Invited

CHAPTER 1

Butterscotch Krimpits

With nothing better to do after dinner, I'm riding my Mongoose mountain bike down Oak Street when I see Dave Summerset at a red light behind the wheel of his old man's Buick. Dave's wearing what passes for a tuxedo nowadays, a red carnation boutonniere on the lapel. Oh, that's right, tonight's my high school's senior class prom. I'm a senior, but instead of a tux, I'm wearing a too-large T-shirt, a backward baseball cap, jeans with frayed rips at both knees, and beat-up sneakers. Uh-huh, what we're wearing tonight pretty much encapsulates the difference between a normal eighteen-year-old kid's life, like Dave's, and my loner life at seventeen.

Dave lives two blocks from my house, and we've been friends for ten years or so, not that we've done a lot of things together. He does standard stuff like chasing girls, joining clubs at school, playing right-wingback for three years on the soccer team, etc., while I don't do any of those things. During the summer, we've played some B-ball on the blacktop court at the high school's parking lot, and we've golfed at the Ardmore par-three golf course a few times, plus we've been in some of the same high school classes and eaten lunches together in the cafeteria, but that's about it.

He sees me sitting on my bike, my right foot on the ground as I wait for the light to change. His face lights up with a smile, then a wave of his hand as he calls out, "Yo, Gary, I wish I had the balls to blow off this stupid prom." I nod and grin behind my face mask as the light turns green, and he drives away.

I ride away too, but in the other direction going back home. As I said, I forgot that the senior prom was tonight, and I'd rather not have any of the other guys from the neighborhood see me like this. Dave was lying his ass off about blowing off the prom, by the way. He does everything you're supposed to do as a typical teenager, and he always has. He probably feels sorry for me because he doesn't understand me. Well, hell, I don't understand me either; I know what's wrong with me, though. It's that I don't have a regular sex drive for the opposite sex.

It started way back in seventh grade when I was invited to Sara Donald's twelfth birthday party. Sara's mother, a massive energetic big-boned woman, announced to us kids that it was time we experienced the wonders of the opposite sex, or she said something to that effect. Obviously, that was years before this fucking pandemic, and I wonder how Mrs. Donald would have gotten around face masks if the party was this year or last? Anyway, she took over the party back then to the degree that her daughter, Sara, was almost peripheral; it was her mother's show.

We all stood around as Mrs. Donald described the strange rules for each game. She appeared to be enjoying herself more than us kids, definitely more than me. Everyone was twelve years old, except me; I was eleven. I've always been a year younger than my classmates because I started first grade a year early due to a complicated situation living, back then, in a rural part of Pennsylvania where they made up their own rules about things like how old you needed to be to go to first grade.

Anyway, for the first game, Mrs. Donald lined us up alternating boys and girls. She then instructed the girl who was first in line to hold an orange, yes an orange, under her chin and passed it to the boy next to her, and the boy got it under his chin and passed it to the girl on the other side of him and so forth down the line. Feeling the girls' faces and necks against mine grossed me out. There was a lot of giggling from the girls while I was less than enthralled, mumbling under my breath. Some of the boys were blushing, while others enjoyed themselves.

According to Mrs. Donald, the next game was called kiss roulette, and it grossed me out even more than the game with the orange. She assigned boy/girl partners, me with her daughter, the chubby Sara. A girl on each team rolled a dice, and each number that came up represented a part of the boy partners' faces. For example, if one was rolled, that meant the nose, 2 was the neck, 3 was lips, and so on. The number rolled indicated where the girl kissed the boy. I found it hard not to gag during that game. After that, Sara's mother got us slow dancing with our dice game partner, and there were other games I'd forgotten how. Whatever, way back then, as an eleven-year-old, I didn't care for any of the intimate activities with girls, so I figured I was gay.

Yes, I suppose it may have been I was too young for intimacy with girls, except I haven't found any reason to change my mind about that during the six years following Sara's twelfth birthday party's uncomfortable, slightly traumatic experience. On the other hand, I do not have gay feelings for Dave Summerset or any other guy. This leaves me unsure of what I know about myself. I suppose my parents wonder about me too as I've never had a date with a girl. Other than that, there isn't anything about me that seems gay as far as I can tell, so maybe I'm not gay, but if not, what then am I?

There were some openly gay guys and girls at high school, but I never was friendly with them. One guy didn't appear to be gay, but he was in the LGBTQ club, so I assume he's gay. Some of the others were aggressive in flaunting their gayness, although they were mostly ignored. I had no interest in gay guys or straight guys and, as I said, I don't see anything especially gay about me. Mostly I like sports, so I'm confused, not that I spend a lot of time worrying about it. Not unless something startling happens, like riding my bike when every guy in my senior class, including the gay guys, has a version of an old-time tuxedo on with a carnation boutonniere and driving a car that probably has a corsage on the passenger seat for their prom date. Things like that force me to confront my differentness. Bottom line: I'm okay with myself but confused.

In any case, two weeks after the prom, our graduation was held at the high school's football stadium. We'd practiced the ceremony two days before, so everything went as planned. Wearing face masks, the 445 of us seniors sat in the bleachers through the speeches, and then in alphabetical order, we walked up to the podium to get our diplomas from the principal. To say it was a tedious two hours is an understatement, but I suppose it is a big deal to graduate high school even though almost every-fucking-body manages to do it. During the ceremony, most of the kids had their masks pulled down, exposing their noses, defeating the purpose of mask-wearing. Everyone is tired of the battle with the Covid 19 virus and all its mutations.

