Weldon’s Big Mistake (Part 3 of 3 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #266

 Image Courtesy of Clkr:

 

BIG APOLOGY for missing my post date on the twenty-third, but I had an excuse. I fell and hit my head, so I was confined to the hospital. Have recovered, but am reminded of my mortality. As a result, this will be my last post.

 

Let me say that again. THIS WILL BE MY LAST POST.

 Last time, Rick Speare had shown up to ease Weldon’s estrangement from his BFF and secret crush, Jaime Jiron. They were quite different in appearance and nature, but Weldon was coping. Let’s see what happens.

* * * *

WELDON’S BIG MISTAKE

 I didn’t exactly transfer my allegiance to Rick… that wasn’t what he was after. He just wanted what he wanted when he wanted where he wanted. And there was enough of that, at least for me. Even though my thoughts remained with Jaime, it was Rick who gave me what I finally realized I wanted. He wasn’t respectful about it, tended to diss me, but when he applied his sexual skills, I forgot all about the disdain. On balance, the rewards were worth the pettiness.

One Friday afternoon, he caught me coming off the field and led me to what was becoming “our place,” deep in the trees at the park. Of course, I knew what he intended, and privately admitted I wanted it, as well.

As soon as we arrived, a kid named Marcus pushed off from a tree trunk he was resting against and flashed a grin. “Hi, guys. About gave you up.”

Immediately, I was caught between two emotions. The fact Rick had invited him to participate was obvious, which alarmed me. But this kid was delicious, and that brought another kind of feeling. Marcus was dark, but Mediterranean dark, not Hispanic dark. Nonetheless he instantly reminded me of Jaime. Black, curly hair spilled over his forehead, and his smile devastated anyone within twenty feet.

“What… what’s this, Rick?” I stuttered.

“Told Marcus how good you were, and he wanted to see for himself.”

“Without asking me?”

“Why ask you?” The question came in all innocence. This guy wasn’t exactly Mr. Sensitive.

“Because it’s me you’re volunteering,” I snapped.

Marcus’ face fell. “You got a problem with me being here?”

He looked good even when disappointed.

“Not the point. He didn’t ask me. Hell, he didn’t even tell me.”

“So I’m telling you,” Rick said, stepping up behind me and butting me with his groin.

Before I knew it, I was on all fours, my sweats down around my knees with Rick grunting at my back door.

“Go… on,” he mumbled. “Take care of… uh, my friend.”

“That’s okay,” Marcus said, starting to back away.

Spurred by his threatened retreat, I clasped his long, strong thighs and pulled him forward. “’S okay,” I mumbled his crotch in my face, “You’re here, might as well join in.”

I tugged down his trousers and almost rued my words. This guy might be built thin, but he made up for lost weight by what he stored in his pants. And it was growing by the second. I even heard a gasp from Rick who was busy at my backside. Marcus squatted on his heels when Rick pushed me flat of my belly atop his jacket, and they both had at me. Not unpleasantly, either. Rick made it first, which carried me along with him, while the hunky new kid threw himself at my mouth. Seemed he took forever to start and then forgot to stop. This guy really came.

After that, we sort of fell into a pattern. Marcus came back for more, which pleased me. Not only did he perform well, he was pleasant to look at and reminded me of Jaime. We seldom did a threesome again, but I saw both of them often enough to keep me sated.

****

One day near the end of school, I came home to find Jaime sitting, arms folded across his chest, on the edge of the front porch. He was obviously waiting for me, which gave my heart a wrench.

“Hi,” I said uncertainly.

“’Lo.”

An awkward silence for a moment.

“Surprised to see you,” I said, breaking it.

“Yeah. I know. Look, Weldon… I, uh, I dunno how to say this except straight out. You’re getting a rep around school, and just thought you oughta know.”

“Rep?”

“Yeah. Rick Speare’s been talking trash about you. D-dunno if it’s true or not, but he’s blabbing.” He shrugged and said it again. “Just thought you oughta know.”

“What about Marcus?”

He glanced at me sharply. “What about Marcus?”

My cheeks burned, and I couldn’t meet his gaze. “Never mind.”

