Every Scar's a Story

markwildyr.com, Post #71

Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Got quite a few hits on Don Travis’s “Piquant.” Hope you enjoyed his story. Today, we’re going to look at a piece of my flash fiction.

*****

EVERY SCAR’S A STORY

            Professor Goddard wrapped up the class, “So remember, every scar has a story. It’s just that sometimes the message gets lost with the passage of time.”

            As was his wont, Goddard had wandered from the subject of human cultures to human actions. My first year at college was interesting but strangely impersonal. But Goddard’s parting remarks today struck close to home. My most prominent scar was to the psyche, and I recalled the story behind that scar vividly.

            Darvon Halter graduated high school a year ahead of me as a celebrated jock. I did not fully appreciate the nature of my attraction to him until my junior year when I noticed not only his handsome features, but also his appealing frame. I’d been aware of his hunky appearance all along but thought I was merely envious. Long, lean muscles rolled and roped as he moved.

            But my junior year was a milestone. That’s when I became aware of the real reason my eyes always strayed to Dar whenever he was on the scene, and it had nothing to do with envy. I was in love. Or at least “in infatuation.” Strange, because I was a boy, too.

            I’d always been more comfortable in the company of my own gender, preferring the joshing of guys to the gushing of girls. I didn’t feel any particular sexual attraction to any of them, merely preferred their company. Until a switch got flipped in my junior year, and I wanted to put my hands all over Darwin Halter. Don’t think anybody else was aware of my hidden desires, but Dar was.

            He showed it by flashing a smile and a wink on the sly sometimes. Occasionally giving me a ride in his ancient Studebaker that everyone called his “babemobile.” Whenever I was in the car with him alone, he’d spread his legs wide to give me a good view. Like as not, he’d glance over and deliver a slow smile. Dumb me would just sit and stare and try to keep from panting.

             Apparently, Dar got tired of pussyfooting. One night, he caught me walking home from the movies and offered a ride. After a couple of blocks, he pulled to the side of the road… beneath a street lamp yet… and performed the old spread-the-legs maneuver. I gulped audibly.

            After a couple of seconds, he snorted. “Crap, you need an invitation? Go ahead.”

            “G-go ahead and what?”

            “Cop a feel. That’s what you want, right?”

            “Is… is it okay?”

            He laughed. “Hell, it belongs to me. If I say so, it must be all right.”

            The most marvelous feeling swept over me. My hero… my guy had picked me. Wasn’t any girl sitting beside him in the babemobile. It was me, Wally Hill. My hand snaked over and rested on his upper leg. Then it moved again, this time cupping his core and feeling him react. My mouth went dry. I shivered.

            He closed his legs, trapping my hand. “Hold on.”

            The old Studebaker roared to life and shot down the road. As besotted as I was, I recognized he was heading out of town. A chill swept my back at the same time my cheeks flushed. Was it going to happen? Then I frowned. What was going to happen? I had no clear idea of that… but Dar did.

            He no sooner parked in an isolated spot near the river than he undid his pants and shoved them to the floorboard. I lost my mind then and did everything he wanted, exactly as he dictated, even though this wasn’t what I’d imagined we’d do. Didn’t seem so romantic… but at least it was intimate. Something he enjoyed. I know that from the moaning and groaning and occasional encouraging words that came from him.

            That was the story. The scar came the next day when I went into the boy’s room at school and found a message inked on the wall of the stall. “Wally gives good head!”

            I went woozy for a minute. Someone must have seen us. Dar wouldn’t…. I sat paralyzed, unable to move. Of course, he would. He’d played me for a sucker. Gave me what I wanted… but in the way he wanted… just so he could broadcast it to the world. I tried erasing the message but couldn’t. I inked it over and fled the stall, my cheeks blazing. I imagined the guys standing at the urinals smirked at my passing.

            But there was more story and more scarring yet to come. Two days later, when Dar pulled up beside me as I walked home from school, I crawled into his car… hating myself as much as I hated him. We ended up down by the river again, and I gave him what he wanted. I couldn’t help myself. I coveted him. I lied to myself by imagining I was the only one he did this with… ignoring his reputation with the girls… convincing myself he’d only written that hateful message out of feelings of guilt.

            You can imagine the rest. The messages still came… as did a couple of his buddies, and before long I was known as the town queer. Of course, Dar graduated and left for college before long, leaving me behind with my scar and my story and another year to go before I could escape to some university far away from home.

*****

Sounds as if Darwin was not only a celebrated jock, but also a certified jerk. Can you plot Wally’s future from that point on? Did he become so repressed that he denied who he was, or did he find his way out of a mental shell to express himself as he was? It’s a real question, and one lots of young men have struggled with in the past and will in the future. I hope you enjoyed the reading.

