Don't Try This at Home

by Ellee Hill

  “I'm sorry,” David mumbled, scooting farther back so he sat between Jake's spread legs and their bodies were no longer entangled.

  Jake remained where he was, not making any move to change his position. The spray of the shower had turned from warm to cool, and David knew they didn't have long before it would turn ice cold. He laid a hand on the back of Jake's leg. “Hey, can you get up?”

  Jake flinched under the touch, but tried to pull himself upright. He let out a groan as he pushed up on his knees, one arm giving him leverage. When he turned to sit facing David, it was clear that one of his arms had been injured, the way he was cradling it.

  “Hurts,” Jake said, hunching over.

  “We need to get out,” David said. “Then we'll see how bad it is.”

  He pushed the shower curtain aside so that he could get a grip on that side of the tub and used both hands to lever himself up to standing. His legs were shaky and his crotch still hurt, but he managed to step out onto the cold tile floor. David pulled the shower curtain all the way open and leaned over to turn off the water before getting a grip on Jake's uninjured arm.

  “Count of three, okay?” he asked, waiting for his husband to nod. “One, two,” and he pulled at Jake before he finished his count. David kept his grip firm as Jake leaned on him and got out. He was shaking by the time it was over, and David sat him down on the closed lid of the toilet for fear his husband would pass out.

  David stepped back and leaned against the wall, needing support himself. He looked down at his crotch, wincing at the sight. His dick was red, almost purple in places, and when he put his hand down to touch it he felt a pain shoot through the length.

  “I think you broke my arm,” Jake said, his voice tinged in pain.

  “Yeah, well, I think you broke my dick.”

  David could tell he was sounding hysterical, but who could blame him? None of this was going the way he’d planned. They were supposed to have a quickie before breakfast, lounge around half the morning, and then think about starting their day. Instead, they were looking at an embarrassing trip to the emergency room, where they would be forced to explain how they got themselves so fucked up.

  “I'm freezing,” Jake said, shivering to highlight his point. “And I need to go to the hospital.”

  “So do I,” David said, grabbing the towel off the rack and handing it to his husband. “Do you think they'll give us a two for one deal?”

  Jake looked up at him, eyes squinted in a mixture of pain and irritation. “You're not funny.” He grabbed for the towel, just then catching sight of David's injury. His eyes went wide. “Holy fuck, what happened to you?”

  “I told you, I think you broke it,” he said, stepping backward when Jake reached his hand out. “And if you touch it, I'll punch you.”

  “You're such a loveable bastard,” Jake said with a growl, rubbing the towel over his chest and legs. He hissed when the material hit his injured arm, giving up any attempts to get it dry.

  David pulled the second towel off the rack and started drying himself as well. He whimpered every time his eyes caught sight of his dick, but he tried to focus on the rest of his body. David feared what would happen when he attempted clothing.

  “Are you ready to get dressed?” he asked, putting a hand under Jake's arm.

  “No, but I don't think we can do this naked.” He took a deep breath and let David help him stand. Together, they shuffled into the bedroom, with David making whimpering noises at each step.

  “Go sit down on the bed, I'll get you something to wear,” Jake said, pulling away from David.

  “No, I can do it. You're still in shock.”

  “And you're about to pass out,” Jake said, heading to the dresser. “Seriously, I'm not in any state to pick you back up, so go sit down.”

  David did as he was told because he wasn't feeling so good. The rush of adrenaline had worn off, and now all he was left with was steady pain. He didn't need to add a head injury on top of that. The bed sank under him and the cushion of the mattress felt good. The pressure he had been feeling eased a little, but he tried to avoid looking down too much. His dick was starting to be more purple than red.

  “Here,” Jake said, handing him a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. “I don't think you could handle jeans or underwear.”

  “Really can't,” David said, standing up and pulling the shirt on over his head. The sweatpants were more of a struggle, his crotch aching each time he raised his legs and throbbing once the material came into contact with it.

  Jake had managed to get his own clothes, a pair of his track pants and a button-up shirt, but he only had his uninjured arm threaded through one side. The other was just draped around his body as he cradled his injury.

