Thursday, August 4, 2022

Bifurcated Man (Part Two of Two Parts)

Markwildyr.com, Post #221

Image Courtesy of freepik.com:


 Last time, Joe Hunter, who’s passionately in love with his wife, Valdy, discovered a handsome client of his is interested in a casual relationship. Joe’s confused that he’s even considering the idea.

 Let’s see what happens next.

* * * *

BIFURCATED MAN

I tried to keep our relationship on a business basis, but eventually I accepted Rick’s challenge at racquetball, figuring it was a public, manly undertaking.  Unfortunately, I forgot about the shower in the locker room afterward.  The guy was built like he was sculpted from granite.  According to my night visions, he was hung like the proverbial horse, but in the flesh, he looked little better equipped than I was.

Later at the bar, he stirred his drink absently and gave me a smile.  “I measure up okay?”

“What?”  I hoped I kept the alarm out of my voice.

“Hey, it’s natural.  Checking out the other guy in the locker room’s a time-honored tradition.  By the way, you check out A-okay.”

I’m sure I blushed.  “Rick, will you quit this homo bullshit!”

His calm gaze unnerved me.  “Not homo.  Bi.  Bisexual.  Bifurcated…one limb with two branches.  Every man alive has some female traits, and I’m pretty good at picking up on those with more than their share.  You claim you’ve never been with a man, but I’m willing to bet there have been a few who caught your interest.  Deny it if you want, but you’re intrigued.  Next you’ll turn curious.  Then you’ll be interested.  And one day, we can enjoy one another.  In my candid opinion, that meeting will be cataclysmic.”

Like a certified idiot, I sat in the bar and got so looped he insisted on driving me home.  We were silent until he pulled up to the house.

“Thanks,” I mumbled.  “I’m not really drunk, but I appreciate you hauling my ass home.”

“I’m going to claim a reward,” he said.  “I’m going to touch you, okay?”

He took my stunned silence as acquiescence.  His hand landed on my inner thigh and slid up to my genitals.  He explored the shape of my cock and cupped my balls.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered.  “One of the handsomest, sexiest men I’ve ever seen.  Golden blond.  Great green eyes, sorta cloudy.  Not like green eyes usually are.  Good build.  A real man.  But your pheromones talk to my pheromones, Joe.  They scream like crazy!”

When my cock threatened to react, I pushed his hand away roughly and swallowed hard. But my throat was so dry I could not muster an objection.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, “I’ve ached to do that from the first moment I saw you.  I gotta confess, I go crazy imagining you fucking your wife.”

My temper finally flared.  “You leave Valdy out of this!” Was he was psychic? It hit me that however ephemeral, he shared our intimacies.

“I intend to, Joe.  This is just between you and me.  I don’t want anyone else in the bed.”

“Fuck you, Ailman!” I snapped, opening the car door and bailing out, dead sober now.

“You’re beginning to get the idea!” He laughed and drove away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with my mouth gaping.

****

Valdy became the most sexually sated woman in New Mexico.  I made love her at the drop of a hat to reassure myself I was a man capable of satisfying the most attractive woman alive.  And then fate intervened.  Frigging, fucking, son-of-a-bitching fate!  William Henry Bannerman, Valdy’s father, had a mild stroke.  I accompanied my wife to New York, but Valdy stayed on with her mother while I returned to work.

I avoided Rick for the first week, but on Friday we both ended up at the same reception at the country club.

“How are you holding up, Joe?”

“Fine.  Do you know you’re the only person alive who calls me Joe?”

“I know,” he replied with aplomb.  “And Valdy?  I hear she’s back in New York.  Will you give her my best?”  I nodded mutely.  “Well, if you need me, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks,” I said, grateful that he moved on.

I left as early as I decently could, which was a mistake.  Unwilling to return to our big, empty, abode house, I drove around aimlessly, but when I passed the gay cruise section of East Central Avenue for the third time and caught the eye of a cute teen hustler, I came became frightened.  I was so sexually charged when I got home that I jerked off with an image of Rick Ailman in my head.  This time, it almost seemed he touched me with ghostly fingers.  God, I was torn in two directions…bifurcated, just like he’d said!

****

I held out until almost midnight Sunday.  Before I quite knew what I was doing, I dialed the phone and prayed he would not answer.

“Hello?” came the smoky voice.

“R…Rick?”

“Joe?  Joe, is that you?”

In some dark corner of my mind I recognized I had kicked over the traces to something I could not control.  I was right the first time…Rick Ailman was dangerous!  My voice box paralyzed with fear, I hung up, hands shaking violently.

I could have simply refused to answer the chimes, but I was standing in the foyer dressed only in my robe when he rang.  I opened the door and backed away.

“Joe!” he breathed, crushing me in an embrace.

