“Another excellent anthology from MLR Press featuring stories by JP Bowie, P.A. Brown, William Maltese, Victor J. Banis and Kimberly Gardner, Red has stories that will make you see red all while smelling the enticing scent of blood oranges.” ]]> http://www.mlrpressauthors.com/2010/08/anthology-red-reviewed-at-sensual-reads/feed/ 0 http://www.mlrpressauthors.com/2010/08/anthology-because-of-the-brave/ http://www.mlrpressauthors.com/2010/08/anthology-because-of-the-brave/#comments Wed, 04 Aug 2010 03:20:56 +0000 mlrnet http://www.mlrpressauthors.com/?p=614

Title Because of the Brave Author Laura Baumbach, Josh Lanyon, Z.A. Maxfield ISBN# 978-1-60820-107-5 (print) $14.99 Release Date August 2010 Cover Artist Deana C. Jamroz Paperback: 176 pages     Available At: MlrBooks (ebook)

Title Illustrated Men Author Various ISBN# 978-1-60820-148-8 (print) $64.99   978-1-60820-149-5 (ebook) $16.99 Release Date July 2010 Cover Artist Michael Breyette Paperback: 164 pages     Available At: MlrBooks (ebook)

Since artists are often called up to turn prose into a visual for such things as book covers, I wondered, would writers be able to pick up the creative torch and run in the opposite direction? I had little doubts they could and it got me excited wondering what they would come up with for my own pastel paintings.

So with that in mind I thought it would be fun to launch a contest and invite friends, fans of my art, amateur scribes, professional writers, really anyone who wanted, to pick a painting from my body of work and build a short story around it.

As the saying goes, a picture is worth a thousand words. I wanted to find out if that was true.

Art-inspired short story contributors for this collection include: L. John Williams, Todd Schoonover, Veronica, Aleksandr Voinov, Marquesate, Linda Schnelle, John Stewart, George Seaton, Gabriel Morgan, Alan Bennett Ilagan, Todd Peissig, Harold Dixon, Justin Shepherd, Clare London, and artist Michael Breyette.

Title	Red
Author	Multiple Authors Edited by Kris Jacen
ISBN#	978-1-60820-065-8 (print) $14.99
	978-1-60820-066-5 (ebook) $6.99
Release Date	April 2010
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	218 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)

An erotic romance with a dash of ice cold water, a cricket, a pebble, the scent of blood oranges and the color red. With stories from some of the genre’s luminaries as well as some newer names, this collection is sure to make you see RED.

SENSE AND SENSUALITY by JP Bowie ~ Alan Robinson has been left a fortune, but what he really wants is someone to love him. When he meets writer Jim Thornton it seems as if his life will now be complete – but can they survive the dysfunctional family that surrounds them?

SCARLET LOVER by P.A. Brown ~ After a rocky start, Jason and Spider have become a couple. Will a visit from Jason’s sister help bind the couple or disrupt the still fragile bond between them?

LUDUS SCAENICUS MORTIS RUBRAE by William Maltese ~ Edgar Allen Poe made the party famous; William Maltese provides yet another perspective of the deadly goings-on through the eyes of two lovers.

THE FINAL CURTAIN by Victor J. Banis ~ Be careful what you wish for. Nick wanted the ephemeral young man in the worst way…

BLUSH by Kimberly Gardner ~ Once Vinn might have believed that vampires were nothing but legend and myth. But when his life is threatened by a legend, it takes a myth to save him.

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

Chapter One

Vinn watched as the waiter filled his glass, the wine as dark and rich as liquid garnets. Or blood, he thought, with a little shiver of excitement.

The waiter turned to Julien. But when he raised the bottle to pour, Vinn’s companion covered his glass with one long elegant hand and shook his head. “Not for me. I’m driving.”

“Very good, sir.” The waiter nodded and retired, giving them back their privacy.

Vinn chuckled. “I’m driving? That’s rich.”

Julien lifted his shoulders in one of those Gallic shrugs that were so Julien. “And what would you have had me say instead? Sorry, my good man, no wine for me. But if you’ve a pint of AB negative on hand, by all means, serve it up.”

“It might have been worth it just to see his face.”

“Hardly.” But Julien smiled and motioned toward Vinn’s glass. “Go on, taste your wine.”

Enrico Caruso played quietly in the background. Vinn knew it was Caruso because Julien had told him. Opera wasn’t his thing, but it suited the little Italian restaurant perfectly.

Vinn raised his glass. He paused and inhaled the fragrance of the wine, just the way Julien had taught him. The rich, fruity aroma blended with the scents of garlic and spices wafting up from his plate of pasta. He felt very sophisticated.

He swirled the wine then held it up to the light, the way he’d seen people do on TV. Sure enough, there were the legs. He grinned and took a tentative sip. It was good, not nearly as sweet as he’d been expecting, nor as tart as the swill he and his friends chugged down on the rare occasions when they bothered with some beverage that didn’t come in a can with a pop top.

Julien’s lips curved. He was laughing, silently, but he was laughing.

Vinn set his glass down. “What’s so funny?”

“What are you doing, Vincent?”

“I was looking for the legs.” He felt a little silly admitting it, but he ploughed on anyway. “You can tell how good wine is by whether it gets these lines on the sides of the glass when you swirl it. How come you don’t know that if you’re such a wine connoisseur?”

It was rare that he ever knew anything Julien didn’t, so silly or not, Vinn enjoyed it.

Julien shook his head. He was laughing outright now. “I do so enjoy you, Vinn.”

“What?” Vinn felt the heat rising to his face.

Julien sighed. “The legs, or tears as the French call them, have nothing to do with the quality of the wine. That’s a myth, given credence by pretentious fools who know nothing yet pretend to know everything.”

“I saw it on TV.”

“Which carries it into the realm of the utterly credible, no doubt. Oh, my dear, don’t be obstinate in your ignorance.” Julien reached across the table and took Vinn’s hand in his. Julien’s skin was as white as the linen tablecloth, his fingers chilly. “Let me educate you, my darling Vinn.”

He didn’t want to be thrilled by the hand holding, but he was. None of the other men he’d been with had ever held his hand so openly in a restaurant. Sure, they might fuck him in the back room of some bar, or suck his dick in an alley, but hold his hand in a restaurant? Not a chance.

So Vinn listened as Julien explained that the streaks that formed on a wineglass when you swirled its contents had only to do with alcohol content and surface tension and nothing at all to do with quality.

So you see, if I cover the wineglass like so.” Julien released Vinn’s hand and used his palm to cover the top of the glass. “Then I swirl the wine like so.” He held it up for Vinn to see. “No tears this time, because alcohol doesn’t evaporate without the air.” He replaced Vinn’s glass and sat back. “You see?”

“How do you know this shit?” Vinn reached for his wine, lifted it and downed the contents. He thumped the empty glass down on the tablecloth, opened his mouth and belched. Julien had made him feel silly and he hated that.

His companion rolled his eyes. “Eat your dinner, Vincent, or we’ll be here all night.”

Forty-five minutes later, as they left the restaurant, Julien once more took Vinn’s hand in his. “What would you like to do now? We could go dancing, if you want. We haven’t been dancing in a while.”

“Let’s go home.” Though he knew Julien’s hearing was excellent, Vinn leaned close and placed his lips next to his lover’s ear. “I want you to fuck me.”

Dark eyes met Vinn’s and Julien’s lips curved. “Oh, I plan to, my darling. But before I do, I need to have my dinner. But I can take you home first.”

“No.” Vinn stopped the other man when he lifted a hand to flag down a taxi. His heart drummed hard and fast. “Take me with you. I want to watch you hunt.”

Julien’s smile faded. “We’ve been over this, Vinn. I’m not taking you with me.”

“Why not? It’s not like I don’t know what’s going to happen. You’ve—”

“Hush.” The single word was sharp as the crack of a gunshot. “Keep your voice down.”

A cab swerved to the curb directly in front of them. Thunder rumbled overhead. Several fat raindrops fell, darkening the sidewalk.

Julien tugged on Vinn’s hand. “Come now. Let’s go home.”

Vinn planted his feet. “No. I don’t want to go home.”

Julien let go of his hand and walked to the cab. He opened the rear door then turned and looked at Vinn. His eyes were hot even if his expression was utterly impassive.

Get in the car, Vincent.

Though Julien’s lips never moved, Vinn heard the words. He heard them inside his head and his feet began to move, seemingly of their own accord.

Inside the taxi, Vinn slid to the farthest corner of the seat and turned his face toward the window and the not-quite-darkness beyond. Rain spattered the window, big, splashy drops that left streaks in the grimy glass.

Julien gave Vinn’s address to the driver then sat back. “I’ll drop you off, but I won’t be coming up.”

So he was being punished for that little display outside the restaurant. On any other night, Julien would come upstairs, the two of them would fuck or suck or jerk each other off and Julien might even spend the night. But Vinn knew he had made his lover angry, not so much with his request, which he made on a regular basis, but with his insistence and what Julien would no doubt call his childish display of temper on the sidewalk.

As the streets of Northern Liberties rolled by, Vinn watched out the window. Despite the late hour, the sidewalks were crowded, the bars and restaurants doing a brisk business. Expensively dressed young professionals and club kids attired in ragged chic all hurried through the rain, most without umbrellas. The driver’s partially open window admitted the distant murmur of conversation and occasional laughter, along with the hiss of tires and the rumble of engines.

The sounds lulled Vinn and he felt his eyelids growing heavy.

He wondered if Julien had meant what he said about just dropping him off. Or would he maybe stay after all and give Vinn the sex he so desperately wanted. That depended on how angry Julien was and whether he could get him over it with the right mix of flirtatiousness and apologetic regret. In any case, he intended to try, because sex with Julien, that special brand of sex, was so freakin’ amazing.

Inside his jeans, Vinn’s cock stiffened. He shifted and adjusted himself. He would do just about anything to get Julien’s dick inside him. He supposed that made him a slut, but what if it did?

They reached his building, a high-rise of student apartments in the heart of West Philly on the border between the campuses of Drexel and the U of Penn.

The taxi pulled over to the curb and Julien opened the door. He got out and held out a hand to help Vinn. “Good night, Vincent.”

