Dylan's Vacation Back Home

DYLAN'S VACATION BACK HOME

Chapter 35

By Donny Mumford

I cannot friggin' believe my ears! The alarm is going off already. Did I set it for the wrong time? After checking my wristwatch and seeing it is in fact time to get up, I only have enough energy for a muttered, "Balls..."

before getting out of bed.

Six hours sleep isn't enough after a normal day's work, never mind that horrible ten-hour workday with Bull yesterday. On the bright side though all my cuts and scrapes, plus the bee sting, appear to be healing okay. So now I only need to deal with my aching shoulders and bicep muscles from weed whacking four hours straight yesterday afternoon. If I was smart I would have been in bed by nine o'clock last night, but instead Willie and I were walking into Dino's restaurant at that time. I was feeling pretty good after all the pampering from Willie; not only the bath, but doing all that first aid stuff too. And, I did not know bees left their disgusting stingers in their victims, but I did read somewhere that certain types of bees die after stinging someone. Heh heh, hopefully the bee that got me has stung it's last victim. Die bitch!

Although I'm paying the price this morning, last night's date with Willie was a pretty good time. It didn't go exactly as either of us planned because we hadn't intended doing buddy sex after dinner. I suppose that was an unrealistic premise from the start considering our history. Then, add in some alcoholic beverages... and good intentions often go out the window. The buddy-sex was good but lacked the bells and whistles of times gone by. I was sort of missing Willie, but not so much that I wanted a sex orgy with him.

And Willie was his usual sexy-self too, so I give myself a pat on the back for saying no thanks to seconds. He played his familiar dominant role during sex, and did it as good as ever, but like I said, once was enough for me... it really was.

I am glad though that Willie seems to have 'found' himself and that he's doing okay, but what I sincerely wish for him is a really good, mostly normal gay guy who hooks up with Willie and they become boyfriends, then their relationship turns into a true love affair. I'd be so happy for him. He'd finally know what being in love really means and he could stop fooling himself into thinking he's in love with me. I care for him as a friend and it hurts that he often seems, I don't know, lonely. All that money at his disposal and he can't find happiness. Frankly I used to be a little jealous of him and his money, but now I mostly feel bad for him.

On the way to the bathroom I spot my iPhone laying on the bureau. Huh, I haven't checked it since talking with Willie last night around six-thirty.

Checking it I see there are four text messages and two missed phone calls.

Robby sent one of the texts, then he called. Goddammit, I didn't reply to either. Checking his text message first; it reads: 'Dylan, I've got the flu and maybe something else as well. Throwing-up and shitting my brains out.

Call me please.' Jesus! Should I call now at six o'clock in the morning? Was he sick at work yesterday? Yeah, I guess he did look pale when he told me he wouldn't be able to drive me home. And Sunday at the Dairy Queen he mentioned he thought he might be coming down with a cold. Huh, so he couldn't give me a ride home because he was sick. I'll send a text now so it'll be there when he wakes up: 'Rob, I'm so sorry I missed your call last night. I hope and pray you're feeling better. Love, Dylan.' Done with my bathroom ritual, including a shower, I'm still worrying about Robby. Everything he's going through sounds nasty. I'm so angry with myself for not asking him if he was alright yesterday afternoon. I was selfishly in a bitchy mood, feeling sorry for myself and I never thought to ask why he couldn't drive me home. Damn, Robby was dealing with a lot worse situation than my day with Bull and the arbor.

After getting dressed, I'm in the kitchen making our lunches when Chubby lets himself in, asking, "Did you hear about, Rob?" We do a one arm hug and a quick kiss good morning, then I'm like, "You mean about him having the flu or something?" Chubby's at the Keurig machine, talking over his shoulder,

"Yeah, I got a text from his dad last night telling me to check in with Rory White this morning. Mr. Dickers said this guy, Rory, is going to be doing Rob's job for a couple of days. Who the hell is Rory White anyway?" I'm staring at him, muttering, "You mean Robby isn't coming to work? Um, Rory's his immediate supervisor. How sick is Robby, did his dad tell you?" Chubby shrugs, "Um, not exactly, except when he texted me it was from the hospital. Something about taking Rob to the emergency ward last night thinking he might be suffering with dehydration." I go, "What?" and Chubby's like, "Yeah, the poor guy was puking and pooping at the same time and I guess he got dehydrated." I ask, "Are you saying he has the flu and food poisoning?"

Chubby adds milk and sugar to his coffee, mumbling, "I guess... I didn't ask for specifics and Mr. Dickers didn't offer any. Just said Rob will be out a couple of days. Oh, he did emphasize that I should tell you not to worry cause it's mostly under control." Mostly? Food poisoning on top of the flu...

holy shit!

Done with our lunches, I finish my coffee on the balcony with Chubby, sharing a smoke. I'm slowly shaking my head, mumbling, "Ya just never know what

bitchy unpleasantness awaits you just around the corner. Poor Rob." I send

him another text. This one's a get-well text with lots of love. Chubby watches me typing the text, then asks, "Can I read that?" I go, "No!" He grins, then I'm like, "I assume I'm off Rex Murphy's crew today, right? Did Mr.

Dickers mention that?" Chubby shrugs, mumbling, "No, he didn't say anything about that," and I'm like, "I don't want to even imagine working another day with that asshole, Bull, bossing me around. That prick gave me all the shit work to do too." Chubby says, "I just don't know, Dylan. I've got to see this Rory White character for our assignments. Do you know anything about him?" I shrug, "Yeah, like I said, he's Robby's immediate supervisor.

Um, he's got red hair and a pot belly. You've seen him around and he's supposed to be an alright guy, according to Rob."

While Chubby's driving us to work I'm continuing to feel really bad about missing Robby's text and then his phone call; especially considering I was with Willie at the time. And I'm hating that I don't know how Robby's doing. I mean, how serious does it have to be requiring hospitalization? His father said Robby's condition is under control, but that could mean almost anything. People need to be more fucking considerate, more forthcoming about a person's condition so that loved ones can know how much to worry.

Checking my cellphone for possible updates, but not getting any as Chubby parks.

He goes off looking for Rory White while I put our lunches in the pickup's cooler, then go into the locker room to change. None of the guys on the crew even knew Robby was out sick today, never mind knowing anything new about how he's doing. Everyone does seem concerned though because Robby's popular.

A couple of minutes later I'm outside on the blacktop about to light a cigarette when I spot Chubby walking from the supervisor's locker room. He doesn't look happy, slowly shaking his head as he walks up to me. I'm like, "It's not bad news, is it? Do you know any more about how Rob's doing?" He goes, "Um, no. There's no information about Rob, but you need to get your lunch, bro. You've got to work with Murphy's crew again today. I'm really sorry, but Rory White told me Rex Murphy requested you by name, and Rory's not about to rock the boat arguing with him about it." I'm not pleased, yelling, "Fuck that! Robby said he'd get me off that shit job. Did you tell Rory that?" Chubby rubs my shoulder, "He doesn't know what Robby told you, Dylan, and I don't carry any weight around here." I mutter, "This blows," and Chubby says, "As soon as I change my clothes I'll find Rory again and tell him that Robby wanted you off that project. Maybe he'll assign someone from another crew."

Considering that for a second, I reluctantly mumble, "Noooo, you better not, but thanks anyway, Chub. Rory's not gonna start a hassle with Rex, and I don't want to be the cause of trouble between Robby and Murphy. Plus, Rory's already doing his job and Rob's, so he's got enough to worry about.

Thanks anyway." He goes, "Well, I'll take your place then." I grin giving his shoulders a hug, mumbling, "Thanks, but no. That would cause more confusion, plus you're running Robby's crew." He goes, "Ahh, it runs itself." I brighten up, "Hey! Let's visit Rob at the hospital after work." Chubby says, "Absolutely!" He rubs my shoulder again, saying, "I'm real sorry about the Murphy thing." I'm like, "It's not your fault. See ya later, Chub," and walk over to the pickup to retrieve my lunch from the cooler.

The crews are forming up so I jog over to Murphy's crew, then stand next to Bull at the end of the line. He glances at me as I stand here holding my lunch, purposely not looking at him. Two seconds later I hear a snorted chuckle, then Bull says, "Ya dumb shit, you can't carry your lunch with you all morning?" Looking straight ahead, and in a bored voice, I say, "I know that, but I don't know where to put it?" He taps my shoulder pointing to a soft-sided cooler in front of him. Huh, hidden in plain sight. I go to hand him my gallon Ziploc plastic lunch bag, but he nods at his cooler, mumbling, "Do it yourself," so I kneel down and unhook the Velcro flap, feeling the chill off the ice pack inside. My lunch nestles down next to his. Ugh! Rex Murphy, who's standing in front of us, says, "When you're done fucking around with your lunch, Dylan, I have a couple of announcements." Frowning and blushing I stand up seeing everyone gawking at me. Why do these guys have to be such pricks? Well, to be honest, Rex said that in a joking, friendly manner and the guys gawking at me were kind of grinning in a nice way.

