Mark Wildyr's Blog, page 25
June 1, 2016
I Love You, William J. Fishbone
A short piece of nonsense this week. This one’s for all you shy guys out there who can’t quite manage to be themselves 100 percent of the time for 100 percent of the people.***** “I love you, William J. Fishbone.” That’s exactly the way I’d say it. This afternoon. As soon as I saw him leave the dorm and head for the fieldhouse. Six simple words, if you counted the J as an entire word, but they’d caused me more angst than any I’d ever uttered in all my nineteen years. I’d practiced my recitation emphasizing I, but that placed the spotlight on me, and that wasn’t my goal. I enunciated it stressing love but was afraid that was too bold. Finally, I settled on you. “I love you, William J. Fishbone.” Perfect. I plopped down on a stone bench in the shade of a chinaberry tree in the arbor occupying the exact center of the campus quadrangle. I had a good view of Stratton Hall, his dorm, and spotted him the moment he barreled through the door. He was dressed in khakis and a form-fitting, powder blue polo shirt. As I watched him approach, I was struck at how this place, with its trees and colorful red and pink roses and the rich odor of lavender wisteria, was perfect for my purpose. He waved as he spotted me. I stood and waved back, even as my mouth went dry at the utter sexiness of his manly stride. His black hair collected sunlight in a shimmering halo. Broad shoulders hunched forward as if he were ready to leap into action at any moment. I seldom got past his tapered torso before I grew excited enough to require shielding my condition with classroom books. Three months ago, I’d met our football team’s fabled quarterback when he chanced to pass the alleyway where three homophobes had me cornered. He spoiled their plans to wallop on the fairy—me—with a firm “Break it up, fellas. He didn’t do anything to you.” In that single instant, he earned my gratitude and my love. He knew about the gratitude part because I’d effusively thanked him for coming to my rescue. But I’d hidden my deeper feelings because… well, it wasn’t proper to blurt out something like that right off the bat. I didn’t even know how he felt about gays, but the fact he’d saved me from a beating said something, didn’t it? So I played it cool, managing to meet him on the quad a couple of times before asking him to the Student Union for a cup of coffee. Man, my head must have swelled twice its normal size when he accepted. Occupying a seat at the table with the school’s best jock earned me a lot of funny looks, but I had the Fishbone eye, so what did I care about a few fishy eyes? It got even better when he invited me to the SUB. My insides got all syrupy the first time he asked, and that hadn’t changed since the last time. Then yesterday, he’d said, “You’re an all right guy.” Those words entered my ears and rattled around in my head before oozing down and settling in my stones. Wow! And he hadn’t even added the word “gay.” No qualifier at all. Just an all right guy. Couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said that to me. Probably never. And it had been the campus football hero who’d uttered those words, the handsomest, sexiest guy at school. Hell, in the whole world. When I went to bed last night, I couldn’t keep my hands off myself. Didn’t care if my roommate heard me or not… probably not because he slept like a log. Afterward, as I lay there panting, I tried to analyze our relationship. Relationship! What a word. I’d never had one before… a relationship that is. It was probably because I made a point of acting like one of the regular guys. I worked hard to keep from fluttering hands and to mimic his long stride. My voice was at least a decibel lower when I spoke to William. He appreciated that, I think. Whatever it was, I was going to make my move today. Right now. I damned near swooned as he walked up to me, his good-looking face scrubbed and shaved and smiling with pleasure from seeing me. Me! He paused and clapped my shoulder like I was one of his football squad. “Glad I caught you,” I said. “Something I want to say to you.” Was it my imagination or did he go wary? I swallowed hard and plunged ahead. “I-I love….” Definitely wary now. I cleared my throat. “I love this arbor. It’s an island of peace and quiet in the middle of a storm.” Then I looked him squarely in his vivid green eyes. “Don’t you, William J. Fishbone?” His beaming, angelic smile reappeared. “I do, John H. Pierson. I really do.” Weak in the knees, I allowed him to throw an arm around my shoulders and propel me down the sidewalk, chattering about his upcoming day as we went. After a moment, I relaxed and took pleasure in his casual touch and hoped everyone on campus saw us. After all, I’d said those six words. Of course, I’d interspersed them with a dozen or so other words, but whether he knew it or not, I’d expressed my adoration aloud for the world to hear… and misunderstand. But I knew precisely what I meant. I love you, William J. Fishbone.
*****Did you ever live this scene? If so, I hope it struck a silver bell in your memory banks.
As always, I’m interested in your reaction. Send comments to markwildyr@aol.com.
Thanks for being a reader.
New blogs posted at 6:30 a.m. each Thursday.
*****Did you ever live this scene? If so, I hope it struck a silver bell in your memory banks.
As always, I’m interested in your reaction. Send comments to markwildyr@aol.com.
Thanks for being a reader.
New blogs posted at 6:30 a.m. each Thursday.
May 1, 2016
Artist and Model, A Short Story
A short piece of prose for this post. Can’t call it a short story (or can you?), so I’ll just say it’s a slice of life for a good but not terribly well-known portrait artist in the city of Albuquerque in the state of New Mexico. But the location and the circumstances aren’t important. Not to the artist James Carson Hamner nor to the models he occasionally uses.*****ARTIST AND MODEL
JAMES CARSON HAMNER, ARTIST That was the sign affixed to his front door. He’d had to seriously restrain himself to avoid adding an e to the word Artist five years ago when he first put up the discrete plaque. That’s the way he felt… like an artiste. Of the four words on that sign, Artist was the one that defined him. Certainly more than the three names precedent. Those were just legal necessities for signing contracts and paying bills. Ordinary, mundane titles for ordinary, mundane tasks. James Carson Hamner’s home reinforced that conviction. The front door to the adobe in Albuquerque’s north valley opened directly into his large studio and gallery... his living quarters lay somewhere beyond. His own work hung on the whitewashed studio walls. In one corner near the north-facing windows, he’d rigged dark curtains at right angles as a place for his subjects to pose. He disdained still life, so these subjects were living, breathing individuals… usually male. He’d had some interesting characters sit or stand in that alcove over the years. Most of them assumed he was homosexual and acted accordingly, either refusing to remove their briefs or flagrantly displaying themselves. Very few—mostly professionals—were nonchalant about their nakedness. James Carson Hamner grimaced as he remembered Roddy. Football player, hunk, and well… roddy. That is, well endowed. At the end of each of their four sessions, the tight end—that probably didn’t mean to others what it did to him—had been his usual aggressive self and simply assumed his stud services were required. Roddy had been a selfish lover. He took care of his own needs and then exited the premises still demanding adulation with comments like “How’d you like that?” or “Never had better, have you?” “That’s okay, Roddy baby,” he whispered beneath his breath. “You and all your glory brought me an even five grand.” Immediately, he was contrite. He did this for the art, not for the money. Still, one had to eat… even an artiste. Vincent had been okay. The alabaster model, he’d called him. Pale white skin. Yellow curly hair, vivid green eyes. And anxious to please. Put him in one position, and Vincent remained there. Regardless of whether James Carson Hamner was painting with his brush or panting from his efforts. The present one was a little more enigmatic. Physically, he was charming. Dark skin, black hair, and the brown eyes of a frightened doe. Bold, yet halting all in the same breath. He held the name Darius, an appellation as exotic and enigmatic as its bearer. James Carson Hamner had inspected the man-child’s driver’s license twice before admitting the charming youth was, indeed, eighteen… the minimum age he accepted for his models. He never exposed himself to possible recriminations from the law. He had spent fifteen minutes talking the beautiful Darius out of his clothing, and now they argued over the boy’s boxer shorts. “I made it clear up front,” he said. “I advertised for nude models.” “I-I know,” Darius stammered in his beautiful baritone. “But I thought that meant I could keep some clothes on.” Near the point of giving up and sending this local version of Adonis away, he snorted. “Nude means nude… naked… sans clothing. Are you ashamed of what you’re hiding?” The boy blushed. “No, but… it’s private.” James Curtis Hamner threw down the piece of charcoal he held in his left hand. “Do you want the job or not? If you do, shuck the shorts. If you don’t, get dressed and go away.” Clearly distressed, Darius frowned, rendering himself hauntingly human instead of merely lovely. “I guess so.” He almost laughed aloud when his model turned away to remove his shorts, revealing two smooth, tan, inviting orbs. The boy hesitated a long moment before turning around. Breathtaking. The curly, black bush was exactly proportional to the flesh of the long, flaccid penis. Proportional… that is to say not too large as to seem furry or so small as to appear trimmed. Entirely natural. The fat penis was uncircumcised. Unusual in this day and age. He met the youth’s hooded eyes. Darius swallowed hard. “You… you won’t….” James Carson Hamner almost broke out laughing. He put a note of banner into his voice. “Don’t worry. Your virginity is safe. I won’t attack it without an invitation.” “W-what if someone comes in,” Darius sent his gaze toward the door. “Don’t worry. It’s locked. Remember, you had to ring the bell to gain admission. And if someone rings, there’s a robe on the table for you to cover yourself. Ready now?” The boy, standing with his legs apart, his fingers curled loosely into fists, nodded. He spent an enjoyable five minutes arranging the fetching boy in a semi-reclining position on the black shrouded sofa. Deciding the background was too somber, he had Darius get up and spread an ecru cloth over the black, arranging the folds so that some of both were visible. Then he had the boy take a seat and placed him in the position he wanted. Of course, this necessitated laying hands on that delectable flesh, but he was careful to stay clear of the area that would panic the boy. Darius was astonished that he wanted that intriguing cock posed in just the right way, as well. Nonetheless, he moved himself around as directed. “You don’t need to hold absolutely still, but try not to move more than necessary. Give me a few minutes notice before you have to really move. You know, sneeze or scratch or the like.” James Carson Hamner totally enjoyed himself as he skillfully sketched the boy’s outline on canvas with the charcoal. As he started filling in details, he noticed the boy—whose head was pointed in his general direction—followed his movements with his eyes. Abruptly he switched and began sketching the boy’s groin, certain the boy knew where he now concentrated. He was right. Darius’s right leg twitched. He caught the alarmed look on the youth’s face as he realized something else was happening. That fascinating tube of flesh stirred. Darius flinched but held his pose. Then it actually moved. Fattened and swelled ever so slightly. The boy blinked rapidly, then closed his eyes. That did not save Darius. His cock continued to grow, lengthening and thickening. He licked his lips, but nothing helped. The cock was now semi-erect; the boy half panicked. James Carson Hamner stood enjoying the drama. Once Darius had lost the battle, the handsome youngster lay back on the sofa attempting to hang onto an aura of defiance. But the pulsing member belied his struggle. The artist put down his charcoal, carefully wiped his hands on a rag and approached the boy. He watched as the fright in those soulful brown eyes died, replaced by another expression. Curiosity? Desire? “Not without an invitation,” he murmured softly before sinking to his knees and lowering his head to take what he had desired from the moment he set eyes on this shy man-child. *****I hope you enjoyed this little scene. As is always true, I’m interested in your reaction. Send comments to markwildyr@aol.com. Thanks for reading.
