Bit of a deviation...

Today I worked on Simon's coloring book, which will be used against him by the prosecution. Each four lines would fit a sketch to be colored in, with the words embedded in the frame around them. I may publish it as a companion to Demented Dreams: of guys in trouble. Maybe...Demented Dreams, of guys gone missing.

I may bring it up to 24 frames...so 24 stanzas. We'll see...

-------

1.
So Johnny was the kind of lad
Who treated his girl, Jen, so bad
It often made her very sad...
Till one of her friends said she had

2.
A way to handle any boy
Who thought all females were a toy
To use, and knew she would enjoy

The way it truly would annoy

3.
Him. So Jen made the final call.
A guy named Hank said, “Leave it all
With us. He’s the kind who’ll enthrall
My men to join me at the mall.”

4.
So Jen left Johnny on his own
Outside the ladies’ room. She’d shown

Hank who he was. “He is well-grown,”

Said Hank. “So no need to postpone.”

5.
The flyers warned of the same thing,
Young men were missing, with their name
And photos posted. It’s no game.
Seems Hank and his crew were to blame.

6.
Which they proved, grabbing Johnny quick
And strong. All he could do is kick
And twist, but they knew every trick
To gain control. It was so slick.

7.
His jacket was tossed from the truck.
No Stars and Bars. Those are bad luck.
Jen grabbed it, quickly, from the muck
And waved bye to the little schmuck.

8.
So Johnny was well-gagged and bound
Both hand and foot. They did not pound
Him, as there was no need, they found,
For all was done without a sound.

9.
That was when Hank thought to explore
To see what Johnny had, and more.
Pulled down his jeans. His shirt he tore.
Same for his briefs. “Guys, we did score,”

10. 

Said Hank. “He’ll bring us lots of bucks.
His dick and ass are so deluxe,
And he’s a virgin. That instructs
Us...prepare for a cash influx.”

11. 

Then Ricky, who’s part of the team
Asked Hank, “May I fulfill a dream
Of bringing forth his first full stream
Caused by a man? See if he’ll scream.”

12.

Hank said, “Okay. One caveat.
His ass remains a virgin spot
As does his mouth. Because my thought
Is those untouched means he’ll be bought

13. 

For twice the money I’ll announce.
I know of clients who will pounce
On bidding for him. It may bounce
To triple. Each will want to trounce

14. 

The other.” So the game was set.
And in the warehouse, they were met
By more men, who were to abet
In prepping Johnny. They would get

15. 

Him stripped and bathed and bound so he
Was nude, to be viewed openly,
Thus proving everything they’d see
Was real, for which all could agree.

16. 

Johnny was sweet, both front and back.
Worth every penny they might tack

Onto his value. With no lack
Of clients placing bids. They’d crack

17. 

All records. Money pledged so high
Hank had to tell his female spy
“See what we’re making here? Let’s try
To find more men just like this guy.”

18. 

She showed him half a dozen more
Of soldiers, sailors she could score.
Just jerks who treat girls like a whore.
So vanish them into Hank’s store.

19.
Which wasn’t patronized on Earth.
Up off the planet there’s no dearth
Of humanoids, who find great mirth
In using fine young males of worth.

20. 

Above ten-million was the bid
For Johnny, that won them the kid.

So into a pod he was slid
And of him, now the world was rid.

The rest of the chapter...

I think this works...but we'll see, once the piece is done...

---------

At the next major thoroughfare, they turned left and headed straight towards the storm. 

How appropriate, Simon thought, still calm. Like they were going to a party. 

The passing yards that grew wider and wider, surrounded by thick, towering trees. Like nooks cut intof a forest. Politely trimmed. Little traffic. Peaceful. Mesmerizing. Giving neither cop any cause to glance back at him. 

So he casually leaned against the window and focused on the storm clouds, growling and dancing and billowing so beautifully. Shades of gray interspersed with white cotton and quick shafts of sunlight shooting past them. 

It was curious how something so obviously violent could bring him such contentment. Such stillness. They were north of town, weren’t they? Perhaps even northwest so might drive straight into it. He caught curtains of rain descending, well behind the houses and trees. Wouldn’t that also be appropriate? As this would be his final storm. 

