Sunday, October 30, 2011

JOSEY GREENWELL - COUNTRY GENTLEMAN


When I wrote Nashville  Dreams, I didn’t know anything about Josey Greenwell. Then, my DNA Magazine newsletter arrived and whoa, in the cover is this amazing blond with a delicious beard, teasingly pulling a white speedo down his precious rump. (DNA # 142 in case you want to check it) 

To say the man is hot would be a simple understatement. However, beyond looks, what attracted my attention to Josey was his story. His Nashville’s Country Record Label dropped him after he came out. Yep, you can’t be openly gay in Country Land.

Lured by his handsomeness, I started investigating about him and found a very interesting interview from this last September at Gus’ blog QUEER ME UP.  After his display of sweetness in said interview, my interest kicked up several notches. Therefore, I went to --of course-- Youtube and immersed myself in JoseyTv!, where the Kentucky dreamboat has covers of many well-known hits with his acoustic guitar, which brought me back to Nashville Dreams since Jonah, one of the main characters began as a street singer when discovered by the love of his life (Ah… Guitars and blonds).

With a voice ready to melt boys and girls in equal proportions, Josey doesn’t label his tunes as gay music. His songs are songs about love and relationships and could easily apply to the boy next door in love with his best friend’s brother, to the girl suffering from exhaustive longing for the boy living across the street.

I succumbed and bought his debut album My Life on the Radio. It’s Country at its best and with that sweet naiveté that make us all dream of cowboys and battered pick-up trucks under the moon or mysterious rendezvous behind secluded haystacks.


One of my favorite songs of this 13-tracks CD (all written by Josey) is Sounds Good To Me. The story is simple but powerful all the same, two people (the lyrics portrayed it in a way that could be two guys, a guy and a girl or two girls) can’t get enough of each other and they have to steal moments of privacy, and when the chance happens it’s explosive.

Red Lights is an ode to long distance romances and that desperation urging you to take the car and drive, drive, drive until you reach your lover’s place. Anyone who had been away from his or her love could effortlessly relate to this song and blast it on the way home.

Did I mention Josey does covers of hits in his Youtube page?  Watch Josey singing Lady Gaga’s Judas was delightful, not just because Josey made the song his own, but by the way his muscular biceps were fighting to sidetrack me from his striking face (He was wearing a tank top, which is what he usually wears in these homemade videos, so go figure).

What makes me happy about Josey Greenwell is that despite his success as a model, singer-songwriter and internet heartthrob he still has that Southern gentleness of being nice and polite, especially with strangers.

Something many people with less talent, but more fame, could learn a lot from.


Thursday, September 15, 2011

VAMPIRES, SHIFTERS AND PANSEXUALITY


What I love about romance and specially M/M romance is that anything goes. The jock falls in love with the geek, the vampire goes down on a werewolf, and the shifters, well, the shifters are the ones having tons of fun. If you don’t believe me, ask Tomcat Jones.

The dictionary defines pansexual as a person who participates in (or is open to) sexual activities of many kinds, and I think in our core, we’re all pansexual, if not physically, at least, in our little tricky fantasy world.

One of my favorite moments of True Blood is when Sam has this sexy, teasing dream about Bill. I was disappointed that the producers didn’t as a minimum let them kiss properly, but I understand where that came from: the gnawing voice inside each of us telling what’s appropriate and what’s not.

However, what that televised dream proved is that even Sam Merlotte, straight as he is, deep in his most forbidden place has a hint of curiosity. Never to mention Jason, who after drink Jessica’s blood had 10 seconds of Hoyt riding him. Yeah, womanizer Jason.


Many of you might say, but it’s just TV.

And I’d tell those of you, writers are human, and as that, reflect what humans think. In the same way, any master of horror is human enough to have that darkness inside them. Gory scary creations do not come from sunshine and flowers but from fear and torments that are inherently human too. Nevertheless, this is Manly Romance by Gabbo, not the Corner of Gruesome Bitches, so let’s go back to passion, lust and the prohibited.

When two (or three) guys fall in love, they’d do it with their bodies. Hell yeah, that’s one of the best parts of having the same equipment. However, most importantly, they’d do it with their hearts, and in the most subliming stances with their souls. That is what romance is about: our inner core.

Whatever we read touches us. It caresses our Psyche intimately and triggers a response in outward and inward levels. Arousal is human, as much as a couple of thousands of years of repression are trying to force-feed us otherwise. When you deny your body, you’re denying an intrinsical part of you.

Mind, body and soul are a sacred trinity; each is responsible for the other and could not be separated without serious damage.

I don’t care if you like it kinky, or vampy or alien. It’s up to you to accept what’s your pleasure and act accordingly. And when I say act, please read, read accordingly, because not all have the nerve (and the stomach) to walk into a dungeon and get lashed, no matter how hot is the deliverer.


Monday, September 5, 2011

NASHVILLE DREAMS



Finally, NASHVILLE DREAMS is in both Amazon and Barnes & Noble e-book stores, and I'm happy to give you some inside into the story. But first, I want to show you the two guys who inspired the protagonists.

First, football player Mark Sanchez inspired Country singer David Dillard.  David is a man who wants to find love, and the only way to do that is to face  his inner truth publicly.


Violinist David Garret inspired David's love interest, street singer Jonah Stalham. With a broken heart, Jonah wants to stay as far from love as he can until David enters his life. Stalham is the last name of a Lady in a portrait at the Tennessee State Museum.



