Contents

1. Inscription

2. Errata

3. Angels of Mercy - The Complete Works

4. Dedication

5. Quotes

6. Summer – Title Card

Italian translations provided by: Marco Guzman, J. Scott Coatsworth, Fabrizio Montanari, and Marco Munda

Their assistance with the tone and northern Italian vernacular of the Sforzas in my works is immeasurable and I am humbled by their generosity.

DISCLAIMER

<p class="ps3">Angels of Mercy and its derivatives are a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Angels of Mercy – Volume One: Elliot

ISBN 13: 978-0692399736

ISBN 10: 0692399739

Date of Original Electronic Publication: 01 December 2014

Date of Print Edition: 01 April 2015

© 2014-15 SA Collins and Akwekon Media:

sacollins.com / akwekon.com

Graphic Cover Design Composition:

SA Collins and Akwekon Media

Graphic Elements (in part):

SelfPubBookCovers.com/BeeJavier

IStockPhoto.com – Beto Chagas Fotografia –

www.betochagas.com

© CanStockPhoto Inc. / jul88

Angels of Mercy - The Complete Works

Angels of Mercy - Volume One: Elliot

(His Summer of Love)

Spring 2015

Angels of Mercy – Volume Two: Marco*

(The Fall of the Sforzas)

Autumn 2015

Angels of Mercy – Volume Three: Pietro

(The Sins of the Solstice)

Autumn/Winter 2017

Marco Sforza’s Series [Prequel Boxed Set] -

Angels of Mercy – Diary of a Quarterback I: King of Imperfections

Angels of Mercy – Diary of a Quarterback II: Prince of Mistakes

Spring 2017

Elliot Donahey’s Companion Novel -

Angels of Mercy – Phoenix In The Fire

(* Companion to Angels of Mercy – Volume 2: Marco)

Early Spring 2016

Dedication

For the two J(ay)’s in my life

The first exists physically in the form of my own “Marco Sforza”, my husband, J L. Your love, patience and guidance I count on more than you know. We have the house with not just one or two, but three generations living under it, and two exotic cats. We revel in living the Neocon Republican nightmare in the modern day “Sodom and Gomorra” of the San Francisco Bay Area. I couldn’t be happier. You gave me the gift that is Marco Sforza, the core of who he is and how he views his world – for that I am grateful. You are the foundation that allows me to dream and to scarce believe that they could be possible to achieve. I cherish you.

The second exists in the digital ether of my various music devices and is a brilliant songwriter who provided the soundtrack/emotive core for “Angels of Mercy” during its creation. His name is Jay Brannan. His masterful use of words and music, particularly his seminal album entitled “Rob Me Blind,” provided the wellspring for the character of Elliot. These words gave me a place to root Elliot and to explore who he is and how he views the love of his young life and those around him. Mr. Brannan is a modern day bard whom I admire greatly. As an older gay man myself, this Jay in my life gives me hope that our varied and often rich legacy in the GLBTQAIP community is in very capable hands with the younger generation. When at a creative crossroads I often seek out his video channel on YouTube and I find his musical musings often give me the jump-start to get back in the game. You can find him online at jaybrannan.com.

© 2015 – Akwekon Media and SA Collins

On the Tropics of Angels

– as above, so below …

“The Angels were all singing out of tune,

And hoarse with having little else to do,

Excepting to wind up the sun and moon

Or curb a runaway star or two.”

- Lord Byron

“We are each of us angels with only one wing,

and we can only fly by embracing one another”

- Luciano de Crescenzo

“The wings of Angels are often found on the backs

of the least likely people.”

- Eric Honeycutt

“Subnormal people do supernatural things,

in a world full of demons

with white feathered wings.”

- Jay Brannan

His Summer of Love

- Elliot -

For the Love of the Q

My day at the Q went pretty much like any other day. I prepped the machines to churn out the requisite soft ice-cream that Dairy reQueen was known for – a pale mixture not too unlike frozen liquid paper (that probably contained quite a few of the same ingredients, come to think of it) – a heart-stopping coagulation of fats and chemicals. That broad assertion of its core ingredients was made by my mother, Kayla Donahey. As a bona-fide health nut if ever there was one, she had the irony of owning the local DQ franchise that she inherited when her father dropped dead – in the store, in front of customers no less – only two short summers ago. Coincidentally, and much to my chagrin, the very same year that I was able to legally work. You can just imagine my euphoric bliss. This was how one, Elliot Donahey, entered the workforce: a by-product of a family franchise transfer. Sometimes I marveled at how my grandfather had timed things so precisely to check out of life so everything could change hands with nary a wrinkle in the process.

That fateful hot summer day, Taylor Campbell, a wiry 6’ 3” tall man, was the sole employee manning the store. As with most people, he had no way of knowing that day would be his last. At the time, he was 63 years, 4 months, 22 hours and 13 minutes old (I did the math later – hey, I was bored), and was busy running the local shop he’d had for the past thirty years – working on probably his two millionth Oreo Cookie Blizzard – never realizing that it was his number that was up.

At exactly 4:57 pm he dropped dead on the job. The only reason anyone knew the exact time of death was because, as the aneurysm burst in his head and his body took its death plunge to the floor, his right arm caught the electrical cord of the store clock, yanking it out of the wall and thereby fixing the time of death for all to see. By six that evening a distraught and frantic Kayla, with a disheveled and confused me in tow, had the store operating while she tried to coordinate calls to the family advising them of the change in ownership and what time the funeral services were going to be held. Meanwhile, she left me alone to do battle with the obtuse workings of the fryer.

I would’ve thought that she’d’ve closed the store due to a death in the family. But you’d have to know my mother, practical to a fault. And she was worried about money – so the store stayed open. She said she’d grieve later, in private, alone in her room. I tried to comfort her. She told me she was going to be all right but needed some time alone to process it. It was a very lonely night for us both.

Other than the steady decline of customers due to the recent downturn in the economy, not much had changed in the two years since my familial indentured employment began. I was now on the cusp of turning eighteen on the second day of August – a little over two weeks away. You know, that momentous occasion in a boy’s life where I was supposed to blossom into manhood. Where I, I dunno, like sprout hair on my chest, grow a huge cock and want to bang a gaggle of women – or something like that. Sadly, since it was only Tuesday, July seventeenth, I still had a couple of weeks before I could claim the status of being a pseudo-adult American male. I still couldn’t legally drink, not that I had a hankering to do so, but like all red-blooded American males, I was working on that.

This particular Tuesday though, seemed like any other. In fact, since we’d taken over the Q, all of my days stretched out before me like the blank white walls of the shop. It was just one boring set of non-events that meandered into another. I had no way of knowing how this particular day’s events would drastically change my life forever.

For today was the day I would fall in love.

I’d like to say, looking back on it later, that the air smelled different, that the sun was a bit brighter, that I was greeted by deer and birds on my walk to work, but no – no change. Same ol’ boring Mercy day. I’d always imagined what it’d be like to have a special someone in my life. There’d no doubt be challenges ahead for us: the thrill of the chase, the incredible emotional highs and hopefully, very few lows. But for now, I just refilled condiment containers, had buns queued up and stocked the requisite food supplies for another thrilling adventure-filled day at the Q …

… then proceeded to wait four hours for my first customer.

Sometimes, I wondered why my mother even bothered sending me to the shop. There was a Baskin-Robbins only a few doors down the same strip mall that was practically stealing all the ice-cream business. And, honestly, who really wanted a grilled cheese from the Q anymore?

Even though my taste in food often ran contrary to Mom’s overly-crazed health-conscious experiments with our home meals, I often found I dreamed of just settling down to a basic meal of steak/protein of some sort, potatoes (because I have a particular affinity for them) and a veggie or salad (because rabbit food is good food – or so they tell me). Hey, it wasn’t like I was demanding a gourmet feast straight from Tyler Florence’s recipe box, but I just didn’t fancy having to compete with the local rabbit or avian population either in foraging for my next meal. I just wanted real food, not the corporate-processed shit I was forced to serve up to our barely existent customers.

On most days, there was nothing to pass the time other than a continuous round of stocking and cleaning. True enough, I could play my favorite XM radio station in the store – not like anyone else was around to protest my taste in music. Way I figured it, if I was working for nearly free (Mom did give me some money so it wasn’t legally slavery), then at least I could listen to whatever the hell I wanted. Musically, I was all over the map. Country (especially that new “sexy” gay country singer Steve Grand who recently went viral on the inter-web thing, as Mom calls it) to show tunes (I swear that this will become clearer to you in a moment) to classic rock or even disco (okay, that one might’ve been a dead giveaway). I did it all.

I even liked to play coffee house fave Jay Brannan cranked up and did my own little fake video shoots in the store. I mean, who needs High School Musical or Glee when you could have me bouncing around from table to table in the seating area wailing at the top of my lungs to Jay Brannan’s song ‘La La La’? Haven’t heard it? Well, Google it, dammit – do I need to bring you up to date on everything?

Go on, I’ll wait …

See what I mean? Broadway’d only be so lucky! And you certainly ain’t lived until you’ve walked in the Q and watch me pour a mean Blizzard while hearing Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 2 pouring away over the fairly adequate sound system. Right now, though, it was Donna Summer extolling the virtues of working hard for the money. My disco mood was running rampant.

I looked around – knowing I’d spent the better part of the day revisiting the things I’d already done. There was some stocking that had to be put away from this morning’s delivery, but I wanted to save that for later, just to give me something to do this afternoon. The sad stark truth was the place was so well cared for you could eat all the fatty chemical-laden food right off the floor and not have to spare a thought of catching anything that could remotely kill you. There was still shit to do, but being the clever guy I am, I spaced out what there was. Otherwise, I’d be done in about an hour and a half and completely mental by the time the first customer would show up.

Bored beyond tears, I leaned against the front counter in a huff – elbows firmly planted on its surface, smooshing my face into my hands and sighing to no one in particular – for there was no one in the store at the time.

“I’d just like something spectacular to happen just once in my life,” I sighed as I spared a pointed glare at the ceiling trying to seek god’s (I’m using a little “g” until I find out if s/he really exists) assistance. I contemplated my options. Hell, I’d take the offer of entertainment from just about anywhere. Not hearing anything from the Big Kahuna upstairs, I looked at the floor and bellowed to his fallen comrade, “Just once, and then I swear I’ll never complain and accept my lackluster fate!”

I know, be careful what you … yada, yada, yada … got the memo. Hey, as bored as I was, I was willing to roll the dice on a zombie apocalypse if that’s what it took to shake things up a bit. At least it’d be something to take the boredom out of the day. Besides, I had enough Q food on hand to distract the rowdy beasties if they did show up.

I sighed again, resigning myself to the solitude of working at the Q. Deciding that I’d spent enough time staring at these particular walls, I heaved myself up and drolly walked – really it was more of a shuffling of zombie-like feet than the actual lifting of them. I even amused myself by making zombie sounds and moving my arms about stiffly as I did so. I ambled with all the glorified zombieness I could muster around the wall separating the cooking area from the front counter. You can imagine my surprise as I turned the corner I heard the door alarm go off in that slightly slurred manner that sounded like it was on one helluva bender – shocking me that I had my first real customer for the day.

