When I woke up the next morning, Johanna was long gone. After continuous fucking during the late afternoon and early evening away, she needed to get home before her boyfriend got suspicious. Even though she gave me her phone number, I doubted that I would ever call her. While she was a charming young lady, and I enjoyed having sex with her, I didn’t want another jilted lover to blame me for the problems in their relationship. I did not need any more drama in my life.

As I was getting ready for Gary’s funeral, I started thinking about his family. I never met Gary’s wife or his kids. In fact, it wasn't until I stalked his Facebook page after learning of his death that I discovered he was married. After scrolling through his page, I learned that he got married to Doris Storm in 1992 and had two sons and one daughter. They seemed like a lovely family. I could bet you a million dollars that they didn’t know that he kept a secret from them, but I did.

Gary was a closeted gay man. Coming out was not celebrated or welcomed back in the eighties. For survival, he had to pretend that he was a typical male. To hide his anger, he took it out on others and became a bully. To be fair, he was always mean to other kids, but shortly after he turned sixteen, he became a lot more ruthless. He was on a mission to make sure those he found weaker were more miserable than he was.

If he had come out back then, his dad would have more than likely kicked him out of the house. His old man was like Archie Bunker, but instead was the exact opposite of funny. He was a racist, a homophobe, and a die-hard conservative. During my freshman year in high school, he, along with several like-minded parents, tried to stop the production of a toned-down version of “Cabaret” because they thought it was too fruity.

Sometimes, Gary came to school with bruises and black eyes. He always stated that it was either an accident or a fight. It was obvious to some of us that they came from his dad. That man was an angry drunk. He'd been arrested several times for being drunk and disorderly, and he'd been the prime suspect for driving around town and keying all the Japanese cars he could find. Unfortunately, the police couldn’t prove he committed that act of vandalism.

It was obvious that throughout his life, Gary was afraid of his father. If he hadn't, he would have moved to a more accepting city like New York or San Francisco instead of working at a small factory in Farmington, Michigan. Out there, he would have been free to explore his sexuality to the fullest instead of probably cruising Palmer Park while his wife and kids waited for him to come home. Maybe if he had left, he wouldn’t have drowned his sorrows in alcohol and wouldn’t have had a massive heart attack at the age of fifty-four. Maybe if he had done that, we could have talked about that Sunday in May 1987.

On Sunday, the second, at eleven in the morning, the doorbell woke me. I was a little surprised to see Gary standing there. He looked like he’d been crying as he asked if he could come inside. Before I could say no, he walked in. All I could smell was that his breath reeked of booze, and his clothes had the odor of cigarettes. He continued crying as he apologized for all the horrible things he had done to me since we were in elementary school, and then kissed me, forcing his tongue down my throat.

I was shocked, and I pushed him away. He fell to the floor and cried as he said, “Please let me see your cock.”

“No,” I adamantly replied.

“Please,” he cried. “It’s all I can think about.”

“No,” I once again adamantly replied.

He then freed his average-sized dick and started stroking it as he cried, "Every night, I fantasize about sucking your beautiful cock and you fucking my ass with it.”

“That’s only going to happen in your dreams,” I said, laughing.

“Please,” he cried. “I need to know how it feels.”

“Say I’m Tommy Mitchell’s bitch,” I said, laughing even harder.

“I’m Tommy Mitchell’s bitch,” he cried as he started stroking even harder. “Please let me see it.”

“You can look but can’t touch it,” I said as I pulled down my pajama bottoms and underwear.

“It’s beautiful,” he said as he started stroking faster.

“What do you want to do with it?” I asked, placing my large, thirteen-and-a-half-inch pecker in front of his face.

“Suck it,” he answered as he wiped the tears from his face.

I just stood there, and he took that as permission to put his mouth on my penis. It felt weird having another man suck it, but it didn’t gross me out like I thought it would. As I watched him blow me, I realized that, for the first time in my life, I saw Gary as vulnerable. As his tongue and lips worshiped my penis, I decided to test the new dynamics of our relationship. I pulled my dick out of his mouth and started stroking it.

“Please give it back to me,” he pleaded.

“Show me how bad you want it,” I demanded.

As he furiously masturbated, I looked at him and said, “I don’t think you deserve it.”

“Please put it back in my mouth,” he cried shortly before shooting his load all over himself and the living room carpet.

“Look at the mess you made!” I yelled. “You need to clean that up.”

“Can you please get me some paper towels?” he tearfully asked.

“No!” I replied. “Get on all fours and clean it with your tongue.”

As I watched him lick his jizz off the carpet, part of me really enjoyed watching him humiliate himself for another chance to play with my dick. The other part of me hated myself for the way I was bullying him. That day, I did something I had never done before, and after with another man, I inserted my pleasure lever into his welcoming asshole.

