JOHN DARLING'S COMA By Donny Mumford

JOHN DARLING'S COMA

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The man in the mall parking lot was nice-looking and friendly but too old for John. Getting into his pickup, John's thinking, 'Why would I have dinner with that guy? And why should I care that he owns a modeling agency?' I don't need a job. Ha! I've already got a flunky position at an auto repair garage that pays minimum wage.'

Yeah, he's being sarcastic, except he really doesn't need a job, so why was John even thinking about that guy? Well, perhaps because he was wondering if he passed up an opportunity to make a contact in Cheyenne? Except for Dickie he's never made friends here because, like Paul Sullivan, John went to schools that weren't near where he lived, and there were no kids his age in his Cheyenne neighborhood, just like there are no kids Paul's age in this apartment building.

Yeah, that's true, but making a friend with a man ten or twelve years older than him didn't make much sense, especially considering the man was most likely thinking or hoping John was gay. Shaking his head, John said, "No thanks, I'm having dinner at home tonight."

Driving out of the mall's parking garage, John grins brightly, realizing he'd again thought of the apartment as 'home.' That's cute, except John's only been in the apartment a little over three weeks, so how could that be 'HOME?'

How indeed, but it feels like home to John, which is the only thing that matters. Hell, that's not the only hard-to-believe aspect of fat Gary's and John's relationship. They were together for only a couple of weeks when Gary left for the Montana three-week training facility, and somehow, this has made them grow closer, which makes no fucking sense at all. None of it makes any sense, but it is what it is just the same.

He needs gas and should get it before parking because tomorrow he's driving to the airport. Blowing out a lot of air, he mutters, "Fuck it. I'll get gas tomorrow morning."

Parking at their apartment parking spot, John shakes his head, muttering, "It's stupid, but I am sincerely craving to be with Gary again and have sex with him again as his bottom boy! That's right... I've got a hard-on from just imagining us greeting one another. There is something about him that makes me want to please him, to make him like me."

Hmm, speaking of that, speaking of greeting one another after being apart for over two weeks, what should their greeting be? Gary and John are still almost strangers, so what form of greeting is proper? Maybe a one-second guy-hug and, 'Hey, how ya doing, bro?' Some generic greetings like that.

In the elevator, going up, John says out loud, "Oh, great, Darling... now you've given yourself something else to worry about!" Yeah, but for real, he's wondering how to greet Gary tomorrow afternoon. What greeting won't embarrass John nor piss Gary off? Good question, since they hardly know one another.

Getting off the elevator on the third floor, carrying both shopping bags in his left hand, John mutters, "Screw it! I'm going to hug and kiss Gary and tell him how much I've missed him and how often I've thought of him. That's what I want to do, and that's what I will do, too"

Getting off the elevator car on the third floor, John can't articulate why Gary has become such a big factor in his life as, basically, they remain merely acquaintances who have had a few casual sex episodes together. One thing John could be honest telling Gary about was how he thought of him every time he jerked off... haha.

That thought made John grin; then the grin turned to a frown when he noticed an envelope taped on the apartment's front door. "What?"

Looking closely at it, John mutters, "That's an ominous-looking thing." It's the handwriting on the envelope, 'John Darling Junior,' that's written in elaborate calligraphy. Writing like that had to have taken quite a while, and why would someone take the time? The font looks like art.

Hmm, as unlikely as it is that John would imagine someone doing this, he's nonetheless pretty sure he knows who the envelope's from. Fumbling with the two shopping bags, both back in his left hand, he unlocks the door and peels off the envelope. Inside the apartment, dropping the shopping bags, he rips open the envelope, nodding because he is right about it being from Mrs. Lyons and her nephew, Paul, but wrong about whose writing is on the envelope.

The page inside the envelope, in the same handwriting, reads, 'Dearest pretend big brother, my aunt and I would be so happy if you'd join us for dinner tonight. My phone number is 307-345-0745. Please text me that you'll come! (Hi Johnny! My Aunt Sonny dictated the invitation. I wouldn't have worded it this way in a million years.) Please come, though! Signed... your admiring little brother and close friend, Paul Sullivan.'

John muttered, "Oh, no!" Even though he was touched by Paul's sentiment, closing the door, John had a nasty, selfish thought... 'If I text back a reply, he'll have my phone number. Then he's sure to make a pest of himself, right?'

Then he says out loud, "What a fucked-up thought that was, you heartless prick!"

He shakes his head, thinking, 'I'm flattered the kid thinks so highly of me. But then, why wouldn't he? I gave him a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.' Then he said out loud again, "And that is another suck-ass thought! What's wrong with you, Darling?"

Yeah, John loved how great it felt to be able to help someone, but what's he thinking now? Now he wants to be done with it... is that it? He can't be bothered with a thank-you gesture? What?

Sometimes, being generous has nothing to do with money. It has to do with giving up your time and having compassion for someone's plight. Giving up your time accommodating someone like Paul who needs, in this case, male companionship, a positive male figure in his life as, currently, he's living with an aunt. Paul and Aunt Sonny... jeez.

Paul idolizes John and wants to spend time with him, so John should be prouder of that than giving him some of his parents' three million dollars in inheritance money. If he worked and earned that money himself, then he could feel the proud effect of giving some of his hard-earned money away. Since that's not the case, be proud of giving your time to Paul and for setting the proper example of how a guy should act... be proud of yourself for that reason.

