Jason Rimbaud

All of you are horrible awesome dudes!!!!

Hello All, The idea of Glacier Bay Stories started way back in 2002, this ambitious idea was to tell unique stories all set in and around Glacier Bay, a fictional town located somewhere in the USA. Glacier Bay is based on several small towns I grew up in and probably is either in the north east or north west, somewhere along the Atlantic or Pacific. How's that for generalities? This year, I focused on single stories/plots and started writing, the concept is the same, there are a thousand stories in each town Each story is a self contained story that is fully realized, it may touch on other future stories or have been influenced by earlier ones. You won't have to read them in any particular order to get a resolution. At the moment, I have one novella finished except for edits, three short stories (though my definition of short story is longer than most) finished, with two other novels in the third re-writing stage. And for the first time in my life, I really stretched my writing ability to the limit, different formats, I tackle themes I never thought I would, different fetishes, and different time periods. In the coming weeks, I will be looking for an editor to help me clean up the first Glacier Bay Story called Time Stood Still. Here is an excerpt: (remember there has been no edits except my sloppy attempt at re-writes) Greg chuckled as she left the room with an armful of paper. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes but a moment later he heard her exclaim from the other room, “Oh dear, I almost forgot. A package arrived for you this afternoon.” “It’s probably another birthday gift.” Greg called back as he poured himself another drink. “I concur. It arrived while you were opening your other gifts and I thought it prudent not to include it with the others based on what happened last year.” She explained as she walked back into the room with a medium sized box that had an envelope attached to the top. “There’s no return address, it simply says Happy Birthday.” He looked at the box somewhat dubiously. He agreed with her, it was probably from one of his college friends. And after last year's diamond encrusted cock ring, he was rather glad she had kept this one separate. He slowly opened the lid and peered cautiously inside. It was filled with packing peanuts and he gave her an unsure look before putting his hand inside. He felt something cold and metallic and slowly pulled it out. It was a silver picture frame, from the look, solid silver. He flipped it over and looked at the photo inside the frame. His eyes teared up and he made an unconscious yelp. “Are you all right, sir?” Mrs. Winterbourne asked? Her concern was on full display in her dark eyes. Greg didn’t answer, he couldn’t. He felt like he had lost his ability to form words together. The memories that image called to mind was of a day long since passed. And that memory was filled with joy and intense pain that he had carried with him even all these years later. He rubbed his finger across the image as he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “Sir?” Greg suddenly realized he was standing there with wet cheeks. He sniffed and tried to smile but it was weak. He sat down and motioned for her to take a seat across from him. He held the photo in his hands and said softly, “I remember when this picture was taken. It was a long time ago, a few weeks after my father died.” “I seem to recall that you disappeared for a week right after the funeral.” She said as she sat down in her chair, her back straight and her hands folded in her lap. “Glacier Bay I believe.” Greg nodded. “Back then, the board was applying pressure for me to sell off my shares and give up my seat. They weren’t as confident I’d be able to run the company back then.” “They thought of you as a liability.” “We both know they were right.” Greg said as he placed the photo face down on his desk. “But they didn’t know I had a secret weapon in my corner, did they?” In her usual manner, the woman showed no emotion, though Greg did notice she somehow managed to sit up even straighter. She said, “You just needed to be pointed in the right direction.” “After the funeral, and the impending semi-hostile takeover, I felt like my life was spiraling out of control.” Greg admitted as he took another sip of his cognac. “So I fled to our house in Glacier Bay without telling anyone where I’d gone.” “The entire board was in such an agitated state, no one could find you, the vote was coming up.” She recalled with a straight face. “It took me about six hours to find you.” Greg chuckled loudly. He had always suspected she knew more about his life than she let on, and this admission just confirmed it. “It was reckless to disappear at that time. But after my parents passing, the very public way the will was release, the pressure of a hostile takeover of my family business, and relatives I never knew I had coming out of the woodwork, I had to get away from it all.” “If you think about it. Glacier Bay was the logical choice. Your father ran away there fifty years ago and came back with a wife.” “Yes, it was the one place we could always go. It was the one place I was most happiest.” Greg said before he paused. “We’ve never really spoken about that week, have we?” “When you came back, you were so focused and we had so much work to do, there never seemed to be a good time for that particular conversation. Though I’ve always been curious why you rarely have gone back to that house, yet you refuse to sell it.” Greg looked at her with his piercing blue eyes for a moment. He said quietly, “I wouldn’t have told you even if you had asked back then.” “Have you ever been to that house in Glacier Bay?” Greg asked. When she shook her head he continued, “It’s perfect. It’s situated in a small inlet, sheltered on all sides by trees my father had planted years ago. Large enough to host guests yet it always felt intimate for just the three of us. There is a caretaker that lives on the ground year round and when we were there, a chef cooked for us twice a day but after that, we wouldn’t have to see another living soul.” Greg stopped his story and said, “I’m sorry about my manners. Would you like some of this amazing cognac?” “I would love to, sir.” Greg poured her a glass and then refilled his. “I had been there for three days, and from the property next door, I heard what I could only describe as a non-stop party for two of those days. I guess even an introvert needs some kind of human interaction, because after spending three days feeling sorry for myself, I decided to head over there and see what was going on. And that’s when I first met him.”

