Mother Asphodel excerpt by Edward C Paterson

From the novella Mother Asphodel by Edward C Patterson, a different stroke in the pool of gay literature.  Previously, the opening of the novella was posted.  But this time a different interesting slice involving Elvis Presley.

"“Clothes don’t make the queen. The queen makes the queen.” 

It’s Santa Saturday in New Hope, Pennsylvania and Mother Asphodel is trudging through the snow to a gig at the Phoenix Club - her drag queen couture bundled in a shopping cart - her bony feet stuffed into galoshes. At seventy-seven plus, Mother has seen the glory days and, in the course of this evening, she’ll share those memories with a younger queen, Brooks MacDonald (a.k.a. Simone DeFleurry of The Jade Owl fame). Listen to these stylish dames as they plan Mother’s return into the spotlight, to shine once again in the eyes of the community and peers.

Mother Asphodel, a novella, bubbles with the secrets of a raging entertainer, who has rubbed elbows with the famous. Still, time knows no friends and Mother cleaves to life’s ornery path on a bleak wintry evening when hope is as sparse as bread crumbs thrown to the birds. The possibilities are endless on the road least taken - a kaleidoscope glimpsed only by those who take it.

“I was just rambling, dear - reflecting on the word gay. Just when did they give us that name?” 

“I think we took it when no one was looking.” 

Mother Asphodel

CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform (November 8, 2014)

ISBN-10: 1503148947

ISBN-13: 978-1503148949?

:

Excerpt:

Chapter Four

The Comforts of Home

Brooks MacDonald drove a Buick — a 1990 beige beauty, now thick with snow, except the wipers which did double duty. But the heater worked and Mother Asphodel found much comfort in that. The bridge over the Delaware was icy, but it was better to cross it on snow tires than on galoshes pulling a shopping cart for balance.

“Where am I going?” Brooks asked, squinting through the heavy veil of wintry flakes.

“Just a block passed Lambertville Station, my dear. Not too fast or you’ll miss it.”

“Don’t worry. We won’t be going fast.”

The landmark restaurant, closed like the rest of the town, was on the right side.

“Make a left at the light,” Mother said, “and you can’t miss it.”

“The light, the left or your place?”

“All of it.”

Brooks tugged the wheel, the Buick seemingly having a mind of its own.

“Yikes, we’re spinning.” Brooks turned away from the spin and the car shuffled back onto the right of way. “It’s bad out. Now, how much farther?”

“Just there,” Mother said. “The yellow house. I’m on the second floor. See my balcony?”

“I can barely see the house. Is there a driveway?”

“Afraid not. I don’t drive anymore and my landlady’s in Florida.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just thought I’d say. You can park anywhere.”

Brooks maneuvered to the curb, which probably would have been occupied had the landlady not been in Florida.

“I wish I were in Florida,” Brooks said. “Or in sunny California with my boyfriend.”

“Do tell,” Mother said, blandly. “That’s good enough. I can make it from here.”

“Glad you can,” Brook said. “Let me help you out and up.”

“You’ve done plenty already, my dear.”

“Nonsense.”

Brooks opened the door and hoisted her feet over the snow mound. She opened the back door and clutched the shopping cart, navigating it through the space onto the street. She hadn’t changed into street clothes, so her wig was acting up and her false lashes whipped the snow flakes.

“Now wait,” she told Mother. “I’ll help you over this mess.”

But Mother was already out, slipping and sliding like Sonja Henie on a bad day. She would have fallen if Brooks hadn’t caught her. Together, with the help of friend shopping cart, they managed to make it to the front porch and through the door.

“More stairs,” Brooks declared.

“I can manage.”

“No, no. You go up. I’ll tug your trap to the top.”

“You’re so kind. Not like those other bitches.”

“You can’t blame them, my dear. Wasn’t there a time when you climbed to the top of the tree and clawed at anything that threatened your grasp at the tiara?”

“I’m still at the top.”

“If you say so. I wish I were at the top now. Are you sure you’re on the second floor and not in the family circle?”

“You’re so droll.”

“Like Santa Claus?”

“No. You know what I . . . oh, here we are.”

Mother flipped the light switch, the sudden beam startling Brooks, who almost let the cart go back to the bottom.

“You could have given me some warning.”

“Well, the lock’s tricky and . . .” Mother fiddled with a key. “I never get the right one on the first try, but . . . oh, here we go.”

Mother pushed the apartment door open. Brooks found the change delightful — a blast of aroma — rose.

“Is that Rose of Attar?” Brooks asked.

“Serge Lutens Sa Majestè La Rose,” Mother said.

“I’m impressed.”

“Only the best. Down to my last bottle and I’m afraid Santa can’t afford to bring me more.”

“Shame.”

“My Stumpy kept me in constant supply, but . . .”

“Stumpy?”

“My ex.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. He passed, and not on my watch. But he did leave me this lease and memories galore.”

Suddenly, Brooks was effused in warm amber lights, the lamps on the same switch and each covered with a shade and a silk scarf. The living room — more a parlor by design, was cozy, especially with the snow beckoning from the street. Built-in shelves held a considerable library and on every table, and there were a half dozen, set framed pictures and mementos from life — a long life, no doubt.

“Your abode is wondrous, my dear,” Brooks remarked.

“I like it,” Mother said, shedding her coat and flopping out of the loose galoshes. “Can I fix you a cup of tea?”

“I’d love a cup of tea.”

“Chamomile?”

“Chamomile tea is my favorite.”

Mother retreated into the kitchen.

“You know it’s just chamomile.”

“That’s fine.”

Brooks brushed the velvet chairs with her hand, and then dared to shove the shopping cart into a spare corner.

