Invited

Chapter 33

Thursday morning at work, I can't stop thinking about how special Pat and I had on last night's date. We moved into a special area of friendship, where I think we now love one another as friends. Our sexy messing around was at a higher level, too—a special level where we really cared about one another. He makes me feel special, and I know he's special. It's a privilege to be such a close friend of his.

So that was the special part about last night. The downer part was how ill Billy looked earlier; COVID and all its mutations are a nasty bunch. And, yeah, Billy was a little testy, but I'm sure he's pissed off about catching Covid after doing everything a person is supposed to do to avoid it. As I fed envelopes into the envelope-opening machine, I shook my head slowly, remembering how Billy, sick as he was, still was thinking about me. He wanted me to have fun while confined to bed, asking Pat to look out for me and maybe mess around if we wanted to. 

Well, I do not need Pat or anyone else looking out for me, but I thought Billy's sexy messing around suggestion was incredibly open-minded. Not surprising, though. The time I told Billy about Pat and I making out together, Billy wasn't upset about it. I think he feels bad that I spent so much time in my room alone before hooking up with him. Billy's attitude eases my mind about making out and having sex with Pat. I learned something important, too: there's a significant difference between sexily messing around with a friend and doing it with the one I love. They're both fun times, but for me, nothing comes close to the loving experience of sex with Billy.

Last night, after leaving Billy's house, I tried to put the responsibility of Pat's and my potential sexual messing around on him, but he called my bluff, and I finally needed to admit I wanted to do it, too. And, yeah, it was a good time; Pat's awesome. Then, while sleeping last night, I dreamt that Billy and I were stuck together in a pitch-black room wrapped up tightly like mummies, me on top, both of us burning up with fevers. In the dream, even in that condition, we were calm and okay because we were together. Then, suddenly, I began struggling like mad, pushing and kicking with a wicked case of claustrophobia and woke up shaking and sweating. I don't know what subconscious brain wave turned the dream into a nightmare.

Maybe the tied-together part distorted the urge I had to get in bed with Billy and comfort him because he looked so ill. He wouldn't have let me get in bed with him anyway, but I wanted to. And the nightmare part was maybe me feeling guilty that I enjoyed Pat's messing around so much, subconsciously feeling I didn't deserve to be Billy's boyfriend. Or fuck, I don't know... who the hell understands dreams and nightmares?

Only partially concentrating on running the envelope-opening machinery, I think more about Billy's endorsement of Pat and me having sex. Perhaps Billy feels that if it's okay for him to screw around at the Poconos with the mysterious Ronny, then it's okay for me to do the same with Pat.  I think I'd prefer Billy to warn Pat not to try to mess around with me, his boyfriend, except why lie to myself? I'm glad he told Pat the opposite because sex with Pat is generally thrilling as far as a pure sexual exhilarating experience. Even so, as I already said, I still choose Billy's messing around over any other because I feel love when we do it.

Needing a break from overthinking everything, I worked the machine, not thinking about anything. The almost mindless repetition was calming. Then it was noon and time for lunch. I met up with Mark on the first floor, and because it was cloudy and windy, he decided we'd eat lunch inside today at a Chinese restaurant. 

Inside the large restaurant, it's hot, crowded, and noisy. We needed to wait five minutes before getting seated, but a waiter quickly took our orders. I ordered egg rolls to start. I like to test myself about how much wicked hot yellow mustard to use with each bite of egg roll. Also, I ordered General Tso's chicken; that's spicy, too, when done correctly. Mark ordered Hot and Sour soup, plus beef and broccoli. Ugh! Holy shit, sour soup and broccoli!

The egg roll and soup come right out with the Cokes we also ordered, and when the waiter leaves, I say, "Um, I wanted to ask your advice about something, Mark." 

He nods, "Sure, Gary," and tries his soup as I tell him about my situation of being deeply in love with Billy while sexily messing around with a friend. 

"So, here's the thing, Mark. Both Billy and our friend, Pat, tell me in so many words that it's not unusual for gay men to have sex with friends, and that doesn't interfere with a, um, love affair with another. One time, I made out with Pat and asked Billy, hypothetically, if he thought someone who did that was cheating on his boyfriend."

Mark finishes his small soup, saying, "And you didn't think Billy knew you were talking about yourself? C'mon, Gary!"

Frowning, I'm like, "Not at first; I didn't. I guess he did, though, because he shrugged and mumbled that he and I weren't married. I assumed that meant making out with Pat was okay. Now Billy's sick with COVID-19, and last night, he inferred that it was alright if Pat and I had sex. He didn't come right out and say it. As usual, he was using the euphemistic term 'messing around,' but we both knew he meant Pat fucking me, to be blunt about it. What do you think? Is that okay on my part?"

He rubbed his jaw and said, "We hardly know each other, Gary, so I hesitate to mention this, but I'm going to ask this anyway. Are you autistic? Not that there is anything wrong with that. Approximately one out of five individuals on earth is on the autism spectrum. I'm wondering if you're maybe on the spectrum; are you?"

Shocked, I mutter, "What? Autistic? No, um, I'm not autistic. Why would you ask that?"

He shrugs, showing me the palms of his hands, "I don't know, Gary. It was just a thought because sometimes you say things as if you're thirteen years old. The innocence you display at times, I mean, I've never known an eighteen-year-old as innocent, naive, or sometimes childlike as you, no offense intended. I didn't mean to insult you."

Our lunches are served, so we wait until the waiter leaves; then I say, "I said I'm not autistic, but I'm not even sure what that means." 

He begins eating his beef and broccoli and says, "There are many levels of autism. It involves an unusual way of perceiving and socializing with others. Something like that. You've got to admit that you interact with people differently than anyone else, right?"

General Tso's chicken is nice and spicy. Swallowing, I mumble, "I guess, but I don't know anybody like you, either."

He mutters, "Fair enough. I don't mean anything negative. I find you refreshingly charming, unique, and interesting. You're very likable, but sometimes you seem much younger than eighteen. That's mostly what I meant."

As we eat, I explain my rather bizarre need to be invited by someone to do things because I don't want to feel I'm imposing on anyone. "It's a form of shyness, I suppose, or a lack of confidence. So, I've had limited interactions with my peers until recently. Or maybe you're right, and my behavior has some autistic aspects, too." As we finish lunch, Mark tries to make amends for his autistic speculation, and I try to convince him that it's okay; I'm not offended.

Walking outside, I asked, "Well, what do you think about my original question? The one about me having sex with my friend Pat when I'm in love with Billy?"

He starts to say something, but I go, "Oh, could you hold it up for a minute? Here's a cigar shop." 

"Are you going to buy cigars?"

"No, a pack of Marlboro cigarettes."

"They won't sell them to you. You're too young, and you look it too. Being eighteen, you're old enough to be killed in one of the political wars congresses gets us involved in but not mature enough to drink or smoke. I'll get a pack for you. Stay here," and before I can say anything else, Mark goes into the store. He's back in three minutes, handing me a box of Marlboro red.

"You're not twenty-one either," and he goes, "No, but I can bullshit my way around that."

Nodding, "Well, how much was the pack of cigarettes?"

Shaking his head, "Don't worry about it. This is my present to you to make up for asking if you're autistic. That was out of line." As I'm unwrapping the cellophane from the cigarette pack, I insist on paying for the cigarettes, but he won't relent. He grins, "I'll take a cigarette, though."

"Thank you, Mark," I give him a cigarette, hesitate, then chuckle, "Um, I don't have a lighter." 

Grinning and slowly shaking his head, he says, "Well, I'm pretty sure you're old enough that they'll sell you a lighter."

Going into the smoke shop, I see many magazines for sale. There are no comic books, but I picked up Sports Illustrated and People magazines for Billy. Then, from the register woman, who has a big scary-looking wart on her chin, I get a Bic lighter and pay for everything. The wart has two hairs sticking out from it. I can't stop staring at it as the poor woman puts my purchases in a plastic bag.

Outside, lighting up, I tell Mark that the magazines are for Billy, and he goes, "You're a sweet guy, Gary." We walk toward the office building, and Mark adds, "Anyway, it's hard for me to answer your question because I've never been in a committed relationship. I suppose if two people promise to only have sex with one another, that qualifies as a committed relationship, or as your boyfriend alluded to, two people getting married. That seems to me to be the ultimate committed relationship. Other than that, it's what the two guys agree on, I'd assume. If that agreement is that it's okay for friends to screw around, that's what you should be comfortable with."

