DYLAN!
CHAPTER NINE
Wow, those Dickers brothers are special. I'm thinking about the brothers doing that quick kiss on the lips when they meet. It's done without them seemingly giving it a second thought, and I learned today that they jerk off together every night, too. Hot! I only wish Robby was as interested in me as Dodger seems to be.
Sitting on the steps to our Duplex house, I'm smoking a cigarette, waiting for Chubby to get home from work. Then, he walks up while I'm in one of my spaced-out trances, and he roughly grabs my shoulders, shouting, "My best friend ever!" I almost peed my pants as he rubs my head, saying, "I hate to admit it, but that fat fuck, Carl, is a damn good barber. A thousand times better than my boss, Ricky. How you doing, buddy?"
Chubby was in a great mood today for a change. I go, "You almost made me pee my pants, Chubby. Ah, I'm doing great now that you're here. Do you think we should do a quick kiss on the lips when we greet one another?"
Chubby takes my cigarette, and says, "Absolutely not!" then grins taking a drag. I tell him about the Dickers brothers, and he says, "Oh, yeah? That's weird. That guy, Rob, was in my homeroom last year. Whoa, he's shy, but what a good-looking motherfucker, huh?" I mutter, "I'll say," and Chubby flicks the cigarette butt all the way across the street. As we walked up the steps to our condos, Chubby hugged me, saying, "Hey, no homework tonight. It's finally here. We're on summer break, dude! Let's do the four-mile run before dinner. I need to stretch my muscles, and a run will feel so good." I say, "Yo, great idea, but let's change first."
Stopping at the front door of my condo, Chubby adds, "After our run, we'll clean up, and then I'm treating you to dinner to celebrate the completion of junior year. One more grade to go, and then we can get wild at college."
Nodding, I ask, "You're not going to spend money we're saving for a car on this dinner, are you?" He shakes his head, "Not really. We all got a bonus envelope for an excellent job doing the insurance building's windows. I'm like, "Okay then, cool!" He asks, "What happened to your fingernails? Don't tell me you're back to that childish nail-biting habit!"
I told him the lie I'd thought up. "Oh, fuck, no! When I put in the screen for the bathroom window, these two fingernails got bent back and almost broke off. There was nothing I could do but cut them down." Chubby made a face, looked me in the eyes for three seconds, then said, "Liar!" Then he laughed, adding, "I don't care what happened, except you better not start biting them again, or I'll kick your ass." And he went up the stairs to his place. Watching Chubby's hot buns as he climbed the stairs, I grabbed my junk and then went inside. I've never gotten away with lying to Chubby; he knows me too well.
We met outside ten minutes later wearing running shorts and T-shirts. Nodding at each other, we took off jogging. The running went quickly at first, me telling Chubby how cool it had been giving the Dickers brothers haircuts today and about young Dodger's jerk-off problems with the sores on his dick.
Chubby muttered, "TMI, bro," and we laughed. He told me about his bonus money. His crew, led by the infamous Ricky, usually does only private homes, except today. There was an emergency, and they were assigned a commercial property. They did a great job cleaning an insurance company's windows in downtown Framingham, and the Vice President of that branch signed the company up for five other branches, which earned them the bonus. Chubby thought they might need to hire another kid now, too.
It took only half a minute for me to reject that as a possibility. I told Chubby I was sticking with cutting grass because it seemed like a more pleasant job, and, of course, there's that Ricky person to consider. Chub murmured, "You're right. You don't want this job."
Huh! If I didn't know better, I'd say he looked relieved that I didn't want that job washing windows. That's odd, though, because we've always wanted to work together. There's something Chubby isn't telling me about that job, but he's going full-time now, so it must be okay.
The second mile went much slower because Chubby had lost his wind after not running for two months. He had to slow down for the third and fourth miles. Naturally, I was curious if the Marine was around and looked down the rest area cut-off trail, but there was no Marine. I was disappointed, which made me an airhead because I'd already decided never to see him again.
It was slow, but I felt great running with Chubby. Looking over and seeing him beside me made me smile. His face and his determined expression--oh, man--Chubby's is my favorite face! I love him. I've spent more waking hours with Chubby than anybody else, and it isn't close.
After the run, we showered and met outside dressed in khaki pants and short sleeves, button-up the front shirts. That attire is considered 'dressed up' for us two. Chubby was buying us dinner at Ken's Steak House, a long walk from our place. We strolled, smoked, and discussed last year at school and how we missed our old life together before his part-time job. Chubby would reach over and squeeze my hand every time he made a point of some kind. I love that.
At the restaurant, we got seated at a table for four in the main dining room, and when the waitress asked if we wanted something to drink. We tried ordering beers, but the waitress laughed in our faces. Not in a mean way, in a good-natured way. We did not join in with the hilarity, however. After a brief argument, we settled for iced tea. We ordered the same thing for dinner: prime rib of beef, medium rare, mashed potatoes, summer squash, and Ken's regular salad with Italian dressing.
During dinner, we discussed saving all the money we make this summer for our driver's licenses and the wickedly expensive mandatory automobile insurance. The moms can't pay for it, but we will. Chubby said, "No fucking way are we going into our senior year of high school without a driver's license. We're buying a car, too. You'll bust your ass cutting grass, and I'll bust my ass washing windows, and I'll be driving to school next year with my best friend of a lifetime beside me."
Chubby gets on a conversational roll, and I eat while listening, and then I go off on my topic du jour, which is this summer's two-week vacation
with our Moms. I went on about how Chubby and I needing to put our fucking foot down and get our asses back to Wildwood. Cape Cod is okay for people who can get served in bars, but there is very little for a couple of teenage boys to do after dinner on the Cape. I reminded Chubby about the boardwalk in Wildwood. That elicited a vigorous nod from Chubby because Wildwood has a boardwalk that rocks! Chubby totally agreed with my way of thinking, and now all we had to do was get our Moms to cancel the reservations they'd made for Cape Cod and make them for Wildwood at the same motel as last year.
