Thursday, February 14, 2019

Don Travis: Bifurcated man – Part 1 of 2 Parts

Don Travis: Bifurcated man – Part 1 of 2 Parts: dontravis.com blog post #324 Courtesy of PublicDomainPictures.net TO MY READERS : The “Contact” section has been restored to my...

Bifurcated man – Part 1 of 2 Parts


dontravis.com blog post #324

Courtesy of PublicDomainPictures.net
TO MY READERS: The “Contact” section has been restored to my Web Site… until it disappears again as mysteriously as the first time it vanished. At any rate, I can now respond to comments. Thanks.

I appreciate your indulgence over missing a posting deadline over something as trivial as a car wreck and a little internal bleeding. The doctors have arrested that, apparently. I’m feeling okay, but a bit washed out. Sore from being shaken up in the auto wreck, as well.

At any rate, here is the post for this week. One of those two-parter short stories. Hope you enjoy.

*****
 BIFURCATED MAN

Meeting Valdy, my future wife, during intermission at the Metropolitan Opera was a fantastic, unexplainable, gold-plated stroke of luck. Actually, I had been wandering the fringes of the crowd keeping an eye on a handsome young stud who caught my attention. Although I was at a loss to adequately explain it, I was occasionally attracted to some hunk, inevitably an overt heterosexual. I merely speculated and never acted on such impulses. One adorable young second lieutenant at Dix tempted me mightily, but I had sense enough to keep some distance between us. As I stood pondering my confusion in the foyer of the Metropolitan between acts of Offenbach’s The Tales of Hoffman, a stunning vision in a simple, elegant gown of Egyptian linen floated up and handed me a drink, bringing with her the soft aroma of lilacs.
“You look like a bourbon man. I’m Valdessa Bannerman. Valdy for short.”
“Love it!” I lied gallantly. A single malt Scotch was my drink. “Joseph Hunter.”
To make a long story short, five months later, Valdy and I were married in the Fort Dix base chapel where I had traded my banker’s three-piece suit for captain’s bars when I was called to temporary duty. That handsome second lieutenant was my best man.
Valdy fit seamlessly into my life when we came home to Albuquerque a deliriously happy golden couple; me, tall, blond, and slender with manly lumps, and Valdy… Lord the curves she packed into that svelte form! Her eyes were a pale blue that darkened when she was excited. Mine were as green as the patina of a weathered cathedral dome.
I took immense pride in the adoration Valdy inspired among my social set yet was feral enough to recognize danger when it surfaced. And Rick Ailman was dangerous. Even so, the handsome, personable builder of luxury homes was of interest to me as a banker. Five minutes after they were introduced at the Mayor’s Charity Ball, he had Valdy on the dance floor turning heads. Thereafter, it seemed that everywhere we went as a couple, Ailman showed up to sweep Valdy into his hard-muscled arms on some dance floor or the other. I held a tight rein on my temper but did a lot less kibitzing and a lot more dancing at public functions.
“I do believe you’re jealous,” she cooed once, a soft smile stretching those luscious lips.
“Nonsense!” I responded and felt a flush on the nape of my neck.
Despite my denials, later, as I lay panting and exhausted, I realized the truth of it. At the very moment of climax, I held an unwelcome image in my mind of a naked, dark-haired Adonis in bed with my wife… Rick Fucking Ailman!


