Thursday, November 30, 2023

Boy For Sale (Part 1 of 2 Parts) blog post #630

 Image Courtesy of  Depositphotos:


Hope everyone survived Turkey Day and got a kick out of my oddball story last week. Try to do better this week with another two-part short story.





Colin Ragner didn’t like the looks of the place. Side street bistros unsettled him. A middlin’ sized sign with dancing lights identified it as the Lost Soul’s Bar and Grill. He’d stood in the night shadows across the street for a quarter of an hour and watched the traffic. Men and women—and some individuals hard to pigeonhole—arrived as singles and departed as couples. If the joint wasn’t a gay bar, it was at least gay friendly. Not his kind of place.

Colin sighed. Didn’t matter. That’s where he had to go. He’d kept his mark waiting for fifteen minutes, now he needed to go inside. Tossing the cigarette he hadn’t smoked, just toyed with by rolling across his lips, he stepped into the street, avoiding a puddle. Rained most of the afternoon, merely overcast tonight.

The blue door swung open at the touch of his fingers. Oiled and balanced. Heavy and expensive. The entryway was properly dark. Management wanted just enough light to make everyone look good. Patrons wouldn’t see blotches and blemishes on their tryst for the night until lights went on in someone’s apartment later. Confirmed his impression. A hookup joint. Classy one, though.

A hefty black man stood unobtrusively near the door. Muscle on the lookout for hellions. Apparently, Colin didn’t register on his trouble meter. The man nodded courteously and allowed him through.

The bar—long, gleaming, and probably ebony—stretched along the right side of the room while the seating area opened to the left. No booths. Tables only. Linen covers. He’d hate to pay their laundry bill. The band stage stood vacant at the far end of the big room. Probably didn’t have live entertainment until weekends. There’d be a cover charge if musicians were performing, and no one had collected a penny when he entered.

A decent crowd ranging from black tie and gowns to poplin and denims sat around the place. Only six or so occupied stools at the bar. He spotted his mark among them and understood the meeting venue. The guy was blond and good looking, the kind who could lounge around for half a day waiting for the right hookup. Briefly, he wondered if the young man was really gay. Didn’t really matter. Colin knew a big sissy who could take on the entire Redskins line one at a time and be standing at the end… be it fighting or fornicating.

Colin took a seat at this end of the bar. Let the guy come to him. Be interesting to see his approach. Blondie had already spotted him, of that he was certain. He’d seen a flicker in the guy’s eyes in the big mirror that ran behind the bar.

His mark was not patient. As soon as Colin was served, he picked up his highball and moved down beside him. “Wagner?” An error or checking for accuracy.

“Ragner,” he said.

“Right, Ragner. I’m Tolliver. Thought for a while I was being stood up. But you were just being careful, right?”

“Could be.”

“You have what I’m looking for?”

Colin caught a glint of humor in the blue eyes. Gay. Definitely. Okay, that fit.

“Course not,” he answered. “Not about to bring that kind of money to a joint like this. Got more sense than that.”

The look of amusement deepened. “Oh, you want to get me off to yourself, do you?”

Colin played the game. “Didn’t figure you’d object to a hotel room.”

The grin turned into a broad smile. “Yours or mine?”

“Mine, I think.”

Tolliver raised his voice a bit. “So long as it has a bed.”

Playing to an audience, most likely. If not, there might be trouble in the offing.

“Well, Mr. Colin Ragner, I haven’t eaten, and they have a great menu here. Let’s take a table and order before we go to your place. On you, of course.”

Colin frowned. “I didn’t come to this joint for a meal. I came to do business. You have the kid?”

“Oh, you’re anxious to see our boy, aren’t you. He is a delicious handful, I can tell you.”

Colin lifted his head. “He’s okay?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t sell you damaged goods. Barton—that’s his name, you know—is one good-looking kid. Handsome of face and form, as they say. Just the right age. Eighteen. Gay but not a fem. Matter of fact, he’s downright macho. Off hand, I’d say the price is right.”

“Okay, then let’s stop screwing around and go get him.”

“After dinner. My first name’s Kevin, by the way. You can contain yourself long enough to dine with me, can’t you? Besides, you’re a hunky dude, Colin. I want everyone to see what a catch I made this evening. Jason, that’s the bartender, he’s already giving me a thumbs up. He might ask for your phone number before we leave. Not terribly handsome, but a body to die for.”

