Best Gay Romance 2009, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
ONE
COMING BACK TO ME
WHAT WE LEAVE BEHIND
THE CALAMUS EMOTION: LOVE AMONG THE RUINS
ADULT
BRIEFLY, FOREVER
THE POOLS OF PARADISE
CHIAROSCURO
AS SWEET BY ANY OTHER NAME
FINDERS KEEPERS
KINDRED SOULS
LIEBESTOD: LOVE/DEATH FINAL ARIA WITH IMAGINARY MUSIC
THE TERROR OF KNOWING WHAT THIS WORLD IS ABOUT
AFFLICTED
STARTING OVER
SAIL AWAY
THE BAKER
THE FOREST OF SUICIDES
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Copyright Page
For Asa, forever the Best Romance
INTRODUCTION
It was a surprise to me that there weren’t any—any!—stories about marriage among the submissions for Best Gay Romance this year. Gay weddings can be pretty romantic, right? But queers don’t really need a license for certifying love. Just each other. As it should be.
That said, I’m a romantic.
And despite my disdain for licenses, a married one—Asa and I (he’s the fellow to whom this and other Cleis collections I’ve edited are dedicated) were wed as much out of practicality as desire. That was in 2003, ten years after we met in San Francisco; our marriage made his quest for permanent Canadian residency much easier. The wedding party was fun; fifty friends had a great time eating and drinking and dancing. Asa’s mother was there from Nashville. Two friends who’d never met hooked up for the night. My gay world intersected with my straight world. A good time was had.
But we did it for that license.
Back to being a romantic.
I’ve read many thousands of gay erotic short stories over the years, in the course of editing assorted anthologies about bondage and bears and boys in heat, and for the Best Gay Erotica series, now fourteen years old—almost legal (in some jurisdictions)! And it’s certainly fun to read porn (mostly literary porn, so-called “literotica,” but still…), stories about the myriad ways two men can be sexual, from passionate lovemaking to downright kinky behavior.
But give me some wry sweetness, some wistful memories, some settled domesticity, some happy-ever-after, even some sad endings, and I’m a puddle of queer contentment.
You’ll find all of those qualities, wry and settled, sweet and wistful, sad and happy, in these stories about men meeting men and men loving men and men surviving the loss of men. And not a single wedding…
Richard Labonté
Bowen Island, BC
ONE
T. Hitman
Lyle was already feeling like a pariah when Mike leaned over him to grab another stack of corrugated boxes off the shelf. He tried his best not to gawk or react, difficult feats to pull off given the closeness of the other man’s bare legs, so solid and furry; the hypnotic scent of him, a trace of fresh, masculine sweat mixed with the deodorant Mike had slapped on earlier that morning; the meaty fullness packed into the front of his camouflage cutoffs—all tempting Lyle to steal a glance.
The atmosphere in the warehouse was tense enough and growing worse with every day that passed since Kevin Collins had pointed out the bear paw-print sticker on the back bumper of Lyle’s truck. It wasn’t a rainbow flag, but it hadn’t taken much after that to polarize the men. Even Mike had been less of a buddy in recent weeks. The handsome, late-thirtysomething go-to guy that Lyle had fallen in crush with on Day One had gotten colder and quieter since Collins spilled the news about what the sticker meant to the rest of the warehouse crew.
“Help me a sec?” Mike’s deep, powerful voice shattered the spell Lyle had fallen under—but not the temptation to look, to draw in a deep breath of the Mike-flavored air, thus taking at least a part of the other man inside him. Penetration by proxy, Lyle thought.
“Sure.”
Together they lugged two more stacks of unassembled corrugated cardboard boxes onto the pallet, filling the first of the morning’s orders.
Unable to resist, Lyle let his eyes wander for a few dangerous seconds, just enough time to drink in Mike’s unrivaled magnificence. His dark hair, in a neat athlete’s haircut, was going silver around the edges, right above his ears. An old T-shirt bearing the logo of the local pro baseball team showcased the muscles of his chest and arms to perfection, the pits damp with sweat, the collar near his throat prickly with a thatch of dark hair that trailed up into the days-old scruff coating the lower half of his handsome face.
