Show Me. Prove It. Demonstrate Your Goddamned Thesis.

I’ve been writing, and I can do all of the above. Aside from the little things you’ve seen me crank out of late, I’d like to present an early look at yet another new story. This one’s currently called A Dairyland Fairytale and is totally about a gay boy. If that doesn’t interest you, I don’t know what will.

Here’s a bit that I’ve written so far. Please do comment.

Spring, 1961. Trevor Olson had never kissed another boy before. However, the stranger had spotted him immediately.

When the ’61 Corvette pulled up outside the high school as classes the students left their classes, most of the boys had been ogling the airy, grinning bottle-blonde in the passenger’s seat. However, Trevor’s eyes had been with his female classmates’ in wandering the body of the driver, a pale fellow with a leather jacket and impossibly slick hair. And the driver had noticed. After waving at the ladies and letting the blonde out to play, he’d driven off and around the block a few times until the crowds dissipated. It was then that he found Trevor Olsen walking home.

“Need a ride?” the stranger had asked.

Twenty minutes later the two were kissing silently in a deeply secluded corner of Lafayette Park. And after the crippling nervousness, the anxiety, the twinge of worry of a stranger doing this, and the unique redirection of blood flow such a makeout session brings, Trevor realized he had never felt this comfortable. The fact that someone anonymous that Trevor had never seen before and who had clearly come to this town to take advantage of underage boys had his hands inside Trevor’s shirt wasn’t important. What was important was that this wasn’t fake, like an interest in cars or girls, and that someone else on earth felt the same way that he did about boys.

“I have work,” Trevor reluctantly said after opening his eyes. “In ten minutes,” he said after checking his watch.

“Mmm,” the nameless man said slowly. “You sure you can’t be a half hour late?”

Trevor sighed and blushed. “Old Lady Johansen’s a strict old woman with a short temper and I need this job.”

The man nipped at the end of his nose. “Well, I should be back in town tomorrow. I hope we can pick up where we left off.”

Trevor pulled a scrap of paper from his backpack and scribbled furiously. The man kissed him deeply one final time , sliding his hands down the minor’s backside, and Trevor reciprocated, hands sliding into the anonymous lover’s back pockets, one hand leaving a piece of paper with his address and phone number on it. The stranger left, and with his blood flow still the way it had been for fifteen minutes Trevor was faced with the prospect of an incredibly awkward walk to work.


1 Response to “Show Me. Prove It. Demonstrate Your Goddamned Thesis.”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Most Recent Works

My Other Blog’s Other Blogger’s Other Blog

Become a fan on Facebook

My Life in ≤ 140 Chars:

Header photo by David Reber's Hammer Photography. Many ideas and images copyright Blizzard.

%d bloggers like this: