Look Away Silence excerpt by Edward C Patterson

In Look Away Silence by Edward C Patterson, Martin Powers wanted an ironing board for Christmas. Instead, he got . . . Matthew Kieler, a non-returnable gift, but a gift that kept on giving. Chance encounters are sometimes the ones that most change our lives. He sold Matt a tie, but got more in the bargain - more than most people would want and more than anyone deserved. Although these lovers may not have had the pink American dream, they had it better than most, even as they faced a crisis that would change us all.

Look Away Silence is a romance set in the time of AIDS, when ignorance could spell trouble and often did. It encompasses the author’s experiences in volunteer community service and personal friendships during a tragic period in American history. The novel is dedicated to the Hyacinth AIDS Foundation, the NAMES Project and to the author’s own fallen angels. "Mothers, do not shun your children, because you never know how long you have to revel in them."

Look Away Silence

CreateSpace (July 15, 2009)

ISBN: 1448651921

ASIN: B002HRER5S

Excerpt:

Chapter Four

Christmas in The Cavern

1

Tux and Ties proved to be a quiet cove, since few weddings and proms take place at Christmas. However, I knew that next week would bustle as New Year’s proved to be a better stimulus for formal wear. Still, Russ found something to keep him busy; a customer with a size thirteen shoe, Holy Mother of God. I dragged Matt in through the casements and called for assistance. The place appeared abandoned, but I knew better. I spied four legs behind the curtain to the dressing room. Russ was taking measurements as only he could. I cleared my throat, but to no avail. Matt appeared embarrassed, but did chuckle. He slouched on the glass case, constantly gazing back out to the mall.
Finally, I announced in a loud voice, “Anyone see a fruitcake? I’ve seemed to have lost my fruitcake.”
The curtain swished open, the customer adjusting his pants and my friend Russ pouting like Butterfly McQueen.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Fancy dress ball?” I asked.
“No,” said the customer. He was a looker, every bit his shoe size. He had soft tawny curls and was a head taller than Russ. “A little private party.”
“So I see.”
“No, you don’t,” Russ snapped, striding toward the counter. “But who have we here? The man from the jacket racks.”
Matt fidgeted, blinking his gorgeous eyes. I wanted to smack Russ, but we had come to his haven for the evening’s itinerary, after all. So I accepted a little pay back.
“Russ, this is Matt.”
Russ smiled, and then touched Matt’s hat brim.
“Ride ‘em, cowboy.” He turned to the customer. “And this is . . . what’s your name?”
“Chris,” said the giant — a gentle enough looking giant. He’d be a great bookmark in the club later.
I reached for Chris’ hand — a massive hand, and as I did Russ winked.
“I’m Martin.”
“Good name,” Chris said. I blinked.
“So,” I said, resolved that introductions were complete. “Are we off to The Cavern, or is your private party drifting into the back room?”
“Don’t be silly,” Russ snapped. “Business is business. I’ll just finish these measurements and I’ll meet you there in an hour.” He glanced at Chris, who grinned. “Maybe two.”
Matt was halfway to the door. I didn’t think he cared too much for Russ. My flighty sister was an acquired taste, after all. To know him was to love him . . . simple soul that . . . well, there has only been one Russ amongst us, thank God. Where would we find another?
I didn’t want to lose Matt’s interest, so I bid Russ and Mr. Thirteen-inch shoe a farewell, and then headed for the parking lot. Matt drove a Ford Cherokee (go figure) and he followed my piece of shit Honda Civic to Long Branch. My little heart went pittipat, but I was trying to keep myself in gear. Every time I peeked through the rear view mirror, I expected to see something other than a blue Cherokee and a cowboy hat. However, he stayed the course.
Dusk closed in, and even more so. It felt like snow. I didn’t mind. It had been a mild winter so far — cold, but nothing more than rain. I loved a white Christmas, especially if I was getting a Christmas present — a vacuum broom. What did you think I meant? Still, I kept myself in rein. We’d park the cars near my apartment and go directly to The Cavern. If my cowboy — from Houston — why no, ma’am; from Melrose — the queers and steers ghetto — if he wandered off with another filly or proved to be a bad drunk, I’d save myself a holiday headache, although I had plenty of Motrin. Who knows? Perhaps he could sing. I would soon find out as the Jersey Gay Sparrows would be roosting at The Cavern tonight to warble a pink version of an ersatz Christmas concert — a few carols and a Chanukah melody. I had a solo.
I parked in my usual spot facing toward the beach, and then immediately directed Matt to the visitor’s lot across the street. It’s funny how we do things by rote, so much so they become lost in a haze of more important memories. However, I recall the precise logistics of that first date, for that was what this was. First dates were always awkward. Did he adjust his hair and hat before turning off the engine? Did he lock the doors? Did he hesitate before crossing the street? And, most important, did he take my hand or did he shuffle beside me down the street? In fact, Matthew Kieler didn’t hesitate, nor did he straighten his hair and hat or lock the truck door. He just strode to my side, and then rocked awaiting my directions. So I hooked myself on his arm and moved him along the street to The Cavern’s entrance. He only said one thing as we moseyed along. I’ll never forget it.
“This place must be pretty in summer.”
And I thought, do you mean to stay around and find out?

2

The Cavern usually didn’t awake until eleven or nearer to midnight, but it was Christmas, so the regulars were already there and in a festive mood. Extra activities tonight — a leather Santa and a subset of us Jersey Sparrows and the Monmouth contingency of the Errata Erastes Choir, our local Lesbian warblers (or grunters — whatever your perspective). So The Cavern percolated early that evening. I remember it well — Teddy Fitz manning the bar, his rippling muscles shining under the flashing Budweiser sign, and Gus the Bouncer, not collecting the cover charge yet, which didn’t kick in until eight o’clock. He was a burly bear, but as tender as a teddy, but not like Teddy Fitz, who was everyone’s sweetheart — the bearer of the sweet liquid ambrosia a la tap and shaker. The cute busboy Nick was on duty and that hotty — what’s his name . . . Scott or . . . Steve — something with an S. He was sizzling, but quiet — a memorable sight nonetheless. I can still see him in my mind’s eye, even though he’s passed beyond the shadow. Then there was Bobby, the waiter — eyes filled with magnetic trouble, everyone caught in his trace.
The bar was bellied with the beach bums — Sam, Kurt and Mother. They weren’t really bums, but they always seemed to be at the bar from the time I entered to the time I left — never failing. Mother was the oldest specimen of drag queen to my acquaintance. He must have been seventy and I would love to spin his story, if it were known. However, it was a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Mother, with his sagging falsies, shabby feather boa and askew lipstick was a fixture at The Cavern — as ubiquitous as the barstools.
The Cavern was unique. Thinking about it, years before the fire that razed it to rubble, the place had three huge rooms — a front bar, a dance floor (actually two dance floors) and a back bar. The back bar opened onto a volleyball court, where in summer we could watch the players volley in their all-together. In winter, the court was a vacancy between the back bar and the shack. The shack had yet another bar — more intimate and the place for pick-ups.
The Cavern was just that. The walls and ceiling were tan stucco, sculptured into stalagmites. The floor, except the dance areas, was uneven and gravelly. Bruce Q., the owner and a real queer StarWars geek, was inspired by the outpost bar on Mos Eisley. I often imagined Luke Skywalker and Hans Solo drifting in from the beach in search of the Millennium Falcon. The room was hung with a variety of rubbery and plastic cave creatures. The most fascinating was a thing Bruce Q. called the Zippilin, a cross between a bat and a cat. He had it rigged on a cable and, every once in a while, the thing would go sailing over the dance floor and yap like a Zippilin, however a Zippilin yapped. Scared the crap out of new visitors. The veterans just howled.
When I pulled Matt into The Cavern, no one was dancing. No one dared, even though Carlos, the DJ, spun platters. No one dared trip over the dance floor before the bewitching hour, when Donna Summer blared over the two eight foot speakers. I waved to Teddy Fitz and to Sam and Kurt, and then presented Matt to Mother. Matt was withdrawn, but that didn’t discourage me. As the Christmas elves spread the spirit, I believed he would come to life. He was a product of a gay ghetto after all — Melrose.
“Mother,” I said. “May I introduce you to my friend, Matt?”
Mother’s face broke into a clownish smile. She raised her tattered begloved hand for my caress. Matt looked away — nerves bubbling. Drag queens might have been his discomfort zone — at least seventy-year-old chicken-boned crones like Mother. I learned that some gay men shunned drag queens, perhaps sensing their own inner Ethel Merman wanting to pop out and sing That’s Entertainment. This reaction was not unique.
“Matt?” I nudged.
“Glad to meet you, Miss.”
“It’s Mother,” croaked The Cavern’s icon. “Make yourself at home. Mi casa is su casa.”
Mother had somehow made the place her own over the years, the poor dear. I knew she would launch into a history of Long Branch and the good old days when the boardwalk stood proud over the gay community, who frolicked under it. However, Matt already drifting away. I nodded to Mother, and then nudged Matt along the bar.
“What’ll you have?” I asked.
“Corona with lime,” Matt said. “And I’m paying.”
I grinned. Was this to be my Sugar Daddy for the evening — Computer Programmer cash? Merry Christmas, Martin.
“Teddy, a Corona with lime and my usual.”
My usual changed from season to season, but it was, if I recall at the time, a thing called a Suffering Bastard — a double rum and Curacao concoction with more fruit juice than a gay orgy.
The drinks were duly prepared and served on holiday napkins.
“Where’s your elves hat?” I asked Teddy.
He laughed, and then plundered the bar for a pink stocking hat. On him it looked like a head condom. Matt laughed, and it was about time.

