This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments. And last but not least, Nifty would like your donations.

Farewell, Uncle Ho

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Chapter 62 (Fri. Mar. 24)

We arrived back at Gordon's with Gerry carrying the brown-paper grocery sack with the two six-packs of soda, one of Birch Beer and the other of Cel-Ray; Gordon was toting the canned beer along with six bottles, which Gerry had picked out, called Berliner Weisse. Of course, I had the Scotch, vodka and a bottle of raspberry syrup, which, according to Gerry, belonged in the beer.

"Don't put the beer bottles in the ice box." Gerry pointed to the counter beside the sink. "It has to be drunk at room temperature."

The more I thought about drinking warm beer with raspberry syrup in it, the closer I came to barfing. "Are you sure about this?" I had to belch onions.

"Yeah, Gerry," Gordon put the Rheingold and soda cans into the fridge and the vodka into the freezer. "if it's warm, it'd hafta taste kinda like piss with berry juice."

Gerry glanced in my direction and grinned, then blushed a little. "Yeah, sorta. Uh, could you get three glass mugs and a bottle opener, please?" He opened the bottles as Gordon set down the mugs. "And how do you know what piss tastes like?"

Gordon looked suddenly trapped. He alternated glances between Gerry and me, looking for a safe, non-binding answer. He found none.

Gerry put down the bottle opener and poured the beer, smirking at Gordon. "Don't worry, Drill Sergeant. Ben and I have done it, too."

Gordon actually looked shocked and somewhat scared. "Ain't ever tried--"

"--you will have, before the night's over." He jerked his head around, as I spoke.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You guys are gonna hafta take it easy with me. Aside from messin' around watchin' Mike and Eddy, Ju-Long was my first guy. And we basically just jerk each other off. I sucked him once, but he said that it didn't do anything for him. So, we kinda let it go at that."

"Was Mike's buddy's name Eddy Chung?" I thought that this would be too much of a coincidence not to mention it.

Gordon's eyes glistened. "Yeah, did you know him?"

"A casual acquaintance, nothing more." I patted him on the shoulder and squeezed. "His parents own the needlework and piece goods store on the ground floor of the building where I grew up. My mom wrote that he'd died while I was in Paris, but she didn't say how."

"Did you and him ever…?" Gordon seemed to be on the verge of tears.

"No." The answer calmed him visibly. "He was way out of my league." Gerry glanced at me with a concerned look. Gordon appeared puzzled. "His parents are assimilated merchants, who live in a nice home here on Staten Island. My parents are teachers, and they live in a rent-controlled apartment in Chinatown two floors above the Chungs' store. And, more importantly, the Chungs are my parents' landlords."

Gerry, in the meantime, had fixed the warm beer with raspberry syrup complete with soda straws. This was new for me on all fronts. The idea of drinking beer through a straw was just too cute.

"Prost!" Gerry held up his mug. We followed suit.

And it was amazingly good, not nearly as sweet as I thought it would be, and the beer gave it a slight tang. Gordon made an approvingly surprised face. "Do you know what they make it out of?"

"Wheat and barley rather than hops and barley." Gerry replied knowledgably. "It's a kids drink in Germany." Gordon shook his head. "It only has about 2.5% alcohol." Gerry tried to assuage Gordon's mock disapproval.

"It's still alcohol." Gordon laughed sarcastically. "You Europeans let your kids run wild, getting' blown away on raspberry-flavored beer, and then you don't even help 'em keep their cocks clean."

"By cutting half of it off? That does it." I set my drink on the counter and took Gordon's away from him and put it next to mine. Out came my dick. "Drop and give me oral, Drill Sergeant! And watch the fucking teeth!"

***

Gordon pulled off my dick and went to bolt the front door. He closed the double doors to the glassed in front porch, pulled the blinds, since the nosey neighbors' house to the north, full of highly polished windows, was less than five yards away. He closed the curtained double doors to the sun porch. Gerry and I were sprawled on the floor in front of the fireplace in the living room, with our jeans unbuttoned, playing with ourselves and each other.

Our friend returned and got between my legs to inspect my, and alternatingly, Gerry's genitals. He was using both his hands and nose. First, he pulled my skin over the tip of my hard cock. He released it, and it slowly slid back behind the ridge of my corona, gathering in folds. When he pulled Gerry's skin over the tip of his glans, it stayed in place, sporting a cute little nipple at the end.

"Why doesn't your foreskin slide back by itself like Ben's does?" Gordon seemed awestruck that two guys' equipment could be so different.

"Because my skin's quite a bit longer than Ben's." Gerry gave him the obvious answer.

At this very moment, it dawned on me that guys, whose foreskins had been amputated at birth, all looked and more or less functioned the same. The only differences they knew were size and color.

"Doesn't that extra skin get in the way?" Gordon sounded intrigued but yet a little defensive.

I moved in between Gerry's legs and took the little nipple of overhanging skin between my forefingers and thumbs. Gordon looked perplexed as I lowered my mouth onto the tip of the skin and inflated it like a balloon. Then inserting my tongue into the puckered nipple of foreskin caused Gerry to let out a moan of extreme erotic pleasure; the air, escaping around my tongue, caused a sound similar to breaking wind.

