Guy-Spell
By R.W. Clinger
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2017 R.W. Clinger
ISBN 9781634863247
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
To Kenito Padilla.
* * * *
Guy-Spell
By R.W. Clinger
The twenty-two pages of television script said the following:
Guy-Spell.
Host: Guy Montelli.
May 6, 2017.
Season Three. Episode 96.
Studio 8. Stage L.
394 Reese Street. Downtown Pittsburgh. 15210.
* * * *
“Welcome back to Guy-Spell. Guy Montelli here with best-selling, gay romance writer, Finnegan Wakeland.”
Guy stared into camera one, grinning like a Hollywood star with a slew of Emmy awards on his mantle at home. He looked exactly like Tab Hunter, one hundred percent, all the way: blond and beautiful, reeking of handsomeness. A daytime television superstar on the Pittsburgh-based, queer network, The Man Channel.
Guy held up Wakeland’s new novel in front of his slim but muscular chest: two half-dressed firemen were kissing on its cover, silky yellow flames surrounding their embrace.
“Finnegan Wakeland’s new novel is called Men Under Fire.” Guy turned his view from camera one to his afternoon guest. “Tell us what your trashy and fun book is about. Don’t shy away from any risky or tantalizing details, of course.” Guy winked into the camera, playing with his live and television-viewing audiences, always grinning and obviously enjoying his job.
Finnegan Wakeland hated to do interviews and only agreed to be on Guy-Spell because it was part of his contract with Haymann Books. He looked down at his lap more than he did at Guy, and the three cameras focused on the stage. He didn’t smile. Frankly, the thirty-eight-year-old Irishman resembled an ogre on my monitor, bulky, fatty, unmemorable, and charmless.
He grumbled to Guy, “Two firemen meet at Station Eleven in downtown San Francisco. Neither know the other is gay. Both become tied up in a slew of lies, secrets, and lust. One loses his job.” Then Wakeland fell flat on his face during the interview and mumbled, “It’s fluff on the beach stuff. Third-grade reading. Any retard can read the thing.”
Guy experienced many bad interviews during his four years on The Man Channel. He flashed his toothy grin, gasped, and played off Wakeland’s upsetting and rude comment with, “Stop, Finny. Just stop! The book is steamy-hot and delicious. Let me read page 182 for our watchers. It’s pop-up stuff!”
Assistant director, Neil Carmen, had objected to Guy reading anything from Wakeland’s book because they would probably have to bleep out Wakeland’s mouthy and vulgar characters and XXX narration. But Neil realized the interview was a giant flop, and he let Guy do what he wanted, having worked with him for the last three years on the show. If anyone could make lemonade out of lemons, Guy was the man to get the job done, especially since Wakeland had been inappropriate and politically incorrect during the live show.
Guy opened the book and started reading, toying with every word, over-acting, “…Kenneth’s wet, hulking chest dripped with water, falling over every finely sculpted abs and…”
“Bleep him,” Neil said into his headset to his audio man, Chett Kelper. “It’s getting nasty on stage.”
Guy kept reading.
I reviewed the small monitor in front of me and heard exactly what the audience and viewers would hear in six seconds.
“Bleep…hard…bleep…goosepimples along his throbbing muscles and bleep hanging between his…bleep.”
Then I listened to a long string of bleeps, watching Guy’s mouth move as he said the words fuck, cock, cum, and dick. I waved a hand to Lucy Bender, the show’s assistant producer, to inform her the bit was turning into a bleeping disaster.
Lucy, the only one with access to Guy and his earpiece, spoke into her headset to him, probably telling him to stop reading the novel and to ask Wakeland more personal questions.
Guy pressed his left ear, stopped reading, and held the front of the book up to camera one again. He giggled, “My producer, Lucy B, says she’s a little turned on by Finny’s words and not to spoil the scene for all you watchers and readers. Thanks, Lucy!”
Guy continued to save the interview, asking his questions about Wakeland’s bedroom behavior, a typical interrogation Guy had a reputation of always asking his guests, prying into their private lives.
Lucy gave me a thumb’s up, mouthed, “Thanks, Landon,” and smiled, telling me it was a good call to get involved when I did, proving I was a helpful second assistant director.
Following Guy’s intimate questions for the author, he stood and camera two picked him up as he walked right, to the middle of the stage with the novel. He held the novel in front of him, just below his perfectly clean-shaven and foundation-shaded chin, continued to beam his pearly whites, and flamboyantly yelled at his audience.
“Guess what, peeps in the audience? You all get a hardback copy of Men Under Fire today to take home!”
“Camera three,” Neil called into his headset. “You’re on.”
Operator of camera three, Billy Tarkin, an ex-pro football player, focused on the royal blue curtains left of Guy’s elevated stage. A bare-chested hottie, dressed in tight, white boxer-briefs and untied Timberland boots, pushed a giant, flat-bed cart out of the curtains. Timberland looked Italian, with massive muscles, huge dick in the skimpy underwear, and scruff on his beautiful chin and cheeks. His smile glowed a perfect white as he parked the cart in the middle of the lower stage, grabbed a stack of ten novels in his beefy arms, and stepped into the audience, passing out the prizes.
