Wednesday, November 1, 2017

And Yet Again

Just a reminder that DSP Publications released Cut Hand on October 31. I’d appreciate your taking a look at the book. I believe Amazon permits you to read a short passage. This is really the seminal book in the Cut Hand series (or as I call it now, the Strobaw Family Saga).

I decided to do something different for this week’s blog. At least, it’s different for me. Stories are told either from the first, second, or third person point of view. Meaning, of course, using the pronouns I, you, or he, respectively. They are also told from the present tense, past tense, or future tense (I am, I was, or I will be).

Second person stories are probably the least common. Present tense, although increasing in popularity, is still less prevalent than a past tense tale. Since I seldom use either the second person or the present tense for my storytelling, I decided to take a stab at both… in the same tale. The result is the flash fiction piece that follows:
*****
Courtesy of Valley Sleep Center
 AND YET AGAIN

          You open your eyes to the soft light of early morning, fearing last night was a magnificent dream and hoping it was not. You turn your head… and there he is, lying on his belly, naked torso half turned to you, eyes closed in slumber.
          Good Lord! Have you bedded a minor? The smooth curve of his jaw is unblurred by the shadow of a beard. The closed lids with long sable lashes might be a girl’s. The sideburns curl a little at the end, lending belief this is but a beautiful child.
          But you recall your meeting last evening in a bar. You discerned the figure of a man beneath the cable knit sweater and Dockers. And although the brown penny loafers gave him an adolescent air, his performance was that of a man… a confident, competent man.
          You want to touch him but resist, reluctant to disturb his tranquil sleep. It pulls you back to your own youth full of innocence, yet fumbling your way toward the worldly, the carnal. You do not recall his name, so you dub him Bud in your mind. An equally innocent, unformed name. It seems fitting.
          You shiver in the grip of a sudden fear this is but a brief, passing thing. How can you bind him to you? Make yourself important to him. To his future. Tension flows out of you as you realize you cannot. This is whatever it turns out to be. In the meantime, drink your fill of his boyish charm, his relaxed pouty lips, his delicate nose, his strong chin.
          He startles you with a stretch as he turns on his back, taking the sheet down with churning legs. You fear he’s awake, but he releases a long slow breath, and then his amazingly deep chest rises and falls in a circadian rhythm. Brown nipples centered in dark aureoles stir you, but you manage to keep your hands and lips off them as you complete your inventory. Ribs lightly edged with muscle. Must be a swimmer. Torso hairless until just below a fetching navel where a thin trail of pubes—much lighter than the dark, curly mane on his head—disappear beneath the thin sheet covering the rest of him. You are rocked by this picture of innocence somehow loaded with potential danger.
          You cannot help yourself. You reach out, and his eyes snap open. He looks blank for a moment before he turns to you. In an instant, he morphs from a beautiful angel into a devilishly handsome satyr as he gives a slow, sardonic smile before coming for you… yet again.

*****
Thanks for letting me get that out of my system. Now maybe I can get back to normal.

Did you notice something interesting? The you in the story is never identified. Is it a man or a woman? Could be either, couldn’t it? The reader can decide for himself or herself. Or maybe the “you” can be you.

I am interested in expanding my list of readers’ email addresses. If you have no reservations about this, please provide yours to markwildyr@aol.com. I will only use it to occasionally pass on things of interest and update you about my writing. All my contact information is given below:
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


The next blog at 6:00 a.m. on the first day of the succeeding month.

Sunday, October 1, 2017

Coulda, Shoulda…

Well, I’m back from my trip across Texas. My son and I made it to Texarkana from Albuquerque in two days rather than the three we planned. And on our return, we made the trip in one day instead of the expected two. We both wanted to sleep in our own bed that night. Need I say it took a week to recover from the ordeal?

