Invited

Chapter 32

( COVID )

I read somewhere that during the night, our brains are busy working out problems, finding connections that lead to conclusions of fresh insight and perspectives about whatever's bothering us. If so, that process has created a bigger problem than I thought I already had.

Yeah, I thought I had a guilty conscience problem and needed perspective on how to avoid another 'Once Upon a Night With Pat Sumers' without hurting anyone's feelings.

I'm awake now, getting ready for work, but instead of feeling guilty about last night with Pat, I'm thinking, 'does wanting another fun night with Pat make me a bad boy?'

I've never felt as appreciated as Pat made me feel last night. That's a simple truth, and there isn't any sense in me denying it. As much as I love Billy, it was refreshing the way Pat made no secret of how much he liked messing around with me. There was no rationalizing about anything; he came right out and told me what he wanted, making no excuses for it while at the same time acknowledging he was fully aware that I loved Billy, not him.

Maybe I'm rationalizing, but Pat made it seem all right that we messed around to the extent we did.

You know what? I can't think of anything about Pat that isn't positive. He has A-pluses in every category most gay guys would consider an ideal boyfriend. He's devastatingly handsome/cute, almost six feet tall, with a damn good body, special sexual equipment, and the expertise to use it. He also has a casual, confident, sweet way about him, and he really likes me.

Dressed now, I look in the mirror, then flatten my bangs back against my scalp like Pat did last night, seeing how I'd look with my hair pulled back into a ponytail. Ha, grinning, I'd look pretty cool, I guess.

Then, shaking my head, I comb my bangs up in front the way Billy and I always do it, but the hair is too long now. It'll look silly combed up, so I comb it over.

Downstairs, Mom says, "Good morning, dear," and has a mug of coffee ready for me. "How are you this morning, Gary?"

I smile, "I'm not sure, Mom... pretty good, I think. Thanks for the coffee. Um, how are you?"

She tells me about someone at work named Lilly, "She has been so sweet helping me with my new work assignment, and I'll be honest, blah, blah, blah."

I'm nodding and smiling, saying, "That's great, Mom," but I'm not listening. Something at work is going well for Mom, and that's good enough for me. She deserves good things happening to her, whatever the details might be.

On the bus going to the 69th train station, I find myself smiling and thinking about taking it up the ass when Pat had me screwed up into almost a ball on the back seat. Jesus, that was so random. He never did it like that before, and I certainly hadn't either ha-ha. And, wow, that long dick of his!

Frowning then, remembering I was disappointed that Billy didn't text me from the Poconos. Taking my phone out, I stupidly look again. This is the fourth or fifth time I checked my phone looking for a text yet to come. Okay, so he forgot to text. What's worse, Billy forgetting to text me last night, or what I did with Pat last night?

Not spending any time on that, I hustle off the bus, and luck is with me. I made a perfectly timed bus/train connection; therefore, I'm walking to the office half an hour early. Today is an unusually beautiful April morning here in the Northeast. People wear shorts and a T-shirt jogging when the temperature gets into the high fifties or early sixties.

Stopping at a park, I sit on a bench, wishing I had a cigarette. This would be an excellent time to act cool, smoking a cigarette and contemplating my dicey situation of feeling guilty about not feeling guilty for messing around with Pat.

Hmm, what I need more than a cigarette, though, is someone to talk to who could provide insight and commiserate with me about my dilemma. I wish I knew someone with gay experience who could confirm that my behavior with Pat is acceptable within the parameters of gay relationships and friendships.

The problem is, I only know three gay guys; Billy, George, and Pat. George's friend JR and the other three are acquaintances, so I wouldn't be comfortable discussing anything this important with them, and George likes me too much to be objective. He'd be on my side no matter what I told him. That's no help, which leaves the two principles in my dilemma... Billy and Pat.

Obviously, neither of them can help. Pat already knows my situation and feels there's no problem. Billy doesn't know the extent of what Pat and I have been up to because I'm not telling him about it. Instead, I'm following Pat's advice that I shouldn't burden Billy with my outside messing around because it won't change anything, it might make him feel bad, and we're not doing anything wrong in the first place.

No, my dilemma is not about who I'm in love with; not at all. I'm in love with Billy, and that's not changing, but does my messing around with Pat need to change? That's my dilemma in a nutshell.

In the office, all those concerns are pushed to the back of my mind because I need to be careful not to get my fingers chopped off by the envelope-opening machine. That reminds me of an old joke I'll try remembering to tell Billy tonight. Maybe he's the one person in Pennsylvania who has yet to hear this joke.

I'm smiling, watching the machine slice open envelopes and thinking about the old joke. Here it is: this guy works in a pickle factory, and the thing he wants to do more than anything is the craziest urge he could have; he wants to put his dick in the pickle slicer. The desire is so strong he has an appointment with a therapist, confesses his unadvisable urge, and hears many logical reasons for not doing that. Nonetheless, very soon, he again desperately wants to do it, so he does. He puts his dick in the pickle slicer. Later, at his therapist, the man asks, "Well, what happened then?" The guy says, "I got fired." The therapist goes, "And was the pickle slider damaged?" He goes, "Sort of; she got fired too."

TA-DA!

Good, it's time for lunch. As I go down in the elevator hoping to meet Mark, it occurs to me that he may be someone I can unburden my situation to. Yeah, except I don't know if he's gay. He teases me by insinuating he'd like me to be his boyfriend but without claiming he's gay.

If he's not gay, they'll be some sad gay guys in the city because Mark is gorgeous. He is one of the three gorgeous guys I know. By gorgeous, I mean he's handsome/cute, and cool. Cool and confident.

He's waiting for me with a smile, happily saying, "Looking good, Gary, as usual."

I grin, "Hi, Mark. You too," and he goes, "We're eating at the lunch truck today. It's almost like a summer day out there."

I go, "You were born and raised in the Northeast, weren't you?" He goes, "Yeah, weren't you?"

Mark deciding where we're having lunch is an example of his confident approach to everything. He assumes I'm okay with what he decides. I've thought about why my new friends, George being the exception, are confident and somewhat bossy with me, and the answer is they see early on that I like it and soon fall into the routine of decided stuff for both of us. And I'm more than good with that.

Another thing I can't help but notice is how my gay friends are touchy-feely with me. Okay, Billy's like that with everybody, but the others are touchy/feely with me because they see I like it and never complain about it. Plus, I'm a year or two younger than them, and I probably act even younger than that, so they treat me like a little brother.

I also have a theory about why I sometimes act younger than I am. That theory is that I didn't interact much with my peers while growing up. Not unless I was invited to do so. Consequently, I only got out infrequently, and because of this lack of exposure, I'm not always sure what the right way to act is.

