Thursday, April 2, 2020

Punk and Shorty


markwildyr.com, Post #113

Courtesy of pexels.com
I have more Hawk, but it’s time for something new. The following is a little thing I put together this week. It has an air of innocence about it that our friend Curt Huntinghawk lost a long time ago. Enjoy.

*****

PUNK AND SHORTY

          Shorty stretched out on the grass beside his best friend Punk., enjoying a lazy afternoon in their own private glen up in the foothills. A cooling breeze played in the pine and fir tops and occasionally dipped down to brush his face and bring the pleasing odor of wildflowers. One day he’d learn to tell the plants by their aroma, but this wasn’t the time for it. He’d lost his daddy this past month, and the sting of it hadn’t let up much. That was what was good bumming around with Punk. Older by half a year, Punk was there for support but never got nosy.
          “He died in heaven,” Shorty blurted suddenly without meaning to. That was what his older brother had said to him when Shorty asked what took Daddy.
          “What’s that?” Punk sounded half-asleep. Probably had been.
          “That’s what my brother said. Daddy died in heaven.”
          Punk sat up. “That don’t make sense. A fella dies to go to heaven.”
          “I know, but that’s what Oren said.”
          Punk didn’t answer, but he laid down, and Shorty knew he was puzzling over the thing. Pretty soon, his friend grunted. “Oh!”
          “Oh, what?”
          “Oh, I see,” Punk said.
          “See what?”
          “What Oren meant.”
          “You do? What did he mean?”
          “Him and your mom was doing it when the angels came for him.”
          “Doin’ it? You mean…?”
          “Yep. Screwin’.”
          Shorty’s gorge rose. He scrambled to his knees. “You stop that. My mom doesn’t do things like that.”
          Punk gave a howling laugh that scrambled the birds and sent the squirrels running for tree holes. “How do you think you and Owen got here?”
          Shorty’s face turned red, but he settled down on the grass again. “Well… I guess. Yeah. Back then.”
          Punk craned his neck to the left and looked at him. Shorty always wondered how those eyes got to be so green. Like the grass they were lying on when it was wet. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
          Shorty shrugged. “I guess it’s just something they do sometimes. You know, because it’s expected when a guy’s married.”
          Punk didn’t let out a guffaw that time, but his grin got so big Shorty thought his lips would split.
          “He died in heaven,” Punk said. That means he was getting a real bang out of it. A whooping and hollering big time.”
          Shorty guessed he frowned because Punk shook his head. “You still don’t get it, do you? I can show you, if you want. Part of it, anyway.”
          “Y-you can?”
          “Sure. Nothing to it.”
          “You can send me to heaven, and there’s nothing to it? Will I be dead like Daddy?”
          That did get a hoot out of Punk, flushing more birds out of the trees. “No, it ain’t gonna kill you. You wanna do it?”
          “Will it hurt?”
           “Does heaven sound like hurtin’?”
          Shorty shook his head.”
          “Well? Yup or nope?”
          “I-I guess so. What do I have to do?”
          “Nothin’. Not a thing.”
          “O-okay. Show me.”
          “I gotta touch you, so don’t get your back up, okay?”
          “Yeah, sure… I guess.”
          Within seconds, Shorty knew it sure wasn’t his back that was getting up. He lay there, his toes scrunching up, his fingers dancing on the grass while the most indescribably delicious sensations raced all over him until he though he couldn’t stand it any longer. Then whatever wonderful thing it was quit scrambling around and grabbed him right where it counted. He let out a grunt and got transported somewhere… he didn’t know if it was heaven or not, but it was sure somewhere he’d never been before.
           Shorty sprawled on his back, panting heavily, and saying nothing for a good two minutes flat.
“I don’t know if Daddy made it to heaven or not, but if that was any measure, I’d say he died a happy man.

*****
Were you ever so innocent? I suppose we all were back in the day. Does this make you recall any fond memories of your juvenile past? I hope so, and I hope they’re sweet remembrances.

Please consider ordering Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns from Dreamspinner Press. I’d like to convince them to publish the rest of the Cut Hand Series, including the unpublished manuscript Wastelakapi… Beloved, 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
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
Twitter: @markwildyr

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.

Mark

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

Thursday, March 26, 2020

Hawk in the City (Part 3 of 3 parts)


markwildyr.com, Post #112

I don’t think Hawk’s visit to the big city is going exactly the way he planned. Or perhaps he didn’t plan anything, just waited to see what would happen. Well, Sam the waiter happened. What will this final installment bring?

