Monday, November 29, 2010
The Bachelor Machine by M. Christian is a collection of eighteen science fiction erotica short stories. Men, women, hackers, derelicts, enforcers, hustlers, and whores in every combination inhabit the streets and beds and back alleys of Christian's imagination. This is erotic science fiction at its best. And now available in ebook format!
The Bachelor Machine
Circlet Press, Inc. (re-release July 27, 2010)
I almost lost my virginity at fifteen, but his batteries ran low.
He'd showed me the unit, zipped open tight jeans and flashed out the Long Thrust. State, top-of-the-line, implant augmentation. He'd had himself castrated for the best science had to offer. I wanted it. The instant I saw it, the polished, burnishing, gleam of it. I wanted it bad. Now. Hard. Fast.
My squat was old-wired 220 so its juice-pack couldn't take the flow. In playback, wet-memory, I see him--planes of his face dead in the cheap florescents, as he hunts in his bag for the adapter he didn't bring.
In the end, we lit expensive candles and he put his mouth on my cock.
His mouth was shocking wet, not like my dry hand or the spit sometimes to make it easier. It was too slippery, and too hot. I was blazing with shame and self pity, eyes fake closed and instead watching his head dip down. First a quick spray of over-the-counter anti-viral fog, then it was a wet test embrace on my cock, gentle kisses, then a wet socket over my cock.
Brent, friend of my dealer. I'd been taking longer to slip the black market yen, and taking the tiny plastic bags, just to watch him stand and pose: first time spotting was like that first time there in my squat. Thick leathers hiding old cop impact vest, skin-jeans slit to show off log legs, too-tight tee ("YANKEE IMPERIALIST VICTIM") paint on a stone-mason chest, face cragged and street-scarred but with museum planes. Eyes then on the street as they were in my recall of the squat--hidden and refrigerator cool behind convex mirrors of mandatory shades. He may have been handsome, might have made girls wet, boys hard--but I'd heard, and then he'd heard that I'd heard and there in that alley he zipped and flipped it out. Fuck, I wanted it in me right there.
I was smiling when he lifted from my hardening cock. Smiling back at his smiling face, at my smiling face reflected in his shades. We smiled at each other reflected over and over as he gently stroked my cock, kissing it, and sucking a mouthful of the ridged head (Momma thought cutting sanitary).
The squat was cold and my futon too fucking hard on my back. My jeans were bunched around my legs and my back was crooked funny against my pack. So I put my hand on his head and pushed myself down. So mature for that first time, so controlled from the burning pity and disappointment of that unit, dead and powerless between his legs.
Sloped down onto the futon, I let him suck my cock. The kisses got harder, his tongue began to play with the tip, that little hot hold in the end that sometimes felt like prickles and sometimes like warm steel. I was hard from his mouth there, from his hand gently holding and stroking, from his breath stirring the cool skin from my shaved balls and belly. I was deep inside, eyes really closed, letting his hands and mouth work me up and higher and harder.
My balls begin to swell and heat. Something in me wanted, and because, I guess, I let myself put a hand on the crotch of his hot jeans. He closed them on my fingers, trapping them in a denim vice as he made negative moans around my hard cock.
I let him suck more, letting myself burn deep and pissed and disappointed. I felt his teeth slide every inch across the skin of my shaft. I couldn't decide if it was on purpose or accident. And when I thought about it, anticipating it, or trying to block the hardness of his teeth it just added something to it. I was harder and harder.
I wanted something again, I could have what I really wanted but this would do--and from the heat of him on my cock I pushed a sweet little virginal "please" out. I opened my eyes and saw that I had slid myself down to his jeans. I could smell it, that sweet sting-smell of brand-new plastic and his sweat through the thin denim of his jeans. No negative this time. No refusal for the poor virgin boy. The sucking never stopped the teeth didn't glide (so I guessed he must be pretty fucking good at this), but the hands came out and slipped the jeans down.
Made in the best labs in Shadow Tokyo. Fucking pure lines--a curving, shining downward turning tusk of high-impact plastic nested into a shield of gleaming black chrome. I traced the inert row of decorative indicators that ran along the side of the shaft (as he sucked the head of my cock, just the head, stoking me wet and thumbing like a metronome beating against my balls and stomach), feeling their dimples, and wanting them to light. I kissed the dead head of his unit, tasting a lingering of lube from the last time he'd fucked with it (boy, girl, fist, unknown).