I’m obligated (at least I feel I am) to once more remind you that DSP Publication will be releasing Cut Hand in late October. Now let’s get to this month’s post, another flash fiction story.
*****
Courtesy: uncyclopedia.wikia
COULDA, SHOULDA…
          Did Daryl realize how intimate this moment was? We leaned over a small table in a dimly-lighted teen bar, his hand inches from mine, his eyes focused on me. We’d played soccer together since the fourth grade, showered together, swum in the river, Hugged with foreheads touching when one or the other made a goal. We’d been buddies, pals, double dating partners… inseparable. Now it was over. He was going to Texas to play for the Longhorns while I remained here to attend UNM. Tonight was goodbye, and I would remain as hungry for him as ever.
          The closest we’d come to satisfying my yearning for him was a year ago when we’d stood side-by-side, leaning against the trunk of my car masturbating after a particularly hot double date at the local drive-in. He’d never know how close I came to brushing his hand aside and kneeling to take care of his need. But I didn’t dare put our friendship at risk by satisfying my selfish desires.
          Tonight was different in some way I couldn’t define. Our last night together. Oh, we’d see one another again when he came home on break, but by then new friendships would be forged, new interests developed. And old ones dropped. I coughed to mask the sob welling up inside me.
          I almost flinched when I felt his hand on mine. His strong fingers rubbed the surface of my senior class ring. His warm touch set off a tingling of desire and anticipation somewhere south of my stomach.
         “I lost mine already,” he said as he removed his hand. “Dropped it on the soccer field last Sunday. Looked everywhere, but couldn’t find it.”
          “Damon Bones has a metal detector.”
          “Yeah, I know. We already tried it. Nothing. Somebody found it.”
          “It had your name inscribed on the inside, didn’t it?”
          “Yeah.” That word held a touch of fatalism in it.
          I laughed… but it came out something like a giggle. “Some girl’s already got it on a chain around her neck claiming you gave it to her.”
          “Maybe.”
          Was he packing unspoken emotion into those single-word responses or was my imagination in overdrive? I imagined that ring hanging around my neck on a slim gold chain. With that thought in mind, I swallowed hard and tugged my ring off my finger.
          “Here, take mine.”
          “I can’t do that. It means too much to you.”
          My throat squeezed tight. “Maybe… mean more to you.” I wasn’t even sure he understood me. My words sounded something like the shriek of a cat in distress.
          “Naw, man. Keep it. You might want to give it to somebody someday.”
          Had he tumbled to what I was doing? He got real quiet and didn’t move a muscle for a minute before starting to talk about last Friday’s match with our arch rivals. We’d each scored a point, the only goals in the game. I vividly remembered the hug we’d shared in the middle of the field before the rest of our team piled on to participate in the joy but spoil the moment.
          The rest of the evening became merely the rest of the evening as we shared memories of our senior year. The intimacy—real or imagined—was gone, and we were merely best friends ragging on classmates and remembering events differently.
          He glanced at his watch. “Better get on home. Leaving early tomorrow. My dad and I are gonna drive my car to Austin, and then he’ll fly back home.”
          Only then did it strike me that he’d chosen to spend his last night in Albuquerque with me instead of his girlfriend of the moment. Paying our tab and getting out of the place—slowed by farewell handshakes with others—gave me time to get my emotions back under control. Once outside, we walked wordlessly to our cars sitting side by side in the parking lot. Then we paused and shook hands, which became a hug… an abrazo, the Mexican embrace of men. Before he released me, he whispered into my ear.
          “Sorry it didn’t work out.”
          Daryl climbed into his car and pulled out of the lot, leaving me standing there visually following his tail lights in the darkness until they became indistinguishable from others. I pulled air into my lungs as instant loneliness washed over me, leaving me shaky.
          A real sob escaped me as I realized I coulda, shoulda… but didn’t. Leaving me aching with regret.

*****
Does the story bring any pangs from the past? It certainly does for me. A few years back, my “Daryl” came through town and called me to have lunch. Throughout the meal, I mentally relived the longing I had held onto for so long. Did he remember our “near thing?” If so, he gave no indication. How bittersweet.

I am interested in expanding my list of readers’ email addresses. If you have no reservations about this, please provide yours to markwildyr@aol.com. I will only use it to occasionally pass on things of interest and update you about my writing. All my contact information is given below:
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


The next blog at 6:00 a.m. on the first day of the succeeding month.

Friday, September 1, 2017

A Rare Trip Away from Home

When this posts on Friday, September 1st I will be on a rare trip away from home. Generally, I’m perfectly happy to stay in Albuquerque or perhaps take a day trip to see some of this state’s amazing sights, but on August 29, my younger son Grant and I will drive across Texas (in the late August heat, mind you) and arrive at Texarkana for a family visit at some undetermined time. You see, Grant and I both have back problems, and we’re not certain how many hours we can drive at a stretch without arriving at our destination all “stove up,” as the saying around here goes.

