Li’l Honey Bunny (Part 2 of 3 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #259

Image Courtesy of Freepik:

 

Hunky Bunny’s been on Cliff’s mind so much he doesn’t know how much more he can stand. Now they’re alone together drinking beer after a bowling session. Right at the moment, they’re talking about Bunny’s coming college experience. Is this it? Let’s see.

 

* * * *

LI’L HONEY BUNNY

“Well,” I said uncertainly. “You have your fraternities and your sororities—”

“I know that.”

“And you have your girls’ dorms and your boys’ dorms.”

“I know that too.”

Except there, they’re called women’s dorms and men’s dorms.”

“Aw, come on, Cliff.”

“And you have those who will and those who won’t. Women, that is.” I paused and tried to sound slightly drunken. “Men too, I suppose.”

“You had much luck?”

“About like back here.”

“Crap. No better’n here?”

I grinned at him. “Well, maybe a smidgeon.” I went on to embellish the two or three liaisons with women I’d had last year. They were all real, but I probably exaggerated a minor detail or two. Then I noticed he was getting agitated, so I really threw in some details. Bunny took it all in while sucking on bottles of beer. By the time the evening had started growing a beard, it was obvious he was too tipsy to drive us home.

When he finally agreed to that fact, I realized it was gonna be a bust of a night. Oh, I’d enjoyed Bunny’s company and had fun, but somehow, I’d hoped something might come of it. Something exciting, out of the ordinary… something exciting.

My hopes revived when I got out of the car to switch seats and drive and decided I need to drain the pipe. He staggered to my side, ripped open his fly and threw his arm around my shoulders. As a potentially sensual moment morphed into a fraternal one, we watered the bushes while I peered through the darkness to get a glimpse of him. No use, not enough light. But I got the impression he was big.

****

I came off my Bunny high and went to work the next day in a sour frame of mind until he breezed through the door and grabbed a soft drink from the cooler. As he paid for his drink, he gave me a smile.

“Really enjoyed hanging last night. Have to do it again.”

“Yeah, I enjoyed it too. Anytime.”

He hesitated for a second before taking his leave, and as usual, I watched him clear out of sight. Fluid grace. Masculine poetry in motion. Hell, walking sex.

Over the next two days, I hoped he’d wander back in the store and finish what he’d started by fixing the time and date for another outing. He didn’t show up until six days later suggesting that we try the lanes again since it was open bowling that night. I swallowed my disappointment when I had to decline since I was taking Mom to Pollytown to see her sister right after work that evening. I spent the next two days in a surly mood until it occurred to me there was no reason why I shouldn’t call him. I dialed his father’s store, but Bunny was out on an errand. I left a message, only halfway expecting it to be answered. But about four, he called me back.

“Hi, Cliff. It’s Bunny. Got a message you called.”

“Yeah. You probably already have plans, but if not, maybe we could do something tonight.”

“Naw. I was just gonna go down to the Fountain—” which I knew was a local teen hangout “—and see what was happening. But I’m game for something. What you have in mind?”

I sure couldn’t answer that question honestly, so I equivocated. “Dunno. You have any ideas?”

“It’s open bowl in Pollytown tonight, we could drive over there.”

“Aw, I dunno—”

“I know,” he suggested, “You can use that ID of yours to get us some beer, and we can drive to the lake and relax.”

“Sounds good to me, but it’s a little chilly for swimming after dark.”

“Nah. Just hang, like we did the other night.”

“You got it.”

We made arrangements, and I spent the rest of the afternoon trying not to screw up whatever my chore of the moment was.

****

I went by the liquor store before I picked him up—figured it was my time to drive—and honked for him at six-thirty, as agreed. He bounced out the door looking like a million dollars adjusted for inflation and crawled into the passenger’s seat. We exchanged smiles and greetings, and I took off like a shot, anxious to get the beer flowing down his throat.

He talked about his day, while I contributed occasional grunts as we raced toward the lake, a long ten miles down the highway. When we got there, I had a mild scare when he spotted a few guys we both knew with their gals and a truckload of alcohol. But I relaxed when he said he wasn’t in the mood for a party. We motored on down the road until we found a semi-remote area with a good view of the lake and the moon and stars. He wasted no time grabbing a couple of cans from the cooler in my back seat.

