Date: Sun, 17 Jul 2016 11:00:45 -0400
From: MGTBILL@aol.com
Subject: DYLAN'S VACATION BACK HOME Chapter  35

DYLAN'S VACATION BACK HOME



Chapter  35



By Donny Mumford



I cannot friggin' believe my ears!  The alarm is going off already. Did I
set it for the wrong time?  After checking my wristwatch and seeing it is in
fact time to get up, I only  have enough energy for a muttered, "Balls..."

before getting out of  bed.

Six hours sleep isn't  enough after a normal day's work, never mind that
horrible ten-hour workday with  Bull yesterday. On the bright side though all
my cuts and scrapes, plus the bee sting, appear to be healing  okay. So now
I only need to deal with my aching shoulders and  bicep muscles from weed
whacking four hours straight yesterday  afternoon. If I was smart I would
have been in bed by nine o'clock last  night, but instead Willie and I were
walking into Dino's restaurant at  that time. I was feeling pretty  good after
all the pampering from Willie; not only the bath, but  doing all that first
aid stuff too. And, I did not know bees left their  disgusting stingers in
their victims, but I  did read somewhere that certain types of bees die after
stinging someone.  Heh heh, hopefully the bee that got me has stung it's
last victim. Die  bitch!

Although I'm paying  the price this morning, last night's date with Willie
was a pretty good  time. It didn't go exactly as either of us planned
because we hadn't  intended doing buddy sex after dinner. I suppose that was an
unrealistic  premise from the start considering our history. Then, add in some
alcoholic  beverages... and good intentions often go out the window. The
buddy-sex was  good but lacked the bells and whistles of times gone by. I was
sort of  missing Willie, but not so much that I wanted a sex orgy with him.

And Willie was his usual sexy-self too, so I give myself a pat on the back
for saying no thanks to seconds. He played his familiar dominant  role
during sex, and did it as good as ever, but like I said, once was enough  for
me... it really was.

I am glad though  that Willie seems  to have 'found' himself and that he's
doing okay, but what I sincerely wish  for him is a really good, mostly
normal gay guy who hooks up  with Willie and they become boyfriends, then their
relationship turns  into a true love affair. I'd be so happy for him. He'd
finally know  what being in love really means and he could stop fooling
himself  into thinking he's in love with me. I care for him as a friend and it
hurts  that he often seems, I don't know, lonely. All that money at his
disposal and he  can't find happiness. Frankly I used to be a little jealous of
him and his  money, but now I mostly feel bad for him.

On the way to the  bathroom I spot my iPhone laying on the bureau. Huh, I
haven't checked it  since talking with Willie last night around six-thirty.

Checking it I see there  are four text messages and two missed phone calls.

Robby sent one of the texts,  then he called. Goddammit, I didn't reply to
either. Checking his text message  first; it reads: 'Dylan, I've got the flu
and maybe something else as well.  Throwing-up and shitting my brains out.

Call me please.' Jesus!  Should  I call now at six o'clock in the morning? Was
he sick at  work yesterday? Yeah, I guess he did look pale when he told me
he  wouldn't be able to drive me home. And Sunday at the Dairy Queen he
mentioned he  thought he might be coming down with a cold. Huh, so he couldn't
give  me a ride home because he was sick. I'll send a text now so it'll be
there when he wakes up:  'Rob, I'm so sorry I missed your call  last night. I
hope and pray you're feeling better. Love,  Dylan.'
Done with my bathroom  ritual, including a shower, I'm still worrying about
Robby. Everything he's  going through sounds nasty. I'm so angry with
myself for not asking him if  he was alright yesterday afternoon. I was selfishly
in a bitchy mood,  feeling sorry for myself and I never thought to ask why
he couldn't drive  me home. Damn, Robby was dealing with a lot worse
situation than my  day with Bull and the arbor.

After getting  dressed, I'm in the kitchen making our lunches when Chubby
lets himself in, asking, "Did you hear about, Rob?" We do a one arm hug and
a quick kiss good morning, then I'm like, "You mean about him having the
flu or something?" Chubby's at the Keurig machine, talking over his shoulder,
 "Yeah, I got a text from his dad last night telling me to check in  with
Rory White this morning. Mr. Dickers said this guy, Rory,  is going to be
doing Rob's job for a couple of days. Who the hell is Rory  White anyway?" I'm
staring at him, muttering, "You mean Robby isn't  coming to work? Um, Rory's
his immediate supervisor. How sick is Robby, did his  dad tell you?" Chubby
shrugs, "Um, not exactly, except when he texted me it  was from the
hospital. Something about taking Rob to the emergency  ward last night thinking he
might be suffering with dehydration." I  go, "What?" and Chubby's like,
"Yeah, the poor guy was puking and pooping at the  same time and I guess he got
dehydrated." I ask, "Are you saying he has the flu  and food poisoning?"

Chubby adds milk and sugar to his coffee, mumbling,  "I guess... I didn't ask for
specifics and Mr. Dickers didn't offer any. Just  said Rob will be out a
couple of days. Oh, he did emphasize that I should tell  you not to worry
cause it's mostly under control." Mostly? Food poisoning  on top of the flu...

holy shit!

Done with our  lunches, I finish my coffee on the balcony with Chubby,
sharing a smoke. I'm  slowly shaking my head, mumbling, "Ya just never know what
 bitchy unpleasantness awaits you just around the corner. Poor Rob." I send
 him another text. This one's a get-well text with lots of love. Chubby
watches  me typing the text, then asks, "Can I read that?" I go, "No!"  He
grins, then I'm like, "I assume I'm off Rex Murphy's crew today, right? Did Mr.

 Dickers mention that?" Chubby shrugs, mumbling, "No, he didn't say
anything  about that," and I'm like, "I don't want to even imagine working another
day with that asshole, Bull, bossing me around. That prick gave me all  the
shit work to do too." Chubby says, "I just don't know, Dylan. I've  got to
see this Rory White character for our assignments. Do you know  anything
about him?" I shrug, "Yeah, like I said, he's Robby's immediate  supervisor.

Um, he's got red hair and a pot belly. You've seen him around and  he's
supposed to be an alright guy, according to Rob."

While  Chubby's driving us to work I'm continuing to feel really bad  about
missing Robby's text and then his phone call; especially considering  I was
with Willie at the time. And I'm hating that I don't know how Robby's
doing. I mean, how serious does it have to be requiring  hospitalization?  His
father said Robby's condition is under control,  but that could mean almost
anything. People need to be more  fucking considerate, more forthcoming about
a person's condition so  that loved ones can know how much to worry.

Checking my cellphone for  possible updates, but not getting any as Chubby parks.

He goes off looking  for Rory White while I put our lunches in the pickup's
cooler, then go into the  locker room to change. None of the guys on the
crew even knew Robby was  out sick today, never mind knowing anything new about
how he's doing.  Everyone does seem concerned though because Robby's
popular.

A couple of minutes  later I'm outside on the blacktop about to light a
cigarette when I  spot Chubby walking from the supervisor's locker room. He
doesn't look happy,  slowly shaking his head as he walks up to me. I'm like,
"It's not bad news, is it? Do you know  any more about how Rob's doing?" He
goes, "Um, no. There's  no information about Rob, but you need to get your
lunch, bro. You've got  to work with Murphy's crew again today. I'm really
sorry, but Rory White told me  Rex Murphy requested you by name, and Rory's not
about to rock the boat arguing  with him about it." I'm not pleased,
yelling, "Fuck that! Robby said he'd  get me off that shit job. Did you tell Rory
that?" Chubby rubs my shoulder, "He  doesn't know what Robby told you, Dylan,
and I don't carry any weight around  here." I mutter, "This blows," and
Chubby says, "As soon as I change my clothes  I'll find Rory again and tell him
that Robby wanted you off that project.  Maybe he'll assign someone from
another crew."

Considering that for  a second, I reluctantly mumble, "Noooo, you better
not, but thanks anyway, Chub.  Rory's not gonna start a hassle with Rex, and I
don't want to be the cause of  trouble between Robby and Murphy. Plus,
Rory's already doing his job  and Rob's, so he's got enough to worry about.

Thanks anyway." He  goes, "Well, I'll take your place then." I grin giving his
shoulders a hug,  mumbling, "Thanks, but no. That would cause more confusion,
plus you're running  Robby's crew." He goes, "Ahh, it runs itself." I
brighten up, "Hey! Let's visit  Rob at the hospital after work." Chubby says,
"Absolutely!" He rubs my  shoulder again, saying, "I'm real sorry about the
Murphy thing." I'm  like, "It's not your fault. See ya later, Chub," and walk
over to the pickup to  retrieve my lunch from the cooler.

The crews are forming  up so I jog over to Murphy's crew, then stand next
to Bull at the end of  the line. He glances at me as I stand here holding my
lunch, purposely not  looking at him. Two seconds later I hear a snorted
chuckle, then Bull  says, "Ya dumb shit, you can't carry your lunch with you
all morning?"  Looking straight ahead, and in a bored voice, I say, "I know
that, but I  don't know where to put it?" He taps my shoulder pointing to a
soft-sided  cooler in front of him. Huh, hidden in plain sight. I go to hand
him my gallon  Ziploc plastic lunch  bag, but he nods at his cooler,
mumbling, "Do it yourself," so I kneel down  and unhook the Velcro flap, feeling the
chill off the ice pack inside. My lunch  nestles down next to his. Ugh! Rex
Murphy, who's standing in front of us, says,  "When you're done fucking
around with your lunch, Dylan, I have a couple of  announcements." Frowning and
blushing I stand up seeing everyone gawking at me.  Why do these guys have
to be such pricks? Well, to be honest, Rex said that in a  joking, friendly
manner and the guys gawking at me were kind of grinning in  a nice way.