His mouth dropped open. “Marcus too?”

I went scarlet then. “Rick started it. Right… right after I opened my big mouth to you. Matter of fact that’s how he came at me. Guessed Jaime wasn’t screwing me anymore, so thought he’d pick up the slack.”

It was his time to flush. “I wasn’t….”

“Yeah. Told him that never happened.”

“But he didn’t believe you,” Jaime said.

I shook my head. “Nope. Anyway, that’s how he got to me.”

“And Marcus?”

I shrugged, ashamed to say he’d been invited along. “Just happened. It was….” I clamped my mouth shut.

“It was what?”

I studied his beautiful, brown eyes and decided to answer honestly. “As close as I could get to the real thing… you.”

He dropped his eyes and studied his hands clasped in front of him. Silence reigned for a full minute before he spoke.

“I considered coming back and… you know, offering to try it with you.”

I licked dry lips. “Still can.”

He met my gaze, and I almost went giddy. Then he slowly shook his head.

“No. I really considered it seriously. Even tried… you know, doing it to myself thinking about you. Didn’t work. And I’d feel even worse if I tried with you and failed. The only thing I can offer is an apology for treating you the way I did and try to get my friend back. But not if he expects… you know.”

“Jaime, I’ll take you as a friend any way I can get you. I’ve had a hole in my heart ever since that day.”

“Let’s fix that. How about we pitch the ball some?”

“Can make you drop it.”

“You haven’t so far.” The grin melting my heart died. “I guess it’s okay to keep seeing Marcus. He seems like an okay guy. But Rick?”

“He’s history,” I said.

We burned gloves for an hour, and it seemed like we’d recaptured what we’d lost… almost. Something had changed, but we’d reestablished our friendship as best we could. There was just the shadow of another slender, dark-headed Adonis in the background. Of course, there was the shade of a dark-haired Maria over his shoulder, as well. All a part of growing up, I finally decided.

 *.*.*.*.

How appropriate that my last post ends up with both disappointment and acceptance, because after over ten years of faithfully posting to a blog, the decision to quit brought both a sense of emptiness and relief.

Farewell, readers, I will miss you. The site will be left up so that future readers can read any of the stories they wish. But nothing new is coming.

 Again, thank you for reading.

 My new anthology, Huntinghawk, has now been released by JMS Books as a print version. Hope you’ll give it a read.

 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

X: @markwildyr

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

 Mark

 Alas… no more posts.

Tommy

 Markwildyr.com, Post #261

Image courtesy of Freepik:

 Hope you had a great St. Patrick’s Day and didn’t get pinched too often for failing to wear green.

 This week we have an original story not a rerun or a guest post. I hope you enjoy the story of a youth struggling to make the conversion from Tommy to Tom.

 

* * * *

TOMMY

By Mark Wildyr

 

“Tommy?”

I bristled at the name, but that was just my mother’s way. I was Tommy here at home but Tom at school. Except for Marge Whitsock—and I didn’t mind the familiar from her, just like she didn’t object to being Margie to me.

“Yes, Mom.”

“Will you run to the store. I’ve got so much to do today, it would be a big help.”

“Sure.” Any excuse to drive my ’85 Mustang. I’ve had it for a whole semester now, but still got a kick out of buckling into the seat and feeling the power of the beast. “What’cha need?”

It turned out to be quite a list, but what the heck. The only thing was, I was a little ambivalent about entering Hawthorne’s Grocery. Mr. Hawthorne was okay, but his son was something else. Neil was in my senior class at Putnam High, and I had a funny relationship with him. Relationship? That was a stretch. I wasn’t even a blip on Neil’s radar. He was the only other kid who still called me Tommy, and that was because it kept me an inferior to our town’ football running back hero.

At first, I thought I’d lucked out, and he wasn’t working this Saturday. But as I left the store, Neil pulled up in his Camaro and walked over to where I was loading groceries into my trunk.

“Take the cart back in for you, Tommy,” he offered.

“Thanks.”

“How you doing? Ready for graduation?”

Wow. He was staying for conversation. “As much as I can be.”

