markwildyr.com, Post #57
Time for another short story. I intended this to be a flash fiction piece, but as I wrote, it became clear it would take two posts to tell the story. I hope you’re as taken with young Dally Calico as I am.
*****
 |
| Courtesy of Pixabay |
DALLY CALICO
I’m a brawler. A hard-drinking, fast-living, street fighter. I’m also a successful novelist. In addition, I’m a gay man with a fixation on round, firm male buttocks. My agent of fifteen years had effectively kept me in the closet despite the fact I don’t give a tug-on-a-tit who knows.
As I sat in the library of a small southern New Mexico town researching back copies of old newspapers for my newest book—a frontier epic with the working title of Fading Trumpets—a young man entered and paused to glance around the room. I’m constantly amazed at how attractive young people flock to me, drawn by the mysterious, magnetic pull of power and renown. Many, both straight and gay, succumbed to the force of my personality, believing they were “special.”
Even though I considered a good-looking American Indian about the sexiest animal alive, this kid was a standout in any environment. Around twenty-one and extremely comely rather than classically handsome, his lean, angular face provoked erotic sensations in my gut. I recognized the book in his hand as one of mine. Eventually, he worked up his courage and approached.
“Excuse me, sir. But are you Alan MacFarland?”
I looked up as if surprised. “Yes. I am.”
His smile lit his eyes and about stopped my heart. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but could I ask you….”
“I’d be happy to autograph it. What’s your name?”
“Dally. Dally Calico.”
“Dally? Like a dally man as opposed to a Texas-tie down man?” I referred to two different methods cowboys use to anchor lassos to saddles.
“You got it.”
Many attractive people suffered from close scrutiny, but not young Dally. As I examined his separate parts, he actually grew more desirable. At a guess, I’d say Dally was a breed. His thick black hair, worn like a knit cap, tended to curl. Big, hazel eyes were likely a gene from his non-native parent. Rangy is an overworked word down here in the southwest, but it applied perfectly to his physique, wide at the shoulders, narrowing to a V at his trim hips. His butt was a gentle curve that begged a caress.
He stuck out a corded arm and offered a manly handshake. “Nice to meet you, Mr. MacFarland.”
“If you want me to sign this, you’ve got to learn to call me Alan.”
“Okay… Alan.” He shifted his stance uneasily as I finished inscribing the book. “Uh, I had another reason for wanting to meet you.”
I invited him to sit and tried to analyze the powerful attraction of his asymmetrical features as he spoke. I had certainly seen more beautiful young men, but none so utterly sensual.
He’d heard I planned to spend some time on the nearby reservation doing research for my new novel and wanted me to hire him as my guide. I was delighted to give him a chance. This sexy stud would serve my needs to a T.
We started work immediately, heading to a place called Bloody Canyon in the wooded mountains of the reservation, the site of a seminal battle during the Indian wars of the 1880s. Like Little Big Horn, it was a Pyrrhic victory for the tribes. Nonetheless, Fading Trumpets was to be built on this struggle.
As Dally and I walked the ground, smelled the air, and savored the atmosphere of the battleground, my eye scanned canyon walls for hostiles lurking in ambush. The squeal of dying horses and cries of mortally wounded men echoed in the eerie silence along the entire five-mile length of the steep-sided valley. And toward the mouth of the canyon, one could almost hear a fading trumpet signaling retreat.
After coming down out of the hills two days later, we checked into the only motel in a dusty village called San Rosario. After my shower, I settled at a small table and began transcribing notes from a hand-held recorder onto a laptop. Minutes later, Dally emerged from his own bath with a towel wrapped around his slender waist. Not even aware of rising, I found myself standing behind him, taking in the graceful play of muscles as he combed his hair before the dresser mirror. He whirled and regarded me through worried, canted eyes. Then the guy I figured was in the throes of slavish hero worship, delivered a surprise.
“Sorry, man. I don’t go in for that.”
I licked my lips. “For what?”
“What you’re looking for. I’m a hired guide, not a hired lay.”
“Usually, I get a two-for.”
“Not this time, you don’t. I can pack up and leave in the morning unless we have an understanding. I’m a guide and interpreter, nothing else.”
I gave in gracefully. “All right, but lest set some ground rules. I won’t touch, but I will look. You are one hell of a sexy guy, Dally. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you if I tried. You don’t have to parade around naked, but don’t bundle up like an Eskimo, either. Just act normal.”
“Okay, I can handle that.” He whipped off his towel and swiped at his neck. My heart about failed at the unfettered sight of his long, lean body.
*****
Did Alan MacFarland miscalculate? Will he have to put up with the aches and pains of living in near proximity to the fetching Dally Calico without touching? Even if that’s the case, maybe being around the young sexpot will be enough. What do you think?
As I’ve noted before, DSP Publications released Cut Hand. I’d appreciate it if you give the book a look. Amazon permits you to read a short passage. This is the first novel in the Strobaw Family Saga series. Gonna have to sell a few more books if we want them to publish the second… and third and fourth and fifth book in the series.
Remember the new posting schedule: The first and third Thursday of each month at 6:00 a.m.
My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:
Website and blog: markwildyr.com
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
Twitter: @markwildyr
The following are some buy links for CUT HAND:
Thanks for being a reader.
Mark
New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.
No comments:
Post a Comment