A Place of Safety - Derry / New World For Old / Home Not Home

A Place of Safety - Derry / New World For Old / Home Not Home
All three volumes are available in hardcover, paperback and ebook!

Saturday, August 23, 2025

I'm too old to go so fast...

This is one of those days when all the bullshit caught up to me and I'm looking at over more than a dozen things I need to do, other than write, and am just overwhelmed. I wasn't raised in a world that was running at top speed 24/7. And I'm not emotionally or mentally prepared, or even equipped, to handle that. I never have been.

I've got insurance coming up, for both car and apartment, required. I've got to decide on whether or not to have my gall bladder removed, and when to schedule a colonoscopy, and worry about the co-pays. Prep for a packing job in Houston as well as overseeing an archive pickup in Rhode Island. Work out a way to get to Hong Kong in December, and maybe do Seattle in October. Consider if I want to change health insurance, which is fast approaching, because United Healthcare is messing with my prescriptions. Deal with Walgreens being overloaded by new clients from RiteAid and forgetting to fill my prescription.s Work at publicizing my books. Plan out a trip to Taos for my niece's Christmas get-together when I can't really afford it. Deal with my bank's quirks now that I have a credit card with them...and that's not counting what I'm doing online in supporting Ukraine and fighting against the fascism of Felon47's administration.

Shit...looking at that pile of nonsense, I feel like I'm whining. For no good reason. Which I am. So many people have it far worse. It's just...well...what sent me careening into my own little bit of chaos was receiving a stupid calendar of Ronald Reagan from his ranch or foundation or whatever. I never asked for it. Never gave them a fucking dime, and they're acting like we're best buds? That motherfucker is the reason I left the GOP in 1980 and haven't voted for a Republican since. And I'm going to waste a stamp to let them know it.

Silly thing to trigger me in any way, but when I worked at Heritage a co-worker thought it would be funny to sign me up the with GOP by donating a dollar in my name and using the store's address. I'd get mail non-stop from them, no matter how hard I snarled that they should stop...until I got really vicious and began sending them images of W overseeing the rape of American soldiers. Really nasty shit. That shut them down. I'm just wondering if I'll have to do that, again.

I did get a bit of an uplift in a reel I saw on Instagram. A medical professional pointed out all the reasons they think Felon47 is dying of congestive heart failure...and what hit my brain was "Clots and prayers." May he die sooner than later. And I'm not ashamed of thinking that. He's a menace to America and humanity, and the sooner he is gone the sooner we can start dismantling the MAGAt Class.

It's not much of a bright spot, but it's something...

Friday, August 22, 2025

Whoosh...

Did you ever have a day where you wake up and 13 hours later you can't remember a thing you did? I mean, I know I washed my dishes because I left them from last night and now they're in the rack, almost dry.

I know I made enchiladas and rice because I ate some and built three meals out of the rest. I know I intended to go out to get something I needed but can't remember what it was.

And all of a sudden it was dark outside and I hadn't changed out of my sleeping shorts but have been doing something at my laptop all day. Just not working on BA3...

Where the hell did the time go? And what did I do, during it? It's like I stepped into another dimension and just returned.

I've had moments like this happen before, but usually when I'm driving. I'll be on a freeway zipping along and it's like I pass an exit and think I've got another hour's drive ahead and suddenly I'm there. I'd zoned out and would still be driving like it's no big deal. Fortunately, nothing happened to cause a wreck or problem.

This isn't an age thing. I've done it driving between Austin and Houston or San Antonio, along I-35 or I-10, both of which I'm overly familiar with. That would be 40-45 years ago. And I've done this for short periods in my apartment, before, but not this long.

Yet I cannot visualize or even mentally recreate what-all my day has been. It's a bit spooky.

Oh, I just noticed on my laptop my Photoshop is still open and I made a meme about choosing your battles carefully. Okay...I vaguely recall that. But why is there also a jpg of the image of a '54 Hudson on my desktop, along with a number of gifs that are very NSFW? Meaning I was perusing BDSMLR.com.

Man, as if I'm not crazy enough, already...

Thursday, August 21, 2025

I'm sick...and not of body...

I did another pass over the ending chapters of BA-3 and made it even more kinky than before. Got some voyeurism mixed into the double rape and vampire feedings...

Excuse me, Blood Angel feedings. I had also thought of adding a final chapter, but really like how this one ends, and so it stays.

I know it's nowhere near as monstrous as some of the other dark erotica I've read. Compared to a few writers I follow, I'm still pretty vanilla. Even with the extra horror I've added to the men's deaths. Too damn much empathy.

So now it's up to 15,600 words, and I've worked in a young man named Willem who will become a duòlos for Léonidès' pack, their familiar who can do the day work. Their current one is being raised to vampire level to be Gregory's partner.

Over the weekend I'll do another pass, then go through with Microsoft's Editor to proof it before adjusting it into proper format. At the moment, I'm using Courier 12 point font, double spaced. I'll shift it to Times New Roman, single space with links to each chapter. Then go through it, again. I've got 10 days, overall, which should be enough time.

I cleared my head by watching The Thin Man (1934) with William Powell and Myrna Loy and had fun with it. It's a Dashiell Hammett mystery, though not on the level of The Maltese Falcon. I think I'll now do After the Thin Man (1936). There were 6 total films in the series, and they're pleasant and funny.

Wednesday, August 20, 2025

Rewrite #1 done...

Blood Angel 3 is coming together. Lots of small changes and more than a couple of cut-and-paste bits, but it's smoother and more obvious in its meaning.

I've added about a thousand words. And I clarified the whole Oiym council coming to see Franz was the idea of Nethys, the de facto leader, so it's now at well over 14,700 total. I think I'll do another 3 passes on it before hitting it hard for typos and proofing.

It looks like the Houston job is back on. After a lot of back and forth between various people here, Houston and in London, it was decided I'd go down on the 8th and come back on the 12th in time to get cleaned up and ready to hit Newport.

It's all so crazy. The money will come in handy. I have insurance for car and apartment coming due at the beginning of October and planning for a trip to Taos for a family deal at Christmas. Which is going to cost a lot more than I expected, so every bit helps.

Doesn't help my book sales are way down. Not sure why except I'm doing a shit job of pushing them. I have someone handling publicity but not sure how to expand on that, and everyone who contacts me about selling more copies of my books wants more money. I ain't got it to spare.

I'm halfway thinking of lowering the BA series to $0.99 for each ebook, but they're worth double that. Others are selling books of similar length at $4.99 so it's something I'm not doing right. I just wish I could figure out what the trick to sales is.

Tuesday, August 19, 2025

Whiplash...

Aaaaannnnd, the job in Houston's been postponed to November. Fortunately, I'd bought a refundable ticket so got that back, and canceled the car and hotel without issue. I learned a long time ago to never get anything travel-related that is non-refundable. It costs more, sure, but in the long run it saves your ass in so many ways.

So I will be focusing on getting BA-3 out by Labor Day. I'd hole up in my bed all day, tomorrow, to work on it but I'm meeting people for lunch so have to make myself presentable. And deal with an issue at the pharmacy I use. I tried to get through on the phone but it's one of those times when you get put on hold and then find out there are three calls ahead of you. Easier to deal with in person.

I'll need milk and some other things, anyway, tomorrow.

I'm starting to wonder if Léonidès being so moral and caring works for a vampire story. Not that I can change him, much, at this point. But I could bring out more coldness and cruelty. Emphasize the terror he's wreaking on his choice of victim, even if they do deserve it. 

The two men he and Luahl rape and feed upon at the end of Revelations were part of a group who kidnapped and raped a young woman. Something that is always prevalent in war, even today. The stories about what Russian soldiers have done to women and children in Ukraine are enough to make you despise humanity.

