Queermance Anthology, Volume 2

by Queermance Anthology- Volume 2 [MM-FF] (retail) (epub)

  ‘Wet wipes, hand towels?’ David asked.

  Patrick grabbed one of David’s hands and kissed his palm. ‘Aren’t you the one always having a go at me about planning to succeed?’

  David smiled as he went through the motions of post-coital clean up that were both familiar and decidedly unfamiliar. ‘I’ll admit I expected you to want to top.

  Patrick sighed and lay back against the pillows, closing his eyes. ‘Maybe another day, Dave, but I-‘

  ‘What?’ David asked suspiciously.

  ‘Eh, it’s stupid,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Patrick, it can’t possibly be more stupid than doing a live reading of The Muddle Headed Wombat while drunk at Madam Brussells’ rooftop bar. Come on, that nearly got us kicked out.’

  ‘Okay, okay. I thought that if you freaked out and ran I’d at least get to feel you inside me.’

  ‘Wow,’ David said as he threw the used wet wipes into the bin and dropped into bed. ‘That was really sappy.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Mmm,’ David murmured as he kicked the sweat soaked bedsheet onto the floor. ‘What’s for breakfast tomorrow?’ he asked as nonchalantly as possible.

  ‘Bacon and eggs prob’ly,’ Patrick mumbled sleepily. ‘Ever’things better with bacon.’

  COFFEE AND KISSES

  J.F.R. Coates

  The walls of James’ bedroom were dappled in the morning light that crept through his window, where the blinds were slightly askew. Little of the wall’s white paint could be seen beneath the many posters plastered to almost every square inch of space. In a prominent position was one of Elton John in a purple suit and flamboyant pink glasses, personally signed by the man himself. A replica pair of the sunglasses was resting on the bedside cabinet just below the poster.

  Two tickets to the previous night’s Lady GaGa concert were next to the sunglasses. They had yet to be attached to a cork board squeezed in among the posters where several dozen other tickets were pinned; all in pairs. In their number were tickets to NRL games, A-League games, and music events such as Robbie Williams, P!NK, The Whitlams, and Big Day Out.

  James was sprawled across his bed, the thin sheets only half-covering his naked body as he slept. On the floor were a couple of issues of the Q News magazine. Several of the pages were dog-eared with use.

  Scattered across the floor were two sets of Aussiebum underwear, one of which didn’t belong to James; as well as a pair of slim jeans and a white shirt bundled up at the bottom of the bedside table.

  An alarm clock sounded, waking James from his sleep. He fumbled around and switched it off, then rubbed his eyes. Slowly he sat up, pulling the bed sheets up around him as he looked around the room, holding his hand to his head. Something smelt curiously like bacon.

  He hauled himself out of bed and staggered across to his drawers, pulled out a fresh set of underwear and put them on. Then he picked up the shirt that he had bought the previous night, held it up to his face and sniffed it. He shook his head and threw it back to the floor. GaGa stared at him from the middle of the shirt.

  James turned to one of the two mahogany wardrobes in the bedroom, in which most of his clothes were neatly organised in type and colour. Orange and dark blue were the dominant colours. He picked out a clean outfit to wear and slung them on his bed for the moment.

  A single beep from the bedside table heralded the arrival of a text message on James’ phone. It was from Henry.

  Didn’t want to wake you See you after work ����

  James smiled and returned the phone to the table, just as the phone beeped again. The second message was also from Henry.

  By the way Sausage bacon + eggs in the fridge for you Enjoy ����

  That explained the smell of bacon.

  James finished getting dressed and slipped his phone into his right pocket. He lost it in his left pocket, so he always made sure it stayed in his right. Left pocket was for his wallet, but he didn’t need that now.

  Stopping only to slip on his necklace - a silver heart pendent engraved with the initials HP - James went into the kitchen of the apartment he shared with Henry. Breakfast sounded very appetising, more so because it was already made for him.

  There was a considerable mess in the kitchen. Pans had been left on the counter tops without being rinsed, still with grease and fat on them. James sighed. He’d have to clean all of that up.