I have held off in replying to this news as I was deeply affected by the sudden passing of our Awesome Dude. Mike meant more to me than any of you might know as he was directly responsible for helping me through a very troubled time in my life some years ago. Behind the scenes, he encouraged other members to check up on me when I was going through some deep addiction issues and barely holding on to a life that at that time I wasn't sure I deserved. And I can confidently share that if it wasn't for his indirect intervention, I might have had a complete different outcome to the life I enjoy today. While I am thankful for the job that Alien Son has done while he stepped into very big shoes over the last year of Mike's illness, I am a bit curious about the new Sub Forum I see in regards to the future of Awesome Dude. I would never assume that I should have a say as I'm been as silent and non productive as anyone could be over the last ten years, but I am curious on how it was curated to those members who might have a say. Maybe I'm just feeling the loss, and is deeply saddened. Maybe a bit more communication, and I understand that everyone is feeling overwhelmed at the moment. Or maybe I should just keep my mouth shut and let those better suited discuss adult matters. I just really miss Mike and have cried whenever I think about my/our loss. What a great Awesome Dude in every respect. Jason (Josh)

Horrible!! Hahaha

So not where I thought this was going! Hahahah

I discovered a podcast, Hardcore History by Dan Carlin a few years ago. He has amazing series with multiple episodes each on a wide range of topics. Currently, one of the series is called Supernova In the East, detailing the history and reasons why Japan thought it was a good idea to bomb Pearl Harbor. Dan goes deep into the culture and what happened to Japan when they were dragged into the open in the mid 1800's by American traders. It's a fascinating listen with six parts averaging three to four hours each part. I strongly recommend giving him a listen. He also has King of Kings, detailing the entire history of the Persian Kings ending with Alexander the Great. And if you wanted to go behind the paywall, my favorite is Blueprint to Armageddon, detailing the events that started the first Great War. I can't recommend Dan Carlin enough. https://www.dancarlin.com/hardcore-history-series/

Took me reading this out loud before it made sense in my tiny bat brain. Then I laughed so hard I bruised my coccyx J

I'm pretty sure Mike would lose his mind if I posted that particular picture!!!!

Um, yes to all the above. My favorite right now is from Mr. S Leather's, a red jockstrap with mesh pouch.

That is a question I would so ask... J

I never wear shorts in public, but I have no problem going out to the Castro (san francisco gay neighborhood) in nothing but my favorite pair of undies. I think shorts are ugly on guys, I'll take a bloke in skimpy undies over anything. J

Just so everyone knows/understand, I am down to help anyone with whatever ailment what I don't know with book learning, I make up for with enthusiasm