John mutters, "Okay, that's what I want to be all about, setting a good example for the kid, even if it is inconvenient as hell. If it wasn't a little inconvenient, though, there wouldn't be much to be proud of, right?"

He promises himself he's going to help the kid. Yeah, help him as much as he can until Paul doesn't need his help anymore, the way Andy did for him.

John mutters, "And it shouldn't be for a very long time. Paul will be making friends his own age once he's going to the private school. Then, he'll spend time with fellow students after classes. The school is only a few blocks from where he lives, so he can bring his friends home for a Coke or to smoke some weed or whatever. Hahaha! Teenagers, ya know?

Standing in his living room, he says out loud, encouraging himself, "Get it together!" He takes a deep breath and then starts to text a reply to Paul's dinner invitation, but instead, stares at the date on his phone. He stares at it for fifteen seconds before mumbling, "Happy twenty-second birthday, John Darling Junior."

He forgot about his birthday, and since he has no living relatives, nobody except John knows when his birthday is. He's mentioned to a few guys that he'll be twenty-two in a few weeks, a few days, whatever, but never mentioned the date.

Then, out loud, he asks himself, "Yeah, but how the hell did YOU forget your own birthday? Well, my parents made sure it wasn't forgotten, but they're..." and his eyes fill up. He tries not to, but he sobs as tears run down his face.

Muttering, "Dammit," he shook his head, then thought about what to text Paul, settling on a blunt, 'What time should I be there? And thank you, Paul, for inviting me.'

The return text, 'Aunt Sonny said six-thirty. Thanks for doing this!'

Nodding, he mutters, "Yeah, a birthday party, and they don't even know it, and I'm not mentioning it either. He starts for the kitchen but stops because, taking him by surprise, he breaks out sobbing again; then come the tears running down his face as he mutters, "What? Maybe I need to feel a little sorry for myself..."

Then, "No, you don't! That poor kid, Paul... feel bad for him! Poor Aunt Sonny, too. What must it be like for her, for him? A single Mom on a treadmill with no end in sight, barely making ends meet, raising her nephew after raising her own kid. And Paul, without friends and without a male figure in his life."

Wiping his eyes, he mutters, "Still, everything being equal, and being honest with myself, I could do very well without this dinner at Aunt Sonny's. Just saying..."

Continuing to the kitchen, he gets a can of Pepsi and, sitting at the small kitchen table, he lets the tears run down his face as he slowly shakes his head as if to say, 'Go ahead, tears, run down my face all you want, but there's no reason for it! I'm okay and doing the right things. I should be smiling!'

The tears stopped as abruptly as they began. John takes a deep breath, and wiping his eyes with the back of his hands, he mutters, "Fuck..." and drinks some Pepsi, then notices the time on the microwave oven... 5:22. Taking another deep breath, he stands and brings the can of soda with him to the living room, where he gathers up the two shopping bags and goes into the bedroom.

Clicking on the radio that Gary has set at 100.7 Kolt FM... It's a country music station, and the DJ is saying, "Way too young, we've lost an icon in country music; Toby Keith's passing hurts. He was there for our troops after nine/eleven like nobody else, writing and performing patriotic songs and visiting the troops many times overseas. Well, here's one of his patriotic songs he had fun with, mocking the Taliban. It's called "The Taliban Song" Official Music Video, coming to you from me, Jimmy Jones, and Toby Keith on 100.7 FM."

John had heard the song before and smiled, thinking, 'What big balls Koby had writing and performing this insulting song about the Taliban over there in the Taliban's backyard.'

With the song playing in the background, John took his new jeans, khakis, and shirts out of the shopping bags; then, singing along with Koby, he began taking all tags off a new pair of skinny jeans with a 32-inch waist and 34-inch inseam. He stopped singing with Koby and muttered, "Oh, fuck," realizing he needed to iron the jeans. Getting out Gary's iron and ironing board, he starts ironing the creases out of his new jeans.

Done with that, he glanced at the Polo brand white button-down shirt and dark blue sleeveless sweater he wore for three hours last night, thinking, 'Hmm., why not?' and picked up the sweater, smelling it. It didn't smell like anything, so he nodded, "I'll wear these two things again tonight. I mean, how long will I need to be at Aunt Sonny's?"

He felt guilty again for wishing he didn't need to go to this dinner, then while unplugging the iron, he thought, 'I know what's happening here. I'm acting as if the dinner with Paul and his aunt will be a boring burden, while the real reason for not wanting to go is because it makes me nervous. What I need here is, I need to be a twenty-two-year-old ADULT. There's no Andy covering up for me now, so I need to step up and grow a set of balls and act my fucking age!'

Then he says out loud, "That's a little strong. Most guys in my situation would rather not go to dinner at Aunt Sonny's if, like me, they barely knew her. So, it's not just me..."

As John undressed, the DJ says, "And now here's another oldie but goodie, going back eleven years. Darius Rucker, singing his smash crossover hit of 2013, "Wagon Wheel." Let it rock, Darius."

