Thursday, April 19, 2018

Dally Calico, Part 2 of 2 Parts


markwildyr.com, Post #58

Well, let’s see what happens between Alan and Dally after they agree “hands-off.”
*****
Courtesy of Pixabay
DALLY CALICO
          Things gradually eased between us as I applied myself to work the next week. Dally, employing an unexpected courtesy and easy charm, arranged interviews with reservation old-timers, who gave me the Indian perspective of the battle. I was well pleased with what I had learned by the time we went for another trip to the canyon.
          In view of the information we had gathered, this visit was even more impressive. I visualized some of the individual personal dramas we’d heard, finding locations where we believed they likely occurred.
          We slept in bedrolls again that night, and the next morning I began talking into a digital recorder as we walked the terrain. I described the Battle of Bloody Canyon as I saw it in my mind. He hovered close but remained silent as I continued my monologue. I saw the richness of my voice and the clarity of my description had gotten to him. The battle between his forebears and mine was real to him now, and he regarded me as a historian, not as a lecher lusting after his ass.


          It only took one more day for me to screw things up royally. We were finished with my research and heading back to tribal headquarters when we stopped for a bite to eat. I paid the tab while he went to the men’s room. As I waited for him to emerge, an interesting-looking kid walked past and gave me the eye. I watched as he climbed into a beat-up old Camero. When Dally came out, we headed for my car. I offered to drive for a change.
          Five miles down the road, I spotted the Camero in a roadside rest stop.
          “I should have hit the head back there like you did,” I said, wheeling off the highway. Dally grunted and waited in the car while I rushed to the men’s room.
          Camero kid was standing at the urinal about halfway playing with himself when I entered. He gave a slow grin and slid his trousers to the floor. I walked up behind him and leaned into him, feeling his heat excite my heat.
          The guy  suddenly looked over at the door, his whole body tensing. Then he relaxed. "It’s okay. It’s just your sexy friend. He can do me when you’re done.”
          The look on Dally’s face dumped a bucket of water on my desires. I abandoned Camero guy  and rushed after my friend. I found Dally squatting on his haunches behind the building near a clump of mesquite. My uneasiness increased as I saw the muscles in his shoulders trembling.
          “Okay, I’m ready to go.”
          He rose in one fluid movement and faced me. His eyes went from dead to enraged. “I’m warning you, MacFarland. You come any closer, and I won’t be responsible for what happens. You raped that kid right in a public restroom!”
          My own Irish began rising. “Raped? What are you talking about? Nothing happened. Something would have, if you hadn’t stuck you nose in. Besides, it wouldn’t have been anything he didn’t want.”
          Dally advanced on me. “Nothing he didn’t want? Yeah, like I didn’t want it.” A dangerous gleam in his eye, Dally came at me, telegraphing his intent. I sidestepped his rush and snagged him around the neck. He fought me briefly, then sagged against me, almost bowling me over. He held onto my arm while his chest heaved.
          “He raped me, Alan. Caught me right out of the shower, standing at the sink. Rubbed my shoulders. Massaged. Then… then he touched me. And I just stood there and took it. Didn’t fight or anything. Just like that kid in there.”
          “He wanted it. Besides I hadn’t—”
          “Yeah, like Coach said I wanted it.”
          “Your coach got to you? Hell, Dally, all you had to do was say no. Get dressed. Leave. Anything but stand there and take it.”
          A sob built in his chest and escaped as a wail. “T-that’s what I…I’ve told myself for five years. Maybe I did want it? Did I, Alan?” He leaned against me harder and writhed.
          “I don’t know, Dally. But what if you did? You’re still the same guy.”
          The sobbing lessened, but the anguish was still in his voice. “Maybe he was right. Maybe I’ve wanted it all along. Take me back in there, and let’s find out.”
          Aware that I was reacting to the firm buttocks pressed against me, I stepped away and spun him around to face me.
          “No, we’re not going in the men’s room in a rest area. We’re going to get in the car and drive to the motel. And when we get there, we’re going to do one of two things. We’re either going to pack our things and check out or we’re going to make love. And you’re going to be the one to decide. Okay?”
          He dropped his eyes and nodded.
          The drive to the motel seemed longer than it was. Neither of us said a word. He huddled in his seat and stared at the floorboard. When I parked before our room, he bounded out of the car and walked stiff-legged to the room. When I entered he stood facing me.
         “What do you want, Dally?”
          He swallowed hard. “I-I want you to put an end to my fear, Alan. Help me find out who I am.”
          My head spun as if he’d clipped me on the chin, but I manfully straightened my shoulders and walked into his arms knowing just one thing for certain. From now on, my life would be measured as before Dally Calico and after Dally Calico

