September 1981 to November 1982 Part I
February 1, 2012 in Inmate: Beau, Stories
Now before we begin I want to point out I fictionalized the town from one of my favorite mystery writer’s Sue Grafton. Yes it is the same “fictional town”, the same one Oprah lives in, yes I’m impressed too! Remember I got there first! Oh yes, the photos are mine, I save everything, even old profiles of me from Recon. Yes that was our place, who else has Canadian Maple leaves cut into the balcony slats? Are there maple trees in California?
Now remember kiddies this was long ago, some of you were not even around then, so you missed Ron & Nancy, The President and Vice President of the United States and former Governors of California. You also missed the Go-Go’s the Waitresses and New Wave, plus a Great TV show with Sarah Jessica Parker “Square Pegs” which is basically just how I fit in here myself. Part of the song was quite appropriate, yes that’s me well I guess (us). “I’d like it if they like us, but I don’t think they like us” and the last line “One size does not fit all!” Oh its probably on you-tube or Amazon. Anyway, I digress this is just the beginning, it was real, it happened and well some of it, I wish didn’t however there is no turning back, no do overs in life and some things will forever remain a mystery. Like Ballot boxes in Florida missing from the George Bush II first win (?) and Big-Foot. So we will begin at the middle, the first is too cruel, yes even for you hard core guys. I can make even tops cry. So here we go.
He always called me Kenny, I was introduced to his friends as “Kenny” from Oregon, though I wasn’t introduced to anyone very often; I was just supposed to be “someone” living above his garage.
We first met when he pulled me over while I was driving from my parents cabin in Running Springs in the San Bernardino Mountains to Santa Teresa. It was my first vacation after my breakup with my boyfriend Bob, and I wanted time to myself away from the town I lived in.
He sat in the patrol car behind me for several minutes before approaching. He was big, looking every bit like a cop from “Chips” except for the fact he was way, way taller, blonder with a lot more meat on him. His biceps looked like 2 Volkswagens parallel parking, not just the shape of two, but the size as well, he caught me staring. I was asked the usual license and registration questions: Did I know it was illegal in this state to drive a car without a front license plate displayed? “Don’t you need a front plate in Oregon?” (My God can’t he read, it says Manitoba – 100,000 Lakes.)
I explained I wasn’t from Oregon, though the plates were similar colours, yellow and blue, I was Canadian, well kinda mostly. I lied and said that when I purchased the car the front bracket was not included, another was on back order, though it’s taken months and months. OK, so I lied to the police. The truth was my car did not look good with that bracket, though the excuse sounded reasonable, as it was a new model.
I was asked where I was going? How long I was staying and which beach I was going to (East or West Beach)? At the time I just thought it was to see if my story held up. I did not get a ticket; I got off with a written warning signed by officer D. A. Evens, CHP, Santa Teresa District and the remark, “Have a nice day.” Which seemed more like a threat than a friendly remark.
I did not see him again for several days after I arrived in Santa Teresa. I was at the beach and I almost didn’t recognize him as he was dressed in casual clothes. I could tell he was packing something in his shorts (a concealed weapon, I later learned). He didn’t look happy to see me, either. I first thought he had come looking to see if I was still in town & all I could think of was those old movies with the sheriff “checking out the stranger in these here parts”).
The conversation at first seem to be more of the same third degree I had experienced on U.S. 101, but after a short while it became friendlier, asking me how I liked Santa Teresa? What I had seen, Why I had a 10-speed bike in my car? How much longer I was staying? All I was concerned with was watching his thigh muscles twitch as he shifted his weight in the loose sand. How can he get his shorts over those thighs and how can I get them off him? I was trying my best to maintain some focus on his face, not that he was all hard to look at. I just didn’t want a repeat of a few days ago when I was watching his biceps; his mirrored sunglasses did not help and distanced me a bit from him. I was beginning to squirm a bit, more out of the embarrassment and discomfort that my dick was none too good at hiding my emotions. Damn! I must think of something to keep my dirty little mind from going to his body. This was not an easy task!
