Evil Eye Guy – Part One of Two Parts

 Markwildyr.com, Post #233

 Image courtesy of Deviant Art:

 

Today, I’ll return to short story telling. Hope you enjoy the first installment.

 

* * * *

EVIL EYE GUY

I was born an oddball: the left eye a chocolate brown, the right one a Kelly green. So instead of being Karl Huddleston, I was Crazy Eyes or Weird Eyes… or just Weird. After learning to live with it, I got along with most of the other kids okay. Then in my junior year in high school, everything changed.

One night, Abigail Strother called me Evil Eye at the local drive-in. I ignored her the first two or three times, but by the fourth, I was sick of it. Abigail—never Abby—was kinda stuck up. I figured it was because her dad was president of the local power company. A big deal down at the Chamber of Commerce, maybe, but not to us kids… except to Abigail.

The last time she did it, I pointed to my eyes with a forefinger and index finger and growled. “If that’s so, you better watch out or I’ll put a curse on you. An hour later, she tripped on the sidewalk and broke an arm.

Not a week later, Dubby Feinstall gave me a black eye in front of the library over some picayune thing I don’t even remember. Probably because he was simply a bully. I got up off the grass, but instead of wading into the asshole—who was a year older and twice my size—I pointed to my puffy, green eye, and said the first thing that came to mind.

“That’s it, Dubby. You hit the wrong eye. That’s the evil one.”

Later that afternoon, the tie-rod ends on Tubby Dubby’s vintage 1956 Chevrolet Pickup came loose and wrecked the truck he’d spent a whole lot of time and money restoring. I figured Dubby’d come after me; instead, he avoided me like the plague.

Kids—and probably grownups, as well—have a habit of embellishing things, so a few accidents I had absolutely no connection to got attached to my name, allowing my infamy to grow.

That made for a pretty stress-free existence, even after I graduated and went to state. There were plenty of my graduating class who also went to the U, so my reputation traveled with me.

College guys are a tad more worldly than high schoolers, or so they say. Must have been true, because my “Evil Eye” was mostly a subject of jocularity at parties. Life became easier.

Then I met a guy that made sense of my turbulent teenage years. I liked him. Hell, more than that, I coveted him. I met Andrew Abley—I called him AA—on the tennis court early in the semester. We played against one another for a few well-balanced games, then we hooked up as partners in doubles. When he played net, my eyes had a habit of straying to his broad shoulders, trim hips, and supple thighs. And in the middle of one hotly contested game, it hit me… right between the eyes. I lusted after the good-looking, blond-haired son of a gun. I missed the next shot and almost cost us the game. But after I recovered from the bombshell, I fought like a banshee to win for my newly discovered querido. AA, of course, had no idea of what was going on.

I’m normally a pretty placid guy. Meek even. Or maybe shy. But my newly discovered gay longings prompted me in some undetermined way to become aggressive, particularly on the tennis court where AA and I interacted the most.

Apparently, he liked my new personality because we started meeting after classes and going places together. I’m not a drinker, and the first time he suggested a visit to the bar, I proved it. After a couple of drinks, he had to help me to the car. Right in the middle of a drunken rant about something or the other, I realized I liked my arm over his shoulder, his over mine, and out hips bumping as we made our uncertain way across the parking lot. So instead of being embarrassed and begging off the next time, I readily agreed.

It was Friday night, and the bar had a torch singer and band, requiring a buck cover charge. I wasn’t as uneasy in this foreign environment as the last time, so I halfway enjoyed myself. AA picked out a blonde and danced a couple of times. He cajoled me onto the dance floor with her brunette companion, and I could see where this was going. Not where I wanted, at in the least.

My third drink took care of it all. I got sloppy and had to be helped to the car, spoiling the impending foursome. After he settled me into the driver’s side, he moved behind the wheel, and that’s when I about ruined everything.

“I slapped his knee. “I really like you, Andrew Abley. I really like you.”

“And I really like you, Karl Huddleston. But I wish you held your liquor better.”

I hiccupped. “Beginner,” I mumbled, realizing my hand still rested on his knee. It didn’t want to come off. To hell with it. It could stay where it was, except it slipped halfway up his thigh. Oh, well. That was a good place too.

“But I mean, I really, really like you,” my mouth said. My hand moved a bit higher. Damn, they had minds of their own Then my head did its own thing… it flopped over on his shoulder.

Apparently, AA figured I’d passed out because he mumbled. “Me too, guy. Me too.”

He didn’t remove my hand, so I sorta shifted my weight like I was getting more comfortable. My hand slid higher. I wasn’t touching his groin, but I was damned close. My fingers burned.

I was sorry when he pulled into the dorm parking lot. I was so comfy… hell, maybe I was looped. Just as I was about to make the final move and cup him, he pushed me away, unsnapped his seat belt and got out. A moment later, he opened the passenger door, pulled me out of the car, and hauled me into the dorm.

“Again?” someone asked. “Maybe he needs AA.”

I almost snickered. I did need AA, but not the way he meant.

“He’s new to it,” my AA’s deep baritone answered. “He’ll be okay.”

A few minutes later, he fished my keys out of my pants pocket—and that gave me a thrill—and dumped me on my bed. Still feigning unconsciousness, I listened to him breathe as he stood beside the bed.

