet of his Dad holding him at two days old.

It was amazing how good-looking and young his Dad was in that picture. He was as old then as Chubby and I are now, and he always will be, too. Like I said, sad. I'm feeling shitty sitting there in the hospital waiting room. I took a deep breath and thought that the wallet with that picture of Chubby and his dad was in the hands of those cretin Chavez brothers right now."

Interrupting my thoughts was a ruckus at the emergency room entrance, where paramedics wheeled in accident victims. It seems relatives of the accident victims didn't appreciate how long it took to get the survivors here. There is lots of yelling and cursing, and two men go down on the floor fighting. Jesus! This place sucks the big one.

I get up and move to the other side of the room near an older woman moaning with another older woman, patting the moaning woman's hand.

Delightful. Let's see, where was I? Oh yeah, I'm thinking about Chubby and my daily schedule. Frankly, until now, I never thought we had a schedule.

Well, our school days go like this: We wait for each other in front of our double-decker duplex and walk to school together. On the way, we share a Marlboro cigarette, passing it back and forth till it's done. Then we walk another ten blocks and do it again with the other cigarette. After school, we work on the school newspaper for an hour, then come home, say hello to our Moms, and go out again, rain or shine, for our run. We do a four-mile run along the trail through Parker's Park every weekday and sometimes on the weekend.

The daily four-mile run takes about an hour each way, and we come back to my place for Cokes and snacks and talk some more with our Moms before they go to work. They work as waitresses at Renny's Bar and Grille, mainly in the bar section, because they get more significant tips there. They work from four o'clock until midnight, so Chubby and I are on our own. Both of our Moms are smiley ladies, happy and chatty, always ready to laugh, and always supportive of Chubby and me. When they leave for work, we do our homework. Chubby is smart in Math, and I'm competent in English, so we help each other.

Thinking about this is keeping my mind off worrying about Chubby. I'm realizing how much we're a part of each other. As far back as age six, there

are pictures of us two on the beach, in our too-big, baggy bathing suits, hugging each other with our skinny arms, our heads together, smiling as

if our lives depended on it. Chubby likes being in close proximity to me at all times. That was true back then, and it's still true to this day.

I don't mind, but sometimes I wouldn't mind if he wasn't so close to me all the time, in my space sometimes. Of course, now that he's hurt, I wish he was right here beside me so close our sides were touching, and we had our arms around one another as we had in that picture when we were six years old.

We've never discussed sexuality, but I'm something like gay, but not for Chubby. When I masturbate, I have this elaborately detailed fantasy about being fucked by some mystery boy. No age, no face, no particulars at all, but he is screwing my ass hard. For the last two years, I've been using a rubber to finger my asshole while I jerk off while thinking about that hot fantasy. Thinking about that right now gets my dick stiff, and I can't wait to do it tonight or tomorrow morning, maybe both times.

I jerk off alone and have no desire to have sex with any boy or girl I've ever met. If it weren't for that one fantasy of mine about some boy fucking me, I'd call myself asexual. Neutral, or whatever, is the proper term for a sexless person. But, since I do have that fantasy, I call myself

something like gay, although I don't know what the something is. I know it's not heterosexual.

Chubby's a different story. Watching TV or sleeping together, he'll hump against my leg or hump against me someplace until he cums and, after catching his breath, he says, "Dylan, that wasn't queer, ya know." I'll look surprised and mumble, "Of course it wasn't, Chub; why would you even bother to mention that?" He always says something like, "We're the closest buddies the world has ever known; we're not homos." Then he'll tell me a true but obscure factoid to change the subject. For example, "Did you know the only domestic animal not mentioned in the Bible is the cat?"

"What? A cat? Wow, that blows, Chub."

I don't get sexually stimulated by his dry-hump-fuck, or whatever it is, but I love Chubby more than a brother, and I want to help him enjoy himself. Other than his dry humping, we have no explicit sex together. We've never even jerked off together or sucked each other off or anything else. I've seen Chubby's penis a million times, just as many times as he's seen mine. We're not bashful around each other when peeing, changing clothes, or bathing. Neither of us are cut, and Chubby has a smaller dick than me, but it's not tiny or anything. Mine is a nice six inches, and his is somewhat this side of five inches., Both our dicks are regular width with regular nuts and regular pubic patches for our slight teen bodies.

I've never wanted to suck either of our dicks, but we do have nice-looking ones, even if I do say so myself. You know, no fat veins or bends or weird abnormalities. They look in proportion to our bodies and are fine-looking uncut dicks; what can I say? They look cool, actually. Mine's a great one to jerk off with; I can't imagine a better one.

Our bodies are both slim. Chubby is shorter at about five foot seven, and I'm five foot ten. I like to think we have runners or swimmers' bodies: nice regular muscle definition and smooth torsos without body hair, except for a bit under our arms. Chubby has a swarthy tan flesh tone and is very healthy-looking. I have more of a pale skin tone, but I get good color in the summer. I have light blond hair, and Chubby's is light brown. We both have brown eyes.

He could probably describe me better than I can because he's always staring at me. It gets on my nerves sometimes, but now I wish he was right here, healthy and fit, staring at me to his heart's content. Chubby is attractive with complimentary facial features, and, like me, he has a killer smile with sexy dimples. In some ways, we look alike in the right light. Heh-heh. Seriously, we're pretty fucking cute for seventeen-year-old guys.

Interrupting my daydreaming, there's loud talking in the emergency room again. I looked over and grinned. I thought I recognized the voices. The moms, Chubby's, and mine are on a mission, heading for the reception desk. I get up and call out to them and get smothered in hugs. Mom has dungarees for me to change into. They both talk at once, but I get my story out about the fight, and as soon as they know I'm okay, they storm the reception desk.

Tris has tears in her eyes and curses in her mouth. She insists on seeing a doctor about Chubby immediately. My mom chimes in, and pretty soon, there's shouting and name-calling until out comes some authority figure who, after more shouting, calms Mom and Tris down, telling me to stay put while the moms go inside to see Chubby.

I want to go too, but no one under eighteen is allowed for some stupid reason. I put the dungarees on in the lavatory and then, to hell with staying put. I go outside to smoke. I'm scared for Chubby if you want to know the truth. He's been in there almost an hour and a half, and I wonder what all the shouting was about, so I'm worried. Who wouldn't be concerned?

I wander around in the waiting room, wondering what they could be doing. Not knowing, my mind comes up with the worst scenarios. Waiting and not knowing is brutal. Outside for another smoke, back inside again, thinking about the odd things Chubby and I do.

Some of them are so bizarre I have to laugh out loud. Entering puberty, Chubby grew barely noticeable hair on his legs, and I didn't have any. That wouldn't do, so he started shaving his legs. He rationalized, "Dylan, this is what the guys on the swim team do." I say, "Oh. I didn't know that, but we're not on the swim team." Sidestepping that detail, Chubby had a factoid, like, "Did you know that the 'dot' over the small letter 'i' is called a tittle?" He's dead serious.

Chubby has a real fetish, too. It's the foot fetish, which I've Googled and found isn't all that rare, although it's pretty weird! Chubby loves my feet. He'll pull off my sneakers and socks when I'm on my computer, saying, "You need a foot massage. Who else but me would do this for you, Dylan?"

"No one but you, Chubby," he starts rubbing one foot, then the other, muttering, "You've got long, thin feet," massaging them for a while, which feels great, but he'll lick them too. He hasn't messed around with my feet in months. He used to, though.

Then, I see the three of them inside at the reception desk. I go past the 'DO NOT ENTER' sign, and Chubby and I hug. We stepped back, Chubby smiling his smile, and I got a tear in my eye, not realizing until this second until right how afraid I was that he was seriously hurt and how much I love him. I'm wiping my eyes with the heel of my hands, and Chubby tells me, "Everything's going to be alright, Dylan. Don't worry, I'm okay".

We hugged again like we used to do on the beach as little boys so many years ago. Tris says, "Come on, you two. You're both alright, thank God! Let's get the hell out of here. The car is around the corner in a no-parking zone. "What a surprise," piped up Chubby.

We went directly to the police station, Chubby and me smirking at one another because the Moms were pissed off at the way the police treated us. Side by side, they stormed into the station with Chubby muttering to me, "Oh fuck, I'm glad they're not pissed at us." Our Moms are the sweetest ladies, but they don't take shit from anybody. They ranted at the desk and raised all kinds of hell about how the two cops handled things. It took some doing, but our Moms were finally pacified when a detective was assigned to investigate, and a report was filed about the patrolmen's handling of the situation.

