Sometimes the best-laid plans don’t mean you get laid.
Chaz and Mike are inaugurating their life together as an openly gay couple. Bliss is inevitable, until a dead relative rises up and brings their plans to a screeching halt.
Chaz’s not-so-dearly departed Amish Uncle Silas has bequeathed his nephew his farm . . . and a $60,000 tax bill if Chaz doesn’t play by the rules.
With empty wallets, the duo and their kitten, TCT, head off for Iowa to live on the farm for ninety days – without electricity or plumbing . . . or sex.
While Mike finds trees to climb, horses to ride, and a big ax to play with, and TCT discovers a wide array of critters to chase and capture, Chaz faces a past veiled in mystery.
As a young boy, Chaz spent time on the farm. Why can’t he remember the giant oak tree or the ancient barn? Each time he tries to enter the barn, terror stops him cold.
Chaz will need courage he’s never had before, along with all the strength in his partner’s lusciously muscled body, to solve the riddles plaguing him. Keeping Mike and his axe from chopping off the wrong piece of lumber might not be a bad idea, either.
“Chaz, it’s a dick, not a birthday candle.” Mike rolled his eyes.
This wasn’t working out at all like I’d thought it would. It had become painfully obvious the best-laid plans didn’t always mean you got laid.
I looked up from between Mike’s muscled thighs. The un-bottled perfume of his heat and pearly drops of natural lubricant hung in the air.
“Then why do they call it a blowjob?”
I certainly didn’t know. I’d bruised myself the first time I tried to beat off. The epiphany – and me – came when I massaged my swollen member to ease the pain.
He flopped his head onto the pillow and rubbed his brow in an attempt to stave off the obvious headache. “I don’t know, man. Why do they call showing somebody your ass, ‘shooting the moon?’ The moon doesn’t have a butt crack through the middle of it.”
The size of the monster in my hands set my tongue on a collision course with my quivering nerves. “Actually, it has nothing to do with the moon. Well, not in the classic idiom of the earth’s singular satellite. The terminology relates to the concept of bringing darkness into the light. The adage purportedly has historical references as far back as Adonis. You see, Adonis, by popular opinion, somewhere along the line became confused, intertwined if you will, with a nonexistent god named Adidas. Thusly, Adidas holds reference to ‘false identify,’ which in turn may, at times, depending on the debate, also mean ‘to bring out the reality of that concealed.’ In layman’s vocabulary, ‘shooting the moon’ is a primitive means of revealing something previously hidden. I can explain it further if it would help?”
His left hand joined his right in massaging his temples. “No. I’ve got it. Thanks.”
A muffled shriek rose from my throat. “You’re losing your erection!”
“Ya think?” Rolling onto his side, he patted the black silk sheets. “Come up here and lay with me.”
Begrudgingly, I obliged him. It was to be our first time. Not just as a couple, but as an openly gay couple. Two virginal homosexuals surrendering our homosexual virginity to each other. A beautiful, life-changing experience, and I’d blown it . . . sort of.
Mike pulled me in close. Even had I wanted to resist, which I didn’t, the strength of the high-rise construction worker wouldn’t have allowed me to. Tall and lean, the man’s muscles had muscles.
His abs weren’t washboard, they were those warning strips the street department puts down to wake up drivers so they don’t cruise through a stop sign. I swear his eyelids could lift as much weight as my spindly arms could. I leaned against telephone poles. Mike climbed them – upside down.
Warm, wet, his lips pressed a kiss onto my throat. My cock responded with a few drops of its own wetness, then shuddered and throbbed when his hand engulfed it.
“Let me show you how it’s done.” The words, throaty, all man, thrust more blood into my erection than I thought it could handle. My testicles tightened when he dotted my chest with kisses, a trail of wanting to my waist.
The Cat Too. TCT for short. A tuxedo kitten Mike had given me, the traitorous creature had abandoned me for Mike. Sat on his shoulder like a parrot.
I’d put it out of the bedroom. If it was going to throw a hissy fit every time Mike and I made – tried to – make love, we needed another plan.
Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz, bzzz. The doorbell? Great. Just fricking wonderful.
The moment, and my erection, waning, Mike rolled onto his back and sighed. “You get the impression this isn’t supposed to happen today?”
“There’s always tonight.” I whispered, kissed his forehead, then tumbled off the bed. Slipping into gray flannel shorts and a T-shirt, I opened the bedroom door. There stood TCT, back arched, tail perpendicular, eyes focused towards the entrance to our apartment. He hadn’t thrown a fit about us, he’d known before the bell rang somebody was at the door.
“Good, kitty.” I stroked his back. He responded by wrapping his fur ball body around my hand, sank needle-sharp teeth and claws into my skin, then left me bleeding while he bolted through the doorway and scrambled up the covers to lie next to Mike.
My cat. Yeah, right.
Wounded, both in body and spirit, I opened the front door.
“Chaz Westerbrook?” the woman asked – in a baritone voice.
“Yes?” I scoured the face. Nothing about it held any familiarity. Either as a male or female. The orange bouffant looked nice, in a Folies-Bergere sort of way. The Adam’s apple had a point capable of popping balloons. He was tall enough, that’s where my line-of-sight rested.
“Would you autograph this for me? Please?”
In his hand he held a copy of my debut novel, “A Kiss From the Shadows,” the first book of my gay love trilogy. A fan. My chest and ego swelled with pride.
“Certainly.” Taking the novel from him, I asked, “Do you have a pen?”
He unbuttoned the top three buttons of his lavender paisley sundress and pulled a pen out of his black lace bra.
I opened the cover. “Who would you like it to?”
“Jasmine. If you don’t mind?”
His smile was priceless. Really. All of the teeth were capped in gold with diamond insets on the canines. I didn’t want to ask why. He might have told me.
“To Jasmine,” I said aloud. “You will always be in my thoughts. Chaz.” It was true. How could I forget him? His chest was hairier than TCT. I handed the book back to him. “Have you ever considered filling in your cleft? You remind me of a young Kirk Douglas.” I left out the part about a young Kirk Douglas crossbred with King Kong.
“I get that a lot.” He embraced the book to his chest, licked it – yuck – and opened a lime green shoulder bag. “You seeing anyone?” The long-lashed, brown eyes looked a little too hopeful.
“Yeah, snow cone.” The growl came from behind me. “He’s in a relationship, so hit the bricks.”
“Well,” he huffed. “In that case . . . .” The book went in the bag. When he withdrew his hand, a sheaf of papers thumped against my chest.
“You’ve been served.”