Summer of Sex with Cowboy

MY SUMMER OF SEX WITH COWBOY

Chapter 54

By Donny Mumford

Suddenly while driving away from Paul's place, I see things very differently. Yeah, first of all, sure, that was a mighty strange date with Paul, and, holy shit, his paddling technique was over the 'effing top. He needs to rein that shit in, or someone will take the paddle from him and paddle his head with it. In a way, though, his over-paddling made me realize something, and it's that I'm done with this paddling crap. Just like that, BANG, I'm done with it.

The last few dates with Dickie haven't worked out very well, and it had something to do with paddling each time. Too many or too few whacks, whatever, in both instances, something felt wrong. When the paddling was new, it was an effective submissive enhancer, but recently it's been mostly an unnecessary nuisance. It's lost its appeal to me, in other words. So, yeah, Paul's over-paddling highlighted that fact, and he inadvertently did me a favor.

My earlier dates with Dickie were perfect without paddling. He needed the money when I first hired him, so, I'm guessing, he didn't want to take the chance of including paddling. Then his luck changed, and he was not only getting regular dates with me, but other dates as well, and that's when he included the paddling... when he didn't have much to lose. Also, and I'm guessing again, he figured I'd put up with whatever he wanted. He was right, too, for a while. Then, subconsciously, my fascination with sub/dom sex weakened to the degree that I consciously decided to try weaning myself off it.

Yes, Dickie likes to paddle guys' asses, but he likes money and the free hotel room even more, which is why he's going along with my reduced paddling plan. It helps tremendously that I've been having fantastic sex with Bruce, which doesn't include sub/dom sex at all. Any sub/dom sex I thought we were doing early on was all in my head from remembering Bruce being a dominant motherfucker during that training bullshit. Obviously, he was still under Richard's influence back then.

And my submissiveness fetish is all Richard's doing too. Well, not all, as I was susceptible to it as a kid too. Mostly in prep school when I thought sub/dom sex was sexy-cool and sexy-hot at the same time. Acting submissive in sub/dom sex made me popular among the gay group, most of whom liked to top. That was my excuse as a kid, but what's my reason now for being super-submissive? I don't have one, and I wasn't into it all through college and my Navy Seal years, so I'm full circle again blaming Richard.

Forget about an excuse, though; what's relevant now is eliminating paddling and continuing to wean me off sub/dom sex completely. As I pay for parking, these ideas are swirling around in my brain; then, I sit in the car wondering what this means for Bruce and me. Hmm, he isn't even aware I'm going through this misguided submissive craziness. All we have is an unspoken agreement to hire a pussy boy during the day if I feel I need to. I don't feel confident about changing that right now, but I'm going with plain old generic anal intercourse from now on.

So, I'll maintain the status quo as far as having morning sex goes, but without the convoluted super-submissive sub/dom sex. I don't want to take a chance on screwing anything up now that Bruce has overcome the trauma of the mean streets, plus Richard's influence. I helped with that, but it was mostly his doing, so now the real Bruce is shining through, and it's my turn to get Richard's magnetic dominance that caused me to overdo submissiveness.

Ironic that I've come to this conclusion when fifteen minutes ago I was thanking Richard for transforming me to a submissive bottom. It's further ironic that I still thank him, and that's because I'd never have met Bruce otherwise, and I do prefer bottoming. Even considering all my missteps and all the ups and downs I've experienced, it's been a fantastic summer of sex. Yes, it was a long winding road that at times felt as if I was going a hundred miles an hour down a dead-end street, but it's been a blast at times too. I'm clear-headed about what I've decided. Oh, and I also need to save Paul, and that starts by following through with a second date as I promised I'd do.

As I'm walking toward Markie's rental booth, I call Richard. He noticed my caller ID because he sounds hesitant; not sure if I'm going to complain about him sticking me with a woefully nondominant pussy boy. He stammers, "Oh, um, ah, I hope you had a satisfactory massage, Zach." Hmm, even sounding unsure of himself, I detected a smirk in how he said that. I say, "Yes, he was excellent! Thank you for hooking me up with him. That's why I'm calling. Yep, I'd like a date with Paul tomorrow." He goes, "Um, seriously? Ah, I mean, you want another date with Paul?" I go, "Yes, with Paul."

He's typing on his laptop, saying, "Yeah, sure. I'm hooking you up with him right now. Um, yep, the same time tomorrow, eleven o'clock in the morning. As for a date with Dickie, um, I won't know if he will be available until later today. I told you that this morning, Sir."

Chuckling, I mutter, "Cut the 'sir' crap, Richard, and I'm not asking for a date with Dickie." He goes, "Oh? Well, okay, fine, whatever you say, and thank you for your business." I mumble, "Sure, and here's another thing. Take that stupid 'S' type designation off my bio or wherever it shows. I'm done with that." He goes, "Really, just like that?" I mutter, "Yep, just like that. If you want any further business from me, take that 'S' shit off. There are many other escort services I can use if necessary." He goes, "Sure, of course, no problem. I'll take care of that right now." I hear a few taps on his laptop, and he mumbles, "It's done. Is there anything else?" I mumble, "Not right now," and click off.

Hmm, I'm pleased and a tad surprised to find that I don't feel horny! I'll be dammed; that innocuous date with Paul was enough even though I never came close to experiencing submissiveness. How could I? He doesn't have an ounce of dominance in him, and the fleeting submissive sense I got from the over-done paddling drifted away almost immediately because it pissed me off, and Paul's as dominant as a lost kitten.

Well, this has been one hell of a Saturday so far. Markie is dealing with a man and a woman at the booth, probably a married couple. He glances at me, saying, "I'll be right back. I've got something for you, Zach." He puts an umbrella on his shoulder and asks the man, "Do you have a preference. Close to the ocean or the middle of the beach?" The man says, "Um, no preference, we'll walk down and find a spot." The man is carrying both beach chairs as his wife has all she can handle with a huge purse and a large beach bag.