Having dinner at Ken's Steak House with only Chubby and I was so fabulously excellent I can't even tell you! Then Chub says, "What the fuck; we'll get dessert too." We both ordered the white cake with white icing for dessert. The whole thing cost eighty dollars, including almost a fifteen percent tip. Chubby looked pale, leaving the four twenty-dollar bills with the check. His bonus had been fifty dollars. I built him up, thanking him profusely on the way home, and whenever there were fifteen seconds of silence, Chubby would ask, "Seriously Dylan, you ever have a better dinner than that one tonight?" and I'd sincerely say, "No. I swear to God I never did. And that fucking cake killed!"
It was the best time until we approached the D Q on our way home, and some girl yelled, "Jeffy! Jeff, over here." Chubby looked over at the girl and mumbled to me, "Oh, it's that girl from my homeroom, Rita Zentaro. She's off the wall with a wicked crush on my ass. Let's see what she's up to." Chubby waves at her, and as we wait for a break in traffic to cross the street, I light up a Marlboro Light. I might as well be cool about this. We saunter over toward the old picnic table outside the D.Q., where there are maybe fifteen teens milling around, acting like fools. We walk up to the table where Rita and her two friends are sitting, and Chubby uses my line, "Yo, Sup?" Rita says, "Where ya going, Jeff?"
Quite the conversationalist, these two...
Another girl comes over licking a soft serve cone, so there are three girls with Rita, not two, and I don't know any of them. One of the girls has a sweatshirt that reads, "I MAY NOT BE MRS. RIGHT," and in smaller letters under that is "But I'll fuck you till she shows up." "Chubby sarcastically mutters, "High-class sweatshirt, Connie," as I'm thinking: These chicks are trailer trash.
There are a lot of low-income families in Framingham, and some are rough and tough, too. Chubby starts bragging about buying his number one homeboy, me, dinner tonight at Ken's Steak House, and the girls are impressed. They'd never been inside Ken's. Chubby's acting like we eat there all the time. I'm just acting aloof and cool.
A breeze blows my exhaled smoke toward the picnic table, and a heavy-set girl with very muscular legs says, "Hey, watch the smoke. I don't wanna get cancer from your freaking secondhand smoke." That was said in such a mean-spirited way that I considered using a line I've been saving for the right occasion. It's this: "No, I don't have Tourette Syndrome, you actually are a cunt!."
Nah, I didn't use it here because I'm pretty sure none of these overweight babes knows what Tourette Syndrome is. Instead, I say, "Jeez, what charm school did you flunk out of, hefty?" She stands up and yells, "Fuck you, Skinny!" Not to be outdone, I mutter, "You too, horse-face," and Chubby starts laughing so hard tears run down his cheeks.
To hell with this, though. I blew smoke in her direction and turned my back, walking to the DQ building. I was fuming, hearing the fat girl cursing like a drunken sailor, commiserating with the other trailer trash sluts at the table. Some battles you just can't win. Taking another drag off my cigarette, I glance up at this hot-looking boy with another kid I think may have been in my band class last year. The hottie is a little taller than me with a baby face and a recent burr haircut like mine.
Exhaling smoke, I look at him for that fraction of a second too long, and he catches me staring. Oh, shit, he comes on like gangbusters. A big booming voice, "Hey, what the fuck are you looking at, asshole?" It's deafeningly loud, so lots of kids turn to look. This is out-fucking-rageous! I've been here less than three minutes, and two separate people are yelling at me, calling me names, and making me look like a dork.
I decide to make one attempt at letting this slide. I turned away and saw Chubby standing up with a menacing expression. Babyface yelled, "Yo, faggot, I'm talking to you." My face reddened, and I whipped around to use the fat girl's clever retort a minute ago. "Fuck you!" I screamed and then flicked my cigarette butt at the kid. Unfortunately, I can't flick a butt like Chubby, and mine went sideways and bounced off a little boy's ass.
The little boy looks over at me with a puzzled expression and then feels his ass where there was a tiny cigarette burn on his shorts.
My next move, charging at Babyface, takes him completely by surprise, and we go down on the blacktop in a heap. I'm in a rage at the injustices against me tonight. My arms flailed, and fists connected with faces, necks, and bodies. Of course, there's the same flailing from him, both of us inflicting damage. The thought I had crashing into this kid was... beer breath. He'd been drinking. That meant I had my second advantage in the last thirty seconds. One, I sucker-tackled him, and two, he's a little drunk and not a hundred percent coordinated. It's a good thing I had those advantages because I was barely holding my own.
Babyface was tough; most teens are, and it's just a matter of who has the balls to fight. I've been in half a dozen fights during my high school years, and I don't think I've actually ever 'won' a fight. While that's true, even when the other guy out-fights you, he still took a beating while doing it, and the word gets around that it's best not to push Dylan Newman's buttons too hard cause he's a little bit unhinged, especially don't do it if his little bud, Chubby, is with him 'cause he can get more than a little crazy.
I wasn't into the fight for fifteen seconds before the cavalry arrived. Chubby piles on, and we're doing a number on this poor bastard till we hear the sirens. We hop off Babyface, and, of course, there's cursing back and forth, threats of what will happen next time between us and Babyface and Babyface's two friends, who hadn't jumped into the fight. They just tried pulling Chubby and me off their friend, so maybe they'd gotten the word about how crazy Chubby and I were. That didn't stop the threatening remarks as we all scatter before the cops pull in. The DQ parking lot is the site of at least one fight per weekend. This was a rarer week-night fight, but after all, it was summer break.
