Thursday, August 17, 2023

Cee One Eff One (Part 1 of 2 Parts), Post #246

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Does last week’s story of lost opportunities ring any bells. It rang a big one for me. It freaking tolled. Maybe I’ll write a story about it one day. Oh, I believe I did already. Think it was called “Jimmy.”


This week, let’s insert an air of mystery in our two Part story. Maybe this one will stoke some memories, as well. Here goes.

* * * *

Cee One Eff One

When the phone rang at one a.m., I automatically glanced at the clock on my computer screen. Friends know I usually work until two in the morning, but few of them phone me after midnight. I was at a crucial point in my latest murder mystery novel—the third in the series—and didn’t really want an interruption, but I succumbed to my curiosity and picked up my cell.

“Hello,” I said, hoping my voice held just enough irritation but not too much. After all, it could be an emergency call. “Mars Thraxton here. Who is this?”

A voice that seemed to come up out of some hunky guy’s testicles robbed me of my irritation. “See if you can guess.”

My pique returned. “Not up to playing guessing games… or robo calls. Tell me who this is, or I’m hanging up.”

“A friend. Someone who really likes your novels. Devoted reader, you might say.”

That voice. It grabbed me where it counted. “You sound interesting but not familiar.”

“You write detective stories. You’ll figure it out.”

“No games, guy. Tell me or I’m ending this.”

“If you think hard enough, you’ll—”

I’d no sooner punched the button to hang up on him than I regretted it. That was quite a voice. Somewhere between a growl and a purr. I hit the redial before I overthought my action, but got a non-responsive number like you sometimes get with spam calls you don’t answer but try to call back.

That should have been that, yet I was snared, but good. I sat before the computer with my mind reviewing everyone I knew. Couldn’t begin to figure out who my mysterious caller had been.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I went to bed that night physically aroused by the recollection of that sexy voice. But I will swear to this day that I kept my hands off myself.


The next morning, my agent phoned me, and for a brief moment, I thought he might be my mysterious caller of the previous night. Caddo Damon’s voice was deep and interesting in its own right, but it didn’t have the vibrato quality I’d detected. Could he disguise it? I dunno.

“Caddo,” I said right in the middle of his description of a pitch to one of the big five publishers, “you have a deep voice. How much deeper can you make it?”

“What? What’re you talking about.”

“Humor me. Make your voice deeper.

“For crying out loud, I’m trying to talk business here. But I guess you’re not the wackiest client I’ve got. You experimenting for a scene in your book? Disguising voices? Well, if I was gonna do that, I’d go higher.”

“Just do it, Caddo.”

“Like I say, I’d go higher,” he said in a voice lower in pitch than his normal speaking voice. Interesting, but not the same. I’d never met Caddo, but I’d seen his picture. He was a decent looking guy, and I might could have gotten up some interest, but he was all business and married with a couple of kids… plus, he was way off in New York somewhere. But I digress. He wasn’t my mystery caller.

Determined to complete a difficult scene in my novel before the day was out, I turned my mind to writing. Was making decent progress too, until my computer warned me that I had an incoming email. Sometimes I regretted setting the thing to go “bong” upon the arrival of each new message, but for some reason, I was loath to kill the alert.

My ire prickled when I checked and saw an email from an with the odd name of Cee1Eff1. Crap. Belonged in the Spam folder most likely, but I opened it anyway and read the following:

If you won’t talk to me over the phone, maybe you’ll read what I have to say. Still no clue? Think back. Way back. We were close then, although perhaps I was closer than you were. Attached are a couple of photos. Nothing you haven’t seen before, but perhaps changed a little.

I opened the first attachment and stared at a torso with chiseled abs, interesting pecs with a light sprinkling of hair between two large, brown aureoles. Rib cage tapered to trim waist with an interesting “innnie.”

The second snap was of a groin covered by bathing trunks. Good thighs with a downright fascinating bulge hiding behind the material. Who was this guy?

I scrambled to open the third attachment and discovered an oblique view of a guy’s exposed behind. Wasn’t exactly a bubble butt, but it was full and round and interesting as all get out.

I grabbed my phone and hit redial, but the call still didn’t complete. I know some phones have settings that can block numbers, but I didn’t know how they worked. Dropping the cell on my desk, I swiveled to my computer.

Okay, you got my attention. But stop playing games. Who are you, and stop being coy. You know how to use a camera, so give me the rest.

My novel forgotten, I waited impatiently to see if there was anyone on the other end to reply to my message. A few minutes later, my desktop went “bong” again.

Thought that might pull you out of your book. They’re good, by the way. I wasn’t kidding when I said I was a reader. But I’m not ready to reveal all. I have a date in a few minutes, so will be leaving. In the meantime take a look at those photos. There’s something in there that might kick off a memory or two.

“No, no! You can’t leave me like this!” I muttered aloud. “A clue, you said.”

I copied the three photos and spread them on the desk atop pages of my forgotten mystery novel. Getting out a magnifying glass, I poured over those three images like Sherlock Holmes in his proverbial deerstalker seeking to uncover dastardly secrets. I imagined the task was harder for me because I kept getting distracted by a downright sexy male torso, an intriguing groin hidden by a skimpy swim garment, and a delicious butt that kept putting my libido between me and my primary task.

But finally, I did find something that ticked a memory. An inch or so above the left nipple, a small brown mole triggered something. A mole. Why would that be meaningful?

Because I’d seen it before. Or one like it in approximately the same place. Did that mean this was a former lover?

I shook my head. No. That memory—as ill-formed as it remained—wasn’t salacious. I’d seen that mole in my younger days in Paris, Texas when we kids ran around like a wild pack. One of my buddies had a mole like that.

No, that wasn’t right. I could clearly remember the four kids I regularly palled around with back then. No, this was a hanger on. A younger kid. A pest. Always trying to run with us. He’d gone to the swimming hole with us a couple of times. That’s where I’d seen that mole.

What was his name? Gary, Larry, Harry? None of those seemed right. I stared at that mole perched on that luscious chest like a brown bug and…

Bug! That was it. I’d called the kid Bug because of that mole—when I wasn’t calling him Three-titty-Monte. What was his name? Didn’t matter. I had my way in now. I composed a message to Cee1Eff1.

Okay, I got it now. Long time, no see, Bug. From what I can see, you grew up good. Wouldn’t mind a look at more… if you know what I mean.

I hit send and tried to return to work, but it didn’t go well. All I could think of was that round, brown mole on that well-shaped trunk above that intriguing groin. And that didn’t even mention the fantastic naked behind.

Crap. He’d said he was leaving for a date. So he was out having a good time while I was home stewing. Who was he with? Guy… or gal. Somehow, that was important to me.


Poor Mars. He’s trying to create, and some guy’s jerking him around—and not in a good way. He seems to be a decent detective. He’s picked up the trail from just a single brown mole. Wonder what happens next?

 Until next week,

 My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog:



Twitter: @markwildyr

Now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

See you later.



 New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

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