Love is a Many-Gendered Thing
Gay love is no longer �the love that dare not speak its name� and from the Vatican to Malta to lands Downunder twinks are falling for daddies, middle aged men are explaining the intricacies of the emotion to toy dinosaurs, men are pining for their schoolboy heroes, and straight men are discovering their gay side while strapped in a sling in a dungeon. Here are eleven hot, horny and sometimes humorous stories exploring the variety that is gay romance.
Excerpt:
He stood under the shower at the Seaspray Surf and Lifesaving Club, just north of Sydney. And he really was beautiful. The refracted sunlight through the beer glass tiles added to the luster of his tan. His impossibly perfect torso was caressed by the cascading water, his hair limp and dark over his softly chiseled face. He had a nipple ring that looked comfortably at home on his luscious chest, and a dragon tattoo that hugged his back like a proprietorial lover. But my attention was attracted by his muscular hand pumping his slim, tanned cock with such force the veins stood out on his forearms.
Without glancing my way, he knew I was watching. He was performing for me, so I felt like holding up a placard with a bold 10 on it like they do at diving competitions. Instead, I just said, �Put it away, son. I know who you are.�
He glanced over through his mop of straggly hair matted with sun and saltwater, uncertain whether to continue.
�You�re one of Eric Layton�s sons, aren�t you? Not sure which one but��
�Todd,� he muttered sheepishly as his cock began deflating. �You don�t like?� he asked, meaning himself.
�Oh, I like a lot,� I said and meant it. �But I�m not a complete fool.�
I was hoping to read disappointment in his features, but if it was there, I missed it. �Why don�t you dry off and I�ll see you outside,� I said. He nodded and began to spray the salt from his body. I took one last appreciative glance and he caught me. He smiled at the compliment.
I walked down the concrete steps to the beach, seating myself among the spinifex grass fighting an interminable battle against surf and wind erosion. Truth be told it wasn�t much of a beach; a small strip of sand in a bay sheltered just a little too well by prominent headlands that enclosed it like almond crescents, my favorite kind of shortbread when I was a kid.
It was from this vantage point, physical and emotional, that I had first seen him: a lone surfer out in the distance waiting for unenthusiastic waves. It was mid-week, so he was bound to be a local.
Seaspray was named after an old wooden sailing boat that plied the east coast until it ran aground. The town had sprung up near where it sank. Seaspray came alive, and then only marginally, on weekends when knowing city folk made the trek north from Sydney to the sylvan unspoiled village of clustered weatherboard cottages that had lain dormant and largely undiscovered for most of its existence. It would be size-queen talk to call it a town. Created in the nineteenth century as a fishing village, it supported a few dozen families until the fish, and consequently the accompanying industry, departed almost two decades since. Those few denizens who remained drove the thirty kilometers to the nearest major town, sometimes farther, each day for employment.
The reason for Seaspray�s somnambulant existence was that it lay off the freeway between Sydney and Newcastle, a few meandering miles from the turn-off signposted on rotting wood and rusting tin. The roadway was uninvitingly asphalt-free, its verges overgrown with the prickly blackberries that thrived in the area, and which the secretive locals did nothing to cut back. Itinerant surfers normally bypassed it for beaches farther north with waves less lazy, leaving Seaspray�s beach to families and hobby surfers whose daring amounted to little more than actually standing upright on their boards.
This influx was the town�s lifeblood. The small Seaspray Inn opened Friday night through Monday morning. If locals wanted anything mid week, they knocked. And the village would have remained this way had it not been for the invasion of the rowdy, the patronizing and the nouveau riche looking for a trendy real estate investment and somewhere cozy. It was a convenient drive from the city. The villagers were suddenly alive to possibilities; those at least who still needed to earn a living. The retirees and the old-timers sided with the environmentalists to petition the government to list Seaspray as a natural treasure to save its heritage from the development bogey.
It was my job to recommend to that government whether development should be permitted or refused.
