Pablo Michaels Week 138: Pedro’s New Shoes

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Pablo Michael’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Pedro’s New Shoes

Impatient with the Taxi driver’s driving and taking me far beyond my destination, I paid him his fee without a tip. I decided to find the printing supply shop by myself. I was beginning to find my way around the true flavor of Mexico City rather than the polished shops, hotels and restaurants of the Zona Rosa and the International Zone. The buildings were stacked like concrete boxes with little or no architectural adornments. I probably would never have discovered this section of the city had it not been for the location of the printing supply shop. I turned right on one street looking familiar and then a left on another and walked several blocks until I turned down another narrower street until I was walking down a narrow back alley where I hoped to find the store. But all I found were several boys playing a game of baseball. I was lost and my Spanish was minimal. I feared my day was going to be shot on a long drawn-out journey through Mexico City and not finding the printing supply store or any shop that would substitute for it. I was about to turn around and trace my steps back from where my foot journey began, when the shirtless boy, batting, hit a hard line drive directly at me. I raised both hands together in a defensive move to prevent the ball from striking my head. When the ball touched my right hand palm, it sent a shrill slap echoing against the walls of the adjacent buildings and down the alley to the response of loud cheers from the boys admiring my fortunate catch before the ball struck my nose. My right hand stung while my left hand fingers burned from the pain of the ball attempting to escape my grasp.

The boy who hit the ball ran toward me, smiling and chattering well-spoken compliments in English with hardly a trace of a Spanish accent. “That was a terrific catch. Do you play baseball in America in the National League? Or the American?”

“Just a lucky catch,” I humbly replied, handing the ball back to him. “You speak excellent English. Where did you learn how to speak so well?”

“My father taught at the University. He began teaching me English as soon as I was born and able to talk. You look lost. Is there someplace I can help you find?”

I laughed and explained my search for the printing supply store.

“My name is Pedro. That shop is not far from here. You simply made one wrong turn. I’ll show you the way.”

He tossed the ball to his friends while grabbing his T-shirt.

We walked out of the alley and back a couple of streets and made another turn. I recognized the shops. “You have been an incredible help. How can I ever repay you?”

Pedro stared at my feet. “I will bring you good luck for the remainder of your trip, if you give me your shoes as a gift. I have always wanted a pair like yours.”

“Surely, I can repay you some other way.” My dress shoes were scuffed and in a bad need of a shine. And needless to say, far too large a fit for him. “Who are they for? Maybe a can buy a new pair instead.”

“No!” He stated emphatically. “I want a pair like those so my feet will grow to be as big as yours.”

“How about I buy you a new pair? There’s a shop across the street that sells new shoes.”

“Nope, it has to be yours.”

“Okay.”

We walked across the street where I purchased a pair of Adidas tennis shoes for myself to wear on my way back to the hotel. He walked with me throughout the printing supply shop, very curious as to the nature of my purchases.

Pedro remained at my side until my shopping was completed. “I should go home now. My mother expects me home to teach my sisters how to read.”

I looked at Pedro fondly. He looked extremely awkward walking in my oversized shoes.

“But what about your father? Doesn’t he have time to teach them?”

“My father died five years ago during the political unrest.”

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Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike

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Pablo Michaels Week 130: It Happened That Christmas

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Pablo Michael’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: It Happened That Christmas

Chris inspected the homemade ornament he had hung on the Christmas tree. He had made it from a photograph of the first Christmas Eve Tim and he had spent together. He reminisced about that holiday ten years before.

He did not stay home by himself on that Christmas Eve, almost wishing his boss had not given him the day off when handing out the bonuses.

“And you Chris Stevens have Christmas Eve off for your good behavior,” his boss had said.

His good behavior had given Mr. Pickens his quota for the quarter. So Chris was told to go home with his bonus, a bottle of Napa Pinot Noir. But Chris had no intention of drinking that wine alone that night. Even though he had no presents to exchange or friends to celebrate Christmas with, he wanted to get into the seasonal mood of good cheer, holly, mistletoe, and carols.

He walked among the hustling shoppers, downtown, in the retail district. Inside Macy’s he stopped at the Santa display. Santa’s helpers, consisting of young teenagers dressed as elves and reindeer, huddled around Santa. They prepared to let the children in line request their most prized toy to Santa. A young man, obviously not an elf, stood next to Santa. Chris assumed he worked with Santa and the helpers, possibly giving advice. But then Chris’s gaydar recognized the man as a fellow employee from work. Since they worked in different departments they knew each other no more than as an acquaintance. They had exchanged inquisitive glances periodically, Chris suspecting the man was gay.

The man walked away and disappeared into the crowd of parents and children outside the Santa display. Santa’s helpers began the day’s festivities, escorting the children, one by one to Santa’s lap. Just as Chris was about to explore more of the store, a reindeer and an elf approached Chris. From behind the red rope, separating Santa display from the shoppers, they greeted Chris.

”You have a request from a secret admirer.” The elf reached for Chris’s hand.

Chris had nothing planned so he thought he’d play along with the two younger kids. He had no idea what was about to occur.

“Come with us,” the reindeer led the way, following the red rope to the back of Santa’s display.

“Santa has a present for you.” The elf pointed to a man with his back facing them, eating a bag of popcorn and watching the children line up to sit on Santa’s lap.

“Oh, Tim.” The reindeer sought the man’s attention. “Here’s the man Santa promised you for tonight. Christmas Eve should not be spent alone.”

Tim turned around.

“Santa said you two should spend some time together on Christmas Eve. He expects you both to be in bed before he fills your stockings tonight.” The reindeer handed them each a seasonally wrapped present.

“These are from Santa. Open these presents later.” The elf reached for Chris’s hand.

The two men played along with the elf and the reindeer, with their hands clasped together.

Chris blushed.

While they stared at each other, hints of smiles formed on their lips.

The two Santa helpers giggled when they returned to help Santa, escorting the chattering children, waiting in line to express their wishes.

“Haven’t I seen you at work?” Chris initiated the conversation. “Do you know that Santa? I saw you talking to him earlier.”

“Yeah, I work in the executive offices. I’ve seen you in accounting. I can’t lie. Santa is my friend, Jerry. Do you have any plans for tonight?”

“No, I don’t, but this is kind of awkward.”

“Why don’t we go to my place?” Tim grinned, like a man scheming something devilish but playful.

“Okay.” Chris laughed, releasing some of the anxiety he felt when meeting someone new, like he usually did.

They left Macy’s and took the subway to Tim’s apartment.

When they entered his living room, Chris felt chills of the Christmas spirit ripple beneath his skin. “Wow! You have a tree. I love the scent of it. It smells like the forest. Are you expecting your family?”

“No. I didn’t have plans for any guests this year. I always have a Christmas tree. I love the Holidays. It’s the spirit of giving I like so much. Here let me put that under the tree.” Tim put both presents from Santa under the tree. “We can open them later.”

“It was really a coincidence running into each other at Macy’s.”

“I know. I was just gossiping with Jerry when I saw you standing there at Santa’s display. I devised the idea of us meeting with Jerry. He loved the idea.”

“I thought Santa’s gifts were for the kids. Aren’t they toys?”

“They might be. But Jerry and I exchange presents every year. The ones he gave us were for me. Are you playing hooky from work?”

“Oh, no. Pickens let me off early because I helped him reach his quota for the quarter. I had the highest numbers in the department."

"I bet you got a nice bonus?”

“A bottle of wine. Because I’m new.”

“What a cheap-scape! Well, I’ll make sure you have a nice day off.” Tim smiled the same devious grin again.

Chris smiled in return.

“Why don’t you have plans for tonight? I thought you’d be with another guy. I think you’re hot.”

Chris blushed. “Probably the same reason you aren’t. The feeling’s mutual. Actually I moved here six months ago. And I don't know many people.”

“Come here, you stud. I want to welcome you to San Francisco.”

Chris walked toward Tim, who pulled him close. Chest to chest, crotch to crotch, they kissed.

They kissed long between breaths for several minutes, until Tim began to undress Chris.

They continued kissing, while undressing each other, until Chris broke the silence. “Let me put on some music. First let me open Jerry’s gift. He told me to open it if we connected.” He opened the present. “Hmm. A bottle of gin.”

“Do you like gin?”

“Yeah, gimlets.”

“Oh, me too. Would you like one of those or an egg nog?”

“Egg nog. I haven’t had one yet. Why not save the gin for later?”

“Brandy or rum?””

“Both.”

“A man after my heart. Sit down. I’ll be right back.” Tim turned on his stereo and then walked to the kitchen naked.

Returning to the living room, Tim handed Chris a mug of egg nog and sat down next to him.

“I’ve never had egg nog hot before.”

