Monday, June 27, 2011

Awake excerpts by Nancy Garden, Robin Reardon, Jordan Taylor & Brian Katcher

Awake is a collection of four novellas: A girl trapped in a war between her school, her church, and her own family. A boy facing the pain of injustice and prejudice in the same rush as new love. A town shocked by the death of a young person, while one alone knows why. A loner fighting a losing battle inside, terrified by society, longing for respect.

Poignant, funny, tragic, uplifting. Awake brings together the voices of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender teens through four gifted authors, including Nancy Garden (author of the groundbreaking Annie on My Mind), Robin Reardon, Jordan Taylor and Brian Katcher. All have donated their time and talents to Awake and The Trevor Project.

The Trevor Project is the nation’s leading organization dedicated to ending suicide among LGBTQ youth. All net publisher proceeds from the sale of this book will benefit The Trevor Project.

Title: Awake
Editor: Tracey Pennington
Authors: Nancy Garden, Robin Reardon, Jordan Taylor, Brian Katcher
Publisher: Cheyenne Publishing
ISBN: 978-0-9828267-6-8

Excerpt from Worth Waiting For (by Nancy Garden)

The four of us try to stick together all day, although it’s not easy, since we don’t have many classes together. Bianca and Molly and I are all in the same enormous gym class. Molly and I are in English together, and I’m in math with Jackson.

Nothing very exciting happens until dismissal. As the four of us head out, I notice that the bulletin board in the main corridor has a bunch of sign-up sheets on it. One’s headed ACTIVITIES, which makes me think “GSA,” which in turn puts me into an annoying cold sweat. But I detour to it anyway, and Molly follows.

I skim down the list and there it is: Rainbow Gay-Straight Alliance, in big, bold letters. Under that it says, “For LGBTQ students and their straight allies.”

“Hmm.” Molly’s scanning the other sign-up sheets. “Lots of good stuff on the Arts list. I think I’ll try Sketching Club. I’m kind of weak in drawing.” She signs up for it, then turns to me. “How about you? Hey, look,” she adds, “Your friend Bianca Sokol’s signed up for the Gay-Straight Alliance.” She sounds surprised.

My mouth’s already turned so dry I’m not sure I’m going to be able to answer. “Yeah.” I clear my throat and try to look casual as I fish in my pack for a pencil. But I’m not sure I want to sign up while she’s watching.

“Wow,” Molly says softly. “Cool.”

I find, but don’t take out, the pencil. Coward, I scold myself silently. Why am I so nervous? It’s not as if Molly’s going to squeal to Mom.

“There was a GSA in my old school,” Molly says, like it’s just normal conversation. “They put on The Laramie Project last year. Lots of kids were in it.”

I nod. I make my fingers close around the pencil.

“You know, the play about the murder in Wyoming of that gay kid, Matthew Shepard? It’s really powerful.”

I nod again. “Were you—” I sputter as I’m trying to figure out how to stop my heart from beating so loudly. “Were you in it?”

“No.” She’s watching me really closely now, but maybe I’m imagining that. “I was on stage crew.”

I realize I’m rolling the pencil between my thumb and index finger. Coward, I scold myself again, and I take a deep breath.

“I’ve read The Laramie Project, but I’ve never seen it,” I say carefully. “That was a horrible thing, that murder.”

Molly nods. “That poor guy! What he went through must have been terrifying.” She glances back at the Arts list and erases her signature there. “Sketching Club’s the same time as the GSA,” she explains, “and I’d rather be in the GSA.”

Whoa! Does that mean anything, I wonder?

“Besides,” she’s saying, “at least I’ll already know someone else, since Bianca’s signed up.”

You have to understand that kids are weaving themselves around us on their way out to the buses, and some of them are trying to get to the sign-up sheets. Pretty soon we’ve been elbowed halfway to the doors, and Jackson’s rushing past us and saying “Come on, you two. Green Lake’s bus is honking!”

So I shove my way back into the crowd and, with what feels like half the school looking on, I put my name under Molly’s on the GSA sign-up sheet.

Excerpt from A Line in the Sand by Robin Reardon

Monday. And it’s sunny again, thank God. That means the parentals go golfing and I go to the beach. And so will handsome hunk, I’m hoping.

