Invited

Chapter 20

(Weekend at Gary's 2)

The washing machine, full of towels and sheets, finished doing its thing in the basements, so I moved everything into the dryer. I can hear it churning away as I work on Saturday night's dinner in the kitchen. We're having the meatballs Mom made for us, freshly cooked pasta, and Rao's spaghetti sauce. Even though the sauce comes in a jar, it's delicious. It's also expensive, so we don't have it often, as Mom only buys it when it's on sale.

Anyway, the sauce is warming in a pan with some hot pepper flakes, and I've got a pot of water on the stove for the spaghetti. Now, I'm making a salad of iceberg lettuce, tomato, English cucumber, and sweet Texas onion. I tried making garlic bread but smelled it burning in the oven, so I dumped it in the trash. 

Billy's in the living room on his laptop, yelling, "What's burning, Gary?" I yelled back, "Nothing's burning now. It already burned."

He comes into the kitchen smiling, "Well, what was it that burned?"

I mumble, "Garlic bread," and he says, "Oh, that's too 'effing bad. What we need is a cocktail."

As he's making too-strong screwdriver cocktails, he says, "In the past, I've inadvertently given you some incorrect information about cosmology."

"Cosmology; what's that?"

Getting ice from the freezer, he says, "It's a branch of metaphysics that deals with the nature of the Universe, but it's the numbers I got wrong more than anything directly related to that. I was under the impression there were a billion Galaxies in the Milky Way when there are billions. Billions with an 'S.' "

"Oh, that's okay, one billion... many billions... I don't care.

"And there are trillions of galaxies in the known Universe, not billions. Every time I read something, the numbers go up. It's mindboggling."

I've said everything I can think of to say about that. We drink the screwdrivers while sharing a Marlboro cigarette, blowing the smoke out the kitchen window. As he passes me the cigarette, its filter wet with his saliva, he says, "This is turning into an epic weekend, a preview of how it will be all the time when we get our apartment. Still, you agree we should hold off renting an apartment until college classes begin in September, right?" 

Exhaling smoke barely inhaled, I nod, "Yeah, I agree. We've been finding ways to mess around sexily without an apartment, but I'm looking forward to being with you all day and all night, every day and every night."

He takes the cigarette, "Every day and every night; wasn't that in some song?"

The dinner is good, and Billy is full of compliments. He says, "Well, I can stop worrying about whether you can cook for us. We're eating good in the neighborhood, as that commercial says. Now, sharing a joint will top it off perfectly."

Then he cleans up the kitchen while I get the towels and sheets from the dryer. Carrying the folded laundry upstairs, I hear my cell phone ping, telling me there's a text message, probably from Mom. After taking the laundry to the second floor and leaving it on my bed, I check my phone. 

Yep, it's a text from Mom asking how we're doing after the big storm. I text back that we're okay and that we've shoveled the driveway and her car out. We loved the meatballs she left for us, and everything is good here; no problems. She texts back a lengthy description of the beautiful time they're having, how excellent the dinners have been, and how wonderful they've been treated.
Billy reads the text over my shoulder as I get a little misty-eyed.

He says, "What the hell are you upset about? It looks as if they're having a fabulous time."

I shrug, "I don't know. It's like they never get to do anything like this Florida trip that Dad won at work. I'm wicked happy they're having the time of their lives."

He pats my shoulder, "You're a nice person, happy about your parents' great time."

"Thanks, Billy." I text back, 'Sounds awesome, Mom! Love you guys, Love Gary.'  

Billy mumbles, "Come on, let's smoke that joint."

Wearing winter coats, we smoke the joint on the back porch, grinning at one another, talking about how cool it is on our own, doing whatever we want, whenever we want. Then the marijuana effect sinks in, and we smoke the rest of the joint without talking.

I'm feeling spacy and lean against Billy. He puts an arm around me, then uses his other arm to point out star constellations. "There, that's the big dipper. Over there is Aquarius," and he points out some others, none of which I can discern. They look like a jumble of a million stars. I lie about it, though, saying, "Oh, yeah, I see that. Wow, there it is."