I wonder if that's influencing me in ways I don't really know, yet? Writing Dirc and the Dyarvos Bones (and its precursor, Feeding the Beast) I didn't pay a whole lot of attention to making the guys Dirc and Irin hand over to the alien deserving of it. In many instances, they were innocents. 

But then again, in APoS everything stayed on the humanistic side. So maybe I'm just balancing that out with a touch of the monster in me. I will say it's become more obvious in the last few years...

Fortunately, what a monster requires to break free I'm not willing to do.

Monday, August 18, 2025

Potential delay of BA-3...

Looks like I may be going to Houston for a packing job, depending on the people accepting the costing. It's last minute so everything is more expensive--air fare, hotel, car...and it's leading up to the Labor Day weekend. I'll do what I can, but looks like I won't be able to get BA-Revelations up and ready to go till after I get back.

I am looking into what to do for the avatar. I'd like to keep the current look for this book, so I've asked the photographer if he has any more shots of the intense guy in this photo. I want a single shot, no one extra in it. If he doesn't, I have another manipulated photo I've licensed from him that I could use. It's just more different than I'd like.

So...to put it simply, I have a total of six sections of Blood Angel written in one stage or another.  BA-1 Léonidès and BA-2 The Prussian are available in ebook form. BA-3 Revelations, BA-4 Journey to Compromise, BA-5 War Feasts, and BA-6 New Orleans are in first draft form. BA-7 is still percolating, but it's set in modern times and I have ideas for it.

Once all of them are done, if I was to put them into a paperback format they'd be a good novel length. Not Stephen King length, but solid. Still...that's a ways off. I'll be doing good to get 3 and 4 out by the end of the year...maybe 5. Six is going to be an undertaking...

But I am enjoying it, again, no matter how much I gripe. I like writing gay erotic suspense and horror. Good-looking men in trouble...their virginity threatened and sometimes taken...when they have it.

I guess I've found my niche, and working outside of it isn't going to do me a damn bit of good.

Sunday, August 17, 2025

On a side note...

I ran across this photograph and it gave me a serious case of the palpitations. Because he is gorgeous. Dark hair and eyes. Clean features. Cool expression that runs the balance between inviting and standoffish. He appeals to me in ways I cannot explain, because it's not just his beauty. It's the whole aura. I would need to know nothing about him to want to meet him.

But then...after a moment...I noticed little things that were off. His tie's knot is weird. And his belt buckle has no belt. And his ears are not evenly placed. All of which points to the image being AI generated. Maybe part of this new "AI Boyfriend" program going around.

To my shock, figuring that out actually hurt. I'd been so superficially drawn to him, getting to believe he's not a real person I could meet is so very disappointing.

It's funny...but I don't really get that way about men whose photos or films I like. I met David Schwimmer, who I had a crush on throughout Friends, and in person he was fine but I didn't get crazed. Same for Tim Curry and Michael York. Keanu Reeves I didn't really get to interact with, but he struck me the same in person as he had in Speed.

The only time I did get tongue-tied by an actor was when Sophia Loren came by Book Soup's Newsstand to collect Italian newspapers for her husband, Carlo Ponti. And it wasn't just me; the busy restaurant, next door, went dead quiet while she paid. But then...she was fucking gorgeous.

I've seen and met more than a few porn stars, in passing. One notorious one stood behind me in CalFed Bank in WeHo, waiting to deposit a huge number of bills. Apparently he'd danced in a club the night before and that was his tip money. In person, he just looked like your typical college jock, not really interesting...but in photos, totally different.

And when Matt Damon had come into Heritage Book Shop, back when he was with Wynona Ryder, he'd given off the same vibe. Lumpy and boring. But I loved him in the Bourne series.

This guy...if he was real and I ran into him, I'd turn into a teenage girl and make a fool of myself. Which I have done before...like with Clint Black, in Houston...Jesus, forty years ago.

I think I'm more hurt at thinking that could never possibly happen with the man in this image...

Saturday, August 16, 2025

Zam-bam-wowie...

When a story decides to be told, it's getting told. Doesn't matter how dark or light it wants to be...and for me, this one got pretty rough. It ends with a double rape and murder by Léonidès and Luahl, but with two young men spared because Léon uses them to dig at Luahl. One is Willem, the other is Franz.

On top of that, when the story's done, it's done. And I do think BA-3 is done, at just under 14,000 words. Right now it's written through to the point where Léon has finalized control over Luahl, which is shocking since he's a member of the Oiym Council so supposedly impervious.

We'll see what happens when I return to do a rewrite after a few days. I'm at the point where I need a bit of space to lessen the connection I have to the story. See it with a clear eye.

BA-4 is already in first draft but it needs a solid rewrite to align it to changes I made in the old storyline. I'd been so sure Léonidès would have turned Franz and regretted it, I filled his journey to track down Gabrielle with references to that. Also, some of the names are wrong. But those are easy fixes.

I had an odd thought come up about The People v. Simon Halloran while fixing lunch. That's how these things happen. I'm focused on doing something manual and all of a sudden up pops a minor conversation with a character.

Simon is wondering how the story would work if, instead of him being a quiet gay man who's gone through life staying out of trouble, he's the opposite? A loud and out gay man who's worked in porn and written books like mine. Or done graphic novels like Etienne or Tom of Finland.

He does approach Paley, wanting to take him back to his hotel room and service him after sketching him, and it goes downhill from there. The fight would be over homophobia being so solid a part of the system of justice and an attempt to put a faggot in his place. I'm not sure about that, but it is something to consider.

Never say never...

Friday, August 15, 2025

One chapter left...

...For a solid first draft of Blood Angel-3. I'm leaning towards the subheading being Revelations, because Leòn finds out more about not only Franz but also about Luahl, one of the Oiym. It involves a young French peasant named Willem, whom Luahl plans to feed upon, but which Leòn messes up.

This image of a French peasant purports to be from 1870, yet I get the feeling it's really later...like 1900 at the earliest. Still, it shows how strong Willem must be in order to handle the work of his family's farm, and how he's dressed. And he is Luahl's preferred victim type.

The man does like to needle my guy and thinks he's found a way to really fuck him over...but it don't happen like that. Because Leòn don't take to being picked at.

Which led to something else happening in this part of the story that I was not expecting. Something I have never even thought of putting into a book. But Leòn does it without a thought...and I'm still processing it. Especially since it gives him a bit of control over Luahl.

The chapter that's left to finish is mainly wrapping up loose ends and setting the stage for Leòn to go looking for Gabrielle with his proposition. That part of the story is already in first draft form...as is its followup.

The part set in New Orleans after Katrina is in screenplay format and centers around Gabrielle, so I'm not sure how to work with that, yet. But I have time. The next two sections will need some reworking to fit in with the new direction of the story.

But first of all is getting Revelations in order to publish. As of now, I'm at over 13,000 words...and will probably add another 2000. That's an acceptable length for a novella. I may even take some of the beginning of BA-4 and add it to the end, because that one is on the massive side.

But no matter what, it looks like I may get this done by the end of the month.

Thursday, August 14, 2025

Almost done with a first draft of BA-3

I can't believe it. I am closing in on a workable first draft of Blood Angel-Three. Right now it's sub-headed Franz Revealed, but that's kind of a wimpy title. And this book gets vicious. For me...

Here's the rest of the first chapter, paring up with what I posted on the 11th.

-------

Franz was perfect for me. His golden beauty was matched by my dark good-looks, and don’t be surprised I say that. I’m not allowed any lies or false modesty. It’s merely a statement of fact. And we carried the same Blood Angel lineage. Granted, that made him a distant cousin, but it was well out of the range one might consider to be incest. So when I’d sent the telegram, I’d had no doubt the council would agree. 

