Wilde Stories 2014

by Editred by Steve Berman

  Wilde

  Stories

  2014

  The Year’s Best Gay Speculative Fiction

  edited by

  Steve Berman

  Lethe Press

  Maple Shade, New Jersey

  WILDE STORIES 2014

  Copyright © 2014 Steve Berman. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in 2014 by Lethe Press, Inc.

  118 Heritage Avenue • Maple Shade, NJ 08052-3018 USA

  www.lethepressbooks.com • lethepress@aol.com

  ISBN: 978-1-59021-503-6 / 1-59021-503-6 (library binding)

  ISBN: 978-1-59021-500-5 / 1-59021-500-1 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-59021-501-2 /1-59021-501-X (e-book)

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.

  Interior and cover design: Alex Jeffers.

  Cover artwork: Marianna Stelmach.

  “Lacuna” Copyright © 2013 Matthew Cheney, first appeared in Where Thy Dark Eye Glances (ed. by Steve Berman, Lethe Press). / “The Water that Falls on You from Nowhere” Copyright © 2013 John Chu, first appeared at Tor.com on February 20 / “In the Brokenness of Summertime” Copyright © 2013 R.W. Clinger, first appeared in The Other Man: 21 Writers Speak Candidly about Sex, Love, Infidelity, & Moving on (ed. by Paul Fahey, JMS Books) / “The Revenge of Oscar Wilde” Copyright © 2013 Sean Eads, first appeared in Zombies: Shambling Through History (ed. by Steve Berman, Prime Books) / “Caress” Copyright © 2013 Eli Easton, first appeared in Steamed Up (Dreamspinner Press) / “Right There in Kansas City” Copyright © 2013 Casey Hannan, first appeared on the website “90s Meg Ryan” in the issue The Ethics of American Kickboxing / “Grindr” Copyright © 2013 Clayton Littlewood, first appeared in Friend. Follow. Text.: #storiesFromLivingOnline (ed. by Shawn Syms, Enfield & Wizenty) / “57 Reasons for the Slate Quarry Suicides” Copyright © 2013 Sam J. Miller, first appeared in Nightmare #15 / “How to Dress an American Table” © 2013 J.E. Robinson, first appeared in The Day Rider and Other Stories (Gival Press) / “Seven Lovers and the Sea” Copyright © 2013 Damon Shaw, first appeared in Suffered from the Night (ed. by Steve Berman, Lethe Press) /“Midnight at the Feet of the Caryatides” Copyright © 2013 Cory Skerry, first appeared in Where Thy Dark Eye Glances (ed. by Steve Berman, Lethe Press) / “Happy Birthday, Numbskull” Copyright © 2013 Robert Smith, first appeared in Jonathan #2 / “The Ghosts of Emerhad” Copyright © 2013 Nghi Vo, first appeared in Icarus 16 / “Super Bass” Copyright © 2013 Kai Ashante Wilson, first appeared at Tor.com on May 22.

  ~

  In memory of JOEL LANE, a sweet man w

  ho understood horrors

  Introduction

  Do readers bother with introductions? A similar question might be, do young children bother to read the wrappers on candy bars? Perhaps after half the chocolate has already been masticated and lips and fingertips are sticky, they might pause, spend a moment of distraction before the sugar rush to read the thin wrapping. I wonder if readers open Wilde Stories to a random story, feast on those words, and then another story, not necessarily the following but again a indiscriminate choice, and only when sated consider the introduction. Editors often sweat and bleed over proper introductions.

  Another question editors ponder: How long do readers dwell on the table of contents of an anthology, let alone a “Year’s Best” anthology? Writers, of course, care—the initial posting of the TOC online is often greeted with much the same excitement I suspect nervous drama students feel about whether or not they will have a part in a play.

  I’m reflecting on all this because this volume is different from past editions of Wilde Stories. Not one of the contributors has appeared in the series before.

  Back in 2008, when I started the series, I worried over its viability. How many stories would I find, how many authors wrote quality gay-themed spec fic? And when I saw that I was buying stories from the same folk, at least one individual from the preceding volume would be in the next, was the series getting stale or was the field of writers too small?

