MY SUMMER OF SEX WITH COWBOY
Chapter 31
By Donny Mumford
Cowboy and Lee are in Wildwood for a few days, Bruce is in Philly, and I'm in the apartment alone. It's weird, but I can't remember the last time I've been anywhere by myself. I've been sitting on the balcony the past few hours drinking too many shots and beers and smoking too many cigarettes. Around midnight, the balcony starts spinning or seems to, so I stagger inside and go to bed.
It's no surprise that when I wake up at nine o'clock the next morning, I've got a killer hangover. I had a shitty night's sleep, plus I didn't even do my bathroom stuff before crashing drunkenly in bed last night. Ha, my first night alone, my first night without my leader, and this is what happens. Not cool.
I don't feel like getting out of bed, but unless I'm willing to piss myself lying here, I've gotta get up. Like a zombie, I do my morning bathroom ritual, including taking a shower. Dressed, I stagger out to drive to the CVS pharmacy. Not totally sober yet, I ask the pharmacist what's the best medication for a hangover, meaning Tylenol, Advil,
Motrin, like that. She tells me to try AfterDrink capsules. I never heard of that, but I buy a bottle and swallow two capsules.
Even with sunglasses, the sun is blindingly bright and it's hotter than hell this morning. The top is up with the air conditioner blasting on high as I drive to Dunkin' for coffee and a breakfast sandwich. After eating half the sandwich, I throw the rest of it in the trash and go back to the apartment to lie on the sofa feeling terrible. I doze off now and then until one o'clock. Still feeling sick, I force myself to get up, put on a bathing suit, and drive to the beach, hoping a refreshing ocean breeze will help my recovery.
I'm still not hungry, but I know I need to get something in my stomach, so I stop at the boardwalk pizza shop for two slices of cheese pizza and an ice-cold Coke, then order a second Coke, forcing myself to finish the pizza. A cute girl waitress comes over to my table and plops down a glass of ice water. Smiling, she says, "I've been there and felt like the way you look. You need to replace fluids after a heavy night of drinking." I try smiling, mumbling, "Hey, thanks for the ice water." She lingers, asking, "What's the booze mainly to blame? It wasn't red wine, I hope. That's a guaranteed all-day hangover."
She's hitting on me, and if I were straight, it'd be cool 'cause she's somewhat hot and, as I said, cute. It's flattering, but I've concluded that nothing good comes from leading girls on. I've been hit on most of my life, so I know how to deal with it. I say, "No, I didn't have any wine. Mainly it's my boyfriend's fault. He got me wicked drunk on shots and beers. I just left him in bed." Losing the cute grin, she taps the table twice, mumbling, "Shots and beers, huh? Good luck with that," and off she goes to do her job.
After gulping down the glass of water, I sense the first hint that I'm over the worst of my hangover. She was right about replacing fluids, and maybe those AfterDrink pills are working too because I can see the light of recovery at the end of the tunnel now. I use the pizza shop's restroom to take a piss, then head for the beach.
Stopping at the rental tent for a beach chair and umbrella, I wait at the counter until the grumpy kid carries an umbrella down the beach for two middle-aged women. He comes back clutching a dollar bill in his hand, muttering something under his breath. I go, "What's up, Markie?" He frowns at me as he gets behind the counter. I go, "Only a dollar tip? Wow, that sucks."
He says, "How'd you find out my name?" Shrugging, I mumble, "I forget. Um, I need a chair and an umbrella." He exhales as if I'm asking for something unusual and then takes a chair from a pile of them, passes it to me, and asks, "What size umbrella?" Shrugging, I go, "Well, since I'll be the only one using it, the small one will do." He says, "You put the small umbrellas up on your own." I say, "In that case, fuck it... I'll have a regular size." He snickers showing his cute grin and his very white teeth with space in between each one. Then, getting his grin under control, he mutters, "I thought so."
I put a twenty on the counter, saying, "Keep the change," and he mutters, "You're my best customer." Carrying my chair, I walk beside him as he carries the umbrella on his slim shoulder. I go, "You're getting a sunburn on your head where your boyfriend cut your hair to the scalp." He mumbles, "And why is that of interest to you?" I'm like, "Well, with my friends away, you're my best friend in Atlantic City now." He snorts out a laugh and mumbles, "Stop trying to pick me up." I say, "If you were eighteen, oh boy, I'd be trying a lot harder." He snickers again then starts digging the umbrella into the sand. When he's almost got the umbrella dug in, I say, "I'd like to be closer to the ocean than this."
He hunches his shoulders, laughing, then looks at me, and says, "Tell that to someone who gives a shit," and holds out his hand for a tip. I go, "Oh, yeah, this is a good spot," and give him ten bucks, saying, "You've brightened my day, Markie." Casually holding the ten-dollar bill in his hand, he asks, "How rich are you, anyway? Nobody has ever tipped me as much as you do." I go, "Just barely rich enough to do it, and how come you never say thanks?" He goes, "Thanks," and trudges up the beach.
Setting the chair under the umbrella, I fantasize Markie and me in bed, then shake my head and chuckle. Yeah, I'm starting to feel better. It helps that it's fifteen degrees cooler on the beach than on the street. Yeah, that helps me recover, but now I'm bored. I try Cowboy's habit of evaluating the sexiness/cuteness of guys on the beach, guys walking by, but end up hoping to see a guy who reminds me of Bruce. Nope, no one comes close to interesting me one-tenth as much as Bruce. I close my eyes and reminisce about the last hard and fast buddy-sex fuck he gave me and get a wicked hard boner poking out the front of my bathing suit. My eyes pop open, I casually adjust my boner sideways, but no one is paying any attention to me.
Random boners popping up used to embarrass me in prep school. Boners popping up at that age was understandable but as a twenty-eight-year-old? That's pervert territory. Jesus! Thinking about something other than Bruce, I wonder where Cowboy and Lee are staying in Wildwood. After giving a thought to joining them, I reject it as selfish of me. Let them enjoy themselves on their own. They've been doing fine with that the past five or six weeks when all my attention was on the pussy boy horseshit... and Bruce, of course.
To get my mind off Bruce, I go for a swim out past where people are milling around. It's a punishing swim of about a half-mile down and a half-mile back, swimming as fast as I can. Exhausted, I stagger out of the ocean and back to my beach chair, dying of thirst again. I'm air-drying because, of course, I didn't think to bring a towel with me. Bruce would have thought of that, so I'm back thinking about him again when something icy touches my arm.
Looking back, I see grumpy Markie holding out a cold sixteen-ounce bottle of Pepsi, mumbling, "For your hangover. Thanks for all the tips." I take the cold soda, quite speechless. He says, "As your best friend in Atlantic City, I couldn't help but notice how pale you looked... enjoy the soda." He turns to walk back to his stand as I'm finally able to say, "Hey, thanks, Markie." He keeps walking.
