Thursday, August 25, 2022

Splendid Desolation, Part 2 of 4 Parts (A Repost) blog post #564

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 Last week, our bear, Vince Lozander, returned to the Continental Divide Bar at Chesty Westy’s Truck Stop in a ordinary truck, not his usual semi. He’s retired from trucking and going to operate a produce mar in California. But on his way out, he couldn’t resist stopping at one of his favorite stops, Chesty Westy’s Truck Stop with it’s Continental Bar out back. Instead of another bear, he finds himself squiring a smooth twink named Davy Winston, who looks like a fish out of water. Set’s see what happens next.




I showed Davy the Blue Room with a blonde UNM grad student and a smooth-skinned Navajo on the stage. Davy’s eyes bugged at the tiny G-strings struggling to cover their privates. We found a couple of seats, and I watched him with interest as he took in the show.

“I thought bears liked big, hairy boys,” he said eventually, sounding like he had a catch in his throat. His eyes never wavered from the two male bodies on the stage.

I laughed aloud. “You guys dance better,” I responded, watching him closely.

His eyes flicked to me momentarily, and he swallowed hard. “You a bear? You don’t look like one. I mean,” he hastened to add, “you don’t have a beard, and you’re not fat, and… Aw, I’m not saying this right.”

“I’m big,” I said, playfully pumping my biceps for him. “And I’ve got a rug under my shirt. I’m a bear, all right. All the way.”

“I…” he faltered. “You may be big, but you’re not fat.”

“Two eighty. But I try to keep it all muscle.” I made a quick decision. Might as well introduce him to the rest of the Eagle. “Come on. Show you something.”

“Where we going?”

“You wanna see bears, I’m gonna show you bears.”

As we passed through the crimson door to the Eagle Bar’s real den of iniquity, the kid stopped like he was pole axed. The Red Room is the action arena at the Continental Divide Eagle. Little private alcoves lined the fringes, and sturdy backless divans occupied the middle where men lounged like Romans at a feast. And it was a feast. Naked bodies undulated in a tangle of erotic pleasure.

I grabbed Davy by the arm and led him to one of the unoccupied alcoves. The kid followed along blindly, his head swiveling to take in the action at the other sofas. He finally sat down beside me as if in a daze, but he sure came alive when I touched him.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, brushing my hand away and looking around wildly.

It took a moment to realize he didn’t object to being handled; he just wasn’t comfortable doing it in public. Or maybe he was just being coy.

“I always heard bears don’t go for guys like me,” he said.

“Normally, I’d prefer the sergeant over there doing his buddy. But sometimes a little change is exciting.”

“Don’t you have someplace private we can go?”

“We can get a room, I guess.”

“How about your truck? You’re a trucker, aren’t you?”

“A week ago, I’d have said yes. But I sold my rig and bought a pickup.”

“Can we use it?” he asked, but I sensed disappointment.

The guy wanted to do it in the sleeping space of a semi. I wondered how long that had been a secret dream of his. The mental image of my six-four frame laid out in my pickup’s passenger compartment brought a chuckle.

“The truck bed, maybe, but no way in the cab. They’d have to use the Jaws of Life to pry us out.”

“That would be okay, wouldn’t it? The bed, I mean. You can spread out, and I’ll make it good for you. I promise, Vince.”

“Doing it in public in the Red Room of the Eagle Bar is one thing, kid. The back of a pickup in a public parking lot is something else.”

“We can drive out to some place private, can’t we? I really want to do you, Vince. I’ve never had a bear before.”

I motioned to the center of the room. “Let’s go out there. You can have a cheering section all your own.”

“I…I can’t. Not with everyone watching.”

“Lots more comfortable here in the alcove. Not so public.”

He glanced around doubtfully. “Uh-uh. Still too many prying eyes.”

I sighed and got to my feet. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“You won’t regret it, big guy.”

I’m not certain, but I think he flushed. Hard to tell in a room full of red lights.