                                                                  *****
Wonder how it went in that motel room in tiny San Rosario. Did Alan show Dally who he really was? I get an ache imagining how one man taught the other something so intimate.

Please take a look at my novel Cut Hand. I really would like DSP Publications to bring out River Otter and Echoes of the Flute and Medicine Hair, as well as the unpublished Wastelakapi… Beloved, we have to generate some sales in order to get it done. Amazon permits you to read a short passage.

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 some buy links for CUT HAND:


Thanks for being a reader.

Mark

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

Thursday, April 5, 2018

Dally Calico, Part 1 of 2 Parts

markwildyr.com, Post #57

Time for another short story. I intended this to be a flash fiction piece, but as I wrote, it became clear it would take two posts to tell the story. I hope you’re as taken with young Dally Calico as I am.
*****
Courtesy of Pixabay
DALLY CALICO
          I’m a brawler. A hard-drinking, fast-living, street fighter. I’m also a successful novelist. In addition, I’m a gay man with a fixation on round, firm male buttocks. My agent of fifteen years had effectively kept me in the closet despite the fact I don’t give a tug-on-a-tit who knows.
          As I sat in the library of a small southern New Mexico town researching back copies of old newspapers for my newest book—a frontier epic with the working title of Fading Trumpets—a young man entered and paused to glance around the room. I’m constantly amazed at how attractive young people flock to me, drawn by the mysterious, magnetic pull of power and renown. Many, both straight and gay, succumbed to the force of my personality, believing they were “special.”
          Even though I considered a good-looking American Indian about the sexiest animal alive, this kid was a standout in any environment. Around twenty-one and extremely comely rather than classically handsome, his lean, angular face provoked erotic sensations in my gut. I recognized the book in his hand as one of mine. Eventually, he worked up his courage and approached.
          “Excuse me, sir. But are you Alan MacFarland?”
          I looked up as if surprised. “Yes. I am.”
          His smile lit his eyes and about stopped my heart. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but could I ask you….”
          “I’d be happy to autograph it. What’s your name?”
          “Dally. Dally Calico.”
          “Dally? Like a dally man as opposed to a Texas-tie down man?” I referred to two different methods cowboys use to anchor lassos to saddles.
          “You got it.”
          Many attractive people suffered from close scrutiny, but not young Dally. As I examined his separate parts, he actually grew more desirable. At a guess, I’d say Dally was a breed. His thick black hair, worn like a knit cap, tended to curl. Big, hazel eyes were likely a gene from his non-native parent. Rangy is an overworked word down here in the southwest, but it applied perfectly to his physique, wide at the shoulders, narrowing to a V at his trim hips. His butt was a gentle curve that begged a caress.
          He stuck out a corded arm and offered a manly handshake. “Nice to meet you, Mr. MacFarland.”
          “If you want me to sign this, you’ve got to learn to call me Alan.”
          “Okay… Alan.” He shifted his stance uneasily as I finished inscribing the book. “Uh, I had another reason for wanting to meet you.”
          I invited him to sit and tried to analyze the powerful attraction of his asymmetrical features as he spoke. I had certainly seen more beautiful young men, but none so utterly sensual.
          He’d heard I planned to spend some time on the nearby reservation doing research for my new novel and wanted me to hire him as my guide. I was delighted to give him a chance. This sexy stud would serve my needs to a T.


