Everyone needs a helping hand at one time or another to find their path to love. Sometimes the hand is extended from a person or other times it’s a gentle push from circumstances. Either way, if like the gay men in these stories, the man takes the hint, he will discover happily ever after isn’t just a slogan but a reality.
Contains the stories:
12 Blind Dates: Luke’s best friends Tina, Gina, and Rita think it’s time for Luke to get over his breakup with his former boyfriend and plot to get him back in circulation.
A Kiss in Time: When tagger and parkour enthusiast Eric sees fellow student Joel arguing with a woman about being gay, Eric runs to his aid. What seems like a helpful kiss turns a lot more complicated.
The Thaw: A country doctor leaves a cabin and plot of land to two young men. He hopes farmer Vlad and rancher Tommy, once boyhood friends, will reconnect and settle their differences.
A Short Essay on Love: College football star Jason must go to English lab tutor Steve for help. Steve just doesn’t realize how much help Jason needs to find his way to love.
Publisher: JMS Books (https://www.jms-books.com/)
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From 12 Blind Dates:
Dates two and three were total busts. Nightmares better forgotten than recorded.
Gina set up date two at a prix fix French restaurant fifteen miles out of town in an old refurbished farmhouse. The chef, his wife, and two adult sons had relocated to the area from Lyon, bringing with them family recipes and a Cordon Bleu experience.
I’d heard good things about it and looked forward to eating there. Reservations were backed up for months, so they were only available on a know-somebody-who-knows-somebody basis. Gina’s firm was handling their publicity, so she knew the chef, his wife, and their sons. She assured me I would get top-line service. Even on a busy Saturday night.
Unfortunately, since my date was a no-show, I also got top-line visibility.
READ MOREAfter a half hour of waiting for him and not drinking the house-comped wine—I still had to drive back home—we all gave up on seeing or hearing from him. The management kindly loaded up my food. The chef even taped reheating instructions to every parchment-wrapped bundle. I did the walk-of-shame from the best table in the house to the front door then all but ran to my car. If the food hadn’t smelled so good, I would have tossed it into the nearest garbage can.
Gina, backed by Rita and Tina, pounded on my front door Sunday morning, ready to throw herself on a sword in remorse.
“Go away. It’s not your fault,” I shouted through the door.
Little did I know I’d get to say this a few more times in the coming week.
After a while, the Trio left. The night before, I’d drunk a bottle of wine, so with a hangover, I went back to bed.
* * * *
No rest for the wicked, however, since I still had an open-mic poetry reading at a local bookstore with Paulo for date number three.
Groucho’s Bestsellers started as a used bookstore and comic shop, and hadn’t changed in decades. In fact, it was probably the most down-to-earth bookstore on the planet stocked with works from defunct small presses, random poetry houses, and overflowing shelves of mystery, science fiction, fantasy, and other genres lofty critics usually sneered at. If nothing else, an open-mic late afternoon should be interesting.
Paulo showed up wearing a beret, a mime’s striped, long-sleeve knit shirt, chef’s pants, and combat boots. His face was so pale I wanted to check his pulse to see if he was alive.
“Man, am I scared.”
“Um, why?” I didn’t get it. Hadn’t he signed up to do this?
“Oh, man, your friends didn’t tell you?” I must have looked blank because he hurried on. “I’m reading first from my epic poem, Whither the Wildebeest. It’s about my migration from riches to rags.”
“Okay. Can’t wait to hear it.” Actually, I couldn’t. The title and explanation were about what I’d expect from Groucho’s.
“Oh, man. I feel like I’m gonna hurl.”
An hour later, I was still waiting to hear the poem. Paulo, unfortunately, had walked up to the mic, tripped on the mic wire, slammed into the stool, face-planted at the foot of the stage, vomited, and passed out in a pool of blood from the gash in his forehead. After EMT’s and ambulance personnel left, the poetry reading was cancelled.
COLLAPSE