  With the microwave’s hum his only backing music, James started to sing. Bad Romance was his song, and even though it felt like he had torn out his throat singing last night, he was still able to hit every note. Rushing water and the scourer joined the band as he started cleaning Henry’s mess, and he soon had the Kitchen’s Remix of Bad Romance playing at full volume. It was pleasant, though not as good as the original, James humbly thought. His remix was more of a discordant wail than anything else.

  The microwave angrily beeped.

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ James said, placing the last of the pans on the draining rack. He dried his hands and went to retrieve his breakfast from the irate piece of machinery.

  Catching sight of the calendar on the wall behind the microwave, James smiled. Henry had circled today’s date in red pen and decorated it with a smiley face and love hearts. It wasn’t their anniversary, that was still a few weeks away, but exactly five years ago was still a very important day for both of them.

  I had been sitting on my own in the university coffee shop, mulling over my latte - double shot soy, with just a touch of caramel syrup - on an otherwise boring day when I first saw him.

  He had come bursting into the cafe looking like a typical case of breakup. I could see, though, that his face was one that would be perfect to wake up next to on a cool winter’s morning. And every other morning too.

  I watched with interest as he approached the barista, fumbling around his pockets. His hands emerged empty. ‘Fuck no, I gave the last to that ungrateful bastard,’ I heard him say. Even his voice was perfection. It was a gentle mixture of rural England and a storybook variety of elegance and beauty.

  He started to turn from the counter with an expression of fury, but I could also see utmost isolation and weakness passing just beneath the surface of his skin.

  I got up from my seat and placed a ten dollar note down on the counter.

  ‘What would you like?’ I asked him.

  ‘No, I couldn’t,’ he said. His modesty was speaking. I could see that his eyes were tempted.

  ‘You need someone to talk to. Please, I insist,’ I said, leaning on the counter.

  His face collapsed like a mountainside moments before the avalanche.

  ‘Nearly two years, and I don’t think he ever once bought me coffee.’

  ‘Then you need this. Get what you like.’

  His resolve crumbled further, and he turned back to the barista. ‘Double shot caramel-latte, with soy milk please,’ he said, sliding my money across the counter.

  His hand crawled like a wounded beast across the cheap blue plastic counter to touch mine. His face bore an expression of nervous excitement and a slight bewilderment, as though he questioned his fortune in finding me here. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t mention it. Here, come sit with me. My name’s James, by the way,’ I said as he took the coffee from the barista.

  ‘Henry,’ he said.

  Even his name was beautiful.

  This was turning out to be a day I would never forget.

  Light from the television reflected against the back wall of the living room, shining through the moonlight-dappled shadows created by the tree that grew outside the windows that were not fully obscured by the half-drawn curtains.

  The front door slowly and silently opened, revealing a shadowed figure standing in the corridor beyond. Henry hated getting home so late, but he was almost always held back at work. He had tried many times to get out early so he could enjoy the night with James, but to no avail.

  Still, James always stayed up for him. Or tr
ied to anyway.

  James was curled up on the sofa, fast asleep, with the television remote still in his hand.

  Sitting down next to him, Henry gently took the remote and turned off the television, plunging the room into almost complete darkness.

  James softly stirred. ‘Huh? Is it morning already?’ he murmured.

  ‘No, not quite,’ Henry said, gently stroking his lover’s hair and kissing him on the cheek.

  ‘Oh. Is it our anniversary yet?’

  Henry glanced at his watch. ‘Not for another fifteen minutes. We can celebrate it properly in the morning,’ he said, putting his arms around James’ body and slowly lifting him up. ‘Come on, let’s get you to bed.’

  ‘Yeah. Sounds good,’ James said. He allowed himself to get half-carried from the sofa and into their bedroom.

  Henry went for a shower as James collapsed onto the bed. By the time he returned, James was already fast asleep again.

  After removing the clothing from his boyfriend’s limp body, Henry slipped beneath the covers and put his arms around his partner of five years. He waited until the alarm clock clicked over to midnight before allowing himself to fall asleep.