He’s already in the water before I get there, and I’m there pretty early. I’ve brought a lime-green beach towel to make it easier for him to spot me, and I choose an umbrella farther up the beach than yesterday, a little closer to the Marriott. Still, it’s maybe forty-five minutes before the wimpy waves carry him close enough for me to be sure he’s seen me. I’m staring right at him—no time to be coy—and he stares back so long that he nearly loses his board. He retrieves it and heads out again, but I can tell that even though the waves are pushing him down the beach a little, in my direction and away from the Marriott, he’s taking no pains to stay in front of the resort. In fact, it seems he’s allowing the waves to push him as directly toward me as possible.


He’s pretending that he doesn’t care that I’m watching him, and since the waves aren’t providing a lot of surfing opportunities, he starts doing this thing near the edge of the water where he throws the board forward, sideways to the shore, and then jumps on it to see how long he can ride it. It’s like practice surfing, I guess. Anyway, I can tell he’s showing off, and that he wants me to notice him.

So now I drop the intensity of my stare, aiming at nonchalance but happy to project “mildly interested.” But he stays in the water instead of approaching me, so I jam in my earbuds, lie back, and close my eyes.

And then there’s sand all over me.

I sit up, scared, furious, and yank my shades off and my earbuds out. My gorgeous gay guy has just kicked sand at me! I’m about to yell “What the fuck?” at him when he laughs. But he’s not laughing at me. In fact, he’s holding a hand out.

“Come on. Wash it off in the ocean.”

He lets go of my hand as soon as I’m on my feet and races toward the water. I just stare after him, hands on hips, wanting to follow but not wanting to be told what to do. Who does he think he is, anyway? And what is he, still ten years old? If I wore my hair in pigtails, would he yank on them? I weigh my options and come up pretty empty on the point-of-pride side, so I walk slowly forward, doing my best to look sexy but not cheap (it’s a fine line), keeping my eyes on him. He looks toward me a few times, probably to make sure I’m following, but he spends most of his time underwater. Which makes me nervous. I like wading, even “wading” up to my shoulders, but I’m not a swimmer. Or a diver. I’ll have to keep my distance in case his list of pranks includes dunking people, and so I can make my escape with some dignity if this turns out to be a bad idea. I don’t even know this guy’s name, let alone whether he’s actually some jerk.

When I’m about twenty feet from him, he stops diving and just watches my face as I approach. With maybe six feet between us, I stop.

“Sand all gone?” he says.

I give him a glance, let a beat or three go by; I don’t want to seem eager. “The last guy who kicked sand on me paid a price.”

“Oh?” He spits out a bit of wave that throws itself into his mouth. “What price was that?”

There had been no price. But I don’t have to admit that. “Nothing you want to have to pay. That’s all I’ll say.”

The distance between us is shrinking, and not because I’m moving.

“My name’s Randy. What’s yours?”


“Glad to meet you, Dustin.” We bounce once or twice with passing waves. “Are you from South Carolina?”

“No. Georgia.”

He nods. “I guess the accents are the same.”

They’re not, but the nuance of southern speech is not where I want to go from here. “And you? Where’s home?”


“So we’re both here on vacation, it would seem.”

His grin makes me think he’s amused by me, somehow. “It would seem. In fact, I’m here with my parents. My sister is doing an internship for school, so she couldn’t come.”

So that must have been his mother with him Saturday, but I don’t want to ask; I don’t want to admit I was watching him that closely. Still trying to play it cool. “I’m here with my folks, too. They’re out golfing.”

“So’s my dad. D’you golf?”

I shake my head. “No. My father really wants me to, but it looks so boring.”

“I like it sometimes. Just not as much as my dad.”

We bounce with a few more waves. Then he asks, “D’you like to walk along the beach?”

My turn to look amused. “And getting caught in the rain. And moonlit nights. I’m into theatre and fashion, and I’m looking for a man with a great sense of humor.”
Maybe at some point in my life I’ll learn to think about what I say before I say it. I’m pretty sure he’s gay, based on the look he gave me the first time he approached—and the way he held his hand out to me after covering me with sand—but am I sure? Am I really, really sure? Because if I’m not, telling him I’m looking for a male romantic partner is a risk. It’s too late to take it back, though, so I decide to be philosophical; better to know now, right? Thank God, he laughs. His laugh is infectious, and I’m grinning despite my determination not to. He says, “Have you ever noticed that people think someone else has a great sense of humor when it’s exactly like their own?”

