Fun and Games (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #618

 Image Courtesy of Freepik:

 

The Singaporeans are back, and they pushed up the reading count of last week’s “Habitat” considerably, but not many comments. Hope you (and they) enjoy my story this week. A Two-Parter.

 

                                                                                                

                                                      ****

FUN AND GAMES

The doorbell rings, and my heart takes a leap. It’s Dario Beloit. He called earlier to ask if he could come over. Dario’s a living dream. Five-eleven, one-seventy-five, broad shoulders and narrow hips, great calves, abs, pecs, and just about everything else… including equipment.

I open the door, and my heart palpitates. It’s Dario, all right, in a thin, see-through T-shirt and walking shorts that could pass for underwear. He’s holding a small gym bag.

Once inside, he shakes my hand like a proper gentleman, which morphs into an abrazo, that manly hug Latin men give men. Then he holds me at arms’ length and melts me with a grin. Dario has a generous mouth with bright teeth that can flash a smile seen for miles. Then he speaks in that throaty growl that never fails to raise chill bumps on my back.

“Hello, Mack. You’re looking good today.”

“And so are you, my handsome friend. Coke, coffee, or beer?”

“Think I’ll go for Coke today.”

“Can or glass?”

“Right out of the can.”

“Okay, park it while I get a couple of cold ones.

I return to find him sitting on the sofa, left leg halfway on the cushion, the right flat on the floor. Sexy as hell.

I hand him a red and white can. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

We talk for a while about our individual paths through life. Dario’s a grad school student at the U pursuing a Masters in Sociology. To what end, I haven’t figured out yet. Not sure he’s even reasoned that matter through. I’m out of school and in my first year with a local architectural firm. To what end? Well, I haven’t figure that out either.

I met Dario at a neighborhood bar a year back when one of his friends knew one of my friends, and four of us ended up at the same table. To see Mario is to want to get to know him. He’s that kind of guy. Handsome as hell with the blackest hair I’ve ever seen—not the glistening kind that reflects sunlight back at you, but the kind that absorbs light. He has irises that match his hair, black and mysterious. I can’t tell where the irises end and pupils begin. Never known a black-eyed guy before.

We had a great time that night, and have relived it in conversations ever since, including today. He reminds me of the time he came back from the men’s room with soaked britches and insisted some guy spilled a beer on him. We yoo-hooed that idea –claiming he’d peed himself—until he grabbed the back of my head and forced me down to take a whiff of his groin. Yep, beer.

Why he took a liking to me in particular out of the group, I’ll never know, but I was flattered when he did. We met one-on-one at the bar several times and played around at picking up girls, but it never happened. Wasn’t sure why, because once Dario smiled at one of them, she’d practically lay down for him right on the table. Even so we went home together most of the time. Occasionally, one or the other of us would break an unwritten rule and meander off with someone from the distaff side. But not often.

Maybe six months after we met, I got the shock of my life. We were at his place and had gone through about a six-pack each when he leaned against me on the couch and started confiding pretty personal things. His left hand rested on my right thigh, and I found it hard to concentrate on his words. When the hand went to wandering, I didn’t even try.

I’d been with a guy before, like back in school. Didn’t everyone experiment? But here was the greatest hunk I’d ever seen showing interest in me. That night will remain with me for the rest of my life… even if I emulate Methuselah. We didn’t go out after that so much but still kept in touch. Mostly ended up it his place or mine for a brew and a game of chess or at the tennis court where he usually wore me out enough to take the set.

Now, he spears me with those fascinating eyes. What’s new in your life?” Meaning, of course, anyone new?

“Not a soul. Haven’t had time,

“Sounds like an old man’s excuse. Getting old already?”

“Me? I’m in the prime of life. I can prove it, if you want me to.”

“Take your word for it.”

Finished with his cola, he leans back on the couch and rests his hands on his thighs. Deliberate or not, it emphasizes what’s between them. I lick my lips and move over beside him on the couch. He brushes my hand away when I rest it on his leg. I go back again.

He pushes me away. “Hey, man, watch it.” 

“If you’re not interested, why’re you dressed in a shirt that shows off every muscle in your torso and those little shorts that don’t hide much?”

“Just dressing casually. No an invitation to grope me.”

I put a hand on his chest, excited by the tension I feel beneath my palm.

