Showing posts with label BDSM Erotica. Show all posts
Showing posts with label BDSM Erotica. Show all posts
Thursday, December 17, 2015
Sunday, February 1, 2015
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Monday, December 22, 2014
The Brat Ch 01 - The Confession
Once you start living with someone, like I had with Mr. Grant, it is
easy to fall into old habits. This was especially true when I bought a
new video game system and flat screen television and put them in the
guest room. I had little else to spend my money from work on so I
decided on an impulse to get something for myself. It was easy to play a
game for hours at a time in the morning and between classes and work. I
kept up my homework as usual for my new classes but when I didn’t have
an important responsibility, when Mr. Grant wasn’t home, I played my
games. It was even better when Ethan was on at the same time. We
chatted a little as we played but mostly we talked strategy.
Ethan didn’t ask for another session with Mr. Grant and I didn’t bring it up. He told me about guys he met and that none of them seemed to be into spanking. He said most of them were too superficial. He said he liked the idea of someone being athletic, even a little self-centered, but when they started getting judgmental then he had a problem. Our conversations made me think about my own experiences ‘dating’ and how Tucker had been my ‘fuck-buddy’ but I didn’t miss it.
Being single, trying to find a new guy every night, hoping one of them would mean something all felt so desperate. I liked the idea of being with someone, having a home, a warm body to cling to in bed, and the feeling of knowing someone would be there for me.
Mr. Grant seemed to take little notice of my new distraction. He had been a little different since we got back from Las Vegas. He reprimanded me, gave me a few corrective smacks on the ass, but we hadn’t had an intense session like the ones we had before and we didn’t talk about Ethan. We did have sex on a regular basis though, usually after work. It was the perfect release when we got home and it helped us both get to sleep easier.
It was an ordinary Monday. We ate breakfast and made small talk. We showered together, fooled around a little under the water and I watched him get ready for the day. I walked him to the door, even gave him a peck on the cheek before I went to the couch where I thought about turning on the television before I thought to make sure there were no chores to do. I was reading over the list when there was a knock at the door. I was still in my underwear but somehow, for some reason, I didn’t think anything about it as I went to answer the door.
Somehow I had expected Mr. Grant to be there, maybe he had forgotten his keys. It wasn’t until I got to the door that I noticed my undressed state so I opened it partially to cover myself in some way. It could have been a meter reader, the mail man, or even a church group and I wouldn’t have cared. I was horrified to see it was my mother. She smiled at me and looked around a little, glanced over my shoulder before she looked me in the eye and cleared her throat. She smelled of an obnoxious floral perfume that she always wore and was dressed for work.
Right then my white briefs felt even more ridiculous even though I used to wear boxers around the house regularly when I lived there. I thought about closing the door on her, just panic and run away, but there was no where to run to and I knew she would knock again. She had caught me. I was in a precarious situation and she had definite intent but I thought we might be able to talk it out.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Good morning,” she replied.
I thought for a moment she would speak but instead she let the uncomfortable silence hang in the air. I was used to her doing this so I didn’t panic. I just looked her in the eye as I feigned sleepiness. But she didn’t speak, didn’t even budge.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Your birthday is coming up and since you’ve been spending so much time over here I thought I would stop by and see how you’re going to celebrate.”
“For my birthday, I don’t know. I don’t think we had any specific plans. I haven’t really mentioned it. I’m not even sure if he knows it’s coming up. Why?”
“Well, we were planning on getting you a gift and maybe having some kind of part but we weren’t sure if you might want to have it over here, or well, at home. We’d like it if you came over to visit us, maybe we can get a cake. I’m not saying you have to spend all day with us but we hardly see you anymore.”
I sighed. It was another one of her guilt trips partially based in reality. I should have felt bad about not spending time with them but I was also moving on with my life. They showed so little interest any other time, any other day.
“I’ll have to think about it but sure, I can come over.”
“I was hoping to get something a little more certain than that. Can I come inside?”
The door between us, my state of undress, all felt like minor things. She had come over for something else, something important, and yet I couldn’t help but feel a little angry. She was ruining my good time. I opened the door and invited her inside as I walked away back to the bedroom where I planned to get some pants. She followed after me. I didn’t expect her to keep after me like that. I didn’t bother to close the door before I picked up a pair of jeans from the bed and began to pull them up my legs.
“What’s that mark on your thigh?” she asked.
I zipped up my jeans and picked up a shirt, careful to determine the front from the back before I pulled it over my head, then down over my chest, adjusted it about my waist so it felt even. I didn’t want to tell her anything and yet I knew she wouldn’t leave me alone. I knew she would keep after me. She was like a dog with a bone.
“It’s nothing mom,” I said.
It wasn’t humiliation but anger that I felt. She had come over here, barged into the house, and now she was interfering with my life when before it meant so little to her. Who was she to criticize when she barely said anything before? I didn’t want to tell her about the spanking. It felt bad enough that she knew I was gay. How do you come out as kinky?
“That looked like bruising. How did you get that? Does he hit you? Is that what he does? Tell me and I’ll call the police.”
“He doesn’t hit me mom. He spanks me.”
“What do you mean he spanks you?”
“It’s part of the life we live. It’s part of our relationship.”
“What is that supposed to mean? You mean it’s sexual.”
I sighed. Here I was in my boyfriend’s house being interrogated about my sex life. My face warmed and I clenched my hands together just to keep from grabbing at something, breaking something. I wanted her out. I wanted to scare her. I wanted her to run. It felt impossibly difficult just to stand there with her staring at me.
“Yes mom, I like to be spanked,” I said. “Then we have sex.”
