WAITING FOR A MIRACLE
By Donny Mumford
Chapter 13 More Mickey Miller
I'm feeling so energetic this Saturday morning I don't even wait to be told to cut the grass. That sucky job is a weekly chore, so, after a breakfast of coffee and toast, wearing a pair of old sneakers, I'm almost finished doing the grass cutting when my cell phone rings. Grinning to myself, I know it's Mickey calling 'cause he's the only person who calls me and, conveniently, he's who I want calling me.
Shutting off the lawnmower, I answer my phone, "Hi, Mickey!" He says, "Good morning, Mattie. What are you doing?" I tell him, and he says, "Oh, yuck! Dad has a lawn service, so I'm lucky I don't need to do that." I go, "Uh-huh," and he adds, "I Googled and found a good place to get our ears pierced. The question is, the right earlobe, or the left? And, also, what do you think about getting matching studs?"
Oh, shit. Hesitating for a couple of seconds, I go, "Um, just so you know; I'm nervous about this and not one-hundred percent sure I wanna do it." He mumbles, "Well, I'm not surprised you're nervous and unsure about doing it because you're nervous and unsure about everything." That's so true, heh heh.
Snickering, I say, "It's not nice to hurt your pussy-boy's feelings." He says, "Toughen-up! We're doing it, so what time are you picking me up?" I go, "I'll be there in about forty-five minutes. Um, how much will it cost, anyway?" He's like, "Not much; mostly the earring is where the cost adds up. For you, it could get expensive because you need a long gaudy dangling earring with rhinestones." We both laugh at that; then, not wanting to disappoint Mickey, I mutter, "Okay, yeah. Um, I'm almost finished cutting the grass. Then, I guess I should take a quick shower, and, um, when I'm at your house, I'll blow the horn to let you know I'm there." He can tell I'm not thrilled about the ear piercing, but he's getting his 'way' again, so it's all good as far as Mickey's concerned.
Oh, hell, I just needed a push because it is a cool thing having an earring. We end the call but, damn, my penis is hard. How'd that happen? I think it was hearing Mickey's voice that got me thinking subconsciously about him fucking me. Jesus, this is an achingly hard boner in my shorts, embarrassing. I need to wait for a few seconds before finishing the lawn. Wow, that was random!
After showering, I use extra deodorant, shave my skimpy beard, and spend too much time trying to comb my hair just right. Looking at myself in the mirror, I wish I had prescription sunglasses, or new eyeglasses, at least. No, I need contacts, or eye surgery would be better. Well, I look okay with glasses, for now. Well, heh-heh, I look kinda cute actually.
Hmm, I need to tell my parents I'm getting my ear pierced, tell them as a courtesy, not because I need permission. So, on my way out, I stop in the kitchen. Hmm, mom and dad are still sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. We're one of the last people on the street to have a newspaper delivered every day.
They both look up at me as I stand behind my chair at the table. Mom says, "Thanks for cutting the grass without dad needing to yell about it." I shrug, and she adds, "You smell nice, Matthew." I mumble, "Um, thanks. Ah, that is, um, I wanna tell you guys that I've decided to get my ear pierced." Dad says, "Well, that's a crazy and wild thing for you to do, Matt. Gee, what made you decide to do that?" Mom says, "Oh, Nick, lots of young people get their ear pierced. Our 'oldest' had his ear pierced when he was fifteen."
Not a bad reaction so far, not at all! Dad asks again, "What made you decide that now is the time to do that, Matt?" I go, "Well, dad, no special reason. My friend is doing it, and I thought, what the hell, I'll do it too." He goes, "The popular peer-pressure-excuse, eh?" I shrug again, and Mom says, "Oh, don't forget..." and I say, "I know. I'll be at Uncle Shaun's cookout tomorrow and, by the way, happy birthday, dad." He's like, "My birthday is next Monday, but thank you."
I'm still standing here because that ear-piercing conversation was too easy. I expected a small hassle at least, but I guess we're done talking about it. Mom gets up and pours for more coffee for herself, and dad's back to reading the paper, so I guess that's that. I pat the top of the chair I'm standing behind, and say, "Well, okay then," and walk out the kitchen door into the back yard, and then around to the driveway where my car is parked.
Dad's right. I'd never think to get my ear pierced on my own. Mickey peer-pressuring me into it. And, whatever my super-successful brother did when he was fifteen has little, to nothing, to do with me. We're so different. One of us must have been adopted.
Outside Mickey's house, I blow the horn, and he holds the front door open and waves at me as if he wants me to come inside. I wave at him to come outside, but guess who wins the waving contest? Mickey shouts, "C'mon in for a second, Burke." Oh, balls. Turning off the engine, I jog up to the front door, asking, "What's up?" Mickey says, "You look so nice and cute, this morning!" I grin at the compliment, and he says, "Um, come in, I want to introduce you to dad." I go, "Oh, jeez..." Mickey pulls on my arm, and inside I go.
The front door opens into a normal-looking living room that's slightly messy as if two males live here... haha. Mickey is reassuring me by patting my shoulder; he knows I'm nervous about meeting people, adults especially.
He's gently pushing me ahead of him, so I keep slowly walking through the living room, dining room, and into the kitchen where a man with a dark full-beard is putting dishes in the dishwasher. He stops and smiles at me, saying, "So, I get to meet the fabulous Burke." Mickey says, "His name is Matthew, um, Mattie, dad." His dad holds out his smallish hand, saying, "It's nice to meet you, Mattie." Shaking his hand, I mutter, "Likewise, Mr. Miller." He smiles, "You're as good-looking as Mickey said you were, and I'm glad you boys are, um, friends."
I shuffle my feet, and Mr. Miller goes, "So, you guys are getting your ears pierced, huh? I had mine pierced twenty years ago, but I lost the stud, and before I knew it, the piercing closed." He grins at that, so I think he expects me to laugh. I snort out a fake chuckle, and then there's an awkward silence until Mickey says, "Well, I wanted you to meet each other, and you have, so, we'll be going now, dad." Mr. Miller is the same stature as Mickey, meaning smallish. He's not bad looking for a man in his forties or fifties, though, so that's encouraging. When Mickey and I are in our forties or fifties, he'll be nice looking like his dad.