John turns up the volume and goes into the bathroom, leaving the door open so he can hear the song. Singing along with the song, John gets the shower running, and while it heats up, he takes his afternoon one-minute dump and wipes his ass, singing. Then, in the shower, John and Darius sing the chorus, "So, rock me, momma, like the wind and the rain, rock me momma like a southbound bound train," and Darius goes on, John singing with him as he'd memorized all the words to the song the second time he heard it years ago.

Drying after showering, the radio station is now beginning four minutes of commercials, which John tunes out as he shaves his skimpy beard, which barely qualifies as a beard. After brushing his teeth, he gets dressed, thinking, "I need to bring something with me, right? You don't go to a dinner party without a, what's it called? A hostess gift or something.'

Putting on Gary's hoodie winter coat, John sees the time is five of six, so he needs to hurry. Fortunately, nothing is too far away from you when living in Cheyenne, and Gary's apartment is close to downtown, so John drives to the mall in less than ten minutes. Inside the mall, he walks into Macy's and goes past the perfume counters, past the jewelry counters, and there it is... the candy counter. No, not penny candy, but gourmet chocolates. Not taking any time at all, he points at a box, asking the saleslady, "Can you wrap that box of chocolate?"

She's a nice-looking twenty-something-year-old woman, smiling and saying, "No, I can't. Sorry."

Well, the box is fancy enough itself, so John says, "Swell! I'll take it anyway."

It's a $43 box of dark chocolate... a Godiva gift box. That seemed appropriate to John, so he hustled back to the apartment. He only had time to check out his hair, recombing it, muttering, "Dammit, I look like a goof!" Then, he sees that it's six-twenty-six, so bringing the box of chocolates with him to the elevator, he hits the button for the fifth floor and shakes his head because this dinner doesn't have much potential of being a lot of fun.

He mutters, "So, do something for someone other than yourself... try doing that, Darling." A woman taller than John, with gray pigtails on either side of her head and granny glasses on a string around her neck, mumbles, "You call yourself darling?"

"Huh? What?" John turns to look at the woman who steps around him and pushes the elevator button for the lobby, then grins, showing yellow teeth, saying, "Or were you talking to me perhaps?"

"What? Oh, no, I didn't see you there. Um, my last name is Darling. John Darling Junior."

The elevator is on its way down. It stops, and the doors open; pigtails can get in, mumbling, "An unlikely story, Sonny," and smiles again, the corridor's light shining off her yellow teeth as the door closes.

Nodding his head, John murmurs, 'That old crow had to call me Sonny, right? And I'm on my way to Aunt Sonny's dinner party. A bad omen?' Getting on the next elevator going up, he nods and gives a smile to the three people in the elevator car, then thinks, 'A crossword clue: Bad sign for the future... 4 letters. OMEN.'

Shaking his head to clear it, he gets off on the fifth floor, and walks down to Aunt Sonny's apartment, trying to think of what's the proper thing to say. This is another 'greeting' problem John is wrestling with when Paul opens the door, his eyeglasses smudged, and he, with a straight face, asks, "Yes, can I help you?"

John laughs, "Yeah, I'm looking for Aunt Sonny Lyons and her good-looking and talented basketball-playing nephew, Paul Sullivan, who still needs a haircut."

Paul says, "Maybe this guy Paul Sullivan is letting his hair grow out to be like his pretend big brother. Did you ever think of that?"

Actually, Paul is seriously in need of a haircut, but this is the first time John has ever seen Paul with his hair combed, so that's a step in the right direction. Before John can comment further, though, Aunt Sonny yells from the kitchen, "Let him in, Paul! Stop messing around!"

Paul yells, "Yes, Auntie. We were goofing like brothers do." Then to John, "Come on in, and I'll get you a beer."

John walks inside, concentrating on not making a face or saying something about... this 'brother' thing that is getting to be a bit much, as in a pain in the ass. Enough is enough! Then John thinks, 'Christ! Be nice, Darling!'

Aunt Sonny comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron she's wearing, then holds her hand out, "I'm so glad you accepted our invitation, John. That tells me a lot about you; as if I didn't already have the highest opinion of you, this further impressed me."

"Well, thank YOU for inviting me, Mrs. Lyons," and he shakes her hand, then says, "I picked up a token of, um, ah... well, here," and he hands her the box of Godiva chocolates he had in his left hand, adding, "The lady wouldn't, um, wrap the, um..."

"Oh, John, you got us Godiva? Thank you! This is a real treat. One I seldom experience, so thank you very much. Um, I hope you like chicken noodle casserole. It's Paul's favorite, and he insisted I make it for you. I wanted to have steaks and baked potatoes. Something special like that."

Paul sounds excited, "Your chicken noodle casserole is something special, Auntie! You'll love it, Johnny Darling. Haha, I think that's the coolest name ever...."

John mutters, "I'm sure the casserole is very special. I'm looking forward to it."

Paul's like, "Um, Godiva? Funny name, but are there chocolates in that fancy box?" and his aunt lets Paul take the box as she asks John, "Beer, or would you care for a Manhattan? That's what I'm drinking."

"Yes, I'd like to try a Manhattan; I don't think I've ever had one. I'm not sure, though. Ah, you know, I don't do much drinking." Well, he doesn't.

