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Forrest Barton buys Christmas gifts for a soldier who has lost his money, in Jardonn's WWII-era short story, FURLOUGH BRIDGE.
Gower selected two stuffed teddy bears for his children, one out-fitted in a boy's costume, one in a girl's. Gower pointed, and Forrest snatched the bears.
"What about your wife?" Forrest queried. "She need a wrist watch? These here are a reasonable price." He chose one, presented the open-faced box to Gower, and the young man dropped his head.
"Yes, sir. That would be nice."
A rush of compassion welled up inside Forrest Barton. Sure, Gower had made a silly mistake with his money. The possibility existed that the whole thing was a scam, but Forrest's instincts told him otherwise. The kid didn't seem to have the smarts for it. His life hadn't exactly been a bed of roses, and it seemed he'd dug a pretty deep hole for himself. The sight of him standing there, holding his Army bag while shamefully looking at the floor cinched the deal. Forrest would send the soldier home.
"Can I get these items wrapped?" Forrest asked the clerk while paying for three gifts.
"Twenty-five cents per item, sir."
"Here's a dollar. Do it, please."
As they hovered near the wrapping counter, after Forrest asked the woman if her fingers were sore and plopped down another dollar for her personal tip, Gower nudged Forrest's shoulder with a fist.
"Mr. Barton, if I can get to Lexington and get my suitcase, I'll pay you back first thing Tuesday morning. There's a Western Union office in town, and..."
"Never mind that," Forrest interrupted. "I've already decided to buy your ticket. What time did you say that train leaves?"
"Two-twelve."
"Two-twelve? Hell, I can drive it in an hour and half. Less than that if the snow ain't too bad. Will that work?"
Of course it would. After another stop in the men's room, they exited the station for the parking lot.
Railroad detective Gaither Hollis and railroad engineer Wilton Zukel -- their first encounter, from Jardonn Smith's and William Maltese's m/m novel, GRIT.
At the railroader's hotel in the Newton yard, Wilton made arrangements for the kitchen to send a supper tray to his room. It waited for him as he walked the hall from the shower room in his house shoes with towel wrapping the waist of his clean and refreshed body. Waiting outside his door was Detective Gaither Hollis.
"You're early," Wilton growled.
"Not by much." Hollis grinned, giving Zukel opportunity to lighten up his attitude, or continue being a grouch.
"Well, damn ya', my thirty minutes ain't up," Zukel opened the unlocked door. "Guess you can watch me get dressed."
"I'll probably be finished by the time you are." Hollis followed Zukel into the room, waited as he closed and locked the door.
"You probably will." Zukel dropped his towel, stood naked with hands on his hips, facing the detective. "I like to air it out before I put my sleeping clothes on."
"You wear sleeping clothes?"
"You're looking at 'em."
"What the hell is that thing?"
"That's my pecker," Zukel thrust his hips forward and back, swinging his penis toward the detective. "Ain't you ever seen a man's pecker before?"
"That's no pecker. It's a fire hose."
"Want me to spray you with it?"
"Want me to bend it back on you? You've got enough there to spray yourself."
"Want to make it spray?"
"Wanna get your ass on that bed and find out? See how that hose of yours likes getting chomped on? Huh? How about it, tough guy? Wanna keep pushing me?"
Halsey and Floyd clean up after sex, in Jardonn Smith's short story, The Caricature.
It has been my experience that a good round of sex deserves at least an hour of napping. Has nothing to do with age. I've always been that way. Must be a man thing.
Floyd and I put in that one hour before I awoke realizing I had a mess to clean up — baby oil sliming my anus and Floyd's genitals. Oh, and Floyd's semen was ready to make its exit, too.
"How did you know?” Floyd's question to me came while he showered and I sat on the toilet excreting his seed.
"Know what?" Finished depositing into toilet water, I joined him under shower water.
"How to make me wait."
"Sorry, Floyd. I don't have a clue what you're talking about."
With hand lathered in soap, he reached for my pecker, and stroked on it trying to get a responsive swelling. "I always get off quick. Ten minutes, max, but you kept me going a good twenty, thirty minutes. How?"
"Uh, it wasn't planned. You did it yourself, and this here isn't a good idea. Soap in my slit is going to burn like hell, so let me get the oil if you really want to do this."
Floyd did want to jack me, claiming he had never before touched another man's penis. He talked the entire time, hand-stroking my woody while standing behind me, his back to the cascading water. "I think because they never let me get off, I've always orgasmed lickety-split anytime I had the chance — with my wife, or with myself. It's like I'm afraid whatever's giving me pleasure is going to be taken away, so I go ahead and shoot as soon as possible rather than enjoying the ride. That is, until we did what we just did."
"Yeah, well, if I had my way, you'd still be sprawled on that bed with your dick up my chute."
Floyd seemed flattered that I would say such a thing, and even though I mostly said it as self-motivation so I could cream in his hand right then and there, which I did, my statement planted seeds for future bedroom scenes.
Max remembers his beginnings with Stanley in the short story, Such a Man, from Jardonn Smith's Suspicious Diagnosis.
