Date: Sun, 14 Aug 2016 22:37:49 -0400
From: MGTBILL@aol.com
Subject: DYLAN'S JUNIOR YEAR AT COLLEGE  Chapter  1

DYLAN'S JUNIOR YEAR AT COLLEGE



Chapter  1



by  Donny Mumford



Waking up Saturday morning I  sense a touch of nervous anticipation. The
stupid-ass dream I was  having when the alarm went off may have something to
do with that. It was one of  those dreams where I was about to take a final
exam realizing I hadn't  studied for it. So that combined with the fact today
is actually the  unofficial first day of my junior year at Merrimack
College, may be playing games with my nerves  and my brain. As I'm getting out of
bed I tell myself everything's okay,  you'll be fine. Fuckin' dreams, ya
know?

Obviously summer  vacation is over though, and a very different summer
vacation it was  too. Mostly because the first half of it I was living and
working in Georgia with Ryan Wilcox. Then the second half was here at  home
working on Robby's lawn cutting crew, with a greater appreciation  than ever
about how special Robby is and  how lucky I am to have him as my boyfriend. So
I'm saying those  two significant factors qualify this past summer as  very
different from any other. Living nine weeks with Ryan was the  first time
I've ever been away from home for longer then a weekend. This past  summer has
been the most financially successful summer ever. That's because  the job
in Georgia paid really well, and then 'Dickers and Son' increased  everyone's
hourly wage this year, so I'm bucks up for once! It's all been very  good.

I can't gloss over my time spent with Ryan, he has  a unique place in my
heart as someone I admire and  appreciate differently than any other friend I
can think of. He made it his  business to take care of me in Georgia doing it
his way, which I didn't  always agree with, but he was remarkably effective
and kept every promise he  made before we left college. That's a very brief
summary of my summer as I think  of it in my mind and I have no complaints
and no legitimate reason to.

That being  said, I'm looking  forward to my junior year at Merrimack.

Actually I see this as a relocation day.  Robby and I are relocating from
Framingham to our recently rented apartment in  North Andover across the street
from the college. This is my third relocation  this summer. I relocated with
Ryan from North Andover to Marietta,  Georgia, last May. Then from Marietta
to my home in Framingham and now to  North Andover to complete the circle. Oh
yeah, another positive result of  this summer's activities is I feel I've
grown-up some, especially in the area of  being more reasonable where
buddy-sex is concerned. Discounting Ryan's and my  activities in that regard, I've
been less frivolous with side-sex and  stopped taking advantage of it at
every  opportunity that presented itself. Sure, I still have occasional buddy
sex  but I've turned it down at times as well. And that's not bragging so
much as  it's a fact.

So today's a moving  day, and the beginning of another year of college.

Compared to  my freshman year, when I was totally consumed with nervous
anticipation,  this morning I merely have a smidgen of doubt in the back of my
brain. Ya know, because I want to do well again this year with my  grades and
not screw-up the responsibilities that go  along with living away from home.

Being on our own, as college  students we have frequent temptations to do
something stupid that  we'll regret later. I want to avoid those temptations,
or at least minimize  them. It's not like I haven't experienced all this
before, but every year  is different and this year will surely present
unexpected new challenges to  deal with in the right way. I guess I'm basically
acknowledging to  myself I can't blasé my way through junior year.

After showering and  getting dressed, I'm trying to do something with my
shaggy head of hair. It's  grown out enough that it'll lay over on top near
the front of my head, but  the hairs at the crown are still only about an inch
long and still  sticking up. The most annoying part is hairs on the sides
of my head that  are also an inch long  and over the tops of my ears. Not a
cool look. So it's a fuzzy looking head of  hair that'll require another few
weeks of growing before I can, for example,  have a hair style like the one
I gave Chubby the other day. Shaking my  head, I finally give up on my hair
and put Ryan's Merrimack baseball  cap on my head. There, that's better.

Now that I think  about it, I'm not at all sure how I came to be in
possession of his  baseball cap, but possession is nine-tenths of the law.

Something  like that, and anyway Ryan will get a new baseball cap this year as a
team  member or equipment manager. I've encouraged him to try out for the team,
and  even if he doesn't make the team he'll still get a hat. As for his
equipment  manager position I think that makes him the  players gopher... go for
this, go for that and pick up my used towel. That sort of thing. That was
alright when Ryan had low self esteem, but that changed in a positive  way
for him this  summer. He's better than that gopher job now and I hope he
doesn't take  it.


I'm in the  kitchen making a mug of coffee when Chubby comes through the
front  door bringing with him his normal energy, positive vibes bouncing off
him.  He gives me a big hug and a kiss telling me how awesome I am. Chubby
always  makes me smile and  feel, I don't know, safe I guess. He claps his
hands announcing, "Moving day,  Dylan. Ya ready for it, bro?" I'm like, "For
sure, Chub, but don't make the  mistaking of thinking we can blasé our way
through junior year." He pulls  the bill of my cap halfway down my forehead,
mumbling, "Why on earth would  you say that? Of course we won't blasé shit.

Well, maybe a little blasé is  okay, don't ya think?" Adjusting my hat, I
chuckle, mumbling, "Yeah, okay,  I guess. As long as we don't blasé the shit."

Chubby won't be  living with Robby and me in the apartment this year, which
is another thing that's different, so that's a bit  disconcerting too.

Yeah, that might be part of my smidgen of uneasiness. It's always better having
him near me. With our  coffee we have some scrambled  eggs and toast while
rehashing what we need to bring with us to college,  then we take the coffee
out on  the balcony for a smoke.

He holds up a  cigarette, saying, "And we're beginning our last two years
of smoking these things, Dylan. We probably need to start cutting  back this
year so we can wean ourselves of this habit slowly and without a lot  of
drama. That's what I'm going to do starting today. My daily cigarette habit
will be no more then, um, let's say fifteen smokes a day,  then next month
fourteen, and so on. You with me, bro?" He said all that in  his fast-talking
excited and energetic manner so it'd be impossible for  me not to be 'with
him'. I go, "Awesome idea, Chubby. We'll quiz each other  every day and be
truthful about the number of smokes we had." He nods his head,  "Of course
we'll be truthful, that goes without saying." I'm  like, "Fifteen seems like a
high number to start with though." Chubby goes,  "That's the maximum number
taking into account special nights, like  when we're partying or whatnot.

You know, you tend to smoke more when  you're drinking." I nod my head and he
holds his cigarette up again,  saying, "This is number one for this day." I
go, "Your plan is the perfect  long-distant way to quit this noxious habit."

He's like, "Hey, I might  even patent this never before thought of method
for quitting the  evils of nicotine." I  go, "Oh for sure, Chub. The
cleverness of your plan is a mind-blowing break  through."

After our  coffee and smokes, it  then takes us less then half an hour to
finish loading the  Jeep with the stuff we're taking to college. We did a lot
of it last night,  and now that we've finished it's just a matter of
waiting for our moms  to get up so we can say our temporary 'goodbyes' again.

We're on Chubby's  balcony now with him again holding up an unlit cigarette,
saying, "See  this cigarette, Dylan. If not for my clever plan, I'd undoubtedly
light this  fuckin' thing from habit, but I'm not going to do that because
there might be a  time later today when I wish I'd saved this smoke. Like,
for example,  when we're having a beer tonight celebrating something." I go,
"I'm not lighting  mine either. In fact I'm not even taking it out of the
box, mostly because  in my case I don't want a cigarette right now. That's not
to say I don't  appreciate the deep logic in your thinking." We're
chuckling and  slowly shaking our heads at our nonsensical ramblings. It's fun being
with  Chubby.

Putting the cigarette  back in the box, Chubby starts a new conversation;
this one about the fact we're  at the halfway point of college and joining
the great America's  workforce. Chubby goes, "In a mere two years we'll be
just two more working  stiffs trying to make ends meet and looking forward to
Friday night." I go,  "Gloomy outlook, bro. We should get jobs we enjoy," and
we try thinking what  jobs we'd enjoy doing for our life's work. Chubby
decides he'll be a cruise  director for a Royal Caribbean cruise ship, saying,
"They make up to $7000 a  month, plus all their living expenses are free
when onboard that luxury  liner." That's an occupation I'd never think of in a
million years,  but it sounds like a cool job. Mine is owning a barbershop
that only guys in  their twenties or younger would frequent. Both of our pie
in the sky  ideal career paths have significant stumbling blocks to
overcome, and I  don't believe Chubby's serious about his in the first place. I
mean, I never  heard him mentioned cruise director even once before in his life,
and that  job would mean we wouldn't be together for long periods of time.

I'll  assume both our choices are for conversational purposes only.