Or sadly, someone who was just lost again.

It happened … a lot.

As potential customers go, being lost these days was happening far more than the reverse of actually having someone who wanted something to eat. I had a sneaking suspicion that Mom should start charging for the free advice; it might actually help pay the bills in the joint. I knew she was worried about how slow business was lately. I was just glad she hadn’t resorted to putting me out on the highway in some goofy getup to drag would-be customers into the store to see what non-spectacular things we had on offer. Of course this extended to the pink goo that was frozen into disks that the marketers at the Q’s HQ bravely called hamburger patties. Once cooked up, they sort of resembled the real deal, but I still had my suspicions as to their quality or if they, in fact, contained any real meat, beef or otherwise.

But I suppose, for the sake of my family’s financial stability, I should make peace with the marketing demons and hoped they would cook up some spectacularly irresistible offer soon so we wouldn’t be out of business before my birthday rolled around. Hey, I had my priorities, too.

I couldn’t blame the nonexistent crowd – I certainly never ate at the Q, not even when I’d forgotten to bring something from home. To put it into perspective, I’d rather brave my mother’s health-conscious foodie experiments than chow down on some grilled up Q goo. Just the thought had me imagining that I’d keel over on the job like Grandpa had. The mere thought of coagulated arteries pumped full of the soft-ice cream chemical fats was enough to make me wretch, even if I had to admit it did sort of taste good. Okay, I had some once. And it was good. I felt guilty. I don’t do it no more.

Uh-uh, nothing doin’ … , I’d thought to myself as my eyes narrowed on that steely beast churning the white lie we passed off as soft ice-cream. It gurgled and slurried, unheeding my pointed gaze.

As that echo from our drunken door bell faded, I shuffled back around to the front counter, not really expecting an actual sale. Instead, I found myself staring into the prettiest green eyes I’d ever seen. Adding to this salacious effect was that they were framed by dark dreamy lashes that could paint a door from at least a foot away. I knew these eyes, though I’d never had the opportunity to view them this close. The fact that they were attached to one hellacious rockin’ bod that never failed to hold my gaze spellbound at school whenever he was near – well that was just the cheese on the beefcake standing in front of me as far as I was concerned. I stood there wide-eyed, like a deer caught in headlights, watching that glorious face framed with the longish dark brown curls that made him look so romantic. Kit Harrington – Jon Snow from Game of Thrones romantic – a fucking wet dream of a face.

Oh yeah, I should probably fess up here – not like you had to work hard at it, I’m sure: I’m gay. Get over it. I have. Not like it means much – cue the static loudspeaker announcement: Whoop! Whoop! Virgin alert on the sales floor ladies and gentlemen. I mean, it’s not like there’d been any takers. I once thought maybe my best friend, Stephen Lowry, who’d been my best buddy since my elementary days would entertain being my first boyfriend. But after 2.67 milliseconds of deep consideration by said pre-pubescent boy, probably due in part to any lasting loyalty Stevie had for me as a friend, he said no. We don’t talk much now, if ever. But the boy in front of me here at the Q, this boy, I always dreamed would be in front of me.

Just.

Like.

This.

Marco Sforza, the star quarterback of my high school varsity football team, the Mercy High Avenging Angels, was standing at the counter with a look of trepidation and awe as he gawked in enraptured glazed wonder at the backlit menu above me. I was silently thankful that my long straight raven bangs (homo-aesthetically bleached with white tips along the fringe, thank you very much), fell across half of my face, so I only had to concentrate on keeping one of my silver blue wolf-like eyes schooled, thereby keeping my faux teenage non-committal cool intact.

Yeah, here’s the deal – I’m not very good at getting my body to do what my brain thinks is a good idea. So instead, I mumbled the first thing that popped into my head.

“Wow … fucking sex-on-a-stick Marco.”

My eyes widened to where I thought they’d pop from their sockets as I felt my face flush eight shades of red because I realized I didn’t just think that – my fucking mouth got ahead of me again and it just spilled out.

Way to go fuck yourself, douche bag! Fuck, I was a dip-shit moron. Seriously, my own worst fucking enemy!

This seemed to bring him out of his mesmerized stupor from the offerings glowing above. That husky baritone voice went straight to my dangly bits when, at last, the heavens parted, the glow from that perpetual halo that surrounded his head glowed brightly, and he spoke.

“Hey, uh, Elliot, right? We go to the same school?”

I mean, could more golden and breathtakingly brilliant words ever be spoken? He was such a fucking genius. I nearly fainted – found I had to grip the counter a bit harder than I thought just to keep my legs from giving out underneath me. I know, I know – googley-eyed teenage girl, much?

“Uh, yeah,” I swiped the bangs out of my face once more – only to have them immediately come cascading back down to obscure my left eye again. I hoped it looked cool, though I was ninety percent sure that it didn’t. I had only my sole unobscured eye to watch him. Wonder of all wonders, my single eye caught Marco’s – and HELD! We were having a moment … weren’t we? Then I really had to maintain focus because of what he did next – he smiled warmly. At me! Who’da fucking thought?

Keep it cool, Donahey – you could still so fuck this up.

“So, uh, you want to, uh, like, order something?” Yeah, that came out cool enough.

Maybe …

“Oh hell, yeah. Was just toking with some of the guys on the team out by the cliffs.”

Trying not to drool, I watched as he absentmindedly ran his fingers along the ridges of his 8-pack abs – seriously, the dude had 8-packs, where as all I had was at best a pull tab – thin as a rail, I was. Hell, on a good day my abs could be mistaken for skin covering the underside of my spinal column. I couldn’t help but become riveted to each bump of his T-shirt fabric pulled tight against him as if it were a size too small. I stared dumbfounded as his fingers traced over his taut stomach.

“Got an incredible craving for the munchies. There’s just so much to choose from. How do you do it?”

Did he just ask me ,“How do we do it?” We were going to do it? Anyway you want to, baby. Oh, wait … dammit, fooled again. Cue the non-committal face.

“Huh? Oh, the menu … Yeah, I usually don’t.”

“Oh? So … why do you work here, then?”

“Family owned and operated,” I tilted my head to the side in an off-kilter way and put on a fake practiced smile then let it drop and rolled my eyes – schooling my features again into passivity.

I swear I nearly blanched when he giggled nervously at my small pantomime. What the fuck was that about? Marco I-am-fucking-sex-on-two-legs Sforza actually giggled? At something I said! I found I could ponder that for hours and never tire of it. The absurdity of the situation had my head turning slightly askew like a dog hearing a high pitched tone.

“Oh yeah, that’s right. The original owner died on the job here, huh? Like a couple of years ago, wasn’t it?”

God, he had such a brain on his shoulders, such a memory on this guy. Einstein should have been so lucky. Okay, I freely admit that was my hormones doing the talking here.

“Yeah, that woulda been my grandpa.”

We stared at each other – the only sound in the room was from the low hum of the air conditioner and the steely white lie churning beast while France Joli cooed the slow part to my new come-hither disco anthem for Marco, Come to Me … yeah, baby!

“Oh, wow, uh, … awkward – eh, sorry,” he said softly.

And for some reason that I couldn’t fathom, he looked it too. This was sooooo fucking surreal. Black and White TV Twilight Zone surreal. I didn’t know what to make of it. Was I being Punk’d? That was so Ashton Kutcher circa 2003. I didn’t know quite how to respond, so I just used the de facto teenage response when you don’t know what to do: I just shrugged off the apology.

“Nah, it’s cool. I only saw him on occasion. We weren’t really that close. Not on that side of the family, anyway. Now my Aunt Tilly on my dad’s side, she’s an A-1 whack job. We’re close.”

He just looked at me with an amused curve to his lips. I thought better of the over sharing. “Sorry, I know, WTMI.”

He shrugged that he understood – it was cool. It was a brief male bonding moment over family oddities. We both lapsed into silence. His eyes searching mine with an intensity that went straight to my crotch. I can’t tell you how thankful I was that I had the counter to hide the sudden tightness in my jeans.

Change topics, you goof-less fuck, right fucking quick!

“So, uh, can I serve you something?”

Yeah, like me, ass up, naked on a platter, perhaps? I couldn’t believe the bold thoughts that were just popping up in my head with Marco so close. My eyes darted to his large hands as he placed the palms of them onto the counter, leaning forward, his eyes became a bit softer. Did they dilate as he came forward?

What the fuck?

He looked around and noticed how underwhelmed the business seemed to be today. Barren, was the word that sprang to my mind. Normal, was another one. Ghost town, could work too.

That quirk at the corner of his lips – pulled all of my focus – never had just one tiny square inch of flesh been as appealing as the small dimpled curve of those lick-worthy lips. I just wanted to flick my tongue in that little curve to see what it tasted like. Probably sunshine and puppy breath, I allowed myself to imagine. His next words brought me out of my fixated stare at his mouth.

“Well, there is something I’d like to have … but I don’t seem to find it on the menu.”

My eyes narrowed a tiny bit. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled like a rabbit under a fox’s gaze. And he was such the fox. Okay, even I realize how lame that reference was – but I was flustered, dammit! That gaze made me nervous as hell; my survival instinct was trying desperately to kick in – and that gaze had warning written all over it. Gayboy Red Flag Number 2 on my warning list – I realized this could so be a setup to get pummeled by a jock.

I nervously flicked my tongue along the small ring piercing at the left corner of my lower lip. I couldn’t help it. It was a nervous tick I’d acquired whenever I saw a boy I liked. And I liked him very much. For far longer than I was willing to admit just then, hence, the near involuntary rapid-fire flicking at the corner of my mouth. Truth be told, I’d had a hard-on for Marco for a couple of years now when I first spied him on campus and realized my predilection ran to the male of the species. But then again, who didn’t like Marco? If I had to guess, that line currently went around several blocks. I was just a nameless face in his book, one of his many adoring fans. He was extremely well-liked in Mercy, a real golden boy in town. Removed, untouchable, and heartbreakingly stunning.

Unbelievably, the look in his eyes mirrored my own. Our gazes locked – neither of us flinched. A flirtatious game of chicken. Without breaking his gaze, he rested his elbows on the counter and beckoned me forward by curling a finger of his large right hand (he had big rough looking hands), suggesting I lean in too, as if he were going to share the most scintillating secret known to man. I paused for a second, then figured, what’s the worst that could happen? There were cameras in the store – not that anyone actually viewed the damned tapes, but hey, none of the customers knew that. So curiosity getting the better of me, I gave up and leaned forward.

For fuck’s sake it was Marco Sforza – when was I ever going to get another opportunity at something like this?

“Actually, smoking also gets me completely horned up too. I’d much rather take care of that then have a burger and fries. What I really came in for is, uh,” his eyes narrowed, desperately searching my own, “ … you.”

