Deadeye Dick speaking. This is the follow-up to my first story, “Wave to the Moon, It's Watching!” I wasn't planning on writing a sequel, but I decided to change my mind after glancing the review section.
Speaking of which, thanks to the four readers who dropped me criticism! I really appreciate it! God knows I'm not doing this for money, so you guys are my true inspiration.
About this little (little?) story. I'm sorry about the subject matter. And the writing. I wrote this in sort of a hurry because I wanted it on my laptop screen immediately. Some of the character development is horrendous, I know. I especially hate the relationship with Emmy and Clay. I also must apologize for the cheap ending.
Part 3 is on the way. I'll wrap this all up in about three or four days.
Thank you, thank you, thank you! Keep the comments coming, plase!
His name was Dylan Baite, but he looked like a Robert.
He had short blonde hair. It was beautiful. He always had a plastic comb poking out of his pocket, and it was always out. Two swipes, sometimes five, and Dylan retired it. You could almost count on it.
But you probably know this already. Right? Remember Cabin 6? Yeah, the guy I asked to write that is dead now. Sadly, he was working on this story when he kicked. But I picked up from where he left off.
You haven't missed much.
So Dylan Baite was my first crush. My first true crush. We met at Camp Greenwood, the third day. I still remember the first awkward conversation we shared. It was over steaming plates of eggs and bacon, toast and orange juice.
“You like the Beatles?”
“Fuck yeah,” he said.
“Yeah, they're good. I have all their albums.”
I didn't know he was gay. My roommate, the asshole mentioned in the first story – Patterson – sort of hinted at it one day after lights out. But I paid little attention.
Man, I still hate that guy.
Dylan liked me from the first bacon-muffled word. I knew. He couldn't keep his eyes off my chin, and whenever I caught him in the act – which was quite often because he did it a lot – he just sort of coughed, glanced at his breakfast tray, then tried again.
Persistent little cutie.
We became friends by the third week. We talked about everything; The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Ween, Rush, anything except relationships and girls. He avoided “girl questions” with a cough similar to the one I just described.
One day we were walking through the woods. It was a Saturday. The counselors had sent us off for a free day. Do whatever you want, just try not to get killed.
I brought up a cute girl in our Arts and Crafts activity period. He shrugged and picked up a stick.
“I think she's cute.”
“Eh,” he said.
“You don't? Man, I'd fuck her. I mean, she's probably three years older than me, but..”
“Yeah. So Paul McCartney came out with an album like two weeks ago. It sucks.”
That was it. I bothered with it no more, went on down a leaf-sprinkled dirt path.
You have to know something about Dylan Baite; when he wants something, he gets it. Hell, you remember Cabin 6? We didn't have sex. We didn't fuck. It wasn't a we situation. He had his way. He took me, stated what he wanted, and got what he wanted.
He wanted me to scream.
There's not much to tell. Cabin 6 was great. I'll always keep it in my heart. At least in my head. It was my first. Hell, I think it was Dylan's first, as well.
I decided something on the way to my parent's car not three weeks later, when Camp Greenwood closed for the summer and July stumbled in like the drunk friend you usually avoid; I was bisexual.
I'm still bisexual. I guess I've always been attracted to “both teams”, but Dylan took my hand and helped me find it inside myself. His cock felt good. It wasn't wrong. It wasn't a sin. It was bliss, euphoria. There is a God.
And so when my dad looked over his shoulder on the ride home and asked what I did, how many friends I made, how many stories I had to tell, I just yawned and said, “It was cool.”
“Just cool?” my mom asked my rear-mirror-reflection. She was pretty that day. Her cheeks were sun burnt and her hair looked soft. “C'mon, Clay baby. You were so excited to go.”
“Alright,” I said. “I had a fucking blast.”
My dad smiled back over his shoulder. My mom hissed and shook her head. “Not that word, baby. But I'm glad you had fun.”
The town passed beyond my window. Dylan grew further and further away.
Oh, Otto Baumberger. I'm looking through that window of yours, but I can't see a fucking thing.
I've had three or four boyfriends since Dylan. Two made love to me. The other two just sucked me off, sort of bored. I know I was certainty bored. When I came, it felt as if my dick was puking out of boredom. As if it were saying, “Again with this? Christ, why not try out a few girls?”
