Once I made that important step many weeks ago, allowing Carl to show me my sexual nature, everything took off from there. Since then, it's been one step following the other until now when I've found a real, honest-to-goodness boyfriend. Willie may be a kooky boyfriend, but I feel lucky to have him. Lately, I've been learning about the submissive/dominant concept, which is intriguing, but I wonder if the temptation is there to take it too far in some cases. Just a thought.
Along those lines, Carl and Larry are a step down, dominance-wise, from the Marine, but they're definitely into that scene. Willie tries to emulate Larry in that regard with mixed results. They're mixed only because I allow some of it. Otherwise, Willie can't pull that dominant shit off. I like him just the way he is, though. Keep trying, Willie!
Carl's version of dominant sex worked wonderfully for me, as I now have a major crush on him. What if Carl maintained his arrogant domination of me, and he was also a slim, sexy guy instead of seriously overweight? I mean, he's already good-looking and no longer has halitosis, plus he has a conservative haircut and a nice summer tan; if he were slim too, Omigod, I'd probably be in love! He's my main man, who I'm very fond of, but I save my major crush for my true boyfriend, Willie, who I could see myself someday falling in love with.
I've been contemplating these matters while sitting in front of my locker at work, drinking coffee. It's the Monday morning of my fourth week on the job. I'm trying to ignore the college guys ragging about me being one of the Bobbsey twins. I'm smiling, flashing them the finger, but other than that, I'm ignoring them. Then, opening my locker, I closed it immediately because something was in there that didn't belong to me. Taking a deep breath, I sneaked a peek at the college guys, and none of them showed any further interest in me or my locker. I'd given that thing in my locker only the quickest of looks, and I'm not sure what it is.
It looked like a condom. That's the first thing that flashed in my head. I stepped over to the locker room's community box of Kleenex and pulled out a few. After checking to be sure no one was looking, I opened the door and took a longer look. It was a condom that I gingerly picked up using the tissues between my fingers, and a closer inspection revealed that the condom had been stretched over an empty tube of KY jelly, and there was what looked like an ounce of semen at the bottom of it. UGH! No message, though. Wrapping the disgusting thing in tissues, I took it to the trash barrel and buried it under many paper towels.
I was pissed off now! The first note shook me up, and I still felt some of that, but with this condom thing, I felt anger more than anything else. I would buy a lock for the locker, but I'd be the only one using a lock. So, how could I explain the lock?
What type of pervert sneaks around putting something this disgusting in my locker? It's a stalker situation. That's what it is. I'm in the closet about my sexuality, so it's not so easy for me to get help with this. So unfair! I'm really mad, but what the fuck is there to do about it? Confront Joel? Maybe I'll do that. He's one scary freak, and he seems slightly deranged, but what am I supposed to do, continue to let him torture me with this violation of decency? And what if it isn't him?
Robby quietly calls over, "Dylan, let's do our massage. It's getting late." I look up, and he's waving me over to his locker. Just looking at him calmed me down and got me excited at the same time. God damn! I'd be happy to be his Bobbsey twin if I could look like him in real life. Then I think about Dodger fucking with my head yesterday in the janitor's closet. Dammit, why couldn't it be Robby? He has that great disposition, too. He's always friendly, willing to go along with stuff, and has a positive attitude. He's a great guy who's popular at school and a big deal on the high school baseball team, but he's still shy in new situations, like with me.
Lately, I'd given some more thought that maybe it was Robby who put the 'queer' note in my locker to feel me out or something like that. Then I realized it was more me hoping it was him than actually thinking he did it. Now, with this new finding, there's no way I can make myself believe that Robby would do something so trashy as putting a used condom on an empty KY tube, and... No, it's not Robby. He was sitting on the bench in front of his locker, so I came up behind him, grabbed him around his neck with my forearm, and put my head next to his, jokingly saying, "Tell your old man I want a fucking raise!"
I held my face against the side of his head for a few seconds, noticing that his natural body's scent was identical to Dodger's. He goes, "Raise? Toby put you on double secret probation, you slacker!" I let go of his neck because I was getting boned up. Oh God, I'd love to lay naked in bed with Robby Dickers. He turned around to smile at me and then sat up straight for his massage.
