The Rogue and the Runaway 1

The Rogue and the Runaway

Chapter One

“The Runaway”

“Long ago…. I a boy, stood by a dirt road, in first dark, and heard the great geese hoot northward. I could not see them, there being no moon and the stars sparse. I heard them. I did not know what was happening in my heart.” – (Robert Penn Warren)

The quickening June night was upon me, accompanied by its fading light and a dampness, settling in the low lands like the fogs of distant heathers of which I’d read, but so unlike those fabled mists, since it foretold nothing to me; I saw no dangers, no future wealth, or tragedies, only the immediacies of my hunger, my tiredness, and my clinging uncleanliness from three days and two nights of hard travel. My only rest in the journey thus far was fitful, to say the best, in the front seat of my pickup truck. I was close to my breaking point, overwhelmed with exhaustion and despair.

My journey had no destination, other than perhaps somewhere north, only placing distance from where I’d departed with a vow never to return and lose myself in a land so far distant in other lands, my name, my family, my history would hold no significance to others. I toyed with the idea of heading to Alaska, that great state beyond our borders in the Lower 48, to the north, through Canada. Doing so presented a problem; although I had a valid passport, once I used it to try to cross the border from the United States into Canada or when coming from Canada in Yukon Territory to Alaska, I’d be found out and returned, post haste! That wouldn’t be good at all, so that choice was out – for now. I finally decided on going north, yet remaining within the lower forty-eight, if I could but find a place of refuge.

Once I encountered the Mississippi River, I began my journey in a northerly direction, driving through small river towns, navigating some interstate highways, but preferring the secondary U.S. Highways for my route, moving steadily north, finally navigating through the river communities of Davenport and Bettendorf, Iowa just a short time ago, passing lightly through what once touted as the home of “William F. Cody – Buffalo Bill,” and now, in the dark, crossing a small river with a name I couldn’t pronounce, ended up at this small tavern in a small hamlet not far from the forested bottomland of the un-pronounceable river.

The lights were on, the sign flashed “OP-N”, and there were a couple of vehicles in the parking lot – actually, two pickup trucks, one fairly new and one older and pretty non-descript. I was hungry and tired and hoped I could get a burger, fries, and a beer to sustain me until I could find a place to park and sleep a while. I needed a shower (I was ripe enough I was beginning to bother myself) and a shave, but those luxuries would have to wait until I found a truck stop that offered showers for a fee and I felt safe enough from those who might be seeking me out.

I parked, locked the truck, and walked in the little pub. There were two guys sitting at a table and another fellow at the bar nursing a beer. All three of them swiveled their heads to see who was walking in the door and, noticing I was a stranger, let their gazes linger on me longer than usual, evidently taking my measure. Plopping my weary ass on a bar stool and noticing a menu on the wall, asked the bartender if the kitchen was still open. Assured it was, I placed my order for food, requested and received a tap beer, and retreated to an empty table in a darker corner of the room. Here, I could observe the comings and goings of the patrons of the bar; keeping myself alert in case someone would decide to try to figure out who I was.

Of the three others sipping the suds, only the chap at the bar watched me as I walked to the table and continued his watchfulness while I sipped my beer. After a couple of minutes, he looked away and I relaxed, enjoying the cold, frothy brew, savoring each and every mouthful. I did give him the once over, however; he was probably my age, looked a bit rough, tanned (as best as I could tell in the dim light of the tavern), and maybe three, four inches taller than me and heavier but not much.

Dropping my gaze to my beer, allowing my thoughts to return to my current predicament, I still contended, in my own mind, it was the right thing for me to do! My decision to flee, to run away, to escape, to bring to an end the emotional prison I now realized held me captive for the full twenty-three years of my life, wasn’t an easy one or made in haste. Mulling it over since high school, I finally had enough balls to do what I had to do and take off!

The youngest of three children and the only son, raised in a conservative southern household; in a home whose patriarch was a long-term U.S. Congressman and the matriarch a domineering, manipulative, calculating, and controlling individual who’s mission in life, it seemed, was to further her husband’s political career and their place of prominence in politics and society. His seat in the House of Representatives was well established and supported by the far right and the large business interests in his district and state. Nothing, as far as she was concerned, would interfere or blemish his career – man nor beast or her own son!

I can’t really say she was evil; just plain fucking mean, bigoted, prejudiced, and a homophobe to boot. She wasn’t my favorite person or I her favorite child! I was different from my two older sisters, other than the obvious, in looks and stature, I was small framed and boned, with dark hair and dark eyes and not very tall. I was shy, reserved, perhaps timid would be one way to describe me, but who wouldn’t be living with a modern-day Attila the Hun? My sisters were taller, lighter in complexion and in hair color, and outwardly gregarious- just perfect for the campaign trail!