The four of us went back to our place for brunch. The hell with school today. The talk at brunch was about getting even with the Chavez brothers, but that petered out with a silly suggestion of mayhem on Circle Avenue. Mayhem, my ass; we knew goddamn well we couldn't pull any of that shit off.

The next day, the police got our dungarees back, Chubby's with rips in the knees. He got his wallet and picture of him and his Dad back, too, but the four dollars were missing. Later that week, a judge issued a restraining order stating that no member of the Chavez family could come within fifty feet of Chubby or me. Chubby mumbled, "Oh fuck, I feel so safe now, except for the minor detail that I'm pretty sure the Chavez boys can shoot somebody in the nuts from fifty feet away, never mind the head." We decided not to take the Circle Ave shortcut ever again.

That was the last time anybody hurt Chubby or me, and we didn't exact serious revenge, but that happened later.

All the next week, Chubby played up the head injury/concussion angle to get me to sleep with him upstairs in their place. The days passed with us more or less maintaining our routine. Chubby making me laugh was often unintentional on his part, which makes it even funnier. The two of us spent an hour on the school newspaper most days after school, and not surprisingly, the newspaper was a cliquey operation, as many school activities are. Of course, Chub and I were on the outside of that clique, as we were on the outside of all cliques in school, but so were most kids. When I think about it, we belong to the biggest clique of all... the one where members don't belong to any clique.

Anyway, I work on the newspaper because my English teacher pushed me onto the staff of reporters. Chubby isn't on the staff; he's the supplies and advertisements coordinator for different clubs, including the school newspaper. He mostly hangs out at the newspaper because I'm there.

The editor of the paper is a mean-spirited, senior-class guy who I'm sure is gay. His name is Carl Denton. He heard about our fight with the Chavez brothers, and for some reason, his interest in me intensified, and he assigned me to write a story about the incident, which I didn't want to do. I'm all about letting sleeping dogs lie, so I do not want to stir those Chavez assholes up. Today, however, Carl called me into his office and asked me to read what I had done on that assignment. Part of my English grade is the mark he gives me, so I can't just say, go fuck yourself, which I'd like to do.

Carl's a heavy; well, let's be honest and make that fat boy, about six foot, four inches tall. His most noticeable characteristic would have to be his halitosis because it can make you lose your lunch if you aren't careful. He says, "Newman, don't tell me you don't have some story for me today. Don't tell me that, okay?" I told him I was sorry, but I couldn't get started on it because, "Carl, I swear to God, I've got writer's block where that mugging is concerned."

Squinting at me, he said something about my problem being closer to a laziness issue than a writer's block one. Carl was talking and acting especially weird today. Instead of being behind his little desk, he was standing in front of it, with me between him and the desk. He's an overly dramatic person who considers himself a talented mimic, and I think he was impersonating someone famous that he assumed I'd recognize. I had

no clue.

He towered over me and leaned the roll of fat around his waist against my skinny stomach, up near my nipples. Just leaning on me slightly, he said, "Tell me about it." I took a deep breath and looked away, saying, "The fight was a highly traumatic experience, and writing about it is scary for me." He said, "Have you ever seen the movie, " Beautiful Thing?"

What that had to do with anything was a mystery to me, although I had seen it on cable with Chubby. It's a coming-of-age, coming-out gay movie involving two English teenagers. I said, "No, I don't believe I have."

Carl turned his head to the side a little and leaned into me harder; I could feel the tip of his hard cock poking out under that roll of fat. He said, "You

should rent it. It might give you an idea of how to proceed with what you need to do." I looked even more puzzled than before.

It's difficult for me to think of something to say to bizarre comments like that. Chubby would have immediately come up with some smart-ass comment. Instead, I said, "Okay, I will, Carl." He made some kind of theatrical move with his large head and fat hand and said, "Better idea. Why don't you come over to my house and you can watch it with me in my bedroom on high-definition TV. I've got the CD. Let's say seven tonight. We can also work together on that mugging story you're experiencing writer's block with."

I was frowning, trying to think up why I couldn't do that, when he casually cupped my head, rubbed his hand up from my neck, and muss my hair, saying, "Nice hair, Dylan." I was so taken aback that I remained speechless. Today, his breath smelled like spoiled cheese. He leaned his head down towards me, and I looked up, wondering what the fuck was going on now, as he did something geeky with his eyes that got my skin crawling. Looking at him directly, he had a big, sore-looking, ingrown pimple on the edge of his nose and lots of nose hairs, too.

I said, "Ah, tonight, you say? I can't tonight." He rested his hand half on my neck and half on my shoulder and did little squeezes. "Change your plans, dude! I need to get to know you better. I've got to figure out what grade to give you this semester and things like that."

I gulped and squinted back at him as if I was considering his great idea while trying not to gag at the smell of his breath.

Carl waited patiently for some reply from me. A lot of his significant weight was pressing against me now, and my ass was squished against the edge of the desk. His boner was poking me in the chest as sweat broke out on my forehead. I was wiping at that with the back of my wrist when the office door opened, and Chubby brazenly came in and said, "What the fuck are you doing, Carl? You know very well I've been waiting out there for you to sign off on this ad from Fong's Foods so I can call the printer."

With both Chubby and me in there, the room was packed. Carl let out a pissed-off exhale and said gruffly to me, "What night then, Newman?" I said, "Can ya let me check with my Mom on that?" I was squeezing along the edge of his desk and finally escaped his bulk and followed Chubby out of the office.

Carl followed, too, and signed Chubby's reacquisition. Then he grabbed the back of my neck, saying, "Where do you think you're going?" His fingers felt like fat sausages. Holding out his cell phone, he said, "Here, call your mother."

Gawking at Chubby, Carl asked, "Is there something else, Jeffrey?" Chubby mutters, "I guess not, and walked away. I hemmed and hawed but finally called. The cell phone mouthpiece smelled like cheese, too. I pretended to ask permission to work at Carl's house tomorrow night. Mom said, "Dylan darling, I trust you to do your school work wherever you want to. You don't need to ask me." I held my hand over the receiver and said, "She says not tomorrow either." Carl curtly says, "Ask about Wednesday, then."

I saw the futility of this charade, so I finally agreed to meet him Wednesday night at his house. He smiled at that and actually rubbed down my

back and squeezed my right butt cheek, saying, "Bring everything you think you'll need if you know what I mean. We can have a little fun mixed in with work."

The second Carl was back in his cubical, Chubby was all over me, wanting to know what was happening. When I told him, he was like, "Carl Denton? You're going to allow yourself to be in that homo's bedroom alone? Are you out of your fucking mind? Dylan, he's queer for you, man. Can't you see that?" Then his face got red, and a vein pulsed at the side of his forehead when he said through his teeth, "If he pulls anything on you, I'll push that blue-cheese-breathing motherfucker down the steps."

Chubby gets wicked protective of me sometimes, and it's so sweet, but it can make a bad situation worse at times, too. Like this situation right here. It's a no-win deal for me. So what if I let Carl feel me up a bit? We do the story, and I'm done with it. And maybe I get a good grade, too. If Chubby gets involved, who knows where the fuck it ends up?

I dreamed of attending an Ivy League university and needed the grades to do that. This is just one tiny step toward my goal. If Chubby messes with Carl, Carl will take it out on me by giving me a bad grade. I talked to Chubby all the way home, and he promised not to do or say anything to Carl until after Wednesday night.

When we got home, we talked about it with our Moms, even mentioning that Carl was probably a homo. My Mom said, "Dylan can take care of himself. You both can. My God, you're seventeen years old, and soon you'll be voting. You can't let anyone push you around, Dylan, and I don't think you will. I'm always here for you, sweetheart! You know that."

The moms left for work around three-thirty. Chubby and I did our four-mile run and homework and then ate dinner. Then, downstairs to watch an early season Red Sox game on TV. It was the top half of the third inning by the time Chubby was cuming in his pants, making little groans as he humped my leg. I used to have a dog who did basically the same thing. He did it to your calf if you let him. Trooper was his name. A little

mutt we adopted from the SPCA pound who died of old age in his sleep one night. Chubby and I cried for a week after he died. We were ten years old at the time.