A couple of streets away, we take damage inventory. My eyebrow was cut, and there was some blood; my cheek and top lip were swollen, and Chubby got kneed in the nuts, but he wasn't hit in the face. When Chubby jumped in, he was a little bit wild, and as much as I could, I kept my body between him and Babyface because Chubby goes insane when somebody punches me. That's awesome, except he'll go too far and get in trouble.
Anyway, it's all okay this time. The adrenaline in my system was making me feel nauseous, but I did not want to throw up that eighty-dollar Ken's Steak House dinner, so I didn't do much inhaling from the cigarette Chubby lit for me. After walking a few blocks, I knew I wasn't going to hurl. I was still high from the fight, though, so I only half heard Chubby's lecture about never starting a fight with a kid drinking beer at a Dairy Queen. "It's a known fact that beer and soft serve ice cream do not fucking mix. There's something in that fucking soft serve that makes kids stupid, and when you add beer to the mix, you got yourself potential for real trouble."
I'd have laughed at that, but I still felt shaky, like you get after a fight. I'm not shaky before or during a fight, but afterward, I don't feel well for a while. Chubby isn't bothered with that. He feels the same before, during, and after a fight. By the time we'd walked most of the way home, we were telling each other how we kicked some serious ass tonight. Chubby goes, "You'd think these dumb bastards would know better than to fuck with us. I mean, they're going to have both of us beating their fucking heads in if they do. Jesus H Christ, are these assholes brain dead?"
I was feeling good enough by now to chuckle and enjoy Chubby's outlandish view of the world. God, I love him so much. I said, "I know it's unnecessary to say this, but thanks for having my back there, bro. You're the best friend anyone ever had, Chubby!" We stopped walking; Chubby took in a lot of air and then a big exhale, his eyes misty. Then we did a long hug, glad to have each other to hug. Chubby said, "For you? Are you shitting me, Dylan? I'm always going to be there for you, bro. Always, always, always!" Damn, he makes me feel good.
As soon as we got home, we checked each other out in the little half-bathroom downstairs in my finished basement. Chubby washed
my eyebrow cut with disinfectant, which stung, and I pushed his hand away, "Fuck!" He told me I was going to have a black eye tomorrow as
part of the punch that caused my swollen cheek. I also had a raw elbow where it scraped on the blacktop and a swollen top lip that was cut on the inside. Chubby cleaned the elbow scrape with the 'ouch!' disinfectant, and a big patch band-aid covered the whole thing. He told me to put ice on my lip, but I never did.
This was not an impressive way for me to start my new job, coming off a fight. Chubby and I looked at each other and nodded that we were okay. I said, "Cool night tonight, Chubby! It rocked." He said, "Yeah, it did, didn't it? Good luck on your first day at work tomorrow, Dylan." We did a fast hug this time, and he went outside and then up to his condo.
The following day, I was up much earlier than I had to be because I was nervously anxious about doing something new today. It's the job, of course, but I also had to catch a bus I'd never taken before to get to their place of business, which isn't Robby's house. I was at the bus stop twenty minutes before the bus was due, just to be safe. Lots of blue-collar workers were on the bus; blacks, whites, and Hispanics, all going to do manual labor jobs at six-fifteen in the morning.
On the plus side, I get boners on buses. The motion of the bus causes the boners, I guess, so that was fun. What isn't fun is walking down the aisle to get off at my stop with a boner poking out the front of my cargo shorts. Damn! I heard the quiet snickers as I walked down the aisle. From the bus stop, I had to walk five blocks, and then there was a big sign in front of a building: DICKERS LANDSCAPE AND DESIGN. Being an alert person, I muttered, this must be the place.
I'll be on Robby's crew, cutting grass for private homes, but two other crews worked on commercial properties, and then Mr. Dickers had a crew who did the landscape design side of the business. Mrs. Dickers and another woman worked in the office, where Dodger also worked part-time. It's a family business and a more extensive operation than I thought. I tried both doors, but both were locked. It was chilly this early in the morning, so I was shivering in front of the building.
After waiting fifteen minutes, Mr. and Mrs. Dickers, with Robby, pulled up in their pick-up truck. Mrs. Dickers asked what happened to me, and I lied, saying I ran into something, not looking where I was going. She didn't believe that, of course, but complimented me on the haircuts I'd given the boys, and she said they'd buy the coffees each morning if I'd continue being the boy's barber. I said, "Gee, thanks. That's a great deal." Robby smiled at me as he rolled his eyes. I didn't know what that meant.
They had coffees with them this morning, and Robby had one for me. It's so nice to have a friend to help you acclimate to a new situation, in this case, a new job. He showed me the locker room where we each had a locker. On the job, we wore the company-issued uniform of generic shorts and a T-shirt with the company logo. I was given two sets of Ts and shorts and a baseball cap that also had the company logo on it. A few college students on the summer crew working on commercial properties joked about Robby and me being the Bobbsey Twins. "Hey, Rob, I didn't know you had a twin; she's cute."
They came up with bullying shit like that. I guess the twin's thing popped up because we have similar hair that was cut similarly. We're the same age and have the same body types, and we're almost the same height. I said nothing to the smart ass college guy, but Rob exchanged friendly insults with them that felt strained. Meanwhile, I was flattered to be considered Robby's twin. After the two college guys left, he asked, "Who beat the shit out of you, Dylan?" He asked that jokingly. I brushed it off with, "A minor misunderstanding at the DQ, but Chubby and I straightened it out. Robby nodded and mumbled, "Jeff was in my homeroom last year. He's not your brother, right? Different last names." I told him our moms are best friends, as are Chubby and me.