*****
A HAWK IN THE CITY

Hawk stared out early and mid-morning stopped at a rest stop where a young man walked up to the urinal beside him.
          “Saw you drive in. You’re headed south, aren’t you?”
          “Yeah,” Hawk said, looking over at the man. Mid-twenties, clean-shaven. Obviously spent a lot of time in the gym. His features were pleasant, no more. But his body was super.
          “Can I hook a lift? Busted, so I can’t help with the expenses, but I sure would appreciate it.”
          “Sure. Going that way anyway.”
          The man seemed relieved. “Thanks. I was beginning to worry about getting pinched for hitchhiking. I hear they’re tough about it in this state.”
          “Where you headed?” Hawk asked, walking to the sink to wash his hands.
          “Corpus Christi. On leave from the marines and headed home. Got in a poker game before I left and got cleaned out.” He gave a grin that made him better looking. “I’m not too good at poker. Name’s Hal.”
          Around noon Hawk pulled into a restaurant. Hal said he’d wait in the car. It was obvious the guy was really broke so Hawk didn’t argue. He went inside ordered two sandwiches, some fries, and drinks and hauled them back to the pickup.
          “Man, you didn’t have to do that,” the marine protested.
          “Gotta eat. Don’t like doing it alone, so take it and make me happy.”
          As they pulled out onto the highway again, Hal made an offer. “Hey, if I can help drive or give you a hand any other way, let me know. Got a valid Texas license.”
          Hawk nodded, but the phrase “or give you a hand any other way” kept rolling around in his head. Fifty miles down the road, he asked as casually as possible. “Give me a hand… how?”
           The marine shrugged. “Don’t know. You name it, and I’ll do it if I can.”
          “Man, I’m not very good at this,” Hawk observed.
          “Just spit it out, man. What you got in mind?”
          “You ever get with a guy?” Hawk blurted.
          The man studied the road for a long minute. “Never figured you for that. But yeah. Stationed in an embassy overseas. Not supposed to get involved with their women, so this buddy and me helped one another out. Without no women, what else you gonna do?” He looked at Hawk. “That what you want?”
          Hawk shrugged. “Just a thought.” He flushed beneath the gyrene’s gaze.
          “Sure, man. You a good-looking dude. What you want? Some head? I can do that.”
          “That’s what you did for one another?”
          “Yeah.” The moment grew awkward. “So what do we do, pull off on the desert somewhere.”
          “I guess,” Hawk said without much conviction. “Never done it in the open like this. Well, I have, but it was with a woman.”
          “You do this for a change of pace?”
          “Guess that’s it.” Hawk spotted a turnoff and followed it a mile or so off the highway. In the middle of nowhere, he turned his truck out onto the desert bed.
          “How we gonna do this?”
          “Shit, I don’t know,” Hawk replied, beginning to regret the whole thing… until the marine put a warm hand on his groin.
          “How about you come sit on the edge of the seat and I’ll stoop down?”
          The man unbuckled Hawk’s belt and stripped his trousers to his ankles. Hal gave a smile. “Never tried an uncircumcised one before.”
           “New experience.”
          Hal dropped to his knees and within moments, Hawk figured the guy had learned well on his gyrene buddy. He soon groaned and pumped his hips until it was over.
          “That okay?” Hal asked, standing. His jeans bulged.
          “Great!” Hawk touched the man’s fly. Hal leaned into his hand. Hawk studied the man’s clear blue eyes. “Can’t return the favor, but if you want to get it off, you can lean against me.”
          “Thanks,” Hal said, ripping open his fly. “You’re a sexy dude, Hawk. Glad you picked me up.” He pressed his back against Hawk’s chest and stroked himself. He laid his head against Hawk’s cheek and sighed. “Feels good, man.”
          Hawk ran his hand over the man’s torso, feeling the difference between him and the kid back in Phoenix. This was a man. With that realization, he began to get aroused again. Hal ground his butt against him, and before Hawk really understood what was happening, he was inside the hunky marine.
          “Oh, shit!” Hal murmured.
          Imprisoned between the car seat by the weight of the marine’s body, Hawk let Hal do all the work. The marine muttered, more than to Hawk, until he stiffened and let out a groan. The marine’s orgasm brought Hawk over the edge. Breathing hard, they remained cuddled against one another for a few minutes until Hawk reached behind the seat and drug out a canteen. Hal cleaned them both. There wasn’t as much awkwardness as with the kid in town, but there wasn’t any afterglow either. Hawk was glad the man was quiet when they were back on the road. Hawk made sure he had some eating money when he let Hal off at a truck stop on I-10.
           Arriving home in the early evening, Hawk unloaded the pickup, took a long, hot shower, and went to bed early to review the past few days. The trip hadn’t been a waste because he’d learned something about himself. Casual, promiscuous sex with males wasn’t his thing. It felt too sordid, wrong… sinful even. And that wasn’t right, because there was nothing wrong with what he’d had with beautiful Ramon and handsome Brit.
           Hawk rose with the morning star to sit on his front porch in the darkness and sip a cup of black coffee. This morning he’d go to work, and Grover Whitedeer would be there demanding to hear about his vacation. Handsome, sexy, funny Grove. Of course, there wasn’t much he could tell him except how great the Grand Canyon was.

*****
I get the feeling Hawk’s finished experimenting. He now knows what… or who… he wants. As single-minded as he is, he’ll probably got at it with determination. Will it result in a love affair or a broken friendship?

Please consider ordering Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns from Dreamspinner Press. I’d like to convince them to publish the rest of the Cut Hand Series, including the unpublished manuscript Wastelakapi… Beloved, 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
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
Twitter: @markwildyr

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.

