Date: Mon, 9 Jul 2012 14:22:31 -0700 (PDT) From: don mumford <thinat20@yahoo.com> Subject: OLIVER'S ADVENTURES Chapter 5 (Summer Job) by Donny Mumford OLIVER'S ADVENTURE Chapter 5 (Summer Job) by Donny Mumford We've just been on our twelfth year in a row of vacationing at Wildwood, New jersey, and this year was unlike any other for me. I was lucky enough to get hooked-up with a very hot twenty year old and we had some hot, sweet sex together. His name is Alexander North and I met him through his younger half-brothers, Nathan and Noah, who I managed to get acquainted with during my first twenty minutes on the beach the very first day of my vacation. The younger boys are identical twins who, by the way, definitely qualify as hotties, as well as being cuter and more fun than a basket of puppies. I spent many happy hours with both the twins and with Alexander, but not at the same time. I also met a couple of boys from some sort of gang or club, but that experience was a mixed bag, some good and some not so good. Mike Sullivan is the group's honcho and is he ever one hot, unique teenager with awesome good looks. There's something magical about him and even though he's about two years younger than me, he's the more confident and assertive one, between the two of us I mean. Another member of Mike's group that I ran into is best forgotten; what a strange little fucked-up dude Tucker is. Anyway, during much of the drive home from Wildwood I thought about the three hot North boys and the fun times I had with them. As I mentioned, Alexander and I were into hot sex with each other, but I just ogled, hugged and played around with the fourteen year old twins. They're too young for sex; sex with me I mean Yeah, but then there's that mystery kiss from the quiet one, Noah. I can't wait to see what they have to say 'on line'. We exchanged email addresses our last day together and I expect a lot of chatter from that crew. With all the summer traffic it's a long tough ride back home and because of my last minute fun adventure with Mike Sullivan I'm three hours late getting home, but I'm here now. The house is empty when I walk in, but there's a note on the kitchen table telling me my folks are next door for a cookout and that I should join them. That's how I met Alexander, at the Norths' cook-out, and I wonder if lightning will strike twice at cookouts for me. As I contemplate that remote possibility I unload the car and then checkout my computer for emails and there are a number of them from the twins already. They'd gotten home hours before me because the ride to their home in Delaware is much shorter than my ride all the way here to the western part of Pennsylvania, and they left a few hours before me. In their emails the twins go on about what a great time they had in Wildwood and how awesome I am, but no mention of Noah's wet lip kiss or him saying, 'We love you'. I can still taste Noah's bubbly saliva and remember vividly the boys' smell. But, how to described their young teen smell? I can't. Rereading the part of their email, the part about me being awesome, it makes me smile. The, ah ha! A great email from my brother, Christian; well, two of them actually. He wants me to think about coming out to see him and he describes how excited he is about his new job and how he has a fabulous, wicked expensive, townhouse with a bedroom made-up especially for me and on and on. Boy, I can't wait to see him and his townhouse, but I have a summer job interview tomorrow; I'll be working someplace or other for the next seven or eight weeks. I gotta get through that first. I shower and fuss with my hair, put on some cargo shorts and a Wildwood T-shirt and, wearing a pair of flip-flops, I head through the gate to the neighbors' yard. I can hear them talking and laughing loudly so I'm guessing they've been pounding down a few beers or gin and tonics. The smell of burning meat on the grille precedes even the loud voices. The first person I see is Edward who's flipping fat steaks on the grill. He's a year older than me and I had a crush on him a few years ago. My infatuation with him happened way back when I'd first moved here, I was sixteen when I first saw him and still broken hearted over Tyler's death. Edward has always been a chick magnet and quite the heart throb all through high school. He's tall, about six-three with a typical jock's build. Very dark brown hair with that real light complexion, and the bluest eyes I've ever seen. Great mouth with a winning smile too. Aside from the blue eyes, and the dark hair, light complexion, and great smile he's just average looking, ha ha. The contrast of the bright blue eyes and the dark hair is something special to see. And, looking at him just now, I notice that he still is something special to see. Edward has had his problems though; for example, it's common knowledge he knocked-up Barbara O'Reilly in eleventh grade. I was just starting high school in ninth grade at the time. My first month in High School it was obvious to me that Edward was the top dog on campus, although he was known to display obnoxious behavior at times. He's always been quite impressed with himself and a damn lucky dude too. He'd escaped big trouble about that pregnancy when Barbara miscarried. At least that was the gossip at the time. All very hush, hush. At sixteen I was pretty much the skinny, hairless-body type; you know, except for sparse pubes and a little underarm hair. Actually, I don't have much more body hair now then I did back then. Edward, on the other hand, had acquired lots of chest hair by the time he was fifteen or sixteen, and very hairy arms and legs too. It use to be a huge turn on for me to stare at Edward's body covered in all that fur. I use to fantasize the two of us wearing only our underwear as Edward wraps me up in his arms. I'd get wicked hard boners imagining how it would feel being engulfed in all that thick curly soft chest and stomach hair with my, skinny, hairless legs wrapped up by his muscular hairy ones, and me holding tightly onto his hairy arms, panting and waiting for my boner to shoot out a load of cum from my nuts. I wanted to feel his beard against my baby face, and now when I think back, I wonder why I had the fantasy with us wearing underwear, why not have us both be naked? Who knows, I was just a lonely gay heartsick kid dealing with Tyler's death. But, oh my God, the enormous loads of cum I could shoot off back then thinking about that furry fantasy, it was something to behold. I knew Edward was aware of my crush on him too, but I forget exactly why or how he knew about it. My young teen infatuation for Edward lasted less than six months; then, for some forgotten reason, I stopped thinking about him and moved on to other crushes on other boys for different reasons, as young teens tend to do. Crushes and Tyler were mostly all I thought about in those days, but in my sophomore year I was pretty much out of my funk by then too. And now, the thought of that hairy body and those hairy limbs has lost it's appeal somehow. I want little to do with Edward or hairy guys in general. Nothing personal against hairy guys, it's just not my thing right now and I don't know why, but there it is. This coming fall Edward is going into his Junior year at West Chester University so because of that, plus his position in the neighborhood as hottest stud, he sorta acts like he's a celebrity. Hell, he's always been very condescending to me anyway; always treated me like I was ten years old. Not much different treatment for me now either. He's always been pompous to me for some reason. At the sound of a squeaky gate hinge he looks up and sees me coming into his yard. He hesitated a second and then does a mocking second look kind of thing, then says, "Jesus H Christ, Nickerson, what do you call that haircut you got there, it's a fag's haircut, dude. Come here and say hello, I haven't seen you since Easter break." I walk over with half a smile on my lips and my hand out to shake hands. Best not to get into any kind of conversation with this pompous ass. Instead of shaking my hand, however, he got his hairy arm around my neck and bending me at my waist he gives the top of my head a nookie with his knuckles, like you'd do to a ten year old. My hair is totally messed up after that. I can smell BO from his armpit and a strong beer smell on his breath, with a background smell of onions and garlic. Delightful greeting. After the nookie he roughly twists me around and pulls me backwards up tight against his chest. The back of my bare neck presses into the thick chest hair at the top of the Vee in his short-sleeve Hawaiian shirt. One hairy arm up under my chin with the long hairs tickling both my cheeks. The other arm around my hips and crotch pulling me back up tight to his crotch. He whispers, "What ya been up to, Oliver? You find a girlfriend yet? You remember our game, don't ya? Wanna play it later for old time sake?" Ignoring his slurred mumblings and using both hands I managed to push his arm just far enough away from my neck to slip down and out of his hold. I felt his hard boner rub against my back as I stumbled awkwardly out of his reach. "Asshole" he mutters. "What's going on boys?" asked my dad as he quickly walks toward us. Edward turns back to the grill. Dad didn't comment on my red face or my messed-up hair; instead he asks, "How long have you been back, Oliver? I'm glad you FINALLY made it." We