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Some Like It Cool
by Don bellew
It’s Monday and I’ve decided today my favorite flavor is white trash. I may not remember tomorrow so I’m writing it down today. Other times it’s been black street punks and sometimes blond teenage boys (eighteen and over, yeah-right) ... much earlier it was gray fatherly men with shameful pink secrets or tanned pin-up guys with black tank top pecs or long distance runners for a short time, and for a month it was UPS drivers, uh, forget that.
As of today (I began thinking about it last night) I’m in love with white men, about thirty to thirty five, with red-neck backgrounds and empty pocket tomorrows. Cross country truckers are fine by me, or family farm and incest bred plowboys or transient Harley bike loners eating methanol dreams, even skinhead prison white meat would be truly okay... with crude tattoos of religious motif and a theology learned in spray paint brown lunch bags.. University class rings and the suburban inane are NOT okay. Not today. Too vacant, too certain and too fucking scared of stressing the rules. They don’t know how to give what they ain’t ever had. They buy recorded soul and play it for friends they want to impress. Give me the guy who’s already broken so many rules he can’t remember where the line was and no longer cares. Give me the beer soaked, coffee infused, all nite diner denizen, the frayed Wrangler jeans and dirt dull cowboy boots with a defensive brass chain that links his prison made billfold to his hand carved leather belt ( his statement on Trust) and the watery blue eyes under hay colored lashes, the gnawed down, worried fingernails and high arched feet that ache every night.. Make him tall and lean, knobby knees are okay. No Gold’s gym body builder, just the resigned sloping shoulders, long neck and fat Adam’s apple and cynical chin and heavy brows, thin sideburns and smooth chest and too long for fashion hair that blows languid in the wind, an heirloom of spent Viking blood. Give me soiled conscience regret … give me tough/tender and anti-ambitious... give me mute stoic silence and weary resigned post-pot-dreamers, the deep Dixie depressed … I’ll do the rest. I want a guy who was fondled by his uncle before he grew hair (but he never squealed), one who was beaten with a belt by his alcoholic dad (but he forgave him) and his momma ran off with a Buick salesman, broke his adolescent heart for the first time. Maybe he was married once or twice or more, maybe he has a few kids but can‘t remember their names, or maybe he’s never been on a real date in his life because women don’t like his style of Southern Gothic sad. Maybe he’s a half assed mechanic and drag racing fan or maybe he nurtures the Zen of a squirrel gun and fishing rod, loves dogs or maybe he lives for live wrestling on TV Monday nights and a case of Milwaukee’s best cheap cheer. Outdoorsman or smoky eyed card dealer, just as long as his joints swell in rainy weather and his lust hits his navel when it rises up and his butt is as flat as the plains of Texas … narrow hips, skinny legs, lanky walk and a hard ribbed chest hardly big enough to contain a hopeless heart … and little flat nipples that shine in the sun like tarnished copper wishes and low hanging courage that shrinks up to walnuts when the wind blows cool and a freight train echoes through fog in yearning and plaintive invocation, below a tight skinned, close cut rosy circumcision … a frail dusty bush so sparse it looks transparent and bone white skin under his arms where the smell rolls out like locker room steam or a June time, skinny dipping river bank of wet red clay. He’ll have a deep hardass tan that stops fast at his collar with long creases around his once a month grin and a neck that never looks clean under wisps of baby fine hairs that lay in little swirling curls on the August baked skin of his nape... and ropy arms, long fingers and big knuckles he cracks a lot, and thick wrists with a K-Mart Timex watch on a sweat brown band... Dried apricot ears that stick out like a taxi with both doors wide open and backbones that remind you of the stubs of lost wings on his naked ivory back and a sentimental creamy center inside his hard to crack crust ... and a kindness that peeps out slow and halting, and a generous touch, a vast cosmic sigh, a breath that rasps with stale acrid smoke and a voice that sounds like red rye whisky strained through pulpmill sawdust … the sound of dry music and the desiccated poetry of lost history. I’ll buy him a new creamy white Stetson and ostrich skin Acmes with riding heels and Mexican silver toes and a state fair blue and black plaid western shirt with mother of pearl snaps and a rodeo grade, silver platter tin buckle he can pawn when he’s broke and the latest Clint Black CD to play in his truck when he drives off to Mobile or Nashville or Memphis where he’s got a job lined up laying cement block at fifty cents a piece and he’s got a bitter blond woman waiting, too. Just give me one timeless autumn weekend with him and I’ll never forget but he wont remember next day. I’ve had me a few and there ain’t never enough to fill me up. There’s not another kind of man to make me know I’m in the presence of maleness that transcends posturing and heroics without even trying … not another type of man will give me so much so tenderly and with such honeyed grace. They don’t even know what they’re giving away, and they still think it’s necessary to say, “Thanks” for the clothes and the folding green money. You can’t buy for-real, that’s the trouble, not for five hundred bucks in a slick cruising bar... but these lonely pale riders of long black top highways, survivors of revival, blind crusaders with no clue, they’ll rent you some skin and give you their hearts on short loan. It don’t last much past the glow of a Sunday sunrise, I know it if they don’t … but for a few minutes in bed in the dead of the night they’ll hold you real close and sigh prayers on your pillow and they’ll call you the best friend they ever had in their life... and just for a few sacred minutes it’s true and I don’t ask for no more redemption than the genuine touch of a man ... nowhere between here and big blue.
..........jackertoo@aol.com........
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35 Gay Erotic Stories from Don bellew
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Baby Blue Boxer Shorts
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Clear Cut
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Cowboy Love
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Marvin & Lonnie, Part 1
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Marvin & Lonnie, Part 2
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Model 4
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More or Less ... Part 1
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More or Less ... Part 2
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Motel Six Morning
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Playing Around
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Red Neckin'
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Reluctant Charlie, Part 1
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Reluctant Charlie, Part 2
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Some Like It Cool
Some Like It Cool ... donnie d bellew It’s Monday and I’ve decided today my favorite flavor is white trash. I may not remember tomorrow so I’m writing it down today. Other times it’s been black street punks and sometimes blond teenage boys (eighteen and over, yeah-right) ... much earlier it was gray fatherly men with shameful pink secrets or tanned pin-up guys with black tank top pecs
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Stonegate Ledgers 1
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Stonegate Ledgers 2
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Straight Roommate, Part 1
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Straight Roommate, Part 2
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Straight to a Point
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The Far Edge of Friendship
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Tiger Club Prank
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Too Drunk To Go Home
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