Mark

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

Thursday, March 19, 2020

Hawk in the City (Part 2 of 3 parts)


markwildyr.com, Post #111

Time for the second installment of “A Hawk in the City.” Hawk’s about to go on a new venture, so let’s go along with him to see how it turns out. This segment picks up right after Hawk put his hands on a passed-out Grover Whitedeer and discovered a lust for his best bud.

*****
A HAWK IN THE CITY

          For the next few days Hawk fought an almost overwhelming need to confess what he had done to Grove. How would the guy react? He’d either get pissed off and rupture a friendship or give a belly laugh and make a joke out of it. One thing Hawk knew for sure… it was no joke. Not to him.
          The battle to get himself back under control almost cost him his reputation as a competent, unflappable professional of even temper and firm ideas about how things are done. Hawk laughed to himself. If they could only see him on the inside.
          He asked Amadeo for a few days off. Now that he had it, Hawk had no idea what to do with it. There was no reason to go home, his parents had gone over, and is brother lived in New York.
          “Hey, man,” Grove advised, “go to Tucson or Phoenix.”
          “Why?” Hawk demanded.
          Grove shrugged. “Find some girls. And live it up.”
           In the end, Hawk chose Phoenix, probably because Grove claimed it had the biggest bar in the southwest. Maybe he’d go on up to the Grand Canyon if he had the time.
           The drive was long, but reasonably pleasant. He got sidetracked by places like Cochise’s Hideout and Tombstone and drove straight through Phoenix to the Grand Canyon. The next day he found a decent motel on Van Buren, which seemed to be a main east-west drag through the city. With nothing better to do, that evening he hit the advertised “biggest bar in the west”. It was like every other bar in the world except you could have played football in it if you cleared the tables away. The Friday night crowd kept the joint jumping. He knew absolutely no one, but he’d been in hundred strange bars before, so he found a table and sipped on a brew while he waited to see what would happen.
          What happened was half a dozen women stopped by to chat, have a drink, and take his measure. He was tempted to latch onto one for old Grove, but that wasn’t the itch that needed attention. That realization surprised him. He’d been intimate with two men and had strong feelings for each. Women he’d got with on a whim, but sex with males had been accompanied by a strong mutual attraction. Now, he just wanted one to haul his ashes. Was that a deterioration of his ethical code? He snorted! What ethical code?
          A little before 2:00 a.m., he’d had his fill of the place. As he stood to go to the men’s room, Hawk discovered he’d had more to drink than he thought. He never staggered like some drunks, but he knew when his head wasn’t right… and his head wasn’t right.
           “Sir,” someone said at his side. “Last call if you want another drink before closing.”
          He turned his eyes on the waiter who’d spent the evening slipping back and forth between the tables, laughing and joking with the patrons as he took and delivered orders. Hawk took a good look at the kid. Had to be twenty-one to serve drinks, but he looked younger. Blond hair turning brown. Slim-waisted. Short. Wasn’t more than five-seven. Good-looking in a snub-nosed way.
          “Yeah, sure. Another beer. Right now I gotta go find the men’s room.”
          “It’s over there,” the kid said, pointing with his chin since his hands were full of dirty glasses. “If you want more than one I’ll have to bring it now. Can’t serve after this.”
          “Okay. Two if you’ll sit down and talk to me.”
          “Can’t. Working. There’s an after-hours joint up the street where you’ll find someone to talk to,” the kid answered.
          “Will you be there?”
          “No. Well. Sure, why not. I can unwind for an hour or so. Name’s Sam.”
          “Hawk. I’ll wait in the parking lot. Blue Dodge pickup…older model,” he added as an afterthought.
          When he returned from the men’s room, Hawk worked on beer as the place slowly emptied. He caught occasional glimpses of Sam as he rushed to clean his tables. The boy stopped by once.
          “Gonna take me half an hour to get outa here. It’s okay if you don’t want to wait.”
          “I’ll wait.”
          Exactly a half-hour after the joint closed, Sam walked to the pickup and crawled into the passenger’s seat. “You’ll have to take me home later, okay? The after-hours place is north of here.”
           Hawk exited the parking lot with exaggerated care and turned north. He sure as hell didn’t need a DUI in a strange city. The tiny joint was about as crowded as the bar had been, mostly with younger people. Hawk hadn’t been thinking straight, assuming they’d be left alone to talk. A couple of times Hawk saw the kid watching him talk to some woman who stopped by.
          Hawk stood. “Let’s get out of here.”
          Sam drained his cola, and they made their way out of the place.
          “Sorry to drag you here and then chicken out on you, Hawk said. “Somehow I thought it would be quieter.”
          “Yeah. You said you wanted to talk. How about here?” Sam suggested as he crawled into the cab of the pickup.
          “Fine with me,” Hawk said, and then promptly fell silent.
          Sam finally broke the quiet. “Lots of women stopped at your table to talk. You could have left with any of them. How come you didn’t? They’d talk to you. And you could have got something extra.”
          “Wasn’t in the mood, I guess. Fed up with women… for a while anyway.”
          “Oh, woman trouble, huh?”
          “You could say that? How about you?”
          “Don’t have one… right now.”
          “What do you do for diversion?”
          The kid’s eyes flicked over him. “Swim. Run some. Read. Work. Not much.”
          Hawk turned in the seat. “Sam, we can call it a night, and I can take you home or…?”
          “Or?”
          “Or I can take you to my motel.”
           Sam licked his lips nervously. “You aren’t…”
          “Aren’t what?”
          “You’re not trying to trap me, are you? I mean, you seem straight to me. I can tell you have lots of experience with women. You don’t act gay.”
          There it was, finally come to slap him in the face. Hawk considered the kid for a moment. “I don’t know if I am or not, Sam. But right now I want to go to my room with you and make love until you holler uncle.”
          Even in the darkness Hawk could see the boy color a bit. “I’m… I’m not very experienced at this kind of thing,” Sam said. “Only been with a couple of guys. Mostly just fooling around.”
          “What’ll it be?”
          “Will you take me home tomorrow morning?”
          The shy boy sitting beside him seemed completely different from the waiter trading insults with a host of drunken patrons. Neither of them spoke again until they entered the motel room.
          When Hawk undressed him, Sam clamped his hands over his genitals and blushed, reminding Hawk of a painting he’d seen once by someone named Rockwell. The Indian walked around behind the boy and gently massaged his shoulders until he slowly relaxed. A little later, as they lay naked side by side on the bed, Sam turned to him.
          “Can I just touch you? Anywhere I want?”
          “That’s what we’re here for.”
          “You’re so handsome,” the boy said. “And such a man! Why are you interested in me?”
          “You caught my eye in the bar, and I kept thinking it would be nice to feel your hands on me.”
          “Is it?” Sam asked, laying his head on Hawk’s chest.
          “Yes. Nice.”
          “You have such pretty skin. It’s different. Smooth like silk. And it’s—I don’t know—resilient, I guess you’d say. Like baby’s skin, only tougher.”
          Hawk laughed. “First time I’ve heard that.”
          Sam’s hands started to wander, stoking sensations inside Hawk. He’d expected more than masturbation, but he closed his eyes and allowed the boy his way. Hawk’s eyes snapped open as his ejaculation came almost without warning, which somehow made the orgasm more intense.
          “Did I do all right?” Sam asked.
          “You did something right!”
          “Will… will you hold me while I get it off?”
          Remembering Ramon’s shyness when they first explored one another, Hawk came up on his elbow to explore Sam’s fine body until the youth groaned through his own climax.
          Experiencing an awkwardness that Hawk hadn’t had with Ramon or Brit, made him realize he and this stranger had simply satisfied a biological urge. There was no love involved. He thought seriously of driving Sam home right then but took the lazy way and drifted off to sleep beside him.
          Sometime before dawn, he felt the boy stir. Moments later, a warm mouth closed over him. He hardened. Without either of them speaking a word, the boy worked over him until Hawk climaxed silently. Still without words, they fell back asleep.
          After a breakfast at the motel’s café, Hawk drove the boy to his rooming house. Sam shyly offered to meet him after work that evening, but Hawk said he was heading home this afternoon. Actually, he spent the next night in Phoenix as well. He found a downtown flea-market and got caught up buying little trinkets for the rest of the Rezagados. He bargained hard, but still spent too much. He didn’t care. Every one of his compadres would appreciate the joke the little gifts represented. He had dinner alone, got a good night’s sleep, and started back on Sunday.

