Some news!
Dec. 23rd, 2009 06:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
erastesWell, it’s been a long time coming, but my gay superhero short story RIGHT HAND MAN is out now in UNMASKED 2 by Starbooks.
http://www.starbookspress.com/search.php?ID=2860&SEARCH=SINGLE
UNMASKED II: MORE EROTIC TALES OF GAY SUPERHEROES features erotic fiction from Armand, Derrick Della Giorgia, Erastes, Evan Gilbert, Gerrard Jones, Jamie Freeman, Jay Starre, Kale Naylor, Logan Zachary, Milton Stern, Owen Keehnen, Rob Rosen, Ryan Field, Sedonia Guillone, Stephen Osborne,Stephen Osborne, Tom Cardamone, Troy Storm, and Wayne Mansfield
Here’s a snippet of Right Hand Man.
No. The mask stays on. There's no way you can know who I am, not with what I'm going to tell you. Ironic, isn't it, that I'm the one wearing the mask now?
I know, I know. But I'm jumpy and I'm having to watch my words even now. No, I won't have another. Gotta keep sharp. One slip, and I'm out of a job, out on the streets, and probably a dead man.
So how does this work? Do you ask questions—or do you just want me to talk? Fine. I can do that.
I got the job six years ago. I was fresh out of the best butler school in England and my first job was as prestigious as I could have wanting. I was working at ...hah. Nearly named names. Let's call him Lord B. He paid well, and the perks were great, good apartment, great car. Time off for a little cruising around town if you know what I mean—British guys are cute, and I love the way they talk, specially when it's dirty. As long as I was discreet, Lord B didn't mind even if I brought them home. I didn't, though. Never met anyone who mattered that much.
Anyway. About six months after I started working for him, Lord B tells me that he's got some political party needs arranging, bigwigs from the shadow cabinet and heads of huge corporations. I gave the invitation list a once over with the impassive face I learned at school and said "Very good, sir," although I have to admit that I was impressed, even though I was trained not to be. I worked hard at the arrangements and the night went without a hitch; the food was perfect, the quartet unobtrusive and the warm "thank you," from Lord B was more rewarding than the bonus he later slipped into my pay-packet.
What? No, not that in way. Lord B was a decent employer (for a British aristocrat) but he had a face like a codfish, no chin and no hair. I never thought of him in that way. Plus the fact he wasn't into men, was famous for it. As the tabloids have often gloated about, and to the eternal shame of Lady B, he liked his girls young, blonde and slutty. That's why she lived in the country. Of course, he went too far, went too young, and that was his downfall.
Anyway - I was serving drinks at the party when the bell rings and I'm surprised, because everyone who had RSVP'd was accounted for, so I excuse myself with a murmur and went to answer the door. There's this guy on the doorstep, in the required tux, and a white scarf and he's...beautiful. I had to fight my face for control because perfect butlers' jaws do not drop open when encountering one's boss's guests.
But hell, yeah. You've seen his face, or at least most of it. You know he's gorgeous. You wouldn't be asking for an interview to your magazine if he wasn't hot as hell and you wanted to know what it was like under the Lycra. It amazes me that a scrap of green fabric hides who he is so effectively. But that little mask can't hide the way his cheekbones stand out, like he's had surgery (he hasn't), the way his hair sweeps back from that wide forehead, the way the light hits those golden curls. The way his eyes shine, even in the dark. The suit now, that hides nothing, but the first time I saw him he was in normal evening clothes and although I remember thinking back then that his body was made for a tux, when I finally saw him in the Lycra I cursed the fact that he couldn't wear it all the time.
So, I asked him to wait, civilly, took his name, and quietly told Lord B that he had an extra guest. It was clear that Lord B had been expecting him, and I was a mite put out that I had not been kept informed. I made my way back to the unexpected guest and announced him, rather stiffly, but he turned to me with those emerald eyes and thanked me so beautifully that my annoyance melted away.
He was a frequent guest after that; he always came unannounced and at odd times of the day. I found myself warming when the doorbell would ring late at night and I took a lot of pleasure taking his coat from him, still warm from his skin and musky with his scent.