New blogs posted at 6:30 a.m. each Thursday.
JAMES CARSON HAMNER, ARTIST That was the sign affixed to his front door. He’d had to seriously restrain himself to avoid adding an e to the word Artist five years ago when he first put up the discrete plaque. That’s the way he felt… like an artiste. Of the four words on that sign, Artist was the one that defined him. Certainly more than the three names precedent. Those were just legal necessities for signing contracts and paying bills. Ordinary, mundane titles for ordinary, mundane tasks. James Carson Hamner’s home reinforced that conviction. The front door to the adobe in Albuquerque’s north valley opened directly into his large studio and gallery... his living quarters lay somewhere beyond. His own work hung on the whitewashed studio walls. In one corner near the north-facing windows, he’d rigged dark curtains at right angles as a place for his subjects to pose. He disdained still life, so these subjects were living, breathing individuals… usually male. He’d had some interesting characters sit or stand in that alcove over the years. Most of them assumed he was homosexual and acted accordingly, either refusing to remove their briefs or flagrantly displaying themselves. Very few—mostly professionals—were nonchalant about their nakedness. James Carson Hamner grimaced as he remembered Roddy. Football player, hunk, and well… roddy. That is, well endowed. At the end of each of their four sessions, the tight end—that probably didn’t mean to others what it did to him—had been his usual aggressive self and simply assumed his stud services were required. Roddy had been a selfish lover. He took care of his own needs and then exited the premises still demanding adulation with comments like “How’d you like that?” or “Never had better, have you?” “That’s okay, Roddy baby,” he whispered beneath his breath. “You and all your glory brought me an even five grand.” Immediately, he was contrite. He did this for the art, not for the money. Still, one had to eat… even an artiste. Vincent had been okay. The alabaster model, he’d called him. Pale white skin. Yellow curly hair, vivid green eyes. And anxious to please. Put him in one position, and Vincent remained there. Regardless of whether James Carson Hamner was painting with his brush or panting from his efforts. The present one was a little more enigmatic. Physically, he was charming. Dark skin, black hair, and the brown eyes of a frightened doe. Bold, yet halting all in the same breath. He held the name Darius, an appellation as exotic and enigmatic as its bearer. James Carson Hamner had inspected the man-child’s driver’s license twice before admitting the charming youth was, indeed, eighteen… the minimum age he accepted for his models. He never exposed himself to possible recriminations from the law. He had spent fifteen minutes talking the beautiful Darius out of his clothing, and now they argued over the boy’s boxer shorts. “I made it clear up front,” he said. “I advertised for nude models.” “I-I know,” Darius stammered in his beautiful baritone. “But I thought that meant I could keep some clothes on.” Near the point of giving up and sending this local version of Adonis away, he snorted. “Nude means nude… naked… sans clothing. Are you ashamed of what you’re hiding?” The boy blushed. “No, but… it’s private.” James Curtis Hamner threw down the piece of charcoal he held in his left hand. “Do you want the job or not? If you do, shuck the shorts. If you don’t, get dressed and go away.” Clearly distressed, Darius frowned, rendering himself hauntingly human instead of merely lovely. “I guess so.” He almost laughed aloud when his model turned away to remove his shorts, revealing two smooth, tan, inviting orbs. The boy hesitated a long moment before turning around. Breathtaking. The curly, black bush was exactly proportional to the flesh of the long, flaccid penis. Proportional… that is to say not too large as to seem furry or so small as to appear trimmed. Entirely natural. The fat penis was uncircumcised. Unusual in this day and age. He met the youth’s hooded eyes. Darius swallowed hard. “You… you won’t….” James Carson Hamner almost broke out laughing. He put a note of banner into his voice. “Don’t worry. Your virginity is safe. I won’t attack it without an invitation.” “W-what if someone comes in,” Darius sent his gaze toward the door. “Don’t worry. It’s locked. Remember, you had to ring the bell to gain admission. And if someone rings, there’s a robe on the table for you to cover yourself. Ready now?” The boy, standing with his legs apart, his fingers curled loosely into fists, nodded. He spent an enjoyable five minutes arranging the fetching boy in a semi-reclining position on the black shrouded sofa. Deciding the background was too somber, he had Darius get up and spread an ecru cloth over the black, arranging the folds so that some of both were visible. Then he had the boy take a seat and placed him in the position he wanted. Of course, this necessitated laying hands on that delectable flesh, but he was careful to stay clear of the area that would panic the boy. Darius was astonished that he wanted that intriguing cock posed in just the right way, as well. Nonetheless, he moved himself around as directed. “You don’t need to hold absolutely still, but try not to move more than necessary. Give me a few minutes notice before you have to really move. You know, sneeze or scratch or the like.” James Carson Hamner totally enjoyed himself as he skillfully sketched the boy’s outline on canvas with the charcoal. As he started filling in details, he noticed the boy—whose head was pointed in his general direction—followed his movements with his eyes. Abruptly he switched and began sketching the boy’s groin, certain the boy knew where he now concentrated. He was right. Darius’s right leg twitched. He caught the alarmed look on the youth’s face as he realized something else was happening. That fascinating tube of flesh stirred. Darius flinched but held his pose. Then it actually moved. Fattened and swelled ever so slightly. The boy blinked rapidly, then closed his eyes. That did not save Darius. His cock continued to grow, lengthening and thickening. He licked his lips, but nothing helped. The cock was now semi-erect; the boy half panicked. James Carson Hamner stood enjoying the drama. Once Darius had lost the battle, the handsome youngster lay back on the sofa attempting to hang onto an aura of defiance. But the pulsing member belied his struggle. The artist put down his charcoal, carefully wiped his hands on a rag and approached the boy. He watched as the fright in those soulful brown eyes died, replaced by another expression. Curiosity? Desire? “Not without an invitation,” he murmured softly before sinking to his knees and lowering his head to take what he had desired from the moment he set eyes on this shy man-child. *****I hope you enjoyed this little scene. As is always true, I’m interested in your reaction. Send comments to markwildyr@aol.com. Thanks for reading.
New blogs posted at 6:30 a.m. each Thursday.
April 1, 2016
Just a Little More of JOHNNY TWO-GUNSDreamspinner Press b...
Just a Little More of JOHNNY TWO-GUNS
Dreamspinner Press brought out Johnny Two-Guns on Friday, March 18, just as promised. Already has some pretty good reviews (and one disturbing one). Before letting go, I’d like to do one more post about the book.
I write novels with a historical setting and novels that are contemporary in nature. Thus far, the historical books are a series, so each has continuing characters plus many references to other individuals whose time has passed. In the contemporary books, I try to have characters from one book do a cameo appearance in another book. For example, Wilam Greyhorse and Joseph Sixkiller from The Victor and the Vanquished show up in Charlie Blackbear. Let’s look at the principals of Charlie as they make a brief appearance in Johnny Two-Guns.
