Mark Wildyr's Blog, page 3

Cee One Eff One (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com,Post #247

 

ImageCourtesy of Depositphotos:                      

 

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

* * * *

CeeOne Eff One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

“So you’reremembering the old days, huh?”

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

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

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

“Not Bug?”

“No. You’re Gusfrom now on.”

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

“So whereare you?”

“Here.”

“Here? Youmean in Dallas?”

“Yep. Nothalf a mile away.”

“Great! Visitingor permanent?”

“Permanent.”

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

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

“Wait! I can….”

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

The firstphoto was a bust of a shirtless, buffed, curly haired young man who was notonly downright handsome, but sexy, as well. You know what I’m talking about.Some handsome guys look too perfect to even think about earthy things. This guynot only made you think about them, but lust to accomplish them.

The secondphoto made me gasp aloud. Full frontal nude of the same guy, only without hishead showing. I understood. Didn’t want to be subject to blackmail, but thatmole was there, silently testifying this was Bug… Gus. And he wasn’t justbuffed. He was tennis court buffed, distance runner buffed. And equipment thatwould make any man proud.

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

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

“What do youthink?”

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

“And I couldhave been yours.”

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

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

“Bug… Gus, I—”

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

*.*.*.*.

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

 

Until next week,

 

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Cee One Eff One (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com,Post #246

 

ImageCourtesy of Depositphotos:                      

 

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

 

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

* * * *

CeeOne Eff One

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

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

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

My piquereturned. “Not up to playing guessing games… or robo calls. Tell me who thisis, or I’m hanging up.”

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

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

“You writedetective stories. You’ll figure it out.”

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

“If youthink hard enough, you’ll—”

I’d nosooner punched the button to hang up on him than I regretted it. That was quitea voice. Somewhere between a growl and a purr. I hit the redial before Ioverthought my action, but got a non-responsive number like you sometimes getwith spam calls you don’t answer but try to call back.

That shouldhave been that, yet I was snared, but good. I sat before the computer with mymind reviewing everyone I knew. Couldn’t begin to figure out who my mysteriouscaller had been.

I’m notashamed to admit that I went to bed that night physically aroused by therecollection of that sexy voice. But I will swear to this day that I kept myhands off myself.

****

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

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

“What?What’re you talking about.”

“Humor me.Make your voice deeper.

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

“Just doit, Caddo.”

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

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

My ireprickled when I checked and saw an email from an aol.com with the odd name ofCee1Eff1. Crap. Belonged in the Spam folder most likely, but I opened it anywayand read the following:

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

I openedthe first attachment and stared at a torso with chiseled abs, interesting pecswith a light sprinkling of hair between two large, brown aureoles. Rib cagetapered to trim waist with an interesting “innnie.”

The secondsnap was of a groin covered by bathing trunks. Good thighs with a downrightfascinating bulge hiding behind the material. Who was this guy?

I scrambledto open the third attachment and discovered an oblique view of a guy’s exposedbehind. Wasn’t exactly a bubble butt, but it was full and round and interestingas all get out.

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

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

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

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

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

I copiedthe three photos and spread them on the desk atop pages of my forgotten mysterynovel. Getting out a magnifying glass, I poured over those three images likeSherlock Holmes in his proverbial deerstalker seeking to uncover dastardlysecrets. I imagined the task was harder for me because I kept gettingdistracted by a downright sexy male torso, an intriguing groin hidden by askimpy swim garment, and a delicious butt that kept putting my libido betweenme and my primary task.

Butfinally, I did find something that ticked a memory. An inch or so above theleft nipple, a small brown mole triggered something. A mole. Why would that bemeaningful?

Because I’dseen it before. Or one like it in approximately the same place. Did that meanthis was a former lover?

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

No, that wasn’tright. I could clearly remember the four kids I regularly palled around withback then. No, this was a hanger on. A younger kid. A pest. Always trying torun with us. He’d gone to the swimming hole with us a couple of times. That’swhere I’d seen that mole.

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

Bug! Thatwas it. I’d called the kid Bug because of that mole—when I wasn’t calling him Three-titty-Monte.What was his name? Didn’t matter. I had my way in now. I composed a message toCee1Eff1.

Okay,I got it now. Long time, no see, Bug. From what I can see, you grew up good. Wouldn’tmind a look at more… if you know what I mean.

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

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

*.*.*.*.

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

 

Until next week,

 

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

What Could Have Been

 Markwildyr.com,Post #245

 

Image Courtesy of Freepik:

 

Last week’s post aboutan AI-created story didn’t generate much in the way of comments. I’m not aspanicked about it as my buddy Don Travis. I understand his post this week is anAI story written to his specifications.

 

This week, I went nostalgic. We allplay the “what could have been” game on occasion. Let me know how you like thisone. (AI had nothing to do with this one.)

* * * *

WHATCOULD HAVE BEEN

I’d known Jason Muldavidforever. Through all the stages of my life: from Johnny Boy to Johnny to John. Oneof my earliest recollections is the two of us digging in a sandbox with toyshovels at the little park only a block from our houses… which sat side by sideon Elderberry Street. In fact, that’s what the neighbors called us, theElderberry twins, even though Jason was dark-haired and dark-eyed while my hairwas sandy, and my eyes an uncertain green… hazel, I think they call it.

I’m not sure that, as toddlers,we knew which was our own home, the red brick or the blonde brick. Just to beclear, the red brick was the Hogan household—mine. But neither of us botheredto knock when visiting the other. We just barged in and expected to be welcomedin those halcyon days when no one locked the front door.

