Picking Scabs

A very excited version of my dad called me this week asking for computer help with a video. (Not that I have any computer skills beyond ability to type and click a mouse.) Dad had found a video on YouTube that he desperately wanted to save onto his computer’s hard drive and/or some other media. The video was a grainy black and white from the early days of VHS, when the recording camera needed a tripod because it was that heavy. The video was eight minutes long, eight minutes that are legend in our family: the 98-lb state final wrestling match, a match which would end up being my father’s only chance at coaching a state champion.

Jimmy’s path to that finals match has also been memorialized, to the point that the family can recite the names, schools and match scores from his other opponents. And of course we remember that final match score: 8-7 in favor of Jimmy’s opponent. What I remember best about that match was that Jimmy was putting the other kid on his back at the end, in four or five seconds more seconds he would have won, but time ran out. What my dad remembers best is that he told Jimmy not to try that arm drag a third time, that the other kid would be ready for it. Whatever led to the loss, I still couldn’t believe how happy my dad was to find that match. He had it playing the whole time he talked to me on the phone. To me, reliving that moment like that, albeit in a fuzzy black and white, was like picking a scab so that it can’t heal. Why would someone want to relive that?

Okay, I admit it. I have a serious weakness for reunion romances. Most of my characters, including those in my WIP, are driven by an opportunity at a second chance to make things right.

But that’s fiction. And what I love angsting over in fiction is not quite what I enjoy experiencing first hand in real life. Revisiting a crushing disappointment, like that finals match, or missing out on college honors by two one-hundredths of a point (if I’d known, I’d have done that extra paper in that basket-weaving course) or perusing a three-inch high stack of rejection letters is not fun for me. I run from unpleasant realities into fiction as fast as my imagination can carry me. After all, that’s what fiction is for. Escape. I don’t even mind fiction that makes me sob, as long as I get my happy ending.

I should add that my dad couldn’t be prouder of Jimmy if he had won the States. Despite a serious disadvantage in size and height, Jimmy went on to realize his dream of becoming a Navy Seal. My dad measured his accomplishments as a coach not in the hardware of awards, but in molding boys into strong, responsible men.

But although I’ll help my dad store his video, I won’t be watching it. Knowing that you can’t rewrite real history, that second chances in real life don’t come along very often, is why I would always prefer to take my reality with a big healthy slice of imagination.

The Annual LRC Awards on Now

Voting for the LRC's "Best of 2009" Awards begins on FEBRUARY 15th and ends on FEBRUARY 22nd.

I’m up for three and other’s here are up as well!

Best Sci Fi/Futuristic Book:

The Edge of Desperation (Jason Edding and James Buchanan-MLR)

 

Best GBLT author 2009

James Buchanan

 

Best Mystery/Suspense 2009

Personal Demons (James Buchanan-MLR)

 

To vote:
Email  dawn_roberto AT yahoo DOT com with "LRC's "BEST OF 2009" Awards" in subject. If this is not in the subject it will not be counted. You are to vote from the nominee list on your pick. The list will be up in our loop files under "LRC Best of award nominees 2009".

All entries are to be in by 2/23/2010. Any entries received after that will NOT be counted and automatically deleted.

Here’s an Excerpt from Personal Demons

Excerpt:

Hours later, Chase stared at the drink in his hand. Maybe this was just a bad idea. He’d been in the City of Angels for four hours, tops, and he hadn’t even talked to anyone yet. Well, during dinner, he’d chatted it up with a waiter who looked way too young to be serving drinks. The kid recommended the bar Chase leaned on now. Relaxed, trendy — but not — and way crowded; Silverlake’s low-key answer to West Hollywood’s forced urban hip.

Nude women stared vacantly off red and gold walls. Chase figured he should have specified somewhere more overtly gay and less just gay-friendly when asking for recommends. People, of all orientations and ages, lounged on Moroccan-styled couches along the wall. Maybe he would have had better odds on a weekend, Chase mused into the amber liquid swirling in his glass.

“Wow.” A voice at his shoulder jerked Chase’s attention from his self-pity.

He looked up into a bright smile and warm skin. “What?” Damn, the guy was good looking. Not in that stunning movie star kinda way, but with a pleasant face, easy body language and dark eyes. A choker of red and white beads flashed at the open collar of his white shirt. Both colors set off the man’s caramel skin.

Another smile flashed as the guy tapped Chase’s tumbler. “You managed to get a drink.” He laughed and the sound traveled straight down Chase’s spine to his hips. “Takes an act of congress to get service here.”

“Oh,” Chase’s face felt strange. Then he realized it was from an ear-splitting grin. Shit, if that didn’t come off as desperate, Chase would eat his badge. He coughed and raised his glass to his lips in a badly concealed effort to mask the smile. “I laid the money down before I ordered.”

The guy slid onto the stool next to Chase. “Explains it then.” He leaned in and drummed his fingers on the bar. “My name’s Enrique, I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

Enrique’s hip pressed against Chase’s thigh. When Enrique shifted, a hard bulge rubbed Chase through his jeans. Okay, Chase mused, so maybe the waiter had been on the money about the place. “I would be surprised if you had,” Chase nudged back a little, letting Enrique know he felt it, “Just in town for business.”

