Monday, November 28, 2016


Multi-platinum Award-winning Country Band Crossroads of Wanton Wishing has a contradiction at its core. Their lead singer, Bill Dillard, is gay and wants to come out, but the timing is not the best.
Jonah Stalham is a street singer, with a promise to keep his broken heart (and other parts of his body) closed to any man, as he dreams of the Big Break in Music City.
Bill and Jonah cross their paths in the streets of Nashville, and their lives will never be the same. Love and Fame are not used to go holding hands.
#2011 #contemporary #musicindustry #nashville


“You can’t come out.”

“Why not?”

“How many country male singers are openly gay?”

Bill didn’t have a rebuke for that. He had to press his point anyway. “Mike, if I don’t come out, I won’t be able to find the man of my dreams and live in peace.”

“Baby, this is Country not Pop! Brokeback Mountain is a fantasy wrote for housewives and girls in Catholic school. And you know how that one ended.” Mike growled, frustrated.

Bill knew Mike was upset since his daughter came from Japan obsessed with boy on boy love stories. That wasn’t helping his own cause. “You just ain’t getting it, do you?”

 “I’ve got it very damned right. Straight porn has lesbian scenes. Carrie Underwood going down on some other hot chick would be a hit, an awesome sex tape. You, with a dude— would be a fucking catastrophe.”

“I wasn’t really asking for permission, you know.”

“As your manager, I forbid you to come out. As your friend, I beg you to understand. All you’ve worked so hard to achieve would go south faster than you could say Reba. It’s not worthy. Think about the other guys in the band. Don’t you think they deserve a say on this?”

“I’ll talk to them. I was hoping for your support as back up.” Bill stopped his pacing. “I need some fucking fresh air.” Bill turned around and left their manager’s office, smashing the door on his way out.

The sky above the building by the river was a dull gray, mimicking Bill’s troubled mind. Forty-five degrees outside, and Bill forgot his jacket back in the office. Good. The chill would help him to chill out.

It was that time of the year, when spring hadn’t kicked winter in the balls yet to make him go away. They were just side by side poking each other with happy blooms throwing sucker punches here and there.  Bill needed a long walk to calm himself for sure.

The street sign flipped him the bird. Just in this town you would find such ambiguous directions, Church Street to the right and Gay Street to the left.

Fuck First Avenue.

If life were as easy as just choosing the way his heart longed for, he’d have chosen left. This time, Bill chose right to wander Church Street.

Bill walked by tourists taking pictures in light jackets and toboggans and sunglasses. Surely, people from the North; this weather was warm for them. A couple of blocks ahead, Bill entered a Farmer’s Market to get a bottle of water—he was parched and enraged.  He circled the place several times distracting his troubled head with brands and colors.

When Bill 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 but 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 Bill more than the dreamy voice. Big and brown like sweet honey.

When people played for money on the street, they tried to please the audience with cheesy songs or whatever was on the top ten that month most of the time. This song, however, was something Bill had never heard before. It was a melancholic piece sang with a vitality mostly reserved for Flamenco. The voice was mesmerizing, but beyond that, the guy’s presence sent something roaring inside Bill, a mix between anger and hope.

They were on the opposite side of the street from a Church of the Gospel, and for the first time, Bill noticed the building had two large billboards on either side of the entrance. One had dates and names ranging from 1785 to 2002. Thirty lines of information that for some reason (he couldn’t grasp in that moment) reminded him of a chalkboard scribbled with a menu planted on any sidewalk. The other board was a chronology, stating fires had consumed two previous buildings. Bill wondered why that information was intriguing enough to be there.

Conflict swirled inside him. Bill knew the burning sensation. This stranger had ignited a bigger resolution to kick Mike straight in the crotch and to vent those things that were more personal with retaliating rage. What if he just grabbed the guy, kissed him there in the middle of the street, and the truth finally soared?

Two things could happen, the hot-as-fuck street singer would punch Bill in the face for being a fag, or the guy would return the kiss and grab Bill’s ass with blissful abandon. This was fucking Nashville, there were no paparazzi lurking in the corners, waiting to catch the downfall of celebrities. And Bill didn’t even consider himself a celebrity. He was just another singer, with just a little better luck than the one making him think all this nonsense.

The crown jewel of the church nightmare (or delusion, Bill wasn’t sure anymore) was the invitation for Sunday Worship.


Only in the Bible Belt, Easter Mass can be advertised that way.

Bill was the last one standing there. The guy looked up and nodded, acknowledging him, then cocked his head toward the upside down fedora with money in it. 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.” The blond street singer winked and something shuddered inside Bill.

The fast food joint was a place very in tune with California and with little to do with Tennessee, but the egg rolls were delicious. They faced the counter, one hundred combos struggling for their attention. “Order whatever you want, dude.”

The guy answered with his attention apparently on the board. “I really don’t eat that much, dog. Order something for me. Anything would be fine.”

And two egg rolls combos with large cokes was their order. They seated at a table by the windows, watching people stroll outside. Bill thought it was seriously messed up that every time the guy bit a roll, his mind drifted to something of a different texture— basically, a part of his own anatomy.
“My name is Bill. What’s yours?” He asked, hoping conversation could distract the inflamed images slapping him.