Pepsi is much sweeter than Coke, so I prefer Coke, but this Pepsi right here is awesome. I drink it too fast and get the hiccups, but it hit the spot. I doze off a few times, then take a walk up the beach without seeing anything interesting. Back in the beach chair, I'm wondering what time it is. I forgot to bring my cell phone with me and, of course, Bruce would have made sure I had it with me... and cigarettes too. Forgetting to bring cigarettes is actually a blessing, though. Cigarettes and a wicket hangover don't go well together.
Finally, carrying both the umbrella and chair back to the stand, I see it's the old man behind the counter, not Markie. He points and mutters, "Put those over there next to the return sign." Yeah, well, if I knew that lazy old bastard had taken over for Markie, I'd have left both things on the beach. I ask, "What time is it?" He looks at his watch, "Five of six." Holy shit, no wonder the kid is off duty. I was on the beach for almost five hours!
Back at the silent apartment, the first thing I do is check my cell phone, hoping for a text from Bruce. Not finding one, I shower and put on a pair of shorts, then sit on the balcony sipping a beer, and holding my cell phone while contemplating a cigarette. Starting in on my second beer, I light a Marlboro and conclude Bruce probably has more things on his mind than I can imagine. That's why he hasn't texted me and now I'm vacillating whether or not to send him a short text, then decide I won't. Not yet anyway.
I'm finishing my third beer and third cigarette by seven-thirty with only a tiny headache beating at my right temple. Hmm, I'll bet a shot of Jack Daniels would cure that, except Bruce bought the booze, and he bought Jim Beam bourbon. Well, Jim will have to do...
At nine-thirty, I'm eating two peanut butter sandwiches, drunk again, and not giving a shit. Neither Cowboy nor Bruce thought to text me, and I'm stubbornly not texting them. I stumble over to turn on the TV, washing the peanut butter and white bread sandwich down with a Budweiser. The TV is on the channel for a Phillies game, so I open another beer, have another shot of Jim Beam, and watch the game without comprehending what's going on.
At two-thirty in the morning, my back killing me, I wake up on the sofa feeling like shit, so I go to bed. When I wake up, I'm not sure what day it is, so I find my cell phone and, yes, that's right, it's Sunday. Yeah, I drove Bruce to Philly on Friday, I had that crap-ass day yesterday, and it looks like I'm going to have a similar day today.
And, it is another crappy day... except it's worse because I can't work up the energy to even shower, plus my best friend in Atlantic City doesn't work on Sundays, so I don't even get to joke around with him, with Markie.
The beach is scorching hot, plus there's only a minimal ocean breeze to cool things off, so I leave the beach at one o'clock, without returning the chair and umbrella. In the apartment, with nothing better to do, I go back to bed. Feeling like shit again, I get up at five-thirty, groggy and disoriented. After taking my fifth and sixth AfterDrink capsules of the day, I stand in the shower for a long time before washing, but I'm feeling better now that I'm clean.
While drying, I hear a ping-sound from my cell phone and go over, hoping it's a text from Bruce. Nope, it's a reminder that there are only two hours left of a sale for Happy Brand jeans that I've never heard of. Oh, but there is a text from Cowboy. He sent it at two o'clock. He and Lee are having a blast, and he wishes I was there with them. Huh, what a sweet sentiment from him. I'm not dumb enough to believe it, though. I'd cramp their style. I text him back a lie, 'No offense, Cowboy, but I'm enjoying the quiet for a few days, although I sure do miss you guys. Love, Zach.'
I do miss them, so we both told little lies along with some truth. Using adult willpower, I skip the drink I'd like to have and drive to the boardwalk hoping to walk off this funk I'm in. It's muggy tonight but walking the boards is exercise, and I need exercise. Along the way, I buy hot dogs and then later a cheeseburger, then something I haven't had in years... a milkshake. A vanilla milkshake that I remember tasting better than this one. There's an off-putting taste in my mouth when I finish it, so I buy a bottle of water. It's another boring boring, boring night, but it's a better option than getting drunk as I did the last two nights.
I fight off the urge to go to a casino because I know if I do, I'll start drinking, and I need a night without booze. Finally, I can't take the crowds on the boardwalk any longer, so I go for a drive and drive almost to the Walt Whitman Bridge before getting off at the last exit before the bridge... then drive back to Atlantic City. It's only ten-thirty when I get back, so at a gas station filling the tank, not tired at all because I slept all afternoon, I decided to drive to my hometown of Alpine, New Jersey, an hour away.
Wow, it's a weird feeling driving around Alpine at eleven-thirty to see familiar places. Huh, and I'd forgotten that there are parts of this town that don't look as if Alpine is a ridiculously wealthy place. The narrow back roads tell the true story with huge homes so far off the road, the driveways so long, you can't see the mansions, just their lights in the night sky. Driving to the so-called commercial downtown area, I pass shops I remember going into many years ago, but there are new places as well.
At a red light, holy shit, I see a guy walking out of an ice cream parlor with an unattractive woman about my age. I recognize the guy, but not her. Gene Barns was in grade school with me. I'd run into him when I was back in town from prep school and college. We'd go, "Yo, whassup?" but that's about it. If he were alone, I'd stop and say the same thing. Just for the fuck of it... Haha. Instead, I drive back to Atlantic City and go to bed.
Monday morning, I wake up at six-thirty knowing I'm not going back to sleep, so I do my bathroom stuff, put on shorts, a T-shirt, socks, and sneakers, and, hangover-free, go out for a run. I estimate I ran five miles by the time I'm on my way back. Approaching the apartment complex. I slow down to a jog, then a fast walk coming up to our building. Inside the apartment, I check my cell phone to see how long it took to run those five miles. Huh, it was thirty-five minutes, which ain't bad at all! Of course, maybe it wasn't five miles. Whatever, it was long enough to get my blood flowing and my heart pumping.
After drinking a sixteen-ounce bottle of water, I take a shower, put on clean shorts, a clean T-shirt, and sandals, then grab my cigarettes, a towel, and my cell phone, then drive to the boardwalk. After a big breakfast at a boardwalk cafe, I walk on the beach to the counter of the rental tent. I go, "Hey, good-looking, wassup?" Markie asks, "How come your friends left you?" Shrugging, I mumble, "They're spending a few days in Wildwood. Have you ever been there?" He goes, "Jesus, duh, of course, I've been there! I like it here better, though. Whaddya gonna rent... same thing?" I nod, "Yeah, the same thing. Hey, where do you live?" He puts a beach chair out for me, then gets an umbrella and mutters, "Why do you wanna know that?"
Putting my usual twenty on the counter, I go, "No reason. I was just making conversation." Coming around from behind the booth, he puts the umbrella on his shoulder and says, "I live in Brigantine with my mom and sister." Carrying the chair as we walk down the beach, I ask, "How do you get to work and back every day?" He snorts out a laugh and goes, "Christ, you're nosey, ain't ya? My boyfriend works at an ice cream stand on the boardwalk. He drives me here and back. Any other questions?"
