Chapter Eight
I was lying in bed Sunday morning, thinking about seeing Chubby doing something in icky-Ricky's SUV last night. There isn't any sense in fooling myself. I mean, the van sat there for ten minutes, and then Chubby gets out wiping his lips and buttoning his pants. That behavior might lead a suspicious person to believe that he and douche bag Ricky were involved in some sort of gay hanky-panky, unless there was a girl in the car, which I seriously doubt. Making it even worse, Chubby stuck his head back in the car a couple of times, and each time, he popped back out, wiping at his mouth. What else could it be except kissing? It hurts my stomach and my head to think these thoughts, but there it was, right in front of my face. And the buttoning of his pants while getting out of the car!
Whoa, I gotta take a couple of deep breaths here to get a grip on reality. Then, being fair, I haven't exactly been a choirboy lately, either. Yesterday Carl fucked me a few times, and I acted like a girl having her first crush. Embarrassing! Before that, Carl was mentoring me about submissive gay sex, a discussion prompted by my recent oral sex activities with the Marine. I can't be throwing stones at gay interaction when I'm living in a glass house myself. It still hurts that Chubby would turn to freaky Ricky for a gay outlet! Why not turn to me?
Thinking about Carl's lecture regarding dominant/submissive sex, he gave me some good advice, and he looked pretty good while giving it to me, too. He is still fat, but I find him much more likable than I used to. He's been really nice to me, and, what the hell? I think I have a crush on him. I get aroused thinking about being with him today sometime. He said he'd try to fit me in for an hour or so. This infatuation I have for Carl surprises the hell out of me, but there it is
Now, how am I feeling about Chubby? I'm jealous, but am I pissed off at him? My recently developed lust for him tends to confuse my thinking. Still, I'd be a hypocrite to be pissed off at Chubby after my sexual activities with Carl and the Marine.
Getting out of bed, I begin my morning bathroom ritual. Then, looking in the mirror and, oh yeah, I'd forgotten about the short haircut Carl gave me last night. I was feeling sort of close to him at the time, and he asked humbly if he could give me a haircut. He has always had a thing for my hair, so I said okay. I felt a little of the haircut fetish I've heard about, too. It was sexy getting a haircut from my fat crush boy, but what the hell can I tell Chubby? I mean, why was I even at Carl's in the first place?
While brushing my teeth, I heard the front door quietly close. That's Chubby. On Sunday mornings, Chubby and I make breakfast for our Moms. They work late nights at the bar and sleep late in the mornings, so Chubby and I make breakfast on Sunday mornings. This Sunday, it's at our place.
Coming out of my room a few minutes later, I see Chubby wearing his Red Sox baseball cap. That's a good sign because it means I won't have to look at his almost bald head. Last night, he didn't have the cap on getting in and out of Ricky's SUV, though, did he? Oh shit, I'm beating a dead horse here. Jealousy is a nasty emotion!
Glancing at me for a second, Chubby said, "Morning, Dylan," and I said a chilly, "Hi." Chubby's taking hot red bliss potatoes out of the microwave. Tossing them from one hand to the other and finally bouncing them onto the counter. We slice them, brown them in oil, and add sliced onion, making home fries. Watching him cutting the potatoes, I bit my lip, then looked away because he was sexually hot. That great little body and the cutest face, and damn, I've got it bad for him.
We've known each other our entire lives and everything about him is so familiar I can predict the next thing he'll do. I see that oh-so-familiar look of concentration on his face. Everything he does he tries to do it the very best he can, everything. I took a deep breath and forced myself to look away. Then, after another deep breath, I asked, "Did you have a good night?" I started the electric juicer, juicing oranges, thinking, Chubby's face is so perfectly smooth with his healthy, pale-tannish skin tone is, um, well, it's beautiful, is what it is.
Chubby mutters, "Last night was okay. How about your night?" I'm trying to snap myself out of this mood where I'm idolizing and ogling my best friend. Pouring the orange juice into a pitcher, I mumble, "I didn't do much last night. Um, were there girls at that barbecue last night?" Chubby says, "Girls? There's no such thing as window-washing girls, Dylan. A girl wouldn't last two hours cleaning windows like we clean them. We're professional window washers, not some girl with a paper towel dabbing at the window with Windex or something."
