Date: Mon, 11 Dec 2017 10:26:09 -0500
From: Bill <mgtbill@aol.com>
Subject: DYLAN'S JUNIOR YEAR SUMMER     Chapter 14

DYLAN'S SUMMER AFTER HIS COLLEGE JUNIOR YEAR

Chapter 14

by Donny Mumford


Well surprise, surprise, driving to work Monday morning is more of a hassle
than taking the bus! Trying to get through the new traffic pattern at
Framingham Center is the main problem. On the bus I'm too busy entertaining
myself teasing my bus-buddy, Ryan, to notice the bottle-neck. This morning
in the Jeep I was screaming at the almost gridlock traffic. Cars inching
ahead of me in the intersection, horns blowing and drivers giving each
other the 'finger'. The problem at the center of town was made worse when
recently one of the three available traffic lanes was designated as a
'buses only' lane. Obviously intended to encourage people to take the bus
and leave their car at home. Bottom line: driving takes an extra
five-tedious-minutes getting to work.

I'm a little frazzled and grumpy walking into the Dickers & Son office
building this morning. A quick check tells me Carl's hasn't arrived yet so
after dropping my backpack on the table in my 'office' I put my lunch in
the Human Resources' refrigerator and chose a K-cup. That's when perky
Eileen steps in front of me, "G'morning, Dylan! Let me do that for you,"
and she takes the K-cup from me, sticks it in the Keurig machine and hit's
the brew button. Eileen's fawning over me each morning is a blatant case of
sexual harassment in the workplace, but I'm not going to get her in trouble
unlike some members of the opposite sex who seemingly can't wait to get
guys in trouble. She isn't improving my frame of mind obviously, but being
in a bad mood is my problem and I'm determined not to take it out on
others. Keeping that in mind I give Eileen a reluctant little smile,
mumbling, "Thanks."

She puts sugar and cream in my coffee and hands it to me and then passes me
a glazed donut as I stand here like a stooge rolling my eyes. Grinning, the
effervescent Eileen stands too close to me again and adjust the knot of my
tie, asking, "Can we have that drink at the Route 9 Tavern some night this
week, Dylan?" Holding my coffee in one hand and a donut in the other I'm
subtly stepping back a bit, mumbling, "I doubt it. Sorry, but my friend's
still recuperating from an operation." Before Eileen can respond to that
her supervisor announces, "It's past eight-thirty everyone, time to get to
work. Let's go Eileen, stop pestering Dylan." Still trying to shake-off
Monday morning blues I wander down to my sanctuary in the small meeting
room.

Last week I established that the first interviews for the fifty-or-so
Accounting Department staff will be at nine o'clock. That allows me a
half-hour of free time to drink my coffee and get myself set-up and
prepared mentally to be cheerful, helpful, and in a positive frame of
mind. I'm making the same presentation twelve-to-fourteen times a day which
has proved to be more demanding than I imagined it would be and
consequently I need some free time to myself. Oh, and then there's the
two-minute morning meeting with Carl, usually just before nine o'clock when
he arrives late for work.

The primary reason for the morning meetings is to cover Carl's ass. If his
boss asks how the project is going Carl can inform him that he has a
meeting with me every morning and I check-in with him before leaving at the
end of the day. Sounds like Carl has his finger on every aspect of this
special project but he doesn't. I've been on my way home
fifteen-to-twenty-minutes before I check-in with Carl via a text message at
the end of the day. That's ballsy of me and now that I'm even more
confidence about the job I've decided Carl can find me in here each morning
instead of me waiting for him at his work space.

Killing time before my first interview, and trying to get in a better mood,
I'm exchanging text messages with Rob. The latest one from him includes a
picture of his incisions. I text, 'Oh fuck! Those incisions still look
super sore, Rob. They also look gross.' He texts back, 'They're healing
okay but you're right, they're still sore as a mother-fucker'. The door
opens and Carl sticks his head in and, with his Adam's apple bobbing up and
down, he asks, "How'd your weekend go, kiddo?" I hold up a finger
indicating, 'Just a second" and type, 'I gotta get to work, Rob. Love you!'

Giving Carl as much of a cheerful smile as I can muster-up, I go, "My
weekend was wonderful, Carl. How 'bout yours?" He says, "Great, great
weekend." With fake camaraderie, I go, "Oh yeah, what'd ya do?" He says,
"Oh, me and a friend drove to New Hampshire and hiked up Mount Washington
on Saturday." I'm like, "Seriously? That's like the highest mountain peak
in the Northeast." He says, "Yep, almost seven-thousand-feet and at the top
you get the weirdest weather patterns. Saturday, for example, the wind
gusts reached a-hundred-fifty-mile-an-hour." Holy shit!  I go, "Wow, did
you take the Cog railway back down the mountain?" He shakes his head,
"Nah. That rack and pinion railway is historically the first
mountain-climbing railway in America, but the noise it makes is too loud
for me. We hiked back down. Awesome work-out." I mutter, "Yeah, I guess
so." and he asks, "Um, do you have the list of the employees you interview
Friday?" I nod, and dig the report out of the satchel. As I'm handing it to
him, he goes, "Is there anything you need help with?" I go, "No, not
really, but thanks for asking," and there's a knock on the door jam.  It's
my first interview of the day, a woman named, Dot Dunkind. Ya know, some
parents need to be severely reprimanded for giving their children names
like 'Dot'. Carl goes, "Oops, I'm in the way here. I'll let you get to it,
Dylan," and he goes off to do whatever it is he does. Carl means well. He's
alright I guess.

Turning my attention to, Dot Dunkind, I stand and still need to look up to
make eye contact. Dot's a very tall and large woman who's wearing way too
much make-up and her huge hoop earrings almost touch her shoulders. She
seems a little shyly awkward though, and yes, adults can still be shy even
at their advanced ages. She's looking at me as if she hopes she's not in
any trouble. Just to kid around with her and lighten the moment, I sternly
asks, 'Dot, what's this shit I hear about you writing on the walls in the
lady's room using your own feces?'  No, of course I don't say that, but I'd
like to just for the hell of it. The thought of saying something shocking
like that makes me blurt out a laugh that I cover up by doing some fake
coughs. Okay, I need to get a grip on things so I hold out my hand with a
friendly smile on my face, saying a cheerful, "Good morning, Dot, I'm Dylan
Newman and ...." blah, blah, blah. The interview go very well and Dot
leaves, um, seemingly relieved it's over.

Well, okay then. I do six more interviews before lunch without any major
problems. Oh, there was one woman, Margaret-something, an older woman whose
date-of-birth on the printout indicates she's fifty-nine years old although
she looks a lot older than that. Before I could get into my friendly
greeting and canned presentation she put a bill from her dentist on the
table in front of me. I look bewildered as she claims the company's Dental
Plan should have paid this bill but they incompetently declined it. I'm
squinting first at the bill from her dentist, and then at her. The bill is
for an expensive teeth-whitening procedure. That's an elective dental
procedure and therefore not covered. Jesus, even I know that! I don't want
to get involved though and needed all my willpower to refrain from saying,
'What the fuck does this have to do with me? She was a very smug woman.

I'm guessing Margaret thinks she's going right to the top authority-figure
for company benefits... meaning me, the benefits' expert.  Maybe in her
duplicitous mind she was hoping to get someone in trouble with this sneaky
move of bypassing regular channels and bringing her complaint directly to
the top. She maybe thought there'd be some underlings working for me whose
ass is grass now because I'll straighten this shit out fast and approve
covering the cost! Instead of trying to explain to her that I barely know
what I'm doing with these benefit-upgrades, never mind approving a claim, I
nod my head looking concerned, mumbling, "I'll make sure this gets to the
right person, Margaret." She nods her head triumphantly as I point to item
one on the list of changes, saying, "If you'll look at item number one...."
She was extremely agreeable during the presentation. Of course I'll merely
give the claim to Carl. I'm likely to be finished giving everyone in the
Accounting Department interviews before Carl, who declined the claim
initially, will get around to declining it again.