“I oughta undress you,” he mumbled aloud.

Do it! Do it! I shouted in my mind. But he didn’t. He covered me with my jacket and touched me on the chest.

“We gotta talk, tomorrow, amigo. Definitely tomorrow.”

Then he left for his own room, leaving me with a painful erection and uneasy stomach.

* * * *

Do you believe in stuff like that? Karl’s not sure he does, and he’s the presumed sorcerer in this case. Does AA? I dunno, but he seems to be interested in something. Let’s see where it goes from here.

 The print versions of anthologies Wildyr Tales and More Wildyr Tales, are now available. The third anthology, Gabacho and More Wildyr Tales, will be released on January 14 as an Ebook, with print version to follow soon after.

 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.

Dumber’ a Dead Tree Stump (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

 markwildyr.com, Post #144

 Photo Courtesy of photos-public-domain.com

 In the first part Frankie appeared to lust after his BFF and go find relief with Flatnose. Can this go on forever?

* * * * *

DUMBER’N A DEAD TREE STUMP

I didn’t see Darcel again until after church on Sunday when we walked down to the creek looking for something to do. When we passed the spot where I’d got with Flatnose last Friday, it was like he read my mind.

“You go look up Flatnose after we split the other day?”

“W=why’d you say that?”

“Well, did you.”

I felt my face burning, but I don’t usually lie to Darcel. And when I do, he can always tell. “What if I did?”

“Was it good?”

I was caught on a hook like that imaginary fish. If I admitted how good it was, what in the world would he think of me. If I downplayed it, he’d ask why I did it. Couldn’t risk my best friend in the whole world looking down on me. So I punted and asked, “You tell me.”

He stopped short and looked me in the eye. “Dunno. I never let him do nothing to me.”

My mouth dropped. “Come on. We been talking about Eugene for over a year now.”

“You’ve been talking about him. This is the first time I’ve brought him up. And he musta come up in your estimation. You called him Eugene.”

I made a face. “Can’t get nothing by you.”

“So answer my question. Is he any good?”

“Better’n doing it to yourself.”

“That so? I been wondering….”

I waited a beat. “Wondering what?”

“Nothing. If we’re gonna make the three o’clock picture show, we better hurry.”

####

My dad put me to work cleaning out a storage unit he’d rented a couple of years ago to hold junk… mostly man junk, you know, hunting trophies, cartridge loading equipment, fishing rods, a canoe, and the like. His interests had shifted to bowling and golfing, so he was willing to let the other stuff go. I had no interest in fishing and did only a once-in-a-year deer hunt, so he wanted to sell what he could and trash the rest. My task was to proclaim something as sellable or as junkable. I soon got bored with it, so a lot of the sellable stuff probably got labeled as junk.

Anyway, that took two weeks out of my summer during which I saw little of Darcel, but when the Great Man Cave Selloff was over, I looked him up after his shift at Save a Bundle Grocery, where he had a part time job and we headed for the park to toss a football for a while. Tired of that, we ended up doing what we usually did, lying in the grass and talking. Darcel was a great talker. A conversationalist, even. So I let him do most of the talking until he strayed onto a subject that sparked my interest… like flying, for example. I really wanted to learn to fly and had started saving to take lessons last year. I didn’t have a real job, but my dad was an engineer who worked out of an office in our house, and he kept me occupied running errands, making copies, and the like, so I salvaged a few coins every month for the fund.

Eventually, I sat up beside him—I usually managed to do that at least once—and took a gander at my buddy, especially his groin area. He rattled on for a while until he finally said something that snagged my attention.

“Huh?” I sounded dumber’n a dead tree stump.

“I said, you’re gonna go looking for Flatnose, aren’t you?”

I could feel my cheeks and the back of my neck burning “Why’d you say that?”

He stretched lazily. “Every time you give me that look, I know you’re getting horny.”

“W-what look?”

He sat up beside me. “Whenever we’re lying here in the park, you always sit up and start eyeballing me. Gives me the creeps.”

I swallowed hard, trying to get over a dry throat. “I get tired of just lying—”

“Don’t give me that. You want a better look.”

“Why’d you say that?”

“Because you always end up at my crotch.”

“I—”

“Don’t deny it. I got eyes. And then you go look up Flatnose.”

My whole head seemed like it was afire then. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

“Lie down,” he suddenly ordered.

“Wh-what?”

“Lie down. It’s my turn to take a look.”

My muscles must have given up on me because before I knew it, I was on my back looking up at a blue sky. His blue eyes started at my head and moved down me like ground penetrating radar. Or more accurately, cloth penetrating radar. I felt like I was stark naked beneath his stare. And, of course, I started reacting.

“Wow. It moved.”

And it moved again, growing and crawling up my belly. And there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it save for covering it with my hands. They twitched,

“Oh, no,” he said. “Fair’s fair. I didn’t cover myself.”

“But you weren’t—”

“Getting a hard-on? No, but I thought about it.”

He watched for a full minute while I reached maximum effort.

Then he shifted his gaze to look me full in the eye. “You know what I don’t understand?”

I grunted something that even I didn’t understand.

“Why do you think we need Flatnose?”

I swallowed so hard I gulped. “You mean….”

