Dylans Senior Year at College

DYLAN'S SENIOR YEAR AT COLLEGE

Chapter 50

By Donny Mumford

There were some entertaining aspects of this afternoon's manager's meeting at Dickers & Son, but also periods when it got boringly repetitive and/or annoying. Bottom line... while it really wasn't so bad, I'd rather not do it again.

I attempted to take the notes Mr. Dickers wanted and did the best I could considering I knew nothing about the topics under discussion. These discussions often got bogged down to a degree where I had to wonder if the managers understood the topics under discussion themselves. They'd bickered back and forth and, for the hell of it, I'd entertained myself by drawing caricatures of those involved. And, it was a long day too as Rob and I arrived at the office well before eight o'clock and we're just now leaving at ten after six. We're all scheduled to reconvene tomorrow at nine o'clock in the morning... business people sure do LOVE their meetings.

During the ride home I'm reading from the notes I took, reading them out loud to Rob. We're both laughing at some of the mixed-up shit I wrote down but it was preposterous I was even at the meeting in the first place so getting a few things mixed-up was understandable. Yeah, but now I'm worried Mr. Dickers isn't gonna see the humor in some of my 'notes' the way Rob and I do. Whatever, Rob asked me to be part of that meeting, so there I was...

My assignment was to take notes critiquing the manager's, um, attitudes I guess. Jot down my general impression of each manager to give Mr. Dickers an outsider's viewpoint. I'm using the generic term 'manager' although all those present had specific titles such as division manager, vice president in charge of this or that, and other titles I've forgotten. They all appeared to be in their forties and fifties and, frankly, they're not what I'd call a fun group. The company picnic probably blows.

Anyway, done reading from my notes, I mention to Rob how out of place I felt all afternoon, and he goes, "Ya mean because you didn't know what was being talked about?" I go, "Well, yeah, but more than that. Christ, I don't even work there!" Robby goes, "You're an outside consultant. We hire them all the time and you don't need to know what's being talked about 'cause I took notes on that aspect of things. Dad is interested in attitudes. He's noticed a different vibe emanating from the group of late. It started after we won the bid for the Falmouth project, which is what we're preparing for in these meetings. Dad's aware this is an unpopular project because it creates a lot of extra work for all of them. There's been less than an enthusiastic approach lately, especially from three of the management group, and dad's planning on doing something about it if attitudes don't improve."

I'm like, "Which three do you mean?" Robby goes, "No, I don't want to tell you because it might influence your perspective." I go, "Seriously, why does your dad care what I think about these people... the three in question, or any of them?" Rob says, "Well, why not have another opinion? Mostly though Dad knows I'm in an unfair situation without him there and there's some obvious resentment because I'm not in their management group either and, like you, I'm not even a full-time employee. They're not stupid, they know when dad's not there I'm acting as a, um, a watchdog and I don't like doing that frankly. So Dad said I could have you join me in the meetings. He thinks if my honeybun is with me I'll stop bitching about how unfair it is for me." I snicker and then say, "Honeybun? C'mon, that bullshit right there, that 'honeybun bullshit, is over the top and out of bounds! No more honeybun references."

Robby chuckles and mutters, "Okay, scratch honeybun, but dad's placating me, plus another reason is I asked if you could be with me at the meetings and the fact is, Dad appreciated the job you did with your personnel evaluations in Hartford." I'm like, "Really, he said that?" Rob goes on, saying, "Yeah, and you not knowing what's being talked about in the meetings, especially the engineering aspects of the project, is actually a good thing. You can concentrate on how the managers respond to one another and not what they're saying." I go, "Oh, okay," and then I return to the least important part of what he just told me. I go, "Um, so you say your dad really liked my Hartford report last summer, huh?" I couldn't stop myself from fishing for a few additional accolades. Rob brushes by that though, saying, "Sure he did, and he told you so last summer." Well, as I recall, Mr. D. didn't exactly gush over how awesome I did with that Hartford project and, apparently, Robby isn't going to either.

Parking in the driveway at home, he says, "Anyway, as far as I'm concerned it's turned out to be a brilliant idea having you in the meeting." I'm like, "Why's that?" He grins at me and says, "Well, I was about to scream at the top of my lungs three or four times at the bickering that never stops with those people, but then I looked over at you next to me and thought... who gives a shit what Bob White or Gordon Spikes says when I got my honeybun sitting next to me." I go, "What'd I just tell you? No more fucking honeybun shit!" We both snicker as we're getting out of the pickup.

Every time I go in the back door through the mudroom, which is the only door I've ever used, I expect to see Mrs. D. in the kitchen... and that's where she is. She goes, "There they are! Hi boys, how'd it go today?" Rob mutters, "Well, we made it through the 'effing day somehow. Has there been any improvement with dad's back?" Mr. Dicker steps gingerly into the kitchen, saying, "Yes, Rob, there's been some encouraging improvement finally. I made it downstairs on my own... hooray for me!"

Mrs. D. rushes over to take his arm, saying, "Sit down, dear," and he shrugs his arm away, mumbling, "No, Emily! I intend making us both a cocktail and then these two young men," pointing at Rob and me, "Are gonna join me in my office and report their findings from this afternoon's meeting." Rob goes, "No, we aren't. Not until we finish comparing our notes." Mr. D. glares at Rob, muttering, "Forget that. I'll review the raw notes and see if there's anything in them worth discussing further."

Oh man, there they go again! The Dickers are always bickering. While they're doing that, I'm thinking a selfish thought. I'm thinking maybe we won't need to come home next week. I mean, if Mr. Dickers' back continues improving every day he won't need us. Aside from the bickering, I kinda enjoy being here with Rob, living with Mr. and Mrs. Dickers but, overall, right now I'd rather be at college finishing my senior year. I'll be with these guys the rest of my life, on and off, once Rob and I graduate and hook up for good.

Rob's getting us cans of Bud from the refrigerator as Mrs. Dickers says, "I knew you boys would be late because of that damn meeting and I don't know why they don't simply postpone the meetings until Robert's better." Mr. D. is working on the Manhattans but stops to slams his hand down on the counter. We all look at him as he says emphatically "We do not have the luxury of postponing any Goddamn meetings, Em! Christ, I explained this to you twice already." She goes, "Something about timing, right?" He goes, "There are timetables that don't stop because I slipped on some damn ice!" and his voice got higher with each word.

Unaffected by that, Robby swallows some beer and asks, "What's for dinner?" See the Dickers bicker about everything, but forget about it a second later. His mom says, "We're having a pot roast, dear. It needs to simmer for another hour or so. Would you guys prefer browned potatoes or mashed?" Robby mutters, "I couldn't care less," and then he says to his dad, "We're not reporting shi..., um, anything until Dylan and I consolidate our notes."

Mr. D. looks over at me, and says, "Dylan, will you get me a bowl of ice?" I nod and mumble, "Yes, Sir," and he says to Rob, "Just bring your notes into my office with you. No need to consolidate a damn thing." Robby mutters, "Jesus, you're stubborn!" Mr. D. ignores that as Rob gulps some beer as I'm trying to keep a low profile getting ice from the freezer. The Dickers always have those nice clear square ice cubes that Mrs. D. buys by the bag at Stop & Shop... professional ice cubes. They're much cooler-looking than the ice mom and I always made by filling up trays for the freezer... for free. We never gave a thought to buying ice.

As I'm putting the bowl of ice near Mr. Dickers' elbow, he says, "Let me see that folder, son." I look down at the folder I'm holding under my arm. It has my notes and doodlings in it. I look at Robby who shrugs and makes a face like 'what the fuck ya gonna do?' so I give it to Mr. D. and he carries it and his Manhattan out of the kitchen, saying, "Your cocktail is on the counter, Em." He nods his head at Rob, and then at me, saying, "You two... follow me." Rob and I make a 'face' at each other but, as Rob said a minute ago, 'what the fuck ya gonna do?'. Obviously, I'm thinking about my caricatures and some of the comments in my notes that made Rob and me laugh. None of which was ever intended for Mr. Dickers' eyes, so my face gets red as I follow Rob, who's following his dad. This is gonna be embarrassing!

Damn those caricatures! And I did at least one of all eight managers or vice presidents or whatever their fucking titles are. Big exaggerated drops of sweat rolling down the oversized round bald head of number 4, and for the lady sitting in the number 7 spot, I drew a long exaggerated head with an extra wide big mouth and exaggerated big teeth, a big gap between the front two and, oh fuck... lots of others. Jeez, I drew three or four caricatures of some of them 'cause I was bored!

Following Mr. D. to his home office, Robby and I chug our beers with Robby carrying his notes folder. Inside the office, Rob gives it one more shot, saying, "Goddammit, dad, we need to consolidate these scribblings of ours! You won't even be able to read mine. I had to write fast and I used lots of abbreviations to get my thoughts down so I could quickly move to the next one."