          We started work immediately, heading to a place called Bloody Canyon in the wooded mountains of the reservation, the site of a seminal battle during the Indian wars of the 1880s. Like Little Big Horn, it was a Pyrrhic victory for the tribes. Nonetheless, Fading Trumpets was to be built on this struggle.
          As Dally and I walked the ground, smelled the air, and savored the atmosphere of the battleground, my eye scanned canyon walls for hostiles lurking in ambush. The squeal of dying horses and cries of mortally wounded men echoed in the eerie silence along the entire five-mile length of the steep-sided valley. And toward the mouth of the canyon, one could almost hear a fading trumpet signaling retreat.
          After coming down out of the hills two days later, we checked into the only motel in a dusty village called San Rosario. After my shower, I settled at a small table and began transcribing notes from a hand-held recorder onto a laptop. Minutes later, Dally emerged from his own bath with a towel wrapped around his slender waist. Not even aware of rising, I found myself standing behind him, taking in the graceful play of muscles as he combed his hair before the dresser mirror. He whirled and regarded me through worried, canted eyes. Then the guy I figured was in the throes of slavish hero worship, delivered a surprise.
          “Sorry, man. I don’t go in for that.”
          I licked my lips. “For what?”
          “What you’re looking for. I’m a hired guide, not a hired lay.”
          “Usually, I get a two-for.”
          “Not this time, you don’t. I can pack up and leave in the morning unless we have an understanding. I’m a guide and interpreter, nothing else.”
          I gave in gracefully. “All right, but lest set some ground rules. I won’t touch, but I will look. You are one hell of a sexy guy, Dally. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you if I tried. You don’t have to parade around naked, but don’t bundle up like an Eskimo, either. Just act normal.”
          “Okay, I can handle that.” He whipped off his towel and swiped at his neck. My heart about failed at the unfettered sight of his long, lean body.

*****
Did Alan MacFarland miscalculate? Will he have to put up with the aches and pains of living in near proximity to the fetching Dally Calico without touching? Even if that’s the case, maybe being around the young sexpot will be enough. What do you think?

As I’ve noted before, DSP Publications released Cut Hand. I’d appreciate it if you give the book a look. Amazon permits you to read a short passage. This is the first novel in the Strobaw Family Saga series. Gonna have to sell a few more books if we want them to publish the second… and third and fourth and fifth book in the series.

Remember the new posting schedule: The first and third Thursday of each month at 6:00 a.m.

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 some buy links for CUT HAND:


Thanks for being a reader.

Mark


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

Sunday, April 1, 2018

Reminder of New Posting Schedule

markwildyr.com, Post #56

Just wanted to remind you of my new posting schedule: The first and third Thursday of each month at 6:00 a.m.

This allows me to schedule my work in a more orderly fashion. If that doesn’t make any sense, let me remind you that you’re not living in my mind. At any rate, next posting is on Thursday, April 5. It will be another short fiction piece.

*****
Please remember that DSP Publications released Cut Hand.. I’d appreciate it if you give the book a look. Amazon permits you to read a short passage. This is the first novel in the Strobaw Family Saga series. Gonna have to sell a few more books if we want them to publish the second… and third and fourth and fifth book in the series.

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 some buy links for CUT HAND:


Thanks for being a reader.

Mark


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

Thursday, March 15, 2018

Antony (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

markwildyr.com, Post #55

Did you enjoy the first part of the story? My pal Don Travis said he’s getting a lot of hits on his website. Please tell your friends to read this blog post so he doesn’t beat me using my own story to do so.

You will recall that in the last post, Greg agreed Tony could have three of his sketches, promised to complete them and give them to his new friend at the powwow tomorrow. Before leaving, Greg handed over his business card, just in case. Here's the conclusion of the story.