That’s when she let out a groan of disgust and walked away. I didn’t have to break anything after all just tell her. I looked to where she stood and listened as she walked out of the house. It felt like a victory. It felt like a loss. She would tell my father. The stereotypical response would be that he’d attack Mr. Grant, possibly have him arrested, but not my father, my father would invite me, us, to a therapy session, maybe at his office, probably over a cup of coffee. He’d be casual about it, not try to imply that anything was wrong nor that he had any suspicions. He’d treat, get me to talk, work his way into my comfort until he’d ask me and then he’d study me closely, look for some doubt, something to question. He had done it before when my grandfather died. We went to my favorite burger place, then he said it as I was eating.
My mother hadn’t been home when I got back from school. I suspected, just because all of my friends parents were divorced that he was going to tell me they were getting a divorce. I thought he’d ask me who I wanted to live with.
“I need to tell you something,” he said.
I had a few fries in my hand and was ready to dip them in ketchup. I put them to my mouth as if carrying through with what I was going to do would make it all seem normal. I looked at him.
“You’re grandfather died. He had a heart attack while playing golf. He was on the twelfth hole.”
I started to cry. The ketchup tasted sour and acidic. It wasn’t just my grandfather’s death but the feeling of having been caught in a trap. It was the worst meal of my life. I never felt the same about that burger place.
That was how my father did things. I knew that I would be walking through some dangerous territory. They wouldn’t understand. If I had to walk through it at all? Part of me thought about just ignoring the whole thing, cutting them off if necessary, but I couldn’t imagine a life without them. I couldn’t imagine that how I chose to live my life would be so terrible. It all felt so frustrating and I knew it would take time to work out just what it meant so I decided to get on with my life.
I finished getting ready with a spray of cologne and some deodorant under my arm pits and went about my day as usual. I checked the kitchen to make sure everything was clean and put away, checked the bathroom, and the living room, finally I collected my bag, made sure my books I needed for the day were there as well as my laptop and set out for campus.
It was an easy, familiar bus trip. I started thinking about my morning and I had to laugh a little about it to myself. The thought of my mother seeing me getting dressed and seeing the marks on my thighs was kind of amusing in a dark, sarcastic kind of way. Like when something embarrassing happens on television, I thought. Of course there is a big difference between life and television but the thought comforted me. And by the time I got there I reasoned that I didn’t have it so bad because I lived with Mr. Grant now. I had a job and money. They might stop paying my tuition but I could figure something out, probably. Besides having to drop out wouldn’t be so bad, I told myself. I could finally get my dream job of being a go-go dancer and/or porn star.
I got off the bus feeling better about the whole thing and it was far in the back of my mind by the time I got to the library. Once there I found a quiet spot, took out my books, and began to study. I didn’t seriously think about it again until I got to work that evening.
Being a bus boy is a quiet job. With the exception of a few words to coworkers and a few words to patrons there isn’t much that needs to be said if you’re paying attention. In some ways the less said the better. Of course it isn’t a job where I found I could really think too much either and I found myself making a few mistakes here and there, not really paying attention when people spoke to me. By the end of the night I snapped at Rose when she started to confront me about not cleaning up a table as quickly as I could have. She gave me this look and I considered whether I should start yelling or walk away. I decided to walk away.
By that time things had slowed down and I wasn’t surprised when Mr. Grant came out to the alleyway where I leaned against the brick wall wishing I had a cigarette. He moved to me quietly. I could tell he was serious but he was also being gentle. I admired that quality about him.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I replied.
It was my defense response. It usually worked with my parents. Sometimes it meant I didn’t want to talk at the moment but would later, but as I got older it just meant I wanted them to go away. He shifted on his feet, hands in his pockets, I knew he raised an eyebrow or two of curiosity at me.
“You’ve been on edge all night,” he said.
“You noticed?”
“Of course I did, so did everybody else. It’s been little things but still, the way you snapped at Rose in there was uncalled for and I want to know what’s going on. Is it something to do with school?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s nothing.”
“Hey, don’t lie to me. You can trust me.”
Somehow saying it to him felt even more humiliating than the actual incident. His opinion mattered to me and I wasn’t sure what he would say about how I had acted or what I thought about it. I also worried he might be embarrassed that she knew my secret, our secret, now and that he might be afraid. He might worry she would turn him into the police for abuse or confront him, maybe even kill him. No, not kill him, not my mother, but still it wasn’t good. I didn’t want to cause him pain. And yet as I stood there in that darkened alley that felt so much like a confessional I felt like just saying it. He was a strong man and I thought he might know just the right thing to do, just the right thing to say.
“My mother came over today and she wanted to know what I was doing for my birthday. We started to talk and were being civil, but then she came in the house and I was getting dressed and she saw my bruises.”
“What happened?”
“She started asking me about it and asked if you hit me. I told her you spanked me and it became this whole big thing. She ran out of the house.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I mean I wish it was a practical joke but it’s not.”
“Did she do anything else?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I answered.
“Well, I’m sorry you had to deal with that. Is there anything I can do?”
“Got a cigarette?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said. “There isn’t much she can do.”
“I know, it’s just, I don’t know. Everything was going so good.”
“It still is.” He leaned to me, found my lips in the dark and kissed me briefly before he pulled away. “But we need to get back in there. We’ll talk about it after work. Don’t worry about it. You’re an adult and it’s your life.”
He started to move and I stopped him with one hand against his shoulder. He paused and turned to me. I couldn’t make out the details of his face. I looked over his shoulder to the door that had remained closed, hoped no one was in the alley who could hear, who would care.
“This thing with my mother. I know I didn’t do the right thing. I know I was rude and everything but it wasn’t my fault,” I said.
“I know,” he replied before he started to step away.
“I don’t want you to spank me,” I said.
That caused him to stop and turn back to me. He got close and for a moment I thought he was going to hug me and kiss me. I could smell his breath and his cologne.
“I’m not going to spank you. Not for this,” he said, “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“Really?”
