Monday, March 28, 2011

A Hundred Little Lies excerpt by Jon Wilson

Everyone knows Jack Tulle as a widower, a doting father, and an honest businessman. The problem is, it’s all a lie.

For eight years Jack has enjoyed the quiet life in the sleepy little town of Bodey, Colorado where he owns and operates the General Store. He sits on the town council. He dotes upon his eight-year-old, headstrong daughter, Abigail. He is even being sized-up as a prospective new member of the family by the bank president.

But when the local saloon announces plans to host a grand prize poker tournament, Jack realizes it could spell trouble. One of the many secrets he’s been hiding is that he used to be a con man — mainly underhanded poker, but he wasn’t above the odd swindle when the situation presented itself. And a contest like the one his town is planning is sure to draw some old business acquaintances — fellows Jack would really rather not admit to knowing.

Of course there’s one man in particular Jack is worried about seeing — Tom Jude is the only person who knows the truth behind all his secrets. Tom wasn’t just Jack’s partner-in-crime, he was also the love of his life. And Tom knows things — like the fact that the little girl Jack is raising, really isn’t his...

As Jack scrambles to maintain his deceptions by lying to friends and neighbors as well as the child he has grown to love, he discovers the real truth: when your world is built on A Hundred Little Lies, exposing a single one of them can bring the whole thing crashing down.

A Hundred Little Lies
Cheyenne Publishing
ISBN: 978-0-9828267-5-1

Excerpt from Chapter Four:

When I got back inside the store, Davie and Abigail were standing together in the center aisle conversing in high spirits about something. He was fifteen and smart, and she didn’t like him just a little, she liked him a whole lot. Old lady Vaughn was there with her spinster niece, being ignored and looking none too pleased about it so I asked Davie if he was still hoping to get paid as I retrieved my apron. As stated, he was smart, so he knew what I was getting at and went off in search of his broom. I told Abigail: “Chores,” and reminded her that Marley had been shut up all day in the barn and no doubt wanted to stretch his legs. Sam Owens lived in a nice house a few blocks away so I had taken over the space behind his barbershop and converted it into a sort of makeshift corral. It suited old Marley fine. After getting everyone that I was responsible for moving, I approached the Vaughns and smiled. “How are you ladies this fine afternoon?”

They were just the type of gals to answer that question honestly, and it was a few moments before I got started composing their list. The old lady was dictating one item at a time, pausing after each to ask her niece if they really needed that, hadn’t they purchased that only last week, and was she sure that she’d looked everywhere before deciding they were out of it. I was smiling back and forth between them, looking like I was paying attention to their discussion while simultaneously doing no such thing, occasionally suggesting items since they were the sort who blamed you when they forgot something, and generally passing my day as usual when I heard Davie say, “Can I help you mister?” and I looked up.

He was standing just about three feet in from the door where he’d stopped when he saw me. True to type, he was extraordinarily well-dressed, rather like Liam O’Mara…and then again, nothing like him. O’Mara’s embroidered satin vest had been golden and his was green. O’Mara’s jacket had been brown and his was black. O’Mara wore a fat necktie around the collar of his white shirt, and he stood there with a long thin piece of black silk bound into a bow. O’Mara’s face was horsy and angular and severe and his was fuller, rounder, welcoming. Whereas O’Mara wore his silver hair parted and slicked down, his hair was like a field of golden wheat shining in the sun. It was also longer and swept straight back from his square brow. His moustache was two shades lighter, like sunshine itself. His eyes were deep blue seas, flashing sunlight off their turbulent waves.

“Did you get that, Mr. Tulle? I said another pair of thimbles; Miriam is forever misplacing them. Mr. Tulle? Mr. Tulle, are you quite all right?”

I suppose she asked me that because I was standing there looking like I’d seen a ghost—well, the sort of ghost you’ve been watching out for all day—the sort you’ve been expecting to materialize any moment. I said: “Davie, come finish up for Missus and Miss Vaughn,” which certainly was not my custom, and then offered the boy my pad and pencil.

Davie stood a moment, looking bewildered, but hurried over when it appeared I was going to drop my pad and pencil to the floor. He caught them in time, and I pushed him on toward the ladies. All the while I never took my eyes off those of the man standing just inside the door. I couldn’t.

