Date: Sat, 4 Jun 2016 14:05:16 -0400
From: MGTBILL@aol.com
Subject: DYLAN'S VACATION BACK HOME  Chapter  28

DYLAN'S  VACATION BACK HOME



Chapter  28



by  Donny Mumford



It was mostly luck spotting the asshole's van, but we  were searching in
the right area so it wasn't all luck. The sicko drove  from the block of
houses we were going to check next. After running a stop  sign Chubby's two cars
behind the pervert's van. Glancing at Charlie  in the backseat, he looks
tense, so I ask, "You doing okay,  Charlie?" He nods his head, "Uh huh, except
my ass is starting to sting again."  I go, "There's more of that pain relief
creme back at the house. I'll put more  of it on your rear-end when we get
back." He points at the  van, asking, "What will we do when we catch-up
with, um, him?" Chubby says,  "Right now we mostly want to know where he's
staying. We'll figure out what to  do about him after that." I don't blame
Charlie for being apprehensive; not  after what that guy did to him. Hell, I'm a
little apprehensive myself  although I know from past experience Chubby and I
will come up with a plan  for revenge that has minimal chance of us getting
caught. Rule number one  is don't make a bad situation worse.

We have no problem following the van down Ocean Drive  because there's no
red lights or stop signs until we're four blocks from the  boardwalk in the
center of town. Now there's a light at every corner, as well as  pedestrian
cross walks. Our half-assed political correct society decided  some time ago
that pedestrians have the right-of-way on the streets,  and not motor
vehicles that the roads were made for. Our concern  is getting stopped at a red
light, one that Lee goes through, and  we lose him. Chubby barely makes it
through the first light on a  yellow, and then at the second intersection the
lady driving the car in  front of us appears determined to let every
pedestrian in Wildwood cross in  front of us even though we have the green light and
the pedestrians have  the 'DON'T WALK' sign. Chubby blows the horn and gets
a nasty look from  the lady driver in front of us, but that's all we get as
the light  turns yellow, then red. Chubby slams his hand on the steering
wheel,  yelling, "That bitch!" I'm keeping my eye on the van, then say, "He
turned  right two blocks up."

When we get the green light again Chubby lays on the  horn and the car in
front does a jack rabbit start and then stalls. Fuck! She  gets it started
and we make it passed that intersection and the next one too,  then Chubby
turns right and we see the van in the drive-thru at  a McDonalds restaurant.

Backing into a parking spot, we sit with the Jeep  idling as Chubby mutters,
"I guess even perverts need to eat." As soon as the  sicko gets his take-out
order Chubby drives off the parking lot and butts into  the line of cars,
hearing horns blowing. Chubby mutters, "Fuck you," and  now we're one car
behind the van. For something to say, I mumble, "I hope  he goes home to eat."

The van makes the first right, then the next right and the  next. Then waits
at a red light with his left turn-signal blinking. Charlie  says, "He's
going back the way we came, up Ocean Drive." That's what he  does with us
following him. We passing by the intersection we were at when we  spotted him and
continuing on this road takes us right past the road that leads  to the
wooded area he took Charlie. Three blocks later the van turns onto  an alley and
Chubby pulls over. He looks at me, "The alley's behind that row of
attached condo's, so he's probably parking at the back of his place." Charlie
mumbles, "Gee, he lives here year round, huh?" I shrug, "Yeah, it looks like
it."

Chubby and I get out of the Jeep, telling Charlie,  "Wait here." We jog to
the side of the end condo, then peek around the  corner, looking down the
alley. The van is parked on a sloping driveway three  condos down. Pervert-Lee
is already out of the van and walking in the back  door carrying his
McDonalds take-out bag. I whisper, "Good! He didn't park  in the garage." Chubby
goes, "Yeah, I assume he's planning on going out  later." We take a last
look, then walk back to the Jeep. Chubby drives us back  the way we came with me
telling Charlie, "We know where the sick fuck lives now  and we'll deal
with him after dinner." Chubby adds, "Yeah, after dark we'll  return with a
plan." Charlie goes, "I'm scared. Um, maybe we should just call  the cops
anonymously." We discuss that, but it's a horrible idea because Lee  hasn't
technically broken any laws that we know of. He has pictures showing  Charlie
putting two hundred dollar bills in his pocket making it appears he's a  male
prostitute getting paid for kinky sex, which isn't against the law if it's
between consenting adults. I say, "When cops are involved you lose total
control of the situation." Charlie whines, "He has pictures of me getting
beaten  and fucked. What if they end up online?" Chubby says, "Calm the fuck
down,  Charlie! Dylan will think of something."

We're on our way back to our place to shower and  get dressed for the
Barns' farewell party. When we're stuck at the  same traffic red light we were
stuck at following the van, I say, "I got it!  We'll fire bomb his van."

Charlie goes, "How will we do that?" Turning to look  at him, I go, "We'll get
ourselves a couple of Molotov cocktails and burn the  van inside and out.

Ideally we'd also like to do serious bodily harm  on that sick fuck, and if we
get the chance to do it without any danger of  getting caught we will.  In
the meantime we can ruin his van and all  the expensive photography equipment
in back, plus destroy pictures of you and  anyone else he's fucked with."

Eliminating pictures of Charlie should be  our first objective. Chubby drives
through the intersection, saying, "My  mastermind brother does it again!

Good plan. The guy probably has insurance on  the van, but it's unlikely he
has it for the cameras and other stuff in the  back." I go, "Yep, the fire
will bring fire engines, and the cops always come  with the fire engines." I
hear Charlie swallowing noisily, as in, "Gulp!". Then  he says, "He's got my
cell phone number." Chubby says, "So what? How's he gonna  prove you have
anything to do with his van getting fire bombed. I'm betting he's  fucked-up
others, so it could be anyone getting  revenge."

Looking at him in the back seat again, I say, "The  pictures he took of you
will be ashes, Charlie. Him having your cell phone  number doesn't prove
anything." He looks pale, then Chubby says, "Yeah,  and the pervert will be
questioned by the police and, sure they'll be  suspicious of him wanting to
know, 'Why would someone fire bomb your van,  sir? Who do you know who'd do
that?' See, he'll now be a person of  interest to the cops where before they
didn't know he existed, and Lee will want  to return to being an unknown.

What would the cops find on his cell phone, huh?  You think he wants to mention
cellphone numbers? I don't think so." Charlie nods  his head, asking, "And
we won't even need to see Lee to fire bomb his  car, right?" Chubby says,
"That's right as far as it goes, but it's a  fuckin' shame we can't inflict
some pain on his ass." I go, "I don't see  any safe sure way to do that. He
knows what all three of us looks  like. Fucking his truck up, he can't prove
anything, but if he sees us as we  break a couple of his bones he might put
the police on our asses." I add,  "Yeah, no way do I want my name on any
police record. Destroying his  van gives him tons of mental anguish, create a
lot of inconvenience for him  and hopefully cost him a lot of money." Another
nod of his head from Charlie as  he smells the back of his hand again. I
don't blame him for being nervous. Hell,  Chubby and I are nervous too, but we
can't let the sick fuck get away  scott-free. Huh, I wonder who Scott was,
and what he got away with for  free?