“I mean there’s you, and there’s me. Why do we need somebody in between us.”

“Oh, Jeez, Darcel! Do you mean….” I didn’t seem capable of finishing sentences anymore.

“I mean I know a place a couple of miles up the creek where nobody ever goes. And—”

I scrambled to my feet, probably making my condition apparent to anybody who happened to be looking. “Your car or mine?”

“Mine.”

As we raced for his Chevvy, I couldn’t believe how much time we’d wasted this summer. I really was dumber'n a dead tree stump.

 * * * *

Was he dumber’n a dead stump post or just afraid to make the first move and possibly lose his friend? Some will look at it one way; some with look at it another. You make your own mind up.

 

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!

Until next time.

 

Mark

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

Runt – Part Three of Three Parts

 

markwildyr.com, Post #137

 Well, Runt better get busy and land the deal because this is the last episode of his story. Will he accomplish his goal or not? Let’s find out.

 

* * * * *

RUNT

 For the final week before school started, Park took me on as a personal challenge. We got up early and ran. I surprised us both by showing some stamina, thanks to the swimming pool, probably. We hit the rope every day, and I was climbing here quarters of the way up it before the week was out.

We spent some time on the basketball court and pitched baseballs, softballs, footballs. For the first time I learned what was expected of me in those sports even though I could rarely deliver. I wasn’t a jock and never would be, but at least I knew the basics.  Even more, Park overcame his obvious reluctance to address the issue and showed me how to stop throwing and running like a girl. Suddenly, PhysEd didn’t seem the horror it had been before. Even a bent, vindictive old man like Coach Barson couldn’t fault my classroom work. Still he wouldn’t give me anything better than a C. So I devastated his jocks in the other classes. I worked so hard and put in extra time so the grading curve was unusually high by the time the first tests came around.

I was still picked last for teams, but nobody tried to give me to the other side as a freebie anymore. I got a few hits off the pitcher at softball, even scored a couple of goals in soccer, but mostly just came closer to carrying my own weight as a team player. Except in swimming. I confounded Barson and everyone else by being the best at the butterfly in the whole class.

“Hey, Dan,” a familiar voice hailed me in the parking lot after last period one day. “How’s it going?” My knees did their “weak” thing when his hand clapped me on the shoulder briefly.

“Hi, Park. Thought you’d be at practice,” the words were rendered stupid when I saw him on a pair of crutches with a bandaged right foot.

“Twisted my ankle pretty bad. I’m out for a few days. Hear you’re doing okay in gym.”

“Almost holding my own,” I said with a grin. “Thanks, Park. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Glad to help. Hate to see somebody taken advantage of. It’s not sportsmanlike.”

“Where you headed?”

“Home, I guess. I get bored watching the team practice. You headed to work?”

“My day off. Trying to decide whether to go swimming or go home and chill out. Can you swim with that thing?” I asked hopefully.

“Can’t do anything. Fucker’s cramping my style!” he added bitterly. “Well, my boat’s a couple of rows over. See you later.”

As he turned, one crutch caught in the wheel well of the car beside mine. Park went down with a crash. Immediately, I knelt beside him, acutely conscious that I cradled his shoulders in my arms.

“You okay?”

He let out a groan and pulled his knee to his chest. “Shit! Wrenched my knee. Dammit!” He grimaced. “Now my leg’s cramping.

I literally dragged him to his feet and dumped him in the front seat of my car as he clutched at his injured leg. He cussed a couple of times and then lay back across the seat, his arm over his eyes, obviously in pain.

Without waiting to be asked, I pulled up his pant leg and started massaging his calf. The rough bandage supporting his ankle got in the way, so I unwound it and soon rubbed his bare flesh. It seemed to give him some relief.

I spent the next fifteen minutes trying to ignore a monstrous erection and having the time of my life while seeming to do him some good. He planted a bare foot against my chest while I played with his leg from ankle to knee. I kneaded, I squeezed, I slid my palm up his calf, I drew my hands down the length of his leg. To me, it was sensuous as hell! To him, it was relief. He began to relax.

“How about the knee?” I asked through a dry throat. “You want me to work on it?”

“Yeah,” he sort of panted. “And the thigh.”

I eased up over the knee but was little help to him there. He groaned when my hands gripped him on the upper leg, so I started acting like I was massaging. Hell, maybe I was. If it helped, then that’s what it was. For me it was one free, gigantic grope. He said nothing as my hands moved higher and higher. My eyes fixed on his groin. Spread out on the seat like he was, I saw it move.

At first I thought I was mistaken, but it happened again. I sneaked a quick look at him, but his arm still covered his eyes. I gently massaged higher on his leg until I could clearly feel his shorts beneath the denim of his jeans. His groing was fuller now.

With an audible swallow, I gently placed one palm over his fly and pressed. Except for a reaction there, Park didn’t move a muscle. Emboldened, I fumbled with his belt. He came up like a shot.

“Not here!” he said.

“Where?” I managed to gasp.

“I don’t know. Drive somewhere.”

I threw his crutches in the back seat, helped him settle his injured foot on the floorboard, and raced for the park at the edge of the mountains, all the while afraid he’d change his mind. Partially by design, I pulled into the turnout where I’d watched him and Terry Milkstone last summer.

