Invited

Chapter 34

( Focused )

Friday morning, my alarm goes off, and I wake up saying, "Where should I put it, Pat!" Huh? Rubbing my eyes, oh, I was in the middle of a dream. What was it about, though?

I sit up in bed, concentrating. Hmm, the dream was murky. I was sitting at a table with a jigsaw puzzle spread out; it was a picture of a big black question mark. Very eerie because, in the dream, I looked as I did when I was thirteen or fourteen. I had longish hair, long blond curls in my eyes, and two acne blemishes on my chin. Standing slightly behind me with his hand on my shoulder, Pat looked as he does now. Yeah, definitely spooky.

Trying to remember the quickly fading dream, I squeeze my eyes shut and see we're both naked, wearing cowboy hats, me sitting and Pat standing. Goddammit, what else? Oh, I had a piece of the puzzle in my hand, Pat pointing to where the piece should go, and then the alarm went off.

Anything else? Nothing I can remember. Fuck, I don't recall ever putting a jigsaw puzzle together in my life.

Feeling shaky, I get out of bed, surprised to find I have a boner, the head poking through my PJ's fly. Looking at it, I get the strongest urge to jerk off but resist doing that. I'll save my spurt of sperm for when, I assume, Pat will fucks it out of me tonight... and what a crude thought that was.

Goddamn, how strange! I can go a month without remembering a dream, and then, strangely, Wednesday night, I had that dream with Billy and me tied up like mummies, and last night the puzzle dream with Pat, and I remembered both when waking up.

Getting ready for work, I put the hair foam Pat gave me last night in my hair and tried to comb a sharp part as he did. Giving up on that, I just did the little pompadour in front.

I'm still shaken by how vivid last night's dream was. Dreams are elusive and mysterious, but maybe last night's dream was, metaphorically, reflecting my confusion about developing feelings for Pat and accepting that he just might be right about everything he's told me.

Pat's so smooth and confident, though; nice too. He's only a year and a few months older than me, but he seems ten years older. He's more experienced in life and especially in sexual relationships, so I find myself looking up to him for the answers to what's the right thing to do.

I'm confused about Pat and me. No, I'm not confused about being in love with Billy; that's firmly established. Still, the more I hear Pat telling me about his extensive history of relationships, makes me wonder about Billy's much more limited experiences.

During that weekend Billy and I spent together a couple of months ago, he told me there are times when he covers up a lack of confidence and feelings of inferiority by smiling and acting hot shit. Faking it, in other words. I'd bet that Pat has never had a sense of inferiority. He admits his mistakes, like his misplaced feelings for Leonardo. The way he tells it, though, it was poor judgment on his part and had nothing to do with feeling inferior.

Anyway, what does any of this mean? I don't know, but I know what I want. I want Billy to get over Covid so we can return to being the best boyfriends ever, and Pat again can become just a gay friend instead of being my substitute main man.

I'm in the kitchen; Mom cooks a fried egg sandwich for me. Then, at the bus stop, smoking a cigarette, I try not to think about last night. That doesn't work, though. I realize Pat isn't an average neighborhood gay friend who I happen to know; he's a poster child for young gay guys' wet dreams. He's sexy, confident, and, when he needs to be, he can be sweet too. Not to mention he's off-the-charts good-looking with an incredible taut body and an eight-inch hard penis.

He has all that going for him, and it's as if he's made me his hobby, which is flattering but adds to my confusion.

Most guys, gay or straight, probably wouldn't understand why I get shivery sexy feelings when Pat or Billy, in a friendly manner, get a bit dictatorial with me. I like it. There is no meanness intended; they both have a friendly manner guiding us into the best possible situations, whether sexual or just wasting time doing shit like smoking, going out to eat, listening to music, talking, laughing, whatever. To them, they're not consciously being bossy... they're being themselves.

And I think Pat does pretty much all of it better than Billy, and that's understandable because Pat's got more going for him in experience, but also looks and sexual equipment; plus, he's smoother, whereas Billy can get abruptly annoyed at times. Billy may not be a novice with all this compared to me, but he is when compared to Pat.

The hell with all that, though, I need Billy back in my life full-time. That's when I'm most relaxed and less confused. I need that to happen soon because the distinction between my feeling for Billy and Pay blurs every date I have with Pat. He's not doing anything wrong, so it must be me, except they both tell me I'm not doing anything wrong either.

Yeah, it's confusing. Or perhaps my thinking isn't making any sense! How can I tell?

Then, at the 69th Street terminal, I get on an overly crowded train car without an empty seat, so I'm standing and holding onto a pole. The car jerks when the train moves, and a youngish-looking guy, college age, with a large nose and bad breath, stands too close to me, bumping into me. He says, "You work for United Paper Products on the third floor."

It's more than a little curious that he knows where I work! I move my head back slightly to avoid his breath, nod my head and try to smile, saying, "Yes, I know where I work, but how do you know?"

He gets so close that his body, which is significantly overweight, is touching up and down my side. Then, spewing out halitosis, he mumbles, "That's funny. Of course, you know where you work."

Avoiding my question about how he knows, he adds, "Jeez, it looks as though we got on the train's most crowded car, huh?"

I shrug, turning my head slightly, again trying to avoid the onion stench coming from his mouth. He adjusts his backpack, then when the train takes a sharp curve, his whole-body bumps against me, "Hey, how about if we do lunch together. Oh, I'm Tony Grillo, by the way," then gawking at my head, he asks, "Oh no, what'd you do with your hair? It was better the other way."

I go, "Huh, my hair?" and he's like, "I work in customer service and watch you walk by a couple of times daily. How about it; I'm hoping you'll do me a favor and have lunch."

His foul breath, right in my face again, has my eyes watering, so I do a fake cough covering my mouth and nose, then mumble, "Really? That's, so, um... Well, I'm Gary Wallingford; nice to meet you."

