Let’s try a short-short story this week that has nothing to do with Europe and nobility and serfs to see what excitement we can stir. A tale set right here in beautiful New Mexico.
*****
HARRIS
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| Dootl'izhiidzill Courtesy of Wikipedia |
I’d known Harris Keltjourn for three years, but only now had I really looked at him. At least, I examined his lower extremities more closely than ever before as he’d walked and climbed no more than six feet ahead of me for the past two hours. Why had it taken me this long to discover how attractive he was? I knew he was handsome, but so were a lot of other guys on the UNM campus. For me “handsome” isn’t always sexy. And how had I found myself alone with him on an isolated trail on a Saturday afternoon?
Harris and I took some classes together, but we weren’t close. Then two days ago, he’d plopped down at my table in the Zimmerman Library and let out a whoosh of air. “I’m tired of this shit,” he announced.
I grinned at him. “Already? It’s only October. Long way to go yet.”
“Man, I need to be shooting rapids or scaling mountains or something.”
“There’s water in the Rio Grande this year. Course, I don’t know of many rapids nearby. And there’s Sandia Peak right on the eastern horizon.”
“You’re right. No rapids. And I’ve been up Sandia enough already.”
I leaned back in my chair to look at him full on. He returned my stare, and I discerned he was serious. “There’s always Dootl’izhiidzill over by Grants.” I stumbled over the word, unsure of Navajo pronunciation. “That’s not too far away.”
His eyes widened. “What in the hell’s that?”
“Mount Taylor. It known as Turquoise Mountain to the Navajo. One of their holy mountains.”
"How’d a mountain holy to the Navajo get to be called Mount Taylor.”
“Haven’t you heard? The white man came out on top and got to write the history books and the maps. First they named it San Mateo. I guess it’s a part of the San Mateo Mountains. Then when Zachary Taylor whipped the Mexicans, we saw fit to change the name to pay him homage.”
“How you know all this stuff, Frank?”
I shrugged. “Lived here all my life. Grew up on the stuff.”
He pursed his lips and nodded. “Let’s do it. Saturday.”
And that’s how I found myself ogling that intriguing butt. I would have liked to continue doing just that, but my bladder had reached capacity and I pled for a halt. He agreed, so we stood side by side to ease our discomfort. When I’d peed enough to get rid of the urgency, I slid my gaze downward and to the right. I almost dried up at the sight.
Harris had finished urinating and was shaking away the last drop… the one that’s not supposed to end up in your underwear. But what caught my attention was that the thing he held was growing. Rapidly. Then he turned away and seemed to have some difficulty zipping his shorts. Without a word, he took off up the trail.
Dry mouthed, I stuffed myself away and hurried after him, my own excitement causing an uncomfortable chafing. Even so, I managed to almost catch up before he cambered atop a big rock and turned to look back the way we’d come. I scrambled up beside him, puffing hard.
The view was stunning. The dark green forest below was studied with the reds and yellows and oranges of thousands of autumn leaves. We seemed to be looking out over a vast kingdom peopled only by us… ourselves. Alone.
I glanced down at his crotch. It seemed full… inflamed. He turned and caught me looking. I had to swallow twice to work up enough saliva to speak. “Y-you seem to have a problem. Let me know if you need some help with it.”
He studied me with eyes as gray as an angry sky before turning to look at the panorama again. “Yeah. I might. Thought for a while you weren’t going to offer.”
*****
Makes me wonder if Frank is calling Harris “Harry” by the time they get back down old Dootl’izhiidzill. By the way, I've seen the mountain spelled Tootl'izhiidzill, also.
Please let me know what you think of the story at markwildyr@aol.com.
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New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. on the first of each month.
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