Inside the house, still feeling dreamy from the marijuana, we sit together on the sofa watching something on TV but soon get into some serious making out, kissing and rubbing each other until we're extremely hot and bothered. So much so that Billy fucks me bareback on the sofa, our pants around our knees. 

Yes, bareback entries always hurt a little extra at first, but this sexy messing around quickly turned into the sexiest messing around I think we've ever done. To keep it off the sofa, I caught my cum shot in my hand. After our extraordinary climaxes, Billy pressed against my back, taking deep breaths. Then, gasping, he lifts off me, pulling his dick out, murmuring, "That was random and awesome, huh? It took me by surprise. Are you all right?"

I nod, "Uh-huh, but I've got a handful of cum."

Snickering, he says, "Jesus, don't get any on the sofa." We carefully get off the sofa and go into what Mom calls a powder room, me with gooey cum in my right hand, holding my pants up with my left. Wiping his dick with a wet hand towel, Billy says, "I hope it didn't hurt you too much, Gary."

I mutter, "No, not much," and he excitedly tells me, "Omigod, I don't think I've ever had a climax that intense in my 'effing life." 

Putting toilet paper in my underpants, I pull up my jeans, saying, "I felt your desire for me, Billy, and that got me wicked excited too."

Washing our hands, he smiles, "Jesus, you sure like taking it up the ass. Seeing how turned on you gets half the excitement for me." 

Smirking, I mutter, "Did you know that some people call the messing around we do: fucking?"

He laughs, "No shit? That's so weird because we're just friends messing around."

I mutter, "Friends in love."

"Yeah, that too."

As we get Cokes from the refrigerator, Billy defiantly says, "And, of course, I know it's fucking. It sounds way less gay to say messing around, though."

Swallowing Coke, I say, "I'll call it whatever you want, but in my mind, I call it fucking. I like the word fucking because it's also known as making love."

Putting an arm around my neck, he says, "That's the romantic in you. You love being in love with me."

I ask, "Don't you love being in love with me?" 

We're leaning our asses against the kitchen table, his arm still around the back of my neck. He says, "I'm conflicted about that because, yeah, I love you, but I kind of wish I didn't. No offense intended," and he wistfully adds. "The best and worst part simultaneously is, my loving feeling grows stronger every 'effing day."

I mumble, "No offense taken, I think." 

Trying to walk back his loving comments a little, he snickers and squeezes his arm around my neck, "Heh-heh, yeah, you're sort of irresistible, but maybe it's just that I like being idolized by you. I might be confusing emotions; you know what I mean?"

I give him a look, and he snickers, "Who knows what love is? That's all I'm saying. To me, love seems like a fire out of control and can't be contained until it goes out in flames. Going out in flames is the part I wonder and worry about."

"Well, you don't need to worry about my love for you going out in flames, Billy."

He mumbles, "No, I wasn't wondering or worried about that part. Anyway, never mind that for now, Gary. Forget I said anything about flames."

He tried to backtrack there, but I'm taking everything he said up to and including his statement that I'm irresistible as true. Anything after that is irrelevant. But not wanting Billy to think too much about his meandering declarations of love, I ask, "Do you want to go out tonight?"

Taking his arm off me, he finishes his Coke, nods, and says, "Yeah, that's a damn good idea. Let's get out of the house for a while."

We decided to go to the bowling alley.

In the car, Billy says, "I don't want to bowl a game. It's more like since being involved with you," he smiles as he lightly punches my shoulder, "You've monopolized all my free time. I kind of miss hanging out with the guys occasionally, ya know?" 

Shaking my head, I mutter, "Not really, no. I never hung out much with the guys, and you mostly argue with them the few times we've hung out with them."

He says, "Yeah, well, that's half the fun, arguing about shit no one really cares about. And, we won't be recluses when we have the apartment. We'll throw some parties; keep in touch with the neighborhood guys." 

I mumble, "They're eventually going to know we're gay, you know that, right?"

Rubbing my head, "Don't say that, Gary! Jesus, it's got to be our secret." 

Walking into the bowling alley, we see neighborhood guys and girls at the counter renting bowling shoes. Billy has a big smile, exclaiming, "Spike, wassup, bro?" 