He makes to rise. “Look, Mack. Maybe I oughta go.”

“Uh-uh,” I say, pressing that hand harder on his chest. “You come here dressed like that, you gonna play or pay.”

I grope him. He closes his legs, trapping my hand. “Hey! I said no.”

“Mighta said it, but you didn’t mean it.”

I reach for him aggressively; he falls back on the couch with me on top of him. His eyes go wide. “Mack, what’re you doing?”

“What you want me to.”

 ****

What in the world’s going on? Doesn’t matter if a guy’s got with you before, if he says no, that means no. Does Mack understand that? What do you think? We’ll get to the bottom of this next week.

 Hope the story didn’t make you too uncomfortable. Might, if you’ve been in that position yourself before. But hang in there.

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. 

 

The Mountain (Part Three of Four Parts), A Guest Blog

 dontravis.com blog post #572

 Photo Courtesy of 123rf.com

 

 

Last week, Hargis met Gwinnyth, a pixyish enchantress and failed to take advantage of what she readily offered. Today, he plods on toward the top of the mountain on his way to the sea. What happens next?

 

*****

THE MOUNTAIN

By Mark Wildyr

Easing my hunger from the dried stores in my bag, I washed up and was soon on my way through this strange place. Once again, strewn boulders blocked my way in the steep part of the trail, forcing me to do some climbing. At mid morn, I reached the crest and looked eagerly to the east. There was nothing to see except for the broad seaward slope of the mountain and a haze in the distance. It was as if what the pixie, Gwinnyth, had said was God’s Truth. This mountain was it’s own world.

Resolutely, I set upon my trek again, finding the going faster on the downhill trail. The sun had long passed overhead before I paused to take sustenance again in a broad highland meadow like others I had left behind. There was no rushing stream to my left, but doubtless there was one somewhere nearby.

As I munched on tasteless dried goods, the hair on the nape of my neck began to bristle. Carefully, I turned to lean casually against the bole of a tree. In the periphery of my vision I saw the gamin. She had followed me.

“I see you,” I said gruffly.

“And I see you,” came the reply, surprising me by the timbre of the voice. It was lower, masculine.

The figure stepped forward, and I saw that it was not Gwinnyth, but it could have been for the closeness of the resemblance. The pixie face was slightly larger, and the chin was male, the upper lip showing a faint line of down. This was a boy.

Confused, I stammered. “H…have we not met before?”

“Nay, I’ve not set eyes upon you before, although I wish I had. You are long on the trail?” the adolescent voice asked.

“Some days,” I responded.

“Come with me, and I will show you a welcome surprise.”

“I’ve a way yet to go. I’d best—“

“Tis but a short distance. And you will be pleased.”

Intrigued, I followed the youth into the forest. My eyes fastened upon his lean figure, discerning muscles playing beneath his rude clothing. I was brought to think of Gwinnyth walking before me in her feminine, boyish gait. This youth walked in a manly way tainted by a girlish grace. Confounded by my interest, I was glad when he came to a halt and gestured.

“See! There it is!”

He pointed to a dark, green pool from which steam arose. It was one of those natural baths heated by the earth. A thing much coveted for reasons of health.

Confident that I was intrigued, the youth abruptly shed his clothing and stepped into the water. I could not help but notice his dark nipples, lean belly, and the dark hair around his manhood. He grinned as he took note of my observance and then sat in the pool with a curiously feminine flourish.

Suddenly tired, I stripped naked and entered the pool, taking a seat facing him. His eyes had examined me closely throughout the entire process.

“You are a lot of man,” he said as we faced one another in the hot, soothing water. Having no reply to that, I asked his name. “I am Donneth,” he responded.

“Some time back on the trail, I met someone who looked a lot like you,” I said.

“Ah, that must be Gwinnyth.”

Comprehension dawned. “She is your sister?”

“Aye. I have sisters. And a brother. And you are Hargis, are you not?”

“How did you know? Oh, I see. You have spoken to your sister.” I colored abruptly. Had she told of my rod pressed against her buns? My flush deepened as I wondered if she related my subsequent loss of interest.

A hand on my thigh interrupted my thoughts. I flinched.

“Have I offended you?” the youth, who I now judged three or so years my junior, inquired. “I simply sought to touch that splendid rod.”