I blinked hard and glanced up into a cloudless sky, wincing at the strength of the sun. Where the hell was I? This was pure desert. What in the world had happened? I struggled to sit up, surprised by the unexpected weakness I experienced. My trousers were down around my ankles; my shirt was open. I’d apparently had a hell of a time before something happened that left me lying half-naked in the desert sand.

I got uncertainly to my feet and pulled my clothing into place, struggling to remember. Bits and pieces came back slowly. My name was Vince Lozander. Thirty-five…no thirty-six. I’d had a birthday last month. From Arkansas. Now on my way to San Diego. Sold my rig and bought a pickup. My pickup! Where the hell was my Ram? I looked around wildly. I could see for miles. High desert country. Nothing. No highway, no buildings…no pickup!

“Son of a bitch!” I cursed, beginning to remember. I’d been at the Continental Divide Eagle Bar last night. Met somebody new…a damned twink! Davy something or the other. We’d gone to the pickup because he was too shy to get it on in the Red Room. Too shy my fuzzy ass! He’d set me up.

I vaguely recalled driving a couple of miles and pulling off I-40 into the evergreen forest that dotted the high continental divide country. Then we’d got in the bed of the pickup and had a romp on a couple of blankets. The kid had been as good as his word. And then…and then….

Damn! He’d pulled a bottle out of the backpack he’d grabbed at the door when we left the bar and offered me a drink. Thirsty from all the action, I’d taken a big slug, and that’s the last thing I remember.

Son of a bitch! I’d been carjacked! The fucker was a crook. A criminal. That’s why he’d looked so disappointed when I said I’d sold my rig. He was looking to heist a hundred-thousand-dollar container, not a twenty-five-thousand-dollar pickup! Brazen little bastard had screwed me… and not in a good way!

It smarted a little that a pipsqueak I outweighed by a hundred pounds had not only dared take me on; he’d also succeeded. He’d doped my ass, rolled me out of the bed of my Dodge, and abandoned me in the middle of the desert. I took another look around. I was probably still in New Mexico. The horizon didn’t have the look of the Arizona Sonoran Desert. Wasn’t the malpais or lava tube country around Grants either. The bastard likely headed back toward Albuquerque and then turned south off the Interstate at one of the exits. Shit! Just plain shit! Wait until I caught up with the little twink!

That thought hauled me up short. Hey, man, this might be serious. The desert is a deadly place. And here I was in the middle of this desolation without water, without a windbreaker for the cold night, without cover from the blistering sun. Had he left me to die or just tucked me away somewhere nearby to give himself a lead?

With a sigh, I closed my eyes and called upon the reserves that had served me over the last ten years of long-distance trucking…my inner strength. After a moment of intense concentration, I felt power flow back into my limbs. I was shrugging off the effects of the drug…whatever the hell it had been.

Then I looked around the immediate vicinity. There were tire tracks all over the place. What the hell had gone on? Then I understood. Davy had driven around tearing up the countryside to make it harder to follow his tracks back out.

Taking an oblique look at the sun, I calculated north, assuming that was the direction I-40 lay. Pissed but not yet worried, I struck out in that direction. By noon, my tongue was swollen, and what little saliva I could bring up was thick with mucus. I hadn’t encountered a living thing except an occasional buzzard wheeling about in the sky, a placid Gila monster, and a huge, ill-tempered rattlesnake. Was every creature in this God-forsaken place sinister?

The oppressive, ever-present, overwhelming heat soon chased all other concerns from my consciousness. My skin felt as if it were cracking. I recalled reading that certain desert succulents were sources of water, but when I stomped one likely-looking spiny plant to a pulp, the small amount of revolting moisture it held convinced me it wasn’t one of those.

Forgetting about snakes and other poisonous creatures, I propped my head against a stone at nightfall and fell to sleep instantly. I woke freezing to death and vainly tried to warm myself by igniting the few dried plants revealed by the moonlight. As I shivered against the cold and listened to the far-off, lonely cry of some creature with a voice…probably a coyote. It made more sense to travel by night to keep warm and rest by day in the shade of anything that cast a shadow.