“What kind of business?” The question came loaded. Chase wasn’t sure with exactly what. A strange wariness seemed to lurk under the words. For a moment, Chase toyed with a few implausible explanations and then figured he just didn’t care. Because the hand that dropped down onto his thigh wasn’t wary in the least. Easy, light, Enrique traced the inseam of Chase’s jeans with his fingers.

Refusing to elaborate, Chase muttered, “Just business,” as he knocked back his drink. Chase shrugged and spread his legs a little wider.

“Really,” Enrique moved in closer, “I thought it might be scoping twenty-somethings out looking for their sugar daddies.” The faded edge of cologne threaded under the scent of guy in a hot, crowded bar.

Chase snorted. A sense of humor, he liked that. Not that it was a requirement, but it made it nice, friendly. “The problem with twenty-somethings is they’re twenty-something.” He slid his arm around Enrique to cup a nicely toned ass through expensive slacks.

Damn, if Enrique moved any closer, he’d end up on Chase’s lap. “How ‘bout a thirty-something then?”

“You’re, ah, pretty direct there.” Chase teased. Actually, for a bar pickup, Enrique was beating about the bush a lot. Half the time a nod, a smile and a jerk of the chin arranged everything.

Enrique leaned in and laughed in his ear. “No, pretty direct is, do you wanna fuck?”

He squeezed Enrique’s butt. “Is that an offer?” Felt good.

No laughter this time. Enrique hissed, “Want it to be?”

“Yeah.” Chase stood.

“Then it’s an offer.”

Noel

© 2007 James Buchanan

Technorati Tags: James Buchanan,free fiction,Christmas

Much thanks to Reb, Syd, CB, Nicole and SamC who gave me inspiration even if I couldn’t quite work in the snowmobile, stalker and nutcracker scenes.

“What are you doing?” An irritated, but cultured voice sounded behind Les. Backing it, the boisterous cheer of a holiday party cut the night. Part Christmas, part end of exams, and part wrap party for the local university’s production of A Christmas Carol throbbed full swing. Over indulgence hounded Les. Too much drinking with people he really didn’t care for. He needed the money, the college needed a sound tech… it was decent enough for a student job. And at least he didn’t have to pretend to be straight around theater geeks.

“Writing my name in the snow.” Les growled, glancing over his shoulder while tying not to get anything on his combat boots. Oh, Dear God, the questioner was wearing a Santa hat pushed back on his head. Blond curls poked out underneath. That was almost more Christmas cheer then Les could stomach.

Chad Mitchell stood staring at Les while he had his dick in his hand taking a piss. Dockers, button-down green, plaid shirt over a white t-shirt set off indignant blue eyes. “You could have used the bathroom inside.” Freckles dotted the bridge of his nose. His old style hunter’s coat couldn’t keep the frost from tinting sharp cheeks. Shit, Les cursed under his breath, accosted by an LL Bean catalog while taking a leak.

“Right.” Les tucked himself away and yanked up the fly of his black jeans. That done, he shoved his hands in the pockets for warmth and shouldered deeper into his army surplus Patton style jacket. “And stand in line with all those giggling girly things that can’t hold their beer? Much easier this way.”

For all of the bad taste, Les’ brain did a little stop-start routine when he turned full on. The first full-dress rehearsal, Les memorized each line and angle to Chad’s body. All and nothing was left to the imagination in the grey velvet and linen the costumers pulled together. Every time he saw Chad drift out to stage center in those tight Dickenson Era pants and cutaway coat, he had the same reaction. Chad was tall and not too bulky under layers of winter clothes. The line costume indicated a nice butt and sculpted body lurked underneath. In the darkness of the sound booth, Les wanked himself off while just watching Chad move. Thank God there weren’t many cues during Chad’s scenes.

Tight and proud, full lips crawled into a near sneer. “You just have to be that way, huh. All angsty and self righteous?” The blond actor tucked his own hands under his armpits.

It was Goddamn freezing out behind the house. Snow flurries fluttered down. One landed on the ring in Les’ nose and turned it to ice. He sneezed. Back, over a wool cloaked shoulder, fairy lights danced through an over wrought Christmas tree framed Currier and Ives style in the window. Fuck, Chad looked like a post card. Put a stamp on Chad and mail it to Les’ bedroom. Muted strains of the little drummer boy drifted around them.

“Always.” Les agreed. Cold seeped through waffle soles and Les hopped from one foot to the other trying to keep feeling in his toes. Blondie glared. “You theater jerks, so pompous. Man you guys suck.” He laughed. “Scrooge… repent, turn back before it’s too late.” Throwing as much over emphasis as he could into the line, Les teased. He draped his right arm before his eyes and threw his head back, “Don’t end up like me.”

Indignant, Chad’s lips went thin. “That’s not my line.”

Les waived it off. “Shit, you all take this college theater shit way to serious. Les,” he drew out his own name with a starlet’s falsetto, “my mic’s not right. How am ever going to emote correctly with this crappy sound system.”

Chad snorted. “I never said anything like that.”

“No.” It was Les’ turn to glare. “You didn’t even talk to me when I fitted you out for you wireless.”