*****
Courtesy of CCO Commons
ANTONY
          I canceled a Saturday night dinner date with a friend in order to start converting the three pencil sketches Tony had selected—plus one he’d hesitated over before choosing another—into ink drawings on watercolor paper. After adding a few dabs of subtle colored highlights, I signed the pieces before pinning them to the white chalkboard wall in my studio.
          The next morning, I intended to sleep late but was drawn into the studio by the need to begin my first oil painting of the appetizing Antony… the view of him standing nearly naked as he spoke to two friends before the powwow started yesterday afternoon. By the time I completed the transfer of the sketch to canvas, the powwow was well underway. Too engrossed in my work to leave, I further delayed my departure. As Tony’s beautiful head and face emerged in layers and layers of paint on that canvas, I was too inspired by my subject to stop painting. Before I realized it, the powwow was history. Fighting a tinge of regret, I kept at my canvas until I noticed my numbed fingers no longer responded precisely to my will. And a perfect model demands a perfect rendition, right?
          After a shower, I donned a robe and ate my first meal of the day, a bowl of oatmeal, a slice of turkey bacon, and 2 percent milk. Then I stared at the television as waves of recrimination consumed me. I’d missed the chance to see Tony again, talk with him, interact with him. Be with the most handsome man I’d ever seen. Would I ever encounter him again? Perhaps at another powwow at the Indian Village. Did he live in Albuquerque? In New Mexico? Questions clogged my brain, each one a censure for failing to go to the powwow this afternoon as I promised.
           