No way I would do anything to screw up our friendship, but it's weird Chubby is still getting his rocks off humping my leg. Maybe I'd like to get mine off as well. This was a recent recurring theme of mine. Not with Chubby, of course, as that would upset everything between us, and he's never even hinted he wants anything more from me than for me to stay still while he fucks my leg, and he used to do the foot fetish thing, too.

So, no, not Chubby, but who then? I mean, I need to explore my sexuality sometime, don't I? Why not do it where I can also get a side benefit? As revolting as he is, maybe Carl has experience with gay sex. I can at least learn something and experiment to see if anything turns me on. Jerking off and fantasizing is fine, but why not try for something different? Carl isn't bad-looking, just fat, but I'm not looking for a date, just some sexual experimenting. Maybe I'll hate it, but I won't know if I don't try it. I'm going to think about this some more without, needless to say, mentioning a word to Chubby.

When a commercial came on between innings, Chubby says, "It's hard to believe, but your ears secrete more earwax when you're afraid than when you aren't. Did you notice any extra earwax when we were getting the shit kicked out of us by the Chavez brothers?" I say, "Well, no, I didn't, Chub. How bout you?"

He shrugs, "Fuck if I know." I grunt, "Huh!" and squeeze his arm, chuckling, and Chubby twist his head around to look at me. With his cute face scrunched up, he asks, "What the fuck are you always laughing about?"

After school the next day, Carl was friendly to me, and then on Wednesday, he let me go home early from newspaper duties, saying, "See you at seven o'clock, Dylan, okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be there," and he had this strange look on his face, like he'd just been goosed or something. It gave me the creeps. Chubby babbled

all the way home about the gym teacher and what a dumb fuck the man was for thinking every boy was capable of the same physical activities, and blah, blah, blah... "Doesn't that moron know they've done studies on the stress level of human limbs and found out..."

He always has the strongest opinions and the most bizarre facts, or factoids, as he calls them. He's saying, "Of course, the human thighbone is

stronger than concrete, but it depends on the torque..." I tuned him out on our walk home because I wanted to think about tonight in Carl's bedroom. How should I handle this? Play it cautiously, of course, but keep an open mind and learn something. I didn't think it would be dangerous, but Carl's size and breath were becoming a concern. Maybe it's cruel of me, but that is becoming a significant problem the closer I am to actually doing something with him. Why can't it be Robby Dickers instead of Carl, for example."

Then, I spent some time wondering why I thought of Dickers. He's a good-looking kid in my Chemistry and History classes. Well, yeah, but fuck, how shallow am I, anyway? Gawd! After dinner, before heading out to see Carl, Chubby gave me a little lecture and a factoid for tonight. "Dylan, listen to me. An average man's penis is three times the length of his thumb, so check out Carl's thumb, and that should give you something to think about."

Instead, I looked down at his stubby thumb. Chubby didn't notice. He told me to be careful with Carl and, most importantly, "Remember everything so you can tell me afterward." I thought he was going to kiss me goodbye there for a second. That would be okay, heh heh, just kidding.

I had to walk to Carl's house because our moms were sorry, but they couldn't afford car insurance for us, and that meant we had no driver's license. Chubby and I are probably the only seventeen-year-old guys in the entire town of Framingham who don't have driver's licenses. We refuse to ride our bikes in protest against our Moms' position on the insurance issue, so I gotta walk.

The walk to Carl's house took about a half hour, and I got there early, at five minutes to seven. He lives in a nice eight-room house in a good, but not especially upscale, neighborhood. A fat, young teenage girl who looked just like Carl answered the door. She squealed, "Oooooh, you're soooo cute! Oh my God!"

Carl storms over from someplace to yell, "You make me sick, Dee. Get back! Get away from him! Mother, tell Dee to return to her cage!" That was awkward! Then Carl looked at me and, in a regular voice, said, "Come in, Dylan, she's boy crazy., Follow me." Dee rubbed my hair as I passed by her. I tried to smile and act like a good sport, but I really wanted to say, "Yuck! Keep your paws to yourself, fatso."

Upstairs, in Carl's room, it was quiet, and both of us were acting uncomfortable. There was a double bed that Carl's feet surely must hang off the end. Also, there's a big desk with an excellent computer and flat-screen monitor, two armless swivel chairs, and a double chest of drawers with a high-definition TV on top of it. Wall-to-wall carpeting, and wow, it was a helluva nice room for a kid. Posters of the Patriots and Red Sox

Championships adorned the walls.

Carl started by formally telling me where to sit, asking if I'd like a soda or something, and then asking if I'd come up with the story's beginning yet. I told him I thought I could do a conciliatory tale instead. Bring together the various communities, that type of thing. The Hispanics, African Americans, and the Whites. Carl said he'd think about that. He made no mention of the movie, "Beautiful Thing," but instead asked me if I was on Social Media. I told him, "Ah, Chubby, and I think all of it is dumb and a waste of time.

He looked annoyed and said, "Look at mine and tell me what stands out to you, Dylan."

Looking at his computer screen meant I was forced to sit close to him because he hadn't moved. I looked at the screen for a while, reminding myself to be friendly. Then, thinking I'd discovered what he meant, I exclaimed, "You like only sixties music! Wow, that's unusual cause there are some awesome bands out now. Oh my God, look how ugly and old Mick Jagger is, all of the Rolling Stones. So old!" I chuckled a little, looking up at Carl, who was not amused.

He said, "Forget the fucking music, look at my profile. What stands out to you?" Now, I saw immediately what he was referring to. Next to Orientation, he'd indicated gay. I stupidly muttered, "You're gay? Is that what you mean?"

That started him pompously emphasizing how much courage it takes to be who you are and that people with the same orientation should stick together. "Homosexuality, Dylan, isn't a choice we make. It's hard-wired into our brains."

I shrug, "I've read it's part Nature and part nurturing, but whatever. Why are you talking about this?"

Carl says, "Don't be obtuse! If you were setting up a profile, what would you designate as your orientation?" Man, I had to give him props for being direct. I thought about it briefly and said, "Question mark because I don't know." He said I could take his word for it that I was a candidate for a gay orientation, and he had the gaydar to back up that assumption. I said, "Gaydar? What's that?" and he explained that.

It was all expressed in such a matter-of-fact manner that it put me somewhat at ease, and his breath smelled like a Peppermint Pattie. Not that I had a clue what to say or do next, so I sat there nodding. That cleared it all up for me.

He said, "As the current senior editor, I'm considering recommending you as my replacement senior editor for next year, Dylan. What do you think about that?"

Holy shit, he had my attention now because that extracurricular title would serve me well when applying for colleges. I nodded for him to continue, and he smirked and muttered, "Now I've got your attention. Even as newspapers lose ground to the Internet, the senior editor of our popular school newspaper will make you part of Dr. Calvin's superintendent staff. You suck up with him just a little bit, and he'll send a glowing letter of recommendation to assist you in getting into the university of your choice. That recommendation, my friend, carries some weight."

Impressed, I sincerely said, "Thank you, Carl. It would be wonderful if you made me next year's senior editor. I'd love that!"

Then, we talked about my college choices, and Carl told me he was going to Brown University, an Ivy League school but not my top choice. I was excited about all this Ivy League talk and about me being senior editor next year. The surprising thing was that Carl was very helpful and full of interesting information I didn't know about. "It makes all the difference, Dyan, having someone like me in your corner, taking you under my wing, so to speak."

"Yes, thank you, Carl. This is, um, I'm grateful." After a while, Carl brought the conversation back to sex. "I can be helpful in this area as well. What kind of sex have you experienced, Dylan, and don't give me that private, personal information bullshit. We're a couple of gay guys shooting the

breeze as I try mentoring you by sharing my advanced experience. What you say in this room stays in this room."

I noticed he'd assigned me the gay orientation already, and if I don't object to it, he wins that point. But I have to agree with him. If I'm not gay, I'm closer to gay than anything else. It comes out kind of like a whine when I say, "No sex at all, Carl. Um, it's an awkward thing to talk about."

He put his arm around my shoulders and leaned his head down to almost touch mine, "It's all right, Dylan, but you're worse off than I thought. You also need a mentor even more than I thought you would. As busy as I am, I will be your mentor because I admire your writing, and you're our high school's cutest kid. That carries weight with me.".

