Neverend (Part Two of Three Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #651

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Last week, we met Bobolink and Marco, just as they met one another. Bobolink was knocked off his feet. But how did Marco feel about their meeting. He seemed interesting in making a new friend.

 

Let’s see what develops in this second installment.

 ****

NEVEREND

The Saturday I first played tennis with Marco was the most perfect day of my life. I had to scramble, but I was a match for him on the court when I could refrain from watching him rather than the ball.

Afterward, we showered side-by-side in the school locker room, and my eyes feasted on his fantastic naked form. Hiding my unintended erection at times became a problem, but if he noticed, he gave no sign.

After what-should-have-been a routine cleansing of the flesh—but was actually an exciting event of overwhelming intimacy, at least for me—we stopped for a drink at a local tavern and freely shared our past lives. I had never revealed so many petty confessions to any soul before, and found it not only liberating, but also titillating.

Upon leaving the bar on the way to our cars, he paused, threw an arm over my shoulders, and took a moment to comment on the monstrous moon hovering in the sky. At that moment, I would have done anything for him… anything at all. But we merely proceeded to our cars, told one another how much we enjoyed the day and departed.

But not before he poked my chest with a forefinger and arched his eyebrow. “Next Saturday, same time. Date?”

I probably looked like an idiot with my head flapping so hard.

****

We saw one another regularly after that, not just on Saturday for tennis, but other times, as well. For me, it meant falling deeper into love. For Marco, probably just an easy friendship. During our first Saturday confession, he’d warned that he made casual relations easily, but had trouble holding onto them over time.

Two months passed before the true nature of things changed between us. I remember it clearly. The school year was coming to an end, and I was desperately trying to figure how to hold onto our friendship. My anxiety must have been obvious.

As we sat in the tavern for an after-dinner beer—we’d both had the bistro’s famous corned beef on rye with German potato salad—he put down his glass and touched my arm.

“Why so down, Bobolink?” The nickname sounded beautiful when he said it.

“Graduation’s coming up. And….” I swallowed hard. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to a friendship that’s become important to me.”

“I’ve been thinking on that too. Never had anyone worm his way into my heart the way you have. I’ll be walking down the sidewalk and spot someone across the quadrangle and wonder if it’s my handsome friend, Bobolink? Then I’ll see it’s only some guy, and feel disappointment in my gut.”

“You… you do that too?”

“All the time. You’ve become important to me, my friend. That’s why it’s so hard for me to do what comes next.”

My heart dropped into my stomach. He was calling it quits! “Which is?” I managed to say without stuttering.

“I’m about to risk our friendship by asking….”

“Wh-what?” I said through a dry throat.”

“Would you go to bed with me? I’ve never met a man before who makes me think of sex every time I see him. Never known anyone who makes me lie in bed after one of our dates—yeah, that’s the way I think of them—and ache for him.” He dropped his eyes to the table. “Sorry if that turns you off, but… well, that’s the way it is for me.”

Ignoring everyone else in the tavern, I laid my hand atop his on the table. “Turn me off? It sets me on fire. I couldn’t stand up right now without embarrassing you and everyone else in the joint.”

He turned his hand over and gripped mine. “Do you mean it?”

I nodded.

“Are you experienced? Know what you’re saying?”

I shook my head just as hard. “Never been with man or boy in all my life. But I’ve lain awake just like you have trying to imagine it. For months now.”

Marco’s sudden smile died. “That’s good news, and that’s bad news.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some guys, for one reason or the other, get attracted to someone of their own sex. When they give in and try it out, they come away feeling ashamed of what they’ve done. Mortified. They can’t stand to be around the guy they once idolized because it reminds them of their supposed weakness.”

I met his big, sultry eyes. “Have you… uh, done it with guys? Has that happened to you?”

He met my stared. “Yeah. I’ve had sex with men. And to be honest, the first time I felt exactly that way and avoided the guy from then on.” He rested his chin in a palm. “I think it was because I was so young. Only sixteen. He was older, twenty or so. He knew what he wanted, I didn’t. And I was more religious back then and considered it to be a sin.”

“You don’t now?”

He shook his handsome head, the shadows of the semidarkness playing over the planes and angles of his face. “The next time I was eighteen. And I knew what I wanted from the kid—who was my own age. I handled it fine. So did he.”