walk slowly over to where my Mom's sitting, me glancing back at Edward with a sneer on my face. I absently try to fix my hair using my fingers as a comb while I telling my parents a lie about why I'm so late getting home. My mom says, "Don't pay attention to Edward, dear, your haircut is very nice. Alexander's a talented hair stylist. I like this much better than your long hair. I mutter, "Thanks, mom," and I turn my attention to the food. There's early sweet corn on the cob dripping in butter, burning hot baked potatoes from the grill with lots of sour cream and salt, big fat, juicy Jersey tomatoes and steaks cooked medium-rare over a charcoal fire. Food's great and I fix myself a plate and a cold glass of lemonade and bring it to the table my mom and dad are eating at. Thoughts of me and the twins peeing in the ocean when we'd drank too much lemonade on the beach last week make me smile to myself as Edward glances over to glare at me from time to time. What's with him? He doesn't come near me till later that night though, when he's even drunker. I'm trying to decide between a slice of watermelon or a piece of cake when he comes up behind me and whispers to me, "You didn't use to want to squirm out of my arms ya little cunt." then he stumbles and trips over the leg of table the deserts are on. "Fucking table," he slurs as he staggered away. Huh? What'd he say to me? I swear to God I don't remember ever being in his arms. I'd fantasized about it for a few months when I was sixteen or so, but, like I said, that's all there was to it. Right? Then a weird picture of him and I doing something blinks in my head, but it blinks off so quickly I couldn't make it out, but it leaves me feeling scared. What the fuck? There're some other kids at the cook-out, but none my age except for the girl from across the street who had a girl friend with her. Not having much choice, when the girls come over to say hello, we get into a conversation and I spend most of the time answering, 'Where you going to school?, What you up to for the summer?', and other boring conversations with the two girls. Jenny is the one from across the street, and I don't remember her friend's name now. If I was straight I still wouldn't be interested in either of these two girls. Both of them heavier than they should be and both of them trying to show how much like one of the guys they are. Ugh! Girls trying to act like guys, while at the same time expecting you to get drinks for them, give-up your seat for them, and dump their trash for them, and oh fuck, they give me a headache. I brake away around nine o'clock with the excuse I have to apply for a job the next day, which as a matter of fact, I do. The food had been good so at least I have a full stomach. Watching TV in my room until I finally fall asleep around midnight. My dad's talked me into combing my hair down flat across my head instead of combing it up like Alexander had intended when he cut it. It looks stupid combed down, but dad feels it was too frivolous sticking up and I should look more professional applying for the job. He also insist I wear a tie even though I'll be working in the stock room. "Don't forget Oliver, I basically got this summer job for you where I work, the interview's a formality, but how you perform is going to reflect back on me. Okay?" That was my lecture during the drive in to work the next morning. Dad insist he drive for the first couple of days until I got familiar with the routine. It reminds me of my mom insisting I take a bag lunch on my senior class trip while everyone else was eating at Burger King. Oh, what the hell, my parents have been tremendously supportive I me. I feel like a dork walking in to work with my father, but I don't want to hurt his feelings by telling him that. He takes me through the huge office building to the Human Resources Department which I could have easily found myself; there are directional signs for every department all over the place. Dad walks with authority down the halls, me rushing to keep up. It's all very silly, dad acting important when he doesn't even have a management position. He's an underwriter, and underwriters in an insurance company are not high up the prestige ladder. We walk right into the Human Resources department and dad announces to the pod of desks that Oliver Nickerson is reporting for his interview; I'm mortified of course. A nasty looking gray haired woman with a hint of facial hair looks up from her front desk, and asks, "Say what? Who are you?" She's not impressed when my father tells her he's an underwriter and that he's here to bring his son in for first day interview and orientation. No one pays much attention to either of us, and I'm thinking that this job is going to suck. Then the lady says, frostily, "Wait behind the divisional wall till you're called, if you don't mind!" and nods her head that we should go back out to the waiting area. I feel sorry for dad because it's apparent that no one in Human Resources knew him, nor do they care one twit that he's bringing his son in for the first day of his son's summer job. It seems odd to me that staff in human resources would be like this. I see a few ladies rolling their eyes at each other; hopefully dad didn't see them. We back up six feet as dad whispers, "This kind of thing never happened at Gold & Burns. You'd better sit here and wait, Oliver. I've got to run because I don't want to be late at my desk. You going to be alright?" Jeez, dad, just fucking GO! That's what I want to say, but what I actually say is, "I'm fine dad. Thanks for bringing me up here." He looks a little better after hearing that and off he goes. I hear a youngish looking girl at a side desk snicker into her telephone and I can tell she over heard our conversation. My face gets bright red and my eyes sting as I sit here in the waiting area on a long hard bench. Nothing else to do but sit and wait. While I wait I can't help thinking about why my dad has an underwriter's position here instead of his underwriting manager position at Gold & Burns. I'm the reason. When Tyler died, we moved because of none stop negative feedback after that barely believable swimming pool death. It's a long story. In any case it makes me sad to think about it, all of that time makes me feel very sad to this day, sad and powerless. "Oliver Nickelson?" I hear someone say. That's close to my name so I stand up and walk over to this tall, good looking black woman with a retro Afro hairdo, straight from the nineteen seventies; her name tag reads, 'Violet Smith'. "I'm Oliver Nickerson, Ma 'am", and she gives me a nice smile and then we sit in her office and she tells me about the supply position on the loading dock, which takes me by surprise. I thought it was an inside job. After explaining the job she asks me some questions about myself, and finally says, "You'll be perfect for the job, Oliver, welcome aboard." She's very nice. Then she tells me to call her Violet and if there's any questions that occur to me, I should feel free to come to her with them. She says she's sorry she got my last name wrong. This is more like what I expected a human resources person to be like. I fill out a number of forms and have a cup of coffee and then wait. Lots of waiting, but I don't care because I'm on the 'clock' at nine dollars an hour as of an hour ago; I just made nine bucks sitting here. Pretty goddamn good hourly wage if I do say so myself. None of that minimum wage crap for me. Finally an old fellow comes up for me and without so much as a 'how do you do', he says, "Lose the tie, kid. You're not in management just yet. Follow me and don't touch anything." I think, 'Fuck, this is going to be a blast'. I slide my tie off, unbutton my blue dress shirt collar and followed mister personality all the way to the other side of the building and down two flights of stairs. This guy's maybe fifty years old with gray, longish hair combed straight back from his high forehead. He has a neatly trimmed mustache on his pie pan flat, sunburned face and a big flowery bow tie to go with his dark suit. There's a very officious manner about everything he does and I get the feeling that dealing with me is distasteful to him, but it's something that had to be tolerated; guess he doesn't like summer help. He goes, "You're working on the loading dock. Help Rocky unload that truck and then take everything inside. Do whatever Rocky tells you to." I go, "Okay," and hesitate until he motions at a door and says, "Go ahead, out the door and dress like a worker from now on. You'll be doing a lot of lifting." While giving these limited instructions he doesn't even look at me and then off he goes. Not a real motivational type guy I guess. And, shit, an insurance company has a truck with stuff to unload? What's up with that? Well, this is their home office so probably everything comes here first and then gets forwarded to the regional offices, but I'm not working at a warehouse am I? This isn't what I had in mind. I expected to be shuffling papers around on my own personal desk. I assumed I'd be doing inventory or something clerical, certainly not heavy lifting, for gods sake. Later I discover the company is replacing all it's office furniture, desks, and so forth There's a professional moving company handling most of the changeover, but us dock workers are responsible for specialty items, which is why they're hiring summer help. Great job ya got