3

It seemed like an eternity before The Cavern filled up. We drank in near silence except for the occasional comment on the decorations, but how long can you talk about balls — well, the glass kind, at least? I now thought that Matt’s shyness would dampen the evening, but every time I thought to steer us around and exit past Gus the Bouncer, another acquaintance would pop through the vestibule and under the stalagmites. Things became lively when the Leather Santa arrived — ho ho ho. He was in red-coated leather from top to waist, and then wore lacey leggings with his ass hanging out the back, as any appropriate Leather Santa should. His beard was not the fake department store variety. It was real and as white as . . . well you get the idea. When he bounced through the foyer, his pack of porn calendars on his back, the place exploded in laughter. Christmas was here at last. Even Matt roared at the sight. Although, how much was soulful glee and how much Corona with lime, I couldn’t fathom.
“C’mon,” I said, pulling Matt off his too permanent stool.
“What? Where?”
“The back bar. Santa wants to take a picture of us.”
“I don’t photograph well.”
“Hell. We all look like shit when sitting on Leather Santa’s lap.”
A queue had already formed and the music had changed to Deck the Hall with Balls of Folly.
“And what should Santa bring you, little boy?”
I giggled, Santa’s bony knee up my ass, and Matt blushing on the other knee.
“A vacuum broom. And it better have all the attachments.”
Flash.
“Oh, attachments,” Santa roared. “And what might you be doing with those attachments?”
“Never you mind,” I said, standing abruptly — so abruptly, Santa’s other knee gave way, Matt sliding to the floor, his cowboy hat flying off. Mother retrieved it. She donned it and on her, it was the stuff of nightmares.
“Did you lose this?” she asked.
Matt’s good spirits fled. He snapped it off Mother’s head, brushed it off (the hat, not the head) and rushed back to the front bar. I shrugged, and then followed.
I fully expected that he would be gone. Why do I pick these guys? Where did they come from? I gather them like moss on a log.
I got to the edge of the empty dance floor, and then halted. My flighty Texan hadn’t fled. In fact, he seemed as companionable as ever at the bar and with  . . . Russ, who flitted in the shadow of Customer Chris, who from a distance bookmarked the stalagmites.
“Is that your date du jour?” came a voice, a rather masculine voice. I knew it couldn’t be one of my fairy companions.
“Of course that’s our Martin’s latest squeeze,” came a silkier voice.
I turned. It was my favorite ladies, if ladies you could call them — Ginger and Leslie. We hugged. Ginger, she of the deep voice and butch hair and beer belly, was less a hug than a tackle. However, Leslie’s stylish coif tickled my nose. I had known these two forever — or at least it seemed so. They both sang in the Errata Erastes Choir — Leslie a soprano — Ginger, bass.
“Which one?” Ginger asked. “The tall drink of water or the cowboy?”
“That’s no question,” Leslie said. “The cowboy. We didn’t bring our Martin up to use a stepladder in bed. Besides, he’s more Russ’ type. Right?”
“Correct, you are,” I chirped.
“Well, he’s cute,” Ginger said.
“Like you would know,” Leslie chimed in. “If he had tits, you might dance a hoe down there, but he’s definitely mucho macho, with that shadowy chin and those . . .”
“Dreamy eyes,” I said. “But I’m afraid he’s broken.”
Ginger tugged my waist, nearly breaking my back.
“They’re all defective.”
“At least, the ones you’ve picked up.”
“Standard fare for you, Martin dear.”
“Why should you be surprised?”
I pulled away.
“Stop it. It’s Christmas and I won’t be denied my New Year’s broken heart.”
“So you’re getting all the way to New Years?” Ginger asked.
“Shush, Ginger,” Leslie said. “He’s been known to get as far as Three King’s Day.”
They roared, but went suddenly demure, gathering me close.
“Queens at ten o’clock,” Ginger said.
I followed her finger, and sure as hell, in came three of the most obnoxious members of the Jersey Sparrows — from their Pennsylvania nest. Todd Moorehouse, a professional type and snob, his anti-Christ side kick, Padgett Anderson, a hair-dresser of tri-state renown, and Mortimer Levine, an unproduced playwright, although you’d think he was Edward Albee, if you believed what he told you. They strutted into The Cavern as if they were bats and owned the crevices. Guano, I thought. They immediately pranced toward Matt with all the élan of Eleanor Roosevelt in New Guinea.
“You should save him,” Ginger said.
“If Todd gets his ear, he won’t be able to hold up that cowboy hat.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. The other chorus members were closing in also. They must have come in a choral caravan. They traipsed across the threshold in duos and trios, all sizes, shapes and degrees of camp. However, my concern was my date. I wouldn’t mind Matt joining the chorus, if he could sing, but Todd, Padgett and Mortimer were a troika from the Otterson clan, a rich New Birch entrepreneur, who, in my personal opinion, should stay in Oz and await a house to fall on him. I had my experiences with that coven. I got to the bar just as Todd opened his chubby mouth.
“Todd,” I said.
Padgett flanked me, and then reached behind toward Matt.
“Who do we have here?” Paddy asked.
Matt was talking about life in Melrose with Chris the Customer, but Padgett interrupted him mid-sentence. Matt stammered.
“Christmas,” Mortimer said. “Bah, humbug.”
“Just because we only sang one Chanukah carol at the concert, you’ve become a bitter queen.”
“Become?” Paddy echoed.
“And I was going to buy you a drink,” Mort said.
“That would be the day,” came a rugged voice. Ginger.
“Ah, the bulldogs are here.”
Ginger growled, while Leslie chuckled.
“But no one answered my question?” Paddy complained.
“Why we only sang one Chanukah song? They’re not called carols.”
“No.” Padgett turned again toward Matt, but Russ stepped into the fray.
“Which one of you knows the line-up?” he asked.
“That would be me,” Todd said.
“Don’t believe him. The only line-up he knows was after that raid in Baghdad.”
“Now, don’t knock it,” Todd said. “Iraq had its moments.”
“Well, if you two don’t know,” Russ said.
Todd and Padgett gave each other their usual withering glance. I never understood them. They were like oil and water, but were inseparable, always feeding off their essential differences. I guess they were a microcosm of the world, and thus we orbit. In either event, they marched to the small dance floor, calling the rest of the choir to attention.
“They’re sure jittery,” Matt said.
“That they are, love.”
I remembered that he smiled, a foam mustache hugging his bristling upper lip. I wanted to lick that foam away. Here was a stranger. They don’t know ya. They don’t wanna know ya. In fact, he was stranger than other strangers that I had met — an out of towner. A professional man. A cowboy and as skittish as a pancake on a grill. Still, I was a sucker for his lips, although we hadn’t locked them together yet. A thought crossed my mind — dump the chorus tonight. They don’t really need my solo. Russ could sing it or Jasper. Jasper was just itching for it.
“Martin,” Padgett called. “Are you a part of this chorus or not?”
Not. But, yeah. And who died and left Padgett director. The director hadn’t arrived, and probably wouldn’t. He often let us sail without him at impromptu gigs.
“I guess you’ve got to line up,” Matt said.
“Do you sing?”
“Like a frog.”
“A bass. Come join us.”
“You’d be sorry. And if I do, not tonight.”
I gazed at the double line that mottled across the dance floor. There they were — Padgett, Todd, Mortimer, John (in full drag), Jasper (hoping, no doubt, that I had a sore throat), Rob and Ron and Ron and Ron (three of them — three too many), Russ and Harry, and Henry, and Brian . . . and Leslie and Ginger. I guessed they were the only Errata Erastes’ here tonight.
“Go,” Matt said, and then he kissed me. It wasn’t much of a kiss and it stunk of Corona with lime, but it gave me hope that I might get as far as Three King’s Day.

