I Kissed A Boy: An Anthology

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I Kissed a Boy An Erotic Anthology of First Time M/M Encounters Edited by Lori Perkins

1 A Ravenous Romance™ Original Publication www.ravenousromance.com

Copyright © 2009 by Ravenous Romance™ Ravenous Romance™ 100 Cummings Center Suite 123A Beverly, MA 01915 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review. ISBN-13: 978-1-60777-313-9 This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

2 Table of Contents Introduction Where There’s Heat, There’s Fire by Jean Roberta Improvisation by Cecilia Tan The Nine Virgins by Elizabeth Coldwell Always, My Prince by D.C. Juris Making Up for Lost Time by Ryan Field Playing Rachmaninoff in My Heart by Konrad Deire Little Death by Jay DiMeo What a Piece of Work, Is A Man by Heidi Champa Bar None by G.S. Wiley The Only Time by Charles Alan Long Chapel Mates by Derek Clendening Old Roads by Jefferson About the Authors

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Introduction

There is nothing more passionate than a first-time sexual encounter that catches the participant completely by surprise. I know I love to read about lovers consumed by the unexpected power of lust and emotion. So I was thrilled when we decided to do an entire anthology around this theme of overwhelming passion among men, because what could be hotter to read? The results were sizzling and amazingly creative, with lots of variations on what you might think is a pretty simple theme. In these pages you’ll find some of your favorite RR authors—Ryan Field’s young innocent and his hot boss in Making Up for Lost Time and Cecelia Tan’s interesting take on aging actors in Improvisation. There’s a story about and an artist and his model, a professor and his student, lawyers in love (always one of my favorites because they are so overwhelmed), seminary students, and a number of childhood friends who realize just how much they mean to each other. There’s even some possibly paranormal activity amongst ancient stones and one outer-space pairing. And Konrad Deire’s Playing Rachmaninoff in My Heart is wonderfully romantic and European. Jefferson closes this anthology with Old Roads, a truly poignant story of old first love that you will never forget. So please lie back and enjoy, and remember the very first time you kissed a boy. This anthology certainly did that for me!

L. Perkins

4 December 2009

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Where There’s Heat, There’s Fire by Jean Roberta

Lorne studied his canvas as intently as another young man would study a drunk who had just insulted him in the campus bar. Lorne had tried to sketch a raging goddess, but the pencil outline on the white background didn't match the vision in his head He worked in front of his picture window, as usual, so he could add colors to the canvas by natural light. "Damn," he swore to himself softly. The goddess in his mind's eye was his ex-girlfriend, Jessie, her red hair glowing in the sunset the day she told him she couldn't see him anymore because she had discovered lesbian sex with her best friend, the one with whom she spent so much time for their women's studies class. Lorne hadn't seen that ax coming. He thought of the nude model in his painting class: a cute girl with plump, creamy breasts and thighs, curly brown hair, and blue eyes as clear as a summer sky reflected in a lake. He was pretty sure she liked guys, so why couldn't he focus on her instead of Jessie? The model didn't look like a goddess of flaming eruptions, that's why. She looked like a farm girl who sang in a church choir. Lorne could imagine Jessie (no, not exactly—an imaginary redhead) billowing out of the mouth of a volcano in bursts of flame and clouds of smoke, flaunting her shapeshifting, insubstantial nature, then posing as a woman so beautiful that she could send any mortal viewer into a trance. A painting like that could win him the spring prize. Lorne walked into the bathroom and glanced at his own long nose, dark eyes, messy brown hair, and square shoulders in the mirror. A few red bumps in the hair

6 follicles on his cheeks made him look slightly wounded. He hated his lingering teenage acne, but he felt grimly satisfied to know he was marked by suffering. He thought of sketching a self-portrait for a minor assignment, but a disturbing image of Vincent Van Gogh with a bandaged head popped into his mind. His classmate, Matthew, was due to show up to sketch with him and critique his work. It had seemed like a good idea when Lorne invited him over. Lorne didn't think he could concentrate well enough on his own. Looking around his front room, Lorne noticed his miniature statue of Michelangelo’s David, which always cheered him up. The key to producing great work, he thought, is finding the right inspiration. **** Matthew could see Lorne through the window as he rounded the corner of University Row. Matthew couldn’t help looking. As Lorne stood up to stretch, his loose cotton yoga pants revealed the shape of his tight ass and hinted at the shape of his legs. When Lorne turned to face the sunlight, and his cock and balls cast shadows inside his pants. Matthew watched as he reached over his head to tug at his other elbow, framing his face with his strong arms. Matthew was confused and slightly embarrassed. Was Lorne showing off? Did he want Matthew to watch? Matthew rushed to the door of the building and pressed the buzzer. "Who is it?" Lorne asked through the intercom. He sounded suspicious. "Who do you think?" answered an expressive tenor voice. “Matt! Come in.” Lorne sounded hugely relieved, as though he had been

7 expecting a bill collector instead. Matthew scampered down the hallway to Lorne’s apartment. “Hi,” he told Lorne’s unsmiling face. “Something wrong, man?” Lorne looked at him thoughtfully. “I’m working on my piece for the spring prize.” “That’s the idea.” Matthew bounced on the balls of his feet. He was quick, slight, funny, and easily amused. Most of the girls he knew treated him like a friend and confidant rather than a potential boyfriend. He envied Lorne’s brooding-hero vibe and his luck with the ladies. “Is it giving you that much trouble?” Matthew dumped his backpack in Lorne's armchair. Lorne seemed amused that Matthew was making himself at home. Lorne nodded toward his canvas. “I want to paint the Hawaiian goddess of volcanoes, Pele. She’s a sexy, passionate bitch, a force of nature. I got the idea when I was still dating Jessie, but then she dumped me, and now I can’t get the image right. I need a model.” Matthew tried to digest this news as quickly as possible. “Whoa. Do you have a beer in the fridge? I think it would help me get my head around this. I’ll buy you one next time we go to the bar.” “Help yourself.” Matthew found his way to the dark kitchenette, where the metal finish of the fridge gleamed in a vaguely ominous way. Matthew opened the fridge door, looking for good, familiar Canadian beer. While surveying bean sprouts, leftover takeout food in cardboard containers, jars with foreign labels, and vegetables with hard, bumpy rinds and

8 shapes that reminded Matthew of sex toys, he felt as if Lorne was standing behind him, breathing down his neck and sending chills down his spine. Matthew found his favorite brand near the back of the fridge and carefully pulled it out without disturbing anything else. Matthew returned to the front room holding the cold bottle like a trophy. "Thanks, Lorne. Don't you want one?" "Not now. I need to focus." It wasn’t clear to Matthew on what Lorne wanted to focus. He was definitely checking him out. Matthew felt like a brainless party animal. Was that what Lorne thought of him? Or did he want to get him drunk? Matthew could sense a mystery in the room. "Did Jessie say anything? I mean, like, why she wanted out?" "Look, Matt, I asked you to come here so we could do some work, not shoot the shit. Will you do me a favor?" That tingling came back. This time, Matthew felt it tickling his balls like phantom fingers. "Sure." He felt nervous but daring. "If you don't really feel like working on your own piece, I need you to pose for me. Have you ever done drag?" Matthew flushed. He wondered if Lorne could guess how much his mother's wardrobe had fascinated him when he was growing up. “Well, sort of,” Matthew said. He paused for breath. “I mean for Halloween, but not seriously. What do you want me to wear?" Lorne studied Matthew’s graceful body in a faded T-shirt and ripped jeans. “First I need to see your bone structure. Take off all your clothes, guy."

9 Matthew took a deep swig of liquid courage and set the bottle on a nicked wooden side table next to a brass incense burner. This was no time to chicken out. Trying to look nonchalant, he pulled his T-shirt over his head. He unzipped his jeans and pushed them down, resisting an impulse to wiggle his ass. He turned away from Lorne to hide a growing boner. Lorne stood close enough to smell the beer on Matthew's breath and saw what his model was trying to hide. Lorne grinned. "Kinda sensitive there, aren't you, Matt?" He stroked Matt’s cock, making it jump. Matthew swallowed a groan. His cock was quickly making up his mind for him. "This what you want to see, Picasso?" "Maybe. You're not exactly a goddess, Matt, but that's some magic wand you got. You want something, don't you?" Lorne pressed his own hardness against Matthew's ass and stroked his cock with teasing slowness. Matthew's erection turned harder and redder, sticking out from its nest of curly brown hair. In proportion with the rest of Matthew, his cock was surprisingly thick. A blue vein pulsed just beneath tight, silky skin. Lorne moved around Matthew and sank to his knees in front of him. Lorne kept Matthew's cock as hard as steel and guided it to his mouth. "Uh, Lorne," the model muttered between breaths. "I'm not really gay. Just so you know." Lorne grinned wickedly up at him. "Me neither. Who cares?" Lorne pulled a blue condom out of his back pocket and rolled it lovingly over the smooth, red mushroom head of Matthew's cock, then stroked it down to the root. Matthew couldn't remember feeling this much pleasure, whether alone in his bed or in

10 the back seat of his dad's car with a sickly-looking girl named Sandy when he was in ninth grade. She had no sparkle and no friends, and rumor had it she would do anything. Matthew had wanted to find out how far she would go. That experience had felt like stale pop, and even the memory almost made him groan aloud as the taste of fear and shame rose in his throat. He wondered what he would have done if he had joined his genes with hers and changed both their lives forever. It could have happened. As weeks passed and Sandy stayed thin, Matthew felt so relieved he could almost have taken a vow of chastity. This was different. The warm cave of Lorne's mouth enveloped Matthew's cock like—like the hot, wet cunt of a fire goddess. The Latex covering dulled the feeling somewhat, but Matthew could feel the graze of Lorne's teeth and the steady lapping of his tongue. This was something Matthew hadn't imagined while jerking off alone, trying to think of something sexier than a girl screaming in childbirth or his own body withering from an incurable disease. Matthew looked down to see Lorne looking up at him, his lips stretched around Matthew's cock and his dark eyes full of some unreadable message. Matthew knew guys competed with each other, and so did students chasing prizes and scholarships. That seemed natural, but how did this scene fit in? Was Lorne trying to knock his rival out of the race, or did he want Matthew in his corner? Matthew couldn't think clearly with so much of his consciousness focused in one place. Lorne was watching Matthew's reaction, and the look in those eyes sent Matthew over the finish line. He groaned as his juice overflowed in spurts, filling the sheath. His

11 knees felt weak. He hadn't known how badly he needed to come. He watched as Lorne tenderly rolled the used Latex off his softening cock and held it carefully, preventing Matthew’s seed from spilling on the floor. Matthew vaguely remembered a commandment in the Bible and wondered if, back in biblical times, making a mess was considered a worse sin than getting it on with another guy. "Man, you needed that,” Lorne said. He stood up and wrapped his arms around Matthew. The wet bag swung against Matthew's bare back, reminding him of what he had just done. Matthew was too embarrassed to answer in words, but his silence spoke for him. Lorne persisted. "You liked that, didn't you, guy?" Matthew didn't want to be a jerk. "Oh yeah, that was…you're good, man. Are you bi?" Lorne snickered as though no label could sum up his brilliant, complex, and talented nature. "Yeah, I'm bi," he bragged. "Anything that moves." His own hard-on pressed insistently against Matthew's sweat-glazed belly. Matthew slid a tentative hand over the bulge in Lorne's pants. Lorne grabbed his wrist and pushed it away. "Not yet, Matt. I want to keep the edge. It'll help me work. You have to get into your role, and I have to capture the mood. This is serious. We're making art here." Matthew stifled the guffaw that rose from his balls. If fooling around was an art for Lorne, Matthew didn't want to spoil his mood. "Wait," said Lorne. "I'll be right back." He went into his bedroom, and something about his walk told Matthew that this private space was still off limits to him. Lorne

12 emerged holding a sheer orange curtain with pleats at one end. A laugh burst out of Matthew. "Lorne, you've lost it! What's that supposed to be…a gown for a goddess?" Lorne didn't crack a smile. "Okay, guy, stay buck naked. Get down on all fours and move around. Try to move like a wild animal." Matthew wanted to be a good sport, so he lowered himself to the floor and crawled toward a potted plant in the corner, hoping he looked like a panther stalking through a jungle. "That's lame, Matt. You're not supposed to be a terrier puppy looking for a place to pee." Lorne loomed over him, exuding a smell of men’s cologne heated by frustration. Matthew raised himself up onto his knees. Lorne grabbed his shoulders and pulled him to his feet, then wrapped the curtain around Matthew’s arms and shoulders. “We need a little mystery," Lorne murmured, as if to himself. He licked his lips. “And some barely controlled passion." He held the curtain in both hands and casually rubbed it over Matthew’s chest, his ticklish belly, his rising cock and his red balls. "Keep it on," Lorne commanded. He stepped away from Matthew, casually untied his pants’ drawstring and pulled them down, setting free a solid boner that pointed straight at Matthew. Matthew reached for it, holding his sheer covering closed with one hand like a modest woman. Lorne moved quickly out of his way and reached behind him. Smack! Lorne’s hand left an impression on one of Matthew’s lower cheeks. “No, baby." Matthew’s cock reacted to the impact. His anger wrestled with his lust. "You

13 wanna fight, man?" Matthew tried to make it sound playful as he reached for Lorne, who stayed one jump away from him. "You'll lose, but keep that thought." Lorne stroked Matthew’s cock through its covering of orange rayon. “Come in here.” Lorne showed the way into his bedroom and Matthew followed, still feeling the electric zing that ran from his ass to his bursting cock. Lorne pushed him toward the red velvet bedspread on his inviting bed, and Matthew sank onto his back. “Up,” Lorne said, holding a gold satin bra. Matthew laughed but said nothing as Lorne wrapped it around his back, pulling the hook toward the outermost loop to keep it fastened. Matthew gasped for breath, but his cock actually grew harder. Lorne stuffed two fistfuls of Kleenex in the cups, creating an illusion of breasts. “That’s better.” “Oh lover,” Matthew crooned in falsetto. “I'm gonna set you on fire.” He rolled his shoulders seductively. “Smart-ass,” Lorne said and laughed, pushing Matthew onto his side. “Don’t move.” Lorne rummaged in his closet and came out with a long black wig from the drugstore, part of a Vampirella costume. He pulled it onto Matthew’s head and inserted four hairpins to hold it in place. “There.” Matthew could hardly imagine how he looked, but he felt unkempt fake hair around his face and hoped he looked wild and fascinating enough. “Hellcat,” Lorne said, sneering. “How many men have you destroyed in your time? You think I'm your pawn, but I am the master of my domain. I decide what

14 happens here.” Matthew hadn't known that Lorne was a gamer or a fantasy geek, but now it seemed obvious. He’d ask Lorne about his collection of games or novels or comic books when he was calm enough to appreciate them. Holding Matthew in place with one hand, Lorne used the other to slap his ass. “Where are your powers now, vixen? Don't you know the price of betrayal?” Strangely enough, Matthew felt himself sinking into his role as though it were a warm bath. This isn't really happening to me. We're playing a game. He jerked, not really sure whether he wanted to get away or not. Lorne slapped him again and again. Matthew realized he was giving consent just by staying in place and taking his punishment. It stung, but his cock responded to each strike in an unmistakable way. "Ow!” Matthew felt like an engine that needed to let off steam, but he didn’t move off the bed. Lorne settled into a relentless rhythm. His slaps grew harder as he gained confidence. “Hey! Stop!” The high, desperate note in Matthew’s voice wasn't for effect. For a moment, he wondered if Lorne were really crazy, like the kind of guy who would open fire with a machine gun in a crowded restaurant. “What the fuck, man?” His fear was turning to anger, and he needed to come in the worst way. Lorne was breathing as hard as Matthew. He awkwardly changed into comforter mode and stroked Matthew's sweaty forehead, then the clenched muscles of his nearest arm. "Easy, Matt, it's okay. We're going somewhere, baby. We're really close. You're

15 incredible. You're helping me so much, you don't even know it. This is going to be amazing." Matthew sat up carefully, trying to avoid brushing his ass against anything that could make things worse. He was grateful for the softness of the bedspread. "Jesus. Lose track of reality, why doncha?" Matthew stroked his own neglected cock. "Nuh-uh," Lorne warned, prying Matthew's fingers loose. "Hang in there for me, sweetness. I'm not finished with you yet." Lorne ran a slow, gentle hand over Matthew’s red butt. Then he wrapped a fist around Matthew’s cock. “What a big clit, lady,” he said. “You need a good fucking.” Matthew imagined Lorne's thick, unlubricated cock ripping into his virgin anus, plunging impossibly deep into his bowels. The thought was as thrilling and scary as anything Matthew had ever seen in a horror film. "No way!" he yelled. He got his breathing under control. "I'm not into that," he muttered. "Sorry, Lorne." "It's okay," Lorne told him, moving his hand up and down Matthew's aching shaft. "I know it's your first time, and I'm pretty big. I won't hurt you." Lorne had already coated his longest finger in Vaseline, and now he slid it effortlessly into Matthew’s back passage. His index finger soon joined it. Matthew made a kind of smothered scream as his dick erupted in ecstasy, shooting jism all over the orange fabric that covered it. Like a pulsing fire hose, his cock shot a load through the soaked curtain and onto the bedspread. Lorne watched intently. “That's it! You did it! Matt, that's the look I want. I am so fucking you for real next time.” Lorne jumped to his feet, yanked open a bureau drawer, and retrieved a digital

16 camera from beneath a pile of socks. Matthew saw the gleam of some little metal figures in the drawer before he pulled the sheer curtain over his head, catching it on the acrylic hair of the wig. Lorne snapped photos of him from various angles as Matthew squirmed and curled into a ball. "Hey, Lorne, just sketches, okay? No photos." Matthew's voice sounded muffled, even to him. Lorne pulled the curtain away from Matthew's face. "You said you'd model for me, guy. I won't show anyone else. This is too good to share. I need to work from photos to get the look of the goddess in my painting.” “This is just weird, Lorne. We’ve got a thing going on, I can live with it, but I’m not…” Lorne had put the camera down and was rolling a blue condom down over his swollen meat. “Matt, we all have a spark of divine essence in us, don’t you know that? I’ve got something here for you to feast on.” Matthew eagerly accepted Lorne’s cock, tickling his balls with one hand as he held the head between his lips. He ran his tongue around its underside and probed the slit, digging a sound out of Lorne that was half-sigh, half-moan. Matthew had always thought of giving head as a degrading admission of defeat, something forced on prison inmates by sadistic guards who wanted to break them. Yet nothing had ever made Matthew feel more powerful than feeling Lorne’s vulnerable manhood in his mouth and hearing the uncontrollable sounds of his pleasure. Matthew knew he would remember this moment for a long time to come. Matthew sucked for all he was worth, feeling the pull in his cheek muscles. Lorne

17 erupted with a heartfelt groan, clutching Matthew's head with both hands. Matthew pulled Lorne beside him on the bed and held him in his arms. Matthew suddenly laughed. "You're so hot, man." He meant it literally, but he didn't mind if Lorne took it as a compliment. They lay together in a peaceful silence until their combined body heat became unbearable. Lorne rolled away, and Matthew gave him space. Matthew sat up and pulled out the hairpins that secured the wig to his head. He wrapped it up in the curtain and left the bundle on Lorne's bureau. Lorne raised himself up on one elbow to look at his art model. "You're not turning gay, are you, Matt?" Matthew didn't want to think about it. Sex with Lorne had been such a relief that he knew he would want to do it again, but he didn't know if that was enough to change his sexual identity. He knew that all the fine arts majors had a reputation for that—except for the girls, who were considered femmy by definition. Matthew didn't want to be a walking joke, especially for macho types like the jocks and the engineering majors. Matthew imagined himself picking up a street whore just to prove something, but then a sickening tide of guilt and fear washed over him. As he thought about what could push a woman into the oldest profession, he remembered being told that a high percentage of the street workers in town were transgendered. "Naw. I'm not gay. I just don't believe in limiting myself." Matthew liked his answer to Lorne’s question. He decided that would be his policy, in the unlikely event that anyone else would ask him point blank to define himself. He really hoped Lorne's photos of him would never be seen by anyone else.

18 "Me too." Lorne looked at Matthew as though he were sketching him in his mind. "I know exactly what I'm going to paint for the spring prize. What are you going to do?" A parade of superheroes strode, flew, and swam through Matthew's mind. "I'm not sure yet, but I have some ideas." Lorne sat up. "You want another beer, man?" This question tickled Matthew's funny bone. "I didn't finish my first one, but sure, why not?" He knew this was the time when a girl would want to process what had just happened and analyze The Relationship to death. He wondered whether two girls together would talk twice as much as one. Before Matthew could tell him he was going to the bathroom, Lorne returned with two beers. He seemed to have read Matthew's mind. "Do you think girls fool around a lot? You know, the ones who think they're BFF?" "I dunno. I'll tell you after." Matthew escaped from the room, glad the pressure in his bladder was giving him a chance to spend a little time alone. Matthew returned to Lorne's bedroom with an answer more or less prepared. He took the beer Lorne had opened for him and raised it as he began his speech. "Girls probably kiss and cuddle a lot, but it couldn't be the same as us, I mean, unless they use dildos." The possibility that sex toys made of synthetic materials could satisfy most, or any, females just as well as the real thing made Matthew feel insubstantial—as though he were transparent. Matthew thought about how much he didn't know about women or about other people in general. He remembered reading that every person is a separate universe. He had read enough Jungian theory to wonder if he had an inner goddess. A philosophical

19 sadness seemed to waft through the room, and it felt like the perfect excuse for drinking in broad daylight, before the bars opened. "To you," Lorne said, grinning. "You'll pose for me again sometime, won't you, Matt?" "Sure, man…anytime."

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Improvisation by Cecilia Tan

It started innocently enough. Don't these things always? My agent called, all apologetic. He hemmed and hawed and said something like, "You know the Sorcery World film franchise?" Which was a silly question, since they had already made three of the highest-grossing films of all time. You couldn't even buy a carton of milk without an ad for it on there. I gave him a hard time. "I think I might have heard of it. That's those kids’ films where they made Ian McKellen recite a poem in pig Latin, eh?" "It'll be good money, you know," he said nervously, "if you can stand the wig and the funny clothes and waving a scepter around while spouting nonsense." I was secretly thrilled. These fantasy films tend to set up an actor for life if they hit. "If Charlton Heston could stand it for Ten Commandments, I can manage," I said with a sigh. "Besides, they've already got every other British actor in the films, don't they?" Patrick Stewart, Kenneth Branagh. Even Colin Jackman. "I've been feeling left out." Amazingly enough, Colin Jackman was one of the few with whom I hadn't worked before, though we knew each other somewhat from parties and industry functions. We'd both been on a BBC show for a while, but our characters didn't interact, so I'd only appreciated him from a distance. That voice: so deep, such nuance. It was no wonder he was continually beating me out for voice-over jobs in car commercials and the like.

22 Yes, meeting and working with Colin Jackman would be what would make Sorcery World magical for me, I thought, though I had no idea at the time just how magical. ***

We ran into each other in wardrobe, my very first day on the set. Understand, now, they've built this enormous complex in a series of abandoned aircraft hangars because the entire series of films is being done there, so just getting from the gate to the costume shop was a half-hour walk. When I finally did get there and they started taking my measurements, I was surprised to see Colin standing next to me, undergoing the same treatment. I must say he looked quite fit. We exchanged pleasantries for a bit, then I asked, "Haven't they got your measurements from before?" "Ah, well, I lost quite a bit of weight doing some action films in Hollywood this summer," he answered. "Two months with a personal trainer and all that." The seamstress measuring him made a tutting noise. "Well, when I'm done, hopefully you'll look just the same as before. Thankfully your mage outfit covers you up." He rolled his eyes. "You're not looking too bad yourself," he said to me with an impish smile. "Although last time I saw you, you were attired quite differently. On the screen, anyway."

23 I laughed, flattered he'd seen one of my films. "My wife always asks how I end up playing all these drag queens and hustlers when I'm such a straight man in real life." I shrugged. "Just comes with the territory, I suppose." A few hours later, we were both outfitted in black and strutting back and forth in front of the mirrors. His character had already been in the previous films and was a known adversary of the hero, while mine was just being introduced, an aristocratic henchman to the evil overlord. We were both trying to muster the most severe and serious looks we could. Very forbidding characters, after all. Dark. Dangerous. Evil. We were failing. I think it was Colin who sniggered first. Really, being an actor is sometimes just a complicated game of dress-up, and even on serious gigs laughter is infectious. Which made it a good moment to give my "Magelord Maleficent" voice a try. "Really, Sorcerer Serpentine," I drawled, leaning on the word "sorcerer" as if I found it hard to believe he had earned the title. "Such behavior unbecomes you." God damn that Jackman. His face snapped into character like I had thrown a switch. "You may hold the governor's favor," he growled, "but I do not answer to you." Recall that the moment I heard of the Sorcery World gig, I went and read all the books. I had intended to just skim a bit, but in the end I got sucked in. I devoured the books. I didn't eat, didn't sleep, that sort of thing. So I had quite a bit of background to draw on. I stepped close, pitched my voice conspiratorially, and whispered as his eyes met mine: "Oh no, you and I both know to whom it is you truly answer." I gripped his wrist in my fingers, but our robes hid this. "You dare..." he hissed, his outrage so palpable I imagined I could feel the heat through the costume gloves. Oh, Colin is fun.

24 "Come, Serpentine, no need to be so prickly." Colin is a couple of inches taller than me, but the Magelord voice essentially says, no matter what the dialogue: I am better than you. I am your superior, and you will bow to me. Oh yes, that and I have a hidden agenda. "Not when we have...so much in common." I broke away, my body language nonchalant but my eyes still locked with his. "So tell, me, Sorcerer, what is your opinion of my son's progress in spellwork?" God, it was so easy, so much fun to just make that voice drip with all kinds of insinuations. Colin is too good an actor to miss any of it. "He has earned high marks under my tutelage," he dripped back at me. "Excellent. I shall expect you to take special care with him, given our...mutual interests." Jackman bowed sarcastically to me. Don't ask me exactly how he made an otherwise completely proper bow sarcastic. It might have been the set of his shoulders. Or his narrowed eyes. Things a stage audience or even the camera could miss, but standing there in the room with him, one didn't. We went back to laughing after that. The shooting schedule was hectic, and there was little time for goofing around in the following weeks. Before I knew it, my part was done, and I went back to picking through scripts offering other villainous parts. The invitation to dinner with Colin came while I was off to Los Angeles for some voice over work and had to pass. We chatted a bit at the premiere, nothing much; it's all a whirlwind of people and publicity and photography and no time to talk to anyone, like a wedding, only worse. There wasn't time for more than a quick, "Hello, how's the wife?"

25 I should point out that Colin's wife isn't actually a wife. He's had a longstanding relationship with a wonderful lady that dates back decades; however, she doesn't seem to mind him hooking up with others from time to time. The tabloids can't even make a scandal out of it because it's just the way it is, and they're quite happy. The truth of the matter is I was mad to talk to him more. I had never been able to get the image of his glare, the intensity in his eyes, out of my mind since that little tete-atete in wardrobe. The next time we had an opportunity to really talk was on the set for the next film. More than a year had passed, and even though I was convinced he had forgotten all about it, I found myself angling to improvise a scene like that again. Don't get me wrong, the child stars of the films are wonderful, but an actor like Colin Jackman—one simply hungers to engage with him on that high plateau where the acting craft can go. My chance came one evening at the compound. Once they would put me in my long wig, of course, I wouldn't take it off until absolutely sure there wouldn't be another shot. And I took to carrying the scepter, which PAs affectionately called my "pimp stick," with me. With a whole gaggle of teen actors for the crew to wrangle, I felt somehow responsible for my own props. Hence I was only half-costumed, no voluminous top robe, but coiffed with scepter in hand while hanging about in the "Secret Society" room waiting for my call. The Secret Society room was rarely used in the early films but had been left assembled as it would be needed in the future. The key thing about it was that it had couches and chairs, and most of the adult actors took to using it as a de facto Green Room. Some of the chairs would disappear from time to time as they were re-used or re-

26 dressed for other sets, but they didn't tear down the place so it became our place to hang about. Colin was there in full Serpentine regalia, chattering away on his cell phone to someone. We adults did a lot of our solo shots in the evenings, when the kids were unavailable because of work rules. Several minutes later Colin was still talking, and I began to feel a bit uncomfortable listening to his conversation, but really, where else was I to go? And his voice, well, you know how that voice carries. When at last he flipped the phone shut and slid it into a pocket inside his robes, I just couldn't help myself. I laid the scepter on his shoulder and said "Tut tut, Serpentine, that contraption had best have a silence spell on it." He turned toward me, his eyes ablaze. No one does a slow smolder like Colin Jackman, and what it looks like on screen is nothing to what it is like when you are face to face with him. "My lord Maleficent," he said, his voice rich with connection and antagonism both. My mind raced. What was the connection between these two characters? Mine was somewhat older, and I recalled something about them having met at school. I jumped on that. "So nice to see you here, at our old Secret Society stomping grounds. Why, I remember your hazing as if it were yesterday." Something in Colin seized on that and I could tell he was going to run with it. This is why improv is so much fun, these near-telepathic moments one has with other actors. He drew himself up, yet seemed to shrink a bit at the same time as he said, with great reserve as if hiding something, "My initiation was a very long time ago."

