Saturday, November 22, 2014


Harold C. Jones

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 cutoff 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.


“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 rearview 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.


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, 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.


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.


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.


Herman lowered the phone, knowing that for the rest of his life, he would be living a lie.

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 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.

Mickie…Mickie is everything I will never be.


Here are my books and stories on txtr.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

My First Two Paperbacks.

Sleazy but we like it.

Harold C. Jones

Harold C. Jones is pleased to announce the release of his first two paperbacks.

Encounter is a collection of five hot stories of gay love, previously only available as short stories in ebook form.

The Virgin and the Troll, now available in a 4 x 7” paperback from Lulu, is three novellas, formerly only available in ebook format, collected and presented in a convenient, easy to read package that will be loved by gay men everywhere. Makes a great Christmas gift or stocking stuffer for the significant other in your life.

The price for either book is $4.99 plus shipping and handling from Lulu.

Encounter is available here.

The Virgin and the Troll is available here.

Readers are certainly welcome to take a look at the books. Reviews and ratings are always welcome.


Friday, July 18, 2014

Kids With Guns.

Harold C. Jones

When I was seventeen, I went to a department store at our local mall, a place called Woolco. I went to the sporting goods section and bought a Crosman CO2 pistol of .177 calibre, model # 454. It resembles the 1911 Colt. I bought a couple of boxes of CO2 cylinders and plenty of BBs.
I paid cash, having some kind of job at the time.

Stepping out the door, I took it out of the bag, and stuffed the garbage into a green trash can by the front entrance. I loaded that gun, and shoved the pistol into my inner jacket pocket. I made sure I had the manual and the accessories. A few darts and pellets, BBs and stuff came in the box.

That was so cool.

I walked across the parking lot, got into my little sports car and drove away.

Kids with guns are just nuts.

One night, when we were about fifteen, Phillip showed up. He had a .22 calibre gas pistol, and it sure was a beauty. It was the Colt .45 six-gun. Every cowboy had one. Half the kids I knew had a single-shot .177 pellet rifle, but unfortunately, I didn’t. I eventually bought one, needing a new seal and not packing much of a punch, for about four dollars and three Estes model rocket engines…

Those were the days.

Phillip also had a thirty-two ounce glass pop bottle of homemade wine mixed with Pepsi or something inside of his parka, having sliced the lining with a knife to create a secret pocket. Like the teenagers we were, we left my dad’s garage with the fort up in the rafters and headed out into a crisp and clear winter night.

We ended up at a local scrap yard, shooting out rearview mirrors, headlights, taillights, anything kids might want to shoot at. Later, we went along the ditch behind a local grocery store, a nice long store. They had plenty of lights out back by the loading docks and the trash compactors. We all got shots at them.

I was a mighty fine shooter by the time I was seventeen. You could probably follow our progress across town on a fine summer’s evening by the trail of destruction. Shot-out streetlights, the lights at the exits of schools especially, anything. We did all kinds of crazy stuff, including shooting each other and a few other folks. You really haven’t lived until you’ve shot some neighbourhood kid in the ass with a .177 dart from a finely-tuned pellet rifle.

That big old .22 would punch a hole through both sides of a beer bottle. Whereas a .177 gas pistol by the same maker would only chip away at it. It took a few good hits to puncture it. For one thing, the mushroom shape kept the gas pressure better than a hard round BB, and for another it was simply bigger. It had more mass, although it probably flew slower. Later, my girlfriend’s brother had a hand-pumped, single-shot .22 air pistol. That gun was nice—I’ve always wanted to find another Benjamin. I would probably buy the thing. That gun would punch through a magnum wine bottle, both sides, nice little round holes.

Plunk. Just like that...

We used to get a twelve-pack of beer, or some wine, (or both.) My buddy brought his wife, I brought my girlfriend, ( I liked her gun) and sometimes her older brother, my younger brother and his girl came along. 

We shot at beer bottles dropped into the creek from a bridge on a side-road. Of course, we had to drink the beer first. The girls like shooting too. It was a fun afternoon when you’re young and kind of feeling your oats…

Back then, if you were walking through the woods and didn’t stumble across any shot-up old wrecks, you were doing something wrong. There is a whole field of post-modern archeology to be invented here. The fact is that a .357 Magnum will penetrate the engine block of a ’57 Chevy from front to back if you’re near enough…

At a later date, a buddy and I were shooting out of an old Dodge van with .22 long rifle, (Cooey .22 bolt-action.) We were sitting by the side of a secondary, gravel road, as if we could sustain ourselves by hunting our own meat or something stupid like that. A few beers helped, I have to admit. The author has also owned a double-barrel 12-gauge shotgun.