The moms get up early  for them, at ten-thirty. They must have both set
their alarms because Tris comes  out of her bedroom just as my mom's coming
through the front door.  It's not a simple goodbye of course, but rather an
hour long  conversation letting them know our living arrangements, financial
situations, and a general discussion of college courses; all of which we've
discussed in detail before. They remind us of what's going on in  their
lives too.  There's a wedding for one of the twin's younger brothers that will
mean a  weekend trip to Pennsylvania, and they have plans for an overnight
trip to  Foxwoods after that. The major development in the moms' lives is
they're finally reducing their workload slightly at the  restaurant by taking
off two Saturdays a month from now on, which I  think is a very good thing.

Chubby asks the  moms if there are any other weddings in the foreseeable
future  that we should know about, meaning their weddings obviously. And
that's gets discussed without a date being chosen. In other words we're telling
each other as much as we know about our plans for the next couple of
months.  Finally there isn't much more to say and we begin the hugging and kissing
part  of our temporary goodbyes. It's not like we're going off to war after
all,  and we'll probably be home for a weekend in a couple of weeks; but
still, each  goodbye is one goodbye closer to leaving the nest for good. When
that time  comes it's a major comfort to Chubby and me knowing the moms have
their  awesome fiancés to keep them company. Sometimes things actually do
work out  well. Good to remember that.

The moms get misty  eyes as they walk with us out back where the Jeep's
parked. More hugs and  then we're finally in the Jeep waving as I back the Jeep
out of the driveway,  and then we're heading down the road to whatever
comes next. Chubby says, "The  moms never disappoint, do they?" I go, "Nope,
they always give off that loving  feeling. It's a mom thing." He goes, "I'm
glad they're cutting back on their  work schedule a little. It's not like
they'll need the money once they're  married," and that's pretty much ends of our
conversation. The drive to  North Andover, which we've made maybe thirty
times by  now, takes about an hour from Framingham. During the ride we're
mostly thinking our own thoughts and listening to 98.5 FM, one of  the two
sports talk radio stations out of Boston. I drive past  Merrimack College on the
way to the Royal Crown Estates, which is the  pretentious name of the
apartment complex Robby's and my apartment is  in.

After I park  illegally next to the back door, Chubby and I carry my stuff
to the second  floor apartment. Inside Chubby's like, "Oh fuck, this is
really nice! It  looks new." I always feel good when Chubby gives his approval
for, well for  anything involving me. Of course if he went in with us on the
apartment this  year we couldn't have this one bedroom renovated apartment,
and none  of the two bedroom apartments were renovated this past year. So
the  fact everything is new in this place softens the blow of not having
Chubby  living with me.

When we've humped  all my stuff up the steps to the apartment, including
the gas grille  from my balcony at home, we drive to Chubby's dormitory. His
dorm room is  unfortunately not in one of the two new dormitories. Getting
into one of  the new dorms was a lottery situation and neither Chubby nor John
Beverly's  name was picked out of the hat, so to speak. As we drive up to
the  building we see John Beverly sitting on the dorm's steps waiting  to
greet us. After one arm hugs and smiling  greetings, the three of us unload
Chubby's stuff. Their dormitory room looks  small compared to the apartment,
but both guys seem happy enough with it. Ryan  texted me a couple of days ago
that he's on the second floor of the same  dormitory as Chubby's. I know the
number of Ryan's dorm room, so while John  Beverly and Chubby set up their
room I walk upstairs to see  exactly where Ryan's room is located.

Ryan's driving  himself from Georgia, which brings to mind that trip he and
I had driving  down there right from here, which seems a long time ago now.

Sometimes it's  as if I can hardly believe I actually lived those nine
weeks away from home.  Some strange shit happened there, but through the highs
and lows of it I  really bonded with Ryan in a good way. As I alluded to
earlier, I  discovered there's a lot more to him than I previously thought, and
I liked him  even before discovering this other side of him. He had a very
agreeable manner being my boss on the job as well as pretty much being my
boss  after work too. It was relaxing for me following Ryan's lead through
what could have been  an awkward situation. Meaning living under his parent's
roof.  Awkward because it was totally uncharted territory for me, plus his
parents are  a bit odd. With Ryan in charge though I didn't need to concern
myself too much  with his parents. Hell, just about everything was Ryan's
concern, and not  mine...  I kinda liked it that way. Over all it was
surprisingly stress free  for me and, as I said, Ryan was very good at being in-charge
of  us.

Hell, I already  admired Ryan for overcoming the obstacles he faced growing
up. All that  master/slave shit he fought his way through. It was caused
mostly by his poor  self-image in his younger  years. He had to completely
turn that around, and he's done it very  successfully. I've come to think he's,
um, special, and during my time  in Marietta I became very attracted to
him. It's not love; I know that  much, but it's something. He's smaller and
shorter than me, but stronger and at  times I feel like there's a kind of
magnetism about him that gives me a  gooey submissive sense, one I've never felt
with anyone else. I
In one of Ryan's  texts he told me he's having a lot of his stuff delivered
by  UPS and at his room I see some of it's already arrived. There are some
boxes addressed to him sitting outside his dorm room. Huh, I try the  door
and it's unlocked so I carry the four boxes inside. His dorm room looks
exactly like Chubby's, not that that's a news flash or anything. Ryan won't get
 here until sometime Sunday and his roommate won't be arriving until
Monday or Tuesday. They've been communicating for a couple of weeks now after
connecting online from the 'roommate wanted' list for Merrimack. Orientation
is  on Tuesday and classes begin Wednesday. That's basically it, and I'm kind
of  anxious to get started. This year we were able, as juniors, to do all
our registering online, and we bought our books the same way. The  books are
part of the 'stuff' we brought with us from home. This semester  I'm not
sure how many courses the three of us we'll  have together. I know Robby and I
have three out of four courses together.  And I'm pretty sure Ryan didn't
enroll on the management course Robby's in; i  know I didn't. Instead I
decided on a History of Motion Pictures' course, which the  online scuttlebutt
calls 'Ridiculously easy'. I assume Ryan's taking  it too.

Locking the door  to Ryan's dorm room, I go down to Chubby's and sit in a
desk chair watching  them unpack their stuff. Chubby and John Beverly are
telling stories about  the funny shit they got into last year. I chuckle along
with them, but the  realization hits home that Chubby's life is being lived
while I'm living  mine, separately more and more. I mean, I knew that, but
hearing these two talk  about their escapes last year, escapades that I
didn't even know about, is a  little jarring. Chubby, who's always tuned-in to
me, must be sensing I'm  thinking something along these lines so he leans over
smiling at me  squeezing the back of my neck, saying to John Beverly,
"Dylan and I will have to  tell you our adventures sometime; not that you'll
believe half of them, huh  bro?" I snort out a laugh, "Probably not, Chub," and
I grin back at him,  feeling better now that he included me in the
conversation. John Beverly  goes, "Ya know, I don't think I'll ever get used to that
nickname  Dylan insists on calling you, Jeff." Chubby gives John a 'look',
saying,  "Try harder," and pats my shoulder.

It's  probably not good that I'm so possessive of Chubby, especially at my
advanced age, but I am anyway. If I told Chubby I don't like John Beverly,
I  wouldn't hear his name ever again. Not that I'd do that, but knowing
that's  the case is my selfish little secret that John Beverly couldn't even
imagine.  Fact is though, I like John okay and I'm happy Chubby has a good
friend like  him.

We decide to have  lunch at Fuddruckers. Finished with their dorm room,
we're walking to the Jeep when I stop to say hello to Jarod  Mellincamp. He's
smoking a cigarette leaning up against a car while reading  something. He
doesn't see me so I bat at the paper he's reading, asking,  "You ready for a
rematch, punk?" He glances up, then his face breaks out in  a smile, "Oh,
fuck no, I'm not ready for a rematch, ever. Not with you,  Dylan. I don't want
to get my ass kicked again."

We do the one arm hug  with a couple of pats on the back, asking each
other, "How ya doing?"  Jarod and I had an immature fight early in our freshman
year, and later  we became friends. We exchange a few brief comments about
our  summers, then I say,  "I gotta catch up with my brother. We're going to
Fuddruckers. Wanna join us?"  He goes, "No thanks, I'm waiting for my
girlfriend. Hey, we need to  that double date. Are you still going with that guy,
Rob's his name,  right?" I nod, "Yeah, how 'bout you?" and he laughs, "Christ
no! I'm  working on girlfriend number five since freshman year."

Chubby's waving at me  as he gets in the Jeep, so I go, "I gotta run,
Jarod. We'll do that double date  though. See ya," and I jog over to the Jeep.

