Mark Wildyr's Blog, page 6

Gabacho in Dallas, Part One of Two Parts

 Markwildyr.com, Post #218

 

 

Image Courtesy of dreamstime.com:

 

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

 

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

 

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

“Expecting someone?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Especially curly-haired blonds.”

“You aren’t exactly a blond.”

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

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

“So they tell me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” I said.

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

“He’s stood you up before?”

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

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

“Well, yeah, it is.”

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

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

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

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

“I was worried. Why didn’t you call?”

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

I saw the brush-off hit home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

 

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

 

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

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

Ides, a Strobaw Family Saga novel

 

Markwildyr.com, Post #217

 

Image Courtesy of dreamstime.com:

 Readers who have been with me a while are aware that I wrote a series of five novels I call the Strobaw Family Saga, beginning with the story of the patriarch of the family, a young American from a family of Tories fleeing New York to escape the prejudice of the victorious Continentals, William (Billy) Strobaw. His story was told in the novel CUT HAND, named for the young warrior who stole his heart and persuaded him to live among the natives.

 

The other books follow the lives of family members as the Europeans become ascendant, bringing with them a different attitude toward “Deviants” or “Two Spirits.” Once tolerated (and even honored) by some of the tribes, homosexuals find themselves becoming outsiders. The series follows this change in attitude.

 

There remains one story to be told, yet I’m having a great deal of trouble telling his story, something I did not confront when writing the other books. I want to relate the life and adventures of William Haleworthy, the son of Major Gideon Haleworthy and his Indian wife, Rachel Ann Strobaw, and the great grandson of Cut Hand, but—as I say—I’m having trouble. I think that is probably because the time frame is the early 20th Century, which is getting a little to close to home for me (whatever that means).

 

So… I thought I’d try out the Prologue I’ve come up with for a book entitled IDES. Here goes:

 

* * * * *

 

                                                                        IDES

 

Prologue

 

Thursday, May 11, 1905, Boston, Massachusetts

 

This had been a mistake.

The dark young man picked up a soup spoon and applied it properly to his bowl to an almost audible sigh of relief from five individuals seated with him at the dining room table. He glanced briefly at each through vivid blue eyes staring from an otherwise American Indian visage.

Grandmother Haleworthy, plump and soft and patrician, seemed most discomfited of all. She tended to fiddle with the silverware, her crystal goblet of iced water, her dangling ruby earrings, anything her stubby fingers could reach.

Grandfather was more stolid and circumspect, but his eyes and ears caught everything. Funny how his thick moustache resembled a graying caterpillar moving across his face with each chew he took.

Uncle Bertrand and Aunt Liliby—brother and sister, thank goodness… they’d make a horrible married couple—simply couldn’t keep their eyes off him. They were obviously fascinated and likely repulsed. He suspected a gorilla at their table plying flatware and speaking proper English would not have provoked more awe.

Cousin Dorian, seated opposite him was the only one brave enough—or perhaps rude enough—to eye him frankly with his thoughts hanging right on his face… what fun it was going to be to deal with this savage from the western frontier.

Once the young man discerned his hosts were more uncomfortable than he was, he mentally relaxed and internally conversed with his brother, even though Gabe had been dead for fourteen years, struck down by a rifle ball in the chest from land grabbers when he was but five years old. He smiled, also internally, as he contemplated telling that bizarre truth.

A sound like a rusty gate swinging open startled him until he realized it was Aunt Liliby asking Grandmother where she would lodge him for the night, bringing a look of near terror to the older woman’s face.

He thought of telling them he would just pitch a teepee out in the back yard but chose to be more discreet.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I won’t be able to overnight. I need to be somewhere downstate in the morning and will be on my way. I’m merely fulfilling a pledge to my father to pay a courtesy call to his… uh, our eastern family should I find myself in the Boston area.”

The mood at the dining table brightened. His grandmother leaned back in her chair and placed a hand to her bosom.

“And we’re so pleased you did, William. Please give Giddeon our love.”

Good Lord! How could his father, a good, bluff, army officer have come from this lot?

At that point, his cousin obviously decided on some mischief. “Pray tell, are you William Haleworthy or Ides Haleworthy? I’ve heard whispers of both names.”

He decided to play along. “Actually, Dorian, I have three names. Two formal, and one a nickname.”

His cousin perked up, perhaps sensing a verbal duel in the offing. “And what are they?”

He pushed away his plate and leaned back in the hair, an uncomfortable, ladderback affair. “One I should never tell you, but as you are close kin, I suppose it’s all right to reveal it.”

“Oh, good. A family secret. Do go on.”

“The name on my birth certificate is William Haleworthy.” He nodded to his grandfather, “In honor of you, sir.”

“Yes, yes. Go on,” Dorian urged.

“My Indian name is Istá To. It means Blue Eyes, in English.” He heard the intake of his grandmother’s breath.

“And?” Dorian prompted.

“And my uncle John dubbed me Ides the first time he laid eyes on me.”

“Ides?” his aunt asked. “Because of the date of your birth.”

“Yes, ma’am. March 15.” He dabbed his lips with a linen napkin. “Uncle John’s a student of the Bard, I guess you could say.”

“Is that right? And he’s an… a Native?” Dorian asked.

Ides was beginning to enjoy himself, he pushed on despite the cautioning whispers from his dead brother. “A breed, actually. Of course, John Strobaw is also a successful rancher in South Dakota, as well. Now, he has several names.”

“Is that so?” his grandfather asked with a wary note in his voice.

“Yes. Over the years, he was awarded different names by the tribe based on exploits or incidents in his life.”

Dorian’s eyes sparkled. “And are you free to reveal them.”

Mischief had gained the upper hand now. “I shouldn’t. But… well, as I say, you are family. His American name is John Jacobsen Strobaw. Jacobsen after his mother’s family name. His childhood Indian name was War Eagle. That was their… our way of saying Golden Eagle. Then he earned the name of Night Sky Hair. That was because he has streaks of his mother’s Scandinavian blond hair in his black mop. As he gained a reputation as a shaman, he became Medicine Hair.”

“Good heavens,” his grandmother exclaimed. “Is that all?”

Mischief was now a runaway. “No, ma’am. Most recently, he was awarded the name of American Killer.”

He was gratified by the rattle of silverware on bone china as his grandmother dropped her fork.

 

* * * *

Let me know what you think? I’m truly at sea at this point.

 

Wildyr Tales, an anthology of some of my stories, is now out in Ebook form with print book soon to follow. Hope you’ll check it out.

 

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

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

Josiah Utterbalm, Esquire

 Markwildyr.com, Post #216

Image Courtesy of freepik.com:

The story this week is one of the very few I’ve ever written from the omniscient viewpoint. In fact, I don’t ever recall doing one before and likely won’t ever do one again. For those who are not immersed in writer things, the omniscient view is just what it sounds like. The reader is aware of the thoughts, actions, and feelings of each character in the scene… simultaneously. As if the reader were… well, omniscient.