Deliriously happy when the morning sun broke the eerie loneliness of the night, I was cursing the burning orb two hours later. Every scrap of rare shade was host to a bunch of creatures unhappy over sharing space. Lizards and snakes and scorpions make poor neighbors. Unable to sit still, I staggered off cross-country again, taking step after painful step until I finally collapsed. By the end of that second day, I was on my last legs. As I drifted off into unconsciousness in the freezing night air, the realization I might not see the sunrise didn’t bother me a whit.


Wow, a twink took on a bear… and came out on top. Looks like Vince is in trouble. Tune in next week to see how he gets himself out of this situation.

 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, August 18, 2022

Splendid Desolation, Part 1 of 4 Parts (A Repost) blog post #563

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Thanks for the comments on last week’s guest post from Donald T. Morgan’s The Eagle’s Claw. I’ve read the book several times and enjoyed learning more details with each re-reading. Thanks, Don.


Today, I’m going to do a repost of a story I wrote in 2019 and posted in four parts beginning on Thursday, May 19,2019. I don’t usually repost stories that take multiple readings, but this one caught my eye, and for some reason I wanted to post it again. Maybe it’s because Chesty Westy’s Truck Stop at the Continental Divide shows up in a couple of my stories and one of my books. At any rate, here goes.




I-40 West out of Albuquerque climbed to a bright blue sky for nine straight miles, and then more or less kept its head up all the way to the Continental Divide in western New Mexico. I’d trucked it so many times, I could handle it with my eyes closed, and over the last ten years might well have done just that once or twice. But now my bobtail was gone, and I was wrangling a brand-new Dodge Ram extended cab three-quarter ton. Felt funny going cross-country without looking down from a rig on ordinary citizen in four-wheelers and pickups. Heck, now I was one of them guys.

I set my cruise control and thumbed my nose at all the plain wrappers and blue wrappers and county Mounties that used to give me goose bumps. There’s a little less tension when there’s not a load for the tin-totters and DT’s to check. I could drive twenty-four hours straight, and it wasn’t nobody’s business…unless I got foolish and wiped up the road with my new wheels. Took some getting used to. The first two days out, I automatically started checking my back door when I came up on ten hours of straight driving. I guess it comes down to once a trucker, always a trucker.

The other side of that’s true, too. Once a bear, always a bear. So the first roadside billboard for Chesty Westey’s Truck Stop advertising fuel, mechanics, clean rooms, hot showers, and anything else a tired trucker might crave revved my motor a little. The second, ten miles down the road, highlighted Tia Maria’s Homestyle Cooking, and everything they claimed about it was true. Pure ‘Grandma’ cooking, and it didn’t matter if your grandma was named Lucy or Amée or Sooky or Esther or Wu…old Marie Tuxburry whipped up meals like all of them.

The last sign was a garish plug for the Continental Divide Eagle Bar that sprawled beyond the arroyo behind the truck stop. The filling station and café and mini motel that came before were merely lures to the gigantic bear den where truckers and bikers and military men co-existed like bosom buddies, not the natural adversaries they were. What made the difference? The bar, of course. Or more accurately, the bears that hibernated there.

Nobody’s ever been able to adequately define a bear for me. For every hairy hulk, I can show you one without a pelt. For every beer belly, I can show you a waist thick with muscles. For every giant, I can locate a midget. It’s the attitude, I think. A good-buddy, live-and-let-live philosophy most of us possess. Now, sometimes, something can upset that formula, like too much alcohol or a roving cub…or even a woman now and then. But at Chesty Westey’s, the Peterbuilts nuzzle Hogs flanked by Jeeps as peaceably as their navigators get along behind its adobe walls.

After I’d washed up and topped off the gas tank at the truck stop, I pushed through the heavy front doors of the Eagle. The blue wall of smoke parted like the Red Sea as I crossed the threshold and then swirled to enfold me in the comfortable miasma of the den…men, alcohol, chicken fried steaks, and sex. I was home. In the momentary blindness of the deep gloom, the rumble of conversation, clink of glass, and throaty laughter of barmaids rendered me deaf. Constant, shadowed, undulating motion made me think of a vast boiling cauldron.