John Beverly's in the shotgun seat  so I get in the back, telling Chubby,
"That's the kid I had a fight with my  first week at Merrimack." John Beverly
mutters, "Bad ass, Dylan!" and Chubby  says, "It was also your last fight,
right?" I nod, "Yeah, I can't remember any  others." It's a short ride to
Fuddruckers; like a quarter mile, but on the  other side of route 114 from the
college. The restaurant is at the end of a  strip mall next to a dry cleaners,
then there's the package store with  overpriced beer, wine,  and hard
liquor, and lastly a Starbucks that I've never been in 'cause their  coffee's too
bitter and expensive for my taste. They have free Wi-Fi though, so there
are usually  pretentious assholes sitting at little tables sipping a bitter
coffee and  tapping away at their laptop. Like: 'Hey, look at me! Aren't I
cool and  sophisticated?!'
Getting out of the  Jeep, I go, "Oh no, Chub! Is that Harry Black sitting
on the curb?" He looks,  and goes, "Ha ha, yeah, it's Harry. He's drunk
already." I ask, "Does that boy  ever get his haircut? He looks like a
porcupine." We go inside without  attracting Harry's attention, as John asks, "Is that
guy a student?" We tell him  about Harry always being at least slightly
drunk at all times and yet  his GPA is close to 4.0. Something like 3.8 the
last time I checked. Hard to believe, which is why  I checked in the first
place. Inside the restaurant there's a line of  people, some of whom are
students, placing their orders, paying for  it, and then taking one of those buzzer
things that'll go off when their  order's ready. Everything is cooked to
order at Fuddruckers.

Glancing around at  the tables I see Ears Henderson, and when you see him
you see Scott Tinsdale  too. Inseparable straight guys, although Scott was
trying to find someone that  was willing to do some gay sex with him last
year. He said it's because he's  curious. I politely declined his offer to blow
me, and don't know if  he ever succeeded in experiencing gay sex. That's the
last thing in the world  I'd ask him about for fear he'd start up again on
me. Ears' first name is  Walter, by the way; therefore his nickname, not
that his ears look all  that unusual to me. Sitting with those two is Mike
Mananski, who was  Jasper's roommate freshman year. Jasper dropped out of
college last year for  reasons unknown.

We place our orders  and sit at an empty table to wait for our buzzer to
buzz. John Beverly says,  "Gordon Babcock told me that Tracy finally got a
liquor license for  his speakeasy. His old man pulled some strings I hear. The
grand opening  is at seven o'clock tonight." Chubby asks, "Do you guys want
to check  it out after dinner?" I go, "Sure, except we're twenty-one now and
we can  drink any place we want." John goes, "Yeah, but I'd like to check
Tracy's  place out at least once. I heard he had permanent club built on like
three  quarters of the deck, plus extended it. Now there's inside and
outside drinking areas. And get this: since he's got the license now, he  can't
serve underage students anymore." I go, "Serving underage guys was the
whole purpose of the speakeasy." John shrugs, and Chubby says, "Well, I'd like
to check it out too. Ya wanna come with me, bro." I go, "Yeah, of course,"

and  John's like, "Count me in too."

Our food's ready and,  as I'm getting mine, I'm thinking about the three or
four times Tracy's fucked  me real fast and hard in the storage room. He
usually has a girlfriend but  says he likes to fuck really cute guys too.

Modesty prevents me from  dwelling on other things he's said about me in that
regard. I like the guy,  plus he makes me feel special. Last year he told the
bouncer to always let me in  without paying the cover charge at the door;
during off hours too. I tried not  to abuse the privilege, although it came in
handy a few times last  year when we needed a case of beer for the
apartment on  Sundays.

After lunch the three  of us hang out at the Quad where we meet and greet
guys we had classes  with, or met at parties, or at Tracy's speak easy during
the past two  years. I'm at the Coke machine getting a soda when Felix
Jonnas taps me on the  shoulder. He's Ryan's friend; I met him through Ryan.

Anyway, I turn around and  we do the one arm hug thing, asking each other,
"Wassup?" Then he asks, "Do you  know when Ryan  is showing up?" I tell  him and
he goes, "We gotta get together at my parent's place and shoot some  pool."

I nod, mumbling, "Definitely, Felix, and you need to finish teaching  me
how to shoot pool with English." He's with a girl who he doesn't introduce me
to, and I drift back to the table seeing that Danny Monday has joined
Chubby and John Beverly. Chubby asks me, "When's Rob making an appearance? Danny
 just asked me and I don't remember when you said he'd be here." Danny
holds out  his fist, smiling a little, saying, "Hi, Dylan. Wish you'd have
played soft ball  with us last Sunday. We could'a used you." I bump his fist,
"Yo, Danny, how's it  going?" He nods, and I say, "Yeah, um, how many guys
played in that softball  game?" He says, "We had fourteen guys, but Rob left
after two innings saying he  felt like shit, so that left us with an odd
number." Chubby asks, "What'd  you do with the odd guy out?" He goes, "We had Fat
Dennis Finch pitch for  both sides." Huh, that confirms that Robby and Danny
didn't do anything  sexy together. Not that I thought they did.

I choose not to  inform Danny about Robby's hospital stay. Instead I answer
Chubby's question,  "Rob's driving up tomorrow afternoon, and that reminds
me, I need to use the  Jeep, Chub. I want to fill up the apartment
refrigerator to surprise him."  Danny asks, "You guys have an apartment again this
year?" I mumble, "Uh huh,"  then say, "Let me use your keys, Chub. Mine are
somewhere among all the  stuff at the apartment." He gives me his keys and
when I finish my Coke, I'm  like, "When I'm done grocery shopping, I'll text
you, Chub." He goes,  "Sure, bro. What do you wanna do about dinner?" I shrug,
"I don't know. Can't  you guys eat on campus in the dining hall?" John
Beverly says, "Not until  Wednesday," and Chubby says, "We'll figure something
out. Text me."

Driving to Stop &  Shop, which is about a mile up route114 from Merrimack,
I'm thinking about Robby  and Danny Monday. They obviously didn't do
anything unless Danny's lying about  Robby levying the game after two innings.

Plus, I know now Robby was sick so I'm  positive they didn't do anything. Okay,
but I'll bet anything in the  world Danny wanted to have sex with my
boyfriend. Then I give a passing  thought to the time I did it with Danny, although
I pass by that thought  quickly. That was during my frivolous side-sex days
of yore.

In Stop & Shop I  get the basic needs for an apartment like coffee K-cups,
sugar, milk, cereal,  sodas, bread, eggs, anti-acid tablets and Advil;
things  like that. Then snack foods, gum, and some candy bars. Jesus, the total
comes to  $98.78 for basic stuff only! In the future I really need to go a
little out of  the way and shop at Market Basket where everything is cheaper;
in some case a  lot chapter. Next stop is McGloon's package store where I
see a big sign that  reads: 'Merrimack freshmen! Don't even try it because
we'll just hold onto your  fake ID and call the cops. Our license is our
livelihood.' That makes me  smile, the part about 'Don't even try it!' The warning
notice is addressed to  freshman because sophomores and above already know
not to try fake ID in this  liquor store. Anyone with a brain in their head
goes to Salem, New  Hampshire for booze and cigarettes anyway. I'm making an
exception  today for the beer because that's one item where the prices
aren't a lot  cheaper in New Hampshire, and I don't feel like taking the time to
drive there  anyway.

I buy a case of Bud  because it's on sale, then drive to our apartment and
put everything away in  either the refrigerator or kitchen cabinets. Next I
try the bed and it's  new too, and nice! The whole place is awesome, um,
except for the view from  our balcony. It looks out over the parking lot. If it
looked out the other side  of this building we'd see the really nice
landscaping they've done in  front, plus we'd need to pay an extra hundred dollars
a month for the  privilege. The landscaping in front makes this apartment
complex look  classy. After making up the bed, I walk slowly around the
apartment, very  pleased with everything. Sitting on the sofa I text Robby, but
no reply from him so  he's probably in a meeting. I text Chubby and he text
back saying he's still at  the Quad, so I drive back there.

Inside I find Chubby  and John Beverly putting the 'make' on two big buxom
babes. I don't  know where Danny Monday got to; not that I care. After a
couple of minutes  I'm feeling like a fifth wheel at the table. Passing the
Jeep's keys to  him, I tell Chubby, "I'm going to walk around the campus and
see what  improvements they've made during the summer." He nods, saying,
"Okay, bro." One  of the girl, the one named, Judy, says, "Don't leave on our
account, Dylan.  Madison and I would rather look at you than these two duds."

Ah yes, I remember  her now. She's Judy Rinker who Chubby dated last year. I
tell her,  "It's perfectly understandable why you'd feel that way, Judy."

Chubby  laughs as we slap hands, then I make my escape. Girls calling each
other by  their last name, trying to be like guys, annoys me. Calling her
girlfriend,  'Madison' sounds phony to me, an affectation. The girl's name is Sue
Madison,  and I like Judy even though she uses her friend's last name. When
I met her last  year she was sort of coming on to me, which has a lot to do
with why I like  her. Flattering ya know, but I had to confess my sin, then
she moved on to  Chubby.