“Jonah Stalham. Nice to meet you, Bill.” The guy extended his hand for a shake.

The guy had the hands of a pianist with long, slim fingers. Crackers Jackers, if Bill didn’t just imagine those digits stroking his cock.

What the fuck, Bill? Control yourself.

“You a tourist, Bill? You look familiar.” Jonah cocked his head, studying him. He probably didn’t fully recognize him because Bill wasn’t wearing his usual cowboy hat, and his hair was messy after all the pulling while arguing with Mike.

“As a matter of fact, I’m a singer just like you. I’m with Crossroads of Wanton Wishing.”

Big brown eyes grew wide in astonishment. “You’re shitting me, right? You’re that Bill Dillard?”

“Yep. No relation to the department store, though.” Bill chuckled.

“Cool. And where are the other guys?”

“Well, they’re going about their own businesses somewhere. I was having a conversation with my manager that didn’t go as I expected.” Bill shrugged to avoid further explanations.

“I hope you aren’t thinking about leaving the band. Y’all are the shit.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it. But no, it wasn’t about that.”

Jonah finished his last egg roll, sipped his coke, glanced at his 12.85 digital watch and extended his hand for a goodbye handshake. “Bill, it’s been a pleasure to meet you. Now, I’ve got to get me a bus.”

Bill panicked; he didn’t want the moment to finish so abruptly. “If you need a ride, I can take you wherever you’re heading. Ain’t have nothing else to do right now.”

Jonah considered him for a moment, surely weighing his offer. “I really don’t want to impose, especially after you bought me lunch.” Jonah grinned gingerly.

Bill would insist one more time. If Jonah declined, he would try, at least, to get the man’s cell phone number— from fellow artist to fellow artist.

Yeah, right.

“Tell me where you live.” He gave Jonah a tentative grin as if it weren’t a big deal to take him.

Jonah twisted his mouth in a way capable of melt ice easily. “I rent a room close to Percy Priest Lake.” He moved to his feet.

“I-24 or Murfreesboro?” Bill asked contently, calculating both routes.

Jonah exhaled a low chuckle, tickling lower things inside Bill. “It’s up to you. You’re the one doing the driving.”

 “Okay,” he stretched the two letters. “My car is on First Avenue. Let’s go.”

Jonah hesitated, then strapped his guitar and adjusted his fedora, murmuring, “Hell, yeah...”

* * * *

They headed back to Church Street and strode in a straight line up to First Ave without much talking, comments on the weather mostly. Jonah acted nonchalantly, but he was a wreck inside. It wasn’t every day that you get a meal (and a ride) from the lead singer of a platinum award-winning Country band.

They turned left, crossing the street and a parking lot. “I thought this building was abandoned,” Jonah commented as they turned into an inner garage in the middle of the block.

“No. But the main entrance is sealed, though. To go up, we use the underground parking.”

Jonah retraced his steps and faced the big glass doors, using both hands to protect his eyes from the glare.  With his nose glued to the glass, he saw two large round stairs and a magnificent mosaic of George Washington on the floor between the stairs. “It’s a shame because it’s a really cool entry.”

Bill was beside him, but not looking through the glass doors. He must have seen this entrance a hundred times, at least. Bill chuckled. “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe they lost the keys.”

Wow, Jonah had seen this man on videos and always thought Bill was a real looker, but the screen was an envious motherfreaker, because this man was stupidly gorgeous.

“My car is over here.” Billy beckoned Jonah, turning into the inner parking lot.

The short sleeves of the maroon shirt hugged the tanned triceps as Billy walked with an easy stride ahead of Jonah. He wondered why Bill wasn’t wearing a jacket in this weather. He followed the round butt wrapped in faded jeans, not tightly but enticingly, and Jonah swallowed a gush of saliva because drooling wouldn’t be polite in this circumstance. Besides, he’d always been a sucker for thick legs, and Bill had thighs for days.

C’mon (Jonah gave himself a mental head slap), the man was a freaking country singer; you can’t get more straight than that. Bill must be crushing pussy all over the South.

An alarm beeped, opening a car. Bill stood by a fire red Wrangler— ‘09 by the look of it.

“Sweet ride.” Jonah whistled. “My folks gave me a ‘89 Sidekick for my eighteenth birthday. A fifteen-year-old camel, but they knew I loved jeeps.”

“So, what are you, twenty-five?” Billy asked, arching an eyebrow.

The man was quick.

“Yeah. Arrived there last February.” Jonah nodded and winked. He saw Bill’s Adam’s apple bob strangely, like Bill had just swallowed a lot of thick saliva. Perhaps the egg rolls weren’t agreeing with him.

Bill opened the door and jumped into the driver’s seat. “Cool. What happened to the Sidekick?”

Jonah moved to the passenger’s door as he answered, “A junkyard snacked it two years later.”

Bill started the ignition. “You must have been devastated.” Humor laced his hot drawl.

“I enjoyed it while it lasted. Never had another car after that, though.”