As a veteran, I knew enough to detour to the left of the big double doors to pay court to the shapeless mass of black flesh decked out in cotton field-blue bib overalls that must have been cut out of a tent.

“Sweetie,” I addressed the Queen of Sheba who had managed the joint for as long as I had been coming here on cross-country hauls. I suspected most people figured this gargantuan hulk came by his name by virtue of his high-pitched voice and outrageous feminine mannerisms; I happened to know, it was a corruption of the dude’s last name, Sweetwater.

The shining ebony mound quivered, gave a loud gasp, and flashed an ivory smile that reminded me of a chipped keyboard. “Vince Lozander!” he shrieked. “As I live and breathe! Where have you been, you luscious mass of man muscle? Sit your bear ass down right here and bring Sweetie up to date!”

Sliding into a chair behind a ridiculously small table, I complied. “I threw in the towel, Sweetie. Sold the old bobtail. Got tired of dodging Mounties and alligators and the Transportation dicks.”

The black raisins that served as the man’s eyes glittered. “You send all them Transportation dicks you don’t want old Sweetie’s way. I take care of them for you.”

“Now, Sweetie, you know I mean dicks as in pricks…not as in dongs.”

The manager gave a shrill giggle. “All the same to me, honey. But what you gonna do with your cute ass if it ain’t riding the saddle?”

“Opening a produce store near San Diego. Been hauling the stuff for years, so now I’ll let it haul me all the way to retirement.”

“Gonna miss your pretty face in this old cave. You better haul ass back here now and then to keep up with your buds.”

“Sweetie, you’re the only person in the world who considers me pretty. Now bring me up to date on everybody.”

The man absently stroked his long, grey-flecked Methuselah beard as he gave me news oF truckers he knew were important to me, people like Tree Trunk Martone, Hillbilly Dawson, and Pardo Folsom. Half an hour, a gallon of beer, and a bucket of sweat later—Sweetie would sweat at the North Pole—he finished his newscast.

“Anything new and interesting?”

Sweetie rolled his eyes and pursed his chocolate pudding lips, motioning across the cavernous expanse of the bar’s main room, merely one of the many in the meandering adobe building. “I’m trying to figure that one out. He don’t belong.”

My gaze fixed on a young man who, from this distance, appeared to be a twink…a creature ill-fitted to a bear den like this. “What’s his story?”

“Dunno. He wandered in around noon and been cadging drinks ever since. But he’s sly about it. At first, he bought his own, but when he flashed an empty wallet, the guys started springing. These sweethearts can’t stand to see a man run dry…know what I mean?”

“Yeah.” And I did. This cave’s denizens didn’t go for leaches, but they were quick to help a guy down on his luck. Wondering what tale the kid was feeding them, I lumbered to my feet. “Gonna make the rounds now, Sweetie. Catch you later.”

“Behave,” he gave his customary benediction.

With a mug of fresh beer in hand, I circulated, talking to a few good-buddies and meeting new ones. Trading blue blazers with this bunch passed some pleasant time. Eventually, I confronted the young stranger Sweetie had pointed out. Up close, he was pretty, saved from being girlish by an intriguing Adam’s apple. He was definitely a fish out of water. A smoothie in a bear den was apt to be tossed out on his ear. The kid’s blond thatch wasn’t a military haircut, but he could have been an underclassman at UNM who wandered in from Albuquerque by mistake. On impulse, I stuck out my hand. He met my grip and tried to leverage it, but he was no match for my big mitt. He couldn’t have stood more than five-ten and weighed one-seventy or less. Downright puny. Of course, his body had more definition than anyone else in the joint, including the Air Force MPs from Kirtland and the grunts from Fort Huachuca over in Arizona. Maybe he aspired to be one of those male dancers they had in the Blue Room but was too shy to ask Sweetie for a job. For some screwy reason the bears I know like their men big and beefy, and probably with lots of hair, but they go nuts cheering slender-hipped boy dancers on weekends.