An outlandish rant like that one usually makes me laugh out loud, but not this morning. I put the juice in the refrigerator, saying, "I was referring to window-washer's girlfriends. Anyway, what time did you get home last night?" Chubby slaps the knife down and turns to really look at me for the first time this morning, "What the fuck is this, the third degree, Dylan?" He stops, his mouth open, looking startled. Then asked, " And who cut your hair?"
Now I felt defensive and, in one long sentence, babbled out that I needed to discuss some stuff with Carl about the high school newspaper. He was cutting a neighborhood kid's hair, so he offered to give my hair a trim while we discussed the newspaper," and without taking a breath, I reminded Chubby that his best buddy, Ricky, had done more than give him a trim. It was more like a shaved head. Wow, how'd I come up with that awesome lie?
Chubby studied me with furrowed eyebrows for a few seconds to see if I was for real, then said, "Ricky's not my best buddy! You're my best buddy, best friend and I'll never have a better one! But that's more than just a trim you got there." I muttered, "Yeah, well..." and dropped the subject to start cracking eggs into a bowl, then cutting slivers of cheddar cheese to scramble with the eggs. Chubby started frying some Jimmy Dean breakfast sausages. Today's Sunday breakfast will be home fries, scrambled eggs with cheese, sausages, rye toast and jelly, orange juice and Dunkin' coffees. Chubby and I will flip a coin to see who goes for the coffee a block away.
While crunching the eggshells down the garbage disposal, I admitted to myself that I was mad at Chubby, not that I had a real reason to be; I just was because of what maybe happened last night with that pricky Ricky. Chubby and I did the same food preparations every Sunday so that part of the morning went smoothly. Chubby took a quarter from his pocket, flipped it in the air, and said, "Called it, Dylan!"
On my way to get four medium-sized hot coffees, I questioned the law of averages. This was the sixth Sunday in a row, and I guessed a fifty-fifty chance wrong. I smoked a Marlboro trying to recall when exactly it was that I realized I had this wicked crush on Chubby. After seventeen years, I suddenly recognize I'm sort of in love with him. Is it as simple and as complicated as that? It probably started in the hospital waiting room when Chubby was unconscious after the fight with the Chavez brothers. And, maybe after that, my feelings for Chubby just grew in my subconscious mind until I couldn't ignore them any longer. Could that be it? Carl was an important ingredient here, too. He brought me out to my gay nature and opened that door in my mind, and now I look at guys and evaluate how cute and/or sexy they are. Through that open door, Chubby has somehow slipped in and made it all the way from my head to my heart.
When I got back with the coffees, both Moms were in the kitchen laughing with Chubby, and I tried my best not to bring them down. After breakfast Chubby says, "Dylan, I got to help Mom take some old clothes to Goodwill. Do you want to do our run when I get back?" He was trying to be so upbeat, so I was, too. "Yeah, sure, Chubby. I'd like that!" And less than an hour later, that's what we were doing.
It wasn't as hot today as it's been so we weren't drinking the extra water, but after the first two miles I still wanted to stop at the rest area to pee. Chubby went right over to the bench and sat down while I took a pee against the same tree the Marine and I used. Chub said, "God damn, Dylan, I'm winded. It's amazing how fast you lose your wind when you stop running for a few weeks."
Looking over my shoulder, I see Chubby sitting exactly where the Marine sits. Wouldn't it be fabulous to go over with my cock and balls out, me standing up straight in front of Chubby and him sucking me off? Oh boy, watch out, or I'll be sporting a boner the rest of the day thinking about that. Instead, I got my mind on other things, showing him the inside of the lavatory, and, like me, he was surprised at how clean it was. As we were walking out, Chubby rubbed his eye, then muttered, "Shit. There's something in my eye. I think it's an eyelash."
Both his eyes were tightly closed, and tears were rolling out under the lid of the left one. I took his hand and led him to a spot outside where the sun shone through the trees, and, bending his head back, I lifted the eyelid that was tearing. His eye was bloodshot already. Chubby has longish eyelashes, which any girl would love to have, and he has beautiful eyes, too. Anyway, getting a loose eyelash under an eyelid happened to Chubby about once a month, it seems.