“Keep your dirty mouth shut, Tolliver.”

“Touchy, aren’t we?” The blond stood. “Let’s take a table now. I’m in the mood for a grilled salmon steak. With asparagus and sweet potato, I think.

Colin gritted his teeth and trailed the man to a table in the middle of the room. At least, the guy didn’t swish when he walked.



What’s going on here? Who is Colin Ragner, anyway? He obviously doesn’t cotton to gays, but he’s buying a boy? Either the guy’s a monster, or there’s something going on we don’t understand yet.

 All will be revealed next week. Until then, stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say... so say it! And for those of you who also read Mark Wildyr's blog, don't forget it was my mantra first!

Please check out my BJ Vinson murder mystery series starting with The Zozobra Incident and ending with The Cutie Pie Murders. I may be biased, but I think they'd make great Christmas gifts for the right person.

My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.


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

Thursday, November 23, 2023

A Bloodline of Saints and Sinners (Part 2 of 2 Parts) blog post #629

 Image Courtesy of Tubi:


First, happy Thanksgiving wishes to all. Don’t overeat… too much. It’s a good family day, so enjoy it.

 Last week, we met Prince (Christian name, not a title) Drexell and determined there was something odd about him. For one thing, he obsessed over his long bloodline stretching back to Eastern Europe… but masked (masked?) by the German name Drexell. Odd, right. At the moment, he’s on the hunt for blonde, pretty Miriam Hindleson but not having much luck. Let’s see what happens next.




Prince grew agitated with himself. What was taking so long? The woman was susceptible, he was certain of that. He’d tested Miriam in a hundred ways since he met her at a cocktail party six months ago. He’d played little games with the fetching blonde that very first night. Suggesting that she really didn’t dislike Scotch, after all, and watching her drink it for the rest of the evening instead of her usual bourbon.

And he’d talked her into a date or two, despite the feeling she was wary of him. He well understood there were those who could sense individuals like him the moment they met. He’d run into many of them over the length of his bloodline, but Miriam Hindleson did not appear to be one of them.

He thought back over the past few months. She did have a strong will beneath that polite, deferential exterior. He hadn’t managed to get a moment alone with her despite escorting her to a horrendously expensive—and mediocre—Broadway opening and an equally costly dinner at the Four Seasons. Close, but not quite. She’d faltered before closing the door to him the last time he’d taken her home. That was the reason he’d invited her out this evening. But she obviously had other plans and declined his offer. Let’s face it, she’d turned him down flat.

Perhaps it was the influence of that brunette from somewhere in the middle of the country, that Loretta Montrose who pulled Miriam another direction. Mayhap there was even a love affair between the two women, although he doubted it. He was sensitive to “those kinds” of people, and used it to his advantage when a particular young man caught his fancy.

No, but there was something between the two women. A closeness, an affinity that was unusual. Very well, he’d just have to try harder.


Miriam came to her senses as she walked the Avenue. Perhaps it was the rumble of traffic or passersby hailing one another. Or perhaps it was an alarm buried deep in her own subconscious. Whatever it was, she came to an abrupt halt and cried aloud, causing nearby pedestrians to give her a strange look.

“Watch it, lady!” one stroller warned as he detoured around her. Prince! For a moment, she thought it was Prince Drexell, but it wasn’t. Nonetheless, the conscious thought of the man she found strangely abhorrent sobered her. Abruptly, she reversed direction and fled back to her brownstone.


Prince refreshed his drink and settled back into his hair. After a refreshing sip, he closed his eyes, concentrated on a mental image of the lovely Miriam Hindler, and commenced his mantra.

“Come, my dear. Do not be afraid. Come to me. Come, come.”

It felt as if he were starting all over again, and he divined that was true. She’d eluded him, but he’d prevail yet.

“Come, come, come….”

He was tiring and about to give up for the night, when he sensed a response. Faint, but a response. Perhaps the Montrose woman had been with Miriam. If so, she was likely gone now. Yes… yes. The response was stronger, yet he sensed resistance. Concentrating harder, he threw his net wider, farther. Wider than ever before. Was he that hungry for this blonde vision? After all, he’d tasted many… a multitude during the course of his bloodline. But for some reason this perfectly ordinary woman had become an obsession.