Ergo, I will rely on the wonders of the electronic world to take care of putting this up on time and in proper form without any help from me. By the way, if you’re not reading this, perhaps Blogger screwed up.

This week, just a reminder that the revised version of Cut Hand is coming out from SDP Publications in late October. The following is a write-up for Hometown Reads:

*****
Artist: Maria Fanning


CUT HAND
A Strobaw Family Saga

          Far from the world he knows, he’ll find a home.
          Among strangers, he’ll find acceptance.
          And in the arms of an unexpected man, he’ll find love.
          Young Billy Strobaw comes West to escape the stigma of his Tory family. In the Dakota Territories, he encounters the Yanube warrior Cut Hand. Billy’s attraction to the other man is as surprising as the Yanube perspective on same-sex love. Unlike Europeans, the Siouan tribe celebrates such unions. Billy and Cut Hand can live as partners and build a life together, which Billy agrees to do.
          As Billy struggles to acclimate to a very different culture, quickly discovering the Yanube have as much to teach him as he has to impart to them, a larger struggle is brewing. The white man is barreling through the Great Plains, trampling underfoot anyone who stands in his way.              As a leader of his people, Cut Hand must decide whether it will be peace or war.
          In a historical romance taking place against the epic backdrop of the early American West, where a single spark can ignite a powder keg of greed, lust for power, and misunderstanding, one man must find his place in history and his role in the preservation of all he has come to value.


     
     Mark Wildyr is an Okie by birth and New Mexican by choice who turned a childhood interest in Native American cultures into a career. His seven published novels and approximately sixty short stories detail how attitudes toward homosexuals—who once held places of honor among some of the tribes—began to change upon the coming of the white man, with his suspicion and fear of those who are “different,” ultimately becoming pariahs even among their own people as the Europeans became dominant.
          Wildyr continues to be fascinated by how different people interact together to discover who they are when measured against others. He gives back to his community by teaching a free writing class at an Albuquerque community center.
*****

Website and blog: markwildyr.com
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
Twitter: @markwildyr
274 pages

ISBN: 978-1-63533-759-4
www.dsppublications.com

Thanks for letting me take some time off. Always happy to hear from you. My email is markwildyr@aol.com.

Thanks for being a reader.

Mark


The next blog on the first day of the succeeding month at 6:00 a.m.

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

Wasted Energy



Funny thing about “Slut Talk” the story I posted the past two weeks. It corraled more negative comments than most stories… but it also got more page hits than normal. So someone must have liked it.

This week, we’ll go for a short one. See if this reminds you of anything from your salad days.

*****
Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
WASTED ENERGY

          I yelped as the flat-bottomed fishing boat yawed wildly with every step I took. “Dammit, hold the boat still!”
          Dominic already stood on the landing, holding the rope that kept me from floating away. As I bent to pick up the cooler holding our lunch and our beer, the little dingy see-sawed like a teeter-totter with a couple of maniacs on either end. When he reached down and relieved me of my load, I took a step backward. My foot hit the side of the boat, and just like that, I went for an unplanned swim. The cold water dragged a shriek out of me that echoed hollowly up and down Fishhook Lake.
          Dominic hadn’t had anything to do with my tumble, but him standing on the landing with our food and booze, laughing and practically dancing a jig in glee didn’t put me in a mind to be reasonable. I stood in the shallow water and shook my head to clear my eyes.
          “You jerk! Why’d you do that?”
          “I didn’t do anything. You tripped over your big feet.”
          I didn’t answer but leveled a look he could read as clear as day. “Give me a hand up.”
          “My mama didn’t raise no idiots. Wade up to the shore and get your own self out.”
          I let him think he’d won and started for dry land. As I came alongside the landing, I grabbed his leg and lunged back into the water. He went in head first and came up sputtering. Instead of being mad, he turned playful, lunging at me and trying to take me under.
          To tell the truth, I didn’t mind because his hands went everywhere, sometimes places they weren’t supposed to go. Dominic was the best-looking guy in the senior class at Hellespont High, and we’d spent many nights together in bed doing delicious things that he didn’t know anything about… because he was in my head.
          Eventually, we got tired of the shenanigans and crawled out. Wasn’t anything to do but to shuck our clothes and let the sunlight dry us off. That didn’t work too well because, in spite of the warm day, the early spring breeze coming in off the lake had a chill to it. I opened the basket of food my mom had fixed and pulled out the tablecloth she always put in.
          Once it was around my shoulders, Dominic muscled his way into half of the thing…which rendered it useless. He fixed that by sliding around behind and snuggling up against my back. A skyrocket went off and rattled around in my chest and belly. I couldn’t handle this naked, handsome hunk of a guy pressing up behind me. I reacted. Didn’t think he could see what was happening, but he did because he wrapped his hand around my growing excitement.
          “That all it takes to get a boner? Some guy hugging you from behind.”
          I swallowed hard and cleared my throat in an effort to talk. “No, all it takes is you hugging me from behind.” There now, I’d said what I’d been thinking for two years.
          He pulled the damp cloth from around us and spread it on the ground. Then he lay down on his back, giving me a good look at him. Awesome. Intimidating. When he held his hand out to me, I collapsed in his arms without protest.
          “Aren’t you afraid somebody will come along and see us?” I asked.
          “Sam,” he said, his cheek nuzzling mine, “that’s why I paddled all the way out to Ware’s Landing. There’s never anybody here.”
          “You… you planned this?”
          “Didn’t quite know how I was going to get to this point, but I was going to make it somehow.”
          “And here I thought we’d just wasted a bunch of energy paddling clear across the lake.”
          “Not at all,” he said in a low, intense voice.
           And then we did all those delicious things I’d dreamed about.
          Twice.



