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Hard Hats: Gay Erotic Stories excerpts edited by Neil Plakcy


I spent five years working as a project manager on various shopping center construction sites, and the hard-working, hard-bodied guys I saw around me every day were the subject of some of my most intense fantasies. From the shirtless carpenters to the beefy laborers, there was plenty of guy candy.

Here are a couple of pieces from Hard Hats: Gay Erotic Stories by Neil Plakcy (Editor), just to whet your appetite!

Hard Hats: Gay Erotic Stories
Cleis Press (March 18, 200 8)
ISBN-10: 1573443123

Excerpts:

from Demo Dogs by Dale Chase

The guy driving this massive yellow belching beast wears a short-sleeved chambray shirt which looks about to burst at the seams. Beneath his white hard had he’s deeply tanned. Even at this distance I can spot a chiseled jaw and rugged good looks. As his dozer chews into the old house with slow, persistent attacks I think of him doing that to me, knowing there’s gotta be a fat dick in those jeans. After awhile when the porch overhang has collapsed, he backs up, pauses, and looks my way. Still at the deck railing, I wave. He nods, then goes back to work.

Others drive Bobcats and clear the rubble he creates. Some glance my way but when they stop for what appears to be a morning break, the dozer dude comes up the path.

“You like to watch,” he says.

“Like to do more than that,” I reply because my dick is hard and I can see he’s interested. “Why don’t you come inside,” I suggest.

He nods, rubs his bulging crotch.

from Hazard Pay-Off by Landon Dixon

Blake was in his mid-twenties, muscular all over from lifting and planting and stamping pavers for a living, with short black hair and warm brown eyes. He filled his faded jeans tight and taut, round in all the right places, his cheeks looking hard as the stones he was setting down. And since it was so hot, the work so heavy, he had his shirt off, his chiseled torso gleaming smooth and pumped in the sunshine. The guy was actually a good half-foot shorter than I was, but then I’m a carrot-topped beanpole.

I ogled my boss’s rock-hard, glistening body constantly, my mouth hanging open and eating dust, craving to lick the salty sweat from his muscle-humped chest and rigid nipples. I strangled the handles on the dolly, yearning to finger the soft, perspiration-slick crack of his apple ass. And what with all my sweating and drooling, I was soon parched with thirst.

from Daniel in the Lyons Den by Neil Plakcy

Joe Lyons was so near I could smell the tobacco on his breath, and a faint trace of his cologne. Leaning over me to point something out, his face was so close I could have kissed him.

And gotten my ass kicked, I was sure. Joe Lyons exuded a sexy machismo, and I knew from the ribbing he got around the site that he was quite a cocksman. The ladies were allegedly lined up for a piece of his sausage.

And speaking of that, I looked down at his thighs and saw his meat outlined against the taut fabric of his jeans. It had to be eight inches long, thick as a salami. It made me even more nervous to squat there next to him, and I lost my balance, almost tumbling into the ditch in front of us.

He reached out and grabbed my arm, and I fell back against him. For a moment, he held his arm around my shoulder, and I nearly melted under the strength of his grip.

“You all right, peckerhead?” he asked.

“You bet,” I said, standing up.

from Constructional Voodoo by Logan Zachary

My eyes followed the drop of sweat as it rolled down the hairy chest that stood in front of me. The tight blue jeans absorbed it quickly in the summer’s heat. The huge bulge strained against the zipper and seemed to swell. I forced my gaze up into the eyes of the man at my front door.

“As you can see, we’re digging up the street in front of your house.” The man stepped to the side so I could see the road. His red shirt hung open all the way down to his furry belly button.

An innie.

“You may want to store some water, in case we need to flush the hydrants.”

I forced my eyes back up to his face.

He turned, and our eyes finally meet.

Deep blue. I wanted to dive in.

No words were forming in my mind or my mouth. All I could manage was a nod.

“Just thought I’d let you know.” The man took out a white handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. He turned and tried to stick it into his back pocket as he walked down the porch stairs. The handkerchief missed, slipped out of his pocket, and landed on the top step.

from Ball Bearings by Rob Rosen

I walked further into my new home, into what would be my bedroom. The flooring boards were stacked to one side, perhaps two feet high. I placed one foot on the stack and squatted down several inches, pulling on my hefty balls as I did so, and still slowly working my seven, upturned inches, occasionally pulling down on the clamps, each time moaning as I did so.

Luckily for me, the clamps weren’t the only things the workers had left behind. On the end of the pile of wood sat a finishing hammer, its base as wide as my prick, as phallic an instrument as ever there was one. With my cock and balls and nips getting stimulated, why not my asshole, I figured.

I reached over and grabbed it, then looked around for some sort of lube. My answer lay in the almost finished master bathroom. On the sink sat a small tub of grease remover, the jar open, its white, gloppy filling beckoning me.

I dipped my hand inside, engulfing three of my fingers in the slick goop. The trio quickly found their way to their intended goal, gliding around and then slowly inside my puckered hole, lubing it up, stretching it out, getting it ready for the object that now rested on the soon to be installed toilet.

Once my asshole was adequately prepped, I spread a layer of the lube up and down my shaft, then reached for the hammer, also slicking it up before placing the wooden base flush against my hole. It was a unique way to christen my new home, and a welcome one at that.

The solid wood slid in and up and back, sending a shiver down my spine and a flush through my stomach. My asshole clenched then gave in to the pressure of the unbending tool. My cock thickened and instantly became slick with precome. I sighed, and slowly, rhythmically, fucked myself with the end of the hammer.

I was too preoccupied, or too far in the belly of my home, to hear the approaching footsteps, but I did, however, hear this: “Um, I think that’s my hammer you’ve got there.”

I froze, with half the tool buried inside of me, and my hand gripped tightly around my dick. My eyes, which had been shut tight in rapture, suddenly blinked open.

A man in denim shorts and a tight, white tank was staring at me, grinning as he stood there, arms akimbo. He was tall, lean, ruggedly handsome and, much to my relief, amused at my present state.

http://www.mahubooks.com/

Man, Oh Man: Writing M/M Fiction for Kinks and Ca$h excerpt by Josh Lanyon

Hello, I’m Josh Lanyon. I write gay or M/M romance usually within the context of a romantic-suspense or mystery romance. I’ve been writing and publishing M/M or gay fiction for over a decade; in fact, MLR Press has just released my How To book titled Man, Oh Man: Writing M/M Fiction for Kinks and Ca$h. This morning I thought I’d share a brief excerpt from the chapter on writing that ever popular staple of M/M romance: Angst.

Man, Oh Man: Writing M/M Fiction for Kinks and Ca$h
MLR Press (March 22, 200 8)
ISBN: 1934531308

Excerpt:

Angst is closely aligned to another vastly popular element in M/M fiction known as Hurt/Comfort or HC. If your protagonist is critically injured and languishing in hospital, and his boyfriend is out of town on a secret mission, the hurt/comfort quotient drops, but the angst quotient skyrockets. See how that works?

Of course hurt/comfort and angst are not exclusive by any means to M/M fiction. Most romantic fiction is rife with the emotional highs and lows that result from pain and plenty of it. And like hurt/comfort, angst is a staple of slash fan fiction – which is where a great many M/M writers come from. As you can imagine all those serious illnesses, critical injuries, nervous breakdowns, rapes, betrayals, addictions, kidnappings, stalkings, deaths in the family, broken dreams, shattered hopes and really really REALLY bad days lead to a certain amount of tension. Even anxiety.

Angst is actually a Germanic word meaning “anxiety.” The Danish philosopher and theologian Kierkegaard, used the term angst to express his belief that the human condition was riddled with despair. He wrote a philosophical novel called Fear and Trembling. What does that tell you?

Typically we associate angst with adolescence. Few people are better at suffering loudly and noticeably than teenagers. It’s an art form with them, and you have to respect that.

Acne and existential quandaries aside, angst is also a very important ingredient in M/M fiction. Well, not all M/M fiction. Romantic comedy and action/adventure are mercifully angst-free for the most part, but any time your characters are suffering over their conflicted feelings — generally for each other — they are usually angsting.

Please note: if they’re just depressed and insecure, that’s not angst. Angst requires serious suffering. Breaking up with your boyfriend is sad. Your boyfriend dying is tragic. Finding out after your boyfriend dies that he was seeing someone else — now that’s angst.

Death, disease, disaster — this is all angstilicious stuff. High drama is what separates true angst from the anxiety normal to the human condition.

Historical M/M lends itself particularly well to angst. It’s the whole, love-that-dare-not- speak-its-name thing. In my World War II historical novella Snowball in Hell, Journalist Nathan Doyle has just returned home from North Africa — still recovering from wounds received in the Western Desert Campaign — when he’s asked to cover the murder of a society blackmailer. Lt. Matthew Spain of the LAPD homicide squad is the cop in charge of investigating the blackmailer’s murder – and he has his own secrets.

He could feel Mathew’s withdrawal, although each time their eyes met, Mathew smiled fleetingly, and the knowledge of what they had shared was in his eyes. In Union Station, things happened very quickly, and they were out front on the pavement while the never-ending flood of passengers and friends and family parted around them.

Nathan said, “Can I drop you somewhere?”

“There’s a car coming for me,” Matt said.

Nathan nodded. He knew he shouldn’t ask, already knew what the answer had to be, but he asked anyway. “Will I see you again?”

Matt said brusquely, “I’m not leaving town.”

And that pretty much answered Nathan’s question. He nodded, turning away, and Matt caught his arm. He immediately let him go, and said quietly, painfully, “It’s not that I don’t—I’m a cop, Nathan. It’s…too dangerous.”

Nathan nodded. Smiled suddenly. “I know. Nice to have had a taste of…what it could be like. That’s more than I ever thought I’d have.”

Matt’s face twisted as though Nathan had said something terrible, and Nathan wanted to reach out and reassure him that he meant it, meant every word. That he was truly grateful for these few hours, that it was the best Christmas ever. He had no regrets at all, despite the fact that he wished he hadn’t woken up this morning, that perfect happiness would have been to have gone to sleep in Matt’s arms and never opened his eyes again. But of course he couldn’t say that, and he couldn’t reach out. He could never touch Matt again.