Making it through the morning okay I'm feeling better about things and
decide to eat lunch outside at one of the picnic tables. I chose a table
near a dumpster hoping that'll deter anyone from joining me. Hmmm, and it
works for everyone except a young man with a tight buzz cut who plops down
across from me at the picnic table, saying, "Wassup, Dylan?" Hmmm, I sort
of think I know him, but can't remember how or from where. He knew my name
though and I've definitely seen him before, but hmmm? The expression on my
face apparently gives my confusion away because he goes, "You don't
remember me, do you? I'm Marty West, the mailroom supervisor." I sort of
nod my head and then recall meeting him in the men's room.

Marty grins, asking, "How could you forget me?" and he laughs a friendly
laugh. Nodding my head again while smiling, I go, "Oh yeah, sorry
Marty. I've met a lot of people the past six days, ya know it's kinda
overwhelming?" I don't offer my hand because the last time he shook hands
with me there were droplets of his piss on his fingers. To prove to him I
actually do remember him, I mumble, "But yeah, I do remember our lavatory
encounter." He chuckles and then mutters one of the oldest lines in the
history of the world, "Yeah, we gotta stop meeting like this." I force a
chuckle, but that would have been more appropriately said in the men's
room. Now he should have said, 'We've got to stop meeting like that'.
Guess I'm still not completely out of my bad mood picking-up on that
insignificant point.

As he opens a smelly sandwich, unmistakably tuna fish, he says, "I saw you
eating alone and thought I'd keep you company." Dammit, I should have
brought my book with me. I say, "Nice of you." He leaves his smelly tuna
sandwich in front of him, as he bites into what looks like a blueberry
muffin. He eats it the way you'd eat an apple, but he chews with his mouth
closed which is a very good thing. He's okay looking with very dense brown
hair, so dense I can't see his scalp even though he had a recent buzz
cut. Nice bright green eyes too.

I can't help glancing at his fingers for signs of urine as he wipes crumbs
off his mouth, saying, "Can't blame you for being quiet. I mean, you need
to talk for eight hours straight every day, huh?" I shrug, "Nah, it's not
that bad," and then, since he's being pleasant I try being sociable too by
resorting to the oldest topic in the world, I'm like, "Nice warm sunny day,
especially for this time of year in New England." He nods, "Yeah, it
is. I'm originally from Pennsylvania, um, I grew-up there and back home at
this time of the year the weather's at least ten degrees warmer than here."
I go, "Oh, huh, you don't say," and he goes, "Yeah, we actually have a
'spring' season in Pennsylvania. Here it goes from winter directly to hot
summer weather." No it doesn't! I hear nitwits say that all the time and
it's total bull crap. I say, a little sarcastically, "Ain't it the truth,
Marty. Every year we go from one day with snow piled up to our asses and
the very next day we're wearing shorts getting sunburned."

He stares at me for a few seconds, a few seconds too long actually, so I
go, "What?" He does a little shrug, and says, "You were kinda shitting on
me there, right? I didn't actually say anything about snow one day and
getting sunburned the next." He's not talking in an abrasive manner or
anything like that. Actually he sounds hurt, like he can't understand why I
dumped sarcasm on him like I did. Damn, he's right too. I've been bitchy
all morning because of driving in all that traffic. To make amends I squint
at him for a second and then bite the bullet by saying, "Ya know what,
Marty? I apologize for the sarcasm. There was no need for it.  Ya gotta
admit though that it's a bull-shit-claim that there's no spring in New
England. There's a gradual warming trend and yeah, it's usually a lousy
spring here, but there is a spring season between winter and summer." He
nods and ignores the napkin in front of him wiping his mouth with his
fingers again, and says, "Yeah, pretty much I guess. Hey, it was damn nice
of you to apologize though. Thanks for that. It's like nobody ever wants to
admits they're wrong anymore," and he holds his hand over to me. Oh balls!
I give it a good shake and then use the willpower I'm been exhibiting
lately to not wipe my hands on my pants or grab his napkin. I pick up my
sandwich as if I don't care if Marty has piss on his fingers. It'd be dried
piss by now anyway, so not as transferable as wet piss would be.

Finished his muffin, Marty starts in on the tuna sandwich and then opens a
bag of Lays potato chips and takes some before offering the open bag to me,
muttering, 'Care for some pissed-on potato chips?' No, he doesn't say
'pissed-on'. I reach in and take a couple of chips thereby proving
unconditionally I don't care if he peed on his fingers or not. Perhaps
Marty didn't even realize he peed on himself that afternoon. He asks, "You
going to college, Dylan?" and we talk about that. He graduated from Temple
University in December and is presently in a six-month management training
program here at Dickers and Son. His training in the mailroom is for a
two-week period, then he'll train in supply management for the Condo
projects in Northborough, and then to every division in the company I
guess. I ask, "Who hired you?" and he says, "Mr. Dunlap, but I interviewed
with three managers in total, and then of course with Mr. Dickers. He gave
me a rubber stamp 'okay', I think. It was a very informal interview with
him." I ask, "Did the 'Son' part of Dickers and Son interview you?" He
grins and shrugs, "I don't think so. I don't remember another Mr. Dickers,
just the one."

Marty's nice enough. Okay, so he pees on himself and is an exhibitionist
standing away from the urinal so everyone can see his big dick. I ask, "Are
you married, Marty?" He shakes his heads, "Nooo, no way. I'm single living
in an apartment on Grove Street. It's not far from the office so I walk to
and from work, although I have a car of course." I nod and then Marty says,
"Hey, um, feel free to tell me to drop dead, but would you ever wanna grab
a beer with me sometime?" I look over at him and he adds, "I, um, haven't
met anyone here yet." He's been working here since January and he hasn't
met anyone?

He swallows some tuna fish sandwich and goes, "Oh shit, that sounded
stupid. I mean, of course I've met lots of people here but there's only a
couple of guys in the office who are recent grads and still single." I nod
again, "Yes, I've noticed that too. That wasn't the case when I worked on
the grass cutting crews though. There were a number of youngish single guys
doing landscaping." He goes, "Well then, can I buy you that drink some
time?" I go, "Sure. Oh, as a matter of fact I'm gonna have a drink with
Eileen from Human resources, um, I forget her last name. It'll probably be
next week sometime and maybe you could join us." He goes, "Oh, that's nice
of you but I wouldn't want to screw-up your date." I go, "No no, It's not a
date. She's very pushy and, ha ha, I was kinda hoping maybe you two might
hit it off." It looks uncomfortable so I force a laugh, and then say, "No
seriously, Marty, she's cute and maybe, um, you'll think she's sexy." He
goes, "Without making too much out of it, I'm not into girls." Startled, I
try for humor, saying, "What the fuck? You're hustling me then?" He grins,
nodding his head, "Uh huh, but it's an extremely low key hustle wouldn't
you say? Ya know, in the event you've still got a boyfriend." Still got a
boyfriend?

