Summer of Sex with Cowboy

MY SUMMER OF SEX WITH COWBOY

Chapter 5

By Donny Mumford

When I get up the next morning at 9:30, I'm still wondering what the hell to say to Cowboy if he wants to leave me and travel on with Ricky? Thinking about that, I go into the bathroom and do everything I need to in there.

Twenty minutes later, feeling okay, I sit naked at the desk and continue trying to come up with something brilliant to say if that twisted Ricky has talked Cowboy into traveling with him. Sure, the easy thing would be to say good luck and then continue on my way alone. That would be sweet, except I like the kid, plus I'd be breaking my promise to Ronny. When I get right down to it, the reality of the situation is, what the hell can I do or say if Cowboy wants out?

Simply washing my hands of it and saying good riddance would be lazy and irresponsible. Sure, I could easily beat the shit out of all three of them and kidnap Cowboy for his own good. That's hyperbolic, though, as I'm not the type of person who would do that. Smacking Ricky around would be like beating up a child. Fuck, though, I've got to think of something!

Then, the phone next to my elbow on the desk rings, and I jump two inches off the chair. Goddammit! Yeah, that's right, I'm a tad jumpy. I pick up the phone and mutter, "Yeah?" It's Cowboy, cheerfully saying, "Hi, Zach, good morning. Um, what time do you want to hit the road today?" What? This sounds too good to be true. Maybe all my worries were for naught? Trying for blasé, as if I never doubted that he and I would be leaving together, I say, "Oh, there's no hurry, bro. Let's meet in the hotel restaurant in like twenty minutes." He goes, "Great, see you there."

Jeez, he sounded, um, sort of anxious for us to be on our way.

Then, while getting dressed, I think this is too easy, too perfect. There has to be an angle I'm missing. Omigod, maybe it's that Ricky's planning to come with Cowboy and me. Oh, fuck, I didn't think of that. Yeah, maybe he's taking this opportunity to dump Joe, thinking I'll pay his way from now on. Hmm, well, I too would want to dump Joe if I was traveling with him, but that's another story.

Okay, so what do I say if Cowboy asks me to take on Ricky? Giving him the finger and yelling 'fuck no!' would be immature. Well, Ricky coming with us, while not desirable at all, would mean I'd at least be able to watch out for Cowboy partially. And then, Omigod, ha-ha, how about a three-way with those two young hotties? Jesus, get real! I'd feel like a pervert. Plus, one of Cowboy's pigtails flying around could put out an eye if the three of us really got it going.

This is silly. Why fret when none of this has happened yet? Well, first things first. I'll go down now and step outside for a cigarette. Yes, that's right, I'm back smoking again, and I blame that on Joe and Ricky. No, I blame myself for hooking up with Joe the other night. Oh, so, now I'm taking the blame for this shit storm, huh? Swell.

When I step outside, there's a misty summer rain falling, so I smoke under the overhang at the front door next to a sign that says 'No smoking within twenty-five feet of the hotel.' I'm almost done with the cigarette when a taxi drives up. In the back seat are Joe and goofy-looking Phillip. Joe waves and smiles at me, then he hops out of the taxi and cheerfully says, "Hey, Zach. What's up, dude?" I'm like, "Ah, not much, Joe."

Phillip gets out the other side carrying a backpack. Joe, wearing the clothes he had on last night, waves at Phillip, yelling, "Hey, sexy, pay the taxi driver," then to me, he adds, "Phillip is going to travel with me to Baltimore and then probably spend the summer."

Hmm, swell, but why didn't he say 'travel with Ricky and me'? I mumble, "Ya don't say," then, as I'm stepping on my cigarette butt, Joe's goes, "Yep, we might be in love. I've never hit it off with anyone as quickly as I have with Phillip." I mutter, "Huh, that's, um..."

Phillip comes around the taxi, saying in his girl-like voice, "You owe me eleven bucks, Joey." Joe hugs the kid's shoulders and kisses him on his mouth, then says, "No problem. My money is in Zach's room." Curious, I ask, "So, Phillip, no car, huh? What's been your mode of transportation till now, dude?" He makes a weird face at me and then, for some reason, whispers, "Hitchhiking." I go, "Oh."

Christ, he probably thinks he's hooked up with a meal ticket in Joe. Not that that's any concern of mine. Hesitantly, I ask Joe, "Um, does Ricky know about Phillip?" I hold my breath, afraid of what he's going to say. Joe giggles and adds, "Not yet, no."

Whew! So, there's a good chance that Joe, Phillip, and Ricky will all be moving on together. I've got to make that happen, and I think money may be the answer. I'll bribe them if I have to.

We go inside and find Ricky and Cowboy standing near the restaurant, giggling and whispering about something, as usual. Hmm, but now that I see them, I think everything will turn out alright after all. I say that because neither of them is wearing makeup, and Cowboy no longer has pigtails. His long hair is hanging around his head the way it used to, although it's now extremely kinky. Well, that's because it's just been, um, unbraided, or whatever it's called when you undo pigtails. Plus, he's put some kind of hair product on his one-inch bangs and tried to brush them over to one side. This bodes well for me, right?

As soon as he sees me, Cowboy comes over and surprises me with a big smile and a nice hug, saying, "I'm glad you made it through the night okay, Zach. I was worried that without me, you'd get fucked up somehow." He was chuckling as he said that. Patting his shoulder, I'm like, "I could say the same for you, bro." Ricky lisps, "What the fuck are you talking about? I was looking out for my girlfriend last night." You little prick, I ought to...

Ricky and Joe bump fists, then Ricky points his chin at Phillip, asking, "Who the fuck is he?" Phillip lisps, "I'm your new traveling buddy; that's who I am." Joe hurriedly says, "Ricky, let me explain."

Heh heh, I hope Phillip isn't going to be a problem for them. Joe gets into one of his fast-talking monologues, explaining to Ricky how Phillip is an artistic genius. Cowboy and I roll our eyes at one another, smirking. Then, I cheerfully say, "Well, let's eat," and the five of us shuffle over to the restaurant's receptionist as Joe continues explaining to Ricky how wonderful Phillip is. I put my arm across Cowboy's shoulders, saying, "I've been missing you, partner."

Shrugging, Cowboy says, "Sorry for abandoning you, Zach, but it's been, um, interesting. That cunt, Ricky, is like a human amusement park with lots of thrill rides. By now, I'm exhausted, though, to tell you the truth. He lives on poppers, and we didn't get much sleep either night." I go, "Yeah? Well, my young friend, you can sleep in the car all the way To Atlantic City, and, later, maybe we'll think up some thrill rides of our own, huh?" He goes, "Jeez, you'd be willing to do that? That would be awesome, Zach."

Fuck, I don't know what I even meant by that, but I'm feeling pretty good about the direction things are heading. And, what the hell, I'll even have breakfast this morning, which I rarely ever do. Oh man, though, I can hardly wait until Cowboy, and I are officially driving away waving good riddance to these three squabbling bad news losers.

Everyone else orders breakfast too, and while they eat it, using his too-loud voice, Ricky tells Phillip some of the sex toys he can expect to become familiar with. I think Ricky sees Phillip as a replacement for Cowboy. That is until Joe starts explaining to Ricky how Phillip has specific ideas about sex, and he, Joe, promised Phillip he could be in charge of that. This gets Ricky yelling even louder about sex toy usage being his domain, and, well... tough shit if they can't work it out, ya know?

Ha-ha, I'm grinning, finally enjoying myself observing Ricky and Phillip now trying to outdo one another with exaggerated gay affectations. Seemingly oblivious to it all, Joe talks on, his eyes shining, perhaps anticipating having two twenty-one-year-old semi-cute young gay men to play sexily with. I assume it will eventually occur to Joe that neither of the boys has any money and that he's a thirty-five-year-old underpaid college professor who will probably need to sell his car when he gets to Baltimore. That's if he hopes to afford both boys for the summer.

When the waitress is heading for our table with the check, Joe quickly excuses himself. Suddenly, he needs to go to the men's room where he'll hang out until I pay for breakfast. I don't care; I'm almost giddy about the way everything has turned out.

