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TEXAS 1956 Vol. 1 – Chapter 10
About half-way through their first beer at Three-Finger Bucks all-purpose bar and whorehouse, Clay noticed Buck gesturing toward him to come over to the bar. He excused himself from his pals and got up. Cadet Clayton Thompson stood about 5 foot 9 inches tall, a wiry body and a face on the handsome side of plain. He hailed from outside of Ailes, Oklahoma, an unincorporated wide spot in the road about 10 miles over the border from the Texas panhandle.
The eldest son of a successful oil-service company owner who raised a family on a sprawling 15,000-acre ranch tended by a crew of hired hands, Clay had been led to expect that he'd have a secure position in the family business. It meant marrying after he left the academy, producing children, being a prominent member of the county church, and otherwise a pillar of the far-flung rural community.
He had never questioned any of it. He hadn't really liked football but joined the team because his father had wanted him to. He'd done his best, racking up a reputation as a wide receiver for his graceful catches and the ability to evade tacklers. In the summers, he'd shown himself to be a talented rider of bucking horses. His boyish looks and polite manner endeared him to the high school girls, and his athletic abilities and agreeable nature allowed him to evade the sort of raised eyebrows that otherwise might have accompanied his avid participation in the church choir.
Most of the choir was girls, and the handful of boys who sang were regarded as fairies by the rougher types who dominated his high school. But everyone knew he was paired with Jenny Kincaid, the daughter of a prosperous rancher. Clay made sure to be aggressive enough at the drive-in for the word to get around that, whatever the other boys in the church choir might be, Clay Thompson was a red-blooded male through and through. Whatever doubts he had were suppressed when the choir director, a doughy and flamboyant single man, made an advance one afternoon after choir practice.
When Clay threatened him with exposure, the quivering man backed off immediately, begging the high school boy to keep his secret. "Behave yourself and keep your queer hands away from me then," he had told the director, who also taught music classes at the local high school. "I ain't gonna tell no one as long as ya keep yerself under control and stay away from me, ya faggot."
The young cadet strode toward the bar. Buck was smiling a little too much, indicating that he should take a seat next to a uniformed sheriff deputy.
"Hey there, Clayton!" Buck said. "Deputy here wants a word with you."
After the conversation in the academy dorm, he approached with caution, and sat down at the bar next to the law officer.
"Ya Clayton R. Thompson?" the Man asked. "From Ailes, Oklahoma?"
"Yes sir," the cadet replied, quickly sizing up the deputy. He was in uniform: tan pants with a brown stripe down the side, a waist-length brown nylon jacket over a tan shirt. He was distractingly handsome, with a sandy blond flattop crew cut, a square jaw, and piercing blue eyes. Their glances met briefly, and Clay quickly forced himself to look away, causing the deputy to chuckle at his nervousness.
"Buck, this young fella looks like he could use a Lone Star," the Man said, brightly, in a deep and rough tone that sounded like gravel being poured on blacktop.
"Sure thing, Brick," the bartender replied. "Bourbon fer you?"
"Might as well, on the rocks," the deputy said, handing the cadet a file folder. Clay opened it, and saw a police report inside, with a couple of photos attached by a paper clip. He breathed a sigh of relief, recognizing the car in the picture on top.
"Is this about the accident I reported last year, sir?" the cadet asked.
"Yep," the deputy replied. "They been investigatin' it ever since, and they found the guilty party a couple weeks ago. I gotta take ya up to Wingtip tonight. Fella's sittin' in the jail and ya got to identify him. Gonna be overnight."
"I've got my car here, sir," the cadet answered, frowning. "I've got the whole weekend off ..."
"No can do, buddy boy," the deputy replied. "Small office up in the panhandle, and they got no time except tonight. Don't worry, the county'll pay yer hotel and breakfast."
"What about my car, sir?" the cadet asked. "I drove my buddies over here."
"Hell, Clay – is that what they call ya? – just walk on over there to yer cadet buddies and tell 'em ya got to go up to the Panhandle to identify the driver of the vehicle that caused a fatal accident that ya witnessed," the deputy growled impatiently. "Pick out the one ya trust the most, hand him the keys, and tell him the deputy will bring ya back tomorrow. Ya hear?"
"Yes sir," the cadet replied, chastened.
"Good," the deputy said. "Don't take too long. We got plenty a-miles ahead."
"Yes sir," the cadet said, and went off to where he roommates were sitting. The deputy watched as the cadet explained, and his friends looked over toward the bar. He nodded his head in support of the story.
"That beer drained?" he asked the cadet.
"Yes sir," Clay replied, buttoning his gray uniform jacket and setting the beer down on the bar. He reached for his wallet to pay, and the deputy stopped him.
