Mark Wildyr's Blog, page 27
December 1, 2014
Cut Hand Series
Sometime back, I wrote a book and inadvertently began a journey. That book was called Cut Hand. Judging from readers’ reactions, it was a good book. Oh, I made a mistake or two along the way, among which was making Splitlip Rumquiller and Wild Red Greavy speak in such heavy dialects. I did it on purpose and in the face of everything I’d learned along the way (e.g., the declaration that Mark Twain was the last author able to get away with such a thing). It cost me some readers who put the book down rather than slog through the 40 or so pages where these two are on-stage, so to speak. I wouldn’t do that again. Readers are too precious.
Nonetheless, I got lots of favorable, encouraging readers’ comments on the story and decided to continue the saga with River Otter. Reaction to that book prompted the third in the series, Echoes of the Flute. Next year, STARbooks Press will publish the fourth and final in the series, Medicine Hair.
These books have two overarching themes. The subplot was to show the native peoples as humans with all the strengths and weaknesses of those beings. And, of course, their tragic and disastrous dealings with the white man. But the primary goal was to show how many of the Indian tribes (not all) accepted berdaches (deviants) as ordinary people, occasionally placing them in positions of responsibility and honor. Then, in succeeding stories reflect on how the influence of the Europeans changed that view. The Native American Circle of Life perspective back in those days was really quite remarkable.
When I finished Medicine Hair, I became involved in a couple of projects, neither of which were particularly interesting to me. I needed to become more proficient and effective at using social media in order to market my books to a wider audience and was engaged in learning to use Dragon Naturally Speaking as a possible way of increasing the volume of my writing. As a Nineteenth Century man living in the Twenty-First Century, neither proved to be easy.
One day, I realized my lifestyle had changed … drastically. I no longer got out of bed easily. My powers of concentration were poor. I’d start a project and find myself ten minutes later playing a game of Free Cell Solitaire or working a crossword puzzle. I would literally fall asleep at the computer and find myself not sleeping at night. All because I was doing working on two things which I found frustrating and in which I had zero interest.
At least, I thought that was the problem. One morning, as I lay abed trying to avoid getting up, I realized my mind was working on something. It was a prologue for a new book. It even had a name. And a protagonist. The book’s name was Wastelakopi … Beloved, and the individual was John Strobaw, also known as War Eagle and Night Sky Hair, and, of course, Medicine Hair. So if STARbooks is willing to publish it, there will be another book in the series.
I haven’t had trouble getting up and going to work since that revelation.
Hope that’s good news for some of you. Every day, I say thanks for my readers. They make the effort worthwhile.
Would appreciate hearing a reaction from some of you to the emergence of a new book in the series.
Thanks, guys.
Mark
New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.
Nonetheless, I got lots of favorable, encouraging readers’ comments on the story and decided to continue the saga with River Otter. Reaction to that book prompted the third in the series, Echoes of the Flute. Next year, STARbooks Press will publish the fourth and final in the series, Medicine Hair.
These books have two overarching themes. The subplot was to show the native peoples as humans with all the strengths and weaknesses of those beings. And, of course, their tragic and disastrous dealings with the white man. But the primary goal was to show how many of the Indian tribes (not all) accepted berdaches (deviants) as ordinary people, occasionally placing them in positions of responsibility and honor. Then, in succeeding stories reflect on how the influence of the Europeans changed that view. The Native American Circle of Life perspective back in those days was really quite remarkable.
When I finished Medicine Hair, I became involved in a couple of projects, neither of which were particularly interesting to me. I needed to become more proficient and effective at using social media in order to market my books to a wider audience and was engaged in learning to use Dragon Naturally Speaking as a possible way of increasing the volume of my writing. As a Nineteenth Century man living in the Twenty-First Century, neither proved to be easy.
One day, I realized my lifestyle had changed … drastically. I no longer got out of bed easily. My powers of concentration were poor. I’d start a project and find myself ten minutes later playing a game of Free Cell Solitaire or working a crossword puzzle. I would literally fall asleep at the computer and find myself not sleeping at night. All because I was doing working on two things which I found frustrating and in which I had zero interest.
At least, I thought that was the problem. One morning, as I lay abed trying to avoid getting up, I realized my mind was working on something. It was a prologue for a new book. It even had a name. And a protagonist. The book’s name was Wastelakopi … Beloved, and the individual was John Strobaw, also known as War Eagle and Night Sky Hair, and, of course, Medicine Hair. So if STARbooks is willing to publish it, there will be another book in the series.
I haven’t had trouble getting up and going to work since that revelation.
Hope that’s good news for some of you. Every day, I say thanks for my readers. They make the effort worthwhile.
Would appreciate hearing a reaction from some of you to the emergence of a new book in the series.
Thanks, guys.
Mark
New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.
November 1, 2014
Bad Luck’s Not Always So Bad
Boxcars for Spent Artillery ShellsThis is a short fiction piece I wrote some time ago but never submitted for publication. Hope it gives you a pleasant bump. #####
BAD LUCK’S NOT ALWAYS SO BAD As I applied for summer work at the local ammunition plant after my freshman year at a Texas junior college, I had no expectation they would accept the proverbial ninety-pound weakling…well, one hundred-ten. Nonetheless, on Monday, I joined a crew at a railroad siding running alongside a series of warehouses on the sprawling plant reservation. My stomach dropped into my shoes when I saw the other college kids making up the gang. Big football players, hoop stars, brawny men who shaved and everything. You know, broad shoulders, narrow waists, strong jaws, thick unruly hair, and intriguing bulges in denim trousers. Steve, a green-eyed lady-killer with curly locks and a swimmer’s physique, disdained sports discussions but held his own whenever talk turned to women. Terry, short and shaped, wrestled for SMU, and if he grappled as good as he looked, he was terrific. Bart was a footballer, a tight end…something I better appreciated after examining his manly butt. Then there was me. My foreman, a beefy red-neck named Cooligan, took one look, and his expression said it all. What the hell did they send me this time? Physically immature but not dumb, I knew exactly what they’d sent him…a scrawny queer in a time and place that did not tolerate such creatures. Cooligan’s gang unloaded endless streams of spent artillery shells from Korea, a war the entire team avoided by staying in school. Wrestling artillery casings half as big as I was by both weight and linear foot almost did me in, but I managed…barely. If the crew fit my definition of hunky, the guy who reallysent my pulse racing was the foreman of a nearby warehouse, a tall, lean, dark-haired Mediterranean type named David Amico. Within a week, proximity to all of those hot studs was getting to me, and all I could do about it was skin the old pole after I got home, usually with Dave Amico’s hot, masculine image imprinted on the back of my eyelids. One day, a boxcar of spent shell casings rolled down the track oozing evil. It happened sometimes; a load came in that smelled like trouble … things like rotting human flesh, undetonated explosives, and lumps of suspicious matter. It made a fellow reluctant to touch the casings even with a thick pair of work gloves. This car, cooked by the intense East Texas heat, trailed a particularly foul odor of putrefaction. Cooligan did his Simon Legree thing and soon had us unloading. It was so bad that every half-hour we rotated working inside the car. I completed my turn in the hot-box with running nose, burning eyes, and some serious gagging. As I rushed to get outside I stepped on a loose casing and went over, twisting my ankle and banging my hard-hat against the steel-sided car.