 

My favorite viewpoint is the first person, wherein the pronouns are I and me. Occasionally, I’ll write in the third person (pronouns he, him). In both of these, the reader should know only what the viewpoint person can see, hear, or intuit.

 

Why did I choose this unfamiliar (and unloved, at least on my part) viewpoint? Felt like it, that’s all. So here goes.

* * * * *

JOSIAH UTTERBALM, ESQUIRE

If one were to engage Josiah Utterbalm in conversation of any decent length, the phrase “men should be men, and women should be women” would likely be expressed one or more times. In fact, Josiah seemed to base his philosophy of life on that adage.

Josiah was a presentable man—some said comely—of around thirty or so years. An accountant, he was considered quite a catch—although an elusive one as he remained unmarried. He had, in fact. courted the reputation as a ladies’ man. And in his case, the plural form was correct. Most of the available unmarried women in his social set were quite happy to be seen in his company. According to some, the term “Esquire” was a form of disparagement awarded by a rival on a long-ago football field. Legend does not clarify whether it was uttered by foe or teammate.

Although beyond the age of sandlot baseball games and the such, he was quite often seen in his upscale neighborhood jogging shirtless in Speedo shorts, his torso lightly muscled, his buns tight, and his calves shapely. It didn’t take much imagination to see why stay-at-home wives peeked from behind lace curtains as he passed.

Strangely, gossip about his amorous exploits was sparing. The ladies exchanged stories about him, but there were few tales of scandalous consummations. Oh, there were plenty of whispers about passionate kisses—even some of the “French” type—and fevered pawing of the bosoms, but few descriptions of beddings.

Acquaintances of the masculine type abounded, but few seemed to be of a particularly close nature. Few seemed to be buddies—in terms of the times—and those who were tended to revolve, one mate growing close for a brief time, soon to be replaced by another… and so on. Although seemingly well-known in his circles, few fit the description of “boon companions.” Even so, be it on the tennis courts, the golf course, or the gym, everyone knew of his derision for deviants… ergo, his proclamation of “Men should be men, and….” Well, you know the rest.

One day, a stranger showed up in the gym, and Josiah, being of a curious and competitive nature, introduced himself.

“Josiah Utterbalm,” he said solemnly, extending a hand, quickly scanning the stranger as he did so. Younger than he was. Probably around twenty-five. Good muscles beneath his tight sweats. One of those men who was handsome-ugly, as Josiah described them. Meaning, of course, that their features were arranged differently, but the result was pleasing. In his experience, such men were attractive to women. “You new around here?”

“Tolliver Mann. Naw. New to the gym, but been in town for a year or so. How about you, Joe?”

“Josiah,” he corrected. “Most of my life.”

Josiah took the machine next to Tolliver, and the two watched one another surreptitiously as they worked weights. Each time one added pounds, the other did, as well.

Showoff, Josiah thought, although he said something different. “You handle that machine well.”

Supercilious jerk, Tolliver decided. “So do you.”

Despite that uncertain beginning, the two men grew toward one another, and before long, they were meeting on the handball court, for coffee, and, occasionally, for dinner. Tolliver amended his initial assessment of his new friend from supercilious jerk to simply supercilious. Josiah redefined his as demonstrative.

Things came to a crisis one day as they played driveway basketball at Josiah’s house. In a frenetic moment, they crashed into one another. To keep his balance, Josiah locked his arms around his friend and immediately experienced strange, unfamiliar thoughts racing through his mind. Shaken to his core, he found himself reluctant to let go. In the long moment they froze in one another’s arms, the older man felt his world tilt.

After they stepped apart, Josiah’s outrageous thoughts refused to go away. Nice. Felt good and safe in his embrace.

Tolliver’s reaction was quite different. Ugh, I got his sweat all over me.

The game went on, but at a more careful pace until it became desultory. Tolliver ended it, declaring he’d had enough. As they toweled excess sweat from their bodies, Josiah licked his lips uncertainly before speaking.

“You know, Tolliver, when we collided back there, I… I… well, I found it not at all unpleasing.”

I knew it! “What do you mean?” Tolliver played dumb.

“I’m not certain.” After struggling with himself for a second, Josiah blurted. “Dammit, man, have you ever considered—”

Toliver held up a hand, stopping him cold. “You know, Josiah, it’s always been my philosophy that a man should be a man and a woman should be a woman.

Before the afternoon was out, Tolliver was scrubbed from Josiah’s list of companions. Tolliver, for his part, couldn’t have been happier.

 

* * * *

I take two things from this story: A man—make that a person—can life a lifetime and find himself in a situation where he is willing to try something that was unthinkable before that moment and that particular situation arose. And it doesn’t always work out.

 

I am absolutely certain all who read this piece of flash fiction has experienced that sudden, unfamiliar pang whether they succumbed to it or not. And, of course, we’ve all experienced failure. Doesn’t mean you don’t stop trying.

 

Wildyr Tales, an anthology of some of my stories, is now out in Ebook form with print book soon to follow. Hope you’ll check it out.

 

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

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

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

Battleship Rock, A Repost

 Markwildyr.com, Post #215

 

Image Courtesy of commons.wikimedia.org:

 My post for March 5, 2020, was a piece of flash fiction I called “Battleship Rock.” Today, I’d like to repost the story. Why? I don’t know Maybe because it’s darker than my usual stories, and I feel dark today. Whatever the reason, here’s my picture of Battleship.

 

* * * * *

BATTLESHIP ROCK

Jase Kipple had no idea how much I hated him. Was I that good at hiding my feelings, or was he just oblivious to what was going on around him? Don’t think he liked me very much, but we both made the effort. Ours was a tight little clique, where everyone knew everyone else and everything there was to know about them. Except for one thing. I’d loved Jimmy Bradlee since we were both in mid-school and had even overcome his small-town prejudices against boys doing things with boys. The first time I got into his pants, he grew ashamed and resentful afterward, but within a week he’d come sniffing back, and I managed to go even farther down that wonderful road. He’d been shocked, but I soon had him moaning and groaning so much there was no way he could claim he didn’t like it.

And then came Jase. Good-looking, popular, hail-fellow-well-met Jase to screw up the works. At first, I thought they were getting it on and about went mad with jealousy. Then Jimmy started talking trash about what we’d done together and claimed it wasn’t right. If it wasn’t right, why had he enjoyed it so much? Hell, we even did it while he was protesting it wasn’t right. But things were definitely different. And not in a good way.

In order to find out what was going on, I had to make nice with Jase, and slowly managed to work my way into a threesome… not the kind of threesome I’d like to try out, but a buddy threesome, if you know what I mean. I had to pretend to like the son of a bitch. I must have played my part pretty well, because I got so comfortable I made a move on him—like I said Jase was a good-looking guy—and got shot down big time. I had to endure a lecture about how it wasn’t morally right, and how the world would come to an end if guys spent all their seed on other guys. Big deal, either you do it occasionally or you don’t.

