My Lone Husky Sire Ch. 01 of 04

The sun shining amongst the cluster of heavy white clouds. Sitting on a park bench, Greg waddled through square, rigid cases of books, bibles, and art supplies, holding below his navel discretely the latest book he picked up this week from the local book store, a fantasy romance if you believe it. The great, rotund but subtly toned country bear of a man lumbers to a corner reading nook, thinking he saw a more postmodern colored couple catch what he grabbed.

Hiding things. His desires. Et cetera. The title of the novel?

Chocolate Will Melt in Our Sun, by

tagline:

Gregory Thompson's marriage fell apart. His wife found him not engaging anymore. It's one thing if, you know, Linda had just said that their marriage was boring, but it turns out they caught her watching lots of videos about black stars, black sportsmen, and black boxers dominating in the ring. It hurt, his massive hands clenched the novel tightly.

Being honest, Greg didn't want to buy... this. Trash. But was it considered trash by him just because of how a lot of new kids in town spoke about, erm. Were they called socialities? Sock ologies? Something about the movement of modern social norms.

He shrugs, begins flipping through some pages, old grey brown eyes darting in a horizontal arc now and then to make sure nobody he knew saw him.

What sexy scenes. Oh, there's one where a teacher has it with a mulatto progressive... a "hands on" play of the old "righteous southern relationship dynamics?"

"Gosh darnit by god's mighty pecs," Gregory breathed. He had to shift the front of his jeans, which betrayed what always turned him on. Linda... well, she'd gotten bored of him, too. But he wouldda lived with that.

He couldn't live with her beginning color commentating on multiracial boxing matches. The scent of a horrendously spiced latte from some blue haired girl (or was it a boy with titties, he wondered and growled) took his mind back into a half opaque recalling of a memory in their ranch kitchen.

Linda had started wearing jeans not too long ago, and she resembled a literature teacher at the new bachelor university where he'd noticed she was teaching a lot of... out of teens adults that weren't exactly proper adults for his Arkansas town. And she'd cut her hair to a crew cut. He quipped once she couldn't do that cause she never Served, Jesus Stag.

"Linda, you could at least represent the good old Confederacy, our strong Native men. And what was with that last match? You talked about how that one black boxer just completely did it to one of our young studs," Greg said. Sad.

His wife.

... Linda. The less wrinkled "more fulfilled" femme I loved smirked up at me.

"Most of our people. Sorry, Lord."

"God ain't want those 'pologies, dear-"

Linda cut him off. "Boxing is now, mostly, a poor man's sport. And how'd we set up this nation and most of the red states? Yes, we have a lot of colored people struggling in the inner cities. And it turns out, their drive to survive - thrive, is conducive to making ways to get out of poverty. Boxing rings are a fundamental part of those regions, and many negros get into them. Hell, they'll come out better, making lives for themselves."

Greg opened his mouth, then was stumped. Linda quipped at her shoulder, "Young men. Not negros. Gosh, I gotta meet with the pastor and give my condolences about leaving the church too."

"Linda."

Someone's quip snaps daddy out of his reverie. He'd dropped the book, cover and backing up.

A man probably eight years younger than him. Either Texan tanned or a mostly white man with some negro or Indian blood, but someone... he could be comfy with.

Well, if they could keep their political and religious views managed.

"You got that risque itch, eh, sha?" the new man said. Wow, he was gorgeous and even more southern than Greg!

The two spoke, moved over to the cafe - the man, Jacques or Jackson, as they - He, thank Christ so simple; he'd introduced himself as so. Greg didn't imagine a reason why the stunning male would lie, either. Jackson held the book and didn't at all seem skittish or ashamed of it. He dressed sort of in pastels and like one of the young'un college eggheads that talked high about ideology and secular dung, but still didn't seem pretentious or lord any strange knowledge over Greg. The air got colder, too, and Greg liked that. He was susceptible to heat strokes, courtesy of some diagnosis by a psychiatrist that put him on what he was sure were just sugar pills.

As Jacques ordered and the husky bachelor watched and listened to his mannerisms, he realized that his hopefully new associate gave off domineering film producer vibes. Or was some chief stagehand, maybe even a strong and no-bullshit sort like on that show with the mixed drag queens. Something called Ruu's Drag Race.

"You aren't gonna ditch me cause I got a gal's latte?" he asked, giggling. "And here. Simple 'murricano with turbinado sugar. It's better than the splenda I know you probably dump in your java, big sir!"

Gred, dumbfounded, whispered, "... how'd ya know?" He shook his head, and hid away twitches of pleasure from the corner of his mouth. My, if they were at his ranch and the lanky boy had asked for some bitch's spiced latte.... Mmm! Like old papa, he'd drag his creamed ass out and throw hands with Jackson like in the 80s, fisticuffs. But it's whatever, the male treated him to coffee and so far was a hoot to holler with!

"Secret knowledge!"

They chatted more outside, passing by and commenting on street building murals and the aging building Greg grew alongside the past twent'eight years. All with Linda and his now deceased parents, uncles, aunts. He was alone in this world.

"Hey did you know that gentleman, sha?"

Gregory smiled, a warm and non-taut one that was hard to pull off. He lightly punched Jackson's forearm with soft knuckles and gazed at the mural of Harland Dean the Tamale Man, a major figure in Arkansas history, Harrison and Conway.

"That there was a right ole sport!" Greg mouthed, no resentment lacing his words at all. The tall, lanky form of a hard working black man, vertical face with features and a big ole smile drawn back to massive ears like a derpy donkey, looked down on him. To Greg, even though the gentleman was also in the good ole soil with his blood family, Harland never truly died. He walked at their shoulders, like Jesus and Peter. Well, when Peter wasn't keeping the bad folks away from the Lord's pearly gates.

"I'd say I'd eaten plenty of tams, but with all the Nor'leans food I gorged on like fried lobster beignets and such, I could hardly have any, boy!"

"Heh, I'm just glad that good sport got up here from Texas," Gregory responded. "You got an eye for the rye types, taking it?"

"Elaborate, sir?" Jackson shot back a... coy smile? Something more than just you'd give to a stranger.