JOHN DARLING'S COMA
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Five-thirty Sunday morning, John's phone alarm goes off, and he snaps awake feeling great. He's been exercising, weightlifting, and jogging, and NOT drinking alcoholic beverages, and he only smoked three cigarettes yesterday; plus, he's been getting plenty of rest, and he's YOUNG! So, of course, he feels great waking up after a good night's sleep!
Punching on Gary's number, John hears a cheerful-sounding Gary saying, "Good morning! You are the most loyal boyfriend ever, John! I'm impressed, bro! Oh, dude, listen to this: this is so unlike me; it scared me, but I found myself staring at your image on my phone in class yesterday. What have you done to me, Darling?"
"Haha, you are falling under my spell, Gary. Hey, I meant to tell you, I'm up to a hundred and fifty-seven pounds of mostly muscle, um, except for the fat ring around my hips."
"Haha! Seriously? Well, keep exercising, and that fat will turn into muscle, for real. Look, I'm sorry but I need to get off real quick this morning. I promise we can talk longer tomorrow morning. Tell me you love me so I can refute it."
John goes, "No, seriously, you're joking, but I might be falling in love with you, Gary."
"Nope, you're in love with the idea of being in love. You're a romantic, and so am I, except I'm much, much more realistic about it than you. Um, I kinda love you too, though, so... Haha, talk to you tomorrow, Darling."
John hears 'Click' and shuts his phone, smiling. With a sigh, still holding his cell phone, he slides down flat on the bed, mumbling, "Do I imagine this, or does Gary sound very different from when we first met? He's getting to be so sweet and so nice; it's exciting! And, oh God, the 'L' word coming out of his mouth gave me goosebumps and shivers."
Talking louder, he says, "And, yeah, that's right, I'm talking to myself again. If you don't like it, don't listen."
He's giddy because he's not used to feeling so fucking great, so carefree and happy. Without planning to do it, he pushes down the girlie panties he's wearing and casually grabs his dick. Meanwhile, in his brain, he's picturing Gary's fat penis. He goes, "Mmmm," and squeezes his dick, then strokes it into a hard boner. Grunting now, he strokes it steadily, and soon he's making a face, his back arching off the mattress as, "Ah, ah, ahh! " he climaxes, his cum stream hitting the top sheet making a quiet "pfft," sound as John's taking deep breaths.
He's doing more deep breathing, helping his heart simmer down to a normal beat, then he shimmies over away from Gary's side of the bed to his side where the sheets are cooler, and he's avoiding his cum shot on Gary's side's top sheet.
Again, talking out loud, he mutters, "Oh, I should have asked how much weight he's lost. No, I shouldn't have. He'd tell me if he thought it was good news. And there's that mysterious 'something very special' about Gary that feels strong. It's not Gary's voice, although his voice often does make me feel all gooey and dreamy, and God Almighty, being Gary's boyfriend has been so wonderful it's almost worth every bad thing that's happened to me over the past four months."
A hot flash of guilt hits him like a lightning bolt as he thinks, 'No! Goddammit, I don't mean Mom and Dad dying! I don't!' Jesus, give me a break. We didn't get along, alright... but you need to love your parents, right?'
Calming down after that violent guilt trip, he shrugs, "Well, I don't know, though; I might have met Gary and become his boyfriend even without the accident and what followed it. Or, no, maybe Dickie wouldn't have introduced me to Gary. You know, because he and Gary had a gay thing going on, and Dickie didn't know I was gay. How could he know since I was in the closet? Yeah, so I'm back to... maybe I wouldn't have ever met Gary except for the accident and then me and Andy admitting we're gay to Dickie. I'm getting a headache, haha... no, I'm not."
A minute later, "Oh, fuck... I'm talking out loud to myself again."
He turns over and goes back to sleep. At eight-thirty, he opens his eyes, asking, "What's that? No! Oh, please tell me it's not someone knocking on the apartment's front door! What the fuck?"
There is someone pounding on his front door, so, getting out of bed, he mutters, "Can I believe this shit?"
All John has on is his girlie panties, so he grabs Gary's too-big bathrobe off a hook on the back of the bedroom door and puts it on as he pads to the front door, sensing the worst, but when he opens the front door, he sees a smiling Paul Sullivan who's hair is getting more unruly, with a basketball under his right arm, and smudged eyeglasses to a degree John can't imagine how the kid can see out of them.
Paul says, "Oh, you're not up yet? Um, do you want to shoot some hoops today, John?" No answer, so he asks, "Or do you prefer I call you Johnny?"
What? Speechless, making a face, John gawks at Paul, who adds, "Um, It will need to be an outdoor basketball court today, but I know the perfect one. It's the one at my high school's parking lot. You can drive us there. It's only a twenty-minute ride."
