Chapter Sixteen
Taking a bath is a recently acquired indulgence since accepting that I'm gay. Yeah, after some hot sex, I like to soak in a bath whenever I can. It's a terrific place for contemplation, and I'm big on contemplating stuff. I contemplate different things about my life, and occasionally, I'll do it until I give myself a headache. Some might call some of my contemplating worrying. Anyway, most of my contemplating has to do with boys. How much I admire the way they look and the way they act. I've also been contemplating how there are uniquely complicated aspects of gay relationships and how much I've still to learn. After a bit, I go back to contemplating about boys again.
There's a funny thing about baths in my past. My best friend Chubby and I used to take one together every night when we were young kids. In those days, we'd hug, kiss, and sometimes say we love each other. When we got to age eight or thereabouts, you can't do or say stuff like that anymore.
Finished soaking, I pulled the plug and turned on the shower. Tomorrow is the last day of school, after which I start my new job cutting grass for the Dicker's Landscaping Company. Wearing only clean shorts and a T-shirt, I bumbled around the house, waiting for Chubby to get home from work. He showed up on time tonight but was grumpy and irritable. Lately, that's the way he is after work. I'm feeling good, clean, and sexually satisfied; I'm in a great mood.
So, I make it my mission to cheer Chubby up. For the next ten minutes, I was a whirlwind of positive energy, incredibly clever and funny. It wasn't easy bringing him out of his foul mood, but after some of my witty banter and some clever repartee, he said, "Dylan, if you tell one more cornball joke, if you pat my back or rub my fucking head one more time, if you try tickling me, or do anything except be quiet, I'll kill you." I said, "I've succeeded in bringing you out of your shell! And, may I say, you are very cute when you're acting happy like this."
That led to a wrestling match, and even though it got me all sweaty again, I loved every second of it. We ended up wrapped tightly together, breathing hard, the sides of our faces together, red and sweaty and wonderful. I know him well, and I could tell he'd overcome his bad mood. He caught his breath and said, "Give up?" and I said, "Never!" because I wanted to stay like this, but I began getting a boner, and I didn't want him to notice, so I meekly said, "Yeah, I give; you win."
Chubby let me up. "I was just trying to cheer you up, Chubby." He said, "Yeah, I know you were, and you did a good job of it, too. I was just kidding about killing you... mostly. Let's get some fresh air." Outside, smoking and walking close together, we'd rub shoulders every few steps, not talking much; we just enjoyed being with one another.
The following day, there was excitement in the air. It was the last school day of our Junior year. On the way to school, I asked Chubby if he was sorry the school year was over. It was a beautiful June morning, and we shared a Marlboro Light as Chubby said, "I liked walking to school with you, and I liked hanging with the kids once I got there, and I liked Math, but other than that, I'm glad it's over." His comments were thoughtful, followed by this tidbit: "Coca-Cola was originally green. Did you know that?"
Another outlandish non sequitur. I mumbled, "Duh, who doesn't know that?" He said, "You are such a dick," and, with a little smile, he squeezed my hand like he often does. As we were finishing our second shared cigarette, both of us tried to remember when we'd gotten hooked on smoking. It was last summer when we were concerned about not looking cool enough during our vacation in Wildwood, New Jersey. We'd noticed many of the cool boys were strutting up and down the boardwalk smoking cigarettes. Well, we're cool, too, so we bought a pack of the same brand they all smoked, and after getting sick a couple of times, we learned how to tolerate it.
At school, waiting for the bell, I was leaning against the fence, staring at Chubby, who was leaning against the gate across from me. I think he's beautiful. I didn't think that for the first seventeen years of my life, but now I recognize Chubby as a beautiful boy. Maybe he is a little short at five feet seven inches, but that doesn't bother me. He's very slim like me, but he has the hottest, toned, well-defined, hairless body of anyone his size on the planet—great-looking ass of two firm half-melon buttocks, too. I stare at him a lot now. He used to stare at me all the time. It's as if we somehow changed roles. I think it happened after we got beat up together some months ago. Chubby got hurt pretty badly, and I started thinking about life without him. My feelings for him have kept escalating till now; I'm in love with him. That's about it in a nutshell. He doesn't know it, of course.