I didn't mind that you stayed the night with me and snored at volume to rattle windows. Had no problem riding with you next day to your hotel so you could get your belongings and spend the weekend with me. Didn't bother me that you liked to get off about every four hours, or that when you sat around watching television in your underwear, your constant dribbling of anticipation made you piss a double stream and I had to clean urine off my toilet and the floor around it.
I put up with your flopping at my apartment the two weekends per month you were in town. Stayed patient until you gained the courage to try sucking on me. Stayed hopeful for the day we experimented with and accepted pleasures other than oral. Stayed ready for you to decide you no longer had reason to reside in the town where your ex-wife and kids lived, and that we might as well look for a place in my town. For us, together.
I never once tried to figure how we would progress or predict when we would end. Cannot recall any moments of serious anger or argument between us. Not when we struggled to start up our business. Not when we fretted over finances for purchasing our permanent house, our home.
Pete Radcliffe, stripped to underwear and bound to torture table, plays head games with Benjamin Hewitt in The Black Pouch Crusader, from Jasper McCutcheon's The Crux of It.
"Well, shit, Benjamin. I'm just curious. What did Elwood Cates ever do to you?"
"Nothin', but he pays wages. The ladies are offering me a better deal, that's all."
"A better deal of what? They don't even know if that vein exists. Nor do you."
"Sure I do. Elwood told me."
"Did he show it to you?"
"No, but he's got no reason to lie to me."
"Why not? Because he trusts you?"
"Hell, yeah."
"Guess he made an error in judgment when it comes to you, Benjamin Hewitt. Back stabber."
"Aw, shut the hell up, Radcliffe. What do you know about it?"
"I know a man's only as good as his word."
"I said shut up."
"I know men've got to stick together, because women cannot be trusted. I know that helping a thief makes you just as much a thief."
"Damn it, Radcliffe! I'm warning you to shut the..."
"I know a judge is gonna come down harder on you than he will the ladies. Judges are men, and they don't like men throwing in with thieving women to steal from an honest man."
"Shut up! Shut up!" Hewitt clasped both hands around Pete's neck, squeezing with all his might. "I warned you, didn't I?"
Philo and Artimos celebrating Philo's rescue in The Tortured Secutor, from Jardonn's Let's Get Medieval.
But with all the niceties surrounding me, what stood out most were the three items left over from the bad old days: the torture table; the suspension chains; the cross of t. And here, standing near the cross with walking stick in one hand and drink in the other, was Philo.
He spoke with a man unknown to me. In fact, none of the men gathered in this room were known to me, but when Philo turned to acknowledge my presence with his ever-inviting smile, all else was oblivious to me.
I joined him, and much to my surprise he kissed me, embarrassed me.
"Philo!" I whispered. "Careful. What will others think?"
"No thinking. They will know. As they should know. As you should know."
And with that, I embraced him for a seriously wet kiss to leave no doubts.
"Look, Artimos." He pointed to the cross. "You're just in time for the show."
Laying atop the wood on the stone floor with arms stretched and roped to patibulum, ankles bound together on the stipes, a naked man was awaiting his ascension, his muscular body enhanced with short black hair. Covering his head was the Secutor's helmet. What did he feel? I could not know. He wanted to escape. His straining muscles and expanding chest told me that much, but he knew there would be no escape, as did I.
Otto coming once again to Peter Sion's rescue, in The Bishop of Grunewald, from Jardonn's book Let's Get Medieval.
Within two seconds, Jonathan was spun around and his body slammed against the wall, and then before he could react to any of it, the metal bar was pressed firmly against his throat.
"You are a foolish man, Jonathan Sikes." Peter's little bull held Jonathan inches off the floor by means of that long bar pressing beneath his chin. "You are given your freedom. And this is how you repay your king? I should snap your neck right here and now."
Otto could easily have done just that. Regardless that Jonathan stood a full four inches taller than he; regardless that Jonathan was pressing the bar from his direction with all his might; the little bull was an unconquerable force, especially when the man he loved was being threatened.
"Thank you, Otto." Peter stood behind him. He kissed Otto's sweat-drenched hair, rested his chin upon Otto's bulging trapezoid, nibbled his over-sized ear, and rubbed his hands up and down the length of Otto's flexing, sweat-slicked, fur-matted chest and belly. "You amazing, strong-ass, son of a bitch." He smothered Otto's thick, smooth-shaven neck with kisses. He tugged the hair on the nape with his lips. "God, I love you... you glorious he-man... my savior... coming to my rescue again."
Sion turned his attention to Otto's prisoner. "You do not understand, Jonathan. My little bull could kill you in an instant if I give the word." Peter clamped fingers and thumbs onto his little bull's perfectly round, tiny and sharp-tipped nipples. "Do you see the steam coming from his nostrils? He waits for my command." Peter twisted those nipples, causing his little bull to snort, mucus splattering onto Jonathan's stomach. Jonathan's face was red, quickly turning purple. "Relax on him, Otto. I will explain to Jonathan his good fortune."