John squints now, hardly believing this. Paul, after a few seconds, says, "It's sunny out today, and the temperature is going to reach the high forties by eleven o'clock, so playing outside will be fine." A few seconds later, Paul asks, "Is this too early, big bro? Do you sleep late on Sundays or something?"
Shaking his head, John chuckles, steps back, and mutters, "Too early? No. C'mon in, Paul. I'll get dressed and treat you to breakfast."
Nodding, "Oh, okay," and the kid walks in. Then, looking around, "Do you live here alone?"
That makes John think, 'Oh, fuck. I'm a gay man with a fifteen-year-old boy in my apartment. Not cool." He says, "What; live here alone? Ah, shit, Paul. No, um, I mean, you know very well I don't live here alone. That first day we met in the lobby, you looked at the name on the mailbox. My roommate is away on business."
Paul shrugs, then sits on the sofa, the basketball in his lap, mumbling, "Oh, that's right. This is Gary Thomas's apartment. So, what are you doing here?"
John's eyes open wide, "You remembered his name? Ah, how? Oh, never mind that. Look, could you wait for me in the lobby while I do some bathroom stuff and get dressed?"
"Why?"
John comes right out and, for the second time in two days, says, "I'm gay. I'm gay, and you're a boy. You're perfectly safe because I'd never touch a minor, and I'm not interested in boys anyhow, but there are people who would object to me inviting you in. Can you understand that?"
"No, I can't! If you're not a pervert, which I know you're not, why can't I wait for you here?"
John rolls his eyes, takes a deep breath, then mutters, "No reason; you're right. Stay on the sofa, though, please! I'll hurry."
In the bedroom, John grabs a pair of jeans and, from Gary's bureau drawer, a lightweight sweatshirt. He takes them into the bathroom, locking the bathroom door and keeping his mind blank because he doesn't want to lose his temper and ruin this morning for the kid.
John's doing this because Paul reminds him of himself at that age. During John's high school years, he had no friends in his neighborhood, and the neighborhood near the high school where his friends lived was, like Paul's high school, a twenty-minute drive away. It was a different high school as John went to a private high school, a twenty-minute drive in the opposite direction from Paul's public high school.
With Paul in the living room, John can't enjoy his morning dump because he's hurrying everything. He gets it done, though, then hurriedly washes up, brushes his teeth, and gets dressed. In his bedroom, he pulls on socks and sneakers. Then, looking in the closet, he chooses another hat of Gary's. A baseball cap with the logo patch at the front reading MARSHALL'S AUTO REPAIR. He puts it on, then walks into the living room, grabs Gary's hoody from the hook next to the front door, and says, "Let's go, little bro."
"That was quick," Paul mutters as he follows John out the door and down the hall to the elevator. In the elevator, Paul says, "You seemed pissed off. Are you mad at me?"
John's got mixed feelings. On the one hand, doing a good deed with the kid yesterday made John feel really great, but on the other hand, that good deed just encouraged the kid to think he has a pal now to hang out with. John isn't interested in developing a friendship with a kid. For one thing, that feels like a 'responsibility,' and he prefers someone looking out for him... a responsible friend looking out for the coma patient, John Darling Junior! That's his gig.
"No, I'm not pissed, Paul. I'm, um, it's early morning, that's all."
Paul nods, pushes his eyeglasses up his too-big nose for his face, using his 'fuck you' finger, and then goes into a long discussion of how it's a 'bitch' trying to make friends at school when you can't hook up with them after classes. He goes on to explain that he's not complaining, though. He's just stating a fact. He knows his aunt works hard at the private school, plus she has a part-time job as a register clerk at the grocery store but still can't afford to send him to the school she works at.
"Like I said, Johnny, I'm not complaining, but that seems fucked up. Don't you think?"
"What? Oh, yeah, that's a shame, Paul. Here we are at the Campus Diner. Ah, did you have breakfast already?"
"Uh-huh, two bowls of cereal, but I suppose I could go for something else. Are you treating me? I mean, dude, I only have a dollar and a..."
"Yes, I'm treating you, Paul."
In the diner, John orders his usual lumberjack-size breakfast, and Paul tells the waitress, "Yeah, I'll have what my big brother is having, plus a side of bacon with that. Oh, and instead of coffee, I'll have a large Coke."
John does a long hissy exhale and says, "Sooo, about playing basketball. What's the outdoor court like?"
"It's an official-sized basketball court with painted lines outlining it and the free throw lane painted in, and it's really cool. The one time I took two buses to get there, there were college kids from community college dominating the court. I never got to play, and I finally took two buses back home without taking a shot at the basket, and buses aren't cheap!"
The waitress brings John's coffee and Paul's Coke, and then John mutters, "Jesus, Paul, everything you tell me about your life just about breaks my heart because it's so sad. Do you have any uplifting things to talk about? That would be nice to hear; something positive that made you happy."