Here is the moment, when, after an argument with his manager, Bill hears Jonah singing for the first time.


When he came out of the store, a male voice accompanied by an acoustic guitar caressed his face. He crossed the street --looking for the source of enchantment-- and saw a group of people surrounding someone.
He walked in a trance, following the merman’s baritone. He tried to imagine to whom that enchanted voice might belong, and nothing came up. The guy must be sitting on one of the columns of that Bank’s entrance because the crowd circling him blocked the view.
Bill finally scooted between the transfixed people and discovered the source of the spell. The guy had long legs nicely framed by a well-worn pair of jeans. The cascade of slim, sunny-wheat hair reached below his five o’clock shadow --a hot sign for a little pass noon. An army surplus jacket effortlessly disguised a stretched smiley face t-shirt. The eyes, those were what captivated him more than the dreamy voice. Big and brown like sweet honey.
Most of the time, when people play for money on the street, they try to please the audience with cheesy songs or whatever is on the top ten that month. This song, however, was something he’d never heard before. It was a melancholic song sang with vitality mostly reserved for Flamenco. The voice was mesmerizing, but beyond that, the guy’s presence sent something roaring inside him, a mix between anger and hope.  
Conflict swirled inside him. Bill knew the burning sensation. This stranger had ignited a bigger resolution to kick Mike straight on the crotch and to vent things that were more personal with retaliating rage. What if he just grabbed the guy and kissed him there in the middle of the street, and the truth came out soaring finally?
Two things could happen, the hot-as-Hell street-singer would punch him in the face for being a fag, or the guy would return the kiss and grab his ass with abandon. This was fucking Nashville, there were no paparazzi lurking in the corners, waiting to catch the downfall of celebrities. And he didn’t even consider himself a celebrity, he was just another singer, with better luck than the one making him think all this nonsense.
He thought of giving the guy a couple of tens, but a different idea nudged him. “You wrote that, dude?”
“Yep. All by myself.” The guy grinned.
“Usually, I don’t give people money. But, I can buy you a meal, if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure. Why not?” The guy was noncommittal.
“There’s a Boxed Joker’s close. Would you like that?”
“My favorite.”



Who can tell me the real name of the franchise I named Boxed Joker's in NASHVILLE DREAMS?

Sunday, August 21, 2011

OF DREAMS AND OTHER IMAGES

A couple of nights ago, I took my blessed melatonin to sleep, and thanks to its somniferous powers, had one of the most incredible dreams I ever had.  It was  extremely vivid, and --in a truthful writer’s manner-- it was kind of scripted.

In this otherworldly dream, Betty White has died, but don’t be sad, she died in the year 2096, long after many of us. The thing is that she was --in spirit-- watching her own funeral, and I was there to make her go into the light. In a positively Hot in Cleveland moment, she told me, “But this is so much fun, all this people here to say goodbye.” 

Can you imagine her granny voice uttering those words?

Needless to say, she finally went into the light, and the character I was playing in the dream took more precedence in the events. I’m not going to give you too many details of the dream because when I woke up, I ran to my notebook and started writing like a madman. And the more I wrote, more of a new novel developed, and -- in that single sitting, I made four frigging chapters.

As my euphoria ebbed, I outlined the whole story, and I’m so happy with it that all other projects has gone to second place, because this felt like a revelation of some sort.

Here, the prologue is. As it was, it might change further down the line.

PROLOGUE


It’s not easy to be an enforcer for Afterlife, especially when you’re still alive. The Powers gave me the ‘gift’ of immaterialization. And I make these quotation marks with my mitts, full of sarcasm and seething bile, because more than a gift, this is a fucking curse, punishment for being what I wasn’t supposed to be.

I have to find someone who loves me, not father, mother, brothers or sisters; I’m talking true, pure, real love, and when that person is about to die, he must say that he’ll wait for me in the netherworld. Then I’ll be relieved of my duties as an enforcer and my fucking punishment will end.

I will live for whatever years I have left at that moment, awaiting my rightful time to die. Which is fucked up since that means I’m gonna have to spend the rest of my days dying of love (alone) after finding the one true person for me.

So there will be no deliverance ‘til I’m dead.

I’m truly fucked both ways, in life and in love.

Why look for love then? If I’m gonna live without it after all. Better, keep doing this shit as long as it takes and not even try finding the One.

Ah, by the way, I can’t kill myself to end this manure-fest.

My name is River Jordan.

Yeah, I’ve noticed a little cosmic pun in that too; the river one must cross to reach the Promised Land, nonetheless.  

Am I thoroughly screwed or what?



Feel free to leave your comments.

Saturday, August 13, 2011

MASTER HAVEN & MASTER WREN

FAN FICTION FROM ONE OF MY FAVORITES M/M ROMANCES 
SLAVE BOY BY EVANGELINE ANDERSON


“Good morning.”

His former master, and love of his life since the first moment, woke him up as he had for the past ten years --whenever they were not on a mission-- kissing the H on his pelvis, outcome of their experience with the Tiberions and exactly what prompted their confession of eternal love .

“Good morning to you too, love.” Wren caressed the lock of white hair, grown on Haven’s hairline amid otherwise blue-black short tresses. “Did you rest well?”

“The only time I don’t rest well is when I’m not in your arms.” Haven smiled, and that unrelenting fire --always between them-- surfaced easily.