Exemplifying my touchy/feely remark, Mark puts his arm across my shoulders as we stand in line at the food truck. Shaking me a little, he says, "I'm wondering if you're as quiet with everyone as you are with me."

Not sure how to respond to that, I look into his pretty eyes and say something that has nothing to do with anything, "You got a haircut after work yesterday, didn't you? It looks nice. You go to a good barber."

Laughing, he says, "So, you couldn't think of what to say to my question, huh? Well, that's okay. And, yes, I went to the Gentlemen's Barber Shop on Chestnut Street yesterday. It was forty dollars plus a tip for my monthly haircut. And I see you've abandoned going to the barbers."

Touching my head, I go, "Oh, um, my boyfr..., ah, my friend and I usually get twin haircuts every three weeks, but with his college studies, midterms, and being busy going to the Poconos and whatnot, we haven't been to my uncle's barbershop for over a month. It's, um, an anomaly."

I don't tell Mark, but I hope Billy hasn't given up on the idea there's some relationship magic in our twin haircuts. If so, that would be disappointing.

Mark says, "Twin haircuts, huh? That, um, slightly weird, plus, um, did you almost say boyfriend before changing it to a friend?"

"Huh, what? No, I didn't say that."

Shrugging, he chuckles and says, "This is 2023, Gary, and we live on the liberal-leaning East Coast where nobody gives a shit if you're gay. Hell, in Pennsylvania, same-sex marriage has been legal since 2014. What's the problem?"

It's our turn to order our lunch, and the guy in the food truck mutters to Mark, "What do you need, pal?"

Mark gets a pulled pork barbecue sandwich and a diet Pepsi. Flustered that I hadn't had a chance to look at the menu, I ordered the same thing, except I got a regular Pepsi. We eat at the bus stop bench again, with me saying, "Why do you continually imply I'm gay?"

Mark takes a big bite of his sandwich, chews, and grins simultaneously, then after swallowing, "Why not simply tell me? Are you gay?"

Frowning, I say very deliberately, like a challenge almost, "Yeah, I am. So what?" Then in a less challenging manner, "But how did you know? That's what I'm curious about."

"I didn't know until just now. You're cute and pretty at the same time, so if you weren't gay, you should be," and he laughs, adding, "No, seriously, I didn't know. How could I know that? You're fun to tease, that's all."

I mumble, "Huh, " eating my sandwich and slowly shaking my head. Then I mutter, "I was wondering how you knew and you didn't know. I'm always saying and doing dumb things."

He smiles, "No, you're not. I haven't noticed a single dumb thing you've said or done all the time I've known you."

Grinning, I mutter, "During the entire two hours you've been with me, huh?"

He chuckles, "So, you're gay. Um, do you have a boyfriend?"

I can't help but smile brightly, muttering, "Yeah, I've got the best boyfriend ever."

"Oh, yeah? Why is he the best?"

Showing him one of Billy's photos on my phone, a profile one, I mutter, "We're simpatico about everything, and he is nice looking."

Mark glances at the photo and says, "He's perfect for you. How long have you been boyfriends?"

"We've been boyfriends for at least six months, but Billy..." and I try describing a brief outline of our relationship, getting tongue-tied about Billy's brilliant ability to rationalize away his gay messing around.

He's grinning, "Goddamn, Gary, I can't believe this guy Billy needs to rationalize having sex with you. I might dump my girlfriend if I meant someone like you. In the end, as I'm implying, Billy couldn't resist a cute, sweet, likable guy like you."

"Oh man, you make me seem like a Barbi doll or a Ken doll. Let me ask you this; if I'm so cute and irresistible, how come nobody noticed that about me for seventeen years until Billy came along?"

He wrapped up the plastic container his sandwich came in and wiped his mouth with the napkin that came with it, then said, "I have no fucking idea. Maybe gay guys are retarded in your school. Are they?"

Without using those PC-incorrect words, I had a similar thought about the guys Billy messed around with in high school because they didn't fall head-over-heels for him.

Wrapping my trash up, I shrug, "No, they aren't retarded. It's that I didn't get around a lot. I stayed home mostly, so I wasn't well known. That's until Billy rescued me from oblivion."

"Is your boyfriend out as gay now, and how did he rescue you?"

Goddamn, it's so cool talking about this with Mark. I go, "No, he's still in the closet, except he finally has admitted he's maybe, perhaps, a little gay for me. In high school, he messed around, um, you know, sexually with a few guys, experimenting and like that without associating it with being gay. Then he hadn't been with anyone for six months but told me I resurrected interest in him for messing around, and after an awkward beginning, off we went."

He stands, "He's lucky, Gary. And I'm assuming; by messing around, you mean having sex. C'mon, let's try walking off that greasy, albeit delicious barbecued pulled pork we just ate. I think I'm getting indigestion."

I follow him, thinking with a grin: what if I didn't follow what he said for once? What if I said I don't feel like walking it off? What would he say then? Haha! Of course, I'm incapable of saying that, so we'll never find out.

Then, there are more orders from Mark. He forcefully says, "C'mon, hurry up, Gary! We can cross the street now. There's no traffic coming this way."

I could say: No, I'm not doing that because the light says don't walk. I do not say that; instead, I follow him even though the light is blinking, 'DON'T WALK.' I ask, "So, what's your girlfriend like, Mark?"

Stepping to the side, out of foot traffic, Mark mumbles, "Here, take a look," and he shows me a photo on his phone." It's him and a cute girl in an embrace, hugging and mugging at the camera as if they had just kissed or were about to kiss.

Nodding, I mumble, "She's petite and very cute. How old is she, though? She looks awfully young."

"Old enough. She's my current main squeeze, Jeanie Ross."

Then, scrolling through his many photos, he says, "Here, take a look at this." He shows me a picture of him and a blond-headed young guy kissing.

He goes, "That's Johnny Leary. He used to be my main squeeze before he dumped me, the little twat."

Squinting my eyes, I'm like, "So, you're, ah..." and he says, "Bisexual, yeah." Then, sarcastically, he added, "It doubled my chances of getting a date for the prom."

Still looking at the photo, I mumble, "Hey, this kid Johnny, um, he's cuter than Jeanie."

He puts his arm across my shoulders again, chuckling and mumbling, "You noticed that, huh? Initially, I was infatuated with Johnny, but he turned out to be a cunt. More of a cunt than Jeanie, ha-ha. Yeah, seriously."

Mark tells me as we're walking, "Funny, but between boys and girls, I lean toward enjoying sex with girls more. I thought I'd lean the other way, but it hasn't turned out like that."

Then, he points to a sign for PUBLIC RESTROOM, saying, "I hate using public bathrooms, but I need to take a dump. Embarrassing, but I think it that fucking pork gave me diarrhea! I hate this feeling that I'm going to shit my pants. Do you feel okay?"

