Pyewacket, Pyewacket by J. Phillip Elwes

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About the author:

His blog is jpelwes.tumblr.com and he can be emailed at [email protected]

What inspired you to write your book?

During the next two weeks, I hammered out the outline of “Pyewacket, Pyewacket.” Then, for the next six months, I was thrilled to find myself unfettered from film budgets and from tamping down special effects in order to save time and money, as I let my imagination go wild and wrote an epic story about a warlock who discovers his true self while engaged in an epic battle between good and bad warlocks, witches and magical creatures in past and present Vallejo. I knew I was onto something truly fun and exciting, when I came across an online copy of John Russell Bartlett’s “Dictionary of Americanisms: A Glossary of Words and Phrases,” first published in 1859, and was thus able to give an authentic voice to characters alive in 1859 California’s Wild West.

Here is a short sample from the book:

Chapter One
You know me. I’m that quiet guy you hardly noticed in high school. I always had my nose in a book. I volunteered in the school library, happily returning books to their rightful place on dusty shelves. I tried my best to be invisible. I was almost never picked on: jocks couldn’t bully the class nerd when they didn’t notice me seated beside them.
If you had noticed me–and I don’t blame you that you didn’t, since that had always been my intention–you might have wondered what had happened to me after graduation.
At their first chance, most everyone else after high school fled Cow Head, our fishing town on a long, cold and very scenic beach in Canada’s youngest, most northeastern province, Newfoundland and Labrador.
I, on the other hand, had my books–lots of books, thanks to the reading app on my tablet–and an awesome relationship with my mom, with whom I live and work at her gift shop on Main Street, so I never felt compelled to leave our island, nicknamed The Rock, in search of adventure in the concrete jungles of Montreal or Manhattan.
I now think it obvious I worked so hard to be invisible because I am gay. As you might imagine, it was painful growing up feeling like an outsider in a town with a population of less than five-hundred people. Everyone knows almost everything about everyone else. I suppose there might be other gay and bisexual people in Cow Head, but I never met one.
I came out to my mom after I turned eighteen.
“I grew up in California,” she said, lining up scented candles on a display table in the gift shop. “I went to Berkeley. I don’t care if you’re straight, bi, gay or gender fluid. All I want is for you to be happy. When did you know?”
“A long time ago.”
“And you waited all this long to tell me?”
I nodded, blushing, ashamed I could hear in her voice the hurt she hid from me, as she turned away to straighten picture books celebrating the annual Cow Head Lobster Festival.
“I wanted to be sure,” I mumbled.
“Are you?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at me.
I nodded.
“Then, that’s that. Are you seeing anyone?”
“No,” I said. I wish.
She didn’t ask if I was happy. I never let on how terribly lonely I was. Even surrounded by all my books.
When I was much younger, during one of my countless walks along the tree-lined trails to the old Cow Head lighthouse, I met my imaginary friend, Pyewacket. History books say he was a misshapen imp that Matthew Hopkins supposedly saw in 1644 as it conspired with a coven of witches behind Hopkins’ house in England. But my Pyewacket is a Siamese cat exactly like the one in the movie. I like to think I summoned him that day on the trail by saying aloud: “Pyewacket, Pyewacket / I need thee / Come to me.”
I should mention speaking in metrical verse has always come easily to me. I have no idea why; about that I cannot lie.
“Stop that!” Mom used to wail, rolling her eyes, as customers chuckled at us in the gift shop.
“I don’t know what I did / For you to so forbid.”
“Oh, my stars!” Mom would exclaim, the only expression she and Grandmother shared, Mom pointedly calling her mom “that hippie-dippie-do Tarot-card reader” on the rare occasions she brought herself to mention Grandmother.
For years, I tormented Mom and amused customers by speaking in metrical verse, until the day I read somewhere online that easily rhyming words and experiencing hallucinations were signs of schizophrenia. Hold on. I’m just a closeted homosexual with an imaginary cat I know isn’t really there.
