Date: Sun, 30 Oct 2016 13:11:30 -0400
From: MGTBILL@aol.com
Subject: DYLAN'S JUNIOR YEAR AT COLLEGE Chapter  13

DYLAN'S  JUNIOR YEAR AT COLLEGE


Chapter  13


DONNY  MUMFORD


After  picking up Frankie and Beth at their dorm, Chubby drives us across
campus, asking an obvious question, "Who knows how to get to this place?"

Beth confidently answers, "It's easy to get to. Drive down 114 a couple of
miles, the frat house is on the right, not far from the campus. I was  there
two or three times last year." I ask, "What exactly are we looking for?"

and Beth says, "You can't miss it. It's a really big brick house  with a wide
front porch and columns, like a Southern plantation mansion. And  it's
surrounded by trees." Huh, personally I know very  little about fraternities, and
what I do know was gleaned from  other students, who themselves have never
been a fraternity member. Frankly  the idea of pledging to a fraternity
never crossed my mind when contemplating  college. It seems as though it would
isolates you within that smallish  group, and then there's a snooty, elitist
element to it as  well. None of the Greek letter houses are on campus, so
understandably I don't personally know even one frat brother. The off  campus
properties are owned by the fraternities, bought many  years ago by
founding members. Current members are mostly offspring of previous  members and
they pay something like $2500 a semester for room and board.  That's pretty
much all I know about the topic, and I can't vouch for any  it; it's merely
what I've been told.

Something soon  becomes apparent: the frat house is not 'just down  114 a
couple of miles', like Beth said. Robby drives for ten  minutes without
finding anything remotely resembling a frat house. Frankie  says, "Maybe you
should have driven the other way on route 114." Robby exhales  exasperatedly,
and mumbles, "If I drove west on route 114 for five  minutes we'd be in
fuckin' Lawrence."  I look at Beth, "What's  your next best guess how we get
there?" No longer confident, Beth sounds  confused and frustrated, like somehow
it's Robby's driving that's  screwed things up. She says, "Frankie, back me
up with this. It's off  route 114, right?" Frankie mutters, -"If you say so,
Beth. I've never claimed  to know how to get there, and if we go any further
on this road we'll be in  Middleton." None of us thought to bring one of
the notices that were  displayed all over the campus. If we had, we'd at least
know the address  and could load it into the GPS. Here we are, four college
students driving  forty-five miles an hour without knowing where we're
going. Brilliant!

Robby  pulls into a small strip mall, stopping at a Dunkin'  Donut shop. He
asks three guys loitering outside, "Any of you guys know of  a frat house
in this general area?" The three goofs shake their heads, and a  buck-tooth
kid about sixteen years old, says, "Not exactly. Why do you wanna  know?"

Robby goes, "Yeah, sure, why do I wanna know. Jesus!" Muttering,  "assholes"

under his breath, he pulls away, saying to us, "We'll go back to  the campus
and get the address." Beth says, "I'm sorry, I thought it  was off this
road." Frankie says, "Well, we got pretty drunk before we went to  the
fraternity party last year, Beth. All I remember is the house  being big and in the
woods somewhere." I'm thinking it's a good thing  Rob had those beers
earlier; they've mellowed him out a little. Getting  lost is the kind of thing that
tends to make a person feel  stupid, like running out of gas makes you feel
stupid. Also,  getting lost in a group tends to get people turning on one
another.  Mostly I feel dumb for assuming these air-headed girls would know
how to  get there. It's worst for the driver of course, and even with
half-a-load on I  know Robby's on the verge of becoming a little testy and  snippy.

No  one says anything as Robby drives back the way we came. The girls,
still  clinging to the possibility we drove right by the frat house are
swiveling their  heads looking for it. When we're almost to Stop & Shop we see
Chubby in  the Jeep drive past us in the other direction. Chubby and Robby both
blow their  horn, and then pull over to the side of the road, and back up.

Smirking, Chubby yells over to us, "Don't tell me you guys are done for the
night already." Robby yells across the street, "We haven't been there  yet.

Nobody thought to figure out how the fuck to get there. I've been  driving
around without much of a clue." Chubby's grinning, "So you're that guy  who's
driving a hundred miles an hour the wrong way down a  dead-end street,
huh?" Robby goes, "Something like that, yeah." Chubby  goes, "Turn around and
follow me." Robby makes an illegal U-turn and follows  Chubby, who almost
immediately turns off route 114 up a winding road. Robby  and I look at Beth,
and she defensively whines, "I told you it was off this  road."

Less  than a  mile up the windy road Chubby turns into a driveway and we
hear loud music  coming from the frat house, that we  still can't see through
all the trees. We go around a bend in the road and there  it is, a hundred
yards ahead. It's a big house alright, with a porch  across the front and
some pillars. The house and surrounding grounds are  as brightly lit as a crime
scene. Two fraternity brothers are stopping  each car. We're the third car
in line and, while we wait, Frankie says, "Oh  yeah, that's right. We'll
need to pay a couple bucks for plastic cups. The  cups give us access to the
beer kegs. I remember that much." Huh,  it's pretty dumb of me, but it never
occurred to me we'd need to pay. That was  stupid; why would the fraternity
be giving strangers a free beer party. In  fact the main reason for having a
frat party is to make money for their  fraternity. Secondarily, the
fraternity brothers throw these parties to  attract girls, who the frat boys hope to
fuck. We drift up one space  closer and Robby brings a smile to my face
when he mutters, "I hope you girls  brought your wallets with you," and Frankie
goes, "Hey! Our dates  should pay for us." I snarl, "We're not your dates!"

Beth says, "Why are  you so grumpy, Dylan? Frankie was teasing you guys
about paying for us." I  mutter, "I knew that, and I'm not grumpy. I was
teasing you  back."

In  front of us, Chubby's got his head out the driver's side  window
commiserating with the two frat guys. All of a sudden they  break out laughing,
giving Chubby a high five. Still snickering, there's  money exchanged and
three bright red plastic cups are passed to  Chubby.  Danny and Golden are in
the Jeep with him. I don't know where John  Beverly is tonight. I'm surprised
he's not with Chubby. When Chubby pulls  away, Robby pulls up to the two
fraternity brothers. One is a normal  size frat boy, who's kinda cute, while
the other  one is huge, scary looking, and looks like he's thirty years old.

The  cute one smiles, asking, "How's everyone doing tonight?" Robby, still
annoyed  about getting lost, ignores the friendly greeting, and mutters, "What
 are you charging for the cups?" The cute frat-boy smiles and says, "You're
in  luck, it's bargain-pricing tonight. A mere fifteen dollars a cup, and
you can drink till you drop. It's Coors  beer tonight, boys and girls. Beer
directly from the clear cool  springs of the Rocky Mountains... or some
mountains. I'm pretty sure the  mountain is in Colorado though." I'm staring at the
side of the cute,  smart-ass frat boy's face as I pass Robby fifteen
dollars. His facial  features remind me of Seth. The guy must feel me staring  at
him because he turns his head and looks directly at me. I stare back  while
smelling the back of my hand, and he winks then turns his attention  back to
Robby. Beth says to Frankie, "I got this girlfriend," and gives  Robby a
fifty dollar bill for both their cup fees. Robby hands all the money to  the
frat guy who collects the money, returns change for the fifty, and then the
bouncer-guy passes Robby four cups. I suppose he also breaks legs when
necessary.

The  heavy-duty plastic cups have the fraternity's Greek letters on the
side as well  as a number. Mine has the number 267 and Robby's is 268, so I
guess that's  how many $15 cups they've passed out thus far. There are cars
behind us so the  number will definitely be going up. I'm guessing they'll be a
frat boy  observing each tapped keg to insure only their cups are being
used. A  simple, but effective way of making sure everyone pays for their beer.

Robby  parks next to the Jeep and I hop out to exchange a quick hug with
Chubby. He  says, "Be good tonight, bro," and I mutter, "You too, Chub." I
bump fists with  Golden, "Whassup, Golden?" and Danny gives me a hug, then a
bigger hug for  Robby. Happily I see Beth's going right over to Golden, and
she sticks  to him like white on sugar. That brings a big smile to my face.

Robby's not as  lucky though as Frankie is almost in his skinny jeans with
him. I can't figure  out what she hopes to accomplish. Chubby and I lead the
way, joining a loud  throng of college-age guys and girls in the front yard.