27 I lifted his chin with the tip of the scepter, as if I were the taller one. I have no idea where this next line came from. "You miss it, don't you?" Defiance, fire, but that flick of hesitation. "I do not." Magelord Maleficent, the embodiment of dominance. I stepped closer. "You do. You miss me." And Jackman, my God, his hand moved just a fraction toward me, then he balled it into a fist, dropped his eyes, and lied when he repeated the words, "I do not." I gripped him by the chin then, half sorry I wasn't wearing the leather gloves at the time, and said, "Open your mouth, little snake, and let me see the forked tongue that lets you speak such lies." I had it easy. Maleficent has very little screen time and very little nuance to him. He is a one-note character. But the Serpentine character, he's full of twists and turns and hidden motivations, and this is exactly why they went and got Colin Jackman for the job. Jaw clamped tight, Colin brought his eyes up, and in them I saw him send his character through a thought process that included anger, resistance, thought of escape, and, finally, submission. He parted his lips. I kissed them with such force, I may have bruised my own lip on my teeth. When we broke apart, Colin cleared his throat and said, "Jay, are you busy later? Fancy a spot of dinner?" Why yes. Yes, I do. It was some hours later we landed in the café quarter of Watford, in a whitetablecloth sort of place just off the High Street that Colin seemed to know. We chitchatted through a glass of wine, maybe two, over appetizers, but it was somewhere

28 around the main dish that we arrived at the, ah, meat of the discussion. And I somewhat shocked myself by being the one to bring it up. "I quite enjoyed our little improvisation today," I said, while busying myself with my fork and knife so I wouldn't have to look him in the eye just yet. "I was about to say the same thing," he said, twirling a ruby-red Cotes du Rhone in his glass by the stem. "Those two characters are so much alike on the surface, yet their backgrounds are so different. I have to wonder almost if Serpentine's manner wasn't adopted from Maleficent himself." I hadn't thought of that. "If they were at school together..." "And Maleficent took him under his wing, so to speak." Colin tapped his chin. "Poor, greasy little waif away from home for the first time...Did you go to boarding school, Jay?" The question caught me off guard but before I could answer it, he said, "No, wait, I don't want to know. But what do you think of my theory?" "That Maleficent was Serpentine's role model? I could certainly believe it." We were looking at each other now. "I hope I didn't...go too far with it today." "Au contraire, mon frere," he said. "It's a fascinating idea for a connection between the characters." "Fascinating?" "Intriguing." And his eyes lit up like a cat that has spied a mouse. Now, recall if you will that Colin Jackman is nearly twenty years my senior, a hundred times as accomplished as an actor, and in real life, I am a neurotic mess. To say he intimidated me would be to understate the case. This is the point where I would have normally turned the conversation back to boarding school or something. Law school.

29 But I didn't. I looked down my nose, Maleficent-like, aristocratic, confident, and not to be denied. "What time is your call tomorrow?" "Not until two o'clock." His eyebrow arched. " I already looked. You're not due in makeup until noon." Someone was thinking ahead. I wanted to be sure, though. "And Lisa is okay with it?" "Quite. She knows how rare it is for me to find someone who isn't too afraid of me to...engage with me like this." Well, at that point I certainly could not admit that I felt intimidated at all, could I? He went on. "And your wife?" I couldn't answer that, so I didn't. I folded my arms and tilted my head. "Lady Maleficent does not dictate to me." There was a hint of a smirk on his face before he settled into his Serpentine demeanor. "Of course not." We didn't stay for dessert. I was incredibly rude to the waiter but left him a huge tip. I do not recall the trip to Colin's flat, maybe because I wasn't really there. Magelord Maleficent was. Or maybe because all my brain was registering at the time was something on the lines of: “That's Colin Bloody Jackman sitting next to you.” Thank goodness for that icy Maleficent veneer. I may have even sneered at him slightly as we entered the bedroom. "So tell me, Sorcerer." Again I leaned on that word. "Are you as eager as I am to renew our acquaintance?"

30 There it was again, that sequence, anger, resistance, no way out...submission. Careful words, tiptoeing through the minefield. "I...Thank you for your attention, my lord." "You don't seem properly appreciative, Serpentine." Oh, I wished I had the cane. "I could go..." "No!" Hunger battled back the resignation in his eyes—and even under all that I could see Colin egging us on, thrilled, as he dropped to his knees. My blood surged to see it. Let's see, it had been over two decades since law school and my brief bisexual experimentation phase. Probably it was not a coincidence that it was when I got into acting and theater as well. Still, I'd never had a man fall to his knees in front of me before, especially not because he was trying to—show his appreciation for me. If I'd had any reservations about whether physically I could go through with this little scene, they were gone as my erection grew somewhat painful. He undid my fly with trembling fingers and I didn't know if that was acting or real anticipation. It didn't matter. He freed my cock and ran his cheek along it reverently. "Did you miss me?" I hissed, barely able to keep my eyes open and my character straight as he teased. "Oh, yes," he answered, before enveloping me in his mouth. I probably could have just let things play out from there, however they might, without us saying another word. But I was having too much fun and what he had said about needing someone who wasn't afraid of him had stuck with me. I let him suck me until I could barely hold back, then I slapped him across the cheek, his teeth grazing me slightly as we broke apart.

31 "Half-blood slut," I said. "Is that what I taught you? Get on the bed. Now." He scrambled up, that wonderful antagonism flaring in his eyes, yet he obeyed. "And get your clothes off." He began to strip and I watched, my arms folded. Colin Jackman has a body that most men his age would kill for, yet I could see the way the Serpentine character hid himself, or tried to. When he was nearly undressed I pressed him back with one hand, the other trailing down his chest. "No, no, little snake. You hide nothing from me." I slid my fingers lower and felt a jolt go through me as I came in contact with his erection. It was all those things you read about in tawdry books. Hot, hard, straining, throbbing, and so on. His whimper ensured that I was as well. The only difficulty now was that I, the inexperienced one, was in charge. Well, I had put myself there. In any improv the control flows back and forth, and I wondered what turn of events might shift it from me to him without us breaking character. Hmm. I shrugged out of the rest of my clothes, and then pulled him across my lap. "Do you remember your initiation, Serpentine?" "Like it was yesterday," he said, recalling my line of earlier, trying to sound reluctant but either Colin's eagerness or Serpentine's was coming through very strongly. "Little slut," I said, inspired. "Did you keep the paddle?" "As a matter of fact, I did." He pointed to the bedside table as best he could from the awkward place on my knees. I pulled open the drawer with my left hand. There were a few dog-eared tawdry novels, a bottle of lube, a blindfold, a few other implements, and a wooden paddle of what looked like some exotic hardwood.

32 I rubbed the paddle over his bare bottom with my right hand, and he moaned. "Do you remember how many you could take when you were younger, Serpentine?" "I...I think it was fifty," he answered, his voice deliciously shaky. "But you're older now," I breathed in his ear. "Surely you can take sixty?" Having never done this before, I had no idea if what I was asking was within reason, but if he would agree to fifty, could ten more be out of the realm of possibility? He could always beg me for mercy—my cock jumped at that thought, trapped under him as it was. He merely nodded in assent, taut with anticipation, his own cock pressed into my thigh. I steadied him with my left hand, then swung the paddle with my right. I wasn't prepared for how loud it was and I jumped in surprise as much as he did in pain. A silence spell would have come in handy right about then. By the tenth stroke he was no longer able to keep his cries bottled in his throat, and by the thirtieth stroke he had begun to bellow. And this man could bellow. The bellow turned into a cry of "My lord! Please!" around the fortieth stroke, and I slowed down, but I did not lighten up. I continued to lay them on, though I gave him a bit more time to process each one. His bum was glowing red and his whole body trembled. "Come, now, Serpentine, you can do it. For me." I was stroking his back now with my free hand between wallops, encouraging him to hump my leg even as I was preparing to hit him again. "Ten more, now." I began to count them backwards, his shivering increasing after each stroke, his back arching and his hands clawing at my other leg, until we reached the last one, and he came in great spurts against my skin, bellowing once again, then falling limp.

33 "On the bed," I said, ignoring the spunk and wanting my own release soon. His reddened skin beckoned as he crawled onto the bed and I flattened him, face down, licking at his welted cheeks and making him moan all the more. Then I licked him in the crack between the heated globes and he pushed back to meet my tongue. "I...you...please..." he said, his voice sounding like he was losing the ability for coherent speech. "I want all of you." The intent of the statement was clear, at least. "Shall I use this potion?" I said, fishing the lube from the drawer and almost laughing. "You'll find everything you require in the drawer." So, not quite speechless after all. I took the hint, retrieved a condom from the drawer and rolled it on, then picked up the bottle of lubricant once again. I poured some into my hand—hmm, it did have a nice scent—and slicked myself with it. Then I put a bit more in the trough between my index and middle fingers and worked them into him. The sound he made, I can neither describe nor duplicate. It made me say again, "You missed me, didn't you?" "Yesss...." Mounting him took a moment of thought on my part as I figured the best way to angle myself. I ended up with one leg between his, one hand on his hip and the other hand guiding my cock. He made that sound again. Or maybe that was me: guttural, needy, in ecstasy. I let my hands slide up to his shoulders now that I was sheathed, and I rocked experimentally. We both groaned. I repeated the motion with greater surety. And I'm not

34 entirely sure when it happened, but we passed out of scene, and there I was, fucking the living daylights out of Colin Jackman. Who was loving every moment of it, I might add. As I came close, I think I even said, "Colin," and his response was to clench me even tighter and send me, howling, over the edge, slamming into him with enough force to knock the headboard against the wall and make me see stars. I was surprised to find myself trembling as I pulled out of him. I said something inane like, "Oh, my." He gathered me into his arms and held me, then kissed me on the hair and said, "Thank you. Oh, thank you so much for that." "Why does 'you're welcome' seem like a wholly inadequate response?" I asked, pressing my cheek happily against his chest. "Thank you. Now if only I could stop shaking." "It often happens to me after a very intense scene," he said. "Bloody inconvenient when you need another take." "Yes," I said, a leadenness starting to replace the trembling in my muscles. Then I felt a sudden jolt. I pulled back to look at his face. "Let me guess," he said, an amused smile on his face. "You've just had the thought, 'oh my God, I just buggered Colin Jackman.'" "That and I just realized, what am I going to tell Elly?" A look of sympathy crossed his face. "Has the possibility never been broached with her?" I started to laugh, not sure I could really explain what was funny. "Oh, back when I did that thing with Angelina Jolie, we had talked about it, actually."

35 "The one where you played a transsexual?" "Yes, that's the one. Elly did encourage me to...experiment." Though she hadn't exactly said to do this. Still, I felt she would understand. "But how am I going to tell her that it's you? She's going to die of shock. She absolutely adores you." "Well, that should be a sight easier than telling her you got it on with some actor she despises, then, eh?" He began to shift on the bed to peel back the covers and get underneath. "You'd better get under here, too, unless you're thinking of going off to call her now." "No, I think that had better wait until morning, at the very least." His voice was serious as he pulled me close again. "I do sincerely hope she agrees. Because I would very much like...a second take." He kissed me on the forehead. As I said, it started innocently enough.

36

The Nine Virgins by Elizabeth Coldwell

“Or there’s always the Nine Virgins.” The owner of the bed-and-breakfast slapped yet another leaflet on to the table in front of Matt and me. “I’m sorry?” I said. We’d checked in barely five minutes ago, and already the woman had given us information on all the sights of interest in the village and the surrounding New Forest area. If we wanted to, we could visit a hawk-and-owl sanctuary, the recently excavated site of a Roman villa, or a brewery which produced its own organic cider. But nine virgins? That sounded like something altogether more perverse. She must have noticed my scandalized expression, because she laughed. “Oh, it’s nothing like what you’re thinking, young man. That’s the name they gave to the circle of standing stones up on the hill that overlooks the village. You might have seen them as you drove past?” I shook my head. I had spent most of the journey down from London with my eyes shut: Matt might have been generous enough to offer me a lift, but he always drove way too fast for my liking, and his overtaking was nothing short of reckless. I was too busy celebrating the fact we’d reached our destination in one piece to pay any attention to the local scenery. “The stones are worth the climb,” she told me, “and there’s an interesting legend attached to them. They say if you go up there when the moon is full and stand in the middle of the circle, the love of your life will come to you.”

37 “Yeah, fascinating,” Matt said, pointedly leaving all the leaflets on the table as he picked up his bag and room key. I knew the only thing he intended to find this weekend was the nearest pub, where a few pints would come to him. He wasn’t here for sightseeing; he was here to lounge round with the rest of the gang, drinking and catching up on old times. Not for the first time, I wondered why I had answered the invitation from our old university buddy, Craig, to meet up for a reunion weekend. It was ten years since we’d all graduated, and with Craig about to move to Sofia with his Bulgarian fiancée, he’d decided it would be a great time for the five of us, who had first become friends when we lived on the same corridor in our hall of residence, to have one last weekend together. Even though his wedding was only a couple of months away, this wasn’t a stag do; no, it was designed to be more sophisticated than that, with wives and partners invited, too. Except Matt and I were the two single guys remaining in our group, and that was why we had traveled down together. Craig and Aleksandra had already arrived and were making themselves comfortable upstairs, according to our landlady. The other two couples, Geoff and Judy and Chris and Rebecca, were staying in a guest house just down the road, and would be in touch once they had checked in. I’d had a text message from Craig, telling us to settle in and he would see us in the lobby at seven, ready for what he referred to as a ‘top night out.’ Obviously his impending marriage hadn’t slowed him down at all, but from what he had told me about Aleksandra, I had gained the impression that she was as much of a party animal as him. At the top of the stairs, Matt turned left and I turned right. Craig and Aleksandra had the room opposite mine; even though their door was firmly shut, I could hear the

38 faint beat of music through it, suddenly overlaid with a sharp cry which bore the unmistakable tone of a woman in the throes of orgasm. No wonder Craig hadn’t come rushing downstairs to meet us. In other circumstances, the sound of a friend of mine clearly enjoying a good fuck might have made me envious, as would the story Matt had been telling me on the way down of meeting a girl in a City wine bar and going home with her for a sex session which had involved the use of handcuffs and the liberal application of chocolate body paint. I knew Matt thought I needed to go out and get laid a lot more often than I did. But the truth was I hadn’t been with a woman for a while now because I was starting to wonder whether that was what I actually wanted. Increasingly, my fantasies were beginning to revolve around sucking a hard cock rather than licking out a juicy pussy. I would find myself distracted in the street by a man’s arse, nicely outlined in a tight pair of jeans, or the bare chests of builders, gleaming with sweat as they worked on a hot day. I longed to have a thick dick plundering my virgin hole. Yet something was holding me back from having sex with a man; I had to try it, but I was too afraid of being rejected. I knew what I wanted, but I didn’t know how to ask for it. Not that I could discuss any of this with the boys. Maybe “unreconstructed” is the wrong word to use for them, but certainly Matt is one of those guys who’s convinced that every woman fancies him—the kind who, by extension, believes he’s irresistible to gay men, too. I didn’t want to have to explain to him that no, I wasn’t going to make a move on him and no, I hadn’t been looking at him in the showers after all those games of football we’d played together. Bottling up your true feelings may not be the long-term solution to anything, but with friends like mine, it was the only option I had.

39 Even so, I was determined to enjoy myself when I went downstairs to meet Craig, Aleksandra, and the others a couple of hours later. I had taken the opportunity to snatch forty winks before showering and dressing in a peacock blue shirt and black jeans, leaving the shirt untucked. It was a warm June evening, and I knew I didn’t need to bother with a jacket. Matt was already there, chatting to a dark-haired woman who I assumed to be Aleksandra, given the large diamond engagement ring which glittered on her finger. She was stunning, with high cheekbones and full lips, and the black dress she wore clung to breasts which were surprisingly big on her petite frame. She gave the impression of being expensive to maintain. Craig rounded us all up, slapping me on the back with such force it almost winded me and telling me how good it was to see me again. Then we made our way down the street to the Powder Mill, the pub where we would be spending the evening.The other two couples were sitting at a table in the corner, and we joined them, Craig making introductions all round. As he had always done at university, he had assumed the role of group leader as if it was his right. Sitting sipping my pint of mild, I began to notice how we were all conforming to the parts we had played ten years ago: Matt, the ladies’ man, eyeing everything in a skirt and mentally weighing up who he would be leaving with at the end of the evening; Chris, the boffin, regaling the rest of us with the complicated details of the research he was conducting into renewable sources of energy; and Geoff, the joker, mimicking the way one or other of us spoke or behaved. And me? I was on the edge as I had always been: part of the group without really engaging too closely with anyone else there. I listened vaguely as Aleksandra told me about the wedding she was planning, and how proud her father was going to be to see his

40 princess walk down the aisle, but as Craig and Geoff competed to see who could down their drink in the fastest time and Matt told some smutty anecdote about one of the secretaries in his office who was rumored never to wear any knickers, I realized I wasn’t really interested in any of this. Nice as their partners were, and much as it was fun to reminisce about things we’d done, I realized with hideous clarity that I had outgrown these people. Suddenly, the cozy interior of the pub was too hot and stifling, the music coming from the jukebox too loud. I didn’t have to feign the headache pressing at my temples as I rose to leave. “Sorry, everyone,” I said, “I think I’ve got a migraine coming on. I’m going to go back to my room and lie down.” “You will be all right, Simon?” Aleksandra asked, her voice touched with concern. “I’ll be fine,” I assured her. “I just need to be somewhere cool and dark so I can sleep it off.” I gave the group a farewell wave. “See you all in the morning.” The boys watched me go, familiar with the stress headaches I had always suffered when I was revising for my exams. I don’t know what they would have said if they had realized that on this occasion, they were the cause of my stress. Out in the cloudy night air, the throbbing in my head began to ease a little. It was only a five-minute walk back to the bed-and-breakfast, but for some reason I found myself turning in the opposite direction, tracing the route Matt had taken when he had driven us here. I walked past the handful of shops on the main road, closed at this time of night, and the village church with its little graveyard, many of the headstones so old they

41 seemed in danger of toppling over. My feet seemed to have a purpose of their own and I carried on, clambering over a stile and beginning to climb the hill towards the Nine Virgins. In truth, I hadn’t realized that was where I was heading until I found myself in the middle of a circle of jagged, weather-beaten stones, the largest of which was only a little taller than I was. When the owner of the bed-and-breakfast had described them to me I had been expecting something slightly more impressive, but I could not deny that these stones had an unmistakable, brooding power. There were so many theories as to why these circles had been erected; some experts suggested they were places of worship, others ancient calendars which marked the passing of the year according to where the shadows from the stones fell. All I knew was that tonight, there was a distinct energy here; I could feel it. It was almost as though the Virgins were waiting for something—or someone. Dark thoughts of human sacrifice flashed through my mind, remnants of a religion older than the one which had built the church below me, and then the clouds parted and the moon shone down on me, full and pale. “They say that if you go up there when the moon is full and stand in the middle of the circle, the love of your life will come to you.” I recited the words to myself, understanding now how someone might come up with such a story if they visited the stones on a night like this, but that was all it was—a story. Then I heard footsteps coming through the grass towards me. As I watched, a figure emerged from between the stones on the far side of the circle. I could have sworn there was a slight halo around him as he approached, the cold

42 white of moonlight, but my vision often blurred and played tricks on me when I had a migraine attack. He came closer, and my heart lurched. He must have been around the same age as me, in his late twenties, with dirty-blond hair falling almost to his shoulders and soft brown eyes. His expression was open and friendly, and there was a dimple at the side of his mouth which deepened when he smiled. I felt the same pang of desire I experienced whenever I saw an especially hot man in the street, sharp and urgent. Now he was so close to me that I could smell his unique aroma, a vaguely floral aftershave mixed with the sweaty musk of a man who does hard manual work for a living. “Who are you?” I asked. “Did you follow me up here?” Sexy as he was, I had the sudden fear that he’d seen me wandering along on my own with no real idea of where I was going and decided to rob me. He put a finger to my lips. “Don’t ask any questions,” he said. “I know who you are, and I know what you want.” With that, he leaned close and kissed me. His lips were soft as a woman’s, but he kissed me more aggressively than any woman ever had, tongue pushing forcefully into my mouth as though claiming it. My fear that he intended me some kind of harm was melting away, and I relaxed into the kiss. This was my perfect fantasy come to life: the man who knew what I wanted without needing to be told. Now his fingers were busy with the buttons on my shirt, undoing it so he could kiss my chest. He spent a lot of time licking and nibbling my nipples, teasing the little discs till they were hard. That hardness was mirrored by the

43 swelling at my groin: my cock was pressing against the fly of my trousers, desperate to be touched, but when I tried to move the stranger’s hand down towards it, he stopped me. “Do that again and I’ll tie your wrists with your belt,” he warned me. Not that his words did anything to cool my enthusiasm; if anything, my cock surged up even harder at the thought of being restrained by him. He pushed me up against the largest of the standing stones. My bare back tingled as though a tiny electric current was being run through it. His hands were on my belt, unbuckling it, then he pulled down my trousers and briefs with almost ruthless efficiency. His gaze settled on my cock. “Very nice,” he murmured, a moment before his fist closed around it. For the first time in my life, I was having my cock stroked by a man, a man who clearly knew exactly what he was doing, from the way his fingers lovingly eased my foreskin back and forth. I groaned, imagining how we would look to anyone who stumbled upon this little scene: a naked man, hands clasped above his head in a pose of supplication, being wanked off by a fully clothed stranger. He tugged harder, concentrating his efforts on the deliciously sensitive spot just below the head, and I feared I was going to lose my load. Not now, not yet, I thought, then I wondered whether I had voiced the words, because he immediately backed off. Quickly, he stripped out of the knee-length shorts he was wearing, leaving on his Green Day T-shirt, socks and heavy work boots. His cock was almost as hard as my own, a little longer but rather thinner than mine. Unlike me, he was circumcised, and the head of his cock looked shiny and enticing.

44 I didn’t need to be told to get down and suck it. I crawled through the long grass, hobbled by the clothing still bunched around my ankles, until I was kneeling before him. He smiled down at me as I took hold of his shaft, reveling in the feel of the hot flesh. My tongue flicked out and lapped at the bead of fluid which trickled down his length, and then I began to suck him in earnest. I thought of everything done to me in the past that had given me pleasure, and I did my best to replicate it, though I was all too aware I was a novice at this game. He seemed to be enjoying it, though, given the way he was wringing the hem of his T-shirt with his fists. He was giving me gorgeous glimpses of his flat, tanned stomach and the thin line of hair that trailed down from his chest to his groin. Let the legend be true, I thought, as I continued to swallow his cock. Let this man, whoever he is, be the love of my life. Eventually, he decided it was time for me to get fucked. He ordered me to get on all fours, and I obeyed. I had never dreamed that this was how I would lose my anal cherry—down on my hands and knees in the middle of an ancient stone circle, the scene lit with eerie moonlight—but as the stranger began to press against my arsehole with spitslickened fingers, I could not deny this was the most thrilling moment of my life. I was tight and more than a little nervous, but where he had been abrupt and forceful before, he was now slow and solicitous. By the time he had managed to ease a couple of fingers inside me, I was half crazy with lust. The fingers withdrew, and I braced myself for what was coming next. His cockhead, hot and slippery, began to push its way slowly into my arse. Instinctively, I pushed back at him, helping more and more of his shaft to enter me. Gradually, we fell

45 into a rhythm as old as time, our bodies bucking together. I couldn’t say how long he fucked me—or indeed, how much time had already passed since I first stepped into the circle—but it felt as though we could go on forever. At last, even the unnatural stamina we seemed to derive from being among the stones began to fail the pair of us. I heard him grunt, then he was pulling out of me, painting my arse cheeks with streaks of his come. Overwhelmed by everything that had happened to me, I grabbed hold of my cock, gave it a couple of swift tugs and watched as my spunk fountained out, splattering on the grass in tribute to whichever ancient gods were the guardians of this place. I rose up on my knees, intending to thank my new friend for such an amazing first time. He was standing, smiling at me, cock slowly deflating, but as I began to shape the words, he vanished. I don’t mean that he turned and ran, or that he slinked back into the shadows from which he had first emerged. Simply, one minute he was there and the next he had gone, as though he had never actually existed. “Hello?” I called, but all I heard was the faint echo of my own cry. What had just happened? Was I going mad? Had I dreamed it all? I knew that couldn’t be the case. There was a definite soreness where my arse had been stretched, and when I put my fingers to the small of my back, they came away sticky with what, when I sniffed and tentatively tasted it, was definitely come. But the stranger had been half naked when he had disappeared, yet there was not a trace of his discarded shorts. I didn’t understand it. The only thing to do was shuffle into my clothing and scramble back down the hill. I didn’t look back at the circle of stones, half afraid of what I might see if I did. I ran through the village, vaguely aware that lights still burned in the

46 pub, though I didn’t pop my head around the door to see whether my friends were still drinking there. What could I say, after all? “Lads, I think I’ve just been fucked by a ghost?” When I got back to my room in the bed-and-breakfast, I locked the door securely before collapsing on the bed. Emotionally and physically shattered, I was dead to the world till morning. Craig, Aleksandra, and Matt were already down at the breakfast table when I joined them, looking remarkably perky for three people who had enjoyed a heavy drinking session. They put it down to the restorative powers of a full English breakfast. If they noticed I was a little withdrawn, they didn’t say anything; they must have assumed I was still suffering from my migraine. I half listened to the plans they had for the day, having decided as I washed and dressed that I was going to join everyone for the rest of the weekend, then quietly fade out of their lives. Whatever had happened to me last night—and I still couldn’t work out whether it was a hallucination, however real it had felt at the time—I knew now that I had to take the risk and start dating men, and if that meant leaving my old friends behind, then so be it. After breakfast, I was waiting in the lobby for the others to join me when a van pulled up on the drive outside. “Oh, good, that’ll be Johnny,” the landlady said. “Johnny?” I asked. “My son,” she replied. “He rang me an hour ago to say the ferry had docked at Portsmouth. He’s been in France for the last week, touring the vineyards in the Champagne region.”

47 The door was flung open, and a young man came in, carrying a crate of Champagne bottles. A young man with longish dirty-blond hair, wearing a Green Day Tshirt, khaki shorts, and heavy boots. A man who, at the precise moment I had been having my brains fucked among the Nine Virgins, had been on an overnight ferry from Le Havre. He smiled as his eyes met mine, and in that instant it was as though a shock of electricity passed between us. A dimple appeared at the corner of his mouth, and that was when I realized there is truth at the heart of every legend.

Always, My Prince by D.C. Juris

"You! On your feet!" Body and soul still aching and wounded from the night's activities, Devlin reacted to the guard's command immediately, jumping to stand on unsteady legs. He had learned all too well the penalty for disobedience in the slave harem. "Come with me. You've been sold." Sold. The word hit Devlin like a physical blow, settling in the pit of his stomach with an awful weight. Sold. Yet his logical mind pointed out this wasn't necessarily a bad thing. True, there must be worse places to live, but there also must be better ones. Wealthy men often purchased slaves for the entertainment of their wives, he knew, which

48 wouldn't be entirely intolerable. He followed the guard down the hall and out into the great room. It was eerie to see the place so unoccupied, with no crowds lining the walls. "Wait here." The guard came to an abrupt stop, and Devlin struggled not to run into him. He stood and waited, wondering who his buyer was and what lay in store for him. Half of his questions were answered when the guard came back into view, with another man at his side. Devlin had seen the stranger every night for the past two months at the performances, standing off to the side, seemingly uninterested. His attention, though, had always been solely focused on Devlin; at times, Devlin had felt as if the man's gaze had actually been touching him. And now the man—the tall, muscular man with the long, wavy hair and the sparkling blue eyes—owned him. His cock stirred at the thought, bringing a frown to his face. He'd never had such a reaction to another man. He had no idea what to make of it. "Your slave, sir." The guard's lip curled, and Devlin found it amusing that someone who was little more than a servant himself could hold contempt for anyone. The man looked Devlin over and nodded. "Thank you." He took hold of Devlin's leash. "Come. My carriage is waiting." Outside, Devlin climbed into the carriage, noticing the plush interior. Whoever this man was, money was apparently of no concern to him. Devlin eyes widened in surprise when his new owner brought forth a key and set about unlatching the weighty metal collar around Devlin’s neck. The man sat back and smiled, tossing the collar to the floor like so much garbage. "Do you know why the slave trades are held on moonless nights?"

49 Devlin shook his head. Until he'd set foot on this godforsaken planet a little over six months ago, he hadn't even known Cerata Province or the slave trades existed. "Because the buying and selling of men is an evil thing, and if the gods could see us, they would surely condemn us all to death. Don't you think?" A trap—no other explanation made sense. No one gave a damn about slaves in Cerata. He'd been sent there for just that reason, quietly shuffled off to a place where no one cared, where no one would question why he'd arrived or where he'd come from. Devlin said nothing, kept his head lowered and his eyes focused on his own feet. "What is your name?" Devlin's head snapped up and he fought to keep his eyes from narrowing in suspicion. "My name?" "Surely you were given one when you were born." When Devlin didn't respond, the man sighed. "You might as well tell me. Otherwise, I'll make up something dreadful on my own. Something like Ogunsetian, and call you Ogun for short. Not very appealing, is it?" Devlin couldn't stifle a chuckle. "My name is Devlin." "Devlin. That's a fine name. Mine is Morat." "Pleased to meet you." Somehow, he didn't smirk at the absurdity of of making small talk with his new master. "You're different, aren't you? Not born around here." Morat tapped his index finger on his lower lip. "No, definitely not. Not born into slavery." "No." Devlin frowned at the weakness in his tone and his eyes closed in pain. Better not to think of his life before.

50 The carriage rolled to a stop in front of a large estate flanked on each side by sprawling, lush gardens. Morat gestured to the window with a flourish. "Your new home. We'll speak again later. One of the servants will show you to your quarters. You will join me for dinner in one hour." He descended the steps of the carriage, then turned back to look at Devlin. " I hope you will be more social. I enjoy conversation with my meals. " Devlin watched Morat walk away, wondering at the situation he'd been thrust into, and the master who expected him to do anything other than grovel.

***

"Devlin, you're beginning to make me question my purchase." "I'm sorry." Devlin swallowed another piece of meat, making a conscious effort to eat slowly and trying to keep in mind that this wasn't the harem—he doubted anyone would steal his food here. "How long have you been a slave?" "Six months." "Only six months? You're a quick study, then. Most fledglings are hardly as tame as you are by now." Devlin looked at Morat, anger and defiance burning in him for a moment before he checked it and returned his attention to his meal, feeling a sullen pout tug on his lips. Six months was a long time in his estimation, and Morat didn't seem nearly respectful enough of it.