But I liked to think he was there all those years I sorted books in the library, cleaned the gift shop at night and wandered the trails and beach around Cow Head.
“Pyewacket, Pyewacket / I need thee / Come to me,” I said whenever I felt especially lonely, whenever I got scrapes and bruises in bike mishaps on the trails and beach.
I now think I might have been happier if I had worked a little less diligently at being invisible. That way, you and I might have met. But I think I was too afraid of being outed before I was ready, of unintentionally leading on a girlfriend, of pining after an oblivious straight guy.
Online gay porn videos were a magnificent, nightly delight, but romance and erotic stories were more in line with what I wanted out of life: love, happiness and lots of great sex with my boyfriend.
I have always wanted a boyfriend.
If you had noticed me in high school and wondered what had happened to me after graduation, I suspect you’d be shocked to hear a Canada Post truck jumped the curb outside the gift shop and hit Mom, breaking both her legs, only a day before she confessed from her hospital bed that she’d not heard from Grandmother in over a month; that the police had found unoccupied Grandmother’s house in California; that no neighbor, police, hospital, morgue, mental health organization or psychic association in the San Francisco Bay Area knew where she was; that Mom arranged from her hospital bed for me to fly across North America to Grandmother’s house in Vallejo, a town straddling the Napa River and Carquinez Strait about thirty miles north of San Francisco; and that on my first night there I was meeting up with the greatest pitcher in the history of professional baseball to have sex with him.
I’m Canadian: I love hockey. But I love baseball more, so it made perfect sense to me that my first sexual experience would be with this famous baseball player.
It was near midnight. A chorus of chirping crickets greeted me, as I hopped off a bike I’d found in Grandmother’s garage. I saw him step out of a slick sports car gleaming in the moonlight. We walked side by side across the otherwise empty parking lot, past two unlocked gates and over the moonlit baseball diamond.
We faced each other once we stood on the pitcher’s mound.
He was at least half a meter taller than me. His shoulders seemed nearly as wide as I was tall. My heart pounded furiously in my chest, as I gawked up at his handsome face. My cock instantly erected and throbbed in the tight confines of my blue jeans. I somehow knew he was as fully aroused as me.
“Tell me your name,” he said, beaming down at me, like I was the most beautiful bauble in all the world.
“Grant Webb.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Adam LeCher!” I burst out, then worried I sounded overly enthusiastic.
“The greatest pitcher in the history of baseball!” he exclaimed, like a carnival barker pitching a sideshow. “Do you know why I’m standing here tonight in this little town on the edge of nowhere?”
“You’re–you’re really horny,” I wagered, my knees suddenly wobbly.
“Because I’m tired of the endless orgies with teammates, managers, janitors, trainers, reporters, owners, coaches, security guards and fans,” he said, then reached out to take my chin in his hand. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” I answered, hardly able to catch my breath, delighted by his firm grip, by the scent of soap on his fingers.
This is nuts. This can’t be happening, I thought, even as every fiber of my being wanted to unzip Adam’s trousers, pull out his cock, and stroke him until he ejaculated between us. I could hardly believe that the Adam LeCher and I were about to be naked together, that he was going to be the first man to see me come. I’d lost count of the number of times I’d jerked off to advertisements of him wearing briefs, to magazine spreads featuring him with other semi-nude athletes to celebrate how incredibly fit and attractive they were. I knew Adam was very muscular and covered in a pelt of luxuriant, black hair. I desperately wanted his cock in my fist. I wanted to taste his member, his balls, his semen. I wanted to watch him experience an orgasm in my hands.
“Do you know what I want to do?” he asked, tightening his grip on my chin.
I shook my head as best I could. Jerk off with me?
“I want to be free. I want to take off my clothes and run naked around these bases with a naked, randy buck at my side,” he said, then leaned close, so that his lips brushed against my ear when he next whispered: “Do you want to be my naked, randy buck?”
