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DEEP INSIDE DALTON: Converting the Jock-Next-Door into a Chempig


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PART 7 – DALTON SMILES

 

I opened the front door. Dalton and I stood on either side of the threshold, towels wrapped around our waists. I motioned for him to come inside, but he stood completely still for a good 10 seconds. Then, without another word, he entered.

 

The door closed behind him. I cocked my head toward the kitchen, and he followed me in silence. Once I reached the kitchen counter, I grabbed a water bong sitting next to the sink, then turned around to face him. Dalton's expression was neutral—impassive. He clearly didn’t understand what he was doing in our house. He just knew, somehow, that he needed to be there. I’d seen that look before, seen it in other boys who’d kept their deepest hunger a secret even to themselves. He was following some nameless, wordless urge as he followed my footsteps—all his good taste and better judgment giving way to a dark impulse pulsing just beneath the surface of his skin.  

 

I placed the bong up to his lips. He dutifully sealed one end with his mouth, his eyes locked on mine. I lit a fire under the glass bowl—no explanation offered, no permission granted. He began to inhale before the smoke was ready, and I gave him a quick shake of my head. He stopped. Then, as the white smoke began to trickle out of the bowl, I nodded, and he slowly began to inhale his first lungful of Tina.

 

I kept nodding as he sucked in that smoke, making sure he took a thick, potent hit nice and deep—then a little deeper—then deeper still. Satisfied that his first hit was up to my standards, I pulled the pipe away and gave him another nod. He hesitated, his eyes still locked on mine. Realizing he needed some guidance, I demonstrated what I wanted him to do: I shaped my mouth into an “O,” then let him hear the breath leave my lungs as I exhaled loud and long. His eyes brightened: he understood now. He opened his mouth in a round “O” just like mine, then released a long, fat snake of white smoke that slid from his lips into the air between us. I nodded approval, and he blushed.

 

Once again, his lips wrapped around the mouthpiece. Once again, I applied heat to the bowl. Inhale, then exhale. Repeat. As one hit melted into another, he started to understand the rhythm of blowing thick clouds of chem-smoke. Three hits, four hits, five: I could see his pupils go dark as the T in the glass bowl made its way into his lungs, his brain, his skin, his sweat. Finally, I set the pipe back down on the counter, taking a good look at our freshly chemmed-up Neighbor Boy.

 

He was smiling at me. And that’s when I realized something: I’d never seen this kid flash an easy, friendly, honest grin. He was always guarded somehow, always fearful of revealing too much. But now his whole face radiated with unchecked joy; his eyes flickered with a playfulness—maybe even a devilishness—that I hadn’t quite anticipated. Those clouds of chem-smoke had unlocked something, like they always do. Like so many boys before him, like so many repressed little bros just aching for something real, he was finally free.

 

We grinned at each other for a minute or two before I broke the silence between us. “I’m so proud of you, bro,” I said, reaching over to muss his hair.

 

His smile grew even wider as he took a step closer to me, his towel falling to the floor. I let me own towel drop, and Dalton’s giant smile turned into a mischievous half-grin. Blushing again, he pointed sheepishly at the pipe. “Would it be cool if I smoked a little more?”

 

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