Zero Break: A Mahu Investigation Excerpt by Neil Plakcy

In Zero Break, the latest Mahu investigagion by Neil Plakcy, zero break refers to the deep-water location where waves first begin, often far offshore. For Honolulu homicide detective and surfer Kimo Kanapa'aka, it means his most dangerous case yet.

A young mother is murdered in what appears to be a home invasion robbery, leaving behind a complex skein of family and business relationships, and Kimo and his detective partner Ray Donne must navigate deadly waters to uncover the true motive behind her death and bring her killer to justice.

Kimo is also in trouble at home, as he and fire investigator Mike Riccardi consider fathering children themselves.

Zero Break: A Mahu Investigation
MLR Press (March, 2012)
ISBN: 978-1-60820-591-2 (print)
978-1-60820-592-9 (ebook)

Excerpt:

Chapter 1: Little Caesar’s Discovery

“Kanapa’aka, you and Donne are up,” Lieutenant Sampson said, walking up to my desk in the Criminal Investigation division on the second floor of police headquarters in downtown Honolulu. He handed me a piece of paper with an address on Lopez Lane, in the shadow of the H1 Freeway. “Home invasion robbery-homicide.”

His polo shirt that morning was a shade of emerald green that reminded me of The Wizard of Oz. Yeah, I’m a friend of Dorothy, and proud of it, though it hasn’t always been easy being the only openly gay detective in the Honolulu Police Department.

I took the paper from him and pushed my chair back. “Your turn to drive,” I said to Ray Donne, my partner.

A blast of hot air assaulted us as we walked from the air-conditioned building into the garage. “Jesus, it’s only ten o’clock,” Ray said. “And it’s March, for Christ’s sake. Back in Philly I’d still be freezing my nuts off.”

Ray was an island transplant, and even though he’d been in Hawai’i for nearly three years, he still had some of the wide-eyed innocence of your average tourist. “You and Mike do anything fun this weekend?” he asked, as we got into his Toyota Highlander SUV.

I loved the way Ray was so accepting of my relationship with Mike Riccardi. Around some cops I had to be careful not to say anything that could be construed as too gay—like mentioning my partner by name.

“We went out on my friend Levi’s boat,” I said. “He wanted to show off his latest investment, generating energy from wave power.”

“That’s pretty controversial, isn’t it?” Ray asked, swinging out of the garage and onto South Beretania Street, narrowly avoiding a collision with a clueless tourist in a rented convertible. “Especially for surfers, right?”

“Yeah.” I’d been surfing since I was old enough to stand on a board, and I had a proprietary interest in the ocean and its ability to generate killer waves. “He makes a good argument—the waves are a regular source of power, and it can reduce our dependence on fossil fuels. I’m not convinced, but hey, he’s dating one of my best friends.” I stretched my legs and said, “How about you and Julie. You do anything?”

“Trying to make a baby. What can I say? It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.”

Ray and Julie wanted to have kids. She had finished her MA in Pacific Island Studies the year before, and was slogging through the last courses for her PhD in geography, focused on the islands of the Pacific. They were hoping to start a family when she was working on her dissertation.

I laughed and said, “Better you than me, brah,” and we joked around until we pulled up in front of a small bungalow with attached carport, painted a bright yellow, with red trim around the windows and doors. The house stood out in a row of drab single-story homes with peeling paint and overgrown postage-stamp sized yards.

I knew the neighborhood from my years driving a squad car. It was a mix of retired servicemen who had landed in the islands after Vietnam, recent immigrants from Asia living in multi-generational family groups, and long-time islanders in service jobs, often working two shifts just to make ends meet.

The responding patrol officer was Lidia Portuondo, a beat cop I’ve known for years. She was standing outside the house in the bright sunshine, next to her patrol car. A light breeze whipped the hem of the flowered muumuu worn by the heavyset haole, or white, woman she was talking to. The woman’s miniature pinscher, on a red leash, yipped and jumped around in a frenzy as we got out of the SUV.

“This is Mrs. Robinson,” Lidia said.

I smiled and Ray started whistling the Simon and Garfunkel song. Lidia gave the woman our names, then stepped back.

I knelt down to pet the min pin. “And who’s this?” I asked. He skittered back from me, sniffing nervously.

“This is Little Caesar,” Mrs. Robinson said proudly.

“Like the pizza,” Ray remarked.

She glared at him. “Like the emperor.”

I motioned us all over to the shade of a big kiawe tree. “Were you the one who called the police?” I asked.

“I certainly did. I went out to get the paper this morning, and Little Caesar slipped between my feet. He knew something was wrong. He went right across the street and into the back yard.”

I could see a hint of a smile playing on Lidia’s face. She’s a pretty haole woman in her early thirties, with dark hair pulled into a French twist. Her family went back to the original Portuguese immigrants from the island of Madeira, and when I looked at her I could see the no-nonsense attitude her ancestors must have had to survive in the fields.

“I ran after him,” Mrs. Robinson said. “I don’t like him to be out without a leash. You should see the way people drive around here.”

I suppressed a chuckle at the picture of the tiny black dog with pointy ears racing across the street, the big woman in the flowered muumuu in hot pursuit.

“When I got to the back yard, I saw the sliding glass door to the lanai had been smashed. I grabbed Little Caesar and came right back here and called the police.”

She shook her head. “This neighborhood is falling apart, between all the immigrants and the teenagers who run around in packs, their pants falling down. The police don't do anything to protect us. I don’t know what I’d do without Little Caesar.”

Lidia picked up the narrative. “I responded about half an hour ago. I rang the front bell of the home across the street and got no answer, so I walked around to the rear of the residence, where I observed the broken door Mrs. Robinson reported.”

Ray was taking notes. “And then?”

“I looked in the door and saw a Caucasian woman in her early thirties lying on the living room floor. I entered the residence and established that she was no longer breathing and that there was no one else inside.”

Mrs. Robinson gasped and tightened her hold on Little Caesar’s leash. “This neighborhood just isn’t safe anymore,” she said. “My son wants me to move out to Mililani where he lives.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Robinson,” I said. “I’m sure we’ll have some questions for you in a little while. Can we find you across the street?”

She nodded, and tugged the dog’s leash. “Mommy has a treat for Little Caesar, back at the house.” The dog recognized the word ‘treat,’ and started jumping up and down again as she led him back to her house.

I turned to Lidia. “Lead the way.”

We checked the front door and found it locked. The two living room windows were locked, too, and an air conditioner blocked the only other window on the street. Ray and Lidia went left, while I went right. When we met up in the back yard we compared notes. No signs of forced entry on either side.

A hibiscus hedge with yellow blossoms that matched the paint job marked the boundaries of the back yard, separating it from its neighbors, but there was no fence to keep out predators.

Lidia pointed at the smashed door and then stepped back. A metal lawn chair lay sideways on the small paved lanai next to the door; it looked like that was what had been used to break in. We stepped up and peered into the living room.