Instead he said softly, “Take care of yourself, Mathew.”
[Snowball in Hell by Josh Lanyon (Aspen Mountain Press)]

Yaoi is also angstful: all those giant cartoon eyes veritably brim with grief at the human condition — mostly their own.

Wondering if the object of your affections feels the same is not technically angst — unless you’re under 18. Having a closeted lover, however, is generally grounds for angst.

Because I have a weird sense of humor, the more angstful the story, the more likely I am to find it funny. I guess someone left a banana peel on my pain threshold. Anyway, my advice is that you use angst sparingly. Less is more. Heaping coals on your hapless character’s head in chapter after chapter just reminds me of those sappy Victorian novels where the noble and long-suffering hero (or heroine) endures tragedy after tragedy only to die with a brave smile and an angelic sentiment upon his rosebud lips after saving a child from the wheels of a train.

In my opinion the more angsty the journey, the more life-affirming and reassuring the happy ending should be — but that’s just me. I’m in favor of happy endings from a purely philosophical standpoint.

Sometimes angst is its own reward — some protagonists do suffer beautifully — but generally it requires comforting. Ideally from the other protagonist. You can see what a vicious cycle this could turn into. It’s enough to make a grown man cry.

http://www.joshlanyon.com

The Three Miracles of Santos Socorro by Sarah Black


The following, an excerpt from The Three Miracles of Santos Socorro by Sarah Black, is about several of her favorite things: tamales,Christmas, masks, and a couple of forty year old guys standing at a crossroads.

The Three Miracles of Santos Socorro
Loose ID (December, 2007)
ISBN: 978-1-59632-586-9

Excerpt

Emma reached for the door and held it open when she saw him fumbling
with the lock. “Mr. Green, what happened? You’re bleeding!”

“I just skinned my knee,” Abraham said, holding a piece of telfa to
the spot and hobbling in the door. “I can’t get a Band-aid to stick.”

Emma blinked down at his knee. “Maybe you should, you know, shave or
something. Use the scissors and trim a bit. Because you’re really,
you know…” Her voice trailed off.

“Hairy. Yes, I know.”

Emma was such a lovely golden cheerleader princess, with a smile
that must have put her orthodontist in a new Jaguar. But it was all
a mask, a disguise of her true self. When Abraham had first
interviewed Emma for the position of sales clerk at Aztec Gold, his
upscale chocolateria, she had been wearing black lipstick, a dog
collar with spikes around her tender ivory throat, and was going by
the name `Diablo.’

She told him she was a theater major at San Antonio State, and he
convinced her to assume the role of a perky WASP princess and sell
chocolates for him in the mornings, with the understanding that it
was only acting. Her performance was flawless. So flawless, in fact,
he suspected Diablo’s blonde pageboy and Peter Pan collars and Navy
blue pleated skirts were a Catholic school disguise she had only
recently shed.

“I’ll go along with this,” she said, “but any sicko motherfucker
with gray hair thinks I’m Lolita and tries to cop a feel, he’s gonna
get some Aztec Gold shoved up his ass.”

“Agreed,” Abraham said. “Actually, I don’t see this role appealing
to the weirdo Daddy crowd. I’m picturing it more in the role of the
lovely and virginal daughter and granddaughter. Most of our
customers are, you know, well-to-do women. Society women. I want you
to pretend to be the good granddaughter they all want, the one with
perfect manners who listens to them, so they will come in here and
drop a fortune on our chocolate.”

Diablo nibbled on her bottom lip. “I can do that. See, if I wanted
to appeal to the Daddy crowd, I would let one of my knee socks fall
down. They like that. It drives grandmothers crazy, though.

Grandmothers don’t like messy. They like tidy knee socks. Okay, good
direction, Mr. Green.”

And when Abraham saw her next, shining cap of gold hair, strawberry
lip gloss and a couple of ginger freckles on her nose and a very
slightly wilted violet pinned to her white blouse, he knew she had
embraced the role. Abraham had been right, too. More times than he
could count elegant matrons congratulated him on finding such a
charming young lady to help in the shop. So respectful! Such
excellent manners!

Saturday nights Diablo re-emerged, but by Monday morning all the
black nail polish, fake blood, and ripped fishnets were safely
hidden away again, and Emma was on the job.

“So what happened to your knee?”

“I skinned it playing basketball. Got anything planned for tonight?”

“Yeah, Blood Rave at The Grotto.” She saw his look. “It’s like our
Christmas party.” Her face was suddenly gleeful. “I think we’re
gonna do a fake virgin sacrifice. Cool, huh? I’m pretty sure I’m a
shoe-in for the virgin.”

“Diablo, this is entirely safe, isn’t it? I hear about these raves,
date-rape drugs and girls getting hurt. Now virgin sacrifice?”

She waved this away. Her nails were buffed and very clean. “It’s
theater, drama. Role-playing. You know, since the time of the Greeks
altars and great drama have gone together like cheeseburgers and
fries. How about you, Mr. Green? Got any plans?”

Abraham shook his head. “I’ve got to go help Santos’ grandmother
make tamales.”

The swinging doors to the kitchen flew open. “Oh, no, you’re not
making tamales tonight. You’ve got a date!”

The kitchen smelled like dark chocolate, cinnamon, coffee, vanilla,
and normally these smells, and the sight of his beautiful kitchen,
copper bowls, white marble counters, handsome Latin chocolatiers in
spotless uniforms, was enough to cause him to swallow his irritation
with David’s latest scheme to fix he and Santos up in a threesome.
No matter how many times he’d told David they were happy, David
thought `happy’ was a synonym for `boring’, and they would become
sexually stale without the addition of a third or some stout ropes
or a can of foaming mint lube.

“Don’t tell me you’ve rousted up another one of those strange `gay
bears.’ That last guy must have weighed three hundred pounds and he
was significantly more interested in the Death by Chocolate cake
than anything else. He could have crushed Santos to death with no
problem.”

David shrugged an elegant shoulder and reached into the Sub-Zero for
the eggs. “We have the tea menu yet?”

Abraham pointed silently at the menu, posted at 0530 this morning,
as it was every morning, before he had headed to the gym for his
usual morning B-Ball game.

“Oh, right. Well, what happened was I went to this mask-making
workshop with Diablo, and I met these frisky boys and they had a
branch, like, a gay mask-making club.”

“A gay mask-making club in San Antonio?”

“Oh, yeah. The underworld is a rich and beautiful culture, bro.”

Manuel nodded from the dried fruit table. He was dipping golden
pieces of pineapple in the ganache. “That’s true, boss. Culture,
it’s not what they talk about, like there’s a dominant culture and a
non-dominant culture. It has layers, like the layers of a…of a…”

“Of a truffle!” David offered this like a gift, but Manuel shook his
head.

“More like a tiramisu.”

Abraham studied them as if they were recently arrived from another
planet. “Sociology in the kitchen? Interesting. But I said no to the
blind date. Me and Santos are fine, for the millionth time. We don’t
want to have sex with strangers or bears or anything involving
lashes with a little whip.”

“Wait, wait! You haven’t heard the best part!”

Oh, God. Abraham pulled an apron on over his head and took a copper
bowl from the shelf. David was gearing up for some serious
storytelling. This might take till Christmas. Meringues would be
nice for tea. He started separating eggs, good for the concentration.

“So we were exploring mask-wearing as a metaphor for identity
formation, and I noticed this one guy.”

Abraham studied his little brother. He could not possible be related
to this fey, gorgeous boy, such a bull-shitter, eyes like sweet milk
chocolate and the wheedling voice of a carny huckster. “What was
wrong with him?”

“Nothing! It was just, he didn’t really fit in with the group. I
mean, he wasn’t really into the dynamics of the whole group sex…
thing.”

A clear point in his favor, Abraham thought. “Group sex thing? Could
we discuss your personal safety for a moment?”

“He was into the masks, though, and had done a careful study of
masks of several cultures. And, you know, he wanted to talk about
them. In truth, Abraham, I was interested, but some of the other
guys, they kind of ignored him. I think he was hoping for something
else from the club, like something a little more intellectual.”

“The other guys were too busy fitting on their cock-rings and
harnesses for a little pony-play?”

“Exactly.”

“So your guy with the mask, he can only do what he wants to do with
his face hidden? That doesn’t sound too healthy.”

Manuel turned from the ganache and gave him a mournful look. “Masks
do more than hide identity, man. That’s an Anglo-European
interpretation.”

Emma had pushed through the doors. “I could use some more almond
biscotti out front. And you’re quite right, Manuel. Masks, in most
cultures, serve to provide additional identity through ritual. Many
cultures, the masks allow a spirit identity to enter the body, share
the corporeal, so to speak. Masks don’t hide. It’s just a symbolic
representation—this is who I am. And I am also this, and I am also
this. Stranger, better, more powerful, more dangerous.”

Abraham realized he was staring at her, mouth hanging open. She
pointed to her chest with her thumbs. “Hello? Theater major!” She
swept out of the kitchen like a princess, and Abraham had to resist
the urge to applaud.

He went back to work with the whisk. “So what’s the deal? Who is it?”

“That thing Diablo said, that’s what I’m…”

“David, cut the shit! Who is it, and how can I call and cancel?”

“You can’t. He said you’re already meeting him on the steps of San
Juan Capistrano at seven. He’s on duty until then.”

Abraham felt his lips go numb. “On duty?”

David was chewing on his bottom lip, and Abraham reached into the
cabinet for some pistachios. Divinity, that’s what they needed.

“Detective Santos Socorro. Your…Detective Santos Socorro.”

Pistachios flew everywhere.

David was on his hands and knees with a fox-tail broom and a dust
pan, sweeping up the nuts. “Put the cleaver down.”

“Fuck you. I wouldn’t use the good cleaver on you.” Abraham gave his
brother the bird, then limped out of the kitchen.