  Six years later, I can state that those early fears have been proven wrong. I had to read so many stories (and the scope of what I consider speculative fiction has widened beyond the fantastical and horrific to include the surreal, the strange, the essentially outlandish) in the field, many by new authors I had yet to happen upon, many by authors I had never thought would write a story with a gay protagonist. The field is not barren but fecund.

  Alas, there will be one individual I shall never publish again. Joel Lane. As with so many authors, I was introduced to the man through his writing and by asking to include him in this series. Joel’s passing in 2013 was sudden, a true blow to horror and noir fiction and gay fiction. I am so saddened by the loss of a man who never failed to write something thrilling. Now I can no longer send him an email in the last months of the calendar year asking to reprint one of the stories he had written. I can take some solace that past volumes of the Wilde Stories series keep a mote of Joel alive, like an ember. Open those books, breathe on the page and his voice will burn bright for a brief span.

  And as long as I am still breathing, I shall continue to gather the best stories of the strange and supernatural and wondrous for you, reader—though isn’t it time you stopped reading this introduction? The real sweets are found once the wrapper is torn aside.

  STEVE BERMAN

  SPRING 2014

  Grindr

  Clayton Littlewood

  He responds immediately, Closer than u think

  Soho Athletic gym.

  7:15 PM. There’s hardly anyone around. The café bar is empty. The only sound, the receptionist washing glasses, the manager ringing up till receipts and the distant sound of club music floating through the gym.

  I try to catch the receptionist’s eye. He’s slim, toned, hair perfectly parted, the obligatory beard. In his late twenties. Probably from Shoreditch. He looks over. “Can I help you?”

  “Can I have a towel please?”

  “Sure,” he smiles. “That’ll be a pound.”

  I hand over a coin, sign in and then head toward the changing room, passing a tall, well-defined woman pounding away on the Stairmaster, the Brazilian trainer “spotting” for a client and a face I know from some club or other. I’m feeling strangely nervous, as if something weird is about to happen.

  It’s busier in the changing room, some guys are dressing, some undressing, a smattering of bears and suited businessmen. A surreptitious glance here, a lingering look there. The usual casual cruising that you find in a gay gym. I find a locker. At the back. Near the showers (my usual spot). Then I unzip my gym bag. Inside is an empty bottle of medication, a black Moleskine notebook, a pair of Adidas tracksuit bottoms and a grey T-shirt with “Muscle” written across the chest, both items of clothing in complete contrast to the designer gym gear that most guys here wear (my gym etiquette is to always be unobtrusive as possible).

  I’m about to close my locker when I remember my iPhone. I fish it out of my bag and as I do it vibrates. It’s a push notification. From Grindr. I enter my passcode, tap the application and the sender’s profile. The pic is slightly grainy, although it looks familiar. Like a gym. I tap Chat. The message reads, Howdy! How’s ur night going?

  I tap the Back button. There’s no name on the profile, just a quote, “Life is short, so enjoy.”

  I contemplate what to do. Then a third message. Don’t block me!

 
; Actually, I wasn’t going to. Blocking always seems such a passive-aggressive act. I have an aversion to it. But equally, if I don’t block him, he sounds like the type that will plague me with messages. Fuck. Why did I even download this app? It’s not as if I intend to meet anyone on here. What was it my friend Paul said, “Why don’t you just put ‘Timewaster’ as your profile name?”

  Then another message pops up, Enjoy ur workout!

  I swivel round. Startled. Is he in here?

  To my left is a Latino guy, blow-drying his armpit hair. Sitting on the bench nearby, an older guy, bearded again, in fatigues and a tight white vest, unties his bootlaces. Neither of them is using a phone.

  I tap Back again. The profile reads:

  Online

  10 meters away

  Ten meters!

  I type, Where r u? Press Send.

  He responds immediately, Closer than u think

  I glance across at the toilets. There’s no one there. He must be in the gym doing a workout. He must’ve spotted me coming in. I head back outside, intrigued.