College age for the most  part although I notice some partiers who couldn't
possibly be twenty-one; not  that anyone seems to care. The crowd extends
along the front of the house  about a hundred feet, then back from the front
porch about thirty  feet, almost to the first line of parked cars. Then there
are guys and  girls leaning against cars, while others are inside them,
perhaps  doing sexy things. The music is loud and so is the crowd, but how could
it be  otherwise? It's not even ten-thirty, so as the throng increases I
expect  it'll get even rowdier, maybe reaching border-line obnoxious  status.

There are  six quarter-kegs of Coors beer at stations along the front
porch. The  porch is the closest the fraternity's guests are allowed to the
house.  That's if I can believe the signs  indicating, "NO TRESPASSING!'  Then,
in smaller  letters, 'Except for those interested in being castrated, in
which case take  a number at the door.' Oh brother, really! Apparently frat boys
 tend to mature slower than most. There are four porta-potties at the edge
of the property, which is to say at the edge of the forest. When we drove
in I  noticed a gravel road going off to the right that would take  us a back
to Merrimack's campus in two or three minutes. So  this frat house, while
secluded in the woods, is only a couple  minutes'drive to the college.

Tonight is strictly an outdoor affair, and most everyone is dressed more like
one would dress at a ski lodge rather than at a suburban college frat  party.

Naturally clouds of pot smoke drift above the crowd and there's an  electric
vibe in the air from equal parts youthful energy, stupidity from all  the
bad choices being made, and a large dose of testosterone, mostly  from the
guys, but some from the girls as well. It's invigorating being  here with so
many members of the same tribe, so to speak.

We  wait in a short line, then fill our cups from a quarter keg of Coors
beer.  Being outdoors has the advantage of smoking being allowed, so we light
cigarettes stepping away from the porch with our beers. Exhaled  cigarette
smoke mingles with the marijuana smoke floating in the breeze all  around
us. Due to the number of guys and girls here, our group quickly gets
separated, and now Chubby's the openly person I know who's in my  vicinity. I ask
him, "Do you think fifteen dollars for these twelve ounce  cups is a bargain,
or a rip-off, Chub?" He says, "Let's do the math, bro.  Quarter kegs cost
about $70 and there's eighty-two twelve-ounce servings in a  quarter keg,
which mean each cup of beer cost the frat house about eighty cents.  If we
assume a six pack is about the maximum quota for most girls, then the  fifteen
dollar cup cost the frat house less than five dollar's worth of  beer; in
other words a ten dollar profit. Ten dollar profit times, lets say  a minimum of
a hundred a fifty girls, so that's a nice chunk of change.  Now, on the
other hand, a lot of the guys will drink more than that. Let's  say some guys
drink, or waste, twice as much as a girl. The fraternity  still makes more
than a five dollars profit from every guy." I go, "Seems fair  enough
considering they need to go through all the trouble of setting everything  up,
renting the port-potties, and dealing with the money and cups and all that  kinda
thing, plus cleaning up afterward." Chubby goes, "Yeah, but mostly it's
fun for them; it's what these asshole do. Plus, look over to the far end of
the  porch." I look way down to the other end of the porch and see shots of
liquor being served for two bucks a shot, and the two  frat boy bartenders
can't pour it fast enough." Frankie and Beth are in line for  shots, and
there's Danny and Golden, so Robby's probably there too. The  girls said they'd
need some shots to catch up to the front-loading us guys  did at the bar.  Oh
man, my poor boyfriend is going to be hungover  like a motherfucker
tomorrow!

A  husky guy is at the tap filling his cup. He sees Chubby and goes, "Yo,
Romaro, I  can't believe these guys are letting Framingham boys mingle with
us  Wellesley boys?" Chubby goes, "Arthur! Jesus, ya know, every time I see
you  I think: breath mints." He mutters, "What's that supposed to mean?" and
walks off with a fairly nice looking girl. "Who was that, Chub?" he goes,
"A would be bully from Wellesley. He hung out at the Dairy Queen when we
were in  high school, and we had a couple of confrontations. That slob had
halitosis like  you cannot believe, bro." We talk about incidents we've both had
 at the Dairy Queen in our younger days, but the exclusivity for Chubby's
attention doesn't last long. Ten minutes into our first cup of beer he's
already  switched his attention to hit on a pretty African American girl, while
her  girlfriend is hitting on me. The girl tells me her name is, Sandra,
and I tell  her my name. Sandra is a big girl, and I don't mean fat, because
she isn't fat.  She's just big! She's also being condescending to me, which I
can't  figure out until she asks me, "What grade are you in, Dylan?" which
can only mean she assumes I'm still in high school. I assume that because
no one  asks a college student what 'grade' you're in? They ask,  'what year
are you in?'.' Also Sandra is not pretty like  her friend. Um, to be more
exact she's not pretty at all, plus she's  pushy, probably because she's
misconstrued that she's stuck with a high  school student. Using her
misconception to my advantage, I tell her, "I'm a  senior at Haverhill High. I came with
my big brother, Stewart, who I need to  find, and I mean I need to find him
right this fucking minute. He told me  not to get lost. Excuse me," and I
slink away. She didn't look overly  disappointed about my departure. On
second thought, Sandra looks  kinda like an unattractive guy wearing make-up.

Maybe he/she is a  guy.

It's  taken me a few minutes to get used to the cacophony of loud voices
shouting over  each other and the overdone loud laughter, plus the blaring
music. It  was initially sensory overload, but the noise quickly becomes merely
 acceptable background noise. I prefer loudness over quietness anyway. I
mean, even clearing your throat in a quiet library room, for example, gets
people looking your way with frowning disapproval. When I was going to church
in  Georgia and the minister's voice was the only sound in the room,
someone  would always cough and it was automatic that others had to cough  then
too. It was like an irresistible urge to at least clear your throat a  little.

Weird, but true.

Casually  making my way around the periphery of the large crowd, smoking my
 cigarette and sipping my beer, I'm trying to appear as if I'm going
someplace, instead of aimlessly wandering around. At this point I'd be glad to
run into anyone I know, even Ear Henderson or Harry Black,  or anybody. How
can there be so many people here who I don't  know? Then I see Lawyer Ross
dancing with a girl in the middle of the  dance crowd. The large contingent of
dancers stretches all  along the front of the house and extends up to near
where the  cars are parked. Most everyone here has been drinking for a
couple of  hours, so the beers we had at the bar earlier are important . If I
were completely sober  I might consider a lot of these guys and girls a tad
obnoxious. And  another thing: although I'm not exactly small at five-feet, ten
inches  tall, there are so many bigger guys and girls here. I'm slightly
above average  for modern men's height, but looking at most of these college
students, everyone here seems huge compared to me. Even a lot  of the girls
look big with wide shoulders and thick wrists. Ewww!  Or maybe it just seems
like that because I'm watching a group of  especially oversized individuals
at the moment, and then that Sandra  person was bigger than me as well. So
many big people gyrating and waving their  arms in the air, obviously
thinking they're dancing when they're  actually just jumping around. Jesus! And
just imagine, in the  eighteenth century the average man was five-feet, four
inches tall. That's the  average, which means a lot of men were shorter than
that. If there was a  time-machine in the eighteenth century, a college-age
eighteenth century little twerp would feel like a midget  transported to
this frat party. I'm staring at Lawyer again, remembering our  kiss and
thinking how handsome he looks tonight. Unlike most of the guys I  can see, Lawyer
can dance, and appears to be having a good time doing  it. Maybe I'll
hook-up with him later.

I'm  finished my beer, so now I actually do have something to do... get a
refill.  As I'm dodging people, bumping into some, making my way to one of the
quarter kegs, someone grabs my arm from behind. Looking back I see a
grinning  Danny Monday, sans a beer cup. I'm like, "Danny? You're not drinking
tonight?" He follows me towards a beer keg, saying, "Some asshole stole my
cup.  I didn't want to bring it into the porta-pottie with me, so I put it on
that  wall and when I came out it was gone. Half full of beer too. The cup
was gone  and so were the guys I was with. You take a few steps and you get
lost in  this crowd." I go, "Yeah, well that sucks!" We're standing behind two
 guys waiting my turn at the Coors tap. I tell Danny, "For now you can
share my  cup, and then we'll steal someone else's for you." He chuckles, and
the guy in  front of me, another big guy, this one with lots of red hair,
turns around and  says to me, "Once you're in here, and you've already paid the
cover charge,  you can get a replacement cup for a couple of bucks on the
other side  of the porch." Danny says, "Hey, good to know. Thanks, man." I
fill my cup,  take a couple of swallows and pass the cup to Danny, saying,
"C'mon, we'll get  you another cup."

