Thursday, October 21, 2021

Petey, Part 2 of a Story in 3 Parts blog post #520

 Image Courtesy of Twitter

According to Facebook and email comments, readers like Petey and are anxious to see where his story leads.

So let’s see what happens next.




           I kept my mouth shut about the second note. Marco wasn’t exactly making fun of me, but it was close. Another week went by before I got up the nerve to check the stall again. I wished I hadn’t. Right below the second message, my unknown “admirer”—or should that be “stalker?—had written a new note.

Can I take your silence as acquiescence? Man, I hope so. I can hardly wait! Do you think you can talk your marvy roommate into joining us? He’s an Okie, isn’t he? Real exotic looking. Must have some Native American blood.

Okay, that was it! No mistaking what “Petey” the creep was talking about now. It was me. And now Marco. I grinned as I took a photo of the scribbling with my iPhone before scratching through the inked letters. Now we’ll see if Marco still thinks it’s funny.

He did… apparently. “Wow! Somebody thinks I’m on a par with you! ‘Marvy,’ he says. That’s quite a compliment. And, of course, I have to agree. I am sorta marvy.”

“Is that ‘marvy’ with Native American blood, or ‘marvy’ without?”

Quarter Miami,” he said.

“Miami? You mean a quarter of you is from Florida?”

“No, I mean a quarter of me is Miami. Don’t you know nothing about us redskins? Miami’s a tribe up in the northeast corner of the state.”

“No shit?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“Damn, now when somebody says they’re from Miami, I’ll have to quiz them if they mean Florida or the tribe.”

“Nah. You’re from a state, but you are a tribe. I’m from Miami is one thing, and I’m Miami is something different.”

I shook my head. “Enough of the bullshit. Back to the stalker. Doesn’t what he said bother you?”

He shook his head back at me. “You the primary, I’m just secondary.”

“How do you know he won’t decide you’re hunkier than I am?”

“Well, if he had any sense, he’d have started out that way. But obviously, he’s mentally defective and fixating on you. I feel safe.”

“You’re so full of baloney. I think I’ll transfer to A&M and make you the prime target.”

Marco laughed. “Most likely, he’d just follow you.”


A few days later came the corker. I avoided the SUB men’s room whenever possible, but sometimes nature demands attention. I no sooner closed the stall door than I spotted the latest message.

Wow, got an eyeful of Petey at the urinals. He’s impressive and—can you believe it—uncircumcised. Don’t see many like that these days.

I’m pretty sure I raised quite a racket scratching through that one because when I went to the sinks to wash my hands, a couple of guys gave me odd looks. As I went upstairs, seemed like everyone in the joint was watching me. Weren’t, of course, but felt like it.

I didn’t tell Marco about the latest message, but it didn’t matter. That evening, he gave me a lopsided grin and said he’d heard I’d been “outed.”

“How’d you know?” I snapped. “And I haven’t been outed.”

“Exposed. Would that be better? George saw it and told me.” George Harris—no, not that George Harris—was a Hoosier kid we sometimes bummed around with.

My eyes bugged. “You don’t suppose—”

“Naw. It wasn’t George. Nancy’d pound him in a hole if she caught him eyeing your butt. Oh, but that wasn’t the part being described, was it?”

I didn’t have anything in my hands to throw at him, so I just turned and went in the other room. Didn’t do any good. He yelled at me.

“Didn’t mention me this time?”

“What’s the matter, you feeling slighted,” I yelled back.

His answer was a laugh.


My stalker was quiet for another week, then he changed tactics. I was working on an essay for Freshman English one afternoon and also waiting for Marco so we could grab a bite to eat before heading out to a bar. I left my stuff on the table and went into the stacks in search of a particular reference book. Took me awhile to locate it, and when I returned to my table, I saw a piece of paper sticking out of my notebook. I read the message on it and felt my cheeks flame as I scanned the big room. Weren’t many people around, and half of them were females. Then I spotted Marco trudging up the steps and coming my way.

My first inclination was to hide this latest note, but on the other hand, maybe he had a useful suggestion.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked when he reached my table.

I thrust the piece of paper in his hands. He scowled as he read the words in a hushed voice, “Petey, you’re driving me crazy and making me do things I don’t normally do. That’s how handsome and desirable you are. You’ve got to let me do wonderful things to you. You’ll never regret it, I promise. I’ll take you to the moon… and beyond to the stars. Sex will never be the same for you again. Meet me at 8:00 p.m. tonight at the tennis courts. If you show up, I’ll reveal myself. I hope I can make it until then without going crazy. As ever, your devoted (and hungry) admirer.” A grin lit Marco’s face. “Hungry and devoted? Wow, I didn’t know you made such an impact on people.”

“Shut up, Marco. What should I do?”

“Depends on what you want. You can go meet him and see if he can deliver on his promises—”

“Asshole,” I snarled.

“Me or him?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued. “Or you can turn this note over to the campus police. Or just wad it up and throw it on the floor. What’ll it be?”

