Invited

Chapter 26

( Eyeglasses )

During dinner, Mom asks, "How was your day, Gary?"

That question intruded into daydreaming about Billy and me in the back of his mom's SUV naked as jay birds, whatever jay birds are. The thing I noticed most about that was my deepening love for Billy and his behavior that was radiating love, too. However, he's back to his earlier reluctance to express his love verbally. So I was wondering about that.

Anyway, with that in mind, I'm like, "Oh, um, huh? My day? Ah, yeah, it was just a normal day, Mom. It was okay, except I feel bad for Billy because he needs to get eyeglasses."

Mom goes, "Hmm, that reminds me; we should set up an eye exam for you, honey. When was your last eye exam?"

"I don't know. I see, fine!"

Then, because my response was snippy and I'm into being more sociable, I asked, "Um, how are things at Weis Market, Mom?" Not that I could care less.

Picking up a fried chicken leg, Dad interjects and asks, "When do you start your full-time job, son?"

Mom says, "Everything at the market is about the same as when you worked there, dear, except Marge Blockmen quit today. Hmm, she wasn't the most pleasant co-worker, I must say. It was as if nothing pleased her, and the word among us girls is that she probably quit avoiding being fired. So sad."

I mumble, "Oh, I don't think I know her," then tell Dad, "I start my job Monday morning," and blah, blah, blah.

Fortunately, there is no more eye exam talk. Christ, that's all I need; being a four-eyed goon. At least the dinner conversation got my mind off Billy's renewed reluctance to admit he's in love.

Finished dinner, I rush upstairs to wash up, wishing I had time to shower for Billy. After brushing my teeth, I put on a clean shirt and combed my hair. Then, looking at my mirror reflection, I'll bet Billy will want us to get haircuts pretty soon. Twin magical haircuts, ha-ha. Whatever. In my puffer winter coat, I'm outside waiting for him at five of seven.

He's never a slave to the clock, so not always on time. Not too bad tonight, though; he drives up smiling at seven-ten, and says, "Yo, looking good there, Gary!"

Getting in the van, I'm like, "Thanks, but I wish I had time to shower. You know, after our messing around this afternoon, I've got some dried, um, you know, here and there."

Billy mumbles, "Have you ever considered the concept of TMI?"

I go, "Too much information? Yeah, I have."

He smiles at me, raising his eyebrows, and I go, "What? Why'd you give me that look?"

He drives away from the curb, squinting now, mumbling, "Never mind that. I can't 'effing believe I'll be wearing 'effing eyeglasses."

I go, "Why do you need them?"

He raises his voice, "Why the 'eff do you think? Because I can't see things well at a distance; why else?"

Nodding, "Yeah, but I meant, do you need them for reading or distance? When did you notice you can't see distance very well?"

He shrugs, "It happened this past Wednesday when I was driving Mom someplace; she said something about a sign for the new deli. I couldn't read the sign. Um, and I'm sorry I snapped at you a minute ago, Gary. Obviously, I'm wicket unhappy about this unfortunate 'effing eyeglasses situation."

I'm like, "No worries, Billy. You'll look cool with glasses. Um, when do you get your glasses, and what kind will you get?"

He shrugs, "I already ordered them. I had an appointment for an eye exam, so I skipped an early morning class yesterday, and Mom met me at the mall. Well, she was already at the mall shopping with a friend, Mrs. Pritchered. We met up, and they talked me into dinky horned-rim glasses. I liked a pair of oversized, tinted aviator wire-rim glasses, but Mom wouldn't go for that. She said I looked like a State Trooper with those glasses on. Anyway, I'm getting the finished glasses tomorrow."

I go, "Huh. Um, what's wrong with looking like a state trooper?"

Shrugging, "Hell, if I know the answer to that. I wasn't in the mood to put up much of a fight. Damn, I'll be a four-eyed goon like that nerd, Walter Moore. Remember him in Chem class? Holy shit, I'm going to be Walter Moore the second."

As Billy drives onto the Sears parking lot, that's dark as a pocket; I try picturing him wearing glasses, but it doesn't compute in my head. Nevertheless, I go, "What are you talking about? You won't look anything like Walter. His nose was the size of one of those uneatable yellow squashes. You're Hollywood-good-looking. You're going to look super-cool wearing glasses."

Parking behind the dumpster, he snickers, "Hollywood good looking my ass! Heh-heh, I did look mighty intellectual trying on those 'effing round tortoiseshell frames, though. Do you know what tortoiseshell is?"

I nod, "Yeah, like plastic that's not all the same color. There are wiggly parts of another color."

He mutters, "Close enough. The frames are Brooks Brothers and cost more than it's possible to justify, but whaddya gonna do? Almost $500 for eyeglasses is highway robbery. Mom put it on her credit card."

We get out and put down the SUV's second and third row of bench seats as I ask, "When did you say your glasses will be ready?"

Getting inside the back of the SUV, the motor and heater still running, I get next to Billy, his arm around me, sitting against the back of the driver's bucket seat.

"I'm getting the 'effing glasses Friday after class, um, tomorrow. Do you want to come with me?"

Turning towards him, snuggling against him, my arm across his stomach, I mumble, "What do you think? Of course, I want to come with you. I want to go everywhere with you."

He mutters, "Yeah, okay. Start practicing lying, saying the glasses look good on me."

I mumble, "Yeah, well, I'm pretty good at lying. How's this: My man wearing eyeglasses looks super bad. That's, ah, an exciting look."

Chuckling, he goes, "Good, that's a good lie, but it didn't sound heartfelt. Keep practicing. Did you know that eyeglasses were first invented in 13th century Italy? They've been around that long! Previous to Googling that, I thought Ben Frankling invented them."

I'm used to his historical insights, asking, "Uh-huh. Should we get undressed now, Billy?"

He goes, "Eventually, yeah, but before doing that, I promised you some serious buddying up, didn't I?"

I go, "Yes, but you've always said that buddying up is best done naked."

He mutters, "I never said that. It sounds like something you'd say and claim I said it."