“Where I come from men do not touch men in such manner,” I said gruffly. Yet in truth, I was not offended.

“That world must be a horrible place,” he said simply and leaned forward to gaze into my eyes.

“That world is your world,” I snapped.

“Nay, not mine! This is my world. Where I can offer my friendship as I see fit.” The hand came to rest on my thigh again. I made no protest. It caressed me for a moment before moving higher to close over my rod gently. To my surprise, I responded to the touch. My staff grew in his hand.

“Ohhh!” he purred, inching closer. “It’s magnificent. Stand so I can see it. Please!”

Whether out of perversity or a need arising from casting aside two attractive women, I complied. I stood with tendrils of hot water cascading off my body, my suddenly exposed parts cooling in the mountain air. Yet my cock continued to stiffen.

It’s beautiful!” Donneth murmured, moving forward to lick the end. I started, but otherwise did not move. He ignored my spasm and energetically washed the end with a moist tongue. As I watched through startled eyes, he took my rod in his mouth…that is as much as he could handle. In truth, that was less than half of the excited monster. And there was no denying that it was excitedly rampant.

The rest of me was shocked into immobility, but not my rod. It pulsed with life as he slid up and down on it. It was alive with strange wonderful sensations heretofore denied it. When his hand grasped my stones, I was freed from my paralysis, but strangely, I stood in the hot water allowing this violation of my person.

Before it ended, the rest of me participated. I found my hands on his head, pulling him to me forcefully. My thighs began to move, thrusting at him. Surely, I was hurting him as I rammed myself down his throat, but he made no protest.

At length the internal storm began to gather. My knees weakened, my frame shook. Strange currents swirled within me and centered in my stones. He sensed my reaction and set to work even more eagerly. When the eruption came, the boy took my white lava effortlessly, sucking and licking at me until the eruption was finished. He was reluctant to release me even as I sank gratefully back into the water.

“Why…why did you do that?” I panted.

“Because I knew it would please you,” he responded simply. “And because it pleased me,” he added with a sly grin.

Exhausted, I lay back in the water, and the boy moved beside me. Wordlessly we rested, his long slender frame brushing against mine from time to time. Perhaps we slept because when I opened my eyes it seemed darker. With a start I felt his legs scissor around mine. His eyes were huge and bright with excitement. Fingers worked my staff, and it betrayed me yet again.

Taking me by surprise, Donneth sat astride me. I had no idea of what he intended until he centered my rod on his hole. Then he pressed himself down against me, almost submerging the both of us. Intent on preventing this, I stiffened my body and shuddered when he slid slowly down the length of my cock. His buttocks rested firmly against my thighs. He was impaled!

“Donneth!” I gasped.

“Be calm, Hargis,” he cooed in his man-boy voice. Involuntarily my hand moved, and I assured myself of his manliness by closing on his rampant tool. It was outsized when measured to the rest of him.

Suddenly inflamed, I thrust against him, sending my staff deeper. Perhaps I intended harm, but that was not the outcome. His mouth opened in pleasure, his eyes closed in ecstasy. I lost myself in him. I turned us so that I was atop his slender frame and found myself surprised by the hard, supple muscles beneath me. He was a man, of this there was no doubt. And I pummeled this man, this youth, feeding him my staff with all the energy of a stag fucking a doe; a ram, a ewe; a man, a woman. I used him as a woman, this time giving him my seed in the black depths of his entrails. I came as I had never come before. I fucked so hard that I drove his sperm from his body. I sought to draw a plea for mercy from him, but only succeeded in exciting cries of pure pleasure.

When I could stand it no longer, I staggered erect and allowed him to wash my cock clean of our wastes. Then I pulled him to his feet, taking some satisfaction at his unsteadiness.

“Such a man!” he whispered as he leaned against me for support while we waded out of the pool. Immediately, he became the host again, taking toweling from some hidden spot and drying my body despite my protest. Then he allowed me to dry him. Touching his nether regions inflamed me again, but I turned away before I ruptured something or other on my insides.

I slept with Donneth beside the comfort of a fire, and before the night was done he fondled me to erection. Just before he took me in his mouth, he looked up at me.

“Are you sure?”

“Aye,” I responded, and so he drew my seed into his throat. I asked if he would accompany me on the morrow, but he could not comprehend departing this world of his.

