Novella accepted for publication

Hi, friends and readers:

Right now, so much is happening with my writing. I just received notification that Torquere Press will publish my novella, Maui, in November 2009. A novella is longer than a short story, but a lot shorter than a standard novel. Most short stories are between 3,000 and 6,000 words, and most novels are between 45,000 and 100,000 words.  Maui is about 15,000 words, so you might read it in three or four sittings.

Maui’s a story about Ishmael Fanning, a surfer in his late twenties from Florida’s east coast. Ishmael gets dumped by his partner of eight years and he goes through a difficult period emotionally.  He relocates to Maui, one of the Hawaiian Islands, where he quickly finds himself involved with two younger men: Corey, a competition surfer, and Spencer, who works in a skateboard shop. Corey and Spencer are former lovers. Corey tells Ishamel, “There’s no gay scene on Maui. And as far as I know, you, Spencer and I are the only queer surfers on the island.”

Eventually, Ishmael must choose between Corey and Spencer, and it’s not an easy decision for him to make.

I wrote this novella after visiting Maui in March 2008. I took  surfing lessons and explored the island. Maui’s one of the most beautiful places I have ever visited, but what truly makes it special is the people  who live there. They are friendly and welcoming to strangers, and their congenial attitude is infectious. As you can see from the photo to the left, in Hawaii the Pacific Ocean is turquoise in color,  just beautiful, and the lava rock formations are breathtaking. I stayed in the town of Lahaina, in a furnished cottage with a fully-equipped kitchen. (I like cooking my own food.) Each morning I carried my board to a nice surfing spot called “Break Wall” — a five minute stroll.

Lahaina’s where most of my novella takes place. When Maui is released by Torquere, I’ll add a post on this blog to let you know how you can purchase a copy.

“The Drape Man” installment number three

Hi, friends and readers:

I hope you are enjoying The Drape Man so far. Here’s installment number three:

* * *

At first I can’t move, I sit on the floor with my mouth agape, not moving, but he puts down his glass and  he approaches with a hand raised over his head and I don’t want to get hit again, so I say, “Okay-okay . . . all right.” I seize my shirt and tug it over my head and then I am bare-chested and I toss the shirt aside and I think of how carefully I chose it from the collection in my closet, how I wondered if Evita might approve of the color and style I selected.

This guy — the drape man — doesn’t give a shit what clothes I wear; he only wants them off me.

I work on my shoes, loosening laces while the drape man returns to the dressing table and sips from his drink. I try to think of something I might do to change his mind, to deflect him from his mission. I tell him, “Friends are coming over any minute now — two of them.”

He snickers again, he stares into his glass. Then he looks at me with a shit-eating grin on his face. “I’ll bet one’s named Evita …”

My belly muscles jump.

“… and the other is Jacob.”

I swallow and my eyes burn. How does he know all this?

He reads my thoughts. He says, “Don’t you get it? Evita and Jacob don’t exist.”

Now I get it. I lower my chin and weep. My shoulders quake while I remove my shoes and socks. I plead with the drape man, I say, “I’ve never had sex with anybody before; I’m a kid. I am fifteen, not eighteen. Please go; I won’t tell anybody you came here, I won’t say what happened.”

“Of course you won’t,” the drape man says.

He approaches and grabs a handful of my hair, then he drags me to my feet and I howl at the pain racing through my scalp. Again, I smell his body odor and the liquor on his breath. He says, “I need another drink before we do business.” Then he leads me to the kitchen, still clutching my hair in his fist, and he makes me fix him another drink. I tremble like a whipped dog, I’m so scared I drop ice cubes, I have difficulty unscrewing the cap on his flask. Tears cloud my eyes and I can’t focus on anything but fear.

After I make his drink and give it to him he releases my hair and his hand travels south, to the back of my neck. He keeps it there and pulls me to him, pressing his lips to my cheek. We stand together before the sink and he sticks his tongue inside my ear, he rolls it around and it feels like a worm trying to work its way into my brain. Then he withdraws and whispers, “Justin’s scared, isn’t he? Justin’s a pussy . . .”

I lose control when he says that, I sink to my knees upon the kitchen floor and I sob like a three-year-old. I lower my head and grasp the drape man’s ankle with both my hands. I press my nose to his boot toe and beg, “Please don’t . . . please don’t.” Snot pours out of my nostrils and my tears dampen his beat-up shoe leather.

The doorbell rings: Ding-ding.

The drape man straightens his spine, he goes rigid and jerks his face toward the foyer.

The doorbell rings again: Ding-ding.

The drape man clutches my hair, he squeezes. “Don’t move.”

I keep still.

The doorbell rings again: Ding-ding. Ding-ding.

“Who is that?”

I say I don’t know.

He yanks my hair, real hard. “Get up, pussy.”

