Thursday, May 31, 2012

Guest Blogger S.A. Garcia

Today I'm welcoming author S.A. Garcia who has bravely answered my infamous Rick Reed questions! She's going to talk about her latest release, An Elf For All Centuries. But first, a libation. Care for a mimosa, my dear? Why don't you answer the questions, and I'll get those started.

Hey, thanks to Julie for letting me romp in her playpen. I, S.A. Garcia, have accepted the challenge of the infamous Rick Reed questions. I swear to answer them truthfully no matter how peculiar they make me sound. I accept my weirdo position in life.

1)      You’re marooned on a small island with one person and one item of your choice—who is that person and what item do you have?

I should say my partner of 25 plus years. I mean that is the loyal, true-blue answer. The trouble is she’s not very “survival” oriented and beside, why should I make her suffer? I’d rather have her screaming, “Find her or I will kill you a million times,” at the Coast Guard.

If I am marooned, I want someone clever like MacGyver who will build a palace using three palm trees. My one item would be a fabricator from the starship Enterprise, so we could enjoy a fine selection of fancy food and wine while MacGyver builds our rescue boat using the other palm trees. Oh, and I get to keep the fabricator after rescue.

2)      Which musical would you say best exemplifies your life – and which character in that musical are you?

A musical, eh? My mom loved musicals and played them all the time which instilled loathing for them in me. That’s how she used to wake me up when I slept in on a Saturday, play a musical. Yeaaaah. Let me think. Okay, I have it! The Beatle’s “Yellow Submarine” because I often fight against the Blue Meanies who want to ruin the world and make it a sad place. I would be Jeremy Hilary Boob PhD a.k.a. Nowhere Man who helps save the day.

3)      Take these three words and give me a 100 word or less scenario using them:  load, drastic, steady:

(My character needs to sneak in here).

Fabion collapsed back and shook his head. Fuck, he had shot off quite a load of spunk into his hand. Wiping the mess on the silk sheet seemed rude. He decided to get off his lazy ass and use a towel in the bathroom.

People always seem willing to take drastic measures in stories even when the situations don’t call for such an extreme solution. Why don’t they stop panicking, sit down, and talk things over?

Time to leap up and strike. Fabion hurled himself against Henda's body and hoped that his steady aim worked. If he missed, they would thump to the floor in a so-not-cool clump. Instead, the couch caught the backs of Henda's knees. Pushing forward, Fabion landed on top of one extremely shocked king. He planted his lips against Henda's.

4)      You’ve just been let loose in the world of fiction, with permission to do anyone you want. Who do you fuck first and why?

Lara Croft. Look at her. Need you ask why I would want to tongue wrestle with her? Of course I would let her win and have her way with me. For as long as she wants. Longer, especially if she uses her braids in strategic places.

5)      What is your idea of how to spend romantic time with your significant other?

When it comes to romance, we are actually sorta dull. The current most romantic thing we do is to light as many candles as possible without going up in flames and drink either mint juleps or margaritas on the mosquito-infested back porch during sun set. Yeah, we’re pretty dull plus we do a lot of slapping. Maybe that’s sexy, but not when my amore yells, “There a skeeter on your chest,” and knocks the wind out of me with a backhand to the breastbone.

Hey, maybe MacGyver can swing by and build us an invisible skeeter barrier using twist ties and spit. Next, he can build a backyard waterfall using a sprinkling can and a trash bag. A cute fire pit constructed from six matches and a brick sounds cool.

6)      When you start a new story, do you begin with a character, or a plot?

I hate to be a weenie and say sometimes both, but it is true. I don’t have a cut and dried way of creating a book. I usually jump into the current and slam against the rocks for a while. I will say in “An Elf for All Centuries” the story started with a character because I dreamed about the character, or a character similar to Fabion. The character fell from the sky into a mud puddle and pitched a major shit fit. The dream set the stage for the book.

7)      If they were to make the story of your life into a movie, who should play you?

A movie about my life could be like that Andy Warhol film where he filmed the Empire State Building for hours. Me sitting here typing, cursing, and drinking. Let’s see, Janeane Garofalo sounds about right to play me. She’s around the same age, has a similar bleak outlook on life and is about the same general physical appearance, although she’s much prettier. Janeane could stop and rant during her typing sprees.

My partner suggested Lily Taylor. She’s also too pretty.

8)      Who’s your favorite horror villain and why?