As you might imagine, safety is a huge thing at an ammo plant, so Cooligan charged inside, bellowing at the top of his lungs. When I saw who was trailing along behind him, I gulped hard and blinked back tears. My idol, Dave Amico gave me a sympathetic grimace. Bart unexpectedly came to my defense. “Shell casing was loose and turned under him. Wasn’t his fault, Cooligan.” “Can you move your ankle?” Amico asked. Those deep brown eyes almost made me forget my agony. Man, they were beautiful. “Yeah.” I rotated the joint gingerly. The hunky warehouseman probed my injury, and like my mother’s touch, made it all better. That ankle hurt so good. “Don’t think it’s broke, but it’s sprained.” He glanced into my pain-filled, adoring eyes. “You wanta go have it checked out?” There was a pregnant pause. The last thing Cooligan wanted was an accident report, and the crew waited to see if the pansy could take it like a man. I gingerly placed some weight on my steel-toed clod-hopper and tested it cautiously. “No, I’ll be okay.” “Arright!” Cooligan bellowed, pleased with the pantywaist for a change. “Let’s get back to work.” Amico grabbed one arm to steady me and Bart took the other. Sandwiched between those two dreamboats, I made it onto the solid concrete loading dock where the warehouse foreman turned to my boss. “Clive, he can’t unload shell casings in his condition.” That was the first time I knew Cooligan had a given name. “I’ve got some office work he can do if you’re willing to keep him on your roster.” A minute later, with one hand on Dave Amico’s broad shoulder for support, I limped toward Warehouse H-25 in utter painful bliss .
“Bad luck, man. Bad fucking luck!” Terry, the wrestler, called after us. “Yeah,” I agreed. “Rotten luck.” My temporary boss sent me to the rest room to remove my boot and wash the stink of that boxcar away. Then I perched on the commode while he plopped down on a stool, lifted my naked foot, and laid it across his manly thigh. I almost forgot the pain as he bathed my swollen ankle in horse liniment. The smelly stuff cooled my flesh while his long fingers heated it right back up again. As he turned to fish for a bandage in an industrial-sized first aid kit, my foot slipped off his thigh and landed in his warm crotch. It was an accident…scout’s honor! He didn’t even flinch. In fact, after he bandaged my ankle, he stood and smiled while I oogled his full basket. As I got up and turned to the sink to wash my hands, my hunky boss leaned around me to put the first aid kit on the counter. His thigh warmed the crack of my ass, giving me an instant bone. The length of his body pressing against me set me afire. He shifted so that his fly teased my ass. I wanted to lean back and make contact, but didn’t dare. “That butt’s been driving me crazy all summer,” he whispered in a husky baritone. “Has it ever been fucked?” I shook my head. I watched in the mirror as he flipped the lock on the door. “Now’s as good a time as any to start breaking it in.” Excited almost beyond speaking, I managed to squawk, “O-okay.” He slipped my trousers down below my knees and strummed my pucker hole like a guitar. “W-wow!” I grunted and started pumping my cock. “This oughta send you into orbit!” He shoved a finger past my sphincter and laughed aloud when I jumped. Dave slowly withdrew his digit. “Kid, if you show up tomorrow, it’s not going to be my finger buried in your ass.” I gulped and whispered, “Why wait until tomorrow?” He took it as a challenge and rose to the occasion. That hunky guy gave my virgin ass a fucking that left me limping far worse than the twisted ankle I was nursing. That beautiful son of a bitch was one hell of a man! What was it Terry had said? “Bad luck, man. Bad fucking luck.”
Don’t be so sure, my good-looking wrestler. Bad luck’s not always so bad.
#####
Hope you agree that the pantywaist's bad luck was actually a lucky break. Thanks for checking out the site.
Mark
New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.
October 1, 2014
Mark Wildyr: Divine Offal
Mark Wildyr: Divine Offal: How about a really short, short fiction this week. This is my first post using Dragon Naturally Speaking, although the edits were done ...
Divine Offal
How about a really short, short fiction this week. This is my first post using Dragon Naturally Speaking, although the edits were done manually.
#####
DIVINE OFFAL
By Mark Wildyr
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The lone warrior stood in a small glen, dark eyes cast heavenward. Great medicine was at work in the late afternoon sky. In his twenty-five summers, Snapping Turtle had seen many stars flash across the night. But this was not a time for stars, and the object he now watched was quite different. It moved slowly, yet it moved. Bright as a small sun, the Sky Beast shook burning embers from a long tail. Truly, this was powerful magic. Snapping Turtle dropped to his knees and quailed before this wondrous thing. At first, he feared this little sun would fall upon him and crush the life from his body. Then he came to understood it would pass far above his head. Not so the great shower of sparks that fell like offal from its brilliant tail. Wolf remained as he was long after the strange light had disappeared from the sky. Not out of fear; that had passed. No, his blood sang with a sense of waiting. Of anticipation. The sun had dropped low on the horizon before he stirred. As he rose to his feet, raindrops that were not raindrops crashed through the canopy of trees around him, shredding leaves and stripping bark and raising small tufts in the meadow. He reeled backward as something heavy whistled past and struck the ground beside him. He blinked and stared at a smoldering hole that had not been there a moment before. As curiosity overcame fear, Wolf stepped forward and peered into the shallow pit. He made out the shape of a rock. What could hurl a piece of stone so hard it would whine and sink so deeply into the turf? He recalled the falling raindrops of moments before. They had made a noise, as well. He’d heard them tear through leaves. And he understood everything. This was an offering from the Great Spirit. He had thrown his divine waste at Wolf’s feet. As a gift. Without considering why he had been so chosen, he fell to his knees and reached into the hole. He snatched his hand back and put burned fingers to his lips. After a pause, he took the sheep’s bladder of water from its strap across his shoulder and poured cool liquid into the pit. The thing in the ground sizzled and popped and gave off the odor of scorched earth. The sun had almost reached the western horizon before he was able to touch the muddy water without scalding his flesh. Finally, he reached into the pit and tugged out the still warm stone, astonished at the weight of the thing. Never had he hoisted a rock so heavy, especially one no larger than twice his hand span. It was flat and angular and gave off a dull shine like some of the white men’s tools. Immediately, he was struck with a thought. He would make a tomahawk of great medicine from this thing. It would doubtless give him power as a warrior. And so, he fashioned a fine tomahawk with a haft of solid oak and a blade of the strange stone. His wife added tufts of sheep’s wool and woven trade beads. Then he shed the name of Snapping Turtle and began to live the saga of the mighty warrior known as Black Hatchet.#####That's it for this post. Hope you enjoyed it. And thanks for checking out the site.
Mark
New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.
September 1, 2014
Coming Attractions
I wish I had stirring or seductive (or perhaps stirring and seductive) music to play along with this post, together with control of the volume on your computer. Then I could do “Coming Attractions” like the movie theaters do … blast you out of the auditorium with teasers of things yet to come.
I don’t have sound, but I do have cover art for my next three books, thanks to the folks at STARbooks Press, and thought you might like to see what I’ve been working on.
Although it is not the next book due out, I wanted to feature the cover for Medicine Hair, as this is the fourth and final book of what I call the Cut Hand Series. I’ve had a lot of fun writing about the individuals who populate these four novels, and it’s going to be hard to turn them loose. But I think it’s probably time. I have had more great reader contacts on the Cut Hands books than all the other novels. Some of them are downright passionate about Cut Hand and Billy and Otter and John and Matthew. Just go to Amazon and check out the reviews and comments posted there. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate honest-to-God readers who’ve taken the time to let me know they enjoyed the books. Anyway, this is a copy of the cover art for this finale.Sorry, but the book isn’t scheduled for release until Spring 2015
Charlie Blackbearis the next book scheduled for release (Fall 2014), so it should be out soon. Because I don't have a back cover to show you, I'll tell you it's a contemporary novel along the lines of The Victor and the Vanquished. As a matter of fact, Wilam and Joseph from the V&V make a brief appearance in this novel. The following gives you an idea of what the story is about:
Charlie Blackbear is already a near-legend in his little corner of the world by the time he turns eighteen. He can hold his liquor. He’s chased down and caught most of the girls and a few women on the little reservation where his lives. The size of the package he carries has been whispered about since he was in middle school.
