Date: Sat, 15 Apr 2023 22:23:04 +0000
From: donny mumford <donnymumford@outlook.com>
Subject: INVITED   Chapter 40 ( Flustered)   By Donny Mumford

                            Chapter 40

                           ( Flustered )


My asshole still hasn't completely closed from Malcolm's after-lunch
fuck. His fatter-than-fat, boned-up penis hurt like a bitch going inside
me. Yeah, but what an amazingly flexible organ the anus is. Wow, Billy
said I have a miracle rectum, and I'm starting to think he's right!

Presently we're taking our afternoon break sitting at the end of the
loading dock, me wearing a pair of red wool lady's slacks, my still
partially-open asshole feeling weird on the hard landing. We smoked
cigarettes and drank Cokes, our feet dangling over the end of the dock,
and just when I thought Malcolm was done surprising me, he proved
otherwise, muttering, "Um, like at lunchtime, we've got five minutes left
of our break, and there's some olive oil left in the bottle, so if you
want..."

I'm like, "What? Olive oil? Um..."

Then he came right out with, "Uh-huh, don't be shy; if you want
another hard fucking, say so, but if so, we'd need to do it right now!"

He said that like asking if I wanted another cigarette, and as if he
didn't care if my reply was one way or the other. Plus, he wasn't even
looking at me. He was intently watching a video on his iPad about the
danger of inhaling fiberglass particles, which wasn't recommended. No
shit!

Yeah, but he's interesting and mysterious, kind of hot and sexy too. I'm
like, "Gee, um, Malcolm, that's, ah... You want to mess around fucking me
again right now. That would be, um, maybe too much, too soon..."

Glancing at me, he nods, "Yeah, well, you blew off like a rocket in two
minutes last time, so you obviously never had a better fucking, and I
felt I'd do you another favor..."

This is freaking me out, which is why I'm hesitating, stalling for time
to think about what I should do. He still sounds as if he couldn't care
less, so why did he mention it? And, believe me, the main thing on my
mind is not doing or saying anything that might screw up his offer to
drive me to and from work.

After he scrolls through some things on his iPad, he looks up and
mutters, "I felt bad for you, which is why I pumped you full of cum after
lunch. It's why I'm offering to get you off again too."

"Oh, you feel sorry for me. So you're offering me another pity fuck,
huh?"

Turning off his iPad, he nods, "Yeah, another pity fuck. It'll probably
take more than two pity fucks before you lose that forlorn look you've
had on your face, though."

Rolling my eyes, nodding my head, pulling at the crotch of the women's
wool slacks, I sarcastically mutter, "Oh, how considerate of you. Um, so
that's the reason for the pity fuck, huh? My forlorn look."

The olive oil and cum saturation of my underpants rubbing against my cock
and scrotum is impossible to ignore; it's very unpleasant. And, as if
that's not bad enough, the wetness is now even soaking through to these
fucked-up female slacks I've got on.

Malcolm's expression is blank as he watches me pulling at the crotch of
my pants, then he mutters, "Yeah, pity fucks for you, but with all your
hemming and hawing, we won't have the time for that now. Maybe I'll be up
for doing you tomorrow morning, though. We'll see how it goes. For now,
it's back to work."

He stands and motions for me to get up. This guy is a legitimate space
cadet. He's traveling through parts of the Universe I'm unfamiliar with.

Blowing out my cheeks in exasperation, I stand and say, "For the record,
Malcolm, my so-called forlorn look is because of needing to work on this
shitty job. No offense to you intended, Malcolm, but my regular job on
the third floor is way more civilized than this nasty sweaty-suck job."

He doesn't appear interested in hearing that, saying, "Whatever. For the
rest of today and tomorrow, instead of sweeping, I want you to help me
with the insulation removal, but before we can do that, we need to move
junk out of our way."

Remembering the most important aspect of what's happening, which is that
he's offered to give me a ride to and from work, I fake pretending I give
a shit about what needs to be done, saying, "Sure, Malcolm, whatever you
want, boss. I've got a question, though. Um, why are we pulling out the
insulation? Insulation is usually a good thing."

Pointing a finger at me, he goes, "Good question! I asked Morrison the
same thing, and he told me that years ago, they used the wrong kind of
insulation, and that's why they never bothered to finish this space by
installing drywall over the studs. You know, we'll do that after
replacing the insulation."

That sounds like way more than a three or four-day job. As we walked into
the twenty-foot by twenty-foot space, I waved my arm at everything,
asking, "What are we supposed to do with all the junk in here?"

Malcolm says, "As I did yesterday and today, continue clearing the junk
out a few feet from the wall to get at the insulation between the studs.
Eventually, we'll need to haul all this junk to the dumpster."

I look at the loading dock, "Dumpster, huh? I don't see a dumpster.
Where's the dumpster?"

Malcolm mutters, "Unfortunately, it's at the other end of the loading
dock."

Making a face like, 'You've gotta be shitting me!' I gawk at the
three-foot open space he cleared of junk extending down the one wall
about six feet, ending abruptly where a twelve-foot-high wall of junk
creates a roadblock.

I look at Malcolm, "This will take two or three weeks, maybe a month of
backbreaking work! I've got other job responsibilities."

Nodding, he says, "I'm pretty sure you'll be working here until this job
is done. Sorry if that makes you unhappy, Grant, but if we work our balls
off, maybe we could finish this job in less than a month."

Omigod, a month!