Chuckling, I go, "Yeah, many. I feel I should know something about my best friend in Atlantic City." He stops almost at the exact spot he stopped at yesterday and started screwing the umbrella in the sand. When he's got it solidly dug in, he goes, "How old are you?" I lie, "Twenty-three, why?" He says, "See, you're too old for me, plus I'm not ready to switch boyfriends yet." I'm like, "Do you switch boyfriends often?"
He grins his cute grin, which is pretty much the only cute thing about him, then says, "Well, if you weren't so old, you are pretty fucking hot, so you would probably have a good chance..." Grinning, I give him a ten-spot, mumbling, "I wish you were older." He mutters, "Or you were younger." Chuckling again, I go, "Are you sure you're not eighteen?" and he rolls his eyes, holds up the ten-dollar bill, says, "Thanks," and heads back to his stand.
I'm not seriously considering doing anything with that kid. I'm fucking with him pretending he's hot. Sort of complimenting him because I like him, but not in a sexual way at all!
Ya know what? I'm not good at doing stuff by myself. That's because I've rarely had to. So, yeah, I'm missing Bruce. Missing him so much it physically hurts my chest...my friggin' heart, okay? If Cowboy and Lee were here, it would dull the effect of not having Bruce with me, but they're not here. Well, boo-hoo for me, I need to get myself together; I'm a fucking Yale graduate and ex-Navy Seal! Other than that, I'm... well fuck, I don't know what I am!
No! I need to settle the fuck down. It's no small matter to graduate in the middle of my class at Yale, be Navy Seal alumni, which few people could qualify for, plus I'm a good person. It's Bruce who makes me crazy and weak with my need to be with me. I hate being on my own!
Hmm, I did okay for the month or two after Ronny was murdered. Well, sure, I was fucked up, but I still did my job making sure Cowboy was coping. Why am I back thinking about that, though? This is now and now means Bruce. Cowboy too, and Lee as an extension of Cowboy, and, um... I don't know what the fuck I'm going to do about any of this. What am I even talking about?
I doze off, and then, waking up... I'm bored again. Plus, something else has become painfully obvious. Without killer hangovers distracting me, I realize I'm so horny it's frightening. Maybe that has something to do with me flirting with that young kid, Markie. Maybe subconsciously, I am sexually interested in him. What? No, he's underage... and not sexually interesting to me anyway. I like him to tease because he has that cute grin, and he's a hot-shit, but I've no interest in him sexually. Hmm, he has a tight body, though, and that would be awesome to squeeze naked against my naked body--nice little tight body on Markie.
Moving my chair under the umbrella, I visualize Bruce's face and slim body and get another hard boner poking up my bathing suit. I don't care about that. Lying back on the beach chair, I think about Bruce making me do pussy boy training shit, wishing we could do it again. I love being with him. I can't help if it's pathetic thinking that... the fact is, Bruce is my leader.
Shaking my head and pushing my boner to the side, I light a cigarette and again picture Bruce's face in my mind. And, how the hell can he say with a straight face that no one ever fell for him before I did? That has to be a lie!
It occurs to me that I must have a sex illness of some kind. I'm so horny I feel sick. The thought of me needing to jerk off repulses me. I haven't needed to jerk off since college. Of course, I jerked off at prep school until I had blisters on the palm of my hand, but I was young. Now I'm wondering why I never needed to jerk off in the Seals considering I was only having sex two or three times a month! With that in mind, why am I this horny after only three days without sex? It must be the pussy boy training or, more specifically, Bruce!
Lighting another cigarette, I've decided it's either get roaring drunk every night or have sex. I could pick up a guy at a bar, or hire a pussy boy. Yeah, what's my problem? That's what I did when Bruce was at the funhouse. Hmm, Bruce's idol, Eli, has pussy boys on the streets of Atlantic City. Street boys make the most sense because it's a bull buster paying by the hour through their website. Yeah, but it is so much better getting fucked in the apartment than on the street or in my car.
Either way, I'm now very excited about hiring a pussy boy. Yeah, I'd rather do that than go through the bar pick-up process that's so hit and miss. Plus, I want a young guy fucking me, not someone my age or, more likely, older than me. If I had more experience with gay bars, that would be a good option, but it's a hit-and-miss process there too. No, I'm going with what I've had success with... pussy boys.
Groping my junk, I get up and carry the chair back to the stand. Markie goes, "You're leaving the beach already?" I plop a ten-dollar bill on the counter, mumbling, "Here's ten bucks, Markie. I left the umbrella there, and, yes, I got a cell phone call and, um... I'll see you tomorrow." He pockets the ten spot, shrugging and forgetting to say thanks. That's okay; he's been my only friend these past three days. Haha, I'm goofily giddy now that I've finally come to my senses about what I need to do.
Driving back to the apartment, I try remembering where Eli said he drops off his street pussy boys. He mentioned a bar with an animal's name. Hmm, a zoo animal. The Lion Bar... was that it?
Back at the apartment, I Google bars in Atlantic City, and there it is. Tiger Bar at the 24th street circle... oh, man, that's it! Wait, I need to calm down! Okay, the first thing I should do is take a shower. What time is it? Checking my cell phone, I see it's almost two o'clock. An afternoon fuck will get me relaxed, so maybe I should pay the fee and have a pussy boy come here. No, it'll be quicker on the street.
Grabbing a beer from the refrigerator, I take it with me while I undress in the bedroom and then gulp some beer before stepping into the shower stall. It's only a five-minute shower, but good enough. Finishing the beer, I brush my teeth and then get dressed in shorts, T-shirts, and sandals. Grabbing my car fob, I head for the door, then stop to take a deep breath; I try calming down. I was going to leave without money, my cell phone, my wallet, and cigarettes. Jesus, what's with me? I used to be functional without Bruce as my leader, um, but there was Ronny then. Well, I was okay for those two months when it was only Cowboy and me, so shape up, Zach!
I get everything I should have with me, then force myself to walk down to the car calmly. Starting the engine, I put the top down, punch in the Tiger Bar's address, and slowly drive away. It's a twenty-minute drive to the 24th Street Circle, a densely populated area. Many attached houses but not rowhouses. It's all two houses units, street after street of them. I'm sure some are summer rental houses as this area is only about six blocks from the boardwalk.
The circle is very busy with lots of traffic and quite a few stores. The Tiger Bar isn't anything special. It's situated back off the street, on the other side from all the stores, with a parking lot in front. There are two pickup trucks in the lot plus a late-model Mustang and a Chevy of some kind, a couple of other cars... but no pussy boys. Next to the bar is what, in New Jersey is referred to as a package store. It's where you buy liquor, wine, and beer. I don't know why we call it a package store, but we do, and this one shares the parking lot with the bar.