I told Chubby to roll his eye up, and then I saw the eyelash. Pulling his T-shirt up to dab lightly at his eyeball made me pause and gawk at his exposed belly and the lower part of his chest, as smooth as a baby's bottom. I stared at his body, marveling at his finely, naturally detailed, slim, muscular build. Then, taking a deep breath, I concentrated on the eyelash and got it out with a dab of his T-shirt, thinking: He's beautiful, and not just his skin, all of him. I've never before thought of Chubby as beautiful or sexually attractive, but it's on me hot and heavy now, and, oh my God, what am I going to do about it?
Chubby says, "Did you a get it yet, Dylan?" I let go of him and told him to blink a few times. He said it was out but still scratchy. As we walked down the rest area trail toward the main drag, Chubby said, "Women blink twice as often as guys do." I nodded and muttered, "Huh," and he had a mischievous grin, adding, "The most common name in the world is Mohammad," and I replied, "Yeah, I think I heard that before someplace". As we reached the main trail and started running again, he said, "The volume of the moon is exactly the same as the volume of the Pacific Ocean," and I said, "Huh! Ya don't say."
He's trying to get me to challenge him about these bizarre factoids, but I'd learned my lesson about that years ago. Chubby has a photographic memory for trivia. It's kind of like an idiot-savant thing. He doesn't have a photographic memory for useful school work or anything useful, only crazy, off-the-wall factoids, which he goes out of his way to read about online. I used to bet him he was wrong about this crazy stuff, but he always backed it up with some authoritative source, and I lost those bets every time. Now he plays the game of trying to find something so nuts that I won't be able to resist betting he's wrong. I'm no longer inclined to do that, although he keeps trying to get me to.
Jogging for a while, and then, simultaneously, we both turned to check on one another to be sure everything was okay. We laughed at the coincidence and exchanged friendly smiles, and that struck me as so fucking sweet. How did I take this kind of stuff for granted for so many years when it's so special? Near the end of any four-mile run, we aren't usually doing much talking because we're winded. After this run, I felt so proud of Chubby for still being able to finish in a pretty good time. I put my arm around his neck and hugged his head against my chin. His hat fell off, and the buzzed hair on his head scratched my jaw, making me think of my first encounter with the Marine and his five o'clock shadow.
Without either of us mentioning it, we walked to Tony's convenience store, where we always stopped for a Gatorade. I bought us two lemon/lime Gatorade, and we wandered into downtown Framingham. I'd ignored the urge to walk by the Marine recruiting store downtown until now when the urge to do it won out. Chubby followed me, not caring where we went as long as we walked off the four-mile run. Through the plate glass window, I saw there was only one Marine behind a desk today and no recruits at all. The one Marine was my Marine.
I stopped and gawked at the Marine as Chubby was finishing up his Gatorade standing beside me. The Marine looked up and saw me but didn't change expression. No matter, I could tell he recognized me. What gave it away was the arrogant tilt of his head as he looked at me, sending a chill through my balls as I stood up straighter.
"Thinking of joining the Marines, Dylan?" Chubby asked jokingly. I muttered, "Not likely, Chub," and he pulled on my arm to get me moving, and we sauntered on home, feeling good after the run. For the rest of the day, we just hung out together as we used to do all the time before his window washer job. I never feel as comfortable in any situation as I do when I'm with Chubby when it is just him and me. Well, duh, we've been inseparable for seventeen years now.
Another thing we always do on Sundays is the four of us have dinner together. With the Moms working six nights a week, Sunday is our only opportunity to have dinner together. This Sunday's dinner was roast leg of lamb with mint jelly, roasted potatoes, kernel corn, and coleslaw. After eating, with no Red Sox game on TV to watch, Chubby and I played a computer game. Time flies when you're playing computer games. Chubby always wins because he will never stop concentrating for even a second; he's awesome! I don't have the drive he has for games. The drive of, "I MUST WIN!" Mostly I just like to have fun.
It was getting late. I was sitting on Chubby's double bed, and Chubby was sitting at his desk, deep into the game. He was killing me in this round, too, so I quietly closed the laptop and put it on the bedside table. Then, snickering, I picked up this beanbag of Kermit the Frog. Chubby used to love everything about Kermit when he was a little kid, and he keeps this Kermit beanbag in his bookcase for old-time sake. I picked it up, took aim, and fired it off his nearly shaved head. BONG!! Chubby is quick as a cat, and with a big smile on his face, he dives on top of me and immediately gets me in a headlock. We roll around on the bed, trying to get the upper hand, but today, Chubby already has it.