Walking  through the campus in the general direction of the Royal Crown
Estates, I notice some nice landscaping improvements here too. They've spiffed
 up the grounds nicely. The apartment complex isn't far from the end of the
 college campus, but then there's the challenge of crossing a normally busy
 four lane highway known as route 114. It requires patience and when
opportunity  presents itself I cross the street and walk up the entrance of  the
Royal Crown Estates. We're in the third buildings on the left, and  it's only
taken me ten minutes to walk here after leaving the  Quad, and now I'm
home, so to speak.

In the apartment I  lie on the couch and  surf the TV finally settling on
one of the twenty college football games on  at the same time. I doze off and
have a nice nap until my cellphone buzzing  wakes me up. I know I was
dreaming about something, but it was earlier in my nap  and now I can't remember
what it was. The caller ID of my buzzing  cellphone shows, Jeff Romero. "Hey
Chub, I dozed off." He says, "I'm  on my way to pick you up. Lets have
dinner at Burtons while we can still afford  it," and that's what we do, just
Chubby and me. We'll meet John Beverly at  Tracy's later. He's apparently
gonna try to get in Madison's pants. Chubby  tells me that bit of information
like it's the most logical reason in the  world to skip dinner.

Burton's is  a pricey restaurant, but mostly worth it. We have two Jack and
 Coke cocktails before dinner, then Caesar salads, and after that
melt-in-our-mouths steaks cooked medium rare with scalloped potatoes and  seasonal
mixed vegetables that we actually eat. Some vegetable are tasty I'm
discovering. After dinner we share a slice of warm double chocolate cake  for
dessert. Really good dinner that takes the better part of two hours from
beginning to end. Next stop the new and improved Tracy's speakeasy.

Chubby parks two  blocks away, which is the closet parking spot we can
find, so the word  is out about Tracy's already. We drove by the place when
looking for a  parking spot and I see that Tracy had a hell of a lot done to
this place over  the summer. It's like he's added a big room with a cathedral
ceiling off  his kitchen. It looks very cool with the neon-lighted beer signs
in the  windows and the wood carved sign, 'TRACY'S SPEAKEASY', and in
smaller letter,  'Private Club'. Oh, so if it's a private club now and that gives
him a  little wiggle room for serving under aged drinkers... maybe.

As we're going up the  steps I see Tracy's standing with the bouncer at the
top. Behind  them is what's left of the deck's open air section, and it's
bigger  than I expected. Tracy gives me a cool grin as we say hello doing the
normal one  arm hug routine. Before we can say more a girl, who I assume is
Tracy's  latest girlfriend, walks over to say something  in Tracy's ear. He
says, "Yeah, sure, but first meet my friend, Dylan Newman."  We nod at each
other as Tracy says to me, "The is without doubt the best  girlfriend I've
ever had the luck to know. Meet Linda Brady." We do a sort of  fingers-only
handshake as I ask, jokingly, "Any relation to Tom?" She frowns  cutely,
asking, "Who's Tom?" Tracy chuckles, "No, she's not Tom's sister."  Linda says,
"So I'll catch you later, okay, Trace?" He goes, "Sure," and she  goes down
the steps, with Tracy saying to me, "Look at the ass on that  girl."

Blowing out my  cheeks, I look around and see there's a real bar replacing
the table used  as a bar last year. The open deck is about twenty by twenty
feet while the  enclosed part of the club has been extended sideways over
the yard. The  nightclub building forms an 'L' shape to the left, away from
the street next to  us. There are double doors at the entrance to the
nightclub and another  bouncer type guy standing there shooing away people wanting
to get a look  inside. The new section will have it's grand opening the first
day of the  semester. Tracy tells me he's here greeting potential club
members,  but only after the bouncer, Rex, checks ID. Rex is turning away those
who  are too young, but being polite about it. Rex is definitely the
preppiest  looking bouncer I've ever seen, but he has all the bulk and muscles
you'd expect a bouncer to have.

Tracy spreads his  arms, asking, "Well, Dylan, how do you like the changes
around here?" I  shrug, "It's all, um, basically unbelievable, Trace.

Totally awesome, dude!"  He's passing out pamphlets that list the particulars of
the new speakeasy:  membership fee, and the normal rules he had last year
about no fighting and  no abusive language, and so forth. Rules very few paid
any attention to. He  goes, "One dollar drafts beers today, Dylan." Chubby
pats Tracy's shoulder  on the way by me, saying, "Nice set up, Trace." I see
John Beverly's at a  round table for six, so he's been here for a while. He
motions  to Chubby, who tells me, "I'm getting a beer and joining John
Beverly, bro;  we'll be over there," as he points at John's table where three
girls have  joined him, one of them being Judy Rinker. I nod, "I'll be  over in
a few minutes."

Tracy asks me, "He's  your brother, right?" I go, "Yeah, the good looking
guy, not the guy at the  table with the girls." Tracy nods, then says,
"Wednesday I'm letting everyone  see the new speakeasy and, as a promotion, we're
selling the one dollar  beers then too. They'll be membership cards when the
guys and girls  turn in the short application with twenty bucks. No more
cover charge after  that except for special events." I say, "It looks and
sounds really cool,  but right now I'm gonna get one of those dollar beers," but
he grabs my arm.  "No, wait, Dylan, I have VIP membership cards and I want
you to have  one. Follow me." I'm a little leery, but then Tracy couldn't
possibly expect us to do that quick fuck the first friggin'  day. We walk
into the enclosed 'nightclub' section, and it looks  just like a bar... duh,
what else would it look like? The cathedral ceiling  has three ceiling fans
hanging six feet above us and they're lazily spinning,  but it quite warm in
here. Tracy says, "No air conditioning, but we'll  have heat all winter."

There's a short hall next to the bar that leads to the  back door of his house.

Through the door is his kitchen that I'm quite  familiar with.

Inside the  kitchen, I ask, "Is your sister here?" I vaguely remember
meeting her once. He goes, "Gawd no! She  might spend a week here with some toad,
but not until after the first of  the year, and that's not even certain. My
sister and I are not what you'd  call close." He says that last part
talking over his shoulder as he's  taking a bottle of booze off a shelf. I say,
"Um, no. Ah, no shot for me  today, Trace." He pours two anyway, pushing one
over to me, saying, "It's  our tradition, Dylan." Oh balls! Peer pressure
blows. I pick up the shot of  bourbon as he's telling me, "You'll like this.

It's Old Maple Hill bourbon.  Sixteen years old, made in small batches." I
nod, glancing at the liquor store  sticker that's still on the top of the cap.

The bottle cost $125. Tapping  his shot glass to mine, he mumbles, "To old
friends," and we flash it down.  It's an ounce and a half of straight liquor
so there's no way it could  be good, but it's the least offensive of any
shot I've ever had. I  don't even feel like throwing up. He asks, "How was
that?" I shrug, "Smooth. It  was definitely smooth, Tracy."

When he pours himself  another one I put my hand on top of my shot glass.

He looks startled, asking,  "Just one?" I shrug, "Yeah, I'm a pussy when he
comes to shots of liquor."  He flashes his down, then takes my arm saying,
"C'mon, I've thought  about this on and off all fucking summer." His arm's
across my shoulders  now as he walks me directly to the dining room that he's
turned into a  supply room. I can tell it was a dining room originally
because there a  chandelier hanging from the middle of the ceiling. In the room
are many cases of  beer, half kegs of beer, and a shelf full of different
kinds of liquors; some  expensive, but most are recognizable names in a
reasonable price range.  There's cartons containing plastic cups, stirrers, bar
wear, and  whatever.

Tracy asks, "Can I  have a kiss first. Believe it or not, I haven't done it
with a guy since the  last time I saw you." See, like a few other guys I
have buddy sex with,  Tracy has that natural over-confident matter-of-fact
manner about him,  and that's very appealing to me. He just assumes I want to
do what he wants, and  so he just goes for it without giving it much thought.

I don't want to be a  prude, and I like the special treatment Tracy gives
me, so we lean our heads  over and kiss. Tracy's a very sexy guy and I'm sure
girls find him very  attractive and sexy and most guys would agree,
although they'd probably  only admit it to themselves. No straight guy would admit
it in any kind of  definitive way out loud. Tracy's lips are sexy and he has
a sexy scent. The  quick kiss is followed by Tracy's putting his arm around
the back of my neck  holding my face against his as his tongue and lips
devour my mouth and  soon have me concentrating hard on smothering the
embarrassing moan of  arousal I'm already feeling. He's let his hair grow all
summer and it slides across my face clean, dry, and soft.