1117678350
Gay love is no longer �the love that dare not speak its name� and from the Vatican to Malta to lands Downunder twinks are falling for daddies, middle aged men are explaining the intricacies of the emotion to toy dinosaurs, men are pining for their schoolboy heroes, and straight men are discovering their gay side while strapped in a sling in a dungeon. Here are eleven hot, horny and sometimes humorous stories exploring the variety that is gay romance.
Excerpt:
He stood under the shower at the Seaspray Surf and Lifesaving Club, just north of Sydney. And he really was beautiful. The refracted sunlight through the beer glass tiles added to the luster of his tan. His impossibly perfect torso was caressed by the cascading water, his hair limp and dark over his softly chiseled face. He had a nipple ring that looked comfortably at home on his luscious chest, and a dragon tattoo that hugged his back like a proprietorial lover. But my attention was attracted by his muscular hand pumping his slim, tanned cock with such force the veins stood out on his forearms.
Without glancing my way, he knew I was watching. He was performing for me, so I felt like holding up a placard with a bold 10 on it like they do at diving competitions. Instead, I just said, �Put it away, son. I know who you are.�
He glanced over through his mop of straggly hair matted with sun and saltwater, uncertain whether to continue.
�You�re one of Eric Layton�s sons, aren�t you? Not sure which one but��
�Todd,� he muttered sheepishly as his cock began deflating. �You don�t like?� he asked, meaning himself.
�Oh, I like a lot,� I said and meant it. �But I�m not a complete fool.�
I was hoping to read disappointment in his features, but if it was there, I missed it. �Why don�t you dry off and I�ll see you outside,� I said. He nodded and began to spray the salt from his body. I took one last appreciative glance and he caught me. He smiled at the compliment.
I walked down the concrete steps to the beach, seating myself among the spinifex grass fighting an interminable battle against surf and wind erosion. Truth be told it wasn�t much of a beach; a small strip of sand in a bay sheltered just a little too well by prominent headlands that enclosed it like almond crescents, my favorite kind of shortbread when I was a kid.
It was from this vantage point, physical and emotional, that I had first seen him: a lone surfer out in the distance waiting for unenthusiastic waves. It was mid-week, so he was bound to be a local.
Seaspray was named after an old wooden sailing boat that plied the east coast until it ran aground. The town had sprung up near where it sank. Seaspray came alive, and then only marginally, on weekends when knowing city folk made the trek north from Sydney to the sylvan unspoiled village of clustered weatherboard cottages that had lain dormant and largely undiscovered for most of its existence. It would be size-queen talk to call it a town. Created in the nineteenth century as a fishing village, it supported a few dozen families until the fish, and consequently the accompanying industry, departed almost two decades since. Those few denizens who remained drove the thirty kilometers to the nearest major town, sometimes farther, each day for employment.
The reason for Seaspray�s somnambulant existence was that it lay off the freeway between Sydney and Newcastle, a few meandering miles from the turn-off signposted on rotting wood and rusting tin. The roadway was uninvitingly asphalt-free, its verges overgrown with the prickly blackberries that thrived in the area, and which the secretive locals did nothing to cut back. Itinerant surfers normally bypassed it for beaches farther north with waves less lazy, leaving Seaspray�s beach to families and hobby surfers whose daring amounted to little more than actually standing upright on their boards.
This influx was the town�s lifeblood. The small Seaspray Inn opened Friday night through Monday morning. If locals wanted anything mid week, they knocked. And the village would have remained this way had it not been for the invasion of the rowdy, the patronizing and the nouveau riche looking for a trendy real estate investment and somewhere cozy. It was a convenient drive from the city. The villagers were suddenly alive to possibilities; those at least who still needed to earn a living. The retirees and the old-timers sided with the environmentalists to petition the government to list Seaspray as a natural treasure to save its heritage from the development bogey.
It was my job to recommend to that government whether development should be permitted or refused.
