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

Heh, I get *exactly* what you mean, I felt icky writing it, and I hate rereading it. But I think I passed your test, most of the encounter is spent in his head and how he despises what he's being forced to do, and then his resolve he'll never let this particular act happen again, no matter the cost...and there is a cost. And no one will ever know the relief I felt after I completed the very few scenes, or the dread I feel about having to go edit them later lol.

I don't know if I'd classify it as "classy" lol more like brutal. I wouldn't mind toning it down a little but it's an important scene in terms of character development (it inspires the narrator to damn the consequences and fight back, but it's a bit of a hollow victory) and plot. I'm really more worried about the ages of the characters; the boy is a teen at the time, which is probably no problem, but even though I do not describe anything earlier, it is clear the abuse has been going on for years.

I'm actually writing a (too damn long) novel dealing with incest--three brothers grow up being sexually abused by their father, the two oldest manage to escape but are forced to come home when the father is found dead and the youngest brother is suspected of killing him. A murder mystery on top, it's actually a story about the long-term effects on victims of systemic sexual abuse. Dark dark dark. I don't know what the hell I'm gonna do with it, Amazon would never allow, and it would probably never be accepted here either, as while there are only a few sex scenes, mostly in the first quarter of the book, they are necessarily explicit and clearly depict rape--which was the point of writing them, I want the reader to *know* what my boys suffered. I'll probably try to submit it here, sending the whole at once so it can be judged on its completion rather than individual chapters, but I don't hold much hope lol. Maybe I can at least find a few beta readers.

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 🙂

Monday morning dawned dark and rainy—no storm, just the dull kind with a monotonous drizzle you can work in, but barely. Jericho woke up tense and though I thought I understood why I didn’t feel the same. I knew the end was a week away same as he did but I chose not to be blown off the porch before strictly necessary and fretting about the limited time we had remaining was in my opinion asking for the tornado. He seemed to have shaken it off by the time we went out to the garden, becoming as

The disadvantage of not using a condom became apparent quickly so I slipped out to the bathroom and when I returned I found Jericho still in my bed waiting for me, one knee raised, the cock I’d been so eager to see I’d battled over it on full flaccid display. I folded back into his arms, laying my head on his shoulder and sliding one of my legs over his so his balls rested on my thigh. He was warm and good and the elderberry wine tasted just fine. “What are you thinking about?” he asked,

I don’t know how long I cried. Might’ve been minutes, might’ve been years. All I know is I cried while Bud held me and murmured “it’s okay” and “let it out” and “I’m here, Mateo” on the couch in the rarely-used living room. I’d known the emptiness was a lie and I was right, I was so full of feeling it hissed out of me like a tire with a thousand punctures. I hadn’t realized I’d locked so much inside. I’d been on my best behavior the way my father expected the entire time I’d been here, so w

It was July fifteenth, the exact midpoint of my summer on Jericho’s farm and in his constant company. A Thursday, hot and breathtaking; I still remember the sense of tension in the air. The Weather Channel had been advising of an explosive end to the heatwave blanketing the South, storms had started moving in from the Midwest early in the week, some of them severe and leaving thankfully mild destruction in their wake, and the clouds were due to hit Chisaw County around late afternoon. Ron cal

“I’ve got condoms,” Jericho assured me, his voice firm in the darkness. “I mean, I’ve only ever been with Darren and then Jill but even with them I wrapped up.” I seized on the condom thing, needing a moment to assimilate. “W-where did you get them?” He hadn’t been out of my sight or hearing since I arrived. “From Ron. And he gave me plenty.” Nope, still needing a moment. Besides, I couldn’t not ask. “What did he say?” “Only asked if I needed him to fetch a cucumber and

Although the next day was gorgeous, clear and blue and hot (though not as hot as it was to get in the next couple weeks or so), a perfect storm of events involving June led Jericho and me to some hasty rearrangements and a state of mild piss-off we could do nothing to avoid. She’d finished her sunrise over the pretend farmer’s woods commission, business at the stand had dwindled the barn-bin veggies to under a quarter-full and a new project had caught her shade-sensitive eye. “I was standing a

My parents called as we were finishing breakfast; it was afternoon where they were and they wanted to catch me before I went out to the garden. I missed them terribly, longed to be in their presence even if we didn’t speak much (at my age, this happened a fair amount), but the yearning was tempered with a sly and not-entirely-unwelcome frisson of this is what it feels like to have a life apart from them. As I placed the phone back on the charger I announced to the kitchen at large, “I’m gay.”