Going down the steps to the restrooms with Mark, I nod, "Yes, I feel fine, but since we're here, I'll take a piss."

He goes into a toilet stall as I piss at a urinal. It's impossible not to read the graffiti. Snickering because it's so stupid, I read out loud what someone wrote: 'My cat's breath smells of cat food.' Haha, why am I laughing?

Mark yells, "Next to me as I sit on this disgusting toilet seat is written in black magic marker, 'THINGS I HATE: 1-vandalism 2-irony 3-lists'.

As I'm washing my hands, then drying them on stiff paper towels, I'm chuckling, muttering, "Ah, a clever graffiti writer. I'll wait for you on the street."

Mark comes up three minutes later, muttering, "Damn, I hate using public bathrooms."

"Me too, but do you feel okay now?"

He nods, then says, "I feel a little better, yeah, but how about those shitty paper towels? Like sandpaper."

Then he says, "The graffiti there reminded me of using a hotel's restroom once. Over the sinks was a sign that read: EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS. And, heh-heh, on the mirror under the sign, someone had written, WTF? I waited 45 minutes, and no employee came to wash my hands!

We laugh, and I think, 'Oh good, Mark washes his hands after going to the bathroom.' For some reason, I'd have been disappointed if he hadn't.

Then I think about Billy and how he would have gone on and on, ranting about the inferior paper towels. It makes me smile thinking about my boyfriend, Billy, and him overreacting to stuff. I can hardly wait to see him tonight.

To kill time and enjoy the weather, we take a four-square block walk back to the office; Mark asks, "Have you ever been with a girl? It's very different fucking a girl, assuming you've fucked a guy."

Shrugging, "Nah, I haven't, um, fucked a guy or a girl. I'm the girl/guy. I take it up the ass and put out for Billy whenever he wants me to. He's our leader; he's my man. Haha, that's according to another gay friend I have. His name is Pat, and he's cool too."

Mark gives me a strange look, mumbling, "Girl/guy; he's your man? Is Billy a lot older than you? He sure doesn't look a lot older."

"Billy's two years older. He was sick as a child and had to repeat a year in grade school, and although he was nineteen and I was only seventeen, we graduated the same year. Last year."

"Um, Gary, you're nobody's girl, guy or otherwise. Don't let Billy get on top of you like that."

"Oh, it isn't Billy who calls me that. It's what I call myself, but he doesn't think of me as his girl/guy; he thinks of me as his boyfriend, period. But, you know, the other guys he messed around with never adopted a girl/guy role as I have, so Billy wasn't interested in them. I could tell he needed to be the 'guy' for his self-image. Anyway, they're all just words... semantics. Billy treats me like a prince."

That's another one of my lies. It was Pat who said he'd treat me like a prince. That's if I was his boyfriend, but Mark seemed to be getting the wrong impression of Billy, so I attributed the 'prince' comment to him. This is a good talk with Mark, though. Tomorrow, I'll discuss my dilemma and see what he says.

Damn, all this true confession makes me wish I had a cigarette! That's the second time today I've wanted one. I think Billy and Pat are getting me addicted to nicotine. Maybe, but even without addiction, I'd look cool right about now, lighting a cigarette and maybe blowing a smoke ring.

Mark says, "The things you come out with, Gary. I've never witnessed such innocence from a guy your age."

I go, "What? I'm far from innocent. I don't think you're right about that. Christ, me innocent; where'd you get that idea?"

He shakes his head, "I don't know. Never mind," and we walk into the office building, show our badges, then walk to the elevators. I say, "You're on six, right?"

He nods but doesn't say anything. I wait a few seconds, then say, "Do you know what I wish?"

He looks at me and shakes his head, so I go, "I wish you were on your guy side of bisexuality because I have a great gay friend who I'd love to introduce to you. His name is George Brown, and he's a handsome, incredibly likable guy your age, nineteen but almost twenty. He goes to Drexel, a sophomore."

Mark says emphatically, "If I were in my guy mode, I'd be after you, not George Brown. I'd protect you and help you realize you're equal to everyone, and you wouldn't be anyone's girl/guy."

Jeez, he sounded angry.

We get on a crowded elevator, and I whisper to him, "I don't need protecting, but thanks. I think I've misrepresented Billy to you; he's awesome to me. Um, and another thing."

Looking at the arrow over the door drifting to the next floor, he mutters, "Yeah, what's that?"

I say, "Ah, well, I'd like your advice on something. Could I tell you what it is tomorrow?"

The third-floor bell dings as he goes, "Of course. I'll see you tomorrow, Gary. Be cool, bro."

We bump fists, smiling, and I get off at the third floor with three of my fellow employees, none of whom I know.

Back at work, my handsome, smiling supervisor, Fredrico, walks up to me with the delivery girl pushing a full cart behind him. I glance at her cart of huge envelopes as Fredrico says, "Gary, you're doing an excellent job. We'll be caught up with the regular backlog soon, although, as usual, something came up that will slow us down.

I point at the cart the girl left at my station as the girl slinks away, "You mean this cart of large envelopes?"

Nodding, he says, "Yes, we get a priority job two or three times a year, usually at an inconvenient time, like now." Then he spent twenty minutes helping me program the machine's computer and blade alignment for the huge envelopes.

When we get the machine humming away, he stays for ten minutes watching that I'm doing everything correctly and it's all running smoothly, then pats my shoulder, "You got this, Gary. Nice going."

I finish the special job leaving just enough time to reprogram the computer for a regular operation tomorrow morning. Finishing at five o'clock on the dot, quitting time, I nod and mutter to myself, "No problem."

As I walk toward the exit, I look around for Fredrico, hoping for compliments, but I don't see him. Then, during the train and bus ride home, my mind is on Billy, suppressing thoughts of last night with Pat. I'm all about tonight at seven o'clock when Billy should be picking me up, although I wish I'd gotten a text confirming that. Yeah, why hasn't he texted me?

Getting off the bus two blocks from my house, I hear a text pinging on my phone. It's a text from Pat. 'Bud, William was missing in action today. Didn't show up for class. Is he okay?"

What the hell? I texted back that I didn't know why he wasn't at school.

Unlocking the front door and walking into the house, I refuse to believe Billy stayed overnight with that Ron person at the Poconos. Maybe he hasn't texted me because they had an accident on that guy's motorcycle. Oh, shit, I hope that's not the reason!

Inside, no one's home. Mom's still at work or shopping. In my room, I pace around, willing myself to text Billy, but I'm afraid of what I'll discover. Of course, anybody else would already have texted their boyfriend, but I'm still working up the courage.