The following scene takes place in Chapter 3 of Johnny. Denver architect Roger Mackie and Johnny, his young Chippewa rider, are slowly getting to know one another when a sign advertising Blackhorse Traders catches Johnny’s eye. Roger notices his reaction and decides to take a side trip to the place. The Norman Chillers mentioned in the passage is a cousin of Johnny’s.*****JOHNNY TWO-GUNS
I was behind the wheel again when something caught his attention. “What?” He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “That sign. Blackhorse Traders.” “You know them?” “Naw. But my cousin does. Met them at a powwow.” “You wanna stop and check them out?” He hesitated. “Dunno. Think he told me it’s ten miles off the highway. On a little reservation.” “It caught your interest, so let’s go for it.” Three miles later, I exited the highway and halted at a stop sign before a two-lane state road. White letters on a green background proclaimed Flynn’s Corners to be ninety miles east, while Blue Valley lay only ten miles west. I turned right, and in no time, we entered the small town of Blue Valley. A couple of blinks of the eye, and we were through it. Shortly after that, we were on reservation land. Eventually we spotted a frame building sitting on the south side of the road, all by itself. “That must be it.” Johnny nodded. I could tell his interest in the venture was dropping fast. That shy thing, again. “Let’s check it out.” I got out of the car with my camera hanging around my neck and stepped onto a broad veranda beneath a huge sign that said Blackhorse Traders. This looked to be a wholesale place that didn’t see much tourist traffic. A stout, pleasant-faced young woman introduced herself as Sally and asked if she could help us. I was right, Blackhorse filled orders for Indian traders around the country, but they had a small counter of retail goods. I examined it while Johnny worked up the courage to talk to the woman. One piece caught my eye immediately, an exquisitely wrought, fifteen-inch porcupine made out of marble. But it looked poured rather than worked. Cultured marble, they call it. I picked it up and was surprised by the signature on the bottom. Joseph Sixkiller. I’d seen his work before. Stan Mancuso had two of his pieces. I’d turned to tell the clerk I was interested in the porcupine when she called out. “Charlie, Daniel, there’s a friend of Norman Chillers out here.” Two extremely attractive young men walked out of a back room. After a moment Johnny turned and included me in the introductions. A little thrill went through me when he said I was a friend, not some guy hauling him down to Arizona. Charlie Blackbear was the bigger of the two men. He wore his hair long and loose, and it framed a strong masculine face that was as handsome as any I had seen… until I turned to gaze into Daniel Warhorse’s dark eyes. Was he even better-looking? Hard to tell. Then my gaze fell on Johnny Two-Guns. I’d never be able to untangle that Gordian knot. I was virtually surrounded by three sexy men who made me think of things I didn’t ordinarily dwell on. Butterflies started in on my stomach. The two traders, both in their twenties, wore bracelets, just as Johnny did. But theirs were heavy on silver and turquoise whereas Johnny’s were coral and bone. Cultural differences, likely. The men told us how they’d come out of a mountain logging crew one season, taken their accumulated savings, and started selling Indian-made goods to traders. Signs of their success were everywhere. The showroom held quality merchandise. The two pickups out front were new. The place wore comfortably on me. I paid the clerk—actually introduced as the office manager—an ungodly amount for the Sixkiller figurine, while listening with half an ear to the men talk about their mutual acquaintance. Johnny’s cousin, Norman Chiller, was apparently a grass dancer of some repute. Whatever that was. Just as I figured I was looking at the best trio of men I’d ever seen in one place at the same time, the front door opened and another stunner walked in. I found myself shaking hands with a fellow not much older than Johnny named Aden Smith. Aden worked for the other two. It was hard to turn down an offer to meet the trio later at a bar in Blue Valley called the Lazy Eight. It would have been pleasant to spend a few hours in the company of such men, but I was afraid to trust myself around them with a few drinks under my belt. Why in the hell was I coming to understand things about me I’d never suspected before? After they all gathered for a couple of photos in front of the store, Johnny and I took our leave.*****I sincerely hope this glimpse at my new book prompts you to want to read more of it. As always, I’m interested in your reaction. Send to markwildyr@aol.com. Thanks for reading.
New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.
Dreamspinner Press brought out Johnny Two-Guns on Friday, March 18, just as promised. Already has some pretty good reviews (and one disturbing one). Before letting go, I’d like to do one more post about the book.
I write novels with a historical setting and novels that are contemporary in nature. Thus far, the historical books are a series, so each has continuing characters plus many references to other individuals whose time has passed. In the contemporary books, I try to have characters from one book do a cameo appearance in another book. For example, Wilam Greyhorse and Joseph Sixkiller from The Victor and the Vanquished show up in Charlie Blackbear. Let’s look at the principals of Charlie as they make a brief appearance in Johnny Two-Guns.
The following scene takes place in Chapter 3 of Johnny. Denver architect Roger Mackie and Johnny, his young Chippewa rider, are slowly getting to know one another when a sign advertising Blackhorse Traders catches Johnny’s eye. Roger notices his reaction and decides to take a side trip to the place. The Norman Chillers mentioned in the passage is a cousin of Johnny’s.*****JOHNNY TWO-GUNS
I was behind the wheel again when something caught his attention. “What?” He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “That sign. Blackhorse Traders.” “You know them?” “Naw. But my cousin does. Met them at a powwow.” “You wanna stop and check them out?” He hesitated. “Dunno. Think he told me it’s ten miles off the highway. On a little reservation.” “It caught your interest, so let’s go for it.” Three miles later, I exited the highway and halted at a stop sign before a two-lane state road. White letters on a green background proclaimed Flynn’s Corners to be ninety miles east, while Blue Valley lay only ten miles west. I turned right, and in no time, we entered the small town of Blue Valley. A couple of blinks of the eye, and we were through it. Shortly after that, we were on reservation land. Eventually we spotted a frame building sitting on the south side of the road, all by itself. “That must be it.” Johnny nodded. I could tell his interest in the venture was dropping fast. That shy thing, again. “Let’s check it out.” I got out of the car with my camera hanging around my neck and stepped onto a broad veranda beneath a huge sign that said Blackhorse Traders. This looked to be a wholesale place that didn’t see much tourist traffic. A stout, pleasant-faced young woman introduced herself as Sally and asked if she could help us. I was right, Blackhorse filled orders for Indian traders around the country, but they had a small counter of retail goods. I examined it while Johnny worked up the courage to talk to the woman. One piece caught my eye immediately, an exquisitely wrought, fifteen-inch porcupine made out of marble. But it looked poured rather than worked. Cultured marble, they call it. I picked it up and was surprised by the signature on the bottom. Joseph Sixkiller. I’d seen his work before. Stan Mancuso had two of his pieces. I’d turned to tell the clerk I was interested in the porcupine when she called out. “Charlie, Daniel, there’s a friend of Norman Chillers out here.” Two extremely attractive young men walked out of a back room. After a moment Johnny turned and included me in the introductions. A little thrill went through me when he said I was a friend, not some guy hauling him down to Arizona. Charlie Blackbear was the bigger of the two men. He wore his hair long and loose, and it framed a strong masculine face that was as handsome as any I had seen… until I turned to gaze into Daniel Warhorse’s dark eyes. Was he even better-looking? Hard to tell. Then my gaze fell on Johnny Two-Guns. I’d never be able to untangle that Gordian knot. I was virtually surrounded by three sexy men who made me think of things I didn’t ordinarily dwell on. Butterflies started in on my stomach. The two traders, both in their twenties, wore bracelets, just as Johnny did. But theirs were heavy on silver and turquoise whereas Johnny’s were coral and bone. Cultural differences, likely. The men told us how they’d come out of a mountain logging crew one season, taken their accumulated savings, and started selling Indian-made goods to traders. Signs of their success were everywhere. The showroom held quality merchandise. The two pickups out front were new. The place wore comfortably on me. I paid the clerk—actually introduced as the office manager—an ungodly amount for the Sixkiller figurine, while listening with half an ear to the men talk about their mutual acquaintance. Johnny’s cousin, Norman Chiller, was apparently a grass dancer of some repute. Whatever that was. Just as I figured I was looking at the best trio of men I’d ever seen in one place at the same time, the front door opened and another stunner walked in. I found myself shaking hands with a fellow not much older than Johnny named Aden Smith. Aden worked for the other two. It was hard to turn down an offer to meet the trio later at a bar in Blue Valley called the Lazy Eight. It would have been pleasant to spend a few hours in the company of such men, but I was afraid to trust myself around them with a few drinks under my belt. Why in the hell was I coming to understand things about me I’d never suspected before? After they all gathered for a couple of photos in front of the store, Johnny and I took our leave.*****I sincerely hope this glimpse at my new book prompts you to want to read more of it. As always, I’m interested in your reaction. Send to markwildyr@aol.com. Thanks for reading.
New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.
March 1, 2016
A little more about JOHNNY TWO-GUNS
As I advised in the last post, Dreamspinner Press has named March 18 as the release date of JOHNNY TWO-GUNS. I suppose I should admit to being excited. I’ve never before had a date certain for the publication of a book, so it’s a new experience for me. One I will unashamedly enjoy. So let’s find a little something to excerpt from the novel.
In the scene below, which is lifted from Chapter 1, Roger Mackie, a recently divorced Denver architect, experiences a life-changing event when he pulls into a remote trading post to gas up his Mercedes. *****
JOHNNY TWO-GUNSBy Mark Wildyr
After a hearty breakfast, I-90 led me out of Butte, and an innocuous turnoff to the west drew me deeper into the Bitterroot Mountains. I must have been recovering from my foul mood because the scenery started to hold some interest again. These hills were a part of the same great Rocky Mountain chain as those around Denver, but they had a different feel… craggier, wilder somehow. If I had been the outdoors type, I would have bought a tent and camped out in the crisp mountain air. Nonetheless, before long this trek started to look like the latest in a series of mistakes, because the road degraded, the traffic evaporated, and I was absolutely alone without an idea of where I was. My anxiety level soaring as the gas gauge dipped, I came to a place where the road widened. An old log building stood to the left. At the sight of two antiquated gasoline pumps in front, I pulled over and stopped. The sight was so novel that I grabbed the Canon and clicked a couple of shots of the place. Inside, the building was low ceilinged, but much larger than it looked from the outside. If I had been on the Navajo reservation, I would have guessed this was an old-fashioned Indian trading post. I had no idea if they had such things up here, although there were plenty of Native Americans in Montana. The trading post or store or whatever it was had goods crammed in every corner, was dimly lit, and gave off a pleasant, homey atmosphere. A grizzled man of about sixty waited on an elderly woman buying a few basic groceries. The Caucasian trader stood six foot three or four—brawn going soft. He finished with the lady and turned to me. “Come right on in and look around. Got a pot of coffee on, and you’re welcome to join us.” He gestured toward a distant corner dominated by a potbellied stove with a few cane chairs grouped around it. At this altitude the warmth was inviting. Someone was seated in one of the chairs beside the stove. “Thanks. I’ll take you up on the offer. But first I’d like to gas up the car.” I halfway expected him to say he was out of gasoline. “Easy done.” He turned to the stove at the rear. “Johnny, can you come pump this fella some gas?” “Yessir, Mr. Beasley.” An indistinct figure rose from his chair with animal grace. A moment later, a young Native American emerged out of the semigloom and walked toward us with the strong, languid movement of a mountain lion… unhurried, efficient, powerful. “Give Johnny your keys,” the trader said. “He’ll gas up for you. You want it filled?” I nodded. “Yep. To the brim.” When I told him what I was driving, he told the kid to give me the premium. I agreed and asked for a restroom. The shopkeeper directed me to the back of the establishment, where I took a leak and puzzled over my reaction to the young man now gassing up my car. Occasionally you run into someone who catches the eye and won’t let go. Someone whose physical presence engages the entire you. I’d experienced it only once before in my life. *****And thus, Roger Mackie first lays eyes on Johnny Two-Guns and begins a journey he could never have imagined, during which he learns things about himself he had never before suspected.
