The Mandrakes, Volume I: The Teardrop

By Zachariah Jack

Lucas Laughlin Cevennes. Odd boy out. Had he been born a sheep, he would have been the black one. If he had been born into money, at the age of majority, he would have become the exiled trust fund baby. As it was, Luke fought proverbial currents, took roads less traveled, stuck to his guns, set high standards and learned from mistakes. He was a survivor. Oh, and he knew he was gay. From the ripe age of four, though no comprehension existed for the concept then.
Born into the sinful state of Man, as constantly reminded by the evangelism enveloping him, a young boy learns of the difficulties involved in growing up different. He pictured himself as ‘bent’. Through tribulative trial and error--- emphasis on error--- Luke finds that standing tall, in confidence of his own abilities, can be gauged differently by different people. It was all in the perspective.
And bent looked pretty attractive to him...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zachariah Jack
• Release date: Mar 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370231348

Zachariah Jack

I am a professional with a history in veterinary medicine and marine biology, but a fledgling in the realm of tale-spinning, just now launching the newest stage of my life . The existence of a contentedly settled home life with my man, our dogs and cat makes me whole. I finally took to heart the sage advice from the esteemed author and activist, Sir Armistead Maupin, who advised his audience over two decades ago to 'Proclaim Yourself!'. As a member of that audience, I never forgot. The remonstrance was belatedly acted upon in a mountain wedding two months following the SCOTUS concession of yet one more of our 'certainly reserved rights'. In accordance with the much overlooked ninth and tenth amendments to the United States Constitution. See for yourself. And think on it. Check my publications out at Smashwords, Kindle, Barnes & Noble, iBooks, Kobo, etc.. And, please, review my work. ZJ.

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The Mandrakes

Volume I: The Teardrop

By Zachariah Jack

Copyright 2017 Zachariah Jack

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2017 by Zachariah Jack

License Notes This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or otherwise reproduced. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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The Mandrakes, Volume I

The Teardrop

Lucas Laughlin Cevennes. Odd boy out. Had he been born a sheep, he would have been the black one. If he had been born into money, at the age of majority, he would have become the exiled trust fund baby. As it was, Luke fought proverbial currents, took roads less traveled, stuck to his guns, set high standards and learned from mistakes. He was a survivor. Oh, and he knew he was gay. From the ripe age of four, though no comprehension existed for the concept then.

Born into the sinful state of Man, as constantly reminded by the evangelism enveloping him, a young boy learns of the difficulties involved in growing up different. He pictured himself as ‘bent’. Through tribulative trial and error--- emphasis on error--- Luke finds that standing tall, in confidence of his own abilities, can be gaged differently by different people. It was all in the perspective.

And bent looked pretty attractive to him…

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Forward, The Mandrakes, Volume I: The Teardrop

The Mandrakes, Volume I: The Teardrop

Late Spring, 1995

Summer, 1979

Summer, 1988

October, 1991

April, 1992

May, 1992

January, 1993

March, 1994

October, 1995

June, 1996

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Biography

The Mandrakes

Volume I: The Teardrop

Late Spring, 1995

The raindrop smack-dabbed me in the left eye. Splat. I winced involuntarily, blinking to diffuse the intruding loner, speculating from where the wetness had come. A cerulean sky was cloudless and the meadow around us treeless.

Upon clearing to focus again, I trained my sight back on the opposite horizon meeting the far edge of the grassy tree-edged athletic complex. To the spot I had been previously studying before the drop’s trespass. Only myself and the pointer, Magda, were on the series of far flung soccer and rugby fields this late spring dawn, or so I had thought. A figure across the way dispelled that notion.

In curiosity, I gaged compact features of the distant person, watching as it stretched, arms up and over, legs spread, feet planted. The swarthy impressionist profile was blurred by three hundred yards of separation yet I could discern the presence as a person of color. It drew me.

Looking back on it, I should have read body language more astutely. And would have been better served to have paid attention to Magda’s low, throaty growl as she also appraised the single distant being. But, I didn’t. Instead, I admonished the big girl to hush, disliking an other-than-friendly reaction. In the moment, we regarded the man—I could now tell it was indeed a male by body movements—continue with limbering techniques commonly employed in commencing and finishing aerobics.

After brief assessment, we went on with our fetch game, picked up on realization Magda Lena’s ropy drool wasn’t a result of exertion. She had run across an orphan rubber ball somewhere earlier during our pre-dawn run and latched on to it, per her wont, then patiently awaited my notice. Various modes for invitation to play were common—Magda was a play demon, demanding multiple periods of such interaction daily. And, sometimes nightly.