They do a guy hug with Spike asking, "Where in the fuck have you been hiding, Billy?"

Billy ignores that and asks, "You guys are all bowling, huh?"

Spike says, "Well, fuck! Saturday night is date night, right? Sara Donalds and I couldn't think of anything better to do, so we came here and ran into those guys double-dating." 

Looking at the guys putting on rented bowling shoes, Billy frowns, "Who the hell is that asshole Ron Smart's date?"

Spike goes, "Judy Myers. They've been dating for six weeks, and Bobby Brown has been taking out Asley." 

Looking at the group quickly, I'm relieved Sharon O'Neil isn't here. Her flirting with me is embarrassing. As if he can't believe it, Billy mutters, "Asley Ray goes out with Bobby?" 

Spike pats Billy's shoulder, "You've been MIA too long, bro."

Then, Spike sees me behind Billy and grins, "Hey, what's up, Wallingford?" 

I slap hands with him, mumbling, "How about that snowstorm?"

Spike says, "Fuck a little snow," and Ron Smart, wearing bowling shoes, walks over to slap Billy on the back, "Underwood, what rock did you crawl out from under?" Then, seeing me, he goes, "Oh, is Wallingford your date for the night?' Then to me," Whassup, retard?"

I give him the finger, and Billy says, "Ron, why must you consistently be such an enormous asshole?" 

Ron chuckles and calls to his date, "Yo, Judy, look who's here." 

Carrying some score sheets, Judy Myers smiles, "Hi, Billy. How ya been?" 

Ron says, "Billy's taking out Gary tonight. He's his date. Whaddaya think about that?"

Judy says, "Oh, I didn't see you there. Hi, Gary. I see you two are still rocking the same nineteen-fifties haircuts. That's so cute!" 

I touch my head as she says to Ron, "They're not on a date, Ronny. They're friends, but you wouldn't know much about that since you don't have any." 

She grinned while saying that, and Ron, incapable of being embarrassed, said, "You like me, though. Don't you, sweetie?" 

She says, "Yes, but I go for obnoxious bad boys. Everybody knows that." 

Ron laughs and hugs her as Billy mutters, "It's just a coincidence, Judy. Jesus! Um, our haircuts are a coincidence."

Ron says, "The first one might have been a coincidence numbnuts, but what about the eight haircuts since then?"

Billy ignores that logic. No one else pays any attention to it, either. Except me, that is, and I grin at Billy. I can tell he's trying not to, but he grins back at me anyway, muttering, "Ah, fuck it. What's that buffoon know about anything?"

Bobby Brown drifts over with his arm around Asley Ray's waist, asking, "Are we going to bowl, or what?"

Then, "Hey, Hi, Billy. Um, whassup, Gary?"

I mumble, "Not a helluva lot."

Billy and Bobby bump fists as Ron, with his one-track mind, says, "Wallingford is Billy's date tonight." 

Ignoring Ron, Asley tells Billy and me, "You two need to rent shoes so you can bowl with us. Pay for three games. We're on alley number eight. We can have teams now with you two joining us, four against four." 

Looking at me, Billy asks, "Do you want to bowl?"

I don't because of Ron Smart, but Billy changed his mind and wants to now, so I say, "Sure, okay."
We rent shoes at the counter, Billy telling the counter man, "Spray a lot of that disinfectant shit in the shoes," then he mumbles to me, "Ya never know what foot fungus the last guy to wear these 'effing shoes had." 

The old counterman rolls his eyes at Billy, giving the shoes a cursory spay, asking, "How many games? The shoes are two-fifty each."

"Gee, you're probably losing money only charging eight hundred people two dollars and fifty cents each for wearing these shoes."

The man sighs, asking again, "How many games are you bowling?"

I point at the group, "We're bowling with them."

He nods, "Three games." Billy mutters, "I'll get this, Gary," and he pays the man. 

Walking away with our rented bowling shoes, I whisper, "Well, according to Ron Smart, I'm your date tonight, so you should pay."

He mutters, "Very funny."

"I'm kidding, Billy."

