Mark Wildyr's Blog, page 19

A Crap Load of Sorrys

markwildyr.com, Post #77
Courtesy of WickipediaLord a Mercy, I missed a posting deadline. But I have an excuse and beg your forgiveness. (By the way, is the plural of Sorry… Sorries or Sorrys? Have no idea. Okay, enough stalling.
Last Friday morning, I turned in front of a woman when I shouldn’t have and paid the price for it. My car was declared DOA. I figured my carcass survived. Assumptions are not always safe. By Saturday morning, I knew I had to do the thing I loathe most, and that is go to the Emergency Ward at the local VA hospital.
I figured they’d look me over, wave a wand, maybe prescribe some medication, and send me home. Not so. The admitted me to the hospital for “internal bleeding.” How bad can that be? A day in the hospital I can stand. Loll around in bed. Issue orders to nurses both male and female. Then go home and take care of business. Not so. They kept me until noon today, after they administered a CAT scan on my head, my abdomen, did two blood transfusions, an endoscopy, and a colonoscopy.
While they fiddled around, I missed my posting date for the blog. And that’s where the crap load of sorrys comes in. Sorry, guys.
You want some advice? Don’t become involved in a car wreck.
Please allow me to slack off until the 3rd Thursday of the month.
*****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.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: 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.

Mark Wildyr: Bad Luck, Good Luck, or Disaster? (Part 2 of 2 Pa...

Mark Wildyr: Bad Luck, Good Luck, or Disaster? (Part 2 of 2 Pa...: markwildyr.com, Post #76 Courtesy of Pixabay Last week, we saw Billy injure his ankle on the job and take temporary duty with an a...

Bad Luck, Good Luck, or Disaster? (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

markwildyr.com, Post #76
Courtesy of PixabayLast week, we saw Billy injure his ankle on the job and take temporary duty with an adjoining warehouse boss, a case of bad luck turning good, right? But what if he can’t contain his adoration for his handsome new boss? What if he does something inappropriate. That could lead to firing… or worse, much worse. This week, we learn the answer.
*****BAD LUCK, GOOD LUCK, OR DISASTER?
          My temporary boss sent me to the rest room to remove my boot and wash the stink of that boxcar away. Then I perched on the commode while he plopped down on a stool, lifted my naked foot, and laid it across his manly thigh. I almost forgot the pain as he bathed my swollen ankle in horse liniment. The smelly stuff cooled my flesh while his long fingers heated it right back up again. As he turned to fish for a bandage in an industrial-sized first aid kit, my foot slipped off his thigh and landed in his full, warm crotch. It was an accident…scout’s honor! He didn’t even flinch.          After binding the ankle with an elastic bandage, he helped ease my work boot back on. Ending the intimate, personal attention, Amico put me to work filing paperwork and answering his phone, neither of which required much manual dexterity of the lower limbs. After that he disappeared for thirty minutes.           “Finished already? That was fast,” he observed when he came back. “I’ll be able to find the reports again, won’t I?”           There’s always a little lag time while I sort the sober from the banter, but eventually, I realized he was teasing. “Yeah, everything’s right where it oughta be, Mr. Amico.”           “Dave,” he corrected. “What’s your name?”          “Billy… uh, Bill Ratner.”          “Okay, Bill, you goof off until the whistle blows.”          As it became clear Dave was not only a sultry Adonis but also a decent guy, I tried to analyze my fascination for the man. Steve, the swimmer, was handsomer in an All-American way, but he couldn’t hold a candle to the dark, smoldering sex appeal of David Amico. I’d like Steve as a friend and an occasional partner; I wanted to seriously jump Dave’s bones!