Glancing off towards the house, Chad seemed embarrassed. “You didn’t seem like you wanted to talk with me during production.”

Les’ eyebrows crawled up. Running his tongue along the edge of his teeth, the little bar through the muscle clicked against enamel. “Why would you want to talk to someone like me when you’re surrounded by all those so cool people? What would all your artsy buddies think? Oh, look at Chad, he’s talking with the techie nerd.”

“Maybe ‘cause under all that black and attitude you’re kinda cute.” The look went from embarrassed to sly. “Even if you’re a gothed out computer geek with a good knowledge of sound systems.”

“Me?” Cute and Les rarely occurred in the same sentence.

“Yeah.” Chad looked back toward the house. A mix of desire and distasted flew across his face. Then he turned back to Les. “Wanna blow and grab some hot chocolate?”

“I don’t think they have any hot chocolate there.” Les shook a dusting of snow off his head. Crystals caught the light in Chad’s blue eyes.

“Neither do I.” Chad smiled. “But I know I have some at my place.”

Les laughed. Then he stepped in to Chad’s personal space. Suddenly all hard and tight and tense the other man almost drew away. Spicy cologne rose from his collar, wrapping Les’ senses in thoughts of mulled cider and fireplaces.

In his mind, he could see firelight tracing the edges of those sharp cheeks. Full lips responded to every kiss as Chad sighed and shuddered. So silken-hard and so demanding, Chad’s prick swelled in his hand. Both of them locked together as Les rammed into the tight, hot confines of Chad’s body. Frenzied, Chad rode him. Sweat sparkled across their skin… little jewels caught in the flames. They moaned. They called each other’s names. They drove each other until everything faded to two bodies trembling and shaking against each other.

Another laugh slipped past Les’ lips as he nipped Chad’s ear. “No you don’t, I drank it this morning.”

A Cops Thanksgiving

© 2008 James Buchanan

Rated: Explicit

Technorati Tags: Nate and Caesar,free fiction

 

Caesar stretched and yawned. One of those lazy Saturday mornings he and Nate got so few of. 'Course with both their habits it was more like noon, but still, wake up, screw around, doze, repeat. Pretty good way to blow a day.

Nate nuzzled into his armpit, tickling Caesar's skin with his tongue. "What time is it?"

Another yawn stretched his jaw wide as Caesar turned to look at the clock. "Once media, más o menos."

"We should get up and head out." The words had nothing to do with Nate's actions. Instead of rolling out of bed, Nate's hand wandered down to dance along Caesar's prick.

That was a much better idea than shucking the sheets. Caesar's dick began to swell in response to the delicious touch. "We should stay here," Caesar scooted down a bit so that he could reach Nate's fat prick, "and let me stroke you."

Nate kissed up his neck drawing a little trail of shivers along Caesar's skin. "Dinner's at two." He whispered it, blowing across the damp flesh. Another shudder hit Caesar's body.

"We got plenty of time then." He wrapped his fist around Nate's cock, pumping him up.

Nate hissed. "To make it to Porter Ranch?"

"To make you get off." Caesar kissed him. Nate tasted like mornings and sleep. Tasted damn good. He broke off for a second and added, "Make me get off." Then he was finished with talking.

He grabbed Nate's wrists as he drove his lips onto the other man's. Nate opened up, teased Caesar's tongue into his mouth. With a groan, Caesar rolled on top and pinned Nate's arms about his head. Took a bit of wrangling, but he got both Nate's wrists into one hand. Then he reached down and pushed both their shorts off their hips. A lot of struggling and wiggling, but Nate didn't fight him…or help him. Cabron.

With a grunt, stifled by Nate's kiss, Caesar thrust against Nate's groin. Nate stiffened and hissed. He tried to free his wrists, but Caesar used his now free hand to grab him before he could snake his own grip between them. If Nate didn't want to help before, he could just go along for the ride.

A really short ride.

Heat built quickly in Caesars groin. He humped Nate's hips, grinding them together. Nate moaned into their kiss, the sound vibrating down Caesar's spine. Nate bucked up adding his own frantic rhythm to the mix. That wonderful dick sliding against his; Caesar shuddered with every move. Slick pre-cum and sweat soon coated both of them adding wet heat to the friction.

Caesar broke from the kiss and buried his face into Nate's throat. Musk still clung to his skin from earlier that morning and a damp sheen soaked the hair on Nate's chest. Their exertions added another, more urgent and heady aroma. Caesar drowned in the scent of him.

Nate flexed his head back and mumbled, "Fuck, like that…just fuck." God he loved it when Nate babbled. It ratcheted his desire up to insane levels. A few more thrusts and Caesar lost it. Heat took him over, rolling through his frame in waves. Cum shot between them and coated both their bellies. Panting, shaking a little, Caesar collapsed onto Nate's chest. He released his grip on Nate's wrists and then smiled as Nate looped his arms over Caesar's back. So warm and wonderful being held in those big, muscled arms, Caesar could just die happy that way.

It took him a second to realize Nate hadn't cum. Caesar hauled himself up onto his hands, Nate's hands sliding down his arms, and stared down at Nate. Those blue eyes were just desperate. Caesar knew how to take care of that. Slowly, deliberately, he licked down Nate's chest and across his abs. His own spunk tasted almost sweet and mixed deliciously with the salty sweat coating Nate's body.

