Invited

CHAPTER 2

Kissing

I'm proud of myself for having the balls to ask those guys to buy the six-pack of beer for me, but I have to wonder if I'm overdoing it with the Butterscotch Krimpets. Hmm, is that being too obvious? No, not really 'cause Billy had no idea I got a hard-on when he ate Krimpets that time. Whatever, it's cool that there's something besides my hand that can give me a boner. Perhaps there's a sleeping gayness in me that has finally awakened.

Parking on the street in front of Billy's circa 1960's ranch-style house, I grab the bag with the six-pack off the back seat and put the Tastykake Krimpets inside, then carry the bag up the walk to the front door. With every step I take, some of the confidence I had earlier about being open to an invitation to do, um, something gayish with Billy drops off. By the time I'm ringing the doorbell, the thought of doing anything like that with him seems an impossibly absurd idea. Maybe my hidden gayness went back to sleep.

Billy opens the door wearing only boxer shorts, his preppy-cut light-brown hair dripping wet. He smiles, "Hi, Gary! I lost track of time and just got out of the shower a minute ago. Come on in, bro." As I'm walking inside, Billy smiles and goes, "Holy shit, Gary, when you get your hair cut, you really get a haircut, doncha?" Touching my head, I mumble, "My uncle is, um, he always cuts it like this." Finished with that topic, Billy asks, "What's in the bag?" I hold it out, "I, um, got lucky, and a guy bought this for me at the tavern."

When he looks inside the bag, an even bigger smile breaks out on his face. He yells, "You hot shit!" then he hugs me, the six-pack bag in his right hand banging off my back, the side of his face wetly pressing against mine. The hug was so quick that I didn't have time to get my arms up. Yeah, well, guys hug all the time, quick guy hugs.

Wiping at the wet spot on the side of my head, I mutter, "Did you see the butterscotch Krimpets in there?" He goes, No," and looks inside the bag again. Smiling like mad, he pulls the Tastykakes out and puts the bag with the six-pack on the sofa. "Oh, man," he goes, "I love me some butterscotch Krimpets!"

He quickly unwraps the oblong cakes as the sensations from that unexpected hug fade away. I grin at Billy's Krimpet-excitement, still looking at his slender, hairless pinkish/white body. It's a small body, for sure, but everything is in proportion. Jeez, Billy's body is better than my own average-looking nothing-special body. And why am I so intrigued by his body?

Still smiling, Billy takes a massive bite from one of the two Krimpets and says with his mouth full, "Want a bite?" This time I lean in and bite most of the rest of the Krimpet he's holding in his fingers. He plops the last half-inch of Krimpet in his mouth, then asks with his mouth full, "It's good, isn't it?" Nodding, I mumble, "Uh-huh, wicked sweet."

Yep, my dick is stirring in my pants, so the Krimpets, plus Billy, cause that reaction. He holds the other Krimpet out, and I take a small bite from it. A small bite because these cakes are too fucking sweet, like ninety percent sugar. He pushes the rest of the Krimpet into his mouth, his cheeks bulging as he grins, looking like a little kid. Swallowing the last of it, Billy picks up the bag with the six-pack, takes hold of my left bicep, and says, "Thanks for getting the beer. I can tolerate the taste of beer better when I'm high. That's weird, huh?" I shrug, and he says, "C'mon in my bedroom while I get dressed."

Inside his small bedroom are a small twin-size unmade bed, a bureau with a mirror, a desk with a laptop, a desk chair, and two towels plus clothes scattered here and there on the floor. There's one window with the big window fan Billy told me about, the fan blowing out. For something to say, I ask, "Don't you have air conditioning?" He shrugs, "Not in here, but there is a big air conditioning window unit in the living room that cools off my bedroom, um, when dad thinks it's necessary to run up the electric bill. Plus, my folks have one in their bedroom."

He doesn't get dressed; instead, he puts the beer on the bureau, rummages in the bottom drawer, and comes out with two fat-looking joints and a red Bic lighter in a plastic sandwich baggie. He goes, "Let's fire up one of these bad boys and chill out." I mumble, "Okay, um, with a beer?" He smiles, "Not until I get a little high. Is that okay with you?" I shrug again, and he nods at the bed, mumbling, "We'll lie on the bed to smoke." Lie on the bed?

I go, "Ah, is your brother home?" He shakes his head, "Hell no, he's always out drinking or screwing some broad." Holding up one of the fat joints, he says, "This is some pretty intense bad-ass shit, bro." I'm like, "Oh, that's why we need to lie on the bed?" and I glance over at the rumpled blanket and sheets. He goes, "Ah, no. Lying on the bed because it's close to the window fan," then he flicks his Bic and lights up the fat cigar-looking joint. He smiles at me, "Here we go," and he takes an average size hit of the wacky tobaccy and holds it in his lungs a few seconds before gasping it out. Smiling, he goes, "Holy fuck, that's some good shit," and passes the joint to me.

He's lipped the hell out of it, so it's wet with his spit between my lips as I tentatively inhale some cannabis smoke and then exhale it right away, coughing. Billy laughs as he grabs my arm, dragging me to the bed, "It's good shit, huh Gary?" With him pulling on my arm, I sit on the bed, and he crawls past me rubbing my head as he goes by and then he lies stretched out on the disheveled bedding, saying, "Give me the joint, we'll share the pillow."

It occurs to me that lying on this little bed together might be the invitation I was thinking about earlier. I kick off my sneakers, then stretch out on the bed, lying on half the pillow. His right ear and my left one are touching, so I move my head to watch Billy take a hit off the joint and notice that the side of his face, his profile, um, well, he looks cute for a guy.

The exhaled smoke gets sucked out the window by the exhaust fan. He smiles and holds the joint out to me, so I take it and inhale a little without coughing. He says, "There you go. It's nice, isn't it?" On this little bed, our ears are touching again, plus the sides of our bodies from shoulders to hips, or I could say from shoulders to the sides of our asses with the side of Billy's foot bumping my ankle. This is way too much bodily touching for me, so I try inching away from him a little. Hmm, this bed is too small to do much inching away, though.

After we pass the joint back and forth a few times, I relax and don't mind the bodily contact, and, fuck yeah, this has to be an invitation of some kind. Halfway through the fat joint, Billy mumbles, "Let's take a break. I'm higher than shit." Me too, so I go, "Okay, and it's been a pleasure flying with you." Turning my head to look at his profile again, my nose brushes against the side of his still-damp hair. It smells like shampoo. I'm like, "Do you want a beer now?"