"It's covered, son," he said, motioning the cadet to follow him. They left by the side entrance and emerged outside not far from the deputy's patrol car. There was a chill in the fall air, the sun having set an hour ago.
"Take the front seat next to me," the deputy said, as he unlocked the driver's door. The other doors unlocked by themselves, a rare feature in those days. The cadet climbed in, and they drove off. As they chatted, Clay couldn't help stealing glances at the handsome deputy, who in the style of the day wore a cowboy hat and not a common police cap.
"Sir, I heard you guys caught the people who stole the car," the cadet said, referring to a widely discussed incident that had occurred near the end of the last term. Another cadet had reported his vehicle stolen at gunpoint by two Men, who had also robbed him, stripped him to his shorts, and left him at a rest area by the highway. Not long afterwards, the cadet had been killed in a freakish training accident, his body blown to bits by explosives in a nighttime artillery drill.
"Yep, that's right," the deputy said, casting a glance at the cadet, who wondered if he'd been caught in the act of drinking in the view. "Idiots thought they'd escape to Mexico. Which they managed to do, until the federales caught up to them. I'm afraid the car is a lost cause. Must have had a thousand bullet holes in it. Not much left of the robbers, but they were identified by the license plate on the car and by the queer cadet's property in the trunk."
Clay caught his breath as the deputy swung the patrol car into a gas station and pulled up at the pump.
"Howdy, Kurt," he said to the young attendant through the rolled-down window. "Fill it with ethyl, would ya? And if ya got my cigars, I could use a pack of 'em."
"Sure thing, deputy!" the attendant said, inserting the hose into the car and setting it, and turning toward the station to fetch the cigars.
"This'd be a good spot to take a leak out back if ya need to get rid a-that beer," the Man said to the cadet. Clay pulled at the door latch, but nothing happened.
"Oh yeah, I got to open my side before yours'll open," the deputy said. "Car's rigged that way."
When Clayton returned to the car, the deputy had the passenger side door open and one foot on the sill, while he fiddled with something on the light bar. The cadet drank in the view of the deputy's ass, framed in the door and lit up by the gas station's lights, and his torso widening in a V inside his brown police jacket. And his spit-shined black boots, and his straw cowboy hat.
Suddenly, the deputy turned his head, smiled, and winked at him. Caught again!
"Got a loose wire up here," he said. "Could ya reach in the glove box and grab the tool kit and hand it to me?"
"Yes sir," the cadet said, embarrassed. He nevertheless got an even better look at the deputy's rear end as he maneuvered around the Man's leg to get to the glove box. He legs were thick, and the thin fabric of the uniform revealed the shape of the muscles, and he could see a bulge in the Man's crotch. He retrieved the tool kit and handed it up to the deputy.
"Shit, my hands are occupied up here, and the box is locked," the deputy said. "I keep my key ring on a hook hangin' off my duty belt between my revolver and my belt buckle, just over my front pocket. Find the smallest key on the ring and get it off there for me."
"Yes sir," he said, moving past the Man's leg and sitting in the patrol car. At that point, the deputy shifted his weight and put both feet on the door sill, and the cadet found himself staring directly into the officer's crotch. The Man's dick was hung up in his underwear, and a big lump was lodged directly under the key ring. He lifted the key ring without touching the deputy's dick and found the key. As he removed it, his lust took over and he allowed one of his hands to rest against the lump. It was half hard, some blood trapped there by the hang-up inside. He could feel its thickness against the back of his hand, and the heat come through. It lasted only a moment, but felt like an eternity.
"Hand it up to me," the deputy said, and the cadet complied, and then relaxed and stared at the lump, which shifted back and forth as the Man worked above. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the gas station attendant washing the patrol car's windows. He glanced through the front window, and the attendant smiled knowingly. Damn, caught again, he thought, and looked away until the attendant left, and then returned to staring.
The deputy finished and climbed down, and handed him the locked tool box to put back into the glove box, and got back into the driver's side while the cadet watched the station attendant approach the car. He had a muscular build and wore starched work clothes that clung to his body. The cadet watched his crotch as he walked toward the car and then around to the driver's side. He handed the deputy a clipboard through the window to sign for the gas, presumably to be billed to the county.
"Here's the cigars, Jake," he said, handing a box through the window. The deputy unwrapped the box, retrieved the thin cigars and placed all but one of them into his shirt pocket. He unwrapped it, and handed the box and the one wrapper to the attendant.
"Thanks, Kurt," the deputy said, turning on the engine and revving it, and pushing the car's lighter in.
