Invited

Chapter 27

( Elvis )

Friday night, Pat parks his Jeep Cherokee behind the Sears dumpster, a familiar routine for me, but the first time I've been here with just Pat. He leaves the motor running, saying, "Okay, Bud, bring the rest of the six-pack and nip bottles, and we'll get in the back seat where there's more room.

Did he confuse my name with the Bud beer he bought? Maybe he's nervous. Surprisingly, I'm not.

As I grab the bag at my feet, Pat opens the driver's side door, adding, "Bring my cup too. I'd rather drink from a cup than a can."

Well, yes, Sir!

Grinning at his bossiness, I go, "Uh-huh," and go out the passenger door with the bag in one hand and our McDonald's cups in the other. Pat has that mysterious something I'm attracted to, although he's merely being himself. When he tells me to do something, it makes my dick tingle. It's his more mature-sounding voice, I think. Billy has more of a youthful boyish sounding one.

Pat doesn't look older than nineteen, though; he just sounds older. That's contrasted with all three guys we saw at McDonald's tonight who are nineteen or twenty but could pass for twenty-five or older. It's partially their trendy short beards, or maybe they're not trying for a trendy look; maybe they're simply too lazy to shave.

Beards or not, lots of guys get their mature looks in their later teen years, while the guys I'm most interested in, George, Billy, and now Pat, still have teenage looks. What's that tell me? I don't know.

Anyway, when Pat and I are in the backseat, naturally, I assume he'll try making out with me, but he doesn't. He says, "Let's share another one of those VO whiskey nips."

Yeah, why the hell not? So, I get one from the bag, twist off the cap, and mutter, "Um, seriously, I feel I should chip in for the beer and VO. It's not right that you pay for everything."

Pat's eyebrows go up as if he's surprised, "Christ, you're the first person I've ever known who volunteered to do that. No thanks, though; it's my treat tonight."

Mumbling, "Gee, thanks, Pat," I try swallowing half the little bottle of whiskey, my eyes watering. Gasping, I mutter, "No, not real smooth at all." My mouth waters as if I'm about to throw up. I don't throw up, though. Handing the little bottle to Pat, I gasp, "I like vodka better."

He swallows the remaining VO in the ounce-and-a-half little bottle without even making a face, then says, "Once you get used to it, you'll like whiskey too. I should have told you to pop the top on a beer so you could have a swig of beer after the VO. My bad, but snap open a beer now. We'll share it as I show you what I've downloaded for you."

Downloaded? Is he going to show me porn videos?

Snapping the tab on a can of Bud, I'm like, "Um, what is it you're going to show me?"

He pulls an Apple ten-inch iPad from the pouch hanging from the back of the driver's seat, saying, "Remember when Billy mentioned how you're like the guy singing that song "Bridge Over Troubled Water? You know, because of you being wicked supportive of Billy."

Nodding, "Um, yeah, I remember him saying something like that, but I never heard the song, so..."

He says, "Well, the song is about supporting and being on the side of a friend. The words are meant to be about a girl, but the basic meaning could be a guy being supportive of a guy friend. Anyway, Billy was talking about a version of that Simon and Garfunkel song performed by Elvis Presley, which is mostly what caught my attention. I mean, it's Elvis Presley, the king of rock and roll!"

Doing a little shrug, I mutter, "Elvis Presley, huh? Obviously, everybody in the world has heard of him, but I've never actually heard an Elvis song, nor that bridge song by the other guys either, so I can't relate to much of what Billy said about any of it."

Pat gives me a frowning look, so, somehow, he must feel I'm letting him down. I can't imagine why, though. Anyway, pulling on the bill of my Florida resort hat, I mumble, "But, yeah, I mean, I'm interested. It sounds, um, so... So, you've downloaded Elvis, huh?"

Pat mutters, "Duh, how'd you guess?"

Ignoring that, I snap the tab on a beer, and gulp beer directly from the can, hoping to get the taste of whiskey out of my mouth, not that beer tastes a helluva a lot better.

Pat goes, "So, obviously, you never checked out the Elvis YouTube performance that Billy suggested we listen to?"

Shaking my head, I pour the rest of the beer into Pat's cup and hand it to him; then, sounding defensive now, I mutter, "No, not yet. I forgot about it, to tell you the truth."

Then, I'm grinning, watching Pat try to gulp some beer from the almost overflowing cup I gave him. He swallows a big gulp, then gives me a mischievous look, muttering, "Nice try, but I didn't spill a drop."

I go, "Whatever do you mean?" and we chuckle, then he says, "Well, I checked out what Billy suggested, then downloaded the best examples of Elvis' live performances so you can see what Billy was talking about. And let me tell you, I was just as shocked as some of the guys from the YouTube channels who reacted to this song. Everyone loved Elvis' voice and especially his performance of this first one, "Bridge Over Troubled Water'."

