Waiting for a Miracle

WAITING FOR A MIRACLE

by Donny Mumford

Chapter 4... Do Miracles Ever Happen?

Being realistic about it, I'm pretty sure most nineteen-year-old closeted gay guys would consider what I did Saturday night a huge success. For me, it was way better than that. Considering my past hesitancy to follow through on sexual opportunities, I went along with everything last night fantastically. But, was that the miracle Dennis was talking about? No, I don't think it was a miracle at all. I'm pumping the breaks on assigning 'miracle' to things. A more important question for me is, can I do what I did last night for future opportunities? No, a better question is, will I be able to respond when I'm sober? I had success 'stoned,' I need to do it sober now.

These are thoughts I have lying in bed at two o'clock Sunday afternoon. My parents left early for the family's Sunday cookout. Ha, I don't even know whose house it's at this week. Anyway, I feel amazingly rested and, for once, amazingly optimistic as well. Apparently, when a person's sex life is looking 'up,' that results in a better outlook about life in general. Of course, I'm just finding that out, but better late than never.

After making the bed, I do everything I need to do in the bathroom, including a shower. Getting dressed, I then make a cup of instant coffee and sit at the kitchen table, eating a nutritious bowl of Froot Loops and milk. Hmm, maybe I should text Mark. That I'm even considering doing that is new to me. My normal inaction would be to hold my breath and hope Mark texts me. I'm trying to change, however, so what should I write in the text?

Hmm, there's a complication I need to consider. It's what I alluded to a minute ago about being 'sober.' The pot we smoked last night was laced with cocaine, and since I have no experience with that, I don't know if the laced pot affected me when Mark woke me at Dennis's place. Mark told me the effect had worn off, but I don't think it had, not completely. I mean, what I did with Mark was very ballsy but very unlike me, and some of the things I said to him are cringe-worthy now that I recall them. The most embarrassing blunder I made was telling Mark, "I love you'. Oh, God, why did I do that? I barely know him.

Yeah, but then, he appeared to enjoy me telling him he was an example of the guy of my dreams or words to that effect. I didn't say he was 'the' guy of my dreams, though, right? No, I didn't. I said Dennis wasn't, and then Mark asked me for an example of who was, and I said, 'you.' Fuck, I should have made it seem as if I was messing around with him, except I suck at the kind of joking-banter that other guys do so easily.

Okay, I should text him, but keep my text vague. I type 'Yo Mark, that was fun. You okay?' I quickly hit 'send' before I lose my nerve. Feeling good about myself for texting Mark, I go outside and, jeez, it's a nice day!

Sitting on one of the chairs on our deck, I put my shades on and think about my job. Yeah, I've got to continue busting my ass nonstop to match the quota for UPS package-handlers. It doesn't appear I'm getting any more training, so I've got to figure it out on my own. I desperately want to get an apartment, which is my motivation to not fail at this 'effing job! In addition to getting away from parental pain-in-the-ass harassment, having my own place will be a major asset for Mark's and my experimentations with sex. And, yeah, it's an assumption on my part that Mark will want to do that, but I think he will.

Now I'm staring at my cell phone, willing it to light up with a text from Mark in response to mine. Then, when my phone does light up, it startles me, and I almost drop the damn thing. Mark's text reads, 'Yo, Mattie, I'm good. You rock!' and that's all he wrote. Nothing about us getting together. What's that tell me? Should I text back? Hmm, his text wasn't negative at all, but then, it doesn't say anything either. Well, neither did my text, so, okay, that's probably how 'normal' text messaging is done between sex-buddies. I'll wait a couple of days before texting again.

I goof around on my laptop, and at six o'clock, mom calls me to tell me to come to Uncle Ronny's for a cookout dinner. Oh, they're at Uncle Ronny's place. Anyway, mom sounds as though she's been drinking, but that's not unusual. Most Sundays, the Burke clan meet at one of my uncles' houses, and they have a few too many cocktails, especially during the summer months. In the past, I'd go with them if for no other reason than to gawk at Lewis, but my idol is now Mark, so fuck Lewis and his snobby mannerisms.

Now having the slightest inclination to join them, I tell mom I'm studying package-handling methods online. She sounds pissed off, saying, "Okay, Matt, be antisocial if you want!" and she hangs up. Yeah, Uncle Ronny has a landline telephone, so my mom could, and did, 'hang up' on me. With a cell phone, you can't hang... oh, nevermind that.

With no one home, it's a perfect time for me to jerk off minus the fear of someone popping into my bedroom unannounced. So, I jerk myself 'off' and, while it felt great, it didn't come close to the climaxes I had with Dennis and Mark last night. Not even close, which is interesting, but not surprising.

Then, Monday at work, I'm furiously running around, working like a madman, not talking to anyone, and then skipping lunch. As I'm clocking-out of my shift, my ineffective trainer, Rich Gold, grabs my arm to pull me aside, saying, "Mathew, way to go, man! This is what I'm talking about, dude!" He holds up a printout for me to see. It's full of numbers and symbols. I nod my head as if the numbers mean something to me, and he says, "On average, you handled 219 items per hour today. I'm proud of you!" I mumble, "Thanks, Rich," and I add, tongue in cheek, "It was your training." He modestly pats my back, mumbling, "Yeah, well, whatever. Give yourself some credit too, dude. Oh, tomorrow, there will be a full-timer joining you. HR finally hired a second handler. We're rolling now, Mathew." He means he's rolling... rolling closer to his new position as a UPS driver.

Whatever, I feel good about that encouraging result and, who knows, maybe the 'new' guy will be someone I can relate to. As for me, I still have a long way to go. I mean, there's a lot of room for improvement in my handling technique. I need to be able to meet my quotas without almost having a heart attack AND eat lunch too. Still, this was a damn good day.

I eat my lunch driving home, thinking about Mark. It's the first time I've thought about him all day. At a red light, I check my phone for text messages, hoping there will be one from him. There aren't any texts, though, so nothing new there.