“Eighteen. That was only two years ago.”

He nodded. “What do you say? Wanna risk it?”

“I swallowed hard to moisten my arid throat. “Y… yes.”

“Your place or mine?”

“Yours, I’ve got a roommate, remember?”

I’ll never forget how unsteady I was when I stood and got out of the booth. The slow, languid way we moved into the night. The glorious display of the moon almost swamped the dazzling display of stars. A sudden, frightening thought caused me to miss a step. Was this the end of Neverend… or the reaffirmation of it?

“What’s the matter,” Marco asked, reaching out to grasp my hand. “Have you changed your mind?”

“No,” I said firmly.

As I followed Marco’s taillights down the road toward his off-campus apartment, the drive seemed interminable.

 ****

So Bobolink’s on the way to his first man on man sexual encounter. Is he prepared for it? Were you? How did yours work out. The way you anticipated? Better? Worse? Measure your reaction against his next week.

 Until next time, stay safe and stay strong.

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

Check out the BJ Vinson stable of books at Dreamspinnerpress.com. The Zozobra Incident, The Bisti Business, and all the others are there waiting for you. If you've read them, tell a friend, leave a comment on Amazon. 

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com

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

X: @dontravis3

See you next time.

Don

New posts on the second and fourth Thursday of each month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, a Repost

 dontravis.com blog post #634

 Images Courtesy of ClipartMax.com:

 

Well, our nameless hero got his petty revenge on Graciela last week. Didn’t accomplish much except bring some satisfaction into his dim life, and that was worth something, right?

 Swore I wasn’t going to do this again, but the week got away from me—life intruding, you know—and I’m going to repost a story again. This one was originally published on May 8, 2018, and it’s one I forgot about and rediscovered. I like it. I hope you do too.

 

                                                                         ****

MONDAY, WEDNESDAY, AND FRIDAY

I left the chapel following Charles Farrelson’s memorial service somewhat spiritually fractured. Chuck, thirty years my senior, had been both father figure and lover for the past five years. For at least 250 of the last 260 Wednesdays, he’d filled my afternoons with good food, sharp wit, and loving caresses. Yet the sorrow tugging at my heartstrings felt selfish. It seemed more centered on what was taken from me, rather than his life being snatched from him.

Feeling the need for nourishment, sustenance… something. I walked past the cars in the parking lot and struck out for the Famous Four Flavors ice cream shop across the street. A tall hunky guy I’d noticed at the service entered before me. I’d picked up on him not only because he was so handsome but also because he was Chuck’s son Drake.

Restraining the impulse to introduce myself, I fell in line behind him wondering how he’d feel about meeting his father’s gay lover. Once he collected his chocolate shake, I ordered a strawberry. Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I walked toward a nearby table until a deep baritone brought me to a halt.

“I noticed you at the service.” Drake indicated a chair. “Join me?”

When I was settled, he offered a handshake. “Hi, I’m Drake Barstow.”

I grasped his hand and frowned. “N-not Drake Farrelson?”

His eyebrows reached for his dark hairline. “No. Why would you think that?”

“I’ve seen you before. Last December, I saw you and Chuck leaving Dillards. I asked him later, and he said you were his son.”

His astonished look morphed into glee. “That old dog! Now let me guess. You’re not Carl, Chuck’s nephew. You see, I saw you with him once, too, at the University bookstore.

“I’m Carl, all right. But I’m not his nephew. I was… uh, a friend.”

“Yeah, a friend. What was your day?”

“My day?”

“When did you meet him? Was it on a special day of the week?”

“Well… yes. We got together for lunch or something every Wednesday.”

“Yeah, or something. I was Friday. That’s the day we got together for… something.”

“You… you mean you and Chuck…?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“For how long?”

“Ten years. I was eighteen when I met him. Got together with him every Friday after that except when one of us was out of town. And that wasn’t often, I can tell you.” He arched an eyebrow at me. “How long for you?”

“Five years. I was eighteen, too.”

“Apparently, that’s the age when we first grab his attention. But he was loyal, in his own way, I guess you could say. Outside of Chuck, what do you do?”

I felt my cheeks burn. “No one. It was just—”

“Sorry, that’s not what I meant. What do you do to keep a roof over your head?”

