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Kit, you're forty. You look thirty. You act...well, never mind. You're carrying on like you think you're seventy

Josh Lanyon

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Josh Lanyon
Never
Carrying
Think
Forty
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Well
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Seventy
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Seventies

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I’m never wrong? Who besides Republican presidents and evil masterminds can say that with a straight face?
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Have I ever told you, you look like Monty Clift? he inquired in a deep, seductive voice. Before or after the accident?
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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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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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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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When you live with a potentially life-threatening condition you get used to the thought of dying. You accept it, you push on. The thing that scared me was the picture of dying slowly and painfully, the loss of independence and identity to illness.
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One thing I’ve noticed about getting older, it takes twice as much work to get half the results one formerly achieved by falling out of bed.
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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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I thought of the words of the Renaissance philosopher Michel de Montaigne. If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than because he was he, and I was I.
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Tiffs among the faggots were apparently the stuff of quiet merriment.
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I noticed you right away. She gave me an approving look. I like quiet, polite men. And men who wear Hugo Boss. I was hoping you weren't gay. Or that you were only half-gay. Like Paul. Uh...sorry, I said. It's pretty much full-time now. The pay's not great, but the perks...
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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 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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All cynics are disappointed idealists. The more stars in the eyes, the harder the fall.
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Shrugging out of the damaged shirt, Jake said roughly, “I still dream about you.” “I have nightmares about you.” I dragged my T-shirt over my head, threw it aside.
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Like true philosophers I've come to believe that religion is an illusion of childhood, outgrown after proper education.
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I know you've all heard the advice, Show, don't tell. The best writers don't tell you, and quite frankly they don't just show you -- they make you feel it, live it, taste it, touch it. Storytelling is about being in the moment with the characters.
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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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...Jake, a homosexual cop buried so deep in the closet he didn't know where to look for himself.
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I liked you the first time I saw you. You were sitting on the floor surrounded by books, and you looked up when I opened the door and smiled right at me. It felt like you had been waiting for me, like you were welcoming me home.
Josh Lanyon