Gay/Lesbian Fiction Excerpts

His Name Is John excerpt by Dorien Grey

2012-02-06T07:00:00.001-05:00

The following excerpt from His Name Is John is from the first book in Dorien Grey's Elliott Smith mystery series. Another excerpt was posted on June 23, 2008.

His Name Is John
Zumaya Boundless (May 30,2008)
ISBN: 1934841048

Excerpt:

The phone rang three times before he heard the receiver being picked up, and singularly expressionless: “Hello?”

“Rob Cole? This is Elliott Smith. You asked me to call.”

“Yes. You say you have a photograph of an unidentified body? Could you send it to me?”

The voice struck Elliott as being remarkably casual, and he was a little curious as to why Cole didn’t ask more about what John Doe looked like before asking to be sent the photo. Still, he felt a rush of anticipation mixed with an odd sense of apprehension.

“So you think you or Mr. Hill might know who this guy is?”

There wasn’t a second of hesitation before: “I’m afraid it might be G.J.. He went missing sometime between March 16th and the 21st.”

The anticipation vanished, but the apprehension expanded to take its place. John had been adamant in saying he was not G.J. Hill, but that Hill had disappeared within days before John was murdered couldn’t possibly be coincidental.

“I’m sure it couldn’t be him,” Elliott said. “The man I’m looking for is named John.”

“That’s why I didn’t say anything in response to your first message,” Cole said. “I couldn’t allow myself to think it might be G.J.. But then I realized that I don’t know of anyone named John who disappeared, and I’m sure G.J. didn’t either. But G.J. is missing. I left here on the 16th to visit my parents, and when I got back on the 23rd, I found a note from G.J. saying he had to be gone for a few days, but that he’d be back on the 24th. But he wasn’t, and I haven’t heard a word from him.”

Elliott, still totally confused, said: “Did you contact the police?”

He heard a deep sigh. “Not right away. G.J. does this—just goes off for a while—every now and then. He’ll get an assignment to do a shoot in Brazil, and he’ll just take off. I’ve gotten used to it. But he’s always told me when and where he was going, and this time he didn’t. After two weeks, I contacted the police and filed a missing persons report.”

That he’d waited two weeks before reporting Hill missing struck Elliott as more than a little unusual, but…he remembered the report Brad had mentioned, with the guy fitting John’s general description, but that had been from San Luis Obispo. “Where do you live?” Elliott asked. “I see you’ve got an L.A. exchange.”

“Yes, but it’s a cell phone. We actually live in our motor home, and we’re always on the move. Right now we’re…I’m…in Northern California, near San Luis Obispo. G.J.’s doing a book of photos of the coast along U.S. 1. I took the car and G.J. was going to spend the time here going over proof sheets”

Elliott was trying to make some sense out of the whole thing. “You and G.J. are lovers?”

“Yes, and business partners. We’ve been together two years now.”

“Well, I really don’t mean to offend you, but is it possible G.J. might have been seeing someone else?”

“I don’t think so. I’d have known, I’m sure. Of course he could have met someone while I was gone, but….”

From what Cole was saying, and from his overall attitude, it struck Elliott that his relationship with Hill was something less than a storybook romance.

“And you have no idea where he went, or why?”

“No. And he didn’t take his camera equipment, which was unusual. He always takes his cameras. I should have called the police sooner, but as I say, he’s done this before and he’s always shown up eventually.”

“You contacted his family, of course,” Elliott said, realizing he was making assumptions.

“He doesn’t have any family,” Cole replied.

“What about friends?” Elliott asked.

“We travel so much, we’re never in any one place long enough to really make friends.”

Again, Elliott was struck by Cole’s casual tone. And he thought again of John’s denial of being G.J. Hill.

“I’m curious why you didn’t provide a photo when you filed your missing persons report?”

“Because I don’t have one,” Cole said. “G.J. refuses to be photographed. Ever. I know, that’s pretty strange for a professional photographer, but I guess we all have our little quirks.”

Elliott thought it strange, too, but didn’t say so. “Well, don’t jump to any conclusions until you see the photo,” he said instead. “I’ll scan it right now and send it to you as an e-mail attachment. I’m sure it isn’t G.J., but please let me know if you recognize him anyway.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“Okay…it’ll be coming along in about five minutes.”

“Thanks again.”

He heard the click of the phone being hung up without a “good-bye.”

Quickly getting up from the computer as he returned his cell phone to his pocket, he went for John’s photo. He was still in a very strange and unusual state he couldn’t really describe, but he was now clearly aware that part of whatever it was he was feeling came from John.

Scanning the photo, putting it into a file, and e-mailing it took slightly longer than the five minutes he’d promised, so he didn’t bother including a message with the photo. He hit “Send” and sat back, waiting…which he realized was foolish of him. There was no way he could expect an instant response.

He turned the sound up full on the computer so he could hear the “ding” of an incoming message, and got up to turn on the TV.

He had no idea what he was watching, and found himself looking at the clock every several seconds. Nothing. After an hour, he got up to look at the computer screen, in case he’d missed an incoming mail notice. There was none, of course, and he was mildly irked at himself for having worked himself up into such a state. This was definitely not like him, he told himself, and rationalized that it had to be John.

An hour passed. Then two, and with every passing minute Elliott, to his dismay, found himself becoming more and more impatient. The impatience turned gradually to anger: John wasn’t G.J. Hill, but either Cole recognized him or he didn’t. If he didn’t, why didn’t he have the courtesy to call and so? Suddenly realizing he hadn’t given Cole his phone number, he was strongly tempted to call Cole back, but thought better of it. He told himself that if Cole had recognized John, he’d have e-mailed. Probably, not recognizing John and so relieved that it wasn’t his lover, he’d just forgotten…or thought he didn’t have to bother. Elliott’s intuitive dislike of Cole grew.

The more he thought about it, the stranger his contact with Cole seemed. Either Cole was amazingly good at concealing his emotions, or he was a pretty cold fish. Of course Elliott had no way of knowing what Cole’s and Hill’s relationship may have been, but he felt strongly that if he had a lover who had gone missing, he’d have been just a little more emotional about it than Cole seemed to be. Cole said he hadn’t responded immediately to Elliott’s first message because he didn’t think it could have been G.J. Hill—but the coincidence of the date of John’s murder and Cole’ returning from a trip….And even if Hill did disappear from time to time for photo assignments, when Cole saw he hadn’t taken his camera equipment, wouldn’t that have rung a very large bell? Why would he wait two weeks before filing a report? It wasn’t until Elliott mentioned the photograph that Cole seemed to show much interest.

Strange, indeed.

Just before he went to bed, against his better judgment and chalking it up to John’s subconscious influence, he sent another e-mail to Cole:

Mr. Cole:
I’d rather hoped to have heard from you regarding the photograph, and would appreciate your dropping me a note even if, in fact, you did not recognize him.
Thanks
Elliott Smith

Still uncustomarily and inexplicably agitated, Elliott went to bed.

* * *

— Why didn’t he answer you?

— I don’t know. He probably didn’t recognize the photograph.

Elliott sensed, even asleep, John’s deep disappointment.

— I don’t like him.

— Any specific reason?

— No. You don’t like him either. Do you have a reason?

— No.

— Will we ever find me?

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Faithful Service, Silent Hearts excerpt by Lynette Mae

2012-01-30T07:00:00.007-05:00

Faithful Service, Silent Hearts by Lynette Mae is the story of Devon James, a bright young military officer, dedicated to serving her country. She soon learns that finding love under any circumstances is difficult, but when your love is forbidden by military regulations and a relentless zealot pursues you, it can seem impossible. Following an investigation that destroyed her first lover's career and their relationship, Devon hopes her new assignment will allow her a fresh start.

Devon is reunited with an old college friend, and together, they form an impressive intelligence team and red-hot couple. When their assignments take them to the war-torn Middle East in the early days of terrorists targeting Americans, then things really get interesting. She returns home a decorated veteran with numerous physical and emotional scars. Devon soon discovers that the battle for her own integrity and faithful service has only begun.

Faithful Service, Silent Hearts
Regal Crest Enterprises (7/10/2011)
ISBN: 978-1-935053-49-1

Excerpt:

Chapter One

March, 1982

THE ARMY DRILL instructors stalked across the blacktop toward the formation of thirty women all dressed in camouflage fatigues and standing stiffly at attention. Twenty-one-year-old Devon James watched their approach from her position on the end of the first row. The DI team was a study in contrasts. Senior Drill Sergeant Jackson, a towering man of six foot six, possessed dark chocolate skin and black granite eyes. Staff Sergeant Collins was a fierce woman whose fair features reminded Devon of a Viking warrior. Her hard blue eyes were nearly translucent and she wore a constant scowl.

Devon cringed inwardly. That woman hates me, she thought.

The sun had not even broken the horizon; the faint promise of light was just beginning to soften the dark edge of the night behind the DIs’ imposing forms. Devon blinked back tears brought on by the cold morning wind that was noisily snapping the flag overhead.

The instructors moved with mechanical precision and clicked their heels to a stop, casting a familiar glare on the group. Devon felt Staff Sergeant Collins’s icy stare on her, knowing the day was already looking bleak. She couldn’t fathom why Collins didn’t like her. Devon tried to achieve every goal the DI set for the group and for Devon individually, but no matter what she did, it never seemed to be enough. She pulled in a deep breath, focusing on the male sergeant. Only two more days.

Devon’s position at the end of the first row made her stand out. When they marched, she was either the “guide on” for the straight lines or the pivot point when the formation swung into a turn. She stood five feet ten inches tall and weighed in at one hundred and forty pounds of pure muscular power. She didn’t mind the responsibility of her position in the formation. In fact, she relished the leadership role. She wasn’t sure when that had happened, mentoring her peers in the platoon. Somewhere along the way, she had started helping the other women with their marching and achieving the best spit shine on their boots. To her surprise, she found she enjoyed it.

“Private James.” Jackson said her name flatly, without a hint of feeling, although they had been together for nearly three months and the platoon was set for graduation in days. He looked her up and down and, apparently satisfied, snapped a left face and moved to the next recruit in line.

Staff Sergeant Collins now stood directly in front of her. They were about the same height and her glacial eyes bored into Devon. Holding her neutral expression firmly in place, Devon kept her eyes trained straight ahead, looking at nothing and praying Collins would move on. No such luck. She reached out to pull at the corner of Devon’s outer shirt pocket.

“What the fuck is this, James?” she held up an imaginary string. Devon knew it was imaginary because she had meticulously checked her uniform, as always. She knew there was no string. Before she could catch herself, her eyes slid to the sergeant’s empty hand and then to her eyes. Big mistake.

“Are you eyeballing me, Private?” Collins bellowed.

“No, Drill Sergeant.” Devon stared at the horizon beyond her.

“Drop and give me twenty, James! Twenty for the string…and twenty for eyeballing me.”

Devon hit the ground and counted aloud as she shoved herself repeatedly off the blacktop, grinding out her unwarranted discipline with swift, jerking movements while the rest of the platoon stood solidly in line. The near-freezing overnight temperatures made the pavement feel like ice against the bare skin of her palms, and little bits of gravel dug in painfully. Stubborn pride was always her weakness, and she tried to corral her emotion, but Collins stood close enough that the tips of her boots were in Devon’s peripheral vision. When she reached thirty, the sergeant squatted next to her.

“James? Are you pissed off?” Devon continued counting. Concentrating on the push-ups was the only thing keeping her from spouting off. Which would only make things worse. How many times had she gotten an extra lash with her mother’s belt for failing to shut her mouth?

“Did you hear me, James? You are, aren’t you? You want to take me on?”

“Forty,” Devon growled. She remained in the plank position, balancing on her hands and toes, waiting for the DI’s next instruction. Collins squatted only a couple of inches away. Knowing that the sergeant couldn’t see her face, Devon flicked her eyes in that direction, only to realize the vee of Collins’s crotch was dangerously close. Without warning, the scent of the sergeant’s cologne registered in Devon’s consciousness, and an odd tingle spread through her gut. She forced her eyes back to the ground.

“Recover, Private,” Collins snapped, her face so near that Devon felt her breath on her cheek. She struggled for air and prayed the sergeant would assume it was only from the push-ups. When she swallowed, it was so loud in her own ears, she was certain the whole platoon heard it. Collins stood but didn’t back away.

“I should’ve made it forty for each transgression. You made that look too easy.” The warmth in Collins’s voice took Devon by surprise, prompting her to steal a glance at the sergeant before she had time to think about it. Collins was smiling. Not sneering. Genuinely smiling at her, and the effect was disorienting. Heat burned in Devon’s cheeks. She returned her eyes forward at once, bracing for the rebuke she knew was coming for the eye contact. Instead, the agonizing silent appraisal dragged on.

Mercifully, Collins looked away, and her next command pierced the air. “Everyone get your asses upstairs and put your PT clothes on. You’re down to two days but you can still fuck this up. Be back down here in five minutes. We’re gonna see just who’s ready to call themselves a soldier.”

THE DRILL INSTRUCTORS marched them out to the grassy field, and Devon had a feeling that today was going to be all about the survival of the fittest. They stood in formation awaiting instruction with a brisk wind swirling around them, stubbornly reasserting winter’s chill. Devon shivered. The brilliant sunrise in the cloudless sky promised to warm the day considerably, but for now the wind cut easily through her cotton t-shirt, raising goose bumps on every area of exposed flesh.

Collins stood several feet in front of the formation, conferring with the other sergeant. Devon wondered about her. The brief glimpse of humanity that had slipped through earlier was so stunning she couldn’t help replaying the scene in her mind. Collins had definitely smiled at her in a genuinely kind way, as though she had lifted away her mask to allow Devon to see her, if only for a moment. Now, she couldn’t stop trying to envision what the woman was like behind the cadre persona.

Sergeant Jackson spoke. “I was going to take it easy on you today, but Drill Sergeant Collins says James challenged her this morning. It seems James believes Sergeant Collins’s record time in the O course is slow.”

Devon prayed a hole would open in the ground and swallow her up. The DIs loved to dig at someone in the platoon, just to screw with them and create dissension in the ranks. Getting recruits fired up over some manufactured bullshit they blamed on another recruit was entertainment for the DIs. Devon couldn’t help but feel that she was one of their favorite targets.

Someone in the formation grumbled, “Thanks for pissing her off, James.” Collins, standing next to the senior DI, stared at Devon with an expectant look on her face.

Fuck me, Devon thought.

“Move out,” Jackson ordered.

They marched around the next bend to the obstacle course, “O” course for short. As the sun began to coax a hint of warmth into the day, the platoon broke formation and gathered at the start of the course. This exercise required each platoon member to complete two rounds. Today’s first score counted toward a combined team total, and the second run for individual times.

Having come into this in better physical condition than most of the women, Devon enjoyed the physicality of the O course. She liked being challenged to overcome the beliefs regarding limitations. Devon ran the first leg for the platoon. She worked her way methodically through each obstacle and sprinted the last fifty yards to the finish. Staff Sergeant Collins waited at the finish line with a stopwatch to capture individual times.

When Devon crossed the finish line, Sergeant Jackson looked over Collins’s shoulder and chuckled. “Better watch out, Collins, she might smash your record today.”

Collins glared at him. “Then, we’ll just run it head to head. Nobody is beating my time.” Devon moved away, trying to pretend she didn’t hear them, but Collins called out, “James?”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant.” She hustled over and snapped to parade rest.

Amusement played across Collins’s features and the hint of a smile touched the corner of her mouth. “Hell of an effort, but don’t count on that time being enough today.” Devon watched the sergeant’s eyes sparkling with challenge in the morning sun. Without waiting for an answer, the DI spun on her heels and shouted at the next recruit attempting to scale the wall.

Devon couldn’t keep the grin from sliding over her face. A compliment from Collins was like a rare jewel, and she savored the swell of pride she felt inside. Collins’s reputation was that of the taskmaster, always pushing, demanding, forcing the recruits in her charge to improve by the sheer force of her will. Only one other time had Devon heard the sergeant praise anyone, and she certainly never expected to be on the receiving end of a kind word from the woman the platoon nicknamed The Terminator.

Someone yelled, and she shook off her momentary bliss. Her bunkmate, Sharon, was struggling at the wall. Sharon, in her late twenties, had three kids back home in Kentucky. She carried a few extra pounds and was a bit out of shape, but she had heart, and Devon had become extremely fond of her.

Devon ran to help, not wanting her friend to complete basic without accomplishing this task. Hesitating, she stopped at the sideline with the others to shout encouragement, wishing she could enter the course to assist. Hell, she’d run the course in Sharon’s place if she could. When it became painfully apparent Sharon was not going to make it over the wall, Devon became desperate to help her. She ran to Collins, who was peppering the poor woman with expletives about her inadequacies.

“Excuse me, Drill Sergeant.”

“What, James?”

“Permission to assist Private Smith, Drill Sergeant.” Devon watched Sharon’s hapless effort. She didn’t possess the upper body strength to pull herself up the rope, and each time she tried, it only resulted in making her swing side to side in a slow, awkward arc.

“Permission?” Sergeant Collins turned her critical stare to Devon. “Private, was the instruction not that this is a team exercise?”

Devon looked at her in confusion.

“If you were on a battlefield, James, and a member of your platoon needed help, what would you do?”

Devon sprinted to the wall past the other platoon onlookers. She braced her back against the wood and laced her hands together in front of her. “Sharon, put your foot here. I’m gonna boost you up.”

“But Devon, I don’t think we’re allowed—”

“Yeah, James,” someone yelled from the group, “you’re gonna get us all in trouble again. I ain’t running no extra miles for your ass today.”

“No shit!” another voice called out. “The last time you decided it was okay to do things your way, we all got killed in the training exercise and had to hump back to the barracks in freezing rain, while Charlie Company got a lift back in the cattle cars.”

Devon ignored them. It didn’t matter that she’d overheard the team of drill sergeants laughing about how they used the drill corporals to find out which direction the platoon was heading and, if not for that, the band of privates would have beaten the cadre team. She already understood that basic training was about persevering against all odds, no matter the outcome. In fact, Sharon was the one who had told her that. Now it was time to remind her friend.

“Sharon, just do it and don’t argue. If we get into trouble, I’ll take the punishment, but you’re going over this wall today.”

Sharon stepped into her hands. Devon pressed herself into a standing position, effectively lifting the woman high enough to grasp the top of the wall. “Now, step up onto my shoulder and climb over the top. You can do this, Sharon.” And, miraculously, she did. After that, Devon completed the rest of the course with her friend, yelling verbal support to keep her moving until they crossed the finish line.

Sergeant Collins clicked the stopwatch. “No team record today, ladies.”

When Sharon hung her head, Devon hugged her shoulder. “Hey, the important thing is that everyone finished. Remember? It’s about not giving up.” Looking past Sharon, she saw Collins favoring her with a pleased smile.

Eight weeks ago, this moment wouldn’t have been possible. Oh, Devon would have wanted to help Sharon, but she would have stood on the sideline, feeling helpless, stubbornly clinging to her childhood fears. She had always been this odd combination of brash tomboy and timid little girl who no one ever understood, and that made her mostly withdraw from people. Somehow, this experience was changing her, making her a doer, awakening some long-repressed desire to test her boundaries, to let loose the real Devon, the one who smiled at Sharon the first day of basic training and made a friend instantly. She was now determined to silence every ridiculing, teasing, taunting voice that had ever taken up space in a child’s head and show them all what she was really made of.

Devon was still shaking herself free of her meandering mental journey when Sergeant Jackson approached.

She quickly readied herself for her turn at the individual O course run. The rest of the platoon had already finished, and she was the last one to have a go at it.

“Do your best, James.” His eyes were full of challenge as he held up the stopwatch.

“I will, Sergeant.” Devon stepped up to the starting line. She drew several deep breaths and toed the ground to ensure good traction for a fast start. Her concentration was already focused on the first wall.

“Hold up.” Sergeant Collins dropped her outer uniform shirt and hat a few feet away. She jogged over to stand next to Devon at the line. Jackson nodded at her as though he had expected her to join Devon.

“I figured you and I should just get this over with, James.” Her lips curved into an evil smile that was arrogant and disturbingly sexy at the same time. “Ready to get your ass kicked?”

The whistle sounded and they were off. Devon hit the ten-foot wall first. Attacking the thick, coarse rope, she ignored the small tears she could feel in her palms from her previous climb and charged up the vertical face. The wood was slick from years of weather and thousands of soldiers’ feet wearing the surface to a shine. She nearly lost her footing midway. At the top, she threw her legs over and dropped to the ground on the other side. Collins landed next to her a second later. They ran side by side through the tires, zigzagging past the pylons to the low crawl beneath the razor wire. Devon stole a quick glance sideways. She caught sand in her eyes as it flew up from the churning of their arms and legs in the pit.

On the other side, they ran to the low rails. Devon’s lack of balance cost her, and Collins nimbly crossed the narrow poles to take a slight lead. The rope climb was next, and Devon’s upper body strength served her well. She shimmied up the rope with precision-like movements, pulling with her arms and pushing with her legs. She reached the top a second ahead of the sergeant and descended with the rope wrapped loosely around her ankle. Her foot controlled the speed as she descended. She had Collins by a full body length at the bottom of the cargo net. They both scrambled skyward, the nylon netting swaying and shifting with each woman’s movements.

Collins took a chance and leapt from the netting only halfway down the climb on the opposite side. This gave her a head start on the final fifty-yard dash to the finish. The entire platoon was yelling. Some encouraged the sergeant, but most were shouting at Devon not to let her get away.

Devon jumped, stumbling slightly in the soft sand at the base of the obstacle. Recovering quickly, she broke into a full sprint toward the finish, intent on overtaking the sergeant. Arms and legs pumping furiously, muscles straining, both women pushed their bodies to the limit. Devon’s field of vision narrowed to nothing but the flag marking the finish line. In the final ten yards, she kicked in her last boost of reserve adrenaline and crossed the line half a step ahead of Collins.

The platoon erupted into a chorus of cheers from the sidelines.

Devon slowed to a walk and kept moving so her overtaxed muscles wouldn’t cramp. She ignored the screaming agony in her chest. As she reversed direction, she saw Collins doing the same. They circled one another like proud lionesses protecting their territory, assessing each other, chests heaving, sweating, and watching each other’s every movement. The sergeant finally bent and put her hands on her knees, breathing hard. She looked up, met Devon’s eyes, and held them fiercely for a moment before breaking into a wide, admiring grin. “Outfuckingstanding, Private James. Outstanding!”

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Transcend excerpt by West Thornhill

2012-01-23T07:00:00.001-05:00

In Transcend by West Thornhill, Gael Astley escapes life spent as a sadist's sex slave. His rescuer introduces him to a world he never knew existed. He quickly discovers he has the powers of telepathy and telekinesis, but is confused about what this means for this life. With the help of the one person he knows he can trust, Gael embarks on an intense training regime that ultimately leads to a new career as an agent for Fillmore, a top-secret paranormal group.

Jason Phillips, a member of the Fillmore team, has secrets of his own. Though he tries to keep his distance from Gael, the two men are drawn together like moths to flame. Will Gael overcome his own insecurities and see the possibilities offered or will his past come back to destroy him?

Transcend
Silver Publishing (January 21, 2012)
ISBN: 9781920502041

Excerpt:

Chapter 3
May 2011
Another year gone by

Gael stared at himself in the mirror. Hair newly shorn showed off the myriad of piercings in both ears. He grimaced before he remembered that Uncle wouldn't be stupid enough to look for Gael in a government agency, even one as obscure as Fillmore, so it didn't matter that his waist length braid was gone.

"At least this will be cooler once the humidity sets in," he said to his reflection as he ran his fingers through his hair. "Maybe with it this short the odd color won't be as noticeable."

At least he could hope. He also hoped that the shorter, shaggier cut made him look more like a man than teenage girl.

He knew his appearance had always been more pretty than manly. It wasn't his fault. He blamed it on the unknown genetic benefactors who had created him. He didn't remember anything before the orphanage and him. He had taken Gael from the orphanage when Gael was ten. He had claimed to be a long-lost uncle who'd only recently discovered his nephew had survived a plane crash that had killed his sister and brother-in-law. Five short years later Gael figured out the real reason he had created the ruse. Gael shuddered as his mind wandered back to that day.

He was sitting at his desk hurriedly trying to get his homework completed. He desperately wanted to be asleep or at least pretend to be asleep before Uncle came home. For the past few weeks, since his fifteenth birthday, Uncle had been watching him differently. It felt like he was a carcass the vultures were waiting to devour. He released the breath he'd been holding as soon as the last problem was completed, quickly turned out the lamp and dove for the bed. He'd made it.

His breathing had just returned to normal when he heard footsteps. He knew that slow, measured gait well. Uncle was home and headed to his room. He rolled to his side, facing away from the door, seconds before it opened. Uncle walked into the room and closed the door behind him. He was already more than a little unnerved. Uncle never closed the door when he checked on him at night, and he almost gave himself away when he felt the bed shift as Uncle's weight settled behind. He wanted to cringe when he felt Uncle's callused fingers trailed up his arms.

"Finally, finally you are to be mine."

His eyes flew open wide. He almost jumped when he felt Uncle's hand slide over his ass. He could feel the heat from Uncle's hand through the two layers of cotton covering him.

He didn't remember falling asleep. So he didn't know how long Uncle had actually stayed in his room, touching him and watching him sleep. He wanted to think it had all been a bad dream. That idea was jerked away when he joined Uncle for breakfast.

"You won't be attending that school any longer. We are leaving today," Uncle said. There was something in his voice that he had never heard before—complete satisfaction. The statement had been made with such authority that he knew arguing wouldn't have been advisable.

He looked down at his plate before drinking the tea Uncle handed him. "May I ask where we are going?"

Uncle smiled. "We are moving to Italy for the next few years."

He looked at Uncle unsure really of what to do or say. "Italy?" He tried to ask but what came out sounded like 'Iahe.' Why did he feel so sleepy all of a sudden?

"Don't fight it, pretty. Just let the drug do its job."

His head lolled back on his shoulders. He tried again to speak but Uncle placed a finger over his lips. "Shhh… you will have the answers soon."

"Gael? You okay in there?" A deep voice asked through the door.

Gael looked in the mirror again. He winced as he took in how pale he'd become in the space of just a few minutes. It was times like this that he wished he could bleach his memories and make the stains go away.

"Yeah, Rick, I'll be out in a sec."

"Okay. Just remember, Tink and Jason will be here soon."

He heard Rick walk away. Rick was his lifeline. The only person he trusted because Rick had saved his life two years ago. He shook his head. He didn't have time to dwell on the past. He had to look forward, so he could keep moving forward. Rick had decided that it was time for him to join an established team. Asteria was the only team with an opening. They had lost a member six months after Rick had brought Gael into Fillmore, and Rick thought they would be a good place for him to start. Gael didn't know what had happened and that made him nervous about meeting these people.

He looked at himself one last time before dropping the towel held tightly in his hands and leaving the bathroom. They were coming to pick him up and take him to his new home in Richmond. At least it was only an hour away from Rick's home in Williamsburg. If things didn't work out, he could always call Rick to come and get him. He stopped when he heard voices coming from the kitchen.

"So, where is he? I'm surprised you're ready to give him up." There was a teasing note in the melodious voice.

"You're so funny, Tink. He'll be down in a few minutes." Gael could hear the warmth and concern in Rick's voice. "This is a big deal for him."

"Fine. I'll behave for now."

Gael could hear the teasing in her laugh. A laugh that reminded him of the wind chimes in Hawaii.

Gael sighed and slowly edged away from the wall he'd been leaning against. Determined not to trip over his own feet, he strode into the kitchen feigning confidence. Nervous as hell, he wasn't prepared for his first view of Jason and it stopped him dead in his tracks. Jason had the longest legs he'd ever seen. They were encased in well-worn black denim that hugged them perfectly. Gael's eyes traveled up over the fitted black T-shirt to the strong, square jaw. He gasped. It felt like the air he sucked in couldn't reach his lungs, making him lightheaded and dizzy. He'd known from listening to Rick that Jason was good looking but he wasn't prepared for breathtaking. On any other man Jason's slightly tilted, hooded eyes, full lips, high cheek bones, and square jaw would just be wrong. But on him it was perfect; like the Titan god Prometheus had sculpted him out of the earth to be a living testament of male beauty. His cock hardened just looking at the man.

Gael took a deep breath before continuing, trying to control his awakened libido. He knew Rick had picked up on his presence even though no one would have seen him standing in the hall. Rick, being an awesome empath, was always aware when someone was nearby, and he didn't want to see the teasing gleam in Rick's eye because of his reaction to Jason.

"Tink, your wait is over." Rick nodded to the doorway just as Gael stepped through.

Gael forced himself to smile as he walked toward them. He spoke softly. "Hey."

Rick draped an arm across his shoulders, arching a brow as he looked Gael over. Gael's brows drew together in confusion, and before he could ask, Rick smiled.

"Tink, Jason, this is Gael."

Gael wanted to cringe at the bright, almost glaring, smile that flashed across Tink's face. It reminded him of some scary horror movie clown, making her words seem ominous.

"I have a feeling he's going to fit in just fine."

That's when he noticed that Tink was dressed like a poster child for the Goth movement—a short, plaid school-girl skirt, over the knee black and white striped socks, platform Mary Jane's, and a black tee with the Wicked Witch of the West on it.

All the moment lacked was flying monkeys.

Gael felt the tension leave his body at his thoughts, shaking his head at the absurdity of them. She wasn't what he expected dressed as she was with platinum blonde hair separated into pigtails on top of her head, deep brown eyes, and clear, pale complexion. The way Rick talked about her he expected her to be wearing thick, nerdy glasses and a lab coat. With her unconventional beauty and over-the-top style, Gael could see her on America's Next Top Model with Tyra and the Js exclaiming over her "fierceness." Adding Jason's pure, raw, seductive Alpha-male vibe left him feeling almost ugly standing near them.

Her response confused him and he must have been wearing it on his face because Rick started laughing.

"G, were you paying attention when you got dressed this morning?"

Gael looked down. Black jeans, Jack Skellington T-shirt… His face flushed red when he realized, with his Disney character tee, he looked like an adolescent, wanna-be nerd compared to Tink's goth chic.

"Apparently not."

He blushed thanks to Rick's teasing but he gave a tentative smile when he caught the sexy half-smile on Jason's face. He grinned when he caught the subtle gleam of amusement in Jason's pale green eyes.

Gael listened to Tink's exuberant description of the house in Richmond. He didn't know what the Fan district was but he was positive she would introduce him to it. The desire to crawl up Jason's big body, like the man was a tree, forced Gael to ignore him. The man was just too appealing. He was turning back to respond to something Tink asked when the world went black.

The next thing Gael knew he was gasping for air and lying limply in Jason’s strong arms.

"What the hell was that?"

He tried to scramble out of Jason's lap but the steel bands the bigger man had for arms wouldn't let him move.

"Sit still," Jason said quietly. "Can you tell us what happened?"

"It was strange. One minute I was listening to Tink and the next I was looking at some guy who looked like me."

The gauntlet of emotions was overwhelming. Being in Jason's arms and smelling the fresh, woodsy scent of the man caused Gael's cock stir into wakefulness. His uneasiness from passing out was made worse by the attraction he was feeling for Jason.

Tink was staring at him like he was an oddity at a carnival. She blinked, owlishly, when Rick lightly touched her arm.

"Tink?"

"I think Gael has a new ability." She grinned. "Luckily for you I can help you learn how to use it."

When her gaze met Gael's, he understood why she was the leader of Asteria. Her rich brown eyes had darkened to an intense black that commanded respect.

Gael looked up. "New ability?"

Tink smiled. "Tell us what you saw."

"I was standing next to a bed looking at a guy sitting at a desk. The first thing that caught my attention was the fact that he had the same color hair. I moved closer to him and he looked like me. That's when I wo-came back here."

He was already embarrassed by what had happened and being in Jason's lap wasn't helping any.

"Do you remember what he was doing?" Rick asked.

"He was writing in a journal I think. Why? What's this new ability?" He looked around and stopped when he was caught in Jason's gaze.

Jason's eyes softened slightly. "Tink's right she will be able to help you."

Gael felt heat suffuse his cheeks at Jason's all too-knowing smile. Completely caught up in Jason's gaze, he jumped when Rick answered.

"That was astral projection. An ability very few actives actually develop and only one has recall like you."

"But I thought…"

Confusion swarmed over him as he tried to figure out who and what they were talking about. Then he saw the grimace on Tink's face.

"Yeah, that's what everyone thinks. Just because I'm a diviner doesn't mean that I don't have any active abilities. Telepathy, telekinesis, and astral projection tend to travel together."

Smirking, Tink turned toward Rick. Apparently there was more going on between them than just Rick being division chief but Gael wasn't sure he wanted to know. Between his uncontrollable reaction to Jason, meeting the woman Rick thought of as an equal, and discovering a new ability, Gael wasn't sure he could handle any more surprises. Sensory overload didn't even begin to describe how he felt.

"Well, I think it's time you guys hit the road."

He wanted to come back with a smart reply and in his head it sounded great. But he knew the second it came out of his mouth it would lose its impact. Rick's practicality could be annoying on a good day, which Gael had figured out not long after moving into Rick's house. He understood it was one of Rick's little OCDs, but it was still irritating.

"But I think you are well on your way to forming the bonds of a good team."

Gael glared up at Rick. "I'd get up if the gorilla would loosen his grip."

Jason laughed as he stood effortlessly with Gael in his arms. He sat Gael on the bar stool Tink had vacated when Gael fell.

"Good thing for you, this gorilla has quick reflexes. Ready to go?"

Gael wasn't sure what to say or if he should say anything; so he nodded in response. Everything he owned fit into one large duffle bag, a single small backpack, and a slim messenger bag for his laptop. He was sad he was leaving Rick's, but at the same time, he felt the anticipation of a new beginning.

* * * *

Driving back to Richmond, Jason only half listened to the conversation between Gael and Tink. He was more concerned with his intense, almost painful, attraction to the slight young man. When Gael had walked into the room he'd felt his entire being shift. Gods, the man was stunning and didn't even realize it. Jason sensed that something in Gael's past had hurt him, badly. He desperately wanted to protect him from whatever had gouged those wounds into Gael's soul. He wanted to know what had made Gael appear to think so little of himself, and he wanted desperately to protect him from whatever or whoever had hurt him.

Rick told them that Gael had waist length hair but the new shorter style showed off his creamy complexion and silver eyes perfectly. But Rick had left out a lot. Gael's copper colored hair and silver eyes were just a small piece of the beautiful package sitting uncomfortably in the back of the SUV. Jason was totally captivated by Gael's slightly feminine appearance. He was even slimmer than Tink who at five six wore a size two without trying.

Jason’s thoughts were focused completely on the moments he'd held the smaller man. The slight figure overshadowed by loose fitting clothing belied the toned, hard body he'd felt. His lion stretched and chuffed at the thought of cradling Gael against him. He'd never really been interested in men as small as Gael but for some reason Gael brought out every protective instinct he shared with his cat. He didn't want to think too much about what that could mean to him and his future. He wanted his mate but wasn't prepared for all that Gael represented.

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Kaleidoscope: Gay Portraits in Shifting Focus excerpts by Anel Viz

2012-01-16T07:00:00.000-05:00

In the seven stories in the collection Kaleidoscope: Gay Portraits in Shifting Focus, the author Anel Viz explores people’s shifting views of each other, of the images they project, and of themselves. Individuals fragment, the pieces fall into ever-changing patterns like bright confetti in the base of a kaleidoscope, and our ideas about sexuality color what we see.

The following four short excerpts are from four of the short stories included in the collection Kaleidoscope.

Kaleidoscope: Gay Portraits in Shifting Focus
Silver Publishing
ISBN: 9781920501037 (ebook)
(print edition to be released soon)

Excerpts:

Proteus
(Dr. Krone puzzles over the real persona of a student whose dress, body language and opinions change from one class to the next.)

Every few years one will have a class joker among one's students. This is often an advantage. Not a class clown, whose very presence is disruptive, but a joker, a young man, less often a woman, whose witty remarks are to the point and lighten the atmosphere so that sitting in class becomes a more pleasant experience for the other students and their professor as well. That spring his name was Roy Bramson.

Edmund didn't pick up on Bramson's game until halfway into the first unit; until then he took everything he said at face value. Bramson had perfected the technique of innocently asking a question that seemed naive on the surface, but which when followed through brought out complexities and led their discussion in surprising directions on topics Edmund had covered so often they had become second nature to him. He asked them with an expression of absolute deadpan and wide-eyed curiosity, like one of those students who have such ingrained opinions that they assume everyone thinks exactly as they do and require a long, overly simplified explanation before they can grasp an unfamiliar idea. What finally gave him away was that where he seemed to be coming from was constantly
shifting.

Edmund always had his students fill out a small information sheet the first day of class. After three or four class sessions, he took note of Bramson's participation and looked through them again to see what he had written. Except for the last item, his answers were unremarkable.

Major: undecided—economics? computer science? biology?

Why you chose this course: I need it for my humanities requirement & it fits in with my schedule (nearly everyone put something like that)

1 to 3 things you know about Ancient Greece and/or Rome: they ate olives, they had orgies, they conquered the world

When he handed out the syllabus, Bramson had raised his hand and asked if the creation myths they studied would include Darwin's theory of evolution. A couple of students guffawed; others looked embarrassed. It was impossible to tell whether he was a wise guy or a creationist.

Edmund answered noncommittally, explaining that the course did not deal with truth, but with stories different cultures invented to help them make sense of the world.

Thanks to Bramson's question, that first day was unlike any other. Instead of outlining the course, clarifying his expectations, giving his little "Why study mythology?" speech and letting them go early, they talked about subjects he always reserved for the last week of class—if the expression "modern myths" was accurate or figurative, how entertainment and the media perpetuate what we take for granted, to what extent globalization had homogenized the modern view of the world, what national legends persisted in different countries and how they affected international politics—vital questions that they would turn to again and again during the course of the semester.

Nearly the whole class participated in the discussion, and by the end of the hour, Edmund knew things about his students that might have come out later in their papers or an off-hand remark, or which he might never have found out at all.

Photographic Memories
(A witness at a trial for a gay killing harbors some doubts that the accused is the man he saw leave with the victim.)

In the days before they started sealing adult magazines in cellophane, he used to flip through them and their contents would imprint themselves on his brain before anyone could see where his prurient interests lay. Then he would go home, open his pants, and idly stroke himself while his mind read through them, seeing the color photos in all their glory and imagining the models were the characters he was reading about, though back then the magazines didn't show full frontal nudity.

Kyle was younger then, and perpetually horny. Now he no longer cared if people knew he was gay and would have had no qualms standing in front of the racks if they still held any attraction for him. He'd seen thousands of naked men and with his eyes shut could see them again; he didn't need to stare. His partner, Nathan, once asked how he could be sure he wasn't looking at someone else when they made love. He answered that while looking at a beautiful body still gave him pleasure, voyeurism per se had lost its glamour.

Other tastes had changed as well. Instead of porn, he liked less graphic, tastefully written erotica, good stories about real people with real feelings involved in plausible sexual situations, and though he could have taken an entire page in at a glance, he read slowly, savoring as he went along.

He had forgotten the stories he used to read from memory as a kid, but sometimes one would come back to him, recalled by he knew not what event in his present life. He couldn't be sure he remembered it exactly. Even a photographic mind can play tricks on you. Though he could glance at a newspaper and rattle it off word for word, with the stories there was not only the time interval to consider. A certain amount of elaboration might also come into play, as the models he had imagined cinematically acting the stories no doubt colored his vision. Also, the stories seemed much better written than he remembered them, so his literary sensibilities must have interfered in an editorial capacity.

For that reason, at the trial Kyle refused to swear he was absolutely certain the man he had identified without hesitation in the line-up was the same person he had seen at Cassidy's. The prosecutor asked to redirect. She gave him five seconds to look at a printed page she took from the court stenographer and had him recite it back. He took two seconds and reeled it off without a mistake.

"Yet you say you cannot swear that the accused is the man you saw.

"If you asked me to recite that page again a week from now, I'd have to struggle and some of the words would be different. The crime was five months ago."

