Love Is Proud

by JMS Books Authors

  In many ways he was my polar opposite, since I had an outgoing, speak-before-you-think personality, with brown hair and eyes. I was only slightly smaller than average, but the muscular build on his almost six-foot frame made my lean, smaller body look scrawny in comparison.

  We pushed through the doors into the café, and I said, “I’m ordering the biggest, baddest smoothie they have.”

  “You’re not hungry?”

  “Well, yeah, that, too. But definitely a smoothie to go with.”

  “Look.” He gestured at the menu. “A Vegemite and cheese toasted sandwich. I’ve always wanted to try Vegemite.”

  I cringed. “Don’t do it. I tried a fingerful of the stuff once. It’s nasty.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Well, it’s not meant to be eaten straight up like that. I’m going to get it.”

  I shuddered. “I think I’ll stick to the tossed salad. Oh, The Hydrator sounds perfect for my smoothie…coconut, watermelon, and lime.”

  “I’m going with Mambo Magic. Pineapple, coconut, and lime.”

  We placed our orders then took it to the outdoor seating area once it was ready. It wasn’t as if the indoors was air conditioned, anyway.

  I stabbed a fork into my salad and watched with morbid curiosity as he bit into his sandwich. He grinned mischievously and took an extra-large bite.

  “So?”

  “It’s not bad.”

  “That’s not exactly a glowing recommendation.”

  He laughed. “That’s a figure of speech. I kinda like it.” He held it out to me, waving it slowly back and forth. “Try it.”

  If his gesture was meant to entice me, it missed the mark, but I didn’t want to be ungracious. I tentatively leaned forward and took a small nibble, making a point of overlapping his own bite mark.

  It really wasn’t bad. Not when it was properly used as a condiment, thinly spread onto the bread. The flavor was…interesting.

  “Umami?”

  He nodded. “Right. The fifth flavor.”

  Umami was a savory flavor. The other four he referred to were sweet, sour, bitter, and salty.

  “Okay, I’ll admit it,” I said with a smile. “You were right, and I was wrong.”

  “I’m trying to expand my horizons. My New Year’s resolution was to try ten new foods this year. This makes five, so I guess I’m on target.”

  “Any regrets among them?”

  He winced. “Grasshoppers.”

  “Gross. Apparently my resolution was to give up having sex.”

  Sam snorted. “I’d rather eat tripe.”

  “Ew. Just when I was starting to elevate the value of your opinion.”

  Sam’s grin had a sly tilt. “How about this. You eat another large bite of Vegemite, and you can be off the hook with your ill-advised resolution.”

  I wagged my fingers to signal my agreement—I wasn’t stupid—and invite him to extend the sandwich back toward me. Vegemite might be an acquired taste, but it was already growing on me, so I chomped out a fair sized chunk without any hesitation.

  I leaned back in my chair as I chewed and stared into his eyes. He blushed, but held my gaze.

  I swallowed and asked, “So, what were you thinking when you suggested we walk here?”

  Sam’s blush deepened. That was another one of his charming traits.

  “It sounded romantic. In theory, anyway…obviously not so much in practice.”

  My head tilted to the side as I mulled over his words. Had any of my exes ever made the effort to actually romance me before? I didn’t think so, and I liked the idea. No, I loved it. This man, whom I’d secretly admired for the entire preceding school year, was old-style courting me.

  “That’s romantic,” I said.

  “No, it was hot and sweaty—and not in a fun way.”

  “I mean the fact that you’re trying to be romantic is in itself romantic…and very sweet.”

  He grinned and took another bite of his sandwich. I chewed a forkful of salad and strategized. Hand holding…that would be a nice romantic touch for the walk back, wouldn’t it? Fuck it. It was something I wanted to do regardless of ulterior motives. I was incredibly proud of the fact that Sam wanted to be with me, and I didn’t care who knew that I liked him right back. I sensed Sam was a kindred spirit with whom I could give my sappier side free reign.