After changing into the company outfit, Robby took me to meet the third boy on the crew, Joel Mc Carty. He'd dropped out of high school three years ago when he was in the tenth grade. He turns out to be a reticent, introspective boy who is neither good-looking nor ugly. Just pale brown everything and plain-looking is the best way to put it--long ponytail and about ten tattoos and a pierced nostril. Joel was very ripped. He'd been standing there shirtless when we walked up to him. Holy shit, what a fucking body! He works out.
We did a half-second handshake, and that was it, except he stared at me hard and long until Robby and I walked away. Later that morning, he gave me a look I couldn't figure out. And then, a few other times, I'd look up or something, and there's Joel staring at me with piercing dark eyes. It gave me the creeps, man. He's not someone I'm going to fuck with, though, and I'll leave it at that.
Joel and the group foreman, Toby Underwood, rode ride-on lawn mowers cutting the lawns. Robbie strapped the blower on his back to blow all the
loose-cut grass off sidewalks, driveways, and whatever. I had the worst job, which was operating the edger. It's a professional strength stick lawn edger or what I always called a Weed Whacker, but this professional machine was much heavier than any Weed Whacker I'd ever picked up. Working with that thing for a while is a ball buster. Robby, supposedly, will spell me when he has the time. No, this job is not a lot of fun, but for ten dollars an hour, it's doable.
Robby took me to where the supervisors shared an office with Toby Underwood. Toby was thirty-something years old and a music teacher for a private school during the school year. He's been employed by the Dickers for ten summers now. When we walked in, he was on the telephone talking to someone. Robby whispered, "That's probably his mother he's talking to. They talk a lot during the day. He lives with her." I go, "He's not married, is he?" Robby made a face and shook his head, mumbling, "No way."
From the way he moved, the slant of his head, and just everything about him, I would guess that Toby Underwood was as gay as May. He was six feet tall and not fat, except his ass was quite fat and wide. Fleshy face and prematurely gray hair, with a conservative haircut. He had a large, bulbous nose and thin lips, with an old Panama hat on his head. Not a pretty man. While we waited for Toby to finish his phone call, we laughed about Dodger's masturbation habits and wondered if he'd still have those sores on his penis a year from now. It doesn't seem likely he'll give up pulling his pud anytime soon.
Off the phone, Toby comes over and says, "So, you're Dylan. Who named you Dylan?"
Who does he think named me, our lawn guy? I didn't say that, though; I said, "My Mom; she's a Bob Dylan fan." Toby sneered and laughed before saying, "Oh, my goodness." He seemed nice, but he did have a problem saying the letter "s," and I'm guessing some other letters, too. Toby put his arm across my shoulders and told me he was taking me under his wing, which made me think of Carl Denton saying that exact thing.
He told me I'd be riding in his pick-up while Joel would drive the other pickup truck with Robby riding shotgun. Choosing between Joel or Toby to ride with, I'll take my chances with Toby. It was a close call, though. Even so, it quickly became apparent I would have my hands full with Toby. He liked grabbing my thigh while driving and talking, making a point about the job, my specific responsibilities, or just for the hell of it. There was lots of thigh grabbing as we drove from job to job.
It would make sense for me to avoid causing a commotion about this on my first day. I'll talk with Rob about it after work today and get some advice. Damn, I hope the poor bastard doesn't get fired over this, but come on! This is harassment in the workforce or some damn thing like that.
All day, Toby helped me with everything, which was disappointing because I thought Robby would be the one to show me what to do, how to do it, and all that. I didn't see much of Robby. I saw him, of course, we were working on the same lawns, but I didn't see him alone. It was always Toby and me. Toby usually had an arm on me somewhere and was big on gripping the back of my neck with one of his oversized hands as he
explained stuff to me. It was disconcerting as hell to be touched so much by a stranger. To be fair about it, I can't say I ever noticed him with an erection or even grabbing his crotch; he was simply very touchy/feely with me.
At lunch break, after taking the other guy's orders for what they wanted, Toby and I went to McDonalds. I couldn't get away from him. He wore a cologne, or maybe it was deodorant, that reeked. It was so strong and had such an odd fragrance that I got a headache inhaling it. It's not offensive necessarily, but it is very different and, as I said, wicked strong. I didn't even get to talk with Robby alone at lunch; all four of us were together and mostly just listened to country music on the pick-up truck radio. Toby grew up in South Carolina and preferred country over all other forms of music.
Near the end of the day, I wondered if this was typical of a day on the job. Maybe it was hazing for the new kid. I hoped that's what it was and that tomorrow would be different. Toby is too much to take every day. Hmm, I'm curious if that window-washing job is still open.
Toby made my first day on the job a tedious, long day, but after work, in the locker room, Robby and I joked about needing a massage for our sore muscles, and I pretended to massage Robby's shoulders. Massaging each other became an everyday thing to do. The college guys teased us about our massages, but we did it anyway; fuck them! It was the best part of the day having Robbie's hands on me, although it was tricky hiding the boners I'd get.
Anyway, after doing the goofing-around massages that first day before changing into our street clothes, I told Rob that Toby was too touchy/feely with me. I didn't want to get Toby in trouble, but I didn't like him always touching me. Robby laughed and told me that all last summer, he was Toby's new-boy project, as I am now. He, Robby, had to endure the same treatment I got today. Far from getting Toby in trouble, it was a case of if I don't like it, don't let the door hit my ass on the way out. Mr. Dickers knew all about Toby's odd behavior, and, yes, he caused occasional turnover, but there was always another kid needing work in the summer, like me.