Making a ball of the Reynolds Wrap my sandwich was wrapped in I'm stuffing
it in the lunch bag along with the empty Snapple bottle, asking, "And just
how would you know I'm gay?" He grins, "An ex-boyfriend of mine told me to
look you up; see if you'd be working here again this summer. He said the
last time he talked with you there was a boyfriend." I go, "His name
wouldn't by any chance be Seth Applegate, would it?" He grins, "Yes,
Seth. He and I were boyfriends for a few months. He thinks you're a God, by
the way." I go, "Oh, dude, Seth's awesome! I've meant to look him up but my
first week sucked so badly I needed all my energy to deal with that." He
goes, "Oh, so you don't know?" I'm like, "Don't know what?" and he tells
me, "Seth moved to Delaware last April. Got a good job offer. He'll still
be able to finish his online college education there too." We get up
together, and I go, "Jeez, no, I didn't know that. Dammit, I wish I'd have
stayed in touch with him!"  Walking towards the office building, I'm like,
"So okay, no Eileen for you, but we might have that beer and I could maybe
at least get the latest news about Seth. When did you guy break-up?" He
goes, "Long time ago. Um, last Thanksgiving actually, but were still
friends." I mutter the cliche,"Small world."

We go into the building together and then bump fists as Marty says, "Okay,
so one of these nights I'll buy you a beer." I nod, "Sure thing," and he
goes to the mailroom on the basement level while I go up a staircase to the
first floor. Let me try to get this straight: Marty was looking for me
because of Seth's recommendation. So was it an accidental meeting in the
men's lavatory last week? It had to be because he wouldn't stake-out the
men's room all morning waiting for me to take a piss, would he? Hmmm, why
didn't he say something about our mutual friend, Seth, when I ran into him
in the lavatory? Maybe checking me out first? And today he just happened to
be outside near the dumpster for lunch? Interesting! I only wish Marty was
as interesting as the circumstances surrounding our 'chance' meetings.

I'm thinking about that in my 'office' waiting for a person named, Sidney
Rothstein, Account Examiner. He's next for his benefits' review. Hmmm,
Marty seems nice in an unremarkable kind of way. No sexual bells were going
off in my head though, or none that I noticed anyhow. In the men's room
that time I did glance for a split second at his big dick and now I'm
suspicious he was making sure I saw it. Yeah, but was the pee on his
fingers intentional? That's still a big question I have about old Marty
from the mailroom. And is he a liar? I mean, he's training in the mailroom
but he told me in the lavatory he was the supervisor. Hmmm?  Interrupting
my musings there's a tap on the doorjamb and in walks Sidney. Big smile
from me as I stand with my hand held out... and I'm off and running again.

The afternoon zips by and then at four-fifteen I'm in the parking lot with
intentions of beating the four-thirty stampede out of the building. In the
idling Jeep I text Carl, 'I'm wrapping up for the day, Carl." I get a text
message backs, 'I'll see you Tuesday morning, kiddo." Damn, I hate that
kiddo shit!! Pulling onto the street I try an exaggerated round-about way
to avoid Framingham Center on the way home. It involves getting on route
495 south, going down two exits, and then driving back one exit on route
495 north and getting off at route 9. Jesus, yeah I avoided the center but
this way takes ten-minutes longer. No stop and go traffic, but it's an
extra-ten-minute-ride. Balls!

Home safely getting a Coke from the refrigerator I text Robby, 'Rob, just
got home from work. I'll change and come over for a visit if you're up for
it.' I get a text back, 'I'm on my way to the hospital for a check-up,
babe. I'll text when I'm back home. Love you!'  Damn, I was looking forward
to seeing him. What am I gonna do now? My new side-sex buddies are
unavailable. Danny at the try-outs for the summer league baseball team and
Hayden's in California. I put on shorts and a long-sleeve pullover. The
temperature reached seventy-degrees around two o'clock today but now it's
down to the middle-sixties and therefore a long-sleeve shirt is in order.

As I'm tying my sneakers' laces a roaring sound comes from the back
alley. It sounds like maybe Sonny and three or four of his motorbike
crazies are revving their motorbikes. Hey, maybe there'll be a couple of
haircuts to do. That'd be cool! Back in the living room I peek out the
sliding glass doors past the balcony and see a single individual on a
new-looking big motorcycle, not a motorbike. He or she is revving the
engine with the loud mufflers roaring and rumbling, "Varooom, varooom!"
What an idiot! The motorcycle dude is making the loud mufflers noise is in
front of out next door neighbor's balcony. They're a retired couple who
only moved in two-months ago. If this is their kid he's gotta be
forty-something because the people next door are old.

Oh shit, the old lady just came out on the balcony next door waving her
arms and yelling something. The muffler sounds drops down to a throbbing
rumble as the person on the motorcycle takes off his helmet. Really cool
matte-black helmet with a red stripe and a black full-facial protective
mask and big goggles. I'll bet that helmet set him back a good
three-hundred-dollars. The old lady and the guy are talking, not that I can
hear them; I see their lips moving though. The guy has on a hoodie
sweatshirt and he's very nice-looking. Wait a fucking second! That's
Dodger!

Opening the sliding glass doors I hear him say to the lady, "Which side of
your condo does he live at?" and I go, "What's all the racket about out
here?" He looks up and does his incomparable sexy grin, muttering, "Oh,
there you are. Hi, Dylan..." and he picks his feet off the ground and rolls
the motorcycle twenty feet from my left until he's under my balcony. The
lady turns to me, saying, "Good afternoon, Jeffrey." I nod, mumbling, "Hi!
Nice day, isn't it?" She has me mixed-up with Chubby. Pointing at Dodger, I
say, "Don't you go anywhere, I'll be right down!"

Running down the basement steps, I go out through the garage. Dodger's
still sitting on his motorcycle with his feet on the alley on either side
of the cycle. He says, "Get on and we'll go for a ride." I stand next to
him, asking, "No hug 'hello'?" He mutters, "Get on. You can hug me then,"
and he gives me that awesome smirking grin nodding his head at the little
back seat behind him, saying, "Ya better get a helmet out of the storage
thingie on this side of the bike." There's a storage compartment on both
sides of the back wheel. Opening the one nearest me, I pull out a basic
helmet as Dodger says, "Josh is the only other guy whose had that thing
on. He's a fairly clean kid so there's a pretty good chance you won't get
lice or whatever." I grin, feeling funny in my tummy and then put the
helmet on as Dodger says, "Come here, Dylan." Stepping to him, he buckles
the strap under my chin, pats my shoulder and says, "You're good to go." In
sort of a trance I get on behind him. The seat is small but comfortable,
"Hold onto me, Dylan," so I wrap my arms around him and he does a wheelie
with the front wheel coming off the pavement and then Zoom! off we go with
the mufflers roaring and the back tire laying rubber on the alley.

What a crazy way to have a reunion, and when did he get this motorcycle? It
looks almost brand new except there's dirt on the fenders and chrome
mufflers, a muffler on either side. It feels like a powerful machine as we
fly down Route 9 and then get on Route 128. Dodger's body is still slim and
taut. When he had his helmet off talking to the old lady he still had a
hoodie on his head that outlined his handsome face. He was a starling sight
to see once I zeroed in on him. I'd forgotten how much he looks like
Robby. The only difference basically is Dodger's brown hair and eyes.

He drives faster than any of the cars we pass but not insanely faster
because he's weaving in and out changing lanes. Even with the helmet on my
head I can hear the muffler's throaty roar that's very sexy and cool; just
like the driver. He roars up Route 128, taking the exit for Route 93. We're
apparently going to North Andover where Merrimack is located. That's
confirmed when Dodger connects with Route 125 and ten minutes later he
comes to the traffic lights at Route 114. That's the beginning of
Merrimack's campus on our left. At a reasonable speed he drives onto the
campus and turns his head, saying, "Direct me to where you had your classes
and the places you hung-out at." We ride around campus with me pointing out
the spots Rob and I mostly frequented over the past three years. Dodger's
interested in all this now although when Rob and I were freshman Dodger
never came here once. Next he wants to see our apartment and we ride around
the apartment complex. Dodger looks at everything nodding his head and
muttering, "Pretty cool," and without further commentary we're on our way
back to Framingham.