Then another text from Pat, 'I just called him. Jeez, he's in bed with Covid. His mom answered and told me his wicked bad luck considering he's had all the shots."

I go, "Oh, no."

Pat texts, "Since Billy's laid up with Covid, I checked, and I can use Mom's car, so what do you want to do tonight?'

Ignoring Pat's insensitive reaction to Billy getting Covid, I text him asking, 'Did Billy's mom say anything else?'

Pat doesn't text; he calls me and tells me, "That's all I know, but Bud, as I said, I can pick you up at seven-fifteen, and we can...."

Interrupting, I'm like, "Don't be stupid; I'm visiting Billy tonight!"

He says, "Hey, what the fuck, bro? I'm worried about him too. That's what I was going to say before you rudely interrupted me. His mom didn't suggest we visit, but screw that. I'll pick you up, and we'll knock on the door together. You know, see if we can get by his mom and visit with him."

Knowing I was not likely to knock on the door myself, worried Mr. Underwood would tell me Billy's sleeping and for me to get lost. It's a great idea to go with Pat. Jeez, he'll knock on the door without thinking twice about it.

I say, "Um, ah, sorry for butting in on what you were saying, Pat. Yes, it'd be awesome if we could see Billy after dinner."

Pat says, "Of course, that's what I had in mind in the first place. Gosh, do you think I'm such a prick I wouldn't think of doing that?"

He sounds hurt or pissed off, so I screwed that up. Dammit!

After dinner, I'm in my bedroom cleaning up, and I'm looking and smelling okay by seven-ten. I needed to use some butch hair wax, though. The bangs had grown long enough to droop over instead of sticking up straight until I rubbed in butch wax, getting the bangs sticking straight up. Ha, I look like a cartoon character who just had the shit scared out of me... my hair standing on end.

Fuck it, though.

I have a lightweight hoodie on as I'm waiting outside for Pat, again wishing I had a cigarette to smoke. I need to buy a pack of Marlboros. Haha, that'll make Billy laugh because he's always ragging on me for bumming cigarettes. Gee, what a dumb thing that is to be thinking about when Billy's sick with the dangerous Covid 19 virus.

Pat drives up, and I get in the car. Then, without thinking about it, I automatically lean over and kiss him. He's blase about it, mumbling, "That's how to treat your man, Bud. Here, I brought a mask for you to wear."

Gee, why didn't I think of that?

Putting on my seatbelt, I go, "Thanks. I should have thought of that." It's a new black mask.

Driving away from the curb, Pat mutters, "I know it's odd, but the thought of visiting William makes me uncomfortable, and not specifically about catching the virus. I mean, visiting any sick friend is an uncomfortable situation. I never know what to say."

What? Gee, Pat's supposed to know what to do and say in all situations. I'm the clueless one.

I go, "Oh, I was dependent on you for sick room small talk, Pat. You know, I was planning on following your lead to act or say the right thing."

It's only a three-minute ride, six blocks from my house. Pat says, "Okay then, for you, I'll do my best. Let's try being smiley and positive. Don't act overly worried if he looks sickly because that might make him worry more than he already is."

"Yeah, okay. Thanks for doing this, Pat. I'm glad, um, you know, I'm happy you moved here."

He nods, mumbling, "Me too, Bud," and parks in front of Billy's house, across the street from his house. He looks at me and smiles, "Hey, by the way, you look great tonight." He pats my cheek, "Come on; we'll try cheering William up."

Pat puts on his mask, and I do the same, hurry to catch up with him, then stand slightly behind him as he rings the doorbell. Mrs. Underwood answers, and Pat says. "Hi, Mrs. Underwood. We're hoping we, um, Gary and me, can visit with William. How is he?"

She says, "Oh, yes, how nice of you boys. Um, sure, come in. Billy just had, ah, that is, he just left the bathroom. His Dad is getting a prescription for Paxlovic, so we're hopeful that will speed up his recovery. I should warn you Billy's a little grumpy, but I'm sure he'll be happy to see you two. Ah, but please don't stay too long. He tires easily."

Pat's not sure which way to the bedroom, so I nudge him through the living room, then the kitchen, and down the hall to the left. Billy's bedroom door is partially open, but Pat knocks anyway, saying, "It's Gary and Pat."

Billy mutters, "Well, are you coming in, or what?"

We go in, and I almost gasp at how poorly Billy looks. His normal perfect skin looks grayish on his face. His hair is flat on his head, his bangs lying to the side. He looks ill. Damn, I wish I could get in bed with him, wrap him in my arms and comfort him.

Billy points at my goofy too-long bangs sticking straight up, "You look like you saw a coast, Gary. Ha-ha."

I frown as Pat tries to pump Billy up by jokingly saying, "Hey, you look alright, bro." He rubs Billy's shoulder.

Sitting up in his bed, Billy mutters, "You're full of shit, Pat. I feel and look like crap, but nice try." Then he looks at me, "How's my boyfriend doing?"

Before I can say anything, Billy adds, "And I'm glad to see you numbnuts remembered to wear masks, which reminds me."

Then he takes his time as he puts a blue mask on, mumbling, "There, we all look like bandits now."

Billy doesn't need to wear his new glasses except for distance, so he doesn't have them on. Damn, he looks cute in those 'effing glasses, so I wish he was wearing them. Looking at the bureau, I see the case for his glasses, so they're more than likely inside.

Stepping next to Pat, I smile at Billy and touch his leg under the covers, asking, "Was it that that asshole, Ron, who gave you Covid?"

Billy snickers, "No, but I probably gave it to him. I began noticing symptoms the day before yesterday. I've tried to think why or how, but I probably caught it from one of my dufus classmates at college. Anyway, Ronny and I were messing around in his room at the Pocono A-Frame, so he will probably get sick tomorrow. Heh-heh, the dope... I told him I was feeling funny."

Was he messing, um, doing real messing around with Ronny? I'll ask later, although it'll probably piss off Billy.

Pat says, "It must have been a bitch feeling sick needing to ride back home on a motorcycle."

"Yeah, it was. I was clinging to Ronny, both arms around him. At times I felt I was going to pass out and fall off that bitch of a bike, and I started to sense something wrong on the way to the Poconos. I wasn't feeling myself then either, ya know?"

Walking around to the other side of the bed so I could get closer to Billy without Pat blocking my way, I reach over to put my hand on Billy's forehead and immediately pull it away. "You're hot, Billy."

He gives me a partial smile, mumbling, "No shit, Wallingford, I've got a fever. I just took a wicked loose shit, too; um, it was gross diarrhea. Plus, I have chills to go with my headache and a sore 'effing throat. Maybe I caught the flu."

Pat asks, "Did you?"