  “For the record, we're never doing something like that again,” Jake said, his voice rising. “You've done some stupid stuff in your life, but I should learn to stop going along with it.”

  “I was trying to be romantic!”

  “Yes, because accidental death is so sexy,” Jake said, his lips pressed in a thin line.

  “We would have been okay if you hadn't moved the wrong way.”

  “Oh, so it's my fault?” Jake asked, throwing his hands up. Well, he tried, but considering one was currently incapacitated it didn't work out so well. “Fuck, fuck, ow, fuck.”

  David rose off the bed, shuffling over to his husband. “Are you okay?”

  “No, I'm not okay,” Jake said through his gritted teeth. “Do you know how embarrassing this is going to be to explain?”

  “Yes, I'm well aware,” David said, tension building in his own voice. “And I'm not looking forward to it, but we've got to suck it up and deal. We can blame each other later.”

  “Maybe if you sucked in the first place, this would never have happened.”

  David was caught off-guard by the statement, frozen in shock for a few seconds, but despite all the pain and anger he was feeling, he couldn't suppress the building laughter that bubbled up in his chest and broke free.

  “I can't believe you said that.”

  Jake's scowl started to crack, a tiny smile forming instead. “I don't know what I'm saying. I'm in pain and can't be held responsible for the words coming out of my mouth.”

  David grinned at him, leaning close to give Jake a kiss on his lips. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too. But next time you want to show it, how about buying me some chocolates or something?”

  “Deal,” David said, putting an arm around Jake's shoulders to lend support as they started out of the bedroom. “Me and my stupid ideas.”

  “They're not all stupid. I mean, getting married wasn't such a bad decision.”

  “No,” David said, turning to give his husband a warm smile. “It was the best one I ever made.”

  In her youth, K. LYNN could be found in the local library, devouring books that covered everything from WWII to Dr. McCoy's latest adventures aboard the Enterprise, with some X-Men thrown in for good measure. She also created elaborate adventures that more than once made it to the page. Ink-filled papers gave way to overflowing computer memory as the years went on, but the stories never ceased.

  While in college, K. Lynn increased her involvement in LGBT issues and writing within the LGBT genre. She has become a long-time fan of the authors who seek to explore the commonality that exists within all sexualities and genders. Most of K. Lynn's work features LGBT characters, many of whom are in established relationships and show how love perseveres through every trial and tribulation that life holds.

  K. Lynn has degrees and certificates from UNC-Chapel Hill in the areas of American History, Religion, Creative Writing, Public Health, and Journalism. She is a member of Mensa and has an extensive writing and editing background. When K. Lynn is not writing short stories, she is working on her novels.

  Find K. Lynn online at WriterKLynn.com, on Twitter @WriterKLynn, or drop her a line at writerklynn@gmail.com.

  BOYS, TOYS, AND CARPET FITTERS


  Taylin Clavelli

  MICHAEL’S the name; beanpole’s the game. No, seriously, folks. As a guy in his late twenties who is a very slim six foot three, the description is very apt. Hell, even my dad describes me as the male version of Popeye’s Olive Oyl! You should have heard him when I let my hair grow… which, by the way, is light brown and currently cropped. To finish the deal, I have hazel eyes and a grin that my mom says “slays” her every time; I just wish it could have the boxer-dropping effect on guys.

  Oh yeah… something you need to know is that I live in England, a few miles south of Birmingham. Yes, I live in the land of the stiff upper lip, where tea, not coffee, rules the day. Therefore, I apologize in advance if you hear any Briticism that I fail to explain… use Google if you have to.

  Officially, I came “out of the closet” in my late teens, which was apparently no surprise to my mom—the best gay tracker on the planet. She’d been pointing out gay guys to me every time we went out of the house together since my midteens. It was damned embarrassing at times, too, especially in my later years: being dug in the ribs by your mom, who is pointing out guys good-looking enough to give you a hard-on in the middle of the supermarket. Needless to say, I always offered to push the trolley in a bid to hide my mortification.

