markwildyr.com,
Post #74
Last week, Rick worked his butt off… only to be
frustrated. I wonder how he does in the finale? Enjoy.
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| Courtesy of Flickr |
WIRED
I ran
around the next day pissed as hell. Needing to get Dave alone again before he
washed all of his shorts, I talked him into swinging by the Corner Pocket, our
favorite watering hole, for a few drinks before going home to watch a ball
game…there had to be a ball game on TV somewhere.
I kept
my hands off the rheostat in my pocket until we were on our last drink. Then I
set him to squirming in his seat like crazy. When he started looking over the
crowd, I chugged my glass and declared it was time to go.
“Maybe
we oughta stay awhile. I’m feeling like some action again. We oughta pick up a
couple of girls and take them with us. Shit, Nick, I feel like a teenager
again.”
He
grumbled some, but I got us out of there in about two minutes flat. Man, I was
home free! I turned up the control a little and saw him dig at himself. Maybe I
was pushing it. I eased off the power.
Home
free, my ass! We turned the corner of the building and walked right into the
arms of a couple of girls…working girls. We’d seen them at the bar several times
and never took a second look. But old Dave’s pump was primed, and he wasn’t
about to waste a water bucket. He started negotiating right away, and by the
time my head stopped spinning, we were loaded in his convertible and headed for
a motel.
*****
Dave
called Saturday afternoon to set up a bowling gig. Tomorrow would be the fifth
day since I wired his shorts, and I was getting desperate. Dave, a clean-freak,
wouldn’t wear his underwear more than once before throwing them in the washer. I
had to make a move…excuse me, another move soon.
Fortunately,
most of the bowlers were guys. I got one scare when he went into a huddle with
an old girlfriend who sauntered by. She was with somebody, so that didn’t
develop into anything, thank goodness. I kept my hands off the rheostat in my
pocket until the last frame. Then I couldn’t resist it; I gave him a shot as he
went for a spare…and the lead. I must have overdone it because he
step-stuttered and rolled a gutter ball.
“Shit!”
he yelped…and dug at himself.
Since
I had no way to confess my unintentional sabotage, I accepted the ten dollars
we’d waged and offered to buy the beer. He was literally squirming in his seat
by the time we finished and went out to the parking lot.
“Man,
I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I walk around with a hard-on all the
time. Guess it’s the new freedom since the divorce.” Concentrating my energy in
getting him loaded in my car, I merely mumbled a reply. About halfway home, he
slapped the dash. “Man, I can’t go sit in front of a television. I need some
action!”
“You’re going to wear it down to a nub if you
don’t slow down some. You’ve had more nookey this week than you had all last
month.”
He
giggled. “All last year. I’m turning into a nymphomaniac. Do they have male
nymphos? Anyway, I can’t get enough.”
Surreptitiously,
I fingered the dial and turned up the power slightly. Tonight was the night my
investment in wired underwear would pay off in spades! Well, in mattresses,
anyway.
As we
crossed the city park, he yelled for me to stop. Startled, I stood on the
brakes. He bolted out the door and headed off into the trees. I caught up with
him when he came to a halt and hunched over, hands on his knees.
“What’s
the matter?”
“Shit,
I don’t know. I got so antsy, I had to get out and move. Fuck, Rick, I gotta
walk or something.” Trusting me to follow, he set off at a half-trot, slowing
after a few steps to allow to catch up. I wondered if I should take his hand or
something. No, of course not; he was horny, not in love.
“Somebody’s
coming,” he said, motioning with his head toward two shadowy figures.
“That’s
okay. They’ll pass us by.”
As
they drew closer, it was apparent they were kids from the college a few blocks
away. Two young guys out looking for something.
“You
think they’re cruising gays?”
My
mind froze. All I could manage was to mutter. “Maybe.”
“Think
we should give it a try? You know, something different?”
I
managed to get my tongue unglued from the roof of my mouth and stutter, “H-hell,
if that’s what you want, I can do that for you. I-I sorta been thinking about
it.”
“Well, shit, Rick, why didn’t you say so?” My
mouth dropped open. Be damned! The fucking wired shorts worked! “My house or
your?” he asked.
“Mine’s
closer.”
Wonder
of wonders, it was as grand as I’d anticipated. More so. Worries about post
coital regret eased when he called to me from the shower. “Hey, Ricky! Come on in here, and I’ll show
you what I’ve fantasized about for years.”
Stumbling out of bed, I
tripped over his abandoned clothing and did a double-take at his shorts. His
cranberry red shorts. That wasn’t a
pair I’d wired. I laughed aloud before rushing to join him in the shower.
*****
How about that? A home run! And it looks like their
friendship survived. Maybe even grew closer.
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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