With a wet  mouth-sound, his mouth sucks off of mine, and he exclaims,
"Jesus,  you're so fucking hot!" Then he laughs, saying, "I'm serious! I've been
thinking  about you." As he's saying that he pulls my cargo shorts down,
stokes my cock a  few times, telling me, "All summer I'm humping Linda like a
sex-crazed  maniac, and she can never get enough so we're perfect for each
other, but  occasionally while we're doing it I'm thinking about how hot sex
with you was." Letting go of my cock, he goes, "And by the way I  know
Linda is fucking other guys too, the nymphomaniac." He's saying  all this as if
it's perfectly normal to be taking a condom out  of his pocket as he talks.

Handing me the condom, he's still talking while  pulling his shorts down.

"She's wild in the sack, let me tell ya. So sex with  her is a wild adventure
every time. Oh, and here's the best part;  there's no  talk of love between
us whatsoever. It's the perfect relationship. Oh  sure, she likes that I
spend money on her at Foxwoods, or a weekend in New  York, ya know, down the
Cape, shit like that. Wherever we go we mostly fuck in  the room anyway,
barely getting out for a few hours at night. She's not  into sightseeing so I
don't know why I take her anyplace."

I'm standing here  with my shorts around my ankles in a bit of a daze as
Tracy's taking the condom  back from my fingers, rips it open, grinning at me,
saying, "And you still  owe me that overnight date, remember?" He's so
animated  and nice looking, I nod, "Yeah, I remember, but I'm deeply involved
with my  boyfriend and shouldn't really be doing this." He stops, "Oh, you
don't want to  do it with me?" I shrug noncommittally while realizing I do want
to do  it with him. I haven't been having sex with anyone but Robby lately
and  then only two or three nights a week, so yeah, I'd like to do it  with
Tracy. He goes, "I was thinking of just a two-minute hard fun fuck,  the way
I thought you liked it." I go, "No, um, I mean, yeah we can do it. I was
hesitating about the overnight thing you mentioned."

As if he's noticing  for the first, he reaches over and take my baseball
cap off, saying, "Oh no, I  liked that macho bristly short haircut you've had
as long as I've known  you. Loved feeling that. Huh, you're letting your
hair grow out, huh?" Like  he's disappointed. I shrug, mumbling, "Yeah, I've
never had hair long  enough to comb and I want to see how I like it." He goes,
"Well, either way  you're the best looking person I've ever met so, ha ha,
whatever. Um, just so  I'm sure: you do want to do it now, right? I wouldn't
feel right if I  thought you were just doing it as a pity fuck or something
like that. Of course  if you say no you'll disappoint the shit out of me,"

and he does a nervous  laugh, then says, "No, seriously." I go, "Since you
put it that way,  let's do it." He nods,  and turns me around, asking, "Do
you want me to spank you first?" I  ask, "Would you like to do that?" and he
goes, "Not really, unless you want me  to." I go, "Okay, just a little
spanking to give you a guilty conscience." He  laughs, then gets a grip on my
shoulder and smacks the living hell out of  my ass, "SMACK!SMACK!SMACK!SMACK!"

I'm soon hopping up and down putting my  hands behind me to ward off the
smacks." He asks, "Is that enough?" and I yell,  "Hell yeah, that's enough!" My
butt cheeks sting and feel hot, but  it got my cock further firming up.

It's all fun and  games to Tracy, who chuckles, mumbling, "Jesus, your ass
is  bright red. I can see my white hand print. Wait, now it's fading." Only
during  recreationally sex do I like an occasional hard spanking. It's all
about  the contrast. My stinging smacked ass is contrasting with how good it
feels having a hard cock up there. Not for everyone obviously, but it
works for me. Ryan really is the best at that, but he won't do it  anymore.

Tracy spreads by  butt cheeks, muttering, "Ah yes, that pretty rosebud
asshole of yours. Ya  know, I've been missing this more than I even thought I
would. A guy's asshole is so different than a  vagina. Different feel, and
you're prettier than the girls I date anyway. Ha ha,  I'm serious, Dylan." His
cock is slightly firm from our short make-out, and  maybe from spanking my
ass, but that's only a guess on my part. Tracy's rubbing  the head of his
cock up and down my ass crack, saying, "Someone should do a  portrait of your
ass, ya know? It's perfect." I mutter, "Thanks, but I had  nothing to do with
it being perfect or otherwise."  He chuckles,  mumbling, "Guess you didn't
at that."

I feel his cock  getting harder as he rubs it across my ass cheeks. With
his fingers gripping the  back of my neck he roughly plugs the head of his
cock in past my  sphincter muscles doing a quiet, "Ahhhh." I grunt, then let
out a quiet, Oooh,  mmm." I'm thinking I could have let him spank my ass
longer and increased  the contrast between pain and pleasure. Tracy has a
good-sized cock for fucking;  when the head was spreading the lips of my anus it
felt really good.  The normal sizzling sensations are spiraling out from the
millions  of nerve endings around the anus making my shoulders do a little
shudder. His boner's not fat, but there's some heft to it, and it's a  nice
length.

As he puts pressure  on the back of my neck, he says, "Would you mind
bending over and, um, holding  onto that box of plastic cups." When I lean over
the head of his cock  slides out, and Tracy mutters, "Dammit." My hands hold
onto the edge of the  waist high box, then I push  my ass up. With the palm
of his hand on my back, Tracy uses his other hand to  guide the head of his
cock to my asshole again, and, "Umpth," from me as he  pushes it in harder
this time. Both his palms are on my back now as he  thrust his hips and about
two inches of boner squeezes up inside me, the head  spreading the walls of
my rectum. He moves his hands to cup my hips and does a  hard thrust
pushing the rest of his boner up my ass and my back arches and  shooting pains
makes me gasp, but only initially, then it's, "Aaaah, ummm.  That's nice and
tight, Trace." He leans against my buttocks, his pubic hairs  flattened
against his belly. He goes, "Oooh, wow, this feels really good. Better  than I
remember. Jesus, mmmm," and he grinds his hips, "Oooh, Dylan, this  is so
fucking hot."

Being filled up back  there like this is such a great feeling for me too.

Damn, but I love a hard cock  up my ass. I haven't had enough of it lately,
but I'll be living with Robby  starting tomorrow and he happens to have my
favorite penis of all time  swinging stubbly between his hot legs. Tracy humps
against my buttock a few  more times, murmuring, "I'm enjoying the hell out
of this." A shiver of  pleasure skips up my spine as I squirm a little,
anxious for him to start  fucking me. He's rubbing his hand down my sides,
saying, "What a body. Love your  body, Dylan," and then a few more humps against
my ass, still without  pulling his boner back. He leans over and runs his
fingers through my hair,  murmuring, "Miss that crisp feeling of your
normally really short haircut  though. Like I said, that short hair was very macho,
dude."

I'm just about ready  to whine for him to start. My dick has boned-up
really hard by now, and  with my rectum full of hard cock I'm really aroused by
the thought of a hard  fucking. Before I can say anything he starts up fast,
and it's,  "Slap,slap,slap,slap," sounds of our bodies slapping together
with his  piston-like fast moving cock slamming to and fro, back and forth in
my ass.  Oooh, the sensations are enormous and so delicious I'm licking my
lips and moaning with pleasure. I really shouldn't go two or three days
without sex  because I get ridiculously turned-on when I finally get it. I'm
trying not to  make a total dork of myself by moaning like it's my first time,
but oh my god,  this feels good!

Tracy says he hasn't  fucked a guy since the last time he fucked me but he
seems very skilled at it.  Nice long thrusts, rhythmically slamming his
condom covered rock hard  cock up my ass until I could scream with the pleasure
of it all. My  prostate's going crazy sending sexual pleasure signals to my
brain that  makes little electric stings that tingle from nerve endings all
over  my body. My hard cock throbs and moves away from my belly; all the
muscles in my  body begin contracting as my orgasm builds. Tracy's gasping from
the energy  of his hard fast thrusting and I hold my breath now; my orgasm
right on the brink. My back arches as my eyes close and I squeal too loudly
 thrusting my hips as a long awesomely hot stream of hot creamy cum shoots
from my cock splattering on the box of plastic cups. "Aaaah," as another
good stream of cum flies out. I shake and shudder feeling weak now, streaks
of  pleasure shooting out from my rectum and then I go limp as Tracy's
leaning  against me and doing his humping against my buttocks and this time
filling  the condom with his spunk. A strangling sound from his throat as he humps
 again hard, then a weaker hump with Tracy letting out a long breathy
exhale  before laying against me.

Taking a deep breath,  he stands up and backs away pulling out his cock
that's now getting soft. I  straighten up; my asshole feeling slippery with the
lubricant off the condom.  Jeez, that felt good! Turning around, I say,
"Nice fuck, Trace! I guess I needed  that." He's pulling off the condom, sort
of shuddering and mumbling, "I guess I  needed it too. There's just something
special about your asshole. Some freakish  muscles up there gripping my
boner. It's almost scary, but oh fuck it feels  phenomenal! " I snort a
chuckle, and he goes, "I'm serous! Jesus, that was  a violent climax I just had.