A little later, we're all outside the hotel doing guy-hugs saying our 'goodbyes' as Cowboy is promising to visit Ricky later this summer. Whatever, we're on our way now, just Cowboy and me. And, damn, I can't wait to fuck him when we get to Atlantic City. If he wants to blow me, I'm good with that, and if he wants to do some making out as foreplay, I'm going to go along with that too. I've been under-appreciating Cowboy.

In the car, as I'm driving away, I ask, "Were you serious about visiting Ricky this summer?" He flips his hand, saying, "Hell, I don't know, um, would you let me do that if I wanted to?" I mumble, "Let's see how things go." He nods his head, saying, "I'll do whatever you think is best, Zach, but I had fun with that crazy motherfucking cunt. I've never done that gay-girlie-shit before or had anybody be as super dominant with me as Ricky was. Jesus H Christ, it gave me wicked-hard boners to play the submissive role to him; it really did. It got so I didn't even have free will or something. I mean, he seemed so confident and so dominant. Jeez, I'm getting hard thinking about it." Swell.

Not sure what to say to that, I finally mutter, "It's not in me to do that kind of dominant play-acting, Cowboy. Um, but if you tell me all about it, we'll see if we can work out, um, something." He goes, "Holy shit, yeah, thanks." I mutter, "We're still struggling with broken hearts after losing Ronny, but I still hope you can enjoy yourself this summer."

He shrugs and turns away. Oh, shit, maybe this was the wrong time to mention Ronny, but I was still sorting out the implication that Cowboy feels he'd need my permission to see Ricky later this summer. I'll let that implication hang there without saying anything directly about it.

Wow, though, the way things have worked out is like, um, anticlimactic. Keeping my eyes on the road, I touch Cowboy's shoulder, saying, "Ya know, I don't want to get all maudlin on you, bro, but I don't think I've told you often enough how much I'm enjoying hanging out with you. Losing Ronny, um, I mean, it's helped me to be with you. You're the brother who he loved, and well, it's been a huge help to me that we're together. That's all I wanted to say. That and... thanks."

He's not saying anything, so I glance over at him and see tears running down the side of his face. I let him cry, not sure what else I can do about him crying anyway. We ride along, not talking for five minutes before he murmurs, "I don't know, Zach, but I think you've been a bigger help to me than I could have been to you. It's me who needs to thank you."

Holy shit, that got me choked up a little bit, so I pull out a cigarette and light it. Cowboy mutters, "Not in the car, Zach." It's stopped raining, so I pull over to the breakdown lane and put the top down, mumbling, "It will be okay with the top down, don't you think?" He nods, and I add, "I picked up this nasty smoking habit again, Cowboy, sorry about that."

A second later, he goes, "Um, can I have one?" I go, "No, dammit, I don't want it on my conscience that I'm responsible for you smoking. I'll throw these cigarettes out." He says, "No, don't do that! I mean, you aren't getting me in the habit. Fuck, I smoked in high school but didn't want to smoke around you because I thought you'd be pissed off if I did."

Passing him what's left of the Marlboros box, I say, "Oh, I didn't know that. You know, it's just that I'd hate to think I'm a bad influence." He goes, "You aren't. I started smoking in tenth grade. And, fuck, that cunt Ricky, and I smoked a pack and a half the last thirty-six hours."

What? That's all the time we've spent with Ricky and Joe, thirty-six hours? It seemed a lot longer than that. Exhaling smoke, I give Cowboy's neck a squeeze, saying, "Smoke 'em if you've got 'em, I guess." Averting his eyes, Cowboy takes a cigarette from the pack and then takes the one smoldering in my fingers and uses it to light his. He turns his head away as he takes a drag. Oh, dammit, he's weeping silently again.

Taking a deep breath, I go, "Ah, Cowboy, um, I know it hurts to talk about Ronny's death, but maybe we should do more of that anyhow." Still looking away, he shakes his head once. I pat his shoulder, saying, "Yeah, we should. Christ, I know neither of us will ever forget him. Um, and, as for me, I've stopped blaming him for what happened. I did, at first, think he could have, should have, prevented what happened from, um, happening, but I've changed my mind. It wasn't Ronny's fault."

Cowboy shakes his head again, still looking out at the scraggly vegetation on his side of the road. I'm like, "I mean, we weren't there, and the cops say that sick motherfucker who shot Ronny was so fucked-up on drugs he just opened fire, probably by accident. Maybe the shithead didn't even mean to fire the gun. The cops say Ronny was getting out of the car when he was shot. They could tell from where the bullet entered his body and where he fell with one foot still in the car. I'm sure Ronny knew exactly how he was going to seriously fuck that asshole up, but the gun went off before he was even out of the fucking car. When the gun went off, the killer took off. It was, um, the worst possible fuck up all the way around."

Nodding now but still not looking at me, Cowboy mumbles, "I know, Zach. I stopped blaming Ronny too. You're right about what the cop said. Yeah, that n-word detective dork, whatshisname, explained it to me and my dad too. And, they killed the guy the next day, so..." I murmur, "There wasn't anything Ronny could have done." Cowboy nods again, looking down now. Then, he flicks his half-smoked cigarette off to the side. I do the same and then take off my seatbelt and hug Cowboy with both arms. He hugs back as we both shed a few tears.

Dammit, I shouldn't have brought this up. Certainly not here, idling at the side of the fucking highway with cars and trucks zooming by. Cowboy's face is against my shoulder, his tears wetting my shirt, as he mutters, "I hate myself, Zach. I suck so bad for having fun with that cunt Ricky only five weeks after Ronny's in a grave."

I murmur, "You don't suck, Cowboy," and hug him tighter. He mutters, "Honest to God; I wanted to forget everything, Zach. That's what I told myself when I'd feel bad about enjoying having sex with that crazy fucker. It's just that I wanted to escape everything, you know?" I murmur, "I know, and it's alright, bro. We'll both keep Ronny alive in our memories forever, but you and me, we're still alive, so we need to go on living life. That's how it works. Dare to live."

He sobs, then murmurs, "We'll always have each other, though, right Zach? We're Ronny's most beloved dudes, right?" I mumble, "That's right, Cowboy. Yes, you're right, we're, um, we definitely were his two favorite people ever."

I'm beginning to feel a little awkward hugging like this as people are driving by gawking at us, so I pat Cowboy's back, saying, "Okay, we had a good cry for a damn good reason. Nothing wrong with crying it out." He lifts away from me, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands, saying, "I probably let Ricky humiliate me at times last night because I felt I deserved to be punished for having sexy fun so soon after Ronny was killed." He swipes his hand across his forehead, adding, "And these fucking bangs, Zach. What am I going to do about them?"

Shrugging, I go, "Forget about that, bro. Hair grows out, and you're so beautiful no one will give two shits that you have, um, fucked-up girlie bangs." I can't help but snicker then, and Cowboy, grinning, his eyes red from crying, goes, "Oh, you're right, dude. Yeah, I forgot how stunningly good-looking I am. Yeah, fuck my bangs."

We both chuckle as he again swipes his fingers across the one-inch hair that drifted down on his forehead. I'm like, "Are we okay, bro?" He nods, "Uh-huh, I feel like a snatch for crying like that, but I'm good now."

As I drive back onto the road, I wait a minute and then mutter, "If you see Ricky later this summer, you can ask him to re-cut your bangs for you." He snorts out a chuckle and mutters, "Fuck that, you prick."

A minute later, he snickers again, mumbling, "Fucking bangs! Can I believe I let him do that? Jesus!" Taking another cigarette from the pack, he asks, "Can I use your lighter?" Passing him the Bic lighter, I mumble, "Light one for me too." We smoke our cigarettes, the wind taking our exhales away, and, now and then, I'll look in the rearview mirror half expecting to see Ricky drive Joe's car up behind us.

With that in mind, I'm driving faster than normal. We left Virginia Beach a little after eleven o'clock, and it's about a six-hour drive to Atlantic City, so we'd get there around five if we drive right through. I mention that to Cowboy, and he goes, "Whatever you think is best, Zach." He looks over and grins at me, so I hold my hand up, and he slaps it, muttering, "We're good."

Hmm, I think our crying jag back there was a breakthrough of sorts. Jointly we're perhaps coming to grips with Ronny's death. We'll never get over it, but we can learn to live with it. Supposedly, time heals all wounds, but that's bullshit. There are some things that nothing will ever heal, not 'time' nor anything else. The senselessness of Ronny's death is one of those things.