Why did he care so little? Had his time in jail had crushed all remaining sense of life in him? The others trapped in that foul facility thought him a coward for letting them take what they wanted. They didn’t understand it was only apathy, not fear. Why fight over something that doesn’t matter to you, anymore? Why worry about who was on top when it was of no importance in the true of things? Let others fight like beasts over rankings that barely mattered in a schoolyard. 

This was nothing new to Simon. For most of his life, he had left others to themselves. That was probably why Doyle had been able to manipulate him for so long. He hadn’t cared enough to stop it until it became unbearable. And even then, all he had done is find a new hole to hide in.

To stay in, once Doyle had passed. 

He had just...had just kept himself separate from the world and its dangers. He’d wanted no chance of a repeat with another Doyle. And the man's friends...friends who never came to see him during his illness...they proved there were more of him around. Too many of him around.

The one positive aspect of the man’s suffering? It had helped Simon with those he tended to, afterwards. Other men who were slowly dying. Men who hadn’t been selfish monsters or sadistic beasts. Who had sought love...given love...and were now being destroyed by that love. Men whose families had cut them off. Like his own had. By the very people who should have supported them.

He came to believe such families were cowards. Filthy, hateful people who thought more of their position in their tiny community than those who needed them most. Who chose to believe lies. Who gladly fell in with assholes who called this a divine punishment, and conveniently ignored how it was merely a venereal disease, like syphilis or gonorrhea. Both of which had also once been fatal.

He tended to these men as gently as a mother might. He listened to their regrets. To the dreams they once had. The lives they’d expected. The men they’d loved. Or hated. Or both. 

And he was deeply cut by how...no matter what they said, no matter what their condition or situation...they seemed to have lived lives far richer than he had ever allowed himself to. Been far more decent and human than he. Been who they wanted to be and built new families and made friends, despite the hate cast their way. Friends who were showing up for them and helping them in any way they could. 

These men had lived as human beings out in the open instead of just existing in the shadows, licking their wounds like a cat or dog after a fight. They could tell Simon anything and know he would keep their secrets. And if needed know, once they were in hospice, he would saint their rooms so the family that had rejected them wouldn’t be too horrified at what they found. 

Even as they were dying they had worried about what their families might think about them after they were gone.

He brought cookies and cupcakes and light salads made of fruit or carrots or macaroni, along with old movies to watch on VHS. He also talked them through depressions and...and on two occasions, remained silent when they confided they could handle the pain and heartache no longer. 

He was able to do all of this without judgement, thanks to having survived Doyle’s hatefulness. With them, he felt a gentle coil of understanding make him part of each one. Until the day came where the disease was minimized in its horror and its death toll collapsed. When the world could accept it was nothing more than a chronic illness and begin to provide for them as it moved on to its next target of disparagement and disapproval. 

That was when Simon had thought he could relax. And had. And all had been fine. So long as he’d been in his own little world. But the second he stepped away from it...

The second he’d come to this goddamned town in this goddamned state...

The world revealed nothing had changed. Not really.

Bouncing around...

I had an idea to add this bit about Roger Hanson to the part where Simon is being taken to Paley by Garisov and Corelli, and it took much of my focus to even start to get it right...

-------

When Simon left the bank, it was closing in on eleven so he hurried for the bus station. It was only a block and a half away. 

En route, he could smell rain in the air. Up above, clouds danced in the sky. Lightning did its pirouettes, soon followed by grumbles of thunder. The atmosphere began to change, rejuvenated him. He was beginning to feel hopeful and... 

A police patrol car pulled up beside him, Corelli behind the wheel in his uniform. Garisov hopped out on the passenger side, also in uniform, blocking his path as he said, “Simon Halloran?” 

Simon stopped, breathless, and glared at him. “You know perfectly well that’s my...” 

Garisov rammed him against the side of the car and handcuffed him as Corelli got out to watch. “You’re under arrest. Come with us.” 

He yanked the back door open, bundled both Simon and his backpack inside, and returned to the front seat. Corelli got in and put the car in gear, then turned right onto the closest side street and off they went. 