After the quickest ride from North Andover to Framingham in my life Dodger
pulls up to the back of my condo, revs the motor and then shuts it off. He
goes, "You get off first," and when I do he swings his left leg over the
back of the motorcycle and kicks down the kick-stand, saying, "Nice to see
you, Dylan. I missed you," and now we do a tight hug. He undoes my helmet
strap and takes off my helmet. As he's putting the helmet back where I got
it, he asks, "Can I shower at your place?" I go, "Sure, Dodger. I'm
expecting Robby to text me when he gets back from the hospital so maybe
you'll come with me for a visit. He's going stir crazy holed-up in his
bedroom most of the day."

After punching in the backdoor code we go through the basement as Dodger
casually asks, "What's he doing at the hospital?" Stopping on the steps I
look back at him, "Didn't you know he had an appendectomy?" He shakes his
head, and I go, "Haven't you been home yet?" He shrugs, "No, I just got
back from Vegas. Took my time and made it in five days. I left Buffalo, New
York, this morning and drove to your next door neighbors in under eight
hours stopping once for lunch and for gas another time. Then, from your
next door neighbors to your place it only took three-seconds." I'm like,
"You're serious! You didn't see your parents or your brother?" He nods,
grins, and pokes me in the ribs, mumbling, "Are you denser than I remember?
I just told you what I did today." I shrug and we go the rest of the way up
the steps, with him saying, "I've got my priorities, buddy, and you're it."

In the living room I see my cellphone on the arm of the sofa where I left
it. It's six-thirty now and there's a text from Rob that he sent at
quarter-to-six: I'm back home, babe. Come over any time after dinner. Love
you! Oh man, this is fucking awkward! What will Robby say when he finds out
Dodger came here first? I go, "Fuck, Dodger, I'm totally flattered you came
here first but it'll be awkward for me being around your parents and
Robby." He goes, "They don't know I came here first. Don't tell them. I'm
not going to." I ask, "What are you gonna do?" He pats my cheek grinning
and saying, "What else?  I'm going to get settled with an apartment
someplace in town. You know, so my moving back in with my folks will then
be a moot point." Giving him a 'look', hardly believing he's going to do
that. He smirks back at me, as relaxed and comfortable as a person can be.

Shaking my head a little I look at my cellphone again and see I missed a
call from Chubby too. I call him and he wants me to join him and two
friends for dinner at the brand new Hilton Hotel in Natick where they're
having a special fixed-price French gourmet five-course dinner for
twenty-five dollars a person.  That special price is to advertise the new
French restaurant. After this week the fixed price will be
sixty-five-dollar. I tell Chub that Dodger's here and I need to visit Rob,
so I'll have to pass on the French restaurant tonight. Chub wants to talk
to Dodger so I pass him my cellphone.

There's some laughing-out-loud during their five-minute conversation. I
can't help grinning at Dodger's laugh; he's so totally relaxed. He ends the
call, saying to me, "That boy's a hot shit. You're bro his awesome!" I go,
"He thinks the same of you." He goes, "Nah, I'm not in his class. Um,
where's your bathroom, I forget." Pointing down the hall, I following him
back to my bedroom, asking, "How'd you do in Vegas? Did you win any money?"
He goes, "Yeah, I did. Shower with me, Dylan," and he pulls off his hoodie
sweatshirt reveling a patch on his right arm just below his
shoulder. "What's that," I ask, and he looks at the bandage, "Oh, I got a
tattoo before I left sin city and it's scabbing and itching like mad. I put
that bandage on it so it wouldn't rub on my sweatshirt." Glancing at the
lightweight gray sweatshirt he threw on my bed I see a logo for: 'The
Venetian Resort and Casino', and ask, "Is that where you stayed, The
Venetian?" He nods and says, "Lift your arms." I do that and he pulls my
long-sleeve T-shirt over my head.

As I'm getting undressed, I say, "This is really weird, Dodger," but I
continue getting undressed. We're both butt naked as I follow him into the
bathroom. He smiles and mumbles, "Yeah, it is weird, I know. C'mon, let's
get the water running in the shower stall." Turning the water on I'm like,
"What the fuck am I doing here? Jesus Christ, Dodger, you've got me totally
screwed-up." He hugs me, saying, "I missed you," and I'm like, "Yeah, me
too, but..." and he goes, "The water's nice and hot. Get in under that
shower and I'll bath you." Oh man!

Both of us are under the shower-head getting drenched. Dodger has an arm
across my shoulders as he pours some shampoo on my head. He's an inch-or-so
taller than me but the rest of his body is very much like Rob's. It's
basically hairless, like mine too for that matter, and we're all
pale-complexed. Dodger's been in the Texas sun and has tan lines: his face
and neck are tan as well as his arms until halfway up his biceps. His hair
is cut in a generic regular haircut, per Army regulations I suppose. It's
definitely longer than the haircut Vinnie wanted. Then I think... omigod,
Vinnie!

As Dodger rubs shampoo into my hair, I go, "You haven't seen Vinnie yet?"
He says, "No, I told you... I came here first." He's looking at my head,
muttering, "I liked doing this for Josh." Without thinking, I glance down
at his penis. It's maybe a half-inch longer than Rob's and just as fat. I
shudder a little thinking maybe he'll find a use for it during our
shower. Oh fuck, should I put up a fuss if he tries?  He has soft brown
whiskers exactly where Robby has beard growth. Dodger hasn't shaved in
about three-days so he has the familiar skimpy mustache and chin hairs Rob
has. My head is spinning a little bit; showering with him like this is
disconcerting as hell!

Dodger drops his eyes and sees me staring at him. He grins and I mutter,
"You look even more like your brother than when you were younger." He
shrugs and pushes my head under the water-flow rinsing out the
shampoo. This is nuts so I go, "NO! We'll wash ourselves. I can't believe
we're doing this." He grins and chuckles, "Oh, that's Dylan for
ya. Enjoying something he likes but pretending he doesn't." I mutter, "I
don't do that." I'll bet he's thinking about him fucking me in the pool
with me trying to get away and complaining. Well, yeah, I stopped
complaining when he had me. When he got his cock in me I became docile for
him. It was my submissive trance-thingie kicking in. Jeez, those times were
some of the sexiest moments ever. Certainly up till that point, almost four
years ago now. He's so, um, so special in indescribable ways. So nonchalant
and seemingly happy-go-lucky about the casualness of him getting his way
with that confident smile on his cute face.

As he washes himself using bath gel and his hands, he says
conversationally, "Still shaving your pubes, huh?" I shrug, "Yeah, I like
the look," and he nods, "Yeah, it's a cool look, Dylan." I give him a frown
wondering if he's serious, and he says, "You're cuter than you were when
you were younger." I mumble, "You only said that because I said you look
more like your bother than you did when you were younger." He laughs, "So,
are you saying you thought you were cuter back then." I shake my head, "No,
that's not what I meant. You've taken me totally by surprise. Couldn't you
have texted me you were coming?" He goes, "Why?" I shrug, "I don't know. It
would have been nice to know ahead of time." He's serious, asking, "Why's
that?" I mutter, "Um, I could have baked you a home-coming cake or
something." He's rinsing off, saying, "This shower felt great," and he
steps out of the shower stall grabbing a towel off the rack. I go, "Use a
clean towel, Dodger. Off the shelf there," as I point to the shelf. He
goes, "This towel is fine."

