I don't know what has come over me about bird hunting this fall and winter, but I have fallen into it big time. I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that Brian helped train Trixie and Krewe to be top-notch bird dogs. Plus, it's just fun being in the fields with Brian and the dogs. Don't get me wrong. Brian and I love being at home with all of our brothers, but sometimes we just like to be alone, just each other. You know? Sometimes he and I make love out in the field, and the dogs seem to know not to mess with us when we're doing that. But mostly it is about being alone with my boy, in his element. Just being together without the others around. Sometimes Mr. Mack goes out with us, usually in the afternoons, after Brian's school day is done. He gets off at 2:30, so we have plenty of time to hunt. Mr. Mack brings out some new dogs that he is training, and Brian keeps Trixie and Krewe back while the new dogs work. He goes off with Mr. Mack to train the new dogs. It's like Mr. Mack is training Brian how to train the new dogs. That damn boy of mine is getting a skill he'll have for a lifetime. How to train dogs to hunt. Brian loves it, too. There are some very cute moments with those dogs, and I can see how Brian and Mr. Mack could love them so much. Kyle put together this hunting trip for the weekend that was smack dab in the middle of January. We got us a new boy--Todd--right after Christmas, and then Andy and Trey came to our house right after that. Trey's dying has been a pretty damn big eye-opener for all of us, and I guess, for the first time in my life, I have gotten the full impact of what AIDS can do to a person. Andy is in a hell of a lot better shape than I would be in if I lost my Brian, but he didn't go hunting with us. It was basically just me, Brian, Kyle and Tim from our house. But that wasn't all, by a long shot. Mr. Gene and his friend, Mr. Dick, and Mr. Dick's son went, too. Philip and Ryan and their daddies went. Doc--Tim's daddy--went, but he was just along for the fellowship. He doesn't hunt. "I'm sorry. We ain't waiting for 'em," Kyle said. It was ten minutes to eight, and Philip and Ryan weren't there yet. They had to drive about a hundred miles to get there from Tallahassee. "You don't want to wait for your best friend, Kyle?" Mr. Gene asked. Mr. Gene had a little grin on his face when he said that, so I knew that was fun fixing to happen. Just then, Kyle's phone rang. "What?" he shouted into the phone. His phone has a speakerphone function, and he turned it on so we could all hear. "Don't you dare fucking leave us, you son of a bitch," Philip screamed into the phone. "Well, if you ain't here on time, what are we supposed to do? Wait all day?" "You better wait for us, you mother fucker. If you don't, Ryan's Springers are going to have a feast on your ass tonight. I mean that, Kyle," Philip said. "Philip, I hate to tell you this, but the male Springer is licking my balls right now through my camos," Kyle said. "Those dogs will never eat me up, Philip," Kyle said. All three Springers were still in the truck. "I hate you so bad, I wanna kill you, Kyle," Philip said. Mr. Gene, Mr. Cliff, and Mr. Pat were laughing so hard at them they could barely breathe. I think Doc and Mr. Dick and Mr. Dick's son didn't know what to think. "Where are you, anyway?" Kyle demanded. "I don't know. Some Godforsaken country road. I don't know where I am," Philip said. All of a sudden, this pickup truck slammed to a stop right behind where we were, spreading dust and gravel everywhere. "Oh, now I see where I am. I'm up your ass. Got you last, Kyle," Philip said. I saw Kyle check his watch, and I checked mine, too. It was three minutes to eight. "Shit, he made it," Kyle said. "He did get me last." We all laughed. That's the way the weekend started. Kyle and Philip gave each other big hugs, and then everybody hugged and shook hands and all of that, all around. That was a damn joyous group of men and boys that morning. The first thing Philip and Ryan did after they got done greeting everybody was step off to the side to piss. They must have unloaded a gallon, and they probably drilled six-inch holes in the ground, from what it sounded like. Mr. Dick brought his son with him. His name is Sammy, and Mr. Gene introduced