Looking back, I believe wewere in love in an innocent way. I fretted when Jason—or Jase as he became tome—wasn’t at my side. I’ve heard his mother complain he was a different kidwhen he wasn’t with Johnny. I never grew out of that stage. I thought of himthe first thing in the morning and the last thing before bed. In my nightlyprayers, he was the first person I asked the Lord to take care of.

We were likely eleven ortwelve when things began to change. I distinctly recall the first time weplayed softball on opposite teams. We’d been waiting for someone to drop out ofa sandlot game, and when one did, Johnny was called. When the next kid had to gohome, I ended up on the other team. At the time, I couldn’t put a name to myinternal rage when Jase kibbitzed with his team’s second baseman and razzed me whenmy turn at bat came. I got a double and managed to kick the second baseman inthe ankle as I slid safely on base. After the game, as we walked home, he threwhis arm around my shoulders and blathered on like nothing had happened, but itsure did feel like something had gone awry to me. At midnight, my eyes poppedopen, and I identified my anger for what it really was. Jealousy.

That was the beginning of myordeal.

Simply put, over the next fewyears, Jase matured physically and emotionally. I only managed the physicalpart of it. Emotionally, I remained tethered to my childhood buddy. That wasn’tfatal, unless I tried to hang on too tightly… which I did a few times. Jasealways pushed back, tactfully, at first, but when I refused to adjust to theinevitable changes, he got a little firmer about it.

And I don’t think he was theonly one who saw things. Jason, as I said, became Jase, and was always referredto that way, while I was Hogan. I know, it’s a little thing… but it says a lot.

Middle school was rocky butnot unbearable, but when high school rolled around, the changes were soprofound, my base, my foundation seemed to be crumbling beneath me. And all thetrouble came down to one thing… girls. Or that’s the way it was in my mind, atany rate.

When Jase discovered them, Iwas left at home hurting. It got a little better when he suggested we doubledate some, so I found a girl I could muster a little interest in and taggedalong when I could. We both lost our virginity one night when he parked hisChevy convertible on a country lane. I still recall the absolute shock—despiteprior clues—when I realized I’d rather be up in the front seat with him doingwhat he was doing to his date than being in the back doing what I was doingwith mine.

But nothing was as shatteringas his wedding night. I was, of course, his best man, and it took every ounceof self-control I could muster to keep from running out on him in tears. But Iwent numb and held on. Shaking his hand at the conclusion and kissing the newMrs. Jase on the cheek—instead of biting her—and tossing rice with the rest ofthe well-wishers got me through that hell. But that night was even worse. Itput an end to the fantasy that one day we’d put all this foolishness behind usand discover—really discover—one another.

The agony continued throughcollege. We went to the same college and roomed together for a couple ofsemesters before he moved into the dorm reserved for jocks—he was a decent halfbackfor the team. We both remained in our hometown, although we moved from theadjoining red brick and blond bricks to different neighborhoods. Both of us pursuedsuccessful careers… me as the owner of the local deli, and Jase as a banker. Intime, I became Uncle John to his son and his daughter. Their bachelor unclebecause I never married. Eventually, I learned to accept what part I had inJase’s life and let go of the dream of what could have been.

Contrary to romantic fiction,I never met another “Jase” or Jase’s successor in my dream fantasy.Unfortunately, I’m a guy who mates for life—even if we never got around tomating. But eventually, I put my obsession in the proper place and learned tolive with it.

Until last week.

Last Friday, we met for lunchand were joined by a couple of other friends, one of whom was a coach at thelocal high school. Toward the end of the meal, the coach told us of a situationat the school—without revealing names—of a couple of guys on the basketballsquad were found masturbating one another in the locker room after they thoughteveryone had gone. The coach laughed at the boys utter embarrassment andhumiliation, apparently deeming those appropriate punishments. I quietly shriveledinside.

After lunch, we walked up the streettogether, me to my shop and him to his bank, when he turned serious.

“You know, I didn’t reallyappreciate it how Coach got a laugh out of catching those two boys. They’rejust going through growing pains. Everybody does things like that when he’s growingup.”

Jase stopped and stared at me.“I often wondered why we didn’t do anything like that.”

I must have reacted in someway, because he grasped my arm.

“I don’t know about you, but Ithought about it at times. Lots of times.”

I managed to speak through adry throat. “Why didn’t you do anything?”

He released my arm andshrugged. “Kept waiting for you to do something. But you never showedany interest, not even when we were rooming together. If you’d given me a clue,who knows?” He grinned. “Might have ended up marrying you.”

I failed to laugh the way heexpected me to. I just glared at him. “Jason Muldavid, sometimes you can be onestupid son-of-a-bitch.”

In some perverted way, it feltgood to walk away imagining the glories that could have been while he stoodthere with eyes like quarters and his mouth hanging open. Couldn’t helpwondering if he even got it now.

Probably not. He’d have tothink outside the box for that, and Jase wasn’t very good at thinking outsideof boxes.

 

*.*.*.*.

I don’t knowabout you, but this resonates with me. I vividly remember the guy I fantasizedabout for years. Wonder how he’s doing these days.

 

Until next week,

 

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Artificial Intelligence in Writing - A Sample

Markwildyr.com,Post #244

Image Courtesy of Freepik:

I hope you liked the storyof Tai over the last two posts.

This week, I’m teamingup with my buddy Don Travis to take on the issue of Artificial Intelligence inwriting. Although he may be a little more smoked about the subject than I am, thepresence of AI is of interest. His post on dontravis.com on June 13 featured anAI generated story about a post-apocalyptic world and a video that went viralwritten in the style of William Faulkner.