“Do you like it? I can make one with it chilled?”

“No, it’s good. I like it this way.”

They sipped their egg nog, listening to Christmas music.

After a few minutes, Tim kissed Chris.

Fondling and lovemaking progressed in front of the Christmas tree.

Chris woke from his daydream. It was Christmas Eve. He had just completed decorating the tree. Every year they repeated the ritual like that first Christmas Eve together. He was excited, waiting for Tim to come home from work with the egg nog and the bottle of gin from Jerry.

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Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike

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Pablo Michael Week 126: The Kessler Farm

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Pablo Michael’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: The Kessler Farm

Arriving at the Kessler farm, I parked the car by the driveway outside the property. Lights shone within the house, but I needed time to gather my thoughts and stretch my legs after the long drive. I watched the man on the crescent moon reach for the glow of Venus, the brightest star, half the distance away to the horizon of the dark, early morning sky. I never had noticed Venus so far away from the moon as I did now. It was similar to the distance between Keith, my half-brother, and me. We had been bonded by our blood, Indian style, when we both slashed a cut in our first index fingers and pressed them together, pledging our vows, never to allow anyone or anything separate our souls, especially after we fell in love. We had ground dry, brittle apricot tree leaves to powder. Packing our magic tobacco into a corncob pipe, we sealed our brotherhood by inhaling the serum of our imaginary peace deep into our lungs, only to choke, and cough up white clouds of smoke.

The crow of a rooster jolted me from my walk through the memories of my childhood. The sun had risen, shedding the first rays of dawn on what remained of the harvested fields of the Kessler Farm. Kessler Farm, somehow that name didn’t sit well with me any longer. I walked through the garden, amongst a few pumpkins scattered through the fading greenery. I liked the green and hints of orange striped gourds left behind, probably for the absence of a more desirable vivid, bright orange coloring. I wanted to pick one and put it in my car, like Keith and I did, when we stole something from the garden before harvest.

But that wasn’t why I had returned to the farm.

A voice called from the distance. I turned around and looked back across the field. Denise, Keith’s sister, waved, motioning me to come back to the house. She kissed and hugged me. My hands held her head as she nestled it in against my chest.

“I didn’t expect you so early.” She took my hand and pulled me inside the house. “You can help with the food for the reception.”

“How many people are coming?” I didn’t expect anyone more than the immediate family, Kevin, Karl, and Denise, and me.

“Kevin and Karl, and their families of course. Richard is coming. He’s bringing a few friends of Keith’s.”

“How many?” I wasn’t expecting Richard, a mutual friend from our adolescence, and more people from our past.

“He didn’t say. Come in the kitchen and help me with the vegetable appetizers.” Keith was not the only family member born with a gene for creativity. Denise consistently, proved hers with her culinary skills and gardening. The vegetables had to have been grown at the farm. Denise ran the farm after The Kessler parents had passed on.

We prepared strips of potatoes, carrots, squash and other vegetables, wrapped in Phyllo, sprinkled with sesame seeds, to be cooked.

“I’m glad you came. Keith would’ve wanted you here.”

My heart raced with the mention of his name, remembering how we grew through puberty together through finding our sexuality in the barn as passionate lovers, late at night. A burning pain tied my stomach in knots, like the days during our first year of college when Keith joined the army. He had wanted me to enlist with him, but I knew there was no way I could shoot a gun, let alone kill another human being.

The army had split our lives, like when an apple is sliced in half with a knife. I will never find out if the military devoured his portion, preventing us from sharing each other’s fruit of passion. The torturous hours, days, and months, after Keith was deployed, burdened my heart with a heavy weight and chain, until the phone rang. I had not been the same since Denise unloaded the news, submerging my heavy soul into the dismal, subterranean depths of woeful misery. The army had spoiled my half of our apple. My heart was mush, but I could not cry. I had hoped it had all been a bad dream.

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Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike

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Pablo Michaels Week 124: Felix's Man Cave

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Pablo Michael’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Felix's Man Cave

Geraldo sat on the street bench across from the antique streetlight, simulating a gas lamp from the past. The light illuminated the orange and yellow leaves of a large maple tree. Similar trees lined both sides of the street in front of the clustered Victorian houses. He thought Felix had been joking when he said his house was in Maple Grove. This display by autumn was almost indecent to a man from the desert southwest. The only landscape hues Geraldo had witnessed were the white blossoms of yuccas and the brief jeweled colors of different cacti in the desert sand, after a spring rain.

Geraldo stared at Felix’s business card, given to him in haste at the airport, when Felix left Palm Springs a week before. Looking at his watch, it read quarter to nine. It’s too early to arrive at his house for a drink. I think I’ll inhale some more of this fresh, damp air. He walked as a fine mist drifted in the crisp night air, but that didn’t bother him. It was a refreshing change from the ninety degree temperatures he had left behind. Deciding to walk slowly down the street, he gathered these houses were occupied by a host of exciting new men to gaze upon, for at least fantasy’s sake. He had never met such fun-seeking males who had accompanied Felix to Palm Springs for a Halloween weekend getaway. They were all very handsome men whose bodies looked finely-sculpted from daily jaunts to the gym before or after work. But more than their physical attributes, Geraldo had never clicked in spontaneity like he did with them. They prodded each other into daring adventures, allowing their defenses to disappear, unlike Geraldo who always considered it too risky and would humiliate one’s proper etiquette in social circles, like the men in the Palm Springs gay circuit. Palm Springs men were sedate and definitely not bold like the men from Minnesota.

The mist had turned to a steady rain. Walking on the sidewalk, Geraldo decided it was time to find Felix’s house. He looked for the right address.

When he had met Felix at the club, The Anvil, the night before Halloween, he felt an attraction unlike he had ever experienced. Remembering how sexually comfortable he had been, like no other man he’d been with before, he felt his penis rise into erection. He couldn’t define how his testosterone levels heated simply thinking about him, like at this particular moment, walking up to the front door of his house.

On Halloween night, the men from Maple Grove gave a party, even Bacchus couldn’t match. Felix invited Geraldo and his friends, but unfortunately, when the police came to break it up, Felix and his friends were evicted from their motel, with no remaining vacancies in the entire town. Geraldo rushed forward, like Don Quixote, finding the men from Maple Grove places to stay for the remainder of the weekend with friends. Of course, Felix was taken in by Geraldo in his humble studio apartment. The man from Minnesota extended his gratitude by inviting Gabriel to spend an all-expenses paid for a week or two as his guest in Maple Grove.

Standing under the porch light, high-lighting a note on Felix’s door, Geraldo scrutinized each word carefully, not wanting to misread a single word. He whispered the words.

“Greetings Geraldo,
Leave your shoes by the door before coming in the house.
Your clothes are wet from the rain,
So, please, hang them to dry on the clothesline.
Then come through the door of the parlor.
You’ll see stairs to the right.
Take them down to my man cave.
We’re going to have some fun.
I have a fire blazing for you.
I hope you don’t mind if I’m being too forward.
But I think we click together.
Let’s find out if we can go farther.
Your friend in Debauchery,
Felix”

Maybe he is more stilted in behavior than I thought or maybe not. Geraldo shed his tennis shoes, as instructed. After all, in Palm Springs, we don’t take off our shoes before entering a house, even the few times it rains during the year. Upon entering through the door, he set down his single suitcase. He hung his wet leather jacket on the coatrack by the door. The fragrance of the moist leather spread throughout the room, arousing him. Geraldo slipped off his T-shirt and draped it over the clothesline. He hung his jeans with two clothespins. He kept his socks on his feet. Bashfully, he walked through the room, wearing his chartreuse Andrew Christian briefs to the stairs, feeling the chill in the air with goose bumps prickling his naked skin. He heard his footsteps creak as he descended the wooden stairs, leading to a basement. He heard a door open from below.

“My Sir Galahad. You’re here at last.” Felix’s voice sent more ripples of arousing chills throughout his body.

Geraldo saw his host’s slim, sleek, nearly naked body, greeting him. A skimpy towel wrapped around Felix’s narrow waist, revealing only the base of his thick dick, where it sprouted amongst a dense patch of dark, curly public hair.

“I have a cold bottle of champagne ready to christen for your arrival.”

Geraldo felt his penis begin to swell in the pouch of his briefs. His face flushed a crimson red.

“Don’t be embarrassed. I’m turned on too.” Felix’s dick rose into an erect stance, beneath the towel. “Did you have trouble finding my house? I expected you earlier, before the rain started.”

“I thought I was early. So I took my time walking around your neighborhood. The trees outside are so beautiful. And the rain felt refreshing.” Geraldo shielded the bulge in his crotch with one hand.