When he got to Nate's crotch, he inhaled deep. Everything was so much more heady and intense. Wrapping one fist around Nate's prick, Caesar moved to suck on his balls and stroked. That thick, almost silky, hard cock tickled his palm. Skin sliding over an iron hard core felt so sensual.

Nate grabbed behind his own knees, pulling them up and back, giving Caesar access to everything. Still stroking, Caesar twisted his head and sought out Nate's ass with his tongue. On top of all of it, Nate had a tang like warm copper. "Goddamn, please, fuck, yeah," echoed above him, signaling Nate's own impending blow. The flavor between Nate's cheeks tasted sexy, concentrated and so much of a guy that Caesar thought he might get it up again. He jacked Nate's prick with a strong, fast grasp and fucked his hole with his tongue. Nate shuddered. He moaned. And then Caesar smelled the spunk pumping from Nate's cock.

Satisfied, he laughed and clambered back up to snuggle against Nate's warm, solid body. Forget doing anything else, this satisfied him. Then Caesar's stomach growled. Well neither of them had eaten anything yet… and where and when they were eating was already planned. He muttered, "Please tell me your mom can cook," into the space behind Nate's ear.

"Of course she can cook." Nate shifted. "We should get going if we're going to make it on time."

The jangle of a dog tag against a Saint Frances medal caught Caesar's attention. Poncho must have wandered back inside. He whistled to call the little mutt, then asked, "So why are we doing Thanksgiving today?"

Nate sat up. "Because, every cop in the world wants time and a half plus bonus." He rolled his buffed shoulders and stretched.

First Ponchito's ears and eyes appeared at the foot of the bed. Then he stuck his nose over. Poncho'd learned that if he just jumped into the middle of the bed, he was liable to get tossed right back off…and possibly locked out of the room.

"What?"

"You get extra pay if you work holidays." Nate slapped Caesar's thigh, calling the dog up. "My dad always worked Thanksgiving and Christmas. I always work 'em too. Since I was little, we always had Thanksgiving dinner on the Saturday after." Poncho jumped up and minced across to flop between his two men. Nate scratched his ears and added, "Christmas presents got opened whenever my dad got off shift on Christmas Eve. My mom would wake us up at like three a.m. And New Years was spent watching the ball drop on TV with the police scanner playing in the background. Dad's retired now, but since I work the holidays, my family just keeps the tradition." Then he asked. "What does your family do?"

Caesar grabbed Poncho's ears. As he scratched them, Caesar bent over and rubbed his nose against the mutt's forehead. "Thanksgiving or the rest of it?"

"All of it."

"Thanksgiving wasn't much of anything." Poncho woofed and darted off the bed at that point. Probably was going to go find his lunch. "I mean, you sorta learn that this is what everyone in America is doing on their day off. But, you know, it’s a day off to party and eat…although my cousins were usually washing dishes at some restaurant or something. Mexicans, we party late though. Come in, go out, come back, keep it going all day."

"Yeah?" Nate's smile was big and open. Caesar loved it when Nate smiled.

"Yeah." Caesar stifled a yawn. "And Christmas. You go to church like at midnight and when you come back everyone opens up presents. And Santa comes while you're at church. Then everybody who's not working Christmas day goes to bed. New Years, party all night long. Course I was usually working all around the holidays."

"Construction?"

"No, dip shit," he smacked Nate's chest and rolled to the edge of the bed, "people are on vacation. Left and gone to grandma's in Main or Arizona or something."

Nate swung his feet off the mattress and stood. "Oh, that." He yawned as he stretched again.

Caesar deadpanned. "Oh, yeah, that."

With another stretch…Caesar suspected Nate was flexing just to show off for him… Nate padded towards the bathroom. "So your mom's coming, right?"

"Yeah, my mom and my Bro's family." Caesar sat up and ran his hands through his hair. "Nate, your dad doesn't like me, what's he going to do with my family?"

"It'll be fine." Nate paused and smiled over his shoulder. "Mom's told him he has to play nice." He waved off the thought like it really didn't matter. "When did you come out to your mom, by the way? Cause last I heard, you hadn't." He paused and turned, "Isn't that going to be a little awkward?" before heading into the bathroom.

"Mom, her English sucks." Caesar shrugged. "Angel and his wife, they already don't say anything. We don't talk about it with mom. So, should be okay, she won't understand half of it."

Nate's voice drifted out of the can. "My dad speaks Spanish, you know."

"If it's as bad as yours…if he says something about us, she'll just assume it's the whole language thing."

The room got real quiet, enough for Caesar to wonder if Nate hadn't heard him. Then, "Dad's is way better than mine."

Fuck. Caesar flopped back onto the bed and moaned, "It's going to be a disaster." Northridge earthquake quality disaster. Malibu Canyon fire quality disaster.

Nate leaned out of the bathroom and grinned, "Isn't that what holidays are supposed to be?"

Halloween ficlet

Only a few more hours before Halloween, folks! Candies, parties, costumes--mmm! Who doesn't love this holiday? To help get you in the mood for the festivities (as if you weren't already), I have a little ficlet over at Electric Elephant that celebrates the spirit of the season. Head on over and check it out HERE.