Vice Presidents are trumped by Executive Vice Presidents, and that is who assigned me the Ailman account. Under such conditions, social encounters are impossible to avoid even though I put things off as long as possible. Eventually, Rick took the initiative and not only invited me to a working lunch, but also a round of golf afterwards. Albuquerque’s persistent spring winds had abandoned us until next year, the true heat of the season had not yet arrived, and the blue sky was blotted with towering, snowy thunderheads far to the west, a perfect day for golf at a mile above sea level.
As we waited for the green ahead of us to clear, Rick parked the cart we shared in the shade of a cottonwood and stretched one foot out on the grass. I dug dirt from my cleats with a tee.
“Glad to see you’re relaxing a little,” he said out of the blue.
I looked at him in surprise. “I thought I was a laid-back sort of guy.”
“You are… except around me. Your defenses always go up when I’m around.”
Since there was no denying it, I might as well get it out in the open. “Gotta admit that’s true. You set off my alarm bells.”
“Why?”
I shrugged and equivocated. “I don’t know. It’s just a personal reaction, I guess.”
I endured the study of his sable-fringed brown eyes for a long moment before he gave a low chuckle. “It’s your wife, isn’t it? You come on like gangbusters when I dance with her.”
“Look, drop it. I’m capable of separating my personal and professional lives.”
His silence lasted thirty seconds; his gaze made me uncomfortable. “You don’t get it, do you? Talk about babes in wonderland. It’s not your wife I’m interested in… it’s you!”
I don’t know why I laughed aloud, probably because I didn’t believe him. After a moment, he joined in. Then some invisible power flipped a cosmic switch, and we sobered.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Dead serious. Look, I like women. Hell, I love women, but occasionally I swing from the other branch of the tree.”
“Not with me, you won’t!” I blurted.


*****
Whoa, what’s going on here? Talk about some cosmic power flipping switches, has Rick Ailman found the key to Joseph Hunter. Next week will tell the tale.

Abaddon’s Locusts, the fifth in the BJ Vinson mystery series, came out last month. The book received several positive reviews. I hope you’ll consider buying a copy. If you do, please post a review of the book on Amazon. Each one helps… as do letters to the publisher.

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

My personal links:

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter: @dontravis3

Buy links to Abaddon’s Locusts:


See you next week.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.



Thursday, February 7, 2019

Don Travis: Apology to My Readers

Don Travis: Apology to My Readers: dontravis.com blog post #323 Courtesy of Wikipedia.com TO MY READERS : The “Contact” section has disappeared from my Web Site...

Apology to My Readers


dontravis.com blog post #323



Courtesy of Wikipedia.com
TO MY READERS: The “Contact” section has disappeared from my Web Site, so I have no way of reading or responding to your comments. I’ve tried all the corrective suggestions by “experts” to no avail. Please make any comments directly to my personal email, dontravis21@gmail.com, until this situation is corrected. Thanks.

Sometimes life gets in the way. Last Friday morning, I was returning home from a meeting with a colleague when I was involved in an automobile accident. First one in over 13 years, if I remember correctly. At any rate, I tried to convince myself that while my car needed a death certificate, I was all right.

By Saturday morning, I knew that I might need such a document, as well. Something wasn’t right. So I called my son to haul me to the VA Medical Center’s Emergency Ward. I anticipated a long wait to be seen, but did not expect to be admitted to the hospital with “internal bleeding.” Okay, I can handle it for one day. Baloney, I didn’t leave the hospital until noon Today, Thursday. Five and one half days in a hospital bed. I had forgotten how hard work it is to lie in a bed all day long.

Two blood transfusions and a endoscopy and a a colonoscopy later, I’m back home to face the fact I didn’t meet my posting schedule this week.

All I can do is beg forgiveness and try to meet next week’s schedule.


*****

Abaddon’s Locusts, the fifth in the BJ Vinson mystery series, came out last month. The book received several positive reviews. I hope you’ll consider buying a copy. If you do, please post a review of the book on Amazon. Each one helps… as do letters to the publisher.

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

My personal links:

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter: @dontravis3

Buy links to Abaddon’s Locusts:


See you next week.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Thursday, January 31, 2019

Don Travis: The Dancer (Part 3 of 3 Parts)

Don Travis: The Dancer (Part 3 of 3 Parts): dontravis.com blog post #322 Courtesy of Wikipedia TO MY READERS : The “Contact” section has disappeared from my Web Site, so I h...