Rex's announcements have nothing to do with me so I try calming myself down. I'm pissed-off but that's not going to do me any good. I try for a neutral attitude. I'll just do my job, give everyone the benefit of the doubt, and get through today. Bull says to me, "Bring the cooler," and he jogs off toward the equipment garage. Picking up the cooler I follow him rolling my eyes and mimicking him, 'Bring the cooler.' I mimic him in my head, not out

loud.

In the garage, he tells me, "You know what to do, right? Get the same hand truck and bring it over to the counter." Well isn't he mister personality-plus again this morning. I do that and then, without speaking, load each piece of equipment Bull's signed out. When I've got everything on the cart, Bull walks beside me as I push the cart through the garage and out the back door. He points at the pickup, saying, "Load everything on the truck, then take the cart back." I'm nodding my head, thinking, 'Yesser, master,' as he walks over to three guys who are bull shitting and laughing about something.

Pushing the empty cart back through the garage I see Chubby at the counter talking with Robby's immediate supervisor, Rory White. When there's a pause in their discussion, I tap Rory on the soldier, "Excuse me, but is there any news about Rob?" He goes, "You're Dylan, right?" I nod my head and he points at Chubby, "Your brother here was just asking the same thing. All I can tell you is, Robert, Rob's dad, told me earlier this morning that Rob will be in the hospital a couple of days." I'm like, "What happened to him?"

He shrugs, "I don't exactly know. He felt a cold coming on late Sunday afternoon, and I guess that turned out to be the flu, and he was running a fever. He ignored it and did his job. It was hot as hell yesterday and he wasn't hydrating properly I guess, and then on top of that he somehow contacted food poisoning, probably from his lunch." I go, "His lunch?" and Rory says, "The doctors say it's salmonella that caused the shits during the afternoon, and about five o'clock yesterday he vomited. Rob didn't tell anyone. He saw his father around five thirty and the boss took one look at him and told him to get his ass home. At home his mother noticed Rob acting confused and looking very sickly. She called Robert and he took Rob to the hospital.

As of now he's doing better, but they're keeping him there for at least another day. That's all I know." I look at Chubby hoping for something more positive, and he says, "Rob's doing okay, Dylan, that's the bottom line."

I'm thinking about the way doctors like to be vague when discussing a patient's condition. They give themselves a lot of wiggle room in case things go south later. And then you get the feeling that they often don't know for sure what the fuck's going on themselves, but refuse to admit it. While dwelling on these negative musings, Bull sticks his head in the back door, bellowing, "Newman, I've been waiting on you." Rory waves at Bull, then says to me, "You better get to work now, son." Chubby pats my back, and I mumble, 'Thanks for the update, Rory," even though he didn't tell me much. Patting Chubby's shoulder, I mumble, "See ya, Chub," and jog through the garage and out the back door.

Bull's already behind the wheel of the pickup. Getting in the passenger seat, I say, "I was checking up on Rob." He says nothing, just backs the truck out of the parking spot, and we're off. I can't stop thinking about Robby telling me late yesterday afternoon he couldn't drive me home, and stupid me had no idea what he was going through. I was too wrapped-up in my own situation to notice how lethargic he was, and how pale. He's not a complainer so he wouldn't come out and say how sick he was, but I should have taken notice and asked him. Being honest with myself I guess I was a little pissed-off at him for shuttling me off to the skinny guy with a hair across his ass for my ride home. Fuck, I didn't even know the guy's name. I suppose Robby was feeling horrible and then when he saw the puss on my face he probably just wanted to get away from me. Neither of us is ever sick though, so it's not something I'd expect, which is just more rationalizing on my part of

course. I'll make it up to Robby somehow.

At the job site Bull idles the pickup next to the big landscaping truck to talk with Rex Murphy. He gets out to look at an artist's blueprint drawing of what the pond area is supposed to look like when it's finished. They both get Styrofoam cups of coffee, Rex lights a cigarette and they discuss the drawing, pointing at parts of it for maybe fifteen minutes. Meanwhile I'm sitting in the pickup with my dick in my hand. The four guys on the grass-cutting crew are unloading the big truck and glancing over at me from time to time making me feel uncomfortable, like I should be doing something.

Rex and Bull laugh at something, then Rex glances at me and does a double take, like he's startled that I'm sitting here. He gestures with his hands, saying something to Bull, who then yells over to me, "Don't just sit there.

Drive the pickup to the work site and unload everything. Use some initiative, fer chrissakes." I yell back, "I don't know how to drive a stick shift."

Both their heads shake slowly in disbelief, like: 'Can I believe this shit?' I'm furious, my face is burning. This is so fucking unfair! My first days at work in Georgia were nothing like this. Everyone was considerate of one another there. Here it's like they go out of their way to be assholes.

When Robby's well enough I'm telling him he should speak to his father about the way this jerk-off crew is run.

Bull gets in the driver's seat all huffy, like he's being inconvenienced something awful. I'm ready to jump down his throat if he says one fucking word to me. He gets the pickup in gear and without a word drives us onto the gravel service road leading to the work site, then parks abruptly with the pickup skidding on the gravel. He gets out, slamming the door behind him, muttering, "Unload everything!" He walks back up the incline to Rex twenty or thirty yards back to the main driveway. After slamming down the tailgate I unload the stuff roughly without giving much of a shit if something breaks when I dump it off the truck bed. No one's paying any attention to me now

though, so my petulant act goes unnoticed.

The truck's unloaded and now I'm standing here with my dick in my hand again not knowing what I should do next. This is so fucking awkward! Normally this would be the time to light a cigarette so I'd at least be doing something, but I don't have the balls to do that. I pretend I'm busy by unnecessarily lining up the tools and cans of mysterious toxic liquids.

Maybe five minutes later Bull comes lumbering down the gravel service road carrying one of the artist's drawings. He tells me in a normal speaking voice, as if this morning's activity is nothing's out of the ordinary, "They'll be finishing the lawn by lunch time so it'll be just you and me here the rest of the week." Rest of the week? Balls to that! He says, "I want you to locate, then clean out the clogged in-flow pipe, " and he points to the drawing, adding, "The pipe is in this general area about fifteen feet inside the arbor. Then later you'll do the same thing for the pond's out-flow pipe. That'll probably be tomorrow though. When these pipes are cleaned-out we can get clear water flowing and fill the pond to the correct height." I just stare at him until he asks, "What's your problem now?" I'm like, "That's it? That's all the instructions you're going to give me? Clean out the in-flow pipe. I don't even see the pipe, plus I've never done this before."

He's exasperated again, muttering, "Oh man!" looking up at the sky for a second, then, "Okay, what don't you understand?" Instead of answering him, I'm like, "Didn't you say anything to Rex yesterday after work about how incompetent I am? Why didn't you tell him you wanted another gofer since I apparently suck so badly?" He raises his eyebrows like he's surprised, then says, "You don't suck. And yeah, I spoke to Rex after work yesterday. I told him I wanted you as my helper all week. Yes, you! Now what don't you understand about my instructions for cleaning the pipes?"

Well that was totally unexpected. It took me by surprise, so I can't think of a smart-ass reply. Instead I say, "Okay. Um, would you show me where the inflow and out-flow pipes are? For starters." He goes, "I was just about to do that when you started whining." I'm like, "That wasn't whining," and he says, "Whatever," and pats my shoulder, "C'mon." We walk through the arbor and down to the disgusting green scummy pond with a foul odor drifting off it. He goes, "The pipe's approximately in this area, like I pointed at on the drawing. It's overgrown with all this plant material obviously, so you need to begin cleaning out all this overgrown shit to find the pipe buried in this approximate area. When you find it give me a holler." I nod, mumbling, "Okay," and he pats my shoulder and actually does a little smile, adding, "Later you'll get to put on the waders and get in the pond to clean the pipe out from that end. We've got some tools to help you with that, plus you'll be wearing rubber gloves because you'll need to use your hands too.

When you've done that I'll tell you what fun thing to do next." I nod my head and snort out a laugh, muttering, "Yeah, fun," but dreading every step of his instructions. At least now I know what's expected. He asks, "Okay?"

I nod again and he chuckles patting my back, mumbling, "It's nothing I haven't done fifty times myself, Dylan. Get at it."

He takes a shovel and a big ax to begins digging up overgrown or dead shrubbery that once beautified the grounds around the pond. A lot of the bigger shrubs have grown thick roots that he needs to chop through with the ax.