His father drops my notes folder on the desk in front of him and then takes fifteen seconds to slowly sit in his big desk chair, little by little. He finally goes, "Oh, man" as he settles in the chair, and then says, "Let me have that, Rob," as he points at Rob's notes folder. Robby tosses it on the desk, saying, "This is a Goddamn pain in the ass, dad. My plan was to consolidate these notes into something comprehensible. Put it on the computer and print everything out in a readable format. And, by the way, today sucked if you wanna know the truth. Dylan and I are both tired and we don't need you bullying us with this shit."

Mr. D. is like Danny in that he ignores what he doesn't want to hear. He takes a good slug of his drink and goes, "Ahhh, that hits the spot. Now, let me see what we've got here," and he opens my folder randomly starting at halfway through my eight pages of notes. As I squirm in my chair he reads for a bit and then laughs out loud. It startles Rob and I and we exchange frowns. Looking up at me with a grin on his face, Mr. Dickers asks, "This caricature is Rita Savage, right?" I shrug, saying, "I don't know the names. Rob wrote the names under the numbered blocks, but I only used the numbered seats. If you look on the very first page it shows which block refers to, um, whoever."

He does that; he checks the front page to match the names with the numbers I used for everything I wrote in my notes. Mr. D. chuckles and mutters. "Yeah, it's Rita, haha!" and he looks at Rob, saying, "This is a clever way to expedite the note-taking, Rob. Numbers instead of names 'cause we all sit in the same damn chair at every meeting. I like what you did with that, son." Robby perks up, actually sitting up straighter in his chair. We're sitting in the two chairs in front of the desk. Nice armchairs. No, not cushioned chairs. Well, the seat is cushioned but the arms and backs are not. Rob's nodding his head, mumbling, "Yeah, I wanted to make it simpler for Dylan, but of course. I used the initials of the managers in my notes."

Mr. D. wasn't listening to that as he's moved on from complimenting Robby, continuing to turn pages in my notebook apparently looking for my doodlings and caricatures. He chuckles again and takes another gulp of his cocktail nodding his head as he turns the pages. Then he looks up and asks me, "Is this Bill Stratton?" I make a 'face' mumbling, "Um, I don't know who he..." and Mr. D. looks at the first page and then goes, "This number 5 caricature is a classic! Haha, Bill's big nose reaching the floor as he's ready to get his head cut off in the Guillotine?" I lift partially out of my seat as Mr. D. turns the note folder around so I can see what he's looking at. I go, "Um, yes, that's number 5."

Omigod, I remember chuckling to myself when I was drawing that one. Mr. Dickers asks "What was number 5 doing when you were drawing this?" I hesitantly mumble, "Um, I believe Number 5 was yelling at number 2 about something that was already decided by everyone else." Mr. D. laughs out loud again and then mutters, "That's a classic, son! Hmm, yes, number 5 does that a lot." He shows me another drawing, snickering and asking, "This is Susan, right, um, number 6 getting hit on the head by that big mallet... haha." I nod, "Uh huh, number 6 was a real cun... um, I mean she was the number one complainer all meeting." He mutters, "These drawings are priceless."

This bantering by his dad about my doodling caricatures is apparently annoying Rob, who says, "Can we skip the rest of the comics and start discussing my, um, I mean our notes, dad? We'll be here all 'effing night otherwise..." Mr. D. goes, "Yeah, yeah, okay, son," and he opens Rob's notebook. Going back and forth between the two notebooks, Mr. D. asks for clarification about a dozen or so instances, mostly when my comments seem to be the opposite of Rob's and in most cases, we come to a consensus or realize we were taking notes at different times. It wasn't perfect and after a half hour's discussion, Mr. Dickers has jotted down only five notes of his own.

To me, only five items noteworthy enough for Mr. D. to make a record of them seems a small return for Rob and me spending five hours in that meeting. Mr. Dickers, however, seems very pleased and is in a jovial mood, saying, "Good job, guys." He's satisfied but with only five noteworthy items from our notes, I'm hoping he'll recognize the futility of having me in the meeting and maybe I won't need to attend tomorrow's meeting. I hate abandoning Robby, but if I'm not contributing anything... ya know?

Rob's dad says, "Yeah, this is exactly what I was hoping for and I appreciate a third opinion, Dylan. And, by the way, it all pretty much validates what I thought." No, a compliment is not what I was hoping for... I wanna get out of tomorrow's meeting!

Rob and I hop up when we see Mr. D. groaning and putting a hand on his back as he's getting up from his chair. With his hand still at his lower back, he then gives the good news I was hoping for. He says, "I've gotten what I need. If Dylan wants to attend tomorrow's meeting it's up to you two, but it isn't necessary from my point of view, heh heh, although I wouldn't mind seeing more of those caricatures." Yes! No meeting for me tomorrow! Now, if only Mr. D. can follow that up by saying we don't need to come back next weekend it'll be a grand slam of good news.

First though I see Rob thinking about this latest development. He's making a 'face' and then a couple of seconds later he goes, "But dad, I liked having Dylan at the meeting..." We're walking out of his office with Mr. D., slightly bent over as he goes, "What'd I just say, Rob? It's your choice; yours and Dylan's. He can go to the meeting or not," and he walks past us, muttering, "Goddammit, this back of mine will not cooperate!"

He's obviously feeling some pain. I'm not feeling any though 'cause I don't wanna sit through another four or five-hour meeting, not even for the sixty or seventy-five dollars I'd be paid. Mr. Dickers adds, "Actually, Rob, I'm gonna be okay to do next Friday's and Saturday's meetings, so neither of you needs to be here next weekend. You boys can concentrate on your college work." Yippee! That's the other thing I wanted to hear! I yelled 'Yippee' in my head, not out loud.

Robby looks at me with mixed emotions on his face, probably thinking it's awesome he won't need to miss the baseball practices next week but, on the other hand, he wants me with him in the meeting tomorrow. The three of us walk into the kitchen where Rob goes, "You sure you'll be okay by next week?" His dad nods his head, mumbling, "Assuming I don't fall on my ass again, yeah, I'll be good to go." This is great news! It was uber awkward for me this afternoon and I'm thrilled I won't need to experience that again.

Bumping my arm, Robby goes, "About that meeting tomorrow morning, babe. Um, you might as well make the money, don't ya think?" I give Robby my puppy dog look, the pathetic one, mumbling, "I don't wanna," and he pats my shoulder, saying, "Ah, fuck, I know, it's okay. You got me through today so thanks for that." I yell 'YIPPEE', but only in my head again, and say, "No, I'll go if it'll help you out." He shrugs, "Yeah, I know you would, but I can't do that to you." Another 'YIPPEE' in my head as I shrug again, mumbling, "Thanks, but if..." he laughs and goes, "No, you're not going to tomorrow's meeting." I'm trying not to do a huge smile... and failing. Rob smirks at me, muttering, "Traitor...".

In the kitchen, we see Mrs. Dickers sitting on a stool at the counter talking on her cell phone. She chuckles at something, and then says, "Oh, here come my guys now. They've finished their important meeting, Jenny." The other person says something and Mrs. Dickers snickers and says, "That's so true," and then, "Dear, we'll talk more about the flower show at lunch tomorrow." She laughs again at whatever Jenny says, and goes, "Oh, haha, you're awful, haha. Bye." Ending the call she stands and says, "Twenty minutes, guys. We'll be eating in twenty minutes." Mr. D. mumbles, "Thank you, Em," as he makes himself a second Manhattan.

Rob asks, "Ya want another beer, babe?" I shake my head, muttering, "No, thanks." Rob doesn't get a beer either and we walk into the family room. Now I'm feeling bad about letting Robby down, so I go, "Um, Rob, you sure it's okay with you that I skip the meeting tomorrow? Or, maybe Dottie has another project for me and I'd at least go to work with you. I mean, your dad got what he needed from me and I hate thinking I'd be in that meeting getting paid to do basically nothing."

We sit on the sofa as Rob mutters, "Nah, Dottie doesn't work on Saturdays and, no, you're not going to work tomorrow, babe. I'll be fine." Whew! He adds, "Hey, ain't it fantastic we won't need to come back next week. That's gold right there, babe!" and he adds with a smirk, "But, ya know, I'm surprised dad doesn't want to see more of your caricatures." I go, "Dude, I was worried he'd be pissed-off seeing those things. When I was drawing them there's no way I thought he'd ever see my doodlings." Rob seems okay that I won't be going to work with him tomorrow. It's my stupid-ass guilty conscience that made me bring the issue up again.

Sitting close together on the sofa we talk about tomorrow and decide I'll drop him off at work and then I'll visit my mom, which I really want to do. Then, obviously, I'll pick him up around noon or whenever he texts and we'll head back to Merrimack so he can make the baseball team's afternoon practice. We're good. Mostly, Rob's thrilled he won't be missing those practices next week. That's paramount on his mind so... me not going to the meeting is like a secondary concern. Good!

The pot roast dinner is everything it should be, meaning it's delicious. The gravy rules with a pot roast! Without an outstanding gravy, it's not an especially tasty meal but Mrs. D. nailed the landing with that gravy. Excellent job and therefore the potatoes and carrots and little onions were elevated by the gravy, and so was the meat that simmered for almost three hours. Yeah, it was fork-tender as they say in cooking circles.