Happy Halloween, everyone!

First look at "Conflict of Interest"

On Saturday, my first novella length story with Torquere Press will be published. Conflict of Interest is one of my favorite stories. When Alex Hitchner signs up to volunteer at a local youth shelter, he is not prepared to be introduced to Jamie Owens, an 18 year old boy with a bad attitude. Just two years younger than Alex, Jamie is nervy, precocious, and damn sexy, to boot.

But Alex sees himself as a mentor to Jamie, someone to look up to, someone to prove to the kid that being a gay man does not mean casual sex in crowded clubs. He tries to keep his distance, both physically and emotionally, but Jamie becomes a part of his life in a way Alex doesn't expect. Alex must choose between giving into his desires or leaving the program ~ and Jamie ~ behind.

EXCERPT:

When Alex pulled into the parking lot of a downtown deli, Jamie jumped out of the car before it came to a complete stop and stretched languidly like an animal just released from a cage. As he climbed out of the car, Alex noticed a few people nearby glaring at Jamie's torn shirt. It may have fit in back at the shelter, but here it made Jamie look like a punk. Opening the trunk, Alex pulled out a heavy flannel shirt his roommate had left in there. "Here," he said, holding the shirt out to Jamie. "Put this on."

Jamie frowned. "I don't want to."

"Jamie," Alex warned. In his mind he could already see the scene Jamie would make when they entered the deli, only to be turned away because of Jamie's raggedy tank top.

But Jamie shook his head. "It's too hot for that. I'm not wearing it." To prove his point, he crossed his arms and leaned against the car. "What's wrong with my shirt?"

"It's torn," Alex pointed out, as if Jamie didn't know. "You look like a bum."

"I like the way I look," Jamie glared at an older woman who edged by them on her way into the deli. "What's your problem, bitch?"

The woman turned away quickly and kept walking. "Jamie, stop it," Alex hissed. "You can't go in there wearing that shirt. They won't serve you."

"Well I'm not wearing that," he said, nodding at the flannel shirt in Alex's hand. "Let's just go to McDonald's or something, okay? A drive-thru somewhere, eat in the car." With a wink he added, "I'm a cheap date. I don't mind fast food."

Try to do something nice, Alex thought with a sigh, tossing the shirt back into the trunk. He dug through blankets and empty plastic grocery bags until he found an old T-shirt of his. The cotton was faded and worn but in one piece at least, and he held it out to Jamie. "How about this?"

After a long moment, Jamie took the shirt. "This yours?" he asked, holding it up. It was short sleeved and thin ~ Alex waited to hear his excuse for not wanting to put it on.

"Yeah," Alex said as he watched Jamie study the shirt. "It's been in the trunk for a while but it's clean. Are you going to wear it or not?"

"I'll wear it," Jamie said.

Before Alex could say anything else he stripped off his tank top, pulling the torn fabric up over his head. Alex found himself staring at the muscles along Jamie's chest, the golden skin so heavily freckled, he looked perpetually tanned. Alex shoved his hands deep into his pockets to keep from reaching out and touching the boy ~ he could imagine what those hard nipples would feel like beneath his fingers, the way the thick gold chain that hung around Jamie's neck would look pooled into the hollow of his throat, the way the ridge of Jamie's collarbone would feel between his teeth. God ...

Then Jamie pulled on the T-shirt, hiding the freckled muscles from view, and Alex managed to look away. "It's kind of snug," Jamie said, flexing his arms. Alex heard the tiny sound of a seam rip, and Jamie laughed. "I like it."

"You would," Alex muttered. He pointed into the trunk and Jamie tossed his tank top inside before Alex slammed it shut. "You look much better."

"Do you think so?" Jamie asked.

When Alex nodded, Jamie unzipped his jeans. "Jamie!" Alex cried, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. "What are you doing?"

"Don't worry," he said with a wink, stuffing the T-shirt into the waistband of his jeans. "I ain't taking it all off. Much as you'd like to see it, I'm sure."

"Jamie ..." Alex closed his eyes as Jamie's hand smoothed the shirt down flat over the bulge that poked through the open zipper, but not before catching a glimpse of light red hair that trailed into his briefs as if pointing the way. Why couldn't this be easy? "Jesus."

He heard Jamie take a step closer, and then he felt hot breath along his neck as Jamie moaned softly into his ear, the sound accompanied by the quiet hiss of the zipper. Alex could feel the press of metal against that budding erection as Jamie zipped up his jeans, and in his pockets his hands clenched into fists, nails eating into his palms because he wasn't going to touch this boy, he wasn't going to let him get under his skin. Too late, his mind whispered as Jamie sighed, and Alex could smell the sharp scent of his sweat when he drew in a shaky breath. "You can look now," Jamie breathed. "I'm decent."

The Regent's Knight by J.M. Snyder

My latest release is The Regent’s Knight, a fantasy set in the pre-industrial land of Pharr. It's part of the "Secret Lives" AmberPax collection and (I think) is quite a fun read.