  I position a gym bench under the Nautilus equipment. Sit down. Wipe my hands on my T-shirt. Then stare straight ahead into the mirror, taking in my surroundings. There are five guys in here. Three working out and two chatting by the far window. None of them are looking in my direction. This makes me feel both safe and uneasy. Safe, because as I’ve said, I like to blend in. And uneasy because I remember a time when I’d walk into the gym and everyone would check me out. Now, no one does.

  I stare at my scuffed trainers, thinking about my fading looks. I quickly shake the thought away. Clasp the barbell with both hands. Take a deep breath and push it upward in one dynamic thrust. I work out briskly, concentrating, not wanting to get wrapped up in negative feelings. After three sets I’m about to take the weights off the bar when I feel my phone vibrating again.

  Not doing a 4th set then?

  I scan the room. Everyone is either lifting weights or on a machine. I check the profile. It’s still says he’s 10 meters away! Where the hell is this guy? I type, Come on! Where r you?

  U’ll find out soon

  I grin. But at the same time I’m getting mildly irritated. Now I can’t block him. Wherever he is, he can see me and blocking him will just make me come across as uptight. I type, Give me a clue? Then I survey the oblong room again: a tattooed guy doing press-ups on a yoga mat and a stocky bear training his biceps. The bear’s face is familiar. But then so many guys on the scene are these days, having seen them out and about for thirty-odd years, or having viewed them online. And now with this bear look, everyone has become one.

  There’s another vibration. I’m not that bear if that’s what u think!

  I press the Power Off button. Okay, I’ve had enough of this. I’ve got to finish this workout and get out of here. I’ve got work to do at home. Chores to be done. Plus I’m knackered. I really need an early night. What was it my boss said to me today? “Clay, you’ve been looking really tired and haggard lately. Are you okay?” I felt like saying, “Look, I’m just a bit rundown, all right! Give me a break!” But of course, you can’t say that. Not to your boss. You just have to smile sweetly and say, “No everything’s fine. But thank you for asking.”

  Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed again, standing in front of the mirror, applying Dax Wax to my salt and pepper hair (more salt now I admit). My skin, although unlined, is starting to sag. I open my mouth, wide. Then close it, watching the flesh fall back into place. The phase I went through a few years ago of having Botox every six months, well, I thought it’d passed and that I was finally accepting the aging process. Now I’m not so sure.

  There’s a vibration in my pocket. I take it out. U’re getting older. Soon no one’s going to want u

  Who the fuck does he think he is? I clench my teeth and press Block. Then I shove my phone back in my pocket and march out of the changing room, the gym, down the stairway, onto Macklin Street, a self-satisfied smirk on my face. Vile queen. Well that put a stop to his stupid little game. And I make my way through the evening crowds to Soho.

  Old Compton Street is a cosmopolitan melting pot. A Hogarth painting come to life. I pass a posse of G.A.Y. twinks, East End lads in Hackett tops, a group of bleached-blonde girls with pink rabbit ears, rickshaws parked outside the Prince Edward Theatre. Then I arrive at my favourite coffee shop, number 34B, on the corner of Frith Street. I take a seat inside, tucked up by the window and order a small black coffee. It’s from this vantage point that I do all my thinking. My window to the world. The place I come to when I want to ponder life, my career, mortality. There’re a stack of magazines in the corner. I pick one up. It’s The Clarion. The local mag. It always has an interesting historical section and I’m engrossed in an article about Soho Square when I feel a movement in my pocket.

  I reach for my coffee. Take another sip. Not in any particular hurry to answer it. I give it a minute. Then reach into my jeans pocket. It’s another Grindr message. From him again!

  In ur favourite spot I see…34B

  I thought I’d blocked him! I press Block. Again. Turn off my phone. Then I scour the crossroads. But it’s so busy, there are so many people laughing, or singing or arguing, it’s like Gay Pride night. I exchange glances with a few guys. It could be any one of them. And they all seem to be looking at me, knowingly, as if they’re somehow all in on it.

  Normally I’d be here for at least an hour, writing in my notebook, trying to make the night last longer before it’s time to face the drudgery of home and preparing for work the next day. But tonight my spell has been broken. My little oasis has been defiled. So I take a last mouthful of the now lukewarm coffee, thank the Hungarian assistant and leave.