Holy shit, what a strange thought that last one was!
Mr. Miller waves his hand slightly, and Mickey puts his hand on the back of my neck to get me moving. He guides me out of the kitchen, saying, "See ya later, dad." His dad chuckles and says, "Have fun, boys." If he came right out and said 'have fun you two homos,' it wouldn't have surprised me. I mean, Mr. Miller couldn't have made it more obvious that he knows Mickey and I are gay, and he seems fine with that. Yeah, well, why wouldn't he be fine with that? Everyone should be; it's our lives to live.
Mickey guides me through the house and out the front door where he takes his hand from the back of my neck, pats my ass, and says, "Good, we got that out of the way." It's clear to me that Mickey and I moving into a more serious, for-real relationship. Not some puppy-love buddies or infatuation thing, we're in a possibly loving relationship for real, and this is only the beginning. It's also obvious that Mickey is our leader. He'll keep guiding us into the, um, future.
At the car, he mumbles, "Doncha think that went pretty well?" I go, "Sure, but I'm glad it's over. Um, where are we getting the ears piercing done?" We get in the car, and Mickey checks a piece of paper, mumbling, "I wrote it down. It's Smith's Tattoo and Piercing Parlor on seventy-third street, um, in Philly. That place is approved by the Association of Professional Piercers. I read a warning online NOT to get pierced in some random kiosk in the mall. The people there are inexperienced clerks using piercing guns that's blunt force a hole in your ear. This tattoo parlor uses sharp, hollow, sterilized needles."
Driving away from the curb, I go, "Really? I guess I'll take your word for all that. Ah, did it mention online anything about how much it hurts? I'm not a pussy about pain; I'm just wondering what to expect." He goes, "I know you can take the pain, Burke. You can take it a lot better than I can. As for ear piercing pain, it's like getting a flu shot or a shot of Novocain at the dentist." I mutter, "That bad, huh?"
The tattoo shop is surprisingly fresh and clean-looking. The opposite of what I imagined a tattoo parlor would look like. The man, the tattoo artist in the shop, is heavily tattooed, which I assumed a man doing tattooing would be, but he's an unexpectedly pleasant guy. On the other hand, his two front teeth are missing, and he's wearing a funny straw hat. He also speaks with a foreign accent that sounds Russian.
I'm looking around, standing just inside the door as Mickey takes charge of the situation, saying, "Hi, I called an hour or so ago, and..." The man says, "You and your friend want your ears pierced, correct?" We both nod, and the man gesture at a chair that looks like a barber chair. Mickey and I look at each other, and then he says, "Sure, I'll go first."
The man is getting a sterilized needle from a plastic package, asking, "Which ear, my friend?" Mickey says, "Does it make a difference?" Shrugging, the man says, "Well, I suppose it was sort of a big deal years ago. Getting the right ear pierced used to mean you're gay. Are you?" Mickey says, "Yes," and the man mumbles, "So, okay, I'll pierce the right ear, but nowadays it's not, how you say, as big a deal which ear is pierced, eh?" I go, "Um, wait, Mickey. Use your head, bro. Let's have our left ear pierced. Why do we want to draw attention to ourselves?" Mickey mumbles, "Yeah, okay," and he looks at the man and says, "The left ear, please." Mickey pretends it doesn't hurt much, but I saw a big vein in his neck bulge as he held his breath, and his face got red when the needle went through his ear lobe.
And, yeah, it hurt having a hollow needle pushed through my earlobe too, but only for a minute. The bleeding stops after some pressure on the new hole in my ear. After looking at the choices for earrings, we chose similar studs but not matching ones. I chose a black plated stainless steel stud that the guy put in my ear for me. Mickey got a plain sterling silver stud. The man only charged us $30,00 each, so I kinda doubt Mickey's earring is real 'sterling' silver.
Outside we're smiling and admiring each other's earring. I go, "These look cool, but my ear is sore as a...," and we say at the same time, "A motherfucker," and laugh, then pat each other's back. Christ, it's awesome that I have a 'real' best friend now. Almost as awesome as having a fuck-buddy. We're giddy driving away, giddy that we did this.
Mickey says, "We're getting 'cooler' every day, Burke!" I go, "Pretty soon, we'll be a cool as Jello," and he goes, "Let's not get ahead to fucking far of ourselves, bro." We snicker again. Goddamn, this is fun, the kind of fun I've been missing until I met Mickey. Well, I guess he can say the same about me. That's what makes it special; we're equal in our quest to reach the level of 'cool' everyone else is at. Secretly, I think Mickey and I have already passed quite a few of our peers in 'coolness.'
Mickey says, "We're not far from dad's office. Wanna see where I work?" I mumble, "Sure," and he directs me there. After a five-minute drive, Mickey says, "Park there, Burke, in that garage. Dad's offices are in that building across the street." I pull into a parking garage, take a ticket from the machine and park on the third level. We leave the garage and cross the street as MIckey says, "Dad usually works Saturday mornings, but he took today off." The office is on the third floor so upstairs we go. He unlocks the door, and we go into a smallish two-room office cluttered with papers and folders and bookshelves full of books on all the walls.
Mickey sees me looking around and mumbles, "They're law books and case studies, lawyer shit." He points at an old desk in the outer office, saying, "This is where I work." Nodding, I ask, "What do you do?" He shrugs, "Normal shit like answering the phone, dealing with walk-ins and, mostly, answering email inquiries. Dad's usually in court during the mornings, which is why he needs me here. When I'm in school, he hires temps, but they're expensive, and I'm not."
Huh, I wonder what his dad pays him, but I don't ask. I'm like, "Is it boring work? My job is very boring." He shrugs, "Sometimes," and he goes to the window and smiles, then points across the street, saying, "That's my dance studio over there." Standing next to him, I go, "Oh, yeah, I see girls milling around wearing tights in that window across from us!"