“Of course, I just wanted, I just want, to challenge you. It’s not about control. I don’t want to control you. I want to help you and given the situation I know it was very difficult, but what you said to Rose is a different matter. You need to control yourself.”
“I’ll apologize,” I said.
He closed the distance between us and gave me a kiss on the lips. I pulled him into a deeper embrace, pushed my tongue into his mouth for a moment before he pulled away and let out a laugh.
“Let’s get inside before they think I’m sexually harassing you or that we left for the night. I don’t want them misbehaving.”
He stepped aside and ushered me to the door where he playfully slapped me on the ass before I opened it. I laughed it off and held the door for him. The kitchen had a familiar warmth and I knew I was safe there.
You can find 5 other chapters on my erotica blog:
Ch 2 Pt 1, Ch 2 Pt 2, Ch 3, Ch 5, Ch 7, Ch 13
Ethan didn’t ask for another session with Mr. Grant and I didn’t bring it up. He told me about guys he met and that none of them seemed to be into spanking. He said most of them were too superficial. He said he liked the idea of someone being athletic, even a little self-centered, but when they started getting judgmental then he had a problem. Our conversations made me think about my own experiences ‘dating’ and how Tucker had been my ‘fuck-buddy’ but I didn’t miss it.
Being single, trying to find a new guy every night, hoping one of them would mean something all felt so desperate. I liked the idea of being with someone, having a home, a warm body to cling to in bed, and the feeling of knowing someone would be there for me.
Mr. Grant seemed to take little notice of my new distraction. He had been a little different since we got back from Las Vegas. He reprimanded me, gave me a few corrective smacks on the ass, but we hadn’t had an intense session like the ones we had before and we didn’t talk about Ethan. We did have sex on a regular basis though, usually after work. It was the perfect release when we got home and it helped us both get to sleep easier.
It was an ordinary Monday. We ate breakfast and made small talk. We showered together, fooled around a little under the water and I watched him get ready for the day. I walked him to the door, even gave him a peck on the cheek before I went to the couch where I thought about turning on the television before I thought to make sure there were no chores to do. I was reading over the list when there was a knock at the door. I was still in my underwear but somehow, for some reason, I didn’t think anything about it as I went to answer the door.
Somehow I had expected Mr. Grant to be there, maybe he had forgotten his keys. It wasn’t until I got to the door that I noticed my undressed state so I opened it partially to cover myself in some way. It could have been a meter reader, the mail man, or even a church group and I wouldn’t have cared. I was horrified to see it was my mother. She smiled at me and looked around a little, glanced over my shoulder before she looked me in the eye and cleared her throat. She smelled of an obnoxious floral perfume that she always wore and was dressed for work.
Right then my white briefs felt even more ridiculous even though I used to wear boxers around the house regularly when I lived there. I thought about closing the door on her, just panic and run away, but there was no where to run to and I knew she would knock again. She had caught me. I was in a precarious situation and she had definite intent but I thought we might be able to talk it out.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Good morning,” she replied.
I thought for a moment she would speak but instead she let the uncomfortable silence hang in the air. I was used to her doing this so I didn’t panic. I just looked her in the eye as I feigned sleepiness. But she didn’t speak, didn’t even budge.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Your birthday is coming up and since you’ve been spending so much time over here I thought I would stop by and see how you’re going to celebrate.”
“For my birthday, I don’t know. I don’t think we had any specific plans. I haven’t really mentioned it. I’m not even sure if he knows it’s coming up. Why?”
“Well, we were planning on getting you a gift and maybe having some kind of part but we weren’t sure if you might want to have it over here, or well, at home. We’d like it if you came over to visit us, maybe we can get a cake. I’m not saying you have to spend all day with us but we hardly see you anymore.”
I sighed. It was another one of her guilt trips partially based in reality. I should have felt bad about not spending time with them but I was also moving on with my life. They showed so little interest any other time, any other day.
“I’ll have to think about it but sure, I can come over.”
“I was hoping to get something a little more certain than that. Can I come inside?”
The door between us, my state of undress, all felt like minor things. She had come over for something else, something important, and yet I couldn’t help but feel a little angry. She was ruining my good time. I opened the door and invited her inside as I walked away back to the bedroom where I planned to get some pants. She followed after me. I didn’t expect her to keep after me like that. I didn’t bother to close the door before I picked up a pair of jeans from the bed and began to pull them up my legs.
“What’s that mark on your thigh?” she asked.
I zipped up my jeans and picked up a shirt, careful to determine the front from the back before I pulled it over my head, then down over my chest, adjusted it about my waist so it felt even. I didn’t want to tell her anything and yet I knew she wouldn’t leave me alone. I knew she would keep after me. She was like a dog with a bone.
“It’s nothing mom,” I said.
It wasn’t humiliation but anger that I felt. She had come over here, barged into the house, and now she was interfering with my life when before it meant so little to her. Who was she to criticize when she barely said anything before? I didn’t want to tell her about the spanking. It felt bad enough that she knew I was gay. How do you come out as kinky?
“That looked like bruising. How did you get that? Does he hit you? Is that what he does? Tell me and I’ll call the police.”
“He doesn’t hit me mom. He spanks me.”
“What do you mean he spanks you?”
“It’s part of the life we live. It’s part of our relationship.”
“What is that supposed to mean? You mean it’s sexual.”
I sighed. Here I was in my boyfriend’s house being interrogated about my sex life. My face warmed and I clenched my hands together just to keep from grabbing at something, breaking something. I wanted her out. I wanted to scare her. I wanted her to run. It felt impossibly difficult just to stand there with her staring at me.
“Yes mom, I like to be spanked,” I said. “Then we have sex.”