Paul has already unwrapped the box. The lid is now lying on a chair as Paul chews on one of the thirty-two pieces of dark chocolate in the box, saying with his mouth full, "This is insanely good. Holy fuc... I mean, jeez!"

His aunt gives Paul a 'look' and says, "Only one chocolate before dinner, Paul." Then to John, "C'mon into the kitchen, and I'll make you the Manhattan. The casserole needs another twenty minutes in the oven, and I still need to make a salad."

She's already back in the kitchen as John gives Paul a grin, watching him plop another chocolate into his mouth. Pointing at the lid, melted chocolate at the corners of his mouth, Paul says, "It's pretty cool that they list the different types of chocolate pieces on the lid. How much did this cost, anyway? I'll bet it was expensive."

John puts his hand on Paul's shoulder, "You don't ask a person how much the gift they give you costs. It's not done."

Walking together into the kitchen, Paul says, "Yeah, I already knew that. But, ya know, how much did this cost?"

"Forty-three dollars."

"Holy shi..., um, crap. Seriously? That's like, what? Omigod, more than a dollar for each little piece! What the...?"

He stops talking to watch his aunt pour a cold whiskey mixture into a stemmed cocktail glass with a cherry in it. Picking up her glass, she says, "I have a straight-up Manhattan cocktail every night. Only one, though, so I won't feel guilty."

John picks his drink up, and they tap glasses as Paul's aunt says, "Thank you, John Darling Junior. Your attorney finalized everything yesterday. Paul's tuition is paid for the next semester, five hundred dollars was deposited in my checking account, and the rest of the trust will automatically be distributed monthly and when tuition is due. Sadly, the school won't accept a mid-semester transfer, but Paul's all set to start in January's second semester."

John mutters, "That's great!" Lifting his glass, "To Paul's January transfer!" They sip their drinks as Paul stares at John. This is kind of a big deal, but they're trying to play it low-key. Still, Paul and John are emotional, their eyes shiny with tears, John willing himself not to let a tear run down his cheek. He gets very emotional imagining Paul's new life. Paul has turned his head, wiping his eyes.

Aunt Sonny sees the teary eyes and murmurs, "You've renewed my faith in the human race, John. Thank you for that, too."

His cheeks were still wet with tear tracks; Paul hugged around John's waist, murmuring, "Yeah, thank you, Johnny," and the hug pushed John past the tipping point, and tears started rolling down his face again, the second time in the last hour. What the fuck? He managed to mumble, "Glad to be able to help..."

Mrs. Lyons said, "Paul, stop bothering John. Let him relax in the living room with his cocktail and, John," nodding at the pitcher with the Manhattan mixture, "There's enough for another one if you have a mind to have another."

Paul keeps an arm around John as John mutters, "Thank you, Mrs. Lyons. I'll probably take you up on that," and, wiping his eyes, carries his drink into the living room, saying, "Don't, Paul, please."

Keeping his arm there, Paul mutters, "I'm not doing anything."

John looks closely at Paul, about to get stern, saying he needs to take his arms from around him, but sees that Paul's combed his hair in an uneven version of John's. It's the boring regular comb-over-to-the-side-with-a-part-and-little-pompadour hairstyle. Paul is imitating that, so a few more tears roll down John's face.

He wishes he could hug the kid, but being gay kind of leaves hugging a boy open for misinterpretations, so instead, he says, "Have another chocolate, Paul. Tell your aunt, if she asks, that I ate it."

Paul lets go of him, pushes his glasses up his too-big nose for his otherwise youthfully cute face, and opens the box of chocolates, mumbling, "Don't mind if I do..."

He reads the choices on the lid again, then looks at John, saying, "I don't know why I bother reading the descriptions of each piece because I've already decided I'm taking the biggest one."

John has wiped his eyes with the right sleeve of his shirt, then takes a large gulp of his Manhattan, mumbling, "Yeah, that's what I'd have done too." Then, for something to say, John lies and says, "Your hair looks nice. I believe this is the first time I've seen you, um, comb it."

Paul touches his head, "Oh, really? Well, I had a buzz cut when I first saw you. Remember? Ya can't comb a buzz cut," and, still chewing the chocolate piece, he comes over to sit right next to John on the small sofa. John grins at him, then gulps more of his cocktail.

Staring at John, Paul asks, "How tall are you?"

"What? Oh, ah, I'm six feet tall or six feet-and-a-quarter inch if you want it exactly."

"Uh-huh. How would someone know if they're gay?"

John inches away a tiny bit, up against the arm of the loveseat, mumbling, "What? How can you tell if you're gay?"

Paul nods, "Yeah, that's what I just asked you."

"Um, Christ, I don't know how to describe it. It's just that someone prefers, um, realize they, ah, prefer sexually others of their gender. It's not exactly a choice, but it is kind, too... sort of, I guess. It's part Nature, part nurture, and part opportunity, ya know?"

"No, I don't know. I'm in ninth grade, not college, like you. Duke University, big deal!"

"It is a big deal, actually. Um, you don't forget anything, do you? I'm like that, too. I mean, last Sunday, you heard me tell the other captain at the high school basketball court that I went to Duke, right?"

Shrugging, Paul says, "I don't know where I heard it. Maybe I Googled your name. How many John Darling Juniors in Wyoming could there be who were in a coma?"