me, dad, and for a lousy nine bucks an hour too! There are boxes in the truck backed up to the loading dock so I figure I'll carry them out of the truck at least, but the first box I go to pick up is almost too heavy to lift, and I drop it I and get a long greasy streak on my dress shirt. It isn't long before sweat soaks through my shirt and I rip it in two places carrying in specialty shelving. It's just me so far. no sign of Rocky, or anyone else. Somehow my tie gets pulled out of my pocket and when I finally notice it under one of the boxes, I rip it as I'm pulling it out, so I throw it in the trash. For all I know these boxes were loaded onto the truck earlier, but I figure I should be doing something. After forever, a shiny aluminum sided truck pulls up to the loading dock selling all kinds of breakfast drinks and foods. I'm thinking it has to be lunch time by now so why the breakfast stuff, but all the people who come out of the building are interested in the breakfast sweet rolls, coffee and cold drinks. These people all work on the basement level and represent the company's blue collar type workers; both men and woman. Cleaning people, supply room, mailroom people, and stock room people, and me, the loading dock people. I ask the time from a nice looking girl wearing a over-size watch and she tells me it's a little after ten o'clock. I've been working for only an hour? You gotta be shitting me! If she'd told me it was noon I'd have thought the day was dragging. Work sucks! I buy two bottles of red Gatorade from the shiny truck because I'm sweating so much I feel dehydrated. The temperature on the dock is up in the eighties already and it's still early morning. This ain't worth nine dollars an hour. Have I mentioned that? I sit alone feeling sorry for myself and drinking the cold, refreshing Gatorade. Looking around at the thirty or forty people milling about on their morning break; they're talking with each other, eating and drinking the stuff they've bought. They looked like a normal mixed group of people. Ever since I was ten years old I've been on the lookout for hot, cute boys so, what the hell; to cheer myself up I scanned this crew hoping to spot a special looking boy to brighten my outlook. After a close scrutiny it's obvious there's no one under thirty years old in the vicinity. Oh man, this will be a long seven weeks and then there he is walking around the corner. A teenaged boy with very bright, light red hair in a longish brush cut and I immediately wanted to run my fingers through that red hair because it looks so cool. He's my height, about five foot-nine and he's as thin as me too. Pale blue eyes behind round eyeglasses. Clear complexion, but without the freckles you often see with redheaded boys. I really am feeling better just knowing he works here. This kid looks to be about my age, but he acts real comfortable, as if he'd been on the job for quite some time, so perhaps he's a little older than me. He's dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, sneakers on his feet. Some sort of blue collar job for sure. No one pays him any attention as I stare at him with my eyes pushed painfully to the left, keeping my head positioned so it appears I'm looking the other way. This can cause headaches if done too long by amateurs. I'm a professional boy watcher though so I can do it for up to fifteen seconds before the headache comes on. God, I hope this kid's name is Rocky. After the morning break, I don't see the redheaded boy, or Rocky, or anyone else for the next two and a half hours. Two and a half hours of unloading boxes of heavy stuff, but it seemed more like eight hours. The old grumpy, officious guy who fetched me from human resources, mister personality, reappears asking, "Where's Rocky?" I want to say, 'How the fuck should I know, you old, bow-tie wearing asshole'. I'm a little pissed off at this unorganized operation, but what I actually say is, "I don't know, Sir." He snorts like it's my fault Rocky isn't here and, after looking around, he goes, "Is this all you two have unloaded all morning? What the hell you been doing, playing monopoly? Tell Rocky to come up to my office post haste!" He doesn't wait for a reply, just stalks off, but then remembering something, he hesitated and yells back over his shoulder that it's lunch break, "Forty-five minutes. Don't be late getting back here and tell Rocky you guys have got to pick-up the pace out here!" I stare at his back as he quick steps around the corner and disappears. Jeez, I expected someone to at least eat lunch with me the first day. On the way through the building this morning I'd seen signs pointing toward the cafeteria so I backtrack and easily find my way to it. Grabbing a tray I get in the fast moving lunch line. Lots of choices, but I settled for a cheeseburger, fries, and a coke; something familiar. Carrying my food to an empty table, I think about the cafe on the University Of Pennsylvania's campus where those three students just sat down with me, uninvited. That was nice and I wish someone would join me here too, but no one does. I feel self-conscious eating alone so I gobble down the fries and cheeseburger, drinking most of the coke as I'm heading for a trash barrel to dump my paper plates and the rest of my coke. Total lunch break was less than ten minutes. I have nothing better to do so I go back and sit down on the loading dock under an overhang that provides a shady spot, my back up against the side of the building. My plan is to rest for the last half hour of my lunch break. My arm muscles and my lower back hurt. Couldn't help but think, "This job sucks the big one!" Then I make myself think about the redheaded boy and start trying to form a plan for the next time I see him. It's warm, but not too bad here protected from the hot sun and I close my eyes to think about my plan for Reds. Concluding that here has to be a way to casually meet him without making an ass out of myself; yeah, now what is it?. He really looked special with those round, Harry Potter eyeglasses. It's fun daydreaming about making-out with him; his glasses getting all askew as I bump and push them with my nose trying to lick and kiss that pale, clear skin all over his face. He'd look even cuter if he had a few freckles like the twins have, just over the bridge of his nose and a few on his cheeks. It's fun to think about... "Hey, you. Are you one of my new assistants?" The question interrupts my daydreaming. I stand up quickly and look in the direction of the voice, squinting my eyes because now that I'm standing, the sun glare is bright from that direction. There stands a short, stocky, bald guy about thirty-five years old. "Rocky?" I ask. He walks towards me as he mumbles, "No shit, Einstein. "Mister Rocky to you. Which one are you and how come you're laying down on the fucking job?" As he gets closer I can smell booze on his breath. He made it official as he, right in front of me, finished off a tiny bottle of VO, then tosses the empty in a trash barrel. It clangs off the side of the metal barrel and lands quietly on top of my tie. I stare stupidly at the trash barrel. and I must looked startled because he explains, "It's for my cough, the VO is, but keep it between us, Howdy Doody, okay?" I nod my head like an idiot and answer his original questions, "I'm Oliver Nickerson, Mr Rocky. And, I'm not goofing off, I'm on my lunch break till one-fifteen according to that tall, older gentleman with the bow tie. He didn't say his name." Rocky doesn't appear to be paying attention to me at the moment as he coughs and then blurts out a laugh with a lot of phlegm in his throat, which he precedes to hock-up and spit past me off the dock; it lands on the back tire of the truck I'm unloading. I stupidly stared at that too. Rocky fires up a Pall Mall cigarette, coughs again and says, "I was only kidding about the Mister Rocky shit. Call me Rocky. That bow-tied mother fucker's name is Mr Brittle and he does insist on the Mister part of that. What a consummate asshole he is. Is that a word? Consummate? Whatever...." Rocky takes a long drag on his Pall Mall and scratches at his crotch before continuing with his message, "Mr Peanut Brittle is my boss and I'm the dock foreman in case you're a retard and haven't figured that out by now. Brittle is not only my boss, but also the mailroom supervisor, Art Hower's, boss as well as the dyke in supplies, Jessy Finn's, boss. Jessy's a dyke, but she's good people, and she can probably beat up half the fag men working here so nobody gives her too much shit and you probably shouldn't either. Plus, if you want anything from supply you got to keep on her good side." Rocky's sort of run out of breath and energy after that long sentence, which I guess represents as much of my informative indoctrination speech as I'm going to get. He just stopped talking, drags on the cigarette again and really got into scratching his crotch. "God damn crotch crud itches like to drive me mad. You ever get that? Crutch crud? What'd ya say your name was?" I tell him again and he becomes alert once more and tells me I'd better get back to unloading the truck. He said his crotch crud prevents him from doing any type of heavy lifting. I shuffle over to drag another box off the truck while Rocky tells me that Mr Peanut Brittle was suppose to have two boys helping with this specialty unloading job. I'm one and he wants to know where the other one