We stay 'in' Friday night without drinking anything alcoholic except the one beer before dinner. After watching TV in our bedroom, at a little after ten o'clock we get into some sexy messing around. Robby's very amorous and after making out in what would normally turn into lover's sex we somehow get into one of our wrestling foreplays. We're rolling around on the bed groping each other and trying not to giggle too loudly and it all leads to a hard fucking of my ass. No slap-slap noise because Rob barely got my khakis down past my buttocks before quickly slapping some lube on it, and then pulling his wood-hard boner out through the fly of his pants... and up my ass it went. I'm on my stomach biting the pillow until the pain lets go and then the pleasure wagon takes over.

We're both enormously aroused by now and Robby appears to be on a quick mission with his hands holding onto my hips pounding his cock up my ass with me pushing my ass up with each thrust, both of us getting the bed bouncing but since there are no noisy springs there's no telltale squeaking of the bed and no 'slap slap' sounds either because, as I said, Rob's pants deadened the sound of him slapping against my butt cheeks.

My climax forces its way out onto the bedspread under me at the three-minute mark. It came out in three significant streams that felt so good I could hardly believe it. I didn't feel Robby's cum explosion shooting inside me because it happened right after my ginormous climax and I was still trying to stop shaking with sexual pleasure. I soon feel the slushy cum in my rectum though so I believe Robby when he says, "Holy shit, babe, I don't think I've ever had a larger orgasm." I'm thinking he was half aroused by me, and half aroused by not needing to miss those practices next week... that's what I think, but mostly I'm concentrating on how fabulous my own orgasm felt.

After lying in my cum until it soaks through my shirt, I slowly lift up and say to Robby, who's now contentedly lying next to me, "This is a mess. How are we going to fix it? Your mom doesn't want to see a cum-stained bedspread." He snickers and says, "You did it. That's what I'll tell mom." I go, "My shirt is sticking to me and there's lots of gooey stuff drooling out of my ass now too." He goes up on his side looking at me grinning and saying, "You're always making a mess and expecting me to help you clean it up. What's up with that, babe?" I go, "It's not funny! Your mom... she'll see this." He rubs my head, saying, "No she won't. You and I are responsible for our bedroom. Hey, your hair feels cool with this haircut." I go, "ROBBY! Forget that, what are we going to do about this cum-stained bedspread?"

He rolls off the bed and stands up, saying, "Get up! I'll show you," and when I get off the bed he pulls off the bedspread, plus the blanket under it. He then feels the sheet, muttering, "It didn't soak through to the sheet." I'm like, "What are you going to do with that blanket and bedspread?" He says, "Bring over that hamper," and as I drag it over, I'm saying, "She'll still see the big-ass cum stain when she's putting that bedding in the wash!" Rob stuffs the blanket and bedspread in the hamper, saying, "We do the wash. Take off your pants and shirt. We'll put them on top and take the hamper down to the washing machine and, ya know, wash and dry this stuff telling the 'rents we're doing our laundry.

I take off my khakis, underpants, and dress shirt to put on top of the bedding and then throw sweatpants and a t-shirt on top of that. After pulling on clean sweatpants I'm following Robby, who's carrying the hamper. Downstairs we don't need to tell his parents anything because they've turned in for the night. We get the clothes in the washing machine and as it's running we goof around with each other until I feel Rob's new boner against my leg, and say, "Oh, no! Don't think you're getting that freak of nature cock of yours up my sore ass again."

Of course, that challenge is all Robby needs to hear and he eventually fucks me with us standing next to the washing machine, his arm around the front of my throat pulling my head back against his shoulder. I struggle a little but oh man, he's strong and my ass takes a beautiful hard thumping. The only problem is, Robby only pulled my sweatpants down in the back and I got into the thrill of being fucked and never did get around to pulling my pants down in front and, consequently, I spunked into my sweatpants, so that's another mess. But, Omigod, that felt good!

Robby's breathing like a racehorse when he pulls his cock out of my ass, muttering, "We're not doing another washload for those sweatpants." We share a Coke and talk about the meeting this afternoon, both of us surprised Rob's dad was laughing that much at my caricatures. Rob goes, "I can't remember dad getting giggly like that before. He liked you dumping on a few of his management group. I think that's because he's finally getting ready to drop the hammer on a couple of them." I go, "Oh, no! Do you think I got someone fired?" Shaking his head, Rob goes, "Nah, dad's too sentimental about the men who have been with the company from the start. He'll reassign them somehow so they don't lose face, or a job, ya know?" No, I don't know! But at least they won't get fired.

When the washing cycle ends, we put the clothes in the dryer and get ready for bed. Our plan is to get up ten minutes earlier than we would have so we can deal with the stuff in the dryer. Rob borrows the blanket from the guest bedroom and we fall asleep quickly. My last thoughts before sleep are, one, I loved the two fucks Robby put on my ass tonight and, two, I'm so happy I don't need to be at that meeting tomorrow.

Because we didn't get to sleep until after midnight, our plans for this morning don't work out. We sleep through the alarm so we need to do everything fast when we get out of bed. After getting the clothes from the dryer, putting my khakis and shirt on top of the hamper, we walk through the kitchen as Rob's telling his mom, "We did our laundry last night, mom and, um, we won't have time for breakfast." She says to our backs as we head for the stairs, "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day." Rob calls over his shoulder, "No, it's not!"

Rob dresses casually compared to yesterday's suit and tie. Today he's wearing a dress shirt and sweater with pressed khakis. I've got sweatpants and a sweatshirt on, the last clean ones I own, and we leave the house without even having coffee. Rob drives too fast to suit me but he makes it in time for his nine o'clock meeting. Jumping out of the pickup at the building's front door, he says, "Someone will have coffee going in the cafeteria, babe. I'll grab a cup and you can get one there too if you want. I'll text you later... say 'hi' to your mom for me," and he jogs off leaving the truck idling with me still in the passenger seat. I yell, "Good luck! I'll see ya ..." but he's inside already.

Still sitting in the passenger seat, I text mom and get a reply back immediately: 'Oh, no! Dylan, darling, we're all at Foxwood for the weekend. I wish I knew you were gonna be home, dear.' I text back that it's an unexpected and complicated situation, but no worries, I'll see her soon.

Huh, I thought I'd be working this morning and Rob would want to go right back to college for the afternoon practice, so I never thought to tell mom I'd be home. Why would I if there didn't seem to be any way I could see her? Yeah, but how about those guys, those Rider twin partiers! The twins took the moms to Foxwood again! Those guys are barely eleven years older than Chub and me and they still like to party like it's 1999. Good for them and good for our moms too because the twins will keep them young!

Yeah, but what do I do now? As much as I hate eating at a restaurant alone, I guess I'll get breakfast someplace and try figuring out what to do for the next three or four hours. Or maybe going back to the house might be my only option after breakfast. First though, where to have breakfast? Well, where better than a diner? And I'm in Framingham where there's the R & M Diner not too far down from here on Route 9. That's where I'll go.

The parking lot at R & M's is fairly full but, duh, it's nine-twenty and people eat breakfast a little later on Saturday mornings. I've already decided to sit at the counter 'cause I feel too conspicuous sitting at a table alone. Yeah, there are always others eating alone at the counter so I'll join the lonely ones there. Inside it smells like a diner should... coffee and bacon. The counter is three-quarters full but I see an empty stool with nobody on either side of it and that's the stool I sit on. I'm leaning my elbows on the counter looking straight ahead, not looking at anyone. I hate this, but I'm determined to drag out my breakfast as long as I can to kill as much time as possible. Dammit, I should have brought a newspaper from one of the dispensers outside the entrance.

A perky waitress with a name tag on her large breast that reads 'Bev' carries a menu and the familiar glass decanter of coffee with her, asking me, "Coffee, hon?" I nod, mumbling, "Yes, please." she drops the menu in front of me and gets a thick coffee mug from under the counter and pours the coffee. Then, reaching down the counter she slides a container with little packets of various sugar choices. Then she does the same to a metal pitcher of cream. I look at the little metal cream pitcher wondering how long that thing has been out of the refrigerator. She says, "I'll give you a minute or two, hon," meaning for me to decide what I want. Very considerate of Bev, who hurries off to do other things.

After adding abundant amounts of sugar from the 'real' sugar packets, avoiding the pink, blue, and yellow artificial sweetener packets, I then open the top of the cream container to sniff it. It doesn't smell sour so I add as much cream as the too-full mug will allow. Looking for a spoon to stir my coffee, I'm like... 'Hmm, Bev didn't leave me one, the bitch'. Two demerits off her tip. Glancing down at the menu I see approximately three hundred choices for breakfast as all diners' menus have. I love diners! Hmm, the glossy pictures of breakfast dishes look really delicious... if only the food would come out of the kitchen looking remotely like the food looks in these pictures.