He turns away, saying, "Before I met you, I'd dance on Saturdays like two times a month. I'm not enrolled in that class, but Ms. Foster lets me join in. It's all ballet on Saturdays, my favorite. We only do a half-hour of ballet during my Wednesday class. The rest of the time we do modern dance and other fun things." Fun?
I can tell he'd like to join the class, so I say, "Um, well, I planned on sneaking to watch you some time, so why don't you join the class and I'll watch today." He asks, "Really? You don't mind?" Shaking my head, I go, "No, let's go over there, and I'll watch you do a, um, whatever you do. I mean, if that's alright with the teacher." He goes, "This is very considerate and nice of you, Burke! Ms. Foster won't mind. C'mon," and I follow him as he locks the door behind us, then we hurry down two flights of stairs.
Frankly, I thought the reason Mickey took me to his dad's office is so we could fuck. I'd rather do that than watch a dance class, but the excitement I saw in Mickey; well, I'm glad I suggested he do the dance class. Seeing him excited like that, it's a thrill to be part of his excitement. We cross the street and walk up two flights of steps in the building on the other side of the street. It wasn't easy keeping pace with Mickey getting here.
As soon as he steps into the dance-class room, a couple of the girls squeal, "Here's Michael. Join us, Michael!" The girls make a fuss over Mickey's earring and him, in general. He's like the class's pet or something. The lady, Ms. Foster, is very slim and very old, although she moves as if it required no effort. The girls, seven of them, are wearing what I'd expect ballet girls to wear, although I don't think 'tights' is the right name for what they're wearing. I'm wondering what Mickey will wear. And, no, I'm not going to laugh or do anything to embarrass him.
I'm slinking against the wall as Ms. Foster says to Mickey, "Hurry, Michael, we're just about to warm up." He nods, mumbling, "I'll only be a minute," and he goes through a door to change clothes. One of the girls, one who could be a poster-girl for ballet, asks me, "Are you Mickael's boyfriend?" I say, "Oh, um, what was that?" She says, "He bragged about you during last Wednesday's class. Um, I think you're name is Michael like his, right?" I mutter, "No, it's Matthew, um, Matthew Burke." A girl doing a strange stretching exercise, says, "You're just as cute as he said you were." Ms. Foster says, "Don't embarrass him, Sheila!"
It's only two minutes later that Mickey's back. He's wearing a wife-beater t-shirt and stretchy shorts to his knees, and black slippers. I guess they're ballet, um, shoes. They're the same as the girls' slippers except the girls' are white. Mickey won't look at me, but if he did, I was going to nod encouragingly at him. So, he should have looked.
He takes a spot on a bar-thing and does what the girls do, which are some sort of warm-up exercises that Ms. Foster calls out in, I think, French. They make odd warm-up moves, some of them deep-knee bends performed oddly and slowly and, well, I don't know what to call their moves. When they're warmed-up sufficiently, Ms. Foster turns on piano music, and the dancers continue doing things, the same things at the same time, synchronized, I guess you could say. I'm noticing muscles on Mickey I hadn't noticed before, especially calf muscles. Holy shit, it's almost grotesque. The girl calf muscles are big too but not as gross-looking.
I watch them, um, make dance moves but not dancing. I don't think it's dancing anyway. They do it for twenty-minutes before taking a break. Mickey's sweating, but the girls apparently don't mind as three of the girls gather around Mickey touching him and talking, and I hear my name mentioned. Mickey looks quite pleased with himself. I'm sitting on the floor with my legs crossed, fascinated by the entire pageant, although I don't need to see anymore. I mean, after seeing this, I'm not thinking I want to see a ballet. Quite the opposite, although I'd go with MIckey if he wanted to go. I have no intention of saying anything negative to Mickey, but ballet isn't my thing, not that I ever thought ballet would be my thing.
The fact Mickey did not come over to me during the break I thought was smart of him. He did the right thing commiserating with the other dancers, not that he had much choice; he appears to be a favorite of the girls. He's shorter than all the girls by two or three inches but looked as graceful as they did. Then, that changes after the break when the second series of movements Ms. Foster is calling out are, I guess, advanced dance moves that Mickey doesn't do as well as the girls. All the moves or whatever they're called seem difficult to do, and then they hold a position like they're frozen in place, which also looks hard to do.
It's like a sophisticated square-dance in that with square dancing, there's the guy calling out do-si-do like Ms. Foster is calling out words in French, and the class moves together doing whatever her words mean. I've never been square dancing, and I hope I can say the same when I'm seventy-five, and now I may as well add ballet to that wish, although, as I said, if Mickey asked me to go with him, I would.
It's over in less than an hour, but then they need to clean up and change clothes, so it's another ten minutes before we're going down the two flights of stairs with Mickey thanking me too much for agreeing to sit through his ballet class. I'm like, "Please, stop, Mickey. I enjoyed watching you and think you're very talented." He snickers and says, "That's so nice of you to say, but you'd have a different opinion of my talent at ballet if you knew more about it."
We're crossing the street as I mumble, "That's a valid point, although whether you're talented or not, you've impressed the hell out of me." With his arm around my waist, he says, "I love you so much!" He said that in that funny sort of way, he has, which doesn't make it awkward. I go, "Me too." The parking garage has the balls to charge us $25.00 for less than two hours of parking! Mickey paid twenty dollars of it, mumbling, "That's all I have on me."
I add five dollars and pay the attendant at the garage's exit; then I drive us to a McDonalds on 68th street to treat Mickey to a big mac and fries, plus a soda. We're at a table that's next to a table where there are a husband and wife and their daughter, who is about three-years-old. The little girl is an annoying brat, but Mickey tries to get her to laugh by putting a skinny French fry in each of his nostrils. The little girl stops banging her sippy cup on the table and screams a piercing scream at the top of her lungs, pointing at Mickey. The little girl's mother says to Mickey, "Act your age, for God's sake." So that was charming.