Paul sucks on the straw, taking in a lot of cold Coke, then mumbles, "I don't understand what you mean when you say ' breaks your heart.' I mean, why do you care?"
John spreads his hands, palms up, "I don't know, Paul. I just do because maybe you remind me of myself at your age. How old are you, anyway?"
"I'm fourteen, in ninth grade, why?"
"What? Oh, you're even younger than I thought. No, it's not important. Ah, so, tell me a good thing about your life. Are you on the basketball team, for example?"
"Huh? Oh, no, I'm probably not good enough to try out for the team. Ah, and oh, I can tell you what the best thing that's ever happened to me was."
"Yeah? What was it?"
Paul looked away and choked up a little, muttering, "Meeting you, of course; you've been awesome, so I guess I need to say thanks."
Gulping, John's eyes start stinging. He mumbles, "Fucking allergies," and dabs at his eyes with his paper napkin. Paul isn't even looking at him. He's blinking, watching the waitress bringing their food.
John asks, "Um, do you know how much the tuition is for the private school your aunt works at?"
Shrugging, more interested in the food, Paul mutters, "A lot," and then, "Oh, boy!" as the waitress is unloading their breakfasts.
They both eat everything, and then, as John's signing the check, he says, "We need to exercise off some of these calories, so playing basketball is a damn good idea. Dude, I can't believe how much you ate!"
During the twenty-minute ride to Paul's high school, John tells Paul, "You need to try out for the team, Paul. Don't assume you're not good enough. Make the coaches decide if that's so."
"I'd be too nervous to do that." Then, without John asking, Paul tells John about his mother's drug addiction, knowing more details about it than any fourteen-year-old should have to know. His aunt is his mother's sister, who is a single mom herself, although her daughter is now in the Navy.
Paul says, "As soon as my cousin, Terry, joined the Navy, I was dropped in Aunt Sunny's lap. She's been great about it, but I have this guilt thing for being a burden; what the hell can I do about it, though? Ya know?"
John says, "Jesus! Doesn't anything great ever happen in your life, Paul? I mean, jeez..."
Paul shrugs, "Yeah, I already told ya. Meeting you was the best thing that's ever happened to me! You've been great about taking pity on me."
Oh fuck! And Paul's voice cracked when he said that, too. John glances over and sees Paul looking away, wiping his eyes like John was doing a couple of minutes ago. Wow, yeah, John knows about tearing up at emotional moments, so he murmurs, "It's alright, Paul. I cry sometimes, too," and he tells him about his life over the past four months.
Paul looked at John the whole time he was telling his story, ending with John saying, "So, Paul, it's been a good thing for me to meet you, too. It makes me feel good to do something for you. Ya know?"
Paul goes, "Holy crap, your parents died and you almost died. Um, are you bullshitting me about all that? That sounds like a made-up TV fucking soap opera."
Now John's exasperated, "Why the hell would I bullshit you about that? Let's not talk anymore right now, okay? I'm getting a little, um, irritated. Sounds like bullshit, you say... fuck me..."
Paul mutters, "All I'm saying is nobody could be in an 'effing coma and then be as nice as you a few days later..."
"Didn't you even hear what I said? It wasn't a couple of days, ya dope... Oh, fuck it. Shut up, please..."
Paul shrugs, then sulks, and five minutes later, John says, "I'm sorry for telling you to shut up, and I'm also lost. Where's the high school?"
"You should have turned left at that last intersection, but I couldn't correct you because you told me to shut..."
John interrupts, "Yes, and I just apologized for saying that. Now, how do I get to the high school from here?"
Paul mutters, "It's two blocks back the way we came, one block over toward 7th Street, and thank you for breakfast. I forgot to say thank you, and, um, I'm sorry, too."
John glances over and mutters, "Brothers fight sometimes, ya know."
Paul smiles, "I wish you were my big brother for real. You could correct me all the time. I wouldn't mind. That'd be so cool!"
Parking at the high school, they get out and walk to the well-laid-out court. John mumbles, "Holy shit, I've never seen an outdoor court outlined so perfectly on a fucking parking lot."
Most of the twelve or fourteen guys and girls on and around the court were college students or college-age, anyway. The guys were talking, smoking, and shooting basketballs, and the usual group of girls were trying to act like guys and wanted to be noticed as girls, too. Have it both ways. One boy and girl couple were acting as they should, kissing near the cars, but no game was going on.
John's like, "Do you have any idea how this works? There are too many potential players, and maybe it's too disorganized for a game to break out anyway.
Paul shrugs, "I don't know. That Sunday I was here, they shot free throws, and then two guys picked players for their teams. Nobody picked me even though I was dribbling all over the place, behind my back... everything."