*****
I sense mixed feelings from our friend Curt Huntinghawk. Think maybe his Phoenix trip simply confused him more. But he isn’t back home yet. Let’s see what happens next week. Remember, I’m posting weekly until this story is told. Then I’ll go back to first and third Thursdays.

Please consider ordering Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns from Dreamspinner Press. I’d like to convince them to publish the rest of the Cut Hand Series, including the unpublished manuscript Wastelakapi… Beloved, 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
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
Twitter: @markwildyr

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.

Mark

New post at 6:00 a.m. on Thursday.

Friday, March 13, 2020

Hawk in the City (Part 1 of 3 parts)


markwildyr.com, Post #110
  
Apologize for not getting this posting up on time, but things got away from me. At any rate, I’ve given in to requests and will do another Curt Huntinghawk story this week. For the duration of this three-part story, I’ll post weekly.

Hope you enjoy.

*****
A HAWK IN THE CITY

             “What the hell’s eating you, Huntinghawk?” Grover Whitedeer asked as he eased the four-by through a wash under a hot Sonoran sun. “You haven’t been worth a shit since we took down Wolverine.”
             Hawk started at the mention of the ambush. To cover his reaction, he adjusted the holster on his hip. Ever since the Rezagados Colorados had been given real police powers for the Wolverine operation, he’d started wearing a six-shooter, but like most of the twenty or so Indians who made up the group of trackers working for the Border Patrol, he preferred his rifle. He and Grove were running mates on the job and often after hours. Hawk silently acknowledged that his friend’s complaint was legitimate.
            “What you need’s some nooky,” Grove pressed. “Lets go across the border and rent us a couple of putas tonight.”
“Aw—”
            “Aw my ass, Hawk! You’re no fun anymore. Whatever happened to the hellraiser I used to know? You’re letting that thing with Wolverine get to you.”
            Hawk blinked before realizing Grove was talking about the ambush, not the intimacies he and Brit Guerrero shared before his death, a death Hawk had unwittingly engineered when he set up the trap to capture the drug runner known as Wolverine. Wolverine was also his lover, Brit Guerrero.
            “Why’d he put up a fight?” Hawk asked himself out loud, but it was Grove who answered him, his lips curling in distaste.
            “Because he was a crooked bastard who couldn’t pay for what he did!” Grove looked at him, his brown eyes flashing. “Hell, can’t say I really blame him. I don’t think I could stand to be locked up either.”
            “That’s probably it. Wasn’t gonna go behind bars.”
            “Time to lighten up. A couple of señoritas is just what we need.”
            Hawk glanced at Grove again, taking in his friend’s the hard, slender frame before turning to stare out the windshield, hoping he wasn’t making a mistake. He couldn’t let Grove know how he was feeling… what he was thinking.. “All right. I’m game.”
             “All right!” Grove shouted like a kid, slapping Hawk’s knee. “We gonna get some pussy tonight!”
            On their rare trips across the border for sex, the two young Indians always went to a professional house where they knew the girls were inspected. It cost a little more, but they felt safer. The last thing they needed was AIDS or some other loathsome disease. The other Rezagados would laugh them into their graves at being so stupid. The place was busy, but they were still able to pick out a couple of decent-looking girls.


            On the way home Grove had to describe everything that had just happened. Hawk grinned. Sometimes his bud was a kid about women, but he was all man and one hundred percent professional when it came to work. God, he was a good friend to have..
            Neither of them was ready to quit for the night, so they stopped by the Blue Mesa, a big bar they frequented at times to settle down to some serious drinking. Booze, even beer, always hit Grove harder and quicker than Hawk. Both had alcoholic relatives all over their family trees, so they were at risk. Hawk had even flirted with being a drunk in his middle teens until an uncle got hold of him and took him to a medicine man to straighten him out. It must have worked because he still drank from time to time but only got drunk when he wanted to.
            Grove was describing for the dozenth time what they’d done to the whores when somebody bumped his chair, causing him to spill his drink. Startled, the young Indian looked up into the angry eyes of a burly man in his late twenties who had the look of a hard rock miner about him. He was obviously drunk, but then so was Grove.
