Date: Sat, 11 Mar 2023 22:58:49 +0000
From: donny mumford <donnymumford@outlook.com>
Subject: (35)  INVITED   Chapter 35  (  perspective  )     By Donny Mumford

                         Chapter 35

                      ( Perspective )


I lie in bed squeezing my boner Saturday morning, thinking about last
night with Billy. Oh, wait! Maybe I can remember a dream about him from
last night. Hmm, no, I rarely recall a dream, except I did remember
dreams on Thursday and Friday mornings, so I thought maybe a new dream
about Billy.

In the bathroom, I'm still thinking about last night with Billy. For one
thing, it eliminated my self-imposed confusion about everything that was
going on with my sexy messing around with Pat. Billy is perfectly okay
with it, and that's like a weight lifted off my brain, such as it is. No,
it's a pretty good brain, but clearer now that it isn't confused.

Messing around with Pat is hot sexy fun, but as Billy said, it's random
unimportant place-holding messing around. You know, until Billy and I can
do it together again. Again, like we did last night. It's so special
doing it with Billy, although now that I think about it, I need to admit
that I noticed something was off the slightest bit last night. Well,
Billy has Covid...

Anyway, Pat's the only gay friend I have to mess around with, and, being
realistic; it'd be hard to imagine someone better. Yes, there's George
Brown, another gay friend, but I wouldn't mess around with him because
he's developing a relationship with a classmate at Drexel, Joe-something,
and I do not want to sidetrack George from that.

Also, George still has a crush on me, and messing around with him would
send him the wrong signal, which could eventually ruin our friendship.
I'd hate to see that happen, so no messing around with George.

Then, as I'm eating a sticky bum and drinking a mug of coffee for
breakfast, a text from George pings on my cell phone asking if I want to
golf at the par three golf course today. Gee, I was just thinking about
how I've missed him. Pulling another bun away from its sticky mates, I
ponder if I want to see Billy in his sick bed again this afternoon or
play golf with George.

As I pondered that, Pat texted me, saying Spike Nichols, George Hawkins,
and maybe one or two other guys are planning on smuggling in six-packs of
beer to imbibe while watching the Phillies game on TV in Billy's bedroom.
Pat and I are invited, but I'd rather golf this afternoon because, even
though I like those guys, I'm like a wallflower when two or more guys get
together.

Plus, Billy will be more relaxed without worrying about including his
wallflower boyfriend in the conversation. He's more sociable and will
have a better time with the guys' inane small talk and ball-breaking.
Everyone in the neighborhood but me seems to do that nonsense with him.

They'll make fun of Billy for wearing glasses, and he won't get upset;
instead, he'll have some piercing insult right back at them, and they'll
all laugh their balls off. Sophomoric nonsense, ya know? Well, I do sort
of wish I could think of stuff to join in with them, but I can't. I think
of it too late and keep it to myself. I'm no good at that, so I'll be
better off playing golf.

With all that in mind, I work up the nerve to text Pat, 'Thanks for the
heads-up about Billy's beer party, Pat, but I'm golfing this afternoon.
Do you want to join George Brown and me golfing?'

Pat knows George from when the three of us went to the driving range,
and, yes, he wants to golf this afternoon. I kind of knew he would. He
was on his high school golf team, and he can show off a little.

I text George to confirm that I'd love to golf with him and mention that
Pat is joining us. George is the nicest person I know, so I knew he
wouldn't mind. He says he'll pick Pat and me up at eleven o'clock. I'm
excited.

Texting Pat back to tell him when we'll pick him up, he texts, 'Super!
I'm excited."

We're all excited because it's Spring and the temperature is in the
sixties, sunny and beautiful. That's the extent of it for me, but the
college guys are talking about final exams coming up in two weeks. Study
groups are forming, and it brings back bad memories of finals during my
senior year.

Smirking to myself that I don't need to worry about final exams, I go
back to the bathroom and put that hair foam Pat gave me in my hair. It
tames my hair that, at this length, is beginning to curl. Combing my hair
as close to the way Pat did it two nights ago; I'm still not quite
getting it the way he did it.

Whatever, I'm only doing the hair nonsense for Pat, although now I have
no confusion in my mind about how I feel about him. I like him a lot, and
he likes me too, and that's alright. Billy explained it to me. and eased
my mind.

Getting my golf clubs from the basement, I practice swinging each club in
the backyard until, at five of eleven, my golf bag on my shoulder, the
clubs rattling in it; I'm walking up the driveway as George pulls up to
the curb in his car. He toots the horn, smiling and waving at me.