He grinned, going from just good looking to downright handsome. “Yeah, I get you. Be great getting out of high school, but that means ripping the old gang to shreds. I hear you’re going to State too. See you there, I guess”

I hesitated. Might as well get this over and done with. “Uh… you think you could call me Tom when we get there?”

The grin died. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“That’s a term of affection.”

He grabbed my now-empty cart and headed for the store. I watched him until he disappeared through the automatic double doors… with my mouth hanging open, I’m sure.

****

Football season ended, spring arrived, and everyone concentrated on proms and getting ready for tests and graduation. Finals were a busy time for me, not just preparing for the exams but also doing some tutoring. I often wondered if I shouldn’t become a teacher because I liked helping other students prepare for the biggest academic event of their year.

This semester, I got a surprise when our science teacher Mrs. Levy asked me to give Neil Hawthorne a hand. Neil had never needed help before. I’d had a couple of classes with him this semester and knew him to be a bright guy. Yeah, he had it all. Looks, athletic prowess, and brains.

Nonetheless, I swallowed my surprise and agreed to give him a hand. That very afternoon, he approached me as I left the school building and headed for my Mustang.

“Hey, Tommy, wait up!”

I obediently halted until he reached my side, and then we walked to the parking lot.

“Mrs. Levy told me you’d agreed to help. Appreciate it. When can we get together?"

“On one condition,” I said as a brainstorm struck. “You call me Tom from now on.”

He gave me a look. “Yeah, sure. Agreed. Okay?”

“Okay. When do you want to start.”

“My folks are going to my aunt and uncle’s house for dinner this evening. How about we grab burgers and meet for a session.”

“Sure.” My turn to flash him a look. “Didn’t know you had trouble in science. In any class, as a matter of fact.”

“Not exactly trouble. Just like to have a firmer footing, I guess you could say.”

We settled on a time, got into our respective vehicles, and went our separate ways.

****

I showed up at his house right on the dot. Per agreement, he’d stopped on the way home from work and got our burgers and fries. As we sat down and popped lids on our drinks—he was diet Coke; I was regular Dr. Pepper—he leaned back and spread his legs comfortably. We ate in silence for a minute or two before he hit me with a question.

“How come you don’t like to be called Tommy?”

“It’s a little boy’s name,” I came back at him.

“Or a term of… familiarity, I guess you could say.”

“Maybe. But it seems to me like it’s saying you’re the grown-up and I’m the little kid.”

He took another bite and munched with a thoughtful look on his face before taking it a step further.

“It’s kinda like Pepe being Pepito.”

“Yeah. Like Pepe being little Pepe,” I countered.

He got that cogitating look again. “Familiarity.”

I shook my head. “Dissing.”

“So I’m calling you ‘Little Tom,’ huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you?” he asked, putting his greasy napkin on the plate and downing the last of his fries.

“Am I what?”

“Little Tom?”

“Hell, Neil, you got eyes. I’m about as tall as you are.”

“Not talking about how tall you are.”

“Then what—” I interrupted myself with a choking sound. “You mean….”

“Exactly.”

My face heated up, and my cheeks stung. “You suggesting we measure?”

“Why not, Tom. Or maybe Tommy’s more appropriate.”

I didn’t know what to say, much less what to do. I wasn’t into sports, so I didn’t spend time in the locker room like lots of jocks, but word around school was Neil had about the biggest one on campus. I couldn’t help it; my eyes went south.

Neil was sprawled in his seat, one foot beneath the chair, the other stretched out in front of him. A noticeable lump emphasized the fullness of his groin. I’m sure my face got redder as I realized I was curious about… it.

He moved, taking me by surprise. His hands dealt with his belt buckle in one second flat. Then he hesitated with his fingers on the top button of his fly. “Well? You chicken?”

“I… I….”

He redid his belt. “Figured. So I guess you’ll stay Tommy.”

“Wait!” I cried. The desperation in my voice surprised me. “Hell, if it’ll put that crap to rest, why not.” I tackled my own belt.”

“Let’s go to my room, you know, in case my folks come home unexpectedly.”

“What?” Now there was panic in my tone. I hadn’t realized my voice was so expressive.

