Date: Fri, 23 Dec 2016 21:55:41 -0500
From: MGTBILL@aol.com
Subject: DYLAN'S JUNIOR YEAR AT COLLEGE Chapter  21

DYLAN'S  JUNIOR YEAR AT COLLEGE


Chapter  21


By  Donny Mumford


Rob and  I leave Tracy's Speakeasy early, getting home a little before
midnight. There were some peaks and valleys today, some big highs  and low
lows. We had a very sexy morning together, obviously one  of the day's high
peaks, then we had a little bit of  a valley while cleaning the apartment with
Frankie and Beth. It was  a bit of a peak for me when the girls left,
followed by the  really big valley in the afternoon. Yeah, but the low  point of
the day seems stupid in hindsight. It's was me  being fanatically negative
about getting another haircut from Golden.  The first one, five or six weeks
ago now, was really good. The problem this  afternoon is Golden was only doing
regular haircut  today due to the number of guys who asked for haircuts. At
first I was  like, So what? That is until we're in Golden's dorm  room and
I saw what his so-called regular haircut looked  like on a prior victim.

It's a duplicate  of the quick SuperCuts haircut I've railed against for years.

 I  told Rob we need to make up any excuse and get the hell out of  there
before it was our turn. Rob had reasons for not doing that, so  I sulked and
pouted like a ten-year-old, then  later snapped-out at Rob when we got back
to the apartment. Already  agitated about our stupid haircuts, I lashed-out
about me  noticing Frankie's lipstick on his lips a few times. He rescued
the  entire situation though. He was patient, forthcoming, and loving  while
explaining the lipstick conundrum. It was a classic Rob moment  and one more
reason to add to a million others why I'm so head over heels  in love with
him. Rob's become almost like a cult figure to me  by now. He doesn't have a
cult, obviously, but that's how dedicated  and enamored of him I've become.

In other words, if he did have a cult, I'd join  it. Yeah, yeah, I know... I
have a tendency to go  overboard emotionally at times.

Anyway,  Rob readily admitted he was wrong not to have clued-me-in about
Frankie and  him experimenting with intimacy by making-out. When he apologized
I  was okay with it. His explanation was almost humorous, and even had a
sweet  almost naiveté component to it. I wanted to hug him and tell him I
understand; and I did understand him being curious although I can't imagine
doing what he did myself. No way could I envision experimenting with some
girl to see if I have bisexual tendencies hidden within my subconscious  mind.

If there are any in there, which I seriously doubt, they can stay the  hell
subconscious for all I care. Bottom line: I can't  personally relate to
Rob's experimentation with Frankie, and he can't  relate to my reaction to this
bad haircut. No big deal, and I  believe Rob when he says the 'making-out
experiment' is over and done with,  and that he never was even slightly
aroused making-out with her. The  part I like the best was him saying he may have
been  slightly repulsed by the Frankie make-outs. Heh heh, ya  know...

So that's fine  and dandy, but I'm less than thrilled to learn he's still
contemplating a  one-time heterosexual  intercourse experience. He did tell
me that neither he nor Frankie expects  it'll be any more successful than
those two making-out, but there's  still that curiosity factor. He's apparently
unaware of the  cat and curiosity situation. Here's what I believe: With
the make-out disaster fresh in his mind, Rob  has basically satisfied his
curiosity about the other side, but  Frankie's continuing to push the agenda
forward for her own personal  reasons and Rob doesn't know how to say 'no'. I
believe she's got a  thing for Rob and won't give up this easily.

The naive  part is Rob telling me he never once felt sexually aroused from
making-out  with Frankie, so he can't imagine how he's supposed to perform
during sexual intercourse. In this case the word 'perform' is  a euphemism
for getting a boner. I could tell him the obvious, that he'd  get a boner
from Frankie doing oral sex on his dick, or just jerking him off for  a while.

He either hasn't thought  of that, or naively doesn't believe it would work
any better than making-out. Of  course it would work because penises don't
care who or what's  providing the stimulation. Provide enough stimulation and
penises get  hard! Ha ha, like they say, it's not rocket science. Hell, I
can spring a boner riding on a bus just from the bus's motion.  Obviously
making-out won't stimulate the penis unless the person you're making  out with
arouses you sexually in the first place. That's the whole  fuckin' point of
making-out. If you're not sexually interested in your  make-out partner,
why the fuck are you making out with him, or her? Well, the  answer to that in
Rob's case is, he was curious. I contend  this whole mess is Frankie-driven
for the most part, but in the end I  suppose it's basically harmless.

So,  that's the story of the lipstick conundrum. I wasn't sure if I should
even  confront Rob about him spending too much time with the lipstick girl,
but  today one situation led to the other. Then Rob's response, like I
said, had me quickly melting into a pile of mushy love for him. I probably  just
wanted his complete attention focused on me. Before he said  three
sentences of explanation I was ready and willing to forgive anything  he told me. My
quick turn-around from bitchy boyfriend to a compliant  loving one didn't
happen just because Rob's response was so thoughtful  and apologetic. My love
and devotion for Rob has grown in me over  time until now it's like an
obsession. He's become everything I've  ever fantasized about a boyfriend.

During our years together I've been  gradually accumulating all the treasures of
affection and  understanding Rob's showered on me, and recently it all
caught up with me,  and as a result I get a glow and I shine with a tingling in
my  groin whenever I see him. I love living and sleeping with him so it's
dreams-come-true time, it's pinch myself to be sure I'm not dreaming time,
it's  so much more than wonderful it gets my head spinning at times. I find
myself going overboard with him by being too clingy and too amorous and  I
overdo my words of admiration and love for him. Shit, I might scare him  away
if I'm not careful.

Anyway,  that's pretty much my state of mind as we walk into our apartment
after a few  beers at Tracy's Speakeasy. Without planning on doing it, I'm
walking  too close to Rob, so he goes, "Hey, what's up, babe?" I shrug
goofily  and he chuckles, murmuring, "Need a hug, do you?" and he puts his arm
around the back of my waist and squeezes, grinning at me. I say, "I know I'm
in  your space, Rob, sorry about that, but you've been so amazing all  day
I'm hoping some of your awesomeness will rub off on me." He laughs,  mumbling,
"Oh yeah, I'm so sure I'm awesome." I go, "No, really!  I  admire the way
you care about your freshman teammates, and how you  demonstrate your support
for them, and the way you've bonded with  Golden. Mostly though I want to
thank you for guiding me out of the hole I dug  myself into with that haircut
nonsense. I was so out of line and it  embarrasses me to think about it
now." He goes, "Then don't think about it, but  do try not to act like a
nine-year-old brat again  any time soon." I go, "Hey!" and he goes, "I'm kidding
you, fer  chrissakes!" I go, "Oh, good. Anyway, I think you're the perfect
head of our household, and you proved that to me again at  Golden's."

