Rusty Slocum

“Get in here, Dingo,” Frog calls. “I figured you’d show up sooner rather than later.” Slipping into the expensive tile and style, I find him sitting on the commode, panel door half-cracked; there ain’t no point to modesty now. He grimaces and farts out a great gust of compressed air followed by the tinkle of what’s unmistakably me draining out into the water below, but he seems okay. Not comfortable by any means, but okay. After a moment he relaxes and resumes wiping away the spend on his b

So. Just us now. Beanie and his camera prowl around outside our cage like greedy tourists at a skin zoo, but in here, just me and Frog and the water. Grabbing the bottle of body-wash (which likely costs about what I make for an average trick—in other words, more expensive than you’d expect) I pour half the precious gel between us and we get to work scrubbing each other. His fingers slow, exploratory yet knowing on my body, my fingers inquisitive and restless on his. He giggles as I dig into

The bathroom door whines open, proving gazillionaire hinges need lube too, and Beanie steps in, his cellphone’s camera aimed our way, shattering the moment. “Showtime,” I whisper under my breath, and Frog grunts and spits. After we rinse I grab his elbow and edge us in front of the ginormous glass shower, Beanie’s phone following with the rapt attention of a hungry hawk, Frog’s eyes following the swoop like prey. “Ignore it.” I whisper. “Look at me.” He bites his lip and nod

By now we’re in view of Beanie’s hotel, a swanky oasis in the middle of a downtown oh-so-suddenly less gritty; amazing the difference a few hundred feet can make. As we approach the brightly lighted portico and door-dyke-guarded rear entrance Frog slows, his entire body sagging. “Frog, you can do this.” He scoffs. “I’m not worried about that.” Indicating his stained green hoodie and dirty black jeans and worn-out sneakers, he confesses, “I’m not exactly dress

The conjugal odors of grease and fried onions along with a plaintive growl reclaim my attention from the cinematic abyss. As we approach the tiny diner on the corner I glance over to find Frog staring steadfastly ahead even as another whine gurgles through his belly. Figuring better than to comment I adjust my angle, and after a slow, hesitant moment he hops along behind. The diner’s empty tonight, the crew about as shit outta luck on business as the horde we’d escaped. The w

Slow night on goober street. Occasional bouts of drizzly rain, air so humid sweat feels like oil beading on your skin. Loitering in my usual spot under the overhang of the condemned pawn shop, I’m trying to earn some green, but I ain’t hopeful. Don’t get me wrong, I look good, also as usual; backwards ball cap on my brown buzz-cut head, shirt unbuttoned to show off my hairy chest and sleeves rolled up to show off my arms, ripped jeans tight enough to advertise my talents. Problem is, too muc

Every goober's got a story, and sometimes they ain't even purely ugly.

Thanks @lawfulneutralmage so glad you enjoyed! I can't seem to stop writing, and kind comments such as yours only feed the addiction 🙂

@Talo Segura @Luca E @mg777 Okay, enough time has gone by I feel I can defend myself lol. Truthfully, the story should stand or fall on its own and without other comment from the author, and I think it mostly does, but I do want to clarify a few things. The stories in this series were written sequentially, first Trains, then Free Love, then Jericho's Wall. For various reasons I decided to use Trains as the prologue to JW, which I thought clarified the point but maybe muddies it at the same time. Each of the couples were from different eras. The first couple, the artist and the curly-haired boy, lived in a time when their existence was entirely erased, when they could have been lynched had they been discovered. Hence, they were more of a myth than anything else, and they essentially vanish from history, not even their names remembered, only the artist's notoriety. Bud and Ron are from a time when society was starting to loosen; the Stonewall-era setting and mention was intentional, the hippie characters Alder and Clay showing Bud that love could be achieved no matter who might object, and they are successful to the point of being natural mentors for the third couple. Mateo and Jericho are able to be open in their affection for each other, and are so far removed from the Trains era that they consider the artist and curly-haired boy (deliberately never given names) nothing more than mythical romantic heroes, only remembered because of a few drawings that by chance survived for decades when they should have rotten away. Mateo and Jericho are just another couple because by this time society was beginning to digest that same-sex couples actually could be just another ordinary couple, the "fondly recalled first love" cliche applies to us too. The entire series is an illustration of how far we as a tribe have come in a little under a century, from being ignored or killed to just being nervous to come out to the freedom to be ourselves and love who we want to love without asking anyone else for their opinion. There was even a subtle (in hindsight too subtle, I suppose) nod to this theme through skin color--the artist was an albino, pale and almost ghost-like, Bud was your normal (whatever normal means) fair-skinned boy, and Mateo was mixed-race with golden skin--again, a deliberate choice. Taken individually, Free Love is probably the best "stand-alone" tale, but when taken as a whole I think the themes come across better. Sorry to bring this back up after so long, but I've been biting this back for over a year now. Damn ego lol. Thanks for your attention and please don't think I'm disrespecting your opinions, I value honesty in any critiques, I just wanted to at last long last respond. Rusty

Are You Being Served? Close 🙂

Thanks @Gil Saul, I'm so glad you enjoyed and related to the story. I'm about a decade younger than Bud (and a decade older than the boys in JW) but I remember enough about the time period and I've known plenty of hippies in my life. It's always bummed me out they always get such a drumming, the media at the time ridiculing them so hard the image never recovered. Many (not all, by any means) were sincere in their beliefs, and I wanted to create characters other than as commonly portrayed even today in fiction/movies as either stoned idiots or drug addict/dealers. Free Love is my love letter not only to the gay teens coming of age during that turbulent time but to the peace and love movement in general. Whatever man, right on.

Thanks @JeffreyL I'm so glad you enjoyed! And I hope you enjoy Jericho's Wall, featuring Ron and the narrator from here as major characters 🙂

I last saw Jericho a few weeks ago at Janey’s funeral—see, told ya I was gonna make you cry. I did. It was one of those random ludicrous things but nowhere near as blackly amusing as fire ants snacking on immature privates. A stormy day, a blind curve and a teenager adjusting his stereo while driving a little—not a lot—too fast; he wasn’t charged but I bet he’ll be traumatized for the rest of his life and even the family isn’t so much angry with him as pitying. The late-summer morning was go

We didn’t sleep much and when the alarm went off we decided not to rise. “We can skip walking the fence today, do it tomorrow instead since the rest of the day will be shot. Okay with you, Mat?” “Okay with me, Jer.” “Cool, cool.” We made love, slowly, sweetly, and while the filth was still there so was the tenderness. As the time for church approached, we groaned and showered and grabbed a quick leftover sausage biscuit on the way out the door. June and the girls rode with Rand, Jericho a

And that's the highest and most treasured compliment anyone can pay me. Thanks, Dan 🙂