Really something." I'm looking around for something  to use for wiping the
lube off my asshole when Tracy goes, "Here," and  passes me a box of tissue. I
wipe my asshole with a handful of  tissue, then look  around for someplace
to throw them. He points at a box with thrash in it and I  drop the tissues
in with the other trash as he dumps the condom on top of the  tissue.

Pulling my underwear  and cargo shorts up I'm feeling pretty damn good.

Tracy's doing the same,  saying, "Don't let me forget your VIP card." I ask,
"Are you going to let  underage students in the speakeasy this year?" He says,
"Yeah, but I gotta be  smart about it. Dad still has a lot of clout with
the cops in this town, but he  told me to be smart about the underage
drinking. That was my initial mandate;  to have a place for underage drinking, but
that's when we were all under age. So  now under age guys and girls will need
to be sponsored by a member and then he or she will  be responsible for the
underage individual." The sex is over and pretty much  forgotten as we walk
back to the kitchen, until he says, "We need to toast  that sex act, my
friend, it was special."

Well I enjoyed  that climax so much I figure the least I can do is join him
 for another shot of that smooth bourbon. He gets the bottle and shot
glasses and we go past the supply/dining room to a room he's set-up as his
office. Sitting behind the desk he motions at a chair in front and I  sit in it
looking around the room. There's a whole wall of bookshelves  filled with
books. I ask, "How many of those books have you read, Trace?" He  goes, "A
surprisingly large number of them. I love to read almost as much as I  love to
fuck." We do a shot, toasting, "Sex!" then he gets a pack of  laminated
membership cards from a drawer and plops them on the desk top. Pouring us
another shot, he  asks, "What do you think the chances are of the Patriots making
the Super  Bowl this year?" We do another shot and talk sports for fifteen
minutes. Then he  tells me about his and Linda's trip to Hawaii last May
after  college.

We have a few more  shots while shooting the breeze with me telling him
about my adventure in  Georgia. Between Tracy and me, we mutually enjoy the
sexual pleasure of  anal intercourse, with him always the 'top' of course, plus
we like each  other. That's as far as that goes though. Tracy's not falling
in love with  me, and he doesn't want us to live together or anything like
that.  Just quick sex and then it's over with minimal discussion about it
other than,  "That was hot,  dude!'. We may have  some conversation afterwards
like we're doing today, and there's  usually Tracey's favorite way of
drinking to deal with, meaning shots.  Other times we'll both go about our
business right after the  quick sex. He's the perfect buddy sex partner with near
zero  commitment. It's about as harmless a buddy sex situation as I've ever
been  involved in, and the four or five times we've done it together  I
think the longest it's taken to climax is around three minutes,  tops. From the
time we go into the supply room until we walk out is  never longer then five
or six minutes. Fast hard  fucking with good climaxes, and then that's it.

The VIP membership  card has my name on it and my picture. It's a cool
looking card, but I ask,  "How'd you get my picture?" He goes, "How do you think
I got it?" I go,  "Oh, my college ID picture, right?" and he goes, "Duh."

We laugh and talk a  little more before I say, "I gotta get back to my boys,"

and he's like, "Yeah,  and I gotta see how Rex is doing out there. Don't be
a stranger,  Dylan. Just because you're twenty-one don't think you're too
good for my local  speakeasy." I go, "Never happen, Trace," and when I stand
I realize I'm  dizzy and getting drunk. Those fucking shots of bourbon sneak
up on  you. We walk out onto the open deck, then bump fists, mumbling,
"Later, dude," and he goes to the front of the deck to talk with the  bouncer.

I glance over at the table Chubby's at with John Beverly and the  three
girls. The girls are all giggling or laughing their asses off.  Not wanting to
squeeze into that group I make eye contact with Travis  Hunter.

Travis gives me a big  smile and excuses himself from the little group he's
with and come over to give  me a big hello and a two arm hug. I've known
Travis since freshman year of high  school, not that we hung out together.

Mostly just said 'Hi' when we passed  each other in the hall, and once in a
while we'd talked  sports for a minute or two. I always had a feeling he was
gay, or maybe he  was just interested in me. If so he has a great cover
because he's been  going with the same girl for years. He's very friendly today,
but not drunk so  he doesn't do his usual failed suggestions that we do
something sexy  together. When he's had a few pops he's full of innuendoes about
gay  sex. Today we talk about our summers a little bit, then we're joined by
Rolly  North and some guy I don't know, who turns out to be Travis'
roommate, Tony  something. I'm terrible with names. I just was told Tony's last
name and  forgot it immediately.

A couple of  other guys I don't know join the group and we all get beers
and start  playing liars poker for dollar bills. I had maybe five or six shots
of bourbon  and the two Coke and Jacks  with Chubby, so the beers are going
down  easily. Hell, after bourbon, the beer taste almost like water. The
liar's poker game goes  on like forever and the beer keeps flowing. When
drinking booze I always smoke  too many cigarettes, so I'm a mess when Chubby
finally comes over and asks,  "How ya doing, bro?" I'm blinking my eyes,
stepping away from the liars poker  group, slurring, "I'm drunk, Chub, that's how
I'm doing, but look," and I show  him my VIP membership. Chubby laughs,
"VIP! You hot shit," as he steers me  toward the steps, saying, "I'm taking you
to your brand new apartment." I'm  like, "Let me get a roadie for the
drive," and he laughs, "A roadie is the last  thing you need, big brother." I
rarely argue with Chubby about anything,  plus I know someplace in my brain
he's right this time too, and that what I  need is to get in bed.

Chubby's driving with  me babbling about how cool Tracy's speakeasy is, and
even  though I know I'm babbling I can't seem to stop. I like being a
little 'high' on booze, but I hate being drunk. Chubby drives to my apartment
building and insist on walking up with me. When we're almost to the front
door of the apartment building I throw up, then almost slip in my own vomit.

Disgusting! Chubby makes a joke out of it, but now I feel like shit and
don't say anything while concentrating on walking up the steps that seem to be
spinning. In the apartment Chubby watches me get undressed, then leans on
the  bathroom's doorjamb watching me brush my teeth and gargle with cinnamon
mouthwash, that almost makes me hurl again. Chubby says, "Mint mouthwash is
 better." I nod at that and we both take a piss standing next to each
other. I'm  swaying by now, unsteady on my feet. Chubby makes me take three Advil
with a  large glass of water, then he gets me in bed and I go out like a
light.

Sunday morning I can  barely get up to take the wicked piss I absolutely
need to take or I'll pee the  bed. Staggering out of bed and into the bathroom
I manage to get most of the  piss in the toilet, but still feel really bad,
and hate on myself  for doing all those shots last night. Then I burp up
the bourbon taste and rinse  out my mouth again. Will I ever fucking learn?

The shots seemed like  the cool thing to do while having a conversation with
Tracy. Back in bed I  remember Tracy and me fucking and try to figure out if
I feel guilty about that,  but fall back to sleep before reaching a
conclusion.

Chubby wakes me with  Dunkin' Donut coffee, a breakfast sandwich, OJ and
three Advil, saying,  "C'mon, Dylan, take the Advil and try eating something."

I groan sitting  up, and he says, "There's a two-hand touch football game
at one o'clock." I  drink the whole bottle of OJ taking the Advil, then sip
some coffee, mumbling,  "I can't eat anything, Chub. What time is it?" He
picks up my arm and looks at  my wristwatch, as I mutter, "Oh, yeah, I forgot I
had that on." He grins, "It's  five after twelve." Sitting on the side of
the bed, I sigh, then mumble, "I'm  taking a shower and lying around the
apartment until Robby  gets here." Chubby tries one more time to get me to play
in the football game,  but I just can't. He says, "I thought the fresh air
might revive you, but laying  around on a Sunday is a good thing too,
especially with a hangover.  Text me if you need anything at all," then he leans
down to where I'm  sitting and hugs me, then a kiss on my cheek. The only
thing I feel capable  of doing is pat his shoulder, mumbling, "Thanks, Chub."

Fighting the urge to  go back to sleep, I stagger into the bathroom again
to sit on the john this  time, my head pounding away. Done that I get under a
hot shower and  stand there for a long time before shampooing and grinning
to myself about  actually having hair on my head to shampoo, then wash
myself, and finally  stand under the flowing water again until it starts losing
it's warmth. Getting out and drying  myself, I try talking myself into
believing I feel better. I brush my teeth  again and then put on flimsy, baggy
basketball shorts that hang below my  knees, then pull on an  old too-large
soft t-shirt. Bare foot I wander into the kitchen feeling I  probably should
put something in my stomach. I look at the breakfast  sandwich Chubby left
here on the counter, but reject that idea. Instead I get a  recently purchased
box of Lipton dry chicken soup mix. Perfect for a  hangover because it's
ninety percent watery chicken broth with some  tiny little noodles that are so
soft you don't even need to chew  them.

