Date: Fri, 4 May 2018 10:46:31 -0400
From: Bill <mgtbill@aol.com>
Subject: DYLAN'S JUNIOR YEAR SUMMER     Chapter 35

DYLAN'S SUMMER FOLLOWING HIS COLLEGE JUNIOR YEAR

Chapter  35

by  Donny Mumford


Chub and I walk up the carpeted stairs from the finished basement of our
summer-rental-house. This year's house was rented by the Mom's
fiancés, Tim and Tom, and is a significant upgrade over previous
year's rentals. Going through the door at the top of the stairs we stop to
stare at the super-modern, large, many-windowed kitchen. Wow, this place
looks brand-new! Our Moms and the guys have been here three days but to me
it looks like Chub and I are the first two people to ever step into this
kitchen. I assume there were other renters staying here before us as well,
but they were all very neat about it.

The kitchen is contemporary with four copper-light-fixtures hanging over a
large granite-topped island with six-stools around it and then more of the
same light-fixtures over a kitchen table with captain-chairs for eight
around the table. Lots of pale-colored granite countertops with tile
splash-backs in creamy colors and then some open-shelving plus regular
kitchen cabinets above the counters.

It's very bright with everything either cream-colored or off-white in
either an egg-shell or satin finish, plus some mint-colored tiles here and
there as accents I suppose. Whatever, it looks like something from a
magazine. The floor is different-sized stone-squares in colors from pale
gray to sand-color. Its hard to describe but as far as I can tell, um,
everything goes perfectly together.

Double doors on the stainless steel over-sized-oven and refrigerator and
then a six-burner restaurant-quality stovetop with a ceiling mounted
range-hood. The words 'induction cooking' on the stove-top sounds
intriguing although I don't know what it means. Whatever, the kitchen is
spectacular! The faucets are so cool-looking and... oh fuck, everything
looks futuristic... its mind-blowing!

Chubby mumbles, "Whoa, guess we won't be cleaning fish in here this summer,
huh?" I laugh, "Chub, when was the last time we caught a fish? Never mind
cleaned one!" He goes, "Just saying..." and then from Chub, "Any beer in
that ginormous refrigerator, bro?" I pull one side of the French doors
open, "Yep, Blue Moon and Heineken. Ya want one?" He nods and I twist-off
the caps from two bottles of Blue Moon, saying, "Don't get drunk or Carla
will be pissed." He grins, "Ah yes, my first date of the summer." I swallow
some beer, and then mutter, "Yeah, it took you almost an hour to nail that
first date down." He goes, "Nah, I most likely won't be nailing Carla
tonight, bro." Yeah well, that's not what I meant anyway, but its how my
brother's mind works. He's a tiny bit oversexed...

Carrying our beers, we go on a tour of the house. Lots of windows in the
large dining and living rooms. Definitely an uncluttered feel with
furnishings in what I think might called expensive-looking
'contemporary-sea-shore'. Beautiful furniture in the dining room with a
huge table with seating for ten and in the living room some wicker chairs
with big soft-looking, palm-tree-decorated cushions and two other chairs in
unusual modern-shapes, also a couple of love seats. In front of the love
seats is a shiny-blond-wood-topped, unusually-shaped coffee table and
there's a huge flat screen TV on the wall across from that seating
arrangement. Everything is in pale earth-tones with natural-fiber
floor-coverings and then blond hardwood floors around the edges of the
rugs.

We're walking around with, 'What the fuck? Can you believe this!'
expressions on our faces until Chub goes, "Okay, bro, no food fights in the
living room." I mutter, "Or tracking mud in the house," he goes, "And no
pet snapping turtles dropping their doo-doos on the floor," whatever that
means. We've never had a food-fight in our lives, or a turtle.

Upstairs there are four bedrooms, each one with its own bathroom. Chub
goes, "I guess we get our own room, Dylan," and I go, "Oh no! Let's share
this one," as I point to a big room with two double beds." Chub goes,
"Sure! That way we can get under the covers with a flashlight and read
comic books when we're supposed to be sleeping." I laugh, "No, so we can
tell each other what we did during the day and bond as brothers." He goes,
"We've bonded like a mother-fucker already, bro, but sure we'll use this
room. Seriously, the guys might have invited guests and will need that big
spare-bedroom at the end of the hall."

Everything is awesome and I love that its NEW! I go, "Look at our bathroom,
Chub!" We go in and get blinded by the white! But then there are black tile
highlights here and there as well. It has a separate bathtub and a big
shower stall with an extra handheld shower head. We're both a bit
overwhelmed so not making our usual smart-ass comments being basically
shell-shocked at how fantastic this place is. It's spectacular!

Downstairs we go out on the large, like twenty-by-twenty-foot, deck and
what a beautiful view off this deck! The house next to ours is back of our
place so we don't see it from our deck. It's like we're the only ones
seeing this spectacular view. Nice outdoor furniture too plus a stone
built-in gas grill that's almost as big as our kitchen back
home. Everything is over-the-top. All Chub and I can do is smugly exchange
smirks like, 'That's right, we deserve it!'  But seriously, the twins
outdid themselves with this summer rental.

We finish our beers on the deck and then bring our clothes and stuff in
from the Jeep and dump everything in 'our' bedroom. Its obvious which rooms
our Moms and their fiancés are using so we chose the slightly
smaller of the remaining two bedrooms. Floor-to-ceiling windows in every
room and why not since there's great views of the dunes, the ocean, and sky
everywhere we look.

As I get another beer and have a smoke on the deck Chubby takes a shower
getting ready for his first date of this year's vacation. I'm being extra
careful not to get any ashes on anything, using my first beer bottle as an
ashtray. I didn't see any signs indicating 'Thank you for not smoking!'
which would be appropriate for this place, certainly much more so than some
of the ratty motels I've been in that show that type of warning/sign. And
then I grin thinking about Robby. Ha ha, if he and I were here instead of
Chub and I everything Chub and I dumped on the beds would be hung-up in the
closets and put away in bureau drawers. Probably a better way to go but I
didn't suggest it for fear Chub would have a heart attack at the very idea.