And then he drew me atop him. Feeling my reaction, Donneth touched his nose to mine. “Are you certain?” he wanted to know. I merely nodded and placed his legs atop my shoulders. He begged me for a fucking he could remember me by. I rendered him one for the better part of a candle-length and then fell into a sound sleep. At dawn, he was gone when I woke. As with Gwinnyth, there was no sign he had ever been here.

 *****

Could it be that Hargis has been instinctively waiting for Donneth… or someone like him… to appear? If so it seemed a successful gamble. But having sampled the delicious youth, what could possibly be waiting over the hump of the mountain?

 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.

Splendid Desolation, Part 4 of 4 Parts (A Repost)

 dontravis.com blog post #566

 Photo Courtesy of Dreamstime.com

 

 After a great night of sex, it’s time for Vince to head out toward civilization. But it doesn’t look as if Skye’s going with him. Instead, Skye is sending him to his twin brother down on the highway. Looks like there might be bad blood between the twins, because Skye’s not going with Vince. Here’s the finale.

                                                                                                       

*****

SPLENDID DESOLATION

I woke the next morning with Skye sitting beside me, watching me with his marvelous turquoise eyes, an enigmatic smile on his lips.

“Now it’s time for you to go find my twin.”

“Twin? Karl’s your twin?”

“Yes, we’re identical. He’s a good guy. He’ll help you.” The boy hesitated a moment. “I wish we had more time, but it will be hot soon. You have to be on your way. But first, I want to thank you. It was a magical night.”

“I should be thanking you, my young friend. But why should it end so soon. Come with me.”

That sweet, wistful smile appeared again. “I can’t. Please don’t ask. But perhaps I’ll see you there.”

An hour later, my head covered by a floppy cloth hat Skye provided, his canteen on my hip, and a distant butte as a marker, I paused for a final look back at the hill. Skye Hardesty, a lonely figure in the distance, raised a hand in farewell and turned to disappear over the crest. There was no sign of the tarpaulin that had sheltered us for the past two days. The kid had stowed it away for use another day.

It was late afternoon before I stumbled across a two-lane strip of blacktop. I took a half dozen more steps before realizing this was the highway. But where was the filling station? I checked my landmark, discovering I’d veered off course. Turning my weary steps north, I almost staggered past an old building set off from the road. Laughing inanely, I stumbled through the door of an old-fashioned trading post, delighted beyond all reason at the sight of another human being.

The man standing at the counter rushed to help as he realized my condition, easing me into a chair beside an old pot-bellied stove. A big glass of cold water appeared in his hand; I swigged it greedily.

“Not too much,” the man cautioned, echoing Skye’s first words to me. “Go easy now.”

It took a few minutes to collect myself and adjust to the gloom of the building’s interior. Eventually, I looked up into a pair of concerned green eyes and a familiar countenance, although this man was in his fifties.

“Mr. Hardesty?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Hardesty, my name’s Vince Lozander. I met your son. He helped me or I wouldn’t have made it.”

“Mr. Lozander,” the man replied, “my son’s a stockbroker in New York City, more’s the pity.”

Confused, I glanced around the store. “Is Karl here? Karl Hardesty?”

The room went quiet for a moment before understanding broke across the man’s pleasant features.

“I’m Karl Hardesty, Mr. Lozander. It was Skye, wasn’t it? Skye found you out there.”

A chill took possession of me. I shivered as a wave of goose bumps played down my back. “I-I don’t understand. Skye said you were….”

“His twin,” the man completed. “I am. Skye Hardesty disappeared out on that desert thirty-odd years ago. I don’t understand it either, but every once in a while, he sends me somebody from out of that desolation. Can’t really explain it, Vince. Can I call you Vince? Lots of people get lost out there every year, and he helps a few…special ones it seems like.”

He lifted the canteen strap from my shoulder and shook it. “Empty. But you brought it back. All of them do. It’s Skye’s, see?” He pointed out the name etched in the metal cap. “I always take it back out there and throw it on a hill somewhere so he can use it again.”

“But that’s crazy! The man I saw couldn’t be more than eighteen or twenty.”

“Nineteen, to be exact. Or he was thirty-two years ago when he died out there.”