When his lover would have gotten back into the cab, Vinn held on to his hand. “Julien, wait. I’m sorry. Please, come up with me?”

Julien hesitated and Vinn held his breath. Seconds spun out but then Julien reached for his wallet and Vinn breathed a sigh of relief. He was forgiven.

Vinn followed docilely, still clinging to Julien’s hand, as his lover mounted the steps and crossed the courtyard. Neither of them spoke. In the lobby, Vinn took out his student ID and showed it to the security guard who grunted and hardly glanced away from the small TV behind the desk.

“I’m glad you’re coming up.” Vinn said.

Julien chuckled and punched the elevator up button. “Me too, Vincent.”

The apartment was as bad as Vinn expected. The laundry piled in the corner was beginning to reek. Textbooks littered the futon where he slept, studied and did just about everything else as it was the sole piece of furniture aside from a desk and straight-back chair. The air was a little sour since he’d forgotten to take his trash out to the shoot. But under the detritus of study material the futon was made up and, unless he was misremembering, the sheets weren’t more than a few days slept in. And Julien was here, so it was all good.

Not bad, Vinn thought a little smugly.

He walked to the window and opened it to the cool spring night. He could hear music coming from one of the other apartments, an old Billy Idol tune about being caught between flesh and fantasy.

He turned from the window, found Julien standing in the center of the room watching him, his expression unreadable.

“What’s the matter? I said I was sorry.”

Julien nodded. Sighed. “You always are.” But he held out his hand. “Come here, Vincent.”

Vinn went to him, slid his arms around Julien’s neck and pressed close. Julien’s arms slipped around Vinn’s waist and he nuzzled the corner of his jaw. “What do you need, my love?”

“You know what I need. I need your cock in me.”

Julien’s lips traveled down Vinn’s throat, raising goosebumps all over his body. “You know that isn’t possible until I’ve fed.” He nipped lightly at Vinn’s pulse. “And I’ve yet to feed tonight.”

Vinn shuddered and his dick throbbed. “You can feed on me. I want you to.”

“I know you do. And you know I won’t, not more than a taste. I should never have taken even that much from you.”

“I like it. It’s like coming, only more…”

“I know.” Julien rubbed his lips over Vinn’s pulse. He slipped his hand between their bodies and cupped the bulge in Vinn’s jeans.

“Please?” Vinn shifted his hips, pushed into that touch. “I need.”

“I know what you need, my darling. I know everything about you.” Clever fingers made short work of Vinn’s button and zip even as Julien walked him backward toward the futon.

The backs of his knees bumped the edge and Vinn teetered. Julien supported him and slid his jeans down his hips revealing his cock.

“Take them off, then lie back and spread your legs.”

A little awkwardly, Vinn toed out of his sneakers then kicked free of his jeans. He sank down on the futon, shoving books and papers out of the way as he did. He lay back and spread his legs as instructed. In this aspect of their relationship, he always obeyed Julien’s instructions. And his obedience was always rewarded.

Julien knelt between Vinn’s splayed legs and rested his cool hands on Vinn’s bare thighs. “I should punish you for being so recalcitrant.”

“Yeah, you should. But please don’t,” Vinn whispered. “I promise I won’t do it again.”

“Yes, you will. But I’m weak for you, Vincent. And giving you pleasure is one of my greatest joys. So I forgive you.”

Lowering his dark head, Julien rubbed his cheek over Vinn’s cock before softly kissing the tip.

Vinn caught his breath but when he reached for Julien’s head and tried to direct him, the other man caught his wrists and returned his hands to his sides. Knowing what would happen next, Vinn reached once more for Julien. This time those coldly beautiful hands held him down, pinning his wrists against the blue and green cover of the futon.

Vinn’s hips lifted in response to the small restraint. He loved it when Julien held him down. He whimpered.

Julien’s lips slid over the head of Vinn’s cock, his tongue stroked and swirled, teased and tormented just the tip.

“Please,” Vinn begged. He would die if Julien didn’t take more of him into that amazing mouth.

Be still, my beautiful boy.

Vinn heard the words in his head and resisted the urge to struggle. Even after a month together, it still blew his mind when Julien talked inside his head like that. Damned convenient though, at times like this when his lover’s mouth was filled with his dick.

Julien began to move his head. Up and down, up and down, with excruciating slowness and care.

Vinn knew this was as much to torment him as it was to ensure that Julien’s teeth didn’t inadvertently nick Vinn’s cock.

The wet, silky slide of Julien’s mouth, the play of tongue against smooth, hard, and oh so sensitive flesh, as Vinn shut his eyes and concentrated on not coming too fast. He wanted to make this last, even if he knew his will power was no match for his lover’s skill.

Julien took Vinn deep and swallowed around the head. He dragged his tongue up the big vein before flicking it inside the slit.

Vinn thrashed his head from side to side and squeezed his eyes shut as need and lust fisted low in his belly and little zings of electricity sizzled along his thighs.

As if sensing Vinn’s breaking control, Julien sped up, sucked harder, pushing Vinn ever nearer the knife’s edge of his own release.

“Julien,” Vinn gasped. “I don’t want—”

But that was the moment Julien once more took him deep, the moment when Vinn felt the prick of Julien’s fangs at the base of his cock and he exploded.

His orgasm burst through him like a wave. It lifted him and tossed him down. Colors burst and sparkled behind his eyes as everything inside him, everything he was, rushed out through his dick. He felt the excruciating drawing down as his lover sucked him, pulse after pulse of cum shooting down Julien’s throat.

But that’s not all, a part of Vinn’s mind cautioned. Spunk isn’t all he’s taking.

But Vinn didn’t care because this was what he wanted, what he’d begged for and what no one but Julien could give him. Even if it was bad for him, and he wasn’t convinced that it was, even if Julien was bad for him, he would cling to this feeling with everything he had in him. And one day, he promised himself, he would have even more. He would have it all.

Title	I Do Two! – Anthology In support of marriage equality
Author	Multiple Authors Edited by Kris Jacen
ISBN#	978-1-60820-128-0 (ebook)
	978-1-60820-127-3 (paperback)
Release Date	February 2010
Cover Artist	Alex Beecroft
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)

Love is at the heart of all we want for ourselves so why shouldn’t any human being be able to say I Do to a life of commitment and sharing with that special person?

We hope that marriage will soon be a dream that everyone can share.
That’s why some of the leading authors of GLBT fiction have donated their talent — and their heart warming, thought provoking, life affirming stories — to this anthology, in aid of Lambda Legal Fund’s fight for marriage equality.

Ruth Sims; Alex Beecroft; Lee Rowan; Gillian Palmer; Brian Holliday; Rob Rosen; Sophia Deri-Bowen; Nigel Puerasch; Rick R. Reed; Nexis Pas; Michael Gouda; “Nathan Burgoine, Jamie Freeman, Bruin Fisher, D.C. Juris, James Buchanan, L-J Baker, Charlie Cochrane, Neil S. Plakcy, Julia Rios, J.L. Merrow, Lenore Black

All profits from the sale of this anthology will be donated to the Lambda Legal Defense to fight Prop 8 in support of marriage equality for all.

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

Stripes by Nigel Puerasch

I used to go to surfin’ at Torquay or Jan Juc or Bell’s Beach with my flatmate.  To tell the truth, Gazza was more than my flatmate.  I was in love with him.  He wasn’t in love with me though.  Oh, he liked havin’ me around.  And when he didn’t have a girlfriend over he was happy enough to have sex with me.  Sometimes when he did he’d even mutter my name as he emptied himself into me.  But when he’d picked up some chick at a bar he wouldn’t even talk to me when he got home with her.  Too afraid of what his women would think about his “flatmate,” I reckon.

We would go down from the city on Friday evenin’s, and head back on Sunday afternoons, and we’d find a place to crash in one of the caravan parks or on the beach if it was the end of the month and we were short.  I loved goin’ with him.  He treated me like shit, but it beat stayin’ at home on my tod.  The surfin’ almost made up for everythin’.  I’d go out and for a while I had no problems, no worries.  Just the sea, and the air, paddlin’ hard to catch a good break, then the magic of the slide along the face of the wave, the sea green and white around you, the board slicin’ through the water, crestin’ the water, makin’ you feel as if you were flyin’.

When I got tired I would strip off my wetsuit—the water was almost always freezin’, but often the sun was too warm on the thick black neoprene—and lie around on my towel enjoyin’ the scenery.  Some blokes wear board shorts to surf in, but that’s in places where the water’s warm.  Where it’s cold, you need a wetsuit, and board shorts are a pain underneath a wetsuit, they get all crumpled up and itch and irritate.  So we used to wear swim briefs.  I had a couple, but my favorite were sapphire, because they made my tan look better and matched my eyes and my blond hair.  I liked the way they showed off my bum and my doings.  The day I met Mattie, I was wearin’ the sapphire pair.

Take a bow and blow a kiss as the curtain falls on love. Or does it?

From London’s West End to a New York drag bar and onto the glitz and glamour of Hollywood, three couples rediscover the passion that once burned as brightly as the stage lights.

Their plays might be over, but the show goes on. For these players, the heart discovers that just when you think a love story has come to its end, if you have the courage to turn the page then love will make a return to the stage.

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

MUCH ADO – JET MYKLES

Someone was watching him. That wouldn’t be so odd if he was onstage, but he was in a deserted dressing room. Shawn stopped mopping cold cream from his face and looked toward the dressing room doorway.

Ms. Tyken stood there in all her sequined glory. Without the bouffant wig and the three inch heels, the drag queen was five- feet even if she was an inch but once she started talking, you’d swear she was all of six foot. Tonight she wore a vivid yellow and black evening gown that brought to mind a shimmering bee. The black wig atop her head had been threaded through with yellow ribbons and had even been fashioned to a stylized curved point high above her head to resemble a stinger. Heavy makeup almost disguised the fact that Ms. Tyken was no longer a young queen.

Once seen, she put on a broad smile and sashayed into the room, carrying a cloud of jasmine scent with her. “Shawna, darling, did you mention once that you used to date a director?”

Inwardly, Shawn fought the immediate memories that filled his head. Had he mentioned it to her? He didn’t think so. But he probably did mention it to the other girls. He shrugged, turning back to the mirror then lifting a new tissue to wipe off some more cold cream. “That’s ancient history.”