“I mean,” Mother said, her head popping back into the parlor, “it’s not chamomile tea. Chamomile is tea. The tea plant is the camellia, which, by the way, is one of my favorite blooms if it didn’t have such a reputation — La Traviata and all that. So if you say chamomile tea, you’re actually saying tea tea.” She laughed. “You wouldn’t want to be embarrassed in upper crust company now, would you?”

Brooks grinned. This old ‘ne had rapacious charm and, like her own tastes, insisted upon strict forms when it came to hostessing.

“I appreciate it,” Brooks said absently, touring the bric-a-brac. “You have such nice things and so many books and photographs.”

“Ghosts,” Mother said. “Soon I shall join them.”

“Nonsense.”

Brooks glanced at the bookshelf. Many classics and some not so classic. One gilded spine caught her eye. She couldn’t help herself, pulling it out and glancing at the first page. Poetry for Ordinary Folk by John Dwight Fellowes. Brooks had never heard of the man, but since she loved poetry, she made a note to ask for a copy the next time she was in a book store. She set the volume on a table beside a picture of a young man in uniform — a handsome lad. There were several framed photos of this soldier in old fashioned poses. Then one caught her attention. She picked it up. The same young man was sitting on a footlocker beside another soldier — beside . . .

“Is that the King?” she muttered.

“Excuse me, dear?” Mother replied, returning with two cups on an unsteady tray.

“Is this a photograph of Elvis . . . Elvis Presley?”                                   

“Oh, yes,” Mother said. “It’s one of my treasures. Did you want an amaretto cookie with your chamomile?”

“Yes, please, but what do you mean: this is Elvis? I know Elvis was in the army, but . . .”

Mother set the tea down on the coffee table.

“It was years ago. He’s gone now, you know. 1977, I believe, the poor man passed. He played so well and was so very handsome. Please, sit.”

“But how . . .”

Mother clumped onto the sofa out of breath. She reached for a cookie tin and fished out four amaretto biscuits, placing them at the edge of the bone china tea cup saucers — two each.

“I don’t understand,” she replied. “How what?”

“How did you get this photograph? It must be worth a fortune.”

“Oh, it’s only worth something to me. It provokes a great memory.”

A memory?  “You met him back then?”

“Of course. I was there, you see. It was 1958 — November 26^th, 1958 to be exact — in Grafenwöhr, Germany — Thanksgiving. Elvis came to dinner and jammed with us in the barracks.”

“You were there?”

“Yes.” Mother Asphodel reached for the picture. “I am there. Here in fact.”

She tapped the young handsome soldier’s image, the subject in other photos.

“That’s you?” Brooks grabbed the picture and looked from Mother Asphodel to the soldier and back again. “You were so young.”

“Just twenty.”

“You were in the army?”

“Drafted. Yes — got my valentine from Uncle Sam and was stationed in Deutschland.”

“Well, you are full of surprises, Mother.”

“Yes, that’s Elvis posing with PFC John Fellowes — that is — me.”

 Brooks was aghast.

John Fellowes — John Dwight Fellowes. Well, Kissme Asphodel.

Chapter Five

Blue Suede Memories

“Now, trust me, Brooks,” Mother Asphodel said, retrieving the picture frame and setting it beside the tea cup. “Elvis was not supposed to be in the barracks that night, but, just like tonight, the weather prohibited travel.”

“I mean to leave after this cup of tea, dear,” Brooks said, cocking her head. “I enjoy your company and your place is homey. Indeed, these mementos are begging for my attention, but I have my own place and . . .”

“Don’t be foolish,” Mother said. “We barely made it across that damn bridge. The hilly pilly between here and wherever you hail from surely will be hazardous. So, you’ll miss church tomorrow morning.”

Brooks grinned.

“With a name like Simon Geldfarb, I’m not much of a churchgoer.”

“That settles it. There are plenty of biscuits and I have a spare room and all sorts of bed clothing. You can choose the most stylish.”

Simon Geldfarb lifted the cup to his lips and sipped.

“We’ll see.”

“As I was saying, Simone. You don’t mind me calling you Simone?”

“I could get used to it, although no one has ever called me that.”

“Does your boyfriend call you Brooks?”

“No. Simon. Never anything but Simon.” Simone blushed, her eyes batting back a tear.

“You must miss him.”

“I do, but you were telling me about Elvis and how you met him.”

“Was I? Oh, yes. That dear boy. I was a mere chit then too and sat in my nicely pressed fatigue apparel. We all blossomed with lavender aroma.”

“Lavender,” Simone sighed.

“Yes. We walked in a manly blush of lavender and starch. But Elvis came to Thanksgiving dinner not to entertain us, because he was training at Grafenwöhr — the Tank corps, you know. I was clerical, of course, but the weather was awful and Elvis . . . well, Elvis got stuck.”

Mother closed her eyes, and then sipped her tea mechanically. The chill of the Bavarian forests rippled through her old heart. She recalled the dinner — double helpings of turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce. She was shy then — the diffident PFC Fellowes, who laughed when everyone laughed and listened when everyone listened. He was fond of playing backgammon in the early evenings with his buddy Carl Lewis. He liked Carl — not liked — loved. But even though kisses were exchanged in the shadows at off times, and hands were held in the quiet remoteness behind the motor pool, this was not a safe zone for such activity. Such activity meant a prison sentence — Mannheim for twenty years. So the silent game of eyes and smiles and whispers ensued. Notes were dangerous and anything beyond the hand holding could provoke all hell. Not to say that PFC Lewis and Fellowes didn’t play, mostly in the shower — fleetingly assuming the natural merriment of a locker room — the sport of queens on the king’s landing.

Sweet pine aroma blended with the lavender and, in the barracks, a famous man, whom the women of America deemed swoonable, sat. Women poured their hearts out for him — their throats convulsed with screams and banshee cries. It was beyond PFC Fellowes, because although he found this hick fetching in the hip and in the twinkling of the eye, John preferred the tamer croon — a show tune croon. This rock ‘n’ roll stuff was far too heady for him. Still, with the winter wind kissing the window panes and the barracks sheltering a renowned guest, John sat on his footlocker and listened, struck with wonder — with poetry and prosaic warmth.