As I've mentioned once or twice already, Cowboy's and Ronny's voices are almost identical, which freaked me out a little bit the first few weeks after Ronny's death. Christ, every word Cowboy spoke made me immediately think of Ronny. Lately, however, I'm not doing that as much. The distraction of Joe and Ricky may have helped that process along as well. I mean, talk about a distraction from reality. Those two were that in spades.

In any case, having any kind of a conversation in a top-down-convertible traveling at seventy miles an hour is problematic at best, so we're doing very little talking. Mostly Cowboy is dozing off, catching up on some of the sleep he's missed the last two nights.

It's not real good sleep, though, as every few minutes, his head falls forward, and he acts startled before once again dozing off. Then, at the one-hour point, he pretends he's been awake, muttering, "Look at that, we're passing the exit for Cape Charles," and his eyes close again a minute later. It makes me smile. Then, glancing at his cutely-handsome-youthful face, I shed a few tears for him. I don't know, but he seems so young when he's sleeping, and I wonder if I'm up to the responsibility of looking out for him. I mean, I haven't done a stellar job of it so far.

After driving for two-and-a-half hours, I get off at the exit for Chincoteague Islands, but only because we need gas. As I'm pumping the gas, Cowboy wakes up, asking, "Did I get much sleep?" I grin, mumbling, "A little," and he busies himself looking at a map on his cell phone and then says, "Hey, Zach, can we stop at Ocean City for something to eat? I've never been there, and I'd like to say that I've seen that beach." He means Ocean City, Maryland, of course.

I'm like, "How far are we from there?" He shrugs and goes, "About an hour's drive, I guess." Done with filling the tank, I'm putting the gas nozzle back, nodding my head, mumbling, "Sure, we'll get something to eat there. That's a better idea than driving straight through. Later tonight, we'll go out and have a really late dinner somewhere."

I've been to Ocean City, Maryland, and it is a cool tourist spot with wide beaches and a wide boardwalk. Getting there, however, takes us longer than an hour, not that that's a problem. We're not on a timetable. I park downtown, and we go up on the boardwalk to get something to eat at a 4th street bar called Shenanigans Irish Pub and Grille. In my opinion, Ocean City, Maryland is less, um, honky-tonk than, say, Wildwood, New Jersey, for example.

Sitting at the bar doesn't work for us as the bartender, right away, shakes his head, and says, "Sorry guys, but one of you," and he grins at Cowboy, "Is nowhere near twenty-one, which is the minimum age for sitting at the bar." I mumble, "Seriously, dude? He doesn't want anything alcoholic." Roger, which is the name tag on the bartender's shirt, says, with an Irish accent, "That may be true lads, but have a seat at a table anyhow."

Nodding my head at Cowboy, he slides off the barstool, and we sit at a table and order cheeseburgers, craft beer for me, and a Coke for Cowboy from our extremely handsome young waiter who has diminished his extraordinarily good looks by wearing a thick bushy mustache. Why he thinks the mustache is an improvement to his otherwise handsome face, I can't imagine. With few exceptions, facial hair never improves a guy's looks, um, unless it's hiding some deformity such as acne scars. That is a matter of opinion; of course, I'm in the minority, apparently.

The cheeseburgers are not special, nor is the craft beer or French fries, although Cowboy finishes everything on his plate. I manage to eat some of mine, but I wasn't hungry to start with. Cowboy says, "Can I have your fries, Zach?" Ha, a growing boy. I go, "Of course you can. Um, I'm not used to eating such a large breakfast."

Watching Cowboy eat, I've got this strong feeling of affection swarming over me. Huh, add that to my earlier strong feeling of responsibility for him. My affection for him soon mutates into strong feelings of dislike at the way Ricky mistreated Cowboy during their sexy play. The word 'humiliated' that Cowboy spoke of a while ago percolates in my brain, and now I wish I had smacked that arrogant sissy around. I need to be more protective; that's what I promised I'd be. The thing is, though, I'm never sure when being protective intrudes on Cowboy's adult right to make his own choices. If he were underage, like fifteen or something, it would be easier to make decisions in that regard.

Also, I realize that Cowboy isn't as worldly, gay-sex-wise as I supposed he was. Sure, he's been sexually active for a few years now, but I'd assumed that it was mostly sex in a conventional manner except for the spanking. I guess I can say the same thing about myself, especially when compared to the likes of sick Ricky and his expertise with that BDSM shit.

Well, I would have stuffed Ricky's BDSM toys down his throat, whereas Cowboy was innocently intrigued by them, although ultimately humiliated. I'm not saying BDSM is wrong for others to have fun with it. I understand that some people enjoy being humiliated, but apparently, Cowboy isn't one of them. If he felt it was all fun and games, he wouldn't have used the word 'humiliated' earlier. I can't, personally, recall ever feeling humiliated myself.

In any case, it appears that Cowboy, up till now, and me, for many more years than he, have experienced a more-or-less 'vanilla gay sex life consisting of fucking and sucking without any artificial apparatus other than condoms. The spanking I've done for Cowboy has always been with my hand, and I wouldn't spank him at all except he insists on it. Maybe a vanilla sex life is considered boring, although I've never been bored with sex. Ah, who the fuck knows what's normal anyway?

Cowboy has finished eating and says, "What are you thinking about, Zach?" Smiling at him, I say, "I think we need to get you some excellent fake ID, and I know a place in Atlantic City where we just may be able to get that done." He goes, "Yes! That's what I'm talking about!" I mumble, "That hackneyed expression is way over-used, Cowboy." He shrugs, "Well then, I won't repeat it." I mutter, "Thank you." Looking for the mustachioed waiter and not seeing him, I drop two twenties on the table, saying, "Let's get the fuck out of here."

The drive to Atlantic City takes three-a-half hours, an hour longer than we expected, but, as I keep saying, we're in no hurry. I park at a hotel called Courtyard Marriott Atlantic City. It's a random choice, chosen mostly because it's convenient to pull into.

This is a chain hotel and, therefore, nothing special, but it won't totally suck either. It's a block from the boardwalk where most of the casinos are and, obviously, the beach and ocean, also, the same ocean I looked at from my old man's condo less than a week ago. I grab our satchels from the backseat, saying, "Park the car, Cowboy. I'll check us in and then wait for you in the lobby." He grins, saying, "Maybe I'll take this hog for a spin around town before parking it." I go, "And, maybe you won't! Don't fuck around with the car, bro."

Inside, I discover here's some kind of convention happening that's taken all the normal rooms, so I agree to a suite that the receptionist tells me has a view of the ocean. Cowboy and I enter the suite and, for shits and giggles, spend five minutes trying to find the ocean view. Cowboy discovers that if he hangs over the balcony railing, he can see a small open space that allows for a partial view of the beach. He thinks it's the beach. We get a good chuckle out of that, and then, we look at one another, and, after a second, I murmur, "Do you, um..." and he says, "Yes," and he pulls down his shorts.

Watching him get naked arouses me, and I'm confused about why I haven't more fully appreciated how hot Cowboy is before now. Naked as the day he was born, Cowboy looks at me and says, "I want to show you something that tricky-Ricky taught me." I nod my head, and, with a grin, he asks, "Aren't you going to get undressed?"

Realizing I've been staring, embarrassed, I go, "Haha, yeah, of course, geez..." and pull my shirt off as Cowboy picks up the shorts he just took off and gets a shoestring from a pocket. Holding up the shoestring, he goes, "You tie this around the base of my dick and nuts. Tie it tight, and it'll hold off my orgasm so I can enjoy getting fucked longer. It's like, sure, I'll want to blast off, but can't. It's an amazing sensation being at the tipping point of climaxing for a couple of minutes instead of seconds. It makes my boner harder, and it stays hard longer too."

I'm like, "Really?" and he says, "Yes, it's a primitive substitute for a cock ring. You've heard of those, right?" Nodding, I go, "Yeah, although I've never used one," and he says, "Ricky was going to shave my pubes so the hair wouldn't get pulled, or some such shit. He wanted to do it for me, but we never got around to it."

Hmm, well, I did tell Cowboy we'd try some, um, thrill ride type experimentation, so I mutter, "Yeah, well, give me the shoestring and, um..." Taking a deep breath, I add, "And, if you want me to, sure I'll tie this thing around your junk." Taking the shoestring from him, I'm like, "You're sure about this, though, right?" He goes, "Oh, yeah, Ricky tied me up every time he fucked me. And, Christ, after I shot my load, I was still hard as wood. It's great!"