“I’m a commercial artist. You?”

“Photographer. And I’ll bet you’ve got as many intimate drawings as I have photographs.”

My cheeks really flamed then. “Uh, a few.”

“Yeah, I’ve got some scorchers, too.” His attention strayed from me to the front door of the shop. “Hang on, I think we’re about to meet Monday.”

I looked where his gaze was centered and saw the other individual who’d caught my attention at the memorial service. Impossibly young and blond, the kid was really cute.

“What makes you think—”

“Well, he’s not Chuck’s son or nephew, and probably not even a cousin. But he was at the service. What are the odds?”

We both watched the kid’s coltish, self-conscious carriage as he ordered a coke and then turned to glance uncertainly over the room. His eyes stopped on us before moving on.

“Have a chair,” Drake said.

With only a moment’s hesitation, the kid sat.

We identified ourselves and watched the newcomer’s reaction. His blue eyes skittered back and forth between us as he sank into a chair at the table.

“Confused?” Drake asked.

“Uh….”

“Well, I’m not Chuck’s son, and Carl’s not his nephew. Now let me make a couple of guesses about you. You’re what? About twenty or twenty-one?”

“Twenty.”

“Your name’s Jake and you met Carl about two years ago.

The kid seemed flustered. “That’s right. How did you know?”

“I saw you with Carl once at the Kimo. He told me your name later.”

“You saw us?”

 “Bound to happen sooner or later,” I said. “Albuquerque’s not that big of a town.”

Jake looked as if he was about to bolt.

“It’s okay,” Drake said. You’re among brethren.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is I’m Friday, Carl’s Wednesday, and I’ll bet you’re Monday.”

“I don’t know what you—”

“Come on, don’t play coy. You met Chuck for lunch and playtime every Monday, right?”

“I met him, yes, but—”

“Butt being the operative word. You got it on with him. We all did.

Now it was Jake’s turn to send his eyebrows northward. “You mean…?”

“Yep. That’s exactly what I mean. Old Chuck got his jollies every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday with us. Who knows, we might be why his heart failed. Hell, he wasn’t even fifty-five yet.”

That comment sat on the table for a moment while we all digested it. Then Drake took charge again.

“Now what we have to do is figure out the situation. You know” he turned pedantic. “Let not what Chuck sowed be put asunder!”

Jake and I blinked back at him for a moment before smiling.

“How do you know we’re compatible?” I asked.

Drake winked. “I’d bet on it.”

After raising a silent toast to our dear, departed Chuck, we put our heads together and started working out our Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

 ****

That story didn’t come out of any experience of mine. Reading it makes me wonder how my mind works, but I’ll not delve into that too deeply. At the turn of the year, I’ll try to do something original… although I am taking on a new project that’s going to demand a lot of my time. Hopefully, it’s productive in the end.

Until next week, stay safe and strong.

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

Please check out my seven BJ Vinson murder mystery books published by Dreamspinner Press.

My personal links:

Email: dontravis@aol.com

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

X: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.

Don

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

Fun and Games (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #619

 Image Courtesy of Freepik:

 

If I recall correctly, we ended last week’s segment at the beginning of a rape. Rape can’t be right or acceptable under any circumstances, can it? So let’s see how Dario deals with it.

 

Here we go.

 

                                                                                                

                     

                              

                      ****

FUN AND GAMES

I press my lips to his; he turns his head to the side. I grab his jaw and force a kiss on him. His hard lips gradually turn soft. I press my groin against his. “No,” he tries to say, but I use that opportunity to force my tongue into his mouth. His resistance falters. He groans. I press my advantage, ripping his T-shirt apart and tonguing his nipples… first the right and then the left. Momentarily, he ceases to resist and thrusts his torso harder against me. My teeth make contact with one aureole. He yips, then shudders.

I feast for a moment before he tries to push my head away. I rise enough to grab his wrists and force his hands flat against the couch. The sight of that partially revealed, heaving torso is the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.

I growl deep in my throat. “Dario, you’re gonna get it one way or the other. Might as well relax and enjoy it. It’s not like you’re a virgin, you know.”

“Mack… no. I said no, guy.”

“Like I said, them’s the words, but it ain’t what you mean.”

He thrusts his hips up suddenly, almost unseating me. Instead, it inflames me further. “Now, you are gonna get it. Hard!”

