Lovestick (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #625

 Image Courtesy of GIF - Imgur

 

I hope you enjoyed the story of Buddy, the gray squirrel buddy of my childhood. It brought back a lot of memories.

 

This week, we’ll go with a purely fictional piece—or is is?

 

                                                        

                                                                                  ****

  LOVESTICK

By Don Travis

“Hey, Lovestick, where you going?”

Larry Lovestock gritted his teeth and turned to Gil Robbins. Everyone thought it funny when Gil had corrupted Larry’s last name into “stick” from “stock.” Everyone except Larry Lovestock. To complicate matters, Gil was his best friend. Had been ever since the Robbins family moved to town last year and the two of them met in homeroom and later on the football field. They’d clicked right away.

But Gil was also his greatest tormentor, twisting his last name relentlessly. Wouldn’t have mattered a couple of years ago, but seniors in high school—at Trinity High, at least—always called one another by surnames. And it didn’t take long for everyone to follow their quarterback’s lead and call him Lovestick.

Now he faced his friend, or was it tormentor? Friendly tormentor? Tormentor friend? Didn’t really matter, once Gil smiled at him, Larry’s resentment melted away. “Heading home.”

“Let’s hang.”

“And do what?”

“Nothing. Just hang.

“Got homework.”

“Me too, so let’s hang and do homework.”

Seemed reasonable, so they went to the park and claimed a vacant picnic table, settling opposite one another on stone benches.

Gil threw him a lopsided grin. “Be the earliest I’ve got my homework done all year. Hope it doesn’t set a precedent for my mom. Wouldn’t wanta get a rep as an ‘early bird.’”

Early bird was locker room talk for a guy with no staying power, and Gil smirked at his double entendre, unconsciously preening a little as he did so. Larry felt a shiver play down his back, making him wonder once again why he reacted so physically to his buddy. A bead of sweat popped on his upper lip at that uncomfortable thought. Was there something wrong with him? Did… did Gil mean something by giving him that suggestive nickname? Could… could….

He swiped at his upper lip and drilled the page of his algebra book with a stare that ought to have burned a hole in it. Gil started bitching about one of the problems, and the world returned to normal.’

****

Larry looked forward to Friday night because he and Gil were double dating. They were taking their gals to see The Lion King. If past was precedent--or was it prologue?--they'd park out on the mesa and smooch for a while before heading home before curfew. Given the way his thoughts trended the other day, he wondered which meant more to him. Being with Gil—even if it meant sharing him with Marcie—or his own date with Helen Sweetwater. Everyone called her Sweet—because of her last name—but just to be different, he called her Water—because of her last name—to which she responded, “That was sweet.”

Gil picked Larry up in his snazzy maroon, ’ninety-five Chevy Baretta GT, and they headed out to collect the girls. Their dates always liked to sit beside one another in the movies, separating him from Gil so that they couldn’t talk much except by leaning across the girls for a pithy comment now and then.

Afterward, they headed for the mesa where Gil and Marcie proceeded to heat up the front seat while he did his best to boil Water in the back. To be honest, he kept glancing up front to see how Gil was doing… probably more than he should have. When the other couple disappeared from sight, he figured Gil was gonna score at last. That revved Larry up enough to give Water some quality attention.

Things were getting serious in the back seat until Marcie’s voice from the front said she had to get home. When called on to do so, Water agreed, although Larry thought she agreed a little reluctantly. Nonetheless, in short order, they headed back to town for the goodnight routine with the girls.

As soon as they pulled away after dropping their dates at home, Gil pounded the steering wheel in frustration.

“Stick, I was so close! She was feeling me up something crazy, then she just demanded to go home.”

“Probably to keep from giving in,” Larry said.

“How about you?” Gil asked, that loopy, crooked grin on his lips. “You close to scoring?”

He nodded, feeling like one of the guys. “This close.”

“Screw it, I gotta do something about it!” With that pronouncement, Gil headed back for the mesa. Soon they were parked in the same area, but this time without a girl in sight.

“Man, I gotta take care of this. You want me to get out of the car and give you some privacy?”

Larry shook his head while struggling to get the words out. “Naw. You just take care of what’s ailing you, okay?”

“You too!” Gil said, ripping open his Jeans. Before Larry could move, his buddy’s britches were down around his knees, and his love knob waived around in the air as if hunting for something.

Gil’s demand, freed Larry from his paralysis. He undid his slacks and slid them down.

“Man, that’s an awesome lovestick,” Gil said, gripping him briefly.

Larry about fainted from the touch, but Gil grasped himself and began working on his problem, so Larry followed suit. No one said a word for a good quarter-hour. Nothing but grunts and groans disturbed the night, until Gil let out a loud, heartfelt “Ahhhhhh!” A moment later, Larry expressed his own pleasure.

He felt awkward as he cleaned himself with a handkerchief, but Gil didn’t seem embarrassed at all. He chattered nonchalantly about the clandestine event as if it had no real meaning except as a means of relief.

When Larry went to bed that night, his head was full of misgivings. Especially when he physically reacted at recalling Gil’s hand on his manhood for one brief moment. Larry’s breath caught in his throat. Geez… was he one of those guys?