For what seemed a painfully long time, I also couldn’t coax my legs into doing anything. The soles of my shoes might have been nailed to the floor. Then I managed to take two whole steps and the man extended his right hand. He wasn’t offering to shake, but rather signaling me to stop. All of his fingers were slightly curled except for the index, which was nearly straight and pointed, not straight up, but mostly up. Just a minute, that finger told me plainly and—since stopping couldn’t but prove a hell of a lot easier than starting had—I complied. The very left-most edge of my lips curled up.

His eyes caught it—I saw them dip for the briefest of instants—but he kept his expression grave. He took two slow steps of his own, to the side, as if he were preparing to circle around me, then stopped again, finally moving his eyes to look me completely up and down and he said: “That is one handsome apron.”

All I could say was: “Tom Jude.”

He smiled as if pleased I remembered his name, and reminding me of one of the things I used to live for. That smile. That smile that could make you forget just about everything else. He came on toward me then, extending his hand again and this time it was to shake. “You old jackass.”

Miss Vaughn gasped and her aunt nearly choked. Tom turned to them looking abashed but with just a sliver of that smile. It was more than enough to do the trick. When he said: “I beg your pardons, ladies; I lost my head in the heat of the moment,” I’ll be damned if that old lady didn’t smile right back at him and bat her eyelashes.

I slapped his hand and held it tight, looking straight into his eyes when he brought them back to me. I was shaking my head, smiling and somehow feeling on the verge of tears again. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

He laughed and shook his head too, like what a crazy fool was I. We stood there shaking hands for a long time, too many things wanting and needing to be said for any of them actually to be articulated, and then realized we were being watched. Davie hadn’t so much as looked at the ladies, and the Vaughns had clearly forgotten all about shopping. The trio was staring at us as if expecting some sort of trick. I released Tom’s hand and rubbed mine on my apron. It was tingling as if the circulation had been blocked, yet warm and pulsing with life in a way I suspected it hadn’t in years.

“Don’t keep the ladies waiting, Davie,” I said, which still didn’t spur him into action, so I told Tom: “Why don’t we step outside?” I gestured back out the open door as I said that and Tom preceded me onto the sidewalk. As I followed him, I untied my apron and tossed it onto the floor just inside the door.

Of course, nothing much was changed outdoors. We stood looking at each other sideways, both waiting for something, or maybe searching for it, cautious and hopeful and primed to detect the faintest clue.

“When did you get in?” Among the many questions I might have rummaged up, that probably weighed in just above asking him what he thought of the weather, but I had to say something.

His smile was pleased, however, as he told me: “On the three-thirty.”

Since it couldn’t have been later than three forty-five, I’d wager his answer pleased me even more than my question had him. “Pleasant trip?”

He laughed, not loudly but sincerely, and shook his head again. “Jackass.”

I laughed too, and looked dopily down at the sidewalk, thinking twenty other bad things could have happened to me that morning and the afternoon still would have made up for it.

“How you been, Jack?”

I looked back up when he asked that to find him gazing inquiringly at my face. He seemed to be studying it, either reminding himself of it or confirming that it was all still there the way he remembered. His mouth was just slightly open, and just slightly smiling, and as I looked at it I felt the whole weight of our encounter push suddenly down on me. The world seemed to spin in a torrent around me. My eyelids drooped sleepily down over my eyes. I feared for a moment my knees might buckle. It was the most glorious and terrifying moment of my life.

I smiled as the sensation passed, leaving a queer mixture of contentment and anticipation in its wake. “I’ve been good, Tom. Really good. How’ve you been?”

For just an instant I thought I saw something dark flash over his face, a splash of confusion or maybe a spasm of fear. But he gave me a lighthearted shrug. “Oh, you know me. Life is an adventure.”

I chuckled. “Some things never change.”

He shot me another look as if my remark had been loaded, then shrugged again, not so lightheartedly. “Some things do.” He stepped away from me, putting a bit more distance between us before turning to face me directly. “Look at you. Shopkeep. Who would’ve thought?”

“Not me,” I admitted.

He studied me a moment more, as if truly amazed by what he saw. Finally he shook his head. “How did— How did you end up here? Bodey.” And then, as if that wasn’t quite enough: “Colorado!”

I scratched my ear, saying: “That’s a long story,” which strictly speaking was an untruth. I looked over at him and smiled out of the corner of my mouth. “Not quite fit for a casual conversation on the sidewalk.”

His head bobbed up. “Yeah? You feel like a drink? I passed a promising-looking tavern on the way down here.”

I grinned, thinking he couldn’t but be talking about the Diamond Plow, and that was too much irony for a start. “I can’t.”