Santos Socorro. His knee ached just thinking about him, because it
was his hip-check this morning that had sent Abraham sprawling onto
the concrete basketball court like an eight year old. Oh, fuck me.
Abraham could feel the heat flushing through his chest, down into
his belly. Abraham could feel Santos’ hand on his hip, a little
extra heat on his skin. That’s the way they touched in public, the
rough, competitive touch of a couple of middle-aged guys on a
basketball court, a hand on the hip. Was he ready to move on? Did he
want to roll with a bear? How did he feel, and why did his lover,
Abraham Green, not know exactly how he felt? Up until this very
moment, he would have said Santos was a ten on the satisfied scale.
And so was he. No, he was a nine, because Santos’ evil witch of a
grandmother had hexed him. Shit! This was Magdalena Socorro’s curse!
She’d cursed him, and now Santos was making masks at a secret gay
mask-making club.

They had lives, work. They weren’t together every night, but who
was? He was just happy for anything Santos wanted to give him. But
if anyone had asked Abraham Green how he felt about Santos Socorro,
and he had decided to tell the truth, he would have just fallen
weakly to his knees, touched his forehead to the floor. Everything
he’d ever wanted in this life, and believed he would never find,
walked in that man’s shoes. Santos Socorro was a miracle.

http://www.loose-id.com/detail.aspx?ID=611

Drag Queen in the Court of Death excerpt by Caro Soles


This excerpt is from the Lambda Award finalist Drag Queen in the Court of Death by Caro Soles.

While cleaning out his dead ex-lover Ronnie’s apartment, staid history professor Michael Dunn-Barten makes a grisly discovery. Suddenly Michael must travel back 25 years to find answers by revisiting everybody who knew Ronnie. Back to the 1960s, back to the realization of his sexuality and the boy he loved. Back to the troubling time when his wife threw him out and his family disowned him. Back to uncover disturbing answers amidst drag queens and murky memories—and to reveal whether or not his first real love was truly a twisted killer. Drag Queen in the Court of Death is a taut thriller about a man who needs to face his past in order to forge a future. He must unravel a mystery that’s a quarter century old—no matter how painful the truth may be.

Drag Queen in the Court of Death
The Haworth Press Inc (January 1, 2007)
ISBN: 1560236302

Excerpt

The last time I came up these stairs was exactly three weeks ago. I would have stayed away longer, but Ellis was insistent, pining over all those gorgeous gowns and shoes and wigs; imagining great bolts of flashing silks and glittering lengths of magical cloth that ran though your hands like a sigh.

“And the make-up,” Ellis said, behind me on the stairs. “There’s probably mountains of the stuff.”

“No doubt,” I said. “Remember, he left most of it to Wilde Nights.”

“Well, I’m in Wilde Nights,” Ellis said.

“So am I.” That was his friend. Some young thing named Jaym or Jaym. A non-name. An effort at re-creation which I might have appreciated in my younger days. Now it just annoyed me.

I paused at the landing, the key warm and moist in my hand. The air danced with dust and heat. I didn’t understand why Ronnie had stayed so long in this place, the top floor apartment of an old converted rooming house in a part of the city that was finally becoming fashionable again. When he had moved in, he was just a student. In my home room. It was the sixties and we thought anything might happen. Anything might become something else entirely. Something wonderful and engaging and strange. Like Ronnie himself. At least, to me.

“Come on, Michael.” Behind me, the heat from Ellis’s tight body radiated close to my back. “I’m dying here.”

Immediately he caught his breath and I felt the air go still. Dying. But it was Ronnie who was dead.

For a moment I rested my hand flat against the painted door. The deep purple surface was warm. I put the key in the locks, all three of them, and stepped back. The door opened outward, making it awkward for a moment, balanced on the steps. Behind me the other two muttered and shifted to make room as the plum door swung towards me and I walked into Ronnie Lipinsky’s apartment.

Hot dust-filled air hit me in the face. It was like pushing into a wall of solid heat.

Ellis coughed. “Hell on wheels! Air! Air!” He rushed towards the one full length window, that opened onto the fire escape. We used to sit out there on hot nights, Ronnie and I, wrapped safe in the darkness and liquid emotion, talking the night away. Ellis struggled with the old much-painted wooden sash and finally forced it open. He stood for a moment, panting in the heat, the sunlight dancing on the short frosted tips of his hair.

Beside me, Jaym was looking around at the eccentric decor, his dark eyes taking in every detail. “Cool.”

Some time ago, Ronnie had remodeled the top floor, which was originally three separate rooms, into a small apartment. I didn’t understand why he’d bothered, but he loved the place. It had memories, he said. Associations. It gave him back the roots he had voluntarily broken when he came here all those years ago at the age of seventeen. Technically, he was not a draft dodger, since he hadn’t been called up yet. But he would have been. Here, in this eccentric top floor of an old house in Toronto, he recreated himself over the years, til at last, when I met him again, he was a different person.

The sloping walls were a deep midnight blue, the ceiling silver. The furniture was all upholstered in white, with painted cushions on the sofa and piled on the window seat. Near the dormer window hung five or six mobiles Ronnie had made from bits of colored glass and crystals and sparkling ornaments. They moved gently, emitting a soft tinkling sound that set my teeth on edge.

“What’s that about?” Jaym asked, pointing at one wall. It was covered with pictures of angels and saints, Madonnas and plaster cherubs and dried flowers with dusty ribbons hanging from their stems. There were pictures of men, some formal, some snapshots. Some were very old. There were also antique in memoriam cards bordered in thick black, with peoples’ names in spiked gothic script. On the floor stood two large painted wooden candlesticks, with squat beeswax candles.

“It’s a memorial to friends who have died of AIDS,” I said.

“It’s creepy,” said Ellis, with a mock shiver.

I shrugged. It was just another theatrical touch in a room filled with dramatic flair. “The gowns are through here,” I said, opening the door to the room at the back of the house.

This one was painted white, with a wall of mirrors along one side. The lighting was bright, but muted, so that the effect in the mirrors was flattering. Rows of clothes hung in plastic bags along both sides of the room.

Ellis descended on the goldmine with cries of delight. Jaym merely stared, as the light bounced off the sequins and satins, the bugle beads and seed pearls. It was as if the room winked at us.

I left them to it and went into the bedroom across the hall. Here the walls were sky blue. Someone had painted clouds on the ceiling. A mobile of stars hung in the window. This closet, I knew, was filled with sober expensive suits, which Ronnie wore to work at the law firm of Strauss and Hamburg. But it was not one of these suits he had chosen to be buried in, but a gown of old rose, with beadwork on the bodice and a high, almost Victorian neckline. I knew, because I had taken it to the funeral home, as per his request.

Across the hall I could hear Ellis’s laughter, his delighted exclamations, the ohhhs of appreciation. Jaym’s low voice answered him and occasionally he would laugh, too. I pulled myself together and collected the mail form the box downstairs, took back to the living room to sort. There was the usual junk, some bills which needed attention, a few letters and notes I put aside to answer later.

My concentration kept wandering and I soon gave in. I wasn’t ready for business. I took a box of photos from the top of the desk sank into the couch to go through them. Some of the pictures I recognized, but they were mostly of people I didn’t know, taken in bars and during drag shows, at parties where Ronnie smiled and talked with wide shouldered transvestites and men holding wine glasses or cans of beer.

Ellis and Jaym were piling selected gowns on the brightly painted chest in one corner of the living room. I vaguely remembered the chest, a trunk, really. In the old days it had stood in the middle of the room, used as a coffee table. Seeing it now brought back unpleasant memories of our breakup, an abrupt and painful wrenching apart of something I had assumed solid. I was a fool, but I had never really been in love before and Ronnie’s sudden erratic behavior was incomprehensible to me.

The laughter and screams of delight from the other room had faded now, as the two became serious in their winnowing of the treasure that crammed the racks. I raised my head to watch, catching alluring glimpses of Ellis posturing and pouting in one gown after another, his short spiky blond hair almost glittering in the bright light. Occasionally Jaym would try something on, but mostly he seemed to see his role as groom, the one who puts everything away, smoothing out wrinkles and zipping up the garment bags. I was glad he had come along.

“What a bitchin’ collection,” Ellis said, arms akimbo as he looked at the gowns he had piled on top of the old trunk. “How the hell can I choose just three?”

“Find a way,” I said. Three had been an arbitrary number, but having chosen it, I felt bound by my own careless words, something that often happened to me.

“Shit,” said Ellis. He passed several of the gowns to Jaym who obediently hung them up, I was sure in the exact same place they had come from. “I’ll have to shorten them,” Ellis went on, “but other than that they fit great. What’s in the trunk?”

I shrugged. “How would I know?” I glanced pointedly at my watch.

“Okay, okay. Just let me take a look in case he was keeping some gems hidden, for some reason. Jaym, give me a hand here. It seems to be stuck or something.”

I watched the two of them struggle with the trunk for a while. Irritated that it was taking so long, I got up and went over to help. The lock had sprung open but the top refused to budge.

“What the hell has he got in here?” Jaym asked. “His tiara collection?”

“Hold on.” I went into the tiny immaculate kitchen and came back with a screw driver, and a hammer. I resented that trunk. It had always been here, changing slowly as Ronnie changed, painted, repainted, covered with pictures or draped with shawls, while I had been banished, my life broken apart.

As I tried to force the screwdriver under the lip of the top of the trunk, I realized Ronnie had sealed it with something.

“Weirdness,” murmured Ellis.

Jaym had discovered the end of the tape used as sealer, and slowly and carefully removed it. Underneath was another kind of sealant, but with three of us working on it, we chipped and pealed it off too. By now, we were all determined to find out the treasures within. I felt the faint beat of an excitement I hadn’t experienced for many years. Anticipation. Adventure. I smiled at Jaym as he handed me the hammer. It was warm from his touch.

“One more whack should do it,” he said. “Go for it.”

I did. The top swung open with a creak. They cheered. Paint chips from the hinges flaked into the deep blue rug. A heavy smell of dust and mold rose from inside.