At our condo we're out of the Jeep huddling at  the bottom of the steps. I
tell Charlie, "You need to act as if everything's  cool. You're parents will
almost certainly ask you about the photo  shoot. Tell them it never
amounted to anything. The guy snapped a few pictures,  then decided you weren't
right for what he needed. Some vaguer bull shit.  Basically you don't know why
he changed his mind." Chubby adds, "Yeah, and  when he dropped you off you
ran into Dylan and me and we had the  frozen daiquiris. You got the popsicle
headache and laid down. That corroborates  the story Dylan told your parents
earlier on the beach." Charlie rubs his face  with both hands taking a deep
breath, muttering, "Yeah, I got it covered,  but listen guys, um, the most
important thing as far as I'm concerned is my  parents and sister never find
out what that guy did to me. It'd be humiliation  I'd never live down.

That's more important to me than getting even with Lee." I  pat his shoulder,
"We know, Charlie. It'll be between the three of us forever,  but that prick
needs to know there are consequences for his sick  behavior."

I run upstairs to get the pain relief cream, then  bring it down to
Charlie, saying, "After your shower spread a coating of this on  your ass. We'll
see you at your place in an hour or so." Charlie goes, "Thanks,  um, can we
talk more about the fire-bombing later?" Chubby says, "Sure, just  remember to
act like nothing happened, okay?" Charlie goes, "Yeah, I can do  that. See
you guys in a little while." We watch him walking across the alley as
Chubby's asking, "Whaddaya think, Dylan? Will he fuck this up?" I go, "I don't
think so." We walk up the steps as I'm telling him, "Charlie's understandable
 messed-up in the head after that horrific experience, but he's  strongly
motivated to keep it a secret. As far as him helping with the, um,  pay-back
to the sicko, I'm not so sure he'll be an asset." Standing on our deck
looking over at Charlie's deck, Chubby mumbles, "We'll bring him with us if he
insists, but only as a lookout, ya know?" I say, "Yeah okay, but man do I
ever want to do bodily harm on that sick mother fucker, Lee." Chubby goes,
"Yeah me too, but I agree with you we probably can't get away with it." I
shrug, and Chubby adds, "I was thinking Charlie should probably talk to a
therapist or something about the traumatic shit he went through." I shrug,
muttering, "Yeah, I guess, but he isn't inclined to discuss this with anyone,
so  ya know..."  As we go inside Chubby's saying, "For now he wants to keep it
to  himself, but maybe he'll feel differently in a week or  two."

The Moms both come out of their bedrooms at the same  time we walk inside.

Big smiles and hugs from them, then, "You boys are late.  The party starts
in fifteen minutes." Chubby says, "We like to be fashionably  late, Dee," and
my Mom says, "Yes, Jeff, so do we actually. Our guys are coming  over any
minute now and we'll probably have a cocktail here before joining  the
party." Nobody mentions Charlie so apparently they all believed  what I told them
on the beach. If Charlie follows through with the  same vague tale, then the
photographer saga will simply fade away as far as  they're concerned.

Chubby showers first while I sit on the side of my bed  with my laptop
Googling 'Molotov cocktails'. Huh, they're simple enough to make.  Seeing an
email from Robby makes me smile.  It's an awesome email  packed full of sweet
sentiments. I read it twice, then spend ten  minutes typing a reply slipping
into maudlin-mode because I have an aching  feeling of love in my heart for
him that makes my silly fling with  Charlie seem frivolous. Chubby's out of
the shower just as I'm finishing my  email, so I'll check my text messages
later. Then, for the hell of it, I take a  quick glance at the text from
Ryan: he simply states: I'm missing you, babe.  See you soon. I do a quick
reply: Same here, Ryan. After I send it I  wonder if maybe I'm misrepresenting my
feelings. Yeah, I probably am  but I don't want to be mean to him. I do
have feelings for Ryan,  although not the kind he wants. I'll need to have a
face to face  conversation classifying our status. Oh man though, the sexual
trances Ryan  can sometimes get me into were really something. And the
sizzling  hot and sexy fetish-heat I'd get during his fucking  specialty
haircuts, whoa! That's a love/hate thing right there; Ryan  giving me haircuts. No
more of that though because I've moved on and his  dominant haircutting will
have to be just another one of my hot sexy  memories.

Chubby's standing in the bedroom naked, drying his  hair, asking, "What are
you thinking, bro? You have a faraway look in your  eyes." I go, "Oh,
nothing. Do you still feel good about the fire bomb  plan?" He drops the towel on
the floor, kicks it out of his way, and begins  searching through the
bureau drawer looking for clean underwear, saying, "I  never feel especially good
about our revenge adventures. Always nervous about  them, but, um,
fire-bombing his van, yeah it's a good, relatively safe way to do  some payback on
the sicko prick. Why, are you having second thoughts?" Shutting  down my
laptop, I go, "No, but I get butterflies in my stomach too. I  just Googled
Molotov cocktails and they're pretty simple to make."  Chubby puts on a pair of
my boxer shorts, saying, "I figured they were, and  there's a lawnmower in
the shed under our deck, so there'll probably be a can  of gas/oil mixture
for the mower we can use. Some rags or whatever too." I  take a deep breath,
muttering, "Nerve wracking, huh?" Chubby finds a pair of  cargo shorts that
aren't too wrinkled and puts then on, saying, "Sure it's nerve  wracking, but
sometimes we gotta do what we gotta do, nerve wracking or  not. Charlie
gets no justice otherwise. " Muttering, "You're right, Chub,"  I go in and take
my shower wishing Charlie never went with that asshole, Lee. I  let myself
be a little pissed-off at Charlie for putting Chubby and me in a  position
we can't ignore. Charlie should have listened to me, or maybe I  should have
been more insistent about going with him. Woulda, coulda, shoulda,  ya know?

Well now we gotta deal with it. But man, I can work up a rage  thinking
about people like that fucker, Lee, who feel entitled to do  whatever hideous
thing they want just because they can. Well, you're not  getting away with it
clean this time,  asshole!

When I'm done with my shower and dressed, I find  Chubby on the deck
smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer. He points to a can  of Coors beer on the
table, saying, "I got one for you, Dylan." Popping the top  of the can I sit
down taking Chubby's cigarette and dragging on it before giving  it back to
him. He says, "Look over there at Charlie's deck. There's already  twenty
people." I go, "Yeah, and there's Ronny Tarleckie talking to, I  assume, his
parents. Not surprising they'd be invited considering they're  neighbors of
the Barns family." Charlie's talking to two girls who look alike.  For the
hell of it I call him on his cellphone and watch him fumbling it out of  his
pocket. I say, "Who are the girls, Charlie?" He looks over and waves at us,
telling me, "My twin cousins," and then he says something to them that
makes them look over at us. We do a little wave, as I ask, "You doing alright?"