us all to him. His full name is Sammy Stout, but he told us his name was Sam Stout, when we shook hands with him. Somehow, a day's hunting had turned into a weekend of hunting since Kyle had first set it up, and we were going to camp out that night on the lease. About four o'clock in the afternoon of that first day, two boys showed up, one black, one white. Their job was to dress the birds for us. Every other time, I had dressed every bird me and Brian had ever shot, and I figured Kyle and Tim had, too. That was a real luxury, though. Not to have to fool with doing that shit. At one point, when they didn't know anybody was looking, they turned to each other and gave each other a little kiss on the lips. Whoa! When I turned around, Mr. Gene was right behind me. "Did you see that?" I asked. "Yeah. Did it look familiar?" he asked. I'm sure I blushed. "Mr. Gene, I . . . " "Shut up, Justin. Those are local boys, and they don't get a chance to spend much time together. You know what that's all about, don't you?" Mr. Gene said. "Yes, sir, I reckon I do," I said. "Come on, Brian, let's dress some birds." "What?" Brian said. "I said, come on, let's dress some birds." We walked to the table where the guys were working. "Y'all take about a thirty minute break, okay," I said to them. "In private." They grinned so big I just about saw their stomachs. They scampered off. They didn't know I wasn't the boss. "What am I doing here?" Brian asked. He hadn't ever done that before because I always did it. He had watched me a bunch of times, but he had always watched like he was watching a biology experiment or something. He wanted to dissect the birds, not clean 'em. "You peel the skin off the bird. Watch me," I said, and I showed him how to do it. "This ain't school, Brian. This ain't biology lab." He laughed. "Shut up," he said. I cut one of the toes off a quail and held it up. "You see this? You know what it is?" I asked him. "No. What?" "It's his dick. It's about the size of yours," I said. He was laughing so hard he couldn't stand still. "But mine's bigger than yours, remember?" he said. "Oh, yeah. I forgot about that." Brian screamed with laughter. Kyle saw us having fun, so, naturally, he came over to the table. "What the hell are y'all doing?" he demanded, full grumble. "Dressing these birds. What the hell does it look like?" I grumbled back. "My daddy hired two boys to do that. Where are they? Did they quit?" he asked. "They're taking a break. They're in the woods, fucking," I said. "For real?" he asked. "Well, I don't know for real, but they sure looked like they wanted to. I saw 'em kiss," I said. "One's black and the other's white. Your daddy said they don't get to spend too much time together." "Damn, y'all, that's mighty nice of you all," Kyle said. "I know. There's another knife. Get busy," I said. "Okay. Let's do an assembly line," he said. "One cuts off the head and feet, one skins 'em, the last one guts 'em and washes 'em. We really need a fourth guy to make this go fast." He whistled that shrill whistle of his. "Philip. Get over here. Now." "What's up?" Philip asked. "Lend a hand," Kyle said. "Where are the guys they hired to do this?" Philip asked. "They're in the woods, fucking," Kyle said. "Say what?" "You heard me. They're in the woods fucking. Philip, you gut. Brian, you wash. You're too slow gutting, Brian. This ain't the science lab, Bubba. You're going to have plenty of time to do that in college. You should see how slow he guts fish. This is production work right here, not learning," Kyle said. "How do you know what those guys are doing, Goodson?" Philip asked. "Look, they're a little gay couple, okay? Thirteen, fourteen years old. They don't have much time alone together. The white boy can't say, 'Hey, Mama and Daddy, I'm going down to the Quarters to have sex with my boyfriend, okay?' And the black boy can't knock on the white boy's front door and say, 'Hi, Mr. and Mrs., your boy and I have a date tonight. Is he ready?' It just can't happen in a place like Vernon, Florida. That's why we're helping 'em out," Kyle said. "I don't mind dressing these things. God knows I've done enough of 'em. In fact, I kind of like it. Especially when I get one that's still warm, you know?" His voice got real sexy like. "Feeling those