As  we're taking our coats off, he nods his head, mumbling, "I'm far from
perfect."  Then, looking serious, he says, "Really though, I fucked-up that
thing with  Frankie; fucked it up something terrible. It's inexcusable of me
not to have  told you what's up with the making-out experiment. I guess I
was  embarrassed to admit it. Admit I'm curious if there's  any bisexuality in
me. It's wasn't an obsession or anything like that, but  when Frankie
showed up I was like: wow, this is my chance. Then I  handled it badly." Yeah, he
did fuck that up, but being magnanimous I  just sort of shrug, not saying
anything, so he adds, "Yeah, the opportunity  to experiment just fell in my
lap so I figured I'd see what's up with  that." He's right about the
opportunity falling in his lap too. Frankie and  Beth made up that bogus fan club
deal so Frankie could get close to Rob. Too bad  for Frankie the make-out
experiments were complete disasters; heh  heh, but in a very good way as far as
I'm concerned. Robby's not  through, adding, "I wasn't trying to keep it a
secret exactly, Dylan. It  was an experiment that in my mind had nothing to
do with you and me.  Anyway, you remember me telling you about my first
make-out with Frankie  the night of the first frat party, right?"

Yeah,  yeah, yeah. Okay, he did tell me about the first one, but then he
had  three more make-outs with her that he didn't tell me about. We're in the
kitchen having this discussion as I'm taking a couple of Advil, just in
case the wine and champagne have any ideas about giving me a hangover
tomorrow.  After swallowing the pills with a couple gulps of water, I'm like, "Yeah,
Rob,  you said you had to picture me in your head in order not to throw-up
during  that first make-out." He laughs, "It wasn't quite that bad. I don't
recall  saying I was going to throw-up, but I didn't get close to  being
aroused; that's the point." I'm like, "So, why did you keep  trying it?" He
takes the bottle of Advil from me and shakes a couple out in  his hand. I pass
him the bottle of water and he swallows the pills,  then repeats my
question, "Why'd I keep trying? Good question. I don't  really know, except I guess
it was mostly Frankie's idea to give  it another go. Maybe her feelings, or
her ego took a hit because she  couldn't arouse me. I put up with it three
more times so as not to hurt her  feelings. None of the make-outs lasted more
than a  couple of minutes anyway. Then the last time, after ten seconds I
burst out with  a laugh and told her as politely as I could, that it's no use
although  none of it was her fault." I nod, "Uh huh, except that she's a
girl, although  that's not really her fault either when you get right down to
it." As if the  thought just occurred to him, Rob says, "I think Frankie was
into  the experiment a lot more seriously than I was." I go, "She obviously
has a  thing for you, and I can't say I blame her." He goes, "Well, I'm a
million times  more excited about you having a thing for me." Then he shakes
his  head slowly, mumbling, " I found the experience to be awkward and
embarrassing in a number of ways." I shrug, not needing to hear  any more about
it. I got the picture, and I'm pleased with the result.

Walking  slowly towards our bedroom, Rob shrugs, muttering, "So it's been a
bust so far,  and I still need to try heterosexual intercourse." I go, "Uh
huh, it's still  called fucking, by the way, even if it is heterosexual
fucking." He  snorts, "No shit," then looks over at me and wistfully adds, "Ya
know what? I wish I never mentioned any of this to Frankie." I go,  "Frankie
seems to be enjoying herself though; wouldn't you say?" He shrugs,  "Jesus,
yeah, she seems to be really into helping me with my curiosity." I go,
"Huh," and he looks at me, "Ya know, Dylan, sometimes I think she's  laughing
at me on the inside," and he immediately changes his  mind, "No, not really
though, she's a very nice person actually,  and maybe she even thinks she'd
be helping me if I  could find my hetero side. Frankly, I don't think I have
one." Now you're  talking Rob! That's the conclusion I came up with myself,
um, like the day after  my first date with fat Carl.

After  stripping down to our boxer shorts, we do our bathroom routine
together. When  brushing my teeth, I'm thinking how Rob's been very forthcoming
with  his unflattering experiment with Frankie, so maybe I should be
forthcoming  and tell him about my spontaneous orgasm during that haircut I
vigorously protested against. Then I quickly come to my senses.  No, that's a bad
idea!  Why open that can of worms and  complicate matters further? He's
satisfactorily clarified the  lipstick conundrum, and there's nothing I can do
about this haircut  from Golden, so that pretty much wraps-up loose ends for
the day. Going  forward, if Rob's okay with Golden's haircut, I guess I'll
have to be okay  with it too. Hell, I might as well join the vast majority of
haircut-clueless  guys. Why should I be the outcast who know the difference
between a good haircut  and the one that's currently on my head?
When we  get under the covers I scoot right over and kiss Rob's lips, then
get up on  an elbow looking down at him as he lies on his back. He smiles
and asks,  "What?" I trace the pad of my finger across his upper lip feeling
the developing mustache there, murmuring, "Just to be  crystal clear, Rob, I
formally apologize for my behavior at  Golden's. I was wrong and you were
right." He smiles, reaching up to squeeze my  shoulder, saying, "Beating a
dead horse again are we, baby?" Another  example how I've been overdoing
sucking up to Rob. He goes, "Ya know, Dylan, I'd  like to be able to say
something along the lines of, 'No, it was partially my  fault too', or 'You had a
good reason for  acting liked that.' Something like that except you're right,
you were totally at fault." I pinch his nose, mumbling, "How gracious of
you," and he laughs, then shrugs, "Well, I'm sorry, but it's true." Huh, me
fishing for some small concession from Rob totally bombed that  time.

I stare  at him a second, then make a face, and try again, "Didn't I have
a teeny-weeny point about the haircut being, um, not too cool? A little
tiny bit of truth about the, um, style of haircut Golden gave all of us?"  Rob
raises his eyebrows, like he might be willing to concede a small  point in
my favor, then goes, "Um, no, none that I can see...  sorry. But, maybe if
you'd explain it to me, school me, I'd be able to see  what you mean. Remember,
I asked you to do that earlier? I asked you to  tell me what I'm missing."

Huh, he's being open-minded, or  pretending to be, but, nah, I guess you
either get the haircut thing or you  don't. I go, "Oh fuck, I can't explain it
Rob. Well, I could but it'd take  too long and it's probably not worth it.

