Tuesday, August 21, 2012

The Question Game, Chapter Two - Five

This entire short story is available on the Goodreads M/M Group (I can help you find it, whether or not you're already on Goodreads) . . . or you can read it bit by bit here. Keep in mind, this is my first PUBLISHED work, so give it love. Let me know what you think good, bad, but hopefully not too ugly. Because I value every opinion who takes the time to read my writing. . . Thanks in advance, and hope you enjoy . . .

PS The story is also available in EPUB, if you want it that way, let me know !!

CHAPTER 2. It Only Takes a Couple Seconds and A Commitment

     The apartment was a wreck. Empty pizza boxes and bottles of 'chick beer' were all over the floor. A pile of unopened mail lay on the table next to the door. And on top, the only opened envelope was the invitation to Zach and Ann's wedding six months away—another reminder that he was all alone, again.

     Juan Martinez sat wrapping and unwrapping the black leather belt around his knuckles, praying that God would give him the strength to do what he felt he needed to do. Diary of a Mad Black Woman played in the background, just something he put on whenever he wanted noise or comfort. This had been their movie. They had watched it so many times they had to buy a new copy of it.

     So, why had he left this DVD? Juan wondered. In the six years they had been together, Phillip never forgot anything (which was part of the problem). When he moved out and took all his stuff, including the piano Juan had bought for him for their second anniversary, why had he left this DVD? At first, Juan thought that maybe he had forgotten the DVDs, but he had taken Waiting to Exhale and Beethoven, his two other favorite movies.

     As Madea flashed her gun on the TV and went on another rant about Helen getting her half, tears rolled down Juan's face. He thought about the time they both dressed as Madea for Halloween and then went to a church party.

     "Haaaleluuujjjaaahh," they spent all night greeting everyone. Another tear rolled quickly down his face.

     He looked around the room and for the first time realized all the picture frames had his ex's picture torn out of them. He got up and went to the fireplace to closely examine one of the frames. Catching his own reflection, his wiry black chin stubble made him look a little scary. And dark black circles contrasted his otherwise smooth light brown Hispanic skin. He looked like he hadn't sleep for weeks, which was not far from the truth.

     He looked at the other frames and saw that every picture was torn this way. He should have been grateful that he didn't have to look at that face again, but instead he grew angrier and more sad. He felt as if he had been deserted. Juan looked over the letter Phillip had left, a list of the things that were wrong with Juan and their relationship.

     The letter reminded him of the speech his father had given him when he left home. About God not approving of his homosexualité and until he repented, God was not there for him. Juan had tried and tried to reconnect with his beliefs, but every time he tried, his father's words used a bullhorn to repeat them in his head. His father had listed all the things that were wrong with Juan and all the ways he needed to improve before God would even consider taking him back. And this list, like the list Phillip left, was overwhelming and compiled to defeat. Juan felt exhausted.

     After six years of doing everything together as one being, Juan didn't feel that he could be alone. Worse than that, he was afraid of trying. That is why he decided on the belt. Good, thick leather, long enough to get the job done. He hated the way he was leaving things; that he hadn't said "I love you" to his friends the last time he had seen them. And he couldn't call them up out of the blue; they would know something was up.

    So he left a note on the computer screen that said simply, "Thank you, my friends. I love you a lot. Please be strong."

     Better to do it now, quick and simple. Just a little commitment, a high set beam, a chair, and a belt. Tears rolled down as he stepped up onto the chair and threw the belt over the beam. Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed his phone was vibrating. As it continued to vibrate in his pocket his mind wandered and he began to ask himself, What if this is God calling me? He toyed with the idea of not answering it. But he didn't want to take the chance. He pulled it out of his pocket and flipped it open without checking the caller id.

     "Help." It sounded like Jonathan, but very shaky.

     "Jonny? Is that you? Are you okay?" Juan asked concerned as he stepped down from the chair. "Is Ian okay?"

     "Please come quick. Ian . . . His ankle . . . I'm scared . . . He keeps screaming. . ." Jonathan said very quickly.

     "I'll be right there." Juan said, as he hung up the phone, grabbed his jacket, and started to rush out the door. He glanced back and thought, I'll be back to finish this.

CHAPTER 3: A Threesome Uncoupled
     "Does the amount of semen a partner produces matter to you?"

     This was the question that greeted Yerza Xanakus as he entered the bar.

     His jaw dropped. It wasn't the question, or the company. It was the fact that they were out in public, in a straight bar, crowded with people. Several of which looked like they were ready to lynch "some faggots." Yerza looked at the faces in the group: his boyfriend of less than three weeks, Phillip Cassidy; his quiet best friend, Ann Nichols; his friend, Santos Ferris; his best fag hag, Deanna Polito, and two other guys Yerza didn't know.

     "Are you crazy, Santos?" Yerza asked, still not believing that he had asked that so loudly and in public, with his boyfriend sitting beside him, and who knows who was listening. Yerza was not conservative by any stretch of the imagination. In fact with his full beard built body and flannel shirt he either got confused for a hippie or a lumberjack. Regardless, this is not the kind of stuff he was used to discussing in public, and definitely not in a straight bar. Santos on the other hand sported his usual style of unkempt. It looked as though his hair hadn't been washed in a week, he reeked of patchouli and his clothes appeared to have been dug out of the hamper. And there was very little that embarrassed him.