Going around the circle, I pull into the parking lot in front of the Tiger Bar, assuming a gay bar, but it doesn't have to be. I go inside and immediately see Eli at a table eating a sub sandwich of some kind. Eating with him is a guy who has to be a pussy boy. He's got a military haircut, clean-shaven, and wearing the preppy uniform of white polo shirt and tan cargo shorts. Eli isn't looking my way, but his pussy boy is, and he frowns when I back out the door. Fuck!
I don't want Eli to see me. He thinks Bruce is finishing my training so he can put me on the streets of L.A. or wherever. I'll let Bruce deal with his lies as I deal with mine. The glance I had of the pussy boy was encouraging, though. He looks very young. Groping my junk, I get in the car and drive over to park in front of the package store. No, this isn't good because Eli has seen my car, so I drive to the side of the package store, then walk around to stand where I can keep my eye on the door of the bar.
Lighting a cigarette, I squeeze my dick again and wait. I find myself doing the ridiculous deep drags off my cigarette the way Bruce does it and say, out loud, "Stop it!" then look around. No one is near me, but I'm so anxious and so horny for that pussy boy my thinking is irrational. Hmm, I'm trying to remember how much of Eli's sub sandwich was left. Then I remember the pussy boy looking right at me; there was something odd about him. I think he had red hair, but that's not odd. Fuck, I don't know...
Realizing I'm going from one foot to the other, like a four-year-old needing to pee, I make myself stop doing that and light another cigarette. I hear, "Excuse me." Turning around, I see a busty woman about forty holding a bag from the package store. She says, "You're standing next to my car. That's my SUV." Oh, she wants to get in her car, and I'm in her way. I mumble, "Sorry, and walk six feet away, seeing in my peripheral vision Eli and his boy coming out of the bar.
I watch as they get in the Mustang, and Eli drives away. Fuck! I run around to the side of the package store, get in my car, and back out, almost hitting the woman's SUV as she pulls away. That was close. Then I stop because Eli just drove around the circle and stopped. The pussy boy gets out, then Eli drives away. The boy leans against the wall of a flower shop as I grope my junk again, then pop some Tic Tac mints in my mouth.
Taking a couple of deep breaths, I calmly drive around the circle exactly as Eli did, then pull over and idle in a parking spot ten feet down from the pussy boy. I'm pretty obvious sitting in this hot BMW with the top down. I look back at him in the rearview mirror. Jeez, he's very short and, um, stocky. If he puts on a few more pounds, he'll qualify as fat. Well, now he's looking right at me... here he comes, slowly walking toward me.
In my present horny state, I can't be too picky about his appearance. He leans his arms on the passenger door, asking, "Are you lost? Can I help you?" He has sort of a square head, and he's plain-looking, but he is wicked young. Flustered, I go, "Um, ah..." but I'm overly anxious and can't think what to say. He smiles, "Are you looking for something... or someone?"
Who cares what he looks like? I want this stubby, flat-faced young guy to fuck my brains out. Almost hyperventilating, I go, "Ah, I'll just, um. I mean, yes, I'm looking for you, or someone." His smile has turned into a stern expression as he asks, "Oh, so you're looking for a missing person, huh, officer?" Jesus, I'm so anxious; I'm geeking this up. Shaking my head, I mumble, "I'm looking for a pussy boy, and I'm not affiliated with law enforcement, um, or anything. I'm not a cop."
He goes, "So, you need an escort?" I nod, "Yep, do you wanna get in the car, or...?" Now he seems awfully confident for a squat, square-headed non-looker, saying, "No, it doesn't work that way. Why the hell do you have the top down?" I go, "What...?
Making a face, he says, "Drive around the block and go in the alley behind the flower shop. I'll meet you there and, um, you need to figure out what you want so we don't waste a lot of time haggling, okay, pal? Get it together." I nod, muttering, "Okay," feeling a submissive tweak as I pull away. Hell, I'm too horny to argue with him. These fucking pussy boys are an arrogant bunch.
Square-head took me by surprise with his bossy shit. With his 'looks,' he should be damn glad I came along. Well, I've got to drive down a block, cross over a block, then come back toward the circle, but turn into the alley behind the flower shop before I get to the circle. When I do that, the chunky pussy boy is already there. He points to a spot behind three dipsy dumpsters. Smelly trash dumpsters! Maybe I will pay the online fee from now on, but right now, I don't care if he fucks me inside a dumpster.
When I drive to the spot he pointed to, he gets in the passenger seat, saying, "Dude, put up the fucking top." As horny as I am, I can't help going, "Yo, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Looking startled for just a second, then he changes his entire demeanor, saying, "I'm so sorry. I was just doing what they told me to do. Um, I thought when you hesitated out front, it was because you didn't know what to do or say or anything. You know, in that case, I'm supposed to take charge of the situation to help you out. I'm new at this."
He looks as if he might cry any second. Now I'm feeling a little sorry for him, so I go, "No, um, you were right, actually. I do need you to be in charge as the dominant top because..." He changes again and, looking disgusted, he goes, "Fuck this! I knew I was right! Goddammit, you're fucking me up. After the day I've had, I do not need this shit. Plus, I told you out front to decide what you want and not to waste my time. Now, either do what the fuck you're told and put the fucking top of your convertible up, or I'm outta here!"
As the top is going up, I say, "Lighten up a little, it's not..." He opens the door, muttering, "Nope, I don't need a hundred bucks this bad,"
and he gets out, slamming the door. I go, "Hey!" He keeps walking, so I get out and take four running steps catching him... I need to get my rocks off!
He stops and does an exasperated sigh, then says, "Make up your mind." I say, "You're in charge; I'm sorry. Please..." He rolls his eyes, mumbling, "Amateurs," then he demands, "Give me a hundred dollars right now," and he holds out his hand. I'm getting a better look at him now. He's only like five-foot-five but what I thought was fat appears to be muscles. When he takes the hundred-dollar bill from me, his bicep muscle stretches out the short sleeve of his polo shirt.
Pocketing the money, he points at the car, saying, "Get in the car, and move the front bucket seats up as far as they'll go." I hesitate for just a second, and he makes a sound of exasperation, then grips the back of my neck, his hand like a vise, as he mutters, "I don't know if you're retarded or simply a smart-ass. You paid for it, though, so get moving!"
He is a strong motherfucker, and I'm bent forward, hunching my shoulder, whining, "Ow, ow," as he marches me to the car. Of course, he's not so strong that I couldn't flip him in one of these dumpsters if I wanted to, except I need to get my ashes hauled, so I adopt a submissive posture. At the car, he opens the BMW's front door, pushes me against the driver's seat, saying, "Do what you're told."
He stands here with hands on his hips, watching me pushing a lever on the seats until they're as close to the dashboard as they'll go. I look back at him, and he says in a more conversational voice, "Dude, don't make me be the bad guy. Haven't you ever done this before?" I shrug, "A couple of times, but..." He figures he's totally got me under control now and mumbles, "Never mind, just get in the back. Let's get on with it."