You know that line that goes, You had me at hello? Well, Randy has me at insightful. I say, “Good point. Shall we find out how similar ours are?”

He’s still grinning, but his eyes are intense. In a good way. I’m hoping someday he’ll be able to say, He had me at insinuating. I don’t say anything; I turn and head toward the shore, trying to make pushing through the waves look effortless and casual. He follows me, this time.

Excerpt from Shattered Diamonds by Jordan Taylor

Days become weeks while I tell no one about Jeremy. In a town of four thousand, I am the only one who knows why Jeremy Madden’s ashes are scattered over the lake, rather than the living Jeremy walking its shore.

It took time to learn what happened. Before, I only knew one side of the story. But that is not why I haven’t told. I tell myself he didn’t want them to know. I tell myself it’s over; there is nothing I can do. The truth—that tiny, precise spark which occasionally crosses my path—is that I do not know how to face his mother and say, “I killed your son.”

Tell me how. Show me how to look into the eyes of a stranger and justify death like a science experiment. I do not know where to begin. I cannot face death as Jeremy did—without looking back. I cannot look forward into the eyes of pain.

So I write this. Because I don’t know what else to do. But I have to do something.

+ + +

Jeremy moved to town with his mother and what fit in her ancient station wagon on an August day so hot the tar at the end of the driveway felt like melted mozzarella. Mom made chicken salad and homemade rolls bundled in a white kitchen towel.

“Come meet the new neighbors with me,” she called into the family room, where I had a game on.

“What new neighbors?”

“Down on Crescent.”

“That’s three blocks from us. They’re not our neighbors.”

“Everyone’s a neighbor to everyone here. Come on.”

“That’s okay. You go without me.”

It wasn’t until the first day of school, a week later, that I got a good look at Jeremy Madden. A pale, skinny kid, Jeremy slunk into class with a backpack so crammed with heavy books he appeared to be nearly tipping over. His baggy jeans had holes in the knees. His tennis shoes looked too tattered to last through the day. He was not the smallest guy in tenth grade, but he looked it—the way he hunched over, meeting no one’s eyes, as if trying to hide.

Nick and Logan followed me to our usual table at lunch. When we reached it, Jeremy Madden sat at one corner, alone, bent over a sandwich from home. A brown paper bag lay next to him on the table.

“Hey,” I snapped. He did not react as we approached. “Hey, new kid,” I said, louder. “Beat it. This is our table.”

Jeremy glanced up from his sandwich—two slices of dry bread with what looked like a single slice of bologna and mayonnaise between them. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “There wasn’t anywhere else to sit.”

“This isn’t a place to sit either, noob,” Nick said. “This table is reserved.”

Jeremy glanced around. “I don’t see a sign.”

I blinked and stared at him. “You don’t seem to understand how things work here, so we’ll be nice today. But if you don’t move—now—we might change our minds.”

Jeremy’s eyes flicked from one face to the next. I thought he would look scared. He should have looked scared. But Jeremy, his eyes like empty blue pools, stared at us, one after the other. At last, he stood with his lunch and walked away.

“Insolent little prick,” Nick said as he took his seat.

Logan sat across from him. I stepped to the table, but turned to watch Jeremy.

“What’s wrong?” Logan asked.

“Nothing.” I sat down.

“New guy’s living near you,” Nick said. “That old shack Ted Benson rents out. It’s a pit. Thought the fire department was going to practice on it.”

“Did you see his shoes?” Logan asked. “I’m surprised they can afford to rent a doghouse.”

“They can’t,” Nick said. “That’s why they’re living in Ted’s place.”

We all laughed.

Excerpt from Pervert by Brian Katcher

Carefully, carefully, he began to walk to the living room. It was difficult. If only he could try this more often, he could develop the grace in heels that seemed to come naturally to his mother and sister. As things stood, he could only practice once a month at best.

If I hadn’t been so concerned with balance, would I have heard her in time? He asked himself that in the months that followed. But he didn’t hear anything until it was too late. By the time he was aware of his sister’s voice, she was at the front door. He attempted to run, and stumbled. His sister was home early! And she was talking to someone! Twisting his ankle, he only regained his feet when the door opened.