“You’re a public transportation guy, then,” Billy added without looking at him.

“I buy my monthly pass religiously.”

They drove through the interstate silently. “Is Bill short for William or just Bill?” Jonah asked, simply to break the silence.

Bill stole a glance at him, smiling. “It’s Belisario actually. Like my father.”

“Wow. That’s a different name.” That was a piece of information not on the Crossroads of Wanton Wishing website.

“Yeah. My mother never got around to pronounce it correctly, so they left it at Bill.”

“Beli-sari-o Dillard.” Jonah enunciated. “Doesn’t sound country to me. Heh heh.”

“Dillard is my mother’s maiden name. My father’s surname is even more unpronounceable than my name.” Bill laughed heartily.

Jonah loved this man’s contagious mood. “Try me,” he challenged.

“Gorrichategui,” Bill gurgled.

“Nope. Not easy at all.” He sniggered. “I feel you, dog.”

The rest of the way, Bill told him about his childhood in Antigua, Guatemala. How he played soccer in a wide plaza protected by an enormous stone cathedral. One of many old churches in the ancient city.

Bill had come to America when his father died, and his mother returned to her Southern roots because she wasn’t Catholic, and the family of Bill’s father never accepted her completely. His parents had loved each other so much that their different approaches to the Big Book didn’t interfere with their relationship. Respect was always a major aspect of his childhood according to his narration, in total opposition with Jonah’s own repressive growing experience. High school had been hard on Bill, but he had eaten college in a breeze, and he was in the same dorm with all the members of the band. They were doing gigs long before they became famous.

Before Jonah realized it, he’d been giving Bill directions to navigate the maze to reach his house.

“Wait a minute,” Bill said alarmingly. “I don’t see bus stops around here. How you catch the bus?”

“I walk,” he confessed. “It’s around twenty-five minutes. It keeps me in shape. My work is just like twenty away, though.” Jonah knew how to make miracles when the weather was nasty.

“And where do you work?” Billy asked, apparently interested.

“At a gas station in the opposite direction from here. I do the graveyard shift. It gives me time to pursue my career during the day. Here we are. Turn left.”

Jonah couldn’t understand the expression on Bill’s face.

“I would invite you to come in, but I don’t know if you’ve got the time.” Jonah was sure he looked sheepish. “Thelma and Louise would die if I tell ’em, you were here, and I didn’t invite you in.”

Bill looked as if he was about to burst laughing. “Thelma and Louise? You just call them that to mock ’em, right? Are you their Brad Pitt?” The laughing creases around his eyes made Bill even hotter.

“Nope, those are their real names. Louise prefers to be called Louie, though. They’re a lesbian couple in their forties. I think they’re actually beyond fifty, but you can’t say that to their faces.” Jonah shrugged, ready to climb off the jeep.

“Let’s do something. What time you’d be up tomorrow?”

“I usually don’t sleep after my shift. What I do is snore around five hours before going to work.”  Jonah wouldn’t be able to sleep today after been around this hot guy, but he’d try his best.

“Great.” Bill appeared ecstatic. “Give me your phone number, and I’ll give you a call around eight for breakfast, and you can bring some of your songs. I’m really interested.”

Jonah crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head. He grinned to soften his next words. “They’re registered, you know...”

Motherfreaking Bill Dillard had just asked for Jonah’s cell phone number. But, you could never be too cautious in the music industry. He didn’t know if the man was just a greedy opportunist. Jonah hoped that wasn’t the case. If Crossroads of Wanton Wishing used any of his songs, it would be an awesome breakthrough.

Bill seemed unabashed; there was an actual twinkle of pride in his unbelievable blue eyes. They were the color Earth must look from space. “It’s very good that your rights are secured.” he nodded approvingly and extended his hand for a shake. “Nice to meet you, Jonah Stalham. I will see you tomorrow morning.”

They exchanged phone numbers, and Jonah asked, “Would you remember how to get out of here?”

Bill tapped a finger on his temple. “I’ve got it totally GPSed in here. Have a good shift.”

Jonah stood open-mouthed at his entrance as the Wrangler vroomed away.

Bill Dillard!

Shit, shit, shit!

Sunday, November 20, 2016


This story was written in 2014 for the Don't Read in the Closet event.
Here, the first two chapters, so you get an idea of what's going on.
#nearfuture #timetravel #interracial


YEAR 2089

“I don’t know why they had to bring him back.”

“’Cause Singh’s the best.”

“Fuck you, Jagger. I am the best. That idiot forfeited the title when he quitted four years ago.”

“Oh, boohoo. Spare me your whining, Fondant. I still don’t understand why you hate your ex-partner so much.”

“I have my reasons.”

“Well, you gonna have to swallow your reasons ’cause the president specifically asked for him to return.”

“I’m pretty sure there was a lot of money and cock-sucking involved…”

Quinn Fondant knew this to be more than BS since it was precisely due to Veer Singh’s religious beliefs that their whole partnership (and whatever that partnership was becoming) had gone to the frigging toilet.