I dropped into a chair and propped my head up with my palms. “I’m not gonna go to the cops. And I’m damned sure not going to drop the note on the floor. Somebody might read it.”

“So you’re gonna meet your would-be lover, huh?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But he’s got you curious, right?”

“Maybe. But if I go to the tennis courts tonight, that doesn’t mean he’s gonna get what he wants. But at least I can face him and tell him to cool his jets.”

“Maybe. That what you’re gonna do?”

His question pushed me to a decision. “That’s exactly what I’m gonna do!”

Marco gave me his most infectious grin. “Then you probably better not hit the bar tonight. Alcohol might impair your decision-making ability.”



Of all the comments I had on part 1, only one reader answered my question by saying he (presumably) had never stalked nor been stalked. I asked him to think about his answer. Had he never gone too far in pressing someone for attention? Had no one ever done that to him? I believe this is a question you have to think about when answering. At any rate, how did you like part two?


Tell me what you think.


Stay safe and stay strong.


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


A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:


My personal links:




Twitter: @dontravis3


See you next Thursday.




New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Thursday, October 14, 2021

Petey, Part 1 of a Story in 3 Parts blog post #519

Image Courtesy of Twitter 

Several comments to my email on “Statue of Limitations,” one of which informed me that I called one character by two different names. I tried to convince him that was a purposeful mistake to see how many readers would catch it… but my subterfuge didn’t work. He saw through me right away and said I needed to do a better job of editing. My bad.


Let’s try another short story this week. Here’s the first installment.





A guy’s freshman year at college is supposed to be a trip, but within a month, I realized that wasn’t the half of it. I’d been a decent jock—basketball and soccer—in high school and fairly popular. Oh, I had my issues with a couple of a-holes, but for the most part students and teachers liked and treated me well. In fact, they elected me senior class president. Yahoo. Big deal. Although I gotta admit, when I saw the first “Peter Maravic for President” sign, I got a little charge out of it. Oh yeah, I had my share of girlfriends too.

Even though I believed I was emotionally prepared, moving from my southern New Mexico middling-sized hometown to Albuquerque at eighteen was harder than I anticipated. At times, my head felt like a soccer ball being kicked around the field. In the first place, I left a secure environment and headed into a place where—for the most part—the rep I worked hard to earn didn’t travel along with me. Normal, I guess. Every guy has to carve out a new one with every major change. Wasn’t too hard in sports, but classes were something else. A few had so many students, I was simply a nobody listening to some guy lecture a hall full of other nameless students. A fellow got no personal attention unless he made an appointment with a professor.

And in the romance department… forget it. Oh, there were plenty of girls around, but from sophomores to seniors, they looked down their noses at freshmen. And some pretty noses, at that. As far as frosh girls, they seemed like… well, like high schoolers masquerading at college girls. Now that I think of it, that’s probably how I looked to them. And while I’m not a mama’s boy, I missed my parents and little sister… a lot.

So I started earning my way, careening from class to the SUB—that’s the student union building for the uninitiated—to the local bar favored by underclassmen to meaningless dates with a few girls, cramming in a bit of studying, all in a 24-hour period. You notice I didn’t include sleeping. Deliberate. There wasn’t much of that.

By my third week on campus, my efforts to get noticed succeeded, but not in the way I intended. One day after class, I hit the john in the SUB and noticed a message scribbled on a wall of the stall.

Petey M., you’re one hell of a hunk. Sure would like to get to know you. If you’re copacetic, write a Y below this message.

I’m sure anyone who happened to be in the bathroom right then wondered what was going on in Stall #1, because I made a racket trying to scrape those words off the wall. An eraser didn’t’ do any good, so I ended up making it more or less unreadable by scraping at it with my keys. Then I wrote a big “No” right over it before stalking out of there for a brief wash-up at the sinks. My eyes probably looked manic as they switched this way or that as I searched for my stalker. Wasn’t anyone there.

That evening before we started studying, I told my roommate, a cool dude named Marco, another freshman about the note. While he proclaimed himself an Okie, he didn’t come across as a redneck. Pretty sophisticated, actually. Shows you what a dumbass I am about rednecks and hillbillies. We all have our prejudices, don’t we?

He laughed. “So you’ve got an admirer. Big deal.”

“Big deal? Damned straight it’s a big deal unless some chick snuck in the boy’s… uh, men’s bathroom and left me a message.”

He leveled caramel-colored eyes at me. “What makes you think it was left for you? There’s probably more’n one Peter on campus.”

That brought me down. “Hadn’t thought of that. Took it too personal, I guess.” But somehow it didn’t wash. “Another Petey M.? That’s pretty specific?”

“Who calls you Petey?”

“Nobody I can think of. I’m Pete to most  —” I paused and probably blushed a little.—“except to a couple of girls back home.”

After he got a pretty good laugh out of that, we settled down to study. After a while, I glanced at his head buried in a book. Dark, curly hair. Good-looking guy. Why hadn’t he gotten the message instead of me. I’m okay, but my light brown—almost blondish—hair didn’t compare to his. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

“You ever got anything like that?”