Here comes Bev again. I flag her down as she's scooting by and ask for a spoon. She reaches under the counter where she got my mug and comes up with a spoon, knife, and fork wrapped in a paper napkin. She plops it down in my vicinity grinning and saying, "You could have used your finger, hon." I go, "How'd you know my name?" and she laughs, saying over her shoulder as she scurries away, "Never heard that one before." Huh, a hot-shit waitress. I always over-tip waitresses anyway because my mom is one.

The coffee is good... it tastes like good regular coffee, none of that Starbucks bitter shit. I want to look closely at the menu but I'm very much aware of a slightly overweight kid sitting one stool away to my right staring at me, and he's not even trying to be cool about it. When I sat down, my initial glance at him registered zero on my 'interest meter' as in, nothing to see here. I'm trying to ignore his rude staring but finally, I've gotta turn to him and ask, "Do you have a problem of some sort?" He shakes his head and goes, "No, sorry for staring. Are you Dylan, um, is your name Dylan?" I go, "Was that a good guess or do I know you?" He goes, "I'm Brian Van Noy," as if that means anything to me. I shrug, mumbling, "Sorry, but you have me at a disadvantage, I don't remember meeting you," and he goes, "Oh, we've never met, um, ah, I'm Ray Reeves boyfriend," and he holds out his hand.

Oh, fuck! I reach over and shake his slightly damp hand briefly. Yeah, it was obvious to me he intended a handshake as opposed to... whatever. I've learned to pick up signals for a handshake which are kinda rare as opposed to a hand slap or fist bump. And, yeah, now I remember seeing this kid with Ray once or twice. Most recently at Lulu's New Year's Eve rip-off party. Not that I paid any attention to him. I mutter, "How ya doing, um," but, Goddammit, I've already forgotten his name. He somehow can tell that, and says, "It's Brian," and he slides over to the stool next to me leaving his mostly empty food plate behind but bringing his coffee mug with him. Oh, brother! But what am I gonna do, tell him to get lost?

Glancing at his mostly empty dish I see a sliver of pancake, so for something to say, I ask, "How were the pancakes?" He looks me in the eyes and says, "You're even better looking close up," and I narrow my eyes, so he goes, "Oh, um, the pancakes are very good. They cook them to order." I mutter, "Thanks," which includes 'thanks' for his compliment as well as the information about the pancakes. At IHOP, and the Pancake House too for that matter, I've always suspected the pancakes are cooked in batches of a million and then warmed up off the stack as people order them. In other words, they're soggy. When they're served right off the griddle they're ten times better.

He goes, "Ray's told Jukie and me many stories about when you two guys were serious lovers." He rolls his gray eyes, adding, "You two sure had a wild love affair!" I drink some coffee and try not to laugh in his face, a face that appears to be pure innocence. I ask, "How old are you?" He says defensively, "I'll be nineteen in three weeks. Ray doesn't break the law. He wouldn't have sex with me until my eighteenth birthday. That was my favorite birthday present, but you can understand that, right?" I take another swallow of coffee and look for the waitress.

Brian's the kind of person who insists on being too close. He's in my space, leaning near me as he sits on the stool next to me, saying, "Ray's led a fascinating life already, and he only just turned twenty-one, ya know?" I have nothing against this kid... he seems super sincere and I don't want to burst his bubble but I need to say, "I can't speak to that; I don't know much about Ray's life, fascinating or otherwise. He does tend to distort reality though." He shrugs, "I don't know what that means, but I do know that he dumped you. I think that's wicked fascinating, especially after seeing you up close like this. But, as he has said many times, no matter that you're the most beautiful, cute, and sexy boy in Framingham, he still dumped your ass because you talked back to him. Let me tell you, that hit home with me and Jukie."

I can tell he's not joking, but I am when I grin and ask, "Only in Framingham, not the whole state?" He goes, "Whaddaya mean?" I mutter, "Nothing. I was kidding you. Um, oh, I'm sorry but what's your name again?" He says, "Brian Van Noy," and I say, "Truthfully, Brian, there was zero love between Ray and I. No love... we were not in love! Just sex! And I'll give him props for his, um, 'topping' capabilities, ya know, so you'll know I'm being objective. And, while I'm at it, he dumped me a mere thirty seconds before I was going to dump him. Literally, thirty seconds! And he only did it because he knew I was gonna do it to him." He goes, "No, I'm sorry, but that's not true. There were witnesses and Bean verifies everything Ray says about that because Bean and I are close; we're tight buddies and he wouldn't lie to me. Bean says I'm like his little brother."

Huh, this kid didn't say any of that bullshit contentiously; more like apologetically as though I'm merely confused and he's just helping my memory. I go, "Well, if Bean verified it... there ya go! I must be hallucinating." He says, "That's okay, Dylan, I get things mixed up too." I'm sure he does! He touches my shoulder and says, "Ray explained how it was probably the most traumatic incident in your life... when he dumped you I mean. Ya know, and then the way you blew your chances with him. I'm glad you did though 'cause now I'm his boyfriend." Oh, dear Lord! This fucker is so naive he's actually kinda sweet.

And why do I care what he thinks? If I stop responding to his chatter perhaps he'll go away. No such luck though. My silence gets him to tug on my arm, asking, "Am I bothering you?" There simply isn't any 'smart-ass' in this kid, he's actually being sincere so I don't want to hurt his feelings. I go, "No, you're not bothering me. Not 'you' per se, Brian. It's just that I've had a bad morning and I'm not good company right now. So, nothing against you at all, but it's probably best if you..." He grabs my arm again, saying, "No, it's alright, Dylan. Don't feel bad... I understand! I didn't mean to bring back what must be a difficult period in your life... and please, believe me, I'm not throwing it in your face that now I'm Ray's boyfriend. Really, I'm not. It's just that I've only seen you from a distance a few times and now that I'm getting this chance to talk with you, um, it's like, um, you're a celebrity or something. I almost want to ask for your autograph."

Where in the fuck is that waitress? This place is loud like diners always are. Lots of talking and dishes clattering together, the sounds of forks hitting plates... and now this nitwit next to me! No, nitwit is way too strong a word. He's just a little goofy. Oh fuck, and now a country and western song starts playing on the dumb-ass jukebox. Good grief, what next?

Brian pats my back, asking, "You okay, Dylan?" Blowing out my cheeks and letting out a long exhale, a very exasperated exhale while shaking my head a little, I figure what the fuck? Smiling at him, I go, "I'm okay, yeah, but ya gotta understand I never think of... um. No, never mind that. Yes, I'm fine." What's the use of trying to explain my negativity about Ray to this boy?

He finishes his coffee and says, "If you were my boyfriend, I'd never dump you, I can promise you that. You could talk back to me all you wanted... heh heh. I think you're nice." I mumble, "Thank you. I think you're nice too." He goes, "Do you mind if I ask you why you didn't take advantage of Ray's generous side? He's a forgiving boyfriend... it's his nature. I mean, if you begged a little he would have given you another chance." Rubbing my eyes with my thumb and forefinger I'm wondering why in the fuck I didn't follow my own advice... and NEVER eat out alone!

Calming down, I take another exasperated exhale and then say calmly, "Ya know, Brian, your boyfriend Ray, um, has some, ah, let's say a couple of good, um, attributes. Yeah, but unfortunately, ancient history isn't one of them. I mean, assuming a couple of years ago can be considered 'ancient'. Ya see Ray remembers things differently than they actually happened. Lots of people do that." He goes, 'Whaddaya mean?" Oh, man!

I shake my head again, hating myself for even trying to set the record straight with this kid. Again I ask myself... why do you care what this stranger thinks? So, I mutter, "Nothing, forget I said anything, okay?" He pats my shoulder, quietly saying, "Sure, it's okay. I'm sorry for bringing back bad memories. It's just that Jukie and I have heard so many interesting stories from Ray about you, and now I'm actually sitting next to you and having a conversation. It's amazing, it's surreal!" That's the second or third time he said that odd name, so I'm like, "Who's Jukie?" and he says, "Teresa Jasinski." I go, "Oh." Never heard of her, but I assume she's Ray's girlfriend.

He starts to say something but I put my hand up to stop him because Bev, my waitress, is finally back with a little pad in one hand and a ballpoint pen in the other. She asks, "Whaddaya gonna have, doll?" I've barely glanced at the menu, but I say, "Fried eggs over easy, white toast, homefries, sausage and a side of pancakes." She makes some scratches on the pad, mumbling, "Hungry this morning, eh?" and then to Brian, "You finished your breakfast, hon?" Oh, I thought I was 'hon'! Brian nods and she goes, "Well, let me freshen your coffee for you at least... on the house." She slaps a page from her little pad near him... it's his check obviously, and then Bev clears away his dishes and the mess of napkins and open jelly containers and whatnot that he left scattered around his spot at the counter.

We watch her doing that and then Bev is quickly back with the glass coffee pot refilling both our mugs. Oh yeah, she's a busy beaver, that one. We both mutter, "Thanks," and she smiles, saying, "You boys make a cute couple." How the fuck does she know we're gay? A cute couple? What the fuck?