He took a step toward me. “Sure you can.”

“No, I…” I gestured vaguely over my shoulder. “I have—”

“A store to run, sure, I know. But that boy can handle it ’til you get back. Come on, let me buy you a drink…for old times’ sake.” He reached out and took hold of my upper arm.

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Monday, March 21, 2011

Island Song excerpt by Alan Chin

This new edition of Island Song, the debut novel by Alan Chin, has been rewritten — converting it from present tense into past tense, tightening up the prose, and given a different ending (the one originally intended.) The author believes this edition is far superior to the original. You, the reader, decide!

After watching his lover’s long and painful slide into death, there is no peace for Garrett Davidson. Grief eats at him. In a desperate bid to survive, he flees to a secluded Hawaiian refuge. There he intends to write a memoir about his relationship with Marc, hoping the process will bring closure, restore his sanity, and kick-start a career in writing. 

He meets a captivating island native, Songoree, who offers promises of enlightenment and spiritual healing—but Garrett can only achieve it by abandoning his personal history. Can Garrett endure an excruciating journey that will tear him to pieces, wreak havoc among his friends, and break his despairing heart? Is it possible to attain fulfillment, even love, by surrendering everything you cherish? To survive, Garrett must find the answers.

Island Song
Dreamspinner Press (February 11, 2011)
ISBN-10: 1615817042
ISBN-13: 978-1615817047


Garrett slept through the night undisturbed until light bled through the open window. With the growing light came the dream. Within the universe surrounded by his skull, he relived an experience that he and Marc had had several years earlier while scuba diving off the coast of Baja, Mexico.

They swam in a blue-green world thirty feet below the surface in the Sea of Cortez. Garrett loved to swim facing up so he could watch their bubbles float away, mingling together as they raced to the surface. It seemed magical.

The freedom of weightlessness brought a joy so intense it was agonizing.

They darted around the hull of a sunken freighter like sea otters until a giant manta ray glided up from beneath them, serene and graceful. The manta spanned fifteen feet across, dark gray on top and virgin white on the underside. It flew up to and around them, performing a slow-motion ballet.

Caught in a vise of fear and awe, Garrett’s hair prickled while an electric charge ran from his brain to his testicles. He had never been that close to any creature so large or so incredibly beautiful.

Marc, the bold one, kicked his legs and glided to the ray’s back. He grabbed hold with both hands near the eyes and began to soar away, riding the ray like a magic carpet. Garrett struggled to catch them and soon both divers rode the creature, performing unimaginable acrobatics.

The giant saucer winged its way into a school of squid, thousands of glistening milky bodies with flowing tails. The vision was electrifying. Garrett knew that he would never again experience such magnificence until death took him, and in the water, as on his bed, he smiled, grateful for the experience being given to him.

He ascended, floating on the edge of consciousness. His hand reached for his crotch and he began to rub. This part of the dream always reminded him of gliding in an ocean of semen, the squid looked so similar to sperm weaving their way to the one destination that would make them whole and fulfilled. The image never failed to excite him.

see original excerpt: September 22, 2008

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Monday, March 14, 2011

Stallers: More Tales of Time Square Cuties excerpts by Mykola Dementiuk

Mykola Dementiuk’s Stallers: More Tales of Times Square Cuties is a collection of stories of certain men who used to stand around in certain locations in Times Square in the old days where they knew they could always find another horny man and instant semiprivacy just a door away in which to act out their desires. These stories capture “when Times Square was all about sex, drugs, and cold spit … the just-burgeoning hardcore movie houses and girlie show of Times Square in the 1960s. It’s vivid. Harsh, real and yes, erotic, in a stomach-churning way. Genuine whoreporn from a time when things were not talked about, at all, in the twilight zone.”(Susie Bright)

Stallers: More Tales of Times Square Cuties
Renaissance Ebooks, Sizzler Editions (2011)

Excerpt: Just Like A Woman

It was Friday night and for decades this area of peepshows and dirty movies, loud bars and dangerous side streets, was synonymous with sex and cheap thrills. It was the place to come to get laid or blown or even watch a skin-flick while jerking yourself off. The purpose and logic, the thrill and enticement of the area was just that: sex, cheap and dirty and quick. On any night, the street scene was often the same: a red-faced geezer hurrying towards some dark side-street hallway with a young boy trailing behind him; nervous men in business suits skulking into dirty-movie houses or speeding out of porno bookshops with magazine-crammed paper bags tucked under their arms; ragged old whores roosting atop garbage cans and displaying flabby tits and busted-toothed grins to cars and passersby and sometimes actually negotiating a price with them. On the street, a young boy could lose his virginity to a manipulative wasted cunt as easily as to a scheming diseased dick up his ass. You took your chances when you got to Times Square, and you got what paid for; and more often then not, it was exactly what you were after anyway.