“Mmmm. What was his name, sugar?”

“I don’t talk to him anymore.” And I couldn’t get you a job with him if I wanted to. He doesn’t do drag queens.

“Is that fact?” Ms. Tyken trailed the two-inch talons of her right hand along the edge of the makeup table. “Wasn’t it Roscoe Schroeder?”

Why did the mere mention of the man’s name have to make his heart race? “That’s the one.”

In a rustle of skirt, Ms Tyken came to stand behind him, blocking the reflection of the rest of the room and providing extra illumination as the makeup lights bounced off her sequins. “Mmmmm. He’s a handsome devil, isn’t he?” 4 Mykles ~ Much Ado

“Do you know him?”

“Oh no. Just met him tonight.”

Hands freezing, Shawn glanced up at his boss. “Tonight?”

She gave him a smug, carmine-coated smile. “Mmm. He’s out front. Asking for you.”

“For me?”

Fingers pasted with black and yellow striped fake nails squeezed his shoulders. “For little ol’ you, sweetie. You sure he’s ancient history? Doesn’t seem like the kind of man you want to let go of.”

No, he wasn’t. Too bad Shawn just couldn’t live under his wing.

Shawn stared at his own reflection, at the cold cream smeared makeup. His hair was still encased in his wig cap. He’d already changed out of his costume into sweatpants. In short, he looked like shit. “What’s he doing here?”

“He only asked for you.” She stroked Shawn’s shoulders. “What should I tell him?”

Go to hell? But his usual mantra didn’t ring true, even in his own head. In truth, it hadn’t rung true for the last few months. His righteous indignation after their breakup hadn’t outlasted the winter. “Tell him…” He blinked at himself. Shit, what’s he doing here? Shawn hadn’t heard one peep from him in the fifteen months since he’d moved out. “Tell him I’ll be out after I change.”

Wise blue eyes studied him for a long moment before Ms. Tyken nodded. “Whatever you say, sugar. But you’re not on the bar tonight. You could just slip out the back.” Trust her to see his hesitation and respect it.

Shawn considered it only for a brief moment. Like it or not, he was curious about why Roscoe was here. “Thanks, but no. I’ll be out as soon as I change.”

She swatted him lightly on the shoulder, grinning wide to show professionally capped teeth in her reflection. “Don’t go changing, honey. Not for any man.” One heavily-lashed eye winked over a wide, lipsticked smile, then Ms. Tyken turned to leave. “I’ll tell the man you’ll come see him when you’re good and ready.”

Shawn sat alone in the dim glow provided by the frame of lights around the makeup mirror, slowly tissuing the remaining cold cream from his face. Thinking. “Don’t go changing.” Well, that was the thing with Roscoe, wasn’t it? He didn’t like who Shawn was, rather what Shawn was. It’s what broke them up. “Don’t waste your talent,” Roscoe had told him when he’d professed to wanting to explore what being a drag queen was all about. According to Roscoe, drag queens were no talent hacks or over-the-top comedians with a twist. Okay, maybe those weren’t his exact words but the meaning had been clear. Roscoe didn’t seem to mind that Shawn liked to wear skirts and makeup, but he’d hit the roof when Shawn had wanted to explore the life for real. Shawn had done the leaving, but Roscoe’s attempt to direct his personal life had made it impossible to continue living together. They hadn’t spoken since Shawn had taken his meager belongings out of Roscoe’s loft to find another place to live in a city he’d only lived in for two years. Shawn had grown past him, found a life, and was doing perfectly fine on his own.

So what the hell did Roscoe want now?

ALL THAT JAZZ – CHARLIE COCHRANE

Brighton, January

“He had it coming. He had it coming.”

One of the merry murderesses was strolling along past the door, getting every part of a strident voice properly tuned up for the dress rehearsal. “If you’d have been there, if you’d have seen it…” The song faded as the singer turned one of the corners of the labyrinthine backstage corridor, heading for the communal homicidal dressing room.

Velma Kelly made a miniscule adjustment to her eyeliner, emphasising her naturally dark blue eyes and creating an effect which was seductive as well as overtly theatrical. Getting the right effect, one which reached to the back row of the circle but didn’t make the people in the front row of the stalls think you were made up with oil paint, was an art in itself. Juliet had the knack and Velma was grateful to have her skills to call on. Juliet had been a dresser and make-up artist for twenty years, having amassed a fund of wisdom and risque stories. She plied everyone with anecdotes of the great, mediocre and downright useless. And she wielded a mean panstick-the company had been lucky to get hold of someone so capable.

“When you’re good to Mama…” A higher pitched voice went past the dressing room door, slightly croaking and subtly out of tune. Not one of the cast this time. Maybe a stagehand putting on the falsetto, or even the doorman, who was built like the side of a barn and probably sang counter tenor.

Velma considered her reflection again. Luscious waves of hair from the black Louise Brooks style wig framed her heart shaped face-it was a decent black wig, to boot, not something that looked like it had come off a dead cat. That sweet face would be vying with the slightly more lantern-jawed features of Roxie Hart for the hearts of the audience in only a few evenings’ time. Opening night seemed to have been a bloody long time coming, the traumas of auditions rounding the corner into the mixed excitement and ennui of rehearsal, then going into the home straight of being in a real theatre rather than just a church hall.

Sorting the technical stuff seemed to have taken forever. Velma knew she should be more patient, should be taking more of an interest in that side of things. The guys on the team worked their backsides off getting the practical aspects right and there were plenty of them in this show. Somehow thinking about the nuts and bolts just seemed to get in the way of what she felt was real theatre. People with their feet on a stage, reaching out to those with their bums on the seats. Strip all the lights and sound equipment and props away, and it was as simple as that.

A small tattoo on the door brought Velma’s thoughts back from performance to reality. “Come in.”

“Just wanted to say ‘break a leg.’” Freddie Wright, the director, put his head round the door, his usual smile not entirely hiding his nerves. There was a lot riding on this production, for all of them. Musicals had a habit of failing, even productions of something as seemingly gilt-edged as this one.

“I’ll ignore the cliche and take all the good wishes lying behind it.” Velma smiled. A lot of affection existed between director and star. They’d known each other since University days, when third year Freddie had taken this seemingly innocent young fresher under his wing. A lot of water had passed under the bridge-or been passed over the parapet on drunken nights-since then.

“You’ll be swell.” Freddie grinned.

“I’ll be great. I’ll have the whole world on a plate.” Velma resisted putting the tune to the words. “Maybe.”

“No time for doubts. Or if it is, they have to be gone for the preview night. Brighton expects and so do I.” Freddie gave a mock salute. “Just off to give Roxie the pep talk as well.”

“Not one for Billy Flynn?” Velma returned the salute by rising and giving a deep curtsey, one that would probably mean readjusting her tights afterwards. Bloody stupid things, seams.

“Nah. He’s the least worried of the lot of you. Done the role four times, amateur through to pro. Could do it in his sleep.”

“Sometimes it seems that’s just how he is doing it…” Velma’s voice followed the director out into the corridor. She’d just got the left seam to a ramrod straight perfection on her left calf when the stage manager’s runner came along, knocking on the door.

“Five minutes, Mr. Yardley.”

“Thank you.” For a moment, a dreadfully long vulnerable moment, Francis Yardley remembered who he really was. Not Liza Minnelli or Chita Rivera, just a bloke from Stoke Newington who happened to have both a brain and a pair of pins to match Cyd Charisse’s. One who’d talked his way into a university production of Oklahoma during his fresher year, and had turned out to be a more than acceptable Curly McLain to an utterly appalling Laurey Williams. It had been a modest start, but a start nonetheless.

Curly McLain had led to Billy Flynn in Chicago-yeah, he’d played that part as well, second year at university. By the time he’d finished, the passable second class degree under his belt had been joined by a range of amateur roles. Freddie was starting to fly by then, getting his directorial feet under the table in the provinces. He’d taken Francis along with him, bypassing back and even front rows of the chorus, and heading straight for Evelyn Oakleigh. You rarely got a better start, even if Evelyn Oakleigh, Billy Crocker, Velma Kelly, wasn’t a natural progression.

“Overture and beginners.” The disembodied voice moved around backstage, hollering the lines which got the adrenaline flowing, penetrating to the most meagre of the dressing rooms and fading away into the depths of the labyrinth. “Overture and beginners.” It came through the crack where the door wasn’t quite closed and brought Francis back to the present with a bump. That was his call and he needed to get his arse in gear.

Another glance in the mirror and a last deep breath. Off with Francis, on with Velma, and off to the wings.

HIS LEADING MAN – KIMBERLY GARDNER

David Sullivan liked parties. He really did. And as L.A. Parties went, this was a damn fine one. Beautiful house on the beach, beautiful night with warm fragrant breezes, dozens of networking opportunities almost literally within touching distance and, oh yeah, some of the finest man-flesh he’d seen since his arrival in southern California three days ago, all combined to make this evening’s gathering a pretty sweet deal for an all around nobody and newcomer to the movie business like himself.

“Hey, Sully, look over there. Isn’t that what’s-his-name?” Gavin Collier nudged his arm.

Vodka sloshed over the back of David’s hand, narrowly missing his jacket sleeve. He followed the direction of his friend’s gaze toward a knot of extremely attractive men all laughing and talking. “Which one?”

“The gorgeous one. God, do I have to point? Right there.”

Everyone at this party was gorgeous, but David didn’t bother to say so. For that matter, everyone he’d seen in L.A. was gorgeous. It must be an unwritten rule or something that you had to be a hottie to reside within the city limits.

“I still don’t know who you mean, Gav.” David sipped his vodka tonic.

“He was in Quentin Tarantino’s last film. I can’t remember his name, but I know you know who I mean.”

“Sure, Quentin Tarantino. Whatever.” David scanned the crowded terrace. Mmm, the eye-candy was out in force tonight. He followed the movements of a petite young man in skin-tight jeans and midriff-baring t-shirt as he broke away from one group of partiers and drifted toward another.