“Come on down.” Felix met him halfway up the stairs and grabbed the hand hiding his erection. Dragging him down to the basement, he whispered, “I want to help slide down your underwear,” snickering between each word he spoke. “And they are sexy!”

“Shouldn’t I bring down my suitcase?” Geraldo asked, defensively.

“We’ll get it later. Come on. I’ve been waiting for you all week. I’ve remodeled my man cave. Just for you.”

When Geraldo entered the room, he stood awestruck, totally oblivious to Felix sliding down his briefs. His eyes scanned the room with wonder. To his right, a fire blazed within a rock wall. Recessed black lights lit the floorboards around the room. The walls were black at the bottom, gradually brightening to an indigo blue up to the crown molding at the top and spread across the ceiling, where small white lights sparkled from wall to wall. A king sized bed was laid out with the sheets folded down, to the right of the door, across from the fireplace,

“You did this for me?” Geraldo noticed Felix pouring champagne.

“Yes, although I had help from my friends. I and, also they, wanted to thank you for your hospitality. We had a blast staying with you and your friends. There’s not much to do in Maple Grove but appreciate the fall color. And I want to ask you a favor. You don’t have to answer right away. Perhaps it would be better when you’re ready to go back home.” Felix handed a glass of champagne to Geraldo. “Cheers my friend.”

They toasted.

“You’ve kind of made it hard for me to refuse with all this. I never expected…”

Felix grabbed him by the waist with his free hand, pulling him toward the bed opposite the warmth of the fireplace. The bed was ready to be occupied with the sheets spread open. “But I do expect you to be happy in bed like you made me in Palm Springs.”

“Okay, what’s the question?” Geraldo suspected some new kinky endeavor, from what his friends back in Palm Springs had related in their detailed stories about Felix’s friends while they stayed as their guests.

“That can wait. Last year, we had no sign of summer until late May. Spring Break next year happens in March. Won’t Palm Springs be tons of thrills for you then?”

“Yeah, it can be lots of fun. Maybe you could come sometime.”

“Well, that’s my question.” Felix paused to study Geraldo’s reaction, which was absent of expression, except a teasing smile at the corners of his mouth, enhancing Felix’s arousal. “Could I come spend that week with you? Like I said, you don’t have to answer now. You may not like me as much as I like you.”

Geraldo grabbed Felix’s glass and set both theirs on the nearby table. Wrapping his arms around him, he shoved him onto the bed. “I can answer that now. Yes! Come stay with me.”

They kissed with voracious appetites to fulfill their hunger for each other, even though they had only met a week before. Kissing and fondling, Felix set the pace for a journey of continuous, passionate romps with Geraldo in his man cave, for the next two weeks.

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Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike

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Pablo Michaels Week 122: The Secret Not Shared

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Pablo Michael’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: The Secret Not Shared

Benjamin assembled the celluloid movie in the antiquated projector. When he turned on the light, the first frame of the movie illuminated the wall his sister, Edith, standing a hundred feet before their safe house. Nicholas, his older brother posed in the doorframe in his night shirt, still infected with the feared disease that isolated their family from their neighbors and the outside world. This home movie was the only evidence of the bigger secret their family kept. The content of this film wasn’t to be viewed until the possibility of hope emerged for everyone. After Nicolas and Edith bequeathed the documentation contained in the movie to Benjamin, as the youngest and the most vulnerable, he had a premonition morning would be the time his sister and brother would arrive. Then they would discover the truth, about the deadly vigilante gang wars, leaving the deadly disease to rage on like it had, killing hundreds of thousands of people every year. When Ebola spread uncontrolled, gangs from every part of the population attempted to take power, causing the former elected government collapsed. A stillness in the room caught his attention. The threat of more drenching rain from the storm had vanished. Weeks of heavy rain had filled the cracks in the parched landscape, filling the earth’s water table and ending years of drought.

Unlatching the door, he ventured outdoors, curiously. Above him in the darkened sky, the wind separated the storm clouds, exposing the brilliant clear glow of a full moon.

Shivering with hope, Benjamin asked with the sound of wind howling far overhead, “Is this a sign for end of the drought? The pandemic? And the war? How long have they gone on?”

“Too many years, baby brother?” Nicholas answered.

“Nick!” Benjamin wheeled around in his bare, muddy feet and bear hugged his brother.

“Yeah, I’m here. Isn’t Edith here yet?”

“No. She’s coming, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, she and I talked two weeks ago. We decided to find you. We think it’s the right time.” Nicholas’ right hand brushed Benjamin’s hair out of his eyes, getting a better look of his younger brother. “How long has it been? You look like you have recovered from the pain of losing Tim.”

“Yeah. I had to move on. He was the last painful reminder of how it began. I had to forgive them for what they did and wait for the day it ended. Do you really think this is the time?”

“Yes. When I talked with Edith, she suggested I find you, She believed the time was coming soon and we should all be together to make the decision.”

“And then it wasn’t just me. I felt it a couple of weeks ago, when the threats stopped. A few even spoke to me as an equal, offering me food.”

“Edith said a faction of the old government brokered a ceasefire a month ago among the major city gangs, offering them the temporary serum and promising the permanent one, if the violence stopped. Rumors spread to the outlying areas, a week later. The violence stopped where I was living. I contacted Edith. Then we started tracking you down.”

“It’s taken this long series of powerful storms to build my self-confidence that the drought might end, too.” Benjamin glanced at the full moon again.

“Yes, brother. You did say it would take something like this to bring peace. Have you kept the movie preserved?”

“Funny. I set up the film projector, just a while ago. The movie is ready to watch. It’s still in great condition. It starts at our first house with Mom and Dad when we were just kids. You’re in your nightshirt. Edith is standing in front of the house where Mom and Dad were shot.”

“Yeah, I remember it well. I was recovering with an injection of the temporary serum and you were very sick.”

“If it hadn’t been for the serum Mom and Dad left us, we’d all be dead like many of the others. What’s keeping Edith? She should have been here before you. She was always the one to act faster than you and me.” As Benjamin wiped his long hair, his icy blue eyes shone brightly on Nicholas’s face, reflecting the glow of the moon, in the darkness of the waning night.

“She’ll be here. You know how she is. Always making sure everything’s right.”

“She’s still that way?”

With a nod of the affirmative, Nicolas wrapped his arm around his brother, guiding him back into the house.

“Surprsie!” Edith spoke loudly, as if there was nothing to whisper about anymore. “I saw you both out looking at the full moon. Isn’t it fabulous? Peace is in the works. The temporary serum is going to be made available for everyone now.” She hugged Nicolas first, and then her right arm motioned for Benjamin to join in for a group hug. “Why did you start the movie without me? I hope you haven’t gone further than this frame.”

The picture of Edith and Nicolas and their parent’s hideout house from many years before reflected on the wall, as they entered through the door.

“No, I didn’t watch it. It’s just the first frame. I remember what you told me, not to watch it until we all are back together, when the time was right. I knew both of you were coming. That’s why I prepared it.” ” Benjamin answered, irritated with the insinuation he broke his family’s trust

“That’s what Mom and Dad told us if anything happened to them,” Edith confirmed their parent’s wishes. “I can’t believe how clear the picture is. You’ve kept the movie intact.” Edith attempted to wash over any indignant sarcasm she may have made. “We have the promises for permanent peace, once we find out the secret Mom and Dad reveal in the movie about a permanent serum.”

“I still don’t understand why we had to keep it a secret until now. There have been so many times I wanted to find out,… but I waited for both of you, even lost Timothy who we may been able to save.” Benjamin anxiously waited for his siblings to subside with the small talk and get down to business, the movie.

“I know how you felt about Tim, but it was Mom and Dad’s decision to proceed like we are.” Edith asserted the directions spoken to them when the deadly threats began.

“Benjamin, there’s no one to blame but the circumstances,” Nicolas interrupted. “When you became very sick with the disease, Mom and Dad devised this plan. They gave you the last dose of the lifetime serum. Edith and I know the formula for the temporary one, which has kept us and a few others alive until the permanent one can be duplicated again. You are the only one on the entire planet who had it this way.”

“So that’s why I never came down with it again. I haven’t needed another dose of the temporary serum, like you and Edith?”

“Yes, that’s why we’re relying on your judgment to agree with us to watch the movie through to its conclusion?” Edith begged for his answer.

“I’m not hesitating. I was simply waiting for both of you. Let’s turn it on.”

Benjamin flicked the start button on the movie projector. Sitting Indian style in front of the wall they watched each frame of their life stories from the beginning of their lives play out to the end, when their parents were murdered, gathering the ingredients for the serum.

After they had watched the entire home movie, there was a silence in the house, only the sound of water dripping outside from the eaves of the house from a passing shower whispered through the room.

“But why did they give me the only dose of the permanent serum?” Benjamin broke the silence with the question that wasn’t answered in the movie.