Everyone knew Toby was gay, but he'd never made a pass at any of the boys or done anything untoward except too much touching and wearing too much cologne. He never touched a private spot on anyone; he just came teasingly close. It's tough to find reliable adult supervisors for this type of work at the price the job was worth, and Toby was highly reliable. He was a fixture each summer for the last ten years, and that was that.
Well, I needed to be a good sport about it because what choice do I have? Quit this job? No way! This is still better than washing windows and being bossed around by Rickie. Chubby and I have our plans, and we need money. Maybe I'll try to find a cologne more pungent than Toby's to wear and overpower his stuff.
Then, by the end of the third day, Toby's behavior was no longer a big deal. He bought all of us lunch on Saturday, lisping that we're a damn good crew and he was proud of us. A week later, I realized that I liked him. He had a kindness to his nature that's hard to describe. I never heard him say a bad word about anyone. He never cursed, although the rest of us cursed a blue streak all the time, and that was fine with him, too. He did a lot of inexplicable little smiles all day, though, which is spooky, and it's probably best that I can't read his mind.
When I got home from work that second Saturday afternoon, there was a surprise text message from Willie Worthington saying he was back from the West Coast for a few days. He'll be here until Tuesday. Could I come to a party at his house on Sunday afternoon? It's his mother's fortieth birthday party. Willie would pick me up. Please call!
That was the message. Well, yeah, that will work because this is the weekend each year that Chubby keeps his Mom company on a trip to New York City to visit her sister. Chub's New York cousin is two years older than Chub, and he takes Chubby out on the town, and the 'town' is the Big Apple! Anyway, they're leaving late this afternoon and returning late Sunday night. This would be a lonely Sunday for me, but now Willie's back in town, and I'm excited to see him.
I dialed his cell, and he picked up the first ring and talked fast and excitedly, non-stop, "Dylan! Don't you dare tell me that you're busy tomorrow! Please be my date at my mother's birthday party. I've been thinking about you ever since you left Carl's party, which, by the way, I got in trouble going back to hook up with Larry. My rear end is still sore a month later. I'm kidding about the sore ass. I've got a surprise to show you. It's something I did just this afternoon after I text-messaged you. You must come after I did this surprise just for you!"
I couldn't get a word in, but he finally took a breath, and I said one word, "Yes." We both laughed at that. He said, "Oh, good. I knew you would." We reminisced about Carl's party, and then Willie wanted to know if I'd heard from either of the top guys in Maine. I told him I hadn't, but that I was more interested in seeing him than them, and Willie got quiet as if I'd said something wrong. Ominously, he murmured, "Oh, jeez. Don't let them hear you say that, or they may get other boys and dump you and me.
I told Willie to forget I said it. I wanted to concentrate on him and me. Willie said, "Oh, I'll take care of you. Don't worry about that."
Well, that's good to hear because I haven't had a gay experience since Carl's party three weeks ago. Yearning for gay activity gets to be like an itch that needs scratching. I need young male sexual companionship. I'm horny and desperate. Omigod, I almost went to the Marine's office Thursday. Thank God I didn't. Willie said he'd pick me up at one o'clock tomorrow afternoon. He'd blow the horn. He said, "I'm so stoked, Dylan! My Dad said I could bring a date, and I thought of you immediately."
HA! That Willie is a laugh riot. I chuckled at him for referring to me as his date; can you believe that? We hung up after I'd given him directions to my house.
Thinking about Willie and me doing gay stuff got me hot. I've been jerking off regularly, of course, but it's not the same thing as gay sex, not at all. I like Willie a lot, so I'm excited, lying on my bed, rubbing my dick. Soon, pulling down my shorts, my boner springs out and sways in the air, feeling fine, all six inches of it. I still have the Marine-ordered shaved pubic hair, which I like a lot. I last did it a week ago, so it's not fresh.
I get up with my boner swinging in front of me and go into the bathroom to run some water, and then wet my crotch with a warm washcloth, lather up, and shave my pubic area so it's fresh for Willie. It's awkward getting under my nuts with the razor. It's much better having someone else do it for me. Finished with that, I dry my crotch and then spread a little hand cream on this boner of mine, and then, back on my bed, I start stroking my throbbing hard-on while thinking about Willie's uniquely cute face. He's a very original-looking boy. That long silky hair gets in our mouths while making out... hot!
It's unusual, but everything about him was slightly longish, although it all looked good and went together. What a yummy mouth he has. Oh, man, I'm so hard!
This is good, though. Oh, boy, I stroke my cock faster, recalling when Willie almost caused me to cum in my pants from that tongue of his in my mouth and on my neck. Slowing down my stroking, I enjoy this feeling of being right on the edge of climaxing. "Ahhh," a couple of drops of precum leak out, and my shoulders shudder. I moan again, "Ah," and exhale noisily. Then, stroke, stroke, stroke, and I'm almost there, taking a gasping, deep inhale, stroking faster again, and then a spray of precum, and, "Ooooh," so freakin' good! My uncut foreskin slid easily on and off my shiny dark-pink cock head with the wide-open pee slit puckering, getting ready to blow cum out into the world.
"Ah.. ah.. ah..." my back arches, and I thrust my crotch up off the bed twice, and then a third time, and " Ahhhhh..." an eight-inch string of cum flies out and spatters on my leg. "Oh, oh!" My eyes are tightly closed, with lights flashing against my eyelids and then streaming black dots, and it's almost painful. Still, mostly ecstasy prevails as a long string of cum flies out, my brain exploding, "Aahhh." The streak of creamy sperm glistens for a second and then drops silently to the mattress. I'm floating with so many streaks of pleasure vibrating all over me that I can't keep count.