As Lidia had described, the body of a slim woman in her early thirties lay on the floor, curled into the fetal position, facing the windows. Her shoulder-length dark hair swirled on the carpet next to her, a single strand falling across her forehead. She wore an oversized UH Warriors T-shirt in dark green. It looked like she’d been stabbed, multiple times. Her blood had soaked into the faded beige carpet and dried the shirt to her skin in places.

The air inside felt almost as hot as it was outside as Ray and I stepped gingerly through the broken door. I’m no pathologist, but I’ve seen enough bodies to know that she had been dead for at least a couple of hours. The blood had settled toward the side of her body on the floor, and her skin was as pale as a TV vampire’s. I phoned the ME’s office while Ray called for a crime scene tech. Then we both put on rubber gloves to avoid contaminating the scene with our own prints.

Lidia stayed out front by her cruiser as we evaluated the house. The first thing we did was begin taking pictures, before we touched or moved anything, beginning with exterior shots of the lawn chair and the broken door.

The living room décor was a real contrast to the gruesomeness of the dead body on the floor. Kids’ toys were scattered over the sofa and coffee table, and framed photos of two women and two small girls hung on the walls. One was the haole on the floor, though her brown hair was longer in the pictures and she had more of a tan. The other woman was somewhat slighter, most likely Chinese, with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. The girls looked like they were a mix of both races.

In one of the photos, the haole woman was perched on a surfboard at Makapu’u Point, the lighthouse in the background of the shot. The picture had been taken with a telephoto lens, and the woman smiled exuberantly. Her evident happiness reminded me of how I felt when I was out on the water.

Somehow that made it worse, knowing that a fellow surfer had died.

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The Blue Moon Cafe excerpt by Rick R Reed

In Rick R Reed’s Blue Moon Café, someone--or something--is killing Seattle's gay men. A creature moves through the darkest night, lit only by the full moon, taking them, one by one, from the rain city's gay gathering areas.

Someone--or something--is falling in love with Thad Matthews. Against a backdrop of horror and fear, young Thad finds his first true love in the most unlikely of places--a new Italian restaurant called The Blue Moon Cafe. Sam is everything Thad has ever dreamed of in a man: compassionate, giving, handsome, and with brown eyes Thad feels he could sink into. And Sam can cook! But as the pair's love begins to grow, so do the questions and uncertainties, the main one being, why do Sam's unexplained disappearances always coincide with the full moon?

Prepare yourself for a unique blend of dark suspense and erotic romance with The Blue Moon Cafe, written by the author Unzipped magazine called, 'the Stephen King of gay horror.' You're guaranteed an unforgettable reading experience, one that skillfully blends the hottest romance with the most chilling terror... The 2011 EPIC eBook Award Winner for Best horror Erotic Romance, The Blue Moon Cafe might be the only book in history that features a homophobic werewolf preying on gay men. It’s a solid blend of horror and romance.

The Blue Moon Café
Publisher: Amber Allure (GLBT imprint of Amber Quill Press)(March 7, 2010)
ISBN: 978-1-60272-656-7 (Electronic)
ISBN: 978-1-60272-802-8 (Paperback)

Excerpt

In his imagination, Thad pictured the two of them coming in his front door and Sam throwing him roughly up against the door, covering his face and neck with kisses while his hands roamed, tweaking a nipple there, fondling his balls here. In the pregnant darkness, the man would work Thad into a frenzy of carnal desire so great he didn’t know if they would make it to the bedroom or if they would consummate their passion right on the living room floor. He saw their muscles, slicked with sweat, working in unison like a machine to bring each other to dizzying heights of pleasure.

He hadn’t pictured Edith greeting them at the door and the poor little Chihuahua manically jumping up and down on him, whining to be taken outside—immediately. So, with reluctance, Thad flipped on the overhead light so he could find her leash. He looked back at Sam, who waited outside in the shadows. “You can just go on in and have a seat on the couch. She won’t take me more than a minute.”

“It’s okay. I can wait out here.” Sam groped in his pocket and brought out a pack of cigarettes. He extracted one, lit it, and exhaled a plume of blue gray smoke into the night air. Thad was both repelled and attracted by the site of Sam lighting up.

Ugh. A smoker. Something I will have to work on changing. He then couldn’t deny the “bad boy” thrill the site of the man smoking gave him. Or maybe not.

Thad ducked back in and stooped to affix harness and leash to Edith, who was all but hopping up and down with impatience. She whimpered and stared desperately up at him.

“I know, I know,” Thad soothed. “Small bladder.”

The two stepped outside and Edith froze when she saw Sam. Her eyes widened and the hackles along her neck and back went up. She immediately began a furious yapping, baring her teeth, and lunging toward Sam, her tiny frame testing the endurance of the leather leash. Thad was surprised the old girl had so much fury and strength within her seven pound frame. He sent a weak smile Sam’s way to apologize for her behavior. “I don’t know what’s up with her. She’s usually not like this.”

“Maybe it’s the dark. I’ll walk over here.” Sam hurried back down the walkway until he stood near the street, the orange tip of his cigarette glowing in the dark.

Thad squatted down to comfort the little dog, shaking with fury and what seemed like terror. He had acquired Edith as a puppy and had made sure she was well socialized from about eight weeks old on, taking her everywhere with him and exposing her, over the years to all sorts of people, other dogs, and even cats. He had never seen her behave like this. Great! I finally find a man I think I could be nuts about and my dog doesn’t like him. Something I’ll have to work on. Thad walked Edith in the opposite direction from Sam and she calmed down enough to re-establish her original goal and to take care of it.

“I’ll put her in the bathroom,” Thad called to Sam as he headed back to the apartment. “Give me just a sec. I’ll leave the door open and then you can come in.”

Thad hurried to make a bed of towels for Edith in one corner, then rushed into the kitchen to put some peanut butter in her little Kong toy. He presented it to her. “Here, now I’ve been nice to you. Now you be nice to me. No more trouble from you.” He took one last glance back at the dog, busy with getting peanut butter out of her toy, before closing the bathroom door.

Sam leaned against his front door, smiling. He didn’t look tired in the least, even though it was near two in the morning and he had worked all evening. The color in his cheeks was high, his lips full and slightly parted, and the way he stared at Thad was all invitation. Thad simply wanted to get lost in that big, furry body.

But he was still a little flustered. “Sorry about that. She isn’t usually so unfriendly. I don’t know what got into her.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not much of a dog person—maybe she knew that. And maybe you don’t know what’s gotten into her, but I have an inkling you have a very good idea what’s going to be getting into you.” Sam winked and then laughed.

“You dog!” Thad crossed the room, flicked off the lights, and pressed his body against Sam. The kisses, against the door, just as he had imagined, commenced. Thad was, for once, grateful he didn’t have a job to go to come Monday morning, because he knew his face would be red and chafed from the pressure of Sam’s beard. This way, he imagined he would smile with fond memories every time he looked in a mirror.

They kissed for what seemed like the next hour, until both of them panted and half their faces were wet with the other saliva. Without ever leaving the front door, shirts had been undone and pulled open, flies opened, and shoes kicked into corners.

Breathlessly, Thad forced himself away from Sam and said the three little words every man longs to hear: “To the bed.” He grabbed Sam and tugged him toward the bed that occupied one corner of his studio. They fell upon it, laughing and tearing at each other’s clothes...