Robby's and my massages were getting more elaborate the more relaxed we were with each other. Last week, we decided to do the massages at his locker because no one was in his area, and so we felt comfortable expanding our massaging technique back there. Sitting on the bench with me standing behind him, Robby rested his head against my belly while I massaged his shoulders. I'd recently expanded our body area to massaging the chest, arms, and sides of his tight, slim body. Lifting his arms and clasping his hands behind my neck exposed the torso for touching what we loosely consider massaging as opposed to fondling or groping. Well, actually, we were almost dancing, almost groping each other, almost hugging. In fact, I did hug him from time to time when I lost concentration. I used Chubby's ability to rationalize away sticky situations as my model for rationalizing that Robby's and my rubbing and groping each other was massaging.
Occasionally, I'd find myself hugging him against me, and sometimes that meant against my boner. He had to have felt it, as it'd be impossible not to. Robby's body was very loose during the massage and as flexible as possible. We never talked while doing it, just some noisy breathing. It was sexy, although we never spoke of that. Then, the final part of our message was the head. I'd drag the palms of my hands through his short hair, forward and backward any number of times, and then scratch all over his scalp with the fingertips creating so much static electricity his hair stands up almost as much as Willie's flattop.
While we were switching places, me sitting on the bench now, I'd smell the palms of my hands, and the sexy, delicious smell from Robby's hair floated up and got me further aroused. There is something about cute guys' hair that's sexy to me like haircutting has become for me. I've noticed that when Carl cuts my hair, it's sexually arousing. Oddly, I never noticed that all the years Chubby did it.
So, yeah, I get my boners, but I haven't detected Robby's boner yet. I've never seen his dick, although I grabbed his whole package in the pool while wrestling around. You can't tell much about a guy's penis by just grabbing his crotch through a bathing suit. He's so special, though, and the further along we advanced with the massages, the more I hope that it wasn't just the younger Dickers brother who had gay leanings. I was hoping Robby had them too.
After the massages, we joined our crew in the parking lot and began our work day. Starting this week, Robby and I will ride to the job sites in the backseat of the pick-up, with Toby driving. I used to ride up front with Toby, but then Robby and I squeezed in the front seat, which was too tight, so we rode in the back. This is better because Toby couldn't grab my thigh like he used to do constantly. On the job sites, however, he'd hang over me with his arm draped across my shoulders whenever he could find a reason to. Like today, he was doing it while training me to use the ride-on mowers, explaining the various dials displayed on the driver's panel, and taking his good old time to do it, too.
Toby did all my training, and I tried to be patient with him. Still, it's more than a little awkward being engulfed in another person's bulk, reminding me of the last times Carl fucked me with his fat body overwhelming mine, and I wanted to experience that again in the worst way. I missed Carl, and I'd come running if he wiggled his finger at me, which would be hard to see since he's in Maine.
Toby's training technique made the day pass by more slowly than normal, but the good thing is I had very little contact with Joel. The work day finally ended, and while changing into my everyday clothes in the locker room the college guys told each other engineer jokes. Not the kind of engineer that drives a train, but rather the type of engineer that designs structures and machines. These guys are all studying engineering at the university. From listening to them, I surmised that engineers have a reputation for thinking differently about everything. The husky college kid, Gene, said, "To an optimist, the glass is half full. To the pessimist, the glass is half empty. To an engineer, the glass is twice as big as it needs to be".
Robby and I exchanged looks from across the locker room as the college guys laughed, and Robby mouths "assholes," but he didn't mean it. He and I like the college guys. Albert, the tall drink-of-water college student, says, "Regular people think if it ain't broke, don't fix it. An engineer believes that if it ain't broke, it doesn't have enough features yet!" Those guys are always laughing their asses off anyway, and now these weird jokes have them hysterical.
The college boys and everybody working for Dickers Landscape and Design are good people, except Joel. That's my take on him, but several times I've heard employees say something like, Joel's a damn hard worker. He keeps to himself, sure, but if you need something, he's the first one to offer to help. Then someone will give an example of how Joel helped them when their car broke down, or they ran out of gas, or they needed to borrow money for lunch and other things. Joel is a candidate for Man of the Year, I guess. So, why does he hate me?
After each work day, we do another massage, and when we're done, everyone has left, and it's quiet in the locker room. Robby's hands felt so good on my body that I had to concentrate not to moan with pleasure. I get hard-ons from his touch, and Robby's seen the front of my pants poking up, and he's certainly felt my boned-up penis, but he's never said anything. Nice hard-ons, for sure, but the massage isn't quite enough stimulation to get my dick wet. Robby's been getting closer and closer to getting me there, though.