I did. About seven. I fell in love with three, kissed two, fucked the rest. I can only describe “switching back” by comparing it to music; it was like switching from the Beatles to Pink Floyd. Both are great. Both you can make love to. Both are hard to part with. But neither can totally satisfy you.
I'm married now. She's real sweet. We have a daughter, Janie Marie Wilk. I love both of them with all my heart, and no man on the face of the earth can equal that love.
Not even Dylan.
I haven't talked to Dylan in years.
His sister and I talk sometimes. Usually I'm the one keeping the conversation alive. I twirl the rubber cord around my finger, my face burning, Janie somewhere under my feet, pulling at my pant leg.
Did I mention how pretty Emmy Baite is?
She had these cute bangs, jet black, that barely reached her eyelashes. Purple eyeliner. A sticker on her cheek, one week a rocket ship, the next a jack-o-lantern.
Remember the seven girls I talked about? Emmy was the first. Remember the rest I fucked? Emmy was the first.
Let me explain.
Dylan was two years older than Emmy. The two shared a rather healthy childhood in a small suburban town, surrounded by fake people with fake lawns and fake excuses why they kept their fake lawns so fake.
Mr. Baite was a cartoonist. He worked for the New Yorker, Reader's Digest, almost anything that accepted his scratchy, satiric style.
Mrs. Baite was a nurse. I've never met the woman – she died about three years ago – but I respect what she did. She handed over all her good looks to Emmy.
A few humid, sticky weeks into July, Dylan called me. He wanted to have a sleep over. It was alright with his parents. It was up to mine. I hung up, heart pounding, and found my dad in his office, going over a crumpled manu with a red colored pencil between his fingers.
I asked. I waited like a naughty child awaiting punishment.
“Dylan Baite?” he asked. He circled a word I couldn't see, and took a sip of beer. “That the guy you met at camp?”
“Yep,” I said. “Could I go over there? Could you give me a ride?”
“Well, where does he live?”
“Up on Blackgravel,” I said.
“Sure, sure. I need a break anyway.” He dropped his pencil and paper, slipped on a dress jacket. “Get ready, kiddo.”
It took me fifteen minutes to get ready, about the same amount it took me to pack for Cabin 6. My stomach gave a rumbling moan as I tied my sleeping bag.
I was nervous, you see. The kid had fucked me in the ass, and I had butterflies.
Love is strange. But you all know that.
Dad stopped the engine. “This it, Clay?” he asked.
I nodded. I could see Dylan behind a curtain. That blonde hair reached me, even on the street, inside my dad's mini van.
I walked out, told my dad thanks, I loved him, I'll call in the morning, bye. I was walking up the drive when Dylan came out.
“Hey!” I called.
“Hey, man! Here, let me get that.”
He snatched my sleeping bag. With an extra hand, I opened the screen door and dropped my things in Dylan's living room. The place had a descent smell, sort of like chocolate and peppermint. Dylan came up behind, and my sleeping bag was added to the luggage pile between my feet.
The place smelled great. It looked great. The walls were painted a perfect lime green. The carpet was soft and powder blue, spotless with very few exceptions. Pictures adorned every inch and space; Dylan and his mom, his dad and Dylan, Dylan with a Power Ranger, marked Dylan's eleventh birhday, Dylan with a...
“Who's that?” I asked, pointing to Emmy.
Of course I didn't know her name then. She looked familiar. Those bangs had passed my line of vision before, I was almost sure of it. Her eyeliner was a vibrant hunter orange. I picked up the frame.
“That's Emmy,” Dylan said. “That's my sister.”
“Ah,” I said, replacing the frame.
“Lets go in my room.”
A familiar smell struck me; bubblegum and sweaty socks, covered by a hint of chocolate Axe spray. Dylan's room was small, but spotless, like his living room. The walls were choked with band posters, the Beatles, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Simon and Garfunkel. It wasn't until he asked me to find the light switch hours later that I realized the room was a burnt brick red.
“Nice room, man,” I said.
“Thanks. It's a little dirty, sorry.”
“It's fine, it's really cool.”
“Thanks.” He said it with a curious tone. He knew my mind was stuck on something else.
Little did he know that it was stuck on his sister. Emmy Naomi Baite.
We had fish and french fries for lunch. Mr. Baite apologized for the last minute meal. I shook my head and asked for another plate.