  It was freeing. Guys I’d dated in the past had been more like friends with benefits. It was almost like Sam would be my first real boyfriend. I took a long swig of my smoothie and looked forward to the walk back to the hotel…and whatever might happen after we got there.

  * * * *

  We trudged up the walkway toward the hotel. I’d fucked up. We’d held hands, but I’d chickened out and clammed up regarding making plans for the coming evening. Hell, I hadn’t even mustered up the courage for a little hand squeezing.

  The sun would be setting soon. On one level I wanted to move into high gear, romance-wise, with candlelight and soft music and sweet gestures. On the other hand, I didn’t have the supplies—candles, speakers other than earbuds to play the music on my iPod, etc.—and this was our last night in Honiara until shortly before our return flight to Seattle. On the smaller islands we’d be sharing the hospitality of the native residents, and privacy for intimate encounters would be scarce to non-existent.

  Not that waiting to take things to the next level was necessarily a bad thing. I just didn’t think it was needed. We were already well-acquainted. It’s not like there was any significant reason to date a while first before moving on to sex. Dammit. Why was I so nervous with Sam? I’d never had any trouble propositioning guys in the past.

  At the landing where I would turn left, and Sam would turn right, we paused, and Sam said, “Your shower or mine?”

  He said it awkwardly as hell, and his face turned beet red, but I think the smile that split my face reassured him, because his grin emerged.

  “Wherever you’ll be more comfortable.” I gave his hand an overdue press.

  “Mine,” he replied without hesitation.

  “Okay, then.” My words echoed his from our conversation yesterday, and his grin widened, perhaps remembering that himself.

  I followed Sam to his room. Like mine it was in the older, cheaper wing of the hotel. The air conditioning worked, and there was running water. Those were about the best things I could say about our rooms. The bedding was clean, although the mattresses might be older than me. I supposed the painted cinderblock walls and tile floors were relatively easy to keep clean. The plumbing fixtures were ancient but functional. Housekeeping wasn’t overly concerned about mildew control.

  I wore flip flops in my shower. I’d borrow Sam’s, here. We wouldn’t be able to fit in the shower together anyway. Come to think of it, it would have made more sense to separate for our showers and then meet up afterward, but after Sam had made my night with that cheesy line, I could hardly suggest that now.

  “Why don’t you go first,” said Sam.

  “Sure.” Then I stretched up to kiss him. Our first kiss. I didn’t want the two of us to stand around self-consciously after our showers wearing only towels around our waists, each looking awkwardly around the room before one of us finally said or did something embarrassing. Hopefully a spontaneous move now would diffuse the situation.

  I only meant for it to last a few seconds—an ice breaker so to speak. But Sam’s hands came up right before I pulled back, one cupping the back of my head, holding me in place, and the other on my back, pulling me closer as our lips parted, and the kiss deepened.

  I wasn’t going to argue with that. Sam had been the focus of my fantasies since we’d first met. I’d been dreaming of touching him, kissing him like this for months.

  One of my hands traveled up Sam’s chest before settling on his shoulder. The other went around his side to press against his back. I melted into his embrace as his arm around my waist tightened.

  I absolutely loved the feel of his strong arms firmly holding me in place. It was
everything I’d imagined, and more. Beyond being physically arousing, the sensations rippling through me played to my emotions.

  He moaned, and I felt the strength of his arousal above mine. His longer legs had me grinding against his upper thigh. The pressure of his hand, lowered to my ass, helped me intensify it.

  The kiss broke and Sam’s mouth moved to my neck. Other than my cock, that was my strongest erogenous zone. I shuddered helplessly as he nipped and sucked his way along my collarbone, up to the area directly below my ear. I whimpered, and he settled in, obviously picking up on my appreciation. I was lost in a sensual fog, my head thrown back, rutting against Sam’s firm thigh as he nuzzled my neck.