Ellis pulled back, coughing. “I don’t think I want anything that’s been in here,” he said.

“Don’t be too hasty,” I said, pulling out the heavy green tapestry material that lay on top. It was just material, nothing else. Underneath was something that looked like old leather, cracked and brown, discolored with neglect. I tried to pull this out, too but it wouldn’t move. Jaym reached in to help and we both pulled at the bundle, finally getting it half out. It appeared to be sewn together, so that the entire bundle filled the large trunk in a mass of stiff dusty leather.

Ellis coughed again. “What it this? Bondage gear?”

“You wish,” said Jaym, his dark eyes dancing. He flashed a sudden grin. “Let’s heave it out on the floor.”

It wasn’t that heavy, no more than you would expect from a package of leather, but I was beginning to sweat. Something wasn’t right about this. I had never heard of Ronnie being into anything leather before. The thought that there was a lot about Ronnie I might not know, was surprisingly painful.

We crouched on the floor, looking at the awkward package. Whatever it was, it had been in there a long time.

“Turn it over,” Ellis said.

When we did, he pointed to a row of heavy stitches. “So where are the scissors?”

I shrugged.

Jaym got up and went into the room where all the gowns hung. There was a sewing machine in there. He had remarked on it earlier. Now he went unerringly to the box where the scissors and such things were and came back with it triumphant.

“Piece of cake,” he said, and began to snip away with a pair of scissors. When that proved too slow he picked out a utility blade and sawed through the thick stitches.

The heavy leather pealed away from the package slowly, almost reluctantly. It took awhile, turning the bulky package around, moving it further into the room to give us more space. The dust was heavy, smelling strongly of mothballs, now. I turned away to sneeze.

Ellis screamed.

Jaym dropped his side of the bundle and jumped backwards,
knocking over the telephone table.

I swung around and stared. The air rushed out of me, as if someone had hit me hard in the stomach. Staring up from the leather cocoon was a mummified face, the skin shriveled and brown, pulled back over the yellowed teeth.

“Christ!”

Jaym rushed to the window and opened it. I thought for a moment he might crawl through to the wide ledge outside but he didn’t. Ellis had scooted back till he was against the furthest wall. He held both hands over his mouth, still staring at the corpse.

“Holy Christ,” I said, my mind whirling in confusion.

There was no rational explanation for this atrocity. All I could think of was seeing this trunk all those times over the years when I had visited Ronnie. Was this monstrosity inside while we made love on the floor beside it years ago? I felt my insides well up and rushed to the bathroom. Nothing came up.

I threw cold water on my face, went back into the living room and dialed 911.

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The Bar Watcher excerpt by Dorien Grey


The Bar Watcher is the third of the 11-book Dick Hardesty Mystery series by Dorien Grey, and involves Dick’s reluctant search for someone who is killing off cruel and obnoxious gay men…”taking out the garbage” as one character calls it.

The following excerpt is from the opening pages of the book, which is available in or on order from any bookstore, on Amazon, or any on-line bookseller. It is also available in various e-book formats from GLB Publishers (www.glbpubs.com)

The Bar Watcher
GLB Publishers (November 27, 2001)
ISBN: 1879194791

Excerpt

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…?” I asked.

“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 said. “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.” I said. “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?” I asked.

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’?” I asked.

Comstock gave a slight sneer. “About our membership policy,” he said.

“And your membership policy is…?” I asked. 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.

“So what made this letter different…and did you keep it?” I asked.

“Nah,” Comstock said with a shrug. “I pitch them all. But I remembered this one–it came in maybe four, five months ago–because the asshole made it up to look like a ransom note…you know, all cut-out words pasted together. It said that if we didn’t change our membership policy we’d be hearing from him again. Fuckin’ blackmail’s what it boils down to, pure and simple. And I’m not the kind of guy you want to try to blackmail.” He unconsciously hunched his shoulders forward as if flexing his muscles.

We sat silent for a moment, until I said: “And I gather you did hear from him again?”

Comstock gave a contemptuous snort and reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, pulling out what appeared to be a shoe box. “This came in the mail, addressed to me.” He pushed it across the desk, and I leaned forward to take it. The box had no marking of any kind, and I lifted the lid to find it stuffed with tissue paper. Moving the tissue paper aside I found a 3×5 card on which someone had pasted a panel from what I assume was a comic book. It was a picture of a fireball over which was the word: “BOOM!” Turning it over, words cut from obviously various sources, in assorted sizes and typefaces said: “Last chance. Everyone plays or YOU pay.” Kind of melodramatic, I thought, but it made it’s point.

I put the card back, closed the lid, and pushed the box back across the desk.

“Did you save the wrapper it came in?”

“What the fuck for? I’ve got enough garbage around here as it is.”

If he was too stupid to entertain the idea that a return address or postmark might have come in handy, I wasn’t about to spell it out for him.

“It’s probably just somebody with a grudge and an active imagination,” I said. “But you never know; this guy could be serious. I guess you didn’t consider contacting the police?”

Comstock shook his head scornfully. “Are you out of your fucking mind? I let the cops come in here scaring off the customers and I might as well shut the place down. I told you it’s fucking blackmail. And I told you I don’t pay blackmail.”

Yeah, I heard you the first time, and I wasn’t impressed then, either, I thought. Though I didn’t say anything, it struck me that for anyone out to settle a grievance, real or imagined, with Rage, it would only take a couple of “concerned citizen” or “they’re selling drugs” calls to the cops to effectively shut the place down. The police would love any excuse for a raid, and no gay man in his right mind would willingly put himself in a gay bath house that was subject to frequent raids. Obviously, something else was going on here.

“Exactly who determines who gets in and who doesn’t?” I asked.

Comstock leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk, one hand wrapped around the other lightly clenched fist. “I’m the boss. I decide. The desk men are told in no uncertain terms who gets in and who doesn’t; they do the sorting out,” he said. “If there’s any doubt, they buzz me. But usually it’s pretty cut and dried. Ugly’s ugly. Fat’s fat; old is old.”

“And how do they handle it when an undesirable comes in?” I used the word “undesirable” deliberately.

“The ones we want as members are given membership cards to fill out. The others are told that memberships are closed.”

“And if somebody is filling out a membership card when a non-desirable comes in?” I asked. “Or worse, if somebody’s getting the ‘closed membership’ spiel and somebody worthy of belonging comes in?”

“Same thing. They get the message pretty fast. And you can cut the fucking sarcasm. I’m running a business here, not a bleeding hearts social club. There are lots of other baths around. Let the creeps go there.”

That’s it, Comstock, I thought; you’re definitely off my Christmas card list.

http://www.doriengrey.net/

Reap the Whirlwind excerpt by Josh Aterovis

The following excerpt is taken from Reap the Whirlwind by Josh Aterovis. “Nothing can stay the same forever. We get in trouble in life when we think it can and will. Everything changes, or as King Solomon said in the Bible and The Byrds sang in the 60’s, to everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven. It’s not a particularly easy lesson to learn, or a fun one for that matter. I learned it the summer between high school and college, and my life would never be the same.”

Will’s life is changing so quickly he can’t keep up. He’s moving out of his parents’ home for the first time, changing careers, making new friends, and falling in love with the person he least expected. In the process, he’s also learning a lot about himself. As if he doesn’t have enough going on, his life-long best friend dies in what appears to be a drunken accident. But when Will receives a note hinting that it may not have been an accident after all, he finds that he can’t rest until he knows the truth. With the help of Killian Kendall and his friends, Will begins an amateur investigation that will result in even more death. Will thought the biggest changes were behind him, but they had only just begun.

In this scene, Will has just met his possible new roommate Aidan for the first time. After touring the apartment, he then meets his best friend Joey’s new girlfriend, whom he knew nothing about. Will freaks out and runs from the building, but he’s followed by his other best friend, Laura.

Reap the Whirlwind
PD Publishing
ISBN: 1933720352

Excerpt

I found my way out of the building and wandered into the back yard. The wooden bulkhead edging the river made a great seat. I had just about gotten myself under control when I felt someone come up behind me. I didn’t have to look up to know it was Laura.

“Okay, that was appalling. What the hell was that all about?”

“I’ve had a bad day,” I repeated softly.

“So you keep saying. Wanna tell me about it?”

“No.”

“How ’bout you do it anyway.” She sat down next to me and swung her long legs out over the water.

“Beth and I broke up today.”

“So? You’re always breaking up or getting back together. Call her tomorrow, and tell her you’re sorry.”

“It’s not like that this time. She broke up with me.”

“Oh… oh, my gosh.”

“Yeah, I got the feeling it was pretty permanent this time.”

“Will, I don’t know how to say this tactfully…”

I snorted. “Since when have you been tactful?”

“Point made. Okay then, have it your way. Why are you so beat up about Beth dumping you for a change? You’ve dumped her enough times. You don’t like being on the receiving end?”

“It’s not that. Actually, I don’t really care about Beth that much. She was comfortable, familiar… I mean we’ve been together for years… but…”

“A ‘but’ is never a good sign, sweetie, and there was always a ‘but’ with Beth.”

“Yeah.”

“So what’s really bothering you?”

“Something she said. She said that I always put you and her second.”

“How did I get into this?”

“She said that I always put Joey first. Do you feel that way too?” I looked over at Laura for the first time. She was looking out over the river, the reflected light playing softly over her features. For a moment she didn’t answer. When she began to talk, I had to lean in closer to catch what she was saying.

“You never knew this,” she said. “I never told anyone really, but I’ve had a huge crush on you for the longest time.”

I opened my mouth, but she shook her head before I could speak. “Let me finish. I used to get so hurt whenever I would call you to do something and the answer was always ‘Joey and I are doing this’ or ‘Joey and I are doing that.’ It was even worse when it was ‘Joey and I might be doing this or that.’ I wasn’t even competition with a possibility. After awhile, I guess I just accepted the fact that Joey would always get top billing when it came to you, but I still wanted to be close to you, so I infiltrated your little club. We became the three musketeers, and we lived platonically ever after. All for one, right? As long as Joey was ‘the one.’ I got over you eventually. Now I wouldn’t trade your friendship for anything. Gabe knows I exist. He treats me right, and I love him. But to answer your question, yeah, I do feel as if I always came second to Joey.”