Turning off the water and getting out of the stall I pull the towel from
him, mumbling, "I've used this towel two or three times already,
Dodger. Get a clean one." He grins, "Okay, but I don't mind using a towel
you've used two or three times. We'll probably be using the same towel at
times when we're living together." I just give him a 'look' but don't get
into a discussion with him about that because it's too ridiculous.

Dried and clean he walks into my bedroom, saying, "I'll need to wear your
clothes," and he pulls open two bureau drawers before he finds
underwear. As he's pulling on boxer shorts, I ask, "Didn't you bring any
clothes home with you?" He grins at me, "Nope. I got rid of them. I'm
starting fresh." I mumble, "In my clothes?" He takes the first t-shirt he
sees and pulls it over his head and then gets a pair of jeans from the
bottom drawer and puts them on, asking, "Socks?" I snort out a laugh
because this is insane. Tossing him a pair of sweat socks, I ask, "When did
you get the motorcycle?" He puts the socks on by hopping on one foot at a
time, muttering, "Two days before I left Vegas. Killer bike, wouldn't you
say?" I nod, "It's very hot, yes, and it rides like a luxury car." He says,
"Yeah, it does. It's a Harley-Davidson Ultra Limited." I'm like, "What's
all that mean?" He shrugs, "I don't know. I liked it's because it looked
bad-ass."

He's dressed before me, asking, "Any beer in the house?" I nod, "Yeah, in
the refrigerator. Help yourself." He walks out of the bedroom carrying the
skinny jeans he wore here, asking, "You want one?" I call after him, "I'm
gonna visit Robby." Walking into the living room I see he's drinking from a
bottle of Coors with another one opened on the kitchen bar. He says, "You
can have a beer with me before you go, right?" I mutter, "Sure," and he
takes his wallet and some other things from the pocket of his skinny jeans
and transfers them to my jeans that he's wearing, saying, "You can have
these jeans. I just bought then the day before I left so they're almost
new." He acts like we've been hanging-out regularly for the past two years
when in fact we haven't seen each other for a total of four or five days in
that length of time, and then it was rarely just us two doing something. It
was always with other guys around. This is unbelievable!

Dodger says, "While you visit Rob I'll hang-out here and go through your
personal shit in the bedroom, okay?" I chuckle, 'Yeah, sure, but I've
hidden my really personal shit where you're not gonna find it." He just
smiles and finishes his beer. Actually I don't have anything personal
enough that I'd mind Dodger seeing it. For a joke, I go, "Let me have the
keys to your motorcycle. I'll ride that over to Rob's." He reaches in his
pocket and tosses me the keys, saying, 'Wear my helmet," and nods his head
at the cool helmet he put on the kitchen bar when we came in. I go,
"Really?" and toss the keys back, muttering, "I'm not riding that
death-on-wheels machine. I don't know how to for one thing." He shrugs and
I ask, "Do you want me to tell Rob you're here?" He says, "Tell him
whatever you want. Oh, I'll need to sleep here tonight too, if you don't
mind." I'm like, "Of course I don't mind but why not sleep in your own
bed. Your parents bought a new mattress for your bed. I was the last person
to sleep on your old one." His eyes light up, "That's so awesome, Dylan!
You slept in my bed for the last time, and then they got a new mattress." I
go, "Yeah, for real." He murmurs, "I love the shit outta that. That's so,
um, perfect!"

Shaking my head slowly, I say, "You're really a piece of work, Dodger. Ah,
I'm gonna tell Rob you're here. It'd be too, er, too disloyal or something
if I didn't tell him." Dodger asks, "Can I have another beer?" I go,
"Sure," and he walks past me patting my shoulder on the way to the
refrigerator, saying, "That's fine. Tell my loving brother I'm here or
don't tell him. Whatever you want." Getting ready to leave, I give him a
quick hug, saying, "It's wonderful to see you again, Dodger. Welcome home."
He grins, "Thanks, Dylan. When you get back I'll take you out to dinner." I
smile, "Sure, Dodger," and go out the front door with my mind dizzily
trying to figure Dodger out. What's he up to?

I think about the way Dodger just appeared out of thin air as I drive the
Jeep to Rob's place. It's Rob's and Dodger's house actually. Mrs. Dickers
lets me in and then looks out the door, asking "Isn't Danny's with you
tonight, Dylan?" I explain about the baseball try-outs and she tells me
Rob's in the living room. He's lying on the sofa watching the Red Sox game
on TV. Smiling at him I rub his hair and he grabs my arm pulling me down on
top of him, and then ask, "Where ya been?" I look around to see if his Mom
is in the vicinity and then whisper, "Dodger's at my place. He just showed
up unannounced and wanted to see our college and our old apartment. That's
where I've been." He looks shocked, "Dodger's home? He went to your place?"
I shrug, "I know, it's weird but he says he wants to get settled before
visiting you guys."

It's not my place to say Dodger's getting an apartment, so I say, "Whatever
'settled-in' means." Rob says, "Oh, he's getting his own apartment. He told
me that a couple of week ago. How's he look? Does he seem okay?" I go,
"Yeah, he looks great. He looks the same as the last time I saw him and he
seems like the same unpredictable Dodger he was when he left. He hasn't
grown any taller." Rob chuckles and goes, "Thank God, huh?" adding, "You
and me used to tower over him until he got that growth spurt." Rob doesn't
seem upset at all that Dodger didn't come here first. That's odd, or maybe
it isn't. I don't know what going on with them, or with Dodger and his
parents for that matter.

Robby asks a lot of questions about Dodger that I haven't got the answers
for, so I finally shrug and I say, "Damn, he didn't tell me much, Rob." I
don't want to tell him Dodger's staying with me tonight, that'd be too much
like a slap in the face. Dammit, why is Dodger putting me in this awkward
position? Luckily the question of where Dodger's sleeping doesn't come up
until Rob says, "He'll be in a motel someplace until he gets an apartment I
assume." I sidestep that by saying, "In that regard, all I know is he told
me he's getting settled-in before showing up here." Rob goes, "Well, he'll
have plenty of apartments to choose from in this fucking town." Drinking
Cokes we talk for an hour before I mention, "I haven't had dinner
yet. Dodger took me on that trip to North Andover, not that I knew we were
going there. Oh, he has a motorcycle too. A big-ass motorcycle," and I
describe the motorcycle and then our trip to Merrimack. Robby goes, "Jesus,
that sounds like my brother alright."

I leave a little after eight and drive back to my place. Hurrying inside I
find Dodger sleeping soundly on top of my bedspread. I stare at him, again
thinking, "Damn, he's good-looking! He looks like Rob but different too,
and I mean besides the brown hair and eyes. It's something I can't exactly
describe. Biting my lip I'm trying to think if I should wake him or
not. I'm hungry and he must be hungry too, but he's really out of it.

I see Dodger's two empty beer bottles on the kitchen bar. I'd put mine in
the recycle bin before I left, so Dodger only drank the two beers. Out on
the balcony I light a cigarette thinking how odd Dodger's homecoming has
been. Wait a second, how does he expect to rent an apartment when he
doesn't have a job?

A light rain begins falling so I step back near the sliding glass doors
where there's an overhang. Looking down at his motorcycle I try imagining
me riding that thing straight through from Las Vegas to here, staying by
myself in motels at night and eating alone! Fuck that! "Hey, you're
back. You should have got me up." I turn, "Hey, Dodger," and as he steps
out next to me I tell him, "I just got back five minutes ago." He takes my
half-smoked cigarette and drags off it before saying, "How's Rob?" I go,
"He's okay. He wasn't surprised you're getting an apartment." Dodger blows
four small smoke rings that dissolve in the rainy mist and then mumbles, "I
should hope he's not surprised since I told him about it a few times. Well,
let's get something to eat. Where do you wanna go?" I shrug and tell him
about the new Hilton Hotel in Natick and the introductory
twenty-five-dollar fixed menu. He goes, "French food? Nah, I want American
food. You should have seen the prime-rib I had in Vegas. Holy shit, it was
so big I couldn't finish it."