He smiles, showing small gleaming white teeth with braces on the bottom, "I already knew your name. Ryan Brooks, who works next to me, asked Annie what your name was. She's the girl who pushes the cart delivering the opened mail. Anyway, I have a ten-dollar bet about who will have lunch with you first; Ryan or me."

Shaking my head, I mumble, "I've gotta believe you're kidding, right?"

He goes, "No, seriously! Um, Ryan and I have these kinds of crazy bets all the time."

Frowning, "But why me? Why do you guys want to have lunch with me? It's, um, ah... it doesn't make any sense."

He sneezes into his arm, then says, "I see that you and I are both bothered by these fucking spring allergies. It's pollen or something, right? Your eyes are watering, and I'm sneezing. Jesus!"

Well, he got half of that right.

He tells me, "Uh, as I said, Ryan and I are always betting on something, and we both noticed you immediately. Well, he noticed you first, but that doesn't affect our bet."

Shaking my head, I mumble, "Uh-huh. Well, our stop is the next one, so we should begin making our way to the door. And I already have a luncheon, um, ya know, engagement for today."

Nodding, he says, "Yeah, we know. It's with Mark Jones from the sixth floor; we know him. Ryan and I saw you guys going into the Chinese place yesterday. We occasionally eat there too, but I was hoping you could tell Jones you'll be ten minutes late today."

The train comes to a jolting stop, Tony bumps into me again, and I think he goosed my ass. After a wrestling contest with aggressive people getting into the car, we get off onto the platform, and I ask, "Why ten minutes late?"

On the street, Tony walks too close to me, but gratefully, a nice May breeze on our faces blows some of Tony's bad breath away or dilutes it anyway.

He says, "I only need ten minutes of your lunch break. I'd be forever grateful if you'd meet me in the large cafeteria, and I'll put the lunch I'll buy in front of you. You smile, and I take a selfie of us as if we're having lunch together; then you can meet Mark Jones for your real lunch."

Inside the office building, we're showing our IDs at the security desk, with me asking, "You'll go to all that trouble to win ten dollars?"

Nodding, "It's more the bragging rights than the ten bucks. Will you help me out?"

Shrugging, "I guess."

He says, "Can I see your phone for a minute?"

Without thinking, I hand it to him, and he logs his cell phone number on my phone and logs my number in his, saying, "I'll text you before noon, and thanks a million, Gary!"

Dammit! I'm a pushover.

I shrug as he adds, "I'm going to wait here for Ryan."

Annoyed, shaking my head slightly, I mutter, "Uh-huh."

Tony says, "Um, I hope you don't mind me saying this, but that young kid-like butch haircut you had before, um, you should go back to that. It was so random and so totally uncool; it became cool of you! Ha-ha, Ryan and I loved it! See you at noon."

As he snickers, I walk away, touching my head and feeling how stiff the hair foam had gotten.

Getting on an elevator car, I wondered what that was all about. Well, one good thing is it took my mind off my Pat confusion. Going back to that, I need to separate two issues; one, I've confirmed in my mind I'm in love with Billy... that hasn't changed, so it's not part of my confusion.

So that's one thing. The confusion part is much more about my growing infatuation with Pat. Not to replace Billy; that's not in the cards at all. I need clarification about how to manage my attraction to Pat. Plus, the aforementioned contention that as my substitute guy/guy, main man, I should look up to Pat and follow his logic about what we're doing together, um, even if it seems he is replacing Billy little by little.

The fact Billy appears okay with Pat and me doing all kinds of messing around furthers my confusion. No matter how hot I think Pat is, I do not want to lose my infatuation and love for Billy, which I haven't so far, not at all.

Thinking hard about this, I was still alert enough to get off on the third floor. Then, with my mind clouded by these thoughts, Fredrico, with his handsome smiling face, says, "Good morning, Gary!"

Deep in thought, I was like, "What? Oh, sorry, yes, good morning."

He energetically says, "You've caught up with the backlog; great job by you. I may use you in other areas for a couple of hours a day starting today. The envelope opening machine operation is your job-one concern, but now that we're caught up, it'll only be a five-or-six-hours a day job, so be flexible."

I nod, "Absolutely, boss."

His cell phone beeps, and he pats my shoulder, mumbling, "I knew you'd be a good hire from the first time I talked with you,"

Trying to smile, I nod, "Thanks," and he goes off to pump up his other employees. Well. I'm more than ready to do something else to break the monotony of this repetition job I've been doing all week.

At ten-thirty, the cart girl, Annie, came by to load up the opened envelopes for distribution. She's a short, stocky recent high school graduate wearing oversized, smudged eyeglasses.

For the first time this week, she actually says something to me. It's a question, "Are you meeting Tony for lunch today?"

"What? How did you know?"

She smirks at me and pushes her glasses up. Her pug nose looks as if someone hit it with a hammer. Then, after she loads two more piles of envelopes on her cart, she stands there and says, "This might seem bold of me to say, but pretending to have lunch with Tony is cheating and not fair to Ryan, ya know," and she goes off pushing the cart.

Huh! How does she know this shit? Also, she has a chip in one of her front teeth, and when she speaks, all her sibilant Ss whistle a little bit. That was kind of annoying.

Yeah, but why do bizarre things like this lunch with Tony happen to me? Jesus, I need this stupid nonsense like I need hemorrhoids. Well, I said I'd do it, so at eleven thirty, I texted Mark, 'Is it okay if I meet you for lunch at twelve-ten today?'

At five of twelve, he texts, 'Sure. I'll see you then at our spot on the first floor.'

A minute later, Tony texts, 'Gary, meet me at the door to the main cafeteria in two minutes.'

Jeez! He's a pushy fucker considering I'm the one doing him a favor. The main cafeteria is on the far side of the third floor. The far side from where I work, so I leave a couple of minutes before twelve and get there two minutes after. Tony's tapping his foot, asking, "Where ya been?"