Excerpt: The Wet Skirt

The tip of her penis peeped out of her panties as she preened herself in the ladies' room of the Pix porno theater. She had left the bathroom door ajar but the steady parade of hand-jobbers and cock-suckers moving towards the men's room at the opposite end of the lounge barely even glanced in her direction and she slid out of her wet skirt and draped it over a stall door to dry.

She looked in the mirror above the wash basins and licked off a smudge of lipstick from her front teeth. As soon as my skirt dries she thought, I'll get out of here. Maybe go to the Bryant or to Grant's Bar where the other transvestites hung out. She knew it was a mistake to come to the Pix dressed as she was. The cock-suckers were after cock in pants, not in a skirt – and just moments ago she had sat in the balcony, crossing and re-crossing her legs, showing off her thighs, puffing up her bosom, and flitting her tongue, as in the seats around her dark figures groped at other legs in pants, bobbed heads on un-zippered laps, and totally ignored her sitting alone and waiting to give it away.

Excerpt: Soft Core

But she was not the sole reason I kept returning to the Pix. The majority of porno-houses on the block had made a swift transition from soft panty porn to hard core reality of the late 60s with exaggerated visuals and extreme close-ups of outspread vaginas, bloated cocks and stretched ass-holes, while the Pix, and its neighbor across the street, the Bryant theater, with their passé films of girls in panties and bras intimating at intercourse and hinting at fellatio, remained a sort of demure haven of soft core in the casual and ready hard fuck world along 42nd street and attracted a different shuffling clientele more interested in sucking each other off than in looking at the screen, whether it displayed covered asses or outspread panties crotches. At the Cinema 42, Caeser's Harem, Globe Sex World, the camera lens focused on interior visuals of lubricated vaginal and anal walls of some faceless woman, probing and lingering over every glistening vein and blown up gelatinous lump, while the Pix and Bryant still trembled at a bare thigh above a dark nylon mesh or the contour of a large breast pulsing out of a tight bra cup. There's definitely something to be said for the mystery and hint of early soft core porn: it treated the woman as an object to be desired, craved, and lusted after, a hint of stocking as something shocking, something heady but out of reach, a dream, a quest, a possibility, rather than a pliant immobile cadaver to be disemboweled, dissected, and discarded. "Open you ass, you cunt!" the director cries. "That's a wrap! Lunch!"

Excerpt: Pursuit

I had followed the young man from store front to store front, from movie alcoves to arcade windows and still he remained a few feet ahead of me, abruptly withdrawing each time I drew near, though not to deftly as he could have easily have lost me in the thick 42nd Street crowd. It was a tease and we both knew it.

I had spotted him coming out of Bryant Park and moving to the Pix movie house where he studied the girlie stills outside, then darted across the street and looked at the similar Bryant theater display. Though his park exit troubled me since there had been an increase in beatings, muggings, and faggot rip-offs that summer, not only in the park but the entire Times Square area by bully-hoods leading-on horny old queers, but he didn't quite fit the image of the lure-boy to bait me into some dark alley. Still, I'd better warn him to be wary of the park.

Excerpt: 18 Today

I had forgotten what it was like to be underage and trying to enter a sex theater, though the reminders of age were everywhere, plastered in between and around the arcade displays of big-breasted sex-starved bimbos as if hung there by some spiteful teaser: Sex-Sex-Sex-No-One-Under-18-Admitted! On one display the prohibitive words even appeared in a giant comic-strip bubble coming out of a giant bimbo's mouth: Sorry, boys, I need a MAN…No One under 18 Admitted.

I approached behind him and glared at the fat ticket seller: always in the same dandruff-sprinkled black dress; always the same stern eyes judging, deeming; always the same pursed red lips admonishing, No Drinking! No Sleeping! No Loitering in the Men's Room! while passing over an entry stub. I'm certain that here was the composer and designer of the Under 18 signs.
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Monday, March 7, 2011

Suspicious Diagnosis excerpts by Jardonn Smith

From Suspicious Diagnosis by Jardonn Smith, two excerpts from A True Ring, one of the five tales in the book. In these excerpts, an apprentice trainer in the big-time Chicago pro wrestling circuit is sent to the small-time Tulsa circuit for a special assignment. Hope you like old-time pro wrestling from the 1960's!