The first time I had sex I was fifteen. He was an older boy and that bending over the couch resulted in me getting kicked out of my house. And since my parents took the extra step in declaring me a fag to the entire church, I was basically outed to my entire community. So for a few years, fifteen to eighteen, I did all the drugs, fucked all the boys/men as an out and somewhat proud gay boy. I couch hopped when I could, lied to use the shelters, or struggled living on the streets when necessary. Basically I tried to navigate my world as best as I could. Shortly after my eighteenth birthday, I met an older gentleman who convinced me to move to Harrisburg Pennsylvania by offering to co-sign for my very first studio apartment. He also helped me get a job at Giant Grocery Store by dragging me to the DMV to get my ID. So I slowly started to build a life for myself. Though Harrisburg is the Capital of Pennsylvania, I saw first hand the homophobia that surrounded me so I took moving there as an opportunity to start over so to speak. To avoid being the gay boy that was bent over the couch I went back in the closet and nailed the door shut behind me. Giant was where I began making friends that would carry me for the next ten years. The first person I met was another eighteen year old named Nelson but everyone called him Five as he was the fifth Nelson in his family. Five’s best friend, John, a dirty blond nerd that is probably the biggest geek I’ve ever met in my entire life. On my second day, I met Jason, who would quickly become my best friend and the bane of my existence as we both struggled through our sexuality for years before culminating where I was his best man when he married a girl named Christine. But that’s another story for a different when. The four of us quickly became inseparable. We all worked at Giant, and spent almost every waking moment together for the next ten years. That entailed watching many movies, going to Denny’s at two am, and playing pool for hours at a time. We also hung out in the Giant parking lot after hours, throwing footballs, talking, and just enjoying each other's company. Then we discovered alcohol. One of my earliest memories of Harrisburg was watching a KKK rally spew their hateful message to a large crowd of onlookers. This convinced me to make a nice comfortable home in my closet. From the ages of eighteen to twenty-one, I was a typical straight boy. I dated girls, had sex with them, and tried my hardest to fit into a world as something I wasn’t. I could do all the things girls expected boys to do. I could go down on them, stick it inside them, make out with them, but I never really figured out what to do about the tits. Even to this day, tits are an enigma I believe should be better left alone. For a while, I existed happily in my straight fantasy. For the first time in my life, I had a close group of friends that actually liked me. I was very popular with the girls, not really dating anyone longer than six months to ensure none of them discovered my secret. But deep down, I knew I was living a lie and over time, that began to take its toll on my already fragile mental state. Then New Year’s Eve, 1996, twenty-six days before my twenty-first birthday, something happened that would change the direction of my life. It would be another three years before I came out to my entire circle of friends, but that was the day I stopped lying to myself. Five had a friend from High School, her name was Anja and she was a first generation immigrant from Croatia. She was brunette with shoulder length hair, brown eyes, petite with little perky breasts. She was also very athletic in a feminine way. While Five wasn’t interested in her in a romantic sense, he was borderline obsessed with destroying her relationship with her High School boyfriend so I could date her. Her boyfriend, Eric, was one of the hottest guys I had ever seen. He was six-foot tall, shaggy brown hair, lean but very fit with the most amazing brown eyes. He was also funny, and always quick to laugh and enjoy life. Though Anja and Eric had been dating since tenth grade, there were always rumors swirling around that Eric would cheat on her during vacations and out of state trips. This drove Five crazy as he considered her a friend so he made it his mission to break them up so in his words, “She could date you and have a good boyfriend for a change”. Little did he know, I wasn’t a good match for her either. But all that would come to a head anyway and there’s no reason to get ahead of myself. So for months, Five invited Anja to every party, every trip to Six Flags, every pool party, any event where the opportunity would present itself for me to make my move. Remember, she was still dating who she thought was the love of her life. I never said Five was smart. Of course, Anja would always arrive with Eric in tow and over time, I got to be quite friendly with Eric. Not like my core group of friends, we never hung out alone, but when we did show up at the same place, more often than not, we would spend the rest of the time laughing and joking together. This frustrated Five to no end. I was supposed to be “helping” him destroy this poor girl's relationship so I could swoop in and save her, and all I did was flirt with Eric. Though no one really saw what I was doing was flirting, but I know the truth. Before we progress, a little backstory on my little group of friends. John was an only child to a well off middle class family. Jason was the youngest, at eighteen, his older sister was twenty-five and already married. His family was middle class wealthy as well. I was definitely the poorest in my circle of friends. But they never made me feel like I was. They would subtly buy movie tickets for me, offer me gas money when I drove them anywhere, little things to let me contribute so I could feel like an equal. They paid for a lot of things and I am really grateful they did it with such class. Five was by far the richest in our group. He was an only child and born when his mother was forty-nine years old and his father was fifty-five. Neither of his parents had wanted kids but when he was a surprise, they loved him anyway. They were amazing parents. They were also loaded, worth millions of dollars and lived in Hershey Pennsylvania on top of a hill that looked down on the small city. And yes, Five worked at a grocery store. Later he would build his career at Costco, ultimately becoming District Manager. For all the money he inherited at an early age, it never seemed to affect him. He made his own way in life and never relied on his family’s money. By thirty, he was a multi-millionaire and worked eighty hours a week at Costco. He’s a very interesting person. His parents were also functioning alcoholics. By the time he was eighteen, they were long since retired and enjoying the fruits of their labor. And since they were notorious drinkers, Five had been drinking beer at dinner since he was sixteen. They also allowed him to throw house parties in High School as long as all the kids' parents knew there was drinking and no one drove home. This made Five’s parties legendary. On this particular New Year’s Eve, Five’s parents had gone away somewhere for the Holidays so we had the entire house to ourselves. Five had invited about thirty or so friends/peers but as all parties tend to do, it ballooned to fifty by the time the ball dropped. The music was pumping, the alcohol was flowing, people were making out, jock/bro’s were playing drinking games, it was turning out to be a great party. Until the incident. The incident happened shortly after midnight because Anja caught Eric kissing another girl. Full disclosure, Eric wasn’t making out with this girl, but they definitely kissed. This turned into a full blown fight because during the argument, Eric let slip he was transferring to Pittsburgh for the next