My knees crackle when I rise. I wipe snot from my upper lip and sniffle. Keeping my gaze upon the vinyl tiles, I tremble. This guy has me under his control, completely. I have lost the right to choose what I’ll do and what I won’t. I think to myself: This must be what rape’s aboutone person exercising unlimited power over another. Then it registers: He may kill me afterward.

The doorbell rings again. Then again.

The drape man still grips my hair. With his free hand he reaches into a pocket and he produces a folding knife, one he opens by pulling on the blade’s edge with his teeth. He holds the weapon — five inches of stainless steel and sharp-looking — before the tip of my nose. I glance back and forth between the blade and the kitchen floor. His liquor breath and body odor stink worse than ever. He whispers, “We’ll both go to the door, Justin. You will send this person away, whoever it is. Understand?

I bob my chin.

He lowers the knife and presses the flat of the blade to my crotch. He says, “I swear to God, if you try any shit I’ll slice off your dick and make you eat it. Is that clear?”

I shiver and bob my chin some more.

He holds my forearm while we walk to the foyer. He stands by the part of the door with hinges. He whispers into my ear, “Open it a crack.” Then he nudges his knife tip against my ribcage, he applies the slightest pressure and I flinch.

Bryce occupies my doorstep. His bicycle lies upon the grass behind him, chrome reflecting moonlight and our porch light. He wears slip-on sneakers and board shorts and a t-shirt with the sleeves hacked off. He says, “What took you so long? I must’ve rung six times.”

I can’t look Bryce in the eye. I say, “I was in the bathroom.”

“I tried calling your cell phone; you didn’t answer.”

I explain how I left it at school.

Bryce jerks his chin toward the driveway. “Whose truck?”

“Some guy measuring for drapes.”

“At nine o’clock?”

I shrug and study my bare feet.

“What happened to your face?”


He points to his own cheek, he says, “There’s a blotch.”

I touch the sore spot on my face. “I fell in the shower.”

When I look at Bryce his forehead is creased and his eyes are narrowed. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? he says. A martial-arts flick starts at nine-thirty.”

He takes a step forward, but I narrow the door opening, I leave a small gap. I say, “I’m not feeling good; I’ll go to bed in just a minute, right after the drape man leaves.”

“So early? It’s Friday night.”

I shrug again, I can’t hold Bryce’s gaze. “You should go,” I say.

He takes a deep breath, puffing his lips and tilting his head to one side. He stands with his hands at his waist, frowning, for maybe five seconds. Then he says, “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.” He walks to his bike and rights it. He climbs onto the seat, then he pedals away in the moonlight.

The drape man whispers, “Is he gone?”

I nod.

“Close the door and lock it.”

I do as I’m told. The drape man closes his knife, he grabs my hair again. He takes me first to the kitchen where he seizes his drink, then to my parents’ bedroom. I tremble anew because I know what’s coming: he will hurt me, not caring.  I am nothing but flesh, raw meat to the drape man. I’m his pussy boy.

I ask permission to use the bathroom. The drape man says okay, but he won’t give me any privacy, he stands in the open doorway, watching me piss and wash my hands. Then he takes me by an arm and leads me to the bed and he tells me to sit. He takes a gulp from his drink, then he lights a cigarette, he stares at me while he blows plumes of smoke. He taps his ash into a china dish, one I bought my mom for Christmas when I was ten. She places her engagement and wedding rings into the dish when she goes to bed at night, it offers a poem:

To one who bears the sweetest name, and adds a luster to the same,

Who shares my joys, who cheers when sad, the greatest friend I ever had.

Long life to her, for there’s no other,

Can take the place of my dear mother.

After he stubs out his cigarette and finishes his drink, the drape man unbuttons his shirt, he takes it off and drops it to the carpet. Then he pulls off his t-shirt. He comes to me where I sit on the bed’s edge and he grabs another handful of my hair from a spot just above my forehead. He yanks until I raise my chin and look at him. Brown fuzz sprinkles his chest and a nipple is pierced with a silver post. A tattoo decorates one pectoral — a depiction of a human heart that looks like it’s built of bricks. A yellow banner floats across the heart, it proclaims, “Can’t break this.”

The drape man lets go of my hair and his hand travels to my chin. He chucks it once or twice till my gaze meets his, then he strokes my lips with his thumb, back and forth. He spreads my mouth and he polishes my front teeth with his thumb tip and I smell his cigarette. His breath whistles through his nose.

Moments later he sits on the mattress, next to me, and his eyes study my face while he combs his fingers through my hair. I can’t look at him long, my gaze keeps dropping to my lap.  Oddly, my trembling has lessened. I suppose I have resigned myself to my fate. My true hope is the drape man won’t kill me after he’s done. If I do exactly as he says, if I fully cooperate, perhaps he won’t stab me to death. Maybe.