*****
I hope this reminds you o something pleasant and exciting from your past. Let me know if the story strikes a chord. My email is markwildyr@aol.com.

Thanks for being a reader.

Mark


The next blog on the first day of the succeeding month at 6:00 a.m.

Saturday, July 1, 2017

Slut Talk

Another little bit of nonsense for this post. Bear with me.
*****
Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
SLUT TALK
          I don’t know why I took coffee with Phil every Saturday morning at the university’s sidewalk café on the quadrangle. He was a friend, but not an especially close friend. Don’t even remember how it started. I didn’t particularly enjoy slut talk, and that’s what our sessions inevitably became. Let’s think about that a minute. That’s what I did once every weekend of this entire semester. So maybe I was into that kind of shit more than I thought.
          Phil was shunned by most of the student body because he was pretty effeminate. That turned off some people. A lot of the kids called him Philomena… sometimes to his face. One man’s macho is another man’s come-on. I always said. And the same was true for the other side of the coin.
          I wasn't quite as obvious, although some of the footballers called me Pumpkin because my name was Peter. They took it from the old kiddie story about Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater. Well, you see where I’m going.
          This particular Saturday morning we claimed our favorite table sitting off by itself in the shade of the overhang where there wasn’t much chance of being overheard. We sat in silence for the first couple of sips before Phil turned his blue eyes on me.
          “Did you see who’s waiting tables today?”
          “Angel,” I replied using the Spanish pronunciation.
          “Angel. That describes him.”
          “It’s pronounced AN-hel.”
          “It’s pronounced Angel Baby.” He let out a low growl as the Angel—or AN-hel—under discussion walked out of the café and waited on a table of three girls.
          “Oh, man. I wish he’d smile at me like that. I’d die and go to heaven.”
          “I can think of two ways to make that happen. Pronounce his name correctly or promise to die.”
          “Don’t be catty!”
          "Catty is as catty does.” I was pretty big on clichés.
          “Oh look,” Phil pointed with his chin. “There’s Roger Dodger the Fullback. Who’s he with today?”
          “Evelyn… his steady.”
          He ignored my reply. “Too bad there isn’t a position for a Fullbutt. He’d be perfect!”
          “There is. It’s called tight end.”
          “Ohhh! Describes him perfectly.”
          “You do know he’s the one who started calling you Philomena, don’t you?”
          “He can call me anything. Anytime. Anywhere. Please!”
          After a few more sips of coffee, Angel—reluctantly, I thought—came over and asked if we needed anything. He’d created a big opening with his wording, but Phil behaved himself, ordering another cup and a scone, even pronouncing his name right. Angel rewarded him with a beaming smile.
           “Oh, my God!” he said after the waiter left, “I thought I’d swoon. Did you see that smile!”
          “Told you.”
          “Told me what? Never mind, here he comes again.
         I noticed Phil gripped the edge of the table, probably hoping Angel would lean too close as he served us. No such luck.
          “There goes that Jana Yetsin. She always looks so trashy. Doesn’t know how to put on her lip gloss.”
          “You should teach her,” I suggested.
          “Yuk. But the girl with her always looks so cool and collected.”
          “Cheerleader,” I said, knowing that took her down a notch or two in Phil’s estimation.
          A guy walked in and took a table on the other side of the patio. Angel appeared to take his order.
          “Well, well. There’s Dickie. All alone this morning. Must have had a fight with his girl.”
          “Oughta be called Big Dickie,” Phil said. “I know. I’ve showered with him.”
          “We all have after Phys Ed. But you’re right. Humungous.” I glanced at my watch, took some money out and threw it on the table as a tip for Angelic Angel. “Gotta go. American Lit.”
          “Don’t know why you take Saturday classes. Tiresome.” Phil stood and opened his coin purse, extracting a couple of bills. Looked like Angel was going to get rewarded for his smile.”
          “See ya next Saturday,” I said.
          “Same place, same time.”

