See the guy to the left? He looks exactly like the character Riley Davenport in my short story titled Dream Boy. The story appears in my four-story anthology, Flawed Boys, available in Kindle format or in print version.
As mentioned in an earlier post, I plan to post excerpts from some of my published work, so you can get a taste of my fiction without having to pay for it, and this week I will post excerpts from Dream Boy. There are ten excerpts in all; they comprise the entire story. Dream Boy deals with some serious issues; it’s not a light read, and please keep that in mind.
Caveat: Dream Boy contains explicit content involving sexual activity between adult gay males. If this sort of thing offends you then you shouldn’t read excerpts from Dream Boy.
Dream Boy, Copyright Martin Delacroix 2013
I’ve lusted for certain guys—”Dream Boys” I call them—ever since I hit puberty. It seems there has always been one in my life: a classmate at school, an office gopher at work, a youth at the gym, or a pretty boy at the beach I frequent.
For the longest time I admired a young man with rust-colored hair growing to his shoulders. His name was Samuel, according to his plastic name badge. He bussed
tables at a cafeteria where I ate lunch on weekdays. He’d wander through the dining room, loading his plastic tub with dirty glasses, silverware, and dishes, and I would study his melon-shaped buttocks. Then, afterward, I’d visit the men’s room at my office building. I’d masturbate to visions of Samuel. In my imaginary world, Samuel’s cock would spew semen while I plowed his lusty hole, both of us sweating like farm animals.
A year back, my Dream Boy du jour was a guy in his early twenties named Josh, a hunk who mowed my neighbor Bob Hafner’s lawn on Saturday afternoons. Perpetually shirtless, Josh sweated as he labored. Sunlight would reflect off his smooth, glistening chest and shoulders.I’d stand at a window, staring at his rippled belly and thinking, Oh, Josh. How I’d love to . . . .
I know: I should act my age and forget the Dream Boys, but I can’t help myself. The world produces an endless supply of handsome young men who, for a brief time, are close to physical perfection. Oblivious to their own beauty, they don’t realize something: soon their waists will thicken, their hair will thin, and their cheekbones will lose their prominence. Their abdominal muscles will disappear from view, and then they’ll become . . . ordinary.
Over the years I’ve had my share of boyfriends—I even lived with one for a time—and I’ve enjoyed many one-time encounters. Some guys were attractive and others were . . . so-so. I look all right, I guess, but I’m no movie star, and as my thirty-third birthday approached, I assumed I would never touch a Dream Boy. I’d never press my lips
to a Dream Boy’s cheek or hold him in my arms. Making love with a Dream Boy, I believed, would remain a personal fantasy, nothing more.
Then I met Riley Davenport.
The first time I saw Riley, he sat atop a lifeguard stand at the YMCA’s indoor pool, perhaps twenty feet from me. Shirtless and barefoot, he wore baggy swim trunks. His
limbs were lanky, he was smooth-chested, and his dark hair contrasted with his fair skin. His torso tapered from broad shoulders to a narrow waist. As I studied him in the
chlorine-scented natatorium, he yawned and stretched his arms, revealing wisps of armpit hair.
Lifeguards at the YMCA had to be eighteen or older, so I knew Riley was legal, but looking at him that day, I was sure he’d barely met the age requirement. Something about his demeanor—hesitance in his movements and reluctance to make eye contact—suggested a dearth of life experience. Plus, he couldn’t seem to decide where to put his big hands and feet.
Sunshine entered through clerestory windows, reflecting in the pool’s surface. The room wasn’t the least bit cold, but I shivered nonetheless, stealing glances at Riley while I fiddled with my goggles, and listening to laughter of children in the kiddy pool. Others might have considered Riley too skinny, but I found him enticing in a way only young men his age could be: I counted all his ribs, his every abdominal muscle.
Slipping into a lap lane, I took one last look at Riley. What I’d give for one night. Then I reminded myself, You’re in your thirties, Reinhardt.
Okay, guys, that’s the first excerpt. I’ll post additional excerpts in the days ahead. I hope you enjoyed the first one, and I hope you’ll have yourself a pleasant Tuesday evening.