“You were too sick. They ran out of the temporary serum.” Edith and Nicholas were old enough for their parent’s to explain the reason.

“Now, do we proceed with Mom and Dad’s wishes, Benjamin?” Nicholas asked, knowing the ultimate answer was Benjamin’s decision. “Edith will take the movie to the government officials. If they notify the CDC to prepare making the formula with you, Benjamin, I will take you to Atlanta, making sure you arrive safely. Your blood will give them what they need them to start.”

“If Mom and Dad believed this was the only way we can find peace, what else can I do? I’m ready to share my blood, on the condition you both get the first doses. I don’t want to lose you like I lost Timothy.”

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Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike

#DailyPicspiration

Pablo Michaels Week 120: Mystic Melinda

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Pablo Michael’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Mystic Melinda

All the young men succumbed to her alluring aura, at least the men I knew when I was eighteen. They couldn’t resist the beauty surrounding her. They needed to see what was behind the veil of her aloof and fickle moods brought about with each victim’s pursuit. I don’t know who bequeathed her with the name, Mystic Melinda, but I discovered the mystery of her existence no other man could comprehend. While they behaved like foolish boys smitten with the new girl in school, I stood my distance, observing the clumsiness of their amorous attempts at seducing a distant woman, who behaved like a wild animal, never to be tamed and caged. Each time a friend of mine prowled, like a stalker, he lavished her with a different approach in making love. I watched her run rapidly away, disappearing into the open arms of a new lover. Floundering in rejection after they showered her with their flattering ideals, they couldn’t comprehend why they had failed in conquering her seductive appeal and win her love. My roommate, Kevin, had fallen madly in love with her, his stomach still knotting in infatuation’s turmoil, a month after she had rejected him.

She had a beauty unmatched by most exceptionally attractive women. She didn’t have any outstanding features most men find attractive. She had an average feminine body, but all her proportions fit pleasingly in a t-shirt and blue jeans. It was the mysterious aura surrounding her, sucking men, blindly into her games of foreplay. Her milky, light blue eyes, and soft auburn eyebrows, curved slightly higher at the ends away from the narrow top of her small, aquiline nose. Those eyes trapped any man caught staring too long, encouraging him to delve into her mischief. Her long, sun-bleached hair bounced in waves when she tossed her head, avoiding any suspected intrusion to the private treasures in her heart. Those treasures and her ownership of them, all men lusted.

After all my friends had attempted to capture her and failed, if just for a second’s flash in time, like the fleeting blink of her eyes cast when she said yes and then good bye, I finally allowed my defenses to drop. I began a slow paced walk beside her but with a safe distance separating us. I was unclear whether I would eventually open my heart to her. We began a dance of our shared appreciation in nature.

My first step with her ocurred when a group of our friends agreed to go on a picnic to the beach. Mystic Melinda asked me if I wanted to go for a walk. Without pondering for a well thought plan, I agreed. We strolled along a high rocky cliff above the pounding crash of turbulent waves. The power of the ocean churned the turquoise water and green kelp into foaming white whirlpools. The lure of the sea fascinated both of us. We continued to walk in silence, inhaling the aromas of wildflowers growing abundantly, beside the narrow dirt trail. She stopped, bent over, and picked a white daisy. After caressing the petals, she gave me the flower. I felt I was building her trust. I picked a chain of blue lupine blossoms. We both inhaled its fresh fragrance. When I gave her the flower, we turned around, stopping once above a cove, where the waves violently slammed against the sheer cliff. She tossed the lupine flower down into the violent surf. We watched with fascination, until she gently took the daisy from me and allowed it to fall slowly into the turbulent waters, too.

When we returned for lunch with the others, a few of the men asked questions about my progress with her. The girls queried her in the same manner. We both smiled and simply answered, “We had a nice walk.” We actually did, even though not one word was spoken.

A week later, a powerful Pacific storm pounded the coast with near hurricane force winds and drenching rain. That night, Mystic Melinda and her roommate, Katie, knocked on our apartment door. When my roommate, Kevin, answered the door, Melinda was bubbling effervescent words of excitement. She wanted all of us to go climb the old volcanic peak, nearby. This mountain was an ancient volcano that had been drastically reduced in size by centuries of erosion. In spring, after the winter rains fell, wild oats, yellow mustard, and an array of wildflowers grew along its slopes along with green chaparral. The four of us, dressed with knit hats on our heads, scarfs around our necks, jackets, jeans, and tennis shoes, began scaling the gradual slope of the peak. At times, the gusts of wind howled with such great force that the heavy rain blew horizontally. Melinda and I climbed faster than Kevin and Katie. When we had nearly scaled the top, I stopped and turned around. I inhaled the vigor of the storm. Looking for the others, I saw Kevin a hundred feet downslope. I perused the darkness for Katie but couldn’t see her. Then, I looked back for Melinda above me, but couldn’t see her. Slowly, I climbed to the top. Glancing down the other side of the peak, I barely could see an image of Katie with her arms wrapped around Melinda. Katie’s long, black hair blew in circles around their pose in a dark shroud, while Melinda’s blond hair was flying around her head haphazardly with the force of the wind. When Kevin reached me at the top, Katie and Mystic Melinda had already joined me. Melinda and I literally ran down the mountain, screaming along with the roar of thunder after lightning lit the stormy night sky. With each rumble, we attempted to scream louder than the ground shaking sound, until we were back in the apartment.

Later that spring, Kevin and Melinda were locked into a longer affair, while she and I remained platonic lovers. Mystic Melinda appeared happier, smiling, and laughing more than the silence of the months before. I was content to enjoy the speechless moments we shared, as an agreement within our souls of how we survived within nature’s boundaries. Our mutual silence had melted the frozen, steel bars protecting our secret treasures, hidden in our vulnerable hearts.

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Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike

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Pablo Michaels Week 118: The Unexpected Proposal

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Pablo Michael’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: The Unexpected Proposal

Anthony gazed toward the spectacular view of the Mediterranean Sea’s waves crashing against the cliff, the water spraying through the air upon receding. The shoreline reminded him of the coast off Big Sur where he and Stuart visited each year. But he was in Italy and with Ignacio, the hot, Italian stud who had seduced him after meeting on the train from Rome to Florence. Anthony had left Stuart, his estranged partner, he found in bed with another hot, Italian man with a questionable source of income, in Rome.

His second day in Florence started when Anthony’s morning appointment at the university was changed to early afternoon. All morning, Ignacio continued his adoration of his guest in bed. But Anthony needed to prepare for his engagement, especially since he had to meet with Stuart after he met with the head of the department of literature. His partner had called Anthony at midnight inquiring about his whereabouts and the reason for cancelling their reservations at the hotel they had booked. Even though he was enjoying the uncontrollable, physical attention Ignacio gave, Anthony’s troubled thoughts focused on facing Stuart.

“Okay, I’ll let you shower alone this time. And I’ll allow you to get dressed. I won’t try to take off your sexy underwear, every time you try to pull them up. I’m jealous you’re meeting your boyfriend. He doesn’t deserve you. I do.”

“You’ve definitely made a good argument. I should skip out on him. But….”

“It’s okay, as long as you get rid of him afterward.” Ignacio cut Anthony off from his rationalization concerning Stuart. “I want to take you to a special place. I go there when another man makes me go crazy. Maybe this place will help you, too.”

Anthony had agreed, reluctantly, unaware of the outcome of this discussion with Stuart. He felt guilty for having this affair. But Stuart had one in Rome, so Anthony rationalized he deserved this fling with Ignacio. Besides, this Italian man was lavishing him with attention like a lover he had never known, especially Stuart.

On the way to the university, they had walked through a wedding reception. When the bride tossed the blue and white bouquet, she tossed it beyond the women, right into Anthony’s hands.

When he was about to throw it back to the women, Ignacio objected. “Keep it, it’s a good omen. It means you’re going to have good luck. In Florence when a man catches a bride’s bouquet, it’s a good omen.”

After a successful discussion with the head of the literature department, Anthony met with Stuart at a café. Ignacio sat on the opposite side of the restaurant. Although he was unable to hear what was being discussed, Ignacio’s eyes glared at Stuart, like a wolf ready to attack his prey. When the conversation had become heated between Anthony and Stuart, Ignacio stood up, ready to punch Stuart in the face. But Anthony’s partner had stormed out of the cafe, quickly, yelling for everyone to hear his anger, beyond the door and into the street.

Ignacio wrapped his arm around Anthony’s shoulder, as they sat on wet sand, watching the spectacular scenery. Anthony was relieved to have Ignacio’s company.

“So do you feel any better now?” Ignacio brushed Anthony’s windswept hair from his eyes.

“Yeah.”