Remember back in freshman  year during our threesome days when we were giving
each other  haircuts; back when you and Ryan were friends." He goes, "We
were acquaintances, not friends! Basically our only connection  was our mutual
interest in you." I go, "That's not accurate, but  whatever. Back then I
tried explaining what you were doing wrong with your  haircutting. Even showed
examples while I cut Ryan's hair. Remember?" He nods  his head, mumbling,
"Only very vaguely," and I go, "Well, you couldn't grasp the  concept then
either, even though I was demonstrating what I was  explaining. That's all I'm
saying. So, ya know...."

After  thinking about that for a second, Robby goes, "We'll, my inability
to grasp the  nuances of cutting hair has been well established. What I'd
truly like for  us to do now is put a fucking tight lid on the  haircut
chronicles?" I go, "Yes, we probably should." He says, "Good, but  answer one
question first. Your answer will tell me if you're  truly over your thingie about
Golden's haircuts. From my point of  view, I think this is a good haircut.

I don't see any reason to pay  Golden five dollars for a different one, so
I'm getting this haircut  the next Saturday he's doing haircuts." I mutter,
"I hate to interrupt, but is  that a question?" He goes, "No, smart-ass, that
was background. Here's the  question: are you with me about asking for
Golden's free regular-haircut  next time?" Oh boy, he's got me in a corner here.

I mumble, "Um, you're  forgetting that Golden said he'd give you and me any
haircut we wanted for  free." Rob shakes his head, "Yeah, I know that; he
told me the same thing,  but I don't want to be treated differently than the
other guys, so I  reject his offer. Plus, it'll make him feel good if we
want this same haircut  again." I have an expression on my face reflecting
dubiousness about  that logic, so he goes, "Times up!  What's your answer?" Oh
fuck! What a  hard ass he can be at times! Taking a deep breath, I look him
in the  eyes, and say, "Yes." He goes, "Do you promise?" I say, "I promise,"

and he  says, "Thank you, Dylan. That topic is now put away with a heavy
fucking  lid and locked-up forever. Do you agree?" I nod, muttering, "Sure." I
do feel good about pleasing him, but wimpy for giving in so  easily. Rob's
major point remains true though, and one I can't  honestly dispute: Haircuts
aren't worth him and me fighting over.  So, I made Rob happy by letting him
win the discussion, and it'll make  Golden feel good next month too. So
enough already!
Robby  goes, "Okay, what else did you have in mind for tonight, now that
your formal  apology is out of the way?" I'm like, "Well, first I'll overlook
the  unnecessarily rudeness implicit in that interrogative  sentence of
yours. That  notwithstanding, the next thing I want to do is tell you to your
face how fabulous I think you are. And secondly I want to inform you  of the
boner in my underwear. It came up on me, so to speak, from the way  you
manipulated me into your way of thinking regarding the topic that's  been put
away forever." He laughs and gets his arms around the back of my neck  pulling
my head down to his, then mumbles, "What the fuck is an interrogative
sentence? And, more importantly, I think you're the fabulous one  for abandoning
your tilting-at-windmills crusade regarding that  put-away-forever topic.

You gave up on it to keep harmony between us." I murmur,  "I did it because I
love you so much I'd rather please you than be  right about that
forever-put-away topic." He goes, "You made the right  choice," and I say, "While I'm
at it, I may as well add it gave me shivers  earlier tonight seeing how
proud of me you were when I gave  Tracy's voucher to Golden at the speakeasy.

Your proud look brought  a tearing-sting to my eyes." He goes, "You'll have my
eyes stinging if  you keep your agreeable manner up. Yes, I was very proud
that you  did that for Golden even though you're not happy with the
put-away topic. He thinks he's doing a good thing for the guys, and for  free. I'd
hate seeing his feelings get hurt, and I knew you wouldn't  do that." Ha! I
would have hurt Golden's feelings except Rob stopped me  from doing exactly
that, but why cherry pick details? If he thinks I'm  too nice to do that,
who am I to disagree?
Finished  our clearing-the-air discussion, our heads come together for a
slow,  long and deep lover's kiss that makes me forget about all other
matters. We  break off the kiss grinning at each other. Then, reading one another's
mind,  we rustle around under the covers pulling our boxer shorts off.

Rob's  naked body is so sexily hot! I squirm up on top of him as  we restart our
make-out with hard boners bumping into each other. It's  incredibly
arousing for me to see him get as aroused as I am. We're really  good together,
each gladly giving the other what he needs. Ours  is truly a deep mutual love
affair. And, so what if one of us loves  the other a little more; the
difference isn't enough to measure. I've felt  a greater and deeper, almost an
insane love, for Rob recently and  it's probably more intense than his love for
me. But then he's loved me  more than I loved him the first two years of our
love affair, or at  least that's what  he claims, so now I'll try evening
that out a little bit.

When  we're both moaning with desire and can't wait any longer, Robby fucks
me  slowly with me lying on my stomach and my ass pushed up for him. He's
on his  knees between my legs, his knees spread as his hard fat organ is
thrust up my  ass. It's coated in luscious lubricant again making for smooth,
almost agonizingly slow trip inside my body creating the familiar but
somehow always amazingly new sensations of extreme sexual pleasure. The  large
bulbous head of his hard fat boner leads the way stretching my anus  and
activating the million nerve endings there. When they're fired-up  I start
squirming on the bed. Then the hard head slides tightly over  my prostate gland and
fireworks go off pleasurably and  prettily in my head. The accumulated lube
around the lips of my  asshole heat to my body's temperature and a steady
thin  lubricant stream drools to the back of my scrotum making me shudder.

It's only a four inch trip of  his big cock head up my ass, but the pleasure
those four inches of slippery  hard cock generate inside me can't be
matched. It's Rob's fat four inches,  that's why it can't be matched. I smell his
delicious scent and feel the  palms of his hands on my back as they rub up
and down while his boner goes in  and out. So many tantalizing sensation swarm
all over me I'm  gasping and calling his name, "Aaaah, oooh, Rob, mmmm,
Robby,  oooh." Thrilling pleasure like nothing else in my world, and no matter
how  many times I experience it, it only gets better and I never take it for
 granted.

I don't  know how long this current utopian state has been going on, but
over the  last few minutes I've felt on the verge of climax. I'm making
squeaky  sounds of arousal while holding my ass up off the mattress  just enough
that my boner's head only lightly pokes the mattress when Rob  repeatedly
thrust his cock inside me. My throbbing hard cock  is sticking straight out
from my groin, so hard it's  almost painful. Precum is leaking steadily wetting
the spot my  cock's head dents on the sheet with every thrust of Rob's
boner. It's a  dreamy world of pleasure I'm in; one I'd like to stay in for a
very long time.  It's a compact world consisting only of me, my hard cock, and
Rob  fucking my ass with his scent swirling around in my head. There's a
movie I'm watching in my mind of Rob's awesome body behind me and his rock
hard fat cock, shiny with lube and precum, repeatedly disappearing up my ass,
 then reappearing before defiantly plunging right back in. It's  a surreal
movie.