He glanced up. “Huh?”

“You know, the message in the john.”

He gave a lazy smile. “You still hung up on that?”

“Wouldn’t you be? Anyway, answer me.”

He stretched his long arms and yawned. Reading textbooks will do that to you. “Can’t say I have. Makes me downright jealous.”

“Okay, you bastard. Quit making fun of me. I didn’t write that note on the stall wall.”

His eyes narrowed; his smile brightened. “How do I know you didn’t? Maybe you were lonely and….” He laughed and ducked when I threw my ruler at him.

The next day when I went to the john at the SUB, I couldn’t help myself. I entered the first stall and found my stalker had struck again. The words, “Now Petey, don’t be like that,” were twice as big as the original message.



What do you think of when you hear about a stalker? Nine out of ten of us would think of some guy harassing a girl, wouldn’t we? But there is plenty of stalking out there that doesn’t involve a female. Tell me… the guys among you, that is… have you ever been stalked? But let’s not be sexist. The gals can chime in too. Oh, buy the way… have any of you ever been the stalker?

 Tell me what you think.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

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

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.


 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time. 

Thursday, October 7, 2021

Statue of Limitations (Part Three of Three Parts) blog post #518

 Image courtesy of

Okay, now Martin’s talked Slake into modeling for him. And he’s also preconditioned the handsome landscaper to a little touching to make sure he gets “everything just right” about the statue he’s going to create. Sounds like everything on schedule, doesn’t it? So let’s see what happens.



The next morning, Slake showed up in his thin running shorts and a slipover shirt. Upon request, he skinned out of the shirt and stood shifting self-consciously from foot to foot. I decided to pose him like David, and had him stand with his shirt slung over his shoulder. He was stunning.

I sketched him first, making sure to walk over occasionally to feel this muscle or that, more to get him used to the idea than from necessity. Before this was over, I intended to do some serious touching. He started the first time I ran my hands over his shoulders and down his arms, but permitted my touch. I made sure to explore some particular vein or muscle. All too soon, I paid him for the day, and Slake took his leave.

Unfortunately, I didn’t need him again until I worked the stone down to the general shape the finished statue would take. But he stopped by midweek as he tended the grounds of the estate.

“Coming along,” he said, eyeing the stone. “Are you finished with me?”

“Not by a long shot. I’d like you to start posing again next Saturday. You okay with that?”

Yeah. Sure.”


Slake showed up on time Saturday morning and shucked his shirt. Every time I saw that physique, I salivated. He took the position, and I started to work. Occasionally, I’d wipe my hands on a rag and go over to explore with my fingers. Guess it was a good thing we were starting with the head so he’d get used to it. But when I ran my fingers across his lips, he came close to rebelling. Little did he know how lucky he was. I’d seriously considered exploring those luscious lips with my own.

My David—that is, Slake—slowly emerged out of the stone. And the flesh and blood Slake was impressed. “Damn,” he said on more than one occasion, looks just like me. How do you do that?”

“Slog away at it,” became my stock answer. Then I usually added, playfully, “It helps that I can come over and explore a curve and a bend now and then.”

As the torso emerged, I found plenty of opportunity to “explore.” I just had to make sure his pecs were done right, including the nipples. I found I could make them stand up just by brushing them lightly. He always flinched when I did that.

Finally, the portion of his anatomy that I was really curious about began to emerge. I felt every rib, explored his deep navel, and measured his waist with my fingers. And each time I laid a hand to his flesh, it became more of a caress. Surely, he had to see that, as well. But by now, my touching and rubbing and patting had become routine to him.

Eventually, my David stood on his pedestal looking as hunky and handsome as I could make him. And Slake approved of what he sat. He made that evident.

“Awesome, Martin. Really awesome. That’s really me, isn’t it?”

“As close as I can make it,” I said. “But The hips and thighs aren’t quite right.”

“Look okay to me.”

“You don’t look at them with an artist’s eyes. I do. Go take up your position.”

Slake walked back to the nook I had created for his posing and took his stance. I gave him a long, studied look, shook my head, and went over to him.

“I was right. Something needs fixing. I’m gonna lay hands on you, guy. Don’t panic.”

He got a weird look in his eye at that statement, but I ignored him and went to my knees in front of him, my hands on either hip. Humming and mumbling like I was really studying something, I moved my hands around until they rested on his buns. He gave a little jump, but didn’t say anything. Then I clasped his left leg in both hands and moved up on him, pausing to pretend to study some shape or the other. Eventually, they rested at the bottom of his thin shorts.

Swallowing hard, I moved up even more. My hands disappeared beneath the cloth of his of his thins. He mumbled, but that didn’t stop me. Soon, my right hand cupped his sac. He gave a little start, but said nothing. So I moved my left hand until it covered his manhood. It moved, causing him to squirm uneasily. But I grasped him firmly, and he sagged back against the high stool he sometimes sat on. In moments, I had his shorts around his knees and my head in his groin. The only sound he made was a soft groan. In truth, his manhood wasn’t in proportion to the rest of him, but I took it eagerly, no matter how big it was.