semester to finish his studies. Things turned ugly quickly, Eric told her she was being overly dramatic and she accused him of using the transfer as an excuse to end things. Turned out she was right. Eric wasn’t satisfied with the prospect of turning twenty-one only having dated one girl. And then it came out that he had in fact cheated on her over the summer when he was touring Pittsburgh campus. That’s when Anja slapped him and stormed out of the kitchen with Five closely behind. As this argument was going on, I was outside on the balcony smoking and chatting up with a girl I had invited to the party. Sometime later, a very drunk Eric came stumbling out on the balcony for a cigarette. I clearly remember he was not that upset about the whole incident. Matter of fact, he almost looked relieved. As we did every time we hung out, we started talking and joking around. Then Eric suggested we should do shots and things get really blurry for the next few hours. Because I woke up the next afternoon in my bed, naked, with a massive hangover and very little memory of what had transpired the night before. I had several missed calls from Five. Apparently I had left the party, the girl I brought that no one else knew, my shirt, and just disappeared without a trace. I didn’t return his call as I laid in bed trying to reason out the night's events. Then a lump in my bed that I had mistakenly attributed as my throw pillows started to move. That was an interesting turn of events. Apparently I had ditched the girl I brought to the party but still found a replacement. Go me. I reached out and moved the covers down and saw a mop of shaggy brown hair. Oh fuck. Eric rolled over and peered up at me. It took him a moment to register who I was and then he stretched and said, “Morning.” I managed to say, “Morning” as I reached on the nightstand for my cigarettes. Then my heart sank as I saw a used condom on the floor next to my bed. Oh fuck. “What time is it?” I looked at the alarm clock as I lit my cigarette. “One-thirty.” “That’s not good.” “Really, it depends.” “On what?” “What time you had to be home today?” “Not until tomorrow.” I propped myself up against the headboard and put the ashtray on my stomach. “Then what’s not good about 1:30?” “I was supposed to meet a friend for lunch at noon.” Eric mimicked my leaning position against the headboard and asked, “Can I have one of those?” Like me, Eric was bare chested and from how the blanket fell against his hip, I could tell he was as naked as I. I gave him a cigarette and said, “I drank a lot last night, do you remember what happened?” He looked at me with a questioning look. “I never thought you’d be one of those guys.” “What do you mean?” “A guy that conveniently forgets what happened last night.” I leaned over the bed and picked up the used condom. I held it up and said, “I can only assume we had sex.” “Twice.” I dropped the condom on the floor and asked, “Is there at least another condom on your side of the floor?” Eric took a long drag and replied, “Yep.” “That’s good. At least we were safe.” “We both insisted on that.” “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m assuming I fucked you.” “You did. Right after I fucked you.” I hadn’t bottomed in over four years. I had been “straight” and too many questions were swirling around in my poor aching head. He seemed to be extremely comfortable waking up next to a boy. And I couldn’t help but wonder if this was some kind of weird joke. I threw my legs over the edge of the bed and slowly stood up. Then I could tell that at least part of his story was true, my asshole ached. “I’m thirsty, want anything?” “Some water would be nice.” I made my way into the kitchen and poured two glasses of water. When I walked back into the bedroom, Eric was just hanging up his phone. He was still in my bed and looked like he had no plans on moving anytime soon. I held out one of the glasses and saw another part of his story was proving true. Right by my foot was a used condom. I sat down and took a long drink. I said, “Eric, not that I’m upset or anything. But how did this happen?” “You mean us fucking last night.” “That. I really don’t remember much of anything after the ball dropped.” “We were doing shots in the kitchen, and someone dared you to do a blowjob shot.” “Fucking Jason.” I muttered. He was always bringing up blowjob shots and trying to force everyone to partake. “Was you the lucky constant? “Pretty much, in a manner of speaking.” It was a really stupid shot but he had roped me into doing it more times than I could ever admit. You put equal parts Amaretto and Bailey’s Irish Cream in a shot glass and then top it with whipped cream. A person sits in a chair and puts the shot between their legs. Then you get on your knees in front of them and then using only your mouth, grab the shot glass with your lips and tilt your head back to drink the shot. “What does that mean?” “You were pretty drunk and you kept shoving your nose into my balls. It took quite a while for you to get the shot glass in your mouth.” “Great, so my head was between your legs in front of fifty kids.” I groaned out. Pretty much.” Eric said as he leaned over my bed and put his cigarette out in the ashtray that was sitting on my nightstand. As he stretched out, I got a good look at his ass. At least I had good drunken taste. He caught me staring at his ass and smiled. “Later on, I teased you about the way you kept sniffing my balls while you were “pretending” to drink the shot.” “That’s mean.” “Then you whispered in my ear that if I ever wanted to experience the real thing, all I had to do was ask.” “So you decided to take advantage of my drunken ass.” I muttered as I ran my hands through my hair. “All I did was ask a question.” I pulled back the covers and climbed in next to him. “So then it’s your fault we had sex last night.” “I wasn’t the one that was begging to be fucked last night.” Eric said with a grin. “Not at first. But after you seemed to enjoy it so much, I figured I should see what you were moaning about.” I moved down until my head was on the pillow, I put my hands over my head and said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t remember anything about last night.” Eric snuggled his head on my chest and said, “Don’t worry, you had fun.” “Apparently twice.” Eric, like me, had always known he was gay. At first he stayed with Anja so long because she was extremely religious and he figured it was a safe way to ensure no one suspected the truth. But they had dated so long, they eventually had sex. And he had been feeling exceedingly guilty for leading her on and the last few months, he had stopped the sex all together. And it was true he had cheated on her over the summer. The part he left out was it was with a boy. After that experience, he figured the only way he could get out of his situation was to transfer and start over in a new city far away from the prying eyes of his friends and family. I dropped Eric off at home a few hours later and then went to Five’s house to do some much needed damage control. All my friends were worried that I had disappeared and once they realized I was fine, they really laid into me. I was a selfish bastard, I didn’t respect them, they said the most awful things. Their anger lasted until I decided it was time to play a drinking game around seven o-clock. It was just the four of us and their anger disappeared sometime after I made Jason do a blowjob shot. No one ever found out the reason I left Five’s house that night. Eric went on to graduate from Pittsburgh and we never got together again. I saw him a few more times but by the time he came back, I was fully involved in the mess that was my relationship with Jason. But that experience started me on the path to visiting my first gay bar twenty-six days later when I turned twenty-one. But that’s a story for another time.

