by Kris Jacen
“There’s a voicemail,” he said and pressed the button to call for messages, then put the phone on speaker.
“You have…one message. First message…” the phone barked.
With a crackle, Grant’s voice came over the line and Weylyn stiffened.
“Wey! Hey! Dude, you’ll never guess! I found a Fallen Angel you haven’t fucked! Seriously, man. He’s hot, and he has no idea who you are. Unless he’s lying to me. But I didn’t think Fallen Angels could lie. Can they? I’ll have to ask him. Anyway, I just wanted you to know I’m okay. I’m here now and everything is alright. Don’t be sad. It’s not a good look on you, dude. And I’d miss your smile if you were sad. So hey, I gotta run, but give Drake a big slobber kiss for me. I’m sorry I never got to fuck him, but then again, I have an angel you haven’t fucked, so I guess that makes us square. Take care, Weylyn. I’ll see you here someday.”
The call ended, and Weylyn saved the message and closed his phone. He looked at Drake and tried to keep his face composed. Unfortunately, he couldn’t. He felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“You know, Grant would probably get the biggest kick out of me fucking you to celebrate his elevation to the Afterworld,” Weylyn murmured, his hands reaching for the buckle of Drake’s belt.
Drake leaned back on his elbows, giving Weylyn a clear shot at his belt and zipper. Weylyn could already see the outline of the wizard’s swelling cock beneath the denim.
“Then I guess we should assuage your grief in a manner your friend would approve of, don’t you think?” Drake said slyly, wiggling his brows suggestively.
Weylyn opened Drake’s belt, pulled down the zipper of his jeans, and wrapped his fist around the wizard’s thick erection.
“I think I need to make up for the fact that he found an angel I hadn’t fucked. And here I thought I’d had them all,” he joked.
Drake laughed softly. “You have me and lots of memories of Grant. Don’t be sad, Wey. All life comes to an end someday. You heard it for yourself. He’s okay. Now, fulfill his last wish and give me a big slobbery kiss.”
Weylyn leaned over his lover and took his mouth fiercely, relishing the mashing of their lips and teeth and tongues together. Life did indeed end for everyone at some point. Grant had gone into the Light and come out in the Afterworld. Weylyn would miss him, but at the same time, he held his memories of his friend close to his heart and knew that where he now resided was a better place. Especially since Grant had found his own angel and his own peace.
Sinking down onto Drake’s hard body, Weylyn let his grief go, and as Drake caressed him, he mentally said his goodbyes to Grant. Doing the right thing might not always have the outcome that seemed fairest, but Weylyn decided it was the only thing a man with a conscience could do. Taking the consequences of your actions in stride and embracing what life—and the Afterlife—had in store for you showed the measure of the man. And by the Gods, Grant had done that in spades.
Weylyn’s pain subsided to a dull ache in a corner of his heart as Drake stripped his clothes from him. He stretched out on the bed and celebrated Grant’s life in the way his friend had wanted…by living life to its fullest, embracing pleasure, and walking in the light.
Technical Terms
A post from Patric to Ethan Day’s Yahoo Group
Yeah. I’m PUTTING realism in my writing because I am often.... nonplussed by the truly bizarre notions I see perpetrated as fiction. :)
No offense intended to anyone without genuine GM parts, but hey... A twink is a young, generally smooth male without a huge muscle mass.
He is NOT a “bad guy”. Just saying.
Ass burn: I’ve seen it mentioned constantly, and it’s always in reference to first entry, and is always overwhelmed by the pleasure of the activity. But you know what? Any guy who is NOT a hole virgin can take it up the bum without burning, if they take their time, and there is enough lube. Burn pretty much only happens when the grease runs dry, or there wasnt any to begin with. On a purely technical level, it’s the result of inflamed tissue because the mucous lining was rubbed away. And as long as the irritation stops, it stops burning fairly quickly.
Another thing is finger prep. Ok. Good plan, and certainly considerate, but it’s always written as if it were a necessity. In fact, I’ve only read ONE book where the character says it’s not necessary for him. (Red Tainted Silence) And that’s true. If you’ve played more than a few times, its remarkably easy to take anything without a lot of prior fuss. Obviously, this excludes those guys who are naturally reticent, totally inexperienced, havent been laid in donkeys years, etc. :)
And, older guys simply arent as... stringent... in that department anyway. Simple fact of life. So if the December in your May-December romance is squeaking at a measly ol’ dick up his butt, it’s nonsense. (And dont even get me started on stretching or fisting. Yikes.)
What else do you want to know? You know what they say, “Those who cant do, teach.”
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Holiday cheer doesnt always come in a cup.
Where else but at a holiday gathering can babies learn about gravity the hard way, the dog can lap up spilled wine faster than paper towels, strangers can laugh and tease like they’ve been best friends forever, and close family can be so unfathomable (all at the same time I might add) and none if it is the least bit unusual?
Christmas Eve, the day after chemo, was an outright Happy Day as expected. I find myself rather glad I haven’t lost those “Days After” altogether. This one in particular allowed me to play catch up, and as I do every year it seems, I spent most of the day (and night) “elfing” to arrive bleary eyed and sleepy to Christmas Day. Also a Happy Day, though it took the magic of a White (pill) Christmas to do it. Good enough for me!