He forced a smile, mumbling, "I know that, but keep it down." None of us has our own bowling ball, so, at the number eight alley, we pick bowling balls from the rack. Naturally, Ron butts in front of everyone, almost knocking Sara Donalds on her ass to choose the ball he wants. Ron's date, Judy, says sarcastically, "You're such a gentleman, Ron."

He mutters, "These balls aren't all the same. I checked them out earlier, and this one," holding up a blue one, "Is the best."

Asley says, "Whatever. Okay. Bobby, me, Spike, and Sara will be one team." 

Judy tells Billy, "That means you and Gary are stuck with Ronny and me."

Ron says, "What it means is that these two dufuses will be on the winning team."

Judy makes a face, and Billy says, "The earliest known form of bowling dates back to ancient Egypt. The balls were made using husks of grain."

Ron goes, "Oh, Christ, another one of Underwood's bullshit factoids that no one believes."

Pointing, Judy says, "Actually, he's right. That's what it says on that wall poster over there."
Making a huffing sound, Ron then takes charge of things. He assigns Judy and Asley as scorekeepers and then lists the order in which we'll all bowl, writing our names on the score sheet. Then, further proving he's no gentleman, he bowls first before his date. Judy looks at the rest of us, shaking her head and making another face.

It gets to be fun when we've all bowled a frame. We're into the competition now, muttering good-humored mocking comments about bad results by the other team. Later, waiting for our turn, we sat on the curved bench behind the scorekeeper as Bobby Brown bowled. Spike leans past his date, Sara, and asks Billy, "Did I tell you about the cannibals who were eating a circus clown?" 

Billy says, "Only six times over the years. One of the cannibals asks, does this taste funny to you?"

We all laugh, and Spike mutters, "I guess I did tell you."

Billy goes, "Yeah, you did. What do the inventors call their female clone?"

Grinning, Spike covers Sara's ears with his hands and says, "A clunt," and we all laugh. Sara goes, "I heard that," and smacks Spike's shoulder.

Ron Smart says too loudly, "You're going down memory lane with those jokes. Here's another one. How do you brainwash an Italian?"

Spike mutters, "Give him an enema," and Judy goes, "Hey, I'm half Italian!"  

Ron goes, "Hey, Wallingford, did you hear about the Canuck who studied five days to pass his urine test? Sort of like you, huh?"

Billy says to Ron, "You dickhead, that doesn't make any sense. Gary's not Canadian, and he's not stupid either. As I recall, his GPA was forty places higher for our graduating class than yours." 

Ron says, "Underwood, what is it with you lately? You're always sticking up for Wallingford. Is he your girlfriend now?"

Judy says, "You're up, Ronny. Bowl a strike, sweetie." She sits back down and says to Billy and me, "Ronny can be the sweetest guy when it's just him and me, but he can get overbearing and obnoxious in a group. I'm working on that, though."

Billy waves his hand like it's no problem, then says, "He can be alright sometimes. So, you guys are going to the same university, right?"

She says, "Yes, but not where Ronny tells everyone we're going." They talk about college without Billy mentioning that we're renting an apartment together for the fall semester. That's okay; I understand.

Two hours later, after our team won all three games because Ron Smart was the best bowler among the eight of us, we're getting our coats on. Ron stopped being his usual obnoxious self when acknowledged as the best bowler. He ate up the accolades and even gave me and others pointers on what we were doing wrong.

Outside, it had gotten a lot colder. After some quick hugs and bumped fists, everyone hurried to the cars to turn on the heaters. Inside our car, Billy rubbed his hands together, mumbling, "That turned out okay, don't you think?" 

As I back us out of the parking spot, I shrug, "It was rough going at first, but it was kind of fun when Smart stopped being a royal pain in the ass."

"Yeah. Hey, did you see the three strikes in a row I had the last game?"

Glancing at him, smiling, I go, "Billy, I don't miss anything you do. Of course, I saw your hat trick strikes." 

Reaching over, he squeezes the back of my neck, giving me a sexy shiver, then says, "Yeah, you're my number one fan." Then he mumbles, "My only fan, actually. Haha." 

I say, "That's not true. You're popular. Everybody likes you."

He shrugs, "I get along with almost everybody, but so do you."