Billy says, "Nah, I should be so lucky. This morning Mom ran out and got a home Covid test. I caught one of the highly contagious subvariants or some such 'effing shit. Hey, didn't either of you thoughtless pricks bring me a sick-bed gift?"

I go, "I'll bring one tomorrow," and Pat says, "He's joking, Gary, Jesus!"

Billy says, "Don't listen to him, Gary. It'll make you feel as if you're doing something good for me. Get me comic books or something, heh-heh."

I'm like, "How long will you be sick, would you guess?"

Shrugging, he goes, "Who knows," then turning to Pat, "Bro, please bring me notes and whatever I'll need to keep up with the two classes we have together. Ronny's bringing me the shit from the class he and I are in, leaving only one class I'll get behind in."

Pat mumbles, "You got it, bro, even though it means I'll need to take notes for once." They chuckle at that, and I feel left out.

Billy yawns and waves his hand like it's unimportant, muttering, "I'm fucking tired all the time. Ignore my yawning."

I don't know what to say, so I ask, "Can I get you anything, Billy? Something to drink or something else."

He shakes his head slightly, "No, thanks, nothing helps."

Pat tells him about a bogus fire alarm a student set off in the college cafeteria today; then, he finds other things to talk about, some of them making Billy laugh. Billy makes a face, muttering, "Laughing hurts my 'effing head," and they snicker at that.

I'd have things to talk about if it were just Billy and me. Finally, Billy's mom knocks on the door, saying, "It's time to go, fellows."

Pat says, "Yes, ma'am," and Billy says, "You two need to visit me tomorrow, okay?"

We nod, and I say, "I'll come over right after work."

Billy says, "Yeah, okay, and Pat, it's up to you to take good care of Gary. I don't want to hear about him moping around alone in his 'effing bedroom as he did for years before he hooked up with me."

Pat and I exchange glances as I blush, then Pat says, "I'll make sure to do some substitute messing around with him until you're better."

Billy chuckles, "You do that, and Gary, try enjoying yourself. Pat will keep your mind off pulling your poodle until I'm out of this 'effing sick bed, alright?"

Frowning, "I don't 'offing need any taking care of! Christ, why does everyone think I do? Um, did you mean real messing around, Billy?"

He snickers, mugging at Pat, then smiles at me, "Who knows what Pat will feel like doing? Whatever it is, I don't want to hear any of the details. Thanks for the visit, guys. I'm going to go to sleep now, no offense intended."

I reach over and rub his head, "I love you, Billy."

Nodding, his eyelids looking heavy, he mumbles, "Yeah, I think that's been established, and I'm sure you can't wait until we're in the back of the SUV again. Improvise in the meantime. And don't do anything I wouldn't do, Pat."

Pat and I both do a little wave goodbye as we walk out of the room. Mrs. Underwood is talking on the phone as we walk by. She smiles at us and nods; then we're out the front door.

Pat says, "Jesus, he looked like shit. That Covid is scary."

"The worst part is, he's had both shots of Moderna plus a booster. What the fuck, ya know?"

Taking off our masks, we get in the car, and Pat says, "But not the latest booster shot. Billy's booster was the old one from like eight months ago."

I'm like, "Where are you going now?"

He mumbles, "Unfortunately, my parents and sister are home, so we can't use my bedroom. How about your bedroom?"

Looking at him, I'm like, "Um, I don't think Billy meant that kind of messing around. I think he meant just wasting time and maybe making out." Then, realizing I want to mess around with him. Not wanting to appear too eager about it, though, I add, "Anyway, you said we need to wait at least a week, so..."

He drives us away, muttering, "What? Oh, never mind that, Bud. I said that before we knew about Billy's Covid."

I nod, then, to encourage him, I mumble, "Well, you're the guy, I guess, so you decide."

He says, "Haha, now I'm your man all of a sudden, huh?"

"Yeah, you're always bossy, so I suppose you feel you need to decide what we'll do."

He goes, "No, seriously, if you don't want to do anything, Bud, I'll drop you off, or we can get something to eat. Whatever you want."

Oh, balls, he's calling my bluff. When we're at the curb in front of my house, I mutter, "Um, well, I don't know. Hey, I was being serious. You normally decide what we'll do, so I'll leave it up to you. I'm good with that."

He smirks, then grins, "Oh, okay, we'll go to the Sears dumpster 'cause I know that's what you want to do."

Driving us away, he mutters, "Am I right, Bud?"

I hesitate, but he's right, so I mutter, "Yeah, you're right, but I still feel I shouldn't want to do it."

Grinning at me, he murmurs, "You're doing fine. Christ, your main man gave us his blessing to fuck to our heart's content, so to speak. Hey, do you want to do that fuck where I get you in a ball? That was awesome."

Pushing my junk, I chuckle at that, finally relaxing a little. Pat's right that Billy's okay with me messing around with Pat. Hell, he's encouraging Pat and me to do some messing around.

I mutter, "As I said twice, I like it when you're deciding everything." Saying that I sounded more excited with anticipation than I intended.

He goes, "Actually, even though you don't like conceding I'm your man, in actuality, you get off on the very idea."

We glance at one another, and Pat winks at me. I go, "You don't know diddly, and, seriously, a wink? What is that supposed to be, a cool move from a nineteen-forties black and white movie?"

We both snicker, but Pat's wink got my dick tightening up. He is sexy and irresistible. I take a deep breath, smiling to myself and sneaking another glance at Pat. Damn, I'm getting a boner.

I sort of sit a little sideways so Pat won't notice my boner as he's parking behind the dumpster. Putting the car in park, he mutters, "You finding this spot was genius."

Squirming on the seat, I say, "Actually, my friend, George, found it, and I showed it to Billy."

Seeing me squirming, he asks, "What's wrong? Is your ass itching to feel my big boy up there?"

"Don't be crude, Pat. That's the only criticism I can think of for you; sometimes, you get crude."

He grins and says, "That is such bullshit," and he squeezes the back of my neck, giving me chills as I lean into him. He goes, "You like that, don't you?" and I hold my head steady. He squeezes my neck again and watches as I shudder, him looking me in the eyes. My boner throbs.

Taking his hand away, he mumbles, "C'mon, we'll get in the back. This gear shift between our seats would be a challenge."

I had my hand on his shoulder, pretending to push him away, but without trying. I like looking into Pat's eyes. I lightly pull on his ponytail, and he murmurs, "Don't worry, Bud. I'm going to take good care of you tonight," and he nods at the door,

I want to tell him for the hundredth time that I do not need him taking care of me, but I can't catch my breath, so I get out the passenger door and in the back door to sit on the bench seat. Pat gets in the other door and says, "Take your shirt off."

Oh man, I really like that bossy side of Pat.