Snapping open another can of beer, swallowing from the can, not especially interested. I remember watching YouTube music videos and learning to dance. Never one by Elvis, though.

I shrug, "Okay, sure, although I don't know much about music in general, Elvis or otherwise."

Hell, the only reason I'm the slightest bit interested in any of this is that Billy recommended it, and he may ask me if I looked up the video.

I turn my hat around, so the bill is at the back now. Pat makes an exasperated sound and takes the hat off my head, dropping it on the front passenger seat.

I'm like, "Hey!"

He ignores that, saying, "The young guys on Youtube who reacted to the songs annoyingly stopped the performances two or three times because of a copyright requirement, so I downloaded live performances without reactions from anyone; just the performances."

Gulping beer, I mutter, "Uh-huh."

I'm a little pissed about Pat fucking with my hat all the time, but relieved there are only three videos to watch. Plus, I've got whiskey gurgling around in my stomach, so I'm like, "Um, can we smoke a cigarette before you start? Smoking settles my stomach when I'm drinking straight booze."

He rolls his eyes, making a face as if he's annoyed or disappointed or something, mumbling, "We don't need to watch these 'effing videos at all if you don't want to."

Ha! Billy has me saying 'effing all the time, and now he's got Pat saying it too. 'Effing this, 'effing that.

Shaking my head, "No! Don't be like that, Pat; I want to see them, but I just thought we could..."

He goes, "Sure! Why the hell not? Christ, let's both get out your side. C'mon, let's go, Bud."

Yeah, he's annoyed that I'm not more interested in watching the videos but come on... Elvis Presley? He's been dead for over fifty years! Not wanting to ruin Pat's plans totally, though, I mumble, "No, that's okay; I'll watch the videos first if you want."

Taking his box of Marlboro reds out of his pocket, he says in his adult-condescending-sounding voice, "Please, get out, Gary. We'll have a smoke first, as you want. It's no big deal when we watch the 'effing videos."

Feeling chastised, I get out to stand next to the door. Pat slides out, closes the door, and forces a smile, "Forget that I spent almost two hours watching videos to pick out the best three for you. As I said, we don't need to watch them."

Two hours? Oh, right! I'm so sure I'm not going to watch them now!

I say, "I want to watch them, Pat, really! I'm just not used to chugging whiskey. I'm sorry, okay?"

He mumbles, "I didn't know the VO didn't agree with you," and he puts both arms around me, hugging me face to face, the Marlboro box in his right hand poking my back. "Don't get upset, Gary. It's alright."

He kisses my lips, adding, "I'm excited because I'm betting you'll be just as shocked at how amazingly good Elvis is as I was."

Nodding, I'm like, "Well, yeah, now I'm curious because both you and Billy think these videos rock." Not really...

"As a heads-up, I need to tell you these performances are not what you'd call rock music per se. Um, well, you'll see. And, Omigod, Elvis is so fucking handsome and hot on top of everything else, ha-ha, plus his bling is blinding!"

Pat's on a roll now, saying excitedly, "These live performance videos are from between 1968 to the early '70s, and his voice! Holy shit, he's fantastic. Unfortunately, videos of him from later years are scary to look at. It's hard to believe how fat and drug-addled he got near the end, but we won't watch those."

Nodding, I go, "Jesus! Whatever you say, but, um, why did he get fat?"

Leaving his left arm around me, he ignores my question, probably because he doesn't know the answer. Flicking up the top of the Marlboro box with his thumb, he jerks the box up and lips a cigarette out of the box, grinning and asking, "Do you got a light, Bud?"

Grinning back at his super-attractive face, I go, "No, but I'll bet you do," and reach into his coat pocket, coming out with a Bic lighter.

He says, "Damn, I wish I had the Bic in my jeans. It'd be cool feeling your hand squeezed into my side pocket."

Lighting his cigarette, I reach to the box to get one for myself, but he flicks the lid shut, using his thumb again, mumbling, "No, we'll share this one the way you know who does it with you."

Grinning, I'm like, "Oh, are you going to get the filter wet with spit like Billy does?"

Grinning around the cigarette, the cigarette bobbing as he says, "Yep, of course."

Chuckling, I take it from his lips and drag off the saliva-saturated filter. Exhaling away from Pat, I carefully put the cigarette back between his lips, and mutter, "You're supposed to be doing this part."

Still grinning, he mutters, "I'm changing it up a little."

Silently, we smoke the cigarette down to a stub. Pat's arms stayed around me the whole time, me comfortably leaning into him and, after a drag, holding the cigarette to Pat's lips. It feels sexy as hell doing it that way. No, it's not disloyal of me to recognize that it's sexy being with Pat. Especially since Billy's sexier.

The temperature is a little above freezing tonight, and inhaling the cold air has revived me somewhat. The horrid VO effect has drifted off. There is no wind tonight, so it's almost pleasant, a million shining stars in the clear black night sky above. Sharing body heat with Pat helps too.