“I told you this place was magical, didn’t I”

“You were right. I’m glad you brought me here.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Anthony was emphatic. He didn’t want to discuss anything about what he and Stuart discussed that erupted into another embarrassing argument.

“Your good luck will come to you. Remember, you caught the bouquet at that wedding.”

Anthony laughed. Ignacio had broken the foul mood he had been drowning in since they departed the café.

“Do you like this beach?” Ignacio begged a response.

“It’s beautiful. I didn’t think any place like this existed in Italy.”

“Could you imagine building a house on the land overlooking this beach?”

“That would be fabulous if anyone could!” Anthony stared out at ocean’s horizon beyond, lost in a feeling of peace he hadn’t felt for years.

“I own this beach and the land in front of it. I want you to share it with me. We’ll build a house just for us.” Ignacio slipped off a gold wedding band from his right hand index finger. He reached for Anthony’s left hand. “I want to make you mine and marry you.”

Anthony’s mouth opened but no words escaped, the only sound came from the smashing waves on the cliff nearby.

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Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike

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Pablo Michael Week 114: Villa Roma #4

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Pablo Michael’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Villa Roma #4

Without explanation Ignacio grabbed one of Anthony's bags, dragging him by a hand, still clutching another suitcase, up the stairs until they reached the next floor. “I hope you like your room. May not be what you expected” He stopped at an open door down the dark, tiled hallway. He set the bags down in the entry, his left arm open, guiding Anthony’s entrance.

Squeezing past Ignacio through the narrow passage, Anthony inspected a small, furnished, lived-in room which appeared to be the living room. Although initially speechless and suspicious, he glanced around, realizing Villa Roma #4 was Ignacio’s apartment. “I don’t know what to say?”

“Just say you like your accommodations for your visit in my city. I hope I’m not making you uncomfortable. But I’d like you to stay with me. While you’re in Florence.”

“But I might be an inconvenience.”

“Nonsense! We’ll get to know each other. Maybe a bit more intimately. If you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, but…” Flustered, Anthony attempted to find an excuse to accept Ignacio’s hospitality but wanted excitement, more than he ventured to imagine, when he had left Stuart in Rome. And even more, he would love to have a man like Ignacio in bed with him, like Stuart had with that hunk. He could erase the image of Giancarlo, naked, in the doorway after having sex with his partner.

“I could show you around the university?”

“Well…,”

“Please,.., I won’t get in the way of your plans, when you need to take care of your business.”

“Okay.” Anthony relented, thinking his company would be more than welcome, and his knowledge of Florence would be an ideal answer for his itinerary.

“Bravisimo!” Ignacio wrapped his arms around Anthony, hugging and kissing him passionately, like a man reunited with his lover after a long separation.

Without hesitation, Ignacio’s kisses and hands graduated into seduction. Slowly and methodically, he undressed Anthony, leading him into the bedroom.

Numb-struck by his own plans to become acquainted, in a less aggressive manner, Anthony welcomed Ignacio’s overpowering, Italian passion, obviously less inhibited than any American gay man he had known.

Anthony lay with Ignacio next to him, admiring his dark, curly haired chest and his sleek, defined body.

Ignacio stared intently, like a frisky puppy anxious to play more.

“What about dinner? Is that a real restaurant or is it someplace you fictionalized?”

“No, it’s a very nice café, just a couple blocks down the street.” Ignacio clutched Anthony’s left hand and kissed his fingers. “But it’s much too early to eat. We have time to fool around more.” He grinned, his dark brown eyes sparkled, begging pretty please.

“I’m very exhausted and in need of a shower.”

“Oo-la la, that sounds good, showering together, where I can lather every inch of your body.” Anthony smiled in agreement, remembering the last time, many years before, when he and Stuart shared a playful time like this.

Anthony’s cell phone reminded him of the outside world. “I better answer that. It might be from the university.” Thinking the call might be about his appointment in the morning, he went to the entryway, Ignacio tagging, closely behind. Retrieving his phone from his trousers, he recognized Stuart’s number super imposed over the picture of the ocean on the screen. “It’s only Stuart. I’m not answering.

“Your boyfriend?” Ignacio stared at the screen on the phone. “Where is that beautiful place?” He admired the narrow crack between two steep cliffs, where waves crashed through from the ocean.

“Uh, it’s at a beach we usually go this time every year. We came to Italy this year instead. And yeah, that was my boyfriend.”

“It’s beautiful. Where is this beach?”

“It’s in Big Sur. Along the coast, north of Los Angeles. That cove was our special place.”

“Maybe I can show you my favorite place on the sea nearby. But now. What about that shower?” Ignacio ran his hands across Anthony’s hairy chest.

“First, let me call the university and confirm my appointment for tomorrow morning.” He tapped the screen on his cell. A different landscape photo popped up.

“Oh, that’s a nice picture too.” Anthony liked the wooded trail along a hillside.

“That’s the path to my secret hideaway. I go there to be by myself.”

“A beautiful place for a beautiful man.”

Anthony kissed him, pleasing Ignacio enough to bring a big smile to his mouth and sparkles in his eyes. “Those deep green eyes are gorgeous.”

Anthony blushed, while he tapped the numbers for his call.

Ignacio left to straighten the bedroom and prepare the bathroom for their shower.

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Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike

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Pablo Michael's Week 112: Italian Affairs

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Pablo Michael’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Italian Affairs

Anthony stepped out of the taxi, paid the driver in American money, and looked toward the Rei Frumentariae. Stuart had booked their brief stay in this hotel in Rome before traveling to Florence. Stuart had arrived several days earlier, while Anthony stayed behind, tying up loose ends with their real estate agent to rent the house. Anthony was tired, needing a shower, and anxious to rest. He appreciated the eighteenth century, restored hotel as he walked through the front doors to the desk.

“Could you tell me what room Stuart Granger has booked?” Anthony asked the desk clerk, hoping he comprehended English.

The young Italian man looked on the computer. “Number 221.” He answered briskly but with good a command of English. His eyes perused Anthony’s modestly well-built frame, obviously flirting. “Take the stairs there.” He pointed to the left.

Anthony thanked him, too tired to acknowledge the sexual taunt. Climbing the stairs lethargically, he walked directly to his left and found the room a couple of doors to the left. He set his bags on the `marble floor.

He knocked a couple of times without a response, until he heard Stuart’s voice. “Who’s there?”

Anthony knocked without responding, hoping to surprise him.

A minute later, Stuart opened the door, a towel wrapped around his waist. “Anthony!” His sun-bleached blond hair was unkempt like he had been asleep, but his smooth, wiry torso was beaded with sweat. ” You’re a day early.”

“Yeah. Everything got settled earlier than planned. Are you going to let me in?”

“Who is it? Come back to bed,” a heavily accented, Italian voice with broken English called from behind the door.

Emerging behind Stuart, a handsome, young man interrupted their conversation, until Stuart narrowed the door opening to conceal his intrusion.

“You weren’t supposed to be here for two days.”

“Shit! How could you?” Vividly upset, Anthony kicked the wall. He picked up his bags and started to retreat back down the hallway.

“Wait. I can explain,” Stuart pleaded. He turned his head around. “Giancarlo, put some clothes on.” He attempted to speak privately to the man behind him while keeping Anthony’s attention.

But it was too late. Anthony had heard, and was already fleeing the hallway down the stairs and out the front door of the hotel. He hailed a taxi. “Roma Termini.”

Within what seemed like seconds Anthony boarded a train on Italiarail bound for Florence, the ultimate destination he and Stuart had planned after rendezvousing in Rome. How could he? Anthony’s disapproval for Stuart’s indiscretion made him angry, almost enough to fly back to Los Angeles But he wanted to check out the campus of the University of Human Sciences, even if it was by himself. I knew I couldn’t trust him to come ahead before me. First chance he gets, he picks up an Italian hunk…, a hustler, no doubt. Nothing has changed.

Anthony purchased a one way trip, stopping at Pisa. Even though he would not explore this city, like he had initially planned to do with Stuart, he dismissed that idea and get far away from Rome, Stuart, and what he recently saw. That meant changing everything associated with Stuart. I’m changing the itinerary now. I’m going to Florence today. I’ll find a different hotel there. Do what I want, when I want. Fuck him!

Anthony sat by himself. His exhaustion and the vibration of the train, streaming along the rails, eased him into a trance. He gazed at the passing vineyards, growing on the steep slopes outside his window seat. The symmetry of the rows of grape vines hypnotized him into the scene, imbedded in his mind of the naked Italian man, standing behind Stuart in the hotel room in Rome. Gradually Stuart’s image disappeared, replaced by his own body, being attended by this man of unquestionable sexual appeal.

