From “A Ride Home” by Brent Archer
Monday, June 29, 2015
Take This Man (5th Collection
A collection of romantic erotica focused on male couples in committed relationships. Edited by Neil Plakcy, Take This Man takes a close look at how much sexier an encounter can be when the two men involved have been together for long enough to matter.
Take This Man
Cleis Press (
May 14, 2015)
Excerpt 5 from Take This Man
From “A Ride Home” by Brent Archer
Alan pulled a chair from the dining room table and placed it opposite him. “This isn’t the end of the world. In fact, it’s a fortuitous change of events.”
Bryant’s shoulders tightened as his brow furrowed. “What do you mean? I might have to move back in with my grandparents in
If I leave Seattle, I likely won’t
be able to come back.”
Alan’s eyes widened. “That can’t happen.”
Alan’s words took a moment to register through Bryant’s haze of worry. He raised an eyebrow. “Why’s
“Because I love you.”
Bryant’s mouth dropped open. “What?”
Alan smiled. “I love you, and I want us to be together. So here’s my proposition. Move in with me. My apartment has two bedrooms. You can put your stuff in one of them, and we can have hot monkey sex in the other as often as we want.”
Speechless, Bryant put his hand to his forehead.
Alan leaned forward in his chair toward the shocked young man. “We can do two months before you need to worry about helping financially. That’ll give you plenty of time to get a new job. You’re smart and resourceful, so I’ve no doubt you’ll land something quickly. My sister moved out three weeks ago, so there’s plenty of room.”
Bryant’s face flushed with warmth. Alan wanted him. Truly wanted him. He thought about their friendship, and how much he enjoyed their time together. He knew he loved Alan, no question in his mind.
“Are you sure? I’m starting over from nothing here.”
“No you’re not. You have a college degree, work experience, and all the sex you could possibly want. You only need a good man to come home to every night. That’s what I’m missing, too. We already spend a lot of time together. Let’s make it official.”
Bryant fought down tears as he pushed forward off the futon and kneeling on the floor wrapped his arms around Alan still seated in the chair. “Thank you.”
From “Wedding Day Jitters” by Rob Rosen
woke up in a cold sweat, eyes stinging, head pounding. “I think I’m dying,” I lamented, wiping the torrent
off my forehead and groaning as I did so.
John, my partner, snorted. “No, Peter; just getting married. Now go back to sleep.”
But it’s already light outside.”
The snort repeated. “That’s the moon, dearest.”
“Yeah, oh.” He rolled towards me and took my hand in his before replacing the snort with a heavy sigh.
“Why so nervous, anyway? Everything’s been taken care of.”
A list began rolling in my head before spewing forth from between my parched lips. “What if it rains? What if no one shows? What if everyone shows? Did I put the stamps on all the invitations or did I miss some? Did I pay the caterer, the minister, the rental hall, the florist? Does my tux fit? Do I look fat in it?”
He squeezed my hand. “Please stop, Peter. Now I’m nervous.”
He huffed while I puffed, both of us staring up at the ceiling, my heart beating out a mad samba in my chest.
“So much for sleeping.” He looked over my shoulder at the alarm clock on the nightstand “Only eight more hours to go.”
The pit in my stomach ripened into an overgrown melon. “Plus six minutes.” I gulped. “Make that five.” The gulp repeated. “And counting.”
He slapped the bed and then quickly sprung up. “Okay, enough of this. Put your shorts on; we’re going for a jog.”
I stared at him incredulously. “At this hour?”
He tilted his head my way. “Any better ideas? Besides, it always relaxes you.”
“So does a Xanax, a margarita, and a Golden Girls marathon. Not necessarily in the order.” I reconsidered.
“Okay, exactly in that order.”
He tossed me my shorts. “No Xanax, the bars are all closed, nothing on TV worth watching. Or, in two more hours, we can either watch Sunday morning prayer services,
Sesame Street, or perhaps expand our cable service.
Take your pick.”
I grabbed for the shorts and lumbered out of bed, grumbling all the while. “Really, no Xanax?”
He shrugged. “Gave the last one to your mom.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Now you know where I get my neuroses from.”
“Trust me,” he retorted, “I know. And I’m marrying you just the same.”
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Author's question: Do you eat while writing? Before? After?