So, at age seventeen, I'm a high school graduate without prospects. Almost everyone else at school has been talking about college for a year now, and they know the college they'll be going to following summer break. A few students are planning to enlist in one of the Armed Forces, and a few, like me, will need to find a job.

I hated high school even though my grades were primarily Bs, and that was accomplished without trying very hard. I'd be accepted at many colleges if I wanted to do that, but my lack of interest and lack of money are reasons for not pursuing college, at least not this year. My parents both work and are pretty much weighed down by life and the effort of just making ends meet. They appear to be ambivalent about me going to college. They know I should go but haven't put a lot of pressure on me, probably because I'm just seventeen.

Dad took off work to attend the graduation ceremony, and afterward, he congratulated me and wished me luck. He also assured me I was welcome to live at home as long as I wanted to. That's nice of my parents, but I would feel awkward living at home and working unless I was paying for room and board. You know, if that's my thinking, I might as well pay for a place of my own. First, however, there is the small matter of getting a job. I'll think about that tomorrow, or maybe the day after. Tonight there are graduation parties I may or may not attend. It goes without saying if one of the guys asks me to join them in crashing parties, it'll be stag.

I'm not intentionally antisocial, although, to some people, it probably appears that I am. It's like I've never committed myself, given enough of myself to make close friends or become part of a close-knit group. Classmates at school and neighborhood guys seem to like me, okay. I'm not bullied or anything like that. It's more like I have this thing where I need to be invited to do things with others. I never think to call anyone suggesting we do something together because I don't want to feel as though I'm imposing myself on anyone. I've grown up in this neighborhood from age seven, so I know the guys, and they know me; it's just that I'm different from all of them. Nobody I know is whatever it is I am, so I've pretty much, uniquely, been on my own for a long time.

After saying all that, as it turns out, I will be going to graduation parties tonight, smoking pot, and getting drunk with everyone else. Yeah, after my dad went back to work and the graduation was breaking up, Billy Underwood grabbed my arm and was like, "Hey, Gary, do you wanna crash a few parties with Ron Smart, Spike Nichols, and me?" I go, "Um, yeah, okay. What time?" He goes, "Ron's driving, so I'm not sure, but I'll ask him to pick you up. Be ready to go at seven-thirty; that's the earliest it would be."

Hmm, Billy isn't doing the driving, so when he's hugging another kid and exchanging congratulations, I spot Ron bullying his way toward the parking lot. I catch up with him, "Hey, Ron, wassup?" He goes, "Yo, Wallingford. Wassup is we're done with this rinky-dink shit called high school." I mutter, "Thank God for that. Um, Billy asked me to go with you guys tonight. Is that okay with you?" He frowns, "Um, sure, if you can handle it. Um, the more, the merrier." I nod, "Thanks, Ron."

Well, see, I was initially invited; that's all it takes for me to join in. Yeah, and I'm glad too because it'd be embarrassing, especially after missing the prom, not to have a graduation party to go to.

The five or six times I've gotten high on pot or drunk drinking beer, those were the times when I felt I belonged, for a few hours anyway. The problem is when the guys drink, they become uninhibited and try putting the make on girls; then I'm back to not feeling like I belong. And here's something that's an even more uncomfortable part of drinking and smoking pot. The girls are drinking and smoking that shit too, and they often hit on me. When drunk or high I'm less inhibited too and can, therefore, fake being kinda glib, superficially, but then my mouth usually makes promises that the rest of me can't follow through on.

For instance, I'll take a girl's phone number if she insists while I never intend to use it. I'll promise to meet a girl somewhere in my high or drunk artificial normal-guy-persona, knowing I'm not going near that place at the promised time. It's not as if I have anything against girls, per se. Um, not as long as, metaphorically speaking, I don't need to pass an orange from under my chin to one of them. It is kind of cool when I can fraudulently act normal with girls, being almost like the rest of the guys for a few hours. Still, there's a price to pay for everything, and in this case, the price is a wicked hangover the following day. That plus a guilty conscience for making those promises I'm not going to keep.

That night, knowing there will be the hangover price to pay, I, nevertheless, get drunk and high at the parties while liberally lying my promises to anyone who wants to hear one. And, as predicted, this morning, I get out of bed wishing I was dead. My parents left for work hours ago as I stumbled around making coffee and swallowing three Tylenol. Sitting at the kitchen table with a steaming mug of coffee in front of me, I hold my head in my hands. To mock me, the radio plays Kris Kristofferson's song, 'Sunday Morning Coming Down,' although it's a Thursday morning for me.

A horn blows outside our duplex house and then blows again. Oh no, it comes back to me that I agreed to meet a girl at the mall with a couple of the guys. One of the girls was very friendly last night, and I sort of made a date to meet her at the mall today. Oh, shit. Wearing only jeans, barefoot, I stagger to the front door, open it, and half-heartedly wave to the guys in the car while shaking my head. Ron yells, "Oh, no, you don't, Wallingford! You're not bagging out on this. Get dressed and get your ass out here."