There's maybe a hundred separate overgrown or dead plantings, some quite large, so good luck to Bull with that. I took a glance at the artist picture and it shows new shrubberies replacing the ones Bull's digging up. Getting to my task, I use a pick, shovel, and weed whacker attempting to uncover the inflow pipe. This pond area has been neglected for twenty years or so.

The sun shines hot and brightly to go with the ninety degree temperatures and all I can think of, as I sweat bullets, is Robby becoming dehydrated.

To avoid that happening to me I drink gross-tasting water from the hose coming off the back of the house until it feels like water's slushing around in my stomach. Begrudgingly I have to admit Bull's working steadier and harder than I am, and he's not taking two minute breaks every fifteen minutes like I do to catch my breath. Do men actually work at labor like this every fucking day? Yeah, I suppose a lot of men and women do.

I uncover the pipe in less then an hour, yelling, "Yes!" Bull comes over and nods his head, muttering, "That was faster then I expected," then he outlines a six foot circle around the on/off valve, telling me, "Clean out this area down to bare ground. Guys will eventually be laying bricks or cobble stone pavers in this area." I've adopted Bull's no commiserating habit, and without a word just start doing it. Digging roots out of the ground is a bitch though, and it takes until lunch time to completely clear the area.

We eat a silent lunch in the shade. Not totally silent though; the exception being mouth-smacking sounds from Bull while he's eating three stinky tuna fish sandwiches with his mouth open. I can't wait until lunch break is over to get away from the fishy smell and his mouth sounds.

It's time for the waders now: a one piece waterproof suit, including attached boots that my sneakers go in. The wader extends up to a chest-bib with straps over my shoulders. It's much too big for me so I'm sort of swimming in it. Thankfully it's made of Gore-Tex and not real heavy. Bull suggests a couple of garden hand tools that I take with me to wade into the scum that floats on top of the water. The water currently is between three and four feet deep so I need to slide down a slipper bank to get into this gross pond that will be seven or eight feet deep by Friday afternoon. Before that though, I'll be wadding in it skimming the scum off the top of the water.

Can't wait for that.

I'm kind of resigned to the stink of the pond by now, and now that I'm in the pond I'm trying to get used to the bottom. It's squishy and my feet sink into the muck that's undoubtedly as disgusting as the scum floating on top. Occasionally I feel something swim against my boot or leg and try unsuccessfully to imagine what kind of disgusting creatures can exist in this stagnant, murky water. The inflow pipe has an eight inch opening that's overgrown with weeds that I need to pull them out by their roots before I can even reach the pipe. It's slow going but by around two-thirty I'm sticking my arm all the way in the pipe pulling out gooey slimy decayed vegetation with my rubber-gloved hand. Fortunately the gloves reach almost to my shoulders. When I've cleaned out all I can reach, I get out of the water to watch Bull disconnect the on-off valve section from the pipe so I can push a plunger-like tool through the pipe from this end towards the pond end. Then it's back in the water with my arm in the pipe again pulling out the glop I plunged from the other end. The crawling, slimy, insect-like slithering bugs and worms living in this decayed matter are enough to make a person lose his lunch.

I've gotta go through this vile procedure four times before finally completely clearing the twelve foot long inflow pipe. Bull checks out the pipe, looking from this end to the pond end, then says, "There's still some slush in there, but it's quitting time. You can wipe it out tomorrow morning and then you'll be doing the same for the outflow pipe." I've nothing to say to that as I'm taking off the wader, then I need to hose it down while Bull loads stuff back on the pickup. A silent drive back to the garage where Bull says, "Clean the tools. And, um, good job today," with a pat on my back.

He walks toward the garage as I make a face, but feel pretty good about that minor compliment. Then I'm hauling the tools off the truck and hosing everything down with my mind blank until I see Chubby coming my way. Looking at him makes me smile. It's like I've returned from another world... back to reality.

Chubby smiles, and cheerfully asks, "How it go today, bro? Better than yesterday I hope." I nod, "Yeah, it wasn't so bad I guess. Hard to believe, but Bull requested me as his gofer. It looks like I'll be on this project all week." He shrugs, "Yeah, I know. I spoke to Rory about that at lunch. He was pretty sure you'd be with Murphy's crew all week. He said they really liked you because you're a hard worker. And get this: Murphy asked Rory if he'd transfer you to his crew permanently." I'm like, "Get serious!" Chubby goes, "No worries, Rory told him no; it's just for this week. It made me feel proud of you though, bro," and he hugs my shoulders with me trying not to grin as I mutter, "Watch it, Chub, you might get some pond scum on you."

He helps me return the cleaned tools to the skinny guy, who still seems to have a hair across his ass, and then we drive home. On the way I text Robby and he texts back saying he's still in the hospital and asks if I'd visit him. I tell him of course I'm visiting him! Chubby's coming too. At home I take a long shower scrubbing myself even though no bare skin ever touched any of the gross stuff I dealt with in the pond today. I can't help thinking about Bull specifically requesting me, and then Murphy wanting me on his crew permanently. And I thought they couldn't stand me. Of course all I had

to go by was the way they humiliated and mistreated me...ha ha. I misinterpreted that to mean they hated me, you know, like ninety-nine people out of a hundred would think the same thing.

I go up the outdoor steps to Chubby's condo and let myself in using the mailbox emergency key. Chubby has a key to my place and I had a key to his, but lost it and have procrastinated for a mere two or three years about having another one made at ACE hardware. After all it would cost something like two bucks. Expenditures like that need some careful consideration. I'll get around to it one of these days.

Chubby's ready to go, but on the way to the hospital we need to stop at a convenience store so Chubby can pay $11 for a pack of cigarettes that he could buy for half that in Salem, New Hampshire. Salem's ten minutes from North Andover when we're at college, and while I admit it's an hour's drive from Framingham, booze and cigarettes are so much cheaper there it's worth a trip once a month or so. While Chubby's getting cigarettes and a scratch lottery ticket, I buy cold cuts and sub rolls for our lunches, plus two magazines for Robby: Sports Illustrated and ESPN The Magazine. Then we continue to Framingham Hospital where Chubby finds a convenient parking spot in 'Physicians Parking Only' close to the front entrance.

Inside at the information desk we ask for Robby's room, sign in, and get a visitors pass; then start the challenging task of finding a room in a hospital. It's a needle in a haystack kind of thing. His room is naturally not in this section of the hospital so we walk down a number of connecting corridors passing orderlies, doctors, nurses, and patients all seemingly not rushed for time. We asks directions twice, and finally Chubby goes, "His room should be along here," and it is. Hospitals have a distinct smell that I can't put a name to. Chubby claims it's the smell of Purell hand sanitizer, and that's pretty close. And there is a Purell canister outside every door, so yeah, it's probably that.

Sticking my head in room 342 I see Robby lying on his side looking out the window at the fading light of day. He's in the far bed near the window sharing a room with a middle age man who has visitors. Chubby walks past me as I stand here looking at Robby feeling my heart go pitter/patter. Chubby gives the man in the first bed and his visitors, a huge smile, saying, "How's everyone doing tonight? It was a hot one today, huh?" and as he's saying that he's pulling the curtain separating those people from Robby's bed.

There are trays on wheels at the bottom of both beds with half eaten suppers. I

skip past the first bed without the friendly greeting Chubby gave them, and stand next to Robby quietly asking, "How ya feeling, Rob?" He lays over on his back giving me a big smile, "Hi Dylan," and I lean down to kiss him on the lips. He tastes like apple juice.

Robby says, "Hey, Jeff, thanks for visiting me." Chubby asks, "Feeling any better, boss?" and Robby's like, "I feel beat up inside, but better than I felt yesterday." Chubby bumps fists with Robby, adding, "Jeez, you look pretty good, Rob. Well, maybe just a little bit beat-up." Robby and I chuckle because Chubby has a comedic timing thing, or something that makes normal things he says seem funny. Robby asks Chubby, "How'd our crew do today?"

Chubby goes, "We're struggling to keep up without Dylan." Robby gets a pained

expression on his face, saying. "I'm so sorry about that, Dylan! Dad talked to me about it, um, you must have seen Dad walking out of here when you were walking in." I shake my head, "No, we didn't see him, but it's okay Rob. The work's very different in Murphy's crew, and keeps me busy, you know, making the day fly by." That little white lie right there is number 2,760 since I started keeping count a few years back. He asks, "Really? You're saying it's not too bad then?" I shrug, "Nah, it's not that bad," then we have an awkward pause.

A five second pause, then Chubby says, "Oh, Rob, did you know Murphy asked to have Dylan specifically?" Robby shakes his head, and Chubby adds, "Yeah, and Rex asked Rory if Dylan could be on their crew indefinitely."