Chapter Five

Quiet Moments

1

The first two numbers were a bit off key, but I attributed it to the alcohol and the lack of a director. However, the Silent Night, to which I sang the middle verse, scintillated. Smoke be damned, I still managed to caress each note like an angel come to earth. I closed my eyes during the first measure — no director to watch and the choir would need to follow me with their hum-hummy accompaniment. I knew Jasper wanted to push the background up and thus drown me out, but somehow the other first tenors held him in check. My voice soared, and just as I reached my highest note, I opened my eyes and, through the tobacco haze, I saw him — Matt the cowboy, his eyes hung on my every tone. I even thought he sighed — a true fan, won fair and square.
Suddenly, the crowds disappeared, only he and I, alone and suspended in the midst of this Christmas carol, my voice leading him to a pre-passionate state. I’m not sure whether I could still end the number and return to The Cavern’s cabaret mirth. Still, no song goes on forever. It either finds its cadence or perhaps its coda, but never lingers beyond the last note. As I folded my hands in my ultimate Sleep in Heavenly Peace, I somehow knew there would be a last note. I looked forward to the coda.
We ended with a rousing Chanukah number with Leather Santa prancing at the dance floor’s margin and Mother managing something like a hora. Christmas became a Jewish wedding. On the last chord, which might have been the Lost Chord for the Lost Tribe, the Zippilin was let loose across the stage, cawing a strange Bruce Q. Merry Christmas. The DJ struck up Everybody Dance Now and five angels in jock straps hopped forward — three waiters, a bus boy and some new cutie, who I knew not. A general cheer went up as both dance floors were jammed with gyrating merriment.
I waved to Matt to join me. He hesitated, but finally moseyed to the margins, where I picked him off like a carousel ring, pulling him onto the dance floor. Russ and Chris the Customer joined us for a foursome. I was always amused at how gay dancers congeal into this modern version of a reel — sort of a square dance at King Henry’s court, where no one touched, but everyone danced around everyone else. Even Ginger and Leslie vied to make it a sextet crashing through our central core, wiggling their asses with lesbian aplomb.
The set was endless — one of those Black Box numbers designed to burn calories at the gym. The disco ball glittered and the lasers flashed, and all the while, the Zippilin barked or meowed or cawed. Finally, the dance slowed. I got to try my sultry steps out on my cowboy. He wasn’t sultry at all — in fact, he shuffled about like a klutz. But his eyes were glued to me, and that’s all that mattered. So I wiggled my tush and flashed my eyes. We were all smiles, until my friend John cut in.
John was a sweetheart — a petite drag queen, who did shows at The Cavern and other venues. He was a weekend queen, never dressing up for work or at home. He was barely nineteen. So, with his baby face, in drag he was a butter pat on an English muffin — all nooks and crannies. Bring the Strawberry jam in, please. When John slipped between us, Matt shuddered. I had a feeling that the drag queen phobia might erupt, and I wasn’t far from wrong. I mean, Matt didn’t throw up or anything, but his shuffle became a syncopated walk. His hands went crabby and he glanced at the bar as if the Coronas were calling him to shore.
Finally, John began to brush against me and then Matt. I should have known better and discouraged it, but I’m a natural flirt. I increased my swish and soon John and I were in full swagger — girls on the patio sort of thing. Matt stopped still, his face drawn — deep disappointment. Then he fled, but not as I supposed to the bar, but to the back room.
“What’s with him?” John asked. “Jealousy bone?”
“I don’t know, hon. I don’t think so.”
John grabbed me about the waist, and then grinded.
“He should lighten up.”
“I think he has a problem with hot mamas, like you.”
John released me and stopped his routine.
“He’s from out of town,” I explained.
“From Mars, maybe.”
“Now, Johnny, be good. He’s my try-out Christmas model.”
John raised his hands high as if to serve the cheese or the Baptist’s head.
“You’d do better with anyone else here, sweet Martin.”
I looked about the dance floor. These were my sisters, not my lovers. True I had been frisky with many of them, but then they were stuffed back in the pack and drawn out only for color and snappy conversation. I spied that boor, Todd Moorehouse, and shuddered. Now this would be the only new frontier, and I’d rather slit my wrists than be intimate with any of the Roy Otterson crowd. No, my sisters were my friends, not my lovers.
“I suppose I should see where he’s off to,” I said, shrugging.
“If you must,” John said. “But if he’s fallen down a sewer drain, I’ll be here waiting.”
“You never wait long, Sis,” I said, and then darted toward the back bar.

2

The boom-boom-boom of the dance floor fell into the background as I explored the back bar. I knew everyone there, so it was difficult to maneuver through the holiday greetings, as slurred as they were. The jock strapped angels were flirting about, serving their drinks, and I believe a bit more, especially that Bobby, who managed to balance his tray despite the many crotch grabs he was enjoying. Working for tips could be rewarding, I thought. The other cutie was also doing well, managing the camera for the Leather Santa crowd. I guess his name was Branch, because there were plenty of Branch, get this shot, and Branch, bend over and shoot this one between your legs. Still, I didn’t see a cowboy hat in the crowd.
“Russ.” He was easy to find, given the bookmark Customer Chris, whose head scraped the stalagmites. “Have you seen . . .”
“The Midnight Cowboy?”
He cocked his head toward the volleyball court. I sighed. It was friggin’ cold outside, but I didn’t want to get my coat. Still, I was obliged to look.
The volleyball court was strange that night — empty and a baffle for the music. The jollity from the shack echoed across the hollow of this solitary spot. Crouched on the sidelines was my cowboy, his head between his legs, eyes racked on folded arms. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure this man out. No amount of phobia could produce such a reaction, unless he was on something and I hadn’t detected the dosage.
I sauntered over, towering above him. He didn’t move, so I hunkered down, and whispered in his ears.
“Noise too much for you?”
He shook his head, never raising it. This was going to be fun. Merry Christmas, Martin.
“Well, too much beer in your tummy then, I supposed.”
He sniffed, raising his head. Those sea-blue eyes were cushioned in vermilion.
“I’m sorry,” he said with his soft drawl. “I guess I’m not ready for fun and games.”
“Not ready?”
He grasped my shoulders, and then hugged me.
“Hold me, will ya.”
Since he was holding me, I guess I had no choice. Still, I felt his heart beating on my chest.
“What wrong?” I muttered. “What’s upset you? Was it John?”
“Yes, actually.”
“He didn’t mean anything, you know. He’s always flirting with me. We’re just sisters.”
“No,” Matt said. “That’s not it. It’s that he reminds me of . . . someone.”
News at eleven. There was someone else — someone gone or left behind.
“That’s okay,” I said. “You don’t need to tell me.”
I really didn’t want to know, but it looked like the time was ripe, or at least the Coronas primed to the appropriate level.
“You should know,” Matt said.
He stood, helping me to my feet. He seemed better, but marginally so. It was cold and my hands were like ice blocks. I blew on them, but Matt took them into his, warming them, and then guided them into his pocket. That was sweet and provocative, but he wasn’t flirting or easing towards foreplay. He was just keeping my hands warm so he could unburden his heart.
“His name was Luis.”
Was. Past tense.
“Let me guess,” I said. “He was a drag queen.”
“The most beautiful drag queen you could ever set eyes on. He performed at la Chiquita Club in the Melrose, and the boys loved him. But he was mine.”
He sniffed again, and then clenched my hands closer.
“He was soft like . . . like you sorta and had a considerable following. He sang like an angel.”
Like me, sorta. I had a sinking feeling.
“Is that what you’re after,” I said. I collected my hands and did my own warming. “I’m no one’s stand in, you know.”
“No, no,” he said. “That’s not it. I know that people are different and when something is over, it’s over. But Luis was never over in the sense that we broke up.”
“Then he’s waiting for you in the Lone Star State.”
Matt choked.
“I wish he was. Not that I can’t be with anyone else, but Luis is . . . well, he’s . . .”
He couldn’t say it, and he didn’t need to, because I wouldn’t let him.
“Killed him, they did. Bastards.”
“No, no, Matt. It’s okay. You don’t need to go through it. You don’t.”
He bawled, his head buried in my shoulder, his warm tears freezing on my shirt.
“He was such a little performer, he was. He didn’t mean any harm, but he sometimes got into trouble with some of the rougher trade. They’d call him names and he’d toss it right back at them. But that night, they waited for him. They waited and . . .”
“No,” I said. “You’ll not do this to yourself. You’re here with me and on Christmas. I’m the ghost of Christmas Present, and the ghost of Christmas Past needs to stay in the past or you’ll never be free of it.”
“It’s not that easy,” he said. “But . . .”
“Try.”
He sighed. His eyes were cast down onto the court. The thumpa-thumpa-boom-boom of the dance floor rumbled in the night. The laughter from the shack was in a different world. Suddenly, Matt gazed up at me. I think it was in that moment — you know the moment. Rare as it is, sometimes the fates conspire to snare the soul and the heart into a universal song, one without ending . . . never ending — never ended. Never. It was then that I knew that this Christmas gift was more precious than a vacuum broom. I scratched my head with my frozen mitts.
“I’m cold,” he said.
“I’m warmer.” The stars above were beckoning me home. “But we’d be warmer in bed, don’t you think?”
“Do you have one of those down comforters?”
“Genuine Eider,” I said. “An Icelandic beauty.”
“Thank you for your generous offer.”
“It stands only if you can leave Luis . . . outside.”
He shuffled.
“That’ll be hard. Very hard. But, you know, the best part of Luis is inside me. He’d make a great acquaintance, if you let him. He sang like an angel — just like you.”
I grasped his hand. Cold hands in the dark.
“Well, it’s Christmas,” I said. “I guess we can let an angel watch over us.”
Suddenly, an angel appeared at the door. I shuddered, and then laughed. It was a smoking angel in a jock strap — one of The Cavern’s crew — the waiter — Bobby.


To read another excerpt from Look Away Silence, go to September 29, 2009.

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A World Ago: A Navy Man’s Letters Home, 1954-1956 excerpt by Dorien Grey

It's not often one has the chance to become 20 again...

A World Ago: A Navy Man’s Letters Home, 1954-1956 by Dorien Grey chronicles, through one young man's journal and vivid letters to his parents, his life, adventures, and experiences at a magical time. It follows him from being a Naval Aviation Cadet to becoming a “regular” sailor aboard the aircraft carrier USS Ticonderoga on an eight-month tour of duty in the politically tense Mediterranean Sea.