Then, as I step on the cigarette butt, Pat murmurs, "Damn, you know, I could be the best boyfriend for you ever, Bud." Then louder, he goes, "And I know, I know that's not happening, just saying. Anyway, you had a smoke, so are you ready to watch the videos?"

Nodding, "Yes, now I'm kind of anxious to see what all the fuss is about."

I'm pretty sure Pat's only interested in this Elvis stuff because Billy's interested in it, and Pat's copying him. Then, I expect to be kissed again. Instead, Pat drops his arms, opens the car door, and gets in the back, mumbling, "It's nice and warm in here."

Before he slides over to sit where he was before, behind the driver's seat, he gets a beer and VO nip bottle from the bag on the floor. Then, looking back at me, he grins, saying, "There are only two beers and two nips left."

I mumble, "Oh, too bad."

Actually, as far as I'm concerned, that's two of each too many. Still, Pat's gone to some trouble trying to make tonight special, so I'm not going to spoil it for him. He's a generous and fun guy to hang out with. Plus, I've got to say, I'm impressed by the restraint he's shown tonight. Only two quick kisses and neither one required me to kiss back. Two quick kisses are okay for gay friends to do, right?

Inside the Jeep, I need to be right next to Pat to watch his iPad head-on. The picture is distorted when looking from the side. Pat puts his arm across my shoulders, but I hardly take note of it.

He says, "Open these for me, Bud," handing me the beer and nip bottle. Then he mutters, "Okay, finally, I'll bring up the first video."

Taking the beer and nip bottle from him, I twist off the small bottle caps, chuckling and asking, "What's with calling me Bud? Is it because we're drinking Bud beer?"

He blushes slightly, which is a first for him, I think, then says, "Oh, fuck, really? I didn't realize I was calling you Bud. Sorry. Um, ah, well, that's what Leonardo always called me."

Hmm, that's interesting. Leonardo was the guy/guy to Pat, and now Pat must feel he's my guy/guy and subconsciously is calling me his previous girl/guy nickname. He wouldn't think of it in those terms, of course. He'd think of it in the man/boy thing. The boy part is one I don't care for. I do not see myself as a boy; I'm eighteen 'effing years old.

As he's silently scrolling through some videos, for something to say, I ask, "Um, I mean, how in the hell did you manage to find the same videos Billy was talking about? There are two million-billion videos on YouTube."

He mumbles, "As it turned out, it was easy! On YouTube, I typed 'Elvis Bridge...' and immediately, before I could type more, up popped a long list of videos with Elvis singing Bridge Over Troubled Water."

Huh! I go, Oh, that's cool," and he says, "The best one is a remix lasting 4:03 minutes. It's a live performance from Las Vegas in 1972. Omigod, Elvis looks fantastic in this video, but he even looks better in another one that I'll show you later. For that one, I typed "Elvis Ghetto," and a long list popped up. The same for his "I Have A Dream" video. Anyway, here's his Bridge Over Troubled Water performance with what sounds like an orchestra backing Elvis up."

It's a dark video, but on purpose, I think. Pat stares at the screen, takes a swallow of VO, then passes the little bottle to me as he snaps the tab on the beer can. I finish the little VO bottle making a face, then take the can of beer from Pat. As I'm gulping beer, I wish we had another cigarette going.

Without talking, we share the beer in silence, watching and listening to Elvis' performance as he sings, "When you're weary, feeling small...'"

Ya know, I must have seen him before, sometime in my life, right? I don't remember if I did, but holy crap, he's 'effing mesmerizing, and his powerful voice blows me away! I had no idea he could sing like this, but why would I?

The more I watch, it's obvious there is something so cool, so charismatic about him; even the outlandish costume from the '70s seems cool on him. He sings smoothly and effortlessly but with power in his voice when needed. I've never heard anyone with a voice quite like his.

Holding the beer can, my mouth hanging open, I'm fascinated at the incredible finish of the performance. It's a big powerful ending. Then Elvis energetically leads the unseen orchestra, encouraging it to build to a huge crescendo. The audience applauds wildly, and Elvis humbly mumbles a simple 'Thank you' as if it was nothing special, and the picture fades out.

We stare at the blank screen, then look at each other shaking our heads slightly. I murmur, "I've never heard anyone sing like that. The emotion and energy, and pitch-perfect. That was spellbinding; I got chills near the end of it. And the words were so inspiring. Pat, I loved it!"

Nodding, he mutters, "I told you, didn't I? It's not rock and roll, though, right?"

Shrugging, I mumble, "I don't know what to call it. A concert performance, I guess. I've never seen a concert, so maybe this is normal."

Pat says, "I don't think anyone else could sing that song as well. I've never heard anyone with a voice like Elvis Presley's voice."

That's the same thought I just had.

