Wolfchild

By M. A. Thompson

Two men in a long-term relationship, they commute each weekend from their apartment in the city to their country house. Its a good life. They have good jobs, good friends and two much-loved cats, a bounty of blessings they dont often consider or question at least not until one weekend in the country when they encounter a boy from across the way, a strangely-beautiful boy with lupine eyes.

Thereafter, the two men watch in alarm as their well-constructed lives self-destruct. Driven by unconscious desires, their lives become a pattern of betrayal and deceit as they each succumb to the temptations of an uncontrollable lust.

Only when death stalks their door do they realize that their very existence necessitates a series of nocturnal wanderings in an effort to identify and exorcise the wolfchild who haunts their days and nights.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 20, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462818044

M. A. Thompson

M.A. Thompson is a Ph.D. in American Studies who escaped the tentacles of academe, only to fall into the grasp of not one, but two literary agents, neither of whom, in spite of unstinted effort, was able to convince, or coerce, a “traditional” publisher to take a chance on a manuscript about anonymous public sex, illegal drugs, a lupine boy, and two men living with two cats. Consequently, subsequent manuscripts by Thompson have focused on sugar daddies and rent boys, lifeguards of color, and backstage adultery on Broadway – all of which might soon find their way to Xlibris.

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Copyright © 1999 by M. A. Thompson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

POSTSCRIPT

For my boy, RED

Besides, what could they see but a hideous and desolate

wilderness, full of wild beasts and wild men—and what

multitudes there might be of them they knew not.

William Bradford, Of Plymouth Plantation 1620-1647

PROLOGUE

It was the tail end of summer when we first saw his eyes.

We were waiting for him. Watching from a distance as he ducked beneath the pines. Watching as he rose and ambled toward us, his shirt tail flapping, his head swinging loosely. Leaves scattering in the wake of his unlaced boots. He loped up our drive to the porch where we stood. You saw a chicken? he asked, his eyes surveying the yard.

There was one—

A black one.

But it’s gone now.

We just called—

We thought maybe it was yours.

It might be under the porch.

He listened to us and grinned, baring white teeth. I’ll check, he said, squatting, poking his nose through the lattice.

I leaned over, looking down, my eyes skimming over sandy hair. Steven ribbed me and we smirked. He was a very pretty boy, the boy from across the way. You see anything? Steven asked.

Nope, the boy said. He sat back on his haunches and then, right then, that’s when his eyes burrowed into mine. Blue eyes like a husky, the pupil too small, and blue blanketing the white. Eyes swallowing me whole like a sinkhole in snow. I went under so fast I lost my breath. Gasping for air, I was drowning in the moment, the endless deep moment, slipping over the edge and into the abyss—And then without warning the blue let me go, and I surfaced again.

Probably gone home, he said, turning to Steven. As if nothing had passed between us. You want, I’ll go look around back.

It’s all right, Steven said. We just thought he got away.

They never get away, he said. I know how to find them. He scratched at his stomach and turned, heading for the drive. See you then, he said, without looking back. See you, we said, not moving from the porch. Stunned by the exceptional in a landscape we’d often found commonplace.

Mist trickled through the trees alongside our yard. It was twilight and the evening was still, summer nearly over. The boy broke into a loose jog once he’d crossed the road. Kicking pine needles and oak leaves, heading for the grove of pines which obscured his home from view. Then he slowed and turned his head, his chin grazing his shoulder. His eyes found mine, and he closed the distance between us before disappearing into the pines.

God, did you see that? I asked.

What a package. Who knew? Steven said.

No, the eyes, I said. Did you see those eyes?

Oh yeah, the eyes, Steven said. He growled in my ear. That boy’s a wolfchild.

CHAPTER ONE

In those days, we drove through the night. The cats in their carrier and Steven at the wheel, and for a while I read to us. Then later we got stoned and listened to music. We went from dark country roads to long empty highways and then into the tunnel to the city becalmed. We parked the car and carried our stuff upstairs and as soon as I let the cats out, I noticed the black feathers in their cage. Steven? I called. What’s in here?