“I’ll call the cops,” he says, almost choking on his words.

I laughed. “They catch one look at the threads you’re wearing and laugh you out of the station. I haven’t even checked yet, but I know you’re not wearing anything under those skimpy shorts. You came to the door asking for it, guy. And you know it.”

“Please, Mack. Maybe some other time, but not… not tonight.”

I release his wrists and move to his shorts. They were a little tougher, but they finally tore beneath my fingers. “Nope,” I say, caressing the flesh of his lower belly. “No underwear.”

He gasps as I take him in hand.

“Not only that,” I say, “but you’re excited as all get out. Grown to the max, I’d say.”

“B… beyond my control,” he responds, a catch in his voice. “Anybody’d get that way if they’re stroked.”

I laugh again. “No, not anybody. Just somebody who’s liking the action.”

“Nothing to like about violence,” he shoots back at me.

“Violence? Only violence done is against your clothes. Up until now,” I add. “I’m gonna get up now, and you’re going to go into the bedroom where we’ll be comfortable. You got it?”

He nods, but I don’t trust him. As soon as I crawl off him and he gets to his feet, I grab the shredded shorts and rip them the rest of the way off him. “Now if you run, you’ll be running bare-assed through the neighborhood. Go on, be my guest. Then I can call the cops and report a flasher.”

His shoulders slump, and he heads for the bedroom. Once there, I shove him face down on the bed and crawl aboard. Getting out of my clothes while holding him down isn’t easy, but I manage it okay. Then there’s flesh to flesh contact. It’s wonderful. I force his legs apart with my knees and soon find myself exactly where I want to be. It’s beyond wonderful… marvelous.

And it gets even better. Just as I’m about to get there, he reaches orgasm first, messing up my bedcovers big time. Exhausted, elated, enervated, I fall atop him, my lips at his ear. I lick it, and he flinches.

“Great, guy. Best yet.”

His scowl turns into a grin. “Was, wasn’t it. You were great by the way. Now get off me you big galoot.”

I roll off and lay watching him rise and stretch… which became the new “sexiest thing I’d ever seen.”

He turns and levels those black, black eyes at me, sending shivers down my spine. “Next time, I get to be the rapist, and you’re the helpless victim.”

He takes a fresh pair of clothes from his tote bag and strolls into the bathroom for his shower. After I milk everything I can from the image he’d implanted in my mind, I get up and go join my best friend and lover in the shower.

 ****

So it’s just fun and games, after all. Glad of that. Like I said, rape’s not acceptable under any set of circumstances I can imagine. But fun and games? Ah, I remember those fondly.

Hope you enjoyed the story. Have no idea what next week can bring, so I’m as anxious to see it as any reader. Util then.

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. 

 

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. 

 

Tricky (Part 3 of 3 Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #615

Image Courtesy of Freepik

 

Well, Dru finally got together with Alene. Now will there be blowback from her twin brother Sam? Let’s find out.

                                                                                                

****

TRICKY

I encountered no Big Brother hostility, so either Alene hadn’t told Sam about our intimate hours or he figured that was her business. In fact, the week went well.

I was recovering from the loss of my wife well enough to start work on another project I’d had in mind for the last year or so. My sister and brother-in-law’s computer system wasn’t as elaborate as mine at home, but I’d brought a pretty stout laptop with me, and between their equipment and mine, I had what I needed. California wasn’t calling, at least not yet. I wanted some more of the luscious next-door neighbor, but she stayed close to home other than weekends. School work, I imagined.

Then, as we neared the weekend, my brother-in-law organized a fishing trip. An associate of his at work had a secluded cabin on a lake not far away, and he insisted Sam and I accompany him. Sam had a Saturday class, according to Alene, so I counted on him to put a hole in that boat, but he apparently thought it was okay to skip the class. Once I was lassoed, I tried to salvage things by inviting the distaff side, but neither Bonnie nor Alene was interested. Nor was Lynne when she found shed be the only girl on a male fishing trip.

So here I was, going on a fishing trip I had no interest in. Never been a fisherman… nor a hunter for that matter. But on Friday afternoon a couple of hours before we were to leave, things got better. Chuck’s firm had a crisis on one of their projects, and he had to cancel. But instead of letting things die a natural death, he insisted Sam and I proceed with the trip as planned. Sam, it seemed, knew where the lake, and indeed, the cabin were. Apparently he’d been there before.