I suggest Ken's Steak House. Dodger goes, "Oh yeah, I liked that place. I
ate there half-a-dozen times with my family. " I mumble, "Are you gonna
leave your motorcycle out in the rain?" He says, "Oh fuck. This is the
first time it's rained since I bought it. I haven't thought about rain. I
guess it's okay in the rain. Heh heh, I should have read the manual that
came with the motorcycle, huh?" I'm like, "We can put it in the garage for
now. Mom won't be home from work until eleven o'clock at the earliest. Then
she usually parks the Volvo in there." We go down and Dodger rolls the
motorcycle inside. I say, "Ya know, if you put it all the way in the back
sideways Mom can still fit the car in here. I'll text her," and that's what
I do. I also tell her Dodger's spending the night. She's on a break and
calls me as soon as she gets the text. That's good because I can subtly
remind her who Dodger is except she says she remembers him very well and
he's more than welcome to stay with us. Mom's awesome! She says she'll
drive very carefully parking the station wagon in the garage tonight.

Changing out of the shorts I was wearing, I put on khakis and we take the
Jeep to Ken's. On the way I'm thinking about getting a cocktail before
dinner and then it occurs to me that Dodger is underage. He's always seemed
older to me than he is. I go, "Wait a second. How'd you gamble in Vegas?
You're only nineteen!" He smiles, "I'm twenty. My birthday was last week."
I go, "Congratulations and happy birthday, but that's still not
twenty-one." He goes, "Yeah, heh heh, I'm aware of that, Dylan, but I've
got a Texas driver's license that says I'm twenty-two, and it's real. The
birth certificate I used to get the license was bogus though, obviously. I
paid two hundred bucks for it. A guy in our company had mob connections, or
some kind of connections, and he'd get impeccable phony ID for guys who
could pay for it"

As I'm driving us to Ken's we talk about Connor and from what Dodger says,
and the way he says everything, I can tell how fond of Connor he is and I
wonder if that fondness led to buddy-sex, but don't feel it's right to ask
him.

With the rain coming down harder we get a little wet running from the
parking lot to the restaurant. Inside we get seated right away because
Monday nights are usually slow in the restaurant business. When I order a
VO Manhattan straight up, Dodger says, "I'll have the same," and then we
show ID. Dodger shows his driver's license and a phony Army ID. In kind of
an automatic way she says, "Thank you for your service," without sounding
especially sincere and then she's off to get our drinks.  Dodger rolls his
eyes at me, muttering, "She thanks me for my service and I never left Fort
Sam Houston."

Our drinks arrive and I take a sip. Mmmm, pretty good. Dodger goes, "Tastes
like straight whiskey." I'm like, "No, there sweet vermouth in there and
then they swish the VO and the vermouth in ice so the whiskey gets
partially diluted before pouring it in these stemmed glasses with a touch
of cherry juice." He makes a face, "I'll take a beer and a joint anytime
over hard liquor." I go, "Chubby does shots of hard liquor like you
wouldn't believe." He goes, "Yeah well Connor got me doing some shots and I
can do as many as the next guy but they taste like shit... so why do them?"
I mutter, "To get drunk. It's what we do best at college."

I ask, "Did you throw-out all your Army uniforms too?" He shakes his head,
"No, I shipped them all via UPS to my parents, along with the clothes I
didn't take to Vegas. I'll need all that shit for the Army Reserves."
Nodding my head, I'm like, "How does that work? Being in the Army
reserves." He makes a 'face' like it's distasteful, saying, "I have to be
at an Army facility one weekend a month plus two weeks in the
summer. That'll be for two years which is the price I paid, Connor too, for
getting out of the third year we originally enlisted for." The waitress is
back to take our food orders. Dodger wants French onion soup for an
appetizer, Ken's famous prime New York cut steak medium rare, creamy mashed
potatoes and a side salad. I order the same thing plus another
Manhattan. Dodger asks for a bottle of Miller beer.

After finishing my first Manhattan, I ask, "Well, Dodger, how'd you like
spending almost two years at Fort Sam Houston?" He shrugs, "It was like a
job. After our training, Connor and I shared an apartment off base and went
to work every day like any working stiff. We trained other recruits in the
art of being an Army Medic." I nod, "Huh, how did you two happen to both
get that job instead of going over to fight the terrorists?" He says,
"First of all Fort Sam Houston is a Historical Landmark so many areas were
like exhibits and weren't really functional, so that was kinda cool. And
the Fort is now part of 'Joint Base San Antonio'. That's the official title
but we all called it Fort Sam Houston. As to how we lucked out, Connor and
I had the two highest grades out of a hundred and fifty guys in our
Company. Plus we didn't have a choice. You don't get many choices in the
Army, but crazily enough I was bummed out. I wanted to see some combat." I
murmur, "I'm glad you didn't get your wish." He grins, "Aw, that's sweet,
Thanks, Dylan."

Out second beverages arrive along with the French onion soup so we work on
that. Scraping the last of the cheese from the bowl, Dodger goes, "That was
good," and I nod and then ask, "After you get an apartment what are you
gonna do?" He says, "Well, before the apartment, first thing tomorrow
morning I'm going to open a savings and checking account at the Bank of
America on Main Street, and then I'll check out some apartments." Drinking
my Manhattan too quickly I feel a little dizzy, and then say, "I'm sorry
for bombarding you with questions, but what about a job? If not with your
Dad's company, then where or what kind of job will you look for?" He
smirks, "I'm not looking for a job. I want my own business, although I'm
not sure what it's going to be yet. There's no rush though. After getting
an apartment and furnishing it with some cool stuff, I need to register
with the Army Reserve Facility in Ashland. That's the closest Armory to
Framingham and I've got thirty-days to do that." I'm like, "I hate to tell
you this, but it ain't gonna be a snap getting a decent apartment without
first having a job." He shrugs, "I'll pay a year in advance and they can
stick the job requirement up their ass." I go, "Oh."

Hmmm, there's something he's not telling me. "Dodger, you're awfully
blasé about things, um, you said you did okay in Vegas. How okay did you
do?" He laughs and then gets his Dodger-Patented patented cute grin/smirk
on his face, saying, "I hit the million-dollar jackpot on a slot
machine. That was the second night Josh and I were there." I go, "Get the
fuck outta here! A million-bucks!" He goes, "Oh no! I hit the
million-dollar jackpot but I didn't win a million-dollars. Some slots,
maybe all of them for all I know, work like the lottery. They pay out the
million dollars over twenty-years. If you want the lump amount it's a lot
less than a million and then there's a percentage for Uncle Sam and
Massachusetts state taxes that get deducted and then it took two days
before they presented their latest millionaire a check for $335,000.00."
I'm looking at him suspiciously. "That's kind of hard to believe, Dodger."
He drinks some beer staring at me and then asks, "You don't believe me?" I
go, "Not especially, no. I can't believe you just happened to win a million
dollars and, if you perchance you did, that you'd end up with only the
amount you said."