We've  finished my cup of beer by the time we make our way to the other
side of the  frat house. Passing by the front porch I see there's now a DJ in
charge of the tunes, and I think how different this is from the DJ at that
club in Georgia; the club made from rental storage units. There the DJ
played music for a cowboy line dance, but here the DJ is fucking  around with
mostly club dance music, which gets more drunks moving  and thinking their
dancing. The porch isn't just across  the front as I thought; it runs
completely around the house and when we  turn the corner there's a frat boy behind a
card table passing out replacement  cups at three dollars each. From the
pile of bills in front of frat boy, Danny's  not the only one who lost his
official fraternity cup. While he waits for three  girls in front of us to buy
cups, the girls holding up the works by giving  frat boy a whole lot of shit
for needing to re-pay for a cup, I spot a beer  pong game. There's an actual
ping pong table for this game. Many times beer  pong is played on a kitchen
table or a counter top.

His  replacement cup in hand, Danny and I fill our cups with beer and walk
over  to see what's up with the game. There's a million ways to play
beer-pong, and a  twist here: they're playing for money. To get in the game we need
to challenge  the winning team which requires us getting our name on a
list, so I go up  to the frat boy running the game and give him my name. There
are nine, two-man  teams in front of my name. We watch for a while to
understand the rules for  this version of beer-pong. It appears the winning team
determines how much  beer goes in the cups, plus the number of cups on the
table. The more cups the more likely a ping pong ball will land in  one.

Nothing really new here. When a ball goes in a cup of the other team,  the guy
chugs the beer with the ping pong ball floating in it. The first  team member,
who eliminates four cups of his  opponent, wins five dollars from the loser.

The winning team continues to  control the table, taking on the next team.

There are maybe fifty rowdy,  and in some cases seriously inebriated,
college guys and girls cheering and  screaming the contestants on, especially
while a loser is chugging  beer. We watch the same girl lose three  times in a
row in about ten minutes. She drank the equivalent of three  cans of beer in
ten or twelve minutes. We haven't seen anyone throw up yet, but  it's
coming, and my money is on her.

After  watching the game for a while Danny and I go over and sit on a
brick wall that separates the forest from the fraternity grounds.  Danny shakes
his head, unhappy about something, then says, "Jesus, the  minute we got
here that Frankie girl dragged us over for two-dollar  shots of tequila. Rot
gut tequila no less! Horrible shit." I say, "Yeah, I saw a  couple of you guys
in the line. I don't know how you got to the other side of  that crowd so
fast." He shakes his head again, "Frankie's pulling on Rob's arm  and we
start jogging. I was thinking I'd hang out with Rob, but she monopolizes  his
time." I nod, "Yeah, I noticed that myself. Did Rob have more  than one shot?"

Danny says, like it's obvious, "Yeah, of course. The girls  were buying the
shots and passing them to Rob. I saw Rob have at least  three. That Frankie
bitch is really, um, persuasive, to put it nicely."  Then Danny laughs,
"Fuckin' Golden though. He took the shot in  his mouth, made a face, and spit
it out all over some guy's sneakers.  The dude with the sneakers was obvious
though. Didn't even know he got spit on.  This place is nuts." Looking
around, I go, "Yeah, it is a little nuts.  Still, I'm surprised we didn't show up
for at least one of these  parties the first two years at Merrimack. I
mean, underage is no problem. They  don't appear to care how old you are as long
as you've got fifteen bucks."  Danny nods and drinks some beer, then he
goes, "And this place is  nicely isolated, so no worries about the cops showing
up." Then we  talk about how we're doing in college so far as juniors; just
normal  conversation. Danny seems a little wistful though, a little down.

He has a very  nice way about him this year though, even acting sort of
deferential  to me. No more big shot baseball player like he acted at times in
the past. I  don't know, I think he's very likable, that's basically it.

The  DJ moves away from rap songs, I'm happy to say. It's a relief when he
goes  back to more conventional club music, and I don't even like club
music. Not unless I'm dancing to it. Repeated beat with a repeated phrase from a
 singer, or just the beat without a vocal at all. It's music  that's only
good for dancing, if you ask me. Still it's a relief from  the rap stuff. I
ask Danny, "You wanna dance," and he blushes, "Nah, I can't  dance." I
mutter, "Neither can half the guys dancing over there." We both  light cigarettes
and put our hoods up against the chill, then laugh because we  did both
things at the same time. He grins, jokingly saying, "Hey, stop  mimicking
everything I do." Yeah, he's much more likable than I remember  from last year.

What I'd like to do is quiz him about what's up between him  and Rob, but I
don't know how to do that without sounding accusatory, or  like a jealous
lover. And I'm not jealous, just curious. That's what I  am... curious. I go, "Why
do you think Frankie's so intent on hooking-up with  Rob? I mean, she know
we're gay." He says, "Have you ever heard of fag hags?" I  shrug, "Sure, but
aren't they like unattractive girls who settle for the company  of gay guys
because straight guys won't have anything to do with them?"  It's Danny's
turn to shrug, "I don't really know much about it actually. Frankie  and Beth
don't even know I'm gay; only about ten people in the world know  for
sure."

Huh,  I didn't realize he was mostly closeted. I go, "I'm not sure how to
put this,  Danny, and no offense intended, but haven't you ever had a
boyfriend?  I mean, I'm not talking about how you and Rob have been, um, friends. I
 mean a guy who you're boyfriends with." He looks at me, "No, not  really.

I've never had a real boyfriend, nothing like that. My only sex is
basically the occasional pity-fuck Rob gives me when he feels sorry  for me, but you
know all about that, don'cha? I'm sure he's told you how  pathetic I can
get," and he laughs nervously, adding, "I know, I really  need to get a life."

What the fuck? I say, "Rob's never said a word to  me about you two doing
anything sexy. Not a single word." He looks at me  and his face turn bright
red. He goes, "Oooouu, wow, really? He's never  mentioned anything about us?
Oh man, I feel like such a dorky loser. I fuck  everything up!" I go, "No,
its okay," and give the back of his neck a  squeeze. He leans against me,
mumbling, "Please, please, please, don't tell Rob  I said anything. I'd die of
humiliation." This is weird...

After  a minute or so Danny apparently realizes he's almost laying on me
and he  abruptly straightens-up, and says, "Sorry, I was leaning on you,
um...." I  mumble, "Don't be silly," and he says, "My life blows, Dylan! My home
life  sucks because my parents are  getting a divorce, yet they still live
in the same house. I love them,  but it's hard to respect either one. Neither
wants the  other's lawyer to claim they abandoned the household, so neither
will move  out. They don't talk, except to yell something horrible about
each other,  but through me. It's like, 'Daniel,  please tell your mother
she's a cunt for demanding everything I've worked my ass  off for these last
twenty-five miserable years with her.' Then she'll say, 'Danny,  tell that
gutless... well, you  get the idea. Anyway, being away at college is a relief,
except I worry  about what they'll do to each other. The gloom of their feud
hangs over my head even here." I put my arm across his shoulders, "Gee, I'm
really sorry for your troubles Danny. Feel free to unload on me anytime you
feel like venting. I'm a good listener and I'll lend  a sympathetic ear."

He turns his head and kisses my lips quickly,  saying, "Thank you, Dylan. It
means a lot to me that you care, and I  know I'm acting dorky again, but
thanks anyway. You're a really good  guy." I go, "Yeah, I know. Everybody tells
me that," and he sees me grinning so  he knows I'm kidding. He laughs,
saying, 'Well, you are."

