Storyville Read online

  Storyville

  Copyright 2014 Caldon Mull

  Published by Caldon Mull at Smashwords

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  Storyville... is a work of fiction, any resemblance of any character to any person, alive or dead is entirely coincidental. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue - October, 2000

  Part One - The First Chakra

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part Two - The Fourth Chakra

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Part Three - The Seventh Chakra

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Epilogue - December, 2007

  About Caldon Mull

  Other books by Caldon Mull

  Connect with Caldon Mull

  Acknowledgements

  I do wish to thank two people in particular for assisting me with this work. I have consulted with Sexologists in the GLBT domain to ensure that the message in Storyville is a sex-positive one, and that throughout the novel the natural and healing nature of sexual activity, and the subsequent increase in self-esteem and social regard needed to be reinforced.

  Despite the nature of the subject material and despite the conditions that the characters find themselves expressing their sexuality in, Storyville is a fictional tale. All characters depicted in Storyville are over eighteen years old, and adult.

  As such, and in so saying, I do not condone Unsafe sexual practices, non-consensual sexual activities or illegal minor involvement in any sexual activity. I am satisfied that this message is clear and would like to thank first and foremost Avri Drewnicki at CtrlAltSex for her assistance. I would also like to acknowledge the late Yvette Wray for the proof reading, the positivity and encouragement that she contributed to the work.

  Prologue - October, 2000

  I got this manuscript hand-delivered to me from my good friend Acey. I mean… Acey isn’t his name, but I’ve been calling him that long enough to just keep slipping every now and then. I guess he likes ‘Andy’ now… but ‘Acey’ and ‘Andy’, it’s still my guy. See, he’s been ‘AC’ all the time I’ve known him. He’s always hated his name and not to this day has he ever told me. I reckon it’s really awful, but ‘AC’ became ‘Acey’ and his Folks always called him that around me. I’ve known him since we were six years old. There’s a story in that, and I suppose I gotta tell it to you if you want the whole picture.

  Ummm… I guess I’m not making sense, even to myself. I mean, I know what ‘AC’ stands for now but hadn’t until I got the delivery. I’m more rattled than I thought.

  Man, oh man… I just gotta get a grip on this. I’m Pete, by the way. Peter Jefferson Hawks. I’m a CA in Los Angeles and I guess Acey… ummm I mean… Andy calls me ‘Pinball Petey’ because I collect them, pinball machines. I could tell you a whole lot about them, but I thought I knew Andy until I read his Manuscript. Now I don’t know what to think…

  I guess I gotta tell you some of the things before Andy throws you into the deep end with where he starts writing. I think that’s what I’m supposed to do here, although he never told me and never warned me about sending all this stuff through. There was a note attached to the Manuscript in his handwriting that says: “One day, when it’s OK… Just tell me that you read this. Thanks, Andy.”

  But if you get to read it through, you don’t get to see him as I know him. I mean it’s still him, but you might think, y’know… that it’s not. Darn it, I’m biting my nails again. I guess I gotta tell you about how it was like when we were growing up and at college before he left with June for Storyville. Maybe that’s why he sent it through… and maybe not. It is always difficult to tell with Andy. I guess I’ve gotta do what I need to do to make some sense of this for me, even if it is Andy’s diary… or whatever it is.

  Actually, I think I do know what it is. I remember his father telling him and me one day that it was sometimes better to write letters to yourself, than not to let anyone know anything about what you’re thinking and who you are. I remember his Dad was always writing in his study when we would come in from school, and he had this big ol’ leather-bound journal he used.

  I guess Andy did pick up the habit after all. I can’t imagine what it was like for him after he left Los Angeles with June after he graduated. I mean, we phoned at least once a week, we still do. I just guess Andy isn’t the type of guy to get lonely often, but man… when he does… Well, I guess that’s why he would write, if something got to live in his head too long he would have to write it out. Like a worm in the bottom of a tequila bottle, except in your head.

  I guess that’s why he did it, and I guess that’s why he sent it through to me. I guess… I’m babbling. I mean, I’m gonna have to write it all out so that I can get a grip, but enough about me.

  So, about Andy… I first met Andy the day after my Folks moved into a neat place just outside Seattle called Redmond. I don’t remember it was much before the Seventies, and then they started developing the area. I remember it was quiet and kinda woodsy and the trees were really big Sequoia and Redwood and lots of other types when I first got there. Our house had been built a good few years earlier, probably about the same time as Andy’s Folks, but theirs was on the Hill and we were on the bottom near the stream. The School Bus would only come as far as our gates, so Andy had to walk down to us to catch the School Bus. I remember being as nervous as all heck while we were waiting on my first day. I threw up on the verge when I saw the bus winding towards us. Andy offered me a tissue to wipe my mouth and smiled at me. Not the sort of smile you get from some people – the ‘what a dork!’ smile, the other smile… the one that says ‘You’re fine now.” We swapped names and sat behind on the bus together, and that was it, we were friends.