(And it should be noted for those who follow such things, that at this point in the chemo process things are generally going well, though as always there will be room for consideration at the end of the run. Certainly enough for John to look ahead at the future, which will no doubt be a topic for later posts. Fingers crossed!)
Anyway, the usual day’s commotion was fun, despite the aforementioned wine and baby things (though luckily the incidents were unrelated) and my sister came up with the ultimate gift: An autographed copy of Julie Bell and Boris Vallejo’s book of collected works. I have his, and later after they got married, their calendars as far back as 1972. Though from then to ‘85 or so there are several missing years.
I’ve been following his work though his “periods” of pure fantasy, to a brief stint where his subjects were all body builder poses sort of stuck into situations, (and what a queerly apt analogy those painting were for “writing a situation instead of a story.”) and through to where he (apparently) married one of his students named Julie Bell and got himself back on track by painting jointly.
In a very peculiar way, she seemed to be the missing part of himself, and their joint works are even more visually stunning than his alone. She does metal like he does flesh, and the imagery always leaves me awed and fascinated when they work together.
Curiously, the autograph reads “Keep writing, Patric.” and their signatures. I have no idea in the world how Sis managed that one, and when I asked if they knew *what* I write, she got a bit cagey so I’ll have to ask again later on when distance once again gives her a comfort zone between how I used to be and how I am now.
Gods love her, the poor dear is having a bit of trouble getting her head around the whole cancer thing, though she’s a trooper and puts on a good face.
It dooesn’t help any of us to remember that we lost our Mom literally between Christmas and New Year’s Day which makes my oldest niece’s departing comment all the more poignant; “Now we just have to make it through New Year’s Day and we’ll be good for the rest of the year.”
I think that was the only major undercurrent to the holiday, and it’s one I really couldn’t stem. I’m too easy to read to keep the knowledge from anyone that t
he day was getting rough, and if I wander off to take a nap, that left imaginations to run wild. But despite that, we ate our way through most of a grocery story, let the big people empty the wine bottles, (not me, I was loopy enough as it was!) bagged mountains of trash, and had a great time.
Like the ghosts of Christmases past, getting there might be anticipatory and exciting, but the best part of all is when it’s over, the dishes are washed and the little ones are fast asleep, leaving the rest of us pleasantly enmeshed in each others company and filing away memories to sustain us through the coming year or years when we will once again all end up at the same place, and do it all over again.
Looking forward to that future....
Patric
P.S. Boris, Julie... Thank you, from the bottom of my heart!
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Yikes!
Once again I am remiss in my duties, and whole weeks have gone by since I posted anything new. My apologies.
The problem is two-fold, really. On one hand, when things are going well, I’m busy catching up on the world in general. On the other hand, when things aren’t so good, I’m kinda too tired to do anything at all. The end result is that this poor little blog (not to mention the other blog and my website) don’t get updated. Grr...
Oh, and as a point of reference, I prefer cheddar with my whine, thank you!
That said, I’ll have to take a stab at a better update later on. Too bloody tired to think.
Maybe tomorrow. :)
Monday, January 11, 2010
Turning Tricks, Silly Rabbit.
EDIT 01-12-10:
The following is NOT a beg for money!
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Well, it’s official. I only write in this damned blog when I’m fucked, or feel like shit, ‘cuz right now I’m both, and here I am!
(That’s me, spreadin’ the love.)
If the preceding isn’t enough of a DISCLAIMER, here goes:
The following post is very likely to contain expressions of anger and disappointment, couched in epithets not suitable for delicate ears (eyes). If that ain’t your cup of tea, move on freely. :)
It will also divulge information of a personal nature that might make some people, people who willingly read this damned thing, rather uncomfortable.
Caution delivered: Proceed at risk.
The concept of an axle, a thing around which something turns, came into vogue about the time the wheel was invented. As we progressed from stone to wood, and later to spokes, we as a race of thinking beings have ever been a slave to the axle. Not the wheel, as some would contend, but the axle, the pivot point, the nexus. Without it, a wheel is nothing more than a toy or a paperweight.
Curiously, an axle need not necessarily be a concrete thing. There are axles everywhere. Call them the point where things resolve, and in whatever way you choose, but whether they are made of steel, or something far more esoteric, we’re still slaves.
I offer you a series of events, all turning around a central them. My axle, if you will. Feel free to argue or debate, but I reserve the right not to participate, should it come to that.
Like everything else, it’s simply a matter of perspective, and mine has ever been skewed. :)
Long ago, at the start of a career that would eventually span half of my adult life, I stood on a street corner. Mostly at night, and always with guys I counted loosely as friends (inasmuch as these lads were capable of friendship, at least.)
These guys were junkies and hustlers, most often in that order, and while I’d love to be able to say something like “They had a quiet bravery regarding their situation, meeting adversity with dignity, and the resolve to carry on.” it’d be so much bull shit. The bald truth is that most of these guys were feeding a habit and nothing else.