He's  done his beer, and I've hardly touched mine. He gulped his down in
between  sentences telling me of his private misery. I'm wondering how many
shots of tequila he had, and how much that influenced his willingness  to
bare his soul to me. At the nearest beer keg, Danny's refilling his cup,
mumbling, "You won't say anything to Rob about, you know... what I said." I shake
my head, "Nope, I promise." We walk back to our spot on the wall, and he
says,  "You know; well, obviously you know. I was so hot for you, and I mean
from  the first time I saw you. That time we, um, did it together was one of
my  favorite experiences ever." Jesus, I hardly remember it at all, but I go,
 "Yeah, it was really nice," and, interrupting this awkward  discussion, I
hear my name yelled out, "Newman, you and your partner are  the next
victims!" meaning we're up next for beer pong. Saved by the  bell!

We  walk over and discover there's a one-dollar fee to get in the game.

It's collected by a frat guy who has a wad of dollar bills in his hands. These
 frat guys don't miss a chance to make a buck. As I give the guy a  dollar,
Danny says, "No brag, Dylan, just fact... I  fuckin' rock at beer pong."

And I soon discover, in fact, he  does! Our opponents are a guy and a girl
team. They both fits my  earlier description of big people. Both over six feet
tall with  wide bodies. The girl has a wide mouth as well, one that she uses
a  lot to loudly slur out inane inappropriate bullshit. Her boyfriend looks
 like a farmer, if that can be used in describing someone. Straw colored
hair  hanging in his eyes, big hard looking hands and sort of a 'golly gee'
expression on his face. They both are coatless, playing in t-shirts, and at
the most it's forty degrees. Oh, and they're also so drunk I don't know how
they won their last game.

Frat  Boy not only collects the dollar entrance fee, and holds each players
five  dollars stake, he's also the announcer. He looks at Danny and me and
calls us, "The pretty-boy team is challenging, um, Bonny and  Clyde."

There's some drunken cheering as we walk to the end of the table.  Opposite me is
the wide-mouth, Bonny, while Danny's playing against  Farmer Clyde. Frat
Boy says, "Ping-pong away teams!" As challengers we go  first, so I look at
Danny, and he dumps the ping pong ball on the  table about where the net would
be for a real ping pong game. The ball  bounces high and comes down in one
of Farmer Clyde's cups of beer. Danny and I  slap hands and smirk as Farmer
gulps down the twelve ounces of beer. I'm next,  and my ping pong ball skips
off the rim of a cup, and there's a chorus of boos  from the peanut
gallery. Dumb shits!

It's Farmer  Clyde's turn now and his ping pong ball is bounced too hard
and ends up off our  end of the table. Danny snares it before it hits the
ground. Some jeering from  the crowd, then Bonny flicks her ping pong ball and
it bounces off the  front of my cup near the end of the table. Danny's right
back at it casually  flipping his ball that bounces right into another one
of Clyde's  four cups. Clyde mutter, "Fuck me," and gurgles down another
twelve  ounces of beer, taking almost a minute to do it. My ping pong ball skips
off a  cup, bounces once, and just makes it over the lip of Bonny's first
cup. She  yells, "Lucky motherfucker!" and drinks her cup of beer gulp, gulp,
gulp,  then throws the cup over her shoulder. Frat Boy, yells, "That's a
penalty score  for Pretty Boys' dream. Drink another cup, Bonny, and don't
fuckin' throw the cup this time." She glares at him. He smiles sweetly,
saying, "You were warned about throwing cups last game." The look on her  face
gets Danny and me snickering, while trying not to. Her eyelids are half
closed as she mutters, "Motherfucker," and now we're laughing along with a  lot
of the gallery. Bonny picks up the second cup and begins  drinking it,; half
the cup  of beer running down the front of her t-shirt, so now there's
hooting and  hollering from the crowd, yelling, "Tits, tits, wet t-shirt
contest."  Jesus!

Farmer  Clyde is concentrating his balls off this time, analyzing where to
land his ping pong ball. The ping pong ball looks like a hollow marble in
his  over-sized hand. He finally gentle lets it go and the ball bounces
nicely,  but just misses one of Danny's cups. Danny goes, "Oooh, that was so
close,  Farmer Clyde," and he gets a hard stare from Clyde, who's mumbling
something we can't quite make out... something to do with a  pitchfork. Danny and
I can't stop chuckling. We've both scored two  cups against our opponents,
to their zero cups. I luckily got that  bonus cup when Bonny threw her cup in
drunken frustration. Anyway, Bonny's  up again and this time she just drops
her ping pong ball on the  table like she doesn't give a shit where it
goes, and of course it  plops in one of my cups. She yells, "Drink,
motherfucker, drink!!" Balls. I'm  not good at chugging. Chubby just lets it roll down
his throat without  swallowing. Not me; I'm gulp, gulp, gulp, but I get it
down, mostly. Some of the  beer accidentally-on-purpose gets spilled when I
pretend the cup is  empty. A muttered, "Ooops," from me, as Bonny and Clyde
scream, "Foul!" Frat  boys was talking up some babe at the time and missed my
accidental beer  spillage, so I'm good.

Danny  says, "Good job, partner," then he casually plops another ball in
one of  the two remaining cups in front of Farmer Clyde. Farmer screams,
"Hustler!"  No one pays any attention to that, so he downs another cup of beer.

Wow, I gotta admit I'm impressed he can get another cup down without
hurling. My next ball lands in nothing, and the same for Bonny's,  then Farmer
Clyde's ping pong ball hits the side of a cup and skitters off  the table.

Danny casually plops another ball into Farmer's last cup. Clyde's  eyes are like
saucers as he mutters, "Fuck this," and he knocks the cup  over to a chorus
of boos as he stalks off, with Bonny yelling after  him, "How 'bout a
little moral support, ya asshole!" She and I both take  five bounces of our ping
pong balls before I luck another one in her cups.  She does her routine of
half chugging the beer and half spilling it on her  tee shirt, with the wet
t-shirt chants starting up again. I don't  think Bonny even knows where she
is by now.

Encouraged  by my partner, "Finish this off, Dylan, and lets get outta
here." I'm like,  "That's what I'm trying to do, Danny." One more ball in her
cup is all I  need, while she needs to sink three in my cups. No chance; she's
cooked!  Danny's already collected his five dollar stake, plus Farmer's
five dollars.  I'll certainly be doing likewise momentarily. I mean, Bonny  is
so smashed it'd be blind luck if one of her balls ends up in one of my three
 remaining cups. We bounce ping pong balls three more turns before one of
mine  goes in her last cup. She does the same thing Farmer did; she knocks
the  cup over without drinking it. The peanut gallery sings out, "If you can't
play  sports, be a sport!" although it's a ridiculous stretch calling beer
pong a  sport.

After  collecting my money, I tell Frat Boy, "We forfeit the next game,"

and he  calls the next two teams on his list to the beer pong table. Danny and
I do a  chest bump, chuckling and showing each other the five dollar bill
we won,  like we won the lottery. We're wandering around casually
checking-out and  commenting on how sexy certain guys are, and glancing now and  then
at the large crowd dancing. There's a lot more people here then when  we
first arrived, so what time is it? I do a routine glance at  my cellphone: it's
almost twelve-thirty. Surprising that we've been here  two hours. Danny's
still thinking about the beer bong contest, mumbling, "It was  hardly a fair
fight considering those two were so smashed." I go, "Shall we  give them
their money back?" He goes, "Fuck no! I'm just saying..." I'm like,  "Look at it
this way, Danny:  just imagine how drunk the two guys were  that Bonny and
Clyde beat before our turn." He nods, chuckling, then  we booth say, "Fuck
'em," and bump fists.

As  we're walking away from the beer pong area, Frat Boy is busy wiping
the beer off the ping pong table and making up a new rule about  knocking beer
cups over. Shortly we're enough away that we can barely  hear the peanut
gallery booing something, or someone. Sipping our beers and  smoking a
cigarette, we make a wager. Our five dollar winnings from beer pong  goes to the
first one who spots someone we know. Filling our cups  again, we bicker about
our booze-influenced contest, citing  technicalities, like: after spotting
someone we know, it  needs to be proved he or she knows whichever one of us
spotted him or  her. Danny says, "Jeez, I'm not sure that makes any sense."

I'm like, "It's  no good pointing at someone and making up a name: 'Hey,
there's Joe Blow  who's in my Friday class'. Ya gotta really know the person."