  Andy was easy to be friends with because he was quieter than almost everyone else I knew. Sometimes through a school year I would pick up another friend to hang with us and other years he would, but it was always him and me together for the most part. We would get a lot of other kids wanting to hang out with us, because Andy was a real smart kid. I mean, I was great in Figures and Math but so was Andy.

  He was really good at lots of other things like Geography and History, and his Grammar was always perfect where mine just wasn’t. When we were alone, or at home with his Folks he would slip and get his Accent back. But at school and in the spelling bees he sounded just like everyone else.

  I always thought that strange, his mom and his uncle Parsons were from old country Irish, and his dad… just didn’t sound like he came from anywhere special, always correct and always proper. I guess Andy has the sort of ear that immediately fits in with how you sound and gets down on that real quick. I got used to it real quick.

  If Andy had a mind to it he could have been a great mimic
… or something like that, but I guess he just used it to fit in quickly, so he never looked or sounded out of place. It did kinda spook me, though. When he was relaxed or alone he’d talk in the same soft Irish burr his Family used, and when he was out at school or with other people he’d sound different, like them.

  I thought it odd that most kids would be puzzling out how they were different from everyone else when they that age, and my friend Acey was trying to be the same as everyone else. What I realized then, with simple child-like logic was that he was already different and this was his way of fitting in. As soon as that thought hit me, I stopped trying so hard to be special and started to work on what I was good at.

  My third summer in Redmond was the first time both my folks had to go out to where-ever at the same time. My mom was a Forensic Auditor who would fly out for weeks to some or other country with some or other Audit. She loved her job, bless her, and was good enough to spend a good few months away in a year, every year. My dad is Daniel Hawks, a Projects Manager for a large International construction company and has probably built most of the Dams and roads in the Third World. He’s due to retire soon, but I think they got more chance shooting him and dragging him away from jobs like that before he’d go willingly. He was out somewhere in Borneo that year, where-ever that is. It was always like that with them. They did make sure that I was cared for, and most of the time one of them was back more often than not… in case you’re wondering. Just sometimes, maybe for a few weeks at a time in any year, they weren’t.

  They had stopped in and spoken to the Finch family and essentially it was no problem for me to come and go between the two houses as I pleased. I mean my folks were careful, I got my live-in nanny and my dad’s sister stopped in every day. They only moved to Los Angeles a few years later, so if I wanted I could also go there. Looking back on the arrangements, I guess I could be defensive about it.

  The time that Dad took me with him to Kenya for two weeks was horrible, all the bugs and the noises in the night, I hated every moment of it. They had no TV, you had to boil the water before you drank it, you had to take showers in the open with only a few pints of water in a bucket… and on and on… I really preferred staying at home than going with them.

  Still, I hated sleeping in the empty house with all my Folks stuff in it, some of the masks Dad had brought back from Africa were gosh-darned scary to a nine-year old, and I got a really neat room in the Tower at Andy’s place while they were away. The view was really awesome, from the North window you could see all the way to where the bulldozers were clearing the trees for the new Office Parks. From the South window, you could see the old forest and the State Park, with the trees getting bigger and bigger the deeper into it you went almost all the way to Mount Rainier. It was actually Andy’s room, so we had to share, but it was better than being at home and alone. Still, the whole room was still bigger than the folks’ living room, but so much better because it was a boy’s room. It was our room.

  Andy had a whole lot of hand-made wooden toys that must’ve been his dad’s, or either his dad must’ve made for him… he was good with his hands and was always pottering around his work-bench in the garage. Some of them were real neat, like little puzzles and horses on wheels, rocking horses, blocks of different colours, even little racing cars… Acey, ah sorry… Andy would play with them all afternoon after homework. On good days we would go into the sandpit and play with them there.

  I remember once burying a little red Maserati somewhere in that sandpit and Andy and I digging all day trying to find it. It was his favourite at the time and I was crushed that we never did manage to figure out where it was. I was so upset, I started to cry. Andy just shrugged and gave me a hug and it was all good with him. Later that week when we were tucked in, blankets up to our noses I tried to apologize again, but he said “… I don’t care about the car, I care about you being upset about it, Petey…” I could hear him dozing off “… we can always get another car… or make one…”

  I lay awake for some time after he’d fallen asleep and felt all warm inside, even though I missed the car lots, my friend thought I was more important than his favourite toy. That was something that sticks out in my memory, dunno why.

  Well, summers passed pretty much like that. When we were 10, something new came into our lives. Now… Uncle Parsons had been a Catholic priest, but had quit the Church for some or other reason and joined the Army when Andy’s Mom and Dad had moved over to the USA. He’s an all right guy, great with figures and always good for a laugh. He has a way with words, though. He loved them and for years he would give us a word at breakfast and then, over supper we’d have to tell him how we used that word in a sentence somewhere, somehow in the course of that day. It was our little ritual with him.