51 "Ah. There is some fire in you yet, hmm?" Morat chuckled. He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers together, and rested his chin on their tips, his gaze lingering on a space near the doorway. "I have always found men more attractive than I should. It is a curse, because I have never worked up the courage to pursue those feelings. At least, before you." He looked at Devlin. "Have you ever been intimate with a man?" Devlin choked and sputtered on his drink. "No…I haven't." "Neither as a slave or in your free life?" Devlin didn't miss the scrutiny with which Morat watched his responses and reactions, apparently trying to read whatever he could between Devlin's words. "I assumed you bought me for your wife." Morat shook his head. "I'm unwed. When I saw you…" He sighed and cleared his throat. "I'm not used to sharing such thoughts with others." Devlin's heart fluttered as Morat smiled at him shyly. A beautiful thing, that smile; Devlin wanted to see it again. Often. "When I saw you, you awakened something inside me. Something I thought I'd never experience again. I lust for you. I crave you, Devlin. Your body and your soul." "I saw you watching me," Devlin said. "Standing in the shadows along the wall, as if you didn't want anyone to see you, as if you didn't care about the performance. But your eyes followed me. I could feel your touch in your gaze." He blushed then, and looked at his plate, having no idea where the words had come from. "Which sounds absurd." "Not absurd at all. If I asked it of you, would you lie with me?" Devlin shrugged. "I'm your property."

52 "No." Morat shook his head slowly. "That's not true. Yes, I did buy you, but no man should own another. Think of the price I paid as a dowry." "A dowry? As in, for a wife?" Devlin shifted in his seat, a little uneasy with being regarded as a wife. "A slave is better?" "I suppose not." Devlin shrugged. "But considering how women are treated here, is there any difference?" Morat's lips lowered into a frown. "There is in my estate."

***

Seven months had passed since his purchase, and Devlin had to admit that life with Morat was nothing at all what he'd expected, and better than he could've ever imagined. Morat had seen to Devlin's every material need and desire, sparing no expense and making no gripes about spending his coin. Nothing but solicitous and kind, he never treated Devlin as an inferior, never gave commands, only asked simple requests and gentle questions. Not too many questions, though, for Devlin had but to shake his head once if he felt the conversation too personal, and Morat would immediately change the subject. And Morat had not, much to Devlin's surprise, taken advantage of their relationship; hadn't pushed Devlin toward any kind of sexual intimacy. Indeed, at times Morat seemed almost afraid of anything between them, often going out of his way to avoid Devlin altogether. Mostly, though, just like those nights during the performances,

53 Devlin felt the lustful heat of Morat's eyes upon him: watching him, stalking him. Wanting. Waiting. Just as they were now. Devlin sat on a bench in one of the front gardens, gazing up at a turtle-shaped cloud as Morat approached him. Morat looked back and forth between Devlin and the sky several times, frowning. “You’re quite fascinated with that cloud.” “It reminds me of a turtle.” “Ter Tull?” Morat asked, his tone confused. “Turtle. One word. An animal on my home world. I had one as a pet when I was a boy.”“Your home world?” Morat shifted his weight on the balls of his feet, an air of shy curiosity surrounding him. Devlin sighed heavily. He had steered away from this conversation many, many times, but he could no longer think of a reason to. "I was born on Earth. I was a prince. I spoke out against my father and fell from his favor. Now I am here. And I am nothing." Morat squinted at the cloud. “I have an errand to run. I’ll be back later.” Devlin watched Morat go, his heart heavy. Morat could’ve at least disagreed with him.

***

Devlin scowled at the clock on the wall above the mantel. Morat had never taken this long in town before, and Devlin was beginning to become annoyed at having been left on his own. The understanding of how truly alone he was didn’t comfort him at all;

54 beyond Morat, Devlin had no one. He had come to enjoy Morat's company, to look forward to their quiet evenings together spent talking in front of the hearth fire. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when he heard Morat enter and speak to one of the servants. Morat strode into the room, grinning like a fool. “I must apologize. I expected to be back much sooner. I went down to the live market looking for something, but they didn’t have it. I thought perhaps a painting of it instead, so I went to the art district, but no luck there either.” He shook his head and shed his cloak. “So I went to the stellar library and did some research, and took what I found to a sculptor.” “That seems like a lot of effort,” Devlin observed. “It was. But I think it was worth it.” “What was it for?” “This.” Morat held out a small item. Devlin took the proffered gift with a gasp. “A turtle.” “Oh, good. It looks real enough, then?” Morat asked, his voice thick with relief. “No one I spoke to had seen such a thing, and the drawings I found seemed a little fantastical. But the shape did resemble the cloud, and I thought perhaps a little artistic license in the details might not be noticed.” Carved from a thick, heavy chunk of rare prizodite rock, the little turtle glistened and gleamed. “Beautiful,” Devlin pushed the word out around the lump of emotion lodged in his throat, fighting off tears. “And expensive.” “You should know by now that the cost is unimportant where you’re concerned. You don’t say it much, but I imagine you must miss your home. Some part of it, at least.”

55 “I do.” Until seeing the cloud earlier, Devlin hadn’t realized just how much he did miss Earth. Not his family—never them—but the small things that had seemed insignificant when they had surrounded him. Morat’s gesture touched him deeply. Everything about Morat touched him deeply. “Do you like it?” Devlin nodded, pushing himself to his feet. “I like it very much. In fact, I love it.” “I’m glad.”“There is another thing I love, you know.” Devlin closed the distance between the two of them, and slid his arms around Morat's waist. "Is there anything you love, Morat?" "There is." Morat's body trembled. "Will you let me show you?"

***

They stood together in the entrance to Morat's chamber, and Devlin waited, suddenly unsure what to do or how to start. Morat moved first; Devlin watched him make his way to the bed and begin to shed his clothing. "Come to me, Devlin." Morat stretched out on the bed, his long hair fanned around him, falling over his shoulders, his lean, muscular body glowing in the dim light of the candlelit room. Devlin tugged his tunic over his head and pushed his pants down. He shivered, but not from cold. Despite any lingering misgivings he might have, he was excited. He'd lain with plenty of women, enough to know what to do and what he liked. Always with

56 them it had seemed dull. Boring. As if he was going through the motions simply as a means to an end. He had hopes, though, that lying with Morat would be different. Devlin approached the bed cautiously, his heart pounding, unable to resist Morat. When he was near enough, Morat reached out, his fingers grazing Devlin's chest. Devlin sucked in a startled breath, for the sensation of the touch shot straight through his body to reverberate down the length of his cock. Morat curled his fingers into the hair on Devlin's chest and toyed with it before pulling Devlin onto the bed to straddle his waist. Devlin's cock flopped onto Morat with an audible thump. Embarrassed, Devlin blushed, but Morat just grinned at him as he scooted Devlin closer and flicked his tongue out over the head of Devlin's cock. Devlin stared into Morat's eyes, the steady pressure of slick, wet tongue stoking a fire in his gut. He gripped Morat's upper arms, kneaded them, felt the powerful muscles flexing. Devlin's caresses became frantic, wanting to feel every inch of Morat—neck, shoulders, chest, and belly. "Your touch is wonderful," Morat said and sighed, and Devlin felt his own heart beat faster at such praise. Devlin captured Morat's face in his hands, meeting their lips together softly. Pure magic; he was certain he had never known true pleasure until this moment. He never wanted the feeling to end. His fingers twined in Morat’s hair. He was desperate for some relief from the horrible ache building inside him. Morat pulled him close as their tongues touched, clinging to him tightly, urgently. Passion such as Devlin had never known ignited inside him, and he thrust his tongue into

57 Morat's soft, hot mouth, unable to get enough. His skin tingled in places he wouldn't have thought possible. This was what life was about. This was what made everything worth enduring. He groaned when Morat broke the kiss. Morat's face was flushed red, and he was panting, trembling. "I do believe I have finally found what I've been missing." He gasped and licked his lips. "You're an excellent kisser, by the way." "So are you," Devlin returned. Kissing Morat felt like perfection, but he wanted so much more. "I can't get close enough to you. I can't make this last long enough." "It will last for as long as we both live, my beloved vixen." Morat ran his hands along Devlin's arms. "I want you inside me." "Inside you?" Devlin blinked, frowning as understanding dawned. "Will that not hurt?" He felt his own muscles twitch at the idea, though not in an unpleasant way. "I have a confession to make. Although I've not lain with a man before, I have…explored my own body. Have you ever heard of a pamana fruit?" Devlin nodded. Cylindrical and softly pointed at its tapered end, the odd-looking slick-skinned fruit was covered with dozens of nubs. "Sometimes I bring myself off by inserting one inside me while I pleasure my cock. It did hurt the first few times, but I assure you, it does no longer. The feeling is quite exquisite."

58 As he spoke, Morat's fingers tickled Devlin's cock. "I have lain here so many nights, pleasing myself, dreaming that one day I would find a man who would excite me. A man who could bring me as much pleasure and more." Devlin swallowed, his breathing ragged, his body tight with need. He reached a hand to still Morat's movements, for he doubted how much longer he could hold out if Morat kept that up. He had never felt like this with women, never wanted them this way, never struggled for control at the mere thought of fucking one of them. His mind brought forth an image of Morat writhing beneath him, Devlin's cock seated deeply inside him, and it made him shudder. He suddenly felt very jealous of those pamana fruits. Morat's hand squeezed gently. "Have I lost you to your thoughts?" Devlin smiled at him. "You will never lose me." The bliss he had found here with Morat was a thing he could never leave behind. "Such things I want to do to you…such things I want you to do to me." "What would you have me do?" Devlin wiggled, rubbing his ass and cock against Morat. "I am, after all, your slave. I am only to happy to please you." Devlin pressed their lengths together in a tight embrace, kissing and licking Morat’s neck. Morat's body stiffened. "You are not my slave." He gripped Devlin's head in his hands. "Never say that. I will never treat you as such. You are far too valuable to me. You…" His voice cracked. "You mean too much to my heart already."

59 "I meant it only as a jest," Devlin assured. "You have given me so much. Far beyond freedom of my body, you have freed my soul and my heart. You have made me feel whole, given me new purpose. Tell me, what have you dreamt of on those lonely nights? What have you wished for a lover to do?" Morat shivered, a deep red blush coloring his cheeks. "I have a fantasy that a man would taste my body, my ass, and my cock, so that I released into his mouth. He would swallow me down, and then he would fill my ass with his cock and fuck me to his completion." Devlin pondered him for a moment, amazed at his own eagerness. There was no longer any uncertainty, no fear, and he realized he would do anything Morat asked, anything at all, likely for the rest of their days. His worries over what to do and how to do it vanished; he knew instinctively that Morat would be patient with him as he learned his way. As they learned their way together. Devlin scooted down between Morat’s long legs, touching and kissing Morat's hard cock and tightly knotted balls. He kissed the little pucker beneath them, then plugged it with his tongue. The taste was not at all what he'd expected, his inexperienced mind having assumed a certain amount of unpleasantness. Instead Morat tasted saltysweet, with an undertone of tang that was almost reminiscent of citrus. Morat groaned softly, spreading himself wider as he drew his legs to his chest. Devlin kissed and licked, sucked and lapped, thrilled to know those little sounds Morat made were for him. Remembering Morat’s words, Devlin raised his head and

60 laved his tongue over each of Morat's heavy balls, the tiny, wiry hairs there tickling his lips. He licked Morat's cock, twirling his tongue around the head, before sucking on it gently. "Yes!" Morat's hips bucked, his hands fisting in the bed sheets. Devlin marveled at his own wantonness. He'd had many a woman ask him for similar attention, and he'd always declined, considering such to be filthy and disgusting. Yet with Morat, the same action felt like a privilege and an honor. Devlin opened his mouth wide, lowering his head to take the full length of Morat’s cock. He ran his tongue up and down Morat’s smooth, hard shaft, loving how it contrasted with the velvety soft skin at the top. Devlin wrapped one of his hands around the base of Morat’s cock, holding it tightly; the other he used to palm and caress Morat’s balls. Devlin’s cock throbbed with a need for release more urgent than he had ever felt. He shifted so he could straddle one of Morat’s legs and groaned as he thrust his own hips down to rub and grind his cock against Morat’s flesh. "Please," Morat begged, his hands tugging on Devlin’s hair. “Inside me.” The urgency Devlin heard in Morat’s voice mirrored his own. He sat up on his knees, and Morat pressed a small glass jar into his hand. Devlin frowned as he looked at it, having no idea what it might be for. "Men aren't like women on the inside. Not slippery. You will need that to ease your passage."

61 Devlin blushed, a little ashamed of his own ineptitude. He'd never had the idea to put anything—let alone fruit—in his ass. Although if the act felt anything like Morat had described, he hoped he'd get to try it. He pried the cork from the bottle and sniffed as the smell of pamana fruit wafted to him. "The skin is good to extract oil from," Morat explained. "Be sure to coat your cock and my entrance as well." Devlin nodded. Experimentally he poured the oil over two of his fingers and slid them inside Morat, wanting to see what he felt like inside. Not slippery, no, but moist all the same. Tight. Hot. So very hot. Morat moaned and his hips jerked violently. "Am I hurting you?" "No…no…not at all. Twist your wrist a bit…curl your fingers up…" Devlin made the movements, gasping when he felt Morat's muscles clench hard around his fingers as they brushed against something like a small lump. He continued to stroke that same spot; Morat moaning and thrashing, calling his name over and over. Devlin found himself again hoping there would come a time when Morat would pay him the same attentions. “Feels…so…” Morat’s head fell back, his words cut off by a deep, throaty moan of inarticulate pleasure.

62 Devlin pulled his fingers free, smiling at Morat's reluctant mewl. Unable to stand waiting any longer, he readied his cock, slathering it with a generous amount of oil, then began a slow, tender press. There was a flutter of resistance before his cock sank into that heat and their bodies were fitted snugly together. He leaned forward, rolling Morat onto his shoulders, and kissed him. Gently, Devlin started to move, thrusting his hips in an unhurried, steady pace, determined to hold off his release as long as he could. Devlin had never felt anything like the yielding, enveloping softness of Morat's insides, so completely at war with the solidity of the hard, flat planes of his belly and chest. Every one of Morat’s muscles were tensed, twitching passionately as Devlin hunkered over him, driving his cock in and out of Morat's tightly clutching heat.

It went on and on,

growing in intensity, shaking both of them, Devlin imagined, to the core. Morat was whimpering—or he was, Devlin couldn't tell—a low, animal sound that gradually filled his ears, blotting out all other sounds, even the pounding of his own blood. Devlin savored every second of it, the hairs on his body rising, his nerves tingling as the inevitable moment approached. Morat moaned and writhed, the veins in his neck and shoulders pulsing beneath his skin. He closed his eyes and cried out his release, hot sperm bursting forth to hang in the line of curls that split Devlin from navel to crotch. Devlin watched Morat's handsome face for some sign of readiness, some signal that he could at last let go of the passion he'd somehow managed to keep in check. Morat's eyes opened and he nodded. Devlin pumped like a man possessed, screaming his relief as he emptied into Morat's tightness and Morat's arms clamped around him, his big frame shaking.

63 Devlin continued to hump and thrust long after they were both drained, enjoying the connection of their bodies, the intimacy of his cock inside Morat. He finally collapsed on top of Morat, content to never move again. It occurred to Devlin that he had forgotten the part about swallowing Morat's spend. He would have to rectify that next time. "A man is never nothing, even when he imagines himself so," Morat told him, lifting a hand to brush the hair from Devlin's face. "You may not be a prince to the people of Cerata, but you are my prince, and I will worship you with my soul and my body until the day I die." "Are you saying you love me?" Devlin smiled at him sweetly, his very soul trembling at the thought. "Always, my prince."

64

Making Up for Lost Time by Ryan Field

That summer Milo Banks was a young man determined to have sex, and he’d never even kissed a boy. Give him credit: living as a closeted gay teenager in a small town, he didn’t even know if love and romance between two men was possible. He was eighteen years old. He’d just finished high school and would start college in the fall. Though he wasn’t sure who his first sexual partner would be, or how all this was going to transpire, he knew it was time to discover what he’d been missing his whole life. His arms and his wide shoulders were muscular, thanks to four years of football practice. They tapered down to a thin, washboard stomach and firm narrow hips; his soft, delicate facial features created the perfect balance between rough and tender. And his thick, wavy hair was such a gentle shade of ash blond, it almost looked artificial. When he walked into a crowded room, young women would stop talking and stare at his blue eyes. Then they would giggle and murmur things to each other. All he had to do was smile and nod and he could have had any one of them. Mostly, though, he was more interested in their boyfriends. The Monday after graduation, early on a warm June morning, Milo almost tripped on a narrow step when he walked into a quirky little gift shop. He needed a summer job and this place wasn’t far from home. He crossed to the counter and asked a young man, “Do you need any part-time help this summer?”

65 It was a touristy place on the river called “Poor Richard’s Bazaar,” where people would linger on weekend afternoons in the candle section when there was nothing better to do. The name had something to do with Poor Richard’s Almanac, but Milo wasn’t sure why, and he didn’t care. “Ah well, I have been looking for a part-timer,” the guy said, organizing spools of ribbon that were hanging behind the checkout counter. His deep voice sounded hollow and throaty; his movements were slow and precise. He was wearing a black T-shirt and tan shorts that day. When he reached to a shelf on the right for an employment application, Milo could see the outline of his penis swing back and forth. He was either wearing loose boxer shorts or no underwear at all. Milo pressed his lips together and took a shallow breath when the guy handed the application to him and said, “Here, fill this out, man.” Then the guy sat down on a stool and reached for a can of soda, and Milo’s heart started to race. The guy’s long, tanned legs were covered with a soft, light fleece. His dark blond hair had been shaved close. Small silver rings looped through his earlobes; his long, thick fingers reminded Milo of overstuffed breakfast sausages. When Milo glanced down, he saw a small tattoo of a dragonfly on the guy’s right ankle that made him want to go down on his knees and start licking. He took the application and filled it out right there on the counter. Then he handed it back a moment later and said, “I’m free any hours, including weekends.” He wanted to say, “I’m free to get down on my knees and unzip your pants with my teeth, too.” And he wasn’t even sure if this guy was into other guys.

66 The guy reached for the application, glanced over it for a minute, and then said, “You’re hired, Milo.” Milo’s eyes grew large and his head jerked back a couple of times. When the guy said his name out loud, it sounded sexy and exciting. People had been calling him by his name all his life and he’d never experienced a pull in his groin. “Just like that,” Milo said. The guy laughed. It was a bottomless laugh from his gut, with a “tee-hehehe” sound. “You look honest, and I need someone right now. When can you start?” “Any time,” Milo said. “I could start today, if you want.” He smiled and rubbed his palms together, trying not to stumble on his own words, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. The guy laughed again. “Come back tomorrow night,” he said. “You can start out working four nights a week from six to nine. And my name’s Ansel Berger. I’m the manager.” He sat up and squared his wide shoulders. Milo reached out to shake his large hand. His palm was the size of a dinner plate and his fingers strong enough to crush stone. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ansel.” When he turned to leave, he had a feeling Ansel was staring at him. But he didn’t turn around to see. The following night, Milo returned to the shop at six o’clock sharp, wearing a pair of faded jeans that hugged his round ass and a tight black polo shirt that showed off his well-defined chest muscles. He had thought about wearing shorts to work that night, but he didn’t want to give the wrong impression too soon. When he walked into the shop, Ansel looked up from the counter and said, “Did you eat dinner yet?” There were boxes of white Chinese takeout cartons strewn across the

67 counter, and there was a small piece of white rice stuck to the bottom of Ansel’s square chin. Milo put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Yes. I ate.” Then he pulled one hand from his pocket, pointed his index finger to his own chin and rubbed a few times to let Ansel know there was rice stuck to his chin. But Ansel only leaned forward and squinted as if Milo had lost his senses. Milo smiled. “You have rice on your chin,” he said. Then he rubbed his own chin again with his finger and said, “Here.” Ansel did the deep gut-laugh again, then ran his hand along the wrong side of his chin and missed the rice. “Did I get it?” He was wearing baggy short pants again. His long, tanned legs looked darker that night. Milo could see from the way he was sitting, with his pants bunched up in his crotch, that he had a large bundle between his legs. “Nope.” Then he reached forward with his right hand and flicked the rice off Ansel’s chin. It landed right between his Ansel’s legs. Ansel picked the piece of rice from his crotch and laughed even louder. Then he flicked it into a trash can and said, “Perfect shot, man.” After that, Ansel gave him a detailed tour of the entire shop and showed him where things were located. It was a large shop with many small nooks and alcoves, filled with everything from angel collectibles to outdoor garden statues. You could buy anything there, from a hostess gift to a birthday present for your wife. They even sold unique pieces of hand-painted furniture, framed with hand-carved bamboo and Florentine gilt. And there was an outdoor garden area which wrapped around the store, filled with outdoor patio furniture, ornate urns, and more garden statues.

68 When the tour was over, Ansel brought him back to the front desk and taught him how to ring up cash sales and process credit cards. Then he showed him how to wrap and package the gifts. Milo tried to pay attention to everything, but there was so much, and Ansel talked so fast. The only thing he could concentrate on was the way Ansel’s powerful legs bowed slightly at the knee when he walked. And the way his penis moved around in his pants when he turned to his side too fast. There was as much junk bouncing around between Ansel’s legs as there was in the shop. “I know it seems like a lot to learn in one night,” Ansel said, “But you’ll catch on soon. And there’s really no selling involved here. The customers know what they want. All you have to do is help them out once in a while.” He patted Milo on the back a couple of times and asked, “Do you have any questions?” Milo smiled. “Not right now,” he said. “But don’t leave me alone just yet.” He wasn’t trying to be funny. But Ansel did the gut-laugh and said, “I’ll be here with you most of the time, man. Don’t worry. I have your back.” The shop wasn’t busy that night, but an elderly woman stopped in to buy another large iron urn for her patio container garden. Milo took her outside to the garden area, helped her make a choice, and rang up the sale without a problem. He got a little confused with the credit card machine, but he basically did the entire sale all on his own. And though he was far from being a weakling, he pretended to need Ansel’s help when it was time to carry the urn to the woman’s car. “I’m going to need you to take charge here, boss,” he said to Ansel. “You’re a lot bigger and much stronger than I am.” And when they went outside and Ansel lifted the urn with one hand, he said, “You make that look so easy. I would never have been able to carry that heavy urn on my own.”

69 The more helpless and delicate Milo pretended to be, the more Ansel was ready to offer his muscles. As they were about to close up shop at the end of the night, Ansel actually said to Milo, “From now on, whenever there is some heavy lifting to do, you’d better let me take charge and handle it. You might get hurt.” Milo shook his head and agreed, then lowered his eyes and smiled when Ansel held the door open for him. By the end of that week, Milo and Ansel began to speak candidly about their lives. The foot traffic in the shop seemed to flow in spurts: there were either fifty people walking around or it was empty. One could never predict when the spurts would come. So there was plenty of down time to talk. It turned out that Ansel was twenty-seven and actually the owner of the shop’s son, being groomed to take over the business one day. He’d made mistakes: a couple of arrests for drinking and driving that resulted in expensive legal fees and thirty days in the county jail. So he was working seven days a week to pay off his debts and start fresh again. Milo told him that he was starting college in the fall and he needed the extra money to help with the expenses. So Ansel agreed to increase his hours to include Saturdays and Sundays. “Hell,” he said, “you need the money and I need the help.” Then he made a fist and pretended to punch Milo in the shoulder. Monday was Milo’s day off, but it was also payday. So early that morning he put on a tight pair of white shorts, a skimpy black tank top, and a heavy pair of black work boots with a three-inch heel. He shaved his legs twice a week; they were smooth and tan and the higher heel made the muscles in his calves pop. It was a warm, humid day with hazy sunshine and soft, thick air. His plan was to stop by the shop for his paycheck, but

70 he didn’t care about the money. He could have waited until Tuesday. He just wanted Ansel to see how he looked in tight shorts and heavy boots. He parked up front in a tight spot because he only planned to be there for a few minutes—just enough time to get his check and wiggle his ass a few times in Ansel’s face. But he had some trouble getting his car into the tight parking space. He wasn’t a very good driver, and when he pulled in, he misjudged the turn and hit one of the poles that held up a green and white awning over the garden statue area. The pole went down, half the awning fell on his car, and he wasn’t sure how to back out without causing more damage. Ansel was outside, filling one of the water fountains with a garden hose. He dropped the hose, turned off the water, and jogged over to see why half of his awning had gone down. By the time he reached the front parking spaces and saw Milo turning the steering wheel back and forth, a huge smile formed on his serious face. He crossed toward the driver’s window and rested his large hands on the door. Milo looked up at him and frowned. Then he shook his head and said, “I guess you can see, I’m not the best driver, especially when it comes to parking.” He put the car in park and sighed. “I’ll fix everything. I hope I didn’t do any damage.” “Are you okay?” Ansel asked. “Did you get hurt?” Milo frowned. “I’m fine.” Ansel leaned forward and pulled the awning back so he could open the car door. “Calm down,” he said, “It’s cool. There’s no damage. That pole was too close to the parking spot anyway. It could have happened to anyone. Are you sure you’re okay?” “I’m fine. Except now you think I’m a moron.” Milo lowered his eyes to his lap.

71 “No way, man,” he said, tapping the windshield. “Actually, I love this old car. It’s really cool.” Milo had inherited a red vintage 1987 Mercedes convertible from his grandfather. “It’s old, but it has low miles and it never gives me any trouble,” he said. When he looked up, he could see Ansel’s hairy underarms. He took a quick breath; Ansel was wearing one of those spicy, sexy masculine deodorants. Ansel opened the car door, then looked inside and stared at Milo’s smooth legs for a second. “Why don’t you get out, and I’ll back the car out for you and park it in a safer place?” “Thanks for helping out like this,” Milo said. Then he slowly spread his legs and got out of the car. But when he was standing next to Ansel, he said, “Hold on. I want to get a pack of gum in the console.” He turned and bent all the way over the front seat. When he reached for the pack of gum, he knew Ansel was watching him. So he arched his back and spread his legs, lingering an extra minute. When he got back up again, Ansel was standing there with his hands in his pockets, unconsciously adjusting his penis. “I’ll park it in the back, where it’s easy to get out,” Ansel said, lowering his eyes and turning his head much too quickly so Milo wouldn’t notice he’d been staring at his legs. “Thanks,” Milo said. “I’ll fix the awning while you do that.” It seemed as if Ansel couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel and drive the car. Milo watched him put it in gear and turn the wheel with one strong hand. His hairy legs were spread wide and his knobby right knee rested against the gear shift. (It would have been so easy to just bend over and pull down his zipper.) Then he looked into the rearview

72 mirror and backed it out with one smooth, fast turn. He made it all look so effortless and normal. He slipped it into drive, hit the gas pedal hard, and sped to the back parking lot with a determined expression on his handsome face. He drove like a man should drive; Milo stood there and whistled back while the car disappeared around a bend. While he was gone, Milo fixed the awning, then went inside the shop to wait for him. A few minutes later, Ansel came through the back door and asked, “Did you have any trouble with the awning?” He was tall and thin, but he was a big lanky boy with long bones and strong muscles. When he walked on the old wooden floor, the room shook and outdoor wind chimes on display racks clinked together. “No problem,” he said, “I should have parked out back to begin with. I only stopped in to get my paycheck.” Then he turned his back to him and bent over the counter to look for his paycheck on the shelf where Ansel had said it would be. He spread his legs and stood up on his tiptoes, arching his back and lingering, once again, far longer than he should have. He wanted Ansel to walk up from behind and grab his ass. Ansel was the older one and if anyone made a move, it had to be him. “It’s still in the drawer,” Ansel said, crossing behind the counter. He opened the cash register and pulled out a white envelope with Milo’s name written across the front. “Here you go,” he said. “Thanks,” Milo said, turning to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.” “See you at six o’clock sharp,” Milo said, slowly crossing to the back door. In a mirror above a display rack filled with small lampshades, he could see the expression on

73 Ansel’s face. Ansel was watching his ass the entire time. His hands were in his pockets and he was biting the inside of his mouth. The next night Milo showed up five minutes late. He told Ansel he got stuck behind a very slow car, but the real reason was because he couldn’t find his tight, lowrise jeans—he ones that made his ass bubble out like a big, round peach. He apologized three times and Ansel waved his arm and said, “It’s cool, dude. It’s only five minutes.” It was raining that night, and the shop was empty. They organized a few boxes of new items, took inventory on the wind chimes and dusted the scented candle shelves. By nine, no one had walked into the shop, and Ansel said, “How about we close up early and go out for a drink? I’m buying.” “Sounds good,” Milo said, “Let’s go up to Jolly Roger’s. I’ll drive, and then drop you off here for your car on the way home.” Jolly Roger’s was a redneck country bar with a quasi-pirate theme, about three miles up river where locals drank beer from the bottle and ate deep-fried food. But it was close and familiar, and Milo knew a few of the bartenders so he never paid for drinks. When they were out in the parking lot, Milo said, “Just be patient with my driving. I drive slowly on wet roads. I’m not the best driver in the world.” Ansel hastened to say, “Then let me drive. I’m a great driver.” Milo hesitated and pressed his lips together. His grandfather had always told him to never let anyone else drive his car. But maybe that was because his grandfather had never had a hot guy like Ansel ready to take the wheel. So he handed him the keys and crossed to the other side of the car. “I’m glad you’re driving. I really hate driving in the rain.”

74 Though Ansel was a fast, aggressive driver, Milo trusted him completely. Ansel knew how to avoid holes and cracks in the dark winding road without jerking the car once. And even though he drove with one hand, Milo knew he was in control the entire time. When he came to a stop, he braked with care and eased the car slowly so nothing would move. Milo noticed that he sat with his long legs wide open, as if pressing them together might hurt his balls. They talked for a few hours, sipping one drink each—partly because they both had to get up early the next day, and partly because Ansel had learned his lesson about drinking and driving. “I was without a license for a year,” he said, “I don’t want that to happen again. Trust me. I learned my lesson the hard way.” After that night, going out together became an expected routine on Tuesday and Friday nights. They would close the store, go out for a drink, and talk for hours. By the end of July, Milo was so eager to get into Ansel’s pants, he couldn’t think about anything else. So on a hot Friday night when Ansel dropped him off next to his car, Milo asked, “Would you like to come over to my place tomorrow night and watch that new zombie series? I have it all on DVD and haven’t had time to see it yet.” “Hell, yeah. I’m dying to see that. What time?” Milo was off that Saturday, but he knew Ansel would have to stay there and close up the store. So he said, “Any time after nine. My parents are away on a cruise for three weeks and I have the house all to myself.” “Cool. I’ll bring beer,” Ansel said. Ansel knocked in Milo’s door a few minutes past nine the next night with a sixpack dangling from his left hand. He was smiling so wide, Milo could see his gums.