They were watching Veer talk to Ramsey, their team leader, through a two-way mirror. In any other facility this would have been a place for questioning suspects, but in Clepsydra Project it was just a way for team members to learn about their co-workers unobtrusively. Team Aegis was a six-member unit even though they were partnered in pairs. Unluckily for Quinn, his partner, Len Faludi, had died in a car accident the previous month, leaving the team incomplete.

“We all know you’re a perv and resolve everything with sex, but don’t put your methods on other people,” Jagger huffed, annoyed. He inserted a finger into the collar of his ill-fitting shirt and pulled as if the thing was strangling him.

Quinn’s demeanor was all a facade. It was his way of keeping his team at bay regarding his private life. If they thought he was a pervert they wouldn’t try to fraternize with him and thus leave him alone to nurse his aggravated heart. Being part gypsy helped a lot since, in Aurora, many of his quote unquote cousins had amassed great fortunes catering to the darkest pleasures of their fellow citizens. Although, he was the odd man out since his mother’s people looked at his fair hair (a gift from his Frenchy father) askance.

“You got that one right.”

“Huh?” Jagger looked at him perplexedly for a second (a half movement away from scratching his head) and hissed, “Fucking queen of non sequitur.”

For him it was a joke that every time his teammates wanted to make him feel special they used queen instead of Quinn. “At least I am not a size queen, like you, hotshot.”

“There’s nothing wrong with loving big boobs.” Jagger was a big guy, six-foot-two and brawny; known for his lack of fashion sense, his persistence in keeping those few sparse hairs on his head, and his love of petite women with giant chi chis.

A total wiener but good at his job.

Quinn chuckled, making a gesture like squashing massive breasts. “Sure, especially when you put them together and they look like a hunk’s ass.”

Jagger rolled his eyes. “We need to pay attention to their conversation.”

Inside the not-interrogation room, Veer laughed at something Ramsey said. Blinding white teeth and a complexion so fair (what was that they called it in India, wheatish?) that he didn’t exactly look Hindu. His dark hair was still thick and frigging wonderful, although a bit shorter than the last time they had seen each other. And that little, almost pencil thin mustache paired with the hair neatly trimmed on his chin was pissing Quinn off, triggering all kinds of things he shouldn’t be thinking of.

“For shits and giggles? It’s not like we don’t know him already,” Quinn growled at Jagger. The big man had joined the team a year before Veer abandoned them.

Before Jagger could come up with a suitable response, Veer and Ramsey stood up and shook hands.

“Thank God they’ve finished. Five more minutes around you, and I’d have punched you in the face,” Jagger murmured under his breath.

“And the crowd roars. Ahhhhh, ’cause you don’t have Hollander and Russo to cower behind… ahhhhh.” Quinn had his hands around his mouth, making the far away noises of an agitated mob at a baseball game.

He was the one with a punch (or three) reserved for Veer Singh.



Same long, blond hair, same lean, muscular body, same mesmerizing, gypsy eyes. Quinn Fondant hadn’t changed much since the last time Veer had laid eyes on him. The permanent scowl on his face was new, though.

Four long years.

“Well, boys, you know Veer Singh, so introductions are unnecessary,” Ramsey commented in his crisp tone. He looked at his watch. “Russo and Hollander are about to return. Let’s go to the time chamber.”

Veer shook Jagger’s hand. The tallest of their team gave him a warm smile.

“Can I talk to you for a sec, Ramsey?” Quinn asked, giving his back to Veer as Veer moved to shake his hand.

“We’re talking.” Ramsey arched an eyebrow but didn’t stop walking. Building C wasn’t that close.

“It’d be in the best interest of Team Aegis if you partner Mr. Singh with one of the other guys.”

“And why would I do that? You’re the one without your other half.”

The growl that came out of Quinn was one Veer knew well.

“Yeah, that answers my question.” Ramsey didn’t even look at Quinn. “I’m not going to disrupt the delicate balance of each pair just because you feel whiney today, Fondant. Besides you were partners with Singh before, you can pick it up where you left it.”

“Let’s be professionals.” Veer offered his hand again as they entered the elevator. This time Quinn could not avoid it without being blatantly rude.

The murderous look Quinn gave Veer as they shook hands would have made any other man shake. The only thing it did to Veer was make his resolution to go through this ordeal firmer.

I can do this. I know I can do it.

The creepy background music felt like the soundtrack of Veer’s partnership with Quinn. One part Carmina Burana, two parts Phantom of the Opera, two pinches of A Nightmare on Elm Street and a hot lot of Gladiators Gone Wild.

Metal doors slid open with a soft whoosh, and Quinn hurried as far as he could from Veer without separating from the group. Veer sighed inwardly. They walked through the crowded lobby, people moving fast in all directions, an organized chaos— completely different from the one inside Veer. Still in silence, they crossed the tall glass entrance into a sunny morning. It should have been a starless night full of gray storm clouds for the way they mutely moved toward the building where the most treasured jewels of the government changed the course of history.