  ‘Happy anniversary,’ were the last words he whispered before joining his boyfriend in sleep.

  It had been four weeks since I met James that day in the coffee shop at University.

  I chose not to dwell on the events of that morning, but the afternoon had proven to be amongst some of the best hours in my life. And now, just a few weeks down the track, was his grand unveiling before my parents.

  It had been a typical affair over dinner. James had been subject to all sorts of questions ranging from his family, his job, his studies, to his intentions for the future. He answered everything, barring the one awkward question about his past partners. I shushed my Mum when she asked that, and that had brought about the only quiet period of dinner. I was embarrassed beyond belief by that, and James looked the same.

  The uncomfortable silence ran on until my Father broke it by asking James if he followed the NRL. Thankfully, this was a topic that was able to run on for quite some time, as James was a passionate sports fan. This fact alone gave James my Father’s approval, a notoriously difficult thing to achieve for my previous boyfriends. In fact he was the first. There were only two predecessors, but I was still very relieved by the positive reaction.

  James definitely passed the test, but there was still one more he had yet to face. It was not one that my parents would witness. They seemed to know though. We were not given the traditional lecture forbidding us to be in my room together. Especially not with the door closed.

  Either they assumed I was mature enough by now to know better - doubtful - or they had decided to give in and let the inevitable happen - more likely, albeit surprising. They weren’t at all averse to my sexuality. They just preferred not hearing me have sex. I felt much the same about them. It was an unspoken agreement we shared.

  Of course, that agreement only lasted while one party was in the living room. My bedroom and theirs were far enough apart that no sounds travelled between the two.

  My parents retired to bed early, as they always did. Though Mum looked like she was about to say something to us, she changed her mind and left without a word.

  Barely had my parents’ bedroom door closed before I was in James’ arms. I grabbed his collar and pulled his mouth to mine. Our kiss was passionate, feral even. His tongue pushed deep into my mouth as his hands snuck under my shirt and started to lift it up my chest. I pulled back a little and looked him in the eye. It was definitely time for the final test. ‘Come on,’ I said, pulling him up off the sofa and into my bedroom. I shut the door behind us.

  I pushed James down onto the bed and slipped my hands beneath his shirt, slowly slipping it over his head, revealing a nicely toned chest; not obscenely muscular, nor particularly bony.

  My shirt swiftly followed, and for a few minutes we kissed again, our hands exploring the contours of each other’s chest, back, and arms. His every touch sent shivers down my spine, making me moan softly as his tongue continued to delve into my mouth.

  My hands gradually moved lower until they started tugging at his belt. ‘I want you now,’ I said, running my tongue over his ear.

  James offered no vocal reply, and he gave no resistance as I fumbled with his belt buckle.

  James adjusted the cutlery for the fifth time, making sure the knife and fork were perfectly aligned. The tealights were next, as each one was moved again to find the optimal balance between light and smokiness. He was only distracted by the oven, which chose that moment to let out a loud ding.

  Pushing aside the Gordon Ramsay cookbook, James placed a well-used wooden chopping board on the counter-top before opening the oven. He waved one hand in front of his face to clear his vision from the steam that billowed from the oven. With the other hand, he reached for his trusty pink oven-gloves. They had been an eighteenth birthday present, and he never cooked anything without them.

  The mouth-watering aroma of perfectly cooked roast lamb with an undertone of rosemary filled the kitchen. Just the smell of it made James’ stomach rumble. He breathed in the steam that poured off the slab of meat as he carried it to the counter. The juices gathered at the bottom of the Pyrex dish were still sizzling.

  A quick glance at the clock. Four minutes to six. Henry would be home soon. There was still so much left to do. James quickly patted the lump in his pocket and smiled nervously.

  He dashed around the kitchen, scooping up the leftover rubbish and tipping it into the bin.

  The vegetable steamer dinged and the gravy bubbled. It was all coming together.

  A door creaked. This was it.

  ‘I’m home!’ Henry called from the hallway. He appeared in the kitchen a couple of minutes later, still in his business suit and carrying a bouquet of roses. He took a moment to savour the delightful smells in the kitchen before leaning in to kiss James. ‘Do I have time for a shower?’