"But you've seen him or his pictures numerous times since then to keep him fresh in your memory."

"All the more reason to distrust myself. I could be remembering the photos and not the man. And I'd been drinking."

Kevvy
(A popular high school student befriends a gay classmate.)

The teller looked at my deposit slip and asked, "Are you related to Arthur?" Not a far-fetched question in a town of under sixty thousand—ours is not a common last name.

"I'm his father," I said. "You know him?"

"Oh, yes, I remember him fondly. He was such a good friend to Kevin. I'm Mrs. Bates."

The name didn't ring a bell. "I didn't know all of Arthur's friends. Didn't really know any of them well."

"They weren't close friends, really, but Kevin talked a lot about him. Thought the world of him. The things he did for him!"

"To be perfectly honest, it's hard to imagine Arthur doing things for people when he was a kid." Little things, maybe. Not that he was selfish or anything. He just had this idea that people ought to fend for themselves.

"Then you didn't know your son as well as you think you did. I wouldn't call the things he did for Kevin little. How's he doing?"

"Well… very well, in fact. He's getting married next month. The whole family's flying to Belgium for the wedding. He's been working in Brussels the past two years."

"How exciting! I've never been out of the country myself. His wife… the girl… she's Belgian?" I nodded. "Will he be settling there?"

"For a couple more years, I think, and then wherever his company sends him. And your son? Does he still live here?"

"Are you kidding? Kevin got out as soon as he could. He's in San Francisco now and happily partnered—"

Mrs. Bates broke off in mid-sentence, seeing the look on my face. She must have mistaken it for disapproval. It wasn't, though; it was remembrance.

"You're Kevvy's mom," I said. "It's come back to me now. So Kevvy's in San Francisco and has a permanent boyfriend. I'm glad for him. They get on well?"

She beamed and nodded.

It had been more than ten years, but I remembered Kevvy Bates, all right. I'd met him several times, a skinny seventeen-year-old, not particularly remarkable, blond, very round brown eyes, about five foot eight, with a shy smile and awkward in his movements. He was always polite and had a dry, self-deprecating sense of humor. It was hard to tell if he was joking or serious. I liked him, though, which is more than I can say for his friend Mitchell, who was by far the more colorful of the two.

Since the Reunion
(“Spouses and significant others welcome.” How many will attend? How have they changed over the past 25 years?)

About twenty of my old classmates had arrived before me. It was hard to tell with them scattered around the lobby, mixed in with alumni of other years divisible by five. More people kept trickling in. I assumed ours would be the largest group, twenty-five being a special number.

Phil was the first one I saw, sitting at a table by the window with a half-dozen others from our class, including Alyssa. He didn't look at all shy, but totally at ease and very voluble, otherwise very much the same, as thin as he was in his teens, a middle-aged man with graying hair and stubble and a kid's build. Another difference: my gay-dar clicked on as soon as I laid eyes on him, not that his mannerisms were in any way effeminate. He recognized me immediately and waved for me to come join them.

Alyssa gave me a big hug and fell to reminiscing about the prom. Her speech was labored, her words slurred. She had survived two strokes and walked with a cane.

"I had a feeling you'd be here," Phil said.

I asked, "Freelance what?" Freelance everything, it seemed. He earned most of his spotty income as a "freelance office worker"—who knew there were such things?—and a freelance research assistant for such a wide variety of projects I thought he must have become one of those generalists who specialize in everything. But his great passion was photography. He freelanced in that capacity, too, but it didn't bring in much.

It appeared that Phil, of all people, had kept tabs on just about everyone he'd known, either directly or through others he'd stayed in touch with. When I asked about someone, he usually had the answers. Pam had dropped out of sight, vanished without a trace. Connie thought she'd seen her once on the news, in a crowd of people at a Free Angela Davis rally in Chicago. She'd cut her hair—beautiful, red-blond hair that reached below her waist. As I said, I lusted after her in high school.

"And Cora?"

Hadn't I heard? Cora had developed schizophrenia a year or two after she graduated from college and had to be institutionalized. Ellie had made it a point to visit her there whenever she was in town, but at the last class reunion, the hospital told her Cora had been discharged, the result of one of the city's painless money-saving cutbacks that affected those who needed help most. They had a phone number on file, but it had been disconnected. She was living on the streets now, for all Ellie knew.

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Swan Cloud - Southern Swallow Book III excerpt by Edward C. Patterson

2012-01-09T07:00:00.004-05:00

In Swan Cloud - Southern Swallow Book III by Edward C. Patterson, ten years has passed since The Nan Tu, Book II of the Southern Swallow series. "We were like Swan Clouds, or so my master Li K'ai-men said, because for ten years we drifted from place to place - city to city - one temporary capital after another." The Sung court and government has settled at the great city of Lin-an and peace is sought with the invading Jurchen. The stage is set for one of the most infamous incidents in Chinese history, known as The Yueh Fei Affair - an intrigue, which casts our adventurers into the perils of the times.

Book III of the Southern Swallow series, Swan Cloud, like its predecessors (The Academician and The Nan Tu) is told by K'u Ko-ling, servant to the Grand Tutor, Li K'ai-men, who must forgo his obligated mourning period and set out on a diplomatic mission for the Emperor Kao - a mission fraught with political intrigue and treachery. Set on the broad canvas of Sung Dynasty China (12th Century), Swan Cloud is a tale of separation and sacrifice - injustice and intrigue. It represents a turning point in this saga for our hero and his band of spiritual warriors.

Swan Cloud-Southern Swallow Book III
Publisher: CreateSpace (November 3, 2011)
ISBN-10: 1466499591
ISBN-13: 978-1466499591

Excerpt:

Chapter One -Honey Cakes

1

We were like Swan Clouds, or so my master Li K’ai-men said, because for ten years we drifted from place to place — city to city — one temporary capital after another. However, we inevitably returned to Hang-chou, the Emperor’s favorite place. It wasn’t always his favorite. After our flight southward and along the coast, the Jurchen enemy was embroiled in their own political quagmire, allowing us to return to the battle scarred earth we called the Motherland.

His Majesty had learned well — learned well from my master, his Grand Tutor and the Custodian of the Yellow Door. Under my master’s influence, the Emperor Kao became energetic, seeking talent and resources. He even moved north in an attempt to retake our lost lands. We had four brave generals — Chang Chun, Han Shr-chung, Lu Kuang-shr and Yueh Fei. Things appeared promising, but what do I know, K’u Ko-ling, piss-ant servant that I am. I only parrot my master’s words. Fortunately for you, he has told me much.

The Jurchen didn’t slacken when we Sung attacked them. They had bolstered their puppet buffer state under Liu Yu, who had ennobled many outlaws to join him, including Yueh Fei’s brother-in-law, Li Ch’eng. Still, the Sung generals perceived they had the upper hand; so much so, His Majesty went to the city of Ch’ien-ning to direct the campaign personally. Unfortunately, he was not a strategist. He meddled with the assignments and promotions, placing rival commanders in the field. This led to mutiny and the defection of the popular general Liu Ch’i-fei who took two-hundred thousand soldiers with him, joining the enemy’s camp. His Majesty’s appetite for war waned. He withdrew south to Hang-chou, renaming the city Lin-an — Pacified Forest — and declared it the Temporary Capital of Temporary Capitals. The grand offense now had become a grand defense, and stood thus for ten years.

My master, his ch’i-t’ang and the family went wherever his Majesty went. So did I, because I am ch’i-t’ang. Our growing family stumbled along from place to place living in mud daub dwellings and dank dells until finally we settled into a spacious compound just east of Lin-an’s West Lake. My master named the place The Pavilion of the Gentle Zephyrs, because he had hoped the wind would keep us steady there — that our travels might be at an end. In that, he was wrong.

We were privileged. Many officials still squalored in muck houses and sties. It didn’t much matter to me. Life had become a steady work in motion — a Swan Cloud, as my master said. But for me, it was more a Crow’s Bucket filled with the handy tasks that I was born to perform. I couldn’t complain. I was sinewy and had free access to every fan-tan game in town, not to mention every whore. I had my own horse — Water Dragon, and I was married — say yes. But my fat-ass wife and brawling craphound son were not worth a fart. I did my duty. I gave the world one son . . . well, two, but . . . when I think of the secret one, I lose my good humor and drift toward melancholy. So I won’t think about him. Instead, I will tell you about the events that shaped the world as it became — events turning my three and thirty years at the time upon their head.

2

Lu Ting crossed his arms as he rode in the sedan chair, the curtains drawn, protecting him from the rising sun. The mornings were still chilly in the north. He had been traveling for nineteen days and was a long distance from Lin-an. He worried how his colleagues would fare in his absence. Still, his mission was important — a blunt one and worthy of the journey’s hardships.

As the chair bounced unsteady along the road, his porters lost their grip. Lu Ting held fast to the lacquered canopy. In his youth, he would have ridden a grand steed, but in his dotage, the chair would do, if these damned porters could hold it steady. Suddenly, the vehicle wavered and shook and then crashed to the ground, the minister clutching the side poles to avert serious injury. The curtains wrapped around his head.

“Help me,” he shouted, twisting about in the crimson cloth.

The porters recovered the chair, but not the Director of the Left. That task fell to the steward.

“My lord,” said the steward.

“Fei P’ing,” Lu Ting shouted. “Help me. Who’s responsible? This is unforgivable.”

“It could not be helped, my Lord,” Fei P’ing stammered.

He extricated his master from the curtains, righting him, and then immediately knelt in supplication. Lu Ting whirled around scowling at the porters, who also knelt. The entire entourage, twenty-five in all, knelt, heads bowed low. However, Lu Ting softened as he scanned the surroundings.

“It could not be helped,” Fei P’ing murmured, weeping.

Lu Ting stepped over the curtain to the road’s edge. He trembled.

“What has happened here? What is this place, Fei P’ing?”

“It is Yao Ch’ing.”

On both sides of the road — death and carnage — bodies clad in sullied leather and sodden silk. Bodies stacked haphazardly where they had fallen. The ground oozed blood — rivulets of crimson pooled beside shattered corpses. Dead horses were decayed and strewn across the landscape. Lu Ting choked.

“So much death,” he muttered. “The earth will yield nothing but weeds beneath such fodder.” He sighed. “Up with you, Fei P’ing. Up! Up! All of you. I can’t be cross before the ghosts. Of course, it couldn’t be helped. I haven’t sustained injury, except to my eyes, looking out upon this terrible . . .”

Carrion birds feasted, scarcely stirring at the grand minister’s presence. Lu Ting shaded his eyes, straining to see the distant hills, where the battle fires still smoldered. Nothing moved except the occasional banner angled to catch the stinking breeze.

The entourage slowly stirred — the carts refastened, the sedan set right, the curtains reattached, although Minister Lu Ting refused to draw them again. In fact, he refused to take his seat again. He trudged past the road’s edge, exploring the marks of battle. His slippers raised the dust. He kicked hands that had lost their owners and legs, now mere debris. Fei P’ing followed him at a distance.

“This is a victory, no doubt,” Lu Ting said. “I see more leather than silk. But how much more can the earth sustain under the warrior’s hand.”

“My lord,” Fei P’ing called. “We are a half day from the place. We should not linger here.”

Lu Ting halted, his travel robes feeling twice their weight. He allowed his eyes to settle on a head — a Jurchen head, one not unlike his own, except that it was loosed from its owners neck and may have belonged to one of several of the nearby fallen. This trunkless head seemed to laugh at him. It said Fool. You wish to continue this unending state of things — this war of ten years. And what have you gained?

Lu Ting scanned the distant hills again.

“Yes,” he muttered. “We’ve recaptured Lo-yang. It’s a good thing to have one of our jewels back, despite the cost.”

He sighed, and then raised his collar to block the noxious odor.

“My Lord.”

“Yes, Yes. We’ll hasten to Lo-yang, Fei P’ing. We must speak to the butcher in his lair.”

Lu Ting trundled back to the road, the entourage anxious to leave this place. The porters attended once again. Lu Ting climbed into his chair.

“Have better care with my old bones,” he told them. “Make haste.”

However, even at an increased pace, Lu Ting would not lose sight of the carnage for a full watch. He refused to draw the curtains as he pondered the evidence of his policies. As for the stench of rotting flesh and the spectacle of bloated torsos, he would take those to his grave. They would follow him like the blowflies and the carrion crows.

3

From the West, a fast horse approached Lo-yang, the rising sun blinding the rider. His mission — important. His cargo — an imperative, tucked within two parcels in the depths of his saddlebag. The dust flew about in the beast’s wake.

“Ai-ya,” the rider shouted, striking with his boot heels and snapping the whip-like reins.

The horse whickered, charging forward as if the world depended on his delivery.

“Ai-ya and go. Stop complaining. He is waiting for it.”

The walls loomed before the rider who steered toward the gates. A city of tents now emerged before the fortress — a sea of color shivering in the wind. Soldiers awoke to their morning duties and piss. They noted the rider and he noted them, but nothing slowed his course. In fact, the gate opened at his approach, as if the world expected him.

“Ai-ya,” he shouted as he raced past the guards, who held their helmets fast as if the steed would blow them off. Only the ancient streets in the Western Market slowed the animal’s course.

The rider called for a canter, reining in — directing hooves toward the old Imperial compound, which now served as the Ya-men and headquarters for the Great Commander of the Western Forces — General Yueh Fei. As the horse and its cargo trotted through the market and then passed the artisan guilds, the night lanterns were extinguished, apprentices waving to the soldier, who ignored them. He kept to his course.

The Ya-men gates opened and he spun into the courtyard. Two grooms cuffed the steed, and then the rider dismounted, snatching the saddlebags in a single motion.

“He waits,” shouted an officer, who stood nearby. “Haste.”

The rider followed the officer into the darkness.

4

General Yueh Fei paced in the Pavilion of the Copious Harvest, his staff watching his every move. Captain Tzu Ma-lin listened, cocking his head attentively for the expected footsteps. He had already made his report to his commander — that an entourage from the Capital was approaching from the southeast and had crossed the Yao Ch’ing battlefield. However, nothing could commence — no planning, agenda or even the reception for the Director of the Left until the General’s morning ritual had reached its completion. That could not commence until the rider rode the distance from the General’s lady-wife.

“I hear them,” Tzu Ma-lin said.

The other officers — six leaders of stature who had been pouring over maps, stirred.

“As it should be,” Yueh Fei said.

He stared at his staff, particularly Tzu Ma-lin, until they gathered around their maps, their strategic conference drawing away from the General’s business. Another Captain, Go Xin, marched smartly into the chamber, followed by the rider, who toted the saddlebag.

“We are here, sir,” Go Xin said, clasping his right fist to his breastplate, and then bowing.

The rider knelt, bowed his head and raised the saddlebag high above his noggin. Yueh Fei, a giant by anyone’s measurement, loomed over the man. He snatched the bag, the rider prostrating.

“Are they intact?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord. Untouched by any one but my mistress.”

“Just so.”

“Any word back, my lord?”

“Linger in the kitchens. Don’t leave unless I tell you. I’ll send her a token, but I must consider it first.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The rider regained his footing, saluted and then shuffled toward the door.

“Go Xin,” Yueh Fei said. “Walk with me.”

The captain followed Yueh Fei to a corner, where the general retrieved the parcels. Go Xin took the saddlebag.

“Lu Ting has been sighted at Yao Ch’ing,” Yueh Fei said. “How long do you think it will take him to reach Lo-yang?”

“He’s old, sir. He might take a day.”

Yueh Fei turned and grinned.

“No one lingers on that battlefield, Go Xin, especially a man of dainty qualities. If he hadn’t turned about and rushed back to Lin-an by now, then I would say he’s running his ass to Lo-yang and will be enjoying our hospitality by the eighth watch.”

“I shall prepare.”

“Prepare well. His presence disturbs me.”

Go Xin shrugged.

“He’s friendly to the cause,” Go Xin said.

“Yes. A dangerous cause. He might be old and genteel, but he has had the balls to oppose Ch’in Gwei.”

Go Xin opened his mouth to comment, but closed it, commentary enough having been expended on the subject of Ch’in Gwei — commentary too often spouted — too often unproductive. Captain Tzu Ma-lin approached, coming to attention, and then nodding.

“Your orders, sir.”

Yueh Fei gathered the parcels into the crook of his arm, and then grinned.

“Well, Tzu Ma-lin, it isn’t every day the Emperor sends an emissary to piss ants like us. We fight for the nation and His Majesty, now that he chooses to embrace his southern whore house.”

His captains grinned.

“Ignore me, comrades,” Yueh Fei said. “I’m a gruff man and have known our Imperial Lord since he was a boy.

He gave me my commission . . . personally . . . and in the field . . . and before he ascended the dragon throne.”

Yueh Fei’s grin melted away as he thought of that day on the road to meet the Jurchen lord, Nien-ho. General Yueh escorted the Emperor, at the time Prince Kang, through the lands of the outlaw Li Ch’eng, who was the brother of the woman who sent the parcels now tucked under Yueh Fei’s arm.

“His Majesty is diligent, brave and worthy of our devotion, gentleman,” Yueh Fei said. “But gruff men will be gruff men.”

“We share your gruffness, sir,” Go Xin said.

“No. You share my battlefield and are therefore my heart — the pulse of my existence. You know me well and serve me better. So, greet the Director of the Left with respect and comfort. Billet him in the Phoenix Pavilion and set his entourage in our best rooms. Lo-yang is the seat of Emperors. Let the best of tradition be served in Lu Ting’s honor and remember he’s a friendly voice in that shit hole we call the court.”

He closed his eyes, knowing that any speech dishonoring the Imperial regime was not befitting his position as Commander of the Western Forces. Still, these men were his right and left hands. They needed to hear his true thoughts. He trusted them not to transmit these notions to their subordinates and thence through the rank and file.

“It shall be done, sir,” Tzu Ma-lin said.

“Good. It is well. K’ai-feng is within our grasp. There are times when politics rule us and I believe this is one of those times.” He raised the parcels. “But now I must spend time with these. Any one who dares interrupt me during the next watch, his balls will be impaled on the Western Gate.”

The captains laughed.

“What if General Han Shr-chung should be that man?” Go Xin asked.

“He would be the exception having nothing for me to impale.” Yuen Fei laughed. “But he’s far away in the East and shall not be calling today.”

His men bowed, departing to fulfill their orders. Yueh Fei glanced at the parcels, and then drifted out of the Pavilion of the Copious Harvest, roaming through the courtyard to a small enclosure that he called his billet. Simple, cold and soldierly, it reminded him that as lofty as his responsibilities had grown, he was a warrior still — one of many.

5

“Sir,” said the steward as Yueh Fei entered his quarters.

“It’s here, Pan La.”

“I’m going, sir.”

“Guard against all comers, Pan La.”

The steward, young and bright eyed, smiled at his commander, devotion radiating from his eyes. He bowed, and then disappeared into the courtyard.

Yueh Fei set the parcels on a table near the window, and then knelt at a portable temple that enshrined his ancestral tablets. He bowed, his top knot whisking the shrine’s edge. He reached for a joss stick, stuck it in a sand pot and then, taking a fire inch-stick, he struck it on the side of the pot, the stick bursting into flame. He touched it to the incense, igniting it — a thin smoky stream yielding jasmine perfume. He clapped three times.

“Father,” he intoned. “I know you wanted me to be a pot-maker and marry a seamstress, but the world has turned and I’ve become the enemy’s devil, hacking my way northward in service to the Son of Heaven. My wife is the sister of an outlaw, whom I have compromised, and she sews nothing more than tent hems and flag trim. But she can bake and steam cake like no other woman to my acquaintance.” He clapped again. “So, as your greatest disappointment, I beg you to indulge me a bit longer. There may be a time when I shall do naught but make pots. Meanwhile, I prefer the enemy’s blood on my boots and his wail in my ears and his wounds within sight.” He clapped again, and bowed. “If you see fit to speak on my behalf to the spirits who guide mapmakers, tell them to be more accurate with their fucking landmarks, so I might strike truer at the enemy’s heart.”

He reached for another joss stick, lit it and then clapped again. This done, he went to the table and unwrapped the first parcel. His fingers breached the strings carefully, unrolling the stiff paper, revealing an object wrapped in yellow silk, a red string fastened at each end. Again, Yueh Fei liberated the wrapping, pressing the cloth flat. In its center was the prize — a pastry of golden quality, rectangular and glistening in the filtered light. He sighed.

“She loves me still,” he muttered.

He pressed his hand in the cake’s side, breaking off a goodly piece. He chuckled in anticipation, and then raised the crumbled victual to his eye.

“She loves me still.”

His wife had sent him these honey cakes, and it was more than a gentle wifely gesture from a faithful woman. She was the sister of the outlaw Li Ch’eng and had married Yueh Fei when he was a member of the cutthroat’s band. She too was skilled with the sword and had seen her share of freebooting. However, when Yueh Fei threw his lot in with the Sung Army, she dutifully abandoned the bandits and followed her husband into respectability. Now her loyalty was tested. Her brother had been driven out of the north and had infested Lake Tung-t’ing, where he led a rebellion. Yueh Fei, however, crushed that rebellion, Li Ch’eng retreating to serve the Jurchen. They declared Li Ch’eng their champion and commanding general.

Now, Li Ch’eng was dead, slain in battle at Yao Ch’ing along with his army, defeated by . . . his brother-in-law, Yueh Fei. Victory was sweet to the Sung, despite the prevalent court policy to sue for peace. Victory was sweet to the Generals of the North — Han Shr-chung and Chang Chun. However, it held bitterness for Yueh Fei, who had sent a dispatch to his lady-wife to say that he was safe, but her brother was dead and slain by her husband’s hand.

I shall deliver myself to your wrath, he wrote to her, and I will retreat to the mountains at Kun-ming, exiling myself from your weeping. If you despise me, send me a knife and I shall dispatch it into my heart. If you share in my victory, send me a sweeter sign of your love.

She sent him both — a honey cake and a knife, and, at first, he wasn’t sure she meant for him to live. However, after consideration, he used the knife to cut the cake, and then sent his thanks. Another cake arrived and then another, and since it was not poisoned and he thrived, he was blessed by the daily arrival of his lady-wife’s forgiveness and loyalty.

Yueh Fei smiled as the crumbs moistened his lips and showered his beard.

“Who needs a recalcitrant father, when I have such an abiding wife?”

He glanced back toward the tablets, the joss sticks still fumigating the corner of the room. He swallowed hard, and then called Pan La for drink. The steward, never more than a shout away, popped his head in. He already had the flask.

“Take this other parcel to my staff room. Let the mapmakers enjoy it.”

“Honey cake again, sir?”

“Indeed. And this portion I leave for you.”

“I’m not worthy.”

“I’ll determine your worthiness, Pan La. I command here and no other. When I say you’re to eat honey cake, you’ll eat it.”

“Thank you, sir.” He poured some wine. “Go Xin and Tzu Ma-lin are hovering, sir.”

“They dare not come in.” He laughed. “It’s good that they keep their distance when I’m cavorting with my ancestors. My captains value their balls, Pan La. Did they say what they wanted?”

“Yes, sir. The commissioner from the Capital has arrived.”

“That would be Lu Ting — the Director of the Left, Pan La, and it is the Temporary Capital not the Capital. We mean to retake the real Capital and enthrone His Majesty there again.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Well, drift their way and mention that I said for them to prepare the Hall of Virtuous Peace in two watches. I might be found there and ready for a conversation with the Director of the Left.”

“Are those orders, sir?”

“They are, but . . . do not frame them as such. You’re not me. You overheard my thoughts and hoped my captains will be engines of anticipation. Then, return here, snuff out the incense and lay out my court attire.”

“Just so, sir.”

“Don’t look so puzzled. I must be a politician today and put the warrior away . . . at least for now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pan La snatched the unopened parcel, bowed and then scurried over the threshold.

“He’s a good lad,” Yueh Fei muttered.

He pawed at more honey cake. He ate no more, but hoped that Pan La would leave some morsels for a late night indulgence. Yueh Fei closed his eyes. He had at least one watch to rest and to prepare for this meeting of state.

6

Yueh Fei was the savior of the Empire, or so every one who bellowed his name proclaimed. The other generals had shown brave measures, but also false steps. Yueh Fei never wavered. At Yao Ch’ing — his finest hour, he clobbered Li Ch’eng’s army, and they weren’t a weakling group of invested farmers and salt miners. No. These were seasoned soldiers, mostly Han who were now comfortable under their Jurchen overlords. They were content with the swagger of Li Ch’eng. However, Yueh Fei knew his brother-in-law well — knew his stratagems and anticipated the lethal blow reserved for the seventy-seven swords. So, Yueh Fei trained warriors to match those swords, blade for blade, and assigned each soldier to an individual outlaw. On the battlefield, distinctive emblems and devices were worn by each, a stupid move on Li Ch’eng’s part marking all seventy-seven. Yueh Fei’s strike force targeted each, easily finding them in the heat of battle, drowning them in metal, fire and blood. None survived. Yueh Fei himself met the antlered Li Ch’eng in a contest that would be legendary — told in local inns for years to come.

Still, the great Hero of the Nation had overstretched his authority. The court was negotiating for peace even as the battle raged. Although the victory was lauded, there were those who urged the Emperor to halt it at once. There was much at stake. Now, for me, I had had my fill of battle, so peace and quiet would be nice for a change. However, those who think lofty thoughts and form opinions of worth are constantly debating the issue as a matter of political gain. It’s easy to hold such opinions if you strut in silvery chambers and scrawl pretty characters on clean silken sheets. But if you just want a full belly, a woman and a good night’s sleep, war or peace is a matter of outcome and on which side you’ve eaten, humped and slept.

See also excerpts dated 4/13/09 and 1/18/10
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Buyer’s Remorse excerpt by Lori L. Lake

2012-01-02T07:00:00.003-05:00

In Lori L. Lake's Buyer's Remorse: Book 1 in The Public Eye Mystery Series, the debut of mystery fiction's newest lesbian detective, Leona (Leo) Reese, Lake "takes us on a twisted ride through sinister secrets and lies and gives us a story that promises to keep everyone up way past bedtime." (Ellen Hart, author of The Jane Lawless Mystery Series)

Leona “Leo” Reese is a 33-year-old police patrol sergeant with over ten years of law enforcement experience. After she fails her bi-yearly shooting qualification due to a vision problem, Leo is temporarily assigned to the investigations division of the state’s Department of Human Services. She’s shell-shocked by her vision impairment and frustrated to be reassigned to another department, even temporarily. On her first day on the new job, she’s assigned a case where a woman at an independent living facility for elders has been murdered by an apparent burglar. But all is not as it seems, and it will take all her smarts to outwit a dangerous criminal. Will she uncover the murderer before other people are robbed and killed?

Buyer's Remorse
Publisher: Regal Crest/Lori L. Lake Enterprises (November 10, 2011)
ISBN-13: 978-1-61929-002-0

Excerpt:

Chapter One

THE SUN HID behind a cloud as Sergeant Leona “Leo” Reese walked across the parking lot to the Saint Paul Police Station. She was dismayed to see Bob Hannen near the door, a cigarette burning between his fingers. She hated cigarettes—not quite as much as she despised Hannen, but close. Cops weren’t supposed to smoke in the squad cars, but the minute Hannen made sergeant, he’d started doing whatever he wanted.

She hoped he’d go back inside before she arrived, but no such luck. He caught sight of her and broke into a wide smile, his bright-white dentures gleaming in the sunlight. He’d just turned forty, but he had the body of a sixty-year-old and the brains of a teenage boy. A teenage boy with hidden ’Roid Rage. The guy loved to manhandle suspects.

“Well,” he said, “if it isn’t Little Miss Can’t Shoot Straight.”

The double meaning was clear, and Leo choked back a reply replete with curse words and references to his parentage. “Get out of my way, Hannen.”

“I’m glad to catch up with you, Blondie. I wanted to thank you for your kindness.”

She wrenched the door open and hesitated. She hated looking back. The gloating expression sure to be on his face made her feel homicidal.

He dropped his cigarette and ground it into the cement with his heel. “Thanks to your incompetence, I’m the new FTO coordinator.”

“Screw you, Hannen.”

“You wish,” he said, laughing. He followed her inside, the smell of sweat and stale smoke wafting around him.

Leo concentrated on breathing. If she didn’t, she was afraid she’d pull out her sidearm, aim at his foot, and show him what a straight shooter she was. Of course the guy’s foot was usually in his mouth, so she’d get the delightful experience of also blowing his head off.

“Have fun talking to the commander,” he said in a mocking voice. “I’m sure he’ll have some sweet nothings to whisper into your queer ear.” With a cackle, he peeled off and went toward the Roll Call Room. She headed to the women’s lockers.

Leo had always gotten along well with men. Some of the cops may have had reservations about her at first, but she was persistent. Little time passed before she learned the names of wives and kids, the hobbies her coworkers enjoyed, the quirks and prejudices they possessed. Dad Wallace had taught her that one of the biggest compliments you could pay a fellow cop was to listen and be respectful, offering calm support and no judgments.

The tactic worked on the street, too. She kept track of people whose houses had been vandalized, ministers whose churches had been broken into, businesses with robbery and shoplifting calls, and she stopped by periodically to touch base with those victims—even now when her role was supervisory.

But none of this worked with the Bob Hannens of the world. He was all about power: who had it, how they got it, how he could snatch it away. He wasn’t particularly smooth, either. In Leo’s opinion, Bob’s name had one too few O’s in it. Her competence was a threat to his ascension, and when she made sergeant two years before he did, Hannen declared war, a silent, festering sort of war characterized by snide comments and constant needling. The man gossiped and passed on lies and inaccurate information more than any neighborhood busybody she’d ever met.

She hated him for it, and today her anger was so close to the surface that she worried she’d say something she’d regret to the commander. Breathe, she reminded herself again. Just keep breathing.

She changed from the casual apparel she’d worn at the shooting range into her uniform, all the while wondering how Hannen had found out about her situation so quickly. She’d left the range less than an hour earlier. Had the range master called in her scores so quickly?

As she holstered her sidearm, she rethought her shooting performance. Her first few rounds at the target always went fine. After six or eight shots, though, her vision went fuzzy, and despite wearing hearing protection, the gunshots gave her a headache. By the time she was a few minutes into a relay, she felt physically shaky, sometimes even dizzy.

Today she’d clearly seen the irregular pattern of pockmarks in the safety berm behind the target area. Every line, every dent in the dirt, every crease in the wood frame around the box was defined. The color gradations were unmistakable. So her sight—her vision—was fine. Up until she fired her weapon a few times, her vision was always crisp.

After she failed three times to score the required eighty percent, the range master suggested it might be an emotional reaction. Her face flamed now as it had then. Emotional reaction? Who was he to bring that up? She’d been an expert marksman her entire career, and there was no possibility that her failure to pass the shooting qualification was psychological.

“It’s probably something easy,” he’d said, “a visual problem. Go get squared away, then call me for an appointment. We’ll work through a remedial program to get you back on rotation.”

Remedial! How embarrassing. In a decade of being a cop, she’d never failed her shooting quals. She couldn’t report for roll call and let anyone know she couldn’t shoot reliably. Her authority as sergeant in charge of a team depended upon her skills. She currently supervised two rookies, six veteran cops, and two Field Training Officers. How could she show her face to them if she failed routine shooting quals they’d all handily passed?

She closed her locker and concentrated on her breath as she headed up to see the commander.

“Sergeant Reese!”

Startled, she looked up to find Commander Malcolm down the hall in the doorway to his office, the late afternoon shadows pooling around him so that she couldn’t make out his face. “In my office,” he said. “Now!”

“Yes, sir.” She hustled toward him, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Sit down.” He slammed the door and stood over her, his normally calm face pink with anger.

“When were you going to come see me about your shooting quals?” He paused, but she didn’t answer. “Is there any reason why you’ve withheld this vital information?”

“No, sir.”

“How long were you going to go on before informing somebody in command?”

“I thought last time was a fluke. I honestly thought I’d pass today, sir. I’m as surprised and concerned as you are.”

He slipped around the other side of his desk and sat heavily in his chair. “You didn’t, though, and now I have to make special arrangements for you.”

“Commander, I spent all afternoon at the range. I’m doing much better.”

“Good for you.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “You should have done much better a helluva lot sooner because now you’re reassigned.”

She groaned. Hannen hadn’t been kidding. She was going to get stuck with the dreaded desk duty. Hours of boredom. “I’ll shoot another relay Friday, boss. I’ll pass. I promise.”

“Should’ve done that while you had the chance. You’ll need to take the remedial course, and in the meantime, you’re off rotation.” He ran a hand from his forehead across the top of his balding head.

“You’re not really going to let Hannen supervise my team, are you?”

“Who else have I got? You’ve left me no choice.”

“Damn,” she muttered.

“Damn it all is right.”

Hannen wasn’t just a power-hungry jerk. He was a hotshot showoff who bragged about every angle of his work and sex life. A few nights with him in charge of her rookies could be detrimental to their training. She needed to get to her FTOs as soon as possible and give them instructions to counteract Hannen’s attitudes.

“Isn’t there anyone else who can cover for me?”

“No, Reese, there isn’t. You know we’re short-staffed, and I’ve got another paternity leave coming up next week. I don’t take too kindly to being put in this situation. With some foresight on your part, this could have been avoided. Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this sooner?”

A cold chill passed through her, and she could no longer meet his gaze. Leo had always liked Commander Malcolm and enjoyed working for him. He was fair. Very strict, but he usually stuck up for his officers. She’d never been in this sort of situation with him before, and she felt like a traitor, an idiot, and a huge disappointment.

“Do you have an answer? Why did you fail to report this?”

She fumbled for words. “I guess I—I couldn’t believe it, sir.”

“You didn’t pass in July and completely tanked today. I can’t believe you didn’t think you had a problem.”

Her face and neck flared with heat, and for a moment she felt like she might cry. Instead, she said evenly, “That’s why I’ve spent a couple of afternoons at a private range on my own dime. I’m highly motivated. You know that, sir.”

“Are you feeling any aftereffects from the Littlefield shooting?”

“No, sir, I’m not. You know the shrink cleared me for work. Littlefield is not an issue.”

“You’re not having any dreams or flashbacks or anxiety?”

She shook her head.

“You’re sleeping well?”

“Yes, sir, I am.” She waited while he peered at her, eyes sharp, but she calmly met his gaze.

He sighed and picked up a pencil, tapped its eraser on the desk. “This is alarming judgment on the part of a sergeant, and I’m disappointed. Listen to me, Leo.” He met her eyes, and now she knew he spoke not only as her superior, but also as a man concerned for her personally. “I’m forced to take drastic measures. Please understand that this isn’t meant as punishment, but it’s the only way to adequately police the community.”

She stared at him, suddenly fearful that he was going to fire her. But he couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Would he?

She had the right to a union representative. And a chance to go before a board of professional responsibility.

“I need bodies,” he said. “I need you guys out on the street getting the job done. Since I’ve got to pull you indefinitely, I’m bringing up two rookies. While you’re gone, we can afford to pay them.”

Gone? What did he mean “gone”?

“At the rate we’re losing officers, by the time you get back, I’ll have a place in the rotation for the two new staff.”

She forced herself to speak calmly. “Where am I going, sir?”

“Department of Human Services.”

“What!”

He continued to tap the desk with the pencil. “They’re even more shorthanded than we are. You’ll continue to be employed by SPPD, but DHS will reimburse us for your salary.”

DHS? She was instantly filled with visions of destitute welfare clients, the Dorothy Day Center, homeless men with mental problems. “I don’t understand.”

“You’ll work in their Investigations Division and report to them.”

“You’re suspending me?”

“No, no, no. We’re lending you, Reese, that’s all. You’re still an officer in good standing.”

“This isn’t right, sir.”
He narrowed his eyes, but his expression wasn’t angry, and he let out a sigh that showed how tired and deflated he felt. “Your only other choice is unpaid leave of absence. I didn’t think that would fly with you. Go to DHS, work on the remedial shooting course, and we’ll get you back here in about twelve weeks.”

She exploded up from her chair. “Twelve weeks!”

“Yup.”

Leo leaned over his desk, her palms pressing on the edge. “No way. You can’t do that, Commander.”

“Oh, yes, I can. Your only choices are to go to DHS on special assignment or take leave without pay. If you do it my way, DHS gets help, I get to train two new staff, and you come back after a little career enrichment.” He tossed down the pencil. “In the meantime, you get your shooting skills in order and fulfill the obligation to DHS, and you’ll be back on duty before you know it. That’s the deal.”

She sank back in her chair, hardly able to process this news. She’d be off duty until nearly the end of the year, and she couldn’t quite imagine it. Three months working at what? “What in the world would DHS need me for?”

“Their Investigations Division is shorthanded. Couple of medical leaves, somebody had a baby. They’re not meeting their mandates. I golf with Ralph Sorenson, the division director. He and I cooked this up over the phone earlier today.” Commander Malcolm looked at his watch. “It’s 1800 hours, Reese. Don’t clock in. You better go home and get some rest. You’ve got exactly fourteen hours before you report to the DHS building.”

Leo cleared nearly everything out of her locker. She whisked the last items off the top shelf into a duffel bag and sat down for a moment on the bench, head in hands. In a couple brief hours, her life had turned upside down. Why the hell was this happening to her? She didn’t deserve it.

She glanced over her shoulder when the locker room door opened. Her fellow FTO, Dez Reilly, strode in. Reilly drew near, and Leo rose so her colleague’s six-foot height didn’t loom over her quite so much.

“Leo, I just heard the news.”

“I hope it was from someone more reliable than that asshole Bob Hannen.”

“Unfortunately, the asshole speaks. Way too much.”

Leo let out a peeved sigh. “I hope you can keep him in line.”

Reilly crossed her arms over her blue uniform shirt. “Not much anybody can do about that guy. He’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“Yeah, I know. I can’t say enough bad things about him. I hope he doesn’t make your life too miserable while I’m gone.”

“There’s something else,” Reilly said. “I know what it’s like to have a critical incident, and I—”

“Oh, God, not you, too? Dez, there’s nothing wrong with me that a little ibuprofen won’t cure. Really! This is not about PTSD.”

“That’s the same thing I told myself when I—”

“No.” Leo held up a hand. “Don’t go there. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not having any psychological issues.”

“I didn’t say that. I just want you to know you’re not alone if you do.”

Dez Reilly’s blue gaze, sincere and honest, drilled into Leo’s eyes. She knew Dez was just trying to help, and she let go of the angry tirade at the tip of her tongue. “Okay, thank you.”

“Let me just say one more thing before you go. If you change your mind and want to explore anything at all about the Littlefield shooting, give me a call. There’s a few of us who get together once a month and talk about this stuff. It’s a good thing, Leo. If you need any support, you know I’m there for you.”

“Thanks. I mean that. I appreciate your concern.” She picked up her duffel. “Now if I can just get out of here without running into Hannen again.”

“He’s holding court in the front. Take the back stairs and you’ll probably miss him.”

Leo knew what the cliché writers meant about having a heavy heart. Between that and the piercing headache stabbing between her eyes, she wanted to hit something. She only had to make it to the parking lot. Buck up, she thought. I can do it.

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Boystown: Three Nick Nowak Mysteries excerpt by Marshall Thornton

2011-12-26T07:00:00.003-05:00

In Boystown, a collection of stories by Marshall Thornton, a former police officer turned private investigator, Nick Nowak is haunted by his abrupt departure from the department, as well as, the traumatic end of his relationship with librarian Daniel Laverty. In these three stories set in Chicago during the early eighties, Nick locates a missing young man for a mysterious client, solves a case of arson at a popular nightspot, and goes undercover to prove a dramatic suicide was actually murder. When he isn’t detecting, and sometimes when he is, Nick moves through a series of casual relationships. But his long suppressed romantic side surfaces when he meets Detective Bert Harker. Will he give love another chance? Or, will he continue to bury himself in the arms of strangers?

Boystown: Three Nick Nowak Mysteries
Publisher: Torquere Press (June 8, 2011)
ISBN-10: 1610402332
ISBN-13: 978-1610402330

Excerpt: (from Little Boy Fallen, the third story in the book)

Always be careful who you trick with. I should have that tattooed on my forehead so I can see it every morning when I shave.