is. He looks at me as if I should know. I just shake my head slightly and he stares at me a second more, then abruptly goes, "I gotta take a shit. If Brittle shows up tell him I need to talk to him." He goes off in the direction he'd come from earlier. I suddenly remember I'm suppose to tell Rocky that My Brittle wants to see him, but Rocky's already around the corner so I go back to unloading the truck. Rocky sauntered back an hour and a half or so later, "Al, it's time for our afternoon break. Come on, I'll buy you a soda or a coffee, or whatever." We didn't go all the way back to the cafeteria though, just to a little room off the loading dock with a small refrigerator, a microwave and soda, snack, and coffee machines. Rocky called it the 'cafe'. He said this cafe was the 'break' room for us and the lesbo's group. I nod my head like I know what he's talking about. Rocky buys me a coke and he pours a coffee for himself. Then he pours some VO in his coffee from another tiny bottle. "Like they give you on airplanes," he says, holding the empty little bottle up for me to gawk at. "This god damn cough." I learn from Rocky that he was a star high school baseball player back in the day, but he'd fucked-up his knee in an automobile accident and never got a chance to play semi-pro ball. He tells me he'd started with this piece of shit company, as he put it, right out of high school and worked his way up to loading dock foreman. He went on and on about how the company sucks, but he's really funny about it and pretty quickly I'm laughing my ass off as he maintains a straight face. I can tell now he isn't the mean spirited person I thought he was, he's just maybe not the world's most conscientious employee. Of course, I also couldn't help but wonder if the company sucked so bad why he's still here after eighteen years, but I didn't say anything about that. He enjoys complaining. He tells me that Mr Brittle is a real prick and I should be careful around him. We were to, 'get each other's back', as Rocky put it. I took that to mean I'm to cover for Rocky's absence when Brittle shows up unexpectedly. There's a regular loading dock crew of two men who work half the time in the supplies department and on the loading dock the other half, but at night. Rocky was in charge of them too; he's their boss. He's also the boss of the night cleaning people. And, now he has to supervise two summer part timers in addition to everybody else. He acts like it's a huge load to handle. All his complaining is so over the top and tongue-in-cheek, it's very funny. I like Rocky. Rocky is one of those people who isn't real curious about the world around him, he's mostly interested in his world, so he doesn't ask me anything about myself. He did tell me to wear real casual clothes tomorrow, even shorts or jeans, and a T shirt, and definitely sneakers. After a little over a half hour he says, "Well, Artie, I guess we've used up most of our fifteen minute break so we better get back to unloading that fucking truck." Rocky wouldn't actually be going back to the truck with me, he's going to hunt up that dip-shit Brittle to find out what that loser wants and also to find out where his other kid is. Well, I could sure use the help. Hope it's the red-headed kid, wishful thinking probably. Back to unloading heavy stuff and daydreaming about young Reds. The day's finally over and being totally wiped-out I fall asleep in the car during the ride home with dad, who's surprised to hear my job is of the manual labor variety, but I could tell he wasn't about to try to do anything about changing it, so I resign myself to lifting heavy things for the rest of the summer. I go to bed early and next morning I'm on the loading dock, and so is the redheaded boy. My heart went bump, bump, bump with my dick keeping with the beat. As soon as I step out on the loading dock reds come right over to me and goes, "Excuse me, are you Mr Rocky, I'm to be your summer worker. Mr Brittle had me cleaning out overflow toilets in the ladies' lavatory all day yesterday. It was a total mess with all those, you know, doo doos. Disgusting too with those soiled sanitary pads." Up close I can see how earnest he seems to be with a little frown to go with a little bit of a nervous twitch. He has his blue eyes opened wide behind those little round eyeglasses and he continually bobs his head up and down slightly, as if he's constantly reinforcing his willingness to follow instructions. The tip of his pink tongue showing between his bow shaped, puffy lips. Is he for real? Putting on an exaggerated serious look, I go, "What's your name son?" "Frankie Swallows, Mr Rocky," he squeaks back at me. Now I didn't know who's putting who on, so I ask, "That your real last name, Reds?" And he says, "Don't call me reds, pal" and I smile and counter with, "Don't call me pal, reds". I have my eyes wide open now like he does, with a big smile on my lips, as he says, "We should do some Three Stooges shit now, don't ya think? You know, hit each other over the head with a fucking frying pan or a hammer or some god damn thing?" Then laughing, he put his hand out and says, "I'm Frankie Nerney and I know you're Oliver Nickerson because I saw your name on Peanut's work schedule. Nice to meet ya, Oliver!" I go, "Likewise I'm sure, Mr Swallows," and we shake hands smiling and nodding our head at each other. I use to do extemporaneous 'bits' like that with my best bud, Tyler. Frankie is the first boy I've met in almost five years who can put me on so naturally. It's fun to do that goofing around stuff, pretending to be serious. Frankie is the same age as me, nineteen, but he worked here last year after graduating High School and that's why he seems so comfortable yesterday when I ogled him. Frankie knows everyone, all the way up from the peons to the bosses, and he confirms my belief that Rocky is a good guy. Frankie says I need to know two things: one, Rocky don't lift anything heavier than a tiny bottle of VO and, two, Rocky is so funny, without actually trying to be, and especially with that dry delivery of his, that you can pee your pants laughing if you're not careful. I go, "Damn, Frankie, this job is already a lot better now that you showed up." He smiles and gooses my ass while saying, "Let's get some coffee," and off we go to that little cafe room. Earlier someone started a pot of coffee in the cafe and it smells good. I adjust my crotch walking behind Frankie trying to move my boner sideways in my pants. That was a nice goose Frankie gave me; his hand kind of lingering there a full extra second. Jesus, don't tell me I hit another jack-pot. We're sitting at the little table in the cafe with our coffees and out comes Frankie's cigarettes, Marlboro Lights. He offers me one and I shake my head while he lights his with a Bic lighter. Frankie tells me he only smokes here on the job during the summer. The reason being that so many of the workers smoke, he just joins in to be one of the guys. It looks so funny seeing that cute baby-face smoking. I think to myself, 'I'm the adventurous Oliver now, right?' so have a cigarette with Frankie." Hell, Mike Sullivan made me smoke one with him on the boardwalk a couple days ago. I smile at Frankie and say, "On second thought my good man, I will join you in a smoke. You don't have a cigar on you, by any chance?" Then, imitating him lighting his cigarette I, unlike Frankie, begin coughing like crazy because I also imitated the way Frankie inhaled. Man, smoke feels like a burning log in your lungs. I start smoking like a girl again with the little puffs as Frankie snickers and mutters, "Cunt," every time I take a tiny drag. He partially covers up the C-word by pretending he has to cough each time he says it. I have to laugh at him every time he exaggerates the cough/cunt sound. After finishing the cigarette I feel dizzy and slightly sick to my stomach. No matter, I've bonded a little with Frankie and I get another nice goose from him on the way back out after our coffees, maybe because of that cigarette. It pays to be adventurous. The job took on an entirely new feeling with Frankie there. It's fun and I like looking at him, and so close up too. For laughs we imitated Rocky's negative, complaint-filled outlook by harshly criticizing everything associated with this dip-shit, loser company we work for. During the week Frankie and I drop a lot of boxes because we're laughing so hard at one another's pretend complaints. Stuff like, 'Leave it to this dip-shit company to order boxes of inferior cardboard. Fucking losers.' That would be said, for example, after Frankie drops a box off the six foot loading platform onto the blacktop below; he'd dropped it because I goosed him while he was trying to lift it. The box spit open from the fall and we blamed inferior cardboard and we're into laughing hysterics again. No matter what we do wrong it's always, 'This fucking loser company hires incompetent employees,' or, ' Jeez, we must be on break forty-five minutes by now. What kind of a fucked-up company would hire the likes of us?' And that kind of childish bull shit and irresponsible behavior, all in the name of a good laugh. Mr Brittle came down to check-up on us one of the few times Rocky was actually there on the loading dock. Frankie and me are biting our lips, red in the face trying to keep from laughing as Rocky wipes his bald head with a rag as if he were sweating from all the unloading