He was sucking so hard now--the coolness was gone, and all I could feel was his hot mouth sucking and licking and sometimes (there, there) the hard glide of those special teeth in that trained mouth. His fist was still pumping, and my stomach ached the good hurt of a rough jerk-off.
The head of his unit was a different plastic, something so close to skin I could see with half an eye the unit just a steep pole, an extension of his cock. The head was anatomically correct and lifelike.
I stoked it, wishing so hard that it was juiced up and likewise. I wanted it so bad. Wanted it in my own mouth, wanted to really taste that old lube down deep in my throat. Didn't know how to do it, natch--but knew I could I wanted it so bad. Laying there on the hard futon, smelling of years of mildew, I wanted my virgin ass to take this sweet machine. I wanted it. I could feel it--so hard and buzzing softly with all those marvelous features. Closing my eyes, I could feel it, a great background to his sucking sucking of me. Yeah, I felt it, laying there. Could imagine so perfect, crisp and clear as I raised my ass up to meet it. I closed my eyes and dreamed it--that first great touch of it against my asshole as I opened for it, swallowed it and felt the spasmic vibrators, the asymmetric rhythms, the neural stims all start to work on the inside of my asshole. I imagined him taking me deep and hard, only letting the Long Thrust (the Extension Deluxe Model with the Dynamic Action Features, coupled with the hottest Joy Buzzer software) do some of the fucking. My ass, I thought, would go all jelly, my cock would be, and was, steel. I could feel him slide it into me and out and in and something powerful would start in my ass and it would travel up my spine and out through my cock via my brain--just like they said in their ads on the net -- Fuck, fuck, fuck . . . I wanted it in my ass and I wanted it in my mouth--but the shaft stayed down, the head stayed slightly cold--like a hot-dog from a broken and cold vending machine.
Too late for the reality, I was lost in my fondling, his sucking, the beautiful cockness of the Long Thrust. I felt myself start, felt the rocket start to climb from balls to tip. I could feel the come start to shake and close my eyes. But I kept them open and stared: a Long Thrust Deluxe there, in the crotch of his hairy thighs. This was one--right in front of me. This was one.
Come jetted from the head of my cock, into his sprayed, disinfected mouth. The come was as hard and hurt as much as my fucking cock. My legs danced. He put his hand on my cold chest as he pumped, sucked and jumped his fist along my shaft. I came and coated his mouth with my stickiness.
I came, all wet and sticky, and all I could think of was Long Thrust between his legs--dead, cold and inert.
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Monday, November 22, 2010
The City of Lovely Brothers by Anel Viz is a family saga, the history of Caladelphia Ranch, jointly owned by four brothers, Calvin, Caleb, Calhoun and Caliban Caldwell – how it grew and prospered, and how rivalry between the brothers led to its breaking up and decline. As the story evolves, it focuses on the love affair between the youngest brother, Caliban, who is lame, and Nick, one of their ranch hands, and how their relationship set the stage for the already open feud to explode and ultimately caused the demise of the ranch.
The City of Lovely Brothers
Silver Publishing (November 13, 2010)
Excerpt from Part I, Chapter 9: [Context: Callie, who lives with her husband in Wyoming, returns to the ranch when she learns her 13-year-old brother has broken his hip. Appalled at his condition, she insists on taking him to Billings, where he can be treated by a “city doctor”.]
Sister and brother set out for Billings the first thing in the morning. Darcie and Julia had stayed up all night preparing food for their journey, which they expected would take five days or more, for she would have to drive slowly. Had Caliban had his accident a few years later, they could have gone by train, but the railroad was still under construction. They slid the mattress with him on it onto the swing seat, and his brothers lifted it into the wagon.
Callie fretted the entire way to Billings. If they happened to come to a ranch or a camp for the men building the rail line in late afternoon or early evening, they would spend the night there, but Callie insisted on sleeping beside her brother in the wagon under a tarp. If there was no ranch or railroad camp, they passed the night on the open range on the side of the road. The nights were chilly, but they had taken plenty of blankets, and she slept pressed close to the boy to keep him warm, on his left side because of the brace on the right. Calvin had given her a rifle to protect them against Indians, which she thought ridiculous, but she was glad she had it because one night a wolf came after the horses.
The evening of the fifth day found them about twenty miles from Billings, so she pressed on and they arrived after midnight. Only the saloon was open. She stopped outside it and asked some drunks who were whooping it up in the street if there was a hospital, but she could not get an answer out of them, so she went inside and asked the saloonkeeper.
“The only hospital we got here’s the docs’ houses. We got two o’ them in town” he told her.
