Marine Handsome

Marine Handsome By R. W. Clinger We meet on purpose. I hear noises in the empty Cape Cod next door, which sits approximately two hundred yards beyond the line of narrow woods that separates the two properties. No one has lived in the Cape Cod for the last three years since Helen Rutger died of a heart attack on Christmas Eve at the age of seventy-three. I knew she was childless and willed the house to her sister, Evelyn Rutger. I met the sister once, who wasn’t impressed with my lakeside town of Templeton, which sits next to Lake Erie, hidden in the Pennsylvania woods. “What the hell?” I say to myself, listening to hammering, a drill, saw, and other tools at work on the Rutger property. I exit my study, rush through the house, and step into the beating sun. We meet at the end of July in the middle of the afternoon. The temperature feels like one hundred degrees. It’s sticky without a cloud in the sky. Rain isn’t expected for another two days. I bolt to the property line, step into the woods, and surround myself with tall oaks, lush maples, and slim birch trees. Again, I hear tools at work: more hammering, a circular saw, and a rumbling drill. I see the Cape Cod through the woods: smallish in size, dilapidated with broken windows and missing shutters, weathered because of abandonment. Beyond the Cape Cod is the green-blue lake: motionless and beautiful, at peace during the hot day, a surreal painting created by a young artist. We meet… I see the stranger working on the three wooden steps that lead up to the Cape Cod’s portico and bleached red front door. He’s massive with suntanned skin, an onyx-colored crew cut, 240 pounds of all muscle, six-four frame, and tapered waist. I estimate he’s thirty-three years old and not a native of Templeton since I’ve never seen him before. He wears khaki green shorts, shin-high socks, and military boots with black laces. He slams nails into freshly cut oak boards, wipes his brow because of the heat, and turns around to fetch a canteen of water. I view his bare torso and face for the first time, which causes my limp package of beef between my legs to stir with excitement and become somewhat hard. The man is beautiful: onyx-colored eyes, stubble on his rugged cheeks and chin, slightly crooked nose because of a few breaks, and broad shoulders. His torso is ripped with abs and dark hair. The man’s n*****s are the size of plates, and his navel is perfectly dented and furred. I stop in the woods approximately forty feet away from the handsome stranger. Here, I watch him take a drink from his military canteen, one chug after the next. He tilts his head back and pours water onto his chiseled face. The liquid rolls down and over his forehead, cheeks, and the cords that line his neck. Zigzag tracks of the water roll over his sculpted chest, over all of his abs, and into his khakis. “Jesus,” I whisper, open-mouthed and now completely hard between my legs. I can barely keep my s****l composure together, overheated. I can’t remember the last time I saw a man who was as handsome, masculine, and unbelievably sexy. Without a single thought in mind, excited in the woods, I push the erection down, heavily breathe, and decide to close the gap between our heated bodies. Keep it together, man. Don’t make an ass out of yourself. There’s no reason to be nervous. You’re tall and handsome. You’ve landed a few lovers. Just introduce yourself and be friendly. Simple as this. When I step out of the woods that separate the two lakeside properties, the stranger immediately reacts. He quickly drops the canteen to the dusty ground next to the refurbished steps, spins to his right, clasps his right palm against a M9 Beretta, and swings it to his left, aiming it at my chest. The stranger yells, “Don’t move, and no one gets hurt, buddy! Who are you, and what are you doing here?” The sidearm is just as sexy as its handler, and everything I want to write about for the magazine I work for, Guns & Target. From a distance, I study its sleek beauty: a double-action, semi-automatic that holds fifteen NATO standard 9mm rounds. The truth of the matter is simple: I don’t know which I want to hold more, the handsome man or his steel handgun. Undecided, I raise both palms above my head and yell back, “Don’t shoot! Lower your weapon! I’m unarmed! I’m just your neighbor being friendly.” We finally meet, as expected. The bulky and Marine handsome stranger eyes me from the top of my head to my tippy toes, studying me with an avid concern, liking, something: basic white T-shirt snug against my chiseled torso, navy blue shorts, bootie socks, running shoes, and a pencil above my right ear. He calculates every detail of my body with dubious care: sweep of blond hair, fern green-colored eyes, six-one frame, 200 pounds of muscle from daily workouts, thirty-two waist, thick thighs, semi-swollen package between legs, and thirty-seven years old. The look he gives me isn’t unpleasant, perhaps liking what he sees. Is he gay or straight? Does he have a boyfriend, girlfriends, or kids? Curiosity kills me; probably because I’m a writer. Does he take me for a magazine writer? Does he realize my infatuation for men and guns? Can he pinpoint my likeness for s*x with men who just happen to look exactly like him? I wonder. How can’t I wonder, drawn to him? “Again, who are you?” he calls out, dropping his weapon to his side. The steel barrel brushes against his sexy hip. He makes eye contact with me that states: Don’t f**k with me. I’m not afraid to use my sidearm. I’ve been to war and back and know how to kill a man. I slowly lower my arms and reply, “I’m the neighbor. I live on the other side of these woods. I heard noise over here and just came to introduce myself. Trust me, I mean no harm.” The massive man seems to relax a little, blinks, rubs his left temple with his free hand. One of his pecs flex; a total turn-on for me. He inquires, “Were you my aunt’s neighbor?” “Helen Rutger?” “Yes. My mother’s sister.” I carefully nod and answer with direct surety, “I was very close to Helen. She was like my own aunt, and I miss her dearly.” “I’m Keith Rutger,” he says, setting aside the sexy M9 Beretta exactly where he retrieved it. “I’m Evelyn’s son.” I step closer to him, bridging the gap between