My post this week, isthe same story written in the style of Ernest Hemmingway, created by the sameunidentified AI source. I would appreciate your comments on the story… and itssource.

                                                                              * ** *

AI WRITTEN STORY OF A POST-APOCALYPTICWORLD IN THE STYLE OF ERNEST HEMMINGWAY

 

In the barren aftermath of an apocalyptic world, a videoemerged—a relic that reverberated across the desolate landscape. No one knewwhere it came from, nor how it had endured the cataclysm that obliteratedeverything in its wake. But its impact was undeniable, its resonance piercingthrough the hearts of the few who remained.

 

The video spoke without words, its imagery a stark contrast tothe bleak reality surrounding it. It depicted a woman, her delicate figuregliding through the skeletal remains of what was once a vibrant city. Shedanced with an ethereal grace, a silent tribute to a forgotten time. Her steps,infused with a raw elegance, painted a portrait of a world that had been lost—aworld where laughter flowed freely and joy knew no bounds.

 

As the video circulated among the survivors, tales of itstransformative power spread like wildfire. Men and women, battered by theharshness of their existence, found solace in the woman's fleeting presence onthe screen. She became their muse, a flicker of hope amidst the pervasivedespair. In her movements, they glimpsed the indomitable spirit of the humanrace—a stubborn refusal to surrender to the darkness.

 

The video became a rallying cry, an emblem of resilience in alandscape plagued by desolation. It brought people together, fostering a senseof unity in the face of insurmountable odds. Communities, once fractured andisolated, banded together under the shared belief that life could rise from theashes.

 

No one knew the origin of the video, and speculation fueledthe whispers that echoed in the winds. Some claimed it was a divineintervention, a message from the heavens to guide humanity through its darkesthour. Others saw it as a stroke of artistic brilliance—a testament to the powerof visual storytelling. But amidst the uncertainties, one thing remained clear:the video had become a beacon of hope, a testament to the unyielding spiritthat lay dormant within every survivor.

 

And so, as the remnants of civilization clung to their fragileexistence, the video endured—a silent reminder of the beauty that once thrived.It spoke volumes without uttering a single word, evoking a longing for the pastwhile kindling a fire of determination for the future.

 

In this world of ruin and despair, the video whispered asimple truth: that even amidst the wreckage, the human spirit would endure. Itheld the power to ignite a flame, to remind those who watched it that life wasstill worth fighting for. And as the survivors huddled around the flickeringscreens, they found solace in the unspoken promise—the promise that one day,against all odds, the dance of life would resume, and the echoes of the pastwould guide them towards a new beginning.

*.*.*.*.

To me, the storyreads more like an excessively long preface to a sci-fi book than a story onits own It’s a narrative of events, not a living of them. Am I worried? Naw.

 

On the otherhand, as Don points out, AI hasn’t reached its adulthood yet. Maybe, as authorsand readers, we should worry as it grows up. I’d appreciate any thoughts on thesubject you might have. I also encourage you to read Don’t blog posting of the 13th.

 

Next week, I’lltry to have a short story for you. Until then.

 

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time. 

Tai – Part Two of Two Parts

 Markwildyr.com,Post #243

Image Courtesy of ClipartLibrary

 

Last week, we met Markand his buddy Tai, both straight, teenaged Soccer athletes. Only thing is, Markspends the summer after high school graduation getting horny while Tai’s backeast visiting his mother’s family. Now it’s time for college.

Read on.

 

* * * *

TAI

Nobody else from my town wasgoing to State, so I’d be among strangers.  I squared my shoulders and figured most of theother freshmen would be in the same boat. So when I learned Tai Briggs hadlanded a soccer scholarship to the college, as well, I perked up a bit. Maybewe could room together.

Didn’t happen that way but he didlive in the same dorm. Good seeing him, and from his reaction he felt the sameway. He looked great. He’d put on ten pounds and another couple of inches.

We gravitated toward oneanother and soon became joined at the hip, so to speak. But as we grew ourrespective circles of friends, we sort of drifted apart. Except on the soccerfield. Tai and I carried our weight there, and then some. This was gonna workout just fine.

Before long, Tai hooked upwith a gal named Ginny, and I started a rocky relationship with a chick named,curiously enough, Suzy Sue Manford. Suzy Sue, or SS, as I called her, liked mejust fine, but she courted the reputation of a rebel. That shoulda been great,right? Rebels defied convention. Convention said teens—even teens on the edgeof being twenties—ought not go to bed together. So if she defied convention…well, you see where I’m going with this.

Didn’t work out that way.Although she liked to make out, I hadn’t gotten to third base before she tookme home—she was a local—to meet her folks. Her dad, an avid car restorer, and Ibonded as soon as he he found I was a mechanic. That didn’t sit well with SS. Wecontinued to go together, but like I said, it was rocky.

Halfway into the semester, Igot itchy with that itch that’s hard to scratch without the cooperation ofsomeone else. First thing I know, thoughts of Billy Belwine and what he’d doneto me—for me—in the park’s men’s room last summer intruded on my consciousness.Billy’s lips would feel pretty good right now, but Billy was off to school inanother state, giving relief to his new classmates, I presumed.

Strangely, the thought ofBilly made things worse. Just about every public men’s room I’ve ever been inhad little notes scribbled on the stall walls, and I started paying attentionto them. This school had it’s own Billy, but I didn’t know how to identify him.His notes were provocative but didn’t provide contact information.