He lowers his hand to my chest and he pushes me backward till my upper body lies prone on the mattress. My bare feet remain upon the floor. The drape man’s hand travels over my torso, he makes circles with his tobacco-stained fingertips, beginning with my neck, then moving across my chest and down to my twitching belly, then past my navel, to the waistband of my jeans. He opens the button with a bit of effort, then he lowers my zipper and spreads the flaps,  exposing my boxer shorts. He squeezes my limp dick through my underwear while I grind my toes into the carpet and my limbs stiffen. I gaze at the ceiling.

He lets go of my dick, then he rolls on top of me and his chest pressures mine and his chin lies upon my shoulder. I weigh about one-fifteen and he must weigh one-eighty, at least. His bulk makes it tough for me breathe.

The drape man places one hand behind my head. He lifts it and turns my face toward his and he smooches the tip of my nose, then my forehead. He rubs one side of his face against mine and his stubble scratches my skin, making a noise: gritch-gritch. His breath quickens. With his free hand he seizes my chin and lowers my jaw. He covers my mouth with his and our lips come together and his tongue enters my mouth, meeting my tongue.

He tastes awful: a combination of cigarettes, bourbon and tooth plaque, and I fear I may  puke. He examines every corner of my mouth with his tongue, he runs it across the surfaces of my teeth and gums, he investigates the underside of my tongue and traces the insides of my lips. He takes his time, holding my chin in place. I feel his heart hammer inside his chest. Breath steams from his nose, it warms my upper lip.

The kissing lasts several minutes. It feels like months. I keep my eyes closed and I try to not think about what transpires, of what I’m becoming. Finally, he releases my chin and withdraws his mouth from mine and he raises his head but he keeps his torso on top of me — I am pinned to the mattress. He looks into my eyes with a playful expression on his face, he makes a gentle smile and raises his eyebrows and he tilts his head to one side. He strokes my cheek — the one he slapped — with his thumb. He whispers, “I love you, Justin. I want you to love me, too.”

Then he lowers his mouth to my neck and he sucks tender skin, nibbling with his front teeth, giving me a love-bite, a branding of sorts. He smacks, he works at his task, and I grit my teeth because it hurts, like a crab is pinching me. I close my eyes for a long moment and I listen to the drape man slurp.

Copyright Martin Delacroix 2009

* * *

It’s overcast and cool in Berlin today and I’ll need to wear a light jacket when I go food shopping this afternoon. It’s a good day to stay indoors and write.

On days when I don’t visit the gym, I’ll take a three-mile run. (Yeah, I’m an exercise nut.) There are not any parks in my neighborhood this year, but about five blocks from my building is what Germans call a “kleingaerten”. This is a community of small cottages on individual plots of land. Each plot is maybe the size of a tennis court. People who are apartment dwellers visit their cottages on weekends and holidays, and they grow flowers and vegetables on their plots. They’ll often stay overnight in their cottages. The plots are immaculately kept and quite beautiful. Germans know how to grow flowers, believe me! Anyway, this ia a perfect place for me to run, as there is no vehicular traffic and the pathways are cinder, which makes for nice running.

Last of all, I want to thank all the folks who visited my blog yesterday. It was the highest traffic day I’ve had since I began this blog in December 2008. Please, visit often.

Thoughts on writing fiction …

Today, a friend here in Berlin asked me questions about writing short fiction. Where do I get ideas for my stories? How do I create my characters?

Well, I must be honest, I don’t have an answer for those questions. I get up every morning and spend two or three hours at my laptop, writing new material, and stuff bubbles up from the various corners of my mind. Late afternoons and evenings I’ll work on revisions.

But one thing is certainly true: I can’t write about a character unless I can visualize him/her and until I know his/her name. Strange, eh?

When I am home in Florida, I often travel to the east coast to surf in Brevard County. I’ve done this since I was a teenager. I’m not a good surfer (It’s a young man’s sport, really, very strenuous.) but I enjoy it nonetheless. I subscribe to a surfing magazine, TransWorld Surf, and it’s filled with wonderful photographs and articles, all deftly edited. When I am trying to decide on a name for a character in one of my stories, I’ll often steal first names of surfers featured in the magazine. (For some reason, parents of surfers choose unique and interesting names for their kids.) Sometimes I’ll pick out a photo of a surfer and use him as a physical model for a character in my story. It helps me fix the character in my head.

I mentioned my story, A Beautiful Motorcycle, in an earlier post. It appears in a Cleis Press anthology titled Boy Crazy. Just as I began writing the story, I came across the photo I’ve included in this post. The main character in my story, Curtis, is fourteen. I used this photo to create Curtis physically. Curtis falls in love with his older sister’s boyfriend, Dan, who is seventeen. The story is both funny and sad. When I fixed a vision of Curtis in my mind — once I knew how he looked — the story became far easier to write. Sometime, I hope you’ll read A Beautiful Motorcycle; it’s one of the best stories I’ve written to date, I believe. I don’t know who the boy in the photo is, but wherever he lives, I thank him for inspiring Curtis’ character.