That’s when she let out a groan of disgust and walked away. I didn’t have to break anything after all just tell her. I looked to where she stood and listened as she walked out of the house. It felt like a victory. It felt like a loss. She would tell my father. The stereotypical response would be that he’d attack Mr. Grant, possibly have him arrested, but not my father, my father would invite me, us, to a therapy session, maybe at his office, probably over a cup of coffee. He’d be casual about it, not try to imply that anything was wrong nor that he had any suspicions. He’d treat, get me to talk, work his way into my comfort until he’d ask me and then he’d study me closely, look for some doubt, something to question. He had done it before when my grandfather died. We went to my favorite burger place, then he said it as I was eating.
My mother hadn’t been home when I got back from school. I suspected, just because all of my friends parents were divorced that he was going to tell me they were getting a divorce. I thought he’d ask me who I wanted to live with.
“I need to tell you something,” he said.
I had a few fries in my hand and was ready to dip them in ketchup. I put them to my mouth as if carrying through with what I was going to do would make it all seem normal. I looked at him.
“You’re grandfather died. He had a heart attack while playing golf. He was on the twelfth hole.”
I started to cry. The ketchup tasted sour and acidic. It wasn’t just my grandfather’s death but the feeling of having been caught in a trap. It was the worst meal of my life. I never felt the same about that burger place.
That was how my father did things. I knew that I would be walking through some dangerous territory. They wouldn’t understand. If I had to walk through it at all? Part of me thought about just ignoring the whole thing, cutting them off if necessary, but I couldn’t imagine a life without them. I couldn’t imagine that how I chose to live my life would be so terrible. It all felt so frustrating and I knew it would take time to work out just what it meant so I decided to get on with my life.
I finished getting ready with a spray of cologne and some deodorant under my arm pits and went about my day as usual. I checked the kitchen to make sure everything was clean and put away, checked the bathroom, and the living room, finally I collected my bag, made sure my books I needed for the day were there as well as my laptop and set out for campus.
It was an easy, familiar bus trip. I started thinking about my morning and I had to laugh a little about it to myself. The thought of my mother seeing me getting dressed and seeing the marks on my thighs was kind of amusing in a dark, sarcastic kind of way. Like when something embarrassing happens on television, I thought. Of course there is a big difference between life and television but the thought comforted me. And by the time I got there I reasoned that I didn’t have it so bad because I lived with Mr. Grant now. I had a job and money. They might stop paying my tuition but I could figure something out, probably. Besides having to drop out wouldn’t be so bad, I told myself. I could finally get my dream job of being a go-go dancer and/or porn star.
I got off the bus feeling better about the whole thing and it was far in the back of my mind by the time I got to the library. Once there I found a quiet spot, took out my books, and began to study. I didn’t seriously think about it again until I got to work that evening.
Being a bus boy is a quiet job. With the exception of a few words to coworkers and a few words to patrons there isn’t much that needs to be said if you’re paying attention. In some ways the less said the better. Of course it isn’t a job where I found I could really think too much either and I found myself making a few mistakes here and there, not really paying attention when people spoke to me. By the end of the night I snapped at Rose when she started to confront me about not cleaning up a table as quickly as I could have. She gave me this look and I considered whether I should start yelling or walk away. I decided to walk away.
By that time things had slowed down and I wasn’t surprised when Mr. Grant came out to the alleyway where I leaned against the brick wall wishing I had a cigarette. He moved to me quietly. I could tell he was serious but he was also being gentle. I admired that quality about him.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I replied.
It was my defense response. It usually worked with my parents. Sometimes it meant I didn’t want to talk at the moment but would later, but as I got older it just meant I wanted them to go away. He shifted on his feet, hands in his pockets, I knew he raised an eyebrow or two of curiosity at me.
“You’ve been on edge all night,” he said.
“You noticed?”
“Of course I did, so did everybody else. It’s been little things but still, the way you snapped at Rose in there was uncalled for and I want to know what’s going on. Is it something to do with school?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s nothing.”
“Hey, don’t lie to me. You can trust me.”
Somehow saying it to him felt even more humiliating than the actual incident. His opinion mattered to me and I wasn’t sure what he would say about how I had acted or what I thought about it. I also worried he might be embarrassed that she knew my secret, our secret, now and that he might be afraid. He might worry she would turn him into the police for abuse or confront him, maybe even kill him. No, not kill him, not my mother, but still it wasn’t good. I didn’t want to cause him pain. And yet as I stood there in that darkened alley that felt so much like a confessional I felt like just saying it. He was a strong man and I thought he might know just the right thing to do, just the right thing to say.
“My mother came over today and she wanted to know what I was doing for my birthday. We started to talk and were being civil, but then she came in the house and I was getting dressed and she saw my bruises.”
“What happened?”
“She started asking me about it and asked if you hit me. I told her you spanked me and it became this whole big thing. She ran out of the house.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I mean I wish it was a practical joke but it’s not.”
“Did she do anything else?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I answered.
“Well, I’m sorry you had to deal with that. Is there anything I can do?”
“Got a cigarette?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said. “There isn’t much she can do.”
“I know, it’s just, I don’t know. Everything was going so good.”
“It still is.” He leaned to me, found my lips in the dark and kissed me briefly before he pulled away. “But we need to get back in there. We’ll talk about it after work. Don’t worry about it. You’re an adult and it’s your life.”
He started to move and I stopped him with one hand against his shoulder. He paused and turned to me. I couldn’t make out the details of his face. I looked over his shoulder to the door that had remained closed, hoped no one was in the alley who could hear, who would care.
“This thing with my mother. I know I didn’t do the right thing. I know I was rude and everything but it wasn’t my fault,” I said.
“I know,” he replied before he started to step away.
“I don’t want you to spank me,” I said.
That caused him to stop and turn back to me. He got close and for a moment I thought he was going to hug me and kiss me. I could smell his breath and his cologne.
“I’m not going to spank you. Not for this,” he said, “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“Really?”