One thing I like about this UPS job is I'm done work at three-thirty. That means I miss rush hour traffic both going and coming, and I'm home before four o'clock. I consider that a big plus because I have the house to myself for almost two hours, which means I can jerk-off in peace. Okay, sure, jerking off is on my mind too much, I know that. And it's probably not healthy, but so what? It is what it is, and the need for jerking myself off will fade if Mark and I can build a relationship.

Saturday night's sexual experiences aren't as fresh in my mind now, so I'm more psyched this afternoon about jerking off than I was yesterday. I do it in my bedroom, and, surprisingly, during my first jerk-off, I'm remembering Dennis doing this for me. Sure, I was stoned, but it was the first time anyone did that, and it felt fantastic.

After a very satisfying climax, I lie here gasping for a few seconds, and then my memory again drifts to Mark. Mark and I making-out, to be specific. Yeah, both of us naked in his bed kissing and groping one another's privates. That's the number one highlight of my life so far. That'll tell you about my life...

Mark blowing me is a close second-place to making-out. A blow job would be first in most people's minds except my fantasies have always been about making-out with a cute guy, and that fantasy happened Saturday night for real... even a blow job couldn't top that.

With my sticky cock in my hand, I smile, remembering Mark's mouth, his lips, and his face. Christ, making out with him, was so perfect. And he liked it almost as much as I did. Well, that's a slight exaggeration. Anyway, thinking about Mark while pleasuring myself a second time, I'm soon moaning, "Mmm, ahh, ahh, ooh," and it's so good! Jesus, my legs go out stiffly as I get ready to climax again and, "Ahhhh, oooh, fuck...." Oh man, that felt almost painful it was so good!

My heart's pounding, and, as usual, I feel a little dizzy before sighing and letting go of my dick. Mmm, good. Reality takes over, and I acknowledge I need to deal with the cum-mess I've made on the bed, and myself. As I'm getting off the bed, I feel pathetic. Ya know because I need to jerk-off so often. Still, I don't feel as pathetic as I have in the past now that I've had three climaxes with other guys. It's not just my hand and me anymore.

Cleaning myself in the bathroom and then wiping cum off my bedspread, I go online to review the blogs about UPS package handling. This is the sixth or seventh time I've done this, and I get in a loop reading the same blogs over and over again even though there's nothing new in any of them. It's my 'effing Aspergers having its way with me until I finally yell, "STOP!"

With nothing better to do, I surf porn sites until I get called for dinner. After dinner, I text Dean, and we hook up to hang out in his finished basement playing pin pong and bull shitting each other. He's interested in what I did Saturday night. I brush the question off by simply saying I smoked some grass and went home.

At work Tuesday, I get introduced to the new full-timer Bob Smart. That quick introduction is all the interaction I have with the new guy because he's training with Rich Gold. Bob appears to be older than me but not a lot older; I'm guessing he's twenty-one or twenty-two. He's extremely good-looking, but since I didn't look him in the eyes, his 'looks' was more a quick impression I got. I was looking at his forehead while shaking hands and saying, "Welcome," so, yeah, I mostly noticed his head of curly blond hair, incredibly curly hair. Also, he's like two inches taller than me and, and he seemed shy.

Tuesday is basically a repeat of Monday with me making my quotas and the same for Wednesday. Rich, of course, is pleased, but I'm still working balls-to-the-wall without stopping for lunch. I don't talk to anyone, and my ass is dragging after work but, overall, I feel better and better about making a success of this job. The bad news is, no text from Mark.

Thursday morning, while I'm punching in at exactly seven o'clock, Bob Smart taps my shoulder and asks me, "Did you only get three days of training from Rich?" I go, "I only got two days, Bob, and it wasn't a full two days, either." He's like, "Holy shit." Then, even working next to each other, that's was all we said to one another all day. Yeah, we're both breaking balls, processing the endless line of packages without talking to each other or anyone else.

Bob worked as hard as I did, but he's not making his quota. I didn't my first week either, so I spent some time trying to help him. Finally, though, I had to hop back on my stuff that was backing up. At least I tried to help him... no one helped me. Friday was like Thursday until Rich showed up around two o'clock with his computer printouts of Bob's and my weekly production. He said I was doing 'okay', which was a far cry from the praise he gave me last Friday. Then he told Bob he needed to get his ass in gear if he wants to continue working for UPS. That prick! Yeah, Rich told me the same thing after my first week. He sucks!

I told Bob about me getting the same warning from Rich and not to worry about it. Then I explained a couple of short cuts I'd learned from reading online blogs, and then I worked with him on his line until he 'got' the gist of what I was telling him.

Later, as we're 'clocking out,' he asks, "Matt, do you wanna grab a couple of beers somewhere? Friday night, ya know?" I tell him, "Sorry, I'm nineteen, and I don't have any fake ID, so..." Bob goes, "No problem, bro, my uncle is the bartender at the Clifton Inn. He'll serve you." I'd rather not, but he invited me, and I don't want him to think I'm a pussy, or worse, a snob, so what can I say? I go, "Oh, okay, Bob. Yeah, sure. Cool!"

The Clifton Inn is a 'dive' bar with a reputation as a hangout for 'dopers' and motorcycle gangs. I don't mention that to Bob as he surely already knows it. He pats my back, saying, "And, dude, I can talk to a guy. Um, you know, if you want me to score drugs at the bar for you. No problem." I mumble, "No, I'm good," and then, when we're outside, he adds, "This job blows, don't it?" and he laughs. He's riding a big-ass motorcycle like the one Bruce has. Yeah, and I'm beginning to think he isn't as shy as I first thought.

When I park at the bar, I notice a couple of motorcycles outside, but no cars. Not that motorcycles are unusual for the Clifton Inn. Inside, there are only two long-hair and heavily tattooed older guys at the bar, with a hard-looking middle-age woman sitting between them. She has a black and gray pigtail hanging down the middle of her back; the pigtail extends down past the barstool her skinny ass is sitting on. Ha, that crew is just a tad scary.