          Most of the warehouses have a resident pussy cat to keep down the rodent population. Most of the felines grew fat and many went feral, but the big black in H-25 was taking it seriously. After lunch, Dave walked into the office fingering deep scratches on his hard-hat.          “What happened?” I asked.          “That green-eyed mouser took a swipe at me from the top of one of the pallets. If I hadn’t had my hat on, he’d have ripped up my scalp.”          I couldn’t think of anything to say but “Jeez.”          After saying he was going to get rid of the monster once and for all, Dave turned and walked into the warehouse Ten minutes later, I heard him bellow my name from the far end of the cavernous building. Grabbing my hard hat, I stumped out to answer the summons. I found him back in a maze of pallets at the far end of the warehouse. He was leaning over to peer behind a stack, giving me a heart-stopping, groin-grabbing view of his fetching butt.          “I saw the bastard,” my new boss said. “He’s in there somewhere. You block that end while I flush him.”          More than a little nervous over encountering an angry tom cat damned near the size of a mountain lion—a small exaggeration, I’m sure—I eased to the far end of the pallet stack and took a cautious look. Dave suddenly appeared at my shoulder.          “You see him? He scooted down this way! Here let me have a look.” My, handsome, hunky boss leaned around me, his hand on my shoulder for balance. Dave’s thigh warmed my butt, giving me an instant reaction. Our sweat raised a musky aroma that set my heart to racing. I imagined his arm across my shoulders as a caress. The length of his body pressing against me set me afire.          “Son of a gun,” he mumbled, stretching more, leaning more, inflaming me more. “I know I saw that black piece of shit. Oh, well, I’ll get him sooner or later.” The pressure on my shoulders increased as he pulled himself upright and began to move away. He paused with the hand still on my shoulder; his fly teased my ass. I wanted to lean back and make contact but didn’t dare.          “That butt’s been driving me crazy all summer,” he whispered in a husky baritone.           “It… it d-did?” I gasped. “I…I looked at you…yours a lot.”          “Did you like what you saw?” he asked, his lips at my ear.          “Oh, yeah! I mean, you’re the sexiest guy on the reservation.”          “You think so? Sexier than Bart? Or Steve? They’re hunky guys.”          “I guess so, but not like you.” My breath was hot on my tongue. His slender hips gave me a slow, languid thrust. I couldn’t help myself; I pushed back against him to feel what was hidden behind those denims.          “You ever been with guys?”          I nodded and managed to squawk. “Only been with three. The first was a cowboy, uh… ” I faltered as his right hand slowly slid down my side and came to rest on my hip. “He was a star in western B-movies they brought to town to promote a new film. He showed me about, you know, doing it with your mouth up the projection booth where I worked.”          “He blow you?” Dave asked, still close to my ear. His breath tickled the lobe.           I nodded, hoping to brush those lips. “And… and he showed me how.”          “You like that?”          “Uh-huh,” I admitted. “It was something else. Only other guy was a neighbor kid my age. We’ve jerked off together a few times. He’s kinda skittish, and I’m afraid I’ll spook him if I try too much.”          “He taking care of you okay?”          I shook my head, my knees turning to water as his fly steam-pressed my ass. "Uh-uh, he's at his grandfather's this summer."          “Let’s go see how good a teacher that cowboy was. You game?”
*****So black cats aren’t always a sign of bad luck or disaster, are they? What do you want to bet that the Cowboy was such a good teacher that Billy pleased Dave so well they got it on regularly until school started again? You come up with the answer.
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.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: 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.

Mark Wildyr: Bad Luck, Good Luck, or Disaster? (Part 1 of 2 Pa...

Mark Wildyr: Bad Luck, Good Luck, or Disaster? (Part 1 of 2 Pa...: markwildyr.com, Post #75 Courtesy of Pixabay Wired (from last week) got a bunch of page views and a few comments. Thanks, guys. Be...

Bad Luck, Good Luck, or Disaster? (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

markwildyr.com, Post #75
Courtesy of PixabayWired (from last week) got a bunch of page views and a few comments. Thanks, guys. Be sure to remember  to like.
This week, we have another two-parter. We’ve all had bad luck, but have you ever had what seemed to be bad luck turn out to be good? Our protagonist, Billy, is a gay guy in a time and place where that is dangerous. Billy has some bad luck that could turn good… or disastrous. The time is the early fifties, and the place is East Texas. While working a summer job between school years…. Well, Billy tell the story.
*****
BAD LUCK, GOOD LUCK, OR DISASTER