Rex's announcements  have nothing to do with me so I try calming myself
down. I'm pissed-off but  that's not going to do me any good. I try for a
neutral attitude. I'll just do  my job, give everyone the benefit of the doubt,
and get through today. Bull  says to me, "Bring the cooler," and he jogs off
toward the equipment garage.  Picking up the cooler I follow him rolling my
eyes and mimicking him,  'Bring the cooler.' I mimic him in my head, not out
 loud.

In the garage, he  tells me, "You know what to do, right? Get the same hand
truck and bring it  over to the counter." Well isn't he mister
personality-plus again this  morning. I do that and then, without speaking, load each
piece of  equipment Bull's signed out. When I've got everything on the  cart,
Bull walks beside me as I push the cart through the garage and out  the back
door. He points at the pickup, saying, "Load everything on the truck,  then
take the cart back." I'm nodding my head, thinking, 'Yesser, master,' as he
walks over to three guys who  are bull shitting and laughing about
something.

Pushing  the empty cart back through the garage I see Chubby at the
counter talking with Robby's immediate supervisor, Rory White. When  there's a
pause in their discussion, I tap Rory on the soldier, "Excuse  me, but is there
any news about Rob?" He goes, "You're Dylan, right?" I nod  my head and he
points at Chubby, "Your brother here was just asking the  same thing. All I
can tell you is, Robert, Rob's dad, told me  earlier this morning that Rob
will be in the hospital a couple of  days." I'm like, "What happened to him?"

He shrugs, "I don't exactly know.  He felt a cold coming on late Sunday
afternoon, and I guess that  turned out to be the flu, and he was running a
fever. He ignored it and did  his job. It was hot as hell yesterday and he
wasn't hydrating properly I  guess, and then on top of that he somehow contacted
food poisoning,  probably from his lunch." I go, "His lunch?" and Rory
says, "The doctors say  it's salmonella that caused the shits during the
afternoon, and about  five o'clock yesterday he vomited. Rob didn't tell anyone. He
saw his father  around five thirty and the boss took one look at him and
told him to get  his ass home. At home his mother noticed Rob acting confused
and looking very  sickly. She called Robert and he took Rob to the hospital.

As of now he's doing  better, but they're keeping him there for at least
another day. That's all I  know." I look at Chubby hoping for something more
positive, and he says, "Rob's  doing okay, Dylan, that's the bottom line."

I'm thinking about  the way doctors like to be vague when discussing a
patient's condition. They  give themselves a lot of wiggle room in case things
go south later.  And then you get the feeling that they often don't know for
sure what  the fuck's going on themselves, but refuse to admit it. While
dwelling on  these negative musings, Bull sticks his head in the back door,
bellowing,  "Newman, I've been waiting on you." Rory waves at Bull, then says
to me,  "You better get to work now, son." Chubby pats my back, and I mumble,
'Thanks  for the update, Rory," even though he didn't tell me much. Patting
Chubby's  shoulder, I mumble, "See ya, Chub," and jog through the garage
and out the  back door.

Bull's  already behind the wheel of the pickup. Getting in the passenger
seat, I  say, "I was checking up on Rob." He says nothing, just backs the
truck out of  the parking spot, and we're off. I can't stop thinking about Robby
telling  me late yesterday afternoon he couldn't drive me home, and stupid
me had no  idea what he was going through. I was too wrapped-up in my own
situation to  notice how lethargic he was, and how pale. He's not a complainer
so he wouldn't  come out and say how sick he was, but I should have taken
notice and asked  him. Being honest with myself I guess I was a little
pissed-off  at him for shuttling me off to the skinny guy with a hair across his
ass for my  ride home. Fuck, I didn't even know the guy's name. I suppose
Robby  was feeling horrible and then when he saw the puss on my face he
probably  just wanted to get away from me. Neither of us is ever sick though, so
it's  not something I'd expect, which is just more rationalizing on my part of
 course. I'll make it up to Robby somehow.

At the job site Bull  idles the pickup next to the big landscaping truck to
talk with Rex Murphy.  He gets out to look at an artist's blueprint drawing
of what the pond  area is supposed to  look like when it's finished. They
both get Styrofoam cups of coffee,  Rex lights a cigarette and they discuss
the drawing, pointing at parts of  it for maybe fifteen minutes. Meanwhile
I'm sitting in the pickup with my  dick in my hand. The four guys on the
grass-cutting crew are unloading the  big truck and glancing over at me from time
to time making me feel  uncomfortable, like I should be doing something.

Rex and Bull laugh at  something, then Rex glances at me and does a double
take, like he's startled  that I'm sitting here. He gestures with his hands,
saying  something to Bull, who then yells over to me, "Don't just sit there.

Drive  the pickup to the work site and unload everything. Use some
initiative, fer  chrissakes." I yell back, "I don't know how to drive a stick shift."

Both  their heads shake slowly in disbelief, like: 'Can I believe this
shit?' I'm furious, my face is burning. This is so fucking  unfair! My first
days at work in Georgia were nothing like this. Everyone  was considerate of
one another there. Here it's like they go out of their way to  be assholes.

When Robby's well enough I'm telling him he should speak to  his father about
the way this jerk-off crew is run.

Bull gets in the  driver's seat all huffy, like he's being inconvenienced
something awful.  I'm ready to jump down his throat if he says one fucking
word to me. He gets the  pickup in gear and without a word drives us onto the
gravel service road  leading to the work site, then parks abruptly with the
pickup skidding on the gravel. He gets out, slamming the door behind him,
muttering, "Unload everything!" He walks back up the incline to Rex twenty
or thirty yards back to the main driveway. After slamming down the tailgate
I unload the stuff roughly without giving much of a shit if something
breaks when I dump it off the truck bed. No one's paying any attention to me now
 though, so my petulant act goes unnoticed.

The  truck's unloaded and  now I'm standing here with my dick in my hand
again not knowing what I should do  next. This is so fucking awkward! Normally
this would be the time to light  a cigarette so I'd at least be doing
something, but I don't have the balls to do  that. I pretend I'm busy by
unnecessarily lining up the tools and cans  of mysterious toxic liquids.

Maybe five minutes  later Bull comes lumbering down the gravel service road
carrying one of the  artist's drawings. He tells me in a normal speaking
voice, as if this  morning's activity is nothing's out of the ordinary,
"They'll be finishing  the lawn by lunch time so it'll be just you and me here the
rest of the week."  Rest of the week? Balls to that! He says, "I want you
to locate, then clean  out the clogged in-flow pipe, " and he points to the
drawing, adding, "The pipe  is in this general area about fifteen feet inside
the arbor. Then later  you'll do the same thing for the pond's out-flow
pipe. That'll probably be  tomorrow though. When these pipes are cleaned-out we
can get clear  water flowing and fill the pond to the correct height." I
just stare at him  until he asks, "What's your problem now?" I'm like, "That's
it? That's all the  instructions you're going to give me? Clean out the
in-flow pipe. I don't even  see the pipe, plus I've never done this before."

He's exasperated again,  muttering, "Oh man!" looking up at the sky for a
second, then, "Okay,  what don't you understand?" Instead of answering him, I'm
like, "Didn't you say  anything to Rex yesterday after work about how
incompetent I am? Why didn't  you tell him you wanted another gofer since I
apparently suck so badly?" He  raises his eyebrows like he's surprised, then says,
"You don't suck. And  yeah, I spoke to Rex after work yesterday. I told him
I wanted you as my  helper all week. Yes, you! Now what don't you
understand about my instructions  for cleaning the pipes?"

Well that was  totally unexpected. It took me by surprise, so I can't think
of a  smart-ass reply. Instead I say, "Okay. Um, would you show me where
the  inflow and out-flow pipes are? For starters." He goes, "I was just about
to do  that when you started whining." I'm like, "That wasn't whining," and
he  says, "Whatever," and pats my shoulder, "C'mon." We walk through the
arbor  and down to the disgusting green scummy pond with a foul odor drifting
off  it. He goes, "The pipe's approximately in this area, like I  pointed at
on the drawing. It's overgrown with all this plant material  obviously, so
you need to begin cleaning out all this  overgrown shit to find the pipe
buried in this approximate area. When  you find it give me a holler." I nod,
mumbling, "Okay," and he pats my shoulder  and actually does a little smile,
adding, "Later you'll get to put on the waders  and get in the pond to clean
the pipe out from that end. We've got some tools to  help you with that, plus
you'll be wearing rubber gloves because you'll need to  use your hands too.

When you've done that I'll tell you what fun thing to  do next." I nod my
head and snort out a laugh, muttering, "Yeah, fun," but  dreading every step
of his instructions. At least now I know what's  expected. He asks, "Okay?"

I nod again and he chuckles patting my back,  mumbling, "It's nothing I
haven't done fifty times myself, Dylan. Get at  it."