I’d appreciate your feedback at markwildyr@aol.com. Thanks for reading, and come back soon.
Mark
New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. on the first of every month.
[DM1]I know it’s not for this purpose, but “The place was so novel…” would be much better.
In the scene below, which is lifted from Chapter 1, Roger Mackie, a recently divorced Denver architect, experiences a life-changing event when he pulls into a remote trading post to gas up his Mercedes. *****
JOHNNY TWO-GUNSBy Mark WildyrAfter a hearty breakfast, I-90 led me out of Butte, and an innocuous turnoff to the west drew me deeper into the Bitterroot Mountains. I must have been recovering from my foul mood because the scenery started to hold some interest again. These hills were a part of the same great Rocky Mountain chain as those around Denver, but they had a different feel… craggier, wilder somehow. If I had been the outdoors type, I would have bought a tent and camped out in the crisp mountain air. Nonetheless, before long this trek started to look like the latest in a series of mistakes, because the road degraded, the traffic evaporated, and I was absolutely alone without an idea of where I was. My anxiety level soaring as the gas gauge dipped, I came to a place where the road widened. An old log building stood to the left. At the sight of two antiquated gasoline pumps in front, I pulled over and stopped. The sight was so novel that I grabbed the Canon and clicked a couple of shots of the place. Inside, the building was low ceilinged, but much larger than it looked from the outside. If I had been on the Navajo reservation, I would have guessed this was an old-fashioned Indian trading post. I had no idea if they had such things up here, although there were plenty of Native Americans in Montana. The trading post or store or whatever it was had goods crammed in every corner, was dimly lit, and gave off a pleasant, homey atmosphere. A grizzled man of about sixty waited on an elderly woman buying a few basic groceries. The Caucasian trader stood six foot three or four—brawn going soft. He finished with the lady and turned to me. “Come right on in and look around. Got a pot of coffee on, and you’re welcome to join us.” He gestured toward a distant corner dominated by a potbellied stove with a few cane chairs grouped around it. At this altitude the warmth was inviting. Someone was seated in one of the chairs beside the stove. “Thanks. I’ll take you up on the offer. But first I’d like to gas up the car.” I halfway expected him to say he was out of gasoline. “Easy done.” He turned to the stove at the rear. “Johnny, can you come pump this fella some gas?” “Yessir, Mr. Beasley.” An indistinct figure rose from his chair with animal grace. A moment later, a young Native American emerged out of the semigloom and walked toward us with the strong, languid movement of a mountain lion… unhurried, efficient, powerful. “Give Johnny your keys,” the trader said. “He’ll gas up for you. You want it filled?” I nodded. “Yep. To the brim.” When I told him what I was driving, he told the kid to give me the premium. I agreed and asked for a restroom. The shopkeeper directed me to the back of the establishment, where I took a leak and puzzled over my reaction to the young man now gassing up my car. Occasionally you run into someone who catches the eye and won’t let go. Someone whose physical presence engages the entire you. I’d experienced it only once before in my life. *****And thus, Roger Mackie first lays eyes on Johnny Two-Guns and begins a journey he could never have imagined, during which he learns things about himself he had never before suspected.
I’d appreciate your feedback at markwildyr@aol.com. Thanks for reading, and come back soon.
Mark
New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. on the first of every month.
[DM1]I know it’s not for this purpose, but “The place was so novel…” would be much better.
February 1, 2016
JOHNNY TWO-GUNS Publication DateDreamSpinner Press recent...
JOHNNY TWO-GUNS Publication Date
DreamSpinner Press recently advised that the official publication date for JOHNNY TWO-GUNS is March 18, 2016. This book will take its place beside THE VICTOR AND THE VANQUISED and CHARLIE BLACKBEAR as Mark Wildyr’s next book with a contemporary setting. Working with DreamSpinner in preparing for this day has been a real pleasure. I particularly like the cover art for the novel. The artists loaded it with symbolism from the book. Johnny, himself, a horse, and a highway scene. All of these play an important part in the story, as does the silver and turquoise ring you can see on his finger Kudos to the staff.
Said cover and the Prologue of the book are provided as this month’s post. Enjoy.*****
JOHNNY TWO-GUNSBy Mark Wildyr
PROLOGUE The Bitterroot Range rose above the tops of the evergreen forest surrounding the ramshackle, tin-roofed house. A wiry young man strode out the back door and tripped down a set of three steps. His father, walking with a decided limp, followed along behind. An old woman caught the screen before it slammed shut and watched the two head for the corral. Her throat nearly closed up on her as she perceived something different in the manly grace of her grandson. She was worried about the boy – and he was a boy to her way of thinking. A deep frown marred the natural dignity of her features. Likely it was this other thing from the outside world bothering her. Her lips moved in an ancient Chippewa prayer, muttered in the mother tongue. “You be careful with this bronc,” the father said. “He’s a bad one.” The younger man spoke in a clear baritone. “Mean, maybe, but I see good horseflesh under those rollers he’s blowing. He’ll make a good working horse one of these days.” The father switched a strip of leather to his other hand. They’d use the device to blind the unruly buckskin while they put leather on him. “Likely, but there’s lotsa outlaw to leech outa him before that comes along. You ain’t rodeoing, so don’t be shy about pulling leather. And don’t let your mind get carried off by that other stuff.” “That other stuff looks like a way to bring in some good money.” A thundercloud hid in the look the older man shot his son. “We doing all right. You got a roof and a meal and clothes on your back. What else you need? Besides, you bring in extra for breaking mustangs.” The younger man’s mouth tightened, but he held his tongue. They worked for twenty minutes just to put tack gear on the cold-backed animal. This one would fight the gear every day of his life. The father held on to the bronc’s flaring nostrils and twisted fingers in one of the animal’s ears while the youth wrangled a light saddle into place. As soon as the rider swung onto his back, the buckskin went up on his hind legs and came down hard. He tried out some stiff-legged crow hops before turning loose. The horse spun and sun-fished his muscled body in a graceful arc before swapping ends – going up one way and coming down facing the other direction. His bucks were arm jerkers, powerful. The youth looked to be glued to the horse’s back. Taking his father’s advice, he held onto the saddle horn during the worst of the leaps. If the blessed mustang would just tire out before he did, he’d have it made. And tomorrow, the pony wouldn’t fight so hard. And the next day … They must have been going at it for thirty minutes before the horse stumbled.
*****While I thoroughly enjoy wallowing in 19th Century historical background of the Cut Hand Series, I do like to set foot in the modern world on occasion. JOHNNY TWO-GUNS is one of these forays. Let me know what you think.
Thanks for reading, and come back soon.
Feel free to contact me at markwildyr@aol.com.
Mark
New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. on the first of every month.
DreamSpinner Press recently advised that the official publication date for JOHNNY TWO-GUNS is March 18, 2016. This book will take its place beside THE VICTOR AND THE VANQUISED and CHARLIE BLACKBEAR as Mark Wildyr’s next book with a contemporary setting. Working with DreamSpinner in preparing for this day has been a real pleasure. I particularly like the cover art for the novel. The artists loaded it with symbolism from the book. Johnny, himself, a horse, and a highway scene. All of these play an important part in the story, as does the silver and turquoise ring you can see on his finger Kudos to the staff.
Said cover and the Prologue of the book are provided as this month’s post. Enjoy.*****
JOHNNY TWO-GUNSBy Mark Wildyr
PROLOGUE The Bitterroot Range rose above the tops of the evergreen forest surrounding the ramshackle, tin-roofed house. A wiry young man strode out the back door and tripped down a set of three steps. His father, walking with a decided limp, followed along behind. An old woman caught the screen before it slammed shut and watched the two head for the corral. Her throat nearly closed up on her as she perceived something different in the manly grace of her grandson. She was worried about the boy – and he was a boy to her way of thinking. A deep frown marred the natural dignity of her features. Likely it was this other thing from the outside world bothering her. Her lips moved in an ancient Chippewa prayer, muttered in the mother tongue. “You be careful with this bronc,” the father said. “He’s a bad one.” The younger man spoke in a clear baritone. “Mean, maybe, but I see good horseflesh under those rollers he’s blowing. He’ll make a good working horse one of these days.” The father switched a strip of leather to his other hand. They’d use the device to blind the unruly buckskin while they put leather on him. “Likely, but there’s lotsa outlaw to leech outa him before that comes along. You ain’t rodeoing, so don’t be shy about pulling leather. And don’t let your mind get carried off by that other stuff.” “That other stuff looks like a way to bring in some good money.” A thundercloud hid in the look the older man shot his son. “We doing all right. You got a roof and a meal and clothes on your back. What else you need? Besides, you bring in extra for breaking mustangs.” The younger man’s mouth tightened, but he held his tongue. They worked for twenty minutes just to put tack gear on the cold-backed animal. This one would fight the gear every day of his life. The father held on to the bronc’s flaring nostrils and twisted fingers in one of the animal’s ears while the youth wrangled a light saddle into place. As soon as the rider swung onto his back, the buckskin went up on his hind legs and came down hard. He tried out some stiff-legged crow hops before turning loose. The horse spun and sun-fished his muscled body in a graceful arc before swapping ends – going up one way and coming down facing the other direction. His bucks were arm jerkers, powerful. The youth looked to be glued to the horse’s back. Taking his father’s advice, he held onto the saddle horn during the worst of the leaps. If the blessed mustang would just tire out before he did, he’d have it made. And tomorrow, the pony wouldn’t fight so hard. And the next day … They must have been going at it for thirty minutes before the horse stumbled.