“Of course, I just wanted, I just want, to challenge you. It’s not about control. I don’t want to control you. I want to help you and given the situation I know it was very difficult, but what you said to Rose is a different matter. You need to control yourself.”
“I’ll apologize,” I said.
He closed the distance between us and gave me a kiss on the lips. I pulled him into a deeper embrace, pushed my tongue into his mouth for a moment before he pulled away and let out a laugh.
“Let’s get inside before they think I’m sexually harassing you or that we left for the night. I don’t want them misbehaving.”
He stepped aside and ushered me to the door where he playfully slapped me on the ass before I opened it. I laughed it off and held the door for him. The kitchen had a familiar warmth and I knew I was safe there.
You can find 5 other chapters on my erotica blog:
Ch 2 Pt 1, Ch 2 Pt 2, Ch 3, Ch 5, Ch 7, Ch 13
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Act Your Age Ch 01: New Neighbor
Shane, a directionless 20 year old living with his parents and attending community college, is sitting on his porch one lazy day when he spots Grant a new next door neighbor. Grant is handsome, older, and successful. Shane is attracted to the older man, wants to start a relationship but Grant has just gotten out of a long-term relationship with a man and isn’t ready for commitment.
Worse, he sees Shane as too young, too impulsive, and misbehaved, but when Shane won’t give up Grant challenges him to a little discipline.
With my parents away at work and not feeling like studying or doing my homework from my classes at the community college I decided to take one of my father’s cigars from his office and one of his beers from the fridge and sit out on our porch. I had my own pack of cigarettes but there was something nice about a cigar every once in a while, especially when I stole them from my father.
It was after eleven, I had just gotten up and had breakfast but I couldn’t go anywhere because my car was wrecked and in our garage taking up the only space. My mom didn’t want it to be seen by the neighbors.
The accident was bad enough that I had to walk with a cane and my parents felt it was punishment enough that they barely said anything. They didn’t want to inhibit my creativity and my own internal agency. My father was a therapist with his own problems and my mother, well my mother worked in pharmaceuticals.
I had few plans for after high school. My father had something else in mind when he told me months before I graduated that he wanted me to go to the local community college. He said I needed more of an education and that education was something that became more difficult later in life. I thought I would take a few classes and if they didn’t go well I could move on to something else. What I didn’t expect was to start that summer right after graduating. When my friends were partying, sleeping late, and goofing off I had to study. It was almost worth it because I was about to get my Associate’s degree and thinking about where to finish my Bachelor’s degree.
I had been sipping at my beer and smoking my cigar for some time when I saw the two moving vans arrive for the next door neighbor’s house. The first truck had a hard idle and I could hear the suspension creak when it rounded corners and pulled into the driveway. The second truck parked on the street. I thought anyone who used it was at risk of it breaking down, or worse, possibly dying which is probably why I stared to see who would get out of the driver’s seat.
At first I thought there were four movers until I determined one of them was directing the others and dressed more formally, the way adults dress when not at work. I could tell by the way he moved and talked that he was a rugged type. I watched him as he moved and talked. I could tell the other men were movers, used to being ordered around, and that he didn’t fit in with them yet they respected him somehow. He was the first to open the truck and grab a box. He worked with the men as they carried everything inside, often grabbing the second half of the heaviest objects. I watched him as he worked, always lifting with his legs.
He had to be pretty rich to move into a house in our neighborhood but I was surprised when no one else showed. No wife, no kids, just him and the movers. I had noticed the ‘For Sale’ sign had been taken down weeks prior and asked my mother but she didn’t know who had bought the place. She had been spying on the realtors whenever she could, even introducing herself to people who were looking, but I didn’t really expect her to know. I thought it would be another couple like my parents.
At one point he stopped to catch his breath as I was staring at him, wanting him to do something where I would see some part of his body, the skin of his arm, the cleft of a butt cheek when he looked directly at me and waved. I thought for a moment that I had been caught and was being signaled in some way but then I thought about the distance between us and I knew he didn’t really know, couldn’t be sure about what I was looking at so I just waved back as simply and insincerely as I could.
They made a second and third trip while I watched. It was the most interesting thing. I had already watched a marathon of television the night before. The cigar went out several times before I gave up on it and I finished off two beers, even had a sandwich.
After they unloaded the last moving truck he drove away with the movers and I thought it was over until he returned about an hour later in a truck with a bag of fast food and some beers. I was feeling curious plus I thought him being a single guy who still looked young he might feel some pity for me at the age of 20 and stuck without a car. I got to my feet and trying to look extra pitiful with my cane I headed over.
The front glass door was closed but the wooden front door was open. I could see him right away on the couch with an open laptop on the coffee table. He was shirtless but I couldn’t make out much detail through the glare. I watched him eat some fries before I knocked. He was even more handsome than I had thought. He was older, at least ten years. He smiled and waved me inside but when I tried the handle I found it was locked.
He got up and moved to the door, unlocked it, and pushed it open for me. I could see his muscled, hairy chest clearly now. He had broad, flat pectoral muscles and a washboard stomach but I didn’t dare try to count the abs, though I could see almost everything because he wasn’t wearing a belt so his jeans were loose about his hips. I couldn’t see the waistband for his underwear. I felt my face was hot and I was feeling dizzy from the stimulation so I faked a cough and instead I looked up into his eyes. He looked professional but casual, a five o’clock shadow. I could still see the whole upper body of him, the way his chest muscles stretched, his biceps flexed, muscles that rippled naturally.
“Hello there,” he said.
“Hi,” I replied.
There was a smell of cologne and sweat in the air as well as grease and ketchup. He motioned for me to enter so I did. He let the door close behind me before going back to the couch. He was comfortable but maybe a little annoyed by my presence. I worked my way close to him. The closer I got the more I felt some kind of energy, an attraction like I had only felt for few other men in my life. It felt like a tingling sensation on my skin and grabbed at my stomach making me realize I was holding my breath.