Now they were enroute to see for themselves...or explain themselves or something, and I had little time to make certain Franz was in top shape to face their questioning. 

Of course, that had already been underway. After I’d laid him in my bed, still unconscious, and before Gregory and I’d had our little sojourn in the pond, I’d asked Tellis to sew the wound in his shoulder closed. While he worked best in his garden and the fields, I had also seen him mend trousers and shirts with a needle and thread, to the point the repair could not be seen without looking for it. 

“My father was a tailor,” he’d said when I’d mentioned it, as he was repairing my cloak. That was back in the time of Francis the first, in France. Of course, we didn’t know at the time he would be the first; we only referred to him as The Father of Letters. 

“I would have followed,” Tellis continued, in our Norman tongue, “as was his command. He thought my love of the fields and grain silly for a gypsy to want. Contrary to our nature. So...” And he’d pulled the needle up in a dramatic gesture. 

“Why do you continue with it?” I’d asked, because I’d seen him wandering through meadows and fields on moonlit nights and even during storms, as if offering prayers. And he never fed there; only in the alleys of villages and towns. 

“This is my contribution to our pack, until we settle.” 

“You think we will? We’ve been more like your gypsy clans, the last few centuries.” 

He’d shrugged. And even after we'd established the chateau as our home and provided him with fields to tend, he’d continued to tailor our clothing. So I brought him to Franz’s room...

Well, my room. I had kept the furniture light, in it; just a four-poster bed with curtains, side tables for candles, chairs, and a desk. A wardrobe held my clothing, carpets from Persia were spread over my floor, and thick velvet draperies covered the windows.

The moment he saw Franz lying under my duvet, he gave me a look of pure shock. I quickly said, “He’s been unconscious so knows nothing of us. He is the owner of the horse you are tending. I want him to heal, as well.” 

He sighed and asked, “What do you want me to do?” 

“There is a wound in his shoulder that should be closed. It might be best to handle now. The less fuss, the better.” 

He looked hard at Franz and said in a voice so soft it almost could not be heard, “I sew clothing, not humans.” Then he cast me another look of uncertainty. “If you’re going to turn him, he will heal on his own...” 

“I don’t know that I will, yet. I need permission and have only just sent off the request. I don’t want his wound to have a chance to fester before I hear from the Oiym.” 

He eyed me, for a moment, then sat beside Franz and lifted the bandage away. “That’s a very neat hole...” He did the same for the gash to his head. “What is this red stain on him? It’s not blood.”

“Bromine.” 

He nodded. “Reyndahl told me of this.” His fingers trailed from the wound in Franz’s head down his face to stroke the artery in his neck, then he looked at me. “I remember the first time I touched you,” he said, softly. “It was an odd sensation, like I was holding someone with blood unbelievably rich and exquisite, far beyond those I’d fed upon, till then. And since. It even held a bit of haughtiness. You don’t forget the first time you touch a Blood Angel.” 

I just drew in a deep breath. “I would prefer silence on that matter.” 

He gave a slight nod of his head. “Will we be departing from you, now?” 

“No!” shot out of me so fast, I didn’t have time to even think of it. “You and all the others, you are so much more than merely my pack. You’re friends. Lovers. Family to me. Why would you think I’d toss that away?” 

“Considering how your sister treats her court...” 

I huffed. “She surrounds herself with idiots.” 

“Not all.” 

“Well...save one,” I said, grinning. 

“Who is another Blood Angel.” 

“You are surprisingly aware.” 

“We talk to each other, Léon. All of us. Even Gregory, who often says more without saying anything. When I woke, this evening, I found him sitting in the corridor, with Meron. The way they held each other...” 

“What’s going on, here? Are all of you lonely? In need of mates?” 

“Léon, I work with animals and plants. I’m easiest with them. That Doric and I have connected in a way that is more than sexual is a surprise, to me. It kept me from loneliness, and Doric, as well. But I sense it in Loronce, who wants Stephane to want him, and Stephane, who wants Reyndahl to love him, and Renydahl, who wants a female mate as well as a male and doesn’t know how to work it out.” 

“I think he wants an outlet for his sexual needs more than a relationship.” 

“Which he gets. He doesn’t kill all of his conquests. But then...men are more prone to evil than women, so their endings are easier to excuse.” He took another look at Franz’s wound and nodded. “I’ll get my thread and needle, soak them in that bromine, and close it as best I can. I doubt it will be much healed before you hear from the Oiym.” 

I’d only smiled at him then gone off to meet with Gregory.

Wednesday, August 13, 2025

Different directions again...

Well...in my world of creativity and exploration, I have found that Blood Angel-3...which was going to be a huge uproar where Léonidès accidentally turns Franz into a blood angel and it backfires, massively...isn't going that direction.

Oh, it was going to be so rough and raw and insanely erotic, and I had it all roughed out. But when I actually started writing it, the direction shifted to where the Oiym come and talk him out of his infatuation by showing Franz is a straight horn dog who got four girls pregnant before his father shipped him off to be a cuirassier with the Prussian military.

Problem is, the Oiym can't let the guy go back into the normal world; he knows about vampires, now. So Léon decides to track Gabrielle down and offer Franz to her in exchange for Dmitriy. 

After all, she likes boys and he likes girls, and she's been looking for a mate since Dmitriy revealed he was gay after she turned him. He and Léon already like each other, so he thinks she will be willing to release the guy to him. We'll have to see how that goes.

This slashes probably 4000 words out of the story...and transitions into Leon's hunt for Gabrielle much more smoothly. Right now I'm at just under 10,000 words and have one...maybe two more chapters to write.

I think it's going to include Léon getting the upper-hand on one of the Oiym who doesn't like him--Luahl, another gay BA. How I will do that, I don't know, yet...

But I got some ideas for the story to reject...

Tuesday, August 12, 2025

It's Tuesday???

Shit, half the day, today, I thought it was Wednesday. I finally noticed my phone was telling me it's Tuesday, and I was irritated. I had the idea I was finally to hump day...and I'm not. Which makes no sense because I don't work a schedule, like that.

I did more writing on BA-Franz...to the point where the Oiym have arrived to Leonides' chateau near Metz in France. So far it's just about 7000 words, but it's coming together. Putting it on a back burner for so long may have helped it settle in my mind.

Working on Blood Angel is helping me so much, right now. Aiming to finish the various parts then blend them into a single paperback book gives me purpose. I was having a hard time keeping any sense of that when working on PvSH. It was so chaotic, and it made me chaotic. But BA is mainline erotic horror and gives me a lifeline to my inner core.

I really feared I had lost that with PvSH. Self confidence damaged. Unable to focus. I've wondered so many times if I should get myself tested for ADHD. I have trouble paying attention, difficulty organizing tasks, very impulsive, and so damned forgetful. Can't blame it on age because I've been this was for decades. I often start projects then lose interest, and organization? Forget it. The only symptom of it I don't have is hyperactivity.

I'm meeting with my doctor in November. I may add that to my list of questions for him.

Monday, August 11, 2025

BA is happening

I spent much of today lounging in my bed, writing on Blood Angel. This section, titled Franz, will be where Léonidès is told he may not turn Franz and, while trying to figure out why begins to see the man is not as perfect as his amazing looks suggest. 

-----------

The Oiym said no. 

I’d sent them a simple telegram: Nethys, have found a mate. Congratulations? Leonides

Nethys was the de facto head of the Oiym Council, and I needed their permission to make the beautiful Franz Sebastian Giselher von Bergren my mate. 

I received the following response: Denied. We will arrive soon. 

Denied!? I could not believe it. The rules that I had developed and convinced the Oiym to follow were now being used against me, and they were coming to make certain I followed their edict? I was livid. 