“Do any o’ them let patients stay there?”
“Doc Brewster might, and ’e got a surgery, too.”
“How do I get there?”
“He won’t like you waking him up this time o’ night.”
“My kid brother’s outside in the wagon, dying.”
If Doctor Brewster was put out, he did not let on. He had his sons carry Caliban into the surgery at the back of the house on the ground floor. “Let’s have a look,” he said, and removed the blankets. “What in tarnation is that?” he asked, pointing to the brace.
“A brace. Our doctor rigged it up for ’im.”
“That ain’t no brace, Ma’am; it’s a frame. Where’d he get his license, anyway? James, get me the saw, so I can get that damned thing off the boy and examine him properly.”
Doctor Brewster seemed to know what he was doing. “Broken hip, is it?” he said. “Looks bad, too. It’s a damn shame. Such a well-built, fine-looking lad. Is the pain bad?”
“I been giving him these,” Callie said, showing him the pills. “He took one just outside o’ town.”
“Well, at least that doctor of yours knows something.”
Caliban felt he would die of embarrassment lying naked on the table in front of a batch of strangers—Doctor Brewster, his wife, his two sons, and even his daughter, a girl a year or two older than Caliban whom the doctor was training to become a nurse. They talked about him as though he wasn’t there or couldn’t hear them. Except for Caleb, who shared a room with him, no one had seen him naked since he had learned to dress himself, and since his accident just about everyone had. That boys of thirteen tend to be very, if not excessively, modest had not occurred to Callie, and she had shown him off to the people who owned the ranches where they had stopped on their way to Billings, and also to some two dozen men building the railroad.
“Another day and he would’ve lost that leg,” Doctor Brewster said, “but I think I can save it. I can’t promise I will, but I can try. He won’t ever walk again, though, not unless I do more.”
“What more?” Callie asked.
“I’ll have to break the hip again and reset it. What do you say, boy? Shall I do it? It’s your leg. Are you up to it?”
That the doctor had acknowledged his presence and even asked his permission made Caliban feel like a human being again, though one who had been on display. He asked, “Will I be able to walk again?”
“There’s no way of telling, but unless I do, you won’t.”
“Then do it.”
“It’ll hurt, worse than it hurt the first time you broke it. A lot worse.”
“Do it. I don’t wanna be no cripple.”
“I didn’t say you wouldn’t be a cripple. I said you might be able to walk.”
Caliban could not imagine the kind of pain the doctor described, and it terrified him. He was not sure walking again was all that important to him, but he considered it his duty to assert his manhood after having been stared at by all and sundry, so he said, “Do it.”
“You should leave now,” the doctor told Callie. “This isn’t going to be a pretty sight, and it will take a few hours. Don’t worry, boy,” he said to Caliban. “You won’t be awake for all of it. You’ll probably faint dead away when I break it.”
“Can I stay here for the night?” Callie asked. “We just got into town.”
“There’s the hospital room. It has five beds in it, but there are sick men in three of them. Nothing contagious—railroad injuries—but one of them has gangrene. I was thinking I’d have to amputate it in the morning. I hope I can save yours, boy. It’s an awful thing, cutting off a man’s leg.”
“They have rooms over the saloon,” Mrs. Brewster said.
“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to sit up in your parlor tonight. I won’t be able to sleep anyways.”
Mrs. Brewster showed Callie to the parlor. The daughter stayed to assist, and the sons to hold Caliban down. “I’m going to work on saving the leg first,” Callie heard the doctor say as she left the room. “That’s also going to hurt like hell, but nothing like when I get to work on that hip. I’d give you more of those pills if they would do any good, but they take at least an hour to work, and I don’t have any ether. I should have ordered more, what with all the accidents they have working on the new railroad. I just didn’t think of it.”
When he heard the women reach the foot of the stairs, Doctor Brewster turned to his sons and said, “James, get the whisky. A small bottle ought to do it.” He put his hand on Caliban’s hair and stroked it lovingly. “Have you ever tasted whisky, boy? I don’t imagine you have.”
“Well, you’re not going to like how it tastes. Men seldom do the first time they try it. They cough and sputter a lot, and everybody laughs, so they think it isn’t manly to say they don’t. My boys and I don’t drink the stuff ourselves—or they had better not—except as an anesthetic. But it’s a good thing you haven’t tried it. It’ll make you drunk quicker.”
Mrs. Brewster left Callie in the parlor and went to boil water. Then she returned to keep her company. For a while they heard nothing. Then Caliban started screaming.