I know I'm wasting my time whining to him, but I can't help it. I go,
"But I'm supposed to work the envelope opening machine in a
temperature-controlled civilized office environment. I didn't get hired
to do this janitorial work! It's not fair."

Malcolm doesn't care about or want to hear about that. Pulling his cowboy
mask up to cover his nose and mouth, he ignores what I said and mutters,
"Let's see if we can clear another five or six feet. We won't get any
insulation done in the two hours we have left today, but I'd like to
clear the space so we can get started doing that tomorrow morning."

This is insane! The ceiling is fifteen feet high, and the junk is piled
up ten to twelve feet. That's a shitload of junk! Slowly shaking my head,
I gesture at the junk and ask, "Well, what is all this shit, anyway?
Where did it all come from?"

Shrugging, he pulls on a pair of work gloves, "It's all kinds of junk
from the companies who lease space in the building. Plus, three or four
companies went out of business due to the pandemic and, according to
Morrison, as a temporary and convenient measure, all the equipment left
behind was thrown in this unused space."

Sounding whiny again, I'm like, "How the hell are we supposed to carry
the big heavy stuff?"

Gawking at the high pile of junk, I point and mutter, "I mean, that looks
like an 'effing refrigerator on top of the pile. Is that a refrigerator,
Malcolm? How the hell are we going to move a refrigerator?"

Frowning, he goes, "Do you always sound whiny like this?"

"I don't sound whiny!"

Shrugging, he mumbles, "Whatever. We'll use dollies to move most of this
junk. Different dollies, like hand trucks and push carts, and shoulder
moving straps for big things like that refrigerator. We'll start at the
top of the pile."

I am going to beg Fredrico to get me out of this job! "Well, we can't use
any of those dollies on top of all this shit. Right?"

"No, of course not. Don't be stupid. We'll get up there and throw stuff
off the pile. We don't care if it breaks because it's all going into the
dumpster. Let's get moving, Brant. Um, bring that ladder over here," and
he points to a twelve-foot ladder, adding, "We'll both get on top of the
junk pile and push that refrigerator off."

Brant? Seriously?

I'm like, "Wait a second. That seems wildly dangerous. My supervisor said
safety was our number one job."

He says, "Well, I'm your boss on this job, and I say get the fucking
ladder, Brant!"

As I carry the ladder over, I ask, "Is there another pair of gloves I can
use?"

In that flat, everyday conversational voice of his, he says, "No. It
would be best if you bought a pair of work gloves when I drop you off
tonight. Pull your mask up, go up the ladder on top of the junk pile, and
keep an eye out for wasps. There's a nest up there someplace. I've seen
wasps coming and going one at a time."

Huh, wasp?

Going up the ladder, I notice that at least the pile of junk feels solid.
Stepping off the ladder onto the refrigerator, then off to the top of a
metal desk, I'm careful to bend over enough not to hit my head on the
ceiling. Malcolm follows me up the ladder as I mumble, "Everything is
solid. Nothing moves, but that's because most of this shit is heavy.
How'd they get everything up here anyway?"

"You're asking good questions, Brant. I asked Morrison the same things
you're asking me."

Shifting my weight as I test how solid this desk I'm standing on is, I
mumble, "Not that it matters all that much, Malcolm, but my name isn't
Grant, and it's not Brant; it's Gary. So, what did Morrison say when you
asked him how they got, for instance, this metal desk and refrigerator on
top of this pile of shit?"

Malcolm stands next to me and pushes tentatively on the refrigerator with
his foot. I feel the desk move under our feet a little. He nods, "Good,
we can slide this fucker closer to the edge, and it'll take down a lot of
junk as it goes over. Help me push it."

Shaking my head slightly, I push where he's pushing, getting the big
white refrigerator moving toward the front of the pile. On its side, it's
sliding on top of another metal desk. The door faces us as we grunt and
push; then, sounding like many metal things are tearing apart, the
refrigerator slides over the side and drops twelve feet to the floor;
KABOOM!

I'm like, "Holy shit," because the whole pile of junk is shifting,
including the metal desk the refrigerator was sliding on and the desk
we're standing on. Plus, Malcolm almost followed the fridge off the pile,
but he reached back at the last second to grab my arm, pulling me down on
the desk with him. The desk rocks back and forth as we hold onto one
another. Then, standing slowly, we step off the desk, and a half second
later, the desk follows the refrigerator and goes off the end of the
pile, landing on the fridge; "CRUNCH!"

We're still holding onto one another, shakily stepping further back onto
the first desktop. Every part of Malcolm's body I grab onto is
ridiculously tight. It feels as if I'm holding onto a wooden statue. He
looks at me, nods, and says, "That was awesome. Look how much of that
pile of junk went down with the refrigerator!"

"Yeah, and we almost went down with it too, boss."

Letting go of me, he mutters, "But we didn't, did we?"

Pointing, I mutter, "No, but the ladder went down too."

"Yes, but come on, we can work our way off the front of this junk pile.
The refrigerator and desk took a lot of stuff down, leaving junk steps
down to the floor. We'll get down there and clear out the shit against
the wall. It's mostly smaller junk and what looks like a million file
folders."

I'm looking around for the wasps, asking again, "So, how'd they get a
refrigerator and the heavy metal desks on top of all this stuff?"

He's tossing an armful of file folders on top of the refrigerator,
telling me, "Morrison told me there used to be a backhoe here that one of
the companies owned. When necessary, that's what was in use on the
loading dock and for stacking this junk, but that company went out of
business last year, and all their heavy equipment was auctioned off."