He didn’t change his mind. Leaning on my shoulder, he shucked his trousers and then flopped on the blanket I’d spread on the ground. Still in some obvious distress, he settled his leg gingerly.

Flustered now that my dreams seemed about to come true, I didn’t know what to do next, so I began working on his injury again. He made no protest as I slowly worked my way up his limb to the shorts covering his manhood. Nor did he object when I drew them off him and unbuttoned his shirt. He was exposed to me now in all his magnificence.

“Well, Runt,” he said with a frown on his face. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“How… how did you know?” I whispered, laying a hand on his broad chest and fingering his nipples.

“Shit, kid. You get a hard-on every time I come around. What else could it mean? Am I wrong?”

“No,” I said, boldly leaning down and suckling one of the little brown things.

Park gasped in surprise. “Damn, is that what the girls have to put up with all the time?”

I moved to his navel. One hand found his cock, which revived impressively, the other played over his chest.

Taking a boy’ in my mouth was nothing like I’d imagined. There was no unpleasantness, no reluctance, no hesitancy. His big shaft slid down my throat like they were made for one another. Beneath the soft, silky skin there was an exciting hardness. Strength and power and potency!

When I tried to take too much, the human reaction set in. I gagged and coughed. Sheepishly, I came up and met his gaze. “Sorry. I’ve never done this before. I’m learning. But I’ll do the best I can for you, Park. I promise.”

His visage had been stern, uncertain. Immediately, it cleared. “I know you will, Runt. I’ll tell you what feels good and what doesn’t, okay?”

I nodded and bent to do his bidding. True to his word, he told me what felt good and what felt better. And I gloried in every second of it.

“I’m co—“ he started to warn me, but it was too late. His musky, milky semen flowed. Park’s seed! Park’s essence! The private, personal part of Park that he shared with very few. No matter that seconds later I would just be a queer to him, at this very moment I was his partner, his mate, his receptacle.

As he lay panting on the blanket, I rose to a sitting position to study him, hoping to preserve his male beauty on my retina forever. Instead of grabbing for his clothing, he surprised me.

“Don’t you want to get it off?” he asked.

“Y…yes,” I whispered.

“Strip,” he ordered.

I did so reluctantly. Nothing I had could favorably compare with any part of him. When I was naked, he looked me over frankly.

“Yeah, Runt. You’ve filled out a lot. You’re a good-looking fucker, you know that?”

“M-me?”

“Yeah, you.” He reached up and touched me, leaving me reaching for the stars and beating a rhythm in the air. I about fainted at his touch. “Lie down,” he ordered.

I could not believe the next ten minutes. Naked, my paragon sat beside me on the blanket and explored me in ways I had never imagined. Finally, when I could stand it no longer, I came without a word, without a groan, without a sound, almost as if surprised by the climax. I was surprised by the intensity.

Park let out a shout, but he continued to stroke as I shot my seed in the air. He pumped, and I spewed.

“Kid!” he half-laughed. “Are you ever going to stop?”

“It’s… over,” I gasped, clutching his forearm with both hands. “It… it was beautiful, Park! Like… like….”

“Crap, you never did this with anyone before, did you?”

“No,” I admitted. “Nobody.”

“Well, just so you’ll know, I never did it with a guy before. But I was curious, and you seemed to be willing. And safe,” he added.

“Safe?”

“You know. You’re quiet. Not going to blab to everyone. And I’m not going to catch a disease from you.”

“What…what did you think about it? About me?” I had the temerity to ask.

He considered for a second. “It was okay. You know, better than doing it to yourself. And you? I like you. You’re okay. I knew you wanted to do something with me, but you didn’t push it.” He shrugged. “I knew you were available, but you didn’t make it obvious, I guess. Hell, I’m not saying it right.”

“Are we going to do it again?”

“Do you want to?”

I nodded emphatically. “Yes. I’d like to do it again. See if I can’t do it better.”

He laughed as he reached for his trousers. “You do it any better, and it might be better than a piece of tail.”

“I’ll do it better,” I said emphatically.

Later in the car as we drove home, I screwed up the courage to talk about it again.

“Park?”

“Yeah.”

“You ever think about doing the other?”

“The other? What-- Oh. No, never thought about anything like that. Why? You willing to let me screw you?”

“Park, I’d let you do anything!”

The car was quiet until we got to the edge of town.

“I’ll give it some thought,” Park said with a sly grin. “Maybe we’ll try that the next time.” He paused a moment. “Okay, I thought it over. How about tomorrow?”

 * * * * *

 How about that! Don’t know about you, but it looks to me like Park made the first move. Now that Runt got what he wanted, he has tomorrow to look forward to… a brand new adventure. But you’ll just have to imagine that one.

 Now that the story has ended, I’ll revert to my normal schedule of posting on the first and third Thursday of each month.

 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:

 DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWV

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cut-hand-2

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

 Until next time.

 Mark

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

Runt – Part Two of Three Parts

 

markwildyr.com, Post #136

 Last week our shy hero fell in love with a jock but found himself totally incapable of doing anything about it. Will he do any be better this week? Let’s see.

 * * * * *

RUNT

 That night, I lay in bed as the relevance of the day finally hit home. My God! I was queer!