*****While I thoroughly enjoy wallowing in 19th Century historical background of the Cut Hand Series, I do like to set foot in the modern world on occasion. JOHNNY TWO-GUNS is one of these forays. Let me know what you think.
Thanks for reading, and come back soon.
Feel free to contact me at markwildyr@aol.com.
Mark
New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. on the first of every month.
January 1, 2016
The Hired Hand (Conclusion)
A Happy New Year to all of you. I hope it's a good one. Lets get right back into the story of Zip and Lonnie. ***** HIRED HAND
A few days later, I came home early from church and walked in on Lonnie lying naked on the couch masturbating. I almost lost control and jumped his bones right then, but I backed silently out the door without him knowing I was there and futzed around in the barn until I figured he’d taken care of his problem. He had, but he’d left me with a big one. I was falling in love and had no way to let this intriguing young innocent know about it.Ever since I discovered how he relieved his sexual tension, I dawdled after church on Sunday to give him some precious privacy. To be honest, I knew that if I walked in on him again, I’d lose control. So I drove the back roads over my farm every Sabbath and masturbated in a grove of cottonwoods out of sight of the house, but it wasn’t working. The pressure, the need for physical human contact, built inside me. I caught myself watching the boy and fantasizing over the line of his tanned jaw, the curve of his chest, the lean sturdiness of his thighs…that full basket. I became the watcher in the woods. And it was driving me crazy.The time to let him go came and went. The crops were in and growing satisfactorily. The calves were on the ground and thriving. The work load slackened. And still I could not bring myself to accept the cruel necessity of sending him away. His odd mixture of sweet innocence and physical earthiness prevented me from doing what needed to be done.The boy brought things to a head himself after dinner one night while we were doing the dishes.“Uh…Zip.”Something in his tone caused me to turn and look at him.“I-I think it’s time I moved on.” He rubbed his smooth jaw. “Somebody was saying they’re looking for help on the Bryce Farms up near Albuquerque.”Flabbergasted, I sagged against the sink. “Albuquerque! I’m sorry you aren’t happy here.”The boy gave me a look that pierced my heart. ‘It isn’t that, Zip,’ he said and turned away. Puzzled I watched him go to his room.I puttered around for awhile longer, but he didn’t come out again, so I turned in to spend a long, miserable night tossing and turning. A dozen times I sat on the edge of the bed and fought to keep from going to him. Fear of the consequences kept me from following through.#####My fertile farm seemed like a barren desert within minutes of Lonnie Hydrack’s departure. I was shocked at the depth of my feeling. Judging from the ache in my gut and the depression that gripped me, he would prove to be more trouble absent than he had been present. Perhaps it was my imagination, but even the animals missed him. One old sow he named Penny chased me out of her pen when she realized I wasn’t Lonnie.Work never ceases on a farm, and that was my salvation. Day by day, my loneliness and self pity lessened, only to come crashing down again when I’d come home from Church and picture him naked on the couch. A month after he left, I was still leaking tears and missing him terribly. One Sunday afternoon, the phone rang. I answered it, grateful for the diversion. I was puzzled when the operator said Lonnie Hydrack was calling collect, but I happily accepted the charges.A curious hollow echo sang across the wire…and then came that mature voice so out of character in such a young man. “Hello, Zip. Sorry to call you collect, but…but that’s the only way I could call.”“That’s okay. Good to hear your voice,” My heart pounded so hard I thought I was having an attack.”How you doing? Get that job?”“Naw. They already had all the help they needed.”“Sorry. I should have let you go right away.”“Don’t worry about it.”A long pause developed. I could hear the banging of metal and male voices in the background. Afraid he would hang up, I blurted out a question.“You don’t sound right, Lonnie. Everything all right?”“I gotta go now, Zip. Just-just needed to hear a friendly voice. I really miss you. You know, the farm and all.”“Wait!’ I cried, panicked. "Don’t go, Lonnie! Come back, man. I-I love you.”Half sobbing, I paused for an answer, but the line was dead. I don’t know if he heard me or not. I don’t even know if I wanted him to hear me!I spent the rest of the afternoon brooding. My mood whipsawed all over the place. One moment, I was glad he was thinking of me, the next I missed him so much my gut felt like it was on fire. He was thinking of me? He missed me? Yeah, but he’d abandoned me, bailed out, left me in the lurch! Fuck him! Who needed him, anyway?I did. My subconscious figured it all out and woke me in the middle of the night. Those metallic clangs. Those echoing voices spoken in commanding tones. The boy was in jail! Oh, God! Lonnie was in trouble.I got up early and spent the entire morning on the telephone. By noon, I’d learned that he was in the Bernalillo County Detention Center but not much else. Another call got me the name of an Albuquerque attorney named George Festoon. Within a couple of hours after I called him, Festoon determined that one Lonnie Hydrack was serving forty-five days for drunk and disorderly and fighting. He was doing time because he couldn’t pay his five hundred dollar fine. In short order, I engaged him to spring my young friend, agreed to meet at his office tomorrow at noon, and rushed into town to wire the required funds.Four a.m. the following day found me tending the animals and doing the irrigating. Then I turned the nose of my truck north for the hundred-fifty mile drive to Albuquerque far too early. I had to kill a couple of hours before meeting Festoon. He proved to be a short, plump, bald, good-humoured man of about fifty. He was also efficient. At two-o’clock sharp, a thin, haggard kid with dirty-blond hair walked through the thick, bullet-proof door of the detention center into the reception area. Lonnie stopped short at the sight of me. After a moment, he came over and accepted my outstretched hand. His throat worked for a moment before any sound came out.“Zip! You the one who got me out?”“None other,” I said, my heart melting. “I finally figured out what those background sounds were and got Mr. Festoon here to find out what was going on. Drunk? Fighting? Doesn’t sound like the Lonny Hydrack I know.”“Maybe you don’t know Lonnie Hydrack,” he said in a low voice.“I know him well enough,” I said confidently. “Come on, let’s go home.” I could have been riding with a mummy. He claimed he didn’t have anything worth the trouble of recovering at the boarding house where he was staying, and settled back in the seat to stare out the window, making no protest as I turned south on I-25. When we stopped for something to eat, I had the feeling he wanted to talk, but didn’t push him. We had gassed up and hit the highway again before he mumbled something.“What?”“Aren’t you going to ask me why I got in trouble?”“You’ll tell me if you want me to know. If you don’t then it’s none of my business.”“From all the money you just laid out, I guess it is your business.”I took the next exit and parked on the frontage road. Turning in the seat, I faced my young friend. His month away from home had not been kind to him. He was thinner and frayed looking.“Lonnie, you don’t owe me nothing but to stay out of trouble. You’re free to come back to your job if you want, but you can go back to Albuquerque or El Paso or Timbuktu. But don’t ever do this again! That’s all I ask.” I was reaching for the gearshift when his voice stopped me.“I was flirting with this guy at a bar, and when he tried to follow it up, I beat his ass. Don’t know why. Just did.” He recited it in a flat, dead voice.There wasn’t much to say to that, so I held my tongue.“Did you mean it? What you said?” he asked finally.“I’m not sure what you’re ….”He sighed. “Did you mean what you said over the phone? What you said when I was hanging up?”My heart skipped a beat and then began thudding. “I usually mean what I say,” I hedged.He looked at me, his eyes sparkling with anger. “Then why didn’t you show it? Why’d you leave me in misery all those months on the farm? I couldn’t take it any longer! I had to get out or else I’d make a…a fool of myself.”“Oh, Lonnie! What are you saying.”“Did you mean it!” he insisted.I closed my eyes and nodded. “Every word of it. I love you, Lonnie Hydrack. I think I have from the minute I set eyes on you.”“Then why didn’t you say something? Do something?”“I was afraid. You never gave me any sign you’d welcome that kind of attention,” I said in a small voice.“Wasn’t my place. You were the boss. Afraid you’d throw me off the place.”I touched his shoulder with a timid hand. “Oh, Lonnie, I wanted to throw you down in the field that first day…and every day after that, but I couldn’t take the chance. I didn’t know how you’d react. It was agony, man. Painful to be around you. But not nearly as painful as being away from you. It took a long time for me to admit to myself that I was in love, and that made me even more cautious about doing something you might not like.”He gave an even deeper sigh. “Man, I got half-hard every time I saw you. I never set foot off the farm, never went into town to see any of the guys … or gals,’ he said sadly. ‘I thought you’d make your move sooner or later. When you didn’t, I figured I’d worked it out all wrong.”“And I figured you just needed the work.”He took a long time to reply. “I saw you at the feed store one day and thought you were about the handsomest man around. Decided to come out and ask for a job. Thought maybe you’d get to know me and like me. I-I didn’t figure on falling in love with you.’My breath caught in my throat; my hands shook on the wheel. “Did you?”He hung his head. “Yeah.”My hands moved for him automatically, but I held back. “Well, what do we do now?”“I don’t know what you want, but I want to fuck you, Zip. If you’ll let me, that is."My only answer was a smile as I put the truck in gear and burned rubber. The farmhouse and privacy and blessed intimacy were still a long way down the road.We didn’t make it. I parked out on the desert within sight of the busy Interstate and took his fantastic cock up my butt for the first time. Then I hauled ass getting back home so we could do it again … and again … and …*****Well, there you have it. Zip seems to have backed into it (if you’ll pardon the pun). At any rate two good guys managed to get together … the hard way. (I’ve got to quit that!)
At any rate, thanks for reading. See you next month.
Love to hear from you.