Damn though, I can't get over this summer house. Rich people probably
wouldn't give this place a second thought, unless it was to complain about
something. I can't imagine what that would be but I read someplace that
rich people are... well they're, um, different.

Chub comes downstairs looking shiny clean and smiling brightly, saying,
"I'm finally over our Jeep's shit-storm, Dylan, and now fully embracing the
potential for a little Wildwood romance." I nod, "Good to hear, Chub,
'cause if you don't shine, I don't shine. Good to have you shining again."
Walking over to where I'm sitting in one of the deck chairs with my feet up
on a big cushion-covered footstool Chub gives my shoulders a hug. He smells
good with aftershave lotion and I reach back and up to squeeze one of his
arms, mumbling, "Love you, Chubby!" He says, "Thank, bro, and right back at
you."

One thing I never take for granted is being with Chubby. We live very
different lives now and spend only precious few hours together each day,
but just the same my comfort-level with him is off-the-fucking-charts. Its
the familiarity, the complete faith that we're totally simpatico with
things about life that really matter, like love and friendship... without
jealousies. There's a morality to our love and friendship. A code of honor
that must never be broken. Its the loyalty to one another that allows
infinite trust. We rarely discuss our one-of-a-kind relationship and how
preciously golden it is, but we're both deeply aware of it and we do
reconfirm it when it seems appropriate.

Leaning against the deck-railing, Chubby says, "No way to know how Carla
and I will get along tonight, although the indications are
promising. However it goes with her, sometime tonight I'll look for you on
the boardwalk and we'll have a toast to our awesome summers of the past and
future. Okay?" I nod, "I'll look forward to that, Chub," and hold my beer
bottle up offering him a drink. He goes, "Ohmigod, no thanks, Dylan. I
brushed my teeth and gargled like a wild man to have sweet breath for
Carla. Just in case, ya know?" I chuckle, mumbling, "Optimist," and he
goes, "Hey, do you think she's twenty-one?" I shrug, "Hard to tell. You
guys make a cute couple though. Maybe she's finally the 'one'." He laughs
and then says, "I'm not sure there's ever going to be the 'one'. Time will
tell but I know there won't be a 'one' at my tender age, but that's not to
say it isn't the perfect age for you and Rob. Check me out in ten-years
though, maybe I'll have changed my mind. In the meantime, I like the
variety girls provide although there are a lot of similarities in them that
I like as well." Variety, huh? Guess I'm not the only one who looks for
that; its apparently not just a gay thing.

He asks, "You gonna be okay tonight without the Jeep? I could walk the few
blocks to Gregory's Bar." I go, "No problem, you take the Jeep, Chub. I
mean, you might want to drive her someplace later for dinner or some
drinks. I can walk the... what is it, six-blocks to the boardwalk? I'll
enjoy the walk after having dinner with the Moms and the guys." He starts
to say something but we hear laughing in the basement. Oh, our Moms and the
guys are back from the beach.

Chub frowns, "Hey, Tom's car is parked out back, right? What'd they do,
walk to the beach?" I'm like, "That's not like them. Tim probably drove
down too. I'll check the back for Tim's car." Going inside I quickly go
through the living room and dining room to look out the kitchen window
seeing a brand-new four-seat, black, Ford Mustang convertible with the
top-down. It's parked behind Tom's BMW. Wow, a Mustang!

Back on the deck I tell Chub, "Tim went a little wild and bought a new
Mustang convertible. It's black and super-hot-looking." Chub goes, "A
Mustang? Tim must be on a budget," and then the Moms come out on the deck,
excited as usual, saying, "Hi boys! We're so happy you finally made it down
here. It's terrible the trouble you had with your car," and then there's
some uncomfortable hugging with them. I say uncomfortable because they're
kinda sandy and hot-smelling. Its It's like a hot-sun, ocean, and beach
smell.

Yeah, an ocean breeze smells good but somehow not as good coming off
humans. Chub and I are both smiling and returning the Moms' greeting with
Chub leaning back a little from the hugs because he just showered, but its
all good and we're all chuckling being totally familiar with our family's
greeting style. Kisses on the cheek are involved too and it always makes
Chub and me feel good although we do our normal protesting about both Moms
overdoing it.

Tim and Tom saunter out on the deck drinking bottles of Heinekens. As usual
they're all smiles and giving Chub and me brief one-arm hugs and fists
bumps with Tom saying, "Sorry to hear about the trouble you guys had with
the Jeep. Pisser, guys!" Chub and I mutter, "No problem," and then we go
into some sincere complimenting about this summer rental, gushing over it
actually. And this place deserves the gushing. The twins are modest as
always, mumbling, "Glad you guys like the place. We thought your Moms
deserved a little something special," and they both hug the appropriate Mom
making Chub and I grin. It's so cool how nicely they treat our Moms!

Tim goes, "Enough about this ol' cottage, c'mon guys, I'll show you my new
ride." Chub and I go out with him and now gush over his new car a little
bit. He's had it three weeks and now that I think about it I remember those
guys talking about Tim getting a new car at a recent Sunday brunch. At the
time though I was at the other end of the table talking with Rob and
couldn't hear all the details. Its a cool car but a couple of
steps-down-in-class from the BMW he had before. Tim mentions that, but says
he's always had a 'thing' for Mustangs even as a kid. He's thirty-one,
which is an age some older folks still consider a 'kid'.

We go back upstairs so Chub can say 'goodbye' to the Moms. That leads to
some joking around by the twins, "Jeez, Jeff, what took you so long getting
a date. Ha ha, what was it, twenty-minutes after you got here?" Chub's
being a good-sport about it and maybe feeling a little cocky too, but
finally he breaks away and he's off driving our old piece-of-shit
Jeep. Gee, you'd think our future Step-Dads would buy us kids, Chub and me,
Mustang convertibles or we'd be happy with Mini Cooper convertibles. We're
not greedy. Of course I'm kidding, about them buying us cars I mean...