His pale tan complexion is so creamy, smooth, and healthy-looking that I want to lick it. Chub has that beautiful tan skin, while my complexion is pale with my blond hair. We both have brown eyes that our Moms say sparkle. Uh-huh, sparkly eyes mean there's a lot of intelligence behind them. We roll our sparkly eyes when we hear BS like that, but our Moms have always been big fans of ours, so they can say what they want. The four of us are family. Two Moms and two boys; what's wrong with this picture?
Chubby and I can do nothing, stand here in the schoolyard, not talking or anything, and yet we're contented being together. Then the warning bell blares out, and I take a deep breath of resignation, but I'm glad to hear the bell today because, as I said, it's the last day of my junior year. At the school's main entrance, we split up, and then I'll hardly see Chubby during the school day, but we'll be luckier next year and get into the same classes. Before we split up, Chubby squeezes my hand and says, "Later," and I nod and smile at him as he saunters coolly down the hall and disappears among the throng of noisy kids.
Later in the day, which was dragging something terrible, someone goosed me in the hall. I whipped around, ready to fight, but it was Dodger, and he was looking mighty cute. He muttered, "Oh, it's you, Dylan. With an ass that hot, I thought I was goosing a chick." The smirky look on his face made me laugh. I say, "Sup, dude?" and Dodger says, "Whoa, I like your summer burr haircut. Where did you get it cut?" The bell rang, "A friend of mine cut it. See you later, Dodger!" Dodger's like, "Cool!" Then he ran for his class.
I planned to cut the study period scheduled for this class. I casually walked around to the boy's lavatory, and Dodger was there. "Hey, are you skipping class, Dodger?" He's sitting on a wastebasket, biting his fingernails. With a cute grin, he mutters, "You're quick, aren't you?" I had to smile because the Dickers brothers are so much fun to look at. If only somehow, by some miracle, by some bit of magic, or twist of fate, those two could be gay, or if even one of them is, this summer would rock like a rock concert!
I take a piss, Dodger's biting his nails. Washing my hands, I look away because it's awkward watching him biting the nail of his middle finger, making a wet-mouth sound. As a young kid, I'd had that nail-biting habit, and what a bitch it was to break the habit. Glancing at him, gnawing on a nub of fingernail, I stared, and it became hypnotic and brought back memories of my habit.
Dodger wasn't looking at me. He was fixated on biting that fingernail; his adorable face was a mask of concentration. My lips were parted as I stared in fascination; the silence, except for the wet biting sounds, went on for a few more minutes. Then, he slowly rolled his eyes up to look into mine. I stared back at him, panting little breaths. Ever so deliberately, in slow motion, he took his finger, dripping with spit, and put his wet middle finger on my bottom lip and held it there, doing tiny nods. In a trance-like state, my lips opened, and he gently moved that bitten-nailed, spit-dripping finger into my mouth.
I was panting little puffs of breath as I went into my long-ago fingernail-biting mode. It's like riding a bike; you never forget how. I adjusted my head slightly to the side and got my bottom teeth just right so that my top teeth could gnaw a tiny nub of nail off Dodger's finger and then spit it out the other side of my mouth. I got right back into the ritual of fingernail biting as if I'd never stopped, took that nail down to the nub of the skin, and chewed off the cuticle.
My concentration was intense now, just like Dodger's had been, and a few minutes later, and only as an afterthought, I lifted my eyes to look at Dodger the way he'd looked at me. Now it was his turn to stare at me transfixed, with his lips parted and the tip of his pink tongue showing between those perfect, bow-shaped, pouty lips. What a cute face, with his fuzzy, growing-out buzzcut hair and those shiny brown eyes. He slowly took my hand without changing his facial expression. I knew what he was going to do, and for some strange reason, I let him do it.