soft, warm, gushy guts in my hands. I'm about to come in my pants right now, and I've only done three so far," Philip said. I glanced over at his crotch, and there wasn't even a sign of a hard-on. In those tight camos he was wearing, I could have told easy, too, if he had had one. "You are a sick motherfucker, Philip," Kyle said. "I know, and they say it's contagious, too, Kyle. You better watch out," Philip said. Brian and I were laughing so hard we could barely do our jobs, but those two had totally straight faces. The other boys had done more than half of the birds, and we finished it up before they got back. "Let's let them pack 'em and ice 'em down," Kyle said. "They need to count 'em, anyway. They get fifty cents a bird, and they probably need the money." Mr. Gene came over to the table when we were finishing up. "What are y'all doing? Where are those two boys?" he asked. "They're off on some private business for me, Mr. Gene," I said. "Private business? What kind of private bus . . . ?" Then his face lit up in a big grin. "Okay. Are they coming back?" "Yes, sir, in fact, here they come right now," I said. "Y'all count these birds up, bag 'em, and ice 'em. Y'all coming back tomorrow?" he asked the two boys. "Yes, sir," they said together. "Three thirty," Mr. Gene said. "We want to get away from here before dark tomorrow. Let me know when y'all are finished here, and I'll take you home." "Yes, sir," they both said. "Okay. Y'all get busy. I haven't had a drink yet, and I'm dying for one," Mr. Gene said, and he walked off. "Thanks, y'all," the black kid said. "We needed that break." He didn't talk like black people usually do. He sounded more like Tim and Brian. He was a little bit girlish, though. "We knew you did, and we were happy to do it," I said. "You from around here?" Kyle asked the black kid. "Yes, unfortunately," he said. "Do y'all ever get down to Emerald Beach?" Kyle asked. "Not very often, but sometimes," the black kid said. "Who's got paper and pencil?" Kyle asked. "Why? You want to take notes?" Philip asked. "No, dumbass. I want to give 'em my name and phone number, so they can give us a fucking call the next time they're in Emerald Beach. God, Philip, you are so . . . " "I've got some," Brian said. He took off at a trot to Kyle's car. I watched him go through his backpack and come back with a little pad and a pen. He gave them to Kyle, and Kyle wrote something on the pad. He tore off the top sheet and then tore that in half. He gave a half to each guy. "Y'all hold on to that and call me when you come to town for fun. That's my cell number, and I always got it on me," Kyle said. The white boy took out a wallet and put the paper in there. The black boy just shoved his in the pocket of his jeans. "Y'all better get going on this stuff so my daddy can have him a drink when he gets back from taking y'all home," Kyle said. "We'll see you tomorrow, okay? Oh, and by the way, every one of us is just as queer as you." It was already dark, of course, but we had a Coleman lantern we were working by. When Kyle said that, they both grinned so big their teeth just about blinded us in the reflection from the lantern. * * * That night we ate steak and grilled lobsters that Kyle and Philip had caught. And potatoes and corn and shit like that. Salad. Kyle was in charge of the food, so you know it was good and plentiful. I think the corn had been blanched and frozen from last summer, and it wasn't quite as sweet as fresh corn usually is. But he had finished cooking it on the grill, and it was good. It was my favorite, in fact. Trixie and Krewe had done awesome that day in the field, so Kyle cooked 'em up a couple of steaks each. I don't know what the Springers ate, but they were already in the dog box in Mr. Pat's truck. Those Springers are very good dogs in the field, but they aren't as tame or well trained as our dogs are. Ours stayed with us; the others got the kennel on the truck. "Watch this," Brian said. He held up an ear of corn to Trixie, and she started eating it off the cob, just like a person would. "Whoa! I've never seen a dog eat corn right off the cob like that," Mr. Gene said. "Did you teach her to do that?" "Yes, sir," Brian said. Then he did the same thing with Krewe. Everybody was amazed, and ole Flash Goodson