I nurse another beer listening to the Moms and the guys talking about the
first couple of days here and then the Moms begin asking questions about
Chubby's and my last three days. I go over the basics even though we called
and told them about our Saturday and Sunday at home. After a while the Moms
and I have a cigarette. The guys never complain about us smoking even
though they're devoted non-smokers themselves.

Actually, I never feel real comfortable smoking around them but from habit,
seeing the Moms light cigarettes, I do too. Feeling awkward though I only
smoking half of it before putting it out in one of the two-ashtrays the
guys bought for the Moms on the Boardwalk. It was in one of those shops
where everything is supposed to be a dollar or less, but it's not. Tim and
Tom were really considerate getting our Moms ashtrays... true love I guess.

As soon as I can politely do so I excuse myself and go upstairs for a
shower and a change of clothes. Stepping over the two-towels on the floor
that Chubby dropped after his shower I realize I'm feeling a definite buzz
from this afternoon's beers. The 'buzz' sneaks up on you but this is a very
pleasant buzz. Plus, I always feel good being around the Moms and future
Step-Dads because they're so awesomely nice to each other, and to Chub and
me too. It leaves me with a good vibe and a feeling that all is well in our
little world.

Fact is, it's taken a while, but in a way, I've come to love Tim and Tom. A
lot of that probably is because of the way they make our Moms so happy. I
don't know anyone who I feel deserves to be happy more than the Moms. And
yeah, Chub and I have always referred to them as 'The Moms' because from
our earliest memories we've always felt we had two Moms. Two Moms and two
brothers but no Dads. That certainly isn't your normal family unit but its
been ours forever and now, in the not too distant future, two Step-Dads
will be part of our family. Ya know, if I had more to drink I could get a
little maudlin about how fabulous I think that is!

As much as I respect, like, and love my parental units and enjoy their
company I don't want to spend an entire night with them. They probably
don't want me to either so my plan for after dinner is to walk to the
beginning of the Boardwalk and, for old-time's sake, walk the length of
it. I want to take the time to remember when I was young enough to think
the Boardwalk was the greatest place on earth. That was quite a while
ago... years actually.

And maybe I will meet up with Chubby later although it may seem unlikely
considering there are thousands and thousands of people on the
boardwalk. Its only two-miles long though and walking from one end to the
other is not a formidable task. Or I could just stay in one spot and wait
for Chubby, and possibly Carla, to walk by. I might let them walk by if
Carla's still with Chub. I'll wait to see how I feel about it when, and if,
it happens. What I'm really hoping happens is the long-shot of me running
into Charlie. That defies the odds of him even being here this week of
course.

In the meantime, the shower is fantastic and I stay in it way longer than
normal because I'm in no rush to get downstairs. The twins will be cooking
dinner and they told me what they've planned for tonight. Shrimp cocktail
first and as when I was going upstairs for my shower all four of them began
peeling and deveining previously frozen BIG shrimp. The description on the
bag claims 'Colossal Shrimp' 9 to 12 to the pound'. An awesome oxymoron
right there: colossal shrimp.

After the cold shrimp with cocktail sauce we'll have barbecued spare ribs
with a potato salad that they bought at a deli insisting it's almost as
good as the homemade potato salad Chub and I make, which remains to be
seen. Also, freshly-picked corn on the cob and cole slaw that I, in a
weaker moment, volunteered to make. The late lunch Chubby and I had isn't a
problem because we're not eating dinner until eight-thirty, which suits me
perfectly.

After the shower I put on clean but baggy-cargo-shorts, a T-shirt and
sandals. Now I'm beginning to finally feel pretty good about being on a
sea-shore vacation. It's been stressful getting here after the two-day
delay, but that's in the past and I'm finally relaxed and ready for a
stress-free week.

As I come downstairs I hear the Moms' laughter coming from the deck and
that makes me smile. The twins are funny-fuckers and the Moms are a perfect
audience for them because they're both ready to laugh at the slightest
humor offered by anyone. Stepping out on the deck I see they've all started
in on a favorite drink of theirs; gin and tonics. It looks like a
refreshing drink with the condensation on the outside of the glasses, the
clear bubbly liquid inside with a dark-green lime wedge floating around. I
happen to know however that looks can be deceiving and gin and tonics are
not pleasant tasting. Tim and Tom are still drinking beers.

As I glance at the Moms and the guys, they actually look like people who
have been at the shore for a couple of days because they have that partial
sunburned/tan coloring on their faces, arms, and legs. And, ya know, none
of them looks old at all! Well, for one thing they're not old! Usually the
parents of guys Chub's and my age are older, but then most mothers weren't
seventeen when they had their babies. How that happened is both a sad and a
romantic set of circumstances that Chub and I didn't even know about until
a couple of years ago. And the twins are even younger-looking than the
Moms, which isn't a surprise considering they are eight-or-nine years
younger. Actually, Tim and Tom don't look any older than some of the young
men I go to college with. That's kinda weird for future step-dads, ya know?

They hear the sliding glass doors as I pull then open and step out on the
deck behind them. Tom turns to smile at me as he says to my Mom, "Ah,
here's our handsome lad now, Dee." Ah ha! 'Our' handsome lad, eh? Tom's
adopting me I guess. I smile like I usually do when I can't think of
anything to say, and Mom goes, "You look so nice, sweetheart. What are your
plans for tonight." I shrug, "I'll walk the boards and see if there have
been any changes from last year I guess."

Tom Rider, the older twin by twenty-minutes, is my Mom's fiancé.He's
been called 'Rider' as a nickname from his early days on planet earth and
someday I should probably ask him about that. Tim is Chub's Mom's
fiancé and his nickname has always been 'Bud'. I don't know why that
is either. The Mom's sometime refer to the twins by their nicknames when
telling Chub and me stuff they did together, but both Moms mostly call
their fiancés by their actual names when they're with them. Early on
Chub and I would confused the names at times, 'who's Tim and who's Tom?'
but not lately. We're both very pleased with the good-looking twins!