****

Well, is Larry learning something about himself? Wonder 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. 

Petey, Part 2 of a Story in 3 Parts

 dontravis.com blog post #520

 Image Courtesy of Twitter

According to Facebook and email comments, readers like Petey and are anxious to see where his story leads.

So let’s see what happens next.

 

****

PETEY

           I kept my mouth shut about the second note. Marco wasn’t exactly making fun of me, but it was close. Another week went by before I got up the nerve to check the stall again. I wished I hadn’t. Right below the second message, my unknown “admirer”—or should that be “stalker?—had written a new note.

Can I take your silence as acquiescence? Man, I hope so. I can hardly wait! Do you think you can talk your marvy roommate into joining us? He’s an Okie, isn’t he? Real exotic looking. Must have some Native American blood.

Okay, that was it! No mistaking what “Petey” the creep was talking about now. It was me. And now Marco. I grinned as I took a photo of the scribbling with my iPhone before scratching through the inked letters. Now we’ll see if Marco still thinks it’s funny.

He did… apparently. “Wow! Somebody thinks I’m on a par with you! ‘Marvy,’ he says. That’s quite a compliment. And, of course, I have to agree. I am sorta marvy.”

“Is that ‘marvy’ with Native American blood, or ‘marvy’ without?”

Quarter Miami,” he said.

“Miami? You mean a quarter of you is from Florida?”

“No, I mean a quarter of me is Miami. Don’t you know nothing about us redskins? Miami’s a tribe up in the northeast corner of the state.”

“No shit?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“Damn, now when somebody says they’re from Miami, I’ll have to quiz them if they mean Florida or the tribe.”

“Nah. You’re from a state, but you are a tribe. I’m from Miami is one thing, and I’m Miami is something different.”

I shook my head. “Enough of the bullshit. Back to the stalker. Doesn’t what he said bother you?”

He shook his head back at me. “You the primary, I’m just secondary.”

“How do you know he won’t decide you’re hunkier than I am?”

“Well, if he had any sense, he’d have started out that way. But obviously, he’s mentally defective and fixating on you. I feel safe.”

“You’re so full of baloney. I think I’ll transfer to A&M and make you the prime target.”

Marco laughed. “Most likely, he’d just follow you.”

****

A few days later came the corker. I avoided the SUB men’s room whenever possible, but sometimes nature demands attention. I no sooner closed the stall door than I spotted the latest message.

Wow, got an eyeful of Petey at the urinals. He’s impressive and—can you believe it—uncircumcised. Don’t see many like that these days.

I’m pretty sure I raised quite a racket scratching through that one because when I went to the sinks to wash my hands, a couple of guys gave me odd looks. As I went upstairs, seemed like everyone in the joint was watching me. Weren’t, of course, but felt like it.

I didn’t tell Marco about the latest message, but it didn’t matter. That evening, he gave me a lopsided grin and said he’d heard I’d been “outed.”

“How’d you know?” I snapped. “And I haven’t been outed.”

“Exposed. Would that be better? George saw it and told me.” George Harris—no, not that George Harris—was a Hoosier kid we sometimes bummed around with.

My eyes bugged. “You don’t suppose—”

“Naw. It wasn’t George. Nancy’d pound him in a hole if she caught him eyeing your butt. Oh, but that wasn’t the part being described, was it?”

I didn’t have anything in my hands to throw at him, so I just turned and went in the other room. Didn’t do any good. He yelled at me.

“Didn’t mention me this time?”

“What’s the matter, you feeling slighted,” I yelled back.

His answer was a laugh.

****

My stalker was quiet for another week, then he changed tactics. I was working on an essay for Freshman English one afternoon and also waiting for Marco so we could grab a bite to eat before heading out to a bar. I left my stuff on the table and went into the stacks in search of a particular reference book. Took me awhile to locate it, and when I returned to my table, I saw a piece of paper sticking out of my notebook. I read the message on it and felt my cheeks flame as I scanned the big room. Weren’t many people around, and half of them were females. Then I spotted Marco trudging up the steps and coming my way.

My first inclination was to hide this latest note, but on the other hand, maybe he had a useful suggestion.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked when he reached my table.

I thrust the piece of paper in his hands. He scowled as he read the words in a hushed voice, “Petey, you’re driving me crazy and making me do things I don’t normally do. That’s how handsome and desirable you are. You’ve got to let me do wonderful things to you. You’ll never regret it, I promise. I’ll take you to the moon… and beyond to the stars. Sex will never be the same for you again. Meet me at 8:00 p.m. tonight at the tennis courts. If you show up, I’ll reveal myself. I hope I can make it until then without going crazy. As ever, your devoted (and hungry) admirer.” A grin lit Marco’s face. “Hungry and devoted? Wow, I didn’t know you made such an impact on people.”

“Shut up, Marco. What should I do?”

“Depends on what you want. You can go meet him and see if he can deliver on his promises—”

“Asshole,” I snarled.

“Me or him?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued. “Or you can turn this note over to the campus police. Or just wad it up and throw it on the floor. What’ll it be?”