Robby's pissed, his face bright red as he says, "That asshole, Murphy! The fuckin' nerve of him. I lend him Dylan for one day and he's trying to make it permanent. That prick is always whining for extra help and he basically talked Dad into keeping one of my crew there all week. Dad didn't even know it was Dylan until I told him." I shrug, "Don't cause a fuss, Rob. How'd your dad get involved in a grass cutting situation anyway?" Robby shakes his head

again, mumbling, "Dad almost never gets involved in the landscaping crews anymore, but Murphy saw him in the coffee room and casually asked if Dad had any problem with Murphy's crew keeping the extra man all week. Dad says it's alright with him, but he needs to get an okay from Rory." I lean over and pat Robby's shoulder, "Don't get yourself upset, Rob. It's only a few more days." He goes, "It pisses me off he'd even bother Dad with that. And I suppose Murphy used Dad's vague okay as his authorization to tell Rory the 'big boss' said to use Dylan all week." I shrug, and Robby continues muttering, "Dad doesn't want to be bothered with landscaping or grass cutting squabbles. He told me to straighten it out when I get back to work, which won't be until Thursday. That's what it looks like anyway."

I pull a chair over close to the bed, saying, "Forget about that, Rob,"

and give him the two magazines making him smile and lift his head for another kiss. Chubby makes throat sounds to remind us he's here, then he tells Robby about our crew's comical screw-ups today. Our crew is the only one that still has a little fun during the day. I'm listening to Chubby's funnily embellished stories while staring at Robby, feeling a great love for him.

Sitting next to him I take his left hands to hold. I'm thinking back to Sunday

night when he called to say he was tired and asked if we could skip our date. I didn't know he was coming down with the flu so I jumped to the conclusion he wanted to skip our Sunday night date because he and Danny had something going on. Man, I feel terrible about my suspicious mind now.

Robby wants a cold soda so I get one from the vending machine. He's not cured yet because in the arm of the hand I was holding there's an IV drip with a saline solution and antibiotics still dripping into his body. Sipping on the cold soft drink he tells us he's had no vomiting since yesterday and no loose poops either, so at least the food poisoning has been cured. He still looks pale though, and he's definitely lost a couple of pounds which isn't surprising considering he's had nothing but liquids since Sunday night. We stay about an hour, but say our goodbyes when his mother and their next door neighbors, along with the two girls who went for a swim in Dickers' pool Sunday, come to visit. To avoid any awkwardness for any of them I squeeze Robby's hand instead of a goodbye kiss, telling him I'll be back tomorrow after work.

With some difficulty Chubby and I find our way back to the Jeep. On the way we tell each other Robby's going to be fine, but we both know he still looks weak and, um, sick. I'm hoping he'll look better tomorrow. Chubby has another date with Dallas' sister tonight so we have a fast-food dinner at McDonalds, and then he drops me off at the condo. Smoking a cigarette on the balcony in the dark I'm thinking about Robby and how much I would have liked crawling into that hospital bed with him to cuddle. I wanted to comb his messed-up hair the whole time I was there too, but didn't because it'd be a creepy thing to do.

As I'm doing a perfect flick of my cigarette butt, arcing it into the night sky and watching the red ash land fifteen feet away, my cellphone dings.

Glancing at it I see a text from Sonny, who asks: 'Can me and my motorbike bud come over for haircuts? Pleaeeese!' Huh, Sonny wants another haircut already? Well, I don't have anything else to do. Plus, I like Sonny and I like giving haircuts. More importantly, if he's with his straight motorbike buddy there won't be any of Sonny's tricks getting us to have some sexy messin' around after the haircuts. I text back, 'Sure, Sonny, come on over.' Hmmm, I don't recall meeting his motorbike buddy, but I think I may have.

I'm in the kitchen taking an anti-acid pill and thinking I'm going to cut back on fast food, when the doorbell chimes. It's Sonny and his friend, who I do think I met one time, although I forget his name. I give them a smile, "Boys, whassup?" and Sonny goes, "Hey Dylan!" and from habit we do an abbreviated posse-boy greeting consisting of a one arm hug and pat on the back. I say, "Come in," and Sonny flicks his hand at his friend, mumbling, "You've met, Turtle, right?" His friend holds out his hand so I shake it, mumbling, "Hey, Turtle, how ya doing?"

Huh, ya don't get an old fashioned handshake very often. He says, "I'm okay, nice to meet you. Um, Orange tells me you're an awesome free barber."

Orange? Sonny says, "Yeah, and for Turtle the emphasis is on the word 'free' , huh Turtle?" The kid actually blushes, mumbling, "Fuck you, Sonny, I'd pay him if he wants me to." Sonny gets his arm around the back of Turtle's neck running his fingers through Turtle's longish, unruly brown hair, saying to me, "Turtle cuts his own hair to avoid paying for a haircut, so I told him to come with me and get it cut right. Didn't I, Turtle?" He's blushing again. Turtle's shorter than Sonny by a couple inches, and he's kinda stocky but with a nice looking face. Nothing special but nice looking. He's got a scraggily mustache and some chin whiskers too that I'm guessing aren't so much a fashion statement as a statement that he's too lazy to shave.

We're walking downstairs to the basement as I try finding out his real name, asking, "Hey Turtle, what do your parents call you?" He's ahead of me going down the stairs; turning his head he tells me, "They call me Turtle. I had a pet turtle when I was about three years old and everyone's called me Turtle ever since." In the basement I'm persistent, asking, "What do teachers call you at school?" He goes, "I graduated," and Sonny says, "He's going to the Garvey Institute. That's a tech school where he'll learn how to be a mechanic."

Giving up on finding out Turtle's name, I ask Sonny, "You going to college?" He goes, "Yeah, South Carolina State. I leave a week from yesterday.

That's why I want a preppy haircut." I ask, "Why South Carolina State?" and he grins, "Because they accepted me," and I go, "Good reason. Who's first?"

Turtle says, "Me, if it's okay. I gotta pick up my little brother in about a half hour." Apparently it was agreed he'd go first before they got here because Sonny's already laying on the chaise lounge turning on the TV. I shrug, saying, "It's fine with me, but I gotta shampoo your hair first." He goes, "Yeah, Orange told me about that. Um, he says you're gay like him, but I

was wondering if I could have a straight guy's, ya know, shampoo and haircut. No offense intended." Sonny's laughing his nuts off, then he shouts, "Turtle, don't be such an asshole. Dylan's not interested in you. He's doing you a fucking favor." Another deep blush from Turtle as he shrugs with a guilty look on his face, muttering, "Sorry, Dylan." I pat his shoulder, "Don't worry about it. As a special favor I'll do the straight version of a shampoo and haircut." Fuck, ha ha! Ya know, I chuckled at first when he said that because I thought he was trying to be funny, but he was serious. Jesus!

I expected he'd be stiff as a board and totally uncomfortable while I'm shampooing his hair, but he's not at all. And I would have skipped the shampoo altogether except his hair needs it. It's a quick shampoo though, taking only about five minutes. As soon as I've dried his hair he gets up, saying, "Thank you." I don't hear that very often! Walking back to the basement it hits me what Turtle picking up his brother means: it'll be just Sonny and me when he leaves. To be sure, I ask, "You guys rode your own bikes over here, didn't you?" He nods, "Yeah, we always ride our own motorbikes. No fun riding behind another guy." Huh, can't say I agree with that. I've had some sexy rides behind Sonny. Oh well, it means I'll need to dig deep into my world-renowned willpower to avoid sex with Sonny.

As I open the barber toiletry kit, I ask him, "So, what kind of haircut do you want, Turtle?" He says, "A regular haircut." Pulling the stool off the carpet onto the tile area, I go, "Could you be a little more specific?" He says, "Oh, um. Well, that's what they say the rare times I've been to the barbers. They ask, 'regular haircut?' and I go, 'Yeah'." Sonny says, "Fairly short, but long enough so he can comb it over with a part on the side, and squared off at the neckline in back. That's what you get when you say 'regular haircut' at SuperCuts." Turtle says, "Yes, what Sonny just said."

Fine by me. Turtle took his shirt off before the shampoo without me needing to tell him, so I guess Sonny told him about that too. As Turtle sits on the stool I'm thinking that it's funny I didn't know about that 'regular haircut' thing. The only times I've ever been in a barber shop is when Willie took me during one of his manic periods, and he'd always tell the barber what haircut to give me. I've never said, 'I'll have a regular haircut' to a barber. Chubby and I gave each other buzz cuts for years. As little kids maybe our moms said 'regular haircut' when they took us to the barbers; not that I remember a thing about that.