When he wakes up drunk in a motel room with a man going down on him, he shrugs it off as an alcohol thing and goes right back to chasing women. But when he takes a job with a logging crew and shares a room at the Boar’s Nest with his best friend, Daniel Warhorse, he fights a growing, unexpected, and unwelcome attraction to his childhood friend. When Moon Eyes, Daniel’s girlfriend, gets pregnant and this good-looking kid named Aden Jones starts showing up in Charley’s life, things get terribly complicated.
I sketched out the book, Johnny Two-Guns, a number of years ago in response to some event in my life. The novel still exists, while I can’t even recall what I read about or experienced that was the genesis of the story. Whatever the stimulus was, it likely occurred in Denver, as that was where I was living at the time I started writing about Johnny. This book, too, has a contemporary setting. STARbooks has not yet given me a date of expected publication for this one.
Anyway, these are the things traveling on down the publication road (where the speed limit is like a school zone, 15 mph), so I thought I’d share them with you.
By the way, I like the cover art for all three books. Let me know how you react to them.
Thanks for checking out the site.
Mark
New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.
I don’t have sound, but I do have cover art for my next three books, thanks to the folks at STARbooks Press, and thought you might like to see what I’ve been working on.
Although it is not the next book due out, I wanted to feature the cover for Medicine Hair, as this is the fourth and final book of what I call the Cut Hand Series. I’ve had a lot of fun writing about the individuals who populate these four novels, and it’s going to be hard to turn them loose. But I think it’s probably time. I have had more great reader contacts on the Cut Hands books than all the other novels. Some of them are downright passionate about Cut Hand and Billy and Otter and John and Matthew. Just go to Amazon and check out the reviews and comments posted there. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate honest-to-God readers who’ve taken the time to let me know they enjoyed the books. Anyway, this is a copy of the cover art for this finale.Sorry, but the book isn’t scheduled for release until Spring 2015Charlie Blackbearis the next book scheduled for release (Fall 2014), so it should be out soon. Because I don't have a back cover to show you, I'll tell you it's a contemporary novel along the lines of The Victor and the Vanquished. As a matter of fact, Wilam and Joseph from the V&V make a brief appearance in this novel. The following gives you an idea of what the story is about:
Charlie Blackbear is already a near-legend in his little corner of the world by the time he turns eighteen. He can hold his liquor. He’s chased down and caught most of the girls and a few women on the little reservation where his lives. The size of the package he carries has been whispered about since he was in middle school.
When he wakes up drunk in a motel room with a man going down on him, he shrugs it off as an alcohol thing and goes right back to chasing women. But when he takes a job with a logging crew and shares a room at the Boar’s Nest with his best friend, Daniel Warhorse, he fights a growing, unexpected, and unwelcome attraction to his childhood friend. When Moon Eyes, Daniel’s girlfriend, gets pregnant and this good-looking kid named Aden Jones starts showing up in Charley’s life, things get terribly complicated.
I sketched out the book, Johnny Two-Guns, a number of years ago in response to some event in my life. The novel still exists, while I can’t even recall what I read about or experienced that was the genesis of the story. Whatever the stimulus was, it likely occurred in Denver, as that was where I was living at the time I started writing about Johnny. This book, too, has a contemporary setting. STARbooks has not yet given me a date of expected publication for this one.
Anyway, these are the things traveling on down the publication road (where the speed limit is like a school zone, 15 mph), so I thought I’d share them with you.
By the way, I like the cover art for all three books. Let me know how you react to them.
Thanks for checking out the site.
Mark
New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.
August 1, 2014
Barry Bungee Jump – Part 3
Today, we reach the finale of Barry Bungee Jump’s story. We left the three campers turning in at the campsite…Jeff and Dari in separate tents. That let’s Barry know there won’t be the threesome he’s been dreaming of. So what does he do now? Let’s find out.
###
BARRY BUNGEE JUMP Supper was kinda quiet in spite of all I could to do liven things up. Neither of my traveling companions showed an inclination toward sitting around a cozy campfire and spinning yarns. Jeff disappeared behind canvas first, and after I made sure the campfire was thoroughly doused, I found Dari standing at his tent flap holding it open for me. I ducked through and got a little thrill when his hand played with my butt as I passed him. We were both naked in seconds with me lying atop him trying to see his eyes in the darkness. All I could make out was a faint gleam. He pulled me to him and gave me a deep kiss. Fucked my mouth with his tongue was more like it. Then he pushed me down his chest so fast, I hardly got a taste of his flesh before his big cock was throbbing against my lips. Dari had been raised in some other country—Iran, I think—so he was the only guy I knew with a foreskin. Frankly, I sort of liked it and wished I had one to skin back and forth. I pulled that fold of flesh back and took him as far down my throat as I could. He filled me up pleasantly. I was prepared to go all the way with a blowjob, but that wasn’t what he wanted. Before long, he rolled over on top of me and spread my legs with his knees. He took me in hand for a moment before raising my legs. He was still wet when he found my sphincter. My puckerhole opened to him, and he slid inside easily. He must have been really charged up because he didn’t build up to it like he usually did. He started out fucking hard. Before long, he was grunting and groaning, and muttering in a foreign language. Something loud. I started to shush him, but then I got it. He was establishing primacy. Putting Jeff on notice my ass was getting fucked. Thinking maybe it would charge up Jeff for later, I joined in and gave him some “do it to mes” and a couple of “harders!” I don’t think Dari’d ever busted his balls like he did that night. He practically howled when his orgasm finally struck. He was panting and gasping so hard I was afraid he was going to have a heart attack. Of course, that made it good for me, too. When he finally got himself through his ejaculation, he only had to grasp me in his hand to bring me over the edge, as well. It was kinda spectacular, too. Neither of us said a thing as we lay there in the darkness of the tent trying to regain our breath. Fifteen minutes musta passed before I had strength enough to stir. “Where you going?” he asked. Demanded, really. “Over to Jeff’s tent.” “Didn’t I give you what you wanted?” “Sure you did. It was great. Super, actually. But I also gave you what you wanted. Now it’s Jeff’s turn.” “How long you been fucking him?” “Ever since I’ve known him, I guess.” I stopped to consider. “Not really. I just blew him and we belly fucked until you showed me the other way.” “Don’t go. You don’t need him.” “Hey, man. It’s only fair.” Dari didn’t say another word as I wiggled out of one tent and tip-toed as naked as I’d ever get to the other. “What?” Jeff said as I slithered up beside him on his sleeping bag. “Time for a little cuddling.” I made my voice as sweet and syrupy as I could. “You think I want sloppy seconds?” “No, I think you want your Barry.” Despite his attitude, he didn’t stop me as I peeled back the covers and explored his broad chest with my tongue. I could feel his throbbing cock pushing against me through the bag. I exposed him as I worked my way past his deep navel. Jeff was hot. Hot under the collar he wasn’t wearing and hot in his vitals.I took him in my mouth and rode him all the way to his root. And he was big enough so that was uncomfortable. But I knew he’d unbend if I just kept at it. And he did. Soon, he was completely free of his covers, legs splayed, hands on my head as I seriously sucked his big dong. “Not this way!” He pulled me off him. Before I knew what was happening, he threw me on my belly, got between my legs, and split my buns with his slick cock. The dude fucked me. Really fucked me. It started out as payback, but soon turned into something with feeling to it. Angry recriminations became gentle words of care as he worked to give me his seed. When he was on the edge of his explosion, the friction of the sleeping bag against my rigid tool did me in. My orgasm about blew me away. My internal muscles grabbed and milked Jeff’s cock while we took the sex jump together. It was as good and exciting as a dive off the bridge. Another quarter hour passed before he rolled off me and caressed my neck. His strong hand played down my back and over my buns, making me comfortable. “I love