“Yes,” I gasped, trembling with anticipation.
“That’s the spirit!” he said with a grin, releasing me, and took a step back before slipping his suit jacket off his shoulders.
In a daze, I watched him carefully fold it before laying it in the grass.
Am I dreaming? I suddenly wondered. Am I the one who was hit by the Canada Post truck?
“Let me see you strip, Grant Webb,” Adam said, smiling in the moonlight, as he undid the buttons down his dress shirt. “I want to be naked with you.”
You only have to ask me once!
I kicked off my shoes, shucked off my socks, whipped my tee shirt over my head, tossed it behind the pitcher’s mound, then stopped to grin at Adam still smiling at me. I watched him pull his opened shirt out of his trousers at the same time I unbuttoned my jeans and unzipped the fly. Nearly delirious, I bent forward to slip my pants and boxers off my hips and down my thighs. I almost lost my balance, as I pulled my feet free one at a time.
A moment later, I straightened up naked, my rigid cock throbbing so intensely I knew I was leaking a river of pre-cum.
“Look at you!” Adam exclaimed, neatly folding his shirt before placing it atop his suit jacket. “A pale, golden satyr on the pitcher’s mound. So beautiful. I love the shape of your cock. I think an upward curve quite attractive.”
I was breathing too fast. My gosh. Don’t pass out! Don’t pass out!
“Thanks,” I somehow managed, my voice thick with excitement, as I admired his muscular, hairy torso.
“You might say I’m a connoisseur of cock,” he said, bending at the waist to pull off his shoes and socks. “Not to boast or anything, but I have seen a lot of naked, horny men. I have come to appreciate the esthetic of the penis suavissimus.”
With all the online gay porn videos I’d watched, I immediately thought I too merited the moniker “connoisseur of cock,” as I watched him straighten and unbuckle his belt.
“I mean, I enjoyed spending time with all my female fans,” he said, smiling at me, then undid the button to his trousers and unzipped his fly. “Each is beautiful in her own way.”
I watched him again bend forward, drawing his slacks off his hips and down his legs.
He elegantly stepped out of them.
I moaned with delight the instant I saw his erection tenting out the front of his boxers.
“But, as you might imagine, I love walking naked through the clubhouse locker rooms and showers, my cock very hard,” he said, neatly folding his trousers, before laying them on his pile of clothes. “I love watching my teammates get hard. I think a man can be no more perfect than when he is naked and aroused, his erection jutting over his balls.”
I could only nod agreement. My mind was reeling at the thought of a locker room full of naked baseball players sporting wood. I watched Adam bend over to slip off his underwear.
A moment later, he stood naked and fully aroused before me.
“I talk too much, don’t I?” he murmured, tossing his underwear onto his pile of clothes. “Come here.”
He opened his arms, so I stepped up to him, marveling that I was at long, long last naked and aroused with a naked man aroused by me. And not just any man. Freaking Adam LeCher! He was a very tall, very muscular, very hairy man. His rigid cock was twice as long as mine, his swollen cockhead much larger and very shiny in the moonlight. His thicket of dark pubes hid his balls.
I grabbed his rigid member, delighted by its thickness, thrilled to be holding a man by his hard cock. No amount of gay porn viewing had prepared me for the intense pleasure of this moment in real life. I stroked him, then pressed my body against his, wrapping my arms around his torso as he hugged me. He smelled like cologne and sweat.
“You feel so nice,” he murmured against the top of my head, squeezing me tightly. “Such a lean, muscular body. You’re trembling. Am I the first man you’ve been with?”
I nodded against his hairy chest, amazed this famous baseball player’s erection was pressed against my belly, while my throbbing cock was crushed between his massive thighs and very likely near his anus. Nothing in my life had ever felt more exhilarating than right then being naked with Adam.
When his hands explored my back and ass cheeks, I did the same to him, completely gobsmacked by his powerful physique. One of his fingers twirled over my butthole so I ran my index finger down his hairy ass crack to prod his anus.