Driving away from McDonald's, I ask, "What should we do now?" Mickey goes, "Why don't we look up some of the guys and let them get all their earring-insults out of their system." I gently touch my ear, mumbling, "It's wicked sore. Yeah, okay, let's do that." At the bowling alley, we don't find anyone we know, and then we find the same result when I drive to Kent Park. We try the reservoir, and there we find Dean, Jello, Charlie, and Artie. Surprisingly, Mark Baker is there too with someone I don't know. Luckily Mark's hideous cousin, Terrence, is not here.
The guy with Mark is a nice looking guy, although too masculine for my taste. They're in a serious conversation, so Mark doesn't notice Mickey and me, but Jello spots our new earrings immediately. He goes, "Hey, are you two queer now? You're always together, and now you've got matching earrings." Dean goes, 'Earring? Omigod, Matt, you got your ear pierced!" I go, "Yeah, I know," and Jello goes, "You two cannot be my disciples if you're queer."
Mickey says, "Well, Jello, that's disappointing. I guess Burke and I are gonna need to live with that somehow." Goddamn, he should have said 'bullshit' to us being queer, not that other shit he said! Dean's pulling on my arm, asking, "Are you queer?" I make a 'face' at him, muttering, "Get real! Mickey's breaking balls, that's all." Artie comes up close to me and stares at my earring, saying, "That's wicked cool, Mattie. How much did it cost? Did it hurt?" I tell him about it as I'm glancing at Mark, who is still talking with the unknown guy.
We settle down, and Charlie pours us cups of lemonade spiked with vodka. I hardly taste the vodka. No one has any drugs, but a few of the guys are smoking cigarettes, so I get upwind of them. I hate the smell of cigarette smoke; plus, ya know, secondhand-smoke isn't good for anyone. Dean's bugging me to tell him every detail about getting my ear pierced, so I'm telling him. Mickey and Jello are behind Dean, laughing about something. Jello's sort of wrestling with Mickey, just goofing around. They're friends, sort of. Jello likes to joke around telling the guys that Mickey, and I, admire him unabashedly.
Dean's like, "Well, fuck, bro, I think that damn earring looks good. I'm gonna do it too." Then, when he goes off to pee on a tree, I'm getting more lemonade when Mark hits my shoulder and says, "Hey, Mattie," and he hugs me. It's a quick guy-hug as I say, "Hi Mark. What do you think of my earring?" He goes, "Fuckin' cool! Hey, let me introduce you to my main man," and he motions at the guy he's been talking with.
His 'main man' is big, and he has what's called a sleeve of tattoos on his left arm. It's ugly. The guy looks older than us, maybe he's twenty-three or so, but he's handsome in the way women think guys are handsome. He's not cute, though. There's a big difference between cute and handsome. I prefer cute.
Mark says, "This big galoot is why I haven't called you. Say hello to Dirk Knight." The big galoot and I bump fist, muttering, "How ya doing?" Mark looks pleased with the galoot, as he asks me, "Anyway, how have you been, Matt?" I shrug, "You know, I'm hangin' in there, Markie. Oh, here comes my boyfriend. You know Mickey Miller, right?"
He goes, "Miller? Oh, do you mean that little dork, who..." and he sees Mickey walking directly to where we're standing, so Mark mutters, "Oh, er, he's your boyfriend, huh?" Mickey's hair is messed up from goofing around with Jello, but I think Mickey looks hot. He's smiling again, which is his semi-cute-look, saying, "Hi, Baker. Yeah, Burke and I are friends, and we're boys, so... boyfriends, haha." I chuckle, and Mark says, "Jesus, well, good for you guys, I guess."
Mark looks wicked cute, of course. Yeah, that big galoot is lucky. I'll always think fondly of Mark even though he dumped me. I mean, he was the one who got me started, introduced me to gay sex. He's a nice guy. He nods in the direction of the reservoir, saying, "You guys should swim. The water is cool but not freezing. Anyway, nice seeing you again, Mattie. We're gonna bounce now. See you around, buddy." We bump fists as I mutter, "Good to see you, Mark, and nice meeting you, Bert."
Mark looked as though he wasn't sure if Mickey and I were putting him on about the 'boyfriend' thing. He also doesn't appear to care one way or the other. After watching Mark and his galoot walk down the slope, Mickey mumbles, "That was a random visit. He doesn't hang out with us Clifton Heights riffraff very often." I nod, mumbling, "He's a good guy, actually. Let's give them time to drive off, and then we'll leave. I don't wanna swim."
To kill some time, Mickey and I stand at the ledge, twenty feet above the reservoir. This is where he asked for my phone number that now seems like a lifetime ago. Mickey looks at the sky and says, "Good thing we don't wanna swim today, it looks like rain." I ask, "Should we leave now?" He nods, and we start walking to our car, and I sort of whine, "Jesus, after today, everyone is going to know we're gay. I mean earlier when Jello said..." Mickey says, "Chill, Burke! Those guys aren't sure of anything, but mostly, they don't care."
Jeez, he's right. I'm not important enough, and neither is Mickey. Not important enough that our so-called friends would take notice if MIckey and I are boyfriends or not. And, Mark didn't think Mickey was boyfriend 'material.' That's how much he knows. Anyway, I think Mickey was right; all the guys probably thought we were screwing around and breaking balls about being boyfriends.
And when I come right down to it, well, Dean is the only one I care about anyway, not that he appeared all that concerned either. He asked if I was gay, and I say, 'get real,' and that's all the interest he had in it. Fuck, I've always been peripheral, a guy who is around but not important. Well, I'm important to Mickey, and that'll be my focus. This was nothing new today, although it doesn't make me feel too good.
In the car, Mickey is combing his hair and chuckling, saying, "Fucking Jello is gonna be breaking our balls forever saying we're queer boyfriends, Burke." I'm like, "Goddammit, I thought you said they'll think we were joking. And, why didn't you tell him we're not when you guys were messin' around?" He goes, "Oh, Christ, I'm kidding you again. I already told you he doesn't think we are, but he'll bust our balls about it anyway." I'm frowning, "So, you're saying he dismissed the idea of us being gay, but he's going to joke about it whenever he sees us?" Mickey puts his comb away and says, "Who the hell knows what Jello will do next?" That's a good point.