“I know how hard this is on you,” Mrs. Brewster said. “I couldn’t stand it in the beginning, when I first married Jacob, and the people screaming weren’t even family. It’s something you get used to. Jacob hates it too, but it’s got to be done. You’ll see. Once it’s all over, he’ll treat your brother very gently.”
“I know. I heard what he said about the pills. How long will this go on?”
“I’d tell you if I knew, but I don’t know what he has to do. Maybe an hour or more.”
“Oh, my God. But I’m glad I found a physician as good as your husband.”
“Oh, Jacob’s the best. When he says he’ll try, like he did about saving the leg, he generally does it. But it’s going to be an ordeal. Are you sure you don’t want to get a room at the saloon? This isn’t the worst of it. Those screams will be bloodcurdling once he starts on the hip, and they’ll go on until the poor boy passes out. That could take as long as five minutes, maybe ten.”
“I’d rather be here.”
After half an hour, Callie could take no more, and she went to the saloon. Exhausted, she fell asleep almost immediately, despite her anxiety
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Monday, November 15, 2010
In the newest Elliott Smith Mystery ,Caesar's Fall by Dorien Grey, Elliot has a new building to restore and his relationship with Steve is growing more serious. The last thing Elliott needs is someone else's problem. But when lottery millionaire Bruno Caesar moves into his building, he can't just ignore the man's pleas for help. Then - a mysterious death! And Elliott and John are once again searching for answers.
Publisher: Zumaya Boundless (October 27, 2010)
They arrived at Bruno's at eight-forty-five. As usual, the kitchen door was slightly ajar and the front door partially open. They walked in to find fifteen or twenty people already scattered around the living room, dining alcove, kitchen, and even in the hallway leading to the den and bedrooms. Elliott immediately spotted Cage, Ralph, Chaz, Bruno's "sensei" Clifford Blanton, and several other people he recognized as regulars at Bruno's parties.
But there were, as always, several people he had never seen before, and he again wondered where they came from.
Bruno and Ricky were standing by the dining room table, which had several wrapped gifts on it, talking with Paul and the as-always impeccably dressed Button.
Walking over to greet them and to wish Ricky a happy birthday, Elliott casually laid the envelope next to the other gifts. He'd not seen Rudy but assumed he was coming, and knowing Bruno was probably already worried about a possible confrontation, he didn't want to ask.
"Please," Bruno said, "go get a drink and something to eat."
Rolling the ice cubes around in the bottom of his glass, Button drained the last of his and said, "Allow me to show you the way. Excuse us, all."
As he turned toward the bar, two people Elliott didn't recognize but who had apparently just come in approached the table with an ornately wrapped gift.
He and Steve followed Button to the bar, pausing to exchange a few words with various other guests. Steve pointed out the large buffet spread out on a pair of tablecloth-covered card tables near the bar.
"My God, there's enough food there to feed the Sixth Fleet."
"We should be so lucky!" Button observed. While they waited for the bartender to finish making drinks for the man in front of them, he turned to Elliott and said, "It's none of my business, of course, but do I detect a hint of trouble in Paradise?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, Bruno seems a little…on edge…tonight. Very unlike him. I really hope he and Ricky aren't having problems already. Bruno seems truly devoted to him, but you know how these young kids are."
"I'm sure it's nothing," Elliott said. "Everybody has an off day every now and then."
Button pursed his lips and looked from Elliott to Steve.
"I'm sure you're right," he said, but he did not sound totally convinced.
Paul came over to join them just as they were giving their drink orders to the bartender, and a moment later, Ricky also joined the group. Glancing toward the dining alcove and the gift table, Elliott saw no sign of Bruno.
"A very nice party, Ricky," Steve said.
Ricky grinned. "It is, isn't it? This is my first real birthday party ever! Of course, I don't know very many of the people here, but it's still nice."
"Interesting centerpiece," Steve said, indicating the buffet table where a circular flower arrangement surrounded an empty champagne bottle with a lit white candle dripping small rivulets of different colors over the bottle as it melted.
Blushing, Ricky said "Bruno did that for me. It's the first bottle of champagne we shared, and I kept it. I love it with the candle!"
Elliott smiled to himself when he detected the distinct aroma of Old Spice. Bruno's influence, he assumed.
"Where did Bruno disappear to?" Button asked, looking around the room.
"Rudy came in, and Bruno said he wanted to talk to him privately. I guess they went into the den."
That was quick, Elliott thought.