He looks around, then says, "Well, you're here now, come on," He takes hold of my wrist, leading me to a table near a window at the far side of this large, noisy cafeteria. Pointing to a seat, he mutters, "Sit right here. I'll get in line, buy something, and be back quick."

He's back in three minutes, saying, "I didn't stand in line. It's much faster to buy a sandwich, chips, and a Sprite from the vending machines."

Sitting next to me, he grins mischievously as I roll my eyes at how stupid I feel. He quickly unwraps the prepackaged sandwich, chuckling and saying, "It was so funny that time Ryan first saw you. It was like five or six weeks ago, so you must have been interviewing. He said you looked like a, well, never mind that."

I'm frowning at him as he's busily setting up the fake lunch by putting the sandwich in from of me, then he spreads the chips out on a napkin. Moving the can of Sprite in front of me, he says, "I said never mind, but I gotta tell you. The first time we saw you, Ryan and I almost pissed our pants because we thought you were a butch dyke with a guy's clothes on, and you had that fucking random butch haircut from another century."

I'm frowning, muttering, "You just managed to be not only grossly politically incorrect but also insult me simultaneously. Congratulations. Take the picture already; I need a breath of fresh air."

"No, no, Gary, you're taking it all wrong. Ryan thought you were too pretty to be a guy, so butch dyke came to mind."

"Stop saying that! What's wrong with you?"

He shrugs and ignores me, saying, "Okay, pick up half the sandwich, but don't bite into it. That's my lunch. Are your hands clean?"

I roll my eyes again, and he laughs, "I'm just kidding you." He holds his phone out in front of us, mumbles, "Smile, Gary," and then clicks a selfie.

Looking at it, he mutters, "I need another one. Look at me this time with a grin as if I said something funny."

He takes the second selfie, and I get up, mumbling, "Good luck with winning your bet, but Annie told me this was cheating. Bye..."

He doesn't say thank you or anything else. Taking a bite of the balcony sandwich, he's studying the two photos as I hurry to the reception area in the middle of the third floor, where the bank of elevators is.

Getting off in the lobby, I see Mark leaning against a pillar near the entrance talking with a woman who appears to be in her thirties. He sees me, then says something to the woman, she leaves, and he meets me halfway, holding out his fist for me to bump.

"Hi, Mark," we bump fists, and he says, "That was my boss. I might be getting promoted. Haha, I failed to mention I'll probably be in the military before the promotion comes through."

"That's great, Mark! Ah, the part about you getting promoted," and we walk outside, then three blocks to a deli for lunch. I quickly tell him the weird story about Tony and Ryan.

He laughs, "Yeah, that sounds like those two dipshits. They're a couple of recent college grads in a minor management program beginning with what's basically a clerk's job in customer service."

I nod, "Uh-huh, yeah, he said they worked there."

Shaking his head, he goes, "I met them at last year's holiday spread that the building provides. The first floor was covered with tables offering all kinds of finger food but no booze: punch and soft drinks only. Many people working in the building, such as myself, ate lunch there for a week. It must have cost the managers of the building a fortune."

"Uh-huh. So, how exactly did you meet Tony and Ryan?"

He shakes his head, chuckles, and says, "I'm not sure how I met those two dorks. It was like, out of nowhere, the fat one, Tony, struck up a conversation with me as if we knew one another for years, and then his buddy, Ryan, wouldn't stop talking after that. They were like gum on my shoe all week at lunch. I couldn't avoid them. Since then, whenever I see them around the building, it's like old friend week to them. They're harmless, though, I guess."

We both ordered corn beef on rye with a vanilla milkshake. It was crowded, so we had to share a table with a grumpy older woman who was at the table first. Mark tried charming her, and she said, "Eat your lunch, sonny, and don't worry about me. Is that okay with you?"

Mark and I exchanged smirks; she finished in two minutes. When she was standing, Mark said, "Have a nice day." She ignored that, but with the first step she took, we heard an unmistakable loud fart that she pretended came from someone else as she hustled out of the restaurant.

Giggling like little kids, we both held our noses as if we smelled the fart. Coming to our senses, I asked Mark, "Do you think the two dorks are gay?"

He shrugs, "Hell, I don't know, but if I had to guess, they're probably a couple of latent homos, neither one with the guts to do anything about their urges. Maybe they're hoping you or I would come on to them," and he laughs, adding, "Good luck with that, huh? I mean, Tony's a fatty, and then Ryan is a hatchet-faced guy with constantly chapped lips from nervously running his tongue around them every two minutes. It was hard to eat when he was doing his lips licking."

Finishing my sandwich, I say, "Tony told me that Ryan thought I was a butch dyke at first."

Mark laughs his ass off, then goes, "Seriously? Well, yeah, there is an androgynous quality to your face."

I go, "Thanks a lot! That hurts."

Patting my arm, grinning, he says, "You might want to consider growing a small mustache and a cute little chin beard. I'd suggest you grow a goatee, except I doubt you can."

"So far, I can't grow the other things you suggested, either."

Then, as we drink our milkshakes, I tell him about last night with Pat and that I'm getting increasingly confused about how I feel about Pat.

Mark appears interested in hearing more details about Pat'a and my messing around than I feel comfortable providing, but he gets the picture and says, "Frankly, I don't know what your problem is. You've got gay guys sniffing after you without you doing anything to attract them, and, Omigod, this Pat guy sounds interestingly sexy and hot, and he surely is interested in you. I don't think you realize that you're having more sex than, um, almost everybody!"

Sucking the last of my milkshake through the straw until it makes that irritating noise, I stop and push the container away. "I'm having more sex than almost everybody? Really? I didn't know that, but I'm still confused."

Pushing away from the table, we dump our trash and walk outside. Mark says, "Why not just go with your blind luck and enjoy the ride you're on? Your boyfriend, whatshisname, will be over his Covid shit in a week. This other guy isn't going to steal you away from him even if he's trying to, and your boyfriend isn't worried about any of that anyway. Not from what you've told me. So, what are you confused about?"