The Dancer (Part 3 of 3 Parts)


dontravis.com blog post #322

Courtesy of Wikipedia
TO MY READERS: The “Contact” section has disappeared from my Web Site, so I have no way of reading or responding to your comments. I’ve tried all the corrective suggestions by “experts” to no avail. Please make any comments directly to my personal email, dontravis21@gmail.com, until this situation is corrected. Thanks.

Last week, Rob got the seemingly homophobic Carlos to try out the sauna in Rob’s apartment house. After a relaxing shower and a brew, they fell asleep in chairs. Rob roused his guest and put him to bed in a guest room. What in the world happens next?

*****
THE DANCER

           We ate a good breakfast before Carlos left he next morning. He worked half-day shifts on Saturdays and Mondays. I casually suggested I was free that evening, but Carlos had other plans. However, he agreed to try the sauna again Monday.
          When Carlos arrived straight from work Monday afternoon, we ate a shrimp salad for lunch and hit the sauna. He talked about his job as if I knew the people there. I liked that; he was involving me in his life. He confided that he wanted to go into the silk-screening business for himself in his own neighborhood someday. Things were pleasant until I got careless. He caught me staring at something I had no business examining with such interest. He faltered for a second but resumed telling me about his future plans. Our relationship would have survived that had it not been for what happened at the apartment later. I took a shower and toweled off in my bedroom. Carlos’ presence in the next room and the sexy flamenco dancer on the wall were too much. I got aroused.
          “Amigo, what say we…” The voice from the open doorway died. Carlos’ eyes went from my rampant member to the framed poster, and then back to me. “Uh, think I made a mistake. Better go,” he said abruptly.
          I trailed him into the living room as I struggled into my damp robe. “Carlos, don’t get the wrong idea. Please don’t…” The door slammed on my protest.
          The week dragged by. There was no listing for Carlos in the phone book or with the operator. When I dialed him at work, he wouldn’t take the call. On Monday, I hit the Turkish bath. He did not show. Friday afternoon, I hung around outside his workplace at quitting time. There was no sign of him. Saturday evening the phone rang.
          “Meet me at the diner. Fifteen minutes,” he said abruptly and hung up.
          Carlos was already seated at a booth when I arrived. With his mouth fixed in a firm line, his eyes bored holes in me as I walked toward him. He spoke as soon as I sat.
          “Tell me straight out. Are you a maricón…a queer?”
          I met his stare. “Let me tell you a story, and you tell me what I am.” He did not say a word as I related my sexual history, including what finished off my marriage. He stared at me in silence for a full minute after I finished.
          “You never did it with a guy before that? Or after?” I shook my head. “Did you follow me into the steam room to get to me?”
          I equivocated. “I followed you because I wanted to get to know you.”
          “But you didn’t want me?”
          “I didn’t say that. I put it aside when I knew how you felt about…it.”
          “Do you want me? Yes or no?”
          “Yes. But I’d rather have a friendship, Carlos.”
          “How’m I supposed to be friends with a guy who wants to queer me?”
          “I hoped you could separate the two things. I can.”
          “Yeah, well… I can’t.”
          “Sorry. I’ll leave you alone.”
          “Yeah. You do that. Don’t call me at work anymore.” He started to get up, then hesitated. “That picture. You get it before you met me or after?”
          “Before. That’s why you caught my eye that day. I halfway thought you were the dancer.”
          “Sick!” he said as he departed.
          I’d handled my divorce easier than losing a budding friendship with that young man. I did the only thing I knew, worked hard at a new project. A month struggled by. One Saturday afternoon the buzzer sounded. “Yes?”
          “Can I come up?”
          My heart leapt into my throat. “Sure.”
          Carlos looked so handsome standing at the door that I couldn’t speak and had to invite him inside with a sweep of my hand. He wore black jeans, a black shirt with pink trim, and boots.
          “How you been?” he asked as he brushed by me.
          “Making it,” I replied and ventured to add. “Missed you.”
          “Me, too,” he mumbled as he walked into the den and stood looking at the river. Suddenly, he turned around. “This is stupid. I shouldn’t have come.”
          “I’m glad you did. That tells me something.”
          His voice caught in his throat as he spoke. “What does it tell you?”
          “It tells me that despite what you say, you’re interested. You can deny it if you want, but you’re curious.”
          “Curious about what?” he demanded.
          “About what it would be like between you and me.”
          His face darkened. “You think I’m queer?”
          I shook my head. “No, but I think you want to know how it would be.”
          “Hell, I coulda done that anytime down at the baths. I had to fight them off.”
          “Not what you were looking for.”
          “Looking for?” His voice rose dangerously.
          “Why did you keep coming back?”
          “For the steam. Why else?”
          “Because—whether you realized it or not—you were looking for someone. Not someone you’d consider as a fairy. Ordinary guy.”
          “For what?”
          “To experiment with.” I screwed up my courage and blundered on. “And you found him. But you don’t know what to do next.”
          Carlos swallowed hard. “You so all fired smart, tell me. Tell me what to do next.”
          “Say it’s okay for me to touch you.”
          His Adam’s apple bobbed a couple of times, but no words came out of his mouth. Finally, he nodded.
          As he stood in the middle of my apartment, I moved to him and put a hand on his shoulder. Slowly, so as not to startle him, I caressed his smooth cheek, fingered his pouty lips, and explored his hard pecs. Shifting around behind him, I pulled him against me and grew bolder. I experienced the hum of his body and an occasional quiver as I moved my hands over him and hoped it was from passion, not fear. I covered him with the flat of my hand and felt him react.
          “I knew you were peligroso when you first came into the steam room,” he growled deep in his throat. “More dangerous than all the others. Don’t know why I didn’t chase you out.”
          With those words, I knew things would be all right.
          Later, as he slept beside me in my bed, I relived the marvelous previous hour. I’d had one of those “earth shattering” experiences people always nattered about. And it had been real… at least for me. I didn’t know what would happen next. In all probability we’d share one another again, perhaps even for a while. But I had no illusions this was a permanent thing. I would take all of him he allowed and learn to be satisfied with that. In the meantime, enjoy.
          Before sleep claimed me, I glanced through the gloom to the poster on my wall, startled anew by the uncanny resemblance to my Carlos… my dancer.