I’d seen what somebody called“glory holes” in lots of public rest room, but dear old State’s stalls weremade out of steel. Not only that, but the janitorial staff had perfected amethod for effectively eliminating notes that were left, even those scratchedinto the metal. They buffed those out.

But one day, as my need rosealmost to the desperation level, I saw a fresh note from someone who labeledhimself as DZ saying he’d located an out of the way spot at Burnt Wood. Whatthe hell was Burnt Wood? Too embarrassed to ask anyone, I went on the hunt inthe library. Local maps showed a park by that name clear across town.

Probably a men’s room at thepark. Bingo. But with no car, it would be a chore to get there. I’d put all mysavings into my college fund to make it easier for the folks. I had a jalopy athome, but it wasn’t up to the cross-state travel to my present location.

The inane thought struck methat Tai had a car, but I couldn’t quite see me asking for a ride to a park toget my rocks off in some public bathroom. Although, I got a bit of atingle in my groin by just thinking about it.

Well, think about it I did.About getting to Burnt Wood, that is. I located the city bus route that wouldtake me close, and decided I’d give it a try Saturday. No classes and no soccergame, so that would be an ideal time. I came close to taking care of my ownneed Friday night, even with my roommate sleeping just across the room, butmanaged to keep my hands off myself.

Saturday morning was warm andsunny and inviting. Mid-morning, I boarded a city bus convinced that everyoneon board, including the driver, knew where I was heading and what my missionwas. Irrational, I know.

I transferred where I wassupposed to, got off the second bus, and found I still had a quarter of a mile tohike. Well, what’s a quarter of a mile to a soccer player? When I arrived at thepark, the first thing I saw was a bus stop. If I’d taken the proper route, adamned bus would have dropped me right at the park. Oh well….

The park was big… with lots oftrees. A nice park, actually. Full of wholesome families having autumn picnics…and at least one sex-starved student looking for a tryst. Once again, as I trodthe graveled walks in search of a secluded men’s room, I felt everyone’s eyeson me. Knowing eyes. Sneering eyes. Condemning eyes. Eyes that knew a guylooking for a blowjob when they saw him.

Finally, I found that secludedmen’s room off in the trees where it was easy to miss. My back puckered as Iapproached the brown-painted shack. The door let out an ungodly shriek when Ipulled it open. My heart about stopped, but I soldiered on.

One urinal. One stall. Side byside. With a big glory hole between them. This was the place, all right. Hookupmessages were everywhere, but the place was deserted. I took a seat in thestall to read sometimes erotic and sometimes disgusting notes from one guy oranother to the gay universe. That hauled me up short. Gay universe? Did thatinclude me?

Naw. These were messages fromgay guys to the male universe, and that’s part of what I was. Maleuniverse. A needy member of the male universe. Must be because my member reactedsomething fierce. My male member.

I froze as the outside doorsqueaked open. Footsteps, and then someone was at the urinal. I peeked. Nice,from what I could see, which was confined to the groin area. What did I do now?Stick my thing through the glory hole and hope for the best? What if the guywas offended and whacked me where it hurt. Can you break a dick? Dunno, but Iwasn’t about to take a chance.

Then the dude unzipped his trousersand flopped out his dong. A nice dong. He lifted his shirt a bit. Flat belly,black bush. Probably had a six-pack if he exposed more of himself.

Geez, the guy wasn’t taking aleak. He was playing with himself. What should I do now?

He didn’t leave it up to me. Heturned and shoved himself through the glory hole. I gulped. I knew what heexpected, but that wasn’t what I was here for. Even so, I took him in hand and massagedhim. He thrust himself against the wall, and I knew he was urging me to takehim in my mouth. No way. That wasn’t me. I wasn’t here to take care of somedude, I was here to be taken care of.

He withdrew, and started tobend over to look through the hole. I leaned back and gave him a good view ofmy own need. He hesitated a moment and then disappeared. Was he leaving?

No! He was at the door to thestall. He tugged on it. I’d locked it, of course, so I was safe. He rappedsoftly. For some reason, I’ll never really know why, I reached up and freed thelock.

A long moment passed before hepulled the door open and gave me the shock of my life. I might have been takenby surprise, but he wasn’t.

“Mark. I thought I recognizedyour senior class ring.”

Tai Briggs, looking sexierthan anyone I’d ever seen, grinned, a crooked, lop-sided, lascivious smile andwalked straight into me. I gulped, and took him the way he wanted.

*.*.*.*.

It’s always nicewhen something works out better than you ever expected, isn’t it. I wish Markand Tai four long years of happy college life together. After that? Who knows.

 

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Tai – Part One of Two Parts

 Markwildyr.com,Post #242

 

Image Courtesy of ClipartLibrary

 

Thanks to Don Morganfor his guest posts. Hope you enjoyed them. Readership was up sharply last week—mostlydue to large Singapore readership. My buddy, Don Travis told me his blog hadmulti-thousand hits from Singapore. Don’t know what that’s all about.

 

At any rate, here’s mylatest effort. Read on.

 

* * * *

                                                                     TAI

For some reason, our town wasn’tmuch for sports. Except for soccer. Our Hochitown Side-Kickers were about the biggestthing around—except maybe for hunting and fishing—and as a fair—well, a littlebetter than that—soccer player, I was sitting pretty. Decent appearing—handsomesome of the girls said—and looking good in soccer shorts. Able to get decentscores in my classes, things were pretty good. Mark Heidlemann had thingspretty much his way. Mark Heidlemann, that’s me.