Ya, know, although I've been fucking guys regularly since I was eleven or twelve, I've never really gotten into this kind of thing. It's like, I've never had adult gay buddies who I could talk to about this BDSM shit. At prep school, I had a couple of queer friends, and we'd Google stuff, so I know there are tons of so-called sex toys, but since then, since prep school, I lost interest in experimentation.

Yeah, I suppose I'm a novice oddball in that regard. Hanging out exclusively with super-straight Ronny, I was never exposed to any gay BDSM activity at all. I'd do occasional spankings when the guy asked for it, and I'd accommodate odd fetishes a pick-up guy had, but no BDSM toys.

Yeah, I assumed Cowboy was naive in that regard too, but he seems at least semi-familiar with it, so it's mostly me who's the novice. And, that's embarrassing at my age. Being totally invested in Ronny's and my exploits, I never developed a gay friend, or straight friend for that matter, now that I think about it. Of course, we had acquaintances, but that's different from having real friends, gay or straight. And, that fact had never occurred to me when Ronny was alive.

Well, I can tie a shoestring, so I loop it under his nuts and then see the potential hair-pulling problem. I ask, "Um, so what did that dick, Ricky, do about your pubes? If I tie this off, there are going to be some hairs under the string." He does an elaborate shrug, mumbling, "He didn't care. Pubes were always getting pulled out under the shoestring. It was painful, but Ricky told me to deal with it." Swell.

The process of lifting his balls, moving his nice-looking five-inch penis while at the same time trying not to get any of his pubes under the string requires a lot of touching, and Cowboy springs a boner. He goes, "Umm, umm, nice, Zach. Stroke it a few times for me, okay? Squeeze my nuts too." I look up at him, "Really?" He goes, "Oh, yeah. Ricky would have me begging him to let up on the nuts-squeezing by now." I mutter, "I'm not Ricky, and thank God for that, but..." and I squeeze his nuts and watch his cock swell up and get even harder as he grunts out, "Tighter, please."

Squeezing harder gets Cowboy bending over, groaning, then grunting out, "Now, tie the string." Well, I need to let go of his nuts to do that. Tying the string with a bowknot on top results in a half-dozen hairs getting trapped under the string so, when Cowboy straightens up, the hairs get pulled out, and he gasps, "Awesome, ow, um, ow! Motherfucker!" The hairs strained, pulling up his skin, and then pulled free of his groin skin completely. Cowboy giggles, then he mumbles, "That felt great, Zach."

This is so, um, so far out of my comfort zone it makes me snort out a chuckle, like... what the fuck? Cowboy is happy, though, so who am I to be judgmental if it's what gets him off. His boner is swollen-looking, shiny, and red. He says, "Holy shit, you did that great, Zach. A buddy of mine, Morris Kincade, would pull out my pubic hairs with a tweezer back at prep. Fuck, that hurt so fucking good, heh heh."

Ignoring that ridiculous comment, I'm standing back, staring at his engorged penis, "Your dick and nuts, um, aren't they hurting?" He goes, "No, now they're okay. Omigod, look at my prick, though! Jesus, it's really swollen, huh?"

Shrugging, I mumble, "Yeah, that's, um, weird, alright. Actually, it looks a little grotesque if you ask me." He comes right up against me, murmuring, "Never mind that, big guy. Will you please kiss me, Zach?"

As I mentioned a couple of minutes ago, Cowboy's naked body is arousing me greatly. Obviously, my mindset now is completely different after the two nights without Cowboy and Joe simply not being an adequate substitute, so I go, "Sure, bro, my pleasure," and we get into a rough make-out, our mouths open, lots of tongue-on-tongue licking, our teeth scraping together, and, because he's four inches shorter than me, his boner that's sticking straight out from his groin, conveniently, fits under my balls.

It also is rubbing my balls, so my dick is getting harder and harder. The sexiness is at an entirely higher place than at any time with Joe and a hotter level than any earlier sex I've had with Cowboy too. It's as if the student is teaching the teacher, although I don't know why I ever thought I could teach Cowboy anything about sex.

Finally, sexual heat rising, I wrestle him onto the sofa in the sitting room. Face to face on the sofa, our naked bodies squirming against one another, get my cock hard as stone as we kiss and lick one another's face, our hands groping buttocks as streaks of pre-cum crisscross our bellies and groins. With grunting animal sounds from our throats, our faces wet with each other's saliva, I want to fuck him so bad, but, at the same time, I want to cherish him too. Cherish and inflicting pain isn't compatible, but since he likes to feel some pain, I guess I've gotta give it to him.

He smells like the sun and wind after hours of top-down high-speed driving, that and a natural scent of youth is, um, so sexually arousing I can't catch my fucking breath. Neither can Cowboy, apparently, as we're both gasping, fumbling, almost fighting. Finally, using my superior strength, I get him turned over onto his stomach. He makes a whining sound of desire, pushing his ass up, and, without hesitating, I force my cock in past his strong sphincter muscle.

He screams, then screams again, this time pushing his face against the cushion. Without the assistance of lubricant, other than nature's own, which is nonexistent in the rectum, and insufficient from the penis, it made for a painful entrance, and Cowboy screams again. The last two screams were muffled with his face in the cushion, and, to be honest, it didn't feel all that great forcing my hard cock in past his rectum muscles, so I almost screamed too.

Sexual arousal has soared in me like never before, though. It's soared to a very high level, better than anything I can recall with any casual pick-up guy I've ever known, or, for that matter, better than any previous sex Cowboy and I have had.

After two, three, then four hard full-length thrusts up his ass, Cowboy stops fighting me and begins pushing his hips up at my thrusting. We quickly get into a steady rhythm, and things quiet down between us. Quiet down except for the slapping sound of my crotch hitting his buttocks. The steady "slap, slap, slap" sound rings out in the room, indicating a dominant victory for me over Cowboy. He's now my submissive 'bottom' boy moaning quietly and doing what I want.

Oh, how fabulous it feels, every thrust of my hard organ going deeply into this boy's rectum, as deep as I want it to go. The indescribable pulsating sensations coming from my incredibly hard penis cause shivers and chills of pleasure that expand until the pleasure is blooming all over my body, but it doesn't last long.

It's two to three minutes of intense sexual pleasure for me, Cowboy moaning with his own pleasure sounds, "Ooh, ooh, ooh." His pleasure moans, and him humping up into each full thrust of my steel boner adds to my sexual pleasure, and then I hear, "I'm going to cum, Zach."

He lifts his hips and holds them off the sofa, making a strange gasping sound, his stiff body shaking noticeably for two seconds as he's climaxing, his cum spurting onto the sofa cushion. Then he's limp as he sinks to lie flat on the sofa, sighing. I'm shaking with sexual pleasure, too; then, with supernovas colliding in my head, I have a fiery-hot climax. It came roaring up on me to the tipping point when Cowboy blew his load.

Omigod, what a fantastic feeling of almost relief when cum gushed from my cock. Relief along with pleasure-sensations enough to blow my mind. My cock is getting limp in Cowboy's rectum now as I'm lying on his back, sweating. Only for a few seconds, though, as Cowboy lifts a little, mumbling, "Would you get off me, Zach? I'm lying in a puddle of cum." I do a pushup, my dick slipping out of him as I slide off the sofa to stand. Inhaling a lungful of oxygen, I hold my hand down, and Cowboy takes it and pulls himself to a sitting position.

I mutter, "We're going to have to pay for ruining that 'effing sofa cushion." Cowboy chuckles, saying, "Let's throw the cushion off the balcony and then call down to the desk bitching about a missing cushion, asking what the fuck kind of dump are they running here?" I go, "That's plan 'B.' For now, turn the cushion over."

Hmm, I want to express how awesome that was, but I can't think what to say without sounding phony. Instead, I sit next to him on the sofa and put my arm across his shoulders. Cowboy snuggles in against me, murmuring, "That's right, Zach, you need to show me some love now." I snort, "Oh, sure." He giggles, "Your semen is drooling out of my ass." I go, "Another ruined cushion, huh? Swell."