Shrugging, he turns his head to look at me, and our noses bump together. He laughs, then smiles and repeats, "I'm fucking high. How about you?" His big blue eyes are out of focus, but they're still part of his smile. Scarily, my heart goes thump, thump, thump. This is so far out of my comfort zone that it's not even funny. Still, I manage to mumble, "Yeah, me too," and ask again, "Do you want a beer?" He says, "Yeah, but you're my guest, so I'll get the beer," and he's up on his side, climbing over me. Giggling, he collapses on top of me, muttering, "Haha, help me up, Gary. Give me a push."

I'm squirming under his smallish body, our faces sliding together, and then he's off me and staggering to the bureau where he left the six-pack. Billy climbing over me like that would typically have been way too much touching, but I didn't feel uncomfortable. I liked it. He snickers and mumbles, "I'm fucked up," then he pulls a can of beer from the six-pack's plastic binding and staggers back three steps to the twin-size bed.

He says, handing the beer to me, "We'll share, okay?" I nod, waiting for him to climb over me again, but he says, "Um, could you move over to my side of the bed?" I go, "Oh, right, of course, sure," and slide over to where he was lying, disappointed he didn't climb over me.

Billy gets on the bed, then we both sit up against the headboard, our sides touching snuggly, as he says, "This shit is hitting me harder than the joint I had at the park last night." Nodding, I go, "I wonder why?" Then I pop the tab on the can of beer and, after swallowing two big gulps of beer, I pass the can to Billy. He swallows some, then he goes, "It's because these joints are like twice as fat as the ones I was smoking last night." Smiling that big smile at me, he adds, "I saved the fat ones because I wanted to get high as a kite with you."

I mutter, "Oh," and take the beer from him, swallow some, then ask, "Why do you want to get high with me?" He goes, "I don't know. Um, you're a good guy, and, ya know, walking four miles home the other day was weirdly fun." I can't think of anything to say to that, so I change the subject, asking, "Did you go to the prom?" He makes a face, "Of course, I went to the fucking prom; everybody went! I took Donna Blackburn. Donna's sort of a weasel-looking snatch, and she's a little bit overweight too, but Gene Romano told me she puts out."

As he relights the joint, I ask, "Did she, ah, put out?" He goes, "Nope, she kept her mask on and wouldn't even make out with me because of the virus, but I felt her up a lot. She has mushy-feeling tits." That sounds revolting. He adds, "Anyway, she said she had the rag on." He takes a hit off the joint, holds in the smoke, and then exhales. Passing me the joint, he mumbles, "Um, are you saying you didn't go to the prom?" I'm like, "Duh, did you see me there?"

He finishes the beer and puts the can on the floor, saying, "No, I didn't see you, but there were almost a thousand guys and girls at the country club, so I didn't see a lot of the neighborhood guys. Anyway, Donna and I were outside a lot drinking vodka with Artie Tylor and his date, um, I forget her name. That tall skinny girl in our homeroom. What's her name?" I shrug, and he takes a hit off the joint, holds the smoke in for two seconds, then blows it out, saying, "Omigod!" as he's passing the joint to me.

I'm a little bit leary of what's mixed with the marijuana, so I only inhale a little, blowing it out quick, then I say in that weird voice you get when smoking pot, "Well, no, I didn't go to the 'effing prom. No one invited me, and I was glad no one did." He says, "I got turned down twice before settling on Blackburn. That's what I mean about you, though," He giggles, adding, "You're different. You needed to be asked to go. Who the fuck waits to be asked to go to their senior prom? I mean, except girls."

I shrug without saying anything, so, to be friendly, he says, "Yeah, um, I guess there were some girls asking guys to go. Yeah, well, I didn't have that much fun anyway, so you didn't miss much, and you saved the money for a faggy tux rental."

As we continue smoking, he gets spacy, mumbling, "I've been wondering if humans discovered mathematics or if they invented it. What do you think?" I'm like, "What? Ah, math? Um, it was invented over the centuries, I guess." He goes, "It's always been present whether humans thought of it or not, so I think it was discovered." I almost burn my lips on the roach, and say, "Yeah, I guess you're right. Um, what should I do with this roach?"

He takes it and puts it in the empty beer can on the floor next to him, then we slide down lying flat, both buzzed and dizzy. He goes, "Oh, fuck, I'm flying," and then he giggles and rolls over against me, his arm going across my stomach as he says, "Hold me, Gary, so I don't float off the bed."

Putting my arm over his, we lie like this, him mostly on his stomach, partially on top of me, his chin against my shoulder, both of us in a daze. That super-cool sensation of my dick getting hard on its own happens again. Goddamn, that feels so fucking good, so cool! Neither of us moves or says anything for; I don't know, maybe fifteen minutes before Billy lifts his head to look at me, smiles, then says, "Thanks, I think I'm okay now. Let's go outside and share another beer."

I squeeze his arm, nodding and muttering, "Sure, whatever you say." He's still almost naked, his face close to mine, then, smiling, he starts climbing over me, this time to get off the bed on the other side. I said he climbed over me, but it was more like he squirmed on top of me, taking his time. I'm embarrassed, my face hot and red because he had to have felt my boner squirming on me as he did. Standing with his back to the window fan, he smiles, asking, "Do you have a roll of Necco Wafers in your pocket?"

Blushing like crazy, I go, "Huh? Wha..." and he laughs, saying, "It's okay. I get boners all the time too. It's no big deal; we're teenagers and always ready with a boner whether we need one or not." I force a chuckle, muttering, "I'm always springing boners, haha. It's fucking random, ya know." That's another one of my lies. I never get a boner unless I'm playing with it, except with Billy.

He walks around the bed to the bureau and pulls a pair of baggy cargo shorts from a drawer. Putting them on, he goes, "How often do you jerk off?" Getting off the bed, I'm like, "I don't jerk off," and we laugh as he mutters, "Neither do I."

Still snickering, Billy pulls a can from the six-pack's plastic binding, asking, "Do you mind if we share this can too? It goes down easier for me when I'm sharing it with someone." Frowning, I go, "That's so, ah... but no, I don't mind." I've definitely been invited, so I hold my breath and take a chance putting my arm across Billy's shoulders. He doesn't appear to think there's anything wrong with that, so I say, "I'm glad you wanted to get high with me. This is cool." He smiles at me, saying, "Oops, I think I'm springing a boner," and we laugh as I take my arm off his shoulders.

Bearfoot, without a shirt, Billy holds a can of beer in one hand as he guides me through the house with his other hand on my shoulder. We go through the kitchen, out the back door to the porch, and then sit next to each other on what I can only describe as an outdoor freestanding loveseat swing. Billy pushes off with his foot getting us swinging a little as he pops the tab of the beer can. Feeling good, I look at the small fenced-in backyard, excitedly nervous about how things are developing tonight. Yes, I'm out of my comfort zone again, but I like it better than when I'm out of it with a girl.