My senior year, Lt. Col.Briscoe Briggs retired from the Air Force and returned to his boyhood home,bringing his Chinese wife and teenage son Tai with him. And wouldn’t you knowit? Tai was a soccer player. And a damned good one too.

I’ll admit I saw him through thegreen veil of jealousy at first, but Tai was such a downright good guy that Ilost that pretty quickly. Besides, with the addition of his skill, theSide-Kickers stopped being pretty good and shot to the top of the league. Afterwe stopped being wary of one another, we quickly became an effective one-twounit. My goal kicks were harder, but his were more accurate.

Our little town was—to becharitable—somewhat insular. Col. Briggs was accepted, his wife Mai and son,Tai, not so much. And I’ll take credit for helping break through thoseprejudices. When I accepted Tai on the field, the rest of the team did, aswell. And when I invited Tai to bum around with me, the rest of the school fellin line. Parents sometimes take cues from their kids, and it wasn’t long beforeMrs. Briggs participated in the town’s civic and social affairs alongsideeveryone else.

It rankled a little when hewas selected team captain, but what the hell. I still had my share ofacclimation. So while I let it go, I began to take more notice of Tai… youknow, Tai, the individual.

He had his father’s physique—5’10’,165 pounds—and his mother’s complexion. His dad’s cheekbones; his mother’seyes. When I really looked at him, he was damned handsome. Handsome, plus—if youknow what I mean. His looks combined with a sensual, feline grace made himdownright sexy. And if I realized that, what must the girls think? Apparently,they agreed, because they hung all over the guy.

Maybe that was why I backedoff a little. We were still friends, but not buddies. He moved in his circle,and I made my way through mine. Didn’t seem to affect us on the field, so wewon state in our class that year.

After graduation, Col Briggstook his family back east for a long visit with his wife’s family in Maryland.Seemed that he hadn’t met her in China, or anywhere in the orient, They’d met atthe Pentagon in Washington, D.C where they both worked.

So I worked my Tai-free summeras a grease monkey at the local Chevrolet dealer by day and pursued Misty Penroseby night. I got good marks for my mechanical skills, but not so much as aLothario. Misty—as a prize—continued to elude me, although we both enjoyed theunstated duel.

Don’t get me wrong. I’dmanaged to snag a couple of girls, starting in my freshman year. So I wasn’t avirgin, but for some reason Misty seemed a special prize. Her slipping the hook—asmy brother would say—sometimes left me aching. And Billy Belwine found me inthat condition one day after Misty left me at City Park, and somehow, we endedup in the men’s toilet with him kneeling before me, providing me some relief. Icouldn’t believe the eruption I had.

I was still recovering whenBilly stood, swiped his mouth, and grinned. “Awesome, man. Anytime you need toget it off, just let me know.” Then he barreled out of the toilet leaving mewith my trousers around my ankles.

After restoring myself to decency—atleast in the appearance department—I wandered around the woody area of the parkmulling things over. Was I queer? I rolled my shoulders. Course, I wasn’t. Thatwas just relief. And lots better relief than doing it to yourself. How did Ifeel about it? Okay, I guess. No guilt or shame or mortification. Well, maybe alittle concern that Billy’d shoot off his mouth, and some of the kids wouldfind out their soccer star got a blowjob. Naw. I hadn’t heard anything aboutBilly, so he didn’t go around blabbing. Maybe I’d look him up the next time Igot really needy.

That left me with just onequestion. Why had I closed my eyes and thought about Tai Briggs while Billy didwhat he did so well?

*.*.*.*.

Well, well,well. Jealousy turned to friendship, turned to resentment, turned to…. Whoknows. Let’s see what develops next week.

 

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Judas (A Guest Post)

 Markwildyr.com,Post #241

Image Courtesy of Pexels:

 

Hope you enjoyed DonMorgan’s story with the long title last week. Sort of reflected life at somepoint for each of us, didn’t it. Well, here’s the second story he wanted topost on my site. Horse of a different color. Here we go. 

* * * *

JUDAS

 

By Donald T.Morgan

 

The l

ittle dog was one of them butterfly beasts. A Papillion, or something likethat. Cute little tyke. Mostly white with black markings. Long snout, perkyears, and a bark somewhere between a yip and a yap.

“Hello,guy.”

Heturned and trotted off toward the woods before halting and facing me again.When I hadn’t budged, he dashed back to yip/yap in earnest. Damned if the furball didn’t want me to follow him. Maybe I oughta steal the bugger. Expensive dogsfrom what I’d heard.

Nah, Iwas a bad ass, not a dognaper. The little guy trotted across the barrow ditchand disappeared into the trees. I paused a moment before following. Wasn’t anyproblem locating him; he kept up a constant yammer like he wanted me to hurry.

Ipushed my way through a thick clump of mulberry bushes into a small glade and foundhim standing beside a body. The mutt’s bug eyes seemed to plead for help.

“Wha’dawe got here?” I knelt beside a young man lying face down, his left hand flungout. A big ruby set in yellow gold on his ring finger caught my eye. His otherarm was beneath him. “You okay, fella?”

Iwasn’t much interested in his answer because dead or alive, I was gonna havethat ring. I poked the shoulder of his soft suede jacket. Expensive. This guymight turn out to be a treasure trove.

Irecoiled when he rolled over onto his side, exposing a black revolver hiddenbeneath him. “Just stay nice and still,” he said.