[WITHHELD IN THE INTEREST OF THOSE WITH DELICATE SENSIBILITIES. YOU WANT TO GO THERE, YOU HAVE TO BUY THE BOOK!]

...Sam and Thad lay on their backs, breathless. Thad spoke first, but only after several minutes had passed, long enough for him to process what had just happened and to allow his respiration to return to a somewhat normal pace. “That was amazing. I’m no Mary Poppins, but I can honestly say I don’t know when it’s been that good for me.” Thad let out a long, quivering breath. “You’re right; you are an animal.”

Sam laughed and the sound was comforting, here in the pale, silvery light from a waning moon outside. Thad snuggled into the crook between Sam’s chest and arm, resting his head on the fur that blanketed Sam’s chest. This, he thought, surprising himself, is just about as good as the sex.

“I just go with my instincts.” Sam stroked Thad’s hair gently. “If that makes me an animal, then I am guilty as charged.” He moved slightly away from Thad. “Don’t kill me, but do you mind if I have a cigarette? I can go outside if you want.”

Thad shook his head, grinning. “A smoke after sex. That’s so cliché. But go ahead. Normally, I wouldn’t allow it, but I’ll make an exception for you…Sam.” Thad liked how the name felt on his tongue.

“Grazie.” Sam turned to sit up and grope in his pants pocket, bringing out a pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter. He leaned back against the headboard and lit up. The room filled with the acrid stench of burning tobacco and paper and instead of being repelled, as he normally would be, Thad moved close to Sam again, taking up his newly claimed spot on the man’s chest. He stared up at him, watching him smoke. Lazily, he traced circles in the hairy mat covering Sam’s chest. His fingers stopped when he caught sight of a design on Sam’s left pectoral, something he had hadn’t noticed in the dim light or perhaps because it was all but hidden by the forest of hair. Thad got up on one elbow.

“You have a tattoo?”

In the dark, Sam nodded. “I’ve had it for years, way before tattoos were all the rage like they are these days.”

“Especially here in Seattle.” Thad often wondered if there was some requirement that all citizens of Seattle must have at least one tattoo. “What’s it of?” Thad strained to make out the design’s contours in the dim light and couldn’t.

Sam leaned forward to switch on the little bedside lamp. Thad squinted at the sudden light source, then directed his gaze down at the muscled chest before him. “What is it?” Thad traced the design with his fingers, lowering his head to peer more closely at it. He nipped at Sam’s nipple and Sam laughed.

“It’s Lupa, the she-wolf who suckled Romulus and Remus, the twins who founded Rome in mythology. Cool, no?” Sam flexed his chest so the wolf seemed to move. Two cherubic twin boys below the figure suckled at her teats.

“It’s kind of weird. But it suits you.” Thad reached over Sam to turn off the light again. “What brought you to America?”

Did Thad detect a slight stiffening when he asked the question? He had only meant to further their little post-coital conversation. “I don’t mean to put you on the spot,” he hurried to say, wondering if he had imagined the slight body language. “If it’s none of my business, just say so.”

Sam relaxed against the bunched up—and damp—pillows. “No. It’s okay. We came from a small village in Sicily. Lots of mountains, rocks, olive trees…not much else. You would probably think it’s pretty, but me, I was bored. We just decided one day to go, to come to America, to see if we could make a go of it here. We tried New York City first, but it was too crazy there. Too many people, too expensive. We wanted someplace where everything was not concrete, where there was some nature. Seattle was, how would you say? A natural choice.”

Now it was Thad’s turn to stiffen just a bit. What was with all the ‘we’ this and ‘we’ that? His feelings, briefly at an all-time high, sunk. Was Sam married? Did he have a lover? Was Thad just that night’s side dish? Sam’s olive cake with Marion berries? Would Sam soon be getting up to hurry home to someone who was sleeping with one eye open, waiting for the sound of his key in the door? Thad did not want to come off as suspicious, but he couldn’t resist his next question and thought he might as well get everything out in the open right from the start.

“You said ‘we’. Who’s ‘we’?” Thad tried to bite his lip to keep himself from saying it, but he couldn’t resist the impulse. “Wait. Don’t tell me. There’s a boyfriend—or a wife—right?” Thad held his breath, waiting for the bad news to be delivered. It wouldn’t surprise him, but it would certainly deflate him. And it would be just about right for how his life had been going lately.

Sam chuckled and took a last drag off his cigarette. He got up and went to the window to flick it outside. His ass, high and firm, glowed in the moonlight and Thad wondered if he would have to rethink his policy of not dating committed men. Hell, with that ass, I may have to rethink my policy of being a total bottom.

He’s not talking because he’s trying to think of the right way to tell me. Thad clutched a pillow to his chest, almost as if he was bracing himself for a blow, which he was.

Sam weighed down the bed as he slid back in beside him. “You silly boy. There’s no one else. I said ‘we’ because I have a son. He came with me.” Sam took Thad’s face in his hands and snatched him up in his dark-eyed gaze. “There’s no one else.” He let go and Thad immediately missed the contact. “I travel light. I usually like, um, no complications? But when I saw you, I couldn’t resist.”

It wasn’t until they were drifting off to sleep that the paranoid side of Thad caught up with him again, causing him to wonder if the fucking was a way to stave off further conversation. Who was this son? Did Sam really just come to America for a change? How many people actually do that…or can even afford to? Stop it, now. He’s here with you now…

And the men drifted off to sleep together...

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Kisser: A Masculine Femininity excerpt by Mykola Dementiuk

In Mykola Dementiuk’s Kisser: A Masculine Femininity, Richard doesn’t think he’s one of those queers. Or is he?

When Ralphie kisses him in the park, then invites him home, new sensations open up in Richard’s life. Soon he wants more than kissing – he wants kissing, and something harder and stickier, too. But a young man on the verge of accepting his sexuality has much to learn about men, and there are all kinds of men in the world.

Follow Richard as he drifts from the park into the gay heart of Greenwich Village and back again. There he meets Mr. James, who might just be the man who will take Richard all the way.

Kisser: A Masculine Femininity
JMS Books (March 2012)
ISBN: 9781611522679

Excerpt:

Chapter 4

When I first met Ralphie, he had been working at various Greenwich Village gay bars, but at that time, Studley’s was the tops. This was in the middle 70’s, when ‘Gay Rights’ was still an unheard of fantasy. To be gay in Greenwich Village was the norm. I had been to Washington Square Park many times, looking at the weird people who thronged the area, the Beatniks, the hippies, the outcasts who all fit in there, but I seldom strayed off of the well known paths and twisted streets to find what was really there, gay Greenwich Village. I was headed for it now.

The streets greeted me openly yet I still felt odd, my wide trousers caused many to turn back and give a questioning look as they strode past. I knew right away I wasn’t dressed for the Village streets, where a male who hustled was clad in slim tight pants and a T-shirt, and not in inappropriately wide dress pants such as I was wearing. In fact, I thought of myself in a wide skirt or dress as I swished and walked along.