For the next few minutes, my brain shook with the thought that I was taking him. I was as intimate with my David as one man can be with another. And David was enjoying it. His groans became moans and then before I expected, he erupted. I looked up to catch his expression as he shivered through his orgasm. And as I watched, his beatific, blissful look grew thunderous. He morphed from David back to Slake.

“What the hell!” he yelled, placing a palm against my forehead and roughly pushing me over on my butt. “Why’d you do that?”

Somewhat addled, I stammered. “W-why’d you let me?”

“You’re paying me to pose, not to let you service me. Gimme my money, you frigging fairy. I want outta here.”

Still uncertain as to whether he was putting me on or not, I gave him a grin. “And do I add anything for the servicing?”

He balled his fists and took a step toward me, looking both threatening and ridiculous with his prick exposed to the world. “Hell no! I’m no whore. Gimme what you owe me or I’m liable to take it out of your hide.”

Convinced now, I got to my feet and handed him the envelope I’d prepared for him earlier. He snatched it, slammed open one of the garage doors, and stalked away stiff-legged. All I saw was his back, but I assumed he’d restored his running shorts to where they should be.


I finished my statue of Slake-as-David with a lot less enthusiasm than I started it. The more I thought things over, the more convinced I was that he knew what was coming, accepted my offer, and then—feeling guilty over it—took it out on me.

After the statue was done, I wanted it out of my studio. No sitting around for a week for this one. All it did was raise my ire. Before calling for a truck to move it to my dealer, I walked around it a couple of times before the idea working its way out of my brain walked out into the open. I considered it. I liked it.

So the next morning, I took my chisel and my abrasive materials and started to work. Erasing the running shorts from the hips backward, presented no problem. The high curves of his buttocks emerged with nothing to cover them. The front presented a bit more of a problem. But finally, the job was done to my satisfaction.

That afternoon, I called the trucking company and had the piece sent to the art dealer. Then I followed it up with a personal visit to have it shown the way I wanted.

Before the afternoon was over, the statue—it was no longer David to me—stood with his back toward the entrance to the art gallery. Fetching. Arresting. Titillating. One couldn’t help but go around to the other side to see what this magnificent figure of a man looked like full on. What they saw was Slake’s handsome face, his impressive chest and defined abs. And below that, he sported a tiny dink of a penis with gonads to match.

A perfect replica of James Slaker with all his limitations.


And so, we have a Statue of Limitations, right? Now who was the aggrieved partner here? Didn’t it look as if Martin’s intentions became clearer and clearer as time went by. And Slake didn’t object to his touch, even the more intimate ones… until after the seduction was over. Aha. It seems to me that Slake was willing to go along, but he was one of those straights who become mortified after they’ve willingly participated in a gay relationship and react with barely controlled violence. Anyone who’s found himself (or herself) in just that sort of situation, please raise your hand.

 Tell me what you think.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

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

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.



 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Thursday, September 30, 2021

Statue of Limitations (Part Two of Three Parts) blog post #517

Image courtesy of

Last week, we met Martin, the budding sculptor who was obsessed with Michaelangelo’s statue of David, which he saw as a prepubescent on a family trip to Florence, Italy. Now a working sculptor, he’s constantly on the hunt of his own “David.” At the end of the first part of the story, it looked as if he might have found him. Let’s see what happens next.




By Don Travis

And then—serendipitously—he arrived on my doorstep… or garagestep, to be more accurate. One warm, spring day, as I worked on a big piece of alabaster, a shadow distracted me. I glanced up to see a perfect male form silhouetted in the open garage doorway. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, hips an ideal ten percent wider than the waist, strong thighs. Wow! Move on inside, dude, so I can get a better look.

“You do good work, man.” The voice was not quite a bass, but it sure was a low baritone. The speaker moved forward. “You mind if I take a closer look?”

I cleared my throat to moisten a dry mouth. “Not at all. Come on in.”

Despite my cordial invitation, I sorta hated for him to move. To see this paragon’s features clearly was bound to be a letdown. Nobody could have total physical perfection. Nobody.

As he moved into the more controlled light of my studio, I saw how wrong I had been. This guy was downright stunning. Big dark eyes, curly hair so brown it almost looked black, clean-cut cheeks, and lips so ripe and juicy I wanted to walk over and kiss them. Probably not the thing to do as this guy had muscles. Genuine muscles from genuine hard work, I’d wager.

He bent to examine the work. “I see a little boy, but—”

“He’s playing with his puppy. Or he will be when I finish.”

“Wish I could do something like that,” he said, straightening and meeting my addled gaze. Domination from the very first look. I’d have done anything he asked at that moment. “Maybe you can,” I managed to get out.

“Naw. Tried my hand at painting and found out all I can paint is a wall or whatever needs a coat.”

