A vignette, as used here, is a short descriptive scene, less about plot and story than focusing on an impression, a moment in time. Meaning is evoked through imagery and the interaction of characters and setting. A vignette is NOT flash fiction.
Jeep Vignettes derive from three vignettes written by `Susan,' and submitted to the Nifty Archive in 2003. They chronicled `David' (me) and her son, `Kelly,' in surprisingly true-to-life situations. Susan's vignettes may be found here:
https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/vignette/.
As Susan wrote in 2003:
"... These vignettes are but glimpses, brief sketches that capture the spirit of their love. Each vignette is a little fuzzy on the edges because that's how I want it. And finally, they're not presented in sequential order for the same reason."
Jeep Vignettes record significant moments for Luke and me, his grandpa (aka G and Jeep, for GP), beginning when he starts to realize he's not like other boys. Unfortunately, Nifty's policy (Author's checklist #7: Story does not involve adults with infants, toddlers, children younger than 9) prohibits the publication of Jeep Vignettes 1-thru-135. Also, the Ship's Log entries are NOT written by Luke, because that would violate Author Checklist #6.
Jeep Vignettes are dedicated to a frustrated, yet discriminating reader of Susan's vignettes. After reading the first three vignettes, at great personal risk and expense, he sought continued satisfaction, even hiring a private investigator. Eventually, a fourth vignette appeared in the Nifty Archive in 2014. Six years later, the still-frustrated, yet discriminating reader imbibes homemade mango liqueur to excess, often in the company of cute Cuban salsa boys, and occasionally hot-blooded Cajun boys.
1. No kids allowed. There's Dr. Seuss for you.
2. It isn't cheap porn, it's literature. If you want the other, go somewhere else.
3. If you live in a backward, repressive state that doesn't allow you to read the things you want, pack up and leave.
4. It's copyrighted.
5. If we can't agree that love occurs regardless of age and gender, put this down and get a life.
6. Support Nifty. Give generously.
June 12
Even though Mom and me came two days late, Grandpa was in the exact same spot wearing his summer camp Tshirt. He was grinning maybe more than me. He said because this grandpa's summer camp was the longest ever. Only I knew he meant the other camp. I jumped up and he gave me a real boner hug. He almost messed up and kissed me, but my little-finger reminded him :)
We ubered to his marina and learned some Spanish :) He told me to dump my stuff in the bow cabin. Duh! Like I'm going to forget in front of Mom. Then I served lunch in the cockpit and we walked around South Beach. It is like San Fran only without hills :) :) We got snacks (all 4 me) and a grownup Tshirt with pirate ships so G and I matched. He told Mom it was a nightshirt.
We ubered to Havana Harrys and did my birthday Cuban-style. Mom pretended she was going to puke when G and me split a tres leches even though we were both stuffed. Then, we took Mom to the airport and we said goodbye and G and me went back to his boat. Only I was too sleepy to do much.
P.S. G says I have to explain the little-finger rule. Nothing bad allowed in front of Mom or anyone else.
The worst part was being apart from my grandson when he most needed me. Only emails since Christmas; and Skype, when my internet connection was good enough for live video. By April we were down to once-a-week chatting, and peeking at privates when his mother wasn't around. The best part made up for it; this summer, I had Luke until mid-August. Two months together would make up for six months apart, and keep me going until the next Christmas.
His twice-deferred early-bird flight arrived on schedule; and he came out the security gate on the heels of a gaggle of cruise-shippers, all over sixty, paunchy mid-westerners wearing tropical shirts. Luke played dodgem and hit me at full tilt, groin-grinding and grinning from ear to ear.
His mom came up behind him, smiling. "Just so you know, he wasn't this excited at diving championships."
"Well, Grandpa's Summer Camp has big things planned. He'll be learning all kind of neat stuff this year."
We had talked about `camp' on Skype, made plans, prepared. Luckily, Luke kept his mouth shut. He jumped, reaching up, expecting a boost, which was difficult with him hanging from my neck, his legs gripping my hips, and Li'l Luke was jabbing my middle. He was `out' to me before he finished second grade—we were that close.
"Yay! Two whole months of GSC," he proclaimed.
He grinned in my face, and raised his eyebrows (or what passes for eyebrows). Done like that, `Grandpa's Summer Camp' had another meaning. `GSC' was `Gay Sex Camp.'
To make sure I realized, he added, "I'm expecting seriously extra cool camp."
"I don't know about seriously extra cool. More like hot..." Lowered my voice a notch or two. "... so hot your balls drop."
It was out of line with his mother looking on. She radiated fractious in a glance at her son, not pissed. It was partly her doing; he was dressed to fly, white hoody and gray track pants, with slip-on yachtie shoes and ankle socks. He'd sweat like a pig within moments of leaving the terminal, but he was impeccably styled.
"It's been really hot for this time of year. Thank god for the trade wind. Probably kill him if it stops," I added to cover my tracks.
"'Kill me or love me, one or the other,'" he whispered. Near perfect delivery and timing.
"'I guess I just got to love you and let go,'" I murmured in his ear, cheered that he still remembered, still wanted to play.