And, gripping the back of my neck again, he pushes me in the back seat, with him coming in right behind me. With my face pushed against the back of the seat, he starts his sales pitch. "I'm Wally. You've paid me to fuck you, but for fifty bucks more, I'll let you suck my cock until it's leaking precum. Whaddaya say?"
I go, "Yes, okay." He asks, "Where's the fifty?" I awkwardly reach in my pocket and pull out a single bill. He takes it, mumbling, "This is a twenty." I can't see anything except the back of the seat, but it probably is a twenty as I have quite a few of them. I pull out another bill, and he goes, "It's a fifty, so I'll assume the twenty is the tip, big spender."
Letting go of my neck, he helps me turn around, then he steps over behind the passenger seat, pulls his shorts down to his ankles, leaving then on what looks like new sneakers, and then sits on the seat. He isn't wearing underpants.
Wally points in front of him and goes, "Squeeze down on your knees in front of me and get your fifty bucks worth sucking my cock.Hurry, there is a time limit." His penis is average, in its flaccid state, maybe five inches with normal girth, and he's hairless, of course. He has a normal-looking scrotum under his normal penis.
His thighs aren't normal, though. They're large and strong-looking and spread wide apart. I'm tall but slim, so I manage to get on my knees in the space between the front passenger seat and the front of the back seat in between his big thighs. I pick his cock up and, ew, it's sticky in my fingers. Dammit, he said something about the day he's had, so I imagine he's been whoring for six hours or so. All pussy boys use condoms for fucking, but his cock may have been sucked a number of times today, plus it's probably been in a few condoms and up a few guy's asses.
Fuck, now I'm sorry I got greedy and wanted to suck his cock, plus get laid. His head is back against the seat, so he's not even looking at me. I'm so horny, though!
Shrugging, I stroke his cock a few times and then lick it, and licking a guy's cock is such a rush I get shivers all over. Awesome to be having sex again. I forget all about his penis being sticky with other people's saliva and whatever else and get right into sucking on the head, closing my eyes pretending it's Bruce's cock. The head of Wally's cock firms up a little, feeling good on my tongue, and I'm soon in a frenzy of licking and sucking, then doing long licks on his scrotum, moving his heavy balls around in there. Wally takes notice and exhales noisily as he lifts his ass off the seat, grunting, "Umm, umm, aah."
In less than three minutes, precum drools out the piss slit of his penis, and he grunts, "Um, times up," and pushes my head away, his hard cock sliding out on my tongue, the precum getting sucked off by my tight lips.
His boner sticks up stiffly as he makes a few breathy inhales and exhales but doesn't comment on my oral sex skills. Instead, he hands me a condom he was holding, muttering, "Put this on my dick," and, as I rip open the packet, he reaches over, unbuttons my shorts, then pulls them down to my knees, my boner poking out my underpants. He looks at me, surprised I sprung a boner sucking his dick, I suppose.
Then he pulls down my underpants and goes, "You shave your pubes." I mumble, "I know," and leave it at that. As I'm rolling the condom onto his boner, he asks, "How do you want it?" I'm not feeling much of a submissive sense, so I say, "As rough as you've got." He nods, "I'll give you your money's worth, and maybe you'll come across with a bigger tip for the fuck than you did for the blowjob."
I straighten up as much as I can, my head against the convertible top, and Wally slides over to the seat behind the driver's seat, saying, "Hands and knees on the floor in front of the back seat." I push my shorts and underwear down further, but it's too awkward getting them off entirely, so my feet are close together as I squeeze down on my hands and knees. Wally stands with a foot on either side of my feet and rams his average-sized boner inside my ass... BANG! It felt like a lot bigger than average size, and I squawk, "Oww, oh fuck..."
He jerks his boner back and rams it in again and again, then pushes hard on my buttocks, grunting, "Get your ass lower, Goddammit." I'm used to pushing it up, but he's short, so I try lowering it. He mutters, "Yeah, that's better," and it's "Slap, slap, slap," fast and furious thrusting with the hurt hanging on, but not for long because I blow my load on the floor mat in about ninety seconds, making a squealing sound, then another one as a second load of cum fires out, burning my piss slit. He saw my hips do their humping as I climaxed, and he pulls out, mumbling, "That didn't take long."
That was one of the worst fucks of my life. I can't remember a worse one, but I'm shuddering all over, still on all fours, as if it was a fantastic ten-minute fuck. Wally sees my pathetic condition, makes another of his exasperated sighs, gets up and rams his cock back up inside my rectum, and pounds away, "Slap, slap, slap," and it feels marvelous now. I begin moaning at the pleasure sensations, "Oh, oh, ah, ahh, ahh... oh..." Wally's a conscientious pussy boy and keeps it up for, well I don't long, but I'm sweating when another climax finally hits, my back arching and my hips thrusting forward as a weak plop of something shoots out, feeling like a gallon of cum.
Wally pulls out again and goes, "Holy fuck, I hope you're satisfied by now..." as he sits his bare ass on the seat behind the driver's seat breathing deeply. I feel weak now as I stagger to my feet, my head hitting the top. Bent over, I pull my underwear and shorts up, my ass slippery with lubricant from the condom, then sit beside Wally. He already has his shorts up; the condom apparently tossed out the window. He says, "That was a double fuck, so you owe me another hundred bucks, plus a big tip."
Bruce told me a story about a double fuck he did for a client once. I think it was a regular fuck and then one with a dildo that the guy refused to pay for, or something like that. Whatever, it's hot as hell in the car, and it smells like ass in here. Overall, not a swell experience, but it's relieved my horniness for the time being. I pull some bills from my pocket and separate two one-hundred-dollar bills. Holding them out to him, he takes the money, mumbles, "Thanks, that's generous of you. I'll be back on the corner tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. I'll see you then," and he gets out of the car without me saying anything.
Sitting here sweating, I'm not feeling too good about myself, but it is a relief not to feel horny. Christ, I just gave that unattractive pussy boy $370 for twenty minutes of his time and the use of his average penis. A hundred and twenty dollar tip seems excessive, but what the fuck...
Wiping my sweaty face with both hands, I get out of the back seat, and it feels cool outside, although it's ninety degrees today. Getting fucked creates some heat in a closed car's backseat.
After getting the front bucket seats back to their normal position, I get in the driver's seat, start the car and get the air conditioner going full blast. Pissed at myself for needing sexual relief so bad I'd pay for it like that, I drive out from behind the dumpsters and back to the apartment, not thinking about anything except my driving.
At the apartment, I immediately take another shower. Wearing only shorts, I take a beer and my cell phone out to the balcony for a cigarette, thinking maybe I'll text Bruce. I'm fighting off the irrational thought that this afternoon with Wally was Bruce's fault. That's pretty stupid, but I'm legitimately pissed off at him for not texting me. It's been four days since I dropped him off, and he knows I'm worried about him in that odd situation he's in. The thing is, I don't want to make his odd situation worse by giving him a guilt complex for not texting me.