Breathing in gasps, I'm back stroking as fast as I can to get the last plip of cum to make its way up from my nuts and out that pee hole to drool over my fist. "Ooooooh" there it is! Then stroking tightly but slowly, milking for more cum, but to no avail. Nevertheless, that was fabulous! Those oh-so-good feelings and sensations that spread out from my groin after climax make me shiver and shudder again. Then, I felt peaceful and started planning what to do the next day.
Am I supposed to be dressed up for the party? And I wonder what Willie's surprise is? I thought about his father giving him the okay to bring a date. Is Willie going to introduce me as his date? Willie isn't what you'd call a Mensa candidate, so he might not realize that when he asked to bring a date, his father almost certainly assumed he meant a girl. That could be awkward to a level I can't even contemplate.
I'm shaking my head, unsure what to do when my phone rings. It's Chubby. "Hey, Chubby. You almost ready to kick ass in the Big Apple?" He says, "Yeah, we're leaving in a few minutes, so I want to say bye, and I wish you could come with me." I mumble, "That's sweet, but we know their New York apartment isn't big enough for you guys, never mind another kid." Chubby mutters, "Yeah, um, who is this guy with the party you're going to? I mean, how come I never heard of him before?"
I clear my throat, thinking fast. Then mutter, "Well, shit. Um, I met him at Carl's graduation party. Remember how boring that thing was? You even said that. You said it sounded boring, remember?" Chubby says, "Uh-huh, I remember, but what's that got to do with this kid you never mentioned before, who invites you to his birthday party out of the blue?" I hear his mom, Tris, call out, "Jeff, are you almost ready, Honey? It's time to leave." He yells, "One minute. Mom. Hold your horses, jeezus." Then, to me, "So, who the fuck is he? I won't be here to bale your ass out if this weirdo is a pervert or something."
Chubby can't stand Carl Denton, and he's jealous I'm going to a party that's somehow associated with Carl. I can't get annoyed because he sincerely thinks he needs to look out for me. He says, "I hate to bring it up, but if I wasn't at the DQ with you last week, well, enough said."
Taking a deep breath, I go into a convoluted story about how this has nothing to do with Carl, other than it was so dull I got talking to this new kid, Willie, about high school newspapers, and he goes to a private school, and both of us are going to be senior editors of our school's news, and..." Chubby cuts me off with, "What a crock of bull shit all that is! You've lied to me lately; best friends don't do that. Do they?"
I don't know why I need to explain Willie, but I was getting mad because he caught me lying again and because of his lecturing tone of voice. So I said, "Did you ever lie to me, Chubby? And don't forget that keeping something secret, holding something back, is just like lying." I remembered something was fishy about the window washer boys, so I said that.
Chubby mumbled, "You're changing the subject. Hey, are you in some trouble?" I said, "No, are you?" There was silence for three seconds, and then he said, "Why are you giving me the third degree? Look, Mom called me. We'll talk when I get back," he clicked off. Huh, something is going on with the window washer boys! I knew it!
Saturday night, I stayed home and contemplated Chubby. It seems we're closer than ever as best friends, but Chubby's behavior isn't even slightly gay-like anymore, not that it ever was blatantly gay. I guess he's outgrowing any gay tendencies he's ever had for me. And that's inconvenient because I'm just growing into my gay tendencies. Or maybe I've been misreading him for years. I know I'm the most important person in his life, as he is in mine, but that doesn't mean he's gay about it. I wish he were, though.
Could it be that Chubby is showing less gay-like behavior towards me because he's getting satisfied doing it with someone else? If so, has he considered I'll kill that person and spend the rest of my life in jail? No, I'm getting stupider than usual now. Or maybe, for some reason, he's forced to do things he dislikes and ruining it for our closeness. Then I tried to figure out why I was in love with Chubby now when I wasn't in love with him three months ago. That gave me a headache. It's one of those headaches that's piercing in both temples, throbbing too, and it forced me to stop the torture of these imponderables in my life.
Fuck it. I took three Tylenol and then hopped in a shower. Later, I watched TV, falling asleep on the sofa during Saturday Night Live. I staggered up to bed when Mom came in around quarter after one in the morning. She hugged me around the neck and gave me a big kiss. I could smell that she'd had a couple of adult beverages after work. She sure deserves to have a good time once in a while.
I fixed the Sunday breakfast for my Mom and me the following day. We discussed how strange it felt not to have the other half of our family here. Mom told me about a lovely man who came into the bar occasionally and flirted with her. She said they had a couple of drinks together last night and hit it off. He's taking her into Boston today to wander around on a date. They're going to eat dinner at Quincy Market, and maybe before that, they'll take one of the cruise lines around the harbor, chillin' in Boston.
Hearing that made me happy because she won't be home alone today. Tris is in New York, and me at Willie's party. Um, the way she was telling me her plans, though, seemed as if she was concerned that I wouldn't care for the idea of her on a date with a stranger. Nothing could be further from the truth. I told her I thought that was great. She patted my arm and said I was the best son. Jeez, if only she knew the truth about me. I felt mopey for a bit after that because of my secret gay existence, but I snapped out of it soon enough, realizing that I'm not a bad person because I'm gay. I'm a good person who happens to be gay.
Mom spent the rest of the morning fixing herself up, and she looked pretty. She always looks pretty without working at it because she is pretty. Some people have said I look like my Mom, only a boy version. I don't think so, and I don't like it when some idiot infers I look like a female! Fucking dolts!
Whatever, my Mom looks good, and her smile is super sweet. Anyone can tell she's a lovely lady. Mom's not yet thirty-five, so she had me as a teenager. We've never discussed it, and I'm happy to keep it that way. Anyway, that's a long way around to say everything has worked out great for me today.