“Why…why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Like what? ‘Hey, Will, I’m in love with you but you treat me like dirt?’ ‘Hey, Will, why is Joey so great? What’s wrong with me?’ ‘Hey, Will, acknowledge that I exist, dammit?’ What was I supposed to say?” She swiped angrily at the tears that were rolling down her cheeks. I had only seen Laura cry a few times as long as I had known her. It unnerved me worse than anything she had said.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, “I’m so sorry, Laura.”

“It’s ancient history,” she said taking a deep breath. “I moved on. Like I said, Gabe is the greatest. I really do love him. Maybe I’m not as over you as I thought, but I am moving on.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Did you know Joey and Shelley were dating?” I said at last.

Laura sighed. “He still comes first doesn’t he?”

“I didn’t… It’s just…”

“It’s okay. I should be used to it by now. Yeah, I knew.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?” I tried to keep the whine out of my voice, but I still came out sounding like a petulant five-year-old.

“Maybe because he knew this would happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Will, every time Joey has ever had a girlfriend, you’ve been jealous. You do nothing but pick them apart and criticize their every move. Maybe Joey wanted a little grace period with Shelley before you started in on her.”

“I’m not jealous,” I said defensively.

“Oh, please, then what was that whole scene up there?”

“I was just surprised. I mean, you saw the way she was all over him. ‘Joe has told me all about you,’” I mocked.

“See, there you go.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but Laura hurried on, “Look, Will, I have a very serious question I need to ask you. I want you to be honest with me. Please, I’ve never asked anything of you. And I don’t want you to answer until you can give me a one hundred percent sure answer.”

“Of course, Laura,” I said indignantly, “You know I would never lie to you.”

“Not on purpose, maybe.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Never mind. Here’s my question.” She took a deep breath. “Are you in love with Joey? I mean romantically - ‘in love’ in love. Because if you are, you need to face it and deal with it and figure out what it means. You can’t just keep on hurting everyone around you. You know I’ll always love you no matter what.”

“Are you…are you asking if I’m gay?” I asked in amazement.

“Will?” We both turned toward the voice. It was Joey up by the parking lot. “Hey, Will? Laura? Are you guys out here?”

“We’re down by the water,” Laura called back. She turned back to me, reached out, and touched my cheek for just the briefest moment. I almost didn’t feel it. “Think about what I said, and remember I love you.”

She jumped up and ducked into the shadows as Joey approached.

“I, uh, didn’t interrupt anything, did I?” he asked.

“No, we were finished,” I said slowly.

“So, uh… What did you think of the apartment?”

“It was great - airy and light with a great sense of the original integrity of the building. Great color schemes and tastefully decorated. Everything a guy could want,” I said sarcastically. “Why’d you come here, Joey? It wasn’t to talk about the apartment. Or are you that eager to foist me off on Aidan?”

“Will, it’s not like that, and you know it. Shelley thought I should go see…”

“And when were you going to tell me about her? Was I going to be invited to the wedding?”

“We’ve only been dating two weeks! I was going to tell you tonight. I told you there was someone I wanted you to meet. Do you think I’d be that stupid as to invite you to a party she was going to be at if I wasn’t going to tell you about her? I would have told you sooner but…I guess I needed some time with her just to myself first.”

I looked out across the river. “We’re growing apart,” I said softly. “Laura and Gabe, you and Shelley… me with nobody.”

“We’re not growing apart, we’re growing up. You’re my best friend, Will, and you’ll always be my best friend. Nothing will ever change that. But we’re not fourteen anymore. We can’t spend all our lives together. We’re all going to have families and careers. It can’t be just the three of us forever.”

“I don’t want things to change.”

“Everything changes. If you don’t change, then you’re dead. Make the most of it. Now that Beth is out of the picture, date new people. Try some new things. Get out there and live. You can start by moving in with Aidan. He’s a great guy; you won’t find a better roommate. I think it would be good for you to be more independent.”

I sat for a few minutes thinking about everything that had happened today, especially what Joey had just said. Finally, I stood up, dusted the dirt off my bottom, and started for the building.

“Where’re you going?” Joey asked, trotting to catch up.

“To see if that roommate position has been filled.”

Order a signed copy directly from the author at http://joshaterovis.com/id80.htm

Mahu Fire excerpt by Neil S Plakcy


Mahu Fire by Neil S Plakcy is the third mystery for openly gay homicide detective Kimo Kanapa’aka. About six months have passed since his undercover assignment in the Lambda finalist Mahu Surfer, and he’s back on the job in Honolulu. In these opening chapters, Kimo begins to wonder if there’s a connection between a rash of arsons at gay-owned businesses, and the rise of religious fundamentalism in the islands.

Mahu Fire
Alyson Books (April 1, 200 8)
ISBN: 1593500793

Excerpt

Mahu Fire – Chapter One

It had been a tourist office day on Oçahu, with sunny skies, temperatures in the eighties, and a light trade wind sweeping in over the beaches and chasing the few wispy clouds up into the mountains. We’d had a parched winter, and as April began, and with it our dry season, there were already reports of wildfires in dry spots on the Ko’olau Mountains.

I stepped out the door of my apartment building on Waikīkī as dusk was falling, and the smell of distant smoke rolled over me. There had also been a couple of arsons at gay-owned businesses in the past couple of weeks, and I wondered what was burning—a few acres of mountain scrub, or the property and dreams of a gay man or lesbian.

Hawai’i had been one of the first states to consider legalizing gay marriage, and though Massachusetts, New Jersey and a few other states had moved ahead of us, the movement in the islands was still strong, and in fact, the media had tied a rise in violence against gays and lesbians to the renewed visibility of the campaign, led by the Hawai’i Marriage Project.

I walked the few blocks to the Gay Teen Center, housed in the annex of a church on Kalākaua Avenue. At that hour of the day, Waikīkī was crowded with tourists heading back to their hotels from the beach, older people out for early dinners, and skateboarding teens getting in everybody’s way. I passed up a half dozen chances to pick up discount meal coupons, skirted an elderly Japanese bag lady haranguing the Wizard Stones at Kuhio Beach Park, and stopped for a minute to watch a sailboat setting out for a sunset cruise.

I’d been volunteering at the Gay Teen Center for a couple of months, counseling kids and leading a self-defense workshop in a big open room. My favorite student was a kid named Jimmy Ah Wong, a thin Chinese boy with a bright yellow coxcomb that stood straight up and then, at the very top, drooped over. He looked like a bit actor in a British art film of the 1980s, but he was smart and infinitely kind to the younger kids.

Sixteen of them were waiting for me, Jimmy among them, when I walked into the room. We talked for a few minutes, and then I led them in a couple of warm-up exercises.

We did some yoga, to get them in touch with their bodies, and then a couple of simple judo moves I’d picked up somewhere. When we’d finished the judo, we sat in a circle on the hard wooden floor and talked. I always had to kick things off; they were all shy, and sometimes in order to get into difficult subjects I had to reveal more about myself than made me comfortable. “I had a date on Saturday night,” I said.

A couple of the kids broke into spontaneous applause. I smiled and bowed. “Yes, I know it’s been a while. I wish I could say it was a more positive experience.”

I waited, but no one said anything, so I continued. “I met the guy online. And of course, he wasn’t anything like he’d said.”

“I know that drill,” a chunky boy said. His name was Frankie, and he had some island heritage in him, and sleek black hair pulled into a ponytail. “Nobody on the internet is who they say they are.”

We got into a little discussion about that, and about how they could be safe with people they met. “We agreed to meet at the Rod and Reel Club,” I said. “Remember, always meet people you don’t know in public places, so you can get away easily if things don’t work out.”

“Yes, officer,” Jimmy said, with attitude.

“That’s yes, detective,” I said, and the group laughed. “We had a couple of beers together,” I continued. “We seemed to be hitting it off, and we started making out on the outdoor patio.”

“Is there video?” Frankie asked, and everyone laughed again.

“You wish,” Jimmy said, and Frankie sent daggers his way. I gave them both a sharp look.

“So one thing led to another, and he invited me back to his place,” I said.

“Always use a condom,” Jimmy said.

“Have I told this story before?” I asked, pretending to be annoyed. But I was glad that the lessons I’d been trying to teach were sinking in.

“Does it end with you getting your ass fucked and your heart broken?” a boy I only knew as Lolo asked. He was the toughest of the kids, and I had yet to break through the barricades he had set up around him. “Because if it does, yeah, we’ve heard it before.”

“I save ass fucking for the second date,” I said dryly. “You all should, too.”

“Let him finish the story,” a skinny girl named Pua said. She looked Filipina, but her name in Hawai’ian meant “flower,” which was totally inappropriate in her case.

“The sex was lousy,” I said. “Alcohol does that. The guy’d been all hard in the bar, but when we got naked, he couldn’t perform. Of course, I worried it was me. That somehow I’d disappointed him.” I smiled. “He took care of me, and then as we were cleaning up, I realized he’d come in his shorts at the bar.” I batted my eyelashes. “So I guess I wasn’t that disappointing after all.”

“He couldn’t get it up again?” Frankie asked.

I shrugged. “He wanted to do some coke, and I said I didn’t, and he said that I might as well go, then. So I did. Not exactly a heart-breaker, but not much fun, either.”

“You need a boyfriend,” Pua said.

We talked for a while about some experiences they’d had, and a few of them opened up. I tried not to judge, though in some cases I was horrified by the sexual abuse, drug use, and petty violence they talked about. I was pretty sure that Frankie hung out near the men’s room at Ala Moana Beach Park after dusk, giving blow jobs to johns, and there was at least one other kid I thought was a prostitute as well.