“Vince Lozander,” I offered.

“Davy,” he responded with a boyish grin. “Davy Winston.”

“What brings you to the Eagle?” I asked affably.

“Hitching, and I thought the truck stop looked interesting.”

“Bet you didn’t know it was a bear den. Must have been a shock when you came through the door.”

He laughed aloud, lighting up his good-looking face. “Especially when I ran into that big black gorilla guarding the door. Thought for a minute he wasn’t gonna let me in. Looked at my driver’s license real hard.”

“Sweetie manages the place, and he takes his job very seriously. You don’t have a glass in your hand. What’re you drinking?”

I bought a pitcher and led the kid through the main bar into one of the side rooms where the noise level was a decibel or two lower and the smoke cloud was a mite thinner. We found an unoccupied table and settled in. In a nutshell, Davy was thumbing his way to California to visit a college buddy. He’d left Texas after the car plant where he was working cut production. “Outsourced,” he announced with a nose wrinkled in disdain.

It was soon obvious he was fishing for a ride, but I wasn’t ready to commit. Now if he had another fifty pounds and a mat of fur, he’d already be in the cab of my pickup. Still, there was something about the good-looking fucker that intrigued…an air about him. There was a mystery here yet to be revealed.



Looks like Vince has glommed onto a twink. Wonder what he’ll do with him. We’ll find out next week.

 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, August 11, 2022

The Eagle’s Claw, a Guest Post blog post #562

 Book Cover:


Hope you enjoyed Markey’s story. Went from a cute kid to a sultry seducer in three easy installments.


This week, I want to offer another look at fellow Okie author Donald T. Morgan’s Ebook, The Eagle’s Claw. Some time ago, I gave you a glimpse of the prologue, now let’s look at Chapter 1where we meet protagonist Román Otero (or Ro as he comes to be known) as a child. The book is the story of a half-breed boy growing into manhood with a foot in two different worlds, both of which deal him trouble.





By Donald T. Morgan


 After foraging what seemed half the reservation, Román came up with only six empties: three strawberry, two Grapette, and a Coke with a chip in it. If only someone would pay for the beer bottles littering the ground, he’d be full of food and candy all the time. Booze wasn’t allowed on the reservation, but that didn’t stop the bootleggers. He picked up a long-necked beer bottle and put an eye to the amber mouth. Pretty. He shoved his tongue into the opening and sucked noisily. It was as dry as Barranca Seca in June. He tossed the bottle aside.

The store in White Pine wasn’t open yet, so he played in the mud puddle beneath a faucet for a quarter of an hour before it occurred to him to wash his face and hands. When the place finally opened, he swapped the empties for a full bottle of strawberry. Like he figured, the man refused to pay for the nicked Coke bottle.

He collected his scrawny pony and rode deep into Dead Scout Canyon where the mare could graze while he nursed his drink. It was no longer cold, but he didn’t mind. Warm soda pop made him burp, and he liked to burp. The bubbly water filled an empty belly better than anything. And red strawberry was the best of all. A man would never be hungry if he could buy four bottles a day.

For no reason other than his thoughts were so bent, he belched loudly, once in each cardinal direction, beginning in the east as all things begin and proceeding as the hands of a white man’s clock move. The ritual complete, he drained the bottle and dropped it on a rock.

The noise flushed a woolly spider from beneath the flat stone. Román nudged the creature with his toe. It scooted sideways on eight hairy legs and then froze. Cane-Woman said that if you killed a spider, its relatives would try to kill you. And his grandmother knew about such things. He hesitated, his foot suspended above the tiny animal. Abruptly, he dropped his heel.

“The white man at the Agency did it. The one with fuzzy hair that’s falling out on top,” he lied to the dead spider and all its kin. For emphasis, he nodded in the direction of the Indian Affairs Office in the settlement. There. That should fool the spiders. They weren’t very smart.