John mutters, "Jesus," then finishes his drink. Paul hops up, taking the glass from John's fingers, saying, "I'll get you another one, Johnny."

"Oh, okay, thanks." Dazed, John sits there looking around, wondering what he should say about Paul's question, 'How can you tell if you're gay?' Paul comes into the living room slowly, balancing the Manhattan glass that's full to the brim. John hops up to take the glass and drinks some, then sits down, saying, "Thank you, Paul," deciding not to say anything else about Paul's question.

Paul mutters, "Auntie wants me to tell you it'll be ten minutes till dinner's ready."

"Okay, great." Then, to cut off any possible questions about gayness, John asks, "Um, in January, you'll be in the private high school a couple of blocks from here. That'll be convenient walking to school instead of a twenty-minute bus ride each way."

"Yeah, and all because you liked me. Thank you, Johnny!"

"Huh? Oh, ha, yeah. You're welcome. Ah, you'll make friends and play basketball and, oh... yeah, um, it'll be better all the way around."

Paul is sitting in the loveseat again and leaning on John the way John always leans against his boyfriend. Already as tight against the arm of the loveseat as he can get, John, feeling uncomfortable, does a fake clearing his throat sound, then says, "Ah, is there anything you'll be sad to leave behind when you transfer to the Private school? Anything about your public school you'll miss?"

"Well, yeah! Seriously, there is one thing I'll really miss, and it's Charlie McBride. I think I love him."

Oh fuck!

John gulps some Manhattan, looks at Paul's neatly made-up cot/bed under the windows at the other end of the living room, and mumbles, inanely, "There's your bed all made up, huh?" Then, when that gets no response, "Oh, I meant to ask you about your handwriting. Jesus, how'd you learn to do calligraphy?"

"That's not my handwriting! I did the calligraphy to make it a special invitation. Something you could save as a keepsake from me. You can keep that invitation, and every time you read it, you'll think of me."

John's eyebrows raise, "Oh, shit, I never thought of... um, but Goddamn, that's a great idea. I'll try finding it in the trash I threw it in, and maybe I can flatten it out."

Paul laughs, hitting John's shoulder, saying, "You're so funny. I know you didn't throw it out! Um, did you?"

"Nope! I'm doing exactly what you said. It's a work of art."

"It took me two hours to do that short invitation. I can draw, too. I'm pretty good. I drew you and me. Do you wanna see it?"

"Of course, I'd like to see it."

Paul gets up and walks over to his 'bedroom,' which is a small section of the living room. There's a small desk from which Paul, from a drawer, pulls out a nine-by-eleven piece of lined notebook paper.

He comes back, then carefully sits as close to John as he was before and mutters, "Here it is. I took my time with this, too."

John takes the offered drawing that's titled "Big Brother." It's a serious, well-drawn picture of a tall boy and a short boy, the short one with a buzz cut and eyeglasses, the tall one with his arm across the short boy's shoulders. The short boy is looking up at the tall one, the tall one looking straight ahead. Both faces are well drawn but could be just about any two boys.

John murmurs, "Wow, you're very talented, Paul. This is really well done."

Paul says, "You can have it. You'll probably want to get it framed."

John stifles a grin, doubting he'll get the lined tablet paper drawing framed, but it's sweet of Paul to give him the drawing. He says, "Thank you, Paul," and then doesn't know where to put the drawing.

Paul takes it and says, "I'll put it in a manila folder so it doesn't get torn or something." He gets up and does that, getting a manila folder from a desk drawer. Then, sitting close to John again, Paul asks, "Ah, did you leave anything important behind at Duke? I mean, the way I'm leaving Charlie behind. Charlie cried when I told him about the private school. That scared the shit out of me. I told him about you seeing that I got to go to St. John's, and he busted out crying just like that. Weird, huh?"

"Oh, man! Jeez, I'm sorry to hear that."

"Charlie hates you because you made it possible for me to go to a private school. He doesn't even know you, but he said he hates you with a passion."

"Un-huh, it's hard to move away from best friends; I get that." John gulps down half the second Manhattan.

Paul shrugs, "Yeah, I can see that, too, but Charlie and I are way more than best friends."

"What?" and Auntie calls, "Dinner, boys..."

Mrs. Lyons has a glass of red wine in front of her place and in front of John's place on the kitchen table. There's a tablecloth that looks brand new and a vase with one red rose. She says, "Please sit down, John. Paul insisted on a tablecloth. Heh-heh, and the flower."

Paul sits down, saying, "Yeah, of course. I've seen pictures of ritzy-looking restaurants with a white tablecloth, a vase, and one flower."

As John nods, grinning at Paul, Mrs. Lyons says, "Paul insisted on this being a ritzy dinner for you, John," and she smiles lovingly at Paul.

Paul blushed and said, "Yeah, it's a little creepy, maybe, but yeah, it should be special for someone who did something way, way more than special for us."

Nodding, Auntie says, "You're right, Paul," and then, "Do you say grace before eating, John?"

"No, ma'am, but I'm not particularly opposed to it either."

Paul mutters, "I told you, Auntie."

She nodded and smiled at Paul again, then spooned out a large portion of the creamy chicken and noodles casserole with peas, pieces of celery, and onion, then passed the plate to John, saying, "There's enough here for six people, so there is more if you want it."