Walking toward our office building, I shrug, "When you put it that way, I guess I'm confused about myself. Before meeting Pat, I couldn't conceive of anyone being one-hundredth as desirable as Billy. Then, after a number of dates with Pat, I actually had the thought that if Billy and I broke up, I'd be Pat's best boyfriend. Two weeks ago, it was inconceivable to me that Billy and I would ever break up."

He gives me a funny look, then mumbles, "There you go again, thinking like a naive, immature teen experiencing his first romance. Well, this is your first romance, but you're not thirteen. Plus, you're a bit of a hypocrite because all you need to do is tell Pat to lighten up or, better yet, don't go out with him. You're pretending circumstances beyond your control confuse you when you could eliminate the confusion by simply saying no thanks to sexy Pat."

We enter the building, show our ID, and walk to the elevators. Standing in front of the bank of elevators, I say, "Yeah, I guess that's the point, Mark. My confusion is this: if I love Billy so much that it hurts my heart, why don't I do what you said and tell Pat no thanks? That's my confusion. I'm confusing myself."

The doors open for elevator 4, we get on, and he says, "You want your cake and eat it too, huh?" I go, "Apparently."

Patting my back, he mumbles, "I wish I had your problems," and I get off on the third floor.

Hmm, so I'm rationalizing confusion to get me off the hook of enjoying the messing around that Pat and I are doing. Is it as simple as that? Yeah, it is!

Unhappy with that conclusion, I banished it from my mind and concentrated on working my job. At three o'clock, there are no more envelopes to run through the machine, so I close it down and look around.

A minute later, my handsome boss put me in the mailroom with Regena Lopez, whose job is putting together boxes. Doing that for twenty minutes made me realize running the envelope machine wasn't so bad.

Regena speaks barely understandable broken English, which doesn't hamper her from constantly talking to me, with me racking my brain for some appropriate response to avoid insulting her. Jesus, as each long minute passes, I realize how much more this repetitive job sucks compared to my own repetitive job at the envelope-opening machine!

Mercifully it's finally five o'clock, and Regena shakes my hand, smiling and saying something I don't understand, but I say, "Thank you very much, Regena. It's been awesome working with you."

She appeared content with that and babbled unintelligibly to a friend, smiling and pointing at me. Whatever she said made her friend cover her mouth with her hand as she nodded her head laughing. Whatever!

I spotted Tony and Ryan in the crowd on the train platform, so I hung back until they got on a train. Then, at the 69th Street station, I don't have much time before getting on a bus, so I grab a random paperback book from a booth. I want something as a sick bed present for Billy. On the cover, the book claimed to be 'An Electrifying Best Seller on the New York Times Best Seller List." It's titled "Double Deuce" by Robert B. Parker, whoever he is.

Getting off the bus and walking to Billy's house, I put a mask on. Then it occurs to me that I still don't know what to do tonight about Pat, and I'm going to be with him in a few minutes. What should I tell him?

Yeah, I know it's up to me to stop pretending it's confusing being hung up on Pat. He's hot, but all I need to do is say I don't want to go out with him tonight.

When I rang Billy's doorbell, I heard a loud machine running inside. It cuts off, then Billy's mom opens the door and says, "Hello, Gary. Oh, your hair is, ah, it looks nice. See if you can get William to comb his hair."

I smile, walk inside, and close the door. Mrs. Underwood adds, "Two of his friends from college are visiting. Well, you know the way," and she turns on the vacuum cleaner and continues vacuuming the living room.

Two of his friends from college, plural? I tap on the door, then open it and walk in. Billy smiles, "Hi, Gary! Did you bring me more magazines?"

I shake my head and hold up the bag, "No, Billy, it's a paperback book." I notice everyone is wearing a mask today, and Billy is wearing his glasses. I don't know exactly how to explain it, but he somehow looks cuter wearing glasses. It's as if he has a cute vulnerability with his eyeglasses on. All I know is, God, I want to jump on top of him!

I also notice that the youthful-looking, five-foot-eight-inch, wild-hair Ron Lynch is sitting on the bed next to Billy. He points at me, laughs, and says, "What the hell is that hairdo supposed to be, Gary?"

I want to like Ronny, but he isn't making it easy. Touching my head, blushing, I mumble, "It's, um, my hair is at an in-between length, too long and too short, so..."

Billy says, "And fuck you, Ron! Gary's hair looks fine, um, for now." Then, "Your hair is fine, Gary. How are you?"

I shrug, "Thanks, Billy. I'm missing you but doing okay."

Ron and Billy share the pillow at their backs, with an Xbox One S device in their hands, playing a game, which is why Billy has his glasses on. Hmm, he never suggested he and I play his Xbox, but never mind that; I wonder where Pat is? Jeez, I guess I wasted my time going to the trouble of combing my hair the way he showed me.

So, Pat's not here, but sitting on the desk chair is a guy who appeared to be maybe twenty-five. He has a one-inch long black beard, and he's about six-foot tall and built like a lumberjack. If that's Ronny's boyfriend, they go together like mustard and cupcakes.

Holding a finger up, concentrating on the game, Billy mumbles, "Just a second, Gary, I almost got this motherfucker."

Ron yells, "Not so fast," then thirty seconds later, "Oh, Goddammit!" from Ronny, and Billy goes, "You lose again."

The lumberjack, busy picking his nose, finally looks at me, then looks back at Billy and Ron, asking, "Is that him?" His voice is so deep it made my eardrums buzz.

Billy says, "Um, oh yeah. Gary, meet Ronny's boyfriend, Bob Singer. Bob, that's my main boy, Gary Wallingford."

Main boy?

Bob and I nod at one another, and I ask Billy, "Where's Pat?"

Ron answers, "He was here, but he got a text that he needs to pick up his sister somewhere. We're meeting him later."

We're meeting him later? What's that mean?

Ron asks, "What paperback did you buy me?"

Reaching over Ron, I hand the bag to Billy, mumbling, "Ha! It's not for you, Ronny. Here, Billy, it's a detective story. So, um, you're feeling better, are you?"