“Grant Webb, so many ways a virgin,” he breathed into my hair. “I’d love to be the first man you came inside.”
My finger easily slipped inside him. My knees nearly buckled out from under me. I couldn’t believe how tight and warm he was. I was beyond delirious. I wanted to know what it felt like to slide my hard cock inside him. I wanted to know what it felt like to ejaculate inside him. I wanted to hold him tight and listen to the sounds he made while I fucked him.
“I have a feeling you’re a natural,” Adam breathed, as I slid my finger back and forth inside him. “I can’t wait for you to fill me with your sperm.”
Mightily thrusting my hips against him, I moaned, suddenly afraid I was moments away from ejaculating between his thighs.
He pushed me away.
I let out a gasp, disappointed, and staggered back a few paces.
He smiled, then reached out to take me by the balls.
I twitched up onto my toes, surprised and delighted by how enthusiastically he massaged my sac.
I looked at his rigid cock pointing up at me, as I closed my hand around his heavy, wrinkly scrotum. My fingers hurriedly explored his impossibly large testicles. With my other hand, I made a fist around his rigid member and squeezed it.
I laughed giddily. Vital and precious felt these moments I fondled him.
“You’re going to make me come if you keep doing that,” Adam breathed, stepping away to bend over his pile of clothes. “I’m not ready yet.”
I marveled we were naked and rock hard on this pitcher’s mound. This has got to be a dream. That Canada Post truck!
“Here it is!” he cried, laughing softly, as he straightened up, holding in one hand what looked like a leather, braided whip.
Not into that!
“Do you know what this is?” he asked, stepping over to me.
I shook my head.
“A butt plug!” he cried, laughing merrily, then raised it toward my throbbing erection. “Look! It’s shaped like your cock!”
I had to agree the handle of the braided tassels looked remarkably like my boner, from the curved shaft to the swollen head.
He spat into his hand, then ran his palm over the head of the butt plug.
I was surprised by how powerfully aroused I was, when he next reached around his hip to slip it easily up his ass. He threw his head back, inhaling loudly, as I watched his chest swell hugely.
“Oh, that feels very, very good!” he cried, turning his head to smile at me. “I need to be fucked much more often.”
He extended his hand toward mine. I took it.
“Come, my pale, golden satyr,” he said, leading me over the soft grass of the infield toward third based.
A few moments later, I was certain I’d lost my mind, but nevertheless ran naked and rock hard around the bases, enthusiastically clutching Adam’s hand.
We did a lap, the braided tassels of his butt plug looking very much like a tail brushing the backs of his thighs and calves.
This is crazy! Amazing! I’m running around naked and hard with the greatest pitcher in the history of baseball.
I laughed at the absurdity of it and couldn’t stop laughing.
Adam laughed at my laughing.
I was beyond giddy, when he led me back to the pitcher’s mound, taking both my hands.
“Wondrous!” he cried, looking me up and down, as we spun together a bit awkwardly over the pitcher’s mound. “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a very long time.”
He suddenly let go of my hands, dropping to his knees, and held out his arms to me.
I gawked at him looking up at me. He was massive, magnificent. I couldn’t take my eyes off his rigid cock pointing toward me, as I stepped up to him.
“Kiss me,” he said. “I want to be the first man you kiss.”
I leaned down to kiss his lips, as he took me by the hips. His tongue found mine. He tasted like mint. I rested my hands on his massive shoulders. We kissed for a long time. I marveled there could be nothing more perfect in the world than being naked and aroused with Adam on this pitcher’s mound.
His hands left my hips. One ran down my thigh, the other up my abdomen and chest. I loved knowing his cock was rock hard because of me. He took me by the balls and clasped my chin.
I moaned with delight, while he expertly kneaded my nuts at the same time he turned my head skyward.