“Just a precaution. They never come back before nine or ten. They play bridge with my aunt and uncle.”

He rose and strode to his room, me following like a puppy dog. As soon as the door closed behind us, his belt was undone and his fly popped. Then he hesitated, waiting for me, I guess.

So I tackled my trousers, feeling foolish when they fell around my ankles. His did too.

“Now the underwear,” he said, rolling down his jockeys.

I flid down my boxers, and they joined my trousers on the floor. I stood with my mouth open as he stepped out of his clothes. Gossip was accurate. Neil was well-endowed.

“Tom,” he said, “Congratulations. You’re carrying more’n I thought.”

“Uh… thanks.” Not knowing what else to do, I grabbed for my britches.

“Wait. I want a better look. It seems to be growing.”

If possible, my cheeks turned rosier… all four of them. It was true, my thing started rising like it was hunting for something. I got even more flustered when his did too. And it was swelling up a whole lot faster than mine. It finally dawned on me we were standing bare-assed staring at one another’s bone.

“Impressive,” he noted. “Wanna touch.”

“I-I guess.” Had my gulp been as loud to him as it sounded to me?

My knees almost gave way when his fist closed around me. He twisted sideways, presenting himself, and I grabbed on like clutching for a lifeline. Wow! Hard and warm and throbbing.

He turned me loose to shrug out of his tank top before pulling me down on the bed with him. Wow! What a build. Wow? Was I reduced to a blubbering idiot only capable of wows? No. He was magnificent. Didn’t know they made chests for eighteen-year-old boys that rippled like that. The pecs were hard slabs; aureoles big and brown and… strangely unsettling. Made me want to touch one. So I did.

“Ahhh,” he purred, putting a hand behind my head and pulling me to him. My lips sorta fastened on like I was three months old and started sucking.

“Ahhh,” he said again, adding, “Tom.”

I switched to the other one without being asked.

“Ohhh, that gets to me,” he mumbled. He sounded discombobulated, as well, and that gave me some confidence. I put a hand to his abs and had the thought everything this guy possessed was hard as a rock.

Neil lay back on his pillows and let me root around for a moment before grabbing my head in his hands, centered it where he wanted and pulled me to him. Can’t say I was exactly surprised—given what had gone on before—but I was kinda shocked at what I experienced. Wasn’t disgust or revulsion It was more like a thrill that it was me giving this great-looking guy what he wanted. So I set to work making it as good for him as I could.

He panted hard and moaned and twitched now and then until he finally let out a gasp and called out.

Oh! Tommy… Tommy!

How about that? I’d gone from Tommy to Tom and back to Tommy in the span of a single evening. But you know what? I didn’t mind his “Tommy” this time. Not at all.

 *.*.*.*.

Tuned out to be quite a tutoring session, didn’t it? But seemed to me like the wrong guy did the tutoring. Depends upon the subject matter, I guess. Wonder if they’ll end up as roommates at State?

 My new anthology, Huntinghawk,was released in February as an Ebook by JMS Books with the print version to follow soon. Hope you’ll give it a read.

 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

X: @markwildyr

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

 See you later.

 

 Mark

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

Shamus Lazrus Shuttleford (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #251

 Image Courtesy of Masterfile (Royalty-Free Div)

 

This week, we’ll finish the brief saga of Shamus Lazrus Shuttleford, an ordinary guy living an ordinary life… until he sees the neighborhood kid in the back yard engaged in unnatural activities with another boy. So let’s see what he does about it.

 

* * * *

            SHAMUS LAZRUS SHUTTLEFORD

The opportunity to confront young Timothy about his improprieties didn’t arise until the weekend. Shamus had just finished mowing the back lawn when Timothy appeared at his fence.

“Want me to edge it for you, Mr. S?” he asked in a pleasant baritone.

“I wouldn’t mind if you do, Timothy. I’ll fix some lemonade we can enjoy afterward.”

A wide grin split the youth’s handsome features. “Deal.”