When he said the cutest kid, he said it in a fast, humorous voice, impersonating another famous person I didn't recognize, and then he chuckled and hugged my shoulders and said, "Come on, Dylan, lighten up. Most people get hysterical at my Jerry Lewis impersonation. I asked, "Who's that?"

I seriously had never heard of that guy, but I tried to chuckle to keep a friendly vibe going, and Carl's chin touched the top of my head. "We'll start by just getting used to the feel of each other. I don't want to go too fast, especially in light of the fact you've never had any sexual experience at all. Wow, that's so uncommon for someone who's seventeen, right?"

It wasn't clear if that was a statement or a question. I waited a second and then said, "Yeah! Huh!" figuring that sort of covered both yes and no. He went on, "First thing you've got to accept is that I have a lot more experience in everything than you. That certainly is true where sexual matters are concerned. Secondly, I'm fond of you and want to help you. Okay?"

When I didn't say anything this time, he shook me gently and said, "I asked you if what I said is okay with you, Dylan." I said, "Yes, Carl, I'm sure it is, except I'm not sure what you mean." Standing, he said, "Get up with me. Now turn around and lean back on me, Dylan. You must learn to trust me." I leaned back against him stiffly. His big bulging stomach made it even more weird than it had to be. He loosely put his arms around me and hugged me into him, saying, "Just enjoy the feel of another male body." He swayed us back and forth a little, then rested the side of his face on the top of my head, saying softly, "You have the most beautiful shade of blond hair I've ever seen. By any chance, do you have it highlighted?"

I was breathing in little gasps because this was seriously weirding me out. I managed to say, "No, Carl. It's just my hair." Then nervously, I added, "Heh-heh, but thanks for the compliment." He has me off balance and nervous. I'm in way over my head with him. That's unexpected.

It's uncertain if any of this sex stuff would help me, but I remembered Carl saying he was going to nominate me to be senior editor next year, and that is a big deal. Christ! I hadn't been confident they'd even ask me back as a reporter. Carl had just said something that I missed. "I'm sorry, Carl, what was that?"

He gives me the short version of whatever he'd said, "I'm going to brush the front of your pants, and I want you to be still. I stood still, thinking, what'd he say? Brush my pants?" and he repeated, "Okay, Newman?" Shrugging, I mumbled, "Um, I guess. Sure, Carl." His big hand lightly brushed against my crotch, then again and again a little firmer. He left his hand there, right against my cock. It didn't move, my cock didn't do anything, and neither did I, and neither did his hand.

"You feel that, right, Dylan?" I mutter, "Un huh," and he takes hold of my package in his large hand and squeezes it. My nuts moved around in their scrotum sack, and my soft cock molded to the curvature of Carl's hand. "Feel good, Dylan?"

In a trance, I mutter, "Un-huh," and he does a light massage and then a little tighter massage and keeps it up for two minutes until my dick starts to stiffen noticeably. That's when Carl, from the outside of my pants, begins to stroke the uncut skin of my penis up and down using only two fingers and his thumb. Neither of us spoke, and as my dick got harder and harder, I realized I was lying fully back against Carl now and concentrating on my boner. No one has ever touched it except me, so this was a new sensation. I took a deep breath, and Carl whispered, "Nice and easy, Dylan. You're doing fine. Undo your pants now, and I'll stroke you off on your bare skin."

Once again, the matter-of-fact way all this was happening went a long way toward making it seem all right. I'm aware young teens often jerk each other off, or at least I've read that. Chubby and I never did it, and I never did it with anyone else. Carl and I are a little too old for this, but it felt good, so I undid my pants, and they caught at my knees. Through just my boxer shorts now, he groped my cock and balls some before starting up with more stroking, and my dick was really getting hard now.

Stopping again, he says, "Get your boxers down, Dylan! I told you I want to do you bare down there," and he smacked the back of my head. It was not hard, but I whined, "Ow! Sorry." not recognizing my voice. I immediately pulled my underwear down, and that first feel of someone's bare hand,

other than mine, on my bare cock, had me moaning, "Ahh Ah. Oh, Carl!" with short, fast breaths.

He had his head bent down, nuzzling the side of his face against the side of mine. Shortly, he was doing full-length strokes on my fully erect boner. The uncut foreskin went up and over the head of my cock and then pulled down and off the head and back up on the head. It was pretty much the way it went when I stroked it. I was leaning back into Carl harder the faster he stroked me, my hand lightly on his wrist, moving up and back with his stroking. I knew I was way past the point of no return, and I was tremendously anxious to climax.

Carl's cock was at least as hard as mine, poking my buttocks. Within seconds of blowing my wad, I got up on my toes, grunting, "Aggg, agg, oh! I'm cumming. Carl! I'm cumming!!" Five short strings of cum splattered against the side of his desk as I struggled and leaned harder back against Carl, shaking as shivers ran over me. Fabulous sensations. He continued stroking but slowed down and turned me slowly around.

His face was a dark pink as he undid his pants, saying, "Now you do me, Dylan." I was still snorting out breaths from my climax, but I nodded. Fair is fair...

He pulled out his average size, cut boner, and I jerked him off, standing at his side. That wasn't as good a position as standing behind him, as he'd done me, but I wouldn't be able to reach around to stroke his cock standing behind his fat ass and reaching around his fat stomach. Anyway, he got off good the way I stroked him off. A lot more cum shot out of Carl's cock against the side of that desk than had shot out of mine. He grunted with each shot, and his massive body shuddered like mad when he blew off. "Oh fuck!" he said, "I've got to sit down," and sat on his desk chair, his dick going soft.

Then, after thirty seconds of heavy breathing, he motioned with his fingers for me to step over to him. In a trance, I did, and he pulled me onto his bare lap with my bare ass sitting on his massive thighs. This was too weird, and I tried to wiggle off, but he held me on. "No, Dylan. I need you to get used to this. Believe me, I understand it's freaky to you at first, but you'll get used to it soon enough, and you'll wind up craving sex with me. I see it in you; you're going to love gay sex."

I'll give him this much: he had me interested in gay sex, but not with him. He sternly said, " Come on, lay back against me," and he smacked the side of my face. I was surprised that I accepted the smack, and after a few minutes, I was comfortable on his lap. I think the differences in our sizes helped me accept him as my leader, mentor, or whatever. I soon felt fine sitting on his lap.

After a while, I started to say something, and Carl said, "Shhh, Dylan. Let's just get used to the way we feel to each other. Learn to do what I say, okay?" I nodded because it was so very, very odd, and this experience had taken a lot out of me. Frankly, Carl had worn me out, and I was tired. After a few more minutes, I lulled my head against Carl's shoulder, and he put his arms around me. The top of my head reached just under

his nose, and I felt like a little child.

Carl gently rubbed my chest and belly, and after a while, he began whispering how wonderful he thought I was. He knew much more about me, about my grades, and generally about me being kind of a dweeb in High School, about me living with a single mom, and all sorts of things. He told me I needed to change that dweeb image and I needed to get closer to the mainstream of High School life. That's if I wanted to get into an Ivy League University.

"They cared about extracurricular activities, clubs, team participation, and that sort of thing, Dylan. I'll mentor you with advice you desperately need. You need to appreciate it, too." He made sense, and we stayed this way, me bare-assed naked on his bare-ass junk for at least a half hour, and I was sleepy/relaxed when he said, "One more time, Dylan, and then you'll have to head on home. For now, sit up!"

I did, and he jerked me off as I sat on his lap. I got harder quicker this time, and before I shot the small second load, I felt his rock-hard cock against my buttock again, and it made me think, for the first time tonight, about my fantasy mystery boy fucking me while I jerk off. That thought got me to fire off a little bit harder, squirming on Carl's lap, and I moaned as my head pressed back against his shoulder. Carl jerked on my cock for over a minute after I climaxed and then said, "Finish me off kneeling between my legs. You need to get used to being in that position anyway," and he was slipping me off his lap as he said it.

I knelt there between his large legs and jerked his cock for two minutes, tops, and he fired off a nice second load of cum. It splattered on his desk, and some of it got on me. Ick! Carl rested his head against his chair and breathed deeply for a minute, me still trapped between his legs. "Okay, Dylan, let's go. I'll help you," and he stood up and took my hands to help pull me up.