Learn to fly a plane, to soar, alone, through a valley of clouds, experience a narrow escape from death on a night training flight, and receive the continent of Europe as a 21st birthday gift. Climb down into the crater of Mt. Vesuvius, visit Paris, Cannes, Athens, Beirut, Valencia, Istanbul and places in-between; wander the streets of Pompeii, have your picture taken on a fallen column on the Acropolis, ride bicycles on the Island of Rhodes, experience daily life aboard an aircraft carrier during the height of the cold war—all in the company and through the eyes of a young will-be-writer coming of age with the help of the United States Navy.

A World Ago, currently being narrated as an audiobook, is a rare glimpse into the personal and private world of a young man on the verge of experiencing everything the world has to offer—and discovering a lot about himself in the process.

A World Ago: A Navy Man's Letters Home, 1954-1956
Untreed Reads (April 8, 2013)
ISBN: 9781611875416

Excerpt: (letter written to his parents describing his being released from the Naval Aviation Cadet program)

13 July, 1955

Dear Dad

---And so ends the short & not too tragic career of a would-be Naval Aviator. The “stationery” is filched from the Jackets Office, where I am now sitting awaiting a trip to the Admiral tomorrow morning.

In a way I feel quite bad, & yet in another I am quite relieved. At least now, barring a war or act of God, I shall be sure of getting out of the service alive. And just think―a year from this October I’ll be a civilian again!

A Speedy board, I think I’ve told you, is a contraction for Special Pilots’ Disposition Board. This board is composed of the Captain, a Commander, & other assorted Lt. Commanders & such―a total of five men.

I, with five other guys, was ordered to report before the Captain at 1000 Tuesday, 12 July (the night before, I’d seen a movie called Black Tuesday). The captain’s office is located in the Administration Building―the last room on the right in the center corridor. Outside his office is a long grey bench, typical of Naval furniture design. Here we sat. One by one we were called into the office. Each guy would be in there about ten minutes, then he would come outside while the board debated his case. They then would call him back & give him the verdict.

On one side of me sat a young ensign, who would get up frequently & walk up & down the passageway on pretext of getting a drink, or looking outside at the rain, which has been falling intermittently for four days. On the other side sat a fellow NavCad whose shirt, from under each armpit to well below each pocket, was the dark olive drab of wet khaki.

Farther on down sat a guy who wants to DOR, calmly (or apparently so) reading a pocket novel. I also was reading from a book of short stories.

One by one they went in, to come out minutes later, go back in, & come out once more, giving the thumbs up signal. Finally the field was narrowed to three―the DOR, the ensign, & me. The ensign remarked “I guess they’re saving the best for last.” The DOR was next. When he came out he told us that they had been highly indignant & tried to get him to stay in, saying that “well, we made it & everyone else makes it―why can’t you?” Hmmmmmmmm. He was forwarded to the Admiral, however.

That left the ensign & me. I knew who was going to be last, but I hoped I’d be wrong & get it over with. In between the dismissal of one & the calling of another into the office, there would be a five minute interval while they reviewed the jacket (wherein are all the records of the student since pre-flight) of the next person.

Sure enough, in goes the ensign. Well, at least now I knew that I was bound to be next, since there wasn’t anyone else.

The ensign got a down―he had wrecked an airplane while at Whiting Field, & had three downs here. He was to be given a depth-perception test before being sent to the Admiral.

And then it was my turn! I was completely over being nervous by this time; either than or in that state of nothing that lies just beyond nervousness. Major Keim, a marine & Saufley’s safety officer, called me in. (“Margason?” “Yes, sir.”) From the corridor you walk directly into the Captain’s office―no vestibule or small office between. On the floor was a thick blue or green carpet. Behind the Captain’s desk, in the center of the room, were two large windows, flanked by American flags. Around the room were leather sofas & lounge chairs, with a small table or two between them. Directly in front of the Captain’s desk is a green leather lounge chair. Major Keim said “Stand at attention beside the chair,” which I did, looking straight ahead, out through the venetian blinds of one of the windows. The Captain said “Sit down, Mr. Margason,” & I sat. The Captain is a thin man, almost gaunt, with greying hair & an almost mean look about his face, which is deceiving.

“Mr. Margason, you are before this board today because you have failed to meet the standard requirements set up by this field. You have received unsatisfactory marks on your F-4, F-4 re-check, & F-12. You are a below average student & show no signs of improvement….” And so on. After the run-down, the Captain said “We are going to ask you several questions―you may feel free to say whatever you wish.”

The questions came fast & furious, mostly from a Commander who sat on the Captain’s left, in the corner of the room. They started with “Why do you want to fly?” To which I answered that I always had, but there was no one reason. “Are you interested in mechanics?” I answered that I understood all the basic principles necessary, but that as for a desire or talent for taking engines apart or putting them back together, I had no great attraction.

“Do you drive a car?” “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” “Do you try to think in a coordinated, analytical way?” I said I tried to.

When it came Major Keim’s turn, he said “You realize, of course, that you have set a new mark in below averages in headwork?” No, I didn’t. “The record up until this time was 32―you have 38. After 16 you aren’t average, after 24 you’re far below average, & after 27 we start watching you.” The Captain interrupted to ask how many I’d gotten here at Saufley & was told six, which he remarked was a big difference. Asked why I got so many, I said that I try to do things right, & when I make a mistake, I get irritated with myself & consequently make more mistakes. Also that I learn some things slowly.

“You realize, of course,” continued Major Keim, “that the Navy works on a time basis―we only have so much time we can give. Do you think you would be a detriment to the Navy?” I said I most certainly would not try to be, & that all I could do was to try my best. After more questions of a similar nature they told me to wait outside.

Rather than try to repeat the long, court-martial sounding verdict, I will say simply that I got a down. After taking all things into consideration, the facts that I learned slowly, had had bad luck at Corry, & all, they were afraid they would have to forward my case to the Admiral. One of them said “Do you feel a little better now?” And I said “Not particularly, sir.” The captain said “You have a very good attitude,” & I said “Thank you, sir.” “If you have no further questions, that is all.” “Thank you, sir,” I stepped one step backward with my left foot, did an about-face on my right, opened the door, & went out into the hall….

Your Banished but undamaged son

Roge

Another excerpt from A World Ago, view April 15, 2013
Currently being narrated as an audiobook
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Deadly Slumber by Victor J Banis

In Deadly Slumber by Victor Banis (now available as an audio book) The House of the Dead is a mortuary whose directors are drop dead gorgeous and terminally horny-and one of them up to mischief. Stanley and Tom try to separate the naturally dead from the murdered dead and find themselves awash with coffins-until they come to the one with Stanley's name on it. Deadly Slumber indeed.

Deadly Slumber (#4 in the Deadly Mystery Series)

MLR Press (August 2009)

ISBN: 978-1-60820-090-0 (print)

978-1-60820-091-7 (ebook)

Excerpt:

The casket, still on its conveyor belt, had paused outside a steel door in the crematory. Horace raised the door with a chain and sprocket pulley. Blistering waves of heat poured into the room from within the furnace. He touched another switch, and the casket again moved forward and fell with a thump onto the firebrick floor within the furnace.

Horace lowered the door with a clang and a clatter. The controls sat on a small console just to the side of the door. He stood before them and worked a valve. They heard a little explosion within the furnace as the fire ignited, followed by a prolonged hiss of a gas jet.

"Come," he said. He put a hand on Stanley's shoulder and guided him to one of two porthole like windows in the side of the crematory. Stanley stared through it with morbid fascination, wanting to see and not wanting to see at the same time, while Horace adjusted the controls.

As Stanley stared through the glass, fire filled the interior of the furnace, dancing and leaping and looking like something from the end of time, hellish tongues of flame that had already in those few seconds charred the wood of the coffin, peeling it away from itself like the rind being stripped from a burning orange.

"At first, we use gas," Horace explained, speaking in a monotone as if he were lecturing a roomful of students. And perhaps, Stanley thought, he had done that in the past. "We need to build the heat up to a thousand degrees or so. Then we introduce the oil. In the old days, they used the oil alone, but it makes smoke. When folks see the smoke coming out of the chimney, they complain, they think they can smell the bodies burning, although of course they can't. So, we use gas to begin, and the science, the art if you will, is in getting just the right blend when we introduce the oil. Enough heat, and no smoke."

Stanley wanted to look away from the inferno beyond the thick glass of the window, but his eyes remained riveted. He started when the lid of the coffin suddenly seemed to vanish. One minute it was still there, charred but intact, and the next, the lid and the sides as well just disappeared, consumed by the fire, and there was the body of Molly O'Neil. Or so he supposed. Already, it would have been impossible to say for certain.

Stanley's gut turned over. He wanted to look away, and found that he couldn't. Some horrible fascination held him in thrall. It was like watching one of the old horror movies as a child; you knew what was coming, you wanted to look away or close your eyes, but you continued to gape at the screen regardless.

"I'm going to turn on the oil now and shut off the gas," Horace said, in his same matter-of-fact voice. "In no time flat, the heat will reached twenty five hundred degrees or more. It will burn up everything. There will be nothing left. Oh, maybe a few bone chips. Insignificant, really."