you, Bungee,” he whispered. “Aw…” “It’s true. I love you, but I don’t think I can share you.” He took his hand away as his words raised goose bumps all up and down me. Was he telling me it was over? There wouldn’t be other trips. Other fuck sessions? I held my tongue and lay there for a long time before the chill air drove me into the bag with him. I didn’t sleep much that night, wondering if I’d made a big mistake. Well, it was done, so I just had to wait to see how it played out. I was kind of dopy the next morning, and for the first time, frankly wasn’t much interested in jumping. Still, it was a way to get around the hostility going around the camp. Jeff and Dari didn’t say a word to one another that was wasn’t forced out of them. After breakfast, we headed back to the bridge. And once I was hooked up to the harness and launched into the void, all my cares and troubles faded away. It was a great jump, and I was still yelling for joy when they hauled me back up. For the first time since yesterday, smiles lit both their faces. Dari harnessed up next, and I could tell from his delighted shout echoing in the canyon, he was free from the jealousy of last night. I watched him hit zero and start the first rebound. “He had a good jump.” I froze as I turned to Jeff. The big jack knife in his left hand rested gently against the cord. When Dari hit bottom again, and it went taut, some of the latex strands parted. I honestly don’t believe Jeff knew what was happening because his eyes were on me, a halfway playful smile stretched across his lips. But I saw. Dari hit bottom on his next rebound, the cord tightened again, and a few more strands parted beneath the blade. “Jeff, the knife’s….” I lost my voice. A few more strands parted, and then the cord came apart with a loud ripping sound. Only when Dari’s cries of joy became a screech of terror did Jeff’s eyes leave me. He looked at the severed jump rope and then peered over the side of the bridge. As Dari’s voice faded away on his long journey down into the Rio Grande, Jeff turned to me. I saw confusion clear from his expression and realization take hold. And then I saw the future play out behind those handsome blue eyes. I turned and ran for my life.
###
Offhand, I'd say Barry made a whopper of a mistake. Sometimes you think you know a guy, and then....
See you next month. Thanks for checking out the site.
Mark
New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.
###
BARRY BUNGEE JUMP Supper was kinda quiet in spite of all I could to do liven things up. Neither of my traveling companions showed an inclination toward sitting around a cozy campfire and spinning yarns. Jeff disappeared behind canvas first, and after I made sure the campfire was thoroughly doused, I found Dari standing at his tent flap holding it open for me. I ducked through and got a little thrill when his hand played with my butt as I passed him. We were both naked in seconds with me lying atop him trying to see his eyes in the darkness. All I could make out was a faint gleam. He pulled me to him and gave me a deep kiss. Fucked my mouth with his tongue was more like it. Then he pushed me down his chest so fast, I hardly got a taste of his flesh before his big cock was throbbing against my lips. Dari had been raised in some other country—Iran, I think—so he was the only guy I knew with a foreskin. Frankly, I sort of liked it and wished I had one to skin back and forth. I pulled that fold of flesh back and took him as far down my throat as I could. He filled me up pleasantly. I was prepared to go all the way with a blowjob, but that wasn’t what he wanted. Before long, he rolled over on top of me and spread my legs with his knees. He took me in hand for a moment before raising my legs. He was still wet when he found my sphincter. My puckerhole opened to him, and he slid inside easily. He must have been really charged up because he didn’t build up to it like he usually did. He started out fucking hard. Before long, he was grunting and groaning, and muttering in a foreign language. Something loud. I started to shush him, but then I got it. He was establishing primacy. Putting Jeff on notice my ass was getting fucked. Thinking maybe it would charge up Jeff for later, I joined in and gave him some “do it to mes” and a couple of “harders!” I don’t think Dari’d ever busted his balls like he did that night. He practically howled when his orgasm finally struck. He was panting and gasping so hard I was afraid he was going to have a heart attack. Of course, that made it good for me, too. When he finally got himself through his ejaculation, he only had to grasp me in his hand to bring me over the edge, as well. It was kinda spectacular, too. Neither of us said a thing as we lay there in the darkness of the tent trying to regain our breath. Fifteen minutes musta passed before I had strength enough to stir. “Where you going?” he asked. Demanded, really. “Over to Jeff’s tent.” “Didn’t I give you what you wanted?” “Sure you did. It was great. Super, actually. But I also gave you what you wanted. Now it’s Jeff’s turn.” “How long you been fucking him?” “Ever since I’ve known him, I guess.” I stopped to consider. “Not really. I just blew him and we belly fucked until you showed me the other way.” “Don’t go. You don’t need him.” “Hey, man. It’s only fair.” Dari didn’t say another word as I wiggled out of one tent and tip-toed as naked as I’d ever get to the other. “What?” Jeff said as I slithered up beside him on his sleeping bag. “Time for a little cuddling.” I made my voice as sweet and syrupy as I could. “You think I want sloppy seconds?” “No, I think you want your Barry.” Despite his attitude, he didn’t stop me as I peeled back the covers and explored his broad chest with my tongue. I could feel his throbbing cock pushing against me through the bag. I exposed him as I worked my way past his deep navel. Jeff was hot. Hot under the collar he wasn’t wearing and hot in his vitals.I took him in my mouth and rode him all the way to his root. And he was big enough so that was uncomfortable. But I knew he’d unbend if I just kept at it. And he did. Soon, he was completely free of his covers, legs splayed, hands on my head as I seriously sucked his big dong. “Not this way!” He pulled me off him. Before I knew what was happening, he threw me on my belly, got between my legs, and split my buns with his slick cock. The dude fucked me. Really fucked me. It started out as payback, but soon turned into something with feeling to it. Angry recriminations became gentle words of care as he worked to give me his seed. When he was on the edge of his explosion, the friction of the sleeping bag against my rigid tool did me in. My orgasm about blew me away. My internal muscles grabbed and milked Jeff’s cock while we took the sex jump together. It was as good and exciting as a dive off the bridge. Another quarter hour passed before he rolled off me and caressed my neck. His strong hand played down my back and over my buns, making me comfortable. “I love you, Bungee,” he whispered. “Aw…” “It’s true. I love you, but I don’t think I can share you.” He took his hand away as his words raised goose bumps all up and down me. Was he telling me it was over? There wouldn’t be other trips. Other fuck sessions? I held my tongue and lay there for a long time before the chill air drove me into the bag with him. I didn’t sleep much that night, wondering if I’d made a big mistake. Well, it was done, so I just had to wait to see how it played out. I was kind of dopy the next morning, and for the first time, frankly wasn’t much interested in jumping. Still, it was a way to get around the hostility going around the camp. Jeff and Dari didn’t say a word to one another that was wasn’t forced out of them. After breakfast, we headed back to the bridge. And once I was hooked up to the harness and launched into the void, all my cares and troubles faded away. It was a great jump, and I was still yelling for joy when they hauled me back up. For the first time since yesterday, smiles lit both their faces. Dari harnessed up next, and I could tell from his delighted shout echoing in the canyon, he was free from the jealousy of last night. I watched him hit zero and start the first rebound. “He had a good jump.” I froze as I turned to Jeff. The big jack knife in his left hand rested gently against the cord. When Dari hit bottom again, and it went taut, some of the latex strands parted. I honestly don’t believe Jeff knew what was happening because his eyes were on me, a halfway playful smile stretched across his lips. But I saw. Dari hit bottom on his next rebound, the cord tightened again, and a few more strands parted beneath the blade. “Jeff, the knife’s….” I lost my voice. A few more strands parted, and then the cord came apart with a loud ripping sound. Only when Dari’s cries of joy became a screech of terror did Jeff’s eyes leave me. He looked at the severed jump rope and then peered over the side of the bridge. As Dari’s voice faded away on his long journey down into the Rio Grande, Jeff turned to me. I saw confusion clear from his expression and realization take hold. And then I saw the future play out behind those handsome blue eyes. I turned and ran for my life.