Despite his promise not to blab, Jase must have said something to Jimmy, because my lover-boy shut me off all of a sudden. After that, I saw through a red haze every time I laid eyes on Jase-frigging-Kipple. But I had to play my part or get squeezed out completely. So I became a “chastened, reformed” sodomite.

****

I didn’t really have anything in mind when Jase, Jimmy, and me—and a couple of girls—set out in Jase’s Audi SUV for a day trip north to Battleship Rock. Soon after passing through the red-hued sandstone of Jemez Springs, a big volcanic escarpment hove into view on the right. Looming two hundred feet above the evergreen forest below, it looked just like the prow of a huge naval ship. After oohing and aahhing over the daunting site, we turned off State Highway 4 into a parking area where the San Antonio and East Fork of the Jemez Rivers meet. That’s not as impressive as it sounds, because you can practically jump over either one of the rivers and can almost do so after they merge.

The place was popular, so we had to search out an open picnic site. After staking our claim, we wandered around looking the place over and listening to the girls giggling… and me eyeing Jimmy’s and Jase’s trim backsides.

I think it was Jase’s idea to take the Forest Trail from the picnic area to the top of Battleship. I accepted his challenge, although Jimmy elected to stay with the girls who just wanted to wade around in the cold water of the merged rivers before setting up our picnic meal.

For a good part of the trail, we could walk side by side, but in some places, we had to go in tandem. Inevitably, I found myself watching the play of the muscles in his back and legs. Despite the fact that the trail was harder than expected, I was pretty charged up by the time we got to the top. The broad, relatively flat expanse was deserted—except for the two of us—so I naturally said what was on my mind.

He turned around and glared at me. “Chuck, how many times do I have to tell you I’m not interested in that sex stuff. I like girls.”

“So do I,” I said reasonably.

“Apparently not the same way I do. And you lay off Jimmy too, hear? Don’t go leading him astray.”

I fumed all the way to the edge of the precipice where we looked down on a green forest made imperfect by intrusive automobiles sparkling in the sun and human ants rushing around spaces made for bears and mountain lions and foxes, and….

“Astray,” I said. “What do you mean astray.”

“He let me know what you do together. But I’ve told him it isn’t right. He’s coming around.”

“Coming around?”

“I told him it’s evil… what you do. That you’re evil.”

“Me, evil. What does that mean?”

“It means, you won’t be having your way with him anymore. He understands you’re a bad influence on him. Before we get back home today, he’s going to let you know you’re not welcome in our group anymore.”

My vision blurred, I leaned against a snag that canted out into space. I dragged air into my lungs with difficulty. Two hundred feet below, my lover waited to tell me I was evil. That it was all over. That the beautiful things we did were history. I gasped audibly.

“What’s wrong?” Jase asked, stepping closer, a phony note of concern in his baritone.

“H-having trouble breathing,’ I said, recovering my footing and standing away from the dead tree.

“What’s the matter, climb too much for you?” There was no sympathy in the voice now, merely the condescension of a physically superior being to a weakling. The red haze haloing my vision intensified. I gathered my muscles.

“You need to rest before—”

I don’t think it was intentional. Just a reaction. I put a hand on his shoulder and shoved.

“Wha—” he yelped as he grabbed for my arm.

I snatched at him and managed to hang onto a wrist. The force of his fall slammed me against the snag. He dangled over the edge of Battleship Rock while I wondered if the rotting tree would support both of our weights.

“Help!” I bellowed. “Help me, I can’t hold him!” I felt the weight of a hundred pair of eyes fixed on me.

Jase began to swing, as if trying to find purchase on rocks that were out of his reach.

“Can’t… hang… on!” I shrieked at the top of my voice.

I stared down into Jase’s beautiful, panicked blue eyes for a long moment before I let go. He managed to cling to my wrist for a few more seconds before dropping into the void with a scream that lasted impossibly long before dying abruptly. Collecting myself both mentally and physically, I pushed myself away from the wind-smoothed wood of the snag and made my way on exhausted limbs back down the trail to the parking area where I was swamped by sympathizers proclaiming me a hero for risking my life while trying vainly to save my friend.

After a moment, I saw the trim figure of Jimmy Bradlee rushing toward me.

Damn, he looked sexy. And he had no idea how much farther down that evil road I planned to take him. Now that Jase was out of the way. Evil, indeed!

 

* * * *

The story uses the word “evil” several times. And, I suspect it’s appropriate. But was this murder, manslaughter, or what? Maybe some lawyers out there will tell us.

 

JMS Books has published my anthology of nineteen short stories under the title Wildyr Tales. Hope you’ll heck it out.

 

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

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

Gabacho in West Texas (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #213

 

Image Courtesy of Pinterest:

 

The last time, we left Gary Hawthorne, our itinerant cowpoke known as Gabacho, heading back home aboard Slick, his flea-bitten gray gelding. When we last saw him, he was so frustrated he was talking to his horse about his sex life. That’s getting pretty bad, isn’t it?

 

He’s vowed to stick to women after three tumbles with men that proved a little more interesting that they should have. Can he stick to his pledge?

 

* * * * *

GABACHO IN WEST TEXAS

Two days later things were getting so bad I was getting a hard-on just from rubbing against the saddle every time Slick took a step. Judging from the last road sign I’d seen, I was a good ten miles from the next little town. When I came across a brook rushing beneath a bridge, I took Slick downstream, looking for a good place to camp. It was only mid-afternoon, but I was going to have to do one of those hand-jobs or else I’d shoot off in my britches sooner or later.

Quarter of a mile downstream, I hauled Slick up short at the sound of singing. A pleasant baritone doing a pretty good job with Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” The guitar strumming was decent too. The voice got stronger as I went down the creek bed, and finally a figure sitting on a big rock at streamside came into view through the trees crowding the waterway. That’s the way you found water in this part of the state… following any line of vegetation taller’n a clump of grass.

The kid heard me coming, and even though he looked to be naked as a jaybird, he didn’t pay me any mind. Slick came to a voluntary halt a dozen feet from the guy, who kept on singing and strumming until he finished the song, a grin tugging at his lips all the while.

I took inventory while he wound down “Crazy.” Probably hadn’t seen his twentieth birthday yet, kinda rangy, curly hair the color of ripe hay in the sunlight and blue-green eyes that made me think of turquoise. The freckles across his nose saved him from being beautiful, rendering him merely cute. And I’d been right. He was naked, although the guitar covered his privates. My manhood took on another couple of inches.

He strummed the last note, and gave me a blinding smile. “Howdy. I’m Sol.”

“Gary,” I responded. “Although everybody calls me Gabacho.”

“Guess you could tag me that way too. It means a fair-skinned Anglo, doesn’t it?”

“Originally used to describe a Frenchman, I think. But now applies to about anybody not Mexican.”

Sol tried to look ashamed but didn’t pull it off. “Sorry for my condition, but I was skinny dipping and felt the need for a song.” He lifted a chin toward me. “I see you’re not too fond of clothes, either.”