There is also a big salad at each place with Russian dressing, John's favorite, plus crusty Italian bread. When Auntie finishes serving Paul and herself, John holds up his wine glass and says, "To you, Mrs. Lyons, this looks delicious."

Paul holds up his glass of milk, and they all tap glasses with Paul saying, "To John. Our thanks," and Auntie mutters, "Yes, to John."

Swallowing some wine, John manages not to make a face, but he thinks the wine tastes like a cleaning fluid of some kind, but that's probably because he hasn't developed any kind of palate for wine, never mind developing a sophisticated or discriminating one. He's determined to drink all wine. The salad and casserole are awesome, and as they eat, Mrs. Lyons tells John the step-by-step process she and Sara McCarty went through over the last three days.

Paul carefully eats with his mouth closed, paying close attention to what his Aunt is saying, as this is the first, he's heard of the details. The amount, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, is much more than Paul expected it would take and probably seems a much larger amount than it actually is at this time in the world, but then Paul, a fourteen-year-old, doesn't know much about money.

John nodded, paying attention as Mrs. Lyons spoke because he wanted to make sure the amount was enough to do what he wanted it to do. Unlike Paul, John thought the sum of money was surprisingly small for the job. He cleaned his plate, and Mrs. Lyons said, "Please, help yourself, John," which, with his artificially inflated hunger level, he did twice. It really was very tasty, and it made Mrs. Lyons feel good that John ate so much.

Dessert was a frozen Mrs. Smith apple pie from the grocery store that Mrs. Lyons had baked three hours ago. She served it with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream that Paul scooped out of a round container of Turkey Hill ice cream. Auntie and John had coffee while Paul drained a can of Coke, asking, "How much is the tuition, anyway?"

His aunt muttered, ''Too much," and then asked John about Duke University, "Paul said you're taking a year off college, and considering all you've been through, I think that's a very sensible and mature decision on your part."

After dinner, John asks if he can help clean up. Mrs. Lyons laughs at that and says, "Oh, my, you're too good to be true. No, thank you, John, but if you really want to help... help Paul with his Geometry."

John spends a half-hour with Paul doing his geometry homework, explaining why the answers are what they are, and not just doing Paul's homework for him. Later, Paul talks John into playing Scrabble with him and his aunt. John made himself agree, and Paul said, "Aunt Sonny is the best Scrabble player ever. I'm a good speller, better than I am at math, but I can't beat Auntie. Can I, Auntie?"

She says, "Not yet, but you're getting closer and closer." She can barely believe John is agreeing to do this, and so is he. She's quickly setting up the Scrabble board, the three of them sitting around the cleaned-up kitchen table. They all pick random upside-down letter tiles, and Paul says, "You go first, Johnny."

John saw the word 'minimus' immediately when setting his tiles on the little wood rack. He made a face to keep from grinning, then mumbled, "This is awkward, but I can use all seven tiles for a double score and 50 points bonus for using all of them. He spells 'minimus" across the star on the board as Paul and his aunt frown, then Auntie says, "John, um, is that a foreign word, or...?

John says, "No, it's English. Minimus is a rarely used word, I'll grant you that, but it means little finger or little toe." Then he mumbles, "That's eleven, doubled to twenty-two, plus fifty bonus points," to Mrs. Lyons, who is keeping score, "Um, seventy-two total."

Looking up, John sees Paul and his Aunt still frowning at him. He goes, "What?" and Mrs. Lyons shrugs, "If that's a word, John, it's a foreign language word. We play English Scrabble."

Paul defends John, saying, "Johnny goes to college, so he knows words. Don't ya, Johnny?"

"Yeah, but, um, how about if we check it on Dictionary.com? I mean, I know it's a word. I saw it on a New York Times crossword puzzle and, you know, I mean... The New York Times!"

They look it up online, and Mrs. Lyons says to Paul, "Oh, my goodness. It's a word." Then, to Paul, she grins, "We don't have a chance, Honey."

And they didn't.

John got good letter tiles and spelled out 'SONDER,' which left both Paul and his Aunt frowning at John again, and checking Dictionary.com to verify the word. Then, twenty minutes later, already way ahead in points, John got great tiles and spelled out 'XERTZ' on a triple point space. Paul asked his aunt, "Dictionary.com?"

"Yes, but only because I'd like to know what it means. I don't doubt John anymore."

Feeling self-conscious for coming up with these words, he mutters, "It means to gulp something down, basically."

Auntie checks Dictionary.com, saying, "It's slang," and John shrugs, "It's definitely an okay Scrabble word." Then to Paul, "How about if you check it out in the Scrabble dictionary."

"I didn't know there was one," but Paul Googles it, and, yep, it's perfectly acceptable.

Grinning, Mrs. Lyons mutters, "I have this strange urge to flip this Scabble board across the room."

Paul says, "We never had a chance, as you said, Auntie. Paul's too smart."

John shakes his head and says, "I'm not smart; I memorize things. I can't think up new things. Smart people invent things or create things like poetry or music, whatever, which I'll memorize if I like it."

Auntie, smiling, says, "You're too modest, but you did get the luckiest tiles I've ever seen. Paul, let's try to beat him. Set it up; we'll play again."