"Sure thing, deputy!" the attendant said, lingering next to the window while the deputy lit the cigar. The smoke drifted over toward the cadet, and the deputy pushed a button and rolled down his window half way.
"How's things goin' in our peaceful county tonight?" the attendant said, making conversation.
"Nothin' outta the ordinary," the deputy replied, his voice relaxed and friendly. "We located the car that the one cadet got stolen last year. The Meskin federales shot it up somethin' fierce, along with the idiots who stole it. Be in tomorrow's paper. Other than that, nothin' but the usual speeders 'n stray dogs. Gotta take his young fella up to the Panhandle for an accident investigation, so I gotta be movin' along. Y'all have a good night, now."
"You too, Jake!" the attendant said. "Take good care a-the cadet there."
The deputy chuckled.
"Always," he replied, putting the car in gear and heading out to the highway.
"There won't be none of the real story in the newspaper," the deputy said to the cadet. "None a-the queer stuff. Don't want to scare the county."
The cadet remained silent as the lawman drove.
"Ya run into any queers at that academy or anywhere around?" the deputy asked after a while. "Did ya know about the one?"
"No sir, haven't run into any, and I had no idea," Clay replied, trying to remain nonchalant. "The only queer I ever knew of was the church choir director back home. That's all."
"Probably wanted to suck yer dick, I bet," the deputy said. "Let me tell ya, them queers can get bothersome."
"Yeah, that's what he wanted to do," the cadet replied. "I told him to stay away from me if he knew what was good for him."
"And he did?" the deputy asked.
"Yes sir," the cadet replied. "But he kept trying with others, and that was the end of him. Found him by the side of the road. Tire exploded was the story, but everybody knew what happened."
"Plenty a-Men will let a queer suck their dick if they get hard up, and maybe will even fuck 'em," the deputy said. "Ain't any problem as long as they keep it private, but once a queer gets a taste a-dick, a lot of 'em go outta control. That's what happened with the cadet and his car."
"Really?" Clay asked, curious now.
"Me and another deputy are the county's unofficial sex police," the deputy said, chuckling. "Most of it takes care of itself, but occasionally ya see this or that queer faggot that can't stay away from one a-the parks or one a-the pull-outs. That's what happened to the cadet. We warned him a few times, but he couldn't stay away."
"Most of us thought he just got robbed," the cadet said. "But some people thought he was a queer."
"Well, if ya should happen to run into any queers at yer school, ya tell 'em to behave themselves," the deputy said. "This county ain't no place fer a queer to be trollin' fer dick. Never know what'll happen. When we catch adult faggots, we tell 'em they'd be much better off if they moved to Hollywood or New Orleans or some place like that. Anywhere but West Texas."
"Yeah," Clay said, mournfully. "This wouldn't be the place to be that."
"But you ain't run into any of 'em around here, then?" the deputy asked again. "Or any Men wantin' ya to be queer for them or nothin' like that?"
"No sir," the cadet lied, hoping his fear didn't show. Then an idea hit him.
"Sir, can I tell you some things in confidence that won't go back to the Commandant?" he asked.
"Sure," the Man answered. "Just us in here."
"Sir, the Commandant is an asshole." the cadet said. "He won World War II by himself, and if he hadn't got shot in Korea he'd have won that. He says all kinds of bullshit. I'm not going into the military after I graduate. I don't give a shit what he says. As soon as I graduate, I'm going back to Oklahoma to run my pop's company eventually.
"The only reason I'm here is 'cause pop think it'll teach me how to give orders. As far as I'm concerned, sir, I'm here to get a damn diploma and get out. I don't like fairy faggot queers, but I don't care about 'em either. I just want to stay away from 'em. So I can't tell you who's queer, because I'm not looking for 'em."
"Well, that makes enough sense," the deputy said.
"My roommates know I don't care," the cadet added. "One of them goes after me about being queer myself because of it, but I ignore it. Between visiting my girl in Oklahoma, beatin' off, and going to Three-Finger's place, I get by. Everything else is bullshit."
The deputy let out a laugh.
"I think we just about exhausted the subject a-queers," he said.
"Yes sir," Clay answered, hoping the matter was closed.
"So as long as they keep to themselves, it's enough for you," the deputy said.
"Yes sir," he replied. "They ought to behave. If they don't, it's their problem, not mine."
The deputy turned on the car's radio, much to the cadet's relief. A country-western station's cowboy songs filled the air along with the deputy's cigar smoke. The deputy changed the subject, and the cadet found himself telling the Man about his hometown in Oklahoma, and his favorite pastimes, riding his horse and competing in the occasional rodeo.