I knew that some of the others snuck back into suburban homes where no one knew their secrets, and I wanted to take every one of them and say, Someone loves you. Someone will love you in the future. You are all good people. But there’s only so much you can do.

On my way out, I dropped in on the woman in charge of the center, a tiny, half-Japanese lesbian named Cathy Selkirk. Cathy was a poet whose love for kids ran deep in her soul. I often found her working long hours, filling out endless grant applications, talking to the kids, or interceding on their behalf with parents, teachers or the police. Though she was only in her early thirties, like I was, the dark circles beneath her eyes and the lines around her mouth made her look older.

She smiled when I walked into her office. “Kimo, I’m glad you’re here. I was going to come look for you. Didn’t you once tell me you knew one of the Clarks, from the department store?”

“Sure, Terri Clark is one of my best friends. Terri Gonsalves, she is now. She’s a widow, that is, but she still uses her husband’s name.”

“I’m working on this application for a grant from The Sandwich Islands Trust, the Clark family foundation. Do you think she has any influence on their decisions? I want to expand our outreach to gay teens on other parts of Oçahu, maybe open a satellite center on the north shore.”

I shook my head. “From what I know, Terri’s great-aunt runs that foundation, and she’s very conservative. I don’t think gay teens are going to be on the top of her list, but I’ll talk to Terri and let you know what she says.”

I sat in the overstuffed armchair across from Cathy’s desk. I could see kids getting comfortable enough in it to talk to her about their problems. “Sandra’s been trying to find out about one of these horrible organizations that demonstrates against gay marriage,” Cathy said. “Do you know anything about the Church of Adam and Eve?”

Sandra was Cathy’s life partner, a prominent attorney with a downtown firm and the most politically connected lesbian in the islands. “This mainland minister and his wife relocated to Honolulu about three months ago, to save us from the plague of homosexuals.” She smiled wryly. “They’re very well-financed, and they advertise their prayer meetings all over the place. Sandra hasn’t been able to find any dirt on them—yet.”

“But she thinks there’s something wrong.”

“There has to be, don’t you think, Kimo?” Cathy looked at me. “How else can they pretend to be loving Christian people when they have this terrible anti-gay agenda?” She sighed. “They’re having one of their revival meetings tonight. Maybe it’s just the smoke everywhere, and these arsons at gay-owned businesses, but I have a bad feeling.”

Mahu Fire Chapter Two

Walking back home, the smoke still hung over Waikīkī, and I had the same bad feeling as Cathy. So I decided to check out the Church of Adam and Eve for myself. After a quick dinner of grilled pineapple chicken with sticky rice, I put on the only suit I own, a conservative navy blue, and slicked my short dark hair back with gel. Since my time in the spotlight, people occasionally recognized me on the street, so I put on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses with clear lenses and hoped no one would connect this conservative young businessman with that gay detective in his aloha shirts and Topsiders.

I drove up into the hills of central O’ahu, to a place called the Pupukea Plantation. The atmosphere in the parking lot was festive, like I remembered when I was young and my parents used to drive us out into the country to watch fireworks displays on July fourth. Everybody was so friendly, smiling and shaking hands. Boys and girls played in the grassy aisles and “Onward, Christian Soldiers” poured out of big speakers.

Hundreds of folding chairs had been lined up under the tent, but even so by the time I got there it was standing room only. It was warm, with a buzz of conversation going on around me and the high giddy laughter of little kids. Everybody got a paper flyer with a list of the hymns and the topic of the preacher’s sermon, and an address where you could send donations. An elderly Filipina moved through the aisles, handing out paper fans imprinted with the logo of one of the big car dealers.

The crowd was a cross section of Hawai’i. Young people courteously gave up seats to their elders, and haoles, islanders and Asians smiled at each other and talked about politics and business. Maybe Cathy and Sandra were wrong; the people around me seemed so nice. How could they advocate violence?

The minister and his wife appeared from the sidelines, to rapturous applause. They were both in their early thirties, neatly groomed and overly cheerful, as such religious people often are. He was a little on the pudgy side, but his fleshy face just seemed to hold a smile that much better. She was slim, without much of a figure, obviously the more serious of the two.

The minister led us in the opening prayer, through a couple of hymns and then into his sermon. He began slowly, talking a lot about morality and family values, about the need for a return to spirituality. It all made sense, even to a confirmed non-churchgoer like me. My family was a real polyglot of religions, and we’d gone to a couple of different churches as kids, never settling on any one. Our parents seemed to feel that as long as we grew up as moral, ethical people it didn’t matter where we worshipped.

Then the minister’s wife stepped up to the podium. She began by speaking about their family, extending an invitation to all of us present to join in the love that they shared. “But there are some people who aren’t deserving of our love,” she said, and there was general nodding and agreement among the people around me.

“You know who I’m talking about. Homosexuals. They call themselves gay, to cover up their depravity, but we won’t let them get away with that. There are other names for them, nasty names, but we won’t use them either. We’ll just call them like we see them—homosexuals. Keep the sex right up front there, because that’s what they’re all about, after all. Sex. That’s all they care about. Everything else is just window dressing.”

I started to feel the heat under the tent, regretting having worn my suit. As I pulled at my collar, I glanced around, to see if anyone was looking at me as if they knew who I was. She had that knack, of making you think she was speaking directly to you, and I felt more like an impostor with every word.

I wondered what would happen if someone recognized me. I’d seen crowd mentality at work first hand, when I was a patrolman. All it took was a trigger, and ordinary people would turn into a mob, capable of looting, riot, and other violence that seemed to lurk unsuspected beneath all of our solid exteriors. I had no doubt this crowd would turn on me, hurt me if they could.

http://www.mahubooks.com

The Darkness of Castle Tiralur excerpt by Liam Moran

Liam Moran offers an early scene from his erotic swords-and-sorcery adventure, The Darkness of Castle Tiralur. At this point in the tale Arden, a magician, and his apprentice Toral have met up with Lun, a warrior. They have decided to search together for Dannas, Lun’s comrade-in-arms, who has failed to keep a rendezvous with Lun. Here they enter the principality governed by Virax, Lord of Castle Tiralur.
Enjoy!

The Darkness of Castle Tiralur
Torquere Press (January 2007)
ISBN: 1-934166-61-8

Excerpt

The three travelers stood beside the dusty road, gazing at a black stone obelisk, thick as a man, and twice as tall. From its side glowered a deeply carved griffon, passant, with unusually long talons clutching a lamb.

“Well!” grunted Lun. “After three days’ march, our first sign of real progress. This must be a boundary marker, though I don’t recognize the heraldic device.”

“Nor do I,” added Arden. His face clouded as he placed a hand on the black stone carving. “This is a realm poisoned with dark magic. Magic of a very high order. In a way, I hope Dannas did not come to this place. From what you have told me about him, Lun, it is where he would be most vulnerable. We will have to be unusually careful. Toral, put your hand here and tell me what you sense.”

Toral placed his hand where his master’s had been and closed his eyes. After a moment’s silence, he said, “I feel nothing.” He paused again, puzzled. “No – not nothing. Something. Something hidden. Yes, hidden. Can you tell what it is that’s hidden, Master?”

“Well done,” Arden commended. “No, I can’t. But there are obscuring veils very deliberately placed around whatever or whoever it is. Something or someone very powerful in this realm is supposed to remain completely unseen and unknown.”

“So what do you suggest we do?” Lun asked.

“Practice invisibility ourselves, at least until we find out more of what this place is like. Be discreet. Be as unremarkable as possible, and pose no challenge unless it can’t be avoided. Toral, you and I will have to be very careful with our magic. Use the simplest spells possible. Any high level magic might attract unwanted attention.”

Toral laughed. “Do you have a simple spell that will make Lun unremarkable? Perhaps make him appear small and ugly, Master? Better yet, make his cock the size of my little finger!”

Lun seized Toral with mock anger and pulled Toral backward against his crotch. “So that’s what you really like, is it, Toral, a little finger to sit on? Do you think that would keep you adequately entertained? I’m sure Arden could arrange it!”

“No,” grinned Arden, “that would take more than a simple spell to accomplish. It would take a miracle from the gods – a miracle I would be very reluctant to pray for.” Then his smile vanished. “Seriously, do nothing that would draw extra attention to our presence. It may be that it isn’t really necessary to be this cautious, but it’s better for us to be overly careful, at least at first.”

“I understand very well, and I agree.” Lun nodded as he released Toral, swatting him playfully on the rump. “For me the best tactic is to act a little stupid. A big man is more easily ignored if he’s assumed to be slow-witted. I’ve done it before. It works quite well.”

“Good!” Arden looked at the sun. “We’ve got light enough to cover a significant distance before it’s time to set our camp. By the way the vegetation has been growing more plentiful, I expect water will be easier to find tonight.”

More serious and quiet than before, the three set out at a brisk pace. As the sun began to hover in the haze above the rolling horizon, the road led them past a few scattered farms and then into dense forest.

“This could be the ideal place to spend the night,” Toral said, gazing at the thick woods. “It smells so rich and sweet after the sharpness of the dry land we’ve been passing through.”

“Well, if we’re comparing ideals,” muttered Lun, “I think I would choose a long hot bath, a meal prepared by a good cook, and a few cups of excellent red wine. And then a big soft bed to make love in all night long.”

“Decadent sybarite!” Arden laughed. “I think Toral meant ideal within the range of our real choices. I’m appalled at your shameless desire for comfort. And you call yourself a warrior!”

With a devilish grin Lun turned to Arden and clamped a massive hand around one of his buttocks. “Well, magician, if comfort is so unimportant to you, maybe tonight is the night we complete our little exchange agreement. Are you ready to let me into that fine rump of yours, regardless of a little discomfort?”

“Certainly!” Arden shifted position and guided Lun’s hand into the cleft of his ass and squeezed the cheeks together. “Contracts as solemn as ours must be honored regardless of pain – or pleasure.” He reached a hand under Lun’s leather apron and stroked the thick mass inside the codpiece, chuckling as he watched lust gather in Lun’s eyes like summer thunderheads. “Tonight will be a good time, Lun. A very good time.”