Thats because you're not old!!!! J

You should've read the first draft I did of this Blog. Something is going on in my old age, I'm getting more X-rated in my writing than ever before. J

TGI Friday's & A Broken Nose It was the year 1997. I was young, with luscious brown hair that fell past my shoulders. I was fit, hard bodied like only the young can have without exercise and down to fuck anything that captured my attention. But I was trapped in the midst of my only at night relationship with a straight boy named Jason and frustrated beyond belief. I was also at an emergency room at 3:45 am and being questioned by a policeman about injuries Jason had sustained in a fight. For those of you that haven’t followed this long outdated Blog, then you might want to read I'll Never Wear Boxers Again to fully understand my relationship with Jason, my undercover lover. During this particular year, at this particular time, Jason was balls deep in (love) with a female bartender at a local restaurant/bar called TGI Friday’s. You must remember, back then, TGI Friday’s actually had great food. Though they might have been better known for their “flare” bartenders and happy hour specials than anything. It was common on most nights where the forty plus seats at the bar weren’t filled with regulars. Due in no small part that they offered a subscription based trivia game called NTN Buzztime that you could play against other players all over the country. You’d ask a bartender for a controller, log in to your Buzztime account, and then play against other players in a plethora of trivia that normally lasted for thirty minutes at a time. I never participated in the sport theme trivia games but many a night, Jason and I spent hours playing that damn game until they kicked us out at closing. We had been going there for almost a year so we had gotten to know the bartenders and most of the regulars pretty well. I was also involved in a rather heated rivalry with another regular patron by the screen name of FitzFuc who was my only real local competition in my never ending quest to maintain my high score on Buzztime. You might not believe this, but my perfectly bald head is filled with useless information that makes me a devastating player at any bar trivia night. But I am finding more and more these trivia nights are less focussed on general trivia and more on themed nights which I find a bit boring. But in 1997 and for all other purposes, I was head over heels in love with Jason. If you went back and read I’ll Never Wear Boxers Again, then you know how it started between us about a year earlier. And since we never openly acknowledged our lust filled nights, I was confused, lovesick, and angry most of the time surrounding this secret relationship. With the amount of alcohol we consumed, my undercover burgeoning drug use and intense feelings, I’m surprised we didn’t have more violent arguments. I’ll preface this story by saying I wasn’t the only one confused. Jason was in deep denial about his feelings for me and often used me more as a cumdump than a boyfriend. Though his intentions were probably more honorable than mine but both of us was stuck in this endless circle of sex, lust, anger, and hurt. At one time or another, each of us tried to break this unhealthy cycle we had created for ourselves. As a gay man it was easier for me to find a willing receptacle. All I had to do was go to any gay bar and dance around in my underwear, twenty minutes later I’d be thrusting into some random dude or bent over taking a dick in the backroom. Jason had to employ a different strategy to find sex. His modus operandi was quantity flirting. He had figured out that sooner or later some random girl would agree to fuck him if he asked enough girls. So during this period, there were many nights he’d come home horny as fuck and needing to play around with me to scratch that itch. Over the course of our “relationship”, I lost count of how many times I would see some ugly skank slip out of his room and make that long walk of shame back to whatever rock he found them under. And some of these “girls” he should’ve been more embarrassed than he was for taking them to his bed, but that’s a him problem. With him being so deep in denial with his sexuality, those encounters might have been a way for him to justify the fact he wasn’t really gay no matter how many times I slipped inside his ass. As long as he was still sexing up girls, then he wasn’t really a fag but maybe bisexual. And that was an important distinction for him to make, which he did often. Usually it was right before I put my dick in his ass, he’d look up at me and say, “I’m not a fag.” What was I going to say? My dick was literally an inch away from the very place I wanted it to be. So I would always respond, “Me neither.” Then I’d do about the gayest thing one can do to another man. But I was talking about 1997. I was working the mid shift, 12 pm to 8 pm, so after going home and taking a shower, I met up with Jason around 9 pm at TGI Friday’s. He had been there since five so he was pretty fucked up. Our beer of choice at TGI Friday’s was Killians Irish Red Lager. They were served in a 23 oz chilled glass and we would normally knock back seven or eight before the night was finished. And in between each 23 oz Killians Irish Red Lager, we’d have a shot of our favorite drink. Okay, they weren’t technically shots. I think I should explain before we move on. Our shots were one of TGI Friday’s signature cocktail, the Malibu Baybreeze. This was a cocktail that had 2 oz of Malibu (coconut flavored) Rum, Pineapple Juice, and topped with Cranberry Juice in a ice filled 12 oz glass. For some reason we loved that drink back then. So after each beer, we’d order this cocktail and then race to see who could finish it the fastest. The only rule, we had to drink through the straw. My personal record was five seconds. Over a period of time, especially when they were really busy, the bartenders would grow tired of making so many of these cocktails, we had a habit of ordering them for several of the regulars. So for us, they started making us doubles and putting them in the 23 oz glasses. My personal record was about eight seconds. I know what some of you might be thinking. There was no way we would have the equivalent of sixteen beers and who knows how many double cocktails and still manage to walk upright. Then you would be wrong, very wrong. Jason and I were professional drinkers back then. We’d drink a solid five or six hours and then I would drive us twenty minutes back to our apartment. Don’t judge me, you do unbelievably stupid things when you’re twenty-two. From the day I turned 21 until I turned 30, each football Sunday, five of my friends would drive about 45 minutes away to this amazing sports bar called Kokomo’s. There were closer locations to all our houses, but one of my friends, Five, was in (love) with one of the waitresses at that location so he made us go there. I can’t remember