His sister, thank God for small mercies, was talking distractedly on her cellular phone. At least she was alone. Maybe she won’t notice.

Holly stopped talking mid-sentence when she noticed her brother, standing there exposed in the living room, wearing their mother’s clothes.

After a moment, she laughed.

If the boy hadn’t been on the verge of tears, he might have noticed that it wasn’t a mocking laugh. It was the laugh of someone amused, as if Holly had caught him singing along with the radio. Shaking her head, his sister resumed her conversation and disappeared into her room.

The boy fell to the floor in his rush to remove the pumps. Within seconds, he was sitting on the bathroom floor, ripping off the blouse, kicking away the skirt, tearing off the lingerie. Fear and shame fought for his attention. HOLLY KNEW! She knew her brother was sick! How would she handle it? With hateful words and eternal scorn? With mocking cruelty? Or would she deny what she’d seen, pretend it hadn’t happened, but always know and always hate him? Would she…tell anyone?

He thought of running away…but where would he go? Maybe, maybe, he could control things. Tell his sister he’d just been…been what? Practicing for a play? Not likely. Trying on a Halloween costume, three months early? No. Curious? He might have to risk that. She’d still be disgusted, of course, but if he lied convincingly enough, maybe she’d think it was a one-time thing.

Tears began to dot the panties he’d discarded on the bathroom tile. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He had to face the music. Find out how low she thought he was. He pulled on his male clothes.

Timidly, his arm shaking with black horror, he knocked at her door. It swung open at his touch. His sister was dialing her cellular phone. How can she be making calls at a time like this? Unless…oh sweet Jesus, no!

“Hello, Jessica?” Jessica was her best friend. “You’ll never guess what I just saw…”

Only the effort to keep himself from vomiting prevented him from crying out. For a few seconds, all he could do was keep his gorge down. Why, why does she have to tell the world about me?

She continued on the phone. “Stephanie, you know her? She was kissing Cameron. Yes, Cynthia’s Cameron! No, she doesn’t know…” His sister looked up and saw him in the doorway. Making the ‘just a second’ motion with her two fingers, she continued gossiping.

At least…at least she wasn’t spreading the word. Then again, why would she? What girl would want her friends to know about her brother, the sicko?

His sister continued her inane chatter for several more minutes. He half-hoped the conversation would go on forever so he’d never face her, and half-hoped she’d hang up soon so as to end the agony. At long last, she rang off.

“Holly,” he choked, wondering where to begin. “About what you just saw…”

He never expected her to answer the way she did. Giving him a brief raspberry, she laughed. “Didn’t expect me home tonight, did ya? Now calm down. You were just messing around, don’t sweat it.”

Could he have been that lucky? Was she just blowing the whole episode off as an experiment?


“C’mon. I bet every guy in the world has tried on a dress at least once, just to see how it feels. That is what you were doing, right?”

“Of course!” He prayed his relief wasn’t too obvious.

“So there you go. Hell, I’ve stuck a roll of socks down my panties to see what it’d look like. Everyone wonders. Now go hang up Mom’s clothes before she blames me.”

The boy returned to the bathroom. Turning on the tap full blast, he wept with relief.
That night he lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling until the sun peeked through his window. He had escaped. His sister had seen him and didn’t realize what he had been doing. She had thought he was simply satisfying his curiosity. She never suspected the dark, weird reason behind his actions. He had been so very fortunate.

As he finally drifted off to sleep with the dawn, he realized that his old companions, fear and shame, now had a new friend. One that was much more subtle, much more cunning and maybe even much crueler. Its name was hope. It was an emotion he’d never dared experience before.
The Trevor Project:

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Monday, June 20, 2011

Guardian Angel of South Beach excerpt by Neil Plakcy

The Guardian Angel of South Beach by Neil Plakcy is about Leo, a computer programmer who believes that if he can build his body up, he’ll find the man of his dreams.

The Guardian Angel of South Beach
Loose-ID (August 24, 2010)
ISBN: 978-1-60737-854-9


The two men walked out of the shower as I stood in front of a locker at the gym getting dressed. Both were naked, with white towels slung around their necks, their hair wet, droplets glistening on their toned bodies.