I go, "One of us said it, right?"

Snickering, he mumbles, "Ha-ha, oh, fuck; you are a lot of fun. Okay, let's get undressed. Maybe I'll forget about the 'effing eyeglasses for a while."

There is simply no way I can adequately describe how much I love, how unimaginably wonderful and sexy it is to rub my naked body against Billy's taut, youthful naked, one. His tight, youthful, pinkish/white, almost hairless skin feels and smells so good; his modest but noticeable muscle definition makes me moan with desire. Plus, the way he moves, the way he, um, handles me, his touching, his fingers in the hair on the back of my head, the way he pushes me slightly over here and then over there for maximum bodily contact, and the way he kisses me with tenderness.

It's all so fantastic, our gentle humping hips, our hard dicks together, our faces sliding on one another, and me doing everything I can to please him, to accommodate whatever he wishes of me.

I know in my heart no one could love another as much as I love Billy Underwood.

Then, taking it higher, we do some profound and passionate lover's kisses, a quiet moan slipping from his throat, letting me know he desires me as I do him. Our mouths slide apart, mixed saliva on our faces, and, Oh God, I murmur his name and cling to him like life itself.

After I don't know how long, with precum squishing between us, Billy gets me on my back, so I automatically pull my legs back. Tonight, neither of us is willing to take the time to get a condom. He enters me, his knees spread, his face dropping onto my chest, sweaty now from the heat in the van, plus our heat for one another.

There was initial pain, of course. I loved it, though, and knew it wasn't going to last long, and it didn't. Billy groans and pushes his swollen-hard penis further inside me as I hug his shoulders and murmur his name again.

With a final hump of his hips, he's fully impaling me. He moans, lifts his head off my chest, leans forward, and our lips meet. We kiss and suck on each other's lips as Billy does gently humping against my buttocks, rocking me on my arched back, his hard cock moving minutely with each soft hump. Billy's eyes close, and I hug around his neck, kissing the top of his head, his short hair tickling my face, his scalp damp with perspiration.

My legs go around his waist, my ankles locking together as Billy moves his hips back, pulling his boner almost all the way out of my ass, then pushing it in as my back arches tighter, and I moan, "Ahhh, oooh, Billy."

After five more slow pull-backs and push-backs, he groans and begins doing his shorter penetrations, quicker thrusting as our climaxes build. We hear the smacking sounds of his crotch slapping against my butt cheeks, and now, I'm off for a ride around the moon; my eyes close as I hug him with my legs and arms. We're one entity in ecstasy.

"Slap, slap, slap, slap," "Ah, ah, ah," "Um, um, um," until a red and black explosion inside my head clouds my brain. I lurch almost off the floor as my climax is blowing out with a million nerve endings bursting with pleasure that soars high, then drops quickly, as does my breathy squeal that sounded like air escaping a flat tire.

Cum sizzled from my rock-hard boner with, again, no place to go. It squeezed out between our bellies, squishing up to our chests. Immediately, Billy's body gets tight as a tree; one last hump against me, and he blows his load inside my bowels, air gushing out from his lungs as he fills me up with his premium grade hot creamy jism.

His body goes limp on top of me as I shudder, then going limp myself. Heavy breathing, hearts pounding against one another, then a quiet moan from Billy as he again lifts off me. Sitting back and pulling his flaccid dick from my rectum, we look into one another's eyes, and he says, "That worked okay, don't you think?"

Nodding my head, grinning, I mutter, "Pretty good, uh-huh." The love word is missing, but I know he loves me.

He shakes his head with a big smile, then goes, "Yeah, pretty good, ha-ha. No one can mess around like us, Gary, nobody!"

His cum is already drooling out my ass, and we both have cum smeared on our stomachs and chests, but we don't care. Or, I should say, I don't care, but Billy does and mumbles, "Get us some Kleenex or Handi wipes, whatever Mom put in that pouch on the back of the passenger seat. You always make a mess messing around," and he smiles his smile.

I get on my hands and knees to walk over to the pouch, his cum running down the inside of my legs. Reaching into the bag, I pull out packets of Handi wipes, muttering, "They're Handi wipes."

We use six Handi wipes packets to clean up as Billy mumbles, "I don't know, maybe I should have gotten a pair of the wire-rimmed glasses. Not the aviator ones, just plain wire-rimmed. What do you think?"

Still unable to picture him wearing glasses, I go, "No, the tortoise one sounds cool. I can't wait to see you wearing them. You made the right choice!"

He nods, "Yeah, I think you're right."

We get in our usual position against the back of the front driver's seat, Billy hugging me extra tightly, asking, "Being honest, do you think I'll look alright wearing glasses? Will I still be your idol who you love more than life itself?"

There's the love word. I'm like, "Are you serious? Nothing could change my mind about you being my hero, idol, and lover who I love more than life itself. Plus, I think it's appropriate that you wear round tortoiseshell glasses looking like an intellectual because, let's face it, you're a genius who knows more about the cosmos and odd historical facts than most college professors."

Billy nods, "That was a good speech, but the lovers' part is the only thing I find awkward. Um, yeah, you probably love me, but it's, um, raw-sounding hearing the love word so often. Um, how about simply referring to us as boyfriends? I'm still having trouble getting used to even that."

"Oh, sure, but how about the rest of my, um, speech, though?"

He mumbles, smiling and hugging my shoulders, "The rest was okay, yeah. Very accurate for the most part."

We snicker, then he pulls his jeans over to get his Marlboro box from a pocket. Lighting a Marlboro red, he lips the filter, then holds it to my lips. I inhale a little as Billy says, "As I told you before, we can smoke cigarettes in here as long as we don't overdo it. Dad smokes sometimes when he drives this SUV."

As we share the cigarette, he talks about his parents changing their minds about him getting the use of this van for college. Their reason is Billy's and my apartment will be within walking distance of the college.

He goes, "They're short-sighted. I explained how we'll still need a car to get back and forth visiting them at home, and they said I can use public transportation for that."

