markwildyr.com, Post #71
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Got quite a few hits on Don Travis’s “Piquant.” Hope you enjoyed his story. Today, we’re going to look at a piece of my flash fiction.
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EVERY SCAR’S A STORY
Professor Goddard wrapped up the class, “So remember, every scar has a story. It’s just that sometimes the message gets lost with the passage of time.”
As was his wont, Goddard had wandered from the subject of human cultures to human actions. My first year at college was interesting but strangely impersonal. But Goddard’s parting remarks today struck close to home. My most prominent scar was to the psyche, and I recalled the story behind that scar vividly.
Darvon Halter graduated high school a year ahead of me as a celebrated jock. I did not fully appreciate the nature of my attraction to him until my junior year when I noticed not only his handsome features, but also his appealing frame. I’d been aware of his hunky appearance all along but thought I was merely envious. Long, lean muscles rolled and roped as he moved.
But my junior year was a milestone. That’s when I became aware of the real reason my eyes always strayed to Dar whenever he was on the scene, and it had nothing to do with envy. I was in love. Or at least “in infatuation.” Strange, because I was a boy, too.
I’d always been more comfortable in the company of my own gender, preferring the joshing of guys to the gushing of girls. I didn’t feel any particular sexual attraction to any of them, merely preferred their company. Until a switch got flipped in my junior year, and I wanted to put my hands all over Darwin Halter. Don’t think anybody else was aware of my hidden desires, but Dar was.
He showed it by flashing a smile and a wink on the sly sometimes. Occasionally giving me a ride in his ancient Studebaker that everyone called his “babemobile.” Whenever I was in the car with him alone, he’d spread his legs wide to give me a good view. Like as not, he’d glance over and deliver a slow smile. Dumb me would just sit and stare and try to keep from panting.
Apparently, Dar got tired of pussyfooting. One night, he caught me walking home from the movies and offered a ride. After a couple of blocks, he pulled to the side of the road… beneath a street lamp yet… and performed the old spread-the-legs maneuver. I gulped audibly.
After a couple of seconds, he snorted. “Crap, you need an invitation? Go ahead.”
“G-go ahead and what?”
“Cop a feel. That’s what you want, right?”
“Is… is it okay?”
He laughed. “Hell, it belongs to me. If I say so, it must be all right.”
The most marvelous feeling swept over me. My hero… my guy had picked me. Wasn’t any girl sitting beside him in the babemobile. It was me, Wally Hill. My hand snaked over and rested on his upper leg. Then it moved again, this time cupping his core and feeling him react. My mouth went dry. I shivered.
He closed his legs, trapping my hand. “Hold on.”
The old Studebaker roared to life and shot down the road. As besotted as I was, I recognized he was heading out of town. A chill swept my back at the same time my cheeks flushed. Was it going to happen? Then I frowned. What was going to happen? I had no clear idea of that… but Dar did.
He no sooner parked in an isolated spot near the river than he undid his pants and shoved them to the floorboard. I lost my mind then and did everything he wanted, exactly as he dictated, even though this wasn’t what I’d imagined we’d do. Didn’t seem so romantic… but at least it was intimate. Something he enjoyed. I know that from the moaning and groaning and occasional encouraging words that came from him.
That was the story. The scar came the next day when I went into the boy’s room at school and found a message inked on the wall of the stall. “Wally gives good head!”
I went woozy for a minute. Someone must have seen us. Dar wouldn’t…. I sat paralyzed, unable to move. Of course, he would. He’d played me for a sucker. Gave me what I wanted… but in the way he wanted… just so he could broadcast it to the world. I tried erasing the message but couldn’t. I inked it over and fled the stall, my cheeks blazing. I imagined the guys standing at the urinals smirked at my passing.
But there was more story and more scarring yet to come. Two days later, when Dar pulled up beside me as I walked home from school, I crawled into his car… hating myself as much as I hated him. We ended up down by the river again, and I gave him what he wanted. I couldn’t help myself. I coveted him. I lied to myself by imagining I was the only one he did this with… ignoring his reputation with the girls… convincing myself he’d only written that hateful message out of feelings of guilt.
You can imagine the rest. The messages still came… as did a couple of his buddies, and before long I was known as the town queer. Of course, Dar graduated and left for college before long, leaving me behind with my scar and my story and another year to go before I could escape to some university far away from home.
Sounds as if Darwin was not only a celebrated jock, but also a certified jerk. Can you plot Wally’s future from that point on? Did he become so repressed that he denied who he was, or did he find his way out of a mental shell to express himself as he was? It’s a real question, and one lots of young men have struggled with in the past and will in the future. I hope you enjoyed the reading.
Amazon permits you to read a short passage of my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. I also believe the STARbooks-published River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair are still up. I sure would like to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but it’ll take some help from readers to get Dreamspinner interested.
My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:
Website and blog: markwildyr.com
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
Twitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
And now my mantra (yes, it’s mine, even if I borrowed it from Don Travis): 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 each month.
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