I told the three of them, “There will be no penis floats in the parade. Never!”
To my right, journalist Casey Shaw and his cameraman bumped into our foursome.
Casey excused himself and asked Guy, “Guy Montelli, can you tell us what you think of today’s celebration?”
Guy slipped into his entertainment personality, beaming a smile and talking into Casey’s handheld microphone. “Love wins. There’s really nothing else to say.”
Casey told his viewers, “Sometimes, fewer words are better, just as Guy said.”
We watched Casey and his cameraman shuffle through the parade watchers, interviewing more of Southton’s community, creating his news story.
Guy eventually leaned into me and kissed me among the women, men, and children. The kiss felt as if the soil on the Earth had slipped off the global surface and melted into the galaxy, vanishing. When it ended, Guy rubbed the tip of his nose to mine.
“You’re my one and only man, Landon Brice. Everything about you needs celebrating.”
I kissed him in return, held him against me, and knew I wasn’t about to let go of him anytime soon, if ever.
* * * *
That night, exhausted from the parade and festive day, Guy and I curled together on our bed and watched the late news.
The leading story on WCPH wasn’t about the Love Yourself, Love Someone Else Day. Rather, Fire Chief Melinda Scroll of Southton, Mayor Faye Dixon, and Southton’s Police Chief, Daniel D. Mieszkowski, stood in front of all the city’s media reporters.
Fire Chief Melinda Scroll spoke to the group, saying, “After further investigation concerning the fire at 768 Smay Street in the Southton area, the J. P. Bovane Warehouse was not the production of an arsonist. The fire is now believed to be caused by an accident, triggered by the common accelerant, paint thinner. Heat mixed with…”
I turned to Guy and whispered, “Our man Freddy Frye is innocent.”
He kissed me, rubbing one of my cheeks with a thumb. “For now, he is.”
I kissed him, turned off the evening news, and we made love.
* * * *
One month later: June 15
Studio 8. Stage L
My heart wildly thudded within my chest, and my legs trembled as waves of nervousness swept throughout my entire body. My mouth became dry, and my vison doubled. Guy’s dressing room spun in circles, unstoppable. I started to sweat under my arms and across my forehead, felt weak, panted, almost unable to stand, like wreckage after a night of binge drinking at a local gay bar.
“Landon, you have to calm down,” Caster Ray said, wiping sweat away from my brow. “Don’t be so nervous. Today is your special day. You’re getting married to the man you love.”
He handed me a glass of water, and I took a sip, needing something stronger. I passed it back, ice cubes tingling against the glass.
“I never thought I would be this nervous on my wedding day. Nor did I think I would ever marry Guy Montelli in front of his viewers, live and on his show.”
Caster fixed my ruby red bowtie and brushed off both of my onyx-black tuxedo’s lapels. He toyed with my cuffs, straightening the pair, and stood a foot away from me, checking me out from shiny shoes to sweaty head. He then shared his bearish grin and said, “You look like the most handsome groom on the planet. If Guy weren’t going to marry you, I would.”
“Thanks,” I said, blushing, probably red all over my face from the nerves and his cordial comment.
Three taps drew our attention to the dressing room’s door. Dane Dandy opened the door, popped his head into the room, and smiled his boyish grin.
“You’re on, Landon. Your groom awaits you on the stage, ready to express his love for you.” Dane vanished as quickly as he had arrived.
Trembling, I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and whispered to myself, “I can do this. It’s no big deal.”
Caster provided me the support I needed and said, “Hell yes, you can do this.” He stepped beside me, slipped his right hand within my left one, gave it a light squeeze, and asked, “Are you ready to marry Mr. Guy Montelli?”
I smiled, felt a bulldozer in my gut, and nodded. “I am.”
“Then let’s do this.”
* * * *
What I remember of our ceremony…
Ruby and silver lights spanned the stage, shifting from left to right. The audience, dressed to the nines, acted as guests to our wedding ceremony. Lucy, Neil, Chett, and the rest of the show’s crew also dressed up in their best attire, sporting their charming smiles. A harpist I had never seen before played Pachelbel’s “Canon in D.” Butterball-sized Pastor Leo Prestino stood in the center of the stage in all-white garb with his Bible, ready to perform the wedding ceremony, preparing to read passages from the holy book that Guy and I had already picked out for the service. Flowers filled the set: gardenias mostly, blue bells, and…
Guy, my guy, stood to Pastor Leo Prestino’s left side. Guy looked handsome in his tuxedo, perfectly coiffed. His blonde hair had just been cut and gleamed in the radiant spotlight, thanks to Mitch Holder, Guy-Spell’s executive lighting director and Mitch’s twin sister, Melinda Holder, the show’s hairstylist. Guy’s tranquil, somewhat hypnotizing, blue eyes shimmered in the stage’s spotlight, as well his pearly-white teeth. An ear-to-ear grin beamed on his face, proving that maybe he felt like the happiest groom in Southton, maybe even all of Pittsburgh.