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 (yes, it’s mine, even if I borrowed it from Don Travis): Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

Until next time.

Mark

New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.

Jack and Truett

There wasn't much comment on the last post, although there was some readership activity. Wasn’t thought-provoking enough, I guess.

This time, let’s try another piece of flash fiction.

*****

Courtesy: freegreatpictures.com

JACK AND TRUETT

          Pissed and only high—not drunk—I drove off campus and into the parking lot of the golf course that backed up to the gym and sat listening to the music floating out of the prom and watching the lights reflected in one of the water hazards. I got out of the car and walked one or two of the holes, ending up on the wooden deck of a refreshment stand close to the gym where I leaned against the railing and tried to sort out my feelings.

          A week ago, I’d gone back into the men’s locker room to get something I’d forgotten and caught Jack servicing the football squad’s quarterback. Astounded, I watched from hiding as he then took care of the running back. My guts tied in a knot, I slunk away with my emotions whipping around in my head like crazy. Was I disgusted to find out Jack was queer or did the pain come from the loss of my lifelong best friend?

          Now, as I stood in an uncertain mood, vaguely aware of music floating from the gym and the grating sound of crickets in the night, I wasn’t aware anyone was nearby until he spoke.

          “You all right, Tru?”

          I whirled around in surprise. Everyone called me Truett except Jack. “What are you doing  here?”

          “Saw you leave and didn’t know how much you’d had to drink,” Jack said. “Saw the headlights in the parking lot, so walked over. Worried about you, bro. You haven’t been you lately.”

          “I’m not drunk,” I said, surprised that he’d bothered to check. “Go on back.”

          “What are you going to do?”

          “Stay and listen to the music.”

          “It’s kinda nice here. Maybe I’ll stay with you.”

          “You like to dance, so go back and dance.” I had to bite my tongue to keep from adding… with Ben and Jerry.

          Wordlessly, he held out his arm as if he had a partner and moved to the mellow music. “I can dance here, see?” He whirled gracefully.

          “You don’t have a partner. It’s not the same.”

          “Sure I do. Come on, Tru, dance with me. You haven’t danced with me all night.”

          “I haven’t danced with you ever,” I snarled.

          “Sure you have. Remember when our moms insisted we go to a dance class? We danced together there.”

          I snorted a laugh. “We were afraid of the girls back then.”

          “But until we got some confidence, you danced with me.”

          “That didn’t count. We were kids then. Hell, we didn’t even have….”

          “Hair down there,” he finished my unspoken thought. “Come on, you’re wasting the music.” He danced over to me and caught my hand.

          It was easier to give in, so I found myself in his arms moving to a slow number. Gradually, I relaxed and allowed him to draw me closer. I swallowed hard but didn’t pull away. He seemed totally caught up in the music, guiding us around the small platform effortlessly.

          “You’re a good dancer, Tru,” he murmured.

          “Do a lot better when I’m leading,” I grumbled. Abruptly, he switched positions, and I was leading. I paused before grasping him firmly and guiding him around the improvised dance floor.
            After a while, I sort of enjoyed myself. When the number ended, I started to move away, but he refused to let go.

          “You saw us, didn’t you? In the locker room, I mean. I figured it out because you haven’t acted the same since.”

          “How’m I supposed to act when I find my best friend… doing that for two football jocks?”

          “Are you going to let me explain?”

          The band in the gym struck up another slow number, and he began to move again.

          “Cut it out, Jack. You don’t have to explain—”

          “I do if it’s going to tear us apart.”

          “What you did tore us apart, not your lack of explanation.” I tried to move away again, but he held on tightly.

          Ignoring my sigh of exasperation, he danced as he talked. “Ben and Jerry gave me a ride after a movie one night and we went out to the lake with a bottle. After I drank more than my share, I let them force me.”

          “Why?”

          “In the first place there were two of them and I was drunk and—”

          “And what?”

          “And I just shut my eyes and pretended it was you.”

         I came to an abrupt halt.  “What!”

          “That’s the only way I got through it. I thought about you while I was doing them.”

          “But why?”

          “Because I’ve wanted to do that to you for a long time.”

          I was so astounded that I forgot to break out of his embrace. I forgot to stop dancing. I forgot everything… except I now knew what had tied me in knots that day. Jealousy. Plain old green-eyed jealousy.

          “B-but you did it again in the locker room.”

          “Closed my eyes again. Figured it was the closest to you I’d ever get.” He arched his left eyebrow. “Was I wrong? I hope.”