Suspicious Diagnosis
Create Space (October, 2010)
ISBN: 978-1453856079

Excerpt 1:

First time I ever saw Marshall Strendlehocker live and in person, he was doing inverted push-ups. Those are the kind executed from a hand-stand. He was shirtless. Working out in a gym on the fringes of downtown Tulsa, Oklahoma. He did fifty. A seemingly hard to believe accomplishment, but not for an athlete the caliber of a then-twenty-something Marshall Strendlehocker .

I'd seen him before in a photograph.

Spring of 1965, Mr. Jack Monroe summoned me to his smoke-fogged Chicago office and plopped down a newspaper clipping on his desk. "Son," he growled with spit-saturated cigar tweezered between his fingers. "Take a look at your first big project."

In black and white, a newspaper clipping of a youthful man, so vibrant, and oh, so masculine in his wrestling singlet and ankle-high boots. The caption read: Marshall Strendlehocker completes his collegiate run at Oklahoma University. Compiling a career mark of 56-0, the 165-pound Strendlehocker shattered all national records with 41 pins, including 22 straight on his way to four consecutive state championships.

"When was this?" I asked.

"March of '63"

"I remember reading about him, I think. Where is he now?"

"Working the Tulsa circuit."

"Bart O'Connor's league?"

"Yep. O'Connor sent me film from some of their matches. Said I should take a look at this guy. So, shall we?"

Jack had projector and screen permanently set up in his office, and he pulled the drapes, ran the film. A compilation on Super 8 mm. Snippets of one man, our subject. Film quality was shit -- from long distance, colors dull, images watery and humans stretched buffoonishly tall, like whoever'd shot the movies used bad film or a defective camera. The wrestling, however, was superb. Marshall Strendlehocker as a pro wore light-colored trunks with white boots middle-calf. He moved with cat-like quickness, securing his opponents into pain-inducing holds that forced their submission within seconds. These were complete matches. None lasted more than a minute. Didn't matter if he wrestled men near to his size, or behemoths towering above him, the result was always the same.

After five minutes of watching the film, I asked Jack, "So, he's been pro since leaving OU?"

"No. Since first of this year."

"Really? He's this good after four months?"

"So says O'Connor."

"What'd he do in between?"

"Preparing for the '64 Olympics."

"I watched most of the U.S. wrestlers there. Don't remember any Marshall Strendlehocker, and based on this I'm sure I would've..."

"He made the team, but injured his shoulder a couple weeks before they left for Tokyo, so they replaced him."

"Aw, tough luck. Well, obviously he can wrestle, but his matches are boring. And that name! Geez..."

"Precisely. O'Connor says the guy refuses to mix it up. No fists. No kicks. No showmanship. He insists upon wrestling collegiate style. A purist."

"Why doesn't Mr. O'Connor tell his employee to play the game or hit the road?"

"Because the guy has a following in Oklahoma and draws a pretty good crowd."

On the screen, Marshall stood ready to take on a 300-pound tub of guts, but the size difference changed nothing. In one move, Marshall had the monster on the mat, on his belly and howling from the pain of a reverse ankle lock. "Who the hell would pay money to watch this?" I scoffed, as the fat guy submitted, match over. "His bouts are finished before he even breaks a sweat. He ought to at least give them some doubt as to the outcome. Pretend like he's in trouble for awhile. Let the other guy..."

"Jimmy, my boy," Jack Monroe relit his stogie. "It's good to see you've figured out your assignment."

"I'm listening."

He shut off the projector, opened the drapes and returned to his desk. "Get down there to Tulsa and make this Strendle-whatever..."

"Strendlehocker," I helped him.

"Right, change that god damn name for starters, and then get him with the program. Obviously, he's got skills the likes of which I've never seen. I need you to mold him into something exciting. Teach him the meaning of the word drama. Got it?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Monroe."

He opened a drawer, took out an envelope and tossed it onto his desk. "There's some traveling cash. O'Connor's expecting you. We're both needing somebody to turn this hard-headed monkey into a money-making whiz-kid. Can you do it?"

"Mr. Monroe, there's no way some countrified Okie's going to outsmart me."