As I'm doing what I'm told that he always takes for granted I'd do, he pulls his Polo shirt over his head, then an undershirt, putting both between the two front bucket seats. Smirking, he adds, "I know you get a thrill making out with me, a dude with a hairy chest."

We both laugh as I go, "And what a hairy chest it is, all twenty hairs at your sternum," and put my shirt on top of Pat's.

Our feet on the floor, we twist around, facing each other. Pat puts his hands on my shoulders, nodding his head and raising his eyebrows questioningly.

I mumble, "What? Um, what do you want me to do?"

He shrugs, "You figure it out, Bud."

Damn, he's so sexy and good-looking... cute, cuter, and cutest. When he looks into my eyes, I gulp and lean over to him. My chest against his bare chest. He murmurs, "There ya go, Bud. That's right; you come to your man."

Even though his body feels good, and I'm happy to come to him, I mumble, "What a crock of shit." He snickers and wraps his arms around me, then nuzzles the side of his face against mine, muttering, "Mmm, you smell wonderful."

Clinging to him, I murmur, "You do too. Aren't you going to kiss me?"

He says, "All you needed to do was mention it."

We get into one of our insane make-outs, even wilder than Billy and I get into. Pat's a better make-out than Billy, but he's had years more experience than Billy. Before me, Billy never made out much with anyone.

Pat has sparkling white teeth, and his mouth feels clean and fresh; his bright pink tongue is the perfect size and firmness. Yeah, he has a fantastic mouth to make out with. Our lips kiss, and our tongues slide together, saliva all around. Pat's strong arms hug me as he sucks on my upper lip, and then there's a fifteen-second delicious kiss before he makes a gasping sound, inhaling.

My face presses against the side of his neck. I kiss him there and get into a trance of sucking on a small area of his tight, sexy-smelling skin, sucking and licking, with my dick getting hard as steel. I do little bites on his neck as if I want to eat him, his scent flooding my mind.

When I hear a murmur, "Ow, easy does it, Bud," I pull my mouth off his neck, puzzled why I was sucking there... I'm not a vampire.

Sitting back, looking into his eyes again, I murmur, "Sorry, Pat, I don't know what I was, um..." He grins, "You were giving me a hickey, huh?"

Shaking my head as if I wasn't doing that, he snickers and pats my cheek. I've heard of a hickey on the neck, but I wasn't consciously doing that, although I see the raised red spot on Pat's neck. Huh, my first time doing a hickey.

Pat's gently touching the hickey, smiling, "You always surprise me, Bud," then he playfully rubs my head. Pulling his hand away, frowning, he's like, "What's this glop in your hair?"

I tell him it's butch wax hair because my hair is too long in front, and it's beginning to curl too.

"It won't stay sticking up in front without the hair stuff."

He takes a comb from his pocket. He says, "It looks silly ticking up like that," and he combs the hair in front over to the side, mumbling, "I think there is some hair foam or something in the medicine chest at my house. God only knows where it came from, although it might have been left there by Leonardo. Maybe that would work better than this shit you put in your hair."

"Oh, you're taking care of my hair now, too, huh? As I said, it's just a bit too long, that's all."

"No, it's not a bit too long; it should be ten times longer, so you could wear it as a ponytail like mine."

He combs my bangs to the other side, then back to the original side, mumbling, "I'll give you Leonardo's hair tonic tomorrow if you'll remind me about it. Comb the hair as I've shown you."

Heh-heh, he gives orders in an inoffensive manner, making me want to do what I'm told.

Standing hunched over in front of me, his head touching the roof, he undoes the snap on my jeans, mumbling, "This backseat isn't ideal, but it's what we've got. My folks will be out tomorrow night, so we can use my bedroom, which will be fifty times better."

He's so confident. He assumes I'm good with doing this sex tonight and being with him tomorrow night too. And I am good with it.

After pulling the zipper down on my jeans, he mutters, "Lift off the seat a second." When I do that, he pulls my jeans off, stuffs them between the front seats, and says, "Take your underpants off while I drop my pants."

I slide my jockey shorts off, tossing them on my jeans, slightly embarrassed that my dick is still a reasonably hard boner.

Pat says, "I felt your erection earlier, so don't blush. I know you get aroused by me."

I feel like I'm floating because he does and says everything so matter-of-factly I'm almost hypnotized. It's as if all this is the most normal thing imaginable, and it basically is, I guess.

He takes his sneakers off without untying the laces, drops them on the floor with mine near the passenger's back door, then goes in a pocket and pulls out the comb he used on my hair; it's a small pocket comb. Next, he pulls out a condom packet and puts the comb back. I didn't recognize the condom brand, but I saw XXX-Large on the packet.

Stepping out of his khakis, he tossed them on top of our other clothes and hunched over; he stood there naked, took a deep breath, grinned at me, and muttered, "Quite an ordeal doing this in a cramped back seat, huh, Bud?"

I shrug, "It's okay."

He grins again, looks down, and strokes my already hard dick making me lift my ass off the seat with a hand on either side of me, going, "Ah, ah, ah, no, please don't, Pat, I'll cum."

Snickering, he says, "Even your erection is cute. I feel like sucking you off, but I've got a better idea."

I grin, "What are we doing?"

Holding the XXX condom packet, he stands in front of me as I sit bare-ass on the bench seat. He says, "First off, it'd be a huge help if you'd suck a boner on me, and then we'll see."

Surprising me, he sits next to me and murmurs, "C'mon, Bud."

Nodding, I lean over, take his dick from his fingers and lick it from the root to the head, licking right over my own fingers. He goes, "Sweet," and damn, Pat's skin has the sexiest scent.

I'm squeezing my dick as I lick across the head of his dick and then lick down the shaft and across his nuts. He ruffles my sticky hair murmuring, "That's my boy," as I stroke his dick, then lick all over his scrotum. When his dick is firm enough, covering my teeth, I get off the seat onto my knees in front of him and go down on his hard cock. Then again, this time, until the head hits the back of my throat, leaving about four inches outside my mouth. Wow!

Going down on it fast and repeatedly for about a minute gets Pat pushing at my head, "That's good, that's perfect." Breathing hard, my head comes up, his cock sliding from my mouth. Goddamn, once I got in a nice rhythm, I wanted to suck him off all the way.

He grins at me, "Nice blowjob, Bud, very nice," and he rolls the condom on his saliva-saturated boner. The condom extends within two inches of his balls, so it's a lot longer condom than Billy, and I use.

Sitting up very straight, he says, "Get up on my lap, Bud." I do that with a knee on the seat on either side of him, my erect dick bumping his. "Closer, Bud," and when our chests are a couple of inches apart, and my anus is over his stiff boner, he murmurs, "Perfect. Stop right there."