Well, I can't think what I'd say in a text anyhow. I mean, without knowing how it's going there. Plus, I'm feeling, um, guilty about that humiliating experience with Wally. Christ, that was almost like a medical procedure. I was so horny I didn't even feel submissive, and it was sort of a sub/dom fuck. I'm not doing very well being on my own.
Hmm, now that I've got the runaway horniness under control, I need a more normal sexual experience, so I guess I'll go to the Atlantic City's pussy boy site and try it that way. It worked okay in NYC. Yeah, it's stupidly expensive, but... oh, my cell phone just beeped, indicating a text message. Is it a text from Bruce or Cowboy or another random advertisement? Flicking my cigarette butt over the railing, I glance at my phone. It's from Bruce, good! The text: Sorry for not texting sooner. This blows, but that's okay. I get paid for the first 8 days on Saturday. Could you come down and take the money back to AC with you to hold for me?
Hot shit! Whew! I take a deep breath. It appears this job is on the up and up. I text back: I'll be there Saturday. Tell me the time, and can we spend the night together? He texts right back: Four-thirty Saturday. Sorry, no, about spending the night together. I'll explain when I see you. Thanks, Zach; I miss you.
Well, the 'I miss you' helps. Saturday will be one-third of the three weeks job. Omigod, only one-third. I text back that I'll see him Saturday. I don't nag about spending the night because there's obviously something out of his control, and I don't want to worsen his situation.
Okay, that's sort of good. And, he's smart to want the money back here. That's eight ten-hour days at $30 an hour... $2400. That's enough money! Maybe I can talk him into leaving with me on Saturday. I think about that for a while, concluding he won't leave because that would screw his friend, whatshisname. Dammit.
Going inside, I have a shot of Jim Beam in honor of the text, then get another beer and have another cigarette on the balcony. Hmm, that's five days from now! I dropped him off Friday, and it's only Monday. Well, he did work that Friday, and, Christ, it's only been three 'effing days so far? It seems much, much longer.
Alright, some good news. Bruce texted, and it appears he's going to get paid. The bad news is I've got five more days of... this? Well, Cowboy and Lee will be showing up in a couple of days, which will help. I hate being alone, but I still need to deal with the sex situation, and I don't expect either Cowboy or Lee to help with that. I'll try the pussy boy site because the street thing didn't work out very well, although it did relieve my horniness for the moment.
I think about that for a while, then go inside and finish getting dressed. I need to start a more regular eating routine, starting with dinner. I do not like eating alone, so I'm not going to a fancy restaurant. I'll try that bar in the strip mall a mile from here. When Bruce and I were there, some people were eating at tables, but some were eating at the bar too, which I plan to do.
Walking into the bar at a little after six o'clock, the place isn't crowded. I get a seat at the bar with no one closer than two stools away. The bartender is different from the time Bruce and I had some drinks here. She's a woman with a thin ring through the side of her right nostril and a sleeve of tattoos on her left arm. She's tall and skinny with a dirty-blond ponytail to her waist and some kind of rash on her neck. My appetite fades as she puts a cardboard coaster in front of me, asking, "What can I get ya, hon?"
I order a draft beer and rethink dinner plans. She's an amiable bartender and probably a nice person, so I have three draft beers and leave her a nice tip. Outside, I see a young guy looking at his car's engine, the hood up. He turns around, asking, "Do you by any chance know anything about car engines?" He appears to be; I don't know, somewhere between seventeen and twenty-one.
I go, "Sorry, no." Holding up my BMW's fob, I add, "All I know is I need this thing to start my car." He laughs, "Yeah, I hear ya. Cars have computers in them now." He's almost six feet tall with a lot of red hair on his head and freckles across his nose. Huck Finn. Walking up to him, I ask, "Do you have a cell phone with you? Call somebody..." Shaking his head, chuckling, he goes, "Yeah, I have one, but I cleverly didn't charge it before leaving home." I shrug, "Well, you can use mine if you want to call a garage." He says, "I'd appreciate that. I don't have much choice except to call for a tow. I'm a member of that AAA road service, um, thing."
He goes inside the car to get a card with the phone number as I fantasize that he's as gay as me and as horny as I was earlier, and he has a ten-inch cock. He grins a super cute grin and goes, "Fucking cars, huh?" and takes my phone. I watch him call for a tow truck. His bare arms have freckles too, but he's a cute motherfucker. Ending the call, he goes, "They're speedy. The guy said it'd be between an hour and three hours, and I need to stay with the car."
I mutter, "Jesus, that blows." He shrugs, grins, and says, "Life sucks, and then you die. Can I buy you a beer?" Well, sure. I go, "Yeah, I just came out of the bar, but I could go for a couple more beers." We walk inside and sit at the bar in a spot where this kid can see when the tow truck gets here by looking out the front plate glass window. The bartender puts coasters in front of us and says to me, "Back so soon, huh?" I chuckle, and freckles orders a shot of Wild Turkey and a draft.
I go, "Make that two." She says to freckles, "Can I check your ID? Sorry, hun, but they make me check anyone who doesn't look thirty."
Well, that's a bullshit story because I don't look thirty, and she never hesitated to serve me. She looks at his license and goes, "Happy birthday," and then gets shot glasses off a shelf behind her. I look at him, and he snickers, "Yeah, hooray, I'm twenty-one today." I say, "Happy Birthday." He motions at his car with the hood up outside the bar as if to say... Yeah, some twenty-first birthday!
I say, "Were you on your way to a party when your car shit the bed?" Shaking his head, he goes, "Nah, not really, but sort of, I guess. I'm not from around here. I'm on my way to meet my brother in the Bronx, New York. I could party with him and his wife I guess, but the real reason I'm going there is he's got a job for me. I was on Route 95 when my car started sputtering, so I got off and I've been looking for a gas station." I go, "Atlantic City is sort of out of the way, isn't it?"
Our drinks arrive, and the bartender asks, "You boys wanna run a tab?" I go, "Yes, thanks," and she rings up the drinks and slaps a check down on the bar in between us. We pick our shots up, tap the glasses lightly together and flash down the bourbon. Wild Turkey is a significant step up from Bruce's bourbon choices. The kid lifts his freckled fist and goes, "I'm Danny O'Brien, by the way." I bump his fist with mine and mumble, "Zach McMann, nice to meet you, Danny." We swallow some beer, and he says, "Well, yeah, this is like fifteen miles out of my way, but I didn't see any open gas stations that had a mechanic on duty, so, ya know..."
I'm like, "Waiting for your car to get towed is a helluva way to spend your twenty-first birthday." He shrugs, and says, "That reminds me. Can I borrow your phone again? I need to tell my brother, Jimmy, the bad news. He won't be shocked to hear it because shit like this happens to me a lot." I pass my phone to him and drink some beer looking out the window at his car. I see the Ford emblem, but I don't know the model. It looks about ten years old.