###
Offhand, I'd say Barry made a whopper of a mistake. Sometimes you think you know a guy, and then....
See you next month. Thanks for checking out the site.
Mark
New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.
July 16, 2014
Barry Bungee Jump – Part 2
Today, we pick up the story of Barry Bungee Jump. As I recall, his life was going pretty well. He’d hooked up with another avid jumper and started making it with an exotic swim coach. Part one ended with him thinking: "Then I screwed it all up."
Let’s see how badly he messed thing up. The “they” Barry refers to in the opening paragraph of Part 2 are Jeff Hodges, his bungee jump buddy, and Dari Pedralis, his college swim coach dreamboat.
###
BARRY BUNGEE JUMP
If they were fucking me one at a time, what would it be like with both of them at once? A threesome. Something I’d never done before. I could blow Dari’s dusky tool while Jeff buried his fair one in my ass. All the time, they could admire one another. For the next session, we could switch up. I’d get a Dari fuck and give a Jeff blow. Wasn’t much chance they’d have at one another. They were too macho for that. For a while, I didn’t think I was going to be able to manage it, but when Dari expressed some interest in hearing about one of my bungee jump trips, I managed to wrangle an invitation from Jeff for my exotic-looking swimmer to accompany us on an overnighter to the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge outside of Taos. Dari was all for staying in a motel, but Jeff and I preferred to camp out. It was touch and go for a moment, but finally Dari agreed to rough it. The drive up the Rio Grande to Taos was interesting, as usual. Folks from around here never called it the Rio Grande River, claiming that’s redundant because “Rio” means river in Spanish. Just like locals never call that long, grinding hill before you get to Santa Fe La Bajada Hill. You got it…la bajada means hill. Once we made it through New Mexico’s capital city and breezed by the National Cemetery and the Santa Fe Opera, conversation loosened up a bit. I don’t know why, but it seemed to me Jeff and Dari were a little stiff-legged around one another. Talking about sports relaxed things, even if Jeff was going on about basketball while Dari was talking swimming. The big mud pile before you enter Taos always drew my eye. That wasn’t a very respectful way of describing Taos Pueblo, which is a lot older than the town and the home of the Taos Indians, but I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just what the place reminded me of from a distance—tiers and tiers of dried mud. One day, I was going to talk Jeff into slowing down enough to visit the pueblo, but bhen we got this close to the bridge, my thirst for a bungee jump inevitably interfered. Once in town, we headed west toward Tres Piedras, passed by the city airport, and pretty soon were approaching the Rio Grande Gorge. The view when approaching the big bridge spanning the chasm was sorta flat and stark, but the view from the bridge was awesome. I used to play tourist and haul big rocks out on the deck to throw over the side into the gorge. They disappeared into nothingness before striking the water or the shore over 600 feet below us. Actually, the river looks like a little trickle from the bridge, but the Rio Grande in this part of New Mexico was a world class, white-water rafting site. But rafting and stone-bombing rafters fighting the water below us wasn’t on my mind today. It turned out that Dari had some experience in bungee jumping, so we got down to it pretty quickly. The guys honored my teenaged enthusiasm and let me go first. Dari helped me hook up in Jeff’s body and ankle harnesses while Jeff affixed the gear box and checked the equipment. Some guys buy a ready-made braided shock cord of latex encased in a tough outer cover, but Jeff made his own rope, leaving it unbraided—which meant he omitted the outer cover. This gave us softer rebounds and longer jumps. In no time at all, I did a swan dive over the edge of the structure…right into space. There weren’t any words for the exhilaration I got out of free-falling. As the river rushed up at me, the tiny rocks becoming bigger and sharper, I left my stomach somewhere behind me. Of course, with only 200 feet of cord, I was nowhere near the bottom of the gorge, but it seemed like I was going to keep plunging straight into oblivion. Then the elastic cord slowly grabbed me. I decelerated, but kept dropping. When tension equaled my weight, I halted. Zero at zero, they called it. After a seemingly long pause, I rebounded into the air, providing a charge of a different sort. My stomach seemed to pass me as I shot upward. It wouldn’t catch up until I quit bouncing. All too soon, it was over, and I was hanging head down with blood pounding in my ears as my two friends winched me back to the bridge. I wished it would never end…even this part of it. Dari went next, and his graceful dive reminded me he was a swimmer…and presumably a diver. His deep voice echoed his pleasure up and down the steep-sided canyon. I helped winch him up and checked the cord while Jeff prepared for his jump. He had good form, too. Of course, he’d done this a bazillion times before. Then as we manned the winch to drag him back up, Dari said something strange. “Wonder what would happen if we just left him there.” “Well, he sure isn’t gonna climb back up that cord. A braided one…maybe…but not this one.” Dari shrugged as he applied himself to the gear box and started cranking. “Don’t tell me the thought’s never crossed your mind when you’re hanging head down at the end of a long cord.” I shook my head and helped him with the lever. In truth, the possibility of this unlikely event had never occurred to me. Such was my trust in the people I traveled with. We each took one more jump and then started looking for a place to pitch camp. Jeff wasn’t interested in a public place, so we found a spot farther west that was private and had some tree coverage. Tension began to rise as we pitched our tents. Rather as they pitched their tents. I didn’t own one. Looked like I might not get that threesome I wanted to try, but with a little careful planning, I could spend part of the night with each of these handsome dudes. Next best thing.
###
With all the tension going on between Barry’s two lovers, it does appear he may have blundered. On the first of next month, at my regular post time, we’ll learn just how much.
Thanks for checking out the site. I’m open for comments.
Mark
New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.
Let’s see how badly he messed thing up. The “they” Barry refers to in the opening paragraph of Part 2 are Jeff Hodges, his bungee jump buddy, and Dari Pedralis, his college swim coach dreamboat.