There wasn't any particular reason for me bouncing that beanbag off Chubby's noggin, but I sure liked that it got us wrestling. We're older now and hardly ever wrestle anymore. I struggled and thrashed around like a madman in the beginning, but wrestling is one of the most exhausting things you can do, and I quickly was breathing like crazy, and my heart was pounding like a drum. Of course, Chubby is putting out just as much energy as I was, but he began with a headlock, so advantage Chubby. Breaking that first headlock is never easy, and the more I tried, the tighter Chubby held me around my neck.
The thing about wrestling, though, is that there isn't another activity on earth, including fucking, that requires as much intense bodily contact. That's a fact, and I was wrestling with the one boy on this planet that I most wanted to have bodily contact with, so I had a smile on my face even with all my losing effort to get free. Quite soon, it was obvious I was squirming in defeat. Chubby had me under his control and, therefore, had won, but I had a plan. I wanted to struggle and squirm just enough to get the side of my face against his, and by the time I managed that, we were both sweaty, so I could slip around just a little bit more until the corners of my lips were against the corners of his. Our sweat mixed together, and it was so hot for me in more ways than one.
Both of us were breathing hard, temporarily resting in that face-against-face position. Chubby said, "Give up yet?" The ends of his lips moved against mine when he asked that. It made me breathless, and I couldn't speak. Instead, I moved my head slightly from side to side, indicating I wasn't ready to give up. Chubby increased the pressure around my neck and his legs went around my stomach to squeeze. I had a hard-on, feeling his lips moving, asking, "How 'bout now?"
Afraid I might go off in my pants, I said, "I give," and he let go of me, but not before his face slid over mine, his lips wet with saliva wetting my lips. My boner throbbed and took control of my brain while, simultaneously, my sphincter muscle and my balls contracted tightly, forcing that indescribable sexual sensation of cum screaming up from my nuts, flying out my iron-hard penis as creamy, gooey cum saturating my jockey shorts as I mutter, "Ooh, umm," and do a whole-body shudder. It was extemporaneous, without anything touching my dick, a totally new erotic experience. Sure, Carl fucking me makes me cum without me needing to touch myself, but this was even more outrageously awesome.
Just being held by Chubby and feeling his spit and his sweat caused me to spontaneously climax. Thankfully, he had just let go of me and was climbing off the bed, not paying any attention to me. When I groaned with the pleasure of climaxing, Chubby said, "Are you all right?" Dizzy with the afterglow of that thrilling climax, I mumbled, "Yep, just a small cramp in my leg." I rolled off my side of the bed and pulled my T-shirt down to cover the big wet cum stain on the front of my pants.
A little later, I went downstairs to my place to get some sleep. For sure, I didn't need to jerk off tonight. You get a great night's sleep being sexually satisfied like my first Chubby-induced spontaneous climax had done for me. Wow! I wonder if there will ever be another.
Monday morning, it was raining hard, with thunder and lightning. Chubby called my cell phone to say his mom would drive us to school. It was still raining after school, so I didn't do the four-mile run but got soaked walking home. I'd already decided not to meet the Marine even if it hadn't rained. I'd made up my mind not to see him because I wasn't strong enough to handle his dominant behavior. To be transparent, I made the decision with Carl's advice. Most of Monday afternoon, I waited for Chubby to get home from washing windows. Of course, they just washed inside today.
Then, as planned, Tuesday I met Robby Dickers at my high school newspaper office. Carl wasn't using the office, so why shouldn't I? Robby is so shy he stood outside the office for fifteen minutes before I looked up and saw there. "Rob, why didn't you come in?" He smiles, shrugging, mumbling, "I didn't want to bother you, Dylan." Since we had arranged to meet here at this time, that made no sense, but I ignored it.
Instead of commenting, I pushed a chair for him to sit on. He looked so clean and brand new that it was mind-blowing. Those rosy blotches in his cheeks, his longish, light blond hair, his pale pink complexion, his earnest look, his cute face, and those shiny blue eyes, I could eat him with a spoon. We discussed how many hours a week he was going to be able to relegate to the newspaper next year, considering him being on the baseball team. I enjoyed sitting close to him and bumping into the side of him now and then.