He said, "Well done, Newman! We'll end this first session with a hug," he wrapped me up in his arms, saying, "Hold me around my waist tightly!" When I did what I was told, my arms wouldn't reach all the way around him. He kissed the side of my forehead at least five times, and I stood still for the kisses, feeling creepy. With each kiss, he held it for a few seconds against my forehead. If it was somebody else, it might have felt okay to be adored or whatever. Still, even though it was Carl, I think my dick still moved a little by the time he was giving me the last couple of longish, wet kisses.

We pulled our underwear and pants on and went into Carl's small bathroom to neaten up. Carl said off-handedly, "We'll do this once a week for starters and see if we develop chemistry together. If something special happens, we'll do it more often as boyfriends. For starters, though, make it every Wednesday at seven."

Now he's eliminated the questioning-for-approval 'okay' at the end of his statements. Now, I need to do what my mentor tells me to do. He's helping me, so I need to be grateful. That's what I think he thinks, but he constantly catches me off guard with the business-as-usual way of talking when, in fact, he's talking about the most unusual things ever in my life. Be that as it may, I replied, "Okay, Carl, whatever you say. I appreciate your help." Carl said, again in a pompous manner, "Well, I'll mentor you using all my knowledge and experience, but it's up to you how much you apply yourself, how much you get out of it."

I wasn't sure if he was referring to helping me get into an Ivy League college or teaching me about gay sex. I started heading for the door when he said, to himself, it seemed, "Why not try one last thing," and he turned me around, leaned down, and kissed me on my lips. That kiss was a shock! I never expected him to do it again, but he did, and this time, he ran his tongue all along under my lips. I gagged, and he put his tongue in my mouth and moved it around. That was gross, and I never wanted it to happen again, but for now, I didn't want to make a point of it because up until that disgusting kiss, it was going okay.

Without complaining, I pulled my head away and said, "That's enough, Carl. I'm not used to that."

"That's enough for now, but making out with you is going to be so hot for both of us! You'll wind up loving all these things I'm teaching you." Trying to keep it friendly, I again nod as if I agree. With his Mom and Dad there, I said a quick goodbye to them and hustled out the door, Carl right behind me. Outside, on the front step of his house, Carl quietly said, "I knew you were quality people, Dylan. Tonight went excellently, and I'm determined to mentor you to the extent you deserve." I wondered what that meant.

He affectionately put his arms around me, asking, "What special area would you like to explore next time?" Honest to God, I still can't believe it, but I mumble out, "Would you be willing to try to, you know, anal, um, you know, fucking me?

He moved his head and hand like a girl. Very effeminate-like, then took a deep breath and said, "You bring good condoms, not some cheapies, and I'll do you up really well. I'll probably have you suck my dick first, though..."

Again, I nod, and then, God damn if I didn't say, "Thanks, Carl. Thanks for everything!" He took his arms away and patted my cheek like I was a good boy, and off I went. Walking home slowly gave me time to try to make sense of tonight. It wasn't that I was freaked out. I was rational, thinking we hadn't done anything outrageous or forbidden for gay teens to do, except until tonight, I didn't know I was a full-blown gay teen. Also, doing all that stuff with overweight Carl Denton was a bit shocking.

Yeah, for sure, that was strange, but I had learned some things. For one, it feels good having someone jerk you off, even if you don't like the person doing it. Another thing I learned is it didn't do anything for me sexually to jerk off Carl. And, absolutely positively, kissing is NOT going to make it with me, and, lastly, I found out I have more guts than I thought I had.

I'm not sorry I went to Carl's tonight, and I'm not sorry I asked him to fuck me either, although, like I said, I'm shocked I had the guts to ask for it.

All these years, I've been fantasizing about it in exquisite detail, about a boy fucking me, and now I'll find out what it's all about for real. Sure, I wish it were a boy other than Carl, but there's that shallow part of my personality showing through again. What, I'm too special for Carl? Are 'looks' all that matter? He's got a dick, doesn't he?

Chubby and I were getting ready for bed at ten o'clock that night. He's taking a leek, and I'm brushing my teeth when Chubby says, "The human bladder is roughly the size of a softball, right?" With a mouthful of toothpaste, I mutter, "Soft ball?" and he says, "Yeah. So, where's all this piss coming from. A softball couldn't hold all this."

I spat after gargling and said, "Fuck if I know," and then I hopped in Chubby's bed, asking, "How long do you think I'm going to have to keep you

company sleeping?" He growls, "You'll be the first to know, Dylan. When I don't want you to sleep with me, you'll be the first person I tell."

I hurt his feelings. Goddammit, I don't want to do that! Then, after ten seconds, in a meeker manner, he asked, "You don't want to, Dylan? We

used to sleep together all the time." Then, he was really still and quiet. I didn't let the silence build because Chubby easily gets his feelings hurt. I said, "Oh no, Chubby, don't think that, bro. I like sleeping with you; it's just that we haven't done much of it since we were ten years old, you know? Come on over here, though; I need a hug from the best friend I'll ever have."

He rolled right over, and we hugged with both arms. "I'm no pussy, Dylan. I need you close for a little while longer." I mumbled, "That's what I want, too." Chubby quietly says, "Thanks for sticking with me, Dylan."

Chub and I are sleeping together again at Chub's request. I don't mind, but he wanted to know every detail of my encounter with Carl earlier tonight. We never have secrets, but this is different, and I didn't mention anything about what happened sexually. Then, because I didn't want to lie, I concentrated on Carl wanting to mentor me getting into an Ivy League University, making me next year's senior newspaper editor, and putting in a good word for me to the guy in charge of our high school's extra-curricular activities.

I expected and was correct in my expectation that Chubby would be quickly bored hearing about this mundane stuff. And I don't feel good about lying by omission, but what else could I do? Chubby was relieved that's all there was to it, but was pissed I'd have to do it again next. Wednesday because he couldn't stand Carl Denton. I shrugged, not wanting to lie about anything else. I have no problem lying when it's called for, but not to him.

The next day, back in school, all newspaper activities were now pleasant for me because Carl was very courteous to me, and soon, others on the paper followed his lead. They began to recognize that I was more important around here than was previously thought to be the case. Most people were followers and readily accepted that my stock had skyrocketed; some were even brown-nosing me. Chubby and I came and went as we pleased; it was okay with the boss, Carl.

The following Tuesday, Carl called me into his tiny office and told me to lock the door and pull the shade on it. I did that, and he said he was looking

forward to our meeting tomorrow night. Trying to sound upbeat, I said, "Yeah, me too, Carl!" Then, I told him I was nervous but curious, too.

Carl said, "You're cute with that innocent thing you've got going for you. Not to brag, but you're lucky I'm willing to put the time into guiding you through sex education and mentoring you for Ivy League school acceptance. But, right now, I've been in here thinking about you," and he wiggled his finger for me to come to him. When I walked over, he wrapped me in his arms and began with the kissing-on-the-mouth crap again. I twisted my head and said, "Jeez, please wait a second, Carl."

Thinking I couldn't do the kissing, I took a chance of blowing up the senior editor's job and came right out and told him that kissing wouldn't be part of anything he and I did. I said, "I wish I could, but I have some mental block. Maybe you can help me overcome that, but I can't do the kissing part for now. Sorry." And his breath smelled fresh, so somebody got through to him, but a fresh breath or not, I'm not making out with him.

To my amazement, he immediately said, "Okay, Newman, I understand. For now, no more kissing. We're still on for tomorrow night, right?" Relieved that everything seemed fine, I nodded and tested to see if I was still in good standing here, "Is it okay if Chubby and I take off now?" Carl was like, "Sure! No problem. See you tomorrow after school, and then at my house tomorrow night. Don't be late, and remember what you need to bring with you.

Walking home, Chubby was on a rant about the Junior prom. "It really sucks that you weren't even nominated to be king of the prom. I put your name in the box, and they don't even acknowledge it! What's up with that? Darren Lewis is nominated along with that dork, Bob Leaders? Who is shitting who? You're much better looking than either of those dorks. It's so unfair."

"Jesus, Chubby, I'm not even going to the prom. I don't give a shit who's the King or Queen, and I wouldn't have served if I won, which there was a better chance an alien from outer space to win it than me." Chubby wouldn't let it go, " It's a fucking conspiracy of morons, is what it is," but then he started laughing, muttering, "Aliens."

