And Then I Laughed LIke A Loon

“AND THEN I LAUGHED LIKE A LOON” – Deadeye Dick

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

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!

1 –

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.

2 –

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.”
“Yeah? Nice.”
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.

3 –

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.