Grinning, I mumble, "Yeah, we're both extremely likable," and we chuckle. It's almost eleven o'clock when we walk into the dark house. As I turn on a light, I think, "Why didn't we leave a light on?" 

Billy mumbles, "It's your house; you should have thought of it."

I ask, "Who will you blame if this happened in our apartment?"

Smiling, he rubs my head, "I guess I'll need to blame both of us, boyfriend. It's no big deal, don't worry about it."

Hanging our coats up, "So, what should we do now, Billy?"

He smiles, "What do you want to do?"

I mumble, "I bet you can guess," and he says, "Me too," and we hug, then he takes my hand, and we go upstairs as I ask, "How come you didn't get all bullshit when asshole Smart kept saying I was your date tonight?"

Squeezing my hand, he says, "Making too big a fuss over it would only bring more attention. Nobody paid any attention to him, and, anyway, his girlfriend did a good job of mocking him for us."

In the bedroom, as we're getting undressed, I say, "It would be totally wonderful to be known as your boyfriend. You know, when everyone knows I'm Billy Underwood's lover, I'll be wicked proud." 

Pulling his socks off, Billy mumbles, "That is very sweet of you to say, Gary, but put the breaks on wishing for it." 

In our underpants, we walk to the bathroom as I murmur, "Maybe someday, though, huh, Billy?"

He shrugs, "Please, stop talking about it. I love you; isn't that enough for now?"

While washing our hands at the sink, I stare at his cuter-than-shit profile and murmur, "Yeah, it is." He glances at our reflection in the mirror, smiles, flicks his fingers at my short hair sticking up in front, and says, "Judy likes our haircuts, mentioning they're nineteen-fifties hairstyles. Remember when you first got your haircut like this? I told you it was a nineteen-fifties haircut." 

Shrugging, I mumble, "I don't know how you'd know that, or my uncle either. He isn't that old. He was born in the seventies, so how would he know about nineteen-fifties haircuts? For that matter, how the 'eff would Judy know?" 

Drying his hands, he mutters, "You're right. Anyway, she said it was cute." 

"Yeah, she did, but nobody knows about the magical qualities of our haircuts."

He chuckles, "You don't believe there's magic in these haircuts, do you? I was half-joking about that."

"If you believe, then I do, too." 

He smiles, "See that, you're irresistible," and he hugs me and murmurs, "I'm going to give you an extra special fucking in bed tonight."

"You mean an extra special sexy messing around, right?"

Laughing, he takes my hand, and we walk out of the bathroom, "Yeah, that's what I meant to say, you cute motherfucker, you." Bumping against his side and squeezing his hand, I smile and think how I can't even describe the happiness I'm feeling, not even to myself. 

In the bedroom, we drop our underpants; I turn off the overhead light, leaving the 25-watt light next to the bed. Billy, smiling his fantastic smile, holds out his arm, inviting me to get in bed first. I do that, and he follows me, then wraps his arms around me. The feel of his naked body against mine makes me sigh, my eyes tearing up with joy. There's no word for the depth of my love for him. It's a deeply visceral, uncontrollable love for everything about him.

As a tear rolls down my cheek onto his, we kiss a slow lover's kiss. I murmur, "I love you so much, Billy. You're my universe, my whole world." 

He lightly rubs his hands on my back. "I know, Gary, and I won't let you down. I've read how young love, first love, is an extremely powerful thing that one never forgets throughout one's whole life, no matter how it turns out. I feel it too, and, as I've said before, it's a little scary."

We have hard boners almost instantly, but we continue kissing and squirming against one another's naked bodies until there's precum drooling out and smearing on both our bellies. Billy gasped in a deep breath and reached for the last of the condoms I put on the bedside table yesterday. As he rips the packet open, I lie on my back and pull my knees against my chest, my feet dangling. Billy's on his knees at my ass, rolling the condom onto his metal-hard penis. Smiling, he looks into my eyes, murmuring, "I've had spectacular dreams about doing this with you. Further evidence that I'm totally fucked, but in a good way."

My eyes shine with the love I have for him as he guides the nipple at the end of the condom to my anus. Grinning, I'm nodding my head to encourage him. Billy pushes the head of his boner in past my sphincter and leans over, his hair brushing my face for a second as he supports himself with a hand on either side of me. His hair smells good; all of him smells good.