Love me tender,
love me sweet,
never let me go.
You have made my life complete,
and I love you so.

Yes, complete.  That’s what he longed to be, and in the promise of things to come, complete would be denied him. His parents expected him to return a better man, seek out a woman and make babies for their grandparental laps. They knew he was a sissy boy. They fully expected him to run when the draft caught him in its clutches. But he went and trained and muddled through and got by. Then this overseas gig — how proud they were of their son Johnny, over near the iron curtain making the world safe for democracy and the family he’d come home and raise, complete with a dog kennel and a split level house. But Johnny saw a different abode — a smaller affair, somewhere in Bohemian climes with perhaps a PFC Lewis at hand or any of a dozen other candidates. He saw tea-cups and petit fours, not split levels and dog kennels.

Love me tender,
love me true,
all my dreams fulfilled.
For my darlin’ I love you,
and I always will.

Yes, Elvis was there, guitar over knee, smile radiating in the dim light and it seamed he sang directly to PFC Fellowes. Be my beau, it said, but John knew it was all sham. This yokel was sweet and sugary and meant for a Tammy or a Gloria, never a John. This was a stroke to thank fellow troops for the warmth and comfort of their barracks and no more.

Love me tender,
love me long,
take me to your heart.
For it’s there that I belong,
and we'll never part.

And yet the man, a mama’s boy at heart, had a gift — a sweet and enduring gift that melted winter’s rough and smoothed the hours. John was mesmerized, not by the man, but by the magic — the filigree of sound that drew the usually raucous barracks to silence. He could hear nothing else but this carol to love’s endurance — to a memory long in the lingering.

Love me tender,
love me dear,
tell me you are mine.
I'll be yours through all the years,
till the end of time.

“Till the end of time.” Mother said, opening her eyes, glancing at the photograph. “Yes, my dear. He finished the song, and then turned to me.”

“Just you?”

“Yes, as if he had sung the song to me and me alone, which he certainly had not, but such was the compass of the man. Whoever sat within range of his voice felt his personal touch. It was show, of course, and I learned much from it when I took to the stage myself. But he turned to me and said: I’m sure you’d like a picture with me to give to the wife and children.”

“He didn’t.”

“He did, and I was so dumbfounded, I couldn’t tell him there was no wife and certainly no children, and not likely to be because I had other ideas along those lines. Elvis grinned, and I felt a warm rush. I was worried that I’d sit on his lap and give him one, smack on the lips. But I was shy then — a wallflower boy just learning the ropes.”

“I know the feeling, I do.”

“Well, his cameraman posed me like you see me there and flash! Pop! — there you have it.” She held it up. “A picture for the wife and children.”

“Delicious. And what a memory.”

“You only know the half of it, my dear. Yes, the half of it.”

Mother sighed, set the picture down. Simone reached back grabbing the golden spine book.

“And I suppose this little gem was penned by you.”

“Oh, that,” Mother said. “That probably shouldn’t have seen the light of day, but Allen insisted.”

“Allen?”

“Yes. Allen Ginsberg. We were an item, you know.”

Simone’s jaw dropped.

To read another excerpt from MotherAsphodel, see the entry for 11/17/2014

To purchase the paperback or Kindle ebook, click here

The Baker (Workplace Encounters series} excerpt) by Serena Yates

In Serena Yates' second book in the Workplace series, Wallace works as a baker for his tyrannical father in their family owned Scottish Bakehouse in Casper, Wyoming. He wants to represent the bakery in the upcoming Tartan Day competition, but his father refuses to reveal the secret ingredients that make them so successful—unless Ian gets married and has a son, proving he is fit to continue the family line.

Just before New Year’s Eve, Cameron Lewis, a former Marine turned police detective, comes into the bakery for donuts for his department and some black buns for himself. Cameron is hooked, and as his visits become more frequent, they stir Ian’s father’s suspicions. But threats can’t stop Ian from donning his kilt and entering the competition anyway—to show his father what he can do on his own. Though he might not have the secret ingredients, Ian and Cameron might still discover a recipe for happiness.

The Baker
Dreamspinner Press (August, 2015)

Excerpt from chapter 2:

As soon as the waiter was gone, Ian leaned forward. “I’ve been dying to ask you if you’ve had a chance to try the black bun I gave you.”

“Yep, I have.” Cameron could still taste the flaky goodness of the pastry and the sweetness of the filling when he closed his eyes. “I’ll have you know I hid the box in the trunk of my car so it’d be safe from my colleagues, but I managed to sneak a taste during my lunch break.”

“The other police officers would steal your food?” Ian shook his head, his lips twitching suspiciously. “And here I thought they’d all be upstanding members of the community. I am so disappointed.”

“They wouldn’t exactly steal the food.” Cameron smiled, loving how playful Ian turned out to be. “But they’d make a strong case for having me share, and I’d find it difficult to turn them down. Not with something as excellent as that black bun. The donuts were pretty outstanding, but the cake? Amazing.”

“So you liked it.” Ian nodded and sat back, more relaxed now. “Not everyone does, you know? The filling is pretty compact and, like much of Scottish baking, very sweet, so it’s not always received well.”

“If you ever have any leftovers, you now know where to send them!” Cameron winked.

“Oh, well, that’s good to know.” Ian smiled shyly and took a sip of his water. “So, did you manage to identify the ingredients in the filling?”

“I think so.” Cameron leaned back in his chair and focused on recalling what he’d tasted. “Other than flour, baking powder, milk, and egg, there were raisins, currants, some almonds, and chopped peel, I think. I suspect the presence of brown sugar, ginger, and cinnamon. And just to throw me off, there might have been some black pepper and a trace of either brandy or whisky, I’m not sure.”