 He says, "Um, yeah, pretty much." "Your ass feeling better?" He looks at
his  cousins, then over to us, muttering, "Much better, thank you." I go,
"We'll be  over shortly," and end the call, saying to Chubby, "He seems okay.

He's talking  to his twin cousins." Chubby goes, "Oh yeah? Oh, and there's
Jessica and Tyrone  coming out on the deck." I mumble, "Good thing it's a big
deck." Chubby  squinting, mumbles, "Where the fuck's Ellie  though?"

We finish our beers and wander over to join the  crowded deck. There's
pre-poured strawberry daiquiris lined up on the windowsill  so we grab a couple
and hook up with our Moms, Rider, and Bud. They're  doing quite well, and
looking good for their ages. Mom wants to know what we  were up to this
afternoon after leaving the beach. Chubby makes up an elaborate  lie telling them
we were playing hoops at the 39th street basketball courts with  Charlie and
three guys who said they played for the St. Joe's College  basketball team.

He makes up odd names for the fictitious players  as I concentrate on not
laughing, then drift over to talk with Charlie and his  cousins. The girls
look about our age and are kinda cute in a giggly way.  Charlie introduces me
to Faith and Hope, so I naturally ask, "Where's Charity?"  to which, Faith
says, "Oh, we've never heard that before." I shrug, mumbling,  "It's the best
I could come up with off the top of my head." Hope says, "Pretty  cute head
too," then she adds, "Charlie's been telling us about how  cute his
boyfriend is, and he didn't exaggerate." I go, "I think that  was a compliment, and
if so, thanks, although we're not boyfriends." Charlie  mutters, "Yes we
are."

The twins take turns telling me a couple of  semi-embarrassing stories
about them and Charlie growing up.  Tales along the lines of the kid thing where
you go, I'll show you mine  if you'll show me your's'. Charlie blushes
cutely and it's obvious both  girls like him a lot. Faith says, "Hope and I had
monstrous crushes on Charlie  as preteens, which we think is why he decided
to be gay." Charlie goes,  "I didn't decide to be gay," and Hope pinches his
cheek saying,  "You're so cute, Charlie." They point out their parents, who
are talking to  Charlie's parents, then four guys in their late twenties
from the condo  under this one join the party. Good! Lots of people will make
it easier for us  to sneak away on our arson run. Jesse and Tyrone come over
and I get introduce  to sexy Tyrone. Up close he's even better looking than
I first thought.  Beautiful smooth tan, clean-shaven face with a killer
smile. I learn he's  was born in the Bahamas and grew up there until age
fifteen. I'd sure  like to get to know him better, but Charlie pulls me away
saying we need a  fresh drink.

Making our way to the bar set-up at the far end  of the deck close to the
gas grille with Mr. Barns and another man in  charge of that. At the bar I
glance to my left and see Chubby  huddled with Ellie in the far corner, so
he's occupied for the foreseeable  future. Charlie and I get bottles of
Heineken beer and sit on the steps  while I smoke a cigarette. Charlie says, "Being
honest with you, I'm nervous as  hell about fire-bombing the van. Do you
think you can talk Jeff out of it?" I  look around frowning, telling him,
"Will you please keep your voice down!"  Taking a drag off my cigarette, in a
hushed voice, I add, "I don't want to  talk him out of it, but you don't need
to come with us." He  whispers, "Have you and Jeff done this kind of thing
before?" I go,  "No, not fire-bombing something, that's new, but we've had a
few occasions  when we needed to get revenge on evil-doers who fucked with
us." He grins, "You  and Jeff are a couple of bad-asses, huh?" Shaking my
head, I go, "Not hardly,  but on rare occasions we did what we had to getting
even with some people.  It's not something we talk about though." Charlie
goes, "Ya know, Lee gave me  two hundred and fifty bucks altogether, and then
you fixed my ass with ice  and that creme, so maybe we shouldn't do anything.

I've been fucked with a  dildo about fifty times by Geoff, so it's not like
it was something I haven't  experienced before." I shrug, "And the beating
with the belt? That something  Geoff did fifty times as well?" He mutters,
"No, of course not. That was the  worst part and I was scared shitless. My
ass was bleeding and I hate that mother  fucker with a passion, but I'm scared
we'll get caught and everything will  be known."

We both think about that for a bit, then I say,  "Well, Chubby and I can't
let the bastard go unpunished, and that's all there is  to it. It's a matter
of principle with us. What he did to you he's likely done  to others and
he'll continue getting his rocks off hurting young guys if  there's no
consequences for him. But, as I said, you do not need to  come with us. You've been
through enough already." He's smelling the back of his  hand, which makes
me smile about us having the same habit. I picked  mine up from Dougie
Hamilton, the kid I first met in Stop & Shop, who's a  year behind me at
Merrimack. Cute guy, Dougie. Charlie finally says, "No, I want  to come with you
guys. I'm not gonna punk out on this and thank you for helping  me get even. My
self-image has taken a hit because I couldn't stop crying and I  didn't
fight back." To change the subject, I ask, "Have you talked with Ronny  since
he's been back?" He shrugs, "Just to say hello. He hasn't called me faggot
since the three of us had our little talk, so that's a step in the right
direction." Behind us there's bustling around on the deck and I hear someone
say, "Dinner's served. Help yourself in the kitchen." Charlie says, "That's my
 mom." We wait until the initial rush is over, then make our way to the
kitchen where the food is set up on the table. Getting plastic plates we fill
them with barbecued chicken, baby back ribs, potato salad, green salad,
barbecued baked beans; the usual cook-out fare. Some people are eating
standing  at the kitchen counters, but we take our plates outside and set then on
the wide  top deck railing. Charlie gets us both another beer and some eating
 utensils. The food's damn good and we do little talking  while
concentrating on eating. Arsonists needs a full stomach, ya  know.

Someone finally gets some rock tunes playing;  songs from our parents
generation that are pretty damn good. After eating we  wait around for the
dessert tray. Dusk settles in and the lights strung  above the deck come on. Lots
of chatter and laughing from this group of good  people, all happy to be on
vacation. As the night gets darker my thoughts turn  darker too. It's almost
time for the task at hand and my nerves start  acting up again. For Charlie
too I suppose as neither of us has much to  say, and then Chubby taps me on
the shoulder, asking, "What do you think, Dylan,  time to get the show
started?" I nod, "Yeah, lets do it." Charlie makes his  noisy swallowing sound
again, "Gulp." Chubby says, "Charlie, grab a couple of  empty whiskey bottles
from the trash in the kitchen and take them down the front  stairs. We'll
meet you in front. Um, obviously don't let anyone see you do  that." Charlie
goes, "Yeah," and, looking pale as a ghost, he drifts into the  kitchen. It
won't take us very long to do this now that we've started.  Chubby and I
exchange 'looks' like, 'Lets get this over with', going  down the steps
separately, Chubby first and a minute later I follow. No one  asks, Where are you
guys going or says anything to either of us, so  that's perfect.