“In the meantime,” Toral interjected with a leer, “we should find a suitable place to hold these festivities. Master Arden, will you search for water again?”

Arden turned to Toral. “Yes, but let’s do it together. That’s something you could start learning now.” He walked to where Toral stood and put a hand on his shoulder. “In principle, it’s pretty straightforward, but more complex in execution. Close your eyes. Focus your mind on the essence of what you seek: water, the essence of water, the living energy of water. Now link consciousness with me, and we will go searching.”

Almost as soon as they had begun, Toral stiffened and gasped, his mouth falling open. “There is so much! How do you discern…?”

With his eyes still closed, Arden replied, “By making the focus of what you seek more specific. There is still water, large, probably a lake, and there is moving water. Focus on where the moving water meets the still.”

“Yes, there. To the west, slightly south. Not far at all, it feels like.”

“Unlink.” Arden opened his eyes. “Good, Toral. You did well. It’s probably further away than you think, though. I estimate at least a league as the crow flies. It seems closer because there is so much water around. Accurate distance-sense requires a lot of practice. However, your direction is true. You lead the way.”

Leaving the road, the three entered the woods. Without a trail their progress across the spongy forest floor was only moderate, but after a while Lun stopped them.

“I hear the river, or a waterfall, perhaps.”

“Me, too,” Arden said. “Well done, Toral! You led us right to the spot.”

“It would have been embarrassing if I hadn’t,” replied Toral with a grin. “You two would have had to complete your contract standing against one of these trees if I had missed.”

In a moment they entered a small meadow lush with ferns and thick sweetgrass. Across the clearing, a bowshot away, a large stream tumbled over a low waterfall into the lake. Toral went to snare a game bird and gather fresh food while Lun and Arden set the camp. Then Arden peeled off his clothes and waded into the lake toward the base of the waterfall, washing away the dust and sweat of the day’s travel.

“How’s the water?” Lun called out, shucking his kilt and codpiece.

“Good. Not as cold as some of those desert springs we’ve used. As long as you aren’t expecting to be cosseted in that hot bath you were dreaming about earlier, you’ll enjoy it.”

“Ha. You’ll be the one getting a hot bath from me tonight – on the inside.” Lun waded to where Arden stood waist deep in the water and wrapped his huge arms around the magician, kissing him deeply.

Arden opened to Lun’s kiss and clung to Lun’s massive body, luxuriating in a swirl of sensations: the cool water, Lun’s warm flesh, the roughness of Lun’s chin rasping against his throat, the urgent dance of the man’s muscles as Lun ground against him, the enfolding crush of Lun’s immense arms. Nipping and licking at Lun’s ear, he lifted himself and wrapped his legs around Lun’s waist, letting Lun’s swollen shaft glide back and forth in the cleft of his ass as he pumped his own cock against the hard ridges of Lun’s belly. Lun, his mouth still locked on Arden’s throat, grunted and pulled back to gaze hungrily into Arden’s eyes. “You want this as much as I do, don’t you?”

“Yes, Lun, I do.”

“Do you think you can manage it?”

“Yes. In my youth, I learned well from good teachers. It’s been a while since I’ve had a lover inside me, but I know what to do. In addition, I have some magical resources that should greatly enhance our pleasure.”

Striding out of the water into the warm evening air, Lun carried Arden to where their cloaks lay stretched upon rushes and ferns and lowered him to the bed. Lun knelt beside Arden, covering Arden’s torso in a descending torrent of wet, sucking kisses before gently taking Arden’s shaft into his mouth.

Arden moaned and surrendered to Lun’s passionate attention, writhing with every twist of Lun’s tongue as it snaked up and down his cock. He moaned again as Lun rolled his haunches into the air and began to lick along his perineum and then into the delicate ridges of his hole.

With a brawny arm clamped around each of Arden’s thighs, Lun pulled Arden’s crack up to his face, ravaging the sensitive flesh with a furious tongue, relishing his feast of preparation.

“Oh, Lun!” gasped Arden as he drew his knees toward his chest to better expose the target. He reached down past his haunches to seize Lun’s dripping cock and pumped slowly, running his thumb around the flanged base of its now-slippery crown.

Lun let out a muffled whimper and stabbed his tongue deeper yet into Arden’s ass before pulling away and staring down into Arden’s eyes. “I’ve wanted this since I first saw you,” he rumbled huskily.

Arden squeezed the massive shaft in his hand and gazed up hungrily at Lun, at the parted lips shining with saliva, the raven hair, long and wild, about to burst from its ponytail, the eyes radiant with lust. “Me, too, Lun. Now. Come in now.”

A boyish grin flashed across Lun’s handsome face as he leaned down, spat into Arden’s hole, and spat twice again onto his cock. He straightened, and lowered Arden’s ass to meet the swollen head of his shaft. He placed the magician’s feet against his chest and began to push forward against Arden’s soft gate.

At first penetration Arden gasped, closed his eyes to recover, and then smiled up in welcome at Lun. With their eyes locked, shining, Lun drove slowly deeper into the mysterious, enfolding heat of Arden’s body. When his loins met the firm round of Arden’s ass and he could push forward no further, he paused. “Oh, this is going to be good. You feel wonderful.” He grasped Arden’s feet and lifted one over his shoulder, the other to his mouth, sucking in Arden’s first and second toes, driving his tongue between them, biting softly on the larger.

“Mmm. It’s good already, Lun,” groaned Arden, writhing in pleasure as Lun’s tongue snaked again between his toes. “Here. Let me set an energy spell.” Arden pulled his foot from Lun’s mouth, locked his ankles behind the warrior’s lean waist and sat up, settling his body upon Lun’s massive column. He placed the middle finger of his right hand against the forested knot of Lun’s navel, and that of his left on his own. “When I tell you, take three long, slow breaths, synchronized with mine, breathing out first. This spell will amplify the polarity of our bodies so that wherever and whenever our flesh touches, the charge of our body-lightning will be greatly intensified. Is that acceptable to you?”

“You’re joking, of course. Do it!”

“No, I’d never use a spell during sex without my partner’s consent. But,” Arden leered up at the muscular giant embracing him, “I’m pretty sure you’ll like it.” He pressed slightly with his fingers. “Ready? Breathe out now.”

Lun pressed his breath out slowly, watching Arden to keep in time. At the end of the second breath he could feel a strange heat begin to build at his navel, spreading out like ripples in a pond. By the end of the third breath, Arden’s finger had become a searing brand on his navel that sent its fire plunging down to his groin, igniting his balls and shaft, flashing like a prairie fire across his skin everywhere the two of them touched.

He leaned down to kiss Arden, and upon contact his lips sang with the new sensation. Yes, body-lightning. What a good name for it. “I hope you can handle what you’ve unleashed, magician,” he mumbled into Arden’s throat, his voice thick with lust. “The gods help you if you can’t.” He straightened and surrendered to the pounding drum of his desire, driving his rigid flesh up into Arden’s body again and again, helpless in the tumult of sensation and need that engulfed him.

Falling backward and pulling Lun on top of him, Arden twisted, clamped and rocked to meet every thrust that filled him, igniting his inmost parts, yielding to Lun’s conquest, Lun’s possession of his body.

Lun pulled out, and Arden yelped at the sudden void, but the warrior flipped him onto his hands and knees in a single, rough motion and drove back in. Lun leaned forward and wrapped his huge arms around Arden’s chest, sending the magic fire through them both wherever he clung, licked, bit and kissed. The rhythm of his thrusts took on a relentless life of its own, binding all awareness back into itself, into the fiery hunger that now owned their bodies, breath and touch.

Feeling the first convulsions of his climax building, Lun pulled Arden upright, crushing Arden backward into his chest, lifting Arden from his knees and ramming his cock deep into Arden’s body in ecstatic madness. As the explosion built he held Arden against him with one massive arm and with the other hand began to pump Arden’s dripping cock furiously.

Arden gasped at the fire of Lun’s fist around his shaft, then melted against the warrior’s chest, letting Lun control every move. Lun stiffened and stopped breathing for an instant, then bellowed and sobbed as he erupted deep in Arden’s bowels, burying his face in Arden’s neck, stroking urgently on Arden’s cock. Arden, feeling the burning, liquid explosions inside him, thrashed in Lun’s embrace as he shot his streams into Lun’s hand and onto the ground in long white ropes. Still they came in unison, spasms of ecstasy making their bodies arch and roll in a delirious dance of pleasure.

Finally, they collapsed together onto their bed of rushes and cloth, sweating and panting as the body-lightning faded with their orgasms. Lun, still inside Arden, pulled himself close and wrapped himself around the magician, licking the sweat from Arden’s neck, caressing his chest, belly and thighs. “Oh, Arden,” he murmured, voice soft with wonder. “So good!”

Slowly their breathing eased into rhythms of rest and their limbs slackened. Arden turned his head to kiss Lun on the lips, and softening, Lun’s shaft slithered out of Arden’s ass with the movement. Both men grunted at the loss, smiled knowingly at each other and kissed languorously, deeply.

www.ninewayfarers.com

A Stranger’s Table selections by Anne Brooke

Two selections from her second collection of poetry, A Stranger’s Table, by Anne Brooke.

A Stranger’s Table
Poetry Monthly Press (February 12, 2007)
ISBN: 1905126883

Selections

Sapphic

Your rainbow eye beckons me,
ease of sunlight through grass,
symphony of green
as the colours arc, a future not yet taken
in the shiver of fingers, your lips’ enticement,
peach and primrose, citrus,
blueberry, gold –
so well I know the shades your flesh makes
in my star-wild dreaming –
and I wish I could touch you
while the courage is on me
and I think one day I will,
one day soon I will step out of my skin,
the weight of unimagined expectation,
and slip snake-like, huntress and prey,
into your body’s gentle, drifting pasture
to take with me the taste of your breasts
on my tongue, the strange homecoming of sex
with the salt-sea swell of your rising
rocking me to shore.