          I was considering going to bed—although I knew sleep would come hard—when the front doorbell pulled me out of my recliner. Because of the late hour, I punched a button and asked who was there. My heart fluttered a couple of times when my door answered:
          “Tony. Tony Abó”
          Still in my robe, I cinched the garment tighter and opened the door to be skewered by those obsidian orbs he used so effectively. Conscious or unconscious? Probably unconscious. Just his way of viewing the world.
          I stepped aside and waved him in. “Hi. Surprised to see you.”
          “The mountain didn’t come to Mohammad….” he said, humor brightening his handsome features. “Thought you were coming to the powwow this afternoon.”
          “I got busy working on those sketches and let time get away from me.”
          “Hope it’s not too late for me to show up on your doorstep.”
          “No, I was just relaxing in front of the tube before turning in.”
          “Intended to come earlier, but I went to the Forty-nine, and time got away from me, too. Forty-nine, that’s—”
          “That’s the after-powwow party out on the desert where anything and everything goes.”
          “Not just after a powwow. Any excuse is good for a Forty-nine. But yeah, that’s essentially it.”
          I took another look at him as he preceded me into the living room. He didn’t appear to be inebriated… which is the usual state and often the intent of such a party. “The sketches are in the studio.” I brushed past him and led the way to the big room on the east side of the house where I did my work.
          He momentarily forgot the sketches and walked straight to the easel to examine his image on the canvas. “Hey, man. That’s good. Really good. Do I really look like that?”
          I pulled up a comparable photo on my phone and handed it to him. “You tell me.”
          He glanced at the photo and compared it to the canvas. After a moment, he turned to me and smiled. “You know, I look at myself in the mirror every morning, but I’m not sure I really see myself.” He waved a hand. “Well, I see myself, but—”
          “I know. You see the image, but you don’t really examine the image.”
          “Right.”
          “You are one handsome man,” I said.
          That flustered him. “Thanks. Uh… did you have a chance to finish the sketches?”
          “Right over here.” I led him to the pen and ink drawings on the whiteboard wall.
          “Wow!” he exclaimed. “Those are great! And you signed them.”
          “I sign all the work that goes out of here. And I did the fourth one you hesitated over. Thought you might want to give it to your girl.” I felt my brow furrow. “Or your wife.”
          He turned and unleashed a smile on me. “No wife.”
          “How about a girl?”
          Tony pursed his lips. “No girl, either.”
          “I don’t believe it. You oughta have them swarming all over you.”
          “Oh, they swarm,” he said with no apparent arrogance. “But I don’t always respond.”
          "So no girlfriend?
“Been a few. But not right now.”
My left eyebrow reached for my hairline as I took the plunge. “Boyfriend?”
“Not at the moment.”
I went hyper. My eyesight sharpened; the smell of oil paint and turpentine flooded my nostrils. I heard the grandfather clock ticking in the distant living room. The taste of my now-digested oatmeal lingered on my tongue, the silken robe caressed my thighs. My words managed to squeeze past the lump in my throat. “But there have been some?”
He did that eye-piercing thing before answering. “Two.”
When I lose my head, I tend to babble. “They must be dead. Or crazy. Only way they would have left you.”
He laughed at my frown. “Fortunes of war. No, really. Fortunes of war. One of them was my co-pilot. Flew a few sorties against the bad guys over in the Middle East. Once, we got hit and were losing power. Wasn’t sure we’d make it back to base. All of a sudden, he blurted out he wasn’t afraid to die, but he was sorry he had to do it before he got me.”
“Got you?”
“That’s what I said. Got me? He admitted he’d been thinking about it ever since we teamed up.”
“And what happened?”
“We limped back okay, got us a room in town, and made it so he could die in peace the next time.”
“Was he the first?”
Tony shook his head, sending more of those invisible pheromones my way. Like I needed more. I was about to bust a gut as it was.
“And the first?”
“I was still in high school. We lived on a ranch at the time. This cowhand a couple of years older than me was the town’s stud. Had women all over him all the time. One day, we were working fence lines, and I noted his... condition. He caught me looking and mumbled something about a new girl in town. Without thinking, I told him I could take care of it for him. Didn’t know what I was talking about, just felt moved to say it.”
“And he let you, I take it.”
“Yeah. For the next two years. By the time I figured out he was just using me, not making a buddy out of me—except for his convenience—he’d enrolled in the army. Like I say, fortunes of war.”
I gulped again and said the first thing I could think of to delay him. “Can I offer you a drink?”
“You got a beer?”
“Coors.”
“Okay.
As we started for the den, he paused and looked back. “Greg?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Don’t let me forget those ink drawings when I leave in the morning.”
My knees nearly dumped me on the floor.

*****
Greg took a chance… torn between the oil on canvas Tony and the flesh and blood one... but it worked out okay, didn’t it?

Another reminder that I’m changing my publication dates. From now on, I’ll post at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.

Please remember that DSP Publications released Cut Hand.. I’d appreciate it if you give the book a look. Amazon permits you to read a short passage. This is the first novel in the Strobaw Family Saga series. Gonna have to sell a few more books if we want them to publish the second… and third and fourth and fifth book in the series.

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 some buy links for CUT HAND:


Thanks for being a reader.

Mark


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

Thursday, March 1, 2018

Antony (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

markwildyr.com, Post #54



My fellow author Don Travis liked this story so well, he asked if he could publish it on his website, dontravis.com (with proper accreditation, of course). Consequently, both of our blogs will run this piece on Thursday, March 1. I hope you enjoy the story.