Along Christopher Street I suddenly reddened and covered my face; there was Studley’s Bar, a multi colored gay banner over the window, a certain sign that it was gay-owned or gay-operated. An elderly man in a business suit came out of Studley’s Bar, looking very slim and elegant. He lit a cigarette and walked on, as I did, too, sauntering after him, as he paused and looked at a few store windows, causally taking his time. I was nervous but approached him.

“Is this the way,” I asked, “to get to the subway, streets are very twisted down here.”

He puffed his cigarette.

“Yes, it is, young man,” he said, looking me up and down, and getting out of the way of a woman walking past. “Twisted indeed.” He looked at me as if wondering, then said, “On the next block make a right and the subway’s right there. You can’t miss it.”

I nodded and said, “Thanks,” and turned to walk on.

“You’re not from around here?”

“Brooklyn.” I stepped aside as another man walked past us. “Took the subway here, but I forgot where it was.”

“Oh, tough Brooklyn, is that where they still wear Zoot suits?” He smirked, glancing down at my pants. “I was there one time and I think it was one time too many.”

I looked at him as we both moved aside. The busy street seemed to be filled with people.

“Zoot suits, what is that?”

“Suits like you’re wearing,” and he pointed at my very wide pants, almost sneering at them. “Those came about in the Jazz Age in the 1930’s. Don’t see much of that anymore. Zoot suits were very fashionable at one time, big with the African-American crowd. I suppose being from Brooklyn, it’s understandable that you’d still be wearing it.”

Oddly, I felt as if he was sneering at me. I only wore it because Dad had it in his closet when he died. Mom kept all his clothes as if they were mementos. I saw the suit one day and thought it looked very neat and cool. I never knew there’d be such a history with it.

“It isn’t so bad,” I said, “you get used to it, after a while.”

“I suppose you boys from Brooklyn have your way of dressing, as we have ours.”

We stood on the street before a building as people walked up and down past us.

“What way do you have?” I asked

He smiled and licked his lips.

“It’s hard to explain but, honey, why wear anything? Get undressed, that’s my motto. But I don’t want to take your time, you have a subway to catch. Don’t want to delay you.”

I shrugged.

“There’s always another one coming by. What’s a little time?”

We looked at each other, both of us licking our lips.

“By the way, young man, I live right here,” he said and nodded quietly, glancing at a building on our left. “You’re welcome to come up and we can resume our little conversation, undisturbed.” Again he moved aside for a walker, male or female, it was hard to tell.

I looked at him. What was I doing? Am I crazy, a sick pervert? Going to a stranger’s apartment?

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all, honey, not at all.” His smile was wide and he led me into the building, away from the people walking on the street.

“By the way, young man, what is your name?”

I smiled.

“Dick,” I answered, “but my close friends call me Dickey.”

“Ooh, I like that. You can call me Hard, or Mr. Hardy, which ever you prefer.”

We smiled at each other, him winking at me.

“Okay Hard, or Mr. Hardy,” I said, winking back at him.

“You know, I saw many bars and clubs on this street,” I said, as we climbed the stairs. “People start partying early, that’s for sure.”

On the first floor he turned and smiled at me.

“Some drink all the time, others don’t. I like to imbibe, it sets your spirits free for a little action.” He winked as we continued up another flight of stairs.

“That sure was a busy street,’ I said, “with lots of people. I wonder where they are going?”

“Oh, I know, busy, busy, busy, but Christopher Street is always like that. Young men looking for older men, while older men are always seeking out sweet younger ones.” He shrugged.

“You pay your money, honey, and you always have your choice.” And again he winked as we stood outside a doorway on the third floor and was about to turn the lock.

“Have you been looking long, honey? I like to please young men if they know how to please me. Do you know how?”

I’d known what he was talking about ever since I’d seen him step out of Studley’s Bar, but the nearness of having my longings and desires fulfilled, of actually seeing what one man does to another, panicked me and I felt very frightened. I shook my head.

“No,” I said. “Sorry, no…” and I stepped back, pounded down three flights of stairs, and darted out into the busy street.

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Better excerpt by Jaime Samms

In Jaime Samms' Better, getting better is about learning to live with the truth. Jesse Turbul, after filing charges that put his abusive ex-Dom behind bars, relocates across the country, hopes to escape his past—but, of course, it's never that easy. When Jesse meets third-year law student Aadon at the library where he works, their mutual attraction is instant and obvious.

Despite the sparks, they just can't seem to make it work. Aadon is mired in guilt over his inability to help his older brother, damaged by events far too similar to to Jesse's past. Jesse is stuck in his own desperate wish to forget the painful shadow that continues to threaten him and any hope of a happy future.

The only way to move forward is for Jesse to acknowledge he's broken and for Aadon to accept he can't make him better.


Better
Dreamspinner Press (January 12, 2012)
ISBN-13 (ebook): 978-1-61372-343-2
ISBN-13 (paper): 978-1-61372-342-5


Excerpt:

Jesse watched his date for a while, waiting for the blond head to lift. Only when Mike came to the table a few minutes later did Aadon look up. He glanced at Jesse, turned to Mike and placed his order, waited until Jesse had ordered and Mike had left before quietly excusing himself from the table.

Jesse waited a long time, much longer than it would take for Aadon to use the facilities, before following him.

The heavy restroom door swung open on silent hinges, and the peculiar smell of a bathroom trying too hard not to smell like a bathroom engulfed him. Jesse drew in a silent breath and stepped inside.

Aadon leaned on the counter by the sinks, his back to the mirror.

“I’m sorry.” Jesse tried to make the apology light, tried to see into Aadon’s shrouded eyes.

Finally, Aadon looked at him. “Why?”

“I got a little defensive.” He held up his hand, finger and thumb an inch apart, sheepish smile on his face.

Aadon stifled a groan. How could he be so fiery one minute, and this…adorable the next and not know how crazy it made him? He pushed himself off the sink and closed his hand around Jesse’s fingers, closing the space and kissing the fingertips. “Maybe that’s the point. As long as you feel you have to defend yourself around me, I have to be careful.” He closed his eyes, kept his lips pressed to his warm fingers.

God this was hard. He wasn’t doing Jesse any good, wanting him this bad, knowing he couldn’t—shouldn’t—and knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist much longer. He shouldn’t still even be with him. It was too much. He just wasn’t what Jesse needed.

Jesse felt the churning sensation in the pit of his stomach even before Aadon spoke again and yanked his hand free, mouth open, ready to fill the void before Aadon could speak. Before he could say what Jesse knew he was about to say. He was too slow.

Aadon took his face in both hands, tilting it up and looking into his eyes. “As long as I have to be that careful, this can’t work.”

“But—”

“Because I don’t want to be careful, Jesse,” Aadon went on, overriding his faint protest, passing a thumb over Jesse’s lips and backing him up against a stall.

“Then don’t.” The words warbled out past Jesse’s pulse fluttering in his throat. He swallowed hard. “Don’t be careful.” Aadon’s toned body pressed his against the cold metal. The rush of fear and excitement mingled, and he knew he’d lost the ability to tell which was which. He didn’t know if he cared.