Mark
A few days later, I came home early from church and walked in on Lonnie lying naked on the couch masturbating. I almost lost control and jumped his bones right then, but I backed silently out the door without him knowing I was there and futzed around in the barn until I figured he’d taken care of his problem. He had, but he’d left me with a big one. I was falling in love and had no way to let this intriguing young innocent know about it.Ever since I discovered how he relieved his sexual tension, I dawdled after church on Sunday to give him some precious privacy. To be honest, I knew that if I walked in on him again, I’d lose control. So I drove the back roads over my farm every Sabbath and masturbated in a grove of cottonwoods out of sight of the house, but it wasn’t working. The pressure, the need for physical human contact, built inside me. I caught myself watching the boy and fantasizing over the line of his tanned jaw, the curve of his chest, the lean sturdiness of his thighs…that full basket. I became the watcher in the woods. And it was driving me crazy.The time to let him go came and went. The crops were in and growing satisfactorily. The calves were on the ground and thriving. The work load slackened. And still I could not bring myself to accept the cruel necessity of sending him away. His odd mixture of sweet innocence and physical earthiness prevented me from doing what needed to be done.The boy brought things to a head himself after dinner one night while we were doing the dishes.“Uh…Zip.”Something in his tone caused me to turn and look at him.“I-I think it’s time I moved on.” He rubbed his smooth jaw. “Somebody was saying they’re looking for help on the Bryce Farms up near Albuquerque.”Flabbergasted, I sagged against the sink. “Albuquerque! I’m sorry you aren’t happy here.”The boy gave me a look that pierced my heart. ‘It isn’t that, Zip,’ he said and turned away. Puzzled I watched him go to his room.I puttered around for awhile longer, but he didn’t come out again, so I turned in to spend a long, miserable night tossing and turning. A dozen times I sat on the edge of the bed and fought to keep from going to him. Fear of the consequences kept me from following through.#####My fertile farm seemed like a barren desert within minutes of Lonnie Hydrack’s departure. I was shocked at the depth of my feeling. Judging from the ache in my gut and the depression that gripped me, he would prove to be more trouble absent than he had been present. Perhaps it was my imagination, but even the animals missed him. One old sow he named Penny chased me out of her pen when she realized I wasn’t Lonnie.Work never ceases on a farm, and that was my salvation. Day by day, my loneliness and self pity lessened, only to come crashing down again when I’d come home from Church and picture him naked on the couch. A month after he left, I was still leaking tears and missing him terribly. One Sunday afternoon, the phone rang. I answered it, grateful for the diversion. I was puzzled when the operator said Lonnie Hydrack was calling collect, but I happily accepted the charges.A curious hollow echo sang across the wire…and then came that mature voice so out of character in such a young man. “Hello, Zip. Sorry to call you collect, but…but that’s the only way I could call.”“That’s okay. Good to hear your voice,” My heart pounded so hard I thought I was having an attack.”How you doing? Get that job?”“Naw. They already had all the help they needed.”“Sorry. I should have let you go right away.”“Don’t worry about it.”A long pause developed. I could hear the banging of metal and male voices in the background. Afraid he would hang up, I blurted out a question.“You don’t sound right, Lonnie. Everything all right?”“I gotta go now, Zip. Just-just needed to hear a friendly voice. I really miss you. You know, the farm and all.”“Wait!’ I cried, panicked. "Don’t go, Lonnie! Come back, man. I-I love you.”Half sobbing, I paused for an answer, but the line was dead. I don’t know if he heard me or not. I don’t even know if I wanted him to hear me!I spent the rest of the afternoon brooding. My mood whipsawed all over the place. One moment, I was glad he was thinking of me, the next I missed him so much my gut felt like it was on fire. He was thinking of me? He missed me? Yeah, but he’d abandoned me, bailed out, left me in the lurch! Fuck him! Who needed him, anyway?I did. My subconscious figured it all out and woke me in the middle of the night. Those metallic clangs. Those echoing voices spoken in commanding tones. The boy was in jail! Oh, God! Lonnie was in trouble.I got up early and spent the entire morning on the telephone. By noon, I’d learned that he was in the Bernalillo County Detention Center but not much else. Another call got me the name of an Albuquerque attorney named George Festoon. Within a couple of hours after I called him, Festoon determined that one Lonnie Hydrack was serving forty-five days for drunk and disorderly and fighting. He was doing time because he couldn’t pay his five hundred dollar fine. In short order, I engaged him to spring my young friend, agreed to meet at his office tomorrow at noon, and rushed into town to wire the required funds.Four a.m. the following day found me tending the animals and doing the irrigating. Then I turned the nose of my truck north for the hundred-fifty mile drive to Albuquerque far too early. I had to kill a couple of hours before meeting Festoon. He proved to be a short, plump, bald, good-humoured man of about fifty. He was also efficient. At two-o’clock sharp, a thin, haggard kid with dirty-blond hair walked through the thick, bullet-proof door of the detention center into the reception area. Lonnie stopped short at the sight of me. After a moment, he came over and accepted my outstretched hand. His throat worked for a moment before any sound came out.“Zip! You the one who got me out?”“None other,” I said, my heart melting. “I finally figured out what those background sounds were and got Mr. Festoon here to find out what was going on. Drunk? Fighting? Doesn’t sound like the Lonny Hydrack I know.”“Maybe you don’t know Lonnie Hydrack,” he said in a low voice.“I know him well enough,” I said confidently. “Come on, let’s go home.” I could have been riding with a mummy. He claimed he didn’t have anything worth the trouble of recovering at the boarding house where he was staying, and settled back in the seat to stare out the window, making no protest as I turned south on I-25. When we stopped for something to eat, I had the feeling he wanted to talk, but didn’t push him. We had gassed up and hit the highway again before he mumbled something.“What?”“Aren’t you going to ask me why I got in trouble?”“You’ll tell me if you want me to know. If you don’t then it’s none of my business.”“From all the money you just laid out, I guess it is your business.”I took the next exit and parked on the frontage road. Turning in the seat, I faced my young friend. His month away from home had not been kind to him. He was thinner and frayed looking.“Lonnie, you don’t owe me nothing but to stay out of trouble. You’re free to come back to your job if you want, but you can go back to Albuquerque or El Paso or Timbuktu. But don’t ever do this again! That’s all I ask.” I was reaching for the gearshift when his voice stopped me.“I was flirting with this guy at a bar, and when he tried to follow it up, I beat his ass. Don’t know why. Just did.” He recited it in a flat, dead voice.There wasn’t much to say to that, so I held my tongue.“Did you mean it? What you said?” he asked finally.“I’m not sure what you’re ….”He sighed. “Did you mean what you said over the phone? What you said when I was hanging up?”My heart skipped a beat and then began thudding. “I usually mean what I say,” I hedged.He looked at me, his eyes sparkling with anger. “Then why didn’t you show it? Why’d you leave me in misery all those months on the farm? I couldn’t take it any longer! I had to get out or else I’d make a…a fool of myself.”“Oh, Lonnie! What are you saying.”“Did you mean it!” he insisted.I closed my eyes and nodded. “Every word of it. I love you, Lonnie Hydrack. I think I have from the minute I set eyes on you.”“Then why didn’t you say something? Do something?”“I was afraid. You never gave me any sign you’d welcome that kind of attention,” I said in a small voice.“Wasn’t my place. You were the boss. Afraid you’d throw me off the place.”I touched his shoulder with a timid hand. “Oh, Lonnie, I wanted to throw you down in the field that first day…and every day after that, but I couldn’t take the chance. I didn’t know how you’d react. It was agony, man. Painful to be around you. But not nearly as painful as being away from you. It took a long time for me to admit to myself that I was in love, and that made me even more cautious about doing something you might not like.”He gave an even deeper sigh. “Man, I got half-hard every time I saw you. I never set foot off the farm, never went into town to see any of the guys … or gals,’ he said sadly. ‘I thought you’d make your move sooner or later. When you didn’t, I figured I’d worked it out all wrong.”“And I figured you just needed the work.”He took a long time to reply. “I saw you at the feed store one day and thought you were about the handsomest man around. Decided to come out and ask for a job. Thought maybe you’d get to know me and like me. I-I didn’t figure on falling in love with you.’My breath caught in my throat; my hands shook on the wheel. “Did you?”He hung his head. “Yeah.”My hands moved for him automatically, but I held back. “Well, what do we do now?”“I don’t know what you want, but I want to fuck you, Zip. If you’ll let me, that is."My only answer was a smile as I put the truck in gear and burned rubber. The farmhouse and privacy and blessed intimacy were still a long way down the road.We didn’t make it. I parked out on the desert within sight of the busy Interstate and took his fantastic cock up my butt for the first time. Then I hauled ass getting back home so we could do it again … and again … and …*****Well, there you have it. Zip seems to have backed into it (if you’ll pardon the pun). At any rate two good guys managed to get together … the hard way. (I’ve got to quit that!)
At any rate, thanks for reading. See you next month.
Love to hear from you.