“Died!” The hair on my neck rose; my skin crawled. “That’s impossible! I talked to him… uh, touched him. He was as real as you are.”

“Like I said, can’t explain it. But I know what I know. My brother was a troubled young man. He went out there to die on purpose, I think. He loved the desert, spent all his free time on it. Called it splendid desolation. It’s where he wanted to be.”

“He does love it,” I mumbled, accepting the unthinkable. “Will you tell me about him? It’s important to me.”

He eyed me speculatively. “Yes, I guess it would be. Vince, spend the night, and after supper I’ll tell you about Skye Hardesty, and how his brother let him down when it counted.”

###

Karl and Skye Hardesty were as close as identical twins could be, but one grew up straight and the other bent, or so the locals figured. One was a man; the other turned into a faggot. The whole county shook its collective head. How could it happen? They had identical genes, shared the same womb, experienced the same life events, but Karl fell in love with a local girl while Skye fell head over heels for another teenager, a boy.

“The whole place was scandalized,” Karl said wearily from the old, overstuffed chair before the potbelly. “Me along with the rest, I guess. Oh, I’d known he was different for a long time. But I figured he’d grow out of it. Should have known better. He was as hardheaded as I am. Practically the same head...except for that. When they labeled him a queer, I stopped defending him, I’m ashamed to say. Our old man was offended right down to his Evangelical roots and did everything but throw Skye out on his ass. Mama wouldn’t let dad do that, but that’s the only thing she did for Skye.

“So we all let him down. But Skye was one strong kid. He took it all, the abuse, the scorn. But when the boy he loved turned on him that was more than he could take. The kid, Nelson was his name, got caught in his perversion and tried to blame it on Skye. Called him every name you can think of in front of the whole community at a dance one night and told my brother to keep his pansy hands off him. That was after the two had fooled around for a year or better.

“Skye never said a word, just turned around and left. I should have followed him, but I was having too much fun. And if the truth be known, I didn’t want to be painted with the same brush, so I decided to put a little distance between us.

“When we got home that night, he was gone. Only things he took with him were his old jalopy and his desert gear, so I knew right away where he was. Wasn’t until I found his ring that I knew why he was out there. We had identical turquoise rings we got on a trip to Albuquerque one year. It was the most precious thing he ever owned. It was our link together, I guess you could say. He’d only leave it behind if he didn’t need it anymore. I knew he was dead before I spent a week looking for him. Found his car. That was all.”

“Maybe he never died. Maybe he went somewhere.”

Karl dug out his wallet and handed me a faded picture. “That’s him on the left. Me on the right. Is that him?”

“Y-yes.” The skin puckered on my arms and back. My scalp prickled. “That’s him.”

“Then how come he didn’t get old like I did?” Karl asked the unanswerable.

But I wasn’t listening. There was another presence in the room. Something powerful but insubstantial. The sudden fear and apprehension fell away. I was free and happy and special. I looked at Karl Hardesty and answered the man’s last question.

“Because you still need your flesh and bone. He doesn’t.” I peered into the deep shadows in the cavernous room. But the air had cleared; Karl and I were alone in the room now.

“He’s gone,” Karl mused. “He comes sometimes when he’s sent somebody extra special. You must be very, very special, Vince. And I thank you for it. I sorta enjoy his visits from time to time. I like to think it means he’s forgiven me.”

“He has, Karl. Believe me, he has.”

 *****

All's well that ends well... sorta. Hope you enjoyed the story. Have no idea what next week brings. 

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.

Markey (Part 1 of 3 Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #559

 Image Courtesy of Pinterest.com

 

Let’s start a new story this week, a three-parter about a guy with a history returning to his hometown to find the kid who used to idolize him has grown into a hunky, handsome young man. But given the recent tragedy in his life, can he advantage the situation?

 

Here we go.                                                                                

         

*****

Markey

“Take the shot,” I whispered as the four-point buck left the cover of the pine forest and hesitantly stepped onto the narrow meadow. The animal took a long look around before carefully lowering his head to the pale autumn grass.

“Me!” Markey gasped aloud. The white tail’s head shot up, ears flicking nervously. The animals were skittish as hell this late in the season. We had glimpsed a button buck and a spike, both of which were legal, but this was our first decent shot of the hunt.