He takes a shovel and  a big ax to begins digging up overgrown or dead
shrubbery that once beautified  the grounds around the pond. A lot of the bigger
shrubs have grown thick  roots that he needs to chop through with the ax.

There's maybe a  hundred separate overgrown or dead plantings, some quite
large, so good luck to  Bull with that. I took a glance at the artist picture
and it shows new  shrubberies replacing the ones Bull's digging up. Getting
to my task, I use  a pick, shovel, and weed whacker attempting to uncover the
inflow pipe. This  pond area has been neglected for twenty years or so.

The sun shines hot  and brightly to go with the ninety degree temperatures
and all I can think of,  as I sweat bullets, is Robby becoming dehydrated.

To avoid that happening  to me I drink gross-tasting water from the hose
coming off the back of  the house until it feels like water's slushing around in
my stomach.  Begrudgingly I have to admit Bull's working steadier and
harder than I am, and  he's not taking two minute breaks every fifteen minutes
like I do to catch  my breath. Do men actually work at labor like this every
fucking day? Yeah,  I suppose a lot of men and women do.

I uncover the pipe in  less then an hour,  yelling, "Yes!" Bull comes over
and nods his head, muttering, "That was faster  then I expected," then  he
outlines a six foot circle around the on/off valve, telling me,  "Clean out
this area down to bare ground. Guys will eventually be laying  bricks or
cobble stone pavers in this area." I've adopted Bull's no  commiserating habit,
and without a word just start doing it. Digging roots  out of the ground is
a bitch though, and it takes until lunch time to  completely clear the area.

We eat a silent lunch in the shade. Not totally  silent though; the
exception being mouth-smacking sounds from Bull  while he's eating three stinky
tuna fish sandwiches with his mouth open. I  can't wait until lunch break is
over to get away from the fishy smell and  his mouth sounds.

It's time for the  waders now: a one piece waterproof suit, including
attached boots that my  sneakers go in. The wader extends up to a chest-bib with
straps over my  shoulders. It's much  too big for me so I'm sort of swimming
in it. Thankfully it's made of Gore-Tex and not real heavy. Bull  suggests
a couple of garden hand tools that I take with me to wade  into the scum
that floats on top of the water. The water currently is between  three and four
feet deep so I need to slide down a slipper bank to get into  this gross
pond that will be seven or eight feet deep by Friday  afternoon. Before that
though, I'll be wadding in it skimming the scum  off the top of the water.

Can't wait for that.

I'm kind of resigned  to the stink of the pond by now, and now that I'm in
the  pond I'm trying to get used to the bottom. It's squishy and my  feet
sink into the muck that's undoubtedly as disgusting as the scum  floating on
top. Occasionally I feel something swim against my boot or leg and  try
unsuccessfully to imagine what kind of disgusting creatures  can exist in this
stagnant, murky water. The inflow pipe has  an eight inch opening that's
overgrown with weeds that I need to pull them  out by their roots before I can
even reach the pipe. It's slow going but by  around two-thirty I'm sticking my
arm all the way in the pipe pulling out gooey  slimy decayed vegetation
with my rubber-gloved hand. Fortunately the gloves  reach almost to my
shoulders. When I've cleaned out all I can reach, I get out  of the water to watch
Bull disconnect the on-off valve section from  the pipe so I can push a
plunger-like tool through the pipe from this end  towards the pond end. Then it's
back in the water with my arm in the pipe  again pulling out the glop I
plunged from the other end. The crawling,  slimy, insect-like slithering bugs
and worms living in this decayed matter  are enough to make a person lose his
lunch.

I've gotta go  through this vile procedure four times before finally
completely clearing the twelve foot long inflow pipe. Bull checks out the pipe,
looking from this end to the pond end, then says, "There's still some slush
in there, but it's quitting time. You can wipe it out tomorrow morning and
then you'll be doing the same for the outflow pipe." I've nothing to say to
that  as I'm taking off the wader, then I need to hose it down while Bull
loads stuff  back on the pickup. A silent drive back to the garage where Bull
says, "Clean  the tools. And, um, good job today," with a pat on my back.

He walks toward  the garage as I make a face, but feel pretty good about that
minor  compliment. Then I'm hauling the tools off the truck and hosing
everything  down with my mind blank until I see Chubby coming my way. Looking at
him  makes me smile. It's like I've returned from another world... back to
reality.

Chubby smiles, and  cheerfully asks, "How it go today, bro? Better than
yesterday I hope." I  nod, "Yeah, it wasn't so bad I guess. Hard to believe,
but Bull requested  me as his gofer. It looks like I'll be on this project all
week." He  shrugs, "Yeah, I know. I spoke to Rory about that at lunch. He
was pretty  sure you'd be with Murphy's crew all week. He said they really
liked you because  you're a hard worker. And get this: Murphy asked Rory if
he'd transfer you  to his crew permanently." I'm like, "Get serious!" Chubby
goes, "No worries,  Rory told him no; it's just for this week. It made me
feel proud of you  though, bro," and he hugs my shoulders with me trying not to
grin as I mutter,  "Watch it, Chub, you might get some pond scum on you."

He helps me return the  cleaned tools to the skinny guy, who still seems to
have a hair across his  ass, and then we drive home. On the way I text
Robby and he texts back  saying he's still in the hospital and asks if I'd visit
him. I tell him of  course I'm visiting him! Chubby's coming too. At home I
take a long  shower scrubbing myself even though no bare skin ever touched
any of the gross  stuff I dealt with in the pond today. I can't help
thinking about  Bull specifically requesting me, and then Murphy wanting me on his
crew permanently. And I thought they couldn't stand me. Of course all I had
 to go by was the way they humiliated and mistreated me...ha ha.  I
misinterpreted that to mean they hated me, you know, like  ninety-nine people out of
a hundred would think the same  thing.

I go up the outdoor  steps to Chubby's condo and let myself in using the
mailbox emergency  key. Chubby has a key to my place and I had a key to his,
but lost it and have  procrastinated for a mere two or three years about
having another one made  at ACE hardware. After all it would cost something like
two bucks.  Expenditures like that need some careful consideration. I'll
get around to  it one of these days.

Chubby's ready to go,  but on the way to the hospital we need to stop at a
convenience store so  Chubby can pay $11 for a pack of cigarettes that he
could buy for half that  in Salem, New Hampshire. Salem's ten minutes from
North Andover when we're at  college, and while I admit it's an hour's drive
from Framingham, booze  and cigarettes are so much cheaper there it's worth a
trip once a month or  so. While Chubby's getting cigarettes and a scratch
lottery  ticket, I buy cold cuts and sub rolls for our lunches,  plus two
magazines for Robby: Sports Illustrated and ESPN The  Magazine. Then we continue
to Framingham Hospital where Chubby finds a  convenient parking spot in
'Physicians Parking Only' close to the front  entrance.

Inside at the  information desk we ask for Robby's room, sign in, and get a
visitors pass;  then start the challenging task of finding a room in a
hospital. It's  a needle in a haystack kind of thing. His room is  naturally not
in this section of the hospital so we walk down a number  of connecting
corridors passing orderlies, doctors, nurses, and  patients all seemingly not
rushed for time. We asks directions twice, and  finally Chubby goes, "His
room should be along here," and it is. Hospitals  have a distinct smell that I
can't put a name to. Chubby claims it's  the smell of Purell hand sanitizer,
and that's pretty close. And there is a  Purell canister outside every
door, so yeah, it's probably  that.

Sticking my head in  room 342 I see Robby lying on his side looking out the
window  at the fading light of day. He's in the far bed near the window
sharing a room  with a middle age man who has visitors. Chubby walks past me as
I  stand here looking at Robby feeling my heart go pitter/patter. Chubby
gives the  man in the first bed and his visitors, a huge smile, saying, "How's
everyone  doing tonight? It was a hot one today, huh?" and as he's saying
that  he's pulling the curtain separating those people from Robby's bed.

There  are trays on wheels at the bottom of both beds with half eaten suppers. I
 skip past the first bed without the friendly greeting Chubby gave  them,
and stand next to Robby quietly asking, "How ya feeling, Rob?" He lays  over
on his back giving me a big smile, "Hi Dylan," and I lean down to kiss him
on the lips. He tastes like apple juice.

Robby says, "Hey,  Jeff, thanks for visiting me." Chubby asks, "Feeling any
better, boss?" and  Robby's like, "I feel beat up inside, but better than I
felt  yesterday." Chubby bumps fists with Robby, adding, "Jeez, you look
pretty good,  Rob. Well, maybe just a little bit beat-up." Robby and I chuckle
because  Chubby has a comedic timing thing, or something that makes normal
things he  says seem funny. Robby asks Chubby, "How'd our crew do today?"

Chubby  goes, "We're struggling to keep up without Dylan." Robby gets a pained
 expression on his face, saying. "I'm so sorry about that, Dylan!   Dad
talked to me about it, um, you must have seen Dad walking out of  here when you
were walking in." I shake my head, "No, we didn't see  him, but it's okay
Rob. The work's very different in Murphy's  crew, and keeps me busy, you
know, making the day fly by." That  little white lie right there is number 2,760
since I started keeping count a few  years back. He asks, "Really? You're
saying it's not too bad then?" I shrug,  "Nah, it's not that bad," then we
have an awkward pause.