My heart is beating fast, anticipating Pat's long snake of a cock up inside me. My hands grip Pat's shoulder for balance. He smiles, "It's so much fun doing this with you, Wallingford. With you, it's the best sexy fun I've had since you know who was fucking me."

I nod, "Thanks," and he says, "You've done it this way before, right?"

For some reason, I chuckle, then say, "Yes, I have," and he murmurs, "Oh, so you chuckled because you know it's you who need to do all the work. It'll be my turn later, though, okay?"

I nod my head again, a bit too enthusiastically, realizing I just agreed we'd fuck again after this. Yes!

He says, "I want to do you doggy style later, and then maybe that wild fuck with you in a ball, okay?"

Again, I nod too fast, and he laughs, hugging me, his hard dick sliding across my butt cheeks and my hard dick bouncing off his chest. He kisses me, mumbling, "My horny Bud. You're becoming a serious hottie, Bud."

Taking one arm from around me, he reaches under my buttocks to position the nipple of the condom touching my anus, "Easy does it, boy. I want you to drop down on it slowly at first."

I'm leaning my head forward until our foreheads are touching, keeping my ass directly above the long hard pole of his boner, both my hands remaining on Pat's shoulders for support, his hands on my sides.

He snickers, murmuring, "Go ahead, Bud, drop your hips a little. Heh-heh, this is so cool."

I drop my hips slightly, muttering, "Ahh," as the slippery cold-feeling condom touches my asshole, flattening the nipple, and then Pat's hard boner's head begins spreading me open.

He murmurs, "You're going to take care of your man this time, aren't you, boy?"

I grunt and drop down on his boner further than I anticipated, the swollen head going inside me, three or four inches. He squawked, "Oooh! Wait!" I yelled, "OW! Fuck, ahh!"

Shaking a little, waiting for my magic rectum to settle down, I snicker nervously, mumbling, "Damn, that was recklessly random but kinda cool too."

Pat sounds amazed, "You mean that didn't hurt you?"

"Hee-hee, fuck, yeah, it hurt. Just a little through. Feels good now. You have the best penis ever."

He mutters, "That's quite a compliment coming from you, who have had the vast experience of two penises to choose from. Okay, go ahead and sit down a little more."

Concentrating this time, slowly sitting down half-inch by half-inch, the swollen head of his boner deliciously opening me up as it moves further inside my bowels until I'm finally sitting on his lap, fully impaled and enormously filled up, the head of his boner poking my lungs. No, not really, but it feels like it should be poking them.

Gasping, his forehead tight against mine, Pat moves his arms around me, hugging me and murmuring, "Fuck, this feels so incredibly good. You make everything better, Bud. There's no complaining from you about hurting and no bitching that I'm doing something wrong or you don't want to do this or that; you go along with anything I want. Umm, this feels so good."

My arms going tightly around Pat's neck, the sides of our faces together, I manage to mutter, "For me too," as I suck on my lips and scrunch my face feeling Pat's boner getting fatter. Without even moving, it's creating sizzling vibrations that buzz inside me, feeling fantastic; pleasure building until I'm almost afraid to move for fear I'll climax prematurely.

Pat rubs his hands on my back, "Umm, you're my special boy, Bud. Feels so good, but can you lift now?"

Nodding my head, the sides of our heads moving against one another, damp with perspiration, I lift my hips two inches, and we both go, "Ahh, ooh, mmm."

My legs quiver as I lift another inch, then I spastically lift abruptly, almost pulling completely off his long fat boner, and we both make startling gasping sounds; then we snicker, and Pat mutters, "Fuck, that was close, ha-ha. Bud, try getting in a rhythm, although I'll probably blow my load in ten seconds when you do."

Concentrating again, a smile on my face, wanting to please Pat, I drop my hips inch by inch until I think I'm almost on his lap again, then rise inch by inch, hearing, "Good, Bud. That's my boy! Goddamn, this feels good. You're awesome."

This is fun fucking, but without an ounce of romance. With Billy, I always sense romance when we're doing it. There's a loving feeling of mutual pleasure in sharing our bodies. It's called making love. This isn't that.

I lift my hips until the big head of Pat's cock seems to be pulling at the lips of my anus; then I lower my ass a few inches, gulping, "Ahh," then go down slowly until I'm on his lap again. The lubricant of the condom is warm, melting, and very slippery now as I lift my ass and lower it again, then a little faster, going up and down, up and down. Pat and I are making stupid moaning sounds as I get into that smooth rhythm Pat encouraged me to get into.

Pleasure sensations swarm inside me, electric vibrations of pleasure that can't be adequately described. It's so magnificent you try acknowledging and appreciating it, but it becomes overwhelming... the pleasure finally getting absorbed into your very being.

Gasping, "Oh, oh, oh," I tighten my arms around Pat's neck, my belly rubbing against his, my five-inch wooden dowel of a throbbing erection tightly between us, about to blow.

Now that I'm leaning against Pat, his long fat, iron cock is in a slightly different position. As I ride his pole, it's no longer straight up and down. It's going in at an angle, and with every rise and fall of my hips, his fat iron cock presses firmly against my prostate, sliding tightly but smoothly in my well-lubed bowels.

There's no way this avalanche of intense stimulation can last long, and it doesn't. I can tell from Pat's more desperate groans that his climax is building even as mine grows until the roaring bells of climax are ringing like it's the end of the world, BANG!BANG!BANG!

Then, with a flash of red color clouding my mind, I squeal and blow my load between Pat and me, warm cum squirting out, squirt, squirt, squirt onto our stomachs. Pat climaxed at almost the same time, him gasping, his arms squeezing the breath out of me as he filled that giant condom with creamy, hot, gooey spunk.

We shudder and slowly take our arms away from one another, breathing deeply. Another shudder, harder than the first, all levels of orgasmic sensations flashing around our bodies.

Pat giggles, licks across my mouth, then mutters, "Jesus, that was a monumental climax. I would have filled you up to overflowing, boy. It's a damn good thing I was wearing a condom, or you'd be tasting my cum at the back of your throat."

I start to lift, and he goes, "Hold it! Fuck, let me prepare myself, ha-ha. Christ, my dick is supersensitized. I don't want it to break off when it comes out. It feels fragile, haha."

We both make "Shhhh" sounds as I slowly lift until his long snake flops out, and we both shiver and snicker. Pat helps me slide over to sit on the seat next to him. He looks at his stomach, pushing his finger in the cum from my climax. I go, "Yeah, I've got it on me too... gooey, huh?"

He shrugs, pulls off the condom, and holds it up, "Look at that big ball of cum, Bud. That was a big load you fucked out of me, sweet!"