“If I’m not, I could do more damage than Anthony ever did.” Aadon’s palm caressed his cheek, his fingers slid into Jesse’s hair, and he kissed; a light strike of his lips and tongue, there and gone too quickly to capture, but expertly bringing him back down to where he could almost breathe normally.

The rush faded, and Jesse wanted it back.

He gripped the front of Aadon’s shirt, preventing him from moving away. “You’re not anything like Anthony, and I’m not who I was then.” He never would have demanded Anthony answer his desire like this. Kissing Aadon firmly, not hard or angry, just without compromise, Jesse closed his eyes, willed the other man to understand. He needed this so desperately. Needed to know he was wanted, desired. Needed to know Aadon could look on him as a man and not a shattered thing.

A soft groan welled in Aadon’s throat and spilled out into Jesse’s kiss. It was so good. So sweet, and held so much conviction. It was, finally, too much to resist. He answered it, tongue stroke for tongue stroke, slowly wresting control of the kiss from Jesse as he pinned him between his hard body and the cold metal of the bathroom stall. His big hands cupped Jesse’s head, his body an immovable weight against him, soaking in Jesse’s heat and desire, keeping him still and contained.

Jesse couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and his fingers tightened to fists in Aadon’s shirt. This was exactly the kind of mindless surrender he’d always craved. Exactly what Anthony had never once given him. Because Anthony had never asked for it the way Aadon was doing with his firm, gentle touches and his warm hands, possessive, but not hard or hurtful. Jesse let go of that last bit of control and felt his head impact the stall wall with a soft thud. His hands relaxed, his body heated and melted to conform with Aadon’s, and he opened that last little bit to feel Aadon’s tongue sweep in and possess him.


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Longhorns excerpt by Victor J Banis

Longhorns by Victor J Banis is a bawdy love story set on the Texas plains. Longhorns ranges from hard riding action and sex as hot as the blazing Texas sun, to lyrical descriptions of the Old West. New MLR Press edition.



Longhorns
MLR Press (February, 2012)
ISBN: 978-1-60820-593-6 (print)
978-1-60820-594-3 (ebook)

Excerpt:

They were herding cattle, out on the range, when he first showed up, late of an afternoon.

"Looks like we got company," Red said.

Les looked in the direction Red was staring, toward the far horizon, where a distant speck gradually formed itself into a cowboy on a brown and white pinto.

Visiting strangers weren't common on a round up. It had never happened to him personally, but Les had heard tell of a time or two when that had meant trouble of one kind or another for the herders—rustlers, they said, or bandidos, though a lone rider wasn't likely to be much of a threat with a dozen or more cowboys gathered around.

Still, he broke off working with the boys and strolled out to meet the stranger as he rode into the camp in a cloud of dust. Les wore his six shooters on his hips and he did not draw them, but he hooked his thumbs in his wide leather belt, where he could get to them quick if he needed to, and if there was a faster draw in Texas, he had never met him. The cowboy jumped off his pinto, hitched his pants up, and swaggered over to where Les was standing.

"I heard you was herding some longhorns, thought you might could use an extra wrangler," he said in the way of greeting, extending his hand. "My name is Buck."

"Mine's Les." Les shook his hand and looked him over. The boy wore an old shirt, worn but clean, and those new pants, dugris, that had come up from the Bahamas—but the fellows called them dungarees, and said they were way more comfortable than the old-fashioned woolies—and he had a fancy looking pair of snakeskin boots on his feet, white, with curlicues of black and green. He wasn't more than eighteen years old, maybe nineteen, his skin already leather colored from the Texas sun, and he stood only five foot nine inches, ten at the most, fine boned and small built, but wiry. He had a piece of string under his chin to hold his faded gray Stetson, but the hat had fallen behind and his hair reached almost to his shoulders, a tangled mass of wayward curls as black as obsidian. His eyes, in the fading light, were nearly as dark. An old fashioned Winchester long rifle was slung over his shoulder, and he wore a Colt on one hip, and a Bowie in a leather sheath on the other. Despite his size and his youth, he had a cocksure air about him, like a man who has just wrestled the puma and is waiting for you to send in the grizzly.

Les himself was six foot three, broad of shoulder and chest and narrow of hip, his long legs bowed outward, like a pair of parentheses that contained his cowboy history within them. A life out of doors had etched fine lines around his mouth and eyes, and bleached his fair hair almost to a whiteness, but the thatch of it on his chest was reddish yellow still where his shirt hung open. He looked exactly like what he was, a long time cowpuncher who was man enough for just about anything that might come up, and damn well knew it.

"You Indian?" he asked the newcomer.

"Half," Buck said. He seemed unembarrassed by the fact, though not everybody around these parts took kindly to half-breeds. "Daddy was a trader, leastways so I always heard, but I never knew him. Mama was a Nasoni. A Nasoni princess, she used to claim, but she didn't live no royal kind of life, seemed to me."

"Nasoni? Don't believe I know that tribe," Les said.

"North east Texas, was where we come from. Gone now. Mostly died out the last century, or swallowed up by the Caddo, except for a few of us stragglers here and there." Buck said. "Texas is a Nasoni word though. It means friend. Guess that's why I'm so doggone friendly." He grinned again and looked Les up and down. Something about the way he looked at him made Les oddly uncomfortable, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and glanced down.

"Them's fancy boots," he said, his eyes settling on them.

"Thanks. I traded a fellow down in Galveston for them," Buck said.

"Must have given him something pretty special," Les said. "For a pair of boots like that."

"Mighty special, to tell the truth." Buck winked when he said it, and Les felt his face color slightly, and decided that he wasn't going to follow that subject any further, just to be safe.

"You new around here?" he asked instead. "I don't recall seeing you about San Antone when I been in town."

"Come from Oklahoma, but I been down Galveston way for a spell. Just come up from there. I was looking for some work, and fellows I met on the trail mentioned your name, said you was herding and that I should ride out to find you. Mighty glad they did, now that I set eyes on you."

Which Les thought was an odd thing to say, but he glanced past the kid just then for a moment to where some of the boys were working on the makeshift corral, and his attention was distracted. "Best make that fence a little higher, Red," he called across to his Segundo. "From the look of them clouds yonder, appears like we might get some weather tonight."

When he looked back at the newcomer, Les found Buck's eyes down, an intent expression on his face. Les looked too, and realized Buck was staring at him, staring right at the bulge of his crotch.

"What you got on your mind, boy?" Les said sharply.

"I was just thinking," Buck said, seeming not to mind at all that he had been caught with his eyes where they were, "'bout some of the things them sailors taught me down in Galveston. Things I had never even heard of back in Oklahoma. I tell you, them sailor boys is truly something. I got me a fair education, is sure."

"Well, they ain't no sailor boys here," Les said, doubly annoyed because they had been herding cattle out here on the prairie for several weeks now, and his prick, on the alert for any prospects, had took instant note of the attention it had gotten.