All resistance collapsed.  I wanted to be in those strong arms.  I yearned for that full, sensual mouth.  I needed his hard body against me.  I kissed a man for the first time and was rattled to the core.  He laid me on the carpet and opened my robe.

“You are such a fucking man!” he breathed.  And then that overpoweringly masculine animal took me in his mouth.  The moist warmth was indescribable.  He tore off his shirt and brushed my smooth chest with his mat of black hair.  He kissed me again, and then drifted slowly down my torso, his lips and tongue trailing his fingers.  I broke into a sweat lying motionless on my back.  When his tongue twisted in my pubes, I placed my hands behind his head and guided him to my sack.  I got so hard I thought it would split!

He took me again, rhythmically bobbing up and down, twisting his head gently, curling his tongue around my glans.  I groaned aloud as Rick Ailman expertly sucked my cock until I could stand it no longer.  When I shouted a warning, he came up and jerked me to orgasm.  I erupted, spewing cum over my chest like an eager adolescent.

My glow of pleasure turned to alarm when he stood and shed his trousers.  His rigid cock pulsed with excitement just as in my dreams.  A small drop of pre-cum glistened at the slit.  He was bigger than I thought.  Thick.  The crown shone in the dim light of the foyer.  After displaying himself proudly for a moment, he straddled my body, sensually rubbing himself across my belly, moving slowly upward, leaking lubricant like a faucet with a bad washer.  For a moment I thought he had cum.  Groaning aloud, he rubbed the tip across my lips, presenting himself.

My feeble protest died as his cock brushed my mouth.  Suddenly, all I wanted was to please this exciting man.  My lips parted; he entered slowly.  Withdrawing, he pushed himself forward again, the bottom of his big rod riding over my tongue.  He poked against the back of my throat, and I gagged.  He withdrew and tried it again.  I controlled my reflexes this time.  Urgently, he began to thrust, making me forget my reluctance.  I put my hands on his butt and pulled him into me as he fucked my mouth.  Abruptly, he jerked away and shot all over my belly.

Without speaking a word, he rose and stood over me with a semi-hard cock dripping semen.  Rick Ailman was the sexiest human I had ever known.  When he reached for me, I allowed him to pull me to my feet.  Together, arms around one another, we mounted the long, curving stairway to the second floor.  I trembled at what was yet to come…fear or anticipation?  I would know soon.  I hoped I had enough stamina for the night…and an ample supply of sturdy condoms!

 * * * *

So now we know. Joe got together with Rick… and liked it.

 More Wildyr Tales, a second anthology of some of my stories, is due out in September. By the way, I have a third anthology nearly ready to submit to JMS Books called Gabacho and Other Wildyr Stories.

 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

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

See you later.

 

 Mark

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

Thursday, July 21, 2022

Bifurcated Man (Part One of Two Parts)

Markwildyr.com, Post #220

Image Courtesy of freepik.com:



 You guys seem to like Gabacho. So do I, but let’s go to something new this week. Enjoy.


 * * * *

BIFURCATED MAN

Meeting Valdy, my future wife, during intermission at the Metropolitan Opera was a fantastic, unexplainable, gold-plated stroke of luck.  Actually, I had been wandering the fringes of the crowd keeping an eye on a handsome young stud who caught my attention.  Although I was at a loss to adequately explain it, I was occasionally attracted to some hunk, inevitably an overt heterosexual, although I merely speculated and never acted on such impulses.  There was this adorable young second lieutenant at Dix who tempted me mightily, but I had sense enough to keep some distance between us.  As I stood pondering my confusion in the foyer of the Metropolitan between acts of Offenbach’s The Tales of Hoffman, a stunning vision in a simple, elegant gown of Egyptian linen floated up and handed me a drink.

“You look like a bourbon man.  I’m Valdessa Bannerman.  Valdy for short.”

“Love it!” I lied gallantly. Single malt Scotch was my drink.  “Joseph Hunter.”

To make a long story short, five months later, Valdy and I were married in the Fort Dix base chapel where I had traded my banker’s three-piece suit for captain’s bars when I was called to temporary duty.  That handsome second lieutenant was my best man.

Valdy fit seamlessly into my life when we came home to Albuquerque a deliriously happy golden couple; me, tall, blond, and slender with manly lumps, and Valdy…Lord the curves she packed into that svelte form!  Her eyes were a pale blue that darkened when she was excited.  Mine were as green as the patina of a weathered cathedral dome.

I took immense pride in the adoration Valdy inspired among my social set, yet I was feral enough to recognize danger when it surfaced.  And Rick Ailman was dangerous.  Even so, the handsome, personable builder of luxury homes was of interest to me as a banker.  Five minutes after they were introduced at the Mayor’s Charity Ball, he had Valdy on the dance floor turning heads.  Thereafter, it seemed that everywhere we went as a couple, Ailman showed up to sweep Valdy into his hard-muscled arms on some dance floor or the other.  I held a tight rein on my temper but did a lot less kibitzing and a lot more dancing at public functions.