I looked down at my bare chest not quite covered by a vest. “When the weather’s right, I never wear a shirt, but I like the vest to keep the sun off my back and shoulders.”

“Looks good on you.”

“Thanks. You live around here?”

He nodded back over his shoulder. “About a mile back that way. Live on a little spread with my folks.”

“How’d you get here?”

“Walked. Sometimes when I’m done with my chores or have a day off, I grab my guitar and walk up the creek. Hop down and rest a spell.”

Mindful of my vow, I declined. “Looking for a camp site for the night.”

“This is a good one, or there’s one about a tenth of a mile down the creek.”

I set my hat firmly on my head, thanked him, and gouged Slick’s sides. He gave an exaggerated grunt to let me know he didn’t like that and started downstream. Sol picked out a new tune and filled the clearing with his melodic voice.

The kid had been right. In a few minutes, I came across this spot where the grass looked as if it had been mowed and the lilacs and violets ringing the place looked like they’d been planted apurpose. The stream had broadened so it slowed a little, giving off only a muted murmur, perfect for sleeping. The trees gave enough shade, so the Texas sun didn’t have much sting. Perfect spot for me and my popup tent, enough grass for Slick’s needs, and good drinking water. Couldn’t ask for much more.

I unsaddled Slick and let him wander over to the creek to slake his thirst. Didn’t bother with the tent, just spread out the saddle blanket and parked my butt on it. I rested my head on the saddle, pulled my hat down over my eyes, and took a listen. Everything was like it oughta be. Birds chirping in the distance. A squirrel fussing at me from a tree until he gave up trying to drive me off. The sound of Slick tearing grass from the turf. The creek gurgling at me in soft, restful tones.

I was beginning to drowse until—dammit—I realized I didn’t hear the kid singing any longer. And that made me think of the kid. And that made me think of his fair flesh hiding all those muscles rolling underneath it. And that made me… horny. Course, in my starved condition, it didn’t take much.

I felt my old thing crawling around in my jeans and tried to ignore it, but I couldn’t. When it was really struggling against the denim trying to get out, I gave up on a nap. Might as well take care of business. That might even make the nap better.

The buttons on my fly gave way without much trouble, and I reached inside. The touch of flesh on flesh felt good. I closed my eyes tight and tried to imagine my horny old hand was a petite gal’s fist fondling my privates. I don’t even remember slipping my britches down, but when I peeped under my hat, they were around my knees, and the hand on my dong wasn’t some cute little gal’s, but my own. Took some of the feeling away, but I’d started and wasn’t in any mood to stop.

Then I heard a branch snap.

I snatched my hat from over my eyes and saw Sol standing at the tree line gawking. He had on his boots, but his clothes were thrown over his shoulder, and his guitar was strapped to his back. He was in the same sorta condition I was.

“You…you need some help with that?” he asked after swallowing a couple of times.

“Naw. I’m okay.”

“Man, you look ready for business. I’ll do a good job for you.”

Oh, what the hell!

“Sure, kid, come on over.”

 

* * * *

Well, once again, it looks as if need overcame intentions. Wonder how the kid was? Did Sol keep his promise to “do a good job for you?” If we meet Gabacho again in the future, maybe he’ll let us know.

 

JMS Books has contracted to publish an anthology of nineteen of my short stories under the title Wildyr Tales in April of this year.

 

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

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

Gabacho in West Texas (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #213

 

Image Courtesy of Pinterest:

 

Hope you enjoyed the Jude Manchild story. Got a few comments on it.

 

This week, we’re returning to Gabacho. You remember him? A vest wearing itinerant cowboy dubbed Gabacho south of the border. And the name stuck. Here we go with a new one.

 

* * * * *

GABACHO IN WEST TEXAS

Slick and me avoided the freeways—most blacktops, actually—which made for slow going over back roads. Slick’s my flea-bitten gray that’s hauled me from South Texas to Northern Mexico and across over into New Mexico on the way back to Huntsville, Texas. That’s where my family lives, although I was born in Roswell, New Mexico, a place I hadn’t even recognized when I rode through it a day or so ago. Didn’t see a single little green man or UFO on my way through.

Sometimes when I ride, I get contemplative. You know, think back over my life. And what was on the mind at the moment was my sex life. Although I’m always on the move, I have a pretty good one… sex life, that is. What was kicking around in my head at the moment was that the last three tumbles I’d had were with guys… men. What was going on here?

I’d always kept myself in shape, and the gals on this side of the border and the señoritas on the other side always told me I was decent looking. Cute. Handsome. Guapo, they’d said depending upon which side they hailed from. My take was that I was okay looking. I don’t remember the name of the first gal I tumbled… I was sixteen at the time… but I sure remember Carlos Salvador y Bachicha, the first guy I chose for a session in a line shack. Opted for him rather than his seriously sexy twin sister, Carla, as a lark. Turned out to be a hell of a lark.

That had been last year. Then as I made my way west in Mexico toward the Antelope Springs border crossing, I ran into another young hidalgo named Tomas on the Arrowhead Ranch. He knew Carlos, and my line shack lay had blabbed it all to him. He just walked up to me and fondled my basket before spreading his legs for me. Also kinda pleasant.

I’d made the crossing at Antelope Springs without trouble, although I was anticipating some. I originally swam the Rio Grande into Mexico because of a bar dust-up that had the law dogs on my tail. Wasn’t much, but I didn’t even want an overnight in the Bar Hotel, so I’d run. The fact I’d come back over without any trouble let me know it had been a local tango that didn’t matter much.

But that’s not the point. While resting for the night in Deming, I’d gone to a bar and met a Navajo blood named Billy John and wound up spending the night at his sheep camp. Hadn’t been looking for anything other than a place to lay my head, but sure found a lot more. This one was different, somehow. That guy drove me to the limit and wanted more. I walked on rubber legs the next morning. But what scared me was that it kinda tugged at my heartstrings to ride away from him. That was something new.

I slid my hat back on my head and spoke to my horse. “Yeah, Slick, that was scary. I still think of Billy more’n I oughta. Woulda been easy to hang around and help him with his flock. What do you think, boy?”

I halfway expected him to look over his shoulder and say, “Gabacho—” My name’s Gary Hawthorne, but everybody calls me Gabacho.—“ you got your problems, and I got mine. In case you ain’t noticed, I’m a gelding.”

He didn’t, of course, Hell, Slick didn’t even favor me with a snort. Did that mean he didn’t give a damn what I did, but he’d always gone for mares before… well you know.

“Slick,” I told him. “I ain’t no gelding. So I gotta get things back on track. Nothing but women for me from now on. Okay, boy?”

Apparently so, because he gave me a little snicker that time.