Danny's laughing at something his brother said, then goes, "No, seriously, bro, that's nice of you. I don't know, maybe the guy will say my whatchamacallit needs to be switched on or something, and I'll be on my way. I'll call you when I find out." He hands me the phone, rolling his eyes, saying, "Jimmy wanted to drive down and get me. He's a sweetheart brother. I don't want him doing that. I'll take care of this myself, um, with the help of your phone," and he laughs a little.
We do the normal small-talk question-and-answer stuff that you do with someone you just met. Then another shot of Wild Turkey and draft beer. He asks, "Navy Seal, huh? That sounds badass, dude. I thought about joining the Navy, but not the Seals. That thought never crossed my mind," and he laughs, adding, "I'm not an overachiever." He didn't go to college either. He says, "Instead of college or the Navy, I got a job at Disney World. The pay sucked, but it was a blast."
I'm like, "Disney World, huh? What made you think that would be a smart career choice?" He laughs, "I never thought about that. I'm kind of a fuck up, Zach. I thought it would be fun, and it was fun. My childhood buddy, Skip, and I went there after high school graduation. It was the first week of June when they have gay days at Disney World. Like a hundred thousand gays and lesbians, transgender, you name it, party there in Orlando for a week, mostly at Disney World." Gay days?
He must see a startled expression on my face, so he goes, "I hope I'm not freaking you out, but, yeah, I'm bisexual. You're safe, though; I won't throw myself at you. My buddy, Skip, on the other hand, is into being a flaming gay motherfucker full time, which gets to be a drag after a while, no pun intended," and he laughs again, adding, "I don't go in for the drag dressing up shit. Skip makes a cute girl, though."
I'm nodding and grinning like a liberal thinker, making sure he knows I'm not holding it against the kid for being bi, which often means more gay than straight. Actually, I'd like to hold some part of my body against him, though... haha.
Well, my interest is super piqued now. I motion at our strange-looking bartender, pointing at our empty shot and beer glasses, and she gets busy making fresh ones for us. With possibilities galore swarming around in my head, I remain calm, asking, "Well, what's your plan if the car is laid up a couple of days?" He shrugs, "I'm fucked," and he laughs. Of course, he laughs; he laughs at everything. Mostly in a self-deprecating manner too. He's a very likable young bi guy.
He goes, "No, I'll get a room for the night, and if the car is gonna be hung up for more than tomorrow, I'll take a bus to New York, and Jimmy can drive me back here when my car's fixed." I go, "You're a laid-back dude, alright. I'd be royally pissed off if I were in your place." He shrugs again, "That car is a piece of shit, and I should have had work done on it before I left. I didn't because, as I said, I'm a fuck up," and he laughs, then finishes his beer. I tap his arm, "There's a tow truck slowly coming up the street." He goes, "Well, it's about fucking time," and he laughs again, adding, "It got here in less than an hour. My luck is changing."
I mumble, "Yep, it looks like your luck is changing," or, more likely, my luck. Danny picks up the check, looks at it, and drops a credit card on it, saying, "My treat, Zach." I mumble, "Thanks, but let me at least leave a tip." He goes, "Oh, you tip bartenders?" I'm not sure if he's joking. I leave a ten-dollar bill on the bar, he signs the credit card slip, and we go outside to talk with the rough-looking tow truck driver.
The tow guy looks to be about fifty years old with long scraggly black hair and a bushy black beard. And he's about Wally's size as he swaggers around, mumbling, "What's the problem?" Danny goes, "It keeps conking out, and now it won't start." The man says, "Let me see the owner's card, your ID, the keys, and a credit card. It's $125 to tow it to the Ford dealership in town."
Danny hustles around getting the guy what he needs. He drops his wallet and laughs as everything falls out on the sidewalk. I help him pick everything up, then he can't find the owner's card in the glove compartment. Finally, the tow truck driver has what he needs. He gives Danny a receipt and directions where the car will be. He tells him, "Go over there tomorrow and ask for Kenny. Tell him Stinky towed it for you and he'll get right on it." Danny nods, then drops the paperwork Stinky just gave him and laughs, mumbling, "I don't know what the fuck's wrong with me today."
He gets a medium-size black suitcase on wheels from the back seat, wheels it over next to me and we watch as Stinky gets the car hooked up, and then the car is towed away, and I say, "Do you wanna join me for dinner, and then I'll drop you off at a hotel?" He goes, "Yeah, thanks for the offer!" He makes a big fuss over the BMW as I put his suitcase in the trunk. Then off we go to that little Italian restaurant near the hotel Cowboy and I stayed at for a month. During the drive, I tell him about my traveling companions being in Wildwood for a few days, which is why I'm on my own. He's never heard of Wildwood, and I describe the boardwalk there as being more honky-tonk than Atlantic City's boardwalk minus the casinos.
He's never seen this boardwalk either, so we're going to do some board walking after dinner. Monday night, the restaurant isn't busy, and we get seated right away. He orders a beer and gets carded again. The waitress looks at his driver's license and says, "Omigod! Happy Birthday, Daniel." He shrugs and laughs like it's no big deal. That makes me think how big a deal Bruce's birthday was to him. I order a Jack with a splash... on the rocks.
Maybe because he told me about his gay friend, Skip, he now goes into detail about his two-year love affair junior and senior years of high school with a girl named Wanda, who he claims was a beautiful African American girl. He goes, "Her skin was beautifully black as night, but she didn't look African other than that." I go, "Not that there's anything wrong with looking African." He goes, "Obviously," and again, I don't know if he's serious. He has a way of saying things leaving me uncertain if he's serious or being sarcastic, and he finishes with a laugh that sounds real, not forced. I think he enjoys everything.
He describes how Wanda was extremely sexual while he was only mildly heterosexual, which eventually led Wanda to hook up with another guy late in their senior year. Danny had to go to the prom with Skip. Again, I'm not sure if he's serious or not, but I don't care all that much in any case. I'm thinking what the best way might be to get him in bed with me tonight. His red hair is long and unruly but not long like Cowboy's hair was. I mean, before getting it cut a month ago. Danny's hair is a longish guy's hairstyle that's over the ears and shirt collar, sort of as if he's two months overdue for a haircut. He keeps running the finger of his freckled right hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes. I'd very much like to do that for him.
So far, he hasn't asked about my romantic interest, although he did ask how come I'm not getting carded when he is? I take the opportunity to lie, saying I'm twenty-three but look older. He goes, "You don't look older. It must be they're picking up vibes that I'm new to this drinking game." I go, "You're new to it, but you're drinking shots and beers?" He shakes his head, "No, not new to drinking. I've been a lush since tenth grade. All my friends started drinking early in high school." Whatever...
I try paying for dinner, but Danny wouldn't hear of it. We both gave the waitress a credit card, and she came back with two slips, each for one-half the bill. Outside, I light a cigarette and offer one to Danny, but he's a nonsmoker. He goes, "If that was a joint, I'd probably snap that right out of your hand." As we walk the block to the boardwalk, he tells me some of the highs he's had from smoking pot and blah, blah, blah...