David had had his eye on the little cutie since he and Gavin had stepped out onto the terrace. That was thirty minutes ago and so far he hadn’t stuck with any particular man or woman for more than a few minutes at a stretch. No, David decided, taking another sip, the little hottie was most definitely on his own. Thank you God.

Tossing back the remainder of his drink, David set down his empty glass and touched Gavin’s elbow. “See that guy over there?”

Gavin nodded. “Mmm, I certainly do. He looks delicious. Think I’d like to peel him out of those jeans and lick him all over.”

“Sorry, man, I saw him first, so that means the licking rights are all mine.” He grinned. “I’m going over to talk to him. And hopefully leave with him, so if I don’t see you later, I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Going to ask if he wants to audition for you?” The question was accompanied by a salacious wink.

David laughed. “Perv. I never use my career credentials to get laid.”

Gavin grinned. “Yeah well, that’s because your credentials and five bucks might get you a latte at Starbucks, but that’s about it.”

“Fuck off,” David said good-naturedly.

“Gavin, there you are. And David, it’s great to see you.” Christine Ferrar, Gavin’s sister and the party’s hostess, appeared seemingly from nowhere. Rising on her toes, she kissed David’s cheek then thumbed lipstick from the corner of his mouth. “I’m so glad you could make it, sweetie.” She turned to her brother. “How’s the seminar going? McKee is fabulous, isn’t he? I’m telling you, once you’ve taken his seminar, you will never watch movies the same way again.”

“We aren’t taking McKee’s seminar, Sissy. I told you that.” Gavin rattled the ice in his glass.

“Did you?” She blinked wide blue eyes. “Oh. Well, I would have sworn that’s what you said. Well, you should. You both should. He really is fabulous.”

“You’ve taken his seminar?” With one eye on Christine, David watched as his little brunet hottie leaned in and laughed up at a tall, gray-haired man in a cream-colored jacket.

Damn. That was so not good.

“Me? No, I don’t go in for that sort of thing.” She laughed, a lovely musical sound like the tinkle of fine crystal. “But that’s what everyone says, so there must be some truth in it, right?”

Gray-hair slid his arm around Hottie’s trim waist and tugged him in close.

Crap.

“Gavin, sweetie, you don’t mind if I steal David for a minute, do you?” Without waiting for an answer, Christine slid her arm through David’s. “I have someone I’m dying to introduce you to. I just know he would be perfect for yours and Gavin’s film.”

“Actually, Chris,” Gavin said, “David was just about to-”

But if his sister heard him, no one would have guessed it. As Christine turned on her stiletto, Gavin shrugged as if to say, “sorry, man, I tried.” David gave a small shake of his head that said no big deal as she towed him across the terrace and in through the sliding glass door.

He found himself in a massive grown-up playroom replete with sixty-inch plasma TV, antique jukebox, pinball machine, pool table, and fully-stocked wet-bar.

The playroom was even more crowded than the terrace and the roar of dozens of conversations competed with blaring music, something techno with a driving bass that David didn’t recognize, raising the indoor decibel level to near ear-splitting. He bid a silent goodbye to his chances with the brunet hottie and allowed himself to be led, or dragged, through the crowd by Gavin’s sister.

“This guy is gorgeous,” Christine yelled above the din. “I mean literally to die for. And he’s a real sweetie too. I just know you two are going to hit it off.”

Uh-oh. Inside David’s head alarm bells began to shriek. Beware of scary fix-up attempt at ten o’clock.

He tried to gently extract his arm from her clutches. “Chris, as much as I appreciate the intro, I really have to-”

But just as she’d done to her brother, Christine ignored him. Big surprise there. Gavin’s sister was nothing if not determined, which probably had a lot to do with how she’d gotten to be a major player in the entertainment press with a nationally syndicated column and a blog that logged a ton of hits every week.

With no choice short of physical force, he followed docilely along until she pulled him to a stop. Her hand remained firmly attached to his arm, as if she was sure he might bolt if she let go. “Kieran, sweetie, here’s the guy I was telling you about.”

Kieran?

The alarms in David’s brain went instantly to full red alert, nuclear meltdown imminent. It couldn’t be.

But yes, yes it was.

“David, this is Kieran Reilly. Kieran, honey, this is David Sullivan. Kieran is the star of that new cable series, What a Drag. I’m sure you’ve seen it. It’s like Sex in the City except with drag queens.”

“Cross-dressers,” Kieran corrected. His eyes had gone very wide; those beautiful, intensely blue eyes.

God, how could he have forgotten how blue Kieran’s eyes were.

“Hmm?” Christine lifted one finely arched dark brow.

“Cross-dressers. The only drag queen on the show is Cleo. The rest of us are cross-dressers.”

“Oh. Well. Drag queens, cross-dressers. In any case, it’s a fabulous show.” She touched Kieran’s shoulder. “And the shoes! Honey, I would die to get my hands on some of those shoes. They are simply divine!”

Kieran laughed, but it sounded a little forced. “Tell me about it. You should see my shoe closet these days.”

Christine laughed too. Her gaze was sharp as she glanced from Kieran to David and gave a little nod. “Well, I’m sure you two will have a lot to talk about, so I’ll just scurry along. Can’t neglect my other guests, you know.”

And with that she faded into the crowd, leaving them alone.

There was a moment of awkward silence where they just stood there looking at each other. Well, Kieran was looking. David, for his part, devoured Kieran with his eyes. He felt like a man who had been stranded in the desert, dying of thirst, who had now suddenly been presented with a cool, clear waterfall in the form of his ex-boyfriend, the only man in his life who had ever successfully won and then broken his heart, a heart Kieran still held, whether he knew it or not.

“So,” Kieran said, dragging out the single syllable. “Which one of us is going to tell her that she didn’t just make the match of the century?”

“I was sort of waiting for you to do it. I don’t really know her that well.”

“Don’t look at me.” Kieran sipped his drink. “Sorry, but I didn’t want to see our past mistakes splashed across the front of Tine’s blog tomorrow morning.”

The barb struck home, sudden and sharp. “Is that what it was, a past mistake?”

“You know what I mean.” Kieran lowered his voice. His gaze scanned the immediate vicinity as if he was afraid they would be overheard.

“No, I don’t think I do.” David looked around. Suddenly he wanted a drink very badly, if only to have something to do with his hands. His damn hands that kept wanting to reach out and touch Kieran, maybe just to see if he was real. Or maybe to pull him close and see if they still fit together as well as they once had.

Because he was afraid that they would indeed fit just as well, maybe better, he balled his hands into fists and stuck them in the pockets of his linen jacket.

Kieran looked so damn good, so damn touchable, with his dark hair falling in wild curls around his perfect, heart-shaped face, his gorgeous eyes dramatically shadowed and lined, and his lips, full and wet and begging to be tasted.

Fool.

Those pretty lips turned down at the corners and Kieran’s slim shoulders sagged. “Look, David, I didn’t mean… That is, can we start over?” he set his glass down on a nearby table and held out his hand. “Hi, my name’s Kieran. Nice party, isn’t it?” He smiled that heart-stopping smile that still haunted David’s dreams. “It’s a little warm in here, don’t you think? Would you maybe like to take a walk outside?”

For a moment David couldn’t breathe. He stared at Kieran’s extended hand. Oh, this was such a bad idea. He shrugged. “Sure. Let’s walk out by the pool.”

Because he so much wanted to, rather than take that hand, he turned and led the way back through the crowd. Opening the sliding door, he stood aside and waited for Kieran to go ahead. Though he promised himself he would not look, his gaze was inexorably drawn to the tempting swell of Kieran’s ass under shimmering blue silk.

The outfit was some kind of tunic over loose-fitting pants, both were the color of sea and sky on the most brilliant of summer days. The tunic fell to mid-thigh and should have concealed more than it revealed. But thanks to the drape of the silk, David could see every perfectly delineated muscle, the sleek line of slim hips and lean thighs, the trim waist and, oh yeah, the delectable roundness of Kieran’s tight little butt as he stepped through the door and onto the terrace.

Once outside, David half-turned toward the bar. “Do you want a drink?”

Kieran shook his head. “I’m good. But if you want one I’ll wait right here while you get it.”

“No. No, that’s fine. I don’t really need one either. Let’s just walk.”

Rather than heading toward the pool, Kieran gestured toward a path that led around the side of the house. “Let’s go this way. Do you mind? There are some people over there that I’d rather not have to talk to.”

It was on the tip of David’s tongue to ask if he himself didn’t fall into that category, but he swallowed the question back down. It was a beautiful night and beautiful nights were not made for confrontation.

The air was balmy with a light breeze off the ocean and no sign of the rain that had been predicted earlier in the day. As they rounded the side of the house, the scent of flowers tickled David’s nose and soon he knew why. He found himself entering a lush garden with profusions of flowers blooming everywhere. They spilled from beds and speared out of pots and scented the darkness with their rich perfume. A gravel path twisted around bushes and under trellises heavy with climbing roses and lit with tiny fairy lights. In the center of it all shimmered a pool of water with a small waterfall burbling over rocks at the far end, its musical splash blending with the crash of waves against the distant beach.

Kieran led the way to a small, white wrought iron bench.

He sank down on it with a sigh and, after a moment’s hesitation, David sat next to him.

“I love this place.” Another sigh.

“It’s a great house.” The bench was small, their hips snugged up close, Kieran’s thigh pressed warm and solid along the length of David’s. He shifted, trying to gain some space, but there was nowhere to go.

“It is a nice house, but I meant this place, this garden. It’s peaceful. Sitting here you can almost forget that there’s anyone else around, maybe even in the whole world.”

It was true. Although they were not all that far from the terrace, the sounds of the party were little more than a distant murmur, nearly inaudible under the splash of the tiny waterfall and the pounding of the surf.

It was beautiful and very, very romantic.

“Is peace what you’re looking for?” David asked.

“Hmm? What do you mean?”

“You said you like this place because it’s so peaceful. I was just wondering…” He let the question trail off, mostly because he wasn’t sure what exactly he’d been wondering.

“It just gets to be a bit much sometimes, all the people and the cameras and having to watch everything you say. Sometimes you just want to turn it all off and just be.” Kieran laughed a little. “That must sound really odd to you, doesn’t it? I mean, after all the work to get where I am, after all the struggle and disappointment and now… Hell, it sounds odd to me and I’m the one saying it.” He touched the back of David’s hand, very lightly, just with the tips of his fingers. “I didn’t mean what I said before, you know, about past mistakes. I don’t think of our relationship that way.”