Unable to get enough of him, I'm rubbing my forehead against the side of his face, mumbling, "You're forgetting that I'm buying us a car."

Chuckling, he goes, "No, I'm not. I'm reinforcing how important it is that you do that. I haven't heard you mention it lately."

Lifting my left leg over his, I sit on his thighs, looking at him. Then, rubbing my nose against his, I murmur, "I've got $4000 saved, and I'm starting my full-time, $500 a week job on Monday. I'll be working it through August, so that's six months at $2000 a month. I'm buying us an 'effing car."

He smiles, "I knew you would. I just wanted to be reassured. We'd be prisoners in our apartment without a car, ya know?"

With my arms around his neck, I murmur, "I wouldn't mind that at all."

We talk about how things will be once we're in our apartment and keep the topic going for quite a while.

Then, looking for another compliment, I'm like, "You once told me, months ago, that you thought I might be a good messing around, buddy. You've never said why you felt that. And I'm also wondering why you didn't invite me to mess around with you a couple of years ago.

Billy shrugs, "I don't know. I had my messing around dudes in high school. You, I guess looked too-too cute, too girly cute. That's until recently, though. This past year you're growing into your age or something. You look eighteen now and not fourteen. You're still cute as a motherfucker, but you look like a guy who's old enough to, um, 'effing mess around."

"Girlie cute? Whaddaya mean?"

He goes, "Calm the 'eff down! Fuck, I noticed you were, you know, more like guy-cute that day we walked home from the basketball courts together. So, um, oh hell, stop asking me tough questions, alright? You're an 'effing question machine."

Hmm, I didn't notice my looks changing seeing myself every day, but I suppose someone who saw me only sporadically would notice changes. Still sitting on his legs facing him, I run my fingers through his short hair, asking, "So, who else were you evaluating for a potential messing around, buddy?"

He makes a face, sputtering, "Didn't I just call you a question machine?"

Snickering, I go, "Yeah, but you didn't mean it. So, who else?"

Shaking his head, "No one else. I told you the first time we kissed that I hadn't messed around like that for six months and I'd just started getting the itch again when you popped up at the high school's outdoor basketball courts that day. Then you seduced me over time, and I didn't have a chance. It's all your fault."

I kind of like that answer. Settling for that, I give my questioning interrogation a rest. We have another cigarette, kiss, and make out until our boners are leaking precum again. Billy mutters, "Get a condom. I want to use a condom this time. It hurts my dick forcing it into your tight ass without lubricant."

Hugging him around his neck, the sides of our faces together, I murmur in his ear, "Do me like this, Billy. I'll lift and sit on your hard dick."

He says, "Please, get a condom, Gary!" Then more gently, "I don't like hurting your miracle ass, or my dick."

Reluctantly, I get off him and grab my jeans. Going into a pocket, I get a condom, muttering, "You like to say we do everything my way, but it doesn't seem like that."

Smiling, Billy goes, "Don't whine. Anyway, I say you always get your way, but I don't actually believe it. You, not me, appointed me our leader, right? I'm the guy, and you're the what?"

Grinning, "I'm your girl/guy who needs to do what I'm told."

Nodding, he goes, "Yeah, there ya go! You're my girl-guy boyfriend, as you call yourself. It's silly, but I gotta say, your attitude in that regard has been a tremendous help in allowing me to be okay with us being boyfriends, that and your magical rectum, heh-heh. Oh, our magical twin haircuts. I now can see that all of that has been part of your seduction over helpless me."

I mutter, "What an amazingly intricate bullshit rationalization, Billy," and soon we're deep into messing around fucking doggy style. The squeal I let out when climaxing was surreal. Hell, I almost passed out.

This time Billy did it slow for six or seven minutes, me quietly moaning in a sea of pleasure that was so deliciously dreamy it felt like we were floating around in the back of the SUV. When the slapping sound began, "Slap, slap, slap," those background sounds joined desperate building-climax grunts and groans from both of us.

I could tell when Billy's moans had a touch of urgency in them, indicating he'd begun his race to hook up with his climax. Then, before his climax blew, that's when mine burst on the scene. It happened so quickly it took me by surprise and I made that banshee squeal as cum, creamy and hot, sizzled out my hard dick burning my piss slit perfectly, then puddling under me on the van floor.

I was shaking so hard, black dots floating in my vision, that Billy smacked my ass and humped against it so forcefully I collapsed on the van's floor, cum under my chest. He did two more thrusts before making a strange squealing sound himself unloading his sperm into the condom.

Rolling off me, his dick pulling out but still hard enough to be sticking up, the condom bunched and twisted; I gasped, then said, "Do it some more, Billy."

Spent, he waved his arm, shaking his head, and took deep breaths.

Pulling the condom off, he held it up, so I took it from him and threw it out the sliding door to join about twenty other condoms thrown out of this SUV.

Billy mumbles, "Thanks, Gary," then he rolls up onto his side, smiling, "That was also some good messing around, wouldn't you say? We're on a roll tonight."

I'm on my knees, pulling more Handi wipes packets from the pouch, "Yes, that was good, um, or maybe incredibly good is a better critique."

Chuckling, he mutters, "Critique. I like that word, and I agree incredibly good is what that messing around was. Jesus, we are really something special together."

Sitting up, he takes a packet and uses Handi wipes to clean his now flaccid dick, wistfully mumbling, "I wonder if our messing around will ever get routine or old, ya know?"

I'm wiping the floor where my spunk made a gooey wet spot, "You can stop wondering about that because I've got the answer. The answer is no; it won't."

Smiling, he wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me over on top of him, saying, "I hope you're right, but I still wonder about that."

I'm hoping for more buddying up, but one kiss will have to suffice. Then he says, "Get dressed; I've got an eight o'clock class tomorrow."

Driving back to the neighborhood, we make plans for tomorrow. Billy says, "I don't need to drive Ron home because his car's been fixed, and my last class is over at noon, so I'll pick you up at one o'clock, and we'll get my 'effing glasses."

