The Sunday Club

By: Nicholas Hall
(© 2022 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

nhall@tickiestories.us

Chapter 13
 

“There was a job fair, you know one of those vocational days at school. Students are supposed to walk around, take a look at the booths, ask questions, and use what they saw and learned to help them discover what type of job they wanted in the future. I saw a guy walking around with his hard cock sticking out of his pants. He slowly stroked it as I walked by. I stopped and asked him what he was doing. He said he was going to be an undertaker and was going to practice burying a stiff! I followed him to the restroom and let him practice.”

High school, overall, was really a great time for us. We enjoyed our classes, the many activities, our outside work, hunting, fishing, each other, and going to Johnny’s stuff as well! None of us were at the top of the class academically, but we weren’t at the bottom either. Mostly “B” and some “C” and some “A.” It was a time we really started to discover ourselves and where we might go throughout our lives. We were learning to as we worked alongside other members of the original Sunday Club members and had out talents and abilities encouraged by them and some really great teachers. For example, an art teacher took note of Sketch’s ability to draw, paint, and photograph and encouraged him, helping him develop his talent. Working on the river with Sling, Neil Moore, and Ernie Olson, gave him opportunity and experience, observing nature and other people, and working it into his art.

Buzz and Mooch were our mechanics and bicycle repair people Working in Vinnie’s garage, helping Mr. Williams with the books, and working in the Bike Shop, along with some great Industrial Arts teachers setting them on their paths.

Hardy, Skeeter, and I knew we loved the restaurant business. Hardy and I took Business classes, such as bookkeeping, accounting, and general business, while Skeeter was fortunate enough to be admitted to some Culinary Arts classes (Home Economics- unheard of for boys in those days).

And, of course, there was Johnny, finding his own way, but loved by all of us!

Most of all, we loved each other’s company; fishing, hunting, staying at Tallywackers, and just being together, sometimes literally!

What a band of misfits, finding, knowing we just fit well together! 

 *******

Toward the end of October, our Sophomore year, several of us were spending the weekend at Tallywackers, enjoying a rather spectacular weekend of duck hunting!

There was no school on Friday, some teacher conference as I remember. It really made no difference except it did allow all of to gather and enjoy a hunt. All of us came down in the big river boat along with our duffle, guns, and heavy hunting clothes. Johnny preferred not to go along. As much as he enjoyed eating duck, squirrel, pheasants, quail, and other game, he wasn’t keen on killing them. Fish, yes; other critters, no! Just not his cup of tea, so to speak.

 *******

Hardy’s butt was pressed up against my crotch, my still pulsing cock spewing and dribbling the last of my load deep in his inner sanctum! God, I did love him so much! It was the second time since we crawled into bed the evening we arrived at Tallywackers. It was a bed we shared with Skeeter and Skip (Terry Jennings). Terry was the newest addition to our little band of brothers and a welcome one, especially for Skeeter. A glance over Hardy’s (now sleeping soundly) shoulder, revealed Skip slowly fucking Skeeter. How Skeeter handled that massive cock, I’ll never know, considering how small he was, but he did- willingly and without complaint. Let’s face it; Skeeter was a real cockhound!

Hardy was the first to point out, the evening before, the flights of ducks in the air and dropping into the large array of decoys we had out as well at the backwaters.

“Looks like the Northern ducks are coming down,” Hardy observed.

If so, we figured it would be a great shoot, young ducks and decoyable. We made a quick check, with binoculars, of the decoys set out in the wide slough and point off of the main river channel where we hunt. There were about two hundred to two hundred fifty mixed mallard, bluebills, and canvas back decoys out, bobbing up and down on the water. In those days, we put decoys out when season started and took them out when sheet ice began forming. Sheet ice would sweep decoys away and it’d be a bitch trying to locate them all.  Nobody seemed inclined to steal them in those days, so the decoys stayed out all season (until ice up).

We’d sorted out our gear and bed space. There were three beds in the room we usually occupied and eight of us, so one bed would have to hold four. No problem! The manner in which Hardy and I slept would provide plenty of room for Skeeter and Skip.