Mom goes, "I know how much you like the Boardwalk, Dylan, but you're more
than welcome to join us older folks. We're going to a club in Margate," and
Tim chimes in with, "There's a rumor, Dylan, that Bruce Springsteen is in
town and might do a 'set' at the bar. It was one of the first bars in New
Jersey to hire his band in the seventies. He's been known to surprise
patrons at one of his old haunts." I nod my head, mumbling, "Um, 'The
Boss', huh?" Well, that explains the CD that's playing. I recognize the
artist as Bruce Springsteen although I'm pretty sure I've never heard the
song before; something about jumping in a river or... I don't know. Its a
dreary tune.

I don't care for the song but I actually do think that old-rockin'-roller
and his band had some damn good music in his early days, like his Asbury
Park album and another one I can't think of the title. I go, "Oh, thanks,
Mom! That sounds, um,... ah, but I'm probably meeting Chub on the boardwalk
later." She goes, "We understand, dear. Can I get you a beer? Or maybe
you'd like Tom to make you a mixed drink." I shrug, "Thanks but, um, I can
get a beer for myself," and I go in the kitchen to do that. They all mean
well but that kind of over-attention is awkward. It makes me
uncomfortable. Usually Chubby takes center stage and there's no pressure on
me. I mean, its sweet that they're all so nice and all but I could do with
a little less attention and... oh, I don't know.

Actually, hearing the name Bruce Springsteen immediately brought to mind an
experience I had years ago, one I distinctly remember to this very day. It
was one of my sleep-over nights at the Worthington mansion. Yeah, mostly in
Willie's apartment-size bedroom. This was early in our relationship when
Willie was like someone I could hardly believe existed. At times I was
completely captivated by him because, aside from our sex, which was a
revelation to me on its own, Willie seemed bigger than life in many other
ways. I'd never met anyone as mercurial, as interesting, or as totally
fascinating as Willie. Nowadays, except for Chubby and Rob, I still think
more about Willie Worthington than anyone else I've ever known. What I mean
is, there are things always popping-up in my life that remind me of him.

In this case it's Bruce Springsteen because during that sleep-over Willie
got into a discussion about the AIDS crisis of the 1980's. It was the
anniversary of an important 'happening', one I wasn't aware of. Some
protest that finally got the government taking AIDS seriously and that's
what got Willie talking about AIDS and I learned what I should have already
known. What happened was, after a very late dinner prepared for the two of
us by their personal chef, Willie and I were slightly drunk and got naked
in his huge bed. Willie put on some Springsteen music and began educating
me about AIDS and the struggle to get people taking action when the virus
began effecting hundreds of lives. I'm not saying Springsteen was involved
in the AIDS, um, awakening. He wrote a song for a movie... is all he did.

Anyway, Willie told me the birth of the virus had been traced back as far
the 1920's in the Republic of Congo when hunters killed a chimpanzee and
either ate it, or possibly it's infected blood got in an open-cut on one of
the hunters. In any case the virus transferred to humans. By the 1960's it
had made its way to Haiti and by 1980 had spread to five Continents
including North America. By the end of 1981, 270 reported cases of severe
immune deficiency among gay men had been reported in America and the virus
began spreading and running wild from then on. It wasn't until 1986 that
the virus causing AIDS even became known as HIV.

Willie talked about the terror our gay brothers in the 1980's went through
with little to no sympathy from the rest of the world's population. Mostly,
instead of helping to find a cure, there were all kinds of rumors about the
causes and who was to blame. There were even those depraved miscreants who
claimed AIDS was God's punishment for being homosexual. AIDS is a horror
story of cruel insensitivity and a moral failure of the medical and
scientific communities of epic proportion. That continued until, like I
said, the gay community themselves formed groups like 'ACT UP' and others
that forced the government to begin taking the epidemic
seriously. World-wide over 35 million people have died of AIDS thus far.

Anyway, what's this have to do with Bruce Springsteen? Well, Willie was
playing Bruce's song, 'Streets of Philadelphia' which is from the movie,
'Philadelphia'. It's about a gay young man and the prejudices heaped on him
because he'd been infected by the AIDS virus. Bruce's song is haunting and
with Willie's serious and sensitive discussion about AIDS and HIV we both
were thinking, I suppose, of ourselves if we were living
thirty-five-or-forty-years-ago. We were thinking of young gay boys our age
back then and the helplessness and horror they experienced, and well we
both shed some tears for those boys... and that's my most vivid take-away
about Bruce Springsteen. That and the 9/11 tragedy with Springsteen's
response songs 'The Rising' and 'Into the Fire'. They're haunting songs
too, so yeah... that's mostly all I know about Bruce Springsteen. I'm not
even sure what he looks like. Of course, none of that did I mention at
dinner because my intention was not to bring down the Moms and the guys'
good moods.

Just thinking back to that night with Willie and contemplating those young
men and boys who were basically abandoned and left to die makes my eyes
sting as I'm thinking about it right this second. Snapping me out of my
musings, I hear Tris saying to the twins, "You two think this is women's
work, don't you?" I look up and see Tom putting a dozen ears of corn in
from of the Moms. Tom goes, "Of course not, but Tim and I are doing the
rest of the dinner preparation, so..." Both Moms pick up an ear and begin
shucking corn. Shucking? Um, I think that's what it's called. I know it's
not called 'peeling' corn. They're all chuckling about shucking. I wonder
if inane comments like that 'women's-work' one will seem worth a chuckle to
me when I'm ten-years older? Hard to believe.

Sitting against the wall on a footstool I'm hoping not to be noticed but at
the same time feel I should offer to help with the corn. So I offer and Tom
says, "Un uh, Dylan, that's women's work," which gets them all chuckling
again. Jesus...

Tim's singing along with some of the Springsteen's lyrics and occasionally
one of the twins, or one of the Moms, will bring the conversation around to
include me, which is also very nice of them although unnecessary, and
especially so when they do it in the form of questions. Not exactly prying,
but close enough, so again I'm missing Chubby because he handles all the
prying questions with Bill Belichick-like answers, meaning he tells them
basically nothing, although it seems like maybe he did.

