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Sweat and Moonbeams by Del Midnight

December 6, 2014 Leave a comment Go to comments
Del Midnight

Del Midnight

Del Midnight is the author of many excellent men’s adventure stories.

“Come on Glenn, lend us your nest,” pleaded Shanes.

“Don’t be a damned fool, Shanes,” Glenn replied. “A nest has to be completely private, secret even. Otherwise, the chickens get shy of it– see?”

“C’mon Glenn, I’m your best friend!”

“All the more reason we shouldn’t get our love affairs mixed and spoil everything. Get your own nest!”

Shanes became mopey and began lurking in a corner.

“Look, Shanes, I’d like to help you. But I’m using my nest anyway– see. Chrostine is coming tonight.”

Shanes looked up. “Chrostine? My God, Glenn. She’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever…” He suddenly vomited onto a table.

Glenn laughed. “Makes you nervous, huh, buddy? Let me get you an aperitif.”

Glenn moved slowly over to the bar. She is the most beautiful creature he thought. Her exquisite piles of cascading hair, her huge eyes like walnuts, her pouty lips, that big awkward smile. 

He found that nearly an hour had passed. Shanes was poking him in the shoulder with a child’s beach pail. The entire room was trashed.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” Shanes explained. “I thought time was stopping. I went into a state of pathological enraged panic. I apologize for the room.

Glenn could barely say a word. “We…I have to get this cleaned up,” he said, snapping out of his haze.

“There was some deviancy too, I’m afraid. I’m sorry about your pillows,”

Glenn set to work. It was only an hour before Chrostine was due.

II

She walked into the room. Everything had been straightened and the pillows tossed down the garbage chute. He would ultimately have to explain the complete absence of pillows in the room but he didn’t care. The nonappearance of pillows in the apartment was no longer a concern.

"She hesitated a moment and with a warm tide of crimson creeping over her face, she averted her eyes and began seductively fingering a pneumatic upholstery stapler that he had accidentally left out."

“She hesitated a moment and with a warm tide of crimson creeping over her face, she averted her eyes and began seductively fingering a pneumatic upholstery stapler that he had accidentally left out.”

“How do I look?” she said. It was a black sleeveless number– his veins ran fire as he took it in. He heard thunder in the distance, then it was closer. She hesitated a moment and with a warm tide of crimson creeping over her face, she averted her eyes and began seductively fingering a pneumatic upholstery stapler that he had accidentally left out.

He went to her and took her in his arms, drawing her down beside him on the little cretonne covered love-seat beneath the suddenly storm-lashed windows. Their lips met in a deep, burning kiss. He thought about the scarcity of pillows in the apartment again but only briefly.

III.

The storm had stopped and the unmade bed was bathed in moonlight. They were both toweling off.

“There’s no use pretending,” he suddenly said. “You aren’t any kind of chicken. I love you Chrostine.”

She smiled up at him. But she was distracted. She was feeling around at the head of the bed.

“Chrostine, didn’t you hear me? I love you. I want you to be Mrs. Glenn Yount.” He thought about getting down on his knees but then he remembered the outright dearth of pillows and decided against it.

He thought suddenly of his war experiences. Sitting up in that tree for two years, firing into an abandoned house he thought. What did it all mean? Was there any sense to it? Thousands of rounds into an abandoned house? Then they said, “C’mon down from the tree, Glenn” and they drove him home. He still couldn’t understand any of it.

The phone rang. It was Chrostine.

“You were just standing there for two hours, dear,” she said. “I was hungry.”

“I was…thinking about the war,” he said.

“You’re still there, aren’t you dear?”

“I suppose so.”

They resolved to see each other tomorrow. He poured himself a drink and stared at the moonbeam on the bed, illuminating where she had once been.

 Del Midnight has written over 500 stories about love, adventure, war and interior decoration.

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