I'm like, 'I'm excited to see you wearing then."

He mutters, "That makes one of us."

At my house, he asks, "Is your Mom working the late shift tomorrow?"

Shaking my head, "No, the early shift. She gets home at one o'clock every day for the next week."

He shrugs, "Damn. We'll think of something, though."

Billy means we'll think of a way to mess around, maybe in his garage again. Oh, boy, I don't care where we do it; messing around with Billy wearing glasses! Jeez, what will that be like?

Pat calls later, but we agree it's too late to hang out tonight. I don't mention that Billy's getting eyeglasses tomorrow. That seems like private stuff between Billy and me.

Then Friday, I eat breakfast but skip lunch, figuring Billy, and I will eat lunch together after he gets his glasses. He wouldn't have had time to eat lunch driving right from college after his last class.

After saying bye to my Mom when she left for her job, I puttered around all morning. At five of one, I went outside to wait for Billy, nervous about him getting eyeglasses. It has to be traumatic for him--me too, but in a different, less personal way.

Billy doesn't arrive until twenty after one, and Pat is in the passenger seat. What? Fuck!

As I'm getting in the SUV's second-row bench seat behind Pat, Billy says, "Sorry for being so late, but that Goddamn traffic going through Philly is horrendous! Horns are blowing; people giving everyone the finger, yelling at red-faced angry faced strangers. It's a nightmare! I can't wait until we're living near the campus."

Ha-ha, he said all that as if being late is an unusual occurrence for him.

Pat turns in his seat, holding his fist out, and as I bump fists with him, he says, "Hey, Gary, whassup?"

"Oh, um, hi, Pat."

He goes, "You're surprised to see me, but I was outside when Billy dropped off his textbooks, and I asked him if I could come along."

I mumble, "That's great." Then to Billy, "I'm sorry you had a shitty drive."

He makes eye contact with me in the rearview mirror, sort of with a resigned expression. I interpret that as him saying he didn't expect Pat to leach onto us. I shrug and grin like it's okay, although it isn't.

Trying to be supportive, I cheerily say, "I think you're going to look so cool wearing glasses, Billy, and your wild drives through Philly will be a thing of the past in less than three months."

Pat says, "I hope you'll reconsider letting me share the apartment with you guys. It'll cut the cost down to one-third each. I won't interfere in your, um, boyfriend, um, thing. I promise."

Billy's calming down about the troublesome ride. Then, as he does so well, he ignores what he doesn't want to hear; in this case, Pat's begging to be part of our apartment in the fall. Instead, Billy says, "I'm not so sure about the eyeglasses bukllshit, but you're right, Gary. The end is near for me needing to drive in Philadelphia traffic."

Nodding, I say, "Not only will you look cool wearing glasses, but seeing better wearing glasses will make everything easier for you, ya know?"

He goes, "Goddamn, you're so supportive of me; you calm me down, Gary. Have you ever heard the song, Bridge Over Troubled Water?"

Huh? "What?" Then, shrugging, I mutter, "Um, no, I don't think so."

Pat jumps in, saying, "That's a tune by that old duo, Simon and Garfunkel, right? Paul Simon must ne ninety yesrs old by now, and he was ninety percent of the talent between those two."

Stopping at a red light, Billy ignores what Pat said and turns his head to tell me, "In that song, you, Gary, are like the person singing it, being fantastically supportive of the other person, meaning me."

I'm like, "Yeah?"

Still looking back nat me, he says, "Uh-huh. Well, In the song, the other person is a girl, but it could apply to a friend just as easily. I found a version on YouTube of the song by Elvis Presley that was stunningly good. He made the song his own. You should check out Elvis' performance. Um, you too, Pat."

Pat says, "How'd you happen apon and Elvis song?"

Blowing the SUV's horn at a lady taking her time jaywalking crossing the street in front of us, Billy says, "There are many channels on YouTube with people hearing a song for the first time and reacting to the performance of an artist they haven't heard before. It's a cool premise. For some reason, young black guys have most of the channels I've seen so fafr. The black guys love Elvis."

Pat mutters, "Elvis Presley, really? He's like been dead for what, fifty years or something?"

Billy goes, "So 'effing what? I like listening to old artists on YouTube. I mean, when the artists were young bacl in the nineteen-seventies or something. It's cool seeing the reactions of young guys today who are in their twenties, many of them, as I said, our black brothers. They all agree that Elvis is king."

Unfamiliar with Simon and somebody, plus never having heard an Elvis song in my life, I'm unable to come up with anything worthwhile to say to that, so, as Billy does in situations like this, I completely ignore what he said, asking, "You aren't going to be late for your eyeglasses appointment, are you?"

Shaking his head, Billy mumbles, "No, I don't have an appointment. They only take appointments for exams. Otherwise, it's a first come, first served sort of thing. Pain in the 'effing ass, actually."

The store is in the mall, and when we walk into the store, it's not a pain in the 'effing ass because a woman comes right over asking, "Can I help you, boys?"

Billy gives her a receipt for his eyeglasses. She looks disappointed, saying, "Have a seat, honey, and I'll get your eyewear for you." Honey? Eyewear?

Billy sits, muttering, "I guess she thought she'd make a commission from a sale instead of servicing someone else's sale."

Pat's standing, looking around, muttering, "Jesus Christ, look at all these glasses."

I pull a chair over from another desk and sit next to Billy, trying to pump him up, saying, "The lady seems nice, though."

He gives me a raised eyebrow expression as if he couldn't care less that she's nice. Well, he's not happy about getting eyeglasses; not at all. I feel bad for him. I smile, saying, "You're going to look so cool, Billy."

He rolls his eyes, muttering, "Yeah, right."

Pat stands behind me, leaning over with his hands on my shoulders, saying, "Why didn't you get contacts, Bill? Glasses are a pain in the ass, always needing to be cleaned and getting broken when you sit on them. At least my Mom has those problems with hers."