My beer bottle is empty and as I'm contemplating another beer I get a phone
call from Rob. Seeing his caller ID makes me do a big grin that I
immediately change to a blasé demeanor, saying, "Excuse me,
guys. Its Rob calling and I'll take his call inside." My Mom goes, "Say
'hello' for us, Dylan." I nod and go inside to wander around this big house
as Rob and I talk for the better part of an hour. I'd already told him
about some of Chub's and my car problems when I talked on the phone with
him Saturday night and now I tell him about Sunday and then about our
experiences today.

He has a lot of things to say about the boring conference he was at. Some
of it strikes me as funny although Rob doesn't think it is. He was back at
work today and he's home now. We can't get over the irony of him being in
Camden, New Jersey from last Friday until Sunday. Yes, New Jersey, ninety
miles from Wildwood where I would have been except for the car
troubles. Rob tells me that even if I had been in Wildwood Saturday we
couldn't have hooked-up. His conference reconvened after dinner Saturday
night. When he first heard about the conference in Camden though we both
half-expected we'd get together and now I know that wouldn't have happened.

Still, it's been a sex-free zone for me since last Thursday night with
Rob. We joke a little about how hot our reunion-sex will be sometime next
Sunday and then he finally is called to do something work-related with his
Dad and we end the call after promising to talk tomorrow.

Putting my cellphone in my pocket I'm nodding my head, thinking: Yeah it
has been four days since I've had a sexy time with anyone! Be that as it
may though, I sort of surprise myself realizing I have no intention of
jumping at the first opportunity I get for side-sex down here. First of
all, I'm not expecting a lot of opportunities, or maybe none. I mean why
would there be a lot of opportunities here when there aren't any back home?
It's my advanced age and the age of potential side-sex partners that's
reduced the opportunities greatly. In past years I was lucky to run into
teens and guys in their early-twenties who were hot-to-trot, but that most
definitely hasn't been the case during the last year-or-so.

On the other hand, Rob's and my sex life has been so good I'm not champing
at the bit to get laid by a stranger. Times have changed. A week or ten
days without sex was once unthinkable when now its more like a probable
reality. It would need be an awfully enticing temptation for me to go for a
one-and-done side-sex-experience during these next five-days in
Wildwood. Instead I'll concentrate on the reunion Rob and I will have back
home.

Anyway, after my conversation with Robby I find I'm missing him more than I
expected. Hell, we both got a little maudlin near the end of the phone
call. It's awesome being in love but it hurts sometimes too.

Our last night together was last Thursday because Friday afternoon he left
with three other managers for their 'Management Diversity Conference'. It's
weird, but after talking with him just now, well I don't think Wildwood
holds the same allure for me it used to. I almost wish I was back home with
Rob going to work, eating lunch together, being at the baseball games, and
sleeping together. This is the first summer I've felt like that!

After I make the promised coleslaw, the twins finally get the dinner on the
table around eight-fifteen. It's good eats, well except the twins
overcooked the corn-on-the-cob but then most people do, and the potato
salad didn't have the 'fresh' taste that Chub's and mine has. How could it
when there's some kind of preservative in the store-brand salad. No problem
and of course I don't mention either major screw-up.

The Moms and their guys are in awesomely happy moods and I continue doing
my best not to be a wet blanket. I'm chuckling along with things said that
aren't all that funny. Then I lose my mind for a minute and made a big
dumb-ass-goof by telling a joke at dinner. Chubby told me this joke at
Gregory's Bar and for some half-ass reason I thought it'd be a good idea to
tell it now. Well hell, halfway through my telling I realized it's totally
inappropriate as a dinner joke! Jesus, I'm looking at the Moms sitting here
with grins on their faces ready to laugh whether its funny or not. And now
I'm thinking, halfway done telling the joke, that its actually not all that
funny anyway, never mind it's grossly inappropriate. Its more a joke you'd
go, 'Oh gawd!' to the punch line and maybe give a chuckle to be polite. So
everything is wrong with this joke but I sort of have to finish since I
started it.

The joke: At the Senior Citizen Retirement Home's monthly party all the
really old people, the infirm, and those in wheelchairs crowd into the
assembly hall for a sing-along that went about like it always did, meaning
maybe twenty-percent participation. From those not singing there's some
snoring heard above some loud talking about their ailments along with
complaints about today's lunch. Extra loud talking, of course, so those
hard of hearing can catch every-other-word. Anyway, after the sing-along
portion of the festivities there's cupcakes and lemonade followed by a
special guest entertainer: Claude, the Hypnotist. Well this got most of the
old-timers' attention. Kind of exciting having an actual entertainer at the
party. The more alert residents shake the less alert ones awake and
eventually almost everyone is paying attention.

Claude holds up a very old pocket watch telling everyone how the watch has
been in his family for six generations and its quite valuable. He begins
swaying the watch and whispering in a creepy voice, "Keep your eyes on the
watch" and the old folks become mesmerized by his voice and the swinging
watch. They're all easily hypnotized just as Claude expected. He was
planning to have some fun making some of the older seniors bark like a dog
or try doing handstands etc.. but the watch chain breaks and the expensive
pocket-watch burst apart when it hits the floor. Without thinking, Claude
yells, 'Shit!' Obviously a command the deeply hypnotized seniors
obliged. Well, what a mess!  Claude was never invited back.

At the rather sick-joke's ending the twins cover their mouths with their
hands snickering while trying not to, with both Moms showing a look of
incredulousness on their faces. A moment of silence after the, um, punch
line, with me babbling, "Its not the kind of joke to be taken seriously,
um, and its not making fun of seniors ... ah... and not a good visual-joke
during dinner what with all the seniors shitting themselves and, um, I
mean...!" Mom goes, "Oh my, Dylan, sweetheart why...?" and both Tim and Tom
snort out a coughing-laugh with me blushing like mad.

Whatever, in-the-name-of-God, made me tell that fucking joke? I have no
idea! I suspect that terrible decision might have had something to do with
the beers I've had, and why isn't Chubby here to fill the few seconds of
silence and say something to get us thinking about something else! Tim
steps-up to help me out by shocking everyone offering me his new car for
the night. He goes, "Well, Dylan, in lieu of another joke let me offer you
the use of my Mustang tonight. Jeff has the Jeep so if you have a need for
a car... um..." That got everyone talking about Tim's spur-of-the-moment
purchase of the Mustang. My joke is never mentioned again. At least not
when I'm around to hear it.