75 When he put the beer down on the center island in the kitchen, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his short pants and said, “You look good.” There was suddenly a surprised look on Ansel’s face, as if he hadn’t planned to say that. Milo smiled; he wasn’t sure if Ansel would notice how he looked. He thanked him and put the cold beer in the refrigerator. Though it was supposed to be a casual night, he’d taken a long shower, shaved his entire body, and splashed himself with his best cologne. He was wearing tight, black shorts, a loose white tank top and the black boots with the higher heel. His tanned legs were smooth and shiny and the shorts were so tight the back seam rode up the crack of his ass. He made sure that when he bent over to put the beer in the refrigerator he took his time. He knew that if he was ever going to get into Ansel’s pants, it would be that night, and he wanted to send out strong, aggressive signals. Milo had missed out on all of the normal romantic aspects of puberty that his straight friends had experienced. He was determined to make up for lost time, without apology. When he stood up again, he asked, “Did you eat dinner tonight?” Ansel smiled and rubbed his flat stomach. “Ah well, I actually ate a whole pizza at around six. I had it delivered. I’m a growing boy.” “Are you still hungry?” Milo asked. He thought it was cute the way Ansel had rubbed his stomach. “I stopped and picked up this great chocolate cake this afternoon.” He was starved to death. He hadn’t eaten a thing all day because he wanted to be thin and ready for anything…in case Ansel decided to make a move that night. “Cool,” Ansel said. “But let’s go start the DVD first, and have some later.” “You grab a couple of beers and I’ll get the TV ready.”

76 The family room was off the kitchen. The walls were a soft brown, the fireplace was beige stone, and there were two long red leather sofas that flanked a large square coffee table. There was a nice-sized flat screen TV above the mantel. The only lamp he’d turned on in the room was small, with muted light and a dark shade. Milo put the first DVD into the player and Ansel sat down on the edge of one of the red sofas. He was holding both bottles of beer and he seemed unsure where to put them. There were two red leather club chairs, too, but when Milo stepped back from the DVD player, he sat o the sofa beside Ansel. “This is a comfortable, casual room,” he said. “So feel free to put your beer down on the coffee table and your feet up wherever you want.” He was hoping Ansel would put his big feet right on his lap. When Ansel reached over to place the beer on the table, Milo added, “I can put on another light if you want. But I like to watch in the dark.” “Me too,” Ansel said. Then he kicked off his sneakers and lifted his hairy legs onto the sofa. The zombie series started out to be slow, which prompted them to make fun of the characters. They laughed and joked and drank beer—just two good buds hanging out together. By the time they’d each had three bottles of beer, Ansel adjusted his position on the sofa and unbuttoned his pants. Then he asked, “Do you mind if I rest my feet on your lap?” Milo raised his brows and parted his lips.. “Go ahead,” he said. His heart started to beat faster and he didn’t take his eyes off the TV screen. When Ansel’s white socks were on his naked lap, he could barely take a breath. And he was terrified to move because he felt the beginning of an erection.

77 They sat that way for another ten minutes, until there was a sudden scary scene that made Milo’s entire body jolt forward. He screamed so loud Ansel almost choked on his beer. Ansel laughed so hard he had to hold his stomach. “Fuck, man. Calm down,” he managed. Milo grabbed Ansel’s right foot and squeezed it. “It’s not funny,” he said, still holding Ansel’s large foot. “This show is getting creepy and I’ve got to stay here alone. I have an active imagination. I’ll be seeing zombies walk through the house all night.” Ansel looked down at the way Milo was holding his foot. There was an awkward moment of silence; they looked into each other’s eyes. Ansel spoke first. He smiled, and then he patted his lap. “Come over here and sit between my legs,” he said. “I’ll protect you from the killer, man-eating, bloodthirsty zombies.” Then he lifted his feet from Milo’s lap, bent his legs at the knee, and spread them wide so Milo could sit between them. Milo turned and crawled up the sofa on his knees. He spread his legs a little and arched his back on purpose. He wanted to take his pants off, but it was too soon for that. He wanted to lick the soft blond hair on Ansel’s strong legs, but he wasn’t sure how Ansel would react. So he sat down between Ansel’s big strong legs and rested his back on Ansel’s chest. He wasn’t sure where to put his hands, so he folded them on his lap and said, “I feel a lot safer now.” He almost batted his eyelashes, but he didn’t want to go too far. Ansel adjusted his hips. “I’ll protect you from the monsters.” Then he laughed and swallowed more beer.

78 A few minutes later, there was another scary scene and Milo jumped again— andAnsel wrapped both strong arms around Milo’s shoulders and pulled him back. When he did this, Milo gently placed his palms on Ansel’s hairy knees for support. Though he’d fantasized about it many times, he’d never touched another man like this. He ran his palms up and down slowly and squeezed Ansel’s legs a few times without saying a word. Ansel did not jump off the sofa and reject him; he didn’t punch him in the mouth for being a fag. The lines had been crossed, and Milo knew this was more than just another night with his buddy from work. “That feels good, man,” Ansel said, holding him tighter. “You have a nice touch.” Milo smiled and pressed the tips of his fingers into Ansel’s firm thigh muscles, massaging with light, gentle pushes. His legs felt so strong and solid; Milo wanted to sink his teeth into them. A few minutes later, while Milo’s hands were under Ansel’s shorts and he was rubbing Ansel’s upper thighs, Ansel said, “Sit up for a minute. I have to adjust my dick, thanks to you. It’s hard as a rock, it’s pointing down, and my balls are killing me.” Milo stared at the TV, but his eyes widened and his mouth fell open. It was hard for him to believe that he was this close to another man’s erection. The fact that he’d given Ansel an erection and he hadn’t even been trying made his own balls tighten. But he shouldn’t have been surprised, because his own penis was ready to bust out of his shorts. He leaned forward while Ansel reached into his pants and pulled his erection up so it would point toward his stomach. When Ansel’s dick was in a comfortable place, he

79 put his hand on Milo’s shoulder and said, “Ah, that’s much better. Nothing worse than smashed balls. You can sit back now.” Milo took a deep breath and leaned forward. He wanted to sit back against Ansel’s erection. But he didn’t. When Ansel started talking about his balls, Milo couldn’t control his urges a moment longer. So he stuck out his tongue and started to lick Ansel’s hairy thigh. He’d wanted to lick those thighs since the first day he’d seen them. “Dude, you are so fucking sexy and cute,” Ansel said. His voice went up, as if Milo’s impulsive move had amused him. “I’ve wanted to get into your pants since the first day you walked into the shop. I just figured someone like you wouldn’t be interested in someone like me.” “Why would you think that?” Milo asked. His hand went up higher, into Ansel’s short pants, and he squeezed Ansel’s balls with the tips of his fingers. Ansel wasn’t wearing underwear. Ansel’s body jerked, then he let out a deep sigh. “I’m kind of rough around the edges,” he said. “And you’re always so perfect. I just figured you were out of my league.” Milo cupped his balls and kissed his knee at the same time. “You were wrong.” “I guess I was,” Ansel said. Then he bit Milo’s bare shoulder and started to suck his flesh. Milo pulled his hand out of Ansel’s pants. He threw his head back and leaned into Ansel’s warm body. He smiled and said, “Then I should probably take my pants off for you.” Milo wasn’t playing games; he could feel Ansel’s bare erection sticking into his back. Evidently, when Ansel had adjusted his erection, he’d pulled it out of his pants

80 without Milo knowing it. Milo wanted to reach back and hold the big thing in the palm of his hand. But Ansel had other ideas. Ansel reached for Milo’s face with both hands. He held his cheeks and turned Milo’s head until Milo was facing him. He looked into Milo’s eyes for a moment, then said, “You have beautiful lips. Can I kiss you?” Ansel didn’t have to ask. But it was nice that he did. Milo had never kissed a boy before, but he’d been dreaming about this moment all his life. He gazed at Ansel and nodded. They had both reached that point where true love takes over and words are no longer necessary. When Ansel pressed his lips against Milo’s, the room went dark, the TV went blank, and the inside of Milo’s body became a wild New Year’s Eve party. When the tip of Ansel’s soft sweet tongue touched Milo’s, Milo slowly lifted his arms in surrender and moaned inside Ansel’s mouth. Ansel’s mouth tasted like beer; his lips were soft but his tongue was aggressive. A moment later, they were kissing and groping and licking. Pants, shirts, and sweat socks flew all over the room until both were young men were naked. Ansel naturally wound up on top, and Milo submitted to having his back pinned to the sofa without putting up a fight. His legs went up fast and he rested his ankles on Ansel’s shoulders. When Ansel reached to the floor, pulled a lubricated condom from his pocket, and covered his penis, Milo closed his eyes tightly and clenched Ansel’s biceps. He knew what was going to happen and he suspected it was going to hurt, but he wanted this more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life and he was ready for the pain and everything

81 else that came with it. To have this strong, wonderful man inside his body made his bottom lip shiver. There was nothing he wouldn’t to do please Ansel. Ansel cupped Milo’s cheek in his palm and asked, “Can I go inside? I promise I’ll stop if you want me to. I swear.” “I’ve never done this before. Have you?” Ansel laughed and said, “A few times. But I’ll be gentle.” He was trying to be casual. But when he heard Milo was a virgin, his had eyes lit up and his chest started to heave. “And if you want me to stop, I will. All you have to do is say the word.” Milo nodded and reached down to guide Ansel between his legs. Though he’d never had a real man, he’d used dildos before. When Ansel pressed the tip of his penis to Milo’s soft, pink opening, he said, “Just relax. I’ll make this good, trust me.” It went inside slowly; Ansel took his time and waited for Milo’s tight virgin hole to open completely. At first, Milo squinted and clenched the sofa cushion; his own erection started to shrink. A sharp pain shot through his body and stunted his breathing. He almost begged Ansel to pull out. But Ansel was gentle; he waited for Milo’s body to adjust to the invasion. When Ansel was all the way inside and his pubic hairs were pressed against Milo’s soft skin, he looked down at Milo and asked, “Are you okay? I’ll pull out if you want and we can try again later.” The initial pain had subsided, and Milo’s erection was growing again. He placed his palms on Ansel’s thighs, rubbed gently, and said, “I’m good. I really am. Don’t stop. I want to do this.”

82 Ansel leaned forward for a second and kissed him on the lips. Then he rose and started bucking his hips slowly. He didn’t start to rock and pound and slam with full force until Milo’s toes curled and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. After that, they tried to watch the rest of the movie, naked in each other’s arms, eating chocolate cake. But while Milo was feeding Ansel cake with his fingers, a chunk of frosting dropped and landed on Ansel’s dick. Milo went down between Ansel’s legs and licked the frosting off the head of Ansel’s penis. While Milo licked, Ansel became aroused and they went upstairs and did it again in Milo’s bedroom. Then they fell asleep in each other’s arms. When Milo woke the next morning and realized Ansel was still with him and that Ansel’s erection was poking him in the stomach, he reached down and wrapped his hand around it. Milo’s legs were sore; his hole was raw. But he couldn’t get enough of Ansel. Ansel moaned and stretched out his long legs. “That feels really good, baby. Keep playing with it. Play with my balls, too.” He’d wanted to hear words like this from a man for so long his body had ached. No one had ever called him “baby” before. His straight friends took these things for granted. So he went under the covers, opened his mouth, and swallowed Ansel’s dick to the back of his throat. It suddenly occurred to him that Ansel had been so eager to tag him, there hadn’t been time for anything oral. He’d never had another man’s penis in his mouth; it tasted salty and tangy. Ansel moaned and pulled the covers off so he could watch him suck. Milo’s cheekbones indented and his head started to bob up and down. He’d watched how it was done in porn flicks; his instincts took control and he didn’t gag

83 once. And when Ansel exploded, Milo closed his eyes and took it all, liking it more than he’d expected he would. When he lifted his head again, his lips felt puffy. . Ansel reached down and caressed his face. “Are you okay? I hope I didn’t get too rough with you last night.” Milo looked down and saw bruises on the backs of his legs. But he smiled and said, “I may not be able to walk today, but I’ve never been better.” “Are you okay with what we’re doing?” Ansel asked. “I kind of feel responsible. I’m a little older than you are. But I really care about you. This isn’t just fun and games for me. It’s more than just sex. I’ve never met anyone who makes me feel the way you make me feel.” Milo grabbed Ansel’s balls and started to massage them gently. “I’m glad it finally happened,” he said. “I wish it had happened a week after I started working for you.” It was still too soon to talk about anything serious, but Milo already knew this wasn’t just sex. They’d actually made love to each other. “I have to get up,” Ansel said. “I don’t want to be late for work.” “Let’s take a shower together,” Milo said, “I’ll wash your dick for you.” He surprised himself, joking about washing another guy’s dick. He’d been so cautious all his life about showing his real feelings. “Sounds good,” Ansel said. “But don’t make me late for work.” Milo cupped his balls in the palm of his hand and said, “I won’t.” When Ansel finally did leave for work, Milo kissed him goodbye in the front hall for five minutes.

84 They had a huge fight a few days later. Milo showed up for his paycheck on a Monday afternoon wearing tight shorts and a skimpy tank top. He thought Ansel would like it, but Ansel wound up punching a hole in the wall behind the counter when he saw how another male customer was staring at Milo’s round ass. It was an older guy and he was literally rubbing his hands together and licking his lips. When the guy left, Ansel threw the stool across the counter and shouted pejoratives. “What’s fucking wrong with you, man? You’re not supposed to dress like that now that you’re with me. It looks like you’re wagging your ass for other guys to see, like a little slut. I don’t walk around like that. It makes you look trashy. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not supposed to be showing that ass off to anyone but me, man. You look like a whore.” His voice wasn’t mean. It sounded more like he was loudly pleading his case. But Milo was speechless. He clenched his fists and stormed out of the shop. He wasn’t trying to tease other guys and he wasn’t “wagging” his ass around to get attention. He’d only wanted to look hot and sexy for Ansel. He pulled away from the shop with such speed, the back tires of his old Mercedes screeched. If Ansel wanted to have temper tantrums and throw furniture around, then he was going to do it without Milo in the room. For the next two days, Milo called in sick for work by leaving messages on the voice mail after hours. Maybe Ansel was too rough around the edges for him. But late Wednesday night there was an unexpected knock on his door and Milo found Ansel standing on the porch with a six-pack of beer and a box of cheap chocolate cupcakes. He smiled with his lips pressed together and tipped his head sideways.

85 Milo’s heart skipped a beat. The beer and cupcakes were much more adorable and authentic than flowers and champagne would have been. But he was still mad as hell. He opened the door and asked, “Are you here to scream at me for wearing the wrong clothes? Or are you here to call me names?” Ansel shook his head and stared down at the door mat. “No. I’m here to apologize. I was wrong and I acted like a jerk.” Milo pressed his lips together and took a shallow breath. Then he said, “Come on inside.” He couldn’t resist Ansel’s soft, easy eyes. Ansel crossed through the door and placed the beer and cupcakes on a hall chair. Then he grabbed Milo by the waist and pulled him into his body and said, “I’m sorry, baby. But it drove me crazy when that other guy was staring at your ass. I’m an idiot, I know…but I love you. I know it’s too soon to say that, but I fucking don’t care. I’ve never felt like this before about anyone. And it makes me crazy to think that another guy wants to tag you the same way I do.” Milo sighed. He couldn’t remain mad at him long. So he rested his head on his wide chest and said, “I just thought you’d like the way I looked in those shorts. I wasn’t trying to attract other guys. I only wore them for you. Actually, I’m more comfortable in an old pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. If it freaked you out, I’m sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose.” He spoke with his innocent, soft voice, he one he used when he wanted Ansel to feel stronger and more powerful. But he wasn’t lying. Ansel slipped his hand down the back of Milo’s pants. Then he squeezed his ass and said, “I did like it. That’s the problem. But so did that guy in the shop, and probably all the other guys you saw on the way over.”

86 Milo shook his head. “C’mon. My ass isn’t that great.” Ansel slipped his middle finger into the crack and started rubbing. His finger went up and down and few times and finally landed on the lips of Milo’s anus. “Ah well, yes, it is to me,” he whispered. “The fact that you were a virgin meant a lot to me. I don’t want you to think I’m too possessive or that I’m one of those control freaks. But I like the fact that I was your first. It’s special. I don’t care how lame that sounds.” Then he slowly started to work his finger inside. Milo arched his back and spread his legs. He sighed and said, “I hope you meant what you said about being in love with me.” “Why?” he asked, shoving his entire finger into Milo’s opening. Milo sighed. “Because I fell in love with you the first day we met.”

87

Playing Rachmaninoff in My Heart by Konrad Deire

Milano is an interesting city. It is the capital of fashion; it is the economic capital of Italy; it is the capital of style; and, not last, it is the capital of classical music, with the famous opera house La Scala and tons of super famous concert maestros who have directed there, from Giuseppe Verdi to Giacomo Puccini. Milano is also a university city with some of the best universities in Italy. I had the great fortune to be admitted to Bocconi University, the most prestigious university at which to study economy in Italy—maybe only comparable to Harvard or the London School of Economics. The biggest stress when you start university, however, is not the studying itself, but finding a place to sleep. Milano is terribly expensive and even if you are willing to pay lots of money, it is difficult to find a small apartment. It took me a month of research before I finally found what I was looking for. The building was only a fifteen-minute walk from my university. It was one of these old buildings built in the late eighteenth century, called casa di ringhiera, with lots of stairs and balconies on each floor leading to the apartments. The price seemed okay and the location was perfect. As I waited in the front garden for the Realtor, I could hear from some window upstairs, in the wonderful September afternoon, someone playing the pianoforte beautifully. As I followed the Realtor up the stairs to inspect my new second-floor apartment, the music grew louder and louder and I could recognize the piece. It was

88 Rachmaninoff, my all-time favorite composer. The Realtor was obviously embarrassed about the “noise” made by my immediate neighbor, which for me probably was one of the reasons why I took the apartment, which otherwise was dark and badly furnished and actually quite shabby. But with the right music and a beautiful sunny day, it looked okay. I signed the contract right away. Nineteen years old and my first own place! I was happy! I moved in the same day, bringing my two suitcases and laptop computer and heading to the nearby supermarket for my first supplies. I was curious to know my piano-playing neighbor. I have a special reason why I love the pianoforte so much. My father, who died tragically when I was a young boy, was a concert pianist before settling with my mother and taking over my grandparents’ business, producing furniture. I had studied pianoforte for a short time myself, but my teacher dismissed me soon after as hopeless and therefore I’d never really learned how to play. I guess learning pianoforte when you are only six years old is a difficult thing and hopeless if you do not have the right encouragement—that bitch of a teacher hit me with a stick on my fingers when I made mistakes. In any case, we still have the old Steinway concert piano in the living room of our family villa, but it is more a place of decoration where we put photos, silver chandeliers, and flowers than for playing music. My mother refused to move that bulky piece of furniture to any other place and would constantly remind us that our father used to play it. I missed my dad. It took me two weeks, but one afternoon, coming back from university, I finally bumped into Josh. I just passed in front of his door when he was rushing out. Blond long hair, six feet tall, beautiful brown angel eyes, a shy smile of perfect white teeth. To me,

89 he looked like an angel. I just had the time to introduce myself as his new neighbor and off he went. Josh was from Prague, studying music at il Conservatorio di Milano, Italy’s most important music school. Our first encounter, although hasty and short, left me full of the desire to know Josh better, and a couple of days later I decided to invite him for dinner into my place. We were both students, same age, alone, and in these cases, sharing is the most natural thing to do. Telling the truth, when alone, I was settling most of the times for spaghetti with canned tuna and I was getting sick of it. Therefore with the excuse of a “real” dinner, both of us would finally have something more refined to eat. Josh agreed to my invitation with a beautiful smile. At seven thirty sharp he knocked at my door with a bottle of red wine in his hand. We spoke about our countries, about our studies. I complimented him on his playing; he apologized for being so “noisy”. It was a pleasant evening and when he left, I knew we would make it a routine and meet more regularly. Student life, especially the first year in university, is extremely tough. I had to study day and night to keep up with the assignments. On weekends I would normally head home to Mantua to see my mother and to take back my dirty laundry and get it cleaned. Josh would normally pop in for dinner on Mondays or Tuesdays when I had all the goodies from home, and we soon became best friends. We both had left our girlfriends back home and really almost never touched the subject of girls and sex. We were both so busy with study that there was no time for distractions. Once in a while we would go out for movies or concerts and always had a good time. We shared the same taste for intellectual films and would usually pass hours

90 after a film d’essay, discussing what we liked and what we would have done differently. Josh rarely spoke about his parents; all I understood was that he was away from home since the age of sixteen, passing from one music school to the next. I found his relationship with his parents a bit odd. In Italy we are used to being incredibly attached to our parents, but I did not insist he tell me more as it was obviously a sensitive subject giving him lots of sadness. One Wednesday night, in the middle of the night, I heard Josh making love in his room with somebody. Our bedrooms were contiguous and the walls of the house were very thin. His bed banged loud against the wall. When I asked him the next day about it, Josh blushed dark red and avoided the subject. I guessed he was guilty, betraying his girlfriend back home, so tactfully I avoided the subject myself. The banging noise happened a couple of times and finally I got used to the thought that he had a secret lover. After seven months in Milan, my own girlfriend at home, Melania, had found someone else and we decided there was not much future for our relationship. Melania had always been a strange girl and besides occasional kissing, we never explored much further, not least because of her religious beliefs to remain a virgin on her wedding night. I had been dating her for two years, and this meant that, me, myself, I was still a virgin. It didn’t matter. I was not in a hurry. After the first semester, on the coming Easter holiday, I invited Josh home for the long weekend. Josh was living on a scholarship and had extremely reduced resources, and could not afford to go home to Prague. My mother was curious to know my new best piano-playing friend. Mantua, is an old city but I never really realized how beautiful it is until I witnessed Josh’s marvel and curiosity for each building, street name, and

91 monument. Through his eyes, everything became more interesting and beautiful and his questions and his cunning eye for odd details made me re-discover the city I had been born in and where I had lived my whole life. That evening, after the family dinner, I asked Josh if he would like to play something for us, which included me, my mum, my sister Nathalie and her boyfriend Giuseppe, and Uncle Enrico and his wife Maria. Josh was incredibly embarrassed, but after much insisting he finally sat at the Steinway. Mum dimmed the lights, only a few candles were lit, and Josh started to play. I cannot describe what it was like: the way he was sitting, the incredible notes of Rachmaninoff, the fragrance of the white lilies he had bought for my mum to thank her for the hospitality, the fact that for the first time since my father had passed away that someone properly used the piano… It was the best concert I have ever heard. My soul was floating through the room and I could not take my eyes away from Josh’s face and hands. It was an orgasm like I never experienced before. I was in love. When he finished and Mum put on the lights again, I could see everybody was crying with happiness. Josh looked up, and as our eyes met, there was a special sparkle, a strong connection of our souls which left me speechless. Josh has never been so beautiful. His smile was so warm. A long silence passed before I started to applaud. My uncle and auntie were the first to compliment Josh, saying they strongly believed in his future as a great concert pianist. Mum was the most emotional and cried tears of joy thanking Josh, holding his hands with both of hers, then hugging him. I decided to rescue my friend and proposed a walk in the warm springtime night through the old part of the city of Mantua, and Josh was glad to get his way out.

92 We walked in silence through the old streets and squares lined with the beautiful palaces of the Gonzaga family. Suddenly, Josh stopped in a darker spot and without any forewarning, he turned around and kissed me on my lips. As I did not respond to the kiss, he withdrew and said, “Forgive me!” with an incredibly sad look in his eyes. A look into his beautiful eyes and then it was me who was kissing him. Our tongues touched and escaped and touched and escaped. It was hide and seek; it was a symphony of Rachmaninoff. We held each other tightly and we both cried tears of joy and beauty. There was nothing wrong in kissing my best friend, the most beautiful person I ever met in my life. The thought of homosexuality did not even cross my mind. I loved him; I loved him so much. Nothing ever would change that. Our hands touched and his incredibly beautiful hands with the long, straight fingers were the perfect fit to mine. Our love had broken the banks—there was no holding back anymore. The happiness rose from within and the kissing was irrepressible. I fed on his soul and gave him mine in exchange. I don’t remember how we got home, nor how we could avoid waking everybody up running up the stairs. There was no restraint, no shame, no worry, just pure desire for each other. Josh dragged me into his room and started to undress me. I knew we were going to make love, but I had no idea where to start. Josh’s kisses were so sweet, and his beautiful hands touching my naked skin and exploring my body made me shiver in anticipation. I tried awkwardly to undress him. I was in total admiration—never, ever, did I suspect him to have such a beautiful body. My hands glided on his wonderful almost hairless chest, caressing every inch of it, kissing every inch of his soft, sweet and smooth pale skin.

93 Josh switched off the lights and in turn explored me in the total dark. His hands ventured into my underwear, squeezing gently my rock-hard, oozing pre-come-wet, seven-inch dick. Josh moved downwards and suddenly I felt his hot mouth engulfing my dick. The sensation was so strong that I sighed out loud. A second later I found Josh’s free hand on my mouth to keep me quiet, and then his fingers entered my mouth and danced hide-and-seek with my tongue. I felt without gravity and the sensations just shot like lightning bolts through my whole body. Josh’s head moved up and down on my shaft, his left hand gently squeezing my balls, his right hand making love with my mouth. I came in no time with violent shoots, and wonderful Josh drank it all until the last drop. I never had such an intensive orgasm touching myself. It was just too beautiful. We kissed and hugged the whole night. Just before dawn, kissing for the millionth time beautiful Josh, I moved into my room. The next morning, stepping out from the shower, I discovered that my neck was covered with blue hickeys from Josh’s passionate kissing the night before. Luckily I found a high-neck pullover in my wardrobe to disguise the hickeys. Breakfast on Easter Monday was -garnished with silly smiles and exchanges of intensive views deep into our eyes between Josh and me. After breakfast we invented an excuse to leave early for Milan. I couldn’t wait to return the favor and explore more my newfound love. The journey back to Milan takes two and a half hours, and for the first time since we made love, we had the occasion to speak. Josh placed his hand on thigh and it felt good. My dick was getting already hard at his gentle touch. “Are you gay?” I asked Josh. I didn’t really have an opinion on what being gay

94 meant, nor did I ever think of myself as becoming gay. My naivete was met with equal candor and honesty from Josh. “I have had some homosexual experiences before, but I never have been really in love with a boy…until now,” he said, gazing straight into my eyes. Our love was not in question: the feeling was so strong and it was so obvious that it was mutual that if he asked me to marry him, I would have said, “Yes I do!” right away. “Oh so all that moaning in your room at night was boys?” I asked. “Well, yes.” Josh admitted, embarrassed, his pale cheeks blushing red. “I used to go out on Wednesdays to the gay disco night not far from home, and from time to time I did not come home alone.” I stopped the car at the first parking space on the highway and kissed him. I did not care about his past. I loved him and that was all that mattered to me. I knew in that instant that I would never leave him. I was not afraid of the stigma of being gay. Our love was so strong, so beautiful, that it could withstand every challenge. Looking into his beautiful eyes gave me strength. He looked back and there was an understanding beyond words. We kissed like I never had kissed anybody before—it was like our souls were merging and becoming one. “I love you, Josh,” I said. “I love you too, Max.” One hour later we were at home, “our” home. I ripped his clothes away and started to suck on his beautiful dick. Finally, in the afternoon sun, I could have a full view of how beautiful Josh was. I never had been attracted to boys, but Josh was the sexiest person in the universe. Everything about him was beautiful. “Teach me?” I asked, lying between his legs and kissing him on his chest.

95 In response, he took the lube from the bedside table, squeezing the slimy liquid on two fingers and lubed his hole. “Fuck me, Max.” It was the most natural thing in the world. Many times, I had been discussing with my pals how to make love with a girl and, frankly speaking, I was always terrified of not being able to function properly, either to ejaculate too early or not at all. But with Josh, I had no anxieties. My dick in his hole was just the perfect fit. It was its natural home. His legs were on my shoulders, our eyes were locked, and we moved in a marvelous dance, the bed hammering rhythmically against the wall. I came with incredible intensity and he enjoyed it as much as I did. Well, if this was gay love, it was the best thing on the planet. However, Josh had still not yet come and I wanted him so much. “Do you want to fuck me?” I asked. His eight-inch dick grew instantly hard, but no matter how painful, I wanted him to come into me. Josh sent me a dirty smile. “Turn around!” he commanded. I never had heard about this. Nnever could imagine this. Josh ventured to lick my crack, opened my cheeks with both hands, and finally started to lick my hole. His tongue moved slowly, easing up that tight virgin hole. A thousand sensations crossed my brain; I moaned like a cat in heat. When he finally pushed his finger in my hole, I was already crying for the intensity of joy and beauty. Never had I suspected I could feel these sensations. My master and teacher seemed very pleased with my reactions. “I don’t want to hurt you, Max. The best thing we can do is that you decide how much you can bear. Come here, sit on me.” Josh said, pulling me around. I lowered slowly my butt on his hard eight inches of meat. At first the pain was

96 incredible, his mushroom head tearing my ass in two, but once it was in…oh my God, it felt so good. I slowly moved up and down along his long shaft and it was a joy to see his expression of intense enjoyment. His hands under my ass cheeks guided my movement, up and down, up and down. My dick was again hard and the massage triggered another orgasm. We came together, my hands on his beautiful chest, my cock shooting sperm high into the air. My sperm landed on his lips, and seeing how he voraciously licked it, I bent down to lick him clean. I never had tasted my own come before, but sharing it with Josh, it was just the most delicious juice on Earth. We kissed with the passion of love and rapture with open eyes and smiled at each other. “Did you like it?” asked Josh. “No. I absolutely love it!” I replied, kissing him. Josh,meanwhile, was again fingering my come-wet asshole and it felt so good. We stayed in bed the whole afternoon and night and the whole next day and continued to make love a million times. It seemed that each of us could never get enough of the other, and Josh was such a great master. In between orgasms, Josh opened his vertical black Yamaha piano and played for me, naked, with joy and elegance. He was a god sent from heaven, with his incredibly beautiful muscular back, large shoulders, small waist, sitting perfectly straight, yet relaxed, and playing the most incredible melodies of love, for me. His music was his soul, singing and vibrating in the air. I was in love. I had never been happier in my whole life. The following weeks, months, and years were the most beautiful of our lives. We both had a tough schedule, but every evening we would find each other and make love.