With a steady calmness, he brought my hand up to his mouth and sucked my index finger inside his wet, warm mouth. His tongue lapped, and his mouth sucked the fingernail over and over. When he'd softened my nail sufficiently, he got the big top piece between his top and bottom teeth, and the entire top came off in one rip. A big piece of my nail was spat out to bounce and lay on the sink beside me. It was a pretty big piece of shiny, wet fingernail that used to be attached to my finger. Dodger was then into precision bites of my nail, getting it roughly down to the nub. Finished with that fingernail, he went to the middle one and began sucking and licking the nail in preparation for its removal. I had a boner so hard you could break it off and hammer it into a tree if you wanted to.
For a while now, I'd just had Dodger's finger in my mouth, sucking on it, not biting it. I was too intent on watching Dodger, fascinated with his apparent sense of purpose. He had two nails chewed off pretty much, but they weren't nearly chewed down enough to satisfy a nail-biting enthusiast like Dodger. It was simply a matter of available time. If he had twenty minutes a nail, he'd get each one down to the low level of his fingernails below the top of his fingers.
My head felt overheated, sweaty, and heavy, and my breathing was shallow, and then there was that hard boner in my pants. It was a very pleasurable, dreamy state of mind for me, but a little scary. From outside, we heard a loud yell or cheer, and then the door burst open, and Dodger jumped off the wastebasket, our fingers coming out of each other's mouths. What? Huh? We froze there and looked at each other for a second. Then, Dodger whispered, "You're the coolest dude I've ever met." I stared at him, coming out of a trance, and said, "C'mon!" And we went outside, now feeling odd because of that weird in the lavatory.
The last class was cut short, and I'm glad those two kids came busting in there... school's out! As Dodger and I walked toward the school's main entrance, I heard guys yelling, "See ya next year, motherfuckers," and other shouts like that. My fingernail-chewed left hand was hidden in the side pocket, but it felt so strange not to have fingernails again. I scratched the inside of my pocket with the bare pads of my fingers, and everything felt weird. Outside, we met Chubby, who said, "I'm getting a ride to work, Dylan. Would you take my backpack?" I took it, and he hurried off, saying, "I'll see you at home later, Dylan."
I waved at him and then noticed I had a wet precum spot in my underpants from that fingernail-biting weirdness. As I walked home, Robby Dickers called, "Dylan, have you seen Dodger?" Then, "Oh, I like your haircut. It's cool!" I mutter, "Hey, thanks. Yeah, Dodger was right here a minute ago, then Chubby came over..." we see Dodger coming out the front door. Robby says, "Dodger and I are getting summer haircuts today. What barbershop did you go to?" I say, "A guy, um, Carl Denton, gave more this haircut. He's better than most barbers." Robby asks, "Is that the fat guy who runs the school paper?"
Dodger and Robby hug and kiss quickly, then Robby asks, "Do you like Dylan's haircut." Dodger says, "I get mine cut like that every time, so yeah, I like it. Robby asks, "Do you think Carl would give us haircuts?" Oh fuck. I shake my head, "No, he's too busy, but I will. I've given Jeffrey Romero haircuts for years. If you want, I'll give you guys haircuts."
Robby frowned, squinted, and muttered, "Oh, I don't know. No, that's okay; we don't want to bother you." Dodger says enthusiastically, "Yeah, dude! Let's bother Dylan. He can be our barber, Robby. Why do you want to wait in a barbershop? Shit, yeah, thanks, Dylan." Robby shrugged, obviously not thrilled about this, but he's too polite to hurt my feelings and says, "Yeah, sure, okay. Thanks, Dylan."
They walked home with me, discussing what kind of haircuts they wanted. Mom left the air conditioning running inside my house, and I was feeling very hot, so the cool room was quite a relief. I was self-conscious about my chewed fingernails, so I did my best to keep them away from Robby's view while getting us Cokes. After taking a big gulp of Coke, for some reason, I told the brothers one of Chubby's factoids, "Did you know that Coke used to be green when it was first introduced?" Dodger said, with that world-famous boyish grin on his face, "What a load of shit that is!" I muttered, "Look it up!"
Why did I even bring that stupid thing up? I know why! It's because Dodger has me all fucked up, that's why. He's worth the trouble, though.