"Well, I wouldn't let you out of my sight for a second," Button said, laying his hand lightly on Ricky's arm. "A roving band of gypsies could come rushing in and just carry you off! Paul, where did we leave our gypsy costumes?"
* * *
Half an hour or so later, as a small circle of guests, including Ralph, Steve and Button, were talking about the Art Institute's new Modern Wing, Elliott noticed an angry-looking Rudy emerge from the hallway to Bruno's den. Motioning to an of-course-handsome young man with whom he had apparently come, he headed to the front door and left, his companion hurrying after him. A moment later, Bruno appeared, looking less than happy and, oblivious to Clifford Blanton's attempt to catch his attention as he passed, went directly to the bar.
Though Elliott hoped for a chance to talk privately with Bruno to see what had happened during his meeting with Rudy, the opportunity did not present itself. Immediately after getting his drink and speaking briefly to Ricky, Bruno withdrew to one corner of the room with Clifford Blanton for a long and apparently earnest discussion.
Bruno returned to the main group for the opening of the presents and the cutting and serving of the birthday cake, after which the crowd began to thin out. At around eleven-thirty Elliott and Steve sought out Bruno and Ricky to express their thanks and say their goodbyes. Ricky thanked them profusely for the on-order book, and Bruno told Elliott he would call him soon. From the tone in his voice, Elliott gathered he meant very soon.
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Monday, November 8, 2010
Tricks can mean many things: sex partners, deceptions, even magic. In Rick R. Reed searing love story, Tricks, it means all three. Arliss is a gorgeous young dancer at Tricks, the hottest club in Chicago's Boystown. Sean is the classic nerd, out of place in Tricks, but nursing his wounds from a recent break-up. When the two spy each other, magic blooms. But this opposites-attract tale does not run smooth. What happens when Arliss is approached by one of the biggest porn producers in the business? Can he make his dreams of stardom come true without throwing away the only real love he's ever known? And will this question even matter if the mysterious producers realize their dark intentions?
MLR Press (October, 2010)
ISBN: 978-1-60820-214-0 (print)
Arliss had everything he needed right in front of him for that night's performance-hardhat, check, steel-toed boots, check, tool belt, check, black mesh thong with pouch for his rather prodigious endowment, big check. Yes, Arliss was just about ready for his turn on the stage at Tricks, located in Chicago's infamous Boystown neighborhood, at its epicenter on the corner of Belmont and Halsted. He also had before him a tall tumbler of Stoli vodka with just a whisper of cranberry juice cocktail in it for color, and a half-empty pack of Marlboro Ultralights. The latter two items helped the twenty-one-year-old calm himself before a performance, and the vodka in particular went a long way toward reducing backstage jitters.
He lit up a cigarette and regarded himself through the smoke. The lights in the crowded dressing room, which he shared with the other eight or so exotic dancers, were unforgiving. Fluorescent did little to hide any imperfections like rings under the eyes, reddened noses from too much partying, and, for those on their way out of the club, track marks on the arms. But Arliss didn't have to worry about signs of drug abuse showing up on his person. He had learned to just say no a long time ago, in a manner that he preferred not to dredge up, at least not now, when he was trying to put himself in a cheerful, high-energy mode.
The face that looked back at him was young, handsome, and vital. Arliss had a shock of white blond hair that stuck up in a manner reminiscent of rocker Billy Idol back in his glory days, before Arliss was even born. Both ears sported piercings-from one a single razor blade, cast in sterling, dangled; from the other, three hoops crawled up the side of his ear, growing smaller as they ascended. Arliss had full lips, sharp cheekbones, a cleft in his chin, and the most piercing ice blue eyes in the Midwest (or so he had been told). The only thing that marred his nearly perfect face was a gap between his front teeth, which he comforted himself by saying that the space gave him character. Cigarette clenched between his teeth, he struggled into his costume, ending by stuffing his dick into the pouch that protruded from his black thong. His member stuck out in such a way that invited grasping hands, which is what Arliss wanted, as long as there was cash in those hands to stuff the thong even more fully.
Attired in a costume that would make the construction worker from the Village People look demure, Arliss turned in front of the mirror to ensure he was the perfect fantasy specimen of pornographic machismo. He was grateful he had added the angel wing tattoo to his back and the snakes that twisted around each bicep. And the one on his chest, the tiny heart with the name "Helena" in it, always brought a lump to his throat-or a splash of bile to the back of it, depending on his mood and how forgiving he felt.