He reconsidered his last thought. Ordinary? Yes… yes, she was. Extraordinary in looks, but everything else about her was rather common compared to other women he’d had. Highborn movers and shakers had beaten the path to his doorway. So why was this woman so resistant to his… embrace?

He didn’t know. And that was what made her so fetching. He grimaced as he concentrated so deeply it was almost painful. Muttering, whispering, repeating his mantra over and over again. “Come… come… come to me.

While he felt he was making progress, he was still taken aback at the ringing of his doorbell. A smile broke across his features. Success. She was here. Strange that he did not sense it. Usually he had forewarning. This ordinary woman was proving surprising in a number of ways.

Prince took a final sip of his drink, stood, adjusted his smoking jacket, and walked to the door, muttering beneath his breath as the bell sounded again.

“Patience, my dear. I’m on my way.”

Prince opened the door and was startled at the sight of the figure on his stoop. A tall brunette stood with a vacant look in her eyes. The Montrose woman.

He recovered and took her hand, leading her docilly inside. He would have to beware of casting such a broad net in the future. But this Loretta creature would do for the time being. She must have been closer to Miriam than he thought. Oh, well.

Wordlessly, he led the befuddled woman inside, swept the coat from around her shoulders, and pulled her into an embrace. Eyeing that long, lovely throat hungrily.



Now we see why Prince is so obsessed by bloodlines.

Wonder what’s coming up next? Don’t have any idea.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

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

Don’t forget to check out my BJ Vinson murder mystery series starting with The Zozobra Incident and ending with 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, November 16, 2023

A Bloodline of Saints and Sinners (Part 1 of 2 Parts) blog post #628

 Image Courtesy of Pinterest:


I hope you enjoyed the reading from Donald T. Morgan’s novel Mounds. If so, let him know at


Today, we’ll have the first installment of a new short story. Hope it provides some entertainment, however brief. Here goes.




Prince Marcus Drexell sipped his fernet con coca and replaced the snifter—his choice of glassware despite the need for ice—on the table at his elbow before leaning back in his easy chair. Prince was his Christian name, not a title, a sobriquet conveyed by parents bewitched by a long bloodline stretching back to Eastern Europe but masked by the Germanic name Drexell. Long though that lineage might be, it was rife with both aristocrats and plebeians, saints and sinners. Prince had not bothered to consider where he fit in such a hierarchy.

Closing his eyes, he pressed forefingers to temples and muttered, “Come. Come to me.” The mantra became a chant to the ether. “Come to me, come to me, come, come….”

Intoning his command, he envisioned a slender blonde woman, her hair worn long, heart face alternating between a luscious smile and a pert, puckish frown. Most called her pretty, but to him she was lovely. Lovelier than he’d met in… well, in a long, long time. Her breasts, sharp and pert—not heavy and sagging like so many men admired—intrigued him, commanding first glance each time he saw her. Her aquamarine eyes were as green as the ocean off the coast of Miami. Wide, feminine hips, slender shoulders… and that neck. Long and white and flawless. He liked long necks on women. Graceful. Regal. Swan like. A sign, at least to his mind, of good breeding.

He took another sip of whiskey and cola before resuming his incantation.


Precisely one mile away, Miriam Hindleson started in her chair in a third floor flat of a brownstone facing a small, charming park softly lit by circles of lamp glow. She blinked. Had she dropped off? After examining the book in her lap, she decided not. Her eyes fell right on the place she’d last read. And Marta Molnar’s The Secret Life of Sunflowers, the story of Vincent van Gogh’s sister-in-law, certainly didn’t put her to sleep. Move her to tears? Yes. Rip unexpected laughter from her throat? Often. But put her to sleep? No.

After eating and bathing earlier in the evening, she had looked forward to a calm night of reading. Now, she was edgy, constantly shifting position in search of physical comfort. Miriam laid the book in her lap and examined her arms. Horripilated. Why? What was wrong with her? At times she felt as if a voice hovered at her ear, speaking, calling, yet unheard.

She shook her head. She wasn’t prescient. Not given to premonitions, and certainly not that imaginative. “Go away,” she muttered aloud, responding to something she didn’t understand. “Leave me alone,” she added for good measure.