And terrified. Because this was new territory for me. What I’d heard from others, all simple vampires, was they had to feed until true death, no turning without permission. Anything less would be considered a violation of the edict and bring about imprisonment in their fortress. An edict I had helped arrange. 

That made me fear for Franz. If I was not allowed to bring him into my world, I wanted to make certain he would be well in his own. But the fact they were coming to see me...and, probably, him...was surely to question him and make certain for themselves that he was not a danger to us. Why else would they depart Alexandria to enter a war zone? It wasn’t just for the cuisine. 

What little he knew about me was...well, he thought I was a fellow German, and never mind my Norman lineage. I’d spoken to him as if from Hamburg. I’d helped him and his mount, Grünnald. I’d treated him with full politeness and probably saved his life. Anything he might remember about my removing the bullet from his shoulder or carrying him to my chateau could be explained away as delirium from his injuries. 

But the Oiym were less understanding than I, when it came to humans. Less forgiving or flexible. And if they had even one iota of concern about his awareness of our world, he would be ended. Better safe than sorry, as the phrase goes. I could not allow that. 

But how could I prevent it? There were seven of them, all much more powerful Blood Angels than I. No question, if I went against them I’d wind up in one of the cells in their Alexandria, and my pack would be left to fend for itself. 

Or worse—handed over to my sister, Gabrielle. Another possibility I could not allow.

Sunday, August 10, 2025

Blood Angel returns...

I worked a bit on Blood Angel, today. A section that takes place in the early years of WW2, where Poland is being overrun by Germany and Russia. Léonidès is on the side of the Poles so limits his pack of vampires to raping and feasting on the Russians. Which they have fun doing.

I also have a large part written that's set in 1871-72, where Léonidès tracks down his sister, Gabrielle, in Korea and asks her to swap Dmitriy for Franz. Each man is bound to the one who turned them, and Léon really likes Dmitriy. He thinks a swap would be beneficial to them all.

She agrees because Franz is a Blood Angel who is very heterosexual, and he is being an asshole to Léon, but she keeps Dmitriy for not telling her he was gay before she turned him. Never mind that he didn't know, himself. She's punishing him and tormenting Léon just for the fun of it...and there is nothing he can do about it.

I actually had fun with it, because it's a wild fantasy of a story about special vampires with some history mingled in. Gabrielle was in Korea because she was obsessed with a young Naval officer who's of the Blood Angel line, who embarked for Korea in the US quest to force the country to open up. But he winds up getting killed before she can turn him. So when Léon connects with her, she's not in a good mood. I think this is what I'll finish, now.

I also went out to do laundry, today, because I wanted to wash my bedcovers...and reminded myself why I prefer to use the building's washers and driers. It was hot and expensive. $33.20 as opposed to about $20 in-house. The only issue is we only have 4 machines for washing and for drying, so I'd have been going all day.

Seems I'm losing my tolerance for hot weather. It was up to 91, today, which is hot but in Houston it would be around 100 with high humidity and I could function in that. Today wiped me out. So it's that or I'm growing old.

I refuse to accept the latter suggestion.

Saturday, August 9, 2025

Almost...

I don't bask a lot in my achievements, but having A Place of Safety-Derry get Third Place in the Book Fest Competition is pretty good, considering it's only the first third of the story. Seems symbolic.

This was a nice, long, quiet day...for the most part. Did some cleaning up on my laptop. Got rid of about a thousand emails I no longer needed. Managed to avoid getting into too many fights online with the MAGAt Class idiots. Had a potential packing job in London vanish, dammit. Balanced my checkbook and updated my daily minder. Even started reading.

I also watched an episode of the new Matlock on Pluto because Kathy Bates is in it. As were ads. It's like watching TV. I don't know what's going on in the program; some kind of conspiracy thing about somebody. I finally realized the service doesn't have episodes 1 & 2; I'd started with 3. A bit irritating.

I'm considering signing up with the Criterion Channel because they offer so many of the movies I want to see...as well as a bunch I already have DVDs for. At $11 a month? I could live with that. There are several foreign films they have that I'd like to see.

Overall, it was a nice relaxing day. Tomorrow is laundry, but I'm going to a laundromat for it, this time. I want to wash my blankets and mattress cover as well as pillows, and I need bigger machines to do it right.

PvSH is still nudging me, hoping I'll change my mind and try something new. But I just can't. Dealing with that story has damaged my self-confidence, since I've been all over the place with it and still don't have its voice or know what it's about. Not really.

Friday, August 8, 2025

I'm done...

The People v. Simon Halloran or Harper or Charlie-Baker or whatever is no longer on my plate. The second I think I have some kind of handle on it and where it's headed for, it explodes in my face and I'm left with nothing but chaos. I'm tired. I don't need that shit, right now.

I'm spending tomorrow reading, no writing. I've never read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by James Joyce. And there's Durant's Story of Philosophy and The Book Thief. I'm finally getting into Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray. And there are so many others.

I may curl up in bed, all day, and doze when I feel like it. Stay the hell away from social media. It's only driving me insane. I'm caught between anger at Felon47's vile administration and the abject cruelty of those people, and heartbreak at realizing nearly half the country thinks this brand of evil is just plain fine.

Hell, more than half, if you take into account the selfish beasts who stand by and do nothing. Their attitude seems to be, If it's not affecting me then it's no big deal. And that sickens me.

Maybe part of how I feel about PvSH is the growing belief that civilization is sliding into a dark age, when stupidity reigned supreme and the few intelligent people were hammered by the church if they dared suggest anything the Christo-fascists didn't like.

Religious assholes are saying, out loud, that people like me should be executed...and no Christians are really firing back. So it may start happening, soon. The LGBTQ+ community has already been targeted by ammosexuals more than once.

Me being 73 helps. I won't be around for a whole lot longer...maybe 10 years...15, if I'm lucky. I'll probably miss out on the worst of it.

Whimper-whimper-whine. Shut the fuck up, Kyle, and find a new direction. Shit.

Thursday, August 7, 2025

Side-tracking...

This was not a good day, for me. Simon led me into another side alley that I didn't really understand but found intriguing enough to waste hours seeing where it went. 

The whole opening bit that I posted over the last couple of days was going to be like an interview of Simon by a police psychologist...but doing it was throwing the whole rest of the story off.

I couldn't figure out how to get back to the storyline and have it make sense. The indecision messed with my focus and made me angry with myself for not being able to work the damned thing out...until I concluded it's not workable.

I sometimes wonder if he doesn't really want me to tell his story. If he has a case of cold feet and that's the reason for all the fucking chaos.

Fortunately, my screen saver is a thousand foot high drone shot slowly passing over London. It starts around Wapping just west of Canary Wharf and gently glides in a straight path past the Shard, over the Thames and Tower Bridge, with The City and St. Paul's to the right of frame while the Globe Theatre and Tate Modern are to the left.

Then come Waterloo Station, the London Eye, Big Ben, and Parliament to the left with Charing Cross Station to the right across to Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens before jumping back to its original starting point.

It's close to five minutes long and is so amazingly soothing, to me. I can watch it a couple of times and remind myself of the size and scale of the biggest city in Europe. The photo I posted is of the City from Primrose Hill, which also reminds me.

God, I wish I was there instead of here.

Wednesday, August 6, 2025

Second half...

Here is the rest of the first chapter, now at 1700 words...

------

 “There’s a private library I’ve bought in Barrington,” he said, “not so very far from you.” Not even a word of Hello or How are you doing? So like him. 

“Um, Olivier,” I replied, “It’s over three-hundred miles.” 

“Well, you’re a great deal closer than I am.” Spoken in his posh West End tones, which I’m told isn’t an honest accent. “All I need is for you to work up an itemized list. You know the drill. Title, author, date, where published. It’ll be coming as a collection so no need for individual values. Though I am declaring it as six-fifty...” 