Mark
December 1, 2015
A Short Story - The Hired Hand (Part 1 of 2)
I would have sworn that November had 31 days. Sorry for being a day late in posting a new story for this week. Attached is the first half of a short story that I hope you'll enjoy. And please forgive me for the lapse. I don't like to post things late.*****HIRED HAND Spring was a busy time on the farm, so I was looking at dawn to midnight days. I’d counted on hired help to do the land preparation while I took care of selecting my bean seed as well as tend the animals. I put out the word I was looking for reliable help but, since half the countryside was looking for the same thing, I didn’t hold out much hope. Until a slender, sandy-haired kid a couple walked out to the field and flagged me down.I climbed down off the tractor and mopped a film of dust from my face with a bandana. I was working two gangs of chisels behind a row of twenty-two disks, and the sun was climbing fast. I can’t disk when the dirt gets too hot, so my mood wasn’t the best, and it showed.“What can I do for you, young fella? Spit it out! I’ve got a lot of chiseling left to do.”The kid’s Adam’s apple bobbed a couple of times before any sound came out. When it did, it made me take a closer look. It was a man’s deep baritone. “I heard in town you were looking for help.”“Me and everybody else in the township, What’s your name?”“Lonnie. Lonnie Hydrack.”There are a few times in a man’s life when he lucks out. Lonnie Hydrack asking for a job was one of those times. The youngster was an unpolished gem well-grounded in the basics from working on his uncle’s farm. His true genius lay in working with animals. Even the meanest sows, trailing strings of piglets, followed him around the farrowing house like friendly puppy dogs. The boy knew how to strip and repair a gearbox better than most professional mechanics, but operating the equipment was something else. On his first try, he left so many rabbit tracks, I made him disk the field again. Missed spots, like weeds in a field, are signs of a poorly run farm.But once shown something, Lonnie fixed it in his mind and rarely had to be told again. He never complained about the hours, the dirt, mucking out a barn, or even the crock pot sausage and sauerkraut that was our staple for lunch in the field. He just plugged his ears with the headphone from a Walkman radio, set it at a C&W station, and went to work. In short, he was simpatico, as they say in these parts.Things changed the day he worked up a sweat and peeled off his sodden work shirt. He was a deceptive youth. He’d seemed thin and kind of small when I’d first looked down on him from the tractor seat, but stripped to the waist, he revealed a solid physique with powerful shoulders and arms, narrow hips and lean belly. The kid had an open, honest face saved from being pretty by a small Z-shaped scar on his cheek below the left eye. His smooth skin rippled with muscles that weren’t evident in his clothing. Here stood the potential for disaster. Even destruction and ruin. This handsome, innocent-looking, eager-to-please young man was as much a danger to me as I was to him. My heart and my head counselled caution. But the overriding concern was that I needed help during the busy spring season. Plenty of time to let him go when the crop was in the ground and the calves had dropped, I told myself. All it required was steely self-discipline on my part for all to be well.Many times over the next two months I was to silently curse that handsome youth for being such a pleasant, hard-working soul. He woke up slowly and tended to be non-communicative early in the morning, but other than that, he was a paragon. We worked hard all day, him at his chores and me at mine, once I grew to trust him. At night we cleaned up, ate, watched the news and weather on my satellite TV system, and turned in for a well-earned night’s sleep. That was the plan, anyway. But I tossed a turned half an hour every night thinking about him in the next room. *****Let's take a break and finish this up next time. Does old Zip continue to suffer in silence, send the young man away, or do the two manage to get together? We’ll see.
Thanks for taking the time to visit the site and read my material. Appreciate it, and always glad to hear from you guys.
Thanks,
Mark
New Posts on the first of each month!
November 1, 2015
An Excerpt from, COWBOY HATS, a short story
Once I learned STARbooks Press has released MEDICINE HAIR as an ebook on Amazon, I was tempted to do something from the novel. But I resisted the urge.
This time I’d like to give you the opening to my short story, COWBOY HATS, which came out in the Alyson Publications anthology, MY FIRST TIME, VOLUME 4, edited by Jack Hart. The book was released in September of 2005. For easy reference, the ISBN is 9781555839253. The following is the opening of the story.
*****
COWBOY HATS
I grew up in the sheltered atmosphere of a small Oklahoma town where the only known queer was the object of such scorn and disdain that I could not mentally associate myself with him or his kind. Nonetheless, I knew I was different. Slow to mature physically, I was a whiz at books and a flop everywhere else…especially sports, which was a disappointment to my football-playing, baseball-fan father. As this “difference” began to manifest itself, it about drove me crazy. I grabbed onto best friends and was constantly disappointed when they moved on…either physically moving out of town or mentally and emotionally moving into the world of girls. Not me, females remained beyond the limits of my interest. I despaired of ever fitting into my Oklahoma world. Worse, I began to suspect the unthinkable might be true when Sonny, a handsome boy a few years older than I, began hanging around the movie theater late at night whenever I worked the door. We would sit in the cozy intimacy of the darkened ticket booth and talk. When he took to calling me “Pencil,” I asked why. He calmly confided he figured that’s what my “thing” looked like. I blushed and felt all squirrelly inside, but totally failed to recognize a veiled invitation.
We never progressed beyond his reaching down into his pants and pulling out a cock hair to show me once, but I realize now that if I had shown any initiative at all, I would have learned my life’s lesson a lot earlier. But that came when I was a junior in high school and Sonny had gone away to college. By then I was a projectionist at the same theater and still experiencing familiar frustrations as I kept trading one best friend for another. The biggest thing I can recall happening in our little town was the announcement that management was bringing in the star of a new western movie to promote the film. I recognized the name, which I will call Johnny West here, and could put a face to it. An interesting, handsome face, I might add, and never more so than when he nodded his head and brushed the brim of his big white Stetson in greeting. He always had that Stetson. Johnny wasn’t in the league with Roy Rogers or Gene Autry or Hopalong Cassidy, but he was coming up fast in the world of western movies. I took a step closer to admitting to reality when I longed to see him in person…maybe even meet him! When the big day arrived, I was disappointed that Johnny wasn’t introduced to the theater staff, at least not to the projectionist, although I saw him at a distance in the lobby chatting with the concessions stand girl. From all the giggling going on, she was getting a full dose of Hollywood charm. Was that jealousy I experienced down in my gut? Of course, not! Impossible.In those days, at least in our small movie house, most things in the projection room were done by hand, so I was kept pretty busy rewinding the reels, checking the arc lights illuminating the film, and loading the machines. We had two projectors, and the operator had to watch for cues embedded in the film to manually switch machines as one reel ended and the other started. Since I liked to watch movies as well as run them, I scurried around to get everything done so I could stand at the projectionist’s window and watch the film for a few minutes. Midway through the second showing, after Johnny West had done his little ‘aw shucks’ routine for the audience at intermission, I was watching through my porthole and enjoying a close-up of the star, impressed anew at the strength and masculinity evident in that handsome face, when there was a knock on the door. I always kept it locked because sometimes, if there was a particularly suggestive scene in a movie, I might slip my cock out of my pants and skin it a few times…sometimes until I came, but that was only when it was really hot, like Burt Lancaster in a swim suit on the beach with Deborah Kerr in From Here to Eternity. I got off three times the week we showed that film. I also did it with Montgomery Clift and James Dean and Rock Hudson, although they never knew it. Isn’t it amazing that I never quite snapped to the fact it was guys who aroused my interest? The actresses were just beautiful things on pedestals used to confuse the plotlines. At any rate, when I answered the knock on the projection room door, I was stunned to find a big cowboy hat there. Beneath it was the tall, rangy form of Johnny West.*****Why in the world would the Hollywood actor show up at the theater’s projection room? Maybe you should get a copy of the book and find out.
Thanks for reading, and come back soon.
Feel free to contact me at markwildyr@aol.com.
Mark
New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. on the first of every month.
This time I’d like to give you the opening to my short story, COWBOY HATS, which came out in the Alyson Publications anthology, MY FIRST TIME, VOLUME 4, edited by Jack Hart. The book was released in September of 2005. For easy reference, the ISBN is 9781555839253. The following is the opening of the story.
*****
COWBOY HATS
I grew up in the sheltered atmosphere of a small Oklahoma town where the only known queer was the object of such scorn and disdain that I could not mentally associate myself with him or his kind. Nonetheless, I knew I was different. Slow to mature physically, I was a whiz at books and a flop everywhere else…especially sports, which was a disappointment to my football-playing, baseball-fan father. As this “difference” began to manifest itself, it about drove me crazy. I grabbed onto best friends and was constantly disappointed when they moved on…either physically moving out of town or mentally and emotionally moving into the world of girls. Not me, females remained beyond the limits of my interest. I despaired of ever fitting into my Oklahoma world. Worse, I began to suspect the unthinkable might be true when Sonny, a handsome boy a few years older than I, began hanging around the movie theater late at night whenever I worked the door. We would sit in the cozy intimacy of the darkened ticket booth and talk. When he took to calling me “Pencil,” I asked why. He calmly confided he figured that’s what my “thing” looked like. I blushed and felt all squirrelly inside, but totally failed to recognize a veiled invitation.
We never progressed beyond his reaching down into his pants and pulling out a cock hair to show me once, but I realize now that if I had shown any initiative at all, I would have learned my life’s lesson a lot earlier. But that came when I was a junior in high school and Sonny had gone away to college. By then I was a projectionist at the same theater and still experiencing familiar frustrations as I kept trading one best friend for another. The biggest thing I can recall happening in our little town was the announcement that management was bringing in the star of a new western movie to promote the film. I recognized the name, which I will call Johnny West here, and could put a face to it. An interesting, handsome face, I might add, and never more so than when he nodded his head and brushed the brim of his big white Stetson in greeting. He always had that Stetson. Johnny wasn’t in the league with Roy Rogers or Gene Autry or Hopalong Cassidy, but he was coming up fast in the world of western movies. I took a step closer to admitting to reality when I longed to see him in person…maybe even meet him! When the big day arrived, I was disappointed that Johnny wasn’t introduced to the theater staff, at least not to the projectionist, although I saw him at a distance in the lobby chatting with the concessions stand girl. From all the giggling going on, she was getting a full dose of Hollywood charm. Was that jealousy I experienced down in my gut? Of course, not! Impossible.In those days, at least in our small movie house, most things in the projection room were done by hand, so I was kept pretty busy rewinding the reels, checking the arc lights illuminating the film, and loading the machines. We had two projectors, and the operator had to watch for cues embedded in the film to manually switch machines as one reel ended and the other started. Since I liked to watch movies as well as run them, I scurried around to get everything done so I could stand at the projectionist’s window and watch the film for a few minutes. Midway through the second showing, after Johnny West had done his little ‘aw shucks’ routine for the audience at intermission, I was watching through my porthole and enjoying a close-up of the star, impressed anew at the strength and masculinity evident in that handsome face, when there was a knock on the door. I always kept it locked because sometimes, if there was a particularly suggestive scene in a movie, I might slip my cock out of my pants and skin it a few times…sometimes until I came, but that was only when it was really hot, like Burt Lancaster in a swim suit on the beach with Deborah Kerr in From Here to Eternity. I got off three times the week we showed that film. I also did it with Montgomery Clift and James Dean and Rock Hudson, although they never knew it. Isn’t it amazing that I never quite snapped to the fact it was guys who aroused my interest? The actresses were just beautiful things on pedestals used to confuse the plotlines. At any rate, when I answered the knock on the projection room door, I was stunned to find a big cowboy hat there. Beneath it was the tall, rangy form of Johnny West.*****Why in the world would the Hollywood actor show up at the theater’s projection room? Maybe you should get a copy of the book and find out.