I was surprised that it slid in with ease. Usually, before I fucked a girl up the ass, we usually had to do some prep. While Gary delightfully moaned with every thrust, I wanted to ask Gary questions about his secret life. I wanted to know if he bullied people as a way to distract himself from the secrets he was keeping.

I then reached around, started stroking his revived cock, and continued fucking. Nearly ten minutes later, we were both ready to go. We then sat on the couch, jerking each other off, until a fountain of cum shot out of our penises. When we finished, he looked ashamed of what had just happened. He immediately put his clothes back on and ran out of the house, saying, “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll fucking kill you.” That was the last time I ever talked with him. For the remainder of high school, he avoided me, and I was okay with that.

I couldn't imagine the pain Gary felt back in high school and throughout his life. I couldn't imagine the burden of constantly lying to his wife about where he was going or who he was doing. While I couldn't imagine his pain, I didn't have to imagine what his family was going through after his death. There is no greater pain than loss. I felt it when I lost my mom and grandma in March 1987. I felt that loss when Jane died in January 1999. I felt that loss when Jane’s mom got custody of our kids in July 2000 and forbade me from ever visiting them. But the worst pain I ever felt was knowing that my dad killed multiple people, including his girlfriend, in the early hours of January 1st, 1986.

On December 31st, 1985, I was stoked for my first solo New Year’s Eve. This would be the first year I wasn’t going to do anything with my mom or younger sister. This year, Annie was going to a slumber party, and my mom was going to paint the town red with Frank. I was beyond excited. Usually, we would go to a movie, then come home and watch Dick Clark on channel seven. But this year, I was going to Kimberly’s New Year’s Eve party. The only thing that sucked was that Jane couldn’t go. Her mom grounded her after she lost her job at K-Mart on Christmas Eve due to a persistent shortage in her register. She couldn't leave the apartment unless she was actively looking for work. Still, without a job, she found herself confined to her home.

It really sucked that she wasn’t going to be there. It sucked that her mom and stepdad were staying home, and she wouldn't be able to sneak out. It was unfortunate that I wouldn't have the opportunity to fuck her when the ball dropped in Times Square. By going to Kimberly's, I wasn’t going to dwell on her absence; I was going to have a lot of fun, and nothing was going to ruin my good time.

My mom thought I should wear the new suit she got me for Christmas. Maybe that's how they did when she was my age, but the late fifties were long gone, and we tended to dress way more casually, especially at parties.

After I said that, she burst into laughter, exclaiming, "You know every girl is crazy about a sharp-dressed man?"

I couldn’t believe my mom quoted ZZ Top! When I was in the car with her, the only radio station that came out of its speakers was AM 56, home of Honey Radio, the country's oldest oldies station. Besides show tunes and disco, music from the 1950s was all that she listened to. Every time I inserted a cassette into her Volvo's tape deck, she promptly removed it, stating, "My car." My music. End of discussion.”

“I can’t believe you know the lyrics to a ZZ Top song,” I said in an astonished tone.

“Your mom is still hip,” she said while laughing. "I'm so hip that I'm sure wearing a suit will set you apart from the other boys and get all the girls to dance with you."

“I already have something that sets me apart from the other boys,” I said, laughing hysterically.

“How so?” my mom asked in an inquisitive tone.

Before I could say, “My giant cock,” my brain caught up with my mouth, which made me say, “My award-winning personality” instead.

She laughed out loud as she said, “You’re better off wearing a suit.”

I couldn’t believe my mom roasted me like that, and I couldn’t believe that I didn’t have a comeback. Instead, I sat flabbergasted on the couch, thinking that maybe I should wear a suit, as she walked away laughing. I looked at the clock on the wall and noticed it was six o’clock, which meant there was an hour to go until Kimberly’s party started. That meant I could take an hour's nap before showering and shaving and still get there by nine.

Just as I was about to close my eyes, my mom yelled, “If I’m not out by the time Frank gets here, please keep him company.”

Thirty minutes later, he woke me by ringing the doorbell non-stop. After I let him in, he went straight to the kitchen to grab a beer before sitting next to me on the couch. As he sipped his drink, he said, “If you weren’t here, I’d jump into that shower with her, and do things that would make you blush.”

“Shut up,” I said.

“Little boy doesn’t like hearing that his mom gets freaky,” he said, laughing.

“Shut up,” I said for the second time.

“You shouldn’t talk to your future stepfather like that,” he said with a smirk.

“Like that’s going to happen,” I said as I rolled my eyes.

Despite my mom's relationship with Frank, I never imagined them getting married. Recently, I overheard her complaining about Frank to my Aunt Mary during her last visit. While she liked that he was tall, handsome, and muscular, those were his good points. She couldn’t get past the fact that he didn’t work full-time, still lived with his mother, and was borrowing small amounts of money that she felt he was never going to pay back. Other than that, he was fun to spend time with.