“Six-hundred and fifty thousand?” 

“They belonged to Tannen Northridge’s wife.” Spoken as if he were shocked I didn’t already know. 

That name raised issues. I’d worked at Variman's Antiquarian Book Shop for two decades, and I'd had to deal with the woman on several occasions. My first time was when she had loudly complain that the books I’d shipped her were not packed well-enough. She wanted them wrapped in tissue, then in Kraft paper, then with bubble wrap around them and put in a box with bio-degradable peanuts. All of which I'd done. But on top of that, the box should have gone into another box and, since the value was exceptionally high, that box into another. Rather like a Russian Doll. 

I'd done it that way thence forth, when she had ordered online, but no compliment was ever given. Of course, no further complaint, either. About that. Instead, she would snarl about how incomplete the description was. And the three times she set foot in the shop, she'd complained the air conditioning was too cold, and there needed to be better climate control...and so on and so on...

She also took her time paying, usually sixty to ninety days instead of the usual thirty, and then only after our accountant, Arnell, had given her two reminder calls. She was not someone I wanted to deal with. So there was another red flag telling me to not agree to do this. 

“There are only about a hundred titles,” Olivier said. 

“Mrs. Northridge is selling her books to you?” I asked. “Not to Variman’s?”

I thought she'd got on with the two men who owned it...Tomas Varisç and Harold Harman. They looked so much alike people thought they were brothers, but one was from Oregon and the other from Atlanta. Though they did like to bicker like an old married couple. They were now well into their eighties, but the store was still going strong so I'd have thought that would be the first place she'd contact about selling.

Then Olivier sighed and said, “She’s passed away.”

Mrs. Northridge? Gone? That surprised me. I'd thought her impervious to the laws of existence. “I hadn’t heard.” 

“Her husband kept it low-key. I knew her well-enough to be informed of her passing, so got the jump on it. Now I’d also like you to make a condition report on the books...” 

“Oh...oh...Olivier, that is so time-consuming...” 

“Nothing major. Just make certain she took care of them and they haven’t been trashed. These are antiquarian books, and you know how to handle those. Her? I halfway suspect she may have broken a couple of them to remove illustrations.” 

“Oh, God, it’s good she’s gone.” That burst out of me before I could even think to stop it. 

“Well, Simon, I had no idea you were so judgmental.”

“When someone tears apart a book just for the pretty pictures...” I hated people who destroyed books.

“Understood.” 

“Olivier, I don’t know that I’d be right for this.” 

“No, you’re perfect...” 

“But it means traveling to another state and hotel nights and...” 

“It’ll be easy, Simon. I promise. Shouldn’t take you more than a day. Wait, you do have a laptop?” 

“Of course I do.” 

“And Excel?” 

“Yes...but...” 

“Then the list will be easy.”

“You only say that because you’re not doing it.” 

“Simon, please. I would do it myself but I’m nearly four-thousand miles away and the Chelsea Book Fair is happening, next weekend. And Tanner wants this done as quickly as possible, or he’ll have someone just come take the books.” 

“This is so odd. I haven’t heard anything about that collection being up for sale...” 

“Told you, I got in before anyone even knew about it. She’s got some nice editions of Brontë and Austen, a lovely Rubaiyat bound by Sangorsky-Sutcliffe.”

Which I had heard about through the bookseller grapevine but hadn't seen. “Well...I am familiar with a nice set of Fielding’s Amelia she bought from Variman’s.” 

“I didn’t know about that one. So it’s a hundred-and-one books.” 

“You mean titles. That one’s four volumes in a slip-case.” 

“See? See?! You know exactly what needs to be done.” 

I was still unsure. But he was being his usual cajoling self, referencing how I’d already done a couple of similar jobs for him. One of which included air travel. So I sighed and said I’d head down Sunday. 

“Can’t you go, tomorrow?” he asked. “Start Thursday? Finish Friday?” 

“I have to make plans and...” 

“C’mon, Simon. You could head out tonight, if you wanted.” 

“That...is an absolute no. Why are you in such a rush?” 

“Not me. Tanner. I mentioned, he’s pushing to have it gone ASAP. I'll pay you for your drive time.” 

“You would, anyway. But all right; I’ll drive down, tomorrow.” My thought being it would be an excuse to break from that artwork and think about the final touch. I wasn’t due to ship it off till next week.

“Thanks, mate. You’re a life-saver.” 

What an ironic comment, considering the damage he did to my world.

Tuesday, August 5, 2025

New opening...

I couldn't sleep, last night, so about 3:30am I got up and started writing the first chapter of PvSH. Just let it out, and worked until about 5. It's chatty...but it's leading to something. I did a polish and it's now just over 1600 words, total. Here's the first half:

-------

I did not want to go.

I'd been called and asked to catalogue a small book collection and I don’t know why, but something inside me said, Refuse the job. Do not do it. Stay home and deal with the myriad other things you have to do. So many...things. List of things. To do. Make a list to...to prove you have a list of things to do. On top of that, do not forget that every time you’ve ignored this feeling, you’ve regretted it. So do not go. 

But reality has this cold manner of bringing you back to a simple understanding...that sometimes you have to be one with the world, whether you want to or not. And in this case it simply boiled down to...I needed the money. Repairs to my little CRV had depleted my savings below a level I was comfortable with. The payment this job would bring promised to rebuild it well enough to ease my concerns. 

I should have listened to my voice. 

I should have said, No

I was working on a new painting when the call came. A commission I’d agreed to for a client who already had two of my works. He’d sent me a photograph of himself and his lover, and this would make it a triptych. I was close to completion, so normally I would have just let the call go to voice mail.

Except I was stopped by uncertainty as to where to add the final touch on the piece. It was in my stark black and white style, on canvas. Kodalithic. Two men in an embrace, from the hips up, front three-quarter angle. My client with his back to the wall, left arm dropped to his side, his shirt open to reveal a full chest with hair, his face open but turned away from the other man. Whose shirt was buttoned and who was trying to kiss him. His right hand was around the man’s waist and his face lost in darkness. 

The shadows were sharp against the white of their shirts and highlighted areas of their bodies. To me, the pose offered up an interesting tension. Want on the part of the one kissing; rejection on the part of the other. Lovely and sharp, awaiting my signature...a dash of blood red. Like on all of my paintings. But nowhere seemed right for it. 

If I put it on the man who was looking away, at the base of his jawline, it could look like the kissing man’s nose was bleeding. Not what I wanted. If I put it along his lip, it would seem as if they’d had a fight. Also not my preference. His eyes were focused away from the other man and sad. The dash of red there would offer the same impression. So on his chest? No. That would be seen as a stabbing wound, and I did not want it to be linked solely to violence. 

So when my phone buzzed, I accepted the call as a welcome distraction, since I knew the caller. Olivier Deskin, an antiquarian book dealer in London. 

It’s no surprise he would call me. I’d worked in book stores my entire life, especially antiquarian the last twenty years...well, almost twenty-five. I’d recently retired to live on Social Security, supplemented by the sales of my artwork or, as noted, commissions. Of which I’d received three, prior to this one. But I was finding the cost of living was far greater than I had expected. And that’s with me already being a very frugal person. Then with my car needing new brakes...any additional income was welcome. 

Initially, Olivier’s call seemed to be an opportunity to cushion my financial situation. 

Oh, to clarify, my name is Simon Halloran, and I look like someone you might expect to see in a book store. Quiet. Slim. Normal height. Still a full head of hair but more silver than brown, as it once was. Plain features and good posture, with no facial hair. And I still had all my teeth. Dental health had been drilled into me since a toddler while living with my grandmother, in San Antonio. 

