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Authors: Nick Wilgus
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“I need you to kiss me.”
“Shake the sugar tree?”
“If that’s what you call it.”
“Now?”
“Not with your child in the other room watching us.”
“Is he watching us?”
“He’s pretending not to.”
“He does that, yeah.”
“So…?”
I laughed. From embarrassment, relief, anxiety… I could not explain why, but it was funny.
“I’ll wipe that smile off your face,” he vowed.
“And how do you plan to do that?”
“Put the kid to bed and I’ll show you.”
“So we’re dating? Or something?”
He grinned his devil-may-care grin.
“Well?” I prompted.
“You’re being cruised, old man,” he said. “I dig you. I think you’re cool. Far-out.”
“I’m not that old!”
“I’m not the one living in the late eighteenth century down here. I want to check out this action, big guy.”
“Something tells me you’re a naughty, naughty boy.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” he said.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I admitted.
“Got a beer?”
I did.
Jackson and Noah were soon sitting in front the television, putting Super Mario through his paces.
A storm front moved in, bringing a wave of refreshing cool air that I hoped would hang around for a while. The radio noted the cool air, and the weatherman cautioned that severe storms might result.
After getting Noah off to bed, Jackson Ledbetter and I sucked face on my sofa. I’d had three beers and was so horny for him I would have paid good money for it, even five minutes of it, but it was a school night and chastity prevailed.
“You answered my question,” he said, when he finally got up to leave.
“What question?”
“Whether you were interested in me or not. I don’t read minds, contrary to whatever anyone may have told you about people from Boston. But I don’t have to be a mind reader, not with that pistol in your pocket.”
He let his hand slide down to grasp my belongings.
I might have moaned or something stupid like that.
“So you’ve got me all hot and bothered, and now you’re just going to leave?” I blurted out.
“Yeah,” he said with a grin.
“That’s just cruel.”
“Sounds like an Elvis Presley song.”
For his benefit, I sang, “ Don’t be cruel, to a heart that’s true….”
“And are you true, Wiley Cantrell?”
“Sometimes. Right now, I’m just really horny. But I can be true, too, if you want.”
“That’s all I want,” he said, suddenly serious. “I’m not like these slut puppies who just sleep with anyone. I’m old-fashioned. I have to really like someone before I—”
I interrupted him by placing my lips firmly on his and applying a certain amount of pressure. Tongue followed. Groping. Fondling. Gasping, too, if I remember correctly. Hands in hair, pushing bodies together. Hair sniffing. Cuddling. Tenderness.
“There’s more where that came from,” I said.
“I hope so,” he replied. “I really need to go. I’m on at six in the morning and I can’t be late.”
“So. Are we dating?”
“I thought you called it courting. I made my move. I’m leaving it up to you.”
“That’s a country song,” I pointed out. “ I’m leaving it up to you ….”
I’d had a bit too much to drink, is all I can say in my defense.
“By the way,” he said. “You know that little black thing that you carry around? It rings and beeps and stuff?”
“My phone?”
“Try using it.”
17) A letter to Iron Man
I WOKE the next morning with a silly smile on my face. Like Donna Fargo, I was the “Happiest Girl in the Whole U.S.A.” even though I was still “Sleeping Single in a Double Bed.”
I showered, then stood naked in front of the mirror as I combed out my hair and tied it back, getting ready for work.
I was not bad to look at. Jackson Ledbetter could do far worse. True, my hair could stand to be tamed, my goatee trimmed, but I could still fit into my high school jeans. I was slender, not exactly beefy with muscles, but no slouch
“Shake the sugar tree?”
“If that’s what you call it.”
“Now?”
“Not with your child in the other room watching us.”
“Is he watching us?”
“He’s pretending not to.”
“He does that, yeah.”
“So…?”
I laughed. From embarrassment, relief, anxiety… I could not explain why, but it was funny.
“I’ll wipe that smile off your face,” he vowed.
“And how do you plan to do that?”
“Put the kid to bed and I’ll show you.”
“So we’re dating? Or something?”
He grinned his devil-may-care grin.
“Well?” I prompted.
“You’re being cruised, old man,” he said. “I dig you. I think you’re cool. Far-out.”
“I’m not that old!”
“I’m not the one living in the late eighteenth century down here. I want to check out this action, big guy.”
“Something tells me you’re a naughty, naughty boy.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” he said.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I admitted.
“Got a beer?”
I did.
Jackson and Noah were soon sitting in front the television, putting Super Mario through his paces.
A storm front moved in, bringing a wave of refreshing cool air that I hoped would hang around for a while. The radio noted the cool air, and the weatherman cautioned that severe storms might result.
After getting Noah off to bed, Jackson Ledbetter and I sucked face on my sofa. I’d had three beers and was so horny for him I would have paid good money for it, even five minutes of it, but it was a school night and chastity prevailed.
“You answered my question,” he said, when he finally got up to leave.
“What question?”
“Whether you were interested in me or not. I don’t read minds, contrary to whatever anyone may have told you about people from Boston. But I don’t have to be a mind reader, not with that pistol in your pocket.”
He let his hand slide down to grasp my belongings.
I might have moaned or something stupid like that.
“So you’ve got me all hot and bothered, and now you’re just going to leave?” I blurted out.
“Yeah,” he said with a grin.
“That’s just cruel.”
“Sounds like an Elvis Presley song.”
For his benefit, I sang, “ Don’t be cruel, to a heart that’s true….”
“And are you true, Wiley Cantrell?”
“Sometimes. Right now, I’m just really horny. But I can be true, too, if you want.”
“That’s all I want,” he said, suddenly serious. “I’m not like these slut puppies who just sleep with anyone. I’m old-fashioned. I have to really like someone before I—”
I interrupted him by placing my lips firmly on his and applying a certain amount of pressure. Tongue followed. Groping. Fondling. Gasping, too, if I remember correctly. Hands in hair, pushing bodies together. Hair sniffing. Cuddling. Tenderness.
“There’s more where that came from,” I said.
“I hope so,” he replied. “I really need to go. I’m on at six in the morning and I can’t be late.”
“So. Are we dating?”
“I thought you called it courting. I made my move. I’m leaving it up to you.”
“That’s a country song,” I pointed out. “ I’m leaving it up to you ….”
I’d had a bit too much to drink, is all I can say in my defense.
“By the way,” he said. “You know that little black thing that you carry around? It rings and beeps and stuff?”
“My phone?”
“Try using it.”
17) A letter to Iron Man
I WOKE the next morning with a silly smile on my face. Like Donna Fargo, I was the “Happiest Girl in the Whole U.S.A.” even though I was still “Sleeping Single in a Double Bed.”
I showered, then stood naked in front of the mirror as I combed out my hair and tied it back, getting ready for work.
I was not bad to look at. Jackson Ledbetter could do far worse. True, my hair could stand to be tamed, my goatee trimmed, but I could still fit into my high school jeans. I was slender, not exactly beefy with muscles, but no slouch
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