Deciding a cup of hot tea might help her settle, Miriam rose, enjoying the feel of satin as the sleeping gown moved over her knees. She made her way to the kitchen and puttered with the tea kettle. Maybe she should have gone to the theater with her friend Lorena. Or accepted Prince Drexell’s invitation for dinner. But no, she’d craved quiet and relaxation this evening.

An image of Lorena Montrose brought a smile. The civil engineer Miriam met at work three years ago had become her best friend. They’d bonded instantly, growing so close they seemed to know what one another thought, finished one another’s sentences. Serious and efficient at the office, the brunette from Nebraska morphed into a mischievous pixie the moment they left the workplace. She was fun, and she attracted men like flies.

Prince was another matter… one a bit more unsettling. Unsettling how? If she could figure that out, perhaps she would know if she liked or detested the man. At the moment, that was up in the air. Handsome, erudite, witty, cultured. What not to like? But the lawyer could raise chill bumps on her arms just as she’d experienced a few minutes ago. Lorena impishly said that was what love did to a woman. But somehow that didn’t seem to be the gooseflesh of love.

Enjoying the hot tea as she returned to the book, Miriam sought to reclaim the calm of her earlier evening. For a bit, she succeeded. Then came that insistent message… if that’s what it was. At one point, she did nod off, waking with a start. Strange that she could fall asleep while every nerve in her system seemed to be fired. It must have happened again, because she grew aware that she was standing in the hallway, fully dressed, a coat across her shoulders, handbag in her clutches.

That frightened her. She’d never walked in her sleep before. Upset with herself. Miriam determined to get back into her gown, or at least a lounging robe, but, instead, sat back in her chair, fully clothed. She was certain that was what she did, yet sometime later, she became aware of standing on the front stoop, locking the door behind her. Why? She decided to return to the house immediately. Instead, she found herself on the sidewalk walking the long block to the Avenue. Why? That’s where she could find a taxi, that’s why.


What in the world is going on? Strange things, eerie things… that’s for sure. Let’s see what develops.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

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

Don't forget to check out my BJ Vinson murder mystery series starting with The Zozobra Incident and ending with 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



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


Thursday, November 9, 2023

Mounds, A Novel (Guest Post) blog post #627

 Image Courtesy of Suncatcher Studio:


I guess we left Larry Lovestock not yet sure where his love stick belongs. Happens to a lot of us.

 Today, we have a guest post from my Okie buddy Donald T. Morgan. Back in May of 2018, I posted the Prologue and part of Chapter 1 for my readers. Since that back beyond our attention span, let me remind readers the novel is a mystery set in Southeastern Oklahoma. It is also the story of twenty-year-old, shy, retiring Derek Monsum, a young farmer with failed ambitions to be an archaeologist. Derek lives on a poor, clay-heavy farm with his alcoholic father (who lost a leg in the Panama Invasion) and his young stepmother. He and his father’s new wife don’t mesh well together. In Chapter 1, we learn the Oklahoma University anthropology Department is sending a team to excavate an ancient Caddoan Indian burial mound adjacent to the farm.

 We pick up in Chapter 2 where Derek has gone to the town library to write a letter to a Dr. Petersen, who’s coming down to dig up the mound. He’s asking for a job on the dig crew.

 Hang on… it’s a little long. Here goes.




By Donald T. Morgan

Derek made a long-distance call from the pay phone at the drug store. Getting through to Dr. Ericksen’s office ate up a healthy portion of his emergency fund—money hoarded from last season’s corn crop—but a secretary eventually provided the information he needed. That done, Derek headed straight for the library at the north end of downtown. Mrs. Lillian Greavy greeted him enthusiastically, as always. She was fond of him, but then she liked anybody who read books.

The neat, blue-haired librarian—who’d helped him earn his GED—nodded toward the stacks and chirped, “They’re back there, Derek. Help yourself.”

“Maybe later, ma’am. First, I need to borrow a pen and some paper and buy an envelope and stamp.”

“We can manage that.”

Derek sat at one of the reading tables to write a letter to this Dr. Ericksen who was coming to dig up his mounds. When Mrs. Greavy found out what he was doing, she wrote a note, folded it, and told him to put it in the envelope with his application, saying it never hurt to have a local recommendation. She added the stamped envelope to the library’s outgoing mail, sparing him a trip to the post office.