Neither of us talked for a few minutes, just sucked on our beer and admired the view. I turned half sideways in the seat and admired the view I preferred… the roll of muscle in his arms, the play of his Adam’s apple, the flat planes of his chest and concave curve of his belly, and… well, and the shadows and valleys farther south. Bunny had really turned into an Earthbound Adonis. I could have sat there all night without saying a word, but soon he got restless.

“Tell me more about college,” he finally said, spearing me with a look. Had he caught me gawking at him?

So I spent an hour answering questions and describing Mimi Sawtuck in more detail than she deserved, and he obviously at it up.

Eventually, I ran out of things to say when he quit asking questions, and a silence grew. Eventually, he broke it.

“Uh, Cliff….”

“Yeah?”

“You said something last time, but I guess you were just goofing.”

“What did I say?”

“Don’t remember exactly, but I asked something about sex… meaning sex on camputs, but you said…. Well….”

“I’m game if you are. I said I’m game if you are.”

“That’s it. Did… did you mean it, or were you just horsing—”

“Every word of it.”

“Meant every word of it?”

“Yep. Meant every word of it.”

“Why would… Well, you told me about the women you had, so—” He bit his lip. “Were you making that up?”

“Not a bit. Every one of them was real.”

“Then how come….”

I caught his eye in the bright moonlight and held it. “Bunny, I’m willing to bet a week’s pay you’re not a virgin. In fact, I’ll wager you’ve sampled more than one of the town’s girls.”

He grinned. “Two. More than once.”

“So how come you’re interested?”

“W-what makes you think I am?”

“Friday night, and here we are out on the lakeshore all alone. You’re the one who brought up the subject. Why would you do that if you weren’t interested?”

He shrugged. “Curious, I guess.”

“You ever got with a guy?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Next door neighbor and I jerked off together when we were fifteen. That’s all.”

“How did you feel about it then?”

“It was okay. Nothing to shout about.”

“You must be interested in something more than jerking off to bring it up now.”

“Aw, just forget—”

I looked him straight in the eye. “Uh-uh, you said you were curious, so let’s get curious.”

“I-I dunno, Cliff.”

“I do. I’ll show you how we do it in college.”

I reached for him. He flinched, but didn’t bolt. Before the evening was over, Lil ole Honey Bunny had learned a lot… and he had learned it well. I think I unleashed a tiger. And I knew one thing for sure. I couldn't call him L'il Honey Bunny anymore.

 *.*.*.*.

I get the feeling Cliff got more than he bargained for… turned every way but loose. How do you see it?

My new anthology, Huntinghawk, has been released 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.

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. 

Cee One Eff One (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #247

 Image Courtesy of Depositphotos:                      

 

Got more hits than usual on last week’s post—the first half of this story—but not many comments. Have you figured things out yet? Well, let’s get to it. Here goes, the finale.

* * * *

Cee One Eff One

I popped a lid off a brew and retreated to my recliner to watch the news or a comedy or just to get some noise in the room. Memories from my youth intruded too much for serious TV watching, so it was probably the noise thing.

Four of us had bummed around. Dave and Hal and Robert and me. And the hanger-on, Bug. A couple of years younger

than we were, he was a skinny kid who didn’t get along with his own peers and tried to attach himself to us. Got picked on a lot if I remembered correctly. Gus was… That’s it! His name was Gus. Gus… Gus… Dammit the last name wouldn’t come.

At any rate, Gus had been kinda an oddball. Not exactly a mama’s boy, but not far from it. Guess maybe that’s why he seemed to attach himself to me rather than my buddies. Come to think of it, he always seemed to get along better with Dave and Hal and Bob than with me. Seemed like he was trying too hard or something.

From the vantage point of today, I looked back to wonder if he’d sensed in me what I didn’t know until later. Not until college. That’s when I found out I was gay. Fought it, denied it like crazy, but finally had to admit it when the school’s hunky quarterback picked me up in a college bar one night and turned me every which way but loose. After that, I knew the truth about myself. The jock came back for refills occasionally, but not as often as I would have liked. That’s when I learned the other side of the coin. Whenever the footballer came around, it was just for one thing, to be serviced, and nothing else. At times, he acted downright hostile. I didn’t realize until later he was angry with himself. In his eyes, I was a weakness he succumbed to. By the time he graduated—a couple of years ahead of me—I was glad to see him go… although I missed him terribly.