###
BARRY BUNGEE JUMP
If they were fucking me one at a time, what would it be like with both of them at once? A threesome. Something I’d never done before. I could blow Dari’s dusky tool while Jeff buried his fair one in my ass. All the time, they could admire one another. For the next session, we could switch up. I’d get a Dari fuck and give a Jeff blow. Wasn’t much chance they’d have at one another. They were too macho for that. For a while, I didn’t think I was going to be able to manage it, but when Dari expressed some interest in hearing about one of my bungee jump trips, I managed to wrangle an invitation from Jeff for my exotic-looking swimmer to accompany us on an overnighter to the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge outside of Taos. Dari was all for staying in a motel, but Jeff and I preferred to camp out. It was touch and go for a moment, but finally Dari agreed to rough it. The drive up the Rio Grande to Taos was interesting, as usual. Folks from around here never called it the Rio Grande River, claiming that’s redundant because “Rio” means river in Spanish. Just like locals never call that long, grinding hill before you get to Santa Fe La Bajada Hill. You got it…la bajada means hill. Once we made it through New Mexico’s capital city and breezed by the National Cemetery and the Santa Fe Opera, conversation loosened up a bit. I don’t know why, but it seemed to me Jeff and Dari were a little stiff-legged around one another. Talking about sports relaxed things, even if Jeff was going on about basketball while Dari was talking swimming. The big mud pile before you enter Taos always drew my eye. That wasn’t a very respectful way of describing Taos Pueblo, which is a lot older than the town and the home of the Taos Indians, but I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just what the place reminded me of from a distance—tiers and tiers of dried mud. One day, I was going to talk Jeff into slowing down enough to visit the pueblo, but bhen we got this close to the bridge, my thirst for a bungee jump inevitably interfered. Once in town, we headed west toward Tres Piedras, passed by the city airport, and pretty soon were approaching the Rio Grande Gorge. The view when approaching the big bridge spanning the chasm was sorta flat and stark, but the view from the bridge was awesome. I used to play tourist and haul big rocks out on the deck to throw over the side into the gorge. They disappeared into nothingness before striking the water or the shore over 600 feet below us. Actually, the river looks like a little trickle from the bridge, but the Rio Grande in this part of New Mexico was a world class, white-water rafting site. But rafting and stone-bombing rafters fighting the water below us wasn’t on my mind today. It turned out that Dari had some experience in bungee jumping, so we got down to it pretty quickly. The guys honored my teenaged enthusiasm and let me go first. Dari helped me hook up in Jeff’s body and ankle harnesses while Jeff affixed the gear box and checked the equipment. Some guys buy a ready-made braided shock cord of latex encased in a tough outer cover, but Jeff made his own rope, leaving it unbraided—which meant he omitted the outer cover. This gave us softer rebounds and longer jumps. In no time at all, I did a swan dive over the edge of the structure…right into space. There weren’t any words for the exhilaration I got out of free-falling. As the river rushed up at me, the tiny rocks becoming bigger and sharper, I left my stomach somewhere behind me. Of course, with only 200 feet of cord, I was nowhere near the bottom of the gorge, but it seemed like I was going to keep plunging straight into oblivion. Then the elastic cord slowly grabbed me. I decelerated, but kept dropping. When tension equaled my weight, I halted. Zero at zero, they called it. After a seemingly long pause, I rebounded into the air, providing a charge of a different sort. My stomach seemed to pass me as I shot upward. It wouldn’t catch up until I quit bouncing. All too soon, it was over, and I was hanging head down with blood pounding in my ears as my two friends winched me back to the bridge. I wished it would never end…even this part of it. Dari went next, and his graceful dive reminded me he was a swimmer…and presumably a diver. His deep voice echoed his pleasure up and down the steep-sided canyon. I helped winch him up and checked the cord while Jeff prepared for his jump. He had good form, too. Of course, he’d done this a bazillion times before. Then as we manned the winch to drag him back up, Dari said something strange. “Wonder what would happen if we just left him there.” “Well, he sure isn’t gonna climb back up that cord. A braided one…maybe…but not this one.” Dari shrugged as he applied himself to the gear box and started cranking. “Don’t tell me the thought’s never crossed your mind when you’re hanging head down at the end of a long cord.” I shook my head and helped him with the lever. In truth, the possibility of this unlikely event had never occurred to me. Such was my trust in the people I traveled with. We each took one more jump and then started looking for a place to pitch camp. Jeff wasn’t interested in a public place, so we found a spot farther west that was private and had some tree coverage. Tension began to rise as we pitched our tents. Rather as they pitched their tents. I didn’t own one. Looked like I might not get that threesome I wanted to try, but with a little careful planning, I could spend part of the night with each of these handsome dudes. Next best thing.
###
With all the tension going on between Barry’s two lovers, it does appear he may have blundered. On the first of next month, at my regular post time, we’ll learn just how much.
Thanks for checking out the site. I’m open for comments.
Mark
New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.
July 1, 2014
How about some short fiction?
Let’s go back to some short fiction this week. Meet Barry Prescott, who’s called Barry Bungee Jump because of his passion for the sport.
###
BARRY BUNGEE JUMP
My name’s not really Barry Bungee Jump. It’s actually Barry Max Prescott, but I’m so nutty about bungee jumping, the fellows started calling me that. I can’t explain the rush I get from making suicidal leaps and being snatched from the clutches of death at the last possible moment. I go looking for a jump whenever I can, and that’s not often enough for me. Guys keep warning me I’m gonna go blind from all that jerking around, but I’ll take my chances. Problem is, I don’t have any money, and it takes money. Equipment isn’t a problem. I don’t own any. I just borrow somebody elses, even the ankle or chest harnesses. But getting to the jump places is sometimes a concern. And, of course, the bail bond and fine money can be a major hassle if you jump off places where it’s against the law. And what bungee jumper hasn’t tried that? I’m nineteen, but don’t look it. Most guys take me for around fifteen. Pisses me off at times, but it works in my favor, too. I discovered a long time ago that I like guys. Figured I’d grow out of the hand jobs my buddies and me did sometimes, but instead they turned into blowjobs and belly fucking. It wasn’t until last year I figured out how looking like a kid could help me with my passion. This older guy—musta been about thirty—named Jefferson Hodges was a big deal in the bungee world, at least in Albuquerque. We got to talking at a local hangout one day, and he invited me to go up to Taos with him the next weekend. I jumped on it in a New York minute and didn’t bother to tell him I didn’t have any gear until we met that Saturday morning. He laughed and said we’d make do. I figured we’d end up making more than that, and I was right. But I didn’t expect the dude to fall in love. Still, that’s what he said the last time I sucked his dong. We did it so much that weekend, I worried about him having the strength to haul me back up, even if he did have a gear-lock box to help out. He kept on calling and coming around so much my roommates at the off-campus apartment on Grand Avenue started razzing me about it. Didn’t bother me. He was a buff, good-looking guy with a solid economic foot on the ground. Anyway, it was a soft life for a while. Then I met Dari, and things got complicated. Dari was a swim coach at the U, but since I didn’t swim, I’d never met the guy until I crashed a frat house party early in the semester. As soon as I saw him walk across the room with two glasses in hand, I knew I had to have the guy. Tall, slim, and foreign looking. That’s what got me, his dark, sloe eyes. I was drawn to alien glamour the same way some are drawn to my little boy looks. Exotic is erotic, at least to my eyes. As soon as he delivered the drink to a guy standing alone in the far corner, I knew I was in. Toothpick Wilkinson didn’t look his age, either, but his nickname defined him totally. I not only looked younger than he did, but I also had discernable body parts. I walked up, said hello to Toothpick, and proceeded to destroy his evening. Before midnight, Coach Darius Pedralis and I were in his bed doing all sorts of delightful things, including one I’d never attempted before. Guys been trying to part my buns for years, but I’d never let one in … until Dari. As he stared at me with those hypnotic eyes that night, I let him raise my legs to his broad, dark shoulders and rub his dripping cock up and down my puckerhole. I was so fascinated I almost didn’t feel his penetration. But I did feel the athletic fucking he gave me and vowed he could do this any time he wanted. On our next jump trip, I offered my ass to Jeff. Man, did he go for it. And he was great at it, too. But he had a different attitude about it. Dari expected it; Jeff appreciated it. If Jeff hadn’t still been in the closet to his family, I think he’d have asked for my hand in marriage. For a little while, I had a great thing going. Two studs, as different as a peach from a persimmon, were fucking me regularly. And one of them was hauling me around the state to every bungee location we could find. Then I screwed it all up.