All seven buildings (from A to G) looked like the headquarters of any corporate business, but unlike most reflective glass towers, these were not just heavily armoured but could withstand an actual nuclear explosion once their doors were closed. They were in the middle of the city, and this was not a military complex, but the powerful weapons and shields protecting those jewels were so subtle regular citizens had no clue of what was happening in it.

Fingerprints and retina scanners acknowledged their identities, and they boarded another elevator inside Building C. The three time machines were on the seventeenth floor. One minute into the four-minute ascension, Jagger asked, “So Singh, what have you been up to?”

“Worked with Mossad as a consultant for two years, then went back to Punjab to help my grandfather manage some business.”

“Your grandfather the Maharaja!?” There was a bit of fangirl tone in Jagger’s question.

“Yep,” Veer said.

Quinn snorted.

The doors opened with a ding.

“You’ll know all about Singh’s princely adventures as soon as we finish our meeting,” Ramsey offered casually as they were fingerprint and retina checked once more outside the middle time chamber, Octo. The other two, Septem and Novem had their exterior red lights on.

Quinn snorted again.

Guards in Kevlar body suits nodded at them somberly.


“Do you have a problem, Fondant?” Veer poured all the things tormenting him into his aggressive tone.

“No. Do you?”

They were nose to nose, eyes narrowed, fists closed, and chests puffed.

“Hey, you two, stop it.” Ramsey pushed them apart. “I have no doubt that Fondant might have a boner for you, Singh, but I know your religion forbids extramarital sex. So unless you two gonna hitch it, fucking cut it out. I don’t have time for BS.” He pushed a thick finger into Quinn’s forehead. “Behave. The rumors that Faludi’s death wasn’t an accident but a suicide will not help you if Singh issues a complaint. Capish?”

“Yes, sir.”

The people inside the chamber, which was a vast circular space covered in computers and monitors and all kinds of giant gadgets, had been looking at them as if they were ready to place bets. As soon as Quinn and Veer separated, there was some sort of collective telepathic “Boooh” within the chamber.

An alarm went off, and, thirty seconds later, the time capsule’s titanium door slid upward, expelling hisses and fumes. Russo, naked, covered in sweat, with his reddish hair plastered to his forehead, stood up from his squatted position and staggered out; the door closed behind him with a bang. An assistant put a robe over him and gave him a bottle full of rehydrating liquid. He was somewhat thinner than how Veer remembered him but looked fine.

Two minutes later, Hollander was puking all over the entrance of the time capsule as he crawled out. Veer was surprised by the two massive red dragon tattoos covering Hollander’s arms. Those were new.

“I told you not to eat that effing lamb!” Russo yelled from where he sat like a prize fighter between rounds, and the assistant massaging his shoulders reinforced that image.

“Oh, shut up.” Hollander cleaned the dribble on his mouth with the back of his hand as another assistant helped him to walk toward Russo.

Team Aegis was back together.


Tuesday, November 15, 2016


I wrote this short story in 2013. It might get an expansion during the year of the threesomes.


Liam Jekyll heard the ringtone of his text messages. He grunted, running the towel through his face. Malcolm Hyde had been sending silly messages since Liam arrived at the suite— namely, the last two hours.

The good thing was Malcolm wasn’t driving; his chauffeur was doing the deed. The bad thing was Malcolm had too much time on his hands, and (when bored) he could be an extremely annoying pain in the ass. If Liam didn’t love him so freaking much, Malcolm would become a very beautiful, very strangled corpse.

Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” kept the phone vibrating while Liam decided he needed a haircut. Yeah, Malcolm loved to pull his hair when they made love, but it was an unnecessary commitment in a more than wonderfully committed relationship. As much as Malcolm tried to convince Liam how Hollywood stud he looked with this mat of hair, Liam didn’t have the ten assistants to take care of it. Someone told him once, the younger the longer, but when you reach 40 you need to pay attention to things other than what kind of hair conditioner you should use to keep the locks bouncy.

Liam finally shut Gaga up, bracing himself for another chemistry joke; the screen winked at him.

The Official Unabashed Scientific Dictionary defines cation as a positively charged kitten.

Seriously? Liam debated what would be worse, to ask James, their chauffeur , to run as many red lights as possible to bring Malcolm’s ass quickly or turn the phone off. Instead, he decided to counterattack, his fingers flying over the tiny keyboard.

What’s the dif between a shark and a lawyer?

Liam hit send and laughed inwardly, Malcolm hated lawyer jokes. Primordially, because Malcolm Hyde was the equivalent of the sharkiest great white (in the judicial ecosystem) prowling the human waters.

What Liam wasn’t expecting was an immediate call from his partner of ten years.

“I love you,” Liam chuckled as he answered before Malcolm could say a word.

“That’s not gonna save you,” Malcolm growled, but Liam recognized the sweet hint of amusement in his lover’s tone.

“I’m naked,” Liam teased.

“Fuck,” Malcolm hissed, somewhat out of words, which was very unusual. He recuperated fast anyway. “Well, suit up. I’m bringing you something, and you need to accept it while we have dinner.”

“But I’m so comfy,” Liam whispered in a husky tone. “What about room service?”