I dropped into a chair and propped my head up with my palms. “I’m not gonna go to the cops. And I’m damned sure not going to drop the note on the floor. Somebody might read it.”

“So you’re gonna meet your would-be lover, huh?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But he’s got you curious, right?”

“Maybe. But if I go to the tennis courts tonight, that doesn’t mean he’s gonna get what he wants. But at least I can face him and tell him to cool his jets.”

“Maybe. That what you’re gonna do?”

His question pushed me to a decision. “That’s exactly what I’m gonna do!”

Marco gave me his most infectious grin. “Then you probably better not hit the bar tonight. Alcohol might impair your decision-making ability.”

 

****

Of all the comments I had on part 1, only one reader answered my question by saying he (presumably) had never stalked nor been stalked. I asked him to think about his answer. Had he never gone too far in pressing someone for attention? Had no one ever done that to him? I believe this is a question you have to think about when answering. At any rate, how did you like part two?

 

Tell me what you think.

 

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.

Statue of Limitations (Part One of Three Parts)

dontravis.com blog post #516

Image courtesy of Dreamsline.com

Hope you liked “Jean or Gene,” but I don’t know. Didn’t get many comments. Lots of hits, but not many comments. Last time I checked the traffic report, readers from Indonesia outnumbered all others. UAS readers were third down the list.’’

 At any rate, here’s the next selection. Hope you enjoy it.

 **** 

                                 STATUE OF LIMITATIONS

No, it’s not a typo. I’m a sculptor, not a lawyer. It is statue of limitations. What do I mean? We’ll come to that, but first a little background. To my mind, I’m a fair, decent human being who does his best to get along with the world. Of course, I might be somewhat prejudiced, all things being equal.

At any rate, all I’ve ever wanted to be was a sculptor. When I was a kid, the family went on a vacation to Italy. I can remember to this day standing slack-jawed in front of Michelangelo’s statue of David in Florence. I’d been entering puberty, so naturally, I was titillated by the casual presentation of the male penis and attendant equipment. But I got over that quickly and took in the marvelous detail of the sculpture. The muscles, the veins, the… everything. Right on the spot I decided I wanted to find and model my own David. And to do that, I would need to work hard. And the first hard work I had to do was disabuse my father of the fantasy that I’d follow in his footsteps and become a medical doctor.

“Martin,” he would say, “you’ll make a fine doctor someday.”

“But, dad—”

“No buts, son. It’s in your blood. I know it is.”

We had that exchange at least monthly.

I brought home several souvenirs from that trip to Italy, but the only one that counted was a twelve-inch reproduction of that statue. It went on the corner of the desk in my room and stayed there through countless snickers of friends and acquaintances and a few blushes from the fairer sex who happened to venture into my bedroom. As soon as we got back home to Albuquerque, I went to the hobby shop and spent some of my savings on a tub of modeling clay, after which, I spent many a late hour trying to reproduce that striking image. My first effort almost discouraged me and drove me back into my father’s professional arms. But I kept at it night after night, year after year until by my senior year in high school, I could make a decent statue.

I have to pause at this juncture to admit to another effect David had on me. I’d run my hands over every inch of the Michaelangelo replica about a million times, trying to get the feel of how that master sculptor did this or handled that. And I always got a squirrely feeling when I fingered the genitalia. At times, it seemed to me that I caressed it. Occasionally, I’d go to bed in a semi-excited state and the real David—at least the one represented by the statue in Florence—visited me in my dreams. He let me run my hands over him the way I did the replica, but it quickly became a different sort of exploration. Vaguely aware that wasn’t exactly “normal,” I acquired a statuette of Venus, but it wasn’t the same. I got nothing out of that one, and she visited my dreams not once… not even to chase David.

Well, with my growing awareness of life, that told me something. It told me why I’d rather spend time with my buddies—all guys, of course—than with girls, long after those same guys had abandoned me for female company. Except for one guy. Randy. I came to understand in our last year of high school that he’d prefer to study David than Venus. We even experimented in my room a couple of times, and while it was pleasant—even exciting—Randy was not my David.

My father acquiesced to my wishes and paid for a fine arts degree at UNM. All during my four years at the university, I searched for my David, but only found wannabees. I did models of some hunky guys, even took liberties with them occasionally. Pleasant, but not earthshaking. By the time I graduated, I almost despaired of ever finding my ideal, but perhaps when I went out on my own, I’d move in different circles, and who knows?

After graduation, I located a commodious three-car garage on the grounds of an estate not far from my family’s ranch style house. The big, swinging doors were perfect for moving big blocks of stone in and the finished product out. I struck a deal, rented the place as my studio, and started to work.

Two more years passed without a resolution of my ambition. I got good at my craft and produced lots of pieces, including some statues of handsome young men, a couple of them nudes. I was proud of every piece I produced, but felt my resolve to find “the one” fading.

And then—serendipitously—he arrived on my doorstep… or garagestep, to be more accurate.

****

Will wonders never cease? Martin’s own David. Or is it? Stay tuned.

 Tell me what you think.

 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.