Had Bug—or Gus—seen my future clearer than I had? Or was he struggling to face his own. Now, ten years later, I regretted the disdain with which I’d treated the kid. I should have looked on him as someone to mentor, not torment. And torment him, I did. I locked him in restrooms, stole his clothes at the swimming hole and left him to cover himself as best he could while walking home. I was a real bastard to him. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps subconsciously I knew I was going to be bullied, so wanted to get in a little of my own while I could. God! How petty can a man be?

I was so moved by my belated recognition of how I’d treated Bug… no, he’d be Gus from now on… that I sent him a long email apologizing for my behavior. I got no reply.

****

A few days later, my phone beeped a text alert, but before I could answer it, the phone rang. I recognized Gus’ blocked number and forgot all about answering the text. “Hello,” I said, likely a little too breathlessly. “Glad you called.”

“So you’re remembering the old days, huh?”

“Yeah. Notice you didn’t say the ‘good old days.’”

“Not for me they weren’t. In that whole town, there was only one guy I thought could understand me. What I was going through. That was you. But instead of understanding, you were the biggest bully in school.”

“I know that now. Used you to slay my dragons, although I didn’t even know there were dragons at that point. Slow developer, I guess. At any rate, I apologized in my email, and do so again in person. Sorry, Gus.”

“Not Bug?”

“No. You’re Gus from now on.”

“Oh, I have been for years. I left ‘Bug’ behind when I left that little town.”

“So where are you?”

“Here.”

“Here? You mean in Dallas?”

“Yep. Not half a mile away.”

“Great! Visiting or permanent?”

“Permanent.”

“Wonderful. I’d like to see how little Bug morphed into Gus.”

“Oh, you can. Just open your text. I sent you some photos. I’ll call you back after you’ve had a chance to look at them.”

“Wait! I can….”

But he was gone. So I opened the text and drew a sharp breath.

The first photo was a bust of a shirtless, buffed, curly haired young man who was not only downright handsome, but sexy, as well. You know what I’m talking about. Some handsome guys look too perfect to even think about earthy things. This guy not only made you think about them, but lust to accomplish them.

The second photo made me gasp aloud. Full frontal nude of the same guy, only without his head showing. I understood. Didn’t want to be subject to blackmail, but that mole was there, silently testifying this was Bug… Gus. And he wasn’t just buffed. He was tennis court buffed, distance runner buffed. And equipment that would make any man proud.

The third photo took the wind out of my sales. Gus and an equally attractive young man stared at me through the camera lenses, both naked, arms thrown over one another’s shoulders. The look of intimacy was obvious. This was his boyfriend. His date the other night that left him drained.

The phone rang before I’d recovered from the last snap. My answer wasn’t as breathy.

“What do you think?”

“I think a bug morphed into a butterfly,” I said. “You’re one hell of a good-looking guy, Gus.”

“And I could have been yours.”

My breath caught in my throat. “What do you mean?”

“I would have done anything for you, Mars… back in the day. Anything you wanted. Top, bottom, anything in between. I hung in there to the bitter end, putting up with your bullying, your cruelty, hoping you’d look inside and see the real me.”

“Bug… Gus, I—”

“Too late, bro. Doesn’t matter if you’re a semi-famous author some of the world admires. I know who you really are. So go to bed tonight knowing I’m within walking distance, naked and in bed with a hunky, wonderful guy who wouldn’t bully a soul. By the way, I’m changing my phone number, and as far as the email address, it was created just for you. A little lesson you should have learned back when we were younger. If you see one who’s willing, you better fuck him while you can… but in the right way.

*.*.*.*.

Guess I was wrong. It’s not “Poor Mars.” It’s Mars, the bastard. But you know, the subconscious is a powerful thing. As I writer, I have to wonder how often Bug showed up in his novels in some form or the other. Lots, would be my guess

 Until next week,

 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.

Cee One Eff One (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #246

 Image Courtesy of Depositphotos:                      

 

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

 

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

* * * *

Cee One Eff One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you think hard enough, you’ll—”

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

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

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

****

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

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

“What? What’re you talking about.”

“Humor me. Make your voice deeper.

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

“Just do it, Caddo.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*.*.*.*.

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

 Until next week,

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

Website and blog: 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.

Evil Eye Guy

Markwildyr.com, Post #234

 Clip Art courtesy of Deviant Art:

 

Last week we met Karl and AA in their first year of college. Karl’s an unusual fellow, he has a brown left eye and a green right one. Which gave rise to rumors he can cast an evil eye curse on those who irk him. Lo and behold, one day on the tennis court, our evil eye guy discovers he has a yen for the handsome AA. He feigns drunkenness and lolls against his friend on the drive home.