*****
I’ve always been told a story—no matter how short—has a beginning, a middle, and an end. This one doesn’t seem to have an end, just a pause until next Saturday morning.

Let me know if the story strikes a chord. My email is markwildyr@aol.com.

Thanks for being a reader.

Mark


The next blog on the first day of the succeeding month at 6:00 a.m.

Thursday, June 1, 2017

There’s This Knothole…



I keep wondering if my little stories trigger any fond recollections in you. Feel free to let me know.
*****
Courtesy of Pixabay
THERE’S THIS KNOTHOLE…

          It all started when Lenny Woodson whispered that there was a tiny knothole in the wall between the boys’ and girls’ locker rooms. All you had to do was remove the wad of tissue someone had stuffed in the hole, and you had a view into the other side. There wasn’t really much I wanted to see in there, but the next time I found myself alone after school in the boys’ room, I looked around until I found the spot exactly where he told me it would be… at the end of the line of sinks. Why hadn’t I noticed it before?
          I pulled out the little wad of paper and bent over like a half-opened jackknife to put my eye to the opening. Not much to see. A not very clear view of basins and mirrors.
          “Getting an eyeful, Wolf?” a deep voice demanded.
          Startled, I straightened up and found my backside pressing into Tommy Marsh’s groin. I stepped forward quickly. Tommy was the school’s quarterback and my wet dream. But I’d get beat up and run outa town if I made my feelings known.
          He put his hands on my shoulders and applied some force. “Go on, take another look. Tell me what you see.”
          As soon as I bent over again, I felt his fly against my butt. I tried to move forward, but it didn’t do any good. He followed me, and I about fainted when I felt him getting an erection.
          “T-Tommy,” I stammered. “I don’t—”
          “Cool it, Wolf. You can either give me what I want, or I’ll tell the principal I caught you peeking into the girl’s toilet.”
          “What… what do you want?” My mouth went dry, but I went wet somewhere else.
          “Stand up.”
          I did... and enjoyed the feel of his muscled body against my back.
          “Go in the shower room, back stall, and strip.”
          “I—”
          “Do it!”
          Without another word, I stumbled to the showers, keeping my back to him as I removed my clothing. When I turned around, he was naked and rampant. Man, was he rampant!
          He stepped into the showers and turned a spigot. I followed like iron filings drawn to a magnet. Man, he was beautiful. Athlete’s build, movie star’s features. I went weak in the knees. After luxuriating in the warmth of the water for a moment, he turned to me.
          “On your knees.”
          As if on order, they gave way and dumped me on the tiles in front of him.
          “Okay, it’s your move,” he said.
          It would likely be the ruination of me in this little town, but so help me, if that’s what Tommy wanted, that’s what I’d give him. I clasped his trim hips and for the next few minutes, I was lost in giving my idol the pleasure he desired.
          Once he pulled away and turned to wash in the cascading water, I figured the recriminations would come. The sneering rejection. The nasty jibes.
          “Hey, man,” he said in his sexy baritone. “That was pretty good.”
          “T-thanks.” I got to my feet and let the water warm me.
          “This is just between us, right? It’ll be our secret, okay?”
          “Yeah. Sure,” I agreed.
          “Great.”
          He took the soap from the dish attached to the wall and started showering. I did the same, feeling a faint glow of confidence usually missing in my makeup. As I snatched glances at my hero, I realized he was lathering up a certain part of his anatomy.
          And I knew this party wasn’t over. Not yet.