97 Josh became more handsome every day and, after some initial scruples, we had no problems walking on the streets holding hands and smiling back at those who sent us curious looks. How my mother found out, I don’t know. Maybe because I did not need to have the bed linen washed and cleaned anymore. We always slept in his bed, which was bigger, and re-arranged my apartment as our common living and exercise room. One day in mid-November, Mum just asked me: “Max, are you gay? I never hear you talking about girls and you always talk about Joshua.” There was no condemnation, no accusation, no blame. Therefore, I gave a honest answer to an honest question.“Yes, Mum, I guess I am gay. I am madly in love with Joshua and we are living together for almost three years now. I did not speak about it because I did not want to worry you, but our love is the most beautiful thing that has ever happened to me.” Mum smiled with tears shimmering in her eyes. “Well, in that case, don’t you think that you should bring him home more often?” My mum is incredible. Not all parents are as accepting, intelligent, loving, and tolerant as my mum. Josh had been caught at the age of sixteen playing naked in his room with another boy from his school. For his parents, this was totally unacceptable. They just had kicked him out from home and from their affection, and only due to his incredible talent and a mix of good luck and benevolent friends had he been able to get the scholarships. Josh and his parents had completely broken contact and I could only barely imagine how much he suffered for this.

98 However, I wanted to know where he came from and so I organized a long weekend in Prague for both of us. His parents, who we met very briefly, treated us like if we had the plague, and all his father had to say was that Josh would have to pay them back and send money. Josh at first kept silent, but finally after translating this last part for me, he turned around and challenged his parents, telling them more or less to fuck off and never ever dare to contact him. We left, smashing the door behind us. My boy had grown up; now he was a man. He finally had “killed” his father and cut off this unhealthy, nonexistent relationship. I knew from the way we made love that night that he was a new man and that the burden of guilt, anger, and sorrow had been lifted from his shoulders. Mum’s adoption of her “second son,” as she called him, on Christmas Eve in front of the whole family, was an incredible gift for him. Even more stupefying for me was that she prepared for both of us the guest room with the big four-poster bed where we had made love the first time. Probably the most embarrassing thing was, that she had put a small tray with condoms on the bedside night table. Being one hundred percent faithful, we never used condoms, and Josh regularly had taken his tests and had always been careful. On December twenty-sixth, Mum had organized a special event at home, starring Josh at the piano. Our family was still one of the most important in the city and the objective of the charity party was to launch Josh’s career as a solo pianist and introduce him to some of the biggest names in the music industry. Notwithstanding the heavy snow, everybody came and Josh, dressed in a smashing new tuxedo that was Mum’s Christmas gift to him, worked his incredible magic

99 to bewitch the audience. His performance was greeted with enthusiastic applause after playing the Sonata n.17 in re minore, op. 31 n.2 and the Sonata n. 23 in fa minore, op. 57 Appassionata by Ludwig van Beethoven, followed by Fantasia in do maggiore, op.17 by Robert Schumann and, finally, Quattro Mazurke op.33 e Scherzo in si bemolle minore, op.31 of Fryderyk Chopin. Mum’s Midas touch made miracles at the end of the soirée, and she secured him three solo concerts in Mantua, Parma, and Rome, and got hold of two record companies looking for new talents. She knew the music business very well due to dad’s own career, and, unbeknownst to the rest of the family, she had always been active in promoting and sponsoring new talents. Josh’s performances became a great media success and soon after, the new inquiries for his performances popped in on a regular basis. Wherever there was a music festival or competition, his name was one of the first on the list to be called. We both were at the final stages of our study and combining Josh’s fame and the tough schedule with university became a difficult task. Side by side, I learned to type my thesis on the computer with the same rhythm of him playing the piano. I had chosen to write my thesis about the challenges of the classical music industry. We both graduated in the following summer. Uncle Enrico at first wanted me to enter into the furniture factory he’d been running since Dad passed away, but Mum was very clear and insisted I had to follow my dreams. There was no doubt that my only dream was, is, and always wwould be Josh. I was already his acting agent, preparing and discussing his contracts and assignments. Josh’s notoriety was on a stellar rise and being his agent was a full-time job. Not

100 only was there fame, but suddenly lots and lots of money flowed into our bank account. Yes, we had a joint bank account, and we lived in everything like a married heterosexual couple: sharing all, from friends to my family. We had also bought our own small house in the outskirts of Milan, making sure Josh could play his piano at every time of day and night. I guess our old neighbors were relieved when we finally moved away. Josh’s parents, obviously informed from the media of our rising fame and wealth, one day came to visit us in Milan. I was really nervous, not knowing how deep the scars were in Josh’s soul. Josh was marvelous: when his father again asked for money, he went to the cupboard, picked up and gave them a couple of his CDs, and kicked them out of the house, saying that now he had a real family and that they should not dare to contact him back. It was quid pro quo. We never heard from them again. A few months later, during the International Classical Music Festival in the Netherlands near Amsterdam and the morning of my birthday, Josh said he had a surprise for me, but only if I would give him the right answers. “What is it?” I asked. “Do you love me?” “What a question. You know that I love you more than my own life,” I answered. “Would you like to marry me?” he asked with a beautiful smile and a sparkle in his incredible eyes. “Hell, yes!” I answered, kissing him. In the afternoon we went to the local civil wedding office, where all our friends, including my mum, my uncle, and my sister, were waiting for us. Josh had organized and prepared all documents in several months of diligent work, and we legally married and

101 exchanged rings in front of the people we loved most. The same evening Josh won the prize of best young classical pianist playing Rachmaninoff’s 3rd in front of five thousant people, but the truth was he was playing only for me, wrapping his beautiful soul in the eternal notes of Rachmaninoff.

102

Little Death by Jay DiMeo

A smiling blond man stood at the hotel swimming pool, showing off his abs. As Luke lifted his Nikon to snap a picture, his groin tightened appreciatively. He stopped before his finger pressed the shutter. Mortified, heat licking his neck and face, he turned away from the pool. What the hell am I doing? He’d been asking himself the same question for the past three days. Stranded at Puerto Viejo, the Caribbean coast of Costa Rica, just because Helen had said it’d help him come to terms with Alric’s— Don’t go there. Forget. That’s the purpose of being here. But how could this lush place with its handful of happy tourists help him forget the death of his brother? Oh man. There I go again. Luke sank down in a chaise longue by the pool and hid his face in his hands, cold and shaky in the humid heat. Control. He took a deep breath and arranged his face into bland lines before picking up his Nikon once more and tucking it inside its case that hung around his neck. It rested against his chest—an extra limb, an extension of himself. He was a photographer. But he’d been unable to take a single picture in the past two months. Ever since— Stop this.

103 Luke groaned and stood up. Stranded in the jungle. In an ecolodge, with monkeys chattering in the trees all around, toucans flying overhead, sloths hanging from branches. Paradise. He needed company, people, his friends. He needed distractions. But he had pushed his friends away in his bitterness. Nobody could stand being around him. Luke kicked a loose stone and watched it disappear in greenery. If only he could disappear too. He paused in mid-turn. Maybe a walk in the jungle surrounding the hotel might clear his mind. Maybe he’d find something to pique his interest and get him into work mode again. He had to return to normal. Whatever that was. Being depressed and broke sucked. The early afternoon sun gilded the trees in perfect light. He snapped a few pictures, knowing the perfection wouldn’t last, and choosing a random trail, he set out. He entered a realm of green, dappled light where shadows moved far above. Twigs crunched under his feet. The musty smell of damp earth and sweet, rotten fruit reached his nostrils. A howler monkey declared its presence to his far left, with an answering howl from his right. A whole troupe passed overhead as he trudged on, eyes straying to hanging green and red bromeliads and strangler plants that twined around trunks like Christmas decorations. His fingers wrapped around his Nikon once and again, but dropped. It didn’t help that his on-and-off girlfriend had abandoned him too, claiming his photos proved he was gay.

104 Of all the stupid arguments to have. He definitely wasn’t gay. No, he just appreciated physique. He was an artist, for chrissakes. Anything beautiful caught his attention. Not his fault girls didn’t take care of their bodies so much. They were so…round, and curvy and…and soft. He scrubbed a hand over his face and cursed the hair that tickled his sweaty forehead. He’d planned to explain things to her, but then the accident happened and— Damn it. He slapped a branch in his path, then yelped when a snake fell to the path from a tree and slithered away. He backed away, turned around and ran. Branches slapped his face, scratched his shoulders and chest. He stopped so suddenly he almost fell over. Two men barred his way. Large and burly, they held thick, bare branches in their hands. “Donde vas, compa?” “What do you want? Let me pass.” “Uh oh.” The first man advanced on him and before he knew what was happening, had Luke’s hands behind his back and held them there. “Let me go!” “Eh, gringo. Quiet. Okay?” Luke struggled in the man’s hold but his big hands held him tight. The other man approached, a thinner, scraggly-haired guy with a flowery shirt. He examined Luke, then lifted off the Nikon and hung it around his.

105 “Hey!” Luke tried to kick the man who held him but his captor only chuckled and tightened his grip, making Luke gasp with pain. “I’m a photographer,” Luke tried. “My camera is important to me!” “No move,” he said and his breath burned down Luke’s neck. “You, pretty boy.” Luke struggled, his shoulders hurting like fire, the bones in his hand grinding against each other. The man in the flowery shirt gave a lecherous grin and pressed his body against Luke’s, rubbing his groin against Luke’s stomach. Fear clogged Luke’s throat. What would they do to him? “Let me fucking go.” “You pretty.” The man’s erection poked Luke’s hip. “Fun, you and me?” “Get off me!” “Shut up, hijo de puta.” The man ran his hands over Luke’s body, making him shudder, and found and took out his wallet and his cabin key. “Excellente.” Luke bucked in the mustached one’s arms. “Gracias, muchacho.” A corded arm rose and lodged itself beneath Luke’s chin, cutting off his air. “Hasta luego. Bye-bye.” He kicked and squirmed as his lungs burned for air. The man in the flowery shirt leaned closer to him and winked. Then Luke’s vision went black. *** Luke opened his eyes to a pounding headache and a bitter taste in his mouth. Groaning, he sat up and fingered his aching jaw. The light was fading above, between the branches. Leaves littered the ground, and a blue crab moved away from him.

106 The memories of what had happened slammed into him and he clutched his head. He was still fully dressed, and although his chest hurt with bruises, he didn’t feel abused in any other way. He let out a deep breath. His hands went to his chest. Something was missing. His camera! They had taken it. Angry, he struggled to his feet, but dizziness hit him, made him sick. God, where had they left him? No trail was visible. “Help!” He started a slow progression between the trees, feet catching in the plants covering the ground. The oppressive heat was giving way to cold as night fell. Unable to see, he sat leaning against the trunk of a tree, shivering. The monkeys howled from time to time, insects and other things he didn’t want to know crawled on his body. As soon as dawn broke, he started walking, his limbs stiff, mouth dry as paper. So thirsty. He needed to find water soon. He walked on unsteady feet, shuffled from tree trunk to tree trunk. Still no trail. Would he die out here alone? Would anyone ever find his body? He’d seen houses close to the beach on his first day here. I’ll find people to help me. He staggered on. Won’t I? Then he smelled water. He stopped to catch his breath, shivers going through his frame. A blinding reflection teased his vision. There. He had to find it.

107 A white house rose from the jungle, a two-story cottage with tiled roof and a fenced garden. A swimming pool reflected the sun. He leaned on the fence. Everything looked abandoned. Fucking A. The water in the pool was green, covered with algae, and it stank. Beyond, the garden merged with the forest, crawlers covered the walls of the house, and bright red flowers bloomed everywhere. His eyes stung with tears of despair. He crawled over the fence and fell to his knees beside the pool. His legs didn’t seem able to carry him any further. The bruises ached, his head felt too heavy, shivers racked his body. He slumped against the fence and closed his eyes.

*** “Hey! Wake up.” Luke struggled to lift his heavy lids. A man’s scowling face filled his vision. He blinked, focusing on sky-blue eyes and sharp cheekbones, on chestnut curls hanging loose on the high forehead. Even blurry, the man was beautiful. “Am I dead?” The man’s eyes widened. Then his lips tilted in a faint smile. “My mother’s garden may look like a trip to hell, but you’re still among the living.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I only just arrived from New York, and the place was empty for months.” His clear blue eyes became serious. “Since her death, in fact.” He brightened again. “Come, let me help you up.”

108 Luke clung to the stranger’s hand and struggled to his feet, not sure his knees would hold him. “Whoa.” The man placed an arm around Luke’s shoulders to support him. “What happened to you? You’re shivering.” “Long story.” Luke concentrated on walking and let the man lead him to the house. The interior was better preserved than the facade, with clean rooms full of old furniture. The man pushed him onto a couch, placed a cool, wet cloth on Luke’s forehead and sat next to him. “I’m Troy. What’s your name?” “Luke.” The wet cloth felt heavenly on his hot forehead. “Your mother died?” Troy winced. “Yes.” ”Sorry.” Luke licked cracked lips. Alric’s face filled his mind and he looked away, struggling to push the pain down. Troy brought a cup to Luke’s mouth and he drank cool water. He looked up into those light baby blues and wondered if it was the fever that made him gape at the beauty of that face. He wished he could capture Troy’s handsome face with his camera. His hands went to his chest. Then he remembered his camera was gone. He clenched his hands. Troy’s eyes narrowed. “You okay?” “Yeah.” Luke swallowed hard. “They stole my camera.” “Who’s ‘they’?” “Two men. Knocked me out. Took my wallet, too.” He closed his eyes. His limbs felt heavy, his head fell back.

109 “I only arrived here yesterday.” Troy shook his head. “You’re a lucky man you found this place, my friend. Very lucky.” Deep inside, Luke agreed, as an image of that beautiful mouth kissing him came to his mind. Sleep claimed him. * Bright light filtered through Luke’s eyelids. He blinked the golden splinters away and turned his head to the side. He brought an arm up to ward off the glare. On the coffee table, the framed photo of a pretty blonde greeted him. Troy’s girlfriend, probably. For some reason, the thought sent a pang of sadness through him. “Feeling better?” Troy stood by the window, leaning against its frame, dressed in jeans and a blue shirt. His long, athletic body glowed in the golden light seeping through the dusty glass; his curls glittered with copper streaks. Luke sat up. The wine-red blanket that had covered him slipped to the floor. His head felt clear, but his body seemed to have a fever. His eyes zeroed on the bulge of Troy’s crotch. Did the man have a hard-on, or was he normally so big? And why did the question turn Luke on so much? Luke groaned inwardly and started to hoist himself up. Time to go. “Thanks, Troy, for everything.” Troy strode over to him and pushed him back down. Luke stared at the hand planted on his chest, tanned and callused, warmth radiating from it into every limb of Luke’s body, kindling his blood. “Erm…”

110 “No need to go anywhere right now,” Troy stated, his bright eyes flashing. “You went through an ordeal, and you had a fever last night. Rest. I’m not going anywhere for the moment, either.” The hand lingered on Luke’s chest. Luke shifted uncomfortably. Fuck it if he wasn’t achingly hard. And his innocent host, who had just saved his life, would probably get royally pissed if he realized. “Troy…” He tried to think of something fast, shifting to hide the bulge in his pants. “I need to…use your bathroom.” “Okay.” Troy grabbed Luke’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “Come.” When Luke stumbled, still dizzy, Troy gathered Luke close to support him. His arm across Luke’s back only made things worse. The bathroom door barely closed behind Luke, when he cupped his erection with a moan. God, when had he ever been so hard? And why now, of all times? He pushed down his pants and boxers and grabbed his shaft with a need that bordered on pain. He was so wet already that his hand glided up and down easily. Too easily. He needed more friction. He tried to imagine a girl’s hand touching him, her body against him. Soft hands, soft curves, round hips. His hand slowed. The pressure in his gut lessened. He breathed a sigh of relief. What would Troy’s strong hand feel like, stroking him, with those calluses catching on his cock?

111 He gasped as his cock hardened instantly. Biting back a whimper of need, he stroked faster, his other hand dipping to roll his balls and rub behind them, then further back, against his entrance. He hesitated. Girls had touched him there, and it had felt good. He pushed a finger inside himself as his other hand pumped his cock. It felt more than good; it felt great. He had never been so aroused, so in need of release. Finger-fucking himself, he stroked his erection harder and harder, biting on his lip so hard he might draw blood. What would Troy’s cock feel like inside of him? He came in long, ecstatic spurts and sank to his knees, close to passing out. Oh Lord. This can’t be. He had never come like that before. I’m not gay. He gulped. Maybe I am. *** The smell of fried eggs and bacon made Luke’s stomach rumble as he came out of the bathroom. He followed his nose and found the kitchen, an open-air room extending into the garden. Troy looked up from cooking, a white apron tied around his waist. “My mother’s,” he said with a wink, indicating the lacy concoction. And damn it all if the sight didn’t make Luke hard again. He could just imagine Troy naked, wearing nothing but this white apron, with the tent of an erection lifting it. Groaning, he sank into a chair. “Are you all right?”

112 Troy’s worried voice made Luke lift his flushed face. “Yes, I’m fine.” “I thought to make us some breakfast since we both missed it.” Troy placed two plates of toast and fried eggs sunny side up on the table. He dished out the bacon, then took the seat opposite Luke. “I’m glad to see you on your feet. Last night, I thought I might need to take you to a hospital. You tossed and turned so much.” Troy took a bite of bacon. “You called for an Alric. Is he your boyfriend?” Luke choked on his toast. He hacked and hacked. A glass of water appeared before him and he gulped some down. It helped. Christ. Even his host thought he was gay now. He would probably toss him out into the jungle and not look back. “Sorry.” Troy was looking at him with a mournful expression. “Not my business.” “No.” Luke waved a hand, waiting for his breath to return to something resembling normal. “’S okay. He was my brother.” Silence fell. Luke glanced up to see Troy with his fork frozen in the air. “Was?” Troy lowered his fork. “He died two months ago. A car accident.” “Fuck, man, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” “’S all right.” Luke took another sip of water. “Don’t worry.” He placed down his glass. “As a matter of fact, I came here to get over his death.” He shrugged. “So far, no luck. We were close, you see. I looked up to him.” Funny how the words tumbled out so fast now, when he hadn’t been able to talk about Alric to anyone after his death. “He was

113 two years older. Took me out to my first club. Explained to me about…sex and stuff. Helped me through college. He was a great guy.” The night before the accident, Alric had teased him, said Luke liked guys and that he should finally admit it. Even as Luke had indignantly denied everything, Alric had laughed and told him it didn’t matter to him anyway, that Luke would always be his little brother. Alric had been right. About everything. And the tears that had refused to come ever since he had heard the news, not even at the funeral, decided to spill now. He shot to his feet. “Damn. Excuse me.” He fled out into the garden, letting the tears fall. *** Luke returned to the quiet house much later. The sun was low in the sky and flies buzzed over the bushes. Howler monkeys sounded in the distance. He entered the kitchen and found the dishes washed and put away. He sat at the table and lowered his head onto his arms. His eyes ached from all the weeping and his head pounded. “Aspirin?” Troy’s voice almost gave him a heart attack. “Yes, please,” he croaked, looking up. Troy took out a glass, filled it from a bottle, and hunted the aspirin in a cupboard. His movements were precise, sparse. Muscles flowed underneath his shirt, bunching in his arms when he reached up to open another cupboard. “Do you do sports?” Luke received the glass and the pills. “Thanks.”

114 Troy slid in the chair next to him. “Judo and biking.” He watched Luke as he swallowed the pills. “Lots of gardening.” He toyed with a napkin. “You said they stole your camera. Was it an expensive one?” “Yes. I’m a professional photographer. Haven’t taken a photo in the last two months, though.” Troy nodded. “When my mother died, I just sat at home for a month, doing nothing. My mind went blank. I even lost my job. And it’s not as if we were that close, either.” Luke drank the rest of his water. He felt dry as a desert. Troy scratched at a stain on the table. “After my parents divorced ten years ago, she moved here alone. Then a year ago, she called me, said they diagnosed her with ovarian cancer. She said not to worry.” He slouched back in his chair. “Two months later, she was dead. She never agreed to go to the hospital, take any medication, have surgery, do chemo.” Luke looked at the garden, at its vibrant colors. “She must have been happy here. It’s a beautiful place.” Troy glanced at the garden too, eyes widening a little, as if seeing it for the first time. “I guess so.” He reached across the table and covered Luke’s hand with his own. “Want to take a shower, wash off the dirt?” The heat of his touch left Luke speechless and aroused. “Yes, please.” He let Troy lead him to a large bathroom, shove a towel into his hands, and open a door. “There you go. Only cold water, though.”

115 Cold water was good, Luke thought as he stepped under the spray and let it wash away his renewed arousal. As he toweled himself dry, he took a good look at his shredded, muddied clothes and cringed at the thought of wearing them again. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he examined in the full-length mirror the bruises and scratches that covered his body. I’m lucky, he repeated to himself and refused to let the mindless terror of the previous night take hold of him again. He stepped out and heard Troy move in the room next door. He knocked. “Come in.” It was a darkened bedroom, its four-poster bed covered with a white canopy. Troy held a white shirt and jeans in his hands. “Maybe these will fit you…” He trailed off. His eyes were wide and luminous in the half-darkness, his gaze hot where it glided on Luke’s skin. Why did he look at him like that? Troy placed the clothes on a low table and walked to Luke, caught his hand and pulled him to sit down on the soft mattress. Luke stared at him, not knowing what to say. He wanted to grab Troy’s face and kiss him senseless. But Troy would probably kick him out of the house if Luke even thought of touching him as he longed to do. Better if he does kick me out, he thought. I’m out of my head. “Troy, I—” The words caught in his throat when Troy placed a hand on Luke’s cheek and rubbed his thumb across his lips. “Troy?”

116 “Damn it, Luke, from the moment I saw you, I—” Troy gulped. “I’ve wanted to do this. I promise I won’t do anything else, just…” He pressed his mouth to Luke’s. Oh God. Troy’s lips were warm and soft, and when his tongue slipped in Luke’s mouth, Luke’s cock jumped to attention. He moaned in Troy’s mouth, his hands coming up to clutch at the man’s shoulders. He deepened the kiss, tangling his tongue with Troy’s, pressing his chest against the other man’s. Troy’s musky scent, the light stubble on his jaw, his hard body, made Luke tremble with desire. I truly like men. He sucked on Troy’s lips, making him moan. Never felt so… Troy cupped Luke’s head and leaned, breaking the kiss, to suck on Luke’s throat. Luke hissed, feeling his nipples stiffen and his cock jump. Troy’s hands roamed on Luke’s chest, rubbing over the sensitive nubs, then moved his head lower to suckle on each one. Lord, this is… Troy kissed a trail to his navel while Luke writhed against his hot breath, his soft lips. This can’t be happening, he’s… Troy pulled open Luke’s towel and took Luke into his mouth. Fuck! Troy’s lips dragged on Luke’s shaft; his tongue swirled around it; his hands came to rest on Luke’s hips.

117 Luke barely noticed. He was on fire. He couldn’t stop the needy sounds leaving his throat. He looked down on Troy’s head of chestnut curls and placed a trembling hand on them. Troy is sucking me off. His balls tightened. His breath hitched. The desire in his belly burst and he cried out as he came in Troy’s mouth. He blinked, staring at the ceiling. He had fallen backwards on the bed. Troy loomed over him, his eyes sparkling. Luke tried to find his wits. “Oh God. That was…” Nope. No way. He was too stunned to form a coherent sentence. He grabbed Troy’s arm. “Come here.” Troy tumbled next to him, his erection pressing into Luke’s hip. When Luke lay on his side and pressed his mouth to his, Troy opened his mouth, letting Luke in. Luke kissed him, tasting his own seed, exploring Troy’s mouth. He tastes good. He smells good. Troy released his lips. “Luke, I want you.” The idea of Troy pounding into him made Luke hard again. He moaned, his cock throbbing in time to his heart. Troy clutched at Luke’s shoulders, rubbing his erection against Luke’s body. A flush tinted his cheeks. Then he pushed off him with a groan. Luke turned to watch as Troy pulled off his clothes and tore open a condom package. Troy looked up, lips tilting in a smile, and pulled the condom on. Luke stared, mouth dry, as the thin plastic stretched on Troy’s big erection.

118 Then Troy straddled him, pressing his legs against Luke’s thighs, and coherent thought fled. Luke forgot how to breathe when Troy’s cock rubbed against his. With a mewling cry, he lifted his hips, trying to feel more, to get more friction. God, I’m going to come again just by rubbing myself against this man. “Luke.” Troy’s voice was rough as if he’d been smoking. “Have you ever done this before?” Luke fought to keep his eyes open as Troy leaned forward, his big cock pressing against Luke’s. “Ah!” He licked his lips, trying to catch his breath. “No.” “Have you ever been with a man before?” “No. Never.” Troy stilled, and Luke gritted his teeth. “You have, haven’t you?” “Yes.” Troy rolled his hips and Luke caught his breath. “I broke up with my boyfriend a few months back.” He leaned down, trapping their erections between their bodies. Luke wrapped his arms around Troy, pressing him closer. He’d never thought he could become so aroused so soon after coming. He wanted Troy. “Are you sure you want this, Luke?” Please. He nodded. “Yes.” Was that his voice, so hoarse? “You can tell me to stop at any time. I promise I will.” Luke moved his hips, rubbing their cocks together, and Troy’s voice broke on a moan. “Damn it, Luke, you’re driving me crazy.” He sat back and lifted a small tube from the bedside table. He squirted clear gel from it and coated his fingers. He nudged Luke’s legs apart. “Stroke yourself, Luke.”

119 Hands trembling, Luke took his erection in his hand and began to stroke. He did so hesitantly, sure he’d come too soon. But then Troy’s finger slipped inside him and Luke tensed. “Relax,” Troy said, his own cock bobbing before his belly. The sight of it made Luke salivate. He wanted to taste it, feel it. Reaching out with his free hand, he wrapped his fingers around it. Troy gasped and his finger pushed deeper into Luke. They both cried out. Luke blinked the blinding lights from his vision. His cock wept, his balls felt about to explode. “What was that?” he hissed. “Prostate,” Troy panted. His head fell forward, his curls tumbling over his eyes, as he pushed another finger inside Luke. “Fuck, Luke, don’t know if I can last much longer.” Each stroke inside Luke sent more pleasure coiling in his gut. “Now,” Luke gasped. “Can’t last either.” With a whimper, Troy pulled out his fingers and placed his cock at Luke’s entrance. When he pushed inside, Luke opened his mouth in a wordless cry. God, Troy was big. His cock stretched Luke to the point of burning as he slipped in, inch by shivering inch. Pain. Was it supposed to hurt like that? Then Troy stopped, looking right into Luke’s eyes, his breath coming in short gasps. “Luke? Are you okay?”

120 He managed a nod. Troy shifted slightly, and pleasure rolled in Luke’s belly, taking the edge off the pain and turning it into desire. He gasped, and his hips rocked of their own volition. Sparks of need relit the fire in his gut. Troy shifted again, pulling back, pushing in, and Luke moaned as the pressure built inside him once more. He really wanted this. Oh Lord. I love Troy inside me. The realization made him rock his hips again, taking Troy’s cock in all the way. Troy groaned. “You’re so hot. And tight.” He pushed in and out of Luke, his balls slapping on Luke’s ass. “Luke...” He sped up his thrusting, and Luke moaned as Troy’s cock stroked his prostate time and again. His gut tightened, his legs tensed. I’m going to… “Troy. Oh, fuck!” Orgasm hit. He heard a shout, then realized it was his. He felt as if his balls were being sucked dry. His come shot on his chest, hot. His buttocks lifted off the mattress. Shock after shock of mind-blowing pleasure ran through him. He writhed on the sheets. As his body relaxed, he realized Troy’s cock was still hard as stone inside him, and Troy was still moving. Luke blinked the haze from his eyes. Troy’s muscled chest glimmered with sweat, his harsh breathing sped up. His small nipples stood erect. Luke reached out and rubbed them with his fingers. Troy groaned and thrust one more time deep into Luke, making him gasp. He grabbed Luke’s hips hard as he spilled hot liquid inside him. His face, twisting in intense

121 pleasure, was the most amazing image Luke had ever seen, and knew no camera could capture what he saw. Troy stayed still, panting, his body shaking with the aftershocks. Then he pulled out, leaving Luke with a feeling of emptiness that went deeper than it ought. He had found a part of himself he didn’t know was there. And he had found Troy. What now? Troy fell next to him, panting. Luke watched him wipe sweat from his eyes, then throw an arm over them. Silence blanketed them. So this was it. Luke scowled at himself, wondering what more he wanted. “Hey.” Troy’s full lips tilted in a smile. “Why the frown?” He rolled towards Luke, wrapping arms and legs around him. He nuzzled Luke’s neck. Luke shook his head. How could he even begin to explain? “I didn’t…” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I didn’t know that I wanted…” Troy lightly bit Luke’s neck, and ran his fingers over Luke’s chest, raising goose bumps. “So you just discovered you like men, and that you like a cock inside you.” Luke opened his eyes, scowling when he felt his cheeks burn. Fucking great. “Yes. No. I like you. I like your cock in me.” Troy chuckled. “Even better. Because I like you, and my cock in you.” Somehow this made Luke smile. He turned his head to look at Troy. “So what now?”

122 Troy’s chuckle rumbled against Luke’s shoulder. “Now, we have a lot to explore about each other, if you accept my hospitality for a few days. We can take it slow. What do you say?” Luke felt himself relax. It sounded good. In fact, time with Troy sounded excellent. His brother would have liked Troy, he thought. Alric would have teased him and laughed, then taken them out to dinner. Luke could feel a tear inside him begin to heal. “Yes. Okay.” “Okay.” The smile in Troy’s voice became more pronounced, as did his erection poking Luke’s thigh. “I have some activities in mind for the next days.” He winked. “If you’re up to it, of course.” “Up” being the operative word. Luke found he was.