He shrugs, "The same as yesterday," and he takes the paperback book from the bag, "Thanks, Gary! I'll read it tomorrow."

He reaches out his fist, so I bump fists with him, muttering, "You're welcome. What else could I get you that would help past the time as you're lying in bed?"

Billy, putting his glasses on the bedside table, grins, "Let's see, um, well, I sometimes watch movies during the day, so how about a big bag of buttered popcorn and some Gummy Bears?"

I go, "Your glasses make everything crystal clear, huh?"

He nods at his glasses, "Yeah, those 'effing babies work great."

Yeah, he looks even cooler than usual with his glasses on. I say, "Tomorrow, I'll bring you popcorn and Gummy Bears. Um, how much longer will you be contagious?"

Before Billy can answer, Ron gives me a phony smile, saying, "What? Are you saying you haven't read anything about this fucking virus that's been around since 2020? Jesus, that's radically clueless of you, Wallingford!"

Billy's looking at the paperback book as I'm frowning hard at Ron because, as much as I try to like him, I don't like him.

Ron added, "Um, anyway, I'll school you. The day after tomorrow, Bill's five-day quarantine is up. So, assuming he's had no fever for a day or two, he's good to go. Officially, we shouldn't even be in the room with him until then. After five days, fever-free, he'll still need to wear a mask, but he can return to classes."

I look at Billy for confirmation, and he looks up and flips his hand, mumbling, "Yeah, that's pretty much it, Gary. I haven't had a fever for two days, but we're all wearing masks because my old man gave me some shit about you guys visiting while I'm contagious. Just because I don't have a fever doesn't mean I'm not contagious. Anyway, 'eff all that; how'd your day at work go?"

I mutter, "Work was fine, but, as I said, I'm missing being with you. Um, you can get out of bed on Sunday, huh?"

He says, "I can get out of bed any time I want."

Ron's big oaf of a boyfriend's been thinking about what he's heard and says, in his deep, rumbling voice, "Whaddaya mean, Ronny? Ah, a minute ago, you said we're not supposed to be here? Do you mean I could catch his virus? You didn't tell me that."

Snickering, Ronny says, "Don't worry about it, Singer. Keep your mask on and sit there. No need to say anything."

Oh, ha, Bob Singer isn't an Einstein, and the much smaller Ron is apparently the guy/guy for that big dufus. Holy shit.

Billy tells us about a movie he watched this afternoon: The Hateful Eight. "It was a Tarantino movie made back in 2015. With him writing and directing the movie, I expected something special, and I wasn't disappointed. Here's the most..."

Interrupting Billy, Ron says, "Oh man, you know your movies, Underwood. I saw that at the movies when I was thirteen. We had to get an older guy to buy the tickets, but.."

Billy returns the favor and interrupts him back, "I didn't finish my 'offing sentence, Ron! What the fuck's wrong with you today?"

Ron snickers, muttering, "Sorry, dude," and Billy goes on, "What I was going to say is, at the end of this awesome movie, as the credits roll, there was this song called, "There Won't Be Many Coming Home," and I got chills listening to it! I never watch credits, but the song made me do that."

I asked, "What was the song about, Billy?"

"It was like an anti-war song about the Civil War. Man, it got to me as a powerful statement, so I Googled it and found it's a song written and performed by another rock legend, Roy Orbison. He recorded it but didn't sing it at the end of the movie. I don't know who that was. On YouTube, I listened to Roy Orbison's version. It was eerier sounding, while the other guy's version was wicked good too. I'm not sure which version I liked best. They're both on my cell phone now."

Ron says, "I've heard the name Roy Orbison but never heard any of his songs. I don't see what an anti-Civil War song had to do with the movie, though."

"You saw it when you were a kid, Ronny, so nothing introspective would have occurred to you except, I suppose, you got off on all the killing in the movie. The movie's timeline was right after the Civil War, and there was a lot of back-and-forth dialogue between the Confederate characters in the movie and the Union ones."

Shrugging, Ron mutters, "Whatever," then he adds, "Well, as much as I hate to leave, we need to take off now. We're meeting Pat at the Subway Shop for dinner. That includes you, Wallingford. We're going to crash the gay club Singer's a member of. Too bad you can't join us, Billy, but there will be another time."

Billy looks surprised, "A gay club, you say?"

Getting off the bed, Ron nods, "Yep, and this will be a first-time experience for Summers, and I'm guessing for you too, Wallingford. It's a private club so that they can bend the rules for members bringing in underage guests."

I'm frowning as Bob Singer says, "I told you earlier, I better not lose my membership because of this, Ronny."

Ron puts his finger to his lips and goes, "Shh, please be quiet when the adults are talking."

Billy shrugs, "Well, I wouldn't go even if I didn't have Covid," and I mutter, "The same for me. I didn't know anything about this until now, and I'm not going."

Ron says to me, "Oh, Jesus! You've got to be a snatch about everything. don't you, Wallingford? Summers said you'd probably be a pain in the ass about this, but he wants you to come with Singer and me. We've both got our motorcycles, so you'll ride behind him," nodding at the lumberjack.

Snorting, "Fuck that. I just told you I'm not going! What didn't you understand when I said I'm not going? I won't be riding behind him or anyone else."

Billy says, "You heard him, Ronny. He's not going," and then to me, "Come over after dinner, and we'll watch a movie together; I'd like to watch that Tarantino one again."

"I'd like to see it too. Thanks for inviting me."

He chuckles, mumbling, "You and that being inviting shit, ha-ha."

Ron and Bob stand, Ron mumbling, "Have it your way, but Summers is going to be pissed off that you're not coming, Wallingford."

Billy laughs, "Tough shit! Pat can be pissed off all he wants. Gary's my 'effing boyfriend, not Pat's. Jesus, you guys! Get 'effing real!"