We sit away from the bikers, and the bartended stops cutting up limes to walks down to us. Putting two cardboard coasters on the bar in front of us, he goes, "What's happening, Bobby?" Bob goes, "Hey, wassup, Uncle Bert?" Bob nods his head at me, saying, "This is my buddy from my new job. Um, he forgot his ID, and we'd like a couple of draft beers... if that's okay with you." Uncle Bert sort of snorts and then chuckles before asking me, "What grade are you him, buddy?" I think he's joking, so I nervously grin, and mutter, "Haha, I graduated," and he nods, asking, "What's your name, son?" I tell him, and he tells me, "Bobby forgot his ID too. Didn't ya, Bobby?" I guess Bob isn't twenty-one or twenty-two like I thought.

Bob's uncle has a tattoo on the side of his neck, and he's missing his two middle teeth on the bottom, which sort of fits the image in my head of what I thought a bartender would be like in the Clifton Inn. And I'm not putting anyone down; it's just that the Clifton Inn has a reputation, right or wrong. Small town gossip, ya know?

Uncle Bert draws two drafts of Miller Lite for us, and says, "On the house, Bobby, but one is your limit." Bob goes, "Aw, c'mon, Uncle Bert." Setting the beers on the cardboard coasters, Uncle Bert says, "Okay, two is your limit." My glass has a suspicious-looking smudge near the rim, so I casually slide the glass on the coaster until the smudge is opposite where I'll be drinking. Fucking germs!

One of the bikers, sounding drunk, loudly says, "Yo, how about some refills, Bert." As the uncle-bartender drifts down the bar to take care of the bikers, Bob says, "He always says two beers are my limit, but we can drink here all afternoon if we want." Well, I don't want to, so I say, "This is cool, Bob, but there's shit I gotta do at home. Two beers are all I can hang around for... sorry." He mumbles, "No problem."

We both take a drink of our beers, and then Bob asks, "So, where did you go to school?" I tell him, and he says, "Yeah? We played you guys in sports. I went to Lansdown High. I was on the baseball team as a pitcher and center fielder. Did you play any sports?" Shaking my head, I go, "No, um, so you live in Lansdown. How long of a drive is that to work?" He tells me, and I begin sweating, worried about doing my part of the small-talk.

I'm doing okay with that, so far, and while telling Bob about the car I bought recently, I accidentally look into his eyes and stop talking. Jesus, his eyes are different colors. One is pale blue and the other pale brown with some blue at the rim. He snickers, and says, "Yeah, you noticed my eyes, huh? I have a rare eye condition called Heterochromia... different colored irises. Weird, huh?" I shake my head, indicating it's not weird although it certainly is, and then say, "Ah, your eyes are, um, interesting." What I almost said was his eyes are 'pretty', which they are, but caught myself just in time.

After a week working with him, this is the first real 'look' I've had of his face, and not only are his different colored eyes pretty, Bob is kinda pretty too. No, that's not it. He's not kind of pretty; he is pretty! If he were a girl, people would call him/her 'pretty.' At first, it's slightly unnerving to see a guy who is actually 'pretty.' Nice teeth too, and I just noticed he has an earring stud. The odd thing is, it's only his right ear that's pierced. Hmm, the right ear is the 'gay' ear, am I right about that?

I've wanted to get my ear pierced, but haven't had the balls to do that yet, and the same for getting a tattoo. Not a neck tattoo certainly, but a smallish cool tattoo. When I've got my apartment though, I'll be doing things I've always... but, nevermind that for now.

What is it with Bob, though? He doesn't seem gay, but it is interesting he'd get the 'gay' ear pierced, and, holy shit, he's good-looking. Others at work must have noticed this before I did, but yet I didn't hear anyone mention it. That could be because they're not gay, plus no one talks much on the line. We're all busting our balls, making our quotas.

Well, after a few seconds delay caused by Bob's different colored eyes, I say, "Wow, sorry. It's just that I've never seen anyone with different colored eyes before," and Bob goes, "It's very rare, as I said, but it is a cool conversation starter, ya know?" Now I'm openly staring at his eyes and notice discs sort of floating on his eyeballs. I say, "Um, you wear contacts, right?" He nods, "Uh-huh, but they're clear, not tinted. Ya know, you should think about getting contacts. I mean, well, you're cute even with glasses. You'd be even cuter without them." Gulping, I adjust my glasses, blush, and mumble, "Um, now that I've got a job, I'm thinking of getting LASIK surgery."

The bartender is setting two fresh beers in front of us. Smiling, he says, "Now you boys are cut off," and he reaches across the bar to tussle Bob's curly blond hair. Moving his head back, Bob goes, "Don't be a prick, Uncle Bert. I'm trying to impress my new friend." Uncle Bert says, "Okay, maybe one more."

Jesus, I'm here with a co-worker I don't know who has different colored eyes, a biker-like uncle-bartender, and scary older people... so, what am I doing here? And just now two construction workers, or guys who look like construction workers, come through the door. A tall fat guy and a short hard-looking thick guy with a small head. Uncle Bert goes down to them, asking, "What can I get you, boys?" Boys? They look as though they're forty-years-old.

I'm glancing at these new guys as Bob taps my arm and asks me, "Do you think you could get some fake ID?" Shrugging, I go, "Fake ID? Nah, I don't have any way of doing that." He goes, "Too bad. You've never been to the Green Door Club in Darby then, have you?" I shake my head, and he says, "Fuck, I'd love it if you'd go there with me sometime. I'm a member, and they're lenient about ID. They don't check it closely... if you know what I mean. Yeah, we gotta go together, so maybe I can pick up some ID for you." Shaking my head, I say, "Actually, I never try getting served at bars because I look too young, and I hate getting embarrassed, ya know?" Bob squeezes my shoulder, saying, "I'll take care of you. No worries, bro." Hmm?