Shooting is a wonderful sport. It’s a lot of fun just plinking and fooling around.

We did some stupid shit with those guns.

Yet never, at any time, did we claim it was for our personal defense. We never even claimed it was for hunting, or meat for the pot, or for target or skeet shooting on a range. I don’t recall claiming it was a right, although I admit I couldn’t wait until I was seventeen so I could buy that CO2 pistol.

You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve even been shot in the leg with an arrow. That was my own brother, ladies and gentlemen.

That’s okay.

I blew him up with a crumbled rocket engine and a nichrome igniter and a three-volt battery a few days later. No serious harm done, although his pant-legs were burnt, and a serious message was sent that day.

Don’t steal my bike.

Don't steal my bike.
By the time we were done, we had bows, compound and simple, crossbows, butterfly knives, brass knuckles, steel-toed work boots, stun-guns, electrical traps, Molotov cocktails, (thanks to my dad for the tip) snares and boobie traps. Double-barreled shotguns…nun-chucks and churikens, blow-guns, all kinds of things really, and we also knew how to cut up fireworks and shotgun shells to make a simple anti-tank rocket. We knew how to make smoke-screens, and caltrops, and trip wires and all kinds of fun things.

We could make, or find, or buy, any damned thing you care to name. We were just kids, too.

We never claimed that God was on our side.

I guess we might have missed something there.


Tuesday, May 13, 2014

Common Literary Terms, Badly Explained.

Face withheld to protect the innocent. Yes, he is that good-looking.

Harold C. Jones

Here are a few common literary terms badly explained.

An antonym is the pen-name of an ant.

A simile is what they use when something is going to assimilate you. 

In fact, what I just said is similar to what I meant and how I should have said it in the first place. And now I shall slowly digest you.

Irony is like a Dutchman with a shoe fetish, or a Tea Party member poking a gun in your face and shrieking how much she loves the Constitution.

Onomatopoeia is self-explanatory. Give me a hard one next time, ah, but it’s basically just when the writer uses a lot of ‘o’s.

Punctuation is what the editor wants to do to the writer after a long phone session.

Adverbs. This is when you add verbs to make a sentence complete.


Before: This is when you to make a sentence complete.

After: This is when you add verbs to make a sentence complete. And just for the record, ‘verb’ is in fact a verb: hence, re-verb-erate. That ain’t a fuckin’ noun, ladies and gentlemen.

Semi-colon. A semi-colon is considered a rather half-assed piece of pumpcutation. Editors hate ‘em; so I throw one in once in a while. It makes their day complete.

Adjective. The opposite of an expletive. This is what you use when your audience is G-rated.

Example: “Move that fucking chair.” (X and R audience.)

               “Move that red chair.” (General Audiences.)     

Allegory. All the categories put together in one big, a mixed-up bag of shit, like a dog’s breakfast. A fairy tale told by animals.

Alliteration. What happens to you after you dive in headfirst and get your feet wet in the world of language. After a while, you become alliterated. It means you can read now. That’s not the same as people accepting you.

Allusion. Showing the reader something that isn’t visible; a literary menage, shimmering above the desert and making you think that’s a lake up ahead.

Theme. This is the stuff that you tell people when they ask, “Hey, why’d you write that crazy book, anyways?” A special kind of nonsense.

Unreliable Narrator. Self-explanatory by this point, I should think.

Didactic. Uninformative, boring. Written by teachers.

Couplet. A short writer and his vertically-truncated wife. Or a short writer and her husband. Or a short writer and their same-sex spousal person.

Denouement. This is when a lady takes her clothes off and the author fades to black. This is basically a French short form for ‘de-nude-moment.’

Epigram. A message written on a piece of skin.

Elegy. Some guy talking in a churchyard—ha. Another easy one.

Flashback. Otherwise known as dis-associative fugue or writer’s block of the active presentation. A mysterious desire not to deal with the present.

Hyerbole. A bole that exists in greater than the traditional four dimensions. I’ve seen one or two over the years.

Motif. Sorry, I’ll have to skip this one. An old editing injury has flared up. Seriously, and it’s driving me crazy.

Woe is me.

I can’t go out in public like this.