We're a little  bit drunk by now, but I'm thinking I'll spot Lawyer because I
know where he  was dancing earlier. Huh, naturally he's not there now. Then
I try getting  Danny talking about him and Robby again, but he says, "I've
said too much,"  and I mumble, "You haven't said enough," and we're both
drunk enough to  sing a couple of lines from that alternative rock band, REM's
song 'Losing  My Religion'; a song made before either of us were born. It's
like some  tunes just keep getting played on the radio as classics. With our
arms  across each other's shoulders, we sing: "Oh no, I've said too much,
I haven't said enough. I thought that I heard you laughing... um, um,  um" and
we can't remember any more lyrics. We do a hug, mumbling, "Cool."  And it's
weird that Danny and I have been sort of on the same  wave length all
night. I've underestimated what a good guy he is. Not that I  ever really
disliked him in the first place.

We're  chuckling as we sing the song again, trying to remember more of the
lyrics.  Then Danny stops, and goes, "Wait! Look over there," and  he's
pointing toward the parking lot. It's not nearly as well lit up there,  but some
light filters to the closer parked cars. We're looking at a guy  and girl
making out. I ask, "Is that Golden Summers and titsie,  Beth? Then I quickly
add, "And this doesn't count as seeing someone  first because we spotted
then at the same time and we're still not sure if  it's who we think it is."

Walking closer, I go, "Yeah, look at the guy's  long hair. That's Golden
alright," but Danny's looking at something else a few  cars over from Golden and
Beth. We both stare with our jaws dropping, then  slowly look at each other.

Danny whispers, "Is that who I think it is?" I nod my  head, "Um, if you
think it looks like Robby and Frankie swallowing each other's  tongue, then I
guess it's who you think it is." Danny's like, "Has he  had girlfriends
before?" I go, "Not that I know of. I mean, fuck, he was  terminally shy in high
school, and since then it's been pretty much him and me...  um, and you, or
whoever. I guess there could have been a girl or two;  but no, that's almost
incomprehensible to me. I mean... fuck, I just don't  know..." Danny says,
"Who the fuck is she anyway. I mean, I know who she  is, but where the fuck did
she come from, and how all of a sudden...?" We're  both baffled and I don't
know how I feel about what I'm seeing. Robby said the  other night he was
curious about what it's feel like doing 'it' with  a girl. Yeah, he definitely
said that, but I don't mention that to Danny.  Actually I feel kind of weird
that maybe Danny's feeling embarrassed  for me.

He  quietly says, "Lets back up and get another beer, Dylan, or maybe a
shot of  bourbon." We turn around and walk back the way we came with Danny
asking, "Are  you okay, Dylan?" I snap at him, "Of course I'm okay! So what if
Rob's  sucking mouth with that pushy cunt? You said she was pushy yourself an
hour ago,  right?" He says, "Actually she was pushy right after we got here
making Rob  to do shots." I mutter, "Whatever!" Actually I can't think
straight right now.  What if I saw Robby making out with Danny, or even some guy
I don't know? Would  I be shocked? No, not shocked. We have a sort of open
relationship, so  why should this be such a shocker? I don't know exactly
why, but it is. I'm  not feeling especially jealous because I don't consider
Frankie competition  at all, but I'm fucking curious about both their
motivations. I go, "Danny,  whatever you do, don't tell Rob we saw them making out.

I want to see what he  has to say for himself." Danny goes, "Sure thing,
Dylan, but promise to tell me  what he says. That is if, I mean, when he
brings it up, okay?" I nod,  "Yeah, that's a deal, bro." Danny said, 'When he
brings it up', but  he started to say, 'If he brings it up'. He's got a point
too. We'll see  if Robby tells me about it.

We  talk ourselves out of a shot of bourbon, but we do get another  Coors
refill. Then, probably trying to get my mind off Robby and the cunt,  Danny
talks me into continuing our game of who can spot someone in the  crowd
first. It's nice of Danny to try getting my mind off that unpleasant  scene. I'm
trying to be blasé about it, without a lot of success.  Truth is I'd like to
be on my own right now so I can think about it, but I  won't leave Danny
unless we run into someone he knows. Then, maybe fifteen  minutes after
leaving the parked cars area, we hear, "Dan, hold up." Turning  around, Danny
chuckles, saying, "It's my roommate, Phillip. He's a nut." I'm  relieved he's
now got someone to hang-out with. I say, "You win again, Danny,"  and pass him
my five dollar bill. This is the first time I've met his  roommate, so
Danny introduces us, "Dylan, meet my roommate, Phil Cathings." We  bump fists,
mumbling, "How ya doing?" and Danny tells Phil about the beer  pong game,
finishing with, "And now you just won me Dylan's five dollar  winnings," and
then he explains our wager as we all stand against a light  post at the side
of the dancing crowd.

Phil  doesn't seem like a 'nut' to me. He's a quiet guy, unassuming, and
average  in every way, except he wears eyeglasses. You see fewer and fewer
eyeglass wearers as more and more people take advantage of Lasik  Laser
technology. Not everyone can, of course, because it cost upwards of $2000  an eye.

Phil's an inch or so shorter than me with a soft looking body, and a
little overweight. Brown hair and eyes. His hair appears to be an overgrown
regular hair style, with a part on the side. He's maybe a month overdo for  a
trip to the barbershop. Phil's most notable facial feature is his  nose; it's
too small for his round face and full cheeks. I light a  cigarette as the
roommates commiserate about a problem with their dorm  room. Something about a
draft from the room's window, and what Phil  did today to correct it. He
got some kind of insulation at ACE  hardware that he thinks will solve their
problem. Then two girls join  us, one of whom Phil surprises me by saying,
"Dylan, meet my girlfriend,  Ronnie, and her friend, Alicia Cole." How
snobbish of me to  be surprised Phil would have a girlfriend. The girls say, "Hi,
nice to  meet ya," then to Danny, "Hey, good looking, how you doing tonight."

Alicia Cole  hits Danny's shoulder, saying, "Well, are you gonna be my date
for Ronnie  birthday party, or not?" Phil says, "He'll go. Won't ya, Dan?"

Danny mumbles,  "When is that again?" I'm gulping down the rest of my beer,
then say, "Excuse  me, I need a refill," and I hold my empty cup up. Danny
looks at me, like  I'm abandoning him, and I guess I am although he's with
his  roommate.

The  thing is, with Danny's roommate and the two girls joining us, I don't
see any prospects for an especially good time moving forward. So, I'll take
 my chances on meeting someone a little more, um, interesting. Not that
Danny wasn't interesting, because he was. There was a developing situation
though; one where being with Danny all that time was making me a little  horny
for him, and I don't want to be tempted to do something  I'll regret as I
get drunker. Danny's not only cute, he's sexy  too... sexy cute. I began having
feelings for him when he acted so vulnerable  telling me about his
troubles, which included pity sex from Robby. The poor guy,  but him and I having
buddy sex tonight wouldn't solve any of his problems, and  might make some for
me. Ya just never know what troubles others are  dealing with; we all tend
to hide them. Hell, I've been hiding my true  feelings, my confusion about
Robby and Frankie from the minute I saw them  making-out. I didn't want Danny
to know just how fucked up I think that is. And  I'm not mad at Robby so
much as I'm disliking that conniving bitch, Frankie. So,  around Danny I was
blasé, like I'm not worried about it one  bit.

Walking  away from Danny's little group I glance back and get a  last
glimpse of him. As usual, Danny's showing his agreeable,  affable smile and going
along with... whatever. He's a really good guy.  Then, as I'm making my way
to the closest keg I see Lawyer again. I'd like  hooking-up with him, but
there are approximately a hundred people  between him and me. And, of course
I'd love to hook-up again with  Chubby except he's almost certainly with
some girl, and he's probably already  gotten laid at least once. I really need
to talk to him about  him being oversexed. Tell him there's more to life
than that, and how  a one track mind is often a wasted one, and other things
like that.  Granted, my mind is in a fog at the moment,  desperately
endeavoring to get the picture of Robby's mouth on  Frankie's out of my fucking head.