Off-stage, hidden from the crowd behind one of its large and floating curtains, Dane Dandy moved behind Caster and me. He popped his head between ours and whispered, “All you have to do is walk a straight line to the groom. Don’t trip because of your nerves. Pastor Prestino and Guy are waiting for the two of you.”
Caster and I nodded.
Caster stood on my right side, and we entered the stage from the right, doing exactly what Dane Dandy told us to do. We walked towards Pastor Prestino and Guy. Our footsteps were slow, moving to the beat of the harpist’s melodic song.
The crowd in the audience were on their feet, watching our entrance. Some sobbed. Others whispered to their dates, overly excited about the wedding in progress.
I felt light-headed, ready to pass out, but Caster Ray held me up.
He whispered, “You can do this. Don’t faint on me.”
Someone in the audience whistled. Others in the audience laughed. Within seconds, though, the viewers were in control again, quiet, and all eyes witnessed the gay wedding being filmed live.
Guy winked at me, smiling, which helped me get from one end of the stage to the other. It was a gesture that told me I was marrying the right man: someone who would support me when I needed him to, someone who would take care of me when I was sick, and someone who would tell me I was wrong when necessary. The wink provided more than just a simple gesture of liking, I knew. It proved to me Guy had confidence about our relationship, that we would be married for years to come, in love for decades, and nothing at all could rip us apart.
Finally, I stood before Guy, positioned on Pastor Prestino’s right side. The pastor reached out for my hand, squeezed it, and nodded, providing me with confidence. The music stopped, and Caster Ray quickly found a seat in the front row of the audience, next to his boyfriend, Dane Dandy.
Pastor Prestino called out to the audience, “Let us bow our heads for a beginning prayer.”
I heard Pastor Prestino talk about the beautiful summer day God had given us, the love within Studio 8, and how one man was going to be united to another man in holy matrimony. I listened to him mention equality, love wins, to love ourselves and to love others equally.
My heart pounded within my chest, and my legs trembled. My palms were sweaty, and I began to feel light-headed. Everything about that moment began to blur. I swayed to the left, to the right, to the left again, weak in the knees and sick to my stomach. I opened my eyes in the middle of the prayer and saw four of Pastor Prestino and four of Guy, circling in front of me like a mismanaged kaleidoscopic presentation. My throat tightened, my
weight shifted to the far right, and…
I fainted.
Blackness.
* * * *
One day later
I felt a wedding band on my left hand, which pulled me out of a calming, dark world of sleep. Slowly, I opened my eyes and felt well-rested. Positioned on my right side, I rolled onto my back and stared at the familiar ceiling inside the bedroom I shared with Guy. Not a very big room, but comfortable. Two windows looked out over Rice Street, and a reading chair sat against one wall next to a small dresser we shared. The windows were semi-open, and robins chirped. I heard traffic on the street and some chatter from passersby.
I stretched, yawned, and realized I only wore a pair of boxer-briefs. Honestly, I couldn’t remember going to bed or anything from the previous day, which was all a blur to me. I did recall fainting, black-and-white images, four pastors, but couldn’t put most of the day together: showing up the Guy-Spell show, wearing a tuxedo and standing at Caster Ray’s side; a harpist; Pastor Prestino; and Guy standing next to the pastor. Nothing else made any sense to me, a continuous and vague movie from that point on.
Guy entered the bedroom: no shirt, always a perfect smile, wearing running shorts, no socks or his Nikes. He got into bed with me and curled an arm around me. “Did you just wake up, sunshine?”
“I did.” I turned and kissed him. “You going on a run?”
“Getting ready. Maybe a couple miles. Nothing long, though, since I want to be here with you.” He brushed a palm through my black hair. “Do you remember anything from yesterday at the show?”
“I fainted, didn’t I?”
He chuckled. “You did. Then, shortly afterward, you came to and had too much to drink. That fool, Chett, kept handing you glass after glass of champagne.”
“Jesus,” I said. “I was quite the sight, huh?”