            “Git cher fucking chair outa the middle a the fucking floor,” the man snarled.
            Grove was standing before Hawk even knew he was going to get up. “What’d you say, you pig-eyed peckerwood?”
            “Watch yer dirty mouth, you fucking Indian. Damned redskins think they own the place.”
            “White man, you just said the wrong thing to the wrong redskin. I’m gonna clean up the parking lot with you.”
            The hefty man looked over the one hundred sixty-pound, five-foot ten Indian and laughed. “You and what tribe, Tonto?”
            “Just me,” Grove said in a calm, deadly voice.
            Uh-oh. The man got Grove pissed.
            Two other white men followed the burly miner out the door. Hawk was Grove’s only backup. Nobody else paid much attention. Fights were common enough that they cause little excitement. Later somebody’s come in and yell “fight” and the place would empty out. The Mesa was a regular stop on the sheriff’s patrol.
            The miner got a quick lesson in bar fighting. He wasted no time, rushing Grove while his back was still turned. Nothing the matter with Grove’s hearing though, and he sidestepped quick as a cat and planted a sharp elbow in the man’s side. He whirled and put a fist in the kidney. The big man staggered but failed to go down. Grove didn’t exactly box, he just slugged it out, putting his weight behind every punch. After the fourth or fifth, the miner didn’t even bother to put up a defense. Grove’s blood was up, and he kept wading into the man. Mentally, Hawk urged the whipped man to go down. That was the only thing that would stop Grove now.
            One of the other miners made a move. Hawk elbowed him aside and turned to plant a fist right in the middle of the third man’s nose as he darted in. Grabbing the injured man’s shirt, Hawk slung him across the lot. The other one had recovered and came for him. Hawk put him away quickly before Grove hurt the miner too badly. Besides, the cops should be on the way by now. A decent sized crowd had begun to gather.
            Certain neither of the other two was a threat, Hawk walked up behind Grove, who was beating on an unconscious man who didn’t have sense enough to fall. Grabbing his friend from behind in a bear hug, he lifted Grove off his feet and pulled him away from the miner. He got a couple of elbows in the ribs for his trouble before Grove discovered who it was, but he the feel of his friend’s hot, hard body made it a worthy trade-off.
            “Come on, bro. He’s done for. The cops’ll be here soon. We better go.”
            “Shit, no! I’m not done drinking!”
            “Got more at my place. Come on, we don’t need trouble with the cops.”
            Hawk had less trouble getting Grove in his pickup than anticipated. Drunker than he looked, probably. But he was lively enough to demonstrate how he’d whipped the big fucker in the middle of Hawk’s living room, spilling a newly opened beer in the process. “Taught that motherfucker to call me a fucking Indian, didn’t I?” he said, teetering between anger and exultation.
             “Listen to me, Grove. What were we doing across the border a few hours ago?”
            “Fucking. Why?”
            “And what are you?”
            “What am I?” Grove got it and collapsed in laughter. “Shit, I am a fucking Indian!” Hawk liked to see Grove laugh. He did it with everything he had. His eyes lit up and his arms and legs moved like they were spastic.
            Normally, Hawk didn’t like to be around drunks when he wasn’t drunk himself, but Grove was different. He was funny and sloppy and agreeable, except when he got something in his head and ran with it. And he was… well, sexy as hell. They—meaning Grove—went through the better part of another six-pack. It was early morning when his friend abruptly ran out of steam. Hawk hauled him into the spare bedroom and threw him on the bed. He looked down at the not quite conscious form and started tugging off clothing. Grove just laid there and watched through blurry eyes. When Hawk had him stripped to his shorts, he covered his friend with a blanket and snapped off the light.
            “Don’ go,” Grove slurred. “Talk a me.” Hawk lay beside the man. “We fuc’ ‘em, din’ we? Fuc’ ‘em good!” Grove gave his everything laugh. “Yours had big boobs.” Grove’s voice trailed away, and Hawk knew he was gone…asleep or passed out.
            “Hey, bro,” Hawk poked Grove. Nothing. Without conscious thought, he touched his friend’s face, feeling the fine bones beneath the flesh. Unable to stop himself, he let his hands roam the sleeping man. By the strength of willpower alone, Hawk got out of the bed and retreated to his own bedroom. It wasn’t right, to take advantage of an unconscious man. Tortured by desire, by the pangs of something that felt like misplaced love, Hawk tossed and turned for hours before finally surrendering to sleep.