Cowboy's body feels so good. I squeeze his shoulders, and he looks up at me with a grin, murmuring, "You're supposed to kiss me now. Show me you're sorry that you fucked me bareback and caused me great pain and suffering." I snort out a laugh, then mumble, "You're an attractive and cheeky little motherfucker, ain't ya?"

I kiss him a quick kiss on his lips, and he snuggles back down, mumbling, "I'm, apparently, going to need to tell you what the appropriate things to do are, huh?" He's kidding, but a few minutes ago, I'd been thinking how he's had a wider sexual range of experiences than I've had.

His hard cock and balls are pressing against my thigh, so I'm like, "Shouldn't we take off the shoestring?" He goes, "Not yet. It still feels good." We're quiet again, cuddling. I guess cuddling is what we're doing. And, when was the last time I 'cuddled' with anyone? Well, maybe never. It's nice, though.

The top of Cowboy's head is against my chin, his silky blond, too-long hair tickling me there, so I finger comb it to the side, mumbling, "Why do you insist on having this long hair, bro? Isn't it a pain in the ass to shampoo and, um, take care of?" He murmurs, his lips moving against my chest, "I've always had long hair, Zach." I go, "Oh, that answers my questions then."

Snickering, he goes, "Hell, I don't know why. Tell me how I should get it cut, and I will." Sighing, I go, "Fuck, I don't care. I was just wondering, that's all." Another two minutes of silence, then Cowboy mutters, "My ass is wet, Zach. Can we move to the last cushion that's still, um, dry?" Haha, I go, "Yeah, sure," and we slide down to the end cushion of what is now a ruined sofa.

Another two minutes go by with me enjoying this, um, cuddling, if that's what it even is, then Cowboy says, "I'm ready to be fucked again, ah, whenever you're up to it, that is." Yes, I want to do it again, exactly like the first time, but I say, "Let me get a lubricated condom this time, okay?" He shakes his head, "No, do me the same way you did before. Please, Zach."

This brings to mind what I thought last week. I told myself to be careful or, before I knew it, this kid would have me wrapped around his little finger. I didn't actually believe that back then, but things have changed, and I believe it now. Still, I want to hold onto my in-charge status as long as I can, so I tell Cowboy, "No, we're using a rubber, and stop leaning on me."

He sits up, saying, "Yes, master, whatever you say." Getting up off the sofa, I'm like, "Nope, I'm not your master, but I am the boss here." He's not listening, though. Pointing at his dick, he says, "Holy Christ, Zach, look at my cock." I'm pulling a condom packet from my shorts that were on the floor. Looking over, I see Cowboy is pushing out his crotch to highlight his hard boner that now looks petrified."

He mutters, "I can't even feel it." I go, "That's it! The string is coming off," and I go back into the pocket of my shorts for the Swiss Army pocket knife I always carry with me. It's called the 'Waiter' because, in addition to a sharp-as-shit small blade, there's a bottle cap opener and a wine corkscrew. It's only three inches long and slim. You never know when you're going to need one of the three features in this compact pocket knife.

With my fingernails, I manage to pull the blade out, then say, "I'm going to try like hell not to cut you, but I probably will," and Cowboy pulls on the bowtie knot releasing the shoestring." He laughs, saying, "Put that fucking knife away," and I go, "Why didn't I think of that?" We both watch his boner slowly diminish until it's a, um, a penis again and not a petrified scary-looking wooden carving of one.

Looking over at the room's small refrigerator, I ask, "How about if we have a beer while your penis is coming back to life?" He strokes his dick, saying, "Yeah, sure, but my dick is feeling okay right now." I mumble, "We'll have a beer anyway," and open the refrigerator. Taking out too pony bottles of Rolling Rock beer, I exclaim, "Hey, I haven't had a Rolling Rock in years."

I hand a bottle to Cowboy, and he smilingly says, "You always know just the right thing to do, Zach," and then he chugs half the bottle, which isn't saying much. I take a swallow, and, yes... that first swallow of beer is always the best one I'll have today. If you drink a case of beer, you'll never have a swallow that tastes as good as that first one. And, you'll need to wait until the next day to have that perfect 'first' swallow again.

Sitting on the last unsoiled sofa cushion, I go, "Jeez, I've got to tell you, buddy, that sex was the best. I appreciate you more and more every day. Ya know, I hate to admit this, but I felt a tiny bit jealous that you've been hanging out with that Ricky character the last two nights." He opens his eyes wide, saying, "Seriously? You were jealous?" Holding up my hand, my thumb and forefinger an inch apart, I mumble, "A tiny bit, yeah." He goes, "Oh, man, it's so nice of you to tell me that."

Hmm, I was kind of hoping he'd reciprocate and say he missed me too, but instead, he says, "I don't know, but Ricky reminded me of a couple of the gay prep school savages I hung out with; the senior year." I mutter, "I should have smacked that asshole for you." Cowboy goes, "Nah, he always told me what he had in mind before he did anything, and I had to agree it'd be okay, so..."

Huh, I thought I wanted to know what they, what Ricky did with Cowboy, but now I find I don't want to know, so I change the subject, "How's your pecker feeling now?" He pulls on his dick, mumbling, "It's okay. Just so you know, I had a bigger orgasm with you a few minutes ago than I ever had with Ricky, if that makes you feel any better."

Shrugging, I go, "Yeah, that's good to hear. Nice to know." He sits on the desk chair and then finishes his pony bottle of beer in three big gulps. After exaggerating a big burp, he asks how I plan on getting his fake driver's license. I detail how I plan on obtaining it and tell him about Ronny's and my experience getting fake ID as prep school seniors. I'm hoping those same people are still in business.

We both use the bathroom, and then, as I'm considering another beer, Cowboy says, "Um, are you ready yet, Zach?" Hmm, you know what? I am ready. I get up, saying, "Oh yeah, let's do it." Cowboy grabs his penis, and I'm like, "Pass me that condom packet next to your elbow." He looks at it, then picks it up, mumbling, "I wanted you to do the bareback fucking again. That rocks!" Oh, what the fuck, why not?

Shrugging, I walk over to him and pull him off the chair. Lift him off; it would be more accurate. I turn him around, saying, "Bend over and hold onto the desk." He mutters, "Oh, boy," and does what he's told.

Sweer Jesus, I'm getting wicked turned-on again. I lie against his ass, my arms around him, my fingers flicking his nipples as he's squirming and grunting, "Umm, ooh."

My cock gets hard in ten seconds as I'm again aroused quickly by the feel and smell of this excellent youthful and very attractive male body belonging to one, Carson Myers, aka Cowboy. Poking my hard cock at his asshole remnants of semen there from our first fuck somehow arouses me further and results in a drool of pre-cum. That helps as I shove my boner up his ass. It is also a big help that his anus hasn't fully closed up. Still, the entrance makes Cowboy squeal as all his muscles clench for two seconds before relaxing again. I force my boner in all the way, my groin tightly against his pinkish buttocks.

With both arms around his waist now, I pull him tighter against my crotch until his firm butt cheeks flattening ever so slightly. Omigod, I'm shaking a little as I hump against his buttocks and then lie my chest on his back as Cowboy grunts, "Fuck my ass, Zach." Surprising myself, after another forceful hump against his buttocks, I smack the side of his right butt cheek hard a few times, and Cowboy murmurs, "Ahh, that felt so fucking good, Zach."

Holy fuck, realizing I'm so turned on, I've stopped breathing; I inhale a gasping lungful of oxygen and then pull my cock all the way out. My throbbing fat boner is wet with my earlier cum, plus new pre-cum, and it's sticking straight out, shining with wetness. It bobs slightly from the weight of the blood trapped inside, feeling incredible. Cowboy mutters, "Do it, Zach. Fuck me like last time!" and I ram my boner back up his ass and start fucking him hard and fast. It's the familiar, "Slap, slap, slap, slap!" sounds for the next five or six minutes with me grunting at every hard thrust, "Ump, ump, ump," and Cowboy; going, "Ooh! ooh! ooh!"

We're so tightly together it's like one organism fucking itself. Keeping one arm tightly around his waist, I get my other hand around his hard boner to first squeeze it, and then stroke it with every thrust of my cock, Stroke, stroke, stroke, as Cowboy moans and struggles under me trying to push my hand off his hard cock.