  I believe I’m safe in saying that she knew my sexual orientation before I did. I actually made her day when I announced I was gay. Mom had friends of varying sexual persuasions, some of whom were gay. Practically all those younger than her called her “auntie.” She loved them all; probably more than her own relatives, who she considered to be a little stuck-up and set in their ways.

  I’m not going to tell you my mom’s age, that wouldn’t be polite! Besides, she’d probably clock me one if she found out I’d divulged that particular state secret. Regardless, I believe she should have been born in the height of the Flower Power era; I could just imagine her smoking a joint and dancing around the fire at Woodstock. Come to think of it, she did love The Mamas & The Papas song “California Dreaming”…. She was a bit of a free spirit, rarely followed social rules, and often pouted if she had to “behave.” She was always willing to give anything a go once—probably not twice, but definitely once. Sorry, I tell a lie: there was one thing she wouldn’t do once… roller coasters. She was afraid of heights, and just the thought of standing in line, watching the cart slowly clawing its way to the precipice before sliding over, would make her nauseous.

  Whereas some married couples have similar tastes in music, hobbies, and thereby personality, mine did not. My dad was totally different than Mom. He was a punk rocker in his youth, and his musical brain stayed there… well, most of it. It was either punk or classical—an odd combination, but that was the music that you’d hear in his car. He also considered music to be something you played in the background, whereas Mom would have it so loud you couldn’t hear yourself sing. Dad loved roller coasters. We’d be the ones whose picture at the end of the ride showed two elated idiots, instead of looking like we’d been bitch-slapped by a zombie or petrified by a basilisk.

  Dad wasn’t that surprised at my admission at being gay, either—they’d obviously talked about it. He was supportive of me, not in the slightest bit homophobic, to the point where he’d wear pink or purple shirts to work just to keep the men in the office guessing about him. My dad had a weird sense of humor. However, that was his limit. As soon as we’d get onto any subject relating to gay sex, he’d find something to do in the shed, and he’d disappear for hours. And you could guarantee a night alone if a gay DVD was put in the player; it was a good way to keep him out of my room, other than the usual “keep out” sign on the doorknob. He maintained that he appreciated and supported my lifestyle, but he didn’t need to see the mechanics. By the same token, he could appreciate a painting without having to watch the artist paint or the paint dry. Needless (and embarrassing) to say, I got my first gay sex talk from Mom, despite already having been curious enough to have looked up everything I needed online.

  Being a good son, I looked after my education, going off to Bristol University for four years to get a degree in Physics and Mechanical Engineering. Yup, I was a bit of a nerd, who liked having a spanner (aka wrench) in his hands. I was probably a bit anal too; I couldn’t assist my dad on a job without the help of a set square or spirit level. Everything had to be in a straight line, measured twice, and squared properly.

  While at the seat of higher learning, I dressed like the good doctor from Dr. Who: scarf, coat, even the dodgy shoes. And I definitely sowed a few wild oats in my bid to explore my preferences regarding the male form.

  My journey of self-discovery revealed what I went weak at the knees over in a man; I liked them strong, muscled, and big. You can use your imagination on how I mean big. I could go into depth about personality (deeper than the chasms of Tolkien’s Mordor), but it sure as hell wasn’t personality that got my attention to start with. It was the packaging, not the brain, that would initially draw my eye to a person. Frodo’s mithril vest got my attention… it was gorgeous to look at (at least I thought so) and hard. What would have made the package complete was if it had been Éomer who wore it instead of Frodo. The idea of the vest as a person, hard and good-looking, had me salivating. A hot body and a mouth I could imagine wrapped around places my dad would squirm at the mention of. If I could find one of those with a personality, then I’d do my best to hang onto him.

  Needless to say, by the time I returned home from University, I was a horny little fucker… using every quiet moment to relieve… frustrations.

  Graduation under the belt: tick.

  Good, stable job: tick.

  Place of my own: XXXXX.

  What can I say? My one and only reason for moving back to my parent’s house, after the social freedom of Uni, was that I was on a mission that would have challenged Dr. Who. Despite mammoth educational debts—yep, the government wanted their investment in me paid back—I was determined to save up a good deposit for my own home. A nerd on a mission is a nerd to be reckoned with!