A quart of  boiling water, and in goes the dry soup mix. When it simmers
for five  minutes it's done. I have the choice of watching playoff baseball,
which the  Red Sox are not a part of, or preseason Pats football. Easy
fucking choice.  Watching the Pats' game I devour the soup and a Coke, then lay on
the sofa pulling a  smallish car blanket over me against the chill of the
air conditioning. I don't see much of the game before falling asleep  on the
sofa. I also don't know how long I slept before, in the deepest  part of my
brain, I hear my cell phone ringing in the bedroom. Almost sleep  walking I
go in and answer it. It's Ryan who's just arrived and says it's  important
I come see him. I check myself out and conclude I'm feeling a  little
better, so I say, "Okay, sure, I'd like to see you too."

I'm at the bottom of  the steps before remembering I don't have a ride.

Looking up the steps, I  say out loud, "Screw it, I'll walk and get Ryan to
drive me back." As I'm  walking, sort of in a fog, I'm wondering why Ryan was
so emphatic I meet him in his dorm room this afternoon.  I mean, he just
fuckin' got here, so what's the rush? And I  had a rough night and he's gotta
be wicked tired from the drive. I know he  didn't drive straight through, but
he made the trip with only one night  in a motel, and that's a long-ass
drive, especially  alone. But he says he's anxious to see me, and I lived with
him and  his family for almost two months so I guess I can accommodate his
little request. He sounded very mysterious with his  weird whispery voice on
the phone. Maybe he's depressed or upset. Maybe  about him and Mike not
working out. I feel bad about that because it started  out so promising the
last week I was there.

I'm thinking way back  to when we first met; it was an odd circumstance
orchestrated by Robby. He  insisted Ryan and I  have lunch together and we were
supposed to sort out our differences. Our  differences consisted of us both
being jealous of the other for Robby's  affection. We settled on lunch at
my freshman apartment and we were  actually getting along so well together
that Ryan, who was supposedly  submissively shy, asked me if he could fuck me;
to put it bluntly. I don't  think there's ever been anything in my life
that surprised me more than  that.

Anyway, the result of  that luncheon is Ryan and me have been serious fuck
buddies from that  day until my last day in Georgia. That's all old news by
now of  course. Oh man though, I sure recognized that authoritative tone  of
his voice on the phone, and it still gives my dick a tingle. I  sincerely
hope he's not pissed-off at me for some dumb paranoid  reason of his own. I
mean I did almost everything I promised I'd do this summer  with him, plus I
helped him tremendously as far as his image in his home town  goes, and in
that regard changed his life. And fuck, that's no small thing!  Thinking
those thoughts I almost stumble over the curb to route 114 with  cars zooming by
at fifty miles an hour. Jesus!

Oh fuck  whatever! I figure I owe Ryan a little something even though I
feel oddly  foggy and I'm not sure why I even feel this way. Fuck, heh heh,  I
made it across the four lane highway in one piece, so  that's all good, but
I feel like I'm a slow motion walking a  zombie. Coming up to his building I
all of a sudden feel  self-conscious about what I'm wearing. Oh  Christ!

Why did I put on flip flops to walk  here? And I should have changed out of my
 fucking basketball shorts. These things are strictly for  lying around the
apartment. This is so  fucking stupid! I should have said I'll see you
sometime later,  Ryan. Yeah, but I didn't want Ryan to think I don't appreciate
all the good  times we had together in the south. Ha! His parents, while
kooky, were basically nice  to me and I don't want to seem like an ingrate, or
 whatever.

Not seeing each other  for almost two months, after living and working
together 24/7 makes  for a weird situation, ya know? During my time there it
became second nature for Ryan to be in-charge, which maybe he's  carrying over
in his mind and feels he's still in-charge and entitled  to sort of order
me to come over like this. Well, we're both at Merrimack  College now, and
not Marietta, Georgia, so there are changes in  circumstances. Ryan's back in
my life for real now, and while I'm glad about  that, I gotta do something
about correcting whatever misconception he has about  bossing me around. In
his house, and working for him, that's one thing, but  being equals here at
college is a very different thing. Robby and I  are in a really good place
right now and I'm not letting Ryan or anyone else  fuck that up.

Walking in the  front door of Ryan's dormitory building, I know exactly
where to go. Up the  steps and to the right and there's his door.  I
tentatively knock as the buzzing in my stomach picks up... dammit!  Ryan opens the
door and gives me a big  smile and a hug. He says, "Let me look at you," then
he gets this serious expression on his face, and not knowing how  else to
react, I smile. Then I notice his hair is curly  all over his head and his
beard's curly too. I can't stop staring at his curly  head of hair. He sees
where my eyes are looking, and goes, "Oh yeah, I got a  permanent for my hair
to try a different look." I murmur, "Oh, um, they go  together, um, your hair
and your curly beard." He slowly runs his fingers across his chin ruffling
his curly whiskers, saying,  "Well, come in, Dylan, don't stand there like a
dummy, fer  Christ's sakes." There's that voice of authority he used on the
phone.  My dick buzzes annoyingly, but feels good  too.

Going inside I look  around and not seeing anyone else here. Ryan's
standing close to me, his  eyes staring at my hair as he slowly shakes his head,
mumbling, "Just look at  you. You haven't had a haircut since the last one I
gave you almost two months  ago." Running my fingers through my hair, feeling
self-conscious, I mumble, "Robby said I  probably should get a, you know,
um, a trim, ah, at a barbershop or even  SuperCuts...."  Ryan's frowning and
acting grumpy using both hands to  roughly rub my head, saying, "At least
your hair is clean, but you look like a  fucking ragamuffin." He spoke real
low after that and I couldn't quite hear  what he said, so I ask, "What?

What'd you say after ragamuffin? I'm not  sure...?" He puts his arms around me and
hugs me, murmuring something I still  can't hear. Letting go of me he
whispers, "Just look at yourself," and I  look away feeling as though I've let
him down by disappointed him  somehow.

I'm standing here  with Ryan looking right into my eyes making me squint
because light is  reflecting off his contacts. I want to tell him to quit
fucking around and tell  me why he needed to see me so urgently, except I don't
want to hurt his  feelings. And I'm starting to feel that familiar
submissive sense  I remember so well when he was in charge during the summer. Maybe
he's  feeling as funny as I do about our first time together after all we
went  through early last summer. We were always together in Marietta, and all
that  hot sex we had with Ryan being my boss and dom and all that. And me
liking  most of it. Ryan was the best at being dominant in an almost perfect
way as  far as I was concerned. He knows me very well and right now I almost
wish  he'd boss me around a little. It's all coming back to me quickly. I'm
biting my lip and need to avert my eyes, looking down. Ryan snickers, grabs
my  arm and pulls me toward one of the twin beds. Jesus, I'm having trouble
catching my breath.

Breathing  difficulties just from thinking back to Ryan's dominance and the
hot  climaxes, and the wicked short haircuts with Ryan's right in front of
me  pointing at something in his normal authoritative manner. He's so
intense  and acting arrogantly confident like only he can. He knows how  to make
me submissive to him and knows it turns me on to be that way with  him. That
needs to change obviously, especially now that Robby and I are  tighter and
more in love than ever. Ryan's so, um... so  something. He taps my chin so I
look up and his eyes go to his arm that's  pointing at something. I turn my
head slowly almost afraid to see what  he's pointing, and there's the
toiletry kit containing my second hand  professional barber clippers, scissors and
stuff. I bought those  things off Ebay when I was like eleven and left them
in Georgia with  Ryan so he could continuing giving Jeff and Timmy his
specialty haircuts. Of  course I had to buy new clippers at a drugstore for like
seventy dollars so  I'd have them to bring home with me. The drugstore
clippers work pretty  well and the scissors are as sharp as those I left with
Ryan.

I'm staring at the  toiletry kit now, waiting for Ryan to say something. So
far he's just pointing,  so I finally mumble, "Um, thanks for bringing that
with you, Ryan." He  whispers, "Set the barber equipment up right now, and
do it the way I  taught you." My dick starts firming up, but I'm not in
Marietta anymore, so I  stammer, "Nah, no, I mean... I don't think Robby meant for
you to give me a  trim around the ears, he..." and Ryan sternly says, "Just
do what you're told,  Danny." Danny? What the fuck?