*****
Courtesy of CCO Creative Commons
ANTONY
          The mere sight of Antony Abó raises the testosterone, excites the nerve endings, exercises the libido, and loosens involuntary clouds of pheromones.
          That was my reaction the first time I laid eyes on him and remains so today. I met Tony last summer at a powwow at the Indian Village in Expo New Mexico. An artist, I wanted to grab some photos and make quick sketches of dancers decked out in full regalia. Past Greg Gartzen paintings of Native Americans sold well, and I was inclined to see if I could replicate the success. Greg Gartzen… that’s me.
          That summer day, I got no farther than a hundred steps through the gates of the village before I halted in my tracks… pole-axed by the sight of a masculine vision. A young man stood half-facing me as he engaged two companions in earnest conversation. What initially attracted my attention was his nakedness. Lightly—but definitely—muscled, his slender frame was covered only by a beaded breechclout. A real one, not a pair of short shorts with a flap in front and another in back. That was obvious by the brown flesh visible all the way to the garment’s waistband. An unbound cloud of glistening black hair flowed around his face and down his back, shimmering in the sunlight as he moved. The features did not match the physique, his was the beautiful, unlined face of innocence, seemingly younger than the rest of him.
          I dropped onto a nearby bench, snapped quick photos with my iPhone camera, and flipped open my sketch pad. With quick, bold strokes of the pencil, I managed to capture the essence of the youth before an announcement over the loudspeaker broke up the trio. To my surprise the thing he clutched in his left hand turned out to be his regalia. He opened the flat package and slipped his arms through straps, revealing a cape of blue and yellow and white feathers. He slipped a beaded headband over his brow and moved with the others toward the announcer’s stand.
          I drew furiously for the next hour, as dancers, both male and female, took to the big patch of white sand utilized as a dance floor. I filled almost one entire sketch pad with images of the marvelous Tony as he performed the hoop dance solo. He seemed to be a featured dancer, at one time piping a haunting ballad on a wonderfully painted flute, accompanied only by doleful drums. Even as I reproduced his grace and beauty on paper, I learned his name, his tribe, and that he must be older than he looked because he was a recently decommissioned air force pilot. How had he managed to keep those flowing locks in the military?


          I remained longer than intended, and the powwow was coming to an end before I started putting away my things. As I swiped my graphite stained fingers with wet towelettes I carry for the purpose, a voice startled me.
          “Someone told me you had sketches of me? Do you mind if I see one?”
          Gripped in the gut by that deep, gravelly voice, I lifted my head to regard Antony Abó, now dressed in denim, cowboy boots, and black Stetson. He pierced my soul with the onyx marbles he used as eyes. I had to catch my breath before I tapped one of the pads.  “Mostly in this one. Feel free to take a look.”
          “Thanks.”
          I watched him turn the pages and examine each sketch before going to the next. What a paradox this man was: he possessed the frame of a young man coming into his prime, the face of an adolescent, and the voice of a commander. I believe a piece of my heart broke off and dropped into my gut at that moment.
          At last, he raised his eyes and speared me with a stare again. “You’re good. But tell me something. Why so many of me?”
          I drew breath to steady my voice. “Because you were the most interesting dancer out there.”
          He flipped a couple of sheets and held out the pad. “What about her?”
          I glanced at the sketch of a lovely young woman. “Can’t hold a candle.”
          He frowned momentarily as something flashed behind those flinty eyes. “Guess I oughta be flattered. What are you going to do with them?”
          "Three or four will be turned into paintings. I’ll keep a few as sketches to decorate my home or office. Would you like a couple?”
          His mouth broadened into a smile. “Sure. Thanks.”
         "Okay, pick out three and I’ll finish them later today. You can pick them up at my studio or I can bring them tomorrow.”
          He selected three drawings and agreed to pick them up tomorrow, the final day of the powwow. When he asked my name, I handed over a business card with the address of my studio… which also happened to be my home. Just in case.


*****
Well, what do you think? Do Greg and Antony meet on the morrow? Is there something building between them? If so, is it something positive or are they about to butt heads?

You’ll find out in two weeks when Antony concludes.

Also wanted to tell you that I’m changing my publication dates again. From now on, I’ll post at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.

Please remember that DSP Publications released Cut Hand.. I’d appreciate it if you give the book a look. Amazon permits you to read a short passage. This is the first novel in the Strobaw Family Saga series.

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 some buy links for CUT HAND:


Thanks for being a reader.

Mark


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

Thursday, February 15, 2018

Brother-in-Law

markwildyr.com, Post #54

It looks like I’m stuck on brothers… given the last post and this one, but that’s just the way it is.