was getting every bite they took on film. "Brian, I think you have a career as a dog trainer ahead of you," Mr. Dick said. Brian just grinned at him. "No, sir. He and Tim are going to be doctors. Me and Kyle are going to be businessmen," I said. Mr. Dick just kind of smiled. He didn't know how smart Brian and Tim are. Or how determined, either. "Okay. Y'all want to play charades tonight?" Kyle asked. "Sure," we all said. We had played that game at campouts before, and it was pretty much fun. "Okay, y'all make 'em as dirty as you can but still being real songs or movies or stuff like that," Kyle said. "What do you mean by 'dirty,' Son?" Mr. Gene asked. "He means suggestive, not really dirty," Tim said. We pulled straws to see which teams we would be on, and we played that silly game for a long time. We were around a campfire, and we had fun. By the time it was over, we were all half asleep. The old guys, and some of us younger ones, too, had been drinking whiskey a good bit. Everybody but Tim and Brian, of course, and we were sleepy. "One song, before we go to bed," Kyle said, and he started up "America the Beautiful." His voice was so pure and so clear that I just wanted to listen to him sing. But I joined in with the rest of them in a minute. What an unbelievable group of guys!
Shortly after he moved to Destin from Emerald Beach, Gene Goodson transferred his membership and joined our Rotary Club. That club is more or less for the leaders of the community, and Gene certainly fits in because of his ownership and personal management of the largest hotel in town. He is a hell of a nice guy, too. I sat at his table at his first weekly luncheon meeting with us. He already knew a couple of the guys at the table, but he told the rest of us about himself. "I had two sons, but one of them died when he was twenty years old. In Shands Teaching Hospital at the University of Florida. Now, I just got the one, and he's nineteen," he said. "Both gay, by the way." That brought about a very awkward pause, as everybody stared at their plates. Finally, Tom Sanders spoke up. "My younger daughter is a lesbian," he said. "Did your son die of AIDS, Gene?" I was stunned. I have known Becky Sanders since she was two years old. Tom lives next door to us. Becky is a lesbian? "No, Tom. Clay died as a result of a medical accident. He had an allergic reaction to a drug they gave him for a migraine or something. But that was a couple of years ago," he said. That evening at dinner I asked my younger son, who is a high school senior, if there was anything out of the ordinary about Becky Sanders. "Out of the ordinary? What do you mean, Dad?" he asked. "Well, strange. Or different," I said. "She's a lesbian, if that's what you mean, but she's cool. She's one of my best friends," he said. "You're not, er . . . gay, are you?" I asked him. "No. You'd know it, if I was," he said. "Did Mr. Tom tell you Becky is queer?" "Son, please don't use that awful word in this house," my wife said. "What word? 'Queer?'" he asked. "Yes. That's derogatory. It's an insult," she said. "I know it used to be, but it's not anymore, Mama. That's what all my gay friends say about themselves," he said. "Pass the potatoes, please." "You have gay friends?" I asked him. "Of course I do, Daddy. You do, too, but you might not even know it," he said. "Unlike you guys, we don't care if they're gay." I have some catching up to do, that's for sure. Over the weeks and months, Gene and I have gotten to like each other. Our wives are active in local organizations, and they became friends independently. Rita Goodson is still pretty active in Emerald Beach, raising money for children's charities, but she and my wife hooked up and became friends. I knew of Gene Goodson's reputation, of course. I mean, Emerald Beach is only thirty minutes away from us, and the business people in both places know of one another, even if we haven't met in person. "Any of you guys hunt bird?" Gene asked at one of our weekly luncheons. "Birds? Shit! I go after the bucks," Mike McGuire said. "Well, I've got a lease on some bird land up in Washington County this year. If anybody wants to hunt bird, let me know," he said. "I've got access to two incredible Black Lab birddogs, too." "I can go," I said. "All right," Gene said, and