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Superstar
Amber Quill Press (2009)
ISBN: 978-1-60272-605-5
Excerpt:
“You said you loved me. You told me you’d come back.”
I lean forward and an updraft of wind catches at my hair and flirts with stealing my breath away. I am looking down at a straight drop of almost two hundred feet. Behind me, cars rush by, oblivious to my intentions, concerned only with making their way south to downtown Seattle, or north to neighborhoods like Fremont or Wallingford.
I push my chest forward, so I am hanging over the edge of the George Washington Bridge, better known here in Seattle as the Aurora Bridge.
AKA Route 99. AKA the “suicide bridge.”
One look down and I’m dizzy, the vertigo possessing me like a demon, filling me with a giddiness that makes my heart thud and nearly steals my breath. It’s quite a view from up here: I can see the distant mountain ranges of the Olympics, the pine-covered hills and neighborhoods dotting Seattle, and the sparkling blue of Lake Union. Unlike the common “rain city” conception of Seattle, this July day is a stunning one, clear, sunny, low humidity and a temperature in the mid 70s.
It’s a lovely day to commit suicide.
I glance down again at the plunge before me. I have read that it will take only 2.2 seconds for me to cover the 180 feet or so I would drop if I were to attempt to take flight. Flight? Gravity is a demanding bitch…hungry.
I close my eyes for just a moment, because the vertigo of standing here at the edge of one of the tallest bridges in the country is pulling me forward, making me want to make the leap before I’m even ready. But I have things to think about before I take that quick, exhilarating exit and before everything goes dark.
I have read extensively about this bridge upon which my black Converse shoes are now firmly grounded. Since it was built, more than 230 people have committed suicide by jumping. Hey, a shoe salesman made the leap first back in 1932, before they even had a chance to get the thing completed. Is life that bad for shoe salesmen?
I have learned that I will reach a speed of about 55 miles per hour before I abruptly come to a halt. The force at impact is 28,000 foot-pounds, equal to being blasted by twenty-five 30-30 Winchester rifles.
I guess I won’t be leaving a pretty corpse.
But then you never really did appreciate how pretty I was, did you? If you had, maybe I wouldn’t be standing here right now.
“You said you loved me. You told me you’d come back.”
Ah, but I bet you say that to all the boys. I wonder how many of them fell for it as I did? I wonder how many of them fall—big time—for you, just as I am about to do in a few minutes here?
* * *
The first time I met you, you were playing in a little dive bar in Ballard. This was before you got famous, before the Rolling Stone cover, the Grammy, and the two platinum records. I had planned an evening out in Seattle’s equivalent of Boy’s Town: the area known as Capitol Hill. Park once, and you had a ton of bars you could walk to, and later, stagger from. And if you didn’t get lucky at the bars and got desperate enough, there were always a couple of bathhouses you could sneak into. I had ducked furtively into Club Z or Basic Plumbing myself a time or two, not that I would admit that to any of the group of friends I had planned to go out carousing with that October night so close to Halloween.
But Fate, that irascible, mischievous little bitch, had other things in mind for me that night. One by one, my friends called and canceled. One was dating a new guy and he wanted to stay in and cook for him. This from a man who thought Paula Deen was a gourmet chef. Another was still hung over from starting the weekend early…on Tuesday. And the third, Greg, had come down with an outbreak of herpes. I tried to be sympathetic. But that one bathhouse I mentioned earlier? Basic Plumbing? The front desk knew Greg by name there. They greeted him much the same as the patrons of Cheers once greeted Norm.
So I found myself alone and without wheels. I relied on the kindness of friends for auto transportation and that night, after everything fell through, I just did not feel like taking a bus from Ballard, the neighborhood where my apartment was, all the way downtown, then transferring to get up on the “hill.”
Ballard had been a Scandinavian fishing village before—like some undulating blob—the city of Seattle absorbed it. There were still fishing boats moored at its shores and here and there, the occasional trace of Nordic culture, but Ballard had become more of a trendy place to live…and to eat, drink, and be merry. Merry. I said “merry,” not “Mary.” One still needs to go to Capitol Hill to eat, drink, and be Mary.
I digress. I do that. A lot. See? I’m doing it now.
Anyway, my thought that October night was to head over to Olive’s, a little dive bar and restaurant on Ballard Avenue, where Kurt Cobain was once rumored to have played. No, there most likely would not be any potential love connections there (although that’s not saying it couldn’t happen; just because a bar is labeled “gay” doesn’t mean you’ll always get lucky…and the inverse can often be true; hey I can attest!), but there would be Rainier beer, a dark, crowded room that might contain some grungy, nerdy, cute straight boys who may or may not be amenable to expanding their sexual horizons, and—I hoped—some good music to just float away on.
I threw on black jeans, a black T-shirt that read “Scum of the Earth,” my Cons, and a leather band for my wrist. I glanced at myself in the mirror, making sure the tribal armband tattoo stood out beneath the form-fitting arm of my T-shirt and decided I looked good enough to be going out solo. I ran my fingers through my dark hair, enjoying the way it stood on end, a calculated mess. I looked good.
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Baby Doll gives us a literary look at the complicated psychodynamics of love and sex between a boy and a man in America in the early ‘80s (the beginning era of AIDS, sex-offender witch-hunts, and gay/transvestite visibility). Like a good movie, Baby Doll is definitely worth giving a second (or third) read. Mykola’s mastery at storytelling and excellent writing will keep you engaged the first time through, but subsequent readings will help you understand the complex forces that unfold between the characters. You may question his opinions on femininity and relationships, but you won’t be able to ignore Mykola’s love for words as well as his understanding of a boy’s feelings and behavior.
Sexual counselor Sally Miller (who edited Baby Doll) provides some insight into the story in the afterword.
Baby Doll
Publisher: Synergy Press (2006)
ISBN: 0-9758581-2-2
Excerpt:
At first he couldn’t believe they were an actual pair of panties, but they were the color – pink, what else? – and the size – almost palm size – of a real pair. Except for the soiled hardness at the crotch they were satiny and enticing, but too new-looking to be lying discarded on the grass. Another swatch of nearby pink caught his eye, and he was almost afraid to believe it, like some kind of miracle or gift from the Universe: a bra, a pink bra to match the pink panty!
Where was the girl that went with them? Also lying somewhere about? He looked at the two articles of clothing, his penis stiff, and snatched up the panty. He shuddered at the feel of satin – the first time he had ever touched panty-satin – almost blinded by the sensation spinning up his arm and through his body. Like a thief suppressing his greedy enjoyment and victory for later, he quickly shoved the panty in his pocket. But the bra he lingered over, stealthily walking around it, examining it from each angle, gingerly nudging it with his foot as if scared something might jump at him from under the crushed satiny cups. . . . What? A mouse? A spider? A tit?. . . He snatched up the bra.
He clutched the underclothes in his fists, one in each pocket, pulsing his fingers in and out of the material, and walked quickly to the nearby restroom. It wasn’t so much that the bra and panties reminded him of a woman, a girl, a female, but of things feminine, that is, of stereotypes of the feminine: of softness and gentleness, of lolling about on satin sheets, caressing oneself in powders and creams, in bubble-baths and perfumes, of being taken care of and loved, and all because of one’s natural birthright of having been born female. . . .
Where did these skewed images of the feminine come from? A mother who nightly cleaned Wall Street offices? A drunken father who catered to 3rd Avenue addict/prostitutes, then came home to beat his wife? Teachers and nuns in a grade school who periodically ejected him as unfit for class participation? Too many television shows with beautiful actresses playing roles they could never be in real life?
Or perhaps each of us is born with an innate hatred of the other gender, a hatred that in some, borders on jealousy and regret that one has been cheated in being born different, being born male, or being born female, and striving to correct that ‘error’ of the commonplace with exaggerations of one’s unique difference. Dykes bullying like males, queens softening into females, and each in a ‘new’ gender role as grotesquely facile as the one they’ve rejected. . . .
The boy couldn’t wait to try on his new garments. The restroom was cold, its brown wall and floor tiles doing little to instill a sense of warmth or comfort. The name – comfort station – was a misnomer, as there was no comfort here. It was strictly utilitarian: you entered to pee, to shit, to wash your hands, and you left. Even the toilet stalls were doorless – why have privacy for a natural bodily function everyone had to do? – the toilet bowls open and exposed, and though he had never been interrupted while taking a shit, it was always a hurried roosting lest someone did enter.
Even his chronic masturbations at the upright urinals, sometimes six or seven times a day (not counting his evening ones at home) were also hurried for fear of interruption, but he was always left alone. On rainy days he stayed in the restroom for hours at a time until the boring sameness of the urinals and stall and his own repetitive jerk-off images drove him back out into the desolate park.
There was nothing, or anyone, to be afraid would interrupt him, but public places are just that, public. Just as he had often unobtrusively watched lovers on benches, so he, too, often felt himself being watched and observed, and would turn to catch someone, usually a man, eyeing him from across the baseball fields or on a pathway leading from the river promenade.
Thus it was a nervous and hurried disrobing. He wanted the garments on him since he had first spotted them, disbelieving his good fortune at their unexpected appearance in the dirt. But the enigma of the girl who had worn them intrigued him: did she run off naked in the night, pursued by someone equally naked, like satyrs and nymphs gadding about in forests and woods, free and uncaring of who saw or condemned or even joined in?
Perhaps he should have explored further, perhaps she had discarded a garter belt nearby, or dark nylons, a skirt, a blouse . . . but he shook his head, his breathing deepening, forcing him to slow down, relax, take it easy . . . put them on one at a time . . . the bra first. . . . He held it to his face, the bra surging into his mouth, his nose and eyes into each curved cup, imaging he smelled flesh, stiff nipples,soft tits, hungry lust and passion aching to be touched, clasped, caressed, licked, sucked, fucked. . . .
How did he naturally seem to know the complicated logic of putting on a bra? It seemed like the most natural thing in the world, at least for a girl. . . . He had once seen his mother do it, and wanting to do the same, he tugged a spare bra around his chest. She pulled it away, chiding him that when a boy puts on a girl’s clothes his mother will die. . . . Mother was another elusive word he played with, a word filled with so many meaningful definitions and conjectures, so many threatening ones, so many forgiving ones, so many worthless and meaningless ones too. . . .
He held the panties to his face, his eyes and mouth an expression of fear and lust, his penis more stiff than he had ever been able to rouse himself. With the first touch of the satiny material on his legs the panties seemed to rise up his flesh on their own, shimmering up his thighs and into the crook of his ass. Only his erection proved a hindrance, the panty straining to cover, to clutch, to smother the unfamiliar protrusion. . . . Then he heard the footstep and saw the man. His face went white and his eyes widened in fear. One arm automatically crossed his chest as the other tried to shield his crotch.
With one more step the man was on him, tugging the boy’s cock out of the panty, groping the flat brassiere cups, and the boy’s ejaculation was immediate: sudden, shuddering, devastating. For the first time in his life he had been sexually touched by another. The satisfaction of that touching was unlike anything he had ever experienced in touching himself. Strange hands on his penis and body, especially dressed as he was, and his destiny opened up to immediate fulfillment, his eruption like a last and final release of his solitary boyhood – an oozing, lubricating liquid that spilled not only out of his penis and scrotum but from every pore and sensate fiber of his body and soul. There was no buckling or shooting, only a desperate clutching of the man, holding his shoulders and wrapping his legs around the man’s as he was lifted off the ground and pounded against the bathroom stall wall. There was no penetration, yet the boy felt himself fucked as hard and deep as any girl.
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Flemington NJ 08822
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Pyromancy
Publisher: CreateSpace (September 26, 2009)
ISBN-10: 1449527795
ISBN-13: 978-1449527792
Excerpt:
Christian Ryder sat in the dark, slowly stroking his fist up and down the length of his swollen cock. His gaze was locked on the flickering television screen, where two men were in the final throes of orgasm. The brunet top -- his body heavily laden with muscle -- gripped his thick prick around the base and took aim, spraying cum all over the younger blond man’s upturned face. It was a hot scene, one that never failed to get him off.
Until tonight.
As the ending movie credits began to roll across the screen, Christian exhaled a disgusted huff and released his semihard shaft. He reached for the remote control lying next to him on the bed and hit stop on the DVD player. Turning off the TV, he plunged his bedroom into darkness. His frustration mounted as the hollow sound of his pulse pounded in his ears.
It’d been over six months since he’d gotten laid. The last time he’d taken a chance and risked being with someone else, it hadn’t gone so well -- a fucking disaster, really. The end result testing his rigid self-control almost past the limits of his endurance.
The guy he’d picked up and brought home had taken offense at being asked to leave right after they’d screwed, and had thrown a temper tantrum. Not something he’d expected from a six-feet-tall body builder who’d claimed he was only interested in a good time. By the time Christian forcibly removed the man from the property, his body temperature had been dangerously high and his head was spinning.
After that close call, he’d decided it was too dangerous to indulge in one night stands, which left him with little options other than his own left hand. Especially since he already had a self-imposed rule against developing anything long-term or risking the emotional attachment that came with it.
Mixing emotions and sex fucked with even the most normal person’s head. For the people around him, it could mean much more than a broken heart -- it could be deadly.
Security lights from outside filtered through the miniblinds covering his bedroom window in sporadic spurts of light, briefly illuminating his damp and sweaty body lying atop tangled, white cotton sheets. He kicked at them, unraveling himself.
Irritated, Christian sat up. He leaned back against the cool brass headboard and flipped on the bedside lamp. His gaze flittered down to the big, red numbers on his alarm clock. Almost midnight.
Restless and exasperated, he picked yesterday’s newspaper up off the side table and spread it out over his lap. Since jerking off wasn’t going to work for him, maybe he could bore himself to death by reading the paper. It was worth a shot. Losing sleep made control over his curse temperamental.
Page by page, Christian skimmed over the paper until he reached the personal ads. Those babies were like the funny pages to him. Why someone would put an ad in the newspaper, hoping for a good outcome, was beyond his comprehension. Only the ugly and desperate sunk to that level.
He read over a few ads, laughing, until a small square down on the bottom, right-hand corner caught his eye. It was an advert for an escort agency. One that claimed to cater to men of his persuasion: gay men looking for nothing more than a hot body to warm their lonely beds. The agency, Male Companions, promised anonymity and, more importantly, clean bills of health for all their available staff. He never fucked anyone without a rubber, so it was a bit of a moot point, but the words comforted him somehow.
Before Christian realized his intent, the cordless phone was in his hand, his fingers tapping out the number. A feminized male voice answered, saying, “Thank you for calling Male Companions. Nigel speaking. How may I help you?”