As hard as he tried, John couldn't dumb it down enough to lose. He didn't get the excellent tiles as in the first game, but his ability to immediately see a couple of words from the tiles he did pick allowed him to put out the word with the lowest score, trying to lose without being obvious about it. He won anyway, and Mrs. Lyons, collecting all the tiles, said, "It's been a pleasure spending this evening with you, John Darling Junior, but Paul has school tomorrow, and I have work, so..."

John hops up, saying, "I need to get up at five o'clock tomorrow morning, so let me say I enjoyed myself greatly, and I'm sorry about the Scrabble games." Then, patting Paul's shoulder, he said, "I'll be in Montana this weekend, but if you want, we can shoot some hoops next weekend. It's getting too cold to play outside, but maybe we can shoot 'em up in the private school gym, and I'll sign us up for the YMCA in Laramie."

Paul says, "That'd be fabulous. Thanks, John."

John considered telling them today was his birthday but decided that would somehow lessen the importance of them making this a thank-you dinner because of the trust fund. On his way out, John says, "Thank you, Mrs. Lyons. I loved Paul's favorite casserole; that was delicious. Everything was delicious, including the Manhattans!"

Paul's beaming, mumbling, "I told ya he'd love the casserole, Auntie."

It was a little awkward leaving, but they made it through, and now, standing at the elevators, John smiled as he felt his eyes stinging again because Paul and his aunt were so anxious to make it nice, making the evening special for him. Out loud, "I won't let them down," then he looked around and muttered, "And you need to stop talking to yourself."

It was only nine-thirty, but John still felt exhausted. He only now realizes he was tense, wanting to do the right thing all night. In the elevator, he went all the way down to the lobby and outside, putting up his hoodie... Gary's hoodie. It's very chilly with a stiff breeze. After walking halfway down the block, he stepped into an alcove to light a cigarette.

Slowing walking and exhaling cigarette smoke, he nodded, thinking he had done okay tonight. There hadn't been too many awkward incidents, and both Paul and his aunt seemed to enjoy themselves alright. The key word there is 'seemed.' John had no way of knowing what Mrs. Lyons really thought of him. She has no reason to be anything but grateful, but people can be funny; well, some people are strange about receiving charity. John would like to think of it as something other than charity, but that's what it was.

Flicking the cigarette butt in the street, the driver in a car going by honked his car's horn making John jump and mutter, "Asshole..." He almost jumped into a guy walking on the sidewalk in the other direction. The guy goes, "Oops, sorry," putting his hands on John's side to keep him from stumbling into a city trash container attached to a street light.

John said, "Damn, my fault," and looked into the face of a cute college-age guy with red cheeks from the cold and startling green eyes that didn't look real. John saw something online years ago about a breed of cats; the breed named Havana Brown; they had the most unbelievable green eyes. Their coat was very brown, while their eyes were very green, and this attractive human had the cats' green eyes.

The cute, dimpled grin on this guy made John grin back and, without thinking, reach out to touch the guy's cheek but stopped in time, pulling his hand back to run his finger through his hair, knocking off his hood, mumbling, "What? I mean, that guy blew his horn, and..." still staring into the guy's eyes.

"No problem, bro," and the guy continued on his way, leaving John groping his crotch, thinking, 'I'm horny! Seriously horny.'

All night with Paul and Aunt Sonny, John hadn't felt horny because he was concentrating so hard on doing the right thing. Plus, he isn't interested in boys. Well, he hadn't realized he was gay until recently, and his gayness mostly included a sexual interest in guys his age. Maybe if he'd realized his gayness as a boy, he would have been interested in them, too. As it is, John doesn't have any more sexual interest in a boy than he has in a girl.

That cute guy he almost ran into, though, had looked startled for a second at how extraordinarily good-looking John was, looking him right in the face, but being startled was the end of it because he was straight and not interested in beautiful young men, only beautiful young women. Well, the woman wouldn't need to be all that beautiful if she's willing to fuck, but that's his problem. John has his own problems, and right now, it's that he's horny.

Lighting another cigarette, cupping his hand around the small flame from his PIC lighter, he inhales, then blows smoke into the breeze, puts the lighter away, and continues walking, muttering to himself, "I can't meet Gary tomorrow with me climbing the walls horny. He isn't as sexually, ah, orientated or something as me, so he won't understand me being fidgety and sprouting boners every two minutes. I've been doing better, getting by with less sex since he's been away; good progress too, but it'd be stupid of me to see Gary with me as horny as a toad.

He remembers reading that horny toads are not toads, although their exterior bodies do appear horny. They're dessert miniature lizards and, as far as anyone knows, not any more sexual than any other lizards or toads. This information that John read online when he was thirteen isn't helpful as regards his horniness other than giving a name to it as inappropriate as the name is.

Taking out his cell phone, John says, "Who should I call?" Then he thinks he's drifting back to Clarence a little bit. Aside from Clarence's BO, he still gave the best fuck. It was almost as good as Andy's fucking. Well, Andy's fucking has the advantage of John being extremely fond of him. John has no particular fondness for Clarence, plus his sex requires one to overlook the BO, and yet it's still almost as hot as Andy's.

