DYLAN'S SUMMER FOLLOWING HIS JUNIOR COLLEGE YEAR
Chapter 8
by Donny Mumford
Time is a funny thing. It takes two or three times as long for a minute to go by when you're in a surgical waiting room than in almost any other place. Yeah, time has slowed down to a crawl like it did in some of my high school classes. I swear I saw the minute hand of the clock on the wall tick backwards in a chemistry lab once. That was very disturbing back then and what's disturbing now is that Rob's appendectomy is supposedly a half-hour surgery and yet we've been sitting here waiting for news of it for over two hours. All I can think of is what Mrs. Dickers said when we first got here, 'What if they find something more serious than just a sick appendix when they get in there?' That's definitely not the kind of thing I needed to hear.
Aware of how much longer this is taking than we were told, Chubby and I finally exchange 'looks' like, what the fuck's going on here?' and a few minutes later a doctor comes into the waiting room and walks over to us so perhaps we'll now find out what the fuck's going on here. The four of us stand at the same time and the doctor says, "Sorry for the delay but we had to get a patient with a serious gun-shot-wound into surgery first. Robert's fine; he's in the recovery room now. We successfully removed his inflamed appendix but he'll be groggy for a while. You can see him in an hour or so. In the meantime, you might want to get a coffee or something in the cafeteria." Mrs. Dickers asks, "So you're saying there's nothing for us to worry about, right?" The doctor says, "Yes, it was a routine procedure but give him a little more time to recover. Like I mentioned to you earlier, we'll keep him over-night and, assuming there are no unexpected complications, he can go home tomorrow." Exchanging glances we all look relieved. Mrs. Dickers says, "Thank you so much, Doctor Nolden," and, in his God-mode, the doctor graciously accepts her gratitude, saying, "It's what we do." He then walks over to another family group to give them their good news. I say 'good news' because the man and woman are smiling and hugging each other. Hmmm, two operations finishing at the same exact time, huh? That's a bit suspicious and, yes, I've become a tad cynical at my advanced age.
Mr. Dickers says to Chubby and me, "Well thank you both very much for hanging in there with Rob's Mom and me until we got the good news, boys." Knowing Rob's alright is enough for me. I'll see him tomorrow, so I say, "Our pleasure and, um, you're welcome. Chub and I wanted to be here for Rob." I look at Chubby, and mumble, "I guess we'll get some dinner now," and then, looking back to Mr. and Mrs. Dickers, I'm like, "Please say 'Hi' to Rob for us and I'll call before coming to see him at your house tomorrow after work." I get a hug from Mrs. Dickers as she murmurs, "Rob will be so pleased you waited with us." Chub might have gotten a hug too except he cleverly stepped back just far enough that a hug would be awkward, so Mrs. Dickers just says, "Thank's for being here, Jeffrey." He nods and Mr. Dickers says, "Yes, thanks again, boys." Hmmm, that sounded in my ears a lot like, 'You should go now,' so we back away a couple of steps and then turn around and walk from the room.
We get lost trying to find the correct exit but eventually find the doctors' parking lot. There's a note under the windshield wiper on the Jeep that Chub takes off and drops on the ground without reading it and then asks me, "How about the Beef and Ale House again?" I go, "Sounds good, Chub," and that's where we go. During the ride we talk about the randomness of Rob's appendicitis and how you just never fucking know. Tomorrow morning either of us could wake-up with an impacted wisdom tooth or Psoriasis or something else we haven't a clue about right now. It's the roulette wheel of life; when's the ball gonna land on your number? Thoughts like that puts us in a contemplative mood.
Inside the Beef and Ale House I put a twenty-dollar-bill on the bar as a woman bartender cards us. Flipping our licenses on the bar, she says, "Good forgeries, boys. What can I get you?" Ignoring that snide and uncalled-for remark we order drafts of Bud and roast beef sandwiches. As she's pouring our beers into frozen mugs Chub asks me, "How's your appendix feel, bro?" I feel down low on the right side of my stomach, mumbling, "It's hanging in there. How 'bout yours?" He goes, "It's good," and we tap the mugs just put in front of us and take a swallow of really cold beer. Chub holds a finger up getting the bartender's attention and says, "Two shots of Jack, please." I go, "Oh no," and Chub goes, "Oh yes, we need to toast Rob's successful operation." The bartender plops two shot-glasses in front of us and pours Jack Daniel's to the rim of both and then takes Chubby's twenty-dollar bill to makes change, mumbling, "Enjoy."
I stare at my shot of whiskey as Chubby holds his up, saying, "A bourbon toast to Rob's quick recovery." I go, "Um, you're aware this isn't bourbon, right?" Chub hesitates, mumbling, "Whaddaya talking about? Jack Daniel's is bourbon," and I go, "No it's not, although most people think it is." He goes, "Enlighten me," and I say, "Jack Daniel's is a Tennessee Whiskey that was dripped through lots of charcoal before aging, well I don't remember how long it ages before being bottled." A man with a ludicrous red mustached sitting three stools to Chubby's left leans over the bar looking our way and says, "He's right, son." I give him a finger-wave acknowledging he's backed me up on that but don't say anything because I don't want him joining our conversation. He apparently doesn't care what I want as he gets up and bring his drink with him to sit next to Chubby, saying, "All bourbon is whiskey, but all whiskey is not bourbon." Chubby mumbles, "Is that so?" and then gives me a dirty 'look' for mentioning the topic of bourbon versus whiskey which brought this strange-stranger into our lives. Chub throws down his shot of Jack in one swallow as I continue thinking about doing that with mine.
The man isn't deterred by our lack of response, informing us, "Whiskey is distilled from fermented grain mash. Any combination of rye, wheat, barley, or corn will do. Bourbon, on the other hand, must be distilled from at least 51 percent corn mash. It also must be stored for at least four-years in brand new charred oak barrels. There are strict standards for distilling bourbon; standards that were made into law by the Bottle in Bond Act of 1897." Chub now turns his head to look at this guy, asking, "And how is it, Sir, that you know all this?" The man's ludicrous red mustache extends down below his chin on both sides and he rubs his thumb and forefinger down it, saying, "Hell, son, I'm a liquor salesman, I need to know all that," and then he says to the bartender, "Hon, pour the three of us shots of Makers Mark. I'll show the boys the difference." I start to say, "None for me..." but three new shot-glasses are already plopped on the bar and she's filling all three with bourbon. Chubby goes, "Well, how delightful," and he picks up his shot glass and clicks shot-glasses with the no-name man and then they both look at me. Oh balls! I reluctantly pick up my shot glass of bourbon and tap first Chub's shot-glass and then the man's and we all throw the evil liquid into our mouths. Chub and red-mustache-man swallow theirs while I'm letting some trickle down my throat little by little until I take one last horrible gulp getting the rest down. Now there are tear tracks on my cheeks. Chub goes, "Wow, that Makers Mark is smoother than Jack."