  Having said that, I paid a different kind of price by the time I left home—or moved out, as some of my mates would say (mental note to self: must tell mates to watch more Brit TV, ’cause they’re sounding more American by the day). I had blue balls—I even checked them in the mirror a few times—and a ton of pent-up frustration. It didn’t help that there were times when I’d be in the middle of really enjoying some “me” time and one of my parents would come home. I’d lost count of the amount of times I’d fallen out of bed or slipped getting out of the shower (because I was in there at the wrong time of day) in my haste to look as though things were normal or hide evidence.

  It became too much and I had to get out. A grown man living at home was never going to get laid.

  The universe and whatever scientist was running it (yes, I believe that our cosmos resides in a test tube in a lab somewhere) obviously wanted to help me get my rocks off and served up a buyer’s housing market. For me as the buyer, I was thankful; I’m guessing the owners were not so thrilled with the housing market crash. I was pretty sure that, with my deposit and the added security of my parents as guarantors, I could get myself a nice little man pad somewhere. Mom and Dad wanted me to stay at home, but during my days of freedom, I had also discovered sex shops and the delights of toys. And I’m not talking Lego, Action Man, or teddy bears!

  Preferably, I wanted sex with a proper boyfriend, but that option hadn’t been on the table (mmm, table sex) since my return home, so toys it had to be. Or alternatively, my favorite friend and constant companion: my wrist and the traditional five-knuckle shuffle.

  Please note that, while it was true about sowing my wild oats at Uni, I was by no means a manwhore. My brain was far more active than my body. I went to clubs and danced, and yes, I had a couple, okay, well, maybe a few one night stands, but I only had safe penetrative sex while in a relationship. The amount of toys in my hidden away, locked box is testament to the lack of long-term men in m
y life. I was responsible with my body, but since being home, I had lived the life of a monk. The best time of the day, by far, was shower time… if you get my drift. When you’ve given the showerhead a name—I called mine Sean, by the way—you know you are being way too intimate with it, especially when you are fully aware of the effects of each setting. To me, they weren’t low, medium, or high… they were tickle, well on the way, and orgasmic.

  Life outside University and in the workplace sure was different, especially where I lived, a few miles to the south of Birmingham. In the workplace, I didn’t advertise that I was gay, but when asked, I didn’t deny it, either. It wasn’t something you could flaunt, especially with the British “stiff upper lip” and all that went with it. My gay pride could only really come out to play on weekends.

  M-Day, or Moving Day to the uninitiated, was November 2009. I took with me, among other things, some donated furniture, my essential-to-living Star Wars lightsabers (the proper FX ones), and my dog Dino. He’s a blue ex-race greyhound, named after Dino from The Flintstones. He spent his nights in the corner of my kitchen in his cage, though during the day you’d usually find him lying on his back on the settee or in his all-weather kennel. He was great to come home to; he’d race around like a complete nutter.

  My love affair with my little house started as soon as I saw it, and I was an emotional wreck until the paperwork went through telling me it was mine. It was the perfect starter home. The end house of a block of three, it had two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. Downstairs held a lounge, galley kitchen, and an integral garage, which could be accessed via the kitchen as well as outdoors. My garden was small, dogproof, and perfect for a single guy who didn’t know a weed from a genuine plant.

  I was happy to help my dad pave the whole thing and let Dino have his way with it. He’d only pee up the plants anyway, and it gave him a safe place to roam in the day. I’d considered getting a goat, purely because I didn’t see the point of buying a mower to cut such a small amount of grass. But that wouldn’t have worked, because Dino would have, at some time, tried to hump it. A rabbit would have been better, except the mutt would have considered it lunch. If I’d left him any turf at all, he’d have churned it up by running all over it or dug holes to bury bones. Then all the dirt would have been run through the house. Also, given the postage stamp size of my yard, there was no point. There were enclosed fields a short drive away where he could have a good run. I daren’t let him off the lead in the local woods; I’d never see him again. With squirrels about he’d immediately forget about me. A gangly human running after a greyhound—not good. I’d been there and done that when he was a pup. Thankfully, that time he ventured into an empty playground and couldn’t find his way out again—dumb mutt.