I shrug, and he tosses me a cardboard box filled with computer printouts.
I toss the box out on the loading dock, and my footing slips on file
folders, bumping me back against Malcolm. He steadies me with one arm
and, with his other hand, rubs some of my curly hair between his fingers
as he did earlier.

I mumble, "It's just hair."

He smiles at me and says, "Yeah, doll hair."

Hmm, that was rude, but leaning against Malcolm, I got a funny feeling in
my belly for a second there. Leaving one strong arm around me, he let go
of my hair and looked into my eyes with that blank expression of his.
Groping myself, hoping he's warming up to me, I do a half grin staring
into his dark many-shades-of-brown eyes, but then gulp and avert my eyes
when he doesn't grin back.

He mumbles, taking his arm off me, "Let's get this shit cleaned up."

We sweat and curse, working down the side wall of the junk pile. It's as
if we're almost competing to see who can toss the most junk onto the
loading dock as we open up a three-foot space next to the wall.

Every ten or fifteen seconds, I'm glancing at Malcolm. Why am I doing
that? I don't know; maybe I'm looking for praise from him because I'm
working as hard as he is, or perhaps I'm crushing on him. He's so, um,
different!

Soon, my dick is throbbing in my wet underpants as I realize I must be
subconsciously crushing on Malcolm even though I'm still pissed off he
poured all that oil on me, ruining my pants and causing me a great deal
of discomfort with soggy underwear, ending up wearing these fucked-up
female slacks. Maybe I'd have succumbed to his macho attractiveness if he
hadn't done that... and he was nicer to me.

Working side by side, bumping against his hard body, our feet get
tangled, and my fingers end up in his soft Afro hair. Holding onto some
of his hair, I mumble, "Oh, sorry, Malcolm." Straightening up, I move my
head, and his hair brushes my face. I brushed it away as he moved his
head so his hair brushed over my forehead again, and I couldn't help
grinning at him like a geek. He's not so bad.

He smirked at me and ran his long fingers back through my curly hair,
saying, "Hey, Grant, you're finally losing that forlorn expression."

I shrug and grin again. Even with the hideous condition of my underwear,
I'm getting a boner because Malcolm has an arm around me now, looking
concerned, asking, "Are you alright?" He's so sexy and hot I feel dizzy.

"Uh-huh, it's hard to breathe with all this dust in the air, but I'm
okay, Malcolm," Then I lean against him even more.

He frowns and steps away without saying anything, so I mumble, "Oh, um,
I've lost my forlorn look, huh? It must have been your pity fuck that
straightened me out, Malcolm."

He changes his frown to a quizzical expression on his handsome dark brown
face, then shows a little grin, and I do my stupid geeky over-grinning
again while moving my head a little toward him, encouraging him to rub my
head. It's like I'm a cat wanting my master to pet me, except my master
takes another step back.

When he doesn't pick up on my invitation to pet me, I murmur,  "Heh-heh,
thank God your pity fuck straightened me out. Sorry that it took a while
for my forlorn look to realize it."

He squints, "Are you being serious? With all your goofing around shit, I
can't tell."

Again thinking about getting a ride to and from work, I go, "Yeah, well,
no more goofiness. I seriously want to, ah, you know, do what you said
earlier. Get the job done. And I'm, you know, pretty impressed with you;
that's got me acting a little goofy."

With an uudible sigh, he says, "Listen, Grant, and I don't want you to
take this the wrong way, but I don't need you falling for me. I've
already got all the bottom boys I can service. The last thing I need is
another girlie boy like you, getting all hot and bothered for me, calling
or texting me every three minutes."

Looking into his eyes, I squint, thinking there was something new in
Malcolm's tone of voice. I mutter, "What you just said there, Malcolm,
um, that was your idea of humor. You being funny, right?"

He runs his fingers back through my curly hair again. "Yep, that was me
being funny. You picked right up on that, huh? You're an unusually
perceptive motherfucker for a girlie-looking boy."

I'm like, "So, I'm correct then in assuming that you could handle me
being one more bottom boy calling or texting you every three minutes?"

He nods, "Uh-huh, probably I could." I take my phone out, mumbling, "To
facilitate that happening, let's exchange phone numbers."

He can think what he wants, but I'll feel better about riding to and from
work with him having his phone number. You know, in case he's late or
whatever.

He mutters, "Facilitate, huh?"

As we're doing that, it occurs to me that I'm probably never going to see
that blond boy on the train again, and how Malcolm's like the complete
opposite of him. What a strange day I'm having. Hmm, Malcolm isn't going
to want to fuck me every morning, is he? And what should I do if he does
want to do that?

As we put our phones away, I'm curious, but I'm not asking that. Instead,
I ask, "Seriously, um, you don't really think I'm, ah, a girlie-looking
boy, do you?"

"Yeah, I do because you are a girlie-looking boy. And you look about
fifteen years old as well, but that's okay. I know you wouldn't be
working on the third floor unless you were at least eighteen, so, while
you're a girlie-looking fucker for sure, that's all right; I like girls
too."

He passes another cardboard box of printouts to me, and, squinting my
eyes at him, I toss the box out on the loading dock, then ask, "Um, do
you do much making out with all those bottom boys you have?"

"Nope, and especially not with girlie-looking eighteen-year-old bottom
boys."

"Oh? Who do you make out with?"

"Girlie-looking girls."

Bisexual like Mark, huh?