Christian opened his mouth to speak and froze. What the hell was he doing? He didn’t want to pay for sex; doing so went against every moral he had. He clicked the off button, hanging up.
He exhaled, relieved he’d come to his senses before doing something he knew he would later regret. His gaze wandered over his bedroom, hovering on the fifty-two--inch plasma TV, the only other thing in there besides his bed and nightstand. Not a single picture or piece of artwork marred the clean lines of the bare, white walls. Whereas the stark sterility of his room usually appeared simple and clean, it now felt barren and depressing, not unlike his personal life.
His hands shook as he picked up the phone and redialed the number.
* * * * *
Tanner O’Bannon sat slumped over his kitchen table, trying to balance his checkbook. Money was tight, his balance down to just above two bucks, but at least he wasn’t in the negative anymore. He couldn’t afford the outrageous overdraft fees the bank charged. The last two charges had forced him to eat ramen noodles for a month. If he never saw another pasta dish in his life, it would be too soon.
Tanner’s eyes blurred as he ran through the figures once last time before flipping the checkbook closed. He folded his arms and laid his head on the cool surface of the mahogany table. He was exhausted, but needed to stay awake for just a little longer. On call for work until three a.m., he couldn’t afford to fall asleep or miss a single phone call. He needed the money too badly to risk losing his job, even if it was one he was ashamed of. Necessity overruled pride.
With heavy-lidded eyes, Tanner jerked his head up and shook it, trying to force himself to stay alert. He rose to his feet, walked over to the sink, and splashed icy water on his cheeks. As he mopped his face with a clean dishtowel, the phone rang. Only one person would be calling this late. Work.
He didn’t know whether to be happy or sad. On the one hand, it meant money; on the other, degradation. His father would be rolling over in his grave if he knew what his only son was doing to pay the debts he’d left behind.
Tanner crossed the room and picked up the phone. He listened for a moment then set it back in the cradle before jogging up the stairs. Upstairs, he hopped into the shower and quickly scrubbed himself from head to toe with citrus-scented body wash. He stepped out and yanked a dry towel off the rack, briskly rubbing it over his hair and skin while he fumbled through a drawer under the sink for lube and a butt plug.
He squeezed a dollop of lube into his hand and ran it over the plug, liberally coating its short length. He reached behind to swipe the remaining moisture through the crease of his ass. The toy in his right hand, he leaned over the toilet and braced his left hand on the back of the commode. He spread his legs shoulder width apart and took a deep breath, trying to relax his muscles as he pressed the blunt rubber tip against his asshole. Due at the motel in thirty minutes, there was no time for finesse. He exhaled and shoved it home, wincing at the sharp burn of his anal ring stretching around the plug.
The things you have to do to make a buck, Tanner thought, as he grabbed the washcloth he’d used in the shower and wiped off the excess lube around the wide base of the plug. He dropped it in the sink and headed into his bedroom to dress.
It was time to go to work.
* * * * *
Waiting inside the modest motel room he’d rented for the night, Christian glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time. Perched on the end of the bed, his sock-clad toes tapped an unsteady rhythm on the cheaply carpeted floor, his body practically vibrating from anxious anticipation.
He was nervously trying to figure out what would happen once the escort showed up. Payment for the guy’s services had already been rendered over the phone -- apparently even hookers took American Express these days -- so at least he didn’t have to worry about having that conversation. Things would be awkward enough as it was.
More pertinent was how things would play out. Was he supposed to strip and get right down to business as soon as the guy got there, or make small talk first? Would he inadvertently break some kind of silent rule if he asked the man anything personal? Could they even exchange more than first names? How would they decide who did what to whom?
He wasn’t stupid enough to think the escort would turn down anything he asked for, but would it be possible for him to tell if the guy really wanted to do it or not? Was it just a job for him, a way to make a buck, or would he really enjoy it? The thought of fucking someone who just laid there and went through the motions repulsed him.
So many unanswered questions floated around in his head he was beginning to get a headache. Sweat beaded his brow, and his knees cantered up and down. Maybe it wasn’t too late to cancel. He could call. Whether they refunded him his money was of little concern. They could keep it; he had more than he’d ever be able to spend anyway.
He didn’t think he could go through with this after all. It seemed too cold, too impersonal. A little voice in the back of his mind screamed, “That’s the point, jackass. You need cold and impersonal. Do you want to be responsible for someone else’s death?”
That thought chilled him. Christian forcibly shut down his memories before they transported him back to a time he didn’t want to visit. He pushed away his reservations and tried to consider why he’d called Male Companions in the first place.
He was lonely. Though he didn’t like to admit it, even to himself, it was the truth. The acquaintances he’d made over the years, at work, on the rare occasions he deigned to go in and check up on things, and at the firehouse where he volunteered, only went so far. During the day, he was fine. It was at night, after a long day at work or returning from an emergency fire call, that the loneliness crept in and haunted him.
He realized that this wasn’t even about sex, not solely. Sure, he wanted to get off, but what he really needed most was simple human contact, companionship. Sadly, that was the one thing he could never allow himself to possess. Attachments meant caring about someone, making himself vulnerable. In essence, losing control of himself. That was something he could never allow.
Christian took several deep, calming breaths. He could do this. He had to. There weren’t any other options left for him. It was anonymous sex or nothing. Though he doubted it, all he could do was hope it would be enough to sustain him.
* * * * *
Tanner arrived at the motel with five minutes to spare. Town had been dead, not a car in sight on his way over. A good thing since old Bessie -- his ten-year-old Mazda -- had sputtered and died twice during the trip across town. It was only a matter of time before the old clunker finally gave out for good.
Part of him wished he’d hung onto his dad’s car instead of selling it when his father was killed six months prior, but at the time he’d needed the money even more desperately than he did now. The debts his father had left behind were astronomical. Even after he’d sold off everything of value besides the house itself, he still hadn’t brought in enough to cover half of what was owed. Hence, the reason for his shady new career.
For the last four months, he’d been working nights for Male Companions as an escort. Selling his body to the highest bidder wasn’t the most respectable line of work, but he hadn’t known what else to do. It wasn’t like he could make enough to cover his college tuition and pay the mortgage, along with making payments on all of the other debts his father had left on his shoulders. He supposed he could have sold drugs; he knew enough small-time dealers. He could have easily bought a little pot and divided it up for resale. Unfortunately, his conscience wouldn’t allow him to do that. Drugs killed people, and no matter how often his buddies tried to convince him marijuana never hurt anyone, he just couldn’t quite believe them. A drug was a drug, plain and simple. Having sex for money, degrading as it was, didn’t hurt anyone besides himself. Besides, it wasn’t like he hadn’t had his share of casual sex along the way, just like everyone else. The only difference was now that he got paid for doing it.
Or so he tried to convince himself as he hustled through the motel lobby toward the service desk.
Though he’d been told which motel to go to and given a name, he hadn’t been given a room number. Which meant he had to go to the desk and ask, something he dreaded every time he was forced to do it. He always imagined the clerk knew exactly who he was and why he was there. It was humiliating.
He rang the bell and waited, tapping his fingers on the hard surface of the beige counter. A bored looking blonde, somewhere around his own age of twenty, sauntered out the back room, long, blood red fingernails plastered over her widely yawning mouth. Her eyes lit up when she saw him. “Oh, hello.” She smiled. “Can I help you?”
Tanner groaned inwardly. He was used to being hit on by women, but that didn’t make him any more comfortable with it. “I’m supposed to meet a friend here.” Damn, what was the name he been told to ask for? Chris…or Christian? “His name is, um, Christian, Christian Smith.” God, he hoped that was right. The last name was easy. It was always Smith. People had no imagination.
The smile on the girl’s face dimmed a bit as she turned to the computer and began to type. Silently, he watched her, wondering how she could type at all with those god-awful nails in her way.
She nodded down at the computer screen and then glanced over at him. “I’ll have to call up and ask permission before I can give you any information.” She turned away from him and picked up the phone. From over her shoulder, she said, “It’ll be just a moment.”
“Sure,” he mumbled, his eyes scanning everywhere and nowhere. He just wanted to get to the room, do what he was being paid for, and go home. Afterward, he would be one day closer to financial solvency. One trick closer to owning the home he’d grown up in, free and clear.
He listened as she quietly spoke with someone, her side of the conversation consisting of mainly “yes, sir” and “uh-huh.” Finally, she hung up and faced him.
“Mr. Smith says to send you up. He’s in room 204.”
“Thank you,” he uttered, already striding away from the desk. There was an elevator, but he bypassed it, choosing the stairs instead. He jogged up them quickly, without breaking a sweat, and shoved through the entrance door onto the second-floor hallway.
The walls were adorned in hunter green wallpaper with a burgundy trim. The floor was carpeted in the same deep shade of green. The minute details were absorbed as he hustled to the end of the hall, glancing at room numbers along the way. Room 204 was on the right, near the end.
He stopped outside it and took a breath, giving himself a mental pep talk. You can do this. Just keep your eyes on the prize and get through it, same as always. It was no different than picking someone up at a club. No different at all.
He raised his clenched fist and knocked, his gaze dropping to his feet. Beginnings were strange. Some men wanted him to come in and bend over, take it up the ass like a good little whore and leave, while others wanted to make polite chitchat first. Out of the two, he wasn’t sure which he liked best. Probably the fuck-and-run guys -- at least those assignments were faster.
He was still wondering what tonight’s call would be like when the door swung inward. Tanner looked up, and higher still, craning his neck back to gaze into the eyes of his client for the night. The standard greeting he recited to each of his johns died in his throat.
Saliva pooled in Tanner’s mouth. Fuck. The man was easily six and a half feet of yummy muscle and lean, bottled sex, dwarfing his own five feet eight stature.
Tanner’s brain turned to mush as all the blood in his body drained south and squeezed into his cock, making his balls draw tight inside his Levi’s. His gaze cruised from the man’s tousled, short black hair to his socked feet and back up, absorbing all the details in between. Brooding eyes, square jaw, broad shoulders, and trim hips -- every inch sex incarnate and designed to entice a man like Tanner to his knees in supplication.
The man was exactly the sort of guy who got Tanner’s motor running in overdrive. The kind of hunk he would’ve tried to pick up in any one of the bars he used to frequent, back when he actually had a life. A man he would’ve happily fucked for free, under other circumstances.
Except this was business.
A sheet of ice fell over Tanner, cooling his ardor, easily putting him back in his place. He wasn’t here on a social call. He was here to fuck for money.
Tanner schooled his features into a smile he’d carefully rehearsed in front of the mirror at home. It was supposed to look seductive, but something about the tight feel of his skin stretching out over his cheekbones told him it fell flat tonight. Oh well, he thought ruefully, another night, another dollar.
He met the big man’s gaze and held it. “I’m Tanner. The agency sent me.”
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On the home front, Killian's surrogate parents decide to buy a historic mansion and turn it into a bed and breakfast. The house comes with a rich history...and maybe a ghost or two. Killian doesn't want to believe in such things, but he's quickly becoming convinced that something terrible happened to the home's original owners. The century-old mystery both terrifies and tantalizes Killian. In the end, he may be the only one who can uncover the truth.
All Lost Things
PD Publishing, Inc. (October 1, 2009)
ISBN: 978-1-933720-70-8
Excerpt:
I ran upstairs and opened my door to find Asher sitting on the edge of my bed, looking quite uncomfortable. Kane was sitting with his back to him, playing a game on the computer. I got the impression that they hadn’t said much to each other.
When I went in, Kane glanced up, then turned off the game. “I’ll let you guys talk,” he said on his way out.
I looked over at Asher questioningly. It was weird seeing him in my bedroom again. “So, uh, why are you here?”
“I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what else to do. They arrested Caleb.”
I shook my head in confusion. “Huh?”
“The police arrested Caleb. His picture has been all over the news. Someone on the boardwalk recognized him and called the cops.”
“Right...”
“Killian, they think he killed his dad. It’s horrible!”
“Look, no offense, but what does this have to do with me? Why are you here?”
Asher looked hurt, and, for a second, I felt bad. Then I remembered that he was the one who’d decided to go to another college without informing me, and my moment of sympathy passed.
“I told you, I didn’t know where else to go. I need help.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“You work for a private investigator. You have to prove that Caleb is innocent.”
“First off, I’m a secretary. It’s not like I’m running around with a magnifying glass looking for clues. Second, and more importantly, how do you know Caleb is innocent? He did run away, after all.”
“I know Caleb. He’d never hurt anyone, let alone kill them.”
“Not even his abusive father?”
“No!”
“So why did he run away?”
“Because he hated the group home? Because he was afraid? I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him since everything went wrong. Just...please, Killian, you have to help. You’ve solved murders before.”
“You know, a few weeks ago, you were mad at me for even wanting to become a private investigator, now you’re asking me to take on a potentially dangerous job. Don’t you find that the slightest bit hypocritical?”
“Call me names, make fun of me; I don’t care. You’re probably right. All I know is I need your help.”
I sighed and rubbed my face. “Legally, I can’t take a case. I’m not licensed.”
“What about your boss?” Asher’s voice had a hopeful tone. He knew he was wearing me down.
“I can’t imagine he’d agree to anything like this. How would you pay him? This is his occupation; it’s what he does for a living.”
“Caleb should be getting insurance money from his dad’s death and the house burning down. He can pay him.”
“You haven’t even talked to Caleb about this yet. How do you know he wants to hire anybody?”
“You think he wants to go to jail for murder?”
I had to concede that point. “Fine. I’ll talk to Novak, but I’m not promising anything.”
“Thank you! Thank you so much!”
“Don’t thank me yet. Novak could very well say no. In fact, he almost certainly will. Just in case, though, tell me everything you know.”
“He was arrested last night on the boardwalk. It was all over the news this morning, along with new information from the police.”
“What kind of information?”
“Now they’re saying he chopped his father up with an ax and set the house on fire to cover it up.”
A surge of dizziness swept over me like a tidal wave, and I fell heavily onto my desk chair. “W-what did you say?” Flashes of my dream came back to me, and I felt bile rise in the back of my throat.
...a blood-covered ax dripping in my hands...
“The news said the body was dismembered before the fire was set. That’s all I know.”
...the split second of fear in his eyes before the ax struck for the first time...
“Killian, are you alright?”
...the feeling of pure hatred coursing through my veins...
“Killian?”
I felt someone shaking my arm and that snapped me back to the present. Asher was leaning over me, a concerned expression on his face.
“Are you okay? For a minute there, you looked as if you were going to faint or something.”