Wow, as I said, I haven't seen him for a while, and sort of forgot how
good-looking he is. He's a rare, extraordinarily good-looking young guy.
His beautiful smooth, pale brown complexion comes compliments of his
African American mom and white European dad. Then there are his pretty
lime-green eyes and rosy bow-shaped lips and his short dark-brown wavy
hair, everything contributing to his good looks. His smile with shiny
white teeth is an extra-cute component. Yeah, George is handsome and cute
simultaneously!

Seeing him makes me smile and do a little goofy hand wave. He gets out
and opens the trunk, saying with a grin, "Hi, Gary! I look at your pic on
my phone at least once a day to cheer me up, but it can't compare to the
real-life you."

I roll my eyes, and he adds, "And you're letting your hair grow out. It
looks good!"

I shake my head, "This long hair hairdo is probably temporary, George.
What a coincidence about the phone pictures, though; I do the same thing
with your picture on my phone."

We both chuckle, knowing we don't do that. Then, hidden by the open trunk
lid, we do a quick kiss on the lips. A friendship-hello kiss is all it
was.

He says, "It's awesome seeing you! How have you been?"

"Life is wonderful, George; I've actually been doing better than I ever
expected to do. Well, my job is tedious, but the money's good, and
everything else couldn't be better. How's your studying for final exams
going, and dare I ask, how's your romance with Joe coming along?"

We get in the car, and he excitedly tells me he's optimistic about his
boyfriend and the college courses were easy this year, so he isn't
worried about final exams. Then he says,  "Joe can't compare to your good
looks, Gary, but he's nice-looking."

"You way over compliment me, George, and hell, you're better looking than
me anyway."

He grins, "What cute bullshit that was! And Joe is nice-looking, plus I
love his easy-going personality too. Mostly, ha-ha, I like the way he
appears to be enthralled with me."

It's only a quick drive to Pat's house, where George blows the horn, then
tells me, "And Joe's not wearing glasses now. He got the Lysik procedure,
which cost more than I ever imagined."

Before I can tell him about Billy's recent need for eyeglasses, Pat comes
out of his house with his golf bag over his shoulder. George and I get
out to open the trunk. Pat shows his friendly smile, mumbling, "Hey, nice
to see you again, George."

They bump fists, George saying, "Likewise, Pat. Beautiful day to hit a
golf ball around." Pat has something to say about that, plus about
college as I grin and nod. Everyone can do small talk better than me.

After Pat puts his clubs in the trunk, he asks me, "How ya doing, Bud?
You're so quiet," and before I can answer, he kisses me on the lips,
mumbling, "And, by the way, good morning!"

I smile, pat his shoulder, and say, "Yeah, good morning, Pat. I'm doing
great."

We get in the car, Pat in the back seat, saying, "Holy shit, I don't want
to sound conceited or anything, but it's doubtful they'll be a
better-looking threesome golfing together anywhere in the world than our
threesome."

I mutter, "Um, yeah, that did sound slightly conceited, Pat." We all
chuckle, but don't deny it, ha-ha.

The par-three course is crowded because it's a Saturday, and we're not
the only golfers celebrating this beautiful day in May. Golfers are
fanatical about this pastime, although good golfers, ten handicappers or
better, are rare. Most of us are hackers, not that that keeps us off golf
courses.

Anyway, we paid and then waited to tee off, and took almost three hours
to play the par-3 course. George and I hit many wayward shots, but we
weren't the only ones. The foursome in front of us, all middle-aged
women, were a lot worse than we were. Disappointed we didn't hit the ball
better, we got something to eat and drink at Wendy's restaurant, talking
about the good shots we hit. Then, George has a four o'clock appointment
at Drexel for a 'finals' study group, so he drops us off. That was fun,
bad shots and all.

After putting my clubs away, I tell Dad about my round of golf. He's a
salesman, so he golfs too, which helps with promotional outings the
company puts on to brown-nose clients. Then he and Mom leave for their
monthly trip to Delaware. They buy booze there to save on Pennsylvania's
alcohol taxes.

As I'm washing my face and hands, my phone rings. Maybe it's Billy! No,
it's Pat. "Hi, Pat."

Pat says, "We've got a couple of hours before dinner, so let's hang out."

Hmm, he means messing around fucking. I mumble, "I don't know. Um, but
maybe. Are your parents' home?"

I know Billy, and I won't be messing around tonight because his parents
aren't going out, and now here's an implied invitation from Pat to do
some messing around.

Pat tells me, "My Mom is home, and of course, Jena. Anybody home there?"