123

What a Piece of Work, Is A Man by Heidi Champa

I waited all summer to get my student teaching assignment. I had heard so many horror stories; I spent most of my so-called vacation worrying about whom I would be paired with. There were some tough professors in my area, and the last thing I wanted to do was spend my semester making photocopies and grading tests while everyone else got to make lesson plans and teach. Everyone told me I was being too serious about it, but I couldn’t help it. I had always been that way. Too mature for my own good. In high school, my guidance counselor had to encourage me to attend the prom. I always thought counselors were there to help you pick out college majors. But in my case, they had to force me to have fun; to be normal. It hadn’t really worked. I didn’t date much in high school and college had been no different. I chose instead to focus on my work, my future. I always told myself there would be time for fun later. When the letter finally arrived, I tore it open with both dread and anticipation. I stared down at the name. Dr. Walter Stevens. I had never heard of him. I read on. He was a visiting professor from Cambridge. England, not Massachusetts. He specialized in Shakespeare. My immediate Google search didn’t turn up any other information except a picture. He was handsome. Striking, really. With dark hair and blue eyes that seemed to glow, he didn’t look old enough to have made it through graduate school, let alone have a doctorate. My cock stirred a bit as I thought about him standing in front of a lecture hall, powerfully commanding a classroom of eager undergrads. All that knowledge and authority, all wrapped up with a British accent. I went hot, the back of my neck suddenly

124 sweaty. I had never felt anything like it before. Especially not for a man. Hell, I had barely had it for a woman. But staring at his smiling face on that computer screen had put a knot in my stomach, and not for the reasons I had feared all summer. Nervously preparing for the first day, I spent my time boning up on as many plays, sonnets, and soliloquies I could get my hands on. Shakespeare had never really interested me that much. I saw it as something I had to slog through to get to the next class. But Dr. Stevens was an expert, and I had a deep desire to impress him. When the day finally came for us to meet, I was almost sick with anticipation and nerves. The thought of seeing him for the first time, knowing the initial reaction he had spurred in me, made my stomach feel like I had swallowed a whole plate of spaghetti. As I was arranging my papers and research on the tiny desk in the corner, I heard the door of the office close. Dr. Stevens came in, laden down with papers, a briefcase, and a box. I saw the box slipping from his long, tapered fingers, and I rushed over to help him. I set it on the desk across the room from mine, the one that looked huge and important. “Thanks. That could have been a disaster. You must be Mitch. I’m Walter.” He extended his hand, but I found myself staring into his eyes. The picture online didn’t show how truly blue they were. His hand stayed extended and I realized I had better shake it before he noticed me staring at him. His voice washed over me, the accent more potent than I had first anticipated. He hadn’t said anything important, and already I was hooked. Somehow, I found my voice and tried to act normal. “Yeah, that’s me. Mitch Jones.”

125 “Well, it looks like you and I will be working together this semester. You come very highly recommended. Your instructors had nothing but great things to say about you.” “Really? Thanks. I read your biography. Very impressive. I’ve always dreamed of getting a doctorate someday.” “Then you should. It can be intense, but very worth it.” He seemed to exude confidence and power. Our small talk didn’t last long, as he spent the rest of the day getting organized. His movements were so effortless; it barely registered when he walked across the office. In contrast, I always felt so clumsy and unpolished. I watched as he bent over to place files in a drawer and stared at his strong forearms as he sat down to get to work. The way they flexed as his fingers moved quickly over his keyboard was nearly hypnotic. I couldn’t bear it another second, so I forced myself to look away and find something else to occupy my time. Distracting myself was no easy task. The smallest things seemed to unhinge me. His glasses would slide down his nose, and he would push them up with his lengthy index finger. Sometimes, when he was deep in thought, he would let the tip of his tongue slip out from between his lips, his mind forgetting to keep it concealed. One day, as the lesson plan for the next day lay in front of me, I heard a thud coming from across the office: his expensive leather shoes hitting the worn-out linoleum. He slid his foot up his calf, his toes massaging the muscle. He reached up and stretched his hands over his head. The simple action pressed his chest muscles into the fabric of his crisp, white shirt. My breath got stuck when I looked up to his face and saw him staring back at me, catching me eyeing his body. A hot blush flared in my cheeks, and I turned

126 my head quickly to hide it. But it seemed I was too late. He strode towards me, not bothering to put his shoes back on first. “Mitch, I was wondering if you’d finished those quizzes I asked you to grade.” He came to rest on the edge of my desk, his large frame taking up a great deal of space. I looked up at him for a moment before fumbling for the pile of papers on my desk. I had managed to finish the quizzes somehow, despite all the distractions Dr. Stevens had provided me. I handed him the stack of marked tests, but he didn’t get up. He just sat there staring at me, making me hotter than I had been a moment ago. There was nothing overt about his actions, but I could tell he was gauging my every reaction. I knew, deep down, that he was testing me. I tried to ignore the increased stiffness of my cock, which had sprung to life a few minutes earlier. Before he got up, his eyes dropped from mine for a split second, right to my crotch. As he looked up again, he shot me a smile that kicked me right in the guts. After a few excruciating seconds, he got up, not saying a word as he sat back down in his chair. *As the demands of the school year increased, I tried to be more distracted by the work than Dr. Stevens. There was a time when I wondered if I would make it through the semester at all. He and I found a working rhythm that made things so easy and simple. He even let me plan and teach a few lessons, his guidance giving me the confidence to deliver a decent lecture. I was finally able to relax and enjoy teaching, and for the first time in a long time, I felt at ease with my chosen profession. Moreover, I thought I might be able to kick my schoolboy crush. While I was able to ignore my desires during the day, at night, the desire I had for him would consume my thoughts. I tired to push it away with dates. Female dates. But, they didn’t even come close to filling the place of Walter and how he made me feel. Not

127 that women had ever done much for me in the past. They just always seemed like the safe choice, the usual choice. Until now. Suddenly, logically and illogically, I wanted Walter. There didn’t seem to be any way to fight it anymore. One day after the classes had ended, I found myself alone in the office cleaning up a mess of busywork I had been putting off. The semester was quickly coming to an end and all the reports and final essays had been turned in. After three hours grading papers about Othello, I was beginning to go mad. Getting up and staring out the window, I saw a group of other students laughing and smoking. It seemed like forever since I’d had any fun. Getting so involved with teaching and Walter had clouded my mind. I was so caught up I didn’t even hear the door to the office open. Or close. I turned around just in time to come face to face with Walter. He smelled like Obsession, and I never fully realized how tall he was until he was looking down at me. His hand came up and swept a stray lock of hair off my face. A seemingly innocent gesture, but I felt my guts contract all the same. Again the heat in my face overwhelmed me, and I was sure this time it was unmistakable. My cock responded immediately, suddenly feeling constricted by the zipper of my khakis. His hand came back up towards my face, a finger gently sweeping over my cheek. I could hardly believe it was happening. His smile was casual, but the attention he gave me was anything but. “Sorry for sneaking up on you.” “It’s okay. I was just zoning out. I got tired of reading papers. But I can get back to it now.” “The papers can wait. I think we can find something better to take our minds off work, don’t you?”

128 I knew what he wanted. I just wasn’t sure I could manage to respond to him. A nod seemed like too much work, too much effort. Again, his finger swept over my cheek, and this time it kept heading lower. Tracing the triangle of flesh left exposed by the open neck of my dress shirt, the tease sent a fresh shot of blood to my cock. I knew I should pull back, pull away from his touch, but I couldn’t. I knew we shouldn’t be doing this. Whatever this was. “Have you ever been with a guy, Mitch?” “No. I’ve never been with anyone. I mean, um, well, I’ve never had sex. Officially.” I blushed again, but this time at my stupidity, my rambling answer to a simple question. Dr. Stevens was so cool, collected. I was a mess and nothing had even happened yet. “There’s no need to be scared, Mitch. I know you feel the same way I do. I’m attracted to you too. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take good care of you.” “But what about your job?” “I’m going back to London at the end of term. And no matter what happens right now, it won’t affect your grade. I’m not that kind of professor. I just think we’ll both regret it if we don’t see what this could be.” His finger’s insistent journey had reached my first button, which he traced with the tip of his finger. The fear I felt was soon replaced by my need to taste him, to feel him near me. The button he toyed with seemed like the last obstacle between us, my last chance to stop him. I looked down at it, and opened my mouth to protest, but the words never came. With little effort, he slipped it through the hole and exposed my chest

129 further. I thought he’d stop and torture me yet again, but he didn’t. His fingers eased the buttons open one by one until my shirt was completely open. Walter traced the line of my collarbone, the light scratch of his fingernail mixing with his soft skin. Slowly, he lowered his mouth until his lips were right in front of mine. “Mitch, do you want me to kiss you?” “Yes. God, yes.” “I think you’ve been wanting this all term, haven’t you?” “I’ve wanted you from the first time I saw your picture on the Internet.” His cool demeanor had remained unchanged all semester, until now. He looked flushed and sweaty, his hands slightly clammy. He looked like he wanted me as much as I wanted him. His lips grazed mine, a whisper touch that broke down any last barrier I had. The kiss finally became real, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, exploring deeper with each pass. Everything he did was confident and strong. In his capable hands, I didn’t feel so sophomoric and inexperienced. As we kissed, his hands slid up and down my chest, and my stomach shuddered in anticipation. His fingernails strafed over my chest, the slight twinge of pain making my hips buck forward. His mouth broke with mine, his sweet lips closing around one taut nipple. The slide of his tongue made my cock jump, and my hips rebelled yet again, pushing forward into his body, desperate for some attention. Without releasing my nipple, he moved his free hand to my belt buckle, opening my pants and sliding them down my hips. Pulling back from me, he looked into my eyes, his nostrils flaring in concentration. My boxers barely held back my dick, which by this point was desperate to be touched. I

130 felt one long, slim finger slide over the fabric, pressing gently against the weeping head of my cock. Suddenly, he sank to his knees in front of me, dragging my underwear down with him. I knew what he was going to do, but my mind could scarcely believe it. This perfect, poised professor was about to pleasure me with his mouth. It was like a dream. He grabbed my hips and inched his face towards my waiting, erect cock. I watched in awe as his tongue reached out; a sharp bite of pleasure hit me as he ran the wet tip up the underside of my twitching dick. Instinctively, my legs parted further, opening myself up to him. He grabbed the base of my cock, his lips wrapping gently around the flared head. I looked down at his dark hair, his eyes closed in deep focus. I managed to stifle most of my cries on the off chance anyone walked by the office. But as his mouth reached the root of my cock, I couldn’t stop a low groan from escaping into the room. His expertise was making quick work of my body; he had me under complete control. Just when I thought I was about ready to come, he would pull back enough, ease up on the sensation overload and keep me balanced on the knife’s edge. My desire for release was driving me crazy, but Walter wasn’t ready to give in to me just yet. His mouth opened, the hard sucking replaced by his lapping tongue; long strokes covering every inch of my dick. Just as I eased back into the wall, my body relaxing by a fraction, his lips locked again. The tip of my dick hit the back of his throat over and over, his pace frantic and wild. That was all I could bear, and I felt the shudder of pleasure starting to bloom from my balls. With the last act of his tongue, he flicked the head, causing another series of shocks to course through my body. I could no longer control the moans spilling out of my mouth. I held him by his hair, riding against his face, getting

131 every last ounce of pleasure from his mouth and hands. As my cock slid into his mouth one last time, my knees buckled and his strong hands held my hips fast to the wall, preventing me from hitting the ground. I braced myself and regained my footing, allowing him to stand up again. I noticed his cool demeanor returning, despite his mussed hair and reddened face. He kissed me deeply, my come leaving his lips tasting salty and musky. “Why don’t we go to my place? There are a few more lessons I want to go over before the term ends. And I think we would both be more comfortable there, don’t you?” I could only nod as I straightened myself out. He grabbed me and pulled me close, his face nuzzling into my neck. It was one last embrace before we left the office and went back into the real world. * The recommendation letter came weeks after term had ended. I knew I would have no trouble finding a job that fall. But I would never have another mentor like Walter.

132

Bar None by G.S. Wiley

After fourteen years before the bar, the last five of which he'd spent as a Queen's Counsel prosecutor at the Central Criminal Court in London, Jeremy Westcliffe had developed a sort of sixth sense. He could tell what a jury foreman was going to say before he or she said it. As he looked at the redhaired young woman standing in the jury box, Jeremy knew this one wasn't going to be good. He was right. “Not guilty, my lord.” The woman looked the judge in the eye and said it in a loud, clear voice. Jeremy's heart fell to his knees. Being able to predict the verdict didn't make it any easier to hear. In the gallery, someone burst into tears. Jeremy didn't look back to see whether it was the victim's mother or the defendant's. At the judge's command, Jeremy sat. The judge, Lord Varley, continued to speak, but Jeremy didn't listen. He'd heard it all before. Shit. Jeremy's deputy, Bronwen Jones, slid him a note. He smiled at her. She was still young enough to take every loss as an affront to justice itself, and this was a particularly tough one to bear. We'll get him next time, Jeremy wrote back. Colin McAfferty, the man smirking in the dock, wasn't a one-time offender. Just because he'd escaped this time didn't mean they wouldn't have another shot at it. With Colin, they were likely to have several, probably before the week was out. Once the court was dismissed, Jeremy packed up his books and binders and walked with Bronwen toward the barrister's dressing room. “It's not fair,” she said

133 peevishly, as they took off their grey knotted wigs. “If Varley had allowed the evidence we got from Mimi Anderson...” Jeremy took off his black robe, the centuries-old staid symbol of British justice. “If my auntie had balls, Bronwen, she'd be my uncle. You can't take every loss personally.” Not even when Lord Varley was a decrepit old fool who'd had it in for Jeremy since the first time he’d set foot in the man's courtroom. Bronwen's mobile phone rang. She answered it, ducking around a corner. Jeremy rested his forehead against the smooth polished wood of the wardrobe and closed his eyes. He opened them again and stood up straight when he heard Bronwen return. “Michael wants to know if you're planning on going back to the office.” Jeremy looked at his watch. It was nearly six o'clock. “Tell him I have my files for the Morrison case at home. Anyway, I'm on call tonight.” That meant he had to be reachable and ready to answer any questions arresting police officers might have about laying charges. “I'll see him tomorrow.” Bronwen nodded. Jeremy pulled on his long overcoat and his leather gloves and headed out. A cold wind blew across the steps of the Old Bailey. Jeremy pulled his coat tightly closed with one hand and balanced his books in the other. At the bottom of the steps was a cluster of television news cameras, their lights blinding in the dark winter's evening. One of Jeremy's colleagues, Joanna Hedley, stood in the pool of light, giving a press conference about her high-profile multiple-murder case. Jeremy was pleased the McAfferty case had been far less glamorous. The press was generally disinterested in a mere charge of grievous bodily harm, even if the victim had been in a medically induced coma for three days.

134 “That was a bit of a rough go, mate.” Jeremy turned around at the sound of a familiar cockney voice. Detective Sergeant Nick Lambert stood beside him, his cheeks pink with cold. Nick's hands were stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket, and his shoulders were hunched against the wind. “I'm sorry,” Jeremy said. “I know you and your boys put a lot of work into that one.” Nick shrugged. “You win some, you lose some. You did the best you could.” Jeremy smiled at the graciousness. “It's still not easy.” “It never is.” Nick had worked tirelessly to assemble enough evidence to assure Colin McAfferty was convicted. He would have been, if not for Lord Varley's decision to disallow eyewitness testimony from a drug-addicted Docklands prostitute. Nick glanced about. “Can I buy you a drink? Help you drown your sorrows?” Jeremy hesitated. “I'm on call.” “You don't need to get rat-arsed. One beer never hurt anybody.” “Oi! Westcliffe!” Jeremy and Nick turned around to see Colin McAfferty strutting down the steps. His tie was already off and his jacket was slung casually around his shoulders. A woman in perilously high stiletto heels and a leopard print miniskirt clung to his arm. “Better do your research next time, eh, sunshine?” McAfferty winked. “Might be best if you don't hang your whole bleedin' case on the word of a coked-up old prozzie.” The woman beside him laughed, a high-pitched whining sound like a dentist's drill. McAfferty slapped Jeremy on the back and left, laughing along with his lady friend.

135 Jeremy felt the bile rise in his throat. He clenched his fist in his jacket pocket, took a deep breath and forced himself to count to ten. He made it to eight. “Maybe just one drink.” Nick nodded. “Good man.” They went to the Bell and Bugle, a pub not far from the courthouse. As usual, it was crammed full of lawyers. Jeremy waved at a few people he recognized, then found a small table in the corner near the fruit machines. Nick went up to the bar. He came back a moment later with two pints of lager in his hands. “Have you heard Sergeant Blakely made an arrest in the Williams case?” Nick leaned forward so he could be heard above the din without having to shout. “I didn't know.” Jeremy took a sip of lager. “That's good news.” “Damn good,” Nick agreed. “Williams' wife.” Jeremy raised his eyebrows. “How's the case?” “Strong. Of course, just how strong it is will be up to you lot, although you shouldn't have too much trouble. Mrs. Williams confessed to, and I quote, 'stabbing the bastard in the balls with my knitting needles, and I'd have cut off his fucking dick too if it was big enough to find in the dark.' ” Nick laughed. He was a handsome man, with a cheeky grin and big blue eyes. They'd worked together for close to two years, and he could always make Jeremy see the lighter side of what was an undeniably serious profession. “Sounds solid to me.” Jeremy took another drink. Nick did the same, his throat working as he swallowed. When he put down his glass, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and looked at Jeremy with those big eyes.

136 “You married, Jeremy?” Jeremy blinked. “What?” It wasn't the first time they'd had a pint together, but they usually only discussed business. “Married. You know,” Nick waved a hand. “Joined in a legal state of wedded matrimony with a member of the opposite gender, or however you lawyers would put it.” “No. Ah, no I'm divorced.” He smiled a little. “A complete and radical severance by legal means.” He was rewarded with a laugh from Nick. “Any kids?” “A son. Charlie.” Jeremy hadn't seen him since Christmas, nearly two months earlier. “He's eleven. He lives with his mother in Stoke-on-Trent.” Jeremy theoretically had shared custody, but his punishing work schedule and Charlie's schooling meant they only rarely spent time together. Jeremy made a point of sending Charlie an e-mail every evening. Charlie usually replied before he went to bed. “Poor lad.” For a moment Jeremy worried Nick was going to ask more, about Jeremy's ex-wife, Samantha, and their failed marriage. He didn't. Instead Nick said, “How do you fancy Arsenal's chances this year?” They talked for a while about sport. Jeremy was no authority on football, but Nick knew a surprising amount about tennis. Jeremy had played all through his school and university days, and even now he liked to pick up a racket if he could find the time. “I'll be sure to give you a ring when it's Wimbledon season,” Nick said. “My brother-in-law's a wizard at getting tickets for stuff like that.” Jeremy nodded, and there was a pause in the conversation. He was usually eloquent, but now he found himself at a loss for words. He finally asked,“What made you

137 decide to become a police officer?” He regretted it immediately. That was a personal issue, maybe too personal for some people. Nick didn't seem to mind. “I grew up in the eleventh circle of hell, better known as a council estate in Fulham. There was a constable on our beat, Frank Smith.” Nick smiled fondly. “Big Jamaican bloke. Arms like baked hams. When I was your Charlie's age, he told me I'd either end up a brilliant copper or I'd spend my life behind bars. That was twenty-three years ago, and he was right. I love my job, and both of my older brothers ended up in the nick.” “Really?” Jeremy blinked. “Did I...I mean...” He wasn't sure how to ask whether he was the one who'd put them away. Nick shook his head. “No. Neither did I. Although I arrested my brother, Davy, for breaking and entering when I was in uniform division. That made for some great conversation around the Christmas pudding.” He downed the last of his lager, then licked his lips. Jeremy looked away. “What about you, then? Did you spend your childhood dreaming of wearing a black dress and a little grey wig?” “My father was a solicitor.” “Another great prosecutor?” “He was a defense lawyer.” Richard Westcliffe. He'd been famous for getting acquittals on seemingly impossible cases. He was retired now and had been for a long time, but Jeremy sometimes wondered what it would have been like to go head to head against his father in a courtroom. “He told me the noblest profession in the world was helping those without hope. He never forgave me for switching to the prosecution's side.” Not even when Jeremy received his prestigious Queen's Counsel designation.

138 “The way I see it,” Nick said, “you're still helping people. You're helping victims get justice.” “Not today.” “No. Not today. But that doesn't make me think any less of you.” Nick reached out. He rested the tip of his middle finger against Jeremy's wrist. It was barely a touch at all, but it sent a jolt through Jeremy's body. Jeremy looked up, and saw everything he was feeling reflected in Nick's eyes. “Excuse me.” Jeremy cleared his throat. “I just need to pop to the loo.” He got up and made his way across the bar. He was afraid Nick might follow, but he didn't. When he got to the empty men's room, Jeremy shut the door behind him and leaned against the sink. He hadn't been with a man in years. He had never, in the strictest sense of the word, been with a man at all. There had been fumblings with boys at boarding school, but nothing serious. They'd never even kissed. Jeremy hadn't kissed anyone in more years than he wanted to admit. He ran a hand through his hair and looked at himself in the mirror. He'd only had one pint, so he couldn't claim he was drunk. He couldn't even claim he was that heartbroken by the loss in court. As soon as Jeremy realized, back in the pretrial phase of the case, their strongest evidence came from a drug-addicted prostitute, he knew they were in for a tough fight. There was no excuse for what Jeremy was thinking, but he couldn't help thinking it. Nick was handsome, good-natured and presumably discreet, since Jeremy had never

139 before suspected his tastes might lie in that direction. More than that, it had been a very long time since Jeremy had allowed himself any fun at all. The bathroom door swung open, interrupting Jeremy's thoughts. He rinsed his hands perfunctorily under the taps, squared his shoulders, and headed for the door.

Nick looked up at him. He still had a smile on his face, but when he spoke, his voice was uncertain.“I thought you'd made a daring escape.” “Not yet,” Jeremy replied, keeping his tone as light as Nick's. “Do you want something to eat?” Another two hours passed before they left the pub. The night had grown even colder, and Nick rubbed his gloved hands together. “Fancy a nightcap?” His voice was casual, as always, but Jeremy heard the question behind the words, and he recognized it for what it was. Jeremy's throat felt dry. His heart hammered like a teenager's on a first date, and his palms were sweaty. “Okay,” he said. He felt like he was facing an unsympathetic jury with only the barest of circumstantial evidence. Nick's ever-present grin made him feel a little better. “My place is just around the corner.” It was in truth a little further than that, but not much. Nick's flat was on the ground floor of an old Edwardian mansion with bulletproof glass in the door. The flat itself was small and not particularly neat, but it had a cozy feeling that Jeremy's antiseptic-white, professionally decorated and professionally cleaned home lacked. There were framed photographs on the walls of Nick and a few other detectives Jeremy recognized. In the corner, there was a huge flat-screen television and a

140 complicated-looking video game setup. A bobble-headed bobby sat amidst the books, DVD cases, and crisp packet wrappers on the coffee table. As Nick closed the door behind them, Jeremy felt like he should be preparing his opening statement. He tried to think of something to say. It had to be witty but not too frivolous, serious but not dour, and above all he had to ascertain Nick's motives. He found out when Nick leaned forward and kissed him. In an instant, every last thought fled from Jeremy's brain. Nick's mouth was as soft as a woman's, but the strength behind it, not to mention the hint of stubble on his cheeks and chin, was most decidedly masculine. Jeremy's head spun like a merry-goround and his stomach buzzed like a bottle of irate bees. He reached forward and felt the cool leather of Nick's jacket beneath his hands. Nick pulled him closer, his hands moving beneath Jeremy's clothing. Before Jeremy knew it, his expensive overcoat was on the floor, and he didn't care. Rather the reverse, in fact. He struggled with the suddenly cumbersome buttons of his Jermyn Street shirt while Nick unzipped his jacket. It seemed to take far longer than necessary, but once they were finally naked, Jeremy felt another twinge of embarrassment. Nick was built like a god. His stomach was flat and his chest was sculpted. His biceps were a thing of inestimable beauty. Jeremy, on the other hand, was very much a nearly forty-year-old solicitor whose daily exercise was more or less limited to raising objections. Nick didn't seem to notice. He took Jeremy into his arms, and Jeremy felt like a nervous kid again. He didn't know where to begin, but he wanted to do it all. He kissed Nick hard, his tongue slipping between Nick's lips. Nick met it with a muffled laugh and

141 raised his hands to Jeremy's shoulders. “Come on.” He gave Jeremy a gentle push toward the bedroom. It was small, with barely enough room for a night table and an unmade double bed. Three large plastic tote boxes seemed to stand in lieu of a wardrobe, but before Jeremy could offer any decorating technique or congratulations on the innovative use of space, Nick pushed him down onto the mattress. There was a tattoo on Nick's right shoulder blade, a vaguely Celtic design of knots and curlicues. It was large, about the size of Jeremy's palm, and Jeremy couldn't remember ever seeing it before. Jeremy watched in fascination as the tattoo moved, rippling with Nick's muscles as Nick kissed his way wetly down Jeremy's body. When Nick reached Jeremy's groin, he glanced up. There was a look of pure mischief in Nick's eyes. Jeremy gulped and before he knew it, Nick nuzzled his nose against Jeremy's balls and took Jeremy's cock into his mouth. It had been far too long. Jeremy gasped and clenched his fists in the sheets. He tried to control himself, but his hips raised involuntarily from the bed. Nick reached out and pushed him down, holding him tightly as he sucked with astonishing precision. He flicked his tongue across the slit, and Jeremy shivered. His prosecutor's mind wanted to ask where he'd learned that trick, but before he could ask, Nick pressed his tongue flat against the back of Jeremy's cock. Jeremy had just enough presence of mind to grunt a warning before he crested the final hill. Nick moved back with mere seconds to spare and Jeremy came harder than he had since the early days of his marriage.

142 When Jeremy came back to Earth, he found Nick lying beside him, one hand on Jeremy's chest. Immediately, the awkwardness returned. Jeremy didn't know what to say or do. Nick apparently had no such qualms. “Think you'll be up for another round soon?” He sounded hopeful. He was still sporting an impressive erection, and Jeremy's hands itched to do something about that.

“I'm thirty-nine years old, Nick.”

Nick leaned over Jeremy and fumbled in the drawer of the night table. When he returned, he had a square foil-wrapped package in one hand and a plastic bottle in the other. “In that case, do you mind if I do the honors?” Jeremy hesitated. Obviously for too long, because Nick quickly continued, “We don't have to. There are lots of other things we could do.”

“It's okay,” Jeremy said. It was. His stomach flipped nervously when Nick reached out, but when Nick's mouth closed over his again, Jeremy felt strangely serene about the whole thing. Nick took his time, rubbing Jeremy's back in long strokes for a long time before attempting anything else. Jeremy tensed up when Nick slipped a cool, slick finger inside him. After a moment he relaxed again. It was impossible not to with the way Nick was rubbing his back and kissing his shoulders. When a second finger joined the first, Jeremy

143 heard himself sigh. When Nick finally pushed his cock inside, Jeremy felt like he was about to explode. It only got better when Nick began to move. As predicted, Jeremy had no hope of raising another erection in such a short period of time, but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy it. He felt his excitement building as Nick moved faster, his chest hair tickling Jeremy's back and his breath scorching hot in Jeremy's ear. The filthy liquid sound of fucking filled the small bedroom. When Nick came, he murmured Jeremy's name, and that was nearly enough to launch Jeremy into a second orgasm himself. They stayed like that for some time afterward. As Nick pulled out, Jeremy heard a familiar ringing sound. It took a few seconds for him to realize it was his mobile, still in the pocket of his coat by the front door. “Damn.” Jeremy stood up, then had to steady himself on the headboard. “Can't you ignore it?” Nick asked. “I'm on call,” Jeremy reminded him. Just because his world had suddenly shifted didn't mean he could forget his job. Jeremy reached the phone just before it stopped ringing. “Hello?” he gasped. “Jeremy? It's Bronwen. Jones,” she added, unnecessarily. “Are you all right?” “Yes.” More than all right. He took a deep breath. “What do you need?” “I was thinking about the Morrison case. I know you said you had the files at your house. Could you look something up for me?” “Right now?”

144 “It would only take a second, Jeremy, and it really would help me tremendously. In Stella Morrison's original statement, did she say she was at the school the night of the murder, or was she...” “I don't have the files in front of me,” Jeremy interrupted, before she could go any further. He stretched his back and glanced over his shoulder toward the bedroom. He could just make out Nick's form on the bed. “I thought you said you brought them home.” Bronwen sounded accusatory. It was useless to lie to her. She was barely out of university, and she could already cross-examine with the best of them. “I'm not at home, Bronwen.” “Oh.” Bronwen hesitated. Jeremy could hear the wheels in her head turning all the way across the city. “Oh! I'm sorry, Jeremy.” “It's all right.” “I'll speak to you about it in the morning.” “That would be best.” “I really am sorry.” “Bronwen, it's okay.” “I'll let you go.” She sounded so mortified, Jeremy smiled despite himself. He brought the phone back to the bedroom and set it on the table beside the bed. Nick held out his arms and Jeremy lay beside him, feeling strangely gratified when Nick rested his head on Jeremy's chest. “Was that the station?” “It was Bronwen,” Jeremy replied. He didn't want to ruin the moment, but he was a barrister first and foremost. He needed to be sure of his facts. “This isn't going to be easy.”

145 “No,” Nick agreed. “What...” Jeremy began, then realized he had no clue how to ask a man about his intentions. He didn't even know what his own intentions were.Nick seemed to understand. “Jeremy.” He propped himself up on one elbow and placed his finger against Jeremy's lips. “You win some, you lose some. I say we count this one as a win and stop worrying about it.” Then Nick bent down and kissed him. It was a soft, convincing kiss that far said more than words ever could. Jeremy found that not even he was able to argue with it.