This is the first mid-monthly post, a schedule I’ll try to maintain from this point on. As explained last time, I’ll post on the first and the fifteenth of each month.

Hope you enjoy the story.

*****
Courtesy of Twitter. com
 BROTHER-IN-LAW

          Melanie and I met and married our senior year in college. Upon graduation, we made our home in the New York apartment my folks left me in a respectable high rise. Four years later, I was making good money free-lancing how-to-do-it books, Mel was a nursing supervisor at one of the city’s bigger hospitals, and our great romance sickened into a stale marriage. It went terminal with the visit of Mel’s nineteen-year-old brother Brad this past spring. Handsome and aggressive, the youth was looking for adventure on his first visit to New York. As Mel had night duty, the chore of squiring little brother around fell to me. He wasn’t interested in plays or museums; clubs were Brad’s thing.
          The girls gravitated to him like cold to heat. He drank and danced and flirted but went home with me, complaining that if I’d play along we’d both get laid. It didn’t seem to matter that I’d be cheating on his sister. The second night, we returned home pleasantly looped and somehow ended up in the same bed. When he moved on me, I was surprised but not offended. I’m not too clear on what we did, but it involved making out and mutual orgasms.
           The next night, an unspoken desire to rush home to bed abbreviated our stay at the Bad Actor, a club on Broadway. Not nearly so sloshed, I clearly remember that night and the delicious things we did to one another. I finished the evening wondering why I’d not tried this route before.
          The fourth night, we didn’t bother with clubbing, preferring to crack open a bottle of Scotch at the apartment and get an earlier start on our bedroom gymnastics. Cold sober, I still found Brad the most enchanting creature on earth and allowed him to do thing to me that forty-eight hours ago would have been unthinkable. To my utter delight, he reciprocated.
          We sat naked in the den after our first bout in bed, working on the Scotch and discussing anything and everything. I mentally shook my head. This teenage bon vivant had experienced more of life than I had in all my twenty-seven years. But I was willing to learn, even from someone considerably my junior.
          After gawking at one another’s naked flesh for just so long, we’d adjourn to the bedroom once again where he would teach me more. I honestly don’t believe I’d ever had a more randy night before… including on my honeymoon.
          But randy nights have consequences. I do not recall anything past two o’clock when I passed out while Brad hovered over me performing magnificently for the umpteenth time. But I do recall waking from my debauchery. Mel stood in the doorway, hands on hips, an enraged look on her face, shouting imprecations at both of us. Despite the situation, Brad looked absolutely fetching sitting on the bed naked and tousle-headed as he faced his furious sister.
          Brad was banished. I was declared a corrupter of children. Mel was divorced in short order… and in legal possession of my apartment, I might add. Other than the way it happened, the end of the marriage was no great tragedy.
          What would Brad think if I showed up at his dorm?

*****

What can I say? It’s not often the other woman is the wife’s brother.

Please remember that DSP Publications released Cut Hand.. I’d appreciate it if you give the book a look. Amazon permits you to read a short passage. This is the first novel in the Strobaw Family Saga series.

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 some buy links for CUT HAND:


Thanks for being a reader.

Mark


Blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. on the first and fifteenth day of the month.

Thursday, February 1, 2018

Bait

markwildyr.com, Post #53

Note: Beginning this month, I will do two blogs a month, on the 1st and 15th day of each month.

I seem to have turned this blog over to flash fiction. Let’s continue the trend with another one today, a shorter version of a story I originally wrote as “Live Bait.” I’ve adapted it to the flash fiction format… authorspeak for lopping huge chunks out of the blessed thing. Hope you enjoy the story.