Before crapping out for the night, we drew straws for what blinds we’d use the next morning. There were three; the main blind (with the majority of decoys) and a scull boat; the blind near the confluence of another smaller, but damn good, river and the big river with about one hundred decoys and a scull boat and; a stationary blind on Albert’s Pond, a nice backwater on property owned by Uncle Lou. He bought the property from Albert Prudhouse, hence the name of the backwater. The property had a small shack there, but it fell into disrepair. The pond was a haven for mallards, early season teal, wooducks, and pintails. Pintails, along with mallards, are great eating ducks. Once the pond begins to freeze over, the ducks abandon it. Uncle Lou left a small flat boat near the blind to use for setting out decoys and retrieving downed ducks.

Hardy and I drew Albert’s Pond, which was fine as far as we were concerned. With the northern flight on, the location should be alive with ducks. Skeeter and Skip, along with Buzz and Mooch, ended up in the main blind, and Sketch and Sling drew the down river blind. Hardy and I filled our limit of mallards and pintails and peppered the shit out of a couple of flocks of bluewing teal. Don’t remember how many, but definitely over our limit.

We switched at noon and ended up in the main blind, with Skeeter, Skip, Buzz and Mooch going to the river blind and Sketch and Sling to Albert’s Pond. It was a great day.

******* 

As I watched Skip’s flexing butt, thrusting slowly in short strokes, bringing them both closer to orgasm, I reflected on how and when Skip joined up with us and hooked up with Skeeter. To say “hooked up” is really an understatement since it seems more like conjoined cock to butt would be appropriate. With a soft grunt, Skip unloaded!

A week before school started, Uncle Lou asked Hardy and me to come over. He allowed he had a big favor to ask of us.

He sort of hemmed and hawed as he sat behind his desk with us on chairs in front of it, struggling how to present what it was he wished to say to us.

Finally, with a sigh, he said, “You know Pudge’s family originally came from Louisiana- the New Orleans area. Right?

Well, we really didn’t know and yet we did know Pudge and Uncle Lou were friends, really close friends like forever and every year, around the time Lent would start, before Easter, Pudge would take the train south to New Orleans to attend something called the “Mardi Gras” and spend some time with relatives. They were mainly cousins since his parents and grandparents were long gone. I guess there was a bunch of cousins since Pudge once said his family, the breeders, bred like rabbits! Uncle Lou thought he really met they fucked like minks and produced babies like rabbits.

Pudge’s great-grandmother, a free woman of color, raped by a white man, produced a daughter, Pudge’s grandmother. She also had another eight or ten children by her marriage to a free man of color, a light-toned man of mixed race, who would hardly qualify as “colored.” As a result of various marriages, Pudge arrived, light-skinned toned, almost Mediterranean in skin tone.

As mentioned, his cousins were numerous and, apparently, Pudge enjoyed their company and they him. Hence, his yearly visits.

“Well,” Uncle Lou continued, piquing our interest even more, “Pudge left three days ago and will be back in another,” looking at his calendar, “in another two days. I’d like you boys to go with me to meet the train.”

Perplexed, concerned something was wrong with Pudge, with worry evident in my voice, I sought the answer to why.

“Uncle Lou! Is something wrong with Pudge?’

“Oh, no! Not to worry. He’s just fine, but he’s bringing someone with him.”

“Like a ‘someone who’? queried Hardy, somewhat apprehensive.

“His cousin’s son, Terrance Jennings. They call him Skip and he’s your age.”

Pudge, during one of his yearly visits to Louisiana years before, discovered his favorite cousin and his wife birthed a son. They named the boy Clarence. The son became a favorite of Pudge’s, not sexually, but because the young lad took an immediate liking to him. Pudge watched him grow and develop into a fine intelligent and relatively handsome young man.

Clarence married at seventeen, with Pudge as one of his groomsman and within a short time (there was a bun in the oven when Clarence married his childhood sweetheart) they had a son, young Terrance, using Pudge’s middle name and asked Pudge to be his god-father. He, of course, was proud and happy to do so.

I interrupted Uncle Lou at this point. “I never knew Pudge’s middle name was Terrance.”

“Most people up here don’t,” he explained. “Back in Louisiana, all his relatives call him “Rance,” shortening Terrance  to “Rance”- he really prefers it.”