“We have a couple of standard hours before we depart for Rigel Six.” Wren murmured with his eyes boring into Haven’s deepest blue.

“Should we call this assignment ‘going full circle before starting a new chapter’?”

“You know dealing with Dungbar will not be a problem for me.”

The same bastard who enslaved Wren until his twelfth name day, when Haven discovered him in a dirty alley. Now, eons later, after slavery had been abolished on the Rigelian System --thanks to both Light Bringers’ lobby with their lawmakers--, Dungbar kept a slave ring dangerously armed on the underbelly of Rigel Six, and not even the military enforcement of the system was able to overpower it.

Mistress Tegbreth, never happy with them since day one, bullied her decision through the Council of Wisdom to send them on this mission, not a problem for Wren at all. What presented a problem  was that she also bullied her way to foist novices on them. Twins, they will get as charges upon their return from their Rigelian mission.

Due to the nature of their relationship and the formidable team they made, the custom of apprenticeship had never applied to them, since this would imply an extended separation to focus on their individual novices.

Haven kissed Wren softly on the mouth this time, “I love you.” He trailed his lips downward, over chin, neck, pecs and abs, finally nuzzling the golden brown curls on the base of his cock.

Wren trembled, feeling the big hands rub his hips in sync with the movements of Haven’s face around his crotch. He swallowed hard, no need for an answer at this moment.

His former master’s thin lips grazed his cock head, humming happily. Haven rearranged himself to lay sideways, almost in a 69 position, his face still on Wren’s crotch, giving open-mouthed kisses on the rock-solid shaft and kneading shrinking balls.

Haven’s cock was a thick column, jutting close to Wren’s face and sluggishly oozing pre-come. But Wren focused his attention on the strong muscles of the other man’s ass, tracing with his left hand the hard and inviting curves.

“Hmm, love that.” Haven murmured, enveloping Wren’s cock in the sweet heat of his wonderful mouth and restlessly pumping him with expert fingers.

“You don’t want me to last, do you?” Wren chuckled, amused.

“Actually, I need you to last a little longer, Master Wren.”

Only when wanting to be penetrated, Haven called him master.

That sole thought almost made Wren spurt furiously. He moved to stand on his knees, without perturbing the maddening suction around his cock, and stroked with the back of his hand a hollowed cheek.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ah, his beautiful Wren. 

Haven had seen Wren change from a slender godling into a powerful man. Thanks to the Living Light's blessings, Wren was a wise master, and also tall and muscular. The little slave boy he rescued so many years ago for ninety-five credits and a loaf of dewberry bread, now inspired fear among evildoers throughout the galaxy.

Anyone might think they were the same age, except for the lock of white hair crowning his head, memento of a disturbing moment when Haven thought he had lost Wren in the hands of an enemy, a situation even worse than when H’rak abducted Wren, planning to make the boy his personal pain slave. 

According to the sages, they would remain ageless for centuries due to the pureness of their love. A love meant to be indeed eternal.

Haven raised his eyes to admire the impressive figure with long, golden hair, caressing his cheek, as he sucked the grown and succulent manhood with keen intention. The love pouring from Wren eyes --intact after all these years-- made every cell of  his body aflame.

Using the abundant fluids oozing from his own cock to prepare his hole, Haven released Wren’s shaft and positioned himself on all fours, looking back to Wren invitingly. Haven heard Wren utter a muffled curse, and he inwardly laughed, knowing how much Wren was withholding his own orgasm. 

The Living Light could not only create formidable weapons of destruction but also help to control your bodily functions for survival, or --as in this case, for pleasure.

Wren steered Haven's hip with one hand and teased his entrance with the other, rubbing his purpled head there. “Lay your chest on the bed, Master.”

“I’m not your master anymore.” Haven replied breathlessly.

“It doesn’t matter who’s taking whom, Haven. You will always be master of my heart, master of my body.”

Ten years together and their bodies were tuned as one. His hole accepted the invasion with subdued pain and a melting heart. He was Wren’s, and Wren was his. “Yes, Wren, I accept that mastership as long as you accept yours of my soul."

Fully sheathed within him, Wren pulled him up, holding Haven with a strong hand on his Adam's apple and ardently whispering in his ear. “Forever, Haven. We belong to each other.” Wren’s goatee tickled his earlobe with playful naughtiness.

“Fuck me, Wren. Fill me with your love.”

And as Wren began thrusting with potent rhythm, Haven felt the Living Light surrounding them, swirling and becoming one with them, enhancing their senses and transporting them to infinite ecstasy. Where both minds were a single entity; where they dived into each other’s souls with complete truthfulness.

Each one a Master by his own merits, they didn’t share a mental link anymore, and yet  --in moments like this-- the understanding of their pleasure was blinding as sunshine for one another. “So big, so hard in me, Wren.”

“Hard for you, my love, always for you.  The greatest aphrodisiac is your submission, my master.”

Wren took Haven’s cock and pumped it, without missing a beat of his sharp thrusts. Both were close, and the light surrounding them became brighter and brighter in tune with their incoming climax. In moments, Wren started to fill him with an agonizing grunt of release, stroking him in a straight line to Heaven.

“Yesss,” was all Haven was able to say as he convulsed spurting jet after jet of precious seed in Wren’s large hands.

They collapsed in a tangled mass of limps on the ample bed. Wren spoke when his breath became steadier, still on top of Haven. “I’m going to hate being away from you.”