Over the next hour, without talking, we dump a lot of junk from next to
the wall onto the loading dock, eventually clearing out a four feet long
space, twelve feet high. There were about twenty to twenty-five boxes of
files and printouts, a two-drawer file cabinet, four swivel desk chairs
without arms, two printers, three PCs, eight desk telephones, many coat
hangers, three coats, assorted hats, many scarves, and lots of
miscellaneous office junk.

Malcolm nods at the loading dock; I toss a lamp onto the pile, then look
where he nodded and see Morrison, who came out the door at the end of the
loading dock. Morrison yells, "How's it going, fellows?"

Malcolm, sounding bored as usual, laconically mumbles, "Okay. Grant
helps."

Nodding at Malcolm, Morrison points at the pile of stuff on the loading
dock, "You two need to get all this shit to the dumpster. There's no way
we can leave it on the loading dock with delivery trucks showing up
tomorrow morning."

No shit, Einstein; even I know that. I'm sweaty and tired and getting
irritable. My half-hearted infatuation with Malcolm is temporarily on
hold as he mutters to Morrison, "Yes, sure, obviously."

Looking at me, Morrison asks Malcolm, "So, your helper is doing okay,
huh?"

Shrugging, "He's okay," and Morrison mutters, "Yeah, well, get this shit
cleaned up," and that's that. He walks back to the door he emerged from
and goes inside. Now he can tell his boss he's staying on top of the
loading dock's clean-up project.

We both watch Morrison disappear. Then, frowning, I glance at Malcolm's
handsome dark brown face, "He's no help, and that wasn't much of an
endorsement for the job we're doing either."

He shrugs, "Fuck 'em."

I go, "I don't have a choice; I was highjacked to help you, but you
interviewed for this job. So, why the hell would you take a shitty job
like this?

He nods at the pile of junk on the loading dock, muttering, "Yeah, the
job sucks, but twenty-five dollars an hour makes up for a lot of sucks;
that's why I took this shitty temporary job. A thousand bucks a week. No
more questions, Grant; get back to work!"

What? That's twice as much as I make. He's making a thousand dollars a
week, and I only make five hundred?

"This is bullshit, Malcolm. You make twice as much as me. You're my boss,
so you need to correct the money situation. Get me paid, boss."

He's at the entrance to the next bay, pulling a flatbed cart out of a
storage area, saying, "Nope, I don't need to do shit about how much you
make. You take that up with Morrison or your immediate supervisor. Now,
pile stuff on this cart, Bret."

"Jesus H Christ! My name is Grant, not Bret! I mean, Goddammit... it's
Gary!"

Then, again remembering the ride back and forth to work, I calm down and
say, "But, heh-heh, that's okay, never mind, um, sorry for yelling. Come
on, though, could you help me out here, Malcolm? Help me get compensated
for doing this job."

He's piling junk on the cart, so I pile stuff on it, too, adding, "Since
you're the boss, I guess I wouldn't be making the same as you, but how
about seven or eight hundred a week?"

He shrugs, "That sounds about right, but deciding how much you make is
not my job. I'm only your boss temporarily. As I said, you need to see
Morrison, your mailroom supervisor, or people in the HR department."

Yeah, fuck, he's right. I plop a desk chair on the cart, mumbling,
"You're right," and stare at him again. He's super macho at twenty-two
but still young looking. He lifts a large cardboard box of glossy folders
onto the cart. Damn, I'm back to geekily grinning at him. To further
reinforce my geekiness, I feel his biceps muscle and ask, "How did you
get so strong, Malcolm? Your bicep feels like a rock."

He mutters, "Okay, Grant, um, Gary, you've got the hots for me. We've
established that, but can you keep it in your pants? Seriously, stop
fucking around and load this cart."

Nodding, I load another desk chair on the cart, "What? I'm not... Oh
fuck, sorry, I'm, ah... you're, um, you're right, but I was complimenting
you, that's all."

Goddamn, I'm making a jackass of myself, not that that's new. It's just
that what are the chances this guy would turn out to be sexy-hot and gay?
I mean, and he's already fucked my brains out once, so it's
understandable that a gay guy such as myself, after being manhandled
sexily by Malcolm, might get a little tongue-tied and goofily geeky when
around a stud like him?

Snickering, I surprise myself for having the balls to again swipe my
fingers through his long Afro hairdo. Until a minute ago, he hadn't been
angry about my silly ogling of him, but now he is, "Hey, what did I just
say, Grant? I'm fucking serious... stop goofing around! The cart's full,
so push the fucking thing to the end of the dock, then dump everything in
the dumpster. I'm going to get another dolly; a hand truck this time."

Embarrassed, muttering, "I'm not goofing around, Malcolm. I'm working..."
Then I push on the overloaded cart that rolls easily.

At the end of the dock is a slope I wasn't expecting, and the cart gets
away from me, rolling down the slope; the front wheels hit, and the cart
upends with everything conveniently falling into the dumpster. I'm
shocked that something went right for me! Hot shit! I look back to see if
Malcolm is watching.

He wasn't, so I pulled the empty cart up the slope and rolled it back to
our pile of junk. Malcolm's maneuvering the hand truck's bottom shelf
under the refrigerator. Using leverage, he lifts the refrigerator off the
dock, saying, "Fill up the cart again, Grant. Come on; we need to work
faster if we want to beat the traffic at five o'clock."

It takes twenty minutes to clear everything except the metal desk.
Malcolm mutters, "These desks are heavy motherfuckers. Push that
hoe-thing under it to see if you can leverage the desktop up an inch.
I'll get the hand truck shelf in there."