Then Paul taps a black guy's arm who is wearing a green Celtics baseball cap. "Dude, whassup? Can anybody get in a game here?"
The guy glances at Paul, then John, and says, "Well, little dude, your handsome brother probably will get picked, but you might not, being you so little and all."
He walks off as Paul mumbles to John, "Yeah, you'll need to be one of the captains and pick me."
Then guys and girls are lining up to shoot free throws. Paul, taking charge, says, "C'mon, get in line, John. As I said, you'll need to be one of the captains. Ya know, so you can choose me."
It's obvious what the deal is. If you miss your free throw, you're out. If you make your free throw, you get in the back of the line. You need to keep making free throws until there are only two shooters left... the two captains. That takes ten minutes, and John is one of them. He grins at Paul, who nods, swelling with pride that John's his friend. John looks away, chuckling, then mumbles to the other captain, "Great shooting. I'm John Darling; nice to meet you."
The other guy mutters, "Daniel Snyder, nice to know you, too," and they bump fists. Daniel asks, "Where do you go to school?" They exchange some information, and then Daniel says, "You pick first."
Paul tries not to smile, his glasses fogging up when John points at him. He tried not to, but he had a huge smile on his face anyway. Paul dribbled over to John, looking around, feeling kind of important, being the first player picked.
It's full-court basketball, which plays into Paul's strength... dribbling. Paul is excellent at dribbling. Because it's cold, everyone has on sweatshirts or hoodies and some kind of cap or hat, but after ten minutes, clothes and caps are coming off as guys work up a sweat.
Players are supposed to call their own fouls, which no one ever does, so there is lots of hacking at hands and arms, and it is a little rough. If a rare foul is called by someone on themself, it just means the other team gets the ball. There are never free throws in outdoor parking-lot basketball games. Everybody knows that...
Still, shooters rule, and John is the best shooter here, as he was yesterday at the private school. So, his five-guy team includes not only the best dribbler but the best shooter. Unfortunately, the other team had the best rebounder, so the three games were all close. The first team to twenty baskets wins that game. It's the best out of three games, and John's team, burdened with the smallest player on the court and one who refuses to take a shot even though the other team isn't guarding him, two guys guarding John, his team barely wins the third game and, therefore, wins that tiny tournament.
His players do quick hugs among themselves, then slap hands with the other team's players, "Good game, blah, blah," and then there is talk of new teams. Paul, meanwhile, is going around personally high-fiving everyone, assuring them they played great. John sees the little grin the college guys have for Paul, guys exchanging friendly smirks as Paul acts like the humble winner. If you can't play sports, be a sport... that kind of thing... haha.
It all has John smiling, getting a kick out of Paul. John begs off playing further but lies, saying he'll be back next week. Next week, he'll be in Montana.
"C'mon, Paul, I've got to take off."
Paul hustles over to walk side by side with John, saying, "That guy thought you really were my brother. Did you hear him say, 'My handsome brother'?"
Then, when John just shrugs, Paul's like, "Boy, that was so cool! Did you see me dribble around the four-eyed goon guy? Haha, he's still wondering where I got to..."
John mumbles, "Four-eyed goon? You wear glasses, too."
I'm not a goon, though."
John says, "That's true, and I heard somebody say you were the most valuable player."
"You did not! That's patronizing me. Jesus! Anyway, you were the best player there... oh, man, that was so much fun, though!"
During the ride back to the apartment complex, Paul relived pretty much every play. John was like, "How do you remember every single play?"
"Oh, fuck, Johnny... it easy if, blah, blah, blah..."
Parking in his spot at the apartment, then walking to the front door, John asks, "Is your aunt home? I want to talk to her."
"Huh? What do you want to talk to her about?"
"About you. What else would I want to talk to her about?"
Paul seems nervous but admits that his aunt is home on Sundays, but, "She works six days a week, so are you sure you want to bother her on her only day off? I mean..."
John doesn't get off the elevator car on the third floor, so Paul mumbles, "I guess I'm wasting my breath. You're going to talk to my aunt. What about, though? That's what I want to know."
Getting out of the elevator car, John says, "I want to pay tuition for you at the private school, and your aunt is going to do the legwork because I don't know how it works. My parents took care of that for me."
Paul looks at John, not saying anything because what John just said is way too good to be true. He finally shakes his head because he concludes it's too preposterous to be real, then says, "Don't make jokes about something like that, John."
John puts his hand on Paul's shoulder, mumbling, "Yeah, well, we'll talk to your aunt."
Using a key from around his neck, Paul lets them into the apartment, which is exactly like Gary's and John's apartment. A woman calls from the kitchen, "Paul, you didn't do the one thing I asked... make up your bed. I'll get your lunch in a second, darling."
Paul hits John's arm, saying, "Ha, she used your last name without knowing you're here. That was neat..."