“I do believe you’re jealous,” she cooed once, a soft smile stretching those luscious lips.

“Nonsense!” I responded, beginning to color a bit.

Despite my denials, later, as I lay panting and exhausted, I realized the truth of it.  At the very moment of climax, I held an unwelcome image in my mind of a naked, dark-haired Adonis screwing my wife with his massive cock…Rick Fucking Ailman!

****

Vice Presidents are trumped by Executive Vice Presidents, and that is who assigned me the Ailman account.  Under such conditions, social encounters are impossible to avoid even though I put things off as long as possible.  Eventually, Rick took the initiative and not only invited me to a working lunch, but also a round of golf afterwards.  Albuquerque’s persistent spring winds had abandoned us until next year, but the true heat of the season had not yet arrived. Towering, snowy thunderheads far to the west blotted the sky, a perfect day for golf at a mile above sea level.

As we waited for the green ahead of us to clear, Rick parked the cart we shared in the shade of a cottonwood and stretched one foot out on the grass.  I dug dirt from my cleats with a tee.

“Glad to see you’re relaxing a little,” he said out of the blue.

I looked at him in surprise.  “Hey, I’m a laid-back sort of guy.”

“You are…except around me.  Your defenses always go up when I’m around.”

Since there was no denying it, I might as well get it out in the open.  “Gotta admit that’s true.  You set off my alarm bells.”

“Why?”

I shrugged and equivocated.  “I don’t know.  It’s just a personal reaction, I guess.”

I endured the study of his sable-fringed brown eyes for a long moment before he gave a low chuckle.  “It’s your wife, isn’t it?  You come on like gangbusters when I dance with her.”

“Look, drop it.  I’m capable of separating my personal and professional lives.”

His silence lasted thirty seconds; his gaze made me uncomfortable.  “You don’t get it, do you?” he snorted.  “Talk about babes in wonderland.  It’s not your wife I’m interested in…it’s you!”

I don’t know why I laughed aloud, probably because I didn’t believe him.  After a moment, he joined in.  Then some invisible power flipped a cosmic switch, and we sobered.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Dead serious.  Look, I like women.  Hell, I love women, but occasionally I swing from the other branch of the tree.”

“Not with me, you won’t!” I blurted.

“Joseph, modesty aside, I’m something of a cocksman, but occasionally I’ll spot a certain kind of a guy and my interest kicks in.  Right now, you’re that guy.”

Mental pictures of my curly-headed lieutenant danced before my eyes.  “Get over it.”

“Come on, are you telling me you’ve never made it with another guy?”

“That’s none of your business, Ailman, but I’ll answer you anyway.  No, I haven’t.  I’m happily married and in love with my wife.”

“What’s that got to do with it?  I’m not suggesting we fall in love.  But I want you, and just thought you ought to know.  If you’re going to tense up,” he added, easing the cart down the fairway as the last putter strolled off the green, “then do it for the right reason.”

Rick had been two holes down on our side bet, but after that announcement, I literally felt his eyes on my butt whenever I addressed the ball.  I never slice, but did an excellent imitation on four of the last six holes.  After we settled up on eighteen, I grabbed a quick beer in the clubhouse, it would have been unseemly to refuse, but begged off the customary gin rummy game in the card room and raced home.

Valdy and I usually made love; that night we fucked…with powerful images of Rick spilling masculinity all over the golf course spurring me on.  And that set the norm…an invisible hunk joined us in bed, except he no longer directed his impressive erection toward my wife…he offered it to me!

 * * * *

What has Joe gotten himself into? Or is that the right question. What is Rick drawing him into? That seems more like the more proper query. Let’s see next time.

 More Wildyr Tales, a second anthology of some of my stories, is due out in September, published by JMS Books. Thanks for their help.

 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

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

See you later.

 

 Mark

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

Thursday, July 7, 2022

Gabacho in Dallas, Part Two of Two Parts

Markwildyr.com, Post #219

 Image Courtesy of dreamstime.com:


 Last time, we found Gabacho working at the Galloping Mustang south of the SMU campus in Dallas. His girlfriend’s been called home by her mother’s illness, so he has an apartment to himself with the rent paid until the end of the month. That’s when he figures he’ll take to the road again on Slick, his flea-bitten gray gelding.

 A cute young man who seems to be waiting for someone in the bar for hours provokes his curiosity, and he strikes up a conversation. When the kid’s “date” shows up, he’s snarky and threatening. So Gabacho puts his hand in. Let’s see what happens.

 

* * * *

GABACHO IN DALLAS

“Don’t bite off more than you can chew.” Brod’s words were surly, but I saw his gaze sweep my biceps and my bare chest and knew there wasn’t any muscle behind them. He licked his dry lips and turned back to Folsom. “That the way you want it?”