he's been doing. "Good morning, Mr Brittle. How they hanging?" Rocky asks, with a real serious look on his face. "Don't be crude, Rocky. Please give me a progress report," is the officious reply from Mr Peanut. Rocky made it seem like we'd worked around the clock catching up on the unloading and when he's done with his amazingly adroit bullshit line Mr Brittle looks here and there trying to uncover a screw-up of any kind, but he can't find one. What he doesn't know is that an entire truck load had to be sent back because it hadn't been inventoried properly before getting to us. Mr Brittle assumes we'd already unloaded that too. If that truck was here we'd be way, way behind. His inspection complete, Mr Brittle, shaking his head slowly in disbelief, had to say, "Great job, Rocky. We're ahead of schedule it seems. You're crew is doing a surprisingly nice job here ." He looks at his outdated computer print-out sheet again and tells us another load of items is coming in next week so it's good we're almost done with this one. That's the one he thinks we already unloaded. "Sure thing, Boss. Well, we better get back to work boys. This fucking back of mine is killing me though." Rocky mutters loud enough for Mr Brittle to hear as Rocky pretends to move one of the boxes Frankie has just unloaded. Mr Brittle looks around one last time with amazement, then waves at us in a dismissive way and quickly walks off. Frankie and me burst out laughing as Rocky heads swiftly into the air conditioned cafe for another break. Frankie and me are doing the goosing and ass-grabbing all the time now and it's substantially more sexy then the goosing in the ocean I'd been doing with the North twins. With Frankie I'd goose his crotch or his ass and sometimes get a little of both with one grab. Frankie is an expert at just getting my balls in his fist and his big smirking smile accompanies each successful grab. I have a semi-boner most of the time. Frankie is also a big fan of hugging. Big greeting every morning and huge two-arm hugs for every success we have as if each job we complete is a major accomplishment. I'm already an experienced hugger after the two weeks of hugging with the cute twins. Needless to say I loved all of Frankie's craziness and reciprocate in full. I look forward to work everyday and the first two weeks fly by. Unfortunately I can't hook-up easily with Frankie on the weekend because we lived in opposite directions from the office, so we weren't neighbors in any sense of the word. It would take over an hour drive each way between our houses. When I mentioned getting together on the weekend Frankie never really seemed to be very excited about me driving over to his place, which was disappointing, but other than that life is great on the job. Each day after work, when I get home I ride my bike on those long road trips I like so much, and then I spend time emailing with the twins and Alexander. Alexander gets me so hot with his messages and emails. He says he missed me a lot and asks me to jerk-off at a specific time each day so he and I would be doing it together. He writes the sexiest emails, ones that gave me boners for sure, but his telephone calls are even hotter. Alexander is a sexy boy. We have a couple mutual wack-offs on the rare occasions that we're both alone on the phone in our houses at the same time. After all our sexy talk Alexander wants mostly to talk about his hair salon/barbershop opening. Lots of work required in getting it ready for an August fifteenth grand-opening. I really, really miss having sex with Alexander and I spend many nights in bed wondering who I miss the most, Alexander or Christobal. Both of them gave me so much pleasure and they both were so much fun too, and not in just the sexy side of life. I feel lucky, but horny too. Once I'd had that sweet sex with Christobal, sex by myself has never been real satisfying by comparison. There are other concerns for me; another one is needing to deal with the telephone calls from Pattie Reynolds. One of the conversation led to me taking her on a double date with her best friend and the girl's fat, constantly farting, boyfriend. A couple of other nights Pattie and I just hung-out at her place as she poked and grabbed my body continually. Ugh! Same make-out that she and I had after that party before Wildwood, and that's a double ugh! I run into my almost buds too, the swimming team guys, Robby and Marty. We hooked-up for a Pirates game one night and hung out at Burger King a couple other nights. They want to know if I'd gotten in Patties' pants yet. Ha! There were a couple of responsibilities around the house I had to take care of too, like cutting the lawn and taking the trash to the town dump and other stuff that came up. All in all I had plenty to do after work, but the most fun I was having in my life now, by far, was at work with Frankie. On a day in the third week Frankie and me are resting inside one of the half empty trucks, sitting on boxes having a cigarette when I can feel Frankie staring at me. I glance at him and he holds his stare looking back at me for ten seconds, and then I ask, "What?" Frankie goes, "There's something major league wrong with your hair and it's been driving me crazy since day one. I just figured out what it is." I go, "Duh? What is it?" Frankie tells me that my hair is cut in a faux hawk and it's suppose to be combed up. I go, "No shit, Sherlock, but my dad says it's unprofessional looking." We both get a good laugh out of that because how professional is our job of unloading trucks. Frankie says, "Fuck it, man. I'm going to fix this." and he takes out his pocket comb and tells me to, "Sit-up straight on that god damn cardboard box", which I do in an exaggerated way. "Good, Oliver. Now don't panic, I'm going to spit in your hair to wet it, but no loogies, mind you. Just my clear, clean, bubbly saliva." He spits four times and I can't help but grin at how silly and stupid this is. At the same time it's a little bit sexy too, and my dick moves around in my shorts. Frankie can do that to me. He begins combing my hair so that it sticks up on top, like it was cut to do in the first place. I mumbles, "Sixty-five fucking dollar haircut needs to be combed the right way." Frankie chuckles, "Sixty-five dollars my ass!" More spitting and more combing. "I need more spit" Frankie says, "but I'm all out." He combs it a bit more and, exasperated, says, "We need more spit. Here Oliver, put some of your spit in my mouth." He leans his head down and I see his big grin so I know he's not serious. Frankie never turned the grin into a laugh though, instead he puts his parted lips right in front of mine. My heartbeat gets fast, pitter-patter, pitter-patter, and I gulp. Frankie stays where he is so I take a chance and part my lips and wait. He has such a nice, natural smelling breath, and those very pretty eyes with his eyeglasses fogging up from both our hot, moist exhales. In my head I'm thinking, 'Damn, he's cute!'. I try to look him in the eyes, but we were too close together and my eyes cross. "Nice look, Oliver." Frankie say with a chuckle, " Move your mouth closer to mine." I move my head forward and his lips cover mine and I blow some spit into his mouth. He says, "More" but it's hard to understand because our mouths are together. Frankie's head is sideways to mine as he's bending down that way. Our noses are pressed into each others' cheek and his face feels so fine, and even with the perspiration dampening his face he smelled so clean and sexy. I do a long inhale to capture as much of Frankie as I can get. My boner is poking straight up in my jeans as I scrape wet, drooling saliva from my tongue against the bottom of his front teeth. Frankie's saliva drips in my mouth some too, oh my God. My boner leaks some more. Some of our combined spit runs down Frankie's chin when he starts to laugh. He moves away with a little chuckle and spit quite a lot of our mixed saliva on my hair. Right away I felt it's wetness on my scalp, there is so much of it now. Oh, do I ever want to pull on my pud. Frankie's laughing and combing and saying what a couple of dip-shits we are. I'm trying to catch my breath and breathe normally, but I can feel myself getting close to hyperventilating. Frankie seems cool and calm with his laughing and chuckling and his wise-ass comments. "Okay, Oliver, now your hair is nice and wet. It's going to be stiff as hell too when our spit dries on it, so it will stay in place. It'll smell good too!" Haha. He steps back to examine his handiwork, then he goes, "Well, looks like I soved this problem, but, Jesus, do I gotta do everything around here?" He combs my hair for three more minutes and I noticed a wet spot on the front of my jeans. "Isn't this retarded, Oliver?" Frankie asks in his always playful manner. Everything is a joke to Frankie. I manage to say, "You need any more of my spit?" Frankie says, "Damn, Oliver, you taste good, but we got enough spit." All I can think of is, 'I'm covered in Frankie's spit and I'm going to blow a huge load in my pants any second now'. Then Frankie say, "You know what, Oliver? Now that you mention it, I do have a touch of dry mouth," and just like that he puts his mouth on mine and we lick tongues for a full minute. He pulls away and says, "Shit, Oliver, you're the most fun, most outrageous kid I've ever known. I'm so glad you're working here this summer. Man, you're a blast." He's