Friday, November 23, 2012

Walter Jenkins (March 23, 1918 - November 23, 1985)

Walter Jenkins was a top adviser and chief of staff to President Lyndon Johnson until he was arrested for homosexual acts in a YMCA in 1964. A major scandal erupted and Jenkins resigned. Johnson was unable to replace Jenkins, and instead divided his responsibilities among several staff members.

Read the rest with pictures at Elisa Rolle's LiveJournal site.

Friday, November 16, 2012

Spencer Henderson III

Spencer Henderson III was a Broadway dancer and choreographer. Credits include Steel Magnolias, Footloose, and TV's The Love Boat. He died on November 14, 1993, at his family's home in Fort Worth. He was 44. (Picture: Spencer Henderson (left) with Kevin Bacon during the filming of Footloose (1983). Photo: courtesy Betty Alvarello)

See the picture(s) and read the rest at Elisa Rolle's LiveJournal site

Sunday, November 11, 2012

JJSaid1112 - Soldiers in Tales V

Frank Jenkins and Harold Tripp are U.S. Army Air Force, World War II airmen who are slowly starving to death inside a Nazi POW camp. In this snippet they are preparing to be marched deeper inside German territory.

 Our barrack was a buzz of activity. Men who had belongings gathered them. Some rested on their beds. Most joined us in huddling near the stove, and within half an hour, whistles blew in the yard. Assembled, we listened as the Commandant addressed us in his well-spoken English.

We would march seventeen kilometers to Dorsten, be loaded onto a train and taken to Numberg. From there, another march of six kilometers to our final destination, Stalag Luft 13D. March to commence at fourteen hundred hours. Of course, the speech was laced with promises of better conditions, medicine, plentiful food, etcetera, all of which we figured was bullshit.

As we rushed inside for a few more minutes of shelter, I asked Harold, "Numberg's clear across the country, isn't it?" 

"Far south and east. Past Frankfurt for sure."

 We huddled near the stove, other men with the same idea made for a crowded gathering. "Hell, we'll almost be in Czechoslovakia," one of them noted. "Might as well just hand us over to the Rooskies."  

Harold and I backed away from the stove. Our eyes met and we both cracked a knowing smile. The Nazis planned to take us far away from the western front, from our liberators. Somehow, somewhere during our eleven-mile march, Harold and I had to make our break or die trying. 

With pairs of Army and prison-issued socks on our feet, Army-issued trousers, shirts and undergarments, leather flight gloves and jackets, and prison-issued woolen blankets folded double, draped over our heads as hoods, wrapped around our necks as scarfs, and the remainder tucked inside our zipped-tightly jackets, we lined up in the yard for our final count. 

At two pm Friday, February 2, 1945, we said goodbye to Stalag Luft 6J. The Commandant and his officers led the way in a luxurious-looking black sedan, which promptly sped off and left us all behind. A single-lane road plowed clear of snow exited the camp and headed south, soon connecting with a wider, east-west road where we turned left. 

Heading east, we marched in loose formation three abreast, Harold in the center, me to his right, the prisoner on his left unknown to us. One truck carrying German soldiers led the column. Supply trucks took up the rear. Sets composed of one dog and its handler accompanied by one guard paced on either side of us, two sets at the head of the column behind the truck, two sets in the rear directly behind prisoners, and four sets spaced evenly between the front and rear.

Harold and I carried nothing, as we marched in a row about thirty back from the head of the column. Talking was forbidden, so we silently trudged forward with our hands stuffed into our pockets, occasionally reaching up to tighten the blankets wrapping our heads. Relatively flat terrain dotted by an occasional tree gave way to a rolling hill. Upgrading slightly, the road curved a bit to the right, and on our right, patches of old-growth trees became thicker as we progressed. 