He woke abruptly, when another more handsome man sat next to him, grinning, a smile something more indicative of a sexual nature than courtesy.

“I take it you’re missing someone important?” the man questioned, a hint of amusement in the tone of his accented voice. Anthony shook his head, to freshen his awareness. He realized he had been fantasizing, the expression on his face revealing embarrassment. “I must have been asleep. Was I mentioning anything?”

“Uh, yes, a Giancarlo, meaning a manly, God’s gracious gift of a man. He must be quite a man.” He chuckled.

Anthony’s pale face blushed, like a bright red tomato.

“Pardon me, but I’m Ignacio, meaning fiery. I shouldn’t have spoken with that much directness, but that’s my nature. You seemed to have enjoyed him. I envy him. You’re quite handsome and sexy.”

Anthony’s anger turned to regret. How could I be dreaming about the man who was with Stuart? Am I completely warped? “I don’t know anyone by that name. I must have overheard it mentioned in a conversation while I was asleep.”

“Oh, I see.” Ignacio’s answer indicated a polite understanding of Anthony’s little white lie, since there was no one nearby.

“I’m Anthony. You’ll have to excuse my appearance and state of mind. I flew out of Los Angeles sometime yesterday. And the reservation for my hotel room in Rome fell through.” The little white lie mushroomed into an outright fictional account of his visit in Italy since he arrived. “So I decided to go directly to Florence.”

“Do you have a reservation there? I certainly hope not.” Ignacio continued to flirt, hoping he could disrupt Anthony’s itinerary.

“No. I…”

“What brings you to my city?” Ignacio purposely interrupted, referring to Florence.

“I’m investigating the University of Human Sciences. I’m going to be studying there next session.”

“How interesting.” Ignacio inspected Anthony carefully, causing a few quiet minutes of sexual tension.

This man is beautiful but quite nosey. I can’t decide if I should like or mistrust him. Are all Italian men this appealing and outspoken? Anthony decided to smile and appreciate the compliments.

“I know a great affordable, small hotel you might like.”

“I’m interested. What’s it called?”

“Roma Villa. That’s the name of the street. 2436 Roma Villa Number 4. Just tell them Ignacio Ponti recommended you. I’m sure you’ll be accommodated.”

“What’s the name of the hotel?” Anthony appeared confused.

“Roma Villa. The sign is a bit disguised. You’ll have to rely on the address. I could show you, if you’d like?”

“No, but thank you. I’ll find it. I have something to do first.” I’ll get even with Stuart. I’ll cancel our reservations at the Montreal Hotel, in case he follows me. He won’t have a place to stay. “You’ve really helped me. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Hmm. I could think of a way.”

Anthony suddenly realized the sexual connotation of Ignacio’s wish and laughed, out of nervousness. Are all Italian gay men this sexually driven? “Maybe I could take you to dinner?” Maybe I should explore this man a little more.

“That’s not necessary.”

“No, I insist. If you could recommend a restaurant?”

“Okay. The Tivoli, a nice café, not far from my…, I mean your hotel.”

“I have to get settled in my room. I need a shower. And I’ve been in these same clothes for what seems like a week.” Anthony looked at his watch. It was half past eleven in the morning. “Why don’t we meet at the café at seven?”

“I can’t wait.” Ignacio glanced down at Anthony’s crotch and then looked into his eyes. He grinned.

The train’s speed decreased as it approached the Florence train terminal, interrupting their interaction. Disembarking their car, Ignacio reminded him of their dinner date. “See you at seven, sexy.”

“Yes.” Anthony smiled.

Ignacio hurried away, leaving Anthony to find a taxi.

After Anthony managed his affairs at the Montreal Hotel, a taxi driver dropped him at the main street crossing the narrow road, Roma Villa. The buildings were quaint, giving a true flavor of Italy. Walking downhill on the cobble stone pavement, he passed an Italian cypress tree, growing in front of a church. As he walked farther his eyes perused the buildings for the address, until he came to a two story building without a hotel sign. He verified the address, making sure it was correct. Unable to see a reception desk or clerk when he entered the building, he assumed it might be down the corridor. He turned a corner. He was beginning to think Ignacio had led him, deviously on a wild goose chase, as an unsuspecting tourist.

He continued on, until he approached a stairway.

Ignacio descended. “Surprise! Let me take you to your room.”

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Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike

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Pablo Michael' Week 108: Tending the Garden

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Pablo Michael’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Tending the Garden

Standing on the twelve inch width of the pressure treated, wooden walkway, Clark, Turner as Todd, his partner, nicknamed him, clicked his retro shoes together, hoping this jaunt through their untended Japanese garden would bring him the peaceful resolution he had sought for nearly fifty years. His throat gurgled as a controlled laugh burst out at the sight of his skinny, crippled feet, covered in a pair of trendy, striped, colored socks. Todd had given them to him on his sixtieth birthday a week ago. Withered leaves danced on the cobble beside the path from a hot summer wispy breeze, reminding him of the day he made his choice, objecting to his draft status to serve in the army during the Viet Nam War. He had no grounds for CO status, like his straight friends had sought, especially since his draft board was comprised of the most narrow-minded, war-mongering men in the city, who had always denied that status. Every other teenager and young man he knew had served in at least one branch of the military. Even Todd fulfilled his stint in the Air Force, but he was stationed in Europe tracking flights of the Soviet Union’s airplanes, ships and submarines. He had fought in the Cold War, making observations vital to the decision if the Button should be pressed.

Turner walked, carefully, down the plank between the plantings of overgrown deciduous shrubs, conifers and Japanese maple trees. He had chosen to adapt to the underground lifestyle of gay men who claimed their sexual preference to love a man, entirely, rather than kill, which prevented them from being drafted. His decision, the life he led, and the deeds he practiced since that day were him; he and no one else could deny that. He fought for many causes as alternatives to all the wars that kept erupting since Viet Nam. But had he lost his self-identity? Before Todd, Turner kept starting the pages of a new chapter of his gay lifestyle after relationship after another ended just as the wars drug on. Whenever Turner was about to stop everything he was doing, Todd had reminded Turner he was turning the pages of his life much too fast. His partner taught him to look a little deeper, even laugh at what he couldn’t control.

Over coffee in the morning, Turner agreed to put on the shoes and socks and walk in the garden when he started complaining, wanting to start his life from the beginning again. He remembered when Todd helped him plant the garden, the symbolic reminder of their initial attraction.

Stepping over a rickety bridge, Turner stopped and gazed in the deep blue hue of the pond’s water, the pattern of ominous stratus clouds reflecting the eclipsed sun on the surface. Suddenly, he saw the brilliance of the sun’s image. His life’s journey became clear again. Objecting to too many wars, emerging since Viet Nam, and dedicating his work for improving life, he decided to tend to the garden, bringing its aging appearance more reverence. After all, Todd had given him the love he never counted on when he started his journey many years ago.

Clark stopped turning the pages, content with his life with Todd as their lives merged into one, the process of peace and their fulfilling love. He leaned over, pulled a weed, and sighed.

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Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike

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Pablo Michael's Week 106: Teddy, for the Summer

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Pablo Michael’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Teddy, for the Summer

The dazzling display of the city lights sent waves of heat, tingling in Ted’s skin through his clothes, manifesting the familiar beads of sweat dripping from his forehead down his cheeks to his neck. He remembered those hot summer nights when steam radiated from the streets, the hookers fanning their breasts and the hustlers exposing their shirtless chests, all of them pawning their bodies, never to get ahead in life.

It had been ten years since Ted left to reside in a one bedroom cabin in the Trinity Alps of Northern California, far from the civilized city he had grown to hate. But his lifelong friend, Arnie, had shown his poetry and plays to a publisher friend. Arnie begged Ted to return to sign a pre-arranged contract. Ted was weary and cautious about Arnie’s maneuvers. He knew once he saw him again, his name Ted would become Teddy again, a name derived from the group of friends who were aspiring to succeed in the fast track of fame and wouldn’t accept failure. He associated with many of these people before that fatal night during the Renaissance Celebration. He had blocked those times from his memory while he lived in California but it was back to haunt him and raise the fears he was unable to conquer.

As the taxi drove closer to Arnie’s apartment, Teddy rolled down the window, inhaling the alluring hormonal scents of the women and men, attracting their customers at any price. He almost asked the cab driver to turn around and return to the airport. But no. He had to face his past. He had to rise above the temptations he fell to ten years before when Jessie couldn’t handle this crazy life anymore. He owed that much to him and Jessica, his twin sister. After all, everything he wrote elevated Jessie to a Saint, and not to be forgotten. Jessica had fled to Southern California, attempting to resurrect her former life before Jessie and she came to New York. Teddy hadn’t spoken to her since.