###
Obviously we’ll see how Barry messed everything up next time, and I won't wait a month to post. Somewhere around the middle of the July we'll learn how badly he bungled thingsl.
Thanks for checking out the site.
Mark
New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.
###
BARRY BUNGEE JUMP
My name’s not really Barry Bungee Jump. It’s actually Barry Max Prescott, but I’m so nutty about bungee jumping, the fellows started calling me that. I can’t explain the rush I get from making suicidal leaps and being snatched from the clutches of death at the last possible moment. I go looking for a jump whenever I can, and that’s not often enough for me. Guys keep warning me I’m gonna go blind from all that jerking around, but I’ll take my chances. Problem is, I don’t have any money, and it takes money. Equipment isn’t a problem. I don’t own any. I just borrow somebody elses, even the ankle or chest harnesses. But getting to the jump places is sometimes a concern. And, of course, the bail bond and fine money can be a major hassle if you jump off places where it’s against the law. And what bungee jumper hasn’t tried that? I’m nineteen, but don’t look it. Most guys take me for around fifteen. Pisses me off at times, but it works in my favor, too. I discovered a long time ago that I like guys. Figured I’d grow out of the hand jobs my buddies and me did sometimes, but instead they turned into blowjobs and belly fucking. It wasn’t until last year I figured out how looking like a kid could help me with my passion. This older guy—musta been about thirty—named Jefferson Hodges was a big deal in the bungee world, at least in Albuquerque. We got to talking at a local hangout one day, and he invited me to go up to Taos with him the next weekend. I jumped on it in a New York minute and didn’t bother to tell him I didn’t have any gear until we met that Saturday morning. He laughed and said we’d make do. I figured we’d end up making more than that, and I was right. But I didn’t expect the dude to fall in love. Still, that’s what he said the last time I sucked his dong. We did it so much that weekend, I worried about him having the strength to haul me back up, even if he did have a gear-lock box to help out. He kept on calling and coming around so much my roommates at the off-campus apartment on Grand Avenue started razzing me about it. Didn’t bother me. He was a buff, good-looking guy with a solid economic foot on the ground. Anyway, it was a soft life for a while. Then I met Dari, and things got complicated. Dari was a swim coach at the U, but since I didn’t swim, I’d never met the guy until I crashed a frat house party early in the semester. As soon as I saw him walk across the room with two glasses in hand, I knew I had to have the guy. Tall, slim, and foreign looking. That’s what got me, his dark, sloe eyes. I was drawn to alien glamour the same way some are drawn to my little boy looks. Exotic is erotic, at least to my eyes. As soon as he delivered the drink to a guy standing alone in the far corner, I knew I was in. Toothpick Wilkinson didn’t look his age, either, but his nickname defined him totally. I not only looked younger than he did, but I also had discernable body parts. I walked up, said hello to Toothpick, and proceeded to destroy his evening. Before midnight, Coach Darius Pedralis and I were in his bed doing all sorts of delightful things, including one I’d never attempted before. Guys been trying to part my buns for years, but I’d never let one in … until Dari. As he stared at me with those hypnotic eyes that night, I let him raise my legs to his broad, dark shoulders and rub his dripping cock up and down my puckerhole. I was so fascinated I almost didn’t feel his penetration. But I did feel the athletic fucking he gave me and vowed he could do this any time he wanted. On our next jump trip, I offered my ass to Jeff. Man, did he go for it. And he was great at it, too. But he had a different attitude about it. Dari expected it; Jeff appreciated it. If Jeff hadn’t still been in the closet to his family, I think he’d have asked for my hand in marriage. For a little while, I had a great thing going. Two studs, as different as a peach from a persimmon, were fucking me regularly. And one of them was hauling me around the state to every bungee location we could find. Then I screwed it all up.
###
Obviously we’ll see how Barry messed everything up next time, and I won't wait a month to post. Somewhere around the middle of the July we'll learn how badly he bungled thingsl.
Thanks for checking out the site.
Mark
New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.
June 1, 2014
Losers into Winners
How about another piece of flash fiction this time?
###
LOSERS INTO WINNERS
When it came to people-watching, the Eastside Diner was a loser. It attracted a plebian crowd. One that was collegial, but stimulating neither intellectually nor physically. So I graced the place with my presence for the reason it was a winner: excellent fare at reasonable prices. The décor seemed almost deliberately designed to downplay the expectations of one entering the premises for the first time. Old-fashioned cashier on a worn counter near the entrance. Spindly stools with cracked red leatherette seats. No more than a half-dozen tables scattered haphazardly around the small café. But the aroma! I paused on the threshold to take in the stew of delicious odors. Beef and bacon and cheese. The whuff of an overhead fan, as soothing as white noise, pillowed pungent air against my face in comforting waves, dropping a hint of chili peppers and garlic and onions and softer, subtler flavors onto my tongue. Today, my eye lasered in on a lone customer seated at one of the tables. Perhaps I had lucked out today. Definitely not one of the regulars. I acknowledged Mario, the Eastside’s owner, and asked for the usual while moving to a table nearest the intriguing stranger. I choose a chair so that we were neither eye-to-eye nor in profile, but rather faced one another obliquely, which gave me the best view of his features. And what features they were. He was of a slender, athletic build; dark complexioned without being swarthy. He wore his black hair rather longish, so that it tended to curl at the top and around the collar. His face was smooth enough to be beautiful, yet sufficiently irregular to be sensual. And I far preferred outright sensuality to plastic beauty. The light shone off his broad forehead as he concentrated jade-green eyes on the paper he was reading. A polo shirt, open at the collar, gave a glimpse of a torso I knew would be bronzed and firm. The discreet rise of a nipple set me to salivating as I imagined a pink crown centered in a rough brown aureole. His sideburns came to a point, reminding me of an impish child's that had never seen a razor. Yet he was twenty-two or -three…a male in his carnal prime. His corded arms, gracefully formed, ended in long-fingered hands. The nails were clipped and appeared to be buffed. In fact, everything about him seemed buff. He lifted his eyes and met mine briefly as he took a sip of his coffee. Moments later, he caught me watching him again. Mario provided some cover when he delivered my meal of green chili chicken stew with a warm hard roll instead of the usual tortilla. He visited only a moment, and upon his departure, I snatched a look at my Adonis only to find the man gazing at me steadily. Quite willing to play the eye game, I returned the look until he finally broke the magic moment by glancing down at his paper again. I finished my leisurely lunch, perfectly content to overdose on eye candy in lieu of a sugary sweet. As I finished my bowl, he took me by surprise and stood to walk over to my table. He leaned over me with one hand on the Formica top and the other on the back of my chair. “Like what you see?” he asked. “Immensely.” How droll. Why couldn’t I have come up with something witty? Debonair? As he leaned in closer, his baritone dropped an octave. “Well, I hope you got a good look, because that’s all you’re ever going to get, queer.” With that, he turned and stalked to the counter to pay his bill, totally unaware of the gift he’d just bestowed upon me. Now I had an image of a full basket, the sound of a hoarse voice that plucked my heartstrings, and the memory of a pair of tight, denim-encased buns to recall this evening in the privacy of my own bedroom as I was taking care of business. Sometimes a man can convert Losers into Winners.