Dammit! What else can I do except wave for Ron and Billy to come inside? Billy is a smallish smiley kid, wicked friendly, and, as we slap hands, he says, "Hey, Gary! How ya feeling this morning?" "I might live; how are you doing, Billy?" He smiles and starts to say something, but Ron interrupts, patting my back too hard, saying too loudly, "You had to win the fucking beer pong game, didn't ya, Wallingford? You dumb ass, throwing up all over the place like that. Jesus, that was a laugh riot! What a pussy, though, haha. I told you you'd be fucked up this morning, didn't I?" I shrug, and he goes, "Well, you asked us to come in, so how about offering us coffees? Have some fucking class, dude."

Ron's a big overconfident kid who can be a bit of a bully at times simply by using his size to intimidate. He's broad and tall and, not fat, just big! He has a big squarish head, too; his brown hair is cut in a faux Mohawk, making his head look even squarer.

I point to a jar of instant coffee, mumbling, "Help yourself. I'll put some clothes on, but we don't need to go to the mall; it's just that girl, um, said..." Ron nods at Bill to make the coffees, then he says to me, "Stop babbling, we're going to the mall! Get dressed, numbnuts." Taking my mug of coffee with me, I go upstairs, and, with my head still pounding, I try convincing myself I'm glad to have something to do today.

Fifteen minutes later, still feeling like shit, I'm sitting in Ron's old Jeep Cherokee's back seat. Billy's turning to smile and excitingly tell me, "Holy shit, Gary, that O'Neil bitch has a wicked crush on you. She was all over your cute ass last night." Ron says, "Are you fucking queer, Bill?" Then, he mocks what Billy said in a weird voice, "Your cute ass last night." Billy goes, "I was just repeating what she said."

Jesus, yeah, I remember that. It was Sharon O'Neil. She sat behind me in homeroom last year and was always flirting. Last night she was as high on the pot as I was. My face gets red as I recall trying to kiss her back and screwing it up. Ya know, I start believing I belong, but no one will tell me where I go wrong. I'm flying blind when in the awkward position of being one-on-one with a girl. Fortunately, Sharon thought I was goofing around and said, "Oh, you! You're always playing hard to get. I could just eat you up, Gary." I muttered something, and she said, "Hey, you know what Maggie Burns told me? Um, you know how Maggie is." No, I don't. I've never taken notice of her. Sharon goes on, "She told me at graduation, hah hah. She pointed at you, saying, "Why couldn't I be as cute as that shy fuck-wad, Gary Wallingford. Look at him sitting there with a frown on his cute face." I forced a chuckle, unable to think of anything to say to that. It was so freakin' awkward!

Billy goes, "So, did you get a date with her? She'll likely put out for you." I'm like, "Ah, I don't remember. I was smashed." Looking at me in the rearview mirror, Ron goes, "You're such a pussy, Wallingford. Use your assets, dude. Girls like young-looking shy dick-heads like you. It's the mothering instinct that all broads are born with. They wanna take care of you and fuck your brains out." I have nothing to say about that either.

It's as if Billy is full of electricity. He always seems to be moving even when he's not. He turns to look at me again, and with a big smile, his big blue eyes shining, he goes, "Hey, Gary, would you see if Sharon can fix me up with her girlfriend, Willow Brown? We can double date." I shrug, "Um, I don't know, um..." and Ron yells, "What? Underwood, you dumb fuck, Willow Brown's old lady is African American! Willow is half black." Billy goes, "So what?"

We head right for the food court at the mall, Ron leading us through the crowds, intimidating people to move out of his way. Billy tells me, "You're looking better now, Gary. You were white as a ghost at your house." I mumble, "I'm wicked hungover, Billy. Aren't you?" He shakes his head, glances at Ron, who is yelling at someone, then, looking back at me, Billy quietly says, almost whispering, "I mostly only do fake drinking; pretend I'm drinking. Beer tastes awful." Nodding, I mumble, "Oh."

Only about a third of the people here at the mall are wearing masks, so I take mine off and put it in my pocket. Neither Billy nor Ron is wearing a mask. Sure, I was vaccinated last summer and got a booster shot months ago, but I promised my mom to wear a mask anyway--pain in the ass.

Walking into the food court, Ron announces too loudly, "Yeah, the party starter has arrived." I see a few girls rolling their eyes, exchanging looks with their friends. Ron goes right over to the group of five girls who were at the third party we crashed last night. A tallish, big-ass girl nicknamed either Robin or Hilly because her last name is Robinson, and her horrible first name is Hilda says to Ron, "Get over here, you sexy hunk." Then, to the girl next to her, she says, "Ron and I are going to Temple University, and we intend to party the shit out of that place."

Sharon O'Neil, grinning, comes right over to me and wraps both her arms around my right arm, saying, "I'm so sorry, Gary, but I can't go to Henley's party tonight. Um, I mean, I can't go until much later. I forgot that I promised Mom I'd visit dad in the hospital tonight. I feel terrible disappointing you like this." Huh, who's Henley? I mutter, "That's okay," and she says, "You're nice," and Billy says, "You can go stag with me, Gary. Um, until Sharon gets there, if you want to. I can get either my mom's or brother's car." Sharon gives Billy a dirty look, then pulls on my arm to get us away from him, whispering to me, "Here's what we'll do." Billy comes along with us, so Sharon says, "Do you mind Underwood? This is private."