Haven relished in the long tresses brushing his face, before he turned and whispered, mesmerized by the beauty of those eyes like the oceans of Radiant. “We’ll find the way to have moments like this. We could always send our novices to practice together for a standard hour or two.” He chuckled, watching the last adolescent trait in Wren, the biting of his lower lip when he was thinking too hard.

“I guess we could do that every other standard month.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of every other standard week.” Haven laughed openly this time.

“Even better, my love.” Wren laughed too and kissed him fully on the lips. “It’s time to get ready, a mission awaits.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Exactly two standard hours later, before they boarded their ship, the twins accompanied by Master Serin came to say goodbye. They had the annoying custom of speak together as if they were one. “We are going to miss you both, Masters.”

Haven spoke with one foot on the platform already. “Don’t give trouble to Master Serin. We won’t tolerate mischievousness.”

Wren admonished in a somewhat softer tone. “Read the books we gave you. We will examine you two as soon as we get back.” Both younglings nodded, and he turned to enter the spaceship closing the door behind him.

With a wicked grin on his face, Haven murmured, giving him a soft peck. “I’m going to examine you, at least twice, before we arrive to Rigel Six.”

Pulling Haven for a deeper kiss, Wren conceded. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”





Sunday, August 7, 2011

YEHONATHAN & LYRIK



I have a friend in Facebook, who used to be an adult film star (this wouldn't be important if it were not for the fact that the man is dreamy and was the inspiration for one of my characters), and browsing through his pictures of GayPride in Toronto I found this couple, Yehonathan and Lyrik.

Both dreamboats are Israeli, and I cannot get enough of them. Yehonathan is a singer, and Lyrik is a DJ and sometimes sings along with his partner. Since I'm a dancer, Lyrik's style of DJing is extremely appealing to me, and, of course, the dance versions of his boyfriend's songs are to die for.

Although I don't understand a single word of Hebrew, for an unexplained reason, I love those songs where I cannot grasp a word the most. Those who know me are well aware that I'm a big fan of Bollywood; thus the issue of the language barrier is not a big deal in my case.

There is something so soothing in Yehonathan voice that is not hard to imagine him singing in Lyrik's ear before bed, if the DJ had a hard time at work, heh-heh. Specially the song Across the Universe.




As artists we might find inspiration in everything surrounding us. Music is a big part of my method, and these two are really inspiring me right now. I watch their videos and cannot stop outlining stories for future novels. I'm reviewing NASHVILLE DREAMS, at about chapter four of my new intergalactic story (not going to put the name here, because I have an idea for it, but it's not the final one; then why spoil it?), and working on the outlining of BODYGUARDS.

What has me all charged up about Yehonathan and Lyrik is that one of the main characters of BODYGUARDS is a former Mossad agent;  therefore, I'm immersed in everything that is Jewish Culture fearlessly, and --again, thanks to Facebook, my friend Oren is giving me a Hell of a lot of good pointers.




Yehonathan & Lyrik are such a hot couple, and their interaction in their videos is something that you have to be an obscenely good actor to fake. And it's not even the sexual aspect of their motions but how comfortable they are around each other. Maybe, some day, I'll write a story truly based on them, something of epic proportions and with Tel Aviv as playground. You would not be able to blame me after you hear Waiting for You.