He was ignoring my situation thankfully. The questions were less official but still police-like. He wanted to know where I was going after this? He made suggestions regarding local bike routes and things to see. I said I was going to be here for only a little while longer as I was on holiday and I would have to be going back soon.
He then asked me, “Do you know you’re on the ‘gay’ beach?”
“It isn’t too gay, I’m the only person here,” I said. (Oops!)
“But, you are gay, though?”
Shit, here it comes, I thought, but he just nodded when I said I was as if I’d proved him right. Why did I say that? Then he said goodbye and left me alone. I figured he’d had enough, got disgusted and left.
I was shopping the next day at the Army Surplus store at the south end of State Street. It had lots of cool stuff, cheap; including great looking used m/c jackets. I did not see him at first, looming up behind me; I was trying to see the price tag on the jacket which was just completely out of reach and there didn’t seem to be anyone around including the clerk.
“You’re still in town?” came the loud twangy voice behind me.
Jesus Christ! I thought. I was sure I’d seen the last of him.
“Austin Evens, we met the other day.” Oh like I’d somehow forget this guy?
“Right,” I croaked, recovering my wits, though not much of my voice.
“Do you want to go for some coffee?” he asked. Damn the way he looked, I would have followed him anywhere, YUMM!
When I found my breath I said “sure” simply out of politeness (Damn that Canadian Politeness!) than it was I really wanted or needed the caffeine. Meanwhile the evil thoughts in my head continued. Somehow during puberty part of my brain had been moving into my dick, not only was it thinking for itself, it was also pointing at what I lusted after. I had completely lost control so I followed along, or pointed the way depending upon the point of view. There I was not knowing what to say next, I mean what would this big guy who is so straight and huge be doing with this toothpick? At our booth in a small diner on Carillo Boulevard, we began our awkward talk, and this time it didn’t sound like I was being interrogated. He was surprised to learn all I knew about automobiles (I did not know if that was since I was gay and “fags don’t know nothing about cars” or because he thought there were no cars in Canada? EH?)
It was about an hour later that I first realized his legs were pressing firmly into mine, a little more than casually and it seemed like he was trying his best to spread them apart with his knees. Hell, I may be slow sometimes, but I do eventually pick up on things. All I could think of was, “How can he be talking about his cars and trying to pick me up at the same time?”
I was getting rather nervous. Up to this point in my life I had never got picked up. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve had sex, I had 2 boyfriends under my belt as it were; though a stranger had never ever picked me up before. Hell, He could have easily flung me over his shoulder or dragged me by the hair (Oh I miss haircuts… ) back to his cave. I knew darn well he could bench press my weight, probably just do biceps curls though I had no idea what he would grip on me to do that.
He asked me if I wanted to see his car, he’d been working on it for several years and it had just been painted; since I was a painter perhaps I’d like to see it?
I guess the line: “Come up and see my etchings” was a bit tired, but it worked, I went along with him.
He showed me his black ’57 T-Bird in his large 2-car garage, plus his assorted other playthings. (Non-sexual I must add, a Honda Gold Wing, his other pride and joy a decommissioned, low mileage Police issue 1981 Kawasaki KZ1000, various horse and sailboat paraphernalia. The garage was a Spanish style carriage house, detached from the main residence and separated by a pool. The property was almost completely surrounded by a tall, well-manicured 10-foot cedar tree hedge. At first I thought he just lived upstairs, renting the back, but he then made a point of telling me the whole place was his and so was everything in the garage: the car, the motorcycles and all of the other toys.
I was trying to make an excuse to leave, as I felt I’d been “impressed” enough. It was getting a bit long in the day, I was tired, hungry and well my wet spot had dried in the heat of the Indian summer day. However at that moment he put his large paw-like hand on my crotch squeezed ever so gently and asked me in a quiet “little boy” voice, “Wanna stay a bit longer?”
I’ll leave there with that, for the time being, yes there will be screaming and others will probably be falling asleep and wishing I’d get on with it. If you like it let me know, no not stroking my ego, I no longer fed it and it flew away. I’m trying out my own wings here. I hope you enjoy and hope you learn something from this.
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