“I...I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.” I stood up. “I didn’t sleep well last night, that’s all.” I could tell Asher didn’t know whether or not to believe me, but thankfully he dropped it.
“So you’ll look into this? You’ll help me prove Caleb is innocent?”
I looked him in the eye. “Tell me one thing: why does this mean so much to you?”
His eyes shifted away. “He’s a friend.”
“Is that all he is?”
“Would it matter?”
I sighed. “I guess not. Not anymore.”
Asher risked a quick look in my direction. “I never cheated on you, I swear.”
“It doesn’t really matter one way or the other at this point.”
“Killian, I —”
“You know what? I’m really tired. I think I need a nap. I’ll talk to Novak on Monday and let you know what he says. Okay?”
Asher bit his lip and nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Thank you.”
I sat down on the bed and watched as Asher let himself out. What was I thinking? I’d agreed to get involved in the murder investigation of my ex’s new boyfriend. Well, technically, I’d only agreed to talk to my boss about it. I was pretty sure he’d say no, but still... I had to be crazy.
Then there were my dreams. Was it just a coincidence that I’d dreamed about an ax murder and Caleb was accused of killing his father with an ax? I didn’t really believe in coincidences, but the alternative — that I’d somehow foreseen the murder in my dreams — disturbed me even more.
I couldn’t forget my weird dream about Seth, either. He’d warned me something was about to happen that would affect me, and it would be connected to Asher. A chill ran down my spine as I recalled I’d had the dream of Seth the night Caleb’s father was killed.
What did it all mean? Did it mean anything? It was just a dream, right?
As hard as I tried to convince myself otherwise, I knew there were too many coincidences. My head was starting to pound, and I didn’t want to think about dreams anymore. I slipped into the bathroom and took several pain relievers, then went back to bed. It was only noon, but I figured I’d earned a nice long nap.
http://joshaterovis.com/
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They certainly did so at our latest Citizen's Police Academy which took place at London's Children's Safety Village and included one of London's K-9 stars. The Children's Safety Village is comprised of up to 30 scaled-down buildings, roadways, traffic lights and signs, an operational railway crossing and a school bus. Kids are given classroom instruction by police, fire and other safety personnel then they get to pr active that safety through use of electric cars, bicycles and just walking around. It's based on the philosophy that if you Tell someone, they will forget, show them and they may remember, involve them and they will understand. Everything is hands-on, right down to a mock bedroom with a smoke machine that can fill the room with smoke in seconds and has a heater installed in the bedroom door so they can teach children how to test whether a door is hot before opening it. The emphasis in this exercise is to bring home first how fast fires spread and how important it is to have an escape plan in place before a fire, so the whole family knows what to do.
Apparently the London Safety Village is one of the top rated in North America, and frequently has representatives come from all over to see how it's been done. To find out more, check out their web site: http://www.safety village.ca/about.html
The tour of the village was fascinating. When I saw the miniature electric jeeps it made me want to be a kid again. They sure didn't have this when I was a kid in this town a few years ago.
Funding for the village is through donations, including several major businesses in London who purchased a cement slab and construct the building of their choice. These slabs cost $15,000.00 CDN and those donations go into supporting the main building. There are plans in place to build a bycycle rodeo track. Bike safety is already taught, but this would allow more hands on training. Bike helmets in Ontario are mandatory for anyone under 18. If a child shows up without a helmet or with an inadequate one, they are given a helmet to take home.
But as interesting as the village was, it was Kuno who stole the show. Kuno is a pure black 4 year old German Shepherd who has been a K-9 officer for 3 years. All of London's K-9s are imported from the Czech Republic through a broker in Ohio. They are usually purchased at around 1 year of age, and come to the unit untrained. The handler who has qualified is taken down to meet the dogs and a match is made of the man to the dog. A basic 3 week course in obedience is taught before the actual police training takes place. I was very interested to learn that these dogs are NOT taught to a stay command. Instead, they are trained to remain in a sit or a down until they are told to break. These commands are reinforced often, with the dogs having to sit or down for a minimum of 15 minutes with distractions all around them. They are also conditioned never to take anything from anyone but their handler. No one feeds them or gives them treats -- Kuno's handler doesn't give treats at all. Kuno eats nothing but his dog food, provided by the city of London which buys in bulk. As well as being the only one who feeds the dog, the dog handler is the only one who can command the dog. Even other police officers will be ignored if they tell the dog to do something. The sole reward the dog gets, besides affection, is a toy to play with. In Kuno's case, he has a large Kong he loves playing tug of war with. Kuno is not the least bit aggressive unless circumstances or a command make him so. I spent a good half hour during our lecture playing tug of war with the dog. The initial training is a 15 week course. Training is an ongoing thing with a dog being worked in some capacity every day.
But we had a good demonstration of just how fast the dog can 'go to work'. Another officer in the room took out his spring baton, and made an aggressive stance toward the handler. Instantly the dog lunged at him, barking and snarling. When he was called off, he stopped just as quickly and once the officer backed off -- but didn't put away the baton. Kuno went right back to playing with his Kong. We had a demonstration of the bite suit and got to try the heavy top coat on. The dog handler never wears the bite suit.
All London K-9s are trained in basic drug search -- marijuana, coke, heroin and other common street drugs. As well as the GSDs the LPD also has one dedicated drug dog used by the narcotics unit. This one is Jake, a black lab. Dogs are also trained in tracking, search and rescue and guns and ammunition. They are not bomb dogs -- if those are needed they come from the RCMP. It's too specialized and London hasn't had a lot of call for them. Kuno is a passive allerter. When he comes across drugs or explosive material he will sit and stare at the spot. Other dogs are active allerters. They will bark or paw at the site. Kuno once found a gun hidden in a ceiling drop space by sniffing it out in the corner of the room. He is so sensitive to drugs he once dragged his handler across the street during a search and inside the open garage door found a single rolled joint. It wasn't what the handler was looking for, and small quanitities of grass will not be prosecuted. It's not legal in Canada but the police don't waste time doing more than confiscating the drug.
London has no cadaver dogs. Again these are brought in from OPP or RCMP. K-9s are usually kept for around 5 years, then retired. At that point the handler is able to keep the dog as a pet. The dogs are owned by the city until they are retired. If, for some reason, a K-9 officer retired before his dog was, the dog would remain with the police force. I asked if the will then get a new dog and was told not often. The K-9 unit is very physically demanding and is very much a young cop's game. (Among the qualifying events is carrying a 65lb fake dog over a 7 ft fence, while also wearing full gear. They have to qualify in this every year. They have to do this partly because in many searches they will encounter walls the dog can't go over on his own and it will be up to the handler to boost them over the wall or barricade. In an aside. Dogs are never sent into situations where there may be guns. All it does is get dogs killed. There is a type of doggie bullet proof gear, but most dogs don't like it -- Kuno goes almost catatonic if you put it on him.
Dogs are kept at the handler's home, but not indoors. The city pays for a kennel for the dogs. This is done to keep the dogs acclimated. A dog kept indoors all the time would have a hard time adjusting to extreme cold -- and the dogs are expected, along with their handlers, to stay outdoors on searches or whatever, for hours if needed. Winter temperatures here can easily reach a wind chill factor of -40. This might not be possible if the dog was not acclimated.
K-9s are entirely the property of the City of London and all expense incurred are borne by the city. They are also a tax right off, if the handler uses his own vehicle to transport the dog. The dogs go to the vet several times a year, are always up to date on shots and in the event the dog bites someone, they are seen by a vet 10 days later. They are also indemnified by the city and not subject to normal laws (In London all dog bites have to be reported and those dogs quarantined for 15 days). A London police officer, can if he deems it necessary shoot attacking dogs without repercussions. They prefer not to, but if they do they are again indemnified and protected from lawsuits. In fact, in London, which like many modern police forces is often hit with lawsuits, in London they rarely result in settlements being paid out. The courts here so far seem to favor LEOs over civilians seeking damages.
During most searches, the dogs are kept on long leads attached to special harnesses. The harness tells the dog he is 'working'. During searches such as one for a child, or an Alzheimer's patient, the dogs are frequently let off the lead since they will need to track back and forth instead of being focused on one trail.
Every handler learns how to read their dog, and no two dogs will have the same 'tell' when alerting their handler to something. Just like each dog only obey his handler, not even another cop can give a dog an order.
All dogs are male -- not because they are deemed better, but females are almost never sold. They are kept to breed. The dogs are also rarely fixed, the theory being it might blunt their prey and protective drive. When a dog is neutered, it is usually for excessive aggression.
To date only a single K-9 has been killed in action.
You can see a few pix I got of the Village and Kuno and me in the bite suit. http://picasaweb.google.ca/pat.mysteryw
While Julian has done his level best to make Danny fall for him, all his hard work has been in vain. Danny doesn’t seem to view Julian as anything other than a roommate and friend. So when new guy in town Andy Baker asks him out on a date, Julian can’t think of a good reason to say no.
Instead, he institutes a Reverse Operation Danny plan, which he’s positive will purge all thoughts of love and lust for his roomie out of his head. He’s ready to move on and start looking for his next Mr. Right, and Andy just might fit the bill. But has he given up too soon?
As You Are
Loose ID (September 29, 2009)
ISBN: 978-1-60737-440-4
Excerpt:
Feather duster in hand, I danced around the apartment shaking my groove thang. Annie Lennox was blaring from the speakers. I shimmied across the wood floors in my socks and yelled out over the music in my game-show-host voice, “With a CD titled Diva, this is the segment of the population to which Miss Lennox was trying to cater.” I shimmied back in the opposite direction. “Who are big nelly queers, Alex?”
Sliding across the wood floors like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, I stopped in front of the mirror, lifted the feather duster up to my face, and sang along with “Walking on Broken Glass.” I thrust my hips, doing my Elvis impersonation, and laughed at myself. My parents both loved Elvis. It wound up being one of the few things they had in common. I'd taught myself to do the wild hip-thrusting dance when I was about eight or nine. Not many things could put a smile on both of their faces simultaneously, but that was one of them.
I shook my hips and shoulders while admiring my ensemble as reflected back to me from the mirror. An old pair of cutoff jeans, an homage to the summer vacations spent at the lake as a kid. They was paired with one of the white wifebeaters I'd stolen from Danny. It had a spaghetti stain from the time Danny and I had waged a food war in the kitchen. Completing the picture: a red bandanna tied around my head like a biker boy.
I thrust my hands out into the air, letting my spirit fingers fly freely as I sang along with Annie about no longer caring for sugar.
“You need to lay off the sugar, anyway,” Danny said from behind me as he kicked the front door closed.
I jumped about a mile off the floor, placing the fisted feather duster over my rapidly beating heart. Danny burst out laughing and walked over to the kitchen counter to set down the canvas grocery bags.
“I'm such a heifer, I know.” I composed myself as I meandered over to the stereo and turning down the volume. “I had a double mochaccino and, like, twelve Hershey's Kisses for breakfast.”
“Great, candy is like crack to you. Now I'm going to have to survive another Julie sugar rush.”
“Don't knock it.” I pointed the feather duster at him. “My little fixes are what keep this apartment clean.” Danny was wearing an old pair of worn jeans that snuggly wrapped around his business, and an old Dave Matthews Band T-shirt.
“You just need another outlet to pour all that pent-up energy into.”
“Macramé…decoupage?”
“No…like fucking.”
Pointing the feather duster toward his delectably denim-wrapped crotch, I asked, “Is there any decision that you don't make with that thing?”
“Which deodorant to use?” he mused, unpacking the bags. “No, wait, I'm pretty sure it was the muscular arm holding the hammer that made me choose Arm and Hammer deodorant.”
“You're hopeless… I sure hope you never suffer from erectile dysfunction. Your whole world would fall apart.”
“Hey!” He spun around with a serious expression. “That's not funny. I suppose you'd consider that some sort of cosmic justice.”
“You reap what you sow,” I said with a big cheesy grin.
“Julie, sex isn't a bad thing. As long as you have two consenting adults and everyone has a good time, who are you hurting? Besides, I've never heard any complaints.”
“How could you? You have 'em out the door before the sweat has time to dry.”
“That's not true.” Danny laughed. “God, you exaggerate.” He sighed and went back to emptying the grocery bags. “Do you want to grab a bite to eat before the reading?”
“Sure,” I said, “or we could just fix something here.”
“I don't think so.” Danny looked at me briefly before sauntering up to me and lightly rubbing his finger over the stain on my shirt. “This is what happened the last time we tried that.”
Goose bumps ran amok over my entire body as he stroked my stain. We stood looking at one another and smiling. He pulled the feather duster out of my hand and set it on the counter behind him, then he picked up the roll of paper towels and Windex, and shoved one into each of my hands. Placing his massive man-hands on my shoulders, he twirled me around, swatted me on the butt, and said, “Get back to work before I have to take you over my knee.”
I stood there for a few minutes mulling over that mental picture. Feeling my cock spring to attention, I thought, Good Christ, I do need to get laid. I nodded my head as I ogled the roll of paper towels in my hand. I decided to clean the bathroom first: kill two birds with one stone.
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--
The Golden Age of Gay Fiction
MLR Press (September 16, 2009)
ISBN-10: 1608200485
ISBN-13: 978-1608200481
Excerpt:
The rise of gay fiction in the aftermath of WWII coincided with the explosion in popularity of the paperback novel, and paperback books weren’t distributed or sold beside their hardcover cousins in the bookstores of the day. They were distributed along magazines, newspapers, and periodicals and sold mostly in bus terminals, train stations, drugstores, and five and dimes. The proprietors of drugstores, dime stores, et al., gave little thought to the high-mindedness of the literary and library mavens. If the garish covers with smoking guns, lascivious women, and from time to time, a half-naked man could sell books and boost profits, who cared what the critics thought? Cheap books, widely available in nontraditional outlets, made it easier to spread the word.
Contributing significantly to the availability of these choices was a new phenomenon that appeared in the early 1960s and is not often mentioned in the histories of the period, but which had great influence on what was to follow — the paperback bookstore, the very concept of which was revolutionary. By the early 1960s, paperbacks were no longer limited to the outlets to which they had previously been restricted. And it was the publishers on the fringe, the publishers of sex-oriented material, who were leading the charge. In the late 1950s and the early 1960s, a handful of publishers, most of them on the West Coast, had begun publishing and distributing sexy magazines and periodicals, and in time they added paperback novels to their wares. As these grew in popularity, bookstores devoted to them began to open in major cities like Los Angeles and New York. By 1962 most cities of any size had entire bookstores specializing in the enormously popular paperback books. At first, most of these publications were heterosexually oriented, but in time gay magazines and fiction found their way into the mix as well. It was in this different kind of bookstore where the new genre of gay paperback fiction would eventually be found. The gay male could walk into one of these stores and for the first time ever choose books of a kind never before available to him.