I stay put as Ron and Bob head for the door. Oh boy, I'm feeling awesome at how Billy stuck up for me. I might even have a smirk on my face watching them go.

The door closes, and Billy says, "Hey, if you want, I'll play both versions of that song for you, Gary. I downloaded both to my phone. Come on over and sit next to me, babe."

Not wanting to lie back where Ron was, I say, "I'd like to listen to the song. Um, but how about if I get you a fresh pillowcase first, though?"

He nods, "Great idea; this one is probably filled with Covid germs. Look in the closet right outside my bedroom door on the left. There are fresh sheets and pillowcases in there."

As I changed the pillowcase, Billy said, "Goddamn, you're a good boyfriend, Gary."

Then as I plumped up the pillow, Pat texted me. I look at it... 'Damn, Bud, going to a gay club would be so cool. A gay club! I understand, though. See you tomorrow, and I'll tell you all about it."

Showing Billy the text, he mumbles, "That 'effing Ronny has the wrong idea about you and Pat." Pointing a finger at the text on my phone, he adds, "Pat knows what's up, though. What's with him calling you Bud, though?"

Shrugging, "I don't know," I get next to him on the bed, and he puts out his arm, inviting me to snuggle against him. I do that, and a sigh of contentment slips out of my mouth. He smiles, "There you are," and he plays the Roy Orbison song."

It is a powerful song sung by someone with a powerful voice, but I think he was holding back from letting it go full blast. Wow, another singer discovered from way back when... Roy Orbison! Obviously, this was the first song I've heard of his.

I say, "It's a message song, but not just about the Civil War; any war."

Billy says, "Yes, but in the Civil war, it was all American boys who were among the many who won't be coming home."

Putting my arm across his stomach, snuggling tighter against him, I mumble, "First you discovered Elvis, and now this guy, Roy Orbison. We don't run into a lot of guys named Roy, though, do we?"

He shrugs, "That's an unusual name, but so was Elvis, although nobody thinks that's an unusual name now, right? His first name is known all over the world, and he died like fifty-some years ago."

I mutter, "I'll bet there weren't many babies named Elvis before THE Elvis."

We listened to Roy's song There Won't Be Many Coming Home again, then the version sung by someone else. The artist who sang while Billy watched the credits roll at the end of the movie. I liked both versions. Roy's is somehow spookier, and the other guy's version is sharper and more intense.

After that, I kiss Billy on the forehead, tell him, "I'll be back later, Billy," and then walk six blocks home for dinner feeling the best I've felt in four days. I'm back with my boyfriend again and, consequently, not confused anymore.

During dinner, Mom says, "I'm glad to see you smiling, Gary. You've seemed, um, pensive lately."

"I don't know what that means, Mom, but thanks. Things are going well at work, plus my best friend, Billy, is feeling better and only has a couple more days of being contagious with Covid."

Dad swallows some meatloaf and asks, "Did you get your first fat paycheck today, son?"

"No, Dad, the first one gets added to the last one; for some reason. I'll chip in for room and board next week."

Mom quickly says, "That's not why Dad asked that, honey. Was it, Richard?"

"No, of course not. I thought it was why Gary was smiling. Mom and I don't want you to pay for room and board now that you'll be attending college in the fall. Save it for then."

Oh, boy! I go, "Thanks, that's great! Gee, that's so nice of you guys."

I finished dinner at six-thirty, so there was plenty of time to shower before returning to Billy's.

In the shower, I'm trying to think how Billy and I can mess around even though he has Covid. I miss making out with him, but it'll only be for another week before we're back at it. There are ways we could mess around, except for his parents being home. One of them could wonder why I'm squealing and then open the bedroom door to make sure we're okay.

It's always something, ya know? Jesus that would freak all of us out!

Being with Billy and cuddling will do for tonight. Then, as I'm shaving my thirty or so light-blond whiskers, barely visible ones, I hear a text ping on my phone. Applying a dab of aftershave lotion, naked, I check my phone and see a text from Billy. 'My Mom and Dad just left for Home Depot to look for a new washer/dryer. Heh-heh, Dad will check every one of them online before deciding which to buy so they won't be back for hours. Bring condoms!' Come in the back door. It's unlocked.'

What? Omigod, his folks will be out! Billy will know a safe way to mess around. Why did I ever doubt that?

I text, 'Wow! See you at seven!'

With two condoms in my pocket, I walk to Billy's, thinking that I need to focus on what's most important, meaning my time with Billy. Sure, my fling with Pat was really good, and I learned from it, but I know who my man is, and he's not Pat! I simply need to focus on Billy and me.

Going up on the back porch, I put on my mask, then went inside. Jeez, I feel like a thief sneaking into someone's house. It's weird, but this is the first time I've ever just walked into another person's house without first knocking. As soon as I step into the hall, calling, "Billy," I hear the shower in the bathroom. It better be Billy in there, ha-ha.

In his bedroom, I see clean sheets on the bed. These are blue; the other ones are white. Okay, it's ten of seven, so I'm early. I was anxious to be alone with him. Sitting at his desk, I see his cell phone and computer, but I don't touch them. They're probably password-protected anyway, but even if they weren't, I wouldn't snoop.

A few minutes later, Billy walks into the bedroom naked, drying his hair with a towel. He smiles, "Hi, boyfriend! Have you been missing me?"

"Yeah, uh-huh, that's an understatement." It'd be nice to hear he missed me too.

Grinning but sounding annoyed, he mumbles, "Goddamn, this longer hair is a bitch, huh? I'd forgotten that longish hair needs more care. I guess we need to hit your uncle's barbershop next week or the week after."

Standing, I nod, "Definitely, Billy, whatever you say."

I'm relieved he still wants my uncle's haircuts, but he was noticeably less enthusiastic about it than he used to be. The haircuts being at all magical is a wildly insane idea. Still, going this long without getting our haircuts is starting to concern me. I wish he'd mentioned the magic in our twin haircuts because I'm afraid maybe Billy's losing a little bit of interest in us.