With his shirt off it's confirmed that Turtle's stocky, but there's no fat on him. His chest is a bit too hairy though. Turning on the clippers I'm not shy about cutting Turtle's long hair down to a half an inch going halfway up the sides and back of his head, then tapering up from that length using scissors to about an inch and a half where the part begins and around to the crown of his head. Oh man, it's fun cutting off all this hair. Maybe I will get that barbershop after all. When I comb his bangs forward they extend below his nose. Not for long though as I cut through the hair just above

his eyebrows. Not a word has been spoken by Turtle and, as he was with the

shampoo, he seems perfectly relaxed having all this hair cut off. I guess it's what he expected. Regular haircut, huh! I learn something every day it seems.

Combing through the long hairs on top of his head, then capturing a batch between my index and middle fingers, I close the scissors, "Crunch, crunch, crunch," cutting hairs that are seven inches long down to a little under two inches. I need to repeat that procedure about ten times for the hairs on top, and then taper at the neck line cause I don't do the squaring off at the neck like SuperCuts. I think that looks unprofessional. Only thing left

to do is use the trimmer clippers outlining around his ears... and he's done. Maybe it took twelve minutes from beginning to end. Depending how sexy-hot the guy is, I could have stretched the haircut experience out to say twenty-five minutes. Turtle's a twelve minute haircut guy though, which I'm sure is perfectly okay with him.

He looks very neat now, if not especially stylish. Brushing cut hairs off his shoulders I pass him the hand held mirror and he says, "Nice! Thank you, Dylan, I appreciate this very much." Politeness counts, so I pat his back, saying, "Feel free to text me anytime you need a haircut, Turtle." Sonny gets off the chaise lounge, saying, "You're looking like a well groomed mechanic, Turtle-boy," and he messes up Turtle's combed hair, chuckling.

Turtle frowns, muttering, "Asshole." I hand him the comb and he combs his hair, saying, "This is easy to comb." Him and Sonny do a hug goodbye and after another 'thanks' to me, and a fist bump, Turtle's gone. This is not good because I'm thinking Sonny's now going to try getting sexy. Only thing I can do is play it by ear, as they say.

In the half bathroom Sonny settles in the chair, facing away from the sink, saying, "Dylan, buddy, no need to rush on my account. Give me the gay version of the shampoo." I laugh, but then do his shampoo much slower than Turtles. I like to look closely at certain guys who are especially cute or good looking. As I scrutinize Sonny's face I'm sorry to say that he's losing some of his boyish looks, and already isn't as cute as he was just six months ago. He was certainly a cute kid sixteen months ago when he first sat on my lap in the overloaded car on our way to Ray's basketball summer league game. Sonny still has really nice textured hair though, and it's getting a little less orange, and closer to red, the older he gets. Truth is, and I'm sorry to say this too, but Sonny's going to be a bit of an odd looking adult. Right now though I think he's still cute enough that I like looking at him. No tan on his face at all even though we just went through a hot, sun-shiny summer, and that's because his creamy complexion is too pale to tan.

He must have used a lot of sun screen to avoid sunburn. His face is a pale creamy color without blemishes and the same smooth skin extends to his torso, which lacks noticeable muscle definition unfortunately. His brother Devon's the opposite with his hot body. Sonny's body is a little blah, but not flabby. It's fairly taut actually, and I can remember enjoying the feel of him in my arms once or twice.

As I'm shampooing his hair and massaging his scalp Sonny sits slumped in the chair with his blue eyes closed, his hands laying in his lap, and frankly I can't imagine anyone being more relaxed than he is right now. His hair's not that long and he could have gone another week or so without a haircut except he's going away to college in less then a week. My fingers run through his almost orange hair and over his perfectly shaped head. You see guys

with lumps and bumps on their head, especially in the back, but not on Sonny's head. It slopes up slightly and smoothly rounds out on top, and his hairline's straight across his forehead. It's almost the perfect hairline.

I'm sure he takes these things for granted, but he's fortunate to have a nice gene mix, head and hair-wise anyway. The exception being the orange color, but how many things are perfect? After a drawn-out shampoo, I'm using the noisy hairdryer when Sonny gets a

cellphone call. He holds up a hand to get me to turn off the hairdryer as he's pulling his cellphone out of his pocket. Sonny's one of those guys who

needs to walk while talking on his cellphone. I hear, "Hey, Byrd! Where ya been, dawg? I missed you." He walks out of the half bath and the last thing I hear him say is, "Are you back for good now?" Just a thought, but the excited inflection in Sonny's voice made me think that maybe, Byrd, is Sonny's sex buddy. Just an intuition I got when he first answered.

He only talks for about thirty seconds before coming back in the bathroom holding the cellphone against his chest. "Dylan, you're my best buddy ever, and as just a reminder you were my boyfriend all last summer. Um, would you please let another one of my friends come over for a haircut? He could be here in fifteen minutes, and I'll do his haircut. You won't even need to be bothered with it at all." From habit I check my wristwatch: it's ten minutes of eight. I shrug, "You're going to give him the haircut?" He nods enthusiastically, and I shrug, mumbling, "Yeah, I guess. Sure, why not," and he smiles his cute smile, "You're awesome, Dylan!" He walks back out of the bathroom as I smell the back of my hand, smelling shampoo of course. That makes me grin to myself and then smell the back of my wrist. Damn that Dougie Hamilton though, him and this habit of his. Hell, I might remember Dougie all my life if I can't break myself of this habit.

Then I'm thinking, 'Hmmm, Sonny's giving his buddy the haircut. Yeah, that's something I'd like to see. I mean I never got to see him giving me my forced haircuts a year ago. But oh man, did those haircuts ever activate my haircut fetish... wowwee! Of course he had no idea that's what he was doing.

Finished his phone call Sonny comes in all smiles, "My main man, Byrd! He's been away almost all summer, and that prick never texts anybody! Good to hear from my boy though." He sits down again and I finish drying his hair still thinking that my premonition could be correct, and maybe after Sonny gives this kid a haircut he'll fuck him. Anyway, I'm in the clear now that Sonny's interested in this kid, Byrd, so I can relax a little. Huh, I remember a day not too long ago when I'd join in with two hot nineteen year old gay boys having sex, but that day ain't today. Especially with Robby laid up in the hospital.

Sonny's hair is very dry as I run a comb through it to make sure there are no tangles, asking, "What do you consider a preppy haircut for college, Sonny?" He says, "Just like the last haircut you gave me. Remember, it was when you'd just gotten back from Florida." I mumble, "It was Georgia," as I try remembering what that haircut was. From the way his hair grew out, I'd guess the last haircut I gave him was very much like the haircut I just gave Turtle, only shorter on the sides and back, so I ask, "Like Turtle's?" and he goes, "Nooo! A much cooler version of Turtles' haircut." I shrug, wondering what a cooler version of Turtle's haircut might be. I get him seated on the stool appraising his head of bright orange hair. Shampooing it brought out the orange tint again.

Stalling, I'm combing through his hair again glancing over near the chaise lounge where I see an old Sport's Illustrated magazine on top of a small pile of magazines. Muttering, "Just a second, Sonny," I go over and leaf through the magazine hoping for inspiration and bingo! There's a picture of Julian Edelman and his new-wave haircut. Showing Sonny the picture, I'm like, "How about this dude's haircut? This just might be the haircut I did for you last time." It shows Julian maybe two weeks after his last haircut, consequently it's not as severe as it was right after he got the haircut. He has a part high on the left side and, yes... even a pompadour... sort of.

Sonny goes, "Yes, my man, Edelman is too cool! Have you ever watched his YouTube 'Burger Tyme' shows?" I go, "Oh yeah, that shit is laugh out loud funny.

He's a natural comedian." Sonny's like, "And they say the Patriots don't have any fun." I go, "So this is the haircut you want, right?" and he's like, "Yeah, Dylan, that's the haircut I'm gonna be rockin' in South Carolina."

I go, "Well alright then!"

I've talked to other guys about this haircut, and I've even given a few haircuts like it. Right after a haircut Julian's hair on the sides and back would be as short as Ryan was cutting my hair. I use mostly clippers duplicating the haircut in the magazine and it comes out looking just as good on Sonny as it looks on Julian in the magazine. But like I said, Sonny's head is so nicely shaped almost any haircut is going to look good on him. I'm helping him brush hair clippings off his shoulders when the doorbell chimes.

"That's Byrd!" yells Sonny excitedly. I ask, "Is that a nickname?" He shakes his head, "Not really. His full name is Myron Ira Byrd, so he prefers Byrd." I nod, mumbling, "That makes sense," then go upstairs to let him in.