*****
Sounds to me like Hawk’s got a thing for his best bud Grover Whitedeer. What’s he going to do about it? From the title, it sounds to me like he’s going to run away from it. What do you think?

Please consider ordering Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns from Dreamspinner Press. I’d like to convince them to publish the rest of the Cut Hand Series, including the unpublished manuscript Wastelakapi… Beloved, 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
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
Twitter: @markwildyr

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.

Mark

New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the each Thursdays until the three-part story is finished..

Thursday, March 5, 2020

Battleship Rock


markwildyr.com, Post #109

Courtesy of commons.wikimedia.org
I’ve had requests for more Huntinghawk stories, but I think we can take a rest from that sexy Indian for at least one week. Maybe next time.

Hope you enjoy this little piece of flash fiction… well, it’s a bit longer than a short, short, but persevere.

Here we go.
*****
BATTLESHIP ROCK


          Jase Kipple had no idea how much I hated him. Was I that good at hiding my feelings, or was he just oblivious to what was going on around him? Don’t think he liked me very much, but we both made the effort. Ours was a tight little clique, where everyone knew everyone else and everything there was to know about them. Except for one thing. I’d loved Jimmy Bradlee since we were both in mid-school and had even overcome his small-town prejudices against boys doing things with boys.              The first time I got into his pants, he grew ashamed and resentful afterward, but within a week he’d come sniffing back, and I managed to go even farther down that wonderful road. He’d been shocked, but I soon had him moaning and groaning so much there was no way he could claim he didn’t like it.
          And then came Jase. Good-looking, popular, hail-fellow-well-met Jase to screw up the works. At first, I thought they were getting it on and about went mad with jealousy. Then Jimmy started talking trash about what we’d done together and claimed it wasn’t right. If it wasn’t right, why had he enjoyed it so much? Hell, we even did it while he was protesting it wasn’t right. But things were definitely different. And not in a good way.
          In order to find out what was going on, I had to make nice with Jase, and slowly managed to work my way into a threesome… not the kind of threesome I’d like to try out, but a buddy threesome, if you know what I mean. I had to pretend to like the son of a bitch. I must have played my part pretty well, because I got so comfortable I made a move on him—like I said Jase was a good-looking guy—and got shot down big time. I had to endure a lecture about how it wasn’t morally right, and how the world would come to an end if guys spent all their seed on other guys. Big deal, either you do it occasionally or you don’t.
          Despite his promise not to blab, Jase must have said something to Jimmy, because my lover-boy shut me off all of a sudden. After that, I saw through a red haze every time I laid eyes on Jase-frigging-Kipple. But I had to play my part or get squeezed out completely. So I became a “chastened, reformed” sodomite.