The kid nodded wordlessly.

“Okay, that’s it. Don’t come sniffing around anymore. You blew it.”

I thought for a minute Folsom was going to go running after his former friend, but he just ducked his head and fought tears. I drew him a ginger ale and slid it in front of him. “Here’s one on the house.”

“T-thanks.” He grabbed the glass and gulped it like a man dying of thirst.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Will be, at any rate. Is it all right if I just sit here for a while?”

“Sure.” I paused as if I had a thought. “In fact, you can do me a favor.”

He looked up, his eyes all blurry… tears not alcohol. “What’s that?”

“I get off in about an hour, and I don’t have a car. You can give me a ride home. It’s not far.”

He brightened. “Yeah, sure.”

“ButI need to run an errand first,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“I need to go check on Slick.”

“Who’s Slick?”

“This flea-bitten gelding I’ve got. He’s boarded at a stable a couple of miles down the road. “Think you can take me to see him?”

The kid actually smiled. “Sure. I don’t have any Saturday classes, so it doesn’t matter when I get back to campus tonight… or tomorrow.”

Oh shit, what had I gotten myself into?

****

Folsom led me to a red and white Corvette parked at the back of the lot. Not my favorite ride. Always felt like my butt was about to drag the ground, but it was classy looking. We slid in, roared out of the parking lot, and I got us pointed in the right direction. The stable, a classy joint for “gentlemen” riders was well above my price range, but my boss had negotiated a deal I could live with, so Slick was living in style.

“Where you from,” I asked as we maneuvered the streets.

“Cowtown… Fort Worth.”

“No, I mean originally.”

He nodded. “Fort Worth. Born and raised there.”

“You live at home or on campus?”

“Campus. My dad wanted me to get the ‘full flavor’ of the college experience. If it was up to me, I’d live at home in my own room.”

“Not exactly a mingler, huh?”

He flashed a grin. “You could say that.”

We came to the turnoff, and shortly thereafter, the stable loomed up through the night. The place had a nightwatchman, but I came after hours whenever I had the opportunity, so he just gave me a wave before disappearing around the corner.

The night hadn’t lost the day’s heat, so the air felt good on my chest and bare arms. We walked up to the fence, and I gave a short whistle. Slick poked his head out of an open door and snickered.

“Wow,” Folsom said. “He’s a beauty.”

“Come here, boy,” I called.

The gelding cast a ghostly image moving through the darkness. He put his head over the fence and nipped at my vest collar with his lips. I rubbed his nose and hugged his neck. After a moment, I stepped back.

“Slick, this is Folsom. He’s a good guy, so you can give him a kiss.”

The horse moved forward, lifting his head. Folsom fooled me. He didn’t shrink away, he just stood there and laughed as Slick nuzzled his cheek. I took some sugar cubes from my pocket and held out my hand. The horse transferred his affections to my hand.

“I didn’t know they let the horses run free at night,” Folsom said, standing close by my side.

“Most of them don’t. But this joint is a little out of my price range. My boss got me a deal, but Slick doesn’t have real stall, just a place in the corner of the stable. But he gets to run around in the corral at night. He likes that. When we travel, he likes to graze free while I sack out in my bedroll.”

Aware that Folsom was close, I did what was natural. I reached out and put my arm over his shoulders. He settled in against me. A moment later, his head rested against my cheek.

“I like it that you have a horse and care for him like you do.”

“Slick’s, my man,” I said, turning to give his forehead a kiss. He was a couple of inches shorter than I was and felt good against my side.

A moment later, I felt his hand slide beneath my vest and explore my chest. “I’ve wanted to do that all evening,” he whispered.

“Probably woulda caused a little stir.”

He turned and put his lips where his hand had been. “Ya think? But I wouldn’t have cared.” His next words were muffled because his lips teased my nipple. “You live alone?”

“Yup,” I said.

“Then let’s go.

****

My apartment was a snug one bedroom but probably not the swanky joint Folsom was accustomed to… at least judging from his set of wheels and the gold watch on his left arm or the diamond on his pinkie. But he didn’t come off like a rich kid. Right at the moment, he was a horny kid. So I let him take charge.

He eased me out of my vest and went wild over my torso, spending a good quarter of an hour feeling and tasting every inch before showing any inclination of moving on. When we finally got to the bedroom, I barely had my britches of before he was on his knees feasting on what he wanted.

He barely allowed me any resting time before he demanded I feed it to him in another way. Before the sun came up, Folsom lay sleeping peacefully in the crook of my arm while I lay there wondering how the hell I was gonna last the rest of the weekend and pull my shift too. His last words were that he didn’t have to be back in Fort Worth before Monday morning.