I'm wiping my eyes with the heels of both hands as I breathe deeply and then gulp some of my beer. The same skinny guy from the other time we were in here sets our roast beef sandwiches down in front of us as the bartender's giving the man change for the shots of Makers Mark. Chub has a huge grin on his face saying, "Dylan, my brother, you lucky dog you! You still have your shot of Jack." I croak out, "You can have it," and the no-name man and Chub both chuckle. Chubby pats my back, picks up my shot of Jack Daniel's and tosses it down his throat while I take a big bite of my roast beef sandwich. The man tells Chubby, "Scotch whiskey is a different story altogether. It can be distilled from malt or grain but only in Scotland and only in a manner specified by law." Chub goes, "No shit?" and another man two stool further down to red-mustache-man's left, asks him, "What's the best Scotch whiskey made?" The liquor salesman draws his thumb and forefinger down his ludicrous red mustache again and goes, "For my money it's Johnnie Walker Blue Label which sells for around a $170 a 750 ML bottle. Heh heh, consequently I don't drink it regularly." The second man, who has a seriously receding hairline, goes, "Hey, Sidney," and the lady bartender turns to him, "What, Doyle?" and Doyle asks, "How much do you charge for a shot of Johnnie Walker Blue Label?" She says, "We don't carry that premium Scotch. This is a beef and ale house, dummy." Red-mustache-man says, "It would cost between $40 and $60 a shot depending on the restaurant or bar you're at."
I've finished my sandwich and my mug of beer. Chubby's eating his sandwich now too so no-name-man turns his attention to receding-hairline, asking, "Hey, have you heard the pickle-slicer joke?" Receding-hairline shakes his heads as Chubby and I exchange knowing glances because we both know the joke. Red-mustache says, "This guy Bill works in a pickle factory. He'd been working there a couple of years when one day he confesses to his wife that every day he stares at the pickle slicer with the strongest urge to put his penis right in the pickle slicer as far as it'll go. Bill claims it's a very strong compulsion and his wife is naturally horrified and tells Bill he seriously needs to see a psychiatrist. Bill admits he probably does but claims he'd be too embarrassed to do that. He does vow to overcome the compulsion though, much to the relief of his wife. Then one day he comes home absolutely ashen and his wife sees he's really upset. He tells her he finally gave in to his urge and put his big dick in the pickle slicer and the results were terrible indeed. She's distraught but curious too and wants to know what happened. He tells her his boss fired him... that's what happened. The wife's confused, asking, 'Did anything happen to the pickle slicer?' Bill nods, 'Oh yeah, she got fired too.' Red-mustache laughs the hardest at his own joke. He's the type that laughs with his mouth wide open showing his large square teeth. Receding-hairline has a good laugh too and the lady bartender, Sidney, says to the skinny roast beef guy, "That's the fourth time I've heard that joke this month," and the man with the seriously receding hairline says, "Another shot of Makers Mark for me and my new friends." I immediately cover my shot glass with my hand, mumbling, "No, thank you very much." Chubby, red-mustache man, and receding-hairline all flash down shots of Makers Mark as I order another roast beef sandwich and fresh mug of beer.
A number of bad jokes follow the pickle slicer joke and as soon as Chub finishes his second roast beef I lean my head close to his and say, "We need to leave, Chub. Work tomorrow, ya know." He nods and then hugs my shoulders, "Okay, bro, we'll be responsible young adults," and then he puts another twenty-dollar bill on the bar telling the bartender, "Shots of Makers Mark for my friends here and keep the change, Sidney." She mutters, "Thanks, big spender," and the two men are like, "Hey, thanks, dude," as I lead the way out.
In the Jeep Chub goes, "Well that got our minds off contemplating unexpected health problems, huh?" I go, "Yeah, but how can you do shots like that?" He shrugs, "Don't know, they've just always slid down easily." He's diving okay and we get back to our condos safely at ten-minutes-of-twelve. After a hug with Chub I go inside feeling really tired. I do my necessary bathroom stuff, set the alarm, strip to my jockey shorts, hop in bed and say a silent little pray of thanks that Rob's okay, and then I'm asleep within minutes.
Thursday morning, without a hangover, I get up as soon as the alarm goes off thinking how right Chubby was when he said we don't actually have a summer break. Working is harder than going to college but I might as well embrace the idea because after senior year it'll be all work for my foreseeable future. Damn, it'd be smart to get a job I really like, although most of us won't be that lucky. We'll settle for jobs we don't hate. So far I don't hate my summer job, so I'm grateful for that.
In the shower I'm thinking about Rob's appendicitis and its ramifications. First and foremost, he's fine and he'll be home from the hospital today. So that's the important part for sure, but then there's the less important part where I can't imagine he'll be able to have sex for a while. Maybe a week or longer, although who really knows how long. I mean, that's no big deal, right? Who can't go a week without having sex? It'd be pretty pathetic of us if we considered that a major concern. Sure, Rob and I have established a routine of daily sexual activity but him getting well is the important concern right now. Hell, it's already been more than a day without sex for me and I'm doing fine. Actually this respite might be good in one way. Well, not 'respite' because that infers relief from something difficult or unpleasant and there's nothing remotely difficult or unpleasant about sex. It'll be our short hiatus without sex. Yes, that's a better word for it. Our hiatus without sex might be good for us in that we'll appreciate it that much more when he's well enough for us to engage in sex again. Huh, on the other hand, I can't see where oral sex would necessarily be off the table, so to speak.
Out of the shower, I'm brushing my teeth when the thought crosses my mind that Ray's cookout invitation is for tomorrow night, not that I'm taking him up on it. Just saying that a couple of years ago that would be something I'd take advantage of in this sort of hiatus from sex situation that I'm unexpectedly experiencing. This isn't a couple of years ago however so, like I already told myself, I'm not going to do that. It's called 'maturity' and 'willpower' on my part, which I very well might be experiencing more of than is probably called for in this particular case, but it is what it is.
As I'm getting dressed in dress slacks, a dress-shirt and tie, plus my blue blazer I can't help but think that with Rob bed-ridden for a few days I'm presented with an opportunity to give that Hayden guy a call and maybe have lunch with him this Saturday afternoon. I'm curious about what went on between him, Danny, and Robby in years gone by. Primarily I'd like to double-check that nothing's going on with those three presently. I believed Rob when he said that he hardly, if ever, sees Hayden nowadays but there's still a chance I could find out something I don't know about Rob's and Danny's dalliances. Hayden's an intriguing information opportunity that I'd be a fool to pass up. Strictly for curiosity sake of course because it's recently been openly acknowledged that Rob and Danny are side-sex buddies and I'm okay with that. I'm more than okay with it actually because I like Danny personally and knowing Rob's got a side-sex buddy frees me of any guilt for occasionally having side-sex myself. The word 'occasionally' is appropriate too because for months now it's only been occasionally. Well if one wanted to split-hairs about it I suppose I had a sort of a steady thing going with Pony and John Smith while at Merrimack, but I'm not there now. That's the truth of the matter. Oh well, yeah, I suppose there was that quickie with Sonny yesterday, but that it so quick it hardly counts.
After fussing with my hair for ten minutes I'm finally satisfied with it. Next I look in the refrigerator intending to make lunch and see Mom brought home a couple of roast beef sandwiches from the restaurant. She wrote on the bag, 'For your lunch, sweetheart'. Damn, that was nice of her! Especially considering it would have been P & J sandwiches for me otherwise. After work I need to buy some cold cuts and rolls for future lunches. I'll get the Jeep when Chub's home from work and run over to Stop & Shop. I better type a reminder to myself, so I type: 'stop & shop' into my cellphone and then check my backpack to be sure I've got everything I need. The brochures, computer printout and benefit comparison sheets are all in there, as well as two ballpoint pens and everything thing else I want to bring with me. Hmmm, I take the small Tic Tac container of breath fresheners out of the backpack and put it in my pocket. Carrying my sport coat over my arm with the backpack on my back I stick earphones in my ears and turn on the music... and here I go to save the world.