He's only been home for ten minutes, so neither of us has showered or had
the chance to clean up very much after playing golf, so we're both sweaty
and hot, yet Pat wants to mess around. Hmm, that's interesting. I mean,
messing around when both of us are a little grungy is something I haven't
done yet. Usually, I'm showered and deodorized and clean as a whistle,
and smelling nice.

I say, "No, no one's home except me. My parents are on their way to
Delaware to buy booze and avoid all the Pennsylvania taxes. So, sure,
come on over. We can listen to music or go over our golf scorecards hole
by hole."

He laughs, "Yeah, right! Haha, I'll see you in five minutes."

Four minutes later, I glance out the living room window and see Pat
parking his mom's car at the curb. He rings the doorbell, and I let him
in, grinning, "What took you so long, Pat?" He pats my cheek, mumbling,
"I knew you'd want as much time with me as possible, so I drove instead
of walking." He puts his arm around my neck, pulling me against him,
muttering, "Whaddaya wanna do, Bud?"

Jeez, Pat gets me aroused. I'm really into him, and with a clear,
unconfused mind, I go, "You're my substitute teacher, so I guess I'll do
whatever you say." Billy straightened me out about my messing around with
Pat, poo-poo the hold thing as not important. Ha, it's almost as if he's
encouraging me to mess around with Pay, so I'm good.

I'm docile for him, and Pat squeezes me, mumbling, "That lucky fuck,
Billy. Why couldn't I find a boyfriend like you? And it is uber sexily
attractive how you embrace your, um, ah, that role..."

I suggest, "Girl/guy role?"

He laughs, "Yeah, your girl/guy role! Holy shit, I like how you do that.
It does make my dick jitter and shake when you call yourself my girl/guy,
ya know, considering all that implies. It's so cool being the dominant
guy for you, always the top, and you being so eager to please me. Plus, I
can't recall any of my past playmates enjoying the sexy play as much as
you do."

"And how about my miracle ass?"

Laughing again, he says, "You're joking, but yeah, it's awesome fucking
without needing to listen to bitching about how my cock is too big.
You're the perfect bottom boy, Bud."

We're still standing in the foyer, Pat's arm around my neck, me against
his body, feeling the heat. I say, "You're another guy who's always
complimenting me. I'm the lucky one to have a gay friend like you to be
my substitute top guy. You know what? I just thought of this; I'm
surprised, as hot and delicious as you are, that you haven't been
inundated with offers from gay boys at college."

He says, "C'mon, we'll go to your bedroom and get undressed."

As we go upstairs, he adds, "I have met three guys at college who appeal
to me in one way or another. One of them I haven't had sex with yet, but
it's coming. The other two aren't super attractive, and one is slightly
overweight, but I've had some excellent, although anxious, quick blowjobs
from both of those guys in empty classrooms. This guy, Albert, has an
apartment near the college, and we've, as you call it, messed around a
half dozen times, so I have had some luck, but none of them can compare
with you."

In the bedroom, I pull off my shirt, muttering, "Blow jobs in empty
classrooms? Holy shit, you've got balls."

Pat kicks off his sneakers, saying, "We lock the doors in the classrooms.
Toby, that's one of the guys, wants me to fuck him, but not in a
classroom. He, unfortunately, lives at home, and doing it in my car means
I'd need to drive through Philly to pick him up. In other words, he's
geographically a dead end. He wouldn't be worth all the trouble, and I
know that sounds horrible of me, but reality sometimes isn't pretty."

We're quickly naked except for our socks. Pat's body is super sexy, even
with the goofy sparse hair on his sternum that he calls his hairy chest.
We're the same height, but he has more of a man's body than mine. Mine is
closer to a boy's body, I suppose. I need to do some weightlifting or
something!

Pat has one hand on my shoulder, the other holding my dick, grinning and
saying, "Even your cock is cute." Blushing, I mumble, "It's on the small
side, but it's what I was born with,"

He says, "It's not small! It's average size for an erect dick."

Heh-heh, I knew that, but I was being modest. He adds, "Flaccid dicks
are, on average, three-and-a-half inches. Seriously, that seems small,
but it's true! If you don't believe me, Google it!"

I mutter, "Really?"

I knew that, too. I Googled it years ago.

He goes, "Yep, people have the wrong idea about penis size. Yours is
bigger, for instance than the famous historical ancient Greek sculptures
of Zeus, Hercules, and whoever. They all have tiny penises."

Oh, I didn't know that. I'm fascinated, asking, "Were their dicks that
tiny in real life?"

"I don't know, but I doubt it. Small penises were the Greek's idea of
male beauty, so they sculpted the statues that way. Who knows why, but
that's what they thought."