 * * * *

For a guy who’s sworn off boys and rededicated himself to women, Gabacho sure seems to get a lot of boys.

 Wildyr Tales, an anthology of some of my stories, is now out in print form. Hope you’ll check it out.

 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

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

See you later.

 

 Mark

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

Thursday, June 16, 2022

Gabacho in Dallas, Part One of Two Parts

 Markwildyr.com, Post #218

  Image Courtesy of dreamstime.com:



 So far, not many suggestions for Ides, so maybe it’s a tale that doesn’t need to be told. Nonetheless, I’ll keep cogitating on it.

 Today, we’re going to visit Gabacho again. He and Slick, his flea bitten gray gelding, are in Dallas, and as usual, he can’t seem to keep his nose out of other people’s business.

 

* * * *

GABACHO IN DALLAS

I wiped down the bar and wondered if it wasn’t time to consider moving on. I’d been in Dallas at the Galloping Mustang for a month and a half, which is the longest I’d stayed in one place since I began my long horseback trek back to Huntsville. That journey started on the Rancho Salvador across the Rio Grande south of the New Mexico Boot Heel country. Slick and I—Slick was my flea-bitten gray gelding—took our time, stopping when we wanted to stop and traveling when we wanted to travel. I’m a cowboy by trade, but a bartender by convenience since ranch jobs were becoming harder to find.

I’d run into the Galloping Mustang by accident when I engaged a fellow in casual conversation at a diner and learned the joint was looking for a bartender. Since my sock was getting low on spare change, I courted disaster and headed for the Highland Park area. Bit congested—and exclusive—for horseback riding, but I made it okay. The owner, a beer barrel of a guy named Monte Billson, not only hired me, he also directed me to a stable where I could board Slick.

The next problem was to find a cheap place to stay in a high-priced neighborhood. That resolved itself when I met Dolly, a cute waitress at the Galloping Mustang. She took me home the first night, and before sunrise, I had become a roommate, which was convenient because she had a sporty car—a Mustang, of course—which saved a lot of time on city busses. Dolly had reluctantly departed the area when her sister called from Ohio with word their mother was sick, leaving me with an apartment in The Village with the rent paid until the end of this month.

Actually, there was no reason to move on except for my restless nature. The GM, as we employees called it, was close enough to Southern Methodist University to garner some of that trade without disturbing the neighborhood flavor. We were a mahogany trimmed joint, which made the dim lighting comfortable without rendering everyone blind. We had both tables and booths but no dance floor, which cut down on troublemakers. In my experience, student couples tended to bring excess energy, which sometimes found release in squabbles. Squinty, our six-two bouncer was able to handle things, but sometimes I had to back him up.

Tonight was slow for a Friday. It was getting late, and just a few local regulars remained in the bar… except for this one fresh-faced kid who seemed like he was waiting for someone. Every time the door opened, he looked up with an expectant look on his kisser. He hadn’t drunk much, nursing his Bloody Marys carefully. When he came back from the bathroom for the tenth time, he surveyed the almost empty room and took one of the bar stools with a sour look on his face

“Expecting someone?” I asked.

He looked surprised at the sound of my voice. “Yeah. Supposed to be meeting someone, but got held up, I guess.”

The kid was cute, had a decent build, and seemed polite. Before I swore off guys, he’d have whetted my appetite. He looked too young to be in a bar, but Squinty would have carded him. Our bouncer was good at that. Of course, so were some of the kids at forging false IDs.

I stuck out my hand. “Gary. Gary James Hawthorne.”

“What? Oh, Folsom Charles. And before you ask, Folsom is my first name.”

I grinned at him. “You’ve explained that a few times, I imagine.”

He loosened up a little. “Yeah, once or twice. Gary, you say? I thought I heard the waitress call you by another name.”

“Gabacho. Picked that up down in Mexico. Pretty much answer to it all the time now.”

“That’s what they call gringos, isn’t it?”

“Especially curly-haired blonds.”

“You aren’t exactly a blond.”

I laughed and gave the bar another swipe with a rag. “Compared with their head-hair, I am. But I guess you’d call it brown.”

“Yeah, but it does have some blond highlights.”

“So they tell me.”

Even in the dim light, I saw his eyes sweep my bare chest. I customarily wear a short, open vest with no shirt beneath. The girls like it. Well, so do some of the guys. To change the subject, I asked if he was a student at SMU.

He shook his head. “Naw. I’m from TCU.”

“I thought you guys were rivals. That why you’re meeting here instead of closer to the campus?”

His wry grin turned him sexy. “You got it.”

I nodded to the iPhone poking out of his shirt pocket. “So give her a call.”

“Him,” he said. “And I have called. Just goes to voice mail.

“Oh,” I said.

“He’s not the promptest guy in the world.”

“He’s stood you up before?”