Friday, July 1, 2011

PRINCE OF ATLANTIS - EXCERPT



He took some arrai out of the backpack and opened it with a short knife. “We brought you this, Chysis.” The dolphin made happy, clicking sounds and jumped to catch the opened arrai in the air.
“Good boy.” Aerides exclaimed and patted the magnificent animal close to his blowhole. “We’re waiting for you, Phaius.” Aerides teased cheerfully.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.”  He grunted stepping into the delicious water. It caressed his body sensually sending chills throughout. “Can I touch him?”
“Of course you can. He’s very friendly. Here.” Aerides took his hand and guided it along the dolphin’s dorsum. “How does it feel?”
“It’s strange. It’s different from a horse or a cow. It’s really silky.” It was an amazingly indescribable sensation. He didn’t have anything to compare it. Chysis swam away. “Please don’t go...”
“He’ll be back, don’t worry. He’s gone most probably to get some friends.” Aerides chuckled.
Now that they were alone, the only sound was their own splashing motions. The ocean outside was muted by the rock walls of the cove. The world became an utterly new place, as if time had slowed to accommodate to their breathing rhythm, to the languid motions of their floating bodies.
Both submerged and Aerides’s hair was a dark halo flowing magically in a forbidden dream. He was deeper than Aerides, and he admired enthralled the sinewy fluidness of this Clark Gable look-alike. Something primal boiled inside him, and he forgot the need for oxygen; he wanted to stay there forever, in those depths with Aerides above him, drowning to submission.
A spear crossed beside him after wounding Aerides’s left shoulder. Blood flew endlessly from the ugly gash, and he swam up furiously, desperate to reach Aerides. A second spear had inflicted another wound on the right thigh. He shook the water from his face, holding fast to Aerides and searching the perimeter for the attackers. They had short knives only, and those were at the shore. No attackers were visible. He felt movement in the water behind him, and three dorsal fins headed in his direction. He prayed the fins belonged to dolphins and not to sharks. The animals showed their heads, and it was Chysis and two other dolphins. They circled him and helped to move an unconscious Aerides to shore swiftly. He lay Aerides down and shredded his ehungai to make bandages to stop the bleeding.
Poison. An eerie voice murmured around him. The wounds have poison. He darted his head looking for the source of the voice in vain. You need to save him, use your power.     
Horsefeathers.
The voice was inside his head. His nervousness was making him go crazy. 
“Phaius...” Aerides murmured searching for his hand. “Listen to Chysis, follow his instructions.”
“You’re delirious. Chysis cannot give me any instructions; he’s a fucking dolphin. Let me secure this, and I’ll call for help.” He finished a knot on the thigh’s wound.
“Lie on top of him and concentrate. Use your power.” The voice ordered in his head.
Now they both were delirious. He argued nonetheless. “What power? I have no power. I’m just fucking scared here. We need to get help.” He couldn’t possibly be having an argument with a dolphin.
Phaius, lie on top of Aerides, put your hands on both wounds and your brow over his, now! The eerie voice commanded fiercely. Now, or he will die, poisoned.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He did as the voice ordered. “Now what?” He felt Aerides chuckling against his mouth. He groaned, trying to concentrate. “Fuck, Aerides. Not the time for that.”
Aerides answered in a rasped whisper. “You don’t have an idea, how much I’ve wanted to have you on top of me like this. I’ll die, a happy man, if you kiss me.”
“Fuck, Aerides.” Nevertheless, he kissed him anyway, a slow, lingering kiss.
The dolphin spoke again inside his head. “Imagine you both surrounded by golden light and your hands sucking the poison out of him into you. As if, you were blotting ink. Do it.”
Never a good one with visualizations, he struggled for a minute; then he felt the warm, golden light around them, and a distinctive itch on the palm of his hands like swelling blisters. He had his eyes wide shut to concentrate, but -- in his mind -- he could see a purulent green fluid bursting and encrusting around his hands.
It cannot hurt you. The dolphin soothed. Now bring your hands here and we will do our part.”
Reluctantly, he moved away from Aerides and entered the pond. Two dolphins approached him with clicks and little moans. Put your hands on our heads and concentrate in transfer the substance to us.
That was easier to say than to do. He stared in awe as the disgusting pus traveled from his hands to the dolphins heads like thousands of snails in a wicked migration. At the end, the nasty smudge was a birthmark from Hell on the beautiful dolphins. “What are you going to do with that?” He asked worried about them.
We have our ways. Now you can call for help; the enemies are far away, and he is out of danger.
“Thank you.” He said with a deep sigh of relief.
You are very welcome, Phaius Salbatz.
He took the transmitter in Aerides’s backpack and informed their coordinates to the rescue team.
He sat beside Aerides with his elbows resting on his knees and reviewed the whole episode. He realized he’d had the entire communication with the dolphin in Atlantean. I’m happy I’ve been learning it quickly. He thought uneasily. Aerides’s breathing was even and peaceful, the wound on the shoulder had stopped bleeding, already drying and healing. The tourniquet on the thigh looked fine.
He focused on those lips he had kissed in the heat of the nightmare they’d just lived. A soft smile slept calmly on the luscious mouth. Aerides wanted him, as much as he wanted Aerides. There was no mistake; he was something more than a burden for Aerides. But what?  Just a possible bed-partner? 
He tossed those ideas aside. He caressed a warm cheek slowly with the back of his hand trying not to awake Aerides, feasting on the amazing body, laid there for him to contemplate. He wondered what the dolphin had meant with Phaius Salbatz. He had made it sound like part of his name.
Inadvertently, he had voiced the thought, and Aerides answered, his silver eyes shining with devotion. “Salbatz means healer.”
“OK. I see. He said it because I helped you.” That made sense.
“No. He said it because, now, you have a surname. Phaius Salbatz.”
Horsefeathers.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