“Yes, you!” I hissed. “Take it.” For someone who had been so blessed eager to come on the hunt, Marcus Markey seemed downright reluctant to pull the trigger. “Markey, point that fucking rifle and shoot.” I allowed a little exasperation to seep into my voice, knowing that would motivate him.

He eased the Remington thirty-aught-six over the edge of the blind and took a bead. I watched as he drew a breath, held it, and squeezed. Judging from the stricken look on his face as the report echoed against the far hills, his aim had been good. The second last thing the kid desired was to kill a living animal; the very last thing was to look like a pussy to someone he looked up to…and that would be me.

There was a gulp, and the strangled words. “Got him.”

“Good shot, buddy. Your first kill.”

“Yeah…kill,” he responded with another gulp.

“Well, let’s go collect him,” I said, leaving the blind and starting down the hill.

My name is Daniel Chamberlain, and I had recently returned to my Oklahoma hometown of Victor for the first time in fifteen, tumultuous years. If the navy had tamed my wild side, the SEALS handed it back in spades. You will neither read nor hear news reports about the clandestine missions I’d been on, but I have killed and collected commendations for the killing. Quiet heroes, the SecNav once said of my team.

Doubtless, I would have finished out my career and retired to a restless pastoral life of secret memories had it not been for Beet. When Beet—Warren Borak—a lithe, dangerous man four years my senior, took a nineteen-year-old tadpole under his wing, neither of us suspected powerful forces had been unleashed. He guided me, counseled me, nurtured me, and protected me. And one memorable, moonless night in Lebanon, fucked me vigorously in the excitement of an especially brutal action while we waited for the team to reassemble.

My life was never the same after that. Nor was my future…our future. Ten years into my enlistment, Beet and I got drunk with some buddies in Naples where our physical attraction for one another surfaced. We were kicked out of the navy in record time and with as little fanfare as possible.

We became mercenaries, fighting for causes just and not-so-just all over Africa and Southeast Asia. Happy and open about our relationship, we dared the macho world of mercenaries to do something about it, but those intrepid warriors didn’t give a shit. So we hired out for buckets full of money to do what our government had trained us to do for peanuts.

Then last year, my beautiful Beet…a nickname hung on him by the SEALS…died in a firefight with a vicious gang in Africa. That he, a superbly trained professional, should die at the hands of rank amateurs strung out on local drugs was almost beyond belief. I completed my contract, taking a terrible toll on the tribal militia that had killed my beloved. Collecting my own pay and a whopping life insurance settlement as Beet’s beneficiary, I returned to the United States and tarried in the east until it was clear Uncle Sam had no beef with me for my activities of the last five years. Then I returned home.

Marcus Markey was an eight-year-old neighbor kid when I left for boot camp at Grand Island Naval Training Station. The boy had lived next door to us since the family returned to Victor upon the death of his GI father in Kosovo. Markey, who had adopted me as his big brother, struggled beside me with all the push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, dips, flutter kicks, running, and swimming I did for a month to get ready for boot. He even attempted the Ninjutsu and Israeli Krav Maga moves recommended by the BUD/S—that would be the Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training—website. After each workout, he liked to run his hands over my sweaty biceps to test the hard muscle; it bothered me in a vague way I didn’t understand back then. Markey went to the bus station with my family to see me off, and I still recall his thin arms locked around my waist in a goodbye hug, and the tears that soaked my shirt.

Now, glancing at him as we strode down the meadow, I could still see traces of that shy, adoring kid in this lanky twenty-three-year-old. He’d retained the creamy complexion and black sloe-eyes that gave him a slightly foreign cast. A once shaggy mop of black hair was cut short in a vaguely military style. But if Markey ever joined up, he was in for a bad time until he got tough enough to secure his own ground. It wasn’t just that he was far beyond merely handsome; his long, curled lashes alone would earn him grief in the barracks. Markey could have been a beautiful girl except for the Adam’s apple. I wondered if he had ever cross-dressed. There wasn’t a sign of a beard on his smooth skin, although I’m sure there was one; it merely cleaned up well. There wasn’t much of the kid I knew fifteen years ago in this fantastic youth—except for the shy, diffident demeanor.

“Kinda small,” he observed wryly as we reached the fallen stag.

“It’ll make good venison. Well, let’s get at it,” I suggested, noting the absence of any pride in the kill. “We’ve gotta field dress him.”