Grunting and cursing, Malcolm gets the desk off the dock a couple of
inches. Then, with me walking along, helping balance the desk, we get it
rolling down the slope until it bumps up and over into the dumpster.

"Goddamn, whoa! Good job, Grant."

We both look at the dumpster, overflowing with the stuff we dumped in it,
then Malcolm rolls the hand truck back down the dock, saying, "Get the
cart and put it in the next bay." We put the cart and hand truck in the
next bay's storage area, then took five minutes to sweep the dock.

Malcolm says, "Get the bag with your pants." I do that; then both the
bays have overhead garage doors that Malcolm activates with keys. When
both bays are closed and locked, he says, "It's quarter to five. We'll
get a headstart on the traffic and start work fifteen minutes earlier
than normal tomorrow morning to make up the time. Grant, that means I'll
pick you up tomorrow morning at seven o'clock."

I mutter, "I'm Gary," then, "Grant is okay too, though."

As usual, he wasn't paying attention to me except to tell me, "C'mon,
keep up with me. Let's get out of here before everyone is done for the
day."

We go into the building's bottom level through the door Morrison used
earlier at the end of the dock, then take the freight elevator up to the
second level. He goes to Morrison's office, but Morrison isn't there. So,
writing my name on his time card, Malcolm punches us out at quarter to
five.

Even though he hasn't been incredibly receptive to my semi-infatuation,
it was still an unusual and, I guess, an okay time this afternoon with
Malcolm. Keeping up, I'm looking at the side of his handsome dark-brown
face, and noticing his cool-looking Afro hairdo with the hair on the
sides and back cut very close to his scalp, like Mark's haircut.

Malcolm's slim and taller than me as I follow him up the stairs to the
main floor admiring his ass, then hurry to get next to him at the main
entrance/exit and out into the city. The sidewalk is already crowded with
people, and everyone is in a hurry, including Malcolm. People seem to get
out of his way, but they do not do the same for me, and consequently,
keeping up with him is a challenge.

He turns the corner, then walks quickly down to the entrance of an
underground parking garage. I catch up, mumbling, "You almost lost me
there, Malcolm. I didn't know where we were going."

He gives me a blank look but has nothing to say. We walk down two ramps
to the second undergrown level. His car is a five-year-old uncool
Chevrolet. He hits a button on the fob and unlocks the car, we get in,
and he starts the car as I say, "I really appreciate the ride, Malcolm.
Public transportation sucks."

He pulls out of the parking spot, "So does the traffic we'll be in. That
sucks too."

Driving up two ramps, Malcolm gets in an exit lane behind two cars
waiting to pay for parking. A sign says $35.00 for all-day parking. Good
thing he makes a thousand a week. At the pay booth, Malcolm smiles as he
hands a ticket to the person in the booth, being very friendly, saying,
"Hey, my dawg, Willie, wassup, bro?"

His dawg Willie, says, "Hey, Malcolm." Then, nodding at me, he asks,
"Who's the white bread with you?"

No money is exchanged as Malcolm looks at me, then at his dawg Willie,
and says, "He's my helper, Brant-something. What's your last name,
Brant?"

Sighing, I mutter, "Wallingford; but it's Grant, not Brant. I mean, it's
Gary..."

Neither of them pays attention to what I'm saying. Malcolm smirks, and
his dawg Willie says, "Hi, Brant." I flick my hand, mumbling, "Yo,
wassup, Willie?"

The car behind us honks his horn, and both Malcolm and his dawg Willie
snicker, Willie muttering, "Fuck 'em. I'll see you at home, bro."

We pull away without Malcolm paying for parking. I ask, "Was that your
brother?"

"That's one of 'em, uh-huh."

The traffic is terrible, but I don't mind. I'm comfortably sitting in the
front passenger seat, sneaking glances at my latest messing-around gay
friend. During our two-minute inaugural messing around, I, as Malcolm's
bottom boy, had an explosive climax in less than two minutes. It was
pretty hot, but I wasn't totally ready for it, and itvwas a burning pain
for most of the fuck. Everything happened unexpectedly and quickly, but
next time, and I'll probably need to be okay with it every morning, I'll
be ready for it and maybe appreciate it a little more.

Wow, though, Malcolm is the opposite of Billy as far as being silent
goes. Billy can't stand silence for a minute, and I can hardly get
Malcolm to talk at all. Attempting to do that now as he drives us through
Philadelphia, I energetically say, "This is so awesome of you, Malcolm!
I'm sorry the traffic is so heavy, but I'm grateful to you for the ride.
It's a nice change not dealing with the crowds on the train."

He nods, "Uh-huh, I gotta deal with this traffic whether you're here or
not."

"Well, thank you so much just the same." Still staring at him, I decide,
yes, that haircut of his is silly, but somehow, it looks wicked cool on
Malcolm. I'm in the frame of mind where everything about him is cool,
especially him driving me home.

For something to say, I mumble, "Um, sorry for staring, Malcolm, but you
are one good-looking motherfucker... ha-ha, but you already knew that,
didn't you?"

Nothing from Malcolm except a noisy exhale. I look out the side window
making a goofy and unnecessary popping sound with my mouth, then mumble,
"Um, your brother seems very nice. What I saw of him, he looked younger
than you. Well, you look pretty young yourself, um, for being twenty-two,
I mean."

He blows his horn and slams on the brakes, yelling at the other driver,
"Asshole!!"

I softly, almost under my breath, sing, "Like a bridge over troubled
water, I will da, da, da." Then, "No, that should be; I will lay me
down." Nothing from Malcolm except a glance with an eye roll.