Ray, the blond, was the kind of man I liked -- at least six-four, broad shouldered, and muscular, with a flat stomach and an uncircumcised dick that looked like a fire hose. “I’m telling you, man, you’ve got to see this dude,” he said in a low voice.

The redhead, Lincoln, wasn’t quite so well endowed, either with muscles or genitalia. He was pale and slim, with a thatch of auburn hair running down his chest and into his groin. “I don’t know. It sounds kind of sketchy,” he said.

I’d seen both of them working out at my gym -- a place on South Beach that had been redone with snazzy graphics, lots of mirrors, and a slew of new machines. Ray was a power lifter, while Lincoln stuck to spinning and aerobics. Both were about my age, late twenties, and I’d heard Ray talk before about being a bouncer at one of the fancy clubs. Lincoln was a photographer’s assistant and sometime model.

Both of them were out of my league. I’m not bad looking; I’ve been told for years that I have a handsome face. But my body never carried through on the promise of my high cheekbones, dark eyes, and prominent chin. I strained to hear the two guys, who’d begun to get dressed just a few lockers away from me. “Just give it a try,” Ray said. “His name is Pedro, and he works out of an apartment over the bodega on Fourteenth Street.”

I knew the little Cuban grocery he meant; it was on my way home from the gym, and I often stopped there for fresh fruit for smoothies. “These pills he gives you,” Ray continued. “They make you bigger. Everywhere.”

His gaze went down to his crotch as he pulled on minuscule bikini briefs, and mine followed. His equipment was awesome, and if I could have, I’d have dropped to my knees and taken him in my mouth right there in the locker room. But I’m the scrawny kind of guy that those buffed dudes never give a second look to.

It was tough living on South Beach, where every guy was more handsome, hunkier, and sexier than the next. I didn’t have the time for hours in the gym, and I ate too much fast food to keep my weight down. I had skinny arms and legs, a paunchy stomach, and a dick on the small side of average. Every other man around me was model handsome, leaving me in the second, sometimes even third, tier when it came to man candy.

Sure, I got laid now and then -- late on a Saturday night, when standards dropped faster than the ball on New Year’s Eve. But I couldn’t attract the kind of men I wanted -- men like Ray, a hunk of prime beef with thighs like tree trunks, washboard abs, and a dick of death.

I’d turned twenty-eight a few weeks before and felt ready for a change. I liked my job as a software engineer for a firm in downtown Miami. But my social life was in the doldrums. I just couldn’t compete with the younger, better-built guys who crowded the clubs.

On my way home from the gym, I passed by the bodega. I gathered up some bananas, strawberries, and mangoes, and a pineapple. The woman behind the counter stuffed them all in a cheap plastic bag, and I handed her the money. As I was walking out, though, I saw the staircase that led to the second floor.

“Pedro,” Ray had said. He must have been peddling some kind of illegal steroids to beef up Ray so much. But every steroid I’d heard of lessened your sexual desire. I’d never heard of one that made your dick bigger. Then again, there were all these strange South American herbs, pills coming out of Brazil, Colombian potions, and Venezuelan tonics. What did I have to lose?

I climbed the stairs. The door at the top was open, and when I looked inside, I saw a small, wizened man in a stained white guayabera. The hair on his head was sparse, and his nose was too big for his face. “?” he asked.

My Spanish is rudimentary, at best. I can ask for a cerveza and an enchilada, and that’s about it. I started to ask, then simply flexed my pitiful biceps. “Ah, sí,” the man said. He looked me up and down, then waved his hand, indicating that I should close the door behind me. I did. Then he pantomimed taking off my shirt.

We were in some kind of sitting room, a ratty couch along one wall, a small TV, a couple of chairs, some big pillows laid out on the floor. The walls were papered with cutouts from fitness magazines, beefy guys flexing and posing. There was salsa music playing low in the background, and I smelled garlic. I wondered what kind of operation Pedro was running.

But I figured what the hell, he probably needed to see the muscles I was starting with. I pulled my shirt off, embarrassed to have so little to show for all my work in the gym. But the old guy didn’t say anything, just appraised my chest and nodded. Then he motioned for me to unzip.