Then, he opens the door, throws out the condom, closes the door, and looks around for something we can use to wipe the cum off us. He's not as well prepared as Billy.

Shrugging and making a face, he uses his undershirt to wipe his stomach, then mine, mumbling, "Good thing I wore an undershirt tonight. I don't always wear one."

I have a warm feeling in my heart for Pat. And I'm happy to find that I'm no longer feeling guilty about doing fun sex with him. That doesn't mean I'm going to run around and have fun fucks with any and every guy that may want to. I feel as if Pat and I have become special good friends who enjoy messing around sexually as merely a benefit of being gay friends.

Pat mumbles, "I wish I'd have thought to get the blanket out of the trunk. Sitting bare-ass on this seat is cold."

Gently lifting his arm, I move it to lie across my shoulders, leaning against his side, "We can warm each other."

He laughs, "Goddamn, Bud, you're a sexy, affectionate motherfucker, ain't ya? William is so lucky!"

"I'm lucky too, Pat. Billy is the best boyfriend ever, and I'm lucky to be friends with you because you're a perfect gay friend to mess around with."

He goes, "Thanks, Bud! When you and Billy break up, I'm moving into the boyfriend spot, and then you'll really be one lucky motherfucker. I'll do a makeover for you. I'll change you into a ponytailed cowboy, and we'll spend the summers at my Granddad's ranch. Hell, we'll probably get married at the ranch once we graduate college."

Snickering, rubbing my fingers in the twenty hairs on his chest, I ask, "Do you have a cigarette?"

"After I've mapped out our future together, that's what you ask me? Do I have a cigarette?"

"Uh-huh, do you?"

"Nah, ha-ha! I finished that pack of Marlboros I bought a couple of weeks ago. I'm trying to quit, and you should never start!"

Smiling, I put my left leg between his and my arm across his chest, murmuring, "Okay, that's a deal, Pat! If Billy and I ever break up, I'll be your boyfriend, and we'll dance the cowboy two-step at our ranch wedding reception."

Grinning, he says, "Maybe I'll even let you grow a thin mustache."

We laughed and talked silly. Then I talked about how I think it looks cool smoking and that maybe we'll smoke little cigars at the ranch. Pat told me an outlandish story about how his grandfather, back in the day, would buy a pack of Lucky Strikes for twenty-five cents from a vending machine.

I'm like, "That sounds like bullshit, Pat. Kids under twenty-one could use the machines."

Then he says, "It's true. And here is an even more preposterous truth about my Granddad's time as a teenager. In the fifties, gasoline was twenty-five cents a gallon, and the guy at the gas station pumped it for you, then checked your oil And washed your windshield."

I'm like, "I believe you and I will be smoking cigars at your granddad's Texas ranch as two ponytailed cowboys with mustaches before I'd believe gasoline ever cost twenty-five cents a gallon."

He goes, "It's true!" and then talked about high school and the funny shit he and this kid, Greg Arnold, got into. We laughed our asses off. Jesus, Pat has a funny way of telling stories. He should be on TV.

Then, somehow we ended up lying on the seat, making out like animals in heat again. Well, we're naked, so it was bound to happen.

Without a second condom, Pat fucked me bareback, but not doggy style. No, it was with me on my back, pulling my legs back, his long hard engorged erection feeling enormous, extra enormous for some reason, as he hammered that hard fat snake back and forth in my ass. Worlds colliding!

I was rocking on my curved spine, groveling from the pleasure his boner was creating as it humped back and forth against my prostate gland and stretched anus, tons of nerve endings feeling so good I could barely gasp in enough oxygen to keep from passing out.

My boner was sticking straight up in front of Pat's belly, my hard five-inch boner throbbing like mad, the piss slit quivering, and when I blew my load, it came out in one long streak, straight up and then straight down, landing with a splat in my pubic hair.

Pat's eyes were shut as he quietly grunted with the effort of pounding his boner inside me; then, a minute later, he blew his load jamming his cock in, making a whining sound as he climaxed, filling me up with his twenty-five cents a gallon high-test semen.

Opening his eyes, he gasped, "Holy shit, I enjoyed that," and then fucked me for another two or three minutes with neither of us working up another orgasm, but it felt squishy good to me, some of his cum splashing out with each thrust. Nasty and messy, but in a good way.

Pulling his dick from my ass, he sat back on the seat, his chest heaving as I continued lying on my back, his undershirt under my ass, an arm around each leg, and my feet dangling. I don't know; maybe I was hoping for more. He finally chuckled, "I'm all done, Bud. You wore me out."

Letting go of my legs and sitting up, I adjust his undershirt under me, my feet on the floor, "I wore you out? Whaddaya talking about? You wore me out, although if you want..."

He interrupts, "Nope, no mas, dude. I'm done, but I'll tell you something that you'll probably think is bullshit, thinking I'm just pumping you up, but it's a fact that sex with you is the best recreational sex I've ever had. True!"

Still a little out of breath, I grin, saying, "Actually, I totally believe you, and I don't even know what I'm doing. Imagine how good it'd be if I knew what I was doing."

We both chuckle as we're sorting out the clothes from between the front bucket seats. We got dressed, and Pat tossed his cum-saturated undershirt out the door.

Driving away from the dumpster, he says, "I always feel so good, so invigorated and perfect after we, um, as you put it... after we mess around. I feel fantastic! How about you?"

I nodded, "Yeah, sure. I feel good, but then you're a fantastic top guy/guy. Yes, it's different than when Billy and I make love, but you're a wicked enjoyable top to mess around with, Pat. Seriously, I'm lucky to know you."

He shrugs, "Thanks for saying that."

I wistfully mumble, "I hope Billy's feeling a little better."

"Yeah, speaking of that, tomorrow, I'll probably be at Williams, at Billy's, when you get there. My last class is over at three."

Driving to my house, we talk about what we expect to see, improvement-wise, with Billy's condition. When we're at the curb in front of my house, I take off my seatbelt and lean over, giving Pat a juicy kiss goodnight, then say with a smile, "You're an excellent substitute teacher, um, the best messing around gay friend anyone could have."

Then I hug him around his neck and kiss him again. "Thanks, Pat. You were right a couple of nights ago when you said we'd be great friends."

He smiles, "I knew we would be, Bud."

Snickering, feeling goofy, I hug him again and kiss him, saying, "Yeah, you've been right about a lot of things."

He just sat there while I threw myself all over him. As I open the passenger door, he says, "You better watch out, Bud, because maybe some of my other predictions will come true too."

I hesitate, think about us dancing the silly two-step dance the other night, then say, "Good night, Pat," and hop out of the car.

"See ya tomorrow, Bud... love you."

I nod and smile, then wave as he drives away. Gee, that was so nice of him to say the love word. You can love a friend.

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