With the road meandering a bit to the southeast a shadow fell upon our column, the forest on our right blocking the late-afternoon sunshine. Harold and I weren't the only ones eyeing this forest. Several heads in front of us turned as well. Gauging possibilities. Distance from roadbed to tree cover ten, maybe twelve yards. Too far through snow too deep for one man to make it. Guards on the march would easily shoot him down. The only hope would be if dozens made a break. Safety in numbers and some might get to the cover of forest. Dogs would chase. Soldiers in the truck would pile out and pursue, but at least there'd be a chance.

None of us knew what started the commotion behind us near the middle of the column. At least two of the dogs barked and growled. Harold and I took one look back. He slapped my shoulder to prompt me at the same time I reached for his arm to pull him, and we streaked to our right with me in the lead. Dozens more did the same. I could see them all when I suddenly dropped into snow up to my waist. A damned ditch beside the roadbed. I struggled to gain my footing with Harold just to my right, as rifle fire popped from behind us and prisoners fell. We made it up from the ditch, snow about calf-deep, and sprinted for the nearest line of trees. Once in the forest, we moved quickly with snow at ankle depth. 

"Go to the left," Harold spoke calmly, as we darted between trees spaced a few feet apart with trunks anywhere from one to four feet in diameter. Sounds of bullets smashing into wood echoed to our right. A good sound, I thought. Most of the men were running toward the west, while we tried to stay east. Machine gun fire came from the road, sounding more and more distant as we made our way through the forest. A quarter mile. A half, and the rifle shots to our right seemed far, far away. With me a few steps ahead, we covered a mile or better before Harold said, "Hold up, Frank." 

I stopped by the trunk of an older tree four feet round. We leaned against it. Caught our breaths, the frigid air jabbing inside my chest like somebody had crammed icicles down my throat.  

"You all right?" Harold huffed and puffed. 

"Good. You?"

He nodded, his mouth agape as he sucked in air despite the pain. We adjusted our blankets so they again tightly wrapped our heads. Listened for shots. Heard none. Barking dogs. None. A slight breeze whistling through the barren tree tops was the only sound. "Damn, Frank. I could barely keep up with you." 

"Baloney," I grinned, my heart rate slowing, my breathing almost normal. "Thanks for covering my backside."

"Sorry, pal. I was covering nothing. Just running for my life, that's all." 

"Same here, Harold. Run and pray." I gathered a handful of snow and stuffed it into my mouth, swallowed as it melted. "I'm ready to move whenever you are. Still going east?"

"Let's try more to the south. Deeper into the woods gives us a better chance. You think?"

"Sure. Come out the opposite side we came in, and head west if it looks safe." 

"I'm with you. We can walk easy now. Keep our ears and eyes open."

"It's a plan. Let's go." 

We traversed from one tree to the next. Paces taken in between trunks were anxious moments, out in the open where bullets could take us down with no warning. I silently cursed the snow for freezing my feet. Thanked it for muting our steps when we crunched dead leaves or fallen sticks. Every fifth tree or so, we'd look skyward. Try to gauge our direction by angle of the sun and the shadows it made hitting the high branches. Harold and I estimated it to be at least four, maybe five o'clock. On the ground it looked like dusk. 

Deteriorating visibility created phantoms. Everywhere I looked, I saw a Nazi in uniform hiding behind a trunk with rifle waiting. A split second, a skip of my heartbeat until my eyes and brain recognized the shadow or undergrowth was not human. The mind plays tricks when adrenalin constantly flows, but a dark form next to a tree trunk ten steps ahead was no joke. I stopped in my tracks, and so did Harold. A German Shepherd, big and male, sat quietly on its hind quarters. 

* * *

The Good Shepherd is historical manlove published by MLR PRESS. It is also made for the KINDLE at AMAZON. Links to more excerpts in text and audio can be accessed at Jardonn's Erotic Tales

Saturday, November 10, 2012

JJSaid1112 - Soldiers in Tales IV

A Viet Nam-era Navy veteran gives me an orgasm I'll never forget.