As he watched Timothy, clad only in shorts made from cut-off Levis and canvas slippers, Shamus was struck by how controlled this young man was. More than most eighteen-year-olds, he wagered. With that realization, came the understanding that Timothy hadn’t been seduced the other day, he’d willingly collaborated in his debauchery. That thought was succeeded by another: did those shorts have a zipper or buttons? Shamus’ cheeks burned with that question. Why had it even crossed his mind?

Keeping an eye on Timothy’s progress, he appeared on the back porch with a pitcher of freshly squeezed lemonade the moment the boy put the edger back into the shed. He’d long ago learned his offer of monetary payment would be spurned, so lemonade was the substitute.

The boy rinsed his hands in the tap at the side of shed and dried them on the seat of his jeans before taking the lounger beside Shamus and accepting a tall, sweating glass of ade.

“Thanks, Mr. S. This’ll go down easy on a day like this. Hot for May, isn’t it?”

“Unseasonably.”

The boy chatted easily about school and the Leopards, the high school football team he played for. But he wasn’t a selfish talker, he laced his description of his days with questions about Shamus’ family and work at the bookkeeping firm. Pleasant company, Shamus acknowledged for the ten-thousandth time. Had been since he was in elementary school. Shamus supposed they’d bonded so well because he was a fair mechanic and over the years had helped Timothy keep a parade of clunkers running. Likely why the boy was reluctant to accept payment for his help in the yard.

Eventually, the news of the week was exhausted, and conversation languished. Now was the proper time to admonish the lad over his behavior the other day. Even so, Shamus was reluctant to spoil the pleasant mood.

After a short silence, the boy speared him with a look. “Anything you want to say to me, Mr. S”

“Beg pardon?”

“I know you saw me in the back yard the other day. Saw the blinds on your kitchen window close.”

“I… well….”

“I’ve known for a long time you could see our hidey spot in the back yard. But I thought you’d be at work that day.”

“I took that afternoon off.”

“My bad luck, I guess.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll say nothing to your parents. But you should refrain from such actions. It’s… it’s unnatural.”

“Not according to the research I’ve read. Lotsa guys do it. Don’t get me wrong. I just let this buddy have his way every once in a while. Some researchers say masturbation’s healthy.”

Shamus felt his eyes widen. “That was not masturbation.”

Timothy grinned at him. “No, it was better. But I don’t let it get out of control. Bert would blow me every day if I’d let him, but I only let him in every month or so.”

“Timothy, I’m not sure such conversation is appropriate.”

“Why not? You saw me, so who else would I talk about it with? Sorry if it offended you.”

“Well… no. Disturbed, maybe. But offended?” Shamus licked his lips. “I don’t know. My concern was for you.”

“Thanks, Mr S.”

A small silence grew before Timothy spoke again.

“How about you? What do you do… you know, for relief? Never see a woman over here. And you don’t go out much.”

Shamus was certain his ears were a bright red. He should have been in control of this conversation, but this teen was taking it where he wanted.

“That is definitely not an appropriate question.”

“Why not?” Timothy asked. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Why can’t friends discuss things like that? You know, intimate things.”

“You should go to your father for such advice.”

“I’m not asking for advice. I’m asking how you take care of your need. I know Mom and Dad still go at it, and you’re no older than they are.”

“Timothy!”

“Sorry. But don’t get me wrong, Mr. S. I like girls.” A grin grew on the youth’s lips. “A lot. Have some hot times, you know, enough to get to aching. But never scored. Not yet. Soon, I hope. And in the meantime, gotta do something to keep the lid on.”

As the boy fell silent, Shamus grew aware of a heat building in his loins. He lifted a leg to hide a growing condition.

“Too late,” Timothy said, a laugh hiding in his voice. “I already saw it.” He indicated the large bulge at his own groin. “Got to me too. See. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

Shamus didn’t know what was happening to him. Maybe the boy’s voice was hypnotic, his powerful personal presence too much for Shamus to handle. But whatever it was, he allowed the boy to talk on. Then he was aware of the boy’s hand touching him. Little Timothy’s hand—but now, he was big Timothy, a strapping six-footer with wide shoulders, narrow waist, trim hips and long legs lightly covered in hair.