His cock grows fatter in my hand, and a minute later, we climax almost at the same instance. Stars explode in my head as cum explodes from my iron cock. Almost incoherent from the blinding sensations, I keep thrusting in this perfect asshole that's now slippery with cum.

It's sloppy thrusting, thrust, thrust, thrust, and stroke, stroke, stroke, causing drops of cum splattering out of his ass from the force of the thrusting, as Cowboy's grunting, "Yes, yes, yes." The slapping sounds, plus Cowboy's cheers of 'yes!' are registering in my ears like a repeated echo from far away. I finally regain some brainpower and let go of his cock, slowing down the thrusting until I stop entirely and step back, pulling my cock out.

My vision is fuzzy for a second or two, and then that fades away, and everything appears brilliantly clear again. I'm still stumbling backward, though, back until the back of my legs bump into something, and I sit down on the middle sofa cushion that's still wet with the cum that drooled out of Cowboy's ass a half-hour ago.

He's pushing himself away from the desk, mumbling, "Ooh, now I've been fucked good, Zach." Turning around, he adds, "That was random, bro... awesomely random pulling on my boner like that. I was in never-never land blowing my load. Wow, that was special!"

I motion for him to come over to me, and when he does, I get him to sit on my lap facing away. My still-hard cock goes in his wide-open welcoming asshole as I go, "Ahh..." He laughs, then begins lifting and going down, fucking himself on my cock. Only a half dozen times before he lifts too far and stumbles forward, mumbling, "Fuck! If your boner were two inches longer, that wouldn't have happened." We both laugh at that and then look serious as he says, "Seriously, this is some world record fucking we're doing, Zach."

Smiling, I say, "Ya think? Yeah, well, it's been okay, I guess." He starts to sit on my lap again, but I push him away, mumbling, "You win, I can't keep up with you." He sits next to me, sharing the cushion, mumbling, "This has been messy, dude." I mutter, "Yeah, well, let's take a shower."

We walk into the bathroom and, as Cowboy turns the shower on, he says, "After being fucked with an eight-inch cock, a person tends to miss the extra length, ya know?" He's trying not to laugh as I go, "My six inches isn't cutting it anymore, huh?" Jesus, he has a cute grin on his pretty face as he says, "It'll do, bro. Actually, heh-heh, that was the hottest fucking I've ever experienced in my 'effing life," and we do a quick hug as I mutter, "Yeah, me too, hotshot."

Stepping into the shower stall, Cowboy says, "And you didn't even need to spank my ass." I go, "Yeah, I did smack your ass a few times, but I used my hand, and I didn't need to put a dog collar on you. How about that?"

He grins, murmuring, "You're tops, bro," and I sense a closeness I've never felt with him before. I'm like, "Yeah, right. Hey, give me that little bottle of shampoo. I'll shampoo those kinks out of your hair for you." He goes, "Yeah, take care of me, Zach. That cunt Ricky violated me, and I need to be taken care of now." I mutter, "Bullshit," as I lather his hair with some fine-smelling shampoo.

Standing behind him, I shampoo his girlie-length hair and then end up hugging him, my arms around him, squeezing his back against my chest, asking, "Did it hurt a lot without lubricant?" He leans his head against my shoulder, murmuring, "Yeah, it hurt like a bitch, but I liked it. Hold me tighter, Zach."

Man, that pain/pleasure thing is a mystery to me. Except, hmm, it hurt my dick too, and it was kind of a sweet hurt. Yeah, an oxymoron... sweet hurt. Still, it's an interesting concept.

He goes, "You can do me without lube anytime you want, Zach. I'm good with that." After pinching his nipples, I take my arms from around him, saying, "I liked doing you without a condom, but I'm going to buy some KY lubricant for that perfect asshole of yours." He goes, "Aww, that's considerate of you, but you don't have to."

Annoyed with myself for doing the faggy shampooing and hugging, I mumble, "Yeah, well, don't worry about it. Let's finish washing and get out of this shower. I need a real drink, and then I want to get you that fake ID I promised you. I'm tired of putting up with shit from bartenders about you sitting at the bar." He goes, "Roger that. I'm a 'go' on that, bro."

Yeah, Ronny and I got fake ID here in Atlantic City when we were eighteen, and it worked great. Of course, both of us looked older than baby-faced Cowboy. And, I have no idea if the same lady is still doing the fake IDs. She charged a thousand bucks for a driver's license like ten years ago. They were primo fakes, though, and no one ever questioned us about our fake driver's licenses. The lady had a job with Homeland Security, the department that was formed after that shit-storm 9/11. Of course, that was years ago, so maybe by now, they caught her ass, and she's in jail. After all, an important reason for Homeland Security is to ensure legitimate identification for everyone.

We finish showering, get dressed, and head out to see if I can remember where the woman's office was. Not where she worked, but where she did her illegal business from the basement of her house. I'm driving to the area near the Tropicana Hotel/Casino, pissed off I forgot to get the drink I wanted. Oh, well, life blows, and then you die.

There are some rundown places between the casinos a mere block or two away from the boardwalk, which is the general location I remember from ten years ago. She lived in one of those crummy neighborhoods around the Tropicana Hotel/Casino. As I drive up and down the streets near that hotel, I begin thinking maybe this is a fool's errand. I'll never remember which house it was, assuming she's even still there. We'd learned about her from an asshole in prep school whose half-brother was a for-real gangster in Atlantic City or near it.

It's dusk by now, and the creepy people are beginning to come out from under whatever rocks they hide under during the day. Cowboy goes, "This doesn't seem like a safe place, Zach." I go, "Don't worry about it. Look, there! Those two dudes outside that bar. I'm going to talk to them. It's a long shot, but nothing ventured, and all that shit." He goes, "Don't, Zach. Let's come back in the morning."

Pulling over to the curb, I mumble, "You stay in the car." The two black dudes standing outside the bar looked over when they heard the car door slam. I give them a friendly smile as though I'm some dumb ass in from the burbs looking for drugs. There's music coming from the bar, and, ya know, this is the kind of semi-dangerous situation Ronny loved. He felt confident knowing how unlikely it was that any two guys would be as tough as the two of us.

For all I know, these two guys, who both appear to be in their middle twenties, are just having a cigarette outside a nonsmoking establishment. Walking right up to them, I go, "Dudes, can you help me out with something?" They exchange looks, then the one with all the muscles says, "You lost, Casper?" I go, "Haha, Casper? As in Casper the friendly ghost?" The tall skinny one with high shoulders says, "Whaddaya need?" and I know right away these guys are dealing, so I go, "Cocaine, Molly, GHB, whatever you got?"

He asks, "You a cop?" I shake my head, "No way, man. Whaddaya got?" The musclebound guy looks around, then pulls out three little plastic packets from his pocket, mumbling, "This hardly-touched blow I can let you have for $50 a gram." Nodding, I mutter, "Let me taste it," and high shoulders mumbles, "Fuck that. This ain't no tasting table. Get the fuck out of here, ya honky motherfucker." Swell.

Yeah, a typical reaction. I hate to do this because it's stupid to flash your money, but I want them to know I've got it. Pulling my wad of money from my pocket, I peel off two hundred-dollar bills, saying, "I'm going to assume you're upset about flunking out of charm school so that I won't take offense at the honkey motherfucker comment." Musclebound goes, "What the fuck does that mean?"

Holding out the two-hundred dollars, I add, "Here ya go. Give the three grams. I'll trust your honest faces without tasting the product." Musclebound, who is built like a pile of free weights, and probably just as smart, says, "You talk funny, asshole." I mutter, "Yeah, everybody tells me that." He takes my money and hands me the three packets that likely contain baby formula. Then I stupidly say, "I believe you owe me fifty dollars in change."

They both laugh an unpleasant-sounding laugh, and then high-shoulders goes, "Get the fuck out of here before we kick your ass." I mutter, "If you can." He says, "Beat it," and I'm like, "Let's be friends. Um, what I really need more than the blow is someone who can provide some primo fake ID?" High shoulders mumble, "You don't need no fake ID," and I say, "It's not for me, Einstein."

Musclebound appears interested, "Why the fuck you asking us about that?" I say, "There used to be a lady who sold ID in this neighborhood, and I bought fake ID from her before, so..." They exchange looks again, then musclebound says, "See Arcenio inside," and he nods at the door. These flunkies changed their tune because they know a fake ID purchase is a helluva lot more profitable than selling a few grams of stepped-on coke.