Hmm, Markie called me Zach, which is rare, plus he has something for me? Interesting. He comes back putting two one-dollar bills in his pocket and goes behind the counter, seemingly nervous. I go, "Well, what's up, hotshot? I see you got a nice tip from that big spender." Ignoring that, he slaps a jewelry box on the counter, mumbling, "It's nothing much, but I got you something to remember me by. No big deal." I look at him, "You got me something to remember you by? Where are you going?" He shrugs, "Today is my last day. I've gotta get shit for school, and my parents insist I go with them to visit my grandparents in New York on Monday. Open the box." I'm stunned, "Your last day? Shit, I'm going to miss you, Markie." He shrugs again, mumbling, "Whatever! Are you going to open the fucking box, or not? I don't care if you do or don't."

I go, "Sure, I'm going to open it." Lifting the lid, I see a chain with two dog tags on it. Stunned, I take it out and see one dog tag has the date I first used his booth and then today's date. The other one has 'Ur Friend Markie Stewart.' He's blushing like mad, mumbling very fast, "It's just cheap stainless steel. It didn't cost hardly anything. You don't gotta wear the fucking thing. It's just a gag gift I bought smoking pot, high as a kite. It's stupid, but, what the hell, I might as well give it to you."

Speechless, I look at him and see he has a tear in his eye, and so do I. I go, "It's not stupid, and of course, I'm going to wear it, Markie. I'm, ah, thank you so much." I put it around my neck, then walked behind the counter. Markie just stands there, mumbling, "I suppose you're gonna hug me. I knew you would, so go ahead. I don't care." I hug him, and he hugs back, murmuring, "No one has ever been as nice to me as you are." I squeeze his slim body, then kiss his cheek. Letting go of him, I say, "Thank you, Markie. I'll wear these dog tags every day, and I'm already looking forward to seeing you next year."

He shrugs again, "I might not be here next year." I say, "Give me your phone." He nods at his phone on the counter. I take it and program in my cell phone number, saying, "If you need me, um, to beat somebody up, or for any reason, just call me. And I'm putting your number on my phone, so I can find out where you're working next summer and I'm going to over-tip the hell out of you." He tries not to grin as he rubs my arm, muttering,

"Yeah, sure. Um, thanks for everything, Zach."

I haven't worn a necklace since I left the Seals, and that one was a dog tag necklace too. I'll wear this one for sure. He says, "Well, are you gonna rent anything?" I rent the usual chair and umbrella, and we trudge down the beach, the sand hot underfoot. We've done this almost a hundred times together. It's hard to believe we won't do it tomorrow.

Ya know, there is a comfort level associated with familiarity. Unconsciously we give preference to things and people we're familiar with. Psychologists have found that happiness correlates to the many people and things we're familiar with. I don't know about that because I bonded with Markie early on before a familiarity factor had a chance to have much to do with it. I'm not sure why I adopted grumpy Markie as my little brother, but that's how I came to think of him. I'm going to miss him a lot.

Not wanting to make him any more uncomfortable than he already is, I purposely don't make any more of a big fuss over this being our last day. I give him his regular tip, saying, "I love the dog tags, Markie. It's the perfect gift. Thank you, buddy." He does his standard shrug, then says, "Yeah, well, no problem," and off he trudges back up the hot-sand beach. Haha, I hope he doesn't think he's escaping without another hug and kiss before I leave today. Sitting under the umbrella, I'm very touched by Markie's gesture. It's so unlike him, and it was probably hard for him to show his emotions, which makes it all the more special that he did.

The random lives we affect in some way, good or bad, are mostly taken for granted, and that's a mistake. What part does fate have to do with our lives, and is fate even real? The life we're born into is the epitome of randomness. And then we're all constrained by circumstances beyond our control. No one can predict success and failure, joy and sorrow, health and sickness, or any of the gray areas in between. So, what are we left with? Doing the best we can, I suppose. That's all we can do. That's what Bruce and Markie are doing so well, and Lee too. I choose to believe that's true, in any case.

And then there are fortunate individuals like Cowboy and me who have an easier task finding happiness than most, so if we fail, it's our damn stupid fault. Many individuals born into a financially advantageous situation, plus those lucky to be born with a rare talent and become wealthy from it, still find reasons to fuck up things preventing them from finding happiness. And that is their own damn stupid fault too.

Jesus, why all these philosophical thoughts? Well, because traveling with Cowboy is what made all that's happened possible, and now it's coming to an end. Tomorrow is Sunday, and the boys leave for college on Thursday. They're at Lee's house today and tonight, which is giving me a taste of the days to come without them brightening my life. That is a significant loss. I mean, with Bruce working into September, I'll have many lonely days to deal with, and I'm not too fond of lonely days. The morning pussy boy sex episode, almost therapy sessions, only last maybe ten to fifteen minutes, and then there are eight hours staring me in the face until I'm saved when my lover boy, Bruce, shows up. He's the bright star in my life; Bruce falling in love with me means everything.

Here's a gloomy thought, what if Cowboy hadn't wanted to spend the summer with me after his brother was killed? His mother was firmly against it, so it almost didn't happen. Thankfully, his father saw the benefit for both Cowboy and me being together this summer. But how would the past four months have turned out for me without Cowboy? Jeez, maybe fate was involved as both of us fell in love this summer, which would have been unlikely to happen in the extreme if we hadn't stuck together and traveled the random roads we chose to take.

Later, clearing my head, I do my mile swim wishing Jay Bird was here to do it with me. I buy a large pizza at one o'clock and bring it to the booth to share it with Markie. As we eat it and drink Cokes from the vending machine, Markie tells me he's saved seven hundred dollars this summer, and a lot of it was tips from me. I ask, "What are you going to do with the money?" Swallowing a mouthful of pizza, he says, "We, my boyfriend, Jameson, and me, are buying a car together so we can drive to high school. He's been using his mom's car this summer. We're seniors and can park in the school's parking lot this year. He saved twice as much as me, though."