****

My bankroll was getting kinda low, so I paused in Carlsbad long enough to satisfy myself none of the local ranches were looking to hire, but I lucked into a job as a bartender at one of the watering holes between the Living Desert State Park and Happy Valley. The week I spent there did my pocketbook some good but didn’t help salt my bacon. There were plenty of gals around, but by the time I got off work, nobody was left but some two-o’clock girl who didn’t raise my interest. I wasn’t that desperate. Not yet, at any rate.

Slick got some needed rest. I boarded him at a livery stable and usually bedded down on some hay alongside him. Think he appreciated the company, but it wasn’t reciprocal. He wasn’t doing anything to settle my rising appetite. When a couple of guys at the bar started looking good to me, I figured it was time to head east. The following Sunday—my boodle considerably fattened by my wages and generous tips—I saddled Slick and started for Texas.

I lose track of the days when I’m on the road, but that doesn’t bother me. I’m not a guy mated with a calendar… or even a clock, for that matter. Each day comes, and each day goes. All the same to me. But it was several days later when I looked around and figured I’d crossed the line and was now in Texas. That sounded good until I realized I now had to cross virtually the entire damned state. That’s like crossing a whole country in most places. Oh well, like I say, one day after the other.

My money was holding out well—doesn’t take much traveling the way I do and laying my head on the saddle every night while Slick dozes and munches off the grass all night long. No, money wasn’t a problem… my itch was. Got so bad that I took care of it myself one night. But all that does is relieve the pressure. Doesn’t do a thing to take care of the itch.

So the next town I came to, a little one-traffic light dump that woulda been called a village across the border, I determined to find me a real-life partner. Wouldn’t you know it? The first person I came on was this trim, cute cowboy loading bales of hay into a pickup. From the glances he tossed my way as Slick and I passed, he was either interested or checking out potential competition. I gritted my teeth and rode on.

A little diner I tried had good fare and a cute waitress. I flirted a little, and she flirted a lot. But that ended when the cook—who turned out to be her husband—came out of the kitchen and plopped down on a stool at the counter to keep an eye on her. I cleaned up my blue plate special and cleared out. Figuring this dump was deader’n my sex life, I took to Slick’s back and rode on.

 

* * * *

Doesn’t seem like a guy as good-looking as Gabacho oughta be hard up, but I guess he is. With his vow to stick to women from now on, he’s cut his options in half. And it looks like he’s already passed up one possibility with the cute cowboy loading hay bales into his pickup. So let’s see how desperate he gets.

 

JMS Books has contracted to publish an anthology of nineteen of my short stories under the title Wildyr Tales in April of this year.

 

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

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

Jude Manchild (Part 3 of 3 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #212

 

Image Courtesy of Dreamstime.com:

 Well, is Jude happy or in over his head. He’s clearly the junior member of this duo. So is he satisfied with the relationship? Let’s see.

* * * * *

JUDE MANCHILD

That phone call had been an hour ago, and the sympathetic side of me was beginning to fret while the cautious side relaxed a little. Bart just lived across town, no more than twenty minutes away. Ten, if he gunned his cycle. After a couple more hours, I tried calling him, but got no answer. So I started hiking to his house, expecting, hoping to see him coming toward me down the street. I reached his house. No one answered the door.

My “wanting” side clearly in ascendancy now, I headed downtown to see if I could locate his bike. No such luck. Maybe I should go back home and find him impatiently waiting to give me hell for not obeying his instructions.

On the way, I ran into a neighbor kid a year or so younger’n me, and I could tell he was busting to tell me some news.

“Hi, Fred, what’s up?” I asked.

“Did you hear about Bart?”

I hoped my startled reaction didn’t give me away. “No, what about him?”

“Got creamed by a car on Hobart Street.”

“Is he okay?”

“Hauled him away to the hospital. Broken leg or something.”

I thanked him and headed straight for the town’s only hospital. It took forever to find out he’d already been sent home. So I hiked back to his house and saw Mrs. Jewelson’s car in the driveway. She answered my knock and told me Bart was in his bedroom.

“You can go in for a few minutes, Jude but he needs to rest. He got knocked around quite a bit. Lucky it’s just his leg.”

I walked into his room and came to a dead stop. Old Bart looked like hell hit with a club. I always though “white as a sheet” was a cliché, but, man, was he white. And his right leg was encased in the biggest, heaviest-looking cast I’d ever seen. He sure as hell didn’t look like the swaggering semi-bully I knew. In fact, he looked vulnerable.

“Hi, Bart, looks like you’ve seen better days.”

He tried to muster a smile, but it didn’t work. “Yeah, thanks to old lady Tillotson. She just turned the corner and plowed right into me. My bike’s totaled. It’s gone, man.”

“Her insurance company will buy you a new one,” I said, drawing upon my deep inexperience with such matters.

Bart brightened. “Hey, yeah. Maybe I can get a brand new one.”

“Maybe. Uh, I waited like you asked me to.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t make it.”

“Just wanted you to know.”

I only stayed about fifteen minutes, but it was enough to give me a different viewpoint on life. At least life with Bart Jewelson in it. As I tripped down the steps, his mom called to me and asked if I could come check on Bart around noon. I knew she worked at a lawyer’s office downtown and figured she needed to get back to work.

“Yes, ma’am. About ten be okay?”

“That’ll be fine, Jude. Maybe spend a little time with him. He’s going to get bored out of his skull before he’s getting out and about.”

“Be happy to.”

****

As soon as the Jewelson’s screen door banged behind me the next morning, I could see Bart was feeling better. Frustration at being tied down in a recliner in the living room clearly stamped his features. Geez, and this was only day two.

“Hi, kid,” he drawled, seeking to set things back the way they were. But that was behind us now, even though he didn’t know it yet.

“Thought you might need some relief,” said, walking over to his chair.

“Always, he said. “But I’m a little inhibited right now.”

“Leave that to me,” I said. “Your mom’s at work, right?” I hadn’t seen her car in the driveway, but a guy can’t be too careful.

“Yeah.”

Giving him a grin, I opened his robe and took a gander. He didn’t have anything on under it, so I had free access, except for that clunky cast on his right leg. It wasn’t a walking cast, so he was more or less confined to bed or a chair or hopping around on crutches.

Bart was pretty well built, not just in the manhood department, so I took my time touching and tasting things we hadn’t taken the time to explore before. He put up with it for a while and then started complaining I oughta get down to what counted.

“In a minute. What’s the hurry?”

He tried for his usual snarl, but it didn’t work. “What’s the hurry? You got my nuts to aching, that’s the hurry.”

“Patience” I said and returned to sucking on his nipples. But then I had mercy on him and went to work in a serious way. Before long, he delivered. And delivered. Afterward, I leaned over his chair and looked him in the eye. “Bart, how do you think of me?

“Wha’dya mean?”

“Just what I said. How do you think of me?”

“You’re my old lady.”

I shook my head slowly. “No, I’m not. I’m your lover.”

That thought shook him. “It ain’t that way. I just take my relief. Love ain’t got nothing to do with it.”