Finally, Rob's  breathing becomes heavier, like gasping breaths, and the
speed of  his thrusting picks-up. I know his orgasm is rushing up on him now
even as  my orgasm races his to the finish line, and I'm, "Ooh, oooh, oooh!
Rob!" A  second later I squeal as ecstasy engulfs me and I shake  with
pleasure, my body stiff as a railroad tie. I hardly know what's  happening as all
the muscles in my body seemingly tighten, then  force creamy cum to pump out
onto the sheet leaving  me shaking  even as a part of my brain is
registering a quick warmth and wetness  in my rectum and immediately another sizzling
shot of cum fires from  my rock of a cock, then another, and swirls of
emotions, an ocean  of sensations rolls over  me so deliriously delicious it's
all too much to comprehend...   streaking pleasure sensations like a huge
wave flow from my nerve  endings; so many I don't know what part of my body
they're coming  from. It's a loud roar of pleasure that lasts a mere eight or
nine  seconds, then recedes quickly in a tantalizing spiraling of emotions
and sensations until there's a lull, then a random zip of nerve endings like
an  electric streak in my groin, making me shudder one last time. It all
happens in mere seconds and now the mundane sounds of the  outside world again
surround me as I sigh. Rob's quietly moaning while  casually humping his
cock in my cum-filled ass. He's breathing noisily in  between his moans and I
hardly know what the fuck I'm doing until I feel  the wetness of my own cum
under me and realize I'm lying flat on the bed now  with Rob on top of me.

I feel  another phantom body shudder and take another deep breath.  Then...

it's over already? Well, that's not fair although I'm not sure how long  we
fucked before the volcano exploded; maybe it was an hour or two. Rob  rolls
off me, still breathing deeply and I realize I've gone blind!  No, wait! I
have my eyes closed. Opening them I can see we never turned the  bedroom
overhead light out. Looking at Rob, I see he's looking at me. We  both smile
and shake our heads a little. He says, "Can you believe this? I  thought my
cock broke in half when I shot that load up your perky ass." I  snort out a
laugh, "Perky?" and he goes, "First time I've ever spoken that word.  I may
have misused it." I mumble, "That was some damn good sex, Rob. You my  man,
dude!" He lays next to me and puts his arm across my shoulders,  saying,
"Well, yes, of course I am." Then, "What time is it?" I go, "What time?  What day
is it?" He picks up my wrist and looks at my watch, "It's
twelve-thirty-eight,"  and I'm like, "That can't possibly be right! We got home a little
before twelve and you just fucked me for at least an hour, so my watch must
have  stopped." He shakes his head 'no', saying, "The second hand is still
running in  circles, at just about a minute a circle." I'm like, "Huh!" He
says, "I  feel like another beer," and I go, "And I suppose you want me to go
get it for  you." He goes, "I'm all warm and cozy under  the covers and,
unless I'm mistaken, which is unlikely, you're lying in  your own cooling cum and
will want to get out of bed to get something to  cover the wetness." I
chuckle, then mutter, "Lucky guess," as I slide out  of bed and pad naked into
the bathroom to wash up.

I like  being naked. Rob yells, "Since you're in  there, you need a shave."

I look down at my groin area and see the barest  pubic hair stubble.

Yelling back to Rob, "Do I have to?" and he yells,  "Yes." Hee hee, I love when he
gets all Mister Bossy on me. With a washcloth  soaked in warm water I wash
the cum off my belly and chest, then soak the  stubble around my dick. Ha,
little Dylan looks so innocent just hanging  harmlessly there waiting
patiently for the next time I need the little  fella whether it be to take a piss
or shoot pleasure juice, or even  just get hard and feel good for me.

Whatever, he's always  willing and able.

Spreading  shaving creme over my pubic area, I shave carefully, then rinse
off. Total time:  less than two minutes. Time well spent. Drying all over,
I'm walking back in the bedroom carrying a clean towel, asking, "Do I  need
to stand inspection?" Robby pretends he's angry, "Fuck  that! Where's my
fucking beer, boy?" Snickering, I lay the towel on the  sheet to cover the cum
wetness, then I get a pajama top out of the  bureau drawer. A large long-
sleeve pajama top that hangs down  almost covering my ass in back, with just
the head of my dick left uncovered in  front. Rob goes, "Ooh, nice idea,
Dylan. Would you get one for me, please." I  dig around in the drawer and come
up with a light flannel pajama top I wish I'd  found first for myself.

Walking over to Rob, I say, "Arms up, "and he raises his  arms so I can drop the
pajama top over his head. He goes, "Ooou, this  feels good, thanks, babe."

Holding his head between both my hands, I give  his forehead a fifteen second
kiss, inhaling his scent. Then rub my fingers up  the back of his head,
mumbling, "Feels like you have a buzz cut back  there." He goes, "We put a lid
on that topic forever, didn't we?" I hug his  head, then kiss the top of it,
muttering, "I had my fingers crossed when I made  all those promises."

In the  kitchen I grab a green bottle of Rolling Rock beer from the
refrigerator while trying to recall when we bought Rolling Rock last, then
realize it's a bottle left by a card player last night. Since possession  is
nine-tenth of the law I pry the top off the bottle with a church key,  thinking,
'We need a, 'Snack!  Taking a box of Ritz  crackers off the pantry shelf I
spread peanut butter and a smear of grape jelly  on a dozen crackers, then
bring the plate of gourmet treats and the bottle of  beer to the bedroom.

Handing the beer to Rob, he looks at the tray  and says, "Oh goody, snacks." He
sits up in bed Indian style, with his  legs crossed. I walk around and get
in my side of the bed balancing  the plate of gourmet treats while sitting
next to Rob with the covers over  my legs, then the plate goes on my lap.

Looking at Rob, I'm like, "Ya know,  that side of the bed should be mine. It's
closer to the bedroom door and  since you're always sending me on errands
it'd be a shorter trip for me."  He takes a Ritz cracker asking, "What's that
you say?" I'm like, "We should  switch places, and your side of the bed would
officially be mine for the  rest of the year." He looks at me as he chews
the cracker, then says, "The  smear of jelly on the peanut butter is genius."

I'm swallowing some beer, then  pass the bottle to Rob and pick up a
cracker,  asking, "What about us switching sides of the bed, Rob?" he goes, "No!"

and  laughs, then starts choking on a cracker. Guzzling some beer takes
care of his choking. I take the bottle of beer and elaborately wipe the
opening with the palm of my hand, which makes Rob laugh out loud, then say, "You
asshole." I remembered Pony doing that when we shared a Coke; I think it was
a  Coke. Wiping the top of the bottle before taking a sip is so prissy, and
 basically insulting to the other guy; which is what makes it's  funny.