Rolling his eyes at me, making me grin, Billy looks up at Pat and goes, "Oh yeah? Is that so? Then why doesn't your mom have contacts? And don't call me Bill."

Before Pat can reply, the lady sits across from Billy, putting a plastic container on the desk. In the container are Billy's hornrimmed glasses and two other things.

Bull-shitting Billy, she says, "These glasses are perfect for you, William. Good choice." She would say that if they were the ugliest glasses, she'd ever seen.

Billy says, "Why are they perfect?"

She smiles her phony smile, and Billy smiles back, asking, "Or do you say that to everyone?" She does her automatic smile again but doesn't say anything about that.

The lady is adjusting a machine on the desk, saying, "Put your eyes against this device so I can adjust your glasses to ensure your pupils will be in the center of each lens."

He looks into the machine's eye-openings on one side, and the lady looks at the ones on the other side. Pat and I exchange eye rolls, like, really? I don't think that machine does anything except make a customer feel this technology is worth paying almost $500 for a pair of 'effing glasses.

The lady says, "Good," and they both sit back as she makes minute adjustments to the frames; then, she gently puts the glasses on Billy. It's the first time I've seen him in glasses. Pat puts his hand over his mouth, making a snickering sound, then turns away, pretending to relook at a case of women's eyeglasses.

It's a bit startling to see Billy with glasses on, but honestly, he looks good. He also appears embarrassed, not looking at me, so I want to hug him and convince him that he looks handsome, intellectual, and cute with the glasses on.

The lady asks, "How do they feel? Are they loose on you? Shake your head a little. See if they feel secure."

Billy's blushing a little, mumbling, "They're fine. Is there anything else?"

She gently takes the glasses off Billy, saying, "I'll clean them for you."

Then, holding up an eyeglass case, she adds, "Here is a complementary case to keep your glasses in when you're not wearing them."

Still not looking at me, Billy mutters to the lady, "I'll take the glasses in the case instead of wearing them for now."

She finishes cleaning the eyeglasses, puts them in the case, and says, "You really should wear these and not your old glasses because this is your adjusted, proper lens prescription."

"I don't have old glasses. These are my first pair."

She sternly says, "Well, wear these then," and she takes them out of the case and again gently puts the glasses on Billy."

I can hardly believe Billy let her get away with that stern horseshit, but he says nothing as his blush gets brighter. Resigned, he mumbles, "Oh, okay then," and stands.

She hands him the case, saying, "Come in anytime for free adjustments, and thank you for trusting Lens Crafters for your eyewear needs."

Billy mumbles, "Okay," and turns away, saying to Pat and me, "Let's go."

The three of us walk out of the shop as Billy puts his glasses in the case, with me saying, " You should wear your glasses, Billy. You look cool with them on. Seriously, you do?"

Pat says, "Yes, you just need to get used to wearing glasses."

I grab Billy's arm, saying, "Stop, Billy. Put your glasses on, please."

He makes a grumpy face, "Oh, alright. If it will please you, I'll wear these 'effing things," and he takes the glasses out of the case, puts the case in his pocket, then puts his glasses on and looks around.

He tries not to, but he has half a smile on his face, saying, "Holy shit! Everything is so brilliantly clear. Christ, I suppose these 'effing glasses are pretty good. Maybe I'll order a pair of prescription sunglasses too."

He continues looking all around with amazement like he can't believe what he's seeing. I grin, then hug him around the waist, whispering, "I love you. You look fabulous."

Billy says sternly, "Stop it! Not here, Gary," and I let go of him.

He mutters, "Jeez, though, wow," and we start walking again. I'm like, "Should we have lunch here?"

Pat says, "I already had lunch at home, but I could go for a soda."

At the food court, Billy and I order subs and Cokes from the Subway booth, and Pat gets a Coke, all of us paying for what we ordered. We sit at a table for four to eat and drink what we bought, me staring at Billy, which isn't an unusual thing for me to do.

His glasses draw my eyes, and I look right at them. They highlight his big shiny brown eyes and, yeah, the glasses give him an intelligent look plus, I don't know, they make him look trustworthy too, or something. And I'm not shoehorning myself into thinking this; he's actually cute with the glasses on. Somehow they make his facial feature more compatible than without the glasses.

We eat and drink in silence for two minutes, Billy looking around at things as he chews, me continuing to stare at him. Then Pat tells us about his mom coincidentally meeting my mom at the market while she was grocery shopping.

He goes, "Unbelievable, but Mom stopped your mom, without having a clue she was your mom, to ask what aisle detergents were in, telling her we just moved to Maple Street from Delaware, and your mom asked if she had a son named Pat."

Looking away from Billy, I look at Pat, "Seriously? Holy crap, I mentioned to Mom in passing a new guy moved in across the street from Billy, and she remembered your name."

Still looking around at everything, Billy mutters, "Moms seek each other out somehow."

Pat says, "Mom says your mom was super-nice, Gary. She says your mom wants to have us over for dinner sometime to welcome us to the neighborhood. They talked for fifteen or twenty minutes."

Wow, that is a bizarre coincidence. Then, Pat and I exchange eye contact for too long as he makes a kissing gesture that does something with his eyes, smiling. I can't help smiling back, and he puts his finger to his lips like, 'Shh,' as if we have a secret between us that I'm not to tell Billy.

Unconsciously rubbing my junk, I make myself look away. Damn, Pat is very attractive, and I've been catching him staring at me almost as much as I stare at Billy, who is obvious to everything except his new vision at the moment.

Finished lunch, we got up and dumped our trash in the trash receptacle, then Pat casually put his arm across my shoulders, asking, "Hey, do you guys feel like bowling a game or two? It's only two o'clock, and Billy might roll a three hundred game with his new eyesight."

Billy glares at Pat's arm across my shoulders, so Pat lets his arm slip off, asking, "Whaddaya you think, Billy; should we bowl a game or two?"

Shrugging, Billy goes, "What do you say, Gary?"

Then to Pat, "He and I always do what he wants," and I snicker, then Billy does too.