          I didn’t really have anything in mind when Jase, Jimmy, and me—and a couple of girls—set out in Jase’s Audi SUV for a day trip north to Battleship Rock. Soon after passing through the red-hued sandstone of Jemez Springs, a big volcanic escarpment hove into view on the right. Looming two hundred feet above the evergreen forest below, it looked just like the prow of a huge naval ship. After oohing and aahhing over the daunting site, we turned off State Highway 4 into a parking area where the San Antonio and East Fork of the Jemez Rivers meet. That’s not as impressive as it sounds, because you can practically jump over either one of the rivers and can almost do so after they merge.
          The place was popular, so we had to search out an open picnic site. After staking our claim, we wandered around looking the place over and listening to the girls giggling… and me eyeing Jimmy’s and Jase’s trim backsides.
          I think it was Jase’s idea to take the Forest Trail from the picnic area to the top of Battleship. I accepted his challenge, although Jimmy elected to stay with the girls who just wanted to wade around in the cold water of the merged rivers before setting up our picnic meal.
          For a good part of the trail, we could walk side by side, but in some places, we had to go in tandem. Inevitably, I found myself watching the play of the muscles in his back and legs. Despite the fact that the trail was harder than expected, I was pretty charged up by the time we got to the top. The broad, relatively flat expanse was deserted—except for the two of us—so I naturally said what was on my mind.
          He turned around and glared at me. “Chuck, how many times do I have to tell you I’m not interested in that sex stuff. I like girls.”
          “So do I,” I said reasonably.
          “Apparently not the same way I do. And you lay off Jimmy too, hear? Don’t go leading him astray.”
          I fumed all the way to the edge of the precipice where we looked down on a green forest made imperfect by intrusive automobiles sparkling in the sun and human ants rushing around spaces made for bears and mountain lions and foxes, and….
          “Astray,” I said. “What do you mean astray.”
          “He let me know what you do together. But I’ve told him it isn’t right. He’s coming around.”
          “Coming around?”
          “I told him it’s evil… what you do. That you’re evil.”
          “Me, evil. What does that mean?”
          “It means, you won’t be having your way with him anymore. He understands you’re a bad influence on him. Before we get back home today, he’s going to let you know you’re not welcome in our group anymore."
          My vision blurred, I leaned against a snag that canted out into space. I dragged air into my lungs with difficulty. Two hundred feet below, my lover waited to tell me I was evil. That it was all over. That the beautiful things we did were history. I gasped audibly.
          “What’s wrong?” Jase asked, stepping closer, a phony note of concern in his baritone.
          “H-having trouble breathing,’ I said, recovering my footing and standing away from the dead tree.
          “What’s the matter, climb too much for you?” There was no sympathy in the voice now, merely the condescension of a physically superior being to a weakling. The red haze haloing my vision intensified. I gathered my muscles.
          “You need to rest before—”
          I don’t think it was intentional. Just a reaction. I put a hand on his shoulder and shoved.
          “Wha—” he yelped as he grabbed for my arm.
          I snatched at him and managed to hang onto a wrist. The force of his fall slammed me against the snag. He dangled over the edge of Battleship Rock while I wondered if the rotting tree would support both of our weights.
          “Help!” I bellowed. “Help me, I can’t hold him!” I felt the weight of a hundred pair of eyes fixed on me.
          Jase began to swing, as if trying to find purchase on rocks that were out of his reach.
          “Can’t… hang… on!” I shrieked at the top of my voice.
          I stared down into Jase’s beautiful, panicked blue eyes for a long moment before I let go. He managed to cling to my wrist for a few more seconds before dropping into the void with a scream that lasted impossibly long before dying abruptly. Collecting myself both mentally and physically, I pushed myself away from the wind-smoothed wood of the snag and made my way on exhausted limbs back down the trail to the parking area where I was swamped by sympathizers proclaiming me a hero for risking my life while trying vainly to save my friend.
          After a moment, I saw the trim figure of Jimmy Bradlee rushng toward me.
          Damn, he looked sexy. And he had no idea how much farther down that evil road I planned to take him. Now that Jase was out of the way. Evil, indeed!

*****
Poor Chuck seems to be confused over the word “evil.” He sees nothing evil in craving what he craves—and I agree with him—but what about the way he went about removing an obstacle in his path? That probably qualifies. Did he plan it all… either consciously or subconsciously… or act on the spur of the moment? You tell me.

Please consider ordering Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns from Dreamspinner Press. I’d like to convince them to publish the rest of the Cut Hand Series, including the unpublished manuscript Wastelakapi… Beloved, 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
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
Twitter: @markwildyr

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.

Mark

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

Thursday, February 20, 2020

Huntinghawk and Wolverine (Conclusion of a 5-Part Story)


markwildyr.com, Post #109

Photographer: Bobby Mikul, Courtesy of CCO Public Domain
NOTE: As this is the last installment of the story, I’m going back to my schedule of posting at 6:00 a.m. every first and third Thursday of the month. My next post will be March 5.

What can possibly come of a relationship between two handsome, sensual men when they stand on opposite sides of the law? Especially, since they had two earth shattering intimate encounters? Does Hawk’s “half-baked” plan hold the answer. Does it work out the way he wanted? Read on for the conclusion of the story.