But now was not the time for being sentimental! Arliss was glad for the tattoos because they added a bit of manliness to his six-foot-two inch frame that held only 160 pounds in weight. He was what the older men at Tricks referred to as a twink and, thankfully, was a desirable commodity in some circles.
He set the cigarette down in a tin ashtray and took a swig of vodka. He could feel as much as hear the heavy bass of the techno music playing in the bar and knew that Antonio, a Puerto Rican dude with a shaved head and heavy stubble, was probably just about finished with his set, which meant his boxing ensemble cluttered the small stage.
Arliss would come out, dance briefly and flirtatiously with Antonio, and then have the stage to himself. He didn't know how he did it, night after night, but somehow he managed. He had always been the shyest boy in Ruskin, Florida, where he had grown up. If they could see me now... Well, if they could see me now, they'd probably still call me a fag and try to beat the crap out of me. Once again, my dear, now is not the time for sentimentality. He took another swig of vodka, draining the glass and feeling the warmth of the liquor as it spread through his chest and extremities. Show time!
Arliss hurried to the door that separated the cramped dressing room from the bar proper. Tricks didn't really have a stage, although the dancers liked to think of the bar upon which they danced as one. It was Friday night and, from the burble of conversation beneath the pounding beat, sounded as though they had a good crowd. He sucked in a breath, looked down at his perfectly smooth pale skin and six-pack abs and told himself he was gorgeous.
"Don't forget to smile, Toots! You always look like some gloomy Gus out there!" Leave it to Emmett Myers, owner of Tricks and Arliss' boss, to try and unsettle him just before he went on stage.
Arliss flashed the man a big, Farrah Fawcett smile. If the prissy older man with the pencil moustache recognized it as fake, he gave no indication.
"There! That's what they like to see! For heaven's sakes, you have to remember that if they think you're having a good time, they'll have a good time. And a good time means more money for all of us."
Arliss listened as the song wound down, morphing into yet another bass beat that signaled him it was time to stride out through the door, amble across the crowded room, ignore the covert feels and pinches he got as he made his way to the bar, and climb up on it to join Antonio in front of the crowd.
This moment, just before he went out, was always almost surreal. He felt as though he became someone else when he opened that door, or more properly, that his everyday world changed when he opened it. It was kind of like when Dorothy opened the door when she touched down in Oz and saw the color-filled Munchkinland, but instead of munchkins, his world was populated with bitter old queens, alcoholics, and trolls trying to put some oomph into their libidos by staring at boys young enough to be their sons.
"Get out there, gorgeous! Shake your groove thing!" Emmett cackled and placed a hand on Arliss' back to propel him forward. Just as much to get the hand off his back as to get to the stage, Arliss threw open the door, plastered on a big smile, threw his shoulders back and strode through the crowd, keeping his eye on the narrow strip of bar that would, for the next fifteen minutes, be his stage.
* * *
Sean didn't know what he was doing in Tricks. It was the kind of bar he never frequented. Hell, he rarely frequented any bars, period. He felt out of place among these older men, all of them leering at the strippers. He supposed he couldn't fault these men for coming here. The strippers, after all, were the bar's reason for being-providing "adult" entertainment...and to charge outrageously high prices for watered down cocktails.
I mean, really, eight dollars for a vodka and tonic? And the vodka wasn't even a call brand! Sean peered into the clear liquid, with its bubbles, slice of lime, and more than generous helping of ice cubes, and wondered again what could have possessed him to set foot inside this place. Tricks was a sleazy bar, a destination where he was certain the boys on stage probably made offstage deals with the clientele for more intimate, and less legal, behavior. It was the kind of place he and his friends once made fun of, painting the characters who frequented it with terms like "desperate" and "lecherous."
So what was he doing here? On a Friday night, no less, when other gay men his own age, thirty something, were on the prowl in countless other places on Halsted and further north, in the newer crop of bars in the neighborhood known as Andersonville.
He shook his head, knowing exactly what had brought him here. He stared morosely into his drink, the men around him hooting and catcalling as the next dancer hoisted himself up on the bar to begin his routine. The boy (to call him a man, really, would have been a stretch) was what was known in gay parlance as a twink. He barely looked old enough to drink, let alone wag his weenie at the patrons to a Lady GaGa beat. Was this kid really of legal age? Really? Sure, he had the requisite tattoos and piercings of a professional wrestler, and his smooth, almost hairless body was firm and well-defined, but Sean had to wonder what would compel someone so young to make his living in a way Sean had always thought of as demeaning.