We goof  around finishing off the crackers and beer. Rob says, "I suppose
it's my turn to  get us a beer," and I hop out of bed and run around to the
other side, saying,  "Absolutely not. You da man, and head of this  fuckin'
household. I'm the dutiful wife-like person who's  been browbeaten into
submissiveness by you." Rob goes, "Oh, okay, but look  for another Rolling Rock.

Switching beers sucks." Taking the empty plate  and empty bottle with me to
the kitchen, I can't help smiling to myself. I  feel so happy, and it could
have been very different today if Rob hadn't  defused that earlier silly
haircut situation. Many guys would dig-in and be  just as pissed off as I was,
and then we'd call each other hurtful names  and not speak to each other for
a day or two. I've heard guys talk about  similar situations they've had
with their roommates. Instead, Rob talked  and listened, basically allowing me
to see what an ass I was being. It didn't  take long, and because of it we
avoided the unpleasantness I assume  is inherent in silent treatments. Since
talking this out hours ago we've  had ourselves a lot of fun beginning with
that special dinner,  then Tracy's, sex in bed, and now goofing off in bed.

Bringing  the last bottle of Rolling Rock to the bedroom, I give it to Rob,
asking, "Are  we drunk?" Rob drinks some beer, then passes the bottle to
me, saying, "I was  just wondering that same thing myself. I think we're
experiencing one of  those long-term minor drunks. Minor because of the length of
time we've  been moderately drinking adult beverages. We had the champagne
and  wine hours ago, and a couple beers each at Tracy's, then these beers at
 home." I love Rob calling our apartment, 'home'. Getting in bed again, I
go, "So we're drunk?" He goes, "Yeah, sort of, but the booze has been
consumed  over like, what? How long has it been since dinner?" Shrugging, I go, "I
don't  know, um, we had the champagne around five-thirty and ate  dinner
forty-five minutes  later while drinking that awful bottle of wine. So six to
seven hours," and  he goes, "Plus we're too brilliant to drink shots, so
we're good." I go, "And we  have all day Sunday to lie around here at home
watching football on TV."  Swallowing some beer, he  burps, then mumbles, "High
definition TV, no less."

He  passes me the bottle and I drink some beer, passing the bottle back to
him, saying, "Sing me a song, Rob. Sing that awesomely corny love song you
learned in Arizona when you were on the family Grand Canyon trip." He
smirks, pleased that I asked. He goes, "With my Midwestern accent, right?"  I
go, "It's a country and western accent, not Midwestern." He's like,  "Really?
Well, it was a while ago, babe, I don't think I remember all the  words,"

and he said that with a country twang in his voice, making me grin.  Then I
try singing, "I pay rent on a run-down place,  there ain't no view but there's
lots of space, in my heart, the heart  that you own." He claps, then says,
still with a country/western twang in  his voice, "My next song is dedicated
to the boy I love, the  boy who stole my heart, Dylan Newman, soon to be
Dylan Dickers," and  he sings perfectly, a hundred times better than me, "I
pay rent on a  run-down place,  there ain't no view, but there's lots of
space, in my heart... the heart that you  own." His voice goes higher, as he looks
right into my eyes, "Used to be I could  live here free, before you owned
the property, my heart, the heart that you  own," then in his regular voice,
"I really don't remember the rest of the  words." I go, "You remembered the
words that make my eyes tears up, so sing  it again and don't forget the
introduction." He does that with me staring  at him, feeling my heart will burst
with love for him, "The heart that you  own..."

We get  all gooey then, hugging and kissing and telling each other things
we  remember doing together in our past. Some memories get  us tearing-up,
others make us  laugh. We have another beer, Coors this  time, and we hardly
notice the difference. We sing the song as a duet,  pointing at each other's
heart. We sing it three times hugging after each time  and pointing at each
other when we come to the lyrics, 'The heart that  you own,' stretching out
the word 'own'. We sound pretty fucking good  too. After sharing half of our
forth beer, another Coors, Rob puts the  bottle on the night stand and we
come together kissing and eventually have sex  again. I forget all about the
valleys we experienced today  because the peaks have been so high. I
actually don't remember  falling asleep, but I'm sure I did so without brushing my
teeth because when I  wake-up I have a headache and there an overused Kitty
Litter box on my  tongue.

Groaning,  I ruffle Rob's longish hair on top of his head. His head is
level with my chest  and I see his feet sticking out the side of the bed,
pointing to the bedroom  door. He's still dead to the world. With the back of my
fingers I rub the short  hairs all the way up the side of his head and groan
as the memory of our  haircuts from Golden come back to me like a slap in
the face. Feeling my  hair, I  take a deep breath and let out a resigned sigh.

Jesus, was it yesterday we  got our haircuts? Seems like a couple of days
ago. Holding my thumping head  in both hands, I stretch a little, then get
out of bed and, in the bathroom,  take the world's longest piss. I don't think
we pissed once while drinking  those four or five beers in bed. Oh fuck,
I'm swaying at the toilet,  pissing like a, um, I can't think what animal
pisses hard. A horse or  an elephant maybe...

Flushing  the toilet, then washing my hands while staring at myself in the
mirror, I like:  Huh, while this haircut doesn't look good from the front,
it doesn't look  horrible either. It's the sides and back view that look
ridiculous, but we put  the lid on this shit, never to be mentioned again, and
so be it. Yeah,  but there's no fucking part! There should be a part on the
left side of my  head. Golden just ran the clippers up and cut it off. Jesus!
I wash my face  twice, then look at myself again. My eyes are bloodshot, so
what the fuck time  is it anyway? My wristwatch says seven-fifteen. We went
to sleep  sometime after three o'clock, so what am I doing up? Well, the
piss  was urgently needed, and I'm dying of thirst, plus my head is ringing
like  a church bell every two seconds inside my skull, and my mouth  now taste
like doggy doodies.

After  brushing my teeth and gargling, I leave the bathroom and pad into
the  kitchen looking down at myself, wondering where my pajama bottom got to.