I noticed immediately that Rob was another boy with a nice odor about him. Different than Chubby's, not as sexy maybe, but wicked pleasant. It was a nice time for me to be this close to him. Finally, we came up with a schedule that we agreed upon, and I typed it into the computer, printed it out, and we both signed it. Now. it only had to be approved by the newspaper faculty adviser, and then Robby would be on staff.
As we were walking out of my office, Robby mentioned the Red Sox, and we started talking about this year's disappointing team. One thing led to another, and Robby told me about his hobby of collecting autographed sports paraphernalia, like autographed balls and programs and pictures of Red Sox players and some New England Patriot players, too. I was all ears and wide-eyed because Chubby and I love the Red Sox, Celtics, and Patriots.
Today, it was dry and hot, and as a result of this unseasonable May heat wave, Robby and I were sweating lightly, walking to his house to look at his collection of autographs. I had no problem with missing another day of running. Spending this time with Robby will go a long way towards us getting to know each other and having a better working relationship. His house was about as far from the high school as mine but in the other direction, and he was in a nicer neighborhood with all the single homes sitting in the middle of an acre of land. They were standard eight-room houses, but they looked really big compared to our duplex.
During the walk, we talked mostly about baseball, but Robby also frequently mentioned his brother, Dodger. They're very close, and I found out that Dodger is a family name given to the second son in all the Dickers families where there are two or more boys. They have a cousin named Dodger and an Uncle Dodger, as well. Weird!
Robby didn't have a great grasp of why his family does that odd name thing, but whatever. Both brothers are athletic, but Dodger is the real star of the two, particularly in swimming and diving. Both of Robby's parents worked at the landscape and snow plowing business they own, and Robby works for them in the summer.
It was my turn, and I told Robby the equivalent information about my family and me, skipping over the fact that I'm a bastard, and never knew my biological father, and that Mom never married him or anyone else. Robby was too polite to pry into my missing father's situation. I told him about Chubby and his mom and about how the four of us sort of formed a family. Robby said, "Gee, that's so cool, Dylan." What?
Anyway, the conversation was easy, even if it did seem dorky at times. I have to say, though, I was captivated by the sound of Robby's voice. Something about his voice almost put me in a trance and made me want to believe every word he said. He was very likable, modest, and shy. When we got to his house, Robby used a key he had on a chain around his neck to unlock the front door, and then we went up to his bedroom. I didn't notice anything particularly interesting about the place, just an upscale suburban home.
For the next half hour, I was amazed by all the paraphernalia that Robby, his brother, and his father had managed to get Red Sox players and Patriot players to sign. Autographs his dad had gotten went back twenty to thirty years. I thought it was so cool to know the baseball and football players who signed these things actually held the picture or the ball or what-have-you in their hand while signing it, and now I'm holding the same thing in my hand.
When we'd scrutinized and handled everything two or three times, Robby went into his bathroom to pee, and I gazed out his bedroom window and saw an in-ground swimming pool in their backyard. A six-foot stockade fence was in place around the entire yard, so the pool area was very private. The afternoon sun shone off the blue water as a young man swam effortlessly fast laps. Robby came up behind me and said, "That's Dodger. He's a swimming champion." I jumped at the first word from Robby because I hadn't heard him come back into the room. He was changing clothes, putting on boardy swim trunks, a plain white T-shirt, and sandals on his feet. I'd looked away when he changed into his swimsuit, so I don't know what his dick looked like. I didn't want to get caught looking at it.
Robby has a very taut, hot body. I did notice that. He smiled and said, "Let's say hello to Dodger." He had his hand on the back of my neck and sort of led me out of his bedroom and down the stairs. That wasn't something a shy boy would do. Have I read him incorrectly? Even though we hardly knew one another, Robby was so sincere about everything that it didn't seem all that odd to me he was familiar with his touching, just odd for a shy person.
I followed him out the back door and down the steps off the outside deck. Dodger was drying off with a big beach towel, and he smiled when he saw us. Robby and Dodger hugged, giving each other a quick-as-a-wink kiss on the lips. That made me do a double-take, but it had happened. Dodger is a few inches shorter than Robby, so after the fast kiss, he goes up on his toes to whisper something in Robby's ear. Robby said, "Gee, bro, I have no idea." I'd seen Dodger with Robby at the movie complex that time, but here, I see he looks almost exactly like Robby.