As I drive away from the reservoir, Mickey goes, "Look how dark it's getting." I nod, mumbling, "Summer storm, for sure," and it starts raining cats and dogs five minutes later. It's raining so hard I can't see. The windshield wipers aren't cutting it, so I stop the car at an underpass. Mickey mutters, "This won't last long." After two minutes, he says, "You can't imagine how much I want to fuck you, Burke. My balls hurt, I wanna do it so badly."
I feel the need to touch him, so I reach over and run my fingers through his silky white/blond hair and murmur, "Me too. You're our leader, so where can we do it?" He peeks over at me, grinning and saying, "How about my bedroom?" I'm like, "Your dad wouldn't mind?" He laughs, "Don't be stupid. Dad's not home. He took his girlfriend to Delaware to buy vodka and a couple of cases of wine, and then they're eating dinner out. That's why he didn't work this morning. I'm on my own until late tonight." Omigod, I get this sense of euphoria! It's so strong it's scary. I've got it so bad for Mickie; it's sick.
He's still snickering as he says, "I kept this little surprise so I could see that exact expression on your face." I go, "Well, you make me crazy with desire. I can't even be cool about it anymore. Um, I wanna suck your dick first, though. Is that okay?" He mumbles, "No, it's not. I'm afraid I need to fuck your brains out first, then when we recover, I'll let you wash my dick, and then you can suck me off. We have like seven hours before dad will get home with his girlfriend, so we'll be able to fit in everything you wanna do."
I'm squeezing my pecker like a six-year-old who needs to pee, as I say, "Okay, you're the boss, but," and I undo my seat belt to lean over, murmuring, "I need to kiss you now." He puts a hand behind my head, and we have a great make-out for a minute, hidden behind the pouring rain that so heavy it's like a curtain around us.
When I pull back, I mumble, "Oh, I'm gonna cum," and I make a 'face' as I'm concentrating on not shooting off in my pants. Mickey's looking at me and smirking. I go, "Whoa, that was close. Oh, man, you turn me on, Mickey." He nods his head, "Yeah, I guess so, but didn't you tell me you came in your pants once while making out with Mark?" I go, "We were naked, and it was my very first time kissing a guy. Anyway, to me, you're twice as sexy-hot as he was."
Mickey nods his head, "Thanks, I'm glad you feel that way even if no one else does. Look, the rain has let up a lot." I nod and drive back onto the road, and we don't talk until we're at Mickey's house. Inside, he says, "Do you want a drink of liquor?" Shaking my head, I mutter, "Nah, no thanks." He goes, "Oh, fuck! Mattie, we don't have condoms here." I go, "That blows, but someone used Vaseline once, you know, as a lube." He snorts out a laugh, saying, "That was me, dummy," and I smirk, muttering, "Gotcha! I've improved my ball-busting technique. I'm getting better at it."
Mickey walks toward the kitchen, saying, "Yeah, you got me there! Good one, but I want to get a little high, so I'm going to drink some vodka." I catch up with him, and ask, "Are we gonna use Vaseline?" He goes, "Duh, yeah, but don't you think about anything other than getting me to fuck you?" I go, "What? You're the one who just said..." and I see him smirk, then mutter, "Got ya back. I'm fucking kidding you, Burke."
He gets a bottle of Absolut vodka from the pantry, saying, "Dad only drinks vodka and wine. So, we're gonna do shots of the vodka 'cause I don't like wine." I go, "First of all, I said I don't want any, and second of all, do you have any orange juice?" He says, "Yes, we can use a mixer with the vodka after we have a shot." Ooh, he's getting to be so fucking bossy. Funny, but so far, I don't mind that.
He gets two shot glasses from a cabinet over the kitchen counter and fills both with vodka. I've always been a 'follower,' so why stop now that I have a boyfriend to follow. Mumbling, "Oh, okay, I guess I'll drink it." I pick up the shot glass, tap the glass against MIckey's glass, and, looking into each other's eyes; we flash down the clear burning liquor. Ooh, bother, that sucked!
My eyes water as I'm making a face, shaking my head. Mickey takes my glasses off me and cleans them for me as he says, "Thanks for keeping me company with that delicious shot of vodka." After that shot, I can't speak, so I nod my head and, smiling at me, Mickey puts my glasses on my face, murmuring, "I'm gonna need to take care of you, I can see that." Oh, Christ, he worries more about my smeared eyeglasses than I do.
Wow, though, that is a sucky liquor, vodka is, especially for shots. Mickey must agree as he mixes us two screwdrivers in water glasses, putting in only a reasonable amount of vodka with the orange juice, so it's an okay cocktail with lots of ice cubes.
It's five o'clock, so, as I pick up my screwdriver, I ask, "Can I stay for dinner?" He goes, "Fantastic idea! I'll cook for you. I like to cook. I cook dinner for dad two or three nights a week." I ask, "What are we gonna have?" He says, "Hmm, I don't know yet, but you should call your mother." Nodding, I take my cell phone out and call mom. When I tell her I've been invited to have dinner at the Millers, she says, "You're missing Chinese. Dad's ordering out tonight." I go, "Damn, I love Chinese! I can't be rude and tell them, no." She says, "Be polite at dinner!" I mumble, "I'm always polite," and she ends the call without saying goodbye. Jesus, the one Saturday night a year that we do not have ham and cabbage, and I'm not gonna be there! Unbelievable!
Mickey says, "Bring your drink upstairs, and we'll hang out in my bedroom." I follow him upstairs, and we go into his messy bedroom. I ask, "Don't you ever pick up in here?" He says, "Every three or four weeks, that's when I'll do a total pick up and then clean my room from top to bottom. Hey, when we live together, it'll be your responsibility to do that."