His chore accomplished, Derek walked to the shelf holding the library’s archaeology section to overdose on a load of delightful dreams. O’Connor’s Lost Cities of the Ancient Southeast and Fagan’s From Black Land to Fifth Sun stole minutes from the day so smoothly he hardly noticed them slip by. He could have lived in those books. For the hundredth time, he studied the color plates and absorbed the familiar lines of text. Only when the librarian’s discreet noises intruded on his consciousness did he realize it was closing time. As usual, he’d overdone it. Cassie would give him a good scorching. So what else was new?

Derek breezed through the front door to trip down three shallow steps to the sidewalk. Dismayed at how low the sun lay in the sky, he didn’t notice the girl until they collided.

“Whoops!” he exclaimed, trying to stem his momentum.

“Derek Monsum, you’re as clumsy as ever.”

“Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

Darla Morse’s brown eyes snapped as she shook her brunette shag. She was tall for a girl, a smidgen shorter than his five-ten. Still looked like a cheerleader, although she’d never been one, disdaining such “airheaded” pursuits, probably because she had worked after school for as long as he could remember.

“No, no thanks to you. Where you going in such a hurry?”

“Late getting home.” He snatched a quick glance at her pretty face before fixing his eyes resolutely on a crack in the sidewalk and backing away a neutral distance. He swiped the itchy mole on his upper lip, hoping she wouldn’t think his nose was running.

“You’re always late. Late to every class we ever took together.”

 The recollection, delivered with a laugh, drew an answering chuckle from him. “Practically, I guess. Where you headed?”

“Home from work. That’s all I ever do. Go to work. Go home.”

“You still at the insurance place?” he asked.

“Still the glue holding the Ribbens Insurance Agency together.”

He noticed his dirty boots but didn’t know how to hide them and ended up in a slow shuffle backward. “I’ll bet you are too. You know, the glue.”

“You better believe it. One of these days I’ll surprise everyone and make a change.” She grabbed his arm. “Buy me a Coke and tell me how you’re doing. Been ages since we talked.”

Ages? He couldn’t remember it ever happening unless yelling at him from the bleachers when he fumbled a line drive at third base counted as conversation.

“Got chores to do at home,” he protested, his stomach knotting. He’d already spent thirty-three cents on a stamp and a couple of bucks on the telephone call. Nonetheless, he allowed himself to be dragged along when she reversed direction and headed back downtown. He still had at least one dollar in his pocket, enough for a couple of colas.

“I’ll take mercy on you,” Darla declared. “We’ll go dutch treat.”

Conscious they made a spectacle with her pulling him along, he matched his long farmer’s stride to her nice legs. “Okay, I guess.”

Nina’s Café was busy, but Nina Gillette took time to greet them by name and wave them to a booth. Ignoring their call for a couple of Cokes, the sturdy proprietress bustled over and flashed a blinding smile. She was pretty. For a middle-aged woman, that is.

“Derek,” she roared in a voice accustomed to calling orders to the kitchen. “Got a deal for you. I got four cracked panes on the windows out back. They gotta be replaced and the wire mesh on the outside cleaned. You do that, and I’ll treat you to a couple of burgers, a large order of fries, two sodas, and throw in ten bucks to boot. How about it?”

“Sure, but I can’t do it tonight.”

“Sunday after church?”

He brightened. “That’ll work.”

Darla reminisced about their school days while they waited for their order. Derek leaned back in the blue, padded booth and listened, alternately worrying the mole on his lip and drumming his fingers on a gray-speckled Formica tabletop worn thin by a thousand arms and elbows. He and Darla had been in the same class from the first grade until Derek dropped out of school in the twelfth, which gave her a lot to chatter about while he called up images of a spindly girl filling out into something nice.

“Wish you hadn’t quit school,” she said. “Missed you at graduation.”

“Me? You missed me?”

“Course, we did. All the teachers said you could amount to something. You’re smart, Derek. You even wanted to be something smart. What was it? Had to do with those hills you were always talking about.”

“Mounds,” he corrected. “They’re mounds. You know, old Indian burial places.”

“Oh, I remember now. You wanted to be an archaeologist.”

He flushed at the pretentiousness of his dream spoken aloud. “Yeah.”

“What’s so fascinating about a bunch of old clay pots and dried-up bones?”