Billy shrugs, smiles, and mumbles, "Sorry." Then he walks back to talk with the three left-over girls. Sharon says, "I'll probably need to stay at the hospital until visiting hours are over at nine or nine-thirty, whatever, then I'll be home by ten, and you can pick me up then." I ask, "Why is your dad in the hospital?" She's rubbing her fingers in the hair at the back of my head, adding, "I love your curly hair, Gary. It's so soft." "Oh, um, I can't get my mom's car that late." She says, "Get it earlier than, silly boy."

She smells nice, but I don't like being touched this much. I mutter, "Yeah, um, I need a haircut." She continues ignoring anything I say and goes, "Get the car early and hang out at Palmers' Games until it's time to pick me up." Saved by the bell, so to speak, loud-mouth Ron calls over, "You two, c'mon, we're going to the high school. Hilly just got a text. There's an extemporaneous party happening at the high school basketball court's parking lot. Somebody has tapped a keg of beer."

Sharon won't let go of me, so I ride with her in the back seat of another girl's car whose name I think is Holly. In the backseat with us is a tall girl named Ashley Ray who keeps poking my leg near my ass, giggling, and saying, "Sharon and I could show you the best time you've ever had, Gary. You're a virgin, right?" The driver, who, as I said, I think is named, Holly, says, "You're such a bitch, Ashley," but then she laughs along with Ashley. Sharon says to Ashley, "Keep your hands to yourself, girl! He's mine." Then she laughs too as I fake laughing, but since I'm not drunk or high, I can't think of anything glib to say.

My head is still aching when we get to the high school parking lot. Sharon holds my hand as we stand in line for cups of draft beer that an older guy is selling at $3.00 a cup. Sharon talks with Holly, calling her Holly, so, yeah, I guess that is her name. There's music playing as thirty-five guys and girls drink beer talking and laughing, the smell of marijuana smoke floating in the air. We're blocked from view on one side by the gymnasium, but there are houses on the other side of the soccer field, so I don't expect this affair to have a long shelf life. I hope I'm right about that, and the cops show up to send us all home.

My hand is getting sweatier by the second, with Sharon holding it tightly as she continues talking non-stop with Holly. They're making plans for her and me to meet up with Holly and her boyfriend at this Henley person's party. I don't know if Henley is the person's first or last name. Glancing around, I see Billy talking with George Harkins near the foul line of the blacktop basketball court. Gee, I'd much prefer being over there talking with them. Sharon says, "Gary, pay attention. You'll need to pick up Holly if her boyfriend is grounded." I go, "Oh, why would he be grounded?" Holly says, "We got pulled over last night, and the cops said he was DUI. Haha, I told Dean to let me drive," Both girls laugh with Sharon saying, "Fuck, Holly, you were drunker than he was."

Why, oh why did I ever think I wanted something to do today? When we get our beers, I need to pay for all three. Nothing is free in this world and even worse than that, the last thing I want right now is an 'effing cup of beer. Then I remember Billy's trick of fake drinking and try it myself. At least Sharon had to finally let go of my hand so I could pay for the beers. It's worth paying for Holley's beer too because they never stop talking, and I'm relieved of the need to think of something to say.

This is all wrong, though. I need to do something about it, so when Sharon tells me to get her and Holly another beer, I say, "Sure, but I need to leave after that. Um, I've got something I need to do for, ah, ya know, at home." Ignoring that, she runs her fingers through my hair again, saying to Holly, "His hair is so soft," and Holly feels my hair mumbling, "It's wicked curly too." I get the two beers for the girls and say, "Um, I'll see if I can get the car tonight, Sharon. See ya," and as I quickly walk away, Sharon calls after me, "Pick Holly up first, then pick me up at ten!" Yeah, right, you bet.

No, I'm not doing that. As I walk toward the gymnasium, Billy catches up with me, asking, "Where are you going, Gary?" I go, "Um, I don't know. I've got a headache, so..." He takes hold of my arm, stopping me, saying, "You're not thinking of walking home, are you? It's like four miles." I mumble, "C'mon, Billie, let go of my arm," He walks with me, asking, "You're actually walking home?"

When we're past the gymnasium, I feel relief flood over me. God, that was another masterful attempt at being normal, ending, as usual, in disaster. Now I've got to walk four miles home. It's like I could feel myself start to hyperventilate back there with the girls. I was so far out of my element, so far from my comfort zone; it was a never-never land situation for me.

I say to Billie, "Yes, I'm walking home. Walking is excellent exercise, and four miles isn't that far. A nice brisk walk only takes about fifteen minutes, um, per mile." He mutters, "That's an hour's walk." Yeah, it is, and I'd rather do it without the need to talk. Billy makes a groaning sound, then goes, "Fuck, um, do you mind if I walk with you?" YES, I mind! But I say, "No, of course, I don't." Then, for something to say like an average person, I ask, "Um, what college are you going to?"