The idea of living with him is so enticing, I say, "Okay, that'll be my job." He sits on his unmade bed and says, "I'll cook and you clean. I'll food shop, and you do our wash and ironing." I'm getting a boner as I snicker, quietly saying, "I'll do whatever you tell me to, MIckey," and I put my glass on his desk and put my arms around him pulling him with me as we roll out on the bed to lie among the crumpled sheets.
He gets my face between his hands and kisses me hard on the mouth. One ten-second kiss and, still holding my head between his hands, he seriously says, "Did you say you'll do what I tell you when we're living together? Were you serious?" I nod, "Uh-huh," and he kisses me hard again, our teeth scraping together. Then he gets his arms around my neck and hugs me, his face against the side of my head as he murmurs, "I love you so much." My cock is about to crack; it's so hard. All I can do is a quiet moan of arousal, "Ummm."
After laying silently a few seconds, Mickey hugging me tightly, he loosens his grip on me and sighs. I murmur, "Your sheets smell like you." He chuckles, mumbling, 'No, shit. Well, I haven't changed the sheets in like three weeks, haha, sorry about that." He runs his fingers through my hair, saying, "I wish you and I were the only two guys on a desert island with plenty of food, all kinds of stuff to drink, and we couldn't be rescued for a month, so I'd have you all to myself twenty-four-seven for four weeks." I'm like, "What would you do with me?" He goes, "I'd treat you like a prince." I nod my head, mumbling, "A prince who does the cleaning," and we both laugh and then hop up off the bed."
Picking up our drinks, Mickey taps his to mine and says, "Thanks for being my boyfriend, Burke." I smile, You too," and we drink some of our cocktails. It's not as tasty as the lemonade at the reservoir, but...
Mickey's slowing shaking his head and then mumbles, "Look at us, Matt. Two weeks ago, could you believe where we're at today? It would have seemed inconceivable back then. I wouldn't believe for a second you and I would be like this together. Burke, I'm discovering that life is fucking strange, don't you agree?" I go, "Yep, but wonderful of late. We're lucky, Mickey. Lots of lucky things happened perfectly for us to discover we're so good for each other. And, you've been right that maybe this is love after all. I couldn't let myself believe it until it's, um, seemingly obvious, ya know?"
He goes, "In a way, I wanna tell the world we're lovers, sexy lovers. Show all those guys all through school that we're cooler than them! They're not having sex; they're not in love, they're just one of the masses fantasying while you and I are living the fantasy." Picking up the comb off Mickey's bureau, I comb my hair, mumbling, "Ah, fuck them! But I wanna ask you something. Um, do you think I'm immature? That guy, Dennis Hover, said I act much younger than nineteen."
Mickey takes the comb from me and combs through his hair, saying, "No, not really. We're both naive, I suppose, but we're just experimenting and learning about our new lives as boyfriends, um, while having lots of sex. It's all new to us, and, yeah, I guess wanting to brag about that is a bit childish of me, but fuck it. And what do you care what Dennis said? He's nothing to us. We care what we say about one another."
Putting the comb down, he goes, "We didn't use to talk much, and now we talk too much. I'll get the Vaseline." Groping myself unconsciously, I murmur, "Oh, good," and follow him into the hall bathroom. He holds up a plastic container of Vaseline, and says, "This will have to do. It worked alright before, didn't it? I wouldn't want to hurt you." I shrug, "Yeah, it's okay." He grins at me: then, quick as a cat, he pulls my shorts down below my buttocks.
I just look at him, not moving. It was so fast, and just as quickly, his finger with a gob of Vaseline on it is in my ass. He reached around me, both of us standing in front of the toilet. When I don't object, he gets more Vaseline on his finger, saying, "Would you turn around and lean over. Grab onto the toilet seat." I do that, and since the seat is down, I'm not looking into the toilet water.
Mickey takes his time now, pushing a lot of the gooey, slippery Vaseline in my ass, my body heat turning it into almost a liquid state. I'm very excited. I still get very excited about Mickey fucking me. I'm anxiously sucking on my bottom lip. Turning, I see he's pulling down his shorts, then his underpants. It's still a surprise not seeing pubic hairs around the genitals of a teenage boy. I don't have any, either.
He's stroking his penis, spreading Vaseline on it as he strokes himself. I really like the way his penis looks. It's big between his skinny legs that have big calf muscles. After watching his ballet, now I notice his calf muscles, whereas I didn't before. His cock gets hard quickly, and, getting ready to be fucked, I turn my head around to look at the toilet tank and push my ass up.
It goes in hard and fast, all the way in, and as usual that hurts, but I expected that, and even though my back arches and I groan at the pain, I still loved it. I appreciate every part of Mickey fucking me, including the pain which soon is joined by its opposite sensation, pleasure.
He smacks my ass twice, "Smack, smack!" and starts humping his boner, his crotch hitting my buttocks, slap, slap, slap. Eash thrust moves me forward so that I'd bump my head into the toilet tank if I didn't keep my head up, which I'm smart enough to do. Mickey's gripping my hips pulling me into his thrusts, which I don't recall him doing before. A 'topping' technique learning-curve is coming into play, perhaps. It's not only that, though, Mickey's fucking feels more confidently done each time we do 'it,' especially this time.
In my head, I'm picturing the long hard nice-looking penis of Mickey's disappearing up my ass and immediately coming out only to disappear again faster than the blink of an eye. And because it's Mickey's cock, that adds to the sexiness. Mickey's special, and I like the way he does everything, especially this.
"Slap, slap, slap," sounds ring out louder than normal in the tile bathroom. His body smacking against mine is another hot and sexy feeling. He's being rough, grunting now at the effort of it all, me rocking to and fro. The pleasure sensations are thrilling, my ass bursting with pleasure, and my cock is now brick-hard. Sexual pleasure grows exponentially with each of Mickey's thrusts, his boner electrifies nerve endings around, and in my rectum; my prostate gland a pleasure-zone of some significance.