We watched the video two more times; then Pat played the next video with the song 'If I can Dream' from Elvis' 1968 live comeback TV special. It didn't say what he was coming back from; maybe the Army. He's standing on a bare stage with his name, "ELVIS," spelled out big in red light bulbs behind him. Elvis is wearing a white suit with a red tie looking handsome even with goofy big sideburns that were apparently popular at the time.

We're guessing this song, "If I Can Dream," was inspired by MLK's I Have a Dream speech given a few years earlier than the TV special. Plus, we decided that 1968 was around the time of the assassination of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy if we remember our history correctly. In this video, Elvis gives what I consider an awe-inspiring performance. I've never seen a performance like this one by anyone else. Well, I haven't seen a Las Vegas performance by anyone, period, so...

Pat said he looked at a number of "If I Can Dream" videos, and this 3:12 minute official live version is the best. The energy from Elvis' heart and soul, the pure emotion he put into this song about all our brothers walking hand in hand, obviously meaning black and white brothers, was terrific to see and hear. It was inspiring!

Then, we finished the last of the VO and beer while watching "In The Ghetto." Elvis looks even more handsome in this one, and even a bit cute, looking sexy as hell while he's at it.

By now, Pat and I are more than slightly drunk; both emotionally wrung out from rewatching the three emotional videos, and, knowing the words by now, we're singing along with Elvis. We don't feel nerdy doing that, although we are being nerdy, actually. Yeah, booze can reduce inhibitions to a dangerous degree.

Then, not talking, we're staring at a blank screen one second, and the next, we're lying on the back seats making out in a frenzy, our hands all over one another. Pat's mostly on top of me, the edges of the bucket seats digging into my back. Our lips suck together; then tongues dance as the heat of sexual desire rises. He rubs his face back and forth against mine, saliva spreading as he moans, "Bud," and tries getting his hand down the front of my jeans.

Hell, I'd have let him if we hadn't gotten so active that we both tumbled off the seats onto the floor, cramped in between the front of the back seat and the back of the front seats.

Pat and I are both about five-foot-ten inches tall, so with him on top of me; our sweaty faces pressed together, our boners are squeezed together too, and our hearts, hammering fast in our chests, are hammering against one another with our booze breath moist on one another's faces. Luckily, we're both slim because we barely fit in this cramped space, my knees in the air and our feet touching the door behind the driver's seat.

We breathe deeply for thirty seconds, then Pat, with the side of his face now next to mine, murmurs, "Sorry," and tries to get untangled, getting off me. He does a push-up with one hand squeezed next to me on the floor and the other hand on my shoulder; his knee lands on my thigh painfully as he tries pushing up. I go, "OW!" and he again murmurs, "Sorry," moving his knee between my legs.

With his right forearm on the back seat now and his left hand gripping the back of the front seat, he gets up enough to plop his ass on the seat where he was sitting five minutes ago. He holds his hand down; I grip it and manage to sit up, partially stand, then sit next to him, mumbling, "That was random. No need to be sorry, though, Pat. I mean, we didn't do anything that good gay friends wouldn't do, right?"

I'm getting excellent at rationalizing away awkward sexy situations with Pat, but then I've learned how to rationalize from a master rationalizer. Plus, I'm supposed to be trying to be more sociable, so that plays into it as well and helps with rationalizing.

Pat's arm goes across my shoulders, and I snuggle in against him, feeling comfortable like this. He takes a deep breath, then rubs his nose on my forehead, asking, "Has your boner gone down yet, Bud?"

Snickering, I mumble, "Not all the way; no, Bud," emphasizing Bud.

He mumbles, "Oh, fuck. Did I call you that again?"

The alcohol we imbibed tonight has its way with us. With me, for sure, as I tell him, "Yes, you called me Bud, but that's alright." Then turning my head to look at him, grinning, I ask, "How about your boner; has it gone down?"

He mutters, "Not likely. You make my penis hard all the time. Even when you don't realize it, I walk around with a hard-on."

I murmur, "It felt wicked big against my tiny one."

Dammit, I hate that I said that almost before I finished saying it. That was like an invitation for him to show it to me.

Fortunately, Pat's drunk and doesn't pick up on the invitation. Instead, he snickers and says, "I wonder how big Elvis' dick is." We both giggle like thirteen-year-olds looking at a dirty picture in a magazine.

Then, we're silent for so long, snuggling together in this overheated car, I drunkenly doze off until I'm startled to hear Pat's voice, "Do you want to watch the videos again, Gary?"

I sit up, his arm sliding almost off my shoulders, then I mutter, "Let's have a cigarette outside in the cold so I can wake up; then we should take off for home."

He sighs, "Yeah, okay," and we get out of the car. Pat lights a cigarette as I grin, singing slowly at first, "Sail on, Silver boy, sail on by." Picking the tempo up a little, I sing, "Your time has come to shine."