From force of habit I light a cigarette outside and then begin walking down the steps to Center Street where I take a left at the sidewalk. Stopping ten-feet from the bus stop I glance at mustache-man thinking about the ludicrous-red-mustache on that guy last night. The bus stop mustache-man is already on the bench with his newspaper and then right on schedule here comes fat-ass from the other direction. Well okay, everything's in order and this morning I'm kinda looking forward to seeing my bus-buddy. Oh Jesus though, what's his name? Let me think... oh shit, that's right, it's Ryan. Dammit! Every time I say his name I'll think of the other Ryan. Wow, there's no way I can lie to myself... the sex Ryan Wilcox laid on my ass was hot and awesome and then those fucking haircuts too! Ironic how the haircuts Ryan was giving me are similar to the current trendy hair-style. Not for everyone certainly but I'm seeing more and more young guys with the shaved sides and back of their heads. The difference is the hair on top is left very long in most cases where as Ryan didn't leave my hair long at all. Golden Summers, on the other hand, was the opposite and never cut any hair off the top and.... oh fuck, here comes the bus.
As usual I get on last and drop the fare in the machine and then, trying not to grin, purposely walk right by my bus-buddy and he goes, "Hey." I stop, "Oh, jeez, I almost forgot, Ryan," and I sit next to him and hold out my fist. He bumps it with his small fist, mumbling, "I don't know why I said, "hey' when you walked by." I go, "Isn't it great having a bus-buddy?" He makes a face, muttering, "It's creepy the way you say that, and why are you all dressed-up?" I go, "Yeah, it's a bitch but I learned yesterday I need to wear a coat and tie. Major bummer!" He goes, "Well you are Mr. Businessman after all." I mutter, "It sucks actually," and then, "Jeez, my boyfriend had appendicitis yesterday and he was operated on last night. Have you ever had an operation?" He shrugs, "I've never been in a hospital for anything, but my brother had his appendix removed last year. It's no big deal."
Hmmm, I notice my bus-buddy got himself a haircut yesterday after work. Not the stupid latest trendy kind. He has a shorter version of the haircut style he had before. It's like the haircut Robby gave me, and oh good, his hair looks clean for once too. I go, "Where'd you get your haircut?" He frowns touching his hair, saying, "You're the first guy who's ever asked me that question in my whole life. Guys don't talk about each other getting a fucking haircut! And now you've made me feel self-conscious." I go, "Of course guys talk about haircuts!" He goes, "Queer guys maybe." I'd like to hug the shit outta this cute little mother-fucker and get him sitting on my lap. Instead I say, "Straight guys too. Guys care about their hair. How long have you had that hairstyle?" and I go to touch his hair but he pulls his head away, saying, "Don't touch. We're bus-buddies who don't touch." So naturally I poke him in his ribs and stomach and then squeeze the back of his neck before turning-up the song that's playing in my earphones, 'Moroon 5's' Don't Wanna Know, and hold the left earphone near his ear. He covers his mouth with a hand and barks out a laugh.
As I'm putting my earphone back in my ear, he asks, "How can you be so, um, chipper first thing in the morning?" I go, "I didn't realize I was chipper. Do you have a girlfriend?" He makes a 'face', saying, "What'd I tell you yesterday morning?" I shrug and he goes, "I'm shy to a retarded-degree so how the fuck could I have a girlfriend?" I go, "I don't know. Have you thought about a boyfriend perhaps?" He goes, "I'm beginning to think you actually are gay, and no, I've never thought about a boyfriend. I'm straight and anyway, don't talk about personal shit like that. It's embarrassing and none of your business in the first place." I ask, "Did you get chills when I squeezed the back of your neck?" He frowns muttering, "Yeah, I did, why?" I shrug, "Just wondered."
He has a pretty face and with him looking so neat now with his clean hair freshly cut and all, well it's a fucking shame he isn't gay. I mean, shy or not he wouldn't need to worry about a boyfriend because gay guys would be hitting on him and he'd have his pick of the litter, so to speak. I go, "So, where'd you get your haircut?" He shakes his head slowly, and then mutters, "No more haircut talk. It's boring." So I don't say anything and thirty-seconds later he looks at me and mumbles, "The 'Friendly Barbershop' across from the old fire station." I'm like, "Downtown Framingham, huh?" He pats the hair on top of his head, mumbling, "I'm almost afraid to ask, but is there some reason you wanted to know that?" I click-off my cellphone music and hang the earphones around my neck, and then say, "I was curious because it doesn't look like a Supercuts' special." He says, "Yeah, well I don't go there now that my Mother stopped taking me for haircuts." I'm like, "Oh yeah, when was that, when you graduated high school?" He covers his mouth and laughs, then mumbles, "You asshole! She stopped taking me when I was like nine or ten. In case you don't know, Super Cuts is mostly for women and little kids. And, damn, this is the longest conversation I've ever had about haircuts in my life!" It's worked so well every time I try it before, so again I don't say anything for a minute or so, just kinda glancing at Ryan once or twice.
He looks out the window and then glances at me and then looks out the window again, and finally asks, "Okay, I'll ask. Where do you get your haircut? It's the same haircut I have, right?" I say, "My boyfriend cuts my hair and yeah, it's the same style as yours." He goes, "Really, you have a boyfriend? Are you bull-shitting me again or are you really gay?" I say, "I'm gay, can't you tell?" He shakes his head, "No, and I still don't believe you." Putting my arm across his shoulders I hug him against my side, grinning in his face. He laughs pulling away, saying, "Okay, I believe you already!" I go, "And I give my boyfriend haircuts too. Hey, why don't I do your next haircut for you... for free." He looks straight ahead, mumbling, "I've never met anyone like you before in my life. Um, you don't seem especially dangerous, but some of the shit you say... jeeezus!" I go, "I'm the least dangerous person you know." He goes, "How come you didn't tell me about giving me a free haircut yesterday. I could have saved twenty-one bucks." I go, "I didn't know you well enough to offer that yesterday," and he laughs again before saying, "You know me well enough now though, is that it?" I go, "Sure, I feel we've really bonded, especially the past eight-minutes. Where do you live?" He says, "I told you; with my parents." I go, "Yes, but where exactly. I might come around and stalk you." He says, "I thought you weren't dangerous," and I smile at him without saying anything. After a minute of silence, he goes, "Rosewood Street. 2045 Rosewood Street near the golf course." I nod, "Nice neighborhood," and he starts getting up mumbling, "Maybe I lied about the address, but our stop is coming up."
We stand and slide into the aisle with me letting Ryan get in front of me. The top of his perfectly shaped head comes to halfway up my forehead, which means he's about five-foot-eight-inches tall. As we shuffle towards the front of the bus following five or six people who get off at our stop, I put my hand on his shoulder and lean my head over to say in his ear, "Being bus-buddies makes the bus ride fly by." He turns his head to say, "You're creeping me out again." When we're off the bus he takes a step away and then stops and says, "Actually you weren't creeping me out. I'm sorry I said that. You're funny, and yes, it's good having a bus-buddy even though that sounds wicked gay." I ask, "What bus do you take home?" and he goes, "I get a ride home with my Mom. She has a part-time job at Whole Foods starting at noon. She gets off work the same time I do." I go, "Oh," and pat his shoulder saying, "Nice haircut, Ryan." He grins shaking his head slowly again as I turn and walk up the sidewalk smiling to myself. He calls after me, "I'm taking you up on your offer of a free haircut next time," and I wave at him giving him a smile. Oh man, he's so fucking cute and innocent! Screwing around with him makes the bus ride fun, plus I still get my bus-boner every morning too.