Arrrrgh! There are too many good ones. I grew up watching cheesy horror flicks. Instead of playing outside on a Saturday afternoon, I was the geek inside watching Dr. Shock’s Creature Double Feature while trying to build elaborate playing card palaces. Really, if you connect the dots, what I write makes sense.

I will go with a demon from the 1957 movie “Night of the Demon”, a UK horror flick. When I was a kid, that movie scared the jeepers, peepers, and bleeper out of me. The concept that the big scary demon just randomly appeared out of a mystical fog spooked me. The idea that a baddie could tuck a piece of rune-coated paper into your pocket and set you up as demon bait also spooked me. It is a cool flick.

I need also need to give a shout out to the original “Children of the Damned.” I felt like I attended school with a few of those evil little bastards.

9)      Do you have an historical crush and if so, who is it?

Queen Elizabeth is damned sexy due to her power. When I was little, I read everything I could find on Benjamin Franklin. Alas, the attraction has waned.

10)   Is there a story that you’d like to tell but you think the world isn’t ready to receive it?

Yes, I do have such a story. It’s called “Needy”. A gay couple goes hiking in the Sierra Nevadas and one of the couple, after he finds something awful, ends up possessed by a control freak serial killer. After quite a few rejections, I have determined there is too much gay male romance for the horror houses and too many explicit, abusive sex scenes for the usual m/m pubs. After one editor offered me good insight, I set the novel aside to re-work the problem areas. Someday the story will see the light of day!

Whew, I survived the questions. Sounds like a good time to release the excerpt!


Elf Prince Fabion enjoys the perfect supermodel lifestyle until wizard Matradorian chucks him back in time to save Henda, the sexy, powerful elf king. Since the death of his lover, Henda has lingered in a half-alive, half-dead state. Surprisingly, Fabion is a spiritual match for Henda's dead lover, so only he can save the dying king. 
Fabion uses his sexy bod and sweet lovin' to revive the elf king. All seems well until he realizes that by saving Henda, his own timeline was destroyed and he must stay in this ancient land forever. Fabion pitches the biggest temper tantrum of any century.
Soon a new threat emerges which puts his life in fresh danger. Now who wants to kill him?

Henda bodyslammed Fabion into the sitting room table. Unnngh… wow, the hard, wooden table sure abused the spine. The frenzied Fabion was too busy holding on and gasping in wet, hot pleasure to protest. Fuck. Amazing. Did his powerful Henda have a cock or a telephone pole swinging between his thighs? Whatever this potent male swirled around in Fabion's ass sure made Fabion experience twinkling stars, shimmering comets, and strange, lime-green light flashes. He imagined himself as a cup of coffee violently stirred by one long, hard spoon. Ouch, did those green flashes mean brain damage? His head had bounced off the sitting room wall pretty damned hard.

Crap-a doodle-doo-ooo-oo-ouch!

"Henda, what the hell are you—ooo—"

The powerful elf yanked him off the table and maneuvered them toward the bedroom. Fabion wrapped around Henda, laughed, and enjoyed the sexy ride down the hall. Yee-hah! As he walked, Henda continued jamming the pile driver into Fabion. Amazing. Yeee-haaa redux. The big dude hid hydraulics in his wicked cock!

Henda's wanton actions stunned Fabion. Imagine, he had coaxed the stately big dude into acting like a rampaging sexual demon.

Pained ecstasy made Fabion whoop in amazement.

His smiling big dude gasped out a teasing question. "Am I too much for my youthful one?"

When he controlled his own gasping, Fabion nipped at Henda's smiling lips. "Keep bringing it on, you wild thing! This is where I need you to be my perpetual motion machine. You can do me until I pass out. This is… you are… ooo, yeah, baby, please—"

Fabion squirmed in fresh joy. He bounced his ass up and down. He hoped his big dude managed not to drop him even as he tried forcing Henda to come before they reached the bed.

Loud gasps threatened their progress. "My love, I hate to admit the fact, but throwing you across the various surfaces exhausts even my royal stamina. Do you mind if we end our epic round of sex in our bed? I love ending in a traditional manner."

"Traditional? You're funny, Big Dude." Fabion rolled his inner ass muscles.

"You are a lovely tease." Henda carefully positioned them to drop in swift grace.

Fabion's torso sunk into the bed. His pillow cradled his head. He stared up at Henda in amazement. "Big Dude, wow, what skillful aim. Thanks for not dropping me on the floor."