Mother ruled the household and our lives with an iron fist; mine perhaps more than the other two, but rule she did! She decided who we were allowed to speak to or associate with, what we wore, what organizations we could seek membership in, where we went to school, and who we’d marry! I often thought she was much easier and more tolerant of my older sisters, expressing her disappointment in me through her displeasures and actions. Once, after one of my “episodes,” she expressed to my father, “he is just like your cousin, Jim Earl; thank God we haven’t heard from him since you were elected to Congress. David is built like him, flits around like he does, and if I’m not mistaken, has some of the same likes as he does.” Nothing more was said; hell, I didn’t know there was a “Cousin Jim Earl” lurking somewhere in the bushes. We were all assured, on more than on occasion everything was done for the benefit of our father’s position and re-election. I don’t think she’d survive if he wasn’t re-elected!

I had everything I needed or wanted, including clothes, computers, trips overseas, and some limited travel when my father campaigned, but I didn’t have the love a boy needs from his parents. That portion of my life was missing and wouldn’t be forthcoming as long as she ruled my life or I stayed at home.

My playmates were chosen for me and although they were companionable, they didn’t really want to hang around me that much. I was smaller than they were, had very little athletic skills, and was more interested in other things- specifically what was tucked away inside their britches, although I never dared look or even hint at it, until one day, I was probably eight or nine, the gardener brought his grandson with him to work. The lad was thirteen or fourteen years old, larger in stature than me and much bolder!

I was playing out by the small orchard we had in the back when he sauntered up to me and began a conversation. His jeans, slipped low to his hips, fit snug around his butt, sagged in the crotch, and his short sleeve shirt was open, revealing a nice, tan, inviting stomach and lower abdomen. He grinned at me, standing there in my shorts and polo shirt, stepped forward, cupped my crotch with one hand and said, “What’cha got in there, Little Man?”

Stuttering, I replied, “Just me is all!”

He snickered again and said, “If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

Before you could say “My, my, what a nice one!” I had my now little three inch stiff pecker poked out and was ogling his much bigger (probably four or five inch) stiffie pointing out of the front of his jeans. It was an amazing sight to me!

“You can touch it, if you want,” he said softly and I did, wrapping my hand around its soft steeliness and stroking it a couple of times.

He looked around, spotted the gardener’s shed and with a jerk of his head, indicated that’s where we should go to continue our little tryst. Once assured we wouldn’t been seen, he slipped down my shorts and underwear, turned me around, bent me over, spit a glob on his dick and more in my ass crack and “zippity doo dah” up the poop chute went his teenage cock! God, I loved it! He pumped away until I felt him swell, throb, and with a moan he unloaded inside me. We did this for about a month, until somehow, mother found out (I think from one of my older sisters); I was taken to my bedroom, whipped with a strap until my little butt cheeks were almost raw, and told “good little boys do not let other boys play with their penises or allow them to stick them inside their bodies, anywhere!” She further told me, if I touched my penis “inappropriately,” it’d turn purple and fall off. By the time I was ten, having learned the fine art of jacking off via the internet and self-instruction, I couldn’t see any change in color or loosening at the base. In fact, it seemed to get harder and more firmly anchored! I knew for certain then, she lied about that as well as many other things just to maintain control and dominance. The gardener was dismissed and we had a new one, with strict instructions he was not to bring anyone with him unless my mother approved!

Mother than began arranging for me to go to functions where “good boys and girls” would be in attendance, hoping under the strict chaperoning of other adults, I might learn different ways to express my feelings. Oh, I learned alright; I learned to keep my mouth shut, my pants zipped, and hold my feelings inside. It made life hell in some ways, but tolerable around her.

My thoughts were interrupted by the bartender bringing me my burger and fries. My glass was empty, so I ordered another beer. As I ate, the two fellows occupying the table, waved a “goodnight” to the bartender and the chap at the bar and left. The chap at the bar ordered another beer and looked at me long and hard as he took the first drink. His stare was a bit disconcerting, but from my vantage point, he appeared to be harmless; just some country bumpkin curious about a stranger or perhaps it was the way I was dressed. I still had on the slacks, the dress shoes, and not-so-white-shirt I’d had on at dinner when I left home after the incident. I stared back and decided he really wasn’t that bad looking for a country hick or maybe it was just the beer clouding my vision.

Mother kept a tight rein on me after that little dust up with the gardener’s grandson. I attended the same private school my older sisters attended so they were able to report on a regular basis if I should happen to “stray from the path;” I didn’t. Once burned, twice warned!

When I advanced to middle school, it was decided I needed to broaden my horizons and participate in some sports activities. I was still quite small of frame and not very tall so I suggested wrestling might be an activity I could excel at to build my muscles. Mother nixed that by claiming she “was not going to have a bunch of perverts groping her son.” It just wasn’t seemly, according to her. I thought it might be a good idea; I hadn’t been properly groped since the gardener’s grandson fucked me royally behind the shed!

So, I suggested swimming would be a good activity to build my chest and leg muscles, and allow me to secretly gawk at all of the swinging boy meat flopping around in the locker room before and after the meets. It didn’t take her two seconds to see through that little ruse, and nix it also. It was decided I’d take up tennis and cross country track with the belief on the part of my parents those activities would develop my coordination, muscle tone, and skills in the sports of men of culture and influence. I developed neither muscles nor skills, but I persevered just to keep the peace!