He adjusted his valves and the flames became more yellow than red. Stanley glanced sideways at Horace. He was rapt, his attention fully engaged in the display within. He appeared to be enjoying himself immensely.

"Ah," he said, with a note of satisfaction.

Stanley looked through the porthole again. The flesh had all but burned away from the body within, revealing the bones beneath. They looked eerily white and clean. The ribs seemed to dance as he watched, violet colored fingers of flame jetting from their tips.

Suddenly the skull fell free, dropped to the floor and rolled underneath Stanley's window. A trail of something he did not even want to put a name to escaped from its sockets and sizzled briefly on the floor. Molly O'Neil—what was left of her—seemed to leer up at Stanley accusingly. He put a hand out to one metal-sheathed wall to steady himself. The bones beyond the window had begun to crumble now. Even the skull had disappeared.

"Molly's gone, Stanley," Horace said, his voice sounding to Stanley as if it came from a great distance. "There's nothing left of her, nothing at all, nothing that you could really call Molly. It's as if she never even existed."

"Ashes," Stanley said around the bile rising in his mouth.

"Those? Just soot. Really. It's the perfect way to dispose of a body. Remember that the next time you kill someone. Afterward, there's no way, even, to say who it had been."

"No DNA?"

"Not in that." He made a dismissive gesture toward the furnace. "Just a few oxides. Oxides of sodium, potassium, calcium, iron, a trace of magnesium. All of it inorganic. All the organic matter has burned away. The DNA with it."

Stanley might have fallen, his legs had grown so weak. "Ah, now, no fainting," Horace said. He stepped quickly behind Stanley. "It had to be, you see. No one will know what happened to her. This too was pre-ordained. Molly had to disappear, once she'd served her purpose. She just vanished, the same way Alice vanished. Here one moment and, the next, poof."

Stanley didn't need to point out that he knew what had happened to Molly. Almost certainly Horace did not intend to leave him behind as a witness.

"I don't," Stanley said, starting to turn around, and saw that Horace had a small bottle in one hand and a cloth in the other. Stanley tried to step back, but he was against the metal wall of the furnace, nowhere to go, and he felt weak from what he had just witnessed.

Horace moved quickly. He clamped the damp cloth, smelling sickly sweet, over Stanley's mouth and nose.

Ether. Stanley gasped, surprised, and in doing so breathed deeply, and felt as if his lungs were suddenly on fire. He brought his own hands up, trying to claw at the hands holding the cloth to his face, but he had reacted too slowly and the ether was acting too swiftly. Already the room was beginning to darken. In another moment, his legs gave out and he sank into the arms waiting for him.

* * *

Stanley woke slowly. Even when his eyes fluttered reluctantly open, he was still in darkness, total darkness. He lay for a moment, trying to comprehend, blinking. No glimmer of light penetrated the enveloping blackness. He'd never seen a darkness so complete.

He tried to sit up, but he could raise his head only slightly before it banged against something solid above him. He could barely move at all, in fact.

His hands were folded across his chest. He put them out to his sides. Again, he could move them no more than an inch or two before his fingertips touched cushioned silk. He reached up, and felt silk there too.

At first, he could not understand. Or, would not. The reality of his situation was so horrible, his mind did not want to accept it. He lay unmoving, trying not to think, trying not to accept the truth of where he so obviously was.

Recognition would not stay away, however. He knew. Knew and did not want to accept the truth: He was in a coffin. His breath seemed to crowd into his throat. This couldn't be real. Surely it was only a nightmare, from which he would awaken any minute now.

"Wake up, Stanley," he told himself, actually mouthing the words aloud. "Wake up, damn you. Now."

Even as he said the words, however, he knew this was no figment of his dreams.

He lifted his shaking hands again, tried to shove the lid away, but it did not budge. Not just in a coffin, then—sealed in a coffin.

For another excerpt from Deadly Slumber, see August 1, 2011

http://www.vjbanis.com

www.MLRpress.com

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Baby Doll excerpt by Mykola Dementiuk

In Baby Doll, Mykola Dementiuk has again brought us an unusual story of a youth growing up in New York City. Skipping school as a daily routine, the main character of Baby Doll finds himself spending time at the East River Park, looking for girls. Instead he finds a pair of pink underwear which take him on an adventure that shapes his future.

Baby Doll gives us a literary look at the complicated psychodynamics of love and sex between a boy and a man in America in the early ‘80s (the beginning era of AIDS, sex-offender witch-hunts, and gay/transvestite visibility). Like a good movie, Baby Doll is definitely worth giving a second (or third) read. Mykola’s mastery at storytelling and excellent writing will keep you engaged the first time through, but subsequent readings will help you understand the complex forces that unfold between the characters. You may question his opinions on femininity and relationships, but you won’t be able to ignore Mykola’s love for words as well as his understanding of a boy’s feelings and behavior.

Baby Doll (by Mykola Dementiuk; edited by Sally Miller)
Synergy Press (2011)
ISBN: 0-9758581-2-2

Excerpt:

The rain kept him out of the park the next day – which it had never done before – and the following day as well, though it didn’t keep him from wearing his panties and bra and trying to imagine what else could have happened had he remained with the man and not fled like the coward he now felt himself to be.

Of course he had seen the man before – another solitary constant in the constantly solitary park – and had paid him no mind as the man circled after him down the park lanes, smiling, gesturing toward the restrooms. He had even once unexpectedly turned and asked for a cigarette, which the man eagerly offered and told him to keep the almost-full pack.

Because it was pleasant to be pursued like that, followed like a girl, having someone trying to pick you up, it was even more pleasant to tease the pursuer, to bend over and tie a shoelace as he hovered behind you, to lean and stretch against the river railing as he gaped before you, to flit away if he got too close.

He often fantasized what it would be like to be touched as a girl by a man – to be groped, kissed, felt, sucked . . . fucked. Because it had to be a girl/guy type of thing: one fem, the other butch; one top, one bottom; one dressed as a girl, one dressed (or undressed) as a guy. His fantasies were very specific as to the role-playing that would go on: it would be a strictly a heterosexual lovemaking, and what difference did it make if the two partners were of the same gender?

He had never had sex with a girl, and he could only imagine how it could happen with a man. And what could have happened and how were exactly the fantasies he now masturbated to: the man atop him, behind him, inside him. Suddenly he began to realize that the longing and craving for female clothing was more then just a fetish or a substitute for a lost or unattainable female, but a desire to be that female and have someone admire him, desire him, love him, as he appeared in that clothing. Even if he had a closetful of female attire it wouldn’t be enough to simply wear the clothes if there were no one to dress up and undress for. Masturbation was futile and meaningless if it was solitary and not mutual with another’s.

But why the eternally-maligned complexity of transvestitism and not the accepted ease of homosexuality? There were openly gay boys in his freshman class who would have befriended him, who would have supported and accepted him in his difference and coming out, but he was repelled by their open sameness, their clique-like conformity, by their flaunting of their difference as if gay were better. It wasn’t that their brashness and openness was as boring and obnoxious as the gang-cliques of thieves and muggers who infested the school corridors and stairs and who bullied, beat, and robbed students going to and from class. He wouldn’t have joined either.

Transvestism is not endemic of gayness, wherein the ideal is male, oneself or another, but more of a female phenomenon intrinsic to the culture’s glorification of the feminine. Or at least how a culture views and creates feminine stereotypes which most females can’t even aspire to.

The transvestite doesn’t want to be a housewife. She doesn’t want to look like Alice Kramden or Edith Bunker waiting for Ralph or Archie to get home. She wants to be Christie Brinkley and Claudia Schieffer plastered on magazine covers with Billy Joel singing of love for his Uptown Girl and David Copperfield never even once thinking of pulling a disappearing act.

Reality is never a problem for the transvestite: she wants it both ways, and gets it. Reality is transcended by the denial that reality has meaning, that creation cannot be played with, manipulated, altered, rejected, and a new reality created. This new reality is a woman unique and unlike any other, capable of softness and hardness . . . evolution reaching its apex in the form of a woman with a penis. . . .

*
Can penile ejaculation be called that when the penis is clasped and clutched and curled against itself in a pair of panties, when the ejaculation is restricted and contained in an seeping of trapped liquid that is not shot or spurted but eased out in a flurry of shudders and shivers that almost destroys one’s conscious awareness? If the myth of female orgasms being entire-bodied and long-lasting were true, and orgasm not merely confined to a single organ expending itself in an instant, then what male would not choose to be female and shut up his dick in himself to experience that?

The boy fell onto the stranger’s raised thigh, their arms around each other, blocking even further the release of his already entrapped and bubbled semen. Being held by another only heightened the pleasure and peace that swept over him. Melting in a torrent of release, he was comforted by another’s presence and assistance in his freedom, the man’s arms around him like a safety belt, a life buoy. He swooned deeper, thoughtless, swaying aimlessly into the unknown experience of life and sex and love.

He felt a tongue in his ear and opened his eyes to the man’s stubbled neck, the man’s mouth dipping to lick and kiss and suck. The stubble tore into the corners of his lips but he sucked greedily, his tongue flitting, his teeth biting, gnawing. His legs once more girded and encircled the man’s as he clutched his shoulders, felt himself lifted off the ground, and was dry-humped against the tree by the buckling, shuddering, groaning man.