"You act so dazed with sexual glory, I wonder if you would even notice."

"You gotta point and wow, one fabulous point deep where it counts!"

Crooning in merry lust, Fabion arched his neck back and rolled his head against the feather pillow. He kept his long legs wrapped around Henda's perfect waist. Wow-wowie. Yooowww, whatever happened deep inside him defined killer. "Hey, Big Dude, do that trick again."

Henda chuckled softly and maneuvered his hips slightly to the left. "Is this what my darling one needs?"

"Woo, absolutely, Big Dude. Lover, are you sick of me—ooo, yeah—telling you how sublimely boffo you are?"

Another chuckle escaped Henda's panting throat. "Boffo? Trust me, Fabion, you are the first one to call me boffo. I gather boffo is a pleasant thing to be?"

Fabion managed to laugh through his impending blast off. "Absolutely, Big Dude. Boffo ranks right up there with killer."

Henda arched his back toward the ceiling. Yeow, perfect, the big dude slowly drove his cock back into Fabion in hard, incremental thrusts. His lover understood when to slow down the show. Excellent.

"You are killer boffo."

Henda smiled over Fabion's ecstatic face. "My dear beauty, you and I are going to sit down with a few bottles of, as you call it, tree sap vino and detail your strange utterances. How is killer a good thing?"

"Trust me, you studly elf, it is a compliment, like me saying 'I dig how you do the nasty'. Crap, holy cats, lover, how do you make your amazing dick twist radically hard? Your new treat is wickedly hot."

"My Fabion, tell me what pleases you, and I shall perform the act until you cannot stand the pleasure. I hate to sound boastful, but I can satisfy a lover for hours. Actually, since we act lively here, I fear I will not hold out as long as usual. I confess I am at physical limit."

Whew, cool to realize Henda also suffered from exhaustion. Fabion felt less wimpy.

Who Am I?

Thirty years ago, I started writing m/m romance. My writing remained a secret lest my friends thought me a freak. Writing about men inserting tab A into slot B didn’t seem the norm for a female teenager. Reading Gordon Merrick, John Rechy and Larry Kramer helped me fill in informational gaps. Yes, I read those books only in my bedroom.

As the years progressed and I discovered my sexual path, I still wrote m/m romance, although the stories progressed from lurking in notebooks to hiding on the computer.

Now I am glad I kept the writing faith. Five published novellas and novels later, my life is a fun quandary of too many stories hindered by slow typing skills. I accept the silly challenge.

Facebook: Sandra Ann Garcia

Twitter: @SAGarcia_Writer


Wow, that sounds... damn hot, I'm not gonna lie there.

Thanks for stopping by, it's been a pleasure. Care for another mimosa?

Until next time, take care!

♥ Julie

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Wednesday Briefs: Trapped in Time #4

Happy Hump Day! Welcome to another edition of the Wednesday Briefs, brought to you by the purveyors of flash fiction, the Wednesday Briefers! This week the prompt was: use a safe word in your story. The alternate prompts were:  Use cherry, innocence and scarf or "I thought you were... but you really aren't, you're..." or use any Beatle title in your story or use: independence, master, and control, or make a 50 Shades of Grey reference.

 My story Trapped in Time continues this week with Myron having fallen into quicksand. Will Doll and Vittorio save him, or will they leave him to fate? Don't forget to check out the other Briefers, whose links follow my story!

Trapped in Time #4

How tempting to simply walk away as if we haven’t seen or heard a thing, and let Mother Nature do what she will with the despicable Myron.  How easy to look the other way. And who to bear witness to our perfectly understandable act of vengeance? None, for we are the only people here. And who would miss this loathsome creature were he to sink from view, lost in the morass into which he has fallen? Not a single soul.

So why are we not walking away from Myron Cornwinkle and washing our hands of the entire affair? Because my Vittorio is too honorable a man to do so. If it were up to me, I would do it in a heartbeat.

“My love,” Vittorio tries to reason with me because I’ve turned quite sullen at the idea of rescuing Myron. He peppers my face with small kisses, even as he takes some of the thickest vines he can find from those that strew the ground and braids them together to form a makeshift rope. “He brought us here, he must take us back.”

It’s hard to find fault with such impeccable logic.

“Very well,” I reluctantly agree, and I am rewarded with another kiss. It takes all of my self-control to keep from having carnal knowledge of Vittorio right then and there, but somehow I manage.