Billy chugs some beer, then passes me the can, saying, "Isn't it odd that regardless of a circle's size, the circumference ratio will always equal pi, 3.14." I go, "Oh, uh-huh." and swallow some beer as Billy puts his arm across my shoulders, saying, "I may have said that wrong." I nod and pass him the beer. His arm feels nice on my shoulders, but it's curious the way he comes out with the craziest nonsequiturs, off-the-wall comments that I can't even respond to.

We passed the can back and forth talking about high school teachers we had in common and evaluating them from best to worst, agreeing on our evaluations. Finished sharing this beer, Billy goes inside to get the last four cans of beer, which are getting warmer by the minute, although he doesn't seem to notice, or maybe he simply doesn't care. Along with the beers, he brings out a bag of Lay's potato chips.

It takes an hour or so to drink the last four beers passing each one back and forth and taking turns with our hands in the potato chip bag. While doing that, we evaluate the guys in the neighborhood. We agree on our evaluations, and that's mostly because I defer to Billy's knowledge of the guys. I mean, he's spent much more time with them than I have. I can't help but wonder what evaluation I'd receive from most of the guys.

It's getting chilly out here by now, and since Billy is only wearing baggy shorts, we decide to smoke the last joint on the bed. Eating the chips required Billy to use the arm he earlier had across my shoulders. I'd have preferred the arm on my shoulders over the potato chips if given a choice.

Inside, lying on the bed, our bodies touching like before, we smoke the second joint without talking. When we've smoked it down to a half-inch, Billy holds the roach between his fingers, wispy smoke drifting off it, and, with both of us looking straight up at the ceiling, he murmurs, "Recently, researchers captured the eruption of a neutron star. The eruption produced the energy our Sun will generate in one-hundred-thousand years, and the neutron star eruption lasted only a tenth of a second."

I can't think of anything to say to that, so I don't say anything. Billy goes, "Ow, fuck! I burned my fingers. I forgot I was holding this fucker!" I can't think of anything to say to that either. I can't think, period.

I'm half drunk and a hundred percent high. Billy's leaning over the side of the bed, muttering to himself; I assume he's putting the joint in the first can of beer we drank. That first beer seemingly was drunk hours and hours ago. I'd like to go to sleep now.

Billy's giggling and cursing, then mumbling, "Where'd that can go?" My eyes close for a minute, and then I open them wide as Billy flops on top of me, his face bumping my face before he settles fully on me with the side of his face against mine. He mutters, "You're a good mattress." Using the sides of his arms from his elbows to his hands, he hugs my sides and rubs the side of his face against mine.

What should I do? His body feels good, so I wrap my arms around him, and we both giggle as I hug him, then cup his butt cheeks, each one a nice handful as I squeeze both of them. Our faces feel hot as we continue laughing, then Billy humps his hips, his hard dick against my belly just above my privates. Moving his head, his lips on my left ear, he mutters, "You're taller than me, but Franz Winkelmeier was eight feet, six inches tall. He died at age twenty-seven of TB in 1887." I go, "Oh, no, Winkel died, that's so sad," and we both giggle like mad. He goes, "Winkelmeier, not Winkel," and that's like the funniest thing I've ever heard as we both laugh like crazy.

Our laughing and giggling die out as fast as it started, and we're quiet, me still hugging Billy until he lifts his head and looks puzzled. Without thinking about it, I kiss him on his mouth. He lunges off me, yelling, "Hey, what the fuck? We're buddies, not homos, Gary!"

My head clears quickly as my heart pumps fast, and I go, "I was messing around, that's all." He gets on his knees, looking down at me, saying, "We were messing around hugging and shit, yeah, but not 'effing kissing! That's gay shit. Don't you know nothing?"

Going up on my elbow, I say, "I was high. I was just messing with you. What the fuck? You were laying on me!" He's waving his fingers now, like, calm down. He says, "Okay, okay. You're not used to getting high, are you?" I nod, "That's right. I don't know the rules." He nods and says, "It's alright, don't worry about it, but, fuck, that took me by surprise, and you might have given me Covid," and he lies down, muttering, "Holy shit, that was really unexpected coming from you. How did you like it?" I go, "I don't know. It was a joke, that's all. I'm vaccinated..."

We're both still a little drunk and a little high, so it seems okay now, but I'm worried about what Billy will think when he's sober and not high at all. He hits my arm, smiles nicely, and says, "Don't look so scared. Shit happens when you're doing drugs. I'm sorry I yelled at you. It's okay; you're forgiven." Frowning, I mutter, "That fucking grass was laced with something." Not knowing what I should do now, I say, "I guess I should be going; it's getting late."

He's like, "What? No, don't be like that. You don't have to go; it's not late!" I'm pissed off because he was on top of me hugging me, and I do one little half a kiss, and he throws a ram. Sarcastically, I mumble, "No, I better go. Who knows what I might do wrong next."

He lifts on his side and looks down at me. With a big smile, he says, "I've hurt your feelings, haven't I? I'm sorry, and to even things out," he leans down and kisses my mouth, then licks across my lips, totally shocking me. I gasp, and he laughs, mumbling, "That wasn't so bad. Now we're even. Hell, I didn't get to make out at the prom, so I made out with Gary Wallingford. Haha."

Our heads are quickly clearing of the marijuana effect although we're still a little drunk. The booze effect doesn't drift off nearly as fast as cannabis, although the beer doesn't stay around in the body very long. Billy says, "I gotta take a piss."

Still confused, I get off the bed as he's saying, "I've had to piss for the last twenty minutes. How 'bout you?" Nodding, "Yeah, me too. I'll wait for you to go first." He laughs, "Oh, right! Haha. No, you can piss with me, don't be stupid."

There is only one bathroom in his house. It's in the hall between Billy's brother's and parents' bedrooms. I follow Billy into the bathroom, he picks up the toilet seat and whips out his dick, so I do too. We have twin dicks, pale in color with rosy-colored heads, neither one especially noteworthy, both about five inches long. Mine feels shriveled up a little from the humiliation of initiating that kiss.

Billy starts pissing immediately, groaning, "Ahh, yeah," but I can't seem to get the pump working yet. This is the first time I've ever taken a piss with someone at the same time in the same toilet. Billy asks, "What's wrong? You need to relax. Jeez, bro, didn't you ever piss with anyone before?" I mumble, "Of course, I have, it's just..." then a stream reluctantly starts, a thin one, and he mutters, "There ya go," as he's finishing.

As soon as he pulls up his zipper, my piss flow gets intense, and what a relief that is.

He's finished washing his hands by the time I'm standing next to him at the sink, pumping some soft soap on my hands. As I'm washing, I mumble, "I feel bad about screwing up tonight, Billy." Drying his hands on a hand towel that's hanging next to the sink, he smiles, saying, "I won't tell anybody. It'll be our secret you're gay," and he laughs, patting my shoulder, adding, "I'm just fucking with you, Gary."