Ryan put me in a good mood to start the day. In the office, after dropping off my backpack, I put my lunch in the Human Resources' refrigerator. The same blonde-headed girl that's bothered me every morning so far comes right over to me and this morning she has a three-by-five card Scotch-taped to her blouse with EILEEN written on it in magic marker. I smile, "G'morning, Eileen," and she says, "You remembered my name! That's so sweet of you, Dylan," and she makes me a cup of coffee, saying, "I'm using a dark roast coffee this morning because you'll need to be alert. I'm the first one you'll interview today and I have lots of questions about my benefits, after which we can talk about any benefits I can provide you." Before I can say anything she adds, "Cream and sugar, right?" I shrug and she adds cream and sugar and then picks-up a donut, saying, "A strawberry-frosted donut with sprinkles should go good with this strong coffee." She hands both to me and now I'm standing here holding a coffee in one hand and a napkin with the donut on it in the other hand. With her face way too close to mine, Eileen straightens the knot of my tie, saying, "My goodness you look handsome this morning."
The supervisor lady says, "Okay, you've had your fun, Eileen, leave Dylan alone now," and then she asks me, "What time do you want me to start sending the girls over?" I go, "Um, nine o'clock. I need to have a morning meeting with Carl first." She nods her head smiling as someone mutters, "If Carl even gets here by nine o'clock." Starting time is eight-thirty. As I walk toward the door Mary Dulse comes over to whisper, "My husband approves of all the benefit improvement, so it's okay for you to turn-in the card I signed." Ha, I turned that in to Dottie last night. Mary's the only person who gave me some shit about signing the card. I go, "Oh good, Mary. I'll do that." Hey, I even remembered her name!
At my, um, work station I eat my donut and drink my coffee wondering what it'd be like if I were straight. Would I have as many girlfriends as Chubby always seems to have? Probably not because I don't have his easy banter with girls. Girls can still get me flustered although I'm better with that than I used to be. Mostly I'm good at talking with certain guys, like bus-boy or Pony, for example. They're fun and easy to talk to. I believe bus-boy's still a virgin but then many nineteen-year-old guys are virgins no matter if their straight or gay. I'm the anomaly thanks to fat Carl. What would have happened to my sex life if not for him? Would I have had the balls to have that first kiss with Robby four years ago? Back then we were both as shy as my bus-buddy claims to be. Yeah but it would have eventually happened for Robby and me, just not as quickly. Damn, we'd have wasted that precious time; that first-love precious time together.
Interrupting my musings, Carl comes rushing in dropping some papers on his desk, "G'morning, Dylan. Where's your suit coat?" I point to it hanging on the back of my chair and he says, "Put it on, please," and then, "I'll be right back," and he rushes off. Balls, that's irritating! I get up and put the sport jacket on and then, further irritating me, Carl comes rushing back slurping on his coffee. He mutters, "Damn, that's hot," and then takes a ginormous bite of his glazed donut and chews with his mouth open. Pulling a chair over opposite me at my work station, he talks with his mouth full, "I've got a copy of the employee printout you're working from." Tiny flecks of saliva-wet donut fly out of his mouth as I avert my head and he continues, "So I'll put a check next to the employees you interviewed yesterday. How'd it go, by the way? Any problems?" I mutter, "Fine. It went fine," and he takes a long slurp of coffee and then moves papers around in front of him coming up with the printout. With a needle stabbing the back of my head where it meets my neck, I winch as I'm telling him the names of the five employees I met with yesterday. He goes, "Only five?" and I say, "I didn't start until almost two o'clock." "Slurrrrrrrrp," and then, "Oh, I guess that's okay then. What did Dottie say about my comparison sheets?" I lie, "She loved the comparison sheets only tinkering with one or two of the items on it." Actually she re-did about a third of every sheet in the folder and had the revised sheets printed-out, throwing Carl's in the trash.
Carl's cellphone rings and, as he takes it out of his pocket, he says, "Okay, get to it kiddo and remember you're representing me. Text me when you're done for the day, okay?" Nodding at him I carry my backpack to the little meeting room and try to prepare myself for Eileen. She comes bopping in at exactly nine o'clock. Before I can say anything she sits down and goes, "Oooh, it's just the two of us," and, with her elbows on the table she leans forward as I pull my head back. Smiling at me she says, "Can you believe my boss, Kay Bloomsberg, said I'm not to waste your time flirting with you. Would you tell on me if I flirted just a little bit?" I go, "Yes, I would," and she goes, "No you wouldn't," and I go, "You're right, I wouldn't." She says, "Like I said earlier, you look especially handsome today, Dylan. Anyway, what I want to know first of all, are you really twenty-one like I heard?" I go, "Yes, I really am twenty-one." She wiggles in the chair, saying, "Good, do you think we could have a drink after work at the Route 9 Tavern some night? It's only a two-minute drive from here." I say, "Sure we could, but not this week because I need to look in on a sick friend." She goes, "Not a girlfriend though, right?" I go, "No, not a girlfriend. Okay, getting down to business here. Um, I'm supposed to introduce myself and be friendly." She says, "You're doing the friendly part really well and you don't need to introduce yourself."
Other than that, I go through the changes without a problem and Eileen signs the card, saying, "You know what I'm going to do, Dylan? I'm going to drop a note in the suggestion box saying what a wonderful job you did explaining everything and that you should be hired full time as an, um, explainer of things." I'm checking the printout, mumbling, "Yeah, thank you. Um, ask Carla Mann if she'd come over next, please." She gets up and says, "I'll be glad too. Bye, Dylan. See you in the morning." I smile, "Pick out a good coffee for me tomorrow." She waves at me as off she goes. I go through the last three clerks in that department. All of them with pimped-up job titles. They're all 'Administrators' or 'Assistants' of one type or another. No more secretaries or clerks working in the business world.
The last interview from that department is the supervisor, Kay-somebody. She's nice enough but all business and it takes less than fifteen minutes before she signs the card, saying, "Bill Baxter won't do the interview here. He'll expects you in his office, as most of the VP's will. I told him you'd be up at eleven-thirty." I go, "Fine. He's on the second floor, right?" She nods, "Yes, and you're doing very well, Dylan." I thank her and as she leaves I get up and put my sport coat on although I still have a half-hour to kill before meeting with Bill Baxter.
Pacing in the room, feeling nervous again, I tell myself to get over it. Who's he but some guy with a title. If Bill Baxter was a supply room guy would I be nervous? No! Still, it's good I did the ten or actually it's twelve presentations so far, counting Carl's and Dottie's. Now I feel very comfortable about what to say. So why worry about doing it for the VP's? Oh hell, it's probably a good idea to at least check myself out in the men's room, and take a piss while I'm at it.