We meet Charlie in front. He has an almost comical  tight expression on his
face, so I smile, saying, "We haven't done anything yet,  Charlie." He
shrugs, not saying anything, so I go, "It'll be find, don't worry.  We'll be
back here in twenty-five minutes." Chubby's looking around, then  mumbles, "We
can't just blatantly walk across the alley to our place; we  need to walk up
a couple of house and cross the alley up there." Which is  what we do while
discussing what we'll need to make the Molotov cocktails. We  have the
empty bottles and we know where the gas/oil mixture is. The only  other part of
a Molotov cocktail is a rag soaked in a flammable  liquid. Coming around to
the front of our condo, Chubby says, "You two  should probably change your
shirts. Put on something dark. I'll take the bottles  around back and fill
them. In the dark no one from Charlie's deck will be  able to see me even if
they're looking over here, and why they'd be looking here  I can't imagine."

I go, "Right, and I'll get a couple of those gallon storage  bags. Well meet
you here in front, Chub." He nods and we go up the steps with  Charlie
asking, "What's with the plastic bags?" I explain we'll use them  to cover the
rags stuffed in the top of the bottle. The rags will be soaked  in gasoline
and we don't want that smell all over  us.

We're in my bedroom taking our shirts off; mine a gray  Polo pull-over golf
shirt and Charlie's is a button-down white  Oxford dress shirt. He says,
"This is the only clean shirt I could find."  I'm like, "I'm pretty much out
of clean clothes too." Looking through  the clothes worn earlier this week
there's a black t-shirt that I put  on, and then a dark blue Polo pull-over
for Charlie. After I  grab two plastic storage bags from the kitchen cabinet,
we head for the  front steps with me asking, "You doing okay, Charlie?" He
goes, "Yeah, and would  you please stop asking that every ten seconds." I
stop, putting my  hand on his shoulder, sarcastically asking, "Really?" and
he's like, "Um, I'm  wound-up a little tight right now, Dylan. Sorry I snapped
at you." Patting his  back, I say, "No problem," and we continue down the
steps finding Chubby waiting  for us at the Jeep. I smell the gasoline right
away. After covering the rags  with the plastic bags, I get in the driver's
seat while Chubby tucks the  bottles in the back making sure they're secure.

Charlie gets in the back  seat, Chubby's hops in the passenger seat and I
start the engine  without turning on the lights.

As I'm backing out of the driveway, Chubby asks  Charlie, "How's your ass,
dude?" Charlie mumbles, "Better than it was and  much better than I expected
it to be too. Getting ice on it right away like  Dylan told me to do, plus
the pain creme and the Aloe stuff; it's worked  miracles." Halfway down the
block I turn the lights on and drive barely over the  speed limits. It
wouldn't be cool being stopped by the cops for speeding and  trying to explain
the fire bombs in back. None of us has anything to say during  the uneventful
drive to the sicko's neighborhood. We're all obviously tense  and there are
definitely butterflies in my belly. I'd be worried if there  weren't. This
isn't something to take lightly, and there's no way we can to  be too
cautious. I park the Jeep a block up from the row of attached condos  and leave the
car idling in 'park'. Chubby flicks his Bic and gets a flame,  saying,
"Okay, that works. Both of you try thinking really hard what  we're missing.

What haven't we thought of  yet?"

None of us can come up with anything we've  forgotten so we get out as
Charlie's doing  a long breathy exhale. I glance at him while Chubby's  pulling
the Molotov cocktails out of the back, then passing one to me. Last  thing
he gets is a tire iron, mumbling, "I'll probably need to break the
driver-side window." Charlie takes another noisy breath and the three of  us walk
down a block to the condos. On the sidewalk in front of the  condos, I say,
"Okay Charlie, you're our lookout. Act like you're  waiting for someone and if
you see a cars or a human being on this  street, whistle. Can you whistle?"

He goes, "Of course," then, "How long do you  think you'll be?" Chubby says,
"One minute, tops. Dylan and I are gonna  come out of that alley running
our asses off, so you be ready to go  like a bat outta hell." Charlie yawns,
then shakes his shoulders like he's  getting loose... probably nervous ticks.

Giving Charlie's shoulder a squeeze I follow  Chubby down the side of the
end condo, then peek around to look down the alley.  The van sits where we
last saw it. We both take a deep breath, and staying  close to the houses, we
walk quickly down to the van. We're close to the  back of the houses in case
anyone happens to look out the window. They  wouldn't be able to see us,
and why anyone would want to look out I  can't imagine. There's the alley,
then a chain link fence on the far side of the  alley, and on the other side of
that is a strip mall parking lot. Not  much of a view. At the van we look
all around one last time, seeing nothing  moving. Before Chubby hits the side
window with the tire iron he tries  the door, and it opens. Chubby glances
at me, surprised, his eyes big as  saucers. Leaving the door wide open, we
pull off the plastic bags, put them  in our pockets, Chubby flicks his Bic
lighting both torches, we hold  them two seconds to be sure the fire's spread,
then together we throw the  bottles at the van as hard as we can. Chubby's
bottle breaks against the inside  of the windshield and mine shatters on the
side of the van near the  back, a foot from the gas tank. The fire spreads
quickly, then it  goes, "Swoosh!" as the interior burst into flames. We h
eard the 'Swoosh!" but  didn't see it because we're already running our asses
off. In a flash  we're around the end unit where Charlie starts running too.

It's  a hundred yard dash to the Jeep, all of us breathing hard. We're
inside the  idling Jeep ninety seconds after we got out of it. Chubby and I
expected an  explosion, but I guess that only happens in movies. The van was
engulfed in  flames even before the 'Swoosh" sound, so it's totally  fucked-up.

None of us says anything as I drive away from  the curb making sure not to
lay any rubber or have the tires squeal. We don't  want to attract
attention. Glancing over at Chubby, he still looks tense and in  the back seat
Charlie's got a worried expression on his face as he smells the  back of his
wrist. My mouth is dry, my heart's beating too fast,  and I'm breathing in short
bursts. The need for speed is strong,  but I resist the urge and make myself
drive just slightly  over the speed limit.  When we get to the congested
area  four blocks from the boardwalk we run into a traffic jam and meld into
it,  finally feeling safe. We're almost to our place before we hear distant
fire engine sirens, then the distinct siren sound of a  police car or two.

Chubby and I glance at each other with a little victory grin  on our lips.

Not cocky, but feeling confident we pulled it off. We do a  light fist bump.

It was almost ten minutes before fire trucks responded so  we're no where
near the vicinity of the burning van. Obviously the fire  wasn't noticed for
at least a few minutes after we'd left the scene, then  it took three or four
minutes to get the fire trucks moving, so it's all good  from our
viewpoint.