Wiping my hands and mouth with some of the extra napkins I insisted the pizza shop give me, I go, "Well, we can't have that, Markie," and I put seven one-hundred-dollar bills on the counter, saying, "It's a loan. You can pay me back over the years." Shocking the shit out of me, this tough kid burst out crying, turning away. He's waving his hand at me so I won't come around the counter. I let him get himself under control, then passed him some napkins without saying anything.

He wipes his eyes, mumbling, "I was four or five the last time I cried. Sorry." I nod, "Crying is okay. I do it myself occasionally." He pushes the money toward me, saying, "Thanks, but I can't accept this." I murmur, "Of course you can. It's merely a loan, and now you'll be on an even basis with your boyfriend when buying the car." He shakes his head, so I quietly say, "I accepted your incredibly thoughtful gift, Markie. Please accept my friendship gesture of a loan." He frowns, "You won't let me pay you back, so it's a too-generous gift, not a loan. I don't take charity; I've worked for everything I've ever gotten." I reach across the counter, the pizza box next to us, and touch the back of his hand, murmuring, "Your gift is a thousand times more thoughtful than a loan of a few hundred dollars. There's no comparison, Markie. Please, take the money."

He looks at me, nods his head, and mumbles, "Thank you," and puts the seven bills in his pocket. I ask, "Do you want the last slice of pizza?" He goes, "Yeah," and he takes it as we both grin. Yep, there's that cute grin as he looks down and takes a big bite of pizza, then he holds it out to me, and I take a bite as he mumbles, "We'll share the fucking thing. I guess that's the fair thing to do."

Taking a walk after lunch, I felt wonderful that I could help him out. The thing is, it's not actually my money. I mean, I inherited it, but someone else earned it. I didn't make it as Markie does, so his gift is infinitely more spectacular. Still, I feel good I had the money to give him, even if I didn't earn it, which, yeah, would have been better if I had.

That makes me think about Jo-Jo again. Yeah, Bruce's insistence on paying his way, meaning getting a job, means I'll also need to be earning money. All the money Ronny and I earned for being Seals we spent on luxury vacations on leave. We were both born into advantageous financial situations acting like playboys, which in a way, we were. What else were we supposed to do, be poor?

I felt like I was doing something worthwhile being a Navy Seal, so working at a job, I hope to feel that way again. And, yeah, the job I get will in a way be an extension of my good fortune as I'll be working for the already established family corporation, but what am I supposed to do, go to an employment agency? That would be obstinate, and worse, it'd be stupid. And acting like a martyr is for suckers.

Then Bruce shows up, and all my musings take a backseat to him. I can hardly believe how casually and openly Bruce shows affection nowadays. Right here on the beach, from behind me, he hugs around my neck, kisses me on the head, and asks, "Are those bitches around who tried to put the make on you?" I go, "No, I told them they better leave before you got here." He goes, "Good," and lingers behind me, kissing my cheek for ten seconds. Letting go of me, he sets up his chair, saying, "Good news, babe. Anne told me she's only staying open two weeks after Labor Day." Babe?

I go, "Awesome!" then, "Did you get many tips today?" He goes, "Well, this one guy," and he laughs, adding, "Yeah, this one guy probably thought he was leaving ten bucks as a tip, but it was a hundred-dollar bill instead." I go, "Get outta here! Holy shit, what a careless asshole that guy must be." He mutters, "Yeah, thanks, careless asshole. I'm taking you out to dinner with those hundred bucks." Then he notices the chain, the dog tags under the T-shirt I'm wearing because I've had all the sun I need. I explain the dog tags, Markie's last day, and all that.

Bruce goes, "Wow, you make friends with the oddest assortment of people, don't you?" I go, "Nope, only special people like you." We talk and mess around, then have our pretend mile swim and, after that, walk on the beach drying off and pointing out guys who aren't hot at all. Bruce chuckles, saying, "It's a good thing we're so hot, huh? If we weren't so hot ourselves, we'd be a couple of jerk-offs being critical of others." I go, "Well, yeah, but we're smoking hot!" He mutters, "One of us is anyway."

When we drop off the chairs, I put ten dollars on the counter, mumbling, "That's for collecting the umbrella for us." Then Markie and I are both acting a little awkward until he says, "I guess I need one last hug from you. You'll probably do it anyway." We hug with Markie clinging to me, murmuring, "Thanks for everything, Zach. I'm going to miss you." I kiss him, and we let go as I mutter, "Me too," then it's time to leave. "Bye, Markie. Good luck with your senior year." He nods and waves his hand, "Bye, Zach," and as we walk away, Bruce goes, "Jesus, you two." Bruce doesn't understand. He hasn't made many friends so far in his life, but he will.

Anyway, I was speaking of smoking hot a little while ago; and that's what our sex is like back at the apartment. This afternoon, both of us naked, Bruce is a hungry sexual fucker, although he does use the lube. After a nuclear hot makeout, he fucks me doggy style. And after that, with hearts pumping, we lie on the bed breathing deeply and then get into another makeout, sweaty now, licking, touching, squeezing, some light biting before he turns me over and fucks me for fifteen minutes bringing on hot second climaxes.

Oh, Christ, we're giggling then as Bruce mutters, "Sex maniac," "No, you're the sex maniac. I'm the helpless bottom." Some wrestling around on the bed, and then we shower together and have dinner at the Italian restaurant again. The one Bruce claims is 'our' place. We had to drive back and forth to Atlantic City again, but so what? Our lovers' sex before bed is so dreamy and romantic and perfect. Unrushed sex without horniness, only desire to share a sexual bodily experience. We quietly moan, drifting in pleasure for a seemingly long time that ends with a startling burst of sensations, fireworks exploding as our orgasms simultaneously pour out hot and creamy, followed by caresses and murmured words of love.