So about four that afternoon, I climbed in a SUV with a guy whose sister I had shagged… and who provoked erotic thoughts in my head himself, to head off into the mountains with rods and reels, and two pistols as snake guns.  In my mind, they appeared to be dueling pistols. Talk about testy!

****

Actually, the trip to the lake was rather pleasant. Sam didn’t initiate much conversation, but he answered questions fully and easily when they were put to him. As this was totally foreign country to me, I had plenty of questions. As we headed north to Santa Fe and beyond on the way to some lake called Cochiti, the landscape constantly changed from high-desert panoramas to narrower, more restricted mountain views, but it was all interesting.

The cabin turned out to be a two-bedroom log affair perched near the lake on some high ground. Somewhere during our afternoon-long dialogue, I picked up the information that the land was owned by a local Indian tribe who, in turn, leased the ground beneath these cabins for something like ninety-nine years. The fact that the property reverted to the control of the tribe, buildings and all, at the end of the lease set my teeth on edge, but it wasn’t anything for me to worry about.

We arrived too late to do any fishing, but used an excellent butane stove to cook ourselves a couple of fillets we found in the freezer. After that, we retired to the veranda overlooking the water and studied the shimmering lake by moonlight. After a while, we lapsed into a comfortable silence until Sam asked a question.

“What time do you want to get up to start fishing?”

“Dunno. Hadn’t given it any thought.”

Then he shook me. “Do fish get up early?”

“You’re asking me? Aren’t you a fisherman?”

“Nah. Last time I came up with Chuck, I spent most of the time hiking.” He eyeballed me through the moonlight. “Aren’t you?”

“Maybe once in my life when my old man dragged me on a trip. Crap, maybe we oughta head back to Albuquerque.”

“I dunno. It’s nice up here, and there’s some good hiking. We can go back tomorrow, if we decide that’s the thing to do.”

“Sounds good to me.”

We sat in some more comfortable quiet, occasionally broken by the cry of a loon—isn’t there always a loon on lakes?—until the temperature dropped enough to send us back inside.

Sam gravitated to a phonograph and started shuffling through albums. “Mind if I put on some music?” he asked.

“So long as it doesn’t blast my eardrums.”

He laughed. “I like show tunes, oldies, that kind of thing.

“More my type.”

The record he selected was a Perry Como album, slow and mellow., causing me to blurt out that his sister was a good dancer.

Better put a halter on my tongue. No telling where that would lead.

“Yeah, she is. Says you are too.”

“That so? From what I saw while you and Lynne were on the floor, so are you.”

He held out his arms and danced with himself for a moment, prompting me to lose my head.

“As a matter of fact, I wondered what it would be like to dance with you.”

He halted and smiled. “Won’t have any better opportunity to find out than right now.” He walked into my arms, but I noticed he reversed things so that he led.

At first it was stiff and awkward. Finally, he cuffed my chin and told me to relax. Then he pulled me close, and I don’t remember much after that except it felt right and natural to be in this young man’s arms. He moved smoothly to the beat of the music and hummed along with Como, carrying me right along with him.

The song ended, and he held me tight until the next one—even slower and mellower—began. I laid my head on his broad shoulder and relaxed even more, allowing our groins to press together. There was magic in the moment.

I don’t know how many tunes played before the album ended. But as the played-out record went round and round with a scratching noise, we stood looking at one another. Those green eyes reminded me of fire opals, and I felt myself succumbing to them.

“W-what happens n—” He cut me off with his lips, and I felt the kiss right down in my bones.

He came up for air and stared some more. “I dunno. What do you—”

I shut him up with my lips and pressed myself against his hard, lean body.

When we parted, he had a loopy grin on his handsome face. “You know this is gonna be tricky when we go home, don’t you?”

“That’s then. This is now.”

The grin grew broader. “Where.”

“Bedroom.”

Actually, the tricky part was figuring out who did what to whom. But we managed. In fact we managed several times over that magical weekend.

 

****

Guess Dru’s not going to have any trouble. Unless it’s deciding which twin he wants. Or can he keep both? Should he return to California or stay in Albuquerque. Like he said… it’s Tricky.