Then, at noon, there was a knock at the door. I peeked out the side window and saw it was a redheaded man. He's here to pick Mom up. Jesus, he looked even younger than her. I could easily see how he was probably cute some years back as a teen boy. He didn't look too bad at his current age, whatever that was. I answered the door and asked him to come in; then I yelled upstairs, telling Mom her date was here.
Right off the bat, he showed a killer grin at me for calling him Mom's date. He's pale-complexed, like me. His light red hair he had cut in a youthful-looking short hairstyle. No facial hair and a very pleasant expression, with clear blue eyes. I nodded at him, then mumbled, "How's it going?" He chuckled, then gave me that killer grin again, asking, "How's it going with you?"
There are no unsightly piercings or tattoos on this dude. I frowned as he threw my question back at me, then he smiled, held out his hand, and said, "You're Dylan. Your Mother talks about you a lot. It's a pleasure meeting you. I'm Jake Rollins." I shook hands, saying, "Yeah, I'm Dylan; nice to meet you." He shook my hand and patted my face with his other hand simultaneously. He has soft hands, so I guess he isn't a laborer. He was nicely dressed in casual clothes I might even wear, and he had a nice, late-model Saab sedan parked at the curb. Well, alright! Yeah, except for the rub on my cheek. What's that all about?
While we waited for my Mom to appear, it became awkward for me because this guy was way too interested in me! He was very complimentary about me, saying I'm very good-looking and obviously into a weightlifting program. When he said that, he squeezed my right bicep, muttering, "Nice guns, and I like your haircut. No wonder your Mom is so proud of you," and he asked if I would go to a Red Sox game with him? He knows somebody who can get us ground-level box seats.
I felt a little shy with him because a male adult had never said that kind of stuff to me before, except if you want to consider the Marine, an adult. He complimented me, too, but he's bisexual. Is this guy, Jake, bisexual?
Thank God Mom came downstairs. Jake kissed her on the cheek and said she looked beautiful. He talked more about her handsome son, and Mom agreed, saying, "He looks just like his Daddy," and they chuckled about that. Then Jake said, "His Daddy must look exactly like his Mommy," and more chuckles. I muttered something about getting ready for a party; Mom hugged me and said, "Have a great time, Dylan," and I went upstairs saying, "You, too, Mom."
Something about Jake made me uneasy, but I wanted to begin thinking about Willie and the party now, so I told myself to stop worrying about things you don't know anything about. What should I wear to the party? Another thing I don't know anything about. Balls!
I couldn't come up with anything better, so I wore the same thing I'd worn to Ken's Steak House. Mom washed those dress-up clothes yesterday: the khaki slacks and an off-white, cotton, button-up-the-front shirt with sandals. My burr haircut was getting fuzzy-looing already because my hair grows like weeds, fast! I brushed it up as best I could, thinking Jake liked it. What? Fuck him!
Yeah, I'm excited about this afternoon but apprehensive too. I've only known Willie for a few hours, and now he's taking me, as his date, to a surprise birthday party for his mother, if you can believe that. Wow, that's weird. There will be a house full of people I've never seen before, and Willie's father probably expects Willie to show up with a girl for his date. Haha, so what am I apprehensive about? What could possibly go wrong?
It pissed me off that I never feel sure of myself, and I have no self-confidence. Willie doesn't smoke, so I better have one now. Taking just one cigarette outside, with a pack of matches and a stick of gum, I light up and sit on the steps to wait for Willie. Almost done with the cigarette, I looked down the street and knew it was Willie driving that hot little sports car. Sure enough, he pulled up in a new dark blue Mazda MX hard-top convertible, looked at me with that so-cool, crooked smile, waved with his fingers, and blew the horn, "Honk, honk!"
I smiled at him, immediately seeing what his surprise was for me. He'd gotten a lot of his beautiful silky light brown hair cut off, and he had a one-inch flattop, I guess it was. Pretending not to notice the haircut, I sauntered down and said, "Bitchin wheels, Willie: totally bitchin!" He nods, "Yeah, thanks. It's a Christmas present, but don't you notice anything different about me?"
I said, "Oh, yeah, you got a haircut, right?" He mutters, "You don't like it, do you? I got it because you said my hairstyle was from the seventies. I thought you'd like this because it's almost like yours."
"Willie, I was teasing you, dude. Um, but this haircut looks perfect on you!" I didn't want to tell him that he went from the seventies with that long over-the-collar prep school haircut to two decades further back to the nineteen-fifties with the flattop haircut. I didn't say that, though.
Walking around to the passenger side of the car. I flicked my cigarette butt into the street, but it went sideways off my fingers to bounce off the grille of Willie's new convertible. Looking up quickly, I'm relieved Willie hadn't seen the ashes sparkling off the front of his car. I've got to learn how to flick those fucking butts before I get myself in trouble. I hopped in the passenger seat of this cool two-seater roadster, unwrapped my stick of gum, and said, "Really, Willie, that's one cool haircut." He muttered, "Whatever," and pulled away from the curb.
I said, "You got this bitchin' car for Christmas, huh? Last Christmas, I got socks, underwear, and a sweater." I was trying to be funny, but Willie was serious, "Yes, I understand it must be hard for you lower middle-class families without the extra spendable income like we have in our family. Gramps was talking about that very thing to Granny during the flight from the L.A. It came up because we were flying first class, and how most people put up with the cattle car treatment in coach. It is, well, it's heartbreaking, but what are you gonna do, you know?"
I stared at him to see if he was teasing me or trying to be funny, but he appeared sincere. Jesus, I couldn't think of anything to say to that, so I changed the subject and asked, "Your father knows you're bringing a boy as your date today, right?" His face broke into one of his extra special little smiles where his nose crinkles at the freckles patch on the bridge of his nose, and he says, "They'd sure be surprised if I brought a girl to the party. I've been out as queer since middle school." He laughed his natural, good-natured-sounding laugh and said, "I know you just asked me that to get me to laugh, right? Or is that the naive side of you coming out, Dylan?"
