Nightmares, Part Two of Two Parts

dontravis.com blog post #553

Image courtesy of dreamstime.com

Last week, the gay kid Lyle was cornered in the boy’s room at his high school, stripped naked, and tossed into the hallway where half the student body saw him. He fled home where he found little, if any, support. Now what happens?

****

NIGHTMARES

I don’t have words to describe how I felt when I walked through the school doors on Monday. Smiles and giggles hidden behind cupped hands were bad. Sympathetic looks, mostly from girls, weren’t any better. The curled lips and disgusted frowns were worse, but at least they were honest. But the baddest of all was being called out of class to go see the principal, a prissy little man who went out of his way to make his attitude clear about fags… in my opinion because he was one.

“Lyle,” he said when I stood before his desk. “Friday was inexcusable. I won’t tolerate public nudity in my school. What were you thinking?”

“Wasn’t my idea… sir.” The “sir” came hard because I had no respect for this dominating, tinpot tyrant.

“What are you saying? Explain yourself.”

There was no doubt in my mind that he knew exactly what had happened and who perpetrated the event, but he was gonna do what everybody did… take the easy way out and blame it on the homo. Me.

“Four of them cornered me in the boy’s room, stripped me naked, and threw me out in the hallway.”

“What!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who?”

I clamped my mouth firmly shut. Although everyone knew, if I confirmed it aloud, I’d not only be a queer fag, I’d be a queer, fag rat squealer. And this bastard wouldn’t do anything about it, anyway.

“I asked you who, Lyle.”

“You know who…sir.”

The silence stretched out as his weak, blue eyes glared at me across the desk. “Very well, if you won’t put a name to these… delinquents, I’ll have to assume there were none, and that you chose to strip and expose yourself to the entire student body. I will also have to inform your parents of your outrageous actions. Do you have anything else to say for yourself?”

“No sir. Just that I’m telling you the truth… and you know it.”

“Don’t be impertinent. You are suspended from school for one week. Do not show your face around here until next Monday. Is that understood?”

“Yes sir.”

I studied the slate floor tiles as I walked back into the hall and straight out the front doors, keenly aware of the other students—my beloved classmates—and teachers carrying on their lives as if nothing had happened. Well, something had happened. And that was the real abomination.

Mom didn’t know what to do or say, so she managed one brief hug and mumbled about how much she loved me, and that was that.

The old man was strangely quiet for about an hour after he came home from the office, and then he cut loose with a lecture and a belting. The lecture was a rambling, semi-coherent thing about there being no fags in his family in living memory. The belting simply raised red welts on my backside and legs. Then the household settled into a seething stew of hostility.

That was the night, my dreams began to take form. The red was anger; the blue, fear. A yellowish haze in the background was cowardice.

Tuesday night, the yellow came more into focus. Who was the coward? I was, obviously, because I didn’t fight my nature and try to be somebody else for them. My father for being a bully who hid his head in the sand. My mother… I didn’t want to think about that one. I had her sympathy, but she didn’t lend me her strength. The principal for acting on what was convenient, not on what he knew. That rat bastard Clark Harbinger for….

Maybe he wasn’t a coward at all. As twisted as his thinking was, he’d done what he wanted to and to hell with the consequences. No, he wasn’t a coward, but he was still a rat bastard.

Then I proved I was the biggest coward of them all by crying through the rest of my dream.

****

The days loomed hard and heavy into the future. I stayed in bed late in the morning until my bladder chased me into the bathroom. I ignored the shower and lived in my pajama bottoms for the rest of the day, playing games on my computer and visiting web sites. Strange web sites. Web sites that hinted at revenge. Others that demanded it. Still others that explained how to achieve it.

When I refused to come to the table, Mom brought plates of food and left them outside my door. I’d hear her come and go, and then I’d snatch open the door, grab the food, and wolf it down in a hurry so I could get back to the web sites. I even worked up the courage to post on a few of them. Lo and behold, I found sympathy there. Not just meaningless words of “so sorry” or “poor you,” but exhortations to stand up for myself. Stand against the world.