John notices a cot with unmade bedding under the bay window at the far end of the living room. That's where Gary has the sofa in their apartment. Paul sees John looking there and mutters, "That's my bed."
John nods, "Yeah, I guessed that. Tell your aunt that you've got company with you."
That's not necessary, as Paul's aunt, a chubby middle-aged woman with her hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun and an expression on her face as if she's ready for a good laugh about something, comes out of the bathroom, stops when she sees John, then says, "You must be my nephew's, um, so-called, big brother, John something. He said you looked like a movie star, and he, actually, didn't do you justice."
"Yes, Ma'am, that's me, John Darling Junior, although the other stuff you said, um, well, it's nice to meet you," and he holds out his hand, adding, "I'm here because I want to do something for Paul. With your approval, of course, and your help."
Shaking hands, Paul's aunt says, "I'm Sonya Lyons. You can call me Mrs. Lyons. Um, why does your name ring a bell? And, young man," grinning now, she asks, "Did you grow up in the South? I haven't heard 'ma'am' since growing up in Georgia as a child."
John says with a grin, "I'm from South Cheyenne if that counts. It's nice to meet you."
"Ha! South Cheyenne, huh? Cute. Well, I appreciate you being a big brother to Paul, and now you say you want to do more for him, huh? Well, thank you in advance. Maybe you could help him with his geometry homework. I've forgotten how to do geometry, assuming I ever learned it."
John chuckles, then says, "Yeah, I learned the mysteries of squares, circles, and triangles from a stern high school math teacher, Mr. Bernbacher. I'll never forget his name. I'll be happy to help him with that, um, right now, though..."
She grins, "Good, um, Paul is quite impressed with you; um, so what is it you want to do for him?"
John's tightening up; not good at being in charge of anything with adults. He nods and says, "Well, I'm impressed with him, and... It's just that, um, well, I'm gay, and that complicates spending time with a fourteen-year-old boy, for one thing. On top of that, I'm soon going to disappoint him, I'm afraid. My boyfriend and I will be moving in the near future, so I don't know... well, I want to leave something for Paul to remember me by."
"What do you have in mind? And, by the way, being gay shouldn't mean you can't be around boys. Being a pedophile, well, that'd be different, obviously."
"Yes, ma'am. That's good of you to say. Um, I mean, the first part was good... Ah, jeez, I'm getting tongue-tied."
Paul asks, "How far are you moving away, John? We could still..." and his aunt says, "Let him finish, Paul."
Taking a deep breath, John says, "It's simple, really. I'd like to pay for John's four-year tuition to the private school you work for, Mrs. Lyons, but I need you to provide me with the cost and whatever other information you think I'd need to provide my attorney so she can set this up."
Paul was open-mouth, staring at John, thinking, 'He was serious earlier!' To his credit, Paul kept silent to allow the adults to make this happen. His aunt frowned, but to her credit, didn't do any phony... 'we don't accept charity' nonsense.
She said, "Is that right? Well, thank God somebody wants to do that for him! I was beginning to think my prayers were falling on deaf ears. Sit down, John. Paul, dear, please get John a bottle of water or..."
John asks, "Do you have a beer?"
She smiles, saying, "Somewhere in the world, it's five o'clock, so make that two Buds, Paul. There's a root beer in there for you. We'll toast this wildly unexpected occasion."
John didn't really want a beer but felt it would be a cool thing to ask for one. Stupid, yeah, but...
And it's rare that anyone so easily would take seriously this out-of-the-blue, bizarrely generous offer from a stranger who doesn't look old enough to even have a checking account. Mrs. Lyons may doubt it but is willing to let John have his say.
John sits on a loveseat across from the chair Mrs. Lyons is sitting on. Paul brings the drinks and sits next to John. All three lean forward to tap bottles, John mumbling, "For Paul."
Sitting back, Paul beamed, and Mrs. Lyons finally got around to asking a logical question, "Do you mind if I ask how a young college-aged man such as yourself can afford this charitable endeavor for my nephew, whom you only met a week ago."
John nods, "Oh, of course. Ah, it's been a couple of weeks, not a week. Ha, not that that's all that important," and he clears his throat. "Um, this is hard, but my parents were, ah, " and his eyes teared up as Mrs. Lyon's eyes opened wide, "You're the one I read about a couple of months ago. The coma boy from Cheyenne whose parents were... Omigod! I'm so sorry, John."
Paul asks, "What?" then remembers John's story from earlier. Mrs. Lyons nods, saying to John, "That last name, Darling... I knew it was familiar, and it's not a name you easily forget."
John gulps beer, glad he asked for a beer now. Clearing his throat again, he swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and said, "Anyway, I have been left a significant inheritance that I told myself I'd share, um, ya know, whatever, and I like Paul and think he and you deserve a break. That's pretty much all there is to it."