CONNECTION - EXCERPT



Joxan kept his promise, and he was on his back. Well, just his upper back, because the rest of him was held fast by Joxan in a very Cirque Du Soleil maneuver while his ass was being happily devoured. Joxan acted as he could not get enough of that puckered rosebud, and he was on the verge of change his mind and beg to be fucked to oblivion. He knew Joxan had learned him extremely well, and could notice his reactions and even his change of ideas when in bed. And it didn’t have anything to do with their silent connection.
“I’m gonna ride that whore’son now” Joxan blurted into his mind.
His neck had started to feel funny. Joxan timing was exceptional. “Yeah, baby. Be my vampire cowboy, hee-haw.”
Joxan settled him down and straddled him, picking up condom and lubricant. Joxan began to work, with his chest parallel to his. It always amazed him how Joxan could work everything back there, and at the same time ravish his mouth in the process.
“You like your taste on my lips?” Joxan urged their mouths together.
This connection was the coolest thing in the world. They could yell, cry, and say the nastiest things without a sound since they were in the balcony. Under other circumstances, an earthquake would have been less noisy.  Latex rolled down his cock, he felt the soft caress of gel and the expert hand of Joxan. Joxan had the most particular stroking technique, it was more a sideways motion than up and down, like a socket driver. It was fantastic.
Then, in a single definitive motion, Joxan impaled himself slowly but resolutely.
The body straddling him was the most beautiful image. Joxan threw his head backward, and his Adam’s apple shimmered as the tip of a wonderful erection under the moonlight. The veins in his arms expanded, his biceps bulged as Joxan clutched to his waist, rocking his own hips. Those short, manly nails felt like Heaven on the skin, ten daggers poking him, just to the appropriate side of pain. Internal muscles gripped his cock in the same manner as hands had done previously. This was too much; he was getting close seriously quickly.
He thought. “Kiss me, Joxan. I need your mouth.”
Joxan leaned without losing the undulation of his body, the gyration of his hips, the abrasion of passage against intruder. “I cannot wait to do this under the stars of Madrid, baby.”
He moaned audibly. “Just another month, baby, and there will be no distractions, no interruptions. What I’m gonna do with Max?”
“We’ll deal with that in one minute. Perhaps, in ten.” Joxan giggled in their minds.
“I’m not sure even about two, baby.” He howled like a beaten wolf on Joxan’s ear, not loud, just for Joxan. “I’m too much in character here.” His laughter rolled in their brains.
“Hmm, and I’m not doing my part,” and the grip dissolved. Joxan dismounted and rearranged himself to a sixty-nine position, shoving his cock into Victor’s mouth. “I want us to come together. I want to taste you, baby. Together... please.”
Latex flew -- seriously --, as Joxan threw it over the rail inadvertently. That was a sketch out of a dark comedy, a flying condom. He was glad his eyes were open in that second, because his mouth was certainly busy with that handsome piece assaulting his uvula. The honeyed warm of Joxan’s mouth engulfed his ready-to-burst cock, and everything else became secondary.
“Together, baby, together.” Joxan soft touch felt like a prayer.
He didn’t know if it were the lips massaging his cock, or the cock massaging his lips. Nonetheless, he exploded. Right behind him, Joxan flooded his throat. Both convulsed and grunted simultaneously.
An exhausted man rested over him, nuzzling the curly hair of his crotch. Joxan’s own cock lay spent on his collarbone.
“Baby, as much as I love to be like this, I need to check something.” He sent.
“What? What is it?” Joxan sounded drowned in ecstasy and utterly disoriented.
They dragged themselves into the apartment, both stepping into jeans -- commando --, and he put a wife-beater on and exited the apartment barefoot. “I’ll show you in a minute.”
He ran down the four floors to the parking lot, and looked around for several minutes, trying to figure out the trajectory of the slender deflated balloon. Joxan kept bombarding him with questions, and he did not answer purposely.
“Come to the balcony and look down.” He did his best to suppress the amusement in his telepathic tone.
Joxan came to view gloriously bare-chested. The full moon lighted his creamy skin, the broad shoulders, and the dreamy nipples. The white hair on his temples shone like a heavenly dove. The shock and confusion on his face was both comical and otherworldly.
He smiled and sent through their connection. “This...”
The condom was deadly leaking over the hood of Joxan’s Audi.