 Hope you enjoyed the story.

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. 

 

Becky Isn’t Here Anymore (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #608

  

Poor Chuck, Nirvana slipped between his fingers (is that a tortured metaphor?) with the accidental death of his beloved Becky. But that’s not the end of the story. Let’s see what happens next.

****

BECKY ISN’T HERE ANYMORE

The following spring, one of the associates at my architectural firm mentioned that a college friend of his son’s needed a place to stay for a short period. The young man was apprenticing at a local computer chip factory for the summer. Inasmuch as I was alone in my house, which was near the manufacturing facility, I impulsively volunteered to allow him to stay with me. I must confess I experienced many an anxiety before the June date for the young man’s arrival rolled around.

But arrive, it finally did. He insisted he could make it to my house from the airport on his own. Ergo, when I heard the doorbell chime one Saturday morning in early June, I opened the door and stood as if pole axed.

My mysterious young man from Hawaii stood smiling and handsome on my porch. Well, it wasn’t the same young man, but the resemblance was strong—overwhelming—and my reaction the same—overwhelmed.

“Mr. Pierce? Hi, I’m Kielani Snider.”

Still mentally reeling, I accepted his hand. “Kielani… you mean, Kiel?”

“That’s the way most folks know me. But it’s actually Kielani.”

“H-Hawaiian?”

“Yes, sir. My mom’s from the Islands, and she hung that label on me. Means ‘Glorious Chief.’ Kinda pretentious, so I just use Kiel.”

I recovered enough to invite him and his two big bags inside.

Once I got over the shock of the meeting, Kiel proved to be a proper and gregarious young man. Eager to be liked, and easy to like. I had planned on taking him for dinner on his first night in town, but we got to talking and ended up munching on a tuna salad sandwich while we talked about my recent loss.

He had picked up on Becky’s presence… and her absence. Her presence in the room, by photos of her on the mantlepiece, the Hawaiian blanket hung as a tapestry in the dining room, her little statuettes scattered throughout the house. Her absence by the fact she wasn’t here.

Reluctant at first, I soon found talking about her with this personable young man was liberating. I’d expected a teenager as a temporary roomer, but what I got was a reasonably mature twenty-year-old—only nine years younger than I—capable of discussing unexpected things.

We quickly established a bond and a routine. I drove to work while he took a short bus ride to the chip factory in the morning, and he was home by the time I arrived after work, preparing us something to eat. Louise—who did my housekeeping once a week—complained things were so ship-shape she was no longer needed. But she said it with a smile, as she enjoyed Kiel’s company as much as I did. He always arrived at the house a couple of hours before she left.

As the summer progressed, I found myself fretting over Kiel leaving for school. Had he insinuated himself so deeply in my life as all that? With a shock, I realized it was true. I looked forward to going home in the evening to be with him. We started going to movies, to plays… even to a friendly bar whose manager would wink if I vouched for my companion. I vouched for him.

As the beginning of the new semester at his faraway college approached, I found my mood taking a downward turn. He came home on a Friday afternoon and sent it soaring.

“They’ve offered me a job,” he announced as soon as I came through the door.

“They? The chip factory?”

He nodded.

“Great. When do you start?”

“Dunno if I’ll accept yet.”

“Oh, your education?”

“That’s not a problem. They’ll support me through my degree at the University here. Be easier, in fact.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“You.”

I felt my eyes go wide. “Me? How?”

“Don’t know if I want to stay here if I can’t be with you.”

“Problem solved. You can stay here as long as you like. Just don’t have too many beer parties while I’m at work.”

“You don’t understand. I don’t want to stay unless I can be with you.”

“Kiel, you’re not listening. I just said you can stay as long as you like.”

“No, John. You’re not listening.”

“What do you mean I’m not—” My mouth clamped shut. “Oh! Uh. Well, I don’t know about that….”

A wicked smile played across his handsome—no, they were really beautiful—lips. “Don’t tell me a hunky guy like you’s never got with a man before?”

I felt my cheeks flush. “Nope. Never. Well, when I was a kid, a couple of us used to—you know—jerk off together.”

“That’s a start. Let’s be kids again.”

