Thursday, May 3, 2018, Post #59

Distant Harbor – Part 1 of 2 Parts

Got lots of hits and private comments on Dally Calico. Apparently, old Dally struck a chord. Let’s see how Dustin Harbor will do.
Courtesy of Pixabay

          Dustin Harbor liked to be called Dusty, but he was okay with the nickname some accorded him. Distant. You know, like in Distant Harbor. He guessed he’d earned the appellation. You see he was a tease. He delighted in getting some guy all hot and bothered and then bailing. He classified attractive men as beautiful and so what… and good-looking and wow! Funny how many of the truly gorgeous ones failed to stir his blood.
          He eyed his mark for tonight, a young man appropriately named Mark. He and Mark Zolweather had gone to school together a few years back, but Dusty lost contact when the guy moved out of town for a job. Now he was back and throwing occasional glances from across Barney’s Pub. Hmm. The guy might be worth going all the way with. Dusty mentally shook his head. Nah. The game was better than any orgasm.
          The evening went about as expected. Mark worked the room before eventually sitting down opposite Dusty. Greetings were cordial and quick. After bringing one another up to date, Dusty pushed his mug away and announced it was time to drain the old pipe. Mark agreed, and they strode into the men’s room together. Dusty always made a point of pissing into the water in the urinal. It made more noise and occasionally elicited comments. Like now.
          “Damn, Dusty. Sounds like a horse over there.”
          “Just li’l ole me. Let’s blow this joint, okay?”
          “Your place?”
          “Naw. How about yours?”
          “Sure. I’ve got a couple of beers in the fridge.”
          Dusty insisted on driving his car, and Mark played his role to the hilt, riding in the passenger’s seat with his legs spread wide to make his interest and intent obvious. Dusty drove without speaking.
          Mark’s one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a mid-priced complex smelled faintly of liver and onions, probably the guy’s supper. Dusty accepted a bottle of Bud and settled on a kitchen chair. Mark wasn’t interested in reminiscing, but Dusty forced the issue by dredging up a couple of incidents from their senior year. Midway through the telling, he strained to scratch at his back.
          “Damn. I’ve got a spot that’s driving me crazy. Can you check to see if it’s a rash or something?”
          Mark was on his feet before Dusty finished the request. He lifted the thin polo shirt up around Dusty’s shoulders, his hands warm against the skin of his back.
          “Don’t see anything, but I’ve got some aloe lotion. Hold on."
          When Mark went to the bathroom for the cream, Dusty slipped out of his shirt. Mark stopped dead-still when he returned but collected himself quickly and started applying the lotion to Rusty’s naked back. In a few moments, his movements became caresses.
          “Damn, you’ve got a good bod.”
          “You think so? I’m not so sure,” Dusty replied.
          “What do you mean?”
          Dusty rose and turned to face Mark, noting the way the other’s eyes swept his smooth chest. “I think my hips are too big.”
          “Too big? They’re… perfect.” Mark ended with a gulp.
          “They say a guy’s hips should be ten percent bigger than his waist. Mine look bigger than that. Do you have a tape measure?”
          After a hasty search through kitchen drawers, Mark located his mother sewing basket. “Found it.”
          “Can you do the measuring? I can’t get the tape straight when I try.”
          “Y-yeah, sure.” Mark’s hands trembled as he passed the tape around Dusty’s back and met at his navel. An innie. “T-twenty-seven. That’s what we were back in high school. How do you do it?”
          “Good genes. Can you do my hips, too?”
          “As Mark reached for him, Dusty put up a hand. “Let’s make it accurate. Let me slip out of my trousers.”
          Mark licked his lips. “O-okay.”
          Dusty unbuttoned his pants and let them fall to the floor.
          “What about your boxers?” Mark asked, hope thickening his voice.
          “Naw. Go ahead, measure me.”
         Mark stepped forward and passed the tape around Dusty’s hips. His hands pressed against Dusty’s groin as he stuttered. “Th… Uh, thirty.”
          “See, I told you. That’s more than ten percent.”
          “Not much,” Mark managed to say before falling to his knees to hug Dusty’s butt and bury his face in the tiger-striped boxers. After a moment, he looked up, his eyes like an eager puppy. “Is… is it all right?”
          Dusty smiled down at him. “Sure. But I need to go to the bathroom first, okay?”
          Mark scrambled to his feet without trying to hide his excitement. Dusty figured in another minute or so, the guy’s pant seams would begin to fail. He put his trousers in place, grabbed his shirt from the table, and headed for the front door.
          “Thanks for the beer, guy.” He walked outside while pulling his shirt over his head.
          “Dusty!” Mark’s plaintive cry followed him down the sidewalk. “Where are you going? I-I thought… D-u-s-t-y!”
Have you ever known someone like Dustin… or Distant, as some call him? I met a Distant once… and never forgot him.

Please take a look at my novel Cut Hand. I really would like DSP Publications to bring out River Otter and Echoes of the Flute and Medicine Hair, as well as the unpublished Wastelakapi… Beloved, we have to generate some sales in order to get it done. Amazon permits you to read a short passage.

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:
Website and blog:
Twitter: @markwildyr

The following are some buy links for CUT HAND:

Thanks for being a reader.


New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.

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