He watched me as I moved and I stared back at him. A few feet away and by the recliner, I thought to sit but felt it was too presumptuous so I leaned against my cane.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Not bad,” he said. “Have a seat. I was just about to get a shower but I thought I would check my email first.”
I moved in front of the recliner, still keeping my eyes on him, and sat. I could tell it was high quality just from sitting but when I touched it with my fingers it felt great. I looked around at the walls but they were bare so I looked back to him and his computer.
“I’m Shane,” I said.
“Mr. Grant,” he said. “Sorry, I’m being rude, I just am trying to do everything at once.”
Who introduces themselves like that? He wanted me to call him Mr. Grant? What was next, sir?
“Moving in today,” I said. It was rhetorical, or else he didn’t take the bait. “I would’ve helped but I got this thing.”
“I saw you on the porch. Laid up with that cane huh?”
“Car accident,” I said, “nothing big just got a little hurt. I would have helped but I’m not sure what I could have done.”
“At least you get a day off from high school though right?”
“Community college,” I said. “And I don’t have class today.”
I was feeling a little irritated by him assuming I was in high school so I decided to show a little courage. I pulled my pack of cigarettes from my pocket and held them out to offer him one.
“Do you smoke?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “Cigars mostly. Do you know a good place?”
“No, I get mine from my father’s office,” I said.
“And he’s okay with you taking his cigars?”
I nodded.
He shook his head before he looked back to his computer. He moved the mouse a little, clicked on something but he looked frustrated.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just with moving and not having any internet service yet it’s kind of annoying. There’s an open network but I barely get a signal and I’m trying to download some paperwork.”
I immediately thought to offer him the password to my home wi-fi but then I thought about my parents and worried about whether I could trust him. I grimaced at the predicament and nodded to show sympathy. I wanted to help him. I wanted to impress him. I wanted to be resourceful. And yet all of those feelings worked against me telling him because I was afraid to look weak.
It’s no big deal, I told myself. Just let life happen and it will all sort itself out. I played with my cane a little between my hands waiting for him to say something else but he didn’t. I knew I would have to keep the conversation going.
“So what brings you here?” I asked.
“I’m starting a business,” he said. “That’s why I need these documents.”
He leaned forward, squinted, and something inside of me snapped.
“You could use my parents’ network,” I said.
He looked up to me.
“Really, it’s fine. I mean you’re getting your own soon. It would just be temporary.”
He smiled.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s easier if I just type it in,” I said before getting to my feet. I hobbled around the coffee table and he moved down the couch. I sat beside him and looked to the screen. I wasn’t sure what I would find there, maybe a picture of a half-naked man for the wallpaper or something to tell me he was gay but there wasn’t anything there.
Instead there was an empty email inbox and a meter showing how slow the data was being transferred. I found the network selector, found my parents’ network, and typed in the password, a phrase I had made up myself. The connection was made and the data rate jumped.
“Hey, that’s great,” he said.
I smiled and looked to him. He was older than me. He was more muscled than me. And sitting this close to him I could tell he radiated masculinity. I thought for a moment he was straight and that I was being foolish. I had fallen for straight guys before in high school and my first year of college, befriended them but ultimately the relationships didn’t go anywhere. How could they?
“I think I can handle it from here,” he said.
“Right,” I said.
I looked to his email and saw lots of new messages from lots of different people. There was a Wendy, a Michael, and a Tom. I got to my feet and made my way back to the recliner where I sat and looked back to him. I was feeling he buzz from the two beers wearing off and there was the reminder of sobriety. I didn’t want it to end and I felt bold enough to ask him.
“So how about a celebration beer? I saw you bring them inside.”
He looked up to me but he didn’t smile. He looked angry. Either because I had been spying or the stupidity to ask.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-one,” I said.
“When were you born?”
I thought about it for a moment before I realized I just had to subtract one year from my actual birth year which I told him.
“You had to think about it,” he said.
“Really,” I said, “okay, I’m actually twenty but I drink all of the time."
“You drink all of the time?”
“I have a tolerance for it.”
He looked to my cane, then up to me.
“I wasn’t drinking and driving,” I said. “This was sober.”
He looked back to his computer.
“No beer?” I asked.
“No beer,” he said. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea if you’re not legal drinking age and this is my first day in town. What would your parents say?”
I let out a sigh and looked to his walls again. I looked at the windows that didn’t have curtains. I looked to the boxes. I could hear cars on the street and children screaming at each other. Our little moment was over, I had pissed him off, and there was nothing else for me to do. Gay or straight it didn’t matter. He didn’t like me.
“Well,” I said. “I have to get going.”
He looked to me. I got to my feet and he stood as well. He crossed the distance between us and extended his hand which I shook. He smiled and I smiled back. We had made up but I was still leaving, he was still escorting me out. He walked with me to the door where he opened it and ushered me out, then closed it behind me. I turned to him and waved before turning away and heading back home.
Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , Chapter 7
Worse, he sees Shane as too young, too impulsive, and misbehaved, but when Shane won’t give up Grant challenges him to a little discipline.
With my parents away at work and not feeling like studying or doing my homework from my classes at the community college I decided to take one of my father’s cigars from his office and one of his beers from the fridge and sit out on our porch. I had my own pack of cigarettes but there was something nice about a cigar every once in a while, especially when I stole them from my father.
It was after eleven, I had just gotten up and had breakfast but I couldn’t go anywhere because my car was wrecked and in our garage taking up the only space. My mom didn’t want it to be seen by the neighbors.
The accident was bad enough that I had to walk with a cane and my parents felt it was punishment enough that they barely said anything. They didn’t want to inhibit my creativity and my own internal agency. My father was a therapist with his own problems and my mother, well my mother worked in pharmaceuticals.
