Hello! It`s time for Tuesday Tales.
Today we the next issue in my historical M/M romance, Dear Jon, which is set in 1945. Every issue of this serial will be under 1500 words so they're quick reads. Our word prompt today is 'Mixed'. This story contains mature language and gay sexual situations. If that offends now would be the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales offering.
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The night was hot. Summer had blown in early ahead of a cripplingly hot air mass. The air was thick as maple syrup. Moisture clung to skin tenaciously. No air moved the curtains of Ross`s bedroom window. I was still lying on the bed, my face buried in pillows that wore their cases with a damp miasma.
Ross had kicked the sheets to the floor during our frenzied lovemaking. My fingers were just now relaxing their fevered grip on the mattress; my body still tingled from my lovers repeated claiming of it. A moan escaped from me when Ross slid from the bed. His hand moved over my thigh gently. My leg muscles twitched.
“How goes the relationship with Miss Abigail?” I heard Ross ask. I rolled to my back. He stood beside the open window, his back shimmering with sweat, his shoulders tensed. “It was my idea and yet I find myself sickened by the thought of what you have to endure.”
He didn`t seem capable of saying more. I went to him. I pressed my sodden skin to his, chest to back. My arms went around him as I lay my cheek to his sweaty spine.
“She`s agreeable, if not a bit of a lush,” I told him. He chuckled sadly then turned in my arms. “I would date Eva Braun if it meant being able to stay here with you.” I saw in the dim light of a small bedside lamp that he thought to argue. I placed my hands on his face. “I will never leave you. Something will break soon. We`re entitled to some good news.” I pulled a moue. “See what you`ve done to me? Now I`m spouting optimistic drivel,” I teased then kissed him with all I possessed.
We feasted on each other’s mouths then tripped back to the bed. This time it was me claiming his body with punishing thrusts that he begged for with a voice thick with smoky desire. There would be no holding back this night. I planned to show him just how true my love, and new found sunny-side-of-life outlook, was.
The following morning I woke up beside Ross. It was brazen, I know, but I just had to give the world a giant middle finger and damn, did it feel good. Then I went home, dressed, dropped Andrew off at the sitters, and ran into that bit of good news waiting impatiently outside the tax collectors office. I stumbled over my feet when I first saw her.
I mean a redhead in a bright green dress, slim belt, and fashionable green hat with a yellow bow festooned artfully on the brim, leaning against a brilliantly red nineteen-forty convertible Cadillac seemed to stand out. Shit, Charlotte stood out in Manhattan. In Hannity Hills she was like a million watt bulb of simmering sexuality. The milkman ran up over the curb as he rubbernecked the beauty lazily smoking a cigarette with a long silver holder.
“I`m put out with you,” she said as we bussed cheeks. I think I said something apologetic. “You left two months ago and not one phone call?”
“I don`t have a phone where I live,” I told her. She took my arm, glanced at me as if I had said I was hiding Mussolini`s body in my closet, and then allowed me the pleasure of escorting her out of the blistering early morning sun. The treasurer’s office never looked so good.
“Stop teasing me,” Charlotte purred, crossed one shapely gam over the other, and then arranged her skirt to cover her knee. God, it was good to hear her throaty voice again. “Everyone has a phone.”
“Not out here they don`t,” I told her as I buzzed around opening windows.
“And you`re still out here why? I`d like you to know that I have had to turn down at least twenty offers on that oil of the Hudson in your front window. And the show? People are climbing up my skirt to know when you`ll be back for your show,” she said as she fiddled with her hat.
“About that,” I said, my hand rubbing the back of my neck. Her grey eyes left her perfectly painted green nails. I felt my face grow rosy. Charlotte leaned forward an inch, her eyes narrowed, the ash from her smoke dropped to the floor. She flipped the holder to the ashtray on my desk.
“You`ve found someone! How in the world did a flaming fag like you ever find someone to suck your dick way out here in the-”
“Be quiet!” I spat. Charlotte`s plump red lips puckered. The front door opened. We both turned to look at Miss Abigail Jenkins. The librarian was quite windblown. I started to say something, but the brunette stalking up to, and then slapping Charlotte across the face, kind of blew me out of the water mentally. I was still standing beside a window that refused to open when Charlotte rose to her rather imposing six-foot tall height. Her left cheek was bright red. Miss Jenkins then stormed over to me, slapped me as well, and called me a flighty, dirty, two-timing mixed up bastard then left with her chin held high.
Charlotte said nothing, merely stood there looking stunning and rubbing her offended cheek.
“That`s not the person that I – I mean, she is sort of involved but only as a misdirection tool of sorts,” I said meekly, my face stinging terribly. Charlotte cocked one thin eyebrow. The door blew open again. This time my lover stood in the doorway, his thunderous eyes darting to Charlotte then me then back to Charlotte.
“Wait!” Charlotte cried out with rising good humor. “This dreamboat is the person that has swiped Greenwich so neatly from your mind, isn`t it?”
I nodded silently.
“Jon, I think I deserve an explanation here,” Ross snarled. Charlotte, ever the stage presence, sashayed over to Ross, took his hand in hers, and then placed it between her legs. “Ah, I see,” Ross said. Charlotte snickered sinfully, ran a hand down over the bulge in her skirt, and then informed me that she was staying for a few days.
“Just to make sure you`re happy here, darling,” she added as my coworkers began to arrive. Charlotte winked at the brittle women I worked with, slid her arm through Ross`s, and then led him outside giggling madly.
“And here all these years I thought he was . . . you know,” Mrs. Dillwhittle said then made her right hand drop down floppily.
“You can`t judge a woodworker by his whittling,” I replied jovially. It seemed that we just got one big stroke of luck in the form of one knockout female impersonator. Hannity Hills would never be the same.
Copyright 2013 ©by V.L. Locey
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