He peered into the carrier. Feathers, he said.

Very good, Mr. Cornell. But where’d they come from? I pulled out the towel and spread it on the dining table. Black feathers stuck together, they were glossy with moisture. You think they got a bird?

The girls? I doubt it.

I walked into the bedroom where the cats lounged on the bed. It was true what Steven said. Our girls were far too finicky to eat in the wild. Sweetie, I said, lifting Toledo toward the light. My little gray tiger, more a love junkie than a hunter. She watched me with big eyes and waited for my diagnosis. But there was nothing around her mouth, no feathers or bird remains. I dropped her on the bed and reached for big black Omaha. Rolled her on her side. She growled and hissed, and spread her legs wide open. You big toughie, I said. There was nothing on her either.

So maybe the feathers—I tried to remember. Had I closed the basement windows? Was there a chicken behind the boiler? It was always like this. Two houses, two sets of problems. Worrying about one place while living at the other. I tossed the feathers in the garbage and shook out the towel.

That night, we fell asleep with the television on. I woke a little after four. Steven was snoring beside me. I pulled back the curtain and peered outside. It was quiet, no traffic on the avenue in front of our apartment. I climbed over Steven and gathered the take-out containers from atop the desk.

Out in the main room, I noticed Parrain. His portrait light was on, shining down on those dark eyes which had cared for me since adolescence. You should be in bed, Ducky, I said, imitating his voice. He used to call me Ducky. He used to sit up, waiting for me, the nights I came crawling home at dawn. Go back to sleep, I said, flicking off the light. Everything’s fine.

Usually Steven peed with me. One of us rising, the other following behind. Our bed was small like that, and when one of us stirred—We would stand together around the toilet, toes touching, eyes squinting. Then we’d hurry back to bed, and curl together as if we’d never gotten up. But this night, he slept on, even after I flushed.

I went to the front windows and peered through the wooden shutters. Outside, a cab slowed and stopped at the intersection—and then ran the red light. Across the avenue, a doorman sauntered into the night. He was tall and dark, not wearing a coat or hat in the late summer heat. He straightened his tie, ran a hand over his hair. Thick raven-dark hair. He strolled to the intersection, then back to the awning. Toothpick in his mouth.

Apart from the doorman, the avenue was deserted. No pedestrians, no cars, and very few lighted windows in the buildings along the street. People were sleeping, and in the final hours of night, it seemed the doorman and I were the only ones awake.

His feet planted apart, the doorman scratched his groin and gazed toward my window. I pulled open the shutters and feigned a yawn. Stretched my arms above my head. Then palms against the window, I stared at the doorman across the street.

He leaned against the awning’s brass pole, and looking down, cupped his crotch. Then slowly he lifted his head. His eyes holding mine like a flashlight in the dark. I slid my hand into my boxers and he nodded and narrowed his eyes, and in the silence of the room, I heard a low moaning whistle.

I shoved my boxers to the floor and climbed atop the window seat. My face against the glass, I spit into my palm and stroked my dick. The doorman stepped off the curb and in the space between two cars, he opened his pants. He pushed them to his thighs and rubbed his hand across his briefs. Then he let loose an erection which he grasped in both hands. His face a rictus of desire, his eyes bored into mine and his long tongue unraveled—and brushed against my face like a web wet with dew.

Without warning, without thinking, I was suddenly coming. Gobs spewing from my dick, splatting hard against the window, like rain, like glue, my breath coming in gulps, clouding up the glass.

Across the way, the doorman ran his tongue over his lips, licking almost to his nose and down to his chin. He licked his palm and smoothed into place the black forelock that had fallen forward. And once his face was composed, he fastened his pants, and then turned and headed back to the building.

Behind me, I heard the bed creak. I hopped from the window seat and reached for my boxers. I was staring at the mess on the window when Toledo jumped onto the cushion. Her eyes searched mine, her nose in the air, as her tail swished back and forth across the glass.

Oh, no. Don’t do that, I