Sexual pleasure leads to the ignition of the 'climax' reflex, and when it comes alive, it does so with a vengeance. It's not interested in anything but blowing my semen toward a female egg for fertilization. The fact I'm not into that has no impact on the climax machine, it's simple-minded, and while it creates pleasure like nothing else can in human existence, I'd appreciate it holding off a bit, allowing me to continue enjoying Mickey's excellent fucking.
Yeah, back in my old life, my one objective for jerking off was to climax, but in my new life, the journey is so pleasurable I want the climax pleasure to wait a friggin' minute, please! But, as I just said, it doesn't care what I want, it has its own mission, so here it comes roaring up on me and, "Aaaahhh, oooh, fuck," cum blows out my brick-cock and splatters against the toilet tank at the same time Mickey's 'climax machine' has Mickey blowing his load up my ass. Jeez, I think I felt it hits off my bowels, holy shit! Oooh, God, mmmm, yeah, that was hot. I've got some of Mickey inside me again, like the first couple of times we did 'it.'
Mickey mutters, breathlessly, "We came at the same time," then he gasps another deep breath. Yeah, he does all the work. And, yeah, it's probably exhausting but rewarding work I'd imagine. I'd like to experience the workload myself, but we agreed we'd hold off trying him as the 'bottom boy' for two weeks or so.
Mickey pulls his cock from my ass, I go, "Aaahhh, ooh," and straighten up, murmuring, "Awesome, absolutely awesome, Mickey." He mutters, "You're awesome," and he takes another deep breath, and, as he's rubbing my shoulder, he says again, "You're awesome, Burke."
Oh man, that was good. I unroll some toilet paper from a handy roll right next to me and then wipe my ass with it. Kinda messy with the Vaseline, plus Mickey's cum that's coming out already. He's washing his hands at the sink, saying, "Wow, this will never get old, huh?" I mutter, "I can't imagine that happening, no. It feels fresh and new every time we do it." Mickey mumbles, "This Vaseline doesn't come off easy," and he re-soaps his hands and washes them again as I'm thinking about washing his dick.
Unrolling more toilet paper, I make a little pad of it and pull my underpants up, leaving the 'pad' under my asshole to catch any slower drools of cum. As Mickey's drying his hands, I glance at his cock hanging there between his legs, so I ask, "Should I wash your cock now, MIckey?" He says, "Hand me that washcloth on the towel rack. I'll do it. I was only kidding about making you wash it, jeez." I mutter, "I knew that."
To me, it looks as though he does a good job by soaping the washcloth and washing his dick twice and rinsing it a few times. Yeah, but later, when it is in my mouth, I still taste Vaseline. No matter though, I suck his dick, lick it, plus lick all around his hairless groin, especially his scrotum and the nuts inside that sack. Wow, my cock is as hard as Mickey's when he blows his load of cum in my mouth. It could have been my imagination, but I thought his come tastes like orange juice. Or, more likely, the taste was in my mouth already from the screwdriver I'd finish just before sucking Mickey off.
After the oral sex, we get naked, and in bed, then Mickey does his 'guy thing' of hugging his pussy boy. He's reasoning me, I assume. Yeah, perhaps Mickey sees himself as hetero guys hug their girlfriends after fucking them. He uses that as his guide, figuring he needs to hug his boyfriend afterward. In the movies, or even in books, you never see the girl hugging the guy after sex, right? The problem still exists that I'm bigger than Mickey, so, for me, it's a little awkward. It's not awkward enough that I feel as though I need to mention it. On the plus side, the feel of a guy's naked body is better than I dreamed it would be. Mickey smells nice too, and tonight it's not only him I'm smelling, but his sheets and pillowcase as well. It's all good.
We snuggle together without talking for a half-hour, and then Mickey slips his hard cock back up my ass and fucks me again. This tome with us on our sides. We're grunting and moaning quietly for at least ten minutes before we both climax, and, again, we do it at the same time. Our bodies are becoming synchronized, like the ballet dance class. I'm floating dreamily in a cloud of sexual pleasure, sweaty by now, our bodies touching constantly, and his scent in my head. Yes, it's beyond wonderful; it's perfection, and better than my fantasies. Yep, I'd stay in this bed with Mickey for days if I could.
When our breathing is back to normal, we begin noticing our bodies are smeared here and there with semen, so Mickey asks, "Do you want to shower before I fix dinner?" I'm like, "No, let's be grungy. I like how you smell when your sweaty, and I like your cum drying on me." He goes, "Eww, gross! Jeez, hahaha, well, okay then if that's what you want. I gotta please my pussy-boy if I expect to fuck him again later on."
We get out of bed, and Mickey pulls me to the bathroom, saying, 'We've gotta do a little clean-up, grunge-boy." I murmur, "Yeah, whatever you say, leader-boy." This is so different than my boring life before meeting Mickey... so different!
We wash our face and hands and then use a washcloth wiping cum off each other. Back in the bedroom, we put on underwear and shorts only and then go into the kitchen barefoot and bare-chested. Mickey says, "You're in for a real treat, Burke." I go, "How so?" and Mickey says, "I'm gonna make potato latkes and chicken fricassee." What's that?
I don't ask because maybe I'm supposed to know what those foods are. Shrugging, I say, "Sure, although I forget exactly what those two food dishes consist of." He says, "You probably have had latkes or chicken fricassee too often because you're not Jewish." Leaning against the kitchen table, I'm like, "Jewish? Are you saying you're Jewish?" He says, "My dad is, so I guess I am too, although we haven't been to a synagogue since my bar mitzvah." I'm like, "So you've been a 'man' since you were what, twelve or thirteen? Jesus, no wonder you fuck so well!" We both laugh at that absurdity. Then, I say, "Funny, but you don't look like you're Jewish."
He goes, "My dad, my brother, Josh, and I aren't especially religious, but we don't mock religion." I go, "I wasn't mocking it either. I'm sorry if you think I was." He gives me a 'look,' so I add, "See, I can't do that joking around stuff like you. I was joking with you about not looking Jewish." He says, "That's okay. So, do you wanna watch me cook?" Walking over to where he's at, I mumble, "Yeah, sure, but what I meant was, um, you've got blond hair and a pug nose and dark blue eyes. I always thought Jewish guys..."