The Fall of Valor and The Divided Path were not, of course, the only works of gay fiction. There were others. Sometimes even so-called legitimate novels touched on homosexuality. James Jones’s From Here to Eternity (1951), for instance, had a homosexual subplot, a queer network hidden within the army, though that was whitewashed out of the movie. In Mickey Spillane’s Vengeance Is Mine (1950), tough guy Mike Hammer spends the novel lusting after femme fatale Juno before in the final pages ripping off her dress. Midst the fabric, bangles, and spangles dropping to the floor, it’s easy to miss the mention of foam rubber, but there’s no missing Spillane’s dramatic finale: “Juno was a man.” In all, we were mostly freaks or creeps, alcoholics or molesters.
And the truth is that it’s easy to list the books because there were, alas, so few of them. It especially seemed so at the time, perhaps because in those early days, before the paperback bookstore, they were so hard to find. Often, finding them was a matter of happenstance — as a teenager, for instance, I discovered a copy of The Divided Path on the paperback rack of Campbell’s drugstore in my little hometown of Eaton, Ohio. Ideally, you had a friend in a local bookstore who would let you know when something “of special interest” came available. Even when you found the books, however, it was often difficult to find the homosexuality in them. Sometimes it was so discreet as to be nearly undetectable.
There was a sad similarity to most of these books too. Michael Bronski describes this early gay fiction (in Writing Below the Belt, ed. Michael Rowe, 1997): “Young boy comes to New York, meets people in the theater, gets fucked over, and then commits suicide.” All of it wasn’t that bad — Lonnie Coleman’s Sam (1959) comes to mind as a notable exception — but the description certainly fitted a large portion of what was available.
While the publishing world did not have the sort of Hays Office moral code that the movies of the 1940s and 1950s had, neither did publishing exist in a vacuum. A publisher could do books on any number of sinful subjects: drug abuse, for instance, or rape — or homosexuality. But to do so was to take a certain risk. The essential point for the publisher was that he must not seem to espouse these behaviors nor condone them; to present these activities in a positive light was to invite criminal charges. It must be made clear that these were bad people, doing naughty things for which they must be punished by the end of the book. For gay protagonists, that mostly meant cure or kill. Here, then, is why the possibility of “happy ever after” simply did not exist in that early fiction. To have introduced that kind of choice for the characters would have been seen as approving of or espousing a homosexual lifestyle — a sure invitation to arrest and prosecution.
From the earliest days, writing and publishing gay fiction was dangerous. Editors and publishers were routinely arrested. The story is told that H. Lynn Womack, founder of Guild Press, worked for a time out of a mental institution where he was hiding from the police.
... by the late-1960s I was not only a writer myself, and a very busy and prolific one, but an editor, a writing instructor, an agent, and a publisher. With my partners, employees, students, and clients, I was supplying a very large portion of what was being published in gay fiction and nonfiction. Not until I looked back some years later was I able to fully appreciate the impact that we had on the publishing scene of that time. There was a joke in the industry then that the gay publishing revolution had mostly occurred at my kitchen table, and there was more than a grain of truth in that. It was a rare afternoon that did not see several of us consulting around that table. It was exciting, if a bit exhausting.
We were a motley crew. Jim Westlake’s exposé Prison Confidential (1969) had to be smuggled out of the Ohio State Penitentiary, where he was an inmate at the time. Since then there have been other writers writing from prison, but at the time this was sensational stuff.
Lance Lester (Cruising Horny Corners, 1967) was George Davies, a writer for the Disney people, who, as another sideline, did stories for a series of underground pornographic comic books of Mickey, Donald, et al. — gosh, didn’t the Disney folks want to find out who he was! George also wrote a hilarious spoof of the Loon books, Fruit of the Loon (1968), as Ricardo Armory.
What’s really important in all this, though, was not my success nor that of my writers, but that the genre of gay publishing had arrived — gay paperback publishing, at least; the hardcover publishers were slower to get on the bandwagon, though they got around to it in time. Suddenly, gay fiction went from being under the counter to occupying entire walls in bookstores — even entire bookstores and, eventually, entire publishing houses.
In the decade leading up to 1966, when my first gay books were published by Greenleaf, there were probably no more than two or three dozen genuinely gay novels published. In the decade following, there were thousands — probably no one can say with any certainty how many — some say as many as ten thousand, though the actual figure is almost certainly less than this; still, the very fact of that perception in itself says something about what happened. For the most part, these books were free from the burden of tragic endings or the limitations of genre. Perhaps the most dramatic change of all was that we were now free to write about gay people and the lives they really lived.
Not all these books, of course, were published by Greenleaf Classics, but many of them were. It was indisputably Greenleaf and its editor Earl Kemp who had led the way, who had opened the doors. So, yes, we had brought about a true revolution in gay publishing — and for the most part in that interim between 1965 (and more significantly, 1966) and 1969, which is to say, before the uprising at Stonewall. While historians treat gay political history as Before Stonewall and After Stonewall, in the publishing revolution it was mostly Before Greenleaf and After Greenleaf. Or more accurately, Before Earl Kemp and After Earl Kemp.
By writing at such length about the contributions of Earl Kemp and Greenleaf to gay publishing, I may be giving some false impressions which I should perhaps correct: Earl Kemp was and is heterosexual. Greenleaf was never exclusively, nor even primarily, a gay publishing house. For all the enormous numbers of gay books that they published, gay material nevertheless remained by far the lesser part of their total output.
Greenleaf was established by fantasy and sci-fi wunderkind William Hamling and New York literary agent Scott Meredith, though Meredith remained throughout a very silent partner.
Though the new publishing house justified its existence by printing paperback editions of classic novels, the intent from the beginning was to jump into the then-blossoming sexual revolution. Of course, they wanted to make some money by doing so, but there was also a conscious desire, certainly on the part of Earl, to contribute to what they saw as some fundamental and large-scale changes in American society.
Homosexual material was not a major goal for the newly established Greenleaf. Nevertheless when Earl Kemp bought The Why Not, he saw that novel as a way of advancing gay themes, a worthy frontier for their censorship battles.
The Guild Press and DSI were the first two publishing houses devoted exclusively to publishing gay works, but as victims of aggressive federal harassment both had suffered checkered histories, and by the early 1970s both were gone. In 1975, Winston Leyland launched the Gay Sunshine Press in San Francisco, and in 1977 in New York, Felice Picano launched Seahorse Press. What is significant in the efforts of Leyland and Picano is that they were able to venture into this realm with relative impunity without the fear of prosecution and possible imprisonment that haunted Lynn Womack, Earl Kemp, and the rest of us only a few years before. And that is due, of course, to those others, in particular Greenleaf Classics, who, regardless of their heterosexual primacy, had fought the battle to legitimize gay themes.
And it is due as well to all the many writers who made possible the kinds of books eventually offered by these newer publishers.
But that battle was still being fought in those years between 1966 and 1969, and we were just beginning to appreciate what was being won. It was a heady experience to come out from under the covers, to be able to go into a store and buy not one, but two, three, a dozen books of whatever sort we wanted. Funny books, scary books, cookbooks, westerns, mysteries — they were all there. And so were we. We held hands in these new books — and held hands eventually as we shopped. We walked together in the pages of those paperbacks and marched right out of the pages to walk — and eventually march — together in the streets. We shopped. And cruised. And chatted. And began to perceive that we were far less alone than we had heretofore thought.
And yes, I do believe that it was here, as much as anywhere — among the beefcake covers and the campy titles and the astonishing variety of stories and themes that were suddenly there for us to choose from — that the sense of community, of oneness, first took seed.
The paperback books of the 1960s weren’t just books to those of us writing and publishing them. They were our town hall meetings, where the newly emerging gay community first began to exchange ideas. They were our forum, our agora. They were statements as much as they were entertainment, a message to the rest of the gay world that new choices were there for them, in and out of our books. A message that a generation of gays and lesbians got and shared and that would soon lead to Stonewall and The Castro and the entire gay political revolution.
By the time Golden Sunshine Press and Seahorse Press were launched in the wake of Stonewall, gay publishing had already come of age. Our gay publishing revolution had already been accomplished.
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The section everyone waits for, myself included. Whether you love or hate CSI we all want to know how it works in the 'real world'. Our instructor did talk about the CSI effect and he told us that the Crown and the prosecution are responsible for educating jurors about what's real and what's TV.
In London an FID officer must first be a police officer. The position is applied for and the applicant(s) accepted attend a 9 week course at the police college in Aylmer, about 30 miles south of London. The course is very intense and involves being trained to detect, record, collect and preserve evidence so it can be used in a court of law. FID officers are qualified to analyze and render opinions in court as expert witnesses. It was stressed several times that the forensic officer's job is simply to gather all the evidence at a crime scene and analyze it, without regard to who or what if points to. They're not to make an opinion until all the facts are in. An FID officer has to be 100% sure of the results before he can testify to them in court. If he's challenged and the challenge stands and he's proven wrong, his value as an expert witness is gone and he's out of forensics, since his credibility is forever shot.
London has one dedicated Forensic Identification unit vehicle, a large van which houses everything they need to process a scene. Unfortunately the vehicle was out during our lecture so we never got to see inside it.
FID is called to all scenes involving sudden death, industrial accidents, suicides, homicides, serious or fatal mvcs, sexual assaults, robberies, arson, B&Es, serious assaults and post mortem examinations, done at the University Hospital, a teaching hospital attached to the University of Western Ontario.
The national DNA and fingerprint databases is housed in Ottawa and maintained by the RCMP. All fingerprints are sent to them for processing and the turnaround is normally around a month. If a rush is requested (a suspect is in lockup for instance) then it can be done in as little as an hour. All prints sent to Ottawa from crime scenes are kept for 3 years. DNA from scenes is kept for 2 years.
He touched on blood splatter and showed a few photos of local crime scenes to the disgust of many in the class. Nothing at all like I've seen in my research, but then they're not quite as ghoulish as a mystery writer, I guess.
We had a crash course on fingerprints and their value. Fingerprints are the only way to distinguish between identical twins. They never change, except for their size. Fingertips do not have oil glands. The ridges are a biological feature designed to enable us to grip things and oil would make this harder. The oil that produces fingerprints comes from our constantly touching other parts of our bodies -- hair, face, etc.
Things that affect the quality of prints include the amount of sweat and oil on the fingertips, the duration of contact, pressure of contact, surface contamination, weather and the type of surface: paper is one of the best surfaces, ridged, textured surfaces the worst.
When prints aren't recovered from an object, tests will be run to determine if the surface will take prints. This can then be presented in court to refute claims the defendant couldn't have been there if no prints were found.
A fingerprint expert will first examine the whole print and look for unique features, deviations and patterns. Fingerprints are divided into islands, lakes an bifurcations. When examining ridge formation in detailed photos sometimes even pores will be visible -- and in some cases even used to identify a print.
In order to find usable prints at a crime scene an officer needs to try to determine how a crime was carried out and in reenacting it in his head try to figure out where evidence might be left behind. There are a variety of colored powders used -- dark for light surfaces, light for dark ones. Ninyhdrin/DFO combinations work best. DFO is 1,8-DIAZAFLUOREN-9-ONE. DFO develops two to three times more latent prints on paper items than the Ninhydrin process alone.
Where these methods won't work, the CA chamber is used. This involves a canoacrylic vacuum fuming chamber (crazy glue) Guns and things like bottles or glass fragments are often processed this way. A fume hood is always used when doing this procedure.
There are two types of characteristics found in tools and weapons. The manufacturing process produces what are called class characteristics. These are the marks all items from the same batch of tools, the same plant or the same foundry will display. These result from the uniform way a tool is created.
Once a tool or weapon is finished, it begins to develop individual characteristics through both use and environmental influences. These individual characteristics are what can place a particular tool or weapon at a crime scene in the hands of a suspect.
Class characteristics of firearms being in the manufacturing process. After that, handling, cleaning, use and misuse will create the individual characteristics forensic examiners will look for. Guns are test fired using the same type of ammunition found at the crime scene in order to determine if the bullets recovered match the recovered weapon.
Care has to be taken at all times that the recovery of any tool marks found at a scene (pry marks, scratches, etc) makes a distinction between what the recovery process causes and what existed before.
The FID officer talked about how evidence is presented in court. An exhibit officer is responsible for keeping detailed records of all exhibits brought to court. As evidence is collected, either by the FID officer or a responding officer, the officer doing the collecting signs it over to the exhibit officer to log, which involves recording the time the officer handed it over and the time the exhibit officer received it. Those times must match up in court or questions will arise about chain of custody.
In our lab tour we saw the fume chamber, with several beer bottles and we discussed ALS (alternate light source) such as UV, which can reveal things regular light can't, like body fluids. Another method of turning up 'unseen' evidence is oblique lighting. Shining a regular flashlight at a sharp angle can reveal things that can then be photographed. I've heard of this being used on messages on paper where something was written on a sheet of paper, then removed, leaving another sheet under it. They don't use the pencil to shade over it and reveal the writing. For one thing, this would destroy the evidence and make it inadmissible. Our instructor talked about recovering an inappropriate note written by a teacher to a student that the teacher had tried to cover up with black marker. He used UV light to see past the marker to the words underneath.
The key to a successful trial is the ability of all involved to present a clear explanation of the case. This is especially important for things like forensics which people are either unfamiliar with, or are misinformed. So the ability to communicate complex things to lay people is essential for a successful FID officer.
In an interesting side note, I watched Extreme Forensics tonight and it had on a crime that had occurred in Ontario a few years ago. A group of 6 young people were heavily drinking at a field party and drove home. They were in a horrible, single vehicle crash which killed 4 of the 6. Forensics was instrumental in determining who was driving the car (it wasn't obvious from the crash site) and how fast it was going when it crashed. It was traveling at least 95 in a 50 zone. The driver turned out to be one of the survivors and she was charged with 4 homicides and found guilty. She received 4 years. My jaw dropped when I heard this. And when this occurred Canadian courts only allowed concurrent sentences, so even if she had been given 4 years for each death, she still would only serve 4 years. This was only changed a couple of weeks ago and now judges can convict consecutive sentences. Canada, sadly, seems to have a hard time dealing with criminals and doesn't hand out harsh sentences even when the crimes warrant it. Not something I'm terribly proud of.