Not  paying attention to where I'm going, I bump into a guy causing him  to
spill some of his beer. Oh shit! Wait, no problem, it's Steve  Church,
Ryan's roommate. He goes, "Hey, Dylan! Don't tell me you're drunk." He's
standing with a group of three guys and three girls, none of whom I know. I  say,
"Sorry, Steve. Yeah, I guess I am a little drunk. How ya doing?" He
finishes off what's left in his cup, and then says,  "Good, I'm doing good. You're
looking awesome as usual. I like that hoodie."  Steve's a really friendly
guy, always smiling and youthful looking with  those rosy cheeks of his. Yeah
well, I guess I'd still have to  say he's average looking overall. Brown
eyes and brown hair that needs cutting.  Happily he doesn't introduce me to
anyone; instead, running his fingers through  his shaggy hair, he asks, "Are we
still on for tomorrow's haircut, Dylan?" I nod  my head, mumbling,
"Absolutely, but you'll need to come to my place because, um,  I don't have wheels,
um, to come to your dorm." He goes, "No problem!  I wouldn't expect you to
do haircut house-calls, and for free no  less," and he rubs my shoulder,
adding, "I'll borrow Ryan's Mini. What  time should I show up?" I go, "Text me
in the afternoon, okay?"  He says, "Good deal. I've a feeling I'll be
sleeping through most of the  morning, but right now I need a refill," and he turns
his cup upside down  to show me it's empty." I'm like, "I'll walk with you
and top off my cup."  He nods at me, then says to a tall heavy-set guy, "Yo,
Mickey, I'll catch  up with you guys in a few minutes. I need a refill."

Mickey says, "I'm  getting ready to bag this place, Stevie, so if you want a
ride back, ya better  be ready to leave in like twenty minutes." Steve goes,
"Yeah, one last beer,"  and we walk around and in between people as we're
heading for the front porch.  Steve says, "That's my bud Mickey Doyle. We were
roommates freshman year."  I go, "Uh huh," without asking why they split-up
as roommates, but if  Mickey was a roommate of mine I'd split up too. He's
too fucking big and he'd  take up too much space in a dorm room.

Actually,  right now I'm exerting my world class willpower not asking Steve
about  Ryan, but if Steve needs a ride back to his dorm that means Ryan
didn't  come to the party. As it turns out, I don't need to ask because, as
he's filling  his cup, Steve tells me, "Your buddy, Ryan, stayed in tonight. On
a Saturday  night no less! Can you believe that shit?" Shrugging, I go, "Is
he ill?" Steve  steps away from the tap, gulps down some beer; then,
smiling again, he goes, "I  love me some beer," ignoring my question. I can't
leave it along though, so my  willpower caves-in a little, as very casually, I'm
like,  "Um, I'm  sorry, but did you say Ryan's sick, or... ?" I'm topping off
my beer at the  tap as Steve goes, "No, I don't think he's sick. I asked
him if he wanted  to join me and some of my buddies tonight at this frat
thingie, and he said 'no  thanks'. I'm not a nagger like you and him, so I didn't
pry as to why he  was staying in," and Steve laughs giving my shoulders a
quick  hug so I'll know he's kidding about the nagging comment. I'm thinking
Ryan  probably wasn't up for being the new guy in Steve's group of  friends.

We're  walking back to his group with me asking, "You getting anything from
any  of those girls," nodding my head at the three girls in his group. He
goes,  "Man, I'd like to hump that Marcia bitch. She's the one in the blue
ski jacket  with the sexy lips. Unfortunately I'm a nerd, faithful to the
love of my life." I go, "Your girlfriend back home, huh?" and he's like, "Yep,
sweet Malinda. We're in love... and in heat," and he laughs again, saying,
"Look here," as he takes his wallet out, telling me, "I've got her
picture." He shows it to me and the girl is okay looking. Nice smile. I  say,
"Cute," and he nods, "Yeah, she is. We've sort of been going together since  like
the third grade. It's crazy, huh?" I shrug, "Sounds like wedding bells,
Steve." He goes, "Probably, yeah." We're back with his group, and I tell him,
"Well, I'll continue on my way to find my brother or Rob, and make sure
I've got  a ride back." He pats my shoulder, saying, "Tomorrow, right?" I
mumble, "See you  then, bro," Walking away I'm mentally patting myself on the
back for not being  more inquisitive about what Ryan's been up to. Anyway, if
there  was something out of the ordinary going on with him, Steve would have
come  right out with it. The lad has no filter between what he thinks and
what comes out of his mouth. It's like that crack about Ryan and I being
nags. I  mean, Ryan is a nag for sure, but I'm not.

After  making my way all the way across the front of the frat house, going
in  between and around what has to be four hundred dancing guys and  girls,
I'm now approximately where we were when we first got here. The  dancing
crowd is so thick it's impossible to see who's dancing with who. Not  that I
give a shit. Looking around, I don't see Robby, Chubby, or anybody  else I
came with; but, oh my God, is that Hoodie Boy filling his cup  at the tap? It's
the very tap we all used to fill our first cups of beer over  two hours
ago. I'm kinda surprised that the keg's not empty by now. Making  my way to the
tap so I can verify my Hoodie Boy sighting. Getting a closer look  of him
is necessary because I've never seen him without his hood  up. There's
something about this guy that definitely reminds me of  Hoodie Boy though, and
maybe it's his body type. Yeah, but this  guy has a rather unruly head of dark
brown hair that doesn't  really fit in with my mind's picture of him. When
he walked pass me  yesterday I noticed his complexion was pale, so I just
assumed he had  light hair coloring, like blond or light red hair.

When  I'm maybe six feet from the tap, the guy who might be Hoodie Boy is
finished  filling his cup, and he turns around. It's Hoodie Boy alright, and
he gives  me this incredible grin, pointing at me, saying, "The staring
Bleacher  Guy," which makes me grin, pointing back at him, saying, "Hoodie Boy."

We  meet three feet from the tap and slap hands, still grinning, as he's
saying, "Jesus, man, don't you know staring into a guy's eyes is taboo? Guys
will think you're queer or  something." I'm rubbing the back of my wrist
against the bottom of my nose,  mumbling, "I am queer, so it's okay for me to
stare. What's your excuse?" He  goes, "Holy shit! You're queer for real, I
mean I should have said gay, not  queer... my bad." He takes hold of my upper
arm, my bicep, and pulls me out of  the way as three girls are trying to get
to the tap. We walk over to the  side near the corner of the house where he
lets go of my arm, asking,  "You're really gay? You're not just breaking my
balls, right?" I go, "Yeah, I'm  gay. So, tell me, how do you get away with
staring into another guy's  eyes?" He chuckles, "I don't do it, dude! I
mean, except for you. I'm always the  first one to quickly advert my eyes after
making contact with another  guy's eyes. That's why it weirds-me-out that I
kept staring back at you. It  was like that kid game... who can make the
other kid blink first?" He has a  pleasant voice although he talks fast, and
yet doesn't seem rushed. How's  that possible?
We  drink some beer while looking into each other's eyes again until he
blurts  out a laugh, spraying a mouthful of beer. He's considerate enough to
turn his  head and not spray me with the beer. Then, grinning, he shouts,
"Stop that  fucking staring!" but he's laughing too. He takes my arm again and
pulls on it,  saying, "C'mon, lets get away from these loud mouth drunks,"

and we walk  in amongst the parked cars, away from the mass of people dancing.

The  only other time I've been part of a crowd this big was at Fort
Lauderdale. The  crowd noise and music is only nominally quieter here, but we lean
up against  someone's SUV and Hoodie Boy holds out his hand, I take it and
he says,  "I'm Daryl Ponti, but I was nicknamed 'Pony' by a kid in my first
grade class. He thought that my last name was pronounced 'pony'  at the
time." He said all that without taking a breath, and he's still  holding hands
with me, but not shaking hands. I'm strangely comfortable  with him as I
smile, "Oh, the kid felt the word 'pony' has a silent 'T', is that  it?" He
shrugs, "Who knows. I told my older brother about it and he  insisted on calling
me 'Pony' to tease me. Then, well some nicknames  just stick with you
forever, stick like Crazy glue. My nickname is  actually my biggest burden in
life, so far anyway. Do you have a name?" I  tell him my name and then he
shakes my hand, saying, "It's nice to meet you,  Dylan. This is my first year at
Merrimack. I'm a transfer from Drexel,  which is a smallish intercity
college in Philly. That's in Pennsylvania. I  didn't like the intercity part so I
transferred here to a  smallish suburban college to see if I like it any
better, and I don't so  far. I haven't made any friends yet, basically just my
roommate, although I  admit it's only been a week." Really fast talker! I
go, "Oh, well then, we'll be  friends," and he says, "Yessss! That's number
two! One of  each."