Byrd has a choirboy's face and a pudgy body of about five-foot, eight inches. Same basic height and weight as Turtle. Pretty green eyes on Byrd though, and a really nice kind of nervous grin as he says, "Hi, I'm Myron Byrd.

Sonny said I should come over here. Hope it's okay." I go, "Sure it is.

C'mon in, Byrd. We're in the basement." I lead him to the basement door with a hand on his back guiding him. He says, "Oh man, I get so fucking nervous whenever Sonny gives me a haircut." He's got nice light brown hair that's short, but I can tell it's grown out from the extra short haircut he probably got about two months ago. It was obviously the same haircut Sonny was giving me last year using only scissors and a comb. That's before Ryan took over my haircuts.

Going down the steps, I ask, "You're nervous Sonny will screw up your haircut?" He looks back at me and very sincerely says, "Not necessarily Sonny; any barber. I get very squirrelly getting haircuts; but yeah, much more so when my buddy's cutting my hair," and he holds the crotch of his pants, saying, "Down here gets feeling funny. I get boners and cum in my pants sometimes Ya know, the way Sonny says you get when he cuts your hair." Holy shit!

I didn't know Sonny was aware of my haircut fetish. And he told this kid?!

That's obviously why Byrd felt comfortable telling me about his fetish.

Balls! That fuckin' Sonny!

Byrd continues down the stairs as I'm kinda shocked speechless. Huh, the kid walks with a swagger that's kinda cool. So Sonny recognized my haircut fetish for what it was, but never said anything about it to me. I guess it was pretty obvious when I think about it. I mean, how the hell could he miss my reaction. I'd get so docile I was like putty in his hands.

Those two have a tight embrace with Sonny kissing Bryd's face all over before giving him a sloppy lips on lips kiss with some sucking mouth sounds.

And this from a kid who told me way back that he wasn't into kissing guys.

Sonny's such a liar. Anyway, I much prefer the mouth sounds these two made kissing to the one Bull makes eating tuna fish sandwiches. Both the guy are pulling at there laps and telling each other how happy they are to see one another, then another hug. It all takes place in less then a minute, but I really enjoyed seeing two young gay guys so openly demonstrative with their affection for one another.

With his arm across Byrd's shoulders, Sonny looks at me, saying, "Sorry we're making such asses of ourselves, but we haven't seen each other for, what Bryd, seven weeks?" Byrd mutters, "Something like that," then to me he explains, "My folks have a place in Ocean City, Maryland, and we spend most of the summer there." Then to Sonny, "I invited your ass down there more then once, Sonny boy, and you pussied-out on me." Sonny goes, "Nah, I didn't go because your old man hates me." I ask, "Why's that?" and Byrd says, "Pops thinks Sonny made me queer. I told him, no Pops, I made Sonny queer, which I did, but Pops don't believe me."

They snicker with Byrd rubbing and messing-up Sonny's new hairdo, mumbling, "And I did too make you queer, Sonny, or at least brought you out of your closet." Another swipe of his fingers through Sonny's hair as he grins, saying, "Cool fuckin' hairdo, Sonny boy." Sonny bats Byrd's hand away, then picks up a comb and combs his hair again. Byrd looks at me grinning, "Sonny cried the first time I fucked him. I thought I hurt him at first, but he told me he thought he'd never lose his cherry. Ha ha, they were tears of joy." Sonny gets Byrd in a headlock, yelling, "You fucking liar. Tell Dylan that's not true!" They wrestle around getting on my nerves a little.

So Byrd made Sonny gay, huh? Sonny told me he decided to be gay emulating Ray's bisexuality, but no one believed he was gay, and we were all obviously fuckin' wrong! Yeah, and that's when Sonny thought I was Ray's boyfriend, so maybe it was convenient for Sonny to tell himself or his brother, Devon, he was trying being gay because Ray was bisexual, when all the time him and Byrd were screwing each other. Jesus, I'm getting a Popsicle headache thinking about this crap! Nobody made Sonny gay except him and his genes.

Strange, but it's obvious Byrd's not the least bit submissive to Sonny like I would have imagined he'd be. Huh, that surprises me.

Sonny asks me, "Should I shampoo his hair first?" Byrd looks at me for my answer, apparently willing to go with whatever I decide. I shrug, "If you want to," and he says, "Yeah, Byrd, I'm gonna shampoo your pretty hair."

Byrd's like, "Go ahead, but I just did it an hour ago in the shower when I was getting ready to surprise you that I'm back home." Sonny says, "Well, that's nice of you, but you're getting your hair shampooed again anyway because

I want to do it. Take off your shirt!" Byrd does that as they walk into the half bath. Huh, they take turns telling each other what to do. Surprises the hell out of me considering how dominant Sonny can get with me. This is cool though, and totally unexpected. There's been a lot of unexpected things happening lately. With Byrd's haircut fetish though, Sonny will probably pull his dominant act during the haircut like he does with me. If his fetish is anything like mine I can't see how Byrd will be able to resist that.

So yeah, this should be interesting! A perspective from the other side of things for me.

Damn though, I never thought I was into voyeurism or some peeping Tom shit, but I can't pass this up. I want to watch the haircut Sonny gives Byrd, and the fucking when Byrd's haircut fetish has him all hot and bothered. And I'm not participating, that's not happening even if they ask me to join them. Nope, not after going back on best intentions with Willie last night. I will not be making that mistake again tonight, although I'll probably feel like a perverted dork watching them. Fuck it, I'm going to watch anyway.

I walk over to the half bath and lean against the door jam. Sonny goes, "Oh, good, you're here. This little hose came off the faucet. Is there a secret to getting it to stay on?" I step over and push the end of the hose over the curve in the faucet, saying, "Yeah, it's gotta be over the curve here," then step back as Byrd says, "Will you watch Sonny giving me the haircut, Dylan? He says he going to use your clippers and that'll be a first for both of us. He might need your help." Ha, and I was wondering if they'd mind if I watched." I mumble, "Sure, Byrd." Sonny's using the spray nozzle to wet Byrd's hair, as he asks me, "Yeah, do you mind if I use your barber stuff? I've always wanted to try using barber's clippers." Shrugging, "No problem. Feel free to use whatever I've got in the barber toiletry kit."

There's some goofing around as Sonny shampoos his friend's hair.

Accidentally on purpose he's aiming the spay nozzle down Byrd's back and shoulders with Byrd jumping up grabbing a hand towel off the towel rack, yelling, 'You're such an asshole, Sonny!" and they wrestle, bumping into things in the half bath with Byrd trying to get the hose away from Sonny. I roll my eyes, thinking, 'Fucking kids have all the fun'. They settle down but never stop breaking each other's balls by telling me embarrassing incidence on each other. It's certainly not the calm soothing atmosphere I like creating for the guy I'm shampooing. Like I said, I like quiet time during shampoo and haircutting so I can enjoy studying their good looks, marveling that some guys are better looking than most girls I've seen. That happens less often the older we all get however.

Sonny's finally done the shampoo asking me to pass him the hand towel so he can roughly dry Byrd's hair before using the hairdryer. I go, "Um, Sonny, you need to rinse his hair a lot more than that. Byrd's got thick hair and there's shampoo still in it," and I reach over to rub Byrd's hair forming shampoo bubbles. Sonny makes a face, muttering, "Yeah, I see what you mean." He runs more water through Byrd's hair for maybe a minute and then they get into a struggle for the hose again because Sonny drenches Byrd's shoulder. Giggling like two girls they wrestle around until I yell, "Cut the shit! You're getting water all over the fuckin' place." They settle down blaming each other for the water fight. After Sonny partially dries Byrd's hair with the towel, I use the same towel to mop up the water on the floor moving the towel with my foot. When the hairdryer's running I step out to avoid the irritating sound. In the garage I light a cigarette thinking that wasn't nearly as much fun as I thought it would be. Disappointing actually. I hope they don't screw around like that during the haircut. For one thing, it'll ruin the chance of Byrd getting aroused with his haircut fetish.

When they come out of the bathroom, Sonny yells, "Dylan, where'd ya go? You need to help me with the clippers." Stepping on my cigarette butt, I walk back in the basement, saying, "Why don't you just do his haircut with scissors this time? Try the clippers next time and maybe... " Byrd goes, "Yeah, do what Dylan says, or I might turn the clippers on you." Sonny's holding the clippers that he's turned on and now pretends to run it up Byrd's head.

Byrd jumps back yelling, "Tell him to put that fucking things down, Dylan!" Well, I'm getting a headache now. I ask, "How the fuck old are you, Sonny?" He goes, "Nineteen as of six weeks ago and Byrd's still a baby of eighteen." Byrd shakes his head, mumbling, "For ten more days," and I go, "Nineteen, huh, Sonny? You're acting like a twelve year old." Sonny goes, "Okay, no more goofing around. Sit on this stool, Byrd."