"That's gross." was Gordon's only comment.

"Ah, but just like a fart, Drill Sergeant, it feels really good." Gerry and I laughed; Gordon looked disgusted.

"Yeah, and it stinks just like a fart, too." This comment was uncalled for, and Gordon realized it, the second he'd said it. "Sorry, Gerry, that was out of place." And realizing that his unwarranted comment had also killed lust, he asked a little sadly: "Anyone wanna go for a walk?"

***

He took us up to the end of Fremont and onto Richmond Road, keeping left. He went into a florist's and came out with five lilies. We crossed the road, where there was a white church on a hill, behind a stone retaining wall and black wrought-iron fence.

"That's New Dorp Moravian Church and the Moravian Cemetery. Most of it doesn't belong to the church but to the Borough of Richmond." Gordon explained, and Gerry glared at the road sign.

"What's wrong, mein Schatz?" For some reason, I couldn't stand to see Gerry upset.

"That's Todt Hill Road." Gerry stated and Gordon nodded. "Since this is New Dorp, which means new village, and we'll assume that it's a Dutch-English mix," Again Gordon nodded. "anyway, 'Todt' means death, making this Death Hill Road."

"Yeah, it's because of the cemetery." Gordon said with a sad undertone as we entered the grounds.

"Isn't this close to where that TWA plane crashed back in '60?" I asked with a lack of expression, thinking of my cousin, who died that day in the crash.

Gordon nodded, and I was starting to let the foggy, grey weather and the subdued mood pull my spirits down, as well, when I recognized that we were walking in step. Our basic training had, at least, had this effect on us. When they wanted to know what I was chuckling about, all I had to whisper was: "Huh, your left, right, huh, your left, right, left."

When they sputtered and laughed, other visitors to the cemetery gave us disapproving glares. "Good going, Loughery. You're gonna get us thrown outta here, yet." was Gordon's appraisal, but it didn't keep him from laughing again.

***

Two red-granite tombstones, one double, one single stood in the first row off the roadway. The single head stone was dedicated to Michael Alan Healy, 1942 - 1965. The inscription on the double stone was his parents', with the year of his father's death left blank. Shivers ran down my spine, and Gordon ignored his mother's grave entirely. He carefully placed the lilies on Michael's grave. "Still love ya, Mickey."

"Is there a special occasion?" I wondered.

Gordon looked at me with an odd expression. "Yeah, Easter." He looked at Gerry for conformation, who shrugged innocently. Gordon turned to me, as if I were from Mars. "Today's Good Friday, and I won't be able to get over here on Sunday."

"Must have forgotten." I said somewhat sheepishly but wasn't really embarrassed. "Didn't know you're religious."

"We're not." He looked like he needed a cuddle, so I placed an arm over his shoulder, which I removed when he blushed. "We used to be Catholic, until Mom hung herself in the garage." He chuckled to himself and glanced over at her grave. "And when the Church wouldn't say a funeral mass for her, Dad told the priests over at Our Lady of Empty Pockets to go fuck themselves, declared that god was dead and tore down the garage so he wouldn't be reminded all the time."

"Our Lady of Empty Pockets?" I laughed, as we started to move toward the wrought-iron fence, which separated the graveyard from a golf course.

"Yeah, that's what Dad calls St. Christopher's." Gordon grinned. "They're always begging for money."

"Why did your dad move to Florida?" Gerry wanted to know.

"Too many spooks. His family's all dead and gone; his two brothers were killed in World War II." Gordon moved up to the fence. "Mike's dead, and I might as well be. "

"He doesn't accept you and Ju-Long?" Gerry hazarded a guess.

"It's not just us. He hates all Faggots and Chinks and Gooks." Gordon looked apologetically at me.

"Faggots and Chinks and Gooks, oh my! Faggots and Chinks and Gooks." I misquoted Dorothy, the Tin Man and the Scarecrow to defuse the situation. At least, Gerry moaned at the play on words; Gordon just stared at me blankly. Passers-by took on an aggressive air.

Gordon quickly pointed out where he and his friend, Barker, used to collect golf balls to sell back to the Richmond Country Club for pocket money. He looked really sad, as he turned to Gerry and me. "We'd better be going before it gets dark."

"Are you thinking of moving into the house?" I thought it would be a good idea, since the neighborhood would be great for Cam.

"Nope." He answered curtly. "Dad's putting it on the market come springtime. And we can't afford it."

"How much is he asking?" I thought maybe I could help all of us out, if it wasn't too much.

"He wants fifty thousand." Gordon laughed. "But he'll settle for forty five, because of the recession."

"We'll offer him forty three, since he hates Faggots and Chinks and Gooks." I laughed. "Think he'll take it?"

"Probably." Gordon grinned. "And how are you going to qualify for a mortgage on your wages?"

Both he and Gerry stopped in their tracks when I told them that I'd pay cash.