David didn’t know what to say. Suddenly he was in the middle of a minefield where a single misstep or unwise move might result in catastrophe. So he just sat there, saying nothing, not moving and almost not breathing. Just being, and, yeah, it was nice.

“Do you?” Kieran asked very quietly.

“Do I what?”

“Think of it that way, as a mistake?”

Yes. It was a horrible mistake, the worst mistake he’d ever made. But not the relationship. No, the mistake had been letting Kieran Reilly slip out of his life.

Beside him, Kieran shifted, started to rise. Clearly he’d taken David’s silence as an affirmative. “I’m sorry. We should just-”

“No.” David caught Kieran’s hand and tugged him back onto the bench. “Don’t go.”

In the reflected light from the fountain Kieran’s eyes were luminous, the blue so dark it looked black.

How much heat do two men need to melt so much snow? Stories from three of the hottest gay erotic romance writers in the genre will show you. Feel the heat with William Maltese, Jason Edding and Ethan Day.

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

Chapter One

My eyes fluttered open, and the overcast daylight filtering in from the huge picture window slowly came into focus. was looking out over a panorama of snowy mountains dotted with sprouts of green from the evergreens that poked through the white blanket. The small mountain town of Summit City, Colorado, stretched out along the floor of the valley below. The light drizzle of snow was softly floating from sky to ground. I heard rustling coming from behind me and I sat up, realizing I didn’t know where I was.

I lifted my hand to my forehead as the dull, achy-throbbing began – my hangover waking up with me. How much had I had to drink last night? Not that it took much, but damn. I rubbed my temple and cringed as the swimming in my head began to settle. One more thing I blame Phillip for. I looked down, realizing I was naked, and was startled again by the rustling to my side. Slowly turning my head toward the source of the disruption, my eyes widened taking in the wide, expansive muscular back.

I quietly began to scoot toward the edge of the bed and winced from the twinge of pain coming from my backside. What the hell had he fucked me with? Christ on a cracker…my ass felt like it had been reamed, but good. I shook my head and continued to crawl over to the side of the massive bed. Probably another bartender, I thought as I finally made it to the edge. This happened every god damn time I drank. Why couldn’t I just leave a nice tip like a normal person? Honestly, Boone, do you really have to offer up your ass? Are you seriously that cheap? I reached back and rubbed my ass somewhat thankful I had no memory of last night considering it felt like this dude had seriously fucked the hell out of me.

“Please let him have worn a condom,” I mumbled as I threw my feet over the side of the bed. I cringed as I looked down to see my foot had landed on used rubber. I made some sort of ick noise as I lifted my foot, which now had the condom stuck to it.

“That is so not sexy.” I tentatively reached out, touching as little of the condom as humanly possible. I began pulling it

off and closed my eyes feeling the skin from the bottom of my

foot peel away from the latex which I then tossed back onto the floor as a ‘that’s-gross’ chill swept over my naked body. I looked around, disgusted and feeling ‘all class’ as I took the edge of the

sheet to wipe the sticky off the bottom of my foot.

I stood up too quickly feeling the bed move from behind me. My head was spinning a bit as I turned and looked down at the ass abuser that lay before me. He was massive, whoever he was. I imagined him being like Gaston from Beauty and the Beast. He was now on his back and his hairless expanse of a chest was spread out before me. He practically requires his own zip code, I thought as my gaze followed the sinewy trail of muscle down his abs. He was hot at least. I rubbed my head desperately needing coffee and aspirin while scolding myself for being the type of asshole that cared whether or not he was hot. I scanned the room trying to get my bearings. I spied my jeans on the floor which somehow made me feel less panicky.

I poked around the room and discovered that the bedroom was up in a loft which overlooked the living area below. I got slightly dizzy and nauseous as I peered over the railing. Knotty pine beams stretched out overhead and I caught a whiff of the fire below, that was now probably just embers. I felt a sudden chill and began to look around for the rest of my clothes. I spied a shoe and my briefs on the floor by the bureau.

I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror as I crossed the room and my mouth fell open. The back of my head looked as if someone had taken a comb and teased the shit out it. Spotting the huge-ass hickey on the curve between my neck and shoulder, I scowled and turned back to the bed. I was half tempted to chuck my shoe at him. Dirty bastard…all but branded my ass. My eyes widened as I quickly spun around, using the mirror, relieved to see there wasn’t a hickey on my ass.

I made a quick scan inspecting the rest of my body to make sure nothing else was…different. I gathered up all my things and crept naked down the stairs, clutching everything in my arms. A flash of the previous night popped into my head and I stopped, leaning against the railing for a moment for balance as I vaguely remembered clinging to Mr. Muscles while we made out, him carrying me up the stairs. I shook my head, feeling my cock stir a bit, almost able to remember what it felt like to have the guy’s tongue in my mouth. I let out a disapproving sigh, and continued down the stairs.

I stumbled into the living room, spotting my keys and cell phone on the coffee table next to two glasses each of which had a tiny amount of red wine left in them. The room was decorated in what I assumed to be mountain-gay, bachelor-chic with its brown leather furniture, a solid looking wooden rocking chair and dark mission style accent tables. It did actually feel lived in and homey, which was nice after Phillip’s sterile, everything-inits-place condo.

The fireplace was massive, large stacked stone’s stretching up from the floor all the way up the two-story wall and disappearing into the ceiling. The five foot long mantle consisted of a long, thick rough cut chunk of wood which was shiny from the multiple layers of varnish. I spied a small plasma through a cracked door in one the built-ins, on either side of the fireplace.

I smacked my lips, feeling the fuzz of drink and sex from the night before. God only knows what depraved acts I allowed myself to partake in with the beast. I felt another achy-twinge in my ass as I meandered into the kitchen. I felt the texture and temperature change under my bare feet, going from the wood floors to the stone tile in the open kitchen and dining area. A picture window twice the size of the one upstairs in the bedroom provided another breath-taking view of the mountains which surrounded the valley below. I had to blink a few times in order to tear my eyes away, imagining I could become easily mesmerized by the sight, losing entire days – getting lost in the scale of it all. That was saying a lot, considering Albuquerque came with its own amazing views, thinking back to the warm, rusty-red glow

of the Sandia Mountains baking in the late afternoon sun.

As my gaze ran over the gourmet looking kitchen with the smoky caramel stained cabinets and stone countertops which

appeared to have tiny fossils imbedded in them, I paused at the professional grade looking stainless steel appliances. Maybe I’d

fucked a chef and not a bartender after all? That would be some

type of progress. If given a dollar for every bartender I’d woken up with over the past thirteen years of my life, I’d be a rich man. The confusing thing was, I remembered the bartender from last night, unlike the man I’d found myself in bed with. Life really was a twisted bitch sometimes. I was jerked out of my inner

thoughts hearing a noise come from upstairs.

I noticed a hallway off the back of the kitchen and headed that direction. I found a bathroom and took the longest piss of my life. It was one for the ages that piss, the kind that gave you chills and goose bumps all over your body from the relief of the release. I flushed the toilet before pulling on my briefs and jeans, then finally looking back over my hair as I yanked on my socks and boots. I turned on the faucet and did my best to dampen my scruffy, shoulder length, light brown hair back into some sort of submission. It was tangled all to hell, another reminder of what a good-time guy I was when I drank. They didn’t call me Low-Tolerance Tommy for nothing.

I usually don’t have alcohol unless my friends are around to try and keep me from doing things like this. Unfortunately I was up here in Colorado all by myself, thanks to Phillip. Happy one year anniversary, you cock sucking piece of man-shit. This was what I deserved for dating a surgeon. You think they’re all heroic, saving lives – making the big sacrifice. What I realized now was what a controlling, god-complex, piece of scum he was. Why do I never see it until it’s over?

I ran my finger tips over the hickey on my neck and let out a

long sigh. Thinking back over the past year there had been plenty

of signs. Phillip never asked about me or my day. It was as if he never gave a shit who I was, only caring that I looked good

on his arm and in his bed. That should’ve been the biggest clue.

The fact that I’m a writer, made him seem perfect. He worked

long hours which left me with tons of time to work. The sex

was incredible. The vain, god-complex worked for the son of a bitch, and his confidence in his abilities in the sack were well warranted. If nothing else good could be said about Phillip, he did

have a can-do cock.

I laughed at my reflection in the mirror thinking I’d actually convinced myself that Phillip had invited me up here, to the place we’d met a year ago yesterday, because he was going to ask me to move in with him.

“What a dumbass you are, Boone.” I said to myself, still worried in the back of mind why it was I hadn’t cried. Had I been broken-hearted so many times in the past that I’d now become desensitized to the pain of it? “Am I broken?”

I shrugged and picked up my t-shirt, flipping it inside out. Nope – Phillip sent me up here because he wanted to dump me, and the really sad part was that he didn’t have enough respect for me to do it face to face. He’d called instead, letting me know the cabin was paid up for another week and to stay as long as I liked. That he’d already dropped the few things I’d been allowed to leave at his house back off at mine and that my spare key was in the mail.

My response to what he’d said? “Thanks.”

I slipped on my shirt and went back out into the living room, trying to avoid the views from the large picture window. I snatched up my phone and dialed information; getting the number to call a cab. I scurried about when they asked where to pick me up, eventually snagging the address from the magazines piled up on the coffee table. I flipped through the stack as I hung up my cell. A Sports Illustrated, how butch, I thought. Funny that was on top…trying too hard, perhaps? That slightly critical thought brought a smile to my face. There was also an Advocate, an Entertainment Weekly, some skiing catalogues and a TV Guide. I read the name, which for some reason sounded familiar. Wade

Walker.

I stood up and went back into Wade’s kitchen, rifling through the cabinets until I found a bottle of Advil. I poured out five and popped them in my mouth. I went to the sink and bent over, sucking in the water directly from the stream coming out of the faucet. My eyes drifted toward that wonderful view. Whoever the big-dicked-mother-fucker Wade was, he was certainly lucky to have that view.