He wiped the perspiration from his brow, swallowing his pride and whispering above the sounds of the streets rushing in through the window, “I have to remember my name is Teddy again. And not Ted, the quiet recluse man, surviving from the proceeds of a marijuana tract in the dense forests of Northern California.” No one back in the Trinity Alps had knowledge he wrote poetry and plays to maintain his sanity. “Maybe this is all a mistake. I probably shouldn’t have sent those drafts to Arnie for his editorial remarks. But, what the hell! What is done is done. I’m Teddy for the duration of summer. I hope Jessie will forgive me. Did Arnie contact Jessica? Does she still blame me? I wouldn’t know what to say to her.”

The taxi pulled up in front of the familiar brownstone apartment building. Teddy paid the cabbie. Stepping onto the curb with his suitcase, a rush of chills rippled through his body. He wasn’t sure if it was from the joy of returning to familiar territory or the fear still churning inside of what he must confront.

The cab sped away as Teddy rang the buzzer, announcing his arrival to Arnie.

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Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike

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Pablo Michaels Week 102: The Séance

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Pablo Michael’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: The Séance

The contorted branches of the pistachio tree lit up like a Christmas tree in October with its leaves crimson, drooping down with the weight of bright blinding lights, illuminating the small tables and chairs and fallen leaves on the ground around. F. Scott had read the note in the book with the Admiral butterfly sketched in the middle binding between the blank pages, left behind from his childhood friend, Amanda. He had found the book buried in a box of memoirs.

Many years before, Amanda had told him his salvation lie in the message she inscribed in the beginning pages. “If and when you reach an age where you have lost all who you hold true and meaningful and have not found the voice for your words, string this young pistachio tree with as many lights as possible. Set small tables with accompanying chairs to seat those you wish to communicate to and resolve the problems that kept you from them. Call a séance beneath this wise tree that has seen you grow through the years but left you empty. I promise you’ll connect with your past friends, bringing you the spirits to write about the vacuum between you and them but then blossom like the man you have always been, feeling whole with them as it has always been.”

F. Scott sat at a table at the periphery of the tree, blinded by the radiating light and movement in the surroundings. Disfigured shadows of mene and women appeared in the chairs around all the tables, waiting for F. Scott to welcome them to his summons. He did not notice their appearance but felt the movement of ground beneath him and heard the leaves flutter in an angry gust of wind. The lights fluttered off as thousands of admiral butterflies swirled in the air to create the priceless moment F. Scott beheld.

He spoke the memorized words Amanda had inscribed. “I call on the mystical winds and earthly spirits as summoned by Amanda. I have reached the ancient age where I can no longer return to my youthful persona. I’m so old, having lost all those who I loved; I can’t attract anyone to even humor me with my despair. Show your powerful presence and guide me from this withered age of reasoning of lost love to those I can’t hold close anymore.” F. Scott opened his eyes and gazed on the Pistachio tree, waiting for a celestial sign from his offerings. He hoped he was heard.

A rush of wind blew, shaking the branches and the lights on the tree until a flickering of sparkles danced randomly around F. Scott until the wind calmed. Darkness settled, but the chatter of voices hummed, prolonging the night for the séance when F. Scott reunited with those seated in chairs around the small tables.

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Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike

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Pablo Michael Week 100: Sorting Through My Voyages

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Pablo Michael’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Sorting Through My Voyages

Sorting through my photographs captured from my college days, I am distraught by my lonely life. I lay flat on my back, staring at one picture taken when my partner at that time, Efrem, and I had a rendezvous with Jarrod and Sam, two male lovers who were friends of my partner, introduced through their professions. Jarrod and Sam lived on their small yacht docked in Morro Bay. We had driven down the coast to stay on their boat on a hot weekend in early May. As a college student, I was naïve to sailing on the ocean, but my partner accepted a weekend of sailing on the Pacific Ocean. I should have known I would be overwhelmed with their lifestyle, living on a boat, romantically spending their lives sailing, fishing and making love above the sometimes treacherous waters. They related stories when the ocean’s turbulence became so rough their vessel barely remained afloat.

When we arrived on Friday morning, Morro Bay shimmered like sheen of mirrored glass, brown Pelicans flying horizontally above. After I was introduced and our luggage stored below, we set sail over the calm, blue ocean. Jarrod and Sam, already wearing swim trunks, advised Efrem and me to go below to change into our swimsuits so we could enjoy the sun as we sailed north to the pier at Hearst Castle, where we would have lunch.

When we departed Morro Bay, Jarrod and Sam hoisted all the sails for the light breeze. I was amazed how fast the boat sailed over the low ebb of waves. But when we passed Port San Luis, the wind picked up speed. Two sails were lowered leaving one to speed the way to our destination. I was standing on the deck a short distance from the mast when a strong gale hit the lone sail and tipped the boat into a spin. I fell flat on my ass, cushioned only by my brief, nylon bikini Speedo. I looked up at the other guys when a wave surged over, washing Efrem next to me, both of us clutching the mast with all our strength. Jarrod steered the rudder while Sam attempted to control the steering wheel. With my back pinned to the deck, I felt the surge of a rogue wave and its accompanying ocean spray sweep over me. Jarrod, Sam, and Efrem laughed at my debacle because my Speedo clung to my ankles. The force of the wave swashing the deck had also lowered Jarrod’s and Sam’s baggy trunks past their thighs, revealing their masculine manhood. Efren’s swimsuit remained intact.

That photograph brought back pleasant memories, even though I was aware Efrem was studying their gay relationship as well as me, but I was more interested in the adventure of this weekend away from the urban metropolis where I resided, than worrying about his perceptions.

That night, our sleeping quarters were too close but for me to listen and envy the sounds outside our room when I went through the motions of sex with Efrem when he pounced on me. I heard the love machine across the galley where Jarrod and Sam were fucking just like us. I craved the romantic feast sizzling between Jarrod and Sam when I heard their moans and sighs. Hungering for them, I decided at that moment to leave Efrem behind to assimilate the statistics for his psychological research of gay men. I wanted no part of his study but only the romantic life Jarrod and Sam led.

Staring at the picture again, I realized this yacht ventured for different destinations that weekend while we explored the Pacific Coastline near Morro Bay. Jarrod and Sam sailed on a voyage of love bound by their carefree existence on the ocean. Efrem traveled through people to propel his psychological career. And I embarked on journeys in search of romantic adventures with other men.

I set the photograph down while thumbing through various pictures from the same era. Memories of past lovers drifted by, some pleasant to remember, others painful. I picked up another photograph of a landscape scene, I kept to remind me of a fantasy retreat, where I had hoped to live in my later years. When I decided to construct my life at a young age of eighteen, I created a place in my dreams, similar to this scene. Staring intently and scrutinizing the landscape, I barely visualize a cabin, where I planned to write stories from my life’s experiences. The mirage causes me to ask questions about the path of life I chose to walk with the various partners I loved. I see the rustic cabin where I would sit, writing about love. The setting doesn’t seem as appealing as when I was young. My soul is tarnished by disconnected communication of too many beautiful men who had passed, having shallow dreams. I didn’t want to venture into this solitude. What had I accomplished; who had I loved; and who had tried to love me? Understanding I never found this retreat during the many years of my voyages, I set the photograph down with the rest. Efrem probably wrote my epitaph. It’s best to leave this final image for my final resting place while I still have time to live like Jarrod and Sam.

I close the album of photographs from my past, yearning to know more about the love shared between Jarrod and Sam. I listened to voices beckoning me. “Kiss me once, I might kiss you back. Kiss me twice; that might be a start. Kiss me thrice, who knows what the outcome will be. You were not a subject to be studied but only a man seeking a rendezvous with love and adventure like you did with us when we sailed on the yacht. Thrill seeker- yes. Voyeur yes, until you can find a better man to love.”

I decide to live another day. What dream should I pursue tonight? My photo album had the answer, even in my senior years. Love is available, if I look.

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Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike

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Pablo Michaels Week 97: Howie’s Requiem

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Pablo Michael’s Picture Choice:

Title: Howie’s Requiem

Trixie loved coming to the field of wild onions after the lavender flowers had faded to white frilly clusters of seeds. She danced in her black tutu petticoat and red, silk blouse hanging flimsily on her slight, gaunt frame. She’d pick a stem of the sprays one at a time until her hand held a full bouquet. Touching each opened capsule tenderly, like a lover she wanted but never had in her former life, she inhaled a deep breath and blew, watching the fluffy clusters scatter in a cloud of fairies with the gentle breeze. Trixie looked at the tiny clusters of seeds on the stems, comparing them to dandelions, like Howie used to blow and watch fly away in a cloud of magic dust. Howie’s father scolded him. “Howie, don’t play with those dandelions, like a sissie. You’re supposed to pick them so the seeds don’t start new weeds. Go play with the other boys.” Howie’s father prized his lawn more than his idle son. Howie’s sarcasm was born the same day Trixie appeared for the first time.