Before I could even process that tantalizing bit of information, he leaned even closer and his lips brushed mine ever so softly that I froze on the spot. As the kiss caught, it was as if his tongue was laced with a muscle paralyzing neurotoxin. I suddenly found I couldn’t move. Fuck me, I couldn’t even breathe! As if connected to Marco’s brain, my lips just parted on some unspoken command and he softly chuckled with little puffs of his breath punctuating into my mouth. A swipe of his tongue along the crevice of my lips, and I nearly came from the sensation.

Without missing a beat in the kiss, like a crocodile, his half-lidded eyes glanced to the left and right of us and then slipped his tongue further into the warmth of my mouth. That kiss probably lasted for a little over a minute – each time I thought it would end he would find a new way to paint my mouth with his formidable and talented tongue. If you asked me, I’d tell you I swear the kiss went on for hours. The taste of him was beyond anything I could have imagined.

While sunshine and puppy breath weren’t on offer, there was the stale stench of pot on his breath – he hadn’t lied about that, but he had evidently chewed some gum in the interceding journey from the kids’ local partying spot along the cliffs to the Q. Hands-down, spearmint and marijuana was now my absolute favorite flavor combination. Though in hindsight, that may have more to do with the bone in my jeans that wasn’t getting softer anytime soon.

He slowly withdrew, I yelped a little at the parting – leaning forward as if I could continue to kiss if I just followed him across the counter. I couldn’t help it. I think it might have been the lack of air pressure escaping when we parted. Yeah, I’d like to go with that.

Embarrassingly, a small strand of saliva linked our mouths as he withdrew. He smiled, he swirled his tongue slowly, circling around his lips – severing the liquid link we shared. He smiled, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, watching carefully for any signs from me. What he was looking for was beyond me – he’d just given me something that would keep my hand and cock very happy for the next decade. Full-on jerk material, that kiss was.

He whispered gently to my half-lidded bliss-filled face, “Fuck, Elliot, you’ve got me all kinds of hard up here, boy. I knew you’d know how to kiss. Those full sexy lips were just begging for me to do that.”

I fought like mad to regain some sense of composure. I shook my head and that small trail of spittle dangled from my lower lip onto my chin. So not cool, Brewster. Yeah, I had devolved into paraphrasing Evil from Fright Night now. I needed to man up here.

Marco’s head bent down slightly, looking at me with such desire from under his brow. He slowly reached out and with his thumb, gently wiped that trail of spit from my mouth, before bringing his thumb to his mouth to lick it off. He chuckled softly, the air from it puffing against my face, his eyes flashing brilliantly. I felt myself flush. I smiled so widely I knew I looked like some sort of dork in front of the sexiest guy at our school.

“Ooh, and he looks adorable when he blushes. I think I just may have fallen in love, Donahey,” he purred softly, his voice dark and raspy.

“What? Huh?” I mumbled in a dizzying daze.

In some weird way I could hear what he was saying to me, but it seemed so far away – so from left field. I had to be dreaming. Yeah, that was it. I got so bored I fell asleep from lack of any customers and this was some sort of erotic hot dream. That would surely explain the absurdity of it.

Like the twat I was, I just nodded slowly, whispering softly in a lazy mumble, “Yeah, has to be a dream, ‘cause there’s no way ‘Come-fuck-me-now Sforza’ would do that to someone like me.”

“Really?”

His smile – so warm and inviting – pierced my soul. It felt so right that it hurt. It stole my breath. And I’d so let him do it to me again and again. He laughed softly, only this time he walked from around the front of the counter, trailing the middle finger of his right hand along the counter top. I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Suddenly, as if by magic – only because everything was such a fucking blur, he was right behind me. I felt him tug at my belt – pulling me around the wall to the prep counter – away from any would-be passersby. He turned me around slowly so that my back was pressed into the counter. Marco slipped his arms around me, coming up along my way-too-skinny body and hooking his hands up onto my shoulders. He ground his hips into my own, making sure that our hard cocks were rubbing against one another through our clothes. Both of us sighed heavily into the other. Marco shuddered physically from the pressure between our erections.

“Fuuuuuck, does that feel like a dream to you now, Els?”

Involuntarily, I convulsed like I was having some sort of seizure. I tried like hell to contain it into small spasms. But fuck me, with the feeling of what the hottest guy at our high school was doing to me I was so out of my element. This simply couldn’t be happening. I bit my lower lip at the sheer pleasure he was causing.

I shook my head, managing to get out, “No, uh, it feels pretty real. Ah, fuck, Marco. Christ, please, I’m close.”

A dark purring laugh bubbled from his lips. A long slow breath slipped from his nostrils, bathing my face. Without a thought I breathed him in. The best fucking scent on the planet.

“Yeah, I thought you’d feel the same way.”

Despite all of the physical sensations he was causing I noticed that he was keeping a watchful eye to the door as the seduction went on. Some small warning was raging in my head that this had to be a set up of some kind. His buddies were going to walk in and catch the fag trying to put the make on their star quarterback and then beat the fuck outta me. He was just watching the door for the signal to flip the sitch around on me. As if sensing a building reticence on my part, he stopped rubbing so intently. I felt a finger under my chin, gently lifting my face – my icy steel blue eyes to his verdant green.

Riveted. Electric. Our gazes clashed – combined, held.

“When I watch you, you don’t look away. Understand?” His eyes were dark, probing – tearing away any defenses I had like tissue paper. I nodded slowly. “It’s how we are. How we’ll always be. Can you do that for me? For us?” He said it so softly, with such conviction, that I knew, I just knew that this was right. It was how it was supposed to be. Everlasting.

Always.

Clearly, I wanted to believe what was happening was the real deal but every fiber in my young gayboy body was telling me that it couldn’t be. It went against the laws of nature, or whatever it was that governed shit like this. What I did know was that football players and little artistic fagboys don’t mix – and they sure as hell don’t fuck. That much I knew – it was in that unpublished but oft known rule book all teenage kids simply had memorized. But then there was that look of lust in Marco’s eyes, not to mention the feel of his bone-hard cock rubbing against me was sending me nothing but mixed signals. Confusion laced with desire. But there was no mistaking – Marco was hard. Very hard. His gaze held mine and we simply regarded each other, panting slightly from the pointed exertion. He leaned in so that our foreheads nearly touched.

“I know you think this is sudden, Els. But I’ve watched you for two years now. I know what people say; I’ve heard the rumors, too. But I can’t deny it anymore; you do it for me, Donahey. Always have; from the moment I saw you on my first day at Mercy High. I even adjusted my schedule last year so we’d have PE together so I could watch you naked in the shower. I know that sounds so fucked up. I know. But you have no idea how hard I had to flirt with ol’ Ms. Crabapple in the front office to get her to change my schedule. But you’re so worth it.”

He kissed me softly again. Twice.

“I don’t know why it’s you, but it is. I’ve been working up the courage to get closer to you all summer. I’m sorry it took me all of June to figure out what day was the absolute slowest in your week. You have no idea how many Tuesdays I’ve spent nearly my whole day watching the store, making sure that you’d be alone for me to ask you out.”

We kissed again, stealing my breath when he pulled away. Sweet torture.

“Please tell me you won’t disappoint me by saying no. I don’t think I could bear it.”

“You want … to go out … uh, with me?”

He nodded and chuckled – his eyes flashing brilliant green like freshly cut grass on a spring morning.

“Yeah, now he’s getting it.”

It had to be a trick of some kind. Just had to. Maybe on this “date” Marco was proposing, things would turn around. Yeah, I’d be alone with Marco and then his buddies would spring from the bushes or from outside the car and all be ganging up on me. But that look in Marco’s eyes. He couldn’t possibly fake that, could he? And the prodigious bone in his pants hadn’t been a mistake either. So maybe … ?

As if to quell the unspoken wave of worry, he leaned in again and our mouths met in a clash of teeth, lips and tongues. Marco’s hands became frenzied, lustful. After a few harried moments where our hormones got the better of us, we settled down and eased into really enjoying each other. As we kissed, his hands slowly slipped down to pull me from the safety of the counter, cupping my ass in his big paws. I just held onto the belt loops of Marco’s cargo shorts with a white knuckled grip as Marco did magical things with our tongues. We parted after that long tortuous kiss.

“Yeah,” Marco panted, leaning his forehead against mine – his breaths like a soft summer breeze – circuitous heaven – it was shredding me raw – and don’t think it’s lost on me how over the fucking top I’m taking it. But you have an outrageously unattainable hunk of man flesh that you’ve drooled over from afar suddenly professing their love for you and see how well you do. Yeah, I so didn’t think so either.

But what he murmured next fucking nailed it for me. There was no doubt – I was his.

“I think I love you, Els. I know it’s fast for you, but you’ll see. I’ve watched you for so long.” Another soft kiss, our lips barely touching – achingly pleasurable. But it seemed he wasn’t through with professing his feelings for me.

“I’ve been such a coward. Those eyes, the way your hair moves across your face, not to mention that it fucking slays me every time your eyes search me out. I tremble when you look at me. I know it’s all new for you. But for me, it’s weighted; it has history. I’ve waited for so long to do this.”

He kissed me softly again.

“Just to taste you. Please say you’ll go out with me. We can go to Carmel or somewhere else – you name it. I got a car, I got money. We can get away. I just want to spend some time with you. Please say you’ll come. Please, Els? Please come.”

I swallowed audibly. If Marco kept up what he’d been doing then I would definitely be coming, just not solely in the manner he was suggesting either.

“Uh, well, I don’t have today off. But I can get away tomorrow. Mom watches the ss-st …”

“ … store on Wednesdays and Thursdays. Yeah, I know. I’ve been watching, Els, remember? I know your schedule.”

“Wow, it just hit me. I have a boyfriend stalker! How fucking righteous is that?” I blushed at how forward that sounded, and maybe a little bit whacked. You can imagine my surprise that when he heard that his eyes brightened – a dazzling flash of intense green. I marveled openly that I got that reaction out of him

In awe, as if I’d just given him Christmas in July he asked, “Di- di- did you say boyfriend?”

Fuck me, scramble dude, scramble. He’s panicking, you fuck! You’re so going to lose him!

“Too soon? It’s just, hey, I’m aware of where we live. I thought I was the only one, ya know? Small town, averages of there being more, well, uh, not so great, you see. But hey … we can just call it friends with bennies if that’s what you want … I don’t …”

He cut off my ramble with a deep kiss, holding my face in his large rough hands. We slowly parted and he was smiling broadly, dazzling perfect white teeth showing brilliantly against his olive skin.

“Nah, I was dreaming you’d say we’re boyfriends. Fuck, I know I did it all wrong, Els. I just couldn’t wait any longer. God, you must think I am really a whack job, huh? So not cool, Sforza. So not cool.” He slowly shook his head – as if he were ashamed of how he handled this – his glorious eyes cast down to the floor – so not where they belonged. Those eyes deserved to be seen.

“Hey,” it was my turn to catch his chin so we could find each other’s eyes, “boyfriends it is. Life’s too short to sweat the long courtship thing, right?”

“Yeah, okay,” he smiled and I knew right then and there that I’d do anything to keep that sexy smirk on his face.