When I hesitated, he waved his hand again, like he didn’t have all day. Old guy sitting up there by himself, and it was like I was taking up his time. I frowned, but I opened my shorts and let them fall to the floor. “El miembro viril,” he said, pointing.

I’ve lived in Miami long enough to know what that meant. He wanted to see my dick.

I remembered Ray, how he’d said whatever this little man did had made his dick bigger. I skinned my briefs down, then stepped out of them and my shorts. I couldn’t have been more embarrassed. My dick was half-hard, dangling to the right, and the man looked me up and down.

Then he motioned that I should dress again, and he turned to his table. While I pulled my clothes back on, he busied himself with a batch of pills. He used an old-fashioned mortar and pestle to grind some things together and then poured it all out onto a piece of paper. He decanted the contents of the paper into a series of little capsules and sealed them together with some kind of liquid that melted the edges.

When he was all done, there were fourteen capsules there. “Cuánto?” I asked, pulling out my wallet.

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “No dinero.”

He stood up and unzipped his pants. My mouth dropped open when I saw the trouser snake he’d been hiding. It was every bit as large as Ray’s, though it seemed larger because the man himself was so small.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. I wasn’t some stupid slut who’d fuck a guy just for some magic pills. I started to back away, but as I watched, the dick in front of me stiffened and jutted away from the old man’s groin. His loins may have been saggy and wrinkled, the pubic hairs going gray, but that dick was a work of art.

Against my will, I went down on my knees -- just to get a better look at it. Pedro’s dick was pinkish purple, with a circumcised mushroom head and darker purple veins. A tiny thread of precum dripped out of the piss slit. I looked up at the old man’s face, and he smiled.

My mouth was salivating, and my dick was as stiff as a rod in my shorts. There was no way I was getting up and walking away. I licked my lips and opened my mouth.

I didn’t think I could get the whole length of it down my throat without choking myself. I began by licking my way around the head, then sucking the dick in, inch by inch. I hoped by the time I reached the old man’s age, my dick would still be as firm as his -- it resisted all the pressure I placed on it as I sealed my lips and began moving up and down.

The old man’s crotch smelled like chlorine, as if he’d just come from a swimming session. I reached around and grabbed his skinny butt and went farther and farther down on his dick. I’ve never been into old guys, but Pedro was something else. I was making myself crazy trying to get him all the way down my throat, pushing my face into his pubes.

Then he pulled out of my mouth. A thin strand of spit or precum dangled from the tip of his dick as he motioned for me to turn around.

“Oh no,” I said. “You’re too big. Mucho grande.”

He smiled, then reached over to the table for a condom. As he ripped the cover off, I felt my ass muscles contract, and I knew I was done for.

For the second time, I pulled down my shorts and my briefs. Pedro pushed his pants off and lay down on the cushions on the floor. His dick -- covered with a lurid green rubber -- stood straight up from his pale white thighs. “Venga, venga,” he said, motioning to me.

I positioned myself over him and started to slide down over him. My ass was already relaxed from the dick sucking and the anticipation, and the tip of his dick slid right in. There was some pain as he breached my anal ring, but the pull of gravity drew me down. I guess my thighs weren’t as strong as I thought.

Pedro was inside me, my butt resting on his thighs, and I felt so much pressure and pleasure that I could barely breathe. I began moving up and down on his pole, feeling him slide against the walls of my ass, and it was like an out-of-body experience. I’d never been fucked so well.

He had amazing stamina too. I rocked back and forth on his dick for at least fifteen or twenty minutes, until he spasmed beneath me and I felt his hot cum shoot up into the condom’s reservoir tip. I came then too, without ever touching my dick, shooting a load right onto his yellowing guayabera. I wondered if that color came from all the cum that had been shot on him.

I stood up, and his dick plopped out of me with a squishy noise. He had a beatific smile on his face. He motioned toward the table, where the capsules sat, and said, “Cerra la puerta, por favor.

I could barely stand after that assault on my ass, but I managed to struggle into my shorts. I stuffed my briefs into my pocket, then closed the door on my way out the way the old man had asked. I couldn’t wait to get home and try the pills. Would they give me a dick as big as his? Would they beef up my body like Ray’s?

And how soon could I come back for more of Pedro’s amazing dick?