“You mean cut him up?” The words were almost strangled.

“You want to leave him for the coyotes?”

“N…no. Of course, not. But I don’t know how.”

“We’ll gut him now and pack him back to camp to dry out a little.”

“Uh…okay. Will he be all right tonight?  You know, he won’t go bad?”

“No. It’s cool enough. He’ll hold for a couple of days.”

We hauled the buck away from the kill area and strung him up in a tree. After a couple of false starts, Markey slit its belly with a grimace of distaste. When that job was done, we hauled the carcass back to camp where we hung it again, washed out the cavity, and left it to dry. Then I grabbed a bar of soap, stripped, and waded into the lake. Ignoring the shock of cold water, I lathered up while Markey stood on the shore staring at me in disbelief. After all, it was November.

“If I’ve learned one thing in the last ten years, it’s to keep clean,” I called. “Keeping clean is half of staying healthy. Coming in?”

I watched as he undressed in the late afternoon sun, revealing a long-limbed, clean-muscled physique with unblemished skin and little body hair except for a pubic bush. Visually embarrassed, he turned with his flank toward me, which merely silhouetted a long cock sprouting from curly hair. He rushed into the water and gasped aloud at its frigid grip.

I continued lathering, well aware of black eyes studying me closely. I rinsed and repeated process until my skin squeaked. When I tossed him the soap, he seemed frozen in place. Then he floundered frantically until he recovered the bar. As Markey scrubbed, I could tell my inspection bothered him, so I swam out into the lake. Sufficiently warmed by my exertions, I silently submerged and covered the distance to the shore underwater. When I surfaced beside him, Markey was frantically calling my name.

“Right here,” I said quietly, startling him.

“Damn, Daniel!  I thought something happened to you. You were under for a long time.”

“A fifty-yard underwater swim is mandatory for SEALS.” I laughed. “You’d be surprised how many tadpoles had to have water pumped out of their lungs after their first try.”

Markey’s teeth were chattering, so I crawled out of the water, knowing he would follow. To spare him further embarrassment, I kept my eyes averted as we dried off and dressed. I did the cooking, a trade-off for him cleaning up the gear afterward. Later, as darkness was wresting supremacy from light, we sat at a campfire and sucked on long-necked bottles of beer.

“How was it?” he asked out of the blue. “You know, the SEALS.”

“Great!  Best time of my life.”

“Why’d you get out?”

I swallowed the temptation to tell him the truth. “Found out there was more money to be made outside the navy for doing the same thing.”

“I heard you were a soldier of fortune, but I didn’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

“You were so gung-ho.”

“You grow out of that pretty quick.”

He let a small silence grow as I sensed some of the hero worship leaking away. Then, “How come you went for the SEALS?”

“After boot, I got caught up in the spirit and put in for BUD/S training.”

“How was it?”

“Hell,” I said simply.

He grinned into the dying flames. “How about Hell Week?”

“Hell on steroids. You thinking about becoming a tadpole?”

That brought a quick frown and another swig from the bottle. “Naw. Not cut out for it. Wouldn’t fit in,” he added enigmatically.

 

*****

Well, we know who Markey is now, don’t we? He’s the young man struggling. But Daniel has his own battle, doesn’t he? Will he opt to help Markey or help himself?

 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.

A Dragon Named Pedro (A Repost)

 dontravis.com blog post #558

 Image book cover of The Zozobra Incident

This week, I’m opting for a repost from May 2016. The following story is essentially lifted from my novel, The Zozobra Incident, except it is told from the viewpoint of Paul Barton, who becomes the significant other of B. J. Vinson, gay former marine, ex-Albuquerque cop turned confidential investigator. Actually, you might say it is from the viewpoint of Pedro, the small, tattooed dragon with a death-grip on one of Paul’s nipples.

 Why did I return to this story? I don’t know… maybe because I am considering writing an eighth novel to the series.

Enjoy.

                                                                                        

A DRAGON NAMED PEDRO

From his high perch, Pedro the Dragon’s lidless eyes seemed fixed on the man in swimming trunks lying on a poolside lounge. Good build, and probably handsome when viewed up close. He knew his owner watched the man as well. The brown nipple Pedro held in the talons of one clawed foot stiffened and puckered, a subtle but sure sign of interest.