John leans against a women's shop selling discount brand-name clothing and texts Clarence, 'Dude, here I am asking again if you'd like to party with me. I can't seem to get you off my mind.' But then he deletes the text before sending it, saying out loud, "What the fuck? He's a friend of Gary's, or an acquaintance anyway."

Staying against the women's clothing shop because it's partially blocking the cold breeze, he thinks, 'Fuck it. George is the best no-nonsense fuck of them all, except it would be too cold in that Goddamn shed.' He starts walking again, thinking, 'Gerry! He's cuter than the others, but who I really want is Andy. I'm not texting him, though.'

"Fuck it," he mutters out loud, turns around, and heads back to the apartment. He agrees that he's probably oversexed, but he got a late start in his sex life, and he's catching up. Plus, it's not that he thinks frequent sex is something terrible, anyway. Still, he'd rather be closer to the norm, and maybe reducing frequency increases the intensity and makes it more special.

The bottom line is, for tonight, he'll jerk off like the vast numbers of humans do and like John's been doing since he was twelve. Passing a small group of college-age boys and girls, John purposely doesn't make eye contact with any of them, hearing a girl's voice asking, "Did you see that guy? Have you ever seen him in..." but John's too far away to hear the rest.

He's always been oblivious to his extraordinary good looks, not giving a thought about the fortunate combination of genes that created his appearance. The body going with the good looks is okay, too, but nothing special. He's slightly over six feet tall and slender, although in the past month, John's gorging on high-calorie foods has added thirteen or fourteen pounds to his weight, bringing him up to, as of this morning, 161 pounds.

There's some guesswork about the weight gain because he didn't have a scale to weigh himself until recently, but he's gone from a thirty waistband to a thirty-two waist. He's chubby around the middle but feels chubbier all over as well. It's noticeable to John, but he wouldn't be considered chubby to anyone else. John's happy about the weight gain because Gary said he was too thin, too skinny.

In the apartment, his tiredness is noticeable again. He felt almost invigorated in the cold outside, but he was looking forward to sleeping. First, though, he gets undressed, and from the closet shelf, he gets the sex toys. As he lubes the dildo with KY jell, he feels his cock move. Reaching behind him to twist the dildo into his ass, he says, "I should have just gone to the dormitory and knocked on George's door. We could have done it in the car, and I'd be getting to sleep now."

So, he's second-guessing himself about jerking off. It never could compare to taking a hard cock up his ass, but that's what he's left with, so he'll make the best of it. When his cock is firm, he puts the cock ring on, squeezing his nuts through the ring, grunting, going up on his toes a little. Back to screwing in the dildo, opening his anus, he does it until it hurts, then walks around, his cock a throbbing boner, until it all starts feeling good.

Sitting in one of the new desk chairs, the dildo flattening against the seat, John groans, "Goddamn, I forgot to turn the vibrator on. Fuck it..."

Grabbing his phone, he gets the photo album with Gary's picture and, staring at the picture, strokes himself off in ninety seconds, his face scrunching up as the pleasure soars until, "Ahh, ah, ooh..." his hips hump out with a thin stream of cum squeezing past the reduced opening. John squealed and shook. "Ooh, ooh, fuck! Umm," he moans, letting go of his dick.

"Oh, God," he moans and leans forward, his forearms on his thighs as he breathes deeply for a minute, then mutters, "That was pretty good." Standing, he slowly pulls out the dildo using a twist, pull, twists routine and then untangles his cock and balls from the cock ring, telling himself, "Gary will expect you to remember these toys."

Dropping the sex toys in the bathroom sink and filling the sink with water and disinfectant detergent, John leaves them to soak and cleans himself up using the bathtub facets, then almost staggers to the kitchen with his toothbrush and toothpaste. He brushes his teeth here, then yawns and goes back to the bathroom for a piss. In the bedroom, he sets the alarm on his phone for five o'clock, then turns out all the apartment's lights and gets in bed. He's asleep in two minutes.

The next morning, John stops the phone's alarm, checks the time, Five-fifteen, and calls Gary, who answers, "Good morning, Darling. How are you?"

"I'm excited about seeing you, Gary."

Gary asks, "Are you set about what to do?"

Nodding, although Gary can't see him do that, he says, "Yes. Um, I should be landing at five-nineteen or there about. I'm not checking any luggage, but I'll go to the luggage claim area to look for a driver with my name on a sign."

Gary says, "No, um, I mean, that's what I told you to do, except I found out that the hotel has a shuttle service, so go to the shuttle bus area. It's free. Ah, I should be at the hotel by six, but you'll probably be there before that, so you might need to wait in the lobby for a short time. Okay? I'm really anxious to give you a big hug and a kiss, and, haha, I'm not normally like that. You're special, Johnny. Seriously, you are, but I gotta go now to catch my ride. Okay?"

"Oh, man, yeah, okay, I'll see you tonight, boyfriend. I'm anxious, too." He hears, "Bye," and then 'Click.'

Tightening every muscle in his body until he feels his face getting red, he says, "YES!" Relaxing, then, he puts the phone on the bedside table and lies back down, pulling the covers up, muttering, "Well, now I know what greeting to do when we meet."

Snuggling in the covers, he thinks about jerking off but goes back to sleep instead.

To be continued... donnymumford@outlook.com

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