I had few plans for after high school. My father had something else in mind when he told me months before I graduated that he wanted me to go to the local community college. He said I needed more of an education and that education was something that became more difficult later in life. I thought I would take a few classes and if they didn’t go well I could move on to something else. What I didn’t expect was to start that summer right after graduating. When my friends were partying, sleeping late, and goofing off I had to study. It was almost worth it because I was about to get my Associate’s degree and thinking about where to finish my Bachelor’s degree.
I had been sipping at my beer and smoking my cigar for some time when I saw the two moving vans arrive for the next door neighbor’s house. The first truck had a hard idle and I could hear the suspension creak when it rounded corners and pulled into the driveway. The second truck parked on the street. I thought anyone who used it was at risk of it breaking down, or worse, possibly dying which is probably why I stared to see who would get out of the driver’s seat.
At first I thought there were four movers until I determined one of them was directing the others and dressed more formally, the way adults dress when not at work. I could tell by the way he moved and talked that he was a rugged type. I watched him as he moved and talked. I could tell the other men were movers, used to being ordered around, and that he didn’t fit in with them yet they respected him somehow. He was the first to open the truck and grab a box. He worked with the men as they carried everything inside, often grabbing the second half of the heaviest objects. I watched him as he worked, always lifting with his legs.
He had to be pretty rich to move into a house in our neighborhood but I was surprised when no one else showed. No wife, no kids, just him and the movers. I had noticed the ‘For Sale’ sign had been taken down weeks prior and asked my mother but she didn’t know who had bought the place. She had been spying on the realtors whenever she could, even introducing herself to people who were looking, but I didn’t really expect her to know. I thought it would be another couple like my parents.
At one point he stopped to catch his breath as I was staring at him, wanting him to do something where I would see some part of his body, the skin of his arm, the cleft of a butt cheek when he looked directly at me and waved. I thought for a moment that I had been caught and was being signaled in some way but then I thought about the distance between us and I knew he didn’t really know, couldn’t be sure about what I was looking at so I just waved back as simply and insincerely as I could.
They made a second and third trip while I watched. It was the most interesting thing. I had already watched a marathon of television the night before. The cigar went out several times before I gave up on it and I finished off two beers, even had a sandwich.
After they unloaded the last moving truck he drove away with the movers and I thought it was over until he returned about an hour later in a truck with a bag of fast food and some beers. I was feeling curious plus I thought him being a single guy who still looked young he might feel some pity for me at the age of 20 and stuck without a car. I got to my feet and trying to look extra pitiful with my cane I headed over.
The front glass door was closed but the wooden front door was open. I could see him right away on the couch with an open laptop on the coffee table. He was shirtless but I couldn’t make out much detail through the glare. I watched him eat some fries before I knocked. He was even more handsome than I had thought. He was older, at least ten years. He smiled and waved me inside but when I tried the handle I found it was locked.
He got up and moved to the door, unlocked it, and pushed it open for me. I could see his muscled, hairy chest clearly now. He had broad, flat pectoral muscles and a washboard stomach but I didn’t dare try to count the abs, though I could see almost everything because he wasn’t wearing a belt so his jeans were loose about his hips. I couldn’t see the waistband for his underwear. I felt my face was hot and I was feeling dizzy from the stimulation so I faked a cough and instead I looked up into his eyes. He looked professional but casual, a five o’clock shadow. I could still see the whole upper body of him, the way his chest muscles stretched, his biceps flexed, muscles that rippled naturally.
“Hello there,” he said.
“Hi,” I replied.
There was a smell of cologne and sweat in the air as well as grease and ketchup. He motioned for me to enter so I did. He let the door close behind me before going back to the couch. He was comfortable but maybe a little annoyed by my presence. I worked my way close to him. The closer I got the more I felt some kind of energy, an attraction like I had only felt for few other men in my life. It felt like a tingling sensation on my skin and grabbed at my stomach making me realize I was holding my breath.
He watched me as I moved and I stared back at him. A few feet away and by the recliner, I thought to sit but felt it was too presumptuous so I leaned against my cane.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Not bad,” he said. “Have a seat. I was just about to get a shower but I thought I would check my email first.”
I moved in front of the recliner, still keeping my eyes on him, and sat. I could tell it was high quality just from sitting but when I touched it with my fingers it felt great. I looked around at the walls but they were bare so I looked back to him and his computer.
“I’m Shane,” I said.
“Mr. Grant,” he said. “Sorry, I’m being rude, I just am trying to do everything at once.”
Who introduces themselves like that? He wanted me to call him Mr. Grant? What was next, sir?
“Moving in today,” I said. It was rhetorical, or else he didn’t take the bait. “I would’ve helped but I got this thing.”
“I saw you on the porch. Laid up with that cane huh?”
“Car accident,” I said, “nothing big just got a little hurt. I would have helped but I’m not sure what I could have done.”
“At least you get a day off from high school though right?”
“Community college,” I said. “And I don’t have class today.”
I was feeling a little irritated by him assuming I was in high school so I decided to show a little courage. I pulled my pack of cigarettes from my pocket and held them out to offer him one.
“Do you smoke?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “Cigars mostly. Do you know a good place?”
“No, I get mine from my father’s office,” I said.
“And he’s okay with you taking his cigars?”
I nodded.
He shook his head before he looked back to his computer. He moved the mouse a little, clicked on something but he looked frustrated.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just with moving and not having any internet service yet it’s kind of annoying. There’s an open network but I barely get a signal and I’m trying to download some paperwork.”
I immediately thought to offer him the password to my home wi-fi but then I thought about my parents and worried about whether I could trust him. I grimaced at the predicament and nodded to show sympathy. I wanted to help him. I wanted to impress him. I wanted to be resourceful. And yet all of those feelings worked against me telling him because I was afraid to look weak.