Uncle Bert puts a bowl of small pretzels on the bar in front of us, saying, "On the house, guys," and both Bob and I reach for a pretzel as we say, "Thanks." I don't know for sure, but I'm sensing vibes coming from Bob that are, um, unusual. I mean, he stares at me for too long, and he's touched my hand twice for no reason, then squeezed my shoulder and left his hand there for a while. Could he be gay? That would defy the law of averages. I mean, first Mark, and now this guy?

He asks, "So, what do you do for fun?" I mumble, "Not much. Mostly just hang out a little and do my best at my job 'cause I wanna get my own apartment. That's my motivation for working hard." Bob is just about finished the second beer already as he says, "I gotta take a wicked piss," and he pats my hand again, and sort of squeezes it as he's getting off the barstool.

As soon as he goes into the lavatory, I take out my cell phone and go to Google. When I type 'Green Door Club, Darby PA.' immediately a picture of a green door appears with an ad making it obvious The Green Door Club is a private gay club." Jeez, Bob, actually is gay! Not that there's anything wrong with that. He seems very nice, but it is an odd coincidence I met another gay guy so soon after hooking up with Mark. And I almost forgot about the time with Joe, who could be gay too. Oh, and Dennis. Gee, I wish I knew what to do with this information. What's happening, ya know?

Bob is out of the lavatory, but he's stopped to talk to the two bikers at the other end of the bar. I hear a high pitched squeal and look down to see the skinny older woman laughing at something. Fuck, that was a creepy sounding laugh! And, maybe I'm jumping to conclusions by assuming Joe and Bob are gay. Yeah, but I know Mark and Dennis are, so something is going on.

Patting my back, Bob sits down, saying, "Those biker dudes usually have dope for sale but not today... bad luck." I can't think of anything to say to that, so I settle for telling him again, "Sorry, but I need to leave. There's stuff I need to do, but thanks for the beers and, um, thank your uncle for me too." As I'm getting off the barstool, Bob goes, "Yeah, no problem. See you at work on Monday."

Walking out of the bar I'm thinking... that was easy. I expected him to try talking me into staying for another beer, and then what? Haha, maybe asking me to blow him and who knows what after that hahaha, just kidding. Okay, but leaving is not the 'new' me. I didn't follow-up on the possible gay innuendos that Bob may have offered. Yeah, but I'll see him Monday, and I can feel him out some more then. Ya know, to be sure.

Wow, though, Bob is an awesome 'looking' young guy. Still, his awesomely pretty 'looks' didn't arouse me the way cute Mark's do. Well, not 'aroused' exactly but, um, oh, I don't know. And, I'm not saying I have no interest in Bob... I'll definitely follow up. Yeah, and Mark hasn't texted yet, so maybe he won't. Hmm, I should definitely get Bob's telephone number just in case. I'll be back-sliding to the way I was if I don't. He said I was cute, and he wants me to go to the Green Door Club with him. Christ, he almost came out and said he's gay, and almost asked if I was.

Hell, I'm finally in the 'game' now with real gay guys... maybe. And, surprisingly, I'm not as nervous about that as I would have thought I'd be. Surviving Saturday night did me a lot of good as far as confidence goes. Everything considered I handled myself okay that night. Fuck, I got in bed with Mark, didn't I? That was friggin' awesomely ballsy of me.

Hmm, standing next to my car, I look back at the bar and then walk back inside. Bob goes, "Hey, change your mind, Matt?" I say, "Yeah, sort of. Um, I can do the stuff I need to do at home tomorrow. And, um, nobody is home at my house, and your uncle is cutting us off. Ah, so, do ya wanna hang out at my place, play some video games or whatever?" He stands right up, saying, "Hell, yeah! Especially the whatever part." Omigod, I'm just about shaking in my boots, hardly believing I had the guts to ask him that.

He yells to his uncle, "See ya later, Uncle Bert." His uncle is talking to the guy with the small head. He looks up and waves at us. Outside, I'm like, "Do you wanna follow me on your bike?" Bob goes, "Sure, what else would I do?" Laughing, he musses my hair. I grin idiotically, adjust my glasses, and mumble, "Oh, yeah. Fuck, that was a stupid thing for me to say."

It's only a ten-minute ride to my house but, as I'm driving, I'm having a panic attack because I don't know why I invited him home with me. Yeah, he's probably gay, but what are the chances he'll be as accommodating as Mark was agreeing to make out; that's unlikely. How many gay guys would put up with that? Mark is probably the only one I'll ever meet who'd go along with that fantasy of mine. And I sure as shit am not going to ask Bob to blow me. So, what are we going to do?

At my house, hopping off his motorcycle Bob has a big smile on his face, asking me, "What are the odds, Matt. You and me, guys like us, getting a job at the same place at almost the same time?" I'm unlocking the front door, asking, 'Whaddaya mean?" He grins, mumbling, "Sure, I don't mind a feeling-out process. It's normal since we hardly know each other. I'm cool with that. I gotta say though; I had a good feeling about you the first second I laid eyes on you. We're two good-looking guys, two sexy kindred spirits."

To that, I stupidly mumble, "Oh, thanks," and we go inside. Fuck, I just basically agreed with everything Bob said! He hugs my shoulders and says, "You can call me 'Bobby' if you want. That's what my friends call me." I nod, "Okay, Bobby," and he asks, "Can we grab a couple of beers first, or is there liquor in the house? Shots are cool." My body feels as though it's quivering, but I don't think it's showing. I tell myself; be cool, Goddammit!

In the kitchen, I open the refrigerator and see only two cans of Coors. No way I'm taking the last two of dad's after-work beers. I point at the two beers and say, "Um, my old man would shit if I took his last beers." I don't tell Bobby, but I've never had a beer from our refrigerator in my life. I say, "There's whiskey in the pantry, though... he won't miss a couple of shots." Bobby mumbles, "Let's do it then, dude." Why did I ever think this guy was shy?