Olivier was a short man born into relative wealth near Wimbledon. He was very trim, like a tennis player, thanks to always being in motion, and a bit on the posh side. He had a very nice profile with a Roman nose, thick wavy hair, and when he learned I was gay made certain to let me know he was not interested in the lads, just the lassies. His words, not mine. 

As if I were planning to molest him, or something. It was silly.

We’d met when he came into the shop where I worked and I sold him a nice East of the Sun, West of the Moon illustrated by Kay Nielson as well as a Grimm’s Fairy Tales done by Arthur Rackham. He also came close to purchasing a framed leaf from Rackham’s Das Rheingold.

I ramble here because this information is important to the context of what happened, after Olivier called.

Monday, August 4, 2025

Shifting sands...

I feel like something is changing within me, and I'm not sure what it is. But I don't want to go out into the world unless I have to. Don't want to explore like I used to. I just want to stay home.

I have a doctor's appointment on Wednesday and cannot see myself leaving my apartment till then. At which time I'll get some groceries I need...especially DPZ. Then come home and stay the fuck away from people.

Thanks to social media, I'm growing to really dislike humanity. Not just the ridiculous MAGAt Class who are slavishly devoted to Felon47, but those who ignore the whole situation that's building. As if they think so long as they aren't affected it won't matter.

It will, eventually. The country is sliding into a form of theocracy, something that's already taken hold in too many states, and now is verging into totalitarianism. For example, Greg Abbott threatening to arrest Democrats in the Legislature because they left the state to kill his ability to redistrict Texas for the MAGAt Class. All to gain 5 more seats in the House. Now California, NY and Michigan are threatening to retaliate, for Democrats.

Abbott has no legal basis, but that doesn't stop those people. What matters to them is force and, like Felon47, a willingness to ignore the courts and do as they damn well pleases. Tearing people's lives apart as they go.

Like Paley's and Walstead's actions in PvSH do Simon's. In response, his poems have become more angry and threatening. His art is growing more extreme. He's 69 and lost and wondering how he wound up where he is. What his reaction will be when, as he expects, he will be found guilty by the court.

We've walked that followup back from murder...maybe. I think. But too much is still locked in Simon's shadows and I'm only catching glimpses of it, when he doesn't want me to.

And if this sounds fucking crazy, you're right; it is. But these are becoming crazy times and that affects me and my characters.

Sunday, August 3, 2025

Scary me...

I'm sitting here trying to figure out what the fuck is going on with Simon and myself, and I wind up making the attached artwork (cropped to be SFW) and then writing the following poem.

I think it's in free-form...

Blood is coming.
Hear it flow 
Closer. 
Cruel. 
Unstoppable. 
As furies laugh 
And beg me cry. 
I cannot. 
It was long ago. 

No midnight shrouds it 
In love. 
No careful step 
To soften echoes. 
No prayers or dreams 
To stay its spread. 
The pool of crimson 
Will be met 
By life of one 
So filled with dread. 

The silence 
Deep with screams 
Lies where it fell 
And all one knows
Is three cold words 
Softly echo 
In your head... 
It is done.

I don't know what it means and Simon is being no help. He's pushing to kill Paley at the end of the story. Despite my own feelings about it. He hates the man, and that builds as the city keeps demanding he surrender to their claims against him.

That adds to his emotion, increases his anger, but basically he wants to do it because the man took away the one thing he had left to himself--that he'd never been in trouble with the law. Despite living for years in a state that would have jailed him, given the chance.

He now knows that he's spent his life in the shadows for nothing. A crazy way to view it, but that is what's eating him up.

I don't know how to handle this. I mean...well...how would he do it? No, I...I do have an idea as to how. It's getting Paley close enough for it to happen that's the problem...

Man, I really do not like the direction this is going...

Saturday, August 2, 2025

Psycho-me...

I read back over some of the posts I've made on this blog regarding The People v Simon Harper and I am all over the place with it. Totally out of control. Which only means I have no idea what the intent of the story is...or about...and the characters aren't working together, yet. Even the outline I did, initially, is scattered everywhere.

It really startled me, because I thought I was honing in on PvSH's through line...but that is nowhere near the case. After a dozen comments regarding Simon and his actions, I was completely confused about what was going on, and why. So I did what any normal red-blooded American gay male would do in a situation like this.

I made hot tea and ate two small Marie Callendar's chocolate pies. 88 calories. Totally killed my diet...hell, the structure of my existence...but it comforted me enough to kick back and reconsider why this story is coming to me, right now. Why it won't let go, even as it refuses to give me a reason to hold on. I think I need to know that, first.

All I have right now is questions.

Is Simon filled with a rage he's fighting to keep control of? Is he depressed about how fucked up everything is? Is he hurt about being arrested for the first time in his life? He's 69 years old and lived in a state that would put him in jail for loving a man, especially in the 70s, yet he never once had to face that. And now he does, over nothing.

Is he resigned to the hatefulness of the world against people like him? Where even people who claim to be allies will support those who want to hurt him? Something he honestly can do nothing about...except not let them get close to him.

This also leads into does he really hate Alain so much he wants to see the man die? Why would he feel that way if I take out the sexual abuse? Is emotional abuse enough to trigger it? Or is it just him being too weak to reject Alain and thinking the man's death is the only way to truly end his relationship with him? That sounds pathetic.

For a moment, I thought I'd reverse the situation at the end and have Simon kill Paley...but I hate the thought of writing a killer queer. And don't point out that Dirc set men up to be killed, in DDB; he had justifications and enough cover to avoid feeling responsible in any way. If Simon killed Paley, it would be at close range and without excuses...and would strengthen the impression in people's minds that queers are dangerous.

I won't be part of that...even though I have been. I just...I won't with Simon's story.

Friday, August 1, 2025

Old tricks...

I tried something I've done before, to get out of a funk like this. I ran my errands, this morning and early afternoon...then just lay on the couch, fully dressed, thinking about nothing. Told the world to fuck off and let my mind go blank to see if something would filter up through my malaise.

What did is odd...but maybe makes sense. Calm Simon down even further. No sex referenced in the story except in the abstract. Same for his poetry...but that being done with gentle illustrations instead of wicked ones. His life is one of hiding. Not wanting to be noticed or seen due to his mistreatment. Lack of self-esteem. Mistakes he's made and cannot shake off.

He has no hate boiling up. No anger at the world. Just a sadness over how things are. His life was one of vagueness and drifting. Silence being his preference. He doesn't fight because he's strong, deep within, or unwilling to be pushed around or blackmailed. He doesn't spit or moan or howl about what's happening to him. He simply will not go along with what the prosecution wants.

His one attribute during this whole situation is his stubbornness. His motto is still, I did nothing wrong or illegal...and that's it. But it kicks this hard-headed part of him into gear, and that's his whole fight. They want him to give in to their overwhelming superiority and he simply won't. And in doing so wreaks chaos in the DA's office and the police force.

Which would be very difficult to make interesting...I think. No big dramatic moves on his part; just a silent refusal that becomes a brick wall. Not through any overt intent, but still impermeable. 

I'm reminded of a novel that was suggested to me by a German professor I had, at Trinity University, and his wife. A Man without Qualities. (Der Mann ohne Eigenschaften.) It covered a wide range of existential themes concerning humanity and feelings, with no central core to link everything together. But it did have a vague concern with the values of truth and opinion and how society organizes ideas about life and civilization.

Why am I thinking of that book...unless it's something I'm aiming for? It's been centuries since I read it. Don't remember much about it. I think there was a man accused of murdering a woman or a prostitute. But even that was low-key...

Oh, Lord, why can't I just write another erotic horror story and have fun?

Thursday, July 31, 2025

Contemplation...

I'm 73, today, and feel like I'm caught between heaven and hell. Old in body, not in mind or sprit. Wondering how much longer I can keep going with the writing. I've been at it for fifty years...and I feel no closer to success than when I started. When I shifted away from art and thought I could make a career in film. Bad choice.