I’d have sudden bouts of uncontrolled weeping during which I’d huddle in the fetal position on my bed while tears flowed. Then I’d sleep… and dream. Even in the daytime. Dream of revenge, of exposing the cowards who ruled my life, let me down.

One day, Thursday, I think it was, I daydreamed of the revenge I’d take on Clark. I showed up at his door, taking him by surprise. In this coherent, satisfying dream, I advantaged his astonishment and shoved him inside where I twisted his arm behind his back until he cried “uncle.” Then I raped his ass while he begged me to stop. Then he implored me not to stop. He liked it. The frigging pansy liked it.

But my night dreams grew redder… and darker. I couldn’t see what was happening, but something was, and I could feel it. Something with more red. Something with loud noises and crying and begging and pleas for forgiveness. Roiling, riotous, nightmares that left me frightened and contented and exhausted and hopeful, all at the same time.

My father tried to intrude on my isolation, but I surprised us both by standing up to him, returning threat with threat and deflecting vile accusation with dreadful riposte. He left me alone after that.

Gradually, I came to treasure those days I had dreaded before. As Monday grew closer, I became more anxious, more resentful. Sunday night’s dream grew more tumultuous, more fearsome than others. I seemed to be more involved, feeling my muscles moving as I fought my way through the increasing horror of the night. Until suddenly, everything went quiet, and I slept peacefully.

It was morning, Monday morning. I knew I had to go to class and face the disdainful looks of teacher and student alike. But I couldn’t. Another dream claimed me. Not another one, the same one. Full of motion and color and fear and disgust.

I felt as if I were moving. Going somewhere. But I had to do it for real. Time for school. To face… to face…

I opened my eyes and glanced down at myself. I was still in my pajama bottoms, but they were fouled with a dark brown crust. Had I soiled myself? No… blood. It was dried blood. My chest was speckled with it too. But I didn’t feel injured.

I stood puzzling until I gradually grew aware of where I was. At the granite steps to the school. Semi-naked and filthy right in front of my loving, embracing, supportive high school. Then I realized I held something in my hand. Something my father loved more passionately than he loved his wife… or his son. His AR-15 rifle. I hefted it as I eyed the big, double doors.

Then as if blinders had been ripped from my eyes, everything finally came clear. Enervated, I darted up the steps.

 *****

 Well, it went where far too many of our bullying and prejudices and mistreatment go these days. The far right claims it’s not guns that are responsible, it’s the sick bastards who wield them. The other side say it’s because assault—military-style—guns are too accessible. Has anyone considered that maybe it’s the way we treat our marginalized, vulnerable individuals may be a big part of the equation? Yes, inappropriate weaponry is far too accessible. And yes, the weapons themselves don’t commit the atrocities. But they sure make it easier to accomplish.

 That’s all… until the next unspeakable, unthinkable event.

 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:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

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

My Personal Hero (A Short Story)

dontravis.com blog post #379

Albuquerque Police Substation at UNM
Courtesy of commons.wikimedia.org

I wrote the following short story back in the days when the language was daring. Today, not so much so. In fact, it’s probably tame. It’s a little long for a post but too short of a two-parter, so stick with me to the end, okay?

*****

MY PERSONAL HERO

Whenever talk turns to superheroes, my mind never goes to the comic book characters Superman or Batman or Captain Marvel. I automatically think of Wesley DeVille. You see, he’s my own personal hero. He’s also a super guy, so that qualifies him as a super-guy-hero. He doesn’t fly or catch bullets in his teeth. He doesn’t have a fancy appellation like Captain This or Super That. He’s just plain old Wes.

I met him five years ago when I was a twenty-year-old, cocky University of New Mexico undergraduate having a beer in the Ram and Boar, one of Albuquerque’s gay bars. I remember that day clearly. I was sitting at a corner table with a couple of friends when he filled the doorway for a moment before moving into the bistro. My eyes, and just about everyone else’s followed him as he worked the room like a politician.

“Now that’s something to see!” Dave observed in a worshipful tone. Dave was probably my closest friend at the University of New Mexico.

“If you like brick shit houses,” I came back, a little surprised by my caustic tone.