real excited and playful as I'm occupied trying not to moan from sexual arousal. It's so sexy having his spit in my hair, and in my mouth. Oh fuck, I know I'm going to blow a wad in my pants. I'm doing fast, short breathing while he's laughing and combing his own red hair, up straight on top of his head. Oh my God I need to jerk off. Frankie goes, "If we had grown up in the same neighborhood we'd have been best buds for sure. You're just as wacky as I am and that's really saying something. I never expected to find anyone as nuts as me, but you may be even nuttier. Come on Oliver, let's take our afternoon break early. Damn, that was funny." I still wasn't talking, or able to. Following him to the cafe hiding my wet crotch with my hand as best I can. Sitting at the round table to hide my wet spot and feeling lucky that it's Frankie's turn to buy our drink and snack. My hair and scalp are still wet with spit. When Frankie's back is to me I croaked out, "I'll be right back, Dude. Gotta take a pee pee." I stiff-leg walk to the lavatory and go right in the first stall, lock the door and wack off five quick strokes and a hard thin stream of my cum splatters off the wall above the toilet. Letting out the breath I've been holding along with the moan I've been trying to conceal, I then shoot some smaller squirts of cum. I need to turn around and collapse on the toilet seat because I feel so weak after that cum explosion. Then that indescribably delicious feeling of cuming rolls over me and I moan quietly with pleasure and relief. Oh, this job rocks the best! Back in the cafe, my sexual relief complete, I'm able to enjoy my coke, my peanut butter crackers, and the hot, hot Frankie; him I enjoy the most. Frankie's joking about how much better I look with my hair combed up and he talks some about his longish red hair combed up in a long brush cut and how he's going for a haircut after work. He wants it short on the sides, he calls it a fade. I don't know much about haircut styles, but I tell him about Alexander and how he's opening his own salon. Of course I don't say anything about Alexander and me screwing, just about the haircutting. Frankie goes, "Cool!". Frankie can talk about almost any subject and with a lot of enthusiasm too. He makes things pop he's so exciting and fun and generally just puts out a lot of energy into whatever we're up to. That jerkoff had really hit the spot for me and I'm in the best mood ever, enjoying looking at Frankie and listening to him too. The thought comes to me about how attached I feel to Frankie already and how I got attached to Chritobal and Alexander real fast too. I have no idea if these quick attachments are normal for a nineteen year old, or maybe I'm weird. No matter, I like how it feels to really care for a kid my own age. My wet spot dries during our break and everything is so right for me lately. As far as Frankie's spit swapping goes, I'm having a hard time evaluating what it means, if anything. It could just be him being outrageous. It was definitely a tongue kiss, at the very least there at the end, but Frankie seems immune to the sexual side of it. Everything is one big yuck to him and he just considers us wild and crazy guys who are up for anything as long as we get a laugh out of it. To further confuse me, the next afternoon Frankie says, "Oliver, my mouth is so dry in this fucking heat. How about some of your saliva, if you got any to spare, that is." With Frankie I never know if it's serious or if it's a joke, so I look at him half ready to laugh and half ready to get a boner. "Well, you got any spit for me today, Oliver?" I nod my head, and he steps in front of me and puts his tongue in my mouth. Boner time again. At first we just push spit back and forth with our tongues, but it soon turns into a full fledged make-out. After about two minutes, Frankie says, "Okay, that's enough spit for now. Thank you so much. My mouth is much more better now," and his laugh follows because of the baby talk, 'much more better,' as he jostles me around a bit while I tried to hide my latest boner. I have a smile on my face looking happily into Frankie's beautiful blue eyes as I'm thinking to myself, 'If he does this again those little round glasses of his are going to be askew just like I fantasized about when I first saw this redheaded boy on my first day here. I think I may be in love again. Damn. What's wrong with me?' Making out, which Frankie calls swapping spit, became something we do for two or three minutes in the morning and two or three minutes in the afternoon. Frankie will say "Yum yum!" or "Ain't this a pisser?" or "We are so fucking kewl!" or "Why must you stalk me so? Oh, okay, take me" or anything goofy he can think of. It's always fun and games with Frankie, while I'm always on the verge of blowing a load in my drawers. I'd wait for Frankie to start it and then we'd go at it and his glasses were more than askew by the time we were done. He never combined the making-out with sexy bodily touching though. Just held my head with both his hands or put a hand on each of my shoulders while I'd have my hands lightly on his waist. It's surreal, but nonetheless I couldn't wait for Frankie to initiate the make-outs two or, once in a while three times a day. When we're done the kissing, licking, and sucking we made no other reference to a make-outs; we act as if the make-outs never happened. We always did the make-outs far back inside the truck bed behind boxes or behind whatever was available. Once I tried to pull Frankie's body against mine during the kissing, but he make an obvious negative move to counter that so I didn't try again. He just liked the make-out part I guess. After that first make-out afternoon Frankie appeared next morning with the hot fade haircut he'd talked about. Very close cut on the sides and back and faded into longer hair near the top of the sides. I could see his pale scalp all around the sides and back of his head. It's the sexiest thing to me, but I couldn't tell you why. His red hair still stands straight up on top, but it's only about half as long as it was before the haircut. Jesus, he looks so very cool and way past cute. The round glasses and that innocent baby face concealing a mischievous, exciting attitude. Man, I'm happy to know Frankie Nerney. We're in the cafe and he says, "I'll show you my hair-on-fire trick. It helps the illusion to have red hair like I have. Take a drag on your cigarette and blow the smoke into my brush haircut at my hairline. Go ahead, Oliver, do it." I shake my head, amazed because with Frankie it's always something unexpected, ya know? So I start to blow smoke in his hair, but he says for me to put my lips right against his forehead at the hairline and then blow the smoke into his hair slowly near the roots. I press my lips against his forehead and close my eyes, my hands holding his head steady. His hair smells so nice, not like shampoo, just clean hair. I take my hands off the sides of his head and run my fingers through that silky red hair, marveling how it stands straight up from his scalp. His forehead is so smooth and velvety under my lips, but shortly I can't hold the smoke in my lungs any longer so I have to exhale it into his hair. I'd like to lick and kiss his forehead, but I don't. Frankie says, "Look at my hair." I pull my head back and sure enough, smoke drifts up from his hair all over the top of his head. It looks like it's on fire or at least smoldering. Frankie wants us to do this just before Brittle makes an appearance and we'd cry out, "His hair's on fire!" All I want to do is put my lips against Frankie's forehead again, but I manage to smile at the thought of Brittle thinking Frankie's on fire. Smoke was still drifting out of Frankie's hair when Rocky sauntered into the cafe. He mutters, "One of you girls get me a coffee, please. What a fucked-up day. Frankie, FYI, your hair's on fire." I hustle over to pour Rocky a cup of coffee while Rocky scrutinized a paper on his ubiquitous clipboard. Frankie said, "Hey, boss. What's on that fucking clipboard that's so important, man? It's freaking-up your forth afternoon break here." Rocky said, "Fuck you, Nerney" but he said it in a funny way. Rocky can say 'fuck you' and you have to laugh. I don't know how he does it. When he's done writing something on a paper that's clipped to his clipboard he sits back and tastes his coffee. "Perfect, Nicky! You make the best fucking cup of kerosene I've ever tasted." He goes on to tell us about Mr Brittle's supervisors meeting that Rocky just came from. The meeting concerned an up-coming employee 'Attitude Survey' and how the company wants to see positive results. In other words, "Make sure your fucking employees are happy and I don't give a shit how you do it." Rocky has a unique way of summarizing things. So, he continues, "The meeting was finally over except for brown-nosers who keep asking Mr Peanuts questions. The meeting's fucking up one of my afternoon breaks as you pointed out Frankie boy." Rocky goes on to tell us he'd raised his hand hoping to put an end to the questions by throwing everyone off the subject. So, apropos of nothing, he'd asked if Mr Brittle was of French descent. Rocky was enjoying telling his story, "Brittle looks confused, but said that, yeah, he is. So I tells him that I heard a thing from an Army pal, and since Brittle is French, he might be interested". The Army guy told me a fireworks