“I’m bringing a weapon, and if you accept it, I’m gonna do so many atrocities to you that you gonna wish your fortieth birthday was every other day to keep receiving this kind of present.”

“Whoa, now I’m intrigued.” Liam whistled. “How long before you’re here?”

“The reservation is for nine o’clock sharp. I’ll be there in time,” Malcolm said. It seemed all slights about sharks and their land siblings had been forgotten. “We’re gonna have so much fun, baby.”

“All right. See you there then.” But it was important to pitch another pun— after how many?
Yeah. A dozen silly chemistry jokes.

“I just hope Homeland Security has not bugged this line. You know, weapon and atrocities during the same conversation might trigger some red flags.”

“I don’t think they have all chemistry professors’ mobiles under observation,” Malcolm hissed but chuckled at the end. “Love you, doll.” The little person dancing on the screen disappeared as the call disconnected.

Liam stood up from the bed he hadn’t realized he sat on. Towel around his waist, he opened the curtains of the suite and looked outside; it was dark already. The good thing about working on a campus less than an hour from the waterfalls of the Big Sioux River was the access to all kinds of outdoor activities while keeping housing in a little town environment. Aside from that, his campus offered a unique combination of his two passions, Chemistry and Physics, and with the kind of investigation they were currently doing, a tampered line wasn’t that much of a farfetched idea.

Spring Break had welcomed Liam’s birthday, and now Malcolm was planning something explosive. What a sec, did Malcolm say if he accepted the present? What could he possibly offer that Liam would not accept and above all in public?

A weekend forecast of sunny days in the high sixties promised a nice outdoor time. Perhaps, they would finally visit Mount Rushmore, but if everything went as Malcolm had foreseen (in his twisted imagination) the most probable outcome of this night was a convalescent, bedridden two-day blackout. But Liam wasn’t complaining.


“Hello. There’s a reservation for Hyde at nine.” Liam smiled at the beautiful girl handling the guests of the exclusive restaurant.

“Of course. The other two gentlemen wait for you at the bar. Someone will be there as soon as your table is ready.” She smiled back, her blinding teeth distracting him for a second.

It dawned on him she had said “the other two.” This was supposed to be an intimate dinner to start his birthday weekend. What was Malcolm plotting?

Liam spotted his lover by the bar, facing the entrance and most probably wanting to know when Liam arrived to not be surprised. Lawyers. A medium height man spoke with Malcolm animatedly, but Liam could only behold part of his profile. And for some reason, it seemed uncannily familiar.

“Hey, birthday boy,” Malcolm effusively greeted him after almost a month of not seeing each other. That was the bad thing about living in separated cities. Malcolm moved his attention back to the young man who was their third wheel for the night. “Let me introduce you to…”

“John V. Gabriel,” Liam pronounced, unnervingly shocked, staring at the handsome young man.

“Professor Jekyll!” The brown-eyed hunk uttered, offering a hesitant hand.

“It’s doctor, actually,” Malcolm hissed, sounding miffed. “Do you two know each other?”

“Darling, you know how pompous the doctor thing sounds.” Liam smiled, shaking John’s long-fingered hand. “This young man is only my best student.” He winked, and his star pupil changed colors.

“Well, that’s an interesting twist. He came highly recommended and not precisely by his intellect.” Malcolm stood there looking from one to the other like in a tennis match.

“How so?” Liam let go of John’s hand, his eyes narrowed, sizing both men.

“I’m an escort, professor,” John confirmed unabashedly. “I was a stripper for a while, but this is more profitable and less handsy.” He chortled, shrugging.

“Why?” Liam couldn’t grasp why his best student had resorted to the oldest profession when with his grades he could have major grants.

“I don’t want to spend the rest of my life enslaved to student loans.”

“Smart boy,” Malcolm cheered. “This is your second hit and I decided that I like you very much, even if you end up being a lousy lay.”

John laughed darkly, defiantly. “I’m anything but a lousy lay, Mr. Hyde. My credentials herald me, don’t they?”

The tension between these two was certainly sexy, but curiosity was Liam’s worst enemy. “And what was the first hit?”

John arched an eyebrow, but Malcolm produced the answer, “I swabbed Pretty Boy here, in the limo, with an HIV kit, since we don’t use condoms,” he pointed with his thumb mockingly, “and he demanded that we both went through the same procedure.”

“Seems only fair,” John commented casually, business-like actually. “Since I don’t bareback with my clients or anyone for the matter, but your partner has all these transcendental expectations for the evening that apart from the substantial increase of my compensation, well, I truly want to participate.” He finished with his big brown eyes sparkling, frankly devouring Liam.

Somewhere in the back of Liam’s mind, the whole experience still rang wrong; this was one of his students after all. “But I’m your teacher. It calls for caution.” Then Liam noticed John had a bottle of water in front of him instead of a drink.
Smart boy indeed.

Malcolm interjected, “This is a completely legal transaction. We’re legally engaging his services and as you just said, he’s one of your best students, thus it could not be construed as some kind of bribe for better grades. It’s not that he’s soliciting either, he’s a legally employed companion.”