     Deanna, despite her tight bun of hair and her Armani dress, was never one to back down from a raunchy conversation. She glanced at Yerza, and said, "Oh Phillip. . ." then asked the question again. Phillip sat there, shifting his wide eye stare between Deanna, Yerza, and Santos. In the dead center of the group, he sat quietly looking uncomfortable in his starched white shirt and corporate khakis. Before he could open his mouth to say anything, Santos answered, loud and proud.

     "I like explosions, volcanoes of jizz all over the place! Sex is supposed to be crazy! Sex is sex. It's not called a fucking public library reading session." With each word he spoke, he seemed to get louder. As he finished, he snorted and then sipped on his fruity drink, and pushed his greasy black hair back, so it didn't cover his eyes.

      Within a few minutes and a few questions, the area that they were in seemed to clear out, except for the three girls giggling in the corner who were listening to their every word, and the man at the table that was busy scribbling as Deanna and Santos asked more questions.

     "During sex, how do you want to be talked to?" Deanna asked.


     "Oh, fuck me harder," Yerza growled as Phillip took him from behind. As their flesh hit, and reverberated off the walls, both of them moaned louder. Phillip reached around and grabbed Yerza's nipples, twisting them softly.

     "You want me, baby? You want me to fuck you harder?" Phillip asked.

     "Oh, yeah, fuck. Yeah." Yerza said as he lowered his head into the couch cushion. He pushed as Phillip moved slightly and hit his prostate even harder. "Fuck me harder!" he shouted.

     And for a few moments, their grunts and moans began a crescendo in the air once again.

     "Guys, hurry up. You're killing my sleep here. I got. . ." Matt rubbed his head, and glanced at the clock, 4 a.m., "less than four hours here. And I've got tux fittings in the morning. Can you guys cum already and shut the hell up?" He covered his head once again with the pillow.

     Phillip glanced up from the couch and turned to the right. This was the first time he had noticed that the apartment had virtually no dividing walls and that the room Matt was in had a doorframe, but no door. There was not even a curtain dividing the two rooms.

     Yerza, used to Matt's complaining kept his rhythm and worked for his orgasm. Phillip, however, in frustration, pulled out and flopped down on the couch. Yerza pulled the condom off his partner's dick and started giving him a blow job. "Yerz, stop, dude. It's over." Phillip said, flat-lining his voice, letting Yerza know, for his part it was indeed over. As Yerza sat down beside him, he continued to masturbate.

     "Can I get some alone time with you?" Phillip asked, as he glanced at Matt, unsure of whether or not the douche could hear him. "I mean I know that we've only been dating four weeks. . ."

     "Three weeks." Yerza corrected, softly.

     ". . . And I don't have the right to ask this, but how the hell do you ever masturbate? In private, I mean, because this is the third time this week, he's interrupted us and cock blocked."

     "I know. But I'm not shy. I don't care if he's listening or even watching. When I need to blow, I blow. Regardless." Yerza said as he continued pulling the foreskin up and over the head of his shaft, and then pushing it back down.

     "I can't do that. So, I guess . . . ." Phillip said, feeling around on the floor for his pants and underwear. "I guess, call me when you're alone. And he won't be home for a while." He said as he pulled his pants up and reached for his keys. He stopped by the door and slipped on his shoes.

     "Good night," Matt called from the bedroom.

     As Phillip opened the door, he was nearly run over by two men moving a couch.

     "What the fuck?!?" Yerza exclaimed as he slipped into his boxer briefs, and headed for the door. "Matt, something's up at Juan's place. They're moving out furniture." He shouted as he exited, and Matt jumped out of bed.  
CHAPTER 4. Come Forth, My Son

     Shortly after his parents had shown up unexpectedly and discovered his suicide attempt, Juan was forcibly moved out of his apartment back into his childhood home. And of course because of his father's beliefs he was forced to attend church "to revive his injured relationship with God."

     Juan entered the confessional and knelt as he crossed himself. "Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. It has been two years since my last confession."

     "Begin your confession," the priest said.

     "Are you familiar with Humpty Dumpty, Father?"

     "I beg your pardon," he said.

     "Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Humpty together again."

     Nothing. Silence from the other side of the confessional.

     "My father is my Humpty Dumpty. He is the one who is broken and then decided to break me." Juan sat silently, and tapped his fingers on the screen dividing them, trying to figure out what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it. As the tears rolled down his cheeks, he quickly wiped them away.

     "My son, what is it you wish to confess?" The priest prodded, uncomfortably tugging at his collar as the heat on his side of the confessional reached intolerable.

     "At the age of 14, my father sat me down and asked me which girls I had a crush on. In my memory, I listed half the girls in my class, while my father sat across from me scribbling down names. The next day, he contacted the parents of every one of those girls, and while I only heard rumors of what was said, he had begged every one of those girls to go on a date with me, and try to prove that I was not a . . . homosexual.