Next: Children's Safety Village
Statistically 911 receives over 150,000 calls, 100,000 of which are from London. The other calls are for EMS and Fire services, these are routed to the appropriate place. Something like 80% of these 911 calls are for police, 50% come from wireless devices. We got a bit of history about 911 itself. 911 was reserved for North America in 1968, in 1974 London got Basic 911, which was nothing more than a connection to the call center. In 1983 Toronto got the enhanced 911 where the address and call back number is available. Most of Ontario had it by 1994 and London got it in 1997.
Rogers and Bell are now testing an enhanced wireless capability. Bell has GPS and claims they can locate where a wireless call comes from within a 100 feet. Tests seem to show it will be even closer -- up to 25 feet and this can be done is only a few minutes. By 2010 all cell phones must have GPS technology.
There is a move on to extend this coverage to VOIP technology. The problem with VOIP is that calls are not routed through the local 911 center, but are routed outside the area, possibly even to the US, which must then reroute it to London 911. There are obvious access issues and well as location problems. They seem to think this will be solved.
In London all police vehicles and dispatch us CAD or Computer Aided Dispatch. This system integrates with GPS and can show all responders and their location at any moment, with a refresh rate of 5 seconds. This means that someone on the phone in the 911 call center can see where every officer is at every time, plus they can tell if they are on a call, out of service or available. They can also tell the status of the on-call officers, whether they have arrived on scene have been there a while -- and if they go out of communication once they are on scene, if they don't come back on-line very quickly alerts will go out.
Officers use a PTT or Press To Talk feature on their radio units. Just opening a call will identify the officer calling. An emergency system provides two red buttons on their radios -- one at their shoulder, the other at their chest. If this button is pressed it will override all other calls on-line for at least 6 seconds, giving the officer full access to every cop and dispatcher to report trouble.
All radio transmissions are fully encrypted. The London Police use EDACS, which is a trunked radio technology. It has up to 28 frequencies that can be used and allows all city groups, from police, EMS, hydro, airport, UWO (a large University in town), CN police, etc to share this system. In the event of emergencies they can communicate over these secure lines. With this system and the use of 28 channels it would be nearly impossible to track these calls. As well, the EDACS ensures that if any one line fails it will automatically find and switch over to the next available channel without interruption.
Dispatch assigns all the channels to officers.
There is also a reserved Provincial common channel available to all users throughout Ontario.
London has 3 radio/data communication towers throughout the city. For obvious reasons he wouldn't tell us where, though they are pretty obvious when you see them.
As mention in a previous post, London is a hub for trains and the officer talked about how financially problematic it is if a track is shut down due to an accident. A two hour shut down would in effect backup the train system country wide and could result in millions of dollars in lost revenue. As you can imagine there's a lot of pressure to clear tracks, which makes investigating these accidents difficult since the scene can't be shut down for normal scene processing.
All police offices are assigned beats. There are something like 20-21 beats in London. Numbers 1-4 are in the downtown area, and I haven't found out where the other ones are, but I'm working on it. Cars are designated by the beat they're in. Car 1 is downtown. Car 1A is the same beat but simply means there are 2 cars designated 1 on at the same time. 801 is the Tactical Sergeant and 113 is a Sergeant. Staff Sergeant is the primary sergeant on duty.
At the end of the lecture we listened to a 911 call covering a major jewelry store robbery that occurred in London last year. An organized gang of jewel thieves was traveling down the 401 (a major inter province freeway) from Montreal through Toronto and London, heading on to Windsor. We listened to the call from the initial 911 call (dozens of them came in but we listened to just one) and this one involved a rare high speed chase through the streets of London. Normally high speed chases are not allowed but in this case these guys were armed with AK47s an AR-15s and they were using them.
The fascinating thing to me is this robbery and the subsequent chase was right in my neighborhood. The Jewelry store that was hit is in a mall that's about 5 minutes from my place and the getaway car blew right past my apartment. I kept hearing dispatch call out the locations of the robbers as they fled in a van then switched vehicles to a tan SUV and tried to get out of London. Several times there would be reports of shots fired (we could hear the shots on the tape) and I'd hear some street I've been on a dozen times mentioned. These were all residential streets. It also occurred in the afternoon when traffic was just starting to pick up so you can imagine what a nightmare it was for the police. They didn't want to risk civilians, but if they let the robbers get away they were only going to go down the road and do it again. This is one time I'm sure the London Police wished they had a helicopter, it would have aided in the pursuit.
One of the officers who was shot at (the round went through his front window inches from him) had just been through a similar near shooting only months earlier.
The SUV eventually got out of town and was on the 402 another major freeway, this one goes to Sarnia and Port Huron across the border. The SUV went off the road and rolled. One robber died in the crash and there was one hospitalized. No cops were hurt.
The thing that struck all of us the most was the calmness the dispatcher maintained throughout this whole thing. She kept directing officers and finding out where everyone was and at one point advising them even to take a step back and calm down. Most of the time 10 codes were used -- I learned that Code 4 is use extreme caution, Code 7 is on scene and Code 8 is clear, but several times the codes were dropped in favor of plain English and the instructor remarked there is a move to go that way and drop the 10 codes.
I always thought there was a high turnover in 911 operators, since it has to be a high stress job, but apparently not. Many of the people (mostly women) on the job have been there for years, decades even. A few are approaching 30 years and due to retire soon so there's very little turn over in fact. They survive the stress by learning to put what happened each day behind them. They don't dwell on what happened, don't even wonder how the calls turned out once they've closed a call. It's history.
They're an admirable group doing a tough job and I'm sure they've saved more than their share of lives over the years.
Then we got into how easily debit machines are compromised. I've heard about skimmers obviously, but had no idea how prevalent they are nor how easily and quickly POS (Point of Sale) machines can be swapped out. Using teams, at least one to distract the clerk behind teh counter, another to pull out the original machine and plug in the fraudulant one, which often has blue tooth technology to transmit the information directly off site. After a period of time the same gambit is pulled to retrieve the machine.
In a single weekend, at least 5 banks had their bank machines compromised. Banks are reluctant to report these events and simply write it off as the cost of doing business. You would think people who deal with these crimes would be alert to them, but at least 50 cops had their cards compromised as well.
We learned how to tell if a bill (Canadian money) is counterfeited, things I had never heard of. It turns out not only a lot of retail stores don't know how to detect these things, but many banks fail to check their money as well. At least 5 London banks passed out $100 dollar bills. And that's strange, because it's easy to detect, it just means scrutinizing each bill held up to a good light. I was really suprised to find out banks don't even check all the time.
The law in Canada and how it deals with fraud is quite a bit different than the US. In the US, Bernie Madoff defrauded his investors of $18 million dollars, and recieved 150 years. A Canadian ponzi schemer took $100 million (possibly up to $400 million) from his victims. He was released on bail of a $300,000 surety or $150,000 in cash. It will be interesting to see what happens in his trial, because from where I sit Canadian law does not take these kinds of crimes seriously. (A case could be made they don't take a lot of crimes seriously, but I won't go there)
Next up, FID -- Forensic Investigation Division
This should be in the library of every lover of gay fiction.
Written by authors, scholars, collectors, and one of the publishers, their essays will inform you. They will sometimes amuse you. They will take you into literary corridors you only suspected were there. And the some 200 illustrations, chosen for their historical as well as their artistic interest, provide a visual record of why this was the golden age.
It is guaranteed that you will emerge from reading this book with a long list of good reads to request from your favorite booksellers!
Visit MLR Press site to find out more, read an excerpt and purchase.
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Until his world is turned upside down.
A dangerous case and a new apartment are just the start. His friendship with Seth has turned into a romance, only Dino has never had a boyfriend before. Can he handle this sudden twist? Just as he begins to believe it's possible, he loses Seth in more ways than one...
Like Coffee and Doughnuts
Lyrical Press (May 18, 2009)
ISBN: 978-0-9824170-5-8
Excerpt:
When I went into Ed's Garage looking to get backup from my friend Seth, I knew immediately my job was going to be harder than I'd thought. Seth and his latest "date," a blonde with short spiky hair and pretty legs, were tangled up on top of a red Ford Torino necking like the world was coming to an end. Neither one of them had a shirt on, but she wore a black and pink polka dot bra. She also wore a pale green skirt under which Seth's hand had disappeared. My timing wasn't good, but I was glad I hadn't come any later.
She saw me first and gave me a pretty smile, apparently not too disturbed by a stranger walking in on her fun. Seth was doing something to her neck that might have been kissing, but reminded me of the way he ate.
She prodded him and said, "Hey, we've got company."
When Seth raised his head, he looked surprised, but that quickly changed to irritation when he saw who it was. He didn't need to say a word for me to know exactly what he was thinking.
I smiled. "I thought you had to have the hood up to do a tune up."
"Not when we start with me first," he said. "Don't you have someplace better to be?"
"I'm sorry, I had no choice. Believe me, I did not want to do this, but duty calls."
"Tell duty to call back in about an hour, Dino." He went back to what he'd been doing.
"You're Dino?" the girl asked, lighting up. "I've heard about you."
"Dino Martini, at your service," I said. "Nice...bra."
"Thanks." She grabbed a fistful of Seth's hair and pulled him up to look at her. 'Don't be rude to your friend. He's obviously here for something important."
"He's here because whatever job he's got going this evening involves a high likelihood of him getting his ass kicked." He turned to look at me. "Am I wrong?"
I shrugged. "Hard to say with a case like this, but I don't like to take chances."
"What now?" Seth looked defeated already, which was good, because it meant this wouldn't be nearly as difficult as I'd thought.
"Cheating wife," I said. "You know how those can be."
"Yeah, yeah, all right."
Seth Donnelly is about five foot seven, has an unruly mop of carrot colored hair, and although he's thirty-three, he often acts like he's twelve. He's my mechanic, but he's also been a good friend for a lot of years, and there's no one I'd rather have next to me in a fight.
He slid off the hood of the car and told the girl, "I guess I'm gonna have to catch you some other time."
"That's okay," she said, climbing down and pulling her shirt on. "I have to get to work anyway. Can you look at my car tomorrow?"
"Sure, bring it by after three."
She gave him a quick kiss, got in the Ford and drove out, turning left, toward the beach. I was willing to bet she worked in one of the tourist bars down in John's Pass.
"Sorry about that," I said, turning to Seth.
"No sweat. Buy me dinner and we're square. She's cute enough, but her brother's the one I'd really like to nail."
I shook my head. "You bring a whole new meaning to the word 'sleaze', you know that?"
"Oh, come on, it's not like that. She knows. She's just in it for the fun and the free service on that wreck she drives. Did she look especially brokenhearted to you?"
"No," I admitted. "I can't say that she did."
"So tell me about the case," he said, grabbing his shirt off the workbench.
"Not that much to tell. This guy's had me following his wife for a while, and I finally caught her cheating on him with a long haul trucker. Turns out she's been meeting up with all kinds of them off a website called The Hot Trucker's Hookup."
"No shit, are you serious?"
"Yep."
"Sweet deal for the truckers, man. They can line up something everywhere they stop."
"That's pretty much the idea," I said. "They've got quite the little community on there."
I had followed Amy Ware all the way out to Florida's Interstate 75 and wound up spending an afternoon playing "Peeping Tom" through the ground floor window of a cheap hotel. On my fifth pass, I nearly swallowed my cigarette. She had her guy trussed up in a horse's harness and reins with the thing in the mouth and the whole nine yards, and she was ridin' him for all he was worth. I took easily fifty shots of that.
I'm kind of a mix between the old school P.I. and the modern "private investigator," which means I do my fair share of computer searches and background checks on top of the more traditional tailing of cheaters and mystery solving. But I drive a Mustang convertible, I carry a gun, and I live on the beach.
Well, close to the beach.
You are what you drive, they say, and I am a 1966 model of stylish sophistication with a sporty rakishness and a lot of muscle. Instead of Vintage Burgundy, though, I'm your average Italian color, and I have maybe a moderate amount of muscle. When I was a little younger, I had the classic Italian greaser look going on. Now I don't have quite enough hair on top to pull it off, but I'm told I still look pretty damn good.
I named the car Matilda because of her white ragtop, which makes her look like an old lady. She is, without a doubt, my most prized possession. I bought her eight years ago, after an especially lucrative case, and while she was in pretty good condition to begin with, Seth and I restored her to the level of perfection she exists in most of the time these days.
Outside, Seth dropped into the front seat next to me. He looked in the side view mirror and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. That's what passes for styling for him. He plucked his sunglasses out of the collar of his shirt and slid them on. It never fails to impress me how he can make slovenly look good.
"You goin' in carrying on this one?" he asked.
"I don't think so," I told him. "This guy is money. If he gives me trouble, it's going to be of the fist swinging variety, which is why I wanted you along."
"Are we gonna run it the usual way, then?"
"If you expect to be fed."
Certain people do not take bad news well, and if they can't lash out at the object of their anger, they'll often take it out on the closest thing available. I generally happen to be sitting across from them at that point, and I've learned to take precautions.
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London is very difficult city to navigate. It is bisected by the Thames River which forks right in the heart of the city and thus subdivides the city into three quadrants. The roadways are rife with bottlenecks cleverly designed to funnel traffic from fast moving 3 lanes down to 1 and back out to 3 again. There are no expressways to speed traffic across town and even without rush hour traffic the act of crossing from southwest London to Northeast London is a nightmare of logistics.
There are very few speed traps set up around town, mostly because there are few adequate places where a police car can be hidden. I was also surprised to hear that London Police are discouraged from high speed chases. Not that they don't bear the brunt of angry citizens if a bad guy flees and goes on to commit more crimes, the cops are supposed to catch him, just not by actually chasing him. We asked about quotas on tickets and the constable (a bit of a smart ass with a wicked sense of humor) told us, no, there's no quota. They can give out as many as they want. But that there were performance evaluations given for time on call and if there was a major discrepancy between the number of tickets one cop gave out vs what another one wrote, there would be questions raised during performance evaluations. Something between 10-15,000 traffic tickets are issued every year.
The most common complaint the police hear is about people complaining about speeders in their neighborhoods. The constable pointed out that this is often a matter of perception. A loud truck or motorcycle traveling through an area is perceived to be going faster than a smaller, quieter car. People are lousy judges of how fast a vehicle is traveling.
During a routine traffic stop these days, with their onboard computers an officer can pull up about 4 checks purely off the license of the vehicle in less than a minute. This includes the MTO -- license and vehicle registration, whether tags are current, and whether there are any citations, warrants or criminal records on the vehicle's registered owner.