The woman was waiting for me when I got to my office. She looked to be in her late forties, thick around the hips, busty. There was lot of red lipstick caked onto her lips, and her hair was done up in a way that had probably gotten a lot of attention during the Eisenhower administration. At first, I thought she was a patient of the dentist down the hall, but when I pulled my keys out and started to unlock the door, she came over.

“Are you Mr. Nowak?” she asked.

A few weeks shy of my thirty-third birthday, I didn’t much like being called 'mister' by anyone who wasn’t still in grammar school. “You can call me Nick.”

I opened the door and led her into my tiny office. The furniture was crammed together, and still I had room left over for a dead corn plant in one corner. The window was big, taking up most of the outer wall. Eight floors below was LaSalle Street. Across the way stood an ultra-modern, steel and glass building that was so tall it cut out most of my light.

“He said you were nice,” she commented, while making herself comfortable in my guest chair. She wore a red cloth coat with a white fox collar. Instead of a purse, she carried a photo album, clutching it tight to her chest.
I hung my suede jacket on the back of my door and pulled a box of Marlboros out of the pocket.

I decided not to ask who ‘he’ was. Not yet. Instead, I asked, “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Helen Borlock.” I sat down at my desk and lit a cigarette while she talked. “He told me to come. He said you’d help. You can help, can’t you?”

“I don’t know if I can help,” I said honestly. “I don’t know why you’re here.”

She gave me a confused look, as though I should know why she was there. “Bobby told me to come. He said you’d help.”

“Bobby who?”

“Bobby Martin.”

I was pretty sure I didn’t know a Bobby Martin and said so.

“Bobby was my son’s roommate. One of them, I mean. There were four of them living there. Sweet boys, always laughing. The apartment is on Clark and Fullerton. They did it up nice. Every room a different color.”

I still hadn’t a clue who she was talking about.

Abruptly, she held out the photo album. “This is my Lenny.” To be polite, I took the album. “I never wanted to name him Leonard. My husband insisted. He’d had a friend, in the Marines. Wanted to name his son Leonard, after his friend. The friend died, you see.”

I flipped the album open. There was Helen with an infant. I was right. In her day, Helen had been a looker. I flipped a few pages and Lenny began to grow up. Looked like he was on his way to being a looker, too.

“What is it Bobby thought I could help you with?”

She glanced out the window like she suddenly needed to check the weather. It was overcast and threatening to rain or, worse, throw in one last snowstorm for the winter. After a little sigh, she said, “Three weeks ago, my son was murdered.”

“Mrs. Borlock, I’m a private investigator. I don’t investigate murders. The police do that.”

“They don’t care. Lenny is just another pervert to them.”

I waited a few moments, considering. I was telling her the truth. It wasn’t the kind of thing I did.

Or at least tried not to do. Mainly I did background checks, skip traces, once in a while a little surveillance. That was it. Murder was different. Yes, I used to be a policeman, but I’d only worked a beat. I’d never been a detective. In the nearly six years I spent on the job, when it came to murder I’d never done much more than secure a crime scene and make sure witnesses stayed put.

“Can you afford a private investigator?” I asked her.

“Yes. I always put a little aside for Lenny. Ever since he was a little boy.” She stared at her hands, which seemed particularly empty now that I was flipping through the photo album. “I used to think I’d give him the money on his wedding. He was sixteen when I figured out that was never going to happen, so for a while I thought I’d give him the money to go to college. But he was never book smart. Last couple of years, I’ve been waiting to see, did he maybe want to start a business or get a nice beau and buy a house.” Her voice turned bitter. “I should have given it to him. Should have let him spend it on whatever he wanted.”

She looked like she might break down, but fortunately she didn’t. I took the final drag off my cigarette and stubbed it out. Against my better judgment, I said, “Tell me what happened to Lenny.”

“Someone pushed him off the seventh floor of the atrium at Water Tower.”

That seemed pretty cut and dried. “Were there witnesses?”

“It was a little after ten in the morning.”

“No one saw him being pushed?”

She shook her head.

“So, how do you know he was pushed?”

Mrs. Borlock pursed her lips. Tears popped into her eyes and threatened to spill over onto her cheeks. “You’re going to tell me my boy killed himself, just like the police.”

“Right now, I’m not telling you anything. Right now, I’m asking questions. How do you know he was pushed?”

“I just know,” she spat. “I know Lenny. And he wouldn’t kill himself.”

“Why wouldn’t Lenny kill himself?” I was expecting a lame answer, like she’d raised him as a good Catholic, and, since it was against God’s law, he wouldn’t do it. But she didn’t say that. She said something completely different.

“Lenny was the happiest person I ever met.”

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SALVATION excerpt by Lloyd Meeker

2011-12-19T07:00:00.000-05:00

In the short story Salvation by Lloyd Meeker, a closeted and deeply religious man is rescued from a life of torment in a surprising encounter with an angel.

Salvation
Erotica Exotica: Tales of Sex, Magic, and the Supernatural, Richard
Labonté, ed.
Bold Strokes Books (October, 2011)
ISBN: 978-1-60282-570-3

Excerpt:

The California synod he had traveled to attend had finished on a high and sacred note, but tonight William would dance for the devil. He stared at his reflection with disgust. He looked young, in a blond, Midwest collegiate way, even though he was 31. Fit, slender, just a little too pretty for comfort. Like Dorian Grey—a comely shell housing a deformed soul. He dismissed himself, turning away.

He’d searched the online guide for the place he could get to quickly tonight—must get to. Google maps had given him the street grid to memorize, and William was ready.

He was going out for a long walk, he’d told his elderly hosts, just to get a better feel for their neighborhood. He’d reassured them he would be perfectly fine on his own, and urged them not to wait up for him since they’d given him a key. Dear Mrs. Griffin had just looked up at him from her crossword and smiled, chirping out her usual goodbye. “Angels watch over you, dear.”

He almost jogged to the street corner and over to a thoroughfare, where he flagged down a cab and gave the driver the address. Adrenaline made his limbs taut and ready, his breathing quick, his senses electrified, acute, as if he were a jungle cat hunting its prey.

Hunting for abomination, he admitted without flinching. Phrasing it more nicely didn’t matter—he was already lost. His body was starving again for the sin that would send him to hell. He had prayed and struggled, but his flesh had beaten him yet again. There would be plenty of time for remorse later, for the too-familiar self-loathing and anguished repentance. Again. William sat in the cab, trembling, watching the passing streets as if they were breadcrumbs he was leaving behind in a darkening forest.

He felt serene even as his heart hammered in his chest; he had surrendered control to his body. He was a mere observer of his flesh, which like a drug addict was stealing him again to get its fix. He would have a drink or two first, make it easier to bear the shame. Temporarily.

The cab stopped. William paid, got out and started walking. Herndon Street would be the next intersection. Ten o'clock and the streets still radiated a sensuous warmth from the summer sun. The air was soft with promise, heavy and metallic, intoxicating. Like the taste of the gun barrel, months ago, he realized. This smoggy air had the same ugly sweetness to it.

But William had been a failure in suicide as well as a failure in faith. He’d really wanted to die that winter night back home in Minneapolis, but somehow couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. He’d paused when he imagined some angel had whispered to him to stop—that his particular road to hell would be paved not with good intentions or even his sins, but with his own brain tissue splattered across the bathroom wall. At the time he’d told himself the voice had been divine wisdom, but he knew deep down it had been mere cowardice—one more weakness to despise in himself. He’d sold the gun at a pawnshop the next day.

562 Herndon Street—he’d arrived. The website listing had promised this place had a dark room downstairs. His gut twisted and coiled. William knew with certainty who and what waited inside, beyond the battered black door only partly lit by the stylized neon phallus above it. The door may as well have been the hell-mouth for the morality play he’d produced back in seminary, inscribed with the grim words over its lintel: "FORSAKE ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE." Shaking with need and excitement, William entered.

He strode to the bar, quickly downed a scotch and then ordered a double before turning to check things out. He looked for the dark room. There, that must be it—behind those black strips of vinyl. Oh! William stopped breathing. The man standing next to the entrance… damnation had never looked so hot. William suppressed a snort at the perfect irony. He walked over to the curtain, pulled the strips aside and looked down into the abyss. The odor of amyl nitrate and male sex surged up, grabbed him by the throat. He coughed, and let go of the plastic as if seared by brimstone.

“It’s not as scary as all that,” rumbled a voice right behind William. “I can show you, if you want.” Damnation Man was standing so close that William could feel his body heat pushing through his shirt into his spine. He turned, and slowly backed away until he bumped against the wall. Damnation Man advanced, and then there was no escape. But William didn’t want escape. He stared at Damnation Man’s bearded face. He wore a conqueror’s smile–confident, enigmatic, ruthless. William looked down. The man was wearing heavy-soled black work boots, Levis and a snug white athletic undershirt. Dark hair curled over its neckline, and a brilliantly colored dragon clawed its way out from behind the cloth, winding across one shoulder. Handsome devil.

“Show me?” William swallowed. His voice was strangled, barely audible.

“Sure. I’ll show you anything you want to see,” the man whispered, raising the back of one hand to brush William’s chest, knuckles dragging down to his stomach, landing to hook heavily on his belt and pulling his hips forward. “What do you want, boy?”

Need so urgent it was almost nausea blocked William’s throat. His tongue flattened, pushed his mouth open, but no sound came out. He shuddered. With a brash honesty all its own, his hand reached out and grasped the denim-covered bulge in the dragon man's crotch. Oh, that sweet firmness, the mysterious softness, the wild, smoldering promise…

“Yeah, I’m gonna give you what you need, boy,” dragon man muttered, cocking his head toward the dark room. “Let’s go.” He turned and disappeared behind the curtain without looking back. William lurched to follow, down stairs he could barely see, keeping his eyes on a white athletic undershirt descending into the darkness in front of him. He angled away from the stairs, and stopped when the shirt stopped. William could barely make out Dragon Man leaning against the wall, unbuttoning his jeans.

Spellbound, William approached to stand between the man’s splayed legs. Again, he reached down to grasp. This time he found the electrifying heat of silken skin, the scrape of pubic hair. William knelt in worship, his reverence ancient as a tribal drum. The scent of Dragon Man’s crotch was incense to carry away his devotion. Leaning forward, William filled his mouth with the man’s hardening cock, pushing back the soft mystery of foreskin with his lips. He reveled in the veined skin sliding, and the wild salt on his tongue was unspeakably sweet. He steadied himself against the man’s thigh, and reached to fondle his balls. They rolled heavy and slow in his hand, the most exquisite things on earth. In a frenzy of need, William dove forward, sucked and tongued and tasted and gagged.

“Hey! No teeth!” the Dragon Man commanded. He reached down and shoved a bottle against William’s nose. “You need to loosen up some, boy. Here.”

Stinging fumes broke the spell. Coughing out the man’s penis, William let go and stood, terrified. “No! No!” was all he could gasp. William bolted—up the stairs, out the hell-mouth, into the street.

Carrying the scent of popcorn, fast food, garbage and cigarettes, the soft night air curled around him, cooling his slimy lips, banishing the popper fumes. He stood rooted to the cement, panting, unable to think of what to do next. But he had escaped. Angels were indeed looking after him. Finally his feet came free and he began to walk.

A familiar harsh voice shamed him. What had he been doing in a bar like that? A man of God, caught in the devil's snare, risking everything now and forever for brief and sleazy pleasure. William shuddered, disgusted. He whispered a prayer of thanks and headed for Beach Avenue.

Bright light from behind a wall of glass flooded the palms in planters on the sidewalk ahead of him. Yes—safety, a decent hotel. William pushed through the revolving doors into garish, startling normalcy. So much light, clatter and chatter. No danger. So many people here, simply being normal. William headed for the bar. He needed something to calm him down, and to celebrate his deliverance.

A waiter with extravagant blond-streaked hair passed in front of him and smiled. “Good evening, sir,” he said, and moved on. William sighed. The waiter was obviously gay, but William didn’t mind. He was safe in this busy brightness. He sat and ordered scotch.

Oh, God. The handsome guitarist on the tiny stage had winked at him. William knew the wink had been for him, because his heart had begun to pound frantically again the moment their eyes had met. That smile meant new danger. Was there no such thing as safety? Transfixed, William sat and drank, hopeful, hopeless. When the set was over, the guitarist came over and sat without asking permission.

“Hi there, I’m Rafe,” he said in a voice as strong and gentle as his music had been. “What’s your name?”

“Uh, William.”

Rafe seemed to think something over for a moment. “Yes, William. Thank you for not lying to me.”

William recoiled, afraid and suspicious. “Lying? How could you possibly tell?”

“Oh, I can tell lots of things, William.” Rafe grinned like a farm boy whose hog had just won first prize at the county fair. He pushed shoulder-length auburn hair behind one ear. “F’r instance I can tell you’re one hurtin’ unit tonight, that’s for certain.”

“How on earth…” William began in protest, but stopped, held in the beauty of Rafe’s gaze.

“What can I say?” Rafe shrugged. “I got the Gift. Bothersome, sometimes, but I came to terms with it long, long ago.”

“Long ago? But you’re even younger than I am!”

Rafe laughed, a knowing, tender laugh, throwing his head back so the long hair escaped his ears and tumbled around his shoulders. “Well, maybe in some ways.” He shook his head. “Not so much in others”. He leaned forward, his flowing hair framing high cheekbones and coruscate eyes, eyes that bathed William in kindness. “I can lift your torment from you, if you want.”

William’s stomach convulsed as if to vomit. “What?” he gasped, swallowing hard. “What do you know about me, about what I’m feeling? You can’t possibly make a promise like that!”

Rafe shrugged and leaned back in the chair. “It’s part of the Gift. I’m a healer. I know exactly what you’re fightin’, bro. I can help.” He leaned forward again, patted William’s hand gently. “But you got to decide. You gotta decide if you really want to be free of that pain, no matter what.” Rafe stood, smiling down. “Tell you what—you sit here while I do my last set. If you’re still here when I finish in thirty minutes, you and I can go to my place, and I’ll heal you. That’s a solemn promise, guaranteed.”

William sat. Rafe’s music washed over him, playful, sweet, enchanting. When the waiter came around, he ordered water. He knew what he wanted, more than anything. He wanted his torment—and its cause—taken away.

Rafe popped the case latches shut on his guitar and came over to sit next to William, draping an arm around his shoulders. “You’re a good man, William. I can tell. Brave. Worthy of healing. Let’s go.”

William stood, tentative, looking for signs of menace in Rafe’s face.

“Naw, William. I for sure ain’t gonna hurt you. You have my solemn word on that.”

Blushing, William nodded, still unable to speak, and followed Rafe out into the sultry night.

They walked in silence for blocks. With alarm William realized he had lost his way, that the street grid he had carefully memorized was now useless. “Is it far? I mean, your place. Is it near?”

“Yup, we’re here,” Rafe chuckled, pointing ahead at a modest apartment block—white stucco, red tile and wrought iron, one of countless others like it, decently lit. They climbed stairs to the third floor, past big pots of bougainvillea, jasmine and bird of paradise. Rafe unlocked his door. “C’mon in, William. This is it.”

Inside the apartment, Rafe put down his case, took off his jacket and kicked off his shoes with a sigh. William stood just inside the door, mute, tense, ready to flee.

“I’m sorry, Will. My manners are plumb terrible. Don’t get enough visitors, I guess, to keep me in practice.” Rafe waved to the sparsely furnished living room. “Make yourself comfy! Would you like a glass of water? I don’t think I’m gonna offer you any booze. I want you clear-headed for the healing.”

“Water would be perfect, thanks.” William sat on the edge of the couch, and looked around, pretending his heart wasn’t beating like a madman’s drum.

“So tell me…” Rafe’s voice floated over from the open fridge. “When did you first have sex with a man?”

William jumped up from the couch, panicked. “What did you say?”

“Now you just set yourself back down, Will.” Rafe’s voice was friendly and firm—patient, as if explaining something to a child. “I told you I knew, didn’t I?” He came out of the kitchen, two tumblers of ice water in hand. “It’s all good—but I heal folks only when they want healing.” He shook his head in sad disbelief. “You’d be amazed how many people don’t really want healing, though. Most just want fixin’, and I surely ain’t no mechanic.”

William sat. He liked being called Will. Nobody ever had, until now. It sounded right to him. Real.

“So when was your first time?” Rafe asked, more gently this time, handing him one of the glasses.

“In seminary. Eleven years ago, now. One of my teachers.”

“Seminary, huh? Those people—sometimes I just…” Rafe shook his head and looked away, swallowing hard. He turned back to William. “The sex, though. You liked it?”

“They were the most wonderful, magical, moments of my life. Even though I knew it was a sin.”

“You loved him?”

“I adored him.”

“And then it got complicated.”

The burn of shame made his throat constrict. “Yes. Very.”

“And then he told you that it had to stop.”

“How did you know?” William stared at Rafe and took a long drink of ice water. “Yes.” He put down the empty glass, feeling lost. “He said that it was wrong and we had to stop seeing each other.”

“You were betrayed, bro.” Rafe sat beside William, holding his eyes with a fierce stare. “Do you want that wonderful magic back again? Without the pain?”

William’s answer caught in his throat. Sobbing, he dropped to his knees in front of Rafe. “Oh, Rafe—can you really make me normal? I’ve hoped and prayed so hard, wept, begged to be made whole! Can you really take this awful sickness from me?”

Rafe eased William off his lap, stood, then drew him up to face him. “Now listen to me, Will. This is real important. I said I could lift the torment from you. But the Good Lord made you the way you are. I’m surely not gonna try to undo what God has done—that’s plumb against my nature. Besides, you’re already just right the way you are. What you got in mind is gettin’ fixed accordin’ to some goofy ideas that just ain’t true. What I’m offerin’ you is true healing. The real McCoy.”

http://www.lloydmeeker.com

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A Body On Pine excerpt by Joseph R.G. DeMarco

2011-12-12T07:00:00.001-05:00

In Joseph R.G. DeMarco's A Body On Pine, when Marco Fontana enters his friend's spa on Pine, he doesn't find the peaceful retreat he expected. Brad, the masseur, is missing. The spa is splattered with blood and a dead client lies sprawled on the floor. After a thorough search turns up more questions than answers, Marco calls the police. They find Brad's body a short distance from the spa and before long Marco understands that what appears to be a simple case of murder is anything but. The police want Marco off the case. However, when the body of a popular journalist is added to the death toll, Brad's case gets sidelined. Marco refuses to allow his friend's death to be ignored and convinces an overwhelmed young police detective to bring Marco into the hunt for the killer. He finds plenty to keep him busy. Abusive ex-boyfriends, stalker clients, politicians, scheming businessmen, and Eastern European mobsters swirl together in a dangerous mix which finds Marco in some of the most serious trouble he's encountered so far. Life at home doesn't stop for Marco, either. While he searches for Brad's killer, Marco's stripper troupe, StripGuyz, brings him face to face with a stripper's abusive boyfriend and, with Jean-Claude, a new member of the troupe who innocently comes between Marco and Anton, upsetting the fragile balance existing between them.

A Body On Pine
Lethe Press (2011)
ISBN: 978-1-59021-345-2

Excerpt:

I tried forgetting Stinky and his sordid life as I climbed the steps to my office. Sometimes being a P.I. makes you feel as dirty as your clients. But, the Stankowitz case was over and done with. A long, hot shower would wash it all away.

Anton stood at the top of the stairs, arms folded across his broad chest, like a sentry on duty. Tall, blond, and square-jawed, he looked down at me and smiled. I hadn’t seen him much in the past three weeks since I’d been on stakeout and I felt happy at the sight of him. Anton is my right-hand when it comes to running StripGuyz, the male stripper troupe I own, so it was no surprise finding him outside my office at Bubbles, the bar we use as the troupe’s base. The strippers and my work as a P.I. bring in enough money to pay the bills but both jobs keep me running. Having Anton manage the dancers and their schedules makes a big difference.

“Marco! You’re early. Did you give up on Stinky?” Anton had dubbed my target “Stinky.” It was a name that fit.

“You know me better than that.” I reached the landing and every knotted muscle the stakeout had caused, tightened painfully. “Stinky is history.”

I took Anton in my arms and planted a kiss on his mouth. Surprised at first, he responded wrapping his arms around me and pressing me close. His warmth felt good and I wanted more but Anton had his rules and I had no choice. We stayed in each other’s arms a while, then he gently pulled back.

Turning toward the closed office door, he swung it open.

“The office is all yours.”

Walking into the small room, I felt liberated after the long stakeout. It wasn’t my regular office, which was bigger and lots more comfortable, but this one would do for now. I moved to the desk, dropped into the chair, and let out a sigh. The battered old desk chair felt like heaven after a couple of weeks bent behind a steering wheel or peering out the car’s window. Sam “Stinky” Stankowitz, the sex-addled whacko, slipped into more places more quickly than anyone I’d ever followed. I was right behind him every minute, watching, taking pictures, and making notes.

“So, you’re all finished with the Stankowitz case?”

“Stinky’s not gonna give his wife a problem ever again.”

“He’s not… um… you know…?” Anton paused. “…is he?”

“The slime ball is still alive. But once his wife gets my report, Stinky will probably want to be on a slab somewhere.” A sharp pain stabbed at my leg. Leaning down, I massaged my left calf which had a knot the size of Kansas. Grudgingly, the muscle relaxed. Eventually, it’d be back and with friends.

“Think you can lend a hand and massage a kink or two out of my shoulder?” I smiled then winced feeling the pain in my calf again.

Anton tossed me a sympathetic smile, moved behind me, and placed his hands on my shoulders. He gripped them gently at first and I leaned back and sighed.

“Feel good?” Slowly he began to press and squeeze until I felt an exquisite but painful relaxation of the muscles. “Got yourself all scrunched into knots.”

“F-feels…unh… feels great…,” I drew a sharp breath when he hit a particularly sore spot. “Ow…”

“Sorry, big boy…”

“No… Feels… feels great… yeah… yeah… do that again.” In seconds, my shoulder muscles turned from angry to blissful.

“Now that you’ve finished snooping and taking whoopee photos, you’re turning them over to his wife? Poor woman.” He gave me an extra hard squeeze to punctuate his remarks and I yelped. Anton knew the investigative drill but something about this aspect of P.I. work rankled him.

“Snooping is such an ugly word. I was gathering intel. Besides, Mrs. Stinky hired me and demanded color close-ups. She can have them. I’m glad I won’t have to see Stinky’s face again. I’ve had enough of him to last three lifetimes. I won’t miss the little porker.”

It’d be satisfying pulling Stankowitz out from under his rock, watching him blink in the sunshine. Satisfying but not much fun because everybody gets hurt. The wife, the kids, even Stinky himself, not that I had a speck of feeling for him.

Spying on cheating partners wasn’t my favorite kind of gig, too much pain and trouble. But those cases brought in the dough. Since I’d moved my investigative offices to a newer building, I needed better cash flow.

“Until he comes after you for destroying his marriage,” Anton said and massaged my shoulders more gently.

“Hey, he’s the one who destroyed his marriage.” I said. “When he decided to cheat on his wife with any and every man he could find, he made his marriage moot.”

“You just took pictures to illustrate Stinky’s drama.” Anton smirked.

“It pays the bills. Anyway, his wife deserves a good settlement when they divorce. She’ll have three kids to raise all on her own. Those illustrations will help her case. Stinky’s a chiropractor with money coming out of his ass.”

“I guess you know what you’re doing, Marco.” He gave my shoulders a few more gentle squeezes then stepped around to the front of the desk again.

“Guys like Stinky are slime. They want it all no matter who gets hurt. I’m helping him face reality.”

“Here’s some reality for you, boss man: there’s a truckload of things going on right here at Bubbles. Maybe you remember us? Weeks staked out in your old BMW made you forget your responsibilities here, right?” Anton affected a world weary look.

“Like?” I played innocent but knew full well what was coming.

“The Campaign Express is rumbling through Bubbles and you graciously agreed to co-host the event. Hot politicians trying to get the gay edge in the primary are gonna be all over you. After they crawl out the door, there’s the Amateur Competition.”

“I only recall promising to play with the politicians.” Stan, the bar’s owner, had roped me into doing the political event. With the primary a few weeks away, some candidates were visiting the bars on their “I Love Gays” tour. That’s what I called it. Love was the furthest thing from their devious political minds. Votes were what they craved. The sincerity behind their gay pub crawl wasn’t high but it was better than having them ignore us completely.

“You’re right, you didn’t promise to help with Amateur Night. I’ve already got a host lined up,” Anton said, a dazzling smile spreading across his face. “Good thing you put me in charge of scheduling and managing the guys. Especially since you spend so much time taking dirty pictures.” He winked at me. Anton was as good at keeping the schedule running smoothly as he was at managing the StripGuyz dancers.

“The politicians are all I can handle tonight. Three weeks tailing Stankowitcz was torture. I never realized how cramped my car is. There’s no way to get comfortable in that tin can.”

“You could find other kinds of cases.” Anton smiled innocently. “Or buy a bigger car.”

“Not complaining. But I’m looking forward to the massage I scheduled with Brad tomorrow.” I smiled thinking about Brad, who’d been my masseur for several years. I scheduled myself for a massage twice a month, which never actually happened twice a month because cases always got in the way. Not only was Brad a great masseur, he was a good friend who was never bothered by my quirky schedule and last minute cancellations. I intended to keep this appointment no matter what. My screamingly knotted muscles would never forgive me if I cancelled. As if to remind me, the arch of my right foot developed a painful spasm, curling my foot and making me cringe.

“Brad again, huh? Sounds like you’re getting more than a massage with him. I’ve known lots of masseurs. When they advertise a deep massage they’re not just talking pressure.”

“Jealous?” I winked at Anton who also knew Brad. “What happens at Brad’s spa stays at Brad’s spa. That’s what I always say.” I glanced at Anton and noticed a strange expression cross his face. “Don’t worry. Brad and I are as chaste together as you and I.”

“Why should I worry? You’re a free man, tiger.”

I didn’t comment. Those words were loaded and I wasn’t about to light that tinder box.

“Brad’s totally professional with me. Whatever he does with other clients, I don’t know and don’t care. All I want is a good massage and that’s what I get.”

“All I know is,” Anton said wistfully, “when you’re on his table, he gets to see more of you than I ever have.”

“Uh, correct me if I’m wrong, handsome, but I’m not the one holding out. Am I?” I looked up innocently. Anton wanted the whole package: monogamy, cozy nights at home, a white picket fence. Short of that, we could kiss and cuddle but that was all.

Settling down sounded so permanent but at the same time, appealing. Half of me wanted to dive right in but there were issues I needed to resolve and I refused to give Anton false hope. I had strong feelings for him but something stood in the way, something in me. Maybe I was a fool thinking he’d wait.

I kept having doubts, kept thinking about all the bad relationships I’d seen. I’d watched too many broken hearted guys trudge through my office. Did I want to create one more situation like that? Even more important, did I love him? Strong feelings aren’t love but maybe that’s how love starts. Anton was important to me, more than important. I needed to know if I loved him before I did anything. And before Anton decided to move on.

“Let’s not go there right now,” Anton said. “We’ve got politicians to coddle.”

“Who’s on the Campaign Express?” I asked.

“I think Stan has a list. He’ll fill you in.”

On my way out, I took Anton in my arms again, felt his muscular form relax against me. Our lips were about to touch when someone knocked on the door. As we slowly pulled apart, the door edged open.

“Anton? Oh! Pardon!” Jean-Claude, one of our newer dancers, stood in the doorway. The yellow office light brushed his wheat-colored hair giving him a sleepy-soft, seductive look. Tall, muscularly slender, with light brown eyes, Jean-Claude was a transplanted French-Canadian who’d started work a few months back. “Oh, desolé. I will come back.” Jean-Claude’s French accent laced his words.

“Hold on, Jean-Claude. We’ve got to talk about the contest. Marco was just leaving,” Anton said. “He’s got politicians to meet.” Glancing first at me then at Jean-Claude, Anton’s demeanor shifted from wistful to welcoming.

“Right.” I moved toward the door. “Can’t keep the pols waiting. See you later?” I looked at Anton.

“I’ll be here,” he said. “If you need me, just call.”

“Will do.”

Jean-Claude moved into the office. Suddenly they were all business and I felt invisible.

“Try and have a good time, Marco.” Anton said over his shoulder. “I’ll be swamped with this contest. We’ve got a lot of wannabes coming in and…”

“You should pay this man more, Mr. Fontana.” Jean-Claude looked admiringly at Anton. “He works too much.”

Anton smiled at me. “See? Someone appreciates my work.”

The sound of manipulation clunked in the background as I watched him try to push me into a pay-raise corner.

“Times are tough, Jean-Claude. Anton knows how much I value what he does… and him. See you guys downstairs later?”

“Uh, I… I don’t think so, Marco,” Anton said. “Got a lot to do before the contest.”

“Me neither,” Jean-Claude said. “I’ll help Anton before I get ready to go onstage.”

“I’ll face the politicians myself, then.” I laughed.

Anton and Jean-Claude quickly got back to work. Anton obviously needed an assistant, especially since I wasn’t around enough, and Jean-Claude seemed more than willing. The way he looked at Anton, though, made me feel vaguely uneasy.

I closed the door, squared my shoulders, and got ready for the political parade downstairs. Stepping into the main bar, the music hit me like a jackhammer. People laughed and talked. An air of excitement suffused the place.

“Marco!” A short guy in an expensive gray silk suit, stuck out his hand. I had no idea who he was as we shook hands. “Hey, how are you?” I said noncommittally.

“You don’t remember me, do ya?” He winked at me. “I was involved in that case you handled in South Philly coupl’a years back. The one with the widow…?”

“Oh, right. Right!” I remembered everything now. Shorty was a deep pockets businessman who’d been helping out a boy toy he’d taken under his wing. I presumed he’d dug into those same pockets to back one of the candidates tonight. “How’s… um… your friend?”

“Y’know, I can’t remember his name either. We split a while back.” He didn’t seem bothered by the break-up. “I’m here supportin’ Nussbaum. Been in that seat a long time and I wanna keep him there.” He winked again.

“He’s got a tough young opponent, from what I hear.”

“That’s why I’m spreadin’ some cash around.”

“Gotcha,” I said and moved off into the crowd.

None of the politicians had arrived and it was getting late. I wondered who’d organized this whole thing. I found Stan yuckking it up with some patrons, waving his hands like an old helicopter. He loved owning Bubbles and the high profile it gave him.

“Ready for the Attack of the Politicians?” I asked.

“The Campaign Express, Marco. We gotta play the game. It’s not every day politicians come begging to gay voters.”

“Yeah, like we really matter,” said a guy I didn’t recognize. He rebalanced himself on his barstool and gulped his drink.

“Who’s supposed to be here?” I asked.

“Somebody named Nancy has a list, she’s organizing it. Far as I know, most of the heavy hitters like Terrabito, Kelley, Nussbaum, Clarke and some newbies. Nancy what’s’ername hinted some surprises might even show.”

“And I’m supposed to do what?” I asked. Stan knew my feelings about political soirees. I hoped he also knew how much he’d owe me after this event.

“Turn on the charm with Nancy. Help her introduce the big dogs to us regular slobs. Schmooze with them. Let ‘em see that gay people are real live voters, too. I’d do it but you’re a hell of a lot prettier and you know more people.”

“When’s this happening, Stan?”

“Right about now.” He glanced at his watch then peered at the entrance.

A tall, neatly coiffed man entered accompanied by a small, grandmotherly woman. Helen Bell was the State Representative for the district. One of the few politicians I almost trusted. She was running unopposed but never missed an opportunity to meet constituents.

Some well-dressed guys trooped through the doors one or two at a time. Too stiff and slick to be patrons. I had to admit, though, some political types were attractive, even hot. I’d could enjoy the eye candy and ignore the hot air.

“Who are these jokers? I don’t recognize any of them.” I nudged Stan who shrugged.

One suit after another entered gazing around tentatively. All of them dressed in clothes that cost more than I made in six months. The older ones looked like lost sugar daddies, the younger ones seemed ready to bolt. They wore their suits like armor, ready to fend off unwanted passes.

“I don’t know their names, Marco. Hell, I don’t even know their faces. I was countin’ on you…”

“Must be the advance team paving the way. Or staffers.”

“You’ll have to get their names, introduce them around. Where’s Nancy? I don’t see Nancy.” Stan shot glances all around then gave me a gentle shove in the direction of the nearest suit, a dark-haired number, wide-eyed and nervous.

I stuck out my hand. “Marco Fontana,” I said and smiled. His spicy cologne floated over the odor of stale beer but wasn’t overpowering.

“Josh Nolan.” He shook my hand. His palm was sweaty but his grip was firm.

“You’re running for…”

“Running? No… funny. No. I’m Senator Terrabito’s chief of staff. Got here ahead of him I guess. You haven’t seen him, have you? I didn’t get to the other bars. I thought he’d be here.” The words tumbled out with an edgy quality.

“Never been in a gay bar before?” I asked as soothingly as I could. “How about a drink? That’ll help.” I signaled the bartender.

“Th-thanks. And no, I haven’t ever been in a gay bar before.” Despite the slight edginess, his voice was like thick honey.

“It’s the same as any other bar except it’s different. If you know what I mean.”

The bartender slapped down a napkin. “What’ll it be?”

“How about a Long Island Iced Tea?” I winked at the bartender.

“That should do it.” Nolan seemed grateful for the suggestion.

“It’ll settle your nerves.” It’d more likely knock him for a loop. “On the house.”

The bartender gave me a knowing smile. I knew from experience just how the powerful drink could sneak up on you after a while. I was betting Nolan knew it, too. Maybe he wanted to loosen up for some reason. If he could stand after a couple of Long Island Iced Teas, he might even have a good time.

“Comin’ right up.” The bartender turned and got busy.

“Been a long day,” Nolan said. His eyes betrayed his attempt at seeming calm and nonchalant.

The bartender placed the drink on the bar and Nolan slipped him a five. Which raised him a few points in my book.

“When’s the Senator getting here?” I asked, trying to relax him.

“Truthfully,” Nolan glanced at his watch, then snatched his drink from the bar and took a long gulp. “I thought he’d be here by now. He said he had some business to clear up and would meet me here.”

“He’s not the only one who hasn’t shown,” said a stubby man who’d sidled up to us. His suit was as expensive as the others but looked like a cheap tablecloth marred by wrinkles and stains.

“Marco Fontana,” I said sticking out my hand again. “You are…”

“Stu Henderson, on the Governor’s staff.” He turned to Nolan. “How you doin’ Nolan? You’re lookin’ a little green around the gills.” He laughed, a sandpapery sound, and it seemed he’d already had more than the legal limit. “Don’t worry, kid. Anybody makes a pass at you, tell ‘em I’m your boyfriend.” He laughed louder this time.

Nolan said nothing, gulped more of his drink.

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The Model excerpt by Serena Yates

2011-12-05T07:00:00.001-05:00

In The Model by Serena Yates, Alessandro, a famous fashion model with the perfect body, hopes to find love but people never look beyond his appearance. Is it possible to find someone interested in the man he is deep-down?

Off camera, Alessandro is Fabio Bonardi, a man tired of loneliness and drama. His modeling career is great, but in a world where image is everything, no one is as they seem. When the first wrinkle appears, it's time for Plan B. He wants to start a business and enlists Edwin Zachary to help. The shy financial consultant looks below the surface and connects with Fabio, surprising them both.

Not everyone is happy with this development. A mysterious stalker tries to drive Fabio and Edwin apart. Will he succeed? Or can they overcome the obstacles and build the lasting relationship they both so desperately want?

The Model is #6 in the Workplace Encounters series, standalone stories with the same theme of 'blue collar' workers and/or unusual jobs. Excerpts from The Elevator Mechanic, The Chauffeur, The Ship Engineer, The Carpenter and The Truck Driver will follow in ensuing weeks.

The Model
Silver Publishing
ISBN: 9781920502294

Excerpt:

"What the fuck?" Fabio Bonardi stared at his image in abject horror. It may have been a fairly low quality hotel mirror and his eyes didn't quite want to open yet. But even at five in the morning he was awake enough to recognize a catastrophe when he saw it.

There, just below his right eye, was unmistakable evidence that he was getting old. Shit! Of all the things that could go wrong just before an early morning shoot, finding his first wrinkle was... hell, it wasn't even on the damned list! He closed his eyes. Maybe this was a nightmare. Surely, at twenty-eight, with the careful, not to say paranoid, way he took care of his skin, there was no way wrinkles would have a chance. Seconds later, not able to wait any longer despite his fear, he opened them again. Damn! The thing hadn't disappeared.

He bent forward and stretched his skin, hoping it might magically spring back into its previous un-wrinkled shape. Weren't Mediterranean genes supposed to help you look younger? Apparently, his luck had just run out. The wrinkle was still there and not even his otherwise blemish-free olive skin could hide it.

"Double fuck!" He hit the marble basin with enough force that pain raced up his arm. "Ouch." Talk about adding injury to insult. Or was that the other way around? He shook his head as he looked for his special moisturizer. It would have to do until Adair could work his magic. He was the best damned make-up artist in the whole business and almost reason enough to like coming to New York for a shoot. Almost.

Going through the motions of getting ready for a five-thirty pickup to the studio, he let his mind wander. He'd always known this day would come. Taking care of the money he made, carefully investing it so it would still be there once nobody wanted to hire him any longer, was second nature to him. He'd amassed a nice nest egg and it looked like it was time to use it to set Plan B into motion.

With a last admiring look at the figure he cut with his broad shoulders, narrow hips and long legs, he left the hotel bathroom to get dressed in client-supplied underwear, blue jeans, and one of his oldest and most comfortable sweatshirts. Packing only took a few minutes, because he only needed to make sure his stuff was in his carry-on bag, not think about what to take. He hated travelling with a lot of baggage, and he didn't need a big wardrobe when he posed for fashion shoots all day, only to return to the hotel late at night for a quick salad before he dropped into bed.

The glamour of modelling? A total myth. Inexperienced guys might fall for it, but he'd been at this for ten years now and knew better. Paris, Milan, and New York were good places to have on his resume, sure, but they weren't any more fun on his sort of schedule than Timbuktu or Hicksville, Tennessee would have been.

With the last shirt stuffed into the duffel, closely followed by his two bags of toiletries, he closed the luggage, picked it up, and left his room. He'd already checked his mail, updated his Facebook status, and sent a few tweets to fans who'd contacted him, so he was good to go. It was time to face today's music. He sighed as he waited for the elevator to make it to the twenty-second floor to pick him up. He was so hungry, but breakfast was out of the question. So were most other meals. He needed his figure to be perfect, now more than ever. He'd work out later in the day if he was lucky, and would allow himself some food, maybe a salad and some chicken, after that.

Checking out of the hotel consisted of dropping off his key card, the agency that had organized the shoot would take care of the bill. The cute little guy working at reception gave him a radiant smile and he grinned back. There was little harm in being friendly to someone he'd never see again and who couldn't bother him with any requests for an autograph, or his picture to be taken next to the famous Alessandro, his working name. He walked away with a little wave of his hand that made the receptionist blush redder than the plush crimson carpet on the floor of the hotel's entrance hall.

"Good morning, sir." The uniformed driver of the limo opened the door for him with the same cheerful efficiency as he'd shown the last two mornings. He was clearly more awake than Fabio.

"Morning." God, he needed coffee so badly. His head was going to kill him if he didn't get his next ration of caffeine soon. The coffee in his hotel room had been good, but only a start as far as he was concerned.

He entered the dark blue limo, sinking into the leather seats while the driver closed the door, slid behind the wheel, and made his way into the early morning traffic. At least Fabio was ranked high enough on the global list of top models to be given his own car, so he had another twenty minutes or so to close his eyes and doze.

No sleep would come.

He pulled his BlackBerry from his pocket and composed an e-mail to his personal assistant. Lisa lived in LA and hadn't come with him this time, since it was only a three-day shoot for an underwear manufacturer he'd worked for before. He hadn't expected to need her help during this trip. Now, he would put her in charge of researching financial and small business consultants. He knew what Plan B was, but he needed help with the details. Lisa was just the woman to find him what he needed.