Billy's explanation for why he's going to community college goes on in a roundabout way, seemingly, forever. However, he has a very youthful voice, which lulls me into a pleasant trance. Billie bumps against my side every fourth step we take, deepening my woozy trance. He's and inch or two inches shorter than me, about five-foot-eight, weighing in at around a hundred and twenty pounds, so, yeah, he's smallish, but with a pleasant appearance, um, in an average sort of way. It's the electric energy he seems to have that I notice the most, that and the fact he's like the nicest guy in the neighborhood, to me anyway.

After he's finally completed his unnecessarily lengthy explanation for attending community college, I nod and go, "Oh, uh-huh," and then we walk for two minutes without talking. Silence is not to Billy's liking, though, as he goes, "Have you noticed that major news outlets on TV, and the Internet too, are more like infotainment than actual news?" "Do you mean it's more like an editorial than pure news?" He says, "That's not what I meant, but I think you're right." He goes, "Catastrophes are politicized. Is that what you're saying?" Shrugging, I go, "I don't know what I meant. It's not important."

We walk in silence for another minute, and that's all the silence he can stand, so he says, "Don't you hate social media and how clickbait and celebrity have infected everything?" I look at him, mumbling, "I don't know what that means." He says, "It's as if reality has become a partisan issue. I mean, like in the collective responses to climate change, it's as if science has become dismissible." I say, "Billie, I'm sorry, but none of that is remotely on my radar screen. I'm mostly concerned about getting a job." He says, "Have you considered being a male model?" I say, "What? Um, no."

It's not that I don't like Billie because I do, but I'm hungover and upset about needing to break a promise to Sharon, one that I didn't even make. She decided all this Henley party stuff, not me. As Billie tells me why he might go all summer without working, I'm thinking back to years ago when living in rural Pennsylvania. I was only five years old as a first-grader, and while I was walking home from school across a golf course, two teenage girls bullied me. Yeah, you don't think of girls bullying anyone, but they're out there.

I've often wondered if that incident, subconsciously, put me off, girls somehow. The two girls took my knapsack and emptied it, spilling out the books and stuff on the ground, and then one of them grabbed hold of the dungaree jacket I had on and made me walk back and forth, side to side, asking me, "Are you a girl or a boy? You have too much curly hair to be a boy." Then, they took my pack of gum from my pocket, saying, "Thanks, we'd like some chewing gum. We'll keep the pack because chewing gum will give a little person like you cavities." They were stepping on my books as they put their hands in my pockets, then walked away with my fifty cents, the next day's milk money.

The girls were about fifteen, one with pigtails, and the other was smoking a cigarette, biting the filter between her teeth. The smoker had her hair shaved on one side of her head and a ring through her nostril from which some smoke leaked out when she exhaled cigarette smoke through her big nose. I remember being fascinated by that. She must have had a giant ring in her nose at one point. I wonder what happened to it?

The pigtail girl had lousy breath as she shouted in my face, "Are you a cunt or a cock little girlie person?" My eyes were opened as large as they could open as I squirmed, afraid of those horrible girls. It was the scariest, most horrible experience in my five-year existence and made a significant impact on me as I still think about it. I wonder what I should have, what I could have done better.

Billie says, "Let's stop at Balinski's Market and get something to drink. Jesus, it's awfully hot for a day in May. My treat, Gary." He takes hold of my arm to lead me into the store. I'm not too crazy about being touched, but I don't mind Billie doing it because he's one of those touchy/feely guys, and he can't help himself. He doesn't mean anything by it.

Billie buys us Cokes. He also buys a pack of Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpets. We take the sodas and his butterscotch Krimpets outside and lean against the building. I hold Billie's can of Coke as he unwraps the oblong Krimpets and takes a massive bite out of one. Smiling, he holds out the Krimpet, and, with yellow icing on his pearly white teeth, he smiles, asking, "Want a bite, Gary?"

His smile is quite something to see because he smiles with his eyes too, his rosy bow-shaped lips, and his eyes, all of him seem to be smiling. I don't know why, but for the first time in my life, I feel my dick tighten in my jeans for no reason. It just tightened up on its own and felt good. I shake my head at the offer of a bite, then hand him his Coke. He says, "I've got a wicked sweet tooth," He finishes both Krimpets in four big bites, grinning, his cheeks bulging out, full of Tastykake Krimpets. What a funny word, Krimpet.

When we finally get to my house, Billie asks, "So, are you going to Hanley's party with Sharon?" I shrug, "Ah, um, no. I meant to say; I can't get mom's car tonight." He's like, "If you want to go, as I said before, I think I can get either my mom's or my brother's car, and we can go together." Standing at my front door, wanting desperately to go inside and jerk off, I'm like, "Ah, maybe. Who's Henley, anyway?" He shrugs, smiles, and says, "I don't know. I thought you knew." We both chuckled, then I said, "Thanks for keeping me company walking home, Billy, and thanks for the soda." He goes, "Um, do you wanna hang out?" I mumble, "Um, ah, probably when I feel better. See ya." He lingers, then nods, "Sure, okay. See ya," and I go inside.