Romancing The Bone: Gay Romance Erotica
Love is a Many-Gendered Thing
Gay love is no longer �the love that dare not speak its name� and from the Vatican to Malta to lands Downunder twinks are falling for daddies, middle aged men are explaining the intricacies of the emotion to toy dinosaurs, men are pining for their schoolboy heroes, and straight men are discovering their gay side while strapped in a sling in a dungeon. Here are eleven hot, horny and sometimes humorous stories exploring the variety that is gay romance.
Excerpt:
He stood under the shower at the Seaspray Surf and Lifesaving Club, just north of Sydney. And he really was beautiful. The refracted sunlight through the beer glass tiles added to the luster of his tan. His impossibly perfect torso was caressed by the cascading water, his hair limp and dark over his softly chiseled face. He had a nipple ring that looked comfortably at home on his luscious chest, and a dragon tattoo that hugged his back like a proprietorial lover. But my attention was attracted by his muscular hand pumping his slim, tanned cock with such force the veins stood out on his forearms.
Without glancing my way, he knew I was watching. He was performing for me, so I felt like holding up a placard with a bold 10 on it like they do at diving competitions. Instead, I just said, �Put it away, son. I know who you are.�
He glanced over through his mop of straggly hair matted with sun and saltwater, uncertain whether to continue.
�You�re one of Eric Layton�s sons, aren�t you? Not sure which one but��
�Todd,� he muttered sheepishly as his cock began deflating. �You don�t like?� he asked, meaning himself.
�Oh, I like a lot,� I said and meant it. �But I�m not a complete fool.�
I was hoping to read disappointment in his features, but if it was there, I missed it. �Why don�t you dry off and I�ll see you outside,� I said. He nodded and began to spray the salt from his body. I took one last appreciative glance and he caught me. He smiled at the compliment.
I walked down the concrete steps to the beach, seating myself among the spinifex grass fighting an interminable battle against surf and wind erosion. Truth be told it wasn�t much of a beach; a small strip of sand in a bay sheltered just a little too well by prominent headlands that enclosed it like almond crescents, my favorite kind of shortbread when I was a kid.
It was from this vantage point, physical and emotional, that I had first seen him: a lone surfer out in the distance waiting for unenthusiastic waves. It was mid-week, so he was bound to be a local.
Seaspray was named after an old wooden sailing boat that plied the east coast until it ran aground. The town had sprung up near where it sank. Seaspray came alive, and then only marginally, on weekends when knowing city folk made the trek north from Sydney to the sylvan unspoiled village of clustered weatherboard cottages that had lain dormant and largely undiscovered for most of its existence. It would be size-queen talk to call it a town. Created in the nineteenth century as a fishing village, it supported a few dozen families until the fish, and consequently the accompanying industry, departed almost two decades since. Those few denizens who remained drove the thirty kilometers to the nearest major town, sometimes farther, each day for employment.
The reason for Seaspray�s somnambulant existence was that it lay off the freeway between Sydney and Newcastle, a few meandering miles from the turn-off signposted on rotting wood and rusting tin. The roadway was uninvitingly asphalt-free, its verges overgrown with the prickly blackberries that thrived in the area, and which the secretive locals did nothing to cut back. Itinerant surfers normally bypassed it for beaches farther north with waves less lazy, leaving Seaspray�s beach to families and hobby surfers whose daring amounted to little more than actually standing upright on their boards.
This influx was the town�s lifeblood. The small Seaspray Inn opened Friday night through Monday morning. If locals wanted anything mid week, they knocked. And the village would have remained this way had it not been for the invasion of the rowdy, the patronizing and the nouveau riche looking for a trendy real estate investment and somewhere cozy. It was a convenient drive from the city. The villagers were suddenly alive to possibilities; those at least who still needed to earn a living. The retirees and the old-timers sided with the environmentalists to petition the government to list Seaspray as a natural treasure to save its heritage from the development bogey.
It was my job to recommend to that government whether development should be permitted or refused.