Thegood-looking guy with a pleasant voice got to his feet. He shoulda been playingsoccer on the other side of the big park, not waylaying suckers in the woodedsection. A trickle of sweat rolled down my left side. Excitement … not fear.Amateurs. This guy had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

“Takeit easy, fella. You got no trouble from me. But I ain’t got nothing worthstealing. You picked the wrong mark this time.”

Thekid waggled the revolver. “It’s not a robbery, man.”

Ifrowned. Maybe I oughta be worried. “Damned good imitation. I like the way yourdog brought me to you.”

Thebastard’s smile got even bigger. “Neato, huh? Took a year to train him. Hehelps me get my kicks. My thrills.”

Myeyebrows climbed like I was scared. “No, man! I … I got a family. Wait, let meget my wallet. I got something in it you’ll like.”

Withmy left hand stretched in front of me as if to ward off a bullet, I slowlyreached behind me. But it wasn’t a wallet I whipped out. It was my trim little.25 semi-automatic. It barked twice, and two spots appeared in the middle ofthat fine suede jacket. Crap. It was ruined.

The kid’s mouth gaped. His eyes went round like hecouldn’t believe it. Then they went as dead as the rest of him. I went over toslip that ruby off his finger and check my marksmanship. Two heart shots. Hadto be with a little .25, else he’d be able to yank the trigger on that bigcannon.

Awhine drew my attention to the dog at my feet. Maybe I oughta take him along tolure suckers for me. I examined the tag on his collar. JUDAS. A hell of a namefor the little guy.

Iheard a strangled gasp and whirled. The kid stood with two cups of coffee inone hand and a big six-shooter in the other. No, that wasn’t right. The yokellay sprawled on the ground, still dead. But there he was, standing wild-eyed andpointing a revolver at me.

“Youkilled my brother to steal his dog?”

I raisedmy .25 … but I wasn’t fast enough.

*.*.*.*.

Win some, losesome. But to lose the big one?

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

A Nothing Gone to Nothing in No Time at All (A Guest Post)

 Markwildyr.com,Post #240

 

Image Courtesy of Dreamstime:

 

One of my Okie buddiesasked if he could put up two of his stories. Therefore, for the next two weeks,we���re having some of Donald T. Morgan���s works. The first one is a short storywith a long title: A Nothing Gone to Nothing in No Time at All. I asked himwhat that meant. He said to read the story. So here goes.

 

* * * *

A NOTHING GONE TO NOTHING IN NOTIME AT ALL

By Donald T. Morgan

 

He sprawled on a cheaptowel spread over warm sand. Cool sea breezes, lightly perfumed with the scentof hydrangeas, fought the heat of the sun to a standstill, making theatmosphere just about right. The wind dried the light sheen of sweat on hisbrow as soon as it popped out. But he stared out over the calm expanse of blue-greenwater, listened to the lap of wavelets against the shore, and felt ��� nothing.Despite the clean, clear air, he found it hard to breathe, gulping oxygenthrough his mouth like a beached bass.

Thirty-five and washedup. A piece of flotsam deposited on the beach by an errant wave. Driftwoodabraded bone-white and brittle by sea brine, stripped of blood and nerves.

Great job. Gone in aflash. ���Sorry, Cal, we���re having to cut back. This depression���s hit us hard.You���re young and a great programmer. I���m sure you���ll find something fast.���

Yeah, right.

���Sorry, Cal, you���reover-qualified for this little job we���ve got. But your resume���s solid. I���m sureyou���ll latch onto something more appropriate pretty soon.���

Translation: You���re tooold. Won���t fit into our corporate culture.

Fantastic marriage swampedby a sea of debt. ���I can���t take it anymore, Cal. A friend of mine in Iowa hasoffered me a job. It���s not much, but at least I can pay my bills.���

Yeah. Her bills. Whatabout the ones she���d run up when times were good? And that friend was arecently divorced old boyfriend. Howcould she? They���d been so involved, so wrapped up in one another ��� until hisjob disappeared.

At least she���d left him atwenty-five hundred square-foot brick with pool and exercise room. In ninemonths, that was gone, too. Sold to cover a delinquent mortgage. Car hadn���tlasted much longer than the house. And the banker had been a golfing buddy too.

His entire world inruins, he���d cashed in what few assets Marilee, the bank, and the mortgage househad left him and headed south. South to Florida, but that wasn���t south enough.So he caught a berth on a trawler probably engaged in smuggling drugs into���andwhatever was in short supply���out of the US. Somehow, he���d found himselfdeposited on a small, thinly populated island somewhere short of South Americabilled as a ���tropical paradise.���

He shook his head. Wherethe hell was he? Nowhere. With nothing but a few dollars in his pocket. Maybeif he sat in the sun long enough, he���d shrivel and die, a withered, forgottenmummy. A nothing gone to nowhere in no time at all.

He was about to close hiseyes and sink farther inside himself to maybe commence the dying process whenhe caught something at the edge of his vision. Someone walking. Someone with aninadequate bra and a sarong-like scrap tucked around her waist. Someone with along, graceful stride.

She subtly altered hersteps so she���d pass a little nearer. He took inventory as she approached. Darkskin. Mexican? Certainly Latin. Narrow waist. Broad hips. Barefoot. Long darkhair falling below her shoulders and bouncing as she walked. Big gold hoops intiny earlobes. Green eyes. He couldn���t see them yet, but he was willing to beton it.

Then she was close enoughto discern features. Broad nose, wide mouth, smooth brow. She glanced his way.And smiled.

Cal sat up straighter,hesitating only a moment before scrambling to his feet and starting after her.He���d do that mummification thing later.