“You have pre-cum covering your balls,” he breathed up at me. “I want to be on my hands and knees in front of you. I want to feel you inside me. I want your arms locked around my chest, as you fuck me. I want to feel you come inside me.”
I nodded as best I could at the stars overhead.
“First, though,” he breathed, his hand working over my sac, “I want to be inside you. I want you to know what it feels like to be fucked by a man. I want you know what it feels like when I ejaculate inside you.”
I nodded, but my enthusiasm suddenly ebbed away, when I remembered I’d always wanted my first time to be with my boyfriend.
He released me. I watched him spit into his hand and rub his palm over his rigid member.
“Lay down on your back,” he said, “and hold your knees against your chest.”
I shook my head. I’ve never sought out anonymous sex.
Something rumbled on the edges of the baseball diamond. I felt it more than I heard it.
“Lay down,” he said again.
I took a step away from him. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect, spectacular opportunity than this if all I wanted was to have sex with a man.
I shook my head again, as the rumbling intensified.
Adam glanced sideways at the edges of the baseball diamond.
“I want to be inside you,” he pleaded.
“I thought I did, too. I like kissing you,” I said, “but–”
“Come here,” he said, smiling radiantly in the moonlight.
“No,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
Adam lurched to his feet. He took a step toward me.
Something smaller than the palm of my hand flickered between us. Then, another from a different direction, before many more joined in.
“Okay. Let’s beat off, then,” he hurriedly said, reaching for my cock, as more things flickered between us, striking his hand. “Oh, my pale, golden satyr.”
“Adam, I’m sorry. I don’t want to,” I said, as I slowly stepped backwards.
“No one has ever said that to me!” he snapped, taking a huge stride toward me. “Come here.”
I was suddenly afraid.
“Pyewacket,” I mumbled before I realized what I was saying, “Pyewacket.”
“What?” Adam said, stopping to swipe at the cloud of flickering things gathering between us.
I shook my head. I wasn’t about to tell him about my imaginary Siamese cat, my pal during all those lonely years, my comforting friend whenever I got banged up in bike mishaps on the trails and beach.
Adam reached for my drooping erection.
I flinched, tripping myself, and landed on my ass in the grass now wet with dew. Adam loomed over me.
I suddenly thought to myself: Get up and fucking run!
Adam thrashed his arms at the flickering things between us. The rumbling on the edges of the baseball diamond was now unmistakable.
“Grant Webb!” he bellowed, reaching down through the flickering cloud to touch my chest, find my shoulder to squeeze.
Terror punched me in the gut. I knew I had to jump up and run.
“Pyewacket, Pyewacket / I need thee / Come to me,” I whispered, the familiar mantra helping me to screw up my courage.
I was sure no one but I could hear my plead over the rumbling, but Adam snatched away his hand, then jerked upright in the flickering cloud. I was astounded to sense something crossing a vast distance toward us. It was moving very fast.
“Certainly, unexpected,” Adam growled. “But you are much too late.”
I glared at him, then gasped in surprise because I somehow knew we were no longer alone on the baseball diamond.
Adam stepped away from me and flung his arms over his head.
Lightning struck his shoulders, the thunderclap nearly blasting out my eardrums. The lightning impossibly illuminated Adam leering down at me as he ejaculated a fountain of semen onto the pitcher’s mound, his head swelling and distorting into that of a grotesque beast. The lightning licked at his butt plug now a massive fan of iridescent peacock feathers caressing his magnificent torso and thighs like the fondling hands of eager lovers.
I watched clouds of orange butterflies surge toward the lightning and peacock feathers.
This isn’t happening, I thought, looking away from the lightning, as I felt consciousness slipping away. None of this. I should be dead this close to lightning.
My cheek pressed into the dewy grass. I kept my eyes open long enough to see butterflies swirl toward me, make room for something striding toward me.
For the first time in my life, I saw Pyewacket’s eyes. I had always imagined them as yellow. They are, in fact, blue-green.