Character-driven stories of handsome, sexy gay men in love and danger

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Monday, June 13, 2011

Queers of Central Park excerpt by Mykola Dementiuk

In Queers of Central Park, Mykola Dementiuk describes a walk in Central Park … ah, the chirping birds, the thick trees, the ready easy sex. Now who would want to leave that, not a hard-up person, that’s for sure.

Queers of Central Park
Extasy Books (March 1, 2011)
ISBN: 978-1-55487-818-5


I puffed on some cigarettes and nervously gazed at the men stealthily entering the park, undecided of whether I should run from the shadows I was seeing or boldly go after them. Then I saw him, a man slowly approaching and pausing near the end of my bench. I smiled at him. He moved closer. After a few words, I was rather grateful we’d be going to his place rather than the eerie Bramble. Still I had never followed a man to his home before and I was a bit frightened. He nodded his head and stood up. I was right beside him, but he panicked, quickly looking around.

“Are you crazy?” he hissed, looking to his left and right. “Someone could be watching. Police are everywhere.” He stood a moment looking at me, then said, “Wait till I cross the avenue, then come after me.”

I sat back down and looked after him as he edged away to the other side of the avenue. At the corner, he stopped and lit a cigarette, looking in my direction. I stood up also lighting a cigarette, slowly going after him down 70th Street. Somewhere, mid-block, I saw him entering a building beneath a stairway. I looked around and noticed no one was behind me. I quickly walked to the doorway he was standing in, awaiting me. He let me in through the door and, in the lit hallway, instantly panicked.

“How old are you?” He scowled. “You look like a kid.”

“Eighteen,” I nervously responded, “but will be nineteen in two weeks.” I stared at him in the lit, lower level hallway.

He stared back at me. “And you’ve done this before, in a man’s house?” He was biting his lower lip. “You look very young.”

“I’m almost nineteen,” I said, reaching for my wallet under my raincoat.

“You wanna see my proof?” I held the draft card out to him.

He studied my face, glanced at the draft care, and said, “No, no, that’s alright.”

I followed him into a below street-level apartment. Flimsy locks, I thought, but shook my head, as he shut the door behind me.

An unmade bed, a couch, a table, and a tiny kitchenette were all in that place. It looked like a one-room apartment with covered windows, which faced the street—and countless paperbacks scattered about the room.

“Get undressed,” he ordered, his voice somewhat shaky, but a look of worried thoughtfulness about him.

I nervously removed my shirt, pants, socks, and underwear and lay down on the bed, holding and gently massaging my stiff erect penis. He moved about, and reaching for the table lamp, clicked the light off. A thin stream of streetlights shone about the covered windows. I lay in the darkness, slowly stroking myself and waiting.

What do two naked men in bed do with each other? I wondered, though in a little while, I’d find out, that’s for sure.
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Monday, June 6, 2011

Between the Moon and the Deep Blue Sea excerpt by KC Kendricks

In KC Kendricks' Between the Moon and the Deep Blue Sea, Chad Collier’s had enough of providing stud service to rich men. It’s true he’s had more fun than any one man deserves, but now it’s time to make a plan for the rest of his life. At the urging of a mentor, he takes a leap of faith and breaks with his old ways. Yet a job interview lands him smack in the path of Darcy Paulson, the sort of rich man Chad vowed to avoid.

Darcy Paulson came of age as the prodigal son in a wealthy manufacturing dynasty. Every man he’s ever met has been after his money, until Chad Collier shows up on his doorstep. Darcy finds Chad prickly, standoffish, and utterly irresistible. Smitten by Chad’s dark good looks and determination to stand on his own two feet, Darcy is happy to give him an opportunity. It doesn’t take long for them to figure out that some private, no-strings fun is what they both need.

An unexpected event brings them face-to-face with the truth. The magic that happens between the moon and the deep blue sea is something a man can’t own, and it can be fully experienced only in the arms of a lover...

Between The Moon And The Deep Blue Sea
Amber Allure (5/8/11)
ISBN: 978-1-61124-107-5


…His low, husky voice rippled over me in the small space. I stood still, unmoving, caught between fight and flight, as his warm palm stroked my side. I looked up into his glittering eyes and fell into his intent. Hot blood pooled in my groin. My cock surged full in a handful of pounding heartbeats. Darcy’s dark pink tongue flicked over his lips, leaving them moist. He meant to kiss me and, against all better judgment, I wanted him to do it. I gripped his hips and pulled him closer.