He waits for me to dry my hands, saying, "Hey, remember when I said to get some beer, then said it'd be better if you got liquor?" I nod, and, as we walk out of the bathroom, he goes, "That's because I like vodka better than beer; you can't taste vodka much if you put it with something like orange juice or grapefruit juice. Mom won't notice if we use a little of her vodka 'cause I'll pour some water in the bottle to make up for what we drink. You want a screwdriver?" I go, "Sure, okay, thanks."

Apparently, Billy does a lot more drinking than me, but then, he hangs out with the guys a lot more than I do. Drinking and smoking pot is prevalent in our lower-middle-class neighborhood, and it has been that way for our group for the past two or three years now. On the plus side, there isn't a lot of hard drug usage, not that I'm aware of anyhow.

There isn't orange or grapefruit juice in the refrigerator, so he takes out an almost full bottle of cranberry juice cocktail, saying, "This will do okay." Glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall, I see it's only ten o'clock, which is about when a movie would be getting out if we went to the movies. Mom wouldn't expect me to come straight home after the movie, though.

I watch Billy put ice in two ten-ounce water glasses; then, he pours two inches of vodka into each glass. He looks up with a mischievous smile, saying, "That looks like a lot, doesn't it? The ice takes up a lot of the space, though." I go, "Uh-huh," not caring how much vodka he pours into each glass. I'm thinking maybe we can have another kiss if we get drunk enough.

Well, haha, that's a wildly insane thought considering how humiliated I felt after initiating that first kiss, but I'm thinking about the kiss Billy gave me. That was a real kiss with a lick on my lips at the end, making my kiss seem like child's play.

Passing me a glass of vodka and cranberry juice, Billy says, "C'mon down to the basement. I've got a ping pong table down there. Are you any good at ping pong?" Shrugging, I mutter, "No, not especially." He goes, "Good," and blasts his great smile at me, adding, "We'll play a game, and if you win, I need to let you kiss me again, haha, okay?"

Thinking that might be a test, I shake my head, "Nah, let's not do that." Then, for some reason, I get a flashback of Mrs. Donald's games during Sara's incredibly awkward twelfth birthday party.

Billy puts his drink on the ping pong table and tightens the net, mumbling, "Jesus, Gary; I was fucking kidding you!" I gulp down half the vodka drink, then mumble, "No shit, I knew that." He gets a paddle and bounces a ping pong ball off it a half dozen times, saying, "I'm not very good at ping pong either, but let's have a game, and the loser has to chug their drink." He hasn't touched his drink yet, and mine is almost gone. I was thirsty, and he's right; I can barely taste the vodka.

We volley back a forth a few times, warming up. Billy holds the ping pong ball and says, "Okay, the first guy to get to eleven wins. You can serve first." He was telling the truth; he isn't very good at ping pong, but then, neither am I, plus we're both a little drunk. He won 11 to 9, but his eleventh point was me leaning over the table and touching it with my left hand. He says that's a foul, and he gets the point. Fine by me as I have hardly any cranberry and vodka left in my glass to chug. I drain the rest of it as he watches me, then he goes, "I'll make you another one, and we'll play again."

Carrying my empty glass, I go upstairs with him, mumbling, "You haven't drunk any of your drink yet. What's up with that?" He smiles, saying, "I didn't lose yet." Without adding more ice, he makes me another strong drink, then we go back downstairs, and I lose the second game, 11 to 4.

"You seem to be getting better at ping pong as I'm getting worse." He says, "No, I was just lucky." I'm not thirsty now, so the second drink doesn't go down as easily as the first. Finished it, I look at Billy and laugh, saying, "I'm fucking drunk." He puts his arm around my waist, saying, "You're doing great."

We both burst out laughing in the third game because when he serves, I miss the pong pong ball entirely, swinging under it. Oh fuck, I can't stop laughing. Billy's laughing his balls off too, but he finally says, "C'mon, let's finish the game." Nodding, I goof off whacking the ball all over the place, both of us laughing so hard we're bent over holding our balls. I lose 11 to 0. When we stop laughing, Billy goes, "Omigod, I'm exhausted from laughing. Go ahead and chug your drink, then we'll go outside and get some fresh air."

I'm swaying now, so Billy puts his arms around me, saying, "I got you. Go ahead, Gary, chug your drink." Leaning against him, nodding, I'm like, "Okay," and chug half the drink. Looking at Billy, I go, "Do I need to, um?" He says, "Yeah, you need to finish it. You can do it. Go ahead."

Snorting a chuckle, I mutter, "You prick," and chug the rest of the drink, then put the glass too hard on the ping pong table. He lets go of me and goes, "Fuck, don't break it!" I sway and take a stumbling step, so he puts both arms around my waist, our crotches pressed together, and I get another boner. Smiling at me, he holds me against him tightly, finally saying, "You're okay now, c'mon upstairs, Gary. Bring your glass."

He has his half-full original drink in his left hand, his other arm he leaves around the back of my waist as I pick my glass up, muttering, "I didn't break it." I'm kind of staggering up the steps leaning against Billy as he mutters, "You suck at ping pong," and we both laugh our nuts off again. He empties his drink into the sink in the kitchen and then puts both glasses in the dishwasher. I'm drunk as a skunk but feeling good too.

Billy pulls on a hoodie sweatshirt, and we go outside to sit on the swinging loveseat again. He asks, "How ya feeling? You okay, Gary?" I go, "I'm great. Drunk, yeah, but I feel great." He gets an arm around me again and pulls me against his side, murmuring, "I knew you'd be fun to get high and drunk with, and I don't mind taking care of you 'cause we're buddies. Holy fuck, though, I almost busted a nut laughing. You're a funny fuck when you're drunk."

With both his arm around me, we're snuggled together on this loveseat. Billy pushes off, so we swing slowly back and forth, and it's the most pleasant sensation I can ever remember feeling. In his pleasant dreamy voice, Billy tells me about Carl Day getting so drunk at the prom he walked right up to one of the chaperones, old Mrs. Blake, the geometry teacher, and asked her to slow dance with him. Billy laughs so hard he's spitting as he tells the story. I'm laughing at him laughing.

He goes, "Oh, God, that was funnier than shit." Then, in a calmer voice, he goes, "Carl and another guy were escorted out the door, but I didn't hear that they got in any trouble back at school. And, by the way, they both went to the prom stag. You could have done that too."

"Oh, I didn't know that, but I'd rather have gone with you." We both laugh at that, then he goes, "You'd have been a better date than Donna Blackburn," and he kisses my lips, adding, "At least you make out," and he kisses me again, this kiss lasting ten seconds. My dick is so hard that I let a moan slip out before the kiss is over.