*****
HUNTINGHAWK AND WOLVERINE

          Nothing much happened over the next week. Hawk didn’t even pull out his transceiver. Brit didn’t return, so Hawk considered making the move this time, but it didn’t seem right. Like maybe it was a trap Wolverine had set up. No, he’d wait until Brit showed up.
          After two weeks, Hawk brought out his transceiver, but had little luck with it. Grove began to grouse that Hawk never had time for him anymore, but Hawk could hardly confess he was running all over the place at night tracking a black Chevy Blazer.
          The break came about a month after Hawk bugged Wolverine’s truck. Just before dawn on a Friday, the Blazer began to move south toward the desert. Hawk stayed a half a mile behind with his lights out. When the truck turned off the main road, he dropped back even farther. Finally, the Blazer stopped moving. Hawk parked and waited half an hour before getting out of the Dodge and hoofing across the desert. Even with the bug sending out its little beeps, it took Hawk a long time to find the truck in a small draw hidden from the air by a thin cover of mesquite and Apache plume. The vehicle was deserted. By the light of a small mag light, Hawk retrieved his bug and found tracks that were recognizably Wolverines. He backed out of the small balsam and returned to his truck.
           His heart was heavy as he pulled into the headquarters parking lot, and he almost abandoned his plan. Amadeo Tomé, the bossman of the Rezagados and a few others, including Grove, were huddled around drinking coffee and planning the day.
          Hawk filled his cup with the bitter black liquid and stood at the edge of the group. They all looked at him, recognizing that he had something to say. ‘I found him,” he finally forced the words through his vocal chords. “Found his Blazer parked in a blind draw about ten miles south of town and two miles west of the main road.”
          “When?” Amadeo asked.
          “Just left there. They hadn’t been gone long. Motor was still warm.”
          “They’re making a run,” Amadeo said. “They’ll come back to the truck. Everybody hang on, and I’ll call the patrol. You’re sure, Hawk?”
          “It’s Wolverine. Found his old track since he returned my boots.”
          “Never could figure that out,” one of the others put in.
          “Tired of making a fool of me, I guess,” Hawk said with a shrub.
          “Thumbing his nose at you,” Amadeo said. “At all of us. Hang on fellows.” He disappeared into his office, leaving the others to discuss the situation. Hawk glumly answered questions, keeping his words to a minimum.
          In a few minutes Amadeo was back, unable to hide a small smile of satisfaction. “Well, boys, we’re gonna be in on it. And those nitwits finally come to their senses. We’re stopping over at headquarters so they can swear us in and issue weapons. So don’t none of you embarrass us by shooting off your toes and peckers… mine neither come to think of it.”
          By late afternoon the force of Border Patrol and Rezagado officers were in place in the brush and rocks around the Blazer. Hawk and Grove had the high ground atop a pile of boulders directly above the black vehicle. Both had eschewed side arms for their trusty rifles. Hawk looked around and had a sudden feeling of dismay. Why hadn’t he and Grove come for Wolverine alone? Why had he come at all? Because that’s what he was hired to do, that’s why. And because the traficantes, including Wolverine, were ruining lives and killing people with their filth. Oh, God! If only Brit had agreed to stop!
           “I see them,” came an excited, muffled voice.
          “Watch those glasses. Don’t want them warned by a reflection,” Amadeo grumbled.
          For one wild moment, Hawk wished for his pair of binoculars so he could flash a warning. But they were in his truck. He could see the four men approaching now, still a distance sway. Torn between personal and professional loyalties, Hawk lowered his head and prayed for the moment to be over.
          “What’s the matter, Hawk?” Grove whispered. “Aren’t you glad you finally got the bastard. I can hardly wait to see what he looks like.”
          “He’s my size. Name’s Brit Guerrero. Breed, but mostly Indian. Except for what he does for a living, seems like an okay guy.”
          “What the hell are you saying? This is the bastard who shot you!”
          “Yeah, he is, isn’t he?”
          “How’d you know all that? Be damned,” Grove breathed. “That’s why you wouldn’t go anywhere with me. You been scouting the bastard on your own. Well, you got him, bro. You got him!”
          Hawk lifted his eyes and watched the four men plod steadily onward. All carried heavy packs on their backs. Two were armed. They were the traficantes, the others were mules.
          The Border Patrol commander, John Haleca, waited until they were in the draw with the Blazer before he spoke over the bullhorn. “This is the Border Patrol. Drop—”
          Wolverine acted as if he almost expected the ambush. His weapon rose, spraying the whole area with bullets at an incredible rate. To Hawk, it looked like an Uzi. Without waiting for instructions, the entire force returned fire. The second traficante dropped like a stone, and the mules fell to their stomachs with arms held above their head. Hawk saw Wolverine stagger, then withdraw out of sight through a cover of mesquite. Bullets shredded the bushes.
          The commander sent some men to flank Wolverine’s retreat, but Hawk jumped on the roof of the Blazer and vaulted over its side, marching straight through the mesquite where Wolverine had disappeared. Grove was right behind him. He ignored Amadeo’s call to come back.
          They found Wolverine at the base of a small buff not ten yards from where he’d disappeared into the bushes. He lay on his back, knees crooked, one arm across his belly, the other thrown out still holding the Uzi. Even with the two red blotches on his chest and the one in his thigh, he looked as if he were asleep. Hawk thought everyone died with his eyes open, but Brit’s were closed and his long, dark lashes lay peacefully against his cheeks.
          Now, when it was too late, Hawk understood Brit’s promise that no one would never send Wolverine to prison. Hawk took one last look at his fallen lover and turned to stalk back to his four-by. Grover Whitedeer dogged his footsteps all the way.

*****
Don’t think that’s the way Hawk intended things to end with Wolverine… Brit. I’m sure he planned on doing what he promised, capturing the drug runner and then seeing him through the prison sentence. But things don’t always work out the way we plan, do they?

I have more Huntinghawk adventures, but we need to take a rest and look at some other things before we explore them.

For those of you who have not already done so, please order Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns from Dreamspinner Press. I’d like to convince them to publish the rest of the Cut Hand Series, including the unpublished manuscript Wastelakapi… Beloved, 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
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
Twitter: @markwildyr

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.

Mark

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