Paul's aunt and Paul are both sniffling now, Paul moving right against John's side on the loveseat as Mrs. Lyons grabs tissues from a box of Kleenex on the end table next to her chair. She says, "Oh, jeez, thank you so much! It's so, um..." She gets up to do an awkward hug, Paul's arm going around John as well, John's body getting stiff as he's muttering, "Oh, un-huh, I ah..."
The aunt sits back down and, gulping more beer, John talked about details, finally agreeing that he would make the funds available through his attorney, who would provide the college tuition when it came due each semester, plus an extra five hundred a month automatically deposited in Aunt Sonya's checking account to cover expenses like uniforms for the high school's dress code, or field trips or whatever. Both Sonya Lyons and John knew the five hundred a month was to help her, and she wasn't too proud to accept that, either.
As he was leaving, Aunt Sonny, as Paul calls her, hugged John, then kissed his cheek, murmuring, "You'll probably never understand the extent you've significantly changed our lives for the better or how much pressure you've taken off my shoulders, but I'll never forget it and I'll make sure Paul never does either. Maybe someday Paul can pay this life-changing generosity forward. God bless you, John."
Paul hugged John, asking, "You're not moving for a while, right?" John says, "No, in a couple of months, probably. Ah, but I work three days a week, and next weekend, I'll be in Montana, so..."
Then to Mrs. Lyons, "I don't know how quickly my attorney can get everything accomplished, but in a week or two at the most, you should be able to enroll Paul in the private school."
John gets Mrs. Lyons to provide her cell phone number and her work number. Putting the slip of paper in his pocket, John pats Paul's shoulder, saying, "And then you'll be one of the guys playing basketball after classes, dribbling circles around everybody. And maybe you and I can shoot some hoops, too. Good luck, Paul. Nice meeting you, Mrs. Lyons."
Outside the apartment, John took a gasping deep breath, glad that it was over, but he felt so good about it; he didn't know what to do or say next, so he yelled, "YES!" and got on the elevator to go down two floors.
In his apartment, he Googles to get an idea of what to say to Sara, his attorney, that would sound like he knew what he was doing. He plans on making it a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar trust fund, or whatever the correct terminology was. By setting this up, Sara can ratchet up some billable hours on John again, so he'll be doing her a favor, too.
John's not a math genius, but he knows of the three million dollars he inherited; two million is in his Vanguard account, which accrues more than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in profit each year, so this gesture won't be dipping into the principal. It's a generous gift, sure, and it's made basically for strangers, but all charitable donations are made for strangers. This one is for at least a stranger John's met and liked.
He wishes he could talk to his attorney right now but must wait until Monday. Sara can call the aunt and get all the specifics as to the date of birth, social security numbers, or whatever 'numbers' she needs to make a legal document. John feels so good about doing this that he has a satisfyingly over-emotional cry about it. No one will ever hear about his sobbing cry while thinking how happy he's made Aunt Sunny and her nephew Paul. The amount of money is inconsequential to him while being so consequential to them.
It made John giddy thinking about being able to do this for Paul and his aunt, but then he thought of what actually made it possible for him to be so magnanimous, and he again felt guilty for being insensitive to his parent's death. Then, remembering something else, his face gets hot as he says out loud, "Oh, no! I'm awful! I still haven't told the funeral director where to send the urns!"
He got his Boston cell phone out and scrolled down until he read the text from Sara McCarty about whom he needed to contact about the urns with his parent's cremation ashes. He texted, then called and talked to a woman who told him, "Yes, Mr. Darling. I see your text, and it will suffice as the official legal notification for the dispersal of the remains and, again, our deepest sympathies."
Off the phone, John felt relief for having done that. He sits on the sofa and thinks about lunch, although it's almost two o'clock. Then texted Andy, 'I'm inviting you and Dickie Marshall to be my guests at dinner tonight at the awful Crossroads Restaurant. Anticipating a positive reply, please tell me what's a good time for you. Loving regards, best friends to both of you, I remain, John Darling Junior.'
Grinning at his text, John gets a text back from Andy in less than a minute. 'We accept your invitation, Mr. Darling Junior. Mr. Marshall feels seven o'clock would be a fine time to meet you at the restaurant. He said that's early enough so you can get home for a good night's sleep and be ready for work Monday morning. Best regards, Mr. Salsbury.'
John smiles and texts back, 'Charming! Looking forward to seeing you both. With warmest regards, JDJ.'
Still smiling, he squeezes his junk and then, without hesitating, looks at his lists of phone numbers. He knew he didn't have one for George, Mac Jones' grungy, pot-smoking roommate at Community College, but he looked anyway. He mutters, "Balls," and then goes to the freezer section of Gary's, no, of 'their' refrigerator and gets a Swanson Frozen fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, and brownie dinner.