“Wow, that’s pretty impressive.” Ian smiled. “I can see you’re not a detective in name only.”

“I got it right?” Cameron couldn’t believe it.

“Almost. The alcohol you tasted was whisky, the real Scottish kind, of course. It’s my personal variation, since most recipes say to use brandy. But there is one more ingredient nobody is even supposed to get, since it’s secret.” Ian had lowered his voice to almost a whisper.

“A secret ingredient?” Cameron made a show of checking if anyone could overhear them and leaned toward Ian. “Are you going to tell me?”

“If I did, I’d have to kill you.” Ian grinned.

“No!” Cameron laughed at the sneaky expression on Ian’s face. “But I got the rest right?”

“You did.” Ian nodded.

“Is there a prize?” Cameron knew what he wanted, but he had no idea how Ian would react.

“A prize?” Ian tilted his head in thought. “Possibly. I hadn’t thought about it yet. Is there anything you’re thinking of?”

“I am afraid so.” Cameron attempted to look serious.

“You’re afraid to tell me?” Ian frowned. “Why?”

“Because….” Cameron paused dramatically. “Because you might want to kill me if I did.”

Buy Links:
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=6646
https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-thebaker-1840886-149.html
http://www.amazon.com/Baker-Workplace-Encounters-Serena-Yates-ebook/dp/B011A0JBW6

www.serenayates.com

The Hired Man excerpt by Dorien Grey

In this newly revised edition of The Hired Hand, private investigator Dick Hardesty is hired by businessman Stuart Anderson to conduct routine background checks on potential store managers, he becomes reacquainted with a former trick, Phil Stark, who has undergone an amazing transformation from bar hustler to professional escort. When Anderson is murdered, Hardesty is hired by the escort services owners, Arnold and Iris Glick, to keep Phil and the agency away from police scrutiny. Two subsequent murders make this impossible, and Hardesty embarks on a mission to find the identity of the killer


The Hired Man
Untreed Reads (July 14, 2015)

• ISBN-10: 1611879280
• ISBN-13: 978-1611879285

Excerpt:

I must have finished the conversation with Tim somehow because suddenly I was aware that I was sitting there, with the phone still in my hand, listening to a dial tone, afraid to move for fear I would throw up. 

Slowly, I eased the phone back onto the cradle and leaned forward with my elbows on my desk and cupped my hands over my nose and mouth, forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths.

I had to tell Phil, but I couldn’t do it by phone. When the nausea had subsided, I let my motor responses take over. They got me out of the chair, walked me to the door, made sure it was locked behind me, then walked me to the elevator. By the time I reached my car, I was sufficiently pulled together to let my mind, which had been spinning wildly out of control, shift into gear.

How was I going to tell Phil? What could I say? I didn’t even know Billy’s last name, which meant that Phil was going to have to go with me to the coroner’s office to try to identify the body.

Having sex with a guy doesn’t make you best friends, and I’d only met Billy a handful of times, if that. But what I knew of him I liked. A lot. He was funny and sexy as all hell, and sweet and young, and beautiful and full of life and some son of a bitch had taken all that away from him and I still thought I might throw up.

A blaring horn from the car behind me made me realize the light had turned green, and I moved along.

I parked about half a block from Phil’s apartment and idly thought I should have brought the photo Billy had lent me of Phil and Anderson and Glen O’Banyon and whoever else in hell it was in there with them. I walked down the hallway to Billy’s…. no, to Phil’s…apartment and knocked on the door. A full minute went by and I was about to knock again when the door opened. Phil took one look at my face and all the color drained from his own. His eyes riveted onto my own, as though he thought they might help keep him from falling down. “What is it, Dick?” he asked, though I think he knew.

“It’s Billy,” I managed to say. “He….”

“Is he hurt?” he asked. “Is he in the hospital?”

I shook my head.

Phil looked at me and duplicated my head shake, in slow motion. His eyes filled with tears and his lower lip began to quiver. He started to say “No,” but couldn’t make it. I moved forward and put my arms around him as he put his head on my shoulder and started crying like the very little boy who lives somewhere deep inside us all.

The Hired Man is available in paperback edition, ebook (Kindle and other) editions, audiobook edition.  Check these links: - click Amazon    Untreed Reads    Audible Books 

www,doriengrey.com
doriengrey@gmail.com

Lola Dances excerpt by Victor J Banis

Sometimes funny, sometimes tragic and often bawdy, Lola Dances, in this new edition by Victor J Banis, ranges from the 1850 slums of the Bowery to the mining camps of California and Montana, to the Barbary Coast of San Francisco.

Little Terry Murphy, pretty and effeminate, dreams of becoming a dancer. Raped by a drunken profligate and threatened with prison, Terry flees the Bowery to disappear into the wilderness of the West. In the rugged settlement of Alder Gulch, he stands out like a sore thumb among the camp’s macho inhabitants – until the day he puts on a dress and dances for the unsuspecting miners. As beautiful Lola Valdez, fame and fortune are within reach, and so, ultimately, is love.

Lola Dances
Rocky Ridge Books (6/19/2015)

• ISBN-10: 162622028X
• ISBN-13: 978-1626220287

Excerpt:

Joshua and Brian had barely arrived in Butte when an early winter set in. They were just able to get a crude cabin up and get some supplies in before a major blizzard struck. It snowed without stopping for a full week, stopped for a day, and began to snow again, the sheets of white blown about in a strenuous wind that roared down from the mountains. Gray wolves drifted into town like wisps of smoke, and sometimes got bold enough to scratch at cabin doors.

In no time, Joshua and Brian were snowed in. For several weeks they went outside no more than was essential, and sat instead for hours before their stove, so close that sometimes their boots got scorched.