Nodding, I say, "Well, thanks for telling me that. It's interesting. It
sounded exactly like something Billy would tell me."

Laughing, he says, "That's who I heard it from, ha-ha. Driving to school
together, Billy interrupted our conversation about how we'll study for
finals to drop in that penis information. As you know, he's prone to do
that sort of thing. Something occurs to him, and he says it even though
it has nothing to do with our conversation."

Pat adds, "So, Gary, you're not the penis freak; it appears that I am.
This big cock of mine is the odd one, while yours is a regular-sized one.
Above regular size, actually."

I mutter, "Damn, I could have strutted around in the locker room holding
my dick out." He goes, "Yeah, you plus half the other guys in your gym
class."

We snicker at that absurd thought. Then, Pat asks, "So, how do you like
my freakish penis when it's boned up hard inside you?" That makes me
squirm, the lips of my asshole twitching. Shrugging, "It's okay."

We both snicker again, then I mutter, "It feels good."

Wrapping both arms around me, he squeezes, then says, "Can I do you
without a condom?" He smells like the outdoors, plus his body and mine
are a bit sticky. I shrug at his suggestion, and Pat mutters, "I get hard
just thinking about fucking you without a condom."

He's not the only one. Thinking about messing around like that, my dick,
with a mind of its own, is getting boned up between our bare bellies.
Feeling my dick getting hard, he rubs his hand on my back, murmuring, "I
think your above-average size penis answered for you, Bud. Get a condom,
and I'll use the condom's lubricant."

My dick gets even harder when Pat is in charge and bossy like that. When
I feel aroused by Pat, I need to keep remembering Billy insists that this
kind of messing around is nothing more than having a little fun with a
close gay friend. Even so, I gulp, hesitating until Pat takes his arms
away, saying, "Go ahead, Bud. Get a condom."

Nodding, remembering that my place is Pat's girl/guy, I walk to the
closet, my boner pulling away from my belly, sticking almost straight
out. Yeah, I don't care that I'm maybe more sexually active than most.

Opening the condom for Pat, he nods, "Thanks. Um, can you lean over with
your hands on the end of the bed?" That's how Billy and I did it last
night in his bedroom!

Leaning over, my hands on the end of the bed, my ass sticking up, my
boner is so hard it didn't even bounce a little when I adjusted my feet,
and then, straining, I push my ass up higher. As I said, I'm not going to
be messing around with Billy tonight. This substitute messing around is
just a placeholder until Billy, and I do it again.

I yelp when Pat wipes the lube from the condom on my asshole. It was
colder than my body temperature and forced other thoughts from my mind. I
zadjust my position, looking back at Pat, who murmurs, "Easy, Bud; I know
you're anxious for me to do this, but I'm worried you're going to pull a
muscle straining to push your ass up like that." He slaps my ass,
"Smack!" Then another smack on my right butt cheek, "Relax a little,
let's have some relaxed sexy fun, alright?"

I relax, but my boner doesn't as it tries to split its skin in its
hardness. Yeah, Pat has a way about him that gets me all cranked up. Um,
his long cock has something to do with that as well.

Looking back again, I watch Pat drop the condom and its wrapper on the
bedside table, his other hand stroking what already looks like a tight
eight-inch boner, shiny with lubricant. With me bent over like this, my
fingers grabbing the bedspread, pulling it between my fingers, my asshole
quivering with anticipatiomn, while Pat can take his time because he
knows I'm not going anywhere.

He squeezes my butt cheek and murmurs, "Good, Bud, just like that. This
is how I like my boys, anxious yet cooperative, which you excel at, and
that excites me almost as much as this." He plugs the big head of his
boner inside me, it tightly goes in past my sphincter muscles, nestling
inside my ass as he moans, "Mmmm, really nice ass, Bud."

Gripping my hips, he slowly pushes in his fat, long boner. It goes all
the way up inside me as I groan, ignoring the pain of being stretched
open like this. Both Pat and Billy gave up worrying about hurting me
because the initial pain that fades within thirty seconds and I never
even mention it. None of us worries about it hurting me anymore.

I said, he was slowly pushing his long boner up my ass, but it took only
two seconds. A second is longer than most people think. Fully impaling
me, he rubs my back, casually asking, "How'd that feel, Bud? Good?"

The pain lingers a bit as I grunt, "Uh-huh, mmm, feels good. Do it, Pat."

He says, "Take it easy. Embrace it."