us. Still cautious, I reach my right hand out for him to shake. Within seconds, he man-handles my right palm with a firm shake—bulky, powerful, sweat-slicked—and asks, “What’s your name, pal?” “Greg…Greg Islip.” “Nice to meet you, neighbor.” Again, the stranger checks me out from head to toe: squinting, perhaps drawn to me, pondering if I’m a bad guy, or someone who wants to hug and kiss him. I look to his right and see the M9 Beretta next to his toolbox. Saliva enters my mouth with the need to touch its glinting steel. “Don’t get any ideas about my sidearm. I’m pretty quick about reaching it and plugging you with a round. If you haven’t figured it out, I have a military background.” I shake my head and admit, “It’s a beauty,” and I rattle off facts regarding the handgun: Italian made, from the 92 series, overall length is 217mm, muzzle velocity is 1280 feet per second and… He drops his massive paw from mine and a grin of seduction and liking forms over his model-like face. Truly handsome. Gorgeous in a rough kind of way. Sexy as hell for all the right reasons regarding my naked skin pressed under his. He asks, “How do you know so much about my sidearm?” I tell him what magazine I write for and my editor’s name, Hilliard Dawning. I add, “Your aunt helped me with my articles when I was younger. She was an amazing English teacher at Templeton High. Her editing skills were impeccable.” Rutger seems impressed, nods. He looks at my muscled chest, flat stomach, and the package between my legs. “I’m familiar with the magazine. And, yes, my aunt was a stickler for dotting i’s and crossing t’s. She used to correct me all the time when I spoke horrible grammar as a young boy.” “She and I wrote a lot of articles together. I was always looking up to her for help and guidance. The woman was a dear and never failed me.” He changes the topic. “You looked seduced by the M9, Islip.” “What can I say? I like men and their guns.” I put it out there like the wind: freely, blowing, and unaltered. He smiles from ear to ear at my playful quip. “It’s nice to meet you, Greg Islip. I like your honesty. Not many men are like you. The world has a bunch of shitters in it. Good to know you’re not one of them.” Shitters. I like the title. Not sure exactly what it means, but maybe I’ll eventually find out. “The pleasure is all mine. It’s always a good thing to meet your neighbor, I think. You need to know who has your back.” I eye up his sexy frame again, think of dead puppies to deflate the erection between my legs, and concentrate on his sidearm even more. It’s hot and sexy, just like the man who owns the piece. * * * * I learn that Rutger is only visiting Templeton for the summer. He tells me that his mother, Evelyn, practically begged him to make the drive from Annapolis to Erie and attempt to mend the Cape Cod. The Maryland boy tells me he’s good with his hands, likes to work with tools, and enjoys carpentry; something he really didn’t get to do during his days in the military. I tell him I’m good with words, sentences, paragraphs, and how to write a nonfiction story. Twenty minutes pass in his company, and he asks me to share a beer with him in the shade. I tell him, “I have an article to finish. It’s a strict deadline I have to make.” “What’s the article about?” He has a spark of interest in his black eyes. “Sniper rifles.” A smile warms his face yet again. He lights up like a little boy, talking about toys. “Which ones?” “The AW50 and the L115. Both are powerful and deadly. Just like men can be.” “I’d like to read it when you finish it, Islip.” “Not possible. Sorry. I don’t share my work until it’s published. It’s a personal rule of mine.” He nods and comments, “I can respect that. I get rules. The Marines are all about rules. But, if you change your mind…I’d still like to read it.” “I’ll make a footnote of that,” I reply before shuffling away. “If you need anything, I’m just a few hundred yards away.” “I’ll give you a rain check on the beer, guy. Nice meeting you.” “I’ll cash it in one of these days, Rutger.” Again, he nods, thanks me, and continues with his carpentry. * * * * I Google Rutger later this evening and learn the most interesting facts about him. He spent two military terms as a corporal in the “Dark Horse” 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines; graduated at the top of his class with honors in 2007 from the School of Infantry—East Division; granted the Legion of Merit award this spring; and obtained the Marine Corps Good Conduct medal. He suffered a hip casualty in Now Zad the previous winter; father unknown; attended Bessimer High School in Annapolis, Maryland; attended two years of business school at Medesta College; no children; no wife; sort of a loner; honorably discharged from the military with many ribbons and medals. A hero. Sexy. Good looking. “Damn, he’s hot,” I say to myself, turned on by my findings. * * * * My history is nothing like Rutger’s. I attended Temple in Philadelphia for four years, majoring in English and minoring in world literature. My grades were fair; the product of too much partying and sleeping with frat boys. Following my degrees, I started writing for Guns & Target, being the low man on the totem pole. Now I am a full-time writer and assistant editor at the magazine. I publish 10,000 words a month, which usually equals two nonfiction pieces, and work from home. Sometimes I travel to gun shows or private gun collections for research, but recently I have just become a homebodyecluse. The Tudor on Mossdale belonged to my parents, who are now deceased. Lung cancer snatched the pair away from me when I was twenty-two years old. The Tudor has two bedrooms, a small bathroom on the second floor, and miniature-sized rooms on the first floor: living room, kitchen, dining room, a study, and a tiny foyer to hang jackets or kick off summer sandals. The back of the property slopes to the lake. There’s a tomato garden to the left, small plot of woods to the right, and a cobblestone patio off the smallish stoop where I sometimes barbecue, sit, and read or edit. The place is comfortable, paid in full, home for one; my likeness. There’s a gazebo in the yard, a tool shed, and gnomes scattered here and there. Home sweet home. I can’t ask for anything more.