Still, one of his cowhands, Rex, had taken a fall a couple days before and broken an arm and had to ride back to the ranch—you weren't much good one-armed on a round up, and a man who couldn't work was a man who was in the way—and Matt had come down with a bad case of the trots and couldn't stop shitting, and that had kept him in camp for two days now. They had been a bit short-handed to begin with when they had set out; so the plain fact was, he could use an extra hand, and out here, there wasn't much to choose from.

"I reckon you can stick around for a day or two, see how it goes," he said. He glanced down at those fancy snakeskin boots, not a speck of dirt on them, and added, spitefully, "I'm guessing you can ride okay. We got no room here for sissies."

"Well, now, seeing it's you, and now that I have set eyes on you, I would surely love the opportunity to show just how well I can ride," Buck said with a flash of teeth in his sun-leathered face. "I got the time, if you got the inclination, and that big old patch of mesquite over there looks private enough to me."

"I expect I'll see you on your horse soon enough," Les said, hoping without much hope that he had misunderstood the suggestion.

"Oh, a horse, well, I guess so," Buck said. He turned and started toward his pinto, his shiny spurs jingling, but he looked over his shoulder to add, "I can ride them, too, case that's what you meant."

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Sapphic Planet excerpt, from an anthology edited by Beth Wylde

Welcome to Sapphic Planet, a literary realm where women are free to love one another without fear of prejudice or reprisal. Inside these pages you’ll discover nineteen stories written specifically to tease and titillate your senses.

From a frolic in the rain with a Bathing Beauty, to a concerned sibling showing his sister some Brotherly Love, and everything in between. Whether you’re in the mood for steamy romance or unrequited lust, we’ve got a story guaranteed to satisfy your cravings.

This anthology showcases just a fraction of the talent from the writers of Sapphic Planet, a group specifically created for authors and aspiring authors of quality lesbian literature.

Sapphic Planet
CreateSpace (February 26, 2012)
ISBN-10: 1466479086
ISBN-13: 978-1466479081

Excerpt from Licked by Jodi Payne

I'm the first to admit that I'm jaded. I've been around the block a few times and I'm hard to please. When I scan a dance floor I'm looking for a real woman. Her body is a factor, but it's not everything. I like a decent rack. I like to see something that makes my mouth water, who doesn't? I love a good ass. In fact, her ass is even more important than her tits. But if I have to pick a deciding factor, one particular thing that must be perfect regardless of the packaging, it's her eyes. Her eyes will tell me what I'm really in for. I look for experience, for someone whose mind is on my body, whose hands can read my goose-bumps like Braille. Someone who looks as if she can play me like a concert pianist masters Rachmaninoff. I want a woman who isn't going to rush. I willingly give a lover all night long and I expect her to use it.

So yeah, of course I laugh at the baby boi who suddenly slips her hand into mine and tugs me into a space between the gyrating bodies that's just big enough for two. Not at all the overture I'd been expecting. I mean, look at her. She's adorable, sure, with her neon-blue-tipped faux-hawk and her black sneakers. Her fresh face is set with dark almond-shaped eyes that I find alluring, and harder for me to get a read on than most. Boi, you might have that hard, hot look and you're definitely into me, but you can't be a day over twenty. Show me your fake ID.

She's quick to smile, another common curse of the young. Gutsy little thing though, I'll give her that. Her body is telling me she wants me to dance, and she moves closer.

I find it difficult to get into at first, rubbing hips with this little top-dyke in the making. She even has a harness on underneath her button-flys. She threads graceful fingers through her belt loops, grinding that dildo strapped across her bush into my hip. Say, little boi, does your mother know that you bind your chest? Does she know you suck clit? Does she know you pack cock under your tight blue jeans?

Will mommy let you stay out past ten?

She's a smooth dancer. She moves easily, freely, and though we're all moving to the same unrelenting beat, it seems as if she is creating one all her own. I let my eyes and hands travel over her slender body. She hasn't given me her name yet, or said anything at all for that matter; she just dances, and once in a while she gives me a knowing look that seems far beyond her years. I'm intrigued and I return her wily smile, giving her permission to make her move.

You think you can teach this old dog a new trick, dyke boi? Bring it on, sweetheart. Show me what you can do.

Her hands slip around my waist and up my back. No, not just up my back, but under my shirt and against my bare skin. She flattens her fingers over my spine. They're cool, and seem to mock the slowly building heat of the moment. It's a clever move, suitably forward. It speaks of intention, and I'm pleased but surprised to discover that she's not fooling around. Chalk another one up for the kid.

I'm suddenly aware of scrutinizing eyes on my back and I turn around, spotting several trend-addicted young women congregating at the bar; mostly high femmes and fag dykes. The mystery resolves itself before my eyes. My desire-induced fog lifts and I find myself the unwitting object of a school-boi dare.

“Are those your friends at the bar?” I ask, lowering my lips to the boi's ear to be heard over the music.

She nods.

“I see. They put you up to this?” I pull away and grin knowingly at her. I played this game once too and I remember how to win.

“No!” she protests, vehemently enough that I want to believe her. “No. I want you. I put myself up to this.”

“And they...?”

“They said they didn't believe you'd do it.”

Well, well. Break my unbreakable heart. She wanted me, from way over there at the bar, and her catty little girlfriends told her she wasn't worthy of me. It takes a lot of moxie to risk humiliation in front of one's friends. This little top's got courage. She deserves to win this one.

“Let's give the ladies something to chew on,” I suggest.


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September at Esplanade excerpt by Roy Kirby Chaudoir

September at Esplanade by Roy Kirby Chaudoir is set in September in the 1980s. It is a fictionalized story based on the personal journals of a promiscuous gay man. This is story follows a young man's unlucky life and psychiatric hospitalization and begins with him "indentured" to the man who signed him out of the psychiatric hospital. The protagonist has multiple sexual encounters, and even tries to form a loving partnership with someone new, but realizes that he's never lived "free" and with responsibility only for himself so he backs away from the promise of love a relationship might bring in order to face his own true self. It is a story of a confused process towards individuation.

September At Esplanade
Lulu Press (December 13, 2011)

Excerpt:

Chapter 4 “Road Trip to Biloxi”

The Apollo Arcade Intensity

The Apollo Arcade was a pretty worn place. It wasn't dirty. Well, it wasn't dirty like a park bench isn't dirty, when in fact it is probably full of pigeon droppings, hand germs, dropped food particles, all sorts of things on it but since it is a park bench you have some low expectations about just exactly how clean you would expect it to be. In reality, the Apollo Theatre in Biloxi was probably only cleaned with a push broom to get the paper wrappers of candy and potato chip bags, cigarette butts, and ashes pushed to places where a dustpan and garbage can could catch the mess. It wasn't the kind of place that had the floors mopped, and the floors were a sort of concrete floor, but the surface of the floor was so traffic worn that it seemed like a public sidewalk, only dimmer. In the dimness shadowy people seemed to scurry from area to area. There were untold hallways that wound off in a labyrinthine framework off of the main room. These halls were constructed of booths and within each a small projector screen was built into the wall, and you got in your little booth, alone or with one or two others and watched two bit's worth of a porn flick. Once the door was closed you'd do whatever it is you had come there to do. There was cruise tension in the air, so if you wanted to play the hunter-like game, it could be just like cruising in a sex park. I felt arousal from this cruising around, and endorphins kicked in and I began seeing flashing lights over every one's head.