Guy snapped a few times and called out, “Look at our delicious piece of Italian beefcake, Victor! Something tells me he spends more time in the gym than reading, but who cares since he’s hawwwt!”
Camera two did a close-up of Guy. Guy closed out the show as his sidekick, Victor, continued to pass out Finnegan Wakeland’s trashy novel to audience members.
Guy waved an arm at his viewers, snapped once, and said, “I want to thank The Brigade Boys for singing today, and my two other lovely guests, Ronny the Hot Weatherman from Logo, and Finnegan Wakeland. Until tomorrow, my fans and lovers…have a Guy-Spell of your own. Bye!”
The credits rolled at the bottom of my monitor. Camera three followed Victor as he passed out books. Guy entered the scene, assisting Victor in his chore. Finnegan Wakeland walked off the stage and headed for his dressing room. The show ended, going to a KY commercial.
Everyone took off their headsets, and Neil Ca
rmen yelled at Lucy, “We’re never having that writer on our show again! So fucking boring! So ignorant to our autistic and special needs viewers! He’s going to make the ratings go down!”
Lucy attempted to calm her boss down.
Other workers on-set continued doing their jobs.
Guy walked off stage, around my monitor on its tripod, and leaned into me. He kissed my cheek and asked, “How’d it go, babe?”
The kiss felt warm and soothing, better than the show turned out.
“It’s good, but not our best work. Finny doesn’t work well on camera. He can write a great book, but his interviewing skills suck shit.”
Guy chuckled, breathed me in, kissed me again, and said, “I did what I could do as a host to give it some life.”
“You did,” I told him. “No worries. Your fans will love the installment, as usual.”
* * * *
Guy and I met on-set, three years before when I first started at Guy-Spell. Although he had a reputation of being a complete dick, and was known to be excruciatingly hard to work with, and for, he had taken a liking to me. Truth told, he cupped me under his wing like a baby bird, treated me as his little pet, and soon started to date me. After three months of dating, I decided to sleep with him and became his boyfriend.
Life was good with Guy, I told myself every day. The man, although characteristically feminine and somewhat of a flamer in front of the camera, was all-man off the air: a stud, aggressive, charming when he needed to be, and a sweetheart. Never had he acted like a queen or was bullheaded with me outside of Guy-Spell. While making the show, he was a villain most of the time during our workdays, but never to me when we were off the clock. Only to others. Guy was known to be a conceited asshole on-set, unbearable and rough around the edges, for all the wrong reasons, but again, never to me outside the show.
Someone at the show—I think it was Chett Kelper, but wasn’t positive—referred to him as a terrorist at work and lover at home. Honestly, I didn’t disagree with that comment and wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Guy was an angel with me. A complete teddy bear who treated me like a prince, almost always. Day in and day out. He called me his gift from heaven, a saint who had saved his life from being alone. The only man he had fallen in love with. His better half. His soul mate. Someone who had changed his world and made him believe love could exist between two men, and sharing happiness together during a lifetime was possible, a reality.
Guy never barked at me like others. He never threatened me or spouted rude comments at me like he did to others. And never, never, never did he swear at me, even when I fucked up at work or at home. Guy had placed me on a pedestal in his world and labeled me untouchable to others, only his to love, a certain prize or diamond he had unearthed from the world of rubble and would forever hold dear to his heart. I became the man he loved and protected. His partner. Fixation. And someone he could cherish, lust for, and adore every single day of his life, without any guilt whatsoever.
Bottom line: Guyan “Guy” Montelli loved me. Only me.
* * * *
We had a small flat in downtown Pittsburgh on Rice Street. That specific area of the city went by the name of Southton. Our flat wasn’t anything extravagant or expensive. The place looked charming and felt comfortable, somewhat low scale for two guys who were making plenty to survive on. Our bedroom had a view of the Monongahela River and part of the Birmingham Bridge. Tiny, specialized shops decorated our neighborhood streets: coffee, chocolate, expensive stationary and greeting cards, floral, deli, hardware, bakery, and many others.
Southton had the reputation of being the queer part of the city, and rainbow flags waved in all directions. Some called our small area arrogant, uppity, and unbearable because of its ubiquitous charm. Frankly, no one from Southton really cared what those “outside” people thought, thinking them low-brow and ignorant to different lifestyles and people.
Guy called Southton the gay utopia and perfect for our extroverted lifestyles in television. Of course, he was a celebrity throughout the entire city of Pittsburgh because of his television show, but in Southton, he was sort of a god, an upstanding citizen with a great smile, strong head on his shoulders, and leader of our community. Honestly, we couldn’t go anywhere without someone recognizing his Tab Hunter good looks, wanting his autograph and taking selfies with the man. Both men and women hugged him when we walked to Metropolitan Coffee for a brew. People in Southton wanted to hang with Guy and be a part of his world. They adored him for being fun, partially obnoxious, all smiles, and slapstick when necessary.