I  laugh because I suppose by saying, 'one of each', he means  a straight
friend and a gay one. We finally let go of each other's  hand and both of us
drink some beer with me purposely staring into his dark  blue eyes again. He
grins as he drinks, then says, "Okay, stare all you want,  but I'll stare
right back." I shrug, asking, "Do you mind if I smoke?" He  shakes his head,
saying emphatically, "Not at all! I've been inhaling second  hand smoke all
fuckin' night anyway. Um, do you think I could bum one of  those cigarettes
from you? I'm trying to quit, but drinking brings on the  urge something
fierce." We light up and, for something to say, I ask, "How come  you're not
wearing your glasses?" He makes a cute face, then says, "Oh, I left  them back
at the dorm. Actually I don't really need them. As I kid I had  blurred
vision in one eye. Astigmatism, ya know? It cleared up in middle  school, but I
sometimes wear the glasses anyway to look studious, plus I think I  look
cool with those horn-rimmed glasses, don't you?" I nod my head,  smiling
because he's funny with his speedy way of speaking. I'm like, "Let  me ask you
something, Pony; has anyone ever mentioned that their hearing  can't keep up
with the fast way you speak?" He goes, "No, nobody ever has." I  go, "Huh,"

and he laughs. Then he gets serious, "We're friends now, right?" I  go,
"Definitely," and he says, "I'm only telling you this because  you're queer, um,
gay, and I trust you. There's something about you that  makes me think I can
confide in you. Anyway, once in eleventh grade a  big kid fucked me, then
again at the beginning of last summer, without  going into detail, I got
drunk and another guy fucked me up the ass. Ya  know, both times with a condom,
the proper way and all. What I wanted to  ask you is, do you think you and I
could try that, um, like tonight?" Holy  shit!!

I  stare at him a few seconds, figuring he's breaking my balls, then I go,
"To  do that we'd need to be much better buddies, Pony. That's kind of an
intimate  thing to do together, ya know?" He shakes his head, "No, I disagree.

That  guy who I did it with last summer... I'd just met him, and I haven't
seen him  since." I ask, "Well then, are you saying you're gay, but you
haven't  had much luck finding someone to, um, be gay with?" He goes,  "Nah, I'm
not gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that..." and he  laughs,
"That's from a Seinfeld rerun from the nineties." I go, "Yeah, I'm  familiar with
it." He says, "Actually I'm probably one of the straightest guys  you'll
ever meet. I've fucked two or three different girls. Mostly one  night stands.

Fuck 'em and leave 'em." I blink my eyes, muttering, "Uh huh." He  asks,
"You don't believe me?" I mutter, "I have some doubts about you being  the
straightest guy I've ever known." He says, "Why, because I let two  guys fuck
me?" I snort out a laugh, "That did cross my mind." We drink some  more beer,
then both of us drag off our cigarettes while doing the eye  contact thing
again. Grinning like dorks, we exhale at the same time, and  he says, "Have
you had time to think about it, Dylan? What I said about the gay  stuff. You
fucking me." I nod my head, still grinning at him and,  still not knowing
what to make of all this. Another drag off my cigarette,  then I mumble, "I
don't know what to make of you, Pony Boy." He goes,  "Well, I'm drunk, that's
true. Sober I'd never have the nuts to ask you to fuck  me, but I'm not
drunk in the way that I won't remember anything tomorrow.  I'm not nearly that
drunk, although I have been that drunk two or three  times in high school,
and then last year at Drexel once or twice." Probably  he got that drunk
working up the balls to ask random guys to fuck him. I  keep that rude thought to
myself though.

Anyway  my head is dizzy trying to keep up with his fast-flying monologues.

I'm  smelling the back of my wrist again, my cigarette between the fingers
of that hand, as Daryl's saying, "You know how I broke myself of that
habit?" I  shake my head and take my wrist away to drag off my smoke. He says, "I
rubbed  Neem oil on the back of my hand." I ask, "What the fuck is Neem
oil?" He goes,  "It's a type of vegetable oil pressed from the Neem evergreen
type tree,  and it has a strong unpleasant odor. It's used in organic farming
and  medicines. My mom is into organic everything." I'm looking at his
clear,  pale face thinking he looks so clean and new, sort of like  Professor
Peter's complexion, or better yet, Connor's complexion. Yes, Daryl's
complexion, along with his dark blue eyes and dark brown hair remind me of  Connor
Mealey. Striking contrasts of the pale complexion against the  dark brown
hair and dark blue eyes. Very attractive if you ask me.  I mumble, "I'll have
to get me some Neem oil, I guess."

Finished  our latest cups of beer, we head back to the tap for another
refill.  I'm still looking around for either Chubby or Robby; the two guys with
transportation. They wouldn't leave without me unless they both thought I
was  with the other. Hmmm, I get the urge to check that both the Jeep and
pickup are  still here. It's coming up on one o'clock in the morning, getting
colder and, considering our earlier front-loading and our beer guzzling for
the last two and a half hours, it might occur to someone to get some sleep.

 Walking away from the keg, I say, "I'm going to walk up among the parked
cars to  check that my ride is still here." He goes, "Do you mind if I walk
with  you?" I shake my head, "Of course not. You're awesome company, I  mean
considering you're someone who transferred from Drexel." I was making  a
joke, but he goes on to tell me the good and bad points of his Drexel
experience. Pony Boy is quite the talker.

I find  both the Jeep and pickup parked side by side, just like we left
them. Pony asks,  "This your Jeep?" I go, "It's half mine and half my
brother's. That's my  boyfriend's pickup next to the Jeep." He goes, "You really have
a  boyfriend, huh?" I go, "Yep, we've been boyfriends for like three years,
 although we've known each other longer than that." He leans against the
pickup, saying wistfully, "I've never had a boyfriend," and I go, "I  thought
you were, um, a straight  heterosexual." He blushes, "I  meant, I've never
had a real girlfriend. Of course I've never had a  boyfriend, although I
have friends that are guys, ya know, boys that are friends  of mine... oh, you
know what I meant." I go, "Let me get this straight. You've had  sexual
intercourse with two or three girls, but never had a girlfriend." He  makes a
face, like, 'Yeah, that sounds farfetched,' and says, "Okay, I  lied about the
sex with girls, but I want to do it. It's just that I'm a  terrible
procrastinator." I go, "Like putting off having sex with girls, and  putting off
getting your hair cut." He laughs as he runs his fingers through his  unruly
dark brown hair, and says, "That too, uh huh." I say, "I give haircuts.  You
can come to my boyfriend's and my apartment tomorrow and I'll give you  a free
haircut. Another guy is coming over for the same thing." He says, "Do you
have clippers?" I go, "Of course I have clippers," and he says, "Good 'cause
I  always get a buzz cut. And thanks for offering,; I'll happily take you
up on that  generous offer. What's your address?" I take his cellphone and
type in the  address and my cellphone number; then log his phone number into
my cellphone. Handing the cellphone back to him I'm looking at his three
inch  long hair, asking, "Buzz cuts, huh? When exactly was the last time you
had a buzz cut?" He goes, "Hey, like I said, I procrastinate. It  was, let's
see, um, Easter I  think. My old man got on my ass about it."

I'm  enjoying Daryl, as I mumble, "Easter, you mean Easter this past year?"