Smiling pleasantly at them, I mutter, "It's been a pleasure," and go inside. This situation sucks, but I'm hot to get Cowboy some fake ID. It'll make the rest of the summer go by a lot more pleasantly. And, of course, as I said, I know better than to flash my roll of cash, but I had to demonstrate that I'm serious about information and can pay for it.

Stepping through the door, I see the inside of this dump is in no better shape than the outside, plus I'm the only white face in here. And, every one of the dozen or so dark-faced guys and girls in here turn to look at me. I again smile pleasantly, asking, "Um, Arcenio?" The bartender says, "Never heard of no Arcenio," but the musclebound guy followed me inside and said, "This dumb fuck is looking for Lady Rialto's ID factory. He's got, um, the doodads to cover it." The bartender turns out to be Arcenio, and he motions for me to follow him to the end of the bar.

I do that as everyone gawks at me. They can't believe their eyes; can't believe a white dude would have the balls to come in here. In the background, loud music I've never heard before in my life continues blaring out jarringly. The bartender says, "Two bills." I give him a 'look,' and he pushes a business card toward me, keeping his finger on it. I ask, "Is that the address?" He makes a face at me, like, 'What the fuck?' Well, I expected this to cost me, so I slide two more of my hundred-dollar bills across the bar, and he takes his finger off the business card, putting my money in his shirt pocket.

Muttering, "Thanks," I put the card in my pocket without looking at it and then swagger out, feeling far less safe than my swagger may have appeared to the unfriendly patrons. Outside, I mutter, "Fuck" because the two drug dealers are now one block down from the bar. They're at my car talking through the window to Cowboy. Swell.

The musclebound guy looks over at me as I approach. He's holding an open switchblade next to his leg as he mutters, "So, the fake ID is for the snowflake here, your cute girlfriend." The skinny high-shouldered guy is sitting on the fender of my BMW, tapping it with his long fingernails, saying, "There's a small matter of a finder's fee that you conveniently forgot to pay us. So, you gotta come up with it now because your pretty boyfriend here says he don't got no money, and you wouldn't want us to fuck up his pretty face over a few hundred dollars, right?"

There's no sense in fucking around with this, so as soon as I'm close enough, I stick my thumb forcefully in the right eye of the musclebound guy. He screams in pain, drops the knife bending over with both his hands covering his eye. As his slow-thinking associate is trying to figure out what just happened, I drive a left hook into his solar plexus, turning on the ball of my right foot and getting a lot of my body weight behind the punch. He went, "Oof!" sliding completely off the fender to lie on his side on the cracked sidewalk, trying desperately to breathe... without success so far.

While those two hoodlums are dealing with various discomforting situations, I pick up the knife and close it, then put it in my pocket and walk around to get in the idling car's driver's seat and drive away. Cowboy's face is almost white as he mutters, "Jesus, Zach. Those motherfucking n-words scared the shit out of me." I go, "Just a couple of assholes who are used to intimidating people because of their size and scary attitudes."

Fuck, I'm not even breathing hard, but I feel the adrenalin rush. Perhaps I dealt with those two more harshly than I needed to, but It made me a little grumpy that nothing is easy or fair in this world. I mean, I spread out four hundred-dollar bills, and they still wanted to roll me for more.

Of course, if it had been Ronny in the car instead of Cowboy, I wouldn't have needed to do anything because he would have already put both those dumb-asses in the hospital. Ronny was a lot more violent than me, which is why I've had so much trouble coming to grips with the fact he was taken down by a scum bag drugged-up carjacker.

It's only a four-minute drive back to a brightly lit area around the Tropicana Hotel and Casino, where the likes of those two-bit, low-level drug dealers rarely venture. Pulling to a stop at the curb, I use the light from a streetlamp to look at the business card. Huh, it appears to be a legitimate, um, ad for an illegitimate activity. It says ' Secure Identities,' and then there's a phone number. Swell.

Taking out my cell phone, I call the number, hearing a recording asking for my phone number. I tell the recording I have a card that says identities and then leave my cell phone number. Hanging up, I tell Cowboy, "Stay in the car. I need something from the trunk."

Dammit, my blood is flowing now, so okay, I'm pretty fucking psyched. Ronny and I used to get 'off' doing shit like this, but it loses any semblance of being fun when doing it alone. I mean, I don't want to get Cowboy involved, not that he'd be much help anyway.

Opening the truck, I reach behind the spare tire. That's where I stashed a little gun Ronny took off a guy like eight years ago. He gave it to me, and I've kept it ever since as a backup piece. Unwrapping the oily rag, and there it is. It's a Smith & Wesson Shield, 9mm. Basically, a slenderized version of the S & W MP model. Yeah, it's a nice little gun. After checking that it's loaded, I stick it in the waistband at the back and pull my shirt out over the gun to hide it.

As soon as I close the trunk, my phone rings, and I go, "Yeah?" I'm told to be at the front of the Trop in fifteen minutes wearing sunglasses and holding the business card. Well, that's convenient since I can see the Tropicana from here. Walking around to Cowboy's side of the car, I say, "Okay, bro, hand me my shades from the visor."

He does that, and I put the sunglasses on, mumbling, "This won't take long." He goes, "Let's forget the ID, Zach. I don't need to sit at bars or gamble or anything. Fuck that, bro, it's too dangerous." I go, "Nah, this will only take like fifteen minutes. I'm meeting someone outside the hotel. You stay put, okay?" He nods, looking dubious, so I pat his shoulder and smile. "I've got this, Cowboy. Be cool, bro." He nods without appearing to believe me.

It's a five-minute walk, and then I'm in front of the hotel where many people are milling around looking glum. They likely have already lost all their money. The casino now owns every cent they brought with them, and these people are probably contemplating an ATM where they can draw out next week's grocery allowance.

And, oddly, I'm not the only person wearing sunglasses at night, but I'm the only one with a business card in my hand. I get a tap on my shoulder, and a young-looking white dude says, "It'll cost you $1500. Do you got the cash?" I go, "I'm not stupid enough to have it on me, but, yeah, I have it."

He says over his shoulder, "It looks okay," and an enormous woman appears from behind a large boardwalk sigh advertising the Steel Pier. Omigod, it's her. It's the woman I remember, and she still weighs at least three hundred pounds? She looks the same; she hasn't aged or changed a bit. Christ, I think she's wearing the same dress too. She asks, "Seriously, handsome; we've got nothing to do with that identity stuff. Someone is using our phone number. But just for the hell of it, can you assure me you're not a cop trying to entrap an innocent person?"

That horseshit wouldn't fool anybody. Still, I play her game and, after giving my name and showing ID, I tell her what I need and recite the experience Ronny and I had with her ten years ago, including describing her basement where she has the equipment to produce the fake licenses.

She finally smiles and says, "You know, I think I remember you, two boys. How's your friend doing? He did all the talking as I recall." I tell her Ronny was killed, and she turns to tell her bodyguard, "I'll ride with him. Meet us at the house." Then to me, "I'm sorry about your friend. You say his young brother is the one who needs the ID, right?" Nodding, I mumble, "Yeah," and she hugs me, murmuring, "Life is hard."

That was weird, but she follows me to the car, where I introduce her to Cowboy. He accepts condolences, then gets in the backseat so Lady Rialto can ride shotgun. She says to Cowboy, "Thank you for giving up our seat, honey," and then gets in the car giving me directions to her house. It's only a half-mile from the Tropicana, less than that, actually.

During the short ride, she tells me, "I'll give you boys the bargain price of $1300 because you're both so good-looking you make my twat wet." Swell.

At her place, she says, "Zach, you go get the money, and I'll take young Cowboy inside for his photo and to hold him hostage until you come across with the dough." She laughs full out at that as I force a chuckle. Thirteen hundred is less than I expected, but then, I already laid out four-hundred bucks to get in touch with her. Well, yeah, I've got three grams of what might be coke too. We'll see about that.