Dodger's wearing Speedo swim trunks, a light tan one. I can't remember ever seeing anyone wearing a Speedo in real life. Most of the guys wear Quiksilver-boardy swimsuits like Robby was wearing, and like I have at home. That Speedo didn't cover much of Dodger, which is a good thing for a gay guy like me. He also has the hottest fifteen-year-old boy's body I could imagine. Like most swimmers, he's slim with long legs, especially considering his modest height. Although he looked just like Robby, Dodger had dark brown hair cut very short and brown eyes, whereas Robby had blond hair and blue eyes. Other than those two things, they were like twins who happened to be two years apart in age and size.
Whenever I see Robby, the thought that he looks brand new flashes through my brain. Dodger looks two years newer and fresher if you can imagine that. Un-fucking-believable is what it was. These Dicker boys are something to see! A baby-faced fifteen-year-old with a miniature, perfectly formed athletic body. Totally and perfectly proportioned for a boy his age, but strong looking too. Very toned and smooth. And, like Robby, Dodger had no body hair, just that unblemished pinkish-white skin that you could eat off of. It was a sincere pleasure and arousing to just look at him. Again, like Robby, Dodger was beautifully cute but still with a sweet and unassuming personality: no smartass teenaged, know-it-all, bullshit from the Dicker boys.
Dodger said to me, "Hi, Dylan. You don't remember me, but I met you at the movies. It's really very nice to see you again," and then he held out his hand, and we shook hands. The sun was at the hottest part of the day and very bright, so I had to shade my eyes with a cupped hand to look at Dodger more closely. He paid no attention to my staring. Instead, he asked Robby and me, "You guys want to go for a swim?" Robby said, "What do you think? I'm wearing a bathing suit."
I realized that Dodger wears that speedo because he races. It's a Speedo racing swimsuit. Duh! Rob asks, "How about it, Dylan? Do you want a swim?" Dodger says, "We'll lend you a swimsuit." I shrug, "Okay, thanks." The idea of wearing a swimsuit of Robby's was giving me a stiffy. He said, "Dodger, you've got a bunch of swimsuits. Let Dylan wear one." Dodger said, "Sure, Robby," and he pulled off his little speedo racing suit and handed it to me.
My mouth hung open as I unconsciously put my hand out and took the wet, little swimsuit from him. Both brothers were nonplus as Robby said, "It's really early for swimming, so Mom hasn't gotten most of our summer stuff out yet." Robby said, "I think there might be a suit in the linen closet upstairs. You know the one, Dodger. It's my old green boardy suit from last year." I looked from one to the other and then down at the little Speedo swimsuit I was holding. The first thing I noticed was a brown skid mark along the inside crack and pee stains on the tiny inside front part. My dick twitched.
To say I was flabbergasted would be a major understatement. First off, Dodger was now standing in front of me, totally naked. When he was wearing the speedo, he was almost naked, and now, completely. His regular-sized teenage cock and balls were just as perfect as the rest of him. He stood there with a smug look on his adorable face, as relaxed as if he were fully dressed.
If you've ever seen a perfect generic pencil drawing of a teenager's penis, balls, and pubic area in a school health study guide, for example, that's what Dodger's package looked like. A perfect drawing. His dick was slightly longer than Chubby's, about five inches, I'd guess, with a regular diameter cut, but the foreskin still covered the lower third of his dick's perfectly shaped pink head. He did not have hair on his nuts, and his pubic hair was sparse, and the ones he had were more like head hair than pubic hair. The thought of having that penis in my mouth had me stuttering as I held the little swimsuit, "Ah ah wa why. Um, are you sure you want to wear this? I'd be happy to wear that old green boardie Rob mentioned."
Dodger said, "No, it's okay, Dylan. You wear that one, and I'll look for the other one. You and Robby can have a swim in the meantime." I looked at Robby, and he nodded, saying, "You can change right here, Dylan. The neighbors can't see our pool."
The brothers both looked expectantly at me and, what the hell? I'm not shy. I dropped my pants, and Dodgers leaned over and pulled my jockey underwear down. I froze for a moment, hearing, "That's cool." Looking up to see who said that, I couldn't tell because both brothers have the exact same voice. "The shaved pubes, I mean." It was Dodger. I stood there with my cock and balls swinging in the breeze, holding that tiny bathing suit, wondering, What the fuck is going on here?
To be continued...