"Of all the rotten luck," Brian grumbled, pacing the floor like a caged mountain lion. He, at least, could pace; the cabin's roof was too low for the taller Joshua even to stand up without ducking his head. "We might be stuck in here till spring, the way it's snowing out there."

"Not much we can do about it, the way I see it," Joshua said. "We've got plenty of whisky, haven't we, and food enough if we're careful, and as soon as the snow lets up, I'm going to cut some more wood. Doesn't look like we'll be doing much mining, but we'll get by all right."

"That's easy for you to say."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Joshua asked him, puzzled. "Looks to me like we're in the same boat at this point."

Brian had been thinking about Terry, and now he was going to be stuck in a cabin for weeks, maybe for months, with Joshua, who he doubted was a likely candidate to take Terry's place.

It had never occurred to him that he might miss his brother in that way, but it hadn't taken him long to begin to miss his steady diet of sex. And the longer he went without, the better his memories of how good it had felt.

He couldn't very well say that to Joshua, however. "Nothing," he said instead. "I'm just riled, is all. All this damn snow. Might have been better to stay where we was."

 "Too late to be thinking of that," Joshua said.

Brian grunted and went to throw some more wood in the stove. Joshua watched him and thought about what Terry had said, about him and Brian. Nothing like that had come up between them. At first, when Brian had suggested Joshua come with him, Joshua had wondered if Brian had any inkling of what had happened with him and Terry, like maybe Terry had told his brother. For the first day or so, he'd been alert for any untoward movement on Brian's part, half expecting to turn and find Brian's gun trained on him.

Nothing of the sort had happened, though, and Brian had said and done nothing in all this time to indicate that he had any idea of that business, and Joshua had decided after all that he had no suspicions and began to breathe easier.

They almost never talked about Terry at all, and then only obliquely. Brian asked one evening, out of the blue, "That dancer that came to the Gulch just before we headed out," and paused. "To The Dollar. Remember?"

"Lola Valdez?" Joshua asked, surprised to have that brought up.

"Was that her name? Well, what did you think of her?"

Joshua took a moment to consider anew what Brian might or might not know.

"What do you mean, what did I think of her?" he asked cautiously. "She was a pretty thing, wasn't she? Had most of those miners standing on three legs, seemed like to me. What is it you're wondering about?"

Brian gave him a long look. "Nothing," he said with a shrug. "I was just wondering, is all. What you thought of her."

"She was just a dancer, was all," Joshua said. "Pretty enough, I guess. If you like dancers."

Brian seemed content to leave it at that.

#

Supplies quickly began to run low. There was a little general store, with a table for poker, run by a bear of a man named Angelo, but he was no better prepared for the unexpectedly early winter than the hundred or so miners in the camp, and soon enough salt and flour grew scarce, and most everything else not long after.

Luckily, almost the first thing Brian and Joshua had done when they got there was to stock up. Many of the miners had little in their pockets by the time they arrived at the crude camp, expecting with the prospector's optimism to find enough gold dust right off to provide for themselves, and quickly chagrined to find out how misguided the expectations had been, but Brian and Joshua were luckier than most. Brian had the money he had taken from Terry, although he did not mention its source to his partner, and Joshua had brought with him the rest of the stake his father had given him when he sent him west.

As a result, they at least faced the winter with plenty of coffee and plenty of whisky, and enough beans to tide them over. They had killed a deer shortly after arriving, and the venison hung in the rear of their cabin, along with a big side of questionable beef they had purchased from Angelo, much of which had been made into jerky, the rest of it gradually growing its own overcoat of mold. By now, they were so used to it they never even noticed the smell.

Even so, by Christmas they'd had to reduce their three meals a day to two, as a precaution, and then to one, and they pretended they didn't hear their bellies complain, and kept a close eye out in case anyone started envying their provisions.

"You think this is bad," Brian said, "Christ, this is a damn picnic, I tell you. Back in the states, in the Five Points, people lived two and three families together, sometimes a hog, too, or chickens, in rooms so dark you couldn't see your hand in front of your face, and a man could never say for sure whether he'd fucked another man's wife or his own, or one of his kids, even, and didn't much care which, either, and women would lay drunk all day long in the shit piles they called their back yards. This ain't nothing, I tell you."

"What is it you came for, anyway, Brian?" Joshua asked him one day. "Was it just the money, is all?"

They were sitting by the stove, the toes of their boots beginning to scorch, and Brian was so long answering, Joshua thought maybe he hadn't heard the question, or didn't mean to answer it at all.

"I don't exactly know," he said finally. "I used to think it was the money, but maybe it was just getting out of there, as much as anything, getting away from, well, The Bowery, or something, anyway. Only, it don't seem like I've got yet wherever it is I was going." He looked around, at the dirt floor and the empty tin cans scattered on it, and the jerky hanging in the corner. "Sure as hell, this ain't it. I don't know where is, though."

For more excerpts from Lola Dances, see entries form April 20, 2015: May 13, 2013; January 14,2013; and February 11, 2008.

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Played! – #2 in The Shamwell Tales - excerpt by JL Merrow

All the world’s a stage…but real-life lessons are hidden in the heart.  In Played, by JL Merrow, though Tristan must join his family’s New York firm at summer’s end—no more farting around on stage, as his father so bluntly puts it—he can’t resist when Shamwell’s local amateur dramatics society begs him to take a role in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

The bonus: giving private acting lessons to a local handyman who’s been curiously resistant to Tristan’s advances. Not only is Con delicious, there’s fifty pounds riding on Tristan getting him in his bed.

A late-diagnosed dyslexic, Con’s never dared to act, convinced he’d never be able to learn his lines. But with Tristan’s help, he takes the chance. Trouble is, the last time Con fell for a guy, he ended up getting his heart broken. And with Tristan due to leave the country soon, Con is determined not to start anything that’s bound to finish badly.