we grinned at each other. I have a couple of Black Labs, too, but they're only fair hunting dogs. They are much more family pets, than anything. Gene and I went hunting several times that fall on his lease, and I know my dogs missed as many as they got. I had tried to train them myself, but I don't really know how to do it. I think their retriever instinct got us a lot more birds than my dog training did. One time Gene and I went up to his lease, and we met up with two boys who had dogs. Gene knew those boys very well, apparently, and we got us a mess of birds that day, thanks to those dogs. "Hey, it's me. Gene," he said, when I answered the phone in my office. "Hey. What's up?" "My son's organizing a hunting trip up to the lease for this weekend. Can you go?" Gene said. "Hell, yeah," I said. "Your boy, too, if he wants to," he said. He gave me the details about time and meeting place, and then he rang off. * * * I have a construction company and a land-development company in Destin. Unlike Gene Goodson, who inherited a lot of his stuff from his parents and grandparents, I started very small. I took some very big risks twenty years ago, when Destin wasn't anything more than a fishing village, and I have done very, very well. It would take three or four generations for me to be Gene's financial equal, probably, but I'm not a poor boy, by any means. Gene picked us up at six o'clock that Saturday morning. "Gene, this is my son, Sammy," I said. "Sam Stout," Sammy said, as he shook hands with Gene. I have to remember that. He's Sam now, not Sammy. "Nice to meet you, Sam. My boy's going to be there with us. Kyle Goodson," Gene said. "Why is his name familiar to me?" I asked. "I don't know. He and his boyfriend, Tim Murphy, saved a woman and her baby a couple of years ago during a hurricane. They got a good bit of publicity from that," Gene said. "Could that be it?" "Daddy, don't you remember? There was a story about them in Boy's Life Magazine. I showed it to you because their act of bravery happened so close to us," Sam said. "I do remember. As I recall, you were pretty excited about it, Sammy. Er, Sam. Didn't you call him up?" I said. "I didn't call him. I sent him email. His email address was in the article," Sam said. "Did that stinker write you back?" Gene asked. "Yes, sir, he sure did. I'm excited about meeting him," Sam said. "I hope he and Tim are still together." I was amazed at my son's attitude. He knows Kyle is gay. In mean, Gene had just referred to the other boy as Kyle's "boyfriend." I don't know how or when things changed, but it sure is different between his generation and mine, it seems. "Oh, yeah. They're still together. Those two are in it for life, I believe. And I couldn't be happier for Kyle," Gene said. "Gene and Sam, y'all are way ahead of me on this gay thing," I said. "Y'all are going to have to help me out a little bit, okay?" "I was the same way as you, Dick. That's the way we were raised. We couldn't help it. We didn't know any better," Gene said. "What made you change your attitude?" I asked. "Well, when two of the three most precious things in my life turned up gay, what was I going to do? Turn my back on my boys? I don't think so," Gene said. "When you put it that way, I can see your point," I said. "What made you so gay-friendly, Sam?" "My friends, Daddy. People I've known and loved all my life turned out to be gay. Like Mr. Gene said, you can't turn your back on those people. They mean too much to you," Sam said. "Besides, Kyle and Tim are heroes." "Who are some of your gay friends, Son?" I asked. He hesitated a few seconds. "Becky. Ander. Steve. Scott. Robert. Others, too. The names just aren't coming fast enough. Every one of them is out, too. I don't know how many of my friends are gay and not out." Whoa! I thought. Those are some of his oldest and closest friends. And the thing is, I would never have guessed it about any of them. "Is Matt gay?" I asked. Matt has been his best friend and soul brother since they were in preschool. "Oh, shit, no, Daddy. Matt ain't gay," Sam said. "Hey, watch the language, okay, boy?" I said. "Sorry," Sam said. "Dick, if you've got a problem with language, I gotta warn you, man. You're going to hear it this weekend from my boys, I'd bet," Gene said. "Your boys