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.

Thursday, September 2, 2021

The Old Man Across the Street (Part 2 of 2 Parts) blog post #513

 Photo Courtesy of Depositphotos

Amazing how lonely one can be in the midst of friends and neighbors. All it takes is the removal of a precious one. Let’s see what happens next. You will recall that Joey has just left for his first nine weeks of army boot camp.




I tried in vain to tamp down my rising excitement. Joey was coming home on a week’s leave after finishing his first nine-week boot camp. Calm down, Warren. He’ll have so many friends to see, there’ll be no time for the old man across the street. Louise probably wouldn’t even get enough of his attention. Nonetheless, my heart started pounding the moment I spotted the taxi pull up in front of the Armitage home. I literally had to sit down to keep from rushing across the street and intruding on Joey’s reunion with his mother. I rose from my chair half a dozen times only to force myself to go get a drink of water or grab a handful of peanuts… anything to keep from walking out the door and crossing the street. Would he come see me before he started circulating among his friends? Probably not. The attraction of youth to youth was stronger than the draw of youth to age. And I suddenly felt every one of my sixty-three years. From my viewpoint, that wasn’t old. But to eighteen-year-old eyes, that likely seemed ancient.

I was rereading the two letters he’d sent me from boot camp when a rap on the door startled me. My heart raced, my hands lost control of the handwritten pages, dumping them on my desk. My knees almost refused to hold my weight as I got up.

Joey Armitage stood on my front doorstep, resplendent in slick sleeve khakis, the crossed rifles of the infantry glistening on his collar. The boy had become the man.

When I opened the screen, he brushed aside my handshake and enfolded me in a bear hug. “Mr. O,” he whispered in my ear. “Damn, it’s good to see you. I’ve missed you.”

“And I, you, my boy,” I squeezed past my voice box. I held him at arm’s length, noting that he was taller than I was. When did that happen? “Let me look at you.” I took in his full, smiling lips, his brilliant green eyes, and close-cropped brown hair and almost lost my voice again. “Well,” I managed to say, “they haven’t done any obvious damage to you.”

He laughed aloud. “Naw, it’s all on the inside. Actually, it wasn’t so bad.”

“Come in,” I said, backing away.

He headed straight for the den at the back of the house and declined something to drink as he sank into the usual chair he claimed when he was here. I immediately peppered him with questions about his experiences.

Joey lolled back in the chair, arms relaxed on the padded rests, legs splayed the way he’d sat in that chair a thousand times. He answered my questions easily, volunteering details and poking fun at his own reaction to things. It dawned on me that he was comfortable here. Totally at ease. Pride almost swamped me.

At length, there began to be lapses in the conversation, and panic almost overwhelmed me. Now he’d say he needed to go look up this friend or that one, and he’d be gone.

He fixed me with a green-eyed stare. Here it came.

“Mr. O… Warren.” That was the first time he’d ever called me by my Christian name. “I… I really meant it when I said I missed you.”

I started to speak, but kept my tongue still.

“Lots more than I thought.” He laughed. “Lot’s more’n a couple of letters worth.”

“I’m surprised you found the time to write two.”

“In my head, I wrote lots more than that.” A small silence built; one I was afraid to break. “I didn’t realize how important you were to me until… well, until you weren’t there. You know that I understand, don’t you?”

“Understand what?”

He didn’t answer directly. He studied his shiny, brown army boots. “I saw it on your face sometimes.”

I sat frozen.

He glanced up and met my eyes. “Sometimes I thought you’d talk about it, but you never did. Your secret, I mean.”

My stomach fell away. “Secret?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I met a guy before I graduated. At the park where some buds and I were playing ball. I went to the head, and he followed me inside. Made it obvious what he wanted. When I started to leave, he told me he knew who I was. Then he shook my world.”

With rising dread, I asked, “In what way?”

“He… he said he knew I was seeing you. Claimed he used to get with you, and that he could do it better for me that that old man across the street.”

My head went swimmy. I heard his voice as if from a well, remote, echoing. “J-Joey—”

He reached out and touched my arm. “I called him a dirty word and stormed out of there. Wasn’t much use on first base after that, and everybody wondered why.”

“What did you tell them?” My voice sounded weary to me.

“That some creep had tried to pick me up in the head. The whole team went looking for the guy then, but he’d already split.”

“You never saw him again?”


“Did… did—”

“Go ahead, ask me.”

“Did you get with him?”

Joey shook his head. “Nope. But you know what I told him. I said if I was gonna get with anyone, I’d get with Mr. O.”

My breath caught in my throat.

“And,” he went on. “That’s what I want to do now.”


He stood. Every inch the dominant male. “Right now.”

“Joey, you don’t have to—”

“Warren, I don’t have to do anything. But I’m my own man, and I can do what I want. Call it paying my debts, call it getting my rocks off. Call it anything you want, but it’s what I’m gonna do right now unless you tell me that disgusts you.”

“Joey, nothing you could ever do or say will disgust me. You’re too precious to me for that.”

“Now you know how I feel.”

With that, he slid from the chair and knelt before me. He looked askance before burying his head in my lap. I gasped at his touch, the enthusiasm of his embrace, the heat of his lips on my fly.

After a moment, he lifted his head and smiled. “Can we go to the bedroom?”

Incapable of speech, I nodded. He rose and pulled me from my chair. I followed him mutely. He hesitated only a moment before sitting on the side of the bed to unlace his boots, and then he performed a self-conscious but magic striptease. Each bit of flesh he revealed was familiar, yet different. The shoulders were broader, the chest deeper, the hips trimmer. And his manhood, which I’d seen in his younger years when he’d change to use my backyard pool, was totally different. A surprise. Here too, he exceeded my expectations. Once he stood naked, he reached for the buttons on my shirt.

“No, I can’t let you see me. My body’s… well, old. It’ll disgust you.”

“You’ll never be old to me. You’ll never disgust me.”

So I permitted him his way, and soon my sagging body was revealed to his fresh, young eyes. He put me on my back and hovered over me.

“Warren,” he murmured, “this is for everything you’ve done for me. For everything you mean to me.” And then he lowered his head. I gasped aloud at his moist touch. A feeling as I’ve never experienced swept over me. Unexpected joy. Undeserved delight. Surprise. Shock. Whatever it was, it brought tears to my eyes as I watched that handsome head move over me. I didn’t need to ask if he’d done this before. He hadn’t. He was inexperienced. Nonetheless, he was the best I’d ever had. I put a fist to my mouth to muffle my sobs as tears flooded my eyes while his act selfless generosity touched me right down where I lived.



Who would have thought it? Warren Ohlson certainly didn’t, but he’ll be forever grateful for Joey’s generosity. It’s truly something to carry with him into advancing old age. Something no one can ever take from him. I don’t know about you, but I’m proud of Joey for his selfless giving.

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