Thanks for reading, and come back soon.
Feel free to contact me at markwildyr@aol.com.
Mark
New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. on the first of every month.
October 18, 2015
MEDICINE HAIR is Out as an Ebook!
Several readers have contacted me to ask about the release date of MEDICINE HAIR, the fourth book in the Cut Hand series. Well, it's out! At least as an Ebook. I understand the print book will follow.
The fifth -- and likely the last -- in the series, WASTELAKAPI ... BELOVED, is in its second draft at this time. All we have to do now is convince STARbooks Press to publish it. You can help me do that by posting some favorable readers' comments on Amazon and encouraging your friends to buy a copy of MEDICINE HAIR.
Appreciate all the support I get from you guys (and that includes you gals). I cannot possibly tell you how much it means. Those of you who are authors will appreciate my sentiments.
Thanks,
Mark
October 1, 2015
Excerpt from DEER, A Short Story
My previous post gave readers a look at a short story that appeared in an anthology published by the Cleis Press. This month, I’d like to offer a glimpse of another short piece called DEER that appeared in another Cleis anthology published in 2012 called STRAIGHT GUYS. This book was put together by Shane Allison, an experienced editor who has bought several of my pieces. Thanks, Shane. The following will introduce you to a guy named John Deer.
*****DEERI’ve fucked more straight guys than any queer I know. I’ve also had more fights than most. The ultimate high is to get a straight arrow after I whip his ass. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not into rape. I don’t rape; I haven’t raped; I will never rape. But I’ve fucked Egyptians, Europeans, Thais, Chinese, Filipinos, Mexicans, Argentines, and I don’t know how many others. And shit! I’m only thirty.My name is Byron Ryer, although no one ever calls me Byron more than once. Byron was some fucking poet, and a poet, I’m not! I’m Ryer or or Master Sergeant Ryer, but mostly just Rye. Oklahoma nurtured me through my late teens, molding my character for better or worse. In my part of the state bibles weren’t exactly thumped, but they were consulted frequently, and being of the homosexual persuasion necessarily transformed me from a mama’s boy into a quasi-bully in a few short years. I came to terms with the fact I was queer at sixteen when a couple of local guys held me down while another fucked my ass. It came as a shock to realize I sort of liked it except that they forced me. I wasn’t real big in those days, but I was tough and got to those guys one by one over the next year. Didn’t rape them either. That’s when I discovered that being the fuckor was preferable to being the fuckee!I was built and better looking than most guys and a little too obsessed with guy’s asses, so figuring the military might put some discipline in my life, I joined up right out of high school. Man, was I wrong! I got more male butt in the Air Force than on the outside, and when they put me through Special Operations Training, they made me damned near invincible. The Air Force sent me all over the world in search of new stuff. Never found a continent or a country without a good-looking stud willing to fuck.He wasn’t the best, but the one I cherished the most was a French Lieutenant bound and determined to ram his cock up my ass. The handsome Frog turned into a kitten chasing catnip when I flipped the tables on him. First, I fucked his mouth, and when he begged for more, I reamed his ass. When they put me in a super-secret outfit, things got even better because I was often on assignment alone or as a part of a small team. You’ve never even heard of some of the places where I bedded…and killed guys.At the end of my third tour, the powers that be saw fit to send me on attachment to a Nuclear Bomb Storage outfit at Kirtland Air Force Base at Albuquerque, New Mexico where I became a fucking policeman. All that special training and I was nothing more than a glorified military security cop! I took personal inventory and decided that the reason I joined the military was the reason I probably should get out. But when push came to shove, I couldn’t do it. What was my problem, anyway? I’d just made Master Sergeant after twelve years, when it took most guys fifteen or better to do it. The duty wasn’t all that bad even if my deployment was at the edge of a mountain in the middle of a fucking desert. So I hunkered down and made the best of it…something I was damned good at. I could create a personal nest damned near anywhere.And when Airman John Deer appeared on my radar, I knew things would be all right. I had a personal project again. With a name like John Deer, you’d expect him to be built like a tractor, right? Well, he isn’t. He’s got the fine, taut muscles of a young stag trembling with nervous energy and indecision between fight or flight. John was assigned to the flight’s mailroom and took some classes in the local community college. He was bright and eager to learn, and I sure was willing to teach him!Not only that, he was the most handsome young man I’ve ever seen. The Egyptian was the most beautiful, as comely as any woman. The Thai was the most exotic, but he thought he was a woman, which was a turn-off. But John Deer, a pureblood American Indian of about twenty years, was the handsomest man of any race, religion, or creed I’d ever seen. He called to mind the Spanish word guapo, which means not only handsome but sexy. John was a changeling, different from day to day. One morning his thick black hair glistened like onyx; the next, it absorbed the sun’s brightest rays like some mysterious black hole in the void. On a Monday, he had a wild and rough look, but by Wednesday, he was neat and groomed.
*****Well, I hope that whetted the appetite and left you lusting for more. If you’d like to read the entire story, locate a copy of STRAIGHT GUYS, ISBN: 1-57344-816-1 or 978-1-57344-830-7 for the Ebook.
Thanks for visiting. As usual, I’m eager for your comments and suggestions.
Mark
New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. on the first of every month.
*****DEERI’ve fucked more straight guys than any queer I know. I’ve also had more fights than most. The ultimate high is to get a straight arrow after I whip his ass. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not into rape. I don’t rape; I haven’t raped; I will never rape. But I’ve fucked Egyptians, Europeans, Thais, Chinese, Filipinos, Mexicans, Argentines, and I don’t know how many others. And shit! I’m only thirty.My name is Byron Ryer, although no one ever calls me Byron more than once. Byron was some fucking poet, and a poet, I’m not! I’m Ryer or or Master Sergeant Ryer, but mostly just Rye. Oklahoma nurtured me through my late teens, molding my character for better or worse. In my part of the state bibles weren’t exactly thumped, but they were consulted frequently, and being of the homosexual persuasion necessarily transformed me from a mama’s boy into a quasi-bully in a few short years. I came to terms with the fact I was queer at sixteen when a couple of local guys held me down while another fucked my ass. It came as a shock to realize I sort of liked it except that they forced me. I wasn’t real big in those days, but I was tough and got to those guys one by one over the next year. Didn’t rape them either. That’s when I discovered that being the fuckor was preferable to being the fuckee!I was built and better looking than most guys and a little too obsessed with guy’s asses, so figuring the military might put some discipline in my life, I joined up right out of high school. Man, was I wrong! I got more male butt in the Air Force than on the outside, and when they put me through Special Operations Training, they made me damned near invincible. The Air Force sent me all over the world in search of new stuff. Never found a continent or a country without a good-looking stud willing to fuck.He wasn’t the best, but the one I cherished the most was a French Lieutenant bound and determined to ram his cock up my ass. The handsome Frog turned into a kitten chasing catnip when I flipped the tables on him. First, I fucked his mouth, and when he begged for more, I reamed his ass. When they put me in a super-secret outfit, things got even better because I was often on assignment alone or as a part of a small team. You’ve never even heard of some of the places where I bedded…and killed guys.At the end of my third tour, the powers that be saw fit to send me on attachment to a Nuclear Bomb Storage outfit at Kirtland Air Force Base at Albuquerque, New Mexico where I became a fucking policeman. All that special training and I was nothing more than a glorified military security cop! I took personal inventory and decided that the reason I joined the military was the reason I probably should get out. But when push came to shove, I couldn’t do it. What was my problem, anyway? I’d just made Master Sergeant after twelve years, when it took most guys fifteen or better to do it. The duty wasn’t all that bad even if my deployment was at the edge of a mountain in the middle of a fucking desert. So I hunkered down and made the best of it…something I was damned good at. I could create a personal nest damned near anywhere.And when Airman John Deer appeared on my radar, I knew things would be all right. I had a personal project again. With a name like John Deer, you’d expect him to be built like a tractor, right? Well, he isn’t. He’s got the fine, taut muscles of a young stag trembling with nervous energy and indecision between fight or flight. John was assigned to the flight’s mailroom and took some classes in the local community college. He was bright and eager to learn, and I sure was willing to teach him!Not only that, he was the most handsome young man I’ve ever seen. The Egyptian was the most beautiful, as comely as any woman. The Thai was the most exotic, but he thought he was a woman, which was a turn-off. But John Deer, a pureblood American Indian of about twenty years, was the handsomest man of any race, religion, or creed I’d ever seen. He called to mind the Spanish word guapo, which means not only handsome but sexy. John was a changeling, different from day to day. One morning his thick black hair glistened like onyx; the next, it absorbed the sun’s brightest rays like some mysterious black hole in the void. On a Monday, he had a wild and rough look, but by Wednesday, he was neat and groomed.
*****Well, I hope that whetted the appetite and left you lusting for more. If you’d like to read the entire story, locate a copy of STRAIGHT GUYS, ISBN: 1-57344-816-1 or 978-1-57344-830-7 for the Ebook.
Thanks for visiting. As usual, I’m eager for your comments and suggestions.
Mark
New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. on the first of every month.
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