Silken

Your silken skin
laps my eye to milkiness
here as I reach out
and draw my longing fingers
down your hair’s dark welcome
and the curve of your cheek,
feeling the warmth of your mouth
on the intricate stars of my hand.
The scent of you
is lemon and spices on my tongue.
See how I lean
and trace the rise of your shoulders
with my eager lips
so your shape is carved in breathing;
kissing a journey over arms, breasts,legs
and all the honeyed country between us,
I will wrap you, my love,
in the coat of my desire
while around us still
the wild night dreams till morning.

http://www.annebrooke.com


The following is a brief excerpt from Spine Intact, Some Creases, the memoir of Victor J. Banis. Part personal history, part gay history, some writing tips,
some comments on philosophy and religion and a few recipes for good measure by a legendary name and pioneer of gay fiction.

Spine Intact, Some Creases
Wildside Press (March 18, 200 8)
ISBN: 1434402061

Excerpt

Just this very day I was riding on one of San Francisco’s trolleys next to an elderly black man and in the course of conversation he mentioned that he had in the same day managed to break both pairs of his glasses.

“Gosh, this has been your unlucky day,” I said.

“Unlucky?” He gave me an astonished look. “I’d say it was pretty lucky. I woke up, didn’t I?”

Good point. Every day is a gift, isn’t it? Sometimes we demand too much of ourselves and of life. Daphne du Maurier, when she had finished her 1938 classic novel of suspense, Rebecca (now there is a great opening paragraph), gave the manuscript to her good friend, the literary lion, Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch (who wrote as “Q”). He read it and when he gave it back to her, told her that if she went ahead with it, the book would make her rich and famous—and the literary world would never forgive her for it. As it turned out he was right on all counts.

I am aware that there are those who look down upon what I have written. That is their problem. If mine was not the sort of career that led to great fame and fortune it was nonetheless successful in my own terms, on nearly every count. I have no regrets.

Indeed, I view regret as just another, more subtle way of flagellating oneself. Every moment of your life, every person and event, every mistake and triumph, has contributed to bringing you to where you are, to making you who and what you are. If you like yourself what is there to regret?

Don’t like yourself? Work on it. People take their cues from you. I can tell you for certain, in your entire life no one will ever like you any more than you like yourself. Looking for love? If you are not looking first at your self you really are looking in all the wrong places.

The legendary soprano, Luisa Tetrazzini, was interviewed late in her life. By this time she was living in a retirement home (they called them “poor houses” in those days) her operatic triumphs and scandalous romances far behind her. When the interviewer asked her about her voice, she went to the piano and sang a few measures from Lucia’s notoriously difficult mad scene, in what the interviewer described as an astonishingly young, fresh voice. She gave a cackle of glee and cried, “By God, I may be old, I may be poor, I may be toothless, but I’m still Tetrazzini!”

You’re still you, aren’t you? Whatever else may have gone from you with time or the sometimes puzzling machinations of fate there is one thing that you can never lose—no one ever has occupied, or ever will occupy, your unique place in the universe. Cherish it.

Take a look around yourself—better yet, take a look inside yourself. This is your life. Right now. Right here. Take responsibility for it. Are you happy? If not, why not? Unhappiness is mostly wanting things to be something other than what they really are. Wanting your next door neighbor to fall in love with you doesn’t make it so, it only makes you unhappy.

The conditions you put on being happy are the exact measure of the distance between yourself and happiness. Happiness cannot be deferred. We tend to choose to be unhappy until we can have our way with things. Like the child holding his breath until his parent gives in, we tell God, or life, that we are willing to be happy—when we get that new job, when so-and-so falls in love with us, when we have lost twenty pounds. This is not happiness, this is contract negotiation. Unfortunately, the other side across the negotiating table from you is just you again. We have met the enemy, as Pogo used to say, and he is us.

Pretend that you’re happy. The people who look into these things now say that when you smile the brain responds with a dose of the chemicals that it normally provides when you really are happy. It is sort of as if the brain says to itself, “Gosh, he’s smiling, we must be happy and I missed it,” and adapts to the program. If you pretend for a while that you are happy, you may trick yourself into feeling happy.

Find some time to be still. A woman once complained to me that she prayed and prayed incessantly but God never seemed to call her back. “Perhaps,” I suggested, “when he tries he gets a busy signal.”

Get rid of the busy signal: Meditate. Now, meditation is not the same as prayer, though ideally both will get you to the same place. We tend to associate meditation with Buddhism and indeed meditation is an essential element of Buddhism, but Buddhism is not essential to meditation, which is not the exclusive province of any religion. I have known Protestants and Catholics, Jews and atheists who meditate in one way or another and with no conflict with their religious beliefs or lack thereof.
If you look into a pool of clear water and splash it all about with your hand you will find it difficult to see the bottom with any clarity, but if you let the water go still you will find that you see right through it. Meditation is nothing more than getting the pool of your mind still.

Try chanting Ohm. The metaphysical people say that this puts you in tune with the universe but there are very practical and down to earth benefits as well. You will discover at once when you try that it stimulates your sinus cavities; if you have sinus problems, ten minutes a day of chanting will prove wonderfully therapeutic. At the same time you are stimulating the various glands, like the thyroid, that control your metabolism, which is to say, whether or not you believe that you are tuning into the universe, it’s certain to make you feel better.

There’s nothing mysterious about how to do it either—just take a deep breath and say Ohm on the exhalation. If you want to do it the really best way, make almost, but not quite, three separate syllables of it, which sounds far more difficult than it is. Begin the O sound in your throat as you would, say, singing. Then push the sound or the vibration up into you nasal cavity—you will find it easy to move the vibration around. Finally move to the front of your mouth for the Mmmm finale.

The experts say it’s not worth the effort if you aren’t going to do this a minimum of ten minutes a day but I say, pish, even a minute or two of peaceful focusing will do you good. Of course ten minutes a day is better. If you can manage that for a while and then try going to twenty, you will see that twenty is not just twice as good but many times better. Let’s be honest, though, one can’t always squeeze in that extra time. Do ten and if you are truly in a rush, do whatever you can and let yourself feel good about it.

Incidentally, if you are into affirming or visualization, the ideal time to do it is before chanting—stilling your mind allows time for your desires to sink into your subconscious before your negative energies go to work on them.

If chanting seems too esoteric for you, just sit and quietly observe your breathing, the flow of air in and out of your nostrils, the rise and fall of your diaphragm. Let your thoughts arise as they will, observe them and let them go without attaching yourself to them.

There are plenty of ways to meditate, however, and lots of good books to tell you how. It doesn’t matter, really, whether you chant or gaze into the flame of a candle or contemplate your navel, the whole point is to focus your mind, to help it shut up in other words.

Stand naked in front of your mirror. Yes, I know. But if you can’t love the warts you can’t love the dimples, you don’t get to pick and choose. Love doesn’t work that way, not with someone else and not with yourself.

If you are going to make perfection the price that must be paid for your love you are going to find yourself with very few shoppers. Practice forgiveness. Start with forgiving yourself. Stephen Levine writes of how very painful it can be to shut yourself out of your own heart. Forgiveness is the key to open the door.

We have all stepped on someone’s toes at one time or another. Silently ask those whom you have offended to forgive you. Go on to forgive those who have offended you. It can be difficult to grasp when you are angry but really, whatever it was that they did had nothing to do with you and everything to do with themselves. Don’t take it personally. The only personal part is the damage you are doing to yourself harboring those unhappy memories. Thoughts are things. Forgiving thoughts are healing things. Forgiveness is love and love is the answer. It doesn’t matter, Alex, what the question is. Love is always the answer.

Incidentally, don’t be surprised if that person you have been at odds with for ten years suddenly calls you on the phone and asks you to lunch. If he doesn’t, don’t worry about that either. This isn’t about him it’s about you.

Give. As ye sow, so shall ye reap. Whatever you give comes back to you in like kind. But consider that a warning as well. Things return in the spirit in which they were given. Whatever you give lovingly, freely—and best of all unannounced—will find it’s way back to you in just such terms. If you find your life all tied up in knots, however, it may be the strings you attached to your gifts.

And don’t think you can use lack of money as an excuse, either. Considering how little it costs the giver it is astonishing what value a smile may have for the one who receives it. An honest compliment may be enough to get your waiter, the sales clerk, the bus driver, through a really hard day. Don’t sneer. We all have them, after all.

Practice a little tenderness. We live in such a crowded world it is inevitable that from time to time we are going to bump into one another. If we keep our edges a little soft, it won’t hurt so much. Courtesy, manners, respect for others—these are not “extras” in life, they are a major part of what separates us from the kids with the tails. Miss Manners jokes about saving civilization but her claim is not as exaggerated as it sounds. Throughout our long history, in every civilization that has come and gone, the first signal of decay, of the unraveling of the fabric, has always been the decline in everyday manners, the failure of the common courtesies people visit upon one another.

Of course, you cannot single-handedly save our society nor can I. But I truly believe that no one has ever set a strong example—for good or for ill—that someone else hasn’t followed it. Make your example a good one. Trust me, someone will emulate it.

It was Yogi Berra who pointed out that you should make a point of going to the funerals of others because if you did not they might not come to yours either.
His point was a valid one. We all need a little consideration from others from time to time. Sooner or later someone is going to need your kindness, seriously need it. You will miss out on that hot date because a friend needs to cry on your shoulder. Someone will say something stupid or spiteful and while disdaining to apologize will nonetheless hope for your forgiveness. Aunt Dilda will talk your ear off because she is lonely and you will have to take a pass on that lovely frock your heart was set on because a friend is in desperate need of a cash infusion.

These are the dues that we each of us have to pay from time to time for the privilege of being part of the family and though you may see yourself as the black sheep of the family, pay them anyway and be glad that you can. As sure as God made little green apples the sling pump will be on the other foot one day. Think of it as insurance and keep your policy paid up.

We are all, after all, a part of Mankind. Just now as I breathed out someone else breathed in from the same atmosphere and out ag