Hi friends and readers:
There are certain advantages to living in Florida, despite the wicked heat and humidity we must endure five months out of the year. One of the perks is the abundance of swimming pools, and the young men who inhabit them. Like the boy in the photo at left. Beautiful, isn’t he?
As usual, I’m up early, but I’m feeling a bit grumpy. This morning, I rose at 7 AM, looking forward to my usual 1-1/2 mile walk on the beach. I made it down there, but a lethal-looking line of thunderstorms hung over the Gulf and lightning began to crackle offshore. The breeze picked up and I told myself, “Head for home, Martin.” So, I didn’t get my swim in the Gulf, and I had to cut my walk short. (G-r-r-r …)
It’s okay, I’m otherwise feeling good. Our dinner party last night was fun. The food was delicious, but my boyfriend and I lost our Scrabble game. (Boo-hoo.) I’m ready to do some writing this morning, followed by a visit to the YMCA for a workout and swim. I think tonight we’re staying home and spending the evening by ourselves.
Okay, as promised, I am publishing the first installment of my short story titled Closet Case. The story was published by Cleis Press in a book titled Best Gay Erotica 2011. Cleis holds an annual competition, judged by an experienced author of male/male erotica, and dozens of writers submit stories. Last year the judge was Kevin Killian, a highly-skilled writer. He chose Closet Case for inclusion in the 2011 anthology.
Please understand, Closet Case comes to you with the following caveat:
This story is not for the squeamish, nor for those under eighteen years of age. It contains graphic descriptions of a sexual encounter between two males. It also contains elements of BDSM. If this sort of material offends you, don’t read Closet Case.
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Copyright 2010 by Martin Delacroix
Call me a jerk, but I have a problem with closeted guys, these so-called “bi-curious” men. Deep inside most are gay, I believe, but they’re scared to admit it. So they lead the straight life, looking down on us poor faggots. When the urge strikes they’ll sneak off and slum with the queers, but an hour later they’re back with the wife and the kids, safe and happy.
I fell for such a guy once; his name was Kenneth. He’d tell his wife he was going to a sports bar with his buds, then he’d come to my place and I’d fuck his ass into next week. The more we did it the more I craved him, and one night, while we lay in bed, I begged him to quit his marriage. I cried, even. I said I loved him, that we were meant to be together, but he said no, it wasn’t possible, and after that I never saw him again. The bastard dumped me, leaving me so depressed I nearly jumped off a bridge.
That was a year ago, and up until last week I still wasn’t over it; I continued to suffer.
Then something happened.
Last Saturday afternoon I occupied a stool at the Rocket Club, a gay club in our town. I was speaking with the bartender, Gordon, when this guy strolled in, someone I’d never seen in the place before. He wore a T-shirt, a ball cap and a pair of blue jeans riding low so you could see the waistband of his briefs. He ordered a glass of beer, then he tapped his wedding band against the edge of the bar, keeping time with a song that played on the jukebox.
There were maybe a dozen guys in the Rocket, and this fellow’s gaze moved from face to face till it came to mine and our eyes met. He dipped his chin and I nodded back and once he got his beer he approached, extending his hand.
He said, “Hi, I’m Danny.” His voice was pretty deep and he spoke with an accent. (Alabama?) I told him I was Ian and we shook hands, then he took a stool next to mine, facing me so our knees touched.
He looked twenty-five, maybe, half a head shorter than me, slim with a bit of muscle. His hair was wavy and fawn-colored, and it grew over his ears. He was fair skinned and freckles danced across his nose like confetti, giving him a boyish look. His eyes were the color of Gulf water—between green and blue. His teeth were large, as white as piano keys.
We made small talk.
I told him I was drywall hanger by trade, but I’d been laid off, and right now I worked the counter at a bait and tackle shop. “It doesn’t pay well,” I said, “so I’m looking around.”
He was a house painter, he said. It didn’t pay well either.
I asked about the ring on his finger.
“I’m married. Got a little girl, age three.”
I must’ve looked at him funny ’cause he said, “I’m not gay; I just need a man’s touch now and then.”
I said, “I guess this is one of those times?”
He looked at me and winked, and anger stirred in my belly. Goddamned closet case.
Still, he was attractive.
He asked my age and I told him. His gaze traveled from my eyes to my boots, then back. He said, “For thirty you’re in great shape.”
I’m no pretty boy, but I stay fit. At six-two, I keep my weight around one-ninety. My hair is buzzed and my chin’s stubbled, and I’ve got tattoos on both forearms. Guys who like their men butch are attracted to me.
My sexual tastes?
I’m a total top, and while I wouldn’t call myself a pervert, I like a little kink. I can get rough, too, when I’m in the mood.
I asked Danny how often he strayed and he said, “Every few months, maybe.”
I shifted position on my stool, moving closer to him, my knee rubbing his inner thigh. I looked at him and flickered my eyebrows and this caused his cheeks to color. He glanced into his lap, then he raised his chin and his gaze met mine.
He said, “Do you like me?”
He pointed his chin at the door. “Well?”
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Okay, friends and readers, that’s the first installment of Closet Case. If my characters, Ian and Danny, have piqued your interest, come back here tomorrow. I’ll publish a second installment. In the meantime, enjoy your Monday, wherever you are.