          “Okay, son, report Monday morning at seven-thirty sharp! And remember, you gotta have steel-toed work boots.”          The interviewer’s unexpected announcement generated a mixture of joy and anxiety. When applying for summer work at a local ammunition plant after my freshman year at college, I had no expectation they’d accept the proverbial ninety-pound weakling…well, hundred-ten. Heck, I didn’t even think the army would take me, and they were sending boys over to Korea by the boatloads.          On Monday, I joined a crew at a railroad siding running alongside a series of warehouses on the sprawling munitions reservation. My stomach dropped into my shoes when I saw the five college kids making up the rest of the gang. They were big football players, hoop stars, brawny men who shavedand everything! You know the type, broad shoulders, narrow waists, strong jaws, thick unruly hair, symmetrical features, and an interesting contour of denims… front and back.          Steve, a green-eyed lady-killer with curly locks and a swimmer’s physique, rarely participated in the endless sports discussions but held his own when talk turned to women. Terry, short and shaped, wrestled for SMU, and if he grappled as good as he looked, he was terrific. Bart was a footballer, a tight end… a name that always made me inspect the hip pockets of his Levis. I’d like to be the guy who snapped the pigskin if Bart was the one with his hands between my legs. The other two, Jim and Hank, were okay, meaning I wouldn’t have objected if either one checked me out in the restroom, which they didn’t, of course.          My foreman, a beefy red-neck named Cooligan, took one look, and his expression said it all. What the hell did they send me this time? Physically immature but not dumb, I knew exactly what they’d sent him…a scrawny queer in a time and place that did not tolerate such creatures.          Cooligan’s gang unloaded endless streams of spent artillery shells from Korea, the war the entire crew avoided by staying in school. Wrestling artillery casings half as big as I was by both weight and linear foot almost did me in, but I managed… barely.          If the crew fit my definition of hunky, the guy who reallysent my pulse racing was the foreman of An adjoining warehouse, a tall, lean, dark-haired Mediterranean type named David Amico. Like Cooligan, Amico was no college kid; he had to be at least twenty-eight or so, but a well preserved twenty-eight.          He made me so nervous I damned near dropped artillery casings all over the place when he was around. Most of the guys were on a first-name basis and engaged him in easy, casual conversations, which was something completely beyond my ability; I didn’t know a blessed thing about football or baseball or guzzling beer or screwing women. In fact, I didn’t know anything I hadn’t learned in one of my classes. You know… book smart; street dumb.          Within a week, proximity to all of those studs was getting to me, and Bobby, the kid next door who occasionally jerked off with me, was working on his grandfather’s ranch in Wyoming for the summer. Bobby was at that stage where going only so far wasn’t queer. He didn’t know it yet, but one of these days he was going to learn what it was really all about. Whether from me or someone else remained to be seen.          In the meantime, all I could do was masturbate with Dave Amico’s hot, masculine image imprinted on the back of my eyelids.          