****

Paul sat in the tall lifeguard’s chair at the North Valley Country Club and watched the man basking in the early morning sun. At this hour, they were the only two individuals at the swimming pool. Even though Paul was new to the club, he knew the man had an interesting history. B. J. Vinson—no one could tell him what the initials stood for—had once been a US Marine and then an Albuquerque Police detective before becoming a private eye. Intriguing.

But no more so than the man, himself. Strange colored hair… mocha he’d heard it called. Eyes as green as a polished Granny Smith apple. Chiseled features; handsome but not pretty. Lean and athletic. Good, tanned skin without blemish except for one scar on the inside of the left thigh. Scuttlebutt held that was from a gunshot wound Vinson got back when he was a policeman.

Although aware they were alone, Paul involuntarily glanced around to see if anyone noticed he was taking too much notice of a nearly naked man. Where he came from—Albuquerque’s south valley—interest like that would earn a guy a beating or worse. The thought startled him. Interest like that? Well, he couldn’t deny it. He felt the small, tattooed dragon on his left pec squeezing his nipple, making it stand up. And tingle. Pedro often set off so many nerve endings that it became embarrassing for Paul to stand up in polite society.

To avoid that eventuality, he climbed down from his elevated chair and snared a floating candy wrapper with a telescoping aluminum pole equipped with a leaf net.

“Kids,” he muttered softly with half an eye on the other man. The aroma of summer roses climbing the club’s adobe wall battled the odor of chlorine from the pool, distracting him for a moment.

Vinson reached for a glass beside the lounge and missed, spilling what appeared to be orange juice.

Paul dropped the skimmer and picked up the glass, holding it out. “Can I get you another?” Pedro gave a yank on Paul’s nipple when he noticed those fascinating green eyes studying the tiny tattoo.

“No, thanks. Nothing left but ice cubes, anyway.”

Pedro about went crazy at the sound of the deep baritone.

“But I appreciate your offer, uh….”

“Paul. Paul Barton.”

“Paul.”

He noticed the slight hesitation but decided not to enlighten the man. Aware he was a mixture of Hispanic and Anglo blood, he often got that reaction to his last name. But his mother had been the Latina; his father the Anglo. “Anytime,” he muttered as his eyes wandered the man’s lanky form, halting without intention on the purple scar.

“Bullet wound,” Vinson said.

“Damn, I’ll bet that hurt.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. That’s why I swim early in the morning. Therapy.”

“Swimming’s the best exercise in the world.” Paul felt his cheeks burn as he revealed himself as a dyed-in-the-wool water bug. He glanced down at his tight trunks. Well, dyed-in-spandex, anyway.

His cell phone piped “Dixie” on a nearby table. He eyed the other man as he answered the call. Jill Hardwick asked what time he got off work and suggested they go to a movie that evening. He told her “five” and said he had plans. As he finished the call, Vinson tossed him a wave and disappeared into the locker room. Pedro gave a final squeeze to Paul’s nipple, making him wish he could follow the detective to the showers. “Sorry, Pedro,” he mumbled. “Can’t think of a logical excuse.

**

By five-thirty, Paul felt foolish hanging around outside the club’s Moorish gate. He’d misread the situation… badly. BJ Vinson, PI, probably hadn’t given him a second thought once he left poolside. But Paul—as well as Pedro—had had sensed a strong connection with the attractive detective. Looked like they were both wrong.

Just as he started walking to the employee’s parking lot, a white Impala swung to the curb and stopped. The hunky detective rolled down the window and leaned across the seat. Without exchanging a word, Paul hopped into the passenger’s seat as Pedro did his thing beneath the tight polo shirt. Feeling the need to say something, Paul went trite.

“Hi, Mr. Vinson.”

“Call me BJ or Vince. The Vince comes from Vinson.”

“What do most people call you?”

“BJ.”

“Okay, then I’ll call you Vince. At least when nobody’s around.”

“Where can I drop you?” Vince asked with a smile.

Paul’s grin almost split his lips. “Wherever you’re going is okay by me.”

Pedro must have approved because the inky claw spasmed, squeezing Paul’s tit almost painfully.

 

*****

The story stirred a feeling of nostalgia in my worn breast. Hope you enjoyed it.

 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.

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