Finished drying, he drops the towel on the desk chair I was sitting on, picks up his black mask, puts it on, then mumbles, "Get undressed, babe. Do I need to tell you to breathe too? C'mon, Gary."

That's just Billy being Billy! I fantasize about him wearing his glasses, and now, Oh God, he's naked with a mask and glasses on! Holy shit!

Quickly getting undressed, I mumble, "Um, can I ask you a personal question?"

Taking off his glasses and adjusting his mask, snickering, he says, "Well, when haven't you asked me about my personal shit? Sure, go ahead, you cute motherfucker, you.

"Oh, wow, thanks for the compliment. It's just, ah, what do you see in Ronny? I don't like him."

As I'm taking off my clothes, putting them neatly on the towel that's on the desk chair, Billy says, "Yeah, you two haven't hit it off. I noticed that. Um, I thought he was cool with the trivia shit. You know, with me being into crazy stuff like that myself."

Nodding, I mumble, "He hasn't said any trivia recently."

"Yeah, but it's weird how he acts totally different when it's just him and me. He's a really good guy once you get to know him, but holy shit, that goof of a boyfriend! What's up with that guy, huh?"

Shrugging, I mutter, "I don't know. I'll be friendly to Ron as long as he's helping you out, bringing your class assignments and stuff, but other than that, I don't want to do anything with him or his robot, Bob."

Billy puts his hands on my shoulders, murmuring, "No, I want you guys to get to know each other better. There's something about Ronny that I feel will resonate with you if you give him a chance, but we don't need to spend any more time talking about that now."

Naked, except for wearing a mask, I lean against Billy, my arms around him. Then, quietly gasping at how wonderful this feels, I murmur, "Nope, not another thought about Ronny. I love you so much, Billy, and I've missed being alone with you like this."

Rubbing his hands up and down my back, "I know you've missed me, babe. Hell, I've missed being loved by you. That's my favorite thing; the way you love and worship me, heh-heh. So, even considering our limitations, I still want to do some good messing around tonight with you as a thank you for loving me the way you do."

"Um, limitations. Which ones do you mean?"

He says, "Just a little while ago, I Googled 'Having Sex with Covid 19' and learned, well, haha, we shouldn't have sex at all. That's a serious limitation, but we're going to have some anyway, so forget that limitation."

"Good," and he adds, "Yeah, well, scientists have noticed the virus in semen, so no oral sex. Obviously, we can't make out with these masks on. The only way to positively ensure you don't catch the virus from me is if you don't visit me at all. And, as I just said, it's highly advised not to have sex, but, as I also just said, we're going to anyway, aren't we?"

Shrugging, I mumble, "Hell, yeah. We're special together, and our bodies know each other. They're friends, our bodies are, and yours wouldn't infect mine."

He nods, muttering, "That sounds like, um, some unlikely bullshit right there. You know, if we were older, we'd be more sensible, and we'd wait a week before messing around. Fortunately, we're not older, heh-heh."

Standing, our naked bodies now tightly together, I'm rubbing the side of my face against his, murmuring, "That's right, Billy."

Chuckling, he mumbles, "Uh-huh, but unfortunately, our messing around will need to be very basic, like the messing around I did in the locker room after high school gym class. You know, just to get off. Slam, bang, thank you, um, whatever a guy's name is that rhymes with 'bang.' So, if you'd let go of me and lean over with your hands on the bed, we can do it."

I'm smiling behind my mask because, for one thing, being naked with a mask on feels dumb, but for another, I'm tingling all over being with Billy alone, highly anticipating doing some messing around with him. Him being the one and only Billy Underwood.

Reluctantly letting go of him, I bend over, my hands holding onto the mattress at the foot of the bed, me still shivering with anticipation as I push my ass up. Looking back at Billy, I see his eyes are smiling, and in my head, behind his mask, I can see his awesome lips smiling as clearly as if he wasn't wearing a mask.

He snickers and says, "You always manage to make me feel like the most desired, hottest stud in the world, Gary. Goddamn, I've missed that a little these past four days."

I wish he'd make it more personal and say he's missed ME!

Taking my jeans off the chair, Billy pulls a condom out of my jean's pocket and holds it in his left hand while squeezing his twin dick to mine in his other hand, murmuring, "I'm getting a nice boner from just looking at your eager ass," and he strokes his pecker a few times, lets go of it and presses it against my ass, quietly moaning, "Ahhh, yeah; feels good, huh?"

I haven't even touched my dick, but it knows what to do when Billy and I mess around; it firms up quickly. I reach back to feel Billy's left butt cheek, He covers my hand, squeezes it, then rips open the condom packet and swivels his hips, dragging his dick around my buttocks, making another quiet moaning sound, "Aaah, umm."

I feel his dick grow harder and harder until Billy moves back a little to roll on the condom. Quivering with excited anticipation, my penis was hard and up against my belly, feeling fantastically good! Billy's hand rubs softly up and down my back as he murmurs, "You and me, Gary, so this kind of special. The other messing around we do is merely filling time and doesn't mean a helluva lot, if anything."

If I wasn't already over my confusion, which I feel I was, what Billy just said eliminated any remnants of confusion that was perhaps still lingering in the back of my mind. I'm focused now. Focused on our messing around because that's what matters; all other sex is merely feel-good placeholders for the real thing, just as Billy said.

When the cool, slippery end of the condom hits my anus, I shiver, and the tight lips of my asshole quiver, then begin spreading for the swollen head of what has become Billy's hard five-inch chubby boner that's always invited inside. And then Billy and I make twin gasping sounds when the fat head slides ever so tightly in past my sphincter muscles. My shoulders spastically shudder as I squeeze all the muscles of my rectum to embrace the familiarity of this welcome guest inside my body.

Gripping my hips, he leans forward, pushing his hard sex organ further up my ass, "Mumm, feels good. Your miracle ass seems happy too."

I shudder again, tightly closing my eyes, and focus on every second of this messing around so I can replay it in my head in bed tonight.

