SEPTIMA LUNA

Septima Luna was the hottest club in the hottest side of the city. The club by the standards of any metropolis was small, 500 people comfortably any given day and a thousand in a Vienna sausages mini can attempt on holidays. However, that was all Chico, the six-foot-four owner, wanted to be happy. Expansion was unnecessary.

But Chico took very good care of his patrons. Three bars strategically located and ten bartenders per bar to handle the thirsty men looking for more than a Slurpee. Angel was one of the 30 bartenders of the club. Well, actually Angel was a bartender slash go-go boy slash escort.

Bartender during regular days. Go-go boy on holidays and (if taking a tinkle wasn’t an emergency) in his fifteen-minute breaks. Escort if the man was of his like, not because Angel needed the money but because after the debacle that brought him to the big city, he charged to keep his heart at bay and to avoid people thinking he was easy. He didn’t care if people thought he was a whore, the idea of profit would distract them enough to avoid too many questions.

“Why he has to do that?” Jack, a fellow bartender asked to no one in particular as Angel gyrated over the bar, while patrons cheered his progressions.

“Don’t be a sourpuss, girl. He likes the attention, besides that brings more customers and tips to our side of the club. Be grateful.”

Angel squatted a little for a patron to plant a tip in his short-shorts and to see who had vouched for him. Of course, it was Hugo.

Hugo rescued him from the metaphorical ditch where he was, after so many days in the big city without knowing anyone or a place to go. Angel had been assaulted, and with a black eye and torn clothes, people were scooting around him like he had the plague.

As tall and dark that Hugo was, Angel would have gladly paid with his body, since he didn’t have anything else to offer, after the second night he spent in Hugo’s flat. It was a spacious accommodation in a remodeled warehouse, and Hugo had opened it to Angel with open arms and a fridge full of delicious food.

Hugo just uttered several tsk and shook his head when he found Angel spread in his bed, saying, “I don’t have something else to repay your kindness.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’m flattered, though.” Hugo smiled, eyeing Angel in the way any normal red-blooded man would look at a hot guy spread on his bed, then turn to leave the room, saying like an afterthought over his shoulder. “I spoke with my boss, and you can start at the club tomorrow night, if you feel better.”

Two years later, they were still roommates, and Angel went to school during the day and shimmed his ass at the club during the nights. They had seen each other naked in the way brothers would see each other in an embarrassing moment, and nothing had happened between them.

Angel winked at Hugo, mouthing a “Thank you” and looking at his watch. The break was over and he jumped behind the bar and donned his red tank top again, after wiping the sweat covering his well-defined muscles with it.

He saw Jack quirk his mouth in a silent “Gross” and with all the mischievousness of the world Angel blow a kiss in Jack’s direction as soon as the man looked his way. A raspberry was the response from the blond bartender. Jack was a cute boy; if he weren’t a bitch Angel would totally hit that. Without charge, just to shut his mouth.

A couple of times, Angel had been tempted to investigate the origin of Jack’s animosity toward him but the right time had never truly come about.

When the time for the second break of the night arrived, his bladder made a number on him and he missed the opportunity to dance over the bar. Sometimes, as he danced between the glassware and beer bottles, Chico encouraged him to bring patrons up to dance with him. Close to his third break --around 3:00 a.m.--, his boss told him. “Pick the craziest looking guy by the bar and pull him up to dance with you, I need some pictures for the website.”

Septima Luna had go-go boys only on holidays, and one night bored to death, Angel climbed the bar and began dancing. The other bartenders were shocked for five seconds and when their bar started to fill up, they urged him to take his tank top off. But no one else followed the initiative; thus Angel was the only one allowed to do it now.

So, by the time Angel was dancing on the bar with the Tim Burton version of an emo-vampire, something that hadn’t happened in a long, long time came about. You know that story about Moses parting the Red Sea? Well, in the exact moment Angel gyrated his hips toward the entrance of the club and the fortunate crazy-of-the-night grinded behind him, he saw it.

The bodies contorting on the dance floor opened a gap that expanded by the silent command of the man moving the mass of dancers with the sheer force of his striking aura. The man looked at Angel, above the writhing bodies, and smiled.

His consciousness faltered and his boots slipped on the wet bar, the emo-vampire behind him caught him by the arms. “You okay?”

“Yeah, stepped on water, that’s all, thank you.” Angel gave the guy a sexy smirk. The guy winked an eye covered in black eye-shadow.

Angel zoomed in on the tall man again.

I mean, what the fuck? The man is wearing a fedora for crying out loud.