Finally Chubby breaks our silence, "What a dumb ass,  huh? The dope leaves
his van unlocked." I go, "A nefarious individual  could have stolen one of
his cameras." Chubby goes, "Yeah, except by now  they're all melted," and I
go, "I gotta believe anything paper-related is just a  pile of ask by now
too." Chubby sarcastically mutters, "A shame  really." Charlie mutters, "I know
you guys are just fucking around, but are we  safe?" I'm driving down our
street now so I turn the lights off again  and coast into the driveway, as
Chubby says, "Yeah, Charlie, we're safe.  We were safe the second we got back
in the Jeep without seeing another  living soul." Charlie goes, "That's good
to know, but I'm  still having trouble catching my breath." I go, "So was I
up until a  minute ago, but I'm okay now and you'll be fine pretty soon
too. It's over and  now sicko's got the big problem, and we don't. Our big
problem's been  addressed." We get out of the Jeep and go up the front steps of
our  condo. Inside we leave the lights off until we're in the bathroom where
we  turn on the lights. Our bathroom window faces away from the Barn's
deck.

Charlie and I take our shirts off and the three  of us start washing at the
sink. After five seconds of bumping into each  other, Chubby backs away,
muttering, "Fuck this," drops his shorts and  jumps under the shower. Charlie
didn't get near the gasoline, but he worked  up a sweat during our hundred
yard dash so he continues washing at the  sink, but I back away too planning
to follow Chubby's lead and take  a shower. For right now though, I tell
Charlie, "If you want,  I'll spread some Aloe creme on your welts." We do that
in the bedroom and  as I'm spreading creme on his butt cheeks, I'm like,"

Wow, the welts are  pale pink now and they've much smaller." Getting ice on his
ass  was probably was the best thing we could have done, although it was
just a lucky guess on my part." When I've used up the rest of the creme he
pulls up his shorts, turns around and kisses me, "Thanks, you're my hero."

Grinning at him I mess-up his hair and he yells, "Dammit, Dylan!" He's
chuckling  though as he uses the comb on my bureau to re-comb his  hair.

When Chubby's done his quick shower he  leaves the water running for me. I
do a fast shampoo, then swipe  a washcloth with body gel quickly all over
myself. Chubby's dressed by  the time I'm drying off. I put on some previously
worn clothes and  see Chubby and Charlie on the deck in the dark, both
guys drinking cans of Coors beer. Grabbing a can of beer, I join them,  saying,
"I'll bet nobody even notices I have different clothes on when  we go back
to the party." Chubby passes me the cigarette he's smoking and  when I take
a drag the red ash glows brightly in the dark, like a  beacon.  Someone over
on the Barns' deck waves in our direction,  obviously noticing the
'beacon'. Chubby goes, "Oops, we've been spotted. What's  our lie gonna be for why
we're over here instead of over there?" I mumble, "How  about this: I spilled
a drink on myself accidentally and you guys are  keeping me company while I
change." Charlie looks at me for a second,  then says, "You're a really
good liar, Dylan." Chubby mutters, "That  may qualify as an oxymoron alert."

Silence for a minute, then Charlie goes, "It's surreal  we fire bombed a
car twenty minutes ago, and now it's like we're blasé  about it." I go, "We're
not blasé, Charlie. We're coming down off an  adrenaline rush, feeling
relieved and a little shaky about the whole deal." He  goes, "Oh," and Chubby
says, "And we'd rather not talk about it. That was  some serious shit back
there and we could go to jail if caught.  That wasn't some college prank. We
felt we had to do it, and we did it. Now we'd  like to forget it." He mutters,
"Well both you guys have some big balls,  and I know you did it to get even
for me, so that's something I'm never  gonna forget." I go, "Or ever talk
about, right?" He nods, "Damn right!  Me of all people never wants any part
of this story to get out  to anyone."

Forgetting about it isn't as hard to do as  you might think. For one thing,
like Charlie said, the entire situation  from Charlie's misadventure with
the sicko to our fire-bombing his van has  a definite surreal feel to it, and
even if we're stupid  enough to tell somebody at college about it, when
we're hammered  for example, it's unlikely they'd believe us anyway. They'd
think we  were bull shitting. Chubby goes, "Whaddaya say, boys, shall we join
the  normal folks now?" I flick the cigarette butt off Charlie's knee,
saying, "Yep,  lets go mingle like nothing's happened." Charlie's frowning at me,
"Did you  flick that cigarette butt at me on purpose?" I go, "Never happen,
Charlie! It  was a rare mis-flick by me." I get up and exaggerate brushing
ashes off his  knee. Chubby's walking down the steps as Charlie whispers to
me, "If you keep  brushing my leg like that you'll give me a boner." I rub my
nose thinking,  'huh', then nod my head for Charlie to get out of the chair
and follow  Chubby down the steps. As we're walking across the alley I'm
wondering  about the after effects of Charlie's beating and rape by the sicko.

I  expected it would put Charlie off sex for a while. It would for a lot
of people, but his joking comment about a boner makes me think  maybe he's
the exception and might not need a therapist after all. Not  that he'd see one
on his own anyway.

We join the crowd on the deck and now I  see the kitchen's a bit crowded
now too. This reminds me of  a college party in that it starts out okay but as
the night goes on word of  the party spreads and it gets larger and larger,
wilder and wilder, until  the cops break it up. Not that I expects cops to
break this up. Half the  participants here are twice the age of college
students, and therefore not  nearly as wild. There's some dancing going on.

Three couples are  dancing now that the alcohol has reduced their inhibitions.

Glancing around, I'd guess about half these people are drinking hard  liquor
and the rest beer or wine. I don't see a single  teetotaler. The three of
us decide it's best we split up, which is probably  being overly cautious,
but we do it  anyway.

Lucky me, I get stuck talking with Ronny  Tarleckie who's kind of boring.

He converses in a monotone, mostly  explaining intricate details about his
model airplane hobby. He tells  me he came in second place at some model
airplane convention. It's  hard to show interest because I'm not really
interested in model  airplanes at all, plus the conversation of the men behind me is
more  interesting. I'm kinda half listening to a story one of them is
telling the  others. They played golf this morning and an older man in their
foursome had  an argument with his wife before he left the house. She wasn't
feeling  good about herself telling her husband when she looks in the mirror she
sees an  unattractive, overweight old woman, and would he please say
something  nice to her.  The guy's tries to come up with a compliment and  comes
up with, 'For a woman your age you have excellent eyesight' and  that's when
the fight started. I'd call, 'bull shit!' on that if I was  in the
conversation. Instead, I ask Ronny, 'How many model airplanes have you,  um,
assembled by now?" I'm faking interest feeling kind of bad for him. The kid  just
wants to be liked and he's an okay guy except he's not good  looking at all,
he loves model airplanes, and he's been known to  call people 'faggot'.

That's not a strong base to build a relationship  on.

Ronny's telling me about the glue that works best  depending on the size of
the model airplane. By now I'm looking around  hoping someone brought a gun
to the party so I can borrow it to blow  my brains out when a miracle
happens: one of the guys who joined the  party from the downstairs condo taps
Ronny on the shoulder, saying,  "Excuse me, but did I hear you say you put
together a Meccano Tactical Copter by  Intel?" Ronny says, "Um, yeah. It came in
second place at the convention  center's model airplane expo two years
ago." The guy's like, "Dude, I'm  impressed! Oh, I'm Dick Lamar, by the way,"

and as Ronny's introducing himself,  I go, "Excuse me guys, I need to get a
fresh beer," and make a clean  getaway. Gee, and I don't even need to feel bad
about doing it. Damn,  two model plane, um, enthusiasts at the same
cookout! What are the  odds?