"Good. You've got my phone numbers. Keep me up to speed on what's happening."

"Yes, sir."

Rather boastful of me, for sure, but that's what my boss wanted to hear, and so I set myself up for potential disaster. No worries. This was my big break, or I should say, my big BIG break. The first was finagling my way into Jack Monroe's National Wrestling League to begin with, but now, if I could somehow take this guy's undeniable athletic skills and develop him into an heroic character for all to adore, Marshall Strendlehocker's road to the bright lights and lucrative contracts was paved and waiting for him, and I'd be sitting pretty as well.

A six-hundred-mile road trip from Chicago to Tulsa gave me no thrills. It did, however, give me time for plotting and reflection. It'd been ten years since I wrote my first letter to Mr. Monroe's NWL. Didn't give salutations to anybody in particular, as I recall. Just a "Dear sirs" greeting, and the gist of my argument was this:

I am Jimmy Dolan. I am twelve years old and I like to watch your wrestling program on the television. The referees should stop getting in the way of the camera so I can see what the wrestlers are doing.

I planned to end my letter there, but my dad suggested I add another bit, one of which he'd heard me complain numerous times:

Please tell Max Malone to change his hair. He should shave his head or get his hair buzzed or a crew cut. His hair is parted by his left ear. When he wrestles his hair hangs down on his left shoulder and his head is bald. He is a good wrestler, but he looks funny and he shouldn't. Please make him cut his hair or take the scissors and cut it for him.
Yours truly,
Jimmy Dolan.

Imagine my shock when the very next broadcast gave me a Max Malone with buzzed hair, while the referees, instead of dropping to the mat for a close-up view of wrestlers intertwined by limb-bending holds, for the most part stayed on their feet and out of camera shot. An even bigger surprise came in the Wednesday mail. A letter from Mr. Jack Monroe himself, handwritten, thanking me for my ideas and inviting me to send more if I had any.

Cousins, you better believe I had plenty and fully intended to share every one of them -- plot lines, characterizations for good guys and bad. Of course, the public wasn't supposed to think there were plot lines, but I knew better. These were early days of television, and the Saturday night broadcasts of matches at Chicago's National Guard Armory Arena were wildly popular. Jack Monroe was one of the first to see the potential of this new medium, and his Chicago circuit quickly became the Mecca for all professional wrestlers out in the hinterlands. Think of it! Jack Monroe, owner of the National Wrestling League, wanted me, this little twelve-year-old punk from Wheaton, Illinois, to feed him scenarios for his big-time wrestling show.

Fortunately, my father, a working-class-nobody, was smart enough to also see into the future -- mine. Upon reading Mr. Monroe's letter, he said, "Now, Jimmy, keep some things to yourself. Just feed him enough to keep your foot in the door, and then, when you're old enough, if you decide this is something you'd like to do, Jack Monroe will hire you lickety-split. Meanwhile, there's no use giving away all your ideas for free. Right?"

"Right as rain, pop!" and that is exactly how I played it. Once I'd graduated high school, Jack Monroe put me on his payroll. Not only that, he sent me to college, sort of. More on that later.

Anyway, here I was, a twenty-two-year-old, up-and-comer given his first chance to take a proven, bonafide athlete, pluck him out of podunk and groom him for my boss. Turn him into something spectacular. A hero. An icon. All I had to do was convince Marshall Strendlehocker I knew more about it than he did. My being two years younger than he was wouldn't make it any easier.

* * * * *

Excerpt 2 (same year, motel room in Blackwell, Oklahoma, Marshall's name is now Dick Hodges)

One thing Dick Hodges recognized was that his success depended upon his villainous opponent's ability to convincingly play the part, and for his villains to be men he could trust. So, like Charlie Wills, Bill Couch was treated first to dinner, and then to my hands. Rubbing down first Dick, and then Bill certainly was exhausting, but because I'm a kind-hearted soul, and because I knew it would make Dick happy, I told him to go get Chief Charlie Muk-nuk Wills and I'd work him over again, too.

Oh, me! Oh, my! Four men in various states of undress inside Dick's motel room. Such a perfect scenario for a quartet of man-sex. Right? Sorry. My designs on those two men were more sinister than that. Besides, unlike Dick, they both kept their underwear on and I couldn't tell if they were sporting woodies or not. Hopefully not, because if either of them were they certainly didn't leave an impression.