Pat smiles, taking a drag off the cigarette. I pick the tempo up even more, singing louder, "All your dreams are on their way," then sort of shouting, I sing, "See how they shine!"

Pat joins in, "If you need a friend, I'm sailing right behind. Like a bridge over troubled water, I will ease your mind...'

We laugh and hug. Pat mumbled, "What comes next?" I inhale some smoke, and as the smoke drifts out, I go, "He sings, I will comfort you and da, da, da. Like a bridge over troubled water, something, something, something."

Pat goes, "No, he repeats the amazing comment, I will comfort you, and sings the ending with power as nobody else could."

I go, "Yeah, you're right. We've turned into geeks, though, Pat.

Nodding, "Yeah, two Elvis geeks, but, wow, that music, huh?"

Taking a deep inhale of the cold, invigorating air, I go, "Christ, if we lived back then, we'd be two skinny gay guys among a thousand screaming girls, screaming ourselves, ogling Elvis."

He exhales smoke, mumbling, "I wonder if gay guys in the '60s were in love with him?"

Shrugging, "I don't know. I don't know shit about him or his fans, but it would have been a bombastic blast seeing him in person."

Finishing the cigarette, Pat goes, "Bombastivc, ha-ha! Yeah, though, seeing him live had to have been awesome back in the day."

Having said all there is to say about it, we get inside on the front seats of the Jeep. Pat carefully drives us off the parking lot. After a minute, he says, "This was the strangest date I've ever been on, but the coolest too. I'm glad it was with you, Gary. You helped make it fun even though we acted like a couple of nerds."

I go, "Actually, I don't feel very nerdy, and you're the one who made it a lot of fun, but do you know who could sing the songs better than us? Billy, that's who. He has a good singing voice."

As he drives up and stops at the curb next to my house, he mutters, "You had to mention Billy, didn't you?"

I mumble, "Well, he's a friend of yours, and he's my boyfriend, so what's wrong with mentioning him?"

Pat goes, "Nothing, I guess. Let me give you a date-ending kiss, pretending we're boyfriends for tonight," and he holds my face between his hands, giving me a soft sweet lover's-type kiss, then a quick, follow-up one, murmuring, "Goodnight, boyfriend."

Wow, he's super experienced at being gay and, therefore, an expert kisser. I gulp, murmuring, "Goodnight."

Rubbing my head, he grins, saying, "It was a great date, Bud."

Smiling at him with my hat in my hand, I say, "See ya, BUD," saying BUD with emphasis again, then get out of the car, grinning. With a smile and a wave, Pat drives away. It's only a six-block drive to his house, so I'm not worried he'll have a problem getting there.

Getting ready for bed, I'm feeling good about discovering something new and interesting, plus Elvis is now something Billy, Pat, and I have in common. It'll be like our thing, our private Elvis worship thing to goof off about. I've never heard anyone else from the neighborhood even mention Elvis, not even once.

The other thing I learned, well, it's that I had no idea Billy surfed YouTube for music performances, and now I know he does. I wonder what else I don't know about him... yet.

After having breakfast Saturday morning, I was in the bathroom when I heard my phone ringing. Fortunately, I'm done with the toilet necessity and merely washing up, so I take a hand towel with me to dry my hands as I answer the phone. It's Pat's caller ID. I go, "Yo, Elvis geek, what's up?"

"Not much, BUD!" and we chuckle at that, then he goes, "I texted Billy about playing football this afternoon, and he wants to play but can't use his mom's SUV, and I can't use my Mom's car either. Can you drive?"

"I'll ask and call you back."

We hang up with me, muttering to myself, "You, Gary, need to buy a car, dip-shit." I'm more critical of myself than anyone else is, except for Ron-the-asshole Smart, who finds many things to criticize me about.

As I'm going downstairs to ask Mom about the car, Billy calls, "Hi, Billy! How was Scranton, and how are your new glasses working out for you?"

Uninterested in those topics, Billy ignores my questions and says, "Pat tells me you're an Elvis fan now. I told you you'd like him, didn't I?"

I go, "I more than like him. He blew me away, and I listened to the words of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" and you're right, I'm on your side, I'll take your part, so if you need a friend," and he sings, "I'm sailing right behind!"

We laugh, then he goes, "Anyway, Pat told me about the football game at the high school, but I can't use the SUV. Can you drive to the high school?"

I'm like, "Let me check," and hold the phone against my chest, yelling into the kitchen, "Mom, are you using the car this afternoon?"

She steps into the living room, dying her hands on a tea towel, "Please, Gary, don't yell in the house."

Nodding, "Can I use your car at, say, twelve-thirty today?"

Mom goes, "Of course you can. Your Dad's car is here if we need to go somewhere. I'm not working weekends any longer, so yes. you can use the car."