Byrd gets on the stool, saying to me, "You know that feeling ya get in your groin when you're about to get a too-short haircut? Well, I'm getting it right now. It's sort of a scary squirmy feeling, ya know what I mean?"

Yeah, I know only too well, but I shrug as Sonny tells me, "When I'm cutting his hair he gets just as submissively docile as you do, Dylan. It's the only time I get to dominate his ass. Most of the time he's dominating mine with that little cock of his," and Byrd jumps off the stool as they wrestle, giggling again until I yell, "Stop it!' Sonny mumbles, "It's Byrd's fault,"

and Byrd gets back on the stool, saying to Sonny, "You best remember that it's me who owns your ass except for these haircuts." Sonny frowns, mumbling, "Fuck you, Byrd," and to me he asks, "Remember that first time when I tied you to the chair and cut your hair wicked short?" A little embarrassed about that, I shrug again as Byrd goes, "Oh fuck, yeah! He told me about it and I almost creamed in my jeans."

Sonny's combing through Byrd's hair, saying, "Byrd-man wanted me to tie him to a chair when he heard what I did to you, so I did it, but it doesn't work if the guy wants to be tied up. Right, Byrd?" He nods, "Yeah, it didn't have much of an effect on me." I say, "Sonny, get to the fuckin' haircut, okay? I don't want to spend all night in the basement." I'm walking over to close the door leading to the garage; it didn't close all the way when I came in after my smoke. Byrd yells, "Don't leave, Dylan. My orange-headed friend might go for those clippers again." After closing the door I go over and hop up on the washing machine that's next to the barber stool, and mumble, "I'm right here. I'll protect you, Byrd." Sonny goes, "How'd it come to be that it's you two against me? You're both my boyfriends." Byrd mutters, "I prefer thinking of you and my boyfriend, Sonny, as in I won't dump you if you behave." Sonny picks up the scissors, grinning, "Hee hee, we'll see how spunky you are when your fetish takes over your brain and I take over your ass." Byrd actually shudders a little glancing at me. I make a noncommittal facial expression, not wanting to say anything that might get them goofing around again.

Sonny picks up the barber comb and uses the thinnest part of the comb to lay against the skin under Byrd's sideburn and closes the scissors through the hair above the teeth, one inch long hairs drop to Byrd's bare shoulder as Sonny exclaims, "Wow, Dylan, this scissor is sharp." I mumble, "Yeah, that's a professional barber's scissor, so be careful you don't cut his ear off." For the next five minutes no one says a word. The only sound in the basement is the subtle sounds of the scissors cutting through hair as Sonny moves the comb up the left side of Byrd's head and I watch a constant spray of one inch hair clippings fluffing in the air before landing on Byrd's shoulder, or drifting to the basement floor. Byrd now seems tight, like he actually is scared, but I know it's his haircut fetish constantly ramping up in power, expanding until it's got his brain in it's grip.

Pushing Byrd's head forward until his chin's against his chest, Sonny swats at the back of Byrd's head, saying, "Keep your head like that!" and Byrd lets out a subtle whimper as his fingers grope at the material where his boner's making a tent in his lap. He's lost all his bluster, deeply into his fetish by now. I even sense a little stirring of my fetish too from just watching Sonny cut Byrd's hair down to maybe a sixteenth of an inch. I remember the sense of submissiveness I felt when I was in Byrd's place experiencing the unconcerned, dominant manner in which Sonny cuts hair. It's also reminiscent of the way Ryan has cut my hair the last six weeks we were at college, and continuing weekly earlier this summer in Georgia. Neither Sonny nor Ryan give a shit what Byrd or I want; they do it the way they want, and they do it without mercy. Guys with a haircut fetish eat that shit up. It can be very sexually arousing although I don't have a clue why it affects any of us that way. It was during early puberty I discovered I'd get sexually aroused from haircutting. Initially I wondered if all guys were affected like that, but quickly learned that wasn't the case at all.

Listening to the subtle 'crunch' sound of sharp scissors cutting through dry hair and watching the cut hairs falling away from Byrd's head has me subtly squirming on the washing machine. Byrd's eyes are lightly closed, his cheeks puffed out as he's doing little wheezy-breathy exhales. There's a full tent in the lap of his shorts by now with a precum wet spot that's soaked through at the top of the tent pole. Sonny's relentlessly cutting off most of the hair on the back of Byrd's head, cutting it just as short as the hair on the side. Finished with the back, he examines his work so far, and then goes over the left side and back of Byrd's head again evening-out the hair stubble that remains. It's amazing to me how he can get it so even, almost as even as the guide on clippers would do.

Byrd's hunched over kneading his boner as Sonny glances at him and nods his head, confirming something to himself I guess. He puts the scissors and comb on the dryer and hugs Byrd around his head whispering to him with his lips on Byrd's ear, although I can't hear what he's saying. Sonny pushes Byrd off the stool, and now that Byrd's standing the tent in his lap is even more obvious. Taking his time Sonny reaches around and unzips the fly of Byrd's shorts, then unhooks the button at the waist and pulls down Byrd's pants. I'm holding my breath to keep from gasping at how eerily sexy this is.

Heh heh, I'd almost like to change places with Byrd, who's now very much under the control of his fetish. Sonny takes hold of Byrd's five inch boner and strokes it until Byrd's scrunching his face moaning, then his hands push Sonny's hand away as a long drool go precum drops to the floor.

The whole thing is oddly fascinating. Considering that these two haven't had sex together for two months now it must be excruciatingly arousing for both of them. I haven't watched porn on my computer for years, but the little I did watch can't begin to compare to real life porn done right in front of me. And with me totally relating to Byrd's situation, having been there myself, it's a very hot scene for me. Sonny's like Ryan with the same dominant attitude about giving haircuts, and neither of them has the slightest nibble of a haircut fetish themselves.

With a confident smirk on his face Sonny's lightly rubbing his fingers up the back of Byrd's head emphasizing how short he cut his hair. Pushing Sonny's hand away, Byrd shivers, then shakes his head slowly like he can't believe he's this aroused from a haircut. I know the feeling, but at the same time it's irresistible. Walking in front of the stool, Sonny drops his shorts giving me a smirk and mouthing silently, 'You're next, bud." Ha! That's what he thinks! No fucking way although I have a gooey goofy feeling in my nuts just from watching.

Sonny cups the back of Byrd's head pulling it down and Byrd obliges by going down on his knees, one knee slipping a little in the precum. His hand shakes a little as he takes Sonny's mostly limp cock in his fingers. It's not an entirely limp dick though because Sonny gets 'off' a little seeing how docile he's made Byrd. Byrd's five inch hard cock is up tightly against his belly and I'll bet anything that by now he isn't even aware I'm here.

His head of hair looks laughable with half his head almost shaved and the other half covered with thick one-plus inches of hair. Looks ludicrous maybe, but his haircut fetish is screaming in his mind as the fingers of his right hand are around Sonny's pretty cock while his other fingers keep moving from the barbered hair at the side of his head up into the longer hairs. A light whack across the top of Byrd's head from Sonny makes Byrd stops feeling his hair stubble and start slurping on the cock that's in his mouth.

Already a little aroused from dominating Byrd, Sonny's cock quickly responds to the stimulation Byrd's warm mouth and tongue are providing. Byrd's jaw muscles are moving under his cheeks as he sucks and licks Sonny's penis. It looks to me like Byrd's doing some awesome oral sex while at the same time stroking the shaft.

Less then two minutes of Byrd sucking Sonny's cock, Sonny shudder a little, then take a step back pulling his now hard cock from Byrd's mouth. A string of saliva and precum connects the two for a second before the string breaks and drifts down Sonny's good-looking hard penis. His cock's the same color as the skin everywhere else on him. It's creamy pale and smooth, looking paler contrasting with his bright orange pubic hairs. Hard like it is now, his boner could be a piece of expensive China. A boner made of Bone China; yeah, a bonus piece for the discerning gay couple's China place-setting wedding present.

His face flush, Byrd stands up, staring at Sonny, waiting to be told what to do. Surprisingly Byrd's boner's has lost some of the hardness caused by his haircut fetish, so that's unlike me. Sucking cock obviously doesn't get Byrd all that aroused. Sonny turns Byrd around, then pushes behind his head getting Byrd to bend over with his chest resting on the stool. He gasps feeling his shorn head again, then grips the top of two stool legs with his fist and dutifully pushes his ass up. Sonny slaps it, "Smack, smack," but not real hard, then guides his boner between Byrd's buttocks. I'm watching from the side, not daring to move to a better vantage point for fear it'll break the symbiotic relationship they've formed over the last fifteen minutes. This is obviously not the first rodeo for either of them.