He says, "You're doing okay, no worries," and his hand gently pulls the side of my head, so I rest it on his shoulder, the top of my head against the side of his. He goes, "There ya go. Comphy?" I murmur, "Uh-huh," and, with a giggle, he mutters, "Your curly hair is tickling me." I'm like, "Uh-huh," and he goes, "We're buddies, and I'm taking care of my drunk buddy. You take care of me when I get drunk sometime, okay?"

I nod my head against his shoulder, "Sure, okay." I've never felt this pleasantly comfortable before in my life. He moves his head and gives me another long kiss on my lips, the tip of his tongue pushing my tongue, so I push back and moan as I kiss him back, "Mmmm."

Oh, jeez, I'm going to cum in my pants any second now. He goes, "Haha, you see what that bitch Donna Blackburn missed out on, huh?" I nod and snuggle tighter against him, my arm going across his stomach. I'm so oddly comfortable in this unnatural position, my body is limp as a rag wile my dick is a rock-hard boner. Oddly, it seems I'm getting drunker sitting here when I thought I'd be sobering up. I suppose the last of the vodka is just now getting into my bloodstream or something.

So what, though? I feel very well taken care of by Billy, and I like listening to his voice. It's a good thing I do, too, because Billy is quite the talker. As he gently rubs his hand on the back of my neck and through my short hair, he's telling me more about why he's going to community college. Then he drops in another one of his nonsequiturs, "Did you know the Ferrari LaFerrari Asperta is the most expensive car in the world at 2.2 million dollars?" My cock throbs as I murmur, "No, I didn't know that." He goes on to tell me about a time he was at a car show and blah, blah, blah.

I may have dozed off because I just hear the end of something he's telling me as he's taking his arm from around me, saying, "... that's if they're getting home when they normally do from their card game Sunday nights. They have work tomorrow and all that." He's standing up, so he must be saying his parents will be coming home soon. He pulls on my hands, helping me up, laughing, and asking, "Bro, can you drive?"

Standing, I'm like, "Yeah, sure, um, what time is it?" He shows me his watch... it's eleven-thirty. Good, not too late. I go, "That's a nice watch," We walk inside as Billy's saying, "Great party tonight, huh?" I nod, "Yeah, thanks, Billy." He pats my back, "Thank you for bringing the butterscotch Krimpets and beer." I go, "Thanks for the pot and vodka."

He walks me out the front door, pats my back again, and says, "I'll call you. Drive careful, Gary." Nodding, I walk to my car, still drunk, but I can drive. Big deal, it's a six-block drive. Still, I drive like a little old lady while going over in my head one, two, three, four, half a dozen kisses from Billy, or was it more? Huh, it seemed like more, and, no way can he tell anybody I'm gay when he did most of the kissing.

When I get home, my parents are in bed, and that's lucky because walking inside, I bump against the door frame like a drunk, which I am, and that would have been embarrassing. They would have seen me because the front door leads into the living room, where they watch TV.

I do everything I need to in the bathroom before going to bed, then dream about being in a scary murky space where I can't see very well as I unsuccessfully try opening a mysterious box of some kind. I can't get it opened and keep cutting my fingers on the edge of the cardboard. Fuck!

Staggering out of bed at nine-thirty Monday morning, my parents off to work one or two hours ago, I'm thinking about the dream and how I must have dreamed it just before waking up because it's rare that I recall a dream so vividly. The dream is disconcerting, and I don't know why.

I'm hungover again. Hungover for the second time in the past five days. Two hangovers in five months are more my speed. After forcing myself to do my regular morning bathroom ritual, I take three Tylenol, then make a coffee and sit at the kitchen table in my jockey underwear. I think about last night and wonder if it's worth suffering a hangover for a rare time getting high and drunk with one of the guys. Yeah, it is with Billy.

Oh shit, my face gets hot with embarrassment, though, when I think of initiating that kiss with him. His initial reaction humiliated me, but then he kissed me five or six times. My dick gets hard thinking about that. Hmm, I've had zero experience doing any kind of serious kissing, but Billy's kisses seemed very real. I can't imagine he could kiss a girl any better than he kissed me. Maybe I'm fooling myself, but it seemed he liked the kissing as much as I did, maybe more.

He got me drunk by beating me at ping pong. I think he purposely did that to make out with me, although six kisses spread out over a couple of hours probably doesn't qualify as making out. Whatever, the important part is that Billy said he'd call me and he said we're buddies. We're a special kind of buddy if we're kissing buddies. Hmm, I wonder if he'll call today. Squeezing my dick, I'm hoping it'll be today because last night could be the start of something big for me.

I finished my mug of coffee, got dressed, and went for a ride on my bike. Sure, I need to start my job search, but it's only been five days since graduation, so I'll start looking for a job tomorrow. Grinning, I ride the six blocks to Billy's house, then I keep riding, feeling nervous all of a sudden. If he sees me, he might think it's creepy, like I'm stalking him or something. I can't get his body out of my mind, though. He has a well-put-together body, and how awesome would it be to be naked in bed with him! Yeah, except he might be disappointed in my body.

Jesus, am I ever getting ahead of myself. This is the first crush I've ever had on anyone, so I'm flying blind again. My crush on Billy feels very strong, though! So strong I'm considering ringing his bell so we can laugh about last night together. Fuck, we laughed our balls off last night. I ride around thinking about ringing his doorbell, but in the end, I ride back home, deciding it's best to wait for Billy to call me as he said he would.

I'm lying on my bed in my bedroom, jerking off thinking about Billy's kisses, and quickly have a massive climax. Stroke, stroke, and, Omigod. Oh, fuck! That was so fast! I'm shaking as shivers of pleasure streak all over me. Gripping my cock tightly in my fist, I stare at the cum splatter drooling down the front of my bureau. My shoulders shake, then my body relaxes, and I say, "Whoa, bro." Ha, that's what Billy called me a few times last night... bro. Yep, we're like close buddies now.

Lying on my bed, I fantasize about us becoming the tightest best friends ever, both of us keeping the secret that we do sexy buddy stuff together. After a while, I convinced myself that I could put Billy's dick in my mouth. No one else's, though, just his. He'd be more the regular guy between us doing secret sexy stuff, so I suppose I'll need to be doing the girl parts. He'll be better at doing the guy parts, hypothetically speaking. It'd be an extension of last night when Billy was the one who decided what we'd do, and I went along with it.

Hmm, hopping out of bed, I go online looking for gay sex sites, and it's not hard finding them. I need to find out what my 'girl' role will be when Billy, um, wants to do more than just hug and kiss. It'll be great knowing what I'm doing for once in my life. I don't want to hesitate when he suggests I blow him, and eventually, he'll expect me to put out like he expected Donna to put out, and, unlike Donna, I'm going to put out.