The  cold Coke goes down swallow after swallow, one right after the  other
until all sixteen ounces are inside me. Then a big burp, and I  take three
Advil with some water. Blinking my eyes really  fast, I ask myself, Dude, do
you feel better now?' and the  answer is; yeah, a little bit. Back in the
bedroom I move Rob's legs under the  covers, then lift him with my hands under
his armpits, umpth!, to get him  straight on the bed with his head on the
pillow. Walking around to my side of  the bed I get in and dump the towel out
on the floor. The sheet's dry  now. Then I get an idea. Reaching over I pull
Rob's head and  torso over to my pillow, then get out of bed to walk around
to his side and,  reaching under the covers from the side of the mattress
to push his legs over.  Now I get in the side of the bed that used to be
Rob's, but now is mine.  Giggling a little because he never stirred though all
of that. Then I don't  move a muscle for a few seconds as pulsing pain in my
head thunders like a  hundred kettle drums pounding. That little burst of
activity wasn't  the smartest move when dealing with a hangover. I settle down
inhaling  Rob's scent off his pillow, and fall back to sleep.

Robby's  gently shaking my shoulder, quietly saying, "C'mon, Dylan, you
can't sleep all  day, and how'd you get on my side of the bed? C'mon, get up,
I'm making  breakfast," My eyes blink open. Rob's making us breakfast?
Hugging his  pillow, I roll over on my back and there he is, showered and bright
eyed  looking down at me, again asking, "What are you doing on my side of
the bed?" I  take a deep breath, then stretch all my muscles and almost get a
cramp in my  foot, then mumble, "You look, um, clean, Rob, and cutely
handsome like a  male model, only better." He says, "I made oatmeal and bacon." I
ask, "The  instant oatmeal?" He nods, "Yeah," and I go, "You call that
making breakfast?"  He snickers, then goes, "Get the fuck up; the oatmeal is
getting cold. The bacon  is burned beyond recognition so it doesn't matter that
it's cold too."  I chuckle, then go, "Hey, my headache isn't that bad. How
'bout you,  Rob?" He says, "I'm not bad either, I'm good." I go, "Your
headache  numb-nuts, not you. How's your headache?" He sits on the edge of the
bed,  saying, "Not too bad, but ya know, it's ten after twelve. The Pats game
is  on at one." I'm holding my arms up, so Rob leans over and my arms close
around  him, as I murmur, "I got up last night, or was it early this morning?
Anyway  I brushed and gargled." He goes, "I wasn't worried about that," and
we have  much more than a regular morning kiss, after which, Rob goes, "Do
you  want to?" I nod grinning, and he climbs in bed next to me, pulls down
his  sweatpants and I sit up to suck his cock, getting it real hard, then
turn over  and get on my hands and knees. Robby smacks my ass hard and doesn't
stop until I  put my hand back there, yelping, "No, no, Rob, stop!" He plugs
in his cock and  fucks me fast and hard, me rocking to and fro on the
mattress. We both cum  in less than three  minutes, then collapse in a pile of
arms, legs, and dicks getting  back under the covers with Robby beside me, his
arms around me. Heavy  breathing, hearts pounding for a short while, then
we're calm just lying  together with Rob doing little kisses on the side of
my neck, or nibbling on my  ear.

Finally, I  say "That was more damn good hot sex, Rob! You're really
getting good at this." From behind me he goes, "It's both of us, Dylan, but  do
you think we fuck too much?" I go, "No!" After a couple of minutes of
snuggling, he mutters, "The oatmeal is probably cement by now, and the Pats game
is about ready to kick off." I sigh and slide out of his arms with my feet
dropping to the floor. We go through more bathroom stuff before  deciding on
a quick shower. It's a fifteen-minute shower together, washing each other
and hugging  slippery bodies, managing to finish rinsing off without anyone
getting  fucked. When we're both dried, dressed in comfy sweat pants, and
over-sized  t-shirts we go in the living room, turn on the TV, and then flop on
the  sofa. Ha, we only missed six minutes of the first quarter and it's
already Pats 7, Washington 0.




Our  bodies are a bit dehydrated as a result of overindulging of alcoholic
beverages yesterday, so we do the best out of three paper, scissors,  rock
and Robby loses. He groans, then gets up and makes  us freshly squeezed
orange juice by cutting eight big Navel oranges  in half and pressed each half
on the rotating juicer head extracting every  last drop of juice before
discarding the skin and moving on to  the next orange half. When all the oranges
are squeezed and transferred to a  pitcher, he put the pitcher of juice in
the freezer for twenty minutes. When  it's very chilled he stirs the pitcher
of juice vigorously, then pours  the OJ into frosty glasses, also from the
freezer. So, okay, the process  for freshly squeezed juice is definitely a
pain in the  ass, but the difference between freshly squeezed orange juice
and pasteurized orange juice is a like the difference between night  and day;
there's no comparison. In addition, store-bought pasteurized  orange juice,
or any fruit or vegetable juice for that matter, loses  most of it's enzymes
and beneficial nutrients during the boiling process,  which is what
pasteurization mostly consists  of.

Later,  during commercial breaks, I prepare a six-egg cheese and mushroom
omelet to  share with Rob. In addition, I  toast and butter Italian bread
slices and served the toast with marmalade,  and mugs of coffee. Both sides of
my omelets are bright yellow and  never have scorch marks on the underside
like often happens with  bigger omelets prepared in a too-hot frying or
omelet pan. Slow  cooking; that's the secret. During the second half of the
football  game we're lying on the sofa, Rob partially under me, his  arms around
me as we watch the game. We're sexually satisfied, but  still like being in
bodily contact with each other. Snugly together  like this, mostly without
talking, it's dreamy and ultra-relaxing. I  like feeling the slight beating
of his heart against my back and his breath  subtly against the back of my
head. It's a cozy safe warm-feeling being together  in our private world of
two.

No  alcoholic beverages today, of course. Instead, later on we make root
beer  floats, drink iced tea and Cokes. We watch football with the sound off
because  announcers and commercials irritate the shit out of me. During the
late  afternoon game, we make-out for a while,  kissing and licking and
sucking each other's lips and tongue. There's no talking, just the subtle  wet
mouth sounds and a few sighs or quiet moans. Our cellphones are on  silent,
and the buzzing vibrations when a text or call hits one is  merely part of the
ambient sounds, like the heater switching on or off, or the  clock on the
wall barley making a sound as the minute hands moves to the  next minute.

There goes Rob's cell vibrating again. We know the  cellphone calls are
invitations for an afternoon game of two-hand  touch football, or a pickup
basketball game from friends, or  Rob's teammates. It'd be fun participating in a
sports pickup game,  but most Sundays we spend together in the apartment.

Around seven o'clock  or so I order a large cheese pizza for delivery. Even
though last  night we both eventually had nine or ten hours sleep, we're still
feeling a little beat-up from over-drinking and getting to sleep very late.

Consequently, we're in bed by ten o'clock most Sunday  nights and sleeping
soon after that.