Oh, she must have overheard some of our conversations, although I can't imagine how 'cause we're talking quietly. Even so, I'm like, "Brian, could you keep your voice down, please?" He says, "Sorry. Ray's always telling me that too." Whatever... I start opening more sugar packets for the extra coffee Bev poured in my mug as Brian reaches past me for two of the yellow artificial sugar packets, saying, "Ray don't want me having sugar. He says I'm fat." I go, "You're not fat! He's wrong about that too! You're slightly stocky." He goes, "That's what I think!"

As awkward as it is for me to sit with any stranger in silence, I'm now determined not to ask this stranger a question or make so much as a casual comment about the weather or anything else because I do not want to encourage him to continue this strange conversation. Plus, every time I look at him I stare at the pimple he has on the top of his nose. Thank God it isn't a white head or I couldn't eat my breakfast.

Brian touches my arm to get me to look at him. When I do, he asks, "Do you think I'm cute?" I say, "No, you're not cute, but you, um, look fine the way you are. Cute is overrated." No, it's not! He goes, "Bev thinks we make a cute couple. She probably just meant you, or... um, I don't think I'm cute either, although Ray says I am." I mumble, "Well, Ray would know." I feel wicked bad for this kid and I probably shouldn't. I mean, he seems happy so who am I to think otherwise?

He says, "I like the way you come right out and say things. I expected you to say you think I'm cute so as not to hurt my feelings even though you don't think I am, not really." Jesus, I'm not even hungry now. Seriously, I've lost my fucking appetite and I was looking forward to breakfast. And breakfast is by far the best meals diners do. I nod at Brian, saying, "You are kinda cute, Brian. I stand corrected." He goes, "Thanks, um, would you ever have sex with me?" I look at him with my mouth hanging open. Can I believe this? Why does shit like this always happen to me?

After doing a fake cough to give me time to think, I go, "No, probably not, but that's only because I'm in a serious relationship. I'm sure gay guys who are single would be lucky to have sex with you. Don't go by me." Needless to say, I'm talking very quietly which I hope encourages him to lower his voice even more than he already has. He says, "That was a very nice way of putting it, Dylan"

I don't really think he's cute. No, but he isn't bad looking either, excluding a few acne blemishes. And he is a little overweight but it's leftover baby fat that it wouldn't be hard to lose if he did some running and exercising. His hair is straw-color and cut in that stupid trendy style that Ray's hair is cut in, or at least it was the last time I saw him. Ya know, almost shaved around the sides and back with a big pile of hair on top. A haystack on top of Brian's head.

Well, Brian's hair appears very clean anyway and like almost every one of our generation, he has almost perfect teeth, straight and very white. His facial features are, um, I don't know, they make me think he's maybe Polish, or Dutch and I don't even know why I said that. Plus, I'm not saying that derogatorily at all. He has sort of a slightly squarish face with kinda high cheekbones, gray almond-shaped eyes, and full lips... sexy lips actually. A nice chin, no facial hair and he's quite pale complexioned. Ya know what? He's actually got a baby face, and that's not to say he's a cute baby... or, I don't know what the fuck I'm saying. Anyway, he's maybe an inch shorter than me or at least his head is an inch lower than mine as we sit here.

Bev brings a big oval platter full of food. More than I'm going to be able to eat. She says, "Enjoy," as she slides the container of imitation maple syrup from where Brian ate, slides it next to my plate. I mutter, "Thanks," and then to Brian, "Would you pass down the salt and pepper please?" He does that and I pour both salt and pepper on everything except the pancakes and toast... liberally. Yeah, I know salt isn't good for you... and I don't care, alright?

I'm pouring the imitation maple syrup on my pancakes that already a pad of butter is melting over them as Brian asks, "Can I have a bite of your pancakes?" Who in the name of God would ask that? Blowing my cheeks out again, I say, "Um, ah... yeah, sure, I guess," and he picks up my fork and cuts a wedge down through all three pancakes stacked on top of each other. It's a big wedge, and when he puts it in his mouth his full lips close on the fork so when he drags the fork out he gets all the maple syrup off the tongs. Setting the fork down next to my plate, he chews with his mouth closed. After swallowing, he says, "Thanks." I'm looking at my fork thinking, 'Well, how'd I think he was going to have a bite, using his fingers? Of course, he'd need to use my fork.' Duh!

That doesn't especially bother me though, it was actually kinda sexy. I pick up the fork and cut a wedge out of the stack of pancakes and eat it just like he did. Brian drinks some of his coffee and then goes, "Haha, this is embarrassing but, um, I'm sorry, but that was so good! Um, could I have another bite?" Fuck! I can't help grinning though... I mean at the outrageousness of him asking that. I pass him the fork and he does the same big bite and now half the pancakes are gone. Three wedges and half the pancakes are finished. He grins, saying, "Delicious, huh?" I nod and can't help chuckling. Jesus! I put another wedge of pancakes in my mouth and, as I chew, I look at him and nod at the pancakes. He grins, saying, "Yeah, thanks," and reaches for my fork. I think I'm getting a hard-on.

When we've both had three wedges each, that's it for the pancakes. That makes me snicker and he goes, "What?" after swallowing the last wedge of pancakes. I mutter, "Nothing. I just thought of a pancake joke." A pancake joke? Oh man! The absurdity of that doesn't register with Brian as he leans close and whispers in my ear, "I'm not bragging, just saying... um, my dick is bigger than Rays." I look startled and he quickly adds, "Please don't tell him I said that because he'll get mad. He insists his cock is bigger... but it's not. Bean agrees with me too, but neither of us makes a point of that to Ray."

I'm speechless as he naively adds, "You've felt Bean's long skinny dick up your pussy many times, but I haven't because Ray won't allow it. How's that feel anyway, Bean's long skinny cock?" and his lips are so close to my ear when he's whispering both his lips rub my ear leaving it sticky with maple syrup. I'm like, "Huh?" and he goes, "Having something that long and skinny fucking you? Ya probably can hardly feel it, right?"

I know one thing for sure, and I couldn't be more positive about this, Brian isn't taunting me or being a smart-ass. I can tell he's not very bright and he's just having a sex talk with me. We've shared my pancakes so he thinks we're tight buddies now so he's telling me secrets he wouldn't want Ray to know about. Just a couple of underlings gossiping behind our leader's back; that's what we're doing in Brian's mind, such as it is. As I said, he appears innocent and naive... and not real bright.

Actually, I'm dying to ask him how much bigger his cock is than Ray's but obviously, I'm not going to do that. The other thing is, Bean told this kid he's fucked me many times. Unless Bean considers twice 'many', he's lying. If he does think twice is 'many', that's just sad. Deciding there's nothing in it for me commenting on either of those bizarre questions from Brian, I'm going to ignore them. I swallow some coffee, then dip one of my triangles of toast into the yolk of one of the fried eggs. I'd better say something though, so I mumble, "Let's not gossip about dick sizes, okay?" He goes, "Ray says you have a small one." and I snort out a laugh. Fuck! Then, eating the yolk and toast I again make a pact with myself that I'm not talking anymore. Just head nods or head shakes, but no conversation-starters will be coming from me! Fuck this.

Brian watches me eat the way a dog watches someone eat. I finally ask, "Do you want a piece of toast?" He nods, mumbling, "Yeah, thank you," and he picks a triangle of toast off my plate and dips it in the other egg's yolk. Here's a big plus... Brian doesn't eat with his mouth open or make annoying mouth sounds, so that's good. I stab a link sausage with the fork and bite off half as Brian asks, "Can I?" as he nods at the half sausage on the fork. I'm resigned to this by now and kinda getting a kick out of it too, so I hold the fork over. He grins and lips off the other half of my sausage. He finishes his coffee and watches me eat the rest of my breakfast without wanting anymore, although I offer him some.

Bev is back with the coffee pot but I put my hand on my mug while smiling at her and saying, "No thanks, just the check." She's got that on her pad and as she rips a little page off, she says, "You boys have fun today, and come in again soon." Brian goes, "Thank you, Bev!" He said it way more cheerfully and loudly than necessary. His cheerful loud 'thank you' gets some gawkers straining their necks to look down at us. I look at the check and then put two dollars near my plate for Bev's tip. Brian hasn't left any tip yet. I look at where he sat and he sees me looking and smiles at me cluelessly, so I put two more dollars down. I wouldn't want Bev to think the 'cute couple' stiffed her.

We both pay at the register in front of the door, and then go outside where Brian asks, "Can we do something together now, Dylan? Ray's working today getting overtime pay on a Saturday. I work at Home Foods during the week. Dad says I need to work if I'm not gonna go to college. I wanna go to mechanic school and dad says okay... but that'll be next fall." Wow, I'm getting a headache listening to all this. Hmm... the size of his cock though! No, I do not need the aggravation of Ray thinking I'm trying to steal his boyfriend, although I could if I wanted to. I don't want to though even if he does have a bigger cock than Ray, which I find hard to believe. Jesus, if he does though...