The waters kept receding as the man approached his bar, his break was about to finish and for some insane reason that he couldn’t begin to analyze in that second, he didn’t want to go back to serve drinks. He wanted to jump into the man’s arms.

I’ve heard of insta-lust before, but this is ridiculous.

Angel gave a resounding peck to this dance partner, helping the guy off the bar and wondering if the fangs in the wicked smile were real. As he composed himself and put back his tank top, one of the other bartenders approached the man with the silliest smile and adoring eyes Angel had never seen before.

Bitch, I saw him first.

Whoa, what was that?

To his utter enjoyment, the man politely refused (shaking his head slowly) and pointed in Angel’s direction, mouthing “I want him.”

If you, for some bizarre reason, had the opportunity to watch a puppy drown, you would understand the expression of the bartender as he walked toward Angel and smacked him on the ass and growled, “Lucky whore.”

Instead of do a couple of somersaults, Angel steeled his body. This wasn’t right, he was oblivious to attraction and worked the needs of his body through paying customers to keep his feelings in the proverbial black box. A man paying wasn’t likely to take him seriously enough to think of something else than a quick fuck.

No, Angel was going to fight the tingling and all the fuzzy bullshit warring inside him.

He planted himself in front of the man and nodded as much business-like as his betraying body allowed him in that moment. Dammit, he was getting a fucking hard-on right there. Not easy to hide that in short-shorts.

“Are you an angel?”

Oh shit, that sounded too much like some galactic soap opera he knew of, and the quote on quote angel ended really fucked up.

“My name is Angel, but I’m the farthest thing from a cherub.”

“Cool, my name is Malachi. I’m an astronomer.”

The man’s voice was a caress and it surprised him how easily he heard the man with the booming music as background, “A teacher?”

That explained the fedora.

“No, a scientist,” the man said with a stunning smile.

“Huh. Ok. What can I get you?”

“What’s your favorite drink?’

Yeah, Angel knew that drill too.

“I don’t drink.”

The man, Malachi (Angel didn’t know why he felt compelled to use the man’s name) arched an eyebrow, “Problems with it in the past?”

“Nope, I just have better things to do with my liver. You like it stiff?”

Wrong choice of words.

“Is that an invitation?”

“A. Stiff. Drink,” Angel shook his head embarrassed without reason.

“Surprise me.” Malachi offered, using that disarming smile again.

Angel made the strongest cocktail of the house, The Sodomized Zombie, to get rid of the guy and save himself before he did something stupid. “Here we go.”

Malachi, the astronomer (in a fucking fedora), drank the toxic concoction as if it were tap water. He licked his lips as he finished.

The motion stirred something Angel wasn’t aware he had inside, lurking, waiting. Now, the fuzzy feelings were butterflies or praying mantis or swarming African bees. Who the Heck knew?

“Another,” Malachi beamed.

“You sure, you want another? That’s a very strong one.”

Malachi made a puzzled face, “Really? It didn’t seem strong to me.”

If Malachi hadn’t mentioned he was an astronomer, Angel would have thought he was an archeologist instead and could totally see him drinking scorching firewater with some lost tribe; not many people could handle The Sodomized Zombie like that and ask for another right away.

He made another and presented it to Malachi, but before he could draw his hand away from the glass, the astronomer featherly caressed his fingers, shocking Angel. It wasn’t the intimate gesture but all the reactions of his body to that slight touch. Even his nipples stood in alert after that.

“Tonight is the seventh moon.” Malachi commented after finishing the cocktail in two gulps.

“What’s that, some kind of newspaper horoscope mumbo-jumbo?”

“Nah, it’s just a good day to fall in love.”

“I thought you said astronomer not astrologer.”

“I’m a scientist, but I believe in love,” Malachi winked.

It undid Angel, but he recuperated quickly, “Really? Well, I charge, darling.”

“Fine with me, how much? Wait a second, what time do you finish here?”

“My shift ends at five, but I help with the cleaning afterwards.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“I haven’t given you my price.”

“I’m sure you won’t find the need to charge me.”

“I charge upfront, darling.”

“Well, by the end of our date, you will give me the money back.”

“See the sign behind me? No. Refunds.”

“You’re funny; we’re going to have a great time.”

Angel quirked his mouth, “We’ll see.”

Malachi asked for another of the same. After that, he just turned around to watch the people mingling and flirting. Now and then, though, he would check on Angel as he moved about the bar.

