Best Gay Romance 2008, page 1
Best Gay
Romance
2008
Best Gay
Romance
2008
EDITED BY
RICHARD LABONTÉ
Copyright © 2008 by Richard Labonté.
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Published in the United States.
Cleis Press Inc., P.O. Box 14697, San Francisco, California 94114
Printed in the United States.
Cover design: Scott Idleman
Cover photograph: Celesta Danger
Text design: Frank Wiedemann
Cleis logo art: Juana Alicia
First Edition.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
“The Canals of Mars” © 2007 by Victor J. Banis, reprinted with permission from Charmed Lives, edited by Toby Johnson and Steve Berman (Lethe Press, 2006). “The Empire Room” © 2007 by Dale Chase. “The Belt” © 2007 by Kal Cobalt, reprinted with permission from Velvet Mafia, Spring 2007. “The Country House” © 2007 by Jameson Currier. “The Rush of Love (The Titanic ’70s Before the Iceberg of Irony)” © 2007 by Jack Fritscher. “Coming Home” © 2007 by Shanna Germain. “The Bike Path” © 2007 by T. Hitman. “Boyfriends: A Triptych” © 2007 by Shaun Levin. “Endless Against Amber” © 2007 by Matthew Lowe. “Viva Las Vegas” © 2007 by Max Pierce. “Gone Fishing” © 2007 by Rob Rosen. “Falling” © 2007 by Simon Sheppard. “What the Eye Reveals” © 2007 by Jason Shults. “Henry and Jim” © 2007 by J. M. Snyder. “A Not-So-Straight Duet” © 2007 by Natty Soltesz. “Fucked on Kilimanjaro” © 2007 by Jay Starre, reprinted with permission from Torso, December 2006.
For Asa, best romance ever
Contents
Introduction • RICHARD LABONTÉ
Henry and Jim • J. M. SNYDER
The Empire Room • DALE CHASE
Coming Home • SHANNA GERMAIN
The Belt • KAL COBALT
Boyfriends: A Triptych • SHAUN LEVIN
Endless Against Amber • MATTHEW LOWE
A Not-So-Straight Duet • NATTY SOLTESZ
Falling • SIMON SHEPPARD
The Bike Path • T. HITMAN
The Country House • JAMESON CURRIER
The Rush of Love (The Titanic ‘70s Before the Iceberg of Irony) • JACK FRITSCHER
Fucked on Kilimanjaro • JAY STARRE
Gone Fishing • ROB ROSEN
Viva Las Vegas • MAX PIERCE
What the Eye Reveals • JASON SHULTS
The Canals of Mars • VICTOR J. BANIS
About the Authors
About the Editor
INTRODUCTION
Romance. It’s the emotional component of the erotic. Sucking and fucking are the easy parts. The hard part is falling in love. That’s what this collection is all about—the many ways one man woos and wins another. Sometimes it lasts for one intense hour. Sometimes it waxes, and then wanes. Sometimes it lasts forever. However romance happens, however long love lasts—a heartbeat to a lifetime—it’s a wondrous thing.
It happens in Jay Starre’s “Fucked on Kilimanjaro” as two hot men climb the cold slopes of a mountain. It happens in J. M. Snyder’s “Henry and Jim” when two old men reflect on years gone by. It happens in Max Pierce’s “Viva Las Vegas” when a man in a tuxedo redeems a disastrous date. It happens in T. Hitman’s “The Bike Path” when companions forever take a ride together. It happens in Shanna Germain’s “Coming Home” when two boyhood buddies reconnect while hefting bales of hay.
It happens in Jack Fritscher’s “The Rush of Love” when a muscle admirer plays all night with a muscle god. It happens in Natty Soltesz’s “A Not-So-Straight Duet” when teen boys cross over a very queer line. It happens in Dale Chase’s “The Empire Room” when hearts connect while mourning. It happens in Rob Rosen’s “Gone Fishing” when a dream man is lost then found again. It happens in Kal Cobalt’s “The Belt”—at the end of a belt.