          I relaxed and pulled him closer, listening to the dreamy music, feeling the hunky guy pressed against me, and inhaling the scent of new-mown grass.

          Prom night was going to turn out to be stupendous!

*****

I sincerely hope you enjoyed this piece, and that it reminded you of something in your past..

Please remember that DSP Publications released Cut Hand on October 31. I’d appreciate it if you give the book a look. Amazon permits you to read a short passage. This is the first novel in the Strobaw Family Saga series.

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 some 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

Thanks for being a reader.

Mark

The next blog at 6:00 a.m. on the first day of the succeeding month.

What You See Ain’t Always What You Get

Another short, short piece this week. Hope you enjoy it.

*****

WHAT YOU SEE AIN’T ALWAYS WHAT YOU GET

     When Hollis Littleton saw Rafe Hawkfield give him one more of those surreptitious glances south of the belt, he decided it was time to make a move. His friend of a lifetime had grown up to be good looking but a bit… androgynous. That was the word. Androgynous.

     Hollis decided to have some fun in pursuit of a little action. He spread the knees he’d been propping his elbows on as they sat in the grass at Albuquerque’s Roosevelt Park and glanced down at himself. “What? My fly open or something?”

     Just like Hollis knew he would, Rafe turned pink. The question was ridiculous, of course, because he was wearing pull-up walking shorts without a fly to leave open. “You interested in what I got down there?” he asked.

     Rafe went darker on the color scale. Beet red. Hollis had never seen anyone quite that color before. He kept after him.

     “I’ll bet you think about mine every time you take yours out and play with it.”

     His friend swallowed hard. His hand shook as he rubbed his cheek. “N-no. Everybody says that’s wrong.”

     “Wrong?” Hollis asked, playing with him some. “Your dad caught you jerking off, didn't he?" Now Rafe resembled a ripe tomato. "That's it, isn't it. Probably told you whacking your pole will make you go blind? If that’s true, I oughta be at least wearing glasses by now.”

     Rafe’s color faded a little. He no longer looked like he was about to bust a vein. “No, but you oughta, you know… save your stuff for when you get married.”

     Hollis let out a howl. “Come on, you saying you never jerk off?”

     Rafe went crimson again. “Try not to.”

     He took another look at Rafe and let his eyes wander south. His friend was sitting cross-legged, but Hollis could tell he was swelling up down there from the way he tried to hide things with his hands.

     Hollis arched an eyebrow as he felt himself grow. He smiled when Rafe’s eyes locked on. “Come on, now. You want to. Admit it.”

     Rafe licked his lips. “Y-yeah. I do. Wanted to for a long time.”

     Hollis pressed his fingers against his pant leg, outlining himself. “Here’s your opportunity.”

     Rafe moved his hands and gave Hollis a view. Man, he’d ballooned up something fierce. Hollis found himself taking a little more interest in that direction. He glanced around. No one was nearby. This was a hilly park with plenty of trees and shrubs. They weren’t hidden, but nobody was taking any interest in them.

     “Can’t lop them out here,” Hollis said. “You got any place to go? My mom and sister are home.”

     Eyes still glued to Hollis’s erection, Rafe shook his head. “No.”

     “Isn’t your mom working?”

     Rafe tore his eyes away and met Hollis’s gaze. “I meant, no, I can’t do it.”

     Man, you’re about to rip your trousers over there. Why can’t you?”

     “Just can’t. That’s all.” Rafe straightened his shoulders. “We still playing softball tomorrow?”

     “Well…yeah, sure. But….”

     His voice died away as Rafe stood revealing an unbelievably large lump before stuffing both hands in his pockets. To make things less obvious, probably.

     “Where… where you going?” Hollis asked.

     “Promised my dad I’d mow the lawn. Guess I’ll go do it now. You know, work things off.”

     Too surprised to protest, Hollis leaned back on his hands and watched his friend stride away. Rafe didn’t look so androgynous now. As a matter of fact, he looked like an eighteen-year-old man making his way down the hill and across the green. He paused to kick the ball a couple of times with kids playing soccer in a flat area.

     Hollis suddenly smelled the grass surrounding him and detected a hint of honeysuckle in the air. The sun found its way through the overhead elm and warmed his shoulders. Saliva flooded his mouth as he wondered what Rafe would taste like. Even over the din of the kids playing soccer, he heard the throaty roar of Rafe’s Mustang.

     Just as he had awakened to his environment, Hollis grappled with the sudden confirmation of who he was… and what he wanted.

     And he blinked with the understanding that he was all right with it.

*****

Isn’t self-discovery the sweetest thing of all? Let me know what you think at markwildyr@aol.com.

Thanks for being a reader.

New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. on the first of each month.