  I weave in out of the crowds, down Brewer Street, past the neon-lit bookshop, the peep shows, the NCP car park, the health food shop, turning right at the end of the street, past Third Space and the Piccadilly Theatre, heading underground, down the stairs, the escalator, past the busker murdering The Final Countdown, until I’m on the Piccadilly Line platform (at the back and out of sight).

  The train ride is uneventful. It’s 9:15 PM. Fortunately I’m an hour ahead of the drunken passengers, with their out-of-tune singing and excessively loud voices, all breaking that Golden Tube Rule: Thou Must Not Speak. I get off at Earls Court and take the rear exit, away from the throng.

  Now I’m above ground. The garish display of the Ideal Home Exhibition looms before me. It’s all fake topiary, with a stately home backdrop. Tacky beyond belief. Although I’ve only been on the tube for fifteen minutes, darkness has already descended. I walk down Warwick Road toward Holland Road, thinking about what I have to do when I get in. I’m just passing Tesco when my phone vibrates. It’s a Grindr notification. The profile pic is of a building. I tap it. Then tap Chat. The message reads, Thought u’d lost me did ya?

  Online

  10 meters away

  I spin round. Panicking. There’s no one there. And no one in front either. He must be in Tesco!

  I tap on the profile pic, enlarging it with my thumb and forefinger. It’s a pic of…Homebase. The building ahead! Oh God. He’s somewhere ahead of me. Probably hiding behind that wall! Now what? I could press the Report button, but what am I going to say? That I’m being stalked on an app? That’s what Grindr’s for, isn’t it? So guys can stalk each other? My mind’s racing now. What should I do? Double back? Take another route home? The questions hit me like a stream of arrows. I’m aware too that I’m breathing much faster now and that my right eyelid is twitching. Wait a minute. This is ridiculous. Just jump a cab. What’s he going to do? Run after it?

  I wait until the traffic has subsided, then run across the road, doubling back on myself, turning left onto Cromwell Road, checking behind intermittently that I’m not being followed. A few seconds later I spot a black cab with a yellow vacant sign. I stick my hand out. Please stop! It hurtles toward me and pulls over.

  “Holland Road please!” I say, diving into t
he back. “The High Street Ken end.”

  The driver indicates. I quickly turn in my seat, looking out the back window, still breathing heavily. The street’s deserted. I sigh and sink back in my seat.

  “Just past the pub please. Wherever you can find a space. Yes. Just here’s fine, thanks.”

  I hand the driver a tenner. “Keep the change.” He looks at me in disbelief, as the tip is more than the fare. But I’m not really thinking straight at the moment. I just want to get inside my flat. I slam the cab door. Run the few yards up the street, down the checkered tiled steps, into the basement. It takes me a few seconds to find my keys. I can hear them jangling in my bag somewhere… Here they are! I’m about to put the key in the lock when I feel my phone vibrating. I hesitate. Then take it out. It’s another message. I tap on the profile. The pic is of a bedroom. Hold on, that’s my bedroom! That’s my Jean Cocteau lithograph above my bed. He’s inside my flat!

  I back away from the front door. Rush back up the stairway.

  A short, red-headed woman is about to enter the main building with a young man.

  “Please! Can you help me!”

  She stops, key in the door and turns her head. The young man whispers to the woman. Then he walks toward me. “What’s the matter?” he says politely.

  “Listen, I know this sounds weird. But there’s someone in my flat. He just sent me a photo on my phone. Of my bedroom! He’s in there!” I point down to the basement.

  “Do you know this person?”

  “No! No, I haven’t a clue who it is.”

  Now the woman walks toward me. “You’ve got to calm down a bit, Clay,” she says, as she strokes my arm. “Ian’ll go down and check.”

  I hand him the key. Once he’s in the basement I turn to the woman. “Thank you. You’re very kind. And I’m sorry for being such an idiot. It’s just that—”

  “Don’t worry, Clay,” consoles the woman. “Everything’s going to be all right.” She looks down into the basement area. “Maybe we should go down too.”