I usually jerk off into a sock in bed at night and then at least one or two other times during the day. I need to do it right now, so I go into the half bath that's off the living room, drop my jeans and underwear, sit on the toilet seat lid, and grab my dick. "Oh, oh, oh," I stroke, stroke, stroke, and it feels so good. My mind's a blank as I concentrate on how fantastic it feels to get a hard boner and stroke it tightly, then tighter until, "Ahhh, Ummm!" Stroke, stroke, stroke, "Ah, ahh, ahhh!" cum shoots out, sending vibrations all around my groin, then scintillating vibrations go up my back as I tremble and hold my breath. Omigod, that felt good!

Breathing deeply, I unrolled some toilet paper and wiped cum off my hand and dick, then got more toilet paper and wiped my cumshot off the back of the door. Damn, that was so fucking good, though. Whew, I flush the toilet paper, pull up my underpants, then my jeans, feeling kinda creepy now. Is it pervy of me to jerk off so often?

Lying on the sofa with my eyes closed, I fall asleep. Two hours later, I decided that I'd been overdoing the socializing these past twenty-four hours, so I'm staying in tonight. Ha, as if that's something new. Sharon took my cell phone and typed in her phone number. I called her phone and got lucky. My call goes to voice mail. I apologize profusely, explaining my mom and dad are going out tonight, so I can't use the car. I'll call her in a day or two. Or maybe a year from now.

Okay, good! Two more lies will hardly register on the list of lies I've racked up during my high school years. After wandering around the house feeling bad that I need to lie so much, I get over that and, instead, read my latest John Sandford novel, his latest paperback of the 'pray' series.

When my mom gets home from her job as a register clerk at Weis Market, she says, "Hi, honey, what are you doing indoors? It's a beautiful day out there." I shrug, "I was out at the high school with some friends earlier." She gives me a curious look because she's suspicious that I have no friends.

She says over her shoulder as she's going into the kitchen, "Please, Gary, take my car and get your hair cut. You look like a homeless person." I mumble, "I don't have any money." She stops to give me a disapproving look, then asks, "What'd you do with the fifty dollars your grandmother sent you for graduation?" I spent it mostly on beer. Like today at the high school, and I had to buy beers at two of the parties last night.

I say, "Fifty dollars? Oh, I'm saving it for, um, a car." She laughs, then says, "Sure you are," and she takes a twenty from her purse and holds it out to me, "Go on, Gary, get a haircut at your Uncle Tony's barbershop, and tell him 'Hi' for me. It'll be nice not hearing your dad ranting about your hair tonight at dinner."

Jesus, I hope Sharon doesn't find out we have two cars. Taking the twenty-dollar bill, I mutter, "When I move out, I'm not gonna..." and she says, "Please don't talk about moving out, sweetheart. Go on now. Tony always gives you a good haircut, and you look nice." No, I don't! My mom is nice, but she still thinks I'm twelve years old.

Driving mom's twenty-year-old Corolla to my uncle's barbershop, I grin, thinking Sharon won't think my hair is so soft after Uncle Tony gets through with it. It's not that I like looking like a kid from the 1970s or '80s with my curly hair covering my ears; it's more like I don't think about it at all. My last haircut was on Valentine's Day, not that it being Valentine's Day had anything to do with it. My dad threatened to cut my hair himself, and he was so bullshit I was afraid he might do it.

The car's clock is broken, but mom gets off work at three-thirty, so it's about four o'clock when I'm parking on the street down from Tony's Family Barbershop. That's where I've been getting my haircut since I was a child. We moved to Springfield when dad got his job here years ago, but it was also so my mom could be near her side of the family. Dad's side of the family is in California.

Fuck, though; I hate getting my haircut. Too much touching, ya know? I force a smile on my face as I walk into Uncle Tony's shop. He's cutting the white hair of some old-timer but stops to say, "Well, look who it is. My long-lost nephew, Gary. How ya doing, son?" I say, "Hi, Uncle Tony, I'm doing okay." He goes, "I guess you are," and he tells the white-haired man, "He graduated high school yesterday at age seventeen." He smiles, "Didn't you, Gary?" "I guess, um, yeah, I did."

Sitting two waiting seats away from a lady and her six or seven-year-old son, I pick up a Philadelphia Daily News that somebody left here and glance at the sports page. The lady sitting two seats away from me says, "Tony is your uncle, huh?" Her kid walks over to stand right smack in front of me and says, "You really need a haircut, mister." He needs to blow his nose, so I look away from the kid and say to his mother, "Yes, he's my uncle," and Tony says, "His favorite uncle, right, Gary?" God, I hate getting my hair cut!

Uncle Tony cuts the kid's hair; then it's my turn. When he puts the barber cape around me, the kid's hair clippings itch my neck. Swell. I know there isn't any sense telling Uncle Tony how I'd like it cut, so I don't bother. He'll give me the same generic boy's haircut, the same one he gave the six-year-old me. He runs the clippers too far up the back of my head and says the same thing he always says when I come for a haircut, "Why in God's name do you go so long between haircuts, Gary? Jesus H Christ, it couldn't be the money." I say, "Mom gave me the money to pay you." He keeps running the clippers up the back of my head, curls falling like rain. "Yes, I'm sure my sister did give you the money, but you know damn well I won't take any money from you, my own flesh and blood, almost."

Ten minutes later, I drive away. It'll be another three months before I get scalped again. But wait, if I get my place, maybe they'll be a barbershop around there that will pay attention to what I want. Nah, I couldn't hurt Uncle Tony's feelings, and, on the plus side, now I've got twenty bucks in my pocket. Another good thing is when I interview for a job next week; I'll look neatly nerdy enough that someone might hire me, so it ain't all bad.