Just as Tristan thinks he’s finally won Con’s heart—and given his own in return—disaster strikes. And the curtain may have fallen forever on their chance for happiness.

Warning: contains a surfeit of Bottoms and asses, together with enough mangled quotations to have the Bard of Avon gyrating in his grave

Played

Samhain Publishing (June 30, 2015)

• ISBN-10: 1619229722
• ISBN-13: 978-1619229723

Excerpt:

Chapter One

 A Plague on Both Your Houses

There was a frog in the kitchen.

Again.

Tristan crouched down to glare at it, quite certain that such incursions would not have been tolerated had Nanna Geary still been alive. And while she had now, at the ridiculously young age of eighty-two, passed on to her reward, he was damned if he’d let her house be invaded on his watch.

The frog stared back at him with an inscrutable amphibian gaze.

“This,” he told it firmly, “has got to stop. Do I hop into your pond and frolic among the lily pads? I do not. So why you feel you can make free of my living area, I really cannot imagine.”

The frog blinked once. Then, in a series of spring-loaded manoeuvres almost too quick for Tristan’s startled eyes to follow, it hopped behind the fridge.

Damn it. This called for desperate measures.

Tristan picked up Nanna Geary’s phone and dialled a number he’d had the foresight to memorise.

“Yeah?” The voice was deep in timbre, yet clearly young. Excellent.

“Hello. I perused your advertisement in our local emporium. All—”

“You what?”

“I read your card in Tesco,” Tristan clarified with a sigh. Some people had no appreciation for the beauties of the English language. “All household job’s—I assume the apostrophe was ironic?—done, resonible rates.”

“Er, yeah.” The man on the other end of the phone sounded somewhat nonplussed, possibly due to the way Tristan had stressed the “ibble” at the end of resonible. “What’s the problem?”

“Biblical.”

“What?”

“I have a plague of frogs.”

Pause. “Is this a joke?”

“If it is, it’s on me. I keep coming down in the morning to find a frog in my kitchen. Not something one wants to see before one’s first cup of coffee. And let me tell you, I’m something of a connoisseur of unwelcome morning sights.” At least, Tristan comforted himself, this one hadn’t been in bed with him.

Yet.

He wouldn’t put anything past the vile green creature. It was probably hoping for a kiss, and far be it from Tristan to brag, but he had an impressively wide experience of where kisses tended to lead.

Over his dead body, in this particular instance.

“A frog,” the handyman was saying. There was another pause. “So technically, yeah, that’s a plague of frog. One of ’em.”

“Semantics. The plural, in this case, may be taken to include the singular.”

“Right… Look, I think you want pest control, anyhow.”

“Finally we reach agreement. So how soon can you be here?”

“No, I mean you want someone who works in pest control. Um. You’re in the village, right?”

Tristan rolled his eyes. “I’m certainly in a village. However, there appears to be an elegant sufficiency of villages in this vicinity. Perhaps one might essay a tad more specificity, hmm?”

There was a silence, then the voice on the other end was back. “Well, go on, then. Essay me specific.”

Tristan frowned. Unless he was very much mistaken, there had been a soupçon of sarcasm in the handyman’s tone. “Shamwell,” he said shortly.

“Thought so. Right. I’ve got this mate. Where are you? I’ll send him round.”

“Excuse me? I’m sorry, I believe I must have had some kind of cataleptic fit and missed the part of the conversation where I told you to feel free to invite all your friends to my house. Perhaps you’d like to create a Facebook event, make it a free-for-all—”

“Look, do you want rid of this frog or not?”

“Obviously.”

“Then lemme give Sean a call. He’s a professional. What’s your address?”

Tristan sighed. “Twenty-two, Valley Crescent.”

There was a pause. “That’s Mrs. Geary’s house.”

“Was.” Tristan’s voice came out perhaps a little on the sharp side. He missed Nanna Geary. She’d always loved to hear about Tristan’s latest triumph on the stage, and she’d certainly never told him to go and get a proper job. “Now it’s mine.”

“Right.” The handyman’s tone was equally abrupt. “I’ll send Sean over.”

“Immediately?”

“Well, he’s probably on a job right now, but soon as he can make it, yeah.”

“Make it soon. This is an emergency.” Tristan hung up. It was often best not to give these people a chance to make excuses.

Then he went back to sorting through Nanna Geary’s belongings. It was, Tristan had to admit, not proceeding as quickly as it might. He kept getting distracted by memories from his childhood. He’d been set back half an hour already this morning by coming across her old boiled wool jacket, a stiff heavy thing in the vilest shade of green imaginable—really, next to it, this morning’s uninvited visitor would be a thing of beauty. The smell of wet dogs and camphor emanating from it had taken Tristan right back to rainy afternoons playing games of rummy in a dripping gazebo, because Nanna Geary thought boys needed fresh air even when the weather was dreadful… He sighed and folded it reverently before adding it to the charity shop pile.

Tristan was knee-deep in women’s underwear when the doorbell rang. Most of it was of the sturdy thermal variety, but he’d been shocked and delighted to find some black lace nestling at the back of the drawer of, well, drawers. “Nanna Geary, you saucy little minx,” he murmured as he got to his feet, detached a wayward suspender belt from his sleeve and made his way downstairs.

There was no hall, as such, in Nanna Geary’s house. The front door opened directly from what she had liked to call the living room, comprising as it did both lounge area and dining room. Tristan strode along its length and flung the door wide.

The man looming awkwardly on the doormat was delicious. Tall, muscular and delightfully rough around the edges, with dark stubble on his chin and unruly jet-black hair. He was casually dressed in jeans and a singlet, perfectly accessorised with a touch of the grime of honest toil. Things were definitely looking up. And up, and up. Actually, the man’s height was bordering on the offensive, but Tristan was a forgiving sort. He beamed at the stranger and barely restrained himself from a hel-looo gorgeous. “You must be Sean.”