Liam rolled his eyes; he knew Malcolm was getting a hard-on right there, just using the word legal so many times. He caved in, “All right, it’s a threesome then. There, our table is ready.” He announced as a sultry middle-aged woman called their party.

“Yes,” Malcolm hissed, pulling his forearm down as if he just closed a billion dollar deal. “We have him for 24 hours so we can go dancing after we eat. T-bar is gonna be superb tonight.”

This was going to be their first threesome in many moons. Liam was still a little hesitant inside. However, John apart from being an excellent student was a stunning piece of youth. Liam couldn’t say he had not eyed the strawberry blond before, and now he understood why, seeing both men side-by-side, John was a younger, beardless version of Malcolm.

Seeing Malcolm’s excitement just enhanced the whole lust formula. Liam joked, “Pray tell, my love, how many energy drinks you drank on your way here?”

Malcolm just smiled, meticulously undressing John mentally. Like a kid who has just ripped the guts of a piƱata and it’s going to keep all the candy for himself.

John was the one to give the answer, shaking his head and smiling with even, perfect white teeth. He showed four fingers.


After an excellent dinner, they had an even better time dancing at T-bar. They had joked about the stupidly insane coincidence, not just that Liam was Jekyll and Malcolm was Hyde, but that their third party for the night name was John Gabriel.

John wickedly said that at least he had them both in front of him at the same time to be sure nobody was transforming into something else. Of course, he’d said this while sucking Liam and Malcolm’s cocks within the dark confines of their limo on their way back to the hotel, both solid pieces of meat secured in his young, playful hands.

Now Liam sat comfortably on a short, ornate settee, stroking his raging cock and enjoying the show unfolding on the immense bed of the suite.

Malcolm and John were on their knees and kissed, devouring and manhandling each other with more fury than a flaming cephalopod.

Both men together were a thing of beauty, the supreme visual aphrodisiac.

Liam had tasted both sets of lips thoroughly while at the club, when in many occasions a three-way kiss became more than an order— a suffocating need. He was away from them at the moment, just to brand his memory with their entwined, sinewy forms.

John broke their demanding kissing and said something (Liam couldn’t grasp) in Malcolm’s ear, chuckling. Malcolm chuckled in return and slid his hands down the broad expanse of John’s back, ending up on round, muscled cheeks and spreading them with perverse slowness. John’s mouthwatering asterisk stretched teasingly, thanks to the ministrations of his blond lover. Deep sounds escaped from their escort in sync with a droplet of precum emerging from Liam’s slit.

A finger found its way into Malcolm’s mouth, and (eagerly lubricated) John used the finger to probe himself, using Malcolm’s mouth again, but this time to muffle his appreciative moans.

It was time for Liam to join them. In less than the four seconds Liam took to reach the bed, three of John’s digits already worked like a well-oiled piston to prepare the sweet hole for Liam’s assault.

Of all the wrong things you could have tattooed on your left ass cheek, John had the worst. Tweety Bird shushed Liam with a finger over his little orange beak, while winking as if to keep a secret the naughty things about to happen to those delicious, creamy buns.

Those big paws of Malcolm moved John’s meaty cheeks farther apart, and when John vacated the sweet orifice to support his bent body onto Malcolm’s shoulders and greedy mouth, the gaping hole was not just an invitation but also a whispered plea for invasion. And Liam licked the pouting entrance, yanking an encouraging grunt from John.

“Make him fuck me,” John begged into Malcolm’s ear, his lovely tenor an octave huskier, clinging for dear life onto the square shoulders.

“Baby, be a good birthday boy and take him.” A mischievous tone colored Malcolm’s words.

Liam’s tongue glided over the soon-to-be-conquered entrance. John pushed back, wanting more, and pulled Liam by the back of his head farther in, trying desperately to impale himself on Liam’s face and repeating like a mantra, “Oh, fuck. Oh, proff.”

“Slow down, sweetie. I need to breathe. I’ll get there,” Liam chuckled, “I like to savor my morsels.” And he went to slurp more on the needy, pulsating asterisk.

Presenting his leaking head to the tight offering, Liam teasingly rubbed it, enjoying how goose bumps covered the porcelain cheeks. He spanked it playfully, the pink echo of his palm brightened until it became a scarlet print. He bent to kiss his mark, and Tweety seemed to give him applauses for his kindness.

“Malcolm, if he doesn’t fuck me this second, I’m going to rape him,” John hissed in a tone that was at once plea, chuckle, and threat.

His lover of ten years gave Liam a nod. A sweet smile adorned his face, making his honey-colored eyes twinkle with mischief. It was time to be inside his birthday present. Liam inched his way into the sweet channel, and he felt the tremor of John’s body thanks to his grip on the narrow hips.

John was engulfed in the demanding kiss and the relentless pounding, and their young escort appeared to be in ecstasy undulating to and fro between the two massive walls. Now and then John turned his head to be able to kiss Liam, while Malcolm ravished dark nipples taking advantage of the quick recess in their endless tongue-fencing match.