As Sonny's staring at Byrd's ass he spreads the cheeks, then rubs his boner up and down the crack before pushing his finger up Byrd's ass. Byrd moans, "Ooooh." Sonny smirks at me again and I gotta admit he's a pretty cool guy. He casually finger fucks Byrd's ass a few times before pulling his finger out and wiping it on Byrd's right ass cheek. Guiding the head of his long

boner to Byrd's asshole, Sonny plugs it in along with two inches of the shaft. I stifle a grunt as my asshole puckers and my dick tightens. Byrd squirms on the seat of the stool, then Sonny does a number of little hip thrusts, gentle ones, slowly opening up Byrd's rectum, then "Ahhh," from Byrd at an extra hard thrust. Sonny looks over at me, points at his cock in Byrd's ass, then points at me again. I'm half mesmerized watching them, but still manage to shake my head 'no'.

Byrd shrieks and his ass jerks up when Sonny humps him hips hard and half his seven-plus inches of boner disappears up Byrd's ass. After his shriek Byrd's now moaning, pushing his ass back at Sonny a little. Sonny, gives Byrd two hard slaps, "SMACK! SMACK!" on his ass and Byrd's hips hump twice with a plop of precum spattering on the floor. His boner I can just see resting against the bottom of the stool's seat, sticking straight out of his pubic hairs. With the next thrust of Sonny's hips the rest of his boner disappears up Byrd's ass and Sonny makes a, "Mmmm," sound, moving his feet a little as the sensations coming off his sensitive cock intensify. There's a definite extra 'high' involved when fucking your buddy's ass. I experienced it with Sonny and there's a lot to be said for 'topping', although being fucked up the ass still can't be beat as far as I'm concerned. To each his own.

Fully impaling Byrd's ass with his seven to eight inch boner, Sonny's rubs the palms of his hands up and down Byrd's back, his thumbs dragging back and forth on Byrd's spine. I'll bet that feels good. When Byrd's quietly moaning with sexual pleasure Sonny pulls his boner back, and rams the whole thing right back up Byrd's ass. It all disappears and then most of it comes right back out, then right back in again. A loud moan from Byrd, "Ahhh, oooh, oooh," his back arching. Then Sonny's totally into it, smoothly humping his hips to and fro creating steady, "Slap, slap, slap," sounds, which are all we hear in the basement for twenty seconds or so before both guys begin the involuntary moans and groans as nerve endings sizzle and feel so good it's hard to believe. My eyes are bulging out of their sockets watching and pushing at my lap. So fucking hot! I'm staring, almost hypnotized, watching Sonny's long cock with it's swollen pick cock head, both shiny with precum sliding tightly back and forth in Byrd's stretched rectum. The precum is spread up Byrd's rectum and from there onto Sonny's boner, plus there's a gleaming accumulation of precum surrounding Byrd's asshole. There goes Sonny's hard cock quickly disappearing up Byrd's ass again making that subtle wet, sliding sound, then, "Slap," as Sonny's crotch smacks into Bryd's butt cheeks.

Three minutes of steady, "Slap, slap, slap," sounds and now Byrd's humping back into Sonny's thrusts, doing a steady quiet whining moan. Both their faces are flush and contorted a little as the most sensitive nerve endings in their bodies are alive with sparkling sexual sensations; the most intense ones most people ever feel. My cock's stiff from just watching and from imagining Sonny doing his hair cutting on me and then the deep hard fucking he's giving Byrd. I've been there and done that so watching it is even more of a turn-on for having been in Byrd's place myself. Both their bodies get stiff at the same time. I don't know if Sonny shoots his load up Byrd's ass first or Byrd climaxes first, but it's close either way. Byrd gasps, humps his hips and I see three strings of cum that fly out from under the seat of the stool between the front legs, then he humps again getting nothing but

drools that drip to the floor.

Byrd's forehead looks a little sweaty and his body's limp as Sonny humps against Byrd's ass hard a few more times, then steps back pulling his cock out. It swings between his legs shiny with cum as he smack Byrd's ass, "SMACK! SMACK!" making Byrd yelp, then yell, "Stop that shit, Sonny!" He straightens up pulling on his limp cock a little, then glances at me, looking startled. I almost laugh out loud at the look on his face. He obviously forgot I was here. Then he looks sheepish, saying, "Believe me, Dylan, it's usually Sonny getting his ass smacked and fucked... not me. I'm not usually this much of a pussy. It's the haircutting thing that turns me into Sonny's pussy." He feels the back of his head, mumbling, "Now I wish I never let Sonny cut my hair like this." I know what he means, but people like us are pretty much slaves to our fetish. We regret it until next time when we do it all over again.

Sonny's wiping his dick with a hand towel he got from the half bath, saying, "Stop your whining, Byrd! Fer chrissakes, I do it for you! You're the one who asked me to cut your hair in the first place. And it's been two to three years we've been doing this by now." Huh, and I though Sonny was a savant barber doing my haircut as his first one ever, and all along he'd been cutting Byrd's hair learning how to do it better and better. And he's been fucking Byrd for a least a year before putting on that charade last summer that he was emulating Ray's bisexuality. What a fraud. Ha ha, he had me fooled. He had everybody fooled.

Byrd's like, "Stop wiping your big cock and wipe my ass. You must have shot a pint of spunk up my ass." Sonny wipes Byrd's ass, saying to me, "We always argue like this after I fuck my pussy-boy here. He loves getting his haircut, and he gets very aroused while I'm doing it, which I take advantage of, and then once he's got his rocks off he gets pissed off at me. I'm used to it." Byrd pushes Sonny's hand and towel away, pulls his shorts up, and says, "Yeah, I'm not very consistent, but I feel helpless to my fetish.

I've been fantasizing about Sonny giving me a haircut for like six weeks, and now I'm complaining about it." He gives Sonny's shoulders a hug, mumbling, "Sorry, Sonny." Sonny says, "Hey, fuck, like I said, I'm used to it by now,

you ungrateful prick." Byrd's feeling his ass, probably noticing the wetness there as more of Sonny's jism drools out. Sitting on the stool, he goes, "Finish my haircut, Sonny. We've taken up enough of Dylan's time."

The second half of the haircut is much different than the first because Byrd's had his fetish-induced climax and now it's all anticlimactic, fetish-wise. I'm still enjoying watching though, amazed at Sonny's unique talent for this one type of haircut. He probably can't do any other kind of hairdo but this one. I know Ryan can only do the one he gives me. In freshman year Robby, Ryan, and I tried giving each other haircuts and neither of them had a feel for it. But, Ryan recognized I get aroused during my haircuts so he made it his business to learn how to do that wickedly short haircut he's been giving me. Online there are endless YouTube videos about haircutting, and anything else you want to learn how to do. That's how he taught himself, but those days are past history now. I'm utilizing my willpower and sacrificing my fetish so I can have hair to comb for the first time in my life.

Sonny finishes Byrd's very short haircut and surprisingly I think Byrd looked better with his uneven, unkempt hairdo. I don't know why exactly, but for some guy's their face and shape of their head doesn't work well with extremely short hair, which is the case with Byrd, but not so with Sonny.

It's probably a matter of opinion and the only opinion I know really well is my own.

Byrd stands up doing what everyone does after getting a short haircut, he rubs both hands all over his head, then mumbles, "Couldn't you leave it a little longer, Sonny?" Sonny goes, "You always say the same fucking thing, Byrd. Next time, say it before I start." Byrd shrugs, "I probably won't."

Then he looks at me, asking, "Do you have a dustpan and brush, Dylan? I'll sweep the hair up for you." Sonny goes, "Hold up on that, Byrd," and he looks at me, saying, "You're next, Dylan." My dick gets stiff as I say half-heartedly and without a whole lot of conviction, "No. No I'm not, Sonny. I'm good like this." He gives me a 'look', then says sternly, "Get your shirt off and get your ass on the barber stool right now," and Byrd says, "Yeah, Dylan. Let me watch this time."

Oh man, I swear to God the urge is so strong to get on that stool. Oh fuck...

. "Let's go, Dylan, you're next," say Sonny, taking charge, adding, "Byrd, change places with Dylan. Hop up on the washing machine." Both of them come over and each grabs an arm, pulling me off the washing machine, as Sonny's saying even sterner, "C'mon, you know you need a haircut and more importantly you want a haircut just like Byrd did... and who does it better than me? If you're a good boy during your haircut we'll have a three-way afterwards," and Byrd's like, "Hot shit! C'mon Dylan, don't be a pussy. This will rock!" Abandon all hope, ye who enter here...

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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