As I'm getting a bottle of Heineken beer from the  tub of half ice and half
ice water, a guy says, "Grab me one of those, will ya?"  He's another one
of the guys from the first floor condo. The guy's in his  late twenties with
sandy colored medium length hair that receding quickly. He  has what's left
of his hair on top moussed and arranged to look like he  just got out of
bed. Passing him a beer, I mumble, "Sure, no problem," then  step away to an
empty spot against the railing. I take out a cigarette and  receding-hairline
goes, "Can I borrow one of those?" Why do people ask it that  way? Can he
borrow a cigarette? When's he going to pay me back? Muttering,  "Sure," I pass
him a smoke and he puts it between his lips waiting for  me to light it.

Maybe he wants me to smoke it for him too. He's a  little bit shorter than me
with a squarish face and eyes too close together.  After I light our
cigarettes he holds his fist out, saying, "Lyle Mortenson." I  sort of bump his
fist with mine, mumbling, "Hiya doing? Dylan Newman," and  he nods at my beer,
asking, "You old enough for that?" I'm like, "You're  shitting me, right?"

He grins, "Yeah, well fuck I don't care if you're  underage. Where you from?"

Oh balls! Not this! I go, "Massachusetts,  why?" Lyle goes, "Oh, I thought
you might be a neighbor of the Barns family.  They're from Delaware I
think." I nod, "Uh huh," and glance away seeing Jesse  and her hot boyfriend,
Tyrone, leaving while telling lies about  meeting friends at a club in Sea Isle
City. That's probably where Tyrone's  motel room is and they're going there
to get laid. That observation is a typical  one from a sex-crazed lad like
myself.

Lyle looks in the direction I'm looking, and says,  "Yeah, she's kinda hot,
huh?" I go, "Jesse?" and he says, "Yeah, the chick, but  what the fuck is
she doing with that coon?" I say, "Ha! That's a good one,  Lyle. You do
realize of course that ninety-nine girls out of a hundred  would choose Tyrone,
the coon, over you every day of the week. Get real, dude,"  then, "Excuse me,
there's my brother," and I slip by him and walk past a few  dancing couples
to put my arm across Chubby's shoulders, asking, "Wassup, bro?"  He gives
my waist a one arm hug, saying to Ellie, "Ask Dylan about my bowling
trophies." Ellie laughs, then says to me, "Your brother's slightly insane. The
word 'bowling' was said for the first time ten seconds ago." Chubby says,
"Bowling is the next topic I was gonna bring up." I say, "Chubby doesn't have
any bowling trophies." Ellie laughs again, "I didn't expect he would." Chubby
 goes, "My downhill racing trophies then," and Ellie looks at me with a
grin on  her face. I go, "Nope, none of those either." From the looks of their
eyes I'm guessing Chubby and Ellie have been doing some shots of something,
 but they're having fun so what the hell. It's not like we need to drive
anywhere. I'm feeling almost sober, but then I've had a total of like four
beers  over the last four hours.

A song starts playing, and Ellie's like, "C'mon, Jeff,  we're dancing,"

then to me, "Don't go anywhere, Dylan. We'll be right back." I  nod, smiling to
myself because she made a two syllable word out of 'back'.  She's a little
high on booze. I'm trying not to think of our earlier  activities involving
Molotov cocktails, but it's taking a concerted effort so  maybe I should do
some shots too. Finding another empty spot against the railing  I gaze over
the crowd on the deck seeing people from age twenty to  forty-something and
all seemingly having a good time. It strikes me that guys do  not become
better dancers as they age, and that girls/woman always seem to  know how to
dance no matter their age. Maybe dancing just looks more normal  with the
female sex. Then there's Chubby who dances like shit but somehow makes  bad look
cool. Not many guys can pull that  off.

After their dance Chubby's massaging Ellie's shoulders  and explaining how
he took a six month course for massage therapy. Rolling  my eyes I feel a
tap on my shoulder. It's Faith, asking, "Dance with  me, Dylan?" I smile,
"Sure," and put my beer bottle on the railing. As we  find an open spot on the
deck, I ask, "Have you seen your cousin  lately?" She goes, "Handsome
Charlie's dancing with Hope over there." I  look over and I'll be damned, Charlie's
a cool dancer. The thing is, neither  Faith nor her twin, Hope, are good
dancers. That's unusual for girls. Both twins  dance basically the exact same
way so I guess they taught each other.  Identical twins are, um, different
from most of us. Charlie and  Hope work their way over to Faith and me and we
dance side by side with  Charlie staring at me again. It's nice feeling
hero worship  though, and he's such a cute puppy dog I don't mind him staring
this time.  When the next song comes on, Hope laughs, saying to her twin, "I
do  believe Charlie would rather dance with, Dylan, than me." Faith says,
"Well, they'll be the cutest couple on the dance floor then," and she moves
over  to dance with Hope. Charlie and I dance together and, surprisingly, I
don't feel  self-conscious about it so perhaps I'm feeling the beers more
than I  thought.

It helps that no one is paying any attention to us as  we finish the song
dancing together. After that the four of us goof around  saying nonsensical
stuff, then Faith talks us into shots of tequila.  We make our way to the
kitchen where Hope pours generous shots in  plastic cups, then Faith holds her
cup up, saying, "Number six," and we  throw the burning liquid down our
throats. I assume that was the sixth shot of  the night for her and her sister.

It's the first for Charlie and me, and I hope  the last. Charlie swallowed
his shot with little reaction other than making a  face like most people do.

I have my normal watering eyes while fighting the urge  to throw-up. The
twins laughed at my reaction and we all get  fresh beers on the deck again. As
we drink Faith tells Charlie and me about  a sorority party at college
where, during a contest, a girl did twelve shots in  a row beating all the guys.

I feel nauseous just thinking about  that.

Another couple of dances and some more bull shit  stories from the twins,
then their parents are ready to leave for the drive back  to Margate.

Hopefully one of the twins' parents is more sober than  their daughters. The girls
give Charlie and me hugs and a kiss on the cheek  slurring their 'goodbyes',
mostly sloshing their 'S's'. They make their way  through the kitchen,
following their parents, as Charlie and I exchange 'looks',  maybe both of us
thinking the same thing, but not saying it.  With our half full bottles of
Heineken we lean against  the railing not saying anything. While I'm not saying
anything I'm looking  for Chubby and Ellie, then assume they're off doing
the nasty by now,  so I glance over at Charlie again. He's a very attractive
young  man, sweating a bit with a little flush on his face, his hair  damp
and limp, and his pretty eyes shining. He seems to be smiling to  himself and
the smile tells me he's not thinking about the  fire-bombing.