Liam’s own nipples were hard against John’s back, as he gave to his B-day gift shallow stabs, and Malcolm possessively kneaded Liam’s ass cheeks almost crushing the young man between them in his enthusiasm.
Sweat started to cover Liam, adding another layer of slickness to their battle when Malcolm whispered into Liam’s ear, “It’s my turn.”

“Yes,” John hissed, seemingly eager for Malcolm’s time inside him. What he didn’t know was that the big white shark was a supreme bottom. John’s surprise became evident when he saw Malcolm rest on his back and spread his legs to take Liam. “I thought...”

“Put your cock in his mouth, John,” Liam ordered softly, nodding toward Malcolm’s smug face.

The beautiful cock, long and thick, disappeared from sight in a nicely calculated gulp. It’s been years since the last time they’d had a threesome, but Liam knew how turned on Malcolm must be at the moment. It was usual for Liam to work a dildo up Malcolm while devoured Liam’s cock eagerly.

Their love was beyond questioning. Together through seriously rough times, Liam’s faith in his lover (his husband in his heart) was unshakable. Although, there was something unfathomably perfect in the way John Gabriel fitted between their bodies. As if adding this new third element would make even more resistant the most inspired alloy.

Liam had noticed it in the way John melted in their touch, in the way Liam's hands fitted on both the others’ waists in unison, as if they had been meant to be there since the beginning of time. In the way their mouths had matched flawlessly in their three-way kissing. How could he deny their solid two was rapidly becoming a gorgeous three?

In synchrony, Liam and John thrust into Malcolm’s welcoming extremes. John also stroked Malcolm’s raging cock, furtively licking his palm and fingers and rolling his eyes as he enjoyed that spicy flavor Liam knew so well.

Malcolm oozed like the proverbial broken faucet, and John started to use the tasty fluids to lubricate his own needing hole. With one look, Liam understood what John was planning and chuckled, not skipping a beat of the pounding.

There was a slight disturbance in the force as John took his cock out of Malcolm’s mouth and shifted his body to straddle him. The look on Malcolm’s face was one of puzzlement, shock, and sudden interest, all haphazardly thrown in a merry mix.

Yeah, their handsome escort was the final piece to elevate their flawless composition.

Liam angled Malcolm’s legs to allow John an easier self-impalement, which he did with a huffed grunt. Liam locked eyes with Malcolm, and the smile and the bliss and the gratefulness in those honeyed-eyes undid him. Liam interlaced the fingers of his left hand with Malcolm, and he saw Malcolm do the same with John.

And so it began, as the wheels of an unrestrained train on a blind march to a powerful orgasm, moans and grunts the ancient whistle, the steam condensing into sweat the proof of their determination to arrive at that delightful destination.

The explosion came with Liam thrusting into both, his cock inside Malcolm and his middle finger along with Malcolm’s cock inside John. His finger witnessed the flood inside their escort and the excruciating clenching of John’s completion. If he wasn’t in paradise, he didn’t know where he was.

When their breathing gracefully decided to return, and they were able to untangle their sweaty bodies, John padded to the bathroom, bringing wet towels. He devotedly cleaned them, and they returned the ministrations giving butterfly pecks on each cleaned area. John squirmed, delighted, and (more than once) moaned unabashedly.

Later on, Liam and Malcolm rested on their backs closely together. John had somehow wormed his way, stomach down, between them, his face resting on his clasped hands and looking at both men with undisguised adoration.

Malcolm caressing John’s shoulder spoke first after a prolonged but pleasant silence. “Liam said ‘John V. Gabriel’ at the restaurant. What’s the V for?”

“Valentino,” John uttered, shifting to kiss Malcolm’s nipple. “Thank you.”

“And why would that be?” Malcolm had his brow furrowed, meaning he was somewhat confused. Perhaps he was going to comment something about the name Valentino but the “Thank you” had stopped him.

“I always though Professor Jekyll was dreamy,” John chuckled, “and imagined all these wild scenarios, but you two together was absolutely insane. I should be the one paying you two.”

“We don’t do refunds,” Malcolm looked at Liam, and Liam nodded silently in return. They didn’t need words to understand each other. “But if you feel obliged, we’ll be happy to have you around— consistently.”

“Really?” John upended his torso, moving his head like a startled puppy to look from Malcolm to Liam but with obvious enthusiasm.

“It’d be even better if we’re your only clients,” Liam stressed, nodding solemnly.

“We’ll figure out a way to finish your contract with the escort firm,” Malcolm murmured, the shark swimming predatorily. “So you can be exclusively ours.”

“You mean that?” John was shaking, apparently out of pure delight.

“Yeah, but not as a toy but an equal. You cool with that?” Liam chuckled; he had been around his students for too long indeed.

“Of course!” John beamed. “If I didn’t believe in Chemistry, I’d say this was sweet Alchemy.”

Liam laughed openly this time. “We’re scientists, baby. This is pure, unadulterated and Splenda-based Chemistry.

“The perfect cation,” Malcolm chuckled.

Liam rolled his eyes (remembering one of the silly texts from that afternoon) and pulled both men closer for an explosive three-way kiss.

Best. Birthday. Ever.