I'm taking my piss in a toilet stall, this time without anyone joining me in the lavatory until I'm at the sink washing my hands. A young-looking guy with a tight buzz-cut comes in and goes to the urinal closest to the sinks. He's pissing as I'm drying my hands and purposely not glancing in his direction. He's one of those guys who stands back from the urinal so his dick is in plain sight for anyone who's interested in seeing it. I'm interested but use my willpower not to even glance over. Still pissing, he looks at me, and asks, "You're the guy with the new benefits, right?" My first reaction to almost anything is to smile so I smile taking only a quick glance in his general direction, saying, "Yes, I'm Dylan Newman. How ya doing?" He steps back further from the urinal and shakes his long penis. Well okay, I did see it because it was impossible not to when I glanced over for half-a-second. Pulling up his zipper, he goes, "I'm doing a good as can be expected considering I'm stuck in that fucking mailroom all day. When will you be interviewing the mailroom guys? I'm Marty West, by the way. The mailroom supervisor," and he holds out his hand. I shake it feeling a couple of pee drips on his fingers, as I mumble, "Nice to meet you. Um, I don't really know when I'll be doing the mailroom personnel. It's all on a printout sheet I'm supposed to follow." He's staring and smirking at me so I add, "I can look it up on the printout if you want to come to the room I'm working out of." He pats my shoulder, saying, "Nah, us mailroom guys will probably be last as usual," and just like that, without washing his hands, he leaves. Hmmm, I try looking at my shoulder in the mirror to see if there's a wet pee spot but don't see one. Then I re-wash my hands shaking my head at that weird experience. Shaking hands with a guy who peed on his fingers is a new one for me. I wonder if he did it on purpose...?
Combing my hair down and towards the front on top and the bangs slightly up in front, and then patting down the bangs a little, I'm thinking this haircut is good for me this summer. Sure, there have been some remarks about how the fuck old I am, but only a few. Back in the meeting room I sit and think about Robby and wonder how he's doing. Well hell, I'll text him. 'Hey Rob, how are you? Still in the hospital? I'm on a short break here at the coal mines.' Staring at my cellphone I see my text is delivered but not read. He probably doesn't even know where his cellphone is right now. He's got other things on his mind. A minor surgery perhaps but anytime someone cuts into your body you're going to be sore for sure. Poor guy, and then I hear my cellphone ring. What the fuck? Looking at my cellphone again I see it's not Robby. It's Vinnie, um, DeMarco I think is his last name. It just shows 'Vinnie' on his caller ID. I wonder how you do that? Just show your first name I mean. Anyway I think it's the Vinnie who's Dodger's boyfriend. Or he used to be anyway. I haven't seen him for like a year-and-a-half. I go, "Hey, Vinnie! How ya been?" He says, "I've been at Cal-tech for my freshmen year; that's how I've been. How you been, Dylan?" I go, "Um, I'm good, really good. You got in the California Institute of Technology?" He goes, "Yeah, but with only a partial scholarship." Jesus, that's the hardest university in America to get accepted at, and with a scholarship no less.
Vinnie's called me only once or twice in his whole life so Dodger obviously has something to do with this call. Vinnie's blunt, asking, "What are you doing right now?" I say, "I'm at my summer job right now, Vinnie. I just finished my junior year at Merrimack and then I went right to work here at...." He interrupts, "Dodger said you're probably still giving haircuts, so are you?" He's never been much for small-talk. He gets right to the point. I go, "Yeah. I guess since Dodger's..." and he interrupts again, "Would it be okay if I come over for a haircut?" I go, "Well yeah except I don't get home from work until..." and he goes, "Thanks. I'll see you around six." I go, "Yeah, okay if..." but he's hit 'end' on his cellphone already. I have to laugh out loud, and then I'm like... whoa, wait a minute, Vinnie's got himself a big cock and he uses it like Dodger uses his smaller one, which is to say roughly. Oh man, now I'm getting a little excited. Just think, I might not need to break my record of three days without sex. That's not counting the seventeen years I went without it to start with. Or am I getting ahead of myself? Vinnie wouldn't think to fuck me unless Dodger told him it was alright, so he's been talking to Dodger which is no shocker, but did the topic of sex come up I wonder? Dammit all though, I wish Vinnie waited until Dodger got home. We've had a couple of three three-ways; Dodger, Vinnie, and me that were off the fucking chart! Yeah, but that was a long time ago and things change.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, I'm like, 'Oh shit!' It's eleven-thirty and I should be knocking on that Baxter guy's office door right now. Bringing the paperwork I need, I hustle up to the second floor going the way Dottie showed me yesterday. It's direct and takes me no more than two-minutes to be at Rob's and big-mouth, Max's, office. No one is in there though and I continue down the corridor looking for the name Bill Baxter on the door. Ha, he's only two doors down so, assuming the nearer to the CEO's office the higher ranking VP you are, Bill ain't very high on the organizational chart.
I glance in the open door and see Bill talking to two men. He sees me and says, "Give me two-minutes to finish up here, Devon." I nod and walk away from the door to lean against the wall. Devon, huh? The Human Resources VP isn't real sharp with names. He isn't real sharp with time either because it's at least ten-minutes, not two like he said, before the men are walking out of the office. I appear at the door again seeing Bill typing on a computer. I'm left standing here with my, um, paperwork in my hand. Time ticks by and it's getting awkward because I feel I need to clear my throat for real, but that would be interpreted as getting his attention which is too corny for words so I resist coughing. He finally looks up and motions with his hand for me to come in. Great, I can finally clear my throat and then give him a smile.
The smile didn't have much effect because he doesn't ask me to sit down, but instead says, "Let me just sign the card. I know the benefit changes. Hell, I made the changes." Well fuck you! I pull a chair up to his desk and sit down, saying, "It'll only take a couple of minutes of your time for me to go over the highlights of the changes and then I can honestly attest that I made the presentation. It was made quite clear to me that I mustn't take shortcuts with this important information." He looks at his watch, and sort of whines, "I've got a lunch engagement two-minutes ago!" Tough shit, Bill! You should have organized your time better. I don't say that, but I do push the folder containing the sheets highlighting the changes towards Bill so he can read them. I'm looking at them upside-down now but know it all by heart and point to change one with my ballpoint pen, saying, "I'm Dylan, by the way, not Devon. This first change increases..." and I do the presentation in less than ten-minutes with Bill Baxter glaring at me instead of the presentation folder in front of him. I cover every point and then put the signature card in front of him, saying, "If there are no questions please sign that you've had the changes explained to you and you understand them fully." He does one last 'glare' at me and then scribbles his signature, asking, "Who did you say hired you?" I go, "Robert," and he mutters, "Oh yeah, that's right."
After collecting the card and change-sheets, I push the brochure across the desk, saying, "You'll get one of these brochures in the mail too, but here's one for you to read now if you'd like." He snorts out a laugh and then says, "Thank you, Dylan, but I've already read it. As a matter of fact I wrote it." I'm getting up holding out my hand, saying, "Thank you for your time." He grins as he shakes my hand, and then holds onto it, saying, "You're alright, Dylan, but I am late for something," and he leaves me zippering-up Carl's silly imitation-leather, um, whatever this kind of satchel is called.
Walking out of the office I see Bill trotting down the corridor. Huh, a little late for his lunch appointment. Well it's my lunchtime too. After getting my lunch from the office refrigerator I eat it alone at my 'work station' in case Carl shows up. He doesn't though and at one o'clock the first of the fifty-one Accounting Department employees, all with pimped-up job titles, will be showing up at my door. Job titles like: Accounts Collector Administrator, Financial Assistant Administrator, Material Recorder Assistant and so on. As I noticed earlier there are no clerks in this company. Someone named, Bud White, walks in as I'm reading a text from Rob that says: 'Hey, babe! I'm home and very sore. Hope I can see you tonight. Love you. Rob!' Ooh, that's so sweet.