He talked a bit about impaired driving. There are roughly 5-600 arrests for impaired driving a year. The threshold for legal intoxication in Ontario is 80 mg, in the case of a young driver who has not obtained his full G license is supposed to keep a 0 alcohol levels. The graduated license, in effect since 94 has 3 stages -- G1 have 6 requirements they must follow:
* maintain a zero blood alcohol level while driving;
* be accompanied by a fully licensed driver, who has at least four years driving experience, and a blood alcohol level of less than .05 per cent, in case he/she needs to take over the wheel;
* ensure the accompanying driver is the only other person in the front seat;
* ensure the number of passengers in the vehicle is limited to the number of working seat belts;
* refrain from driving on Ontario's "400-series" highways or on high speed expressways such as the Queen Elizabeth Way, Don Valley Parkway, Gardiner Expressway, E.C. Row Expressway and the Conestoga Parkway;
* refrain from driving between midnight and 5:00 a.m.
These restrictions drop to 2, the main one being still maintain a 0 alcohol level.
In a fully licensed adult driver, the levels are set at 80 mg, but the constable told us that the administrative threshold is actually 100 mg. At this level the driver will be arrested and their car confiscated. The confiscation occurs whether or not the car belongs to the intoxicated driver or not, and is held for a minimum of 3 days.
He also talked about his primary job, to reconstruct car accidents. This is a lot more complex than I had ever imagined. He passed around a couple of reports he had drawn up for accidents and the detail in them was amazing. It comprised at least 50 pages and included details about the mechanical state of the vehicle, the CDR (crash data recorders) -- which are standard in some vehicles now are used to reconstruct the crash. CDRs are similar to the black boxes carried by airplanes and can record such things as air bag deployment, seat belt usage, speed and brake usage, among other things. There was even a detailed weather report of the time before and after the accident to determine if weather was a factor.
Next time: Fraud
Look Away Silence by Edward C Patterson is a romance set in the time of AIDS, when ignorance could spell trouble and often did. It encompasses the author’s experiences in volunteer community service and personal friendships during a tragic period in American history. The novel is dedicated to the Hyacinth AIDS Foundation, the NAMES Project and to the author’s own fallen angels. "Mothers, do not shun your children, because you never know how long you have to revel in them."
Look Away Silence
Publisher: CreateSpace (July 17, 2009)
ISBN: 1448651929
Excerpt
Chapter One
Folding
1
I am a child of Christmas. Some people are Easter-kids. Others get fired up over the Fourth of July or wax poetic for Arbor Day. Not me. Christmas has always been the focus of my year, because everything that has been good in my life has come down from the sparkling Yule Fairy and wrapped up in bows and striped paper. As little children, we wish for many things at Christmas — trains, bikes, Legos, baseball gloves and some, like me, asked Santa for an ironing board. Now that would bode well and never shock, except my name is Martin and not Martina, and . . . it quite put my Grandpa off his Monday Night Football. My mother was cool with it, otherwise she would have bought me a GI Joe and insisted I dig trenches and drop fake bombs over the chenille. However, I wouldn’t have minded a GI Joe either, a fact my mother also sensed. So it was an ironing board for me. Vivian Powers’ sissy boy was devoted to Christmas from that day forward. I knew there was a Santa Claus and his linen closet was impeccably arranged.
Across the folds of time and through the tumble-downs of Christmases over the years, I found all my requests fulfilled. When I was old enough to find true love (or so I thought it true love . . . I mean, every time it was true love), it was at Christmas. That was the year I had drunk too much eggnog and awoke in a stranger’s bed — a stranger who unwrapped me like a party favor and gave me the most wonderful Christmas gift of all. In hindsight, the ironing board was better.
Despite the exciting sensation of joining with another soul, I learned fast that such passion was like the sea at ebb tide. I know about the sea. I live by the sea, here in Long Branch where the tide comes in and then sucks out a bit of the Jersey shore, a bit like my first passionate experience. Metaphors are not my forte. I should stick to laundry. I saw then true love for what it was — as false as Ru Paul’s D-cup. It didn’t last past New Years Day. And yes, my heart was broken. I cried and cried like a bride left at the altar. However, I was a lucky boy — still am. I have a mother like no other. She sat me down, dried my tears and said, “Marty,” (I hate being called Marty, but mothers can’t be corrected — at least not mine).
“Marty, he was a stranger. Didn’t know ya and didn’t want to know ya.”
Still, I loved what’s his name (funny how I forgot his name . . . Frank. Frank . . . that’s it. I remember his face, his hands and his hot breath in the night, but I still need to squeeze the corners of my mind for his name). My heart was shattered. No amount of Vivian Powers’ insightful advice could bring me around. However, my mother is a straightjacket case at times. Nothing controls her. The few words of advice that she has given throughout my life have stayed with me. So I remember exactly what she said, because it echoes every time I fall in and out of love, whenever Christmas turns into Easter.
“Marty, he was a stranger. Didn’t know ya and didn’t want to know ya. Just like ya father. None of them are worth the spit they splatter. But always get at least one thing from each of them, and you’ll have enough carfare for the Path line to the city, where you can find a better one. In your father’s case, I got you, Shithead.” (She’s so endearing that way, but I’d rather be called Shithead than Marty).
Of course, Viv (I never called her Mom or Mama or Mother dearest — her choice) was never a proper homemaker. She knew to buy me an ironing board, but only so I could do her ironing. My dad, the mysterious Mr. Powers, gave me my name, which I thought to change from Powers to Jones, because Jones fitted me better. He hadn’t stayed around to top the tree with the fairy angel, but I never cared. In fact, Viv told me she wasn’t sure who my father was as there were three candidates for the month. All the men in my life were defective, except one. They were all either druggies, old men, flaming queens, drunks, or just lumps on my pillow, except that one; and he . . . well, perhaps he was the most defective of all, because I’ve never really found my way out of Christmas with him, even though Good Friday has come and gone.
Perhaps I’m the defective one. Perhaps Viv was wrong and I’m the one not worth the splatter. I can’t help it. I have standards. Men have taken a gander at me (not bad looking . . . me, that is. Not an ounce of fat, and that without a gym bunny schedule), and picture me in some interlude — some Act One in their own play. Unfortunately, Act One is always followed by . . . well, you get the drift. Sometimes they hear me sing (and I’m a veritable Lorelei — first tenor and soloist with the Jersey Gay Sparrow Chorus). Whatever it is, they end by worshipping at my shrine — the well-pressed sheets from my sacred iron capped by perfectly fluffed pillows. Morning always brings a different light. At night, they are Tom Cruise. At dawn, they transform into the bell ringers of Notre Dame. The grand consolation is that every year brings another Christmas and another handy appliance — Vive la Viv, my manicurist mother, who brought home lovelier men than I have ever nabbed — and those without an iron board to entice them.
Despite my gifted voice and inclination for housework, I couldn’t live my life under my mother’s wing. She scarcely noticed me, her little shithead, who, as I got older, got under foot. I had to close my eyes more than once to her tumbling over the threshold with one or, dare I say, two male companions, who had likkered her up and thought they had her at a disadvantage. Little did they know. They may have had their frolic, but always get at least one thing from each of them, and you’ll have enough carfare for the Path line to the city, where you can find a better one. I supposed some day that I would have a little brother or sister and learn to change diapers, scrub bassinets, and all the other happy chores that motherhood brings. But no. Viv just managed a collection of diamonds, pearls and emeralds. They were gaudy things, not to my tastes or I’d have pinched a few. However, as time went on, and I graduated from Red Bank High School, there were more than a few hints from the maternal maw that I should get to college, or a job and, by all means, into my own hermitage, such as it is. The suggestions were subtle in the mornings over coffee and English Muffins. “How’s the job hunt coming, dear?” In the evenings — those hazy evenings a la Viv, the point was sharper. “You’re still here, Shithead?” In any case, college was out. Couldn’t afford it and no one that I ever knew got a degree in laundry. I could have pursued my vocal training, but that would preclude that I had vocal training to begin with, which I hadn’t. I was the youngest member of the Jersey Gay Sparrows, and while the Chicken Hawks often were on my tail, they were also jealous queens seeking to push me aside and away from the prime solos. So I did what any respectful young man that had more than a foot out of the closet would do. I went into retail.
2
Christmas and retail are friends, as close as Marley and Scrooge. In the sprawl of Eatontown Mall stood paradise — a Christmas chaos called Abraham & Straus. I bought me a suit and got me an interview to swim in the rarified air of departmental retail duties. I saw myself as the perfect go-to person in the linen department. I could live my life in thread count and percale — heaven on earth. There’s nothing like the aroma of fresh linen — clean and mountainy, with a promise to bless the chest, to caress the shoulders and snuggle the toes with its gentle static-free cling — an adoration well beyond that of the Magi. However, to my disappointment, the management of the store saw me more as a behind-the-counter type in the men’s department amidst a sea of ties and pants and shirts and sweaters. So instead of my Elysian Fields of Canon and Burlington Mills, I was lost to the Forest of Arden — Men’s wear.
Retail didn’t pay much, but within six months, my mother awoke to an empty kitchen and asked her question no more. I found an apartment — not very classy, but it had possibilities. It was a first floor back dealie with a rear entrance and a small courtyard. I couldn’t see the ocean from my window, but I could smell the clams when they ripened — not the most encouraging aroma, but it was my stink and it stunk just fine for me. It was private for when I had my little heartbreak evenings, when the stink was worse than rotting clams, but that too was my stink. I was also within walking distance of the nearest gay bar — The Cavern, which would be a blessing if I didn’t visit it so often, donating my meager income to the latest assortment of fruity refreshments of the adult kind. I was an adult now (barely), so what better way to exhibit that fact than to imbibe a bit, and more than a bit. After all, it was just a stagger across the street, through the alley, along the beach and into my courtyard palace.
So I thrived, after a fashion. Then came Arthur — Arturo, a stunning man, who wandered home with me one night and never left. Well, Christmas be damned, he did leave, but not fast enough. He stayed for six months, two of which were quite nice actually. He didn’t work, so I left my daily bed unmade; and he would be off spending my money at the Cavern by the time I arrived home. It was fine with me. I joined him, and then we’d laugh and play volleyball and run about naked on the beach (after dark, when neighbor eyes were dimmed to see us). However, Christmas came to a close after a sixty-day period, like an expired Library book that I forgot to return. Arturo had another little addiction other than Appletinis and beer. Meth. He was not a Methodist, would that he was, and I am not judgmental when it comes to another man’s predilections. However, when the cost is visited upon my bank account and the benefits of the bed fade, I usually become as mad as Queen Mab. My scant income could not compete with his habit. Therefore, he augmented his income with a better-heeled married man who made him his little lunchtime tidbit. Dinners went to a leather daddy who lived in Asbury Park and would pick Arturo up on the corner and redeposit him back there like clockwork. My evenings were spent listening to snores. So we argued.
Arturo turned out to be a mean son-of-a-bitch. He trashed my place one evening, and when I threw him out into the courtyard, he howled like a cat — my neighbors stirring to call the police, who showed up at my door wondering why a young swishy thing like me would even consider letting a bum like Arturo be my roommate. (We did the roommate thing on the police report). The next day, I took off from work and called my sister, Russ — a fellow ironing board surfer, who was also a Gay Sparrow and worked in retail. Together, we packed Arturo up and showed him the door. He was more docile in the mornings — pleading even, but Russ was born with a steel corset. He deposited Arturo on the sand without as much as a z-snap. I was glad to know this tough little baritone from the Tuxedo store — fiery charm in the declarative and a fine connoisseur of dust ruffles and dainty hand towels. I decided to live alone from that day forward. After all, I’m my mother’s son and had to do her proud. But then, Christmas came along and ...
http://www.dancaster.com/
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This was my first day at this 10 week course offered by our local police. I'm very pumped.
London Police Force est 1855, subsequently renamed to the London Police.
Motto: Facta non Verba: Deeds Not Words, which is on the side of many of the patrol vehicles.
Day 1: Orientation. Which of course means paperwork. Not only do we have to sign a waiver absolving the London Police, the city of London and everybody who lives in London in case of death, dismemberment, loss of property and anything else that may befall us during our ten week tenure, but a judge is brought in to witness our Bible sworn statement (you could affirm if you didn't want to put your hand on the Bible) that we would not reveal any secrets revealed while we were here. So you won't hear any from me.
After a lecture and slide show on the history of the London Police force, which was formed the same year the city was incorporated, in 1855, there was an overview of the program given. This was delivered by the Auxiliary police, a volunteer team of 50 citizens who go through a pretty intensive training to be where they are. This will include a use of force lecture, polygraphs, a outdoor demonstration of the K-9 unit and I hope to get a chance to actually talk to the K-9 handler since I want to feature one in the book I'm hoping to write set in London, emergency response team (SWAT),and a visit to the shooting range. The latter will only happen if we can get into it. Right now the police headquarters (there are no substations in London, except for a small detail of foot patrols that work out the downtown area) is being expanded. This expansion is nearly done and may be finished by the time our course ends, in which case we'll get a tour of the new facilities and access to the shooting range. I hope so, I really want to get in there.
The city of London is divided into 20 sectors covering the 162 square miles (420 sq. km) of the city, with approximately 600 sworn officers and 200 civilian staff. The sworn officers range from cadets to the Chief of Police. There is no CSI or SID in London. All crime scene investigation and evidence collection is done by sworn officers trained in their specific specialty, such as blood analysis, fingerprinting, trace, computers, etc. It will take an officer roughly 10 years before they will be be able to move up into one of these coveted positions. Most of the officers who become a crime scene investigator will stay in those positions until retirement. In the past most officers would spent upwards of a decade or more on the street before advancing to detective or higher. Now most officers make the move in around 5 or 6 years. I haven't yet learned what is involved in the actual advancement. I do know that once someone passes the battery of physical and psychological and background checks he/she will attend the police academy, located northwest of London. Apparently the background checks are very extensive, you list every place you've ever lived, every job you've ever held, every school you've attended, plus you supply the names of close friends who are given a lengthy interview. I have no idea how many who apply never make it past this point. I know I was told the application rate for the Auxiliary is a couple of hundred at a time, and only around a dozen make it through the initial screening. So it's no walk in the park.
Once initial orientation was done, we were given a tour of the station. Our first stop was at a display of weapons confiscated over the years by police ranging from switchblades, lock picks, a crossbow, a shark gun, to an AK-47. They have a display case full of flash badges collected from all over the world. Police hats, also on display, have gone from British bobby-style hats to what are called soft hats, the standard hat used by uniformed officers. We saw the onsite 911 call center, which handles not only all calls for London, but the outlying county of Middlesex. This area also houses the emergency response center where members of every city group from health, police, medical, transportation, Hydro, utilities, to communications would gather in any large emergencies that would affect the whole city. The power outage in 2003 was sited as one time this was used. We were able to look in the Forensic Investigation Unit office where all the forensic teams would work (not the labs obviously, since they're sterile and not open to the public) But we did see a display of various explosive devices from bundles of TNT to what looked like a ground to air missile. We also saw 'Steve' a bomb robot that can deliver a jet of water so powerful it can appear to blow suspicious packages up. There a massive anti-bomb suit that weighs around 80 lbs.