I kept at it, babbling about how he needed to try harder… anything to keep him from leaving. Finally I ran out of things to say, so I stuck out my hand.

“Martin Boward.”

“James Slaker, but everyone calls me Slake.”

Wow! What a grip.

“You got a good grip,” he tossed at me, taking me by surprise. His words mirrored my thoughts. “Must be from slinging that hammer and chisel or whatever you do all day.”

“Probably so. Where does yours come from?”

“My what? Oh, you mean my grip? Hard work, man. Just like you do, except I push lawnmowers and hammer nails. You know, stuff like that. We oughta arm wrestle sometime and see what comes out on top, hammers or lawnmowers.”

I smiled at the thought. “Anytime you want.”

He glanced around the studio. “I’d really like to see more of your stuff, but I’m on the clock now. Okay if I come around sometime and take a gander.” His eyes went wide at a thought. “Not looking to buy, you understand. I couldn’t afford anything this good.”

“You can come around anytime you want, buying or eyeing, doesn’t matter.”

“Hey, you’re a poet!” he said on the way out. The rear view was as great as the front.


I later learned James Raker was the landscaper my landlord hired to take care of the grounds of his place, which included the garage I’d rented as my studio. That meant I’d see more of the gorgeous dude. I could hardly wait until next week when he’d show up again.

But I didn’t have to wait a week. Saturday morning, I chiseled away at the alabaster, doing delicate work: the dog’s slender, fragile legs as he stood on his hind legs, pawing at his young master when a voice with a sexy growl startled me.

“You’ve made a lot of progress since I was here the other day.”

I snatched my hands back before I made a mistake at this crucial juncture. Turning, I smiled at him. “It’s Slake, right?”

“He moved inside and gave me a thumbs-up. “Right the first time. Martin, right? Or is it Marty?”

“Martin,” my lips said while my mind declared he could call me anything he wanted.

I watched him as he studied some of the pieces I still had in the studio. I always let them sit around for a week or so before taking them to the dealer who handled my art. My fingers itched from the desire to run my fingers over him.

“Martin, it is. Man, you really do great work.”

An idea snapped full born into my head. “When I finish the kid and his puppy, I’m going to do a full-sized figure. A man. A young man who’s built. And I’m still looking for a model.”

He half-turned to look at me. “You saying you want me to model for you?”

“Can’t think of anyone better. Interested?”

“I donno. I’ve never modeled for anybody. What’s involved.”

My mind said “everything,” my mouth said, “Doing a little boring sitting around while I chisel away.”

“Do I have to stay in one position without moving?”

“Naw. Just same general position. Every once in a while, I’d have to come over and touch you. I do that when I’m having a problem getting something just right.”

“Touch me how?”

I moved over to him and laid a palm on his right bicep. “Like this, to get the feel of the muscle. Get the angle right.”

“Hmmm. What else?”

“That’s it. I’d block out the general shape, and then you’d sit on that stool over there while I refine it, you know, work the stone down the way I want it.”

“Pay anything?”

“Standard rates.” I named an hourly figure.

“How many hours.”

“That depends on how well I do. Probably a minimum of ten. I can do a lot of the work without you here, but in later stages, you’d have to be here.”

“Just sitting, huh? Posed.”

“Haven’t made my mind up. What’s your sport?”

“Running. I’m a runner.”

My eyebrows shot up. He looked beefier than most runners I knew.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I get a lot of looks like that. I’m not as heavy as I look. I built up my arms and chest more than most runners, but I can still move.”

“You have running shorts?”

“My running togs? Yeah.”

“Good. I’d like you to pose in them. Just the shorts, no top. Deal?”

He hesitated. Yeah, I guess so. When?”

“How about tomorrow? I’ve got a rest room over there where you can change into your togs.”

He pursed his lips a moment. “Okay. What time.”


At this point, what would you say Martin’s intentions are? At any rate, it looks as if he’s hooked his “David,” next week we’ll see if he lands him.

Tell me what you think.

Stay safe and stay strong.

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

A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.



New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Thursday, September 23, 2021

Statue of Limitations (Part One of Three Parts) blog post #516

Image courtesy of

Hope you liked “Jean or Gene,” but I don’t know. Didn’t get many comments. Lots of hits, but not many comments. Last time I checked the traffic report, readers from Indonesia outnumbered all others. UAS readers were third down the list.’’

 At any rate, here’s the next selection. Hope you enjoy it.


                                 STATUE OF LIMITATIONS

No, it’s not a typo. I’m a sculptor, not a lawyer. It is statue of limitations. What do I mean? We’ll come to that, but first a little background. To my mind, I’m a fair, decent human being who does his best to get along with the world. Of course, I might be somewhat prejudiced, all things being equal.