He leans over, moving a hand from my hip that goes under me to grip then
stroke my iron boner one, two, three times as I go, "Ah, ah, ooh,"
shuffling my feet, humping my hips with a long precum drool wetting Pat's
hand. He strokes my hard five-incvh cock twice more, spreading the precum
up and down it, murmuring, "I'll teach you how to hold your climax back
longer, Bud. Make it last longer, okay?"

Taking his hand away, I shudder, with my mind blank except for deep
concentration on how exquisitely sexual it is to be, basically, under my
guy/guy top's control. I grovel in sexual pleasure, my iron boner
throbbing, still drooling precum. The precum makes a quiet drip, drip,
drip sound, each drip hitting the hardwood floor at the end of my bed.

Pat pulls his long boner back, sensations of sexual pleasure exploding
inside me, a unique form of extreme pleasure bongs off my prostate as,
simultaneously, it feels itchy-good all around my stretched anus as the
lips tightly grip the fat shaft of Pat's boner.

When, with a moan of pleasure, Pat pushes his boner back up inside me, my
back arches, and I do a long moan, "Oooh, oooooh, mmmm, Pat."

He's gripping my hips again, pulling his cock back and then thrusting it
in quicker, moving it back and forth inside me even faster, as I tremble
and shutter at the electricity-feeling vibrations of pleasure swarming
from my rectum; my petrified boner now so hard it doesn't move.

Pat does steady quick long thrusting, all eight inches going in and out,
as he makes deep breathy sounds, gripping my hips tighter and pulling me
back into his thrusting, quicker and quicker until I hear, "Slap, slap,
slap," and it goes on minute after minute until I can't believe I haven't
climaxed.

"Ah, ah, ah," and, after I don't know how long, Pat is tight against my
buttocks, humping hard and shooting off a hard stream of cum that, in my
mind, I felt hit against my bowels. Immediately, I do a shrill screech as
my hips hump forward and cum streaks from my cock, burning and feeling
otherworldly good, then a shorter steak of cum shoots out as I shudder
and shake, holding my breath while sensations sizzle around my groin,
then spreads out.

I say, I held my breath, but I couldn't breathe if I wanted to for those
five-to-ten seconds before a gasping exhale and another shudder as I feel
Pat pulling his cock from my ass, leaving it wide open. Cooler air flows
up inside me as I drop my head to the mattress, the after-effects of that
orgasm twirling around my body and mind; me quietly moaning, "Ooh, umm,
oooh," and then I slump onto the end of the bed, Pat's cum drooling from
my ass and running down my butt cheeks to the back of my balls.

Pat plops his ass down beside me, his hand on my shoulder, "You liked
that, didn't you? So did I! Damn, we got in a good place during that
fuck. Good rhythm, and your asshole never disappoints. Do you purposely
tighten your rectum muscles, or is it involuntary? Damn, that was so
friggin' hot, Bud! Admit it; you were my boy during that fuck, weren't
you?"

Rolling over on my back, keeping my ass off the end of the bed to avoid
making a mess on the bedspread, my feet still on the floor, I shrug,
"Yes, I was your boy, and you're my substitute man, and that was one of
the hardest climaxes I've ever had. And, Omigod, when you stroked my
slightly above-average-size boner, I went to another place in the
Universe. In my mind, I was floating in sexual pleasure, an ecstasy of
pleasure near a7 the event horizon around a black hole."

He nods, "Um, okay, I think... haha. That's my boy! It was uber good sex,
alright."

I ask, "Well, wasn't that one of the best messing around fuck you've ever
done?"

He shrugs, "It was right up there with some of my best. And, Bud, I gotta
say you're looking great with that hairstyle I showed you. Don't you?"

After that hot fuck, I thought we'd be snuggling our grungy bodies
together when instead, he wants to talk about my 'effing hair! Sitting
up, I mumble, "Yeah, I already told you I like my hair this way."

Messing up my hair, rubbing his hand vigorously on my head, he's
grinning, "I guess so since before I showed you this hairstyle, you were
combing like a mommy combs her five-year-old's hair."

I go, "Why you... that total bullshit," and I fall over on top of him,
pushing him back on the bed and lying on his chest, our grungy bodies
finally sliding together. Pinning his arms back over his head, I surprise
myself and kiss him on the mouth, and it's a long sloppy kiss with some
tongue, Pat kissing back.

He quickly reverses my pinning of his arms and gets his arms around me,
turning me over with his sticky/slippery flaccid penis sliding against my
smaller penis, making me gasp and hump my hips slightly.

Pat says, "Heh-heh, yeah, I know you want more, but would you let me
recharge for at least a few minutes, please?"

I'm stunned at my aggressiveness. What's up with that?