Let me tell you; you get a good night's sleep after sex like that. We have a quiet ride to Atlantic City Sunday morning, then a sloppy lingering kiss goodbye sitting in the BMW idling next to the ramp. Then, "See ya, Zach," and "See ya, Bruce. Have a good day, babe." Haha, I snuck in that babe reference he used yesterday on the beach. I watch him jog away until he turns the corner heading for the boardwalk cafe.

I'm not remotely horny driving back to the apartment, and today would be a good day to try passing up morning sex, except it's with Paul, and he'd misinterpret why I'm passing it up.

Back at the apartment, in bed, I think about what I'm going to say during the eleven o'clock date with Paul, finally falling asleep after concluding, yeah, I'd better do it with him, and I better do something about getting him a real job. I only sleep for an hour, so at eight-fifteen, I'm doing laundry, running the vacuum, taking out the trash, cleaning the kitchen floor, and doing it all happily.

I'm excited about my decision to cut out paddling entirely, but still have a date to get my rocks off each morning. It'll be like, thanks, dude, and I'm going on my way. Not with Dickie, though. I've got to find a new pussy boy. Not Paul either. He just doesn't cut it, plus I feel sorry for him. There is no possibility he's going to make it in the pussy boy game, so I'm going to help him get into something else. That will ease my conscience about all these unfortunate boys I'm using to accommodate my own oversexed problem.

At eleven o'clock, I push Paul's apartment button in the lobby entrance and hear his scratchy voice, "Zach?" I go, "Yes, it's me," and he buzzes the door open. Going up the steps, I'm still unsure how to handle this. Paul is at the open door, trying to look stern. As I walk up to him, I say, "No, Paul, we're not doing the sub/dom shit today." And we didn't do it yesterday either, although Paul thought we did, that's another story, though.

Paul says, "Oh, good. I didn't know if it was a mistake when I saw the 'S' type signature blink off Richard's notice yesterday." I'm like, "Let's go inside." He nods, and I follow him in, saying, "It's no mistake. I insisted Richard delete that 'S' thing." He goes, "You changed your mind, huh?" I go, "That's right, I changed my mind. Let me ask you something, Paul. Um, as good as you are at this, would you take advantage of another opportunity for work if it opened up for you?" He says, "Nothing is going to open up for me, Zach. Don't worry about me; I'll be fine once I get used to everything."

Taking a deep breath, I'm like, "No, you're not going to be fine, Paul. Listen to me; my father owns a big corporation with many companies. He inherited it from his father and then made it ten times bigger, and I'll be working for one of those companies in a month or so. I can get you a real job in one of them too. What do you say about having a well-paying nine to five real job? You'll start paying social security and taxes and all the regular shit most people deal with. A productive member of society."

He shakes his head, "I don't even know you. Why would you do that for me?" I say, "Good question. I don't know why, Paul, I just want to do it, and I can do it, assuming you want it. What have you got to lose? If you find you don't care for the real world, you can always come back to this fake one."

He hems and haws, not wanting to believe, not wanting to get his hopes up. Yeah, he's finding this impossible to believe, and who can blame him? Slowly though, he begins asking probing questions as if he's starting to think maybe it can happen. "What job could I do, though, Zach? I've no real work history, and what would I put down on an application as to what I've been doing since high school? Getting fired from McDonald's and living on the street, then being a prostitute?" I'm like, "That would be a problem for sure if you were going in to apply for a job someplace directly. That's not what I'm talking about, though. I'd have the job set up, and all your concerns about your current line of work would be something you never mention, never talk about as if it never happened."

It takes twenty minutes to convince him that I'm not only serious, but I can do what I'm saying. Paul goes, "So, in a day or two, you are going to get me a real job and tell me where to go and who to see, and they'll show me what to do. Is that it?" Nodding, I say, "Exactly!" He says, "But I owe Richard a thousand dollars. Now it's eight hundred, but still." I want to say, fuck Richard, but instead, I say, "I'll loan you the money, and you can pay me back after you save it up. How's that?" Looking doubtful again, he asks, "Will I make enough money to do that?" I'm like, "Easily. I'll get you a job paying twenty to twenty-five dollars an hour. It's up to you to work hard and get promotions after that." He says enthusiastically, "I'll work my ass off, Zach!" I have no doubt about that.

Smiling, he holds his hand out to shake, mumbling, "Thank you so much!" Shaking his hand, I go, "You're welcome. Now, how about that massage. You did an awesome massage yesterday."

He does an awesome one this morning too. As he's doing it, I'm thinking now that the hard part of convincing Paul that this is a sincere offer is finished, all I've gotta do is make the job happen for him. That makes it mandatory I call Mac today. No more procrastinating! I'll call my dad, Mac, who will undoubtedly refer me to my Godfather, Jo-Jo, who has never been able to say no to me my whole life, which is why I've resisted asking him for a favor. It wouldn't have been fair of me. Now, however, I need favors not only for this stranger, Paul but also for Bruce and me.

That's for later today, though. After the massage, yeah, I'm now in the mood for sex. Not crazily horny, but in the mood, so why not? I try giving Paul a hundred and fifty dollars for oral sex and a good fucking, but he doesn't want to take the money. I force it on him, explaining he's doing his job, plus it'll be less money I'll need to lend him to pay off Richard. He gets undressed, and, finally, I get to it, licking and sucking his ultra-clean cock and balls.