One day, a boxcar of spent shell casings rolled down the track oozing evil. It happened sometimes; a load came in that smelled like trouble… things like rotting human flesh, undetonated explosives, and lumps of suspicious matter. It made a fellow reluctant to touch the casings even with a thick pair of work gloves. This particular car, cooked by the intense Texas heat, trailed a particularly foul odor of putrefaction.          Cooligan did his Simon Legree thing and soon had us shuffling reluctantly up to start unloading. It was so bad that every half-hour we rotated working inside the car. I completed my turn in the hot-box with running nose, burning eyes, and some serious gagging. My T-shirt was soaked like I’d showered in it. But old Tight-End Bart, who’d partnered alongside me in the car, wasn’t in much better shape.          As Terry and Jim straggled up for their turn in the box, I rushed to get outside as quickly as possible. Half-blind from sweat and tears, I stepped on a loose casing and went over, twisting my ankle and banging my hard-hat against the steel-sided car. As you might imagine, safety is a huge thing at an ammo plant, so Cooligan charged inside, bellowing at the top of his lungs.          “Dammit, what happened? Anything busted?”          When I saw who was trailing along behind Cooligan, I gulped hard and blinked back tears…my idol, Dave Amico.           “Shell casing was loose and turned under him,” Bart unexpectedly came to my defense. “Wasn’t his fault, Cooligan.”          “Can you move it?” Amico asked. Those deep brown eyes almost made me forget my agony. Man, they were beautiful.          “Yeah,” I gasped, rotating the joint gingerly.          The hunky warehouseman probed my injury, and like my mother’s touch, made it all better. That ankle hurt so good!          “Naw, I don’t think it’s broke, but it’s sprained.” He glanced into my pain-filled, adoring eyes. “You wanna go have it checked out?”          There was a pregnant pause. Cooligan feared an accident report; the crew waited to see if the pansy could take it like a man. Amico merely expected an answer. I gingerly placed some weight on my steel-toed clod-hopper, testing it cautiously.          “I’ll be okay.”          “Arright!” Cooligan roared, pleased with his pantywaist for a change. “Let’s get back to work!”          Amico grabbed one bicep to steady me and Bart took the other. Sandwiched between those two dreamboats, I made it onto the solid concrete loading dock where the warehouse foreman turned to my boss.          “Clive, he can’t unload shell casings in his condition.” That was the first time I knew Cooligan had a given name. “I’ve got some office work he can do if you’re willing to keep him on your roster.” A minute later, I limped into Warehouse H-25 with one hand on Dave Amico’s broad shoulder for support.          “Bad luck, man. Bad fucking luck!” Terry, the wrestler, called after us.          “Yeah,” I agreed. “Rotten luck.”
*****Oh, boy! Talk about bad luck. Billy’s temporarily out of the clutches of Cooligan, but can he contain himself around his hero Dave Amico? Remember, this is in a dangerous time and place for gays… something that was very real for those of you not old enough to remember. So his bad luck putting him in proximity to Dave might turn out to be even worse luck if he gives himself away.
Check in on Thursday the 12th to find out what happens.
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.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: 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.