"We're here, sir." The driver's voice returned him to reality and he nodded his thanks before leaving the car.

The chaos once he entered the huge open-space studio on the second floor was reassuringly familiar. He'd seen a few remodelled warehouses in his career, but this was one of the biggest. Instead of putting up separation walls to give different areas a separate identity and space, the architect had kept it all open, with only the occasional supporting wrought iron pillar to break up the space. There was a catering area to his right with tables stretching out along half the wall, the make-up and changing areas were in the back and included both corners, and there was a model rest area against the left wall. The corner to his left and most of the area in the center of the room was set up with various groupings of furniture, lighting screens, cameras, and assistants with notepads running around like headless chickens.

Most of the other models were already there, gossiping in the back and providing the ever-present buzz any shoot worth its name would create over time. They waited for their turn in make-up, and those who weren't online using various types of smart phone to stay in touch with their fans were drinking what must be vegetable juices and herbal teas. Most of them were sipping water and looked famished as they glared at the tempting doughnuts and Danishes on the long buffet table. None of that was for them, but the equipment guys, lighting people, and various clothing assistants all wanted to eat. Nobody cared what sort of cravings it created for the models.

Coffee was also available and Fabio made a beeline for it. At least it was good quality. Ian Cery, one of his favorite photographers, knew him and his preferences well and always made sure the juice of the gods was high quality. Never mind some health nuts said it was bad for the skin. He needed it almost more than to be wrinkle free, and that was saying something!

Where was Ian, anyway? Fabio shook his head. He was sure to appear at some point, the man was nothing if not professional. Fabio took a small cup of coffee and sank into one of the easy chairs in the waiting area at the back, sitting as far away from the other models as possible. None of them were in his league, so there was nothing to be gained by pretending to be friendly. That was all it could ever be between rivals who'd fight each other to the death to get the better shoot, the more famous photographer, or the more up and coming client. He snorted, quickly covering up the sound with a cough. Everything in the business was so damned artificial, it wasn't funny.

A few odd glances from the other models later, he had finished his coffee and started looking around to see where Adair might be lurking. After all, there was no point in facing Ian until Adair had seen to his newest disfigurement. That thought made him sit up.

Disfigurement? A wrinkle? Now that he was fully awake and caffeinated it suddenly seemed a little dramatic to be thinking that way. It wasn't as if he had a damned scar like that kid had got a few years back. What was his name? Kyle something? The poor guy had only been eighteen when he was in a horrible accident and he'd vanished from the scene faster than a photographer could press the releaser. Rumor had it that the damage to his face was extensive and he'd certainly never appeared on the cover of another magazine.

Fabio shuddered. Now, that was a real problem. He wasn’t quite there yet, thank God, but the writing was on the wall since his horrible discovery this morning. He couldn’t wait to hear from Lisa. Plan B had suddenly become a true priority.

“Ah, there you are.” Xavier, Ian’s newest assistant, smiled and showed off a row of perfect white teeth. “Adair wants you in make-up straight away. Your first session isn’t until eight, but they want to do some test shots with you at seven.”

“Sure.” Fabio rose from his chair and followed the little guy into the back section. Where did Adair find these eager little college kids? He went through them at an alarming rate, none quite good enough to stay on, but there was always the next one to take the fired one’s place. Maybe there was a nest of them somewhere around here. The thought made him chuckle just as he entered Adair’s domain.

“Someone is in a good mood today.” Adair stood with his hands on his hips, his jean shorts barely protecting his modesty and the hole-y T-shirt giving everyone who cared to look a great view of lots of upper-body skin. His hair was as unkempt as ever, but his eyeliner, mascara, and foundation were immaculate. The dusky rouge accentuated his steel gray eyes and the lip gloss was outrageously shiny. The man looked good enough to be on a magazine cover himself.

“Not really.” Fabio shook his head as he took a seat in front of the mirror. “Just no longer a totally foul one.”

“Oh? Tell me more.” Adair shook out a protective cape and placed it around Fabio’s shoulders. “We haven’t had any good gossip all morning.”

“Well, this one is highly confidential.” Fabio frowned at Adair, quickly smoothing his face back into a bland non-expression when Adair tsked at him. Right, he didn’t need even more wrinkles. “Top secret in fact!”

“Classified enough so you’d have to shoot me if anything leaked?” Adair looked delighted, eyes bright with joy. “I’ve always wanted to know one of those.”

“I bet.” Fabio sighed and sat back, trying to relax and failing abysmally.

“So, tell me already.” Adair bent forward until one ear was at Fabio’s mouth. “Come on, I really want to know.”

Fabio shook his head.

“What?” Adair stood back up and pouted. “Not fair.”

Fabio silently pointed to the area below his eye where he knew the offending wrinkle to be. He couldn’t even bear to look at his face in the mirror. His looks were all he had. How the hell was he going to make significant money without them? He may have a plan for what to do next, but fuck if he knew whether it was going to work. He needed that appointment with the financial and business wizard as soon as possible. Yesterday would be good!

“No!” Adair’s gasp was loud enough for several of the assistants and other models to turn their head.

Fabio hid his face in his hands. More attention. So not what he needed. Normally he craved it, but not with a weakness like that exposed for all to see. Ridicule and bullying were sure to follow. He remembered those awful days in kindergarten when he was fat and ugly. The other kids had been merciless. His parents had shrugged and told him the other kids were right, he was a disgrace to the family. He’d almost starved himself to lose weight, but all they’d said was he shouldn’t have gotten fat in the first place. All of that had happened before he was ten, but he remembered it as if it had been yesterday.

“Honey, I am so sorry.” Adair had gone straight into his fluttering state. He rushed around the room to collect different products, some brushes and other tools of his trade, before he returned to Fabio. “I’ll make it go away, don’t you worry.”

“Permanently?” It was too much to hope for, but he suddenly wanted Adair to be a miracle worker.

“Sorry, sweetie, no can do.” Adair took Fabio’s chin in one hand and tilted his head this way and that. “I can hide it very effectively for a few more months, maybe, but only Botox or laser therapy or something similar can completely remove it.”

“Shit!” His voice was way too loud and a few grins were sent his way before the two other models being powdered looked away. Man, people are nosy around here.

“I agree.” Adair picked some foundation and started applying it across Fabio’s face. “It’ll be expensive, but it can be done.”

“No. Can’t do it.” He couldn’t even think about it without his stomach turning.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Adair paused for a second before returning to his task. “They’re getting very good at this stuff.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about. Well, not entirely.” He shook as goose bumps appeared across his body.

Adair just looked at him with his ‘come on, give it up’ expression and Fabio had no choice but to tell him. After all, he might still need the man’s advice to find a less invasive method for ‘ironing out’ this wrinkle.

“Well?” Adair stopped working and leaned back, making Fabio decidedly uncomfortable.

“I have a fear of needles…” Anything doctor or medical-related, in fact. He didn’t know what had caused it, but it had been this way ever since he could remember, so it must be due to something that happened when he was extremely young.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry to hear that.” Adair squeezed his shoulder. “Have you tried therapy?”

Fabio nodded.

“It didn’t help?” Adair shook his head. “Must be really bad.”

Fabio nodded again. Even his wrinkle and its message about aging weren't scary enough to get him to revise his belief about the medical profession. He knew it was stupid, but he’d rather accept the wrinkles than subject himself to a doctor’s care.

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Blood Sacrifice excerpt by Rick R Reed

2011-11-28T07:00:00.002-05:00

In Blood Sacrifice, Rick R Reed asks the question, "What would you give up for immortal life and love?" By day, Elise draws and paints, spilling out the horrific visions of her tortured mind. By night, she walks the streets, selling her body to the highest bidder. And then they come into her life: a trio of impossibly beautiful vampires: Terence, Maria, and Edward. When they encounter Elise, they set an explosive triangle in motion.

Terence wants to drain her blood. Maria just wants Elise . . . as lover and partner through eternity. And Edward, the most recently-converted, wants to prevent her from making the same mistake he made as a young abstract expressionist artist in 1950s Greenwich Village: sacrificing his artistic vision for immortal life. He is the only one of them still human enough to realize what an unholy trade this is.

This terrifying, erotic, suspenseful and richly romantic vampire tale will grip you in a vise of suspense that won't let go until the very last moment...when a shocking turn of events changes everything and demonstrates--truly--what love and sacrifice are all about. Blood Sacrifice is a new digital e-book version of In the Blood and contains exclusive restored material not included in the print edition.

Blood Sacrifice
Untreed Reads Publishing
ISBN:

Excerpt:

Elise Groneman stares out the window, stomach roiling. What she has is like stage fright. She gets it every night, before she ventures out of her tiny Rogers Park studio apartment on Chicago’s far north side. It’s always been amazing to her that just a few minutes’ walk to the north is the suburb of Evanston and a different world; there, the streets are tree-lined and clean, the homes palatial, the condos upscale, the restaurants grand, and the stores exclusive. Affluence and culture preside. Yet here, on Greenview Street, one encounters abject poverty, crime, the detritus of urban desperation: tiny brightly-colored baggies, fast food wrappers, condoms, empty alcohol bottles, even pieces of clothing. The sidewalks are cracked, the grassy areas choked with weeds and garbage. Here in Rogers Park, the normal folks―the ones who travel on the el to work downtown every morning―stay inside, so as not to mingle with people like Elise, or the man outside her window right now, who’s screaming, “What the fuck do I care what you do, bitch? It ain’t no skin off my ass.” Elise glances out and sees the man is alone. A boy cruises by on a bicycle that’s too small for him. The bike is stolen; either that, or he’s a runner for some small time dealer, delivering and making collections. Sometimes, there aren’t many options for moving up the ladder.

But this neighborhood is all Elise can afford, and, unless she picks up more clientele soon, she may even be crowded out of this hovel she begrudgingly calls home. Once, she shared the place with someone else, but those days, for better or worse, are long behind her.

Elise moves to the window, attempting to obliterate memory by the simple act of staring outside. Dusk has fallen and the sky belies the earthbound life before her. The sun is setting, the sky deep violet, filtering down to tangerine and pink near the horizon. If she keeps her eyes trained on the riot of color and shape to the east, she can almost forget where she is.

But the denizens of Greenview Street make sure she stays reminded. They stroll the night in an attempt to escape the heat, the hot, moist air pressing in, smothering. They call to one another, using words she had barely heard, let alone used, back in Shaker Heights, Ohio, where she had grown up: nigga, motherfucka, homey. Fuck used as an adjective, verb, and ejaculation (but rarely, ironically, utilized in a sexual context). Snatches of music filter out from apartment windows. Cruising vehicles pass by, bass thumping hard enough to cause the glass in her windows to vibrate. She has picked up names of artists like Bow Wow, Def Soul, and Trick Daddy as she walks the streets. Elise puts a hand to the screen, testing the air. Will there ever be a breeze again? She wonders if her neighbors would recognize any of the names attached to the music she loves, names like Vivaldi, Smetana, Bach. Other music fills the street: arguments and professions of love shouted with equal force. Headlights illuminate the darkening night, which is also lit by the flare of a match here, neon there, and sodium vapor overall. The world glows orange, filling up not only the streets of the city, but the sky, blotting out the stars.

East of her churn the cold waters of Lake Michigan, and Elise imagines its foam-flecked waves lapping at the shores. She’d like to pad down to the beach at the end of Birchwood Street, kick off her sandals and run across the sand and into the water, its cold obliterating and refreshing. She wishes she had the freedom, but east is not her path. Her way lies south, to Howard Street, purveyor of pawnshops and prostitution.

Her destination.

Elise turns to survey her cramped apartment. Near the ceiling, industrial green paint peels from the walls to reveal other coats of grimy paint no color describes. Metal-frame twin bed, sheets twisted and gray, damp from sweat and humidity. Next to that, Salvation Army-issue scarred oak table, small, with the remains of this night’s meal, a few apple peelings, a knife, and a glass half filled with pale tea, darkening in the dying light.

It’s a place no one would ever call home. Elise’s apartment is utilitarian, a place to work, to sleep, to eat. It’s little more than shelter.

The only sign of human habitation is her work: huge canvases mounted on easels, bits of heavy paper taped to her drawing board. Much of her work is done in charcoal and pencil, but the palette of grays and black remain constant, whether it’s a sketch or a completed painting. Her subject matter, too, is always the same, although the variety of choices she has to explore is endless. Elise likes to draw intensely detailed renderings of crime and accident scenes, aping the cold, clinical detachment one might find in a book of crime scene photographs. Here is a woman, slumped beside a corduroy recliner, a gunshot ripping away half of her head (the blood black in Elise’s rendering), beside her, a half-eaten chicken leg and the Tempo section of the Chicago Tribune, folded neatly and splattered with her gore. There’s a man lying beside a highway, the cars a fast-moving blurred river. His head has been severed from his body. On the wall she has masking-taped a nightmare in quick, staccato slashes: a young woman strangled and left to lie in the pristine environment of an upscale public washroom, clean, shiny ceramic tile, untarnished metal stalls. Another woman, looking bored, checks her lipstick in the mirror. Near Elise’s floor is a small, intricately detailed drawing done in charcoal: two lovers lie in a bed of gore, the aftermath―one presumes―of discovery of their union by a jealous lover. The woman has a sheet discreetly covering her up to the neck. The man lies splayed out in a paroxysm of agony. And why not? His offending penis has been slashed from his body. Is that it on the floor beside the bed, a smudge of black, nearly shapeless?

Where is all the color? Elise herself wonders as she dresses for the evening. Color has been leached out of her world; it is getting increasingly difficult to be able to remember what color was like and thus, increasingly difficult to duplicate its varied hues on paper or canvas. Color, it seems, is but a hazy memory out of her past.

Enough of art analysis, she thinks. It’s her days she has designated to her art. Nighttime is when she prepares for her other job, the occupation that keeps a roof over her head. The job which perhaps is responsible for stealing the color from her vision.

Enough! Enough! Enough! she thinks. Put the introspection behind you. It’s time now, time to become a creature of the night, an animal doing what it must to provide its own sustenance.

She rummages in the apartment’s lone closet, pulling out one of her “uniforms,” clothing that helps identify her occupation as much a mechanic’s jumpsuit, or a waitress’s ruffled apron and polyester dress.

Tonight, she dons a short black skirt bisected by a wide zipper ending in a big silver loop. Over her head, she pulls a white T-shirt, tying it just above her waist. In combination with the low-riding skirt, it perfectly frames her navel. Elise pulls the skin apart and plucks out a piece of lint. She completes her ensemble with dark seamed stockings and spike heels. These are the tools of the trade as much as the brushes, sticks of charcoal, and pencils littering her space.

Elise flips back her long whiskey-colored hair, and leans close to the mirror. She lines her lips with a shade of brown, then fills in with glossy crimson. Cheapens her green eyes with thick black kohl. Elise pulls her hair back, away from her damp neck, and up, pinning it all together with a silver barrette adorned with the smiling face of a skull. Pentagram earrings. Tonight a witch, creature of the night.
Then she turns, hand on doorknob. The night awaits: exhaust fumes, traffic, the chirping of cicadas.

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The Peripheral Son excerpt by Dorien Grey

2011-11-21T07:00:00.001-05:00

In The Peripheral Son by Dorien Grey, Dick Hardesty investigates the disappearance of a freelance writer doing simultaneous exposes on both the boxing profession and construction unions. He finds himself handed a Gordian Knot, with no sword to cut it. A plethora of motives and suspects, and a dearth of solid evidence sorely test both Dick's skills and his patience.

The Peripheral Son
Zumaya Boundless (October 31, 2011)
ISBN-10: 1936144107
ISBN-13: 978-1936144105

Excerpt:

Jonathan and Joshua got home around five-fifteen, and I'd already set the table and gotten things set out ready for dinner. After our customary group hug greeting, I went into the kitchen to take ice cubes and a Coke out of the refrigerator for our evening "cocktail." Joshua had raced into his room to start playing, and Jonathan followed me into the kitchen. Seeing the pork chops, box of instant potatoes, the bag of flour and the large iron skillet I'd set out, he looked at me quizzically.

"We're celebrating?" he asked. He knew pork chops, mashed potatoes, and gravy were my idea of the perfect meal, and due to his insistence that Joshua have an all inclusive, well-rounded diet, we didn't have it nearly enough to suit me.

"It's Chubby's birthday," I said, giving a head nod to Joshua's fish tank. Chubby was Joshua's favorite-of-the-moment goldfish which, thanks to the boy's favoritism when it came to being fed, was well on its way to becoming the size of a koi.

He gave me one of his condescending, raised eyebrow looks.

"Riiight. So how come you got home early?"

I handed him his Coke and started fixing my Manhattan. "Tell you about it when we sit down."

Those who think a private investigator's life is all drama and adventure think wrong. As a result, the bulk of my cases were not sufficiently interesting to talk much about, but I had mentioned Victor Koseva's disappearance to Jonathan when I first took the case. I started to fill him in during breaks in the evening news, and got as far as telling him about my meeting Gee Basino, but there were too many distractions, chief among them Joshua's loud protestations that he was starving.

Immediately after the news, we turned off the TV and got up to make dinner.

Another reason we didn't have pork chops, mashed potatoes, and gravy more often was because my penchant for wanting my pork chops crispy, which is to say nearly burnt, inevitably set off the smoke alarm. We used two skillets for the frying—one for my burnt offerings and one for Jonathan's and Joshua's chops. But I always made the gravy; salt and pepper and flour and water, poured into the pans and mixed with the drippings from the pork chops. Gourmet heaven!

* * *

We didn't have a chance to talk until after Joshua was safely tucked into bed. He still insisted we read to him every night even though his own reading skills were truly impressive for a five-year-old, and whichever of us was reading to him had to scoot up to sit beside him so he could watch as we moved our fingers along under the words we were reading.

"So," Jonathan said as we returned to the living room to sit on the couch, "tell me about this boxer. You think he and…Victor…had something going on? I don't imagine that would go over very well in the boxing world."

"I really have no idea what's going on or not going on between them…yet. But you're right; it could be the kiss of death for a boxer out to capture a title."

"But he's hot, you said. So he's probably gay."

I grinned. "Talk about leaping tall buildings in a single bound! There are hot straight guys, too."

"Yeah, but I'll bet this one's gay. And he and Victor are having an affair, and that big guy he's nailed to did something to Victor in order to break it up. Maybe he killed him!"

I reached out to lay my hand on his thigh. "Good logic, Dr. Watson. Whether it's accurate or not remains to be seen. And maybe you've been reading too many murder mysteries."

"Well, you'll figure it out."

"Thanks. I hope you're right."

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Junction X excerpt by Erastes

2011-11-14T07:00:00.002-05:00

Set in the very English suburbia of 1962 where everyone has tidy front gardens and lace curtains, Junction X is the story of Edward Johnson, who ostensibly has the perfect life: A beautiful house, a great job, an attractive wife and two well-mannered children. The trouble is he’s been lying to himself all of his life. And first love, when it does come, hits him and hits him hard. Who is the object of his passion? The teenaged son of the new neighbours.

Edward’s world is about to go to hell.

Junction X
Cheyenne Publishing
ISBN: 978-1-937692-06-3 (print)
ISBN: 978-1-937692-07-0 (eBook)

Excerpt:

One Tuesday I had an early meeting out of town, so I used the Bentley, though I didn’t enjoy driving the big car in and around London. By the time I came off the main road, my shoulders aching, I was glad to see the final roundabout at the end of the dual carriageway. As I turned into The Avenue, a leggy figure in a black blazer ran across the road in front of me, hurrying slightly as he heard the engine. It was Alec and, by the quick glance he gave the car as he scurried by, it was obvious that he’d seen me. I remember willing my foot onto the accelerator so I could drive by, but my feet were no longer under my control. Instead, I braked beside him and rolled down the window.

“Need a lift?”

He grinned, his teeth white in the dusk, and hurried around to the other side while I unlocked the door.

“Thanks.”

“I don’t make a habit of kerb crawling, you know.”

“I believe you.”

The ride was too short. In no time at all, we were pulling up outside our respective houses. “Thanks,” he said again, but he made no move to get out. His fingers moved restlessly over the handle of his briefcase, making a fist and then opening out to stroke the brown leather. Brown-white-brown went his knuckles and I couldn’t stop staring at them.

“You’ve got ink on your hand,” I said. “You’re late home.” I sounded like a schoolmaster.

“I’ve joined an evening club. Extra coaching.”

“Do you need it?”

“For Oxford I will.”

“Oh. I didn’t know. What subject?”

“Maths.”

I didn’t say ‘Oh,’ again, like some kind of idiot, but I was surprised. I’d known a lot of mathematicians and they didn’t have faces like Alec’s. Mostly they looked like ferrets in corduroy.

“Where did you go?” he asked, twisting on the seat. I tried to will myself not to look at him, but I had my first lesson in the effects of Alec on my will power that evening. I learned that I didn’t have any. I turned and looked him full in the face and my stomach did that flipping thing again, leaping straight up and kicking me hard in the diaphragm. His new haircut had snipped away those recalcitrant white curls but the shortness around his ears suited him, brought his cheekbones into relief and accentuated the slenderness of his neck. His shirt was undone, his tie stuffed casually into his jacket pocket. I could see a glimpse of collarbone that made my breath burn. He wasn’t wearing anything beneath the thin white shirt that I could see. I knew I should feel uncomfortable even noticing that, but I didn’t, and I felt rebellion surge through me.

“Me? Uni?” He nodded, and his lips parted, which caused my groin to stir. I coughed and shifted uncomfortably. “I did Engineering at Queens.” I braced both hands against the steering wheel and pushed back against the seat.

“Not very useful, in your job.”

“That’s an understatement.” I shrugged. “But then I wasn’t expecting to be a wage slave. I was going to build things. Bridges. Airports.”

You had different dreams.” His voice had changed, and when I looked at him again, he’d turned away and was looking out of the off-side window.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I lied. “I shouldn’t have been surprised that life included a wife and family. Life generally does. It’s not as if I thought I was going to be Isembard Kingdom Brunel.”

The words were out of my mouth before the old dream hit me hard. I had. I had wanted to be Isembard Kingdom Brunel. I realised that I hadn’t admitted that to myself for a long time. I wondered where my life had gone.

“Or anyone like that,” I ended, lamely, wishing I hadn’t said Brunel’s name, wishing I hadn’t tainted Alec with my failed ambition.

He was silent for a while and then said, “Yeah—you’re right. Thanks for the lift.” He opened the door, dropped a leg into the road and waited for a car to pass.

My chest got that tight feeling again and I caught hold of his right arm. “Alec,” I said. He turned to me with an expression that looked like the children on Christmas morning, and I was still too stupid to read it. “I’ve been thinking. There’s the toy fair in Aliston on Sunday the fourteenth.”

He pulled his leg back in and shut the door. “Yeah, I know. Dad can’t go. He has to work.”

“The twins might want to.” I couldn’t help but smile. It seemed conspiratorial. Secret plans being made in a Bentley. It was worthy of Bond.

He grinned a little, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Would they?”

“Probably.”

“No golf?”

“Of course not. Not if they wanted to go somewhere else.” I made myself sound like Super-Dad, and with that, Alec and I were back to that easy banter. It seemed natural, and I enjoyed talking to him so much, that I hardly cared anymore that he was half my age. It was addictive; I’d not had this with anyone else, not with Valerie, not even with Phil. I wanted more of it.

“I’d like that.” He got out, then stuck his head back into the car and said, “Thanks.”

I think that was the first time that we weren’t awkward with each other. From then on—apart from a few rare notable exceptions—the way we spoke was almost intuitive, sometimes not even needing to finish sentences, or questions.

I sat and watched him walk down the path to his front door, my knuckles whitening as I gripped the steering wheel. I knew then what I was, how I felt and what was wrong-not-wrong with me. For about thirty whole seconds, I didn’t bloody care. My blood was on fire and my skin tingled. I was warm and complete. I felt like a boy who’d just asked the girl of his dreams out on the best date he could afford.

Thirty perfect seconds. Then the real world crept back and the colours bleached a little. Elation is a bubble that lasts for tiny tiny moments but leaves something of its memory in scents and sounds so that later, when you need that boost, you can close your eyes and remember happiness.

Gay Historical Fiction
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On the Prowl excerpt by Mykola Dementiuk

2011-11-07T07:00:00.001-05:00

Take a walk on the wide side with this brand-new novelette, On the Prowl by Mykola Dementiuk, the Lambda Award winner for Best Bisexual Fiction for Times Square! If you like your queer erotica with a taste of the darker parts of life in the Big Apple, then this is a book that will stay with you for a long-long time. A sexual adventure with a large dash of Latino spice, ON THE PROWL is packed with wild, gender-bending characters looking for a good time ... and something more.

On The Prowl
Sizzler Editions (October 1, 2011)
ISBN 9781615089031

Excerpt:

Then I saw him, walking towards me on the overpass and about to enter the park. He held a cigarette in one uplifted hand while he clutched his pack with the other. There was a flitting of his eyes when he passed me by and I was certain he puckered his lips as he teasingly sauntered away. I was halfway on the overpass when I turned, gazed at his curvy bottom and sped right after him.

He was a beautiful dark-skinned feminine Hispanic man, in his twenties, the tight clothes showing off his elegant body. His longish hair certainly looked feminine though worn by a male. And he had a nice bulge in his crotch that signified only one gender to me, he was a certainly a male, all else was meaningless.

Ever since I was young I have always been attracted to males, their bodies meant one thing, to gel with mine, in frantic impatient release, which signified a state of explosive ejaculation. Two men cuming at each other was simply divine. I longed for it and sought it out everywhere I went but, of course, never got it in return. Over the years, a few meaningless shared masturbations in dim lighted Times Square movie theaters were all I was given, from which I always fled afterwards, very ashamed as if I had done something wrong.

I was only a few steps behind him when he turned and hungrily looked at me, blinking his eyes.

"Aye, mira, you scared me," he lisped, faking an alarm which wasn't there – Mira, being a common Hispanic word which meant look but in the common usage could mean anything. He had turned back a few times as he walked, his eyes gazing at me as if meant to say, Mira, can't you hurry up?

I smiled. "You shouldn't be scared of little old me, I'm only after one thing, your dick."

And I tried to grab the bulge at his crotch but she protected herself by turning out of my way.

"Fresh," he said, looking about. "Someone might see."

I shrugged. "Oh, let them, there's never anyone here. Anyway, I don't care. I want you." I tried putting my arms around her but again she pushed herself out of the way. I was right behind her, trying to grab her ass again.

"Mira, stop it, I mean it!"

I paused as she continued walking across the handball courts in the direction of the river then turned to look at me, a wink and glint were in her eyes. What was I supposed to do? I again rubbed my hard crotch and went after her.

I caught up to her and expected another angry refusal but she was shaking her head and trying to adjust her pants.

"Mira, I hate pants, don't you?" she said, twisting the pants at her torso, "Always going the wrong way."

"You should take them off," I said, winking an eye at her. "But the tight pants fit you perfectly, shows off your crotch." I put my hands at her waist and drew her closer to me. Her arms were uplifted and we looked at each other, our lips meeting in an open-mouthed kiss. I felt her tongue lashing against mine as she suddenly shivered, squirmed and doubled over. She broke from me, out of breath.

"Aye, mira, what you do to me?" she said looking down.

I gazed down at her legs in the light colored pants she had on, a large spreading stain was at her crotch; it was obvious she had just cum.

"Oh, my," I leered at her, rubbing my wet mouth. "Naughty, naughty but also very lovely." I winked at her and again tried putting my arms around her but again she pushed me off.

"Mira, no!" she said...

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Caregiver excerpt by Rick R Reed

2011-10-31T07:00:00.002-04:00

This excerpt is from Rick R Reed’s latest work, the AIDS-era love story, CAREGIVER. The story is autobiographical in many ways (drawn from his own experiences in 1991 as an AIDS buddy in Tampa, FL). In this scene, the main character, Dan, goes into a public health clinic to get the results of his own HIV test.

It’s 1991, and Dan Calzolaio has just moved to Florida with his lover, Mark, having fled Chicago and Mark’s addictions to begin a new life on the Gulf Coast. Volunteering for the Tampa AIDS Alliance is just one part of that new beginning, and that’s how Dan meets his new buddy, Adam.

Adam Schmidt is not at all what Dan expected. The guy is an original—witty, wry, and sarcastic with a fondness for a smart black dress, Barbra Streisand, and a good mai tai. Adam doesn’t let his imminent death get him down, even through a downward spiral that sees him thrown in jail.

Each step of Adam’s journey teaches Dan new lessons about strength and resilience, but it’s Adam’s lover, Sullivan, to whom Dan feels an almost irresistible pull. Dan knows the attraction isn’t right, even after he dumps his cheating, drug-abusing boyfriend. But then Adam passes away, and it leaves Sullivan and Dan both alone to see if they can turn their love for Adam into something whole and real for each other.

Caregiver
Dreamspinner Press (October 24, 2011)
ISBN-13: 978-1-61372-208-4 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 978-1-61372-209-1 (ebook)

EXCERPT:

A guy about Dan’s own age in T-shirt and jeans came out from behind a door and looked around the waiting room. He spotted Dan and came over to him. Dan recalled the dark-haired man had checked him in when he arrived at the clinic. Dan thought he said his name was Carlos. Carlos leaned down close to Dan and said softly, “The counselor will see you now.”

Dan stood on unsteady legs, wondering why Carlos had bothered to make the trip into the waiting room just to tell him it was his turn to be seen. Calm down. They probably just do that to respect your privacy. It doesn’t mean he was softening the blow of what’s to come.

Dan followed the man back to a warren of small exam rooms and offices. Carlos gestured to one of them. “You can go in and have a seat. Becky will be in to see you in just a minute.”

Dan nodded, his stomach churning and a splash of acid rising to the back of his throat. This was the big moment. It could be life defining. Or death defining, depending on how the results went.

Dan sat after Carlos closed the door, glad there were no mirrors in the room because he was certain the glass would have thrown back the reflection of a man with a pasty white complexion, slick with sweat.

Dan feared he would throw up.

Becky came into the room. She reminded him of his mother, slightly overweight, with permed dark brown hair, and oversized glasses. She looked about fifty and there was a kind aspect to her demeanor that made Dan paradoxically at ease and on guard.

She looked down at his file and then up at him, smiling.

What would she say? How would she put it?

Dan felt himself grow faint.

“Dan. I’m sorry, but your test came back positive for HIV antibodies.”

Dan felt as though he would drop to the floor. He had expected this, knew it was coming, yet it was no easier to bear. His life was over. When would he start getting sick? When would the first ailment make its deadly appearance? Which infection would it be? How long would it take before AIDS extinguished his light?

He searched for words to put in his mouth, but it seemed as though the connection between his brain and his mouth had been severed. He could only stare, slack-jawed, at the motherly woman.

“I’m sorry, honey. But this doesn’t have to be bad news. They are coming up with new treatments all the time! No worries! Before you even get sick, I’m sure they’ll have something for you.” Becky laughed. “You’ll die of old age before that old AIDS monster gets you!” she laughed again.

“Are you sure?” Dan sputtered.

“Sure I’m sure! You’re gonna be just fine! You’ll see.”

“No. I mean, are you sure about the results?”

“Oh yeah, honey. The test doesn’t lie. You’re gay, right?”

Dan nodded, numb.

“And you know what gay stands for, doncha?”

Dan put a hand to his mouth to stifle the wave of hysterical laughter threatening to burst from his lips. He knew what she was going to say.

“Got AIDS yet?” Becky slapped the desk, laughing and Dan joined her, laughing until his sides ached, until tears poured from his eyes. The pair paused in the hilarity for a moment, looked at one another, and started laughing all over again.

“Mr. Calzolaio? Mr. Calzolaio, are you all right?” Becky leaned over him, concern radiating from her warm brown eyes.

Dan shook his head and the room came back into focus. He realized he had slipped away for a moment, maybe even fainted.

“Yes, yes. I think so. I’ve just been so nervous about this.” He looked up into Becky’s face.

“Let me get you some water.”

He grabbed her arm before she left the office. “No. I don’t need water. I need to know. Did you just tell me I was infected?”

Becky looked at him, cocking her head in confusion. “No, honey, that’s not what I said at all.” She hurried back around to the other side of the desk and sat. “I said just the opposite. You’re negative, sweetheart. But your ELISA test did come back positive the first time.”

Dan felt like the floor was coming out from under him once again.

“And when we ran the test a second time, it came back positive again, so we sent it for the Western Blot and that came back negative. That happens sometimes…but you’re okay.” She opened a drawer and handed him a pamphlet. “That explains how the testing works. But if the Western Blot is negative, you’re not infected.”

“You’re sure?”

Becky nodded. “You were worried about this, huh?”

Dan wanted to laugh again. “Yeah, a little bit.”

“Have you been exposed?” Becky peered at him from over the top of her glasses.

“No.” He paused, thinking. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Well, I need to tell you—there is what they call a window period, when you could be infected, but the tests don’t yet pick up on the antibodies.” She made sure Dan met her gaze and continued. “That’s why you need to make sure you play very safe.” She reached in the same drawer from which she had taken the pamphlet and pulled out a handful of condoms, setting them down in front of Dan. The bright metallic wrappers made him think she was offering him candy. “Don’t take any risks and make sure you come back in six months and get tested again, just to be certain. Okay?”

Dan thought he would abstain from any sex for the next six months—maybe forever. He stuffed the rubbers into his pocket anyway and stood.

“You gonna be all right?”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. Thank you.” Dan left the office, feeling curiously numb and relieved all at once. A part of his heart ached because he knew this scene had played out so differently for Adam.

http://www.rickrreed.com
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The Canals of Mars excerpt by Victor J Banis

2011-10-24T07:00:00.002-04:00

Two men come together in an enchanted cottage, one of them old and one of them scarred –and begin to see one another and their lives in a different way. The eye is a wonderful thing, but only love can see the truth.

Canals of Mars
MLR Press (August, 2011)
ISBN# 978-1-60820-429-8

Excerpt:

Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but ugly is there for everyone to see. I can afford to speak so flippantly on the subject, since I was, and I say it in all modesty, beautiful indeed.

The operative word there, of course, is, was. Was, before a vial exploded in the lab, and turned that beautiful face into a road map of Mars. In the novels, in the movies, this is where the handsome plastic surgeon rushes to the rescue, and by the next chapter-reel, I am Joan Crawford all over again, and on my way to becoming Mrs. Surgeon. Or, in my gay instance, Mister and Mister Surgeon.

Cut. First off, he was older than the hills and singularly unattractive. And, he was already married and blatantly heterosexual. Don't get me wrong: I have no objections to heterosexuals, so long as they aren't too obvious. And, hell, if he had been able to make me lovely again, I'd have murdered her, had the change, and gone after the old codger regardless.

Three operations later, however, the mirror still showed me the surface of Mars. The craters had shrunk somewhat, and the canals had shifted, but it was still Mars. I balked at going under the knife a fourth time.

"No, it won't be a dramatic improvement," he said when I questioned him.

"In other words, I’m still going to look like something brought back up half eaten," I asked, and the tone in which he assured me that I would look better told me that "better" still was not going to be very good.

Which was where we left it. Notwithstanding the pleasure of lying abed in a hospital—there is nothing quite like the personal touch of your own bedpan, is there—and all that delicious food, I promised I would get back to him, without specifying in which life.

When you are damaged, as I was, they give you lots of money, as if that would compensate for what I had lost. I was grateful, though, that I did not have to work. Not because I am all that fond of lying about vegetating, but because I did not have to face all those slipping-away eyes that I was sure to encounter.

There were not many places one could go, however, without the same problem. Jason threw in the towel and was gone. Jason who loved "the soul of me," who loved me "through and through," was through. I told myself, "good riddance," he was too shallow to be of much use as a lover, and I tried to not to think that I had mostly been just about as shallow most of my life. I definitely tried not to remember that I loved the bastard.

I am fortunate that I am comfortable with my own company, as many are not, and there is a certain bitter comfort in wallowing in self-pity. That wears thin, though, after a while, and the walls of my little apartment seemed to shrink inward with each passing day. So, when Douglas called me, to say he was going to spend a month or two at his cottage on the shore, and would I like to come along, I jumped at the chance. I might not have in the past. I had always understood that Douglas was in love with me—whatever that meant. Jason had been in love with me, too, he said, and what had that amounted to? Who knew what "love" was? I didn't.

In the past, I might have wondered at Douglas' intentions, getting me all alone in that little cottage of his. He was Jason's friend. I liked him well enough on the few occasions when I had met him, and he was a lovely person—just not my type. Not as old as that surgeon, probably, but, really, too old for my tastes, sixty if he was a day, maybe more. I didn't really know. Anyway, what difference does a number make? There comes a point when you're just old, doesn't there? Though I have to admit, if you weren't hung up on age, he was a youthful looking sixty whatever.

They say it's an ill wind, however. With the face I now had, I did not have to worry about whether it was only my beauty that men were after.

I will give him credit. He was one of the few, the first, maybe, since the accident, who did not flinch when he saw me. He even managed to look me straight in the face, and not quickly avert his eyes.

"Pretty awful, isn't it?" I said. He had come out to help me bring my bags in.

He smiled. "I've seen worse," he said. "I used to work in a burn center."

"I hope that wasn't meant to make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside," I said, following him up the wide, shallow steps to the front door.

"No, I've got martinis waiting. That's their job."

They failed, however. All they did was lower the barriers I had so carefully raised. The martinis, and Douglas. He was an elegant man, suave and distinguished. He was also thoughtful and gentle; I hadn't known that about him before. Of course, I had never been alone at his beach cottage with him. Never, really, been alone with him at all.

He talked of all sorts of things, movies and people we both knew and recipes and the shore and the weather and, when I could bear it no longer and the tears began to stream down my cheeks, he stopped talking and just held me. He didn't try to tell me it would be okay. He didn't try to tell me that I was still beautiful. He did not swear it would all get better, or somehow magically go away, or any of the stupid, insensitive things that others had said that had only made me feel worse. He didn't even chide me when I blubbered about the canals of Mars.

He just held me and gently kissed my cheek; not even the good one. He kissed the one that was scarred, kissed Mars' canals as if they were the most natural things on this planet. He was the first person since the accident with the courage to put his lips to my flesh; the first, even, to put his arms around me. Jason had tried, and had paled and turned away before his lips touched me, and said with a sob, as if it were his heart breaking, "I can't, I just can't." Then he left.

Douglas only held me and kissed my cheek, and when the tears stopped at last, he took me upstairs and tucked me into my bed like a little child, and brought me a cup of hot chocolate, and made me drink it, and sat and held my hand until I fell asleep.

#

Evenings, he fixed us martinis and I got into the habit of preparing dinner. I had cooked in the past, but I had gotten away from it. I found now that I enjoyed it. I took unexpected pleasure in fixing the things he liked, the way he liked them. Nothing too fancy: steaks or lobster or burgers on the grill, and when it turned out we both actually loved it, the tuna casserole that Jason had always turned his nose up at. The one with potato chips. I caught Douglas licking the salt off the chips and smacked his hand with the spatula. Later, though, I tried it myself when he wasn't looking, and he caught me at it and smacked my hand.

"I was in the hospital for eight weeks," I told him petulantly. "You're not supposed to hit someone when they're recovering from surgery."

"Bullshit," he said, and offered me a chip to lick. He wasn't always elegant.

We ate sometimes on the terrace when it was warm enough, and at the kitchen table when it wasn't, and some evenings it was cool enough for a fire in the fireplace and we ate in front of it. There was no television, but he had a radio and a stereo, and somehow he had managed to stock a shelf with most of my favorite music. Sometimes he sat beside me, and he would shyly put his arm around me, and I would lean against him and put my head on his shoulder while we listened to music together, and watched the fire. We didn't talk much, but the silence was comfortable. Always, when he said good night, he kissed my cheek. The bad one.

After a week, when he started to turn away from me at my bedroom door, I said, "You don't have to go to your own room."

It took him a moment to realize what I meant. "Are you sure?" he said, uncertain and hopeful all at the same time.

"I'm sure."

I would have turned the lights out, but he wouldn't have it. "Do you have any idea how long I've dreamed of seeing you like this?" he asked. "I never thought I'd be so lucky."