The man’s face twisted, and he rubbed the back of his neck, displaying some nicely honed triceps and a tuft of armpit hair. Tristan’s inner princess swooned dramatically. “Yeah, about that. Sorry. Sean says he don’t do frogs, ’cos they’re not classed as pests. Says they’re good for slugs and all. I’m Con.”

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Take This Man (5th Collection

A collection of romantic erotica focused on male couples in committed relationships. Edited by Neil Plakcy, Take This Man takes a close look at how much sexier an encounter can be when the two men involved have been together for long enough to matter.

Take This Man

Cleis Press (May 14, 2015)

Excerpt 5 from Take This Man

From “A Ride Home” by Brent Archer

Alan pulled a chair from the dining room table and placed it opposite him. “This isn’t the end of the world. In fact, it’s a fortuitous change of events.”

Bryant’s shoulders tightened as his brow furrowed. “What do you mean? I might have to move back in with my grandparents in Spokane. If I leave Seattle, I likely won’t be able to come back.”

Alan’s eyes widened. “That can’t happen.”

Alan’s words took a moment to register through Bryant’s haze of worry. He raised an eyebrow. “Why’s 

that?”

“Because I love you.”

Bryant’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

Alan smiled. “I love you, and I want us to be together. So here’s my proposition. Move in with me. My apartment has two bedrooms. You can put your stuff in one of them, and we can have hot monkey sex in the other as often as we want.”

Speechless, Bryant put his hand to his forehead.

Alan leaned forward in his chair toward the shocked young man. “We can do two months before you need to worry about helping financially. That’ll give you plenty of time to get a new job. You’re smart and resourceful, so I’ve no doubt you’ll land something quickly. My sister moved out three weeks ago, so there’s plenty of room.”

Bryant’s face flushed with warmth. Alan wanted him. Truly wanted him. He thought about their friendship, and how much he enjoyed their time together. He knew he loved Alan, no question in his mind.

“Are you sure? I’m starting over from nothing here.”

“No you’re not. You have a college degree, work experience, and all the sex you could possibly want. You only need a good man to come home to every night. That’s what I’m missing, too. We already spend a lot of time together. Let’s make it official.”

Bryant fought down tears as he pushed forward off the futon and kneeling on the floor wrapped his arms around Alan still seated in the chair. “Thank you.”

From “Wedding Day Jitters” by Rob  Rosen

 woke up in a cold sweat, eyes stinging, head pounding. “I think I’m dying,” I lamented, wiping the torrent 

off my forehead and groaning as I did so.

J

John, my partner, snorted. “No, Peter; just getting married. Now go back to sleep.”

“

But it’s already light outside.”

The snort repeated. “That’s the moon, dearest.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” He rolled towards me and took my hand in his before replacing the snort with a heavy sigh. 

“Why so nervous, anyway? Everything’s been taken care of.”

A list began rolling in my head before spewing forth from between my parched lips. “What if it rains? What if no one shows? What if everyone shows? Did I put the stamps on all the invitations or did I miss some? Did I pay the caterer, the minister, the rental hall, the florist? Does my tux fit? Do I look fat in it?”

He squeezed my hand. “Please stop, Peter. Now I’m nervous.”

“See.”

He huffed while I puffed, both of us staring up at the ceiling, my heart beating out a mad samba in my chest. 

“So much for sleeping.” He looked over my shoulder at the alarm clock on the nightstand “Only eight more hours to go.”

The pit in my stomach ripened into an overgrown melon. “Plus six minutes.” I gulped. “Make that five.” The gulp repeated. “And counting.”

He slapped the bed and then quickly sprung up. “Okay, enough of this. Put your shorts on; we’re going for a jog.”

I stared at him incredulously. “At this hour?”

He tilted his head my way. “Any better ideas? Besides, it always relaxes you.”

“So does a Xanax, a margarita, and a Golden Girls marathon. Not necessarily in the order.” I reconsidered. 

“Okay, exactly in that order.”

He tossed me my shorts. “No Xanax, the bars are all closed, nothing on TV worth watching. Or, in two more hours, we can either watch Sunday morning prayer services, Sesame Street, or perhaps expand our cable service. Take your pick.”

I grabbed for the shorts and lumbered out of bed, grumbling all the while. “Really, no Xanax?”

He shrugged. “Gave the last one to your mom.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Now you know where I get my neuroses from.”

“Trust me,” he retorted, “I know. And I’m marrying you just the same.”

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Author's question:  Do you eat while writing? Before?  After?

Take This Man (4th Collection of) short stories edited by Neil Plakcy

A collection of romantic erotica focused on male couples in committed relationships. Edited by Neil Plakcy, Take This Man takes a close look at how much sexier an encounter can be when the two men involved have been together for long enough to matter.

Take This Man

Cleis Press (May 14, 2015)

Excerpt 4 from Take This Man

From “Inkstained” by Krista Merle

Without even a cursory knock, the brass handle turns and the heavy oak door to my study opens, which can mean only one person. The man I was on my way to find.

“Oh good, you’re not working,” David, my majordomo, says as he walks in, his eyes riveted to the leather bound appointment book that is never further than arms’ reach away.

“I was. It’s not going as smoothly as I might have wished,” I say, my eyes taking in every lean, wiry inch of him. His light hair is smoothed back and tucked behind his ears, and he’s dressed in the same thing he wears every day, even though I never assigned him a uniform: black jacket and breeches with a soft white shirt and a simply knotted cravat. As he walks I can see leather patches on the insides of his knees, which makes me smile since I’d wager my fortune he’s never been astride a horse. Tall, black boots, polished so highly that they reflect the flickering light coming from the fireplace, encase his calves to just below his knee.