He chuckles and hugs his arms around my chest. Goddamn, I must be some
kind of sexaholic because I do want more. Well, come on, Pat is pretty
'effing special, and I don't take that for granted. Most guys will never
in their whole lives ever get to mess around with anyone nearly as
good-looking, well-built, and sexy as Pat, never mind someone with Pat's
eight-inch boner.

I go limp under him. Controlling me now, he drops his head, so the sides
of our faces are sliding together. So sexy, but I don't want to be a sex
maniac, so I murmur a big fat lie, "I was just fooling around, Pat. I
don't want to mess around anymore. Let's watch some of those Elvis videos
Billy showed you. And I have a new video to show you too. It's a Roy
Orbison song."

"Who's that?"

I go, "Roy Orbison. He was a superstar, a contemporary of Elvis'." Pat
rolls off me, and we stand as he mumbles, "Never heard of him."

"Me neither, but Billy heard somebody sing a cover of Roy's song as the
credits for the movie 'The Hateful Eight' rolled by the screen. It's an
eerily good song."

Putting on our underpants, we sit at my desk and watched a few Elvis
videos. The ones Billy introduced us to; then I showed Pat the new
discovery; Roy Orbison's video titled, "There Won't Be Many Coming
Home."

The videos were good, but the novelty of something new has worn off, and
we weren't as impressed as we were the first time watching and listened
to them. Later we got into Harry Styles performing 'As It was' and then
'N95' by Kendrick. In our underpants, we fast-danced to a few tunes,
laughing because I was holding tissues at my ass to absorb Pat's cum
drooling out.

Then, with the bedroom window open, we smoked my Marlboro cigarettes
blowing the exhales out the window as Pat got me laughing my ass off at
his description of getting blowjobs in empty, locked Community College
classrooms.

Concerned my parent could be getting back from Delaware soon, we decided
we would mess around fucking again while we had the chance, doing it the
same way as earlier with me bent over the end of the bed. By then, I'd
gotten over my fear of being a sex maniac.

Without using additional lube, Pat's big cock entrance wasn't as smooth
as it was earlier, but that was quickly forgotten when Pat gave my ass
the hardest pounding of any messing around fuck I've had so far. I
thought my balls would come out of my boner with my cum shot when I
climaxed; cymbals clanging in my head, fireworks going off in my groin as
I bounced on my feet, making an embarrassing squeal, my cum splattering
off the end of the bedspread, a thunderstorm in my brain.

I was doing deep breathing, on fire for a full minute before settling
back down on earth. Don't let anyone tell you penis size doesn't matter.

Pat, sweating, goes, "Holy shit, that rocked my world," as he pulls his
cock out. After a minute or two of deep breathing, hearts pounding, we
were hugging, swaying, and laughing at how outrageous that messing around
was. Pat reiterated how we're into wild messing around between gay
friends, and it's nothing more than that.

Grinning at each other, we got dressed and then did some cleaning up in
the bathroom; not a lot, but enough so we didn't look as if we'd just
been in a fight or something. I'm still not sure I'll see Billy tonight,
but I'll shower after dinner whether I do or not.

Before leaving, Pat gave me a kiss goodbye that got my dick hard again,
but it wasn't anything like a lover's kiss goodbye. It was a raucous,
overdone kiss between gay friends, just for the hell of it, and didn't
mean more than that. I was quivering for a few minutes afterward,
but he's a special, extraordinarily fabulous friend who is perfect for
doing unimportant friendship messing around with.

Wow, Pat checks all the boxes by being nice, awesomely sexy, and
great-looking, and he has a perfect amount of dominance to keep me
remembering I'm his girl/guy during our sex play, but without him
overdoing it. With his tons of experience and an eight-inch cock he
messes around fucking like a trip around the world and back.

So, yeah, as I watch him drive away, I nod my head because that was a fun
hour-and-a-half! Neither of us pretends there's the slightest love
involved in our messing around, obviously. We're just friends, and Pat
had that bad love experience with Leonardo that will put him off love for
quite some time.

Going upstairs to my bedroom, I wonder how much I'll miss messing around
with Pat when Billy and I are active boyfriends again. Being with Billy
is a different higher-level experience because we're in love, or one of
us is anyway. Let's just say love is involved. I think Billy's capacity
to love me, such as it was, peaked a month ago and has been sliding since
then. Then Covid interfered, but I hope we'll get back to being the best
boyfriends after his recovery.

I remember wondering, months ago, what it would be like messing around
fucking with a big dick guy/guy, and Pat has the big dick, alright. Not
only a big dick, but he has all the other attributes anyone could hope
for in a gay messing-around partner. While that's undeniable, in my mind
and heart, Pat still comes in second to Billy because love trumps all.