I was naked by this time. He looked me up and down with undisguised pleasure while he undressed. That part of me, at least, was still fine. I was glad, for his sake as well as my own. He deserved beauty. I turned the bad cheek away.

He was naked too now, seemingly unembarrassed by his old man's body. He dropped on to the bed beside me.

"That was when I was beautiful," I said. "And please don't say, 'you still are.'"

"You still are," he said.

Without thinking, I put a hand to my face. "The canals of Mars?" I said.

"Where I shall swim in ecstasy," he said and kissed the scars. I watched and listened and felt carefully with all my senses for some hint of reluctance, of disgust or even discomfort, but if he felt any, he disguised it completely.

He took hold of my hand and rubbed it across the pouch of his belly, where he had thickened about the waist. "If you'll overlook this," he said, and leaned over to kiss my lips.

#

It was good sex. Not great, but good. Of course, sex had been a solitary pastime for me since the accident. Jack off and think of Jason, think of Jason and jack off. Maybe at this point in time, anybody would have made it seem good. I don't know. I don't think so. I suppose that is one of the advantages of age, though: practice makes you, if not perfect, pretty adept. He was. He made love to me. I had never experienced that before. Lots of sex, none hotter than with Jason, but no one had ever made love to me. It was nice. I kissed him when it was over, and kissing him, actually forgot about how I looked. He stayed the night in my bed. I slept comfortably in the crook of his arm.

I realized when I woke in the morning that I had forgotten, too, how old he was.

#

After that, we slept together every night. He could not have been more tender, more loving, and I stirred myself to be as good as I could be for him as well. It got better, our sex. I wanted it to, and it did, it got very much better. I stopped jacking off remembering Jason. I didn't stop remembering Jason, but I stopped jacking off, remembering him. Stopped jacking off altogether, to tell the truth. Who had anything left to shoot, the way we were going at it? He was insatiable. The old goat. It was flattering. Exhausting, but flattering.

One night when we finished, he rolled on his back with a gasp and said, "If you keep it up like that, you're going to kill me. I'm an old man, remember?"

"You're not so old," I said. And, to my surprise, I meant it. I'd been to bed with men forty years his junior who weren't the lover he was. Or, maybe they were. What I really mean is, that I hadn't gotten the pleasure, the same kind of pleasure, from them that I did from him. Maybe that was in part the pleasure that I was giving. I had never thought of it like that before: taking pleasure in giving it. I wanted to make him happy. I wanted to please him. When I did, and he made it quite obvious that I did, it made me happy too.

That was a new one for me.

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Beloved Pilgrim excerpt by Nan Hawthorne

2011-10-17T07:00:00.001-04:00

"Why should I warn people about people who love and are devoted to each other?"

In Beloved Pilgrim, by Nan Hawthorne, Elisabeth is a young noblewoman who has chosen to live as a man and come to Constantinople as part of the Crusade of 1101. While staying in a highborn official’s villa, she has fallen in love with the servant assigned to her (though the woman does not realize Elisabeth’s sex). She learns that her nervousness around the young woman has gotten her dismissed and has gone looking for her in the Turkish sector outside the walls of the Sublime Port.

Beloved Pilgrim
Publisher: Shieldwall Books (February 27, 2011)
ISBN-10: 098339850X
ISBN-13: 978-0983398509

Excerpt:

"Where can I find Maliha?" Elisabeth shouted.

The women stood clumped together staring, some weeping.

Elisabeth frantically surveyed them. "Maliha? Where can I find Maliha?"

"I am here," came a familiar voice from the door to a slanting shack. "What the hell do you think coming here?"

Elisabeth shot her eyes toward the sound. "Maliha! There you are! I came to find you!"

"Why? What would you want with me?"

The honey-colored eyes glared at her, full of affronted pride. If Elisabeth had despised the meekness and subservience, her heart pounded at the defiance and fire in those eyes. Her jaw dropped, she felt heat rise in her body, starting in her belly and creeping up. She strode to the woman. "Where can we be alone?" she spat through her teeth.

The honey eyes burned into her dark angry ones. They darted to the other women who were now chattering among themselves. "Come in here, away from those hens." Maliha led her through the flap over the entry and into darkness.

As she turned to face Elisabeth, she found herself clasped hard, strong hands biting into her upper arms. Her cry of protest was cut off as the knight's lips found hers in the darkness and pressed hard. Elisabeth's tongue forced its way into her mouth. She bit it.

Elisabeth jumped back, putting her hand to her mouth and tasting blood. "Why did you do that?"

"Why do you think? Do you think I should want you to force your way into my home and rape me?" Maliha punched her square in the chest. "You wanted me to stop being meek. Well, doesn't this please you, Excellency," she shot, with a sneer in her voice. She hauled off and slugged Elisabeth in the chest with both fists.

"Ow, that hurt!" Elisabeth exclaimed. Then she felt silly. Why should a knight cry out that a mere woman punched him in his chest. But the woman had connected with her nipples, which were already tender with her monthly flux.

She stood a moment, perplexed. Maliha had gone still. Elisabeth's eyes were adjusting and she could see the woman's head-covering had slipped askew, letting the long black hair loose on the right side of her head. Her impulse was to reach toward Maliha and take her into her arms. But instead the dark beauty came forward and placed herself there. The chin tipped up, the lips parted. Her own eyes wide, Elisabeth lowered her head and sank into a kiss of such poignant sweetness she thought she would swoon.

Maliha had had a sudden revelation. There was something about this knight, something that did not fit what she knew of men. The bearing was right but the look in the man's eyes was wrong. Men did not look with such intensity into a woman's eyes, she thought. The kiss had been hard but something was different there too. A man would force the kiss, devouring her. And then there was an odd sense of lumps on the knight's breast, even through the chain mail. Her mind raced back over their encounters in the past few days and certain things presented themselves in a new light. Could it be?

She decided to collect more information, and thus leaned into the man to invite him to kiss her. This time the kiss was softer, more sensual, and Maliha started to explore with her tongue. The feel was much like a ripe peach, soft, yielding, but ardent. It reminded Maliha of an exquisite night she had spent with a female cousin when they were still girls.

Maliha raised her arms and put them around the knight's neck. Elisabeth's own mailed arms slowly snaked around the soft yielding body in her arms. She felt Maliha press her body along her own. She could not think to wonder what had changed. Their tongues met in each other's mouths and sweetly slid across and under each other. She felt Maliha's tongue slide along inside her teeth. She felt as if the juices in her most private place were flowing out of her and down her britches.

www.nanhawthorne.com
(currently writing a M/M romance set in about 1860 America)
To purchase, click here

The Russian Boy excerpt by Neil Plakcy

2011-10-10T07:00:00.003-04:00

There are three Russian boys at the center of this sexy new novel, The Russian Boy by Neil Plakcy. Alexei Dubernin, the teenaged son of a Russian count longs to paint like his Impressionist idols. This desire brings him in contact with the Russian maestro Fyodor Luschenko in Nice, France, in 1912, as the Russian aristocracy celebrates its last few years of prosperity on the Riviera.

Luschenko paints an erotic portrait of Alexei, called Le Jeune Homme Russe, or The Russian Boy, which is received with scandal, then acclaim. Then, in the present day, the painting is stolen while being restored-- by another Russian boy, an art student in Paris named Dmitri Baranov.

Dmitri’s desperation to remain in Paris after his fellowship ends leads him into unsavory company, bringing him, and the painting, back to the Cote d’Azur, where someone is willing to stop at nothing-- including murder-- to possess this magnificent work of art.

Hard on Dmitri’s trail, and that of the painting, is his boyfriend, American art student Taylor Griffin, and Rowan McNair, a disgraced former professor of art history turned art detective. Partners change, affairs are begun and ended, and dead bodies appear with a disturbing regularity.

In alternating narrations, Alexei, Dmitri, Taylor and Rowan tell the story of the painting, its theft, and a series of love affairs between older men and their younger protégés. By turns sexy, dangerous and romantic, The Russian Boy is a story of love and art that spans the ages.

The Russian Boy
Amazon Kindle

Excerpt:

The Restorer’s Studio
Paris, Friday night

By ten o’clock at night, as Dmitri Baranov was cleaning the floor of the painting studio at the Institute des Artistes in Paris, the building was deserted, the classrooms and studios dark. The cold winter air snuck in through the centuries-old walls, making Dmitri shiver as he scrubbed a stubborn spot of dried paint on the ancient marble floor.

Or perhaps he shivered because he realized this was the last studio he had to clean before … well, better not to think about it. Just do it.

The institute was housed in a rambling four-story building with mansard roofs and tall windows, located just off the Place Pigalle in Paris, a few blocks from Sacré Coeur. Through one tall window he could see the glowing spire of the Eiffel Tower. The Institute was halfway up the hill of Montmartre and during the day offered commanding views of the grimy streets and leafless plane trees that surrounded it. He loved Paris with all his heart, and he felt at home there in a way he had never felt back in Odessa.

When the marble shone in the sharp overhead light, he stood up and stretched his back. He was only twenty-two, but hours hunched over an easel during the day, then the effort to clean studios used by dozens of messy art students, wore him down.

It did not help that he was short and slim, either. At barely five feet six, he had to work twice as hard as a taller man might to reach paint splattered on the walls, use twice as many strokes to mop the floor. But he was strong and determined.

He carried his bucket down to the second floor, careful not to slosh any dirty water on the grand staircase. He emptied the bucket in a bathroom sink, then carried it, his mops and brushes, to the janitorial cabinet on the first floor. On an ordinary night, he left the building as soon as he had everything put away.

But that night, instead of turning and walking out the tall front door with the glass fanlight, he removed a long cardboard tube from the closet, carried it back to the grand staircase and climbed back up to the third floor. The central atrium was gloomy in the darkness, the only light coming from the skylight above. It didn’t matter; Dmitri had walked these stairs and corridors so often he didn’t need light.

He had been a student at the Institute des Artistes for nearly two years, studying under a fellowship from the Russian government that barely covered his tuition. But his fellowship would run out in May, and when it did he would lose this job. Without it, he couldn’t afford to stay in Paris. And he needed to. He had entered one of his paintings, a nude study of his boyfriend Taylor, in the Grand Concours, a highly prestigious citywide art show. His painting professor was one of the judges, and he had assured Dmitri that his painting was one of the most assured debuts he had ever seen. He was confident that when judging was complete in a month, Dmitri would win one of the top prizes, which came with a gallery show.

That would shoot him from impoverished student to recognized painter. But once the show’s results were announced, in about a month, it would still take perhaps until the end of the summer to sign with a gallery that would advance him money against the future sale of his paintings. He had to find enough money to stay in Paris through the summer, and the fat Russian, Yegor, had given him the chance to earn what he needed.

At the third floor, Dmitri veered off to the right, traveling down a long corridor without bothering to turn on any lights. At the end of the hall, he turned right, then made a quick left to a stairway door that led to the annex building where the private studios were.

He did not know this area as well; he only cleaned there once a month, while he mopped and swept the classroom studios daily. He climbed the stairs, then hesitated in front of the fire door to the fourth floor.

This was it, he thought. His last chance to back out. Crossing this threshold was making a choice, a deliberate one, to do whatever he had to do to stay in Paris and keep painting.

He pushed the door open into a small foyer, with four doors that led to small rooftop studios. The locks were old and simple; he didn’t evenuse his keys when he cleaned up there. All it took was a jiggle of the handle, a little pressure against the door, a slight lift, and the lock slipped.

He thought it was foolish that there were so often fabulous works of art up here, being restored, with so little security. But the Institute had focused on protecting only the exterior of the building with an alarm and a wrought-iron fence. He had overheard the director of the institute speak disparagingly about insurance companies, and how money should be spent in support of artists rather than in protecting them.

As the door swung open, he saw floor to ceiling windows that faced the back courtyard and washed the room in moonlight. Along the left wall, he saw the painting he had come for, an oil called The Russian Boy. His heart jumped at the sight of this painting, one he had studied in class. He was moved by the boy’s beauty, but more by the subtle emotion the painter had expressed through his technique.

He smiled at the irony—a Russian boy himself, he was liberating one of his countrymen from a sort of imprisonment, allowing the handsome, naked boy in the painting to live freely in France, just as he wanted to do himself.

At least he assumed that the painting would stay in France. He had no idea where it would end up after he handed it off to the fat, sweaty Russian who had hired him to take it. He just knew that it wouldn’t be going back to New York, where it had been hung on a museum wall.

He slipped on a pair of the rubber gloves he used for cleaning, pulled his Swiss Army knife from his pocket, and walked up to the painting. His fingers trembling, he lifted it from its easel and placed it faced down on a work table. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and began to take the frame apart.

It was as if time stopped for him as he worked. He worshipped art, and it would devastate him if he did anything to damage such a beautiful piece. When he had removed everything holding the frame together, he lifted the pieces away, leaving the canvas flat, resting against the tabletop.

He rolled the canvas carefully and slid it into the tube, turning the plastic cap to seal it. He slipped his arm through the shoulder strap, slung the tube over his arm, and left the restorer’s studio.

On his way out, he used the knife to gouge out the inside of the ancient lock. He hoped that might deflect suspicion from him.

The theft wouldn’t be noticed until Monday, at the earliest, if the elderly restorer even came in to work that morning. By then, Dmitri would have handed the painting over to Yegor, and received his payment. He would protest his innocence to anyone who asked, and there would be no evidence to connect him to the theft.

He went back down to the first floor, punched the alarm code in by the front door, and then stepped out the door, closing it gently behind him. He tightened his scarf around his neck and hurried around the corner of the building before the exterior light winked off.

He stayed inside the tall wrought-iron fence and circled to the rear of the building. A year before, he had accidentally discovered that a window in an unused storage closet was not connected to the alarm system. He leaned the cardboard tube against the stone wall and wrapped his hand in his scarf. Then he used the butt of the folding knife to smash the window.

He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until the window shattered without triggering the alarm. He took a couple of deep breaths and then slung the tube over his shoulder. He went back to the front of the building and let himself out the iron gate, locking it behind him with a heavy skeleton key.

The streets were narrow and dark. He started when a pigeon fluttered past him, almost in his face, and looked around nervously when he heard the pulse of a police siren blocks away. He was relieved when he reached the door to the dank, winding staircase up to the tiny, fifth-floor studio he shared with Taylor, an American student a year behind him at the Institute.

Taylor was already in bed, reading a textbook on Impressionism. He was six feet tall, blond and broad-shouldered, with a long, slim dick that was easily aroused.

They had met a year before, when Taylor began his fellowship at the Institute as Dmitri was entering the second year of his. There was an immediate attraction between them, and they’d gone to bed together the night of their first date, screwing each other behind a curtain in the living room of a rundown flat where Taylor was staying.

Within a month they had found the studio and moved in together. It was tiny as a closet, barely large enough for their double bed and a rickety wardrobe they shared. Taylor thought it was romantic, living like that, but Dmitri had seen the way the wealthy lived and he longed for space and luxury.

“You’re late,” Taylor said in French, closing the book and setting it on the floor next to the bed. “Lot of mess to clean up?” Dmitri’s English was limited, and Taylor’s Russian non-existent, so they spoke to each other in the language they had in common.

“Yes, much work.” He considered himself lucky to have the job. Other students at the Institute waited tables, moved furniture, or worked outdoors in the cold Parisian winter, freezing their fingers sometimes so that they had trouble holding brushes in painting class.

His job was indoors, and there was no commuting time between class and work, no need to pay a Metro fare or waste time on buses or trains. He often rescued nearly-new brushes with a few bristles missing, and not-quite-empty tubes of paint, from the trash. On a good day, he found a discarded energy bar that had slipped under a table, or a half-empty bottle of Evian water, to supplement his meager food budget.

He placed the cardboard tube against the wall, and then began peeling his clothes off.The room was cold, and he wanted to huddle under the covers and warm up next to his boyfriend.

“What’s in the tube?” Taylor asked.

“Just canvas.” Taylor had been in the Café SiSi when Yegor approached Dmitri, and he’d been vehemently opposed to any contact with the fat Russian. But Taylor had the luxury of morality. If he needed money, he could call his mother in the US, while Dmitri wouldn’t waste the cost of a call on his alcoholic mother—if she was even still alive. He hadn’t spoken to her since he left Odessa two years before.

“What kind of canvas?” Taylor asked.

Dmitri could tell his boyfriend was suspicious. There was one way to short-circuit this conversation. He kicked off his shoes, then dropped his jeans and peeled off his briefs. “Forget about canvas. Let’s fuck.”

He pulled the covers back; Taylor was naked beneath them, and Dmitri hopped into the bed next to him, pressing his mouth to Taylor’s. With his lips open, he snaked his tongue into Taylor’s mouth, rubbing his nose against Taylor’s.

Beneath him, he felt Taylor’s body reacting to his own. Taylor kissed back, his own tongue dueling with Dmitri’s. His cock rose and pressed against Dmitri’s abdomen.

Taylor reached down and grabbed Dmitri’s erect cock, stroking it roughly up and down as they kissed. Because Dmitri was so much smaller, he was almost always on top, Taylor below him like a pile of Christmas presents just waiting to be enjoyed.

Dmitri grabbed Taylor’s cock just as roughly, squeezing it until Taylor shuddered and winced under him. They both enjoyed this kind of rough and tumble love, though sometimes Taylor complained that he wanted to take things slower. Dmitri didn’t care; to him, sex was a power struggle, the chance to vanquish a stronger man by appealing to his deepest needs.

He gnawed on Taylor’s lower lip, inhaling his lover’s breath, which tasted like stale wine. Taylor reached up and pinched Dmitri’s left nipple, and Dmitri squirmed at the roughness, but loved it. It made his dick even harder.

Each of them jerked the other as they kissed. It was a fast and furious kind of lovemaking, a way to release the sexual energy that accumulated in them both. Taylor began to whimper and squirm as his body tensed, then he ejaculated into Dmitri’s hand.

That was enough to send Dmitri over the top, too, and he came on Taylor’s hand and his belly. He wiped his hand on Taylor’s chest, then sunk down on top of him, their sweat and cum mingling together. “Clean up on aisle seven,” Taylor mumbled in English, one of those strange expressions Dmitri, with his limited command of the language, could never figure out.

Though he enjoyed sex with Taylor, Dmitri did not respect him. His American boyfriend was too commercial in his art—and Dmitri didn’t just think that because Taylor always sold more paintings, for more money, to the tourists. He, Dmitri, had the greater artistic soul. Taylor was a cute boy with a dick and an ass, and it worked out that they shared expenses and got along so well sexually. But it wasn’t love.

Both of them supplemented their income by drawing and painting outside SacréCoeur, just a few blocks away through the steep, narrow streets of Montmartre, and selling their work to tourists.

People thought Dmitri cute and charming, and they liked the way his heavy Russian accent colored his French. He flirted with young women—and a few men, too, usually older ones. He made the middle-aged parents think of him as a son. With his mop of dark curls and cherubic face, he was a great contrast to Taylor, who worked next to him.

Taylor had an innocent American quality, and handled all transactions that needed English language skills. Dmitri could speak a little English—enough to negotiate a price, for example—but he preferred to leave the business to Taylor.

Next to him in bed, he heard Taylor drift into sleep, his slow, rhythmic breathing mixing with the creaks and groans as the old building settled around them. Dmitri himself was just dozing as the ring of the disposable cell phone that Yegor had given him startled both of them with its shrill tone.

“What the fuck?” Taylor groaned in English, as Dmitri scrambled out of bed and searched for the phone in his discarded pants.

“Allo?” Dmitri said, finding the phone.

“There has been a change of plan,” Yegor said in Russian. “I must leave Paris immediately. You will have to bring the painting to me in Nice.”

“Nice?”

“Yes. Write this down. The Bar Les Sables, 18 Rue du Vieux Fort. It’s in the old part of the city. Be there Sunday afternoon.”

Dmitri tried to argue, but the phone went dead in his hand.

“Who was that?” Taylor asked in French, sitting up in the bed, his blond hair and pale skin shimmering in the light from the dormer window.

“Nothing. Wrong number.”

“Don’t lie to me, Dmitri. You don’t even have a phone. Where did you get that one?”

“Don’t bother yourself.” Dmitri felt dirty and sticky, from the sex and his work and the theft. There wouldn’t be any hot water until morning, but maybe he could take a cold shower in the stall one floor down.

“It was that Russian guy, wasn’t it?” Taylor asked. “Yegor. The one who came up to you in Bar SiSi.The one who wanted you to steal the painting. The Russian Boy.”

“You don’t know my life,” Dmitri snapped. “I can’t go back to Odessa when fellowship runs out. I won’t.”

“I told you, we’ll find a way to work it out,” Taylor said. “All it takes is for one gallery to accept some paintings from either of us, and we’ll have our start.”

Taylor was a skilled mimic—he could paint in the Parisian streetscape style of Maurice Utrillo, or with the Impressionist flair of Claude Monet. He painted the church in the watery light of Frederick Constable and the dark shadows of Edward Hopper. The tourists ate it up, often buying several canvases in different styles.

Dmitri could only paint in his own manner, heavily influenced by the German expressionists like Edvard Munch and Kathe Kollwitz. His pictures were not as much in demand as Taylor’s, but both of them knew that Dmitri was the more talented. Not that Taylor was a hack; he had a perceptive eye and excellent technique. But he had yet to find his true artistic voice, which was why he painted in imitation of the masters.

“You go back to America when your fellowship finishes. You paint your boring commercial paintings and make pots of money. And I am in Odessa struggling to paint from my heart and shivering in lousy shithole like this one.”

“You did it, didn’t you?” Taylor nodded toward the cardboard tube. “You stole the painting for Yegor. And that was him on the phone.”

“Like I say, do not bother yourself.” It was as if the future had opened up for him in a flash of lightning, and he knew that his relationship with Taylor was over. He got down on his hands and knees and pulled his cheap suitcase out from under the bed. Then he began throwing clothes and art supplies into it.

“Where are you going in the middle of the night?” Taylor asked. “Nice? Is that what you were talking about on the phone?”

“I leave. That’s all.” As Taylor sat on the bed, Dmitri finished packing, threw his clothes back on, and stalked out the door.

Character-driven mystery, romance and mainstream novels
www.mahubooks.com
http://www.facebook.com/neil.plakcy

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The Thought Collector excerpt by Anel Viz

2011-10-03T07:00:00.001-04:00

In the short story "The Thought Collector" by Anel Viz, a man's mind goes blank, because the person sitting next to him on the park bench has "collected his thoughts". That night an odd, mousy-looking fellow tells him they have met before and are both mole men ... "Don't you remember?" He can't; his memories belong to the thought collector.

The Thought Collector
Silver Publishing 2011
ISBN: 9781920484620

Excerpt:

We'd been talking for barely ten minutes when he said it. For reasons which will soon become abundantly clear, I cannot remember what we were talking about. I suppose, when you get right down to it, we had been talking about nothing, one of those idle conversations that pop up between two people who happen to be sharing a park bench. The topic doesn't matter; what matters is that as far as I remember, what he said did not in any way follow from what we were talking about. Out of the blue he up and says in the most matter-of-fact tone imaginable, "You know, I'd really like to have sex with you."

He caught me totally unprepared. It had never occurred to me to chat him up, nor had I thought he was hitting on me. I didn't know how to respond. Sex with a stranger—what gay man hasn't done it one time or another in his life? But you always have some clue. I didn't exactly hesitate; rather, I discovered that my mind had simply gone blank.

"So? How about it?"

"Just give me a moment to collect my thoughts."

"Take your time."

This was not a cruisy park. I'd come to read my newspaper, not to look for sex, and I had no clue what could have prompted his remark. Sex with him was about the last thing I had on my mind, so he couldn't have been reading it, could he? He put it so bluntly, too. It sounded more like an observation than a proposition, not at all your typical pick-up line, and he delivered his follow-up question just as noncommittally, as if it were all the same to him. What do you make of a person like that? I could detect nothing sinister in his manner, but one does have to be careful.

He was pleasant enough and not bad looking, a few years older than myself. Not what I'd call my type, but what the hell? As they say, if he had the place, I had the time. Under different circumstances I might have gone to bed with him. (I'm only speculating on how I would have assessed the situation. As I said, my mind went blank, and I just sat there.)

"So what do you think?"

"I don't think. I'm trying to collect my thoughts, but it's as if I didn't have a thought in my head."

"That's because I collected them for you."

"You what?"

"Collected your thoughts. It's sort of a hobby. I collect thoughts."

"You collected my thoughts? You collected MY thoughts?"

"Yes."

"I want them back!"

"Sorry, finders keeps. Besides, I can't give them back. I threw them out, all except that bit about the moles. I may hang on to that. The rest was all rubbish, a bunch of pseudo-intellectual gibberish that had nothing to do with me."

Moles? What kind of moles? — spies? skin blemishes? little burrowing animals? And weren't they also something from high school chemistry that had to do with weight or mass or some other measurement? Whatever I might have been thinking, it sounded too trivial to bother insisting he return it, even on principle. He'd probably made it all up, anyway.

"It was very rude of you," he went on, "letting your mind wander like that."

"You go picking my brain — no, pickpocketing my brain—and you accuse me of rudeness?"

"Oh come now! Lots of people are willing to share their thoughts."

"This isn't sharing. This is theft!"

"Well, if that's how you're going to be about it. Here." He reached into his pocket and handed me a coin.

"What's that?"

"A penny. For your thoughts."

"This is outrageous!"

"You're not going to ask for more, are you? I already told you what I think they're worth."

"Who are you, anyway? I demand you show me some identification! I've half a mind to sue you for theft of intellectual property, and I will, too!"

"Intellectual? Really now, isn't that an exaggeration? Besides, I've paid you. Just for your thoughts, mind you. I don't pay for sex. Nor do I ask to be paid."

"You take away my thoughts, rob me of the very essence of my personality, and you expect me to go to bed with you?"

"Why not? You're in the perfect frame of mind for it. Not calm perhaps, but collected. And without a lot of trivial, self-indulgent thoughts to get in the way,
you can become one with your body. It will be a tantric experience."

"For me maybe, not for you."

"For me too. I haven't a thought in my head. That's why I have to collect them."

"You mean you throw everybody's thoughts away?"

"Yes. I hardly ever come across a thought worth keeping. Unlike most collectors, I hate clutter. It's amazing, the nonsense that goes through most people's heads."

"You… you're nothing but a psychic voyeur!"

"Admit it. You're intrigued."

"I admit nothing of the sort!"

"There you go letting your intellect take over. You're resisting me."

"You're damn straight I'm resisting you!"

"You shouldn't, you know. Not if you want the sex to be good."

"What sex?"

"The sex we're going to have together."

I stared at him, but couldn't stare him down. He just returned my gaze, not even blinking. I got up and walked away.

http://anelviz.blogspot.com

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I Will Always Love You excerpt by Victor J Banis

2011-09-26T07:00:00.001-04:00

In Victor J Banis' I Will Always love You, sometimes the path of true love takes you straight to where you want to go. And sometimes it doesn't. Then it rambles and twists until you're hopelessly lost, and you just know you're never going to get there...and, one day, you look into a pair of eyes, you hear a voice, and you know you've come home.

I Will Always Love You
MLR Press (August, 2011)
ISBN# 978-1-60820-430-4

Excerpt:

I have always felt like I was married to Bill. Which, really, is a nutty thing to say, considering that, when I ran into him at the class reunion, I hadn’t seen him for almost twenty years. And, even back then, even when we saw each other every day, we never talked. Not about us, about our relationship, whatever exactly it was. Love was never mentioned. For sure we never talked about marriage, not ours, anyway, him and me together. In those days, that idea wasn’t in currency. Even in my own mind, I wouldn’t have put it in quite those words. I sure wouldn’t have said them aloud.

We didn’t even ever talk about the sex, for Pete’s sake, and there was a lot of that. A serious lot of it. Blowing one another in sleeping bags in the noisy privacy of tents, or in the bedroom he shared with his brother, taking great care with the creaky springs. Or, depending upon who slept over, in the greater freedom of my quieter bed. My fucking him in the damp summer grass in the back yard with the crickets cheering us on and the old barn owl shocked into exclamation. Best of all, at night on the gritty shore by the brown-green creek where we’d go skinny dipping, his dick tasting of muddy water. He’d lie with his legs wide, staring up at the sky. Sometimes, especially when he was close to coming, he’d clench my head in his thighs while I nursed in Edenic bliss, my tongue lapping in synch with the gentle murmur of the nearby water.

We did it all lustily and, at least on my part, happily. And often enough, surely, which is to say every chance we got. But never a word was spoken. Not before. No, “Would you like to…?” And not during, and not after either.

Which at the time did not seem peculiar to me, but later, as I got older and had other experiences, I thought of it not so much as odd, but as wasted opportunities. Because I would like to have told him how I felt about him. I’d like to have heard how he felt about me. What a difference if might have made.

But, no, nothing. The sounds of love, but never the words. When you’re young and a guy, words are the least of it. Dicks are important, maybe the most important of all. Nuts count too. Jism counts. Words…words come later, and they’re not always the right words. Whoever says what they really meant to say? It’s a twisted road from brain to tongue, isn’t it? We got lost on the way.

Bill was my high school friend. The first real one I’d ever had, and from the first time he smiled at me and fell in step with me in the school hallway, I was in love. I was the school nerd, the sissy who was always last to be picked for the softball games at gym time. Bill was no star athlete, but he could hit the damned ball, at least, which was more than I ever managed. Swinging mightily, while the ball sailed somewhere else, and the guys smirked or outright guffawed.

Everyone except Bill, who just gave me a commiserating smile and, later, the two of us alone, pushed me back on the sandy shore and took his turn sucking me off, sucked the softball poison right out of me, like draining a wound. He must have taken flak for hanging around with me. On his own, he could have passed as just another one of the guys. Strolling around school with me had to mark him too, but he never said anything about it, and I never asked. Another non-subject.

And, here is a funny thing about all this. No matter how often the sex, no matter how hot, it somehow still remained innocent. Maybe that was why we never talked about it. Maybe the only words we could have come up with were dirty ones that would have spoiled everything forever. It was like, it wasn’t so much sex as it was that we were expressing our affinity for one another, our essential oneness.

Talking about it would have made it into sex. I think I knew instinctively when Bill sucked me off, did it without any hesitation or clumsiness, like he’d been doing it since the cradle, although I was his first, his only, I think I knew from the start that Bill could handle all the rest of it, just not that. Just not turning it into sex. Maybe he was more Greek than I had imagined, thinking of it as friendship and not love. Platonic.

I asked him one time, “Do you read Plato?” Thinking that was the explanation, that somehow he’d stumbled upon the Symposium, but he only blinked at me and said, “That dog in the cartoons?”

Bill wasn’t dumb, but he wasn’t a brain, either. Smart enough, but not much of a reader. I was the brain. He was the good looking one, not cigarette ad or movie poster handsome, just as in he looked good. His eyes were beautiful, with lashes so long he could have swept sidewalks with them. For sure, they swept me off my feet, all it took was one glance from him, and I melted, total ice cube in August sindrome. His mouth was too full to be classically handsome, but it was soft and sweet on my cock.

I wondered many times what it would be like to kiss his mouth, dreamed of it in glorious Technicolor and stereophonic sound, but I never quite got up the courage to try it. I settled for his cock. That was soft and sweet too, and always, always ready to go. Kissing was like talking, it would almost certainly bring another dimension into it. I waited for him to bring that up. He never did. That was okay. I had that beautiful cock for compensation. I kissed it with my lips, and sometimes it seemed to kiss me back. Long after I’d lost the use of it, I dreamed of it nightly. Cinerama. Three D. Smell-O-Vision. They knew how to make movies in those days, but the films that showed on their screens were nothing compared to the ones that ran nightly in the theater of my imagination.

§ § §

But, then, I’d never considered the possibility of losing the use of it, not when it was so readily there for me. It went on like that through high school, and for a while after we had graduated,going to the prom in one another’s company, but without dates. During all those years, neither of us had ever really dated, at least not anyone but one another. To be sure, sometimes we shared the company of girls, made up foursomes even, but there were no illusion on anyone’s part. Bill sat in the front with one girl, and I in the back with another, but the girls seemed to know that they were there as friends, and maybe window dressing. They expected nothing more from either of us but a free night out—a movie, greasy burgers and creamy malts at the Reddi-Go, and a goodnight peck at the end of the evening. And Bill and I were off to bigger and better things. Meatier than the burgers. Creamier than the malts, too.

In school, though, we saw one another every day. After graduation, less often. I could list plenty of reasons why that should be so. I had taken a job a few miles away. We still got together, but not as often, and not always for doing the deed. I lived for a while in a rooming house, no guests permitted. He shared a place with roommates. Sex wasn’t always so easy to arrange. Lots of times, we ate together, or had coffee and people watched or went to a movie. That was okay. I was happy just to be with him.

Once, at the movies, I slipped my hand across and he took it in his and held it for a long time before relinquishing it. I didn’t want it back. He could have severed the fingers from the hand and tucked them into his pocket if he’d liked, but that seemed not to occur to him. Who’d ever have imagined that holding hands in a darkened movie theater could be so intensely erotic? My hand felt useless for the rest of the night, like a wasted appendage. What good was it, if he didn’t want it? It was my left hand. I didn’t use it for days, and when I saw it, I looked at it as if it had been guilty of some criminal neglect. Oh, traitorous fingers, that couldn’t seduce the man into holding on to you.

(fast forward. Bill marries. The lovers drift apart)

They had me to dinner one night, Bill and Terrie. He was right, she was shy. Plus, she had a way of looking at me. I’d be talking with Bill—she had little to say, at least when I was around—and I’d turn my head to find her staring at me in…not exactly a hostile way, more the way you’d look at some strange flying creature: What a beautiful moth. Will it eat holes in my things, do I suppose, if I let it stay, or should I stamp it out now?

I wondered if he had told her about us. But no, surely not. He’d never told us about us, I couldn’t imagine his telling a stranger, just because he’d married her. Still, I had a notion she’d guessed. Maybe I was obvious. I looked at him the way I’d always looked at him. The only way I knew to look at him. How hard could that have been for anyone to read? Anyone short of a lobotomy, I mean.

Maddeningly, I thought he looked at me the same way too. So why were we sitting at this table with this strange young woman looking sideways at both of us, surely knowing exactly what our looks meant, and that they weren’t for her. Because she couldn’t have been that innocent. No one this side of Bo Peep could have been. She must have known she’d lost more than her sheep. But I wasn’t the one who found them. I wasn’t getting the wool either. Someone else must have been to blame. I never did trust Mother Goose. Living in a shoe—it was bound to warp your thinking,
wasn’t it?

It wasn’t a successful night. Despite the light in our eyes, he and I were awkward with one another. She might almost not have been there. Except that she was, a presence not to be ignored. The more she tried to fade into the background, and I could see that she did try, the more prominent she became.

I didn’t go again. They didn’t ask me, either. Well, she wouldn’t have been that foolish, and he was married to her. You did owe something to the one you married. Although he’d cancelled our debt easily enough, it seemed to me.

I thought that he and I were done. I still loved him, of course. How can you turn something like that off? It was simply time I got on with my life, and I tried. But even when I began to experience other guys, in some part of my mind, I still thought of myself as Bill’s.

I never reasoned any of this out, mind you. It was just how I saw things. I hadn’t realized then that I’d never really love anybody else. When we’re young, we give our love so recklessly, mistakenly thinking that we’ll always have more of it to give, never imagining that the supply is limited.

I “experienced” a great many guys as the years passed. Lots of one night stands, anonymous link-ups. Sometimes I’d repeat, date someone a time or two or three. Nothing more than that. Once somebody, I don’t even remember his name now, told me he was in love with me. The point of the conversation, though I was slow to get it, was that he wanted to settle in together.

“I’m married,” I told him, blurting it out without thinking. How could I settle in with someone else when Bill was still there? Maybe not in the room with me, by this time he hadn’t been for a number of years, but he was still there where it mattered, where I’d never be able to make room for anybody else. I knew that by now. “I guess I should have told you upfront.”

“Yes, you should have,” he said, annoyed. That was the last I saw of him. It didn’t matter. There were plenty of others, and he signified no more than any of them. Which is to say, not at all. I gave them all generously of what I had to give, but of heart I had none to share. I’d given that away long before. By a muddy creek.

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Finger's Breath excerpt by M. Christian

2011-09-19T07:00:00.000-04:00

Finger’s Breath by M. Christian: Look at your hand - four fingers and a thumb, right? But what if you woke one morning and rather than four fingers and a thumb you are ... short? How would you feel? What would you do? What would you become?

The city is terrified: a mysterious figure is haunting the streets of near-future San Francisco, drugging and amputating the fingertips of queer men. But what's worse … this terror or that it can, so easily, turn any of us into something even more horrific?

Erotic. Nightmarish. Fascinating. Disturbing. Intriguing. Haunting. You have never read a book like Finger's Breadth.

You will never look your fingers - or the people all around you - the same way again.

Finger’s Breath
Zumaya Boundless (May 17, 2011)
ISBN-10: 1934841463
ISBN-13: 978-1934841464

Excerpt:

Looking from the window of the coffee shop. Watching from the windshield of a parked car. Staring from the glass of a very rare unbroken bus kiosk. Glaring from the side of a passing bus.

A brief summer rain had painted the city that night in reflections. Fanning saw himself everywhere, and everywhere he saw himself his expression said the same thing—Why haven’t you caught him yet?

In his ear, a Bluetooth bud whispered the Officer Wertz inquiry’s soundtrack; in his pocket, the video was playing on his phone. He didn’t need to hear or see it. No one would, but if asked he could probably rattle off every verb, every noun, every linguistic bit from when Knorr started it to when he stopped it. Knorr was good at what he did, just like the lab mice who studied crime scenes and picked up tiny bits of DNA with their finely honed tweezers.

Welcome to the decentralized world of the new San Francisco Police Department, where your specialty was all you did and generality was extinct.

Fanning was a freelancer but was supposed to be good at what he did, too. Sneering at himself reflected in the coffee shop window, he gripped the phone in his pocket. If he’d been stronger, or the plastic less durable, it would have cracked.

Glowering for an instant at his reflection in the windshield of the parked car, he pulled the phone out and flipped through a few key digital pages. As with the inquiry, he didn’t need to look at it again, but he did anyway. Better than sharing the street with his scowling mirror images.

It hadn’t changed—Wertz’s home address and where he worked were still the same. The first was across town, in the Mission. The second was just down the street, at a Gap Store.

Ten a.m. to six p.m. His shift hadn’t changed, either. But it was 6:17, and there was no sign of Wertz.

Fanning paced the wet sidewalk, searching up and down the street but mostly the blue-and-white bright- ness of the Gap store. In his ears, Wertz’s voice clicked into silence; then, as it was set on “loop,” it began again.

Just like the others. Same MO, same kind of pick-up place, same amount of Eurodin in Wertz’s system, the lab mice doing their usual fine and precise work, and the same mutilation—right hand little finger amputated at the first joint.

Again, his phone threatened to break in his hand, but again, he wasn’t strong or determined enough to do it. The beat cops who’d found Wertz sound asleep on the J Church train; the lab mice who’d analyzed the drug in his system; Knorr, who’d asked his carefully prepared and expert questions...

But then there was Fanning, who was supposed to assemble piece after piece after piece after piece until they made a picture of someone’s face.

Cutter’s face.

Looking up from where he’d been looking down, he saw a silhouette come between the blue-and-white of the Gap store. A dark shape that was about the right height, about the right build, about the right age, to be whom he was looking for. Fanning carefully released his tight grip on his phone and stepped back into a nearby alley, one carefully chosen for its heavy solitude.

Heavy solitude was just what Fanning wanted.

#

His age had ticked over to forty half a decade ago, bringing with it eye surgery, regular arthritis treatments and a pre-diabetic monitoring pump sewn into his belly. He didn’t run as fast as he used to, didn’t snap back like he used to, didn’t hit as hard as he used to, but he still could get the job done. The shape that had been about the right height, about the right build, about the right age, became less about and more exact as Wertz passed. The night was cold as well as wet, so Fanning felt more coat than skin when he grabbed Wertz and spun him off his feet into an echoing crash down deep in the inky canyon of the alley.