Here's a little tidbit of trivia for you ... my very first novel ever was an epic fantasy called The Magical Stones of Pharr, which I wrote while in high school. While that story will never see the light of day (and for good reason), I decided to usurp the land in which the story took place and revisit it for this story.

Blurb:
Prince Amery Llewellen is the only son of King Adin of Pharr and heir to the throne. When his father is lost in battle with the barbaric tribes invading the northern Pharrisian border, Amery becomes regent in his father’s stead. The royal advisers pressure him to take the crown and assume the throne, but doing so will force him to take a wife as well. Amery is loathe to do that, because he’s deeply in love with one of his knights, Sir Tovin Raimus, from the southland.

Such a relationship is forbidden ~ both because Tovin is another man and because he is a knight, much below the station of a prince. After King Adin forbid their union, Tovin and Amery masked their love with fights and arguments designed to make the servants believe they loathe each other. The whole castle dreads the news that the northern border has been breached, because when Tovin is assigned the position of castellan, that makes him head of castle security. His being stationed so near the regent has the servants believing the two will fight to the death.

That’s just a farce to keep their love a secret. But Pharr needs a crowned ruler, and Amery must decide whether to take his rightful place on the throne or forsake his kingdom for the love of one man.

EXCERPT:

NOTE: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.

“Gods,” Tovin breathed as he crawled onto Amery.

The regent started to speak but Tovin covered his mouth with his own, silencing him with a hungry kiss as his hands roamed the smooth body beneath him. His fingers plucked Amery’s nipples erect, eliciting gasps of delight from his lover. Moving lower, he brushed away the hand at Amery’s crotch and grasped the thick length, massaging it in his fist, working it hard.

“Tovin,” Amery managed to murmur between kisses. When Tovin cupped his balls and tickled one forefinger along the tender skin behind them, the regent arched into the knight’s body and moaned. “It’s been too long.”

Straddling Amery’s hips, Tovin sat back and pulled off his surcoat. “It has,” he agreed with a grin.

The regent reached for him, hands tugging at the scant hair on his chest, then thumbing over his nipples. Each touch sent a sliver of pleasure spiking through Tovin like lightning, striking his overly sensitive nipples and shooting down to stir the blood already thickening in his dick. He could come from such play ~ one of the first times he and Amery had been together, when they were still teenagers and kissing was the extent of their lovemaking, Amery had been amused to find that a few minutes’ suckling on Tovin’s teats was more than enough to get him off.

Catching Amery’s hands in his, Tovin raised them to his mouth and kissed each fingertip. “Stop that,” he admonished, “or I won’t be able to pierce that sexy ass of yours with my sword.”

Amery laughed and, twisting one hand free from Tovin’s grip, poked at the bulge in the front of the knight’s breeches. “Your sword? Is that what this is? Unsheathe it, knight, and wield it for me. Let me test its breadth and heft. Let me feel its blade.”

Tovin rocked back, his buttocks pressing Amery’s hard cock against his own legs. The regent’s mocking words dissolved in a gasp of delight as his eyes shut against the sensations caused by Tovin’s body against his. The hand at his crotch bunched in the fabric covering his erection with a gentle squeeze that made him moan.

Catching that hand again, Tovin raised it to the other and held both of Amery’s wrists against his chest. “I have an idea,” he announced.

“What’s that?” Amery wiggled his hips beneath Tovin to remind him that he was waiting for something more. “Can you tell me later?”

Tovin laughed. “I can tell you now,” he replied. “I’m still mostly dressed. These pants aren’t coming off until I’m ready.”

Amery pouted and tried to twist his wrists free from Tovin’s grip. “I think you’re ready now,” he declared. “I’m the regent. My word is law. I say you’re ready.”

Laughing again, Tovin leaned down over the regent, stretching his lover’s hands above his head to keep them out of reach. Amery’s nipples brushed over Tovin’s; he had to close his eyes against the thrill sparked by that touch. Between them, his cock throbbed in his pants, aching for release.

“I think you’re in no position to argue with me now,” he whispered, touching the tip of Amery’s nose with his own. Amery leaned up for a kiss but Tovin pulled away slightly. “Not yet.”

Amery sighed, frustrated. “Kiss me now. I demand it.”

“You can’t make demands here,” Tovin told him.

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More Original Fiction

See, y'all are benefiting from my inability to think these days. Blame the holiday's for my largess. Anyway, a flash short originally published in Forbidden Fruit. But it's timely since New Years is nearly upon us.

Midnight

By

James Buchanan

Tony stared out over the moonlit snow. The cold rail cut through layers of clothing. He’d dressed to impress, not to be warm. “This was such a rip.” He bitched, to everyone and no one at once.

“No shit!” The only other occupant of the balcony took a drag of his cigarette. Red embers threw high boned cheeks into base relief. “One hundred indices of compatibility my ass.”

“I know, forked out five-hundred for this weekend,” Tony snorted, “and I ain’t found the fucking chick listed on my compatibility match-up.”

“You’re telling me?” Dark eyes dropped half mast as the tall man growled out the rest. “One-twenty for the freaking profile. I hit the perfect match.” His voice echoed with a deep rich tenor. A singing voice, Tony mused. He’d put down singing as a hobby himself. “All of twenty-five get togethers and the one my soul mate will be at is New Years in the Mountains and the fucking bitch doesn’t show.”