“Well, he’s been late before.” He glanced at his wristwatch, a heavy gold thing. “But never this late.”

“Kinda disrespectful, keeping you waiting without calling and giving you a heads-up.”

“Well, yeah, it is.”

Figuring my last remark put a wounded look on his face, I excused myself to go straighten bottles on a shelf at the back of the bar, a closing up chore.

The door opened about that time, and this upperclassman dude swaggered in, spotted Folsom, and meandered over, a smile on his face. I was within easy earshot and watched the byplay in the mirror

“Sorry about that,” the newcomer said breezily. “Hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Just about three hours,” I muttered under my breath.

“I was worried. Why didn’t you call?”

“Something came up. And I’m here, aren’t I. You want another drink, or are you ready to roll?”

I saw the brush-off hit home.

“That’s it, Brod? You aren’t even going to explain?”

Brod’s handsome face turned ugly. “That’s it, kid. Take it or leave it.”

Folsom squared his shoulders. “I’ll leave it.”

Brod didn’t react well to the push-back. “What do you mean you’ll leave it. I’m doing you a favor just showing up.”

The kid swung his stool around and faced the bar, head down. “Don’t do me any more favors, okay?”

“Why you little asshole. You get your frigging butt outside and in my car right now. Hear me?”

Folsom winced, but stood his ground. “No. I’m going back to Fort Worth.”

“You do, and that’s it. We’re through.”

Folsom looked like he’d been slapped in the face, but he shook his head. “I’m not interested. Not anymore.”

I saw the older kid’s hands twist into knots. That was enough. I turned to face both of them and leaned in. “Okay, butthead. You heard what the man said. Leave him alone.”

“Who invited you in. This is between us.”

“And me. Nobody gets threatened in this bar. Not while I’m on duty.”

* * * *

Okay, so is Gabacho going to get into a fight over this cute kid after he’d sworn off boys? Tell me what you think.

 Wildyr Tales, an anthology of some of my stories, is now out in print form. Hope you’ll check it out.

 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

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

See you later.

 

 Mark

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

Thursday, June 2, 2022

Ides, a Strobaw Family Saga novel

 

Markwildyr.com, Post #217

 Image Courtesy of dreamstime.com:

 Readers who have been with me a while are aware that I wrote a series of five novels I call the Strobaw Family Saga, beginning with the story of the patriarch of the family, a young American from a family of Tories fleeing New York to escape the prejudice of the victorious Continentals, William (Billy) Strobaw. His story was told in the novel CUT HAND, named for the young warrior who stole his heart and persuaded him to live among the natives.

 The other books follow the lives of family members as the Europeans become ascendant, bringing with them a different attitude toward “Deviants” or “Two Spirits.” Once tolerated (and even honored) by some of the tribes, homosexuals find themselves becoming outsiders. The series follows this change in attitude.

 There remains one story to be told, yet I’m having a great deal of trouble telling his story, something I did not confront when writing the other books. I want to relate the life and adventures of William Haleworthy, the son of Major Gideon Haleworthy and his Indian wife, Rachel Ann Strobaw, and the great grandson of Cut Hand, but—as I say—I’m having trouble. I think that is probably because the time frame is the early 20th Century, which is getting a little to close to home for me (whatever that means).

 So… I thought I’d try out the Prologue I’ve come up with for a book entitled IDES. Here goes:

 * * * * *

                                                                         IDES

 Prologue

 Thursday, May 11, 1905, Boston, Massachusetts

 This had been a mistake.

The dark young man picked up a soup spoon and applied it properly to his bowl to an almost audible sigh of relief from five individuals seated with him at the dining room table. He glanced briefly at each through vivid blue eyes staring from an otherwise American Indian visage.

Grandmother Haleworthy, plump and soft and patrician, seemed most discomfited of all. She tended to fiddle with the silverware, her crystal goblet of iced water, her dangling ruby earrings, anything her stubby fingers could reach.

Grandfather was more stolid and circumspect, but his eyes and ears caught everything. Funny how his thick moustache resembled a graying caterpillar moving across his face with each chew he took.

Uncle Bertrand and Aunt Liliby—brother and sister, thank goodness… they’d make a horrible married couple—simply couldn’t keep their eyes off him. They were obviously fascinated and likely repulsed. He suspected a gorilla at their table plying flatware and speaking proper English would not have provoked more awe.

Cousin Dorian, seated opposite him was the only one brave enough—or perhaps rude enough—to eye him frankly with his thoughts hanging right on his face… what fun it was going to be to deal with this savage from the western frontier.

Once the young man discerned his hosts were more uncomfortable than he was, he mentally relaxed and internally conversed with his brother, even though Gabe had been dead for fourteen years, struck down by a rifle ball in the chest from land grabbers when he was but five years old. He smiled, also internally, as he contemplated telling that bizarre truth.