Wertz, again according to his file, had ticked over to twenty, also half a decade ago, so he had perfect eyes, good joints, and a strong heart. Maybe, if he went to the gym, even some muscles. Fanning got to the back of the alley as fast as he could without running. Wertz was pulling himself out of some deep-blue biodegradable trash bags, the logo of the city Green Commission warped by his body landing hard on them.

Wertz began to say something. When Fanning’s fist landed fast and meaty in the young man’s gut, the air he’d prepared for speaking rushed out in a gagging spasm.

“Talk when you’re fucking talked to,” Fanning said, down-deep, carefully prepared vocal thunder. Knorr was good, but Fanning knew how to talk, too. “You fucking lied, didn’t you?”

Wertz was in darkness, but there was just enough light spilling from the businesses and streetlights to give his young face ghostly definition. The shape of his eyes, nose, lips revealed to Fanning that the guy was twisted up with confusion and, best of all, fear.

“You lied,” Fanning said, even lower, even closer to Wertz, giving him no time to think.

Wertz said something, the exact words lost to sudden traffic sounds leaking from the street. Even though Fanning couldn’t tell what he said, he knew enough—a voice to that confusion and, still best of all, fear.

“Shut the fuck up,” Fanning said, punctuation added with another punch to the man’s gut. Again his breath left in a retching rush of air, now tinged with the sharp reek of pre-vomit.

“I said you were lying.” Now was the time to ask the question, to put that confusion and fear to good use. “Weren’t you, you fucking asshole?”

“W—what?” was all Wertz managed to get out.

“Your finger. Your finger! You know what the fuck I’m talking about.”

The young man who’d crashed in the garbage held his hand up—a reflex, ancient and common. But something about it was new, only in the last week or so—four and three-quarters fingers, not a solid five.

“Tell me the truth, asshole. Tell me the fucking truth.”

“I don’t know what...” Wertz’s eyes glistened in the sparse light. Young. Very young. Young enough so he didn’t need eye surgery, arthritis treatments, or a bit of medical hardware just to the right of his navel. Young enough to recover damned quickly. “I told ... told them everything.”

“You’re. Lying.” Each word a vocal bullet, face-to- face, making youth face the harsh reality of determined age.

“No, no...”

“Don’t give me that shit.” Another punch, another effort to drive the point home. “What the fuck happened?”

“I told them...what happened. I did.”

“You let someone just cut part of your fucking finger off? Don’t give me that shit.”

“Drugged. I said...”

“I know you were fucking drugged. I know all about that shit. Tell me what you didn’t tell the cops.”

“I told them...Fuck you, I told them everything.”

Fanning grabbed Wertz. Forty-five years reminded him they were there with a quake down his spine. Teeth tightly clenched, he tried to keep a hissing gasp from slipping out. It took work, but he got Wertz up and out of the garbage in one movement. The next movement was yet another blow to Wertz’s stomach.

Closer than before. Even more intimate in his threat: “You’re. Fucking. Lying.”

“No,” Wertz said. “I didn’t. I didn’t.” He repeated it, over and over, fast and sharp, like a whisper sped up into a near squeal.

“Yes, you fucking did. You’re fucking hiding some thing.”

Then Fanning realized Wertz really was hiding something.

#

Looking from the mirror behind the bar. Watching from the skyline of antique bottles. Staring from the amber liquid in his glass. Glaring from the deep mahogany brownness of the bar top.

No grass, no acid, no meth, no ecstasy, no fun, no flash, no jump—the place had nothing but what was on tap and in that skyline of gin, tequila, vodka below the mirror. It was an antique, a musty relic for musty old relics that were a lot older than Fanning.

It wasn’t his usual kind of place, but it was close. That made it his kind of place that night.

Tapping the glass. The bartender, who looked as preserved as the contents of his bottles—probably because he consumed as much as his derelict patrons - filled him up again.

Jack Daniel’s wasn’t his drink, but it was all he could think of. That made it his drink for that night.

Fanning sipped, feeling lighter fluid trickle down his throat, threatening to make him cough. Reclaiming his breath, he took a longer, deeper one, then took a longer, deeper drink, bringing the floating ice cubes in contact with the bottom of the glass.

Looking, watching, staring, glaring - his reflections reminded him why the antique bar was his place for the night, the Jack Daniel’s his drink for the moment.

Nothing. Nothing at all. Wertz had been a dead end. Another dead end.

Bad, very bad. But there was something else. Thinking of it, he drank more of the harsh amber, feeling it land in his stomach like a punch. A grin at that thought, but a bitter and sour one. Just like the ones he’d landed on Wertz.

Even more bitter, still more sour - not like the ones he’d landed on Wertz. He’d told himself before hauling the kid into alley it would be worth it if he could get something, anything out of it. Some bit, some piece, some crumb that would fill in the gaps and put Cutter in his hands.

But there’d been nothing.

One more swallow, and the glass was empty. But there was that something else. Something that made him tap the glass for a third time; for a third time, the perfectly preserved bartender poured more Jack. The nothing that swam around in his head was practical and pragmatic; his failure was bubbling nausea, threatening to spill out onto the mahogany bar, onto the museum- quality carpet. It was his mission, and he’d failed - again.

There was still booze in his glass, but Fanning knew he shouldn’t drink any more. Knew, but he still wanted to. Anything to put it all aside, bury it behind a drunken haze.

Wertz had been hard. Very hard—a determined and ferocious erection that had pushed up against Fanning. Needing, wanting, a dark kind of urgency. Hard because of what Fanning had been doing to him.

Bad, but not the worst. It could mean vomit on the museum-quality carpet, vomit on a mahogany bar; but Fanning still reached out, wrapped sloppy fingers around the glass and took another long drink. Anything was better than remembering that last little detail of the night, the real something else that had pulled him off the street into a place that wasn’t his kind of place, to put a drink in his hand that wasn’t his kind of drink.

Wertz had been hard. Very hard. Fanning had been, too.

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More Than A Stud excerpt by Jerry Race

2011-09-12T07:00:00.001-04:00

In the new novella More Than a Stud by Jerry Race, will stakes and fangs keep Shane and Jamie from being a couple before their relationship begins?

Shane Richards, 24, male model, has a few problems. His rival threatens to discredit him if he participates in the upcoming America’s Top Male Model contest. Near his twenty-fifth birthday, the dormant vampire abilities within him begin to surface and he starts having nightmares about meeting his so-called father whom he’s never met. As if that isn’t enough, one of his male friends who has the hots for him, is determined to make him his lover. On his twenty-fifth birthday his nightmares come true and he winds up risking his life in a battle with his father over a pendant with supernatural powers.

More Than A Stud
Muse It Hot Publishing (September 2, 2011)
ISBN: 978-1-927085-56-1

Excerpt:

Steam swirled throughout the bathroom as Jamie Donovan entered and warm vapors caressed his naked body while he shut the door. Anticipation tingled his skin at the thought of getting to see his boyfriend without clothes for the first time.

As badly as Jamie wanted his boyfriend sexually he had to force himself not to rush into things. If he did he’d surely lose him and after everything he’d gone through to be with Shane Richards he didn’t want to be back to square one, alone. For that not to happen he’d need to win his trust and he was determined to follow through no matter what it would take.

During the time they’ve been together he learned a lot about Shane. Too many people, mostly men, used him to get what they wanted. Once they had sex with him they’d forget he existed. Of course, Shane was aware he allowed all that to happen. But how else was he going to have sexual contact with someone. Hand jobs became much too boring.

His persistent waiting was about to pay off. Until meeting Shane he’d doubted love would ever surface.

Pausing near the frosted shower door a light shiver slithered over him. Something is wrong. I’ve never felt weird vibes come from Shane—never.

Without a word from the other side the shower door opened. A long arm shot out. He gasped as long, thick fingers grasped the wrist on his right hand, yanking him inside. Hot water instantly pounded his body as he slammed against the naked, stunning physique before him. His eyes gazed into a smooth brown face then glanced up into mocha color eyes and tiny sparkles of crimson flickered in those eyes. How odd.

Jamie stepped back letting his eyes travel from the soaked ebony hair and down the taut wide chest. His tongue brushed over his lips at the sight of the impressive cock pointing at him. Mmm. It’s much thicker and longer than I ever expected.

Just as he reached for the thick shaft a hand brushed them away and his boyfriend stepped back. A nervous smile formed on his lips as their eyes met. His lids lowered while his boyfriend brought his lips closer to his. Jamie moaned the moment Shane claimed his lips. Oh Shane.

Feeling Shane pulling his mouth away his lids lifted.

“Now, give me that ass,” A deep, male voice softly demanded.

Hands gently grabbed his shoulders. The balls of his feet slid on the wet floor as his body swung around. Facing the blue gray tile he leaned his cheek against it. Needing something to hold on to he rested the palms of his hands on the wall. Sensing the thick cock head sliding between his ass cheeks his body tensed.

“Come on Jamie, relax,” he heard Shane’s seductive voice in his ears.

“Just take it easy, Shane.It’s been too long since I’ve had sex. Besides, I’ve never had a cock as big as yours.”

Tension continued to flow through him. No matter how hard he tried, relaxation wasn’t working.

“Open up, damn it,” Shane ordered. “Sorry about this kiddo, but—”

“Ow!” Jamie cried out as the thick erection plowed in him. Tears swelled in his eyes when he felt the cock shoved deeper.

“Oh yeah. Nice and tight.” Shane pulled his cock back.

Fuck! I doubt I’ll ever get used to that monster.

Again the thick erection moved forward. Without further hesitation Shane picked up the pace plunging his cock up and down making their bodies rock in unison.

Jamie clenched his teeth tighter from the swift movements. I never thought I’d say this, but I wish he’d hurry and get this over with.

As if Shane heard his thoughts he slowed down and made a sudden stopped. “Ahhh.” His scream bounced off the walls. Then all Jamie could hear was the water spewing from the shower head.

Unexpectedly, Shane leaned against his back.

Warm breath blew in his ear and teeth nibbled on his ear lobe. Jamie shuddered when sharp teeth clamped on his neck A few seconds later his boyfriend spoke softly in his ear. “I love you, Jamie.”

Jamie grinned. “And I love you too, Shane.” Feeling the teeth sink through the skin on his neck Jamie screamed. “Ow. Shane, giving me a hickey is one thing, but—”

His body tensed as he heard his blood rushing up his throat. Within seconds his knees wobbled and about to buckle. As his hands slipped on the tiled wall darkness filled his mind.

Ka boom!

His body lurched from the emphatic sound and the rapid pounding of his heart slammed against his chest. Awaking, he heard a gasp escape his throat. A bright light flashed from the other side of the room as he sat up in bed. Glancing at the window thick sheets of rain slapped against the pane. Movement to his right made him look away and his eyes settled on Shane lying on his back, opening his eyes .

“What’s wrong, hon?”

“I just had the wildest dream,” he answered.

Sitting up, Shane asked, “What about?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it, at least not now.”

Shane snuggled beside his boyfriend and brushed his lips over his ear, whispering, “Have I ever said that I love you?”

Jamie cringed. Then he glanced at Shane focusing his attention on his boyfriend’s mouth and nodded. Without another word he threw the bedding off and leaped out of bed.

“Jamie?” Shane asked. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Without bothering to answer he ran out of the bedroom refusing to look at Shane.

http://authorjerryrace.webs.com/

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Simple Treasure excerpt by Alan Chin

2011-09-05T07:00:00.001-04:00

In the novella Simple Treasure by Alan Chin, Simple has been newly released from a mental institution. His first job is caring for Emmett, a crusty drunkard dying of cancer on a ranch in Utah. Simple’s first fragile friendship is with Emmett’s grandson Jude, a gay youth in Gothic drag who gets nothing but grief from his grandfather. In an attempt to help both men, Simple, a Shoshone Indian, decides to perform a ceremony that will save Emmett by transferring his spirit into the body of a falcon.  

Working to capture a falcon will bring Emmett and Jude closer as Jude and Simple’s growing love for each other blossoms, but all is not well. When the ranch, Jude’s future, and Simple’s happiness are threatened, more than Emmett’s spirit faces a bleak future.

Simple Treasure
Dreamspinner Press (August 31, 2011)
ISBN: 978-1-61581-936-2

Excerpt:

In the faint flush of predawn, a Kenworth sixteen-wheeler topped a ridge, forty miles east of Saint George, Utah. With only a half load to hinder it, the rig barreled along the interstate at twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. The driver hoped to make Las Vegas in time for breakfast. The truck rumbled on, unrelenting.

Simple rode shotgun, staring at a dusting of lights that looked like a pocketful of stars cast across a vast and lonely mesa. The iridescent specks reminded him of flickering candles at a funeral, although he had no memory of ever attending one, and he wondered if that metaphor was some ominous sign of what lay waiting for him in Saint George.

He had stayed awake all night, too excited to sleep. His eyes burned, and his mouth felt parched. He wanted a drink, but his water bottle was stashed deep in the backpack that rested on the floorboard, between his feet. Outside, the crowns of cottonwoods, tinged pink with the coming dawn, appeared to be pasted upon a gunmetal-gray landscape. With his peripheral vision, he saw the rearview mirror reflect beams of pale orange light that now chased him across the mesa.

The driver, Dale McNally, a high-school dropout with rough manners and rougher speech, couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. His eyelids drifted toward his cheeks at about the same rate as the Kenworth swerved off the highway. When the right front tire gouged into the skim of gravel on the highway shoulder, Simple grabbed McNally’s thigh and shook it. McNally’s eyes popped open, blinked. He eased the rig back onto the blacktop.

McNally had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing the thick, ropy muscles of his forearms. He wore a cowboy hat with a rattlesnake-skin band. The dashboard's lights cast an eerie glimmer across his face, and a thatch of dark hair spread out below his hat, covering his ears and hanging over his frayed collar.

“Christ sakes,” McNally barked, “I picked you up so’s you could keep me awake. Help me out here, boy.”

That happened often. Simple was twenty-five years old—a stoic ranch-hand life had made him look closer to thirty—but even men his own age, like McNally, called him boy, son, or kid.

“How?” Simple asked, suspiciously.

“I didn’t mean that. You made yourself perfectly clear about that.”

Simple relaxed.

“Talk to me. Do somersaults on the hood if you have to; just keep me awake.”

Simple cracked his passenger window an inch, enough for a frosty breeze to whistle through the cab. He stared out the windshield, silent as a stone, trying to think of something to say.

“Someone should invent an electrical device for drivers to wear under their hats,” Simple said, “to zap their balls whenever they get drowsy. It could trigger from the change in blood pressure at the temples when the eyelids start to fall.”

Dale snarled, “Don’t be talkin’ about my balls if you ain’t goin’ to do anything ’bout ’em.”

Simple changed the subject, babbling on about the city lights mirroring the stars on the horizon. The hypnotic cadence of his voice made McNally yawn, a mouth-stretched-wide-open yawn, that pulled his eyes off the road for a dangerously long time. His eyelids became heavy again, drifted to half-mast, then closed altogether. His head leaned forward, and the Kenworth wandered into the oncoming lane.

Headlights from a tour bus illuminated the cab like a prolonged flash of lightning. The light triggered a memory in Simple’s head. Blinding light, someone grabs a handful of Simple’s hair and yanks his head back while four men wearing white scrubs hold his arms and legs. He fights with all his will, but they overpower him. A voice bellows in his head, “Get his pants down.” Clothes are ripped away. The orderly holding his hair positions himself between Simple’s naked legs. Simple hears the echo of harsh laughter.

Simple shook the image from his head. He grabbed McNally’s thigh again and barked, not really a word, but rather a harsh warning.

McNally’s eyes flew open and he jerked the wheel to the right. The Kenworth swerved back into its lane, and McNally struggled to keep it from careening out of control. “I’m telling you, boy, you got to help me. Talk to me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me what an Indian boy like you is runnin’ from.”

“I ain’t running from; I’m running to.” One of Simple’s clearest childhood memories was constantly sneaking away from home with a library book under his arm. He felt the need to read alone, so that his family and the other kids wouldn’t tease him. Reading was not what boys did on the reservation. But he did. He had a favorite hideaway, in the cool shade of cottonwoods near the creek, where he would read the days away in the company of Twain, Hemingway, London, and Melville. But late in the afternoons, he would hear a door slam, and his mother’s voice calling the family to dinner. Then he would run, lickety-split, back to the house. All too often, by the time Simple had rushed to the kitchen, his grandfather was slathering the last ear of corn with butter, saying, “Too late, bookworm.” Simple would stare forlornly at the empty serving dish. Although Simple had few memories left, he suspected that he had been running all his life, that he was still running, as fast as possible, trying to claim that last ear of sweet corn.

“Shit,” Dale spat. “Even a knuckle scraper like me can see that you’re fresh out of prison. All your clothes still have the K-Mart tags.”

Simple lifted his arm and saw a price tag dangling from his cuff. He ripped it away and searched for a place to trash it.

Dale said, “Toss it out the window.”

Simple stuffed the tag in his shirt pocket. “I don’t remember much, only that they had me locked up. Not prison, some kind of clinic, but I have a job waiting for me in Saint George—” Simple pulled a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolded it, and read by the light of the dashboard, “—working for Lance Bishop.”

“Why do they call you Simple?”

“My grandfather named me that to always remind me that a warrior’s life is filled with simple treasures.”

“Could be worse,” Dale scoffed. “Be thankful he didn’t name you after Buttface Canyon, Nevada.”

“Sing me a song,” Simple said. “That will keep you awake.”

“I only know hymns, from when my mama took me to church.”

“Works for me.”

Nodding, McNally cleared his throat and bellowed, “‘Just as I am without one plea, but that thy blood was shed for me’.”

Dale’s whiskey-tenor voice soared over the engine’s growl. The tune was uncomplicated, with trilling and mournful notes, resembling both music and a sorrowful cry. It reminded Simple of a Shoshone death chant that his grandfather sang the day Simple’s parents died. He loved the way the long, flowing vowels tumbled from McNally’s lips, like a river meandering through a forest. Simple heard each tone and also the slices of silence separating the notes. It sounded stark and sometimes discordant, yet staggeringly beautiful.

In the gritty bedroom of a rundown trailer house, an alarm clock buzzed. Jude Elder’s head swiveled on a pillow, his body folded into a fetal position. He came awake and looked around the room, confused. He cleared his congested throat and banged the alarm off.

He flipped on a bedside lamp, squinted. Rings adorned his lower lip, nose, eyebrow, and a half-dozen crawled up one ear. His mascara was ghoulishly smudged. He rolled off the bed, stepped over a pile of laundry, and staggered to the doorway. As he opened the door, light from the hallway lamp revealed dozens of angry red scars crisscrossing Jude’s torso and belly.

His head hurt too much to think. He focused all his attention on not falling over.

He tottered to the shower and turned on the water. As steam rose, he stepped in, grabbed his dick, and began to masturbate—eyes closed, mouth ajar. Soon his hips bucked and his mouth twisted into a look of quasi-sexual pain. He opened his eyes and they rolled back. He groaned.

Moments later, with both his hands covering his face, he began to sob.

He lifted a razor blade from the soap dish and sliced two lines across his chest. Blood trickled over his pasty torso as tears streamed down his cheeks.

A few minutes later, Jude ambled down the hallway into his choky little kitchen. He had wrapped a towel around his waist, bandages covering his fresh wounds. He opened the refrigerator and snatched a Budweiser longneck, twisting the cap off and downing half. He seized a prescription bottle and shook the few remaining pills into his palm, knocking them back and washing them down with more beer. He tossed the two empty bottles into a sink filled with dirty dishes.

Jude grabbed another Bud from the fridge and cracked it open.

In the bedroom, Jude sifted through the pile of soiled clothes. He stepped into a pair of boxer shorts, his only pair of jeans, socks, and cowboy boots. He lifted a white shirt from the pile, sniffed the underarms, and tossed it aside. He picked up another, sniffed, tossed it. The third and last he didn’t bother to sniff. He laced his arms into the sleeves and buttoned it up.

He jerked a roach from an ashtray beside the bed, fired it up, inhaled, and downed more beer. He took another hit, then strolled back to the bathroom to reapply his eye makeup. In the mirror, he only looked at his eyes as he painted his mask. He couldn’t bear to see the rest of his face or the scars at the base of his neck.

On his way to the front door, Jude lifted a ring of keys off a plate on the kitchen table, then he stopped in front of a mynah bird chained to a perch beside the door. He snatched a food carton and shoveled seeds into the bird’s bowl.

“Loser! Loser!” the bird cawed.

“Now you sound like my dad, shithead,” Jude said.

“Loser!”

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Novels by Alan Chin include Island Song, The Lonely War, Match Maker, and Butterfly’s Child
http://AlanChin.net
http://tinyurl.com/d54rtd (Examiner.com articles)
http://AlanChinWriter.blogspot.com

The Bar Watcher excerpt by Dorien Grey

2011-08-29T07:00:00.001-04:00

In The Bar Watcher by Dorien Grey, the manager of an elite local bath is stabbed to death, and attorney Glen O’Banyon hires Dick Hardesty to check into it. The motive for the murder isn’t hard to figure—Comstock was a jerk of the first order. In fact, the list of people who might have wanted him dead might be larger than the club’s membership roster. Then, two obnoxious bar hoppers die in an apparent accident that turns out to be another murder, and when a third unpleasant individual meets an untimely demise, Dick begins to see a sinister pattern. All of the victims, prior to their deaths, had behaved badly in one of the local bars. Is someone on a mission to rid the world of people behaving badly?

The release of this new edition of The Bar Watcher is the first of what will be redesigned editions of the entire Dick Hardesty series previously published by GLB Publishing.

The Bar Watcher
Zumaya Boundless (July 27, 2011)
ISBN-10: 1934841641
ISBN-13: 978-1934841648

Excerpt:

CHAPTER 1

One of the reasons I became a private investigator was because I like puzzles, and every case is like working a jigsaw puzzle without the picture on the box. Of course, the bulk of any private investigator’s cases are like the puzzles you see for kids on the little table in dentists’ office waiting rooms—five pieces and there’s the bunny. But every now and then you get one that is more like one of those 1,500-piece reproductions of a Bosch or Breughel painting—a real challenge. They drive me crazy sometimes, but when I finally put the last couple of pieces together, there’s a sense of satisfaction that’s hard to describe, or match.

And almost always the people you’re looking for are right there in the picture, though you don’t recognize them until the puzzle’s completed. And from time to time, the picture you think you’re working on isn’t the one you end up seeing.

Now, take the case of the bar watcher….

* * *

It’s what I refer to now as my “Slut Phase.” My monogamous five year relationship with Chris had broken up some time ago, and I decided it was about time I let the other guys spend their time looking for “Mr. Right”–I’d concentrate on Mr. Right Now. Looking back, I’m glad I didn’t whittle a notch in the bedpost after every trick, or I’d have ended up sleeping on a mound of wood shavings.

When I wasn’t pursuing research for a book I thought about writing on “101 Fun Things to Do With a Penis,” I was actually making some progress in that part of my life which did not involve lying down. I’d obtained my private investigator license late the year before, and was struggling to make ends meet.

Business was beginning to improve, though slowly, thanks to a solid working relationship I had with members of the local gay Bar Guild, for whom I’d done a couple favors prior to taking out my license. Referrals from Guild members were in fact the source of much of my business. And the fact that there weren’t exactly a lot of gay private investigators to choose from also helped, I’m sure. I’d rented a small office in one of the city’s older commercial buildings, with an address far more impressive than the building itself.

If I’d started out with any illusions that being a private investigator might be a pretty exciting job, reality kicked me in the ass in short order. Lots and lots of checking on possibly (and too often definitely) wandering lovers, one or two incidences of blackmail, a case of embezzlement involving the business manager of a gay resort—that sort of thing; and lots of sitting around waiting for the next client.

Oh, yeah…and I’d given up smoking. Cold turkey. That was a hell of a lot harder than any case I’d had, or was likely ever to have. So I was relieved when the phone rang just as I was trying to figure out a 10-letter word for “reclusive or brutish person” in the paper’s crossword puzzle (don’t bother: it’s “troglodyte”).

“Hardesty Investigations,” I said, in my professional, half-octave-lower-than-normal voice.

“Hardesty: this is Barry Comstock. Jay Mason of the Bar Guild referred you to me.”

“Well, thanks for calling, Mr. Comstock,” I said, making a mental note to thank Jay as well. “How can I help you?”

“I own Rage…you’re familiar with it?”

Rage was the city’s hottest bathhouse. I knew it.

“Of course,” I said, then waited for him to continue.

“We’ve got ourselves a problem, and while I think it’s a bunch of bullshit, they tell me you might be able to help resolve it.”

“Is it anything you can mention on the phone, or…?”

“No; definitely not.”

“I understand,“ I said—but of course I didn’t. “Did you want to come to my office, or…”

“No, you come over here. I’ve got a business to run and I can’t just be taking off.”

Like I wasn’t busy. Well, okay, I wasn’t, but I didn’t like his ‘busier than thou’ attitude.

“No problem. I could be there in around an hour, if that would be all right. I have a client coming in a little later this afternoon.” I lied, but he didn’t have to know that.

“Good,” he said. “I don’t see your name on our members list, but I might have missed it..”

Actually, he hadn’t—I wasn’t a member. Baths are fine, but they’re not my thing. I like to have a few words come out of my mouth before putting something in, and the baths aren’t exactly the place guys go for complex conversations like “Hi. My name is…”.

“I know how to find it,” I said. “I’ll see you in an hour, then.”

He hung up without saying “goodbye.”

Though I’d never met Barry Comstock, I’d seen him at a distance a couple of times in the more trendy bars and discos, always accompanied by two or three different good-looking guys whom he seemed to enjoy treating like dirt. He had a reputation as a wheeler-dealer in the rapidly growing gay business community. A former porn star, he’d opened Rage about eight months earlier. He was noted for having a monumental schlong, and an ego to match. I’d seen some of his movies—I think I still have a copy of one of his better ones: “Comstock’s Load.” He was also rumored to have the first nickel he ever made, so I imagined he would not be calling on me unless it was something pretty important.

* * *

Rage was located in what local gays were beginning to refer to as The Central—sort of an homage to San Francisco’s Castro district—and about a half a block off Beech, the main gay thoroughfare. No ground floor windows; just a dark blue canopy with “Rage” in white script, over a matching blue entry door. Just as I reached for the handle, the door swung open and a drop-dead gorgeous hunk exited carrying his gym bag and a satisfied smile. Our eyes locked for a moment, and he gave me a broad wink. “Have fun,” he said.

Before I had a chance to reconsider my opinion of baths, I was inside the small lobby.

A blond Adonis stood behind the registration window wearing a “Rage” tee shirt so tight I thought at first it had been spray painted on his bare chest. Yeah, I thought, maybe I should reconsider…

“Your card?” the blond said.

“I’m not a member,” I said. “I’ve got an appointment with Barry Comstock. The name’s Hardesty.”

The blond picked up a phone out of sight below the window, said something I couldn’t hear, then hung up the phone and nodded toward the only door leading to the interior from the lobby. “First door to your left,” he said, and pressed an unseen buzzer which opened the lobby inner door.

“Thanks,” I said, and passed through it into a short hallway. The first door on the left said simply “Private” and I knocked.

“Come in,” a voice said, and I did.

The room was large and windowless, paneled in what appeared to be dark oak. It apparently couldn’t decide whether its function was to impress or to be a working office, and therefore didn’t quite fit either category. There were several small framed photos on one wall, apparently of Comstock with various celebrities, a large painting of a nude male torso—undoubtedly Comstock himself—on a side wall next to a door, a couple file cabinets, a worktable with a copy machine and a typewriter, a couple of comfortable and expensive looking leather chairs and a large, equally expensive looking desk, behind which sat Barry Comstock, slitting open a stack of mail with a very wicked looking letter opener.

I mentioned that Barry Comstock had been a porn star, but it was obvious that he was no longer in his 20s—or, despite valiant efforts on his part, even his 30s. His face had that stretched-too-tight look that indicated a plastic surgeon’s handiwork. In some odd way, he was rather like the room itself. He’d have been considerably more attractive if he’d just left himself alone.

He did not get up and so I deliberately walked over to the desk and extended my hand, which he had to put down the letter opener and lean forward to take.

“Dick Hardesty, Mr. Comstock. What can I do for you?”

He motioned me to a chair and resumed opening the mail, shifting his glance back and forth between the mail and me.

“We’ve had some…well, what my partners consider to be threats. I think they’re bullshit, but they insisted I look into it. Frankly, I don’t have the time, which is why I called you.”

“What kind of threats?”

Comstock finished opening the mail, set the opener aside again, and leaned back in his chair. “Oh, we’ve been getting bitch letters since we opened...most of them have tapered off lately.”

“What kind of ‘bitch letters’?”

Comstock gave a slight sneer. “About our membership policy.”

“And your membership policy is…?” Actually, I had a pretty good idea from what I’d been hearing on the street, but I wanted to hear him spell it out. He looked at me with a mixture of disdain and surprise.

“Which is that this is a place where hot young guys come to meet other hot young guys. We don’t let fats, or old farts in. If you’re fat, or bald, or old, or ugly you can go someplace else.”

So much for my buying stock in the Barry Comstock School of Charm, I thought. This guy was really starting to piss me off.

http://www.angelfire.com/home/doriengrey/index.html
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http://www.doriengreyandme.com/
http://bit.ly/m8CSO1 for information on Dorien's Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs

Grit excerpt by William Maltese and Jardonn Smith

2011-08-22T07:00:00.001-04:00

Grit permeates each crevice of the Great Depression and the men living through it. This sex-saturated tale from William Maltese and Jardonn Smith is of have's and have-not's -- who run trains across the Dust Bowl ... who hitch trains to escape poverty and despair. On this December night in 1932, Jardonn's locomotive engineer, Wilton Zukel, is off duty and on the prowl.

GRIT
MLR Press (November, 2010)
ISBN 978-1-60820-121-1 (print)
ISBN 978-1-60820-122-8 (ebook)

Excerpt:

"Why, hello there, Wilton Zukel. All alone tonight, are you?" Roger Daniels, no longer the ticket-taker at the Lanyon Oriental Theater, caught Wilton walking the street on his way to see a movie.

"Yep, Forrest is on a job out in the hinterlands somewhere. What about you, uh, young man?"

"It's Roger."

"Right. Not working tonight, Roger?"

"Oh, sure. I'm working, all right, but not at Lanyon's."

Wilton quickly understood the situation. First clue, Roger Daniels, who'd appeared handsome on the night of their first meeting in his spiffy, Oriental Theater uniform, his cream-blonde locks flowing soft and shiny from the band of his Oriental Theater cap, on this night looked as dirty as the street. His hair unkempt and stringy, his fingers and nails grimy, the flesh of his face oily, his jacket and pants well-worn and light-weight, not proper garb for the near-to-freezing December night. Second clue, Roger's eyes, which in the Theater had beamed so brightly when locking onto Wilton's, now stared suggestively at Wilton's crotch, focused solely on the schlong pressing the inner thigh of Wilton's wool trousers. "Is this your workplace now, Roger? Twelfth Street?"

"Afraid so. Lanyon cut back my hours again, so I quit."

"When?"

"Monday after I met you."

"Kind of dangerous out here, ain't it?" Wilton knew very well the activities along Twelfth Street, where burlesque and strip-tease houses flourished alongside the legitimate movie houses, and where he himself frequently paid for sex simply by walking the street after seeing a movie in one of the legitimate movie houses. Hustlers of both genders were readily available at all hours here, and Wilton, having no misconceptions about his chances of stumbling upon some sort of meaningful companionship inside the legitimate movie houses, considered forking over cash to any street merchant who looked relatively healthy his best solution for satisfaction. As an added bonus, Wilton got entertainment out of the deal when he presented to them his over-sized pecker. Just to see their expression when they realized they'd quoted him an amount far too little, was to him worth every penny.

Seeing Roger's rapid deterioration, however, put him in no mood for laughing. "I mean, geez, Roger, don't you know some of these old-timers will cut you up if you try working their territory?"

"Ah, they know me. I've been at this since I was old enough to suck a dick. Family tradition."

Wilton didn't feel like standing on the street in the cold listening to Roger explain everything he'd packed into those three statements, and figured he knew a sure-fire method for temporarily whisking the young man away from it all. "Are you hungry, Roger?"

At a diner near the Union Station train depot and far-removed from flesh-peddlers, Wilton heard the sordid tale of Roger Daniels while Roger sat cross-table from him devouring a plate of steak and eggs. He listened without interrupting as Roger told of his mother, the strip-tease dancer, and of how she decided to go prostitute full time, using her eleven-year-old son as an extra attraction. Figured plenty of men to be turned on by the prospect of a little boy sucking on their dick, or better yet, getting their dick squeezed by a little boy's tight butt-hole. It all worked out fine until Roger matured into manhood and the allure of boy prostitute vanished, thus lowering his value to her.

Cast out to fend for himself, Roger was working the Twelfth Street corridor when Stanley Lanyon, for whatever reason, thought Roger's slender build and lovely locks would be a good match for the Oriental Theater uniform. He gave the hustler his chance, but the worsening economic depression after the crash of 1929 brought a steady decline in number of employees Lanyon could afford to keep.

"He cut me down to Saturday nights," Roger spit particles of egg, too famished for trying to talk between bites. "Guess I could have kept the job while working the streets, but hell, on Saturday nights I can make more from the sidewalk, so I just kissed the theater job good-bye."

"What do you get for a..." Wilton tapped his lips with his finger.

"For you? A steak and eggs supper."

Upon seeing it, Wilton had no intention of touching the filthy mattress of Roger's cot in the rented room of squalor he called home. "Come on, Roger. I'll take you to the Muehlebach."

"Wow! I will certainly let you."

After Roger had bathed in fancy digs of the finest hotel in Kansas City, Wilton hardily laughed as his pecker filled with blood and Roger's eye sockets widened with every inch, but unlike most, Roger never shied away from Wilton's behemoth. Instead, he coaxed Wilton to strip himself naked and sprawl upon the bed. For this client, Roger would give the royal treatment, a tongue bath, a barrage of wet kisses beginning on the tops of Wilton's hairy feet and ending with a slavish slurping upon Wilton's tiny tits.

And then, he courageously opened his jaw to capacity and encompassed the massive head of Wilton's penis. With his lips progressing a mere inch onto Wilton's shaft, Roger's mouth was crammed completely full. He could take no more, and so he sucked from there.

For Wilton, a sensation new and exciting -- not the orgasm itself, but the foreplay. No hustler had ever before taken the time to worship Wilton's fur-covered, beastly physique. No lips had ever taken any part of his penis beyond licking on his corona and piss slit, not until he'd grabbed their ears and forced them to take all of it. With Roger, he couldn't bring himself to do it. That would come later when Roger was comfortably settled into Wilton's house and no longer felt motivated to try on his own.

That night in the Muehlebach Hotel, Wilton melted as Roger serviced him in a manner loving, or at least the nearest to loving Wilton had ever experienced, and he could not bear the thought of dropping Roger back into the street and the dangerous lifestyle he'd chosen. Wilton would take him home. Clean him up. Make him his house-boy. Save himself from having to cruise those same streets looking for faceless sex bought and paid for.

William Maltese http://www.williammaltese.com
Jardonn Smith http://www.jardonnserotictales.com

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The Perils of Praline, or the Amorous Adventures of a Southern Gentleman in Hollywood excerpt by Marshalll Thornton

2011-08-15T07:00:00.002-04:00

In The Perils of Praline, or the Amorous Adventures of a Southern Gentleman in Hollywood by Marshall Thornton, when Peter "Praline' Palmetier falls in love with a contestant on a reality TV show, he decides to leave his home in rural Georgia and, failing to realize this might be considered stalking, travels to Hollywood to find his soul mate, Dave G. Once in Tinseltown he meets a collection of startling, and often horny, characters in his quest. They include a studly steward, a conservative talk show host, the Godfather of the Gay Mafia, and casting assistant Jason Friedman, who always manages to be there in time to save Praline from total disaster. Will Praline find love with the illusive Dave G., or will he recognize the charms of appealing but untelegenic Jason?

The Perils of Praline, or the Amorous Adventures of a Southern Gentleman in Hollywood
MLR Press (October 9, 2010)
ISBN: 978-1608202331

Excerpt:

Even as Praline dangled naked from the fourteenth-floor balcony, the wind tickled his penis and began to arouse him. This might seem odd given the danger of his situation, but such are the benefits of a twenty-year-old’s libido.

Struggling to focus on his predicament, he studied the balcony below. It seemed he might be able to toss himself onto it if he could swing his legs back far enough to gain momentum. Of course, if that didn’t work he’d fall fourteen stories to a certain death. Or, if he looked on the bright side, break every bone in his body and survive in a vegetative state for decades to come.

He could attempt to climb back up onto Stewart’s balcony. It would be difficult but might be the safer choice. The real danger was facing Stewart’s still-screaming husband. In fact, the screaming – both Stewart’s and his husband’s – had gotten so loud that Praline hadn’t bothered to scream himself. No one would have heard him.

With his arms beginning to tire, he had to decide: Should he risk the ire of an irate husband? Or should he fling himself onto the balcony below? Biceps quivering, a choice had to be made soon, but which —

Suddenly, Praline felt a pair of arms wrap around his hips, strong hands pleasantly grasped his buttocks. A man said, “I’ve got you. Let go.”

Squeezing his eyes closed, Praline decided to trust the virile-sounding stranger and let go. In one swift move, Praline was pulled to safety. Just as swiftly, he and his rescuer fell flat onto the balcony’s cement floor. Praline landed with his hips pressed into the stranger’s face. He raised himself, inadvertently dragging his penis across the young man’s mouth as he rolled off of him.

“Gosh, I’m so, so, sorry. I didn’t mean to stick my… um, you know… right in your face.” Just a few years older than Praline, the young man was compact and olive-skinned, with eyes the color of semi-sweet chocolate and heavy black stubble shadowing his chin. Praline assumed he was straight given that ninety-some percent of men in the world supposedly are, and as a straight man would likely be disturbed, even under the circumstances, to find Praline’s lubed-up, jizz-covered penis shoved in his face. He continued to apologize, “I can’t tell you how mortified —

”Raising a hand to stop him, the young man muttered, “Don’t worry, it’s not the first time.” Which Praline took to mean he was gay and had voluntarily had penises thrust into his face, rather than meaning he was straight and it wasn’t the first time he’d rescued a naked man from certain death only to end up with a penis thrust into his face.

“Oh my gosh, thank you, thank you, thank you! You saved my life!

”The young man wiped a bit of stray semen off his cheek, “No problem. Would you like to explain how you happened to be hanging naked off a balcony in the middle of the night?

”Something about the way he said it made Praline self-conscious, and he casually draped his hand over his crotch. “Well, it’s complicated.”

“I should hope it’s complicated,” the young man replied. “It’s not the kind of thing that should have a simple explanation.

”With a shy smile, Praline began to relate his story in extensive detail right there on the balcony. Overwhelmed, his rescuer stopped him and said, “Maybe we should go inside and get comfortable. My name’s Jason by the way. Jason Friedman.”

Praline introduced himself and followed Jason into the condo. The layout was identical to 1406 above, but the décor was more dramatic. The bedroom walls were tomato red and from what Praline could see of the living room it was painted a vibrant, vibrating teal. The bedroom furniture had an Asian influence and, to Praline’s down-home eye, didn’t look especially comfortable. The bed was a thin mat on a slab. There was a sharp-cornered dresser, spindly nightstands, and two chairs made of raw birch-branches tied together by a few strips of leather. Jason pulled a T-shirt and a pair of running shorts out of a gym bag and offered them to Praline.

As he restarted his story, Praline couldn’t help but examine the young man in front of him. Jason wore thin pajama bottoms and nothing else. His chest and stomach were covered with a layer of moist black hair that grew in wide swirls. His most prominent feature though was his nose, which was large and slightly hooked. His hairline receded a bit, giving him a high forehead, and his lips glinted raspberry red.

Though Praline had to admit Jason had a certain appeal, he also knew he wasn’t the kind of young man who’d ever be asked to appear in a magazine photo spread or on reality television, and therefore could not be considered attractive. Praline felt sorry for him. Being unattractive was about the worst thing that could happen to a gay man.