I knew I had him shook up because he was tearing up the rules of conversational English more than usual. I squatted on my heels beside him and stroked his forearm. “Think about that a little harder,” I said. “And when you figure it out, give me a call.”

“Like hell. You show up here tomorrow. Eleven o’clock. And right now, go fix me a ham sandwich.”

I stood. “I’m really fond of you, Bart. Might even say I love you if you wouldn’t have a conniption fit. Give me a call.”

I did the hardest thing I’d ever done. Walked out on the only guy who gave me a little action. But it was deeper than that. He was the guy I’d come to love. But the relationship was lopsided and needed fixing.

****

He didn’t call until the next afternoon.

“Where the hell are you?” he asked.

“Home.”

“Well, get your ass over here.”

“Can’t right now.”

“Why not?”

“Just can’t.” And I hung up.

He didn’t call the next day, but when my cell burbled the following day, it announced his call. “Hello.”

“Man, you know what’s good for you, you’ll be here in five minutes.”

“Why?”

“I wanna shag your ass.”

“You couldn’t even if I came over.”

“I’ll figure out a way.”

“Not one that’s comfortable for me you won’t.”

“Hey, man, I need company. Come on over, we can just jaw, if you want.”

“I dunno.”

“Jude, I been good to you, time to pay back the favor.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. “You’ve been good to me? How?”

Bart dropped his voice to a near-whisper. “I give you want you want, man. You know that.”

“You mean you take what youwant, don’t you?”

“Come on, you like it.”

“Yeah, I guess I do. But what I don’t like is that I do all the giving, and you do all he taking.”

“What’re you saying? I get you off, don’t I?”

“Bart, when’s the last time you jacked off?”

“I dunno. A while, now.”

“Kid stuff, right?”

Bart paused like he knew trap bait when he heard it. “Yeah.”

“So how come I get the kid stuff while you get the grown-up stuff?”

“Because I ain’t queer, kid.”

“Didn’t know I was until you raped me in that garage out in the middle of nowhere last year.”

His voice went high. “Raped you?” He settled down. “You ate it up, man, and you know it.”

“Not at first. But you went on and took what you wanted.”

The line went dead for a moment. “What… what you want?”

“I want you to do for me what I do for you.”

The snarl came back in his voice. “Nobody’s gonna fuck my ass.”

“That’s not what I want.”

“You mean… blow you?”

“That would be great, guy,” I said. “Tit for tat, and you get the added bonus of laying it to me.”

Silence again. Then. “Don’t our friendship mean anything?”

“Means a lot. And I give mine right back. But when you want friendship with privileges, as they say, I oughta get some privileges back.”

“You’re being a son-of-a-bitch, Manchild.”

“But a friendly one. So what do you want me to do?”

His sigh held frustration, but there was no anger in it. And when he spoke, I heard resignation.

“Come on over.”

I scooted my tail right down the street and arrived at his house in record time. After a little more resistance, Bart accepted that I was serious, and that afternoon turned into something memorable. Something indelibly etched into my brain. For the first time, it seemed more like a love session than a fuck session.

 

* * * *

Guess Jude turned the tables and became an equal partner. Wouldn’t it be great if all of us could work out a relationship that easily? Let me know what you think.

Please friend this site. Apparently, that matters in the internet world.

 

JMS Books has contracted to publish an anthology of nineteen of my short stories under the title Wildyr Tales in April of this year.

 

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

Mark

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

Jude Manchild (Part 2 of 3 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #211

 

Image Courtesy of Dreamstime.com:

 

Seems like Jude’s got himself in a predicament. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s the fulfillment of his as yet uncertain dreams. So let’s see what happens now.

 

* * * * *

JUDE MANCHILD

My battle with myself resurfaced as I stood holding the mobile phone in my hand and reliving what had happened next. Bart had pulled me into his arms and astonished me with a kiss. In my wildest imagination, I hadn’t expected that. Actually, I don’t know what I’d expected… hoped for. Being able to touch him was as far as my mind had dared go.

But he knew what he wanted and took it. I’d been kissed before, not often, but on occasion by some girl flirting around. And I’d always wondered afterward what the big deal was. Bart showed me! And how. Wow, I felt that kiss right down in my scrotum. I know it’s a cliché, but dammit, my knees almost did fail me. Might have, if his arms hadn’t been around me, the length of his hard, rangy body wedded to mine.

The kiss ended with him staring directly into my eyes. Man, his eyes were greener than I thought. Green like the shallow ocean around one of the Florida Keys on a summer vacation with my folks.

“Not bad,” he mumbled in a husky voice. “Not bad at all.” He came back for more, and he did have to hold me up this time. He released me so suddenly, I almost fell on my butt. I started to ask what I’d done wrong, holding my tongue when I saw him pulling a blanket out of one of the bike’s saddlebags. Man, the two sides of my nature really went to battle with one another as he spread it on the garage floor. One side—maybe the dominant one—said finally! The other one said whoa, wait a minute. What’s going to happen?

Didn’t take long to find out. He stripped off his shirt, thrilling one side and terrifying the other. Apparently, my hands had a mind of their own, because both of them went straight for his chest, each tweaking a brown nipple. He allowed me my way for a moment, before tackling his jeans. I almost went to the floor with the denim. His jockeys, a sort of lime green color, looked as if they were going to split at the seams. I didn’t give him time to tackle them, just reached out and jerked them down. And… and… and wow!

I’m not sure if my legs gave way, or I went to my knees in order to get a better view, but Bart took it as an invitation. He walked straight into my face. Wasn’t anything to do but open my mouth. Despite what Bart and some others in town thought, this was the first time I’d ever done something like this. It had always seemed repulsive, but there was nothing repulsive about what I did for Bart Jewelson. I took him eagerly—although that other side of me warned of danger. Not only was I giving him pleasure, at least judging from his groans, but I was also free to feel around wherever I wanted. My hands explored his flanks, his buttocks, his sac, and even that secret place behind his testicles.

“That’s right, bitch!” he muttered. “Take it. Knew you’d be good. I… uhm, do that again. Take me, Jude, take me!”

He thrust his hips forward, about making me gag. I got things under control and went back to doing my best for him. And then  his knees gave way, dumping him on the blanket in front of me. Of course, I lost contact and watched amazed as his eyes rolled up in his head while he spurted semen all over himself and me. Still in the throes of a massive ejaculation he leaned forward and tumbled me backward, his naked body atop mine, hunching against me and further soiling my clothes.

His full weight still on me—I felt his heartbeat thundering against my chest—he ground his groin against me, emptying himself. His warm semen soaked through my shirt and touched my skin, raising a lust in me I’d not experienced before. That second side of me, the cautious one, fled as I began to thrust upward with my hips.

“Gettin’ with… the program?” he wheezed. “Well, let’s just see.” He came up off me and ripped open my trousers, exposing an erection superior to anything I’d ever achieved. He laughed. “By golly, you do have one, don’t you? You’re not a little girl.”