He  laughs, then says, "How 'bout what I asked earlier. Will you fuck me?
I've got  my roommate's car. We could warm-up in there." I'm like, "Aww, it's
late,  Pony," and he take hold of my arm pulling me a little, smiling and
saying,  "C'mon, Dylan, the car is just over there." Why the fuck am I
hesitating,  especially considering the sorry state of my side-sex  situation. I
ask, "How old are you anyway? You're a freshman, right?" He  goes, "No, like
I told you, I'm a sophomore! I was a freshman at Drexel.  I turned twenty in
August." If I can believe that, because he looks  and seems younger. I
don't know how much of his BS I should believe." We're  walking while finishing
the last of our beers. He drops his empty cup and I go,  "You might need
that for a roadie on the way back to your dorm." He shrugs,  looks at the cup
lying on the gravel parking lot, then gives it a  kick, saying, "Nah, I'll
share your cup if I need a last  beer.'
Pulling  his wallet out of his back pocket, he goes, "Just so you know,
I've got a  condom," and he takes out a worn-looking condom packet. God knows
how long it's  been in his wallet. I take it and check it out, saying, "It
looks intact to me."  Then, as I hand it back to him, I'm like, "Since you've
got your wallet out, let  me see your driver's license." He shrugs,
muttering, "Sure, why not," and hands  it to me. Okay, he is twenty, so I guess he
did transfer here as a sophomore. My  'bad' for doubting the lad. I hand his
license back to him, saying, "Nice  picture." He snorts out a chuckle,
saying, "I'm very photogenic, don't  ya think?" I go, "Apparently. If a driver's
license pix looks good, you're  photogenic as hell." He says, "'l'll get the
car heater going and we  can warm up first, okay?" I go, "Well, we'll warm
up, but for the rest  we'll need to see about that." He looks at me, and I
go, "Well, dammit,  Pony, being honest with you, I feel funny about this, and
I  guess I'm not sure why. Are you positive you don't still have your
cherry?"  He sort of shrugs, "Jesus, Dylan, I already told you. A guy in high
school,  an eleventh grader, fucked me first. Then a couple of years later the
guy at the shore fucked me hard, and the prick spanked the shit out of my
ass. He was a big old fucker, like maybe thirty years old, but  kinda nice
looking. Both of those fuckers got my rocks off big time  too! Ya know, I
guess I liked the eleventh grader's fuck the best of the two."  Oh my God, ha
ha ha. Well I gotta give him props that he doesn't avoid the  subject matter
by using euphemisms for the word, 'fuck'. Connor would  always do that.

Pony's  gotta be partly lying of course, but I don't know what parts. He
goes,  "I know what you're probably thinking. Because I really like getting
fucked, you're thinking I'm gay. I'm not though. Okay, I'm probably  slightly
bisexual, but only a little bit. Mostly I'm a straight dude.  That's how I
see it." I lightly punch his arm, smiling and asking, "Are you  familiar
with the word, 'delusional', or how about the  word, 'rationalizing'?" He goes,
"I hear what you're saying, but I know  myself. It feels good having a
guy's hard cock up my ass, that's all I'm  saying. Dildos don't feel the same at
all, but none of that mean I'm gay." I'm  not going into dildo territory,
so I let that slide for a  minute, then ask, "What's wrong with being gay,
Daryl? It's nothing to be  ashamed of." He says, "It has nothing to do with me
being ashamed. I'm  obviously not ashamed to blatantly ask you to fuck me,
it's just that I  know in my heart of hearts I'm gonna get married and have
a family, like  most everyone else." I mutter, "Yeah, sure you will."

We're  at his roommate's car now. It's a twelve  year old Oldsmobile
four-door family sedan. He unlocks it and we  get in. Pony fires up the engine and
as we're waiting for the heater to  work, I ask, "Is your roommate here at
the frat party?" He shakes his head,  "Nah, he's got a nasty flu. The poor
bastard is throwing up and shitting at the  same time. In the lavatory, not
in our room." I go, "Duh!" and he says, "Tom's a  really nice guy though, so
I lucked out with him as my roommate. And we didn't  choose each other as
roommates either; we were late getting accepted and just  got assigned as
roommates." To tease him, I ask, "Did you ask Tom to fuck you  yet?" He laughs,
"No, I haven't gotten around to it, plus he doesn't stare into  my eyes like
you do." I'm chuckling again, "But seriously, you are lucky to have  a
roommate you get along with." He nods, "Yep, I barely know him and  yet he let
me use his car tonight. I drove here alone hoping to meet  someone like,
well, someone exactly like you. Has anyone ever  mentioned that you're an
awesome looking dude?" I'm like, "No, not really. Um,  so you want to make a few
friends, huh?" He shrugs, "Of course I do. You  know that tall guy I was
talking to? He's in my Lit. class and seems like a  nice guy, but it was, Tom,
my roommate, who I was with at the baseball park  when you and I were doing
our staring contest. Then I saw you again when I was  late for class
yesterday morning, and now a third time tonight. It could be  just good luck on my
part, but I think it's karma... destiny." I chuckle,  "What's your sign," and
he goes, "I don't believe in that bullshit, but I'm a  Leo." I'm like,
"Yeah, I don't believe in that bullshit either. I  might be the same sign as you
though." He goes, "Is your birthday in  August, before the twenty-third?" I
mumble, "Yeah, it is. Holy shit,  it is destiny." The way I said that he
knows I'm not being serious, so he  laughs, then mutters, "We both don't
believe in that  bullshit, right?"

The  car is warmed up, and  Pony looks at me asking, "Should we get in the
back seat?" I go, "What the hell,  why not? We're old enough to make our own
decisions about sex, and you're  an attractive guy with a pleasant
personality. I'd be crazy to turn down your  generous invitation, but what do you
have in mind for foreplay? How am I gonna  get a boner?" He goes, "I know what
the fuck foreplay is. I'm not an idiot.  What's your favorite foreplay?" I
say, "That depends on who I'm with. Why don't  you tell me the foreplay that
was involved with those other two guys?"  He lets out an exasperated
breath, "Okay, to be honest I'm not sure exactly  what you meant by foreplay. The
eleventh grader just had me drop my plants and  bend over. He rubbed his
dick on my ass a bit, took a deep breath, rolled on a  condom and fucked my ass
until we both blew our loads. My ass was sore, but not  for long. The guy
last summer, the older guy, told me to get undressed and..."  I interrupt,
"Where were you with this so-called older guy?" He shrugs,  asking, "Do I really
need to tell you everything about my private sex life? It's  personal." I
go, "Was it in a rest room along the boardwalk, with a  stranger?" He goes,
"What if it was? I'm not some experienced hot shot with  a boyfriend the last
three years like some guy I know." Ignoring that, I  say, "This stranger
got you to undress and he fondled your  youthful body, right?" He goes, "That
motherfucker was hugging me, trying  to kiss me while he was dry humping my
ass for like five minutes before he  got it up." I say, "Were you a willing
participant?" and he says, "I was  once he started fucking me, before he got
it in me though I was like  fighting him off. Then, like I already told
you, it felt really good." I'm  like, "Sounds like rape to me," He shrugs, "I
wasn't about to make an issue  of it." I go, "One last question, "Did the
stranger wear a condom?" He  goes, "Well yeah. I already told you that. Jesus,
I'm not getting fucked  without a condom."

Ya  know, I want to do this. Daryl is a cute twenty year old who's
struggling  with the fact he's gay, but needing it so badly he resorts to sex with
an older stranger in a dirty public lavatory. I bet that older guy  couldn't
believe his good fortune. He's probably still jerking off thinking  about
how cute Daryl's ass is. I go, "Okay, you say the guy was kissing you  and
you were fighting him off, so I take it you're not into kissing  with another
guy." He laughs, "Well, who the fuck is? I mean, that's  way too queer.

Fucking isn't nearly as queer because straight guys fuck  their girlfriends up
the ass sometimes too. I mean, I know taking it up my  ass is a little gay. I
already told you I'm slightly bisexual." I can't resist  saying, "Except so
far in your life the minimal, bisexual gay  part, represents the entirety
of sex you've had in your  young life; I mean sex that involves another
person." He shrugs, "Yeah, so far."  Figuring I'll freak him out a little, I
mumble, "Well, since making-out isn't  your thing, I guess you'll be sucking my
dick and getting me hard so I can fuck  you, right?" He turns on his bucket
seat to face me, saying, "You know, I've  wondered what that would be like.

I've never done it though, so I might  bite you or something." Whoa! I
didn't expect that response. Pretending to  be frustrated, I go, "Oh man, I guess
I'm gonna need to show you how it's done."  His eyes light up, "Really,
thanks! I've watched videos and read about how oral  sex, sucking a cock,
should be done, but ya know..." He's unbuckling his pants,  adding, "If you're
willing to guide me through it by demonstrating  first, I'd feel much better
about trying it on you." I'm looking at him  suspiciously, so he goes,
"What?" I mutter, "If you're fucking with  me...."


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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