For a moment they stood still, then eased themselves off each other, their breaths gasping; the boy got back on his feet, the man’s hands pushed under the boy’s jacket and shirt, pawing his bra and chest.

I’ve been looking for you, he said, and kissed the boy’s cheek.

The boy shrugged. The rain, he said, as the man pecked quick kisses around his face.

I brought you something, the man said softly, breaking from the boy and retrieving a slim frayed box, its corners crushed, from inside his raincoat.

The boy looked curiously at the white-ribboned pink parcel, his eyes widening at the swirled curlicued logo on the box: Michelle’s - The Finest in Ladies’ Apparel.
A line drawing of a woman’s bowed head was etched in gold under the lettering, her long hair draped down one side of her face, her lips puffed and tinged with a smile, one eye demurely shut as if in shyness and embarrassment. The boy just as shyly lowered his own head and bit his lower lip.

Michelle’s - The Finest in Ladies’ Apparel. The words burned into his eyes and skull because how many times had he passed, and circled around to walk by again, the small Avenue A shop? How many times had he leered at the window mannequins: girdled, bra-ed, nyloned, baby-dolled, crotchless-pantied, nipple-cutout-brassiered? How many times had he dreamed of an approaching Valentine’s Day when the mannequins stood all in red – red negligees, red nighties, red-hearted panties and teddies?

How many times had he jealously watched women entering and leaving the shop, stalked after them and tried to build up the courage to snatch their Michelle’s bags, or prayed they’d at least turn and call, Yoo hoo! Could you please come up and help me with my tight girdle and bra? It’s so difficult getting them over my tush and titties. . . .

He took the small parcel and mumbled thanks.

Go on, said the man, open it. He lifted his umbrella and raised it over their heads. The fine foggy mist hung almost motionless about them.

The boy looked at the man, uncertain, hesitant, then slowly unwound the bowed white streamlet of ribbon. Loose threads dangled from the old-looking ribbon; it seemed as if the parcel had been carried in the man's pocket for days. He pocketed the ribbon, then lifted the top cover of the pink box. A sheaf of frail white tissue paper – sort of brownish – shielded something black and lacy within and the boy was afraid.

He lifted the edge of the paper and saw another slim ribbon, this one red and interlacing the collar of a black negligee and tied in a bow at the neck.

The man flicked over the other edge of tissue paper and said, Take it out. The boy daintily unfolded the black baby-doll nightie and held it out at the shoulders. It was short, probably waist-length, and he shivered at the thought of it pleasantly tickling his back and sides and hovering over his stiff dick. He bit his lower lip again, looking dreamily at the nightie, then held it to his chest as the man reached under it and groped at his crotch. Again his orgasm was sudden and instantaneous.

I can’t take it, he said slowly, regaining his breath. He handed the nightie back. I’ve nowhere to wear it.

The man smiled. You can wear it in my place.

The boy looked at him, and at the nightie. Your place? he asked softly.

I live right across the highway, the man said, pointing at the brown project high-rise. I’ve seen you from my window countless times.

The boy blushed and looked up at the brown building. He recalled the woman and dog he had followed. Was he peering up at the man’s windows, seeking a sex object, as the man was peering down, seeking one, too?

They left the park together, the boy clutching his nightie present and walking at the man’s side under his umbrella. They walked without touching, the boy saddened by not being held and caressed, desperate for the man’s arm on his shoulder as he thought lovers should be, and his own arm around the man’s waist or the crook of his elbow as if showing the world the two belonged together, were a part of each other, were inseparable from the other. They walked very quickly.


*

Then he saw it, out of the corner of his eye, a little silver-blue packet sticking out of the top of a garbage sack, shining obscenely between a crushed milk carton,
a greasy sandwich-meat package, and a crumbled empty pack of cigarettes.
     TROJ
     COND
the packet read, torn in an even sharp line at the letters
     J
     and D.

TROJAN CONDOMS. The boy knew instantly and grimaced. The other kid had probably demanded they be worn, concerned for his safety, his health, his life, whereas the boy had never given a thought to the man’s hacking cough and visible weight loss in the weeks since he first met him. He hadn’t worried about the numerous medicine bottles and syringes in the bathroom medicine chest, on the kitchen table and the bedroom dresser-top.

Nor had he considered the possibility that the threat of contagion and disease might be real and not something the government made up to keep you from enjoying sex.

The man grabbed the boy’s head and rammed himself even deeper, grunting and buckling and ejaculating down the boy’s throat. The man clutched him for a moment, shuddered a final time, then slowly eased himself out as the boy’s lips clamped shut behind him. The boy darted to the bathroom – he had been warned about dripping scummy saliva onto the kitchen floor or sink – and fell to the toilet bowl.

As usual it was unflushed, the acrid stench of fresh urine biting into his nostrils and eyes as he gagged and spat out the scum and spit. Another dry heave tore up from the pit of his stomach, but his eyes widened and focused into the bowl: at the bottom of the urine, almost like
a squiggly limpid tadpole, a used condom stirred in the disturbance of his spitting and rose to the top of the bowl, showing off its filmy contents, then sank back down again.

The boy stood up and wiped his face. He wanted to leave, he wanted to walk the streets, he wanted to go sit in the park. Alone.

But the man came into the bathroom, naked, his limp penis glistening in slow-drying saliva and scum. He looked at the boy, glanced into the bowl, took a puff of his cigarette, then reached over and flushed. You can get dressed now, he said firmly, clutching the boy’s shoulder and leading him out of the bathroom.

In the living room the man sat at his desk and papers – medical insurance forms, the boy understood – while the boy went to the bedroom where he kept his clothes and makeup in a closet. Why did the man have so many small-sized girl-fitting clothes? He had never asked but now wondered whether it was to entice boys like him. Had the baby-doll nightie the man presented him with the first time been used to entice others? . . . The closet door was open, and his short blonde wig lay on a nightstand by the unmade bed, his black baby doll nightie at the foot of the bed.

The man came in and stood in the doorway, watching.

I was thinking about you last night, he smirked, and bobbed his slightly stiffening penis.

The boy blushed, glancing at the crisp dry semen stains on the baby-doll.

C’mon, get dressed, the man said, and turned away, leaving him alone.

The boy sighed and took off his clothes, but without the enthusiasm or anticipation of arousal he usually felt while undressing to put on his female clothes. It was as if the girl’s clothes were a real person, lovingly caressing and soothing him and wanting to be as close to him as he wanted to be in them. But the clothes felt tainted now, mussed and pawed in the closet, some off their hangers and strewn carelessly about as if someone were searching for something, unlike the patient and careful way he always folded and hung them up.

He did find his pink panties and put them on – tucking his penis into and between his legs whether the man liked it or not – found his bra and donned that, too, inserting two water-filled party balloons into the bra cups as a mimic of realistic pliant breasts, the tied knot-ends resembling stiffened nipples.

Only once had the balloons burst open and that was when he first got the idea of water balloons as breasts. The man had put him into the shower and viciously bit into one, breaking it all over the boy’s blouse and skirt and laughing hysterically as he gurgled, Baby hungwy! Baby want mommie tittie! then bit into the other balloon which also burst open into his laughing face. Getting soaked didn’t matter as the man turned on the shower, spun the boy around, and fucked him fully clothed under the steaming water jets. . . .


****
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Lambda Literary Awards Winner 2013/Gay Erotica, 2009/Bisexual Fiction

Hungry for Love excerpt by Rick R Reed

Nate Tipple and Brandon Wilde are gay, single, and both hoping to meet that special man, even though fate has not yet delivered him to their doorstep.  Nate's sister, Hannah, and her kooky best friend, Marilyn, are about to help fate with that task by creating a profile on the gay dating site, OpenHeartOpenMind.  The two women are only exploring, but when they need a face and body for the persona they create, they use Nate as the model.

When Brandon comes across the false profile, he falls for the guy he sees online.  Keeping up the charade, Hannah begins corresponding with him, posing as Nate. Real complications begin when Brandon wants to meet Nate, but Nate doesn't even know he's being used in the online dating ruse. Hannah and Marilyn concoct another story and send Nate out to let the guy down gently. But when Nate and Brandon meet, the two men feel an instant and powerful pull toward each other.  Cupid seems to have shot his bow, but how do Nate and Brandon climb out from under a mountain of deceit without letting go of their chance at love?

Hungry for Love

Dreamspinner Press (September 13, 2013)

ISBN: 978-1-62798-145-3

Excerpt:

He was a romantic. As much as his hormones told him that all he really required in this world was a warm place to bury his dick, his more developed senses begged to differ.

Brandon wanted someone with whom he felt a special connection, someone with whom there was that magical spark he read about in the gay romance novels he devoured with increasing frequency, to fill the void missing in his life. Brandon wanted chocolates and flowers. He wanted love poetry. He wanted surprise weekend getaways to remote mountain cabins or quaint bed-and-breakfasts. He wanted someone to curl up next to on the couch, falling asleep together to some old black and white movie.

He wanted someone with whom he could share not only his body, but his life.

Christian told him, “You’re never going to find the man of your dreams, unless you bring some of those wet dreams you’re still having at your advanced age to life! Just get laid! No man’s going to buy the merchandise without a free sample.”

