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Mickie


Harold C. Jones



Copyright 2017 Harold C. Jones and Long Cool One Books



Design: J. Thornton


ISBN 978-1-988621-07-4



The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or deceased, or to any places or events, is purely coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. The author’s moral rights to the proceeds of this work have been asserted.


Table of Contents


Act One


Act Two


Act Three


About Harold C. Jones




Mickie


Harold C. Jones



Act One



A tiny, fringed buckskin purse dangled on its strap. Inside was everything she needed, a driver’s license, a compact.

Lipstick, chewing gum and a little money, plus her usual five dollars tucked away for a taxi in an emergency. A handful of French safes, the key to the back door and that was about it.

When Mickie saw the two cute guys in the red Fairlane, she didn’t hesitate. She stepped forwards into the brighter light and gave them a cute little wave, bringing smiles and causing quick mutual looks between them.

A long wolf whistle came from the driver’s side as the passenger stared. There was music going in there and the light was about to turn. It was Crimson and Clover, one of her favorite songs.

Not for one minute did she hesitate.

“Hi, guys! You, hoo.”

The one in the passenger seat looked astonished and then grabbed the driver’s arm. The light turned green and they were about to pull away. He looked back, eyes a bit wide. She was a vision of wholesome American loveliness in her handkerchief-sized cut-off jeans, faded and fringed all around the edges. The halter top, thin cotton and hot pink besides, revealed her nipples, her tummy and a lot of bare skin everywhere else. He stared into those big, baby-blue eyes.

Gotcha.

“Hi.” She waved again, bobbing up and down slightly, as if she was in a hurry and needed to get to the bathroom.

The driver hurriedly hit the right blinker, gave it some gas, and neatly turned hard right into the curb.

The boys stopped right at her feet where she stood at the crosswalk. She stepped up to the door, putting her hand on the edge. She leaned forwards and the passenger’s eyes refocused hurriedly.

The desert night was warm to begin with, but it was rapidly cooling.

The driver leaned over to look her in the eyes through the window.

“Yes, Miss?”

“Hi. Nice car.”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks. Uh, can we help you with something?”

She smiled.

“I’m Mickie.”

“Uh—Hi. I’m Flynn to my friends and this is Herman.” Flynn to his friends and Alvin to anyone looking for a beating was what he almost said, although he knew that women weren’t interesting in that sort of talk.

Talk was cheap, as everyone knew.

“Hello, Herman. Nice meeting you, Flynn.”

The one in the passenger seat bobbed his head and risked a quick look up from her feet, which were a sight in the dark brown sandals with the thong straps tied calf-high. He took his time over her breasts and honey-tanned cleavage, but he came back to her.

“Uh, hello. Hi, Mickie.”

Flynn seemed nonplussed.

“So, uh—”

She was about to speak, but Herman seemed a bit brighter. That Flynn sure had big arms, though. Herman was pale but cute, and definitely still more boy than man.

“Would you like a ride somewhere, ah, Miss Mickie?”

She smiled from ear to ear, hands on her hips and her long blonde hair framing her face in a manner she had always thought of as elfin when looking at herself in the mirror. She tilted her head as if considering the possibility for the first time.

She stabbed Herman with a look.

“Yeah—why, you practically read my mind there, Herman.” She gave Flynn another kind of look, as if to say, my, what a smart boy, that Herman.

He stared into those eyes with parted lips, heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings. They both did.

Herman, seventeen years old and blushing like a dewy rose in morning sunlight, hastily hopped out after a jab in the short ribs from Flynn.

“Why sure, Miss Mickie.” Flynn had been dreaming of a girl like this for about his entire life as far as he could recall.

They both had. They had sure as talked about it something awful as well—on almost any given night like this, perhaps they had even talked or fantasized just such an eventuality as this.

They had read a few stories and looked at a few pictures in magazines.

Herman, with a mop of thick brown hair, dark eyes, six-foot-one and all of one hundred fifty pounds, got out and held the door for her. It was cute. He was looking up and down the sidewalk, checking as if to see if anyone in particular had witnessed this noteworthy event. She clambered in and it looked like Herman, perhaps not so bright after all, was going to get in the back. He looked a bit lost as he contemplated the open car door and Mickie within. She took another look at the blonde Flynn character, the upper leg hard and bulging up against her own.

“Hop in, Sugar.” Mickie squeezed over, ever further inwards, leaving her lean and tanned legs trailing over into his side as he got back in.

She sat up straighter, her left hand as she reached between his legs, brushing Flynn’s thigh as she braced herself, giving Herman a nice smile and then feeling around under his left hip, looking for the seatbelt but there wasn’t one there. Herman sucked air and looked away even as some of the rigidity left Flynn’s body.

“It’s okay, Sugar.” Mickie lifted Flynn’s big arm, and casually draped it around her shoulders as Herman stared fixedly at her knees, her calves, her bare toes and drinking in the heady wine that was her scent.

His lips framed silent words, anyone listening to the wind in the palms might guess what they were.

Oh, my, Gawd!!!

“So. Where did you want to go, ah, Miss?” Herman sounded pretty cool, although it wasn’t his car. “Flynn and Herman to the rescue!”

He leaned over and gave a thoroughly-stunned Herman a quick grin.

“Right, little buddy?”