"Thanks, Mom." Walking upstairs, I tell Billy, "Yeah, I've got the car. What time should I get you?"

"No later than twelve-thirty, or the teams will already be filled up for the first game."

I want to ask if he'll wear his new glasses, but have better sense than to ask that. I go, "I missed you last night."

Billy goes, "Ha! Pat told me what a fabulous time you two derelicts had getting drunk on whiskey and Budweiser watching my recommendation Elvis videos."

I go, "Well, yeah, but I still missed you."

He mutters, "You probably did. Call Pat to tell him you're driving. I'll see you in two hours," and click, he disconnects. Nobody says goodbye.

Hmm, I text Pat instead of calling him, and then, in my bedroom, watch the Elvis videos Pat and I saw last night. Huh, he's really good; Elvis is, but I got more emotional about the performances last night being hammered on VO and Bud. Ha-ha, BUD!

I spend ten minutes washing up again, brushing my teeth, then combing my hair. You know, I need to look good because I'm meeting Billy! Before going downstairs, I check my wallet to be sure I have a condom, and I do. Hey, I'm an optimist.

Going outside at twelve-twenty with the car keys, I notice the weather is cooperating. Considering it's the second week of March it is. Yep, it's almost fifty degrees with some weak sunshine. I'm wearing a long-sleeve t-shirt and a heavy hoodie sweatshirt instead of my puffer winter coat, along with jeans and sneakers. I'm ready to run around catching a football and, maybe later, taking it up the ass from my boyfriend. Yeah, Billy and I didn't do it last night, so...

Parking in front of Billy's house, I walk up and knock on the door. Billy isn't wearing his glasses when he answers. No matter, a big smile breaks out on my face. "Hi, Billy! Why aren't you wearing your cool glasses? "

He makes a face, and goes, "C'mon in. Everybody asks me that. I need to get dressed."

He's not ready to go... there's a shocker.

The only things he has on are pajama bottoms and slippers. His chest, his upper body, thrill me. Skin so creamy whiteish, and the subtle muscle definition makes me want to take off my hoodie and shirt so I can squirm my upper body against his.

Billy smiles and nods his head for me to follow him, his slippers making a slapping sound on the small flagstone area at the front door entrance. Then, they're silent on the living room's wall-to-wall carpet.

Closing the door behind me, I eagerly follow Billy, mentioning the obvious again, "You aren't wearing your glasses."

He goes, "Oh, you noticed, huh? You're an observant one, alright."

Catching up to him, I put my arms around his waist, "You look cool with those wicked cool glasses on."

Turning around in my arms, smiling, he says, "You want a kiss, don't you?"

Pressing my face against his, I murmur, "How'd you guess? I missed you."

He kisses me, chuckles, breaking free of my arms. Following him into his messy bedroom, I'm like, "Both your mom's and dad's cars are gone. I guess nobody's home except you and now me."

Shaking his head, "You are an observant motherfucker, ain'tcha? Mom's shopping, and Dad had to go into the office. I almost had to go in with him but got out of it. Christ, I was with them at my grandparent's all 'effing night. I needed some free 'effing time this afternoon to get over the trauma of that, ya know?"

I'm like, "Gee; we've got a few minutes, so can we, you know, mess around a little? Please, Billy!"

He mutters, "Close the bedroom door." As I do that, he drops his pajama bottoms and gives me a smirk when I turn around and see him. He's holding his twin dick in his fingers.

Smiling, I drop to my knees, take his dick in my fingers, then lick it from the base to the head, stifling the urge to moan. Billy rubs my head, then says what I knew he was going to say, "Our twin haircuts are fuzzy. Tuesday, we're going to your uncle's barbershop."

Shrugging at that, I push his penis against his stomach, look up at him, and mutter, "I knew you'd say that," then lick all over his scrotum as he goes, "Well, you were right. One of us needs to stay on top of our magical haircuts."

Grunting, "Uh-huh," I lick under his balls near his anus but can't reach it with my tongue. Billy's feet move around a little as he groans, "Umm, ooh."

Licking the inside of his thigh, then up and over to the top of his scrotum again, then up the shaft of his hardening dick. Sucking the head in between my lips, then lick around it and notice a quick passing taste of urine, then just the awesome smell and taste of Billy's skin. My dick is harder than Billy's by now, and I need to stifle another moan of sexual arousal.

Billy's hands are lightly on the back of my head as he shuffles his feet again, murmuring, "Don't make me cum. I want to do serious messing around with us standing."

That sounds perfect to me. Tightening his fingers at the back of my head, Billy grunts out, "You've got a condom, right?"

Of course, I do! Instead of saying that, I go down on his firm penis once, twice, three times and feel precum in my pants, then precum on my tongue. With a gasp, Billy gently pushes my head away, his hard dick sliding from my mouth to plaster itself against his belly.