It’s no big deal, I told myself. Just let life happen and it will all sort itself out. I played with my cane a little between my hands waiting for him to say something else but he didn’t. I knew I would have to keep the conversation going.
“So what brings you here?” I asked.
“I’m starting a business,” he said. “That’s why I need these documents.”
He leaned forward, squinted, and something inside of me snapped.
“You could use my parents’ network,” I said.
He looked up to me.
“Really, it’s fine. I mean you’re getting your own soon. It would just be temporary.”
He smiled.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s easier if I just type it in,” I said before getting to my feet. I hobbled around the coffee table and he moved down the couch. I sat beside him and looked to the screen. I wasn’t sure what I would find there, maybe a picture of a half-naked man for the wallpaper or something to tell me he was gay but there wasn’t anything there.
Instead there was an empty email inbox and a meter showing how slow the data was being transferred. I found the network selector, found my parents’ network, and typed in the password, a phrase I had made up myself. The connection was made and the data rate jumped.
“Hey, that’s great,” he said.
I smiled and looked to him. He was older than me. He was more muscled than me. And sitting this close to him I could tell he radiated masculinity. I thought for a moment he was straight and that I was being foolish. I had fallen for straight guys before in high school and my first year of college, befriended them but ultimately the relationships didn’t go anywhere. How could they?
“I think I can handle it from here,” he said.
“Right,” I said.
I looked to his email and saw lots of new messages from lots of different people. There was a Wendy, a Michael, and a Tom. I got to my feet and made my way back to the recliner where I sat and looked back to him. I was feeling he buzz from the two beers wearing off and there was the reminder of sobriety. I didn’t want it to end and I felt bold enough to ask him.
“So how about a celebration beer? I saw you bring them inside.”
He looked up to me but he didn’t smile. He looked angry. Either because I had been spying or the stupidity to ask.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-one,” I said.
“When were you born?”
I thought about it for a moment before I realized I just had to subtract one year from my actual birth year which I told him.
“You had to think about it,” he said.
“Really,” I said, “okay, I’m actually twenty but I drink all of the time."
“You drink all of the time?”
“I have a tolerance for it.”
He looked to my cane, then up to me.
“I wasn’t drinking and driving,” I said. “This was sober.”
He looked back to his computer.
“No beer?” I asked.
“No beer,” he said. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea if you’re not legal drinking age and this is my first day in town. What would your parents say?”
I let out a sigh and looked to his walls again. I looked at the windows that didn’t have curtains. I looked to the boxes. I could hear cars on the street and children screaming at each other. Our little moment was over, I had pissed him off, and there was nothing else for me to do. Gay or straight it didn’t matter. He didn’t like me.
“Well,” I said. “I have to get going.”
He looked to me. I got to my feet and he stood as well. He crossed the distance between us and extended his hand which I shook. He smiled and I smiled back. We had made up but I was still leaving, he was still escorting me out. He walked with me to the door where he opened it and ushered me out, then closed it behind me. I turned to him and waved before turning away and heading back home.
Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , Chapter 7
Monday, March 31, 2014
Domestic Abuse Representation in LGBTQ Writing
Since February 10, 2014 I have been writing a fictional portrayal of young, gay man trying to get out of an domestic abuse relationship because I feel like queer fiction, gay fiction, needs to add more subjects and content, more diversity, to its wheel house, to represent those who are not normally represented.
It's not a popular subject. I can understand why people don't want to talk about it. It's frustrating. It's real and it can be disturbing for people who never experienced it because it is closer than the boogeyman or some monster in a horror movie.
Sometimes the closest I got to finding some kind of representation of the topic was in bdsm erotica, novels trying to deal with PTSD and trauma. While I appreciate these efforts I worry that the intention is muddled by the other content, not maliciously but incidentally. For some those subjects are even closely related as they equate bdsm with domestic abuse. I don't equate the two and in my personal life and fictional portrayals look to define the two as separate subjects.
My story line is post break up, post abuse, and I consider other characters besides the subject of the story line (Josh), like Spencer who let's him move into his apartment and develops a crush on the recovering character. In one part natural attraction and another it is about 'coming to the rescue', a sort of paternalistic urge, especially given their difference in age. And yet Spencer is terribly insecure with his own past and troubles.
Can they overcome their fears? Will they endure? And can they depend on their friends for support?
insidethebeltwaygayfiction.blogspot.com
It's not a popular subject. I can understand why people don't want to talk about it. It's frustrating. It's real and it can be disturbing for people who never experienced it because it is closer than the boogeyman or some monster in a horror movie.
Sometimes the closest I got to finding some kind of representation of the topic was in bdsm erotica, novels trying to deal with PTSD and trauma. While I appreciate these efforts I worry that the intention is muddled by the other content, not maliciously but incidentally. For some those subjects are even closely related as they equate bdsm with domestic abuse. I don't equate the two and in my personal life and fictional portrayals look to define the two as separate subjects.
My story line is post break up, post abuse, and I consider other characters besides the subject of the story line (Josh), like Spencer who let's him move into his apartment and develops a crush on the recovering character. In one part natural attraction and another it is about 'coming to the rescue', a sort of paternalistic urge, especially given their difference in age. And yet Spencer is terribly insecure with his own past and troubles.
Can they overcome their fears? Will they endure? And can they depend on their friends for support?
insidethebeltwaygayfiction.blogspot.com
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Friday, June 28, 2013
Controller Cords (novella)
Eighteen and just graduated from high school a young man thinks he has little to do until he goes to college but an old friend has a distraction in the way of a kinky weekend. What are his limits? What can he learn about himself?
Read an excerpt: brieflytoldstories.blogspot.com/
Buy it at Amazon.com
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