I lie, saying, "I'd like to hang out with you, Brian. You're a good guy and I enjoyed sharing my breakfast with you but, unfortunately, I need to get to work myself." He goes, "I thought you were in college." He's walking with me as I'm going to the pickup. I go, "Yeah, but I work sometimes too." He asks, "Where?" and I go, "Um, Dickers & Son. It's a construction, um, they do a lot of things." He says, "Yeah, Ray told me and Jukie about your side boyfriend back then being Rob Dickers. He was a star pitcher for Framingham's baseball team when I was a freshman."

At the pickup, I'm wondering why he's following me, so I ask, "Do you need a ride, Brian?" He goes, "Oh, no. I walked down here 'cause I had the time and Ray's working, so..." I go, "Yeah, you mentioned that, so why don't I give you a lift home?" He goes, "Oh, okay, thanks."

I drive him home as he's telling me how wonderful Ray is. I've had all I can take by the time I drive up to this huge house that's about three miles from the diner. Idling at the curb, I'm like, "You live here?" He nods, "Yeah, my dad's a stockbroker and we're kinda rich." Then he hops right out, saying, "Thank you, Dylan. I'm calling Jukie as soon as I get inside. She is gonna be so jealous when I tell her who I shared breakfast with and her mom said you and I were a cute couple too." What was that? Bev is Jukie's mom? I'm like, "Huh?"

Yeah, that's how Bev knew we were gay. She was joking with Brian about that cute couple bullshit knowing he's Ray's boyfriend. Brian starts walking up the long winding driveway, looking back and yelling, "Thanks again, Dylan!" I'm nodding my head, mumbling, "No problem," as I'm gawking at the mansion and wondering about the coincidences of life. Bev being Jukie's mother and me going to that diner the same time Ray's slightly overweight boyfriend was having breakfast there, and... Jesus!

Omigod, what a breakfast that was. Honestly though, Brian was kind of a sweet kid now that I think back on it. No way I was gonna get involved with him although that would really have been something... getting fucked by someone who will be nineteen in three weeks and who happens to have a bigger cock than Ray Reeves. Holy shit! In my younger days it would have been an epic encounter, as well as a big 'fuck you' to Ray... yeah, well this ain't my younger days, is it?

Okay, now what? Well, mom isn't home but I drive to the condo anyway. It's ten-thirty so I only have an hour to kill before driving back to the office. I'll wait in the cafeteria until Rob's meeting to be over. And he said it could be over by noon. As soon as he's out of the meeting we're on our way back to college.

Going up to the condo's garage entrance door I punch in the password and I hear the click as it unlocks. Wouldn't it be a pisser if I punched in the code and nothing happened because my mom changed the password? She wouldn't do that to me... haha, it'd be a shocker though but why would I even think of a dumb thing like that? Because I moved out to live with the Dickers? Omigod, why must I make up shit to worry about?

Inside I get a bottle of water from the refrigerator and then slowly walk around my old room touching everything and drinking the water. After doing that, I look at everything that's still in my closet. Huh, by now there ain't much left in my closet. Most of it has found its way to Rob's and my closet at home; my other home. Huh, here's my childhood bathrobe. For the fuck of it, I put it on over my sweatshirt and, obviously, it's a tight fit. Flopping down on my small bed with my hands behind my head I think about Brian-what's-his-name with a cock that's bigger than Ray's. I wonder if that's true? Hmm, I could have brought Brian-what's-his-name back here and let him fuck me in this twin-size bed of mine. Or maybe he wanted me to fuck him... it wasn't clear how he wanted to do 'it' because I put a stop to that conversation immediately, which was dumb of me... haha!

He must have an asbestos ass like mine if he's been putting out for Ray's ginormous cock. Hopping up off the bed to stop myself thinking about that, I go through my bureau drawers and make a small pile of t-shirts I want to bring home with me. Then I go through everything in my room looking for that t-shirt Danny remembered in his misremembered remembrance of me wearing the red t-shirt with 'Just Do It!' on the front when I allegedly had a flattop haircut at age fifteen, which I most definitely didn't have. Obviously, the reference on the t-shirt is Nike's slogan, and not the other 'it'.

I can't find the t-shirt, and I'm getting bored in my bedroom so I wander around the condo looking for something that's changed but I don't see a single new thing in here. And then I realize it's odd I don't feel the urge to call anyone in this town. That's because anyone I care enough to call is at college with me, or away at a different college. Putting the empty water bottle in the recycle bin, I go back to the basement and out the door to get in the pickup. I'll get back to the office. Rob said maybe there's coffee in the cafeteria. I'll have a cup while I'm waiting.

Sports talk is on the 98.5 FM dial on the radio but the two talk jocks have nothing new to say so I hit the button for music on 92.5 FM and listen to a song for fifteen seconds before turning the radio off. What horse shit! A lot of the new music sucks. It's an easy drive to the office at this time of the day on a Saturday. As I'm pulling into the lot, my heart stops 'cause I think I saw Mr. Trimbole going in the front door. That doesn't make a lot of sense so I'm probably wrong, but if I'm not...

Getting out of the pickup I'm kinda interested in who that was I saw going inside so I jog to the front door, step inside and there's dead silence in here. That shouldn't surprise me since it's Saturday and the meeting is upstairs. Hmm, if that was Mr. Trimbole I have no idea where his office might be. That's if he even has an office. He might have a cubby hole in the warren of cubby holes on this floor, the ones for the worker bees. I've never spent any time on this floor so why not check it out now? And if it was Mr. Trimbole, so what? What difference does it make? I'm curious, that's all.

Well, I'll find out if it was him first, and then figure out what. if any, difference it makes. I walk down the hall and look into the rooms. Well, there's a large area with lots of little low dividers between the workspaces, hmm, computers in each one but there's also a huge area with long work tables and obvious a workspace every five feet on the tables. The big computer screens are the only sort of dividers from one space to another. And, fuck, look at those odd-shaped chairs. Modern workspace I suppose.

Ah, the hell with this! Turning around I walk back to the front door and go down a few steps to the cafeteria where I smell coffee that was probably brewed hours ago. Sitting at a table I text Rob that I'm in the cafeteria and for him to text me when he's ready to go. Getting up I wander over to test the coffee and Mr. Trimbole walks out of the kitchen supply room carrying a mug that has a tea bag in it. I'm like, "Mr. Trimbole, what...?" He goes, "Hello, Dylan. Word to the wise: if you're thinking about having coffee I'm afraid it was made some hours ago and is quite undrinkable now, which is why I'm again settling for a cup of tea," and he sort of holds up the cup to show me, as if I can't plainly see it already.

He's wearing the same thing I am, meaning sweatpants and matching sweatshirt with sneakers on his feet. Everything I have on is Nike branded and he's wearing, um, no-name generic sweats. Penny-pinching shopping at Penny's Department store perhaps. He looks larger than he did with a suit on, which seems impossible. I'm tongue tied, staring at his large bald head with the handsome face on the front. Omigod, that was a stupid thought... face on the front. He's dipping the tea bag up and down in the mug while looking at me as I'm looking at him. I wish I could think of something to say, and then my cell phone pings.

Taking it out of my pocket I see a text from Robby: 'Dylan, I am so sorry but I'm at the Westborough office with three of the managers. We're going through papers here that we think are important. I'll get a ride home before one o'clock... then we'll leave immediately for school. Sorry, I thought we'd be back to the office by now.' I text him: 'No problem, Rob. See you at home.'

Yeah, I understand shit happens. Well, I can't stay here with Mr. Trimbole or I'll say something stupid and make an ass of myself. My gaydar did go off yesterday, but it's far from foolproof. Looking up I see Mr. Trimbole sitting at a table reading something. On the other hand, it'd be rude of me to just walk out, so without thinking about it I go, "So, working on a Saturday, huh?"

He rubs his face and looks up to say, "Not really. I dropped some shit off to do on Monday. Now I'm having some tea." Huh, he doesn't sound anything like he did yesterday. What happened to the big strong but gentle Mr. Trimbole? I don't think I care for his tone of voice either, so before I leave, I mumble sarcastically, "I'm so sorry for bothering you, sir." He looks up and goes, "What is it with you and the mister Trimbole shit anyway. And now you drop a 'sir' on me?" I'm standing where I've been since I saw him and now I have a smart-ass smirk on my face for a reason that alludes me as I'm staring at his bald head again, but I still can't think of anything to say. Well, numbnuts, then why don't you leave? That was advice from my dumb-ass conscience.

As I'm trying to figure out why I'm not leaving, I see Mr. Trimbole gets up and walks over to stand too close to me. I look up at his face and he sneers, saying, "You be a cocktease, ain't ya? A cute little bad-ass white-boy cock-teasing motherfucker. Does your boyfriend know you a cock teaser?" His deep voice makes my eardrums rumble and, what the fuck, now he's slipped into insults and Ebonics! My mouth is open a little but I can't speak. He mutters, "Fuck it," and he grabs my upper arm jerking it, saying, "Okay, little cock tease white-boy who wanna play the tease with a black man... I'm calling your bluff. If you want to get fucked up your pretty-boy ass really hard come into the supply room. If not, please do not speak to me if we ever see each other again. Please!" and he lets go of my arm and takes big strides, his big sneakers squeaking on the tile floor as he walks to the supply room and disappears. What the...?