I'm working on PvSH...but I'm not enthusiastic about it. Not angry. Not even really fighting about it like I did for so many years with APoS. Simon wants to take it directions he thinks might excite me, but that doesn't work. I feel only slightly connected to him and the story. Doesn't matter what I do, it's never more than something to work on it.

I had lunch with some friends at a place with okay BBQ. This is Buffalo; they don't really know how to make that or good Mexican food, up here. And I got a few cards. And I saw a doctor about gall bladder surgery that I do not want to do. Talked to my sister in Texas. And took a long nap.

I did buy myself some chocolate chip cookies at Wegman's. Theirs are pretty damn good. Had those as my cake. Nothing more. So I'm just floating, right now.

Not one project I have on tap is exciting me. Nothing grabs me enough to make me feel the need to do it. For all the complaining I did about writing APoS, I never lost the sense I needed to write it. Like I once felt about Bobby Carapisi. I had a need to write it, all of it...which included the third volume. Which I've been told was unnecessary. Which was wrong; it absolutely had to be done.

What did I write after that? Was it The Lyons' Den? Working up something so completely different and off the wall some people can't even get into it? Break me out of the mood I was in after BC? Maybe. Maybe I should do that, again...

Is this what happens to writers? They finally reach the point where they've tapped out all their creative impulses and just thrash about seeing new inspiration?

Wednesday, July 30, 2025

Simon's escape from Alain...

Not sure where this is going in the story, yet...

------

Do you know how long it took me to get to the point where I was brave enough to publish those sketches? Thirty years after Alain’s death. And even then I self-published the book rather than submit it to be considered by a publisher of any kind. Made certain everyone knew it was an adult coloring book, not for children, to give it an even safer veneer. Toned many of the images I wanted to use down into sketches that were cartoonish, almost. Not on the level of Manga or Bara or Yaoi but workable. I’m a practiced artist, not a talented one. 

 My one talent was composition of a simplicity that could indicate far more, depending on my use of color. Black and white images in a kodalithic style, very stark with no mid-tones. Then a drop of deep rich red to contrast. I did a series of them...a total of thirteen that a collector in North Carolina loved and bought and made me a bit of a name. 

I made more. Of course, none were as blunt or raw as those for the coloring book, but I still built a small catalogue of prints for purchase, and that fueled my ability to buy a car and pay for insurance. A ten year old Honda CRV, which has been a great car. Carried my canvasses to various art festivals. It’s twenty years old, now, and cranky. Like me. But it got me here and back to Afton Springs, twice. I’ll drive it until it falls apart. 

That’s how I am. I hate to make changes unless absolutely necessary. That’s why it was so hard to leave Alain, prior to that night. Because for all the horrible things he did do to me...I’d felt like I was important to him. Needed. Necessary. A part of him. You don’t know how that notion can hand control of yourself to another. And I’d thought treating him like a king would protect that sense. Let me stay near him. 

That was the reality of my life, at that time. I wasn’t afraid of what he would do to me. I knew he’d never take me to the point of death. He was too selfish for that. And too stupid to do it in a way that couldn’t be traced back to him. Nor would the pain he caused be extreme. It was merely an acceptable punishment, on a symbolic level, for having turned out wrong, as my family had let me know more than once. 

No, I finally left because a cold, clear understanding crept into my mind...that he only saw me as a toy, nothing more. Something to use. For fun. Bring in a little cash, even. About as human to him as a blow-up doll. It was always me there for him, never him for me...and, eventually, he would move on to someone new and exciting, and I would be left adrift. 

It wasn’t a slow decision. I didn’t take weeks or days to consider all the ramifications. It was simply...one day I couldn’t leave, the next day I couldn’t stay. Like a switch was flicked in my brain, shining a light on what I’d been tolerating. 

Of course, I couldn’t depart too fast or sudden. Leave him by just walking away without a plan. I needed a bit of time to let this new belief permeate through me to the point where no matter what I did, I knew would be all right. So I took some time off from the newsstand, rented a car and drove to Houston. I wanted a larger world in which to disappear and find my way. But also one still familiar enough that I wouldn’t have to learn a whole new way of dealing with the world. 

It was a massive city, exploding skyward. Not only downtown but at a medical center and around a high-end mall called the Galleria. Malls always had book stores, back then, and I found a position at one, there. Not well-paid but enough to live on. To start the following Monday. 

Next, I drove down Westheimer to seek a small apartment. I didn’t have much money, and since I was going to abandon my lease I wanted a place and a job already arranged. I found one near Montrose, close to a Kroger, and knew the bus was right there. I could move in whenever I wanted. So there was y plan.

I had to tolerate him using me as his whore, one more time. He thought it was funny, me not liking it. Not wanting it. While the men who were with him thought I did and was just pretending to struggle. 

At least, I think they did. But there were two bastards with thick wedding bands who...who took special pleasure in binding me with that wrap and ripping apart my clothes and abusing me as Alain chuckled and shot Polaroids of it all. Both had children at home. They were the worst. The angriest. Probably because they didn’t have the balls to be what they wanted to be. 

I left in the middle of the week. A Thursday. Gave half my furniture away to people in the complex, put what I could in a small UHaul cube truck, and mid-afternoon left my key on the kitchen counter and drove away. Told no one where I was going. I didn’t put in a forwarding address at the post office. I never got much mail, anyway. I did have to change banks, but kept that to as minimal as possible. Made sure I emphasized no one was to know what I’d done. 

We call that ghosting, now. Back then, it was escaping.

Tuesday, July 29, 2025

Zombie work

Not a great day. Barely slept, last night, thanks to a nerve in my left foot acting up. Finally put a cold pack on it and that seems to have helped. But I've been something of a zombie, all day, including during an eye appointment.

I'm doing Simon's trial in transcript form so dug up copies of court transcripts to use as templates. And it's not easy work, since I don't have the template of machine for it. As you can see, it's very precise.

1. Number every page, including covers, indexes, certificate (no Roman numerals). 

2. “Certified Transcript” must be on the cover. 

3. Each day must be a separate volume. 

4. Electronic transcripts must be in searchable PDF format. 

5. Certificate for electronic transcript must have an electronic or digital signature. 

6. Covers must indicate volume and total number of volumes; Volume 1 of 4. 

7. Cover must indicate pages included. For example, Pages 101 through 179/300. 

8. The Master Index is Volume 0, blocked Pages 1 through 100, no certificate. 

9. Indicate on last page of Master Index: (Pages * through 100 are utilized for block numbering purposes. The next page number is 101 in Volume 1. Nothing is omitted.)

10. Lines are numbered

11. Text is double-spaced.

And it's legal size (8.5x14"). It's not proving to be very easy.

Monday, July 28, 2025

Last of that chapter

Here's the rest of the chapter from the 2 previous posts. Simon is getting to be nicely pissy.

------

I managed to keep my voice level as checked around the corridor and saw Paley standing over near security, talking to one of the guards. I said, “Look...look at his face. His jowls. His skin. How he...he...he’s even got bitch tits...” 

“What?” she snapped. 

 I smiled and almost chuckled, feeling more in control. “Moobs, if you prefer. The way his nipples are more like a woman’s than a man’s.” 

“How do you know this?” She was all but disparaging. 

 “Pay attention! I told you! He was in a tight athletic t-shirt. A wife-beater. And his muscles, they’re blown up like balloons. I got the feeling if I stuck them with a pin, they’d pop.” 

Walstead forced a chuckle. “C’mon, man, don’t you gay guys go crazy for muscles? And you did approach him.” 

“It wasn’t his muscles I liked. It was his profile. The way he was standing...the image he made...” 