Looking up and smiling at Bud I see another strange looking dude. Aren't there any cool or cute guys working for this fucking company? I mean except for Rob and me? Heh heh. This dude has a big nose and he's wearing a short sleeve shirt of some miracle stretch-fabric that outlines tightly his large pot belly. There's a pocket protector in the pocket too. Bud also has pronounced buck teeth so he's quite a sight. I stand, trying not to laugh, saying "Hi, Bud! Have a seat. I'm Dylan Newman and blah, blah, blah... I get through Bud's and seven other employees before calling a halt to the proceedings at four o'clock because I want to catch the early bus. Due to my unique job situation, I've decided to make some advantageous decisions on my own, like leaving work a half-hour early. Taking my time getting to the bus stop I then text Carl that I'm getting ready to leave work and I get a thumbs-up emoticon from him. Idiot!
I get the four-twenty bus and when home change into jeans and a t-shirt and have a smoke on the balcony. Feeling only slightly guilty for leaving work early, I go downstairs to clean-up the barber area in the basement. Hmmm, I can't decide if I expect some Vinnie-sex or not, or if I want it or not. That quick sex with Sonny yesterday is the only side-sex I've had all week and there isn't any projected side-sex, or sex with Rob for that matter, for the next week to ten days. Taking that into consideration I guess I'll be receptive to do it with Vinnie, but only if he suggests it.
There's a knock on the front door at ten-of-six. I open it and I know it's Vinnie but only because I'm expecting him. If I saw him on the street I might not have recognized him. He used to have a kind of cuteness to him but he's lost it over the last eighteen months or so and now looks older than I know he is. He has the generic looks of an Italian young man with a two day stubble of beard. I say 'Italian' because he's swarthy completed with dark-brown, almost black, hair. He's still kinda nice-looking I guess, but not cute at all. Never one to do a lot of smiling, Vinnie's not smiling now as he says, "Nice to see you again, Dylan. You haven't changed a bit." I go, "Hi Vinnie, good to see you too." No hug 'hello' or anything as he walks in and looks around. I ask, "Whaddaya hear from Dodger?" He shrugs, "He'll be home next week. He's in Vegas with that hick he's been fucking the be jesus out of for almost a year now." I shrug, mumbling, "Oh," not sure if Vinnie's upset about that or not. He doesn't seem to be. He said it like he was commenting on the weather. Curious, I ask, "You don't mind Dodger's, um..." and Vinnie goes, "Dodger fucking his hick? No, I met Josh when Dodger brought him home with him a while ago. He's harmless and chock full of inaniloquent utterances." Whatever the fuck that means.
I gesture toward the door to the basement, saying, "Shall we go downstairs and get on with your haircut?" He nods, "Yeah, thanks. I meant to get a haircut before leaving Pasadena but it didn't work out, and Dodger said to call you." Going down the steps, I'm like, "I'm glad you did. Um, is that where Cal-tech is located, Pasadena?" He nods, "Yeah, it's about eleven-miles from L. A." Just to say something, I go, "That's a really tough university to get into, huh?" He says, "I guess. There's something like a nine-percent admission rate for those applying, but it's $75 for the application so they must make-out pretty damn good with that." He starts to take off his shirt and I go, "Not necessary, Vinnie. I'm moving up in the world," and hold up the barber cape. He goes, "Aah, you're a chirotonsor with a cape now. Way to go, Dylan." A long time ago I gave up asking what some of the words Vinnie spouts out mean. He can't help himself.
He sits on the stool and I drop the cape around him, asking, "What's your major?" He mutters, "Mechanical Engineering." I go, Is Cal Tech a party school?" He glances at me, asking, "Are you for real? No it's far from a party university. Cal-tech's very small, ya know. Most people don't realize that." I never gave it a thought actually 'cause I don't give a fuck. Just making conversation. Vinnie has a regular haircut style that I'm guessing was last cut two months ago. His hair's grown over the tops of his ears and even though his hair's fairly long, I'm strangely not very interested in doing this haircut for him. I guess it's because he's so mature-looking. I mean, I'll do it but I'm not excited about it and I'm not even mentioning a shampoo.
Vinnie's about a tall as Chubby but he's gotten a lot stockier since the last time I saw him. He's one of those guys I often refer to as someone who could be thirty just as easily as nineteen-going-on-twenty, which is Vinnie's age now, or it will be shortly. None of his advanced aging is his fault of course; it's in the mixed genes he got from his parents. There's no expression on his face and, damn, it's odd seeing him with beard stubble pretty much over the entire beard area on his face.
Combing through his thick hair, I ask, "Do you want a regular haircut? That's what it looks like you got last time at the barbershop." He says, "I guess you'd call it a regular haircut but make it short like they get in the Army. Not basic training short, but an Army-short regular haircut, if you know what that means." I go, "Yeah, I know what it means," although after basic training I don't believe the haircuts are noticeably shorter than normal regular haircuts. Anyway, that was a little more like Vinnie of old; wanting to please his idol, Dodger, by getting what he perceives is an Army haircut. I put a quarter-inch guide on the clippers and ask, "Do you and Dodger stay in touch on a regular basis?" He says, "We text a couple times a day." Still in love I guess. Dodger's always treated Vinnie special but I think the love affair is an unrequited one as far as Vinnie's concerned, not that that ever seemed to bother him.
Before I start I see Vinnie's arms moving under the cape and he comes out with a cigarette and a Bic lighter, muttering, "I can't quit this fucking habit," and lights the cigarette. I'm like, "Um, I prefer if you didn't smoke in here," and he says, "Get that fan like you do for Dodger." Oh fuck! I mumble, "It's in storage," and he shrugs, saying, "You'd get it out for Dodger, so..." Blowing out my cheeks, exhaling exaggeratedly, I figure it's easier to get it out than argue about it. Without further comment I walk to the storage area that's under the steps as Vinnie says, "Thanks, I appreciate it." He used to be entertaining with his lack of social graces, his cluelessness, his intelligent brainiac self, although without an ounce of common sense. Now that he's not cute anymore though, it's not as entertaining. The fan is right inside the storage area door so it's no problem. I take it out and plug it in pointing it at the cellar door. When I open the door the smoke drifts into the garage. Vinnie has always imitated what Dodger does which reminds me of old times. Plus, if I allow myself to be in the right frame of mind, the way Vinnie just expects to have his way is something that's been known to give my dick a little submissive buzz.
Picking up the clippers, but before I turn them on, Vinnie says, "Ya got something I can use as an ashtray?" I go, "Just flick the ashes on the tile floor. I'll sweep them up with the hair." He goes, "Cool." and I turn the clippers on. It usually gives me a bit of a sexual thrill cutting someone's hair very short and since Vinnie asked for it I'm happy to accommodate him. As a matter of fact, the quarter-inch guide isn't what I want. I switch to an eight-inch guide because him smoking in here pissed me off a little. I use the clippers halfway up the sides and back of his head with lots and lots of dark hair falling off the clipper blades. When I've done around the sides and back of his head it looks shaved compared to the longish hair above this first cut and, okay, my dick does a flip or two in my pants. Yeah, this is more like it.
Next, using the bare clippers over comb method, I blend in the long hair down to the very short hairs with big piles of hair falling away from the clippers. It gets my fetish noticing it after all. I'm giving Vinnie a very short haircut. He's smoked the cigarette down to the filter and as I'm picking up the thinning shears that Robby's made a mainstay for my haircuts, Vinnie holds out the butt to me. Of all the fucking nerve! After giving him a 'look' I take the butt and drop it on the tile floor. He mutters, "Thanks," then he cranes his head around to look at me with a concerned expression on his face, asking, "Um, is anything wrong, Dylan?" I shake my head, "No, why do you ask, Vinnie?" See he doesn't know any better and it tugs at my heart a little that he doesn't. I've always liked him okay so I pat his shoulders saying, "It's really good to see you, Vinnie." He says, "Thanks, you too."