Like yesterday, Paul gets a boner almost instantly, so I hold his five-plus inches of chubby boner against his belly and lick and suck his nuts which gets him grunting and moving so much it's a challenge staying in contact with his private parts. Then, as I lick under his scrotum, a long drool of precum runs down my fingers, and I stop. The two minutes fifty-dollar oral sex part of the date is over because I don't want him blowing his load. Well, I'd like it, but I don't want to hang around here for another half an hour while he reloads for the fuck. I've got phone calls to make.

Paul's gasping, squeezing his cock, then asking, "How should I, um, I mean, how do you want me to do it?" See, he's never going to be a successful pussy boy. Clients will bitch to Richard about him, and Paul will end up being humiliated and devastated. Then what would he do?

I shrug, "How about if I lean over and hold onto the bureau?" He nods, gets a condom out of the top bureau drawer, and mumbles, "The other client I had was a dominant top, a 'D' type, and I hated it. It's excruciating;y painful for me to be a bottom. Something is wrong with my rectum. That's what Gene always said. It's my fault." How the hell he struggled through the training, getting fucked three and four times a day, I can even imagine. I don't want to even think about it, actually.

As he rolls the condom on, I ask, "Any other clients yet?" He shakes his head, "Nope, but thanks for asking for me again." I'm like, "Sure, but mostly I want to help you get out of this life." He says, "I never thought I had a choice, and I wouldn't have if not for you." I go, "It'll work out better than you can imagine, Paul. A couple of days is all I need." He looks nervous, or maybe he looks doubtful. He'll soon see.

Then, his fucking ability is again, ah, questionable. Same as yesterday, a very questionable stop-and-go technique. After only a minute, his big hands gripping my shoulders, him making lots of grunting and moaning sounds, he's already pressed against my buttocks, blowing his load into the condom. Thirty seconds of his heavy breathing and, amazingly still with a boner, he continues his abrupt stop-and-go fucking that eventually gets the job done. It takes a while and is disconcertingly missing any rhythm at all, but his back and forth moving chubby, hard boner in my rectum manages to stimulate the nerve endings in there enough to bring on my climax that hesitantly arrives on the scene, probably asking, what the fuck? Still, it finally blows. All climaxes feel good, although this one was not especially memorable.

Of course, I tell Paul it felt great, and after we clean up in his tiny bathroom, he says, "We have thirty minutes left in our date. Do you want to lie in bed and talk as we did yesterday? Or we can sit at the table and have sodas or coffee." What I want is to get the hell out of here, but I don't want to hurt his feelings, so I sit at the table while he makes instant coffee in a microwave so small I didn't know they made them that little.

The coffee is lukewarm. All he wants to hear about is this mystery job I'm going to get for him, which is completely understandable. I have no idea what it will be, however, so that causes some confusion in Paul, which is also understandable. I try explaining that the specific job will be determined by someone else. Someone very important to me who I have a great deal of confidence in. I try enumerating the different companies within the corporation, saying, "Within there someplace are several jobs you'll be able to do. Plus, don't think you'll be on your own because there will be someone, your supervisor, who will explain exactly what and how you do the job."

Paul keeps nodding his head, and every five minutes, saying, "I can't believe this is happening." Okay, so he doubts his good fortune; that's another understandable reaction. Finally, I say, "You won't have long to wait, Paul. You'll believe it soon enough, but for now, I need to get going. This was a good date, dude. Thanks." We stand, and he goes, "Omigod, I thank you, Zach. I'm so nervous my teeth are chattering but so excited and grateful I don't know what to say."

He comes with me to the car again and taps the hood, saying, "You're rich, huh? I go, "My father is rich. I'm well off, but I'm also going to be working in one of the companies I told you about. Maybe the same one you're at." He goes, "I hope so. We'll be friends." I pat his shoulder, "We already are, which reminds me. I need your phone number." He tells me, and I put it into my phone, then say, "I'll be in touch. Probably tomorrow."

He's nodding, then waves as I pull away. Okay, although he desperately wants to, he doesn't believe me, and who can blame him? I'm not going to let him down, though. I need another good deed to make me feel better, and who needs a good deed happening to him more than Paul?

At the beach, I park, then rent a beach chair and umbrella from the older grumpy man. He mutters under his breath as he digs the umbrella into the sand. Yes, I miss Markie. Hmm, I want to give this personality-challenged guy a five-dollar tip, but the smallest bill I have is a ten, so I give him that. He looks surprised, then goes, "Oh, thank you very much!" I say, "No problem, have a nice day," and then grin to myself because Markie never said thank you until I'd been over-tipping him for two months.

Positioning the beach chair under the umbrella, I sit on it, fingering the dog tags Markie gave me while trying to organize what I want to say to Mac. Most people have no issue talking to their father, but Mac and I have always been awkward with one another. When I was a kid, he was seldom home as he traveled the world, opening new offices in various world capitals keeping up with the ever-emerging world economy. Then, when he was home, I'd likely be at boarding school somewhere. We're almost strangers, or, I suppose, casual acquaintances is a more accurate description of our relationship.

Tapping the phone on my leg, frustrated that I'm hesitating, out loud I exclaim, "Ahhh!" and hit his preprogrammed cell phone number and listen to it ring. Mac answers by saying my name as a question, "Zachary?" I say, "Hi, Mac, how are you?" He asks, "What happened, Son?" I'm like, "Nothing happened. I'm fine." He asks, "Where are you? That money-grabbing family lawyer of ours texted me a month ago that you were in town seeing about your trust fund." I go, "Uh-huh," and I'm about to tell a lie about why I didn't drive ten more minutes to see him, but Mac is saying, "I'm sorry that I was out of town when you were there. It would have been nice seeing you. I expect you're having a tough go of it after, um, that tragedy with Ron."

Oh, he was out of town. Skipping over that, I go, "I'm okay, Dad. Ah, I'm calling now because I'd like to visit with you. Is it okay if I pop in some time tomorrow?" He goes, "Unless you're in Belgium, that's unlikely. I'm in a hotel room in Brussels." I'm like, "Brussels?" He goes, "Yes, I got bored sitting on my ass, so your Godfather and I got together and mapped out the ten biggest problem spots in the organization, and I'm out here kicking ass and taking names, so to speak."