A five second pause,  then Chubby says, "Oh, Rob, did you know Murphy asked
to have Dylan  specifically?" Robby shakes his head, and Chubby adds,
"Yeah, and Rex asked  Rory if Dylan could be on their crew indefinitely."

Robby's pissed, his face bright red as he says, "That asshole,  Murphy! The
fuckin' nerve of him. I lend him Dylan for one day  and he's trying to make it
permanent. That prick  is always whining for extra help and he basically talked
Dad  into keeping one of my crew there all week. Dad didn't even know it
was  Dylan until I told him." I shrug, "Don't cause a fuss, Rob. How'd your
dad  get involved in a grass cutting situation anyway?"  Robby shakes his head
 again, mumbling, "Dad almost never gets involved in the landscaping crews
anymore, but Murphy saw him in the coffee room and casually asked if Dad
had any  problem with Murphy's crew keeping the extra man all week. Dad says
it's alright  with him, but he needs to get an okay from Rory." I lean over
and pat Robby's shoulder, "Don't get yourself upset, Rob. It's only a few
more days." He goes, "It pisses me off he'd even bother Dad with that. And  I
suppose Murphy used Dad's vague okay as his authorization to tell Rory  the
'big boss' said to use Dylan all week." I shrug, and Robby  continues
muttering, "Dad doesn't want to be bothered with landscaping or grass  cutting
squabbles. He told me to straighten it out when I get back to work,  which
won't be until Thursday. That's what it looks like  anyway."

I pull a chair over  close to the bed, saying, "Forget about that, Rob,"

and give him the two  magazines making him smile and lift his head for another
kiss. Chubby makes  throat sounds to remind us he's here, then he tells
Robby about our crew's  comical screw-ups today. Our crew is the only one that
still has a  little fun during the day. I'm listening to Chubby's funnily
embellished  stories while staring at Robby, feeling a great love for him.

Sitting next to  him I take his left hands to hold. I'm thinking back to Sunday
 night when he called to say he was tired and asked if we could skip  our
date. I didn't know he was coming down with the flu so I jumped to the
conclusion he wanted to skip our Sunday night date because he and Danny had
something going on. Man, I feel terrible about my suspicious mind  now.

Robby wants a cold  soda so I get one from the vending machine. He's not
cured yet because  in the arm of the hand I was holding there's an IV drip
with  a saline solution and antibiotics still dripping into his body.  Sipping
on the cold soft drink he tells us he's had no vomiting since  yesterday and
no loose poops either, so at least the food poisoning has  been cured. He
still looks pale though, and he's definitely lost a couple  of pounds which
isn't surprising considering he's had nothing  but liquids since Sunday
night. We stay about an hour, but say our  goodbyes when his mother and their
next door neighbors, along with the two girls  who went for a swim in Dickers'
pool Sunday, come to visit. To avoid  any awkwardness for any of them I
squeeze Robby's hand instead of a goodbye  kiss, telling him I'll be back
tomorrow after work.

With some  difficulty Chubby and I find our way back to the Jeep. On the
way we tell  each other Robby's going to be fine, but we both know he still
looks weak  and, um, sick. I'm hoping he'll look better tomorrow. Chubby has
another date  with Dallas' sister tonight so we have a fast-food dinner at
McDonalds, and then he drops me off at the condo. Smoking a  cigarette on the
balcony in the dark I'm thinking about Robby and how much  I would have
liked crawling into that hospital bed with him to cuddle. I  wanted to comb his
messed-up hair the whole time I was there too, but didn't  because it'd be
a creepy thing to do.

As I'm doing a  perfect flick of my cigarette butt, arcing it into the
night sky and watching the red ash land  fifteen feet away, my cellphone dings.

Glancing at it I see a text from  Sonny, who asks: 'Can me and my motorbike
bud come over for haircuts?  Pleaeeese!'  Huh, Sonny wants another haircut
already? Well,  I don't have anything else to do. Plus, I like Sonny and I
like giving haircuts.  More importantly, if he's with his straight motorbike
buddy there  won't be any of Sonny's tricks getting us to have some sexy
messin' around  after the haircuts. I text back, 'Sure, Sonny, come on over.'
Hmmm, I don't recall meeting his motorbike buddy, but I think I  may have.

I'm in the kitchen  taking an anti-acid pill and thinking I'm going to cut
back on fast  food, when the doorbell chimes. It's Sonny and his friend, who
I  do think I met one time, although I forget his name. I give them a
smile, "Boys, whassup?" and Sonny goes, "Hey Dylan!" and from  habit we do an
abbreviated posse-boy greeting  consisting of a one arm hug and pat on the
back. I say, "Come in," and  Sonny flicks his hand at his friend, mumbling,
"You've met, Turtle, right?" His  friend holds out his hand so I shake it,
mumbling, "Hey, Turtle, how ya  doing?"

Huh, ya don't get an old fashioned  handshake very often. He says, "I'm
okay, nice to meet you. Um, Orange  tells me you're an awesome free barber."

Orange? Sonny says, "Yeah, and for  Turtle the emphasis is on the word 'free'
, huh Turtle?" The  kid actually blushes, mumbling, "Fuck you, Sonny, I'd
pay him if he wants  me to." Sonny gets his arm around the back of Turtle's
neck running his fingers  through Turtle's longish, unruly brown hair, saying
to me, "Turtle cuts his  own hair to avoid paying for a haircut, so I told
him to come with me and  get it cut right. Didn't I, Turtle?" He's blushing
again. Turtle's shorter than  Sonny by a couple inches, and he's kinda stocky
but with a nice  looking face. Nothing special but nice looking. He's got a
scraggily mustache  and some chin whiskers too that I'm guessing aren't so
much a  fashion statement as a statement that he's too lazy to shave.

We're walking  downstairs to the basement as I try finding out his real
name, asking,  "Hey Turtle, what do your parents call you?" He's ahead of me
going down the  stairs; turning his head he tells me, "They call me Turtle. I
had a pet  turtle when I was about three years old and everyone's called me
Turtle ever  since." In the basement I'm persistent, asking, "What do
teachers call you  at school?" He goes, "I graduated," and Sonny says, "He's going
to the Garvey  Institute. That's a tech school where he'll learn how to be
a mechanic."

Giving up on finding  out Turtle's name, I ask Sonny, "You going to
college?" He goes, "Yeah, South  Carolina State. I leave a week from yesterday.

That's why I want a preppy  haircut." I ask, "Why South Carolina State?" and he
grins, "Because they  accepted me," and I go, "Good reason. Who's first?"

Turtle says, "Me, if it's  okay. I gotta pick up my little brother in about a
half hour." Apparently  it was agreed he'd go first before they got here
because Sonny's  already laying on the chaise lounge turning on the TV. I
shrug, saying,  "It's fine with me, but I gotta shampoo your hair first." He
goes, "Yeah,  Orange told me about that. Um, he says you're gay like him, but I
 was wondering if I could have a straight guy's, ya know, shampoo and
haircut. No offense intended." Sonny's laughing his nuts off, then he shouts,
"Turtle, don't be such an asshole. Dylan's not interested in you. He's  doing
you a fucking favor." Another deep blush from Turtle as he shrugs with  a
guilty look on his face, muttering, "Sorry, Dylan." I pat his shoulder,
"Don't worry about it. As a special favor I'll do the straight version  of a
shampoo and haircut." Fuck, ha ha! Ya know, I chuckled at first when  he said
that because I thought he was trying to be funny, but he was  serious. Jesus!

I expected he'd be  stiff as a board and totally uncomfortable while I'm
shampooing his hair, but  he's not at all. And I would have skipped the
shampoo  altogether except his hair needs it. It's a quick shampoo  though, taking
only about five minutes. As soon as I've dried his  hair he gets up,
saying, "Thank you." I don't hear that very often! Walking back  to the basement
it hits me what Turtle picking up his brother means:  it'll be just Sonny and
me when he leaves. To be sure, I ask, "You guys  rode your own bikes over
here, didn't you?" He nods, "Yeah, we always ride our  own motorbikes. No fun
riding behind another guy." Huh, can't say I agree with  that. I've had
some sexy rides behind Sonny. Oh well, it means I'll  need to dig deep into my
world-renowned willpower to avoid sex with  Sonny.

As I open the  barber toiletry kit, I ask him, "So, what kind of haircut do
you want,  Turtle?" He says, "A regular haircut." Pulling the stool off the
carpet onto the  tile area, I go, "Could you be a little more specific?" He
says, "Oh, um. Well,  that's what they say the rare times I've been to the
barbers. They ask,  'regular haircut?' and I go, 'Yeah'." Sonny says,
"Fairly short, but long  enough so he can comb it over with a part on the side,
and squared off at  the neckline in back. That's what you get when you say
'regular haircut' at  SuperCuts." Turtle says, "Yes, what Sonny just said."

Fine by me. Turtle  took his shirt off before the shampoo without me needing to
tell him, so I guess  Sonny told him about that too. As Turtle sits on the
stool I'm thinking  that it's funny I didn't know about that 'regular
haircut' thing. The  only times I've ever been in a barber shop is when Willie
took me during one of  his manic periods, and he'd always tell the barber what
haircut to give me.  I've never said, 'I'll have a regular haircut' to a
barber.  Chubby and I gave each other buzz cuts for years. As little kids maybe
our moms  said 'regular haircut' when they took us to the barbers; not that
I remember  a thing about that.