Meanwhile, Myron is screaming his fool head off, alternating between entreating us to help him and issuing dire threats of what will occur should we choose not to do so.

This soggy patch of ground is bigger than we’d thought at first, at least several meters across. It’s impossible to estimate its depth, but I’m going to hypothesize that it’s at least as deep as Myron is tall. I find myself curious—in a purely scientific way, of course—regarding the process by which Myron is sinking. For some reason, he takes my objectivity as deliberate, and viciously aimed at him.

“I thought you were stupid, but you really aren’t, you’re an imbecile,” he raves at me, which is earning him not the slightest measure of my respect, rather it gains him only my enmity. As well as the wrath of Vittorio, who mutters under his breath as he prepares to heave the makeshift lifeline across the swampy mess and into Myron’s grasp.

Myron is imbedded up to his hips and his screams only grow louder as his fear of dying grows.

“Please do not yell,” Vittorio entreats Myron. “And do not flail so much. The more you struggle, the faster you will sink.”

This cautionary statement only serves to induce Myron to yell all the more louder, thrashing about as if he’s trying to do the jitterbug.

Vittorio shakes his head and tosses the vine. Myron makes no attempt to catch it and it falls flat against the surface of the quicksand with a loud schlurp.

“Are you stupid?” I scream. “Grab the damn thing!”

“I… I was afraid to move. He told me I’d sink if I did.”

“I said do not flail,” Vittorio corrects him.  “I did not say don’t try to catch it.” He pulls on the vine and draws it back to him. “Catch it this time,” he cautions Myron. He fastens the rope into a loop which he swings over his head and for just a moment while he is silhouetted against the fading evening sun he reminds me of the hero of a Tom Mix movie we watched together once while at our place of employment, and my heart pounds faster at the sight. Vittorio is my very own cowboy, and such a sexy one he is, too. He tosses the “rope” straight at Myron who at least has the common sense to grab it this time and hold on for dear life.

“Doll, stand in front of me, please, and pull.”

Why should I, is my first thought, but since it’s my lover asking, I’ll do as he requests, albeit not with very good grace. I grumble beneath my breath, but I understand why he has placed me between him and Myron—because Vittorio is stronger than I am, and thus would serve as a better anchor than I would.

Myron is whimpering now, and I can see glistening tears on both cheeks. He has given up on swearing—or speaking of any kind—and I can see that he has sunk to about the level of his elbows. I guess we really need to hurry or we’ll be trapped here—wherever here might be.

I plant my feet into the rich soil, gripping the vine with both hands. I know Vittorio is just behind me, doing the same.

“Ready, Doll?”

“I’m ready, Vittorio.”

“On the count of three, then, si? Uno… due… tre…”

Even as the sound of the last number falls away, we both begin to pull with all our strength. Myron has gone into full-fledge panic now, and he is buried almost to his shoulders, his pathetic cries rending the air. I want to slap him, hard, until he closes his mouth; remind him that it is his own fault that we are in this predicament. But I behave.

The vine is sharper than it looks; I feel it slicing into my palm. I grit my teeth and never let on that it has drawn blood. That can be taken care of later.

Just when I think we are on a fool’s errand, I notice that more of Myron is visible now; Vittorio sees it as well.  “Harder, Doll!’ Vittorio encourages me, and I double my efforts, feeling that we are in a demented tug of war with a madman.

Our efforts are finally rewarded by the emergence of one slimy and very unhappy Myron. He collapses into a heap at Vittorio’s feet. I quickly drop the vine and resist the temptation to wrap it around Myron’s fool neck. Vittorio gathers me close to him.

“Now take us home, Myron,” he commands.

to be continued

Now see what the other Briefers are up to!

AJ Jarrett   m/m
MA Church    m/m
Sara York     m/m
Nephylim     m/m
Tali      m/m

Until next time, take care!

♥ Julie

Monday, May 28, 2012

Silver Shorts #21: Personal Business #3

Sorry for not posting for a few days, but I've been in Indiana, visiting Katie and leaving Sarah for a two month visit. I'm home now. This week's prompts were:  "I knew it had to be true love when..."
Or "Don't judge a __________ by its __________..."
OR "The star-filled sky reminds me of..."
Or "Did she/he really just slap..."

I hope you're enjoying my first PI story. I'd love to hear what you have to say!