Mike’s ass was high and square, a leftover from his years in the army that he’d maintained by playing all of the Big Four sports—baseball in the summer, ice hockey in the winter, pigskin and hoops in the seasons between. His old construction boots flashed a hint of clean white sock at the top. When you factored in Mike’s blue eyes, which looked wounded even when he smiled, the dimple on his right cheek, and his no-bullshit, easy-going blue-collar work ethic, the end result was almost blinding to behold.
And impossible to ignore.
Lyle picked up the work order. “Anything else I can help you with?”
“Nope,” Mike said.
Lyle forced himself to look away as the other man grabbed the pallet jack’s hydraulic handle and gave it a few firm pumps, ignoring the ache in his stomach signaling that Kevin Collins and the other straight, intolerant yahoos who toiled in the aisles of the cavernous State Street Warehouse had turned Mike against him. He was alone now. One.
Despite the endless succession of jerk-off fantasies that had sustained Lyle over the past few months, he had no illusions about the truth of the situation. He was twenty-eight, living by himself in a one-bedroom apartment a few miles and a pair of right turns up the road from State Street. Mike was straight, ten years older, a lone wolf if the snippets and sound bites Lyle had collected turned out to be true. Wasn’t married, but most likely kept at least one if not a bunch of lady friends at the ready, because he was a man and men had needs.
Lyle understood a man’s needs better than he gave himself credit for.
That afternoon, about an hour before the jarring buzzer would sound, releasing them all from what sometimes felt like modern-day slavery, Lyle spotted Mike standing alone on the loading dock, leaning against the wall, one giant foot crossed over the other. He was staring off into space, his blue eyes—bluer than even the sky—oblivious to Lyle’s presence.
The knot in Lyle’s stomach pulled tighter. He wanted to march over, to ask Mike how he was doing, was everything all right between them, any chance he could explain his side of what Kevin had turned into the biggest scandal to hit State Street Warehouse since the previous year’s Christmas party, which was still spoken about occasionally during lunch breaks by the other knuckle draggers. But his sneakers wouldn’t obey his heart, and he kept right on walking.
The next day, Mike didn’t show up for work. Nor did he the day after that. By Friday, Lyle was feeling isolated and shunned by the rest of the warehouse. The last of his kind.
“Hey, Kevin,” Lyle said.
The other man took a step back, coughed to clear his throat, and said, “Not so close. I don’t want to get what you have. What up, homo?”
Lyle gaped, “ ’Scuse me?”
“Homes. What up, homes?”
Lyle let it slide. The under-the-breath comments, snickers, and stares had gotten too obvious to blame on simple paranoia. Lyle didn’t eat lunch with the rest of the warehouse workers any more, and rarely spoke to any of them, except on an as-needed basis. Even approaching Kevin to ask about Mike had taken more effort than not allowing his gaze to linger too long on his hunky supervisor, before Mike had gone missing.
“Have to ask you something.”
“What about—sports? Pussy?”
Lyle ignored the snark. “Mike—where the hell is Mike?”
“Big Mike?” Kevin parroted. “He didn’t tell you?” Lyle shrugged. “Hate to be the one to break the news, seeing as how much guys like you love another man’s balls. Mike had to have one of his lopped off. Cancer, dude. Bet that ruins your day almost as much as his.”
Kevin walked away, leaving Lyle frozen where he stood. From the corner of his eye, Lyle saw the other man yank the leg of his loose-fit shorts up. He turned in time to see Kevin’s balls spill into the open. Kevin wagged his hairy sac at him, chuckled, and continued on his way.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Lyle felt numb, going through the motions, only partially aware of time and space. The few times he tried to press his coworkers for more information, he was met with apathy and condescension. Mike’s boss told Lyle he couldn’t discuss the situation due to medical privacy laws.