At any rate, all I’ve ever wanted to be was a sculptor. When I was a kid, the family went on a vacation to Italy. I can remember to this day standing slack-jawed in front of Michelangelo’s statue of David in Florence. I’d been entering puberty, so naturally, I was titillated by the casual presentation of the male penis and attendant equipment. But I got over that quickly and took in the marvelous detail of the sculpture. The muscles, the veins, the… everything. Right on the spot I decided I wanted to find and model my own David. And to do that, I would need to work hard. And the first hard work I had to do was disabuse my father of the fantasy that I’d follow in his footsteps and become a medical doctor.

“Martin,” he would say, “you’ll make a fine doctor someday.”

“But, dad—”

“No buts, son. It’s in your blood. I know it is.”

We had that exchange at least monthly.

I brought home several souvenirs from that trip to Italy, but the only one that counted was a twelve-inch reproduction of that statue. It went on the corner of the desk in my room and stayed there through countless snickers of friends and acquaintances and a few blushes from the fairer sex who happened to venture into my bedroom. As soon as we got back home to Albuquerque, I went to the hobby shop and spent some of my savings on a tub of modeling clay, after which, I spent many a late hour trying to reproduce that striking image. My first effort almost discouraged me and drove me back into my father’s professional arms. But I kept at it night after night, year after year until by my senior year in high school, I could make a decent statue.

I have to pause at this juncture to admit to another effect David had on me. I’d run my hands over every inch of the Michaelangelo replica about a million times, trying to get the feel of how that master sculptor did this or handled that. And I always got a squirrely feeling when I fingered the genitalia. At times, it seemed to me that I caressed it. Occasionally, I’d go to bed in a semi-excited state and the real David—at least the one represented by the statue in Florence—visited me in my dreams. He let me run my hands over him the way I did the replica, but it quickly became a different sort of exploration. Vaguely aware that wasn’t exactly “normal,” I acquired a statuette of Venus, but it wasn’t the same. I got nothing out of that one, and she visited my dreams not once… not even to chase David.

Well, with my growing awareness of life, that told me something. It told me why I’d rather spend time with my buddies—all guys, of course—than with girls, long after those same guys had abandoned me for female company. Except for one guy. Randy. I came to understand in our last year of high school that he’d prefer to study David than Venus. We even experimented in my room a couple of times, and while it was pleasant—even exciting—Randy was not my David.

My father acquiesced to my wishes and paid for a fine arts degree at UNM. All during my four years at the university, I searched for my David, but only found wannabees. I did models of some hunky guys, even took liberties with them occasionally. Pleasant, but not earthshaking. By the time I graduated, I almost despaired of ever finding my ideal, but perhaps when I went out on my own, I’d move in different circles, and who knows?

After graduation, I located a commodious three-car garage on the grounds of an estate not far from my family’s ranch style house. The big, swinging doors were perfect for moving big blocks of stone in and the finished product out. I struck a deal, rented the place as my studio, and started to work.

Two more years passed without a resolution of my ambition. I got good at my craft and produced lots of pieces, including some statues of handsome young men, a couple of them nudes. I was proud of every piece I produced, but felt my resolve to find “the one” fading.

And then—serendipitously—he arrived on my doorstep… or garagestep, to be more accurate.


Will wonders never cease? Martin’s own David. Or is it? Stay tuned.

 Tell me what you think.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

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

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3


See you next Thursday.


 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Thursday, September 16, 2021

Jean or Gene (Part Two of Two Parts) blog post #515

Image Courtesy of Clipart Library


Well, how’d you like the first part of the story. Seems like Jean or Gene got himself out of one fix just to get into another. And this guy is standing between him and the door, unimpeded by a pair of pants around his ankles. Let’s see what happens next.





Matt laid a hand on each shoulder. “Well, Jean. I’m a little more worldly. I got no trouble paying if you do right by me.”

Then for the second time, Jean was taken by surprise. As Matt pulled her in for a kiss, his hand went south of the border. She felt his whole body stiffen before he leaned back and held her at arm’s length. To her surprise, he burst out laughing.

“I think I just discovered the basis of Will’s discombobulation. Did he find out before or after?”

A smile played on Gene’s lips. “After,” he answered in his own voice.

“And he was all bent out of shape when he found out a fella gave him such a good job. Well, me, now. I don’t give a damn. I’m looking for relief, and I don’t care how. Hell, you do good, and I might even cover Will’s unpaid bill.”

Matt lifted Gene in his arms and carried him to the bed.


Gene sat in the hotel lobby eyeing the traffic as it went by. He was looking for a different kettle of fish today. About half the time, he wanted someone who wasn’t normally available to him, and that’s when his Jean persona came in handy. Sometimes, like yesterday, things didn’t work out exactly as planned, but usually he managed to get straight guys without them being any wiser. And sometimes—like with Matt—it didn’t matter if he was caught out.

But today, he wanted them to see what they were getting. It shrank the available pool, but when he caught an acceptable fish, it was all out there on the table. And today, he wanted any taker to know exactly what he was getting. That’s why he wore his tightest chinos. Well, tight across the hips, anyway. The basket caught its share of trade, but it was really his hair that got their attention. Raven, curly locks worn full and down on the neck. That way it worked for Jean as well as for him. He knew the rest of the package was pleasing, as well. Many a man had waxed poetic over his olive skin, sloe eyes, and glossy hair. Especially the hair.