Shocking myself, I go, "You know I'm gay, right, Mac?" He goes, "Yes, of course, I do. Are you sick with that illness that gay..." I'm like, "No! I just, um, that has nothing to do with anything. I don't know why I even mentioned it. Um, that is, I'm not going to law school, so..." He says, "Yes, I knew that too. What can I do for you, Zachary?" That's dear old dad, get to the fucking point already! I say, "I'd like a job in the corporation. That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

After a two-second pause, which seemed much longer, Mac says, "I was hoping you would want that, but with Ron getting, um, well, Jo-Jo and I wanted to give you time, Son." I'm like, "Thank you, I needed to reevaluate some things, and, well, now I want to do something constructive." He says, "That's good to hear. Listen, it's almost six o'clock here, and I need to meet some gentlemen for cocktails. I'm going to text Jo-Jo right now, telling him that you'll be calling. He's been holding open a two-person job we planned to offer to you and Ronny, it's, well, um, call Jo-Jo, and he'll explain, okay?" "Yeah, sure, Mac, and thanks. Good luck with, ah, your mission there doing, um, whatever it is you're doing." He chuckles, "Thank you, Zach, but I don't need luck. These bozos I'm dealing with are the ones who are depending on luck to keep their jobs. Call Jo-Jo in an hour, alright?" "Yes, definitely, and thanks again. I look forwards to seeing you, um, some time." He says, "Me too, Zachary; I've got to go now, though. Nice talking with you." Click!

I look at my phone, then nod my head. Huh, they already had a job planned for us. For Ronny and me. Thinking about poor Ronny, and my eyes start watering. Wiping my eyes, I put the phone in the side pocket of my swimsuit and stare out at the immense Atlantic Ocean, thinking about him some more. I haven't done much of that this summer, and I feel guilty. Tears run down my face, and I let them run until they eventually drip off both sides of my chin. He didn't do right by me; Ronny didn't. I've realized that over the summer, but he was simply being Ronny. It was me who saw him as I wished him to be. He didn't deserve to die for that, though. He didn't deserve to die at all!

The tears dried on my face as I numbly stared at nothing, wondering how different my life would be if that homeless asshole hadn't found a gun someplace or if he had stopped to rob someone at an ATM or if we had arrived two minutes earlier or two minutes later. Poor Ronny.

To clear my head, I take a swim, the lifeguard blowing his whistle and waving at me like a crazy man. What the hell? He's just doing his job. As I swim away from the lifeguard's heroics, it hits me that I was surprised to learn Mac and Jo-Jo already had plans for a two-person job involving Ronny and me. That shouldn't have surprised me. They're planners; they plan ahead. They knew I wasn't going to law school, and they knew Ronny wasn't going to do the playboy thing that I'd have been happy to continue doing with him, if that's what he wanted to do. They knew I'd do whatever Ronny did, and they knew he would have wanted to do this job. They had it all figured out, um, except for the madman who killed Ronny. And it's been very considerate that neither Mac nor Jo-Jo has mentioned a job for me until I finish a mourning period.

None of us figured I'd get over it so quickly, and I wouldn't have if I hadn't met Bruce. After that, slowly but surely, the fantasy I clung to about Ronny began crumbling as I discovered things about myself and reevaluated Ronny's and my relationship, seeing it clearly for the first time. And this isn't me dumping on Ronny; it was all my doing. It was my misguided thinking that I was a super-cool bad-ass like him. He was simply himself, outgoing, brilliant, self-centered, and manipulative.

Yeah, and I've got to stop beating myself up about everything. And why aren't I focusing on the important part, meaning it's still a two-person job they have in mind. That's 'effing perfect for Bruce and me! The importance of that should have immediately stood out like a supernova, but I'm only now getting around to it. Well, Mac has always made me feel like a little kid during our infrequent heart-to-heart talks. He was condescending to me today, too, now that I think about it, but so what? I've already got what I wanted, a two-person job working with Bruce!

And holy shit, that's so fantastic! I don't know what the job is, but I couldn't care less about the position as long as Bruce and I are doing it together. And getting something for this Paul kid will be like taking candy from a baby. As I've said before, Jo-Jo, Uncle Jo-Jo, will do anything for me. Omigod, everything this seemed so complicated a month ago, and now everything is falling in my lap. Yeah, but when something seems too good to be true, often it isn't true. That's probably what Paul is thinking too. Negative thinking on both our parts, so I'm going to think positively.

There's the Mobil sigh on land, so I begin swimming back in a state of euphoria about the job situation. Now I'm anxious to talk with Uncle Jo-Jo. He's no relative of mine, by the way, but I've called him uncle from when I learned how to talk. Mac and Jo-Jo have been best friends since business school. Oh, hell, I can't wait to tell Bruce everything!

Wading out of the ocean at the lifeguard stand, invigorated and thrilled at how everything is working out, I realize I'm horny. Fuck!

Yeah, all this good news, the way everything is falling in place, and here I am thinking about sex? That's so sick. My date with Paul, well, it's been two dates in a row with him, Saturday and now today; two days of inexperienced and lackluster sex doesn't cut it, apparently. Walking up the beach to my chair and umbrella, I know what I'll do. As soon as Bruce gets off work, we'll celebrate this good news by immediately going to the apartment and having ourselves some hot sex with both of us horny as hell. I can hold out for three hours to do that.

As bad as the sex was this morning, I did have an orgasm, but it's worn off by now. Monday, I'll need to arrange for a better morning sex partner. Just a regular old fashion screwing, and thanks, pal, then I'm on my way. Hmm, maybe I'll try a different escort service. Sitting down, I shake my head, saying out loud, "Focus on what you need to do right NOW!" A lady lying on a beach blanket lifts her head to see who said that. I smile at her, and she lies back down to mind her own business. Yes, I need to stop talking out loud to myself.