"Part of me would like to be on the circuit with the cowboys," he said. "It's a free life, just going from rodeo to rodeo. Great bunch of guys. Before I came down here we'd all get drunk together in the summers, and I really miss it. Of course, pop's right about it not being any kind of life, but sometimes I wonder."
The deputy looked toward the cadet and grinned.
"Yer old Man taught ya how to obey yer elders," he said, mischievously.
"I suppose so, sir," he said, mournfully. "But I know he knows what's best. I'll have a good life up there."
They'd been driving for an hour, having gone through the county seat and past the military base on the other side, the deputy mentioning that he was a Marine Corps reservist there. The car slowed, and turned into a driveway.
"Another stop," he said. "I haven't had nothin' to eat since noon. Another one-a the deputies lives here and he promised to cook up a pot a-chili. Beer in the fridge fer you. Chili if ya want."
The cadet politely refused the offer of the meal. He'd eaten at the academy before going to the bar and was full, but he'd welcome the beer. The patrol car pulled up to a fence at the end of a long driveway, and it opened automatically.
"It's way back here," he said. "Deputy Gilroy's here, but everyone calls him Brick. That'd be sir or Deputy Brick to you, and sir or Deputy Jake to me."
"Yes sir," he said, accustomed to the formality but complimented by the invitation to use a first name. "Deputy Jake."
They pulled into the driveway, next to where a big Harley Davidson police motorcycle was parked.
"Deputy Brick was on motor patrol today," he said. "Loves that stallion a-his."
The deputy parked the car and opened his door, automatically unlocking the cadet's door, enabling him to get out. As he was admiring the motorcycle, he heard a loud voice.
"Howdy Jake!" it said. "I see ya finally tracked down Clay Thompson. Find him at Three-Finger's joint like I told ya?"
"Yep," the deputy said.
"Well come on in," Deputy Brick said. "Chili's on, oughtta be ready in a little while. I just got back a half-hour ago. Clayton, ya want any chili?"
"No thanks, sir," he replied. "Texas chili's too spicy for me. Besides, I had dinner already."
"Still time to make ya a hot dog if ya want, then," the deputy said. "Wouldn't be no problem."
"That wouldn't be bad, uh, Deputy Brick," he said.
"Okey-doke, I'll throw one in a pot a-water," he said.
The cadet took a look at the deputy, and did a double take. He was the good-looking Man dressed in plain clothes who had twice warned him to stay away from a highway pullout. Now he was in uniform, and Clayton wondered whether the deputy remembered him.
This Man stood a bit taller than Deputy Jake, and was wider too. His uniform – consisting of thick tan motorcycle pants with a wide brown stripe tucked into boots that gleamed in spite of a day's worth of accumulated road grime, a tan shirt open at the collar, a Sam Browne duty belt with a sidearm – was breathtaking. It seemed to stretch in every direction with muscles bulging out underneath. The crotch of the trousers was filled out in an almost lewd way, his dick clearly hanging to the right.
The motorcycle cop turned and walked toward the back of the large living and dining room. Clay couldn't help following the movement of his massive legs and ass, which jerked back and forth roughly as the Man walked and the disappeared into the kitchen. The smell of the chili wafted through the space, and he heard the clatter of a pot being retrieved and then filled with water.
"They're big dogs, so I'll make ya one unless ya tell me ya want two," the Man called out.
"One's enough, sir, thanks," the cadet said.
"I got beers back here or Jack Daniel's," he said. "Ya ain't gonna be drivin' so if ya want some Jack now's yer chance."
"Jack Daniels would be great sir," he said, walking back toward the kitchen so he could get another look. Cabinet and refrigerator doors opened, and soon he was holding a drink and eating potato chips.
"So ya bunk with Jake's kid cousin Hank," he said, his tone easy. "He says you like to go ridin' when ya get the chance. We was all ranch kids, ya know."
"Yes sir," the cadet replied. "'Hank's good on a horse. Natural born cowboy, I'd say."
"He tells me ya would just as soon be a rodeo rider if ya had yer way," the deputy said, dropping a big sausage into water that was now boiling away.
The liquor was loosening all three of them, and the cadet felt himself relaxing.
"Well, kinda, sir," he said. "Always liked the idea of a cowboy life on the road, but it doesn't really fit with the plan, I guess."
They chatted some more about riding and rodeos, and Clay noticed that the motorcycle deputy had tuned into the same country-western station the other deputy had played in the car. He felt at ease with the Men, but also on guard so as not to be caught
looking at their bodies or holding eye contact too long. He'd trained himself to conceal his sexual interest, but with these deputies it was a challenge.
The food was ready and they sat down, the motorcycle deputy pouring the cadet a little more liquor and adding some water from a glass he'd brought out.