****

It was my time to host the company’s Christmas party that year. With Kiel’s flair for the outrageous measured against my more conservative vein, it proved a rousing success. I can’t accurately recall how many of my colleagues not only raved over the party but also congratulated me on having such a lively student brightening my house.

Late in the evening, while other revelers… well, reveled… I sat in a corner with my best bud from the office, a guy named Fred. His wife had been one of my late wife’s best friends. He took a casual look around the room as the party guests gathered around Kiel to sing the Christmas carols he played on my ukulele.

At length Fred shook his head. “Becky’s not here anymore.”

I started. “Fred, you know what happened last year.”

His eyes slid to me. “Oh yeah, I know, she’s gone. But take a look around. Becky’s not here anymore.”

My eyes scanned the living room and the dining room, and I understood what he meant. Her pictures were gone, the Hawaiian blanket on the dining room wall was missing, and there wasn’t a figurine in sight. When had that happened? Probably while Kiel and I progressed from delightful masturbating to fantastic lovemaking.

I relaxed muscles I didn’t know had tensed and met his eyes. “Guess you’re right, my friend. But as my Becky used to say, there comes a time to move on. So I’m moving on.”

 

****

Hope you enjoyed the story. But tell me something. Did Becky’s beyond-the-grave message to “move on,” anticipate the direction that moving on take? Do you think she had a clue as to John’s reaction to that young man in Haiwaii? Let me know the list of your thinking.

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. 

Portrait of Miss Emmalee (Part 4 of a 5 Part Story) - A Repost

 dontravis.com blog post #593

 Image Courtesy of Dreamstime.com

 

 

Is Richie getting to the bottom of the puzzle well? Has he discovered his mother and Miss Emmalee shared a physical relationship? Explained his dad’s hostility to the Vanderports, doesn’t it? But he has t dig deeper. Make sure he’s on the right track. That and pay attention to the intriguing Jorge.

 

****

                                                         PORTRAIT OF MISS EMMALEE

One evening, Jorge came over, and we settled on the couch with cold beers. He brought me up to date on happenings at the shop, and then we got down to the real purpose of the visit. I had his shirt off and his pants halfway down his thighs when he suddenly rebelled.

“I can’t do it, Richie-O,” he exclaimed.

Startled, I sat up, still halfway addled by the expanse of brown flesh and sinewy muscles before my eyes. “Can’t do what?”

He grabbed for his pants and hauled them up. Then he covered his nipples with his discarded shirt. “This, man. Not with her staring at us.”

I glanced around. “What’re you talking about. There’s nobody here but you and me.”

He lifted an arm in the direction of the fireplace. “Her, man. She watching us. She frowning.”

I laughed. “There’s a picture of my mother over on the piano. That never bothered you before.”

“She not watching us. This one, she watchin’, man.”

I knew Jorge was seriously disturbed when his English went fractured. “Okay, she can’t see us in the bedroom.”

“Uh-uh. She already seen. She know… man.”

“Jorge, it’s a picture. Just a painted picture.”

He drew on his shirt. “Don’ care. We go my place, okay?”

We did, and he was as loving and demanding and wonderful as ever. A rather remarkable night, actually.

****

Jorge’s reaction to Miss Emmalee’s portrait served to further fan the flames of my curiosity. I was blown away by the fact that I really knew so little about a woman who’d been a fixture in my hometown until I realized that was true of so many of us. Except for our own family, our own peers, we usually know only the public faces of others in our lives.

Foremost in my mind was my suspicion of a relationship between my mother and Miss Emmalee. I didn’t actually believe it… but then I didn’t disbelieve it, either. Other things began to seep out of my unconscious into the light of day. Miss Emmalee had attended my mother’s funeral and seemed to be a bit emotional at the church. My dad’s poorly hidden animosity toward the Vanderports. Another thought sent me looking through my family’s financial records. I knew my dad had been an insurance salesman, a successful one given the standard of living the family enjoyed. Yet, I recalled something about some outside income.

My mom had taken ill and died rather quickly, and we hadn’t had an opportunity to talk about… well, final arrangements. I was a signatory on Mom’s bank accounts, so I paid for her service out of her bank account, and recouped the money later when her life insurance proceeds came. Now, I looked deeper and found what I vaguely remembered. Old records showed a “trust” income of one thousand dollars a month from something called the “Orchard Trust.” What the hell was that? My own records showed the monthly deposit had switched from Mom’s account to mine upon her death. The fact my curiosity hadn’t been ticked showed just how unworldly I was. Nothing meant much to me except cars and Jorge.