Looking in the pantry, I see an almost full bottle of Old Grandad, a half-full bottle of Smirnoff vodka, and an almost empty bottle of Hennessy Brandy. Taking down the bottle of bourbon, my hand then shakes as I pour an ounce or so of the booze into juice glasses, mumbling, "We don't have shot glasses, sorry." Bobby gives me a funny 'look', asking, "You okay, bro?" I nod too fast, mumbling, "Yeah, I'm good, sure," and he picks up one of the juice glasses and motions at the other. I pick it up, and we tap glasses, "Cheers!" and drink the shots of bourbon. I manage not to puke. Bobby hiccups twice, and then says, "One more," and rather than argue, I pour second shots of bourbon that we both drink in one swallow. Ghastly!

I notice that Bobby's Heterochromia eyes are shiny now as he says, "Goddamn, I'm glad I took that fucked-up UPS job 'cause I met you." I nod, not sure how to respond to that, as he adds, "Where's your bedroom?" I have a funny feeling in my stomach, and it's not because of the bourbon. I go, "My bedroom?" He says, "Isn't that where your Xbox is? As if we're going to play a video game." He laughs, adding, "Look what I got," and he holds up a square packet. It's a Trojan condom. I've never bought a condom, but I've seen them a few times when guys in high school would pretend they accidentally pull a condom out of their pocket when getting money in the lunch line. Ya know, ooh, you have a condom! That must mean you're a stud fucking every bitch in high school, right? Bullshit.

Bobby's condom probably isn't intended for one of the girls, though. Caught off guard, I mumble, "A condom," and he nods his head, grinning and saying, "Yep, and I'm calling 'top' right now!" Stupified, I mutter, "Top?" Then I 'get it,' and go, "Oh, um, you mean... oh, jeez."

Wait for just a fucking minute here... how in the fuck does this guy know I'm gay? That's a good question, so I ask it, "Bobby, you're assuming I'm gay, is that it?" He makes a cute 'face,' saying, "Oh shit, you are, aren't you? I'm rarely wrong about this." I'm like, "Do you do this kinda thing all the time?" He says, "No! But when I meet someone like you, I do. Who could blame me?"

What kind of logic is that? That didn't explain anything. This is all happening like a tidal wave of conflicting thoughts in my head. I've had no gay involvement of any kind for nineteen years; then, this past week it's been one-opportunity-after-another. Okay, what did that guy, Dennis, tell me? He said I was waiting for a miracle. Yeah, I guess I was so I need to stop running away from possible gay invitations. That's what I think I did with Joe.

Clearing my throat, I cough and then ask, "No, seriously, Bobby, why do you assume I'm gay?" He says, "Well, no harm if you're not. I'm not gay either, but I like to mess around sexually with willing buddies of mine. Intercourse, er, fucking, has a different 'feel' doing it in the ass, and I'm not sure yet which I prefer; the vagina or ass, so I'll continue testing both as long as there are willing partners of both sexes. Sorry if that sounds pretentious or, um, egotistical."

Shrugging, I mumble, "Um, I'm not sure if it is or not, but why me? Why do you think I'm a 'willing partner'?" He chuckles and goes, "Hell, you're a cute guy receptive to my friendly touching and, well, mostly, it's a sense I have. Ah, and Jesus, dude, you invited me here... haha. What the fuck am I supposed to think?" He holds up his hands, adding, "Whatever, though, I thought you'd be cool with this, but absolutely no problem if you're not. Seriously, dude, we can be buddies whether you're cool with it or not. It's no big thing, Matt."

Nodding my head, I mumble, "Interesting," but I'm actually stunned by his candor and confidence. Plus, does any of it make sense? It sounded logical the way he said it, but how the hell does anyone have the 'balls' to come right out and say that shit to basically a stranger? I mean, are regular guys okay with that sort of thing?

Bobby has a bemused expression on his pretty face as he's asking, "Am I mistaken about you, Matt? Would you rather play a video game, for real?" When I can't think of a clever retort fast enough, Bobby adds, "Haha, I thought that video-game 'line' was some sort of 'code' for sexy play. Yeah, I'm an optimistic guy, ya know?" He laughs again and tentatively puts his arm around my neck and then sort of gently hugs my head against his shoulder. I nervously laugh and, wanting to be 'cool,' say, "No, I'm breakin' your balls is all. Um, that is, well, what should we do?" My heart is beating as fast as a humming bird's.

Leaving his arm around the back of my neck, he says, "Whew! You had me going there for a second. That's quite a dry sense of humor you have there, bro. Um, is your bedroom down this hall?" Making a quiet gulping sound in my throat, all I can do is point a finger in the general direction, and Bobby gets us walking down the hall, saying, "Hey, bro, I liked that bourbon. Do ya think we could have another shot after we fuck?" Omigod! And now I realize my left arm has gone around him, well, what else was I supposed to do with it? I mumble, "Uh-huh, sure."

As he takes his arm from around my neck, Bobby points to my bedroom's open door, "This is your bedroom, right?" I try saying, "Yeah," but it comes out as a gasp. He looks at me, "You're okay with this, right buddy?" I nod, and we go into my bedroom, and then Bobby holds the condom by his teeth, so both hands are free to pull my shorts down. Just like that, bingo, he pulled my pants down! Ripping open the packet, he says, "Pull your underpants down and, um, how do you like doing it?" I mumble, "Actually, haha, I've never done this before. I'm worried it'll hurt, plus there's, um..." Oh, no, I won't mention my concern about the, um, 'shit-factor.' Not after Mark laughed at me when I mentioned it Saturday night.

Bobby undoes his shorts and opens the zipper wide, then he takes a long penis out the fly of his boxer shorts, mumbling, "What's that? You're a virgin? Seriously?" I try looking him in the eyes but only for a split-second, as I mutter, "Yep." He goes, "Holy shit, that's fabulous! I get to take your cherry!"

Everything is exciting to exuberant Bobby. He notices I haven't pulled my underpants down, so he gently turns me around and does that for me and then rubs my butt cheeks, saying, "Wow, nice ass, Matt. Don't worry, bro, it's your first time, so I'll fuck you gently to start. Jesus, though, your first time, and I get to do it! Wow, this is a first for me!" Yeah, there's always a first time for everything.