Take away Guy’s celebrityhood, that layer of extra skin that his viewers watched Monday through Friday from eleven in the morning until noon, and what did I have for the taking? An intelligent, well-rounded man with a doctorate in media communications from Pitt University, the third son of Fredrico and Helena Montelli, the spitting, Icelandic image of his mother, lacking his father’s Italian looks, and someone who enjoyed playing video games, collecting Madonna memorabilia off the Internet, and was a huge fan of Survivor and other reality shows.
A man who hated to do dishes, insisted we have a maid (twenty-two-year-old Bertley from Maids of Heaven; he came three times a week), and refused to make our bed. I was left with a man who had a weakness for Long Island iced teas, music by Cher and Lady Gaga, and enjoyed singing love songs in the shower, usually those from famous movies.
Guy was someone who used too much product in his hair, loved makeup, and name brands. He hated expensive cars, calling them a waste of money, and drove a Prius around the city. He loved Terry MacMillan novels, adoring the African-American’s narrative style, and other literary vinaigrettes of life. In his spare time, he watched reruns of Jeopardy! and became a huge fan of American Horror Story. Plus, he collected Pez dispensers, the proud owner of over a thousand pieces, most of which were rare and limited.
* * * *
After our day at Studio 8 in downtown Pittsburgh, Guy and I walked through the parking lot and climbed into his 2016 Prius. He drove us home for quick showers and a change of clothes. We had a scheduled dinner at Bruberry’s Bed and Breakfast, within walking distance from our apartment.
After kissing me at a red light and running one of his paws through my hair, he said, “Goddamn, you’re a handsome man. I’m almost jealous of your looks.”
He studied my ink-black hair and bright blue eyes, dimples, and clean-shaven chin and cheeks. Guy checked out my thirty-six-year-old frame, liking my 180 pounds and six-one height. He kissed me again and pulled away.
“Honestly, I just want to take you home and do naughty things to you.”
“Trust me, I won’t stop you from doing that,” I admitted.
Guy became an animal in bed, good with his moves, hungry, wild, and sexually perfect. He could have been a porn star with his star-quality looks, sexual appetite, pounding moves, and the eight-inch slab of dick in his tight chinos. And what wasn’t there to like about his long-lasting libido, eating me up because of his extended desire for me, using my flesh for his greedy needs, and pleasuring me all at the same time? Guy had many ways of loving me, and our sex together just happened to be one of them, flawlessness on his part and mine.
He chuckled and mischievously pinched one of my nipples through my tight T-shirt. “I can bang the prince out of you later. Until then, we have other things to pound.”
I laughed, always enjoying his humor.
The light changed, and he pressed the Prius’ accelerator. He asked, “Do you have our notes about the parade?”
“Everything is in order, as usual. I have signatures and float stats completed, just as Bobby wants.”
“I knew that. You’re the most organized person on this planet. It’s just one of the many reasons why I’ve fallen in Iove with you, Landon Brice.”
I chuckled. “I thought your love was all about my tight ass.”
He chuckled. “That, too. How can I not love the snuggest hole in Pittsburgh? No wonder fans are jeal
ous of my life.”
* * * *
We showered together, dressed in jeans and T-shirts, and walked the three blocks to the bed and breakfast in the springtime weather. He slipped his hand within one of my own and swung our arms to and fro. The evening’s breeze smelled of sweet geraniums, freshly baked pretzels, and chocolate coffees; scents of the city I had fallen in love with.
We made a right on Sheltz Street and walked the remaining two blocks to Bobby’s. Bruberry’s Bed and Breakfast looked like something out of a fairy tale and reached into heaven, if not higher. An 1888 Victorian house, massive in size for a city residence, loomed over us. Snow-in-summer flowers decorated window boxes, and wrought-iron fences gated two gardens off the expansive and rocker-decorated verandah. A cobblestone walkway led to three narrow steps and a massive glass and oak, Cassandra-style door.
Guy entered the business/residence first, and I followed behind. Cast-iron arches, a Queen Anne Revival banister and stairway to the right, and Neoclassic chandeliers welcomed our arrival. Rooms to the left and right off the first floor’s hallway were stunning: a gingerbread-style dining room area, small library with elaborate chairs, and a sitting room with expensive rugs and many books. To the rear of the rooms sat the ballroom: stately with golden hues and beautiful Italian tile.
Guy and I walked into the sitting room. We were immediately hugged by Bobby Bruberry, a Neil Patrick Harris look-alike.
“Thank you for coming. Join our group, men.”
We sat down among a group of men and women, all neighbors I knew and socialized with on the streets of Southton during its annual fairs, Christmastime celebrations, and whatnots.
Bobby stood at the head of the group: limber, fit, and nice to look at, but not my type. “Welcome again, people. We have a lot to cover tonight. I see most of you have drinks. Dinner will be served after our meeting and…”
* * * *
The Southton LGBTQIAP community’s annual Love Yourself, Love Someone Else Day, including the festive parade and a variety of other events, was in two weeks; a one-day celebration on Tea Street for marriage equality.
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