My banker referred me to my dad’s lawyer. A day later, I sat in Jason Brown’s office and awaited an explanation. Actually, Jason was a peer of mine. His father had been my father’s attorney, but had since gone the way of my dad.

He reviewed the file he had before him for a few minutes, and then lifted his eyes to meet mine. “The trust was set up almost twenty-nine years ago, Richie-O. Original amount was one and a half million smackers. Never been touched except for the monthly stipend, so it’s grown a tad over all these years.”

My head spun. “One and a half million? What was the original source of the funds?”

“Dunno. I’d have to go back into the tombs to find those old banking records. I can tell you it was a lump sum payment. Actually, the payments have been to your mother with you as the successor beneficiary should something happen to her. You didn’t know about this?”

“Nope. What am I allowed to do with the funds?”

He consulted the file again. “Anything.”

“Huh?”

“You can let it go on as it is or take the whole thing at one chunk. Cash out and terminate the trust, if you want.”

“Who’s the trustee?”

He went round-eyed. “Me, I guess. Although my secretary handles lots of thing for me that Dad used to take care of. Are you thinking of doing something with it?”

“I don’t know. Can you make a copy of the papers for me? I’d also like to know the source of the original funds.”

“Sure. Take a little digging, but can probably figure it out.”

I left Jason’s office in a daze, but I had one thought firmly fixed in my mind. That money was Vanderport money. Had to be. Nobody else in town had that kind of wealth. It sure didn’t come from my mom’s family. Her folks had been dirt farmers. Not Dad’s, either. His parents had worked for a living all their lives. Furthermore, if it came from his side, he’d never have put it in a trust for mom. He’d have driven a Cadillac instead of a Ford. Eaten steak instead of ground beef. I sighed. My suspicions about Mom and Miss Emmalee seemed to be the only answer. But why would Miss Emmalee set up a trust for my mom? Even if they were lovers, that seemed a bit over the top. As much as I loved Jorge, I wouldn’t set up a trust for him like that. I’d give him the shirt off my back if he were in a bind, but set up a trust? No way.

With my mind running off in all directions, I went to see Mr. Fredricks, the teacher who’d installed me in his over-the-garage apartment.

“You always thought it was my largess,” he admitted. “But Miss Emmalee swore me to secrecy. She paid me a hundred dollars a month for the whole time you lived there.”

Next, I looked up my former boss at the car parts store. James Wilson’s story was similar. “She asked me to give you a job,” he admitted. “Course, she did me a favor. You were a damned good worker, Richie.”

I expressed my puzzlement over Miss Emmalee’s hidden influence on my life, and he suggested I talk to someone named Hilda Winemaker up in Tulsa. “She and Miss Emmalee had been thick as thieves. Grew up together and you never saw one without the other until Hilda married a man in Tulsa.”

I located the lady via the internet and gave her a call, explaining I was curious over my mom’s connection to the Vanderports.

“Everyone knew the Vanderports,” she said. “There isn’t anyone in that town who wasn’t influenced by that family. What are you looking for, Richie.”

She knew my name but not my familiar. “Just some things that have come up since Miss Emmalee’s death. About her and… my mom.” I held my breath as she answered.

‘I remember Mary Orchard very well. Your mother was a wonderful woman.”

“That she was.”

“A little intimidated by your father,” she added, “but a good woman.” She paused, perhaps for a reaction from me, but I didn’t give her one. “I’ll tell you what? If you’ll come up to Tulsa, we’ll have a quiet lunch at my home, and I’ll tell you all I know about Miss Emmalee.”

Miss Emmalee, not my mother. But I didn’t hesitate. “Would tomorrow be too soon?”

“Tomorrow would be fine.

 ****

So the portrait spooked Jorge, as well, but in a deeper way, perhaps. At any rate, he wants to move their lovemaking activities to his place because… “She knows, man.” Richie has also learned Miss Emmalee was more involved in his life right up until he went into the army after graduating high school.

 But now, he’s found a woman in Tulsa who might give him some answers. We’ll find out what she tells him 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!

 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.