  One day we get home and there is a pale, freckled redhead girl all dressed up in a skirt and bobby- socks, glaring at us both. It turns out that Uncle Parsons had a daughter Caitlin, and her Mom had died of flu earlier in the year. Thinking about why Parsons left the Church in later years and being old enough to ask the right questions, Andy and I pieced together what had happened and how sometimes you can give everything up for a woman you love only to discover that things don’t always turn out for the best. Anyway, Caitlin was ‘Cat’ to me and ‘Legs’ to Andy and we soon became ‘The Terrible Trio’.

  Just thinking about all the trouble Cat got us into still makes me laugh, sometimes. She wasn’t naughty as such, but fiery and independent and non-conformist as all heck. In a small town, Cat ran wild and generated a wake of disproving glares from the other girls who wished they could do half the things Cat could… and often did, simply because Cat never accepted the fact that girls shouldn’t do half the stuff she wanted to do.

  ‘Tom-boy, thy name art Cat’ Uncle Parsons would often smile and try and smooth her cow- lick. I guess if they had ever made a girl cartoon character, Cat would be the model for ‘Cat the Menace’ or something like that.

  Andy and Cat got into a habit of jogging every night before supper, partly to burn off some of her excess energy I guess, and partly because they’re a very energetic and sporty family. I lumbered along in their wake for the most part, but Cat and Andy would go at it, racing each other hammer and tongs. Mostly, Cat would win any flat race, so he always grinned and would say “Legs, one day I’m gonna git ya! But not today, I reckon…” Cat would smile her dimple- smile and say “You keep trying boyo and one day you well just might, indeed.” By the time I would get to the Gate, puffing and panting, both of them would be grinning at me, cool, calm and collected. It used to get my goat. I was big and I was strong, but running wasn’t my thing.

  Eventually Andy and I would settle on a compromise and started to cycle everywhere. We would go on long rides on Saturday over to Pierce County, and occasionally hike through the Marymoor backwoods towards Mount Rainier. As long as I wasn’t running, I was happier. Andy would always get this far-away look while he was hiking or cycling. I guess as kids just doing something together was fun. I got to recognize Andy’s ‘happy look’ from these hikes.

  Cat would tag along, naturally and as soon as we got to climbing, or jumping over rocks or winding up a path, Andy would get his ‘happy look’ because she would stop yakking while she scrabbled, jumped or climbed. I got to figure that Andy was happiest when there was quiet… and Cat when she was making all the noise. Also, it became evident to Cat and me that Andy would be bigger and stronger than us both, eventually, and that kind of settled the pecking order among us kids in the quiet and natural ways that kids fall into things. He’d never pull rank or anything, but once that was all settled, we all got on with being ourselves and never gave anything else another thought. Some things are so much easier when you’re just kids.

  Those were the good years, I recall. Things got to change shortly afterwards. My mom died suddenly while away in some place called Manila and my Dad had to fly in and see to all the arrangements. I was terribly upset all through the Funeral, and even more so when
my Dad told me that he would board me with his sister in Los Angeles while he finished his contract and came home.

  Andy and his mom were my sole comfort, I remember her saying to me once after I had woke up screaming with yet another nightmare “Just tell it to me like it’s a Fairy Story, love. Just start by saying ‘Once upon a time…’ and tell it like it is happening to someone else. Dreams and old memories can’t hurt you anymore if you tell it like that…” Andy crept under the covers and lay next to me while his mom smoothed my hair and I told her of a little cobbler who left his mom floating at the bottom of the well, because that was the last place he would look for her when she wasn’t at home. The next week I told Andy the Fairy Tale again when the dream happened, and after that I didn’t have the dream anymore. I guess his mom was right, after you’ve heard a Fairy Tale once or twice and you know how it ends, you don’t worry about it anymore.

  Cat was also starting at a finishing school that year, so I said goodbye to them both when Dad pulled the car up to collect my bags at the big old house. We promised to write to each other and keep in touch, and you know… we always have. Once a month, on any Saturday afternoon, regular as clockwork, Andy would call for five or ten minutes, even if he had nothing important to say. I would call if something was bothering me or any news, but after his Dad died and Andy got hurt and his Mom going like that… well, it was safer to let him set the pace. That story is Andy’s to tell, and not mine.

  We didn’t speak about it then, haven’t done so yet… and probably never will. I figured it out though, after he sent me this Manuscript. We met up as soon as he got out of hospital and spent some time with him back at the house. He never cried, not once, even though I know he missed them both terribly. I don’t know if he ever did. There are some parts of Andy that I will never understand, but I guess that never mattered to me, understanding him.