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.
Romancing The Bone was originally published by loveyoudivine Alterotica and includes - Carbon Dating, Let the Games Begin, Taking the Bait, Party Whip, Team Player, Davy Jones' Locker, Here's to You, Mr Robinson, Gay Dungeon for the Straight Boy, OMG! Santa's Got a Six-Pack, and Vlad the Impaler - All previously published as individual eBooks by loveyoudivine Alterotica. Also - Meta-Analysis of the Effects of Love on Tofu - which appeared in - Best Date Ever: True Stories That Celebrate Gay Relationships, Edited by Lawrence Schimel (Alyson, 2007)
I'm as embarrassed as hell. Normally, I wouldn't even consider appearing in public like this. Naked, except for handkerchief-sized red Speedos strung up between my ass cheeks like those Aussie lifesavers. I hope none of the neighbors is watching as I knock on the door to my best mate Robbie's house, hoping he won't answer the door. I'm praying it's his dad.
You see, I have a problem. I'm 19, pretty good looking, not an ounce of body fat on my slim, okay skinny, frame. Long, black hair, which hangs seductively across my face. My dick is average size, between 6¾"-7", depending on which porn movie is in the DVD player when you measure. My body is twink hairless except for a clump of pubic seaweed, and my ass is smooth as butter and as bubbly as a balloon.
Okay, what's the problem, you're asking? The problem is I just can't get laid. Let me rephrase that. I can't get laid by the guys I fancy. I suppose two telling points I should mention here: I'm a bit on the, shall we say, less than macho side, nothing flaming, but you'd never mistake me for Russell Crowe. Plus, I'm a top. Sure, I'd love to reciprocate, but just the idea of a cock entering my butt hole sends my body into shutdown and sphincter central locks all entrances to the building.
I had been flirting outrageously with Mr. Wardrop since he turned up in response to our mayday message when we came out of the world's most boring party to find our transport missing. Not stolen, but gone. Our driver, Gene, was notorious for dumping whoever he was with if a stray fuck presented itself. Obviously, it had and regardless of his protestations that he would not, he had stranded us. Problem: Too far out of town for a taxi, too early to get a lift with anyone else, and too close to curfew to take a chance. Solution: Call Robbie's dad.
What a miserable party bunch we must have looked when he turned up. I was so pissed off I yanked the back door open and was clambering inside when his voice made me look up. "Let me guess. You must be Vincent." He half-turned in the driver's seat holding out a strong, masculine hand. His face was tanned and fit, and fucking gorgeous. I wanted to see more of him. So I elbowed Robbie out of the front seat and grabbed it myself.
And that's why I was knocking at his front door.
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About the Author
novels and anthologies for Lydian Press.
Go to www.barrylowe.info