“The Drape Man” excerpt number two


Hi, friends and readers:

I hope you enjoyed the first installment of The Drape Man I posted yeserday. Here’s the second …

* * *

I leave my room and go to the kitchen. A bottle of white Zinfandel, half-empty, sits on a shelf in the refrigerator. I pour myself a glassful, then return to my computer. I stare at the screen and take a sip of wine, I make a face. The Zinfandel is neither sweet nor tart, just bitter. Yuck. I take another sip. I figure the wine will settle me down, it may help me decide what to do. Three or four minutes pass while I watch people come and go from the room, kids with nicknames like Pretty Pussy, Hung Ten and Pocket Rocket. One guy, Dad-4-daughter, says he’s fifty. He seeks a girl, eighteen, for role-play sex, very perverted.

My computer pings again, it’s a message from Jacob. “What do you think?”

I write, “About what?”

“Doing a threesome with Evita?”

I work my jaw from side to side. I take a sip of wine. Then I write, “I don’t know, what do you think?”

“It sounds sort of freaky, but she’s hot. How often do you get a chance to lay a chick like her?”

I nod to myself. Then I write, “What does she expect you and me to do with each other? I don’t suck dick or stuff like that.”

Thirty seconds pass, then Jacob writes, “I think we should meet her; it’ll be fun.”

I draw a breath, then I let it out slow. I take another gulp of wine, I drain the entire glass. Then I write, “Okay, let’s do it.” I give Jacob my name and address. I tell him to come over at nine o’clock, I give him explicit directions.

When Jacob asks for my phone number, I realize my cell phone is in my backpack and my backpack is in my locker at school. Three months ago, my dad cancelled our land-line phone service. He told my mom, “We each have cell phones. Why pay for something nobody uses?”

I explain the phone situation to Jacob. He says, “No problem, Justin. I’ll see you tonight.”

I send Evita a private message, I say, “Jacob’s coming to my place at nine, does that work for you?”

Evita writes, “Nine’s perfect. This’ll be wild.”

My pulse pounds inside my head. I write, “Evita . . .?”


“Me and Jacob aren’t gay. You know that, right?”

Evita writes, “Of course, silly. Relax and give me your address.”


 My house sits on five acres in a community where many people ride horses. A stable’s in back of our home, but we don’t own horses and the building is empty, it’s in disrepair. Gates sag from their hinges, the roof misses shingles and some windows are busted out. As a kid I’d play in the stable, till one day I stepped on a nail, one protruding from a fallen board. It punctured my foot and I had to get a tetanus shot and, after that, my mom declared the stable off-limits.

My dad said the acreage was a good investment, it’s why he bought the place. He said, “I don’t know a horse’s teeth from his asshole, but I know a good land deal when I see it.” Our nearest neighbor is a half-mile away on County Road 23-A.


 The time’s eight-thirty and I stand in my front yard, watching stars appear. I smoke a cigarette and my hand shakes when I raise the filter to my lips and think of Evita. Earlier, I printed her profile photo and I stuck it to the bulletin board in my room. Of course the picture’s black and white, it’s grainy, but still it’s very hot and I can’t believe my good luck. I’ve never had intercourse with a girl, okay, but I’m pretty sure I’ll know what to do when the time comes. I placed condoms and lubricant and a hand towel on my nightstand and I lit a scented candle on my dresser. I took a long shower and soaped my dick real careful so it wouldn’t stink. I swiped my underarms with deodorant, then I dabbed cologne on my neck. I wear my best gold chain and I’ve put gel in my hair and arranged it just right. I took my time choosing my clothes — a polo shirt and my coolest jeans and my new athletic shoes.

Just as I finish my cigarette, a panel truck turns off the county road, it travels down our long gravel driveway. The truck’s headlights cast two cones of yellow light as it approaches. I don’t recognize the vehicle and I figure the driver must be lost — it happens all the time in our neighborhood. I remain where I’m standing till the truck comes to a halt, then I walk to the driver’s door with my hands in my pockets. A magnetic sign on the truck’s side panel says, “De Soto Drapes and Blinds”, it offers a phone number.

The driver’s a guy maybe thirty years old. He wears a collared work shirt with a t-shirt underneath. Dragon tattoos snake up his forearms, they climb into his shirt sleeves. His hair is buzzed and his nose is long, it tapers to a point, and he hasn’t shaved lately. His window’s lowered and I say hi.

He nods and says, “Hey, there.” His voice sounds deep and scratchy, like he smokes lots of cigarettes.