He then grabbed his crotch as he said, “Since your mom enjoys this, she’s eventually going to have to say yes, or I’m cutting her off.”

For the next twenty minutes, we sat in silence, watching TV. My mom emerged from her room, decked out in a tight black dress and stylish boots, while Frank donned Lee jeans and a knockoff Polo shirt. Her eyes glowed with disappointment at his attire. When he informed her that their destination was the Knights of Columbus Hall on Farmington Rd., it was a stark contrast to the night out he had promised.

After they left, I started to prematurely write an obituary for their relationship before eventually nodding off on the couch. My plan was to take a thirty-minute nap before getting ready, but I must’ve been really tired because I slept a lot longer than that. If it wasn’t for an incoming telephone call, I probably would have missed the party entirely. As I slowly woke up, I let the answering machine take the call. From the speaker, I heard Kimberly's voice scream, "Tommy, where are you? It’s nine-thirty. If you don’t get here, you won’t get me.”

“I couldn’t believe I slept that long," I thought to myself as I pounced off the couch. I ran to the bathroom so I could shave my face and take a quick shower. After finishing my shower, I dressed in jeans, a white dress shirt without a tie, and my black sports coat. As I was putting on my winter coat, I decided to erase Kimberly’s message on the answering machine so my mom wouldn’t hear it.

I quickly walked the seven blocks to Kimberly’s house on the blustery cold Michigan night. I cursed myself for not wearing gloves or a hat, but I was in such a hurry that I forgot them. When I finally arrived at her house. I noticed all the cars parked in front and heard music blaring from the house. As I entered, it was full of people from school and others who I didn’t know. When I arrived in the kitchen, I saw Kimberly drinking a wine cooler alongside her best friend, Mary Sterling, who was also drinking one. The second she noticed me, she ran over and said, “I’m so happy to see you,” before kissing me.

After our lips unlocked, she said in a loud whisper, “You’ll never guess who’s here.”

“Who?” I replied.

“Church Mouse,” she said, pointing to Christy Bryant, who was standing on the other side of the kitchen, drinking a Pepsi. She wasn't wearing her typical long, modest dress. Instead, she was wearing a short black skirt and a red tank top. It was easy to see that she wasn't wearing a bra because her 34C breast nipples were fully erect. Her outfit showed off her tight, slim 5'5 body in ways that the clothes she normally wore never could. I honestly had never seen her look so hot.

“What is she doing here?” I asked Kimberly.

“No idea,” she replied. “She came here with Olivia Moore.” 

“Who’s Olivia Moore?” I asked. 

“Her cousin,” she replied. 

“I still have no idea who she is,” I replied.

“The weird goth girl who I last saw was eating Nikki Willis out in the basement,” she said with a smirk on her face. “She was also the girl who masturbated as she watched us fuck in the upstairs bathroom at school.”

“I know her!” I exclaimed. “I had no idea they were related. I assumed everyone in her family was super religious.”

“Apparently not,” Kimberly said. “It looks like our little “Church Mouse” is ready to sin.”

“Doubt it,” I said. “Has she talked to anyone?”

“Just me,” Kimberly responded. “She asked if she could have a pop, and she’s been nursing the same one I gave her when she got here at nine o’clock.”

“Weird,” I said in an astonished tone. “So, none of the guys here have tried to hit on her?”

“They tried,” she said. “But she’s ignoring all of them.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “I’m sure her cousin forced her to come and dress like that.”

“You’re probably right,” Kimberly said right before a drunken Jenny Golden interrupted our conversation, crying about how Larry Gus had just broken up with her in the garage.

Kimberly looked at me and said, “I have to take care of this. I’ll be back in a few.”

As they walked away, I looked over at Christy Bryant, who flicked her light brown bangs away from her eyes. Our eyes locked, then she smiled at me before taking a swig from the can of Pepsi. I watched her awkwardly walk in the high heels she was wearing to where I was standing. It was obvious she was wearing those shoes for the first time and could fall at any time. So, I rushed over to her and gave her my hand, saying, "You know you can take them off."

“My hero,” she said, smiling. "Olivia told me I should wear them because they make me look more mature."

“I think your outfit makes you look more mature and hot,” I said as I continued holding her hand.

“If my parents saw what I was wearing, they’d probably call me a sinful whore,” she said with a twinge of sadness.

“Well, you’d still be the most beautiful sinful whore in the room,” I said right before kissing her on the cheek.

“You’re so sweet, Tommy Mitchell,” she said before kissing me on the cheek.

“It’s weird seeing you at a party,” I said. "So, what brought you here?”

“Olivia convinced me,” she said. “And she said...