*****
And there you have it. Consummation! Nirvana. Heaven on earth. But even as he basks in the glow of such ecstasy, Rob wonders how long it will last. That’s a question for you, dear reader. Is this a passing in the night or the beginning of a long relationship? Let me know what you think. 

Abaddon’s Locusts, the fifth in the BJ Vinson mystery series, came out earlier this month. I hope you’ll consider buying a copy. If you do, please post a review of the book on Amazon. Each one helps… as do letters to the publisher.

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

My personal links:

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter: @dontravis3

Buy links to Abaddon’s Locusts:


See you next week.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.


Friday, January 25, 2019

Don Travis: The Dancer (Part 2 of 3 Parts)

Don Travis: The Dancer (Part 2 of 3 Parts): dontravis.com blog post #321 Courtesy of Wikipedia TO MY READERS : The “Contact” section has disappeared from my Web Site, so I h...

Thursday, January 24, 2019

The Dancer (Part 2 of 3 Parts)


dontravis.com blog post #321
Courtesy of Wikipedia

TO MY READERS: The “Contact” section has disappeared from my Web Site, so I have no way of reading or responding to your comments. I’ve tried all the corrective suggestions by “experts” to no avail. Please make any comments directly to my personal email, dontravis21@gmail.com, until this situation is corrected. Thanks.

WARNING: Some readers will find language in the following story to be offensive, but it accurately represents at time that was—and in too many places, still is. Enjoy the story, don’t concentrate on such language.

Last week, we saw our protagonist Rob introduced to gay sex when he is seduced by his young brother in law. Now divorced, Rob yearns for something he doesn’t know how to pursue. He fixates on the poster of a young flamenco dancer, has it framed, and hangs it in his bedroom where he uses it as an altar to his lust. He’s reasonably satisfied with that arrangement until he spots his flamenco dancer entering a Turkish bath off Times Square. He follows the young man and realizes it’s not his dancer, but a look-alike. We last saw Rob as he enters a steam room where he finds his Adonis.