As he moved his hand to the youth’s groin, a long-repressed memory emerged from his fogged brain. The memory of a golden-haired youth with emerald eyes from his youth. Jimmy. Ah, the things they’d done. The pleasure they’d shared.

Shamus grunted as Timothy’s fingers attacked his fly.

 *.*.*.*.

Sometimes conversations go awry. I wonder how Shamus will regard this one in the space of a day or two later. Not certain, but I’m sure of one thing. He’ll remember it for a long, long time.

 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.

The Farmer and The Miller

Markwildyr.com, Post #249

 Image Courtesy of Depositphotos

 Last week’s look at Echoes of the Flute got a slew of hits but little comment.

 This week, we’ll try a little flash fiction. Enjoy.

 

* * * *

            THE FARMER AND THE MILLER

I don’t remember a day in my life without Dillyn. I’m sure there were some, you know, vacations, illnesses, and the like, but my mom has pictures of us crawling around in the same play pen and sleeping in one another’s arms.

Our families were next-door neighbors—still are, by the way—when both our mothers gave birth in the same month, almost on the same day. I was a day older than Dillyn… or Dil as I’ve called him for years. He calls me Thew… a habit he hasn’t broken since early childhood when he couldn’t pronounce Matthew. His last name’s Farmer, and mine’s Miller. Nowadays, our friends referred to us as the Farmer and the Miller and claimed you rarely see one without the other. Dynamic Duo, they called us, although no one’s sure who’s Batman and who’s Robin.

Those roles changed over the years. Mom said in our playpen days, I was dominant. That remained true throughout grade school but began to change in our middle school years. Dil started making decisions formerly left to me. By the time we hit our freshman year, to my mind he was the boss, although our peers sometimes felt otherwise.

Don’t get the wrong idea. We were buddies, but not to the exclusion of others. We both had a wide set of friends, mostly overlapping, not always. For example, I got along with a kid called Bud, who was universally considered the school sissy. Dil didn’t. He fraternized with a football bully named Zack, while I couldn’t stand the guy. But when push came to shove, it was still the Farmer and the Miller.

Our junior year, Dil got a lot more interested in girls than I did, although I dated and enjoyed female companionship. To be honest, that was likely because after dates—usually but not always double dates—I got a kick out of discussing them with Dil in the darkness of the car parked somewhere quiet. There were lots of near “moments,” but we always kept our hands away from where they wanted to wander. Dil got as big a kick out of these late-night talks as I did. I’m sure of that because after a while, neither of us tried to hide our erections. Of course, we didn’t take care of them either. Not until each was alone in his own bedroom later… or at least that’s the way I handled things.

After a while, I noticed something kind of odd. At the moment I reached orgasm, it wasn’t the date of the night I envisioned, it was an image of Dil suffering a boner in the car earlier that night. Whoa. What was going on?

It took until my senior year to figure that out. I’m a slow learner, sometimes. Book smart, but life but life dumb. It finally dawned on me I wanted to do something with Dil. Something personal, intimate. Something I’d never dream of doing with anyone else. I wasn’t exactly sure of what that was, but it had something to do with us sitting in a dark car with dongs trying to bust through our trousers.

Okay, problem identified, but how did I want to satisfy that urge… no, that need? Did I want us to simply watch one another masturbate? Uh-uh. That wasn’t enough. Did I want to take care of his erection? Well, yeah, if he’d take care of mine. How? Jerking off was the obvious answer. But I knew from teen talk there were other ways of satisfying a guy. But I was afraid of those because of what he might think of me afterward. But if he reciprocated, wouldn’t we be in the same boat? This would take some thought. Some planning.

And thought, I did. Not much planning, but lots of hot, frustrated thinking. And those thoughts and mental images brought some of the most satisfying orgasms I’d had to date. Those could be laid squarely at Dil’s door. He was the one claiming my carnal thoughts and desires. So what could I do about it?

Our after-date discussions in a dark car parked in private places started to become torture for me. A hundred times—an exaggeration, I’m sure—I started to touch him. And I did, in fact. I’d reach for his groin, lose my nerve, and end up gripping his shoulder and saying something stupid like “hang in there, Dil” or a more bold “I’m here for you, guy.” I was usually in pain by the time we went home.

