***ing Dylan

Fucking Dylan. It became my epitaph and his exclamation. “Dylan, Dylan, Fucking Dylan!” That’s what he used to say. I made him climb to the highest echelons of desire and ecstasy with our love-making, and he racked my body with violent shocks of thrilling joy. But on winter nights, with my bedside cold and my eyes red from remembrance, I look back on my memories and laugh at our times and our silly things. I laugh, because it’s easier than crying.

I was fifteen when I first met him. He was twenty at the time, and my neighbor. It was summer, and he’d just moved into the house next door, sans girlfriend, sans friends in Minneapolis. He came over asking if he could have the number of a good plumber, and I said look no further than myself. All he had was a leaky sink besides, so I just tightened it up, no problem. He laughed and invited me to stay a bit and acquaint him with the neighborhood, and myself. I drew him a little map, pointing out the grocery store, the blockbuster, the coffee house, and my mom’s flower shop. He asked where the library was, and I said it was about ten minutes away on Orchard Avenue North. He asked my name. “My name’s Dylan.”

“My name’s Calix.” He said thanks and shook my hand. I walked out the door feeling important and appreciated.

Some hours later I was alone in my room. It was about midnight, and I was awake, as my insomniac self usually was. I had my jelly bean candle going and I was just laying there, playing the events of that day over again in my mind. I pictured his face in my mind, curly red hair and his gray eyes. But his gray eyes were green underneath, flecked with gold as if the gray and green were a cover story and his eyes were really golden honey escaping their bee masters. He was tall, he had a straight nose. He was skinny. But he wasn’t white. He was tan. Very, very tan. But then again, it was summer. “Vielleicht ist er aus Hawaii!” “Maybe he’s from Hawaii!” I was excited and thinking in German again, a habit my grandmother Alberta had instilled in me. He was cute, and I’d never felt like this before. I laughed and rolled over and slept, sweetly and soundly.

I woke up the next day and he was doing lawn work. He was shirtless and sweaty, and I was drooling. Yes, drooling. He was gorgeous! He was tan, something I could never accomplish, and very well muscled. He looked up and waved. I waved back and almost died of embarrassment. 'How long had he been watching me?'

He invited me over that day to help him move some furniture. He led me to a room in the back, the master bedroom. “I need help moving the bed. Where do you think it should go?”
“You don’t know where it’s going but you’re going to move it?”

“Yep. I don’t know where it’s going but I know I don’t want it there.” He pointed to the spot where it was, between two large windows.

“Why not?”

“Because it makes me think of how my ex-boyfriend’s house was situated back in Waikiki.”

“Boyfriend?”

Yep. I’m gay. Didn’t you know?”

“No, but I did guess you were from Hawaii.”

“So you think about me. When? At night, when you’re all alone, hot and horny?” I didn’t say anything, but blushed to the roots of gold blonde hair. “Ah, so you do have a crush on me.”

“Do not!”

“Then why are you blushing?” I ran over to the mirror, I was blushing like a rose. I tried to stammer a reply, but all that came out was German nonsense. “So my little blonde angel speaks German?” I nodded my head. “My ex-boyfriend before my last one spoke German. It always made me laugh, he called me his Rothaarige Ferkel.”

“His redheaded piglet?” I laughed at the absurdity of the pet name.

“See, it even makes the little blonde boy laugh.”

“I’m not little!”

“Oh really? Are you a man? Do you dream a man’s hot, passionate dreams for me?” He kissed me, lightly, quickly, like a brother. But my ever fiber was on fire. My face was as red as his hair. He laid down on the bed and beckoned. I jumped onto the bed. “Strip.” I catapulted off the bed to do his command. My shirt came off, my pants, my underwear. My cock was hard and large, a testament to my willingness. “Now me.” He got up and languorously removed his clothing. I was stretched out on the bed, he rolled on top of me, cocks squished, tongues caressing each other. This was the first time I’d ever kissed someone, and I was already at home base. He kissed his way down my stomach, savoring my tight abdominal muscles. He took my cock whole in his mouth, nuzzling his nose into my pubic hair. I basked in the enchanting sensations. He sat on his knees above my chest, fucked my mouth, turned me over, I pushed up my ass, he was mighty obliged. I scarcely noticed pain, so racked was I with glee that I felt only pleasure. He was big. Even to my virgin eyes, I knew he was big. I felt his bigness. He sculpted my body into positions worthy of any Hindu god. With a body like David, a dick like the Washington Monument and hair like fire, he was a god. I came all over his stomach, chest, neck. I shouted with ecstasy, he pulled out, and came. “Dylan, Fucking Dylan!” He crashed his lips to mine, creating a collage of cum all over him.

