markwildyr.com,
Post #135
Courtesy of worldopenfoodfacts.org
Sure hope everyone got a kick out of the excerpt from The Victor and the Vanquished I posted last week. I enjoyed writing that book.
* * * * *
RUNT
If you asked me, I’d
acknowledge elements of truth to both of my parents’ claims. I’ve got the
brains to stay at the top of my class, and I admit to being a goody-two-shoes. I’m
slender enough, but tall and handsome? At five-eight, I’m tall only if you
consider five-six as the norm. As for handsome, that can go either way
depending upon my mood.
In a way, the
situation with my dad is not my fault. I was sickly as a kid, and by the time I
got any weight or strength, everyone else had found his niche in the world of
kid’s sports. So I tossed aside athletics to become the terror of the
classroom, diagramming complex sentences, solving mathematical equations, and
comprehending deep passages of Shakespeare that stumped most of my peers. Pretty
much everyone came to hate me for setting the grading curve so high.
But to be honest,
they paid me back in PhysEd, laughing and howling when I couldn’t climb a rope
or do chin-ups or sit-ups or anything else. Runt, they called me, picking me
last for a team activity, most often one side trying to give me to the other as
a freebie.
The coach took
revenge for his jocks by failing me. It would have been embarrassing except
that no one ever flunked PE, so it
was obvious to the whole school that Old Man Barson was extracting his pound of
flesh. Nonetheless, it meant taking the course again my senior year.
Realizing that
particular brand of hell loomed before me again, I took part of my summer
earnings from clerking in a Quick Fix neighborhood convenience store and bought
some hand and leg weights. I used the former in moments of idleness and wore
the latter most of the time, even on the job.
Park Fogelson caught
me working a hand weight when he came in for a six-pack of cola one day. Flustered,
I put it out of sight behind the counter. Park was one of the few jocks I
respected because he had brains enough to hold his own. Moreover, he was so
sculpted and handsome that he inspired adoration.
He indicated the
discarded weights and gave a smile that seemed genuine. “Hey, good idea! Heard
what Coach Barson did to you. Low blow, man.”
“Th-thanks, I
stammered, surprised out of my socks at the sympathy.
“One thing though. You
might want to turn your palm down in some of the sets. Works the contrary muscles,
you know. You always want to work both sides.”
“Okay,” I responded,
having no idea of what he was talking about. “I’ll remember that.”
“You oughta jog some
to work on the aerobics. Swimming’s good, too.”
“Makes sense.” I
babbled, immediately fixing on the pool. I hated swimming much less than I did
running.
“Well, good luck.”
Kind words sometimes
carry unintended consequences. Long content to be a dedicated loner, I was abruptly
snared in the glow of instant friendship or camaraderie or whatever the hell it
was as his six-foot muscled frame strode out the door. Hell, I couldn’t
remember a pleasant word from any member of the football squad in my life,
especially one that handsome and popular. I’d heard more than one girl
speculate on his hidden dimensions. One thing about being Dan Drew—that’s me by
the way—I’m damned near invisible and consequently hear all sorts of
interesting things.
I joined the Y, telling myself that I liked their
pool better than the municipal, but in truth it was because that’s where Park
went. He occasionally stopped by to say hello or give pointers on my swimming
technique, such as it was. We probably spoke on an average of twenty minutes a
week, and in my world, that was virtual intimacy.
Over that summer,
William Parker Fogelson became my standard, my ideal. The sight of him stirred
something within me. His tapered, almost naked body at the pool impressed me to
the point that at night I’d stand in front of a full-length mirror and
critically examine my slight frame, looking for biceps and triceps and lats
that bore any similarity to his. I found none.
One day my car sort
of automatically dropped right in behind his as he pulled out of the local
drive-in, and just like that, I became a stalker. For some reason it was
important to see who was in the front seat beside him. When Park drove out of
town, I either regained my senses or grew more devious because I dropped back,
putting a lot of distance between my Nissan and his Chevy.
It soon became clear
he was headed for the park at the edge of the nearby mountains. My heart took a
leap as I realized that I had my bathing trunks in my gym bag. If he went
swimming in the river, I could join him. Man, that would be great!
However, once in the
park, he didn’t take the turnoff that led to the river. Instead, the Chevy
turned north toward some remote picnic areas. I was forced to fade back even farther
on this deserted stretch of road, and his car was nowhere in sight when I got
to the turnaround at the end. Puzzled, I headed back the way I’d come, watching
the sides of the road more carefully. In the late-afternoon light, I caught a
glimpse of red. Park’s Chevy was red. Not daring to think about what I was
doing, I parked in the next turnoff and quietly got out of the car to make my
way by foot through the thick pine forest toward the Chevy.
Even my measly
hundred-thirty pounds break pine needles, and I’m not anything remotely like a
woodsman. Therefore, it wasn’t surprising when I heard a female voice ask if
he’d heard something.
Park’s reply sent a
thrill down my back.” Most likely a wolf.” As he’d probably intended, that
brought a semi-frightened squeal. His throaty laugh raised the hair on my arms.
More slowly now, I
eased in the direction of the voices, keeping to the high ground until I came
to the edge of a ten-foot bluff. I looked down and stifled a gasp. They were on
a blanket below me.
Now I know that eighteen-year-old
boys do things to eighteen-year-old girls whenever the opportunity presents
itself, but the sight still shocked me. Park was between her legs, thrusting, plunging,
and plowing I almost protested aloud when she wrapped her legs around him,
partially blocking my view of the rippling muscles. Man, he even had muscles in
his buns. Me? I couldn’t move a tic until he finished in an explosion of
thrusts and a long groan.
I was still gaping
until he glanced up as he pulled off a condom and tossed it aside. Afraid I’d
been spotted, I shrank back from the edge of the precipice and froze. I stayed
that way until I heard the Chevy roar off down the road.
Not exactly certain why,
I made my way down the small bluff and stood where they had made love. The torn
foil of the condom package sent my eyes scurrying around until I found the
rubber where it had been tossed at the edge of the weeds.
At that moment, my
powerful attraction for Park Fogelson focused into something definitive. Sudden
understanding rocked me to my toes. I’d never been very sexually oriented,
mentally scratching my head at the power it held over my peers. At times it
seemed they thought with the wrong end of their bodies and got led around by
the same organs. But now—for the first time—I understood. I understood it all,
including the discovery of my pitiful perversion.
As I stood at the edge of
the forest with the used condom holding Park’s cum, I realized that the girl
had held no interest for me. My entire concentration, my core, my consciousness
had zeroed in on the tall, lithe figure of another male. I drew a shaky breath
and admitted it aloud. I wanted Park. I didn’t want a girl. I wanted him!
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