Mark Wildyr: Wired (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

Mark Wildyr: Wired (Part 2 of 2 Parts): markwildyr.com, Post #74 Last week, Rick worked his butt off… only to be frustrated. I wonder how he does in the finale? Enjoy.   **...

Wired (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

markwildyr.com, Post #74
Last week, Rick worked his butt off… only to be frustrated. I wonder how he does in the finale? Enjoy. ***** Courtesy of FlickrWIRED
I ran around the next day pissed as hell. Needing to get Dave alone again before he washed all of his shorts, I talked him into swinging by the Corner Pocket, our favorite watering hole, for a few drinks before going home to watch a ball game…there had to be a ball game on TV somewhere.I kept my hands off the rheostat in my pocket until we were on our last drink. Then I set him to squirming in his seat like crazy. When he started looking over the crowd, I chugged my glass and declared it was time to go.“Maybe we oughta stay awhile. I’m feeling like some action again. We oughta pick up a couple of girls and take them with us. Shit, Nick, I feel like a teenager again.”He grumbled some, but I got us out of there in about two minutes flat. Man, I was home free! I turned up the control a little and saw him dig at himself. Maybe I was pushing it. I eased off the power.Home free, my ass! We turned the corner of the building and walked right into the arms of a couple of girls…working girls. We’d seen them at the bar several times and never took a second look. But old Dave’s pump was primed, and he wasn’t about to waste a water bucket. He started negotiating right away, and by the time my head stopped spinning, we were loaded in his convertible and headed for a motel.*****Dave called Saturday afternoon to set up a bowling gig. Tomorrow would be the fifth day since I wired his shorts, and I was getting desperate. Dave, a clean-freak, wouldn’t wear his underwear more than once before throwing them in the washer. I had to make a move…excuse me, another move soon.Fortunately, most of the bowlers were guys. I got one scare when he went into a huddle with an old girlfriend who sauntered by. She was with somebody, so that didn’t develop into anything, thank goodness. I kept my hands off the rheostat in my pocket until the last frame. Then I couldn’t resist it; I gave him a shot as he went for a spare…and the lead. I must have overdone it because he step-stuttered and rolled a gutter ball.“Shit!” he yelped…and dug at himself.Since I had no way to confess my unintentional sabotage, I accepted the ten dollars we’d waged and offered to buy the beer. He was literally squirming in his seat by the time we finished and went out to the parking lot.“Man, I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I walk around with a hard-on all the time. Guess it’s the new freedom since the divorce.” Concentrating my energy in getting him loaded in my car, I merely mumbled a reply. About halfway home, he slapped the dash. “Man, I can’t go sit in front of a television. I need some action!” “You’re going to wear it down to a nub if you don’t slow down some. You’ve had more nookey this week than you had all last month.”He giggled. “All last year. I’m turning into a nymphomaniac. Do they have male nymphos? Anyway, I can’t get enough.”Surreptitiously, I fingered the dial and turned up the power slightly. Tonight was the night my investment in wired underwear would pay off in spades! Well, in mattresses, anyway.As we crossed the city park, he yelled for me to stop. Startled, I stood on the brakes. He bolted out the door and headed off into the trees. I caught up with him when he came to a halt and hunched over, hands on his knees.“What’s the matter?”“Shit, I don’t know. I got so antsy, I had to get out and move. Fuck, Rick, I gotta walk or something.” Trusting me to follow, he set off at a half-trot, slowing after a few steps to allow to catch up. I wondered if I should take his hand or something. No, of course not; he was horny, not in love.“Somebody’s coming,” he said, motioning with his head toward two shadowy figures.“That’s okay. They’ll pass us by.”As they drew closer, it was apparent they were kids from the college a few blocks away. Two young guys out looking for something.“You think they’re cruising gays?”My mind froze. All I could manage was to mutter. “Maybe.”“Think we should give it a try? You know, something different?”I managed to get my tongue unglued from the roof of my mouth and stutter, “H-hell, if that’s what you want, I can do that for you. I-I sorta been thinking about it.” “Well, shit, Rick, why didn’t you say so?” My mouth dropped open. Be damned! The fucking wired shorts worked! “My house or your?” he asked.“Mine’s closer.”Wonder of wonders, it was as grand as I’d anticipated. More so. Worries about post coital regret eased when he called to me from the shower.  “Hey, Ricky! Come on in here, and I’ll show you what I’ve fantasized about for years.”          Stumbling out of bed, I tripped over his abandoned clothing and did a double-take at his shorts. His cranberry red shorts. That wasn’t a pair I’d wired. I laughed aloud before rushing to join him in the shower.*****How about that? A home run! And it looks like their friendship survived. Maybe even grew closer.
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.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: 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.