When he began moving again, he sensed he was not alone in the canyon. The hair on the back of his neck and the faint clink of stone from the deep shadows told him so. In that moment, he felt a kinship with ancestors who lived when danger covered the earth like a blanket. He decided to stay…even though the image of a huge Grandfather Spider bent on revenge crawled across his mind.

After tying the mare to a piñon, he headed for an outcrop where he could hide. Maybe the presence was other than natural. For years, he’d listened to tales of the Mana, the Great-Power-Flooding-the-Universe, and of the ga’an, the Mountain Spirits of his grandmother’s winter stories. Everybody said Cane-Woman knew Eagle, and that he gave her great power, although Román wasn’t exactly sure how that worked. But things might not be the same anymore. Was this world the same as when the Old Way prevailed? He frowned as he recognized the words of Miss Marshall, his last year’s teacher. Did his mind belong to the Indah woman now?

The mare whinnied and danced at the end of her reins. Whatever shared the canyon was near. His eyes raked the tufa above him. He saw nothing that didn’t belong. Ashamed of cowering behind rocks, he rose and poked his head over the boulder. Below him, he saw his “presence.” No supernatural shared the canyon with him. It was only Clarence Wolf sneaking up on his pony. He didn’t like Clarence very much. A year older and almost twice Román’s size, Clare-Ass wasn’t just a Dumbo. He was a bully, to boot.

Feeling cheated his interloper was merely human—and an inferior one, at that—he scooped up a handful of stones and ran down the hill raining missiles upon his enemy. The bigger youngster retreated before the barrage to a more sheltered place. They settled down to throwing rocks at one another with only sporadic accuracy until the morning failed and his stomach began growling again. The sport gone from the half-serious game, he reclaimed the mare and wandered off, leaving his enemy to hurl obscenities at his back.

Abandoning the high canyon to his foe, Román ranged down from the Capuchas onto the edge of the desert. The noise in his gut grew stronger. Chewing a wad of sap from a wounded piñon provided a little relief. He eyed a colony of prairie dogs, but they were such wary little creatures he didn’t even unwind the slingshot tied around his waist.

He rode the mare down the steep side of Split Nose Gulch and came up out of the gully hungrier than ever. He reined in and listened. Had he heard something? No, it was just his head playing tricks on him. His head must be hungry too.

Then from far away, so faint the wind must have whispered in his ear, he heard a voice. He scouted and found nothing. Perhaps the ga’an toyed with him. Or was it the One-Great-God-Who-Was-Three they talked about at the settlement church? Weird. Three was such a strange number. He preferred four. Four was good and natural. Four was the ritual number of his people.

There it was again. Closer now. A cry for help. He skirted a clump of juniper and cut the trail of a horse. Curiosity set him to following the tracks. The hoof prints made straight for Blind Man’s Arroyo, an enormous ditch snaking down the foothills that carried the spring runoff to the distant river. He dismounted, stepped to the brink, and peered over the edge.


I’ve read the book, and it’s well worth the read. You can find it on Amazon.

 See you next week.

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, August 4, 2022

Markey (Part 3 of 3 Parts) blog post #561

Image Courtesy of


Well, Markey has offered himself, but can Daniel let go of his fallen love and accept. Let’s find out.




“I waited for you,” Markey added. “I mean I haven’t done it with anybody. Three guys wanted to get with me, but I turned them down.”

“Three guys in Victor?” I asked incredulously. There couldn’t have been three gays in that little burg, but, of course, it wouldn’t just be gays trying to climb this guy’s butt. Markey could make straights cream in their britches by just blinking those sable lashes...and he probably didn’t even know it.

“Yeah, in Victor and, you know, on football trips. But I always said no because I was afraid it would make the picture I had of you…of us…go away.”

“What about girls?”

“Well, I sort of did it to one.”

I laughed aloud. “How do you sort of do it to a girl?”

His giggle was a release of nervous energy. “By trying it in the backseat of a car and not getting it in her very good. I came all over both of us.”

“And you never went back to give it a proper try?”