her regular name, but she also did strip shows in her private basement bar, and I remember her professional name, Velvet. Of course I’d remember her stage name. She was the only female stripper that ever gave me a boner. But that’s another story for another penis. Even though we’d arrived for the first game of the day at 10:30 am, Velvet didn’t start until 3 pm. We’d make sure we sat in her section so when she did come on shift, she would always be our waitress. We’d actually eat lunch and also dinner because we wouldn’t leave until the late night Sunday game was over. We’d basically drink for about twelve hours. Then we had our Friday game nights at my apartment. We’d all meet up at my apartment and play card games all night. It was standard practice for Jason and I to polish off two cases of beer and a 750ml bottle of Vodka. So our consumption was legendary in the circle of bars we frequented. Not only did we spend money like drunken sailors, we also tipped crazily. How could two twenty-two year olds afford to drink like this you might ask? Prices weren’t the same as they are today. We could get a pitcher of beer for $10, .10 cent wings, and $2 well shots. So our Sunday football all day tab was about $150 and we split that five ways. As a business owner, I am appalled by what I’m about to disclose, just remember times were different back then. Restaurants/Bars were making money hand over fist. Rent, labor, cost of goods, were maybe a third of what it costs now. Hell, bartenders/servers were only making $2.83 per hour because we really did live on our tips. Because we tipped so heavily back then, our bar tabs started shrinking the longer we frequented any establishment. After drinking for six hours, it was normal for me to receive a twenty dollar tab. We’d each, Jason and I, tip the bartender forty dollars and call it a night. So for eighty dollars, the bartenders were basically giving us who knows how many free drinks a night. Life was different, I had a 1200 square foot basement apartment with two bedrooms, a private entrance, and it cost me $800 a month. Jason and I split everything down the middle so our basic needs cost less than $600 a month. As a bartender in a very busy restaurant, I was making $200 in tips on a bad morning shift. Saturday lunch shift I was walking out with about $400, so I had cash coming out of my ears. There was one ime after it got cold enough to warrant wearing a jacket, I grabbed one at random from the closet. When I put my hands in the pocket, I found tip money from the last time I wore it five months earlier. I had so much cash back then I had completely forgotten about the three hundred dollars. But we’re talking about 1997, one of the more violent arguments I ever had with Jason. So when I arrived at TGI Friday’s, Jason was fucked up and in a bad mood. He had met his bartender crush’s boyfriend and it finally sank in no matter how much he tipped her, she was not going to suck his dick in the parking lot at the end of the night. The other bartender, Nick, informed me Jason already had about eight beers and four of our “shots”. He was hoping I was there to bring him home. Nick had been a bartender for years and knew the signs of someone drinking in anger. But Jason was adamant that he wasn’t ready to go home yet and had no interest in stopping for the night. There lies the dilemma of any bartender with a regular heavy tipper. If they cut off the drunk person, they run the risk of losing that income, on the other hand, if they continue to serve said drunk person, they run the risk of an altercation in the bar or worse, an accident on the way home. I was only there for about ten minutes when Jason told me to fuck off and leave him alone. Remember, I was twenty-two, and you do stupid things at that age. So I did just that. I paid for my unfinished beer and I fucked off to the gay bars. TGI Friday’s was located on Union Deposit Road, about ten minutes away from Stallions, the largest gay bar in Harrisburg at that time. By the time arrived, Jason had called several times. He was angry that I left him there and was looking for a “fight”. I wasn’t in the mood to indulge him in an argument. So I ignored him. Stallions was a three level club but during the week, only the bottom level was open. The upstairs levels were the nightclub, dancing and drag shows while the bottom level was more like a neighborhood bar. There were a few pool tables, some arcade games, dart boards, and they hosted Karaoke on Tuesday nights. This was by far my least favorite level but it was the only one opened that night. Brandon, the downstairs bartender, was a good friend of mine. He was early thirties and had a nineteen year old twink boyfriend named Nicholas, not Nick, Nicholas. Nickolas was short, maybe 110 pounds, with a flaming red mohawk and a lip ring. I always thought Nickolas was hot but as he was Brandon’s boyfriend, I stayed away. My last night in Harrisburg, some eight years later, I fucked Nicholas in a one room apartment next door to Stallions but that’s another story for a tired penis. Brandon was average height, a bit chunky but very cute with short brown hair. He served me my first legal drink in a gay bar called Strawberries the night I turned twenty-one so I had a soft spot in my heart for him. Those first few months he kept me away from the pervs, creeps, and drug pushers and introduced me to a group of gay’s that I regularly hung out with as we made our rounds of queer circle. There were only about ten people there that night when I rolled in around 10pm. It was Wednesday night as I surveyed the crowd, I didn’t see anyone I knew other than Nicholas and Brandon. So I sat next to Nicholas and ordered my go to gay drink at the time, a Greyhound. Nickolas was newly out to the world. He was a little punk rocker whose usual attire at the time was red checkered pants, black leather work boots, leather harness and nothing else. He was also a huge flirt and on the prowl to bring in a third for their sexual escapades that normally happened in the bar after they closed. Don’t ask me, I just knew to keep my hands off his scrawny little ass. There was no way I was getting involved with that trainwreck of a couple no matter how many times they enticed me or how many free drinks Brandon gave me. And it was a lot. Brandon liked them young and later on, after they broke up, Nicholas told me that Brandon had urged him to get me in a threesome with them. Nickolas was hot, but something about Brandon just turned me off so I always declined. But I will admit, one of the only reasons I did fuck Nickolas eight years later was to rub it in Brandon’s face right before I left. This particular night, Nickolas was wearing a pair of black spandex shorts, black leather work boots and a smile. And the moment I sat down next to him, he jumped into my lap and kissed my cheek. I might have copped a feel of his little package as he squirmed around in my lap, maybe, but I’ll never tell. It was