With his shirt off  it's confirmed that Turtle's stocky, but there's no fat
on him. His chest  is a bit too hairy though. Turning on the clippers I'm
not shy about cutting  Turtle's long hair down to a half an inch going
halfway up  the sides and back of his head, then tapering up from that length
using scissors to about an inch and a half where the part begins and around to
the crown of his head. Oh man, it's fun cutting off all this hair. Maybe I
will get that barbershop after all. When I comb his bangs forward they
extend  below his nose. Not for long though as I cut through the hair just above
 his eyebrows. Not a word has been spoken by Turtle and, as he was with the
 shampoo, he seems perfectly relaxed having all this hair cut off. I guess
it's  what he expected. Regular haircut, huh! I  learn something every day
it seems.

Combing through the  long hairs on top of his head, then capturing a batch
between my index  and middle fingers, I close the scissors, "Crunch, crunch,
crunch," cutting  hairs that are seven inches long down to a little under
two inches. I  need to repeat that procedure about ten times for the hairs on
top,  and then taper at the neck line cause I don't do the squaring off at
the neck like SuperCuts. I think that looks unprofessional. Only thing left
 to do is use the trimmer clippers outlining around his ears... and  he's
done. Maybe it took twelve minutes from beginning to  end. Depending how
sexy-hot the guy is, I could have stretched the  haircut experience out to say
twenty-five minutes. Turtle's a  twelve minute haircut guy though, which I'm
sure is perfectly okay with  him.

He looks very neat  now, if not especially stylish. Brushing cut hairs off
his shoulders I pass  him the hand held mirror and he says, "Nice! Thank
you, Dylan, I appreciate this  very much." Politeness counts, so I pat his
back, saying, "Feel free to text me  anytime you need a haircut, Turtle." Sonny
gets off the chaise lounge, saying,  "You're looking like a well groomed
mechanic, Turtle-boy," and he messes up  Turtle's combed hair, chuckling.

Turtle frowns, muttering, "Asshole." I  hand him the comb and he combs his hair,
saying, "This is easy to comb."  Him and Sonny do a hug goodbye and after
another 'thanks' to me, and a fist  bump, Turtle's gone. This is not good
because I'm thinking Sonny's  now going to try getting sexy. Only thing I can do
is play it by ear,  as they say.

In the half  bathroom Sonny settles in the chair, facing away from the
sink, saying,  "Dylan, buddy, no need to rush on my account. Give me the gay
version  of the shampoo." I laugh, but then do his shampoo much slower than
Turtles.  I like to look closely at certain guys who are especially cute or
good looking.  As I scrutinize Sonny's face I'm sorry to say that he's losing
some  of his boyish looks, and already isn't as cute as he was just six
months ago. He was certainly a cute kid sixteen months ago when he  first sat on
my lap in the overloaded car on our way to Ray's  basketball summer league
game. Sonny still has really nice textured hair  though, and it's getting a
little less orange, and closer to red, the  older he gets. Truth is, and I'm
sorry to say this too, but Sonny's  going to be a bit of an odd looking
adult. Right now though I think he's still  cute enough that I like looking at
him. No tan on his face at all even  though we just went through a hot,
sun-shiny summer, and that's  because his creamy complexion is too pale to tan.

He must have used a lot  of sun screen to avoid sunburn. His face is a pale
creamy color  without blemishes and the same smooth skin extends to his
torso, which  lacks noticeable muscle definition unfortunately. His brother
Devon's  the opposite with his hot body. Sonny's body is a little blah, but not
flabby. It's fairly taut actually, and I can remember enjoying the feel of
him in my arms once or twice.

As I'm shampooing his  hair and massaging his scalp Sonny sits slumped in
the chair with his blue eyes  closed, his hands laying in his lap, and
frankly I  can't imagine anyone being more relaxed than he is right now. His
hair's not  that long and he could have gone another week or so without a haircut
except  he's going away to college in less then a week. My fingers run
through his almost orange hair and over his perfectly shaped head. You see guys
 with lumps and bumps on their head, especially in the back, but not  on
Sonny's head. It slopes up slightly and smoothly rounds out on top,  and his
hairline's straight across his forehead. It's almost  the perfect hairline.

I'm sure he takes these things for granted, but he's  fortunate to have a
nice gene mix, head and hair-wise anyway. The  exception being the orange
color, but how many things are  perfect?
After a drawn-out  shampoo, I'm using the noisy hairdryer when Sonny gets a
 cellphone call. He holds up a hand to get me to turn off the hairdryer as
he's pulling his cellphone out of his pocket. Sonny's one of those guys who
 needs to walk while talking on his cellphone. I hear, "Hey, Byrd! Where
ya been, dawg? I missed you." He walks out of the half bath and the last
thing I hear him say is, "Are you back for good now?" Just a thought, but the
excited inflection in Sonny's voice made me think that maybe, Byrd, is
Sonny's sex buddy. Just an intuition I got when he first  answered.

He only talks for  about thirty seconds before coming back in the bathroom
holding the  cellphone against his chest. "Dylan, you're my best buddy ever,
and  as just a reminder you were my boyfriend all last summer.  Um, would
you please let another one of my friends come over for a haircut?  He could
be here in fifteen minutes, and I'll do his haircut. You won't  even need to
be bothered with it at all." From habit I check my wristwatch: it's  ten
minutes of eight. I shrug, "You're going to give him the haircut?" He nods
enthusiastically, and I shrug, mumbling, "Yeah, I guess. Sure, why not,"  and
he smiles his cute smile, "You're awesome, Dylan!" He walks back  out of the
bathroom as I smell the back of my hand, smelling shampoo of  course. That
makes me grin to myself and then smell the back of my wrist.  Damn that
Dougie Hamilton though, him and this habit of his. Hell, I  might remember Dougie
all my life if I can't break myself of this  habit.

Then I'm thinking,  'Hmmm, Sonny's giving his buddy the haircut. Yeah,
that's something I'd  like to see. I mean I never got to see him giving me my
forced haircuts a year  ago. But oh man, did those haircuts ever activate my
haircut fetish...  wowwee! Of course he had no idea that's what he was  doing.

Finished his phone  call Sonny comes in all smiles, "My main man, Byrd! He's
been away  almost all summer, and that prick never texts anybody! Good to
hear from my  boy though." He sits down again and I finish drying his hair
still thinking  that my premonition could be correct, and maybe after Sonny
gives this  kid a haircut he'll fuck him. Anyway, I'm in the clear now that
Sonny's  interested in this kid, Byrd, so I can relax a little. Huh, I
remember a  day not too long ago when I'd join in with two hot nineteen year old
gay boys having sex, but that day ain't today. Especially with Robby  laid up
in the hospital.

Sonny's hair is very  dry as I run a comb through it to make sure there are
no tangles, asking, "What  do you consider a preppy haircut for college,
Sonny?" He says, "Just like the  last haircut you gave me. Remember, it was
when you'd just gotten back  from Florida." I mumble, "It was Georgia," as I
try remembering what that  haircut was. From the way his hair grew out, I'd
guess the last haircut I gave  him was very much like the haircut I just gave
Turtle, only shorter on the  sides and back, so I ask, "Like Turtle's?" and
he goes, "Nooo! A much  cooler version of Turtles' haircut." I shrug,
wondering what a cooler  version of Turtle's  haircut might be. I get him seated
on the stool appraising his  head of bright orange hair. Shampooing it
brought out the orange tint  again.

Stalling,  I'm combing through his hair again glancing over near the chaise
lounge where I  see an old Sport's Illustrated magazine on top of a small
pile of  magazines. Muttering, "Just a second, Sonny," I go over and leaf
through  the magazine hoping for inspiration and bingo! There's a picture  of
Julian Edelman and his new-wave haircut. Showing Sonny the picture,  I'm
like, "How about this dude's haircut? This just might be the haircut I  did for
you last time." It shows Julian maybe two weeks after his last  haircut,
consequently it's not as severe as it was right  after he got the haircut. He
has a part high on the left side  and, yes... even a pompadour...  sort of.

Sonny goes, "Yes, my man, Edelman is too cool! Have you ever watched  his
YouTube 'Burger  Tyme' shows?" I go, "Oh yeah, that shit is laugh out loud funny.

He's a natural  comedian." Sonny's like, "And they say the Patriots don't
have any fun." I go,  "So this is the haircut you want, right?" and he's like,
"Yeah, Dylan,  that's the haircut I'm gonna be rockin' in South Carolina."

I go, "Well  alright then!"

I've talked to  other guys about this haircut, and I've even given a few
haircuts like it.  Right after a haircut Julian's hair on the sides and back
would be as  short as Ryan was cutting my hair. I use mostly clippers
duplicating  the haircut in the magazine and it comes out looking just as good on
Sonny as it  looks on Julian in the magazine. But like I said, Sonny's head
is so nicely  shaped almost any haircut is going to look good on him. I'm
helping him brush  hair clippings off his shoulders when the doorbell chimes.

"That's Byrd!"  yells Sonny excitedly. I ask, "Is that a nickname?" He shakes
his head,  "Not really. His full name is Myron Ira Byrd, so he prefers
Byrd." I nod,  mumbling, "That makes sense," then go upstairs to let him  in.