"Damn right!" He viciously rolled us over and put himself on top, causing our bodies to nearly slip off the side of the bed. Keeping me firmly wrapped in his bear hug, he lifted me up and shifted me to the pillow, then slammed me down to the position he had just abandoned. With my chest cavity still clamped in his vise, John rapidly planted kisses all over my forehead, nose, cheeks and lips. My face was assaulted with frantic pecks, while my ribs were crushed between his chest and forearms.
I was manhandled. And I loved it.
Every part of me was useless, completely under his spell, except for my dick. It was fully charged. Had been ever since I’d awakened atop his belly, and because John knew I loved his middle-section as much as he loved me loving it, he brought it into play in a manner unexpected.
John rose on his knees ever so slightly. With his arms still encircling my back and pressing our chests together, he slowly thrust himself forward, rubbing the head of my cock against the skin of his belly. Hard kisses relentlessly peppered my face. Powerful arms mercilessly crushed my chest, while John’s erotically smooth and talented abdominal cavity masturbated me.
My hands clasped onto his back, racing up and down his undulating muscles, and although I said nothing, I thought plenty.

Oh, my God, you rough-ass son of a bitch... what the hell are you doing to me? God, your belly feels so good... so fucking soft... and hard... and just the right pressure... ooh... what the hell was that? OOH! There it is again... oh, geez... are you fuckin’ kidding me? That’s his belly button... ooh, God damn... it’s clipping the head of my dick... ooh, shit... there it goes the other way... where the hell did you learn how to do this? Oh, man... there it is again... God, I can feel his tits scraping me, too... you beautiful mother... ooh, that navel... skin’s so tight... fuck an A... you talented piece of work, you... I can’t believe this shit... beating me off with his God damned belly button... ooh, there it goes... oh, God damn, John... I love you... damn you to hell... I love you...

And at that moment I did love him. Would never say it though, even in the heated passion of a belly button jack off. Learned that rule on my own. People say all sorts of silly things when they’re busting a nut, and a single man telling a married man that he loves him definitely qualifies as silly. And useless. Besides, actions do speak louder than words, and John knew I was enamored with him. He had to know, just as I knew in my heart he fancied me. Why else would a twenty year old and a forty year old take up with each other in the first place? 

* * *

The Elevated Man is one of two stories in a manlust book of same title. Made for the KINDLE at AMAZON. Also can be seen at Jardonn's Erotic Tales.

Friday, November 9, 2012

JJSaid1112 - Soldiers in Tales III

Henry Mitchell is an active Navy man during World War II. He pilots a Grumman fighter plane from an aircraft carrier in the South Pacific... that is until he is forced to bail from his crippled fighter, parachuting down onto an uncharted island. His fear of capture by Japanese soldiers is soon replaced by a reality perhaps worse. He is stripped to his undershorts, strung up and suspended between two trees, crucified Saint Andrew style, and subjected to tortures at the hands of a female Christian missionary-gone-mad and her tribe of brainwashed pygmy followers. Here's his current predicament:

 I hurt. Bad. Felt like my arms might rip from their sockets. Hands and fingers were going numb from tightness of vine roping my wrists.

I had no clue as to how many hours had passed since they plucked me from my tree-top perch. The angle of the sun said early afternoon, but I could only assume it was the day following my dusk-time landing into their island tree top. For the moment, both the white woman and her pygmy friends were ignoring me. Her “little ones” staggering about with their arms stretched to the sky and eyes closed, while moaning and crying as though someone had died.

Death would have perhaps been preferable to suffering through the farce being presented below me. The preacher woman had truly been struck with the spirit and was speaking in tongues, the ridiculous babble used by hucksters to convince the gullible of their religious superiority. God speaking through them in a language of gibberish spoken only in heaven.

So goes the claim, but of course it’s just another trick in the arsenal of those who pretend to possess a direct line to the Almighty.

Since the white witch and her doe-eyed followers were busy, I figured it to be an ideal moment for me to relieve myself. With any luck, it might even snap her out of her hamma-gamma-goo tongue-speak.

I let go a long stream and soiled my already dirt-soiled briefs. Ahhhhh! Yes! What satisfaction. My hot urine stinging my legs. Dripping off my toes. Even washing away some of my sweat. Praise be to Jesus, and my bladder gave thanks as well.