Gay love is no longer �the love that dare not speak its name� and from the Vatican to Malta to lands Downunder twinks are falling for daddies, middle aged men are explaining the intricacies of the emotion to toy dinosaurs, men are pining for their schoolboy heroes, and straight men are discovering their gay side while strapped in a sling in a dungeon. Here are eleven hot, horny and sometimes humorous stories exploring the variety that is gay romance.
Excerpt:
He stood under the shower at the Seaspray Surf and Lifesaving Club, just north of Sydney. And he really was beautiful. The refracted sunlight through the beer glass tiles added to the luster of his tan. His impossibly perfect torso was caressed by the cascading water, his hair limp and dark over his softly chiseled face. He had a nipple ring that looked comfortably at home on his luscious chest, and a dragon tattoo that hugged his back like a proprietorial lover. But my attention was attracted by his muscular hand pumping his slim, tanned cock with such force the veins stood out on his forearms.
Without glancing my way, he knew I was watching. He was performing for me, so I felt like holding up a placard with a bold 10 on it like they do at diving competitions. Instead, I just said, �Put it away, son. I know who you are.�
He glanced over through his mop of straggly hair matted with sun and saltwater, uncertain whether to continue.
�You�re one of Eric Layton�s sons, aren�t you? Not sure which one but��
�Todd,� he muttered sheepishly as his cock began deflating. �You don�t like?� he asked, meaning himself.
�Oh, I like a lot,� I said and meant it. �But I�m not a complete fool.�
I was hoping to read disappointment in his features, but if it was there, I missed it. �Why don�t you dry off and I�ll see you outside,� I said. He nodded and began to spray the salt from his body. I took one last appreciative glance and he caught me. He smiled at the compliment.
I walked down the concrete steps to the beach, seating myself among the spinifex grass fighting an interminable battle against surf and wind erosion. Truth be told it wasn�t much of a beach; a small strip of sand in a bay sheltered just a little too well by prominent headlands that enclosed it like almond crescents, my favorite kind of shortbread when I was a kid.
It was from this vantage point, physical and emotional, that I had first seen him: a lone surfer out in the distance waiting for unenthusiastic waves. It was mid-week, so he was bound to be a local.
Seaspray was named after an old wooden sailing boat that plied the east coast until it ran aground. The town had sprung up near where it sank. Seaspray came alive, and then only marginally, on weekends when knowing city folk made the trek north from Sydney to the sylvan unspoiled village of clustered weatherboard cottages that had lain dormant and largely undiscovered for most of its existence. It would be size-queen talk to call it a town. Created in the nineteenth century as a fishing village, it supported a few dozen families until the fish, and consequently the accompanying industry, departed almost two decades since. Those few denizens who remained drove the thirty kilometers to the nearest major town, sometimes farther, each day for employment.
The reason for Seaspray�s somnambulant existence was that it lay off the freeway between Sydney and Newcastle, a few meandering miles from the turn-off signposted on rotting wood and rusting tin. The roadway was uninvitingly asphalt-free, its verges overgrown with the prickly blackberries that thrived in the area, and which the secretive locals did nothing to cut back. Itinerant surfers normally bypassed it for beaches farther north with waves less lazy, leaving Seaspray�s beach to families and hobby surfers whose daring amounted to little more than actually standing upright on their boards.
This influx was the town�s lifeblood. The small Seaspray Inn opened Friday night through Monday morning. If locals wanted anything mid week, they knocked. And the village would have remained this way had it not been for the invasion of the rowdy, the patronizing and the nouveau riche looking for a trendy real estate investment and somewhere cozy. It was a convenient drive from the city. The villagers were suddenly alive to possibilities; those at least who still needed to earn a living. The retirees and the old-timers sided with the environmentalists to petition the government to list Seaspray as a natural treasure to save its heritage from the development bogey.
It was my job to recommend to that government whether development should be permitted or refused.
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Romancing The Bone: Gay Romance Erotica
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Romancing The Bone: Gay Romance Erotica
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940149338009 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | LYDIAN PRESS |
| Publication date: | 03/23/2014 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 316 |
| File size: | 409 KB |
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