Billy puts his arm around my neck, pulling my head over to bump his, "What's it gonna be, Gary?"

I feel like the most popular guy on campus or something. Blushing, I mutter, "I don't care." Billy goes, "That's my decisive boyfriend."

I'm like, "What do you want to do?"

Billy says, "Let's go bowling," and that's what we do.

Driving us to the bowling alley, me in the front seat now, Billy adjusts his glasses every two minutes, mumbling, "I can't believe everything I've been missing. Four-eyed goon or not, these glasses rock!"

Pat snickers and I say, "You're not a four-eyed goon!"

Billy chuckles, muttering, "I don't care if I am. It's awesome to see like this."

His glasses, unfortunately, do not improve Billy's bowling. Between us, Pat's the bowling king as he's proved to be the golfing king too. He's athletic, probably good at all sports, but not obnoxious about it. He's humble, muttering, "I had some lucky breaks bowling one of my highest scores ever. I think it's because you guys make me feel so welcome. Thanks."

I'm like, "No problem. Um, how are you at basketball?"

He shrugs, "I was on our high school team but didn't get in most games. I was a bench player mostly. Why?"

It's my turn to shrug, "I don't know. You're very good at golf and bowling, so I wondered if you're good at every sport."

We turn in our rented bowling shoes and walk out of the bowling alley as Pat's telling me, "Bowling and golf aren't sports in the truest sense of the word. Yes, they're competition, but a sport needs a defensive element."

I'm like, "Whaddaya mean?"

Walking to the car, Billy's ahead of us, looking all around, seeing things much better now that he has his glasses. Pat puts his arm across my shoulders again, squeezes me, and explains, "Well, it's like this, Bud. Baseball, football, and basketball are examples of what I consider sports because there's a defensive team trying to prevent you from accomplishing what you want to do. For example, no one is trying to interrupt your swing in golf. You alone hit the golf ball, and the crowd isn't even allowed to make a sound."

We discuss that as Billy drives us back to the neighborhood, him still marveling at how much clearer everything appears with his glasses on.

I hesitate to get out at my house because I'm trying to figure out how to confirm that Billy's picking me up tonight. I'd like to do that without dissing Pat, while, at the same time, I don't want him asking to hang out with Billy and me. Unable to think of something fast enough, I mumble, "Your glasses rock, Billy. See ya, Pat," and get out of the SUV.

Going inside, I thought about texting Billy but decided to wait for him to call or text me. I've still got this crazy thing, no matter that we're boyfriends, that I'd rather be invited by a call from him than initiate something myself. I need to do something about that handicap I have, but not right now.

Mom's home, saying, "Hi, sweetheart. Did Billy get his eyeglasses?"

The things she remembers that are going on in my life never cease to amaze me! I nod, "Yes, and he's fascinated at how much better he's seeing with them; plus, he looks good wearing glasses."

I head directly upstairs before Mom has the chance to get me hooked up with an eye exam. I've got the time, so I take a long shower. After drying, I put on deodorant, a tiny spray of AXE body spray, and then get dressed in fresh clothes for Billy tonight.

When I've done all that, I glance at my phone and see a text from Pat: 'I've got the car tonight. I'll pick you up at seven-thirty. You decide what you want to do, and we'll do it.'

Wow, that's awfully ballsy of him, assuming I won't be with Billy tonight. Now I've got to text him and tell him not to pick me up, and, again, I want to do it without hurting his feelings. So, how the hell am I going to do that?

As I agonize about that, my phone pings indicating another text message. Two, actually; both from Billy. A long text, then this shorter one.

The long one is, 'I meant to tell you this afternoon, but my awesome glasses were on my mind big time, and I forgot. I can't get together with you tonight because I'm stuck in the back seat of my old man's car on the way to my grandparent's for dinner. It's over a two-hour drive to Scranton. I've been sitting in the back seat for forty-five 'effing minutes now, seeing details of stuff we're passing I didn't know existed. Then, I remembered I didn't tell you. I'll text you tomorrow. B."

The shorter one is, 'Um, why don't you see what Pat's up to? Maybe you guys can hang out. I'm sorry for disappointing you, but whatever you do, it'll be better than what I'm doing.'

Well, I'll be Goddamn. I don't need to text Pat after all. Hmm, Billy must have told Pat about the Scranton trip, so Pat, assuming I knew, then texted me about picking me up. Okay, he wasn't being all that ballsy about it, I guess. Yeah, but what the hell will we do tonight?

After dinner, I'm already shiny clean for Billy, but he's in Scranton, so I mope around in my bedroom, pacing and trying not to be excited about the possibility of making out with Pat. He's an excellent make-out, and I confess it's kind of cool that he likes me so much. It's flattering and gives me an inkling of how Billy might be feeling when I'm worshiping him as my idol.

There I go, exaggerating. Pat doesn't remotely think of me like that. I'm far from his idol; he wants to get in my pants, is all. No, that goes too far as well. It's a situation, Pat and me, that's in between him really liking me a lot and mostly wanting to mess around fucking me. In there someplace is how Pat feels about me.

The more important question is how I feel about him. It would help if he weren't so cutely attractive. If Pat looked like Walter Moore, I'd have no problem resisting any make-out temptations, but he doesn't look like squash-nose Walter.

Jesus, I'm making too big a deal out of this! Billy invited me to hook up with Pat tonight; he suggested it, so why am I hesitant?

Okay, as Billy would say, calm the 'eff down.

Yeah, Pat's text said we'd do whatever I wanted, so it's up to me. If we make out a little, so what? Billy didn't think it was any big deal when I told him Pat and I did some gay-friends-kissing. I never explained the depth of our making out, so there's that, but Pat and I didn't do any real messing around sexually, so it's all good.

Glancing at my phone, I see it's twenty-after seven. Okay, I go downstairs and tell my parents, "The new kid, Pat, and I are going to hang out. Um, Billy's in Scranton having dinner with his folks and grandparents."

With my puffer coat on, I'm looking on the closet shelf for my new baseball cap with the resort logo as Dad says, "Exactly; what does hanging out entail? I've never understood that all-encompassing term."