Really, Christian? Really? And why are you still alone, then? Brandon knew Christian spent almost all of his free time online. Hell, Brandon could even count on Christian to be on his phone, on Grindr or Scruff, when they were out to dinner or one of the clubs. Brandon would twiddle his thumbs with Christian nearby, oblivious and texting furiously, always on the prowl for his next hookup, who usually lurked somewhere nearby.

Why was the man never satisfied?

Brandon had a secret, one which he had never shared with anyone, especially Christian.

He was almost a virgin. He had only two pathetic sexual experiences on his résumé. First, there was an embarrassing, guilt-ridden “affair” back in high school that had lasted for all of two weeks (although Brandon wished for more). And the one time, back in college, when he had met his second paramour in the basement men’s room of King Library on the Miami University (Ohio) campus. The guy wanted Brandon simply to kneel down between the stalls so he could blow him, but Brandon was far too fearful to engage in such an act and even then, he wanted more—like to see his cocksucker’s face. Besides, Brandon wasn’t even sure why the guy kept putting his hand under the stall, not knowing then it was a signal for him to kneel on the floor. So Brandon, romantic at heart that he was, simply grasped the signaling hand and held it.

This prompted his tearoom trick to flee the bathroom—and Brandon followed him outside.

Somehow, in the stairwell outside the men’s room, Brandon convinced his bathroom suitor to take him home, to an off-campus apartment where the two young men quickly and furtively got one another off, worried about the imminent arrival of the guy’s straight roommate.

That experience, sordid and unsatisfying as it was, left in Brandon a desire to chase windmills, if that’s what his idealism could be called. Brandon was not going to settle. If he couldn’t have the whole enchilada (the enchilada being a relationship that was satisfying not only on a physical level, but also on an emotional one), he wanted none of it.

Unfortunately for Brandon, he had come of age during a time when Internet and even Smartphone connections made hooking up fast and efficient. Brandon conceded those connections might possess those benefits, but they were not for him.

He was interested in both of a man’s heads, thank you very much. And he would not settle for less.

He believed a man who thought the same was out there. Somewhere.

Which is what brought him, right now, to the registration site for OpenHeartOpenMind. When he had finally landed upon the dating website, he was thrilled to find their mission statement on the homepage, one that dovetailed with his own inclinations.

It read:

We here at OpenHeartOpenMind believe in old-fashioned romance. If you’re looking for impersonal, easy sex and lots of it, there are plenty of other sites that cater to your interests. Go for them.

OpenHeartOpenMind is for the man who wants to date, who knows that sometimes delayed gratification can make the rewards all the sweeter.

OpenHeartOpenMind is for gay men who think that the road to love is paved not just with physical attraction (although we’d be lying if we said that doesn’t play a big part!), but with mutual respect, shared interests, and the common goal of wanting more than just merging genitals, but merging hearts and minds as well.

Good luck on your dating journey!

Below the mission statement were icons that urged the potential user to sign up and the current user to sign in.

When Brandon read those words, he quickly clicked on “sign up” because, in a way, he had already “signed up” for the very attributes the website promoted.

So now he began filling in the editable boxes on the site with his particulars: name, age, city and state: Seattle, WA, height: 6’1”, weight: 198, body type: athletic. Brandon was nothing if not honest, so he quickly changed “athletic” to “beefy.” He went on. Eyes: hazel, hair: dark brown, body hair: hairy, facial hair: full beard.

Brandon was relieved that OpenHeartOpenMind did not ask, as most of the other sites did, for his dick size or if he was top or bottom (although he definitely leaned more toward the former, but, as he had found, it was hard to top oneself).

Brandon came at last to the part where it asked for a headline and a short ad describing what one was looking for. And this was really the section that was giving him fits.

How do you describe your heart’s desire in two hundred words or less? How can you just post what you hope to find in a man on the Internet for all the world to see? Can it possibly work? Is this really the way I want to meet someone?

Thoughts like these crowded his brain, urging the more insecure part of himself to simply abandon the exercise. If he was a true, old-fashioned romantic, would he really be looking online for his true love? Wouldn’t they meet casually somewhere, like a café or bookstore, where shy glances and almost covert smiles resulted in perhaps a quick conversation confirming that they might exchange e-mail addresses, if not phone numbers? Or shouldn’t they meet humorously, thumping melons down at the neighborhood Safeway? Or maybe by coincidence in, say, a fender bender at rush hour?

You are just letting your performance anxiety get to you. This is 2013, buddy, and online is how it’s done these days. Although it’s certainly possible you could meet a man at the grocery store, Starbucks, or jogging on the trails that surround Green Lake, this way is much more likely to get some results. And even if it doesn’t, what do you have to lose? This site is not costing you anything, except for maybe some time, and by doing this, you may just be aligning the universe to give you what you’ve been searching for.

As your mom always told you when you went off to school, when you went off for your first job interview, or your first date back in high school, “Just be yourself.”

Mom was right. He would just be his honest self, and the words would come.

Down-to-Earth Honest Man Seeks Same

I’m not looking for fireworks, just the potential.

I am a twentysomething guy, told I’m good-looking and in okay shape (kept that way not by eating right, but by logging twenty-five miles a week or so running). I have all my teeth and all my hair. My body functions normally for a twenty-nine-year-old. I don’t have gas (well, not much).

I like horror movies, romantic comedies, and family dramas. I cry at the drop of a hat and laugh easily, and am proud of both. I like classic jazz: Sarah Vaughn, Duke Ellington, Oscar Peterson. I love to read: gay romance, thrillers, and memoirs. I don’t like sci-fi, reality TV, or selfishness. I will eat just about anything, but appreciate good food, good wine, and good restaurants.

I live in Seattle’s Green Lake neighborhood, and if you can’t find me at home, I am usually running around the lake—sometimes more than once.

The only thing I have that’s incurable is a romantic heart. If you’re afflicted with the same condition, maybe we’re a match.

Want to know more? Ask me. I promise to answer… honestly.

It took a little trial and error, and while Brandon didn’t think he was going to win the Nobel Prize for literature, he thought his ad made him come off okay, or at least normal. More importantly, he was pleased that he thought he had captured at least the essence of himself. There was no pretense, so he was optimistic that whatever the ad might snare, it would at least be someone who knew him for who he was.

His final task was to upload a picture of himself. He opened the file of photos on his computer called, simply, “me,” and began searching for just the right one. At last he settled on one that his mom—God bless her—had taken last summer, when the two of them had taken the ferry from downtown over to Vashon Island for a picnic on the rocky, driftwood-strewn beach. In it, Brandon squinted against the sun, with Puget Sound in the background. He was tan, with a little rose along the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks, and he looked happy, his dark hair sticking up against a backdrop of a blue and cloudless sky. He thought anyone could see the hope in his hazel eyes.

He clicked on it to load it to the site, waited for it to appear, and then saved his profile. He got a message telling him it would post within a few hours, after moderator review.

Well, here goes nothing, Brandon thought. Or, maybe, just maybe, if the timing is right, the stars are aligned, and I’m very lucky—something.

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To purchase from Amazon Kindle, click http://www.amazon.com/Hungry-for-Love-ebook/dp/B00F5KRZOO/

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Longhorns excerpt by Victor J Banis

In this excerpt from Victor J Banis' Longhorns, half breed Buck has fallen head over heels in love with the ranch boss, Les – who insists that’s not his way. Finally, Les gets sore enough that the two come to blows over Buck’s flirtatious manner.

Longhorns

MLR Press (February, 2012)

ISBN: 978-1-60820-593-6 (print)

978-1-608-594-3 (ebook)

Excerpt:

And the more all this worried at him, and the more frustrated he felt to do anything about it, the more that fed his anger, like spring rains feeding Bantam Creek. It began to feel to him like his whole life, which had been going along all smooth and serene like, before, had somehow been turned clear upside down, and he didn't exactly know when or how it had happened.

The only thing he knew for sure was who had done it.

Which was how they happened to come to blows, though afterward he couldn't remember just which remark of Buck's had finally made him explode—he was always saying something or another, with them looks of his, and they were all down the same trail.

"Damnation," he snapped one afternoon, "I don't want to hear no more of them remarks of yours, and I don't want you looking at me any more like you have been."

"What way is that?" Buck asked, with that innocent look he put on as easy as his Stetson.

"Like you was a tomcat eyeing a barn mouse," Les said.

Instead of looking worried, Buck laughed. "Well, I reckon I got some tomcat in me all right," he said, "but what I have been eyeing ain't no mouse, unless they are growing them lots bigger than they used to."

Which really got Les steamed, especially when the boys laughed at the joke, because he half way feared they might think Buck had gotten himself a real look, and he said, "Now that just tears it. I got me half a mind to pound some sense into that fool head of yours. And I don't expect you'd find that so damned funny, you fucking filthy half-breed."

Buck continued to laugh, and the boys standing around laughed with him, but Red, at least, saw that his eyes had gone blacker than coal.

"Never shied away from a fight," Buck said. "I got me a couple of fists myself."

"Well maybe you'd better just show me if you know how to use them," Les said.

"Anytime you feel like a jackrabbit," Buck said, "you just go ahead and jump."

The mood among the cowboys had grown sober. Red stepped forward and put a hand on Les's arm. "Les," he started to say, but Les shook his hand off.