When I've had enough of this crowded deck, I say,  "Bring your beer,
Charlie, lets walk on the beach." He pats my  shoulder, saying, "Awesome idea, but
I need to get something from my  bedroom  first." I'm guessing what he's
getting from  his bedroom is inside his sweat sock. He's back in two  minutes,
mumbling, "Okay! Let's see how many rules we can break on the  beach
tonight." Carrying our beers we saunter down the steps and out to the  sidewalk.

He says, "Ya know, it's funny but by now fire-bombing that prick's van  seems
almost like I dreamed it." I shrug, "It's not something ya do every day,
so it is kinda hard to wrap your head around the reality of it.  But like
Chubby and I were saying earlier, we got some satisfaction against that
sicko-prick, and we got away with it, so lets not talk about it. Believe  me, I
don't like breaking the law if I can help it, but that  seemed the best option
available to us in a unique situation." He  goes, "Sure, I agree with all
that wholeheartedly, especially because as  far as my parents and sister
know, nothing bad happened to me. Nothing  humiliatingly bad, and I'm recovering
nicely thanks to you." I leave it at that,  but I can't help wondering if
Charlie feels the same way about taking  it up his butt as he did before
getting  raped.

On the beach we take off our sandals with me  suggesting, "Instead of
carrying these things lets put them over there  under the bench. The chance of
someone walking off with them is  remote." That's what we do and then walk
down near the water to the wet sand.  The moon is bright and so are the
millions of suns, shining like stars in  the clear night sky. There's a warm breeze
coming off the ocean bringing with it  the smell of the seashore. A very
pleasant night. Too bad it's our last one  in Wildwood this year. I ask
Charlie what he's been doing all summer and he says  he worked part time for his
dad helping out at the office. He worked in the mail  room and also punched
in numbers on a computer. Sales report numbers  filling in blanks on a
computer program. Other than that, he and his best  friend, Martin, liked taking
long bike rides. Charlie has an aluminum road  bike, a Mercier Galazy SC1,
which means nothing to me, but he seems proud of it.  I'm assuming Martin is
straight; Charlie would have said something  if he wasn't. He tells me about
the latest computer game that he plays with  other players across the
country and goes into details that fly over my head.  Neither Chubby nor I are
seriously into computer games like other guys at  home and college. We're the
exception to the rule  in that regard.

We're sipping our beers as we walk with Charlie doing  most of the talking.

I'm not especially interested in what Charlie's saying, but  unlike with
Ronny earlier I'm not bored in the least. When I take out my pack of  Marlboro
lights Charlie puts his hand on it, saying, "Share a joint with me
instead, Dylan." I shrug and put my pack away as he takes a joint out of the
breast pocket of his button down white shirt. He's got the sleeves  rolled up to
just below his elbows, unbuttoned the top four  buttons, and with the shirt
tails flapping in the wind he looks very cool.  Charlie lights his joint
with my lighter and after inhaling he holds the  smoke in his lungs, like pot
heads do, then exhales passing the joint to me. I  don't believe I've had a
joint since early in my freshman year when Ryan got  into it pretty heavily
for a while back then. I quickly drifted away from  it and eventually so did
he. An alcohol high is good enough for  me.

Charlie doesn't seem the stoner type and I'm hoping  for his sake he's not.

When I ask him about it he explains he's more of a  recreational pot user
and not a dedicated stoner. Inhaling the marijuana  smoke I imitate Charlie
and then pass the joint back to him, saying, "I guess I  just don't 'get'
cannabis." He shrugs, "I like it occasionally because it  calms me and I get
mellow." I go, "You seem pretty mellow to me  without the pot." Grinning, he
looks at me, and with smoke coming out of his  mouth, he says, "That's just
an act. Inside I'm usually nervous about  everything. As a matter of fact,
you made me nervous when I first met you. Now  there's nobody I know who I
feel calmer with than you." I go, "Huh," then,  "What do people make you
nervous about?" He takes another hit off the joint,  holds in the smoke, then
talks while exhaling, saying, "I'm never sure  why I'm nervous; or maybe a
better word is uneasy. Fuck, I don't know,  Dylan."

Charlie smokes most of the joint, then says, "Ya know  what I'm
disappointed about?" I'm like, "No, what?" and he chuckles, saying, "I  only got to
paint your toenails once. I only got off on my  foot fetish once this whole
week." I mutter, "Once too often, actually," and he  laughs, mumbling, "You
prick," but it was an affectionate, 'you prick', said  with a playful push on
my shoulder.  Done the joint he  drinks some beer, then puts his arm across
my shoulders, asking, "Since you  apparently didn't pick up on my rather
blatant hint, let me come right out  and ask. Can I massage your feet tonight?"

Now it's my turn to laugh, but  what the hell, I say, "If you really want
to, sure, why not." His arm drops  from around my shoulders to go around the
back of my neck. He hugs the sides of  our faces together, saying, "Thanks! I
love you." I mutter, "Uh huh, but lets  walk up to the overturned row boat
we saw in the sand Sunday night. I'll  sit on that and you can massage my
weary feet there." He goes, "Yeah, sure, that  works," giving my neck another
squeeze. I wiggle out of his arm as Charlie,  says, "I'm going to make your
feet feel so fuckin' good you'll invite me to  visit you so I can do it
again." I mutter, "Uh  huh."

We pass a teenager boy and girl about fifteen years  old walking hand in
hand. They don't even glance at us. Ah, young love is  so powerfully sweet.

The overturned old rowboat is up ahead and when we get  to it I'm happy to sit
on it, feeling tired all of a sudden. Fire-bombing  is more exhausting than
I expected. Actually I'm disappointed I don't  feel more exhilaration that
we were successful doing it.  The exhilaration should cancel out the
exhaustion in a perfect world.  Charlie kneels in front of me lifting my left foot,
brushing the sand off it  using his shirttail. Satisfied my foot's free of
sand he leans forward and  presses his nose against the sole, then
complains, "It hardly smells like a  foot. It would smells a helluva lot better if
your feet were encased  in sweat socks and sneakers all day playing
basketball" I shrug, muttering,  "Gross," but having nothing to else add to that.

Charlie snorts out a  laugh, then puts my toes in his mouth and runs his tongue
over them,  looking up at me with his eyes at the top of their sockets, he's
grinning at me,  probably realizing how silly this is but unable to resist
doing it anyway. He  sucks on my toes and then gives my whole foot a bath
with his bubble-gum  pink tongue. I'm shaking my head slowly at fetishes in
general,  while remembering Chubby doing similar things, a couple of years ago
,  that Charlie's doing. Chubby hasn't mentioned my feet in a couple of
years now. Huh, I wonder if he's plays with his girlfriend's feet. Nah,
probably  not.

When  my foot's damp with Charlie's clear saliva he massages it and that
feels  as good as the last time he did it. Feet do get ignored and aren't
treated  with the respect they deserve. Done with my foot he massages my calf,
which  feels good too. While doing that he's leaning way over with his nose
on my  knee, so I ask, "My knee smell good too, Charlie.?"  Lifting his head,
he seriously says, "You smell better than I do, and I smell  awesome."