As I watch the porn, I'm like, holy shit, can I do that? The more I watch, though, the more I want to be Billy's girl, so to speak. That anal sex looks hot the way they do it on the video. Oh, shit, I need to jerk off again.

After an hour of watching gays sucking and fucking, I'm back lying on my bed, jerking off for the third time since waking up. I'm exhausted but wicked excited. I feel ready for whatever Billy has in mind. After another half-hour of fantasizing about being the, um, girl-part of our gay sex together, I glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table and see it's almost two o'clock. My headache left a long time ago, and I realize I'm starving.

It takes me ten minutes to clean up my cum shots, all three of them, and then I make a ham and cheese sandwich on rye with spicy brown mustard and eat it while thinking Billy should have called by now.

He doesn't call all day, so I watch a Phillies' night game in my bedroom, then Tuesday morning, without a hangover, I go online looking to see about job openings for recent high school graduates.

I find a site, joblist.com, that I punch in my area code, and, huh, it's surprising how many job opportunities there are in this area. Also, most of them I can apply for online. This is easy, except as I read the options, it becomes obvious I don't qualify for most of the openings because I don't have a car, and I'm seventeen.

Yeah, why didn't I realize I'd need a car to get to where the job is? I can only consider a job I can get to using public transportation. Also, there are many job openings I don't want to do, such as gas station attendant, senior care provider, and dishwashing machine operator, to name just a few.

I spend two hours filling out applications with 'assistant' in the job title. The space for 'experience,' of which I have none, I leave blank. I'm not sure if public transportation is even possible for some of the jobs I apply for. Feeling good about starting my job search, I whack off thinking about Billy's dick this time, and, Omigod, I have a great climax that leaves me shivering with pleasure. Well, I deserved that after conscientiously doing my job search this afternoon.

At dinner, I finally have some job search activity to tell my parents about, and Dad says, "It's a start, Gary, but also check tomorrow's Philadelphia Inquirer for job openings." Nodding, I go, "Sure, that's what I planned on doing tomorrow." That's another one of my lies because I never gave that a thought until Dad mentioned it. Mom says, "The job needs to be one you can take the bus to, honey." I mutter, "Yes, Mom, I know that."

So, Tuesday and Wednesday, I spent some time filling out more applications online for job openings listed in the newspaper. I even worked up the nerve to call two job openings and get blown off by the two people in Human Resources I spoke with. In one case, because I'm only seventeen and in the other case because I don't have a car. So far, none of the online applications I've filled out have had the courtesy even to email me back telling me to fuck off. I'm getting seriously discouraged.

Most of the day, I watch game shows on TV, then at night I watch the Phillies baseball team lose. Of course, I'm jerking off three or four times a day, but that only accounts for twelve to fifteen minutes each day. I'm about ready to give up hope Billy will call, then I try convincing myself it's only been a week, and he'll probably call this weekend.

He doesn't call this weekend, though, and he doesn't the following week either, and, making my life worse, my parents are now hounding me about getting a job! Well, not hounding me, but they ask me about it every night at dinner.

So, it's been two weeks since graduation, and the pressure is definitely on to get an 'effing job. I have no prospects of that happening, and then a job falls in my lap. I'm aimlessly riding my bike in the neighborhood when three blocks from home, a guy drinking bottled water sitting in a truck, calls me over. The signage on the truck is 'Willie & Lonny Landscaping.' The man says to me, "Hey, kid, hold up a second."

I circle back and stop next to the truck, my foot on the street for balance, and he goes, "Ya want a temporary summer job?" I'm like, "What kind of job?" I'm talking louder than I probably need to, but I'm wearing this damn mask.

He isn't wearing a mask as he laughs, then goes, "What kind of job do you think I might mean?" Looking at the signage on the truck again, I go, "Oh, yeah, you mean cutting grass." He turns to the baldheaded man sitting next to him and says, "See, the kid's smart enough for this kind of work." Baldy chuckles, saying, "Don't tease the kid, Willie."

The truck driver, Willie, is in his early thirties with a short beard and hair just as short. The baldheaded man in the passenger seat, who I assume is Lonny, looks about the same age. Any job at this point will relieve the pressure I'm feeling, so I'm interested.

The bald guy leans toward Willie's open window, saying real friendly-like, "Our helper broke his wrist yesterday, and we're looking for a replacement. It'll be for the next six weeks or so. Would you be interested in doing the job?" I hesitate, then to give me a minute to think about it, I ask, "Did he break his wrist cutting grass?" Baldie goes, "No, it wasn't work-related. He was playing basketball with his friends yesterday after work."

I should ask something, but what? Then I go, "Oh, yeah, um, what's the, ah, how much does the job pay?" The driver, Willie, asks, "How much do you think a helper on a landscaping crew should get paid?" Shrugging, I mutter, "I don't know, minimum wage?" He chuckles, "For students, that's $6.16 an hour." Fuck, I thought it was more than that.

I go, "I'm not a student, though. I graduated." He grins, "Same minimum wage for college kids. It's still $6.16 per hour. It's $7.25 per hour for full-grown adults, which you're not." "Oh, uh-huh, I see."

Lonny says, "Goddammit, Willie, stops fucking with him." He says, "It is a forty to fifty hours per week job, and it pays nine bucks an hour. We don't deduct anything for the government, so the whole nine dollars an hour you get to keep. Whaddaya say?" I try not to grin but grin anyway, saying, "Yes, thanks, I'd like the job."

Willie says to Lonny, "Nine bucks an hour! What the hell, Lonny? We'll lose money!" They laugh at that, and then both get out of the truck, Willie on the street side where I'm on my bike and Lonny on the passenger side. Lonny takes a small notepad from his back pocket, saying, "Come around here, son." I walk my bike around, and he asks, "What's your name?" I tell him the spelling of my last name, then give him my address and cell phone number.

Putting the pad away, he says, "Okay, Gary, we'll start tomorrow at eight o'clock. You live in this neighborhood, so we'll pick you up in the morning and drop you off at the end of the day, okay?" I'm nodding my head, wondering if I should ask anything else. I go, "What should I wear?" They both chuckled, then Willie said, "We're a formal landscaping company, so a suit coat and tie should do it." Lonny goes, "Jesus, Willie!" and to me, "Wear whatever you're comfortable wearing, okay?" Nodding my head again, I think of something else and ask Lonny, "Should I bring lunch?" He goes, "You can if you want to, but we eat at fast food joints. I'll treat you until you get paid on Saturday. How's that?"