Chubby lights up a cigarette, takes a drag, and then passes the Marlboro to me. I take a drag and say, "To answer your question, it's a clique thing, like most things in High School. Fuck, like most things in the world, maybe."

He gives the last word on the matter, "Fuck 'em!" and after a minute or so, I ask, "You going to the prom?" Chubby says, "Not now, I'm not, but I could have. Carol Demarco asked me to go. She's got a wicked crush on me, and I could get in her pants with one hand tied behind my back. Fuck her up properly with my big bad boy and make her happy, but forget about it if you're not going."

He goes on to tell me that her nose is too big for her face, although her tits are enormous. I said, "Hey, how about we go stag? We could practice dancing together and wear matching tuxedos." Chubby takes a drag off the cigarette, muttering, "Nah, that wouldn't work."

"Does that mean you're turning me down, Chub? Is that what I'm hearing?" His face reddened, "Hey, we could get a reputation if guys hear that kind of joking. Let's run," we ran all the way home. Then, after talking with our Moms for fifteen minutes, we go on our real run of four miles through the park. After a mile, not sounding out of breath, Chub says, "Did you know the average person's skin weighs twice as much as their brain."

I laugh at the non sequitur and say, "Does that include thin-skinned guys?" Chubby says, "I hope you're not implying I'm thin-skinned." I mutter, "No, you're my idol, Chubby. You have the perfect skin." He pretends to cough, saying, "Bullshit," hidden in the fake cough. I laugh, then say, "Don't make me talk anymore; I don't run as easily as you." He does the fake cough-bullshit thing again.

Ever since the scare at the hospital, I've noticed and appreciated Chubby more than ever. I took him for granted all these years. His sparkly, bright eyes and his smallish, straight nose. His always-ready little boy grin and the shy way he has when he's given a compliment. I bump his side as we run, "I love you, bro." He mumbles, "Don't start breaking my balls, Dylan," and off he runs with me, catching up and jogging beside him.

After dinner Wednesday night, I'm back ringing Carl's doorbell. He answers this time, no tubby sister in sight. He nods his head that I should come in, and I follow him upstairs to his bedroom, where he says, "Let me see the condoms." It took some balls buying those things, but I was wicked curious to see how this was going to feel, so in the drugstore, I held my breath and handed two packets of an expensive brand condom to the lady at the register. They cost two days' lunch money. The lady rang them up without even glancing at me.

Carl nods, "Yeah, these are good," he tears one open but leaves it in the wrapper. "Okay, Dylan, you need to get me hard first. What the hell?

You're going to need to know how to do it, so I need you to blow me. You'll like sucking cock; that's my prediction."

Taking a deep breath, I knew I'd need to do this, but now that the time is here, I'm scared. He matter-of-factly mutters, "Well, get on your knees. Let's go! He is a no-nonsense, direct bastard, alright. He comes right out with this stuff as if he's saying pass the potatoes, which, by the look of him, he's said quite often over the years.

Carl had his pants undone and was playing with himself absently as he explained, "I've only fucked one guy. It's my cousin, Henry, but I've done him maybe twenty-five times or more over the last two summers. So, I know what I'm doing, and you don't, obviously. You need to get out of your

pants and underwear. Do I need to tell you every-fucking-thing?"

I started feeling awkward and hesitated as Carl gave me a stern look and played with himself. I had an internal battle with myself, trying to get myself to pull down my pants. I'd gotten no further than unsnapping them when Carl said, in a sympathetic-sounding way, "I know, Dylan, it's difficult doing something for the first time. We don't have to do it if you don't want to. I've only fucked Henry, but I've taken it up my ass, too. I liked it, and you will, too."

That was the deciding factor. His unexpected, sympathetic, understanding manner made me want to do it for him. After all, he's doing this for my benefit, right? I've forgotten how this even started. I roughly pulled down my pants and boxers together and stepped out of them, wondering why I needed to do that if I was going to suck his cock. My dick and nuts were shriveled up, and I felt self-conscious about that, but Carl wasn't paying attention to my dick. My bare ass was chilly until Carl reached over a gave my right butt cheek a hard slap, then another one making me sit on the hardwood floor, muttering, "What?"

Carl said, "You need to wake up, Dylan. If you want to learn, pay better attention. You should be on your knees, not on your ass, right?" Nodding, "Sorry," I got up on my knees, and right in front of my nose was Carl's cock, and it was already half a stiffy. I hadn't anticipated sucking his dick my second time here, but there it was in front of me. It didn't smell like anything as I took it in my hand. Carl had gotten me used to touching his penis last time, so maybe he does know what he's doing.

He was making little impatient hip movements with his broad, fat waist, so I closed my eyes and licked the head of his penis. It didn't taste like anything. Licking it from his pubic hairs up the shaft and over the head, then again, it quickly got hard. I put it in my mouth and sucked on it, trying to think of something other than I have a guy's penis in my mouth. I tried pretending I had a fat wood dowel in my mouth. A round, smooth, fat wood dowel with a tulip-shaped cock head at the end. Oh man, get a grip! Fuck!

Carl said, "Use your head, Dylan. What do you do when you're jerking off?" I don't know what that has to do with this. He says, "Stroke it! Stroke it while you're sucking it. Use your tongue more and suction with your lips and tongue simultaneously, and remember to stroke it all the time."

I made my mind go as blank as I could and did what he said. After two minutes, I couldn't imagine his cock getting any harder. Carl made grunting sounds while I was doing that and ran his fingers through my hair. Then, as I was about to pull my mouth off his boner to ask how much longer I

had to suck it, Carl sputters, "Ohhh," and a fine spray of liquid comes out his pee slit into my mouth. I pulled my head back, going, "Ah, shit! You peed in my mouth," and then I spit in his wastebasket three times. Picking up the condom, Carl muttered, "That wasn't pee. It was precum, Dylan. We're all set. Get up, turn around, and bend over, holding the desk. I'll take your cherry, giving you your first fuck."

Glad the cock sucking was over with, I did what he'd told me to do. Carl, matter-of-factly again, mumbles, as if he's telling me it will rain today, "This will likely hurt at first, probably a lot, but don't scream because my parents will hear you. Just grin and bear it." I nodded, feeling very nervous now. "Stick your ass up, Dylan. C'mon, get with it. You've seen this or porn channels a hundred times. Now, it's your time."

Carl bumped the end of his boner against my asshole, the condom squishy with lubricant. Each bump got firmer until the head of his cock went tightly inside me and broke something in there. I was seeing red dots streaming in my head, and the burning pain inside me caused tears to roll down my face. I thought, "Well, he did warn me."

Carl quietly murmurs, "Oh yeah, this is what it's all about. Relax your body and enjoy the ride I'm providing you; here we go: I'm pushing up your tunnel now." And boy, did he ever. It felt like a log was moving all the way up my ass as I was making rapid slurping sounds, sort of like a mantra, to get my mind off the pain. When he was all the way up there, he pulled back steadily and pushed the log right back up and then did it again, slowly but steadily. After a few more times, much of the pain faded. He started much quicker humping, very confidently and steady now. I thought of my fantasy and realized that while this didn't hurt much anymore, it also didn't feel great. That is until he grabbed me by the hips and pulled me up higher, onto my toes.

All of a sudden, it's just like my fantasy; the fat head of his swollen log of a cock massages a particular spot inside me, and that feels awesome with pleasure sensations like nothing I've ever felt before, and it's magnificent. I tried to get up even higher on my toes, and when his hard boner went up and pulled back down now, it hit that perfect spot, and my dick felt tingling and fine like when I was jerking off, getting ready to cum. Carl was grunting and smacking my ass with each pile-driving thrust; I got a boner without even touching it. My stomach tightened, and what the fuck was happening? I squeaked out, "Ahhh," and watery cum did a soft spurt out of my cock a few times. Then a hard string of cum fires out that felt better than any jerking-off climax could ever imagine feeling.

I had to tighten my sphincter before I squeezed cum out of my nuts. The tightening on Carl's hard boner got him making gargling sounds in his throat, and he laid on my back, thrusting hard into me three times, holding the last one way up in my rectum, doing little humps against my buttock, whimpering as a gooey feeling and a touch of extra warmth was felt inside me, Carl gasping and then thrusting sloppily, rocking me to and fro.