Huh, that's kind of what Pat said, and Billy seems to agree. I think I'd prefer a committed relationship with Billy, though. Admittedly, that is influenced by Billy saying he and Ronny were messing around. Mark drags off the Marlboro, inhaling as if he's a regular cigarette smoker, then exhales and says, "Gay guys have a reputation for being promiscuous, and it's probably well-earned. I'm pretty sure gay guys have more new partner acquisitions than their straight brothers, but the bottom line comes down to an individual's choice."

It's all still a bit vague, although Mark's thing about it being an individual's choice puts it right back in my lap. That wasn't what I was looking for.The afternoon goes by at work quickly because I'm constantly busy. Mark had partially cleared up my dilemma by more or less validating what Pat's been telling me, so I guess that's good, except I still feel guilty. Hmm, not guilty enough to stop, though. More bothersome was Mark thinking I was autistic. Am I, and who else thinks that about me?

On the train home after work, I Google symptoms of autism. There's a list of a dozen common indicators, but I can only relate to the one about not initiating close friendships—making friends, in other words. That's been a failing of mine, although when someone starts a friendship with me, I think I'm a good friend to them from then on. 

Another symptom that used to relate to me was not liking being touched. That's changed altogether now, though, and I enjoy the touchy/feely touching that my gay friends all seem to do with me. Other symptoms include not making eye contact, not having empathy, not feeling love for others, etc. None of those so-called symptoms remotely apply to me. Honestly, reading the entire list of autistic symptoms, one or more could probably apply to almost everybody, so I'm not going to worry about it. Yes, I know I'm immature in some ways, and I don't always know the correct way to respond. Still, I attribute that to not intermingling enough with my peers over the years, learning by seeing how others respond in different situations. 

Anyway, I've been making friends since Billy took me under his wing. On my own, I mean. Yes, I've made a few awesome friends. Also, I read somewhere that an only child, which I am, is usually late to mature. I forgot the reason for that. Getting off the bus and carrying the bag with Billy's magazines, I walk past my house and go directly to Billy's. After ringing the doorbell, I put a mask on, then noticed both his mom's and dad's cars were gone. Is Billy home alone? Maybe so, as no one answers the door. Fuck!

After half-heartedly knocking on the door, I shrug and turn around disappointed. Then, I take only two steps away when I hear the door opening. Turning around, smiling behind my mask and expecting to see Billy, my smile fades when I see a skinny, youngish-looking kid about Billy's height with unruly brown hair. 

Without smiling, he asks, "You're Gary, right?" His mask is down on his chin, serving no purpose. He's definitely not Billy's brother, whom I've never seen, but I still tried convincing myself that was who this guy was—only for a fraction of a second, though. No way, so he must be that Ronny person. Who else could it be?

In the same questioning manner of, "You're Gary, right?" I ask, "You're Ronny, right?" 

He has no expression, mumbling, "Yeah, Ron Lynch. Okay, I'll let you come in for a couple of minutes, but Billy's getting tired. Pat and I have been here since three o'clock, so we'll all need to leave in five minutes." 
What? 

Trying to be cool, I go, "Seriously? I'm Billy's boyfr..." and he mutters, "I know who you are." Then, opening the door, he startles me by taking the bag from my fingers. Looking inside the bag, he makes a face, then looks up at me and says, "Close the door," and then, with my bag in his hand, as if he owns the place, he walks through the living room and kitchen, then down the hall to Billy's bedroom with me hurrying to keep up, asking, "Where's your motorcycle?"

Over his shoulder, he mutters, "In the backyard; why?"

"I just wondered." Huh, he looks too small to handle a motorcycle. That's a slightly unfair criticism because Ron is almost exactly Billy's size, and I wouldn't think he, Billy, was too small to handle a motorcycle. And, fuck, Ron isn't the type of guy Billy would generally make friends with, not an overbearing, arrogant prick like this shithead. And he's not even good-looking or cute!

In the bedroom, the radio is playing on 93.3 FM, and Billy's chuckling at a joke Pat just finished telling. Most notable, though, is this guy Ron, who completely changes his demeanor when we're in the bedroom. Smiling brightly, he exclaims, "Ta-da! The boyfriend finally makes an appearance, bearing gifts no less," and holds up my bag of magazines.

Looking at Billy, I do a double-take, noticing his bangs, which are too long to comb up now, are combed over to the side the way mine have been ever since Pat combed them that way for me. And Billy isn't wearing a mask. He smiles at me, "Hey, how you doing, Gary?" Then he says to Ron, "What the hell do you mean he finally makes an appearance? I don't know how the hell he could have gotten here any faster. He was at work in Philly forty-five minutes ago and came here before going home."

Feeling proud that Billy stood up for me like that, I ignored the asshole, Ron, and asked, "How are you feeling, Billy?" Then, walk to the far side of the bed, avoiding the blockage of Pat, who has a mask on, and Ron, who has it on his chin, both standing at the closest side of the bed to where Billy's sitting up with a pillow behind him. 

I squeeze Billy's hand, "You look better, Billy." Nodding, he goes, "Yeah, I feel better too 'cause those 'effing pills Dad got me are working. Hey, what's in the bag?" Before I can say anything, Ron says, "Two magazines. Sports Illustrated and People." 
Billy holds out his hand, mumbling, "I wasn't talking to you, Ron. And why are you holding the bag?" Then, smirking at me, Billy asks sarcastically, "You didn't buy the magazines for Ronny, did you, Gary?"

"Maybe he thinks so, but no, the magazines are for you."

With a big grin and a phony-forced laugh, Ron mumbles, "Oh, sorry, ha-ha," and hands Billy the bag, adding enthusiastically, "I knew who Gary was as soon as I answered the door because, as you've said, Billy, he is one cute motherfucker."

I frown at Ron as Pat makes a face, mumbling, "Chill out, Ron. Jesus!" Billy takes out the magazines, "Hey, thanks, Gary. Cool! I'd kiss you if I weren't afraid of infecting you. Pat, give Gary a juicy kiss for me tonight, okay?"

Pat's eyes sparkle as he deadpans, "That's a lot to ask of me, William. I'll try working myself up to it sometime tonight, though." In the background, "Let It Be," a Beatles song is playing on the radio, and Ron nods in the direction of the radio, saying, "The Beatles are by far the best-selling band of all time with worldwide album sales of 600 million. And, even more amazingly, they were only together as a band for only ten years, from 1960 to 1970."

Billy mutters, "In case anyone is wondering, Ronny is a trivia nut."

Pat says, "I can't stand the Beatles. They are boring, and if you listen to the words of their songs, they often make no sense. Just nonsensical rhyming words." I say, "I thought Elvis' albums were the best-selling of all time," and Ron says, "Well, if you'd listened to me, you'd know it's the Beatles, not Elvis. I just finished telling you that."

Pat goes, "Well, Elvis is the king of rock!" Ronny, in a nicer manner than he was to me, says, "Yes, you're right, Pat. As a single artist, Elvis, by far, holds the record for most albums sold at 500 million. He also had 101 gold records, the most all-time and far more than the Beatles, but as a band, the Beatles outsold Elvis by 100 million albums."

Billy says, sounding proud, "Ronny, the king of trivia!" Then, "Who was the next biggest single act, Ron?" Ron, enjoying the spotlight, goes, "Well, the king of pop, of course, Michael Jackson."

Pissed off that Ron's the center of attention, I say, "Billy's the king of science trivia. Aren't you, Billy?" Shrugging, Billy mutters, "Probably, but not just science," and Pat says, "Give us another example, William."

Billy frowns, "Stop calling me that! Jesus, you're not my mother. What the 'eff is wrong with you?" Pat grins and gives Billy the finger. Billy snickers and says, "Hmm, let's see. Well, okay, do you numbnuts know why Pi is an irrational number? Do you even know what that means?"

Pat deadpans, "Duh. It's not a repeating decimal and can't be written as a fraction; the numbers go on to infinity. Something like that," and then he tells one of his jokes in his humous way. I guess Pat wants to be the king of comedy.

Chuckling, Billy mutters. "How do you know so many jokes, Pat?" Then, to Ron, "Hey, I haven't thanked you for bringing the work assignment for our class, bro. Seriously, I appreciate it. We'll be studying for finals next week. Um, didn't you say you needed to take off after meeting Gary? Not that you need to leave on my account, but you said..."