“Just interesting, that’s all.”

As Nina delivered their order, Darla shook her head, allowing a trace of impatience to show. “Don’t do that. I’m trying to understand, so don’t cut me off. You wouldn’t go dig up a cemetery and call it interesting, would you?”

Savoring the aroma of freshly cooked beef and pungent onions, he smeared mustard on his hamburger. “No, but we know all there is to know about those folks.”

“And we don’t about the people in the mounds?”

She sounded sincere, so he leaned forward to answer her that way. “There’s lots we don’t know about them. For instance, who were they? They were Indians, but which Indians?” He warmed to his subject, shedding his usual phobia about coming across as a weirdo. “Some say they weren’t Indians at all. Claim they were Canaanites or the Lost Tribes of Israel.”

“Like in the Bible?”

“Uh-huh. Or some race of super beings.”

She picked up her burger, took a small nibble, and dabbed her lips with a paper napkin. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Derek shook his head over a mouthful of Nina’s delicious food. He didn’t know what the cook did to them, but her burgers were the best in the county. A bunch of other patrons happily chowing down confirmed his assessment. He swallowed before answering. “Those are just some of the wild theories going around. They were Indians, all right.”

They worked on their meal in silence for a few moments. He liked the graceful way her small hand gripped the soda glass. When she caught him looking at her, he glanced away.

“Weren’t they Choctaws… like we have now?” She put down the drink and took another bite of her hamburger.

“No, these people were a mounds culture. Around here, I’d say Caddo. Lots of natives buried their dead in mounds back then. There are mounds all the way from New York to Florida.”

“Are they out west too?”

“Mostly the eastern woodlands. We’re on the western perimeter of the mounds civilizations. There’s a big Mississippian culture complex up at Spiro in Leflore County near the Arkansas border. I hear the earthworks are really something to see.”

“You’ve never seen them?”

He gave a bitter laugh. “I’ve never seen anything.”

She reached out and patted his hand. He flinched at the unexpected touch. “You will, Derek. You hang in there.”

A sudden commotion at the door drew his attention. Dale Ray Hawkins entered and headed straight for their booth, surprising him. He and Dale Ray weren’t particularly friendly. The attraction soon became clear.

“Hello, Darla.” Dale Ray, a contemporary of Bowie’s, verged on being good looking but was snatched back by a perpetual scowl and a weak chin. The heavy thighs and wide hips that once made him a decent lineman for the Hilton High Hornets now threatened to render him lumpy. Derek noticed the man’s gaze rested on Darla’s hand atop his.

“Dale Ray,” she responded.

Hawkins ignored Derek. “Been looking for you. Got two tickets to the Demolition Derby over in Clovertown Friday night. Play your cards right, you can go with me.”

Darla’s answer gave Derek a start.

“Sorry, but Derek’s already asked me to go to the movie Friday.”

Dale Ray’s dull, dun eyes flicked to him. “You can go to a movie anytime. The Demo Derby don’t come around every day.”

Darla leaned back in the booth with arms folded over her breasts. “What makes you think I’m interested in watching people smash up cars?”

Dale Ray’s mouth dropped. He sucked in breath before coming up with an answer. “Everybody likes the derby.”

“Not me. I’m going to the movie with Derek.” Her voice held a finality even Dale Ray understood.

“Whatever. Your loss.” He turned his back and slouched off, his hips working about as hard as Cassie’s when she was in a snit.

As soon as Dale Ray was out of earshot, Darla sighed. “Can’t stand that man, but he keeps hitting on me. Sorry about the movie thing. I just needed an excuse.”

“Why don’t you like him?”

“He’s creepy. Dale Ray thinks he’s God’s gift to women. Some girls might find his caveman attitude sexy. Not me. But I guess his dad’s money makes him attractive to some.”

Darwin Hawkins owned the local auto parts store where his son had worked all through school. That was how Dale Ray could afford to drive a snappy blue ’98 Chrysler LeBaron convertible. What made the family a standout to Derek were the hundreds—maybe thousands—of arrowheads and lance points and stone hatchets old man Hawkins had scavenged over the years. Derek hadn’t seen the collection, never even been invited to the Hawkins home, but they claimed the governor was carping at the Hawkins family to donate the treasure trove to the state museum up in Oklahoma City.