It boggles my mind that Billy's hard dick, much smaller than Pat's, can feel so much better! And how is it possible for anything to feel this good, this perfect in the first place? I know how and why; it's because Billy and I are making love, not merely doing a random sex act.

He's pushing his hard boner up my ass slowly, opening my bowels a fraction of an inch at a time. The big head isn't getting much resistance even though it's moving backward from a normal bowel function. His pubic hair tickles my buttock momentarily, then his groin is tight against me, and I hear Billy exhale noisily, then ask, "Are you okay, Gary?"

I grunt, "Better than okay; excellence is more like it, Billy." I said that, but he's holding back a little, not as focused on me, on us, as he used to be. It's still fantastic, though. Fully impaling me, he leans his chest on my back and hugs his arms around my stomach, murmuring, "Feeling good, Gary?"

"Uh-huh, it always feels good when you're messing around being the top guy fucking me, Billy." It's like he's mostly focused on making me happy. It should be like it was, messing around that's making us mutually happy.

Still fully impaling me, his hot moist breath on the back of my neck, he humps against my buttocks a few times, then stands and pulls his hard boner back as I make a quiet squeal, shaking at the sensations coming from my prostate and what feels like pleasure beyond belief from my entire rectum. Yes, he's not at his best, but it's still fabulous.

Then, after a two-second hesitation, Bllly's hard sex organ goes back inside me, my cock tightening further until it's ridiculously hard and pulls away from my belly to stick straight out. Now that feels awesome! It's pointing at the end of the mattress, unmoving in its skin-stretching tightness.

His hard-as-wood boner, the head swollen larger than the shaft; his whole pleasure-giving penis moving steadily in and out of my rectum, not fast and not slow. "Oh, umm," from me, with Billy's heavy breathing in the background. My moans become a mantra, seemingly coming from somebody else. Billy's hands grip my hips possessively, and all of it has me in a state of euphoria, and then it gets better.

A muttered, "Oh, fuck, umm," from Billy, and he began thrusting faster, then even faster thrusting, "Slap, slap, slap," sounds coming off my buttocks. My eyes open wide now as a tsunami of sexual pleasure spreads out from my ass, the impending climax taking over control of everything. Nothing can stop it, both of us making desperate gasping sounds, almost afraid of the power of a climatic orgasm. Waiting now with thrilling anticipation, our bodies stiffening, every muscle on alert to blow semen from our balls out to the world.

Then, with an explosion of sensation like black holes in the Cosmos colliding, we both blow our loads, me screeching and Billy's exhale sounding like air forced out of an exploding tire, all breathy and scary. The cum shot from my petrified cock splatters onto the end of the mattress, a big wet spot on the bedspread with cum spray blowing back against my legs.

When he unloaded his semen into the condom, Billy humped against my buttocks so hard I was pushed against the end of the bed, my cum there squishing against my belly, and my cock up against my belly as well.

We stay like this, breathing deeply for half a minute, then Billy straightens up, pulls his dick from my ass, and mutters, "This was considerably better than my memories of those quickies in the locker room after gym class."

Still breathing deeply, I nod, smiling against my mask, then mutter, "I'm glad to hear that."

He helps me get up, then hugs me, murmuring, "Yep, that was much more special than I remembered. Apparently, four days without my gay messing around buddy was too long."

I'm more than his buddy!

I murmur, "You make me so happy, Billy."

Nodding, he takes his arms from around me, "Yeah, I hope so. Now, though, let's clean ourselves up in the bathroom."

He takes my hand, and that little thing of him holding my hand gives me goosebumps, but there is something about his demeanor that worries me. I'm not sensing the loving feeling from even a week or two ago. Billy went six months without any messing around before hooking up with me. I hope he isn't thinking of suspending messing around for another six months.

Cleaning up, I say, "I made a mess at the end of your bedspread," and he goes, "I expected you would. Good thing we won't be lying there."

Cleaned up and back in bed, me snuggling against him, I felt more relaxed and contended now that his arm was around me. Then Billy puts his glasses on to watch the movie 'Eight Hateful Men.' It is a violent but tongue-in-cheek violent movie, with crackling dialogue and outstanding performances, especially from Samuel L. Jackson.

Silently, we watched the credits at the end, listening to the Orbison song titled, There Won't Be Many Coming Home, sung by an unknown artist.

Speaking of coming home, Billy's parents got home halfway through the movie, and his mom knocked on the door, asking, "Everything alright, William?"

He yelled, "Yes, of course, everything is alright! Jesus, why wouldn't it be? Gary and I are watching a movie or trying to, anyway."

She says, "Try not to be so grumpy, please."

He looks at me rolling his eyes, muttering, "Parents..."

After the song, Billy takes off his glasses, gets out of bed, and cracks the bedroom door, peeking out. "They've gone to bed."

He gets a sweat sock from his bureau and a condom from my jeans. Bringing both with him, he gets back in bed and whispers, "Get on your side, and I'll give you a goodnight messing around fuck."

My knees pulled up, and my dick in the sweat sock; I experienced again the unmatched sexual pleasure that only Billy can provide me, almost fainting at the indescribable sensations of sexual climax. Kudos to natural selection for perfecting over a billion years human's sexual orgasms. Nice job with that.

Carrying my mask, walking home at eleven thirty, no longer confused, I'm focused now on Billy, but concerned he's less interested in us than before. As I suspected earlier, it felt like he was taking care of my need to mess around with him rather than doing it for himself too.

With a smile on my face, I focus on the positives tonight. I mean, he did two excellent messing around fucks, and that's what I start replaying in my mind. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I'm still thinking something has changed.

To be continued... donnymumford@outlook.com

Hey, guys, please consider making a tax-deductible donation (yes, it is deductible) to nonprofit Nifty to help them cover the expenses of maintaining and growing this great, free story site. It will be a much-appreciated gesture, and easy ways to do that are at Nifty.org. Thank you!