*****
THE DANCER

          The door opened, disturbing the young man again. It was my unwelcome pursuer. “Outa here, cabrón!” the youth snarled. The man muttered defiantly but withdrew. “You new here?” I nodded. “Gotta watch your cojones around here,” he said in a husky voice.
          “I’m finding that out,”
          “It’s a shame. With me, sweat’s a way to relax. These queens mess it up and make it something dirty.”
          I swallowed hard and said nothing.
          He held out his hand. “I’m Carlos.” He did not exactly have an accent, it was more the rapidity of his speech and a slight lilt.
          “Rob,” I responded. Even through the swirling waves of steam, he was excruciatingly handsome.
          “That queer was after you, you know. He’s one of the worst.”
          “Th-this is the first time I’ve been in a place like this. Think it’ll be my last, too. I’ll stick to the sauna in my building from now on.”
          “What made you try this dump?”
          “Saw you,” I blurted. He glanced at me sharply. “You looked okay, so I thought it was probably a decent place,” I added quickly.
          He relaxed. “Sorry I misled you.”
          “Not your fault. Uh, maybe you’d rather I left you alone.”
          “You seem okay. You like the steam?”
          “Never tried it before.”
          “It’s good, but you gotta watch out in a place like this. You gotta let them know right away to keep their distance. First few times, they drove me nuts. Had to get nasty before they got the message.”
          “Complain to the management.”
          “Naw. It’s the queers that keep them in business. Faggots didn’t come looking for meat the place would close down. They probably wish I’d go someplace else and stop bothering their fairies.”            He gave his deep laugh again.
          “Maybe we oughta go to the sauna at my place. I’m sure as hell not comfortable here.”
          “Weekends the maricónes are crawling outa the woodwork. Sometimes they do their thing right in front of you. I don’t come on the weekends any more. Mondays are the best. I only work half days on Monday, and my job’s not far from here.”
          We talked easily while the wet heat stewed the living juices out of every pore of my body. Carlos was born in the Bronx to Puerto Rican parents, made it through high school, and took work with a silk-screening firm.
          About five minutes before I was baked into an early grave, he made noises like it was time to go. When he rose, I padded after him to the shower where we brought our body temperature back to normal. Afterward, I felt better than I had in some time. I watched him as we dressed, frantic for a way to prolong contact.
          “You hungry? There’s a pretty good deli not far from here.”
          “Expensive?” he wanted to know. “Gotta watch my nickels.”
Some instinct warned me not to offer to pay. “Not too bad. Not as cheap as a diner, but not as bad as a French restaurant.”
          He laughed aloud. “That leaves a lot of room in between. Sure. Haven’t splurged on anything lately.”
          During a dinner of Rueben sandwiches, I learned Carlos was twenty-two and single. He broke up with his long-time girlfriend about six months ago and wasn’t in a hurry to make another connection. I also learned he was more than a mere physical paragon, he was an interesting individual. That night I lay abed for a long time staring at my purloined poster and imagining Carlos was the dancer hanging on my bedroom wall.