He microwaved it and ate it for lunch with a chocolate milkshake. It was an 1150-calorie lunch, and as he ate it, he was thinking about driving over to the college dorms to look for George. Gary sort of said he understood if John gave into temptation; just don't tell him about it.
And, sure, after getting fucked very well, twice the other day by the college kid from the photoshop, Gerry Spelling, John was convinced he'd have the willpower to wait a week for Gary to fuck him, but, as it turns out, that isn't going to work. Gerry would be complicated, so he'll get George to do the pleasant deed, and then he won't be horny at dinner tonight with Andy and Dickie.
Washing up in the bathroom and then brushing his teeth, he felt clear about hooking up with someone for sex. Maybe after months as Gary's boyfriend, he'd become used to limited sex like Gary claimed most people were used to, Gary. When Gary and Dickie were boyfriends, they only had sex once or twice a week, while John was having it two or three times a day with Andy and others.
John didn't feel that made him a bad person, just a hornier one than most. Since Dickie or Andy or a combination of both of them decided that they were made for each other and became boyfriends, that left Gary and John, but they were leftovers that matched up awesomely EXCEPT one had a more or less normal sex drive while the other was probably extremely oversexed, so it's impressive that they both still wanted to make it work.
Other than a different view on sexual frequency, there are reasons neither can articulate why they really like one another and want to be together. John says, "Since being Gary's boyfriend, I've already been experiencing a greatly reduced sexual frequency, and I'm not climbing the walls."
Yes, he's coming closer to Gary's way of thinking from necessity. He's not nearly all the way there yet, and maybe never will be, but John's sure he and Gary can come to some compromise about sex. Right now, though, he desires an uncomplicated roll in the hay, so to speak. Getting George fucking him in that shed on campus seems about as direct a no-strings-attached fuck as John can imagine. A quick fuck for the hell of it, and why not? Ya know?
A quick cowboy fuck; that's the ticket, so he wears his boots and cowboy hat and drives on campus, coasting by Mac Jones' and George's dorm. Huh, no one is around on a Sunday afternoon at four-thirty. It was a long shot to start with, but since he's here, he parks and does the ballsy move of going into their dorm, and the first door on the left is Mac and George's room.
When he knocks on the door, it swings open, and Mac goes, "Um, you're, ah..." and John says, "John Darling."
Mac says, "Yeah, that's right," and he grins, "How'd I forget that name? You couldn't be here for another haircut, so you just need to get fucked, and you're looking for George. Right?"
John smiles, "Yes, you're a mind reader, but you'll do if George is busy fucking someone else."
"Haha, you gay guys are a horny bunch, but you hurt my feelings by turning me down before, remember?"
They're both bantering, just joking around. John goes, "What? Jeez, I turned you down by mistake. So far, it's the biggest blunder of my life. Would you give me another chance?"
"I'm sorry, but I satisfied my curiosity about gay anal sex by fucking Chucky Arnold, who was grateful I was willing to do it. Unfortunately, I found it disgusting. Everything smelled like ass. Maybe it was Chucky's ass, but I'm not taking any chances by doing that again."
"Smelled like ass, you say? What's it smell like fucking pussy? Does it smell like urine? If so, I gotta try that."
"Haha, you're funny, but it isn't..." George walks in, so Mac stops in mid-sentence as, with a big smile, George points at John, "Ah ha! I knew you'd want me doing you again."
"And you were right, George!"
John notices that George's longish, woman's style hair has been severely cut back into a fairly normal-looking, but still longish guy's haircut. A great improvement, sure, but he still looks like he's past due for a haircut, and he could use a bath. Whatever...
George says, "Well, I knew you weren't here for another haircut after the butcher job Mac gave you last time." He grins at Mac, "Just kidding, brother. You know I love you... Hey, who has a condom?"
John mutters, "I do, obviously," and George mutters to Mac, "Okay then. Roomie, I won't be long, and then I have a message for you from that slut, Tina August.'"
Mac rolls his eyes and mutters, "Tell me," and George goes, "No, not now. It's too long, but you'll like what she had to say."
George puts his arm around John's waist and says, "Goddamn, boy, you caught me in a horny condition, too. You're so lucky like that. C'mon. The shed should be available."
John thinks that George is okay-looking. He is stocky, two inches shorter than John's six feet, with a swarthy complexion that makes his white teeth look very, very white by comparison. When he put his arm around John's waist, John noticed that, like last time, George's clothes needed to be washed, although it was not a BO situation like with Clarence.
Outside, George takes John's cowboy hat off John's head and puts it on his head, saying, "You're so fucking good-looking, I'm surprised you need me to fuck you, um, John, right? It's John something..."