There was no guarantee that the vice squad wasn't there in force, patrolling the large arcade, but the "let's take a chance" atmosphere seemed to bring out the danger lover in me, and forbiddance and sex always make the game more fun for me. Only, I'm with Sandy and I have to be more aware of how I act. There was one other factor that ate into my judgment. Just before we got inside the Apollo Sandy offered me a little paper tab with "windowpane" LSD on it. I took it. I had been told by my psychiatrists not to do hallucinogens. I had really taken a lot of mushrooms in the past, and still had some at home, but I knew I wasn't wound too tightly and feared I might show my craziness. Nonetheless, I took the acid.

At first we each had two rolls of quarters, and we'd been together kissing and doing it for the last day or so that we were relaxed enough to let each other go in a booth alone. It seemed Sandy wanted me to be his, and only his, but that he was not rushing me into anything like an exclusive relationship. Only, somehow being "lovers" or on our way to being "lovers" gave us some new feelings about control and possessiveness towards one another. It seemed not okay for some reason to let some other stranger suck your cock when your lover was right there with you. It was funny in a way but we got booths next to each other and thought we were being discrete and safe by letting our dicks go through the holes in the walls, the glory holes, and sucking on one another's cocks but what we didn't know was that eyes from the other adjoining booths were peeping in the other glory holes and watching us doing each other. It was a big turn-on for several voyeurs, and it made them more bold and horny in relation to us so when we came out of our booths, we found a group of six guys outside, one obviously masturbating and two watching him and the other three with hardons in their pants waiting like midnight cowboys against the wall watching for a sign from me or Sandy that we'd like to go in a booth with one of them. It began really fast to be an almost orgy scene and we found it confusing for a moment. I was beginning to hallucinate happily, too. Everything seemed so busy and crowded suddenly. It seemed I needed to be alone, and I told Sandy to go off on his own for ten minutes and I would too. He seemed okay with the idea, but I could tell he was worried about me. I wasn't. I was on some sort of animal control, and it felt good. No matter how I try to deny it in my everyday life, I really don't like to be logical and some craziness seems right for me. I am intuitive. I am scattered, too. I prefer living without a plan.

I peeked into a booth, ignoring the men in the hall giving me signals to come with them, and then I saw him. He was actually an ugly skinny black man. I peeked through a glory hole in my booth and I see a black guy with his shirt unbuttoned hanging out and his chest and stomach and pubes exposed and he was jacking off to the sights of two white guys fucking in the porn flick on the small screen.

I'm really hallucinating now. For some reason this kind of ugly guy turns me on. I think he looks really hot, but in the dim light all I can see is the shape of his face, chest and stomach, and cock. He's working himself.

I confessed all this into my journals, but never to anyone in person yet. It gets steamy to recall this. I am totally psychotic on the acid. I think acid effected everything thought this whole episode. On LSD I'm so much more sexually driven.

This dark skin black guy about mid-thirties, skinny thin, almost just bones and skin, his face pocked from year's ago acne--one of those adults who had bad acne as a teenager and it scarred his face, actually so ugly that it was beautiful, and I felt this rush of heat grow in me and I slipped my dick into the glory hole in his booth and when he sucked it felt electric. I thought I was going to be sucked off in a flash it was so hot. I dropped down, and eyeball to eyeball asked him, "Can I come in?"

"No! Wait a second!" He stood up, buttoned his shirt and left the room. I was about to flip out I felt so rejected and this heat of passion was not cooling off. I didn't have time to react, but was standing up and turning around when in my booth door this dude rushes in, pops his shirt open again, and we go belly to belly, kissing, and it feels like our skin is literally flaming with fire. We set upon one another voraciously, like two vampires.

"You're burning up you're so hot...." I told him as our stomachs touched and my t-shirt was pulled behind my head. My jeans were unbuttoned and my long five inches, or short six inches seemed longer than seven as he worked my dick with his hand then his mouth.

"Stop," he said. "You wanna fuck me?"

"Sure," I said.

"Then button up and let's go across to the other side of this joint. It be safe over there."

Not exactly sure of what is happening, I zip up, button up and hand in hand we cross the gloomy space between what appear the populated side of the arcade to an older part of the building, and water was flowing in through the roof, and there was standing water on the floor. We splashed our way into this rain soaked booth.

"In here," he said and pulled me into a booth. "Put some quarter in the machine. Ain't nobody gonna fuck with us in this dump."

The floor was unbelievable, I almost knelt down to suck but realized we had to stay off our knees or the water on the floor from a big leak in the ceiling could get us totally wet—a storm of rain and what sounded like some hail had been pelting the metal roof for the whole time we were in the maze of baths, and anyways, I couldn't kneel and he couldn't' and we stood, our shoes in almost a half inch of water. Other guys opened the door to come join us but seeing that we were standing in water up over the edges of our shoe soles they guys shut the door and backed out.

I am not believing how hot this black man is, as things progress, and his kisses were so erotic I was shaking from the excitement.

Then he turned around and dropped his pants to his knees and leaned forward on his hands and arms offering his bare ass to me, his look spoke to me

“Fuck me."

He is bending over with his hands on the seat of the bench, and shoving his skinny ass and legs out and says again more forcefully, "Fuck me!"

I shoved my cock into him and almost passed out with pleasure. He had thick greasy lube in his ass and around the pucker of his asshole. I pushed my cock into his hole it seemed like he began contracting and loosening his sphincters such that his ass was like a mouth hotly sucking my cock. I was sure I'd never had sex this hot in my life before. The rain roared on the metal roof, dripped into the booth, and now and then the door popped open and we'd slam it, and I'd put a quarter in the video machine, and I pumped until my brains shot out of the end of my cock. I saw lights going off in my mind.

I kept pumping him hard and he kept the ass action on me so hard that I was really fuckin' fucking, and I couldn't break away if I'd have wanted to. I was coming again a second time soon.

When I shot in him like ten spurts, emptying the cum from within in me so much that I felt an exhaustion overtake me, he turned and put his arms under my armpits and stopped me from falling to my knees in exhaustion and he held me up, pressed me against the wall with his body, and with one hand took my hand and licked my palm and put it on his dick and I began jacking him off and it was exciting him extremely. This was decadent beyond belief and the heat of it was beyond anything I ever knew.

When we walked across the room, I sensed from the men in the arcade that they did not approve of this black and white sex but it turned them on, too. But they were afraid to come in on us the way we acted.

I was jacking him off and he was about to shoot when he put his hand on his asshole and got it greased, then shoved two fingers between my legs, shoved me hard up against the wall, and from in front of me his long cock reached between and through my soft inner thighs, under my balls, and his penis penetrated just into my second sphincter, and he began putting it in and out of me and it felt so hot. He began to moan, and was going to pull out, but I squeezed him against me and felt him cumin' inside me.