Autopsies of crime victims are performed at the city's University hospital, unless the case is one they can't handle for various reasons, then it will go to the coroner's in Toronto.
Then we went out and saw Bob, a life-size wood carving of the only K-9 dog ever killed on duty. We also learned that there have only been 3 police officers killed in the line of duty since 1855, all 3 in the late 1800s. Since then, in more modern times, there have been a few close calls, but no fatalities, which is a good thing.
Down in the garage we saw a variety of vehicles used – the basic Crown Victorias that come from the Ford Talbot plant just outside London, a few SUVs, vans and panel trucks. There are several motorcycles in use and right now they are testing some weird vehicle called a Spider, which resembles a motorcycle crossed with a dune buggy. Like the bikes, it would be a one-man vehicle and I guess it's used in traffic control. It's being evaluated and no one knows if it will be procured or not. Apparently London tested out helicopters at one point but decided they weren't worth the expense.
We were able to sit in the patrol cars and got a look at the equipment, including their onboard computer. Something I didn't know, all the lights and sirens are all controlled by a touch pad on the dash, as well as matching touch pads on the steering wheel so during a high speed response or chase the officer can manage the lights and sirens. (Most patrol cars are occupied by only one officer) I was not aware there were several variations of lights available. From the familiar flashing blue and red lights (and there are 2 different red lights, not 1) to bright white take down lights that would illuminate what's in front of the vehicle, as well as similar lights on the side of the light bar that would show street numbers and anyone on the sidewalk or side of the road. They also have a mounted, pivoting spotlight on the driver's side. There are 3 types of sirens that can be used too. During high speeds these will be used when approaching intersections to change the pitch of the siren to alert people the police are coming through.
The back seats of the vehicles, behind bullet-proof plexiglass are not modified in any way, unlike what I've been told has been done to LAPD cars, where the seats are plain, hard plastic that is easy to clean. They even have seat belts, though whether they use them on handcuffed subjects I don't know. I did climb in and had a hell of a time getting out. There's next to no leg room back there. I can't imagine how uncomfortable it would be for a tall, handcuffed person to sit back there for any length of time.
One thing of note: they used to use the more standard Code 1, Code 2 and Code 3 designations for radio calls, with 1 being the non-emergency response call to Code 3 being lights and sirens. They've reversed that and now Code 1s are lights and sirens.
There are 4 grades of Sergeants, 4th B is lowest ranking, 4th A next, up to 1st which is the top pay scale. It will take about a year for a sergeant to move from 4th B to 1st. Every new recruit starts at the bottom, even if they hire on from another police force. No exceptions are given for past experience. I'll have to find out if they have to attend the academy as well.
When an arrestee is brought in for processing and put in lockup, only one car at a time can enter an area outside lockup. A double set of doors come down and don't open again until the arrestee is taken inside. The officer's gun is put in a gun safe, and there is an eye wash outside the door in case anyone was exposed to pepper spray. Cops go first, followed by the arrestee.
While we were there a pair of plainclothes cops came out of the lockdown, took out their weapons from the gun safe and drove off in an SUV. We all noticed the gun. Hey, this is London, Ontario, we're not used to seeing drawn guns. We weren't able to tour the holding cells since they were pretty busy and had more coming in. Maybe another day before the course ends.
All in all a very satisfying first day. These next 10 weeks look to be very exciting. I can't wait for next week.
- Mood:
jubilant
Dueling with the Catholic hierarchy and combing through seedy gay hangouts, Fontana encounters dangerous characters and powerful forces intent on stopping him. When Fontana himself is attacked, he knows he must find answers before any more lives are lost. The web of intrigue and deceit is intricate, tangled, and deadly.
Will the solution uncover a decades old plot to kill a pope or will Fontana find that jealous rage or academic rivalry caused Brandt’s death? The only thing Fontana can be certain of is that Brandt's enemies have killed once and won't hesitate to murder a private eye who gets too close to the truth.
Fontana deftly balances his work as a P.I. with his position as owner of StripGuyz, a troupe of male strippers; he must also negotiate the intricacies of love and relationships which he has been avoiding all too long. Along with Anton and Luke, Olga his secretary, a host of male strippers, and other denizens of his world, Fontana manages to navigate his way to a surprising conclusion.
Murder on Camac
Publisher: Lethe Press (August 22, 2009)
ISBN-10: 1590212134
ISBN-13: 978-1590212134
Excerpt:
“Fontana,” I said, fiddling with the file.
“Someone’s trying to kill me,” he said. No introduction, no nothing. My antennae went up.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Helmut Brandt.” I noticed a slight German accent. The name seemed vaguely familiar.
“I’m listening.”
“Someone… you must believe me, Mr. Fontana. This is no joke.”
“Believe what?”
“Someone wants me dead. For what I’m about to expose in a book I’m writing.”
“How about coming in to my office to talk?”
“Have you heard of Opus Dei, or P2, or the Roman Curia?”
I’d heard of two out of three. Not bad.
“These are the people trying to kill you?” If he thought so, I knew exactly which shrink to refer him to.
“Someone wants me out of the way. I’m in possession of documents which people would kill to keep secret.”
“Has there been an attempt on your life?”
“You’ve got a right to be skeptical, Mr. Fontana, but I assure you I’m telling the truth. Look me up on Amazon or Wikipedia, you’ll see why certain people want me buried. Maybe you’ll find that more convincing.” He paused and I heard him breathing. “I’ll come to your office tomorrow. Ten in the morning.”
He hung up. I didn’t really want to talk to him again, let alone take his case. I’d had my fill of paranoid nut cases. But he’d given me homework. Something about his voice and his name made me curious about why he’d have potentially lethal Christian organizations trying to skin him alive.
As I was about to type his name into Amazon’s search bar, the phone rang again. I wondered why Olga put yet another call through without asking, then I heard the voice.
“Marco, we’ve got a minor problem which you apparently caused.” Anton said.
When Anton used the word ‘minor’ I knew it meant trouble. What he considered minor was usually an eight point five on anyone else’s earthquake scale. His unflappable nature was why he helped manage StripGuyz my other source of income. StripGuyz, an ever-growing troupe of male strippers and go-go boys, was a business I’d started a few years back.
“Cal’s being a diva again? The baby spots are not the right color or what?” I felt happy to have something other than paranoid people to deal with.
“Cal and Bruno are sulking and it’s almost showtime. They both expect to be the Feature this weekend. Said you promised them. Did you promise both of them, Marco?”
“Me? Anton, you know I nev…”
“What I know is, that when a pretty boy bats his eyes at you, you kinda forget the promises you made to the pretty boy who came before.” Anton’s tone was world-weary and accusatory.
“And I thought you liked me. Just a little.”
“I keep hoping you’ll like me. Marco. But that’s another story.”
It certainly was another story. Anton was interested in a relationship. With me. And I was equally interested. All right, maybe not equally. But I was interested. The timing wasn’t right. There were too many unsettled things in my life. I also had to be sure. Trouble is with Anton it was all or nothing. We could date but he wouldn’t allow us to sleep together. Kissing, cuddling. Everything but rolling in the hay. He wouldn’t let that happen until I was ready to commit. It was actually sweet and one of the things I liked about the beautiful hunk.
Anton was far and away the favorite with the crowds when he danced, which was rare now. He was my first dancer and had become my right arm in the business. Even as my manager, Anton was still popular. How could he not be? His sultry, golden, Eastern European looks almost literally hypnotized men. He’d had his share of guys. But no one ever tempted him to settle down. Except me. And I just wasn’t ready.
“Anton, you know how I feel about you.”
“Anyway, Marco, I need you here.” A wistful note threaded its way through his words making me feel small and alone. “Both Cal and Bruno are threatening to go on strike. I’m not sure they know what the word means but they’re threatening. They might take others with them. If you don’t get down here and fix things, we’ll have an empty stage tonight.”
“I’m on my way, Anton.”
I hung up the phone, stashed the file, and found my cell phone hiding under some papers. On the way out I grabbed my jacket, October was colder than expected but I enjoyed a chill in the air. It woke me up, brought me to attention.
“You are going to stripping guys?” Olga kept her eyes glued to the computer monitor.
“Another emergency is arising and they need Daddy to handle?”
“I’m not old enough to be anybody’s daddy,” I said and opened the door. Unless thirty-two was daddy territory, I was still safe.
“You will be back?”
“Not tonight. It’s almost seven. I’ll deal with the boys at Bubbles then get something to eat. Why’re you here so late?”
“Is personal project,” she said.
I took the stairs to the street. The too small elevator was not quick enough. The peeling paint and cracked walls reminded me that I’d promised myself to look for a new office as soon as I cleared a few more cases.
It was chillier than I thought which made me glad that Bubbles, the bar where StripGuyz is based, wasn’t far. The suede jacket I wore was more fashionable than warm. I’d struck up a friendship with Stan, the owner, several years before. When I started the troupe, he was only too glad to let Bubbles become my base of operations. My guys brought in business. Lots of business. Like my office, the bar was smack in the middle of the gayborhood. With four floors of fun, a restaurant, lounges, and a small twenty-four hour café, Bubbles was as complete a setting as you can imagine.
My StripGuyz office occupied a small, microscopic was a better word, space at the rear of the second floor. There was also a large locker-dressing room with lots of accoutrements to keep the boys happy. The dressing room was near the back stairs which only my guys were allowed to use to move from floor to floor without being disturbed.
Ty, the afternoon bartender, was setting things up for the night shift when I walked through the first floor bar. Short and muscled, he had a face like a prize fighter who’d been at it a long time. The rough manly look made him wildly popular.
“Hey, Marco.” Ty turned to smile at me. “Situation upstairs?”
I always unconsciously touched my face when I saw his broken nose and this time was no different.
“Yeah, Ty. Too many divas and not enough stage. That’s why I want you to work for me.” I wasn’t joking. Ty was a natural. His innate grace along with his dark hair and olive complexion made his rough exterior even more appealing. I could see him pulling down a few hundred on weekend nights. No problem.
“I might just be another diva.” He winked and continued stacking glasses.
Nearing the locker room, I heard the buzz of angry voices. I entered without knocking. The glare of dressing room mirror lights was calculated and necessary. These boys needed to see their flaws so they could figure out how to fix or disguise them before going on stage. Some just loved seeing themselves. I squinted until my eyes adjusted.
“Marco!” Cal turned from his place at one of the mirrors. No shirt, smooth chest, low rise jeans revealing the flattest of stomachs, he had a fresh, innocent face. Cal was anything but. He was nice enough but was savvy, could be manipulative, and never let anyone best him. He threw an arm around my shoulder and seductively pulled me to him.
“You’re gonna clear this up, right, Marco?”
“Yeah, you will clear this up,” Bruno rumbled from a far corner. His dark Puerto Rican looks made him appear fierce and wildly sexy. At that moment he smoldered with anger. He was usually polite, courteous, and a willing worker. But anyone could see that beneath the civil exterior, there was more going on, a suppressed slow burn.
“Marco’s a great fixer.” Anton smirked.
I didn’t remember promising feature status to either guy, yet each had the impression I’d given him the nod. Being the feature meant more money. A bigger paycheck from me as well as a lot more in tips. Everyone wanted to be featured. I had a system for rotating them. Usually. Something went wrong this time. Boy, had it gone wrong.
I had to come up with something quick.
“Well, Marco?” Anton smoothed his hair and stared at me as if I had the magic answer. Sure enough it came to me. Maybe it was his stare, maybe I’m just used to talking my way out of things.
“Someone’s not remembering something,” I said.
“You got that right.” Bruno’s soft accent and lingering anger colored his words.
“Doesn’t anybody remember that tonight is Auditions? We never have a Feature on Audition night.” Which was true. I had five guys who’d applied to become dancers. I let applicants work for tips to see how they performed. Not everyone could hack it. Bruno made a ton of money when he’d auditioned.
“Oh, auditions! Right. How could I forget?” Anton fell in with me. Not to save my ass, I was sure. He wanted to keep the dancers happy and working without a lot of unproductive competition.
“Saturday and Sunday are Amateur Nights. We don’t do a Feature those nights either,” I said and heard Cal sniffle softly in the background. “But I’ll tell you what.”
“Yeah, boss man?” Bruno said.
“I’ll let you and Cal have top billing Saturday and Sunday. You can host the Amateur contests and dance between their sets. I’ll make sure Anton schedules each of you for your own feature-weekends later. How’s that?”
Bruno grunted; even his grunts were seductive. The man exuded a sexual power that drew the customers to him like few other dancers. Cal sniffled and hiccupped which I took for agreement.
I knew they were happy, they just had different was of displaying it – after a while you get to know your guys well. They’re great at hiding things from an audience – even though they bare it all for a living. But privately, when they get to know and trust you, there’s little they can hide or want to. With all my own trust issues, lots of people had no trouble trusting me and I never violated that confidence. Having people trust me was paramount. It ranked right up there with loyalty. In the stripper troupe, trust was all there was at times. The guys had to confide in someone and they knew they could count on me. I was something between a house mother and on-scene psychologist. They came to me with all their problems. It was nice being needed.
“Great,” Anton said. “In fact, Marco, you and I will work on that schedule now. Right?” Anton raised one eyebrow, a trick I’d never mastered.
“Yeah, sure. We can work it out right now.” I agreed. Anton hated handling diva moments. I knew my office was going to feel a lot smaller once he got started in on how I needed to manage the group better.
Anton moved to the door. Holding it open for me, he said, “After you, boss.” I didn’t like the way he emphasized the word ‘boss.’
He unlocked my office and held the door for me again. I was in for a lecture.
“Well,” he said, leaning on the door, leaving me no escape. “Quick thinking, Marco. Even I have to admire that. But you weren’t here when it all hit the fan. I was. I had to listen to Cal whine and Bruno rumble like an old car.”
“I’m sorry… really.” I moved closer to him, which wasn’t saying much since the office was like a sardine can made for two. “How can I make it up to you? Tell me what I can do.” I took him in my arms and was about to kiss him.
“Here’s what you can do,” Anton said, not pulling away, but not accepting the kiss, either. “Promote me to Manager.”