By the time I graduated high school, I’d attained my full height of five foot four inches and weight of one hundred ten to one hundred fifteen pounds. The only saving grace to my slight stature and small waist was my almost six inch cock looked humongous compared to the rest of me – as if it did me any good. There were plenty of boys in school much bigger in that department and a few smaller.

I was expected to go to dances and parties, not alone mind you, but with young ladies my mother chose for me. God, what an embarrassment! She would call the girl’s mother, discuss the situation, and then I’d have to call the girl and ask her. There was no way I could express my desire to date boys, not with “Attila” calling the shots. The girls never refused; how could they? They hated it, but went along with it anyway. Most of the young ladies I accompanied were taller than me, although some weren’t, and one time, while attempting to dance with one of the more taller of my “dates,” I overheard one of my classmates mutter derisively to some others, “When David dances nose to nose, his toes are in it and when he dances toes to toes, his nose is in it.” They thought it was quite hilarious; I didn’t, but I remained silent.

College was a small, private liberal arts institution (outrageously expensive), where I majored in International Studies.

“I’m certain you’ll be going into some sort of foreign service,” Mother said at the time, “and this is what you’ll major in if you want to succeed.”

Secretly, I think she was hoping I’d be posted to some far away land and far removed from her sight. Wouldn’t have minded that myself, now that I think about it! I picked up a minor in Journalism, but had no idea what I might do with it. Perhaps, I could get a job as a reporter with a foreign news agency.

The bartender brought me another beer and the fellow at the bar ordered another also. I don’t know if he was trying to match me beer for beer or not, but he did let his gaze linger on me even longer, as if trying to decide something. I checked my fly and it was closed, so that couldn’t be of any interest to him.

I remembered my first day on campus at college; wandering down a hall, I saw a poster advertising a meeting of students interested in forming a campus LGBT organization. I went to the meeting, but stayed in the background, not wanting to call attention to myself. Two days later, a member of my father’s campaign staff, along with one of my sisters, paid me a visit and informed me if I wanted to continue my education there instead of some monastery and keep on receiving my very generous monthly allowance, I’d cease and desist any interest in any clubs other than those thought “proper” for a son of a Congressman.

My anger slowly built and I continued to suppress it, holding it in for the proper time and place to be released. I used it to strengthen my resolve to rid myself of my mother and her meddling ways and began making plans to do so. Little did she know what I had in store for her, given the right circumstances!

Surreptitiously, I began laying away cash from my monthly allowance, storing it in a bank bag I kept locked in my suitcase at college. My senior year, I asked for and received a new crew cab pickup truck with topper, so “I might travel to job interviews in the spring.” My plans were just about made, but the real clincher came at Christmas, that joyous time of the year, when mother announced after I graduated, I better be thinking of getting married and she had just the girl for me!

Bull shit! I smiled anyway, knowing full well it wasn’t going to happen!

Five days ago, one week after graduation, my sisters and their husbands, father, mother, me were gathered at the dinner table while mother laid out her plans for a small dinner party where my future bride and her family would be our guests. This’d be a good opportunity for me to begin my courtship.

I interrupted her dialogue by asking her, “Does this future bride of mine have a cock? Because if she doesn’t, I’ll have to look elsewhere to get my ass fucked!”

In the absolute dead silence that followed, mouths all agape, I stood, made my exit, and boogied out to my already packed pickup truck, and left town!

I looked at my empty glass, raised it in a silent toast to myself and thought, “Here I am, in some little podunk burg, a worthless degree in International Studies and perhaps an employable degree in Journalism, and not one other fucking skill! Hell, I couldn’t even change a tire if I had to. I’d used cash for gas and food, fearful they could track me through credit cards and had emptied my debit account before I left town.

It was late and I was tired; deciding to either sleep in the parking lot or in the little park across the street. Evidently the bar tender took my raised glass as a signal for another beer. It was delivered, not by the bartender, but by the stranger at the bar, who also sported another fresh brew in the other hand. Setting them both down, he took a seat, leaned over, and asked, “You’re not from around here are you?”

“What’s your first clue?” I replied quietly, hoping he wouldn’t beat the shit out of me.

He grinned and replied, “Well, it took some thought, but maybe because you’re not wearing jeans but dress pants; a fancy shirt, not flannel or denim; or maybe it was the dress shoes instead of tennis shoes or work boots.”

The strange young man rubbed his chin in thought, pondering either his choices or his next words. “Maybe,” he began with hesitation, “it’s the funny accent when you speak.”

Snapping his fingers, he suddenly spouted out, “That’s it!”

“What’s it?” I asked cautiously.

“There’s nobody around here I know that so fucking cute, so you must be new!”

To be continued:

***

Thank you for reading The Rogue and the Runaway – Chapter One – The Runaway –

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Nick Hall

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