           I beat Carlos to the sweat room by about ten minutes the next Monday afternoon and tried to ignore meaningful looks cast my way by an older man until he arrived. The youth whipped off his towel, glared until the man left, and then laughed as he sat down beside me.
          “You know he’s gonna think we’re getting it on, don’t you?” As if to emphasize his point, the door opened a crack and then slammed shut as Carlos snarled angrily.
          “I feel honored they believe you chose me over them.”
           “Some honor! How you been?”
          “Had a good week,” I said. “Got lots of work done. Think the sweat helped me last week, so I oughta try it again. And I figured you could provide protection with that fierce growl of yours.”
          After the steam leached most of the moisture from us, we went to a diner that fit his wallet better than the deli. Carlos was pleasant company in addition to being great to look at. He was willing to share his history without being garrulous. I found myself genuinely liking him and suggested we try the sauna in my apartment building. He agreed to give it a try on Friday.
          The next four days had trouble passing, but eventually made it. Carlos buzzed from the lobby precisely at six o’clock, and we enjoyed a crab salad I’d prepared and a bottle of good wine before we swaddled ourselves in terrycloth robes to walk on clogs two floors down to the sauna. Carlos liked the dry heat; I appreciated it because it was easier to study him without a room full of swirling steam. With towels draped demurely over us in case one of the women tenants happened by, we sat overlong in the place, partly because I did not want the evening to end.
          The sauna enervated me so much that Carlos reached our landing half a floor ahead of me. He grinned down the stairwell and muttered something about a pantywaist. We showered in separate baths and then met in the den. After putting some mellow music on the stereo, we settled in a couple of easy chairs to admire the view outside the windows and sip a cold brew. The easy, companionable atmosphere ended with both of us nodding off in our chairs. I woke around midnight and showed him to a bed. He slept soundly in my guestroom while I tossed and turned because the handsome young man I wanted lay naked on the other side of the wall.

*****
Confrontation! Now what will come of it? There’s a budding friendship… will there be more? Questionable because of Carlos’ adverse reaction to gays. Next week, we’ll learn the answer.

The fifth book in my BJ Vinson mystery series, Abaddon’s Locusts, came out on the 22nd of this month. I hope you’ll consider buying a copy. If you do, please post a review of the book on Amazon. Each one helps… as do letters to the publisher.

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

My personal links:

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter: @dontravis3

Buy links to Abaddon’s Locusts:


See you next week.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.


Thursday, January 17, 2019

Don Travis: The Dancer (Part 1 of 3 Parts)

Don Travis: The Dancer (Part 1 of 3 Parts): dontravis.com blog post #320 Courtesy of Wikipedia TO MY READERS : The “Contact” section has disappeared from my Web Site, so I h...

The Dancer (Part 1 of 3 Parts)


dontravis.com blog post #320

Courtesy of Wikipedia
TO MY READERS: The “Contact” section has disappeared from my Web Site, so I have no way of reading or responding to your comments. I’ve tried all the corrective suggestions by “experts” to no avail. Please make any comments directly to my personal email, dontravis21@gmail.com, until this situation is corrected. Thanks.

WARNING: Some readers will find language in the following story to be offensive, but it accurately represents at time that was—and in too many places, still is. Enjoy the story, don’t concentrate on such language.

*****
THE DANCER

          A call from my ex-wife venting her undiminished rage drove me out of the apartment into the streets of Manhattan. Melanie and I had met and married in college. Upon graduation, we moved into the apartment my folks had left me in a good high rise and pursued successful careers—me as a writer of how-to books and Mel as a nursing supervisor. I hadn’t realized how much trouble my marriage was in until her younger brother visited one weekend. His first night there, while Mel was working overtime, Brad sneaked into our bedroom and seduced me. The good-looking nineteen-year-old introduced something new into my life and drove me out of a stale marriage. He’d both liberated and crippled me, opening me to a new and exciting experience while leaving me with no idea how to replicate it.
          Mel’s phone call this otherwise pleasant early summer afternoon let me know she had learned of my liaison with her “little brother.” If only she knew! In addition to all my other sins, I had corrupted an innocent youth. Yeah, right.
          Nursing my frustration, I headed for my favorite place in the world… the public library. I fumed at the fates on the eight-block walk to my destination. Could I induce Brad to come back for a visit? Not likely, given the fact he’d spilled the beans to his sister. Should I visit a gay bar? The very thought shriveled my insides. Men’s rooms? They say men’s rooms are places homos go to meet. That thought brought me to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk. Is that what I had become? I resumed pacing, unsure of the answer.
           A vivid red and black poster advertising a flamenco troupe posted outside the public library caught my eye. A haughty young dancer stared out of the picture through smoldering eyes. His broad shoulders and unbelievably slender hips and accentuated groin instantly focused my desires and brought me into a state of physical discomfort. Glancing around guiltily, I was startled to find a man at my side eyeing me boldly. When he suggested what we could do for the handsome dancer… or for one another, I panicked and fled down the sidewalk.
          Realizing I had missed an opportunity to find what I yearned for, I turned back, but the pleasant-looking stranger was gone. Succumbing to a sudden urge, I did something totally out of character. The poster came away in my hand, although the corners ripped a little. A clerk at a nearby framing shop grumbled at my request for a rush job but assured me it could be trimmed and framed. An hour later, I carried my ill-gotten treasure into the apartment and hung it in my bedroom.
          The unknown young man’s whip-like body was as exciting as his features were handsome. A strong jawline saved his beautiful face from androgyny and made me wonder at his experiences with women—and men. Entranced, I stood before the picture and gave myself over to lust. The poster became my shrine. I spurned human contact and turned to the image of this young Adonis for my carnal needs. By late summer, I was content with my existence. I no longer hunted for something I didn’t know how to hunt