The nearest people were down by the bus station, so all they saw was two cops arresting what looked like a homeless person before driving away. Nothing to see here; move along.

But Simon understood. The police station and courthouse were the other direction. They were traveling out of the city. They were taking him someplace to hurt him...maybe kill him, and he was amazed at how little he cared. 

He looked through the wire screen behind the front seats at Corelli as he drove. Gazed upon his beautiful Roman profile. His thick black hair. The glorious shape of his skull and a neck that would be so nice to break. His broad shoulders showing not the least bit of tension. His eyes focused on the road. 

Too bad it wasn’t you under that streetlamp, Simon thought. Then I might have done something worth killing me for. 

For example, he would still have taken that photo. Maybe more. Then if he had objected like Paley did, offered him money to pose. Back at his hotel. Back where he'd be in control.

He had written such a scenario in one of his earliest short stories. Offer money enough to matter then...

Shirtless, that’s all. Well, what about your jeans’ top button undone? Or down a little? Then off, if you’re wearing briefs. If not, then i have some you can put on. That would show the fullness of your beauty. 

Build trust. Worm your way past his defenses. Let him become vulnerable. Sensuous. Finally naked...no, nude. Always nude. At which time he would be available for fondling and servicing and... 

And what was the name of the young man in that story? Roger? Yes, named after Roger Hanson. A gay-for-pay porn star he’d had a crush on, just before he met Doyle. Floppy hair. Porn-stache. Sweet face. Nice body that wasn’t overbuilt. And circumcised. Described as such.

He was fairly certain he still had the issue of Lancer that Roger was highlighted in. Probably at the bottom of one of his boxes of photos, someplace. Back then, he’d still been willing to pretend seduction was the best way to have a man. Bring him to your bed by making him think he wanted to be worshiped by you for his dick. 

Slow and tender was the way. Something he’d actually done more than once. But men had been more open and available, then...before AIDs.

Like that beautiful Persian pilot. Starting out as talk. Then holding. Then kissing. Then more. So many times in the back of the newsstand after closing. His hands allowed to go wherever he wanted them to as he slowly brought the man to nirvana. No fucking. Nothing crude like that. Just...giving pleasure. And taking joy from having someone lovely to embrace.

Corelli...what he was doing, now...he may be lovely, but he didn't deserve any such kindness or consideration. He was only worthy of being tied down and forced. Like he'd also written stories about.

Simon wished he’d been strong enough to begin taking what he'd wanted instead of retiring into shadows. The wounds Doyle inflicted on him had shattered his ability to show grace...and it had infected his work. Nothing he wrote or drew after that time was kind or generous...or even something he really wanted to do. 

Except in his dreams. 

Except in his fantasies. 

When no one could be hurt.

Until now. 

And now he couldn’t do anything. It was too late. All because that lump of muscle fat, Paley, had been there instead of this fine-looking lad. Who was now destroying his soul for the sake of that monster. Not out of desire or want or need, but out of...out of what? Solidarity with the brotherhood? 

So stupid. So fucking stupid.

Back to it...

Some restructuring, today. I took the bit where Simon tends to Doyle as he dies from KS and mixed it into the part where he's being driven to what he knows will be his death.

He doesn't say it, but it's indicated he feels guilty about that and wonders if karma is about to visit him. Mainly due to the brutally honest way he was with Doyle. 

Granted, the man died 40 years ago, and he'd treated Simon abysmally, but he still isn't sure what he did was forgivable. It was a cruel thing to do to a dying man.

Shifting it took some rewriting and trimming, of which there will be a lot more once I have all the parts connected in this draft. But it is coming together...almost despite me.

This is not going to be a short novel. I can easily see it becoming 120K in wordage because I'm letting Simon's mind fill spaces between the actions. Or informing on the actions being taken.

Like when he's in the back of the police cruiser and Officer Corelli is driving. The young man lied under oath to help the cop who arrested Simon, and has effectively kidnapped him. But he still enjoys the young man's Roman profile and thick black hair and broad shoulders...and he wonders what it would have been like to take him. To write him into one of his stories. Even in the middle of a very intense situation.