 

*.*.*.*.

What can I say.Life does tend to go on despite our intentions.

 

By the way, Idon���t think I���ll do any ���simultaneous��� postings again. While Don Travis���sreadership held up during my Yip, Yap, and Yup three parter, mine dropped tozilch. Must mean we have mutual readers. And since I post twice a month whilehe posts weekly��� well, you know.

 

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Yip, Yap, and Yup (Part32 of a Story in 3 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com,Post #239

 

Image Courtesy of Freepik:

 

Well, today, comes the finalinstallment of our story… from Yup’s point of view. Hope the trip wasentertaining. 

* * * *

YIP,YAP, AND YUP

YUP

I don’t believe it. One of thetwo guys I shared the womb with has a problem with me. And I do mean a problem.Last week he picked a fight with me by talking trash about a girl I know helikes. Just because she picked me over him. Okay, so I do believe it. I justdon’t understand it.

We used to get along, allthree of us, like the triplets we were. Went everywhere together. Dideverything together. Buddies… buds… brothers. Now it’s me against Yip with Yepstanding in the middle trying to figure out which way to dodge. That fight Imentioned? It was a real fight. I merely defended myself at first, but when itwas clear he was out to hurt, I started slugging it out with him. Dunno whereit’d have ended if dad hadn’t stepped in.

Things went from bad to worselast semester when he got thrown off the basketball team for trying to provokea fight with me during a practice game. But worse went to worst last Fridaywhen the soccer coach threw him off the field for bad sportsmanship. Kepttrying to hurt me with the ball while I was playing goalie. I felt sorta badover that one because soccer is Yip’s game. Pretty good at it when he plays thegame instead of plays to hurt.

Tomorrow, I’m gonna try to seeif I can’t work things out with my brother. Families oughta hang together, not tearone another apart. Tonight, I just want a good night’s sleep, and in themorning, I’ll say whatever I have to to set things straight.

I tried to still my mind—youknow, rehearsing what I was gonna say tomorrow—but it wasn’t easy. I’d about enticedthe sandman through the bedroom door, when a “whomp” brought me wide awake.

The night outside my windowlit up like Christmas. It took me a minute to figure out something was on fire.I pulled open the curtain and found it was my car. I’d been low on gas, andthat sound I heard was the fumes in my tank going off. Now the back end wasburning away merrily.

I pulled on trousers and loafersand raced outside, but there wasn’t much I could do. Both my brothers showed upin the yard, and Dad wasn’t far behind, already on his cell to 911. The firetruck arrived first with the police not far behind.

The fire department wasefficient, the police… not so much. There’d been a couple of similar incidentson the other side of town, but nobody’d been busted for it. The cops decidedthe miscreants—their word—had moved to this neighborhood. But I knew better.All I had to do was look at Yip’s smug kisser, and I knew. Still, I couldn’taccuse my brother of arson, not even when he mouthed “how do you like themapples,” when nobody else was looking.

The car was a total loss.

“Don’t worry, insurance willtake care of it,” Yip said in a consoling tone of voice when we all went backin the house to try and get some sleep after all the responders left.

Yeah right. Whoever came outahead when dealing with an insurance company?

****

“Jerry, I can’t see youanymore.”

Cindy was the only personalive who called me Jerry. To the rest of the world, I was Yup. I sorta likedbeing Jerry, but I didn’t like what I was hearing. With my blood running coldin my veins, I put a hand to her cheek and forced her to look at me. Other kidsswirled around us as we stood in the school’s hallway.

“What are you saying? We getalong great. I… I love you, Cindy.”

She clasped my hand and pulledit away. “I have feelings for you too, but… but I can’t take the pressure. Ihate getting up in the morning anymore.”

“Why?”

“Yip calls me every day. Tellsme I’ve gotta break up with you.”

“You can’t let him tell youwhat to do.”

“I even told my folks, andthey called your folks, but it didn’t do any good. He quit for a day andstarted back up.”

“Tell your dad again.”

“It won’t do any good.”

“Call the police and tell themyou’re being harassed.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that!”

“You’d break up with me beforeyou’d go to the police?”

She was silent for a longmoment, head bowed, her long brown hair shielded her face, denying me theopportunity to study her big, brown eyes. Her eyes were her best feature.

“He… he said you were queer…uh, gay. That you went to Lincoln Haverson after our dates and… and….”

“And you believe him?” Idemanded in a harsher voice than I intended.

She glanced up, those fabulouseyes troubled. “I… I don’t know. We just need to cool it for a while.” Afterthose words, Cindy ran for the exit.

“I’ll take care of it!” Iyelled after her.

****

Yip was waiting for me when Igot home. He sat on the front porch with his beach bag between his feet. I knewit held his swimsuit, a brightly colored beach towel, and some sun lotion. ButI didn’t know what else was in there, and these days I suspected he was toting.Our dad was a gun rights activist, and saw that all three of us had a Ruger’spistol and a Winchester .30-.30 rifle.

“Hello,Yup, you don’t look happy,” he said with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“You son-of-a-bitch,what lies have you been telling Cindy?

“Cindy?”he asked with a smirk on his face, letting me know it wasn’t just Cindy he’d spreadhis filthy rumors to. “Just wondered why you and the town queer were so close,that’s all. Thought maybe she’d ask you and clear it up.”

“Lincolnand I are acquaintances, not friends.”

“Seem friendlyto me. But then, you’re a friendly guy.”

“I don’ttreat him like dirt, like the rest of the school does.”

Hespread his hands. “There you go. Friends. Does he give a good blowjob?”