I don't know to this day what business he had with Lord B but I can guess, as what happened to Lord B could only have been done by someone who was able to get into a locked safe without keys and then to - pretty effortlessly - reach the top of Tower Bridge carrying two people without being seen. On the day before Lord B was found naked with an underage prostitute on top of the biggest stage in England, the unexpected guest—let's call him... Mr. Alan... said to me, as he took his coat from me, "If you need a job soon, come and see me, all right?"
http://www.starbookspress.com/search.php?ID=2860&SEARCH=SINGLE
UNMASKED II: MORE EROTIC TALES OF GAY SUPERHEROES features erotic fiction from Armand, Derrick Della Giorgia, Erastes, Evan Gilbert, Gerrard Jones, Jamie Freeman, Jay Starre, Kale Naylor, Logan Zachary, Milton Stern, Owen Keehnen, Rob Rosen, Ryan Field, Sedonia Guillone, Stephen Osborne,Stephen Osborne, Tom Cardamone, Troy Storm, and Wayne MansfieldHere’s a snippet of Right Hand Man.
No. The mask stays on. There's no way you can know who I am, not with what I'm going to tell you. Ironic, isn't it, that I'm the one wearing the mask now?
I know, I know. But I'm jumpy and I'm having to watch my words even now. No, I won't have another. Gotta keep sharp. One slip, and I'm out of a job, out on the streets, and probably a dead man.
So how does this work? Do you ask questions—or do you just want me to talk? Fine. I can do that.
I got the job six years ago. I was fresh out of the best butler school in England and my first job was as prestigious as I could have wanting. I was working at ...hah. Nearly named names. Let's call him Lord B. He paid well, and the perks were great, good apartment, great car. Time off for a little cruising around town if you know what I mean—British guys are cute, and I love the way they talk, specially when it's dirty. As long as I was discreet, Lord B didn't mind even if I brought them home. I didn't, though. Never met anyone who mattered that much.
Anyway. About six months after I started working for him, Lord B tells me that he's got some political party needs arranging, bigwigs from the shadow cabinet and heads of huge corporations. I gave the invitation list a once over with the impassive face I learned at school and said "Very good, sir," although I have to admit that I was impressed, even though I was trained not to be. I worked hard at the arrangements and the night went without a hitch; the food was perfect, the quartet unobtrusive and the warm "thank you," from Lord B was more rewarding than the bonus he later slipped into my pay-packet.
What? No, not that in way. Lord B was a decent employer (for a British aristocrat) but he had a face like a codfish, no chin and no hair. I never thought of him in that way. Plus the fact he wasn't into men, was famous for it. As the tabloids have often gloated about, and to the eternal shame of Lady B, he liked his girls young, blonde and slutty. That's why she lived in the country. Of course, he went too far, went too young, and that was his downfall.
Anyway - I was serving drinks at the party when the bell rings and I'm surprised, because everyone who had RSVP'd was accounted for, so I excuse myself with a murmur and went to answer the door. There's this guy on the doorstep, in the required tux, and a white scarf and he's...beautiful. I had to fight my face for control because perfect butlers' jaws do not drop open when encountering one's boss's guests.
But hell, yeah. You've seen his face, or at least most of it. You know he's gorgeous. You wouldn't be asking for an interview to your magazine if he wasn't hot as hell and you wanted to know what it was like under the Lycra. It amazes me that a scrap of green fabric hides who he is so effectively. But that little mask can't hide the way his cheekbones stand out, like he's had surgery (he hasn't), the way his hair sweeps back from that wide forehead, the way the light hits those golden curls. The way his eyes shine, even in the dark. The suit now, that hides nothing, but the first time I saw him he was in normal evening clothes and although I remember thinking back then that his body was made for a tux, when I finally saw him in the Lycra I cursed the fact that he couldn't wear it all the time.
So, I asked him to wait, civilly, took his name, and quietly told Lord B that he had an extra guest. It was clear that Lord B had been expecting him, and I was a mite put out that I had not been kept informed. I made my way back to the unexpected guest and announced him, rather stiffly, but he turned to me with those emerald eyes and thanked me so beautifully that my annoyance melted away.
He was a frequent guest after that; he always came unannounced and at odd times of the day. I found myself warming when the doorbell would ring late at night and I took a lot of pleasure taking his coat from him, still warm from his skin and musky with his scent.
I don't know to this day what business he had with Lord B but I can guess, as what happened to Lord B could only have been done by someone who was able to get into a locked safe without keys and then to - pretty effortlessly - reach the top of Tower Bridge carrying two people without being seen. On the day before Lord B was found naked with an underage prostitute on top of the biggest stage in England, the unexpected guest—let's call him... Mr. Alan... said to me, as he took his coat from me, "If you need a job soon, come and see me, all right?"
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Date: 2009-12-23 11:38 pm (UTC)