Big Diehl understood his nature, early-on. Raised as a cowkid on a ranch in northeastern Colorado, Diehl yearned for something more, something encompassing the truth of himself. He became a soldier. Served honorably in Iraq. Found precious love along the way. Yearned to return to Wyoming where his future awaited, where an unfinished reckoning beckoned.

This short story also contains a short teaser for the full length novel of the same name at the end.

*************************

Chapter One

Diehl leaned against the wall inside the vintage World War Two wooden barracks, now a gym with free weights, a pull-up bar, an incline bench and two mats at either end of the room. Watched two boys wrestle, a circle of others sitting on the floor or on their knees at the edge of the mat, hollering at the duo to do this or that to the other, flung admonitions framed around the words pussy, wimp. Boys wrestling wore shiny nylon shorts, tennis shoes, flash of jockstraps. (continue reading…)

01. What are your nicknames?
Georgie, of course. Mister George, from a ranch kid who respects his elders. Ugh!

02. How does your hair look currently?
What hair? Short, as to hide the lack thereof.

03. What’s new in your life right now?

My horse, tentatively named “Shy.” He’s a four-year-old, not gelded, not broken. He’s a black-faced bay who, at this time of the year has only one thing on his mind. Guess what that is!
04. How many colours are you wearing now?
Gray sweatpants, white shirt, blue and white New York Giants ball cap.

05. Are you an introvert or extrovert?
Um, depends on the surroundings. (continue reading…)

Being included as one of MLR’s authors is an honor, a privilege that places me within a coterie of iconic brilliance, amongst the legends of M/M writing. I bask in that brilliance with the clear recognition I have earned only a place at the table, not worthy of a meal. I sit before a place setting. I am pleased simply to be here.

An introduction of sorts is required. Or so I see it that way.

My path to this place, this bevy of practiced and prolific authors, began when I was eight or nine. Perhaps typically for those whose passion is words, the urge to get to the guts, to the core of the meaning and application of words, and to use those words to give substance to the roil of my developing personhood, I began to write. Risking cliché, the onerous weight of my youth besieged by a most Catholic mother-equal parts Italian and Irish (not a good combination under any circumstances)-and a father whose religion was the job, a cop who stomped the way of the grizzly through my childhood, I delved early into an understanding and expression of myself through words on paper. By fourteen or fifteen, my words hidden from the scrutiny of, firstly, my parents, secondly, the rest of the world, I scribbled often, feigning homework if asked. This passion for words so secret, so guarded, that I came early to an understanding that exposure of my passion would surely be seen as blasphemy; a sin against God, surely a sin against the perception of what my father believed a boy should be. You see, at fourteen or fifteen, black words on white paper exposed me for what I was: indubitably queer, (yes, that moniker, queer, acknowledged early on); I was essentially different, undeniably alone in an unkind world.

The tortured artist? Not really. Just the luck of the draw, I suppose

Words. Words. Words. Words bloomed from seeds planted, nurtured, scrutinized for their worth, savored for their… Well, savored as gems, diamonds, a currency that purchased the course my writing would take; coveted coin that served only to exacerbate an arousal of wonder and desire as I slip-slid into adolescence.

(continue reading…)