Robby's my size, five foot, ten inches, and about a hundred and thirty-five pounds. Dodger's about Chubby's size and a hundred fifteen pounds. Both brothers are well-built... it's a gene thing. Robby has blond hair and blue eyes. Dodger has brown hair and brown eyes and is proportionately smaller than Robby, but other than that, they're like identical twins who happened to be born two years apart. They'll make you do a double-take the first couple of times you see them together. They both have the same pinkish/white skin I have, but they have those rosy blotches on their cheeks. Hey, we're all wicked good-looking, not that we had anything to do with it!
We brought the Cokes to my room so I could exchange my school Polo shirt for a T-shirt. Dodger went over and flopped on my bed, then pulled my pillow out from under the bedspread and smelled it. "Yep, it smells just like you, Dylan," and he laid his head on it and pretended to go to sleep. I said, "You can take a nap, little boy, while I'm giving your big brother his haircut." Dodger goes, "Oh no, I want to watch Robbie get all his beautiful hair cut off."
I stepped out of my school khakis and, keeping my back to the guys so they couldn't see the precum wetness on my underpants, I pulled on cargo shorts, and then we all went to the finished basement with me carrying a kitchen stool for the guys to sit on while I cut their hair. Robby looked nervous sitting on the stool. He has beautiful hair, almost my shade of blond, but his hair has more curl than mine; more body. Combing through it to get out any tangles, I realize I'd never had hair as long as his. Then I thought about Willie, who has an over-the-ear hairstyle like guys had in the seventies, and Larry's hair was straight down to his chin level, all around his head, and it looked stupid! Carl has a neat, preppy haircut that looks good on him. If only I weren't so fat, I'm beating a dead horse about that.
While I was getting the clippers, scissors, and trimmer out, Robby said, "If you don't have a barber cape, I'd better take off my shirt," and he pulled his shirt over his head. I was standing right next to him when he did that; a wave of warm air from under his shirt, smelling sexily of Robby, floated over me. Yum! I'd already seen his hot, smooth, hairless body when I was at his place for a swim that time, but I looked again because Robby's special. He's a natural athlete, and he's got the body to prove it. The flowing, subtle, muscular definition is what I wish I had. The perfect male form for a seventeen-year-old boy, and I knew Dodger had a slightly smaller and hotter version of the same perfect male form. I bit my bottom lip and took it all in for just two seconds, then looked away. I didn't want to get caught staring. Chubby and I use a piece of old bed sheet we'd cut up as a barber's cape, but Robbie didn't want it around him, just in his lap,
"This will keep the hair off my shorts, Dylan, but I don't want it around my neck. I'd rather feel the hair slide off my shoulders and down my back. Ya know?" Well, actually, no, I didn't know, but I shrugged and said, "Yeah, whatever." He'd told me earlier to cut his hair the way mine was cut, and he'd see how that style looked on him. I was like, "You want a burr haircut?"
I couldn't believe he wanted a haircut like mine. It's not a buzzcut, where all the hair is cut the same length. Carl faded the hair on the sides and back, and I can't do that. He's much better at cutting hair than Chubby and me. We put an attachment on the clippers and use that. Robby asked, "Shouldn't I?" I shrugged, "Why not get a short haircut and work your way down to a haircut as short as mine." He said I should use my judgment, which I did. I had a blast cutting his hair short first with scissors and then clippers. It was a test to see if I get as aroused giving someone a haircut as I get when Carl cuts my hair.
The test results were inconclusive because I'm sexually interested in both Carl and Robby, so what is it? My sexual interest in them, or haircutting? It's both, but as I said, it's inconclusive. Anyway, both brothers appeared surprised at how good their haircut looked. They didn't expect I'd be this talented. Ha! Carl is much better, but I'm pretty good.
Then, Dodger could be the poster boy for buzzcuts; that's how good he looked with one. His brown hair, even a third of an inch long, was soft, and there were so many hairs packed into each square inch of the scalp that even buzzing his hair felt like velvet, and no scalp showed. During the short time this haircut takes, Dodger, uncharacteristically, remained quiet throughout. He'd gasped air out in a burst every once in a while, and I think he was playing pocket ball with himself. Even with all that, the haircut went well, and when it was over I rubbed my hands all over his head pretending to brush out the loose snippets. Dodger pushed his head back in my direction while I massaged his scalp.