“So, uh, did you really want something or was it just the make-out and date thing that was on your mind?” I quirked a quizzical brow, already finding myself testing the waters of this new budding romance. Fuck, me and … romance. Two words I totally never thought I’d associate together about myself.

“Well, I guess that I could eat something. I really was toking out in the car. Not with the guys on the team. Hell, I haven’t seen any of them since summer vacation began.”

“Oh, so you don’t have to get back to them?”

“Well, I could just go back to what I usually do on Tuesdays, but hey, it’s actually much more comfortable to be inside the store than in my car all day.”

We laughed. I blushed at how Marco had been trailing me all along. I was way not paying as much attention as I thought. Then it truly hit me – I really did have my first boyfriend stalker! That had to rank on a gayboy’s list of things to do somewhere, right?

“You’re welcome to hang, but I sorta got some things I gotta do to stay busy. Mom may be the boss, but she’s a little Nazi when it comes to the store being kept up.”

“I don’t mind helping.”

Okay, I couldn’t help it. I looked at him like he was from Mars.

“What? Can’t I stay around my guy while he’s at work? Isn’t that what boyfriends are supposed to do?”

“Fuck all if I know. You’re my first.”

“And I better be your last, too, if I’ve got anything to say about it.”

I flushed again. Between my dick and my face I didn’t think there was any more blood to circulate and keep the heart going. Wouldn’t that beat all to drop dead on the cusp of finding my first boyfriend?

“Fuck Els, when you blush I just want to fuck the daylights out of you.”

Okay that struck me so hard my eyes went really wide at that remark. I couldn’t help it. From the moment we’d agreed we were boyfriends, I knew what our positions were going to be in bed, primarily because I just couldn’t ever imagine Marco being a bottom sort of guy. And truth be told, I had bottom written all over me anyhow. So the proposed arrangement already was working for me. Thankfully, I was resilient enough that I wasn’t down and out for long.

“Yeah, well, I’m sure we’ll get to that soon enough. For starters, let’s just concentrate on getting the stock that arrived onto the shelves in the stock room, okay?”

“Okay.”

We walked to the back of the store with little regard for any would-be customers mistakenly finding their way to the Q that day. I didn’t care if they ate the store out from top to bottom. I had my first muthafucking boyfriend! The world could just go fuck itself.

“Ya know, I hear stockroom sex can be wicked hot,” Marco said as he reached for my hand as we worked our way back to the stockroom.

“Yeah, well we’re so not using the hamburger spread as lube on my buns, big guy. So we’ll table that for now.”

“Spoil sport.”

Of Kisses and Unspoken Dreams

As we got to know one another, as couples no doubt do, Marco and I talked about a lot of things. I know that seems so obvious. Couples talk; not a foreign concept, I’ll grant you. But for me, who had been alone for most of my teen life, having someone to confide in, to lay every fear bare, was such an amazing thing to discover. Even though I was completely smitten with his good looks and infectious charm, I found, to my overjoyed surprise, that he really was a very thoughtful and considerate person. And that wasn’t just my raging teen-boy hormones kicking in to do the talking, either. It pleased me beyond my wildest dreams to discover how deeply he felt things. You have no idea how much I needed that from my boyfriend: compassion.

I guess some secret part of me always wished that the jocks had more to them than the beefcake image they projected. Though they were a constant thorn in my fae-boy side, by and large I had a begrudging admiration for them. I mean, men were the object of my desire, so I had to cope with the whole love/hate relationship with them. It was even nicer to discover that my guy didn’t disappoint. In fact, he exceeded every wish I could have for him.

“One thing that sort of did surprise me about you though,” he said as I rolled from lying beside him in the backseat of his car onto his chest, resting my head on my arm, my eyes searching his own in the waning light of dusk, noticing the amber flecks that highlighted the rich green, jewel like eyes. We had taken to parking out along the cliffs along Big Sur late one afternoon just to spend some time together and talk.

“What’s that?” I purred as he lulled a hand along my spine, before carding his fingers slowly through my hair. I relished every time he did that. I fucking loved it when he touched my hair. He knew that, so he did it often.

“The randomness of the way you express yourself. At first I thought it was random, but there’s a calculated genius to how you employ it. I knew you were smart, sweetheart. Just didn’t realize how smart.”

I gave a mock gasp, but my eyes were alight with the humor he had goaded me with. Realizing he wouldn’t buy any of that I sighed, “I know I tend to be random – going left when right is the more likely choice. Not that I am purposefully contrarian by nature. It’s not my intention, I swear. Shit happens. I panic, and brash decisions are made. I’d like to think I think things through; I don’t know that I am always that successful.”

He rolled his eyes nodding, but blew me a kiss anyway.

“Okay, I can suck at it. I’m a teenage boy on the brink of manhood. Freaky shit is going on in my head and body and sometimes it scares the crap outta me, okay?”

He chuckled and wrapped his arms around me pulling me up to him, kissing me passionately, rolling me around to where he could eclipse me – wrapping every bit of him over me. Heaven. You’d think my mind would’ve been obliterated by his passion. Typically that was true. Yet my trap just kept on flapping. I needed to expend nervous energy, I guess. It happens.

“I know it’s a bit weird. I just learned early on in life that since I wasn’t a fighter, words could become my shield – I find I often need them. I have a tendency to cultivate words that most kids my age wouldn’t use. Ya know, to mess with their heads while I make a getaway?”

He arched a brow at that, though I think he took me at my word. “Honey, I could show you how to defend yourself.”

“I’ve done well enough without the need for violence, thank you very much. Words are my weapon of choice. Let’s just say I’d be very comfortable being dropped into a Jane Austen novel. It’s my wit that gets me by, Mr. Hottie McHottie,” I poked at his chest making him giggle a bit at my mock indignation. “They’re what allow me to smokescreen myself out of trouble.”

He sighed, resigned to let it drop. We’d sort of had this conversation before. He wanted me to learn how to defend myself. But that’s what I had him for, wasn’t it?

“Okay, okay. I believe you. Whatever works for you, lover. I just want you safe and sound. Whatever it takes.”

“Well, it’s my über-awareness of all things around me that has kept me safe, hasn’t it? Though, I’ll admit, it is random when I employ them. I try to keep it in check. I’m not always that successful.”

“Oh, I dunno ‘bout that. It brought you safely to me, didn’t it? So that can’t be such a bad plan. You’ve obviously made it work for you. But … ,” he held a finger up in front of me leveling it squarely in my face. “I’m here now. I will watch over you and protect you. You are the most precious thing I have in my life. Nothing is more important or valuable to me than you and your continued safety. I mean nothing. I would give everything up in my life except for you. Never doubt that.”

It was conversations like that that impressed me most, the reasoning he employed when we talked about how we felt about things. I felt myself flush, amazed at the depths of how vehement he could become over how guys like me were treated by society – as if it didn’t apply to him. His passion was truly impressive to behold. He told me he often pushed back against the other guys he hung out with on the team over their internalized homophobia – pointing out how they were just parroting their parents’ bullshit and they needed to grow a pair and get to know someone who was gay and deal with it for themselves. He said he wasn’t always so successful, but generally, the guys had sort of given him the benefit of the doubt on the topic. He was still one of them, so I guess they just thought he was enlightened in some way that escaped them.

If they only knew …

On more than one occasion he told me that he often thought about us in the long term. Not just in years, but in decades. He said our love was a forever kind of love. Beyond the ages. It was poetic, if a bit smarmy. But that was my guy. He didn’t write the gooey romantic stuff found in Hallmark cards; he was the guy they wrote about. That was a subtle but very important difference. I thought it was sweet of him to think about us like that, but I really didn’t know whether to put much stock in it or not. I mean, we were young. Things can change. While I wanted desperately to believe, I kept a careful eye to any deviation in his quiet confidence of all things us.

“I know you think that I am just springing this all on you, Els. But you have to understand that I’ve thought about it for these past two years. It was a constant conversation I’ve had going, trying to anticipate every possible response you’d have to what I wanted for us. I get that my telling you this might seem bizarre or so completely whacked out crazy. But for me it is very real. I can’t tell you how much having you in my life means to me. I could walk away from everything that ever mattered to me if I could have you.”

I mean, what do you possibly say to something like that? Had I not been so wrapped up in all things him I probably would’ve thought it was a full on cray-cray moment and would’ve bolted for the hills – except, I knew in my heart of hearts that he’d find me. Marco was intense like that. And he was very intense about me. There was so much passion in him that I could feel it coming off of him in waves – the ebb and flow of how much I seemed to mean to him. At times he’d just sigh while he held me close and his eyes searched every tiny facet of my eyes. Marco could do that to me – I was absolutely powerless against him. I know how over the top and so romantic novel that shit sounds. I get it. But having experienced the way he could shred me with a single look, I understood those words more plainly than my own name. It was an immersion into my soul that he had complete and unfettered access to. I would deny him nothing.

“You can have me as long as you want. I’m yours for the taking, as they say.” I told him though I completely put my foot in my mouth with the very next thing that fell out of it, “Though, to be honest I don’t know why you’d want me. That still doesn’t make any sense to me whatsoever.”

My man wasn’t one to take my self-berating attitude lying down. “Elliot Donahey, I’ve wanted you even before I knew what that meant. Now that I have you I won’t ever let you go.”

This as his eyes burrowed deeply into my own, his lips speaking softly against mine, sending little tremors of passion across my skin. I shivered in his arms which only drove him to become more possessive, more protective of me. I never thought I’d willingly let go and trust someone else so completely. Dreamed about it, sure. Thought it could remotely happen? Not a chance in hell, though it seemed Lucifer had answered my secret desire of all desires by sending Marco my way. Not that I believed for one second in all that religious mumbo-jumbo. But there was a certain poetic license in how I thought about why he came to me – mythic and monumental as his love was to me. Make no mistake, Marco was legendary to me. A god. A man whose love I would worship and submit to whenever he asked, wherever he desired. I was completely his.

As clichéd as it may sound, shortly after we got together he confessed that he knew I was the one. He said that he would definitely marry his high school sweetheart – it was just in the cards for us. Not a question of it happening – only when. Even though I’d secretly allowed myself to ponder that idea, I never in a million years thought it’d come up so soon.

Marriage.

That was a word that carried a lot of weight. In California, I knew it was a very real possibility for us. It was then that I realized how long term he saw us. He told me he wanted the whole thing: a big house filled with kids. He watched me with a analytic eye when he said that. I could feel his gaze upon me, tearing through me, laying me bare while I pondered what he said.

Kids, obviously, were a major point with him. To be honest, I’d never given it a single thought. It wasn’t like I didn’t like kids. They were fine enough. I played with my little cousins and such at family events. But hell, I never spared a thought of my ever having my own. It just never seemed to be in the cards for a gay guy like me. Or so I thought, anyway. I guess along with some other misconceptions, perhaps I had that one wrong as well.