use bad language, too, Mr. Gene?" Sam asked. "Of course they do. They're boys, aren't they? And unless I'm badly mistaken, your daddy did, too, when he was y'all's age," Gene said. "I still do," I said. "I only corrected him just now because you're here, Gene." "I gave up doing that years ago. I will say this, though. Kyle's usually pretty good around his mama and other ladies, and I appreciate that. Every now and then something will slip out, but in an all-male environment? There won't be any holding back on this trip," Gene said. "How old are you, Sam?" "Seventeen," Sam said. "Are you a junior or a senior?" "I'm a senior. I'm going to be eighteen in February," he said. "Kyle and Justin are nineteen, and Tim and Brian are seventeen. Tim's a senior and Brian's a junior, but he's graduating this year with Tim. Philip and Ryan, who'll also be there, too. They're a little bit hazy. They're either eighteen or nineteen, anyway. They're both freshmen at FSU. Justin's a sophomore, I think, at Emerald Coast. Anyway, they're all around your age, Sam," Gene said. We turned off the highway onto the gravel road that leads to Gene's lease. We bounced along that thing for about another twenty minutes. "Damn. Look at that. They beat us here. I'm sure Kyle had 'em up at the ass crack of dawn," Gene said. "What took you so long, old man?" a stunningly handsome boy shouted to Gene. "It's only 7:30," Gene said. "You said eight o'clock." The two of them hugged. In fact, Gene hugged the other three boys who were there, too. "Daddy, that's Kyle. I recognize him from the picture in the magazine. God, he's good looking, isn't he?" Sam said. I glanced at my son. "Daddy, don't look at me like that. I'm not gay. I'd tell you if I was. I wouldn't be ashamed of that. Don't you think Kyle's good looking? In fact, they all are. Look at that other dark-headed one," Sam said. "Sammy, hearing you say that is making me real uncomfortable, Son," I said. "Why is it making you uncomfortable, Dad? Huh? You don't think those guys are good looking?" "You're not supposed to notice that kind of thing, Son," I said. "Why not, Daddy? You need to lose the phobe, okay?" he said. "'Lose the phobe?' What the hell are you talking about?" I asked. "The homophobia. These guys are going to be our friends, I hope. Maybe for the rest of our lives," he said. He got his pack out of the car and walked over to meet the Emerald Beach crowd. I knew he was right, and I knew Gene was right, too. I could never turn my back on my two boys, even if they were mass murderers, much less gay. I made a resolution right there on that spot. From that moment forward, I wouldn't care if a guy was gay or not. I prayed to God I could keep my resolution and my mouth shut.
Goddamn! What an awesome hunting trip. I have been hunting since I was a little boy, but I never had as much fun as I did that weekend. Everybody in the party got the bag limit each day, but the real fun was the guys. That Philip and Kyle were hilarious, and throw Justin into the mix, and I was laughing almost nonstop. Ryan and I both cracked off a good one a time or two, but we weren't anything like them. Tim and Brian were pretty quiet compared to the others, but they laughed a lot. After about a half hour, I felt like I had known those boys my whole life. They were so easy to be around. And the dogs! Whoa! They were fucking incredible. We had two Black Labs and three Springer Spaniels. The Springers were competent and good. No question about that. But those two Labs were spectacular. They are retrievers, of course, but they also flushed out coveys of quail that the Springers didn't even know existed. We have two Black Labs, too, and I love them with all my heart. But they are nothing as bird dogs, compared to those two. "Who trained your dogs, Kyle?" Daddy asked. "Mr. Mack Mixon and Brian," Kyle said. "They're good, ain't they?" "Son, I've hunted these dogs once before with Justin, Brian, and your daddy, and they were damn good that day. Today, they're superb," Daddy said. "Yes, sir, I know. They're in competition with the Springers. That's why," Kyle said. "It's like they know that me and Tim are much better hunters than Philip and Ryan, so they know they got to be better dogs than the Springers." "Goodson, when was the last time