Personal Business #3

The sun's long down and the night kisses the earth like a playful lover by the time I serve my small stack of papers and drop by the apartment to clean up. MoMo is irritated with me that I haven't been around to tend to his every need, but he graciously allows me to feed him, spoiled cat that he is.
I shower, shave, and run a quick eye over my limited wardrobe, deciding what's good and what's not. For a typical night out, it would be flannel shirt and jeans, along with my best cowboy hat, and silver hoops in my left ear. But this isn't exactly date night, it's business, and while that ensemble might easily fill the bill in most of the bars I frequent—the kind where modern country is the music of choice—I know it's not gonna cut it at the Huntley, and the last thing I want to do is stand out like a sore thumb—or a PI.
I finally decide on medium gray slacks with a matching jacket, pale blue shirt, and my best boots. A little country chic doesn't hurt. I keep the hoops in just because I can; I leave my blond-streaked brown hair casually messy. It's not too long or too short—too long and you look like a hippie liberal, too short and they think you're the law. Somewhere in between's usually just right. Though I can't help thinking I'm due for a trim; it's looking just a little shaggy. I leave enough stubble around my lips and along my jaw to be fashionable, before I hit the road. At the last minute I decide to grab my hat. It's a good way to blend in with a crowd; people usually remember the hat before they can pick out the face that goes under it. I've got Jeremy's picture tucked inside my jacket, too, in case I haven't quite memorized his new, hotter than hell features well enough to spot him on his own turf.
Yeah, sarcasm. It's a wonderful thing.
My Nikon's already in the car. I don't know if I'll need it tonight or not, but at least I'll have it. Not that I intend to lug it with me into the hotel; I have my phone camera for that. The Nikon's for surveillance; it's got a telephoto lens and it works well in low light, and it doesn't require a flash. It wasn't cheap, but it was very worth what I spent on it.
Franklin Boulevard is a long damn road; it runs the gamut from the low rent section of the city through the posher, snobbier parts of town—the Huntley Hotel's situated in the latter, along with a few other hotels of like mind, some expensive eateries, an art gallery, and some high end boutiques and office space that would cost me more in one month's rent than I'd earn in one of my better years.
The Huntley's a bit rich for most people's pocketbooks, even for dinner; it caters to those in the higher income brackets as well as a more sophisticated out-of-town clientele. That's probably the big attraction for Jeremy, besides the fact that he can be the big cheese because he's married to the absentee boss's daughter. He can eat his fill of wealthy guys who breeze in and out, whether on business or pleasure—his own private sexual smörgåsbord, with no worries about his bits of fun on the side sticking around for the long haul or getting clingy.
Unlike me.
My first thought as I pull into the parking lot is what time does Cinderella arrive? It looks like something out of a living breathing fairy tale. Big, white and gold, and elegant with a capital E. Swanky enough to have its own valet service—two young guys in matching livery—as well as a doorman. I pass them by, opting for do it yourself—i.e. the parking lot—it's free and then I don't have to wait for anyone to get my car back. Could come in handy if I need it in a hurry.
The lot's more than half-full. I manage to snag a spot for my Malibu not too far from the door. It looks like they've got something going on tonight. Or maybe this is just the fashionably late supper crowd. I close the door and cast a quick glance up into the darkness; the star-filled sky reminds me of a song my dad used to sing when I was a kid, something about the stars at night being big and bright, deep in the heart of Texas. His buddies down at the station used to kid around with him; they called him the Singing Cop. Even if he couldn't really carry a tune.  'Course, neither can I.
As I approach the front door I can't help but notice that the grandeur of the place certainly doesn't diminish with proximity. Makes you realize the huge gulf that separates the haves from the wish they dids. Is that what this is about, Jeremy, your wanting to be one of the privileged? So why are you risking that for the sake of a little dick on the side?
I tip my hat and nod at the doorman. "Evening."
"Good evening, sir." He bows me through the open door and I enter the Huntley for the first time—I suspect not for the last.
The inside is just as white as the outside, even more so. Looks like the designer was fond of marble; it's on all the walls, and the floors, and the blocky pedestals where museum-quality stone statuary sits on display. An interlocking gold pattern runs the length of the hall that leads to the front desk. I'd swear you could fit a football field inside this place, and not be crowded. Hanging above the desk is a large, white chandelier unlike any I've ever seen. I guess it's considered to be a fine example of modern art or something—but it's not my thing. Personally, I think it's ugly.
People in evening dress mill about the lobby. An event board is set up on a gold easel; it contains all the information I need. There are actually two events tonight: a wedding reception, and a retirement dinner. I opt for the former; bound to be more going on that might entice Jeremy's interest. I don't see him spending any length of time on the senior citizen circuit; at least not any more than his job requires.
First I scope out the front desk for any sign of Jeremy. Behind the blocky wood and chrome front stand three people. One woman and two men. Neither of the men are Jeremy; one's too young, the other too blond.  Didn't think it'd be that easy.
On a hunch I follow some of the well-dressed crowd, figuring they'll lead me to where I'd like to go. They drift down a nearby hallway, and we crowd ourselves into one of the elevators. Pressed against the back wall, I find myself standing very close to a diminutive brunette. Judging by her fuschia satin dress with the plunging neckline and huge matching bow that's parked on her caboose, I'd say she's either a bridesmaid or she just has bad taste in dresses. Judging by the gleam in her eye as she glances up at me, I'd say she's either unaccompanied, or she's on the prowl. Or both.
I tip my hat and nod politely. She giggles in that cutesy tipsy way girls get when they're not used to drinking and they're feeling no pain. "I bet you're a friend of the groom."
I smile noncommittally. "I'm guessing you know the bride."
That sets her off and she giggles again. The elevator comes to a smooth halt. I glance at the indicator; it says three. Everyone gets off, and I trail them, Miss Tipsy at my side. She latches on to my arm, and I do nothing to shake her off.