Ron nods, then with a rub on Billy's head, he mutters, "Yeah, I better take off. The traffic will be a bitch, so I better leave if I hope to get home for dinner. It was worth the wait to meet Gary, though, you lucky fuck, Billy." Looking at me with a forced smile, Ron says, "I'm looking forward to all of us hooking up when Billy's over this Covid shit. And I'll see you tomorrow at the quad, Pat. We'll grab a coffee or something." 

Billy mumbles, "Thanks again, Ronny," who nods, "No problem. Same time tomorrow. See you guys later," and he leaves.

Pat says, "He seems like an okay guy. Nice of him to ride his motorcycle here, and now he needs to ride it through all that Philly traffic to get home." I mumble, "He looks too small to be riding a motorcycle." Billy goes, "It's more like a motorbike."

As Ron's motorbike roars like a motorcycle in the background, Billy says, "He's a pretty cool dude, handling that badass bike," then, "So, Gary, how was work today? I'll bet going to work every day makes college appear more and more enticing with each day that passes."

We talk about that; Pat has another joke, told in the funny way he has of saying funny things as I hold Billy's hand. I took his hand, half expecting he'd object, but he didn't. Later we all have a beer. For obvious reasons, Billy doesn't share his bottle with me as he likes. Then, at six o'clock, I kiss Billy on the forehead, and Pat and I leave.

Outside, with Pat's arm across my shoulders, we cross the street to his house as he tells me, "Be at my place by seven, Bud. Billy slipped me a joint, so we can get a little high tonight, have a couple of beers, and make a party out of it until nine-thirty or so when my folks and Jena will be getting home."

He said it all confidently and matter-of-factly as if it was predetermined, and he was merely reminding me of the times, which generally would get my dick twitching. I just left Billy, though, so I'm still focused on him. Shrugging and hesitating, I finally say, "I'm not sure I want to hook up tonight, Pat. I'm sorry, but maybe tomorrow night."

He says, "Oh, damn! That blows, but when you change your mind, shoot me a text, okay?" then he kisses me on the cheek, adding, "Billy asked me to give you a juicy kiss thanking you for the magazines."

Grinning, I go, "No, not here!" Then, add jokingly, "The thought of a juicy kiss from you gets my heart pumping." He chuckles, "How about your dick; is anything happening there? Ha-ha, just kidding. Let me know when you change your mind about tonight, Gary." 

We both do half-ass waves, and he goes up the walk to his front door while I go to the right and begin the six-block walk home. Gee, he didn't put up much of an argument about tonight. It's as if he has no doubt I'll end up with him tonight, even though I said I wouldn't. That's the kind of confidence I get hooked on from a guy/guy. Ha-ha, he's so confident he said 'when' I changed my mind about getting together with him tonight. I wonder how it feels to be confident about everything.

When I'd walked three blocks, I'd realized Pat was right. I will hook up with him tonight. I mean, Pat wants me to, and so does Billy, so what's my problem? Then there's the social factor, which Billy thinks I'm somewhat lacking; I don't want to act as if I have autism. What the hell? Why didn't I agree to go to his house when he first mentioned it? As I take my phone out, I snicker at my recently enhanced ability to quickly rationalize reasons for sexy messing around with Pat. And, yes, I see the irony of Billy's giving up on rationalizing while I've taken it up big time. That's the beauty of being good at rationalization; you actually believe it!

I text Pat: 'I was practicing my joking around, Pat. As you already knew, of course, I'm coming over tonight, and thanks for inviting me.' Oh damn, I shouldn't have included that last part about him inviting me. My lunch buddy at work, Mark, has me a bit discombobulated with that autism comment, and now I'm overly conscious about not exhibiting symptoms. I mean, would a non-autistic guy mention anything about being invited? Yeah, well, ha-ha, how the 'eff would I know?

Pat texted back, 'I knew you were only breaking my balls. Oh, and I meant to mention that you should bring that pack of Marlboro I saw in your shirt pocket.' I'm such a sap. I actually thought for a minute there I wasn't going to see him tonight. I came to my senses fairly fast, though, and Pat knew I would. Jeez, I can't help liking Pat. I can't help looking up to him a little too. He's a cool, suave motherfucker, as Billy would say. On the other hand, I don't like Ronny at all! What's there to like about him?

At dinner, I told Mom and Dad about Billy's COVID-19 and how bad he looked yesterday, although I noticed a significant improvement today. Oh man, was that ever a mistake because Mom spent ten minutes telling me I shouldn't see Billy for a week to two weeks at least. I almost laughed in her face, except I'd never do that to my Mom, not even if what she said was ludicrous. Not seeing Billy? Get real! I sidestepped her concern by telling her I wasn't seeing Billy tonight and lying about what we'd be doing: "Pat and I are playing computer games at his house tonight." After saying that, I wondered why Pat and I weren't seeing Billy tonight. 

In my bedroom, I text Pat, 'Hey, we're visiting Billy first, right?' Then, I go to the bathroom for a quick shower, getting ready for another date with my substitute sexy messing-around friend, Pat. Pat did not reply to my text until I was getting dressed. Then he texted, 'No, Bud. Billy's grandparents are having dinner with them tonight, and he thinks our visiting would be awkward for us.'

Huh? Aren't his old grandparents worried about catching the virus? But, damn! Billy is awfully considerate to Pat and me because it would be awkward meeting and greeting parents and grandparents. Huh, how about... Billy being considerate? If it were me, I'd want a visit for a legitimate escape from my parents and grandparents. Whatever, I wait until ten minutes of seven before starting the six-block walk. I want to be sure not to get there before his parents and sister have left for wherever they're going. While walking, I get this weird feeling in my balls that I think is what's known as horniness. If horniness is being anxious to have some sexy messing around, then yeah, I'm horny. 

I'll bet Pat can make any guy horny once they've sampled his forbidden fruit. Well, it wouldn't be forbidden unless the guy was in a committed relationship, which I'm apparently not. That's according to Mark, and I think Billy too. And Pat definitely doesn't think I'm doing anything wrong. Yeah, I can forget about the forbidden fruit bullshit. Before I even ring his doorbell, Pat opens the door, "Hey, Bud! C'mon in." 

He's dressed but obviously recently showered, as his hair is still wet. He'd put it in his usual ponytail this time, though, so I don't need to help him with that. Wow, he's good-looking!  Walking in, I say, "Every time I come over here, you've just gotten out of the shower."

He laughs, "Well, yeah, I shower after dinner every night. Don't you?" Mumbling, "Not always, but most days, yeah, I guess." I must be staring at Pat too obviously because he grins, asking, "What? Aren't you sure it's me? Why are you staring?"

"Staring? I'm not staring," I say as I look at his hand, which is holding one of Billy's stolen joints. He mutters, "Oh, okay; you weren't staring, ha-ha." Then, as he closes the door behind me, he says, "I need to give you Billy's juicy kiss as a thank you for the magazines," and, right here in the foyer, he wraps his arms around my neck and gives me an amazingly hot sexy sloppy kiss; one only a gay guy as experienced as Pat, could do. 

It's hard to resist putting my arms around him, but I resist and leave my hands on his waist. It's a thirty-second, tongue-involved, saliva-laden kiss that leaves me dizzy and with a hard five-inch dick in my jockey shorts. Pulling his head back a little, Pat grins, his arms still around my neck. "How was that for a thank-you kiss, Bud? Would William be satisfied I carried out his request?"

Gasping in some oxygen, I nod, "Uh-huh, anybody would be satisfied with that kiss; um, I'll need to tell Billy he's welcome."

Taking one arm away, leaving the other around my neck, Pat laughs, "The things you say and how you say them crack me up. I'm looking forward to being in my bed with you naked, but first, let's smoke this joint. I haven't smoked a joint since the last one with you. I smoked a lot more grass in Delaware." 

I mumble, "Oh."

I'm wearing my lightweight hoodie as we walk through the kitchen and onto the small deck. Pat has on a T-shirt, sweatpants, and slippers; that's all. It's the beginning of May, but the weather is only in the low sixties, so I'm surprised Pat doesn't put something else on. For something to say, I ask, "Um, you said that guy Ron was an okay dude. Do you really think that? I mean, he was an asshole to me, pushy and arrogant, and not friendly at all until we were with you and Billy, then he completely changed into this gosh-oh-gee kind of guy. An everything is peachy, kind of guy."