Absorbing into familiar companionship, we disregarded the man, returning to ourselves. That is, until Magda pulled up short, swinging around in an athletic midair 180 twist, landing lithely on all fours to face a suddenly closer figure now loping our direction. Brief rumble of a growl again arose from her throat but cut short as she remembered my previous remonstrance. The handsome canine glanced back over her shoulder in a questioning look, ball in mouth. Inquiry as to my own feelings on the person’s approach was plain by her face. Hair over her withers bristled involuntarily and the reaction set a small ripple of wariness through my own body. I paid attention to the dog, having come to trust her instincts in most situations.

Unfortunately, I was male. Blessed and cursed with two heads.

Wassup? The darkly complexioned short man intoned the greeting through a toothy grin. Deepness to the voice registered different than what I would have guessed by his frame and movements. Smoothly baritone, it rolled musically around my ears, conveying conviviality and friendliness, even in its brevity. Slowing to a walk, the clearly athletic individual sashayed closer. In a fluid movement, he whisked the light tank top up and over a sculpted curly head, the sides of which were carved in serpentine designs. A longer topnotch imbued the shorty with a bit of added height and the edginess of a newly re-popularized mohawk effect. He set to deliberately wiping down first his head, then his arms, pits and torso in rapscallion sensuosity. I was enthralled. Black men’s versatility factor in haircut options had captivated me since high school days. This man’s look and body language tugged my eyes like a puppeteer.

As the shirt cleared the artwork topping him, my eyes slid southward taking in the cut form, from nice pectorals down over slightly rounded abdominals covered by finely curled black hair disappearing under low-hanging gray gym shorts. Hugging sexy hips, the workout shorts complemented a starkly white jockstrap underlapping them. I was envious of the strap’s proximity to the mounded mystery cradled inside. My tongue inadvertently licked encircling lips as they shaped into an inadvertent ‘O’ of praise for the hirsute physique now exposed before me.

Gettin’ hot out here already, ain’t it? The sheen of sweat coating him betokened truth to the comment. Still, I detected intent other than a need to cool off by the action. Not that I was complaining. The view was delectable. And the darkly colored player absolutely knew this.

The look on my face must be a total giveaway. Rarely had I ever been mistaken for a poker face, I thought, attempting to rein in growing interest. Hot is a g-g-good word…y-yup, I stuttered stupidly, compounding the discomfiture pitiful in its evidence at a failed double entendre.

The man was glad for the less-than-confident reaction, I quickly grasped, confirming the fact by lightly cupping his right palm over the mass inside, coverage adeptly framing exactly what the well-built stud intended. Pulsed kneading of the mound set into motion several levels of reactions shared between the two of us, not least of which was perceptible swelling of the lump from which my offending eyeballs could not divorce themselves. Again, as intended. The man was in his element, toying with me.

My own junk lurched into action mode without consent, much to my chagrin. The effect tented the front of my running shorts in mere seconds. It proved the cue for which he was looking. His grin said it all, though my focus only tangentially reported this to a silly brain, vision tunneled toward the man’s rising corpus, such as it was.

No more words passed between us just then, lust bespeaking a language of universal inference. The knowing lecher closed the remaining distance, cupping palm now replacing his own bulk with my traitorous organ.

‘Wrong-headed’ took an alternate meaning as the aroused male turned me by the rapidly engorging thing presently disavowing any cranial hegemony, leading us both back toward the tree cover twenty feet to my rear. What little remaining autonomy I commanded deserted me there.

Waist-high underbrush tickled my bare legs, waist and lower torso during a bridled walk into the shadows beneath spreading oaks. Upon reaching the huge flared trunk of one, I was lightly but firmly pushed back against rough bark. My running shorts descended in congruence with the experienced palmer directing me. Without any more than a soft, repetitive clucking sound, he squatted, bottoming them at my ankles while simultaneously facing into the prodigiously prideful, bouncing boner poking from my crotch. The idiot of a dickhead wrested complete control from my useless brain, and contrastingly, surrendered in total thrall to the crouching man. Two-faced thing. It possessed understanding of what was occurring. My addled brain, not so much.

Wiping a three-day stubble back and forth across my hyper-sensitive mess of a cock, the man’s pair of full lips abruptly engulfed it as I dumbly watched. Squeezing against the sponginess encountered, they slid masterfully down over the beggar. An excess of saliva slathered the shaft in slow descent to the cul-de-sac that was my smooth groin. The nose following those fat lips nuzzled and rolled over and around the pubes basing my other head while this unnamed master proceeded to show a talent for which I was unready. And unaccustomed to accommodating. His mouth was supremely talented.

My locked knees buckled. Shudders of pleasurable waves enveloped me. Experienced hands and forearms lightly scraped me up and down in nappy friction. I surrendered to the plethora of stimuli unexpectedly kidnapping my senses.

At a calculated point of ascent toward ecstasy, the lips backed off. Through the haze of hormones, I heard a husky voice whisper, "Damn, boii, this be ‘da bomb dick…I be gonna do this again…now hang on,