 

* * * *

EVIL EYE GUY

 Despite a headache the next morning, I showed up at the tennis court at the appointed time. AA said nothing about last night, but I caught him shooting me glances now and then. Maybe he always did that when we were on the court, but somehow it seemed different.

“What?” I asked him once.

He averted his gaze. “Nothing.”

Mentally, I raged at him. He’d said we had to talk this morning, so why didn’t he talk? I couldn’t initiate it because I was supposedly in la-la-land when he muttered the words. Maybe he was waiting until after the game.

I settled down to playing, but my mood didn’t improve. It took a dive when one of the opponents declared my return went long. It hadn’t. It landed right on the line. Incensed, I stalked to the net and voiced my objections. Things escalated. AA tried to calm me.

“Don’t give me that look,” the frigging liar on the other side of the net said. “I’m not afraid of your damned ‘evil eye.’ Which one is it, by the way?”

Out of control, I pointed at my green one. “This one. And that’s the one I’m looking at you with, jerk.”

“You wanna play or you wanna cry.”

I served one of the best aces of my life, bringing the score to deuce. Then I got off two more and ended the game. The tall bastard flashed me the finger before he and his partner walked away. They weren’t out of sight before a skateboarder plowed into the guy and sent him tumbling. From the way he nursed his right wrist, he was out of commission for a while.

Unable to hide a grin, I looked at my companion. His eyes were clouded, wary.

“Karl?” he gasped before racing to see if he could help the injured guy.

What the hell did “Karl?” mean? Wasn’t my fault. The skateboarder apologized ten times for crashing into the guy, but true to the asshole’s character, the injured payer ignored the contrition and bellowed for all to hear he was out of commission for the upcoming competition. But he paused long enough to give me a long look, concentrating on my right, green eye longer than necessary. Did Dumbo think I’d evil eyed him?

After the excitement died down, AA declined my invitation for a drink at the Student Union Building, which was odd. We usually celebrated wins and mourned losses at the little café in the SUB. As I walked back to the dorm alone, I mulled over the last few days. AA’d been acting funny—maybe not funny, but definitely off-kilter—ever since our last visit to the bar. My mood dropped when I realized the cause. I’d gone too far. Practically groped the guy under the guise of being drunk. It came down to one thing. I was in love with the guy, while he was in “like” with me. I’d messed up royally. If I couldn’t be… well, intimate with him, I desperately wanted him as a friend. A buddy. Shit! Next, he’d probably start finding reasons to pull out of our tennis games.

Sure enough, the next Saturday, he begged off, and I had to play singles. It was an odd day. I’d get fired up—incensed, I guess you’d say—and play like a tiger or down so deep in self-pity I played like a sloth with a hole in his racket.

Before the weekend, I backed him in a corner and promoted another trip to the bar, but I resolved to limit myself to a single Long Island Tea and try to repair the relationship. The same blonde and brunette showed up and gravitated to our table. For a while, it looked as if my fear of a foursome would materialize, but neither of us was good company, so they wandered away to a more energetic couple of guys.

Shortly after they left, the rowdies at the table next to us worked themselves into a fight. One of them lurched out of his seat and backed into our table, spilling a good part of the drink I’d been nursing since we got here.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Watch it, man.”

AA laid a hand on my arm. “Cool it, Karl. He didn’t mean anything.”

The two combatants moved outside, pulling half the patronage with them to witness the upcoming fight. Neither of us moved.

AA drained his drink. “Come on, let’s go. I’m beat tonight.

From the way he avoided looking at me, I knew it was finished. I’d never have AA as a lover, and he’d slip from being a friend to simply an acquaintance. My gut went hollow.

As we drove back to campus with neither of us speaking, I decided to try to salvage the situation… at least the friendship part.

“Pull over, will you?” I said as we approached a small park. “We need to talk.”

He obeyed and switched off the engine. Then he resolutely stared straight out the windshield.

“I owe you an apology, man.”

He sort of started and turned to look at me. “For what?”

“For something,” I said, uncertain how to approach the thing. “I figure it was what happened at the bar the other night. Or at least on the way home. I was… well, I was outta line.”

“How?”

“I was all over you.”

He snorted. “Hell, you were drunk.”

“Kinda,” I admitted.

He gave me a sharp look. “What do you mean, kinda?”