146

The Only Time by Charles Alan Long

When he leaned toward me, I didn’t know what he was doing. Interestingly, my instinct was not to pull away. Before our lips actually touched, a thousand thoughts raced through my mind. Is Tate messing with me? Is he just being friendly? Could he be bi? What’s wrong with a kiss between friends? Could this mess up our relationship? What if it feels good? The thoughts came to an abrupt halt once Tate’s lips touched mine. His eyes were closed, but mine were open. My best friend’s face was so close I could see the scar across his brow from when we were thirteen, wrestling around in my bedroom, and his face accidentally collided with the desk. As his lips began to move, I closed my eyes, too. I still thought he might be messing with me until I felt his hand on my neck. Then it was clear this was serious, like a kiss he would give a girlfriend. I didn’t realize how much I was enjoying the kiss until Tate pulled away. His expression was a mixture of fear and desire. We’ve been best friends since we were eight, and we had never kissed on the lips before that night. Sure we’d kissed on the cheek sometimes, and we’d slept in the same bed or tent more times than I could count, but we’d never shared anything sexual. Neither of us had ever been attracted to another guy in that way, or else it would have come up—

147 because we discuss everything. Besides, we’re so simpatico that I always know what he’s thinking and feeling without saying a word. He sat there on the sofa looking plaintive and scared. His lips parted and I knew he was going to say, “I’m sorry,” because he was afraid he might have just ruined our friendship. Truthfully, I was afraid if I didn’t handle this right I might do just the same, and I could cope with anything other than losing my best friend, so I kissed him back before he could utter an apology. I don’t know what led Tate to kiss me that warm September evening. I don’t know what made me respond sexually to my friend’s touch for the first time. I don’t know why we’d never experimented before that one isolated encounter. Maybe it was the moon that drove us to cross that line. After the kiss and the subsequent lovemaking, we lay quietly next to each other in my bed as silver white moonbeams bathed our bodies. Glancing up, I could swear I discerned what looked like a smile upon the moon’s luminous face. Maybe we were enchanted by some love goddess, for there was something magical about two guys who’d been best friends for seventeen years suddenly engaging in a kiss and falling into bed. Even more magical was the fact that the liaison had no deleterious effect upon our friendship. There is quite possibly no explanation that would make sense to anyone, including myself, about why it happened, why we enjoyed it, and how our friendship remained unscathed. But I know Tate and I will always be friends, through girlfriends and wives, demanding jobs and crazy bosses, failed attempts and realized dreams. He’ll always be by my side. And we’ll never share a kiss like that night again. We’ll never

148 share our bodies in that way again. We’ll never talk about how it felt to be that close. But we’ll always cherish it. **** “Mom, can Tate stay over?” I was only nine but already as tall as my vertically challenged mother. “Your new friend from school?” She ripped open a bag of Triscuits and several went dancing across the counter. She cursed under her breath, then smiled, knowing I’d heard. “If he eats like you, I’d better make extra.” “He does.” I didn’t point out that Tate wasn’t exactly a “new” friend; we’d known each other almost a whole school year. “Allright. Tell him dinner will be ready in forty-five minutes if he can make it.” I bounded back to the phone and told Tate to come on over. That night, though my dad had told us lights out by midnight, we played Nintendo games until 2a.m. I made s’mores in the microwave and dropped one on my mom’s crocheted blanket. There’d be hell to pay later when she found out, but I was having too much fun to care. After filling up on popcorn, fruit roll-ups, licorice, cheese sticks, chips, and s’mores, we both felt sick to our stomachs. Tate stretched out on one side of the L-shaped leather sectional while I put away the video games. “Andy,” he called to me. “Yeah?” “Thanks.” His arms folded on his stomach, he stared up at the ceiling as though he were watching stars.

149 “No problem. You’d do the same for me.” But then, my parents didn’t hate each other. They didn’t yell and throw things and threaten each other. They weren’t splitting up, and they weren’t making their son’s life miserable in the process. Already I was learning to read Tate’s emotions, and I could sense he was crying. Not wanting to embarrass him, I turned off the light, leaving only the TV’s illumination; then I stretched out on the other section of the sofa with my head close to Tate’s. I reached up and brushed my shaggy auburn hair from my eyes. An irrepressible urge to comfort my friend made me reach up and rub my fingers through his blond curls. I kept rubbing his head gently while he quietly cried, and I realized Tate was my first best friend, and I hoped we’d be friends forever.

**** “What if she’s pregnant?” For six feet and one hundred and ninety pounds, Tate moved quite gracefully as he paced around my room. “Didn’t you use a condom?” We’d had sex ed together, so I knew he knew about safe sex. “Yeah, but when I pulled out it came off.” I tossed my book bag on the desk and plopped on my bed. “I don’t think she could be pregnant just ’ause it slipped off. So did you—“ Which word was less offensive? Come? Jizz? Spooge? Ejaculate? “Shoot?” Tate whirled around and gave me a wicked smile. “A lot.” “So how was it?”

150 Rather than launch into a lurid description, he bit his lip and look contemplative. “Warm, soft, intense.” “So you liked it?” “Yeah. It wasn’t what I expected, you know.” “Did she like it?” Tate strode quickly to the bed and sat on the edge, facing away from me. “She didn’t say, but I think she did. It wasn’t her first time, so I didn’t have to worry about the whole hymen and blood thing. I don’t know how you tell if a girl likes it, though, unless she’s moaning or gives you that look like she’s feeling good.” My best friend was sixteen and had just lost his virginity, and the first thing he did afterward was to tell me about it. Tate wasn’t the type to brag in the locker room with the other guys, but he was feeling a little freaked out. Since I’d yet to experience sex, I asked how it happened, how he’d gotten Suzy Davis—a worldly woman of eighteen and a cheerleader to boot—into the sack. Turns out she seduced him. Over the past year, I’d watched Tate develop more muscles and facial hair, and I knew why Suzy wanted to jump his bones. Even as a straight guy and his best friend, I could tell Tate was good looking. Describing how he’d mounted Suzy and lost his virginity, Tate made it sound like he’d discovered a new planet. Once he finished the story, he grew pensive. I knew he felt joyful and guilty at the same time. Not only was he still stewing about the condom slipping off, but he also had wanted to be in love his first time. Tate was sensitive and romantic, traits he went to great lengths to hide from our other male friends, but I knew

151 the real Tate: the man with a heart of gold and idyllic ideas. He knew he could never go back and have a first time again. I imagine most guys brag about a hot conquest. Their buddies give them high fives and praise their sexual prowess. Tate, however, needed comforting. I reached into my book bag for a textbook of poetry from our sophomore English class; then I sat on the bed next to him and read his favorites: Jabberwocky, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, If, and Kubla Kahn. After I’d finished, I looked down and saw the myriad of emotions behind his blue eyes. “Hey, Andy.” I closed the book softly. “Can I stay here tonight?” “Sure.” That night Tate told me for the first time that he loved me, and I realized I could tell him anything and he’d be there for me. I was pretty certain I’d never have a better friend.

* * * * Though the TV volume was turned low, I could hear the CNN anchor reporting on conflict in the Middle East. With my eyes still closed, I heard my mother talking about cafeteria food; then an announcement came over the intercom: “Dr. Thomas, call 415. Dr. Thomas, 415.” “I’m here to check his vitals,” a cheery voice said. “You all can stay.” When I opened my eyes, I saw a thirtysomething nurse with afro puffs checking my IV. Her powder blue scrubs strained against her plus-sized frame. I smiled at her, and

152 she said, “It’s ’bout time you opened those eyes. I was beginning to think you’s lazy.” She patted my arm maternally. Was she an angel, or was it just the drugs in my system making me think that? The flurry of commotion that followed the nurse’s words seemed to happen at lightning speed: y parents and sister crowding around me, the doctor checking me over, Tate smiling down at me, and everyone talking over each other. Tuning out the cacophony, I closed my eyes and tried to remember what had happened. The last thing I remembered was Tate throwing his arm against my chest as a semi slammed into our Camry. When I opened my eyes, I looked around the room, focusing on one face at a time. I was lucky to be alive, lucky to be loved. The last face I came to was Tate’s. His smile was pained and I could tell he was straining not to cry. “Mom.” My voice wasn’t strong, so I had to repeat myself three more times before she shut up and asked what I needed. “Can you leave me and Tate alone for a while?” My mother loved Tate as a second son. In fact, my whole family considered him another member. I think she was confused about why I was kicking them out, but she answered, “Sure, sweetie.” Then she waved Tate over to my bed. Mom kissed my forehead, Dad kissed my cheek, and my younger sister, Amy, squeezed my hand and mouthed, “I love you,” just as she started to cry. “You okay?” Tate asked after my family had closed the door behind them. “Yeah. I’m fine. How about you?” He held up a bandaged arm. “I…I…” Tate choked. “Pull up a chair.”

153 He did as I asked. Sitting beside my bed, he tried three times to say something, but he couldn’t get any words out without starting to tear up. “It’s okay, Tate. It wasn’t your fault, so don’t blame yourself.” He laid his head on my arm and bawled like a baby. I knew he blamed himself, even though the semi ran the light. I knew he was afraid of losing me. I knew he wanted to trade places with me. I stroked his blond curls with my free hand while he cried like I’d never seen anyone cry before. That was a month before his nineteenth birthday. We had just started college together, but I had to drop out that semester. We’d moved into the dorms together, joined the rugby team together, planned classes together. We’d been coasting along as foolish young adults who believe they know so much are wont to do. The accident reminded us that life is not permanent. It was the first time either of us had thought of living without the other, and the thought scared me in a way I’d never known before, in a way I could never describe. It was a fear that traveled deep inside and made me almost physically sick. That day in the hospital I promised to never tell anyone how Tate had cried. And I promised myself to be thankful every day that I had the best friend any guy could ever have. That day I realized my friend wanted to take my pain away; he wanted never to hurt me. If it came down to it, he’d die for me, and I would do the same for him. ****

154 Four years later, we graduated college, me still one semester behind, and moved into an apartment together. Both of us had dated half dozen women. Some of our relationships had been serious and we’d both been in love, but none of them lasted. As women came and went in our lives, Tate and I always had each other. He was a big, buff teddy bear, and unfortunately he seemed to attract the wrong type of women, the ones who eventually took advantage of him. Too many times I saw them play what I called the “if you loved me” game, making him jump through hoops to prove his love. Eventually they’d tell him he didn’t make them happy and they’d dump him. Conversely, my girlfriends said I never truly opened up to them. I guess I was too afraid of getting hurt so I always kept a little wall up to protect myself. My relationships would run hot , then cold, and eventually fizzle out. Usually the last thing a girlfriend would say was something like “I really like you, Andy, but you’re just not the one.” So I keep looking for the one, and I’m not entirely confident I’ll ever find her. My mother always joked that Tate and I should date a set of twins so we could settle down, get married, and all four live together. (She came up with this idea after first asking if we were gay.) What mom didn’t realize is that Tate and I aren’t attracted to the same type of women, which was good for our friendship. One October I’d just finished grilling fish for dinner when Tate came in looking like he’d seen a collision. I left the food on the counter and asked him what was wrong. “Sherri’s pregnant.” Sherri and Tate had broken up the month before because she kept getting drunk and causing a scene. He tried to help her but gave up once she’d slashed his tires. Sherri was so not the woman with whom to have a child.

155 “Dude, I’m sorry.” I did what I always did when he was upset: I hugged him and rubbed his head. “What if she won’t stop drinking? What if the baby has fetal alcohol syndrome? I’m not ready to be a dad.” “I know you’re not, but this’ll work out somehow. I’ll be here to help.” We sat on the couch and talked about how he should handle things. Since my mom’s a nurse, I called to ask her about FAS. There was little I could do to help Tate other than just listen. While he talked, I realized something about my friend, something I’d never thought about before—he’d make a great dad. It may not have been what he needed to hear, but I said it. “You’ll be a great dad, Tate, because you care so much, you always take care of people. You’ve always taken care of me.” He laid his head on my shoulder, and I wished more than anything it could be me with the pregnant ex-girlfriend because I didn’t want Tate to suffer the way he was going to. At least none of my exes was an alcoholic. Sherri kept partying hard. Tate talked to my mom more than his own about his impending fatherhood, mostly because my mom was less judgmental but also because she could answer his medical questions. Then, at three months, Sherri lost the baby. God help me, but I sighed in relief when I heard the news. That afternoon I took him surfing to distract him, to help him clear his head. On the drive home, I turned off the radio and let the silence invite him to talk. “I know it’s for the best.” Tate’s curls tousled in the breeze coming through the open window. “But it was going to be part of me. I was going to be a dad.”

156 I pulled the Jeep off the main drag to take the slow route home. “Is it stupid that I’m sad?” he asked. “Not stupid at all.” “I mean, I know this baby could have been messed up because of Sherri’s drinking, and she won’t be a good mom unless she gives up the booze, and I couldn’t take care of a baby while living with you. I couldn’t drag you into all this, but…” I waited to see if he would finish the sentence but he didn’t. “Promise me something?” Tate looked at me, his blue eyes rimmed in red. “Promise you’ll be the godfather to my kids.” He bit his lip and turned away, but I could feel his pain almost as if it was my own. We drove the rest of the way in silence. **** Two years after the unplanned pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage, Tate and I were both between girlfriends. We still played rugby with a group of guys from college, and we’d had our teammates over to our condo for a barbecue. My mom had called to check up on “her boys,” as she called us. Then Tate and I watched a movie, during which I’d fallen asleep. After turning off the TV, Tate leaned over me and said something like, “Time for bed, sleepy head.” I remember thinking that Tate’s secret weapon must be his blue eyes. They’re the kind women say they could dive into.

157 That’s when it happened—the kiss. That’s the only time I kissed another man passionately; that’s the only time I had sex with a man. I considered myself straight before it and I’ve considered myself straight since, but I enjoyed what happened. Tate and I never spoke about it afterwards. Though we’d slept in the same bed many times before, I’d never actually lain in the crook of his arm with his hand caressing my chest. Somehow that smiling moon made me believe everything was okay, and I slept peacefully, curled up in Tate’s embrace. The next morning I woke up first but I didn’t move. Instead, I lay thinking of how much I cared for Tate, how much I enjoyed his company, how I’d do anything for him. Somehow I knew we’d never share a passionate kiss or make love again, and a part of me regretted we’d never be quite that close again. When he opened his eyes, he smiled, and I knew our friendship would be okay. In fact, our encounter changed almost nothing, except Tate smiles at me more often and sometimes he kisses me on the forehead, something he never did before. I never think of sex with Tate or any other man, and I’m fairly certain the same is true for him. But I do know I love him. I’m not sure this kind of friendship is common. In fact, I wholly believe it’s extremely rare. I feel beyond lucky to be a man and yet to love a man the way I love Tate. I cherish the camaraderie, the companionship, the support, and the friendship. Despite its unusualness, I even cherish that kiss.

158

Chapel Mates by Derek Clendening

Brian replayed the moment in his mind like a looped tape. He and Darren had sat cross-legged in the park after chapel, as they had each day since they had enrolled in the Anglican seminary. They enjoyed peanut butter sandwiches, cartons of milk, and good company while they chatted about scripture, psalms, and what shapes the clouds had taken. Then it happened. To Brian, a magnetic force had drawn them together. He hadn’t made the first move, but then it seemed that Darren hadn’t been dynamic either. Some mutual energy burned and drew them closer together until their knees touched. He stared deep into Darren’s green eyes and realized he hadn’t noticed his fine facial features, or how well his reddish-brown hair complemented him. The way his stubble-speckled Adam’s apple stood out above his clerical collar had always captured Brian. Then their lips brushed against one another. First, their lips met with his eyes open, and then he closed them to melt into the kiss. Up close, Brian noticed a smell about Darren that reminded him of cologne, but he knew he wasn’t wearing any. He felt the stubble of Darren’s upper lip and chin scratching his skin and decided the smell was unique to Darren. When their lips parted and their eyes opened, Brian drew back. His eyelids fluttered and he glanced away, speechless. He didn’t know how to judge his expression. He didn’t appear to be shocked or disgusted, but he wouldn’t be so presumptuous as to decide that he must have liked it.

159 But Brian would admit that he’d enjoyed it. Maybe not aloud, and maybe not right away, but he wouldn’t deny that he’d felt a spark when Darren’s moist lips pressed against his. “Better be going.” Darren gathered his garbage and his book bag, then hauled himself to his feet. “Class and all.” Brian knew Darren wouldn’t have class for another few hours at least, but he supposed this was his way to break the awkwardness. Darren had been the one soul who he’d told his every secret to and sought out any time he needed advice. Sometimes the topics were intensely private even for him, like his virginity and fear of women. Darren had bared his soul to him regarding the very same issues. They had become brothers, in the seminary and out. And now that this had happened, he didn’t know who he would approach for support. Worse still, he didn’t know what his actions made him. Gay? He prayed it wasn’t so. He remembered what Leviticus said, even if he hadn’t taken the story of Sodom and Gomorrah seriously. Still, he’d never looked at Darren that way before, but then he realized he’d never looked at anyone that way. When he and Darren had stared at one another for a moment too long, they had reached for one another. But Brian had had no designs on romance. He’d dedicated his life to God and his fellow man and knew Darren had done the same. He realized this new feeling was desire, but he was loath to try to understand it. Neither of them had had girlfriends as undergrads or seminarians, in spite of the constant opportunity and equally constant pressure. What they’d had were each other, and a special friendship that had stayed true since day one in the seminary.

160 He knew he couldn’t tell anyone at the seminary about what had happened. Expectations for admission and eventual ordination had been rigorous enough without adding new desires to the mix. And he understood what place he might be in now, but he knew Darren might not have achieved that understanding. In fact, he was certain Darren wouldn’t want to talk about it. He would pretend like the kiss had never happened and return to chatting over psalms and cloud animals. Having decided that Darren would have to talk about this, like it or lump it, Brian planned to catch up with him after chapel. Darren would likely say that such decisions take thought, deliberation, and intense prayer, but Brian decided he didn’t need to think. The sacrifice for him would be enormous, he knew, but he couldn’t stand to be answerless. Even more, he wouldn’t lose his chance to further the relationship. But what relationship? Brian thought the very idea sounded insane. To do so meant he would bag his education, his career, his future, his life over some silly whim. A single kiss. They had succumbed during a moment of weakness, Darren would likely assure him. He would tell him that what they did was not of God, and that they should pray for forgiveness. Brian refused to let his friend be blasé about the kiss. Even if he avoided the topic, or Brian altogether, he was determined to clear the air. And he knew Darren must face it sooner or later, because any time spent together meant the inevitability of a second kiss. ****

161 When Darren turned away from Brian’s approach, Brian guessed the aloofness would only be temporary. It was a gut reaction when all else had failed him. Brian knew Darren hadn’t the heart to elude him, no matter how awkward the situation. “We need to talk.” Brian stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets and bowed his head. “Um, yeah, I think we do. Just not here.” As they strolled outside the chapel, Brian again noticed that Darren’s jaw line was slanted, cut, and complemented by his speckle of reddish stubble. His slim build made his robe and green vestments look natural on him. Brian avoided it by thinking about the sunny day, humming his favorite hymn and listening to leaves crunch beneath his feet. “Didn’t tell anyone, did you?” Darren looked away. At first, Brian felt hurt. Darren hadn’t said he’d enjoyed it or hated it, hadn’t implied a desire to graduate to the next step or kill the affair outright, or any other courtesy. He just spat out the first thing on his mind. Brian just answered, “No.” “What happened was. . .don’t know how to explain it. I felt drawn to you and I acted on an impulse. Won’t hide from it, but we can’t let anyone find out.” Brian shot him a glance as if to ask why the heck not. Darren backed down. “Our careers are too important. God’s work means too much to me. We’ve both worked hard and want to do so much for others, and we know what’d happen to us if anyone found out.”

162 “Not like we can’t have it both ways. Anglican Church is doing a ton to keep up to speed, so it’s not like they’ll boot us out. We can still have our careers and each other too. Look at that bishop in New Hampshire. It’s not all bad.” “Look, Brian, what happened scared the crap out of me. I’ve never had feelings like that before and I don’t think I can act on them again. Don’t think I should’ve acted on them in the first place. And you know what the Bible says.” Man shall not lie down with man as he would with a woman, Brian thought. But he didn’t care. He wouldn’t let that line dictate his true feelings, or sully his calling from God. “No regrets here,” Brian said. “Deep down, I wanted it and I’d do it again in a minute.” There, he’d said it. Someone had to be brave and he’d decided he would ease Darren on to the next stage. “You know, the church’ll always have a place for people like us,” Brian said. “People like us?” “Get with the program, Darren. You know what we are, what our feelings makes us. I’d never realized it before either. Barely gave it a moment’s thought. But now that I can think about it, I know who I am, and how I feel, and I know you feel the same way. Don’t lie to me.” Now Darren stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and let a trail of cold air swirl out of his mouth. “Maybe that is me, but I never wanted to think about it. So I just didn’t. Then you came along . . . .”

163 “Only made sense to me because we’d become friends. Special friends. But right along, I must’ve known I wanted it to be more than that.” Darren fell silent, but Brian knew he agreed. It seemed he could read Darren’s thoughts, never mind being able to finish his sentences. Then they turned to face one another. “We’ve got a decision to make.” Brian took Darren’s hand. He didn’t pull back. “Won’t be easy, but we can’t just let this dangle. We both need to pray about it and ask God to guide us. If we’re ever going to live with what happened, or try to move forward and have something special between us, we’ve got to at least explore the possibilities. With His will, that is.” “I’m listening. What’re you thinking?” “Dinner. My apartment. Tomorrow night. The only way we’ll ever know for sure.” Darren bowed his head again, then faced Brian. “I’ll be there.” **** Food seemed like the sure way to a man’s heart and Brian hoped spaghetti would put Darren at ease. He lit scented candles throughout the apartment and played a CD of an Anglican choir on his laptop. He wasn’t sure what kind music to play for such a situation, so he stuck with what they both knew. When Darren arrived, he gestured him inside, but wouldn’t look him in the eye. Darren glanced up at the crucifix and picture of praying hands that hung on the wall like he’d never noticed them before. Brian sat him down, served the pasta, poured two glasses of red wine, and lit two candles. He prayed he hadn’t come on too strong, but he wanted dinner to be special.

164 Darren scooted his seat up to the table, then leaned in to smell the dish. “Incredible.” Once they’d said grace, they dug in, but Brian was unsure where to start. He could talk about the kiss, or ask him about their future, but whichever he considered made him worry that Darren would feel rushed. Maybe Darren would never feel ready. He would call himself a sinner, turn tail,and run from his feelings. “Sorry I acted the way I did yesterday,” Darren said. “Hope you understand. I was just so thrown off and so. . .scared.” “No need to be sorry. I was scared too.” Darren laid his fork down and took a quick sip of wine. “I realized so much at that moment. You’re my friend. . .my special friend. You made me realize we can have so much more and I don’t care what anyone thinks. God will love us just the same.” “My feelings exactly!” “I want to have it both ways. Really, I do.” Darren bowed his head, played with his hands and seemed unable to continue. “Seems like the only way we can be complete. For me, anyway.” “Anything else holding us back?” “There’s still the career part and what people are gonna say to us, and if we can follow the same path without being judged or pushed away.” “That shouldn’t even be an issue and you know it.” “Come on, Brian. Be realistic. You know we can’t keep it secret forever and prying minds are gonna find out whatever they wanna know. Only so many dioceses will want to hire us, so our choices will be limited.”

165 Brian nodded. He wanted to rest his hand on Darren’s knee, but refrained. “Guess ’cause it’s hard to know for sure. I know how I feel about you. And I know what that kiss did to me, but I’ve got to make sure. . .” Brian didn’t try to finish his sentence. That thought also held him at bay. They cleared their plates and moved on to the couch. A cushion separated them, and Darren nudged closer. Brian took Darren’s hand and they brushed their lips together, just as they had the first time. Then he slid his hand behind Darren’s head and leaned deep into the kiss. His heart pounding, Darren eased him down onto the couch and kissed him deeply. Then he slid down Brian’s body and reached for his crotch. Just then, he realized he’d gotten hard for Darren. So hard, in fact, that he almost felt embarrassed. Had he gotten hard the first time they’d kissed? When Darren squeezed his solid bulge, Brian reached for the stiff ridge pressed against Darren’s leg. But he paused. He stared at the hulking package and understood the possibilities that were now his. He wondered how it would feel to touch and squeeze it, to see and taste it. Even thinking about that seemed forbidden before. He squeezed the bulge and kneaded it while Darren thrust his head back. Brian’s zipper tag now pinched between Darren’s fingers; he tensed up while he eased Brian’s fly open. Darren stopped. “What’s wrong?” “Sure this is the right thing to do? I mean, we’ve kissed, we’re special friends and all, but . . .” “We’ve got to try. It’s the only way we’ll know for sure.”

166 And with that, Brian relaxed, leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head, and let Darren proceed. The front of his pants opened, Brian tensed up again, but this time from the rush of heat that rocketed to his nether regions. His boxer briefs showed, and the big moment was near. He swore the change would never come, but he was ready. He helped Darren push his jeans and boxers down to his knees and let his rock-hard dick spring back and smack his stomach. Darren hunkered down between his legs, took him in his mouth, and Brian shuddered at the wet warmth. Then he glided up and down his length, the way he might when he cranked his own dick, Brian thought, but he doubted if he would climax from it. As he groaned, he combed his fingers through Darren’s hair. He wanted him to keep sucking, keep stroking and twisting, and most of all he wanted him to know he loved it. Though Darren pulled Brian out of his mouth, Brian still combed his fingers through his hair. Darren stood up, unbuttoned his trousers, and waited. Brian wouldn’t act too fast, but hoped not to look clueless either. When Brian reached for Darren’s zipper, he wondered how he would manage. Would he suck as expertly as Darren had? Darren helped him ease his fly down and peel his boxers back to free the cock and balls beneath. He took Darren’s dick and first slid the head past the teeth. Next, he slid the entire cock into his mouth and pushed back and forth. If only to suck the way Darren had sucked him, and he prayed he would enjoy it. Darren stopped him just as he tensed up with imminent climax. He dipped down to lock lips with Brian once more, then nudged him back onto the couch. Whatever came next seemed foreign to Brian. He’d viewed some porn in his twenty-three years—all

167 watched in guilt but also with some pleasure—but it all seemed phony, and he worried this wasn’t the normal progression. He looked to Darren for help, which he provided by massaging the insides of his thighs. When Darren hauled his shirt over his head, Brian was surprised to find such a lean and developed body. His chest hair was shaved and left a stretch of red stubble. Brian ran his hand up and down his chiseled torso as Darren fixed his messy hair. Next, Darren dug into his pants and fished out a Trojan condom and bottle of lube. That he had come so prepared surprised Brian, but it was for the best. Darren tore the foil, rolled the condom on, and passed the lube to Brian. He squirted a dollop of grease onto his hand and hoped he would do this right. Darren’s wrapped member pointed at him, longing, ready, and he wouldn’t waste another moment. Once he’d greased himself up, he curled back, opened his legs, and let Darren burrow inside. First, Darren licked around Brian’s hole with his tool, as if he could grow any harder. Brian sighed, moaned, and wanted to beg for more. Then Darren slid his cock in an inch at a time until he’d reached capacity and Brian grunted and gritted his teeth. Once they were both comfortable, he worked him back and forth, his legs poised and his arms pinning Brian’s legs back. His shaggy hair hung past his forehead as he stared down at him. Brian thrust his head back and held his breath, as if to preserve the ecstasy. Darren struck tender spots that Brian didn’t know had existed and he scratched up and down Darren’s body while he moaned. Though he wished to control himself, he grabbed his own dick and jerked himself off to climax, which inspired Darren to pound harder, faster. Darren pulled out of him, tore the condom off, and came on Brian’s stomach.

168 Afterward, they lay on the couch in each other’s arms, Darren covered in sweat, and Brian still reeling from their sex. They prayed together, and hoped their new journey would be blessed. “You know we can’t just be friends after this,” Darren said. “We can be better than friends.” Brian fixed Darren’s damp hair. They kissed once more to celebrate the kiss that had brought them together. “We can be special friends.”

169

Old Roads by Jefferson

Allan twirled his beer, and the bottom of the bottle followed the ring of its own sweat on the concrete tabletop. We were just shooting the shit, as we always had. Unlike most times before, however, this shit-shooting had taken coordination, planning, and some costs. We had to shed our lives to come here, to a place we could only go together. It cost him four hours of driving and a tank of gas. It cost me excuses to my parents, apologies that I was missing one night of a vacation back home, and a bedtime assurance to my children that I would come home after they were asleep to kiss them goodnight once more. Added to this was, thus far, the shared cost of six beers between us. But we paid the toll, glad for the fare. I looked up at the clear night sky. Allan grinned, watching his bottle twirl. “What?” I asked, catching his smile with my own. “This.” He removed his bottle from its orbit and took a pull with his lips. “This, being with you. Man, it’s like I just saw you yesterday. Have we even been in the same place since my wedding?” “Nope.” I sucked down warm beer. “No, and really, we barely spoke then. You kind of had other priorities, as I recall.” “Yeah, I guess I did.” He nodded. “What with the ‘getting married’ thing and all.” “That was a really nice event.” I nodded also, and took another drink. “Right nice.”

170 “Shit, yeah, well, you set the bar high. Your wedding was just awesome.” He raised his bottle. I raised mine to clink the reference. He drained the last of his beer. “Cheers,” said, killing my own. “Fuck, wasn’t that some party?” He laughed, covering his nose to avoid losing good beer. “Your wedding? Shit, yeah,” he finally managed. “I’m sorry, but I was so fucked up by the end of that thing.” “We all were.” I laughed. “My poor dad. Did I tell you this? Okay, so Dad, he doesn’t drink. He stopped when we were kids. His folks were drunks and so on, but get this. So, he has a few too many beers at my wedding. He finds me dancing with David and some of the gay boys. He comes over, rolls up his pants, and asks the queers to check out his legs.” Allan fell back on his bench, laughing silently. When his laughter entered hearing range, it was well deep and barrel rich. My toes curled in my shoes. “Oh, fuck.” He gathered his breath. “Oh fuck, that’s so good. Your dad . . .” “No, wait,” I grabbed his arm. “It gets better. So Dad, you know, he can’t drink. And he’s dancing with the gay boys . . .” We both break up again. “No, no, wait.” We caught our breath. I begin to sing, reaching for an Elton John falsetto. I banged my fingers on the table. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy and the ga-aa-aaays.” I watched him wipe tears from his eyes. “No, but come on, really,” I said. “Serious story here.” We each took a breath and settled down. “Are you ready?” I asked. Allan pushed out one last laugh, deep in his belly. He drew a breath and exhaled. “Okay, no, wait.” He reached for his empty bottle, stared at it for a moment, and sat it back. “Okay, all right.” He folded his hands in his lap. He shook the curls from his

171 forehead. “All right. I’m ready.” But he laughed again. I looked at him askance, as if impatient to finish my story. “No, no, okay.” He smirked. “Ready.” “Okay.” I coughed, composing myself. “So, Dad asks the gay boys to check out his legs. Everyone agrees my dad has very nice legs, which he does. So then Dad pulls me over, bends down, and rolls up my pants leg.” “Oh, shit,” Allan laughed. “Right? It’s my wedding. I’m in my suit. He’s on his knees in the grass, his bare knees, rolling up my pants.” I laughed again. “So he turns to the boys and says, ‘And what do you think of the legs of my wonderful, wonderful son?’ And the boys are all laughing and agree.” Allan knocked on the table, his face contorted with mirth. “No, wait for it, wait, wait. So my friend David says, ‘The only thing that could improve his legs is if they were wrapped around my neck.’” We fell out. He slapped my back. His laughter infected my own, sending it soaring. “Oh shit, man,” he finally said, coming down. “Oh shit. He said that to your dad?” I nodded. “He said that to my dad. About his son. At his son’s wedding. Luckily, I think it went over his head.” “Lord. I hope so.” Allan shook his head. “God damn, that’s too good. Now, wait, who’s David?” My fingernail picked at a bottle’s label. “Hmm? Oh, David? You met him at the wedding—tall, good-looking guy.” “Oh, I was wondering if you two guys ever. . .you know.”