Such a lovely image. The light rushing down from above, a bit behind him. Gleaming over the rear of his head and his back and ass. Highlighting the flow of them. With his profile in silhouette against that soft mist, just past him. The rest of him in shadow. That’s what stopped me. I’d seen his moobs and puffy jowls in the store and shown no interest, but seeing him posed like that...with those things hidden by the streaks of darkness...I wanted to capture it in pen and ink. I’d snuck a photo of him when I exited...

That was still on my phone...

Yes...it was... 

I opened it and went into photos. Scrolled through to find him. Right there, looking so elegant and welcoming and should have just used that instead of wanting him to model and... 

“Is that him?” 

It was Walstead’s voice, and it shook me. For a moment I’d forgotten where I was, and in truth I hadn’t wanted him to see it. But too late, now. I nodded. 

Manville also got a look at it and in her sneering voice said, “Nice. Small wonder you were thinking of ravaging him.” 

I laughed. No surprise she was resorting to stereotypes to make a point. But still, “Don’t be ridiculous. If you’ve really done research about me, you’d have seen I’ve done a number of illustrations for book jackets and this would’ve worked well, as one.” 

Walstead almost chuckled. “Book covers? What about this?” He held up the printout. 

Of course. Like a dog with a bone. All I could say was, “This is why people like you should never try to discuss something about which they know nothing.” 

He actually almost growled. “We can still use this artwork against you.” 

Manville smiled. “They show inclination and maybe even intent.” 

I looked at her in awe. I’d actually thought she was the smart one. Instead, she’s the worst aspect of a team player; even though she knows what they’re doing is wrong, Walstead’s made his decision and she will back him up. Like a dutiful wife or victim of abuse. 

I sighed and said, “I’ll give you a list of the work I’ve illustrated. They’re on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Books a Million, and available for order through your local independent book dealer.” 

“You’re pretty cavalier about what these could do to you, in that courtroom,” Walstead said. His voice had an edge to it. Obviously, his attempt at intimidation wasn’t working. 

“Again, pay attention. My name is on every coloring book and listed as illustrator for a dozen titles. Google me as an artist and the first one that usually comes up is The Best Way to Make a Straight Man Gay. It’s been banned a few times. People thought it was a how-to manual.” 

Elissa tried to keep her voice snotty and mean, but I could sense surprise behind it. “It’s not?” 

“Another reason you should read the work for yourself.” I turned back to Walstead, smiling, “I’ve posted some of my shorter poetry on the gay sites, as well. I just wrote one little ditty that would fit you perfectly. How’s this?” 

Big bad boy Paley decided to gloat 
That he’d seen how Walstead would quietly dote 
On him walking by, so he sneered to quote, 
“Y’know, it’s not sex if I cum down your throat.” 

 Walstead stiffened and I think he was close to hitting me. Instead, he just snarled, “I’m not gay.” 

“So you say.” Then I put my portfolio in my backpack. 

“Simon,” he said, his voice low and growling, “if we don’t deal, here and now, I’m aiming for jail time.” 

“You will address me as Mr. Harper!” 

“I mean it. Six months, thanks to the special enhancement. Thousand dollar fine.” 

I rose, laptop in one hand, and slung the backpack over my shoulder, saying, “It amazes me that you graduated from Harvard Law, never mind passed the bar exam. And that is taking into account you were a legacy entrant. That school has lost all respect I had for it.” 

Elissa circled me to return to Dillon’s side. “You’ve been doing your own research.” 

“And it’s better than yours, obviously. Courtroom’s open. I’m going in. I prefer you both stay away from me.” 

I crossed to the door, checked security but still no ReShawn, so showed the guard my driver’s license and a text on my phone. A reminder of the time and date for the trial. The guard passed me in. Dillon and Elissa followed. 

If they were going to call me by my first name, from now on I would call them by theirs. It’s petty, I know, but right now I’d take anything I could get.

Sunday, July 27, 2025

Continuing from yesterday...

Simon is talking to Walstead and Manville prior to the beginning of his trial, and they threaten to use his art against him.

-------

“He’s a very up-to-date kind of guy...” 

I chuckled. “Up to date? What? Are we in the Fifties?” 

“I just mean, he’s not...he’s not some innocent, not unaware and...and even he was freaked out. Said it all got brutal in the...how’d he put it...non-con area. He told me about one...” 

He held up a printout of one page. Ray Who Was Taken. Just the first section, since it had spread over nine pages, with a midnight-style sketch of a man grabbing a younger man...

The hour was late before Ray headed home 
From the party his best friend had held at Le Dome. 
The blues and the blacks of the night's monochrome 
Made him feel so easy, he thought he would roam 
Since he had a condo that wasn't too far. 
But he didn't notice when that big blue car 
Pulled out of the parking lot next to the bar 
And quietly followed. Its back doors ajar. 
He passed his street and as he started to turn 
For the park, the car pulled up. Now too late to learn 
The four men inside of it each had a yearn 
To force Ray to join in their weekend sojourn. 

He continued with, “It made me wonder if you planned to get Paley back to your hotel. Drug him. Abuse him.”

I rolled my eyes and closed my laptop. It was nearing ten a-m and obviously these two would not let me do any work, so I said, “That comment is why you should have purchased a copy of my coloring book, for yourself. Then you’d have seen in all the artwork I do that every one of the men who’re kidnapped and abused are well-built. With hair on their chest, legs, arms and belly. All around the age of thirty. Good strong features and a thick mane on their head. Paley is their polar opposite, except in age.” 

“He’s well-built.” Now it was snottiness from Manville. 

I cast her a cool glare. “He shaves the hair off his body. Including his pubes. I think it’s to de-emphasize the growing male pattern baldness.” 

“How do you know that?” Walstead asked. “Are you going to claim he exposed himself to you?” 

“Oh, stop it. He was dressed in a white wife-beater, that night, and it was probably a size too small for him. It was easy to see the stubble on his chest and belly and...” 

He cut me off with, “That doesn’t mean anything.” 

“His beard does. It was beyond being a five o’clock shadow but not quite scruff. And what hair was on his head was thick, except for that little tuft he has in the center. He also has some on his shoulders...the trapezius, I think it’s called...and at the nape of his neck, where he can’t reach with a razor. There was more stubble on his forearms, but none in his pits. Which he did exhibit. I despise that. It’s as if he wants to come across as a little boy instead of an adult.” 

He shook his head. “You also called him a juice junky, which he does not look like. And besides, steroids are illegal, for muscle enhancement...” 

“Oh, that’ll stop it.” 

Manville circled around in front of me and... 

And suddenly Alain was double-teaming me. With two friends of his and...

I jolted, shaken. I hadn’t thought about that time in years and...

“What makes you think he uses them?” she asked, her voice far too deliberately casual. 

It still came out of nowhere. And she was still moving in that way so I had to close my eyes so I couldn’t see. Mentally, I knew it was not deliberate on her part, but inside was a growing sense of panic remembering... 

Arriving home... 

Not knowing Alain knew my extra key was taped on top of the door frame... 

And he...he and them said they were playing a game but...but...

No. 

Fucking no. 

I fought to back away from those memories. I did not want that shit to rock me, not at that point in time! No. No fucking way.

No!

I forced my eyes open and pulled a pen from my backpack and dug it into the palm of my left hand. It hurt like hell, and it was still a fight to kick away that chaos, but it jolted me enough to where I could make myself start to breathe normally, again.

I looked straight at Manville, and I would almost swear she was studying me. Like I was a insect. I glanced at Walstead and his expression was one of wariness. They’d both noticed my actions, of course, and both had wary expressions. Suddenly I got the idea they didn’t see me as human but just some beast they were having to deal with. As if I was rabid.

At that moment, I couldn't swear that I wasn't.