Monday  morning, feeling okay, I get up at eight o'clock and try impressing
Rob by  sitting at the desk reviewing last week's assignment for today's
one  o'clock 'Management Supply Chain' class. A little later Rob comes up
behind me  and rubs my head with both hands, saying enthusiastically, "Dude,
cool haircut!"  and we both burst out laughing. I turns around, still
snickering,  and about to disagree with his assessment, but before I can say a word
he  holds my face between his hands for a hot sexy kiss that leads to a nice
little make-out ending up with us in the shower together. Under the
pouring water we have another one of our shower-fucks. Rob plowing my  ass for six
minutes before I feel his load shoot inside me. I gasp then  squeal and
hump my hips as five streaks of cum shoot out hitting the tile wall  of the
shower stall. Holy shit, that felt good! The rest of Monday goes  as expected.

No more baseball practice after class for Rob, and  he hasn't had practice
for two weeks now. Instead of going to the library after  class, we've been
driving home to do our assignments. When finished the required  assignments,
Rob and I take turns asking each other possible test  questions for the next
fifteen or twenty minutes. I've given up bitching  about doing this extra
study because it's not worth the trouble, and Rob  won't give in anyway. As a
consequence, I've  never felt more prepared for class, pop quizzes, you
name it, and I'm on top of  it.

Finished  all that Rob drops me off on campus and I meet Pony for  our
Mondays through Thursdays, and occasionally Fridays three miles run.  Obviously
the three miles has become easier for me by now. After the  run we work out
at the fitness center; then, when Rob's doing something at  the ballpark, or
playing competitive XBOX with Frankie, or hooking up with  Danny, or doing
anything out of the apartment, Pony and I finish our workout at  the
apartment. Mostly though, on Tuesdays and Thursdays we finish our  workout in his
dorm room because his roommate has late classes those two days. I  look
forward to us doing it too, and Pony is basically in-heat all the  time, so we
have ourselves some hot buddy sex dripping with sweat after our  workout. It's
always Pony and his sharp incisors sucking a boner on my penis,  then a
sweaty grungy awesome spanking for Pony before a hard fucking of his  special
ass, usually with a condom. His orgasms are must see events. I try,
depending on what position we're fucking in, to observe him climaxing. They're  like
what I imagine an exploding fire hydrant would be like, but  that's just
the first spray of precum and pent-up seamen. Red-faced  and shaking, Pony's
blowing spit bubbles as he gasps at the sensations  firing off in his body.

His five-inch cock looks like it's ready to take  off. It's the hardest cock
I've ever seen and after the initial spray the  real climax happens and with
his body stiff and his crotch humping he shoots the  longest streams of cum
I've ever seen. That boy really enjoys his climaxes while  I enjoy the hell
out of his pulsating rectum. He swears he's not doing anything
intentionally to make his rectum clutch at my boner like it does, so it  must be
unintentional muscle contractions. Whatever, he's got himself a  special ass. The
fast talking Pony is  considerably slower now, although maybe faster than
what I'd call a normal  speech pattern, and that's even though he appears
completely relaxed with me by  now.

Overall I've  become very fond of Daryl and feel protective of him, and I
say that  even though he doesn't need protecting. He's no wimp, no one picks
on him,  and anyway we're the same size and he's in excellent shape. Plus,
he's  less than a year younger than me. I guess I mean I'm protective of our
sex,  making sure we're doing things that Pony is comfortable with. He's
still  basically inexperienced. Inexperienced but not naive come to think of it
as  he's been hinting he'd like to try some kinkier sex; beyond just
getting  spanked I mean. On second thought maybe he doesn't need me looking out
for him  with sex either. In the past I remember getting my rocks off with
kinky sex both with Willie and Ryan. For that matter, with Billy and John in
New  York that time as well. So I've had some experiences with it, and for
short  periods of time it was nuclear hot for me as the submissive partner.

I'm not  sure at all that I'd get my rocks off being the dominant partner
though,  but why not try some kinky sex for Daryl's sake? I'm  considering
asking Ryan if he brought any of his sex toys with him, ones that I  might
borrow. Hmmm, I wonder if he's used them with Jeff. Jesus, that would  be hot! I
had a little thing for Jeff that never materialized into anything  except
that one quick fuck at a gay club when we were both really drunk. Anyway  Jeff
had a thing for Ryan, not me. The country bumpkin didn't know any  better I
guess.

Anyway,  that's been normal activity for Daryl and me. As for Rob, whatever
he's doing  his shadow, Golden Summers, is often right there with him.

Golden also  has his little posse of freshmen teammates who he does freshman
stuff with, although I forget what that was when I was a  freshman myself so
long ago. Golden and Beth, it's rumored, are doing  'IT'. So good for them.

I'm almost positive Rob will tell me when he  and Frankie get around to
trying it, if they ever do. Since the end of baseball  practice Rob, myself,
Danny, and of course Golden usually hit the  movies once a week, usually before
dinner to take advantage of cheaper ticket  pricing for afternoon showings,
or we just hang-out at the  apartment usually along with Frankie and Beth,
sometimes with Chubby and  John Beverly. Or we'll have a couple of beers at
the Speakeasy with the  same group, and at times a couple of others will join
us for  liar's poker  or our number one pastime, bullshitting with each
other trying for laughs at  various individual's expense. I rarely see Ryan
except for our Friday class  together, and then for a while after class in his
dorm room, doing buddy sex  mostly. Chubby joins Rob and I for lunch a
couple of times a  week; occasionally with John Beverly as his co-pilot. We try
eating at  different restaurants, other than fast food  joints, and sometimes
we'll have a beer with lunch, or sometimes eat  in the apartment. Rob and I
have guests for dinner two or three nights a  week, usually with the girls
among our 'guests'. It's all good; junior  year is my best college
experience so far.

So  anyway, Rob's and my Monday is a good day, as most days are. Things are
 really about as good as they've ever been, and tomorrow is the Halloween
party.  It's at the home of a commuting student who lives in Haverhill, which
 is a town about ten miles from North Andover. The sophomore student's
parents have made the mistake of going away for a week and leaving their  house
in the hands of their college student son. Bad move on their  part. Rob
learned of the party when he was invited to bring friends by  a sophomore
baseball player, whose name I've forgotten. Upon hearing news  of a Halloween
party Frankie took over by insisting we all wear  costumes. My idea of a
costume is a mask covering my eyes, and that's about it.  Through Frankie's
nagging of Rob though, and  his subsequent coaxing of me, this year I'll
apparently be  wearing more than a Lone Ranger mask. We left it up to the girls to
choose  the costumes and right now we're on our way to pick up the costumes.

It's Monday around seven o'clock at night. The rental place is in  Boston.

