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I thought again how odd it was to be on formal terms with someone you had once permitted to lick your ears.

Josh Lanyon

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Josh Lanyon
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I dug out the powder blue cashmere cardigan my mother Lisa gave me the Christmas before last, pulled on my oldest, softest Levi’s. Comfort clothes the next best thing to a hug from a warm, living body. Lately there had been a shortage of hugs in my life. Lately there had been a shortage of warm, living bodies.
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He looked okay. No, to be honest. He looked a lot better than okay. He looked...fine. Fine, as in get the Chiffons over here to sing a chorus.
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And I thought maybe I didn't need to worry about my heart anymore because it had stopped beating a couple of seconds earlier, and I was still sitting there living and breathing-though admittedly I wasn't feeling much of anything.
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I'm a thirty-something gay man with a dodgy heart. I sell books for a living. Who wants to read about that?
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Kevin refilled my plastic cup with more box wine. I smiled thanks. Kevin smiled welcome. Jake kicked my ankle.
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Focus on someone else’s problems for a change, I instructed myself. You need the practice. From now on you’ll have to live in a world you didn’t make up. Horrible thought.
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How did people get over this? They obviously did. Every day someone fell in love with the wrong person and had to pack up all their fragile, misguided hopes and unwanted affection, and move on to the next picnic table.
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The only thing worse than opera is someone who hums along with opera.
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Drink your coffee -- people in Africa are sleeping.
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Anyone who wasn't half-stoned on pain meds would have instantly realized what a really bad idea this plan was, but since that didn't include me, I didn't worry about it.
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Rachel delivered it like an official pronouncement. Like she was one of the fairies gifting Sleeping Beauty's christening: Beauty. Intelligence. Heterosexual.
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I love you, Jake whispered. Are you strong enough for this? I made myself comfortable. Said over my shoulder, Sure. Would you tell me if you weren't? I grinned. Maybe. I can't think of a nicer way to commit suicide. That's good. I can't think of a more pleasant way to commit murder.
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He was probably selfish in the sack. Probably selfish and greedy and...unsophisticated. And hung like a horse.
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I thought I recognized you. Really? He remembered me looking like Swamp Thing? How flattering.
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Jake's mouth found mine, his lips molding hot and soft to my own. His tongue tentatively tested the seal of my lips I parted them and he pushed inside. It was startlingly sweet and achingly familiar, like finding harbor.
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Cops before breakfast.Before coffee even. As if Mondays weren't bad enough.
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He scooped up Victoria practically before she hit the ground, well within the five-second rule. If she'd been a potato chip, he could have still eaten her. Not something I particularly wanted to contemplate.
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You know that thing about Death Be Not Proud? Well, Fear Be Not Proud either. And Fear Be Not Elegant. What Fear be is stumbling, bumbling flight, crashing through brush, slip-sliding on pine needles, sloshing through puddles that are always deeper than you expect.
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Tiffs among the faggots were apparently the stuff of quiet merriment.
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The problem with a life spent reading is you know too much.
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