Howie wanted to be like Trixie, dreaming of her constantly. They talked to each other constantly, speaking the sarcastic dialect they understood was born in their souls.

A few years later, when Howie bought the T-shirt, best describing his personality he voiced to the entire world, sarcasm became the repo ire fluently spoken to everyone they knew. That’s when Howie had the idea to make his best friend, Trixie, the happiest woman, not a Tomboy anymore. He bought her the black tutu, the red blouse and an airline ticket to Thailand, informing her when she became the ultimate woman of her dreams to lay out his t-shirt, his pair of jean cut-offs, the pair of black high-top tennis shoes and the Lifeline Health Monitor, he salvaged from his understanding grandmother’s funeral, on a sheet in the wild onion meadow and celebrate.

Years later, Trixie spread the sheet in the wild onion meadow placing the clothes and monitor on it. She then took the clusters of seed pods in her hands and blew them over the memory of Howie’s life. Howie was dead. Trixie thanked him for sacrificing his life so she could be the woman she always dreamed. Without him Trixie never would have survived for her last operation in Thailand. She graciously bowed to Howie’s remains and rejoiced for their mutual happiness sarcastically. ”Stop playing with those dandelions, Howie. I told you to pull those damn weeds, you, sissie.”

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Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike

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Pablo Michaels Week 96: Jamison’s Cottage

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Pablo Michaels Week 94: Spring Solstice

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Pablo Michael’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Spring Solstice

I returned to the family acreage I once called home during the billowing bubble of construction defined by the prosperous economic times. I gazed on the newly planted corn fields, the seedlings light green almost chartreuse. I had been summoned by my sister to sign the appropriate papers to the last plot of our farm, previously held in trust. It was to be sold to a developer of exclusive custom built homes. She wanted money not memories from our youth. I on the other hand regretted this sale. Too many secret stories occurred in my formative years; the seed sown here, the origins of my dreams. Today when I relate my tales, people question whether they are fact or fiction. My family and few friends when I was growing up chose to think I was lost in a den of self-indulgence hogwash.

It was too appropriate the papers were to be signed in April, the month my stories began to germinate, like my fantasies with our new hired farm hand, Jamison. He was hired early in the season as extra help when my parents underestimated the demand for corn from the market. My father couldn’t rely on his less than physically athletic son working before and after school and weekends to get the crop in. My dad still refused to teach me how to drive the tractor, citing my clumsiness and immaturity, compared to the other fourteen–year-old boys my own age adept at operating farm equipment. Hiring Jamison as a year-round handyman was his solution to my incompetence and increasing the farm profits, but the new help also spawned my enthusiasm in life for the first time.

I walked towards our deserted house. From a distance it was not in shambles yet but looked more like a house from a different era. I heard chimes blowing in the breeze. Could they be the chimes I coveted until I left? I ran closer to find out. Yes. There they swayed in symphonic motion to the spring breeze. I counted and inspected every set. Some were missing the pendulums or individual pipes but all twenty-one sets reflected the growing sunlight of the longer days. Every time I bought a new one, Jamison helped me hang them. My disgruntled parents hated hearing the sound they made late at night. I received countless complaints from my older sister, Elena, too. But Jamison thought they were cool. So I started hanging out with my father and him when they did the chores, even helping for a change when Jamison asked.

Describing Jamison through the eyes of a fourteen-year-old boy is not easy when it’s your own emotionally full-charged eyes. He looked like he was ten years younger than my dad at age forty, absent the potato sack belly from eating too well or indulging in beers after a hard physical day of work. Straight, sun-bleached auburn hair, long enough in length and powder-puff fineness to rise from a lift in the wind. Bronze skin, slightly textured from the elements. Light green eyes the color of new leaves on the black oak tree, shading our house. I relished in the clothes he wore, tight 401 Levis, his crotch neatly defined against his inner left muscle toned thigh, his butt perfectly billowing two firm half-moons. He wore his blue denim work shirts opened three buttons from his neck, displaying a small patch of dark curly hair. The manner in which he walked and his posture did not fit his status at all. He walked and behaved like a gentleman or a prince to my mother, Elena and my dad. Only to me did he reveal a part of his mystique, a sixth sense intuitively building in me but not fully developed at the age I was. But more than his physical appearance was how he noticed me whether he was supposed to or not when my parents weren’t around. It was something in his glance, the likes of which I live and love by now.

Every year, after the last acreage had been sown with seed and when Spring Solstice had arrived, our family celebrated this event, taking Elena and me to our favorite place for a celebration. The first year Jamison joined us, he crafted a white daisy garland to adorn Elena’s soft auburn hair and a kite for me of near rainbow spectrum. While Jamison placated Elena’s adulation, I flew the kite in the meadow, my fantasies soaring in the sky when the wind carried it to lofty heights. I wished I was as tall, handsome and charismatic, like Jamison gliding high above the valley where we lived, free to travel from ocean to ocean, like in the stories he often detailed.

I safely preserved the kite to fly for each Solstice for the next four years. When I turned eighteen I asked Jamison a question I thought simple. “I always thought the colors of the kite represented the colors of the rainbow until this year. But it’s missing purple. Why is that color not there?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Jamison spoke, a playful tone in his voice. “Purple is a special color to be revered with admiration and treasured by only a select few. Many people think this color is one of confusion and mystery, or you could say god. But there is also a meaning originating in the chakras color scheme. Purple is your personal oneness with the universe, wisdom. I have known some men like me who live and die to protect purple as the color that flows in their blood, guiding them in pursuits to love and be loved. I left that color out specifically with you in mind. Because I saw you had purple blooming in you when I first arrived. Now that you’ve arrived at an age of physical maturity, you might be able to comprehend that color was flying with your kite since you were fourteen.”

Elena interrupted, begging Jamison’s attention.

He started walking back to the grove of trees where Elena waited. “And that is one reason why you fly a rainbow kite.” He left to placate Elena’s amorous crush, leaving me unhinged with more questions needing answers than he had time for that day.

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Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike

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Pablo Michaels Week 90: Spring Break

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Pablo Michael’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Spring Break

It was 10:30 pm., Friday night on Spring Break at the Boardwalk. I was waiting for a prearranged date with Sam. It had been twenty years ago since we met Jane here. We were only sixteen but managed to fool our parents, staying the entire weekend at the Hotel, nearby, instead of a school sponsored retreat.

Jane, the supposed person of our wooing, had nicknamed Sam, Sammie, and me, Chucky. Jane's affection seesawed back and forth between us. Vying to win her attention, Sammie challenged me for the final tally of points to win free parasailing for two on the beach. Even though I was more adept in Skeeball, Sammie had outscored me by 300 points in all the other games. I suspected he didn't even try with this last game, allowing me to win by 400 points. I gave the grand prize, a giant panda bear, to Jane who was less than thrilled. She grabbed my gift and ran down toward the beach where it was quite dark and deserted, Sammie and I chasing her as she ran into the cold ocean water. I thought Sammie had won her favor when she lost her footing from a large approaching wave and fell. Sammie rescued her as I attempted to retrieve the soaked stuffed animal. Shivering from our drenched clothes, we propped the heavy Panda bear against the arcade stairs and rushed to our hotel rooms.

Jane retired to the adjacent room Sammie and I shared, hinting she must rest for sunning on the beach the next day but winking at Sammie before shutting her door. I was not surprised to find his bed empty when I came out of the bathroom to go to bed. He obviously was with Jane.

I woke around four a.m. to a knock from the adjoining door. Jane was surprised then worried when Sammie was not in our room. I listened to her account of their attempt to make love and Sammie’s failure to perform.

That happened three hours earlier when Sammie fled her room.

Although we asked the concierge if he paid for another room, he had disappeared. Jane and I searched the boardwalk, the rest of the weekend, only relying on a platonic bond to salvage our vacation without Sammie.

After Spring Break when we returned to school, Sammie explained his flight, only as needing his space. Jane and I remained, only, platonic friends while Sammie disengaged his ties to us, concentrating on his studies.

After twenty years I was surprised by Sammie’s request to meet him at the Boardwalk. He booked our rooms at the same hotel, prompting me to meet him at the Skeeball concession at eleven at night. I accepted, desiring to see the kid I always had a secret crush for all those years. I wondered if he was gay like me.

Exactly at the arranged time, two hands from behind covered my eyes. “Are you up for a different kind of date this time?” he asked. “But I won’t let you win Skeeball this time.”

I turned around. A more than average attractive man, who had challenged me, showered me with a sensual grin.

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Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike

#DailyPicspiration