He told me that with the way technology was now, we could both be donors with an anonymous egg donor and the kids would really be ours, of our blood. He’d researched it; said that’s what Neil Patrick Harris and David Burtka, had done. He said that’s when he realized his feelings for me wouldn’t deny him anything in life. He could have it all with me. There was a long pause while I contemplated what he said. I knew he was watching. It was most definitely a make or break moment. I could practically feel the tension between us.

As I thought about it, I tried to imagine him and me years from now. The big house he wanted – a cleaning nightmare I thought, and quickly made a mental note that a maid or two better come with that enormous house we were going to share because I could barely keep my room clean let alone the mansion-like setting he was suggesting. But it was then that I saw what he undoubtedly saw in us: an older version of ourselves in bed on a crisp sunny morning. A child or two running in and crawling up on the bed, toys in hand, squealing with the delight of a new day. I found myself warming to that idea. I actually liked that he and I would make decisions that would help these children prosper and grow.

I told him, much to his relief, that I could definitely sign up for that. In a wave he came at me – hugging and kissing me relentlessly for nearly an hour after that. It was then that I knew I had the power to make him deliriously happy. I would dedicate my life to doing just that, no matter the cost to myself. He became my everything. No price was too high to see his eyes light up and the all encompassing smile that illuminated his brilliant good looks. God, was he ever good looking. And wonder of all wonders, he said he was mine.

There was something else that I’d come to understand about his being such a fixture in my world. Marco calmed. He soothed me in ways I wasn’t even aware that I was being so random or spinning out on my own shit. When we locked gazes, I immediately became still. Green to blue. Weighted, all encompassing and immersive. I marveled at the power of his simply being in my life had over me. I found myself clinging to him from that. He was my rock. My guardian angel. My verdant light.

We’d spend many a day, lying safe in each other’s arms, with our fingers playing against each other – twining in and out as we both silently watched them. He told me he wanted me in every way imaginable. He said I had him spellbound in everything I did – in the way I moved, the way I thought about things, the touch of my ridiculously slender soft fingers upon his heated skin. Yeah, I was there with him on that one. I fucking loved running my fingers all over him, especially his chest and abs. He even said that he liked the fact that I would just break into song when we rode in the car just made his heart soar – he said he never tired of it, suspected he never would.

Of course, I suppose the fact that, despite his many talents, Marco couldn’t carry a tune if you put it in a bucket and sang it for him probably had something to do with it. Okay, that was a bit of an exaggeration. It’s not that Marco didn’t like to sing, or that he was particularly bad at it. Actually, he could be quite good; he just never had the time to concentrate on it, especially now that I was in the picture and could serenade him so beautifully – or so he said. He told me that he marveled at how those things came so easily to me – the creativity, the way he said I shined when I felt safe enough to let it show. I was always safe with him. I never had to fear because my angel, my rock, was there no matter where I went.

He followed me around like a lovable puppy, as if I were air itself to him. It was sort of cool and a little bit frightening – mostly because I didn’t know what I’d done to warrant it.

One afternoon, near the end of that first week that we met in July, I had to make a day trip to Carmel with my mom to buy some things for me to wear. A girlfriend of hers was getting married. So she got my Aunt Marsha, who was married to her winner of a brother – the town’s Deputy Nate Campbell, to cover the store for us because she was adamant that despite my reminding her about our money situation – or lack thereof, I should have something nice for the event. Marco tagged along from a distance the whole day, acting like he was shopping in the same stores. I could tell he was amused. We both were. A knowing smirk plastered on our faces even though we were several feet apart, eyes darting to the other when we thought we could get away with it. One of the best afternoons on record for me. When I went back into the dressing room to try things on he was there to give me his opinion. We managed this only because I told my mom that I wasn’t ten any longer and I could decide for myself if something was right for me or not.

The funny thing about that trip was that it was my boyfriend (I was still getting used to saying that when referring to him) who chose what I ended up wearing. I thought he was shopping for himself. Silly me. He pulled a complete outfit from the racks and brought it with him as he followed me into the dressing rooms. You can imagine my mom’s surprise when I walked out with what he’d picked out for me. I had to say, it wasn’t what I would have chosen for myself, but I looked pretty damned good in it. My baby knew what was best for me. It was a turning point in our relationship. My trust in him and what he thought was best for me, for us, had begun to be absolute.

Not long after that shopping trip I brought him home one night. My mom was watching the store so we were quite alone and I gave him the grand tour of my bedroom, such as it was. He was practically giddy to behold the inner sanctum of my world. I watched him blushing as much as I did while I revealed my little domain. I saw how he could tell how embarrassed I seemed to be of my small room and the few things I could show him. It was awkward because I knew he wanted to say something that would ease how uncomfortable he thought I was. I suppose he wanted to set straight whatever misconceptions I may have of his world. I was sure his room was grand by comparison, but I could tell, that preconceived idea of who I thought Marco was had very little to do with the man I’d come to know. I once thought he was a product of his parents’ obsession with presentation, a cardboard cutout of a beautiful looking guy – two dimensional at best. I never realized how much I had short-changed him. My Marco was considerate, caring but very low key when we were alone. He could just look at me and I’d melt, a big puddle of emotional paint that he could dip his fingers into and sweep me into his deepest desires. No words need be spoken. He was the greatest gift he could ever give me. I really required nothing else.

Before I got going too much on bringing out every little thing I thought would interest him, he said he wanted to show me something. He said it was important. I knew I looked amused by his being so cryptic; he had a shy smile across his face paired with such an intensity in his eyes that my interest was easily piqued. I mean, what could he possibly show me that was near my house that I didn’t already know about?

He took my hand and tugged me along.

“Um, how do we get out back?”

His eye roved over to the kitchen where I could tell he knew there was a door that led to the backyard. I quirked a brow that he had already sorted it out but for some reason he was being coy, wanting me to take the lead. I didn’t understand the need for it, but it looked so damned cute on him – this shy and nervous boy. I mean, he already looked like a man, but in this particular moment I could see the little boy in him, quietly seeking my approval. I indicated the way with a wave of my hand. Smiling shyly, he walked us over to the door, opened it and we walked out into the yard.

We stood there for a few minutes in the gloaming, a magical time when the light made everything seem enchanted. It was all just softer, more romantic at that time. Out of all the hours in the day, I loved this the most, that point where the sun just dipped beyond the horizon.

Magic time …

On him it was nothing short of breathtakingly beautiful. Dusk made love to my boyfriend in ways I could scarce imagine; he practically glowed in the waning light. A Maxfield Parrish kind of glow. Heroic, almost god-like in its etherealness. There were no other words to describe him: he was transcendently beautiful. But it seemed his words were not about him just now, this was about me. About us.

“This is where I fell in love,” was all he said as we faced my backyard and the rising hillside covered in oaks and conifers that lay just beyond.

“What? Sweetheart, I don’t understand.”

He smirked a crooked grin at something he found infinitely amusing. His eyes darting to my own in a flash of deep green and amber before finding the safety of the ground once more.

“Well, not here, silly. But up there a ways, just beyond,” he tossed a hand without really looking, indicating somewhere along the hillside but kept his gaze pointed at the ground, kicking at a small rock with the right toe of his trainers. He sorta shrugged in that aw, gosh sort of way. When I didn’t have anything to say in response, confusion no doubt plain upon my face, he sighed, resigned that he had to explain further; he held out his hand to me and said, “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

He tugged me along and we began to scale the hillside. It was a little risky what with the dew of evening starting to settle in and the leaves carpeting the forest floor from the previous fall. The night’s chorus of bugs, bats and an owl or two began their evening tune up. There was some small part of me overjoyed with being on this hillside, holding his hand and slipping further into nature with him. I slipped a couple of times and he was always there to catch me. After the second time I felt his grip – strong and firm about me, I knew it would always be this way. If I ever faltered, he’d be there.

I marveled at how many leaves there were already, remnants of the oaks last autumnal exfoliation – I looked to the trees now, though late in the season they seemed ready to shake off the vestiges of summer already. As I took in the surrounding landscape I was really sort of confused where this was all leading. He glanced back as he helped me scale another slippery part of the slope and realized he better say something to alleviate the confusion that I was still wearing.

“You kidded me about stalking. But I guess you could definitely make an argument for it after I show you this.”

He took me to a small stump of a tree that had long ago been cut down. The stump, I recalled, had been a tree that my dad had chopped down for firewood a number of years back when we were being a bit frugal with money but needed to keep the house warm on those cold wintery Mercy nights. We came to a stop at the stump when he pulled me around so we could see my house in the distance below.

“Here’s where it all happened,” he simply said.

“What?” I looked around, unsure of how those words could have any real meaning here.

He waited patiently while my eyes drifted from the stump of a tree down to my house, connecting the imaginary dots from where we were to my bedroom window.

“You watched me from here?” I huffed in complete surprise. It was a good surprise. His eyes were guarded, unsure of how I was going to react.

“But, why, sweetheart?”

With his eyes cast down to the ground in front of him he shrugged. He was very quiet now. Reserved. Pensively so. When he spoke his voice was hoarse with emotion as he whispered to me. It was so soft, pillows of dark, punctuated tones on the air, that I had to lean into him to hear.

“It was the only way I could be close to you. At least, back then, you see. You didn’t make it very easy, you know.” He was kicking the stump with his trainers, like a small boy embarrassed by something he’d done that he didn’t think I would approve of. It was then that I spied the area he was kicking. There were tiny notches etched into the backside of the stump along the bark. There had to be several hundred of them along it. Some were so old that moss had begun to fill them in. I knelt down and ran a finger along the more mossy etchings.

“Sweetheart, are these what I think they are?”

He shrugged and sort of nodded very rapidly, fearful of what he was admitting he’d done, still so unsure of what I thought. The anxiety colored his face speaking volumes about how worried he was about what I’d do. I stood back up, brought him into my arms and I kissed him fiercely – with more passion for him than I’d ever expressed. I poured everything I thought I had into that kiss. As the kiss deepened, his face became wet with tears. So did mine. After quite a few minutes of my eating his face (that wasn’t a stretch, either – I practically devoured him), he giggled softly as I let my passion loose on him. We finally broke, panting heavily, our breaths lingering in the night air. He waited until he caught his breath before continuing – ever so quietly. This was his heart, completely vulnerable, open, wanting desperately to be fearless. But it was me. The one person he was so afraid would cut him deeply. His next words only confirmed what I thought.

“I was so afraid to show you this, but it’s important. This is why I say our love has weight. This is how it has history. I was so afraid of what you’d think of me, but I was caught, you see. You already had me. One step behind, one heartbeat away. I know how corny that sounds, but I can’t help how I feel. I spent many an afternoon and on some occasions, nights out here, watching for a glimpse of you. Anything you’d give me. I know it was foolish. I know it sounds so whacked. But it was all I had. I wanted you so much, Els. You’ve no idea how much. But I heard what you thought of the football jocks. I didn’t think you’d give me a chance. I was so afraid of how it would be. What you’d say.”

He ran his right hand along the side of my face, wiping a tear that had long since fallen. He kissed my nose before bringing me into an embrace, my head into the crook of his neck.