Well, enough of that. With a satisfied Bill shirtless and wearing trousers while relaxing in a chair, Dick laying on his bed in white briefs, and Charlie, also in white briefs, atop my table with his backside beneath my fingers, I schemed. "Hey, Bill, both you and Charlie come from communist countries. Right?"

"Uh, Dmitri and Muk-nuk do, I guess. Is Mongolia commie?"

Charlie fielded it. "Part of China, I think."

My knuckles pressed lines along Charlie's spine. "I think so, too. Maybe you two should be comrades."

"Partners?" queried Bill.

"Not in the ring, necessarily, but you both enter the gym like you're buddies. Bart can announce the wrestler's name, say, Chief Muk-nuk, accompanied by Dmitri Smirnov. Chief wrestles while Dmitri hangs out at ringside, or the other way around."

Charlie caught on. "Oh, I get it. Interfering from the outside when the referee's not looking."

"Precisely!" I treated him to some calf-squeezes. "Make it to where Dick's taking on two men, or at least one and a half men."

Dick jumped to his feet with fists clenched. "Which one of you commie bastards wants to take me on first? Come on, you swine. I'll hammer the both of ya's."

Bill stood, assumed his Rooshky sneer with his chest thrust forward. "You Americans. Think you are so high and mighty. We will destroy you!"

"That's perfect, Bill," I urged. "But give it an accent. Ve vill destroy you."

Bill and Dick excitedly worked on dialogue as I coaxed Charlie to roll over for his front-side rub. Once Bill got accustomed to substituting V's for W's, the three men talked out wrestling scenarios until I'd finished with Charlie.

Rolling off the table, he offered another thought. "How's about I change the Chief Muk-nuk to something more Chinese?"

One step ahead of him, I'd already thought of one. "How about Shanghai Charlie?"

He loved it. We all loved it, and as Charlie dressed, Dick closed the meeting. "Let's tell Bart first thing in the morning. Work out our routine as soon as we're set up in Ponca City."

"Sounds good, Dick." Bill waited for Charlie, and they both left together.

With my table folded up for travel, towels tossed into my laundry sack, I prepared to follow them. "Well, guess I'll call it a night. See you in the..."

"Where do you think you're going?" Dick closed and locked the door, cruelly dropped his briefs.

"I'm going to my room, Dick. Sorry."

"What are you scared of?" He moved toward me, grabbed me, poked my thigh with his boner. "Let's do some sixty-ninin'."

"Come on, now. You know it's too risky. Can't you wait until we get back to Tulsa?"

"Why? Nobody can see us. The door's locked. Curtain's drawn."

"What about the rooms next to us? What if they hear us?"

"Your dick in my mouth? Mine in your mouth? How much noise can we make?" He raised my arms, lifted my singlet undershirt up and off and tossed to the floor. "Damn, Jimmy. Your thinking is all upside-down on this." His hands clutched my shoulder blades. He pulled my chest to his and pecked my forehead with his lips. "Nobody will ever know a damned thing unless one of us tells them." He shoved me onto the bed. "And I will never talk." He reached toward the ceiling. "They can stretch me on the rack." He spread his feet apart, clasped his hands together overhead and angled his arms back, chest and belly forward. "They can beat me with fists. Whip me with leather, but nothing they do will ever break me."

My gym shorts, undershorts, shoes and socks were gone in fifteen seconds. "Give me that thing." My hand clutched his pecker and I tugged, indicating he should get horizontal with me. I forced him flat on his back. "I want you on that rack, mister." I stretched his arms toward the mattress corners, did the same with his legs. "You will talk, Dick Hodges, but only to me."

For nearly an hour I kissed and licked and slobbered all over him, and I do mean every inch, from the soles of his feet to the tips of his fingers. By the time I finally got around to positioning myself so I could suck his dick from above while he sucked mine from below, we both were so primed we didn't have time to make any noises or think about how good it felt or how much we enjoyed being together -- or how much we meant to each other.

What can be said? When the man of your dreams feels the same about you as you do him, talking about it plays no part. Nothing can stop it. Dick didn't start out as the man of my dreams. He made himself so. Ours was an incremental bonding which progressed at a pace of its own choosing. Baby steps.

Credit Dick Hodges with another barrier broken. Mine. My worries. My concerns. My useless fears. What will others think? Who gives a shit? Let them think what they want. Let them suspect to their heart's content. They will never know a damned thing unless we tell them, a credo which has served us well throughout each and every day of our forty-five years together.

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