He makes a sympathetic noise and turns a page in his book. He still hasn’t met my eyes, let alone nodded or, heaven forbid, bowed. He’s lucky I don’t stand on ceremony.

“God’s sake, man, what is in that book that could possibly be so interesting?”

Finally, his eyes lift. Bright blue and deceptively innocent. I widen my stance, my shaft swelling already.

“I was just reviewing the market schedule for the tenant farmers and I’m concerned-”

Laughter from outside the door cuts him off and we turn to look. I lift an eyebrow at David and he sighs.

“The rest of the staff had a bit of a celebration at tea this afternoon,” he says.

“Was there a reason for this celebration? Which, from the sounds of things, involved more than one bottle of my imported French wine? Men died bringing that across the channel, you know.”

The corners of David’s mouth curl up in a loose smile. He didn’t look at all ashamed. “Perhaps just a few bottles. I joined your household a year ago. Apparently that’s all the excuse they need to drink in the afternoon.”

I laugh, feeling instantly more relaxed. Bugger the novel. This is far more important. “I suppose it has been a year already. I’m ashamed to say I hadn’t thought of it.” Which isn’t the entire truth; I was very aware of how long he had been with me.

A year ago he’d presented himself at my front door and all but demanded a job. I’d been amused and, to be honest, a little taken aback. But more than anything I was intrigued. He’d proven himself smart and well-spoken but in the same way a pair of new boots shines – bright and clear, but without that broken-in patina. 

He’d been newly polished. I’d immediately wanted to scuff him up a bit.

In my mind, our real anniversary isn’t for another three weeks. 

From “Blue Heart” by Michael Bracken

My first three weeks on the job, Gary and I often worked the same shift behind the counter, rolling burritos for a never-ending stream of customers at the popular downtown restaurant that employed us. Our conversation, limited as it was, never became personal, so I had no reason to think he was interested in me 

until we were walking out of the restaurant at the end of our shift one Saturday night.

The restaurant had closed at midnight, and it had taken almost half an hour for employees to clean up, clock out, and make our way out the back door. I had just reached my car and opened the door when Gary called to me.

“Dwayne?” He pronounced my name as a single syllable, not as two syllables the way my family and friends 

did back home.

I turned.

“Can I hitch a ride?” He explained that his car was in the shop after a fender bender with a clueless coed who’d been talking to her passenger when she plowed her car into the back of his at a stoplight near 

campus.

“Sure.”

I climbed into the driver’s seat and then reached across to unlock the passenger door. Gary climbed in beside me, provided directions, and less than ten minutes later I pulled my car into his apartment building’s 

parking lot.

“You in a hurry?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Want to come up for a beer?”

I had no other plans so I found an empty parking spot and pulled my car into it. Then I followed Gary into the building and upstairs to his second-floor apartment, a one-bedroom much nicer than the exterior of the building suggested it would be.

He led me into the kitchen, opened two bottles of Lone Star beer he retrieved from the fridge, and handed one to me. As I pressed the bottle to my lips and tilted it upward to take my first drink, Gary said, “I’ve seen you sneaking glances at my ass.”

I quickly swallowed so that I wouldn’t spit out my beer. I started to sputter a protest as I lowered the bottle 

from my lips.

He stopped me. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve noticed yours, too.”

My cock twitched in my pants when I realized where Gary was headed with his comments. “You didn’t invite me up here just to drink a couple of beers, did you?”

Gary put his Lone Star on the kitchen counter, stepped forward, and began unbuttoning my shirt from the top. By the time he pulled it free of my jeans and unfastened the final button, my cock had swollen with 

desire and pressed against the inside of my Jockey shorts, yearning to be free. When Gary pushed my shirt off my shoulders, I set my bottle on the counter next to his and let my shirt slide down my arms to pool on the kitchen floor at my feet.

From “Unwanted Freedom” by P.L. Ripley

Chance woke when he was pulled from the bed and thrown to the floor. He opened his eyes to see the intruder drop to his knees, the left one planted firmly in the center of Chance's chest, and shove a thin slice of steel to his throat.

“Tommy, you're home early,” Chance said, not surprised to see his old lover.

Tommy grunted a hard reply. “No thanks to you, asshole.”

Chance stared up at him a moment, waiting for the knife to pierce his skin, to tear into his larynx or slice into the jugular vein. When it didn't happen Chance said, “You look good Tommy. You've been working out.”

Tommy had always been muscular from a lifetime of working construction. He was bigger now than the last time Chance had seen him, the day of the sentencing, five years ago. His chest was thicker, arms so fat with new muscle growth Tommy seemed barely able to keep them at his sides. They kept wanting to balloon out from him as though his hands were filled with helium.

“I didn't have much else to do, besides trying not to get raped or killed,” Tommy replied, pushing the blade a little harder against the thin flesh. A tiny bead of blood welled up under the knife. Chance could feel it trickle 

down into the hollow of his throat.

“I'm sorry you had to go to prison. I'm sorry I had to arrest you,” Chance said and ran his fingers through the thick hair on Tommy's forearm. He traced the tattoos all the way up to the shoulder. Tommy had most of them before he went away, but there were a few new ones. A skull on his hand, a line through Chance's 

ame on his bicep.

 “If you’re going to kill me, just do it.”

“You always were impatient,” Tommy said and rose to his feet. He stuck out his hand for Chance to take. Chance accepted it, lifted himself from the floor and stood beside Tommy. It felt good to touch him again. He missed him more than he had admitted to Bennie. He was still powerfully, terribly in love with Tommy.

Chance slept in the nude. It felt odd standing naked with Tommy fully dressed. He turned, pulled a pair of white briefs from the dresser and stepped into them. Tommy dropped the knife on the end table, it clattered next to the alarm clock, then he sat on the bed. He huffed out a long sigh.  

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Author's question:  Do you write more than one project at a time?