Shrugging and frowning, he mumbles, "I didn't notice that. He seemed, ah, sort of differential to me and definitely to William, um, Billy." Shrugging, I mutter, "I guess it's just me he has a problem with."

Leaning against the railing, his arm still around my neck, apparently uninterested in the Ron topic, Pat holds up the joint, asking, "Do you have a light?" 

Smirking, I pull my new Bic lighter out of my pocket, mumbling, "I'll bet you didn't think I had one," and give him the lighter. He has earbuds hanging around his neck connected to his cell phone as he snickers, "You're correct. I thought I'd need to send you inside to go through the junk drawer in the kitchen as I had you do last night."

Lighting the joint, Pat inhales and, holding the smoke in his lungs, motions with his hands for me to lean my back against his chest so he can put his arms around me. Shaking my head, "Nah, I'll take my drags standing next to you."

Exhaling, he goes, "Oh, come on, Bud, humor me so I can share this joint the way he does it." When anyone says 'he' to me, they mean Billy. Rolling my eyes, I say, "Okay, I guess. Jeez, it's easier humoring you than arguing about it." Facing away from him, I lean back on him, and he puts an arm around my stomach, mumbling, "Don't be difficult. You know how much your man likes squeezing you."

There he goes with that 'my man' shit again. His left arm is across my stomach to hold me against him, and he positions the joint to my lips with his right hand. Feeling silly, I chuckle, then mutter, "Yeah, okay, why not?" and inhale some marijuana smoke. 

Pat murmurs, "That's my Bud," then he puts the left Earbud in my ear, the right one in his ear, saying, "I've got some country music to listen to as we smoke this primo shit. The first song is Dwight Yoakam's 'A Thousand Miles From Nowhere.' He turns on the music, then inhales off the joint.

I'm not a country music fan, but since I don't know anything about it, I'm not critical of it either. This song sounds pretty good, actually, and it's definitely country with a little twang in this guy Dwight's voice. There's an artificial twang in Pat's voice, too, as he sings some of the words to the song. Billy sings better. Still singing, taking his time in between dragging off the joint, making it last, Pat finally holds the joint for me to again suck off it, and then he waits before taking another drag himself. 

After the third drag, I'm already feeling dreamy because I don't smoke grass often, and it hits me harder than most when I do smoke it. I'm feeling good, though, snuggling back against Pat's firm, taut body. His arm feels nice around me now—nice enough that I clasp his hand on my right hip, holding hands. He stops singing after "A Thousand Miles From Nowhere" and kisses my cheek, then holds the joint in front of me, and I suck off it, murmuring, "Ummm," because I'm feeling high.

Another song comes on, and Pat mumbles, "This is 'Blinking Lights' by the group The Weekend," and then he sucks in some dope smoke. I do not really care, but in my mind, this is not a country-sounding song so much as it's a rock-and-roll tune. We finish the joint when this song ends, and Pat flicks the roach to the middle of the yard, but we stay like we are, both of us a few feet above the deck, flying a little.

Pat murmurs, "Ruby, Don't Take Your Love To Town," then, "Ha-ha, I'm not calling you Ruby. That's the name of this next song," and we both laugh as though we've never heard anything that funny. After the laughing, which stops as abruptly as it started, my head lulls back on his shoulder as I think, hey, I've heard this song before. By the song's end, my head is beginning to clear, and I say, "That was The Killers. They're not country and western."

Pat and I have similar bodies as we're about the same height and weight, but, like Billy, Pat's got a better build than me, compliments of Nature. Not from anything either one of them did to have a better muscular definition. Pat's arm feels strong around me, and as I said, his stomach and chest feel hard as he holds me back firmly against him. 

He mumbles, "Oh, that's right! That was The Killers. Um, yeah, the country version is by a very old-time guy, Kenny Rogers. I like The Killers' version better, though." He rubs the side of his face against mine, murmuring, "Even better, I like how all parts of you feel so good. Your face is so smooth and smells nice. Turn around, Bud."
When I turn to face him, still feeling some marijuana effect, I lean against him, and we make out right here on his back porch or deck, or whatever it's called. I can't believe he doesn't care that neighbors' houses around us aren't far apart, with many windows brightly lit; a casual glance out any one of the houses would probably raise some eyebrows. Well, if Pat doesn't care, why should I? None of the people in the houses know me.

Wow, though, Pat's hands know how to caress a guy just right, and his mouth is perfect for making out. He knows how to get me super-hot and aroused, and then he teases me with little kisses as I'm trying to engage all of his luscious lips and his just-right pink tongue. 

Then, I see his lips form a grin. Ha! He knows he's gotten me anxious for his full make-out, and he teases a little more before again getting back into his exquisite making-out, his technique making my penis get harder and harder as it tries getting longer than its five inches while dripping, drip, drip, drip drops of precum that soak into my jockey shorts.

Pat is too accomplished and experienced for me. He plays with me a little, teasing me into wanting more like he's holding a doggie treat out to a puppy and then pulling it back. At the same time, though, he makes it obvious he desires me, so it's dizzying and a little frustrating, which he appears to have fun with, but in the end, he's irresistible, and I continue making out until Pat decides we've had enough for now.

He teases, but he was totally invested in our making out, don't get me wrong. He's gasping when his face slides against mine, his lips leaving a trail of saliva on my cheek. Sucking in air, I feel Pat's long penis is a rock in his pants poking my junk, so yeah, it's not just me who's aroused mightily. He inhales deeply, his strong arms holding me against him easily. Another inhale, then a chuckle as he mutters, "You're a sex pot, ain'tcha? You, with your cute baby face and the, um, pretend confusion about what's happening when you're actually the one running the show, letting fools like me think I am."

My face against the side of his, I murmur, "No, you're wrong, and you're no fool. You're in charge, and I go along for the ride." His hand slides off my hip, groping my crotch, "Yeah, I feel that cute penis of yours is as hard as it's likely to get, so I need to take care of you by getting you in bed before you blow a load in your pants out here on the deck."

You know what? That pissed me off, and I angrily, too loudly, said, "Damn! That right there, what you just said is so condescending and insulting to me, I'm, ah, speechless. Why do you insist on treating me like I'm a silly, clueless child you're taking care of?"

"Holy crap, I'm sorry, Bud. I swear, I didn't realize I was doing that. You're just so cuddly and youthful-looking. I don't know; I can't help myself, I guess. Gee, I'm crazy about you! I don't mean anything by it, and I definitely didn't mean to upset you."

Still angry, I go, "And my name isn't Bud! Call me by my name." He says excitedly, still holding onto me, "Omigod, did you see that movie too? That "Call Me By My Name" movie."

"Um, what? I mean, no, I didn't know there was a movie called that." Well, after my anger explosion, my boner left the building, so I added, "Whatever, though. Can we have a beer or something and start over?"

Letting go of me, he says, "Sure, absolutely. We'll take the beers with us to my bedroom, okay?" Was I overreacting? He was so nice about me blowing a gasket, I go, "Sure, we'll take the beers with us and drink them in bed if you want."

With an open can of beer in our hands, we go upstairs, with Pat telling me about the young star in the movie he mentioned, "Call Me By My Name." He says, "Omigod. This young star in the movie is so fucking slim! He's fairly tall but overly slim, and there were a number of almost nude shots of him. I wish I could remember his name. It was a pretty good movie, too, except his older male lover wasn't all that hot. At least, I don't think he was. Too old for my taste."

At the top of the stairs, swallowing some beer, I mumble, "I'm kinda interested in seeing that super slim young guy, so I'll check the movie out on cable." Pat left his hand lightly on the back of my neck all the way to his bedroom, then asked, "You're not still pissed off at me, are you, Gary?"

"No, and what a nice change you called me by my name." We set the beers on the bureau and started pulling off our clothes, including my socks, this time. Pat says, "I don't mean anything negative by calling you Bud. I told you it's what Leonardo called me—his pet name for me. I mean it as a compliment, calling you that, and now it's become stuck in my head. So, could you try not being so sensitive?"

Shrugging, I say, "Yeah, it's okay. Mostly, it's the other thing, being treated like a dufus little kid that gets under my skin." As I'm saying that, I'm using all my limited willpower not to look at his long penis that swings with every move he makes. Pat is seemingly so used to it that he's unconscious, and it swings side to side like a metronome, tick-tock, as he moves. We're both naked, and then Pat, his dick swinging, wrapped me in his arms, murmuring, "It gets under your skin, huh? What'd I just say a minute ago? Don't be so sensitive; it makes things awkward," and he bit my ear lobe, then kissed the side of my face, "You're so yummy, I could eat you up," and then we get into another make out.