Byrd has a choirboy's  face and a pudgy body of about five-foot, eight
inches.  Same basic height and weight as Turtle. Pretty green eyes on Byrd
though,  and a really nice kind of nervous grin as he says, "Hi, I'm Myron Byrd.

Sonny  said I should come over here. Hope it's okay." I go, "Sure it is.

C'mon in,  Byrd. We're in the basement." I lead him to the basement door with a
hand  on his back guiding him. He says, "Oh man, I get so fucking  nervous
whenever Sonny gives me a haircut." He's got nice light brown hair  that's
short, but I can tell it's grown out from the extra short haircut he
probably got about two months ago. It was obviously the same haircut  Sonny was
giving me last year using only scissors and a comb. That's before  Ryan took
over my haircuts.

Going down the  steps, I ask, "You're nervous Sonny will screw up your
haircut?" He looks  back at me and very sincerely says, "Not necessarily Sonny;
any barber. I get  very squirrelly getting haircuts; but yeah, much more so
when my buddy's  cutting my hair," and he holds the crotch of his pants,
saying, "Down here gets  feeling funny. I get boners and cum in my pants
sometimes Ya know, the  way Sonny says you get when he cuts your hair." Holy shit!

I didn't know  Sonny was aware of my haircut fetish. And he told this kid?!

That's  obviously why Byrd felt comfortable telling me about his fetish.

Balls!  That fuckin' Sonny!

Byrd continues down  the stairs as I'm kinda shocked speechless. Huh, the
kid walks with  a swagger that's kinda cool. So Sonny recognized my haircut
fetish for what it was, but never said anything about it to me. I guess it
was  pretty obvious when I think about it. I mean, how the hell could he
miss my reaction. I'd get so docile I was like putty in his  hands.

Those two have a  tight embrace with Sonny kissing Bryd's face all over
before giving him a  sloppy lips on lips kiss with some sucking mouth sounds.

And this from a  kid who told me way back that he wasn't into kissing guys.

Sonny's such a  liar. Anyway, I much prefer the mouth sounds these two made
kissing to the one Bull makes eating tuna fish sandwiches. Both  the guy are
pulling at there laps and telling each other how  happy they are to see one
another, then another hug. It all takes place  in less then a  minute, but
I really enjoyed seeing two young gay guys so openly demonstrative  with
their affection for one another.

With his arm across  Byrd's shoulders, Sonny looks at me, saying, "Sorry
we're making such asses of  ourselves, but we haven't seen each other for,
what Bryd, seven weeks?"  Byrd mutters, "Something like that," then to me he
explains, "My folks have  a place in Ocean City, Maryland, and we spend most
of the summer there." Then to  Sonny, "I invited your ass down there more
then once, Sonny boy, and you pussied-out on  me." Sonny goes, "Nah, I didn't
go because your old man hates me." I ask,  "Why's that?" and Byrd says, "Pops
thinks Sonny made me queer. I told him, no  Pops, I made Sonny queer, which
I did, but Pops don't believe  me."

They snicker with  Byrd rubbing and messing-up Sonny's new hairdo,
mumbling, "And I did  too make you queer, Sonny, or at least brought you out of your
closet."  Another swipe of his fingers through Sonny's hair as he grins,
saying,  "Cool fuckin' hairdo, Sonny boy." Sonny bats Byrd's hand away, then
picks  up a comb and combs his hair again. Byrd looks at me grinning, "Sonny
cried the  first time I fucked him. I thought I hurt him at first, but he
told me  he thought he'd never lose his cherry. Ha ha, they were tears of
joy." Sonny  gets Byrd in a headlock, yelling, "You fucking liar. Tell Dylan
that's not  true!" They wrestle around getting on my nerves a little.

So Byrd  made Sonny gay, huh? Sonny told me he decided to be gay emulating
Ray's bisexuality, but no one believed he was gay, and we were all
obviously  fuckin' wrong! Yeah, and that's when Sonny thought I was Ray's boyfriend,
so  maybe it was convenient for Sonny to tell himself or his brother,
Devon, he  was trying being gay because Ray was bisexual, when all the time him
and  Byrd were screwing each other. Jesus, I'm getting a Popsicle headache
thinking about this crap! Nobody made Sonny gay except him and his genes.

Strange, but it's obvious Byrd's not the least bit submissive to Sonny like I
would have imagined he'd be. Huh, that surprises me.

Sonny asks me,  "Should I shampoo his hair first?" Byrd looks at me for my
answer,  apparently willing to go with whatever I decide. I shrug, "If you
want to,"  and he says, "Yeah, Byrd, I'm gonna shampoo your pretty hair."

Byrd's  like, "Go ahead, but I just did it an hour ago in the shower when I
was getting ready to surprise you that I'm back home." Sonny says, "Well,
that's nice of you, but you're getting your hair shampooed again anyway because
 I want to do it. Take off your shirt!" Byrd does that as they walk into
the half  bath. Huh, they take turns telling each other what to do. Surprises
the hell out  of me considering how dominant Sonny can get with me. This is
cool though, and  totally unexpected. There's been a lot of unexpected
things  happening lately. With Byrd's haircut fetish though, Sonny will  probably
pull his dominant act during the haircut like he does with  me. If his
fetish is anything like mine I can't see how Byrd will be able  to resist that.

So yeah, this should be interesting! A perspective  from the other side of
things for me.

Damn though, I never  thought I was into voyeurism or some peeping Tom
shit, but I can't pass this up.  I want to watch the haircut Sonny gives Byrd,
and the fucking when Byrd's  haircut fetish has him all hot and bothered. And
I'm not participating, that's  not happening even if they ask me to join
them. Nope, not after going back on  best intentions with Willie last night. I
will not be making that  mistake again tonight, although I'll probably feel
like a perverted dork  watching them. Fuck it, I'm going to watch anyway.

I walk over to the  half bath and lean against the door jam. Sonny goes,
"Oh, good, you're here.  This little hose came off the faucet. Is there a
secret to getting it to  stay on?" I step over and push the end of the hose over
the curve in the faucet,  saying, "Yeah, it's gotta be over the curve
here," then step back as Byrd says,  "Will you watch Sonny giving me the haircut,
Dylan? He says he going to use  your clippers and that'll be a first for
both of us. He might need your help."  Ha, and I was wondering if they'd mind
if I watched." I mumble, "Sure, Byrd."  Sonny's using the spray nozzle to
wet Byrd's hair, as he asks me,  "Yeah, do you mind if I use your barber
stuff? I've always wanted to  try using barber's clippers." Shrugging, "No
problem. Feel free to use whatever  I've got in the barber toiletry kit."

There's  some goofing around as Sonny shampoos his friend's hair.

Accidentally on  purpose he's aiming the spay nozzle down Byrd's back and shoulders
with Byrd jumping up grabbing a hand towel off the towel rack, yelling,
'You're  such an asshole, Sonny!" and they wrestle, bumping into things in the
half  bath with Byrd trying to get the hose away from Sonny. I roll my eyes,
thinking, 'Fucking kids have all the fun'. They settle down but never stop
breaking each other's balls by telling me embarrassing incidence on each
other. It's certainly not the calm soothing atmosphere I like creating for
the  guy I'm shampooing. Like I said, I like quiet time during shampoo and
haircutting so I can enjoy studying their good looks, marveling that some
guys are better looking than most girls I've seen. That happens less  often the
older we all get however.

Sonny's finally done  the shampoo asking me to pass him the hand towel so
he can roughly dry  Byrd's hair before using the hairdryer. I go, "Um, Sonny,
you need to rinse  his hair a lot more than that. Byrd's got thick hair and
there's shampoo still  in it," and I reach over to rub Byrd's hair forming
shampoo bubbles. Sonny makes  a face, muttering, "Yeah, I see what you
mean." He runs more water through  Byrd's hair for maybe a minute and then they
get into a struggle for  the hose again because Sonny drenches Byrd's
shoulder. Giggling like  two girls they wrestle around until I yell, "Cut the shit!
You're getting  water all over the fuckin' place." They settle down blaming
each other  for the water fight. After Sonny partially dries Byrd's hair
with the  towel, I use the same towel to mop up the water on the  floor moving
the towel with my foot. When the hairdryer's running I step  out to avoid
the irritating sound. In the garage I light a cigarette  thinking that wasn't
nearly as much fun as I thought it would be.  Disappointing actually. I
hope they don't screw around like that during the  haircut. For one thing,
it'll ruin the chance of Byrd getting aroused  with his haircut fetish.

When they come out  of the bathroom, Sonny yells, "Dylan, where'd ya go?
You need to help  me with the clippers." Stepping on my cigarette butt, I walk
back in the  basement, saying, "Why don't you just do his haircut with
scissors this time?  Try the clippers next time and maybe... " Byrd goes, "Yeah,
do what Dylan  says, or I might turn the clippers on you." Sonny's holding
the clippers that  he's turned on and now pretends to run it up Byrd's head.

Byrd jumps  back yelling, "Tell him to put that fucking things down,
Dylan!" Well, I'm  getting a headache now. I ask, "How the fuck old are you,
Sonny?" He goes,  "Nineteen as of six weeks ago and Byrd's still a baby of
eighteen." Byrd  shakes his head, mumbling, "For ten more days," and I go,
"Nineteen, huh, Sonny?  You're acting like a twelve year old." Sonny goes, "Okay,
no more goofing  around. Sit on this stool, Byrd."