Obviously, I'm getting on his nerves. Well, fuck, I'm getting on my
nerves too, but he makes me nervous or something. I say, "I'm not
normally this geeky and fucked up, Malcolm. Not normally, but you know,
ah, well, I'm happy that you're, you know, um, well, that you're gay and,
haha, then there's that pity fuck, haha."

He gives me a curious glance as we're at 69th Street, where I'd typically
get off the train and stand in line for a bus ride home. Malcolm doesn't
take his eyes off the traffic, saying, "Hey, in case you're wondering,
I'm not good at small talk."

"Yeah, well, I'm horrible at small talk too, but, heh-heh, you make me a
little crazy for some reason. That's pretty obvious. God, I wish I could
shut up! I never act like this. I swear I don't!"

He ignores all that and says, "Could you help me with directions to your
house?"

I'm hyperventilating from being such an asshole. God help me!

"Directions? Oh, of course. Fuck, I'm sorry, I can't catch my fucking
breath. Ah, oh, turn right onto Baltimore Pike."

Less than ten minutes later, Malcolm pulls up to the curb in front of my
house.

"Nice house, Grant."

I'm unsure what to do about saying goodbye, so I hold out my hand to
either shake hands or bump fists with him. He does neither; so I stutter,
"Oh, um, Malcolm, um, thanks again for the ride, and, um, you know, for
everything. Really, thanks again for the ride home."

Shaking his head slightly, doing his half grin, he mutters, "Yeah, okay,"
then drops the grin, adding, "Be out here at the curb seven o'clock
tomorrow morning. Don't make me wait."

Getting out of the car, knowing I shouldn't say this, but I say it
anyway, "Were you serious about not making out with guys? If you wanted
to do that, um, I'd probably..."

He snorts a laugh, "Well, you're girlie cute, but you're not a girl, so
no making out, Grant. Sorry about not being a fairy fag like you. Shut
the door."

I go, "Oh, right, the door," closing the door, I say through the open
window, "You were being funny again, weren't you?  I'm not a fairy fag
either, whatever that is."

He chuckled and pulled away, then hit the brakes, his tires
squealing. Backing up fast, coming to a screeching halt beside me, he
says, "Get your head out of your ass, Brant. Your pants are in
that plastic bag on the back seat."

Opening the back door, I pull out the plastic bag that Malcolm put my
oily khaki pants in a lifetime ago. I thought he was coming back
to apologize or... who knows?

An apology was wishful thinking.

I mutter, "Thanks, Malcolm." Uh-huh, get my head out of my ass. Very
original.

But wait, there's his half-grin again as he mutters, "You're a goof,
Brant, but you're a fun goof. See you in the morning. Don't be late," and
he does that thing where you kiss your fingers and pretend you're
throwing a kiss to someone; in this case, to me.

His tires squeal as he does a jackrabbit start driving away. Oh man, did
he actually throw me a kiss? He's unpredictable, but I think he's
starting to like me. Damn, I can't think of a time anyone has caused me
to act so goofily. Malcolm flusters the shit out of me until I don't know
what I'm doing or saying. It's unreal!

What a weird fucking day! Walking to my front door, I stop and say out
loud, "And I'm supposed to be visiting Billy now!"

Well, I'm not visiting anybody wearing women's red wool slacks, that's
for Goddamn sure! I catch a break for once, seeing that Mom's car isn't
here, so she is still at work and won't ever see these woman pants I have
on.

Going inside, I smile about Malcolm throwing me a kiss! Yeah, but was he
mocking me?

Around him, I get flustered like a motherfucker, but often with a hard
dick at the same time. I think he's hot, but he obviously doesn't think
I'm anything extraordinary. Huh, it occurs to me that Malcolm isn't the
only one who doesn't think I'm special. Both Pat and Billy, at one time,
were very fond of me but have recently seemed less so, and I don't know
why.

Hmm, yeah, I was mouthy with Pat on our last date, being a contrarian
about everything, so he didn't appreciate that. And maybe Billy and I are
over the unique infatuation part of a relationship, although remaining
boyfriends anyhow. I hope that's an explanation for him dropping the love
word. I know I still love him, and at one point, he said he loved me too,
but now in the middle of May, I don't hear anything like that from him.

As for Pat, I don't think he liked me stepping out of my girl/guy role.
He got a bit dominant with me, putting me in my place pretty fast,
though. After he got me straightened out and I knew my place, we went on
to have our best date yet, so I think we're good.

Hell, by the end of our date, I was feeling love for Pat. Not 'in love
with him,' but loving him as my super hot substitute man on our date.
Yeah, when he put his foot down, I was his boy, and he was my man. I
admit that now. And, wow, Pat's a perfect friend; he's sexy hot, and so
much fun!

Sighing, I get shivers realizing how lucky I am that Pat moved to the
neighborhood and likes me so much.

Thinking these thoughts, I go into the bathroom and strip down to my
soggy, oily, cum-saturated underpants. Hmm, I can't put
these underpants or the lady's slacks in the hamper because how would I
explain to Mom where the lady's pants came from or explain the condition
of my underpants?

Rolling the underpants inside the slacks, I put the bundle on the toilet
seat to be thrown out after I shower. It's a invigorating
ten-minute shower. Then, with a towel around my waist, I carry the bundle
of clothes to be thrown out to my bedroom and get dressed.