172 I looked up from the bottle and caught his eye. “Had sex? Well, shit, yeah, we did.” Allan laughed again. “Before we were married, of course. Baby, I had been naked with pretty much everyone at my wedding who didn’t share a last name with me or my bride. Of course, who’s to talk? You had fucked every girl there except the one I married.” “You are too fucking funny, man.” “Just talking ’bout Shaft.” I reached for his bottle and stood. “And you look too fucking thirsty. Here, I’ll get this round.” “No, sit down,” Allan took my arm. “There’s no bar here. They come to you.” He waved for the waiter. The waiter nodded and made his way to us. “Yes? Oh hello, Allan. And my goodness, look who you’re with! How long has it been, guy?” I smiled, not recognizing him. “Much too long,” I said warmly. “Much too long. How’ve you been?” “Me, I’m good.” He looked at his feet, shuffling slightly. “I’ve got a new studio down near Daniel’s old place, and I’m doing some large-scale altar paintings, kind of thinking about Rothko, though, you know, more rooted in Byzantine iconography. And you? How’ve you been? How’s New York? I thought of you when the Towers collapsed.” “New York is fine,” I said. “You know, recovering. It’s been a tough year. Your paintings sound interesting in that context.” “I’m pleased with them. You should come out to see them if you have time. I’d really benefit from your critique.”

173 “Well, I’d like that,” I said. “If we can make the time.” “He’s only here for a few days, visiting family,” Allan interjected, rescuing me. “They’re not even in town. Y’all are down on the lake, right?” “That’s right. Tonight’s the anomaly.” I turned back to the waiter. “Maybe you could send me slides some time?” “That would be great.” The waiter nodded. “I’ll get some paper to get your address.” “Could you also being us two more Beck’s?” Allan raised the empty bottles. “Sure, sure.” The waiter took the empties. “Say, and why are you in town? Is your band playing?” “Nah, I’m just here to sit for a while with my best friend in the world.” Allan patted my back in a gesture that communicated that ours was a private party. “Well, let me get your beers. And be sure I know when you’re playing, Allan. Your CD was great, just really great. Like Eddie Vedder meets Keith Richards.” He waiter grinned. Allan smiled blankly. “Well, okay, let me get your beers.” We watched him amble past a large fern. I leaned close to Allan. “Okay, now, what’s his name?” “Tommy. You remember him from seeing bands here.” “Right. Tommy the Dweeb. He smoked clove cigarettes. Always did try too hard.” Allan scowled. “I fucking hate being compared to Eddie Vedder.” I patted his hand. “You do sound like Eddie Vedder. But you are much prettier.”

174 He took his hand and slapped my arm. “Fuck you, man. You know I sang the way I do before there was a damn Pearl Jam.” “You could be bigger than Pearl Jam,” I went on. “You’ve got the voice and the face to go with it. You could front the boy band of grunge. You know, the version that’s safe for eighth-grade girls.” “Fuck you, man,” he said and laughed. Tommy the Dweeb returned with the beers. I wrote my address on the back of a coaster and shook his hand. Tommy refused my money, saying the beers were on him. We drank for a time, resting in our memories. Allan twirled his beer, watching the bottle etch a new sweat ring. “I learned to sing in your car, man,” he said quietly. I put a hand on the small of his back. “I remember.” We talked about life, catching up on the gaps that eluded our infrequent longdistance phone calls. I told him things were fine with Lucy and the new house. Lucy was there with our baby girl, actually, relieved that she had an excuse to avoid a visit with my family. The boys were still transitioning from city to suburbs, getting used to the idea that they could go outside without special permission. He told me he and his wife were having a rough patch. She really wanted a baby, and after years of trying, they had been to a doctor and learned that Allan was impotent. They were considering options, all of which were more complicated than they had hoped. Taking the next steps for in vitro fertilization or adoption had them questioning their commitment to one another; if they were going to redouble their efforts at becoming

175 parents, each needed to be sure the other was fully on board. At the moment, they were stuck at this crossroads—should they move forward together or part company as friends? We ordered another round and talked until eleven or so. Allan had driven over after work that day, and now had to drive two hours back home so he could get some sleep before heading to his shop by eight. I climbed in his truck and he drove me out to my parents. We sang along to George Jones. The outside light flickered on automatically as he parked in the driveway. He got out of the truck to hug me goodbye. “You sure you don’t want to crash here?” I asked. “I know we can get you up early. My grandmother wakes up at dawn.” “Nah, I need to get home. It’s too late to call Alice, and I’d rather drive at night when there’s no traffic. Come here, let me get going.” He took me into his arms. He pulled me close, squeezing my waist. “It’s been too long, man. Let’s not wait so long.” I put my hands on his face and pulled back to look at him. His smile was so wide in his baby-faced cheeks. He still looked as he did at fifteen, but for the laugh lines around his eyes. I kissed him. He kissed me back, a warm peck, but I persisted. I caressed his lips with my tongue. He closed his mouth, surprised, but then parted his lips. His tongue met mine. I moaned softly, running my fingers through his hair. After a while, he pulled back and grinned. “Well damn, I didn’t see that coming.” I was pleased to have caught him unaware. He put a hand on my shoulders. “Nobody else has done that. I love you, man.”

176 “I love you, too, Allan.” He patted my shoulder and turned to his truck. “Drive safe. Turn up the music. Stop if you need to.” “I will, and you say hey to your folks for me.” He gave a wave as he drove off. * * * * It was the last time I saw Allan. A few months later, his wife found him on the couch. He had died of an undiagnosed heart condition. We were all stunned to hear the news. Allan was vivacious and strong. It was inconceivable that he would simply pass. “You have to go down there,” my wife said when I told her the news. “Are you okay? God, he was like your brother.” “I’m shocked,” I said. She hugged me. “He was only thirty-six, so young.” I thought of his mother and sobbed. Lucy cried with me. My parents offered to meet me at the airport. I had a carry-on bag and my suit. I would be home only for a few days, long enough to attend the funeral and check in with our friends. I wondered if it would be appropriate for me to kiss Allan one last time in his casket. “Poor baby,” Mom cried, hugging me. “I just think of Allan’s mother. I don’t know what I would do if I lost one of mine. And he was her only baby.” “Hi, Mom,” I mumbled, my cheek crushed by her neck. “Yes, it’s really sad.” Dad wrapped his arms around us. “He was lucky to have you as a friend.” “Yeah, we were both lucky,” I said, swallowing. Dad drove us to the house as Mom filled me in on what had transpired with my nieces and nephews since my last visit a few months before. Essentially, nothing much had happened, but my mother had a gift for weaving elaborate narratives from rather

177 banal threads. I wasn’t really listening, but I preferred the sound of her drawl to the chatter of talk radio. I stared out the window, watching the landscape whir along the new Interstate. When we got home, I called Nora. She cried when she heard my voice. I told her I needed to see her, to be with someone else who understood. She gave me directions to her house and told me to bring wine, lots and lots of wine. My parents gave me the keys to my grandmother’s old Impala. I told them I would likely stay at Nora’s if we got to drinking. Mom kissed me and told me to please be careful, as she would hate to lose me. “Nora?” I called from her screen door. I could see strings of lights decorating her foyer. Music was playing from somewhere inside. The door was unlatched, but I didn’t want to just barge in. “Oh my God!” Nora ran from her kitchen. “Oh my God, oh my God!” She opened the screen door and threw her arms around my neck. “Oh my God, you’re here, oh my God.” She began to cry. I lowered the bags of wine to the porch and held her. I kissed her head. She stood back, looked and me, and smiled. She laughed. Tears filled her eyes as she clapped her hands. “Oh my God. Okay, you’re here. Okay.” She took my hand and pulled. “Okay, come in, come in, we’re going to the kitchen.” “Wait, Nora.” I bent down. “I brought wine . . .” “You did? Oh, thank God.” She bent to take two bottles, took my hand and pulled. “Come in, come in. Oh my God, you’re here!” Nora’s husband, Kevin, stood in the kitchen, watching Star Trek: The Next Generation on a television placed on the top of the refrigerator. “Hey, look who’s here!” He held out a hand. I took it and pulled him into a hug. “Good to see you, man.”

178 “You too, you lucky sumbitch.” I let go of him and put the bottles on a table. “Now, please tell me you have a corkscrew.” “Here, you do it,” Nora said, fishing in a drawer. “I just don’t trust my hands.” She stopped and took my face in her grip. “Thank God, you’re here.” “I wish we didn’t have to be here under these circumstances,” I said. “We’re too young to do weddings and funerals.” “I know, I know,” Nora smiled. “And I look terrible in black.” We laughed. She put her lips to mine, then jumped as she covered my face in kisses. “God, I love you so much!” I giggled. “That tickles, sugar. And you know I’ll love you, ever and always.” Kevin watched, smiling. I poured merlot for the three of us, filling Nora’s deep glasses nearly to the rims. She lit some candles and we sat to talk. Her phone rang. She left the room to take the call. Kevin’s eyes drifted back to the television. “You a fan?” He pointed at the set. I looked over my shoulder. A Vulcan was upset. “I’ve actually never seen it.” “Never watch it, then.” Kevin shook his head. “It will suck the life right out of you.” Nora returned and sat, the phone still in her hands. “Okay, that was Lucinda. She’s on her way over.” She slumped and looked at me. “I’m wondering if we should call Timothy and all them.” I fingered my glass. “Yeah? I don’t know. I mean, I want to see people, but. . .that’s going to become a bunch of people, very fast. And, I don’t know. . .” I took a sip of wine.

179 Nora put her hand in mine. “What, honey?” I closed my eyes and winced. “I can’t make sense of any of this. And I’m not ready to have other people mediate my grief.” I opened my eyes. Nora was inches from my face. “I know exactly what you mean. No one should take this from us until we process it.” She grabbed my arm and pulled closer. “But you know what? We’re all doing this. We’re all hurting. We don’t have to do it alone, either.” I leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “You’re not alone, honey,” she said. “None of us is.” She pushed her forehead to mine. “Okay, baby, make the calls.” Lucinda was the first to arrive. She brought more wine. Timothy arrived with beer and three cars full of people who were, in my recollection, thirteen years old. During my senior year of high school, my circle of friends was very close. We were the smart set and all the creative kids who read or spoke well gravitated to us. Somehow, into that clique of juniors and seniors came Timothy, a pudgy philosophical seventh grader. He kept up with our banter and if he didn’t get something, he asked follow-up questions until he did. We educated him as we went along, and pretty soon, we forgot his age and treated him like a peer. Still, we made a point of telling him he couldn’t join us at weekend parties. “There’s beer and pot,” Allan told him. “And sex,” I added. “Please?” Timothy begged. “Seriously, my mom won’t mind. I can bring her if I have to. Come on, please let me come. Please?”

180 The prohibition stood firm so long as I was a senior. The next year, Allan was in charge. The newly-minted eighth graders flocked to him. He was their epitome of cool, all they aspired to be. During his freshman year of college, Allan once said, “You know, I’ll never get laid like that again.” “You never know,” I said. “This is the South.” Our party grew too large for Nora’s kitchen. Kevin lit a fire in a cast iron stove on their deck and we moved outside. It was after midnight. Kevin went to bed, kissing Nora goodnight. He kissed my head. “Good to have you back, brother,” he said. He hooked my hand and took me into a bear hug. I kissed goodnight to his bearded cheek. My hometown has distinctive sounds at night. Crickets and frogs are so voluminous you need to raise your voice to be heard. The trains that bisect the town ran close to Nora’s back yard, so we were occasionally shushed by distant whistles and clacks that signaled the imminence of a deafening rumble. “I’m sorry about that, guys,” Nora shouted as a train tore through the night. “I like it!” I shouted back. I wanted to rush to the tracks and scream at the passing cars, to let out this tumor of grief for a boy I had lost and the longing for a man I didn’t know well enough to love as intently as I did. It was quiet again as we sat near the stove. It got late but the wine held out, and no one showed any sign of leaving. So many years after high school, we were able to return to our familiar comfort with one another; we had gone on to other lives and places, but here, in this group, we remained the same people who had once imagined the future together.

181 Timothy looked content, his arm around my former girlfriend, Lauren. She caught my eye and raised an eyebrow. I grinned. He had been nursing a crush on her for twenty years. I could remember him following us through the halls at school, and watching as we made out in the parking lot. We were his first ideal of romance. In his young mind, Lauren became the very embodiment of love and desire. He had never married. Allan used to joke that Timothy was waiting for Lauren to break up with her longtime boyfriend. Recently, she had. Nora sat beside me. She poured me another glass and rested her head on my shoulder. I massaged Linda’s foot in my lap. She smiled and raised her glass in response. I took a sip. “I’ve got a question,” Linda said. “I was just thinking of Allan taking my virginity, and wondered: how many of us had sex with Allan? Come on, show of hands.” Half the people in the circle raised hands: every woman and me. We collapsed into laughter. “Please don’t ask that question at the service tomorrow,” I begged. “We should charter a bus,” Nora guffawed. “With a banner: ‘Allan Slept Here.’” “You slept with Allan?” Lucinda asked me. “I had no idea. None.” “Well, he didn’t much talk about it. He wasn’t really into guys, but you know, he and I. . .” “He was so in love with you,” Nora interrupted. “Yes,” Linda echoed. “We loved each other. I mean, that was the deal. We were straight boys in love. And we were sexual. So we had sex.” I sipped my wine. The fire crackled. I wasn’t

182 satisfied with my answer, despite its truth. I wanted to wad it up, throw it into the fire, and start over. Nora laughed. She bent over, grabbing her sides. “What, what?” I asked. “I’m sorry, this is so inappropriate.” She giggled. “But that got me wet!” Everyone burst into gales. I noticed Timothy wasn’t smiling. I hiccupped a few more giggles. “Hey, are you okay, Timothy?” I asked. He looked into the fire. “I don’t think it’s very respectful.” “What? The sex talk?” I sat up. “Hey, I’m sorry, it’s just. . .” Timothy picked up a wood chip and dug into the deck. “I mean. . .if it was a secret, it should stay a secret.” “Wait, are you talking about me and Allan? You knew about that, didn’t you?” He nodded. “He told me, but that’s not the point. If you agreed to keep it a secret, it should be a secret.” I sat back. “I tell it because I’m drunk, I’m tired, and I miss my friend. Forgive me.” Nora sat forward. “Timothy, Allan’s dead. He won’t mind. Anyway, we all knew. He told all of us. Well, all of us except Lucinda, evidently.” Lucinda shrugged. Nora hit me. “Wait, why didn’t you ever tell me?” “Ask me later,” I nudged. “I’ve got a story that involves your bedroom.” Nora covered her mouth and raised her eyebrows. “Oh, really?” Nervous titters vibrated through the crowd. Timothy threw his wood chip into the fire. We fell quiet and watched the chip burn. Another train was heading down the line.

183 After it passed, Lucinda spoke up. “Allan’s death was so unexpected, so sudden. I guess it goes to show that you have to live each day like it’s your last.” There were murmurs of assent. “I don’t know,” I said. “That seems too pessimistic. And maybe too complicated. Like, an anticipated last day might easily become a to-do list, a series of errands. Tell your mama you loved her. Write down the bank accounts. Open the good scotch. Watch the sunset. Kiss the wife and kids. . .” “Get laid,” Lucinda added. We laughed. “That, too! But you know what I mean?” I continued. “It isn’t that any day could be your last. The point is that each day can be more fully appreciated. We spend so much time doing what we are supposed to do, and maybe we spend too little savoring the everyday things we would miss if they were gone. It’s not just about scaling Everest or whatever. It’s about tasting what you chew, listening when your children talk, laughing when. . .um. . .” “Stop and smell the roses.” Linda nodded. I reached for her hand. “Oh my God. Did you make that up? That’s it!” She grinned. “Well, I’m drunk and maudlin and talking in clichés. What the fuck do I know? But if I had Allan for just ten more minutes, I would tell him how much I loved him— which was so, so much—and then I would fuck the absolute living shit out of him until the meter ran down the time.” “Here, here!” Linda laughed over the noise of convulsions. We clinked glasses. “To love!” Nora echoed. “Je suis la lune!” She pedaled her feet in the air and handed me another bottle to open.

184 I woke up the next morning with a head full of rocks. I rolled over and squinted into the sun coming through a window. I was under a quilt on a day bed in a room lined with shelves. I could make out boxes on the shelves; focusing my eyes, I saw they were action figures, each in their original packaging. I smelled bacon. I sat up. I swung my feet to the floor. I ran my fingers through my hair. “Do I look as bad as I feel?” I asked, stumbling into the kitchen. Nora raised her head from the table. Her hair fell in her face. “I’d tell you, honey, but I can’t open my eyes.” “Y’all had some party last night, judging from the bottles left over,” Kevin said from the stove. “Sounds like you sent Allan off real good.” I sat at the table and buried my face in my hands. “Yeah, he got a fine bon voyage.” I dropped my hands and stared at Nora’s scalp. Kevin put two cups of coffee in front of us. “Y’all best sober up. We have to be at the service in two hours.” I looked at the clock. “Fuck, is it really ten? I have to go back to my parents’ house to get in my suit.” “No problem,” Nora muttered into the table. “It’s thirty minutes on the Interstate.” Kevin served breakfast and we gradually came around. I kissed them each goodbye and walked out to my grandmother’s Impala. It was a bright morning. I drove into the sun, regretting my sunglasses. I referred to Nora’s directions, trying to trace my way backward to my parents’ house. Somehow, I missed the turn onto the Interstate, which had opened in the two decades since I left home. Rather than double back to get directions, I decided to drive

185 the way I knew, on the older highways and back roads. By the time I got home, I had been driving for more than an hour. “Isn’t the service at noon?” my mother asked as I came in the door. “Yes,” I said, rushing upstairs. “I got turned around on the way back from Nora’s.” “It’s twenty ’til now!” she called. “I know!” I shouted back. “You’ll be late to your own funeral, son,” she said, walking back to the kitchen. “Good thing your wife didn’t come. She’d cuss you out.” Mom wrote out directions to the chapel so I could take the Interstate. She gave me the directions, then went over them with me as I stood in the kitchen tying my tie. “Mom, I could drive there in the time it takes you to explain these directions,” I said impatiently. I kissed her cheek and took the paper. As I left, she hollered at me to drive safe. The chapel was standing room only. I closed the door behind me and shuffled to one side, taking care not to block the view of anyone behind me. Allan’s band was playing one of his songs, with the guitarist filling in the vocals. I looked over the heads of the seated mourners, but I couldn’t see a casket. The door opened behind me. Jonathan stepped in, removing his sunglasses. I stepped over to hug him. “You’re here,” he whispered. “Yes,” I replied. “Thank God for you. No matter how late I am, I can always count on you to be later.”

186 He motioned for me to move closer and brought his lips to into my ear. “Fuck you,” he growled. I nearly giggled. The service, or what was left of it, was short. As we were already standing by the door, Jonathan and I each stood to one side to act as ushers. Allan’s widow, Alice, came down the aisle holding a ceramic vase Allan had made. His mother, Barbara, held Alice’s arm. She wore large black sunglasses. She looked so small. Alice leaned to kiss my cheek as she passed. “My husband is so heavy,” she whispered. He had been cremated. I would never see him again. I squeezed Barbara’s hand. She turned her face to me. “Baby, are you coming to the house?” she croaked. I choked and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” She nodded. “Please, I need you there.” I hugged her, trying not to cry so much. She had enough tears. She dropped her arms and turned to the door, resting a hand on Alice’s elbow. They shuffled outside. I put my hand to my mouth, suppressing my sobs. Barbara looked so drained of life. Jonathan and I stayed in place as the mourners filed by. I recovered and folded my hands in front of my body. Following the line outside, we found our friends milling on the lawn outside the chapel. People were hugging, drying their eyes, and smoking, talking in hushed tones. Kids ran by, dressed in their Sunday school clothes. We watched as someone helped Barbara into a car. “We should give them a good head start before we go to the house,” Jonathan said. “They’ll need to get her settled.” I nodded, reaching for his hand.

187 I followed Jonathan to Barbara’s place. We parked with the other cars along the side of the road and walked into the backyard. Some of the former seventh graders were seated in a circle, drinking beer and singing as the guitarist played. We nodded hellos and passed into the house. Allan’s aunts were in the kitchen. Linda helped them bring food out to the dining room table. I took Linda to one side and hugged her. She broke down. “Stop, stop,” she said, slapping her hand to my chest. “I can’t do this. I need to help them.” “Is she okay?” I asked. Linda shook her head, wiping her nose on a tissue. She turned and went back the kitchen. I followed the corridor to the living room. Barbara was seated at the center of the couch, surrounded by people. “Mmph, there he is,” she said, drawing on her cigarette. “Come here, New York, and sit next to me. Y’all scoot over and make some room.” One of her sisters stood and took a glass from the coffee table. I made my way through the crowd to her side. I put my arms around her. Her head fell to my shoulder. “I buried my baby today,” she said quietly. I nodded, sniffling. “I know.” I held her. “But you know what?” She sat up and waved her hand, guiding her cigarette through the air. “I’ve still got my other children. Allan’s friends. Y’all have all been so good to me, all his life. And now, even more so.” Linda watched from the dining room. “We love you, Barbara,” she called. The words were picked up by other voices as heads nodded around the room. Linda wiped her eyes. “Well, I love y’all,” Barbara said, her eyes raw and red. She turned to me and patted my leg. “You go call your mama and tell her you’re my son now, too.”

188 I sobbed. “You cruel bitch,” I said, weeping. “Now I think you’re purposefully trying to make me cry.” A wry smile crossed her lips. “Honey, we’ve all been crying and we aren’t about to stop. I fully intend to sit here, get drunk, and cry myself dry.” I laughed, kissing her cheek. I turned to Linda. “What do you have to do to get a vodka in this joint? Jesus Hosanna.” “On its way,” Linda said, pointing over her shoulder to the kitchen. Barbara was already pretty soused, but no one was going to close her tab today. Her sister came back with a tall glass of vodka and orange juice. Barbara took a long sip. I took the glass and put it back on the table. “You know what?” She drew on her cigarette and turned her head to exhale. “I always thought Allan would’ve been happier with you.” I looked around. “You mean, with Linda?” She patted my hand. “No honey, with you.” Several of us laughed. “No, now, I mean it. He loved you so much, baby, so very much. One time I asked him if he was in love with you. He shook his head and he said, “Naw, Mama. I love him, but I’m not in love with him.’ But you know what?” She lowered her voice. “I could tell he was.” My face grew warm. “Well, Barbara, thanks for your blessing. A little late, perhaps, but. . .” Laughter burst from her. “Oh, baby, you made me laugh,” she said, patting her chest. “Oh heaven, thank you for that.”

189 I kissed her hand. “Seriously, though, I loved him, too. Still do. That’s the beautiful part. We still get to keep him with us, in our love for him.” I didn’t know where those words came from, but the sounded comforting and true, so I was grateful for them. She squeezed my hand. “That is so right.” She reached for her vodka. “So right.” I sat next to Barbara, talking with her and our friends until she was good and drunk. Two of her sisters came over and helped her to the bedroom. We all wished her goodnight. The sun was starting to set. We ate some food, sang some songs, and drank some beer. We all kissed each other and said we’d get together soon, and not at a funeral. Linda’s brother, Simon, collected phone numbers, e-mails and addresses. The next day, I breakfasted with my parents and flew home to my wife and children. A few days later, Simon sent an e-mail to all of us, inviting us to join a Yahoo group he had created. Other friends were linked into the group, and soon we were all catching up and carrying on in our message board. Then, a funny thing happened. Former seventh grader Timothy began corresponding with my former girlfriend, Lauren. He had moved to New York a few years before, and she lived with her daughter in Maryland. He began to travel down to visit them on weekends. Pretty soon, he proposed. She accepted. Twenty years after first meeting—one year after Allan’s death—Timothy and Lauren were going to get married.

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About the Authors Jean Roberta teaches English in a Canadian prairie university and writes fiction (erotic and otherwise), research-based articles, opinion pieces, and reviews. More than sixty of her erotic stories have been published in print anthologies, and Eternal Press has released her single-author collection of erotic stories in various genres and flavors, Obsession (2008). Other recently published stories include Smoke, (a new look at an old demon) in Best Fantastic Erotica (Circlet Press, 2008) and The Personal Is Political (about the first lesbian prime minister of Canada and her legal wife in 2013) in Coming Together: With Pride (Phaze, 2008). She is also a staff reviewer for the site Erotica Revealed. She has a column, Sex Is All Metaphors, on the Web site of the Erotic Readers & Writers Association.

“Cecilia Tan transcends time, space, gravity, and cultural norms in her line of work: erotic science fiction," according to the San Francisco Weekly. Susie Bright calls her "simply one of the most important writers, editors, and innovators in contemporary American erotic literature." Tan always considered herself a writer, but her career took off in 1992 when she self-published a chapbook of three kinky science fiction stories entitled Telepaths Don't Need Safewords—and thus, Circlet Press was born. Since that time she has written four more books of erotica, Black Feathers (HarperCollins, 1998), The Velderet (Circlet, 2001), Edge Plays (EAA E-book, 2006), and White Flames (Running Press, 2008). She has also edited numerous erotica anthologies including Sex In The System (Thunder's Mouth Press, 2006), The MILF Anthology (Blue Moon Books, 2005), Cowboy Lover (Thunder's Mouth Press, 2007), and many, many others, including more than forty anthologies for Circlet Press. Her stories, essays, and articles in have appeared in dozens of magazines and anthologies, including Best America Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Women's Erotica, Playboy Online, The Mammoth Book of New

191 Erotica, On A Bed of Rice, Dark Angels, Penthouse, Ms, Asimov's, Nerve, Gothic.net, Fenway Fiction, Periphery, and many more.

Elizabeth Coldwell is the editor of the UK edition of Forum magazine. Her stories have appeared in anthologies, including Best SM Erotica 1 and 2; Yes, Sir; and Naughty Spanking Stories 2. She believes bad boys need to learn to play nicely. D.C. Juris is the pen name of writer Hannah Jansen. Born and raised in a poor, swampy region of Florida, Hannah moved to New York State in 2001 for a real-life romance. By day she is a mild-mannered office manager, by night a passionate writer of all types of romance. She lives in upstate New York with her husband, two dogs, four cats, and a menagerie of Halloween props just creepy enough to keep people guessing about her sanity—which is just the way she likes it. Hannah also writes fantasy m/m, m/m/f, and f/f romance under her real name. You can follow her life and times on Twitter, Facebook, and LiveJournal, mostly under the user name AuthorJansen.

Ryan Field is a fiction writer who has worked in publishing for more than fifteen years. He has worked as an assistant editor and editor for magazines and non-fiction publishers. Aside from his novels, his short stories have been published in anthologies and collections by Alyson Books, Cleis Press, and Starbooks Press. His short story, Down the Basement, is part of a collection of short stories in the Lambda Award-winning book, Best Gay Erotica 2009. He blogs at www.ryan-field.blogspot.com

Konrad Deire is the pseudonym of a writer of gay fiction, He holds a Ph.D. in business and administration, and is an International Business Consultant. Deire was born in Germany, and has lived for the last 30 years in Italy, but he has traveled in Asia for the last twenty-three years. He speaks five languages. Konrad has a solid fan base on social media such as Facebook and other Internet applications. His stories comprise the full spectrum of gay experiences. The Leitmotiv of his writings is LOVE, and most of his many stories have happy endings.

Jay DiMeo is a country jumper and culture lover. She speaks five languages and has lived in different countries of Europe and Central America. Stories are her best friends, and her characters often confess their woes and secrets to her in dreams. Her interests include archaeology and mythology, folklore and fantastic literature. Since she loves men, her writing includes as many hot boys as possible for her readers’ pleasure.

Heidi Champa is a typical last-born child. Snarky, attention-seeking and rebellious, she chooses to write dirty stories to keep herself out of real trouble. Her work appears in the anthologies Tasting Him: Oral Sex Stories and Frenzy: 60 Stories of Sudden Sex. She has also steamed up the pages of Bust magazine. If you prefer your erotica in electronic form,

192 she can be found at Clean Sheets, Oysters and Chocolate, and The Erotic Woman. In addition to her flair for the written word, she knows every last sentence of the movie Clue by heart. When she's not writing, she can be found reading or filling her iPod with more music. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband.

G.S. Wiley is an author of male/male romances and erotic romances. The novella The Nest, released by Aspen Mountain Press in June 2009, is a jury's choice finalist in the reader-driven Rainbow Awards, and upcoming publications include a novella from Dreamspinner Press and a novelette from Torquere Press. More information is available at www.gswiley.com. Charles Alan Long works full time and spends much of his free time writing novels, short stories and poetry. He’s published a dozen stories, ranging from sports erotica to superhero stories, in a variety of anthologies. He’s hoping to publish his first novel soon and lives by himself in Ohio. Derek Clendening lives in Fort Erie, Ontario, where he is the information services assistant at the public library. His narrative interviews have appeared regularly in Dark Scribe Magazine and he is a columnist at FearZone.com. Jefferson is the pseudonym of a writer living in New York City. He contributes a weekly roundup of sex blogs to Fleshbot and is an educator on sexuality and relationships. His blog, “One Life, Take Two,” chronicles the life of a bisexual single father.