His breath caught in his throat as Will Parson strolled through the lobby. Gene could tell from the way his eyes swept the room that the young man was on the hunt. They swept over him and moved on. Gene breathed easier. He didn’t think anyone would recognize him from yesterday, but you never knew. As the cowboy moved on, Gene caught a couple of eyes, and one hesitated before moving on. One met his gaze boldly, and he thought he’d hooked one, for sure. But the hunky guy’s wife marched up at that moment, planted a kiss on his cheek, and let the prospective minnow away. Too bad. He wouldn’t have been a bad catch. Not in Will Parson’s league, but okay.

That thought surprised him. Gene had liked what he’d seen of the cowboy—and that had been plenty—but wasn’t aware he doted on the man. About that time, someone appeared in his periphery. He turned to look and had to control himself to keep from showing surprise. It was yesterday’s cowboy.

Will frowned and took a step closer, still staring intently. Gene met his gaze but remained immobile, unreadable—he hoped.

The cowboy moved to his side. “Don’t I know you?”

Gene made his voice as deep as possible. “I don’t know. Do you?”

Will’s eyes widened. “It’s you, isn’t it.”

With a smile, Gene became animated. “How’d you know?”

“The hair. It’s the same… well, almost.”

“How’s the hand?”

Will touched the narrow bandage circling his left hand. “Sore’n a tenderfoot’s butt after his first bronc ride.” He hesitated. “You know, I been thinking. Maybe I was wrong.”

Gene stood. The cowboy was taller than he was without heels. “No hard feelings.”

Will blushed slightly. “Hard maybe, but not that way.”

“What’er you saying, cowboy?”

“Maybe we oughta try it again. You know, on level ground.”

“How do I know you’re not just trying to get me alone and give me some payback.”

A smile lit Will’s eyes. “Oh, I’m gonna give you some payback, all right. But I don’t think you’ll object.”

Gene arched a brow. “What different today from yesterday?”

“You sandbagged me yesterday.”

“Would you have gone with me if I hadn’t?”

“Nope,” Will said. “But maybe I owe you for opening my eyes.”

“Let’s get this straight. You want me to go with you to your room.”


“For sex.”

“Can’t think of nothing else we’d do.”

“Knowing what you know now.”

Will’s smile was easy… and fetching. “Eyes wide open. No hanky-panky—” He snorted. “—at least of that kind. Any wrestling we’re gonna do is in that bed. You game?”

“Cowboy,” Gene said, “I’m gonna take a chance. If you mean what you say, I’m gonna turn you every way but loose, and you’re going to love every minute of it.”


Gene stepped toward the elevators, his movements decidedly masculine and… provocative.


Will wonders never cease? Did Gene turn Will? Unlikely, he just opened the cowboy’s eyes that there’s more than one way to have fun. More likely, Will keeps on chasing skirts, but occasionally—maybe just once in a while—he try the other side of the street again. Gene? He’ll keep on exploiting Jean so long as it continues to work. The ethics of it? I’ll leave that up to you.

Tell me what you think.

Stay safe and stay strong.

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

A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.



New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Thursday, September 9, 2021

Jean or Gene (Part One of Two Parts) blog post #514

 Image Courtesy of Clipart Library

Goodly number of hits on “The Old Man Across the Street,” but not many comments. Ah well, you read the story, hope you enjoyed it.


Today, we’ll try another short story, a little different in nature. Let me know how you like this one.





Jean sashayed across the hotel lobby on the way to the powder room, confident she’d caught a number of eyes. There was a sales convention of some sort going on, so a lot of those eyes would be out of towners. Ideal for what she had in mind. Once finished in the private stall, she stood before the vanity mirrors and checked her makeup. Perfect. Her hairdo? Good. She knew a lot of men preferred blondes, but she liked her natural color. Raven’s wing black. Picked up highlights better than any peroxide job she’d ever seen.

As she left the powder room, she caught the eye of one man who’d been at the reception desk when she passed earlier. Confident he’d waited for her return, she altered her steps and took a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs in the corner of the big room. He took his time about it, but he found ways to draw nearer and nearer. Big hat, boots. Cowboy type. What kind of convention was it, anyway? No matter. She liked cowboys. The ones she’d known had had a wild, abandoned way about them. Although courteous to a fault, they took what they wanted, and they wanted what she had to give.

Eventually, Romeo was close enough to bashfully ask if he could join her. She watched him as he took the adjoining chair. Young. Good-looking. Insecurity partially hidden by bravado. Slim-hipped, full basket. Great. This one would take some maneuvering, but she thought he was landable.

“Buy you a drink, Miss?” he asked in a pleasant baritone. “Funny, seems like I oughta be asking that in a bar.”

“And I imagine that’s where you usually use that line,” she purred.

He blushed. “Yeah, I guess. Anyway, I’d be pleased to do it.”