Then he does another snorting laugh, possibly realizing he's  getting sillily
carried away. It's okay with me though; like I said, it's  enjoyable having
my feet and legs massaged. It leaves them tingling and feeling  good. Halfway
though licking my other foot Charlie grunts and presses his hand  against
his lap, mumbling, "I've got the hardest boner in the world." He  drops my
foot and sits back making a face like he's in pain. Then looking  at me, he
asks, "Would you, ya know, help me out  here?"

After giving him an expression, like, Really? I  wave my finger that he
should stand up. He stands and pulls his shorts down; his  rock-hard cock bobs
up and down once, and only slightly because that thing is  really tight.

Charlie grunts taking two steps towards me, then he leans forward  supporting
himself with a hand on each of my shoulders, his boner near my face.  I take
it in my fist and Charlie goes, "Mmmm," sucking his lips in. He really  got
himself aroused, foot-fetish-wise. After licking his cock I  suck it inside
my mouth and Charlie's hips hump a few times as he drops his  head, and
groans, "Aaah, oooh," humping his hips, sliding his boner on  my tongue a few
times. Then another quiet moan, "Oooh," and he lean his  hips forward until
his crotch is against my face, his cock going down my  throat. Charlie makes a
low whining, "Eeeee," sound, then begins humping.  I'm gagging a little
because he's being rough with it only about twenty seconds  before he wraps his
hands around my head, his boner totally impaling my  throat, his prickly
pubic hair growth scratching against my face as he  humps against it shooting
a long stream of cum down my throat, then another. His  belly's against my
nose blocking my air intake and as he squeezes my face  against him I start
struggling for air.

Charlie moans again and pulls his boner  back, dragging drools of jism in
it's wake. His cock sliding across my  tongue all the way out. His cum and my
saliva drools down my chin as he staggers  back stroking his cock. My cock
is an iron pole in my shorts. Charlie's face is  bright red as he drops to
his knees, mumbling, "That felt amazing," and then  much louder, with his
head back, he yells, "Oh fuck, it felt so fucking  good!" Meanwhile I'm not
touching my boner as I try to imagine getting a bucket  of ice water poured
over my head. My boner slowly subsides as I'm sucking on my  tongue hoping to
discover what makes Charlie's cum taste so good. It's a very  pleasant taste,
although  indescribable.

Pulling up his pants while standing, Charlie says,  "You can't know how
awesome this is for me. Foot fetish high, then excellent  deep throating a guy
as cute and sexy as you... it's like a fantasy come  true for someone like me.

To you it's probably just some random  run-of-the-mill sex just for the
hell of it, but for me it's the world!"  He sits next to me, saying, "You're so
cool about it too. You make me sound  like a little kid getting his first
two-wheel bicycle." I say, "Or his  first model airplane." He goes, "Model
airplane? Oh, you were talking to  Ronny, weren't you? That's his hobby, ya
know." I mutter, "Yeah, I heard about  it." Charlie stands stretching his arms
out, "That was great, Dylan. I feel so  good now! Earlier all I could think
about was a cop car pulling up and  taking us away in handcuffs." I go,
"Jesus! Don't even say that!" He sits  down again, jumpy as a long tailed cat
in a room full of rocking chairs. I heard  that someplace, and now I know how
jumpy that cat was: as  jumpy as Charlie.

He's cuter than a long tailed cat though. He says,  "Lets stay up all night
together, Dylan. We'll watch the sun come up. Have you  ever done that?" I
don't want to go into it with Charlie, but I did that the  night I escaped
from New York City and drove all night to get home.  Well, I didn't get all
the way to Framingham. I made it to North Andover before  falling asleep.

Cory Dunlevy came to my rescue and I slept in his bed most  of the day. Huh!
Where'd that memory come from? I say, "No, I never have,  Charlie boy, and
staying up all night doesn't sound all that appealing to  me. I need to be up
early to pack everything we brought with us.  Get everything back in the Jeep
and mom's station wagon for the trip  home." He's sitting next to me
staring at my face again. Then he lifts  his leg over mine and sits on my lap
facing me with his arms around my neck,  saying, "Aww, don't be a killjoy,
Dylan. We sneak a few beers from my place then  smoke joints and drink beers
talking about stuff until the sun comes up.  Take turns fucking each other too."

With his face this close to mine it's tempting to get  into a hot make-out
with him, but instead I abruptly stand up dumping him off my  lap but
catching both his hands so he doesn't crack the back of his head  on the beach.

He ends-up on his ass though. I'm still holding both his hands, so  I help
him up. He goes, "OW! What the hell did you do that for?" as he rubs  his ass.

Shrugging, I mutter, "I don't know," and take a cigarette out of  the pack,
then light it. We walk on the beach without talking for a minute, then  I
pat his shoulder, saying, "Sorry I dumped you on your ass, Charlie. I  forgot
it was still hurting you." He says, "That's okay. It still stings from
that belt-whipping he gave me, but I don't even think about it most of the
time." I ask, "When that sicko forced himself on you did it make you feel
different about being a 'bottom' during anal sex?" He seems surprised I  would
ask that, "Um, no, should it made me feel different?" Exhaling smoke and
watching it drift in the breeze past Charlie's face, I grin to myself  knowing
he doesn't like the smell of cigarette smoke, then I'm like, "No,  it
shouldn't necessarily put you off 'bottoming', but it might put some  guys off, at
least for a while." He fans his hand in front of his face at my  exhaled
smoke, saying, "It was the beating he gave me that was the worst. When  he was
fucking me I hardly felt it because my ass was on fire already. And, like
I said before, his cock was ugly, but not especially big. Then the dildo
fuck, I  felt that because he was too rough. It didn't last long though because
my  ass started bleeding."

That's some surprising reactions from Charlie; to  me anyway. I go, "So,
basically you're pretty much over the entire ordeal  already, is that right?"

He shakes his head, "Nah, I'll probably have a  hundred fucking nightmares
about it, which is why I want you to stay with  me tonight. That was the
scariest thing that ever happened to me by  far. I thought he might kill me at
one point. Then all of a sudden he's the  one who  seemed scared. It's like
he woke up and realized what he  was doing.  Everything happened fast after
that. He put his shit  away in the van, hustled me in the front, sitting like
I told you, on my knees.  Then he dropped the two hundred dollar bills on
the seat yelling at me  to pick them up. He had his cellphone on video mode
photographing me  putting the money in my pocket. I just wanted to be away
from him so I  did whatever he said. That was basically it except for me
crying like  a baby." I glance at him and see he's very serious. No joking
around, so I feel  bad for him all over again. It's the crying he admits to; that
almost makes me  cry. What a horrendous experience he went through. Hugging
his shoulders, I  say, "I'll stay with you until the sun comes up, then we
both get to our beds so  we're there when everyone wakes up, okay?" He leans
against me, "Okay, and  thanks, Dylan." With my free hand I take my iPhone
out of my pocket and  leave a text for Chubby. 'Don't wait up for me, bro.

I'm giving our friend  some needed morale support.'



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 under 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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