I recover enough to continue dinner and then after dinner I pass-up the
offer of another beer, saying, "I'm kinda anxious to see if there's been
any changes on the Boardwalk." Tom tells me there's been new construction
near the end of the Boardwalk closest to us. It used to be kind of ratty
and honky-tonkish down at this end.

After politely turning-down Tim's offer of his Mustang, with many thanks
for the offer claiming I'd prefer walking tonight. I mean, the real reason
is I've been drinking and don't want the responsibility of driving his new
car in my condition. I don't tell them that's the reason though because
they've all been drinking too and yet they're taking the Mercedes to a club
in Margate to do more drinking. They might think I was inferring a
criticism of them if I said anything.

Then, still about to leave, I'm happy to have someone talking about
anything other than the joke or the Mustang, I pretend intense interest in
Tris' telling me about the bizarre things that happened to the four of them
yesterday while playing miniature golf on 24th street at the miniature golf
course, 'Adventure Falls Golf', in the pouring rain. Happily I chuckle
along with the four of them as they laugh. It does sound absurdly funny in
a way.

The whole thing, the terrible joke at dinner and the nutty offer of Tim's
new car, plus Chubby not being here and me being too much the center of
attention: it all left me feeling out-of-sorts as I walk down the back
stairs and out the door next to the garage.  Going down the alley to Ocean
Drive I'm thinking how different tonight's dinner would have been if Chub
were here.  Much less uncomfortable and embarrassing for me!

Anyway it's only like six blocks to the beginning of the boardwalk and when
I get there I see the construction Tom and Tim mentioned. It appears
completely finished now and looks oddly 'new' as compared to most of the
Boardwalk which looks 'weathered'. The new pressure-treated lumber and
other materials used to renovate this half-block section of the Boardwalk
will look weathered and therefore blend-in with the rest of the Boardwalk
by this time next year.

There's a strip of plastic across the entrance to the brand-new ramp
leading up to the renovated section of the Boardwalk. It's the type of
Police tape put around to protect the sanctity of a crime scene. This tape
merely says, "DO NOT ENTER". Fuck, it looks finished to me and as I
approach the ramp I'm thinking I'll just duck under the tape. I start to do
that when I hear, "You there, kid! Can't you read? Back away from there!"
Looking over my shoulder I see a young guy wearing a uniform of some kind
and he's walking briskly towards me. He looks about sixteen-years old! What
the fuck?

Walking right up to within a foot of me, he stops and says, "Like the tape
says, do not enter, and that mean you! This ramp isn't in use yet. Use the
one on 43rd street, a block up from here," and he points in that
direction. I don't believe I care for his manner, so I sneer, muttering,
"Says who?" Sticking out his skinny chest, he goes, "Says me, who do you
think?" This little officious prick is four inches shorter than me and
skinnier than Hayden. His nose is too small for his face too. It looks like
a pointed bird's beak except with peeling sunburn. He's wearing a baseball
cap with an insignia over the bill but all I can make out is the word
'Wildwood'.

I try not to, but can't help snorting out a laugh, and then say, "Yeah, I
know you said it, but who the fuck are you? Are you in a Boy Scout troop or
something?" He points to a patch on his shoulder, saying, "No, not the Boy
Scouts, wise-ass, I'm with the City of Wildwood's Junior Auxiliary Police
and I'm telling you to move along... Sir." Oh, so now its 'Sir' instead of
'kid' or 'wise-ass'. He must have remembered his indoctrination
instructions: 'when dealing with the public always use a sarcastic version
of 'Sir' addressing a male perpetrator'. I have to say this little fart is
over-flowing with aggressive confidence and he's not backing down a bit!

Police have a way of saying 'Sir' making it sound ironic and snarky,
especially when addressing someone as young as me and this kid has mastered
that aspect of being a pretend-cop. There's a name tag over the left pocket
of his brown uniform shirt indicating I'm dealing with, Theodore Smiley, so
I go, "Teddy-boy, how the fuck old are you anyway?" He points to the
sidewalk, sternly saying, "Just do what I said and move along." Theodore is
one neat, preppy little mother-fucker. He has that bird-beak-nose but the
rest of his face is attractively youthful with beautiful green eyes and
narrow, perfectly shaped eyebrows and a cute little mouth and chin. His
eyes are the shade of green that Hayden calls 'chartreuse'. Ya don't see
that very often. If he weren't so young I'd kiss him on the lips... heh
heh. I better not though...

Actually I'd like to 'mess' with him some more but he's fiddling with a
whistle that's hanging on a string around his neck and looking up the road
like he's expecting reinforcements. Huh, he also has a backpack on but it
looks almost empty. Why does everyone feel its necessary to always wear a
backpack? Yeah but, oh man, what's he gonna do with that whistle? Blow it
and a real cop comes?

Yeah well, this is beginning to look like one of those no-win-situation for
me so I shrug and say, "Sure, no problem, I'll go up to the next ramp. Um,
if you don't mind me asking though... why do you need to be such a
tight-ass?" He says, "Move along and avoid being arrested, Sir." Shrugging,
I walk away from him to avoid 'being arrested, Sir!' Arrested for doing
nothing...

This vacation continues to go wrong at every step. I have the strongest
urge to go back and slap the shit out of this pompous little turd but then
he'd blow his fucking whistle and six cop cars will come flying in to zap
me with their taser toys and I'll end up jerking around on the ground while
the officious Theodore gets all excited and probably cums in his uniform
pants. Shaking my head a little like, 'Can I believe this shit?' I mutter a
sarcastic, "Yes, Officer," and continue walking up the sidewalk to the next
ramp that's one long-block from here.