This afternoon, we reluctantly finished up and did a quick one-arm hug goodbye, and then I had a five-block walk to the bus stop. Heading out the side door, I hear Mr. Dickers talking to someone, saying, "That's a shame. Really too bad, but we'll work around it, Joel." I didn't want to run into Joel, so I waited for him to leave, hearing him say, "Thanks, Mr. Dickers." I waited, but he didn't appear, and my bus would be coming, so I had no choice but to go outside. Joel came out a door a little further down from me just as I'd just taken a drag off my cigarette. I waved my arms to disperse the smoke from my exhale because I didn't want a repeat of that last episode when Joel told me that boys like me made him sick. Yeah? Well, fuck you, Joel!
He must have seen me dispersing the smoke in his peripheral vision because he turned around to stare at me. I stood on the top step, telling myself to walk down these steps, right past him, and catch my bus. That's what I was thinking, but I didn't do that. I didn't move a muscle. Barely loud enough for me to hear, Joel muttered, "Are you mocking me by waving your arms when you blew your disgusting cigarette smoke in my face last week?" I shook my head no, and nervously said, "Ah, hi, Joel. No, I wasn't mocking you."
He slowly walked toward the steps I was on. His penetrating stare is worse than the Marine's stare. I was paralyzed and stayed on the top step waiting for his slow, methodical advance up the steps towards me. I gulped when he was standing right in front of me. Using that low, muttering way of speaking, he said, "What the fuck did you mean with all that gibberish just then? Are you inferring I talk that way, you sniveling cunt?"
I was scared, of course, but fuck it! I'm no pussy. With a little bit of anger in my voice, I said, "You need to get some physiological help for your paranoid personality disorder. And have you been going in my locker, putting sophomoric shit in there? Are you putting notes and things in my locker, Joel?"
It happened so fast that his arm was a blur, ending with what must have been a slap across my face. Well, I've been in several fights in my day, and nobody will win a fight with me by smacking me with an open hand. Joel's stronger than me, I know that, but I've had enough of his shit. I will be throwing punches, not slapping like some girl. The only trouble with my thinking was that I couldn't remember where my arms were. Then I felt my hand burning, and what am I doing lying on the cement steps? And, oh yeah, there it is, my hand is on top of my burning cigarette.
What's going on, I wondered. Where are those loud ringing bells coming from? The steps I was lying on began a slow, sickening rotation. Could this be a rare New England earthquake? Then, pain roared into my head, and my stomach turned. I wanted to vomit, and I knew I was going to, but not quite yet. After two revolutions, the steps settled down, and the ringing got quieter, and I noticed Joel standing casually in front of me, four steps below my head. He was unwrapping a piece of chewing gum. He looked at me sort of sideways, put the gum in his mouth, and checked his watch. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.
Joel stared at me as I tried to remember again why I was lying awkwardly on these dirty cement steps. My elbow started to really ache now, and then my tailbone and the side of my knee was killing me, and the palm of my hand was burned under the index finger where the cigarette had been. This sucks! Oh wait, didn't someone say that Joel Mc Carty was always helpful? I think I heard that. Maybe I should ask him for some help.
I lifted my head off the step to look at Joel, but he didn't seem in the mood to help, saying, "You fucking girly boy! You never learn, do you? Mocking me again?" He smacked my face again hard, and some spit and blood flew out the side of my mouth. He was so mad he'd missed half my face, but he'd gotten enough to cause a lot of pain. Joel kept up the sputtering, "You swagger around with your twat swinging in the breeze, you fucking cock teaser. I'd kill you if I thought I'd get away with it. And then you have the fucking nerve to insinuate I went into your locker?!! You trying to set me up, pussy?"
My vision, hearing, and senses were all coming back quickly now. That's true enough, but I couldn't follow everything he was talking about. I knew the words he was using but not the meaning when he strung them all together. My mouth was full of blood from a cut on the inside of my bottom lip. He reached down to pinch some of my bangs and pulled it painfully. Then he pulled me up off the steps with a hand under my arms, his biceps muscles standing out alarmingly. A frightening sight if you happen to be in his grasp. He snarled, "Stand on your fucking feet, you wimp! God damn it, stand up, or I'll slap you silly."