“Well, maybe not as drunk as I acted.”

“You mean….”

I nodded. “Yeah, I wasn’t totally out of it. I knew… I knew… Well my hand kinda wandered. Sorry if I offended you.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Offended me? Hell, Karl, I was hoping you’d go all the way and give me a grope. Drunk or sober. It didn’t matter.”

A thrill ran up my back. “You wanted me to?”

“Like crazy. All I could do to keep from grabbing your hand and clapping it to me.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Figured you were just looped and didn’t know where your hand was. Don’t you know what a good-looking sucker you are? Hell, when you play net, I have trouble watching the ball instead of you.”

“M… me too.” I felt a load lift from my shoulders. My heart pounded. I reached for him, but he put up his hands as if to fend me off, sending me into a downer.

“But….” My voice faltered and died.

“I’d like to, Karl. Hell, man, I ache to. But… but….”

“But what?”

He turned to stare out the windshield again. “It’s the other thing, man.”

“What other thing.”

“Your eyes.”

“Might not be the most attractive thing about me,” I said. “But they’re not all that bad.”

“They’re beautiful man, but so is a coral snake.”

“A coral snake! What’re you talking about? Make sense.”

“Just saying because they’re beautiful, doesn’t mean they aren’t… well, dangerous. You know, evil.”

I would’ve laughed if he hadn’t been so serious. “They’re just eyes, man. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“Do you see me laughing?”

“At what I’m about to say. My grandmother used to tell me about this old woman she knew who had the Evil-Eye. She could do things, man. She’d just look at a guy, and he’d go walk off a cliff or out in front of a car.”

“You think I do that?”

“I’ve heard the stories, you know, from guys who knew you back home. They told me about all the things that happened to people who pissed you off. And then the other day on the tennis court, you got mad at that guy and threatened him with your green eye. A minute later, he was outta commission.”

“I was just joking. Putting him in his place.”

“Were you? Maybe you don’t even know you can put the evil-eye on a guy. But you can. I saw it.”

“My eye? You want to get together. I want to get together. But we can’t because of my eye?”

“Can’t help the way I feel, Karl. One day you might get pissed at me about something, and I’d walk around waiting for a catastrophe.

“So we can’t make love because of my eye? Can’t even be friends because of my frigging green eye?”

“Sorry,” he said.

The passenger cabin turned silent while I thought furiously. My first crush, and I couldn’t even touch him because of his frigging grandmother’s stories and my one green eye. Didn’t make sense. Then I looked over at my dejected friend and cleared my throat.

“AA. Let’s go home. And tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock, I want you to meet me for lunch at the SUB. After that, we’re gonna go back to my room and try out things we’ve been thinking about but not talking about. Okay?”

“I dunno, Karl.”

“Trust me. At least meet me at the SUB.

He started the motor. “Okay. I can promise that.”

****

The next afternoon, AA walked over to my table at the SUB and came to a dead stop. “What’s this?”

I adjusted the eye patch over my right eye and smiled. “My solution to our problem.”

He laughed as he slid into the seat across from me. “So you’re gonna cover that evil green eye.”

“You can’t see it, it can’t cast a spell over you.”

“You’re going to wear it every time we meet, huh?

“Maybe not every time, but whenever the brown one looks  at you with lust, the green one gets covered.”

He smiled broadly. “Might work.”

Our legs touched under the table as we ate a light lunch, and then we went to my room, locked the door, and did things we didn’t even know were possible. Wonderful things. Marvelous things. Things rife with muscle contractions, electrical discharges and gobs of milky-white fluids.

 

* * * *

Lust… love sometimes drives one on ingenuity, right? Hope the two are happy in their relationship.

 The print versions of anthologies Wildyr Tales, More Wildyr Tales, are now available. The third anthology, Gabacho and More Wildyr Tales, is out as an Ebook, with print version to follow soon.

 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. 

Gabacho in Dallas, Part One of Two Parts

 Markwildyr.com, Post #218

  Image Courtesy of dreamstime.com:

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

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

 

* * * *

GABACHO IN DALLAS

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

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

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

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

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

“Expecting someone?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Especially curly-haired blonds.”

“You aren’t exactly a blond.”

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

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

“So they tell me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” I said.

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

“He’s stood you up before?”

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

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

“Well, yeah, it is.”

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

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

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

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

“I was worried. Why didn’t you call?”

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

I saw the brush-off hit home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 Mark

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

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.