Our dinners arrive and we dig in. The steak is so tender it almost melts in
your mouth and it's cooked a perfect medium rare. Dodger mumbles,
"Delicious," and halfway through my dinner I stop and look at him until he
feels me staring and asks, "What?" I go, "So where's the three-hundred,
thirty-five thousand dollars?" He swallows, "The bank check is in my back
pocket, why?" Shrugging, I go, "Just wondered. Um, I don't suppose you'd
show it to me." He nods, "Ya wanna see it?" I say, "If you don't mind." He
gets his wallet from the back pocket of the jeans he took from my bureau
and then gets his finger in one of the tight compartments most wallets have
and pulls out a piece of paper folded a number of times. After spreading it
out he holds it up to me. It's a bank check for the amount he said. I ask,
"Is that real?" He nods, "Yep," and I go, "You had that check in your back
pocket for five days driving a motorcycle from Las Vegas to here. Is that
what you're telling me?" He goes, "Yes, that's it exactly, Dylan. We're
rich!" I go, "You're rich, I haven't been to Vegas yet." He says, "We've
got a lot to talk about, but not now."

Looking at the check again, I say, "That gives me fucking goose
bumps. Congratulations, dude!" And I high-five him across the table. He
goes, "You got goose bumps? Imagine how I feel!" I'm like, "What'd your
friend, Josh, do when you hit the jackpot?" He's putting the check back in
his wallet, saying, "We were both squealing like teenage girls seeing
Bieber. I almost peed my pants. All these bells and whistles were going off
and men came running over to verify the slot machine and then they took us
in the office and started explaining how a million dollars is actually
closer to three-hundred thousand." I go, "Yeah, but three-hundred-thousand
ain't nothing!" He nods with his bright eyes sparkling as he murmurs, "No,
it ain't nothing."

Omigod, I'd so excited for him! I go, "What'd you do to celebrate?" He's
like, "They put us up in a penthouse for free and sent up champagne and all
kinds of gourmet foods. They told me I have a no-limit-status on betting
and gave me a VIP card to prove it." I go, "No limit up to the
three-hundred thousand?" He nods, "Up to that yeah, but if they thought I
was a moron they found out something different. I did gamble but only with
the money I brought with me from what I'd saved in the Army, and I won a
little over five-hundred-dollars playing blackjack. So maybe I won't get
any more free penthouse suites. I didn't know anything more about playing
blackjack than you probably know, which is why before then Josh and I
primarily played the slots and roulette." I'm nodding my head feeling so
wonderful for him. He gives me that smirky grin, saying, "Don't tell anyone
about me winning though. I mean about me hitting the jackpot. You're the
only one besides Josh whose to know that."

Cutting off a piece of steak I'm thinking, 'Is he fucking serious?' Chewing
the steak I'm looking at him and he goes, "I'm trusting you to keep my
secret." How can he have that much trust in me? I ask, "You're not telling
anyone else?" He goes, "The only other person I'm telling is the dude at
the bank when I deposit the check. I'll admit I won maybe a third but not
the full amount. It's none of their business." I'm like, "Why'd you tell
me?" He says, "Because I wanted to." I go, "Oh, that's why." Holy shit!
"Well, you can trust me, Dodger, but..." He interrupts, "I know I can trust
you... and there are no buts."

We finish eating and then I'm too wound-up to have dessert so I order an
Irish coffee and Dodger gets another beer. It's like I'm more excited than
Dodger is about his bank-check for all that money. I ask, "What kind of
business are you going to start?" His eyebrows go up and he shakes his
head, saying, "That's to be determined. Something legal. Josh said I could
buy a franchise like McDonalds or something like that." I shake my head,
saying, "Afraid not, Dodger. I read you need between one and two million
dollars to start up a new McDonalds. You couldn't even buy an existing
franchise for the money you have." He goes, "Okay, fuck McDonalds. Maybe
I'll open a kiosk at a mall selling t-shirts with funny sayings on them. Or
a hotdog kiosk. Or something I haven't thought of yet. As long as I don't
have a boss." I'm thinking, but not saying... how about a cool barber shop?

The waitress comes over to see if we want anything else and Dodger says,
"I'm good. How 'bout you, Dylan?" I shake my head and Dodger asks for the
check. When the waitress comes back with the check and lays it on the
table, I'm like, "Let's split the bill." and he laughs out loud. Gasping he
goes, "Okay," and I laugh out loud too. Three-hundred-and-thirty-five
thousand dollars with the taxes already paid. Hot shit! I go, "Chub and I
could use a second car, so..." As he puts two fifty-dollar bills on the
check, he chuckles and says, "Save up for it, or maybe buy one with a car
loan." I go, "Good advice, Dodger."

Walking outside I'm thanking him for the dinner when he pulls my arm to
stop me, "Let's have a smoke before we get in the car." The rain has
stopped and the stars are out so I take my Marlboro pack out but he puts
his hand on it, saying, "Share a joint with me." I shake my head, "I've had
bad luck with pot, Dodger. I smoked some shit that was laced with cocaine
and I wasn't myself, to say the least." He goes, "This is pure marijuana. I
wouldn't fuck around with cocaine." We share the joint, with me taking it
easy and then we drive back to my place talking about his Army
experiences. I notice Dodger hasn't once come close to mentioning Rob and
me. I'm pretty sure that's why he hasn't asked me what I've been up to."
And I'm glad to leave it like that.

Inside the house I mumble, "Hate to say it, but I've got work tomorrow,
Dodger, so I need to get some sleep." He nods, "Sure, um, do you think your
Mom would freak-out if I slept on the sofa?" I make a 'face' saying,
"Sofa?" and he asks, "Or do you have a blow-up mattress or something I can
use?" I say, "Yeah, I do, but I also have something better called my bed."
He shakes his head, "I can't trust myself in bed with you, Dylan. I can
barely trust myself being alone with you. The sofa will do fine." I say,
"Well I actually do have an inflatable mattress but it's in the storage
area and anyway you don't need to trust yourself." He looks at me, asking,
"Yeah, it's okay?" I say, "It's more than okay, Dodger." He steps up to me
and runs his fingers through my hair, grinning and saying, "I knew that
cocaine-laced-joint would do it," and we both laugh. There wasn't any
cocaine in that joint. The pot didn't affect me at all. I almost told him
his pot sucked when I was smoking it. It's hard for me to believe Dodger
got ripped-off though.

He says he has a toiletry kit in the motorcycle's storage compartment and
goes down to get it. Two minutes later I hear the motorcycle roar to life
and think for a second he's leaving, but only for a second because Dodger's
not like that. Looking out the sliding glass doors I see he's parking it
beside the garage door. It would have been blocked-in by the Volvo, and
since it stopped raining he's smart to have it out for whenever he wants it
tomorrow. I'm sure he'll want to leave before my Mom gets up. In a reverse
situation I know I would. He comes back in through the garage and I hear
the garage door going down.

Back upstairs I call to him from the bathroom and he joins me. We do our
bathroom stuff and then we're both ready for bed. I turn-out the bathroom
light and then walking in the bedroom, he says, "Dylan, um, we know each
other well and we've fucked together, but not for a long time. Are you sure
you want to do this?" I go, "Yeah, for old times' sake and," I chuckle,
"And I wanna see if you've still got it." He chuckles too, "We've always
had a special relationship and I want it to be that way now too. I have my
ideas about us although I realize you're still playing at being in love
with Rob and that's fine but..." and I try to reject his 'playing at being
in love' remark but he puts his hand over my mouth, saying, "Let me finish,
alright?" I nod with my brain feeling funny the way I get when I'm in a
sexual situation and the other guy acts dominant. He goes, "What I'm saying
is, I hope you'll bear with me and do sex the way I like it." Hmmm?