Oh man, I feel so  weird as I glance at  him and he gives me a wry grin,
nodding his head, 'yes'. Like, you're getting a  haircut. I'm frozen in place,
my mind fizzing up. Ryan quietly says, "Did  you forget everything I taught
you already?" and he hugs my shoulders,  whispering, "After your haircut
we'll visit our old hot sexual times,  huh?" Oh my God, it's like I'm back in
Georgia. Fuck, but my main  problem is I actually do want to do it all so
badly with him,  just like we did it nine times in Georgia; the haircut
followed by a dominant  hard fucking up my ass. Maybe a spanking first.

I sincerely mean  everything I'm thinking, but at the same time I don't
want to do any  of it. My cock is trying to run over my brain again. That damn
Ryan knows  how to push all my buttons. The back of my hand comes up so I
scan smell the back of my wrist  trying to make sense of this. Ryan gently
takes my wrist pulling my arm away  from my face and lays it on the toiletry
kit, saying, "Go ahead, Danny, do what  you're told! Don't make me tell you
three times." Just like that I need to hold  my breath to keep from shooting
off in my pants. In the back of my mind I was  afraid something like this
would happen. Ryan has some kind of power over me.  The thing is I'm feeling
that wonderful submissive trance again and  it feels just as good  as I
remember. So dreamy and sexy. Ryan was really very nice to me during my  time with
him in the South, and damn he made me feel some awesome  sexual sensations.

Fuck, right now my groin is buzzing like old  times.

Okay, I'll let this  be a lesson to me. I can't be in Ryan's company alone,
certainly not in his  dorm room. I need to totally get over him somehow,
and now I realize  that's going to take a concerted effort. Sure, I could say,
"No thank,  Ryan, I'm not doing this," but that wouldn't do any fucking
good. It's been  established during my time in Marietta that he doesn't take no
for an  answer, and he's only doing what we both agreed to last May. So for
now, one  last time, I'll do all of it with him again. If I'm honest with
myself, I  want to do it all with him again. I feel totally powerless anyway,
but  this will be the last time. And anyway, nobody seems to like my longer
hair.  Tracy didn't.

Oh fuck, while  thinking about all that, I've been laying out the barber
stuff on the  bureau the way Ryan's wants it. Actually, I don't even remember
doing it.  Turning around, I'm looking at him... for praise maybe? He nods,
"Yeah, good,  Danny. Now pull that desk chair over here and plug in the
clippers." Okay, I'm  doing it, but this will be the last time like I said,
although I almost giggle  now because I'm so excited as a strong buzzing is
concentrated  all around my cock. Oooh, man that feels good. Why lie to myself,
he's got  me sexually aroused and he hasn't hardly done or said anything yet.

He  doesn't need to after getting me in the habit of doing what he said for
almost  two month earlier this summer. Being with him now brings back
everything and I remember how contented I felt with him running the show  for the
both of us.

I'm staring at him  again, and he gets this  concerned expression on his
face, asking, "Are you alright, Danny?" I go, "Ha,  Danny! That's a good one,
Albert." He says, "Stop the nonsense. Get  your shirt off and sit down,"

then he swats my ass. I nod and do what I'm  told, feeling chastised. I'm
sitting on the chair holding my shirt. He comes  over and stands behind me with a
hand on each of my bare shoulders making  me hunch my shoulders as shivers
run down my spine. Leaning his head down  so his lips are on my ear, he
whispers, "Relax, boy. You're doing okay so  far," and he rubs his hand from my
forehead back over my head making my hairs  ruffle up and backwards. He does
it again and another shiver skitters down my  spine.

Ryan drags a  barber comb through my hair from my forehead to the back of
my head. He  does it a number of times, quietly explaining, "So the clippers
don't get stuck.  I want them to run through your hair easily." My shoulders
do another little  shudder as I croak out, "Um, is it okay if you just
maybe trim around my  ears?"  He does a soft laugh, then pushes my head roughly,
 saying, "No talking," and then in a commanding voice, "And sit up
straight,  goddammit!" Then a light smack on the back of my head. I feel my cock
tighten as  I sit up ridiculously straight. Ryan murmurs, "Good boy," and picks
up the  clippers, then attaches a guide. I'm staring at it so he shows it
to me, saying,  "Yes, it's the quarter inch guide. I'll run it through the
hair all over your  head and then finish with the eight inch guide on the
sides and  back. And yes, I'm taking the clippers over the crown of your head
just like I always do it." He adds, "You know the drill by now. It's the
same specialty haircut I gave you back home and the same one I've been giving
you at Merrimack since last Easter, and the same one you'll be getting
every week here at Merrimack this year." I grab my crotch and he smacks my hand
away, asking, "Do you have any objections to continuing our arrangement of
weekly haircuts for you?" I gulp, then mutter, "No, Ryan."

He says, "Alright  then, Danny, good boy. During your haircut sit up
straight; no  sloughing, and keep your head still!" Then he gives me another smack
on the  back of my head as a squirt of cum shoots out in my shorts. Turning
on  the clippers, Ryan lifts my bangs off my forehead and runs the clippers
 from front to back over my head and I feel lots of clean blond hairs
drifting  down my back. He murmurs, "Well okay, I'll have you looking like my boy
again in  no time," and the clippers run over my head again as another pile
of  hair slide down my  back. Then again and again and my submissive trance
is so deep and so gooey  and dreamy now that all my cares about everything
leaves my mind and I  concentrate on stroking my throbbing boner, and I
don't even remember  dropping my shorts.

He's gently shaking  my shoulder, saying, "Dylan, Dylan, are you okay?" My
eyes blink open, then I  take my hand off my boner, mumbling, "Robby? Oh
God! What," and I look around at  our new apartment and grin, the sputter, "Um,
what time is it?" He says, "It's  almost five o'clock. You don't look well.

You're perspiring, and you were  breathing funny, mumbling in your sleep.

It kinda scared me," and he wipes his  fingers across my damp forehead. I go,
"I had a wicked hangover this  morning, Rob," as I using the fingers of
both my hands to ruffle  through my hair. I grin, then chuckle with relief. He
asks, "What are you  laughing about?" and I shrug, tossing the little
blanket off me, "Oh, a dumb  dream is all." Then, glancing at my basketball shorts
I see a big precum  spot so I casually pull the blanket back across my lap
as I'm  sitting up on the sofa, asking, "How was the drive up, Rob?" He sits
next  to me on the sofa and rubs my back, saying, "No problem driving here,
but  what about you just now? Did you have a nightmare, or what?" Taking a
couple of deep breaths, I mumble, "It's nothing. Um, oh man, heh heh, I'm
so  glad to see you. I really missed you too."

Robby's slowly  shaking his head, "It must have been something, that dream,
I mean." and he hugs  my shoulders as I lean in against him. He goes, "I
was thinking maybe you needed  an exorcism the way you were talking in some
mysterious language." Oh fuck, I'm  so relieved that was only a dream... so
happy I feel giddy." Robby pinches  the hairs growing over the top of my right
ear, saying, "Seriously  though, you need to get a trim, babe. I've never
seen you so, um,  ragamuffin like, hair-wise anyway." Ragamuffin! That was a
word in my  dream. I say, "Yeah, you're right.  Good idea. I'm gonna  do that.

Maybe I'll go to the SuperCuts on route 114." After having the
nightmare-scare I just had, even SuperCuts seems preferable. Robby shrugs,  "Where ever
you want, but yeah, that place is the closest  barbershop and they're open
on Sundays, but it's probably too late to  go now." Then he hugs my
shoulders and I lay against  him snuggling, as he says, "Oh yeah, Ryan texted me
that he's arriving  about seven o'clock and he asked if the three of us could
have dinner  together." I go, "Huh, he texted you? Um, there's probably a
text on my  cellphone too."

Rubbing's hand  is on my cheek, "Um, I don't really feel like having dinner
with him.  Would you mind if we didn't. I could text some BS back to him
about us eating in  tonight or say we already ate." I go, "Gee that would be
mean, Rob." He  shrugs, "Yeah, I know." His body feels so good and he smells
good, I feel  so safe with Robby. He says, "Okay we'll have dinner with him,
but we've  got two hours before meeting him, so I'm wondering if you feel
like messing  around with a little recreational sex here in the privacy of
our apartment?" I  put an arm around the back of his neck and lay my head on
his  chest, the top of my head against his cheek, as I murmur, "Yes, I
believe I'd like that, Rob."


to be continued...  Donny Mumford    thinat20@yahoo.com


donnymumford@outlook.com


========================================================


Hoping some readers may be interested, there are books of mine  published
and available on Amazon.com. Anyone who has Kindle can download them  for
next to nothing. The books are usually around ten dollars. They  are about a 19
year old gay boy (Oliver) who has a far different life than Dylan's. And
there is  a new book, 'Mike, his Bike and Me'. Please at least check them out
by  typing my name on Amazon.com. Information about the story in the books
can  be found in some detail there. Thank you.


Donny  Mumford

========================================================

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