*****
What about it? Can you identify with either Wolf or Tommy? Which one more aptly describes your persona? Let me know what you think of the story at  markwildyr@aol.com.

Thanks for being a reader.

Mark

The next blog on the first day of the succeeding month at 6:00 a.m.

Monday, May 1, 2017

FALCONER’S RIDGE

Another story from back in the Land of Nostalgia. Does this remind you of something from your days of yore?
*****
FALCONER’S RIDGE

          No one can remember why it’s called Falconer’s Ridge, but it’s been there forever, a bluff right at the edge of the city park. The climb isn’t too steep or dangerous, although over the years there have been a few broken arms and dislocated elbows.
          It’s a great place to watch the activity on the baseball field below. I grew up thinking I couldn’t play sports because of a childhood illness I eventually overcame, but I like to watch. Not the games so much, but the budding athletes cavorting on the field. PeeWee sports don’t do anything for me, but the high school games rev up my interest.
          There’s a clear spot about ten feet below the ridge’s crest that’s a good place to sit and watch. And I do a lot of it. But my secret place is about ten yards to the west where some bushes screen a comfortable niche perfect for watching what goes on below without anyone knowing. Sometimes I use one spot, and sometimes I use the other, depending upon my mood.
          Whenever Das Brumfield pitches or Kerry Jones catches, I use the hidden spot. They are both so… so… sexy I guess you’d say that I hide out there where no one can see my hard-on. And I always get one when I watch them play with such manly grace. I wish I could move like that, look like that. But I look exactly like what I am. A library freak.


          A week after I graduated, I hunkered down in my open spot and took in an impromptu game. For some reason, I was sorta down. Probably because in a few weeks, most of those players and I would be heading off in all different directions to college. It wasn’t an exciting prospect. I had trouble enough getting along with guys I’d known all my life. What would happen when I got shipped off to a placed where I didn’t know anyone?
          As I concentrated on the game, I noticed Das wasn’t pitching. He had been a few minutes ago. Where had he gone? To the head maybe? I shivered just thinking about him standing exposed before the urinal. I was taken so much by that mental image that I almost didn’t spot him climbing the ridge.
          Entranced, I watched the muscles play in his long back as he slowly scaled the bluff. Handsome, deeply tanned, he was as close to an Adonis as anyone I’d ever known. I liked and admired him unreasonably even though he’d never said a word to me except in passing. Not that he was stuck up or anything. I just didn’t register.
          As he neared the top, he took me by surprise by edging along the ledge toward my spot. A moment later when it was clear he was heading straight for me, my underarms broke out in a sweat. My right foot jerked involuntarily.
          “Hi, Rafe,” he called. My name was Rafferty, but the kids made Rafe out of it.
          “Das.” The word came out weak because my throat had gone dry.
          “You like to perch up here, huh? See you a lot.” He turned his handsome visage on me and blinded my eyes with a smile. “I watched you once through the glasses. You know, binoculars. Curious about what you were doing.”
          “Just watching. Good place for it.”
          “Yeah, it is. But there’s something odd about it, too. If you wanted, you could come sit beside the field and see everything up close. Hell, you could even come and play.”
          I felt my ears go red.
          “When I saw you get up and go over there—“ he nodded west. “—I got it. That’s your jerk off hideout, isn’t it?
          My cheeks joined my ears. In fact, I felt the flush start in my neck and move upward.
          “I was real curious, so I watched through the glasses. Couldn’t see too clearly, but I saw enough movement through those bushes to figure out what you were doing. You want to show to me?”
          I swallowed hard. “S-show you what?”
          “Your private jack off place. What else did you think I meant?”
          He stood and scooted around me on the ledge, his fly brushing my nose as he did so. Then he made his way to my private spot. After a moment, I followed along behind him.
          “Ah, a nice comfortable place,” he said, nodding his approval. He plopped down where I usually sat and peered through the protective bushes. “Tell me, who do you watch when you do the dirty deed? Kerry?” He grinned. “Or me?”
          I struggled just to get a word out. “Y-you.”
          He spread his denim-clad legs. “Well, here I am. You’ll never get a better chance to get a closer look.”
          It took me all of a second to accept his invitation.

*****
Ah, what happened next? But Rafe and Das want a little privacy, so we can only put our imaginations to work. Let me know what you think happened at  markwildyr@aol.com.

Thanks for being a reader.

Mark

The next blog on the first day of the succeeding month at 6:00 a.m.