When we  get there we discover Frankie and Beth outdid themselves, and
while the  costumes cost way more than any of us wanted to spend for a
three-day rental,  they are really hot-shit costumes. Naturally she chose a costume
for her and Rob  that left no doubt they're a couple, so that answers the
question I asked Rob  recently about who his date will be; Frankie or me? He
said what difference does  it make since we're all  going together. Anyway,
Frankie's costume is a big two-outlet  electric socket extending from her
shoulders to her, um, crotch. Rob's  costume extends from his shoulder to his
crotch also, with a big plug at  crotch that matches the lower outlet at
Frankie's crotch. Subtle!  These costumes are sort of hollow rectangle shaped
affairs  that you put on over your head, held on with shoulder  straps.

Beth's  costume is a brick in front and back. The same kind of drops over
your head with  shoulder straps holding it on. Golden is dressed as a brick
layer.  Another subtle pair of costumes. Chubby and John Beverly aren't
taking dates;  they're going as Bert and Ernie of Sesame Street fame. They want
to look  harmless assuming that'll make them appear innocent and therefore
make it more  lightly they'll successfully hit on stag chicks at the party.

Good luck  with that. Pony's going as Robin the boy wonder, and I'm Batman.

Danny Monday  and his roommate, Philipp Cathings, please don't call me Phil,
are going as  a cheeseburger and a glass of beer. All the costumes depict the
subject  matter elaborately and there's nothing cheap-looking about any of
them, but  like I said they all cost over $40 each to rent. I gave Rob a
'look' when I  found out how much these things rent for because he's the ones
who  talked us guys into letting the girls surprise us with the costumes. Rob
 gives a pathetic I'm sorry look which made me feel bad, so I told him,
"Seriously, Rob, these costumes rock!" After picking up our costumes  we drive
back to North Andover and celebrated with a couple of beers at  Tracy's.

Then  it's Tuesday and everything goes as usual during the day. Daryl and I
 finish our workout at the fitness center, omitting the best parts because
there's no safe place to do it. Later there's ten of us in the apartment
having a hot dog and hamburger cookout.  I do a large batch of French fries,
and that's the entire menu. We take turns  working the grill because it's a
cold night. We're all front loading cans of  beer before the Halloween
party. Danny and his roommate supplied one  case of beer, and another one is
supplied by the girls, Frankie and  Beth. Chubby and John Beverly bought all the
frozen hamburgers and  buns. Rob and I bought the hot dogs and condiments,
plus the French fries. The  others in attendance are freeloaders. We finally
leave for the party  in costume, taking the Jeep, pickup, and Philipp's
Chevy Van. It's like a  twenty-minute drive  and, as with almost every party
I've ever been to, we need to park a couple  of blocks away. Instead of the
clumsiness of BYO, everyone chips in fifteen  bucks at the door and you make
the best of it from there. Maybe they have  the type liquor you want and
maybe they don't. Rob and I are sticking  with beer so we're not concerned what
kind of rot gut vodka they have, for  example.

The kid  whose house it is, plus his sophomore buddies, have thought things
out pretty  well. The only unlocked entrance to the house is in back and it
leads  to a large finished basement with a  bathroom. The door leading to
the first floor is locked so the damage will  be confined to the basement. A
guy with a large nose, wearing big  sunglasses, and dressed like the grim
reaper is standing behind a long  narrow table at the back of the basement
acting as the DJ, and there's  some impressive speakers blaring out the tunes.

They've moved all the  other furniture out of the room, presumably into the
three-car garage, so  there's this big open space of I'd guess twenty-five
feet by twenty feet, which  isn't nearly big enough for the crowd that's
turned out. There's spillage  outside where the tapped half keg of Coors beer in
 a tub of ice is located, and a table's set-up as a help-yourself bar  with
half  gallons of vodka, tequila, and bourbon. If you like gin or rye
whiskey you're shit out of luck. There's also a sophomore guy at the  table to
remind anyone who need reminding that help  yourself refers to pouring from
the bottles, not taking  the bottles with you. There's lots of coming and
going from inside to  outside out for the booze in the back yard; then, after a
bit, back inside  to warm up. Inside there's lots of goofy dancing going on,
made  awkwardly goofier by the costumes. I longingly look at the guys with
costumes consisting of only the Lone Ranger masks. Smart guys, and I  used
to be one of them. There's plenty of plastic cups but no snacks at  all. A
door off the basement, also locked, leads to another part of  the basement
where I'm guessing the heaters, hot water tank, and necessary  things like
that are located.

Lots of  dancing, as I said, and of course it's very loud. A committee
consisting of two  girls and a geeky-looking guy are appraising everyone's
costume to later  award prizes in various categories. It hard to tell how many
students are here,  at least a hundred and fifty, but from what I heard from a
stranger not everyone  here is a college students. Guys and girls from town
paid  their fifteen dollars so who really cares that they're not Merrimack
students. My hats off to the organizers because this whole affair was well
thought out and, while they probably won't make any money, I can't see them
 losing any either. Good for them. The bad part, or I should say the worst
part of my costume, is the full mask. The hot dog and beer costumes, for
example, don't have masks, and Daryl just has Robin's eye mask. After trying
to  drink beer through the opening in my mask, I take it off and hold it
under my  arm. At first all of us who came together stay together, but that
doesn't even last through the first drink. Guys see someone they know and
drift over to shoot the shit with him or her, and some join the middle of the
room where the dancing is going on and they're lost from sight. Then it's
outside/inside getting refills and/or catching a smoke of either tobacco or,
more likely, pot. Being in a crowd of your peers lends to loud talking and
easy laughs, and it's just fun being part of it all.

There  are stag girls aplenty;  probably more than stag guys. Daryl and I
get asked to dance and after saying,  'Um, thanks, but I need to get a few
beers in me before I can even think  of dancing," or some variation of that,
we finally give in and dance  with two girls who came over to ask us
together. We're soon separated,  and after two or three tunes I excuse myself from
Cinderella, my dance partner,  who was a damn good dancer, but I need a fresh
cup of beer. It's about  eighty degrees inside and maybe half that outside
and, initially, that's  refreshing. I pour myself a cup of beer, light a
cigarette, and look around to  see if I know anyone in the area. Not seeing
anyone, I find a spot in an  alcove between the house and the three car garage
where I'm protected from the  chilly breeze that kicks frequently making it
feel like  below freezing. Leaning against the wall I'm breathing in the
night air filled with my cigarette smoke and the smell of pot coming from
about twenty joints. The music is still audible out here, but not so  loud it's
 likely to get the cops called. I've got my full-head mask under my arm,
minding  my own business and thinking how Halloween masks on the  guys
generally fucks up my hobby of boy watching. A guy in a porky pig  mask ,  says,
"Hey Batman, got an extra cigarette?" It's weird, but I  recognize that voice,
and asks, "Markie?"


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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