I'm like, "Yeah, well how else would we do it? You've always had sex the
way you like it."" He says, "Not always, but I sensed something about you
when I was fifteen that first time you came around with Rob near the end of
your junior year. I sensed something but then I knew I was right when I
fucked you in the pool that day. You pretended to fight be off until I got
my dick up your ass and then you were as docile for me as a kitten. In
other words, you want to be dominated during sex and I love the hell out of
that. So, no games between us, no pretenses, no feigning love or anything
else; for now it's just the sex." Shrugging, I mutter, "Well yeah, sure,
you're mostly right about all that." He says, "Good," and he hugs me and
then steps back telling me, "Get those boxer shorts off," and he whacks my
ass, SMACK!" I drop my underpants and say, "There's a tube of lube in the
bedside drawer." He drops his underpants, my underpants actually, and says,
"Not this time, Dylan. It needs to be some hard rough fucking getting us in
the proper, um, attitude. In a week or two, if you're still interested
maybe I'll use some lube for your benefit. No lubricant early on though." I
ask, "Whaddaya mean?" He shakes his head grinning and then, sitting on the
bed, he's pointing at his dick.

Dropping to my knees and getting between his legs, I look up and Dodger
murmurs, "This is awesome of you. Dylan." His uncut cock is a little longer
than Rob's, but not a lot, and it's just as fat so it's a mouthful. Pulling
back the foreskin I suck on the head while licking the piss slit with my
tongue. He gets a fistful of my hair in front and goes, "Nice." He means me
sucking his dick, not my short hair. Dodger doesn't give a fuck about guy's
hair like I do. He keeps just enough pressure on my head with the fistful
of hair that I can't pull my head away. I feel his cock getting hard and he
pulls my head forward getting his hardening cock to slide into my mouth on
my tongue. My cock bones-up quickly. Nothing he's doing is particularly
different than I've experienced before with any number of guys, but there's
something more authoritative about Dodger. An intangible something, or
maybe it just seems that way because it's him. He smells a little like Rob
too. It's eerie how much they're physically alike although their likenesses
ends there.

I'm slurping on his cock that's become a very hard boner. He does a quiet
moan while squirming on the side off the bed a little and then slides
forward partially off the bed forcing the head into my throat with me doing
some gagging and struggling. He yanks my hair hard, jerking it forward
twice and I calm down immediately slipping into a partial submissive
trance. Now with me docile he uses his hold on my hair to pull my head back
just enough so his cock's hard-head flops out on my tongue and then pulls
my head towards him forcing the head into my throat again. He does that
five, six, and then seven times with me totally compliant now as he groans,
"Oooh, mmmm, fuuuuck." Three more hair-pulling thrust down my throat with
his pre-cum drooling in strings on my mouth and I just know I'm gonna
cum. I almost stroke my boner but don't as he moves my head back until his
hard boner, sticking straight out, comes clear of my mouth.  I stare at it,
wishing I could experience a real submissive trance. They're so fucking
cool but I can't totally will myself to slip into one. My dominant partner
is mostly responsible for that. Dodger lets out a held-in long exhale and
lets go of my hair and then rubs my head, muttering, "That felt good,
Dylan. Wow, man!"

Sitting back on my ankles, l stare at his slopping boner covered with
saliva and pre-cum. And then another big clear bubble of precut forms at
his piss slit. He says, "Suck that off so it doesn't drip on your throw
rug." Leaning forward I suck off the pre-cum and swallow it. He goes,
"Thanks. Okay, get up on the bed on your knees." I do that and he whacks my
bare ass, "SMACK!" saying, "Drop your head with your face on the pillow,
but keep your ass up like it is now," and "SMACK!" with me putting a hand
back to cover my ass. "He goes, "Dylan!" and I pull my hand away. Dodger
gets up behind me and I feel his wet cock head at my asshole right
away. Using the fingers of both hands he spreads my butt cheeks stretching
my anus sideways and then forces his fat hard cock head in past my
sphincter muscle and it burns like fire. I go, "Owww, ooh," and he lets go
of my butt cheeks which reduces the pain.

Dodger says nothing but he's breathing noisily. He rubs my back up and down
twice before bringing his hand down to cup my butt cheeks with both hands
and then thrusts his fat boner in another two or three inches. My back
arches and I try screaming into the pillow but only a wheezy sound comes
out as black dots swarm around my tightly closed eyes. The rest of his
four-plus inches of boner go up my ass and now his crotch is tight against
my buttocks. It was a ten-second-full-entry that hurt like a
mother-fucker. I want to know why he's doing it so roughly except I'm
trying to drift into a deep submissive trance and I don't want to fuck that
up by talking. Dodger does three painful withdrawals and hard thrust back
up my ass and then smacks my ass three times. I hear more than feel
"SMACKSMACKSMACK!"  until my rectum feels swollen and sore. Totally
dominated, but not in a gooey trance for reasons unknown, I don't say a
word and hold my breath so I don't whine about the pain. Dodger's rubbing
my back and sides again and the palms of his hands feel really good as the
pain fades and I let out a gasping breath and go, "Ahhhh, mmmm."

He leans over me with his head close to mine, murmuring, "Isn't this just
like you and me, Dylan?" And it is as I think back to the times him and
Vinnie came for haircuts and both fucked me roughly with me experiencing
awesome climaxes. And it feels so good now too with the delicious contrast
of pleasure and pain enhances the pleasure to ridiculous degrees. All I can
do in this frame of mine is, "Ooooh... feels so good." He chuckles and
mutters, "I'll say," and then he fucks my ass fast and hard,
"Slapslapslap," for just three minutes before my orgasm is on me hot and
heavy. I'm humping my hips and squealing, "Eeeetiiii," with cum pumping out
of my hard boner the short distance to splattered under my chin followed by
my moaning, "Aaaah," from me as another streak of cum hits my
neck. Dodger's grunting and slamming his cock up my ass for another little
bit before laying against my ass humping hard and shooting a strong stream
of cum into my bowels that I feel hit inside me. It's extra warm and
slippery for two seconds and then his follow-up shots get me totally
filled-up. He pulls right out flopping down own his back beside me
chuckling and saying, "That was fantastic. It was wicked quick so I'm sorry
about that, but fantastic just the same."

I'm still shaking a little from the experience of that painful entry all
the way to my awesome climax; it all seem to happen almost at once. It's
left me dizzy with pleasure. Sliding my legs back I lay flat on my stomach
wiping my neck, my fingers sliding in my own cum. A lot of it too. Dodger
turns his head looking at me, grinning and asking, "You okay? Did you get
off alright?" I show him my cum covered fingers and he laughs, asking,
"Where'd it get you." I mumble, "Under my chin and on my neck." He goes,
"Hee hee, exactly what Josh always says. We don't always have to do it in
that position but it's my personal favorite." I'm still baffled I didn't
feel a full sense of submissiveness towards Dodger. I wish he'd pull me
over for a rough hug or something, but that's not his current MO
apparently. Taking a deep breath I wonder what he was inferring earlier
about us getting in a proper attitude. I'm really tired though and don't
think I could handle any discussions about attitudes right now.

He says, "Shall we wait a while and go for a double-play or would you
rather clean up and get to sleep?" I go, "I gotta get to sleep, Dodger, but
that was some hot sex alright!" As we slide off the bed he goes, "You're
the hottie, Dylan." I'm so freaking tired all of a sudden I can't even
banter back and forth about whose the hottest hottie. Dodger is very
solicitous insisting he clean my neck and chin and then my ass. I'm happy
to let him as I wash the cum off my fingers. He dries me and pats my ass
lightly, saying, "Primo behind, Dylan." I grin slightly, mumbling, "Just a
normal ass, Dodger." He goes, "Normal? Not likely!" He's full of energy but
I'm not, and just think he rode that motorcycle about eight hours today. We
get in bed with Dodger mumbling, "Tight fit, huh?" I mutter, "Yeah, I like
it that way," and that's the last thing I remember until my alarm goes off
and it's Tuesday morning already.

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

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

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