Mark Wildyr: Wired (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

Mark Wildyr: Wired (Part 1 of 2 Parts): markwildyr.com, Post #73     Courtesy of Flickr Last week’s post pushed some buttons. Had some feedback on my personal email. Wonde...

Wired (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

markwildyr.com, Post #73   Courtesy of FlickrLast week’s post pushed some buttons. Had some feedback on my personal email. Wonder if I made a mistake by providing that address? Is there any way to give posts a like? If so, appreciate it if you'd do so.
This week’s offering is a two-parter and comes right from my imagination. I’ve never tried anything like this, nor would I know how to if I wanted. Hope you enjoy.
*****WIREDDave Albano was the object of my desire, the genesis of my dreams, and the likely reason I was a closet gay. He was the first person—only person, really—I felt physically attracted to.We were best friends through high school even though he went football while I went soccer. He got tangled up with a bunch of girls at school, but I only fooled around half-heartedly for appearances’ sake. I stood beside him as best man when he married a perky gal named Charlotte and waved them off on their honeymoon.I became his confessor when the marital troubles began, sitting at his side and listening to his litany of woes. I was there the night he got drunk and raised hell to the point she called the cops. He never laid a hand on her, but he sure tore up their house. They released him into my custody. He slept away the spell of Madam Alcohol beside me in my bed that night, exquisite torture. I sat quietly at his side as he wept over the inevitable divorce.It couldn’t go on like that. I had to do something… anything. I had no idea of what that something would be, until I sorted out my dirty clothes after we’d taken an overnight hunting trip. There, wadded up with my stuff, were two of his shorts. One was baby blue; the other, dove gray.Those two skimpy garments gave me an idea. Hell, I could do it! I was an electronics engineer, wasn’t I? I tossed all the dirty clothing in the washer and headed out the door to get what I needed. It took three stops, but by the time I was back home to put everything in the drier, I had it pretty well figured out.For two hours I wove an invisible web of fine wires among the cotton fibers of those briefs. Making certain there were no exposed ends to scratch his flesh, I attached a microchip. Finally satisfied with the job, I slipped on the baby blue pair and grabbed the small rheostat dial that excited the wiring… and hopefully, Dave Albano. Dialing up the rheostat, I sighed in pleasure as a comfortable warmth suffused my genitalia. I eased the control higher; my flesh reacted to tiny electrical impulses just as the phone rang.“You sound funny,” Dave said when I answered.“Ran up from the basement to catch the phone,” I lied.“Rick, I can’t find my underwear. Did I get them mixed up with yours?”“Yeah, they’re in the laundry as we speak. You’ll get them back cleaner than you left them.”“Great! I’ll be right over. Since the divorce, I’m down to three pair.”“Charlotte took you for your shorts, too?”“Damned near,” he said with a sour laugh. “We had a fight one night, and she starched every pair I owned. I ripped them up and bought me a three-pack, and that’s all I’ve got left. You’ve got two-thirds of my entire supply of underwear in your washer right now.”I thought quickly. The thing I had rigged up wouldn’t survive more than one washing. But if I got him another three pair, I’d have over five-sixths of his shorts rigged for action. If I couldn’t attain my goal with those odds, then it wasn’t going to happen!“Uh, I was on the way out the door. Wash out your one pair for tomorrow. Come over after work and we’ll have a pizza. You can pick them up then. Okay?”“Sounds like a plan.”Faced with a full evening of work, I raced to the mall and prowled around until I found the brand he wore…expensive fuckers for such tiny rags …and bought three of them. Back home again, I threw the new underwear in the washer and waited impatiently until they were clean and dried. Then I wired them up, seriously considering inscribing "Intel Inside" on them. I didn’t, of course; they weren’t computer chips, just small, controllable power supplies.*****Damn, I loved being around Dave. Talk was easy, and even the short stretches of silence were so comfortable I never wanted our visits to end. The next evening as we sat in my den and swigged cold Coors, he scared me when he said he thought he’d switch to boxers so he’d feel loose and free all the time, but he was only joking. We’d both worn jockeys and athletic supports all our lives and weren’t about to change now.Dave let his surprise show when I brought out five pairs of shorts and tossed them in his lap. “Damn, did they mate and multiply?”“I felt sorry for your wretched ass being so raggedy, so I picked up some more for you.”“These are brand new?” he asked, holding up a pair.“Brand spanking,” I answered.“Then how come they aren’t in the store wrappers?”“I don’t know about you, but I don't wear my shorts until they’ve been washed. They’ve been through the washer and drier.”After he excused himself to try on a pair, he returned and invited me to dinner as thanks.That evening at the Chez Charles, I waited until we finished dinner before nervously slipping my hand inside my coat pocket and fingering the control mechanism. While he ordered aperitifs, I twisted the dial a fraction.“Enjoyed that,” Dave said later as he leaned back and patted his flat belly. “Haven’t had a good steak since the divorce.” He shifted in the booth. “Man, I’m getting horny as hell. I need to find me something!”Here it is, right here! I didn’t say it, of course, but man, my mind was shouting it!“I’ve been living like a monk for the last few months, but tonight, old Davy’s ready for some action. I mean really ready!” His eyes went straight over my shoulder and sort of glazed. “Like with that!”Turning in my seat, I saw a big, busty blond in a tight sweater and short skirt approach the cashier.“Rick, my friend,” Dave said with a loopy grin. “You’ll have to excuse me. Call you tomorrow night.” He tossed some bills on the table to cover the tab and gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder as he rushed off to give the erection I’d generated to a woman! Well, at least my contraption worked.
*****Well, that didn’t work out, did it? But there’s more story to come, so don’t give up hope.
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.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: 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.