With no other option, Lyle consulted a reliable fallback: the telephone book in the junk drawer in his kitchen.
Heart galloping, he approached the apartment block’s front door. The building was an ugly, square, brick throwback to the 1970s with zero personality. The kind of place that unleashed a feeling of despair in Lyle whenever he saw one, a place where hopelessness was a tenant. Not fitting for the caliber of a man like Mike.
For days, Lyle had picked up the phone only to hang it up again before dialing past the first few numbers. Driving to the place, parking his truck with its bear-paw bumper sticker in the spot right next to Mike’s rugged SUV, Lyle felt like a stalker. He almost backed out and drove away, but killed th
There was no denying the fact that Lyle was attracted to Mike. That mysterious chemical spark had flared the moment they’d first shaken hands in the warehouse. Hell, he hadn’t pumped his cock thinking about anyone else for months, hadn’t slept with another warm body for much longer than that, was sustained only by his fantasies because contrary to what Kevin and the others thought, Lyle wasn’t the kind of guy who slept with a different dude every night. He was a romantic at heart—and his heart had been captured by one man and one man only, Mike Logan.
Sometimes, Lyle would do a crazy trick he’d performed when he was younger: lay in bed with his spine braced against the headboard and his legs over his head, jerking his dick until he shot into his open and hungry mouth. In those moments, he pretended the juice was Mike’s as he devoured it, jealous and envious of every mouth that had tasted the legit thing in the real world.
But as much as he lusted after Mike’s body, he also really liked Mike, the human being. And being a good friend meant helping a person out when he was down, even if he hadn’t asked for it.
Lyle grabbed the bag containing a six-pack and a package of cookies off the passenger seat and tromped up the brick stairs to the door, his heart pounding in his chest. He found the right apartment and buzzed, then waited. After several interminably long seconds, the squawk box squawked.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, Mike,” Lyle said, his already-dry mouth draining of the last of its spit. “It’s Lyle. From work.”
He added the last part in haste—quantifying his identity spared him from how he knew it would feel if Mike asked Who? Then he thought, How many Lyles can the man know?
The intercom died. The squeak of a door’s hinges from somewhere deep in the apartment building’s dark interior sounded, alerting Lyle to a flash of motion from beyond the security door’s glass. Mike. He appeared and opened the door.
“Hey, man,” Lyle said, smiling widely.
“Dude,” Mike greeted him, indifferent.
It took the greatest effort not to stare at Mike’s clean white T-shirt, blue jeans, and bare feet. Lyle did, however, notice that Mike’s puppy-dog eyes looked even more wounded than usual.
“Hope you don’t mind me dropping in like this.”
“Why are you here?” Mike growled.
Lyle shrugged. “Thought you could use a friendly face. The baseball game’s coming on, and I brought beer.”
Mike smiled, but the gesture contained little humor. “You know?”
Lyle nodded.
“I’m off the beer for a while.”
“I also brought cookies.”
Mike drew in a deep breath, his annoyance—hell, his anger—obvious, barely contained. But just when Lyle figured he’d made a mistake in coming here, Mike’s furry mouth curled into a smile that was more convincing than its predecessor. “What kind of cookies?”
“Chocolate chip. The soft, squishy kind, from the bakery,” Lyle said. “Only the best for you, man.”
The apartment was a typical bachelor’s cave, with mismatched furniture. A soft and overstuffed chair in front of a widescreen TV hooked up to the usual gadgets and games, a baseball poster tacked to one wall beside it. Mike’s familiar work boots sat just inside the door, a discarded pair of sweat socks bunched inside them. Several pill bottles littered the top of the kitchen table, along with stacks of unopened mail and a stroke magazine.
“So how are you doing, big Mike?” Lyle said, drawing in a deep breath of the Mike-scented air.
“How do you think?”
Lyle shrugged. “Probably not too good.”
“No, probably not,” Mike said.
Lyle set the bag down on the counter and pulled out the cookies. “I wanted to bring you something, but I didn’t peg you as the flower or fruit basket type.”