I say, “Are you lost or something?”

He shakes his head, then he clears his throat. “I’m here to measure for drapes. Your mom didn’t tell you?”

I say no and I think to myself: Shit. I say, “How long will this take? I’ve got people coming over.”

He opens his door and I take a step backward to get out of his way. He says, “Not long, maybe twenty or thirty minutes.” Then he emerges with a tape measure and a clipboard. He’s a foot taller than me and his shoulders are broad and he’s slim in the waist, athletic-looking. He wears work pants and boots that lace up and I don’t think he’s showered lately because I smell his body odor. I smell something else, too: alcohol, some type of liquor.

He follows me inside the house. He asks to see the living room first and I lead him there. I sit on the sofa and I watch him walk around the perimeter of the room, using his tape measure to determine the size of each window opening. He makes notes on his clipboard after each measurement. He checks the distance between each window and the ceiling. Now and then, while he does these things, he’ll glance at me and it makes me kind of nervous, the way he stares. I check my watch: it’s eight forty-five, I think: Come on, man. Finish and get out of here.

I ask, “Do you always work this late?”

“Depends,” he says, “on how busy I get.” Then he says, “Could you put some water and ice in a glass for me? I’m thirsty.”

I say sure and I get up from the sofa and he follows me into the kitchen. While I plunk cubes into a tumbler he reaches into his pocket, producing a metal flask with a screw cap. He sets the flask on the counter top. I fill the tumbler with tap water and hand it to him and he says thanks. He drains half the glass, then he unscrews the cap on the flask and adds what looks like bourbon to his remaining water and ice. He stirs the mixture with a finger, then he offers me some. “Want a gulp?”

I shake my head and look away. Up close, his eyes have a piercing quality I don’t like.

He takes a swallow from the tumbler, then he smacks his lips and burps. He rubs his belly with his free hand, he says, “Want to show me the master bedroom?”

He gathers his clipboard and measuring tape and he brings these and his beverage into my folks’ bedroom. He puts his drink on my mom’s glass-topped dressing table, next to her perfume bottles and hairbrush and lipstick tubes. He looks around the room, he nods as if the furnishings   — the headboard and carpeting and all — meet with his approval. He places his clipboard and tape measure on top of the chest of drawers, then he sits on my parents’ king-sized bed. He runs a palm over the surface of the down comforter and he bounces his butt on the mattress.  He looks at me and grins, he says, “Real nice.”

My scalp prickles. I take a deep breath and I tell him, “You shouldn’t sit on my parents’ bed. I think you should get your work done and go.”

He drops his gaze to the carpet but he continues to grin. He sits there for a moment, hands resting on his thighs. Then he lunges at me. He grabs me by the shirtfront and he slaps my cheek, really hard. The sound of the slap bounces off the walls and I fall backward, onto the floor, I bang my head against a chair. A ringing floods my ears and my vision blurs and my face burns where I got hit.

The drape man stands over me, he glares while his chest rises and falls. He points a finger, and when I prop myself on my elbows he says, “I don’t give a crap what you think, Justin.”

How does he know my name?

 Walking to the dressing table, he takes a gulp from his drink and the ice cubes tinkle in his glass. He smacks his lips again and he stares at me, holding the tumbler, twirling the ice. I try getting to my feet but I am dazed from the slap and I can’t get my balance. I sink to the floor, onto my butt and elbows. I rub my cheek with the heel of my hand and my voice sounds funny when I say, “What are you doing? What do you want?”

His eyes narrow. “Take off your clothes.”

I’m bewildered. “Why? What for?”

He snickers and shakes his head. “You’re stupid, you know that? Very stupid. Now, are you going to get naked or must I slap you some more?”

An explosion goes off inside my head. This guy plans to rape me.

* * *

Copyright Martin Delacroix 2009

Serial short story for avid Delacroix readers …

All right, friends and readers:

Many of you have clamored for free fiction. (I know, the economy sucks…) So, over the next few days I will post portions of an unpublished story titled The Drape Man.

Yes, I will give you the entire  story, but it will arrive in pieces, per Charles Dickens, so be patient. Understand? This story’s “on the house” as we say in the U.S. The Drape Man is a suspense story — don’t read it if you are squeamish. It is not a love story, and it’s not a “we all lived happily ever after” piece either, so proceed with caution:

Fifteen-year-old Justin has the house to himself for the weekend. In an Internet chat room Justin meets Evita, a girl who’s a few years older than him, and they agree to meet at Justin’s house for a sexual encounter. But there’s a problem, one Justin’s not aware of: Evita’s not a girl, “she” is Russell Stillwater, an ex-con and serial rapist who preys upon teenage boys. Can Justin survive the encounter?  If he does, who will he be afterward?