My urination festival brought about the desired results. One of the female pygmies saw what I was doing and shrieked in horror, causing the rest of them to stop posturing and drop their jaws in shock. The female shyster, however, was unstirred. In fact, she turned my little act of defiance to her advantage.

Praise Jesus, my brothers and sisters. Our faith in his power has driven out the first demon. Bit by bit, we will chase the devil out of this pitiful man. Give thanks to our lord and savior, Jesus Christ. His work has just begun.”

A hushed awe fell over the congregation, as they collapsed to their knees, clasping their hands together in prayer. Their lips moved to obediently display their devotion, their high-pitched mumblings sounding like a disorganized chorus of deranged chipmunks.

Couldn't tell if their reverence was for the woman or her god, but without a doubt, her brainwashing techniques were most impressive.

This squeaky prayer session allowed me to listen and read lips, as I focused on one of the female pygmies near my feet. “Thank you, Jesus,” she mouthed. “Praise be to doctor Wilma.”

Ocka Wilwah?” I laughed in my garbled tongue through painful gag. “You gah be ki’ing me!”

The woman in white robe knew exactly what I had said. She instantly transformed her expression from that of the serene minister of goodness to the enraged purveyor of evil. Seemingly concerned that her pygmy faithful might have understood my words, she quickly solved her problem.

Go, my children,” her calm expression of piety accompanied her orders. “Go to your homes. Now we pray in solitude. Pray for the wayward soul of this pitiful man. He is our fallen brother. Deceived by the devil. Pray that he can know the love of Jesus as we do.”

Although it was impossible for me to admire this woman, I had to admit that she was a slick one. Not only had she taught them her language, but she also used that language to effectively transform them into robots, and like zombies did they drift toward and into their huts.

Doctor Wilma waited patiently for the last pygmy to disappear before turning her attention to me. Casually strolling to the stone altar, she lifted a large wooden bowl and brought it with her to me. Water was in the bowl, and Wilma splashed the cleansing liquid onto my groin, watching it cascade down my shorts, legs and feet to wash away my urine.

I do declare, Captain Mitchell. You are a disgusting pig.”

The gag made it too hurtful for me to speak, but I had to mock her best I could. I repeated with a pained smile. “Ocka Wilwah,” which brought nothing more from her than a malicious grin.

She turned away from me, moving toward the hut with steeple on top. Before entering she spun to face me and shook a long-distance fist, but as she did another human of normal height appeared as a shadow behind her, still inside the hut.

The form blocked her path, and when Wilma quickly turned to pass through the doorway, she collided with whoever was standing there.

Get back, you fool,” she barked, and with a violent thrust she forced the shadowed figure inside and out of her way.

And then, before disappearing into darkness, the good reverend lifted her robe above her head and briefly revealed her backside nakedness to me. It was only a five-second glimpse. It came from a distance of at least thirty feet, but it was an effective tease. A bit of pressure bulged my wet underwear, as doctor Wilma vanished into her hole.

* * *

I Was Tortured By the Pygmy Love Queen is one of three stories in Jasper McCutcheon's book, Phallicacies. It is made in paperback and for Kindle, both versions posted at AMAZON. Another excerpt from Phallicacies can be accessed from the Jardonn's Erotic Tales web site. 

Thursday, November 8, 2012

JJSaid 1112 - Soldiers in Tales II

Forrest Barton and Wilton Zukel are cousins, both veterans of The Great War, WWI, and while nearly 25 percent of U.S. workers in 1933 are unemployed, Forrest builds roads for the highway department and Wilton runs locomotives for the railroad.

The third party in this scene, Roger, is employed in a rather demeaning sort of way. He is Wilton's homo house boy. Here, the trio sit at Wilton's kitchen table playing with a newfangled lighter while Roger serves them lunch.