I wondered for a split second about the man sleeping upstairs. He was, if nothing else, strikingly handsome, sort of a more beefed version of Christopher Reeves with his wavy black hair and cheekbones to die for. I briefly considered the possibility of dating Superman and then rolled my eyes. I’d had enough drama in the past twenty four hours as it was.

“You just can’t seem to help yourself can you?” I mumbled. I loved men who were nothing like…me. My worst nightmare would be to wind up marrying myself. I honestly couldn’t think of anything less exciting. I needed to be challenged, forced to look at things from other perspectives. I’m a writer damn it. I crave what I do not understand. And while I guess that always made for a very exciting love life, it had also been my very own, little slice of hell at times.

Hearing a honk, I turned and dashed into the living room, snatching up my things off the table. I yanked my coat off the rack by the door. I slipped it on, sucking in my breath as I opened the door, greeted not so gently by the cold. I tried to quietly close the door until I thought I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye coming from the stairs. I slammed the door and ran like mad for the cab. I was certainly in no mood, or condition, to face my trick. I climbed into the cab and shut the door, asking the driver to take me back to the lodge. Back to the cabin Phillip had rented for us to spend our anniversary in. No more tricks for this kid, I thought, refusing to look back at the

house as the cab pulled away. ****

As I slowly made my way down the walkway, struggling with the damn skis and poles, I cursed under my breath. This was stupid and I knew it. I’d never had the slightest interest in learning how to snow ski, but Phillip had insisted I learn. He’d set up these lessons and bought me all the gear and clothes, teaching me how to put it all on before I left. The sick part was he knew he was going to break up with me while he was doing it. I’d now come to the conclusion this was all part of my severance package, the trip, the gifts, the ski lessons. Phillip’s way of buying off his guilt I assumed, if he did indeed actually posses the humility for such

an emotion.

I stopped, adjusting the skis in my arms. The army green pants I wore looked like normal old cargo pants, and I did like the matching parka with the faux fur trimmed hood. The warm snuggly layers of oatmeal colored shirts and sweaters, the ski boots, it had all cost him like nine or ten thousand dollars. It was nuts, a ludicrous amount of money, but if nothing else, at least I looked the part. I planned on selling it all on eBay when I got back home. Maybe I could use the money to buy myself a second vacation on a beach somewhere?

I looked up as a couple passed by me coming from the

opposite direction. They barely noticed my presence as they

giggled and stared at one another all googley-eyed, his dimpled smile and rosy cheeks, her long perky blonde curls bouncing. It was disgusting! I resisted the urge to call back at them, informing the ill-fated lovers it would never last, that their happiness was fleeting. The harbinger of love-death would soon be upon them! It made me smile to think it, even though I didn’t say it.

I lifted my skis, tucked them under my arm and began walking toward the main lodge. The massive five story building, with its new European-style architecture, seemed well matched to the natural environment. Despite being newer construction, the lodge seemed to fit in perfectly with the sleepy little Victorian mountain town that was Summit City. It had sixty or seventy rooms in the main lodge along with the smaller single occupancy chalets that dotted the grounds for those people, like Philip, who enjoyed their privacy. Whoever designed the place had done a great job of taking advantage of all the views. There were two towers on the main lodge on opposite corners, one provided views of the valley and town below, the other of the mountain. I rounded the side of the lodge to find other guests and attendants, all busying about going to and from, while twisting the knife in

my gut by laughing and having a grand old time.

“The tram should be back around any minute,” a young man

called out to me from the entrance area.

I nodded and smiled, contemplating whether or not I should just walk up the road to the ski lift area. It wasn’t that far, and despite still feeling a smidge funky from my hangover when I’d left the cabin, the cool air and exercise appeared to be doing the trick. As I started to step off the curb the small tram rounded the corner. Already late for my lesson as it was, I decided to hop on and ride up after all.

As the glorified tractor/trolley bounced up the slight incline of the road, I let out a sigh. I knew exactly why I wasn’t all that upset about Phillip breaking things off, but I refused to admit it to myself. It seemed wrong to let the prick off the hook for the shitty way he dumped me. But I had indeed, come to realize that I hadn’t actually been in love with the man so much as the idea of him. What a waste of a year, I thought as the tram came to a stop at the ski lift area.

I hopped out, back into the snow and slid my skis and poles out, fighting with them as I tried to gain control with my uncoordinated limbs. This was a bad idea, and I knew it, but I’d spent all morning and my entire lunch trying to piece together what the hell had happened the night before. I’d driven myself crazy attempting to suss it out. So, despite having no interest in skiing, here I was. I needed a distraction from the gnawing nit-pickiness that was my over active brain. Skiing was one of those sports that looked easy, therefore I knew it was going to be ridiculously difficult to learn.

In stories from four different wars and four different locales, four different writers honour men who chose to serve their country. Josh Lanyon, Samantha Kane, Victor Banis and George Seaton look at love when lives are at their worst and men are at their best.

This book is dedicated to those gay men who by not telling continue to serve our country with pride and honor. To those gay men who found the strength to tell and the courage to hold their heads high while being discharged in disgrace. To those gay men who have sacrificed their lives to maintain our freedoms while sacrificing their freedom to be heard.

Till we are judged for the honor and strength of our character and not by the prejudice and weakness of others…

I wish you Fair Seas, Following Winds, Safe Harbor & Silent Running.

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

One of the best pieces of flying advice Bat got was from his brother Algernon who flew reconnaissance at the start of the war.

“Think down to the gunners,” Algie had said. “Treat it like a game. You’re pitting your skill against theirs. It’s a kind of sport, really. And remember, a chasse machine is rarely brought down by Archie. You’re too fast for them. There are plenty of ways to outfox them. The best pilots are the best sportsmen.” He’d ruffled Bat’s hair, adding grimly, “Or the chaps who learn to stop feeling anything at all.”

At the time Bat couldn’t imagine what he meant.

The first two weeks were the most dangerous to a new pilot. They didn’t see anything — and what they did see, they didn’t understand. Shell fire scared the devil out of them and the Hun pilots they ran into were all hardened pros with several weeks experience in Russia or the Balkans. By 1916, the RFC was losing nearly a pilot a day; Gene worked it out once and told Bat the average life expectancy of an allied aviator was eleven days. Of course there were the old hands like Gene and himself who defied the odds. But no one defied them forever.

Bat knew Jackson was for it from the moment he was up in the air. Bat had given orders to rendezvous two thousand over the field and once they assembled, he’d headed northeast with the rest of A Flight falling into formation behind.

The new fliers got the oldest machines, and Jackson was in one of the battered Spads. It climbed slowly. Tubby and Varlik did their best to shepherd Jackson along, diving under and climbing up again to keep him aligned. Ambrose was on Bat’s left, in Gene’s former position. Cowboy was a dark silhouette on his right as they reached the cloudbank and began to climb.

As they rose into the crystalline air and the rising sun gilded the fleecy floor of clouds beneath them in amber and rose gold, Bat felt a spark of the old joy to be flying once more. All around him the rest of A Flight surfaced at widely scattered points through the drifting cloud cover. Cowboy crested on his right and gave him that little nod.

Bat nodded back.

They formed up once more and turned northward. Far below them were the green valleys, dark forest, shining rivers of France…and then the lines. Although they were too far up to hear anything one could see by the thousands of tiny bursts of light that the day’s business had already begun. Shell bursts and muzzle flashes winked and sparkled miles beneath them. But they weren’t crossing over enemy lines until the replacements had a chance to get the lay of the land; instead A Flight headed west along the sector.

The twinkling lights faded and the battle front — a jagged, winding scar of desert slashed through the green and pastoral land — lay beneath. They were now four kilometers within the French lines. Clouds of smoke bloomed like scarlet-edged roses — interrupted at intervals by puffs of black and white shell bursts.

A Flight turned northward and then back. Bat glanced in his mirror and Jackson was gone.

Just like that he had dropped out of the sky.

There was no time to react for at that moment a patrol of Spads and Fokkers came out of the sun like a swarm of hornets out of their hive. The air was alive with the deafening roar of engines as aircraft maneuvered for position, climbing and dropping, spinning, diving, banking and all the while the webbing of white streamers from machine gun bullet tracers wound around A Flight while they dodged each other’s machines and tried to make sure they fired at black crosses and not the roundels and tail cockades of their own planes.

Bat spared a quick glance for his altimeter, temperature and pressure dials, and when he looked up again a Fokker was coming at him, looming up like a freight train on a motion picture screen as it drove straight toward Bat firing as it came. Bat responded with the familiar surge of aggressive anger, opening the throttle and hurtling forward — and he’d have rammed the other plane if the German hadn’t lost his nerve and dived.

Making a tight turn, nearly on his wingtip, Bat shot after him and managed to settle on his tail, firing five or six rounds while the Fokker zigged and zagged until he finally lost control and plummeted down, engine smoking.

Bat looked around and saw Ambrose in hot pursuit of a Spad, machine guns blazing. Tubby was doggedly chasing another into the blue distance. Varlik was still in one piece, and Heath…

Fuck.

Cowboy glided into place beside him and nodded. Bat tightly nodded back, his mind mostly on Heath. Bit of a surprise, though; generally Cowboy preferred to hunt on his own. He’d stayed with the pack today. Expecting a repeat of Bat’s shaky performance of the day before? He needn’t have worried. Bat had resigned himself to seeing dawn patrol out at the least.

He looked again for young Jackson, hoping that he had missed him in the maelstrom of the battle, but there was no sign of the khaki and tan Spad.

Already the dogfight was breaking up, the Boche planes out of ammunition and raveled out by the wind. Most aerial battles didn’t last longer than two or three minutes as they only all carried enough ammunition to fire for about fifty seconds. But Bat’s fuel tank was still a quarter full, he had plenty of ammo and, unlike Cowboy’s bullet-scarred machine, his plane hadn’t sustained any new damage.

Bat signaled to Cowboy to make for home with the rest of the patrol, and gave her full rudder, heading back to see if he could spot where Jackson had gone down. There was always a chance the boy had managed to land safely.

The wind was kicking up now — rain clouds rolling in from the north.