I can't think of anything else, so I go, "Thanks, sure." Willie says, "In all seriousness, it's a grind, kid, so prepare yourself for a hard day's work." Lonny goes, "He's right about that, Gary." I say, "Yes, sir, and, um, I'll be standing outside my house when you get there." He says, "We're Lonny and Willie. We don't, heh-heh, qualify as 'sir.'" Willie goes, "We start working at eight o'clock, but we'll pick you up at seven-thirty." Lonny nods his head, "Yep, seven-thirty."

I probably don't get paid for that half-hour, but that's okay." I'm nodding again, feeling giddy as the reality of this nine dollar an hour job sets in. I go, "Thank you; I'll work hard."

Lonny pats my shoulder, "Good, we'll see you tomorrow morning." I say, "Seven-thirty." Willie's walking around to get in the driver's seat as Lonny goes, "Just so you know, Willie's a jokester, but he's a good guy. You'll get used to him. See you tomorrow," and he gets in the truck as I say, "Thanks again, um, Lonny." He grins and waves as they drive away.

Holy shit, this is fantastic!

Riding back home, I feel such relief I'm smiling all the way. Going in the house, though, I realize this is a temporary, very temporary solution to my job hunting situation. Mom, who got home from work two hours ago, says, "Hi, honey. What have you been up to?" I say, "I was out getting a job," and I tell her about the job, making it seem like I was out asking landscaping crews if they had a job for me.

I'm like, "It's very temporary, but I can make as much as," and I hold up my finger, indicating, 'give me a minute.' Taking my smartphone out, I access the calculator feature and multiply nine dollars times the maximum number of hours Lonny said we could work, times six weeks... 50X9X6, and it equals $2700. I go, "Twenty-seven hundred dollars, which I plan on using to buy a car. Then I can expand my possibilities for better job opportunities."

Mom smiles, "That's wonderful, Gary, but you'll need more money than that. Car insurance for a seventeen-year-old boy who owns his own car is expensive, dear. It's a great start, though. I'm proud of you." I'm like, "Yeah, well, that's for six weeks. Then I'll get another job, um, maybe I'll take you up on the Weis Market job for a while. Ya know until I have enough for a car and car insurance." She's starting dinner, saying, "Dad will be proud of you too."

Going to my bedroom, I celebrate with a fantastic jerk off thinking about making out with Billy, almost passing out when I climax. Christ, that felt awesome! Wow! Still playing with my dick, lying on the bed, I start thinking about cutting grass ten hours a day, and my enthusiasm for this job drops considerably. Then, I sit up, put my dick away, and get my headphones out. Yes, I'll listen to music all day. That'll help. So, what else should I be thinking about?

Not able to think of anything better, I think about Billy again. I always fantasize about him while jerking off. Damn, I'm getting fabulous results with that, but it's been two weeks since Billy's kisses, so I'm afraid I was right in thinking when he sobered up, he'd hate that he did the kissing. Hmm, except he wasn't all that drunk to sober up from. I was the drunk one. Something negative must have occurred to Billy. I guess we had what's called a one-night stand, but I wish it had turned out to be more.

At dinner, Dad is supportive, saying, "You're only seventeen, so it's understandable you'd need to start with jobs such as working for a landscaping company and later an entry-level job at a grocery store. After those two jobs, maybe, as your mom suggests, you'll get a job with benefits at a company like Starbucks. Then, after working those jobs for a while, your mom and I hope you'll reconsider furthering your education. You'll only be eighteen a year from now, and we can get you a college loan for community college. We can swing that much."

What? "Dad, I hate to tell you, but..." He interrupts, saying, "Yeah, I know how you feel about college now, but let's talk about it nine months or a year from now, okay?"

There is no sense in bursting Mom and Dad's balloon, but now that I've got a job, I feel even stronger about not going to college. When Dad said the words community college, the first thing I thought of was Billy. That's where he's going. I guess I'm still holding out hope he'll call.

The following day it's raining cats and dogs, but I'm standing outside at seven-thirty. Naturally, they don't come because it's raining too hard to cut grass. After thirty-five minutes, I go back inside, dry off and get back in bed, thinking they should have called me.

Friday morning is sunny and warm as I'm again standing outside my house at seven-thirty wearing a face mask, my earphones in place. I'm wearing jeans, a Springfield High T-shirt, and grass-stained sneakers. After five minutes, I'm beginning to think Lonny and Willie were just fucking with me and have no intention of picking me up. Oh man, I will feel like the biggest fool of an asshole if they don't come.

Still standing here at quarter to eight, I see their pickup truck pulling a trailer with mowers on it, turning the corner, and heading this way. I can't see the signage on the pickup from here, but it's gotta by Willie and Lonny, right? And it is.

I can't even describe the relief I feel averting humiliation of monumental proportions if they hadn't come. Willie's driving again with Lonny riding shotgun, his arm out the window. He goes, "Hop in the back, Gary." Nodding, I get in the backseat of the pickup as Willie says, "I hope to fuck you weren't standing in the rain yesterday morning, kid." I go, "No, of course not. I saw it was raining too hard to do landscaping." Lonny hits Willie's shoulder and goes, "I told you he was smart enough for this kind of work, didn't I?"

Then, Omigod, Friday turns out to be the longest day of my life. After the first job, I give up wearing a mask for the ten jobs that followed. Willie runs the big-ass ride-on lawnmower, and Lonny does the weed-whacking. He edges around the lawns and the shrubbery plots using a commercial weed whacker that weighs thirty pounds. I empty the heavy containers of cut grass from the back of the big-ass ride-on mower, dumping the clippings in the back of the pickup. My main job, though, is using a heavy commercial blower to blow the grass clipping off driveways and sidewalks, I also run for water bottles when the guys want one, plus hump fifty-pound bags of mulch, then use a heavier-than-makes-sense rake to spread the mulch into plots when the guys tell me to, plus I clean and secure the equipment in the back of the pickup after each job, plus get it out at each job site, plus do anything else they tell me to do, like take their shirts to the truck when they take them off as the day got hotter.

Lonny bought me a Big Mac, fries, and a large Coke for lunch that we ate as we drove to the next job. Willie ate his lunch while driving, telling me with his mouth full, "Next week, you buy your lunch, kid." I don't say anything. Lonny said, "Obviously, we're working a full day Saturday, Gary. Normally we only need to work a half-day on Saturdays, but we lost Thursday because of the rain, ya know?"

My ass is dragging when they drop me off. After dinner, I go to bed without even jerking off. Saturday morning, I can't believe how sore every muscle in my body is, but I'm outside at seven-thirty to do it all over again. Then, I need to call Mom at five-thirty to say I won't be home for dinner because we're working until seven-thirty to catch up on the work schedule.

Before dropping me off Saturday night, Lonny turned to me as I slump in the back seat, "You did good, Gary." Willie goes, "Yeah, kid, you earned your money the past couple of days," and Lonny mumbles, "Let's see, um, eight hours yesterday and twelve hours today, so here ya go," and he hands me nine twenty-dollar bills, saying, "A hundred and eighty dollars." Willie says, "And you earned it too." I nod my head and grin, mumbling, "Thanks."