I'm breathing in short gasps. His hands feel so, um, so wonderful as they rub and then lightly squeeze my butt cheeks. What I'm doing is concentrating on the fact of Bobby's experience and so, hopefully, that factor will get me through this okay. Bobby has a hand on each of my butt cheeks as he mumbles, "Dude, I gotta tell you... this is so cool of you, letting me be your first, it's an honor." With his arms going around my waist now, he hugs me tightly, my ass tight against his crotch. I feel his cock against my bare ass crack. Omigod, I'm going to do this? I couldn't stop myself, or stop Bobby probably even if I wanted to, which I guess I don't want to anyhow.

He moves his head to the side and his hips too, dragging his flaccid cock from one of my ass cheeks to the other, and back and forth. He murmurs, "Just a few more seconds, bro," and he strokes his cock, mumbling, "Umm, my dick felt good on your skin. Your bubble-butt ass is so smooth and soft... and with no hair! I love a guy's hairless ass!" He said that emphatically, the way he is about everything and it gives me more confidence that he's experienced and this will be okay.

His arms are around my waist again as he's pressing his hips and his cock against my ass, taking his time, in no hurry, and why would he be. He's got me exactly where he wants me, and I'm more or less helpless. Well, not helpless because I wanna do this too, but as I said, I don't think I could stop it anyway.

He rubs his dick on my buttocks again, mumbling, "You don't say much, do you, Mattie?" I'm very tense and extremely nervous but excited too. I mean, as Bobby holding me like this his cock is getting harder and harder; it's definitely sexy. I want to say something encouraging to him, but all I can do is mumble, "I talk sometimes." He chuckles, "Christ, you're a likable motherfucker! I can't believe no one has fucked this awesome ass of yours yet. A sweet-looking kid like you... oh man, this is my lucky day."

His cock is wicked hard now and feeling long against my buttocks. He stops moving his hips, leaving his longish boner pointing up my ass crack. I hear him rip open the condom package and then ask, "Do you have a preferred position? I mean, I know this is your first time, but in your fantasies, how did you imagine doing it?" He backs away from me, so I look behind me to watch him roll the condom onto his boner. His very hard-looking cock looks to be at least six inches long. It's longer than mine, that's for sure. Bobby grins at me, saying, "I've got a cool-looking penis, don't I? I'm proud of it, and it's not especially fat so it's a good one for your first time." I nod my head, scared all over again.

The condom doesn't cover his entire cock, and I wonder if he bought the wrong size. He rubs his fingers together, mumbling, "Sticky. Lots of lube on this baby, so don't worry 'cause it'll slide into you nice and easy." I stupidly say, "I know," when I don't know shit. He goes, "Okay, um, since you don't have a preference, how about if you bend forward a little bit and hold onto your bureau there."

Glancing at my three-drawer bureau, I mumble, "Sure," sounding calmer than I feel. As I lean over, I look at myself in the mirror over the bureau and see a calmer expression on my face than I expected. That's a good thing because if Bobby had a clue about the apprehension I have, it'd probably scare him. Christ, the things we force ourselves to do so as not to embarrass ourselves in front of our peers! That, plus, I wanna finally experience real gay sex, and this is very real. More so than oral sex, right?

Bobby spanks my ass twice. Hard smacks with the sounds ringing out, "SMACK! SMACK!" as he mumbles, "Just tenderizing your ass a little, Mattie. Nothing to worry about," and he smacks my ass twice more, "SMACK!SMACK!" The smacks really sting. He snickers, mumbling, "I like spanking my 'bottom' boys... and girls," and, "SMACK, SMAC, SMACK!" as I yell, Ow, Goddammit." He snickers, and mumbles, "Heh heh, okay, I'll stop..."

My butt cheeks are quivering from getting spanked, and then I feel the head of his condom-covered cock at my asshole. This is it! Oh, this is the miracle, right? Bobby says, "Could you push your ass up a little for me, bro?" I do that, and he grips my hips and pushes his cock against my anus, which begins spreading and also starts hurting like a bitch. I go, "OW! That hurts." He stops pushing and says, "Yes, it'll hurt a little, but hopefully not for long. I was hoping spanking you would get your mind off this, and it's important to relax your asshole muscle, meaning your anal sphincter. Can you do that?"

The fact that he stopped when I cried out makes me have crazy-good feelings for him. I go, "I'll try," and I do try to relax, although how am I supposed to relax my ass? I must have done that, though, because when I feel his boner head pop inside, the pain isn't as sharp as it was at first. It hurts, but it's bearable, ya know? I want this to work! So, against the hurt, I hold my breath, and then the pain drops significantly as Bobby goes, "Ummm, ooh, yeah. Your ass is spectacular. And, ah, you okay?" He rubs his hands under my t-shirt, up and down my sides. His hands feel good.

When looking at myself in the mirror this time, I see I'm smiling a little as I say, "Omigod, you're inside me already?" He goes, "Well, the head of my dick is, yeah." Oh, only the head. I go, "It hardly hurts at all now, Bobby." He says, "That's extremely unusual for a first-timer, but it's awesome too!" and I feel my insides fill up as his cock goes further up my ass, making me shiver at a wave of pleasure that rolls over me. He sees my shoulders shuddering and says, "That's your prostate gland, dude. Feels really good, doesn't it?" and he pushes his cock in further making me gasp as my entire body shudders. It's a constant rolling wave of pleasure now as his cock moves over, moves past and over my prostate gland. I knew I had one, a prostate gland, but never knew it's a pleasure zone.

There's tickling on my smacked ass, which surprises me for a second before I realize it's Bobby's pubic hair tickling me, and then I feel him lean against my ass as moans slip out of both our throats. It's "Mmmm, ooh," from Bobby as I moan, "Ahh, ahh, umm, Jesus, that feels good." Taking my right hand off the bureau, I reach down and grab my cock that's already firm. Stroking it a few times turns it into a hard boner, making me moan again, "Ahh, ooh."