I have this feeling of fury but there's no immediate outlet for it because,
like I said, that was a no-win situation. But balls, life ain't fair! Heh
heh, Theodore would have shit his pants if I gave him a sloppy kiss on that
sexy mouth of his. Yeah, and then he'd call the 'real' cops on
me. Discretion and whatnot was my best move in that situation.

Oh well, as I saunter up the ramp on 43rd street I'm making myself forget
the unfortunate interaction with Theodore and I try feeling better about
being on vacation. Surprisingly I manage to do that with each step I
take. After all I do have ten-million memories revolving around the
Wildwood Boardwalk and almost all of them are positive memories. The bad
ones I try not to think about and that most recent one is going in the bin
of forgotten ones.

On the Boardwalk, dodging people, I stop thinking about the little creep in
the auxiliary police uniform and make my way over to the ocean side and
then lean against the railing looking down at the sandy beach by the light
of the moon and stars. It's been smoothed over by the Beach Patrol and
looks inviting. Yeah, tomorrow will be a beach day laying in the sun doing
very little. At some point I'll take a walk on the beach, maybe while
listening to tunes on my iPhone while checking-out any possible cute,
hot-sexy young guys in my path... if there are any.

And then, ah yes, I gaze up and out at the impressive Atlantic Ocean with
its waves endlessly pounding on the shore line. The full moon is hanging
just above the water, but way the fuck out there. The breeze and smell of
the seashore is intoxicating tonight. It's a pretty site. Oh hell, it's
spectacular!

For something to do I feel like lighting a cigarette except that's one of a
million things that are banned on the Boardwalk. Many rules to be obeyed or
you take the chance one of these cops riding up and down the Boardwalk on
bicycles will yell at you.

Pushing those negative thoughts away I think about my fondest memories of
the Boardwalk. They go back to when Chub and I were a tough duo of thirteen
or fourteen-year olds, not taking shit from anyone. Well, Chub didn't take
shit from anyone and I went along with whatever he instigated.

We didn't have any money usually, so Chub improvised some minor burglaries
to get us on rides and get us stuff to eat. There are two hundred food
shops along the land-side of the Boardwalk and Chub would scout a few until
he found one he liked. We'd wait in line for say hot dogs and sodas, or
whatever. When placing our order Chub would be going through his pockets as
if he's getting him money and then the food was always served fast so with
his free hand he's passing the food and drinks back to me. I'd drift into
the crowd with Chubby still going through his pockets to pay, saying,
"Damn, let me get my Dad," and he'd drift back into the Boardwalk crowd
too, the register guy yelling, "Hey! Hey!" What's the guy going to do,
leave his shop and chase us?

Chub used basically the same tactic for getting us on rides. We'd stand in
line and when we're at the ticket-taker person Chub would point at me
telling the guy, "We're together," and as he's going through the charade of
getting the tickets from his pocket, stalling until I was on the roller
coaster or whatever, and then Chub would go, "Shit, my brother has the
tickets," and he'd walk right by the ticket-taker guy. They all yelled the
same thing, "Hey! Hey you!" but what's he going to do? There are a line of
people holding up their tickets and, anyway, why does the ticket-taker guy
give a shit? Ya know?

Oh man, it was the 'challenge' of getting away with it for Chubby. Me, like
I said, I was up for whatever Chub was up for. Of course we didn't try the
same thing with the same register-guy or ticket-taker but there are more
rides on the Boardwalk's five piers then at Disney World and then countless
food carts, booths, shops and restaurants, including bars now. We'd never
hit the same place twice.

Yeah, those were the days. It's not like we didn't know any better; its
more like we didn't give a shit. We knew it was stealing but Chub justified
it by saying, "Fuck, they're basically stealing from everyone charging what
they do for everything." I'd be nodding my head, "Damn, right, Chubby!" Ha
ha, like I said: those were the most fun days ever on the Boardwalk...

I'd never try that shit now of course, and then that summer of my seventeen
year everything changed. I was 'outed' to myself by fat Carl and began my
boy-watching in earnest and with promising results too. I discovered there
are more gay and bisexual lads around that age who were still in the
experimental stages of their sexuality. Nowadays there aren't nearly as
many; not at my age. Well, of course there are still guys unsure of their
sexuality at this age but they're apparently not nearly as willing to
experiments at age twenty-one-or-older as they were at seventeen or
younger. Too bad for them.

Pushing away from the railing I begin walking the thirty-eight-blocks,
which is two-miles on the Boardwalk starting from this end near our summer
place, to the other end, which is nearer where we stayed last
summer. Wildwood's Chamber of Commerce advertises the Boardwalk as,
'Two-miles of smiles' and it is still fun. Wildwood is not what most people
would consider a 'classy' summer spot though. It can't compare I wouldn't
assume with places like Boca Raton or West Palm Beach or probably about a
hundred other ocean resorts for upscale classiness. No, this is kinda
crass, tacky, honky-tonk... Wildwood's more like that.

Even I, who have never been to those Ritzy places, have finally had enough
of some things one encounters on the Boardwalk. Like the disturbing number
of people walking the 'boards' who are extremely distant from classy. I'm
far from a snob but I've gotta believe those Ritzy places I mentioned
probably have a ban on fat, hairy, tattooed men wearing only wife-beater
T-shirts and swim trunks who you see walking down the boardwalk here. I
pass a guy like that every few minutes and he's usually dropping the F-bomb
yelling at his over-made-up wife who's wearing too-little clothing and
yelling at their little kids who are whining about something.

And the shops along the Wildwood Boardwalk are not selling Tiffany jewelry
or Burberry outfits, and the food shops are not offering caviar or truffled
langoustine ravioli. Nope, here it's fake jewelry, three-for-ten-dollar
T-shirts, cotton candy and corn dogs. But that's not a criticism because we
don't want that expensive shit, and the corn dog is probably better tasting
than the ravioli. Well, that's an exaggeration, but Wildwood beach and
Boardwalk are what we come here for notwithstanding the guys wearing
wife-beater T-shirts showing off their fat stomachs, tattoos, and hairy
backs.