strange for me to be there on an off night, as I had the reputation of only showing up when I was looking to fuck. So Brandon said something along the lines of, “What are you doing here on a Wednesday?” “Relaxing after a long day.” Though Jason and I had been playing around for almost a year, I had yet to tell anyone about him. So I was dealing with all that emotion alone. “Let me help you with that.” Brandon declared and poured us Purple Hooter shots. I had really only gone there because Jason was being an asshole and I wasn’t really looking to get hammered as I had an early shift the next day. But who could say no to a purple hooter. Not me, and after three greyhounds and two purple hooters, my will to call it an early night went out the window. Nickolas and I started a game of pool. Back then, I played pool all the time. My buddy “Five” and I spent at least three hours a week playing at a local pool hall with regulation sized tables. I was really good once upon a time. On a bar sized table, I was virtually unbeatable. Full disclosure, I loved playing pool with Nickolas, mainly because I would stare at his narrow ass every time he bent over to shoot. So as the night progressed, I was becoming increasingly horny and actually thought about taking them up on their offer to play. But that was as close as I would ever come to indulging their fantasy. Because a quarter after midnight, a tall slender boy with a caesar haircut, piercing blue eyes, and a sexual swagger walked in and asked if he could play winner. I took one look at this boy and flashed him a smile and said, “I’ll play any game with you.” His name was Brandon, I know, confusing right. But he was known throughout queer circle as having all meat and no potatoes. And later that night I found out that was correct. He had an eight inch cock, straight and thick but little bitty balls that would have been perfectly fine on an eleven year old boy. Not a twenty-five year old man with a dick that could choke a horse, or a Jason. For sake of clarity, my friend, I will call Brandon 1. I could give Brandon 2 another name but where would be the fun in that. Nickolas quickly figured out that I wasn’t going to play with him so he went back to the bar to sit with Brandon 1 while Brandon 2 and I started to play. It was apparent from his first break, he was a great shooter. And after four games, we were tied, two to two. That’s when the night started getting interesting. First off, the loser of the next game had to buy the next round. So when I went to the bar to order the drinks, I asked him, “Do you know him?” Branond 1 frowned. “He’s kind of a whore.” “I like whores.” I could tell Brandon 1 didn’t like the guy. I wasn’t sure if it was because he had intentions on me for that night or if Brandon 2 wasn’t really a good dude. “Everyone says he doesn’t like to use condoms and he’s always staying for the afterparty at Strawberries.” Strawberries was right next door to Stallions and was a little narrow bar that was famous for a group of guys to stay after closing and run trains on naive twinks and do copious amounts of drugs. Partipating in crazy sexapades didn’t bother me, but not playing safe did. AIDS was a huge deal and a guaranteed death sentence not to mention all the other STDs going around the gay community. As horny as I was, as dumb as I was, I was always careful to play safe. As the months went on, I found out that most of what Brandon 1 told me that night was a lie. It was true, Brandon 2 was a whore, but so was I. He always played safe and didn’t sleep around near as often as his reputation suggested. It all started because Brandon 2 had been seeing one of Brandon’s 1 friends that ended badly due to rampant drinking and drug use about six months earlier. A group of these older gay men were mad that Brandon 2 wasn’t a naive twink that could be passed around at those famous after parties at Strawberries. Full disclosure, a few months after my twenty-first birthday, I was that naive. But that’s another story for a naive penis. And the most interesting thing I found out about Brandon 2 was never mentioned at all. He loved watersports. Jason had called me several more times that night but I always ignored it. I fully intended to honor his wishes by fucking off and leaving him alone. And some time later, when Brandon 2 followed me into the single occupant bathroom and started sucking my dick, I figured I’d start forgetting Jason by riding Brandon 2’s eight inch cock. Brandon 2 still lived with his parents, so we couldn’t go back there. And I lived twenty minutes away in Grantville Pennsylvania, a place not easily accessible without a vehicle. So Brandon 2 didn’t want to come home with me. But I did manage to blast a load down his throat before I left with a promise to hook up again soon. That didn’t happen for another six months or so but it was worth the wait, let me tell you. By the time I made it home, around 1am, I was pretty drunk and ready for bed. Jason had not returned yet and a part of me was worried. I knew he was fucked up more than usual and he would never leave his Jeep there so the odds of him driving home was rather large. But I was mad and being twenty-two, I shut my bedroom door and went to bed. I think I might have been asleep before my head hit the pillow. “Hey asshole.” I don’t know exactly what time Jason barged into my room, but I do remember coming awake and seeing him looming over me like some kind of vengeful angel. Before I could really blink the sleep from my eyes, Jason’s fist connected with my cheek and I fell back against the bed. No matter who you are, getting sucker punched in the face awakens something primal inside you. I’m not a tough guy by any means. Over my lifetime, especially back in High School, I had my share of fights. I’m naturally strong and can take a punch without collapsing like a sack of potatoes. So it really didn’t surprise me that I immediately jumped out of bed and went into a defensive stance. I was still trying to process what just happened, and Jason lunged for me again. I’ll admit to all of you, there wasn’t a lot of force behind Jason’s first punch. Maybe it was because he was drunk and having trouble standing, or maybe he really didn’t want to hurt me. But when he lunged at me again, I didn’t have the same problem he did. My fist connected and I felt his nose break. Blood immediately began flowing down his face and he looked at me in shock. LIke he couldn’t believe I had actually punched him. Then his eyes filled with anger and he attacked me. We fell back on my bed, blood pouring down on the both of us, as we wrestled around for a bit. I slept naked, and not only was I self conscious about my nakedness, but I really didn’t want to hurt him. So I tried to block his blows and get him into a position where I could get away from him. Then a wild punch connected with my eye and I decided enough was enough. I threw him off me and started punching him as hard as I could. I made sure not