He's a great make-out friend, as I've mentioned before, but also, the way he wraps me up against his taut body is so sexy. I find myself trying to dissolve into him. 

Okay, he's a little upset with me, so I try being extra cooperative as his arms and hands move me this way and that; his hand on my buttock gets me pressing my junior-size package into his large one, then his hand on the back of my leg gets me moving it behind and around his leg. My arms clinging around him, and the next thing I know, his hands under my ass have lifted me off the floor, and then we're in bed with me climbing all over him, Pat murmuring, "That's more like my Bud. No more bitching."

We kiss until he says, "Come on, Bud, time to suck your man's dick." I'm horny and aroused, so his words barely register; I get between his legs, take the head of his seven-to-eight-inch penis in my mouth, seven soft and then eight inches hard, licking all around it as Pat runs his fingers through my hair. My hand against his belly, his pubic hair all around, I close my fist around the shaft, leaving inches of the shaft and the big head still there to lick and suck on. My lips go down on his penis over and over, the head popping in and out of my throat as the shaft in my fist, plus the part I'm sucking on becomes hard as a rock.

By now, my dick is a steel spike, too, up tightly against my belly. Pat's feet move constantly, his heels moving up and back on the bed, his knees going up and down on either side of me. Slurping on the hard swollen head of his boner, Pat pulling my hair, moans, "Ah, ah, ooh, don't stop, ah, ah," until, lifting his ass off the bed, his back arching, he goes, "Aaahh!" and fills my mouth with slimy, creamy cum, then another hard little streak of it as I swallow, then swallow again with some of the cum running out both sides of my mouth.

Still holding his hard boner in my fist, I pull my head back to gasp, swallow, then make gasping sounds trying to get a few drops of cum that went into my windpipe. Pat sits up, patting my back, trying to help. Letting go of his dick, I make a loud coughing sound, and then, "Oh, fuck. Some of it got in my windpipe."

I'm sitting up on my knees, doing one last cough; Pat asks, "Are you okay? I never saw anyone, um, have that reaction," and he's wiping the cum off my chin with his fingers.

My eyes watering, I nod, "Uh-huh, I'm good." He wraps his arms around me, pulling me with him as he lies back on the bed, murmuring, "That felt so good, Bud. Holy shit, I loved it. You can be proud that you took care of your man tonight." Still making little clearing throat sounds, I go, "My substitute man, which is another thing I'm not comfortable with; that 'my man' thing."

Rubbing his hands up and down my back, he goes, "Christ, chill out, will you? Please stop criticizing everything I say." Sounding less harsh, he says, "On the positive side, you're getting better at blowing me. I can see the improvement. The best thing about your oral sex, even though it's still amateurish, is the way you get aroused while doing it. That adds to the experience for me, seeing how much you love doing it. That's a huge turn-on."

Lying on him like this, I can't feel his so-called hairy chest, such as it is, but his body is very masculine, and I like that a lot. Billy's an inch or two shorter than me, and those missing couple of inches, along with a couple of extra inches of Pat's penis, do make a difference. It's noticeable, is all I'm saying. Pat rubs up my back, then up the back of my head, quietly asking, "Have you settled down and got all your bitching out of the way, Bud? We're all good now, right?"

I feel fairly contented except for a slight case of blue balls. If Pat had held off blowing his load another thirty seconds or so, I would have climaxed, too. "Yes, we're good, I guess," and, running his fingers in my hair, he murmurs, "I should hope so."

After a few minutes of lying together naked, Pat energetically says, "And now it's time for some activity before we both fall asleep. Get our beers off the bureau, Bud, and then bring me a damp washcloth from the bathroom. Your mouth and chin are sticky. I'll clean up my boy, and then we'll drink our beers in bed, okay?"

Well, I just said I was done with being bitchy, but if I want Pat to stop treating me like a clueless child, I need to stop acting like one and stick up for myself. So, at the risk of pissing Pat off more, here goes, "No, Pat! It's not okay, not really. I need to disagree with you again. First, I'm not your boy, and we've had that discussion before, right? Secondly, I don't appreciate being 'sent' on errands. Now, if you'd have asked instead of ordering me to get the beers and a washcloth, that's a different thing altogether."

This time, with an exasperated sigh, Pat accepts the criticism, saying, "Well, Goddamn. I guess I'm sorry. I meant it in good fun, Gary, and I meant to say, Bud; not 'boy.' You're okay being my Bud, right? You said you were last night, and I'll get the damn washcloth if you'd be so kind to get the beers."
Getting off him and the bed, I mumble, "Jeez, you backing off so nicely like that and not taking any offense makes me look like the crabby bad guy."He gets off the bed, grinning, "Well, I'm trying not to be a prick to you like Leonardo was with me, but I slip sometimes. That's bad of me, especially because I'm just the substitute and not your real man... for now"

I bite my tongue so as not to say what I'd like to, which is, 'You're not my man, substitute or otherwise!'  Instead, I say, "Ah, never mind. You're a good guy, Pat. Sorry for giving you a hard time. I'll get the beers and the washcloth since you're nice enough to want to clean my chin." Handing Pat a can of beer from the bureau and putting my can on the bedside table. He gets back in bed, and I go to the bathroom and wash his cum off my face, then use a comb that's next to the sink to comb my hair that's been long enough to comb for a week. Huh, I like it like this. 

Making sure the hair on my forehead is combed over in a small pompadour the way Pat combed it last night, I grin at my reflection in the mirror and go back to the bedroom. Getting in bed next to him, Pat grins, holding out his arm the way Billy does it, and I cuddle against him, saying, "I washed up in the bathroom." He passes my beer can to me, mumbling, "I was going to share my beer with you as he does, except I was worried you'd throw another fit if I tried it."

Frowning, "What are you talking about? I haven't thrown any fits. I was merely objecting a little bit to a few of your, um, what you've said are slips of your tongue." He smirks at me, "Uh-huh," and I remember what Mark told me and add, "I'm equal to you and Billy, ya know, so don't treat me if I'm, ah, inferior or something."

He tightens his arm around me, grinning and mumbling, "You're so fucking cute when you get pissed off. A little tiger." More condescension, but he apparently doesn't know any better. Swallowing some beer, I mutter, "Not to beat a dead horse, but that was condescending. And I'm not little; we're the same size."

He snickers and bites my earlobe again, murmuring, "My little tiger, Bud."

Oh, brother! I give up...

Moving on from trying to make a point, I give in to the obvious, which is Pat's attractiveness and the feel of his naked body against mine, and enjoy it. Moving my bare foot up and down his calf, and, unlike his sparse chest hair, I feel the hairs on his hairy leg. I mutter, "Jeez, I can feel the hair on your hairy legs."

He gulps some beer, snickers, and says, "Sexy, huh?" "Not especially, no."

He goes, "Yes, you know it's sexy! Why are you being such a contrarian?' I shrug, and he tells me what he already told me a couple of weeks ago, "Leonardo made me shave my legs, and, holy shit, I feel sorry for girls who need to do that most of their lives. What a pain in the ass that is." I'm sick of hearing about Leonardo, but I don't want to turn into a bigger whiner by mentioning that, too, so I ignore it.

When Billy and I are together, I never get frustrated with anything he says or does. That's interesting to notice because whether I'm with Billy or Pat, the great majority of the time, we're not messing around sexily; we're talking and whatnot. And I hate to say it, but Pat often says annoying things, although he doesn't do it intentionally. On the other hand, I'm horny for some sexy messing around, and Pat is excellent at eliminating horniness. He does sex better than Billy because he's more experienced and has a long chubby penis that can make me forget about everything else for five or six minutes. With that in mind, I lie over onto half of Pat's body and get my leg in between his. Snuggling the side of my face on his chest, "Let's not argue anymore, Pat."

His arm is across my shoulders, hugging me. "We're not arguing, Bud. You're attempting to school me about how I should say things that don't annoy you." The aforementioned sparse hairs on his sternum tickle my nose, and his left nipple feels hard under my cheek, making me squirm with horniness. Why do we males have nipples anyway? Never mind that, though! To get him started on some messing around, I mumble, "Do you want me to suck you off again?"