"Yes, Billy, of course, I have a condom," and use my forefinger to pull his boner away from his belly and suck it back into my mouth, and mutter around it, "Mmm, it tastes good, Billy."

He pushes out his groin as I go down on his smooth, hard-as-wood boner, the head plugging into my throat. He gasps and steps back, pulling it from my mouth again.

With his hard dick in his fist, he mutters, "I knew you'd have one ."

I stay on my knees, getting the condom from my wallet. After ripping open the square packet, I roll the condom on his steel boner, then stand and drop my jeans and underwear to my knees.

Billy murmurs, "Goddamn, you're hard to resist. Your mouth felt great on my dick, and this is going to feel even better."

I'm tingling with anticipation and can only manage a muttered, "You're the irresistible one," as I turn around and bend over with my hands on my knees. It goes in easier when I'm bending over like this.

With a hand on each side of my hips, Billy makes a breathy exhale and guides the head of his condom-enclosed boner against my tight anus. Holding me steady, his hips do a slight hump which forces the head to slide very tightly inside me as we both groan, "Oh, ahh!"

My stretched asshole sends out some complaining pain from the numerous nerve endings there, making me grit my teeth and scrunch my face for thirty seconds or so until the nerve endings can sort themselves out correctly. Then, I go, "Mmm," as the pleasure nerve endings take over, sending the pain on its way.

Billy murmurs, "Are you okay, Gary?"

Nodding, "It feels so good, Billy; I can't even describe it."

He mutters, "You always say that, and I can't say I disagree with you."

He tightly slides his hard puggy boner further up my rectum as I again moan, "Ummm, Billy, feels good."

When He's tight against my butt cheeks, he humps against them a few times, then bends over, getting his arms around my stomach, and slowly pulls me to a standing position as I moan again, his boner moving into a different position inside me. That's the major factor here; his boner inside me, whatever its position. Part of his body joined with mine. I love that!

My eyes close as the back of my head rests on his shoulder, Billy's arms moving up to my chest. He squeezes and murmurs, "What a fabulous boyfriend you are. I can't convince myself that a girlfriend would ever try pleasing me nearly as much as you do," and he kisses my cheek, then licks under my chin as I grovel with deep sexual pleasure; an exquisite pleasure unknown to most of the world. It doesn't seem possible for very many to have a top guy/guy as perfect as my Billy.

As he's slowly pulling his boned-up sex organ back, the millions of nerve endings that make up my prostate gland vie to see which one can supply me the most pleasure. I shudder, and Billy moves his right arm under my chin, his left arm around my waist, holding me in place; then he pushes his boner back up inside me, getting me shuddering with pleasure again.

The head of his penis swells even fatter and harder as it spreads my bowels. The bowels give way to a more dominant force while at the same time giving me the sense of being filled up totally and perfectly.

Billy does a quiet moan, then steadily moves his boner back and forth inside me again and again as I struggle in his arms, trying to absorb all the fantastic vibrations sparkling in me... a million buzzing pleasure points so numerous it's impossible to keep track of them all which makes me squirm more and go up on my toes, moaning, "Oooh, ooh, um, Billy."

I know that Billy's in his own world of sexual pleasure, making quiet grunting sounds at every inch that his hard dick moves slowly but steadily inside me, but that's a fleeting thought as my own sexual pleasure has the vast majority of my attention. After saying that, though, there isn't a second that I'm not aware that it's Billy, my boyfriend and lover providing this pleasure for me. That knowledge elevates the pleasure to vast mountain tops, and I know no one could do it as well.

Billy's apparently in a pleasure zone; he doesn't want to quit it as he continues the slow penetrations and withdrawals for, well, I don't know how long, but long enough that my dick is a steel spike sticking straight out from my body throbbing and dripping precum, drip, drip, drip. A gasp from Billy indicates he's finally punched his climax button.

His arms tighten around me as he begins the run down to catch his irrisistable climax, and his quiet grunts and groans are sounding more and more desperate. My body gets like a steel wire, and I, too, feel the need to climax, not that I have much control over it.

Rougher and faster thrusting, Billy's boner harder than ever as he pounds it back and forth inside me, my prostate in a state of frenzy, zipping out pleasure in an ever-increasing torrent as the slapping sounds of Billy's groin smacking against my buttocks fills his bedroom. "Slap, slap, slap.

The slapping sounds and me moaning, "Ah, ahh, ahhh, ahhhh!" as cum exploded from my iron dick, shooting straight out to splash against the second row of drawers in the bureau three feet in front of me.

I'm trying to bend forward, but Billy holds me upright as the pleasure of a lifetime streams around my cock, spreading out hotly to my back and up my spine. An almost painful pleasure that feels better than anything!

One last hard thrust from Billy, him lifting his hips, making me go up on my toes again, his body now like a steel rod. With a grunt, his steel rod penis blasts out his load of cum, with him shaking a little.