Cowboy stuck to Bat’s machine — irritating as a burr beneath one’s saddle — but Bat knew he couldn’t endanger the other pilot or risk losing his plane by trying to shake him. In any case, it wasn’t necessary for he quickly spotted Jackson’s shattered plane in an open field. It was in flames.

Bat circled round once more to see if there was any sign of life. There was nothing but fire and smoke.

He turned toward homeward once more.

¹ ¹ ¹ ¹

“So your daddy’s a duke,” Cowboy said, blue eyes watching Bat over the rim of his glass. He drank, set the glass down. His lips were wet from the ale, and Bat had a sudden, uncomfortably vivid recollection of what that firm mouth had felt like pressing his own.

“An earl, actually,” he replied quellingly.

Cowboy was not quelled.

“So what’s that make you?”

“The youngest of five sons.”

Cowboy grimaced. “What do they call you? What’s your title?”

“The Honourable, but no one calls — ”

“What kind of a moniker is ‘Bat’?” Cowboy interrupted. “What’s your name?”

“Aubrey.”

Undisturbed by Bat’s terse response, Cowboy offered that wide, white grin. “Aubrey? That’s sweet.”

“Go. To. Hell.”

Cowboy laughed.

They had arrived back at base after first crawl without further incident. Bat had made his report to Major Chase, grabbed a quick kip, and taken out the afternoon patrol for an uneventful foray behind enemy lines. Now A Flight was done for the day.

Captain Sears, broad shouldered and dark with a long seam of scar down his tanned face, stopped by the table. “Hard luck about…” he trailed vaguely. These days it was always hard luck about someone or other.

Sears was 19 Squadron’s A Flight commander. He shared a friendly rivalry with Bat — Sears currently down two kills. Three if — once — Bat’s morning’s work had been confirmed.

“Jackson,” Bat supplied automatically.

“Replacements?”

“By tomorrow, according to Chase,” Bat said.

Two patrols a day, two hours each patrol. Now and again they put in as many as six hours, but Wing discouraged it. Pilots at the front were burning out fast enough and someone had to be in shape to go up every single day weather permitting.

When they weren’t flying, they slept. Or drank. Or read. Bat had grown very familiar with the works of Zane Grey and Max Brand. Some chaps played cards or wrote letters, but mostly they slept a good deal.

Sears moved off and Cowboy said, as though there had been no interruption, “So what are your brothers doing these days? One of ‘em’s a big muckety muck in the War Office, right?”

“Archie,” Bat said reluctantly. He didn’t feel like chatting with Cowboy. He didn’t want to spend any time with him at all if he could help it. What he’d have liked to do was sleep, but he was still too wound up — and then there were his dreams. “Algie and Cyril are gone — since the first year of the war. Dorian is with the Grand Fleet in the North Sea.”

“And you were at Cambridge when you decided to join up?”

“Magdalene College, yes.”

“What were you studying?”

Bat shrugged a negligent shoulder. “I was eventually headed for the Foreign Office, I suppose. That’s what the pater wanted.”

“You always do what the pater wants?”

Fastening a cool eye on him, Bat said, “Clearly not.”

And Cowboy grinned. He seemed — as usual — very relaxed. His own nerves strung far too tight for far too long, Bat found this…insouciance grating.

He said, “You haven’t yet told me what you did about…him.”

Cowboy’s white grin broadened. “You don’t really want to discuss it here?” He glanced meaningfully around the crowded mess.

No one was paying them any mind. Varlik was once again singing “Roses of Picardy” in duet with the gramophone. Ambrose and Heath were engaged in some drinking game. Tubby was busily cheating at solitaire. Everyone else seemed riveted by the antics of a half-starved monkey that B Flight’s Berckman had brought back from leave.

Bat said slowly, “According to Sergeant Lamb, Orton is supposed to have scarpered. AWOL.”

The smile faded from Cowboy’s face. “You didn’t question him?” he demanded.

Bat shook his head. “Orton was assigned to my bus. Lamb had to fill in for him. He happened to mention it.”

Cowboy was eyeing him with a dark and doubtful gaze. “You know to keep your trap shut, right?”

Bat managed to contain the flash of anger he felt. The unpleasant idea occurred that he could not afford to quarrel with Cowboy. Could not afford to fall out with him. Not given the secret they shared.

Perhaps some similar idea cropped up in Cowboy’s mind. He said, “Why don’t we get out of here and go some place we can talk.”

It was not a suggestion. He stood, waiting. Bat stared up at him — and realized that here too he had no choice.

He followed Cowboy out of the mess, and the last notes of “Roses of Picardy” died behind them as the mess door swung shut.

“Let’s walk down to the lodge,” Cowboy said. “You look like you could use some shuteye. When was the last time you slept? Really slept, I mean?”

“How is that your affair?” Bat burst out, his resentment of this high-handedness growing momentarily.

Cowboy’s big hand wrapped around Bat’s upper arm, warningly. “It’s my affair because if you make some stupid mistake ‘cause you’re too tired to think straight, we’re both sunk.”

Bat roughly freed himself, uncaring of who might be watching — knowing as he did so, that Cowboy had a point. He was too weary to be careful, his emotions dangerously near the surface.

He said, “I can’t stay on at the lodge. Those were Gene’s digs, not mine. Not officially.”

“The old lady won’t care, will she? Could probably use the extra dough.”

He thought of Madame Fournier’s kindness — most likely due to the infirmities of age. A God-fearing woman, Madame would not knowingly have sheltered Gene and him if she’d any notion of what they got up to in that little room where her son once slept. There was always a foolish — dangerous — temptation to believe that there was understanding, perhaps sympathy, in silence when in fact all there was, was ignorance.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t care. I can’t stay there now.”

“Don’t be too hasty,” Cowboy said cryptically. “A little privacy would be useful.”

They walked down to the lodge in silence filled only by the crunch of their boots and the occasional song of a woodlark.

“You think the birds talk to each other in French?” Cowboy asked, and Bat smiled, forgetting his earlier annoyance.

“Possibly.”

Cowboy was also smiling. His eyes slanted Bat’s way, and Bat felt his face growing warm though he wasn’t sure why. He looked away hastily. Luminous white mushrooms grew at the roots of the ancient trees forming the leafy tunnel overhead. Wild berries lined the road, glossy purple and scarlet in the gloom. It smelled richly of damp earth and moldering leaves — and the leather of cowboy’s jacket and the soap he used.

“It’s a lot like home,” Bat said suddenly, forgetting his earlier annoyance. “Like Kent. Feels different, though. Feels…French.”

Gene had said you could see the Flemish influence in the village names and architecture.

The red roof of the hunting lodge appeared before them, smoke drifting from the white stone fireplace. Cowboy touched Bat’s arm, and they left the path and cut across the field to the gazebo where they could be assured no one would overhear their conversation.

“I’ll have to think what to do about Digsby,” Bat was saying distractedly as Cowboy pushed open the rickety door. “Gene’s dog. I suppose Madame — ”

He broke off as startled doves took wing through the holes in the roof. The door slammed shut behind them closing them in with the musty scent of decaying wood and dead leaves and bird nests, and Cowboy’s arms went around Bat.

Shocked into immobility, Bat recovered fast and shoved him away. Cowboy eyed him narrowly and then shoved back — harder — pushing Bat against the rough wall, big fists locked in Bat’s tunic, one knee thrust between Bat’s long legs.

Bat’s simmering resentment crackled into life, but beneath the anger was excitement. Part of him welcomed the idea of fighting Cowboy, part of him…

It was confusing. He told himself what Cowboy needed was a good thrashing, and what Bat needed was to deliver it, but…as his eyes met that dark blue gaze, he felt strangely irresolute. Cowboy’s breath was warm against his face. His mouth tingled recalling the feel and taste of Cowboy’s, and he wondered what would happen if he let Cowboy put his hands on him.

The idea alarmed him — but not nearly as much as it should have. In fact, maybe he wasn’t alarmed so much as…stimulated.

Cowboy pulled Bat close again, and Bat knew a kind of relief that he wasn’t being given a choice, that this was taken out of his hands; all he had to do was not fight too hard.

He closed his eyes, raising his face — leading with his chin, in fact. Cowboy’s big hands ran over the long lines of Bat’s body, tugging at his tunic, and Bat groaned, wanting the bulk of cloth removed from between his trembling body and the warm weight of Cowboy’s hands.

“Easy, easy,” Cowboy murmured, like he was soothing a nervous colt, undoing the fastening at Bat’s tunic collar, fingers warm against Bat’s throat.

Bat swallowed hard as Cowboy suddenly pressed a soft kiss in the naked hollow of his throat. He opened his eyes and Cowboy’s face was absorbed, grave. His lashes raised and he met Bat’s gaze. He seemed to be waiting for something.

What?

Seemingly of their own volition, Bat’s hands rose and he responded in kind, shoving aside Cowboy’s heavy jacket, working the fastenings of Cowboy’s tunic — careful of buttons, careful with His Majesty’s property — they couldn’t afford to explain untoward damage. Through the coarse wool of their uniforms, their groins ground urgently against each other, and then their hot mouths met in frenzied hunger.

The night before Bat had been too startled to truly acknowledge what was happening, but now…he was almost stunned by the intimacy of it, the silky rasp of Cowboy’s jaw against his own, the pressure of two mouths, the mingling of breath and saliva, the unaccustomed taste of another man, the slick surprise of tongue —

He was about to suffocate beneath the impact when Cowboy tore his mouth away, breathing hard. His hands slid down Bat’s long, thinly muscled back, finding his way to Bat’s waist band and fly. His hand slipped inside, rough but caressing, feeling Bat up with gentle but thorough expertise. Bat hissed but didn’t speak, didn’t say the words, even as Cowboy worked his way through layers of cloth to bare skin. Then Cowboy’s hard, unsteady fingers found the entrance to Bat’s body.

Bat jumped. “No,” he said hoarsely.

“Hell, yes,” Cowboy retorted a little unevenly.

“No.” And Bat started to fight him.

Cowboy let him go so abruptly Bat staggered, falling back against the wall.

“He’s dead,” Cowboy said. “You’re still alive, whether you like it or not.”

Rage washed through Bat’s body, but then…

“You don’t understand,” he said. “Gene and I…we never…did that.”