“Do yourself,” Wilton handed it over. “Flip open the cover and turn the wheel.” Sparks flew and a triangular flame waited. Forrest repeatedly sucked the fire into chocolate-colored flakes wrapped in coffee-colored leaf until his face nearly disappeared behind a shroud of smoke. “Now,” instructed Wilton, “try to blow out the flame.” With cigar held in his left-hand fingers and Zippo in his right, Forrest exhaled a vociferous puff through pinhole lips. The flame wildly flickered forward, extended nearly an inch toward Wilton, but could not be extinguished. He tried again and again, but each time the flame returned full-strength to its vertical triangle.

“Well, I'll be God damned go to hell!” Forrest flipped shut the lid, opened it again and the flame was gone. “Now my life is complete. What more could a man ever need than this?”

“How about if I suck on your pecker?” Roger offered. “Will that make you more complete?”

Forrest's enthusiasm vanished as quickly as the Zippo's fire. He gently set Wilton's lighter on the table, stuck his stogie between his molars. “Sorry, bub. I think my pecker's worn out. Got me a woman over at the boarding house where I'm staying. I poked her good last night, but she suggested I come back for another before leaving town."

“Oh,” Roger picked up a slice of onion, severed it with a chomp of his incisors. “Good for her.”

With Wilton doing his best not to snicker, Forrest removed his spit-saturated cigar from his mouth, took a sip of coffee. “Besides, you ought to be saving your strength for this one over here. Seeing as how he'll be on the road for... how many days, Wilton?”

“Five. Barring any unforeseens.”

“And what will you be doing with all that free time, Roger?” Forrest puffed his cigar and turned the screw a bit tighter. “Looking for work?”

Roger dramatically stood, the backs of his knees shoving his chair, its wooden legs squealing as they scraped on wooden floor. “There isn't any work.” He stomped toward the sink with plate in hand, slamming it onto the counter and bouncing his remaining food in all directions. “I've got laundry to do,” he barked, storming from the kitchen without a look toward either of them.

As they listened to his footsteps tromping down the stairs, Wilton grinned and Forrest shook his head. “Did I rile him up good enough, Wilton?”

"I think so."

"Had any action since you got home?"

"Oh, he sucked on me a time or two."

"When are you going to replace him with someone who appreciates you a bit more?"

"Beggars can't be choosey, Forrest. I do have mirrors, you know."

"Bullshit. There's a hundred out-of-work youngsters who'd line up at your door if they knew..."

"Now, look here, cousin. Roger serves his purpose," Wilton fired up his Zippo and added his own cigar smoke to the kitchen. "He keeps my house going when I'm on the road. I like having someone here watching the place, and I don't mind helping him until he can get back on his feet."

"I know that, but he ought to show you some respect. Makes me feel rotten, since I'm the one who..."

"You've got no cause to feel that way, Forrest. I made the decision to bring him here, and I'm perfectly happy with the way things are. Roger knows how far he can push me. He also knows when it's time to put out or get out."

"Is the rent due, Wilton?"

"Overdue, Forrest. He likes you... or I should say, he likes your willie. Something he can handle without having to scream for mercy. Ready?"

"Yep. His room or yours?"


There was no love in the exercise. Three men stripped, and with shades drawn in the upstairs, northeast bedroom, they connected upon a mattress. Wilton sprawled on his back while Roger, above him on all fours, slobbered on his landlord's monster dick. Behind Roger, Forrest, on his knees, poked his wood into Roger's anus. None of the men performing their functions paid much attention to the men in their presence. Wilton thought of the recently-released movie, King Kong, substituting Fay Wray for Roger and himself for the ape. Forrest thought of himself, replacing a naturally-lubricated and tight vagina for Roger's cold-cream lubricated and tight rectum. Roger thought of how he would enjoy having Wilton's house all to himself, plus, he hoped this would fulfill his obligation for another week's stay.

* * *

GRIT is about railroaders and hoodlums in the Dust Bowl of the Great Depression. Co-authored by Jardonn Smith and William Maltese, it is published by MLR Press and can be seen at their web site, at AMAZON, and at the JARDONN site, where you'll find more excerpts in text and audio. 