THE STALLION & THE DRAGON - EXCERPT



Captain General Gustavo de Monteblanco sat behind his massive oak desk. He wore a Burgundy doublet that enhanced his swarthy complexion, and he daydreamed about Fernando de Montenegro. How those broad shoulders would melt under his teeth, how delightfully that porcelain skin would feel as he caress it with his beard, smelling the delicious aroma of oranges that he now associated with the brawny new Oidor.
It was a heavenly vision the way Fernando had blushed when the back of his breeches ripped, exposing his tasty crevice. He acted like the proper widower, but there was something truly naughty in him by going about without undergarments.
It would have been madness not to take advantage of that fortuitous event. Although now he regretted a little the way he forced his finger inside the chestnut-haired chunk. He could not help it; the temptation had been overwhelming. Yes, the man had fought, but not too much. That gave him Hope. Well, Fernando also hinted there was some kind of attraction. Cauldrons of Hell, damned Christian scruples. Anyway, Fernando had accepted the invitation to the wedding. By the time they would come back from those nuptials he might be as well undergoing his own honeymoon.
A knock on the door interrupted his calculations. “What now?”
“Captain General, señor, The Marquis of Villalba is requesting an audience with your Excellency. May it be granted?”
His lover, what a nuisance. “Allow him to enter. Do you have your rosary?”
The old man dithered and answered in a tiny voice. “Yes, señor, it’s in my pocket.”
“Very good, meditate a Mystery. I don’t care which, and then interrupt us with any excuse, just imply that I’m needed somewhere else.” He frowned to the old man.
His secretary turned on his heels and left the office murmuring, “Credo in Deum Patrem omnipoténtem...
The affronted lover stormed into the office taking his hat off.  His blond hair was disheveled, and his olive skin flushed. He slumped tragically in a chair facing the desk.
Captain General Monteblanco gave the man a mellow smile, ready to disarm him. “What can I do for you this day, Fermín?”
“My problem is not with the days but with the nights. Why are you avoiding me?”
“I don’t understand...” His smile grew bigger, full of fake concern.
The blond man grumbled. “Your door has been closed for the last four nights. What is going on?
“I slept by myself all those nights. I must have forgotten to unlock your entrance.” It was a lie, but he was not going to explain to his lover that his nights were busy with the memory of the new Oidor. Besides, he needed release, and he could use the seasoned partner that night.
“I think you have another lover, and I will not allow it.” Dark blue eyes shot arrows at him. 
He stood up and paced with menacing slowness toward his lover. He gripped the man by the chin, pulling him up. “You’re not the one to decide if I’d choose a new lover or not.” He grated his words forcing a kiss without unfasten the grip. “My door would be open for you tonight. Don’t miss your chance...”
He jerked his lover back to the chair, and walked toward the door, in that moment his secretary knocked and entered urging him to go to one of the courtrooms.
“Yes, the marquis was already leaving. Good day, Don Fermín. The night will be a lot better.”
He laughed keeping the door open until his lover left the room.
“Where is Oidor Montenegro?
“In his office, Captain General, señor, I guess studying the laws since he doesn’t have any hearings until after you two will have returned from the wedding. As you ordered.”
“Very well, I’m going to be with him for a while. I wish not to be disturbed.”
He left his secretary standing agape. He had not seen Fernando since the presentation day, and he was certainly desperate to be alone with him again. Maybe he could get more than a chaste kiss this time, and that buttery sensation on his finger was not easy to remove. His cock was engorging again inside his breeches remembering the way Fernando had fought.
He rapped softly, and the pale god called him in. Fernando de Montenegro sat on the edge of his desk reading a parchment and looked up. His eyes illuminated when he discovered him. He was in his severe mourning black, but beautiful as an angel.
A true virgin, Fernando blushed as Captain General Monteblanco drew closer.
I’d like to know if his little hole clenches while his face blushes.
“Good morning, Captain General, beautiful day...”
“I told you to call me Gustavo in private.” He took the parchment from the pale hands and settled it carefully on the desk, staring into the emerald pools.
“This is the second time we’ve been in private. I’ve hardly had the chance to get use to that name.” Fernando smiled nervously flashing his pretty, pretty white teeth.
Captain General Monteblanco took one of those sinfully big hands. He kissed the knuckles, admiring the coppery, tiny hairs there.
“Thus you haven’t thought of me at all?” He felt shaken for some unexplained reason.
Fernando took his hand away slowly, politely, and rested it over the Burgundy shoulder.
“I’ve considered you a lot, these days. More than you’d ever know.”
Happiness washed over his body. What a strange sensation, the green-eyes-god squeezed his shoulder gently, and slid his hand to his neck feeling his pulse with a delicate press.
“But I must humbly beg for your forgiveness. I’m afraid I’d need more time to muster enough courage to forget eons of Christian devotion.”
Cauldrons of Hell. Captain General Monteblanco trembled as the other man caressed his beard, his brow, the top of his head and his nape. A thumb played over his lips, and he did not know when he closed his eyes. He opened them to be enthralled by the most spectacular smile heightened by that flirty little mole beside the lower lip and tiny, tiny freckles over the straight nose.
“I... I can... wait...” He stammered without recognizing himself.
“Thank you.” Fernando sidled and sat behind his desk, unruffled.
“Can I have at least a kiss?” He was a desperate enamored boy.
“The kiss I gave you, a hundred years ago, is still searing my lips. I’d not be able to resist another, please forgive me.” Fernando lowered his eyelids in a devastating act of contrition.
Captain General Monteblanco fought to regain his consciousness and behave as an adult, not a teenager in love. “The wedding will be held by the lake, it would be a delightful moment. Do you think you could wear something other than black? It’s bad luck to go to a wedding in mourning.”
“What is your favorite color,” there was a pause. “Gustavo?” The angel arched an eyebrow.
“Green.”
“Perfect.” Fernando murmured cryptically.

That night, the Marquis of Villalba was loved like never before. His expertise was not the reason.
It was because the man, who mounted him, was tousling and grabbing lustrous chestnut hair. Biting and kneading gloriously pale, porcelain skin with the fragrance of oranges.
Captain General Monteblanco made love to someone else.

BRIDEGROOM FROM HEAVEN - EXCERPT




Those close to my heart call me Armando. 
Damnation, of all the possible scenarios his vivid imagination had provided, nothing could be compared to what was happening. The gorgeous stranger was holding his hands, kissing his knuckles. They were crotch to crotch, staring at each other enthralled. Every fantasy with this man was a gladiators’ battle, and not romantic at all.     
Alejandro’s fantasies were based on his previous experiences. He could not say that he had not had experienced lovers. Far from it, all those men had always been skillful.  It was just that none of them ever took the time to seduce him. Enticement was within the game, not part of the luring process. Actually, he could not recall voluntarily how, many of those penetrating situations started, his memories always sprang to where the swinging was already occurring.
There was a part --a large part-- of his heart chasing Love, but he did not know romance. The whole posture of the man was beyond his comprehension. Alejandro was definitively not expecting a troubadour.
This must be a dream. He was going to wake up in his bed, in his room, in Uncle Antonio’s manor.  Yes, this is the night before the departure. This entire situation could not be real.
But, I can feel his breath caressing my lips. The warm of his crotch against mine. Those burning emerald eyes.
“Are you all right?  You were blushing, and now you are losing color.”  
That sunny voice is real.
Alejandro pushed the man a little to straighten himself and loosed his hands from the grip.
“Thus, you prefer to be a warrior than an adventurer.” His teasing nature was kicking back. He tried to put himself back in well-known territory. 
“I beg your pardon? I don’t understand what you’re suggesting, Don Alejandro.”
“Forgive me, Don Fern... I mean Armando. Fernando means daring, adventurous while Armando means soldier or warrior.” 
The alluring man caressed his chin with thumb and forefinger, meditating.
“Very interesting, and what does Alejandro mean?”
Alejandro felt his face flare abruptly, in a very soft and low voice he said, “Defender of mankind.”
For some unexplained reason, Alejandro was a child who had been caught after shattering a very, seriously expensive vase.
Armando walked pensively away from him. Alejandro allowed his hands to fall to his sides and stared, following the stallion’s movements.  