  I longed for the kind of relationship that had eluded me thus far, and that Sam seemed to be offering. Complete and balanced on every level—emotional, physical, intellectual—and Sam was ringing all the bells. We respected each other as colleagues, and I’d always liked him as a person. Our chemistry together was startling, and he was clearly just as affected. I wanted to back down and woo him sweetly, slowly savoring every inch of his body, but I was utterly incapable of stopping. Romance would have to wait as long denied lust ran its course.

  In the jumble of our limbs my other hand moved up to join my first, holding on for dear life, wrapped around his neck and shoulders as both of his hands now gripped my ass. I backed him up against the block wall, and he spread his legs. We were almost cock to cock, pounding against each other.

  Our mouths once again found each other, and I savored the persistent sweet and sour flavors of his smoothie, and the mix of lingering savory umami and Sam’s own essence. As our tongues explored, one of my hands kneaded the muscles of his shoulder, and the other raked through his hair.

  Sam’s arms pulled me to him tightly as his body stiffened, and his hips ground erratically against mine. He groaned into my mouth, and I was lost in a frenzy of hedonistic gratification as I found my own electrifying release.

  The kiss broke as we panted and clung to each other weakly. I turned my face back to land a few approving kisses on his neck. He rubbed my back as our breathing settled.

  “Sorry,” Sam murmured. “I feel like I used you. I didn’t want it to be like that.”

  I leaned back to look him in the eye. “Don’t be sorry. That was fucking hot, and variety is the spice of life, right? We’ve got all night to work up to a less…immediate do-over.

  Of course, as soon as I said it I realized I’d just invited myself to spend the night with him. His relieved grin eased my concern.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Not to mention all the time we’ll have to learn everything about each other once we’re back in Seattle.” As long as I was verbalizing assumptions, I might as well go for broke.

  His grin widened, and I relaxed into his cuddle as his hands pulled me close.

  “Okay, then.”

  * * * *

  ABOUT ADDISON ALBRIGHT

  Addison Albright lives in the middle of the USA with three peculiar cats. Addison loves spending time with her family, reading, popcorn, walking, “open window weather,” cats, math, and anything chocolate. She loves to read pretty much anything and everything, anytime and anywhere. For more information, visit addisonalbright.wordpress.com.

  “Okay, Then” revisits the main characters from ’Til Death Do Us Part, and takes place within the timeline of the flashback scenes from that novel, now available at JMS Books. Look for more Sam and Henry in the upcoming sequel, From This Day Forward.

  Avowed by John Amory

  This poem is a far cry

  from what I thought I would write.

  Looking at you as you sigh

  in your sleep on our last night together

  as single people. My vows

  are as scattered as our lives.

  I have never felt more alive

  than when I first held you as you cried,

  than that day I first vowed

  to be yours, always: to always tell you you’re right,

  to always put your pieces back together,

  to always be by and on your side.

  I don’t know where I would be, besides.

  These past twenty years have given me life–

  your heart my place, like leaves, to gather;

  your body my shelter when the clouds start to crying;

  your voice my assurance that all is right.

  I’m sorry these words have gone so long unavowed.

  Remember the days we had only vowels?

  So lost, so enthralled, we could only sigh–

  we spoke with our eyes, our hands, and wrote

  the rest in bad poetry. The world of the living

  passed us by, unnoticed: speech was decried

  as we created the language of bodies pressed together.

  Who would have guess we’d come so far together?

  Over two decades, family and friends have disavowed

  the union we’ve wanted and courts can now decree.

  Our love is not the same, they said: an aside,

  an affront to the “traditional lifestyle.”

  But we have stayed strong in the face of the Right.

  Because being here next to you is right.

  Watching you sleep, your hands pressed together

  in silent prayer, I long to share your life

  for another twenty years and beyond. I vow

  to spend every night at your side,

  even when you make me want to scream and cry.

  These are the vows I’ve written and will share with you.

  Tomorrow, with tears in my eyes and you by my side,

  we will finally have the life promised by those three colors, together.