Dad, who's a good guy most of the time, gives me a hug when he gets home from work and sees I got a haircut. At dinner, he asks how I plan on finding a job, and I tell him I'll start on the Internet and see what I find there. My mom suggests I go to an employment agency, but dad says I'll get stuck in some low-paying office job if I do that. He twirls a forkful of spaghetti and says, "You should look into a trade, son. Plumbers and electricians are always in demand, and they can make big bucks too." A plumber? Christ, I just graduated yesterday!

Mom says, "Honey, there are openings at the Weis Market. You can get job experience there and then apply at Starbucks. They pay pretty well. Maggie Renaldo's son is a barista at Starbucks in the 69th Street store, and he makes fourteen dollars an hour, plus healthcare benefits and matching 401 K." I chew on a meatball thinking maybe I should go to community college with Billy and put off this job search four more years.

After dinner, I do not go online to check out the job situation. Instead, I watch the Phillies game on the small TV in my room, jerking off between the third and fourth innings, trying to do it slowly, so it lasts longer. "Oh, ohh, oohh!" Wow, fuck, oh fuck, that felt good!

Saturday, after sleeping late, I mope around the house all day, then borrow mom's car and drive around town for an hour before stopping at the mall to wander the aisles looking for 'Help Wanted' notices, not finding any except for the one in the window of a women's clothing store. Uninterested in that, I pull down my face mask, buy a soft-serve ice cream cone, and eat it as I go out to the car.

Saturday night, I stay in again, then Sunday afternoon, I'm bored in my room, so I have another satisfying jerk-off. Then, still tingling after climaxing, staring at the cum on my fingers, I get a call from Billy. He goes, "Hi, Gary, whatcha doing?" I mutter, "Nothing," He says, "You should have been at the park last night." I go, "Why's that? What was going on?" He says, "Snyder's brother was on leave from the Navy and bought a couple of cases of beer for him and his old buddies from the neighborhood, but he let his brother and me drink a six-pack." I mutter, "I thought you didn't like beer." He goes, "I don't like the taste, but I can drink it in certain circumstances. Here's the thing, though, some dude from Darby came down selling weed, and I bought some. While smoking pot, I can drink beer okay. And, I've got two joints left. Do you want to smoke them with me tonight?"

Not really, but I remembered the Butterscotch Krimpet in his mouth the other day, and I get that funny feeling in my dick again. What is it about Krimpets? I go, "Okay, sure." See, I'm invited, so why not? He says, "The problem is, I can't get my mom's or my brother's car and, as for my dad's car, I can forget about that." I could hear the smile in his voice when he said that. He lives only like six blocks from me, but I'm like, "I'll ask my mom if I can use her car and call you back." He goes, "Cool," and clicks off. I can never get my dad's car either.

Ya know, I should be flattered that Billy called me. Um, unless he called other guys first, and they had other plans for tonight. Downstairs, my dad says, "You didn't cut the lawn yet, buddy. It's that time of year again." I nod, "I'm on my way to do it now," not that I gave it a thought until he mentioned it.

I keep walking to the kitchen, where mom is just starting dinner. "Can I use your car tonight, mommy dearest?" She asks, "Why do you need the car?" I say, "To go to the movies with Bill Underwood." She's like, "Oh, he's such a nice boy! You can use my car, but your dad wants you to cut the grass." I mutter, "I know, I know! I'm doing that now. Jeez!"

Our yard is small so cutting the grass is no big deal, except the grass stains my 'effing sneakers. Our yard is separated by a fence in the back, separated from the Myers back yard. They live in the other half of our duplex. Both back yards are twenty feet by twenty feet. A hedge separates the yards in front, which are half the size of the back yards. Naturally, considering our small yards, we have a push mower. The Myers have a motor-powered lawnmower, but the man is like sixty years old or something.

Wearing my mask, I'm in the garage pulling the lawnmower out from behind some boxes. I attach the grass clippings bag, then I call Billy, telling him, "I can use mom's car." He goes, "Great, come over at eight. My folks are going out for the night. We can smoke the joints here." I'm like, "Are you crazy? Your parents will smell it when they get home." He says, "Nah, I've got a big window fan in my bedroom. Don't worry about it. We'll have a good time."

Well, it's a bad idea, but I say, "I'll see you around eight o'clock then." He goes, "Wait! Can you get some beer, um, or booze would be better? We'll have a party." For someone who doesn't like the taste of beer, Billy has it on his mind a lot. "No, sorry, I don't know how I'd go about doing that," and click off. I think he was kidding about me getting beer because I heard his smile when he said that. If I did have a best friend, which I don't, Billie would be a good candidate for the position. Him and his butterscotch Krimpets.

As I push the lawnmower up and back in the yard, I think that maybe it wasn't Billy's Krimpet that made my dick move in my pants; perhaps it was his rosy bow-shaped lips, his pink tongue, and his little super white teeth that have a tiny space in between each of his ones. Maybe I'd like to kiss his mouth or eat the same Krimpet at the same time with him. Jesus, what an insane thought!