The initial shock was followed by a host of feelings and sensations. Was it really true? After all, I didn’t go around lusting after all the boys I knew. But I sure did Park! No denying that. If he were here in bed with me, I’d do anything he asked me to do. Was that homosexuality or idolization?

The discomfort in my groin told me I wanted him physically, sexually. I wanted to be queer with him. And I wanted him to want me! Homosexuality? Definitely!

Testing the waters, I thought of some of the other boys at school. Nothing. Well, not quite nothing, but it was more like curiosity. Rumor had it that Chuck Rycyczk had the biggest one in school, but that didn’t stir me a bit.

Hard on these thoughts came one that made me chuckle at the same time I cringed. Poor Pop! His greatest fears had been realized. With sudden insight, I realized that sports and hunting and man-things had been a reaction to his fear that his only son was too much of a mama’s boy. I’m not certain he thought I was gay, but he sure was afraid of something.

Well, congratulations, Pop! Moral? Be careful of what you fear. I paused for a moment to examine my strange relationship with my father. I loved him like sons are supposed to, but there was another element too. I was afraid of him. The admission brought a little shock of its own. Yeah, I was afraid of him. Afraid he’d push me into some physical situation I couldn’t handle; some sport where I’d be embarrassed by ineptitude and disinterest and active dislike.

Then came another surprising thought. He was afraid of me, as well. My big, manly daddy was afraid of his runty son. Afraid I’d shame him. Yeah, that was right, but there was more. I grappled a little longer before I got it. He was afraid of me because I was smarter than he was. He was physical; I was cerebral. He didn’t understand my scholastic ability any better than I fathomed his obsession with a ball.

When I woke the next morning, my world had changed. I faced Pop at the breakfast table with an aplomb never before seen or felt. He realized something had shifted but couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Mother just served the pancakes with a puzzled frown on her face.

At the pool later that morning, my newly discovered confidence evaporated like dew in the sunlight. Fortunately I was already in the water when Park walked out on the pool deck because my stomach dropped and my knees went weak with the secret knowledge I’d seen him naked and rampant and doing it with a girl. He waved at me and headed for a couple of his jock buddies at the other end of the pool. Twenty laps left me gasping and holding to the edge of the pool without any thought of Park Fogelson or anything else in my mind. I’d never done twenty continuous laps before.

“Atta way to go, Dan!” his voice startled me. I turned to see him treading water behind me, the fine muscles of his shoulders moving seductively. I snapped my eyes away from his brawny torso and found his steel-gray eyes just as provocative. I went dumb as part of me began to strain against my swimsuit. A sudden frown twisted Park’s features. “Something wrong?”

I shook my head violently but had to draw a couple more breaths before speaking. “W-winded.”

He laughed. “Yeah, but you’re doing better. A hell of a lot better. Coach Barson better watch out.”

“Don’t… tell him,” I panted.

“Hell, no. Let him find out for himself.”

“Still… don’t know about… climbing rope.” I tried to keep talking so he’d tarry here with me. Man, if he knew what I really wanted, he’d probably slug me right here in front of everybody.

“You’ll make it, Danny boy,” he said, and it took a minute to realize he meant I’d climb the rope. “Hell, bet you can get halfway up right now. Have you tried it?”

“N…no,” I said around a lump in my throat.

The frown returned. “I make you nervous or something? I’ll back off if I do.”

“No!” I practically yelled. “I’m not very good with people,” I apologized. “Loner, mostly. But I…I like to talk to you. You help me,” I crabbed along, afraid I’d say something wrong. “Nobody ever did that before.”

He smiled so broadly, I almost sank beneath the water and drowned from happiness. “No big deal. Doesn’t cost me anything. And I like you, Runt,” he gave me the gym class name, but it had no sting. I sort of liked it.

“I like you, too Park. And I never said that to a jock before.”

He laughed aloud. “The jock and the runt,” he mused. “We make quite a pair.”

Fortunately, he went back to his friends or I’d have made a fool of myself trying to make something out of that remark. I stayed in the pool another thirty minutes before getting out without embarrassing myself.

That evening, I got something of a shock. It was getting along toward closing time at the store when the door opened and Park Fogelson walked in.

“Hi, Runt. What time you get off?”

“I close up in five minutes,” I said, too surprised to even stammer.

“Good. There’s a big teacher’s confab at school. They’re plotting the opening of the term, I guess. Anyway. The building’s open. Let’s go over and try the rope, okay?”

“S-sure,” I said, recovering enough to stutter.

That Quick-Fix store got closed up faster than it ever had. Park loaded me in his Chevy, saying we’d pick up my car later.

The euphoria of actually being in his presence in a social situation slowly gave way to something akin to panic as I realized I’d soon be demonstrating my weakness and ineptitude. I was actually shaking by the time he parked in the lot. Personally, I would have sneaked into the school, figuring we weren’t supposed to be there. Not Park. He strode boldly through the front double-doors and marched straight down the hallway to the gymnasium. Flipping on the lights, he walked to the corner. And there it was…the dreaded rope.

Park turned and beckoned me forward. “First thing, you gotta get over being afraid of it. Psych yourself up, man. It’s just a damned rope. An inanimate piece of hemp hanging from the rafter, totally helpless. You can piss on it, burn it, or climb it…do anything you want to it.”