Ruffling my hair, he murmurs, "Your hair is finally long enough to comb. It's time you gave up on that little kid's haircut." "I guess, but do you want me to suck you off again?" 

"Ha-ha, you really like doing that, don't you?"

Well, yeah, I do. "That and other things. You decide since you're my substitute man." Jesus H Christ, why did I say that? It's what I want him to stop saying! He doesn't pick up on it, though, and says, "I'd love for you to suck a good hard boner on me, but first, get a condom from the bedside table. I keep them in a Sucrets lozenges tin, so when the brat snoops in my room, she won't see them."

He's a slow learner... he just sent me on another errand. Sighing, I roll over to the other side of the bed and pull out the drawer on the bedside table, but there isn't a Sucrets tin. "There's no Sucrets tin in this drawer, Pat."

He mutters, "Huh? Oh, maybe I put it in the drawer on this side of the bed," and I say, "Or maybe your sister has it." After looking in the other drawer, he slams the drawer shut, "Goddamnit! She does have it."

Rolling my eyes, I give a quick thought to getting dressed, going home, and jerking off. Only a quick thought before coming to my senses. I mean, I'm naked in bed with one of the sexiest, most attractive nineteen-year-olds on the planet. No, I'm not going home to jerk off. I say, "You have the jelly stuff, right?"

He does an exasperating-sounding exhale, then snorts out a laugh, muttering, "That Goddamn, Jena. Ha-hah, what a hot shit she is! Um, yeah, the KY Jelly is under my socks in that small right-hand bureau drawer. Get it for me, Bud." Another errand. I slide out of bed and pad naked to his bureau and go through the drawer. Holding up a tube of lubricant, Pat nods, "That's it! Bring it over here."

He can't help himself, so I take it to him, and he unnecessarily mumbles, "Now get back in bed." No shit! I get in bed beside him, and he nods, "Push the covers down and give my dick a good sucking."
I've somehow slipped into a sort of trance, intrigued by him and wanting to please him while pleasing myself. Forgetting all the peripheral stuff, I'm going to spend the next ten minutes or so in a state of gay sexual euphoria with this desirable, extremely attractive, and capable top/guy as I'm playing the hell out of my girl/guy role. Nodding my head, I murmur, "Okay, Pat. Um, should I, that is, are you going to lie there, or...?"

He puts his hands behind his head, adjusts his body, and spreads his legs, "Uh-huh, get between my legs on your knees and do a good job of licking and sucking my dick."

On my knees, I do what he said, and he says, "Oh, here, take the lube." He holds the tube out. I take it as he mumbles, "When you've sucked a hard boner on me, lube my dick and your asshole, okay?"

Nodding, I put the tube beside me, now fully into my docile girl/guy role, feeling shivers of arousal at how Pat, without him realizing it, is unconsciously handling his guy/guy role in our sex play pretty damn well. If I can't get the loving feeling I get with Billy, at least I want the full experience of eliminating my horniness. 

On my knees between his hairy calves, I rub a hand up and down each leg from his ankle to his knee, then again, and one more time all the way down past his ankle and across his feet. Pat has a partial grin on his lips, mumbling, "Sex with you, um, messing around with you is the best fun I've ever had in my life. And I'm not lying."

I'm smiling brightly because what a nice thing for him to say! Still smiling, my eyes at the top of their sockets looking into his pretty eyes, I lean down and lick his toes, then suck on them. Pat goes, "Umm, holy shit. That's a first for me," and I lick up the sole of his foot. He goes, "Ahh, do that some more."

Omigod, it's so fucking sexy doing this! I remember a month or so ago doing a little of this with Billy's smaller feet. I spend five minutes licking Pat's hairless feet and sucking on his toes while thinking, 'he has the best-manicured toenails I've ever seen. Who the hell cuts and files their toenails so neatly?'

By the time his feet have a sheen of my saliva, my dick is a roaringly hard boner, and it takes all my limited willpower not to stroke it. Looking up at Pat again, saliva all around my mouth, he nods and murmurs, "That was uniquely awesome, although not unheard of. Now you're treating your man properly, Bud."

With my boner up against my belly, I walk on my knees two steps and pick up his long penis that feels firm but not as hard as mine. It became obvious in my early days of messing around with Billy that I get boners faster than your average male humanoid. It's logical that a lot longer penis, like Pat's, needs more stimulus.

With that in mind, I push my tongue all the way out, and it curves partially around the shaft of his cock. Then drag my tongue from the root that's surrounded by his dark pubic hair to the head, over the head, and down the other side, then do it twice more. Ah, now it's a fairly hard boner in my fist.

The head goes into my mouth with my tongue spastically lapping all over and around it while my lips suck on it like it's a cherry Tootsie Pop. Pat bounces his ass up and down a little bit on the mattress, grunting, "Um, um, um, ahh, ahh..."

His penis is a steel shaft now, and I cover my teeth, press tightly on the shaft, and go down on it once, twice, and the third time the head pops into my throat. Pat's groaning and pushing at my head, "Oh, oh, that's good, Bud, umm... oh, fuck yeah..."

Pulling my head back, his sloppy, hard-as-stone penis comes out of my mouth, transformed now into a long, fat wicked hard boner sticking straight up from his groin. He shakes his head, grinning and saying, "Amazing! Now, lube us up, my little tiger, Bud."

Whatever! I'm all geared up, more aroused than Pat, my five-inch boner sticking straight out now, too hard to bob as I move around. Squeezing lubricant on my hand, I need to hold my breath when closing my hand around Pat's fat, long, hard penis. I need to concentrate to not shake from the arousal I'm sensing. The oral sex has me climbing the walls to do more serious types of messing around with Pat. My horniness has escalated from an already dangerously high degree when I got here to the danger zone of premature ejaculation.

My fingers don't completely reach around Pat's prodigious boner. It's big enough that there is a gap between my fingertips and thumb. Thinking about this huge male organ going inside me makes me shiver and gasp for some oxygen. When the thick shaft is slippery with lube, I then smear lube all around the bulbous hard head. Leaving my hand on the top of the now slippery head, I look to Pat for approval. 

He nods, murmuring quietly, "Ah, um, yeah, that's good so far, Bud, but lube it up some more. I love how that feels."

With more lube on my hand, I stroke up and down the shaft again, my eyes blinking as I shudder with anticipation. Squeezing more lube on the head, I squish it all around, and finally, Pat mutters, "That's good. Now get lube around and inside your asshole. Lube yourself up really well."
 I nod at him, my eyes shining, "Okay, Pat, I'll get a lot of this jelly inside me." "Get a finger or two up there as well. Lube yourself so I can fuck you to the moon." Nodding at him again, I reached behind me and pushed lube in past my sphincter, then more, and even more. The tube's almost empty before I ask, "Is that enough, Pat?"

He twirls his finger, "Turn around on your hands and knees, and let me check my boy out. See how well you did." When I turn around, Pat says, "Get closer," and, on my hands and knees, I step backward. He mutters, "Stop," and pushes his finger inside my ass, wiggling it around, "Not bad. You did okay." Pulling his finger out, he says, "Get a tad bit closer to me now, then lift up on your knees."

I'm in a zone, anxious to please, anxious to feel his big member inside me, quickly doing what he said. Looking back, I move closer until he mumbles, "Good, right there. Okay, now sit on my hard cock; go up and down on it a few times, and we'll get you opened up." Quivering, my hands back on Pat's thighs for support, I sit a little and feel the boner's head touch my anus. Pat murmurs, "I'm holding this big hunk of boner right here under your asshole, so what are you waiting for?"

Chastised, thinking Pat's losing patience with all my bitching, so, holding my breath, I sit until the swollen fat head squeezes in past my tight asshole, "Ow! Umm, no, I mean, ahh, that feels so good. Oh, fuck, um..."

Sounding more impatient, he says, "Let's go, Bud. I taught you a version of this before, so you should be doing this better. All the way down, come on, let's go!" I sit all the way down on that big boner, and he goes, "Ooff! Ha-ha! You sat on my balls. My fault, though. Omigod, that was awesome. I think I'm going to cum. No, not really. Fuck, that felt great."