Hugo watched Angel with the same face a friend would have when he saw you spending all your money in a slot machine hoping for the jackpot. For whatever the reason, customers kept them at opposite sides of the bar, so Angel didn’t have another option but to mouth, “I’m charging him.” Hugo’s arched eyebrow was Morse code for “Yeah, right.”

Closing time came.  “Go, the hot man is waiting for you.”  Hugo playfully patted Angel on the ass, then chanted in a very out-of-character singsong, “He’s waiting in a limo.”

How the Heck Hugo knew that? The sneaky bastard had been snooping. And that reinforced all the alarms already ringing amok inside Angel. Hugo rarely paid attention to the men around Angel.

The only solution here was to go outside and tell the man to fuck off. Nah, Angel couldn’t do that, Malachi had been a complete gentleman. Besides, he was stupidly easy on the eye. Angel changed to his street clothes and (with all the bugs in his stomach mimicking the Cirque du Soleil) went to confront the mysterious, fedora-wearing astronomer.

There was something about a white Hummer limousine that screamed anything but scientist, and when Angel was about to do a one eighty and run for his life, Malachi lifted the door and stepped out of the square monster, “Please, Angel.”

The tug to his cock was stronger than if Malachi had actually had his fist around it, more like an octopus tugging at cock, legs, arms and neck. Angel was so fucked up, he felt like going to his knees and sob. What was this man doing to him?

“Please, Angel,” Malachi repeated, taking Angel’s hand. “It’s not even about sex, just let me buy you breakfast.”

“It’s too early for breakfast.” He knew he sounded more childish than a kid with a freshly scrapped knee did.

Malachi chuckled softly, “Well, It’s Sunday, you rather go to church?”

Snorting, as his defenses wore thin, Angel murmured, “You aren’t seriously inviting me to church.”

“I’ll take you wherever you wish to go.” Malachi interlaced their fingers, and it felt so right, so perfect.

“Breakfast it’s alright,” Angel drew his hand off Malachi’s.

“Excellent, we can buy it on the way and eat at the beach. What do you think?” Malachi beamed with that disarming smile, making the invaders in Angel’s stomach do somersaults and cartwheels.

“I like that idea very much.” As Angel entered the limo he blurted, “You aren’t tricking me into an orgy, are you?” The space was so large it was ridiculous.

“No it’s just you and me.”

Drive-thru magic was bestowed upon them, and they were on their way to Una Beach. Malachi was simply holding Angel’s hand and humming to himself, and (strangely enough) Angel was content with the unobtrusive atmosphere.

However, Angel wanted to know more about the astronomer, who now sans fedora sported an incredibly appealing shaved head. The perfect shape was turning on all kinds of fantasies in Angel’s head and he needed to talk before he did something stupid. “Where do you do your astronomy thing?”

Yeah, like that question didn’t sound stupid. Astronomy thing? What?

“I work at the observatory of Mount Pumpernickel.” Malachi offered without patronizing him. “Oh, here we are.”

The limousine stopped, and Malachi lifted the door facing the ocean. If they lifted both doors, it would look like the simple bird of a child’s painting.

The sun was already up, but the beach was blessedly deserted. The saline breeze tickled Angel’s nose, making him scrunch it.

Malachi chuckled softly beside him, stealing a peck, even with his hands fully busy. “You’re adorable.”

Well, that was definitively new territory. Angel had been called sexy, hot, smoking and every other frisky endearment in the book but never adorable. The silent fact that it touched him deeply than previous words didn’t go unnoticed. Being all awry as he was, he was only able to come with the sappiest response in the history of first encounters, “I like your shaved head.”

This in turn, brought color to Malachi’s pale, pale cheeks, even his nicely shaped ears turned slightly red. Then Angel realized that a head was a head after all, and maybe Malachi understood it as innuendo. One way or another, all that redness told him that he wasn’t alone in his confusion.

“You know, I’m not really hungry.” Malachi commented leaving most of his breakfast untouched. “But having all the beach for us makes me want to swim, would you like to swim with me?”

Angel wasn’t hungry either and maybe the cold water of the morning ocean would deflate the hard-on and the little monsters having a bacchanal in his stomach. He said “Yeah” with more enthusiasm that the situation deserved but he decided to stop overthinking and let himself go. What was wrong with enjoying a nice moment with a nice man? “Oh, but we don’t have towels.”

“We do,” Malachi moved deeper into the limo and retrieved pristine white towels from a compartment.

Knowing that those towels weren’t meant for swimmers, images of he and Malachi doing whoopee flashed in front of him.

Cold water, pronto.