My heart is pounding because he scared me when he came over to me fast like that and then jerked my arm saying all that cock teaser bullshit. I'm not a cock tease! Rubbing my junk, feeling my hard cock, I'm still frozen in place and unable to move. I oughta walk out of here right this fucking second and tell Mr. Dickers on this scary fucker! Who the hell acts like that anyway? I didn't do anything!

My feet start moving toward the supply room as my brain comes up with excellent rationalizations. Really great ones like, 'I'll see whose bluff gets called', and 'nothing wrong with having one last great dominant fuck from a scary big guy who's pissed at me for some reason', or 'I'm not gonna let him think he's intimidating me!'

I could rationalize more reasons for why I'm walking to the cafeteria supply room, a room I've never been in before in my life. Hey, that's another reason to go in there... see what's up with a cafeteria supply room. When I step inside, Mr. Trimbole says, his voice rumbling out like thunder, "Well, I'll be fucked. You got a set of nuts on you too, don'cha?" I say, "I'm just wondering why you're pissed off at me, that's all?" His voice is even deeper now as he says, "Well, Mr. Newman, if you must know, I'm mostly pissed off at myself for giving in on my urges. You too for tempting me, but mostly myself because I don't have the willpower to ignore you. You're too tempting to pass up. I'm working on my will power but I'm not even twenty-five yet so I still got some work to do on it. Now if you want 'it' you're gotta need to pull down your pants, boy. I'm not doing it for you."

I've frozen again, just standing here with my heart pounding away so hard I'm surprised Mr. Trimbole doesn't hear it. He says, "I'm half hoping you don't pull your pants down," and he pulls his sweatpants down and then his boxer shorts and Omigod, I'm not disappointed. I knew I wouldn't be. That's at least eleven inches of fat black cock with a head on it that matches the head on the cock Ray Reeves' totes around in his pants everywhere he goes. Mr. Trimbole points at his big dick, saying, "Yep, boy, that's what you're dealing with." I make an audible gulping sound and he grins and starts pulling his pants up until I mutter, "I've dealt with that size before," and he goes, "Well, yeah, I guess you probably have. You're something alright. You look like a choir boy but you're not one, are you?"

I take my coat off and as I'm pulling down my pants I'm telling myself...'This is it. Your last stranger for a real sub/dom side sex fuck... you'll probably never do anything like this again the rest of your life. Certainly not with Mr. Trimbole who I'll probably never see again'. My conscience must have gone off to hide someplace... this is big-boy shit.

He mutters, "Well, get your ass over here then. I'm not coming to you, boy. How the fuck old are you anyway?" I say, "Old enough," and he grabs my arm, muttering, 'Don't sass me!" Holding my arm too tightly he smacks my ass with his catcher's mitt size hand and each slap on my ass lifts me up on my toes, "SMACK, SMACK, SMACK!" My pants fall down to my sneakers and I'm up on the toes of one foot now as he's pulling up on my arm with me yelping and him swinging his other arm spanking me effortlessly, "SMACK, SMACK, SMACK" as I go, "Ow, ow, ow, NO! Stop!" And his arm swings, "SMACK, SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!" Breathing hard, he says, "Goddamn, that felt good," and "SMACK!SMACK!" sounds ringing out as my ass screams in pain... it's red and hot as I dangle from my held arm that's aching too.

He stops spanking me again to take another deep breath but continues holding me up on one foot as I'm willing myself not to let a single tear roll down my cheek. He shakes me and then swings me face-first bodily against the shelving unit that extends the length of one wall. Holding me against it, still only using that grip on my arm, his hand extending almost from my armpit to my elbow.

He's not breathing hard now and he seems totally unconcerned. Unconcerned about my yelping and unhurried about what he's doing as he keeps me up on my toes against the shelves. Luckily my face is between two shelves or I'd probably have a broken nose because he was so rough pushing up against this fucking thing. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see his hand grab a squeeze bottle of vegetable oil... Wesson Vegetable Oil. Two seconds later I feel a lot of oily liquid at my asshole and then he sticks the nozzle inside me and squeezes lots of vegetable oil into my bowels. As he's tossing the half-full bottle of vegetable oil in a trashcan there's lots of oil running down the back of my butt cheeks and the back of my legs all the way down my legs to my sweatpants and jockey shorts around my ankles.

It's all happens so fast... it's only been like thirty seconds or something since he grabbed my arm in here. The spanking didn't last long but it really hurt! Now I feel him rubbing his humongous cock up my ass crack a few times. I feel his huge cock expand as it's getting really hard! I hear, "Aaaahhhh!" from him when he forces the head in past my sphincter muscle and then my scream of pain that he cuts off by covering my mouth with his huge hand. His hand covers from the bridge of my nose to under my chin as he pulls my head back and grunts, "Umpth," driving his cock up my ass. I scream into his oily hand again. Another 'Umpth!" and more of his boner is driven up my ass expanding it painfully. Then, "Umpth, umpth," and he's now tight against my buttocks lifting his hips and lifting my feet completely off the floor. I hear deep raspy breathing and I feel his chest expanding against my back. I've given up screaming and have now settled for whimpering as submissiveness takes over my brain.

The pain has let up some too. It's not like Mr. Trimbole's boner is a lot fatter than Rob's. It is fatter but not a lot, but the problem is with the vegetable oil. It isn't a great lubricant, plus he shoved that big mushroom head in and then thrust his entire cock up my ass within ten seconds. It's a fucking miracle my rectum could handle it. It hasn't totally adjusted to this almost foot-long fat intrusion yet but Mr., Trimbole isn't waiting and then there's a lot more pain as he starts thrusting, grunting with each eleven-plus-inch thrust and now there's definitely the sounds of males fucking, 'Slap slap slap slap," with me screaming again into his huge hand.

I'm screaming but the only place that hears the screaming is in my head, not my ears. By the third thrust, I give up on the screaming because my magic rectum is hustling to expand and the pain is decreasing faster and faster until here comes the exquisite pleasure train chugging along and it's picking up speed... toot-toot. Sexual pleasure is gaining ground every second but there's another problem and it's his oversized hand is smothering me... I can't breathe and the vegetable oil is smeared all over my face. I try struggling against him but forget that. "Slap slap slap," each hard thrust lifting my whole body up an inch or more and then it finally happens, the pain is totally gone and I get the full-blown submissive sense and immediately go as limp as a blanket. He partially takes his hand away from my face with me inhaling delicious oxygen.

"Slap slap slap," sounds as that humongous boner continues steady fast hard thrusting with pleasure swarming over me now and as the thrusting gets harder and steadier the pleasure from my rectum soars to amazing heights, or that's how my brain interprets it anyhow... and that's all that matters. It's so different having a cock this big-around traveling for two or three seconds up inside me before I hear the slap of his body smacking against me. That almost foot long trip up my ass is something I rarely feel and I can't describe how awesome it is to have rarely explored areas of my rectum being stimulated like this. It's mostly in my head, of course, but that doesn't matter because I feel like I'm going to shoot off like a rocket any second now.

Mr. Trimbole sees my body language and realizes he doesn't need to keep me pinned against the shelving. Instead, he grabs my hips with both hands. His hands almost completely encircling my waist and, as I bend forward holding onto the shelving unit Mr. Trimbole really goes to town fucking me like a wild man and I'm in a world of pleasure, moaning openly, "Mmm, mmm, mmm, feels so good, mmm, mmm." He's breathing hard now, pounding that giant boner back and forth inside me and just when everything feels impossibly wonderful my body gets stiff as a board with my climax coming out of nowhere and I squeal, "Eeeeiiii," with his hand covering my mouth again as a hot stream of creamy cum shoots straight out of my wickedly hard boner feeling sizzling hot exiting my piss slit. It splatters creamily against God only knows what on the shelf down below.

As the second stream of cum shoots out of my rock-hard boner I feel a hard hot stream of Mr. Trimbole's cum shooting against the walls of my bowels and it's so arousing I flounce around with him lifting me off my feet again as he's pouring more cum inside me. He moans once, "Ooooh," and sets me down on my feet, then leaning against me with his cock still up my ass. His weight presses me against the shelving and then my submissive trance slides away. His weight against me is very uncomfortable, but not for long. He backs up pulling his cock out and I hear a few deep breaths from him before he says, "Turn around," and when I do I see he's still fully erect and it's impossible, but yet it's sticking out straight... all eleven or so inches, very fat and shiny-black covered in vegetable oil and cum. It's scary looking but also as sexy as anything I've ever seen.

I'm staring at his big boner amazed it was up my ass and at the same time imagining what my asshole must look like opened wide enough to handle that. His deep rumbling voice goes, "I'm going to pick you up and I want you to wrap your legs around my waist," and without hesitating, he wraps his huge hands around my hips and lifts me like I'm a five-pound bag of sugar. I wrap my legs around his waist, just able to interlock my ankles. If my legs were an inch or two shorter I couldn't have got my ankles together.