Beware, once you start reading, you’ll be hooked:

* * *

The Drape Man, Copyright Martin Delacroix 2009

It’s Friday afternoon and I ride the school bus home with my best friend, Bryce. He’s cool and witty and he’ll kick anybody’s ass who messes with me. He’s got a key to my house and I’ve got a key to his, we’re that close. Bryce speaks of an Internet chat room on a website called Hot Teens in Heat. He heard about it from Will Kuykendahl, another friend. Will claims he met two girls through Hot Teens — both of them babes. One chick gave him a blow job, Will told Bryce.

I don’t believe Will’s story about the girls. Zits dot Will’s forehead and braces squeeze his teeth and he’s skinnier than me, so I don’t think any chick’s going down on Will’s wiener.

I’ll try the website anyway.

My folks will leave town for the weekend and they’ve agreed I can stay home by myself. “I’m in tenth grade,” I told my mom, “I don’t need a baby sitter.”

I wait till Friday evening, after my parents leave, to power-up the computer in my bedroom, to find the Hot Teens site. It doesn’t take but a minute. The site’s home page is nothing but ads touting their porno service. (“Our models are legal, but they don’t look it!”) For a monthly fee of $14.95 you can look at videos and still photos of naked girls and boys doing all sorts of nasty stuff. I check out the previews and they are pretty hot, I spring a boner looking. But who’s got $14.95 to pay Hot Teens? Not me.

Before I can enter the Hot Teens chat room I must register and create a profile for myself. I must describe my physical appearance, say where I live, how old I am, and so forth. I have to post at least one photo of myself, too, one which shows my face. I’ve got a good picture Bryce took with his digital camera. I’m wearing my Yankees cap and I’ve got my shirt off so girls can see my abdominals, and I choose that photo to post. In the background you can see my track and tennis trophies, very cool.

The nickname I select for my Hot Teens profile is one I use on every website I’m registered with: Slick Dick. I list my interests as, “babes, tennis, gaming and more babes.” I claim I’ve got a nine-inch pecker (okay, it’s only six, but whatever) and I say I’m eighteen. (If you say you’re fifteen, no one but perverts will message you on these kinds of sites.)

The chat room is mobbed when I enter — something like four hundred people. Two-thirds are guys, but that still leaves over a hundred chicks. If you click on a girl’s name you can look at her profile before you send her a private message, to see if she’s fat or ugly or whatever. I check several and they look pretty good and I finally settle on this one girl, Cassandra, a blonde, eighteen, from Ft. Myers. I send her a message and tell her she looks hot. Then I wait for her response, but after five minutes I get none, which means she viewed my profile and it didn’t suit her, so I move on, I check other girls’ profiles, occasionally sending a private message, but I get no responses.

Then something weird happens: I get a message from somebody named “Jacob”. (That’s right, a guy.) He says, “What’s going on in Bradenton?” (My home town, as stated in my profile).

I say, “Not much.”

I figure my curt response will get Jacob off my back, but he writes, “There are plenty of hot women here tonight. Have you checked out Red Sonja?”

I click on Red Sonja’s profile. She is twenty-one, a carrot-top from Skokie who shows plenty of cleavage in her profile photo. She lists her occupation as “graphic artist.”

Jacob messages me again. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What do you think of her?”

I chew a hangnail. Then I write, “She’s hot, but too far away. Illinois.”

“Several chicks in the room are from west Florida, not far from us.”

I write, “Us? Where are you at?”

Jacob writes, “Sarasota.” (A ten-minute drive from Bradenton.)

Out of curiosity, I click on Jacob’s profile. It says he is eighteen, a college student. He’s taken a picture of himself with a digital camera while facing his bathroom mirror and, to me anyway, he looks more like sixteen. But his hair is styled with gel and he looks preppy in his polo shirt, the kind of guy who nabs girls easily.

Jacob messages me again. “You still there?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“This one chick in the room, Evita, says she wants to meet me; she thinks I’m hot.”

I ask Jacob, “Where does she live?”

“Palmetto.” (Bradenton’s between Palmetto and Sarasota. All three towns are close.)

I say, “Why don’t you meet up with her?”

“I can’t. I live with my folks and she lives with her grandmother.”

I click on Evita’s profile. She’s nineteen, blonde, very cute, with a turned-up nose and perky boobs. Her interests: “clothes shopping, the beach and edgy sex.”

I say to Jacob, “Maybe I’ll invite her to my place. My mom and dad are gone for the weekend.”

“You’ve got a place to yourself?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Jacob writes, “Go ahead, ask her if you want. I don’t mind.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

I slump back in my chair and chew another hangnail. Should I contact Evita? Will she like me? I don’t resemble Jacob and I’m not really eighteen, but still . . .

I click on Evita’s name and send her a message, I say, “Hey, babe, I sure like your profile and photo.”