My heart was pumping to beat the band, and I breathed like I'd run four miles fast. Oh, but that climax felt way better than I get from jerking off. I see what all the fuss is about now. I mumbled, "Could you please get off my back, Carl? You're heavy." He struggled up and pulled his softening cock out of me. We groaned, "Ahh, ahh," because that felt good too. We breathed deeply, and Carl asked, "So, how'd you like that?" I told him it was great, and he said, "We'll rest for an hour, and then I'll do you again, slower next time."

I'm up for that. My ass was a little sore, but I wanted to be filled up back there again, and when Carl started thrusting, it was like I went out of my mind feeling like something I'd never even imagined existed. I'm not thrilled with fat Carl hugging and goosing me. Then, he ignored his no-kissing promise and did some open-mouth kissing that was gross, but I put up with all of it to again feel the hard-to-believe sensations Carl fucks out of me.

The second time, using the second condom, his entrance still hurt, but not as much, and I kept my ass way up, so I got that unique extra awesome sensation right from the first trip up my tunnel. He fucked me for what seemed like twenty minutes, some of it frantic near the end when I had my second climax. It didn't reach the fantastic explosion of the earlier one, but it felt better than anything I've experienced other than the first climax. Carl made a girlie, squealing sound shooting off, and then he was exhausted and collapsed on his bed, telling me, "Get over here on the bed with me."

He treated me like his girlfriend, hugging, groping, moving me around, kissing... it was making out again. After a while, I got used to it and didn't fight Carl on anything. He got a wicked hard boner and poked my ass with it. My ass was squishy with the lube from the condom, but it was sore too, so I moaned, "I'm too sore, Carl." He put my hand on his stiff cock and said, "Stroke me off. We'll toughen your pussy hole so that you can do it more than twice a night."

After I jerked him off, Carl was grumpy and smacked me around a little. Just some smack on the back of my head when I didn't get dressed and out of the house fast enough. So, maybe that's all there is. After doing it twice, I wanted to do it more, but not right away. Give my pussy-ass time to recover from Carl's large cock! He said he'll fuck me in different positions and that I'm a work in progress, so I'll be coming twice a week from now on. The guidance he was going to give me for being next year's Senior Editor never comes up, which is okay with me.

What I am worried about is Chubby being pissed off. I'm not hanging out with him two nights a week now. I'll explain that it's only for an hour and a half. I find Chubby in his and his Mom's family room at eight-fifteen. Being careful not to groan or walk funny due to my sore asshole, sounding cheerful, I say, "Hi, Chubby!" He was watching a basketball game on TV, and he smiled at me, muttering, "Hey, my missing shadow. Hi, Dylan."

I sat beside him on the sofa and told him about Carl's insistent on the twice-a-week thing. Amazingly, he didn't get mad. Instead, he hesitated, and because I knew him so well, I asked, "Okay, what do you have to tell me?"

He said, "It's both good news and not so good. You and I want to get our driver's license, but we must pay for auto insurance, which is expensive. So, a kid in homeroom who sits behind me said he might be able to get me a part-time job with Framingham Window Cleaners, washing windows." I'm like, "What? Washing windows?" Chubby's excited and looking cute, saying, "Yeah, what's so odd about that? This kid's father is the foreman and hired us to wash windows every day after school. Ha, it's who you know in this world that counts. That's how you get preferential treatment."

Huh, maybe this summer I can work with them. Chubby will start out making nine dollars an hour, which is essential because the whole idea is to save all the wages to pay for our car insurance so we can get driver's licenses. Chubby says, "That's the good part; the bad part is I've got to miss our four-mile run and the school newspaper stuff after school, and I'll have to do my homework after dinner. I hope you'll wait to do yours then so we can still do it together."

On the one hand, he was proud of himself for getting the job, but on the other, he was sad because our time together would be seriously reduced. It makes my news of Carl training me twice a week mute. It doesn't matter because Chubby won't be around at all. There are going to be life changes, and one must adjust. That's what we ended up telling each other.

With Chubby working after school, I switched seeing Carl from night visits to right after we worked on the newspaper. As time went by, it got to the point where I was going over to his place three times a week, and he was like my master more than my mentor. He bossed me around from the minute I reported to the paper after school until he'd fucked me two or three times and maybe spanked me once or twice for talking back or whatever. It sounds wrong and unfair, but I was deeply into fat Carl by now and did what I was told. Getting fucked feels good!

He fucked me in many different positions, although we both liked doggy style best. The more he fucked me, the more I turned into a pussy wuss. I was buying all the condoms, and it was getting expensive. I liked getting fucked the best, but I got to liking the cock sucking I was doing on fat Carl's fat cock, too. Blowing him with his blubbery belly against my forehead. After a couple of weeks, I tried to switch it around, but he wouldn't allow that because he was the master, the top, and he did all the guy stuff; I did the girl or pussy-cunt stuff.

It all was coming to an end anyway because Carl's a senior, and there are a lot of activities for seniors; plus, they graduate two weeks before underclassmen get out for the summer. He had already recommended me for his replacement in the newspaper, so we parted on good terms. I wondered how I'd handle not sucking cock and getting fucked so often, but I wasn't apprehensive about it. After all, I went seventeen years without it.

Analyzing the entire Carl sex episode during my walk home from his house for the last time, I came to the conclusion it had been a beneficial learning experience but a disappointing one, too. I'd read on the Internet about climaxing and about how rockets are supposed to go off in your head and in your nuts, too. It was supposed to be the thrill of all thrills, and that's how I had my fantasy expectations set up. The real thing was sort of like that the first few times, but then it got to be routine. Never did I experience skyrockets blasting in my head. Near the end, I thought it wasn't worth the trouble.

One thing, though, I haven't fucked anyone yet, so maybe doing that top part is when I'll experience the bombs going off in my head and balls. I'm hoping that when I'm doing the fucking that will be the sexual experience I've read about.

Chubby and I met at dinner every night, and I noticed we'd become touchy/feely with each other, missing one another. This is the first time since we were babies we've been apart for hours while Chubby washes windows. We missed our afternoon routine activities, too. Hell, I missed being with Chubby, period. Before dinner, I was massaging his shoulders because he was sore. I never knew cleaning windows would be so hard on your hands, arms, and shoulders. Chubby was on the rag squad and not the easier 'squeegee' squad, which was less stressful on fingers and hands but more complicated on arms. Chubby's fingers, especially the index and middle ones, ached all day from using them to force the cleaning rag into the corners of each fixed-pane window.

The window cleaning crew Chubby was on did all the little windows, and all those corners were the killers. Chub said, "Four hours seemed like

twenty-four hours when you're washing windows."

I feel bad he's hurting, but Chubby is a bulldog who'll never quit. We did our homework sitting close together at my tiny desk, and then downstairs, we'd sit tight together watching the Red Sox on TV every night. I enjoyed how Chubby's body felt, and I admired his toughness, and, basically, I liked everything about my best friend of a lifetime. Half the time, without thinking about it, I'd give Chub little hugs.

We were bathed together from when we were babies to our toddler years. We slept together, too, and I recognized and liked Chubby's natural skin scent. I'd smelled his scent all my life and never noticed it until now. Recently, I like to inhale a big breath, smelling the boyish odor coming off that smaller body of his. Occasionally, Chubby would say, "We like everything about one another, but we're not queer, Dylan." I'd mumble my line, "Yeah, I know we're not, Chub."

I say my line, although lately, I get a boner from the bodily contact with Chubby. Since Carl cut me off, I appreciate Chubby more in all kinds of ways. Maybe it was partially because I'd realized while waiting in the hospital after that fight six weeks ago how much he's a part of my life. It's odd how perspectives change. For example, to save the moms' money, we've been giving each other haircuts since we were fourteen, and recently, I like that he fusses with my hair, whereas before, it annoyed me. Now I'm disappointed when he's done my haircut in eight minutes.

Taking my time with his haircut has become something I look forward to, but now he says most of the window cleaning guys have buzz cuts because of the heat, and that's what he wants, too. Fuck buzzcuts! They only take four or five minutes, but Chub insisted, and I always try to give in to his wishes. It also made me jealous that he's always talking about the boys he works with, especially that kid, Ricky, from his homeroom. It used to be all about Chubby and me, but now he knows a group of guys I'm not part of.