"More likely the heat will shrivel his weenie," she snipped, teasing with motherly precision.
I pretended to drop him, while turning to her. "That'd be bad. Any smaller, he'll have nothing to play with."
"I do not play with it." Ear-to-ear Luke-grin switched to fish-eating grin. "I pleasure myself."
As his grandfather, I had `pleasuring' rights. I squeezed scrumptious boy-butt and snuggled in his hair. The zircon stud in his right ear was new, likely his mother's doing. It expressed nascent urges—he was already reading gay stories on Nifty.org.
About then, he started poking my nose. The smug look was intentionally irritating, a real little brat when he wanted to play, but couldn't. He needed alone time with me, and soon.
"Luke, stop annoying him!"
He ignored his mom's look of frustration. "He made fun of my weenie, Mom."
"I can't imagine spending two months alone with you. Poor Grandpa. He must be so lonely by himself; why else would he put up with you?"
"He gives really good back rubs when he puts his mind to it," I said.
I dropped him gently and headed to baggage claim, worrying I'd gone too far with weenie jokes. He caught up within a few paces, giving me goofy-face.
He kept nudging me along. "Jeep, seriously... Back rubs? You must've meant..." Whispering and giggling and leaning in. "... blow jobs."
Behind me, hopefully unaware, she muttered, "Oh, I'm sure there's more to it than that."
Maybe she had reason to be snide; maybe having a gay son was getting to be awkward; maybe she just wanted to drop and go; maybe she was just tired after the plane trip.
We called Uber, a Toyota Sienna with a chattering Castro refugee, and headed back to the marina; first a detour to the dock office to settle my bill. I lugged Luke's duffle bag down the walkway. No guitar this trip; I had two stowed onboard.
We watched him running ahead, scanning the docks for his 42-foot `cabin.' By then, we had segued from talking about her latest script to whether I should've tipped more than $14. Five bucks a foot per day made a dent in that month's royalty check. Seven hundred bucks for three days at the dock was expensive, but who was to know her employees-fly-free flights would be bumped for two days. I spent the time provisioning, refueling, rearranging, and engine service. The best part, as far as Luke was concerned, the marina was in South Beach; the South Beach.
"It's money well spent," I said—time to bring up more pressing issues concerning my grandson. "I need to be certain..."
"Given what's ahead for him, sooner is better than later.... he needs to grow into the lifestyle." She took a breath. "Don't let him out of your sight. I don't want him hurt, ever."
As warnings went, she meant every word, and we still hadn't talked about the inevitable.
He was hanging way out, all but dangling from the bow when we climbed aboard Seawalker. He saw her frown and scrambled back.
"Where's the new spinnaker, Jeep? It really as big as it looks in the photo?"
All innocence, Luke babbled on about what else was different; 15 HP Yamaha for the inflatable dinghy, leather wrapping the steering wheel, extra cushions in the cockpit—it was always the same when he got excited. His mom kept shaking her head, giving me `you can't back out' looks, as I handed off the duffle bag.
"I cleaned out the bow cabin, Lukey."
For an instant, the other Luke scowled at his pet name since toddlerhood. A moment later, he looked right at me, slowly scratched his nose with his little finger, and headed down the stairs dragging his chubby duffle bag to make it look heavier than it was.
"Hey, Cabin Boy, the washer-dryer is working again," I called after him, doing my best to skirt the morality mess I was in.
"That's mostly a pillow-thing he bought for you. He says watching TV with it will help your back. I suspect he read about it," his mom whispered.
Before I could say `Nifty', she leaned and looked toward the bow cabin.
"He's been looking forward to this trip since Christmas. Time with you is the best thing either of us can do for him. Both of you can let off steam; only don't let him push you around."
The door to the head clicked shut. Not ready to pursue the `inevitable', I had to segue, say something, anything.
"Hey, Cool Hand; when you're done peeing on the seat, wash your hands. You're making lunch for the work gang."
Cool Hand Luke was 1967, mild melodrama by modern standards—we watched it twice over Christmas. I printed Pearce's script for him, and we quoted it back and forth for fun, and sometimes for money.
"'What we've got here is a failure to communicate,'" he shouted back, doing a better-than-fair job with a deep-southern accent.
"'Oh Luke, you wild, beautiful thing. You crazy handful of nothin'.'"
As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized. Not only talking about his dick, right out in the open, in front of his mother! Major `little-finger!' However, his mom smiled, either pretending to ignore, or unaware of the meaning. Fifty years after the movie, Luke's hot little `handful' would be in high demand anywhere, not just in a Florida prison camp.
Crisis averted, Luke's lunch was C-rations; cheddar cheese, crackers, and cherries; no plates to save washing up. Cool lime shorts and last year's pirate T-shirt on my summer camper, we strolled the pink sidewalks of South Beach, sightseeing and buying healthy snacks, surf shorts and a T-shirt like mine. At a `25% off' beach shop, I stocked up on Hawaiian Tropic—four bottles of the original tanning oil.
"Let me pay for these," she offered, digging out her Visa card.
A few moments later, Luke carried another two bottles to the checkout.