With a quiet moan, Billy loosens his hold on me. Bending forward, I gasp as Billy humps his cock in my rectum a half dozen times, then steps back, moaning, "Umm, oh, mm, fuck, that was awesome..."

Deep breathing, then he slaps my ass, grunting, "I can't catch my 'effing breath. Holy shit, ha-ha that rocked the 'effing boat."

I'm still bent over, squeezing my dick, muttering, "Uh-huh, I'll say." Then gasping in another deep breath, I straightened up and turned around.

Shaking his head slightly, smiling his smile, he hands me a handful of Kleenex and goes, "Christ, what a workout. I'm sweating like an 'effing pig."

Wiping my ass with the Kleenex, I'm like, "Do pigs sweat? I never saw a picture of a sweaty pig. I don't think they even have sweat glands."

He laughs, pointing at me, saying, "Goddamn, Gary, you're right for once. Yeah, I Googled that when I was in middle school and found out pigs hardly have any sweat glands. They get rid of their body heat in other ways. How did you know that?"

Shrugging, "I didn't know it. I was guessing. Screw that, though; this was some primo messing around you did."

Pulling off the condom, he mutters, "We did. Primo messing around that we did together. You don't give yourself enough credit for our over-the-top, unequaled messing around. We're a special team, Gary. You've only messed around with me, so you don't fully appreciate how extra special we are."

Pulling up my pants and underwear, I follow Billy into the bathroom. Catching up with him, "No, I recognize we're special, Billy. I don't believe anybody else in the world can do our special messing around."

He flushes the condom in the toilet. We wash up as I mutter, "Ah, I told Pat I'd pick him up at twelve-thirty, so we should probably hurry this along, ya know?"

Billy gives me a look, "Fuck that! He can wait a few minutes. You concern yourself too much about being on time for this or that. Relax; the world will be there waiting for you whether you're a couple of minutes late or not. Where's it going to go, you know? You'll give yourself ulcers worrying about every little thing."

Shrugging, I mumble, "Yeah, I guess."

We finish cleaning up, Billy taking his time combing his hair as I glance at my cell phone, seeing twenty-to-one. I say, "You mentioned something about getting to the high school early to be sure to get picked for the first game."

"We're going," and in the kitchen, he picks up his glasses from the counter. Smiling, he puts his glasses on, then says, "And we will be early. It's a five-minute drive. We don't need to be the first 'effing guys there. That's what nerds think, and you and I are not nerds."

Smiling at him, I go, "I love how cool you look wearing glasses, Billy."

He mutters, "Bullshit," and when we walk out Billy's front door, I see Pat leaning against my Mom's car. Gee, it makes me grin seeing him and thinking about last night. Waving, I go, "Hey, BUD! What's up?"

He shows a forced smile, and I realize that calling him Bud isn't as funny as it was when we were drunk because that's what his lover called him, and Pat isn't over Leonardo yet.

Quickly covering that up, I say, "I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Pat. We lost track of time."

Billy bumps firsts with Pat, muttering, "It was my fault we're late," and Pat goes, "Oh, no problem. Your glasses look, um..."

Billy goes, "I'm psyched to play some football."

We get in the car, me in the driver's seat, Billy in the passenger seat, and Pat in the back, asking, "Do you think they'll be enough guys to have teams, or will be just be throwing the football around?"

Billy turns his head, looking at Pat, "There's always been a lot of guys in this neighborhood within one or two years of each other growing up, so there are always plenty of guys for sports. They'll probably be so many guys showing up that some will need to watch and hope to get in the second game."

Pat goes, "Yeah, that would never happen in my old neighborhood."

Billy, still looking back at Pat, "Well, I'm not saying all our guys are any good at sports, but they'll be there just the same. If for no other reason, they'll be hoping someone opens a quarter keg of beer. The cops are willing to overlook that occasionally as long as it doesn't get rowdy and an old fossil neighbor complains."

Pat goes, "That's cool! We'd never get away with that in my old neighborhood. Hey, Billy, we checked out the Elvis videos last night, and they were awesome."

Billy mutters, "Yeah, you already told me that this morning. I'll bet you didn't see Paul Simon's quote in Rolling Stone magazine about his song, Bridge Over Troubled Water, did you?"

I'm like, "Rolling Stone? Who's Paul Simon?"

Ignoring my question, he says, "I'm talking about an article from 1972. It's online if you want to check it out. Paul Simon, who wrote the song, heard Elvis' version and said, quote, "... how the hell can we compete with that?"

Pat and I go, "Huh, not sure what it all means."

When I'm parking on the grass near the field at the high school, Billy mumbles, "Oh, fuck! Would you look at that shit!"

To be continued... donnymumford@outlook.com

Please, guys, consider making a tax-deductible donation to nonprofit Nifty to help with the expenses of maintaining and expanding this excellent free story site. Easy directions for this are at Nifty.org, and thank you!