Gracie, the Hispanic transgender sitting with us, simpered. “Give me a shit house like that anytime, anywhere!”

“Do you really think he’s sexy?”

“Alan, sweetie! That man’s a walking, talking sex drive.”

“You ever been with him?” Dave asked.

A heavy, dramatic sigh. ‘I wish! But I can dream, can’t I?”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Name’s Wes DeVille. He works construction. He’s an engineer or a foreman or something like that.”

“Engineer?” Dave shook his head. “Hell, he can’t be any older than we are.”

“Twenty-two,” Gracie said. “Six-five, fifty-four-inch chest, thirty-two at the waist, and thirty-five at those dreamy hips. Two-twenty-five pounds of pure man.”

Dave and I spoke in unison. “How do you know that?”

“We had our own Mr. Gay contest in here a couple of months back. I got to see all that glorious flesh covered only by a skimpy scrap of cloth. He won—hands down.”

“So what did he win?” I asked.

“A crisp, new hundred-dollar bill. He spent the whole thing buying everyone drinks. Oh, my,” Gracie panted, putting a hand to her bosom. “Here he comes. If he speaks to me, I’ll just die.”

But she didn’t. She merely blushed when he called her by name and grasped her dainty hand.

The guy was exceptional. He looked as good up close as he did from across the room, and the profile was as arresting as the frontal view. After fumbling around a bit, Gracie remembered to introduce us.

“This is Dave Deaver. He’s a transfer from New Mexico State this semester.”

“Hi, Dave. Wes DeVille.”

Gracie indicated me. “And this is Alan Shalk.”

“Uncertain servant,” Wes responded.

“Huh?” I said.

“Sorry. I’m into names. Origins, meanings, things like that. Alan’s Celtic for uncertain, and Shalk is German for a man who works for another—a servant. That doesn’t describe you to me.”

“What should my name be?”

“Maybe Jonathan for God-given and Saroyan.”

“Which is?” I prompted.

“Armenian for mountain prince.”

My cheeks burned as I blurted the first thing I thought of. “I’m pre-law.”

“Good for you. The brotherhood needs good lawyers.”

“Uh, I guess so.” Being a gay rights lawyer was a new concept for me. I was more attuned to piling up loads of filthy lucre and establishing a power base for something or the other—I hadn’t decided what as yet.

The next thing I became aware of was my hand lost in his. I’m damned near six feet and pumped reasonably well, but all I could think of was that the guy’s mitt would completely engulf my best erection. And with that thought I began to get one. I glanced up into those blue, guileless eyes and was lost: taken, enamored, enslaved… a new experience for me. To date, I’d been more or less buttoned down. I hadn’t even been to a gay bar before Dave talked me into coming with him tonight.

The god-like creature pulled up a chair next to mine, and the magnetism of his presence drew others to our table. Wes held court for the next hour, buying a round of drinks, talking with everyone, giving equal time to each, and discussing whatever subject that arose on equal footing with his conversation mate. There was nothing condescending about this guy.

Deep into that enchanted evening, a sudden commotion at the door drew our attention. A young man reeled into the room and collapsed in the vestibule. Curses of shock and anger and anguish filled the big room as several moved to help the injured man.

“Damn!” Wes swore loudly. “They’re at it again.” Without a moment’s hesitation, he tore out the door followed by a few of the bolder patrons.

“Who’s at what?” I asked Gracie, aware of the look of fear on her face.

“Gay bashers! They’ve been hanging around the sweet bars and beating up the guys as they come and go.”

“So call the police,” I suggested.

“Where’d you say you were from, honey?” Gracie asked me in a dead serious tone.

I immediately thought of my own small-town police force and its reaction to the beating of a “queer” by some regular citizens.

Gracie arched an eyebrow. “They’ll get involved when he gets to the hospital, anyway. Shameful! Hank was such a pretty man. And now look. They went and broke his nose.”

As friends helped the unfortunate young man to a chair, Wes and the three men who had gone with him returned, shaking their heads. “They bugged out. Bastards!”