Yeah, it is, except if I'm gay, right? If I am, why aren't I attracted to any of the guys I know, and why aren't I looking at gay porn on the Internet? And, another thing, why don't I fantasize about a guy's dick when I'm jerking off? So, maybe I'm not gay after all. If not, though, I'm right back to the same old question, what then am I?

For one thing, I usually don't allow myself to think about shit like this. Something about Billy eating a butterscotch Krimpet set me off; that's what happened. Hmm, I probably need to experiment. It's past time for me to find out what's up with me. How would I go about that, though? Well, Billy wants to smoke pot in his 'effing bedroom and have a party. Could it be he wants to experiment too? Ya, know, in his bedroom. The thing is, I'd need to be invited to do that. Yeah, but how would that happen? Maybe I can, um, appear, um, open to an invitation. That's if I knew how to go about being open to an invitation. Motherfucker, nobody else has to deal with the crap I need to deal with!

When I finished cutting the front and back lawns, I still had no idea how to appear open, um, open to what, though? Kissing him? No way could I ever put a guy's dick in my mouth, but would I be willing to put mine in his mouth? Well, yeah, why not? No, I can't appear open to an invitation of that kind. Um, although maybe a kiss I could handle. Well, I think I'd handle a kiss with Billy better than I handled it with Sharon, which isn't saying much. You know, maybe I could handle a joking kind of kiss; just for the hell of it sort of thing. Boy, that would be ballsy as hell if I could pull it off. He'd need to sort of invited me to do it, maybe if he dared me to do it... something like that.

We always eat dinner at six o'clock, so at six-thirty, I'm taking a shower and being extra conscientious about getting wicked clean. Ya know, just in case Billy invites me to do, um, something. A kiss or something. Hey, maybe my gayness is just now awakening. Oh man, with that thought in mind, I jerk off like a mad man in the shower. Oh Gawd, I'm bending over after blowing my load because that climax was so intense it was almost painful. Whew!

Slowly straightening up, I take a deep breath watching my cum circle the drain before; oops, there it goes. I'm determined now to somehow be open to an invitation from Billy. Why hasn't anything like this ever occurred to me before? I don't know, but the more I let it percolate in my mind, the stronger my urge is to see what it would feel like to kiss Billy. The only other guy in the neighborhood, other than Billy, that I'd even consider experimenting with would be Todd Barnstable. Hmm, except Todd is even, ah, I guess shyer or, um, more reclusive than me. Huh, I'll bet he didn't have a date for the prom either. He's so hard to talk to, though.

Last Christmas, my grandmother gave me a bottle of AXE Body Spray, which I've never used, but I spray some on myself now, then pick out what I consider cool clothes to wear tonight. I'm trying to picture one of the openly gay boys in my senior class getting ready for a, um, a date with a guy. Hmm, wouldn't it make sense for me to experiment with one of the openly gay guys first? Nah, none of them interest me. It has to be either Billy or Todd, and Billy is the one who invited me to party with him tonight. Christ, Todd hardly says two words to me when I see him, which isn't often. No, it has to be Billy.

After getting dressed, I spend five minutes combing my hair. Tony left it too long and curly on top, and then cut it too short on the sides. A child's haircut. Downstairs, mom goes, "Oh, don't you look nice, Gary!" Dad goes, "His good looks come from my side of the family." Mom says, "Well, he looks like you did, Richard, when we first started dating."

Yeah, well, I have to get out of here! I go, "Car keys, please, mom." She says, "They're on the kitchen counter, dear. Enjoy the movie." Muttering, "Thanks," I get the keys and go out the back door telling myself, 'They mean well.'

As I drive the six blocks to Billy's, I feel weird; um, I guess I'm nervous. Dammit, I need to do something different, something rash, so I turn left on Pine street instead of going right, which is the way to Billy's house. Parking at the Domino's strip mall close to Marty's Tavern, I sit in the car watching the people going into the bar. It's fifteen minutes before I see two guys who look pretty young getting out of their vehicle. When I see they're heading for the tavern, I call out to the tall skinny one, "Um, excuse me! Um, but, ah, would you do me a great favor and buy a six-pack for me? I'll treat you to a six-pack."

The guy laughs, and the tall one says to his friend, "Does this remind you of anything, Mike?" Mike goes, "Oh, yeah, a day in our life not too long ago." Then, "You don't need to buy us anything, kid. I'll get a six-pack for you." "Oh, thank you so much," and I give him what's left o my mom's twenty-dollar bill, fifteen dollars. He doesn't even look yo see how much I gave hm, and as the two guys go into the bar, I wonder if that's the last I'll ever see of the fifteen dollars.

Luck is on my side; however, because Mike comes out of the bar with a six-pack three minutes later. He hands me the bag with the beer and the change from the fifteen bucks, mumbling, "I hope you like Budweiser." I thank him profusely, and he goes, "Yeah, no problem, but forget where you got the beer." As he walks away, I say, "I found it at the park." He gives me a thumbs-up sign without turning around as he goes back inside.

Hardly believing that worked, I put the cold six-pack on the back seat and go into the Seven-Eleven two stores down from Marty's Tavern. Grinning to myself, I buy a pack of Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpets, then get in the car and drive to Billy's house.

To be Continued... donnymumford@outlook.com.

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