Feeling wobbly, I got my feet under me and stood there. By now, I was back to almost full senses, and therefore, I had the sense to be petrified of what he might do to me next. He said, "The fucking nerve asking me if I put something in your locker. You pussified piece of shit if I want you to have something, I'll shove it up your ass; I don't need to sneak anything in your fucking locker!" My stomach was turning over as he snarled, "When you see me, never speak to me, and never look at me. When you see me, you keep your ass from wiggling because if I see you wiggling that twat in my face again, I'll smack you down, and I don't care about the consequences."
This is the most bizarrely unfair shit I've ever heard. He points his forefinger in my face, "When I'm around, you stand up like a fucking man and walk like one too. Or so help me, you'll wish you had. You need to spend one day with me, and I'd Goddamn knock that smug look off your girly face." I didn't dare look at him, planning what to do about this if I lived through it.
Joel stayed on a roll, and it worried me that he might be working himself up to slap my face again. This situation was complicated by my fear that I was on the verge of peeing my pants. His low growling rant continued, "I told you already, pathetic girly boys like you make me physically ill. You disgust me! If you're not careful around me, I'll give you what you desperately want, and then it'll be too late for you. You'll be wearing Tampax up your hole for months. Got it?" and he faked smacking my face. I flinched so hard I almost fell over while nodding yes and whimpering, "Yes, but please, no more slaps, and I'm sorry about the locker accusation." My eyes were watery.
His face quivered at my pathetic pleas. His eyes weren't watery, but they looked weird, almost a scared look, as he cupped the back of my head with a tight grip on my dick and pulled me to him, almost touching. His body seemed to tremble, and then he hesitantly pulled me into his body. He was snorting in and out with his breathing, then a long exhale. In a strangled voice, with my head touching the side of his jaw and my body tightly up against his, he said, "This stays between you and me. If you bring Mr. Dickers or Toby or even your little girlfriend Robby in on this upsetting encounter of ours, I'll put you in the hospital for a long time, and the hell with this shitty job".
He made a wheezing sound, pressed my head against his face tightly, and snarled, "Fuck it!" Pushing me away so hard, I sat back down on the steps with little yellow things, dots or something, dancing in front of my eyes, and I felt nauseous again. Joel left me there and walked around the side of the building to where his car was parked. He never looked back. I sat there for a minute, leaned over, and threw up in the shrubs next to the steps. Done throwing up, I lay on the steps and didn't think about anything for a while except how much I hurt.
It's been some time since I've had the feeling that I wanted to cry, but I felt like crying right then. I felt like a helpless little kid, and then I did cry. Not boo-hoo-hoo, but sobs and some tears of self-pity rolled down my face. Everyone had gone home by now, and I'd missed my bus, so I lay back on the dirty cement steps until I stopped crying. I felt like the girly boy Joel was calling me. He had made a coward out of me, and I was embarrassed for myself.
After a while, I got up, sore all over. There was a garden hose next to the steps hooked up to an outside faucet that I turned on and washed the vomit taste and blood out of my mouth. Then I ran the hose over the shrubs to dilute the vomit so people coming in this door tomorrow morning wouldn't smell it. While walking to the bus stop, I called Chubby's cell phone to tell him I'd missed my bus. I didn't want him to worry that something bad had happened to me. Sitting on the bus stop bench, smoking a cigarette, categorizing my various injuries, and generally contemplating how this Joel Mc Carty fiasco had happened in the first place.
You know, it doesn't look like he's the one putting stuff in my locker after all. Unless he's a hell of an actor, that is. He seemed sincerely surprised and outraged at the suggestion. For the rest of it, he knows I'm gay, somehow. But how? No one has ever mentioned that I swish my ass or act gay in any way. I mean, if what Joel said was true, somebody, some time or other, would have said something about me acting gay, and no one ever said that. Dodger didn't know before I told him.
Things were going so well for me until I ran into that fucking psycho, Joel, a latent homosexual, for sure. He said he would give me what I wanted, but it's actually what he wants and will never get from me! He is a piece of human offal.
The bus ride home produced no boner tonight, and I really could have used one. I suppose the several odd looks from the bus driver and a few of the passengers are because of my appearance, but I couldn't have cared less. Chubby held up dinner for me, but as soon as I walked in his condo's front door, he exclaimed, "Dylan! What happened!?" Then, he was running over to me, screaming, "Who did this to you? Whoever it was, the motherfucker is dead."