It took awhile for the excited buzz to settle down, and for the patrons of the Ram and Boar to pick up the evening where they had left off. Eventually, I felt the need to empty my bladder and announced the fact to the table, hoping Wes would join me and stand at the urinal next to me while … well, while I made a fool of myself, most likely. But he didn’t. I almost snickered aloud with the mental image of the entire table crowding into the men’s room if he had seen fit to join me.

When I returned from the john, disappointment left me weak-kneed. The giant Adonis was gone, as were most of those who had crowded around our table. Only Dave and Gracie remained.

“Where’s … uh, everybody?”

“He’s gone,” Gracie said with a touch of green in her tone.

Dave was more understanding. “Some of the guys wanted to go back to campus, so he walked them back.”

UNM’s main campus was only a few blocks down Central Avenue, and many of the guys walked back and forth. Apparently, Wes had decided to provide protection.

“How long have they been gone?” I asked.

“Just left,” Dave said with a grin. He read me loud and clear.

“Catch you guys later.” I tossed the words over my shoulder and bolted before either decided to come along.

The group of three college students with Wes tagging along a distance behind had reached the end of the block. Perfect. I could join him and have a moment alone.

Just east of the campus stands a small police substation made from a converted diner on a little triangle of land. It’s closed at night, and that’s where the gang of gay haters chose to attack. Four figures bolted from cars parked on the north side of the station and bore down on the three college students. Wes, still on the corner east of the others, apparently was not noticed.

I had opened my mouth to cry a warning when Wes moved. He took two running steps, three bounding leaps, and landed on the back of a buzz-cut hood preparing to slam a ball bat against the head of his victim. Instead, the gangster slid face-down across ten feet of concrete and banged head-first into the police building. Wes swiped one of the other attackers off the back of a victim and turned to meet the other two as they shifted their attention to him.

Something extraordinary was happening. Wes seemed to grow before my very eyes. He towered above the others, causing them to falter. A mistake. He plowed into them, sweeping them off the sidewalk and dumping them into the street. Central Avenue is Albuquerque’s main east-west drag, and the two had to scramble to get out of the way of onrushing traffic. Pausing only to grab their two fallen fellows, they limped across the street to their cars. Wes chose not to pursue, but I saw his quick eyes locking onto the license plates of the two vehicles that screeched away down Monte Vista.

I stopped running and stood with my mouth agape. The whole thing had been surrealistic. Not a word was spoken. Like a reel of a silent film, the whole tableau was soundless except for the scuffling of feet, grunts of pain, the thud of flesh striking flesh. The traffic on Central hadn’t even slowed. It was as if nothing extraordinary had taken place on that cool autumn night. But it had! I witnessed it. Wes DeVille’s strength, agility, and fearlessness alone made it noteworthy. The senseless malevolence of toughs bent on physically harming others made it extraordinary. My reaction to it all—a throbbing arousal—made it monumental.

*****

Alan is obviously smitten. Did the fact that Wes chose to join Alan’s table at the Ram and Boar mean he’s interested? Alan seems uncertain and unsure of his true nature; Wes, confident. Can you imagine what it would be like if they got together? That’s an ending for you to write.

Until next week.

The following are buy links for the recently released The Voxlightner Scandal.

Dreamspinner: https://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/books/the-voxlightner-scandal-by-don-travis-11285-b

DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-voxlightner-scandal-by-don-travis-537-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Voxlightner-Scandal-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B07VL33P99

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-voxlightner-scandal-don-travis/1132632844?ean=9781640809260

iBooks: https://books.apple.com/ca/book/the-voxlightner-scandal/id1473985039?mt=11&ign-mpt=uo%3D4

Google: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=H3ilDwAAQBAJ

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/the-voxlightner-scandal

Universal Link: https://books2read.com/u/4AxPDo

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

My personal links: (Note the change in the Email address because I’m still getting remarks on the old dontravis21@gmail.com. PLEASE DON’T USE THAT ONE.)

                                                                                                    

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

Buy links to Abaddon’s Locusts:

https://www.dsppublications.com/books/abaddons-locusts-by-don-travis-486-b

https://www.dsppublications.com/books/abaddons-locusts-by-don-travis-487-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Abaddons-Locusts-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B07JLHKJLY

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/ca/book/abaddons-locusts/id1439968525

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/abaddon-s-locusts

Google: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=R0Z0DwAAQBAJ

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/abaddons-locusts-don-travis/1129769593

See you next week.