Darla’s voice snatched his attention back. “And Dale Ray thinks he has to maul every girl he goes out with. Never did understand what Bowie saw in him. They used to hang out a lot.”

He met her gaze for a brief instant. He liked her big elk’s eyes. Pretty eyes turned him on. He nodded and sipped his soda, his cheeks burning when the straw made a slurping sound. He set the glass down hard. “They bummed around in high school. Double dated some. Anyway, Dale Ray’s too old for you.”

Darla gave him a pitying look. “He’s too wild for me, but he and Bowie are only six years older than we are. Bet you didn’t know I went out with Bowie once before he left.”

“Bowie left two years ago. You couldn’t have been more than seventeen.”

“Just turned eighteen.” She frowned. “He was sorta hard to handle too. Did you know Dale Ray and Cassie used to go out some? Bowie and Cassie dated too… before your dad was in the picture,” she hastened to add.

Aware it was dark outside, Derek glanced at the illuminated wall clock advertising Coca-Cola in undulating shades of crimson and was surprised to discover it was after eight. He had enjoyed himself and lost track of time. Usually, he was so uncomfortable around a girl every minute was an hour. Even when he about halfway went steady with Betsy Bates his sophomore year, he’d never been completely at ease. What made Darla different? Ah… because she hadn’t gone cross-eyed when he talked about mounds.

Inch by reluctant inch, he worked his way out of the booth. “Didn’t realize it was so late. Gotta get home and finish up my chores.”

Darla collected her purse and got to her feet. “That’s what happens when you’re having fun. Thanks for the burger.”

A little tingle played up his back. She had fun? “Glad to do it. Uh, and if you’d like to, we can take in the movie Friday night. You know, so you won’t be fibbing to Dale Ray.” He frowned. Where could he come up with ten bucks for two tickets to the picture show until he could pay it back out of Nina’s ten dollars? Darn! Should he have left a tip? Or was it included in Nina’s chore?

Once outside, Darla clasped his arm as they strolled back to the library. “Glad I ran into you. Enjoyed our talk. See you Friday night. About seven?”

He tripped over his own feet but managed to remain upright. “Uh, yeah. I probably bored you with all that mounds stuff.”

“Not at all. Maybe you can tell me more about it sometime.”

“Can… can I give you a lift home?”

“Wouldn’t want you to miss your chores.”

“They’ll be waiting when I get there.”

She permitted him to drive her, even though the Morse place was only another three blocks up the street. Fighting Red Rover’s grabby brakes, he hid his embarrassment at the jerky halt in front of the Morse’s house by scrambling out and yanking open the squeaky passenger’s door. Her hand, when he helped her from the cab, was softer than anything he’d ever touched.

The motor stuttered as he herded the old truck down the highway toward the farm. Daddy hadn’t got the carburetor working right yet. Nonetheless, Derek caught himself humming an Elvis tune. Surprised, he pursed his lips. Why in blue blazes did he feel so good?


Hope you saw enough of Derek to figure out he’s a pretty good guy. Shy and socially awkward, but a sound human being.

 Next week, we’ll probably be back to one of my short stories.

Stay safe and stay strong.

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

Don’t forget to check out my BJ Vinson murder mystery series starting with The Zozobra Incident and ending with 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, November 2, 2023

Lovestick (Part 2 of 2 Parts) blog post #626

 Image Courtesy of Freeimages


Today, we’ll finish the story of Larry Lovestock (dubbed Lovestick by his mischievous buddy Gil) and his discoveries about himself.


Here goes.




The next few days were agony for Larry, especially after baseball practice—that was the sport this time of year—because he was afraid he’d reveal his newly discovered self in the shower room or while the guys were playing grab-ass with one another. And he was certain the first time he spotted Gil naked, Larry would balloon up so there’d be no hiding it.

But that didn’t happen, and he gradually got over his fear and concentrated on acting super masculine. But that grated a little too because that wasn’t who he really was. After earning a couple of puzzled looks, he gave up and went back to being his regular self. After all, it had been Gill who grabbed his dong, not the other way around, so maybe Gil had the problem.

Nah. Gil was super masculine by nature. And he was way too casual about that night. Been interested in simply getting rid of his own nut-ache. Gripping Larry had just been a spur of the moment reaction from a guy who did what he wanted and thought about it afterward. If there was a problem, it didn’t belong to Gilbert Robbins. Larry was willing to bet Gil didn’t even remember he’d touched his dong. Probably didn’t even recall them whacking off together that night.