###
Someone reach out and let me know what you think about this little effort. Helps stir the blood a little.
Thanks for checking out the site.
Mark
New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.
###
LOSERS INTO WINNERS
When it came to people-watching, the Eastside Diner was a loser. It attracted a plebian crowd. One that was collegial, but stimulating neither intellectually nor physically. So I graced the place with my presence for the reason it was a winner: excellent fare at reasonable prices. The décor seemed almost deliberately designed to downplay the expectations of one entering the premises for the first time. Old-fashioned cashier on a worn counter near the entrance. Spindly stools with cracked red leatherette seats. No more than a half-dozen tables scattered haphazardly around the small café. But the aroma! I paused on the threshold to take in the stew of delicious odors. Beef and bacon and cheese. The whuff of an overhead fan, as soothing as white noise, pillowed pungent air against my face in comforting waves, dropping a hint of chili peppers and garlic and onions and softer, subtler flavors onto my tongue. Today, my eye lasered in on a lone customer seated at one of the tables. Perhaps I had lucked out today. Definitely not one of the regulars. I acknowledged Mario, the Eastside’s owner, and asked for the usual while moving to a table nearest the intriguing stranger. I choose a chair so that we were neither eye-to-eye nor in profile, but rather faced one another obliquely, which gave me the best view of his features. And what features they were. He was of a slender, athletic build; dark complexioned without being swarthy. He wore his black hair rather longish, so that it tended to curl at the top and around the collar. His face was smooth enough to be beautiful, yet sufficiently irregular to be sensual. And I far preferred outright sensuality to plastic beauty. The light shone off his broad forehead as he concentrated jade-green eyes on the paper he was reading. A polo shirt, open at the collar, gave a glimpse of a torso I knew would be bronzed and firm. The discreet rise of a nipple set me to salivating as I imagined a pink crown centered in a rough brown aureole. His sideburns came to a point, reminding me of an impish child's that had never seen a razor. Yet he was twenty-two or -three…a male in his carnal prime. His corded arms, gracefully formed, ended in long-fingered hands. The nails were clipped and appeared to be buffed. In fact, everything about him seemed buff. He lifted his eyes and met mine briefly as he took a sip of his coffee. Moments later, he caught me watching him again. Mario provided some cover when he delivered my meal of green chili chicken stew with a warm hard roll instead of the usual tortilla. He visited only a moment, and upon his departure, I snatched a look at my Adonis only to find the man gazing at me steadily. Quite willing to play the eye game, I returned the look until he finally broke the magic moment by glancing down at his paper again. I finished my leisurely lunch, perfectly content to overdose on eye candy in lieu of a sugary sweet. As I finished my bowl, he took me by surprise and stood to walk over to my table. He leaned over me with one hand on the Formica top and the other on the back of my chair. “Like what you see?” he asked. “Immensely.” How droll. Why couldn’t I have come up with something witty? Debonair? As he leaned in closer, his baritone dropped an octave. “Well, I hope you got a good look, because that’s all you’re ever going to get, queer.” With that, he turned and stalked to the counter to pay his bill, totally unaware of the gift he’d just bestowed upon me. Now I had an image of a full basket, the sound of a hoarse voice that plucked my heartstrings, and the memory of a pair of tight, denim-encased buns to recall this evening in the privacy of my own bedroom as I was taking care of business. Sometimes a man can convert Losers into Winners.
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Someone reach out and let me know what you think about this little effort. Helps stir the blood a little.
Thanks for checking out the site.
Mark
New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.
May 1, 2014
May Day!
May First. May Day. A celebration of labor and laborers all around the world (as opposed to Labor Day, the first Monday in September). Or you can read it as may day (mayday?), a call of distress. I think that’s what this day is for me. Maybe not distress, but perhaps a lament.
I have just finished the second draft of my novel, MEDICINE HAIR. Why is that a cause for lament? Well, it’s the last of the CUT HAND series, and that’s a tremendous emotional wrench for me. So why end the series? Because it’s time has run, that’s why.
CUT HAND, my first published novel, was well-received, thankfully. But I liked my characters and wasn’t willing to let them go, even those who did not survive in the novel. I sought some way to give them life—resurrection, if you will—in a second novel, RIVER OTTER. Otter seemed too vital a character to simply abandon, so he carries the tale until it is time to turn the saga over to John Strobaw and Matthew Brandt in ECHOES OF THE FLUTE.
But Cut Hand’s and Billy Strobaw’s story still did not seem complete, even though references to them diminish considerably. It took one final book, MEDICINE HAIR to finish the tale. And if the reader gives some thought to the novels, they are really a portrayal of how homosexuality was perceived and dealt with in two different cultures, and how one infected and changed the other.
You won’t see MEDICINE HAIR for some time yet because of the publisher’s schedule. It will appear in the spring of 2015. I would be remiss if I didn’t thank the folks at STARbooks Press for their help. Mike Powers, Eric Summers, and Milton Stern are great to work with. Thanks, guys.
I don’t mean this post as a swan song. In addition to the Cut Hand series, THE VICTOR AND THE VANQUISHED, a story set in contemporary times, is still out there. And it will be joined by CHARLIE BLACKBEAR in the fall of 2014. I hope to have JOHNNY TWO-GUNSin print by Spring 2016 … with STARbooks cooperation. So as long as you keep reading, I’ll keep writing.
I also need to thank those readers who have kept in touch with me through this blog site. You guys help keep my batteries charged. Some of you make a point of simply contacting me from time to time to lend encouragement. You cannot imagine how much that helps.
Thanks for checking out the site.
Mark
New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.
I have just finished the second draft of my novel, MEDICINE HAIR. Why is that a cause for lament? Well, it’s the last of the CUT HAND series, and that’s a tremendous emotional wrench for me. So why end the series? Because it’s time has run, that’s why.
CUT HAND, my first published novel, was well-received, thankfully. But I liked my characters and wasn’t willing to let them go, even those who did not survive in the novel. I sought some way to give them life—resurrection, if you will—in a second novel, RIVER OTTER. Otter seemed too vital a character to simply abandon, so he carries the tale until it is time to turn the saga over to John Strobaw and Matthew Brandt in ECHOES OF THE FLUTE.
But Cut Hand’s and Billy Strobaw’s story still did not seem complete, even though references to them diminish considerably. It took one final book, MEDICINE HAIR to finish the tale. And if the reader gives some thought to the novels, they are really a portrayal of how homosexuality was perceived and dealt with in two different cultures, and how one infected and changed the other.
You won’t see MEDICINE HAIR for some time yet because of the publisher’s schedule. It will appear in the spring of 2015. I would be remiss if I didn’t thank the folks at STARbooks Press for their help. Mike Powers, Eric Summers, and Milton Stern are great to work with. Thanks, guys.
I don’t mean this post as a swan song. In addition to the Cut Hand series, THE VICTOR AND THE VANQUISHED, a story set in contemporary times, is still out there. And it will be joined by CHARLIE BLACKBEAR in the fall of 2014. I hope to have JOHNNY TWO-GUNSin print by Spring 2016 … with STARbooks cooperation. So as long as you keep reading, I’ll keep writing.
I also need to thank those readers who have kept in touch with me through this blog site. You guys help keep my batteries charged. Some of you make a point of simply contacting me from time to time to lend encouragement. You cannot imagine how much that helps.
Thanks for checking out the site.
Mark
New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.
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