“Not too worry. Everyone loved you.”
I showed off my left hand. “I’m Mr. Montelli this morning, aren’t I?”
He showed his matching ring to me. “And I’m Mr. Brice. Just the way we’re supposed to be together.”
“I rather like the arrangement. Too bad I fainted and then became drunk, recalling next to nothing.”
He chuckled again. “No problem. We’re exactly where we want to be. Husband and husband.” His hand strayed to the center of my bare chest, across one nipple, and then raced down to my navel. It worked its way around the navel and fell southward bound, against my limp penis.
“I thought you were going for a run.”
He squeezed my private part, causing it to grow hard. “Something came up. I can run later. Hell, maybe I might not run at all.”
“You’re so bad,” I told him, enjoying his smooth and slow strokes through the thin layer of cotton that separated his hand from my swelling cock.
“Bad in so many good ways,” he said, and started kissing me yet again, stopping our chatter and following through with his relentless desire.
Our clothes came off, and he fell on top of me, kissing me in every place imaginable. Licks, strokes, and playful bites ensued. And, eventually, foreplay turned into heated sex between us: my legs separated and Guy positioned himself over me, inside me, rubbing our chests together, sliding together, pulling apart, huffing and puffing. We continued such naughty play for thirteen minutes, twenty-one minutes, almost thirty-three minutes.
My head spun in random circles, and I became numb underneath him. Every time he bolted within me, I let out a humph sound and released a bubble of pre-ejaculate from my cock. Underneath him, enjoying his sexual labor, I became breathless, captivated and intoxicated by his guy-spell. Nothing about that euphoric moment with him had turned boring.
After grinding me, causing friction between our bodies, that point when the heavens started to fall and its angels almost sinned, he whispered, “Have to come.”
“Come,” I whispered up to him, kissing the man again, feeling his mass inside me.
He released his tool from my center, lost the latex, and drew our dicks together with one grip by using his right hand. He smiled down at me. “Let’s come together. What do you say?”
I huffed. “Sounds great. Now get busy.”
Guy stroked our cocks together, sending both of us into an erotic spin. We groaned and grunted at the same time, kissed, craned our necks, gritted our teeth, and…
We ejaculated in synchronized bliss. Thick goo erupted out of our cockheads and pooled against my stomach, covering my abs, sticking to my skin.
Huffing, he fell over me, sealing us together, and kissed me. When the short and abrupt kiss ended, he whispered, “I will never get enough of you, Mr. Brice.”
“Likewise,” I replied, already glowing from our naked affair on the bed, always his for the taking, my husband.
We didn’t shower together, although we usually did after making love. Instead, we lay shoulder to shoulder on the perspiration-dampened sheets and held each other, talking. Our chests still heaved up and down. The thick smell of sex lingered about the bedroom, mixing with other springtime scents.
Guy turned my head towards his with two fingertips, dabbed a kiss to my lips, and placed his palm on my sticky chest. “Mine,” he whispered. “All mine. I won’t let you get away from me.”
“Love Yourself, Love Someone Else. I guess it’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“Probably more than we realize.”
“I’m going to like being married to you,” I told him, which was the truth. I couldn’t wait to wake up at his side every morning for the rest of my life, knowing he would be my best friend and lover until the end of time.
“Even when I’m pissed and grouchy?”
“Actually, those will be the best mornings because then I know I can spend the rest of the day cheering you up and making you happy.”
“It’s all about being happy, isn’t it?”
“More than we both know.”
I kissed his cheek, breathed in his strong and masculine scent as his post-sex aroma continuously spun around us. Then I whispered, “I know.”
He whispered back, “I also know.”
We would have a good life together as husbands, always in love.
Because love wins, doesn’t it?
Of course, it does.
THE END
ABOUT R.W. CLINGER
R.W. Clinger is a resident of Pittsburgh. He has a degree in English from Point Park University of Pittsburgh. His writing entails gay human studies. His work includes Just a Boy, Skin Tour, Skin Artist, Soft on the Eyes, Pool Boy, The Last Pile of Leaves, The Weekender, Cutie Pie Must Die, Frat Brats, Panama Dan, Spoil Me So, The Shower Police, Splash Boys, and several stories with Starbooks Press. For three years he has held the position of managing editor for the literary magazine The Writer’s Post Journal. Visit him online at rwclinger.com.
ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC
JMS Books LLC is a small queer press with competitive royalty rates publishing LGBT romance, erotic romance, and young adult fiction. Visit jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!
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