“I was such a coward. I know you think I’m smart, that I’m brave. But I didn’t know what else to do. I was so afraid of how you’d react. Being here, tucked up on the hillside was safer. It was okay, for me at least. It gave me peace, allowed me to sleep at night, dreaming that one day you’d look at me and love me for me. I can’t tell you how many tears I’ve shed just thinking about that day.” We separated only just a little so I could look at him. Glorious.

He wiped his eyes with his free hand, the other firmly tucked into the front pocket of his jeans. He sniffled a bit before letting out a puff of air. It billowed softly from his lips. He tried to crack a smile through tears threatening to spill over at any moment, his eyes finding a way to glisten in the waning light. He was so nervous, it pained me to see him like this. His breath caught in a light mist as it left his mouth. The cold was settling in now. He smiled, his eyes so radiant, a light from within. But it was clear to me that he was still very afraid of what I’d say about all of this.

“Say something, please. I know it’s …”

I never let him finish. I pushed us both to the ground, with my body collapsing on top of his, not caring about the mess we’d get ourselves in. I kissed him over and over – punctuating each with whatever random feeling made itself known to me.

“Thank you, Marco. Thank you, sweetheart. I just never thought … more than I’d ever hoped for …”

We rolled in the leaves as I took his mouth with a ferocity I’d never had the courage to do before. But really, what was that compared to what he’d just shared with me? It was nothing. Not even a small flickering candle compared to the torrential fire and light he brought to me. I finally relented my mouth upon his, leaving soft chaste kisses in its wake – a tangle of limbs and leaves, of kisses and unspoken dreams. He was so, so radiant in that gloaming and receding light. I watched him as he looked down upon me, basking in embers of everything him, in the looming twilight, framed by the burnished orange and pinks as they receded into night blue, haloing him in that looming cloak of night. Magical.

“Then, uh, you’re okay with this?” He looked down at me with such wonder and amazement at how I’d taken all of it in. My verdant light. My angel.

I told him of course I was as I moved to get up, pulling him along with me. I dusted him off as we made our way slowly back down the hillside to the warmth of the house below. He still had a few leaves in his hair, but it sort of looked sexy on him, like some powerful satyr that fell in love with a boy. We slowly made our way back into my room, stopping every few steps to kiss again.

I knew he was trying to be gracious about my little world; he just couldn’t find any words to soothe what he thought was my unease with it. I didn’t know what the fuss was about, I was okay with it. I made peace long ago that we weren’t rich. We weren’t poor either. I’d go so far to say we were downright average. I was good with average, though it did give me pause for thought if he ever took me home to meet his parents. With the talk of marriage and kids, I knew that possibility was almost a surety. I prayed that I could pull that off without embarrassing him or myself in the process.

I know the revelation of my small world only drove Marco to be more protective of me – as if that were remotely possible. That was not a complaint, mind you. I was good with whatever Marco thought best. Luckily, I was nimble enough to change direction – choosing to let Marco view what few ever had. In fact, it was the only thing I had any abundance of – my drawings. Marco found out that night about my secret wish to be a comic book artist. I couldn’t believe myself when I told Marco that I’d been developing a character of my own but it wasn’t ready to show him yet. I didn’t say it was based on him, even though it was, but I had mixed feelings about what he’d think about it. I meant it as a tribute of how much good I saw in him, but he could take it the wrong way and be very upset. But I really wanted to know what he thought.

In the end though, I chickened out. I told Marco that there was a real reason that his opinion on the matter was really important to me. Marco pressed to see the early sketches but I was adamant – he’d have to wait until it was ready. But I promised I’d share it with him soon. Marco was so touched by the gesture. He said he was truly amazed that I would even consider his opinion on my artwork warmed his soul. Within seconds the drawing portfolio was on the floor and he had us both stripped, with some of our clothing in tatters on the floor, and we made out on my bed for the better part of two hours. We both came multiple times – we were teenage boys, producing cum was not an issue. It’s one of the things that teenage boys do best.

I confessed to Marco that I’d wanted to do that since we started going out. Now I could say our relationship was solid – my bed had been christened – jerk off fantasies had a whole new meaning for me and that bed. I could trust that it was real for me. I don’t know why I can be so slow on the draw, as they say. Before he left we made out one more time very slowly. Marco watched me carefully, absorbing every subtle nuance of how I responded as I writhed in pleasure to his ministrations of my body. It was as if he burnished every whimper, every line and curve of my face, those icy steel blue eyes (as he called them) that watched him with such love as he ravished me. Kitchy, I know. But that was my man. Not the greatest poet with words, but what he lacked in poetic license, he more than made up for with his more amorous inclinations. I was the man of words; he of love and passion. I thought it was a good match – even if I found at times hard to trust in it completely. I wanted to, I did. He never gave me a reason to think it wasn’t true. One thing I was certain of, this was a man I could love all of my life. I didn’t know why it worked for us; in truth I didn’t care. He said my touch crackled along his skin like nothing else did. Electric.

When we had to be apart Marco said he ached for anything he could take away from me, anything he could cling to, just to know that it was real, that I loved him back. Thus began the odd tradition of my giving him something from my room. The first night it was a pencil. I know, romantic, huh? Okay, it was one of my art pencils. He said he would put it in a very special place in his room. It was enormously silly, but I loved him for it. Every time he secretly came over, he’d always leave with something from my room. One night, it was a wayward sock of mine. I wasn’t even sure if it was washed – he said he was cool with that. I thought – uh, eeew. But then I realized I’d so be the same way with him. I’d probably be one hell of a sniff freak with his laundry. So yeah, he got the sock. Gay or not, we’re boys, it’s what we do.

Shadowboxing and Champagne

Over the next couple of weeks of summer, our love was a blissful whirlwind of peaks and valleys. Our relationship was like one big roller coaster ride that neither of us wanted to stop. It was exciting, thrilling and at times we marveled at the quietude that would suddenly and unexpectedly consume us. Eyes meeting eyes, followed by mouths and tongues as our bodies learned how to mold ourselves into one another. Those were the peaks.

It was the valleys that got to me.

Work became a distraction that left me very frustrated. The blow was lessened only when Marco would show up like the great big gift he was and hang out in the kitchen area while I waited out the one or two customers who lost their way to our store. He never complained about my summer schedule. He hadn’t lied when he said he just wanted to be near me. Once he told me that every time he had to leave me he had to fight with his desire to run back to me because he just couldn’t stand to be apart. I blushed so hard at that. I couldn’t fathom why he felt the way he did. I told him as much, to which he simply said it wasn’t for me to understand. It just was, and I better get used to it ‘cause he wasn’t going anywhere.

I said something about moth to a flame, you know, that old adage or proverb or whatever. And he said that he’d rather risk being burned alive by me, thankful for whatever few moments I would give him and that if his life were to end (my heart lurched at the very thought of his being taken away from me – even in jest) that he would die a very happy man that I had given him anything. He cherished every moment I could spare. I found I wanted to keep precious little to myself. I’d gladly give him every moment of my life if it would please him.

He said it would.

Given the small town with its roving and prying eyes (his words, not mine, though I knew them to be true), we were very careful to plan our getaways with minimal detection. Was it a pain? Sort of. But I didn’t focus too much on that. I guess I was just soaring so high that the man in my arms, the one who searched my soul for confirmation that we were one, had my focus all wrapped up in him – I didn’t necessarily spare a thought for how or why we were doing the things we were doing.

It just was, and it was glorious.

He spent a fair amount of money on me – for which I felt enormously guilty. I mean, I knew his family was rich. After all, his dad was the local doctor in town with a thriving practice – hell, my family even went to his father. He said the money didn’t matter to him. I guess it didn’t if you had it in abundance. When he saw how much it bothered me though he relented and allowed me to pay for some things for us. Though I spied once or twice that he slipped some bills into my wallet to replace what I’d spent. I could have made a big deal about it, but I knew it was coming from his heart. He just wanted to make life easier for me. For us. It bothered me, but I understood why he did what he did. I think he knew that I knew. We just never talked about it. We didn’t need to.

After a while, I purposefully would leave my wallet around where he could get to it. Not because I wanted a sugar daddy or anything like that, but because it mattered to him. Hell, I didn’t care if he took my money. I just wanted to do whatever made him happy. His providing for me in whatever way he could think of made him deliriously happy. So I made sure I was never the one to stop him.

As for our getaways, we were all over the map. Well, any place other than the small confines of Mercy. He entertained me just driving to Carmel, Monterey or Santa Cruz – far enough away that we were reasonably safe from that intrusive world we called home.

While money wasn’t the issue for us – he constantly kept telling me not to worry about it, that to just enjoy myself – it was awkward at times, though I endured it just because it was my guy. He’d never intentionally hurt me or cause me pain or grief. I knew that. He had my back. He was my rock. We just wanted away time. Together time.

I’d say I was in a whirlwind romance but, in all honestly, I didn’t have anything to compare it to – other than the fact that it was all happening so fast. Though even the slow moments, those moments when there was very little separating us, his face millimeters from my own, his breath caressing my skin, seemed to flit by far quicker than we’d like.

That was always the feeling we shared. No matter how long we were together, it just wasn’t enough. It never was. That ache for him would begin the moment our bodies parted when we’d say our goodbyes for the night. I wouldn’t even make it to the door before he’d be calling my cell phone so he could talk to me on the drive home. That was invariably followed by talking as we prepared for bed and then at least an hour or two until we became too drowsy with sleep to go on. We talked about everything. The topics I’d bring up were so random that he never had to struggle to come up with a subject. He said he liked that about me, the surprises I’d bring him when we talked. It made me blush every time he commented on something he liked about me. He was my constant companion.

His was the first voice I heard in the morning, and the last I heard at night.

Oh, baby. Was I ever in luurrve.

But that’s what terrified me the most. It was the absolute horror that it could all be taken away. I found that I was metaphorically holding onto “us” with a white-knuckled death grip. I often found myself desperate with worry, just thinking about losing him. I tried to never let it show. I’d like to think I was successful, but of course, I never really knew if he sensed it. He never said he did. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe.

I knew my fears were completely unfounded. He’d never given me any reason to worry about us. If I went by what he said and did, it was real. And it was forever. It was his confidence in the power of us that I held onto. I needed it, I needed him. I was my own worst enemy. I knew it – didn’t mean I could do much about it, try as I might. I wasn’t stupid though, because I realized I needed to check that doubting bastard inside of me and beat him back into the darkest depths of my psyche if I had any hope of keeping Marco in my life. No one, no matter how much they said they loved you, would want to deal with a basket case. It would just wear them down. Then I really couldn’t blame him for ditching me if I went jack-shit crazy. My own fears would drive him away, into someone else’s arms. I couldn’t let that happen, but I could definitely see how it could all get away from me.

