Date: Mon, 28 Dec 2020 21:03:48 +0100
From: corey_grant@gmx.com
Subject: The Friend Request 2

Synopsis: Byron learns that his costume this year will be a new twist on an
old theme...

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Chapter 2

Byron awoke to the sound of ringing.

Groggily, he reached out without opening his eyes and groped blindly for
his alarm clock.

He had slept terribly. Each time he'd closed his eyes, he found that the
mysterious photo from Halloween 2007 would pop back into his mind. Not only
did the feelings of anxiety and dread that it brought up stave off sleep,
but the throbbing in his groin that appeared each time he thought of it
also kept sleep at bay. Nevertheless, despite how much his rock-hard cock
had begged to be stroked as it strained at his boxer shorts and bed sheets,
Byron had refused to give in and jerk off to the idea of himself acting
like a pervert exhibitionist who had been eager to be there for everyone
else's viewing pleasure.

Given what a rough night it had been, it made sense that Byron would reach
for the snooze button after having gotten only a few short hours of
shut-eye. What did not make sense, however, was that the ringing started up
again just as he pushed down on this alarm clock.

Confused, Byron's eyes shot open and darted to the clock.

2:37.

Sun streamed in through his windows. The sound of cars going by could be
heard outside. This was not the middle of the night -- it was not
2:37AM. Rather, Byron had (most uncharacteristically) slept right into the
middle of the afternoon.

And the persistent ringing was not his alarm clock at all, realized Byron
as he sat up and tried to gather his wits about him. Rather, it was his
doorbell -- and, judging by the persistence with which it was now being
rung, whoever was outside of his front door was getting increasingly
impatient.

Embarrassed at having slept so late and thinking that he must have
forgotten some important appointment -- was he supposed to be at work
today? had he agreed to meet with Sheila about something? was there some
important delivery that he needed to sign for? -- Byron rushed out of bed
and down the stairs.

"Coming, be right there!" he hollered as he approached the front door, the
ringing continuing all the while.

Of course, the sound stopped the moment Byron swung open the barrier to the
outside world, the figure standing there halting his hand mid-motion as it
was reaching out to ring the bell again.

The man standing on his front porch straightened up and gave Byron a sly
smile. He was -- like almost everyone -- shorter than Byron, but of an
average height for a man. While his style of dress was a little fancier
than one tended to see in this one-horse town -- his dress pants and dress
shirt looked both professional and well-tailored -- he might nevertheless
pass as someone who'd been working at the bank or the law office on Main
Street. And, while his strong jaw, high cheekbones, prominent nose, and
shock of red hair gave him a unique look, none of these was so profound as
to mark him as little more than yet another thin, thirty-something white
guy.

"Patrick...?" Byron asked, the unsteadiness in his voice coming equal parts
from an uncertainty as to whether or not this was, in fact, Patrick (he
still, after all, had no memory of the guy, knowing him only from the
photos he'd seen on Facebook the day before) and from a curiosity as to why
he'd be at Byron's front door so many hours before his impromptu party was
scheduled to begin.

"Trick or treat," Patrick replied coyly.

Byron was about to follow up on with a "what are you doing here" line of
inquiry, but had his attention directed elsewhere when he noticed Patrick's
eyes were not meeting his own. Still with that sly smile on his face,
Patrick's gaze was openly directed downward, a hunger ill-concealed behind
his eyes.

Byron felt blood rushing to his face, from both embarrassment and
anger. There was embarrassment because he clued in at that moment that he'd
not put on anything more than what he'd worn to bed when he raced to open
the door (an old pair of loose-fitting boxer shorts) and, as a result, was
standing in front of a stranger in his underwear -- but there was anger
because this random homo had the gall to gawk so openly at his bare flesh,
making no attempt at modesty or courtesy, instead blatantly eating up every
inch of the man and the muscle before him with an entitled and
self-satisfied look on his face.

Loudly clearing his throat and shooting Patrick a steely and indignant
glare, Byron called the other man's attention back to the parts of himself
that were above the neckline.

His voice cold, Byron began informing Patrick: "I'm just gonna go grab --"

But before he could finish stating his intention to retrieve a shirt and
pants, Byron was interrupted by a statement of Patrick's own: "You want to
come with me to my car."

Patrick, for his part, seemed not to care how Byron was going to reply,
turning immediately to make his way back out to the vehicle Byron now
noticed was pulled up on the curb in front of his house.

At first, Byron stood stock still, flabbergasted at the combined ballsiness
and rudeness of Patrick's response. Byron was fairly certain that his
expression and tone of voice had made it clear that he was none too happy
with how openly Patrick had just sized up his body. More than that, where
did he get off just telling Byron what was going to happen and not even
waiting for a response?

And yet...

Byron did want to go with Patrick to his car... didn't he?

"I... I want to go with you to your car," Byron offered, taking up now a
few steps behind Patrick.

It was a nice day, after all. And Patrick had a nice car. And he did want
to continue this conversation with --

Wait, wait, wait. Why the hell was Byron wandering out into public in
nothing but his underwear in broad daylight?

He suddenly felt immensely self-conscious, confused as to why he was doing
this, and worried at the fact that his feet just kept moving forward to
follow Patrick even as he realized how embarrassing this was.