“Erg.” Herman shot Flynn a dark look, an exaggerated look, and Mickie snickered, patted his knee and got him grinning in gratitude again. “Oh. Ah, yeah, absolutely.”

It wasn’t exactly Flynn’s car either, it belonged to his dad, but he had permission to use it while the folks were away at his aunt’s in Chicago. This was no time to point that out, Herman decided.

Flynn was a full year older than Herman. While Herman had his beginner’s permit, it might be a while yet before he had wheels of his own, working evenings and weekends jerking soda for ninety cents an hour.

Flynn helped his dad build houses on weekends and in the summer for more like a buck-forty, hence the wheels on occasion. It was more usual to get the pickup truck.

“Oh, anywhere, really.” She reached over and gave Herman’s hand a quick squeeze. “”I’ve got a little money. Maybe we could get some beer.”

“Sure, Mickie.” You had to be twenty-one to buy liquor and beer, thought Flynn, mind racing with the implications. “Whatever your little heart desires.”

There sure were a lot of implications, and yet she was so pretty, so fresh and young and vibrant.

She sure had a lot of confidence for what was a mere slip of a girl.

Herman’s hand was a bit moist, but when she squeezed, he squeezed right back, not looking at her exactly, but sneaking a look at the rear-view mirror in the center of the windshield.

He was trying to get a glimpse of her face, failing that he snuck a look across at Flynn, looking fairly bemused as he drove at a sedate thirty-three miles per hour down the wide boulevard street, lined with tall still palm trees and the bright neon lights of the city that never slept.

Mickie leaned forward and turned up the radio just a little bit.

This was going to be fun.



Act Two



There was a pounding in his head. At first he thought someone was at the door.

The phone was ringing too.

Flynn groaned.

Eyes blinking in the glare, he rolled over and looked at the alarm clock.

His mind went back to last night, a jolt of something went through him, and he swung his feet to the floor.

Alone in the house, he padded naked to the living room where the phone was. He ran his hands through his tousled mop, still marveling at his luck. His face felt like a glazed donut, but oh, well.

“Flynn! Flynn!”

“Yeah, yeah. Shit. I’m here.”

“Can you believe that?”

It really happened, Flynn felt like saying. Something stopped him. What, he couldn’t exactly say.

He laughed, and Flynn just stood there with the phone in his hand. What he wanted to do was to go and open up the front curtains and put the coffee on. But Herman was there too.

“So how are you this morning, Herman?” The grin faded in recollection.

While the image of Mickie spread-eagled on the trunk of the Fairlane down that deserted dead-end road would stick with Alvin Flynn for the rest of his life, there had been something funny about Herman’s begging off at the last minute, pleading a little too much beer.

Something about not liking sloppy seconds, not that Herman had actually said anything like that. Not last night—maybe he was jealous of Mickie plastered all over him like that.

For crying out loud, someone had to go first—it was up to Mickie, really.

“Hung, over.” The answer finally came as Flynn savored the taste in his mouth, convinced that it had all been real and no fluke either—there was more where that came from. “Like, wow, man.”

“Yeah.”

Yeah, me too.

What were you supposed to say? And yet you had to say something.

Herman would never be able to tell Flynn how it felt.

But the stab of jealousy to see Mickie in Flynn’s arms and to wish it was him—and to know that it was over, and you couldn’t lie to yourself anymore, and that for the love of God why couldn’t it be me?

Oh, God, why couldn’t it be me.

“So, what are we doing tonight, little buddy?”

Herman repressed a sigh.

“Oh, I don’t know. Whatever.”

Flynn stood there looking at the curtains, holding the warm set up to his ear and grinning just like a Cheshire cat.

Yah-hoo!

Guess who ain’t a virgin no more.

A thought struck him.

Flynn was home alone and why not?

Why not.

“Whoo—ee.” He let out a rebel yell sure to shock the dog and maybe even lift an eyebrow next door.

Flynn was still young, still full of piss and vinegar, and to hell with them anyways.

“Halleluyah!”

The phone was very quiet after that little outburst.

I will be damned.

“Day-am it all, little buddy, we got laid!”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m happy for you, Buddy.”

That’s me, and so cool, too.

Flynn laughed and laughed and laughed.

All recollections of Herman’s half-hearted efforts, finally begging off due to a blasted headache of all the things—oh, how they had chuckled about women and their headaches during many a bull-session over the long, lean years together.

Flynn had forgotten it already.



Act Three



Herman lowered the phone.

He felt sick to his stomach, knowing that for the rest of his life, he would be living a lie.

Flynn would remember last night till the day he died, and so would Herman.

Flynn was gone. He knew that now.

All of those girls, it was not just Mickie. The hair, the eyes, the teeth, the tits and the asses.

They had the scent. They had the legs and the mouths and the lips, the cute little up-turned noses, the pussies and the belly-buttons and everything in between.

He only wished he could hate her for it.

He hated himself instead.

Mickie…Mickie is everything I will never be.




End



About Harold C. Jones



Harold C. Jones does professional landscape design and is an avid sports fan. He started writing as a hobby. He began taking it seriously when he realized he had something to say. His work has helped him to come to terms with himself, or perhaps explore himself would be more accurate. Harold believes that homo-erotica is valid as literature, and that it can be written in such a way that real stories of real people takes precedence over mere prurience. It’s still a hot read.



> Harold C. Jones <






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