"Six bottles seems like a lot, though," she added, hardly offhand given the way she scrutinized her son.
Luke grabbed another bottle from the display on the counter. "It has all kinds of uses, Mom."
"I suppose he needs it... for GSC," she grouched, giving me an evil look as $108.69 appeared on the register.
"I don't want him red and sore. It's good for massages, too, huh Luke?"
Her sigh passed judgment; however, he was already on the move, gone to look at beach towels with 3-D graphics. He picked one out. Better a shark than a zany Mexican frog or prissy starfish on a beach.
<GSC>
South Beach gave Luke an eyeful; not palm-treed streets, gay playground; hot tanned men with beards, academic goatees to thatched like Blackbeard, too many hand-in-hand and giving the `come-hither' look to my budding boy-chick. With his own little radar pinging away, I became nervous. After a dozen head-turns to look at bear torsos, and shaved/oiled muscle men, I called an Uber and crossed MacArthur Causeway to straight Miami.
You want great Cuban food in Miami, risk your life on Route 1 to Coral Gables and Havana Harry's—'nobody ever lost a pound eating there.' Letting a nearly ten-year-old boy practice his Spanish by choosing brought forth a Cubanito Platter, Picadillo Tostones, Tostones Locos, and Tres Leches, his pre-birthday cake; sponge cake soaked in condensed milk sauce and covered with meringue.
After delivering his mom to the airport for the red-eye to Chicago, we headed back to the marina. I could tell he was thinking `gay sex camp' as we strolled down our dock, passing fly-bridge cruisers, center-console fishing boats, mock-trawlers, just a few lonely sailboats. I postponed the emotional overflow until we stood by Seawalker, tied up on the face for an early departure.
"We don't have to do anything except have a good time," I said quietly.
He frowned' with his bottom lip out. "At Christmas you said if I want, we can do it, a lot." `It' was inevitable, and needed no explanation.
I took his shopping bag, boosted him onto the side deck, and scrambled after him, pressing him against the cockpit table, whispering, "You want me to fuck your brains out tonight, Lukey Cutey?"
He grinned, his hand out, expecting payment before he even opened his mouth. "'You welcome to it, Old Timer. Come on! Make me know you're up there!'"
"You really think that's worth a buck?" I teased—dirty `Cool Hand' quotes paid dollar dividends, even more when they really good.
He nodded, eager enough that I wondered who was teasing, and who wasn't. He was also droopy after the long flight from L.A.
"I wanna, Jeep. I missed you so much."
"I know, Lukey. Don't cry. I missed you, too."
"I know it's not my birthday, but you promised... up there."
"How about tonight, we start with mouth to mouth and see what happens?" I pressed, already looking around.
It was dangerous even with darkness all around. People strolling in scant yellowish light, tourists on the walkway spotting Miami's rich and famous on the dock, taking in the fresh salty air. The dock lines creaked as the 8:30 pm fairy-ferry passed by, a half dozen men making out in the boat-taxi stern—it was romantic for a up-and-coming gay boy. Luke and I pressed into each other, Christmas passion resuming. Barely up to my chest, he began hugging ferociously, blinking tears of joy, wet on his cheeks. This was his sentence, unending lust for adult men when other boys played video games and talked about tits.
Every nervous breath, every excited quiver, every playful thrust, made my heart race. He was beyond capable, sexually focused for enough years that the inevitable was never a question. Identity confusion at six became acceptance at seven; and his first real kiss. A year later, oral! He knew; I knew. Most child psychologists would dispute it.
I caressed his face, fingertips lifting his chin, gazing up, wide-eyed and anxious, eager for a really wet session.
`I love you.' Mouthing it together, both of us smiling, another memory shared again.
Christmas; Santa and his favorite elf, giggling and tickle-fighting; we would've been in trouble, but he'd heard his mother coming with a mug of eggnog. Mouthing `I love you' behind her back. And kissing, not once, five, six times until we cackled and wrestled on the floor.
"Don't know why I picked you up at the airport. Little gay boys are nothin' but trouble," I teased.
Luke stuck out his tongue, wet and wriggly. I sucked it in like I was supposed to, not even pretending to kiss his lips. Kissing came later, after the urgency faded. I sucked on succulence; certain I was tasting Cuban gourmet. My gnarly fingers clutched his firm little butt, making him go to tiptoes, hoisting him off the cockpit floor, compressing his little-boy sex organs into my belly. Slender arms wrapped tightly around my neck, the rest of him trembling. Instinctively submissive, inciting lust, knowing I'd do it deliberately hard, pulling his tongue into me. His saliva was sweet, like Tres Leches.
"Can I suck him in bed? Please, Jeep? Pretty please?" he murmured between breaths, no longer shy.
"You missed him that much, huh?'
He smiled, a teasing whisper meant for my ears only. "I'm a little gay boy; nuthin' but trouble."
He puckered his lips to an `o', like his other pucker, a tight little opening waiting for my tongue.
Of course, he insisted on going to bed naked. With six months to make up for; he lasted maybe three minutes after his head hit the pillow. Jet lag's a bitch.