Don

Times, They Are A’Changin’

Sadness
Courtesy of Wikimedia CC-3

As I cleaned out my filing cabinet so a new year’s worth of valuable stuff will fit into it, I came across some things I’d kept from my college years. Dried and cracked and yellowed as they were (see last week’s post on aging), one piece of paper caught my attention. It was an essay or more likely just the anguished expression of emotions one of my college classmates had put on paper. He read his passionate prose to us in a dry, empty tone, and that – alone – caught my attention. Only later, did I come to appreciate the words themselves.

As I reread his piece, it occurred to me that perhaps he – I’ll call him James – had seen the future more clearly than the rest of us. Attitudes about gays have changed drastically since then. 

There had been four of us in the little impromptu group who read our scribblings to one another – a sort of critique group before we knew what a critique group was. We had all been discomfited by James’ bold words. This was Texas in a time when such sentiments could get a fellow killed. But to the best of my knowledge, none of us ever betrayed his confidence.

Although I long ago lost touch with James, I have no hesitancy about reproducing his essay because he gave permission to do whatever we wanted with it at the time of the reading. His words follow. You can get some idea of how old this is by the fact he used double spaces at the end of sentences – a carryover from when we did things on typewriters. For those of you who don’t remember such devices, I’ll refer you to Wikipedia or an ordinary dictionary.

******

CRY JUSTICE FOR PETER!

By James

The righteous sneer, “Wicked!”

“Unnatural deviants!” hiss the virtuous.

“Nay!” my heart cries.  “Tis love as deep and abiding, as sweet and strong as any that enriches your lives.”

Pitying their ignorance, I draw close my friend, my lover and move to pass them by.  But it is not to be.

This is the day noble Society and bigoted Religion extract a toll for flaunting archaic injunctions.  And just as with women stepping beyond accepted boundaries, and Black slaves chafing against their chains, and Native Americans clinging stubbornly to their lands, the cost is exorbitant!

One cretin tears away my beloved.  Another, an odiferous, unclean skinhead, pins my arms from behind.  A florid man of dark, heavy jowls pummels bloody my beautiful lover.

Oh, how proud I am as Peter shakes them off and stands tall and manly to face his tormentors.  A foolish mistake, of course, but one born of intrepid pride.  The barbarians beat him unmercifully until the growing unease of passive onlookers give them pause.

Smaller, weaker, and frankly not so valorous, I cannot fight my way free of him who holds me helpless.  Denied the consideration of even one bone-crushing blow, I am shoved atop my fallen hero as the thugs depart, laughing at the life-lesson they’ve taught the queers.

Sobbing myself into paralysis, I watch helplessly as that precious, sensitive life ebbs away on the hot, mean sidewalks of this accursed city.

And who will give justice for this cruel horror?  Not the black-uniformed storm trooper who only considers that there is one less faggot to plague the world. Nor the dog-collared clergy of the stately cathedral towering mutely above us on the far corner. Certainly not a shocked and aroused citizenry wrathfully demanding equity.

For the first time, I truly understand that dreadful credo of the old West:  “The only good Indian is a dead Indian!”  It is equally applicable to me and others like me.

But beware!  I have not perished, at least in the flesh.  And energized by my rage, emboldened by my crushing loss, I live to plot terrible retribution on the hide-bound, sanctimonious fools who dare impose their morality even to the destruction of one superior to them in every way that counts.  And do not look down long, blue noses and proclaim: “Love it or leave it” to me.  For I am legion in your midst, claiming equal ownership of this, my homeland.

Yes, I am here to stay.  And in my own time, in my own way, I will raise my voice and Cry Justice for Peter!

******

The incident happened elsewhere, so I do not know if James’ lover was actually killed, as is implied by the writing, and he would not discuss the matter further. But there is no doubt in my mind that a violent attack took place. James was a scarred individual, on the inside, at least.

Thanks for indulging me in some more nostalgia. And keep on reading, guys.

Don

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