  * * * *

  ABOUT JOHN AMORY

  John Amory is an out, proud gay man. He is an English professor in New Jersey who has worked with several local and national LGBT organizations in the fight for equality and visibility, including AFER, The Matthew Shepard Foundation, The It Gets Better Project, and FACT Bucks County. For more information, visit facebook.com/JohnAmoryAuthor.

  Crimson by Leska Beikircher

  The Gilded Butterfly is a sparkling rainbow in the rather dull nightlife of Anchorage. This sentiment may sound crueler than it is actually meant, and, coming from Seward, it may even sound belittling. But I did go to college in California, I have experienced the hustle and bustle of a busy city at night—the crowded bars, the laughter of parties on their way from one club to the next, the never-ceasing hum of a busy street even at two A. M.—it is without judgment that I look on the Alaskan club scene. Among the bars, clubs, and theaters the Gilded Butterfly stands out like a nudist in a library (it evokes the same reaction from some people, too). It’s loud, garish, colorful in every sense of the word, and above all gay (in every sense of the word). It’s the queer community’s watering hole, the good old-fashioned well of the village, where people go to chat, laugh, share news, and find love. Above all, find love.

  All of my co-workers from Salome’s Wardrobe, including my boss, are regulars, and some, like DeeDee, participate in the variety shows. It’s the local version of The Birdcage and, as such, much more outrageous than any metropolitan night club. Every night is a celebration of the community for the community; it’s exclusive, vain, and utterly hedonistic, and I say all these things with the wide-eyed wonder of an admirer. Everything the Gilded Butterfly stands for and embodies is so far away from my own reality that it seemed like the distant desire of a dream, the enchanted landscape of a nightmare. And like a sleeper who tries not to fall asleep, I had tried to not get involved for fear of getting swallowed up whole and enjoying it.

  But after the argument with Kelly, I was outraged enough to fling myself down this rabbit hole.

  The bar looks inconspicuous from the outside, only a rainbow flag in one of the taped shut windows hints at what’s going on behind the walls. From inside the music beats thudded softly into the crisp, night air, where they immediately f
ell to the ground or were dissolved by the ten o’clock at night sunlight.

  Once inside, however, the overstimulation engulfed me entirely. The faint beats I had heard on the outside increased in volume hundredfold. Together with the shouted conversations, the laughter, the rhythmic clicking of too many high heels, it morphed into a cacophony of sound. Somebody shrieked my name in ecstasy. Akasha, trusted colleague, strutted towards me as fast as her tight dress allowed. Stunning she was, dressed in more sequins than I had ever seen on any person before, woman or drag queen; on Akasha it looked fitting, even beautiful. I received a hug and a warm welcome, and my worries and my daily life evaporated into meaninglessness.

  Akasha smelled of make-up, perfume, and very faintly of liquor. She showed me where to put the present I had brought, where to get some cake, then led me into the showroom to meet the others. The entire Salome’s Wardrobe staff was there, and of course more people, some of whom I recognized as customers. All except DeeDee, who was backstage getting ready for her big moment.

  I mixed and mingled, exchanged greetings and small talk, smiling at those around me. We had to yell to make ourselves heard, but it added a pleasing element of randomness to our conversations (“What time is it?”—“It’s on Tuesday!”—“Yeah, me, too, let’s get another one!”). I enjoyed every moment.

  It’s not like I’ve never been to the Gilded Butterfly before; I’d been there once or twice. But those times I was by myself—I hung out like one who was stood up (which I wasn’t), and left each time after an hour or so. I can’t get into the swing of things like that, I’m more comfortable at home with a book. But this time I enjoyed myself, maybe because I ignored everything that lay beyond the night club doors and was only in the here and now. I could get used to feeling like that; it’s nice.

  Eventually, the show started, and my plan was to stay until DeeDee performed and then go home to check on things. Well, we all know what they say about best laid plans and how life happens while you’re busy making them. DeeDee was just done, receiving howling applause like she should, and I turned to go, but then there was her.