display at Disneyland, outside Paris, caused the French Army garrison stationed nearby to drop their weapons and surrender to a busload of Swedish tourists. Rocky wondered was this something Brittle had heard about; him being a 'frog' and all. According to Rocky, who's laughing at his own story, Brittle had snorted, "That is a very old and very offensive joke". The other supervisors had done their best not to laugh at this put down of the French people's propensity for surrendering, but it had ended the meeting. When Frankie and I were done laughing, I thought, 'Hell, with Frankie and Rocky here I should be paying the company nine dollars an hour to let me come here every day'. By the end of the third week I tried again to get Frankie over to my place for the weekend, or I'd be happy to go to his house for the weekend, but we just had to get together. It didn't work out though and instead I had to go to a party with Pattie who was introducing me as her 'boyfriend' now. Jesus! She wasn't anywhere near as cute as Frankie and I don't care if you're gay or not, you couldn't dispute that fact. When I picked Pattie up for the party though, I did see someone who was very cute. For the first time since I'd been going to Pattie's house her seventeen year old brother Myers was home. He's shorter than me and slightly stocky like his sister, but something about his eyes and mouth is so sexy I found myself staring at him. I'm waiting for Pattie to come downstairs and this seventeen year old kid with short, spiked blond hair, introduced himself as the brother. He had the beginning of a blond mustache and when he smiled, very shiny white teeth and wicked cute dimples.There are two zits on his forehead that amazingly were somehow sexy. I couldn't help staring at him and he stared right back at me in a bit of an arrogant way. After fifteen seconds or so he put a smirk on his face and lifted his eyebrows, barely nodding his head as if to say to himself, 'I knew it'. I let a puzzled look settle on my face as Myers pushes the tip of his tongue out through his lips. Mesmerized, I made an audible gulping sound and Myers wet his lips in a slow deliberate manner. He never moves his eyes away from mine. I shudder involuntarily and my dick stirs in my pants, then the mood was broken as Pattie stomped down the stairs talking in that too loud voice she always uses. "Sorry to be late, Oliver. Oh, don't you look cute tonight. Did ya meet my little brother Myers yet?" Myers and I just nod our heads with Myers continuing to stare at me as I walk past him with Pattie to go out the front door. I take a few deep breaths outside, wondering, 'What the fuck was that all about?'. That kid had turned me on and he did it on purpose. There's an outside chance I may be over-sexed, and this is not the first time that thought has entered my brain. Thinking about Myers, as Pattie babbles on about her day, was getting in the way of me thinking about Frankie. And when I was done thinking about Myers and Frankie I could concentrate on thinking about Noah, Nathan, Alexander and Christobal. Damn, I better look up the definition of "slut" and hope I don't see a picture of me there. I couldn't help myself. After all these years of wanting a gay bud, the last three months have generated a bunch of them. Did you ever see a dog eat? They'd eat continuously, way past the need to satisfy their hunger. They'd keep on eating as long as there's something to eat right up until they fall over. I'm beginning to think that's the way I am with cute gay boys. Gorging myself on them till I collapse. This thought worried me initially, but I did get to know the two boys I've had sex with, before we had the sex. I can't include Frankie as a boy I've had sex with, not really. Sure, I drool over strange boys on the street too, but I don't have sex with them. I have to become friends and maybe the friendship slips into sex. The last six weeks I've been on a lucky streak with gay boys, that's all. After saying that, I'm not at all sure Frankie, Noah or Nathan are really gay. With Myers, how would I know? More like they're all just teasing me a little, or just experimenting, or something like that. Plus, perhaps it seems lately everyone I meet might be gay, but that's not true at all. I meet ten or twenty people for every one I think might be gay. I don't talk about the other uninteresting guys I meet, just concentrate on the gay ones, more or less. At least I can be sure about Cristobal and me because we say we're gay. I'm positive Alexander is gay too, but I'm worried he might be too gay. Gee, life is never all that easy, is it? Actually, it is easy on the loading dock because when you're having fun, very few things bother you. I almost feel guilty collecting my paycheck, almost. Unexpected, near disaster happens late in the forth week of work. Frankie and I were horsing around and he slipped backward over the edge of the loading dock. It's six feet down to the blacktop parking lot, but he catches himself with his elbows clutching onto the six by six inch old wood bumper board that's attached to the face of the dock. I start to mock his clumsiness, but stop when I see how pale his face has become. Big drops of perspiration run down from his forehead as he lets out a low moaning, "Ohhhhh fuck..". I went right over, "What'd ya hurt, Frankie?" He shakes his head slightly and I wait till he can speak. In a few seconds he groans, "It feels like a splinter is on the inside of my left thigh. It's pinning me against the loading dock so I can't drop down to the parking lot. Hurts like hell." I'm scared and run over to get the ladder we use to get down off the loading platform. I put it down next to Frankie and then I jumped down to the parking lot so I can come up the ladder a few rungs and pull his leg over to help support himself on the ladder instead of just his elbows holding him up. Frankie grunts, "Oh, that's better.Thanks, Oliver." He's still stuck against that board though so I reached in between Frankie and the old wood bumper to feel where the sliver of wood is connecting Frankie to the dock." I'll have to break that thing off right where it goes through your shorts." "Just do it, man" he says in a very strained voice. I have a razor box cutter in my back pocket and I use it to cut through the splinter against the face of the wood bumper and Frankie moves his hips away from the dock and sighs. There's a drop of blood the size of a dime on the front of his shorts. Free from the dock I help Frankie inch his arm over to the ladder just above where I'm standing; his right foot is already on the rung so first his right hand, then his left foot and finally his left hand. He grunts in pain with each movement and awkwardly goes up the ladder using his right foot and his arms only, dragging his left leg behind him, grunting and groaning with each rung. His face doesn't look too good, very pale and his eyes look dull. Helping him inside the truck bed and onto one of the cardboard boxes up against the side of the truck bed, and now Frankie has a back rest. He holds his left leg out in front of him stiffly. "I'll go for help, Frankie." He grabs my arm and holds me back, grunting, "No Oliver, it feels like the splinter is near my balls and I don't want that old bitch in the infirmary getting a hold of my nuts, I might never get them back. You get the first aid kit from the cafe and then turn on the truck bed's overhead light so you can see to pull the splinter out. " Then he let his head roll back against the side of the truck and closes his eyes, gritting his teeth. Running to do that, then back to Frankie who's trying to pull his cargo shorts down, but he's in pain every time he tries to exert any pressure on his leg, so I say, "I'll do that for ya, Frankie." The sweat's pouring down his very pale face; he's not making wise-cracks at all, and that's a first for Frankie. I help get his shorts down and he pulls his jockey underwear down, lifting his butt off the box while he's doing it, which caused a grimace and a long groan that ended with "God damn it! Fuck!!" He's now sitting on the cardboard box bare-assed. I swallowed hard as my dick twitches. Frankie feels along the inside of his left thigh near his balls, feeling where the splinter entered. I stare with my mouth open at his bright red pubes that begin just below his smooth, cream-colored belly. A naturally neat, compact pube patch of soft, curly vibrantly red pubic hairs. Right below the beautiful bright red pubes is a long, cream-colored uncut penis noticeably larger than mine. It's as perfect a penis as I've ever seen, like a drawing. No bumps or veins or imperfections, just creamy smooth perfect skin covering a gorgeous penis. Balls to match, same thing, a drawing of the perfect set of balls, one hanging slightly lower than the other. Not a single red pubic hair on the creamy scrotum skin. I tried to memorize it all in case I never get to see it again. Oh my God, I want to suck on that cock and lick those balls in the worse way. "I can feel it right here Oliver, it's wicked tender." "Huh? What that, Frankie?" "Can you see the splinter, Oliver?" I look where his finger is rubbing, but it's right at the juncture of the thigh and the groin area. It's covered in red pubes so I can't see the splinter. I tell him that and he says, "Well, can ya get the scissors and cut the pubes. Help me out here, Oliver. Jeez, it's digging into me with every move I make." I get the scissors in my right hand and hold that perfect penis of his away from the scissors with my left hand as I knell in front looking up at Frankie who's looking poorly, gripping my shoulders tightly. Apparently the pain hadn't gotten to his dick yet because surprisingly it firmes-up noticeably as soon as I closed my hand on it. I stroke it without thinking as I lay the open blades of the scissors gently on his lower belly; then, checking to be sure only pubic hair is between the blades I closed them cutting the pubic hairs off close to his skin and causing a cascade of soft red pubes to slide lazily down his thigh and blow around in the warm breeze that flows inside the open end of the truck bed. Staring spellbound at the red hairs as they float around, I think, 'pretty!'