Before I could beg him to do it, he grasped me in his hand. I thought I was going to pop the cork then, but I managed to wait until he’d stroked me a dozen times. Then I sprayed like a fountain. I expected him to jerk back, but he fooled me. She stayed with me until I was through my orgasm, seemingly unconcerned about my sperm creaming his hand.

“How was it kid? You know, having a man get you off like that?”

“Fan…tastic,” I wheezed. “How was…?”

“Great. Best blowjob I’ve ever had.”

I wanted to ask how many that was but wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer. I’d rather imagine I was his first. Unlikely, but that’s the way I felt.

He lay down beside me, his head using my arm for a pillow. That surprised me once again. I figured he’d cover himself up, fire up the bike, and we’d head back to town where he’d throw me off and never speak to me again. Or maybe he’d abandon me out here in somebody’s deserted garage… and never speak to me again.

It was strangely companionable, him lying beside me like that, and I wouldn’t have minded if it lasted all day. After a while, I thought maybe he’d gone to sleep, but eventually, he came up on his elbow and swept my genitals with his gaze.

“Strip, kid.”

Geez, hadn’t he had enough? Apparently not, because as I did as he asked, he worried his boots off and stripped his bunched trousers free. Man, he looked hot. I started getting aroused again. But all that came to a halt when he pulled something from the pocket of his jeans and tossed it on my chest.

“Put it on me,” he said, his usual rough tone back.

I grabbed the condom and yelled, “Whoa, guy.”

He got between my knees. “Like hell, whoa. You gonna be my bitch or not?”

My eyes felt as big as golf balls as I nodded.

“Then put it on me.”

I was so fumble-fingered he lost patience and ripped the package open and handed the lubricated rubber to me. Obediently, I rolled it over his now turgid cock, the cautious side of me screaming “Danger! Danger! Frigging danger! Nonetheless, I didn’t have the power to resist when he got between my legs.

That came when he lifted my knees. I straightened my legs, raising my butt out of reach. “L…Let’s think about this for a minute.”

“What’s to think? I want that pretty ass of yours, Jude.” He abruptly lowered my legs, and my buttocks rested against his throbbing tool. “So either you get up and get dressed right now, or I’m gonna have it.”

My mouth went dry. I lost the ability to communicate, to protest. Acutely aware of what pressed against my buns, I ignored my cautious side and timidly lifted my legs. The pain was incredible at first, but eventually it surrendered to other, stronger sensations, as Bart ruthlessly went about getting what he wanted.

 

* * * *

Looks to me like Jude got more than he bargained for. Will that put him on or put him off trending gay? Any guesses before we see the conclusion next week?

 

Please friend this site. Apparently, that matters in the internet world.

 

JMS Books has contracted to publish an anthology of nineteen of my short stories under the title Wildyr Tales in April of this year.

 

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

 

Mark

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

Jude Manchild (Part 1 of 3 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #210

 

Image Courtesy of Dreamstime.com:

 

Got some comments on Don Morgan’s “Spirit Wolf” short story guest blog last week. Thanks, Don, for helping out.

 

And here’s another of my Wildyr short stories for this week. Let’ meet Jude Manchild.

                                      * * * * *

                           JUDE MANCHILD

I closed the cellphone and stood shivering. I’d have made a pretty good aspen in a windstorm right then. The call had been short, just five words. “I’m coming over. Be there.”

An aspen leaf has two sides, right, one pale and the other a darker green. When the wind blows, those leaves twist this way and that, revealing all to the onlooker. That pretty well described me. My reaction to Bart Jewelson’s instructions stroked both sides of my personality. My name, which is Jude Manchild, both identifies me and reveals my weakness. The Jude part is okay, it’s macho enough for anybody. But Manchild? That’s a contradiction in terms. And I’m a contradiction in today’s world, as well. I don’t know if Bart was the first to discern it or not, but he was the first to act on it. It had been a year ago that he caught me hiking from a buddy’s house back home and stopped to offer a ride on his cycle.

As soon as I threw a leg over the long seat that accommodated both rider and passenger, he gunned the motor revealing the power of the machine and that of his muscular thighs my inner legs caressed. Without asking, he took an abrupt U-turn.

“Hey!” I yelled. “My house is back the other way.”

He threw his response over his left shoulder. “We’re not going to your house.”

“Where?” I squealed.

He didn’t bother to answer, merely raced out of town at a speed that raised the hair on my arms. Still without uttering a word, Bart took a quick—and to my mind—reckless turn down a little used, overgrown road. In my uncertainty—no, let’s be honest—fear, I grasped his trim torso more firmly, which brought my crotch up against the rear of his jeans.

After another quarter of a mile of bouncing over ruts and dodging saplings growing in the middle of the road, I saw our probable destination: a fall-down, ramshackle building of split, weather-beaten planks that probably once served as a garage for someone’s truck or tractor.

“Go open the doors,” he ordered. “And close them after us.”

In the nanosecond before I moved to obey his instructions, I thought of racing back down that rough road. Nah, he’d catch me before I got a hundred yards. Across one of the fallow fields that surrounded us? He could probably ride through those too.

Anyway, part of me didn’t want to escape. Part of me went giddy at the thought of spending some alone time with the baddest boy in town. The handsomest baddest boy in town. I’d known Bart—two years older’n me—all my life. He wasn’t really an outlaw biker, he just had the hog and the leather jacket with a hunting hawk emblazoned on the back. Still, he was always the one to take the risk or dare or opportunity, especially if it involved a little danger. And in all those years, he’d never paid me the slightest bit of attention. So what was he up to now? But he silenced all my questions with a raised hand.

Bart dismounted and lowered the bike’s stand. Then he sat sidewise on the saddle, legs wide, looking every inch the tragic Hollywood thug who would doubtlessly redeem himself by the end of the film. He swiped his chin in an off-hand, masculine way.

“You’re my bitch now, Manchild. Whoever you’re doing it with, quit it. You don’t do it with nobody but me until I tell you different, hear?” Apparently, I waited too long to respond. He stood, legs spread. “You got that, kid?”

“It was all too fast for me. “Got what? Quit doing what with whom?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. Quit fooling around… fucking.”

A wave of pimples patterned my back and rolled down to grab hold of my buttocks. “I don’t—”

“Don’t waste your breath, kid. You’re pretty as a girl. Prettier’n most.”

“Look, just ’cause my name’s Manchild, doesn’t mean—”

“Manchild. That describes you perfectly. Got a kid’s face, but enough definition to know you got a man’s package too.”

“What makes you think—”

I don’t think, I know. I’ve seen you look at me. Always watching me. And I’ve seen where your gaze always ends up.” He grasped his fly and shook it.

I felt my cheeks burn. “I… I don’t—”

“Stop stalling and come over here.”

So help me, I tried to get my feet to behave, but they scooted me right over to him.

And there it was, the two sides of my nature: scandalized by this dangerous, hunky guy, but at the same time drawn to him. What would happen if I went along with him… at least part of the way? As soon as he put his hand to the back of my neck and pulled me to him, I knew I was lost.