And if what the kid's selling is demeaning, what does that make you? Sean preferred not to think about it. Just as he preferred not to think about Jerome, his accountant boyfriend who had just dumped him on Wednesday. He preferred not to recall that Jerome, his lover of three years, had responded to Sean's suggestion that they move in together with cliches. I need my space. I'm feeling suffocated. I think we should see other people. And worst of all-it's not you, it's me. Sure, Jerome. Knock yourself out. Even you don't believe that crap. I could see it in your eyes; those wonderful amber green eyes that could change from light to dark with your mood. You were just waiting for an opening, a way to break up with me. I gave it to you when I pressed you, telling you how my lease was up the following month and wouldn't it be so lovely if we moved in together. Um...apparently not. Sean was forced to come to the conclusion that could also couch itself in yet another cliche: he's just not that into you.
And so Sean, walking home from his job as a catalog copywriter for an automotive retailer this warm August night, had been drawn to the neon outside Tricks and the raucous sounds of male voices as he passed the bar. Oblivion, he thought, a little forgetfulness is just what I need. The bar, with its promise of cheap thrills, alcohol, and who knew what, was in the business of offering oblivion at a price. He had the money and he certainly had the motivation.
So he went inside, found a seat at the bar that had just been vacated by a man with a reddish beard, potbelly, and stained tank top, and ordered up the drink he currently nursed.
He didn't want to think about Jerome, about being rejected, about entering the "dating scene" again. He didn't want to think that, at thirty-seven, he was on the downhill slide to forty. He lifted his glass to his lips, took a long swallow, and signaled the bartender for a second one. It would take a lot of these to wipe out Jerome, if only for the night. And tomorrow? He would be right back where he started, except he'd probably be nursing an aching head and a nauseous stomach.
He knew he should just get up from the bar stool on legs that were still steady and head home to his apartment and his live-in lover-an overweight black and white cat named Bergamot who was always willing to pay attention to him when no one else seemed up to the task. He shook his head, imagining his lonely evening eating a Lean Cuisine, watching recorded episodes of Glee, Bergamot perched on the back of the couch.
It was enough to make him stay put and, simply for something to do, he turned his gaze to the boy on the bar, who was moving his hips suggestively, trying to make eye contact with everyone in the room all at once, and grinning like he was having the best time a boy could have this side of having an orgasm..
The boy was beautiful, Sean had to admit, in his own sordid, runaway sort of manner. His eyes were a piercing blue that somehow, when focused on Sean for the briefest of moments, made him feel he was the only guy in the room. But there was something otherworldly about him too, almost a glow, something that went far beyond his vitality and youth. It was as though he were performing to some inner music, something lurid and sexual to be sure, but far better than the tired disco crap, with its relentlessly repetitive beat with which he seemed to be forced to work.
Sean wondered what the kid thought about as he went through the motions of what could only loosely be defined as dancing. Did he really like being here? Why had he chosen this life over something with a more promising future, like college or some sort of employment that didn't involve shedding his clothes? Did he do it out of desperation? Was he on drugs? What kind of home had he come from?
Or was it that he was using to his best advantage what he had to work with? Sean had to admit-and the little man down below, the one between his legs, raised his purple head to agree-that the boy was sexy, extremely so. He had about him something that was at once alluring and needy: you wanted to take this boy in your arms and comfort him; you also wanted to fuck the shit out of him and slap his ass and whisper foul nothings in his ear as you thrust into him. Sean squirmed as his little man lengthened and thickened to his full size, which was actually about six and a half inches, and not the eight he claimed in various online profiles before he had met Jerome.
The boy shed the tool belt he wore, letting it drop to the bar's surface with a thud, then the hard hat, finally swaying in nothing more than a black mesh thong and steel-toed boots. His legs were long, lean, and well-muscled, and like every other letch in the bar, Sean could not keep his eyes off the boy's member, which bounced around in front of him like a mini baseball bat, looking absurd and breathtakingly tantalizing at the same time. Sean didn't know whether to laugh or just open his mouth and drool. How big was that thing, anyway? This boy, Sean was sure, would not have to lie about having eight inches. From the basis of the flaccid member barely concealed, the boy could honestly claim all that...and maybe even more.
Sean felt heat rise to his face as he gulped at his drink, finding the tall glass contained only ice. Where was that bartender?
And now the boy was moving along the bar, smiling and squatting down with those same magnificent legs spread, exhorting the bar revelers to stuff his thong with dollar bills.