Down the hall we go. I can hear it now, the sound of people gathered together in celebration of the societal kind. We wander through a set of double doors that open into what must be the scene of the crime. The Marlborough Room, according to the legend on the wall.
"Do you dance, cowboy?"
"Yes, ma'am. A little."
"I betcha line dance, don't you?" She's hanging on my arm, and one of her hands is doing an exploratory down my back. I stop, on the pretense of needing to sneeze, and manage to shrug out of her touch without seeming too obvious. Not that I think she'd know obvious if it hit her, not at the moment.
"I've been known to." I try to put a bit more distance between us, but she latches on to my arm again, her fingers almost digging into the flesh. I grin and bear it for now.
"Maybe I can get the band to play something we can line dance to?"
She nods her head, looking away from me, and I follow her glance. The band sits off in one corner of the room, near the empty dance floor—several guys in bright blue suits sporting professional smiles.  The Lester McCann Sound is their name, at least according to what I can read on the bass drum. From the mix of instruments I see, they probably specialize in old school, slow tunes of the romantic type. I could be wrong, but I suspect that they don't have any Blake Shelton, Carrie Underwood, or Keith Urban in their repertoire. Probably just as well.
As I'm wondering how I'm going to disconnect myself from Miss Tipsy, who's decided she wants to play doctor and has started to administer a standing check-up, her hands roaming somewhere too far south of the border for my taste, rescue comes in the form of the irate bride. She's got her white satin train gathered and crushed inside one hand, probably to keep from stepping on it; her cheeks are flushed, and her stilettos sharp as she clacks toward us.
"I've been looking everywhere for you, where've you been?"
"Just went outside for a smoke," the bridesmaid flails. They both turn their eyes on me; I shrug, as if to say nothing to do with me.
"I can see what you went outside for," the bride comments dryly. "Come on, it's almost time for the toasts. Gerald is furious, you need to calm him down." She yanks on the bridesmaid's arm, and although she digs in her heels, the bride manages to overcome her reluctance and drags her off to face the wrath of Gerald, whoever he might be. The last I see of her is a mouthed warning that looks like "I'll be back", before they're swallowed up in the crowd.
Seems like a good time to get a drink and survey my surroundings. With any luck, it won't be a cash bar. If it is, though, I'll just put it on my expense report, like anything else.
I'm in luck, it's an open bar. Judging from the bottles of liquor I can see on the shelves, a pretty nice one at that. Father of the bride must be decently loaded. No call liquor, all brand names.
Three bartenders on duty; I guess this is a heavy-drinking crowd. Or one that doesn't care to be kept waiting. While I'm making up my mind, one of the three approaches.
"What can I get you?"
I glance briefly at him, and then back to the bottles. Normally I choose draft, but since I'm not paying the tab, I think I'll do better. "Jack and Coke." I finally decide. "Black label."
"Yes, sir. Right away."
He turns and quickly picks out the familiar square bottle. While he mixes, I observe. His blond hair is close-cropped and his eyes are a bright blue. He's got a down home look about him, with a firm jaw, wide nose, and lips just a little too thick to be really thin. He wears a long-sleeve white shirt beneath a black vest, with matching trousers; he's got a decent build. When he turns, I can't help but notice he has a nice ass.
No Mr. Universe, but then that isn't my type anyway. I certainly wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crackers.
"Enjoying yourself?" He makes professional chatter as he mixes my drink.
"Sure. What's not to enjoy about a wedding?"
"What indeed?" He offers me a quick smile, hands me a glass and a napkin. "Have a good night," he bids me before turning to another guest. I take the hint and move along, sipping at the drink. Lotta booze in that. Either he's just naturally heavy-handed on the alcohol or he's sending me a message. I store the information for future reference; right now I don't have the time. I gravitate away from the bar, looking about me.
I can tell dinner is done, and people are getting restless. No one's on the dance floor. That seems a waste of a band, but until the bride and groom take their first dance, etiquette demands that everyone else refrain. So what's the hold up?
The bride mentioned toasts. Someone must be missing, but who? And why?  I guess I'm just naturally inquisitive that way, but I want to know.
If that greeting was intended to startle me, it doesn't work. Three guesses who's standing behind me, with her arms wrapped around my waist in an overly familiar bear hug. And here I thought she'd be occupied long enough for me to case the joint and go. Guess I misjudged her interest in me.
"Isn't your friend going to be mad that you snuck off again?" I manage to twist out of her grip, and I plaster a well-meaning smile on my face to take away any potential sting in my words.
"Call me Darcy." She leans up on tiptoe, trying to bridge the several inch gap between us so she can whisper in my ear, as if she has confidential information to impart. "She's got her own problems going on, but don't worry. Pretty soon you can take me out on the dance floor and show me whatcha got."
Somehow I think that what she has in mind, the dance floor would be a rather inappropriate location.
"What's wrong with the bride?" I politely ask, trying to get her mind off of dancing—horizontal or otherwise—and me in the same thought.
She shrugs and reaches for my drink. Before I realize what she's about, she's taken a sip, leaving lipstick residue behind on the rim. "Her dad's on it, whatever it is." She looks toward the head table. I see the bride. She's standing next to an older gentleman. Must be her father. He's taken a rather protective stance; I've seen the posture before. Protecting his little girl from the unpleasantness of the world. He's talking, rather animatedly, to a man in a dark suit. Even from this distance, I can see Daddy isn't happy.
The other guy must be a member of the staff. He has a placating hand upon the father's arm. Looks like he's trying to diffuse the situation, whatever it is. All I can see is his back, and his conciliatory attitude.
And then he takes a step back, turning so that I can see his profile. Both men are smiling now, so all must be well. Then my heart gives a lurch, and I damn near drop my drink.
Looks like I've just struck pay dirt. It's Jeremy Daniels. He's looking even better than in the photo. And damned if I don't want to just jump his bones in the worst possible way.