His eyes glistened. “Too embarrassed. And besides, it wasn’t like I thought it would be…like it would be with us. You know, you’n me.”

“Kid, do you know what you’re saying?”

“Making a fool out of myself, I guess. But, Daniel, I know what I want.”

“And if you get it, it’ll be like with that girl, a disappointment. You’ve got this romantic picture painted in your head, and that’s not the way it will be. There’ll be smells and emissions and sweat and grunting and—”

“Oh, man, I hope so! But that doesn’t mean it won’t be good, does it?”

That gave me pause. “Kid, it’ll be earth-shaking for me, but I’m not sure how it will turn out for you. Nobody can know…not up front. And remember one thing. We could end up not being friends any more.”

He wrinkled his nose in the darkness. “How come? Why wouldn’t we be friends? I mean, after something that awesome?”

“You might be so disgusted you won’t want to lay eyes on me again.”

“Maybe I don’t really know how I’ll feel afterward, but one thing I know for damned sure. I’ll always want you for my friend, Daniel. You’re a habit, man.”

“Yeah, but maybe I’m a bad habit.”

“No way.” It got awfully quiet in the back of the SUV. Then he spoke again. “Course, you probably don’t want me for a friend now you know I’m qu…uh, feel that way about you. But I finally got it out in the open, and it’s been clogging up my insides for as long as I can remember. I just hope I don’t pay too big a price for opening my big mouth.”

He stirred restlessly as I grappled for an answer. I could have ignored my raging lust and eased him away gently, but he deserved honesty.

“No, Markey. You won’t lose my friendship. If you don’t know by now that I’ve got feelings for you, too, then I’m a better actor than I thought.”

“You do?” he asked eagerly, those big eyes flashing ebony light like an otherworld alien. He reached for me but lost his nerve; his hand fell into the space between us.

“Yeah, I do. How could I not?  You’re so fucking handsome…and sexy.”

“I am?” The amazement was genuine. He had no idea how hunky he was. “So…so what do we do now?”

“Markey, if you insist on this, then you’re going for one hell of a ride. When you come out the other side you’ll either be dazzled or revolted. Whichever way it is, I’m still available for friendship. I just hope you are.”

I rose to my elbow and leaned over him. His eyes were huge, questioning, expectant. I lowered my lips to his, catching him by surprise. He drew a sharp breath. After a moment, he relaxed beneath my touch. Then he returned the kiss, his lips softening, his mouth parting, his tongue timidly exploring. In an explosion of breath, I ground my lips against his, glorying in the electricity of the moment. When I drew away, he came with me, holding onto my neck. He was halfway out of the sleeping bag, his naked torso exciting even in the semi-darkness. On his knees, he rolled his jockeys down over his thighs. The shiny glans of an engorged cock caught the moonlight, a glistening pearl of precum at the slit.

Markey fell atop me, sending his thick erection down my throat. His cry of pleasure conjured images of another cock, a fat, throbbing column of living flesh I would never again be privileged to take. With a sob, I threw him on his back and examined him. He was larger than Beet…everything that mattered was measured against Warren Borak…but not as thick through the root. I tongued the slit and slipped my lips over the bulbous crown, slowly riding the shaft to his groin, burying my nose in his clean, black bush, drawing cries of astonishment from his cherry lips. I slowly climbed the pole, keeping up a slight suction as I reached the end. Then I tongued the underside down into his testicles. His legs spasmed before opening to my touch. I took the stones in my mouth, testing their firmness. Innocence, I thought. This was what innocence tasted like…firm, strong, clean, pulsing, exciting…fucking wonderful!

“Oh, Daniel!” he moaned as I moved a hand over his lean chest. “Oh, man!  Oh, Danny!  Oh…oh…oh…”

I came off him and licked my way to his chest with his excited cock throbbing against my chest. He shivered when I licked a nipple and groaned when I nipped the other. His breath came in ragged pants, his chest heaved. A fine sheen of sweat on his forehead shone in the gloomy truck.