Armando stopped almost in the middle of the cabin and looked upward to the ceiling, maybe trying to imagine the blue sky outside. The glorious chestnut hair brushed a little pass his shoulders. Armando was presenting his back to Alejandro, but he could imagine Armando with closed eyes by his paused breathing, as in deep concentration.
“Then it makes sense. Don’t you see it?” He said this with his back still facing Alejandro. “A warrior is ought to be by the side of a Defender; specially, the Defender of Mankind.”
With the last phrase, he turned back slowly to peer at Alejandro with foreboding eyes and a sad half smile.
Is he actually implying that we’re meant to be together? He must be playing with me!  
Considering this a game, this man was an extremely talented actor. His distressed bearing spoke of a hurtful realization. Of something, you might seek with your whole being for a lifetime. Except for the fact that once found, it could bring you joy and even satisfaction. However, if snatched, your life would immerse in inconsolable pain.
For sure, it was tempting to think that the impressive match of their names was some kind of prediction. Yet, altogether, it was amusingly ridiculous.
Is there truly such thing as predestination?  Could it be that we crossed paths, before today, just to keep us thinking about each other?
They had not mentioned miss each other. Alejandro had been evoking Armando fiercely, but that did not mean a thing.
It’s just my little demon ruling my body. He sighed.
Maybe he just wants to mount me, and I don’t have a problem with that.
Somehow, those forlorn green eyes told a different story. There was more than manly desire. There was need. There was hope.
I might as well be imagining all those emotions shimmering in his eyes.
A hard knock on the door made them both jump and look to the door in alert. The person knocked again twice, calling their names.
“Don Alejandro? Don Fernando? May I come in?”
It was Captain Moreno. 
Alejandro looked down and realized that he was not wearing his boots.  Armando looked his way and indicated the blanket. Then, he put both palms together, resting one of his cheeks on them, closing his eyes.
Alejandro hurried to lie on the blanket and appear asleep.  He even snored a little.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Ah, Don Fernando! I hope I’m not disturbing you. I just wanted to check on Don Alejandro.”
Armando kept the door ajar.
“He regained consciousness a while ago, but he’s back sleeping now. I think we must allow him to rest a little bit more.”
Armando forced a grin, trying not to appear too eager to discourage the man from prying on Alejandro. He cleared the door. “Would you want to take a look at him?”
The older man answered gingerly, “Just for a moment. I don’t want to awake him.” And he walked slowly preventing any loud noises. He finally stood by the youngling’s feet. “He’s a very handsome young man, so full of life. It’s interesting that my secretary put you two together, since he didn’t know you’re bound to the same place.”
What was the captain talking about?
“Excuse me, Captain Moreno. I don’t understand.”
“You were commissioned, by Doña Mariana to judge as an Oidor at the Real Audiencia of Guatemala. He’s the son of The Captain General of Guatemala.” 
His lucky star was tricking him. He was not just going to spend the voyage with this man. He was going to work for his father. The Captain General was military governor over the territory; he also presided over the Real Audiencia. Maybe it was not a trick of his lucky star, but the pure and eloquent assertion of his fate, as he had inferred when the young man mentioned the meaning of their names.
This may also be an extremely hazardous road since the only advice Father Nithard gave him about his new boss was, “He is a man who does not take traitors and liars kindly. Be aware.”  It might have been an insult, but also, an honest advice. Any advice was welcome when traveling toward the unknown.
“Then I think is very fortunate we are traveling together, don’t you think?” He said this with a broad smile to hide the turmoil in his mind.  “He will help me to understand my new chief.”
“Certainly,” the captain smiled back, appraising him up with interest. “We are ready to raise anchor.  Would you care to join the other passengers on the upper deck?”
“It will be a pleasure, my dear captain.  Don Alejandro shall be fine on his own.” 
And they left the cabin together, to say goodbye to Cadiz.
           
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Alejandro lay down until he sensed nobody outside the cabin or near the corridor.  Everything was really quite in his surroundings. Most probably, every other passenger was on the upper deck, waving goodbye to the carnival on the port. This was the last Fleet until August.  It would have been very good to say farewell to his beloved Cadiz, but he needed a moment alone to think hard. This swinging coffin was proving to be devilishly treacherous.
The handsome stranger was destined to work for his father.  Well, that would give him time to be around the green-eyed man beyond the voyage. On the other hand, any situation with this Oidor would be a boiling cauldron of snakes if discovered in the Kingdom of Guatemala. Not just the Spanish Inquisition had bloodhounds everywhere, but his father’s rage would have no limits.
Did this man truly deserve his life destroyed by a fling? Alejandro was not sure what would be the outcome of this voyage. Sharing the room with Armando would be a constant torment whether something happened between them or not.  He had no doubt he wanted to run his hands through that chestnut hair.  Caress the muscles that were bound to be under the well-fitted clothes. Feel that manhood inside his body.
You needed a moment alone to think deeply, not to indulge in fantasies that will certainly lead you to play with your little demon!
His little demon surely needed a penalty.
The brief minutes he shared with Armando before Captain Moreno’s arrival were a hundred pigeons fluttering inside his head. The sun was in its zenith, the cabin was getting scorching, and he needed some fresh air.  Better to go up and mingle with the other passengers, before they started to think that he was sick; or even worse, a flimsy feigner.