Malachi undressed swiftly, ending in silk black boxers. The muscles and the roughed contours of the astronomer’s body were mouthwatering and left Angel with a throbbing ache. Once again, everything in the man spoke of anything but a scientist. One with such a built definition couldn’t really spend that many hours researching the stars.

Snapping out of his awe when he felt the taste of salt on his tongue, Angel stripped hastily. Now the flaming pink brief didn’t seem the good idea it was when he exited the club. They weren’t at a nude beach so he had to make do with the skimpy underwear.

As they stepped out of the limo, Angel noticed for the first time their chauffeur, a little old man that in another life must have been a prestidigitator by the way he was manipulating his croissant and cigarette.

Then Angel paid attention to the necklace Malachi wore.

I’ve never seen a Star of David within a circle before, hold on. One, two, three… that’s not a Star of David it's a pentagram.

“Are you a devil worshiper, mister?” Angel tried to joke but sounded solemn instead.

“No,” Malachi rubbed the pendant between two fingers and continued, “Oh, this confuses people sometimes. See, it’s pointing up, just a sign of the goddess. When you find a pentagram pointing down is a calling for dark things.”

“You said the goddess? The longer I stay around you the less I believe you’re a scientist. Science and Religion are supposed to be at odds.”

“And yet there are scientists in the Vatican. Anyway, I’m not Catholic but Pagan, and we don’t have a problem with enlightenment. The God and the Goddess encourage knowledge and wisdom.”

“I don’t know if be scared or fascinated.”

“I encourage you to be fascinated.” Malachi murmured huskily, kissed Angel softly on the cheek and offered his hand. “Come on, the ocean calls.”

They ran together to the welcoming waves like raucous children.

Angel couldn’t wait to discover all the secrets of Malachi.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY

SILVER TONGUE - LEAD HAND

For a writer his or her work is like a child, something coming from labor and sweat and, sometimes, tears. And pain, excruciating pain. One leaves a soul particle in those words because each letter comes from experience or dream but, inherently, from within.

For parents their baby is the most beautiful baby in the universe, lazy eye included. Moreover, it’s their right to believe so, since they see their progeny with the eyes of love.

From time to time, someone will come and say, “That’s not a cute kid.”

My question would be then; are you going to go into fisticuffs with every single person that doesn’t think your little bundle of joy is as beautiful as you perceive it?

There would be brawls left and right every single minute around this big, blue rock, because no matter how much plastic surgery your body could accept, your genes are immutable.

Out of politeness, many times, people will keep their comments for themselves, but, seriously, not every single person has the level of censorship to shut his mouth upon certain less graceful infants.

Enough of Toddlers and Tiaras.

Your written work is not your child, and it ought to be open to criticism and perception.  The scandal of Michel Angelo painting naked bodies on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel is forgotten today, and everybody admires it, but there were campaigns to destroy this masterpiece. Google. It.

Not everybody has to like every think you write. If you are lucky enough to always touch that little neuron that inspires awe, good for you. Persons exist who don’t like Hemingway, for crying out loud. 

Never to mention the bestselling book of all times. Yeah, you know which one.

I’m not going to say that it doesn’t hurt, because it does and big time. However, each individual is entitled to his or her opinion, no matter how crazy-eyed and mouth-drooling that opinion is (according to us, creators of the written stroke of genius), it’s their God-given right.

When we expose that part of us, it’s not going to be embraced and praised on every occasion. Maybe, it is not as shinny as we thought it was. Perhaps, it doesn’t have the big muscles and striking blue eyes, we were seeing when we sent it to the wisdom of the masses. Those enticing curves and luxurious, long hair were not there after all.  Just because your creature is not as sublime as you thought it was, in the eyes of John Doe or Mary J (bleep), does not imply you need to throw a hissy fit. Grow. Up.

It’s known that artists are temperamental, and in every creative circle divas abound, but the ability to beget beauty must come with the grace to accept that it will not touch all with the same finger.

It doesn’t matter how many hours or days or months or years you put into the effort of bringing it to completion, at least one person, somewhere --perhaps in Timbuktu, perhaps in your neighborhood--, is not going to like it.  

And thou shalt drink that drink, making faces and everything, until the last drop.

Welcome thee to Fear Factor.

I hope NBC doesn’t sue me for being a smartass. Kudos TLC.

Nevertheless, you cannot shield a statue, placed at a park, from the elements (and the shitty birds, darling) as much as you cannot shield it from the wonder or scorn of the passersby.   

   

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.

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.

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?

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.

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 their eyes met) 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's 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 speaking 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 at Rigel Six.”

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