“Dylan's mom is on vacation with her sister. I just didn't get time to plan anything-”
“Really, it's real good. Really.”
We talked in silence, Mr. Baite occasionally asking how school was going for me, what camp was like, you know.
Then Emmy came in, and all eyes turned on her leaning against the kitchen doorway.
“Ew, she said. “I hate fish.”
The first sentence I ever heard her utter. I fell in love. I broke my skull.
She was looking at me. I could feel her eyes, just like I could feel her brother's. I stared down at the crumb-salted ketchup puddle on my empty plate. I blushed.
“I asked you to come home before one,” Mr. Baite rescued me . He was a tall man with medium-cut hair and a beard. His face got ruby whenever he wasn't pleased. His neck started to flake, you could tell he couldn't shave worth shit. “Where the hell were you?”
“With Kate,” she said, cold. She chomped on a french fry. She sipped water. She stared into my downcast eyes.
“Don't matter, you can call.”
“I don't have a cell phone.”
“That's not my problem,” Mr. Baite said.
“You're the man with the money,” she said. She was talking at me.
“You need a job. You need responsibility.”
“That's not my problem,” Mr. Baite snapped back, carrying his plate to the sink. “Get a job, get a cell phone, and get a goddam conscience.”
“S-sure,” she said. “Alright. Get me more fish.”
Meanwhile, Dylan was working with his own lunch. He knew damn well what was going on, and he looked ill. His sister was stealing his man, his fuck buddy.
He'd fucked me in the ass! How dare she!
“You guys wanna go up and do something?” he asked.
Emmy snapped out of it. She remembered where she was, who she was, what she was about to eat. She got up and nodded. I felt a quick glance before she disappeared upstairs, giggling.
“Fuckin' daughters,” Mr. Baite said. “Clay, you're a lonely child, right?”
“Ye-eah,” I said.
“Tell your dad I said congrats.”
“You go first, kid.”
“His name's Clay.”
“Okay, Clay. Go first.”
I scooped the dice up and dropped them. Three spaces up the board. I blew past Dylan's marker. I was on Community Chest.
“Emmy,” Dylan said. “It's your turn.”
The rain was coming down. The three of us had moved into Dylan's room, closed the door. The Monopoly board sat inside our little huddle. Emmy was on her stomach, switching back and fourth between me and the board, her brother and her brother's bisexual boyfriend.
“Collect $200,” I said.
“Hand it over,” she said.
“Okay, uh, whose turn is it?”
We played for about three hours. Dylan and I cleaned up. Emmy stayed on her stomach. She was flipping through a tattered Bealtes magazine she'd found under Dylan's bed. George Harrison and his 12-stringed Rickenbacker graced the page. She was stroking his hair with a pearl-white painted fingernail.
“George is so cute,” she said.
“You like George?” I asked, grinning. “He's my favorite.”
“He's not my favorite,” she said, “I just think he's cute. Paul's my favorite.”
“Emmy, put that away. That's rare.” Dylan was about to shout. You could see veins in his forehead.
“Shut the fuck up, Dill. It's a Rolling Stones.”
“Put it back!”
“Hold on, one sec. Clay, lookit this picture. He looks like you.”
I leaned down for a closer look at George. I don't look a thing like the youngest Beatle. I crinkled my eyebrows, shrugged. “What?”
“I mean, he has your eyes. I'd fuck George.”
“You're disgusting,” Dylan said.
“Well, I'd fuck him, and I'm keeping this Dill.”
“Put it back. You're sick.”
“Stick it in, George!” she screamed.
I'm still convinced that she screamed at me. I picked up Monopoly. I barely made it to Dylan's closet because my heart was pounding so hard. My knees felt like rubber.
Yeah, I'd fallen in love. I'd picked myself up, but the girl herself knocked me down again. She kicked me as I cringed on the ground.
Dylan popped in A Hard Day's Night. He hopped onto his bed as the opening credits began. Emmy squeezed against me. Dylan didn't know. But he still knew something was up. He wasn't fucking stupid.
I closed my eyes and smelled her; she stank of her house, her room. She stank of cotton candy and cherries, french fries, hand cream.
The lights were out. The lads were on a train (“He's very clean.”)but I was barely paying attention. I was stroking Emmy's hair.
“What's Dylan doing?” she whispered. Her sweet breath swept over my eye.
