Date: Fri, 8 Aug 2003 16:26:13 -0700 (PDT) From: R. V. Picard Subject: Pud Chapter Three This story has a degree of sexually-explicit behaviour between men. If you are offended by such powerfully emotional things, aren't at least 18, are from a locality proscribing such material, please don't read any further. This is totally a product of my fevered brain, so please don't think you recognise someone as a real person, cause you'd be wrong. The same goes for the places. In this story, you'll find smart people practicing safer sex and some not. The author recommends that you always make the smart choice and use a condom. Eroticize it. The author retains all rights. No reproductions or links to other sites are allowed without the author's consent. Note: This story is not intended to be the lube merchant's best friend. It may take some getting used to, but if you stay with me, you may get a bit of the 'bodice ripper' and a bit of the 'storke story' to boot. I just hope it's different enough from other things you've read to give you at least a modicum of amusement. Almost any writer wants to know that people are affected in some way by his work. Please send any comments you may have to R. V. Picard at corbin75408@earthlink.net Special thanks go the three mentors who's encouragement and empowerment have allowed me to share this with you by sharing themselves. Thank you Sara, Tim and Patrick! Chapter Three As we did a quick-march out the restaurant door, excuse me, `door' doesn't quite do justice to the entry way of Zimbabwe 47. Instead of doors, think more along the lines of Giant Kangaroo hides suspended from the top of the door frame by two horizontally attached spears, the points of which crossed mid-door frame. At either end of them, for balance one surmises, were two ovular war shields. These had to have been for the protection of some quite small warrior gentlemen or else they were for stunted pubescent warriorettes. The kangaroo hides were female for the pouches were there and put to cunning use as storage pockets for free takeaway menus. To this day, I still have no conception what kangaroos have to do with Zimbabwe which as we all know is somewhere near the Amazon. The door man, who smiled entirely too knowingly for my comfort, tipped his headdress which produced much ostrich dander, and said, "Taxi gentlemen?" "If you don't mind" I said through gritted teeth. "You know Pete, I'm rather sorry not to have had a chance to have dinner. I think its cruel that I didn't get to experience the cuisine of this . . . well, I don't know, what would you call this, a restaurant or a theme park?" said the ginning Joe-thing standing next to me. I must admit that the taste of those in the community who are seen to make decisions about what's hot and what ain't, sometimes causes me to question just exactly how their decisions are divined. This particular restaurant had been the hot spot in town for a bit over a year now. I would have been quite sanguine indeed to have wiped it from memory had it not been for the fact that this would forever be remembered as the place where my love and I had finally met. The fates have their custard pie act down pat! The taxi cruised to the curb and Lamoomba (so said his corporate name tag) leaned to open the door. Joe entered first. I followed a tick later after waiting for Mr. Lamoomba to move his goddamned plume out of the proximity of my nose. The way this exit was progressing, I could just feature making the best possible impression on my new love by sneezing dander caused sneezes in his miraculous face. I got in and said, "983 Duckwall Avenue please." Joe took the baritone and the driver took the tenor part as they chorused in unison, "Duckwall??" "Yes, godddamnit. Just drive the fucking taxi and get us out of here . . . please. You'll see why it's called that when we get there." We rode a block or so in silence except for the periodic soto voce of the driver repeating to himself, "Duckwall?" and then suppressing tiny insane giggles. Joe then reached over to me and pulled me into his arms, looked into my baby browns, kissed me magnificently and said, "Relax, will ya? Boy meets boy. Boy faints. Boy rescues boy. Boys leave fun house. Boys are together and in love. What else could possibly matter?" That did it. I was honey butter in his hands and said, "When you're right, you're right. Now could I please have more of this kissing and touching business you were just getting so accomplished at?" The rest of the journey was peopled by one giggling taxi driver and two tongues, four lips and one soul which previously had been two and an impossibility of entwined arms and legs. "Oh now I get it!" exclaimed the hackie as he pulled in the circular drive of our destination. Reclaiming my tongue and lips from their new owner, I ventured, "What dear . . . I mean, what did you say driver? Now you get what?" "Duckwall." He explained succinctly. "Oy." I expostulated. Joe arched an eyebrow from his slumped position in the corner of the backseat where my greed for him had eventually deposited us in a lump. It was, I should tell you, a wonderfully contented lump that both of us were loath to leave. No lover's nook had ever been as treasured. "You mean my best lovin' only rates a single `Oy' with not even a `vey' to follow? Jeez! I must be out of practice." He seemed hurt. I wasn't falling for it. Throughout my life, one of the things that could make me lose a hard-on quicker than almost any other, except perhaps for the recollection of the very, very, unfortunate occasion upon which I walked in on my aunt Trudy (we called her the Human Prune) as she stepped from he bath as elegantly as Venus on the Halfshell played by an animated fig. Well, she