The Boardwalk is pure sensory overload of sights, sounds, and smells. The
sounds get louder when I casually walk past each of the five amusement
piers that extend out towards the Atlantic. I can't lie, it's still excited
walking down Morey's Pier named, Ocean Oasis, where there's a truly world
class roller coaster, The Great Nor'Easter. It's a suspended roller coaster
meaning during half the outrageous ride the people are upside-down. I hear
squeals and screams from everywhere walking through the pier. And then the
tackiest of all are the carnival-style midway games, followed closely in
tackiness by the flashing arcades. The midway though is where you can
allegedly win a stuffed animal made in a third-world country by
nine-year-old children in a sweat shop.

I can't help but grin watching the suckers playing the midway
games. Generally acknowledged by anyone with an IQ above the average
temperature in Alaska that the most fixed of all the sucker games are the
'Knock Over the Milk Bottles', 'Balloon Dart Throw', 'Three Shots at
Basketball Hoop', and 'Ring Toss'. Little to no chance of winning an
off-smelling stuffed animal at those four games.

The milk-bottle-shaped objects in that game are stacked three in a pyramid
and you get one throw with a soft ball to knock them over. Should be easy
except each bottle is filled with lead and each one weights
ten-pounds. Good luck! The balloons look easy enough to pierce with a dart
except the balloons are only inflated like 30% and the darts are very light
and very dull. Guys can surely make one basket out of three shots though,
right? Well no, because the basketball is slightly off-sized and the rims
are far from regulation size. LeBron James would have fits trying to make a
basket with the rim being smaller and slightly oblong in front.

And on and on it goes with the cheating midway's-games-of-chance, but its
still fun because once in a great while a freak accident happens and
someone will win a prize. The prize unfortunately didn't cost as much as
the sucker paid for the chance to throw the basketballs or whatever. Same
holds true with the genius that will guess your age within three years and
your weight within five-pounds. If he's wrong, or you outright lie about
your age and weight, you win a prize that's not worth the price you paid to
start with.

Leaving the Pier, I'm shaking my head remembering times we had a couple of
bucks in our pocket and Chubby and me were trying to pop the
balloons. Omigod, the curse words coming out of Chubby's mouth as the darts
bounced-off the balloons and him yelling of fraud, fraud! until, the guy
threw a stuffed animal at him yelling, 'Get the hell away from here!" And
then as Chub held up the stuffed animal the guy was yelling, "Another
winner folks! Come right up...".

My guy-watching as I walk along turns-up some hot-looking, sexy guys
walking the 'boards' tonight. I check them out with peripheral vision but
none of them give off any gay vibes. Maybe I lost my 'gaydar' or maybe I
never had it in the first place. Maybe there's no such thing or more
likely, when I was younger I wouldn't do the peripheral-vision watching;
I'd brazenly make eye contact. Yes, unfortunately that will also get guys
screaming at you, 'What the fuck are you looking at?' but also eye contact
will connect with another guy's eyes showing possibilities and then the
dance begins. The thing is I don't want to 'dance' anymore. It's too much
trouble.

I've finally walked all the way down to 'Al's Famous Hot Dog Stand' which
is the last food stand on the furthest end of the Boardwalk. Furthest from
this year's summer rental house but the first food stand from last year's
house. The Boardwalk goes another two-blocks, which I walk just to make it
official that I've walked the entire two-miles and then I turn around. Wait
a second! Looking out at the beach I don't see the cement structure that
was partially sand-covered last year. The place I fucked Charlie in a few
times. Huh, they must have bull-dozed it away because I'm sure it was
visible from here last year. Oh well, things do change.

Next to Al's Hot Dog Stand is a shop where I buy a sno-cone. I get a
cherry-flavored one. It's shaved-ice in a paper cone with some artificial
cherry flavoring. The flimsy paper cone comes to a point at the
bottom. Jesus, this is so sweet my teeth hurt! Can I believe I used to love
this shit? And it was only two-dollars, ha! That's an example, by the way,
of me being sarcastic; only two-dollars. It's also an example of what
Chubby meant when rationalizing our stealing as kids. He said they're all
stealing from us anyway, meaning two-dollars for shaved ice and an ounce of
super-sweet syrup, or four-dollars for a 'real' lemonade drink make from
frozen concentrate, and so on. He was sorta right too...

Getting a Popsicle headache from the overly-sweet shaved ice I dump it in a
trash can and plop myself on a bench against the railing across from
Al's. It occurs to me that I've been holding in a beer piss for an hour
now. Fuck, guess I'll need to use a public bathroom! Omigod!

Yeah well, I saw one a couple of blocks back on this side of the Boardwalk;
the ocean side. There was a public lavatory sign but, Goddammit, I should
have taken a piss before leaving the house!!

Well, as much as I despise public lavatories I'll sucked it up and go down
the steps to that lavatory because I need to take a piss bad. I'll use one
of the stalls avoiding all eye contact with anyone who may be in the
lavatory. And after that I'll reward myself by having a smoke on the
beach. The beach is officially closed at eleven o'clock but it's only
ten-thirty ... and fuck 'em anyway. A quick piss and a smoke... what could
possibly go wrong!

So why am I still sitting here? And there's still been nothing from Chub. If his phone was charged, which it isn't, and he had it with him, which he doesn't, we could have hooked-up long ago. Chub and his cellphone don't always travel the same places though. Well, I get up and start the walk to the public lavatory two-blocks down...

to be continued...

      Donny Mumford      thinat20@yahoo.com     donnymumford@outlook.com

======================================================

Hoping some readers may be interested, there are books of mine published
and available on Amazon.com. Anyone who has Kindle can download them for
next to nothing. The books are usually around ten dollars. They are about a
19 year old gay boy (Oliver) who has a far different life than Dylan's. And
there is a new book, 'Mike, his Bike and Me'. Please at least check them
out by typing my name on Amazon.com. Information about the story in the
books can be found in some detail there. Thank you.

 Donny Mumford

========================================================

Hey guys, how about making a small (or large, go for it!) tax deductible
donation to nonprofit Nifty. They could use your help covering the expenses
inherent in maintaining a free story site this size. Easy directions about
how to do that on their 'home page'. Thanks!

http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html