Darcy’s lips touched mine, soft and clinging, whispering promises. The sweet contact jolted though me with its unexpected tenderness. His tongue teased my lower lip, and all too soon he pulled away and left me wanting more. Darcy’s thumb traced the path across my mouth his tongue had taken. He licked his lips, as though he could still taste me. All the while I stood rooted to the floor, aching for him to kiss me again, and cursing my own cowardice. I knew if I kissed him, he wouldn’t push me away, but I…

“I won’t hurt you, Chad. I swear.”

“Don’t promise me anything, Darcy. You don’t know where my head is these days.”

His hands skimmed my sides. “Fair enough. Just don’t lie to me and tell me you don’t want to be kissed again.”

I let my hands fall from his hips. “What I want and what’s best for me right now are several galaxies apart.”

Darcy studied me for the longest thirty seconds of my life, then nodded. “Okay. I’m backing off.” The corner of his mouth twitched in a quirky smile. “I don’t want to, but I will.”

The tiny spark of hope longing for him to push me past my reluctance died, and only when it faded did I realize what I’d done…


If the blowjob was hot, was it still stupid? I knew the answer was ‘yes’, but I kissed him anyway. I didn’t linger at his lips – I needed to catch my breath.

"So. Darcy. You always carry a rubber in your pocket?”

He snorted and rolled me onto my back. “I’m gay. What do you think? Don’t you?”

“I usually do, but this wasn’t in the plan, you know.” I grabbed his hands to stop him from pulling my pants completely off. “Let me up.”

“Oh no. I want you, Chad. I’ve got another rubber, and this was in my plan.”

His intent jolted through me. He meant to fuck me right here on the floor. I held him at arm’s length. “Now, wait a minute. This isn’t going to work for me.”

Darcy froze. His expression darkened as he moved toward anger. “You think it’s acceptable to leave me hanging, all hot and bothered, so long as you get off?”

“Don’t get pissy with me, Darcy. I’ve never let a guy up my ass, and this…”


“For God’s sake, don’t look so shocked. I’ll laugh, and you’ll be all hurt.” I twisted out of his grasp and tried to yank my jeans up. Strong hands closed around my hips to pull me back into the curve of his body. Soft lips nibbled on the back of my neck as his fingers teased my ass.

“I agree. The kitchen floor isn’t the place for auspicious beginnings. My bed is.”

I’d gone all shivery from what he was doing to my butt. The light strokes of his fingertips brought to memory the moans of pleasure I’d drawn from other men. Could he do that to me?

“Let me go, Darcy. I not ready for this.”

I felt the anger snap through him. It was there in the way the length of his lean body stiffened, the sharp intake of his breath. Abruptly, he shoved away from me and rolled to his knees.

“My mistake, Chad. You won’t get the chance to use me again.”

His words cut painfully into the part of me that struggled to break free of the mistakes of the past. I tripped my way to my feet, tossed the used rubber in the trashcan, and zipped up.

“I’m not using you. You started this. Yeah, I was wrong not to stop you, but you bushwhacked me – twice now!”

Darcy got to his feet with more grace than I’d mustered, and glared at me. Even pissed off, he had pretty blue eyes.

“Why the fuck didn’t you stop me? Oh, yeah. Must have been that woody you popped up for me, huh?”

“Pardon me all to hell for being human! I never said I don’t find you attractive.”

Darcy’s eyebrows slid toward his hairline. I refused to blink under his scrutiny.

“Andrew says you’re broke.”

Maybe I was broke in more ways than one, but Darcy referred to my lack of funds.

“What if I am? Do you think I’d come all this way looking for work if I had money?”

“Why didn’t the ex, what was his name? Sidney? Why didn’t he set you up?”

“Because I wouldn’t take his money. I didn’t want it. So now what are you going to do, Mr. Paulson? Offer to pay to fuck me?”

Darcy looked me up and down, then shrugged. “I’m going to eat my dinner, unless it’s charred to ash.”

I stood, my mouth hanging open, as he got the bottle of wine out of the freezer and a corkscrew out of the drawer.

I hadn’t even gotten my hands on his dick.

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