 

* * * *

Looks like Jude’s got himself in a situation, doesn’t it? What will he do about it? Let’s see next week.

Please friend this site. Apparently, that matters in the internet world.

JMS Books has contracted to publish an anthology of nineteen of my short stories under the title Wildyr Tales in April of this year.

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

 

Mark

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

Spirit Wolf – A Guest Blog by Donald T. Morgan

Markwildyr.com, Post #209

Image Courtesy of Unsplash:

This week, we have a guest post from my fellow Oklahoman, Donald T. Morgan, the author of the novel The Eagle’s Claw. I didn’t even know Don wrote short stories until we were talking one day. The following is the result. Enjoy.

 

      * * * * *

SPIRIT WOLF

By Donald T. Morgan

The big wolf slipping through the trees a hundred feet to my right unsettled me. I wasn’t worried about the beast, but he spooked my horse. A wolf’s howl – real or dreamt – punctuating the same dream three nights in a row had started me on this trip. I considered shooting the thing, but Ma’am’s got Ojibway blood, and she looked on wolves as medicine animals.

My sir had wanted me to wait until after planting before taking off for Waususa ten miles to the west. And I’d agreed, until those vague, formless dreams about Tillie, each punctuated by the call of a wolf, riled me up.

Matilda Thorgensen was my best friend until her widowed pa pulled up stakes for Waususa. The day she left a year ago this coming April had been magical. We’d snuck off to say goodbye, and until casting eyes on her exposed bosom, I hadn’t known I lusted after her. I entered that pine grove an eighteen-year-old boy and left it a man. Then, after that magnificent awakening, she was gone.

Other than claiming I was mopey and likely needed a tonic, Sir was blind to my discovery. Ma’am saw right through me. She might even suspect I’d had a taste of the carnal.

So I set off for Waususa before a proper spring arrived. Heavy, dark clouds pressed the sky down on me. The air smelled like rain. Trees struggling to bud dripped water. Mushy ground made the going slow. Old Red, our riding horse, splashed through springs and brooks—all running high from snow melt—without any trouble, but Beaver Creek looked more like a river. With my heart down in my boots, I stared at the tumbling water. I’d have to turn back.

Suddenly, Red jumped sideways, almost dumping me. I got him under control and saw the timber wolf had snuck up on us. I made threatening noises, but he kept coming. So I let the horse retreat down the bank.

The lobo halted in his tracks when I came to a spot where the creek fractured into three shallow branches the horse could wade without dumping us both. Fifty yards on down the trail, I saw the wolf was still with me.

I started looking for Tillie as soon as I reached Waususa late that afternoon. People mostly avoided me, but someone finally steered me to a burned down house. Neighbors turned shy, so I ended up on Main Street in front of the Silver Spur. The saloon was too wild and noisy, but that’s where the people were, except for God-fearing folk home having supper. I went to every table in the honky-tonk asking about Tillie and her pa without learning nothing.

Just as I gave up, I came up on a woman like I’d never seen before but heard about all my life. Little bitty skirt. Bare legs showing through black stockings made like a fishnet. I’d never seen a woman’s legs before, except for Tillie’s that one time. Naked shoulders. Bad women, my ma’am called them without explaining. But I knew. They drank whiskey with men and did other things with them too. Remembering I’d done that same act with Tillie last spring put a blush on my face.

She rested a small hand with fingernails painted bright red on a sprung hip. “Hello, handsome. Buy a lady a drink?”

“Excuse me, ma’am, but I don’t have no money.”

“I hear you asking after Tillie Thorgensen?”

It felt like I turned redder. “Yes‘um.”

“Your name ain’t Luke, is it?”

I glanced up. Her eyes were blue. Like Tillie’s. “Yes‘um. Luke Streller.”

“Tell you what, Luke. You mosey on out the door over there and meet me round back.”

“Ummm, like I said, ma’am, I don’t have no money—”

I’d heard about bawdy laughs but didn’t know what they were. I figured I was hearing one right now.

“Honey, I might take a cutie like you on for free, but that ain’t it. Go on now.”

My face musta matched her fingernails as I scooted for the door. But as I walked the shadows between the saloon and the building next door, I went squirrelly. What if she set one of the big bouncers on me? The alley at the rear of the saloon was even darker. I paused and wrestled with my doubts.

“Luke!”

I made her out beneath a stairway leading up to the second floor. A lace shawl covered her shoulders. That red dress splashed with shiny spangles looked black in the night. The alleyway smelled like cat piss as I approached her.

“Tillie talked about you. That’s how I knew it was you,” she said.

“Where is she? Her house is all burned down. What happened?”

“They think Old Man Thurgensen fell asleep while he was smoking one of his cigars. He’d been drinking a lot ever since the baby came.”

I thought she’d hit me in the head with a club. I got swoony. “Baby? What baby?”

“Your baby.”

“My baby?” my mouth asked without any help from me. Hell, we’d only done it once. A fellow couldn’t make a baby on the first try, could he?

“A little boy. She named him Lucas, after you.”

“Where are they?” My voice sounded like I was at the bottom of a well.

“Oh, honey, Tillie and her daddy died in the fire.”

She might as well have slugged me in the belly. My legs went wobbly. I think I woulda fallen over if she hadn’t reached out and grabbed my arm. Some sort of God-awful sound came outa me.

“Why wouldn’t nobody tell me?” I managed to ask.

“The whole town treated them awful. You know, her without no husband, and all. But the baby’s alive. Tillie threw him out a little window at the back, but she couldn’t get through it herself.”

“Where… where is he?”

She led me down the dark, rank alley to the back door of a small house. She knocked once and entered with me right behind her. A fleshy black woman with short, graying hair rose from a chair with a small bundle in her arms.

“Mazie, this here’s Luke. Big Luke.”

“Yes’um, Miss Lupe. Pleased to meet you, sir.”

“Is that….”

“That’s Little Luke. Your son,” Lupe said.

I don’t remember reaching for him, but somehow, he was in my arms staring up at me through Tillie’s eyes. He was littler than I thought a human could ever be. When I pulled him up for a closer look, his tiny fist grabbed my lower lip… and yanked my heart right out of my chest.

As I set out for home with Little Luke in my arms, I was a believer. Wolves were medicine animals … at least this one was. And somehow, I had to let him see I’d got his message.

I ought not have worried. I hadn’t gone a mile before I saw a gray shadow in the tree line. A little later, a long, lonesome howl sent shivers up my spine, but Little Luke just snuggled deeper in my arms.

* * * *

Hope you liked Donald’s short story. I enjoyed reading it. Let me know how you liked it so I can pass it on to him.

 

Thanks, Don. Appreciate the help.

 

Please friend this site. Apparently, that matters in the internet world.

 

All of the Mark Wildyr books are now available in print for from JMS Books. Hope you’ll buy one… or two… or….

 

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

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

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

See you later.

Mark

 

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