He tightly pushes in his slippery cock, and then the initial shock and pain almost instantly fade. I smile as I'm thinking, yep, my miracle rectum. Our noses bump, then his lips are on mine, and we kiss as he finishes the five-inch trip inside me and then snuggles his crotch against my buttocks. I moan, "Umm, feels good," and we kiss again, then lick each other tongue.

Billy rubs his nose with mine, murmuring, "I love you, babe."

My heart goes thump, thump, thump. Another tear of joy rolls down my cheek, and Billy licks it off and smiles then moves his hips back. His swollen hard cock sliding tightly back activates thousands of nerve ending in both of us, and we shudder together. He rests his forehead on my breastbone, his hair in my face again smelling just as good as it did the first time. My arms go around him, hugging and moaning, "Umm, Billy," and he pushes his hard, slippery sex organ back inside me.

Then it's the most luscious slow messing around for I don't know how many ecstatic minutes; ours is the most wonderful fucking the world has ever known. Every slow trip of his cock inside me creates pleasure beyond description as I cling to him. He raises his head to kiss me and then rubs the side of his face against mine. I wish this could go on forever, except I know better.

Yep, the creeping sense of climax grows, and I hear Billy's moans sounding more urgent now. With a gasp, he finally lifts and grabs my hips. His eyes close as his thrusting gets faster, then harder as a sense of desperation takes over our lovemaking. Soon, the climax is all I can think about, and my hips start humping back at Billy's thrusting. I moan, "Oh, oh, oh, Billy. OOOH!" and my climax blasts off with my back arched and my body stiff as a poker.

Cum streaks up my stomach past my chest to splatter under my chin. I get my hands behind Billy's neck, trying to pull his head down. He's in the middle of climaxing himself, though, and his body is like a rock. Then, with a groan, he climaxes into the condom and shudders, then he's limp, and I pull his head to mine, our faces squished together, our tongues licking each other's lips.

He's laying on me in my spunk, his dick still inside me, my arms around him. With the sides of our heads touching, we're motionless, our hearts beating fast, and our chests rising and lowering as we gulp in oxygen. With a sigh, Billy sits up and thrusts his softening cock inside me a few times. Pulling it out, he smiles, asking. "How was that, Gary?"

Holding my arms up, I say, "Perfection, Billy. That was making love as well as it can be done."

He grins, "I'll bet I  can do it better."

Stretching my legs out on either side of him, my arms still up inviting him, I'm like, "C'mon, lay down on me again." 

He lays on me, and we hug and squirm against one another for two minutes, my cum squishing between our bodies. We stop and lie motionless in each other's arms for a minute or two, his condom-covered dick sticky against mine. His lips brushing my ear, he asks, "Are you tired?"

I murmur, "Not especially, no."

He says, "Neither am I. Let's do a major clean-up in the bathroom, then smoke another joint. I feel like getting high with you again."

Squeezing my arms around him, I mutter, "No, stay with me like this. I love when we're touching all over, almost a single life form."

Snickering, he mumbles, "You're nuts. C'mon, we'll have another screwdriver and smoke a joint," and he sits up.

"Oh, poo," and follow my lover and leader out of bed, down the hall to the bathroom. Billy dumps the condom in the toilet, and we take a piss.

He says, "It was smart that you stayed on your back. That way, sure, I got your spunk on me, but none of it got on the sheets."

 I shrug, still wishing we were snuggling together. After cleaning up, we're back in the bedroom, getting dressed. Billy pulls on his underpants and rubs my head, smiling, "Don't pout, babe; you can't always have your way. Once in a while, it's only fair that you go along with what I want." 

Shocked, I mutter, "You're delusional. We always do what you want, and I never pout! I'm fine doing what you want because you're our leader, but don't pretend it's me who decides what we do."

Hoping on one foot and putting on his socks, he smiles and says, "Yes, you do pout, and I didn't know I was our leader. When did you decide that?" 

Pulling up my jeans, grinning, I say, "When I saw you eat that first Butterscotch Krimpet, that's when."