Byrd gets on the  stool, saying to me, "You know that feeling ya get in
your groin when you're  about to get a too-short haircut? Well, I'm getting it
right now. It's sort  of a scary squirmy feeling, ya know what I mean?"

Yeah, I know only too  well, but I shrug as Sonny tells me, "When I'm cutting
his hair he gets  just as submissively docile as you do, Dylan. It's the only
time I get  to dominate his ass. Most of the time he's dominating mine with
that little  cock of his," and Byrd jumps off the stool as they wrestle,
giggling  again until I yell, "Stop it!' Sonny mumbles, "It's Byrd's fault,"

and Byrd  gets back on the stool, saying to Sonny, "You best remember that
it's me  who owns your ass except for these haircuts." Sonny frowns, mumbling,
"Fuck you, Byrd," and  to me he asks, "Remember that first time when I tied
you to the chair  and cut your hair wicked short?" A little embarrassed
about that, I shrug  again as Byrd goes, "Oh fuck, yeah! He told me about it and
I almost creamed  in my jeans."

Sonny's combing  through Byrd's hair, saying, "Byrd-man wanted me to tie
him to a chair when he  heard what I did to you, so I did it, but it doesn't
work if the guy wants to be  tied up. Right, Byrd?" He nods, "Yeah, it didn't
have much of an effect on me."  I say, "Sonny, get to the fuckin' haircut,
okay? I don't want to  spend all night in the basement." I'm walking over to
close the door  leading to the garage; it didn't close all the way when I
came in after my  smoke. Byrd yells, "Don't leave, Dylan. My orange-headed
friend might go for  those clippers again." After closing the door I go over
and hop up on the  washing machine that's next to the barber stool, and
mumble, "I'm  right here. I'll protect you, Byrd." Sonny goes, "How'd it come to
be that  it's you two against me? You're both my boyfriends." Byrd mutters,
"I  prefer thinking of you and my boyfriend, Sonny, as in I won't dump you
if  you behave." Sonny picks up the scissors, grinning, "Hee hee, we'll see
how  spunky you are when your fetish takes over your brain and I take over
your ass."  Byrd actually shudders a little glancing at me. I make a
noncommittal  facial expression, not wanting to say anything that might get them
goofing  around again.

Sonny picks up the  barber comb and uses the thinnest part of the comb to
lay against the skin under Byrd's sideburn and closes the scissors through
the hair above the teeth, one inch long hairs drop to Byrd's bare shoulder
as Sonny exclaims, "Wow, Dylan, this scissor is sharp." I mumble,  "Yeah,
that's a professional barber's scissor, so be careful you don't cut his  ear
off." For the next five minutes no one says a word. The only sound  in the
basement is the subtle sounds of the scissors cutting through hair as  Sonny
moves the comb up the left side of Byrd's head and I watch a  constant spray
of one inch hair clippings fluffing in the air before landing on  Byrd's
shoulder, or drifting to the basement floor. Byrd now seems tight,  like he
actually is scared, but I know it's his haircut fetish  constantly ramping up
in power, expanding until it's got his brain in it's  grip.

Pushing Byrd's  head forward until his chin's against his chest, Sonny
swats at the back of Byrd's head,  saying, "Keep your head like that!" and Byrd
lets out a subtle whimper as  his fingers grope at the material where his
boner's making a tent in  his lap. He's lost all his bluster, deeply into his
fetish by  now. I even sense a little stirring of my fetish too from  just
watching Sonny cut Byrd's hair down to maybe a sixteenth of an  inch. I
remember the sense of submissiveness I felt when I was in Byrd's place
experiencing the unconcerned, dominant manner in which Sonny cuts  hair. It's also
reminiscent of the way Ryan has cut my hair the last  six weeks we were at
college, and continuing weekly earlier this  summer in Georgia. Neither Sonny
nor Ryan give a shit what Byrd or I want; they  do it the way they want, and
they do it without mercy. Guys with a haircut  fetish eat that shit up. It
can be very sexually arousing although I don't  have a clue why it affects
any of us that way. It was  during early puberty I discovered I'd get sexually
aroused from  haircutting. Initially I wondered if all guys were affected
like that, but quickly learned  that wasn't the case at all.

Listening to the  subtle 'crunch' sound of sharp scissors cutting through
dry hair and  watching the cut hairs falling away from Byrd's head has me
subtly squirming on the washing machine. Byrd's eyes are  lightly closed, his
cheeks puffed out as he's doing  little wheezy-breathy exhales. There's a
full tent in the lap of his shorts  by now with a precum wet spot that's
soaked through at the top of the tent  pole. Sonny's relentlessly cutting off
most of the hair on the  back of Byrd's head, cutting it just as short as the
hair on the side. Finished  with the back, he examines his work so far, and
then goes over the  left side and back of Byrd's head again evening-out the
hair stubble that  remains. It's amazing to me how he can get it so even,
almost as even  as the guide on clippers would do.

Byrd's hunched  over kneading his boner as Sonny glances at him and nods
his head,  confirming something to himself I guess. He puts the scissors and
comb on  the dryer and hugs Byrd around his head whispering to him with his
lips on  Byrd's ear, although I can't hear what he's saying. Sonny pushes
Byrd off  the stool, and now that Byrd's standing the tent in his lap is even
more obvious. Taking his time Sonny reaches around and unzips the fly  of
Byrd's shorts, then unhooks the button at the waist and pulls down Byrd's
pants. I'm holding my breath to keep from gasping at how eerily  sexy this is.

Heh heh, I'd almost like to change places with  Byrd, who's now very much
under the control of his fetish. Sonny takes hold  of Byrd's five inch boner
and strokes it until Byrd's scrunching his face  moaning, then his hands push
Sonny's hand away as a long  drool go precum drops to the floor.

The whole thing is  oddly fascinating. Considering that these two haven't
had sex together for  two months now it must be excruciatingly arousing for
both of them. I  haven't watched porn on my computer for years, but the
little I did watch can't  begin to compare to real life porn done right in front
of me. And with me  totally relating to Byrd's situation, having been there
myself, it's a very  hot scene for me. Sonny's like Ryan with the same
dominant attitude about  giving haircuts, and neither of them has the slightest
nibble of a haircut  fetish themselves.

With a confident  smirk on his face Sonny's lightly rubbing his fingers up
the back of Byrd's head  emphasizing how short he cut his hair. Pushing
Sonny's hand away, Byrd  shivers, then shakes his head slowly like he can't
believe he's this aroused  from a haircut. I know the feeling, but at the same
time it's irresistible.  Walking in front of the stool, Sonny drops his
shorts giving me a  smirk and mouthing silently, 'You're next, bud." Ha! That's
what he  thinks! No fucking way although I have a gooey goofy feeling in my
nuts  just from watching.

Sonny cups the back  of Byrd's head pulling it down and Byrd obliges by
going down on his  knees, one knee slipping a little in the precum. His  hand
shakes a  little as he takes Sonny's mostly limp cock in his fingers. It's
not  an entirely limp dick though because Sonny gets 'off' a little seeing
how docile he's made Byrd. Byrd's five inch hard cock is up  tightly against
his belly and I'll bet anything that by now he isn't even  aware I'm here.

His head of hair looks laughable with half his head almost  shaved and the
other half covered with thick one-plus inches of hair.  Looks ludicrous maybe,
but his haircut fetish is screaming in his mind  as the fingers of his right
hand are around Sonny's pretty cock while his other  fingers keep moving
from the barbered hair at the side of his head  up into the longer hairs. A
light whack across the top of Byrd's  head from Sonny makes Byrd stops feeling
his hair stubble and start  slurping on the cock that's in his mouth.

Already a little aroused  from dominating Byrd, Sonny's cock quickly responds to
the stimulation  Byrd's warm mouth and tongue are providing. Byrd's jaw
muscles are moving  under his cheeks as he sucks and licks Sonny's penis. It
looks to  me like Byrd's doing some awesome oral sex while at the same time
stroking the shaft.

Less then two minutes of Byrd sucking  Sonny's cock, Sonny shudder a
little, then take a step back pulling his now  hard cock from Byrd's mouth. A
string of saliva and precum connects the two for  a second before the string
breaks and drifts down Sonny's good-looking hard  penis. His cock's the same
color as the skin everywhere else on him. It's  creamy pale and smooth,
looking paler contrasting with his bright orange pubic  hairs. Hard like it is
now, his boner could be a piece of expensive China. A  boner made of Bone
China; yeah, a bonus piece for the discerning  gay couple's China place-setting
wedding present.

His face flush, Byrd  stands up, staring at Sonny, waiting to be told what
to do.  Surprisingly Byrd's boner's has lost some of the hardness caused by
his haircut fetish, so that's unlike me. Sucking cock  obviously doesn't
get Byrd all that aroused. Sonny turns Byrd around,  then pushes behind his
head getting Byrd to bend over with his chest  resting on the stool. He gasps
feeling his shorn head again,  then grips the top of two stool legs with his
fist and dutifully  pushes his ass up. Sonny slaps it, "Smack, smack," but
not real hard, then  guides his boner between Byrd's buttocks. I'm watching
from the side, not daring  to move to a better vantage point for fear it'll
break the symbiotic  relationship they've formed over the last fifteen
minutes. This is  obviously not the first rodeo for either of them.