"That’s quite a story,” Jason said when Praline finished

"I know, I’d barely believe it if it hadn’t happened to me.”

“Everybody goes through a really crazy period in their early twenties. Not always as death-defying as your experience, but definitely crazy.” Jason blushed while remembering his own indiscretions. “Don’t worry, it’ll pass.”

“It’ll pass?” asked a distressed Praline. He’d just discovered that he had an adventurous personality. The last thing he needed to find out was that it was only a phase. “Golly, I hope not.”

Jason looked at him oddly.

The arguing above them had faded to a rumble. Staring at the ceiling, Praline said, “I suppose I should go upstairs and ask for my stuff back.”

“That’s probably not a good idea.”

“But, they’ve got my clothes and my phone and my money!”

Jason considered. “We could call the police and have them—”

“No!” Praline practically shouted. “No cops.”

“Okay.” Jason eyed him suspiciously. “But it’s not like you’ve done anything illegal.”

Praline couldn’t count how many of his mother’s friends and clients had gotten arrested after not doing anything illegal; or at least not anything very illegal. He wasn’t going to take that chance.

Jason considered him. “So, when you decided to come out here, did you have any sort of plan? I mean, obviously you didn’t have hotel reservations…”

Praline shrugged. “I just knew things would work out. Everything happens for the best.”

“No, actually it doesn’t. For example, you ended up hanging naked off a building.”

“Yes, it does. For example, you saved me.”

“But—” Though he wanted to, Jason could not argue with Praline’s logic.

Suddenly, the fighting upstairs erupted into a flurry of yelps, thuds and a sliding glass door slamming open. A moment later Praline’s duffle dropped from the balcony above on its way to the street below. In short order, Praline’s clothes, shoes and backpack followed.

“Was that your bag?” Jason asked.

Praline nodded.

Following Jason out of the building and onto the street, Praline spotted his things immediately. He was relieved that some depraved homeless person hadn’t stolen them. Cautiously, he looked up and down the street to make sure they weren’t lying in wait.

Jason gave him a suspicious look, “What are you doing?”

“Looking out for the homeless,” Praline whispered.

Mistaking his meaning, Jason suggested, “If you want to help them out, I think there’s a mission downtown. You can send a donation.”

Praline nearly gasped; his mother would be appalled to learn that the homeless had organized their attempts at extortion.

Quickly, he gathered his clothes and his duffle. His things looked fine, with the exception of a bottle of designer Klevin von Cain’s Elude that had broken and soaked through most of his wardrobe. Fortunately, his phone and his wallet were in his backpack, which remained cologne-free. His wallet, though, had been rifled, his license taken out of its slipcase and put back in sloppily – obviously having been stared at, which gave Praline the creeps – and, most importantly, his five hundred eighty-three dollars was missing.

“Why would Stewart take my money?” Praline wondered. “His apartment was so nice. Flight attendants must make a ton of money. Why would he steal from me?”

“Actually, flight attendants are paid crap,” explained Jason.

“Well, that doesn’t seem fair. I know it was my first flight and all, but those flight attendants worked really hard collecting money from everyone.”

“He probably lives with a sugar daddy,” Jason speculated. Then added, “An older man who pays for everything.”

“I know what a sugar daddy is,” Praline said indignantly. “I grew up with cable TV. We had all the channels. I’m very well informed.”

One of Praline’s step-daddies, he’s not sure which, had spliced them into the neighbor’s cable box. Praline’s mama was a devout Capitalist who believed a free market was one in which most things were free.

Praline brightened. “Hey, Dave G. is older than I am. He can be my sugar daddy!”

“Uh, no,” Jason said. “Struggling actors make terrible sugar daddies. Generally they have less money than flight attendants.”

Sometimes the world seemed upside down to Praline. If you had to be good-looking to be a flight attendant or a struggling actor, and certainly it seemed you did, then really you ought to be paid more because of it. He thought it terrible that good-looking people were being taken advantage of in that way. Praline briefly considered the idea of forming some kind of attractive people’s union, but then remembered his mother had taught him unions were a communist invention meant to undermine Christianity and —

“You got everything?” Jason asked. And he did have everything, so they went back upstairs.

When they got back to the apartment it was nearly four a.m. “We should probably go to sleep,” Jason suggested. “We can run your clothes through the washing machine in the morning.”

As Praline followed Jason into the bedroom, he couldn’t help but think of commandment number seven. Always repay a favor with a favor. Jason had saved his life and now it was time to repay him with sex. It was the least he could do. And even though Jason wasn’t what he’d call attractive, he seemed nice and so the sex would at least be fun, if not especially hot.

“You have a lovely apartment, by the way,” Praline said, standing very close to his host, thinking about what he might like to do to him.

Jason stepped away. “It’s not mine. It’s my boss’s. I’m house sitting until tomorrow.” He shrugged and added, “I’m an assistant. We don’t make any money, either.”

Then, much to Praline’s surprise, Jason took one of the pillows off the bed and picked up a scratchy blanket off a birch-branch chair. “You can sleep on the sofa.”

Praline was stunned. “Sleep on the sofa? But, I thought…”

“What did you think?”

“Well, you’ve been so nice, saving my life and all, which makes me forever indebted to you.” A state in which Praline knew he should not remain. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you...”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jason said. “It’s no trouble.”

“But, if you ever need a favor. You promise you’ll just ask?”

“If I find myself hanging naked off a building, you’ll be the first one I call.”

“That’s not what I mean. What I mean is, what I’m thinking…” Praline smiled coyly. “If you want to have sex that would be all right. I don’t mind.”

Jason looked him up and down. “You don’t mind? Wow. I’ve heard that Southerners are super polite but offering to have sex out of, what? Courtesy? Well, that’s not polite at all. In fact, it’s kind of rude.”

Jason’s behavior was terribly confusing. He had been nice enough to save Praline’s life, so Praline offered to have sex. It was that simple. Why was Jason getting all twisted out of shape? There had to be something else going on. With a suspicious look, Praline asked, “You’re not gay, are you?”

“Of course, I’m gay,” Jason insisted, tersely.

He had to be lying; Praline was sure of it. A true homosexual would never turn down sex. The megapastor at his mama’s church had given many a sermon about the immoral, wanton, and promiscuous behavior of the gays. If the pastor had been wrong, well, Praline would be sorely disappointed.

Then, he considered another possibility. “Are you functional? Because you know they have pills now and —”

“I’m functional, all right!” The young man’s face had gotten quite red and he took a deep breath to calm himself. He growled, “Just go to bed.”

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Mi Amor excerpt by Neil Plakcy

2011-08-08T07:00:00.001-04:00

In Mi Amor by Neil Plakcy, cute, sexy party boy Adam Beller falls in lust with smolderingly handsome contractor Javier Castro over a bunch of stargazer lilies at the Publix grocery at the southern tip of Miami Beach. But can these two very different guys find happiness together, as Adam’s business falls apart and the FBI begins investigating him, and Javier confronts the macho prejudice of his family and associates?

Each man finds the other irresistible. But it's not easy falling in love in an Art Deco landscape populated by drag queens, Russian mobsters and charming Federal agents.

Mi Amor
Loose-ID (revised edition)
ISBN: 978-1-60737-961-4

Excerpt:

I already had six bouquets of stargazer lilies in my shopping cart and was examining the seventh when I realized that this sexy Latin guy was cruising me. Though I am undeniably cute -- my friends kid me that I look like I just stepped out of an Abercrombie and Fitch ad -- it’s not me; it’s the Publix. When they built this new grocery in a funny corner of South Beach, it became cruise central. And no, I don’t mean those big ocean liners -- though you can see them a few blocks away.

I looked up, and he was standing right by my wagon, sniffing. When he saw me looking at him, he got all embarrassed and said, “Sorry, they just smell so great.” He had the slightest Spanish accent and a baritone voice that made me go all mushy inside.

He wore a dark green Ralph Lauren polo shirt that showed off his deep tan, faded, butt-molded jeans, and scuffed cowboy boots. Even though I was in the middle of a crisis -- finding bunches of lilies for a party my client was holding in less than two hours -- I had to stop and flirt. A boy’s got to do what a boy’s got to do. “And they’re gorgeous,” I said. We made direct eye contact, and I smiled.

I have a killer smile. I suffered through two years of orthodontia for it, and since I kissed my first boy at fourteen, I’ve been unleashing it on sexy guys.

From smiling, these guys and I proceed to flirting. And then to bed. That’s the way I liked my relationships: quick, dirty, and fun. I was twenty-six years old, and I lived in the biggest gay candy store in the world. Why tie myself down with jelly beans when there were licorice, gumballs, and chocolate drops out there?

I was moving toward sealing the deal with my Latin lover when Jean-Jacques Valentin roared up. He may be my best friend in all the world, and I appreciate the way he pitches in to help me out when I’m on the brink of disaster, but his timing sucks. He’s a six-two flaming Haitian queen, and sometimes he comes on too strong.

“I found these darling dishes in the kitchenware aisle,” Jean-Jacques said, holding up six pottery bowls in a celadon green. “If you’ve got some Styrofoam and some wire, problem solved!”

He skidded to a stop next to my cart and looked from me to the sexy cowboy, who said, “Well, see you around,” and pushed off.

I elbowed Jean-Jacques and whispered fiercely, “That was my after-dinner treat you just chased away!”

“Oh, honey, there’ll be six more treats for you at the party tonight. Get over your gorgeous blond self.”

At the mention of the word party, I zapped back to earth. After four years of organizing events at trendy South Beach clubs, working my way up from passing out flyers on the beach to hosting every rap star, B-list actress, hunk of the moment, and fashion-victim heiress, I’d begun organizing private events outside the club circuit.

This party was the launch for a new condo on West Avenue -- on one of the few tiny pieces of land that doesn’t already have a high-rise on it. I’d been introduced to the owners by my old friend, Vladislav Solonenko, or Vlad the Impaler as I started to call him the first time he butt-fucked me with his monster dick. Vlad’s an investor, with his hands in many different South Beach ventures. Some are frightened that he’s part of the Russian mafia, but I’ve seen him cry over TV commercials.

My job: take an empty lot littered with trash and surrounded by a chain-link fence, and create a South Seas fantasy that embodied the developer’s concept: the Balinese, a teak-and-tapa-cloth condo-hotel for the ultrarich. And I’d been doing a damn good job until my flower delivery arrived, and I discovered that someone had forgotten to include water with the floral centerpieces. The result? You don’t want to know. Hence the quick dash to Publix.

We grabbed the flowers and those darling little bowls, and as we hurried to finish every last detail, I forgot all about my Latin lover. That is, until later that night, when we stood eye to eye on opposite sides of a scale model of the hotel, two low-rise towers surrounded by lush landscaping -- all in papier-mâché, of course. For once, I was speechless. Fortunately, he wasn’t.

“Looks like the lilies did solve your problem,” he said.

He cleaned up nicely. In place of his work clothes, he wore a beautifully fitted tuxedo with narrow lapels that accentuated his broad shoulders and his narrow waist. His white tux shirt was immaculately pressed and shone like a spotlight. Most men can’t carry off a bow tie, but he could -- in black silk, and hand-tied to boot. “I’m Javier Marisco,” he said, sticking out his hand.

So much for the idea that he was an ordinary workman. I knew from Vlad that Javier was one of the most successful small developers on the beach, and that Vlad had invested in one of his condo conversions. “Adam Beller,” I said, reaching toward him. Our hands met over a papier-mâché palm tree. His was rough, sun-burned, and calloused, but his grip was strong. I felt like someone had just plugged me into an electric socket.

“Party planner to the stars,” Javier said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All of it true. Except for that story about the men’s room at Club Deco. That’s a total fabrication.”

“Ah, and that’s my favorite story,” Javier said. “I’m disappointed.”

“You’re a flirt, is what you are.”

“And you’re not?”

We were still holding hands, and our gazes were locked on each other. “Perhaps,” I said. “I’ve been called worse.”

He released his grip. “You’ll have to tell me all your secrets.”

“Please. At least buy me dinner first.”

“I’ll do that. How about after the party?”

I ran through a mental checklist at hyperspeed. The developer had already given his welcome speech, and we’d finished all the black bowfin caviar, the champagne, and almost all the divine pastries baked specially for me by an elderly French woman whose name I guard more fiercely than the list of men I’ve slept with.

At least half the guests had left, and the rest would probably filter away within the next half hour, depending on how fast the Guatemalan valets could bring their luxury vehicles around from the empty lot down the street. I could trust Jean-Jacques with the cleanup. Vlad was hosting an after-party at Privé, but I knew he’d never miss me. “Sure,” I said. “Give me about an hour?”

“I’ll be waiting.” He smiled and turned as one of the bitchiest female real estate brokers on the beach grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away to someone he just had to meet.

After saying good-bye to Vlad and the developer, giving Jean-Jacques directions, and air-kissing a dozen women with big boobs, puffy lips, and flat skin --none of it part of the original package -- I slipped off to the men’s room in the sales trailer for a quick evaluation.

I’d been on the go since noon, with only a mad dash home between Publix and the party for a quick change into tuxedo and patent leather loafers. Fortunately, my industrial-strength hair gel had kept every delicate blond lock in place, though I was starting to get some nine-o’clock shadow. I was just peering in the mirror trying to assess the situation when the door swung open, and Javier Marisco walked in.

“Don’t change a thing for me,” he said.

I spun around, embarrassed to be caught at my toilette, and he stepped right up and kissed me.

Such a simple word, kissed. It doesn’t do justice to what happened between Javier and me. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled my body close to his. His cologne smelled of citrus and salt water, and his recently shaved face was smooth against my own light stubble.

I wrapped my hands around his head as our lips met. Just the lightest pressure at first, and then both of us parted our lips and pressed harder. I felt every point at which our tuxedo-clad bodies touched, through all those layers of cotton, silk, and tropical-weight wool, and it was like dozens of tiny fireworks explosions going off in my head. Our tongues danced, our noses brushed, my heart started skipping beats, and my dick jumped to attention. It was way more than just a kiss.

I pulled back. “I believe you promised me dinner.”

“Absolutely.” He took my hand, and I followed him out into the deserted sales office. I waved to Jean-Jacques as we passed the Polynesian fantasy tent -- now being broken down into its component parts for return to the rental company -- and Javier and I walked out to West Avenue.

He led me a few blocks away to Barton G’s, where he commandeered us a private table in an alcove of brown and bronze suede. He ordered an array of elegant, delectable food that I hardly tasted, because I was so busy drinking him in. Under the table, our feet rested against each other.

“I started working as a carpenter on the beach when I was seventeen,” he said, between appetizer and entrée. “I lived with my parents in Hialeah and took two buses every day to get to work. I saved every penny I could, and I closed on my first building the day after I got my construction management degree from FIU.”

I loved the way he talked, the occasional rolled r, the way every Spanish word -- even street names -- got the perfect Castilian pronunciation. He was almost unbelievably handsome: dark curly hair, with one stray lock that dropped over his forehead; cinnamon skin, deep green eyes, and lips that were so full and luscious I longed to kiss them again. “And when did you know you were gay?” I took a sip from my glass of Chilean chardonnay.

He laughed. “You get to the point, don’t you?”

“Teenaged boy taking two buses every day to hang out on South Beach. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure it out.”

“Took me a while. Being Cuban, I didn’t want to think about the possibility that I could be a maricón, as my father would say. That is, until I kissed a guy for the first time, when I was about nineteen. Then I knew.”

“I knew in boarding school. Deerfield. I was fourteen. Heaven is being a gay boy at an all-boys’ school.”

“No bullying?”

“I had my protectors.”

The waiter brought our entrées. I tried to eat slowly, to savor the delicious food, but as Javier rubbed the side of my leg with his foot, I wanted to scramble under the table and suck his dick, or drag him into the men’s room and make out. I ached to do something -- anything -- to stop the exquisite torture of longing to kiss those lips again, to see what that body looked like when it was stripped of its tuxedo, to feel him pressing up against me one more time.

“Coffee? Dessert?” the waiter asked as he cleared away our plates. My eyes locked on Javier’s, and I knew that he felt the same fire I did.

“Just the check, please,” Javier said. Those four words have never sounded so beautiful. He turned to me after the waiter left and said, “I have an apartment in the Madrigal, a building I renovated across from the marina. We could take our time and walk over there -- or grab a cab.”

“Javier, sometime soon I’d love to take a nice, long moonlit walk with you around South Beach. But right now, I’d rather fall into the backseat of a cab with you and start making out.”

Character-driven stories of handsome, sexy gay men in love and danger
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Deadly Slumber excerpt by Victor J Banis

2011-08-01T07:00:00.004-04:00

In this excerpt from Victor J Banis' Deadly Slumber, #4 in the Deadly Mysteries series, Bartholomew's, the House of the Dead, is a mortuary whose directors are drop dead gorgeous and terminally horny. And one of them is up to mischief. Stanley and Tom try to separate the naturally dead from the murdered dead and find themselves awash with coffins - until they come to the one Stanley's name on it. Deadly Slumber indeed.

Stanley, on the job, invites a handsome young intern in for a glass of wine…

Deadly Slumber
MLR Press (August 18, 2009)
ISBN: 1608200906

Excerpt:

Stanley laughed and poured two glasses of wine. He gave one to David, and motioned to the two chairs by the fireplace. The old leather creaked when they sat. "Tell me," Stanley said when they were seated, "what's it like, actually living here at Bartholomew's. You've been here, what did you tell me, three weeks?"

"Nearly that." David took a sip of wine, contemplated the question for a moment. "It's strange. I knew when I decided on mortuary science that Bartholomew's was where I wanted to be. But, when I got the internship, and actually moved in—well, it isn't quite what I thought it would be."

"In what way?"

"I'd heard it was a friendly place." He grinned. "I mean, very friendly, if you follow me."

"The sex."

"Yes. I knew someone who interned here a while back. He said the dorm was buzzing all the time, musical beds."

"And it's not like that?"

"Well, I wouldn't say it was a nunnery, exactly. There's stuff goes on, there's a couple of the interns who keep things interesting…"

"Cody and Greg."

"Yes. Although at the moment, they're pretty wrapped up in one another. It's just, the whole atmosphere, it's a lot more subdued than what I'd been led to believe."

"What about the directors?"

David gave him a wary look, thinking of Vincent downstairs, and the almost-pass he hadn't made. "I wouldn't know about that."

"Surely you're not going to tell me it never crossed your mind. Some of them are awfully good looking."

"Some of them? Jesus, they're all to die for, if you ask me."

"And you've never done anything about it?

The fake log in the fireplace popped, making David start. He was tenser, Stanley realized, than he showed. He sat for a minute staring at the flames. When he spoke, he did not look at Stanley.

"One of them called me 'the pretty Jew boy.'"

"One of the directors?"

David nodded. "I wasn't supposed to hear him, of course."

"Or maybe you were."

David did look at him then. "I hadn't thought of that, but, yes, maybe. Whatever. I don't think he meant it as a compliment. Oh, that's not it, though, that's not what turned me off, not really. I've heard stuff like that before. I guess every Jew does at some time or other. The funny thing is, I'm not much of a Jew. And, as far as the sex part, like I said, there's others, if I really wanted something…but, you know, oddly, it's not as much a turn on as you might think. All these gorgeous guys here. They're…I guess this is going to sound weird, but, I mean, it's like, going to a buffet expecting a nice hearty meal, and the table's got nothing on it but a tray of sweet desserts. Lovely to look at, delicious to taste, but not the kind of thing that leaves you satisfied." He gave Stanley a mischievous grin. "If you want to know the truth, now, that partner of yours…what a brute. I'd make a meal of him in a minute."

Stanley smiled back. "Sorry, the brute is taken, for a long time. A lifetime, I’m thinking. At least, that's what I'm hoping."

"It must be great, finding someone special like that. The right one. Love at first sight, I'll bet, wasn't it?"

"No, I wouldn't say that. Not exactly." He thought for a minute. "Or, maybe it was, but it took a long time for us to get it. I guess in some ways we're still getting it. To be honest, it isn't what I thought it would be like. I was looking for a man, when I should have been looking for the man. If you follow me."

David gave that a moment's thought. "I think so."

"Oh, you will, when the time comes." Stanley sighed. "So, back to Bartholomew's - what it comes down to is, when you say you're disappointed in Bartholomew's, what you're really saying is, the sex doesn't live up to your expectations?"

David exhaled loudly. "No, that's putting it a little too bluntly. I mean, yes, I found that a little disappointing, but, there's more…it's hard to put my finger on it. Maybe it's knowing where you are. We used to call this place The House of the Dead, my sister and I, growing up on Dorland Street. I didn't think that would bother me, and it doesn't really, not working with dead people. But, I lie awake at night. Everything is so insulated, and so sound and light proofed. The darkness, the silence. It might almost be a tomb. Sometimes it really does feel as if I'm already dead. Like, I'm drifting away from the world of the living, sort of."

He'd been speaking distantly, as if thinking aloud, but he blinked now and focused his eyes on Stanley. "Fanciful, I know. And probably, too, it had something to do with that first day, when I came to interview. I was with Mister Cyril when we discovered the body, old Mister Percy's body. You knew about that, of course?"

"Suicide, the police say."

"Yes. I suppose they're right. I thought that too, at first, but…" He shrugged. "Oh, I don't know, something about it didn't feel right, if you know what I mean. It was so, staged, I guess, is what I want to say. Somehow it reminded me of the high school play I was in, Murder Most Foul."

"In what way?"

"That's the funny thing. I don't know. It was just a feeling I got, but there was nothing I could put my finger on." He finished the wine and stood up, setting the glass aside. "Definitely better than Mogen David." He stretched his arms over his head. His tee shirt rode up, giving Stanley a view of a washboard abdomen, an innie winking at him provocatively.

"Crap, maybe I'm just feeling sorry for myself" he said, "I mean, the guys not climbing all over me the way I expected. The old bruised ego. And probably some of it really does have to do with my being a Jew. I guess that turns some of them off." He scratched at his belly, his fingers slipping under the waist band of his trousers. Stanley's eyes followed them closely, but they reemerged after just a second or two. "Not a very good Jew, I confess. I haven't been to shul in two, three years. Temple," he added, in case Stanley didn't know the less familiar word.

He said it with such diffidence, Stanley thought he could more than likely give you the hours and minutes since he'd last been to temple, shul, if he chose. "Does that matter?"

David looked surprised and then thoughtful. "To my parents, it does. They're old school. Reform, but old school nevertheless."

Still seated, looking up at him, Stanley found himself seriously doubting whether the inmates at Bartholomew's would decline an opportunity to make whoopee with this handsome young demi-god for no reason but his Jewish inheritance. His undisciplined curls, raven black, spilled over his brow, nearly to his eyes, shockingly ice-blue; his oversized mouth was voluptuously shaped, and his skin had the sheen and the color of his Mediterranean roots; and, of course, beyond all that, he had the most excellent of cosmetics, his youth.

Pretty Jew boy indeed. Stanley felt an almost overwhelming urge to lean forward and put a hand on that nicely padded crotch. Only, he had the disconcerting feeling David would probably think of him as a dirty old man.

"I guess I'd better head to bed," David said. "I've got early shift tomorrow." He paused for a moment. "You know, when I think about it, about Bartholomew's. It isn't the sex thing that bothers me, honestly. It's just there's something here, I can't explain it and I don't know exactly what to call it, but it's like something festering, under the surface. Like a stink you can't quite smell but it irritates your nose just the same. Does that make any sense?"

Stanley grinned up at him. "You know, I think you may be more Jewish than you realize."

David looked genuinely puzzled. "Really? What makes you say that?"

"Oh, that's a Jewish kind of thinking, isn't it? Most young men would help themselves to the dessert tray and fret not at all over the rest of it."

David thought about that. "My mother," he said with a wry grin. "She's always looking for the worm in the apple, as she puts it. I suppose she's infected me."

"Mothers do." Stanley thought fleetingly of his own mother, who'd scarcely seemed aware, most of the time when he was growing up, that he was alive. Had her disinterest infected him, the way another mother's love might? The absence of love could be as powerful an influence as its presence, it seemed to him.

Despite the fact that he had been grumbling about her, David's affection for his mother shone through. And though he had never met her, her affection for her son was evident to Stanley, too. The realization made him feel oddly empty.

David yawned and stretched again. The belly button winked conspiratorially at Stanley. David gave Stanley an uncertain look. "Why are you looking at me like that? All funny like. Did I say something dumb?"

"I was just thinking about accidents," Stanley said, wondering that anyone so beautiful could possibly be so naïve. He was struck, not for the first time, by the discrepancy between reality and how people saw themselves.

Or, maybe he, Stanley, really was too old to seriously register with the young man as a possible sexual outlet.

Which was not the happiest of thoughts. He set his own wine glass aside and said quickly, abruptly, "Good night, David."

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Deadly Dreams excerpt by Victor J Banis

2011-07-25T07:00:00.004-04:00

In this excerpt from Deadly Dreams by Victor J Banis - #3 in the Deadly Mysteries series - Stanley’s sociopathic brother, Andrew, has Stanley and Tom come to rescue him. A painful past. A mysterious stranger. Footsteps vanishing in the fog. All Stanley wants is just to hear Tom say, "I love you." All Tom wants is Stanley safe. And the stranger? Ah, there's the rub--what exactly is it that he wants?

Be careful what you wish for, fellows. You may get it. Dreams can be deadly.

Deadly Dreams
MLR Press (April 24, 2009)
ISBN: 1608200388

Excerpt:

"Satisfied?" Andrew asked, smiling.

"I will be. When I see Stanley. Where is he?"

Andrew ignored the question, said instead, "You're wearing your piece, I suppose." Tom said nothing. "Of course you are. I can see the holster. Why don't you take the gun out of it, very carefully, and toss it on the floor in front of you, in my direction. And, before you resort to any heroics…that's propane in those tanks along the wall. A lot of propane, which is highly explosive, in case you didn't know. And this is what we call the igniter."

He splashed gasoline from the can, making a trail of it over to the metal stairs, leaving a pool of it to puddle around the propane canisters.

"A single shot is all it would take to ignite the gasoline. The gasoline, when it reaches the canisters, will set off the propane. You can imagine the result."

"This place will blow sky high."

"Exactly. At the moment, Stanley is very much incapacitated. He's behind that partition over there, sleeping like a baby. Don't do anything, please, to place him in jeopardy. He'd be very unlikely to survive the resultant holocaust."

Tom wasn't entirely sure about the threat, of a gunshot setting off the gasoline, but he wasn't confident enough in his doubts to want to risk it. Andrew solved that for him by taking a handful of matches from his pocket. One match would certainly do the job.

Tom reached under his jacket with his right hand, took the Sig by its handle and drew it gingerly from its holster. He weighed it in his hand for a moment, consideringly, and then tossed it in Andrew's direction. It ended up midway between the two of them, only a foot or so short of the metal stairs.

Andrew smiled approvingly. "Very good," he said. "Now, let me see. You must have a back up weapon. Where would that be, I wonder?" He looked Tom up and down. "The waist of your trousers, perhaps. Take off your jacket. Turn around. Well, that's not it, then. Let me see." He puzzled for a moment. "Your leg, I suppose. Pull up your trousers. Ah, there it is. I think we'll have that, too. Carefully, now." He struck on of the matches against the metal of the stairs. The little flame came and went, tiny, but it looked altogether enormous in the warehouse gloom. Tom sucked in his breath, half expecting the gasoline to ignite, but the flame was gone in an instant.

Helplessly, Tom bent down, took the twenty-two from his sock, and tossed it after the Sig, his mind racing. Stanley was behind that partition. So near and so far. How long would it take the gasoline to set off the propane canisters? And what did Andrew have planned, once he'd ignited the gasoline. Surely he didn't plan to stay around to die himself.

"Those stairs," he said aloud, glancing at them. "Your escape hatch? I don't imagine you're planning to stay around for the bonfire."

Andrew shrugged. "I don't see why you shouldn't know. Yes. The stairs will take me to the roof, and there's a catwalk to the warehouse next door. My car is there. When your rescuers arrive…oh, yes, I just suppose you've alerted Homeland to where we are—Mister Hannibal, isn't it? I’m sure they're on their way at this very moment, but they won't be in time, not to find me here. In another minute, I'm going up these stairs. I'll be driving off in the opposite direction even as they're rushing to the rescue."

"After you've killed me, of course."

"Yes, after that, of course. And it may surprise you to know that I regret that. I truly do. Stanley thinks so highly of you. But, I have no choice, do I? I have to kill you."

"You're going to kill Stanley, too." It was a statement, not a question.

"I love Stanley." Which skirted the issue, didn't it?

"You don't even know Stanley."

Andrew's eyes flashed, destroying the mask of calm he wore. "Fool! I know him better than you do. You only know his body. I know his blood. It's my blood, too, I run in his veins. Fuck him all you want, you'll never be in his heart the way I am."

"I'm in Stanley's heart too, in a way you'll never be."

"And he in yours? Tell me that you love him. You haven't said that yet."

Tom hesitated for a second, no more. "Stanley's heart is mine," he said.

Andrew gave a dry snort of laughter. "And Shelley's heart was Trelawney's, so he thought. I don't suppose you know that story?"

"This isn't the time…"

"Trelawney snatched Shelley's heart from his funeral pyre. He was fond of saying, later, that he had Shelley's heart, but Mary Shelley was just as fond of saying that Trelawney had only a dead organ, Shelley's heart was still hers."

"What are you trying to tell me? You're going to start a funeral fire for Stanley, and at the last minute, you're going to snatch his heart from it?"

Andrew smiled. "What an intriguing idea, that. I confess I hadn't thought of it. But, no, this fire will be quite a different sort, and I have places to go, things to do. I'll leave Stanley's heart to you."

"You bastard."

Andrew was saved from answering. Stanley's voice came weakly from beyond the screen in the corner: "Tom? Is that you?"

* * *

Stanley was dreaming. He was in some plague-infected city, London, perhaps, or maybe only a city of dreams. He heard the rumble of the death carts, the voice calling, "Bring out your dead…"

Then, suddenly, another voice superimposed itself, a voice that brought him back in an instant from the swirling, smothering darkness of his nightmares.

He opened his eyes, blinked. "Tom," he called, "is that you?"

* * *

Tom turned automatically, took a step in that direction—which saved his life, at least for the moment. Andrew fired his gun just as Tom turned. Andrew was a fairly good shot; if Stanley hadn't spoken, if Tom hadn't moved, Andrew would certainly have killed him with that one shot. Instead of the chest, right in the heart, the bullet caught Tom lower, off center. Tom staggered and fell, pain piercing his side where the bullet had entered. But not dead.

Andrew struck all of the matches in his hand and threw them at the trail of gasoline on the floor. He would have shot Tom again, intended to shoot him with a more careful aim, but the flames surprised him, leaped up faster, more violently than he had expected. The heat was instantly intense, growing rapidly worse and still worse. It felt as if any second his clothes might ignite spontaneously, or his hair, even.

He hesitated for only a heartbeat. Tom was wounded, perhaps mortally. In any case, it would take no more than a minute at the most for the gasoline to reach the pile of propane canisters, seconds more for the tanks to explode. Wounded, there was no way Tom would escape in time.

A living dog is better than a dead lion. The instinct for self-survival that had served Andrew so well in the past came to the fore. He fired one more shot, wildly, and made his own escape while he still could, bolting upward, the metal stairs clanging as he ran.

Already, the metal was hot to the touch. He ran harder.

* * *

Tom staggered to his knees. The fire was spreading rapidly, the flames racing across the open space. When it got to the propane tanks…

"Stanley," he shouted. High above, a door opened and banged shut. Smoke blew into Tom's face, making him cough. He made it to his feet, clutching at his side. Blood seeped through his fingers. He held his hand tight over the wound and lumbered toward the wooden screen. Banged into it, knocking it over with a crash.

Stanley was sitting on the edge of a cot, shaking his head groggily. "Tom," he said. "I heard a shot. I…"

"Get up," Tom ordered him, "we've got to get out of here."

Stanley's eyes went wide, tried to focus. "You're hurt."

"Just a scratch. Come on." He got Stanley to his feet, his arm around him. "No, save your breath, we'll talk later." Staggering feebly, Tom managed to get with him to the main part of the warehouse. Already, the room was an inferno, the flames lapping at the tanks of propane. Tom's gut was on fire, the smoke stinging his eyes and his lungs. His knees felt like jelly. Behind them, the wooden partition burst into flames with a small explosion, like a popgun going off. Tom could see the open door—a thousand miles away.

He suddenly knew he wouldn't make it. He could only hold Stanley back—and if he did, neither of them was going to escape.

"Run, Stanley," he said, shoving a hand hard at Stanley's back. "The door. Go, fast as you can. Don't worry, I’m right behind you."

For a second, Stanley hesitated. "Go," Tom bellowed, shoving harder, "God damn it, Stanley, do what I tell you. Run."

Stanley ran. The flames were a flickering curtain. He could see Tom's pick up through them, and the open door beyond that. He put his arms up over his face and ran through the blaze, past the truck, out the door…and found himself, astonishingly, in Edward Hannibal's arms.

"Easy," Hannibal said, brushing at the smoldering sleeve of Stanley's jacket, "We've got you. Take it easy."

Stanley's laugh was just short of hysterical. "My God," he said, "Did you ever see…Tom, look, it's Mister Hannibal, talk about Johnny-on-the-spot. Whoo-eee, talk about…"

He looked over his shoulder. Cars were parked everywhere, police cars and dark government sedans, and already in the distance he could hear sirens. People were milling about; it looked like an army of them, men in dark suits and men in black SFPD uniforms.

Only…he didn't see Tom among them.

The warehouse exploded suddenly, a blast so violent that it shook the ground like an earthquake. Great tongues of flame burst out the door and flung the glass from the windows, scorching the sparse grass that ran along the side of the alley, driving the people closest to it back, to take shelter behind the vehicles.

"Where's Tom?" Stanley demanded, of no one and everyone, his voice ascending. "Tom? Where are you?"

"Take it easy," Hannibal said again.

Stanley looked into his face, back at the fire now leaping skyward, and into Hannibal's face again. "He didn't make it?" Hannibal said nothing. He didn't need to. His expression said everything.

"Let me go." Stanley struggled with the arms that were suddenly tighter around him. "Tom's still in there. Damn you, let me go."

"Hold him," Hannibal said, and all at once there were more arms, it seemed dozens of them, holding Stanley back when he would have rushed into that conflagration. Would have rushed into Hell itself if Tom were there. Didn't they know that? Couldn't they understand?

Stanley fought against them furiously, cursing and kicking and punching, but there were too many of them and they were too strong. His strength failed him then, and he surrendered to the arms, felt someone lifting him off the ground, carrying him away from the fire.

"Tom." It was a scream of pain, of anguish. "Tom!"

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Haji’s Exile excerpt by Alan Chin

2011-07-18T07:00:00.001-04:00

Haji’s Exile, a short story by Alan Chin, is a bittersweet coming out tale that follows a young rancher training his new horse for a handicap race. Like many of his stories, it is a yarn of two different cultures coming together, teaching each other, supporting each other, and eventually loving each other.

Nathan has cared for horses all his life, but Haji is the first he’ll train on his own. When the Arabian stallion arrives at the Bitter Coffee ranch, Nathan thinks he is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. And then he lays eyes on Haji’s handler, Yousef. Nathan has much to learn about horses, about pride, and about love, but with the ranch’s hopes riding on Haji, he’ll also learn that all things have their price.

Haji's Exile
Dreamspinner Press (July 6, 2011)
978-1-61581-935-5

Excerpt:

To an owl or an eagle or even the lark, man must seem a rather pitiful and forlorn creature; he is condemned to crawl the earth alongside only two friends. The dog and the horse are the only exceptions to man’s universal unpopularity. Man points with pride at these two contrarians and naively believes that both are equally proud to call him friend. “Look at my two companions,” says man, “they are dumb, yet loyal.” I have always maintained that they are tolerant at best, and if man didn’t feed them, they would quickly join ranks with the majority.

I have nevertheless depended on the tolerance of horses and dogs since my childhood. I believe with all my fiber that until a man has loved an animal, a large part of his soul remains unawakened. Even now at my advanced age if I were deprived of the gratification of caring for either dog or horse, I would lose all that I hold dear. I should feel as adrift as a Muslim who had lost touch with Allah.

Horses in particular have been as much a part of my history as breathing. I define every phase of my life by which horse I owned then, or ones my father owned. Some were intelligent, some valiant, while others were rogues. None were alike. Some won the big handicap races and some won the smaller unimportant races. My family’s red and blue colors have swept past grandstands from Santa Anita to Bay Meadows. Some horses my father brought from the Eastern Seaboard, where old money and long bloodlines defined the sport. But one horse my father brought all the way from North Africa.

That stallion’s name was Haji.

When he came to the Bitter Coffee ranch, I was a straw-haired boy who had recently graduated high school, with a lanky body and wide, blue eyes. He was an Arabian stallion, part royalty and part desert whirlwind. I was awed by his self-possession, and I couldn’t help wondering what he thought of me.

He arrived at daybreak, descending the ramp from a two-horse trailer with the slow and dignified steps of Bonaparte in exile. With his head held high and nostrils flaring, he breathed the thin air of the Nevada high desert for the first time. Like me, he was a bit slender in the chest, but unlike me, he had strong legs as clean as limestone.

Sword Bearer, out of Cairo, had sired him, and noble blood flowed through his arrogant veins.

He was a sorrel, and his reddish coat gave off a golden sheen in the strong morning sunlight. Once his hooves stood on solid earth, his body shivered and his lungs let out a rush of air, as if letting me know he craved the freedom of open space again after being cramped in a ship’s hold and then in that trailer for so many thousands of miles. I heard a ring of certain gratitude in his undulant murmur.

Then I laid eyes on Haji’s handler. He had made the long voyage with the horse. The dawn’s rays lent his flowing white robes and tarboosh a shimmering orange-yellow hue, and I found myself momentarily stunned with a frozen gaze. Was it the splendor of the light reflecting off his flowing gown that dazzled me, or simply that this young man would wear a dress in broad daylight? Or could it have been his face, that porcelain-smooth skin the warm color of creamed coffee, accented by pitch-black eyebrows? His coloring was similar to the Mexican ranch hands who worked for my father and yet somehow softer. Whatever the cause, my compulsively chattering mind gave pause, and I was mentally whisked into a space of pure silence, broken only by the pulse beating at my temples.

My father walked to the thoroughbred and held the animal’s head steady, gazing into those large moist eyes. It was clear to me that the horse knew men. In his three short years, he had probably been around more men than his own kind, and from the bold stare he gave my father, I sensed that Haji understood that men were there to serve him, that we were his servants.

A tremor ran through the stallion, and he grew impatient. He shook his head free of my father’s grasp, bent the sleek bow of his neck, and kicked at the ground with a hoof. I instinctively knew that it was not that my father was a stranger but that Haji didn’t trust a man who did not smell of the earth. Even though my father owned a seven thousand acre ranch, he was a businessman and spent his time in his office or traveling.

My father stepped to the handler and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You must be Yousef. Welcome to the Bitter Coffee. Nathan will show you to your quarters. Come up to the house for breakfast after you’re settled.”

“Yousef,” I repeated in my head several times as I moved forward and grasped Haji’s halter. I felt foolishly happy at how the sound of it tumbled through my head. The stallion did not flinch at my touch, and as he took in my smell, he blew a snort into my straw-colored hair to warn me he felt nervous. I laughed, a low gentle sound which seemed to set him at ease.

The handler pulled a carpetbag from the horse trailer and stood beside me. As I glanced into Yousef’s cautious eyes, I inhaled his spicy fragrance, a mixture of horse and something else I could not identify, something vaguely like toasted sugar.

I tugged at the halter and both Haji and Yousef followed, flanking me all the way to the stables where I had already prepared the stallion’s stall. Haji stared straight ahead, glancing neither to one side or the other as if he were walking alone, like abdicated royalty, and we were merely servants trailing in his wake. He must have felt forlorn in this country of different sights and smells. It would be my job to manage him, and that included making him comfortable in this new environment. I felt much pride in that. Haji was my first horse to train. All my life I had cared for horses, learning their needs and habits, but always under the guidance of the foreman until now. Because of financial hardships, my father had let the foreman go. Haji was my responsibility, and Yousef would answer to me.