People were out and about -- neighbours on their lawns, pedestrians on
their way either to or from the shops nearby, cars making their way down
the central street on which Byron lived.

He cleared his throat again. "Uh, Patrick, umm, I want to go with you to
your car, but don't you think I should go get dressed first? This is a
pretty public street," Byron said with an awkward chuckle, trying to make
things sound less serious than he felt them to be.

"Nah," Patrick replied with the same indifference he'd shown Byron a few
moments ago, adding nothing more than his single-syllable response.

"It's just..." Byron felt himself sweating and heard his heart beating in
his ears as he detected neighbours starting to notice him and passers-by
taking second-glances at the well-built man strutting about in his
boxer-shorts and nothing more. "This is, uh, kind of a family neighbourhood
and I should probably be in more than, you know, my underwear...?"

At that, Patrick finally stopped and turned around, looking Byron up and
down slowly.

Byron, for his part, finally felt his feet stop moving -- which would be a
relief if not for the fact that they stopped in precisely the place that he
had not wanted them to take him to: in full view of everyone, standing next
to Patrick's car on Main Street.

Patrick's eyes were resting on Byron's boxer-shorts and, despite the sly
grin still plastered on his face, he looked as though he were contemplating
something.

"I don't see what the problem is," Patrick said, finally turning away from
Byron's underwear to look him in the face again. "I mean, you never used to
have a problem with showing a little skin," he added with a playful gleam
coming over his eyes.

"Uh, okay, about that," Byron began, trying to focus on rationally
articulating his points and attempting to ignore the hot blushes of
embarrassment coming over him as he noticed more and more people gawking at
the beefy stud standing on Main Street in his underwear. "I think maybe you
got the wrong impression. Like, we met at Halloween or something, right? I
was just being a goof wearing that Borat mankini costume. I'm not
usually--"

"Oh, right!"

Patrick's interruption was doubly irritating to Byron. First, the whole
time he'd been speaking, Patrick's gaze had not met his own, instead
brazenly inspecting his pecs and biceps. Second, yet again, Patrick
appeared to care so little for the words coming out of Byron's mouth that
he did not even let him finish his sentence.

The well-dressed redhead turned to his car, opened his front seat, and
retrieved a large envelope.

Reorienting himself toward Byron again, he held out what he had in his
hand: "This is for tonight."

Byron took the envelope, studying it quizzically. Unconsciously, he let out
a nervous gulp. More than just the humiliation of being in his underwear in
public in front of this stranger who seemed to have both a mysterious sway
over him and a complete lack of any respect for him, he felt an
inexplicable sense of dread coming over him just knowing that Patrick had
something planned "for tonight."

However, that dread evaporated when he opened the envelope and pulled its
completely innocuous contents out.

Inspecting it, wondering why on earth Patrick would make a special trip to
give him something so commonplace, Byron muttered: "A mask...?"

His eyes glancing back up from the medical mask he held in his hands, he
saw that Patrick was giving him nothing. His smile had grown slyer, the
playful gleam in his eyes had grown more playful, but at the same time he
seemed impassive, as though he were waiting for Byron himself to say
something more.

Byron furrowed his brow, curious as to what this could all be
about. Regardless, if a medical mask was all that Patrick wanted him to
come out here and get, Byron was fine ending this now and dashing back into
the privacy of his home.

"Okay... Thanks?" Byron said, both confused and frustrated by Patrick
telling him to walk all the way out here in his underwear for something so
trivial. "But, uh, the party's gonna be outside in the backyard, so I don't
really need my face to be covered with a--"

"Look closer," Patrick added, tilting his head like he was looking for a
sign of something to come from Byron.

Directing his attention once again to the blue medical mask in his hands,
Byron studied it with greater attention.

It seemed fairly normal... A little bigger than usual, he guessed... And
the strings were long... Really long... Ridiculously long...

"Geez, Byron, when did you get so old?"

Byron's eyes shot up at Patrick, confused by the non sequitur and angered
by the derisive tone he was brandishing with such openness.

Patrick, for his part, was too distracted by something he was trying to do
on his phone to take notice of how Byron had reacted.

"I guess you're still that party-hardy freshman frat boy in my mind,"
Patrick said -- almost bashful or wistful in his expression -- as he looked
up to meet Byron's gaze. "Hopefully you've at least still got some friends
who will catch the reference," he added as he held his phone out for Byron
to see what was on the screen.

Byron gulped hard as he laid eyes upon the image, realization dawning on
him.

There stood Sacha Baron Cohen, dressed -- or, rather, "undressed" -- as
Borat once more in an ad for the new movie: the doofus hair, the giant
moustache, and slightly-out-of-shape body draped in next-to-nothing. Except
now, where once it had been a florescent green mankini, the character wore
only a light blue medical mask over his groin, the strings of the mask
covering even less of Borat's body as they travelled upward in the way the
mankini straps once had.

"WEAR MASK. SAVE LIVE." it read.

Sacha Baron Cohen wore a goofy grin, holding up two thumbs like a doofus.

The picture was probably funny.

But Byron felt nothing but dread coming over him once more as he clued in
to what he was holding in his hands.

It wasn't a face mask.

It was the costume he would be wearing in front of everyone tonight.

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