Danny's animated when he talks and interesting, although I'm not sure how much is bullshit because of the way he says things that could be taken two ways. Naturally, with red hair and freckles, he has a pale complexion that looks creamy. I'll bet his skin tastes good, and I'm mostly, but not exclusively referring to the skin of his penis and scrotum. He enthralled with the Steel Pier and, not wanting to seem like an old fart, I go on a few rides with him, Danny acting like a kid, which he is, basically.
He's a husky kid but very fit too. When I bumped against his side during the amusements rides, he felt hard, not flabby at all. As I said, he has cute facial features and is youthful-looking, so it'd be totally believable if he were seventeen. Yeah, it's the freckles that make him very boyish-looking, and sometimes he acts very boyishly too, while other times he talks about non-boyish things such as politics. He's a radical liberal and a Trump hater. I tell him I'm nonpolitical... to an irresponsible degree, actually.
Finally, I ask, "Have you had your fill of the boardwalk yet?" He goes, "For tonight, yeah. Ya wanna get a beer?" We walk back to the hotel I stayed at because it's a block from where I parked the car. Nothing much happening in the bar Monday night. We take seats at the very end of the bar and order draft beers. Danny says, "You said you stayed here for a month, so I might as well check in here. You won't need to drive me any place, and this is as good a spot as another, right?"
Swallowing some beer, I start to tell him he can stay at my apartment and sleep in Cowboy's room, but stop and say instead, "This is kind of nuts, Danny, but, um... well, I've never had a gay experience, and I'd like to." His eyes open wide, and I quickly add, "I'm not suggesting you, um, do anything except maybe tell me what I could expect if I, ya know, pay for it." He goes, "Fuck, you're good-looking, dude, you shouldn't need to pay for it. But, sure, I can fill you in on whatever you want to know. I've always said that there are a lot of guys who secretly would like to see what it's like fucking a guy, or more likely, getting fucked by a guy." He laughs, adding, "Well, I guess it'd need to be a guy who's doing the fucking 'cause girls don't have the equipment." I chuckle... hahaha.
We get another draft beer each, and Danny asks, "Are you most curious about being the pitcher or catcher?" Obviously, I know what he means, but I go, "Huh?" He says, "Do you want to do the fucking or be the fuckee?" Nodding, I'm like, "Oh, pitcher or catcher... I get it, um, the guy getting fucked. I know how it feels doing the fucking." He goes, "Well, then, why not me, Zach? I'm not your type, or what?" Of course, he laughs at that. I snicker, then say, "Yeah, why not you? Um, if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it."
He says, "I gotta rent a room first," and I'm like, "No, why not stay at my apartment?" He shrugs, "Um, no offense, but I don't sleep with my sex buddies. It's too, um, too queer; ya know?" I go, "Yeah, sure, I wasn't thinking we'd sleep together. There are two bedrooms in the apartment, and my friend is in Wildwood, remember?" He nods, "Jesus, this is awesome, Zach, Thanks! Saves me the cost of a room, plus I get my rocks off taking your cherry. Man, I'm glad my car broke down in front of that bar."
Oh, fuck, why didn't I tell him the truth? Well, it's none of his business for one thing, and this is pretty much a bar pick-up situation anyway, which can be fun when it's done in a wham, bam, thank you, Sam kind of thing. Still, I should have told him I'm gay. It's too late now, though. He'd think I'm a sicko. Come to think of it, how does he know I'm not? I guess the same way I know he's not... instinct and common sense. And talking to one another for five hours.
We finish the beers, and I mumble, "My turn to get the check." He says, "Thanks, Zach. I'll buy breakfast." He doesn't appear anxious to do this and he doesn't appear hesitant either. This has to be an unusual situation for him, though, right?
Driving to the apartment he's chatty, telling me about his friend Skip getting the job wearing one of the Mickey Mouse costumes at Disney World and how, coincidentally, a guy wearing another Mickey Mouse costume for a different place in the park got an enormous crush on Skip and that led to Danny quitting the job he had at a Disney World refreshment stand. He goes, "It wasn't that I was jealous of the other Mickey Mouse so much as it was Skip stopped fucking me entirely, and, that, plus my boss was an old guy who kept hitting on me, so it wasn't fun anymore."
I'm like, "How long ago was that?" He goes, "Just a couple of weeks ago. I hitchhiked home and stayed with mom but she has this live-in asshole of a boyfriend and he hit on me too. Frank White is his name and he's like sixty 'effing years old. He kept goosing my ass and making suggestive comments about the size of my dick. He's come in the bathroom when I was taking a piss, it was totally not cool. I told mom but she didn't believe me. Um, she doesn't know I'm bisexual, but Jimmy does." I nod, "Jimmy being your brother." He goes, "Yeah, so I called him and he told me to get my ass to New York and, haha, he'd get a job for me, then my car broke down, haha. Motherfucker, ya know?" I don't think Danny has a bright future, but it doesn't appear to concern him all that much.
Driving up to the apartment, he asks, "Do you have condoms? I don't." Playing dumb, I go, "Do we need one?" He laughs, "Well, duh, yeah! Haha, transmitted diseases and all that shit." I go, "I'm sure I can find one. My friend is a sex fiend, um, a heterosexual one. He'll have condoms in his room." As I park in the assigned spot for the apartment, Danny asks, "Don't you wear condoms? With your looks and macho body, the girls must be hitting on you regularly, dude." I go, "Not really, but yeah, I use condoms. I'm temporarily out though."
He gets his suitcase from the trunk and wheels it to the front door. I let us in the building with my key. Then, when we're in the apartment, he's like, "Nice pad, Zach. Tell me something, what do you that you can afford that snazzy car and this cool apartment?" I mumble, "I inherited some money. Um, right now I'm in between jobs. I'm an, ah, an architect." He goes, "Cool sounding job. Hey, you wouldn't have any drugs, would you?" I go, "No, sorry," and he says, "Ya know what? I'm in the mood for a good fuck, so do you wanna hunt up a condom?" Nodding, I'm like, "Yeah, but I'm a little nervous, ya know?" He laughs as he sits down on the sofa, saying, "Sure. Hunt up the condom anyway."
Oh, good. He's getting a little bossy. I mumble, "Yeah, but I need to take a piss," and go into my bedroom, grab a condom from the bedside table, and then take a piss in the bathroom. Coming back into the living room, I mutter, "Just a second," and go into Cowboy's room. A minute later I come back holding up the condom. Danny goes, "Excellent! Are you ready?" He has no idea how ready I am.
I nod and he goes, "You're still nervous, huh? How about if we get a little drunker before we do it?" I pretend to hesitate, then I say, "No, I'm ready now if you are." He goes, "Let's do it, dude. This is great," and I go, "Um, do you think I could try blowing you first?" He laughs out loud, then goes, "Shit, yeah! You want to try everything, huh? That's cool."
Yeah, it is...
To be continued... donnymumford@outlook.com.
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