dontravis.com
blog post #320
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| Courtesy of Wikipedia |
TO MY READERS: The “Contact” section has disappeared from my Web Site, so I
have no way of reading or responding to your comments. I’ve tried all the
corrective suggestions by “experts” to no avail. Please make any comments
directly to my personal email, dontravis21@gmail.com, until this situation is corrected. Thanks.
WARNING: Some readers will find language in the following
story to be offensive, but it accurately represents at time that was—and in too
many places, still is. Enjoy the story, don’t concentrate on such language.
*****
THE DANCER
A call from my ex-wife venting
her undiminished rage drove me out of the apartment into the streets of
Manhattan. Melanie and I had met and married in college. Upon graduation, we
moved into the apartment my folks had left me in a good high rise and pursued
successful careers—me as a writer of how-to books and Mel as a nursing
supervisor. I hadn’t realized how much trouble my marriage was in until her
younger brother visited one weekend. His first night there, while Mel was
working overtime, Brad sneaked into our bedroom and seduced me. The good-looking
nineteen-year-old introduced something new into my life and drove me out of a
stale marriage. He’d both liberated and crippled me, opening me to a new and
exciting experience while leaving me with no idea how to replicate it.
Mel’s phone call this
otherwise pleasant early summer afternoon let me know she had learned of my
liaison with her “little brother.” If
only she knew! In addition to all my other sins, I had corrupted an
innocent youth. Yeah, right.
Nursing my frustration, I
headed for my favorite place in the world… the public library. I fumed at the fates on the eight-block walk to my destination. Could I induce Brad to come
back for a visit? Not likely, given the fact he’d spilled the beans to his
sister. Should I visit a gay bar? The very thought shriveled my insides. Men’s
rooms? They say men’s rooms are places homos go to meet. That thought brought
me to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk. Is that what I had become? I
resumed pacing, unsure of the answer.
A vivid red and black poster
advertising a flamenco troupe posted outside the public library caught my eye.
A haughty young dancer stared out of the picture through smoldering eyes. His
broad shoulders and unbelievably slender hips and accentuated groin instantly
focused my desires and brought me into a state of physical discomfort. Glancing
around guiltily, I was startled to find a man at my side eyeing me boldly. When
he suggested what we could do for the handsome dancer… or for one another, I
panicked and fled down the sidewalk.
Realizing I had missed an
opportunity to find what I yearned for, I turned back, but the pleasant-looking
stranger was gone. Succumbing to a sudden urge, I did something totally out of
character. The poster came away in my hand, although the corners ripped a
little. A clerk at a nearby framing shop grumbled at my request for a rush job
but assured me it could be trimmed and framed. An hour later, I carried my
ill-gotten treasure into the apartment and hung it in my bedroom.
The unknown young man’s
whip-like body was as exciting as his features were handsome. A strong jawline
saved his beautiful face from androgyny and made me wonder at his experiences
with women—and men. Entranced, I stood before the picture and gave myself over
to lust. The poster became my shrine. I spurned human contact and turned to the
image of this young Adonis for my carnal needs. By late summer, I was content
with my existence. I no longer hunted for something I didn’t know how to hunt
One day, as I wandered the
Times Square area in a moment of leisure, something caught my eye. My dancer!
My poster strode down the sidewalk in jeans and shirt instead of a flamenco
costume. I froze, caught my breath, and hastily fell in behind him. He moved in
long, graceful strides—just as I had imagined—drawing me along helplessly in
his wake.
The tall youth turned into one
of those Turkish baths that public health officials tried to close down years
ago at the height of the AIDS epidemic. Heedless of anything other than
catching a better glimpse of my quarry, I handed over the price of admission,
accepted a large towel, and rushed inside. He stood stripping off his shirt in
the locker room, exposing a long, muscled torso. Eventually, I recovered my
wits enough to sit on a bench and remove my shoes.
This was not my dancer, but it
could have been. Hispanic, twenty or so, six-foot, hundred and seventy, broad
back, narrow waist. He nodded a silent greeting. I smiled but took my cue from
him and said nothing. He slipped jeans and briefs down his trim hips. He was breathtaking—a
dark golden tan all over. The youth fixed a towel around his waist and
disappeared through another set of doors.
I sat on the bench, shaken by
proximity to a real, live Lothario. What had his face looked like? No idea,
except he was handsome. My attention had centered on his smooth chest, flat
belly, and exciting nether regions.
A banging locker startled me
out of my trance. I undressed and rushed through the door, coming to an abrupt
halt. A big room dominated by a huge swimming pool with lounges scattered
around the edges teemed with men. Some were older, and all appeared to be on
the hunt. A dozen predatory eyes fixed on me.
I secured the towel around my
waist and fought a wave of panic. Ignore them! Go about your business and
ignore them. Go about my business? My
business was ogling a young man the way these guys were gaping at me. I strode
through the room studiously avoiding eye contact. As I reached the far doors, a
man rose from one of the lounges and started my way. Seeking to put distance
between us, I more or less blundered into the steam room. There was one
occupant. My young man. Totally naked, he sat on his towel and leaned back against
the wooden platform, legs splayed. He opened his eyes long enough to give me a
quick, irritated look. I took a seat opposite him, winced at the heat of the
wooden bench, and emulated him by sitting on my towel.
*****
Many years ago, I visited a New York Turkish bath, and it scared the hell out
of me. My tender Oklahoma roots weren’t built for such aggressive soil. I scooted right back out of there, but it looks like our hero—Rob’s his name, by the way—is
made of sterner stuff. Of course, he’s pursuing a dream. I was merely a timid youth exploring the unknown and the unfamiliar.
Tune
in next week to see if anything develops between Rob and his flamenco dancer look-alike.
Abaddon’s Locusts--my fifth BJ Vinson mystery series book--comes out on the
22nd. Hope you’ll get a copy of it. If you do, please post a review of
the book on Amazon. Each one helps… as do letters to the publisher.
Now
my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on
writing. You have something to say… so say it.
My
personal links:
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter:
@dontravis3
Buy
links to Abaddon’s Locusts:
See
you next week.
Don
New Posts are
published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.
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