I was trying to gain some composure, shaking my head that, no, it wasn't the Chavez boys. Chubby remained highly agitated and hyper. He
wanted somebody to hate and somebody to fight. Strangely, Chubby's near hysteria had a positive effect on my outlook and did a lot to help me feel better about myself. It made me feel his loving concern for me, so maybe I wasn't the loser I felt at the moment. It was so comforting that he cared this much about me. It was so touching; it made me weep some more, and that wasn't what I had been hoping for just then.
Finally, I was dry-eyed and needed fresh air, so we went for a walk, smoked, and talked about what had happened. We walked around the block twice and smoked three cigarettes between us, passing one back and forth and then lighting another one. I'd started at the beginning and told him about the queer note in my locker and then the condom thing. I went into how and why I thought it was this crazy man, Joel Mc Carty, who did it. Chubby had heard of Joel, who was a high school dropout, a couple of years older than us.
Joel was a nutcase in Middle School, too, so he was known. I told Chubby about Joel calling me those gay names, yelling at me, through that blurry haze I was in from his unbelievable first smack across my face. It must have knocked me unconscious for a few seconds because I had no memory of the actual smack or of landing on the cement steps.
Chubby thought about the name-calling aspect of the affair and then, with a frown on his face, said, "I can't imagine why he'd be calling you faggy names. You don't look or act at all like a queer. If you did, I'd kick your ass."
I didn't like the sound of that last part, but the other part confirmed what I thought: that I don't have any stereotypical gay mannerisms, so how does Joel know I'm gay? Chubby said, "You don't act queer, but Mc Carty sure as shit is queer. You know that, don't you, Dylan? I said, "Yeah, I guess."
We were done walking, and Chubby began ranting and raving about the two of us meeting Joel in the parking lot tomorrow morning. I told Chubby that, frankly, Joel would kick both our asses, but Chubby assured me he wasn't thinking about a fair fight. He was planning on hitting Joel from behind with a baseball bat to even the playing field, and then we'd beat the shit out of him with fist flying and feet kicking. By the time we'd finished dinner, we'd both calmed down some and had come to our senses. We would get revenge on Joel, but I needed the lawn job for now, so revenge would have to wait. "We need to keep our eye on the prize, Dylan. When we get the money we need, then we even some scores."
As we cleaned up the dinner stuff, Chubby asked, "What's that real old mafia grandfather movie we saw on cable?" I mutter, "Grandfather? You mean Godfather?" Chubby's like, "Whatever. Remember the young godfather, not the old one in the beginning. The younger one said, 'Tonight, we settle all the family business.' That's us, Dylan. When we have the money we need from our jobs, we quit the jobs and settle all the old scores, including Rickie."
I looked over at Chubby; he wouldn't look up. "What score do we need to settle with Rickie? I thought you liked him, thought he was cool or something." Chubby muttered that I should take his word that there's a score to settle. "Those two assholes fucked with the wrong boys this time, Dylan."
After showering, I met Chubby in my finished basement to watch baseball. Chubby's concern and support for me in the aftermath of my beating intensified my feelings for him. It's a very deep feeling, a warm sensation in my heart to have anyone, but especially the one person I love most in the world, to care so much about my welfare. You can't fake the level of emotion Chubby displayed.
Watching the Red Sox's game on the recliner together, Chubby hugged me, and I hugged back for thirty seconds or so. It was so comforting to me after that harrowing time with Joel. The hugging got awkward because I felt a boner coming on. We relaxed, and our conversation was sentimental. It was about how he and I have been together almost every day of our lives and how we depend so much on each other for support and encouragement, "And even love, Dylan. I'm not afraid to say I love you. We're as close as brothers, for fuck sake, and brothers love one another. That's not queer!"
Spending this time with Chubby almost counterbalances the horror of earlier today with Joel. And now I know there's some serious problem between Rickie and Chubby. In addition, I'm pretty sure that psycho Joel isn't putting notes in my locker. Another thing I'm pretty sure of is Chubby, and I will get revenge on Joel at the end of the summer, along with doing whatever is appropriate in the Rickie situation. So, yeah, what a fucking day today has been! A range of emotions boggles my mind, but as I lay here in bed, I decided that Chubby's reaction made the biggest impression on me, both in his concern for my well-being and later in his description of our brotherly love. The swelling on my face from the beating was already almost gone, but Chubby's new level of intimacy remained.
To be continued...