Getting my cell phone from where I wrapped it in a towel, I hit Jo-Jo's cell phone number and got his voicemail. Shit! I leave a message with my cell phone number even though he already has my number. Hmm, I'm hungry but don't want to eat in the cafe because I'd blurt something out about our job prospects when I really don't know what it is. I want to have details to share with Bruce. Damn, I'm excited about this, thrilled too. I'm not a lazy person; it was more like I had no idea what I wanted to do. I was even considering re-upping with the Seals. That would have been a mistake. Now I know what I want to do; I want to work with Bruce.

As I decide it'll be another pizza lunch for me, my phone rings and it's Jo-Jo. I answer, "Hi, Uncle Jo-Jo, how are you?" In his always cheerful big-voice manner, he goes, "I'm good, kid, how about you?" I'm like, "I'm excited. Mac. Um, dad told me about the job opening you've been saving for me and, um, well, I'm very curious about what it is?" He says, "It's a job that won't probably ever happen if you don't want to do it, but I didn't want to bother you with it until, well, you know. Jesus, Zach, I'm still shocked about what happened to Ron. I know how much he meant to you. Are you okay?" I tell him, "Yes, I am. I'll never forget Ronny, ever, but I've made a great friend this summer who has helped me move on with my life. I met him in Atlantic City, and I'm happy, Uncle Jo-Jo."

Christ, I choked up a little thinking again about Ronny being dead. It still hurts to discuss it. He says, "Yes, your dad said you sounded pretty good. Let me ask you something: is this good friend of yours the kind of good friend you could work and travel with you for at least a year?" I say, "Yep, he's that kind of good friend." Jo-Jo says, "That's wonderful, Zahary, simply wonderful. I'm happy for you." I mumble, "Thank you," and he goes, "When could I talk with both of you, you know, here in New York?" I'm like, "Would the middle of September be alright? Bruce has a job and needs to finish it." He goes, "That works great for me. O'll need the time for Phil to arrange some things here." I go, "Can you give me an idea what we'd be doing?"

I hear another phone ringing, and he goes, "Just a second, Zach," then yells, "Phil, grab that Goddamn call," then to me, "You'll be doing confidential work, Zach. I need someone I can trust completely. If this got out, it would be a horrific morale problem throughout the corporation. I need you to investigate possible sexual harassment by our upper management people. Your dad is working on something else, but I need data on the growing number of sexual harassment complaints. It's impossible to sort out which ones are valid. There seems to be a culture developing where disgruntled employees, men, and women, are filing sexual harassment suits for the flimsiest of reasons. It's like they're throwing shit up against a wall to see what sticks. What have they got to lose, you know?" No, I don't know, but I don't say anything.

Jo-Jo continues, "You two would officially be doing a morale survey for all our offices both here in the US and abroad, but you'll really be delving into how pervasive sexual harassment is out there. The other thing is, you'll need to be constantly on the road for a year at least, so I can't use any of my married people from Human Resources. I wouldn't want to use any of them anyway because they know many upper-level managers, and that influences their thinking one way or another. You won't know anyone and can put fresh eyes on the situation. The biggest factor, though, is I know you'll never let it slip out what you and your friend are really out there doing, which is spying on my own management group. There's more to it than that, though, so I need to have a meeting with you and your special friend."

He sets a date for September twentieth at nine in the morning, adding, "I'll have Phylis set you guys up in our downtown hotel. And listen, not that you need it, haha, but the compensation is a hundred thousand a year for each of you. And, as I said, you'll be on the road for at least a year, and that can get old real quick, so to help in that regard, you'll be flying first class and staying in the best hotels with an unlimited expense account so you guys can take out the honchos from these offices. You know, share some Navy Seal bullshit, loosen them up and see what you can find out after getting them all liquored up," and he does his hardy laugh, that ends in a phlegmy cough, then, "Jesus, I need to stop smoking those Cuban cigars. Listen, Zach, I've got other problems that need looking into, but looked into unofficially, secretly after this sexual harassment assignment. Findings are just going to be between you and me and Mac without others knowing they're being looked into. You two will be my secret double-undercover trouble-shooting team."

That's enough information for me, but he adds, "What I need to do now is set up a month of indoctrination before you guys set out." See, he said, 'you guys. He never thought this new best friend of mine was a female; he knows better. He goes on, "I'll get some people in here who are professionals in this area of sexual harassment and give you guys some idea of what to look for and so forth. Psychiatrists as well as legal people, but we'll talk about that in person, okay?" I go, "Sure, absolutely. I can't wait to see you, Uncle Jo-Jo." He goes, "Me too, kid. You've phone call made my day and your dad's day as well."

I'm like, "Ah, there's one more matter I need to discuss with you. I need to ask for a favor." He says, "Sure, anything, Zach." I go, "There's this twenty-year-old kid I met here who has had a tough go of it, and I'm hoping you can give him a job." He laughs his big laugh, coughs, then goes, "Jesus Christ, you're still trying to save everyone. Your dad and I would laugh like crazy when you were a little guy bringing homeless people home with you. Omigod, there was this one guy we had a helluva time to get him to leave. Back in the day, huh?"

I force a chuckle, not remembering that at all, then Jo-Jo says, "What's this guy doing now?" I go, "Well, he was on the street but got himself a service-oriented job. Um, he's a high school graduate, and he needs a break, Uncle Jo-Jo." He asks, "Is he smart?" I go, "Ah, he's not a genius, I'm pretty sure of that." Jo-Jo laughs again, then says, "Listen, kid, I'll have Eric in Human Resources call you. I'll lay it out that whatever you need, he's, um, going to accommodate, alright? I'll see you next month, and, Zach, this makes me very happy." I thank him, and that's that.