But like I said, he never gave me any reason to doubt him. He was a rock when it came to us. For him, we simply were. For him, there would always be an ‘us.’ And I have to admit, at times I could see it. The way we could just look at each other and say absolutely nothing. We didn’t need to. He completed me in ways I never even anticipated I needed. I’d thought, off-handedly in the heat of our first meeting, that he was fucking brilliant. I found out over the next couple of weeks how prophetic that statement truly was. Sure he was smart, no dumb jock that was for sure. But he was brilliant because he was so perceptive. I guess it had to do with his football training. He hinted as much. He knew what I wanted before I could put a word to it. He just knew. How? I had absolutely no idea. But it was automatic between us. He reached and I was there. I’d want and he was there, every time, without question, without fail. He knew what to do to make me feel like the center of the universe.

We had sex.

Many times.

I can’t put too grand an emphasis on this aspect of our relationship. We were teenage boys who didn’t have to worry about pregnancies or the like. So we made out whenever the moment made itself available to us – and we made sure that we had plenty of opportunities to make love. His having a car and money didn’t hurt either in that department. You’d think that the familiarity of doing it as often as we did would’ve lessened the need over time. Nothing could be further from the truth. Every time he took me to his arms, he filled me in ways I never dreamed were possible – not just with the prodigious gifts his anatomy afforded him, but with the enormity with which he relished everything about me. His love was monumental, awe inspiring. So much so that when he left, I physically ached from the loss. I don’t know why he craved me, but I completely understood why I craved him, nearly pined for him when we were apart.

But then again, being horny all the time wasn’t difficult. We were at that age where contemplating bathroom tiling made us hard. Marco was a voraciously demanding lover. Funny thing was, I discovered I desired that and he made sure that I never was for want when it came to making love. But so far it had been a lot of rubbing, sucking, jerking – and okay, I know how that sounds. Like we didn’t really know what we were doing, right? Well, we were still trying to figure things out between us. I mean we knew what two guys could do. There is the internet for Chrissake – it wasn’t like we hadn’t sorted out what could go where.

But he was such a thoughtful man about it. He had needs but he was so contemplative about when our first time was going to happen, our first time when we’d actually do it, where I would truly give myself to him. He was so loving and careful when he could have easily lapsed into throwing me in the back seat of his classic Impala and boning me to his heart’s content. Truth be known, I probably would have been okay with that. I just wanted him. I would do anything he asked, no matter the pain it might cause me. You can imagine my surprise in what he asked of me was patience. What he asked of me was to love and trust him.

And so, I did.

But that’s not to say he didn’t know how to woo. He definitely knew how to lay it on, and lay it on thick, at that. When my eighteenth rolled around that second day of August, he prepared a romantic picnic dinner and drove us out to a secluded area in Big Sur where his family had a cabin. We ate dinner along the wiry cypresses that hung out dramatically from the cliffs. Could we have stayed closer to town? Sure, but he didn’t want to spend such an important day in my life (no matter how much I told him it was no “big deal”) by simply hanging out closer to town. He was such a romantic at heart. Who knew? I even got flowers as part of the deal.

He just shook his head in complete disbelief in how easily I was writing the whole thing off. In his book of all things me, he explained as we shared strawberries with Champagne that he snuck out of his home, that to him, my 18th was a fucking national holiday. Banks should fucking close, for Chrissake – or so he claimed. Then wonder of all wonders, he did something that turned my world upside down. Literally. My stomach flipped; my heart raced then stopped abruptly. I thought I was going to vomit. Now ain’t that a pretty picture? Now you can see how I might have reason to worry in driving him away.

It was such a simple act, really. He’d obviously put a great deal of thought behind it. I pondered afterwards how much he probably rehearsed it so it would go so smoothly. As with all things in his life, he did it with such grace. But lord, did he make my heart stop when it happened.

We were laughing after he said something funny and I snorted on a piece of strawberry and the Champagne ended up bubbling out of my nose. Embarrassed, I put a hand up to my face to wipe myself. In the middle our laughter – through tears I might add, which is the best kind of laughter – he simply took my hand. I blinked or something, not really thinking anything of his taking my hand in his. We did it so often that it was just natural.

That’s when he brought my world to a complete standstill.

I swear the air stopped, became viscous, even. The wildlife paused – I thought even the waves stopped beating upon the shore. The silence of that moment had weight. At first, I didn’t know what that strange feeling was: a simple circle of metal, cold, weighted on my finger. A ring.

He gave me a ring – a band of silver-looking metal (which I found out later to be platinum – nothing but the best from my guy) comprised of intertwined vines that culminated in an inflamed heart made of garnet. It was slightly Goth-looking, sexy, and in no way a chick ring even though it kind of sounded like one when you tried to describe it. Something a rock star would wear.

Okay, I cried.

Like a fucking Tesla going from zero to sixty – I went from laughter to downright heart-wrenching tears in less than 5 seconds. You would have thought he actually proposed. I guess, in a way, he had, which is what touched me so. I don’t know why it completely undid me, but it did. He pulled me to him, smothered me with kisses and soft murmurs of how much he loved me. His eyes were glistening; he was full of love. I could see it. I didn’t understand it. I didn’t understand how someone as amazing and as confident in life would even notice me much less than give me a ring that said to me that I was his and he was mine.

And you’d think that he’d be golden, right? That that was enough. I mean, flowers, a dinner, a muthafucking ring for Chrissake! But that wasn’t the best part of my eighteenth birthday. That distinction went to when he took me in the bedroom of the family cabin and made slow, arduous, and soul wrenching love to me. It felt like he was possessing every inch of me – made love to the man he said he wanted for the better part of two long years. Muthafuckin’ me! Elliot Donahey had snagged himself a man! Whoo-doggie, the girls back at the office were so gonna hear about this! ‘Cept of course, there were no girls. Nor did I work in an office. But those are just pesky details. It didn’t take away from the moment. Not in the least.

I already surmised that he was a man full of surprises. He was thoughtful, gentle and very passionate. But the most surprising thing about him was his patience. I was a jumble of nerves and conflicting emotions. Not about him. I knew I loved him. I was overwrought inside, concerned if I would make the grade, be an adequate lover the way he would wish me to be. Turns out, I needn’t have worried.

He was so sweet-tempered, taking his time to undress me slowly, gently batting my hands away anytime I tried to help him. With a lone small table lamp on the nightstand next to the bed, our bodies shadowboxed on the wall behind us. In that silhouette I became so ultra-aware of how inadequate my body was in comparison to his. I tried to hide it, painfully aware of how glorious he was, and how not, I was.

He smiled softly, but he said I was perfect for him in every way. He reminded me gently of how long he had watched me, how his desire to have me for himself had built over the past two years. Then he said the most amazing thing to me: he told me that he hoped that he would be everything I would want in a lover, that what I thought mattered to him so much that he was a bit nervous. He hoped it would be good for me. His hands were trembling, a slight quiver to his voice. My heart melted for him.

I just watched him. I heard the words; I knew what they meant. But for the life of me I couldn’t make it make sense. I could see he was becoming pensive, being so vulnerable with me about his insecurities. There was no way I was going to let him think he would ever be inadequate.

I pulled him to me and we fell onto the bed with a ferocity that I didn’t know I had. We tangled; we writhed, our bodies becoming slick with the passion we felt for each other. And it mattered to me that he was just as unsure as I was. Marco, my confident, sexy-as-hell boyfriend, was vulnerable with me. He allowed me to see that in him. And it mattered. It mattered in ways I couldn’t even fathom in that moment of our passion. It was something I found I would ponder from time to time thereafter. Truly astonished that someone who seemed so sure of himself and his place in the world, was worried about what I thought of him, of whether he’d measure up to what I wanted. If anything, it made my heart flutter just thinking about it, the way that sentiment from him did. But after that admission, I could see it in his eyes. Tucked there, in the furthest reaches, along with his abiding love for me was the fear that he’d fail me. Absurd. Completely absurd that he could ever fail me.

His kisses brought me back to the moment.

He whispered that he loved me, every inch of me, proving to me that he did by covering every inch of me in soft kisses. I tried to return each of his ministrations, but he wouldn’t have it. He said it was my night. He wanted to spend the night making love to me, pleasuring me, letting me take from him what I wanted.

And make no mistake, I wanted him.

When the moment arrived, he looked into my eyes, and he spoke of our love again – of how he knew how much trust I was putting in him. I had reason to be concerned – he was no shrinking violet. Italian Stallion didn’t begin to cover it. But there was no way I was not going to do this. With an ample gob of lube, he worked his fingers into my ass to get me used to it. I knew he didn’t have to do that, after all, he was a hormone raging teenage boy – as was I. He could have just plowed me for all I was worth. But he didn’t. That’s not my Marco.

After a few minutes of his fingering me because we’d watched it on a porn once (exchanging charged looks between us as we did so), I told him I thought I was ready. He leaned down and we kissed very tenderly. He asked me again if I thought I was sure. He wanted me to have a way out if I was worried. No way. I was in all the way. I wanted him to take me, no matter the pain, no matter the cost. He slicked up his sizable condom-sheathed cock, my eyes wide at how much of him there was. I wasn’t sure how all of him was going to fit in so little of me. But I’d remembered the porn videos about it and saw that some twinkish guys like me were able to take some massively hung men – so in theory it was possible. A part of me was inflamed with the possibility, but the more reasonable part, the part that was speaking fairly loud at this point, wasn’t so sure.

He paused, unsure if we should do this. No going back. I reached down between my legs and gripped that slicked up monster cock of his and pulled him to me, letting him firmly know that we’d passed that point of no return the moment we became a couple. I wanted him to know that I was good with it. I wanted it. I wanted him.

I don’t know if he thought it would be sexy or if he was trying to distract me from that impressive cock of his, but when he pressed into me, kissing me while he was shaking it a bit with his hand as if that would get me to loosen up further, there was precious little that would have distracted me from what I was feeling. There was no denying it. It hurt, far more than I was prepared.

With my sharp intake of breath and a deep moan, he stopped – his eyes soft with fear, saying over and over how sorry he was – that we should stop. When he began to withdraw I found something within me clicked, I knew I didn’t want him to stop. I hooked my feet around his back and drew him forward. I was already committed to being there for him. I would endure anything for him – even if that meant enduring the pain as if he were cleaving me in two. I was determined for my body to learn of his passions and not only accommodate them, but become adept at pleasuring him. I never wanted to become so good at something as I did in that moment.

I once read somewhere online that Linda Lovelace had said that fucking John Holmes was like squatting on a telephone pole. That sister was preaching to the choir here. But he meant that much to me, so I begged him to continue, biting my lip as he pulled me to him. His next few thrusts into me burned, and I hissed – part in pain and part in a blossoming raw erotic pleasure. Then before I realized it, his fucking me caught fire, ignited an inferno of desire and then I couldn’t get enough of him. My legs had moved from being at his side to finding their way onto his shoulders as he brought our bodies together in a thunderous clap of sweat, flesh and passion. My toes curled from the largeness of his moving deep within me. I moaned – loudly. I tried to keep from calling out his name, afraid he would think he was hurting me. And he was hurting me – each time he withdrew, it hurt – hurt that he wasn’t there anymore and I needed him to be there.