  ‘About ten minutes,’ James said, giving the gravy a quick stir and yelping slightly at the playful slap on the ass Henry gave him.

  ‘Back in ten,’ Henry said with a wink.

  James leant back on the counter and rolled his shoulders, breathing out heavily as he tapped his pocket once more. This was it. Five years had brought them here.

  It didn’t take long to finish laying the table. James glanced up at his collection of wine as he adjusted the cutlery once more, but fought the temptation. He wanted to be sober for this.

  Henry’s hair glistened with moisture when he returned to the dining room. His white T-shirt clung to his still-damp skin as he took his usual seat at the table.

  ‘It smells wonderful,’ he said, resting his face in his hands, leaning on his elbows.

  James carried over both dished-up meals. He placed down Henry’s dinner first, then his.

  Henry reached for his fork, but paused when he saw James hadn’t sat down. His head tilted inquisitively as James reached for his pocket.

  ‘Just one thing first,’ James said breathlessly.

  In his hand was a small black velvet box.

  Henry’s fingertips brushed against his lips.

  James knelt on his right knee and opened the box.

  HARD FEELINGS

  Renae Kaye

  The Australian sun is harsh, no matter what the temperature, and I could feel it beating down on my head. I sat on my surfboard in the ocean off Prevelly Beach and promised myself one more wave, and then I would head in. If I was feeling the heat of the sun, then it was getting late.

  Brodhi paddled near and sat up on his board. ‘Your photographer mate is back,’ he said.

  I immediately glanced to the shoreline in the distance and could see the man Brodhi meant. ‘He’s no mate of mine,’ I clarified.

  ‘He likes taking photographs of you,’ Brodhi said with a smirk.

  ‘He takes photos of us all,’ I refuted.

  Brodhi shook his shaggy hai
r. ‘Nah, mate. He takes photos of us all when we’re out on the waves. But you definitely get his attention on shore more than any of the others.’

  I sighed, because I thought it had been my imagination, but obviously it wasn’t. The man in question had turned up for the first time around a month previous, appearing for several hours each morning for three days, before disappearing again for a week.

  If he followed his usual routine, he would take photos with his long range telescopic camera for about an hour, then switch to a smaller handheld item. I’d caught him snapping all sorts of pictures - footprints on the beach, rock pools that appeared when the tide was out, groups of women in their bikinis.

  He wasn’t a tourist, because he dressed like an everyday Aussie: cargo-style long shorts, T-shirt and thongs. But he had a slight Asian look to him, which intrigued me more than I liked to admit.

  I drifted a bit from Brodhi and watched for a wave to ride in. It didn’t take long, as the swell at Prevelly was world-class, which is why they held surfing competitions there each year. It certainly put the little dot of Margaret River on the map every year.

  I picked up my board and waded out of the shallows. The photographer had set up about thirty metres down the beach and was busy taking shots of Brodhi as he worked his wave, but I saw him glance a couple of times at me. I dumped my board next to my gear and snagged my towel off the hot sand.

  ‘Moe!’

  Looking up with a smile at the sound of my name, I waved to Katrina. I had always thought she’d embodied the Australian surfie-chick look with her long dark hair and tanned skin, and damn that girl was looking extra gorgeous in her emerald bikini and swim shorts today. She jogged over to me and kissed me on the cheek as a greeting.

  ‘Are you coming to Shane’s tomorrow night?’ she asked.

  I reached behind me and unzipped my wetsuit. Now that I was out of the water, it was stifling. I shoved it down my arms and answered Katrina. ‘Of course. Wouldn’t miss it. You going?’

  She gave me a flirtatious look. ‘I am now.’

  Wiping my chest down with my towel, I managed to keep the smile to myself. It looked like I had me a bedfellow for the night. Katrina and I had done some on-again-off-again stuff for years now. She’d tried to make me be faithful, but it just wasn’t me. I’d be away from her and a hot chick - or hot guy - would smile, and I would be in their pants without even thinking about her.