A sound like a rusty gate swinging open startled him until he realized it was Aunt Liliby asking Grandmother where she would lodge him for the night, bringing a look of near terror to the older woman’s face.

He thought of telling them he would just pitch a teepee out in the back yard but chose to be more discreet.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I won’t be able to overnight. I need to be somewhere downstate in the morning and will be on my way. I’m merely fulfilling a pledge to my father to pay a courtesy call to his… uh, our eastern family should I find myself in the Boston area.”

The mood at the dining table brightened. His grandmother leaned back in her chair and placed a hand to her bosom.

“And we’re so pleased you did, William. Please give Giddeon our love.”

Good Lord! How could his father, a good, bluff, army officer have come from this lot?

At that point, his cousin obviously decided on some mischief. “Pray tell, are you William Haleworthy or Ides Haleworthy? I’ve heard whispers of both names.”

He decided to play along. “Actually, Dorian, I have three names. Two formal, and one a nickname.”

His cousin perked up, perhaps sensing a verbal duel in the offing. “And what are they?”

He pushed away his plate and leaned back in the hair, an uncomfortable, ladderback affair. “One I should never tell you, but as you are close kin, I suppose it’s all right to reveal it.”

“Oh, good. A family secret. Do go on.”

“The name on my birth certificate is William Haleworthy.” He nodded to his grandfather, “In honor of you, sir.”

“Yes, yes. Go on,” Dorian urged.

“My Indian name is Istá To. It means Blue Eyes, in English.” He heard the intake of his grandmother’s breath.

“And?” Dorian prompted.

“And my uncle John dubbed me Ides the first time he laid eyes on me.”

“Ides?” his aunt asked. “Because of the date of your birth.”

“Yes, ma’am. March 15.” He dabbed his lips with a linen napkin. “Uncle John’s a student of the Bard, I guess you could say.”

“Is that right? And he’s an… a Native?” Dorian asked.

Ides was beginning to enjoy himself, he pushed on despite the cautioning whispers from his dead brother. “A breed, actually. Of course, John Strobaw is also a successful rancher in South Dakota, as well. Now, he has several names.”

“Is that so?” his grandfather asked with a wary note in his voice.

“Yes. Over the years, he was awarded different names by the tribe based on exploits or incidents in his life.”

Dorian’s eyes sparkled. “And are you free to reveal them.”

Mischief had gained the upper hand now. “I shouldn’t. But… well, as I say, you are family. His American name is John Jacobsen Strobaw. Jacobsen after his mother’s family name. His childhood Indian name was War Eagle. That was their… our way of saying Golden Eagle. Then he earned the name of Night Sky Hair. That was because he has streaks of his mother’s Scandinavian blond hair in his black mop. As he gained a reputation as a shaman, he became Medicine Hair.”

“Good heavens,” his grandmother exclaimed. “Is that all?”

Mischief was now a runaway. “No, ma’am. Most recently, he was awarded the name of American Killer.”

He was gratified by the rattle of silverware on bone china as his grandmother dropped her fork.

 * * * *

Let me know what you think? I’m truly at sea at this point.

 Wildyr Tales, an anthology of some of my stories, is now out in Ebook form with print book soon to follow. Hope you’ll check it out.

 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

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

See you later.

 

 Mark

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

Thursday, May 19, 2022

Josiah Utterbalm, Esquire

 Markwildyr.com, Post #216

Image Courtesy of freepik.com:


The story this week is one of the very few I’ve ever written from the omniscient viewpoint. In fact, I don’t ever recall doing one before and likely won’t ever do one again. For those who are not immersed in writer things, the omniscient view is just what it sounds like. The reader is aware of the thoughts, actions, and feelings of each character in the scene… simultaneously. As if the reader were… well, omniscient.

 

My favorite viewpoint is the first person, wherein the pronouns are I and me. Occasionally, I’ll write in the third person (pronouns he, him). In both of these, the reader should know only what the viewpoint person can see, hear, or intuit.

 

Why did I choose this unfamiliar (and unloved, at least on my part) viewpoint? Felt like it, that’s all. So here goes.

* * * * *

JOSIAH UTTERBALM, ESQUIRE

If one were to engage Josiah Utterbalm in conversation of any decent length, the phrase “men should be men, and women should be women” would likely be expressed one or more times. In fact, Josiah seemed to base his philosophy of life on that adage.

Josiah was a presentable man—some said comely—of around thirty or so years. An accountant, he was considered quite a catch—although an elusive one as he remained unmarried. He had, in fact. courted the reputation as a ladies’ man. And in his case, the plural form was correct. Most of the available unmarried women in his social set were quite happy to be seen in his company. According to some, the term “Esquire” was a form of disparagement awarded by a rival on a long-ago football field. Legend does not clarify whether it was uttered by foe or teammate.