At any rate, with war looming, Pudge made a promise to his young cousin, if anything would happen, Pudge would make certain he’d always help out and happily do what he must to ensure young Terry would be taken care of.

Something did happen! Cousin Clarence was drafted in 1943 and sent to Europe. He was wounded just prior to War’s end and died, after being sent home in a hospital ship, some six months later in an army hospital.

Pudge’s yearly visit became twice a year and sometimes more often and he made some sort of monthly contribution to his cousin’s widow to help with the care and raising of young Terrance. The past couple of years Pudge made a total of eight trips south, not counting the current visit.

“What happened?” I asked curious to know why the trips increased.

“Pudge’s cousin’s widow remarried,” Uncle Lou admitted, “and Terrance and he didn’t quite see eye-to-eye on some things. Terrance requested to go live with his “Uncle Rance” and it was granted. Apparently, the situation was not good! Pudge wanted him out of there and with us.”

“Us” now meant living in Uncle Lou’s bigger house. Pudge moved in two years previously and there were still two bedrooms left in the four-bedroom house.

“Is he a city kid?”

“He’s from a small town somewhere in a rural area near New Orleans or in the Bayou country; I’m not certain.”

“What do you want us to do, Uncle Lou?” I asked.

“Go with me to meet the train and then after he’s settled in, introduce him to your friends, help him find his way at school, you know, treat him like one of you guys.”

“You know Johnny will want to come along,” I offered.

“Absolutely, bring him along! Terrance may well find out from the first we’re a different bunch here in Frenchtown.”

The train from New Orleans was an overnight and arrived around eight in the morning. We waited on the platform as passengers de-trained. Finally, Pudge and a rather tall, maybe six foot or so, teen stepped out of a car and onto the platform. Walking toward us, a suit-case in each hand, the dark-haired, lightly tanned, tall and lanky teen boy stopped in front of us.

Pudge greeted Uncle Lou and proceeded to introduce the young teen. “This is Terrance, Terry Jennings. He goes by Skip.”

Turning to the teen, Skip, “This is Lou Thompson, Uncle Lou to most, and where we will live.”

Skip shook Uncle Lou’s hand and sort of muttered a “hello!”

“He’s a bit shy,” apologized Pudge, noting how Skip, when shaking Uncle Lou’s hand, was soft-spoken and put his head down.

Shy, my ass, I thought. He wouldn’t say “Shit” if he had a mouthful of it!

I really got a good look at him, noting he was taller than me, slim waisted, narrow hips, long fingers, not muscular like an athlete, curly hair close cropped, but not buzzed, dark eyes, not bad looking, but not “pretty” if you know what I mean. In other words, better looking than most, but not exceptionally so. I know I shouldn’t have thought it at the time, but he really looked “fuckable.”

Taking the lead, I introduced myself, “Billy Thompson- Uncle Lou’s nephew,” and turned to Johnny, who was standing just behind me, “my brother, Johnny Marchetti” and, making a point putting an arm around Hardy, “my boyfriend Eddie Hartman – goes by the name of Hardy.”

Skip sort of nodded, looked at me strangely, but made no effort to shake hands.

“I’ll bet you’re tired,” I announced, “Hardy, take one bag and I’ll take the other,” and we relieved him of his luggage. Johnny grabbed my other hand, looked at Skip, pulled me lower, and whispered, “He’s tall!”

I suppose Skip was a bit intimidating to Johnny, quite a bit shorter!

“Yeah,” I whispered back, “but pretty harmless I think.”

A station worker, pushing a cart with several boxes on it, wondered where he should take them, and Uncle Lou merely said, “Follow us!”

Reaching the car, with the boxes stowed in the trunk, Pudge climbed in the front seat, Hardy, Skip, Johnny, and I sat in the back. Johnny clambered onto my lap and settled in, his eyes seemed to be locked on Skip. Johnny looked up at me, smiled, and then yawned!

He’d spent the night with Hardy and me at my house and slept, sort of, between the two of us. He chattered off and on for a good hour telling us of his new friends, one of which was a girl he seemed to take a fancy to.

“She’s much younger than me,” he announced.

“How old?” Hardy inquired, curious now concerning Johnny’s relationship with the opposite sex.