to be continued

You can get the entire Silver Shorts #21 anthology here

Until next time, take care!

♥ Julie.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Wednesday Briefs: Trapped in Time #3

Welcome to another week of flash fiction, brought to you courtesy of the Wednesday Briefers! This week, the prompt was "Love means never having to...", and the alternate prompts were: use peanuts, consideration and candelabra or "I would have to to... except that I..." or "Penny for your thoughts" or "Frankly, my dear, I don't..."

This week, Trapped in Time continues after Myron Cornwinkle falls flat on his face, and then proceeds to make an ass of himself. Don't forget to visit all the other Wednesday Briefers, whose links follow my story.

Trapped in Time #3

Not that I was expecting gratitude of any sort, as we’ve done nothing to merit it, including not allowing ourselves to be used as a buffer between Myron and the hard ground. Frankly, my dear, I don’t care if he breaks every bone in his miserable body—he deserves it. But I was certainly not expecting to be excoriated in language that would not have been out of place issuing from the lips of a group of drunken seamen in the midst of a Bacchanalian orgy.

I especially did not expect it in the middle of a strange jungle populated by at least one tyrannosaurus rex.

“Verdammte Schweinehund,” I mutter beneath my breath as I reach for Vittorio’s hand. His eyes meet mine, and it’s as though an invisible thread runs between his mind and mine, and I know just what he’s thinking.  Let Myron stew in his own juices.