I begin reducing his thick longish hair on top with the thinning shears, "Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch." Vinnie doesn't realize he's been a tad obnoxious and, like I said, I basically like him so I give him a pass on his behavior. I go through his hair on the top of his head with the thinning shears for a couple of minutes and then use regular scissors to cut the few remaining longer hairs down to about an inch-and-a-half in length and then comb his bangs down and cut across his forehead leaving the bangs about an inch long. His hair is long enough to lay flat, but just barely. I should have cut the hairs at the crown short so they stick up like Robby does for my haircuts.
Vinnie has nothing to say during the haircut, just watched most of his hair accumulating into a big pile on the cape at his lap. Lots of it on the floor around him as well. As I'm using the trimming clippers to outline around and behind his ears Vinnie lights another cigarette. Stepping back to look at the finish haircut I'm thinking, this is a perfectly good haircut. In the business it's called a short tapered haircut. With the cigarette between his teeth Vinnie takes the handheld mirror I pass to him and checks himself out saying, "Good. Just what I had in mind, Dylan. You're a better barber than those clowns in Pasadena." Huh, he's pleased, so now I find I'm not pissed-off at him anymore. I enjoyed cutting his hair wicked short. I take the cape off him and, as he unbuckles the belt holding up his khakis, and says, "How about if you drop your pants now and lean over with your hands on that stool. The one I just got off of." I give him a bewildered 'look' and he says, "Yeah, Dodger would be disappointed if we didn't have a fuck together, don't ya think?" He says that very matter of factly and without any doubt I'll go along with him; his pants and underpants around his knees with his long cock hanging there threateningly. The haircut gave me a boner that was going down quickly until he said that. I go, "Can't disappoint Dodger," and drop my jeans to my knees too while mentioning, "There's lube in the bathroom over there," pointing at the door to the half-bath. Vinnie mutters, "Lube is for pussies, Dylan, and you've never been a pussy."
He's stroking his big cock. A cock almost as big as Ray's but without the mushroom head. I gulp as my asshole quivers with anticipation. It's obvious to me that I'm never going to outgrow my love of getting fucked up my ass and I really like it when it happens like this. Two guys, who both know the score, fucking together simply to get their rocks off without any complications or hesitation. Pure buddy-sex. Vinnie smacks my bare ass hard, "SMACK! SMACK!" I grunt, "Ooh!" as my cock tightens up again. Damn, this is hot! He rubs the head of his cock up my ass crack a few times without saying anything, and then roughly pushes at the back of my head, sternly saying, "I want you to keep your ass up and your head down," and he follows that with a couple of harder ass slaps as, "SMACK! SMACK!" sounds rings out in the cellar. I almost put my hand back there because he smacks really hard and it stings like mad already.
He continues rubbing his cock on my ass as I'm leaning over supporting myself by holding onto the barbering stool's seat. I can feel his cock boning-up against my ass cheeks and then when he drags it up my ass crack again I think he's going to plug it in, but he doesn't. He's getting me hot and aroused though, and building anticipation for getting fucked hard. I'd like to ask him if he has a fuck-buddy in Pasadena but somehow from the routine way he's going about this he must have had one. Then another hard spanking, "SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!" to remind me who's in-charge here and I drop my head a little pushing up my ass some more.
I gotta say that Dodger's taught Vinnie how to stay in charge very well. Actually I like the way Vinnie's going about this. Satisfied I acknowledge he's in-charge he does more casual rubbing of his cock on my ass and then he forces his finger inside me lifting up and I go up on my toes. He lets up on the pressured and I drop down on my feet moaning quietly, "Mmmm," as Vinnie rubs my prostate until I'm going, "Vinnie, oooh, ooh, no Vinnie, aaah.". He murmurs, "Jesus, that got me hard. I'd forgotten what a pretty ass you have." I'm squirming and trying to hold back the cum. He goes, "Oh man, I can't wait for Dodger and me to do you together." He plugs in the head of his cock and my back arches as I hold my breath at the pain. I know it won't last, and to me, the pain's a thrilling precursor to what comes next.
He pulls the head of his boner out of my ass leaving the lips around my asshole quivering and then I grunt, "Ugh!" as he humps the head back in. Vinnie grunts now as an inch of his cock's hard shaft slides in tightly with the help of his pre-cum, and then he whacks the side of my ass, "SMACK! SMACK!" before grunting, "Humph," thrusting his boner three-inches up my ass. I groan and squirm and get another stinging, "SMACK!" followed by another hard thrust with me crying out, "Oooh, ooow!" Vinnie expects that it's gonna hurt me initially so my bitching about it either gets ignored or he'll whack my ass harder. It's all about his sexual pleasure, any pleasure I might eventually feel is of no concern of his. That's how he interpreted that Dodger has sex, although he's wrong about that. Dodger isn't as cold-hearted as Vinnie. For pure sex of the buddy-sex variety though, I actually prefer Vinnie's approach to it. It's not for most maybe, but I like being roughly dominated during sex. And why is that? I don't have a fucking clue; I just do.
Vinnie pulls back about three inches of his boner and it hurts so good my back arches again and then he drives it right back up my ass. It goes all the way up this time: up, up, up, until his groin is flat against my buttocks, "Slap." Then, leaving his prodigious eight-inches of hard cock up my ass Vinnie leans against me and, in a conversational voice, says, "Get your head down like I told you, Dylan, and spread your legs more." I do that feeling a surprisingly strong submissive sense draping over me. Vinnie mutters, "Keep your ass up too. C'mon, do what you're told." Oh gawd he's really good at this and I grin at the delicious submissive trance that's developing in my head.
Satisfied I've followed his instructions Vinnie humps against my butt cheeks and then reinforces his dominance by leaning over me and roughly pushes the back of my head, saying, "What'd I just tell you? Keep your fucking head down," and he pushes my head until my face is within a couple of inches of the stool's seat. Holding my head down like that he does a five-inch withdrawal and then rams his boner right back up my ass, saying," Fucking you is as hot as I remember. I'll warm your ass up for Dodger." Not wanting to lose this gooey submissive sense I just nod my head in obedience and hold my breath, again absorbing the pain and liking it a lot. It's been less than a minute from when he humped the head of his big boner inside me so my rectum is still adjusting to the intrusion. I really don't want to do this, but can't help grunting out, "It still hurts. Give me a second." He snickers which increases my submissive sense knowing Vinnie doesn't give a shit if it hurts a little or not; it's supposed to hurt, numb-nuts! He doesn't bother saying the obvious though and it's all good by me. Anyway the pain begins fading quickly as my rectum adjust and then a spike of pure pleasure from around my asshole takes me by surprise and I go, "Ooooh, mmmm, oooh yeah, Vinnie." He goes, "You're liking my cock now, huh?"
Vinnie's boner is all the way up my ass with him standing up straight taking a drag off his second cigarette. He humps against my buttocks exhaling a cloud of smoke that drifts over my head, as he's casually asking, "You still going with that guy, um, Jeff, was it?" I shake my head, "No, Jeff is my brother, but I'm still going with Rob, Dodger's brother." "SMACK! SMACK!" on the side of my ass and I go, "Ow! Goddammit that stings." Ignoring that, he says, "Oh yeah. Shit, I forgot he's Dodger's brother. We're all one big happy family, huh?" I grunt, "Uh huh," hoping he's done talking. He finally pulls his cock back almost all the way out. The swollen collar at the bottom of his hard boner's head is caught by the tight anus lips of my rectum and it feels so good! It's like a terrible itch being scratched perfectly.