“Much younger,” Johnny confessed, “maybe seven or eight.”

Of course she was much younger; after all Johnny would be nine soon. Really an old man I should think. Before I could comment, Johnny added,

“She doesn’t have any hair around her, you know!” pointing at his crotch.

I hesitated too long in asking how he knew because he crawled up on top of me, his favorite place to fall asleep, and nodded off.

Johnny did the same on the car ride; snuggled up against me, and fell asleep.

“Looks like our Johnny is plum-tuckered out. He stayed up late and got up early,” Hardy said. “Had a dickens of a time waking him this morning, didn’t we, Billy?”

Skip’s head turned our way when he heard Hardy, saw me give Johnny a kiss on the forehead, and yet, said nothing. However, the look in his eyes betrayed a loneliness, a longing to have, if I wasn’t mistaken, something Hardy and I had, a love for each other!

It might appear Skip was indifferent to his surroundings but he didn’t seem to miss a thing. Aware of every turn, every major store, street, or feature, knowing where he’d been- just in case! Without indicating he was doing so, he also paid close attention to every word passing between Hardy and me, as well as Uncle Lou and Pudge. Skip was  a teen boy who knew it was wise to keep an eye over his shoulder and keep his options open! I gathered he had some reason to be so wary and cautious. Only time would tell!

Uncle Lou stopped at my house, let Hardy, Johnny (now awake), and me there along with a request from Pudge for us to come over their house later on.

“I got a better idea!” I proposed. “Why don’t we come back a little before lunch. You and Uncle Lou have to go back to work, right? We’ll take Skip to lunch at “Uncle Lou’s.”

That was fine with Uncle Lou and Pudge, although Johnny opted out since his grandparents were taking him shopping for school clothes.

Hardy and I walked to Uncle Lou’s house, rapped on the door, and Pudge answered, admitting us

“He’s upstairs,” Pudge responded to our unasked question, waving a hand toward the stairway. “I’m going to work now you guys are here. Mrs. Taylor, with the help of a couple of college guys and Skeeter are getting the lunch crowd started. Tonight’s Wing Ding night so I’m really needed for the prep.”

“Not to worry, Uncle Pudge,” I responded, “or should we call you Uncle Rance?”

“Makes no difference; I’ll answer to both,” and out the door he went.

We bounded up the stairs and located Skip’s room, rapped on the door frame, and walked in after hearing a faint, almost shy invitation to enter.

He was standing by the bed, both suitcases open, as well as the dresser drawers silently waiting for whatever he had to place in them. Once glance told me he was one organized and particular individual. Everything had a place and everything in its place. No disorganized messy dresser drawers with multiple items tossed into the same drawer. Nope, no socks, underwear, and jeans in the same drawer with handkerchiefs for him!

Hardy made a quick visual inspection around the room and closet, noting Skip’s clothes were well-worn and light-weight, nothing yet for late Fall and Winter weather. He walked over to the single pedestal desk situated near a window. On one corner of the desk was a picture of a young man in uniform, and a young lady holding a small child.

“You, your father, and mom?” Hardy asked.

“Yeah! Daddy got drafted before he- - -you know-died!”

On the dresser there were two pictures; one of the same man in uniform and the other of the young lady.

“Handsome parents,” I said praising them, “and a handsome son!”

Skip just blushed and sort of tilted his head down.

“Want some help?” I volunteered.

“Thanks, but I’m about done,” Skip responded.

Hardy raised an eyebrow and waggled a finger at Skip. “Wouldn’t let him anyway if I were you. His dresser is a disaster! It takes me an hour sometimes to get everything organized, and you know what? The next time I spend the night, he’s got it all fucked up again!”

Skip grinned and sort of snorted!

“Don’t pay attention to him,” I half joked. “He’s just jealous cause I’m better looking!”

“But I’m the better kisser!” Hardy rejoined.

May as well get the subject out in the open, I thought at the time.

Skip was really quiet, before asking, with some trepidation, “Are you two, you know, boyfriends?”

“Yeah!” I replied, “but we’re real careful outside our own little group and Frenchtown in general. There are those who think queers are to be bashed or arrested. Don’t look forward to that so we keep our lives pretty low-key and private.”