Unforseen Results

markwildyr.com, Post #72
Courtesy of FlickrApparently, a lot of people have scars because I got a slew of page hits on my story "Every Scar's a Story"… but no comments, either online or through my email. Ah well, we’ll leave that behind and look at another piece of flash fiction. *****UNFORSEEN RESULTS
            Even though the windows were down, Ham’s ’07 Charger was steamy inside. Mary Sue lay atop me in the back seat, and we were already testing the limits she’d set. Everything above the waist was fair game, but below the beltline... no go. Of course, she was lying on me wiggling around so much that it almost didn’t matter. A couple of times, my pressure cooker release valve almost popped.            Despite that, half of my attention was drawn to the front seat where my best friend since the third grade, Hamilton Charles, was engaged in a similar pursuit with his girl of the moment, Cynthia. I kept listening to his low groans and murmurs, trying to discern between satisfaction and frustration. So far as I could tell, the battle remained unresolved.            Before long, I heard what I was listening for… from her, not him. “Oh, Jeez! We gotta get back or we’ll miss curfew.” The girl’s dorms at Wheaton College still required residents be in-house by 10:00 p.m. on weeknights and 12:00 midnight on Saturdays. Old school… but a fact.            Ham sat up in the front seat without a word. I could tell he was pissed. He’d been sure this was the night he’d hit a home run. Don’t know why he thought tonight was different, but two hours ago, he’d uttered his prediction with a smirk on his handsome face.            We didn’t walk the girls to the door. Never did, after the first date, because we were always so stirred up from intimate contact that we’d all have been in trouble. It was all I could do to switch to the front passenger’s seat without stirring up a scandal. We stayed in place until they were safely inside and then pulled away.            Ham pounded the steering wheel. “Damn! I was so close.”            “This ain’t horseshoes,” I said with a hick accent. Then I smiled at the recollection of Mary Sue almost sending the rockets flaring with her wiggling. “Hey, you want a burger or a shake or something?”            “No.”            “You ready to head back to the dorm?”            “No.”            “Whadda ya wanna do?”            “Hell, I don’t know.”            “Well, you can go back to the dorm and pout. Or you can park somewhere and pout. Or—”            “Oh, shut up!”            He took an abrupt right and sped down the long road out of town. Neither of us said a word until the city limits were behind us and the long straight ribbon of asphalt led to the horizon, indistinct in the moonlight. Finally, I could stand it no longer.            “What made you think tonight would be different?”            He snorted. “She all but promised me last time.” He glanced at me. “Hell, Bob, doesn’t it get to you? Getting all hot and bothered with no payoff, I mean?”             I shrugged. “It’s the way the game’s played. You take what you can get until she says no. Then you stop.” I paused for a thought. “Unless you’re a rapist.”            He stomped on the brakes and slewed onto a side road blocked by a closed gate, the locked entry into someone’s pasture. We sat in silence until the dust we’d raised floated past.            “I’m no rapist,” he grumbled.            I turned to smile at him and froze. His excitement was evident…and extreme… even in the semidarkness. “D-didn’t think you were.” I gulped and swallowed.            He leaned back in the seat in evident agitation, and that was all it took to release me. Free me to do what I’d wanted to do ever since we hit adolescence. “I… I can help, Ham.”            He didn’t answer. He merely pressed a forearm over his eyes and took a deep breath.            I’d like to think I didn’t know what I was doing… but I did. I knew exactly what. I pressed my hand down on him, and the heat of his passion warmed my palm. Slowly, deliberately, I unbuckled his belt and manipulated the top button and zipper. When I tugged on his denims, he lifted his butt slightly. Revealed to me in all his glory, he took my breath away. Strong and pulsing and inviting.            “Bob,” he mumbled. “Maybe we’d better not—”            Panicked by what he was about to say, I did the unthinkable. I lowered my head and ministered to him, silencing his rising protest. I reveled in his suppressed murmurs of ecstasy and his astonished cry at sudden relief. I kept at him until he fell silent. At length, he pushed me away and restored his clothing.            Without a word, he fired the engine and backed onto the highway. He was quiet as we raced back to the campus, refusing to look at me and answering my efforts to make conversation with monosyllables and grunts.            I looked out the window as the fences and gates and occasional farmhouses flashed by and understood three things.            I would never again have such an intimate moment with my friend. I had taken advantage of Ham in a weak moment, resulting in shame on his part… even as it drew me closer to him.            And I recognized that I would have to work long and hard to repair our friendship. We might never be as close as we had been before this night.            The third thing? Well, I knew I was in love.
*****Anything in the story remind you of something from your past? We don’t always know what we want when we’re growing up and venturing new things. I’ve known guys who wanted to experiment, only to find it brought shame and mortification. We want what we want when we want, even if we find out later that was a mistake. Unfortunately, people like that tend to blame their partner of the moment rather than their own desire to try something new. Sure hope Bob can hold onto Ham’s friendship… but based on my own experience, it’s an iffy proposition.
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.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: 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.