As Sonny's  staring at Byrd's ass he spreads the cheeks, then rubs his
boner up and down the  crack before pushing his finger up Byrd's ass. Byrd
moans,  "Ooooh." Sonny smirks at me again and I gotta admit he's a pretty cool
guy.  He casually finger fucks Byrd's ass a few times before pulling his
finger  out and wiping it on Byrd's right ass cheek. Guiding the head of his long
 boner to Byrd's asshole, Sonny plugs it in along with two inches of  the
shaft. I stifle a grunt as my asshole puckers and my dick  tightens. Byrd
squirms on the seat of the stool, then Sonny does a number  of little hip
thrusts, gentle ones, slowly opening up Byrd's rectum,  then "Ahhh," from Byrd at
an extra hard thrust. Sonny looks over at me, points  at his cock in Byrd's
ass, then points at me again. I'm  half mesmerized watching them, but still
manage to shake my head  'no'.

Byrd shrieks and  his ass jerks up when Sonny humps him hips hard and half
his seven-plus inches of boner disappears up Byrd's ass. After his shriek
Byrd's now moaning, pushing his ass back at Sonny a little. Sonny, gives
Byrd  two hard slaps, "SMACK! SMACK!" on his ass and Byrd's hips hump twice
with  a plop of precum spattering on the floor. His boner I can just see
resting against the bottom of the stool's seat, sticking straight out  of his
pubic hairs. With the next thrust of Sonny's hips the rest of his  boner
disappears up Byrd's ass and Sonny makes a, "Mmmm," sound, moving his  feet a
little as the sensations coming off his sensitive cock intensify. There's  a
definite extra  'high' involved when fucking your buddy's ass. I  experienced
it with Sonny and there's a lot to be said for 'topping',  although being
fucked up the ass still can't be beat as far as I'm concerned. To  each his
own.

Fully impaling Byrd's  ass with his seven to eight inch boner, Sonny's rubs
the palms of  his hands up and down Byrd's back, his thumbs dragging back
and forth on  Byrd's spine. I'll bet that feels good. When Byrd's quietly
moaning with  sexual pleasure Sonny pulls his boner back, and rams the whole
thing  right back up Byrd's ass. It all disappears and then most of it comes
right back out, then right back in again. A loud moan from Byrd, "Ahhh,
oooh, oooh," his back arching. Then Sonny's totally into it, smoothly  humping
his hips to and fro creating steady, "Slap, slap, slap," sounds,  which are
all we hear in the basement for twenty seconds or so before both  guys begin
the involuntary moans and groans as nerve endings sizzle and  feel so good
it's hard to believe. My eyes are bulging out of their  sockets watching and
pushing at my lap. So fucking hot! I'm staring, almost  hypnotized,
watching Sonny's long cock with it's swollen pick cock head, both  shiny with
precum sliding tightly back and forth in Byrd's stretched rectum. The  precum is
spread up Byrd's rectum and from there onto Sonny's boner,  plus there's a
gleaming accumulation of precum surrounding Byrd's asshole.  There goes
Sonny's hard cock quickly disappearing up Byrd's ass again  making that subtle
wet, sliding sound, then, "Slap," as Sonny's crotch smacks  into Bryd's butt
cheeks.

Three minutes of  steady, "Slap, slap, slap," sounds and now Byrd's humping
back into  Sonny's thrusts, doing a steady quiet whining moan. Both their
faces are  flush and contorted a little as the most sensitive nerve endings
in their bodies  are alive with sparkling sexual sensations; the most intense
ones most people  ever feel. My cock's stiff from just watching and from
imagining Sonny doing his  hair cutting on me and then the deep hard fucking
he's giving Byrd. I've been there and done that so watching it  is even more
of a turn-on for having been in Byrd's place myself. Both their  bodies get
stiff at the same time. I don't know if Sonny shoots his load up  Byrd's
ass first or Byrd climaxes first, but it's close either way. Byrd gasps,
humps his hips and I see three strings of cum that fly out from under the seat
of the stool between the front legs, then he humps again getting nothing but
 drools that drip to the floor.

Byrd's forehead looks  a little sweaty and his body's limp as Sonny humps
against Byrd's ass hard  a few more times, then steps back pulling his cock
out. It swings  between his legs shiny with cum as he smack Byrd's ass,
"SMACK! SMACK!"  making Byrd yelp, then yell, "Stop that shit, Sonny!" He
straightens up pulling  on his limp cock a little, then glances at me, looking
startled. I almost laugh  out loud at the look on his face. He obviously forgot
I was here. Then he  looks sheepish, saying, "Believe me, Dylan, it's
usually Sonny getting his ass  smacked and fucked... not me. I'm not usually this
much of a pussy. It's the  haircutting thing that turns me into Sonny's
pussy." He feels the back of his  head, mumbling, "Now I wish I never let Sonny
cut my hair like this." I  know what he means, but people like us are pretty
much slaves to our fetish. We  regret it until next time when we do it all
over again.

Sonny's wiping his  dick with a hand towel he got from the half bath,
saying, "Stop your whining,  Byrd! Fer chrissakes, I do it for you! You're the
one who asked me to cut your  hair in the first place. And it's been two to
three years we've been doing this  by now." Huh, and I though Sonny was a
savant barber doing my haircut as his  first one ever, and all along he'd been
cutting Byrd's hair learning how to  do it better and better. And he's been
fucking Byrd for a least a year  before putting on that charade last summer
that he was emulating Ray's  bisexuality. What a fraud. Ha ha, he had me
fooled. He had everybody  fooled.

Byrd's like, "Stop  wiping your big cock and wipe my ass. You must have
shot a pint of spunk up  my ass." Sonny wipes Byrd's ass, saying to me, "We
always argue like this after  I fuck my pussy-boy here. He loves getting his
haircut, and he gets very  aroused while I'm doing it, which I take advantage
of, and then once he's got  his rocks off he gets pissed off at me. I'm used
to it."  Byrd pushes Sonny's hand and towel away, pulls his shorts up, and
says, "Yeah,  I'm not very consistent, but I feel helpless to my fetish.

I've been  fantasizing about Sonny giving me a haircut for like six weeks, and
now I'm  complaining about it." He gives Sonny's shoulders a hug, mumbling,
"Sorry,  Sonny." Sonny says, "Hey, fuck, like I said, I'm used to it by now,
 you ungrateful prick." Byrd's feeling his ass, probably noticing the
wetness there as more of Sonny's jism drools out. Sitting on the stool, he
goes, "Finish my haircut, Sonny. We've taken up enough of Dylan's  time."

The second half of  the haircut is much different than the first because
Byrd's had his  fetish-induced climax and now it's all anticlimactic,
fetish-wise. I'm  still enjoying watching though, amazed at Sonny's unique talent
for this one  type of haircut. He probably can't do any other kind of hairdo
but this  one. I know Ryan can only do the one he gives me. In freshman year
Robby, Ryan,  and I tried giving each other haircuts and neither of them had
a feel for it.  But, Ryan recognized I get aroused during my haircuts so he
made it his  business to learn how to do that wickedly short haircut he's
been giving me.  Online there are endless YouTube videos about haircutting,
and  anything else you want to learn how to do. That's how he taught himself,
but  those days are past history now. I'm utilizing my willpower and
sacrificing my  fetish so I can have hair to comb for the first time in my  life.

Sonny finishes  Byrd's very short haircut and surprisingly I think Byrd
looked better  with his uneven, unkempt hairdo. I don't know why exactly, but
for some guy's their face and shape of their head doesn't work well  with
extremely short hair, which is the case with Byrd, but not so with Sonny.

It's probably a matter of opinion and the only opinion I know really well  is
my own.

Byrd stands up doing  what everyone does after getting a short haircut, he
rubs both hands all over  his head, then mumbles, "Couldn't you leave it a
little longer, Sonny?" Sonny  goes, "You always say the same fucking thing,
Byrd. Next time, say it before I  start." Byrd shrugs, "I probably won't."

Then he looks at me, asking, "Do you  have a dustpan and brush, Dylan? I'll
sweep the hair up for you." Sonny goes,  "Hold up on that, Byrd," and he looks
at me, saying, "You're next, Dylan." My  dick gets stiff as I say
half-heartedly and without a whole lot of  conviction, "No. No I'm not, Sonny. I'm
good like this." He gives me a 'look',  then says sternly, "Get your shirt off
and get your ass on the barber stool  right now," and Byrd says, "Yeah,
Dylan. Let me watch this  time."

Oh man, I swear  to God the urge is so strong to get on that stool. Oh fuck...

. "Let's go, Dylan,  you're next," say Sonny, taking charge, adding, "Byrd,
change places with  Dylan. Hop up on the washing machine." Both of them
come over and  each grabs an arm, pulling me off the washing machine, as
Sonny's saying  even sterner, "C'mon, you know you need a haircut and more
importantly  you want a haircut just like Byrd did... and who does it better than me?
If you're  a good boy during your haircut we'll have a three-way
afterwards," and  Byrd's like, "Hot shit! C'mon Dylan, don't be a pussy. This will
rock!"  Abandon all hope, ye who enter here...



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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