Chubby still likes to do what amounts to cuddling together, although we have never called it that. And he still loves the foot fetish thing, although we've never called it that, either, and he doesn't do it often. I can totally do without it, but as a favor to him, I'll say, "Chubby, do my feet seem alright to you? The arch hurts a little, and I wonder..." After I say bullshit like that, Chubby gets busy playing with my bare feet and licking them and all his foot fetish stuff.

Anyway, that's what I want now: Chubby's attention. I want him to stare at me like he used to in the old days or ask what we should do. Whatever it was, we did it together. Now, It just isn't the same. I'm back to pushing at my asshole while jerking off, pretending the mystery boy is fucking me

with all the details of old. Carl isn't the mystery boy because he's overweight, but I miss seeing Carl. I've sometimes wondered if Chubby would ever consider being my mystery boy. Maybe Chubby and I could experiment with a bit of gay buddy sex. Nothing too queer, just some blowjobs and anal sex.

There is a significant problem with that, though. Chubby has always carried on about not being gay. He's not a slave to facts, or reality for that matter. He sees things the way he wants to see them, and if we ever did some buddy sex, then he wouldn't be able to go into that we're not queer routine of his. The more I think about this, the more Chubby would need to be the one to bring it up. Of course, maybe I've been misreading him for years, and he's not gay at all. Perhaps I'm the only gay one here.

As much as I wish it were someone else other than fat Carl, he did an important thing for me by bringing out my sexuality and clearing the way for me to explore it with experience now. I was in a holding pattern until Carl came along. That fight with the Chavez brothers was significant, too, because it was the beginning of my new appreciation for Chubby. Appreciate him in more than just my best bud way.

Yesterday, after dinner and after our homework, we did haircuts for each other with the Red Sox on TV in the background. After doing a regular haircut for me, Chubby wanted the buzz cut, but to drag it out a little, I did my version of a burr haircut which Chubby liked okay. He went upstairs to shower right after that, and, in between innings of the ballgame, I went into the steamy bathroom for a pee. Chubby was stepping out of the tub, but no problem. We've seen each other's dicks our whole life.

I've known for five years now that Chubby's the boner king of seventeen-year-old boys. He springs boners many times every day. Unintentional boners, but he's never gotten a boner seeing my dick or seeing me naked. That's more evidence that I got him all wrong, and he wasn't sexually interested in me at all. BUT, even more surprising than that is me starting to get boners, like now, looking at his naked, hot body. I need an asexual outlet, and Carl would do, but he's done with me.

So, it's new that I can't stop looking at Chubby. He's smaller than me, but not a lot, and there are similar things about our bodies. He's five feet, six-and-a-half inches tall, although he claims to be five foot seven and a hundred and twenty-five pounds. Not large, but everything about him is perfectly proportioned. He's sort of a smaller version of me. We both have very toned, smooth, perfect teenage boy's bodies with muscle definition in our biceps and calves, a tight belly with a few ab muscles showing, and twenty-eight-inch waists. Hairless torsos, nothing spectacular, but nothing wimpy, either. We could be brothers except for him being short and me being almost five feet eleven. I say I'm five feet ten, but if I stretch... ah, never mind, that'd be creepy.

Our penises are different as well, so the brothers' fantasy takes another hit there. His four-plus-a-little-inch cock, which is the perfect size for the rest of him. He has a very nice-looking sac of nuts and a neat-looking pubic patch. His rounded buttocks are so squeezable I need to control myself, and he has that sexy, pretty, tannish, olive-complected skin tone without a blemish anywhere. Ah, jeez, I got a boner thinking about getting naked and lying in bed with him.

Chubby's face, with the sunburned nose, is cute for a guy. Perfectly proportioned facial features, and his wonderful grin with his big brown eyes and that butch, burr haircut. You know what? He looks like some perfect teen boy from the fifties or sixties or something. Like one of those wholesome, innocent, clean-cut boys we saw pictures of in my grandfather's high school yearbook online. Bizarrely, his grandfather went to the same High School we now attend sixty years later.

As I pissed into the toilet, I said, "Chub, you look like a kid who went to Framingham High School with your grandfather." Drying himself, Chubby mutters, "What in the fuck are you talking about now, Dylan? Are you okay?" I shook my dick, getting the last drop off, and said, "I'm okay. With your burr haircut, you look... oh, never mind. I'm going to shower now."

Chub put on pajama bottoms and went down to the rec room to watch more of the game, and I took my shower, jerking off under the warm spray, and this time, I didn't fantasize about my mystery boy fucking me. Instead, I thought about Chubby's hot body and had a nice climax, the top of my head almost flying off. Holy shit!

We've stopped sleeping together as Chubby is over the trauma of his brain concussion. Why can't I appreciate stuff while living it instead of yearning for it after it's over? I realize how great I have something, like sleeping with Chubby, when it's too late. Duh! That's me. The fight was why Chubby wanted me to sleep with him a few weeks back. Other than that, sleeping together is a relatively rare occurrence. The only time we get to sleep together is typically when one of our moms has a boyfriend over for the evening, which they try not to do too often, but when they do, whichever of us is affected goes to the other's condo to sleep.

I used to see it as a bit of a pain in the ass, but now I can't wait for one of those nights so I can feel Cubby's body against mine. I've finally come to appreciate his body. The boy is HOT! Haha, yeah, I'm coming out of my shell in a hurry, and I hate to admit it, but I need to thank fat Carl.

Oh well, it was early to bed alone tonight and back to the high school routine the following day. As I mentioned, it was a hot month in May in New

England, and after school today, the temperature cracked eighty. You need to stay hydrated when running in the heat, so I gorge myself with water or Gatorade before starting my four-mile run, which I do even though Chubby can't do it with me. He's washing windows, making nine dollars an hour towards our driver's license fund.

Anyway, carrying a bottle of water to drink along the run, I'm off running to the two-mile marker, sweating like mad. The two-mile marker is the sign on a tree pointing to a side trail that leads to a rest area with a lavatory. Today, reaching the marker after drinking the bottle of water, I had to pee, so instead of turning around and running the two miles back, I veered off onto that side trail to take a leak. I didn't need the lavatory; I could pee right here. I don't, though, because there are other runners, some of them of the female variety, and I like to pee in private.

The trail is a hundred yards long, and the restroom is around a group of trees. I slowed down and was walking when I came around the tree group; six feet from me, a man was pissing up against a tree. A strong stream of pale-yellow piss splatters off the tree trunk. He appeared in his twenties, wearing running shorts, a sleeveless T-shirt, and New Balance running sneakers. He looked in fantastic shape, very muscular but not grossly overdone. A little over six feet tall, with short brown hair, and when he looked up, it was startling how handsome he was. Bright blue eyes that glowed. His hairy arms and legs weren't too cool, but the medium-sized tattoo on his bicep that read SEMPER FI was.

It's odd how the mind can register all that detail so quickly, but I did. However, the thing I stared at the most was his cock. It had to be eight inches long and fatter than mine. He held his cock in his fist to direct the piss stream. I use two fingers and my thumb, and the second finger is probably unnecessary. I knew I'd stared at his dick a fraction of a second too long and quickly looked away. The man said, "Come over here, you can use my tree to piss on."

That might sound like a friendly or joking invitation, but how this guy said it made it sound more like a command. Frowning, feeling odd, I walked over, not looking at him. He was shaking the last few drops of his cock as he said, "Now, my turn to stare at yours." I should run, calling for help, but that would be insulting. Anyway, there wasn't any reason to run, and what if he could run faster than me?

No, I'll act as if there's nothing wrong and cooperate, but stay alert. There was no zipper on my running shorts, so I pulled the front of them and my jockstrap down and pulled my dick out, muttering, "We could you the restroom, I guess. Haha."

He has no sense of humor, saying, "Well, why didn't you?" Shrugging, not looking at the man, I took hold of my limp dick and concentrated on peeing. Sometimes, trying to get the pee stream started is a problem for me when other guys are nearby, and this guy is right next to me. The longer it went without starting, the more likely it wasn't going to. Damn! With him staring at me, the pee would not come out even though I had to piss badly. Mumbling, "I guess I don't have to go," I pulled my shorts up, but the man said, "Oh, no, you don't." He pushed my shorts down and took hold of my dick, stepping behind me. I gasped and took a step right back into him. Now, I couldn't catch my breath and was panting.

Why does shit like this always happen to me?

To be continued... donnymumford@outlook.com

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