Melvin's big break in The Thomas Coleman Full Nelson, from the book Hard Working Men.
Anyway, back to my apprenticeship. Through one of the hottest July-into-Augusts on record I did the grunt and the dirt and the sweat. And I took lip from men who'd been there done that -- some of them insecure and just plain hateful, most of them merely giving me shit to see how I'd take it. The trick is to recognize which ones expect you to take it and like it (the true assholes), and which ones hope you'll throw it right back at them. Those are the men testing you to see if you can pass muster, and if you do, chances are good you'll be asked to join a crew sooner than later.
My chance came first week of August. John Duncan pulls me aside about an hour into my Tuesday morning.
"Melvin this is Paul Bresco, my window installation man."
I'd seen him before. Talked to him a little. Nice guy compared to most. Always had a smile and thank you anytime I'd cleaned up one of his messes. Man looked like a dark-haired orangutan, 5’7”, big ears sticking out under his hard hat, hair on top shown to be mostly gone forever after his hard hat came off. His stubby-fingered right paw extended for a handshake. "Gonna need your help today, son. Can you do ladder work?"
"Yes, sir."
"Not afraid of heights?"
"No, sir."
"Then come with me."
What he didn't tell me was that by heights he meant on a platform hanging from cables off the roof about 80 feet up, and by ladder he meant another 15 feet atop the scaffold platform. No matter, it had to be done, and Paul Bresco teamed with me as our eight-man crew split into two teams of four, installed every top-floor window of the building that day. Big-ass plates of glass hauled up to us by crane and cables. One man on each side of glass had to guide it into position, two on the platform, two on ladders. I started on the platform, progressed to the ladder after lunch. Mr. Bresco appreciated a man who worked slow and careful until he knew what he was doing. He appreciated a man who kept his mouth shut and ears open, who only asked pertinent questions, who was willing to learn, who wanted to do it the right way. And at the end of the day, after nearly 10 hours of me learning by doing, Paul Bresco showed his appreciation in an unusual but traditional way.
After some serious sex in the natural pool of their Haemus Mountains hideaway, Boris and Gregoric dig into something deep. From Jardonn's book Danube Divide.
Returning to the pool, I paid no attention as to whether he was following or not. Boris's challenge would take me time. His questions of most importance. Knowing this, he kept his distance, lounging in water at the pool's edge with his arms spread behind him on the rock ledge, while I crouched in water to my neck, my feet on the pool's floor.
History, he had said. That is why Sabinus and Boris came to this place. History. Boris had used our Germanic cave above the Koniksbruk to tell us about Emperor Aurelian, his assassination bringing the quick demise of Mithraism and rapid advancement of Christianity. Which was the greater loss?
Aurelian. A brilliant military strategist and noble statesman. A ruler who did his best to inspire his citizens, to provide them security, to give them the tools necessary for their own personal prosperity and happiness. A man who concentrated the treasury on maintaining the infrastructure, even built a new wall around Rome outside the ancient Servian Wall. A man who led by example, who only used the sword against those who insisted upon making Rome their enemy. A man who surrounded himself with the smartest he could find, who ignored the negative obstructions of those who refused to participate in his vision, his hopes for a greater society both inside and outside his borders of empire.
Which was the greater loss? Aurelian. A living, breathing, human being. Or Mithras. A concocted go-between to an imagined god. A character in a play written by man. A character, like Hercules, like Mercury, like Artemis, like...
"Jesus Christ, Boris," I swam to him. "These gods, all of them are inventions of man. They are props for dramatic stories. Plays of no more value than the tragedies of Euripides or comedies of Plautus. Great literary works, and just as important as the tales of gods. No better, no worse."
"Characters, Gregoric. You've hit the spike on the head." For my victory of critical thinking, I got a kiss and a hug. And then Boris wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pointed to the sky. Twilight. Stars faintly contrasting against dark blue, three-quarter moon making its appearance just above the wall of granite. "Make no mistake, Gregoric. Something created everything you see around us. Those lights in the sky. The walls of this gorge. This beautiful pool of water. You. And me. It is only natural man would design the creator to look like man, to have human qualities good and bad. But would something great enough to make all of this have flaws? Same as man?"
"Not likely."
"Of course not. There is no way to know what created the creator. You will go mad trying to answer it. All we can know is that there is an incredible power making the sun appear every day and moon every night. I like to think of it as a great fire. That's what Eusebius said. Sparks fly in all directions. And we are those sparks, Gregoric. You and I and every person living. The afterlife is nothing but theories. Plays written by man, like you say. There is nothing wrong with hedging your bets and learning about all faiths, but do it for the sake of history. No man knows for sure what happens when you die. No man has been there and come back to tell of it. And those who try to preach to you about what the afterlife is are more often than not doing so for their own personal gain. Financial, self-esteem, any one of dozens of reasons, none of which benefit you."
Much to absorb, but Boris was a master of explanation and I was certain he could answer my next all-important question. "So, Boris, why did we go through all these rituals for Mithras? He is a theory just like all the others."
"Because I wanted to get you in your Germanic cave and fuck you."
More will come from time to time.
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