Simon also wants to remember the beauty of a Persian pilot he became involved with while working at a newsstand. After the Shah was deposed, Iran began killing gay men and women. So Simon wonders about him, even fifty years later. However, that memory will come earlier in the story.

It's almost like MQM is becoming his biography as well as a commentary on the broken system of justice in this country.

Down day...

I'm 74 fucking years old and still cannot quite accept that reality. How the hell did I survive this long? All the stupid shit I've done...yet here I am. Overfed and overly self-indulgent. And working on a book whose meaning escapes me.

Completely.

But ignorance never kept me from doing anything in the past so I guess this won't, either. My one saving grace, at the moment, is I'm having a glass of milk. 2%, not whole. I'm so health-conscious. That it comes after having had a slice of chocolate cake with strawberries is entirely beside the point.

Funny, but milk has always been my go-to when I feel the need to reset myself, in any way. I've never been big on drinking water except to keep from becoming dehydrated. Iced tea is nice, with lemon and a dash of sugar. Hot tea with milk and honey. And DPZ is what I most enjoy with meals.

But milk is almost like a comfort food. I could live on it. Love that cheese is made from it. And butter. And even yoghurt, though I'm not as into that as I used to be. I began to lose interest when Dannon cut back on its offerings, and Greek yoghurt is nice but not quite what I want, anymore.

I'm finding a lot of me is going into Simon, helping to flesh him out. I'm beginning to see him more and more in some believable form, within my mind. And sensing his wishes and dreams...and his own amazement at having reached his age.

He still won't tell me what it is he wants to say with this novel...but I think I can finally trust the process. The spine of the story is there. All that matters now is the flesh on the bones.

Excuses allowed...

Okay, I think I had a rough reaction to the anesthesia used on my colonoscopy. When I returned from it, the rental office noticed I was really loopy and called, today, to see if I was all right. I hadn't realized just how goofy I was.

But yeah, it's like I was drunk. Couldn't have walked a straight line if my life depended on it. And even after sleeping off a lot more of it, that might be what I was so fucked up, all day. And whether it's true or not, I'm sticking with that story.

Today was a lot better. I reworked chapter one of MQM and I think I may have locked in the voice of the piece. Semi-jokey. Detailed more. A light, almost conversational touch on the grammar. And cleared out not only some repetition but some bits that didn't really work.

It helped that the nurse practitioner from Aetna, who was supposed to come check out my meds and see how I'm doing handling the diabetes and such, canceled. An hour before she was due.

On a good note, I got some really good feedback on The Alice '65 from the office secretary. I'd lent it to her and she loved it. Thought it was fun and surprising, and she liked how I showed several aspects of Casey as well as Adam. Even loved Gertrude. That made my day.

Something else it did was give me pause to see I was making MQM too heavy. The story is a tragedy but also the story of an elderly gay man's life. So I'm adding in more fun on his part. Like how he gets a wicked pleasure in writing erotic ditties about men he either likes or wants to get even with...and publishes them.

Simon's no saint...though I just remembered that The Saint was named Simon.

Train wreck

That's me, right now. A survivor. Because I went through the arduous process of preparing for a colonoscopy, yesterday till this morning, and it totally fucked with my brain and emotional stability, let alone physical well-being. All day, all night. And I'm still regrouping.

I thought I'd be able to work on MQM, at least a little, but my brain shot everywhere. I wound up watching all 4 episodes of the 25th season of Midsomer Murders. Which I'd already seen...but recently got a DVD copy of it and have a thing for Nick Hendrix.

Why? No idea. He's not exactly my type. But I used him as the model for Finley Winterbourne in The Beast in the Nothing Room a few years back and my crush has not diminished. This image is from episode three, where a couple of women are watching him build a gazebo, shirtless, and enjoying themselves.

Is that also known as the female gaze? I liked it...and I be so happy they are filming Season 26.

At least I managed to take out my recycling, but I'm giving up on doing anything more. Brain is too fucked up and I'm still on the achy side. I blame it on my age. The last time I had one of these things, I was still in my 60s. Now I'm an old fuck dreaming about Brit boys I'll never never even know.

The horror of all existence...

Zoned...

I have no idea what I did today. Seriously, nothing. It's like I've been grabbed and held in place...