Tony raised his glass to the evening. Couples had already paired off behind them. Look for your identifying ID. Number codes spoke to everything: We don’t even need names the advertisement promised. On the other side of the French doors a room held it’s breath: expectant, hesitant, and thrilled. Fuck ‘em all. “Here’s to being dumped by another fucked up excuse for on-line dating.”

His ersatz companion laughed. “Salude!” The dark haired, dark eyed, man tipped his glass toward Tony. “What’s the rule about midnight and New Years? You’re destined to spend the rest of the year repeating it?”

“God,” Tony ran his thick fingers through his dirty blond hair. Green eyes mirrored in a glass of amber liquid, he mused. “Don’t say that. I’m going to spend the rest of my year being dumped.” The other’s tumbler still waited expectant and Tony tapped it with his own. “What you drinking?”

“Glenfiddich.” The man laughed and knocked back a belt. “It’s the only scotch fit to drink.”

Tony laughed. “Damn straight!” Not many people understood that. For a time he stared out at the mountain. So strong and beautiful, capped with a crown of snow and backed by billowing clouds which held the moonlight to the ground. Why couldn’t he meet a girl who understood things like that? “All I wanted was a chance.” He sighed and swirled the last of the scotch in his glass. “Someone who liked old cars.”

“Me too.” The other man’s voice echoed wistful against the backdrop of revelry. “Someone who liked hiking in the Yukon as well as breakfast in bed.”

“Thick pancakes and then hiking in the glaciers.” Tony snorted, imagining heavy quilts and campfire coffee while preparing for a salmon fry off the deck of a cruise ship. The perfect mix of hedonistic luxury and outdoorsman-ship.

Dark eyes nodded. Damn, if he wasn’t a guy it would have been about perfect. Athletic, trim, black hair, large brown, almost almond eyes, and a slight olive cast to his skin all of it spoke to maybe Armenian decent. The man stood nearly eye to eye with Tony. All the girls he’d ever dated were shorter and that always bugged the pale, northern Italian descendant. A girl he could kiss without bending down… Tony had put that in his profile. At nearly six foot, it was a tall order. Now if this guy just liked Cuban cooking he would have been perfect, except for the lack of tits.

“I,” the man’s voice sounded so wistful and lonely, “was going to rent a snowmobile tomorrow. Go up into the peaks where things are quiet.”

Antonio sighed. “I reserved one yesterday… hope you know.” He held out his hand. “By the way, my name is Antonio.”

Shivering, the other man responded, “Nicholas.”

“Oh, that’s creepy.” Tony almost snorted his scotch.

“What?”

“The gal I’ve been corresponding with is Nikki.”

Nick laughed. “Yeah, well me and Toni have had some great sex chats.”

Everything froze. Finally, Tony swallowed. “Sex with showers?”

“Naked Ping-pong?”

“You,” Tony could barely breathe, “like having your ass licked?”

Nick looked into his empty glass. Chants of Ten, Nine, Eight echoed. Finally scared and large brown eyes slid up to stare deep into green. “128A54225ARRG?” When Tony’s face went slack, Nick swallowed and stepped in. “You’re Toni95? Oh Fuck!”

Almost a year of hopes and dreams and desires swirled around Antonio. All of it led to one person, one person he’d joked with. One person who always knew what to say. One person who teased and taunted, but always came through… Nikki22. “Shut up!” Antonio whispered as three sounded. “Kiss me now!”

“Why?” Nick’s face was only inches from his own. Warmth and longing seeped off his skin.

“Midnight!” Tony panted. “Fate!”

Two hitching breaths and Nick’s lip trembled. Then, to the sounding of Auld Lang Syne Nick’s mouth met his. Warm, demanding but giving and self assured… all the things Tony had asked for flowed from the kiss. Screams of horns blared. Noisemakers popped. People screamed with the turning of the ages. Tony didn’t give a shit. New Years drown sweet in the pounding of another man’s pulse.

Happy New Year!

Being seriously over-commited recently

I thought I'd give you a little drabble I wrote a while back. Completely work-safe with a mild language warning.

Have fun.

Spring Cleaning

(c) 2007

James Buchanan

Mark sat on the steps of the apartment building surrounded by his stuff. One suitcase of clothes propped up his back. The collection of Justice League Comics double bagged and boxed in the two long white cardboard cartons rested next to him. It was all he’d managed to salvage before Charles tossed him out on his butt.

What a way to begin Spring Cleaning. About ten minutes too late he realized Charles really was serious about getting rid of all the old junk. As usual, he’d just ignored the jibes as he headed out to work that morning. Hell, Charles had on his rattiest clothes and a giant sized roll of garbage bags. That tended to mean big time house work. Like always, he’d laughed off Charles’ suggestion that he dump his old junk and grow up. He figured it meant he’d have to high tail it home and pull a few things out of the bin, shove it under the bed for awhile and bring it back slowly. Charles always hit that mood around this time of year. Clean up, clear out, move on.
Mark just hadn’t figured that Charles had meant Mark as well this time.

“Hey, what’s up?”