I was drinking a Coke in the kitchen when Mom came in the back door and
put two pizzas on the kitchen table, saying, "Honey, help Dad with the
two boxes of wine and liquor we bought in Delaware."

After a pizza and salad dinner, I take a long shower, still not having
heard from Billy. Tonight Pat is going out with one of his gay college
friends, although I doubt he'll be horny enough to do serious messing
around. I'm not horny either, not after the hot workout he and I had this
afternoon. Yeah, he is uniquely special, but I'm in love with another,
and, as I've concluded ten times...  that's that.

Billy is much more, um, much more real to me, while Pat is more like a
fantasy sex dream, a wet dream. I can see Billy and me in a long-term
relationship, but with Pat, it would seem tentative all the time because
someone will always be tempting him, and that is not to say no one would
tempt Billy. On the other hand, no one but me has so far, so...

Taking extra time with my hair, thinking that maybe Billy will change his
mind and go with this slightly longer hairstyle, but then, why fuck with
what works? He likes to half-believe there's something magical happening
with us having the same out-of-style butch haircut, so I should be
content with that. I mean, it makes us different from any of the other
guys we know. Sets us apart, just Billy and I.

The comical aspect of us getting those haircuts is Billy's cluelessness.
It hasn't occurred to him that it sets us up for guys to speculate;
what's with those two? Are they gay or something?

Is Billy ever going to text me? Damn, I'm impatient enough that I've
worked up the nerve to text him. I text: "Hi, Billy. Sorry to interrupt
whatever you're doing, but about tonight, um, do you want me to come
over?'

He calls me immediately. When the phone rings, I drop it like a hot
potato. Picking it up, "Hi, Billy, um, ah..."

He says, "I didn't text because tonight my parents not only will be home,
but they are hosting the neighborhood booze and game-night party. There
will be eight 'effing adults making asses of themselves getting hammered
playing charades or whatever."

"Oh, your parents had people over the other night too." He mutters, "That
was different. Parents, once in a while, still like to get half drunk
pretending they're not too old to have fun."

"Uh-huh, about me coming over tonight, though..."

Billy snickers, then, "Goddamn, you make me feel good, Gary. You've got
to see your boyfriend, doncha?" Feeling brazen, I go, "I hate to impose
or anything, but yeah, I do want to be with you."

"Well, if you don't care about all the loud adults hanging out in the
living room, come on over. I'm dealing with a kind of hangover, though. I
mean, after I finished drinking beers this afternoon with the guys, I'm
feeling a hangover now. I suppose we can watch a movie or something, but
no messing around because one of the half-drunk neighbors is sure to open
my bedroom door thinking it's the 'effing bathroom."

Well, it's a less than enthusiastic invitation, but it was an invitation,
so I mumble, "Do you want me to bring anything? Um, I don't mean, uh, you
know. I mean, popcorn or something."

He goes, "Nope, just yourself; you're so nice, Gary. Now that I think
about it, maybe it'll make me feel better squeezing my sexy cute
boyfriend. I'm glad you texted."

Gee that brightens things up! My texting worked out really well. "I'll
see you in ten minutes, Billy."

Checking myself out in the mirror one last time, I go downstairs and yell
to Mom and Dad in the kitchen, "I'm going out," and slam the door behind
me. I'll walk the six blocks rather than ask for Mom's keys to the car
because they'll give me the third degree about where I'm going and why. I
don't feel like dealing with that. I'm eighteen and shouldn't need to
explain where I'm going.

I've got the smoking habit now, so I smoke one of my last Marlboro
cigarettes as I'm walking. Exhaling smoke, I pat my pocket to be sure I
have a pack of Chiclets for my breath. Peppermint Chicklets.

Approaching Billy's house, I flick away my cigarette butt, pop two
Chicklets in my mouth, and put on my mask. When I turn onto the front
walk, I see a man and woman heading toward me. Probably some of the
neighbors Billy told me about.

The man, wearing a Phillies baseball cap is carrying a bottle of wine. He
says, "No need to ring the bell, son."

I hesitate, "Huh, whaddaya mean?"

They're both right next to me now with the woman mumbling, "Don't
embarrass the boy, Brian."

I can smell alcohol on both of their breaths. He puts his hand on my
shoulder, opens the door, and, with me in the middle of them, we walk
inside.
Six adults turn their heads to watch us as Brian loudly says, "I hope no
one minds that we brought our nephew with us tonight!"

HAHAHA! from everyone. Big laughter for no reason that I can see. Mrs.
Underwood gets her hilarity under control enough to say, "Go right on
back, Gary. Billy will be happy to see you."