As I'm frowning at that, I remember that Pat has my hat. I mutter, "Huh? What that's, Dad?"

Mom says, "I met Pat's mom in the market. She's a lovely person. She told me that Pat has a little sister and he and she are very close. He must be a very nice boy."

Opening the front door, I mutter, "I guess. Um, well, good night," and go down the steps to wait for Pat on the sidewalk. After all these years, I recognize that many of Dad's questions are rhetorical.

Pat, unlike Billy, always seems to be on time or early. He pulls up at seven-twenty-eight, wearing my hat, but without his sister in the car this time. Good start to the evening.

Taking a deep breath... well, here goes. I get in the car, my feet bumping a package on the floor.

Pat says, "Hi, Gary." Seeing me bumping my foot, he mutters, "Um, that's a six-pack of Bud and some nip bottles of VO."

He looks as shiny clean, and fresh as I feel.

"Hi, Pat. You know, when you sent me the text, I didn't know Billy was going to Scranton, so I thought..."

Finishing my sentence, he grins and says, "You thought I had a lot of nerve saying I'd pick you up tonight, right? But Billy told me he'd be away and suggested you and I might want to hang out. Assuming he told you the same thing, I sent the text."

Nodding, taking the hat off Pat, I put it on and mumble, "He texted me about it, but it was after I got your text. Yeah, I'm glad you wanted to hang out."

Getting ready to put my seatbelt on, Pat crooks his forefinger like, come closer, and I'm like, "What?" as I lean over to him.

He grins, takes my hat off, and puts it on his head, saying, "I wanted to be the one returning your hat tonight," then he gives it to me.

Adjusting my hat, I mumble, "Yeah, um, thanks," and he adds, "Let's get the first gay buddy kiss out of the way so you can relax."

I go, "No, that's all right," and he said, "It's pitch black out here. Nobody can see us. Hey, Billy told me to look out for you, so lean over to me again!"

Already I'm in a kind of trance. It's because of that mysterious something he and Billy have that I'm attracted to. I lean over, and, with his hand on the back of my head, we do a five-second sucking kiss that makes my dick squirm in my pants, tightening up.

When I sit back, feeling squirmy, he mumbles, "There, that's out of the way. Relax!"

I'm pushing my dick over to the side as Pat drives away and adds, "That was a sugar-sweet kiss. Um, reach in the bag on the floor and get one of the little bottles, then put your seatbelt on."

Reaching inside the bag, "What's in these tiny plastic bottles?" pulling one from the bag.

Pat says, "I already told you. They're ounce-and-a-half bottles of whiskey. In this case, VO, which is an okay whiskey that's kind of smooth going down. Billy said you've had vodka, so I thought I'd introduce you to whiskey."

Looking at the miniature bottle shaped like a regular-sized bottle, I mutter, "I've had whiskey. Were you and Billy talking about me? I'm not some dweeb, ya know. I've done stuff. And I don't need you looking out for me. That's bull crap."

Glancing at me, he grins, "Jeez, okay! I won't look out for you. I didn't mean anything by that."

I'm offended, asking, "What did Billy tell you, anyway?"

"Oh, nothing. Um, well, he did allude to you being just a bit immature on infrequent occasions; that's basically all he said. Look, Gary, I am older than you and much more experienced, so all I meant was if something happened, and who knows what that might be, I'd look out for you."

Blowing out my cheeks, making a huffing sound, I mutter, "And I just told you, you don't need to do that. I look out for myself, but thanks anyway."

He goes, "I got it, Gary! I won't look out for you, jeez! I'm super sorry I even mentioned it. I apologize."

Shrugging, I mutter, "That's okay."

Grinning, looking over zat mre, he goes, "So, um, if you don't mind, would you unscrew the cap on that little nip bottle you're holding and let me have a taste."

Why do I overreact to shit? It just makes things awkward. Trying to be cheerful, I say, "Sure, absolutely," and twist off the cap.

He turns at the corner, saying, "I'm stopping at McDonald's so we can get small sodas. We'll drink the beer out of McDonald's cups. I don't advise riding around drinking cans of beer."

Holding the tiny bottle and still acting snippy, I go, "Well, nobody in their right mind advises doing that."

He mutters, "Right. Take a swig of VO and pass me the bottle."

There's Pat's confident order-giving attitude again. He sneaks that bossiness into things now and then, and he does it very well too. Damn, though, I want a swig of this whiskey like I want to step in a pile of dog shit. Yeah, well, I started on the wrong foot tonight, though, so I swallow some VO and gasp, muttering, "Smooth? Holy crap, you call that smooth?"

Pat laughs, "Relatively speaking, it is smooth. I mean, it is when, for example, it's compared to Four Roses or Seagram 7 or even lesser brands. Let me have the rest of what's in there."

He takes the little bottle and finishes it, then rolls down the electric window and tosses it out. I try tossing out the cap, but he rolled the electric window up too fast, and the cap bounces off the window and hits the side of Pat's head. He laughs, then glances at me, grinning and saying, "I already said I'm sorry for offending you, ha-ha. You don't need to throw shit at me."

Muttering, "Sorry, I didn't know you would roll the window up so fast."

Still chuckling, Pat pulls into the McDonald's parking lot that's shared with a strip mall's parking lot. I guess it's too cold tonight for guys to hang out here as they usually do. Pat asks, "Do you wanna come in with me when I get the sodas?"

I finished dinner an hour ago, but the VO is rolling around in my stomach, so I mumble, "Yeah, I'll come in. I want to buy an order of French fries to soak up the VO."

Grinning, he says, "Sure, but you barely had enough to wet your tongue. It felt like I swallowed the whole nip bottle myself."

Getting out of the car, I grumble, "Whaddaya talking about; I drank half of it."

He grins at me, putting his arm across my shoulders and giving me a look like... half the bottle, really?