I smiled in spite of my terror. He was pretty good at psyching. Nonetheless, my anxiety eased only slightly.

“Chalk your hands,” he instructed, grabbing a chalk bag and dusting his own liberally. “Then take a firm hold at a point on the rope where you’re comfortable. Then just pull.”

He hand-walked up that rope in nothing flat, his legs horizontal to the floor, his body in a handsome L. I went weak in the knees as I watched. Once at the top, he effortlessly hand-walked back down and gently lowered his feet to the ground.

“You won’t do it quite like that the first time, but you’ll get the hang of it soon. Try it. See if you can make it to there,” he said, pointing to a red mark inked into the rope fifteen feet off the floor.

Grasping that rope was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. Not because I would fail, but because while I was struggling, he’d see how puny and pitiful my body really was. Nonetheless, I gave it a try. To my surprise, my feet left the ground. I reached the red marker and struggled with all my might to grab one more handhold beyond that.

“Great!” Park enthused. “You did it! Now just work your way on down.”

It wasn’t much easier on the way back, especially, when I felt his hands briefly on my shoulders as my feet touched the ground.

“Man, you’ve filled out, you know that? All those weights and that swimming are really showing.” My knees wouldn’t hold me. “Whoa!” he said, grabbing me beneath the arms. He probably didn’t notice his hands on my nipples, but I sure did. They went hard and knobby at his touch. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” I panted, not certain that was true. I swayed against him for support. The length of his body pressed against me for a moment. The swell of his groin set my butt afire.

“Just rest a sec. You wanna sit down?”

“No!” I never wanted to move, but I couldn’t let him know that. “Just give me a minute. I’ll be okay.” I milked the situation for another thirty seconds, and then leaned away from him. My chest felt cold after he removed his hands.

“You did good, Dan. You come in every day and give it a try. Before Coach gets around to his rope climbing test, you’ll have it whipped.”

“Did… did you mean it?” I managed to ask.

“Mean what?”

“Have I filled out some?”

“Oh, yeah! Haven’t you noticed? You used to be shaped like a tube of toothpaste, you know. Now you’ve got pecs,” he reached out and touched my chest. “And lats,” he moved to my ribs. Your arms are bigger and your shoulders are wider. You’ve had a growing streak this summer. Not going to be able to call you runt much longer.”

“Thanks to you,” I blurted.

“Me? I didn’t do anything. It was you, man.”

“I won’t be able to play the games any better than before.” It took a second to realized I’d blurted the thought aloud.

“You’ll learn those too. You can hold your own swimming. Maybe you oughta take up some running. Coach holds races for part of the class. The whole point is not to be last.” He laughed aloud. “Gonna be some guys get a shock when they realize they can’t rely on the runt to come in last anymore.”

 * * * * *

 Well, Runt’s doing a good job at building up his strength and his body… but is he building his courage, as well? We’ll see next week.

 

As usual, I will post weekly until the story ends, and then revert to my normal schedule of posting on the first and third Thursday of each month.

 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:

 DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWV

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cut-hand-2

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

 Until next week.

 Mark

Runt – Part One of Three Parts

 

markwildyr.com, Post #135

Courtesy of worldopenfoodfacts.org

Sure hope everyone got a kick out of the excerpt from The Victor and the Vanquished I posted last week. I enjoyed writing that book.

 Over the next three weeks, I want to give you a story I wrote sometime back that’s a little less intense than the last few posts.

 Let me know how you like it.

* * * * *

RUNT

             How to tell you about myself? To my mother, I’m a tall, slender, handsome, intelligent, well-behaved young man. My father in an honest moment? A sickly disappointment who can’t toss a ball or score a hoop. My best friend? I don’t have one. My girl? Sorry, struck out there too.

If you asked me, I’d acknowledge elements of truth to both of my parents’ claims. I’ve got the brains to stay at the top of my class, and I admit to being a goody-two-shoes. I’m slender enough, but tall and handsome? At five-eight, I’m tall only if you consider five-six as the norm. As for handsome, that can go either way depending upon my mood.

In a way, the situation with my dad is not my fault. I was sickly as a kid, and by the time I got any weight or strength, everyone else had found his niche in the world of kid’s sports. So I tossed aside athletics to become the terror of the classroom, diagramming complex sentences, solving mathematical equations, and comprehending deep passages of Shakespeare that stumped most of my peers. Pretty much everyone came to hate me for setting the grading curve so high.

But to be honest, they paid me back in PhysEd, laughing and howling when I couldn’t climb a rope or do chin-ups or sit-ups or anything else. Runt, they called me, picking me last for a team activity, most often one side trying to give me to the other as a freebie.

The coach took revenge for his jocks by failing me. It would have been embarrassing except that no one ever flunked PE, so it was obvious to the whole school that Old Man Barson was extracting his pound of flesh. Nonetheless, it meant taking the course again my senior year.

Realizing that particular brand of hell loomed before me again, I took part of my summer earnings from clerking in a Quick Fix neighborhood convenience store and bought some hand and leg weights. I used the former in moments of idleness and wore the latter most of the time, even on the job.