The difference between me and them is that they shot their habit into their arms, and I was my own habit. Pesky habit, eating. I can’t seem to break myself of it.
I cant say I would have starved entirely back then. There are always alternatives, whether it be hustling, or scrounging off friends, or dumpster diving. Of those, pride pretty much precluded scrounging off friends, and lets face it; everything is a choice, even if it’s the choice to do nothing at all. And having a little fun never hurt. Since I wasn’t feeding a monkey, I could pick and choose, to a degree.
I wasnt much good at hustling though. The boys said I was too old, which was sort of sad. Too old when you wouldn’t hit thirty for a good while isnt what you’d call a lengthy career. So I mostly learned the alternatives.
“Spanging” is the term for shaking a cup and asking for change. I couldnt quite manage that, either. Not desperate enough to forgo that damnable pride, yet.
“Groundage” is the term for when a generous soul would buy something like fast food to go, then throw it away untouched, knowing someone had an eagle eye on the trash cans at McDonalds. You’d be surprised how often that happens. For the donor, it’s a way to feel good without actually having to get your hands dirty. For the recipient, you get to feed at least one habit. (Pun intended) And of course there is always dumpster diving. :)
The stint didnt last long, fortunately, and the boys and I parted company. They to whatever waits for junkies, and me to another job, hopefully.
The point is, that time existed, and I got on by learning from them. You do what you need to do to survive, whatever you are surviving on. (and to the reviewer who panned Night Moves as preposterous, you are an idiot.) There, I said it. :)
Anyway, moving on. We’ll come back to all that later.
Now we jump ahead to another point in life, when the situation is the same, but the circumstances have changed. Another spoke on the wheel if you will, spinning around that axle called money.
For some bizarre reason I dont fully grasp, no one wants to hire a dead guy. (Bigotry is so pervasive...) :)
Okay, so maybe that’s more of a problem than I thought, because the hospital had a plan.
“Here, fill these out. They are application forms for Social Security Disability.”
“Whaa?” (I wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed that day.)
“Disability. Income for while you’re doing chemo because you probably wont be able to work.”
“Why not?” I ask. Like I said, not the sharpest tool, me.
“She gives me a look that says, “Buddy, you are so clueless.” but she’s patient and reminds me that chemo, *my chemo*, is pretty rough.
“Okay.” (Stage one of the claims process.)
I remember Social Security. That mysterious government agency to whom I’ve paid a portion of every paycheck I’ve ever received for the last thirty years. Yeah! That’s what it was supposed to be for, right? Emergencies like this? Cool. I’m all over it because nothing will depress me faster than not keeping up on my bills. Seriously depressed.
Ah well, the axle turns, doesn’t it. I lucked out with the guy who conducted the phone interview. (Stage two of the claim process) He was considerate, easy going, and knowledgeable. He explained the process, and the pitfalls, and like a dope, I thought I understood.
“Lots of people making claims, you know, so the process isn’t as fast as we’d like.”
“Okay, I get that.” I say.
“And there is a five month waiting period before we can issue a check.”
“Er, what?” I ask. “What are they waiting for, to see if I’ll die?”
“In a nutshell, yes.”
I deeply appreciate candor, prefer it in all instances, but that surprised me. I was thinking it was more along the lines of Unemployment holding back a week for themselves to cover operating costs.
Turns out its both.
Until now, I’ve pretty much ignored the agency entirely. After all, I had all the time in the world to learn about it, right? *snort*
They do pay out, eventually (if your claim is approved), and there are a lot of people who flat need the s
ervice, but as is apparently well known, there is more going out than coming in. Duh. Tool in the shed, remember?
I’ll forgo the politics, thank you. It simply wont change in my lifetime, harsh as that sounds.
I will say that any delays beyond the foot dragging crap they do is totally unnecessary. And their rules! Holy shit on a shingle. What they constitute a valid claim would make my hair stand on end, if I had any left. But I’m jumping ahead. Back to delays....
Seems a lovely young lady working on my claim has been stonewalled. How, you ask? By NOT getting medical records from a certain doctor’s office.
So stage three of the process of filing a claim comes to a head. Waiting.
You will perhaps recall that I jumped the gun previously regarding a certain medical assistant, so I’m *trying* not to do that again, but when I was told by the claims worker that she sent several emails and left several voicemails and still hadn’t heard anything back, I sort of went ballistic. After all, I know how hard it was for ME to get records, and I’m standing in the same damn building!
Tomorrow, I have a chemo session. My sixth. That there will be two more after that doesnt bode well for my success. Maybe. But discussing that hast to take a back seat to my plan of spending my allotted forty minutes getting those records sent out. Fuck the “how are you feeling” shit. Which rolls to the next point...
On one hand, if I’m medically screwed, it means the cancer wins and Disability will say yes. Pay the dead guy! Yay! It’ll be short term, and we’ll get to keep most of what was in his coffer.
On the other hand, if the cancer is being handled, I’m denied. Dont pay the guy. Never mind he’ll have been eight months in the hole by the time we have a definitive answer. Most of that Soc.Sec. has already spent waiting to see if I’ll live. We keep what’s in the coffer!