After a delicious momentary pause Vinnie rams his hard boner right back up my ass, "Slap!" as his body smacks against my buttocks pushing me and the stool an inch or so forward. More smoke drifts over my head as he drops the cigarette butt and grabs my hips. Two more deliberate withdrawals and hard thrust back in and then it's the kind of hard fast fucking I really like, "Slapslapslap,' sounds ring out in the basement and are quickly joined by my moans, "Um, um, um, fuck me, oooh!" Five delicious minutes of sexual pleasure that has me moaning and not even caring how pathetic I sound. My moaning at this hard fucking adds to my pleasure and I don't think I could stop doing it even if I wanted to. Once he gets going Vinnie is a non-stop fucker who wants one thing only and that's to experience his climax. He doesn't give a rat's ass about my orgasm; just his, and there's a dominant element to that that appeals to me greatly during buddy-sex. That's how it's supposed to be done.
"Slapslapslap," and now he's also grunting and groaning with each tantalizing trip his super sensitive hard penis makes up my tight ass. In my mind I can visualize that wet fat long cock of his, the swollen head leading the way as it's thrust up my ass spreading the walls of my rectum creating immense pleasure by igniting millions of nerve endings as it squeezes up with constant moving pressure on my prostate. My prostate is incredibly sensitized and pleasure sensations constantly pour off that lovely gland joining the millions of pleasure sensations coming from around my anus. The lips of my asshole are alive with pleasure that can't be described.
My orgasm is now building too fast though and I can't stop it so I'm squirming and moaning, "Ah, ah, ah," and then say his name, "Oooh, ummm, Vinnie, harder, oooh, ooh. Fuck that ass.. oooh!" He pushes the back of my head down again as I hold onto the rim of the stool's seat with both hands and his thrusting continues moving the stool forward a bit with each hump up my ass and then my climax is on me and my body gets stiff as a board as I go, "Ooh," and then "Eeeeiii," as cum flies from my cock shooting under the seat of the stool hitting the front of the washing machine followed by another long stream of cum. My eyes squeeze closed with enormous pleasure soaring all around my groin and spreading over me and then a weak, Ooooh," as I go limp and take a hand off the stool to stroke my quivering cock. Vinnie grunts and breaths noisily as he wraps both arms around my chest pulling me up abruptly against his chest humping against my butt cheeks making a low whining noise as I feel his stream of cum hit off my bowels and then additional humping without withdrawing as he fills me up with his creamy warm cum.
Then it's a long sigh from Vinnie and he lets go of me stepping back pulling out his pecker as I go, "Oooh, ummm," with the lips of my anus grabbing at air. Vinnie doesn't care as he gasps and pats my shoulder, murmuring, "Good, that was good." We both do some deep breathing and with one last deep breath Vinnie says, "C'mon in the bathroom and I'll help clean some of that spunk that's running out of your ass."
In the half-bath, he says, "Like old times, huh, Dylan? Better when Dodger's with us but that was a good fuck, don'cha think?" See, 'tops' want compliments. I say, "Awesome random sex, Vinnie. I kinda needed that because Rob had his appendix removed last night and he'll be out of action for a while." Not caring about that, Vinnie has no comment as he wipes my ass a few times with toilet paper, merely a cursory attempt to help, and then he sits on the toilet seat lid wiping his dick, saying, "Glad to help out anytime. My guy at the university, Whitehead, Paul Whitehead, who I won't likely see again until the fall semester, has a good ass on him too. It's a little flatter than yours, but it's tight and it's a pretty damn good asshole." I go, "He's your fuck-buddy at college?" Vinnie says, "Yeah, my roommate. Well, he's my third roommate. We switched around getting gay guys and straight in the same room. My first gay roommate was a dud, but Paulie is a damn good fuck, not as good as you, but damn good." That's as many compliments from Vinnie as I heard the entire rest of the times I've fucked with him. He usually says very little when Dodger's with us.
He's cleaned-up enough to put his dick away and he pulls his pants up, saying a casual, "Thanks for the haircut. I suppose I'll be seeing you with Dodger next time." I'm sticking a wad of toilet paper in my underpants, mumbling, "Yeah, I'm anxious to see Dodger. Hey, do you think he's changed? His brother says he has." We walk back into the basement where Vinnie's looking at his hair in the handheld mirror again, muttering, "His brother thinks Dodger's changed?" I nod, "Yeah, but he hasn't said how he's changed." Putting down the mirror, he shrugs, "I can't help you there because I haven't noticed any changes except he looks older and acts more mature. Ha ha, I guess they are changes though, huh?" I nod, and he goes, "I gotta get going. I borrowed my mother's car and she needs it to pick-up the old man from work." I walk upstairs with him and he goes, "See ya," and he's out the door.
Jeez, that entire experience was taken for granted by Vinnie, like... ho hum, I'll fuck your ass and then see ya later. He made one comment about our fuck and then, "Bye!" Well, as I always say, that's perfect buddy-sex for you. No involvement afterward; no regrets or complaints. Maybe a passing compliment and off you go. Fine with me and, damn that felt good! He fucks really good, better than I remembered, and Goddamn I'm feeling good! Vinnie's a very willing bottom for Dodger but I get the sense he's mostly a 'top' with his roommate at college.
Going back downstairs I intend to clean-up the basement this time. Turning off the fan, I put it back in storage and then sweep up the two cigarette butts and a nice big pile of Vinnie's hair. Damn that haircut turned out to be kinda hot when at first I wasn't excited about doing it. That is a very short haircut, but he liked it. I spend some time cleaning and putting some light oil on the clippers so they're ready for next time. I wipe down the scissors and comb too. Nobody wants to see someone else's hair in thinning shears or on the clipper blades when getting their haircut.
As I'm finished with the clean-up Chubby texts me, 'Bro, I worked overtime. On my way home now. Should I get a pizza for dinner?' I text back, 'Good idea, thanks Chubby! See you soon.' I still need to shop for my lunch tomorrow. Huh, and tomorrow is already Friday! Not a bad first week at work. It passed by kinda fast.
I'm on the balcony smoking a cigarette thinking again about how good that fuck felt. Only lasted maybe five or six-minutes but Vinnie did the dominant part very well, and without overdoing it. Yeah but my ass is itchy from Vinnie's cum still inside and around my asshole so after flicking my cigarette butt off a planter and then kicking it off the balcony cursing at it, I go inside to the bathroom to do a good job of cleaning my ass. As I'm putting clean underwear on I hear a key at the front door so I quickly get my pants on. Chubby comes in carrying a large pizza box, asking, "You gonna see Rob tonight?" I go, "Yeah, you wanna come with me?" He nods, "I guess, and afterward can we grab a few beers?" I say, "I don't see why not, bro." We smirk at each other and take a slice of pizza each. Ain't life grand!
to be continued...
Donny Mumford thinat20@yahoo.com donnymumford@outlook.com
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Hoping some readers may be interested, there are books of mine published and available on Amazon.com. Anyone who has Kindle can download them for next to nothing. The books are usually around ten dollars. They are about a 19 year old gay boy (Oliver) who has a far different life than Dylan's. And there is a new book, 'Mike, his Bike and Me'. Please at least check them out by typing my name on Amazon.com. Information about the story in the books can be found in some detail there. Thank you.
Donny Mumford
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