I craned my neck to see. I didn't have to see anything. I could hear him snoring. He was brutal once he got going. So I snuck out with his sister, her hand wrapped around mine.
“Lets go in my room,” she said over her shoulder.”
Exactly what I expected.
Her room was an exact replica of Dylan's that lacked the posters, the boyish scent, the spotless carpet. She showed off her Beatles collection, then her Pink Floyd shrine.
“What if he wakes up?” I asked.
“Who? Oh, he won't. He always falls asleep to A Hard Day's Night.
“But what if he does?”
“He won't. If he does, just say you got bored and we came over to fuck.”
My heart stopped. There I was on the ground, bleeding profusely. This girl was going to kill me. “What?”
“Just kidding,” she said. She touched my shoulder. “But you are cute. Really cute.”
We kissed. Just like that. I tasted her, pulled away, and we did it again. Dylan's snoring reached us even in Emmy's room, mixed with the sweet song “If I Fell”.
She touched my crouch. I returned with an even stronger pinch that made her take in breath rapidly.
“Ow! You're a meanie.”
“Touch mine again.”
“No, you're a meanie.”
And she didn't just touch. She started up a rhythm. I made my way to the edge of her mattress, sat my bare ass down on her sheets. My pants were in a heap around my ankles. Sweat was pouring.
“That feel good? You look cute up there, you know.”
Faster and faster. She worked on me with a cute expression of her own, her tongue stuck out, her eyes squinted, sweat dripping down her nose.
I was holding on my a thread, but when she kissed the tip of my oozing dick, I shot everywhere.
It reminded me of Cabin 6, but this was somewhat better. For one my asshole was safe and empty. My legs were dry – well, for the most part – and I'd made a relatively small mess.
Emmy's face, on the other hand...
“Ah, man!” she whispered sharply. The stream had struck her right in the eye, didn't miss her nose, her cheek and chin. She rose to her feet, felt around for a t-shirt to wipe of with. “Fucking asshole!”
But we were laughing. I was on my back, laughing like a lunatic, staring up at the ceiling.
Emmy's face was dry and as pretty as ever. We were on her bed, holding hands, listening to the rest of A Hard Day's Night, the interview part.
“Now I know you're a fucking asshole,” she said.
“What?” I asked.
“You won't even do anything to me now?”
She looked over at me with puppy eyes. “Pwease?”
“Argh, fine. Get on your back, get over there a bit.”
I spread her legs. I reached up for her blue panties, but she stopped me. “Kiss it, first. So I get wet.”
I kissed it. My lips slid over her slit. Soaking up the sweat, the testosterone, the sex. I pulled my tongue down, then up, then whipped it to the right. She clutched my hair, held on.
I went on with my eyes shut. Right, then left. It was easy. It was somehow easier than Dylan. I know that sounds absurd. With a guy you just have a dick, a tall muscle to suck, maybe to stick somewhere. Easy. Piece of cake. But with a girl, it's like dismantling a bomb. The red wire or the blue wire? What? So it's the green wire? That guy said it was the yellow wire?
With a girl it's like a fucking button mantle down there.
Not with Emmy. I just had one switch to turn on.
“Ah!” she moaned. She wrapped her legs around my neck, pushed hard. “Ahh.”
Off with her blue panties. In the powder blue darkness, her pussy looked delicious. It had a glaze to it, a welcoming scent. I dug in before either of us could think more of it.
I followed the same path, and I found my way home. She gave my scalp an uncomfortable scrape. Then I was tasting a warm liquid in my mouth. Sort of like semen, but not quite. She had come. She knew it.
When we both picked ourselves up to look at each other, she looked embarrassed. “Oh, I'm so sorry! Ew, I'm so- Fuck, I'm real sorry!”
“Nah, don't worry.”
“That's disgusting. I'm so sorry.”
“Hey, we're even.”
She laughed. I laughed. A Hard Day's Night was over, and Dylan kept snoring.
It was midnight by the time I dozed off. Emmy kept me close beside her, like a teddy bear. Before I fell asleep I gathered my thoughts, thought about the summer I'd wandered into, how much I'd experienced.
I cried a little. No use in hiding that from you.
There's one more piece I must share with you. But I'm old. And I'm tired. And Janie is bugging me to go to the mall with her.
We'll continue sometime later.