Well...not exactly. I did start prep for a colonoscopy by making Jello. And I worked up diagrams to use for building a couple of crates for boxes of books. But other than that? Blank.

I know I scrolled FB, Xitter, Instagram, email, my GMail and Tumblr. Responded to messages. Sort of. And did get mean-assed a couple times.

Of course, tomorrow's going to be even worse, because then I'm going into heavy-duty prep for an 8am procedure on Wednesday. Liquid diet and a full cleansing.

I've already fucked up by eating a chili relleno that had corn in it. You're supposed to avoid corn for 5 days. So I'm focused on the avoid and will let them know when I check in.

It's funny, but this isn't the first time I've had a colonoscopy. It will be my fourth. And each time a single polyp got removed that turned out to be benign. But something about this one is eating into me.

Maybe it's because my back hurts. My left shin itches from what seems like an insect bite but I can't find evidence of one. My left neck and shoulder are aching. And I'm in my seventies, now. Feeling pretty fragile, even though I know I'm doing a lot better than most people, health wise.

I've also developed Type 2 Diabetes since the last one. So I don't know. Maybe I'm entering full-blown cranky old man phase of life...or just a fatalistic view of everything thanks to age and the political climate.

I do have a couple ideas to add to MQM if I can get past my self-pity. Elissa dissing Simon's art, for one. Maybe. It's insulting, but I don't want this to be initiated by hurt feelings. Yet I'm still lost as to the meaning of the story.

I dunno...I'll just write it and see what comes up.

Addition...

Simon is approached by a representative of Barrington's LGBTQA+ community, who know about Paley and his homophobia. They exchange notes and Simon now has more info to push back against the charges.

I wonder why it took me so long to figure out something like this would happen? There was a news story about his arrest. And it turns out he's not the first person Paley's pulled his nonsense with. But the idea came out of nowhere, today, and added nearly 2000 words to the story.

My feeling is it will also play in later...like maybe they turn on him when he's accused of child molestation. Not sure about that, because it doesn't get broadcast about till after he's dead. I'll have to think about that.

Right now, I think I've got maybe 2/3 of the story worked up. I can see a list of things I need to add in and some I'd been thinking about that aren't necessary. So despite me, it's coming together.

It's been difficult, today, for a different reason. I've been doing a light workout to increase the circulation in my legs, and somehow I hurt my back. The lower left side of it. I went through the motions of what leg exercises I'd done while pressing on it, and I can feel my hips and backbone shifting in a way that is not comfortable.

Amazing. Every time I've tried to work out I've wound up getting hurt. Friends of mine have said the gym is the most dangerous place there is outside of the home...and I now believe them. No more exercises.

All in order...

Kelly Boesch

The parts I've written are now placed about where I think they should go, and this has 53,800 words. There are still some gaps -- like the trial's final arguments and the verdict, Simon in jail, ReShawn taking over Simon's case for appeal -- and I'm already thinking of moving one section to later in the story. But it's got a basic shape, now.

I'm still fighting with the characters as to what the story is about. Is the ending hopeless? Hopeful? Meaningless? Simon is never heroic. He's just stubborn, that's all. ReShawn doesn't save the day. He does as much as he can then moves on with his life. No one is officially punished.

I can't connect it with the ICE murders of Alex Pretti and Renee Goode because those happened in the open and a massive swathe of America is laughing about them. Applauding them. Like they do when ICE murders an immigrant, be they legal or not. The MAGAt Cult comes out to mock the dead and defend the killers.

This story has nothing to do with that. Simon's body was not supposed to be found. Paley wanted it to seem like he jumped bail in the face of accusations of molesting a child. An accusation that falls apart the moment it's examined by the State's Attorney General. It's only a fluke that he is found.

I've already shown the callousness of the system of justice and society at large when dealing with victims of rape, in Bobby Carapisi. Doesn't matter that it was men raped in that story; the attitudes and actions of American society in response to the women and children listed in the Epstein Files and E Jean Carroll only emphasize how cruel and uncaring too damn many people are to everyone in that situation.

I have this nasty feeling I'm going to do a lot of work getting the events in order then finally understand the meaning of it all and have to rearrange everything.