I told Billy I'd visit right after work, but that wasn't possible for
obvious reasons. Damn, plus I don't have a sick bed gift for him today.
It wasn't my fault, though. My new work assignment put me in a position
to have olive oil poured on my ass, and then... well, you know.

My hair is getting to be a real problem too. It's become too long and
curly and needs cutting, but Billy's been sick, and there are final exams
to study for, and with new friends leeching onto him, It's no wonder we
haven't been to my uncle's barbershop in almost two months. I lost track
of time; maybe it's not quite that long.

Well, however long it's been, my curly, shiny blond hair grows fast and
is now hanging over half my ears. I use the last of Pat's hair foam to
comb the hair off my ears and back on the sides. Christ, it's been a year
since I've had hair problems, and I'd forgotten what a pain in the ass
they are. I comb a pompadour in front that's not as good as the cool one
Pat showed me how to do.

As always, I want to look as good as possible for Billy. Checking my
phone, I see it's only five-twenty-five. Holy shit, I wouldn't even be
home yet if I had taken the train and bus. Leaving work early, plus
getting a ride from Malcolm, was faster than I thought it would be.
Omigod, he's so, um,  uniquely special, and he's definitely inside my
head.

Outside, I bury the woman's pants under trash in the trash barrel, then
start walking to Billy's. Hearing a 'ping!' on my phone and, looking at
it, saw a text from Todd Barstable: 'Gary, I had a fabulous time with
you. I'm asking you out this Saturday night. Please say you'll go out
with me. If you're busy that night, then during the day."

Wow, Barns! Yeah, we did have a good date. I texted back, promising to
see him. I'd text him Saturday morning when I knew what I'd be doing. I
liked topping during sex, and I liked Todd sucking my dick! He texted
back, 'Awesome, thanks!!'

That makes me feel good. I felt almost like a guy/guy with Todd and him
as my girl/guy. It was wicked cool, and I liked him. For now, though, I'm
almost to Billy's, and I'm sure Pat's already there... but is that guy,
Ronny Lynch, there too?

And I've got a concern. It's, am I getting into too much sex with too
many guys? It's such a new feeling being popular. Billy opened this whole
new world for me, and it is a bit overwhelming but I'm having more fun
than I've ever had before in my life!

Walking briskly, I'm getting pissed me off that I need to share Billy
with that Ron guy. I don't get Biilly's interest in that guy, who doesn't
seem cool enough to be a close friend of Billy's. Well, I'm not cool
enough either, and I'm Billy's boyfriend.

As I said, I'm overwhelmed by all of this. Hmm, and I'm hoping Billy will
want me to return after supper tonight, just us two. We had a scorching
hot time the other night, just the two of us messing around.

If I don't see Billy after dinner, I'll be in for the night. Pat probably
will have a date again tonight. It's ironic that as soon as I started
feeling friendship-love for Pat, he began dating someone from college. I
knew there were a few guys at college who Pat was interested in, and Pat
is too good-looking and cool not to have gay guys ogling him. One of them
is now, potentially, Pat's newest boyfriend. And, you know what? I feel a
little bit jealous about that.

Yeah, I was getting kinda used to Pat's compliments and him really liking
me. I liked how he wanted to take me to his grandfather's Texas ranch and
deck me out in cowboy boots and a hat, saying I'd be the cutest gay
cowboy in Texas. His talking about stuff like that would put me in a
wonderful sexy trance. Now he's telling someone else those lies. I guess
I started taking for granted that Pat wanted me as his boyfriend, and now
he might have another boy in mind for that role.

God, I just had a cool sexy shiver thinking about messing around with
Pat. He's so hot and so beautiful. Fuck, I should never have been a
smart-ass with him on our last date. If I get another chance, I will be
the submissive girl/guy I should be, and maybe Pat will get super
interested in me again. I love Billy, but a super hot, messing-around gay
friend, like Pat, is an awesome fall-back situation when my boyfriend is
otherwise occupied.

Oh, if Billy doesn't invite me back after dinner tonight, mayne I'll text
Barns. Yeah, but am I doing too much messing around? I don't think I am,
but what do I know? Ya know?

Crossing the street, I reach back and rub my ass. Thankfully, my anus has
completely closed up by now. That huge penis of Malcolm's was a new
experience for me. The size of Malcolm's cock was impressive! No, not the
length; the, um, girth, if that's the right word for how fat, how big
around it was. Holy shit, his penis might be shorter than Billy's but
twice as big around.

A block from Billy's house, I consider the difference between Malcolm's
short, fat penis and Pat's long one. Then, I'm like, how about
Barns? Holy shit, yeah! How can I forget Barn's penis that's as big as
Pat's? Here's the problem: messing around with Barns, there is very
little, um, charisma, extra excitement... there's no rocket to the moon
type thing. I'm not saying it wasn't hot because it was, but there
weren't any bells and whistles going off for me. Nothing special and
unique happening, but still worth the effort.

Yeah, Todd, er, Barns, was a huge surprise. I shouldn't blow him off, he
doesn't deserve that. He had a touch of bossiness that I liked. Hmm, yes,
there is something intriguing about a smallish guy like Barns, smaller
than me, being my dominant guy/guy top. That part is intriguing, and,
therefore, so is Barns, I guess. But, again I wonder, is it all too much?

Okay, I'm at Billy's. After putting on the face mask Pat gave me, I rang
the doorbell, and Mrs. Underwood opened the door, "Hi, Gary. Come on in,
honey. Oh, you know what? I think Charles left already, so you might be
too late."

She isn't wearing a mask, so I take mine off, asking, "Charles? Who's
he?"