Pete Townshend - Slit Skirts

For post-election... on YouTube

Saturday, November 3, 2012

JJSaid1112 - Soldiers in Tales I

Several of my stories involve soldiers either active or discharged. With Veteran's Day upcoming, I'll let some of these characters talk their talk, so to talk.

 Boris is a retired legionnaire, and here he tells to his young lover, Gregoric (narrator), of an incident when he was soldiering in Rome's Eastern Empire, third century CE...

"Palmyra had once been a great city. An oasis in the desert. On the trade routes linking Persia and India with the Roman Empire, but that all changed when a certain queen revolted against Aurelian around 272. She declared their independence from Rome and was on an expedition to take Antioch when she was captured. Sent to Rome in chains. As for Palmyra, Aurelian ordered the leading citizens be slaughtered and their city destroyed. This queen, named Zenobia, had a glorious temple, and Nepotian and I liked to hang out in its ruins. We'd get a jug of beer, sit, drink, talk, and eventually pass out. This was after we'd chased off the crazy lady who lived there. She claimed to be related to Queen Zenobia. Claimed Zenobia was a descendant of Cleopatra, you know, the Egyptian queen who seduced Marc Antony."

"I remember. The Triumvirate, Julius Caesar, civil war, Octavian, end of the Republic and beginning of Emperor rule... Augustus."  

"Damn, I am one fine teacher. Anyway, we'd always have to chase her away. She wasn't someone you could have conversation with, but she was by far the most beautiful woman in town. Always prancing around babbling her words of insanity wearing nothing but a tight strap over her breasts and skimpy one around her waist. There was a brothel in town. Nothing but gnarly-toothed hags with leathery skin. Little satisfaction. We'd had our fill of them, and one night we were just drunk enough to take on the crazy lady."

"Did she babble while you screwed her?"

Boris coyly chuckled, "You know me too well, Gregoric. No, I kissed her foul mouth to shut her up while I poked her. She was a wild one. Her loins were like her brains. All kinds of crazy stuff going on inside her. Anyway, I came, pulled out, and promptly passed out. Left her for Nepo to poke. Guess who woke me up."


"Bacurius. I had to shake my head. Thought I was having a nightmare at first. About three feet away from me was the crazy lady. Knife in her gut. Just past her, Nepo. His throat cut."


"Dead as the city itself."

Stunned, I had nothing to say. No expressive damn, or my god. No words of sympathy, and no need to ask him for details of how it happened. I knew Boris well enough to know he would finish when he was ready. And he knew when my tear fell onto his chest that his pain was now partially mine.

"You know," he started, stopped, took a deep breath, tensed his chest to suppress breaking down, and then continued with quick pace to get through to the end. "Part of her babbling had always been about how she was going to run us Roman swine out of her city. How she'd kill every one of us. That's why we always chased her off. It got old real quick, but the beer made us drop our guard. She must have had the knife hidden nearby. How she got it into her hand without Nepo seeing it I'll never know. My passing out made it easier for her to do what she did. Bacurius hiding out and watching us is what saved me."

"Do you ever wonder why he bothered? I mean, you weren't exactly best of friends."

"Well, at the time I thought maybe he'd been connected to us for such a long time, charged with watching us, he felt the need to intervene. After all, despite our many personal battles, we were Roman soldiers. A brotherhood, if you like. Needless to say, that incident brought about a major change in me. I will always be grateful to Bacurius, and I told him so. I asked him to forgive me for all the times we'd tricked him. Told him I owed him my life, and that what he'd done for me would never be forgotten. It also ended my days of drinking for sole purpose of getting drunk. Made my decision to honor Lupicinus and Nepotian by bettering myself, learning as much as possible so I could do something worthwhile."

"And here you are stuck in a Tervingi cave with only one student who will listen to you."

Danube Divide, a novel-length tale of war, romance, political intrigue and religious conflict, is available in ebook or paperback at its publisher's web site, MLR PRESS, or at Amazon.

More excerpts can be accessed at Jardonn's Erotic Tales.

Twelve Actors Who Have Belittled their Own Films

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