Sometimes romance is a fairy tale: that’s one magical part of Shaun Levin’s “Boyfriends: A Triptych.” Sometimes the memory of romance hurts: Simon Sheppard explores that pain in “Falling.” Sometimes ghosts from the past have the power to shape a couple’s future: Jameson Currier imagines just that in “The Country House.” Sometimes love heals, truly heals: Victor J. Banis illuminates the possibility in “The Canals of Mars.” Sometimes the flame of romance flickers: Jason Shults confronts that reality in “What the Eye Reveals.” And sometimes the world conspires to snuff out the flame: Matthew Lowe writes heartrendingly about two boys in love and their wistful fate.
Sex happens in our lives, and some of the sixteen stories in this collection are as sexually rough as they are romantically tender. Whether rowdy or mushy, though, these tales celebrate the coming together of souls as well as of bodies—the wonderful possibility of happily ever after.
Richard Labonté
Calabogie, Ontario/Bowen Island, British Columbia
September 2007
HENRY AND JIM
J. M. Snyder
His folded hands are pale and fragile in the early morning light, the faint veins beneath translucent skin like faded ink on forgotten love letters written long ago. His fingers lace through mine; his body curves along my back, still asleep despite the sun that spills between the shades. I lie awake for long minutes, clasped tight against him, unable or unwilling to move and bring the day crashing in. Only in sleep am I sure that he fully remembers me. When he wakes, the sun will burn that memory away and I’ll have to watch him struggle to recall my name. After a moment or two he’ll get it without my prompting but one day I know it will be gone, lost like the dozen other little things he no longer remembers, and no matter how long I stare into his weathered blue eyes, he won’t be able to get it back.
Cradled in his arms, I squeeze his hands in my arthritic fists and pray this isn’t that day.
After some time he stirs, his even breath breaking with a shuddery sigh that tells me he’s up. There’s a scary moment when he freezes against me, unsure of where he is or who I am. I hold my breath and wait for the moment it all falls into place. His thumb smoothes along my wrist, and an eternity passes before he kisses behind my ear, my name a whisper on his lips. “Henry.”
I sigh, relieved. Today he still remembers, and that gives me the strength to get out of bed. “Morning, Jim.” I stretch like an old cat, first one arm then the other, feeling the blush of energy as my blood stirs and familiar aches settle into place. Over my shoulder I see Jim watching, a half smile on his face that tells me he still likes what he sees. As I reach for my robe, I ask him, “How about some eggs this morning? That sound good?”
“You know how I like them,” he says, voice still graveled from sleep. His reply wearies me—I don’t know if he’s forgotten how he prefers his eggs or if he simply trusts me to get them right. I want to believe in his trust, so I don’t push it. After fifty years of living with Jim, of loving him, I choose my battles carefully, and this isn’t one either of us would win.
Leaning across the bed, I plant a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Be down in ten minutes,” I murmur.
His gnarled fingers catch the knot in the belt of my robe and keep me close. My lower back groans in protest, but I brush the wisps of white hair from his forehead and smile through the discomfort as he tells me, “I have to shower.”
“Jim,” I sigh. When I close my eyes he’s eighteen again, the fingers at my waist long and graceful and firm, his gaunt cheeks smooth and unwrinkled, his lips a wet smile below dark eyes and darker hair. It pains me to have to remind him, “We showered last night.”
