September 22, 2005

Part Two

This is a continuation of yesterday's post. I don't want you guys thinking that everything is copasetic for this ridiculously raw youth.

Billy's phone rang at 8:30 the next morning.

We were still in bed, of course, though he had rolled out of the nook by this point and had sort of flopped, belly-up, on the other side of the bed. His arm stretched out, covering me; his hand dancing precariously around my good parts. A couple of times during the night, in the midst of his snoring and drunken murmurings (mamdmfmm...Bob. Club five hjmmmmammm) he grabbed and teased and I politely batted away.

With things so up in the air between us, I'm not going to take advantage of a drunk boy. He once mentioned how one of his biggest fears is getting drunk and getting taken advantage of by some stranger. While I hardly count as a stranger, I was more worried about him trying too hard and losing his lunch on me. As it was, I put the garbage can on his side of the bed.

Besides, more than once he didn't recognize his own strength when drunk and passed out, pulling things in directions that they shouldn't go and spasming in ways that made my boys sad.

On the second ring, he opened his eyes, and leaned up across me to the dresser, and answered the phone. It was a friend of his whom he hadn't seen for like, the entire summer ohmygod! They proceeded to chat for about a half hour, him still in bed next to me, though he sat up after a while while I closed my eyes, cocooned myself in the blankets and faced the other way, cursing the fact that I forgot to close his blinds six hours earlier.

After he chatted, he made some pleasant talk with me, mostly about how drunk he was last night and how he couldn't remember anything after getting to the club. He then got out of bed, put on some shorts, and logged online to chat with people on AIM, mostly talking about how drunk he was the night before, piecing together his night as people awoke.

All this as I lay in his bed, naked with a morning hardon. After I half-sleep, half-help him piece together his night for another hour or so, he walks over and pulls the blankets off of me, reminding me that I've got class in an hour and it's time for him to drive me home.

To borrow a bit from Bill Maher, here is my new rule.

If you're too drunk to stand by youself and so the guy you've been stringing along in a sort of half-dating/taking it slow sort of thing drives you home, makes sure you take your medicine, and politely refuses your drunken advances, if you wake him up at 8:30 the next morning it had better be because his dick is in your mouth. All of it. Sure, some pancakes and scrambled eggs would be nice, but first take care of his sausage before you head to the kitchen.

Otherwise he will be very, very bitter.
Here lies a most ridiculous raw youth, indulging himself in the literary graces that he once vowed to eschew. Now he just rocks out.