I'm shaking a little, but not from pain, although pain flashed a bright red color in my head for a few seconds. I'm shaking because I'm concentrating like mad, not to climax with precum dripping off the end of my hard dick. I feel filled up inside so much I can hardly believe it, and I hardly remember to breathe. Sizzling vibrations of pleasure swarm over me, pushing the red flash of pain aside as I stare at my impossibly hard dick that I'm worried will break out of its skin if it gets any more swollen.

Pat says, "Whoa, that really rocked my world. Good job; go up and down on it a few times, then pull off onto your hands and knees. We're going to have ourselves a smooth, hard, and fast fucking." I have no idea if Pat knows he's pushing all my buttons or if it's a coincidence, but his manner, the way he's saying everything, his getting impatient with me, and his big dick have me ready to do anything he says. 

Taking a deep breath, I murmur, "Yes, right away, Pat," and lift up and go down on his iron pole three times fast, tears forming in my eyes as I almost climax again, then pull off entirely, falling on my face, but manage to get up quickly on my hands and knees pushing my ass up waiting for my man to mount me. My heart is beating like a hummingbird's heart, faster than I can count.

Breathing in gasping spurts, I can't remember being this cranked up to get fucked. Looking back, I see Pat moving around behind me, and then his hands grip my hips. Two seconds later, I do a screechy "Ahhh!" as he drives the full eight inches up my ass. Not that it hurt so much, but it startled me. 

His initial long eight-inch steady thrusts are followed by faster thrusting. Pat grunts at every thrust as each inch of his long boner electrifies the nerve endings in my rectum into a delirium of pleasure sensations, my prostate gland vibrating like the essence of the Universe. I'm immediately right at the tipping point of climax. When he starts the shorter, faster thrusting, "Slap, slap, slap," we both make a weird squealing sound, blowing out loads in less than thirty seconds, both overly stimulated even before the fast, shorter thrusting.

Climax creates an indescribable kind of pleasure that's different from all other types. As I've thought before, it's almost a painful heated sensation but, at the same time, a sensation like nothing else in the world and a highly prized experience among us humanoid animals. The sensation spreads out from the groin to many parts of the body, causing shuddering and holding breaths until the peak is reached. Then, the sensation begins diminishing, and one can breathe again. I'm not sure, but the heart may stop for an instant as well. It's really quite something to experience; the sexual climax is.

Pat gasps as he pulls out his hard cock followed by some cum drooling out with it to roll under me to the back of my nuts. Lying back on the bed, he mumbles, "Fabulous, fabulous. Absolutely fabulous. Come on, Bud, lie with me, and we'll savor that shared moment." I crawl up to him and lie on top of him, my heart still pounding like a drum. He puts his arms around me, "Ya know, I can't recall climaxing the exact second my sex partner climaxed. Even after doing a hundred sex acts with twenty different partners, that was another first for me."

Taking a deep breath, I almost tell him Billy and I climax at the same time every second or third time we mess around. I don't, though, because I'm sick of hearing him speak of Leonardo, so he may feel the same about me bringing up Billy all the time. Instead, I mumble, "That was the hardest I've ever climaxed."

He gives my body a squeeze, then says, "C'mon, slide off me a little." I slide off and get tight against his side as he mutters, "That's better. That was fast climaxing, though, ya know? I wish it could have lasted longer. What do you think?"

I mumble, "Your cum is leaking out of my ass onto the bed." Moving his arm from under me, he puts it over me, "Yeah, I guess, but wasn't that really fast?"

"I lost track of time. It was great, though. You're really good at being the guy/guy." He laughs, "Don't start with that guy/guy and girl/guy bullshit. I never know if you're breaking my balls with that craziness or not." I let that pass, and Pat goes on to hint that he'd like to hear more about what a fantastic top he is. Tops like to be complimented. Yeah, why not; they do most of the heavy lifting.

That is probably the hottest sex I've had yet, and I'm feeling a strong attraction to Pat because of that, so I compliment the shit out of him, then crawl partially on him again, kissing his mouth, then licking around it, grinning into his eyes. He puts his thumb in my mouth, murmuring, "You can suck on that, Bud. You've been a minor pain in my ass tonight, and It took me a while, but I'm finally winning you over, huh?"

I suck on his thumb, grinning around it until he goes, "Okay, okay, that's enough," and he slides me off him again, adding, "Oh man, I thought Richard Marks was hard to get through to, and yeah, everyone had to call him Richard. It took me five or six fucks on his chubby ass before he came around and appreciated me, but you made me work at it even harder."

It's very confusing. I don't understand my overreaction just now or all my complaints earlier. Vast contradictory emotions. It's partially that Pat seemed so awesome there during the buildup of sucking his cock and lubing it up, and then he had me lube myself up too. Very erotic stuff, and I was horny as hell to start with, not to mention sucking him off an hour ago. Did he plan all this, the teasing when we made out, and, well, everything he orchestrated from the minute I walked in the front door?

He might have, considering he's been at this gay stuff for six or seven years. The thing is, right now, I don't care because I feel good, and Billy told me to have fun, and he wants Pat to take care of me, meaning this messing around we're doing, so it's all good. Pat says, "I need to remember how to say this properly, so would you please bring the damp washcloth I asked for the last time? We need to clean up the bed and ourselves."

I kiss his shoulder, mumbling, "That was nice. You asked me to do it." He mutters, "Whatever works, I guess. Oh, and bring a hand towel, too." I do that, and Pat wipes his dick with the washcloth, then the sheet where I drooled his goo, then he hands the washcloth to me, "Wipe your ass and hold the washcloth there until the drooling stops."

I mutter, "That sounded like an order," and we look at one another for a second, then we both chuckle as he dries his dick and swipes at the wet spot on the sheet. Pat settles back in bed, "Bud, do us a favor and get two more beers from the refrigerator."

Making a face at him, I mumble, "Yeah, okay," and start putting on my underpants. He goes, "Forget the underpants, for Christ's sake. Please, get the beers. Don't be so much trouble. Gawd!"

Startled, I drop the underpants, mutter, "Jeez, okay," and pad out of the bedroom, down the hall, and downstairs, my dick feeling funny all the way. He's gotten on top of me in a way that feels kind of good. 

However, after all my earlier complaints about how he was treating and talking to me, he goes right back to doing the same thing as if proving a point to me. I'm in over my head again, but maybe not. I mean, I'm his girl/guy and will be as long as Billy's got Covid. Looking at it from a guy/guy's perspective, I can see how he might feel I'm being a pain in the ass tonight with my whining and complaining about different things. 

There are always two sides to an argument, so I better try playing my girl/guy role better, or I might get in the habit of being a pain in the ass, and that'll carry over to when Billy's over his Covid sickness. 

Plus, when my guy/guy, in this case, Pat, puts his foot down with me, I get a cool, sexy buzzing in my nuts, so why am I complaining? And another thing I need to be aware of is what I would be doing without Pat. Meaning I'd be doing nothing in my bedroom alone. How would my horniness get taken care of without him?

As I'm bringing the beers upstairs, I'm wondering why I've been testy tonight in the first place. He's being himself, and that's what I need to be too, myself and not some nagging bitch. In the bedroom, I pop the top on a can and give it to Pat, who's sitting up in bed, a pillow behind him. Popping the tab on my can of beer, I shrug, "Um, Pat, I'm sorry for being a pain in the ass tonight."
He grins, "I was sitting here wondering about that myself. You've been up and down tonight. You give me a great blow job, which I know you definitely get off on, and we just had a too-fast but primo fuck, and I'm wondering if maybe nothing pleases you. Ya know?"

Nodding, I shrug, "Yeah, you please me a lot." Motioning with his hand, he grins and goes, "Yeah, I thought I was. Hey, get in bed and tell me what's wrong with you tonight." Jeez, he's so smooth and mature; that gives me the feeling that I am a little kid compared to him. No wonder he treats me that way at times. 

Sitting next to him, he puts his arm across my shoulders and, with his other hand, swipes my hair off my forehead to the side, mumbling, "I've got some hair tonic stuff, Bud. We'll use it in your hair to help train it to stay over to the side with a little pompadour in front, okay? It looks better that way." Oh, God, what's so bad about being treated like an adored little brother anyway? I snuggle against him, murmuring, "Thanks, Pat." He finger-combs all my hair over to the side, pressing it down, mumbling, "You need to let it grow out a lot more, but it's getting better." 

Sighing, he goes, "So, what's your problem tonight?"