*****
Courtesy of Pixabay
BAIT
          My brother Lyle Banes Ormond oozes an earthy kind of sex that demands to be grabbed and exploited. In addition, he is a brain and a jock and popular and has a killer personality. He’s so frigging perfect you’d swear he’d have to be gay just to balance out the scales.
          Nope. No way. That is the honor the quirky Fates bestowed on me, Alan Williams Ormond, his younger brother… by about thirty minutes. Yep, we’re twins. Fraternal, not identical. Two inches shorter, two inches thinner in the chest, and about ten pounds lighter.
          The point is that after eighteen years of suppressed envy and jealousy, I finally figured out where Mr. Perfect fits into my life. Like most gays I know—all one of them—I live life on two levels. Normal, or as close to it as I can manage, and clandestine, or as close to it as I can manage. Of course, Lyle and I interact as brothers, and in that world, I am proud of him and his accomplishments… class president all the way through high school, football A-team captain, basketball guard, senior prom king. Well, you get the idea.
          And to be fair, he is proud when I shine in my own way. He hooted embarrassingly loud bravos when I successfully maneuvered some Chopin pieces at my piano recital and cheered me on as I took the hundred-yard dash. And when I swatted the winning homer at the district baseball championship a few weeks back, he led the cheering section.
          Back to what I was saying; I finally accepted I was but a pale shadow of Lyle’s perfection—the Peregrine to his Golden Eagle—so to speak. The epiphany came at our birthday bash out at the lake. That was the night I figured out he was valuable to me in another way… as bait.
          Birthday wishes and good cheer, lots of it the liquid kind, flowed generously around the bon fire. Around sunset, the affair mellowed out into clumps of kids sitting around sipping beer, necking, and talking. Although it was my birthday, too, most of the kids gravitated to Lyle. That was okay. I was used to it. I hovered at the edge of the group and played my usual game… watching the by-play surrounding my golden brother.
          Pleasantly buzzed, I indulged in another familiar pastime… assessing the desirability of our friends. Tazin Nordlund was as dark as an Arab sheik. Billy Whitfield’s open-faced eagerness made him fetching rather than handsome, but on him it wore well. Sam Pelter was….
          Where was Sam? Ah, he sat to my left, not really a part of the group, either—merely observing like I was. Sam ran Lyle a close race in just about everything. Whenever I looked at my brother with incestuous thoughts, my mind went defensive and slid to Sam. Tall, built, handsome, witty, he could have been Lyle the Lesser. He habitually wore a smoldering eroticism like the perfume of some exotic blossom. Right now, his lanky form sat propped against a log, his right arm thrown across it so that his hand almost touched my shoulder. The left rested on a drawn-up knee, fingers dangling in a manner so unconsciously masculine that I could hardly stand it. The other sculpted leg stretched full length across the ground. Distant firelight played with the shadows on his trousers. As was my wont, my eye roamed the firm pectorals clearly outlined by his T-shirt and enjoyed the musculature of his upper arms before taking in his groin.
          Whoa! He was aroused! I glanced at his face and found his attention centered across the blazing fire… on Lyle. Shocked, I checked out his groin again… and got caught.
          He lifted his leg, spoiling my view. “What’re you looking at?”
          My mouth went dry, but I spoke up. “A guy watching my brother harder’n he ought to.”
          “Was not. I was watching the girls.”
          “Yeah, right.”
          “You’re weird, Alan.” With that, Sam got to his feet and walked through the darkness toward the parked cars.
          He strode with manly grace to his old VW Wagon, opened the back door, and paused to look my way before crawling into the back seat—leaving the door ajar.
          I scrambled to my feet, breath coming in little gasps and my pulse racing. My heart about leapt out of its cage when I reached the van and caught Sam’s irresistible grin of invitation.

*****

Of course, not many of us are twins, but most of us had brothers. Does this remind you of something from your past?

Please remember that DSP Publications has released Cut Hand. Please give the book a look. Amazon permits you to read a short passage. This is the first novel in the Strobaw Family Saga series.

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 some buy links for CUT HAND:


Thanks for being a reader.

Mark

Blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. on the first and 15th day of each month.