So Larry set about restoring his relationship with Gil. With one exception. He avoided going on double dates with his best bud.

The following Friday night, Gil wanted him to grab Helen and go with Marcie and him to the Roller Rink in the town a dozen miles to the south. Larry managed to twist his ankle while running for a fly ball that afternoon at practice and made out it was worse than it really was.

His buddy pushed him to go anyway, saying he could watch while they skated, but Larry held his ground, saying if he couldn’t get on the boards with Water, it wouldn’t be worth it. Eventually, Gil got the message and let it go.

That Friday evening, he borrowed his dad’s car and took his girl to the movie. After the film, he drove out to ‘their’ spot on the mesa for a little heavy petting. And it got heavy. Real heavy.

Before he knew it, things went past petting and got down to the real thing. And there had never been anything like it. Not for him, at any rate. The first time she touched his flesh, he about embarrassed himself by losing control before they’d even begun. Boy! Talk about an early bird.

But he managed to get control and soon drew moans and groans and squeaks from Water for a good quarter of an hour. Getting dressed afterward was kind of awkward, but on the ride back to town, she snuggled against him, making him feel like he never had before. Like… well, like maybe he was a man, and she was his woman. That kind of stuff. It was a good feeling.

Later in the garage, he fretted over whether they’d made a mess in the back seat, but a search of the interior later in the garage didn’t reveal anything. He had trouble keeping from grinning when his mother asked how his date was but apparently didn’t give himself away. He thanked his dad for the use of the car, took a long shower, and went to bed where he promptly fell asleep.


Monday, Gil gave him a lift home after baseball practice, detouring by the drive-in for a Coke on the way. As they sipped colas, his buddy sat sideways behind the steering wheel and eyed him thoughtfully. “You’ve come back.”

“Come back? From where?”

“Wherever you’ve been. You were like your old self today.”

“I’m like my old self every day.”

“Uh-uh. Last week or so, I thought you weren’t the same guy. Not my old buddy, Larry Lovestick. What happened?”

Larry shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Don’t gimme that. Something did. You’n Sweet go on a date?”

Larry tried to be nonchalant. “Yeah. Couldn’t skate on a bum ankle, but I could sit in the theater and watch a movie.”

A grin as big as he’d ever seen grew on Gil’s lips. “You scored! You dog, you scored. Didn’t you?”

“I don’t tell—”

“Come on, this is your pal, Gil. Your buddy. Give. Tell me about it.”

Larry felt his own lips stretch as a smile he couldn’t handle built. “Well, yeah. I did.”

“Son of a gun! Come on! Details.”

Larry tried to hit it lightly, but Gil kept probing for more, and Larry got a little steamed describing details he never thought he’d share with anyone. It got so bad that he switched subjects.

“How about your date? Was it relatable?”

Gil shrugged. “So-so. Missed you and Sweet. I dunno. Maybe the bloom is off the rose with Marcie.”


“No, I mean it. I was missing you Friday night more than I was enjoying her company.” He gave a laugh. “That ought to tell the tale. Time for me’n Marcie to part ways.” Gill gave him a look. “You recall how hot and bothered we were a couple of weeks ago? And what we did about it?”

Larry was sure he blushed. “Yeah.”

“I was planning on more of the same if things didn’t go right last Friday.” He gave a smile—a rueful one this time. “But I guess they went right for you. Not for me, but for you. Anyway, I was gonna suggest, you know—” He made a suggestive motion with his fist—” helping one another out. Bound to be better than doing it to yourself.”

Gil gave a self-conscious chuckle and ground the motor. “But guess you don’t need any help now.” He gave a quick sidelong glance. “Unless you wanna come to the aid of your buddy… and maybe collect an experience, you know, for comparison.”

Larry swallowed hard. What in the hell did he do now?



Well, Larry thought he’d settled who he was to his own satisfaction, but Gil’s invitation left him still wondering. At what age did you know who you were… for sure?

Stay safe and stay strong.

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

Don’t forget to check out my BJ Vinson murder mystery series starting with The Zozobra Incident and ending with The Cutie-Pie Murders:

My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.



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

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