He runs a hand through his thinning hair, then laughs. “Ten minutes then,” he says with a playful poke at my stomach. I catch his hand in mine and lean against it heavily to help myself up. We met in the late spring, 1956, when I graduated from State. It seems so long ago now—it’s hard to imagine we were ever anything but the old men we’ve become. My youngest sister Betty had a boy she wanted me to meet, someone I thought she was courting at the time, and she arranged an afternoon date. I thought she wanted my approval before she married the guy; that’s the way things were done back in the day. But when I drove up to Jim’s parents’ house and saw those long legs unfold as he pushed himself up off the front steps of the porch, I thought I’d spend the rest of my life aching for him. I could just imagine the jealousy that would eat me alive, knowing my sister slept in those gangly arms every night; family gatherings would become unbearable as I watched the two of them kiss and canoodle together. By the time he reached my car, I decided to tell Betty she had to find someone else. That nice Italian kid on the corner perhaps, or the McKeever’s son around the block. Anyone but this tall, gawkish man-boy with the thin face and unruly mop of dark hair, whose mouth curved into a shy smile when those stormy eyes met mine. “You must be Henry,” he said, before I could introduce myself. He offered me a hand I never wanted to let go. “Betty’s told me all about you.”
Betty. My sister. Who thought I should spend the day with her current beau, checking up on him instead of checking him out. My voice croaked, each word a sentence as final as death. “Jim. Yes. Hello.”
I vowed to keep a distance between us but somehow Jim worked through my defenses. He had a quick laugh,
I didn’t want to talk about myself. There was nothing I could say that would make him fall for me instead of Betty, and I just wanted the day to be over. I didn’t want to see him again, didn’t want to think about him if I could help it, and in my mind I was already running through a list of excuses as to why I couldn’t attend my sister’s wedding if she married him, when Jim noticed a matinee sign outside the local theater. “You like these kind of movies?” he wanted to know. Some creature flick, not my style at all, but before I could tell him we should be heading back, Jim grabbed my elbow and dragged me to the ticket window.
Two seats, a dime apiece, and he chose one of the last rows in the back of the theater, away from the shrieking kids that threw popcorn and candy at the screen. He waited until I sat down, then plopped into the seat beside mine, his arm draped casually over the armrest and half in my lap. “Do you bring Betty here?” I asked, shifting away from him. Better to bring my sister up like a shield between us, in the drowsy heat and close darkness of the theater, to remind me why I was there. Betty trusted me, even if I didn’t trust myself.
Jim shrugged, uninterested. As the lights dimmed and the film began, he crossed his legs, then slid down a bit in the seat, let his legs spread apart until the ankle rested on his knee. His leg shook with nervous energy, jostling the seat in front of him and moving at the edges of my vision, an annoying habit, distracting, and when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I put my hand on his knee to stop it. As if he had been waiting for me to make the first move, Jim snatched my hand in both of his, threaded his fingers through mine, and pulled my arm into his lap. “Jim,” I whispered with a slight tug, but he didn’t seem to hear me and didn’t release my hand. I tried again—he just held on tighter, refused to acknowledge that I wanted him to let go. Leaning closer so I wouldn’t have to raise my voice, I tried again. “Jim—”
He turned and mashed his lips against mine in a damp, feverish kiss. I shouldn’t, my mind started, then I can’t, then Betty. Then his tongue licked into me, softer than I had imagined and so much sweeter than a man had the right to be, and I stopped thinking altogether. I was a whirl of sensation and every touch, every breath, every part of my world was replaced with Jim. Betty isn’t getting him back; that was my last coherent thought before I stopped fighting him and gave in.
Later that evening, my sister was waiting when I finally got home. “Well?” she wanted to know.
I shrugged to avoid meeting her steady gaze and mumbled, “Do you really think he’s right for you?”
“Me?” she asked with a laugh. “Not at all. But Henry, isn’t he just perfect for you?”
From the kitchen, I hear Jim come down the stairs. He opens the front door and I force myself to stay at the stove, fighting the urge to check on him. I wait, head cocked for the slightest sound—somewhere outside, an early bird twitters in the morning air and further away, a lawn mower roars to life. Only when I hear a shuffled step do I call out. “Jim?”
No reply. Dropping the spatula into the pan of scrambled eggs, I wipe my hands on a nearby towel and move toward the doorway as I try to keep the panic from my voice. “Jim, that you?”