Walking inside McDonald's, I realize we're not getting along very well so far tonight. It's mostly my fault because I'm too defensive about everything he says. Actually, I should have stayed in tonight.

No, that's not right; I need to be more sociable like almost everybody else. Following Pat, we stand behind two girls in line to order when I hear, "Yo, Gary! I didn't know you were allowed out without Underwood."

Turning around, I see Spike Nichols and say, "Oh, hi, Spike. Billy's in Scranton. And, ball buster, I'm allowed out whenever I feel like going out."

He grins, "Just kidding with you, Gary. Wassup?"

He's at a table near the entrance with Bobby Brown and stuck up Judy Myers. Bobby says, "Hey, I'm glad we ran into you, Wallingford. We're organizing a two-hand touch game tomorrow at the high school. So, are you ready for some football, bro?"

See, that's how I usually get invited to do stuff... extemporaneously. I go, "Sure, what time?"

Spike says, "One o'clock, be there or be square."

Grinning, I'm like, "Oh, an idiom from the '60s, huh, Spike?"

Looking confused, he goes, "What the hell's an idiom? Just be there, and tell Underwood too."

Nodding at him, I see stuck-up Judy Myers explaining to Spike what an idiom is. Pat and I place our order for two Hi-C orange drinks and medium fries. Billy likes Hi-C, so I order it even though it's like water with a slight artificial orange flavor that's almost similar to real orange flavor.

Walking to the door, past the table Spike and the others are at, I slap hands with Spike. He goes, "I learned a new word tonight, Wallingford. See you tomorrow, and bring Underwood."

Nobody asked who Pat was, but I suppose it was my responsibility to have introduced him. Billy would have done that smoothly, but I don't have a knack for doing that sort of thing. I wasn't sure when was the proper time to do it, and then it was too late.

Outside, with the bag of fries in my hand, somebody snatches my hat off my head, saying, "Where's your boyfriend, Wallingford?"

Turning around, I see Ron Smark, the neighborhood bully wearing my hat. Quick as a wink, Pat snatches my hat off Ron's head, saying, "What the fuck's your problem, dude?"

Ron looks startled, then goes, "Who the hell are you? Mind your own business, asshole."

Pat hands me the hat, and I put it on. Now's my chance to do an introduction. Smiling to help defuse the situation, I say, "Hi, Ron, um, this is Pat Summers. He moved in across the street from Billy last week. Pat, meet Ron Smark."

Pat shows a friendly grin, then holds out his fist, mumbling, "Nice to meet you, Ron."

Looking unsure what he should do, Ron bumps fists with Pat. "Yeah, okay. How ya doing," then to me, "Are Bobby and Spike inside?"

I nod, "Yep, with Judy Myers."

He nods a few times, still uncertain what to do, and then walks toward the door. He stops, looks back, and asks, "Where's Underwood tonight?" I say, "Scranton," as if that explains anything

Ron nods again, still looking confused about what just happened, then says, "There's a two-hand touch game tomorrow that you might want to show up for." I nod, "Yep, one o'clock, right?"

He nods for the third time, looks at Pat again, then goes inside.

Pat and I walk to his car as I tell him, "That was the neighborhood bully. He didn't know what to make of you."

He goes, "He's a big motherfucker, huh?"

I go, "Uh-huh, but you shocked him, I think." Then chuckling, I pat Pat's shoulder, mumbling, "Thanks for looking out for me."

Grinning, he nods, "No, that wasn't looking out for you. I promised not to do that."

Inside the car, Pat gets the motor going. I'm now holding the bag containing the two small drinks, plus the bag with the French fries. "Where we going, Pat?"

Driving out of the parking lot, he says, "If it's okay with you, I'd like to drive around town and the outskirts to familiarize myself with my new home territory."

I say, "Sure, of course,'' and I direct him to the high school, saying, "The high school has outdoor basketball courts and a great field for playing football or softball games. Do you want to play in tomorrow's two-touch game? Get to meet more of the guys from the neighborhood."

He goes, "Yeah, sure. I was the quarterback for the junior varsity team but got beat out for that spot on the varsity team by this unlikely four-eyes asshole who had this ginormous fat ass and couldn't run for shit. Goddamn, it was embarrassing losing out to him."

I mutter, "Jeez." He goes, "Um, bro, would you pass me a soda?"

I do that, and he pours the soda out the window, mumbling, "Could you crack open a beer for me now, please."

I do that, then fill his cup with half a can of Bud, then drink some of my soda before pouring the rest out the window. Pouring the rest of the can of beer into my cup, I mutter, "Damn, I could go for a smoke. When I drink, I crave a cigarette."

We share the French fries as Pat drives. He says, "No way can we smoke in the car. I told you about my folks being reformed smokers. Holy shit, now that they've had their turn to smoke cigarettes for years, they don't want anyone else smoking."

We drive around drinking beer, with me pointing out the bus stop Pat will take to get to the 69th train, or elevator, as some call it. Then we park and walk inside the 69th Street building so Pat can see the train depot and the stores and whatnot. Outside again, we walk back to the car with me pointing out the Tower Theater and the various stores for men's clothing, an oldies record store, cigar store, and fifteen other stores. He goes, "This is where to shop, huh?"

I go, "Either here or the mall, where I normally buy stuff."

In the car again, we share another nip bottle of VO, then fill cups with beer and randomly drive around until I ask, "Where are we going now, Pat?"

He asks, "How do we get to that Sears parking lot we were at last week with Billy? We can get a good buzz on there."

I hesitate, so he glances at me, "No worries, Bud. We're not going to make out, so don't get that doubtful look on your cute face. Not that I don't want to make out with you, you understand. It's what you want; that's what we'll do."

He said all that definitively as if it's set in stone, so that's what we're doing. I should protest, but, of course, I don't. It's like I find it hard to disagree with Billy or Pat because of that indescribable something they both have that I'm strongly attracted to. And because I like feeling this buzzing in my dick.

I mumble, "I don't have any kind of doubtful look on my face. It's a right turn here, Pat..."

To be continued... donnymumford@outlook.com

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