     "Every girl had said no. Why had they said no? Because in home economics class I had sewn better, or cooked better, or something better, and they were jealous. Jealous because most girls were afraid at the age of 14, that I, Juan Martinez, was a better girl than they were. My dad beat me that night, and told me to enroll in Shop from now on. No more theatre, or choir, because these things were making me more . . . homosexual.

     "It never occurred to him that it was something deeper, and that as much as he didn't want a queer son, I didn't want to be a faggot. I didn't want to get my books kicked around. I didn't want to be tortured every day in gym. I didn't want to want boys. I just did. And I fought admitting that. And when Santos kissed me in the bushes, I punched him in the nose. And after Jonathan jacked me off, I refused to talk to him for months. And after I had sex for the first time, I was convinced I was going straight to Hell for all eternity. I kicked my boyfriend out and spent two weeks studying the Bible, and refusing to leave my apartment. I don't want to just go messing around with anyone. I don't want something casual, I want something real. And for that, I am a sinner. I will die and go to Hell because I want love. I want to be in love and I want to find someone who loves me. And even bigger than that, I want to show love. I want to find a way to make a difference. Is it wrong for me to want some love and to want to make a difference?"

     Juan pulled his knees to his chest and sat rocking. "What I don't get is why? Why is it a sin to love? To find ways to enjoy our body that feels natural and good? I don't understand a God who gives us so much freedom, and then says if we use it, we're going to Hell. Can you explain that, Father?"

     "No. . ." The priest said slowly, and then continued as if in a trance as he spoke, "but my question to you, Juan, is this . . . Who told you, you were wrong to want love? Who showed you scriptures in accordance with that? The bible is a weapon; it is a sword that is mighty. But many wield it incorrectly. They use it to justify their hatred, not to prove their love. They use it to make themselves a Pharisee, not to humble themselves as well. You were created divinely as YOU. And when judgment comes, I believe, showing love, true love, will stand supreme. Until then, suffer as a warrior of the true God. True to your beliefs, and your study of the Scripture."

     As the Father spoke, Juan felt himself filled with hope and light. The Father finished the confession, giving his final words of Love, and as he left the confessional, Juan sat there grateful for once that he had listened to his parents and gone to church .   

CHAPTER 5. The Fifth Anniversary

     "I want to brake up." That was all the e-mail said. Dr. Bradley Harbuck looked at his computer again, shaking his head in disbelief. After five years strong, this was how his lover, Jean Paul, ended their relationship, a misspelled sentence. And Bradley crumpled into his chair. He looked around the hotel room he had rented for the night. With the chartered airplane for the night, the champagne chilling in ice, and the rose petals on the bed, he had spent more money and planning than he cared to think about on this evening, only to receive a misspelled e-mail informing him of the demise of his marriage.

     "Don't I deserve more than this?" He asked out loud to the air wafting around the room. He stepped out onto the balcony and looked below. As the cars streamed by twenty floors down, he thought ever so briefly about jumping, but he could never do that. He loved his life.

     He continued to look down and found himself lost in a memory of him and Jean Paul.

     He had been staying in the exact same hotel and had called for room service. It was getting late, and he was a bit hungry. Not feeling like going out, he ordered in. And when room service arrived, Jean Paul entered his room, and Bradley's heart stopped. Okay, maybe it didn't stop. But for the first time in a long time, Bradley was definitively hard in all the right places. Jean Paul put the tray down on the table, and asked if there was anything else Bradley needed. Bradley responded "That sounds like a line from a really bad porno."

     Both men were eyeing each other, waiting for the other to make the first move.

     Jean Paul headed toward the door, stating that "Company policies prohibit any kind of relationship with a guest staying at the property."

     Bradley replied, "That doesn't stop the two of us from fucking in the shower until the water turns cold."

     Then not caring about policy, they not only felt the water get cold but warmed the sheets up as well. But by the time they finished, they both realized they wanted more than just a fuck. Bradley checked out the next morning, and got a room across the street, so there was no fear, for either of them.

     Within a week, Bradley was in love, and Jean Paul saw a way out of Paris, where he had lived all his life. Since Bradley was already a U.S. citizen he helped Jean Paul get his residency and they had been together ever since.

     "I want to brake up." Laying on the desk next to the computer was the brand new five-hundred-dollar phone that Jean Paul had wanted. Bradley had bought it as an anniversary present for him, and had just gotten the service switched over, so Jean Paul could use it immediately. The phone began to vibrate, a new text had come in.

     Bradley picked up the phone and read "Broken up with the bf yet? Get over here soon and fuck me!" Bradley's hand shook as he dialed the number.

     "Hello. Hello. Didya meanta call me? Whatever." The guy on the other end of the phone snorted and hung up. Bradley recognized the voice immediately, as he realized he had been played for months. Bradley glanced down, after pacing the room and ending on the balcony. He still had the phone in his hand. He held it over the balcony, over the traffic gathering below, and watched it drop into street, only wishing he could do the same with Jean Paul.

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