Cowboy went so still he merged with and vanished into the shadows, leaving Bat feeling as though he were alone. It was an awful feeling.

“Say something,” he said.

“I’m not sure what to say.”

The bubble of emotion that never seemed to leave Bat’s chest expanded and he couldn’t seem to breathe. He struggled with it.

So it was mostly relief when Cowboy’s powerful arms folded him close once more.

“You must’ve done more than hold hands,” Cowboy muttered. He bent his head and his lips grazed the nape of Bat’s neck. Bat shivered and pressed his face into the strong column of Cowboy’s throat.

Of course they had. They’d held each other, they had kissed, they had — but this, no. Bat, less experienced, had suggested certain things, but Gene had been very clear. And that had been all right by Bat — he’d been slightly ashamed for suggesting it.

Heat flooded his face which he kept it buried in Cowboy’s neck. “We tried to keep to the…the Platonic ideal.”

“Jesus.”

“I mean, we tried — ”

“I know what you mean,” Cowboy said astonishingly. “I read the Symposium. I went to Harvard.”

And it was Bat’s turn to be speechless. He raised his head, staring at Cowboy’s face in the gloom.

Cowboy laughed. “What did you think? I rode in from the plains on Old Paint?”

Hadn’t Cowboy rather acted that way? Was it perhaps his strange sense of humor? “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“What do I care what a bunch of English stuffed shirts think?”

Bat tried to throw him off, but Cowboy held him in place, back to the wall, and despite the cool words his hands stroked the other pilot in long tremulous caresses, warm hands sliding down Bat’s flanks and back.

“Not you. I care what you think,” he muttered.

“Oh, jolly for me,” Bat snarled. But it felt good. Very good to have Cowboy touching him like that. Despite his anger, Bat clutched Cowboy tightly, not wanting it to end, and when Cowboy’s hand slid down over his taut buttocks, he tried not to tense, tried to relax. The brush of fingertips on bare skin felt startlingly nice and started a peculiar ache in his chest. This was something he had not foreseen. That he might enjoy Cowboy’s sexual trespass. That he might welcome it. He struggled with guilt and pain and loyalty to Gene while Cowboy stroked him and whispered soothing things like he expected Bat to start bucking and biting any moment.

“Yeah, you’re beautiful, aren’t you? Sharp and shining like the edge of the sun.” He kissed the corner of Bat’s mouth, his erection thrusting aggressively into Bat’s groin.

And Bat began to move against Cowboy, longing for — needing more. Cowboy’s finger slipped right inside his body and an odd thrill shot through Bat. He shuddered all down the length of his body and half-swallowed a protest.

“Easy, easy,” Cowboy whispered hotly against his ear. “You want it and you need it. Hell, we both need it. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that. Why should it?”

He kissed away any objection Bat might have made while all the time his finger kept stroking inside Bat’s body, nothing tentative about that touch, fingering Bat up with tantalizing expertise while he kept him pinned against the wall, not letting him move. And Bat turned his mouth from Cowboy’s and heaved in great gulps of air like he’d flown far too high, putting all thought away and opening his thighs to give Cowboy greater access.

Dear God that felt

…it made him melt inside, made him ache, made his body keen silently, desperate for more — much more. Embarrassing sounds escaped him, abject sounds, and Cowboy kissed them all away, smiling, seeming pleased as Bat grew more frantic.When Cowboy withdrew his hand Bat was aware of stinging disappointment. But then Cowboy guided him around to face the wall, and Bat planted his hands against its splintered roughness, spreading his legs, instinctively readying himself.

He heard the rustle of cloth and then Cowboy’s fingers were back but now they were slippery with oil. Blunt fingers cupped his balls, cradling them, caressing, and then one blunt finger traced the quivering entrance of Bat’s body once more.

“Ready as you’re going to be,” Cowboy said. “Just relax…that’s it…”

Bat swallowed dryly. He knew a moment of dizzy alarm. What was he surrendering to? What liberties was he allowing Cowboy? The big American was warm and solid all down the length of his back, the open flaps of his tunic tickling Bat’s bare skin as he leaned over him, his breath hot on the nape of Bat’s neck, his knees pressing into the back of Bat’s, hard hands locked on his hips. Cowboy’s cock lanced lightly between the cheeks of Bat’s arse, and the implicit threat, the tease of alarmed pleasure focused Bat’s thoughts. This was no betrayal of Gene. This was lust. Animal lust. Nothing to do with what had been between himself and Gene, and perhaps he did need it — this disconcerting proof that he was still alive. He didn’t care if it hurt; he rather hoped it did.

Bracing himself as Cowboy’s cock pushed slowly into him, Bat was astonished to find his body grudgingly accommodating the larger man’s organ, though he had to grit his jaw to keep from crying out. It did hurt. Not unbearably so, however, and the pain freed him of guilt.

Slowly, slowly Cowboy shoved deep into Bat’s body until Bat could feel the softness of hair against his buttocks. Cowboy thrust against him once, and Bat shivered. They were locked so tight that he could feel Cowboy’s heart hammering against his back.

He wriggled, pushing back a little, trying to find himself a bit of room to breathe. To think. But one of Cowboy’s hands moved its grip from Bat’s hip, coming beneath his belly and finding his cock, closing around it with easy expertise, pumping as though caressing a rifle. That helped, and again Bat’s body responded eagerly, his cock filling and lengthening.

Cowboy kissed the back of Bat’s neck and it was sweet. Bat relaxed into Cowboy’s hold, resting his forehead on the wall, smelling the biting pungency of wood and sweat.

Cowboy was thrusting into him now, steady, rhythmic thrusts, his heavy cock like a piston pushing into the cylinder of Bat’s body. It was unbelievable — unbelievable that Bat would allow this, and yet he was standing docilely permitting Cowboy to take him. Cowboy was grunting fiercely in Bat’s ear and oddly it began to excite Bat: the honesty of that rough animal pleasure. He groaned into the knotholes of the paneling.

“Yeah, that’s right, Aubrey,” Cowboy rasped. “That’s right, sweetheart. You know it, don’t you? You know you belong to me now.”

Bat shook his head. “Y-you’re…fucking mad,” he jerked out as Cowboy shoved into him, but Cowboy laughed.

“You’re only fooling yourself.” He used his knee to push Bat’s legs further to give himself better access, making Bat take him more deeply, and astonishingly Bat acquiesced, pushing back on Cowboy’s engorged organ with a helpless moan.

He let Cowboy fuck him, submitted to Cowboy’s rough and thorough possession until his legs felt weak and wobbly. Then Cowboy changed his angle, drove into Bat one more time and it was like lightning striking.

A white blaze lit up Bat’s body, nerves igniting. His breath caught, he shuddered all over, releasing his seed over the larger man’s hand, flooded with physical sensation — and unexpected emotion. At nearly the same instant, Cowboy groaned deep down in his chest and grabbed Bat tight against his torso, spilling blood-hot semen into him. That splash of liquid heat recalled Bat to himself.

What had he done? He had given into the basest of desires. He had let Cowboy use him, mark him like a wolf spraying its territory. He knew only too well what Gene would make of such brutish behavior, and yet…he felt very little. Perhaps he was simply numb.

Bat slumped against the wall, panting. After a time Cowboy’s cock slipped out of him.

Bat’s limbs were trembling — hands too — and his cock was suddenly unbearably sensitive. The odd thing was Cowboy seemed to understand that and he became tender — almost woman-tender so that Bat could have wept with humiliating gratitude. It was unmanly but he wanted this, wanted to be gentled, cared for. He breathed quietly against his arm as Cowboy cleaned him off with his soft linen handkerchief and then tucked him back inside his trousers. Then he drew Bat against him and they sat down — half collapsing on the faded old cushions of the dilapidated furniture.

For a time they sprawled there and Cowboy rocked Bat against him in a funny soothing way. Bat closed his eyes. The traitorous wish occurred that he and Gene would have done this, and then, even more traitorously, he realized he wanted nothing more than to sleep against this strong warm body and not think anymore.

Cowboy kissed his hair and his face and rocked him some more and Bat let himself drift.

He must have fallen deeply asleep because the next thing he knew Cowboy was saying softly, “Rise and shine, Aubrey. I gotta get back and you need some real sleep.”

Bat blinked at him, nodded, and sat up. He ran a hand through his hair.

“All right?” Cowboy asked, and though he spoke brusquely, there was some remaining trace of that unexpected tenderness in his voice.

Bat nodded again. He had no words to express his confusion, his astonishment at what he’d done — what they had done.

They rose and dressed quickly, and then Cowboy went back to the air field and Bat let himself into the lodge.

Madame greeted him with pleasure and Digsby with outright joy. It was not until Bat had been persuaded into sitting down and eating a bowl of hot stew that he realized that Cowboy had still not told him what he had done with Orton’s body.

http://www.mlrbooks.com/ShowBook.php?book=GOLDAGE1

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Excerpt in odf format available to be read here: http://www.mlrbooks.com/AllExcerpts.php?name=excerpt/TGAOGF_excerpt.inc

The Golden Age of Gay Fiction
By Multiple Authors edited by Drewey Wayne Gunn

It was the first great explosion of gay writing in history. These books were about gay characters. They were written mostly by gay writers. Above all, they were for gay readers. And, as this entertaining chronicle of the emergence of gay literary pride makes clear, it was a revolution that occurred several years before Stonewall!

Their characters were mostly out or struggling to get out. The books were definitely out — out on the revolving paperback bookracks in grocery stores, dime stores, drugstores, magazine agencies, and transportation terminals across the nation for youths and senior citizens, in the cities and the rural areas alike, to find and to devour.

Here 19 writers take you on a tour of this Golden Age of Gay Fiction — roughly the period between the first Kinsey Report and the first collection of Tales of the City — paying attention to touchstone novels from the period but, even more, highlighting works of fiction that have been left unjustly to gather dust on literary shelves.

Written by authors, scholars, collectors, and one of the publishers, their essays will inform you. They will sometimes amuse you. They will take you into literary corridors you only suspected were there. And the some 200 illustrations, chosen for their historical as well as their artistic interest, provide a visual record of why this was the golden age.

It is guaranteed that you will emerge from reading this book with a long list of good reads to request from your favorite booksellers!