Before I reach the hall, the door shuts quietly. When the lock latches, I let out a shaky breath and pray, Thank you. Then I see him at the foot of the stairs, thumbing through a small pile of mail I left stacked beside the phone. The way he lifts each envelope makes me sad, and I force a smile to combat the frown that furrows his wrinkled brow. “Bills,” I tell him. “Breakfast’s almost done. Did you get the paper?”
He glances up at me with blank eyes and my heart lurches in my chest. Then recognition settles in and he smiles. “Henry,” he says, as if to remind himself who I am. I nod, encouraging. “The paper? No. Did you want me to?”
“Didn’t you go out to get it?” I ask gently. At the confusion on his harried face, I shake my head. “Never mind. Go sit down, I’ll get it for you.”
“I can—” he starts.
I pat his shoulder as I move around him toward the door. “I’ve got it. Have a seat.”
It’s only when I’m on the stoop, digging the paper out of the roses, that I remember the stove is on. “Jim?” I holler as I shut the door behind me. I hate that I’m like this—I know I should trust him but I can’t. If anything happens to him, it’ll be my fault because I know I need to be more careful, he needs me to watch out for him. I imagine him by the stove, the sleeve of his robe brushing across the heating element, unnoticed flames eating along his side… “Jim, where—”
The kitchen is empty. The eggs sizzle in the pan where I left them and I turn the burner off before they get too hard. In the dining room, a chair scrapes across the floor: Jim sitting down. Without comment, I gather up the plates and silverware I had set out in the breakfast nook and carry them into the other room. Jim sits at the head of the long, polished table where we rarely eat, but he gives me a smile when I hand over the newspaper, and as I place a plate in front of him, he catches me in a quick hug. He sighs my name into my belly, his arms tight around my waist, then rests his head against my stomach and wants to know, “What’s for breakfast?”
I don’t have the energy to tell him again. “It’s almost ready,” I promise, extracting myself from his embrace.
My parents always called Jim Betty’s friend, right up until the day she got married to someone else. By then the two of us had an apartment together, and at the reception my mother introduced us as simply, “Henry and Jim.” Not friend or roommate, just Jim—in those days, no one felt compelled to define us further. My mother treated him like one of the family when we visited, and that was all I wanted. Let her believe we slept in separate bedrooms, if that’s what she needed to think to welcome him into her home.
We bought this house in ’64; the market was good and the realtor didn’t question both our names on the mortgage. Jim was in college at the time, working nights at the packing plant just to pay his half of the bills. We had plans for the house—I wanted a large garden and Jim loved to swim, but we didn’t have the extra money to sink into landscaping yet; we couldn’t afford the house most months, let alone flowers and an in ground pool. I had a job in marketing and spent most of that first year in the house waiting for Jim to come home. Sometime after midnight he’d stagger through the door, weary from standing on his feet all evening, clothes and hands and face black with grime and soot. I hovered in the doorway of the bathroom, watching the dirt and soap swirl away down the drain as he washed up. Some nights he sat on the closed lid of the toilet seat, pressed the palms of his freshly scrubbed hands against his eyes, and struggled not to cry from mere exhaustion. “I can’t do this much longer, Henry,” he sobbed, my man reduced to a child by the weight of his world. I knelt on the floor and gathered him into my arms, ignoring the stench of sweat and oil that rose from his soiled clothing. He slid off the toilet and into my lap as he hugged me close. Hot tears burned my neck where he buried his face against me. “I can’t,” he whispered, hands fisting in my clean shirt. “I just can’t.”
I helped when I could, but times were hard for us. Many nights we sat together on the floor of the bathroom, me smoothing my hand along his back as he railed against it all. It was college that held him back, Jim believed—if he could just drop the few classes he took, he could work full-time at the plant and make more money, but I wouldn’t let him. In those days a degree guaranteed a good paying job, no matter what the field of study, and I knew Jim wanted to be more than a line worker the rest of his life. I wanted him to be something more—I wanted him at a day job and home in the evenings, in the bed beside me at night. He wanted it too, so he would cry himself out as I held him, but eventually he kissed my neck and whispered my name. “How are you feeling?” I’d want to know.