Park Fogelson caught me working a hand weight when he came in for a six-pack of cola one day. Flustered, I put it out of sight behind the counter. Park was one of the few jocks I respected because he had brains enough to hold his own. Moreover, he was so sculpted and handsome that he inspired adoration.

He indicated the discarded weights and gave a smile that seemed genuine. “Hey, good idea! Heard what Coach Barson did to you. Low blow, man.”

“Th-thanks, I stammered, surprised out of my socks at the sympathy.

“One thing though. You might want to turn your palm down in some of the sets. Works the contrary muscles, you know. You always want to work both sides.”

“Okay,” I responded, having no idea of what he was talking about. “I’ll remember that.”

“You oughta jog some to work on the aerobics. Swimming’s good, too.”

“Makes sense.” I babbled, immediately fixing on the pool. I hated swimming much less than I did running.

“Well, good luck.”

Kind words sometimes carry unintended consequences. Long content to be a dedicated loner, I was abruptly snared in the glow of instant friendship or camaraderie or whatever the hell it was as his six-foot muscled frame strode out the door. Hell, I couldn’t remember a pleasant word from any member of the football squad in my life, especially one that handsome and popular. I’d heard more than one girl speculate on his hidden dimensions. One thing about being Dan Drew—that’s me by the way—I’m damned near invisible and consequently hear all sorts of interesting things.

I joined the Y, telling myself that I liked their pool better than the municipal, but in truth it was because that’s where Park went. He occasionally stopped by to say hello or give pointers on my swimming technique, such as it was. We probably spoke on an average of twenty minutes a week, and in my world, that was virtual intimacy.

Over that summer, William Parker Fogelson became my standard, my ideal. The sight of him stirred something within me. His tapered, almost naked body at the pool impressed me to the point that at night I’d stand in front of a full-length mirror and critically examine my slight frame, looking for biceps and triceps and lats that bore any similarity to his. I found none.

One day my car sort of automatically dropped right in behind his as he pulled out of the local drive-in, and just like that, I became a stalker. For some reason it was important to see who was in the front seat beside him. When Park drove out of town, I either regained my senses or grew more devious because I dropped back, putting a lot of distance between my Nissan and his Chevy.

It soon became clear he was headed for the park at the edge of the nearby mountains. My heart took a leap as I realized that I had my bathing trunks in my gym bag. If he went swimming in the river, I could join him. Man, that would be great!

However, once in the park, he didn’t take the turnoff that led to the river. Instead, the Chevy turned north toward some remote picnic areas. I was forced to fade back even farther on this deserted stretch of road, and his car was nowhere in sight when I got to the turnaround at the end. Puzzled, I headed back the way I’d come, watching the sides of the road more carefully. In the late-afternoon light, I caught a glimpse of red. Park’s Chevy was red. Not daring to think about what I was doing, I parked in the next turnoff and quietly got out of the car to make my way by foot through the thick pine forest toward the Chevy.

Even my measly hundred-thirty pounds break pine needles, and I’m not anything remotely like a woodsman. Therefore, it wasn’t surprising when I heard a female voice ask if he’d heard something.

Park’s reply sent a thrill down my back.” Most likely a wolf.” As he’d probably intended, that brought a semi-frightened squeal. His throaty laugh raised the hair on my arms.

More slowly now, I eased in the direction of the voices, keeping to the high ground until I came to the edge of a ten-foot bluff. I looked down and stifled a gasp. They were on a blanket below me.

Now I know that eighteen-year-old boys do things to eighteen-year-old girls whenever the opportunity presents itself, but the sight still shocked me. Park was between her legs, thrusting, plunging, and plowing I almost protested aloud when she wrapped her legs around him, partially blocking my view of the rippling muscles. Man, he even had muscles in his buns. Me? I couldn’t move a tic until he finished in an explosion of thrusts and a long groan.

I was still gaping until he glanced up as he pulled off a condom and tossed it aside. Afraid I’d been spotted, I shrank back from the edge of the precipice and froze. I stayed that way until I heard the Chevy roar off down the road.

Not exactly certain why, I made my way down the small bluff and stood where they had made love. The torn foil of the condom package sent my eyes scurrying around until I found the rubber where it had been tossed at the edge of the weeds.

At that moment, my powerful attraction for Park Fogelson focused into something definitive. Sudden understanding rocked me to my toes. I’d never been very sexually oriented, mentally scratching my head at the power it held over my peers. At times it seemed they thought with the wrong end of their bodies and got led around by the same organs. But now—for the first time—I understood. I understood it all, including the discovery of my pitiful perversion.

As I stood at the edge of the forest with the used condom holding Park’s cum, I realized that the girl had held no interest for me. My entire concentration, my core, my consciousness had zeroed in on the tall, lithe figure of another male. I drew a shaky breath and admitted it aloud. I wanted Park. I didn’t want a girl. I wanted him!

 * * * * *

 I’ve often been asked why so many of my characters have to discover who they really are and wade through the negative ramifications of being identified as gay. Simple. I’m a product of my time and place. I grew up in the Bible Belt part of Oklahoma where being identified as “queer” would earn you shunning at the best and physical violence as the worst… and possibly both. I realize that some moderns consider this to be offensive, but it’s the way things were. And everyone I know tells me I’m a man of the last century, not this one.

 At any rate, enjoy the story without taking offense.