A minute or so passes, then my computer pings and a message from Evita appears on the screen. It says, “You’re cute. What’s your name?”

I write, “Justin.” (My true name, by the way.)

“What’re you up to, Justin?”

“Looking for a babe — one like you.”

She writes, “Are you really eighteen? `cause you don’t look that old in your profile photo.”

I think to myself: damn. Then I tell her, “It’s an old picture; I should get a new one.”

Evita writes, “I’m a wild girl, I’m looking for something special tonight.”

I feel a tingle in my shorts. I ask her, “What do you mean `special?’”

“There’s a guy in the chat room named Jacob. I think he’s sexy and I think you are too.”

“Yeah, so …?”

“Maybe we could do a threesome – you, me and Jacob.”

I squirm in my chair. I’ve never done a twosome — not all the way — and I don’t know how to respond to her suggestion.

Then Evita writes, “Are you there, Justin? Did I shock you?”

“I’m here.”


The idea of getting into bed with Jacob doesn’t thrill me. I write, “Couldn’t you come to my place alone?” I explain to her that my parents are gone, how she isn’t but five or six miles from my house, how hot it would be, just us two.

She writes, “I’m sure we’d have fun, but I’m looking for a little kink tonight. I’m sorry if I –”

My fingers dance on the keyboard. “Wait-wait-wait. I didn’t say no to a threesome; I just need time to think about it.”

A pause. Then Evita writes, “While you’re thinking, I’ll message Jacob and see if he wants to play with us.”

I write, “Okay,” then I swivel in my desk chair. I rock backward and put my hands behind my neck and I stare at the popcorn ceiling. The thought of Evita’s coming to my house for sex makes my pulse race, but Jacob joining us sounds . . . perverted. What if my friends find out?

I think back to a swim party I attended a few months ago. Two guys made out on a chaise longue on the pool deck while everybody else hooted and cheered them on. These guys were not gay, they were only fooling around, putting on a show. Could I do something like that? With some guy I don’t even know?

* * *

Copyright Martin Delacroix 2009

I’ll post additional portions of the story in the days ahead.

Readers’ interest in spanking fiction.

According to my blog statistics, I’m receiving a huge number of visits from readers with an interest in spanking and other forms of corporal punishment.  I’m not surprised by this at all. Such activities can be arousing and sensual. These days, discipline is something many young men seem to need and even desire.

If this is your kind of thing, you’ll likely enjoy three of my stories, all discussed in earlier postings on this blog: Serving Lisa is included in the Spank Me Once anthology published by Noble Romance. Daddy Lover appears in the Daddies anthology published by Cleis Press. Passion Play was published as a stand-alone piece by Torquere Press in e-book format during January 2009. It explores the erotic aspects of bondage and discipline.

Here’s an excerpt from Daddy Lover. I hope those of you with an interest in corporal punishment enjoy it.

* * *

Again, Lance reached for the strap. “Let’s make sure you don’t sit comfortably for a day or two, eh?”

I closed my eyes and bobbed my chin.

He lashed the backs of my thighs, several times in quick succession, inflicting fresh stripes of pain. The pops sounded like firecrackers igniting. He whipped my buttocks anew and I cried out, grinding my hips into the mattress, squirming while the leather kissed my skin. Oscar’s tormenting presence, together with the beating, drove me into frenzy and I shrieked. My ass and thighs flamed. How much could I take?

As much as I hated the sting of the swats, I made no attempt to escape them. Instead I danced with the strap, raising my hips to meet each blow. I sweated while whimpers shook my throat. Oh, Daddy, I thought, treat me as rough as you want. I’ll submit every time, I am yours.

The whipping lasted several minutes, and when Lance finally lowered my legs to the mattress, when he kissed my cheek and told me I was a sexy boy, I felt a sense of loss from the beating’s cessation. I lay upon sweat-soaked sheets, chest heaving, savoring my burning backside while my anus gripped Oscar’s neck. I thought, How kind of Lance to control me, to punish me so skillfully. What a generous daddy he is.

Lance brushed damp bangs from my forehead, he kissed me there. He asked, “Enjoying yourself?”

I nodded.

* * *

(If you’re wondering who “Oscar” is, he’s a cone-shaped butt plug Lance has placed inside Bradley’s anus before Lance whips Bradley.)

Well, it’s another beautiful day in Berlin, sunny and cool, perfect for a three-mile run in a park near my building. I hope all of you have a pleasant weekend.

Short story set in Berlin. Here’s an excerpt …

Hi, friends and readers:

Over the past few days, as I’ve posted from Berlin, people have asked whether I’ve ever written a story set in this city. Yes,  I have. It’s titled Rent Boy and it has not been published yet. I thought you might enjoy reading an excerpt, so I will post it here. I hope you’ll enjoy it.