"Clay here was askin' me about Clark Branson's car," the other deputy said. "Apparently it's gotten around the academy that it was found, but no one there knows the whole story."
"Ya fill him in?" Brick asked.
"Yep," Jake replied. "I'll save a little time and tell ya that Clay here didn't know about the queer side of it neither. And he don't know of any faggots at the academy. He don't pay any attention to that."
"Damn shame, anyway," Brick said to the other deputy. "Dang queers, ya know, half of 'em just don't know how to get along with Men. They get a taste of a Man's pecker and they forget how to behave. They get out of control."
"I'm surprised by all of it," the cadet lied. "A few cadets thought Clark Branson was a queer, but I never paid attention to it, sir."
"We tried to tell him," Brick said. "Ya know, all that Clarky needed was a Man or two to keep him in line. Yer average queer that we run into 'round here would pretty much do anything to keep a Man happy. But they got to know their place."
"What's that, sir?" the cadet asked. The booze and the motorcycle deputy's gravelly voice had eroded his judgment, and he was interested in knowing what a real Man would want. "I mean, their place and all."
"Well, yer queer has got to do what he's told and keep hisself under control," Brick said. "Keep his eyes to himself and his hands off his dick, and do whatever he's told. It's fer their own protection, 'specially in these parts. If they can't get 'er done, there'll be hell to pay eventually. If he's behaved, a Man'll give him a taste every now 'n again."
The cadet could feel himself getting uncomfortable, and said nothing.
"That Clarky, he'd a been lucky if he'd a-found someone like yer roommates," Brick continued. "But I guess Clarky's loss is yer own gain, Clayton."
All at once, the effect of the alcohol cleared. He'd been caught in his lie.
"Um, sir?" he asked, startled.
"Ya heard him, Clayton," Deputy Jake said. "My cousin and yer other roommate will keep an eye on ya so ya don't wind up like Clark Branson."
"W-w-what do you mean?" the cadet stammered, nearly choking on his hot dog. "Do you think I'm queer? Because I'm not, sir!"
"Then explain this," Deputy Jake replied, shoving a manila folder across the table. "Come on, take a look inside."
His hand shaking, he opened the folder. There was a picture of him on his knees, wearing his cadet uniform, sucking a Man's dick. He breathed rapidly.
"Keep lookin'," Jake ordered. The cadet flipped through more pictures. He was giving a blowjob, and in one he was naked on all fours, getting pounded from the rear.
"Where d-d-did you g-g-get ..." he said weakly, his voice trailing off. He could feel his guts turning to mush as he realized he'd been photographed the one time he sucked a Man's dick at Three-Finger Buck's place, and let the same Man screw his ass.
Jake reached into his pocket and retrieved a slip of paper and handed it to him.
"Kurt gave me this note tonight," he said. "Read it out loud."
The cadet looked at the content of the note. He tried to speak, but couldn't. He reached for his drink, and took a big gulp.
"Read it, Clayton," Deputy Brick said, firmly. With great effort, he complied.
"The-the-the cadet," he started, "the cadet's stared at yer balls the whole time you were fixin your light bar. He is queer as the day is long."
Brick chuckled and spoke.
"Oh yeah, and ya been seen near every week trollin' at Penrose Park, or at one a-the highway pullouts," he said. "Ya been outta control, and that's gonna stop."
"And I tried to tell ya to stay away from the pull-outs," Brick said. "Was in civilian clothes and warned ya two different nights. Ya didn't listen."
No one said anything, and the only sound in the room was the deputies spoons scraping the bowls that held their chili. At last, Brick got up and spoke to the other deputy.
"More chili, Jake?" he asked.
"Nah, I'm about done," he replied. "Good as always, Brick. Thanks."
"Gonna finish that hot dog, Clayton?" the deputy asked. The boy was slumped over the table, humiliated.
"No thank you, sir," he mumbled, his voice barely audible.
The Man took the bowls and plates and silverware away, and the cadet could hear them placed on a countertop.
"Come in and here and do the dishes, Clayton," the deputy called out. The cadet looked up, startled, and saw that Jake had been studying him.
"Go on," the deputy said. "The dishes still gotta get done."
"Yes sir," he replied, unable to meet Jake's eyes. He rose from the table and went into the kitchen. As the gigantic Deputy Brick showed him where everything was, the cadet spoke.
"I guess Deputy Jake didn't come get me to take me for an accident investigation," he said, with resignation.
"You'd a-guessed right," Brick replied. "We got other matters to deal with tonight. Come on out when yer done. We'll be out back, havin' a smoke. Better pour yerself another Jack Daniel's. Might relax ya."