He nods his big head, saying, "Good, you do what you're told. I like that." I stare at him, my boner head almost touching his sweatshirt about bellybutton height. He says, "I'm letting go of you so grab hold of me," and his hands leave me as my hands flail out and grab his bald head that's shiny with perspiration. I can see the fluorescent lights above us shining off his head like headlights. His hard as granite boner is under me like I'm sitting on it. He uses one hand to lift my ass up and the other hand to guide that big boner to my asshole and then he lets go of me and I go, "Aaaahhh," as I slide down his pole until my butt cheeks are against his wiry pubic hairs. He lets me sit there for a second as he takes a deep breath. He's looking at me, then he's looking at the door and frowning like he heard something, so I look over there too. My hands are slipping on his sweaty big bald head so I grip behind his neck and hold on for dear life. None of this has any effect on Mr. Trimbole. It's like I have no weight at all as far as he's concerned.

He looks at me now and with his deep rumbling voice, says, "Wouldn't that be a bitch if Rob walked in?" His big boner is now feeling so good in my ass I need to use all my willpower not to moan embarrassingly, but this feels really good. To his comment about Rob, I manage to grunt, 'Uh huh," and his hands go to my waist again so he can start lifting and dropping me on his magnificent boner. My face scrunches up and I can't help but moan, "Ooh, ooh, ooh, mmmm, ooh fuuuuuck me, Mr. Trimbole." Slide, slide, slide up and down as my cock is again a steel shaft. This feels so good I hug Mr. Trimbole's neck and my head drops forward touching the front of his shoulder as the pleasure soars and it goes on for four or five minutes until my eyes are tightly closed and my mantra ends up being, "Um, um, um, um," whiny moans of sexual pleasure with every lift and drop.

He starts grunting now, quiet grunts because his arms have gotta be getting wicked tired by now and just when I feel my second orgasm percolating and getting near the tipping point he lets go of my waist and then immediately pulls my legs from around his waist. My hands slipping in his perspiration come off his neck and my feet hit the floor. I would have fallen over except he sort of smacked my side getting me balanced on my feet. Of course, his big boner pulled out with lots of what feels like cold air now rushing up my ass.

I'm putty in his hands as he grabs my face between his hands and kisses my mouth with his tongue all around inside my mouth. I squirm but I can't move away and then that submissive curtain drops over me and I lean against him. Pulling his mouth off he licks my face, reaches behind me and spanks my ass, with louder "SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!" sounds ringing out and then he says, "You ain't gonna give the next black man you see and lip, are you punk?" I shake my head and he goes, "What? I can't hear you." I mutter, "No, Sir," and he turns me around, bends me forward and without holding onto me, his voice rumbles, "Don't you move you little cunt." Oh God, my cock is still so hard it aches... it's never been this hard before. My ass stings like wildfire but I don't care... this is sub/dom sex like it's meant to be. I go to stoke my boner but stop... he might not like it and I will burst out in tears if he spanks me again... and I almost hope he does too. Not really... hah.

With my hands on my knees, I do what I always do and push my ass up. And he spanks my sore ass again, "SMACKSMACKSMACK!" but I still don't move 'cause I'm as obedient and submissive as anybody has ever been for their dominant sex partner. Here come my tears and I sniffling being very docile as he mutters, "Are you getting what you wanted, pussy boy?" I make a cringing face that he can't see, but I can't say anything in my condition, so he spanks me a few more times, "SMACKSMACK," and asks again, "Are you?" I whimper, "Yes, sir," and he slides his humongous hard slippery cock back up my ass. I go, "Ooooh."

He pounds away for a minute as I'm wiping my eyes so he won't see the tears but at the same time his cock feels so good fucking me and I was at the tipping point a minute ago so, that plus his dominant spanking and the humiliating question elevated my natural submissive tendencies that are flaring hot as a forest fire now. Omigod, here comes another climax and I squeal mightily, shaking and hardly believing this is happening. A watery substance is flying out my boner and then again as I reach down and tightly stroke my cock not caring about anything except how good it feels with my faces scrunching up again... I can't believe how fabulous that felt!

Mr. Trimbole keeps pounding away and very quickly my ass stops feeling good as he jostles me hard with each thrust, his huge hands more than covering each of my shoulders as he's pulling me roughly back into each hard thrust, thrust, thrust, thrust with me going, 'Ow, ow, ow," my rectum getting sorer and sorer and it goes on for a good two minutes more before Mr. Trimbole groans and is tight against my buttock climaxing his second load of spunk inside me.

Two more humps against my buttocks and I guess his large nuts are finally empty. He gasps in a deep breath, pulls his cock out and with his rumbling voice says, "You know what, you're alright after all, Mr. Newman. You know your place, showed proper respect and backed up your cock teasing very well." My humiliating behavior is sinking in and I'm not pleased with myself. Needing to save some face, I go, "That's bullshit! I'm not a cock tease." He goes, "Whatever. My apologies for doubting your ability to back it up." His pants are around his knees as he shuffles to the other side of the supply room to grab a roll of paper towels. Ripping off four or five, he hands them to me and says, "Clean off whatever you shot all over on the shelf and then get down on your hands and knees to clean up there on the floor," and he gets more paper towels to wipe his big, finally limp penis.

I wipe my dick where cum drooled on it and tentatively wipe at my ass but it's very sore and feels swollen, although it probably isn't. My anus though is red and raw and both butt cheeks feel like they're sunburned so I barely touch my ass with the paper towel. It's a fool's errand trying to clean up anyway. I mean there's so much vegetable oil on my buttocks, face, and under me to my balls and all the way down the back of my legs to my clothes around my feet. Mr. Trimbole has oil around his waist from my legs and all around his crotch, balls, and pubic hair, his belly too and, well... we're both a mess. And, Omigod, I just felt a big glob of Mr. Trimbole's cum slide out of my wide open asshole and slide around to pool under my balls sliding down the inside of my left leg.

He crumbles up the paper towels he used and shoots it in the trashcan, muttering, "Score," and then pulls his pants up, asking, "How good are you at keeping your mouth shut about shit like this?" I mutter, "There's no one better at that than me." He rumbles, "I'm not surprised. I imagine you need to do that a lot," and he rubs his big Wesson Oil hand on my head getting my short hair oily as he adds, "I mean keeping your mouth shut about getting fucked regularly by strangers." I mutter, "Fuck you! You don't know anything about me." I don't know why exactly, but I don't like Mr. Trimbole very much now although it's as much my doing as his that we just fucked. And it's odd that I'm not happy because he's right, I got what I wanted, or thought I wanted. I'm really sore though and that makes me a little irritable.

He says, "Well, fuck you too! I'm leaving," and he points at me, saying, "Mum's the word, Mr. Newman." I wave a finger at him like, get lost, and as he walks out I start pulling up my oily jockey shorts and sweat pants trying not to move my legs too much because that hurts my sore ass. Good luck walking.

The bottom of my sweatshirt has oil on it too. God, this feels shitty. Getting more paper towels I get down on all fours to wipe my cum off the floor. That was my second shot, and when I go to turn around I need to stop and hold my breath because pain shoots from my ass. Goddammit! Taking a deep breath, I crawl over on my hands and knees and go up on my knees at the shelves to wipe my cum off gallon cans of crushed plum tomatoes from Italy.

"Oooh, ow!" comes out of my mouth as I stand up and dump the paper towels in the trash can and, picking up my coat, I slowly walk out of the supply room and look around. Nobody's here and why would there be? Yeah, but with my luck, ya never know...

Anyway, I'm not sure about my luck today. I surely got fucked dominantly by a huge cock so I wonder why I'm not thrilled about it. Thrilled? I don't think I even liked it all that much. When it was happening though... hmm. Ah, fuck, it's hard to be objective with my ass this sore. It's that he humiliated me and when he did it I got extra aroused and that's sick, sick as in a bad thing! I need to outgrow that and I sorta thought I had. Fuck! I take my time walking with smallish steps to the pickup. The cool air feels good, I only wish I did.

Okay, think of the positives, Dylan! For one, I can get home and shower before Rob gets there and, two, I don't need to yearn for a hard fuck like that one ever again. Now I don't want one... that satisfied my fantasy of a dominant fuck for the rest of my life, and I mean to the degree it embarrasses me to think back on it. I can cross-off that fucking miscalculation from my to-do list. When I was younger and.... well, fuck that, I'm not younger now. Shit, and how long is it gonna take for my asshole to close up? I can feel it's still wide open and it hurts to sit on the driver's seat. Then I snort out a laugh and mutter out loud to myself... satisfied now, ya cock tease? What a day, and it's not even twelve-thirty yet!

to be continued...

Donny Mumford thinat20@yahoo.com donnymumford@outlook.com

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Hoping some readers may be interested, there are books of mine published and available on Amazon.com. Anyone who has Kindle can download them for next to nothing. The books are usually around ten dollars. They are about a 19 year old gay boy (Oliver) who has a far different life than Dylan's. And there is a new book, 'Mike, his Bike and Me'. Please at least check them out by typing my name on Amazon.com. Information about the story in the books can be found in some detail there. Thank you.

Donny Mumford

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