“Of the whole shebang?” I was taken aback. Anton was good but I wasn’t about to give up complete control of StripGuyz.
“No, tiger.” Anton said and stroked my cheek with one long finger. “Just of deciding schedules and features. That way, I won’t have to call you for every little thing. We won’t have to have auditions when we didn’t plan to. And you won’t be allowed to make promises you can’t keep. Sound fair?”
I had to admit it was fair. It would take a lot off my back. Anton liked keeping things orderly. Not that I ran a sloppy show. I just had a different management style, kinder and gentler, you might say. After working with some of the low life types I met in my investigative work, dealing with my strippers allowed me to indulge an entirely different side of my personality.
“Sure, it sounds fair. But I can’t promise I won’t interfere once in a while.” I laughed. Pulling him tighter to me I nuzzled his neck and savored the clean fragrance of his flesh.
“But…,” he moaned, a small guttural sound filled with longing. Then he caught himself and cleared his throat. “But not often. Promise?”
“Promise,” I said and made my smartest Boy Scout salute.
He pecked me on the cheek, pulled away, and opened the door.
“What? You’re going?”
“Why? Is there more to discuss?” He was all business.
“I thought maybe we could have dinner?”
“I’ve got a lot to do before the show tonight.” He was almost out the door when he turned. “Give me the list of the guys who want to audition. I’ll call them. Curtain’s up in three hours.”
“Sure. I told them we’d call when we were ready.”
I wanted Anton in my arms but he had his rules and even my saddest puppy-dog look wouldn’t have made a difference. We stood awkwardly outside my office, me wanting to hold him and cover him in kisses and me wanting to pull back and tell myself to slow down. It was tough being me.
Before I could move, Ty rushed up the stairs, his face drained of color.
“There’s been a shooting. On Camac. Some guy was killed…” Ty was breathing heavily and sat down on the top step. “This is crazy. That’s the way I go home every night. It coulda been me. Shot dead on the street.”
http://www.josephdemarco.com/index.php
http://www.lethepressbooks.com/
To purchase, click http://www.amazon.com/Murder-Camac-Jose
--
My novels have ranged from plot and character driven, like L.A. Heat, recently re-released by MLR Press where I built character arcs and knew where I was going, to an entire novel written spur of the moment with nothing more than a name and a stark image of a man rolling over in bed and finding himself lying next to a dead man. In Geography of Murder, also from MLR Press later this year, that was all I had. That and the knowledge that the world of BDSM would be involved. The story itself, the other characters, all came as I wrote, literally on the fly. I've started stories with a single title, a characters name, even a piece of dialog.
In Geography of Murder I had no idea who the dead man was. He had no name or even a reason for his death. I didn't know who the main cop would be, only that he was slightly shady and he was into BDSM as a dom. How shady changed in the course of the story - he started out much darker and more crooked than he ended up. Along the way he also acqired a name: Alexander Spider, Santa Barbara police detective.
The original character started with the name Jason Aaron Zachary and I was going to have him called JaZy until it was pointed out that was the name of a big rapper, so he became simply Jason.
I wrote the first draft in 3 weeks and spent another month or so polishing it and getting feedback which included learning more about BDSM and Santa Barbara. The novel grew and morphed until it became the novel that MLR contracted.
I've met writers who meticulously outline everything right down to individual chapters, leaving nothing to chance. I've met others who outline nothing. Stephen King in his book On Writing, claims that he doesn't outline or chart his books at all. He knows nothing about the story, nothing about his characters or the plot. He excavates his novels, much like Michaelangelo uncovered the figure of David from the block of marble it was hidden inside. I like the imagery of that. I do what the story demands and each one is unique. So my advise to new writers unsure about how to approach a book: try different methods. Don't get locked into one model. Don't listen to the experts -- they only know what works for them. You have to find your own way. You may find, like me, that there is really no one way to create a story.
Find out more about all my available and upcoming books on my web site: http://www.pabrown.ca
There you'll find an interview with Spider where he talks about his past and his feelings about BDSM and Jason.
Previously available only in electronic format, these twin novellas of gay erotic romance have now been combined for a paperback edition!
M4M
Publisher: Amber Allure (June 24, 2009)
ISBN: 978-1-60272-868-4
Excerpt:
Ethan was just finishing a victorious game of Spider Solitaire in his cubicle at LA Nicholes and Associates, the entertainment publicity firm where he toiled, when he overheard the office receptionist (a bleached blond waif of a boy no older than twenty) talking to the payroll clerk.
“Girl, if it worked for me, it can work for you!” The receptionist, even though he ostensibly possessed a penis and a supply of God-given testosterone had a voice that Ethan would swear was an octave above that of Miss Beverly Sills. “I have met, like, so many guys on this site. I have, like, a jillion dates lined up. I don’t know how I’m going to find time to come into work!”
The receptionist and the payroll clerk did what seemed to be a carefully choreographed twitter duet. Ethan stared at his screen, moving a queen onto a king, and listened as the receptionist waxed rhapsodic about an online dating site he had found. He had shrieked that it “wasn’t like all the others,” that it “was more than just for quick hook-ups, like so many of those sites, okay?” and that it was simply, “a lonely girl’s best friend.”
That was all Ethan needed to hear. Well, no, actually, that was not all. And even though Ethan could stand no more Spider Solitaire or Free Cell and was more than ready to call it an honest day’s work, he had to sit in his cubicles for twenty minutes more while “Bubbles” (as he secretly called the receptionist) prattled on about this wondrous—and apparently no-name—dating site. Finally, frustrated, and absolutely unable to endure one more hand of Hearts, Ethan stood and peered over the wall.
Almost immediately, the blond receptionist swiveled his head around to peer at Ethan. “Yes?” he hissed. The payroll clerk, a portly woman of Latina heritage, eyed him with suspicion. Together, they both seemed to be saying, “How dare you interrupt us?” with their eyes.
Ethan applied his most sheepish grin and began to stammer, “Sorry to interrupt but I couldn’t help but overhear what you were saying…you know, about that dating site. But I didn’t catch the name of it.”
The blond and the Latina exchanged knowing glances and Ethan, even though he would never claim psychic abilities, could read their minds quite well, thank you. They were telepathically saying:
“And who does Miss Mary over there think she is?” Bubbles asked.
Latina replied, “I don’t know, but if she thinks she’s going to have the same kind of success that you did just because she logs on, she better think again.”
Snap!
“Hello?” Bubbles was staring at Ethan, head quizzically cocked, and Ethan grinned, realizing he had let his imagination run away with him. He may have just missed his only chance to learn the name of the dating site in question, the one that apparently had men lining up for the affections of a nelly nineteen-year-old who probably didn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds sopping wet and whose dubious intellect most likely rivaled that of a Chihuahua.
“Sorry? I missed that.” Ethan felt heat rising from his neck to his face.
Bubbles closed his eyes and held them shut for a beat to indicate his distaste for, and impatience with, his coworker. Speaking slowly, as if he were talking to someone hearing-impaired, Bubbles enunciated carefully, “The name of the site is bootycall.com.”
The Latina held a hand over her mouth to artlessly—and unsuccessfully—hide her giggles. Ethan noticed her nails were shellacked a lurid red, topped with dragon designs, and so long they were curving back at the top. And this woman managed to handle the challenges of a computer keyboard?
“Oh, okay,” Ethan said, staring down once more at his monitor, which had gone to a screensaver of Barbara Stanwyck movie posters. Sorry, Wrong Number seemed like an apt title to be up at the moment. Ethan may have not been possessed of a dazzling intellect, but even he knew when his leg was being unkindly pulled. He had just sat back down and was powering off when Bubbles’ voice fluttered over the beige partition. “It’s wing people dot com.”
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A portion of the proceeds from the sale of this book will go to Protect Maine Equality to help support their efforts to protect same-sex marriage in Maine.
Taming Groomzilla
Publisher: Bristlecone Pine Press
ISBN: 978-1-60722-010-7
Excerpt (from Chapter Four)
Marital plans were proceeding apace. In fact, I was amazed at just how quickly things were moving forward. I felt like I had gone from a laid-back, low-key sort of guy whose biggest decision every day was what sort of latte to have on my mid-morning coffee break, to a whirling dervish of planning and organization. And if I was a dervish, what was Luke? A Tasmanian devil? I think so. The description seems apt.
Once we had decided on the date, a whole chain of decisions suddenly presented themselves. Where to have the wedding? How elaborate? How many guests?
We started with location. Since same-sex marriage is not legal in Maine (yet—we are ever hopeful) we decided to get married in Massachusetts. We tossed around ideas such as Canada, Spain—even Iowa—but really, I don’t do cornfields well.
Massachusetts made sense: it is familiar and almost local so it wouldn’t be an onerous trip for friends and family.
Luke liked the idea of Provincetown, the gay mecca at the very tip of Cape Cod. While I love P-town, I wondered if it might be a little too “in your face” for some of our guests, especially his parents. But that was precisely why he wanted to force the issue. “I’ve been out for twelve years,” he said. “They need to realize this is not a ‘lifestyle choice’ or phase I am going through.”
I shrugged. Whatever. If he wanted to have a family showdown at his wedding, I wasn’t going to argue. I just hope they take the fisticuffs outside at the reception.
The next obstacle was finding a venue.
We discovered that planning a wedding on a six-month timeline is, at least in the eyes of event managers, akin to planning the invasion of Normandy in three days—in other words, were we nuts? I had a few memorable phone conversations, such as this one with the wedding coordinator at “The Dirty Gull” (name changed to protect the guilty!).
Wedding coordinator, in a faux British accent: “You are scheduling your event for October seventeenth, I assume that would be next year? Eighteen months from now?”
“No,” says I, “October of this year…in the fall.”
“Surely you jest,” says WC. “Don’t you realize that The Dirty Gull is booked at least two years in advance for all events of significance?”
“If I realized that, I wouldn’t be calling now, would I?”
WC sniffed. “Next time, sir, plan better. Propose sooner.”
“I am not planning on proposing again. This is one of those ‘for now and forever’ type deals.”
“Hmmphf,” he said. “I’ve heard that old saw before.”
I hung up on him.
“The Bitter End” seemed promising: they had availability on our selected date and they could accommodate our proposed number of guests. I felt my pulse speed up.
“What’s the process for making a reservation?” I asked.
“Easy,” said the bubbly, chirpy young woman on the other end of the line. “First, we confirm the date.” She whispered to herself as she did this and I could picture her writing the information in big loopy handwriting in a spiral bound notebook. I wondered if she used a purple pen and dotted her i’s with hearts. “Now, do you want a three-course or a five-course meal?”
“Actually, we want passed hors d’oeuvres and champagne.”
“Sorry, no can do!” she said brightly. “Luncheon or dinner only, three or five courses.”
I paused. “Well, let me discuss that with my fiancé. He might be open to the idea of a meal.”
“While we are on the topic of what you can and can’t do, let me outline the rest of our policies: you will use our chef, our baker, our florist, our tables, our chairs, our linens, our silverware, have our bartenders serve only our top-shelf liquor and the event must not go longer than four hours, otherwise we begin charging by the minute. No exceptions. We have a list of approved DJs that you can choose from who will ensure that the music is not played louder than one hundred decibels so that the neighbors aren’t disturbed.”
Quite a list, I thought. “Is that it?”
“Will you be having out-of-town guests?”
“Yes, of course. None of us live in Provincetown.”
“Well then, we require your guests to stay at The Bitter End.”
I looked at the phone like she was a lunatic. “How can you possibly enforce that?” I asked.
“We have our ways,” she said mysteriously.
I hung up on her, too.
I was beginning to despair of finding anything on the Cape and was starting to toy with the idea of Boston, when I made one last desperate call to The Blue Door — desperate, because I think it’s the nicest place in P-town and I never imagined that it would be available at this late date. But, nothing ventured, nothing gained as my mother always says so I called them up.
First, the date. “You’re in luck!” said the manager. “We were booked on the seventeenth but just had a cancellation. I can pencil you in.” Wow. Next question: fifty to seventy people? Oh, yes, we have the perfect size space for that number. Hors d’oeuvres? Absolutely. Bring our own cake? Of course! Our own florist? You even have to ask? Certainly!
I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. There had to be a hitch. Can we get married there? Bien sûr! Dancing? Champagne? Let the party go on into the wee hours of the morning if we want? Yes, yes, yes!
She laughed at my litany of questions. “You sound like you’ve had some bad experiences. The Blue Door tries to bend over backwards to accommodate our guests and make your special day be more than special…we want it to be sublime. All we ask is for a fifty percent deposit and final payment in full two weeks before the event.”
“Okay…this sounds really good. I need to confirm with my fiancé but I can get back to you before the end of the day. One last thing…you do realize we’re gay, right? That’s not an issue?”
“GAY!” she shrieked. “GAY!” So this was the hitch—until she laughed. “Honey, this is P-town. I would have been surprised if you weren’t gay.”
All right, she had a sense of humor. I could work with this woman.
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Leviticus 7:18 If any of the flesh of the sacrifice of his peace offering is eaten on the third day, he who offers it shall not be accepted, neither shall it be credited to him; it shall be an abomination, and he who eats of it shall bear his iniquity.
Leviticus 11:10-19 - (6) "But anything in the seas or the rivers that has not fins and scales, of the swarming creatures in the waters and of the living creatures that are in the waters, is an abomination to you. They shall remain an abomination to you; of their flesh you shall not eat, and their carcasses you shall have in abomination. Everything in the waters that has not fins and scales is an abomination to you."
"And these you shall have in abomination among the birds, they shall not be eaten, they are an abomination: the eagle, the vulture, the osprey, the kite, the falcon according to its kind, every raven according to its kind, the ostrich, the nighthawk, the sea gull, the hawk according to its kind, the owl, the cormorant, the ibis, the water hen, the pelican, the carrion vulture, the stork, the heron according to its kind, the hoopoe, and the bat."
Leviticus 11:20 "All winged insects that go upon all fours are an abomination to you."
Leviticus 11:23 "But all other winged insects which have four feet are an abomination to you."
Leviticus 11:41 "Every swarming thing that swarms upon the earth is an abomination; it shall not be eaten."
Leviticus 11:42 "Whatever goes on its belly, and whatever goes on all fours, or whatever has many feet, all the swarming things that swarm upon the earth, you shall not eat; for they are an abomination."
Leviticus 19:7 "If it is eaten at all on the third day, it is an abomination."
Isaiah 66:17 "Those who sanctify and purify themselves to go into the gardens, following one in the midst, eating swine's flesh and the abomination and mice, shall come to an end together, says the LORD."
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