One night when we met after our respective dates, I crawled in Dil’s Dad’s pickup, and figured he had tales to tell. If he’d borrowed the pickup, which had a camper on the back, that meant he was pretty sure he’d score. As soon as I settled in the seat, I knew it hadn’t happened.

“Man, I almost got there tonight,” he groaned. “I was this close! When she put her hand on me, I knew it was gonna happen.”

“But it didn’t.” I hoped my elation didn’t show.

“Everything but! Man, I hurt. I need to poke something.”

“So take care of it.” I think a dare hid in my voice.

“Right now?”

“Why not? I’ve seen you naked in the boy’s locker lots of times.”

He glanced down at himself. “Not like this.”

I laughed. “Dil, how many nights have we sat in a car like this eyeballing one another’s hard-ons? Slide your jeans down and take care of it.”

“Not… not unless you do too.”

I reached for my belt. “Not a problem.”

“Not here,” he said. “In back.”

When I followed him into the camper, I knew how confident he’d been about getting in his date’s pants. An air mattress and blankets cushioned the hard steel bed. He even had pillows. I started to make a smart-ass remark, but Dil was already spread out and shoving his britches down around his ankles. His impressive manhood reached for the sky and pulsed, announcing it was ready for action.

Now that my moment had arrived, I didn’t know what to do.

“Come on,” Dil said, impatience evident.

I made sure the door was latched and scooted over beside him to do what I’d always wanted, I took him in hand.

“Man, that feels good,” he said. He pushed me away to kick out of his trousers and shuck his shirt. “You too. You promised.”

“Yeah, sure.” In a moment, I was as naked as he was, my need as evident as his.

“Good boner, bro,” he said, grasping me.

I almost fainted from sudden elation. “Oohhh.” I think that came from me. I grabbed him and started flailing away. After a few moments, he said up.

“That’s not… what I wanted.”

“What do you want?”

“What does Bud do for you?”

“Bud? What do you mean, what does he do for me. He doesn’t do anything for me. We’re casual friends, that’s all.”

“I always figured he… you know, took care of you.”

“Never.”

“Well, jerking off’s not what I need.” With that announcement, he crawled on top of me and started hunching my belly. Felt sort of good… in an odd way.

“Better,” he said, his cheek on mine, his lips at my ear. “But not quite right. Turn over and let me spoon against you.”

“Dil, I don’t wanna—”

“I know,” he panted. “I won’t, but just wanna see how it feels.”

Obediently, I turned on my side, and I had to admit his hard, buff body spooned against me felt good. Better than anything ever had. He began moving, and that felt good as well. He reached around and took me in hand, and that felt even better. After a few minutes of pure heaven, he paused to move a way a bit, and then a hot poker rammed my insides.

“Oh!” I yelled, struggling to move away. But he held me tight and continued to move against me.

“Oh, yeah!” he said with feeling.

After a minute, the pain subsided and I echoed his feelings.

Ohhh, yeahhh!”

 

*.*.*.*.

Does this remind anyone of some incident in his/her life? Bring back memories of days gone by? I can think of one such moment in my life… well, it was similar, at any rate. Enough so that I’ll relive it tonight.

 Until next time,

 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. 

What’s in a Name (A Guest Post)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #225

 Image courtesy of clipartix.com:

 

This week, Don Travis and I are guest posting each other’s blog sites. The one he’s chosen to give me is a flash piece called “What’s in a Name.” Let’s see, shall we?

 

* * * *

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

By Don Travis

 Mirrian-Webster defines corker as something exceptional. If so, Aiden Corker was aptly named. That described him right down to his toenails, and believe me, I’d seen him right down to those bare toenails. Not like I would have preferred to see him, you understand, but in the locker room at the pool or in the showers after a game of golf. To me, he was walking perfection. Handsome. Built. Bold. Smart. Considerate. And—unfortunately—totally heterosexual. I was so consumed by living on his fringes that I’d even looked up the meaning of his first name. Aiden. English meaning a fiery young man. Nailed it!