"No, let's just get us this party started," Les said. He took off his bandana and his shirt, and tossed his Stetson on the ground, and raised his clenched fists.

Buck looked him over and seemed to be considering for a moment, and the boys watched to see if he was going to take the dare or not. Les was big and strong, and tough as they were, none of the boys had ever had a mind to tangle with him.

After a moment, Buck shrugged and stripped to the waist as well. Les stood six foot three inches tall, his hairy chest and long arms thickly muscled. Buck was shorter by a good six inches, and you could see at a glance that he must weigh fifty pounds less, but his slender body was hard and chiseled. When he stood like this, his half naked body gleaming bronze with sweat in the afternoon sunlight, it was easy to see his Indian heritage. If he had traded his dungarees and boots for a loincloth and leggings, he could have been one of the fierce Apache braves that had once struck fear into the hearts of the early settlers—except for the grin that never left his face.

"Now, I ain't really wanting to hit you," he said, although he raised his fists defensively. "Seems to me there's things we could do we'd both like lots better, as I think you could find out for yourself if you was to ask around."

"Ain't no damned concern of mine whose been plowing your back field for you, since it ain't me," Les said.

"Well, that ain't cause I ain't tried," Buck said, and got another laugh out of the boys, who had formed a circle about them.

"And as for what I would like," Les said, "it will suit me just fine to take that damned grin off your face."

He took a powerful swing with his right fist. Buck ducked it and backed up a couple of quick little steps, and the momentum of his swing was so great that it caused Les to stagger a step or two before he regained his balance.

"I sure think there's better ways the two of us could spend our energy," Buck said, and dodged another blow.

"I might've knowed you would turn out to be a sissy, for all your hot air," Les said.

"Now, nobody never called me a sissy before," Buck said angrily, his grin finally fading. "You take that back, you son of a bitch." He danced in close, fists up.

Watching him, Red groaned inwardly. If he could have coached Buck on what he should do, he would have told him to keep out of Les's reach. Les had long arms and massive fists, they looked like a pair of hams when he clenched them like this, and he was as strong as an ox.

Les's temper was like lightning on the prairie, though, it came on him fast, and it left him almost as quick. Red figured that, given a minute or two, he would have thought better of what he was doing, and, nimble as Buck was on his feet, if he could just keep himself out of the way of those fists for a while, this whole fight could be over shortly with nobody landing a blow.

But rushing in at Les the way he had, Buck had put himself in harm's way, where Les could get at him, and if Les wasn't as quick on his feet as the Nasoni, he was no slowpoke either.

Buck landed a glancing blow on Les's chin, to distract him, and hit him hard in the gut, the kind of blow with which he had knocked many a man's supper clean out of him. Only, it felt to Buck like he had just punched his fist against a fucking rock, and Les didn't even grunt or flinch.

Worrying, Buck tried to dance back again out of range, but he was bewildered by what had happened and he wasn't quite quick enough, and Les's long reach gave him an advantage. The next thing Buck knew, somebody had hit him in the belly with a sledgehammer, and before he had time for that even to register fully, another sledgehammer caught him on his chin. He staggered backward, his arms wind-milling, and just like that, he was sitting on his backside in the dust.

He shook his head, completely flummoxed. He had been in a fight or two in his time, and nobody had ever seated him, and he had a hard time comprehending that it had been done.

If he had stayed where he was, which was what Red was hoping for, that would mostly likely have been the end of it, but Buck was too sore now to think. He swore and scrambled to his feet and ran at Les so fast and so suddenly, that again he was able to land a blow on Les's chin, this one hard enough to make Les's head snap and remind him that the kid was no feather duster.

The result was the same as it had been before, though. Les smacked him hard on the chin again, and when he went down this time, Buck sprawled flat on his back, his eyes glazed over.

"I think that's enough, Les," Red said, and this time when he put his hand on Les's arm, Les did not shake it off.

The anger went out of Les all at once, and he unclenched his fists and dropped them to his sides, suddenly ashamed of himself for picking on someone half his size. Sprawled out in the dust like that, Buck looked more like a little boy than a tough cowboy. Hell, he weren't nothing more than just a kid, either, Les told himself, and just being fresh the way kids did. Damn little fool ought to have learned to keep his fucking mouth shut, that was the trouble.

Les learned in that very instant, though, what many a man had learned before him, that sometimes when you got what you thought you wanted, it turned out that you didn't want it after all. He had taken that grin off Buck's face just the way he said he would, and now that it was gone, damned if he didn't wish it was back again.

"You okay?" he asked, and stepped forward to offer Buck a hand up. Buck's lip was bleeding where Les's fist had caught him. He wiped the blood off with the back of his hand and shook his head, ignoring the hand Les offered. A couple of the boys came over to help him too, but he shoved their hands away as well and got up on his own and began to slap the dust off his dungarees.

"I reckon I'll live," he said. He looked around for his shirt. Jake picked it up wordlessly and handed it to him, and Buck put that on without once looking at any of the others or meeting anybody's eyes, buttoning it quickly, and retied the bandana that Jack handed him, and got his Stetson out of the dust before Red could pick that up, and clapped it down firmly on his head.

"Seems like I was getting ready to clean some stalls," he said, and strode into the barn, walking with something less than his usual swagger.

Everyone looked after him, and looked wordlessly at one another, and nobody looked at Les. Finally some of the boys began to drift back to what they had been doing.

"Damnation," Les said aloud, staring at Buck as he went and wanting to run after him and do, he didn't know what, just do something, to undo what had happened. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and sucked the blood off a scrape on his knuckles where they had connected with Buck's chin.

After a moment, he snatched up his own shirt and bandana and hat, and stomped away toward the ranch house. The boys parted to make room for him, but nobody met his eyes.

# # #

Buck was leading his pinto out of his stall when Red found him in the barn that night.

"What're you fixing to do, boy?" Red asked.

"Reckon it is time I was riding out," Buck said, not looking at him. "There's lots of Texas I ain't seen yet."

"Don't go being no damn fool, Buck," Red said. "Who do you think old Les was fighting with out there?"

"Well, I don't know who else was in it, but it was my jaw he was punching on, that is for sure," Buck said, rubbing his hand across it where it still ached.

"Shit, Buck, he wasn't fighting with you, he was fighting with himself," Red said. "And I got me a notion he has just about lost himself that fight."

Buck took a minute to consider that. "Damn it, Red," he said, his voice close to breaking, "fucking varmint knows how I feel. He's got to."

"Course he does, Buck. He's just being ornery. Shit, he's just being Les. I told you he was as stubborn as a goddam longhorn," Red said. "He can be as mean as donkey piss, too, but he ain't like that, not really. I'm telling you, he'll get up tomorrow morning feeling lower than a rattlesnake's belly, and wishing he could make it up to you."

"Well he sure enough knows how that would be done, and it don't appear to me as if he is likely to be doing it."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that, if I was you," Red said. "You give him a little more time, is all. If I was a betting man, I would bet you a month's pay, that tree of his is about ripe for the picking, and it won't be no time at all before you are getting the harvest of it. You ain't going to get nothing off it, though, if you go riding off with your tail between your legs. 'Sides, if you do, one thing I know is, he ain't going to be any happier about that than you will be once't you are gone. Or me either, I reckon, case you didn't know that."

"Reckon I would miss you, too, Red," Buck said. "Miss you plenty, if I was to tell you the truth."

"Well, then," Red said, and shrugged and managed a half smile. "I am telling you, boy, ain't nobody knows that old sidewinder any better than I do. You just give him a little time to get used to the idea, see if I ain't right."

They were silent for a long moment. The pinto whinnied, like he was wondering what they were up to, disturbing his sleep like this, just to listen to them jabber.

"Shit," Buck said giving his head a shake. "It hurts, Red. I never thought it would hurt like this."

"Course it does," Red said. "I know exactly how it feels, boy. But it's a sweet kind of hurt, ain't it? Once't a man feels that inside him, why, he wouldn't never want to be without it again. I expect a fellow wouldn't never feel alive after that if he lost it. Especially if he just threw it away, like."

Buck looked over his shoulder at him and gave him a measuring look. Red came closer to him and put one big leathery hand on the back of Buck's neck and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"Whyn't you come along with old Red for a spell, little buckaroo," he said in a soft voice, coaxing like. "I reckon I got me some medicine might make you feel a mite better, if you was of a mind."

"Reckon it might, at that," Buck said with a sigh, and he gave him a little smile, but it wasn't Buck's smile, and it made Red's tender heart ache. "Guess I best put this pony to bed first, though."

Red watched him go. He was still surprised at what a thrill of pleasure it was just to look at that slim hipped youth, leading his pony back to its stall. Red was not a wise man, nor a sophisticated one, certainly not in matters of the heart. He had never spoken of love with anyone, had never imagined that it was something he would ever even know, leading the life he did, and if he had imagined it, he would never have expected it like this.

He was wise enough to know, though, what it was that had come, named or unnamed, to settle inside him.

The boy was right, he thought, swallowing. It sure could hurt, when you got somebody in your craw that way.

http://www.vjbanis.com
To read other excerpts from Longhorns, see 6/9/08, 2/23/09, and 3/19/12.

To purchase, click http://www.mlrbooks.com/ShowBook.php?book=VB_LONGH