markwildyr.com, Post #79
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In the last post, we met Patrick and Dev, two young men fated to spend the summer working together on Patrick’s family’s farm. As a result of an automobile accident, Dev is mentally challenged, but capable of functioning. Physically, he’s a handsome young man, which wasn’t what Patrick expected. Patrick is curious because Dev’s also supposed to have been abused by his former caretaker. Let’s see how Patrick handles things from now on. We left them last after working the first day together. Now comes day two:
The next morning, I tossed a small kit in Dev’s lap as he got into the cab. “Here. You can keep you nails clean with these.”
“Is that for me?” he asked. “A present for me? Thank you, Patrick. Will you show me how to use it?”
As we drove to work, I explained the use of each of the little instruments and got a kick out of the excited way he started digging dirt out from under his fingernails. By now I was getting a handle on Devon Hartshorn. He wasn’t an idiot or anything like that; I’m not even sure he was retarded. He was just slow, and at times it showed up more than others. Mostly he acted almost normal, although sometimes you had to baby him along. But he could take care of himself and do good work and make a halfway decent conversation. I decided I liked him.
By Friday morning, we’d worked our way to a corner of the property and made a turn. A stand of trees off to our right told me the brook was close, so we piled into the truck and drove over to have our lunch. The trees overhung a spot where the stream pooled, making a sheltered area providing relief from the heat. Dev was delighted with it.
A little antsy over my intention, I got up and shucked my shirt after we ate. “Come on, let’s cool off in the water.”
His reaction surprised me. “Oh, no! Mr. Jones always said to wait thirty minutes after I eat before going swimming.”
“It’s okay, Dev. The water’s not deep enough to swim. We’re just going to cool off.”
“Oh. I guess that’s all right then. You’re awful smart, Patrick. And real pretty.”
I’m sure I blushed—flushed. Girls blushed. “Boys aren’t pretty, Dev. They’re … handsome, I guess.”
“Mr. Jones always said I was pretty. Pretty as a girl, he’d say.”
“How’d that make you feel?” I asked, hopping around on one foot while I tugged the boot off the other.
“Real good, ‘cause he meant it to be nice. And so did I, Patrick. You know, when I said you was pretty… uh, handsome.”
“Shut up, Dev,” I said, removing the last bit of my clothing.
“Oh, good! I get to see your thing.”
“Guess you do,” I agreed, wading into the thigh-deep water and turning to face him. The stream was cold despite the day’s heat. Oh, well, that would be a good excuse when my prick wasn’t as big as he thought it ought to be.
I’ll admit I examined him with some curiosity as he walked down the grassy slope with his eyes fastened on my pecker. Somehow it didn’t seem right. Flawed goods ought to look flawed, but
built like a high school quarterback and was better looking than the king of
the senior prom. He was also better hung than my dad’s Appaloosa stud.
“Look, it’s different!” he exclaimed in amazement, pointing at my crotch. Startled, I looked down to see if it had fallen off or something, but everything looked normal except I’d stiffened up a little.
“Our things,” he said, grabbing his penis between two fingers. I was about to protest that the cold water had shrunk me when he skinned himself back. “I got a hood on mine, see. You don’t have one. What happened to the skin on the end of your thing, Patrick?”
“I’m circumcised, Dev. Most guys are nowadays.”
“Cir … cir …”
“Circumcised. Cut. They cut the foreskin off.”
“Cut!” he was horrified. “They cut your thing? Who did? Was it a accident?”
“No, it wasn’t an accident. The doctor did it after I was born.”
“Hygiene, I guess. Supposed to be easier to keep clean.”
Worry clawed at his face. “Do I have to do it?”
“No. You just have to be careful to clean behind the foreskin,” I said, noticing with alarm that he was still skinning himself back and forth and growing alarmingly. “Stop that!” I demanded, abruptly sitting down in the water. He continued to stand beside me in the stream.
“Can I feel it?” he asked. “I never felt a cut one before.”
“No, you can’t feel it!” I responded, and then went fishing. “Wasn’t Mr. Jones cut like me?”
“No. He had one like mine, except not as big as yours and mine. And he showed me how to clean up so I don’t smell bad.”
“Did you touch his thing… uh, cock?”
Dev nodded vigorously. “He let me touch it whenever I wanted to.”
“Did he touch you?”
“Sure. That’s what you do when someone touches you. You touch him back.”
“Wouldn’t you rather touch a girl?”
The shock on his face was genuine. “Oh, no, Patrick! Girls are good and pure, and you don’t do things like that to them.”
“Who told you that? Mr. Jones?”
“No. My grandmother told me you don’t do bad things to girls. They’re too pure. At least, I think it was my grandmother,” he added with a puzzled frown. “I can’t hardly remember. But I remember for sure my mom saying that, too. Before she went away.” An idea apparently occurred; a connection was made. “Did … did Mr. Jones have a accident too? Is that why he had to go away?”
“No, he had to go away because people thought he was taking advantage of you.”
The expression on his face alarmed me. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” I said hesitantly, “they thought he was abusing you. You know, touching your thing and… uh, you know.”
It was as if Devon Hartshorn shut down. His face closed up, and he sank wordlessly into the cold water until the current pressed against his broad chest. Frankly, it scared the hell out of me. I wondered if I’d unleashed a monster or something. Finally, he spoke.
“He went away because of me.”
I felt like a real shit, so I spent the next fifteen minutes trying to change the subject. At last, he began to respond to my questions, and I learned Dev could read and write and do the rudiments of arithmetic, simple addition and subtraction and the multiplication tables up to the fives. He finally came out of his funk when I began teaching him the sixes. I was shrunken to nothing and was blue by the time we crawled out of the water and dressed, but at least he was acting okay again.
Looks to me like Patrick’s losing ground here. Let’s see how it works out in Part 3. Who are you betting on, Patrick or Dev?
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: markwildyr.com
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
And now my mantra : 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.