I'm staring over at him again. He keeps saying these outlandish things that leave me nowhere to go conversational-wise. Clearing my throat, I asked what he'd been doing on his L.A. trip. That kept him talking till we got to his driveway twenty minutes later. Well, I didn't know it was a driveway at first. I thought it was a street with no houses on it; after what seemed like a quarter-mile drive, we came to a stone mansion that I assumed was a hotel or maybe the Prep school Willie went to. Cars were parked around the circular drive in the front. Willie drove right past the circular drive, down the side of the house to a five-car unattached garage. He parked under a portico that extended down all five garage bays.
Getting out, he said, "There are about a hundred people here, Dylan; we'll say hello to some of them and then sneak up to my room, okay?" I said, "Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Willie." I was trying to keep up, following him toward their expansive backyard. From here, I could see this large, white, open-sided tent and many people milling around with drinks. There was a large banner wishing Barbara a happy fortieth birthday and many more.
There was an eight-piece band on a stage playing songs from the nineties. Willie's an inch taller than me, putting his arm around my waist, seemingly oozing with confidence, we rudely walked right through people who were dancing, and then small groups of people smiled and nodded at Willie and me as we made our way through the crowds, me attached to Willie's side. It was like being in a movie, and I tried to be cool about it, but I felt wicked self-conscious, blushed, and mostly kept my eyes on where we were walking.
Willie wasn't concerned with the guests; he was focused on me, explaining how I needed to act. He said, "Just shake the person's hand once when I introduce you, nod, and say it's a pleasure. That's all you do or say, and I'll take care of the rest. Don't bother remembering names because you and I won't be around the party much. We'll be having our party in my bedroom," and he bumped my side with his hip and smiled, murmuring, "Thank you so much for coming with me, Dylan. You're so pretty!"
I wouldn't say I like it when someone says that to me, but he qualifies as another one of the cute guys in this world with whom I'm lucky enough to be friends with. He's cute in a very different way than, say, Chubby or the Dickers brothers, but very cute just the same. Anyway, I'd promised myself to have a good time today, enjoying the novelty of being with these rich people who I'd likely never see again. I met his father first, then some neighbors, then his mother, who called out to a group of ladies, "Shirley, Rose, all of you, come meet William's new boyfriend; he's adorable."
Sweat was running down my sides by now. I expected some awkwardness, but this was much more awkward than I'd thought it would be. After introductions, with me doing and saying what Willie told me to do and say, his Aunts gushed at how cute I was and said, "Does Dylan go to Summersville Prep with you, William, and how long have you two been dating, Dear?" Then, "What a beautiful shade of blond hair your boyfriend has." A very tall, thin woman named Doris said to a terse, dumpy woman, "Isn't it cute the way William had his hair cut to be like his boyfriend's?" then, "You boys make the cutest couple."
That's the women's reaction. The men I was introduced to did not say shit. The men tended to look uncomfortable, and there was minimal eye contact. After a while, I became a tiny bit more relaxed. Trying to entertain myself, but maybe still mostly out of nervousness, I tried hamming it up with some people by leaning into Willie or looking adoringly at him, mocking the pretentious people who barely could hide the sneer they wanted to show us. Not most of them, but there were some. Willie was oblivious to anything negative. He was proud to show me off, and that made me feel bad for him without knowing why.
Then, when we'd greeted enough people to satisfy Willie's concept of proper etiquette, he showed me mercy and escorted me inside the mansion, away from everyone. He switched from an arm around my waist to one around my neck, pulling my head over, and we did a tremendous wet kiss for ten seconds. God, I loved that kiss! That boy can really use his tongue. After the kiss, Willie said, "You did great with the parents and the fossils, Dylan, and I promise to have something extra special for you. It's our time now, baby. Follow me."
Rolling my eyes at Willie's 'baby' comment, I followed Willie up the back stairs and down a long hall to his bedroom. This is a huge house, so nothing would surprise me about Willie's bedroom unless it were small; that would be a surprise. Surprisingly, his bedroom was large but not huge like a three-room suite or something. He had a nice-sized bathroom and a small balcony off French doors. A step up in luxury from my bedroom.
His room was in different shades of dark blue and purple, with weird abstract artwork on the walls. They appeared to be males doing something naughty, but it wasn't clear precisely what that was. A long computer desk with a big flat computer screen against one wall and a large flat-screen TV on the wall opposite a king-size bed that hadn't been made up. The purple, silky sheets were in a pile. Three floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over beautiful gardens.
Overall, it was not as spectacular as I expected, but easily the most excellent bedroom I've ever been in. After closing his bedroom door, he got hold of my face with a hand on either side, and we began a most awesome make-out. My arms ended up around his slim waist and his arms around my neck, holding our faces together till I couldn't catch my breath.
For one thing, Willie is a yummy make-out boy, and he tastes so good. Then there's that aforementioned fabulous tongue of his, and especially his unique way of concentrating on separate parts of my face, neck, and mouth, kissing and sucking at one place, then another. It was intense at times, and I moaned at how wonderfully sexy Willie made me feel. So aroused, it was excellent, and my hands, seemingly on their own, rubbed up and down his back, then hugged his taut body.
Out of breath, Willie abruptly stopped and gasped, "That was so good, Dylan. Now, I'll undress you." We let go of one another, and Willie said, "I love your shirt, Dylan."
There's something so sweet about him, but he can be very, very strange, too. I ask, "Aren't we going to get anything to eat? That buffet looked fabulous." He said, "Sure, but first, I have a good idea..."
To be continued... donnymumford@outook.com
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