“Iwouldn’t know,” I said. “But you probably do.”

Yip gavethat smile that made him so handsome and so infuriating all at the same time. “Matterof fact, I do. He gives a great one when a guy gets hard up. Gotta run. Meetingthe guys at the school pool.”

Hegrabbed his beach bag—which seemed awfully heavy to me—and brushed past me onthe way to his car. I sat on the porch for thirty minutes to think things over.Maybe I should go to Dad. In the past he’d just tut-tutted his way around aproblem between us, blamed everybody and done nothing.

Mom wasa little more effective, but I didn’t want to get her in the middle of this,especially if he was throwing the “queer” word around.

Thecops? Sibling rivalry. Plus, they tended to be unsympathetic to anyone labeledgay, true or not.

The coachesat school? Possibly, because they already knew how he acted toward me.

Aftersome more thought, something became clear. I needed to handle this on my own.Man up, Yup, man up. I went to my room for a moment before starting for the pool…hiking because I hadn’t been able to replace my car yet. That was okay, it wasn’ta long walk. It would give me time to get in the proper frame of mind for what Ihad to do.

Withthat thought, I wondered if anyone thought it strange I wore a windbreaker thistime of year. But I needed a jacket to conceal my Ruger.

*.*.*.*.

Looks like Yup’sgonna make some of those terrible, senseless headlines we’re all living withtoday. Surely, there’s another way.

 

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Yip, Yap, and Yup (Part 2 of a Story in 3 Parts)

Markwildyr.com,Post #238

Image Courtesy of Freepik:

 

Last time, we got started the story of aset of triplets, two identical, and one fraternal. Unfortunately, our threepeas are not resting comfortably in their pod. Part 1 gave us Yip’s take onthings. Today, we’ll get his identical’s viewpoint.

 

* * * *

YIP,YAP, AND YUP

YAP

I dunno what’s going on withYip and Yup these days. Seemed like everything was okay, and then Yip went offon a tear. I know identicals—IDs, I call us—are supposed to finish oneanother’s thoughts, but maybe if the thought processes involve the “three peasin a pod,” the magic doesn’t work.

All I know is, Yip’s turnednasty lately. Last night, when Yup suggested he and I go on a double date, Ithought my ID was gonna go gorilla on us. Made threats that didn’t even makesense. I know the thing with Cindy’s a thorn between them, but seems like I’mgetting to be one too. Don’t want any part of that. They’re both my brothers,and that’s the end of it. I’d give up my life for either of them. Notwillingly, you understand, but in a pinch. Aw, you know what I mean. We’reclose… or were.

Mae Lin takes up a lot of mytime these days. I never thought of girls as “delicate” until I caught sight ofMae Lin when she transferred in last year. She’s from one of those familiesthat came over after the Korean War way back in the 1950s. So she’s asAmericanized as any of us, but with a difference. She still managed to stay“delicate.”

Native-born American girls havetheir own delicious way about them, but I don’t believe delicate has any partin it. I didn’t say that right. Mae Lin’s native-born like all the rest ofthem, but she still has her ethnicity, I guess you could say.

Anyway, Mae and I finally didgo on a double date with Yup and Cindy. Had a good time at the movie, thesoda shop afterward, and a really good time parked out on the mesa after that.Almost—but not quite—made it to Nirvana that night. At any rate, when we pulledinto the driveway, Yip was waiting with a baseball bat. He whacked on Yup’s cara couple of times, and I really believe he was working up to applying it to ourbrother when Dad came outside to see what the ruckus was and put an end to itall.

Now I’m—along with Mom—knownas the family peacemaker, but there wasn’t a thing I could do to calm Yip down.He went to bed seething that night. Yup, up till then, was just puzzled overit, but he’s beginning to get his back up too.

I think that was the night Istarted to believe there was something more to it than just sibling rivalry…even sibling rivalry of the romantic kind. Triplets are supposed to be closerthan the three musketeers, right? All for one and one for all. And we were fora long time. When I tried to pick the puzzle apart, it became clear right offthe bat that Yip and I had no problem between us. Same goes for Yup and me. Ilove—and like—both my brothers equally, or as well as I can judge somethinglike that. You know how it is. One or the other of your bros does something totick you off and you momentarily move closer to the other, but the thinggenerally balances out. I’m beginning to wonder if this one will.

Can it be something as simpleas Yup doesn’t look exactly like Yip and I do? He used to, but as we’ve grownup, his features took their own path. Yip and I can still fool other peopleinto thinking we’re our brother—our ID brother. Everyone except family and MaeLin and Cindy, of course. But why would Yup looking different put Yip’s noseout of joint?

Then I had a thought thatjarred me right out of my sneakers. Maybe Yip’s jealous because Yup looks likehis own person, whereas Yip looks like… well, me. If he’s jealous of Yup, is heresentful of me because my kisser mirrors his own?

Yip almost got thrown off the soccerteam because every time Yup played goalie, my ID’d kick the ball straight athim, not even pretending to be trying for a score. We used to have great funplaying driveway basketball till Yip started playing dirty. He’d stomp on Yup’stoes, kick his shins, butt him into the brick wall. He put a dent in the garagedoor a week ago when he shoved—not butted—Yup into it.

Things are escalating, and,dammit, I don’t know what to do about it.

*.*.*.*.

It doesn’t lookas if Yip’s identical has things figured out, but it’s clear he’s worried. Let’ssee what Yup, the fraternal, has to say about the situation in our next post.

 

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Website and blog: markwildyr.com

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.