you had a bowel movement?" Philip asked Kyle. "I had one this morning. What the hell kind of personal question is that?" "Because you're so full of shit, I didn't think you'd had one in a month," Philip said. "Fuck you, Philip. How many damn birds you got in your bag?" Kyle asked. Kyle and Philip were talking real gruff to each other, but I knew what that was all about. I know some other guys from Emerald Beach who talk to each other that way, just in fun. "Not as many as I've shot, that's for sure. The goddamn Labs bring 'em all to you guys," he said. Things were getting pretty tense between them, and I almost expected them to go at each other. "Then chew the fucking dogs out, Philip. Not me. You dumb son of a bitch," Kyle said. My dad handed me his shotgun so he could break up the fight. Their dads were just standing there, grinning, though. And, in a second, Kyle and Philip started laughing. I knew exactly what was up. They were just two good friends teasing each other. "These two have been best friends since they were five years old, and they have never touched each other in anger," Mr. Cliff, Philip's dad, said. "One time we had a fist fight, Mr. Cliff. In the sixth grade. You remember that, Philip?" Kyle asked. "Yeah. I beat the shit out of you," Philip said. "No, sir. I beat the shit out of you," Kyle said. "Maybe we beat the shit out of each other," Philip said. They both laughed. "What caused it?" I asked. "Do you remember what caused it?" Philip asked. "Hell, yeah. You stole my dessert in the school cafeteria. It was a big ole brownie, with pecans in it," Kyle said. "I had gone up to get another milk to drink with my brownie, but, when I came back, it was gone. Vanished." "Kyle, you never eat dessert," Mr. Gene said. "I did then, though, Daddy. I was so hungry, I used to buy two lunches. Remember?" Kyle said. "Philip did, too," Mr. Cliff said. "This one still does," my daddy said, nodding toward me. I'm sure I blushed a little bit, but I do buy two. "That was the best brownie I've ever eaten in my whole life, Kyle. It was better than two orgasms happening at the same time," Philip said. I looked at my dad when Philip said that, and he was laughing his ass off at them. "Okay, Philip. You and me. Right now. Step out," Kyle said. "Step out? What? You want to dance with me?" Philip said. "You shit," Kyle said, and he and Philip laughed hard. Everybody else did, too. "You got me last on that one, asshole." "Don't mess with a pro, Kyle," Philip said. I was kind of dizzy. The fact that all the guys who knew those two were laughing off and on sort of made me know they weren't going to fight, but, from the way they acted, I thought we were going to see blood in the field. "Sam, if we scared you, I apologize, man," Kyle said. "Yeah, me, too, Sam. Me and this guy have been best friends since we were little boys, and we love each other. We'd never lay a hand on the other one," Philip said. "Like you could," Kyle said. "Shut up, Goodson, you asshole," Philip said. Kyle laughed. "Philip's right. That fight in the sixth grade is the only time we had a fist fight. We've had plenty of verbal fights, but never fists since then. I reckon we'll always have verbal fights. We're too much alike not to have 'em. Ain't that right?" Kyle said. Kyle threw his arm around Philip. "Get off of me, you queer," Philip said. I was confused. "Philip, I thought you were queer, too," I said. "I am. Just not for him. You can't be queer for your brother. How perverted is that?" Philip said. "It ain't beyond you," Kyle said. "You guys never stop, do you?" I said. "Nope. But it's all words between us, you know? We both got the ones we love," Kyle said. * * * That was a fantastic weekend. I think probably the weekend I got laid the first time was the best, but that weekend was a close second. The whole thing was incredible. "Did you have fun, Son?" my daddy asked me, once we were home. "Daddy, that was probably the second best weekend of my life," I said. "What was the first one?" he asked. "Daddy, I'm going to keep that one in confidence for a while, okay?" He grinned big. "Those boys don't act gay at all, do they?" Daddy said. "I know what you mean by 'act gay,' Daddy, but most gay guys don't. They're just guys, Dad," I said. "I see that now," he said. |