He chuckled softly at my pleading for more. He picked up the pace – only because I told him I wanted it to be rougher. Before long I was demanding that he give me his all. And he did. He poured every ounce of his body strength into fucking me, and I met every thrust, hoisting my hips to meet his with a resounding clap of flesh. Panting with exertion, he asked me if I was sure I hadn’t ever done this before. For his cheekiness I clenched my ass tightly around his cock causing both of our eyes to bulge at that sensation. Hands down, that became our new favorite thing. He began begging me to bear down on him as he fucked. I was a quick learner. I could tell he was pleased.

“So good, baby. You’re so fucking beautiful. I just want to make love to you. That’s all I want to do,” he murmured as we kissed between his impassioned words. I just nodded. I was beyond words to tell him what I was feeling for him. I hoped like hell he saw it in my eyes.

Without much in the way of warning he leaned forward and bit down on that tendon from my neck to my right shoulder as he continued to take me. His teeth gripped that piece of flesh, rasping his tongue against it – the pull upon my skin burned while he fucked me with reckless abandon. I was in heaven. I was shuddering with how deeply he burnished his way into me. I was on fire. I didn’t want him to stop; I wanted that burn to consume me. I found I would always want him this way. There was no going back. I could feel him sucking very hard upon that tendon. I knew he was leaving a mark. Marking me – making me as his own. I’d wear that proudly. I was putting the world on notice: I was Marco Sforza’s. That put an extra spark in our fucking that had me abandoning any pretense of being quiet. I’d become a dirty little bad boy and I begged him to keep fucking me.

Surprisingly enough, he came after only a few seconds of my dirty talk. Leaning forward so our foreheads touched, he giggled and told me I got him so hot when I said those dirty things to him. I felt sort of cheesy saying them – like I was some sexy porn star, but fuck, he was doing me good and it just seemed to spill out without much thought on my part. I told him if he fucked me like that I’d always remember to do that for him. He smiled as we kissed. I felt him wane a bit, though never really slipping from me, but as the kiss blossomed in the afterglow, his cock stirred to life and we went for another round right on the spot, laughing as we did so. Ever laugh while you fuck? I can tell you now, I highly recommend it.

Hours later on the drive home I told him I’d never felt anything so moving. True enough, my ass ached, though not from pain but rather from his absence. I wanted him to fuck me again, almost begged him to pull over to the side of the road so he could. I was that hot for it. He smirked in that sexy way he does because he was embarrassed that I made it sound like a dirty little porno scene we’d watched. Then I confessed to what I was really feeling inside – it had moved me – when we made love I said it was like he’d kissed my soul. And I told him I wasn’t fucking around with words – I meant every word I said. I could tell that Marco wanted to smirk at that, but one sideward glance my way and he could see my eyes moist with heartfelt emotion. I couldn’t help it, I had a glistening ring on my hand, I’d made love (more than once, I might add) and I was madly in love with the star quarterback of Mercy High. It just didn’t get any better. I knew this moment was golden. I was trying like hell to commit every single second of it to memory, trying desperately not to forget a single breathtaking moment from it.

I told him that it was hands down the best damned birthday I’d ever had. Then I ended up breaking the awkward spell and laughed nervously. He eventually joined in, but I think in the deepest part of his heart he was truly touched. It seemed that way when I spied him from the corner of my eye as he drove. We held hands in the car on the way home. He radiated warmth from his large rough hands. Mine were frigid. Holding his leeched away the cold, made me feel whole again.

Glancing at our enjoined hands, he told me that he’d come up with a secret sort of way for him to let me know that he wanted to make love to me. He said that if he rubbed his thumb along my palm the amount of pressure he applied was like a scale. The harder he rubbed, the more intense was his desire to fuck me. I flushed from head to toe, then rolled my eyes if only to hide how much I loved the idea that he could convey with touch how much he wanted me. So what I told him was that I thought that was the sexiest thing that he could say to me. We laughed softly – letting ourselves enjoy how sexual we could be with one another, how safe it was to be with one another. The time we made love back at the cabin he swore to me that it was something he’d never forget. As he said this he was rubbing my palm so hard on the way home I think he bruised my hand.

We fucked again in back seat of the car, nestled between some trees, about a block from my house. He soothed that ache away – filling me with everything he had to give.

Of Note ...

Musings and Notes

Have faith … all is not lost with my boys of Mercy, California. They all have a great deal left to tell. Elliot may be down for the moment, but he is certainly not out. He will rise, in ways greater and more monumental than even Marco realizes when he picks up the story in Volume 2.

While I have liberally used the incredible work of Jay Brannan through out the series, I would be remiss to not explain why his work has influenced my own. Though at the half-century mark myself, I craved men’s voices like Brannan’s in my life. His passion for the work he does would’ve given me strength where I never thought I had any. As a teen, like Elliot in my world, Brannan would have easily been my celebrity crush. I would’ve fanboy’d all over him. Who would need wallpaper if I could cover the walls with him?

Angels came to me while I was listening to Jay’s Rob Me Blind (the reason it is crucial to the series). It was from this collection of thoughts and emotions that Jay poured into his work that I wanted to play with, to find and create two boys who would be deeply rooted in those emotive moments of hope and fear, of love and the potential for abandonment in asking for that love in return.

My boys all have angelic names – Elliot’s first name is Cassiel – the angel of tears and regrets. Marco’s is Raphael (the arch angel – it is really his story to tell – everything hinges on him and his actions), and there is another whose name is Azreal (the avenging angel – the angel that sits in judgement).

This is not happenstance.

Each boy embodies these thematic elements and I use those angelic positions to create the world they occupy. This is not a Christian work. It is not meant to be. My Angels are metaphorical. I am a humanist by nature. I am also a gay man living in a world where we are constantly reminded that we are not like everyone else. As queer people the media hounds us each day that our love is still the unspoken one. Commercials, print media, the internet, you name it – it is dominated by the heterosexual normative that berates us everyday that we, despite our strive for equality, are not like them.

Angels of Mercy is a character study. It was far more important to me as its author that the reader come away with the whys of Elliot’s choices in how he navigates his often tumultuous world. The same can be said of Marco who will pick up the tale with Volume Two. I’ve read much queer literature and what I find rather interesting is that for the majority of it, very little is written about the character’s headspace. When you live in a world where you constantly have to be vigilant as you navigate through, it can make for some very powerful storytelling. That is my goal in writing these boys’ lives. I want the reader who may not be queer themselves to come away with what it might be like to be in a gayboy’s shoes – constantly polling and pulse-checking your world because your very survival depends upon it. All of that while you hope, you secretly pray that you’ll find someone who will see you too and find they can’t live without you in their world. A small slice of happiness to call your own. And though you do everything to keep to yourself, you may still run into those who find your very existence threatens who they are and how they think the world should run.

But love is love, as they say.

What I do know is that when it is present, it is all consuming and all encompassing. It tears down walls, it shatters lives and it rules the head and heart as no other can. I know that because I am happy to live it with my own husband of twenty years (as of the writing of this book).

Brannan’s Rob Me Blind are where my boys spring from. It is their emotive core, it is the root of everything they are. You want to hear what they’re about? I highly recommend that you listen to the album. They’re there. I listened to it constantly while writing the series (well that, and anything by another amazing gay composer – you might’ve heard of him too, Pyotr Illyich Tchaikovsky – it is no coincidence that I am pairing these two gay men’s work with my own). Men’s voices, gay men’s voices are important to me. When rooted in our collective consciousness of who and what we are and how we fight to eke out any happiness in this world, it can be a powerful place from which to create. Marco, Elliot and Pietro’s voices are all trying to evoke the very hopes, fears and struggles that we, as gay men, face in an increasingly alternating world of acceptance and intolerance.

As an artist, I am deeply respectful of Brannan’s work. I am grateful that he has the courage and the drive to do what he does. What’s more, I am inspired by it. He is, in many respects, my muse for the work. He didn’t ask for it, he never knew it was. But it is his voice that gave me my own for my boys of Mercy, California and the dark, powerful and turbulent story these boys have to tell.

Angels is not an easy series to write. These men face some very difficult and emotive times ahead. Men struggle with the expression of emotions. Even gay men struggle with how to express ourselves and gain acceptance and recognition of our voice being out there in the mainstream at all. It takes a certain courage to do that.

But Jay has been my light in that. His courage to constantly get out there and keep doing it, for putting a powerful and emotive voice into a very turbulent world, I can’t help but be inspired. For that I am deeply grateful and very respectful of how I use his work to influence my own. I asked him for permission to do so. It was important – one artist to another, that I gave him a moment to comment, to allow or deny what I wanted to say when quoting his work in my own. I could’ve easily created a character based on Brannan and his work. I could’ve spun a different set of songs that carried the same emotive weight.

I felt I couldn’t do that.

I thought it would not give Brannan his proper due.

His work, though unrelated directly to mine, is my light for these boys as the find their Ever After Happily – it won’t come easy, it won’t be without price. But life is like that. Life can be dark, it can be cruel – but it doesn’t mean that the spark of hope that you will endure, that the love you have for another will endure will fail you. It is this singular point that presses me to write Angels. That pinprick of light, that emotive shard of hope that is constantly threaded in Brannan’s work is my muse – it is what will give my boys what they desire.

I hope you stay with me for the journey.

And I hope you seek out Brannan’s work. You’ll no doubt find it will pay you in emotive dividends as it does me.

Words, however powerfully composed, simply fail me to express the depth of gratitude I have for Brannan’s Rob Me Blind and the world it brought to me. It is a debt that will go unpaid until I breathe my last.

Thank you Mr. Brannan, in ways I can never truly express. My boys exist because you do. Were Marco, Elliot and Pietro alive, I know they would thank you too.

Acknowledgements

Mille Grazie

Acknowledgements

Creation doesn’t happen in a vacuum. Inspiration and encouragement come from many sources. I want to acknowledge the following in helping me (in one way or another) get Angels on its feet: first and foremost – my husband JL (the love of my life and the life of my love – where do you think Marco got it?). To Whitney and Keely Fry, Jeffrey Merrell Davis, Michael Rumsey, Kyle Chamley, Vincent Mazza, Matthew Gallien, Shane Sahadi, Carmen Lutes, Patricia Hamilton, Brad Vance, SJD Peterson, Jayne Lockwood, and my muse for the project: Jay Brannan (for providing the soundtrack for the series even if he had no idea that he’d helped in any way). I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention my two exotic cats (Katya and Zorro) for providing unconditional love when I kept wondering why I was doing all of this in the first place. I thank you, one and all.

Though it has been many years since I have been in high school, breathing life into Elliot and Marco was a reminder of all those long ago memories that slowly came back to me like withered photographs in a long forgotten book. Some of the remembrances were painful to recall, but they colored Elliot’s journey for me. For me it did get better. Much better – and it isn’t lost on me that luck and my wit played an important part in how much better it got. I am one of the lucky ones. Elliot and Marco’s journey is about love and triumph over a world filled with obstacles. But these boys rise and persevere. I hope you will join me in seeing just how far they go to find their Ever After Happily.