Thursday, November 15, 2018

Unforseen Results, Post #72

Courtesy of Flickr
Apparently, a lot of people have scars because I got a slew of page hits on my story "Every Scar's a Story"… but no comments, either online or through my email. Ah well, we’ll leave that behind and look at another piece of flash fiction.

            Even though the windows were down, Ham’s ’07 Charger was steamy inside. Mary Sue lay atop me in the back seat, and we were already testing the limits she’d set. Everything above the waist was fair game, but below the beltline... no go. Of course, she was lying on me wiggling around so much that it almost didn’t matter. A couple of times, my pressure cooker release valve almost popped.
            Despite that, half of my attention was drawn to the front seat where my best friend since the third grade, Hamilton Charles, was engaged in a similar pursuit with his girl of the moment, Cynthia. I kept listening to his low groans and murmurs, trying to discern between satisfaction and frustration. So far as I could tell, the battle remained unresolved.
            Before long, I heard what I was listening for… from her, not him. “Oh, Jeez! We gotta get back or we’ll miss curfew.” The girl’s dorms at Wheaton College still required residents be in-house by 10:00 p.m. on weeknights and 12:00 midnight on Saturdays. Old school… but a fact.
            Ham sat up in the front seat without a word. I could tell he was pissed. He’d been sure this was the night he’d hit a home run. Don’t know why he thought tonight was different, but two hours ago, he’d uttered his prediction with a smirk on his handsome face.
            We didn’t walk the girls to the door. Never did, after the first date, because we were always so stirred up from intimate contact that we’d all have been in trouble. It was all I could do to switch to the front passenger’s seat without stirring up a scandal. We stayed in place until they were safely inside and then pulled away.
            Ham pounded the steering wheel. “Damn! I was so close.”
            “This ain’t horseshoes,” I said with a hick accent. Then I smiled at the recollection of Mary Sue almost sending the rockets flaring with her wiggling. “Hey, you want a burger or a shake or something?”
            “You ready to head back to the dorm?”
            “Whadda ya wanna do?”
            “Hell, I don’t know.”
            “Well, you can go back to the dorm and pout. Or you can park somewhere and pout. Or—”
            “Oh, shut up!”
            He took an abrupt right and sped down the long road out of town. Neither of us said a word until the city limits were behind us and the long straight ribbon of asphalt led to the horizon, indistinct in the moonlight. Finally, I could stand it no longer.
            “What made you think tonight would be different?”
            He snorted. “She all but promised me last time.” He glanced at me. “Hell, Bob, doesn’t it get to you? Getting all hot and bothered with no payoff, I mean?”
             I shrugged. “It’s the way the game’s played. You take what you can get until she says no. Then you stop.” I paused for a thought. “Unless you’re a rapist.”
            He stomped on the brakes and slewed onto a side road blocked by a closed gate, the locked entry into someone’s pasture. We sat in silence until the dust we’d raised floated past.
            “I’m no rapist,” he grumbled.
            I turned to smile at him and froze. His excitement was evident…and extreme… even in the semidarkness. “D-didn’t think you were.” I gulped and swallowed.
            He leaned back in the seat in evident agitation, and that was all it took to release me. Free me to do what I’d wanted to do ever since we hit adolescence. “I… I can help, Ham.”
            He didn’t answer. He merely pressed a forearm over his eyes and took a deep breath.
            I’d like to think I didn’t know what I was doing… but I did. I knew exactly what. I pressed my hand down on him, and the heat of his passion warmed my palm. Slowly, deliberately, I unbuckled his belt and manipulated the top button and zipper. When I tugged on his denims, he lifted his butt slightly. Revealed to me in all his glory, he took my breath away. Strong and pulsing and inviting.
            “Bob,” he mumbled. “Maybe we’d better not—”
            Panicked by what he was about to say, I did the unthinkable. I lowered my head and ministered to him, silencing his rising protest. I reveled in his suppressed murmurs of ecstasy and his astonished cry at sudden relief. I kept at him until he fell silent. At length, he pushed me away and restored his clothing.
            Without a word, he fired the engine and backed onto the highway. He was quiet as we raced back to the campus, refusing to look at me and answering my efforts to make conversation with monosyllables and grunts.
            I looked out the window as the fences and gates and occasional farmhouses flashed by and understood three things.
            I would never again have such an intimate moment with my friend. I had taken advantage of Ham in a weak moment, resulting in shame on his part… even as it drew me closer to him.
            And I recognized that I would have to work long and hard to repair our friendship. We might never be as close as we had been before this night.
            The third thing? Well, I knew I was in love.

Anything in the story remind you of something from your past? We don’t always know what we want when we’re growing up and venturing new things. I’ve known guys who wanted to experiment, only to find it brought shame and mortification. We want what we want when we want, even if we find out later that was a mistake. Unfortunately, people like that tend to blame their partner of the moment rather than their own desire to try something new. Sure hope Bob can hold onto Ham’s friendship… but based on my own experience, it’s an iffy proposition.

Amazon permits you to read a short passage of my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. I also believe the STARbooks-published River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair are still up. I sure would like to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but it’ll take some help from readers to get Dreamspinner interested.

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

The following are buy links for CUT HAND:

And now my mantra (yes, it’s mine, even if I borrowed it from Don Travis): Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

Until next time.


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

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