Mark looked up from studying his hands in his lap and found a green eyed pair of eyes right in front of his own. “Shit!” He started back, knocking over the suitcase. Jake, their upstairs neighbor rocked back: slipping and almost falling off where he knelt on the step. Oh crap, Mark didn’t want to explain to Jake or anyone why he was sitting on the stoop with his junk. “Sorry you startled me.” He swallowed. “Not much. Just doing a little housecleaning. Out with the old, in with the new.” He smiled.

With green eyes and soft brown hair, Jake was a nice looking guy. He’d moved into their building right after Mark and Charles started living together. Mark had ogled the new tenant every trip up and down the stairs the day he’d moved in. It had been Mark who’d made the effort to introduce himself, Charles couldn’t be bothered. And it was Mark who’d pumped Jake for what he did, where he came from and all that getting to know you type of thing.

Charles made fun of Jake behind his back because he was an animator on a kids’ network. It wasn’t a serious job according to Charles. Still, they’d been good neighbors and invited Jake, plus one, to the Christmas thing, and the New Years thing. Jake never brought a date and never stayed long. But he was always around when Mark needed something. He’d never failed to help out with a lift somewhere or help hauling up another bookcase for his treasures, or needed a running buddy in the mornings… well before Mark’s shift had changed.

Jake looked like he was about to say something when the sound of a window opening caused them both to look up. Charles’ voice flew out of the window. “God I hate this piece of shit!” The sound was followed by a poster in a black wood frame. That would be the one with the vintage snapshot showing the atomic bomb blowing up behind the 1950’s Vegas Skyline. It sailed through the air to land in the street. Two bounces carried it right into the path of a station wagon. With a screech of brakes and a crunch, the poster earned a place in the dumpster.

Righting the luggage, Jake parked himself next to Mark. “Housecleaning, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mark nodded as his razor scooter followed the path of the ill fated poster. “Cleaning the house of everything that reminds him of me.” The scooter only made it as far as the side walk. Wasn’t quite as aerodynamic as the first missile.

Jake set a grocery bag at his feet. “You guys never seemed right for each other.” Fishing out a packet of chips, he popped them open and offered the first grab to Mark.

A handful of Salt and Vinegar potato chips would at least make thing bearable for the moment. “What do you mean?” Over their heads sailed a tin of DVDs a Puss & Boots bobble head, his Sin-City coffee mug and the wall clock that told time backwards. Too bad, that clock had been given to him by his physics advisor when Mark had landed his job at JPL. Varying degrees of crashes sounded at impact.

“Well, he’s just kinda uptight. Everything was just so… so, you know?”

One by one, paperbacks flew. He crammed the chips in his mouth and mumbled. “No. I don’t know.” At least the books would be salvageable.

“So designer.” The voice out of Jake’s mouth sounded like one of the cartoon characters he drew. Mark knew ‘cause he recorded all the shows on TiVo and watched them when Charles wasn’t around. He sure as hell didn’t want to listen to any snarky comments while he enjoyed laughing his ass off. Jake added in a woman’s over-earnest falsetto, “There is a motif… we will not deviate from the motif.”

Mark snorted down a laugh. “Okay.”

“It all coordinates.” While doing a tradeshow model presentation dance with his hands he teased more. “It is sold as a set so that it all matches.” Then Jake shoved a chip in his mouth. “Blech.”

“Yeah, he’s a little like that.”

“A little?” Jake almost choked. “That’s like saying Jerry Fallwell has some gender issues.” Finally able to breath again he managed another question. “I don’t know what the hell you saw in him. He couldn’t have that big of a dick. Come on, you two just didn’t seem to be right for each other.”

“True. He says I’m immature.” Mimicking Charles’ voice, Mark tried not to laugh. “I have a childish, pedestrian sense of humor. No grown man, no one with a job designing space-probes and satellites should collect Three Stooges memorabilia.”

“He’s an ass.” Jake shook his head. “I almost told you that the first time I met you… actually the first time I met him.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Well, you were living with him.” He rolled his eyes. “Didn’t seem right to get in the middle of somebody’s life.”

Mark gave Jake a sideways glance. “And…” Jake was grinning.

He swallowed and shrugged. “Now you’re not.”

“And now I’m homeless.”

“Hey, I have a couch.” Jake stood and offered his hand. Almost embarrassed he added, “And a big bed.”

Staring up at the other man, Mark considered the offer. Charles had been comfortable, well used and, mostly, there. They hadn’t had much of a relationship for a long time, probably even since before Mark had moved in with him. “A bed for the night might be nice.” He took the proffered grip and let Jake pull him to standing. A china cat arced above their heads and impacted with an explosion of pottery shards. “I wonder if he realizes that was his. Never liked that piece of crap anyway.”

That set them both laughing as Mark hefted the boxes. The clothes were replaceable… vintage Bronze-Age comics not so much. A little lighter in mood than before, he bounded up the stairs.

“Here,” Jake stopped at the door and fished something out of his grocery bag, “you need this more than me.” He tossed a blister packed toy back toward Mark.

Almost fumbling boxes as the package landed on the top of the pile Mark asked. “What is it?”

“It’s a bunny that shits jelly beans.” Jake pushed the door open with his butt. “I guess that makes two of us with a juvenile sense of humor.”