He interrupts, saying, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. And my ears stick out too. Don't you think Jews can have blond hair and blue eyes? Judaism is a religion, not a race." I'm like, "Hey, I was kidding." He grins, "No problem, Burke. Actually, I understand what you're saying.. Yeah, it's kinda rare that I have blond hair except mom was Scandinavian and very complexed, plus my grandmother on dad's side is a redhead. As for my pug nose, I got that from mom too, but Joshua has a more traditional Jewish-looking nose... if you're into stereotypes, that is."
I mutter, "Stereotypes? Of course not, although I did notice you were conveniently 'short on funds' when it came to paying for parking, and then you had alligator arms reaching into your pocket when it came to paying for lunch." Then, I can't help but snicker at my 'put on.' Mickey laughs out loud. Then he goes, "Are you saying I'm cheap? Jews are cheap, is that it? I suppose you're gonna say that's not a stereotype." I punch his arm, saying, "I'm rebounding on my ballbusting skills, trying to make up for my last failed attempt."
Mickey says, "I knew you were breaking balls with that." Handing me a potato, he mutters, "Make yourself useful and peel two or three potatoes while I grate some onion for the latkes." I can peel a potato, and as I'm doing it, I ask, "But your dad's surname isn't Jewish." He goes, "That's how much you know, 'cause Miller is the third most popular Jewish surname." I'm like, "You're kidding," and he goes, "Nope. Other names, ones that would 'sound' Jewish to you, got changed when immigrants came to America. My great grandfather's last name was Moeller, but they changed it to 'Miller,' so here I am, Michael Miller." I'm like, "So, is Michael a popular Jewish name?" He shrugs, "I'm not sure about that, but it's popular in our Jewish family; and that all I know about it."
I couldn't care less that Mickey's Jewish or, for that matter, Catholic, or Muslim, or whatever other religions there are out there. It's him I'm interested in. I say, "Wait a second here. You said your grandfather and your dad are named 'Michael' because it's traditional in your family to name the first son 'Michael, right?"
He has tears in his eyes from the onion as he nods, "Yeah, that's right, but you wanna know why my parents' first son was named 'Joshua.'" I go, "Well, I was wondering, yeah." He goes, "It's because they wanted to break the string, so my older brother got the name, Joshua. Then, I'm the start of a new string, although it's unlikely I'll have a baby to name, um, Michael, or anything else for that matter. Well, I could adopt a baby, I suppose. Anyway, Josh can have the honor of naming a boy 'Michael.'" I go, "Oh, uh-huh."
Peeling potatoes is the only thing I do to help Mickey prepare what he calls 'potato latkes,' and something called 'chicken fricassee.' In that dish, there's tomato paste on chicken wings, other than that I don't know what else he put in the fricassee casserole. We both have another screwdriver as the fricassee cooks in the oven, and then Mickey fries the potato mixture that looked like pancakes. There are eggs and other things in the shredded potatoes and grated onion latkes.
It was good. Mickey's dinner was good, but not great. I liked the potato pancakes, but maybe the fricassee is an acquired taste. That being said, I complimented the hell out of Mickey's cooking talents and ate more chicken wings then I wanted just to prove I thought it was a delicious dish. Mickey seems satisfied, which is all I cared about. It's nine o'clock as we're cleaning up the kitchen together. Putting the last items in the dishwasher, MIckey asks, "What time is the cookout tomorrow?"
We make plans for me to pick him up tomorrow at two o'clock. Then, on his laptop, we surfed YouTube. I showed him the young guy singers from the talent shows I fancy, and he showed me some ballet websites. Mickey knows a lot about dance, ballet in particular. When we both got stuck for what to say next, I told him about Mark teaching me to dance, and Mickey wanted to see what I learned. He put on some music, and I made my very cool dance moves while Mickey covered his mouth to hide his laughter. I stopped, shouting, "These are cool dance moves!"
Mickey was not impressed. He goes, "I'm sorry for laughing, Burke. Um, those moves of yours are okay, really they are. You dance better than a lot of guys, but I'll show you some 'cooler' moves. First, we need another drink." He didn't want to use the rest of the orange juice, saving it for his dad's breakfast, so we had vodka and tonic with a lime slice. Not good.
The drink wasn't tasty, but we drank it anyway, and while we were doing that, Mickey showed me how he dances. Some people have an innate ability to move their bodies so smoothly it looks wicked cool, and Mickey's one of those people. I mean, he dances as cool as some black guys. He stops and says, "Of course, I've never danced with a guy and only danced with a girl at my cousin's wedding a year ago. I've danced in my room buy myself a lot, though." I'm like, "Well, here I am. I'm someone, let's dance."
We dance to three youtube 'club' dance videos, and I would have liked to dance more, but Mickey held me and kissed me, and after a three-minute make-out, he fucked me again. What a fantastic fuck it was too! Me on my back and us kissing as we climaxed. Un-fucking-believable climaxes for both of us!
It was ten-thirty when we decided to avoid any chance of Mickey's dad and his girlfriend popping in on us, so we cleaned up, skipping the shower we were gonna take together, and I drive home after a sloppy kiss goodnight from my boyfriend. Ya know, it's getting harder to say goodbye. Yeah, I didn't wanna go, but I didn't wanna be there when his dad got home even more, so I left.
While driving home, all I can think of is how much fun and how hot our sex was tonight and, even though it wasn't my favorite dinner, how much I liked that Mickey cooked it for us. We had a few drinks over four hours but never got close to being drunk. Everything we did tonight was just right! All-day with Mickey was just right, a perfect day. Tomorrow at the cookout has no chance of being perfect, but I do want to be there for dad's birthday celebration. I'm hoping it won't be too stressful for Mickey. Neither of us is good at a social gathering. With Mickey there, it'll be better for me. We'll lean on each other. It should be interesting, actually.
To be continued... Chapter 14 'Sunday Cookout.' donnymumford@outlook.com
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