* * *

That evening, I cooked dinner for Sebastian — linguine with clam sauce and a cucumber salad — and we shared two bottles of red wine. We dined on the balcony, seated at a circular table, while darkness fell upon the city. A candle burned and the flame reflected in Sebastian’s lips, in the lenses of his eyeglasses.

When I asked if he had friends in Berlin, he shook his head.

“Why not?”

Sebastian shrugged. “All my pals are in Leipzig. Between school and my work, I’ve little time to form new friendships in Berlin.”

The wine had gone to my head and I thought, Go ahead, Dorian, ask him.

“Speaking of your work…”

Sebastian looked at me with arched eyebrows.

“Would it offend you,” I said, “if I offered to buy an hour of your time?”

His lips parted into a smile and his eyes glittered like gemstones. “Not at all, Dorian. Whenever you’d like.”

“How about tonight?”

He nodded, his gaze locked onto mine, and my cock stiffened when I thought about touching him.

We did the dishes first, Sebastian washing, me drying and putting away. Our hips and elbows touched as we worked and the physical contact got my pulse racing.

In my bedroom, in candlelight, I insisted on undressing Sebastian myself, taking my time with his shoes and socks, his T-shirt and jeans, teasing the pouch of his briefs till his cock swelled and bulged against the thin fabric. When I peeled off his underwear his penis bobbed before him, an uncut monster that twitched in time with his pulse. His pubic hair was dark, trimmed to a wispy crescent and his ball sac was shaved smooth.

* * *

When Rent Boy is accepted for publication, I’ll  let everyone know via this blog so readers can purchase a copy from the publishing house.

Update: Rent Boy was included in a three-story anthology released by Noble Romance Publishing in 2010. The book’s titled Boys Who Love Men. You can check it out by clicking on the cover in the sidebar at right.

New story coming out in “Cruising” anthology

My short story, If You Only Knew, will appear in a new anthology titled Cruising For Bad Boys, published by the STARbooks firm. The release date is June 18, 2009. My story’s about a gay boy named Stewart who has a taste for spying on naked guys and masturbating in public places. During his freshman year of college, Stewart befriends a fraternity boy named Grady, who’s also into peeping and risky public sex, and the two undergraduates have some interesting campus adventures, all at the expense of their unwitting victims. Or are their victims unaware?  Do some guys enjoy being spied upon by other guys? Here’s a link to the STARbooks website where you can buy the anthology after June 18th:

You can also purchase the book on Amazon. I hope you’ll enjoy If You Only Knew. It’s one of the funniest stories I think I’ve ever written, and pretty sexy too.

Germany continues to amaze me …

Okay, this afternoon I took a train ride to the Baltic Sea, to visit a gay beach near Ruegen. The water was too cold to swim in, at least for me, but not for everybody. This guy’s name is Alex. He is from Bremen. He wasn’t the least bit shy about having his photo taken naked. Sorry it’s not a better picture, but I’m not too proficient with cameras. Still, I think it’s a nice photo, don’t you?

How come we don’t have more beaches like this in the USA? And why aren’t more guys like Alex populating them? Germans are not at all bashful about taking their clothes off in public, which I think is pretty cool. And, no: I will not give you Alex’s phone number. You’ll have to visit Germany and get it yourself. It’s a beautiful evening here tonight, around 55 degrees F and sunny, perfect for wearing a sweater and taking a walk on Berlin’s cobblestone sidewalks with someone special.

Ah-h-h, Germany … What a wonderful nation it is.

Hi, friends and readers:

Well, here is what summer on Germany’s north coast is all about: hot young men in Speedos, showing off their smooth physiques. He’s cute, isn’t he?

I’m settled into my flat in the Wilmersdorf district of the city. It’s very green and quiet here, with quick access by bus and subway to the busier parts of town. My apartment’s on the fourth floor of my building; it was constructed around 1915. I’ve got a balcony with a nice view. The apartment’s about 1000 square feet with twelve-foot ceilings and parquet flooring. There are plenty of windows so the rooms stay bright and cheerful all day.

People live more simply here. Most do not own automobiles, they use public transportation. You shop for groceries every other day and use a wheeled shopping cart to tote your purchases home. They’re very big on recycling here. Everything: glass, paper, plastic, metal, goes into separate recycling bins. You pay a deposit on beer bottles and return them when they are empty, for a refund.

Because folks do a lot of walking here, you don’t see many obese people. And children here are very independent. I see kids eight years old walking home from school alone and riding the bus by themselves, no problem.

I’ve joined a very nice gym, Elixia at Prager Platz, which is popular with younger gay men, so I have something nice to look at while I work out and swim laps in the 25-meter pool.  The place is immaculately clean and bright, and all the equipment is new and well-maintained.

As summer progresses I’ll post additional photos and comments about Berlin and its people. I hope you’ll enjoy them.