Then, Robby called, "Ah, Dylan, would you mind looking at something in here for a second?" The brothers were in the half bath and I'd just pulled the tab on another can of Coke, "Sure, what's up?" I sauntered over to that little powder room, the door open now, and right away, I saw Dodger, with his pants down, grimacing and saying, "It hurts. Don't touch it, Robby; you're too rough." What the fuck?
Dodger's baggy shorts were around his ankles, and his jockey shorts were stretched and suspended between his knees. The first thing that really caught my eye was the wet precum stain at the front of his jockey underwear and the long, brown skid mark across the crack. I thought of Dodger's little speedo bathing suit with an identical skid mark, which I was forced into wearing that time at their pool. This boy needs to learn to wipe himself better.
Robby says, "Dodger has something wrong with his dick, but now he won't pull back that foreskin again, so we can see it." Dodger whines, "I just fucking told you that it hurts too much. I can't do it, and Robbie's too rough. Can you be gentle, Dylan?"
I'm like, "Huh?" I'd seen his teen package at the pool that same day I had to wear his skid-marked bathing suit, and let me tell you, this boy has the most outstanding-looking penis, balls, and pubes I've ever seen. And, I've been taking showers with hundreds of boys over the years in gym class so I've seen a bundle of packages to compare it to. "Well, what do you think, Dylan? Can you do it?" asked Dodger. "I don't know, but I'll try." Robby and I changed places, and I was right in front of Dodger, who immediately clasped his hands behind my neck and pulled my head down to his height to put his head against the side of my face; there was perspiration on his forehead. What the...?
"Do it easy, Dylan," he moans as he's holding around my neck tightly; I guess he's anticipating some pain. Robby says, "Dodger gets excited, um, he springs boners getting a haircut, and he sprung a boner while you were cutting his hair." Then he asks Dodger, "Are you still jerking off five times a day, ya little homo? " Dodger yells, "Fuck no! What do you think, man? I was taking a whiz, that's all."
These brothers are something, alright. Dodger's package consists of the normal things, regular size penis, balls, and a little sparse pubic patch, but there are no imperfections or veins or hair on his nuts or bends in his dick or anything. They're all pink and yummy looking. I'm not kidding; I just stared at his package for a few seconds before carefully picking up Dodger's penis. I said, "You get a boner from getting your hair cut? That's interesting, dude." Yeah, maybe I'll get some insight from Dodger as to why I get aroused during haircuts.
Dodger said, "Yeah, it's a little bit weird, but cool too. Boners feel good." I mutter, "No shit, bro," and Dodger murmurs, "Be careful with my dick; go slow." As soon as I pulled on his foreskin the slightest bit, he was back with the pleas, "Ohhh, be careful! It'll really hurt." I looked at Robby, and he shrugged. I didn't know; this was news to me, too. Then he mouthed to me, from Dodger's view, "He's a big baby." I smiled and slowly, with a steady hand, retracted the foreskin off the head just a little. He'd been circumcised, but enough foreskin was left to cover half of that beautiful penis head with its twinkling pee-slit eye. Ah, nice! But there's work to do, so with Dodger going, "Ow, ow, ow, ow," I pulled the foreskin completely back and saw two red sores right where the shaft of his cock meets the tulip head. Jeez, they looked wicked sore, alright. I said, "Holy shit, what are they?"
Robby mutters, "That's what we were hoping you'd know. You never got those, I guess?" I said, "Ah, no. I'd remember if I had those things on my dick." Robby said, "He's too embarrassed to tell Mom or Dad. Got any ideas, Dylan?" I said, "Yeah, let's Google these bitches. You know, Google Dodger's penis sores or something like that. See what comes up." Dodger groans, "Fuck! That's so obvious. Why didn't we think of that, Robby? You are one dumbass big brother." Robby grins and mumbles, "Push that skin back and forth over those sores a few times for me, will you, Dylan?"