I could tell the stallion found the stall to his liking. The stable harbored a dozen other horses in a long row of stalls, but Haji’s quarters were separate from the others and twice as large.

Yousef seemed equally pleased with his own quarters next to the tack room, and though he didn’t say a word, he seemed surprised that he was given a room to himself. When he slid the tarboosh from his head, I realized he was much younger than I had first thought. I now guessed he was only a few years older than me, perhaps twenty, twenty-one at the most. And right then, he looked far more beautiful than moments before and seemed in desperate need of a friend.

I told him my name: Nathan. He repeated it twice and told me his name in broken English: Yousef Ruta. I knew then that it would be my job to teach him how to speak my language, which would be no small task. With hands waving and pointing to my own pants and shirt, I indicated he should change into more suitable work clothes and join me for breakfast at the house. It took several attempts, but he finally smiled and began to pull the white robe over his head. Much as I wanted to stay and see if the rest of his skin had the same warm coloring as his face, I turned and hurried out, giving him his privacy.

Later, after Yousef had changed into working clothes which included a shirt with flaps that hung to his knees and we had feasted on flapjacks, Yousef and I returned to Haji’s stall. While Yousef separated the good straw on the floor from the straw already soiled with urine and manure, I began to brush the stallion with clean, even strokes from mane to tail. As I worked, I felt anger rising within Haji, but I was not prepared when he bent his neck around and gripped my arm above the elbow with his teeth, biting down with enough force to make me yelp before flinging me against the wall.

I crumpled to the ground and lay in the trampled bedding for a moment, looking up into Yousef’s dark eyes. A wave of shame washed through me. I scrambled to my feet and marched to the tack room, selecting a riding crop that I had never needed before now.

I approached the stallion with a brush in one hand, the crop in the other. I spoke to him in soothing tones, telling him that he might have Sword Bearer’s blood, but I had a whip and I knew how to use it.

I began to brush him again while continuing to use soothing tones. But once more, I felt his anger swell. His hooves stomped, and his head turned with teeth bared. This time, however, I was expecting him. I struck his muzzle with the whip, hard and without mercy. I think he was more startled by the act than by the pain. The alchemy of his pride transformed the pain to rage that must have blinded him. He tried to bite again, and I struck his soft muzzle with all the force I could muster. He tried to whirl away from me but Yousef jumped to help and we held him firm. He reared upward, cutting the air with his hooves. Plunging, he felt my crop bite his muzzle again and again.

At that point, Yousef pushed me back toward the far wall and began to sooth the horse with caressing hands. The stallion slowly calmed under his touch.

When Haji became composed, Yousef lifted my brush from where it had fallen and began to brush Haji’s withers with a kind of intimate knowledge of how this horse wanted to be treated: that is, without any sense of possession.

I felt the sting of resentment, but then, more slowly, comprehension took its place.
Yousef waved me over. With him on one side of Haji and me on the other, I mimicked his strokes with my bare hands. The horse now accepted the soothing touch of my hands. Across the horse’s back, Yousef smiled at me in a way that made my stomach do a slow somersault.

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Short Circuits: A Life in Blogs excerpt by Dorien Grey

2011-07-11T07:00:00.001-04:00

In Short Circuits: A Life in Blogs (Volume I) by Lambda-nominated author Dorien Grey (The Dick Hardesty Mysteries, The Elliott Smith Mysteries) knows more than just how to write a great murder novel. He's also had amazing life experiences in the military and around the world. Here, for the first time, are the collected blog and journal writings of this prolific author. As Grey notes, "Sometimes things are more clearly seen through the eyes of others." The hope is that the reader will see similarities to his/her own life, and recognize the commonality of the human condition.

Short Circuits: A Life in Blogs (Volume I)
Untreed Reads (June, 2011)

Excerpt:

PUCK WAS RIGHT

I don’t know…it has to be a missing “comprehension” gene in my DNA. Other people glide so easily through life, fully aware and accepting of everything that goes on. They are never confused. They accept things which strike me as sheer idiocy at best or totally incomprehensible at worst. Shakespeare had it right when he had Puck say: “What fools these mortals be.” And Shakespeare lived long before the advent of cyberspace, the cell phone, and George W. Bush.

I am truly sincere when I say I simply cannot understand so many, many things. I see that Prince William may have broken up with his girlfriend, which apparently sent tsunamis of shock and deep concern across the face of the earth. And they have at last (oh, thank GOD!) determined the father of Anna Nicole Smith (...who?)’s baby. And Brad and Angelina are adopting their 45th third-world baby (apparently there are not enough orphans in the United States)! Singing and dancing in the streets!! And what about them Bears? Did you see last week’s Big Game? I mean, like, wow!!! But my question is always the same: how could anyone not a friend or relative of these people possibly, possibly care?

Canned cat food comes in gourmet flavors (“Sliced Roast Guinea Hen in a delicious Béarnaise sauce”), and people stand in line to shell out good money to buy it. They’re cats, people! They eat mice, for Pete’s sake! Do you really think they care? I recently saw a news item (I swear, it was a news item!) on people who pay $3,000 to have their cats painted in designer patterns and colors. Of course, the paint job only lasts a couple months, but it’s so...well, just precious!! And these people taking Fluffy in for a $3,000 touch-up may have to step over 20 homeless people to get to the paint shop, but who cares? And that is the Question of Questions: Who cares?

I have for the past three years been getting vital email messages from a number of people of whom I have never heard, let alone met, who apparently consider themselves my dear friends and therefore entitled to intrude themselves into my life. They are constantly informing me of astounding advances in medical science designed to improve my sex life (“Make your girl scream for more!” “We cure all disease!”). You’d think after three years of my hitting “Delete Spam” they might get the idea. If they don’t know by now I’m gay—perhaps they’re just in denial—and that I somehow doubt that they can cure a belch, I can’t help but question the true basis for our relationship.

Whenever I sign on to something on the net, I must approve the conditions of membership, which generally consist of a five-minute scroll down page after page of legalese to which I will be bound should I hit the “I Agree” button. I am considering starting a website and doing something similar, and slipping in a line somewhere: “I agree to give up my firstborn child or, having no children, to turn over the entire contents of my bank account (including savings accounts, CDs, IRAs, contents of any piggy banks in my possession, etc.).” Perhaps that is already in those “I Agree” contracts I’ve already signed. Who would know?

I do not comprehend why we are sheep. Why, when served cold food in a restaurant, we do not send it back? Why, when we are treated with utter contempt by some petty civil servant, we do not demand to speak to a supervisor then and there and, while doing so, demand the name and addresses of the supervisor’s supervisor? We are so often taken advantage of because we let ourselves be taken advantage of, and if that is the case, then we deserve what we get.

I have not run out of material for this subject, you can be sure…just out of space for now. I’ll be back.

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Women Gone Wylde excerpt by Beth Wylde

2011-07-04T07:00:00.001-04:00

An individual anthology of lesbian erotica, previously available only in e-book format. Beth Wylde is bringing to you her personal favorite sapphic encounters. From rough and ready rodeo cowbois to an adorable college neophyte's first time with a woman. An interesting trip to an adult toy store and a totally new way to get tattoed. These stories and more can be found between the covers of Beth Wylde's first full erotic anthology, Women Gone Wylde. Beth has packed her hottest lesbian erotica into these pages, together and in print for the first time ever. If you like your stories HOT and your women hotter, then this is one book you must have.

Women Gone Wylde
CreateSpace (May 17, 2011)
ISBN-10: 1461198089
ISBN-13: 978-1461198086

Excerpt from The Real Thing from Women Gone Wylde

I shoved my way inside the crowded coffee shop, ignoring the complaints of the customers waiting impatiently for their caffeine fix. There was only one thing in the store I wanted, and it didn't come in a tiny,Styrofoam cup.

My gaze roamed the store, a sudden shiver passing through me as my eyes landed on the curvy figure sitting at the back table all alone. My heart thudded in my chest and my panties grew wet. After six months of online foreplay my body was ready for the real thing. Judging by the look on my internet lover's face, she was entertaining the same thought.

Mandy jumped up and strode toward me, her lone coffee forgotten on the table. She leaned sideways as we embraced, her lips grazing the shell of one ear.

"Remember the first fantasy you told me about? The wild one?" I could only nod my head when she grabbed my hand. "I got us a room."

I'd known where we were headed the moment I agreed to meet her in person. Half a year of celibacy was about to end. My pussy was totally on board with the plan.

I let her tug me out of the shop, our steps fast and furious as we hurried to the motel down the street. It was naughty and insane and so illicit I was about to leave a wet spot in my jeans. "Oh God. We have to hurry." My knees felt weak.

Mandy put her arm around me and pulled a wornlooking keycard out of her purse. "I know. Me too."

We both started running down the hall. I nearly crashed into her when she stopped in front of door number fifteen. "This is it."

I grunted in reply as Mandy fought to get the bent-up passkey to work. If the real sex was half as good as the online version I'd be a well satisfied woman. I'd done and talked about things online with Mandy that I'd never spoken to another soul about. She knew all my deepest, darkest secrets. We were about to make fantasy number one come true now—hot sex in a seedy motel room.

There were plenty more kinky adventures on my to-do list but I couldn't think that far ahead. My brain had turned off the minute I'd laid eyes on her. My clit was doing the thinking for me and I was fine with that.

The light on the scanner had barely turned green when she pulled me inside. Mandy kicked the door shut with one foot and pushed me up against the wall. I felt the vibration of my back hitting the wood all the way down to my toes. Her urgency set my nerves to humming, ratcheting up the tension until I was ready to beg for her to touch me.

"Mandy, please!"

"Please what?" One hand strayed from its perch on my hip to the top of my jeans. She jerked the button open with a twist of her wrist. I couldn’t help groaning. The sound of my zipper parting seemed loud in the hushed confines of the room, overshadowed only by my harsh and heavy breathing.

"Are you wet for me?" Wet? I was fucking soaked. "Yes. I'm so turned on I can't stand it anymore. I need you." I'd never been able to orgasm without some type of physical stimulation but at the moment I thought it might actually be possible. "How bad do you need me?"

I sucked in a deep breath and fought to calm my racing pulse. My heart was beating so hard in my chest I worried she could hear it. "Bad, Mandy. Real bad. I need you to fuck me. I want to come screaming your name." My clit pulsed in time with my request.

Her hand pushed inside my jeans and the muscles in my stomach contracted. Her free hand started pulling my pants down as her fingers inched their way inside my panties. I moved my hips and spread my feet in encouragement. Her finger had barely touched my slit when she found the proof of my statement. "Good lord,you're drenched." Her fingertip tapped against my clit and I bucked, my ass banging hard against the door.

"Yes, I am, and we're both wearing too many clothes."

After that it was a race to see who could get undressed and get to the bed first. I beat her, but not by much.

"I rented the room for three hours," Mandy informed me while I was on my hands and knees, grappling to throw the wrinkled comforter off the bed. She grabbed me by the thighs and jerked me backwards. I squealed, the unexpected move catching me off guard. I felt the hard edge of something cold nudge against my opening. Before I could question what it was, Mandy pushed forward with one deep stroke and buried a ribbed vibrator deep inside my pussy. At the same time her mouth attached itself to my clit. I looked down between my legs, gasping as the combination of sight and feeling pushed me over the edge. I screamed, the orgasm catching me unaware. I clawed at the bedcovers and shook my way to ecstasy. My head fell down against the bed, my hands and knees shaking while I worked to slow my breathing.

Mandy pulled the toy out of my still spasming cunt, taking a moment to suck the juices off it before sliding her way up next to me on the bed. "Did you enjoy that?"

My reply came out breathy and hoarse. "God yes!" She kissed me and I tasted myself on her lips, but there was something else I wanted to taste more. "Now it's my turn."

I wrapped my arms around her waist, grinding my pelvis against hers in blatant mimicry of sex. Her eyes widened when I palmed first her left and then her right breast. I was busy working my tongue around one hard nipple when she threaded her hands into my hair and began to urge me lower.

I paused my oral explorations and grinned up at her. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Her sigh was full of frustration and pent up need as she tried to push my head past her navel. "Yes. You know there is."

I took a minute to dip my tongue into her delightfully deep bellybutton. "What do you want? I'm a bit busy." I chuckled against her skin and she broke out in goosebumps.

"Don't tease, Janie. I'm dying up here."

I took her plea to heart and positioned myself between her legs, staring at the feast before my eyes. I licked my lips and went straight for her core.

The cry she let loose was music to my ears. I was definitely going to add a few more hours onto the bill. Later on I planned to take her to my house where we could act out a few more of my fantasies and some of hers.

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Awake excerpts by Nancy Garden, Robin Reardon, Jordan Taylor & Brian Katcher

2011-06-27T07:00:00.000-04:00

Awake is a collection of four novellas: A girl trapped in a war between her school, her church, and her own family. A boy facing the pain of injustice and prejudice in the same rush as new love. A town shocked by the death of a young person, while one alone knows why. A loner fighting a losing battle inside, terrified by society, longing for respect.

Poignant, funny, tragic, uplifting. Awake brings together the voices of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender teens through four gifted authors, including Nancy Garden (author of the groundbreaking Annie on My Mind), Robin Reardon, Jordan Taylor and Brian Katcher. All have donated their time and talents to Awake and The Trevor Project.

The Trevor Project is the nation’s leading organization dedicated to ending suicide among LGBTQ youth. All net publisher proceeds from the sale of this book will benefit The Trevor Project.

Title: Awake
Editor: Tracey Pennington
Authors: Nancy Garden, Robin Reardon, Jordan Taylor, Brian Katcher
Publisher: Cheyenne Publishing
ISBN: 978-0-9828267-6-8

Excerpt from Worth Waiting For (by Nancy Garden)

The four of us try to stick together all day, although it’s not easy, since we don’t have many classes together. Bianca and Molly and I are all in the same enormous gym class. Molly and I are in English together, and I’m in math with Jackson.

Nothing very exciting happens until dismissal. As the four of us head out, I notice that the bulletin board in the main corridor has a bunch of sign-up sheets on it. One’s headed ACTIVITIES, which makes me think “GSA,” which in turn puts me into an annoying cold sweat. But I detour to it anyway, and Molly follows.

I skim down the list and there it is: Rainbow Gay-Straight Alliance, in big, bold letters. Under that it says, “For LGBTQ students and their straight allies.”

“Hmm.” Molly’s scanning the other sign-up sheets. “Lots of good stuff on the Arts list. I think I’ll try Sketching Club. I’m kind of weak in drawing.” She signs up for it, then turns to me. “How about you? Hey, look,” she adds, “Your friend Bianca Sokol’s signed up for the Gay-Straight Alliance.” She sounds surprised.

My mouth’s already turned so dry I’m not sure I’m going to be able to answer. “Yeah.” I clear my throat and try to look casual as I fish in my pack for a pencil. But I’m not sure I want to sign up while she’s watching.

“Wow,” Molly says softly. “Cool.”

I find, but don’t take out, the pencil. Coward, I scold myself silently. Why am I so nervous? It’s not as if Molly’s going to squeal to Mom.

“There was a GSA in my old school,” Molly says, like it’s just normal conversation. “They put on The Laramie Project last year. Lots of kids were in it.”

I nod. I make my fingers close around the pencil.

“You know, the play about the murder in Wyoming of that gay kid, Matthew Shepard? It’s really powerful.”

I nod again. “Were you—” I sputter as I’m trying to figure out how to stop my heart from beating so loudly. “Were you in it?”

“No.” She’s watching me really closely now, but maybe I’m imagining that. “I was on stage crew.”

I realize I’m rolling the pencil between my thumb and index finger. Coward, I scold myself again, and I take a deep breath.

“I’ve read The Laramie Project, but I’ve never seen it,” I say carefully. “That was a horrible thing, that murder.”

Molly nods. “That poor guy! What he went through must have been terrifying.” She glances back at the Arts list and erases her signature there. “Sketching Club’s the same time as the GSA,” she explains, “and I’d rather be in the GSA.”

Whoa! Does that mean anything, I wonder?

“Besides,” she’s saying, “at least I’ll already know someone else, since Bianca’s signed up.”

You have to understand that kids are weaving themselves around us on their way out to the buses, and some of them are trying to get to the sign-up sheets. Pretty soon we’ve been elbowed halfway to the doors, and Jackson’s rushing past us and saying “Come on, you two. Green Lake’s bus is honking!”

So I shove my way back into the crowd and, with what feels like half the school looking on, I put my name under Molly’s on the GSA sign-up sheet.

Excerpt from A Line in the Sand by Robin Reardon

Monday. And it’s sunny again, thank God. That means the parentals go golfing and I go to the beach. And so will handsome hunk, I’m hoping.

He’s already in the water before I get there, and I’m there pretty early. I’ve brought a lime-green beach towel to make it easier for him to spot me, and I choose an umbrella farther up the beach than yesterday, a little closer to the Marriott. Still, it’s maybe forty-five minutes before the wimpy waves carry him close enough for me to be sure he’s seen me. I’m staring right at him—no time to be coy—and he stares back so long that he nearly loses his board. He retrieves it and heads out again, but I can tell that even though the waves are pushing him down the beach a little, in my direction and away from the Marriott, he’s taking no pains to stay in front of the resort. In fact, it seems he’s allowing the waves to push him as directly toward me as possible.

Yes!

He’s pretending that he doesn’t care that I’m watching him, and since the waves aren’t providing a lot of surfing opportunities, he starts doing this thing near the edge of the water where he throws the board forward, sideways to the shore, and then jumps on it to see how long he can ride it. It’s like practice surfing, I guess. Anyway, I can tell he’s showing off, and that he wants me to notice him.

So now I drop the intensity of my stare, aiming at nonchalance but happy to project “mildly interested.” But he stays in the water instead of approaching me, so I jam in my earbuds, lie back, and close my eyes.

And then there’s sand all over me.

I sit up, scared, furious, and yank my shades off and my earbuds out. My gorgeous gay guy has just kicked sand at me! I’m about to yell “What the fuck?” at him when he laughs. But he’s not laughing at me. In fact, he’s holding a hand out.

“Come on. Wash it off in the ocean.”

He lets go of my hand as soon as I’m on my feet and races toward the water. I just stare after him, hands on hips, wanting to follow but not wanting to be told what to do. Who does he think he is, anyway? And what is he, still ten years old? If I wore my hair in pigtails, would he yank on them? I weigh my options and come up pretty empty on the point-of-pride side, so I walk slowly forward, doing my best to look sexy but not cheap (it’s a fine line), keeping my eyes on him. He looks toward me a few times, probably to make sure I’m following, but he spends most of his time underwater. Which makes me nervous. I like wading, even “wading” up to my shoulders, but I’m not a swimmer. Or a diver. I’ll have to keep my distance in case his list of pranks includes dunking people, and so I can make my escape with some dignity if this turns out to be a bad idea. I don’t even know this guy’s name, let alone whether he’s actually some jerk.

When I’m about twenty feet from him, he stops diving and just watches my face as I approach. With maybe six feet between us, I stop.

“Sand all gone?” he says.

I give him a glance, let a beat or three go by; I don’t want to seem eager. “The last guy who kicked sand on me paid a price.”

“Oh?” He spits out a bit of wave that throws itself into his mouth. “What price was that?”

There had been no price. But I don’t have to admit that. “Nothing you want to have to pay. That’s all I’ll say.”

The distance between us is shrinking, and not because I’m moving.

“My name’s Randy. What’s yours?”

“Dustin.”

“Glad to meet you, Dustin.” We bounce once or twice with passing waves. “Are you from South Carolina?”

“No. Georgia.”

He nods. “I guess the accents are the same.”

They’re not, but the nuance of southern speech is not where I want to go from here. “And you? Where’s home?”

“Chicago.”

“So we’re both here on vacation, it would seem.”

His grin makes me think he’s amused by me, somehow. “It would seem. In fact, I’m here with my parents. My sister is doing an internship for school, so she couldn’t come.”

So that must have been his mother with him Saturday, but I don’t want to ask; I don’t want to admit I was watching him that closely. Still trying to play it cool. “I’m here with my folks, too. They’re out golfing.”

“So’s my dad. D’you golf?”

I shake my head. “No. My father really wants me to, but it looks so boring.”

“I like it sometimes. Just not as much as my dad.”

We bounce with a few more waves. Then he asks, “D’you like to walk along the beach?”

My turn to look amused. “And getting caught in the rain. And moonlit nights. I’m into theatre and fashion, and I’m looking for a man with a great sense of humor.”
Maybe at some point in my life I’ll learn to think about what I say before I say it. I’m pretty sure he’s gay, based on the look he gave me the first time he approached—and the way he held his hand out to me after covering me with sand—but am I sure? Am I really, really sure? Because if I’m not, telling him I’m looking for a male romantic partner is a risk. It’s too late to take it back, though, so I decide to be philosophical; better to know now, right? Thank God, he laughs. His laugh is infectious, and I’m grinning despite my determination not to. He says, “Have you ever noticed that people think someone else has a great sense of humor when it’s exactly like their own?”

You know that line that goes, You had me at hello? Well, Randy has me at insightful. I say, “Good point. Shall we find out how similar ours are?”

He’s still grinning, but his eyes are intense. In a good way. I’m hoping someday he’ll be able to say, He had me at insinuating. I don’t say anything; I turn and head toward the shore, trying to make pushing through the waves look effortless and casual. He follows me, this time.

Excerpt from Shattered Diamonds by Jordan Taylor

Days become weeks while I tell no one about Jeremy. In a town of four thousand, I am the only one who knows why Jeremy Madden’s ashes are scattered over the lake, rather than the living Jeremy walking its shore.

It took time to learn what happened. Before, I only knew one side of the story. But that is not why I haven’t told. I tell myself he didn’t want them to know. I tell myself it’s over; there is nothing I can do. The truth—that tiny, precise spark which occasionally crosses my path—is that I do not know how to face his mother and say, “I killed your son.”

Tell me how. Show me how to look into the eyes of a stranger and justify death like a science experiment. I do not know where to begin. I cannot face death as Jeremy did—without looking back. I cannot look forward into the eyes of pain.

So I write this. Because I don’t know what else to do. But I have to do something.

+ + +

Jeremy moved to town with his mother and what fit in her ancient station wagon on an August day so hot the tar at the end of the driveway felt like melted mozzarella. Mom made chicken salad and homemade rolls bundled in a white kitchen towel.

“Come meet the new neighbors with me,” she called into the family room, where I had a game on.

“What new neighbors?”

“Down on Crescent.”

“That’s three blocks from us. They’re not our neighbors.”

“Everyone’s a neighbor to everyone here. Come on.”

“That’s okay. You go without me.”

It wasn’t until the first day of school, a week later, that I got a good look at Jeremy Madden. A pale, skinny kid, Jeremy slunk into class with a backpack so crammed with heavy books he appeared to be nearly tipping over. His baggy jeans had holes in the knees. His tennis shoes looked too tattered to last through the day. He was not the smallest guy in tenth grade, but he looked it—the way he hunched over, meeting no one’s eyes, as if trying to hide.

Nick and Logan followed me to our usual table at lunch. When we reached it, Jeremy Madden sat at one corner, alone, bent over a sandwich from home. A brown paper bag lay next to him on the table.

“Hey,” I snapped. He did not react as we approached. “Hey, new kid,” I said, louder. “Beat it. This is our table.”

Jeremy glanced up from his sandwich—two slices of dry bread with what looked like a single slice of bologna and mayonnaise between them. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “There wasn’t anywhere else to sit.”

“This isn’t a place to sit either, noob,” Nick said. “This table is reserved.”

Jeremy glanced around. “I don’t see a sign.”

I blinked and stared at him. “You don’t seem to understand how things work here, so we’ll be nice today. But if you don’t move—now—we might change our minds.”

Jeremy’s eyes flicked from one face to the next. I thought he would look scared. He should have looked scared. But Jeremy, his eyes like empty blue pools, stared at us, one after the other. At last, he stood with his lunch and walked away.

“Insolent little prick,” Nick said as he took his seat.

Logan sat across from him. I stepped to the table, but turned to watch Jeremy.

“What’s wrong?” Logan asked.

“Nothing.” I sat down.

“New guy’s living near you,” Nick said. “That old shack Ted Benson rents out. It’s a pit. Thought the fire department was going to practice on it.”

“Did you see his shoes?” Logan asked. “I’m surprised they can afford to rent a doghouse.”

“They can’t,” Nick said. “That’s why they’re living in Ted’s place.”

We all laughed.

Excerpt from Pervert by Brian Katcher

Carefully, carefully, he began to walk to the living room. It was difficult. If only he could try this more often, he could develop the grace in heels that seemed to come naturally to his mother and sister. As things stood, he could only practice once a month at best.

If I hadn’t been so concerned with balance, would I have heard her in time? He asked himself that in the months that followed. But he didn’t hear anything until it was too late. By the time he was aware of his sister’s voice, she was at the front door. He attempted to run, and stumbled. His sister was home early! And she was talking to someone! Twisting his ankle, he only regained his feet when the door opened.

His sister, thank God for small mercies, was talking distractedly on her cellular phone. At least she was alone. Maybe she won’t notice.

Holly stopped talking mid-sentence when she noticed her brother, standing there exposed in the living room, wearing their mother’s clothes.

After a moment, she laughed.

If the boy hadn’t been on the verge of tears, he might have noticed that it wasn’t a mocking laugh. It was the laugh of someone amused, as if Holly had caught him singing along with the radio. Shaking her head, his sister resumed her conversation and disappeared into her room.

The boy fell to the floor in his rush to remove the pumps. Within seconds, he was sitting on the bathroom floor, ripping off the blouse, kicking away the skirt, tearing off the lingerie. Fear and shame fought for his attention. HOLLY KNEW! She knew her brother was sick! How would she handle it? With hateful words and eternal scorn? With mocking cruelty? Or would she deny what she’d seen, pretend it hadn’t happened, but always know and always hate him? Would she…tell anyone?

He thought of running away…but where would he go? Maybe, maybe, he could control things. Tell his sister he’d just been…been what? Practicing for a play? Not likely. Trying on a Halloween costume, three months early? No. Curious? He might have to risk that. She’d still be disgusted, of course, but if he lied convincingly enough, maybe she’d think it was a one-time thing.

Tears began to dot the panties he’d discarded on the bathroom tile. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He had to face the music. Find out how low she thought he was. He pulled on his male clothes.

Timidly, his arm shaking with black horror, he knocked at her door. It swung open at his touch. His sister was dialing her cellular phone. How can she be making calls at a time like this? Unless…oh sweet Jesus, no!

“Hello, Jessica?” Jessica was her best friend. “You’ll never guess what I just saw…”

Only the effort to keep himself from vomiting prevented him from crying out. For a few seconds, all he could do was keep his gorge down. Why, why does she have to tell the world about me?

She continued on the phone. “Stephanie, you know her? She was kissing Cameron. Yes, Cynthia’s Cameron! No, she doesn’t know…” His sister looked up and saw him in the doorway. Making the ‘just a second’ motion with her two fingers, she continued gossiping.

At least…at least she wasn’t spreading the word. Then again, why would she? What girl would want her friends to know about her brother, the sicko?

His sister continued her inane chatter for several more minutes. He half-hoped the conversation would go on forever so he’d never face her, and half-hoped she’d hang up soon so as to end the agony. At long last, she rang off.

“Holly,” he choked, wondering where to begin. “About what you just saw…”

He never expected her to answer the way she did. Giving him a brief raspberry, she laughed. “Didn’t expect me home tonight, did ya? Now calm down. You were just messing around, don’t sweat it.”

Could he have been that lucky? Was she just blowing the whole episode off as an experiment?

“But…”

“C’mon. I bet every guy in the world has tried on a dress at least once, just to see how it feels. That is what you were doing, right?”

“Of course!” He prayed his relief wasn’t too obvious.

“So there you go. Hell, I’ve stuck a roll of socks down my panties to see what it’d look like. Everyone wonders. Now go hang up Mom’s clothes before she blames me.”

The boy returned to the bathroom. Turning on the tap full blast, he wept with relief.
That night he lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling until the sun peeked through his window. He had escaped. His sister had seen him and didn’t realize what he had been doing. She had thought he was simply satisfying his curiosity. She never suspected the dark, weird reason behind his actions. He had been so very fortunate.

As he finally drifted off to sleep with the dawn, he realized that his old companions, fear and shame, now had a new friend. One that was much more subtle, much more cunning and maybe even much crueler. Its name was hope. It was an emotion he’d never dared experience before.

http://cheyennepublishing.com/books/awake.html
The Trevor Project: http://www.thetrevorproject.org/

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Guardian Angel of South Beach excerpt by Neil Plakcy

2011-06-20T07:00:00.001-04:00

The Guardian Angel of South Beach by Neil Plakcy is about Leo, a computer programmer who believes that if he can build his body up, he’ll find the man of his dreams.

The Guardian Angel of South Beach
Loose-ID (August 24, 2010)
ISBN: 978-1-60737-854-9

Excerpt:

The two men walked out of the shower as I stood in front of a locker at the gym getting dressed. Both were naked, with white towels slung around their necks, their hair wet, droplets glistening on their toned bodies.

Ray, the blond, was the kind of man I liked -- at least six-four, broad shouldered, and muscular, with a flat stomach and an uncircumcised dick that looked like a fire hose. “I’m telling you, man, you’ve got to see this dude,” he said in a low voice.

The redhead, Lincoln, wasn’t quite so well endowed, either with muscles or genitalia. He was pale and slim, with a thatch of auburn hair running down his chest and into his groin. “I don’t know. It sounds kind of sketchy,” he said.

I’d seen both of them working out at my gym -- a place on South Beach that had been redone with snazzy graphics, lots of mirrors, and a slew of new machines. Ray was a power lifter, while Lincoln stuck to spinning and aerobics. Both were about my age, late twenties, and I’d heard Ray talk before about being a bouncer at one of the fancy clubs. Lincoln was a photographer’s assistant and sometime model.

Both of them were out of my league. I’m not bad looking; I’ve been told for years that I have a handsome face. But my body never carried through on the promise of my high cheekbones, dark eyes, and prominent chin. I strained to hear the two guys, who’d begun to get dressed just a few lockers away from me. “Just give it a try,” Ray said. “His name is Pedro, and he works out of an apartment over the bodega on Fourteenth Street.”

I knew the little Cuban grocery he meant; it was on my way home from the gym, and I often stopped there for fresh fruit for smoothies. “These pills he gives you,” Ray continued. “They make you bigger. Everywhere.”

His gaze went down to his crotch as he pulled on minuscule bikini briefs, and mine followed. His equipment was awesome, and if I could have, I’d have dropped to my knees and taken him in my mouth right there in the locker room. But I’m the scrawny kind of guy that those buffed dudes never give a second look to.

It was tough living on South Beach, where every guy was more handsome, hunkier, and sexier than the next. I didn’t have the time for hours in the gym, and I ate too much fast food to keep my weight down. I had skinny arms and legs, a paunchy stomach, and a dick on the small side of average. Every other man around me was model handsome, leaving me in the second, sometimes even third, tier when it came to man candy.

Sure, I got laid now and then -- late on a Saturday night, when standards dropped faster than the ball on New Year’s Eve. But I couldn’t attract the kind of men I wanted -- men like Ray, a hunk of prime beef with thighs like tree trunks, washboard abs, and a dick of death.

I’d turned twenty-eight a few weeks before and felt ready for a change. I liked my job as a software engineer for a firm in downtown Miami. But my social life was in the doldrums. I just couldn’t compete with the younger, better-built guys who crowded the clubs.

On my way home from the gym, I passed by the bodega. I gathered up some bananas, strawberries, and mangoes, and a pineapple. The woman behind the counter stuffed them all in a cheap plastic bag, and I handed her the money. As I was walking out, though, I saw the staircase that led to the second floor.

“Pedro,” Ray had said. He must have been peddling some kind of illegal steroids to beef up Ray so much. But every steroid I’d heard of lessened your sexual desire. I’d never heard of one that made your dick bigger. Then again, there were all these strange South American herbs, pills coming out of Brazil, Colombian potions, and Venezuelan tonics. What did I have to lose?

I climbed the stairs. The door at the top was open, and when I looked inside, I saw a small, wizened man in a stained white guayabera. The hair on his head was sparse, and his nose was too big for his face. “Sí?” he asked.

My Spanish is rudimentary, at best. I can ask for a cerveza and an enchilada, and that’s about it. I started to ask, then simply flexed my pitiful biceps. “Ah, sí,” the man said. He looked me up and down, then waved his hand, indicating that I should close the door behind me. I did. Then he pantomimed taking off my shirt.

We were in some kind of sitting room, a ratty couch along one wall, a small TV, a couple of chairs, some big pillows laid out on the floor. The walls were papered with cutouts from fitness magazines, beefy guys flexing and posing. There was salsa music playing low in the background, and I smelled garlic. I wondered what kind of operation Pedro was running.

But I figured what the hell, he probably needed to see the muscles I was starting with. I pulled my shirt off, embarrassed to have so little to show for all my work in the gym. But the old guy didn’t say anything, just appraised my chest and nodded. Then he motioned for me to unzip.

When I hesitated, he waved his hand again, like he didn’t have all day. Old guy sitting up there by himself, and it was like I was taking up his time. I frowned, but I opened my shorts and let them fall to the floor. “El miembro viril,” he said, pointing.

I’ve lived in Miami long enough to know what that meant. He wanted to see my dick.

I remembered Ray, how he’d said whatever this little man did had made his dick bigger. I skinned my briefs down, then stepped out of them and my shorts. I couldn’t have been more embarrassed. My dick was half-hard, dangling to the right, and the man looked me up and down.

Then he motioned that I should dress again, and he turned to his table. While I pulled my clothes back on, he busied himself with a batch of pills. He used an old-fashioned mortar and pestle to grind some things together and then poured it all out onto a piece of paper. He decanted the contents of the paper into a series of little capsules and sealed them together with some kind of liquid that melted the edges.

When he was all done, there were fourteen capsules there. “Cuánto?” I asked, pulling out my wallet.

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “No dinero.”

He stood up and unzipped his pants. My mouth dropped open when I saw the trouser snake he’d been hiding. It was every bit as large as Ray’s, though it seemed larger because the man himself was so small.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. I wasn’t some stupid slut who’d fuck a guy just for some magic pills. I started to back away, but as I watched, the dick in front of me stiffened and jutted away from the old man’s groin. His loins may have been saggy and wrinkled, the pubic hairs going gray, but that dick was a work of art.

Against my will, I went down on my knees -- just to get a better look at it. Pedro’s dick was pinkish purple, with a circumcised mushroom head and darker purple veins. A tiny thread of precum dripped out of the piss slit. I looked up at the old man’s face, and he smiled.

My mouth was salivating, and my dick was as stiff as a rod in my shorts. There was no way I was getting up and walking away. I licked my lips and opened my mouth.

I didn’t think I could get the whole length of it down my throat without choking myself. I began by licking my way around the head, then sucking the dick in, inch by inch. I hoped by the time I reached the old man’s age, my dick would still be as firm as his -- it resisted all the pressure I placed on it as I sealed my lips and began moving up and down.

The old man’s crotch smelled like chlorine, as if he’d just come from a swimming session. I reached around and grabbed his skinny butt and went farther and farther down on his dick. I’ve never been into old guys, but Pedro was something else. I was making myself crazy trying to get him all the way down my throat, pushing my face into his pubes.

Then he pulled out of my mouth. A thin strand of spit or precum dangled from the tip of his dick as he motioned for me to turn around.

“Oh no,” I said. “You’re too big. Mucho grande.”

He smiled, then reached over to the table for a condom. As he ripped the cover off, I felt my ass muscles contract, and I knew I was done for.

For the second time, I pulled down my shorts and my briefs. Pedro pushed his pants off and lay down on the cushions on the floor. His dick -- covered with a lurid green rubber -- stood straight up from his pale white thighs. “Venga, venga,” he said, motioning to me.

I positioned myself over him and started to slide down over him. My ass was already relaxed from the dick sucking and the anticipation, and the tip of his dick slid right in. There was some pain as he breached my anal ring, but the pull of gravity drew me down. I guess my thighs weren’t as strong as I thought.

Pedro was inside me, my butt resting on his thighs, and I felt so much pressure and pleasure that I could barely breathe. I began moving up and down on his pole, feeling him slide against the walls of my ass, and it was like an out-of-body experience. I’d never been fucked so well.

He had amazing stamina too. I rocked back and forth on his dick for at least fifteen or twenty minutes, until he spasmed beneath me and I felt his hot cum shoot up into the condom’s reservoir tip. I came then too, without ever touching my dick, shooting a load right onto his yellowing guayabera. I wondered if that color came from all the cum that had been shot on him.

I stood up, and his dick plopped out of me with a squishy noise. He had a beatific smile on his face. He motioned toward the table, where the capsules sat, and said, “Cerra la puerta, por favor.”

I could barely stand after that assault on my ass, but I managed to struggle into my shorts. I stuffed my briefs into my pocket, then closed the door on my way out the way the old man had asked. I couldn’t wait to get home and try the pills. Would they give me a dick as big as his? Would they beef up my body like Ray’s?

And how soon could I come back for more of Pedro’s amazing dick?

Character-driven stories of handsome, sexy gay men in love and danger
www.mahubooks.com
http://www.facebook.com/neil.plakcy

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Queers of Central Park excerpt by Mykola Dementiuk

2011-06-13T07:00:00.001-04:00

In Queers of Central Park, Mykola Dementiuk describes a walk in Central Park … ah, the chirping birds, the thick trees, the ready easy sex. Now who would want to leave that, not a hard-up person, that’s for sure.

Queers of Central Park
Extasy Books (March 1, 2011)
ISBN: 978-1-55487-818-5

Excerpt:

I puffed on some cigarettes and nervously gazed at the men stealthily entering the park, undecided of whether I should run from the shadows I was seeing or boldly go after them. Then I saw him, a man slowly approaching and pausing near the end of my bench. I smiled at him. He moved closer. After a few words, I was rather grateful we’d be going to his place rather than the eerie Bramble. Still I had never followed a man to his home before and I was a bit frightened. He nodded his head and stood up. I was right beside him, but he panicked, quickly looking around.

“Are you crazy?” he hissed, looking to his left and right. “Someone could be watching. Police are everywhere.” He stood a moment looking at me, then said, “Wait till I cross the avenue, then come after me.”

I sat back down and looked after him as he edged away to the other side of the avenue. At the corner, he stopped and lit a cigarette, looking in my direction. I stood up also lighting a cigarette, slowly going after him down 70th Street. Somewhere, mid-block, I saw him entering a building beneath a stairway. I looked around and noticed no one was behind me. I quickly walked to the doorway he was standing in, awaiting me. He let me in through the door and, in the lit hallway, instantly panicked.

“How old are you?” He scowled. “You look like a kid.”

“Eighteen,” I nervously responded, “but will be nineteen in two weeks.” I stared at him in the lit, lower level hallway.

He stared back at me. “And you’ve done this before, in a man’s house?” He was biting his lower lip. “You look very young.”

“I’m almost nineteen,” I said, reaching for my wallet under my raincoat.

“You wanna see my proof?” I held the draft card out to him.

He studied my face, glanced at the draft care, and said, “No, no, that’s alright.”

I followed him into a below street-level apartment. Flimsy locks, I thought, but shook my head, as he shut the door behind me.

An unmade bed, a couch, a table, and a tiny kitchenette were all in that place. It looked like a one-room apartment with covered windows, which faced the street—and countless paperbacks scattered about the room.

“Get undressed,” he ordered, his voice somewhat shaky, but a look of worried thoughtfulness about him.

I nervously removed my shirt, pants, socks, and underwear and lay down on the bed, holding and gently massaging my stiff erect penis. He moved about, and reaching for the table lamp, clicked the light off. A thin stream of streetlights shone about the covered windows. I lay in the darkness, slowly stroking myself and waiting.

What do two naked men in bed do with each other? I wondered, though in a little while, I’d find out, that’s for sure.

http://www.MykolaDementiuk.com
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