We had to keep pumping quarters into the machine to play like we were watching the movie but we were blind somehow in an erotic cloud of a haze that made me think of Prince, the artist, and the song he had put out with the movie, "Purple Haze." The LSD was painting things rose and yellow colors swirling in a deep purple field.

I felt like this dark skinned beauty of a man had brought me into an atmosphere as strange and wonderful as any I'd ever seen or been in, and his body scent, the musk or perfume of his natural body scent magnified my arousal. I began getting hard again as he kissed me and I pulled on his cock but then he pressed me gently but firmly against the wall with my back against the wall and only his arms behind my waist holding me tummy tight to his, still taking my weight off my feet and let my thighs rest on his standing thighs, me leaning against to wall for balance and him pushing up under my balls so fine, so fine...that I melted in his arms, and he pumped gently, but he was spent, and me too. Apparently knowing I couldn't have taken his long cock from behind like he took my relatively small cock--his twelve would have split me open--he had fucked me from in front. We were done. We didn't want to stop, but we were limp now. I held his mushroom head so trying to milk him of any residual cum, and his circumcised big cock was so pleasurable to hold. I just wanted to sleep with him all night. He had fucked me like I'd never been fucked before. His super curly hair acted like Velcro for my white cum, and he rubbed my cum into his pubes to show me he loved it.

We'd forgotten about the video and some guy barged in with another guy in tow and said, "You fuckers can't hog this machine all night."

"We're just leaving," I said and laughed, and my nameless lover laughed too, and when the other guy saw he was black he said the nastiest thing, using the "N" word against my friend and me a "luvah" of the "N"...but this guy and his fuck mate were both twice our sizes and we got out of there as fast as we could.

My black partner whispered into my hear, "You are the best. Don't go near that guy, though. He hurts guys when he is finished with them."

I was about to pick up the conversation by whispering into my nameless black partner's ear when I realized he was splitting for the door. The rain was pouring on the ceiling, and I guess he felt it was a good time not to be trapped in a southern theatre, which was seemingly beginning to fill up with rednecks.

I tried to call after him to wait. I wanted to get a name and number.

He was gone. I saw him look at me like a ghost from the doorway. He was standing in the Apollo's purple neon light and rain was pouring on his head and face, and his chest an stomach were still exposed and water ran down his torso in rivulets. I saw him mouth the words, "I love you."

I did the same thing, "I love you!" He put on some shades, even though it was night, and pulled his collar together at his neck as the door of the arcade closed and then, I stood there unsure of what to do. I got my shirt and pants neater, and then I realized I was letting the guy get away and I ran to the front door, and out into the night, there were twenty or more cars and pickup trucks in the parking lot and he was no where to be seen. I went out to the side of the highway to look in both directions, and there he went, running in the rain, almost two blocks away, small against the shiny wet pavement from the street lamps, and I felt an emptiness I had only known as a boy ,an emptiness when I felt lost and afraid, this black man whose name I never knew had evoked in me something that had been dormant. He possessed a vital life force I needed desperately.

One of the reasons they called me schizophrenic at the hospital some times was just what was going on now. I began running down the street chasing this guy. I couldn't catch him. He turned a corner, and when I got there he was gone. I walked up to the first house I saw and even though it was early morning, about two a.m or later. Irrationally, I rang the door bell. I was going to ask for him. No one answered. I went to the next house and knocked. Then I realized I was being crazy. I looked to be sure no cops were around, and I ran back out of this sleeping neighborhood and to the Apollo Arcade.

I knew I was going crazy and needed to stop, find Sandy, and write in my journal about this later, so I made a mental note to write about this the next day in my journal beside the pool.

I felt something like an earthquake in me. I wondered in that moment if I would ever feel this solitude leave me, a dense and thick feeling of aloneness that was more drenching than the rain absorbed me and made me little, weak, and small.

I cursed myself for not getting a phone number because I had every intention in the world of getting his name or address, but our meeting was sudden, our time together intense, and our departure instantaneous. True anonymity. An authentically spectacular anonymous sexual encounter! It seemed sacred to me. Later I wrote about him, and it stayed true my whole life that he remained the best fuck I ever got and gave. I wanted him. I truly wanted him, this anonymous rather ragged creature. He could easily have been homeless. I could readily have given him a home.

I came back into the building from the rain, in the lobby, walked along the counter in the front areas where they sold condoms and dildos, and lube, and magazine and movies, and then there was an open door into the sex theatre. I'd buttoned up and then I saw Sandy coming out of the arcade labyrinth and we made eye contact and rushed into the movie theatre where there were men of all sizes and colors pseudo-outdoors camping and the camp tables and other props had the purpose of being a set for every kind of homosexual position in sex that you could imagine two's and three' and four's to be in. He and sat next to each other and giggled a bit, still stoned, and he said, he didn't think he would go alone in the Arcade again because he met some guy that was like a cop who was hassling the customers, and I only mentioned that I'd watched a video in a booth and some guy tried to suck me. I felt I couldn't tell him how hot the sex I had was with the black guy. I really wanted to get up and follow that man again, but not then, not later that evening, not the next days nor even in the years to come when I hit this place alone, never did I ever see the best fuck I ever had in my life again. No one knew I visited the Apollo theatre. I continued to sneak over to it for years, until it burned down.

I never saw the man again but I never forgot how hot his body was and his ass was like double delight. I thought later that probably he was with fever of some major degree to have emitted that much body heat, but I didn't know, and all I remember was the faintest outline of his body and pockmarked face and the suction of his lips and ass.

I was enthralled. I was enchanted...with another man, and there I was sitting next to my "new lover" wondering about all these relationships and the ties that bound one man to another in some semblance of exclusivity. And my ass was titillated, somehow electrified by the guy's fucking of me with the head of his long cock and his shaft sheathed in my external flesh and him in me. I developed a fever that night, and the next day I seemed to have some flulike symptoms, fever, upset stomach, burning eyes, but I was much more "lovesick" than physically sick. Whatever the fever that man had, I had it now, and I was glad to be burning up. It was like being in his wet sweaty arms, and I never wanted to stop smelling his odors. Our odors.

This was not the way the Gay world presented itself in New Orleans. This was a sex theatre where men went to meet men.

Did I feel like I belonged in the gay world? Not really. I believed I belonged in the sexual world, not gay, but homosexually sexually making it with men, not playing at marriage or imitating straight couples and all the rituals those couples go through.

I made a note in my mind to bring this up to Sandy when the time was right. It was a delicate subject: relationships.

Sandy and I sat in the movie theatre for about twenty minutes. Then from boredom and the stupidity of the sex movie, I began to get sleepy and needed something to drink or eat.

"Sandy," I said with my head on his shoulder, he seemed so much older than me suddenly, "Can we go? I'm tired?"

I heard myself sounding like his little boy and it seemed appropriate but it also scared me to think I was beginning to fit into a special role with him, beginning to acquire expectations he'd put on me, no matter how much he was open to Bert being in the bed with us while Linden was in bed fucking Drew, I knew he was being patient as a strategy.

I wanted to be free. It was a scary realization, that I didn't want to be property of Sandy, not property of anyone's at all.

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