It was all kind of funny. My computer is in my bedroom, but Dodger didn't want me to let go of the foreskin. He said he was too shaky to hold it without pulling the foreskin back and forth and causing himself pain. So, with Dodger's arm around my neck and my free arm around his waist, we took baby steps up the stairs and into my bedroom, me holding his penis all the way. I heard Robbie stifling laughter at our expense. We did look pretty ridiculous. During the trip, Dodger's cock was getting harder and harder until, finally, it became a full-blown boner. Inside my bedroom, I asked, "Do you think I can let go of this thing now, Dodger? I mean, your boner has stretched out, and the foreskin can't reach the sores now." He said, "No! Please, keep holding it. Let's not change anything; this is fine. It's not hurting like this."
It was fine with me too, but I had to go through the motions, so I did a fake exasperated sigh and held on to his hard penis, thinking how much I'd like to suck that thing, but only AFTER those sores healed. We Googled penis sores, and lots of stuff came up. Most of it was related to sexual relations that Dodger hasn't had any of, except with his hand, so that left only one real possibility. "How many times a day are you masturbating, Dodger?"
Dodger was reading the same stuff on the computer screen that we were, so obviously, he had to come to the same conclusion and whined, "How many times do I jerk off?" Robby goes, "Yeah, how many?" Dodger's doing a little more squirming now as he says, "Ya mean other than when we do it together every night?" and Robby's like, "Yeah, in addition to that." They do it together every night, really? Dodger looks at the ceiling like he's counting, or thinking, or maybe stalling, then whines out, "My balls generate one hell of a lot of sperm."
Robby asks, "How many?" Dodger mumbles, "It's freakish, man! I gotta do something to protect my health. You know about cows that get their bladders all filled up with milk and would probably die if someone doesn't milk 'em? You ever hear about that?" Robby and I looked at one another and rolled our eyes. Robby asks again, "How many times?" and Dodger says, "Oh, I don't keep count. Maybe, as you intimated a little while ago, it's four or five other times."
Robby and I laughed, and Dodger's red-faced now, calling us assholes. He knocks my hand away from his boner, goes, "OW! God damn it," and then starts laughing, too. According to the medical advice we found through Google, the only real cure for his penis sores is to stop masturbating entirely for two or three days. Dodger cried out, "My nuts will explode," and we were all having a good laugh.
In the end, Robby and I promised we wouldn't masturbate for three days either, showing our support for Dodger. He goes, "Really guys? Ya promise?" and we both promise, and a little later, Robby walked by me and mumbled, "Right! I'm not going to whack off for three days. Who's kidding who?"
We put some Vaseline on the sores to do something, and then a little later, we made up a frozen pizza in the microwave and bullshit with one another while we ate it. Robby kept checking himself out in that mirror over our sofa and playing with his new hairdo. Every few minutes I rubbed Dodger's velvet buzzed hair, and he'd smirk at me. We played computer games in my bedroom, and Dodger was a genius at playing computer games.
When Robby was on my computer, trying to beat Dodger's score, Dodger and I lay on my bed watching him. And, like Chubby, Dodger likes to get right up next to me. I have no complaints about that. If I'd neglected to rub his buzzed head for too long, Dodger would pick up my hand and put it on his head with a smirky grin on his face. Other times, he'd pretend to get my right hand to his mouth as if he was going to bite off those fingernails, too. He was showing me all these facial expressions that could mean anything as far as I was concerned.
I had no idea what was on that little pecker's mind, if anything. Robby's oblivious to Dodger's and my inter-play, concentrating on the computer screen. I glanced at the clock and was surprised to see how late it was. The boys had to get home for dinner, and Chubby would be home from work soon, so they got their few things together, and we walked outside. It had cooled down to a pleasant temperature by now. Out on the sidewalk, the brothers gave me a one-arm hug and pats on the back. Neither of them gave me that quick-as-a-flash kiss on my lips, though.
It was a no-sex day so far for me, although it felt as if I'd had sex. Being with the Dickers brothers is almost like having sex. Wow, it gets me hard when they do that fast kiss on the lips. Oh, can I believe I'm going to be working with Robby five or six days a week? I wish he were showing as much interest in me as his brother. Dodger is too young for me, right?
To be continued...