He laughs, "As I said, you're a nut, but you're so much fun," he musses my hair again.

After taking a joint from his satchel, he holds my hand, and as we go downstairs, I say, "You're romantic too, you know. The handholding is romantic." 

He smiles, "Oh, really? Huh, I always think of it as taking care of you, making sure you don't wander off and get lost."

"That is some kind of bullshit right there, and you say I'm a nut!" 

Chuckling, he squeezes my hand, telling me, "Be careful going down these steps."

I can't help but laugh at that, then say, "Take care of me, Daddy." He mumbles, "Don't call me that around other people. They won't know what you mean."

In the kitchen, I say, "As long as you know... I don't care about anybody else. I'll make the drinks."

Shaking his head, he says, "Nope, you make them too weak." He gets our bottle of Grey Goose. "Get two glasses, babe." 

I mimic him and mutter, "Don't call me that." 

"You're my baby, aren't you? My cute as a motherfucker spoiled baby boyfriend."

I mutter, "Oh, brother! And you're sober saying that! God only knows what you'll call me when you're high."

I get two clean highball glasses and put them on the counter. Billy pours too much vodka in each one, saying, "Babe is merely a term of endearment, Gary." 

"I like the sound of that endearment word, but babe is usually what a guy calls his girlfriend."

He says, "Get some ice, babe," and snickers, adding, "And you're wrong because babe can be a term of endearment between gay boyfriends, too; I checked it out."

Pulling an ice tray from the freezer, "You mean when the guy/guy boyfriend uses it for the girl/guy boyfriend, right?"

He laughs, "No, I don't mean that, and, hey, you're the one who invented the girl/guy bullshit, not me." 

Taking the OJ from the refrigerator, I ask, "So, you mean I'm in my rights to call you babe?"

Smiling, "Well, no. Just one of the boyfriends gets to use that particular term of endearment."  

"The guy/guy one, right?"

He laughs again, "No! The one who first used the term. Don't you know anything?"

Leaning against him, I murmur, "Teach me."

He hugs me, murmuring, "See, you're irresistible, and therefore, as I mentioned earlier, I'm fucked." After stirring our drinks, Billy hands one to me, taps his glass against mine, and says, "Here's to you, babe, my all-guy boyfriend." 

We drank some of our strong cocktails, smirking at one another. He said, "Get our coats, babe," and we both laughed as I took our coats from the closet. Outside, Billy swipes snow off the porch railing and puts his drink there as he lights the joint. Then, with an arm around me, he holds the joint to my mouth, and I take a drag, or tote, as it's officially called when smoking grass. In between totes, we drink our screwdrivers without talking. Smoking grass is the rare instance in which Billy feels comfortable in silence.

As usual, my body melds into Billy's, or that's how it feels anyway. I stare at his every move, rubbing my chin against his hand when he holds the joint to my mouth. The only words he spoke while we smoked the joint were murmured, "Hold the smoke in your lungs a few seconds longer, babe. That's it, the way I showed you."

Earlier, he was joking when he said the reason for handholding was him taking care of me, but sometimes, I actually do feel like he is taking care of me. It's not that I need him to, but the fact that he wants to is what I love. Being the center of his attention, his arm around me, schooling me about the correct way to smoke pot or whatever unnecessary guidance he's providing, is when I love him so much I can barely breathe.

We smoke the joint down as far as we can, and then Billy flicks it to the middle of the backyard and puts his other arm around me. My arms go around him. He starts us swaying as if we're dancing, the side of our faces together as he murmurs, "I like taking care of you better than anything I've ever done in my life," and he kisses my cheek and audibly inhales, adding, "You smell good."

I'm floating from the marijuana drug, further intoxicated by Billy's love, and living my dream. 
We do our swaying dance for a couple of minutes, then Billy goes, "Holy shit, that grass had a kick, huh?"

He drops his arms, so I reluctantly do the same. Picking up his glass, he gulps some orange juice and vodka, smiles, and says, "Drink your drink, Gary." 

Taking a deep breath, I mumble, "That was, um, very sweet. The slow dancing, I mean. Ah, and you too."