Cowboy is hesitant about going inside with Ms. Rialto, but I sort of insist and then drive around the block to park. I've got most of twenty thousand dollars in the trunk but, obviously, don't want these fine law-abiding and outstanding citizens we're dealing with to know that. I told them the money is in the room's safe at our hotel. They don't care where it's at as long as it ends up in their hands. Ya know what? Even if Ronny were here, I think I can't imagine this deal would have gone any smoother. Sure, he had a knack for communicating with this element of society, whereas I mostly fake it. And Ronny would have haggled over the price, whereas I'm just happy we're getting Cowboy's ID, period.

So, whatever, I wanted ID for Cowboy, and we're getting it, and I feel okay about how it's going... so far.

With the thirteen hundred dollars in my pocket and the gun helping me feel almost confident about things, I knock on the door of the house I watched them go in. The bodyguard, who I'm pretty sure is her son, opens the door, and, yeah, I do sort of remember him as a much younger guy.

He's another weightlifter type, overweight but not flabby. He doesn't say much other than asking, "Do you have the money?" Numerous smart-ass replies are flashing through my mind that I could say to that idiotic question, but I let them pass by and say, "Yes." I mean, why would I be here if I didn't have the money? Duh!

I wait in the foyer for like three minutes and then up the stairs bound Cowboy holding his new driver's license. Then, thump. thump, thump, ponderously up the steps comes Lady Rialto. She says, "My new equipment is as up to date as they have at the state of New Jersey's RMV. That license young Carson Myers is holding is identical to one he'll get from them two years from now."

Carson, um, Cowboy hands it to me, and I glance at it, mumbling, "It looks great," then I hold out thirteen one-hundred-dollar bills. She nods at her son, so I give the money to him. As he counts it, Ms. Rialto says, "If this ever comes back on me, Gerome here," and nods at her burly sone, "Will seek revenge on young Carson's ass. We've got your phone number and contacts who can match it with you!" Then, incongruously, she does her big laugh hugging Cowboy before adding, "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Carson, and seeing you again, Zach. Now, get the fuck out of here and forget you've ever been here." Gladly!

Outside, Cowboy gets in the car as I mutter, "I'll be right with you," and open the trunk to rewrap the gun and put it behind the spare tire. We leave, and that's that. I say, "It doesn't go much better than that, Cowboy." He mutters, "I'm glad it's over. Now, let's take my new license for a spin to try it out."

It's only a ten-minute drive back to the Marriott hotel, and three minutes after that, we're at one of the many bars in the hotel ordering beers. The 'effing bartender doesn't even card Cowboy. I'm shaking my head, chuckling about that. And, yeah, like Cowboy, I have a nice feeling of relief we're done with that situation. I experience a few minutes of delayed reaction, a tad shaky from dealing with the initial dangerous black dudes, and, well, I'm glad the whole thing is behind us.

Cowboy says, "I'll never be as cool as you. Zach. You knew just what to do, and you were so smooth getting it done, one, two, three." He's looking at his new license, admiring it, as I'm thinking, 'I can't believe I pulled this off so well by myself. Ronny would have done the things I did, and I'd have been more like Cowboy from beginning to end.

Wow, fuck, so I'm a little shaky but proud of myself at the same time. Finishing my draft beer, I say, "I was faking being cool through most of that, Cowboy. Your brother usually did the, um, hard parts when we'd do shit like this." He goes, "Well, you could have fooled me, Zach. Thanks for doing it for me." Taking a deep. Breath, I just nod my head. And, as I said, I'm just fucking glad it's over.

After two beers, I'm feeling good. We're quiet for a few minutes, and then Cowboy hits my arm and asks, "Um, that fight you had, ah, did you mean to poke that guy in the eye? That's kind of a girl's move, isn't it, or was it a punch that accidentally got your thumb in the guy's eye? Just wondering."

I go, "It was intentional, Cowboy. Who cares if it seemed girlie? Navy Seals are trained in basic street fighting as well as other fighting methods. Poking a guy in his eye causes tremendous pain and, thereby, quickly neutralizes him. That is a quick and efficient way to eliminate him, which is handy when fighting more than one person." He nods, Oh, okay," and I add, "The Seals start by learning basic boxing skills. You know, footwork, speed, agility, and quick thinking. We're taught to anticipate what your opponent is trying to do and counter it."

He's thinking about that, I guess. After drinking some of his beer, Cowboy goes, "But what about all the Kung Foo stuff? The cool stuff." I go, "Of course we were taught that too. There was a lot of martial arts training, such as the Israeli Krav Maga, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and the brutal Muay Thai, the national sport of Thailand. Martial arts are intended to end a fight in three to five seconds, but so will a poke in the eye or a knee in the balls."

He says, "Well, you're my hero now. I thought we were going to get our asses kicked, and then you showed up and POW! BAM! WHAM! and both guys were on the ground in five seconds. Then, you casually got in the car and drove us away from the carnage." I say, "Dude, I was motivated by being wicked pissed off at those two. I overpaid them for three grams of what is probably shitty coke, then paid another two hundred dollars inside the bar for contact information, and they still wanted to roll me. Fuck that! Have a smidgin of class even if you're lowlifes."

We order another round, and I tell Cowboy, "Let's not dwell on the ID. It's great that you've got excellent fake ID now and with your own name on it, but now we're moving on." He nods and then says, "Thank you, Zach."

We drink our beer, and I'm thinking, 'Why the hell am I drinking beer? I need a real drink.'

Cowboy bumps my arm again and says, "What do you think about the neural net theory, Zach?" What the fuck is that? I mumble, "Not a whole lot," and he gets excited, saying, "Yeah, well, I'm intrigued by the thought that our entire unimaginably huge universe just may be a giant neural net. Christ, there's a possibility that it could be the theory of everything. You know, combining quantum and classical mechanics." I go, "Oh, uh-huh."

He's quiet for a minute and then goes, "At the very least, it's a nice jumping-off point for larger philosophical discussions, don't you think?" Nodding my head, finishing my beer, I mutter, "Yeah, sure, but let's not have one now."

The bartender looks over, and I nod at my empty glass and hold up two fingers. He gets busy pouring two more beers, and, dammit, I just ordered another beer. I was distracted!

Cowboy asks, "Um, what did you and Ronny have philosophical discussions about? Not that you and I would have the same ones; I just wondered what, you know, you guys talked about." You see, sometimes Cowboy slips into his brainiac mode; not often, but he'll do it when I least expect it...

I wait for the bartender to put our drinks down, then say, "Gee, Cowboy, now that I think about it, Ronny and I didn't go in much for philosophical conversations, not the way you mean. We talked about, um, Navy Seal shit mostly. Our last operation for sure, or the one we were currently training for. And, we talked about what we'd do on our next leave and what happened during our last one. Shit like that. We weren't serious very often, mostly laughing and having fun mocking the lunacy of the world around us."

He's looking at me funny, so I grin, adding, "Yeah, that's right, we were pretty irresponsible and immature, I guess. On the other hand, we were deadly serious about doing our jobs. When we made it, um, when we both were still alive after a covert operation, we reverted to being bad-ass tough guys laughing at the world leaders, domestic and foreign, who made bad choices that created the reasons for Navy Seals; to exist." He goes, "Oh. So, then, when you bad-asses were on leave, Ronny would fuck every girl in sight, and you did the same with guys, right?"

Yeah, pretty much. Omigod, my old man, was right. Ronny and I never grew up. I mumble, "Yeah, we had sex on our minds quite a bit. As I said, though, we were not functioning as, um, responsible adults. Don't admire us."

Christ, Ronny, and I didn't even have anything specific in the way of plans for what we'd do when we were out of the Seals. Well, we planned on spending the summer visiting baseball ballparks in all thirty major league cities. That's as far as we planned. That's too embarrassing to tell Cowboy, though, so I mumble, "We were going to make plans, but Ronny got, you know."

He goes, "But, whatever you ended up doing after the summer, you were going to do it together, right?" Shrugging, I mutter, "I guess, yeah." Fuck, we were so fucking irresponsible. How come I never realized that before now?

Cowboy is getting drunk, so I go, "Um, how about if we have that late dinner we talked about?" He nods, "Yep, I'm hungry, and after dinner do you think you'd be willing to do the sex without a rubber again? I mean, if it's not too sore on your dick." Hmm, this boy has a powerful sex drive and a tough rectum too...

To be continued... donnymumford@outlook.com.

Guys, please consider making a tax-deductible donation to nonprofit Nifty to help with the expenses of maintaining this awesome free story site. Thank you!