A woman with blood-red lipstick says, "Leave it to Marge and Brian to get
the party started." More laughing as I go down the hall, baffled at
what's so funny. I tap on Billy's door, then go in.

Getting up from his desk and putting his mask on, Billy says, "Gary! Hey,
what was all the raucous laughter about?" I tell him, and he mutters,
"That is so pathetically lame. They all get to a certain age and forget
what's funny, so they laugh at anything."

I'm like, "Should I push the lock button on the doorknob?" He smiles
behind his mask, mumbling, "You can if you want to, but it doesn't lock.
The button won't stay in."

I push the button anyway, and it pops right out. Oh, so that's why he
never locks his door; he can't. We hug with Billy keeping his head to the
side, then he goes, "Pull that chair over. We'll watch some Youtube music
videos." Lifting my mask, then spitting my gum in the waste basket, I
ask, "How are you feeling?"

He makes a face, "Not too bad. After I talked with you, I took two
Tylenol and drank a beer. I'm feeling better. Come on, sit down." Sitting
next to him, I put my arm around him and hugged him, "I'm glad to be with
you, Billy."

He squints his eyes, then tentatively touches my hair, asking, "What do
you have on your hair?"

"Oh, my hair is getting wicked curly again. Pat gave me this hair foam;
it looks okay, don't ya think?"

He nods, "Yeah, not bad," and that's all he says. Hmm, it's probably
because he's not feeling so good, but he doesn't appear very excited
about me being here.

We watch and listen to videos by Taylor Swift, The Weekend, Justin
Bieber, Shawn Mendes, and a few others, standing and dancing to some of
the fast tunes. As we dance, I can't see Billy's smile behind his mask,
but it's showing in his smiling eyes. Speaking of his eyes,
unfortunately, he doesn't need his glasses to watch things as close as
his computer screen, but after the videos, we sit on his bed to watch a
movie, and he puts his glasses on. Oh boy, he looks cute wearing glasses!

Scrolling through Netflix's available movies, we settled on one called
"Project Gemini." Billy muttered, "Hmm, it says this was made in Russia
with English voiceovers."

We're fully dressed, sitting on the bed, our backs up against a pillow
that's against the headboard, Billy's arm across my shoulders. Five
minutes into the movie, we glance at one another like, what the fuck?

Totally unoriginal sci-fi script about the earth dying because of
something that resulted in a lack of oxygen from plant life or something.
Then the ridiculous... someone discovers a four billion-year-old alien
spacecraft that they somehow know how to operate. Off they fly to find
another habitable planet. So the story is bad enough, but the actors are
absurdly bad, and the voiceovers had a dramatic range from A to B.

It got so bad we began laughing our asses off doing our own absurd,
profanity-laced voiceovers for the incoherent, choppy-edited,
ever-increasingly preposterous plot. The dialogue, plot, acting, and
voiceovers all reminded us of a middle school play with middle school
actors. Then, the alien monster shows up and is almost identical to the
one in that film everyone had seen from the early seventies called Alien.

We got to laughing so hard at how terrible the movie was and how
outrageous our voiceovers were I couldn't stop a squirt of pee from
hitting my underpants. Omigod, we were so exhausted from laughing Billy
turned off the movie, not caring a twit how it ended.

Billy goes, "Christ, I haven't laughed that hard ever. Let's see what
rating it got from Rotten Tomatoes." Sitting at his desk again, Billy
brings his computer online and Googles Rotten Tomatoes. Uh-huh, we laugh
again, seeing that Project Gemini got an 0% rating. Then Billy said, "I
think that means it wasn't a movie that was involved in a rating."

Back on the bed, we snuggled some, talking about a lot of different
things until Billy fell asleep in the middle of a sentence telling me
about one of Saturn's moons. That happened around eleven fifteen. I
didn't wake him but didn't leave until an hour later because I was
waiting for the last of the Underwood's company to leave. When I didn't
hear any sound from the living room, I opened the bedroom door slightly
and saw most of the lights turned off.

Going back to Billy's bed, I pulled the half bedspread I was sitting on
over him. Then, as quietly as a mouse, I left the house, hearing the
front door lock click in place when I closed the door.

Billy and I didn't even kiss, never mind mess around. Walking home, I
like that we had fun, so I have a good feeling about tonight. I know
Billy really likes me, but there has been a change in his outlook about
us being boyfriends. I can feel it, although I don't knows how I know. I
still love him, though, so, yeah, love can hurt...


To be continued...         donnymumford@outlook.com

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