Hot shit! I joked with Bruce a couple of weeks ago that we needed a job traveling the world together. Obviously, I never expected a job like that could exist, and I've got goosebumps all over me that it does. This is surreal, and then I think about Ronny again, which brings me down. Ronny would have been all over this job, loving the power of having all those unknown managers' and big shots' futures were in the palm of his hand. In other words, he'd be all over this job for all the wrong reasons.

Oh man, I'm shaking. This is fantastic. I can't wait to tell Bruce that he'll be making a hundred thousand a year. He can pay his own way with that salary!

Now I'm too wound up to eat lunch, so I take my cell phone with me and walk up the beach to the Mobile sign I usually swim to. I'm pinching myself to be sure this isn't a dream, smiling with each step I take. Then, while walking back, I get a call from Eric Rittenhouse in Human Resources. I remember meeting him at Ronny's funeral. He seemed like an okay guy, although there was something slightly phony about him, everything he said was overdone, but that's how Human Resource people tend to be, ya know?

Anyway, he outlines a job for Paul as a copy room clerk. I'm like, "Copy room, what's that, Eric?" He tells me something about the legal office and large legal briefs needing to be copied, plus Paul would be running errands and whatnot in New York City. I'm like, "What's that job pay?" Oh fuck, it's twelve dollars an hour. I go, "No, he needs to make twenty-five dollars an hour," Eric's irritated as he tells me it's the best job he can come up with. He goes, "I'm busy, Zach. I'll have one of my people email you a job application. Have him fill it out, include a picture of his driver's license and Social Security card, plus you can include a letter recommending this fellow, and we'll see if he's qualified to match up with the employment openings presently available. I've got to run now; nice speaking with you.

Oh, he's busy, huh? I say, "Hold on, Eric. That's one way we could proceed, but here's another way. To start with, New York will be too intimidating for him, so he needs something in Philadelphia. A position that pays twenty-five dollars an hour. When you arrange that with the HR guy or girl in Philly, call me back so I can tell Jo-Jo it's taken care of. Thanks a lot, Eric. I appreciate it."

He hesitates, then sarcastically says, "Yeah, right, I'll get right on that. You can't be serious, right?" I'm like, "I'm totally serious," and he forces a laugh, "You've got a lot to learn about the real world, Zachary, but thank you for your service in the Navy Seals. This is business, though, son." I go, "Eric, save your insincere thanks for my service as well as your pompous lecture about the real world, and check back with Jo-Jo." He goes, "Yeah, sure, I'll get right on that." Click! Gee, he hung up on me. Was it something I said? I guess I'm not going to be getting a Christmas card from Eric this year. Maybe Bruce and I will investigate his ass.

Losing my cool like that is exactly how Ronny would have handled it, so I'm not real proud of myself, but Eric was smugly condescending and needed a wake-up call. He'll go back to Jo-Jo now and find out he needs to do exactly what I said. Pompous ass.

That was disturbing, and it's taken the edge off my high, but he pissed me off. Christ, I could use a drink, so I put my sandals on and walk up to the bar a block from the beach and order a shot of Jim Beam and a Bud draft, taking my time drinking the beer. Well, I can't be a goodtime Charlie doing the job Jo-Jo needs me to do, so I may as well get used to being a hard-ass. Some people will take advantage of you if you let them, and I'm not going to be one of them. That attitude also fits nicely with my mission to get over this submissiveness I've groveled in having sex this summer. However, it does not mean I'm going back to boring pick-up sex as a top. Nope, I've got my lover boy, Bruce, to see that that isn't my fate.

Ordering another beer, I wonder if I'd even be interested in doing Jo-Jo's kind of dirty-tricks job pretending to be one thing while probing into another quite different thing. Well, hell, could I even do it without Bruce? Ronny would have been the organized, tough-ass member of our team, not me. No, without Bruce, I couldn't accept this job. I do have Bruce, though, so I'm good with it.

Leaving the bar after the second beer, I go back to my beach chair, again thinking about eating something. Christ, I'm jittery with excitement. Then I get a call. Hmm, I don't recognize the caller ID, but I go, "Hello," and it's someone named Jill House from the Philadelphia office who says, "Hello, Zach," and she goes on to tell me about the opening she has in the Philly office's mailroom handling snail mail and email traffic. It's normally a fourteen dollar an hour position, but since Bruce is highly experienced, she's authorized the administration manager to offer twenty dollars an hour.

I guess twenty dollars an hour is the best I can do for Paul, so I say, "If that's okay with Jo-Jo, I guess it's okay with me, but Paul isn't experienced at anything to do with the business world. I don't know where you got the idea that he was. You'll need to have someone train him and work with him as long as he needs it... he's a complete novice." She goes, "Why, that's, um, what do you mean?" I say, "Jill, think of this as a special case the CEO is having me coordinate as an offshoot of our affirmative action program." Jill goes, "Jo-Jo, is, um, you work directly for him? What position is it that you have?" I go, "I'm not at liberty to discuss that with you, Jill. You can ask Jo-Jo directly about it if you feel that's necessary. And I'll be checking up to evaluate Paul's progress monthly." She quickly says, "Oh, of course. I won't need to bother the CEO. I'll email the paperwork and the official offer if you give me your email address." We take care of the details, including Paul starting work a week from Monday, and that's that.

Jesus, what a monumental day! Obviously, it helps to be the grandson of the company's founder and the Godchild of the current CEO when you want to get something out of the ordinary accomplished, so I'm not taking much credit for it. This good deed has an asterisk, but it's still good.

For a late lunch, I have two hot dogs and a root beer float on the boardwalk. Goddamn, I'm so itchy to tell Bruce about our job; it's nuts how it's all working out so beautifully!

To be continued... donnymumford@outlook.net.

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