Shrugging, "I don't know, but I'm over whatever it was, and I need to tell you how much I like being with you. Thanks for, um, looking out for me until Billy's better. That's what I wanted to say," and I kiss his shoulder, adding, "I'm lucky you moved here, and I'm sorry I've been acting like a, um, whining cunt."

Swallowing his beer, he nods, "Apology accepted, but it wasn't really necessary. I think you're special, and I was willing to put up with a few immature outbursts, but it is better when you relax and let me handle everything. You know, be my boy, right?"

Nodding my head on his shoulder, "Yep, I agree. I know you think it's silly that I say the girl/guy thing, so instead of saying that, I'll think of it the way you do and agree you're my man, um, until my lover man, Billy's up and about."
He crushes his beer can, already finished it, then chuckles and says, "Good, let's leave it like that, although it's not as if it's some big deal you're finally understanding. I mean, I'm older and much more experienced than you, so what would be the alternative, you'd be my man? Ha-ha, come on, Bud!"

I nod again, "I know. You're right, Pat." He says, "And fuck, it's not just me. The same thing applies when you're with Billy; he's older than both of us, so he's got to be your man whether either of you guys wants to call it that or not. It's the only thing that makes sense for a relationship to work, ya know?"

Semantics, that's the hang-up, but it would sound as if I'm again arguing if I mentioned that semantics is all we're differing about. And what's my problem anyway? Fuck semantics! Pat is everything a gay guy could want in his man, boyfriend, or friend. He's not going to replace Billy in my life, but temporarily, I should feel honored that he wants to mess around with me.

My beer is still almost full, so I sit up and gulp some down, then snuggle back against Pat and murmur, "I don't want to get all maudlin on you, Pat, but the more we talk about it, the more I feel bad about almost ruining our night by acting like a girl, whining about unimportant stuff. I'm lucky you even want to spend your nights with me. So, ah, what I mean is, thank you! I appreciate you, I really do."

"I was beginning to wonder if you do, so thanks for telling me that. Do you want me to finish that beer for you?" 

Nodding, I give the can to him, and he swallows some, then says, "Get your Marlboros, and we'll have a smoke in the bathroom blowing the exhales out the window."

I guess he's had enough of talking about my bad behavior, so he's sending me on another errand to put an end to the discussion. I was beginning to repeat myself anyway, so I mumbled, "Okay," and we got out of bed. Taking my lighter and Marlboro pack from my Jeans, Pat holds out his hand, so I give them to him. 

He says, "Get us two more beers. Oh, and a can of air spray from the kitchen pantry. I'll meet you in the bathroom."

"Sure, Pat," and, without hesitating, my five-inch dick swinging side to side, I trot down the hall and downstairs, happy to do what I'm told. In the pantry, I find a can of air freshener, grab two more beers from the refrigerator, and hurry back upstairs. Pat's got a Marlboro lit, exhaling the smoke out the window. 

He nods his head for me to take a drag, holding the filter to my lips; I inhale too much, coughing out the exhale. He mumbles, "Jesus, Bud, don't blow the smoke out here. Blow it the fuck out the window!"

Taking a deep breath, I mutter, "Sorry, Pat," and he gives me a look of disapproval as he takes one of the beer cans, pops the top, and swallows a few gulps, then says, "Spay that air freshener around, and drink your beer this time."

He's finally lost patience with me, so I better shape up. While spraying the air freshener, I take three big gulps of beer. Then, for the next few minutes in between gulps of beer, I'm dragging off the cigarette as Pat holds it to my lips the way he saw Billy doing it that time in the back of the SUV. I grin at him to show I'm good with everything.

Pat gets me with my back against his chest again, his arm around me, talking about a kid he knew in high school who, no matter how hard he tried, couldn't take Pat's dick in his throat. The way he tells stories is funny, and I laugh, although I feel bad for the kid. He says, "You have limited experience, yet you can do it. This kid wanted to do it the worst way, but he had a gag reflex problem or something, ya know?"

We smoke two cigarettes as we drink the beers, me still back against his chest, his arm around me, holding the cigarettes to my lips as he's telling me about another guy he knew who, blah. blah, blah... This is so much better. I knew instinctively that I needed to be the girl/guy for Billy, and it's turned into a love affair. Why the hell did I forget to be that way earlier tonight with Pat? Hell, he was the girl/guy for that ass Leonardo, so he knows how I need to be with him as my man, temporarily, my man. Everything is smooth sailing now that he got my mind straightened out.

After smoking and drinking our beers, Pat took a round container of America Crew Foaming Cream from the medicine chest and said, "Why the hell do we even have this? I've certainly never used it. The only thing I can think of is that it may have been left at our Delaware house when my aunt and uncle visited a few years ago with my cousin, Artie. He had a recent crew cut and must have left this at our house accidentally."

He takes ten minutes rubbing this foam in my hair, then combing it with a tight part on the side, I stand still as he does it. Pat frowns as he tries a few times to get the small pompadour the exact way he wants it, then hands me the jar, "Take this home with you and use it in the morning, Bud. I want to see you combing it like I've done for you when we see Billy tomorrow afternoon. It'll show him I'm taking good care of his boy."
Looking at my new hairdo in the mirror, I say, "Okay, Pat. I can feel the foam getting wicked stiff already." 

"That's what it's supposed to do. Here, take these beer cans and the ones in the bedroom to the trash in the kitchen. I'm going to spray more of this Lair freshener around. I'll meet you in the bedroom."

"Right away, Pat!" Then I stop and add, "Um, and thanks for taking care of, um, my hair." I couldn't say, taking care of me. It still grates on me a little that I need to be taken care of by Pat and/or Billy. Still, what Pat says makes sense. They're older and more experienced, so... Yeah, it's more semantics. Taking care of or treating me like a prince; take your pick.

Later, in bed, we make out with me being docile for Pat, and it works because we have the best make out of the night. He treats me like a prince, as I thought a few minutes ago. Later, with me lazy with dreamy arousal, Pat fucks me with me on my back, holding my legs back. 

His long boner almost sends me to never-never land; it feels so spectacular, opening me up as it goes up my ass the full eight inches and then smoothly and tightly moves back, sending my prostate gland into ecstasy. When I climax, I don't even bother to hold back my embarrassing squealing, which seems to please Pat.

He's sweet, cuddling with me afterward, and I'm like limp, so totally sexually satisfied I can't even recall being horny earlier tonight. Later, as we get dressed, Pat has many compliments for me and then a reminder, "No more of the earlier bitchiness you were doing tonight. I don't want to see that from you tomorrow night, Bud. Okay?"

Nodding, "Oh, no, I promise you that you won't get any more of that nonsense from your boy. You explained everything perfectly and straightened me out, and in a very nice way too. I'm good now and very sorry about earlier."

He gives me a hug, murmuring, "That's my boy," and we kiss. Walking downstairs, his arm across my shoulders, me carrying the jar of hair foam, Pat says, "I'm pretty sure I can get my Mom's car, but if not, see if you can get your mom's car tomorrow night. Bring a couple of condoms and your Marlboro."

"Yes, sure, Pat."

At the front door, he gives me a juicy kiss good night, with me clinging to him a little, wishing we could hang out longer. He's the role model on how to be an effective guy/guy for an inexperienced girl/guy such as me. Then, I don't even walk a block when I see his parents driving down the street. Whoa, Pat cut it close! I don't want to think what would have happened if they were ten minutes earlier.

As I'm walking home, confusion clouds my mind. I want to be on board with Billy's and Pat's logic that I'm young and inexperienced and, therefore, need them looking out for me and taking care of me, and I agree they're my man and all that. I am on board with it now more than ever, and I understand the semantics side as well, but I still don't feel I'm the little kid they seem to think I am. 

But, yeah, everything works much better when I accept that they're my top guy/guy or my man. I mean, why should I care what they call themselves and me?

It still seems a tiny bit demeaning at the same time, though. I need to get over that because who do I think I am? Before Billy, I was alone jerking off in my bedroom almost every night, and now I'm out having a ball because of Billy, and now Pat.

There's even more confusion in my mind, though, because by the end of tonight, for the first time, I thought that if, as Pat claims, Billy and I do split up someday, I'd try to be the best boy Pat ever had or could ever hope to have.

Before tonight, I've never even contemplated being with anyone but Billy, but I ended up tonight super impressed by Pat Sumers, so it's getting more confusing for me by the day. Pat is special in different ways than Billy. They're different, but... ah, it's confusing, that's all.

To be continued...