was eighty-five and I was 13. How was I supposed to react?!) was geography. Yes, boys and girls. At that time of a young man's life when his hormones are completely in charge of every fiber of nerve tissue and vessel tissue connected to his dick, during that time, all I had to do to lose an inopportune stiffy was to think of geography. If I were, for instance in church, and if I had spent just a tiny fraction too long trying to use x-ray vision to see through the pants of our hunky preacher, and if because of that delightful occupation my soul was lost forever and I got rampantly hard, all I had to do to remedy the situation was to picture my geography book and imagine myself imprisoned in Mr. Weaver's 8th grade class. I just couldn't get it up for either him or his subject. Bore. Bore. Bore! Geography relates to our present situation in that, I knew full well that an historical local geography lesson was imminent with me in the role of Mr. Weaver. This, of course, was occasioned by the Duckwall. "No Joe. You may rest secure in your technique. Just pay the man his money while I explain how Duckwall Avenue got it's name. You indicated your interest earlier and I always keep my promises." "Yeah. I'm beginning to suspect you do that even to a fault, Mr. point killer." he grumbled. "My point, being as dead as yours right now, we might as well begin to accustom you to your new surroundings. Now pay attention. This is convoluted but not difficult to follow if you'll just take your hand off my ass and put it in your wallet whilst I talk." We got out of the taxi and Joe paid the driver. When I had his attention, I said, "Look across the street." I followed his gaze and then looked at his face as recognition dawned. "Ah! Got it!" quoth my beautiful raven haired man. Just then I noticed the taxi man had exited his vehicle and was standing with his arm on the open door lounging against the car looking at the Duckwall. "Excuse me driver," I said pointedly, "but did I forget to say, `Engage Mr. Crusher', or something? Why are you still here?" "Well gosh, didn't I wanna' hear the story too? In my position, I'm expected to know these things." he explained. Who am I to turn down a seeker of knowledge, I thought. So, I started the tale. Duckwall Avenue, never Duckwall Ave. is only four blocks long and runs along the bank of the Missaquatahannick River which is a lesser offshoot of the better known and faster flowing Pawmaquatatuckitt which is the site of the palatial summer cottages of our city's wealthier denizens. The Missaquatahannick runs for about a mile through town and the place where it crooks its elbow is our little street. Missaquatahannick means `gathering place of the duck' in an ancient and noble local Amerindian tongue. I was once told by a local geezer that it really means `place where the duck bump into each other', so called because the crook in the river is rather precipitous. It's a quick crook and one supposes that as the duck were processing down the quicker flowing Pawmaquatatuckitt they took a wrong turning into the Missaquatahannick, and unexpectedly found themselves bunched up and so banged rudely into each other at our modest but well loved little crook. He also related that he thought that it really meant `place where the duck fuck'. Who am I too judge? I know neither history nor ancient local dialects nor the sexual habits of water-fowl. Chickens are another kettle of fish altogether as I spent many years on a farm one horrible summer where there wasn't much else with which to be concerned. So much for the geographical portion of my tale. I looked at Joe who stared at me unblinkingly and with an open mouth. I pointed my index finger and placed it on his chin and closed his mouth for him. Then with both hands, I moved his head until he once again stared at the Duckwall. "Do, please go on." he said. "Yeah," said the driver, "this is better than National-fuckin' Geographic on cable!" In the early 1600's an immigrant family of great ancestry came to our bustling little town and set up a tulip factory . . . or something . . . I can't really remember how they made their fortune. Their original name was Entewand. That translates roughly to Duckwall. Because of the unfortunately risible nature of the English translation, they were the locus of much hilarity amongst the citizenry. (Those self same citizens had very little room to talk since most of them were immigrants with completely wistfully translated names such as Pancake and Brownwater (actually Fartwater) but they managed to cover that up and insisted they were of English extraction and hence the name was Fitzwalter. We've always called two of them the Fizzwater Sisters.) The Duckwall family took umbrage to having their name commented upon and so, set out to be patrons of the arts and very busy indeed in local government. They became pillars of the community and they're name was much respected . . . publicly. A serendipitous day dawned when they fell in love with and purchased the entire tract of land which now bears their name. As time went on and they became richer, they built an enormous estate and decorated it lavishly. The only remnant of the original construction is the Duck Wall upon which you now gaze. As I finished my oration, I looked over at our fine Duck Wall. It was a beautiful wall not unlike the wall around Central Park in New York City. The difference being, that every six feet or so along the top was a very fine bronze mallard. Hence, it is called what it is. The End. "Bleedin' Jesus" blasphemed Joe. "Magnificent. Wait till I tell the fellas at the cab stand!" and he drove off with shining eyes. I'm always happy to provide the worthy with good dinner conversation when I can.