. It's fascinating and, in almost a trance, I close the scissors over and over on his pubes cutting much more of his pubic hair than I need to, but I just keep cutting and cutting until most of his pubes are fluffy, red pubic hairs blowing around the bed of the truck by the warm breezes. A lot land on my sneakers and my legs as well as on Frankie's shorts that are laying there at his feet. I stare dumbly at them as spit rolled out the side of my mouth because the pubes cutting had all my attention and I'd forgotten to swallow. "Can you see the splinter yet, Oliver?" "Huh? What's that Frankie? Oh yeah, I see it now. It looks like it's about three inches long. It's sore looking and puffy. The skin is all red and shiny around it too. Maybe I should take you to the emergency room. The splinter looks kind of thick" No, he wants me to get the tweezers and pull it out. I pick up the tweezers, brushing over his shorn pubic patch with the back of my fingers, pushing away random pubic hair clippings and then I get his penis in my left hand again to keep it away from the tweezers and stroke it again. "Don't do that, Oliver." "What? Oh, yeah, sorry" I mumble. I keep thinking about how his pubic stubble was still very soft under my fingers. I rub all around his shorn pubic area in kind of a massage as my boner throbs and drips in my shorts. In my hand, Frankie's cock is firm, but not a boner. As I'm rubbing his pubic stubble and holding his firm cock in my hand I think, 'I should be paying the company more than nine dollars an hour to let me hang-out here every day. Much more'. Frankie, in a bit of a sarcastic voice says, "That feels real nice and all that, Oliver, but when you get a second please pull that fucking splinter out, it's killing me and it feels like it's digging in deeper." I shake my head and get my senses back. Frankie's talking low and it's obvious he's in pain. I concentrate on gripping the splinter with the tweezers, but my first attempts fails because the splinter is embedded beneath the skin. I'd guess it was about a consistent three skin layers down. It's just under the three layers of skin horizontally, not stabbing directly into his thigh. I cut a little of the skin at the splinter's entrance point with the box-cutter as Frankie let out a long hissing sound between his teeth. Now I'm able to get a good hold on the sliver of wood and in one motioned I pull it out. Frankie screams, "FuuuucK!" and a trickle of blood follows the three inch long splinter out of the opening. It left behind some dirt or dust, something gray. I squeezed Bactine Spray, from the first aid kit, into the tunnel the splinter had made hoping it would disinfect the cut. Frankie squealed out, "Ouch, God damn, Oliver, that stings." Frankie's breathing fast and hard for a minute and then calms down. My hand is shaking, but I went back to rubbing his pretty red pubic stubble until Frankie puts his hand on mine and gently says, "It's okay now, Oliver. I'm feeling a little better, you're the best, okay? You don't have to do that now. Thanks, man. You're my bud for life, dude. You really rock." He squeezes my shoulder and rubs through my hair a number of times. "Here, Oliver, help me get my pants up." I look at his cock and want to put it in my mouth. Alexander's long, thin, brown boner tasted so good and I know Frankie's creamy white one would taste good too. If he ask me to, I'd suck him off till he forgets the pain from the splinter. He didn't ask though, so I reluctantly let go of his cock and helped him cover his perfect package with first his jockey underwear and then I pull his cargo shorts up for him. I brush the front of his crotch and, afterwards his ass getting the loose pubic hair clippings off his shorts. Then he leans on me as we go into the cafe for cokes and a cigarette. I squeeze his body against mine and, I know I already said it, but I really do think I'm in love again. Smoking his cigarette, Frankie's hands are real shaky. I want to hold his hand in both of mine, but I know better. It's amazing what a three inch splinter can do; the trauma that thing caused. I convince Frankie to lay down in the truck for a while and he finally does, falling asleep about two minutes later. He didn't want to go home early. Rocky came down eventually and I told him about the splinter. He said that later on, when Frankie was feeling fine, this would be a funny story but right now it's a little scary. He called somebody in maintenance and before the day was over there was a heavy plastic cover over the splintery bumper board to prevent further splinter accidents. Rocky made Frankie go home early so I missed our afternoon make-out. We're back on schedule the next day though, and Frankie is definitely his old self again. He ragged on me something terrible about the job I'd done cutting his pubes and I got a boner thinking about it. We'd just finished a great three minute make-out and with the weekend coming up I was determined to finally find a way to get together with Frankie on Saturday, at least for a while. I discussed the possibilities with him and we're being playful about it, until he finally gets serious and says, "Shit, Oliver. The truth is I'd love to have you come visit this weekend, but Darleen takes-up my ever waking moment on weekends. I can't hardly breathe without her there to count each breath. Love can be a pain in the ass at times." I'm thinking, 'Who the fuck is Darleen?'. "Ah, who's Darleen?" I ask, hoping it's one of Frankie's put-ons. But, it's not. Frankie goes on to tell me that Darleen and him have been girlfriend/boyfriend since eighth grade. Darleen's mother won't let them get engaged until the end of their college Sophomore year, at the earliest, and they can't get married until they both graduated college. And, that's their plan. I ask, "Married?" Frankie laughs, saying, "Here, Oliver, take a look at this," and he hands me his wallet. In his wallet is a plastic picture section that fans out. Ten pictures in all. The first one was a fairly recent one of Frankie, looking just the same as he looks now, standing next to a taller guy who's wearing an Army uniform. The Army guy is holding his hat so I can see he had the same red hair as Frankie. "That's my brother Ray. He's in the Army." I look at the picture frowning, then glance over at Frankie. It's bizarre seeing how cute Frankie is and then looking back at the picture and seeing what a geeky looking guy his brother is. They both have red hair and wear eyeglasses and are thin, but Ray looks like a total dork; Ichabod Crane maybe, with that big Adams apple. Nothing in his facial features worked well together and to make matters worse, Ray had freckles and freckles on top of his freckles. Frankie looks puzzled that I would frown. I guess he's use to looking at Ray. Flipping to the next picture and there's Frankie looking like he's seven years old. He has his arm around a girl who's at least six inches taller than him. She does not look like she's seven years old. Seventeen, maybe. Frankie and the girl are wearing matching middle school sweaters, his small, her's large. I guess this was their eight grade picture. Someone had drawn a heart on the picture and wrote "F LOVES D" inside the heart. Darleen is worse good looking than Ray. I wondered again, "Is this one of Frankie's jokes"? In each succeeding picture Frankie and the girl look older. Frankie says proudly, "We took a picture the first day of school each new year. Cool, huh?" I nod my head and continue looking at the pictures. In the last one Frankie looks just like Frankie looks now except he didn't have the fade haircut in the picture, just the long brush cut that he'd had in all the pictures since the middle school one. His girlfriend is still taller than Frankie, but Frankie had caught up some. Darleen appears to be maybe two inches taller in the last picture, but unfortunately she'd filled-out some more too, that middle school sweater would need to be XXL if she wants to fit in it now. She's a big girl with a square shaped body. Frankie's arm can't reach all the way around her back at the waist. They both have big smiles on their face. Darleen has a short page boy hair style and, there is no other way to put this, a large fleshy nose. I want to cry. Poor Frankie. Frankie sees the concerned look on my face and he squeezed the back of my neck, as he said enthusiastically, "Don't be sad, Oliver. You can still be my boyfriend!" What the...? To be continued... Chapter 6 (End of Summer Job) by Donny Mumford thinat20@yahoo.com Please consider a tax deductible contribution to nonprofit Nifty. Details at the site. Thank you.