“Do it again,” he begged, his broad hands on my shoulders, pushing me back down his torso. I laughed softly as I tongued him all the way down into his curly bush. I held his bucking cock steady and went to work on earnest, washing the big glans and bobbing up and down on the shaft rhythmically. But it was another cock I took down my throat. A familiar shaft, a loving, comfortable column of flesh. I moaned his name in my head…Beet!  Beet!  Beet!”

“Ohhh, Daniel!  I…I didn’t know it would be…be so…so good!”

Finally, I began to discern differences. This column was longer, harder to take to the root. The aroma was different, the verbal entreaties not so gruff, the hands cradling my head more gentle. Beet slowly departed, bestowing a crooked smile on his successor.

Then, as his thinner, younger baritone vocalized his ecstasy, it was Markey I was pleasuring. I clasped his buttocks and pulled him up, lifting him off the floor of the vehicle. With a groan, he thrust his hips, driving this big cock into me, coming with a mighty roar and a geyser of tangy cum. The force of his contractions drove gouts of semen down my throat, almost strangling me. For a moment, I thought he had gone into convulsions. His body thrashed in my hands. He whined as he tried to force himself farther down my throat. Then he suddenly collapsed back onto the sleeping bag. Had he not been gasping desperately for oxygen, I would have feared he’d died of his efforts.

I held him in my mouth as that magnificent hard-on slowly softened. Giving the slit a final lick, I sat up beside him. His arm was across his eyes; my worst fears were realized. He was repulsed by shame and fear. Shame at flaunting convention; fear of deviant longings.

Ignoring my own painful erection, I moved back to my own bag.

“Danny…uh, Daniel?” A hand caught my arm.

I paused. “Yeah, kid?”

“Can I try it?  I mean, I won’t do it good like you did, but can I try?”

“You want to suck me?” I asked, a smile lifting the corners of my mouth.

“Blowjob. They call it a blowjob, don’t they?” He peeked out from beneath his arm.

I laughed aloud. “You bet they do! And don’t worry about doing a good job. Touch me with those handsome lips, and I’ll cum all over everything.”

He pushed me on my back and hovered over me. Timidly, he tongued a nipple. I shivered in delight. After giving attention to the other one, he laid his head on my chest.

“You did this with him, didn’t you?”

“Him? You mean Beet?” I considered lying, but this wasn’t the time for it. “Yeah. How did you guess?”

“You said his name.”

I laughed again. “I had a mouth full of cock at the time, how could you tell?”

He shrugged against my chest, sending goose bumps down my frame. “I just could.”

I pulled him up to me. “Yeah, I did. I called to him. I had a ghost to lay away, Markey. And do you know what? He approves.”

“He does? He approves me?”

“Absolutely, you handsome fucker.”

“Can I try it now? I’ll probably gag a lot, will that turn you off?”

“Gag all you want, my friend—”

“Lover,” he interrupted me. “We went way beyond being friends tonight. I’m your lover now.”

Amazed at the confidence in his young voice, I tousled his hair. “Lover. I like the sound of that.”

“Mmmm,” he answered, slipping his lips over my leaking dick. He gagged, tried again, and did better the second time. Then he came up and looked at me. “Did you do the other thing, too?  You know, doing it to one another?”

“Yeah, we did,” I answered, shoving his head down on me.

There was some more sucking and gagging. He came up again. “Are we going to do that, too?”

“You bet your good-looking ass!” I said. “But first you gotta finish this.

“Okay,” he said with a grin and went back to work.

I’ve always had good orgasms, and those with Beet Borak were earth shaking. The first one with Marcus Markey didn’t quite rise to that level, but it would only get better. Even as I exploded, and he valiantly struggled to take everything I could deliver, I fantasized about that other thing he was anxious to try.


And there you have it. Sexy Markey thinks Daniel has done him a favor—you know, showing him the ropes—but I’d say Markey did as much for the former SEAL as the other way about. Maybe that’s what a good relationship is supposed to be. Any thoughts?

See you next week.

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