I bow from the waist, before offering my lover my arm. He accepts it, and we turn away from the fuming pile of pestilence known as Myron Cornwinkle. I cannot help but smirk, because I have every confidence that we’ve not only not overplayed our hand, but that we have, in fact, just gained the upper hand.

We start to slog our way through the dense undergrowth. Large verdant fronds bestrew our path, and gnarly vines grab at our ankles, attempting to cling, but with our arms entwined as closely as our hearts, we manage not to fall. At the last moment, we veer away from a particularly damp and earthy looking patch of ground that may or may not be quicksand—it’s best not to take any chances.

We’ve barely skirted the potential trap when we hear a noise behind us. We collectively turn our heads to behold Myron scrambling after us. By dint of sheer luck, he avoids stepping in the swampy morass, but trips over a thick vine, and tumbles at our feet. I suppress a snicker.

Myron begins to swear again, but all I can make out is “nibcocked.” Before I can protest his language—more particularly the inference implied in that insult, which I’m positive is directed at me—Vittorio reaches down, grabs Myron by the shirt, twisting it about his fist as he lifts him bodily from the ground to dangle helplessly in the air once again.

“Myron, we do not appreciate that sort of language.” He brings the trembling man’s face close to his, staring into his pale eyes. I can hear Vittorio’s upset in the cadence of his words; when he gets emotional, his speech becomes more and more Italian, more passionate.  Especially when we are making love together.  Ach mein Gott!

Myron is flailing his arms, but it’s useless—about as useless as the tiny arms of the dinosaur we just saw. Myron’s no match against Vittorio’s strength, not when he’s been angered. More fool Myron for getting on Vittorio’s bad side—my lover is all that stands between him and my own ire.

“Also, you do not have knowledge of Doll’s physical attributes that you shall make such a statement. And if I ever learn that you have such knowledge, I will not be responsible for what I do to you!”

Myron’s squeaking now, and I fear he is in imminent danger of losing bladder control which, while humorous, is not something that I wish to witness. Or smell.

“Don’t worry, I don’t want to see his dong, I swear it!” Vittorio releases his hold on Myron and he crashes to the ground. But not before I hear the rest of his statement—“Only yours.”

That does it! I’ve had enough of this addlepated Arschloch! Uttering a tremendous roar, my limbs stiffen as I prepare to pounce on Myron and trounce him to within an inch of his worthless life. I coil like a deadly spring, and then I release myself at him, prepared to inflict serious damage, only to find my flight arrested by Vittorio, who has handily caught me up in his loving arms.

“No, no, Doll, no, no,” he chides me gently, covering my face with tender kisses in order to distract me from my direst of intentions. It succeeds as I succumb to his charms—as usual.

He continued to soothe me until I cease to tremble—from anger, anyway—and he sets me on my feet once more, keeping a protective arm about me.

Myron has backed himself against a tree; he stares at me with a most sullen expression.

I look lovingly up at my tall beauty. “I shall apologize,” I murmur, for I know he wishes no enmity between us, and I have no wish to upset him. He nods his affirmation, and leans down to offer me his sweet lips. I kiss him and pat his soft cheek; his eyes glow and I know he is pleased. Then I take a step toward Myron, followed by another one. I put out my hand tentatively, in the way that one first approaches a wild animal one is unsure of, in order to engender its trust. His eyes are filled with nothing but suspicion.

“Bitte entschuldigen Sie,” I say clearly, loud enough for Vittorio to hear. Please accept my apologies. And then I lower my voice to a level that only Myron can hear. “If you ever dare to look at Vittorio in that way, or any part of him, I shall slice yours off and use it for knackwurst. Verstehen Sie das?” He nods his frightened understanding. I smile and return to my love.

“Thank you, Doll,” he whispers and rewards me with a kiss.

I feel better now, having gotten that unpleasantness over with. Myron is muttering to himself, but we ignore him, wrapped up in one another, ‘til suddenly we hear him exclaim, “Great googly moogly! My wand!”

He snaps his suspenders loudly; several birds are flushed from a nearby bush as he begins to run—right into the quicksand!

to be continued

Now go see what the other Briefers are up to this week!

Nephylim     m/m
MA Church     m/m
Sara York    m/m
Lily Sawyer     m/m 
MC Houle      m/m

 Until next time, take care!

♥ Julie