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Two men, troubled by their past, cross paths where the desert and mountains meet the sky.
Short stories about human diversity and the vexing riddles of human sexuality.
The Strange Haunting Of Johnny Feelwater
An excerpt from chapter 19 . . .
Johnny was aware that Brian was looking at him.
“Shame you’re not bisexual,” said Brian, a sudden and unexpected whispering of his thoughts.
Johnny turned his head and their eyes met.
“Forgive me, my friend, but I’m no longer inclined toward the fairer sex, even to these frequently available young girls. I would consider myself inappropriate for them anyway. But now I’m in bed next to a man, quite an attractive man I might add, and it occurred to me that a little mutual affection is nourishing for the soul.” Brian shifted to his side and faced Johnny, bracing himself up on an elbow.
Caught off guard, Johnny glanced down at his companion’s torso, a candlelit display of shoulders and a chest thick with muscle, of dark hairs mixed with gray that curled about a pair of nipples and ran a wide path toward a sunken navel. The glance ventured downward, over strong hairy legs, then upward, fixing on genitals flaccid in the warm air, dropping with generous weight from a dense swath of salted pubic hair, fleshy and splayed atop a muscular thigh. It was no more than a glance, the entirety of which lasted the bat of an eye, though it sparked the fires of adrenaline.
Oh, the power of such a visual to set one’s imagination stirring, Johnny realized, not much to his surprise as he twisted his head upward and returned his gaze to the shadows. It all came rushing back as if the image had opened a floodgate of memories from his confused youth. Those fleshy organs—were they not an anomaly of the male form, peculiar in shape and so much darker than the rest of the body? Were they not an inconsistency in the fluid contours of muscle and limb, hanging from the body at the apex of one’s legs like something alien by virtue of their odd design? Perhaps it might seem, but for that inborn consciousness of their purpose, and in being male with the same fragile effects, accompanied always with that sublime awareness of their ever changing weight. Oh, those daunting colors, dark and purposeful, like magnets drawing one’s eyes, like streaking meteors that suddenly exclude all other thoughts. And those masculine odors lingering in the air with his own, born of errant drops of urine and yesterday’s sweat and last night’s involuntary seepages from that tiny hole, mingled with those living with aromatic vibrancy between damp gluteal cheeks. He was thinking about all of this as he stared at the ceiling, his face fixed with a dreamlike gaze, thinking there was even more to resist: the warmth of a man lying so close, the warmth he could feel on his face, the feel of that same man’s breath on his ear. What was it, but a universe of two men, a symphony of maleness within the parameters of a small space, offensive perhaps to some, though more akin to euphoria for two certain men on a warm Kenyan night.
My Male Nurse
No serious permanent damage.
That’s what I’ve pieced together, fragments here and there, never straight out with exactly how my body will mend. No burns or paralysis; that much is certain. Just broken bones, scars and muscular trauma, damage that’ll heal. An arm and a leg in traction, bound in casts. The upper part of the bed is cranked up thirty degrees, my head propped on a pillow. Under the sheet I’m naked, at least the parts of my body not covered with casts or bandages.
Days on end with no privacy; it’s funny how quickly you lose your old inhibitions when you’re utterly dependant on people you’ve never seen before. Bathing, peeing, bowel movements, personal hygiene of any kind; two weeks now, I haven’t been able to do any of it without someone’s help. All because a roadside bomb had my name on it.
Six months into a one year tour in Iraq, two days after reading a gut-wrenching letter from my fiancé, I drove over a landmine on a dirt road outside of Mosul. They tell me my vehicle jumped five feet into the air. Shrapnel did most of the damage. Flying through the air broke a few bones. A day in a field hospital before they air lifted me to Germany, then the long flight to the states, where I’m at now, not more than five hundred miles from my hometown. Maybe I shouldn’t expect her to come this far to see me, not after what she had to say in the letter. I’m not too doped up to care.
7:00 A.M. I feel rested. The pills they gave me worked; I slept through the night. Woke up hungry, thinking about Patricia, wondering if she’s had a change of heart. I had dreamed she showed up at the hospital in tears. I forgave her. I woke up rested, but empty. At least my parents make the drive to see me on weekends.
Kirkland, my nurse, approaches pushing a cart with various supplies and a breakfast tray, stands looking at me for a moment, then releases a sigh.
(more…)
By Mark S.
Lorena stepped out of the accounting office … MY accounting office! and walked past the cubicles of her coworkers. They waved and smiled, some sadly, as she passed. She entered the large shared office of Craig and Stephen, the co-owners of TreeHuggerz, Inc. Here we go, Lorena, breathe deep and keep your shit together. As usual, the glass doors of the brightly sunlit office were open wide. Craig was sitting behind his desk, resting the weight of his rugged frame on his elbows. Stephen, tall, thin, and childishly energetic, was sitting on the desk and swinging his feet. Both men stared so intently at her that Lorena felt heartsick.
“Come in, Lorena”, said Craig, with his disarming smile.
“And close the doors behind you” added Stephen with a fake sneer.
Lorena’s discomfort tripled as she closed the doors. Craig and Stephen were open with their employees, and closed doors always meant something heavy was going down. She imagined everyone watching the meeting and speculating what was being said. Craig offered her a chair with a sweep of his hand, which she politely declined. Stephen jumped off the desk and moved behind it, standing next to his seated partner. Stephen was trying to act stern and angry, and the effect would have been comical in other circumstances. He was such an exuberant free-spirit that he seemed like a teenager. Grey hair at his temples and the deep laugh lines around his blue eyes were the only evidence that he was well into his forties.
Craig spoke.
“Well, Lorena, tomorrow is Friday. Your last day with us. We were shocked two weeks ago when you gave your notice. We respect your choice, but we REALLY do not want to let you go.”
Oh, Craig, if you only knew what would make me stay. “I know. It’s not an easy decision. I’ve really enjoyed working here. You both have been great to me” (more…)
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