“Thanks, but I’m not in the mood right now. I’d rather sit and hear a little bit about you.”

He was pleased to accommodate. Will Parson from Bolton, Oklahoma. Twenty-three. Feed salesman in his daddy’s store. A Fort-F150 man. Single, but looking hard. And lonely.

When he ran down, she smiled at him. “When you’re finished with the convention for the day, maybe I’ll let you buy me that drink.”

“Shoot, ma’am, I am finished for the day. Let’s go to that bar across the way.”

Jean arched a brow at him. “Is a drink really what you want?”

His brown eyes twitched a bit, but he held her gaze. “No, ma’am. Not really.”

“You have a room here?”

He was on his feet in a second. “You bet. And no roommate to get in the way.” He frowned. “Uh, how… well, how much?”

She stood and noticed she was as tall as he was, at least in heels. “Do you really want to talk about money?”

‘Uh, no ma’am, but I don’t wanna get in over my head.”

She turned and walked toward the elevators. “That won’t be a problem.”

Will tried to be suave about it, but he was more like an eager kid. She laughed on the inside. Hadn’t been long since she was as skittish as he was.

He reached for her the moment the door to his room closed behind him. She turned so that all he managed to fondle was her butt. Apparently, he decided that was okay because he pulled her to him. His hands felt good against her buttocks. This guy was ready to go. She sort of dog-walked until they were at the end of the bed, and then, still pressed against him, she tackled the buttons on his shirt. They gave way, one by one. She pulled it off his shoulders and rubbed her hand across his torso.

“Nice,” she said in a throaty voice.

“Thank you, ma’am. Now—”

As he reached for her blouse, she pushed him over on the bed. He landed flat of his back. Before he said anything, she had his belt loose and his zipper down. He lay there and let her pull is trousers down around his ankles. He was still mute when she went down on him, but before it was over, he was groaning and moaning. He came with a whoopie!

She stood and smiled down at him. “Was it as good as you thought?”

He sat up on the end of the bed. “Sooper-dooper. Best blow job I’ve ever had.”

She arched an eyebrow. “And you’ve had lots of them?”

He grinned. “My share.”

Before she knew what he was about, Will reached for her groin. His hands closed over her, and his eyes went wide. “What’s that? Hell, you ain’t a woman. You’re a guy!”

Gene spoke in his own voice. “What does it matter if it was so good.”

Will’s eyes went mean. “What does it matter? What does it matter! I’ll tell you what matters. I ain’t no queer. And you pulled one over on me. I oughta bust you up. Hell, I will. I’m gonna punch your lights out.”

Will rose, but apparently forgot his pants were down around his ankles. He tripped as he reached out. Gene backed away and pulled a long hat pin from his hair, lashing out with it.

“Ow!” Will cried, trying to regain his balance and nurse a stabbed hand. Gene took advantage of the other man’s situation and quickly evacuated the room, rushing down the hall to the elevator bank before Will came after him.

He turned the corner and almost collided with another guy who was working the lock to a room.

“Whoa,” the man said. “What’s the hurry.”

Jean adjusted her voice. “Trying to get away from a big ape of a cowboy.”

The man laughed. “Well, just scoot on into my room, and you can wait him out.”

She smiled at the man. “Thank you kind, sir.”

“My name’s Matt. What’s yours?”


“Well, Miss Jean, was that cowboy attending the convention?”

“I gather so.”

“And what was the basis of your disagreement?” Matt met her eyes squarely. “Money?”

“You might say that. He got the service but objected afterward.”

“And what was this bozo’s name?”

“Will something-or-the-other.”

His eyebrows went up. “Will Parson from Oklahoma?”

She nodded.

“Hell, seemed like a decent guy to me.”

“Me too… until….”

He laid a hand on each shoulder. “Well, Jean. I’m a little more worldly. I got no trouble paying if you do right by me.”

Then for the second time, Jean was taken by surprise. As Matt pulled her in for a kiss, his hand went south of the border. She felt his whole body stiffen before he leaned back and held her at arm’s length.



Have you ever been in a bar—or anywhere for that matter—and seen an attractive woman and felt something wasn’t quite right? I have. Many years ago, a friend and I were having drinks in a bar and got into an argument over whether the blonde sitting at the bar talking to another woman was, in fact, a real woman or a man in drag. He thought she was a guy; I had no reason to think so. The face and figure were right, so what if the voice was a contralto. My friend, being the bold, aggressive type, approached the blonde and asked her point blank if she was a man or a woman. I’ll never forget her response. “Honey, it’ll cost you a hundred bucks to get a definitive answer to that question.”

 My companion returned to our booth a frustrated man. A hundred bucks was out of his league.

 As to our story, Jean—or Gene—seems to have himself a problem for the second time in one night. And this time, the cowboy isn’t hindered by his pants around his knees. How will this turn out? Check in next Thursday to learn the answer.

Tell me what you think.

Stay safe and stay strong.

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

A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.




New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

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