We can see our breath; that's how cold it is. Billy shivers, then drinks some more and asks, "Should we smoke another joint?" I shake my head, "No, I'm still floating from the one we just finished. Let's dance some more." 

He grins, "Oh, you liked that, huh?" He finishes the screwdriver, puts the glass on the railing, then puts his arms around me and quietly sings in my ear Joji's song "Slow Dancing In the Dark." I've got shivers all over me because Billy has a surprisingly good singing voice, and he knows many of the words to Joji's song. Shivers turn to goosebumps the longer he sings, dancing in each other's arms. It is the most surreal experience of my life and the most wonderful.

He sang and slow-danced with me longer than I expected, but then he abruptly stopped singing to laugh, let go of me, and said, "Jesus, this might be the corniest thing I've ever done. Never tell a soul about my poor excuse for singing." Acting embarrassed, he picked up his empty cocktail glass and tried drinking out of it, then said, "Look at that; it's empty."

I murmur, "You've got a wonderful singing voice, Billy. That wasn't corny, that was fantastically romantic, and I loved every second of it." 

He shrugs, "Yeah? Well, I know I have a good voice. In tenth grade, I auditioned for the part of Doody in Grease." 

"Did you get the part?" 

He shrugs, "Yeah, but I changed my mind and backed out because this guy I was messing around with at the time made fun of me. He said being in like a Broadway show was too gay, and he was right too."

That is so sad. I say, "No, he wasn't right! He was probably jealous that you have talent, and he didn't. He probably was afraid you'd find someone better to mess around with. Somebody in the show. " 

Billy says, "Well, I stopped messing around with him anyway, so fuck him. Let's go inside; it's cold out here."

Inside, Billy seems angry as he makes another drink. I still have half of mine and shake my head when he holds the bottle up, asking, "Do you want more vodka in your drink?"

"Billy, why are you upset? I loved your singing, and the song was so perfect it was magical. Yeah, it was magical for real, not like the pretend magic of our twin haircuts."

"It was kind of magical, wasn't it? You stepped on my feet a couple of times, but you danced okay."

I mumble, "I can't dance. I just tried following you. Haha, you know, as the girl/guy, I follow my guy/guy."

He snickers, becoming more like his normal confident self, "Heh-heh, that girl/guy shit you invented is pretty cool. I think it's nuts, too, but I like the inference. I like being your guy/guy, sort of."

Drifting to him, I go, "And you know without any doubt how much I like being your girl/guy boyfriend, so we're good."

Mussing my hair, he smiles, "We're quite a bit better than just good, babe." Leaning against him, I murmur, "Dance with me and sing more of that song so I can learn to dance better." 

Squinting his eyes, he smirks at me, "Ah, shit, you always get your way, doncha? Alright, here we go," and, with our arms around one another, he slow dances with me, singing softly in my ear, but only for thirty seconds. Then he says, "That's enough slow dancing lessons, but I can teach you fast dancing too."

I taught myself to fast dance in my room by watching dance videos, but I'll let Billy think he's teaching me when he gets around to it. I couldn't teach myself to slow dance, but I danced with George Brown last year, so I learned a little about it then. Hmm, and I don't remember stepping on Billy's feet!

Nodding my head, my eyes getting misty again, I murmur, "I'd like that." Using his thumb, he wipes a tear off the corner of my eye, murmuring, "You've been getting emotional tonight, Gary. What's up with that?" 

I mutter, "Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's because I can't believe how happy you make me or how lucky I am that you love me. Or, maybe it's because I'm living a dream with you."

Smiling, he steps back, "You're good for my ego, babe, but I've already told you that, haven't I? Hell, we're perfect together. Isn't that what you told me?"

Nodding, I go, "Yeah, I think I did mention that two or three hundred times."

He pours his drink out in the sink and mumbles, "Come on, let's go to bed."

We put the glasses in the dishwasher, cleaned up in the bathroom, and went to bed. Billy said, "Do you mind if we skip messing around tonight, Gary? I'm tired now."

Snuggling against him, his arm going around me, I murmur, "I don't mind anything as long as I'm with you. Goodnight."

What an unbelievably fantastic day!

To be continued...