          One day, as I wandered the Times Square area in a moment of leisure, something caught my eye. My dancer! My poster strode down the sidewalk in jeans and shirt instead of a flamenco costume. I froze, caught my breath, and hastily fell in behind him. He moved in long, graceful strides—just as I had imagined—drawing me along helplessly in his wake.
          The tall youth turned into one of those Turkish baths that public health officials tried to close down years ago at the height of the AIDS epidemic. Heedless of anything other than catching a better glimpse of my quarry, I handed over the price of admission, accepted a large towel, and rushed inside. He stood stripping off his shirt in the locker room, exposing a long, muscled torso. Eventually, I recovered my wits enough to sit on a bench and remove my shoes.
          This was not my dancer, but it could have been. Hispanic, twenty or so, six-foot, hundred and seventy, broad back, narrow waist. He nodded a silent greeting. I smiled but took my cue from him and said nothing. He slipped jeans and briefs down his trim hips. He was breathtaking—a dark golden tan all over. The youth fixed a towel around his waist and disappeared through another set of doors.
          I sat on the bench, shaken by proximity to a real, live Lothario. What had his face looked like? No idea, except he was handsome. My attention had centered on his smooth chest, flat belly, and exciting nether regions.
          A banging locker startled me out of my trance. I undressed and rushed through the door, coming to an abrupt halt. A big room dominated by a huge swimming pool with lounges scattered around the edges teemed with men. Some were older, and all appeared to be on the hunt. A dozen predatory eyes fixed on me.
          I secured the towel around my waist and fought a wave of panic. Ignore them! Go about your business and ignore them. Go about my business? My business was ogling a young man the way these guys were gaping at me. I strode through the room studiously avoiding eye contact. As I reached the far doors, a man rose from one of the lounges and started my way. Seeking to put distance between us, I more or less blundered into the steam room. There was one occupant. My young man. Totally naked, he sat on his towel and leaned back against the wooden platform, legs splayed. He opened his eyes long enough to give me a quick, irritated look. I took a seat opposite him, winced at the heat of the wooden bench, and emulated him by sitting on my towel.

*****
Many years ago, I visited a New York Turkish bath, and it scared the hell out of me. My tender Oklahoma roots weren’t built for such aggressive soil. I scooted right back out of there, but it looks like our hero—Rob’s his name, by the way—is made of sterner stuff. Of course, he’s pursuing a dream. I was merely a timid youth exploring the unknown and the unfamiliar.

Tune in next week to see if anything develops between Rob and his flamenco dancer look-alike.

Abaddon’s Locusts--my fifth BJ Vinson mystery series book--comes out on the 22nd. Hope you’ll get a copy of it. If you do, please post a review of the book on Amazon. Each one helps… as do letters to the publisher.

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

My personal links:

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter: @dontravis3

Buy links to Abaddon’s Locusts:


See you next week.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.


Blog Archive