Mike snorted, slumped into his big chair, and thumbed the remote. Lyle tossed the beer into the fridge, which was populated by a threadbare collection of protein shakes, yogurt, and bottles of sports drinks. He picked up the cookies but wasn’t in the mood to eat them any more than Mike seemed to be.
“So when are you coming back to work?”
“Don’t know. Depends on how I feel. Next week, maybe.”
“Good, because it isn’t the same there without you.”
Mike sighed, flipped through channels to the pregame show, then continued on through the dial. The air in the apartment, except for the hollow cadence of channels flying past on the TV screen, fell oppressively silent. At the periphery of Lyle’s line of sight, he glimpsed thick black leg hair poking out of the cuffs of denim, right above Mike’s ankles, and the undeniable sexiness of the other man’s enormous bare feet. If he forced his eyes to roam higher, he’d easily be able to track his way up to Mike’s crotch. Lyle desperately wanted to look but couldn’t make himself do it. It grew harder by the second to breathe.
“Kevin Collins still being a dickhead to you?” Mike asked, bringing Lyle out of his trance.
“Huh?”
“I warned him, last day I was on the job. Told him to cut the shit or I’d show him some serious harassment.”
Lyle waved a hand to dismiss it. “He is, as you’ve said, a dickhead. But don’t worry about it. You’ve got bigger things on your plate.”
“He has been harassing you? Fuckin’ asshole,” Mike sighed. “I know about you. About what, you know, you’re into.”
Lyle choked down a heavy swallow. The words he planned to offer in his defense died somewhere in his throat.
“You got a guy?”
Lyle shook his head. “You got a girl?”
“Naw,” Mike said. “I haven’t gotten laid since…shit, like a hundred years before the surgery. Don’t even know if I can still perform.”
“Course you can,” Lyle said. “Can’t you?”
“Not exactly been in the mood. Haven’t felt much like trying, being as I’m half the man I used to be.”
“Are you kidding? Look at that dude Lance Armstrong. Losing a nut didn’t stop him from being a stud. That handsome fucker was screwing the hottest chick in rock and roll for a while.”
Mike shrugged. “I appreciate you saying that, but I’m not much of a stud anymore.”
“Oh, man,” Lyle chuckled. “Lance ain’t got nothing on you….”
Eyes narrowed, Mike said, “Shut the fuck up.”
“Seriously, you’re the whole package.”
“Bad choice of words,” Mike said, pointing at his crotch.
“Heart, soul—and with a super-sized dose of handsome thrown in.”
Mike’s face went red as he broke their gaze, but his smile persisted. “But with half the balls.”
“There’s more to a man’s being sexy than whether he has two balls or one,” Lyle said. “Case in point, Kevin thought he was being funny the other day when he wagged his raisin-nuts at me in the warehouse.”
Anger flashed across Mike’s face. “He did what?”
“Trust me when I tell you, the joke was on him. Kevin may have both his balls, but he’s nowhere the man you are,” Lyle continued. He realized that he’d started to ramble, but now that it was all out on the table, he couldn’t stop himself, and probably wouldn’t have if given the choice. “If you’re asking, I’ll tell you. Tell you why. For starters, those puppy-dog eyes of yours. How you don’t shave for a couple of days, and you get all that scruff. It’s so sexy.”
“It’s lazy.”
“It makes you look like a pirate, a palooka,” Lyle said. “And when it’s a hundred fuckin’ degrees in that warehouse and your arms are dripping with sweat, you still look like a million bucks. Those hairy legs of yours…fuck, even your big feet.”
“My feet?” Mike snorted again.
“Yeah, in those old work boots. It drives me crazy to see you strutting around in them, especially when you wear your camouflage cutoffs. Makes your butt insanely hot. And, of course, your bulge. So you got one nut less now, big deal. I bet your one is still fatter than most other dudes’ two.”
The knowledge that he was blathering and had crossed the line finally struck Lyle.