“What’s Frenchtown?”

“That’s what this part of the city is called, but enough for now. We’re here to take you to lunch. We can hash all of this over burgers and fries at “Uncle Lou’s” restaurant and bar.”

“Treats on Billy!” Hardy volunteered.

“Grab a light jacket,” I advised. “May be cool on the deck at “Uncle Lou’s”.

As we walked to “Uncle Lou’s,” some three or four blocks from the house, I pointed out the various landmarks, street names, and bus route so he’d have some familiarity with his surroundings, although it appeared he’d be fairly reliant on us to guide him around.

“Don’t know the size of the town you came from, but I think smaller than this; right?”

Skip nodded, acknowledging the small community where he’d lived had about two thousand population.

“We lived on the very edge of town on a small acreage. Pretty quiet, except for the gators roaring some nights!”

Now that got Hardy’s attention!

“You mean like alligators? Those critters with humungous teeth and long tails? I hear they can swallow a hog whole!”

“Yep! The same! Not bad to eat though, if young enough!”

Hardy just screwed up his face in disgust at the thought of eating such a critter, changing the subject, as we walked into “Uncle Lou’s” and seated ourselves on the deck. A table waiter quickly appeared, took our orders, and scooted back to the kitchen.

Skip spent a few minutes looking the place over. Apparently impressed what he saw in the inside and definitely impressed with the view of the big river from the deck.

“Your accent is strange, not really southern but something else!” Hardy paused, seeking an answer from Skip.

“It’s what you’d probably call Cajun-Creole. There’s a lot of French Creole in our area and you pick the language up. French, at least our brand of French, is spoken as much as English. Every kid is raised learning both.”

Switching gears, Skip offered, “Uncle Rance spent a great deal of time on the train explaining what this area is like, I think sort of a closed community within the bigger city; keeping things pretty much to themselves. Not unlike our area, I might add.”

“Yeah,” I admitted, “We’re a mix of all sorts of people with varied backgrounds, heritage, and so on. There are those who carry a lot of baggage, with not-so legal backgrounds, and those with a past no one talks about. We just accept each other for what we are, no more, no less. It’s how we treat each other that counts. Uncle Lou is sort of the unofficial mayor or leader here. If you want something done, a favor, a problem solved, you go to Lou Thompson. His really tight group of close friends call themselves “The Sunday Club”. He and Pudge, Uncle Rance to you, are the originals. They settled here before Frenchtown was Frenchtown. They’re really a great group and take care of us in our version of the Sunday Club and include us in theirs. Without them, there are times we’d be lost.”

Skip just nodded, confirming what Pudge told him on the train.

“So, what really brought you here?”

It was bold of me and rude, I suppose, to outright ask, but what the hell, there aren’t any real secrets in Frenchtown. “We heard you had a falling out with your mom’s second husband- your step-father.”

“Pretty much!”

“Care to say what, exactly?”

Skip hesitated, mulling over in his mind his response.

“Well,” he started, “Melvin, that’s my step-father, said a ‘ju ju’ woman,” quickly explaining when he noticed eyebrows raised, “that’s a woman who’s a voodoo lady. Sort of a witch type. I guess she was a priestess, one of the more powerful ones. Anyway, she told him I was bad blood, not normal- someone who’d bring misfortune to his house, so he told me to pack my bags and leave.”

“Why the hell would someone say that or even believe it?”

Hardy and I looked at him, anticipating and expecting an answer; something that would embellish the tale and explain his presence.

“You see,” he explained, “people believe the voodoo lady can cast spells, tell the future, and is very powerful. Don’t want to cross the voodoo lady.”

Skip’s answer was interrupted as Skeeter bounded out of the kitchen balancing three huge plates containing “Uncle Lou’s” famous burgers and fries. Right behind him, the table waiter settled our sodas on the table.

Skeeter stopped, suddenly becoming shy, quite unlike him as he fixed his gaze on the new guy – Skip!

“Hi!” Skeeter murmured softly to Skip. “I’m Skeeter- well, my real name is Danny Taylor, but people call me Skeeter cause I’m not very big.”

To be continued...

Posted: 06/10/2022