Bobby humps against my butt cheeks, gasps, and then says, "You're one of the lucky ones, Mattie. Most guys can't enjoy their first time. I didn't start enjoying having a cock up my ass until like the third or fourth time." He pulls his boner back, and I make a 'Sisssss' sound sucking in air between my teeth because it feels so good I'm afraid I'm gonna climax prematurely.

When he drives his boner slowly but smoothly back up my ass, I shudder again and then take my hand off my cock 'cause he's fucking me for real now, and all I can think about is the sexual pleasure I'm experiencing. It's like from another world, a degree of pleasure I've never experienced until now. A pleasure that I can't describe even to myself. Pleasure coming from my rectum, of course, but ALSO pleasure from being sexual with another guy. Jerking myself off can't compare with this... totally separate experiences.

The feeling I'm going to climax any second continues as Bobby does steady thrusting, and now I hear the sound I've heard on videos. The sound of a guy's body smacking against the ass of the guy he's fucking hard, "Slap, slap, slap," sounds. Bobby, steadily thrusting his boner in my rectum that creates waves of pleasure, one after another, until I'm barely able to comprehend the extent of it all.

It's unbelievably perfect although I don't know how long it will last. It doesn't seem very long before I almost blackout at the surge of pleasure that hits me when my full climax unexpectedly erupts like a volcano, cum gushing out my throbbing, impossibly-hard boner. The cum splatters off the bureau with such force droplets of cum fly back onto my bare thighs... then another shot of cum shoots out, and it feels as though the world exploded. I'm going, "Oh, oh, oh..." and then Bobby's groaning as he humps against my ass, leaves his fabulous cock inside me, humps against my buttocks once more, and climaxing, I imagine.

It's Bobby's turn to moan quietly now as he lies against me. I'm limp and barely holding myself away from the bureau. My head is hanging between my arms while the last of the sexual pleasure from that fantastic orgasm fades. Once more, I see my reflection in the mirror, and see myself with half a grin and a cocky expression on my face... well, okay! That went pretty well. I snort out a laugh, and Bobby says, "Let me tell you, bro, it's a miracle how well that went for a first-timer like yourself. A Goddamn fucking miracle!"

When Bobby steps back and his cock pulls from my ass, that sends scintillating shivers up and down my spine and all around my rectum. Plus, there's a weird feeling of being wide open back there. My asshole feels like it's gaping open. As I'm standing up, stepping back from the bureau, I feel back there with my hand, and Bobby says, "It'll close up pretty fast, Matt."

Turning around, I watch him pulling off the condom as he tells me, "You're the number one best first-timer in history, Mattie. Dude, it's rare a guy has the perfect ass for fucking, but, dude, you have one. I mean, both from your perspective, and mine. It felt great fucking your ass, and I'm not exaggerating neither, I can't even tell you how awesome that was," and he hugs me, adding, "We gotta be fuck-buddies. Seriously, we can fuck after work every day!"

Naturally, me being me, I chose to worry about that germ-infected condom in his fingers, worried it's touching my t-shirt as he hugs me. Germs are the last thing I should be thinking about after this incredible successful experience but is this the miracle? Miracles do happen but, somehow, I don't think this is mine... not yet.

Finished hugging, and now holding up the condom, Bobby asks, "Where's the bathroom?" I'm wiping my dick with a tissue, mumbling, "At the end of the hall. I'll go with you," and I pull my shorts up. Bobby's already buttoned-up his pants, and as we walk to the bathroom he carries the condom away from him like it's a dead mouse. He says, "Be honest, Matt, how was it for you? Was it anything like you expected?" I'm thinking about the compliments he said about my ass, so I give him a compliment, saying, "You were a perfect, um, top, Bobby. You did everything to make it better than I ever expected. All the credit goes to you." He says, "No, your ass gets all the credit."

That's nice of him to say. After dropping the condom in the toilet, Bobby flushes it while I fight off the feeling I need to take a dump. Well, I've read that that is a feeling some have after anal sex, and most likely, it's a phantom need. Plus, that would be embarrassed telling Bobby I needed to take a crap after he fucked me. I don't know; it might be rude or something.

We both wash our hands, Bobby to get the lube off his fingers, and me just because I wash my hands every chance I get. Bobby was full of exuberant compliments and comments before, but he appears blase about everything now. He goes, "Well, that's that. Hey, how about that third shot of bourbon, dude?"

He deserves another shot if you ask me, so I go, "Sure," and we walk to the kitchen as Bobby says, "Next time, maybe it'll be your turn to 'top.' That will be another 'first' for you, right?" I go, "Uh-huh, it would, but you can be the 'top' again. I really liked the way you did it."

Bobby takes charge of pouring the 'shots' this time, and he pours more in each juice glass than I did, plus he picks up my juice glass, the one I used last time. I pick his glass up thinking, fuck the germs... assuming he has any. To delay drinking the over-sized shot, I start to put the bottle away noticing a worrisome big difference in the level of bourbon. Bobby grabs my arm, saying, "Hold off for just a second, bro." He puts his juice glass down and takes the bottle to the sink adding an inch of water, then he shakes the bottle mixing in the water, looks at me, grinning, and says, "There ya go, Mattie, now your old man won't notice shit." I mutter, "Cool," and put the bottle back where it was on the shelf. Bobby... shy? My ass!

He taps my/his glass with his/mine, and says, "You were impressive, Matt. Here's to you, buddy!" I grin muttering, "Thanks," and down goes the burning liquor. I yell, "Shit! That's good!" and, as he does all the time it seems, he laughs, saying, "We're gonna be a great fuck-buddy team, dude." I learned my lesson about saying 'I love you' when I said it to Mark, so I don't say it to Bobby, although I think I do love him.