John says, "Yes, no one seems to be able to recall my name. It's John Darling Junior, and don't put yourself down, George. You are my first choice. I didn't get blown off by five guys and finally got down to asking you. You were first!"
"Oooh, that's a sweet line of bullshit right there, John Darling Junior. Very impressive you coming up with that lying bullshit off the top of your head like that."
They both know where they're going, but George keeps his arm around John's waist, guiding them, saying, "If you suck me off like last time, though, I can't go to the motel with you tonight. I need to study."
"Then I'll make sure I don't suck you off, although I couldn't stop myself last time."
"I know, so maybe we should be boyfriends."
"Yeah, maybe," and George opens the door to the shed with someone yelling from the dormitory next to George's, "Don't do anything in there I wouldn't do."
George yells at the top of his lungs, "You're jealous, Dinkle!" Then to John, "That was my ex-sex buddy, Jimmy Dinkle. He watches the shed from his dorm window to see... oh, never mind. Here we go," and they're inside with only a little fading light coming in through the one window as dusk approaches.
There's no foreplay. They step away from the ride-on mower, and John hands George a condom packet. George mutters, "Thanks," and they both pull their pants down to their knees. John doesn't get on his knees this time, though. Instead, he crouched down, his knees bent and his bare ass hanging a couple of inches off the shed's dirty floor. Casually, John picked up George's penis and stroked it.
Stroking George's penis a few more times, John says, "Whoa, I can feel you getting hard already."
George grunts, "Uh-huh, it's been a week since I've enjoyed sex." John nods and slides Goerge's firm dick into his mouth on his warm wet tongue, and George's body gets stiff as he grunts again, mumbling, "Hmm, umm... yeah..."
Sucking on George's dick, John feels his own cock tightening up. He really does enjoy having a guy's cock in his mouth. He bobs forward, then again, then again, and the head goes into his throat. "Oooh," goes George, "Umm," and again, John bobs forward so far the head of that hard cock goes into his throat more than an inch. George pulls his cock out of John's mouth, gasping, "What the fuck is it with you? I almost blew my load. Turn around and stick your ass up!"
He sounded pissed off, but that worked for John, who liked doing what he was told. He stands, leans over, supports himself with both hands on the ride-on mower's seat, and pushes his ass out. He's hoping to get spanked a little, but George isn't into that. He's into humping the head of his average-size boner head in past John's prostate muscles, and he and John both gasps, "Ah!" then George, gripping John's waist, pushes his boner up John's ass until his hairy groin is flush with John's pink, hairless buttocks.
George murmurs, "Ummm, oh yeah, I remember this nice ass," and he begins fucking it hard and fast, "Slap, slap. slap," with thrilling sensations flying off John's prostate gland and his anus. Growing sensations make John scrunch up his face and moan quietly, "Oh, oh, oh, mmmm," as George continues a steady but unimaginative fucking of John's ass. John doesn't care that it's as straightforward a fucking as it's possible to do; it feels wonderful to him, so much so that a few tears roll down his cheeks.
Thrust, thrust, thrust, "Slap, slap, slap," with George grunting, "Yeah, yeah..." and in three minutes, both young men are ready to blow their climaxes. John did an embarrassing squeal that he tried to suppress as his hips fired forward and a streak of cum splattered against the seat support of the ride-on mower. George made a strangled sound humping hard against John's buttocks, gasping again, and blowing a sharp load of cum into the condom.
George grunts, "Fuck, yeah," and leans against John's ass for a few seconds, then pulls his cock out, turns around and bends over, breathing hard. "Oh, fuck, that felt good. Ohmigod, whew, thanks for coming around, Darling. Oh, man, I needed that...!"
John staggers a few steps away from the mower, his wide-open asshole squishy with condom lubricant, as he pulls his pants up, muttering, "Yeah, thanks, George. Whoa, huh?" and they both chuckle, straightening their pants. They slap hands, and George pushes the door open and they walk out less than four minutes after walking inside.
As they walk across the dying grass to the sidewalk, John asks, "Do you mind giving me your phone number so I can text to see if you're, um, available sometime?"
George gives it to John and takes John's. In front of his dorm, George says, "I enjoyed that. Shoot me a text anytime," and they do a quick guy hug; then John walks to the parking lot and his pickup truck as George disappears into his dorm.
Driving back to the apartment, John's doing some rational thinking, 'Alright, that wasn't earthshattering, but I enjoyed it. George and I don't mean anything to one another, but it's nice having a fallback sex buddy.'
He figures that now at dinner with his boy Dickie and his Boston best friend, Andy, he'll able to be as relaxed sexually as most guys. He can be cool even being with Andy, who still fucks him better than almost anybody. He mutters out loud, "Ha, I'm good, bro! What? Nah, I don't need sex every Goddamn day,
To be continued... donnymumford@outlook.com
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