He had no shortage of takers. Sean wondered what he pulled in during an evening, in tips alone. The bills were testing the elastic of the thong's waistband and a few errant bills would slip to the stage; the boy would discreetly snatch them up and hold them in his hand as he made his way down this lascivious receiving line, letting the patrons dip their hands inside the thong to ensure that what he had on display was real. Sean assumed it was-no way to fake that. He also let them pat his ass, running their hands over its smooth contours. When Sean watched one guy wet his finger and slip it inside the boy's butt, he decided he'd had enough.
This wasn't for him. It never was.
He climbed down from the bar stool and headed into the summer night, perfumed with exhaust from the traffic, already heavy along Belmont and Halsted.
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Monday, November 1, 2010
The main character in this excerpt from Mykola Dementiuk's Murder in Times Square thought all he wanted that weekend was some flirting, some excitement and a little sex on the side, but he was trapped when he walked into Connie’s arms. A young woman who happened to be not a lover, but a killer who used men like her empty bottles of booze, discarded as another was picked up and drained.
Murder in Times Square
Extasy Books (October 15, 2010)
As usual, no matter the weather, 42nd Street was alive and crowded. The continuous movie arcades gave some shelter from the rain, which had let up somewhat, but people kept on coming onto 42nd Street. This was New York City and this was its playground, a real playground for adults… Ah, the story of sexual life in the Big Apple, it goes on and on…
I walked with Connie down 42nd Street, her dark-hosed legs drawing attention from the passersby and once more giving me a nice hard-on. Oh shit. I shook my head. Will probably cum before I can stick it in her.
Grant’s Bar was very crowded. It being a Sunday, all the seats and tables were filled with people, eating, drinking and laughing. I wondered where I would fit in. When she ordered drinks, we were standing at the crowded bar, but I didn’t want any. “Just a beer,” I said. She looked at me like I was losing it, but I didn’t care. Gin and tonics were her usual drinks now, which she paid from a bill she had separated from the bills she had left over from the other day. Good thing I hadn’t taken any of her money, but I didn’t say anything. After her red-faced response to Clem, it was obvious to what she’d been doing on the side. I shrugged. So what? I didn’t care, as long as I got mine.
We sipped our drinks, making small talk and gazing over the crowd, when someone called her name.
“Connie!” a high-pitched voice cried, “Miera! Where ‘ya been?”
It was an obvious Hispanic transvestite--as Miera means look here--who was making her way past the crowds, giggling, leering, but impatient to get to Connie and tell her the news. Not a bad looker at that. Nice hairdo and pretty made-up face, but the makeup couldn’t disguise the stubble that could be seen close up on her chin. Within a few more hours, she couldn’t pretend what she/he was. Still, my mouth was open as a few times as I saw the tops of her fake breasts peeking out.
“Cheeka! Where ‘ya been?” she squealed again. “Did you hear about Paco? Muerta! He got killed!”
I froze, like something had gone through me, but didn’t come out the other side.
“No!” Connie equally squealed. “Oh, my God, what happened?”
I nervously looked at Connie, but she had fallen into a Spanish conversation and held the drink to her lips, taking little sips. The Hispanic transvestite, Yvonne she called herself, talked with a lot of clicks and lisps, an over-exaggerated mimic of girlwannabe, but something I would’ve wanted if it had not been for this murder shit. But I was getting me in deeper with every minute that was passing and somehow I was losing it. I hadn’t fucked Connie yet--just the fleeting insertion at the subway station followed by a few jerk off sessions that had gotten me nothing. Now here was Yvonne, an obvious blowjob queen who was used to being treated like royalty and which I was more than willing to cater to her every whim. But that was before I had my, our, run-in with Paco. Jesus Christ! I glared at Connie. It’s not my fault but hers, the bitch!
Connie and Yvonne had their heads close together, talking low to each other and Yvonne was looking at me, her mouth open.
“I swear,” I heard Connie say, glancing at me. “I know, it doesn’t show, but he’s very dangerous.”
Connie nodded and Yvonne said nothing, just kept staring at me, her eyes widening. I smiled and a few times ran my tongue over my lips. Without a word to me, Yvonne slowly got up and went to rejoin her friends at a table not far from us.
I shrugged, “What’s with her?” I asked, sipping my beer and hoping I could see those false breasts again, but didn’t.
“Nothing,” Connie said, quickly finishing her drink. “Let’s get outta here.”
When I next looked at Yvonne and her transvestite friends, they were looking at me and rapidly talking. Connie said nothing so I shrugged and followed her out.
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