We go back to my room, bumping into one another as we're walking. Screw that; I feel so good I don't care if I'm a little drunk. We lie on my bed, and Bobby tells me about anal fucking. He says, "Ya know, we all have a million nerve receptors, nerve ending, in our rectum and, of course, our prostate gland is a pleasure machine, as everyone knows. Still, many guys can't get to enjoy those pleasurable nerve endings because they can't put up with the pain of entry, or if they can, then something else causes pain. I don't know what, but some guys must have a curved bowel or a curved something because it doesn't work for them. Too bad for them, and it's not everyone by a long shot because anal fucking is popular. Still, there are some people, guys, and girls, who simply are unable to accommodate a cock in their ass, period."

Oh, and he said maybe I'm gonna get to fuck him? Should I mention my hesitancy because of the possibility of running into his shit? And, hey, how about my shit? We're lying here on the bed talking about ana sex, so why not ask? I go, "Um, about me being the top. I was wondering, Bobby, ah, did you get any of my shit on the condom?" He turns his head to look at me, asking, "Is that a serious question?" I shrug, looking past his head and then, forcing myself to look him in his different colored eyes, I mumble, "I'm just curious." Damn, his eyes are mesmerizing!

He goes, "Well, sure, there was some on the outside of the condom, I suppose, but so what?" Yeah, his eyes are amazing, and I stare into them, mumbling, "Oh, nothing, just kidding." His curly blond hair is cool-looking, and I reach over to feel it. He goes, "My weird hair goes with my weird eyes. I hate my fucking hair! Shirly Temple hair." I ask, "What's that?" He shakes his head, "You don't know who Shirley Temple is?" Shrugging, I go, "No, who the fuck is she?"

Gee, that was a normal guy's response I just had. That's exactly what I should have said, and I did say it. He says, "Nevermind her. Well, what the fuck, she was a child actor in the thirties or something, and my hair is curly like hers." Still clueless, I go, "Oh, that Shirley Temple." Bobby laughs at that. "Jesus, Matt, you have a dry sense of humor, doncha? That's cool." He thought I was joking?

He goes up on his side, grinning down at me. It's awesome the way he's one happy grinning guy all the time. He casually pulls the hair at the front of my head, so it's down covering my eyes, and almost reaching my nose. He says, "I wish I had hair like yours, although I wouldn't wear it long like this." I go, "Yeah, I'm gonna get a haircut." He runs his fingers back through my hair, letting it ruffle through his fingers as he murmurs, "No fuss hair ya got here, bro. And then my ringlets-hair, shit, it's nothing but problems. My mother has the same hair."

As usual, I can't think of what to say to that, but I like looking at him, and I'm enjoying the touching he's doing. Staring into my eyes, he says, "You're a cute motherfucker, ya know that?" Gee, I've been hearing that lately. The past two weeks, I've heard it more than during my first nineteen years put together. I'm like, "Thanks. You're, um, beautiful," and then I ask, "Do you do much, um, kissing or making out?" He asks, "With guys?" I nod, and he says, "No, way! Fuck that. I don't do any of that kissing shit, not with guys. Just fucking and sucking. I already told you, I'm not gay."

He drops down off his side to lie on his back next to me again. We're quiet for a few seconds, and then he tells me, "Okay, here's the deal. If you're worried about running into shit when fucking me, I'll use one of those squeeze-bottle enemas. Or, when I fuck you bareback, you can use the enema. Um, ya know, a Fleet enema that'll clean out the lower part of the bowels almost instantly, no problem. Some guys even use a douche."

I think a douche is what women use, but I ignore that and go, "No, need to do any of that, Bobby. I'll follow your advice, and you're right, um, the shit is on the condom." He looks at me again and says, "Yeah, but as I said, unless you wanna do 'it' bareback, that'd be cool too. I like it like that actually, and I'll buy the Fleet thing for you if you want." Shaking my head, probably too vigorously, I go, "No! Um, I'll buy condoms." He goes, "Sure, whatever you want for now, but later, ya know?" Omigod!

We don't talk for a couple of minutes. Then, surprisingly, I find that I like the quiet lying here next to him. He makes me feel relaxed. And, damn, we're going to be fuck-buddy friends. Friends who have sex together, and he said 'sucking' too. well, I'm not at all confident about doing that. Yeah, I know I said to myself I was going to return the favor and do it for Mark, but I'm having second thoughts because the anal fucking is even better than oral sex, and putting a guy's penis in my mouth, ya know? And, can I believe I'm even having these thoughts? God, what a difference a week has made in my life!

It's so perfect the way Bobby's blase about everything we talked about. That keeps me from getting carried away, which I'd do if he weren't so calm about all this. Of course, to him, it's nothing new. I break the silence, "Bobby, do you mind me asking how often you have sex with guys?" He goes, "Ah, yeah, I sort of do mind, Mattie. No offense, ya know, but that's kinda personal." He turns his head to look at me again and says, "Dude, you're not getting some dumb jealousy ideas, are you? You and I are gonna be friends, we're fuck-friends, fuck-buddies, you know? Um, we're not gonna be going steady or anything," and he ruffles my hair again, grinning at me, I suppose to show he wasn't 'dumping' on me.

To show I'm a regular guy, I go, "No shit! I know that," although I didn't. Anyway, I'm not jealous that he obviously does this with other guys. Surprising myself for about the tenth time today, I think of something to say and go, "I was actually referring to, um, well, I'm curious about how much screwing you do with girls. You not being gay and all." He mumbles, "The same answer, dude," and I say, "Yeah, too personal. I know, just saying..."

He goes up on his side again to look down on me. He goes, "Let's see how our friendship goes, Mattie. Maybe it won't be too personal to talk about things like that with you if we get close. Ya never know. And, Mattie, I hope you don't think I'm an asshole with the 'too personal' shit." I go, "No, I understand."

He lies back down, mumbling, "Good," and we're quiet again until he asks, "Would it be okay if I took a half-hour nap, bro? You won't think I'm an asshole for asking that I hope. I mean, that booze is hitting me kinda hard." I'm like, "No problem. Good idea," and I take my phone out to set the alarm at five-thirty. That's thirty minutes before my mom will get home. Bobby mumbles, "Thanks, man," and we both fall asleep.

To be continued... Chapter 5 'Can I Believe This?' donnymumford@outlook.com

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