 As usual, I will post weekly until the story ends, and then revert to my normal schedule of posting on the first and third Thursday of each month. And before you ask… I have no idea of what comes next.

 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:

 DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWV

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cut-hand-2

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

 Until next week.

 Mark

An Excerpt from the Novel Johnny Two-Guns

Markwildyr.com, Post #101

  

Artist: Maria Fanning

Good response from the last two postings of “Red Rez.” Have had requests for more of the story. I will comply, but this week, I wanted to post something from my book Johnny Two Guns.

To give you a feel for the book, I’ve reproduced part of the book’s blurb below:

When vacationing Denver architect Roger Mackie rolls into a quaint old trading post in Montana’s Bitterroot Mountain Range to gas up his car, it’s the start of a life-changing journey. Lean, handsome Chippewa Johnny Two-Guns is looking for a ride. He’s on a mission to recover some clan treasures. Roger is immediately smitten and drives Johnny all the way to Arizona.

The excerpt I’ve chosen comes near the beginning of Chapter 1 when our protagonist, Roger Mackie becomes fed up with the glitz and glitter of a Las Vegas vacation, and mindlessly starts driving. Let’s see how it goes from there.

*****

JOHNNY TWO-GUNS

          How I found myself in Montana 800 miles from Las Vegas, I’m really not certain. But I could tell anyone more than he should want to know about the Kosovo war and the Unabomber. Damn, I had to buy some tapes for the car’s sound system. I came to the sudden and belated conclusion that I should have headed south to Phoenix or Tucson. Arizona’s a grand state, and I’ve always enjoyed myself there.

          Butte, a quaint old mining town on the western slope of the Continental Divide, proclaimed itself as the “City That’s a Mile High and a Mile Deep.” Some of the old mining shafts dropped five thousand feet below the earth’s surface. Many tunnels and corridors ran beneath the town’s streets. The place got its name from the big hunk of rock nearby and its aura from gold and silver and copper mined here since the 1860s. However, the Art Chateau, the World Museum of Mining, and the Copper King Mansion could occupy me only for so long. I snapped more photos than I wanted with my Canon PowerShot 600 and after a tour of the US High Altitude Sports Center, I was breathing a little easier and the knot in my gut had begun to ease. I spent the night in a downtown hotel only to wake in the morning completely at a loss for something to do.

          After a hearty breakfast, I-90 led me out of town, and an innocuous turnoff to the west drew me deeper into the Bitterroot Mountains. I must have been recovering from my foul mood because the scenery started to hold some interest again. These hills were a part of the same great Rocky Mountain chain as those around Denver, but they had a different feel… craggier, wilder somehow. If I had been the outdoors type, I would have bought a tent and camped out in the crisp mountain air.

          Nonetheless, before long this trek started to look like the latest in a series of mistakes, because the road degraded, the traffic evaporated, and I was absolutely alone without an idea of where I was. My anxiety level soaring as the gas gauge dipped, I came to a place where the road widened. An old log building stood to the left. At the sight of two antiquated gasoline pumps in front, I pulled over and stopped. The place was so novel that I grabbed the Canon and clicked a couple of shots of the place.

          Inside, the building was low ceilinged, but much larger than it looked from the outside. If I had been on the Navajo reservation, I would have guessed this was an old-fashioned Indian trading post. I had no idea if they had such things up here, although there were plenty of Native Americans in Montana. The trading post or store or whatever it was had goods crammed in every corner, was dimly lit, and gave off a pleasant, homey atmosphere. A grizzled man of about sixty waited on an elderly woman buying a few basic groceries. The Caucasian trader stood six foot three or four—brawn going soft. He finished with the lady and turned to me.

          “Come right on in and look around. Got a pot of coffee on, and you’re welcome to join us.” He gestured toward a distant corner dominated by a potbellied stove with a few cane chairs grouped around it. At this altitude the warmth was inviting. Someone was seated in one of the chairs beside the stove.

          “Thanks. I’ll take you up on the offer. But first I’d like to gas up the car.” I halfway expected him to say he was out of gasoline.

          “Easy done.” He turned to the stove at the rear. “Johnny, can you come pump this fella some gas?”

          “Yessir, Mr. Beasley.” An indistinct figure rose from his chair with animal grace. A moment later, a young Native American emerged out of the semigloom and walked toward us with the strong, languid movement of a mountain lion… unhurried, efficient, powerful.

          “Give Johnny your keys,” the trader said. “He’ll gas up for you. You want it filled?”

          I nodded. “Yep. To the brim.”

         When I told him what I was driving, he told the kid to give me the premium. I agreed and asked for a restroom. The shopkeeper directed me to the back of the establishment, where I took a leak and puzzled over my reaction to the young man now gassing up my car. Occasionally you run into someone who catches the eye and won’t let go. Someone whose physical presence engages the entire you. I’d experienced it only once before in my life.

*****

I went to the trouble of writing the book, Dreamspinner Press published it, now I hope you will be interested enough to read the novel. It’s a long way from Butte, Montana to Tucson, Arizona, and Roger and Johnny learn a lot about each other… and themselves.

Now a renewal of my tired plea for my work. 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:

DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWV

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cut-hand-2

And now my mantra: 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 the month.