She says, "Oh, I thought you knew that Charles, ah, Charlie, is Billy's
big brother. He's home on summer break from college. Didn't William text
you about Charlie volunteering to do some haircutting for you guys? Billy
and, I think, his friend, Ronny, both got haircuts."

I'm looking at her as if I can't understand the language she's speaking.
"Huh, what...?"

She's putting away dishes from the dishwasher, saying, "Charlie cut his
brother's hair when they both were in high school, but hasn't done any
haircuts in two years. With Billy laid up as he is, Charlie offered..."

I'm not listening, my face turning bright red. "So, Gary, I'm sorry if
you were hoping for a haircut. Charlie said something about meeting some
of his friends, so I think he's left already."

What the fuck is happening here? Billy and I aren't getting magical twin
haircuts anymore; is that it?

And what's this loud roaring sound in my ears with an echo causing me to
make a face? Mrs. Underwood looks concerned, asking, "Are you okay, Gary?
What's wrong?"

Shaking my head, I manage to mumble, as if I'm a robot, "Nothing.
Nothing's wrong, Mrs. Underwood."

She looks down the hall toward Billy's bedroom; her face brightens as she
says, "Oh, good! Charles hasn't left yet."

Turning. I see a guy not wearing a mask. He's a short, stocky, older
look-alike version of Billy swaggering down the hall carrying a box with
a picture of barber clippers on the lid. He gives the box to his mom,
nodding at me, asking, "Who's this?"

Mrs. Underwood says, "This cute fellow is Gary Wallingford, Billy's best
friend for a year now. I think he was hoping to get here in time for you
to give him a haircut. That's right, isn't it, Gary?"

Mute, shaking my head, Charlie holds out his fist, "Hey, dude, wassup?
Sorry, but I was expected there ten minutes ago to be at Sullivans' Bar.
Maybe I could help you out tomorrow, but, haha, after seeing the shitty
job I did for Billy and his buddy, you may not want a haircut from me."

Then, to his mom, "Haha, I've lost my barbering touch, Mom. I messed
their hair up a little," and he laughs so harfily that it makes Mrs.
Underwood and me smile. Also, he sounded as if he couldn't care less how
his barbering turned out. Washing his hands at the kitchen sink, still
sounding like he couldn't care less, Charlie says to his mom, "I sure
hope you're right about Billy being past the contagion period."

She puts the box with the clippers in the cabinet under the cooktop,
mumbling, "He definitely is over that, and it's so good you're home
Charles!" and they hug.

I'm frowning, frozen here, watching Charlie as he grabs car keys from the
countertop, saying, "Well, see you later, Mom. Um, nice meeting you,
Gary."

All I can manage to mumble is, "Uh-huh," when Charlie shows me Billy's
incredible smile, muttering, "Jesus, you guys! I thought Ronny looked
young, but you take the cake, bro."

I shrug at that, still in shock because, no matter how bad the haircuts,
Billy and Ronny now have the same twin ones, and I don't. His mom,
probably wondering why I'm still standing here like a nutcase, gives me
an off look, then sort of shrugs at me and asks Charlie, "Will you be
home for dinner?"

Shaking his head, "Not tonight, Mom," and then he, too, gives me an odd
look. In a trance, I drift down the hall to Billy's bedroom. Charlie goes
out the back door, slamming it the same way Billy does.

Standing at Billy's bedroom door, I'm trying to pump myself up to not to
have a big reaction when seeing see how the new twins, Billy and Ronny,
look with their bad twin haircuts.

Yes, I'm flustered again and illogically enormously angry too. Yeah, I'm
pissed off at everyone involved and jealous like a motherfucker about
Billy getting a haircut, any haircut, without me. And, even though I
barely know him, I can hardly breathe from the hate in my heart for
Ronny.

Swallow loudly; I'm fully aware that this is embarrassingly immature
behavior on my part, but I'm unable to do anything about it. My face is
hot and red as I stand here like a statue at the bedroom door, hearing
girlish giggling from Billy and Ronny. Then I hear Pat say, "Hey,
numbnuts, use the other mirror to see the disaster on the back of your
heads."

Then Ronny mumbles, "Goddammit, Billy, didn't you say your brother cut
your hair for years? This looks like a home haircut shit-storm!" And they
laugh as if they're high on pot, which I know they're not.

Pat says, "Yeah, well, you gotta give Charlie credit for consistency.
Both haircuts look identically fucked." Billy goes, "Nope, Ronny got it
worse because he went first." All three laugh their balls off this
time... my blood boils.

See, no matter how bad their haircuts are, Billy and Ronny have this
shared experience as a bonding thing. Even shared bad experiences can
bring people closer together. And Ronny came here right after his last
class, so he's been here for three hours. They bonded, studying for the
final exam they'll have together.

Uh-huh, those two are bonding like motherfuckers, not only studying
together, and in the same class, but now having the same haircut
experience, and who knows what messing around they did before Pat showed
up.

And don't even try telling me Billy isn't messing around and fucking with
Ronny! I'm in second place to Ronny now. The best I can hope for is they
let me be part of the apartment they'll be getting in the fall. I just
know Billy has replaced me with Ronny.

I'm hyperventilating again, covering my face with my hands and bending
over, my mask hanging off my fingers. I force myself to breathe normally,
but it's a full minute before I'm breathing anything near normally; then,
looking down the hall to see if Billy's mom is still around, I think
about sneaking back out the front door. I can't face this...

To be continued...    donnymumford@outlook.com

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