I had an unusual Christian name, as well, although my family name of Smith was about as common as you can get. My first name was kinda symbolic, as well. Eban was likewise English and meant stone. And that’s the way I got around Aiden… rock hard. My mind went sort of flinty, too. My tongue might as well have been stone because it didn’t function very well in his presence. If you get the idea I was awed by Aaiden, you’d be right.

The summer after we graduated Rainsville High—me as valedictorian and Aaiden as salutatorian—I attended a scout camp in the mountains in the northern part of the state. To my delight—and terror—Aiden was there, as well. I almost packed up and went home when I found he shared a bungalow with me and four other guys. But he made it easy, taking the time to talk to me like I was a regular guy, not a tongue-tied idiot. Before long, I could say “good morning” and “good afternoon” without stuttering.

Halfway through the camp, the scoutmasters sent us on field trips, one of which was overnight… and I was paired with Aiden. I enjoyed the walk among the fragrant pines and spruce and along ridges that opened to vast vistas across broad canyons. Jays and other birds flitted among the branches and chirped at us as we passed. I fed a chipmunk scraps from my mess kit before scouring the stainless-steel vessel with sand.

Twilight found us on a flat piece of ground near the peak of a mountain at about 11,000 feet. It had been a glorious day, and I’d not given thought to sleeping arrangements. So I was surprised to find myself helping set up a two-man tent and horrifically thrilled that Aiden was pounding pegs into the stony earth right beside me. We would share the tent. Wow!

He was so casual about it that I soon put aside my apprehension and enjoyed his company. He really was a great guy… in addition to being handsome and sexy and totally desirable. Later, when we turned in, I watched out of the corners of my eyes as my tentmate stripped to his skivvies—black Haines briefs—and slipped into his sleeping bag. He did it in a hurry, not because he was shy, but because at this altitude, the nights were cold even in the summer. I wondered if he eyed my plain white jockeys as I crawled into my own bag.

“Brrr,” Aiden said. “Shoulda brought PJs.”

“Yeah, they should have warned us.” I bit down on my tongue after that pedestrian reply.

To my delight, we spent a few minutes talking about the day’s hike and a couple of the counselors before he doused the flashlight and settled down for the night. It took me a long time to go to sleep. I kept fighting the urge to reach across the couple of feet that separated us to make sure he was really there. If nothing else, I could always say I spent the night with Aiden Corker. Let them make of that what they will.

 **** 

I wasn’t really asleep. It was too cold for that, but I was in a stupor when a hand shook my shoulder.

“D-damn, Eban, I’m freezing. How about you?”

“Cold. Uncomfortable. But not freezing.”

“Your fart bag must be better than mine. Can I crawl in with you? I’ll put my bag over the top of us.”

My mouth went dry as I nodded my head before realizing he couldn’t see me. “Y-yeah. Sure.”

Then Aiden Corker, my idol, my wet dream, unzipped my bag, told me to turn on my side, and crawled into bed with me. I barely noticed how cold his flesh was, all I knew was that Aiden’s chest pressed flush against my back and Aiden’s basket was shoved against my butt.

“Better,” he pronounced after a moment. “You all right?”

I wasn’t. A vital part of me was mimicking the English meaning of my first name, and my sphincter was twitching like crazy. But I swallowed hard and mumbled, “Yeah.”

“Kinda close quarters, isn’t it?” he remarked as he settled himself more comfortably, which involved pressing his package against me. Was it my imagination, or was something taking place down there? Whoops. Not my imagination.

“You know,” he said, putting his arm around me and pulling me closer. “I’ve wondered what this would be like since we were both sophomores.”

I didn’t have to do a thing while Aiden lived up to his name. A fiery young man!

* * * *

Thanks, Don, for lending me one of your stories. Hope my readers enjoyed it. Likewise, hope yours enjoy mine on your blog site.

 More Wildyr Tales, a second anthology of some of my stories, was published as an ebook on the 24^th of last month. A print version should follow shortly thereafter.

 JMS Books accepted the third anthology called Gabacho and Other Wildyr Stories and scheduled it for release in January of next year.

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

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

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. 

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.