Although beyond the age of sandlot baseball games and the such, he was quite often seen in his upscale neighborhood jogging shirtless in Speedo shorts, his torso lightly muscled, his buns tight, and his calves shapely. It didn’t take much imagination to see why stay-at-home wives peeked from behind lace curtains as he passed.

Strangely, gossip about his amorous exploits was sparing. The ladies exchanged stories about him, but there were few tales of scandalous consummations. Oh, there were plenty of whispers about passionate kisses—even some of the “French” type—and fevered pawing of the bosoms, but few descriptions of beddings.

Acquaintances of the masculine type abounded, but few seemed to be of a particularly close nature. Few seemed to be buddies—in terms of the times—and those who were tended to revolve, one mate growing close for a brief time, soon to be replaced by another… and so on. Although seemingly well-known in his circles, few fit the description of “boon companions.” Even so, be it on the tennis courts, the golf course, or the gym, everyone knew of his derision for deviants… ergo, his proclamation of “Men should be men, and….” Well, you know the rest.

One day, a stranger showed up in the gym, and Josiah, being of a curious and competitive nature, introduced himself.

“Josiah Utterbalm,” he said solemnly, extending a hand, quickly scanning the stranger as he did so. Younger than he was. Probably around twenty-five. Good muscles beneath his tight sweats. One of those men who was handsome-ugly, as Josiah described them. Meaning, of course, that their features were arranged differently, but the result was pleasing. In his experience, such men were attractive to women. “You new around here?”

“Tolliver Mann. Naw. New to the gym, but been in town for a year or so. How about you, Joe?”

“Josiah,” he corrected. “Most of my life.”

Josiah took the machine next to Tolliver, and the two watched one another surreptitiously as they worked weights. Each time one added pounds, the other did, as well.

Showoff, Josiah thought, although he said something different. “You handle that machine well.”

Supercilious jerk, Tolliver decided. “So do you.”

Despite that uncertain beginning, the two men grew toward one another, and before long, they were meeting on the handball court, for coffee, and, occasionally, for dinner. Tolliver amended his initial assessment of his new friend from supercilious jerk to simply supercilious. Josiah redefined his as demonstrative.

Things came to a crisis one day as they played driveway basketball at Josiah’s house. In a frenetic moment, they crashed into one another. To keep his balance, Josiah locked his arms around his friend and immediately experienced strange, unfamiliar thoughts racing through his mind. Shaken to his core, he found himself reluctant to let go. In the long moment they froze in one another’s arms, the older man felt his world tilt.

After they stepped apart, Josiah’s outrageous thoughts refused to go away. Nice. Felt good and safe in his embrace.

Tolliver’s reaction was quite different. Ugh, I got his sweat all over me.

The game went on, but at a more careful pace until it became desultory. Tolliver ended it, declaring he’d had enough. As they toweled excess sweat from their bodies, Josiah licked his lips uncertainly before speaking.

“You know, Tolliver, when we collided back there, I… I… well, I found it not at all unpleasing.”

I knew it! “What do you mean?” Tolliver played dumb.

“I’m not certain.” After struggling with himself for a second, Josiah blurted. “Dammit, man, have you ever considered—”

Toliver held up a hand, stopping him cold. “You know, Josiah, it’s always been my philosophy that a man should be a man and a woman should be a woman.

Before the afternoon was out, Tolliver was scrubbed from Josiah’s list of companions. Tolliver, for his part, couldn’t have been happier.

 * * * *

I take two things from this story: A man—make that a person—can life a lifetime and find himself in a situation where he is willing to try something that was unthinkable before that moment and that particular situation arose. And it doesn’t always work out.

 I am absolutely certain all who read this piece of flash fiction has experienced that sudden, unfamiliar pang whether they succumbed to it or not. And, of course, we’ve all experienced failure. Doesn’t mean you don’t stop trying.

 Wildyr Tales, an anthology of some of my stories, is now out in Ebook form with print book soon to follow. Hope you’ll check it out.

 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

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

See you later.

  

Mark

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

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

Thursday, May 5, 2022

Battleship Rock, A Repost

 Markwildyr.com, Post #215

 Image Courtesy of commons.wikimedia.org:


 My post for March 5, 2020, was a piece of flash fiction I called “Battleship Rock.” Today, I’d like to repost the story. Why? I don’t know Maybe because it’s darker than my usual stories, and I feel dark today. Whatever the reason, here’s my picture of Battleship.

 

* * * * *

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 rushing 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!

 

* * * *

The story uses the word “evil” several times. And, I suspect it’s appropriate. But was this murder, manslaughter, or what? Maybe some lawyers out there will tell us.

 

JMS Books has published my anthology of nineteen short stories under the title Wildyr Tales. Hope you’ll heck it out.

 

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

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

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