The fact that what we did was illegal served only to make our fucking hotter. He was a librarian, actually. That’s why he asked me where the library was. He spoke Scots Gaelic and actually was rather pale now that summer was fading. He told me about his life in Hawaii, the son of an immigrant Scots father and an Irish-Hawaiian mother, from whom he took his eyes. I always told him his eyes were the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen, and he’d always say he loved my blonde hair. He told me his father had taught him Gaelic and his mother Hawaiian, because her father had died when she was very small, so she never learned his Gaelic, because apparently he was an immigrant too. He had discovered his homosexuality at fifteen, like me now, and had had many a boyfriend before tiring of Hawaii and her horrid memories. “But why Minnesota?”

“I wanted snow. I didn’t know I was getting a boyfriend too.” I started.

“I’m your boyfriend?”

“That’s technically what you are, yes. You fuck me, you like me, you’re always with me…unless you don’t want to be…”

“No, no! I do want to be your boyfriend, I really do!” He smiled and preened like a cat being petted and looked at me with those beautiful eyes. “I love you, Dylan.”

“I love you too, Calix.” He smiled, I smiled, we made love. And can you believe that this is my first boyfriend ever?

We continued in this fashion for five years.I turned twenty, he turned twenty five. I was going to college at the University of Minnesota; he was still working at the library. I had moved in with him, but only because we got an apartment on the other side of town. He said he didn’t miss the yard; actually, he could just wear his yard stuff around the house now. My mistake was forgetting that Minneapolis is one of the biggest gay cities in the country, behind San Francisco, Seattle and Atlanta. I forgot that I wasn’t the only blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy that got him so hot and horny. My other mistake was giving him a key. I came home from work one night, tired, ready for bed, and the first thing I see is him on the kitchen counter fucking our neighbor! “Calix! What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Um, it looks like our neighbor.” And the little shit has the nerve to wave at me and grind up on my man!

“You little slut get out of here!”

“You know, I think I was invited.”He grinned maliciously and went back to fucking. I grabbed the nearest pot and hurled it. It hit his shoulder and knocked him off the table. “You fucking ass munch! You’ll pay for that!” And this is how the neighbor’s girlfriend found him, naked, running around my house with a pan trying to hit me, while I was throwing books at him. She had her suitcase in hand, just home from her tour of Europe and expecting her boyfriend to be in his apartment, not in mine. “Phil! Why the fuck do you have a pan, chasing poor Dylan around and why the fucking fuck are you naked?!”

“Honey, I can explain…”

“Don’t fucking bother, I’m going to my mother’s house. We’re fucking over.” He ran after her, still without clothing, and we were alone. “Dylan, let me –“

“Stop. Am I not good enough? Did I not fuck you enough? Was I getting old to you? WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T YOU JUST SAY THAT YOU DIDN’T WANT TO BE WITH ME?” He looked at me, at a loss for words. “Right. I’m leaving. My friend Kyle will be happy to have me stay the night.” A look of pure terror struck his face. Kyle was my amazingly gorgeous gay friend who had tried to get me to leave Calix. I told him no, but I kept in touch.

“Dylan! Don’t go! Please, baby, Dylan!” He tried to hold me back, tried to stop me. I smacked him so hard it looked like he had a sunburn in the shape of my hand. He stiffened, and walked out of the room. I left, and didn’t look back.

He’s tried to call me in the year that’s gone by since that. It seems every day he’s calling, every week he’s sending flowers. I didn’t sleep with Kyle like I threatened. I kissed him, and then pushed him away. I wasn’t about to stoop to Calix’s level. It’s a cold winter night, and I can’t sleep. I pick up the phone, and dial Calix’s number. “Hello? Dylan!” He cries with happiness.

“Hello, Calix. I want you to explain to me why you had sex with Phil.” He gave me a lame excuse that Phil had come on to him, and that he said he wanted to fuck the yummy redhead, how this was his first gay experience, blah blah blah. He said he hadn’t had sex with anyone since I’d left him and that he was so sincerely sorry that he’d do anything to get me back. I said he could start by coming over and helping me move my bed. The rest, well, that’s personal.