As I walk into the living room, Mom says, "Oh, good. I'm glad you're finally home, honey. Dad and I are going to the movies in a few minutes, but I left your dinner in the refrigerator. Heat it in the microwave." I go, "Thanks, Mom. Um, I made a hundred and eighty dollars." Dad looks startled, then mumbles, "Jeez, they pay pretty well. Could you lend me twenty?" I take a twenty out of my pocket, but he pats my shoulder, "I was kidding, Gary! Thanks for offering it, though."

In two days, I worked twenty hours, half an average person's week's work. Still, I wonder how much Dad and Mom bring home after working all weeks and after the various government agencies take their share? I hope it's more than a hundred and eighty dollars. Funny that this is the first time I've ever wondered about that.

After warming up a plate of pork and beans, I eat it with the salad Mom prepared for me and then get in the shower for twenty minutes. I've never been this tired before, but I sure feel good about finally earning some money. Lying in bed, I'm counting the twenties again, and, yep, there are nine of them!

Naked, I do a slow jerk off thinking about being naked in Billy's bed, kissing and cuddling with him. "Ah, ahh, ahhh!" I blow my load shaking; my legs stretched out tightly, then I quiver all over before relaxing and sighing. That was excellent. Okay, the Phillies are playing a night game in Baltimore, so I turn on the TV and fall asleep watching the game.

On Sunday, I go for a ride on my bike with a hundred and eighty dollars in my pocket, which is a first-time experience. Riding by Dave Sommerset's house, I see him washing his dad's car. He yells, "Yo, Gary, hold up a second." Coming to a stop next to him, I go, "Hey, Dave, whassup?" He goes, "Hi, buddy," then he gawks at me and goes, "Oh, shit, that's quite a haircut you got there." I touch my head, "Oh, yeah, it's, um, my uncle's, ah..." He goes, "Nevermind that. As soon as I finish washing this car, I'm going to the high school to play some pick-up B-ball. Do you wanna come?"

Huh, an invitation. "Yeah, sure, I guess," and he says, "I'll pick you up at your house in half an hour." I nod, "Cool, I'll see you then." As I ride away, I'm thinking about how I got my hair cut two weeks ago, and yet Dave commented on it as if I got it cut yesterday. I need to tell Uncle Tony I'm not ten years old anymore, and I want a man's haircut!

That's something I'll follow through on two months from now, though. Right now, I've got something to do this afternoon with the guys. At home, I'm conscious of my heavily grass-stained sneakers and decide, now that I'm working and have money in my pocket, I'll buy a pair of sneakers to wear when I'm not doing my job.

I change my shirt to one that I think is cooler-looking. Then, when I hear Dave blow his horn, I go out and get in the passenger seat, saying, "Look at my Goddamn sneakers, Dave. They get ruined from my job." He goes, "Bummer," and I ask him, "Are you working this summer?" He nods, "Yeah, twenty hours a week at CVS, stocking shelves." I tell him about my job, mentioning the nine dollars an hour, and he goes, "Fuck, I'm only making $6.16 an hour." I say, "Oh," and leave it at that.

It's hit or miss as far as pick-up basketball games at the high school's outdoor court. Sometimes there aren't enough guys for a game, but there are already six guys playing a three-on-three half-court game this Sunday. One of the guys is Billy. Seeing him, I unconsciously grope my junk, although Dave doesn't notice as he's concentrating on backing the car into a tight parking spot.

We get out, then use Dave's basketball at the other end of the court, taking turns shooting shots until the half-court game is over. Dave's taller than me at six-foot-two, and he's more athletic, but I'm pretty good at basketball. Dave and I take our ball to join the others, bumping fists and exchanging friendly insults.

Rick Barms says, "Yo, Wallingford, I was driving past that church on Maple and thought I saw you working with that landscaping crew yesterday? Was that you?" I go, "Hey, wassup, Rick? Um, yeah, I'm working for them." He goes, "Do they need anybody else? I have to get a fucking summer job, or my old man will have a shit fit."

I tell him I'll ask, although I already know they don't need anyone else. Billy is laughing with Drew Martin, so I wander over to them, and Drew says, "Hey, it's the ghost. Where have you been hiding all summer, Gary?" and he holds out his hand. I slap hands, mumbling, "All summer? It's only been three weeks. Anyway, I'm working full time." He goes, "Whatcha doing?" I tell him and then go, "Hi there, Billy. Whatcha been up to?"

The three-on-three game was shirts and skins. Billy was on the skin team, so he had his T-shirt in his hand. His body is as enticing as I remember.

Shrugging, he mutters, "Nothing special, just keeping busy." "Oh, I guess you're all set for college." No smiles from Billy, which seem strange. Making a face like he's annoyed, he goes, "Whaddaya talking about?" and then he takes a cigarette from a red box of Marlboros. I'm like, "Oh, um, you smoke?" He says, "What's it look like." He lights up and blows smoke in my face, saying, "The thing about infinity is you never run out of it."

"Huh?" Drew mumbles, "That's just another of Underwood's nonsensical offerings that have nothing to do about nothing." Billy finally does his incredible smile, saying to Rick, "They're interesting tidbits about our freakin' world, numbnuts." Dave calls over, "Hey, guys, we're shooting free throws to pick teams."

With four-on-four games, we play full court, not half court. It's the best out of three games to twenty-one, meaning each basket counts as one, and whichever team reaches twenty-one first wins. With Dave as the tallest player on either side, I'm on his team and we win two games in a row. The games are close, though, so it takes a while. Afterward, guys begin drifting off. Billy and I were on different teams, and we never said another word to each other.

Dave, Rick Barns, and I go to Maggie's Homemade Ice Cream Parlor for sodas and ice cream cones. It was one of my better Sunday afternoons except for how Billy acted toward me.

Monday, after work, I borrow Mom's car to go to the mall to buy new sneakers. I can't stop thinking about Billy's strange act at the high school. I guess we're not buddies after all.

Then, at work, each day seems easier. A month flies by, with me working five and a half days a week. When I'm not working, Dave and I went to a couple of movies with Rick, and then Dave and I went to the par-three course twice, but I mostly hung out at home. My jerking off is down to two or three ties a day instead of three or four times a day because I'm working all day, but I still fantasize about Billy while doing it, although, by now, I've given up expecting him to call me like he said he would.

Then, Friday, during my fifth week on the job, I'm dumpling a fifty-pound container of grass clipping in the back of the pickup when my cell phone rings. The caller ID reads, 'Underwood.' It's Billy!

To be continued... donnymumford@outlook.com.

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