to hit him in the head, I focused all my blows on his back. All I really wanted to do was stop him from hitting me. So after about six or seven hits on his back, I jumped off the bed and stood there gasping for breath. Jason was groaning in pain, holding his broken nose as he tried to stop the blood. He was writhing around my bed and I grabbed a shirt from the floor and threw it at him. “Are you done?” Jason put the shirt up to his nose and said, “I’m done.” “Then get the fuck out of my bed. You’re bleeding everywhere.” It took him a few moments to gather the energy to get off my bed and stumbled out of my room. I slammed the door shut behind him and stripped my blood soaked bedding. After putting the sheets in the washer, I remade my bed and was just about to crawl inside when I heard Jason calling for me. As mad as I was about him attacking me in my sleep, I was still madly in love with him. And I could hear the pain in his voice as he called out for me. All the anger melted away and I ran out and saw him lying on the kitchen floor. He had a towel filled with ice clutched in his hand but was face down moaning in pain. "What's wrong?” I asked. I know, he had a broken nose and I was asking what’s wrong. But I was still a bit drunk. “I can’t breathe. It hurts. I think you broke my ribs.” Jason managed to say between breaths. That’s when I ran over and knelt down beside him. I lifted up his shirt and looked. I could see where I punched him, his skin was red and angry looking. The next day, the left side of his back would be one big bruise but that night, it just looked hot. His eyes were already bruising and the blood flow from his nose had pretty much stopped. He looked horrible. I immediately felt sorry for him. “I’m sorry.” “After this, me too.” “What do you want me to do?” I asked him as I tried to move him into a sitting position. “I think I should go to the hospital.” “You can’t drive, I’ll bring you.” I offered. He looked at me and then reached out with one finger and hit the tip of my dick gently. “Maybe you should get some clothes on.” On the way to the emergency room, Jason came up with a story to explain where he got his injuries. We both knew, the moment an ER doctor saw him, he would know he was in a fight and report it to the police. Twenty minutes earlier, we were trying to kill each other and now we were conspiring to lie to a police officer. The basis of the story, Jason was out at a bar somewhere downtown, and after he left, a few guys jumped and robbed him. Then he drove home where I decided he should go to the hospital. As we suspected, the ER doctor called the police and after they triaged him, the officer took his statement. Then as Jason was filling out the paperwork, the officer found me in the waiting room and interviewed me. This wasn’t the first time I had lied to a police officer and it wasn’t the last. And from the look on his face, the police officer didn’t believe a word I said. I have no idea what he thought really happened but our story was so weak, Jason couldn’t remember which bar he went to, nor where he was parked, nor could he offer a description of any of the attackers. But I think the main reason he didn’t believe our story was that Jason had his wallet in his personal effects when he was admitted. We were pretty quiet on the ride home. It was almost five am and he had to be at work at 8am and my shift started at 10am. He had a broken nose, a cracked rib and a bruised kidney, needless to say, only one of us made it to work that day. The explanation he gave me behind his anger never made sense either. Yes, he was mad that his bartender crush wasn’t interested in him, and yes he was mad that I left him at TGI Friday’s, and yes he was mad that I went to Stallions and got a blowjob from Brandon 2, but none of that was the reason he attacked me. After my shift the next day, I went home to check on him as well as to shower. He was propped up on the couch watching TV, bored out of his skull. When I went into the bathroom, he followed me and sat on the toilet as I showered. “What are you doing tonight?” He asked. “Maybe go to Stallions.” “Why don’t we just get some beer and hang out here. I’m off tomorrow.” Truthfully, I was still angry that he had punched me. And I wanted to go back to Stallions to see if I could find Brandon 2 again. So I answered noncommittally. “Maybe.” “If you’re going to just hook up, you could always fuck me.” I started laughing. This entire situation was so ridiculous. Even in my young confused brain I knew what we were doing was bizarre to say the least. “You’re so banged up you can’t even walk. I’d break you.” “I’ll just take some more pain killers.” We ended up staying home that night. And somehow, we even took turns topping. We snuggled in his bed and I pretended we were a couple. It was nights like these, alone in the safety of our apartment, wrapped up in one another’s arms that kept this dream alive of us one day becoming a real couple. When we arrived home from the hospital, I helped him get undressed and put him to bed. I made sure his phone was charging and right before I turned off the light, I asked, “Do you need anything else?” “After all this, the least you could do was give me a blowjob.” There it was. Our relationship summed up in a single sentence. After I broke his nose, his ribs, and bruised a kidney, after all that, the least I could do was suck his dick. Any normal human would have run away from this situation. But I have never been normal and I didn’t run away. I sucked his dick.

Stephen King is quoted as saying, "I try to write six pages a day, polished." Or something like that. So instead of trying to hit a certain page goal, I hit a time goal. I try to write four hours a day. Which takes me to your next question. Last year we opened a delivery only hot wing concept in a cloud kitchen space. I learned a lot, made a lot of mistakes, and realized the rent they were charging made it almost impossible to turn a profit. And we built up a quite a following and had several profitable months. But once our contract at the space was nearing its end, we realized we could get a 1200 square foot space for a third of the rent we were paying for a 200 square foot kitchen. So we closed our delivery only concept and choose to open another concept, still focusing on Hot Wings but expanding the menu to make it more lunch friendly as we are in the heart of San Francisco surrounded by office workers looking for a more healthy alternative for lunch. So we will have salads, sandwiches, and of course Hot Wings. And to your point of having time, I was at the restaurant for thirteen hours every day. And during the time between 2pm and 6pm, I wouldn't get any orders. So instead of just sitting on my hands, I would use that time to write. Spending four hours a day, seven days a week, even a bad writer such as myself can put a lot of words on the paper. All of the stories I've mentioned above, I had extensive notes, ideas, entire scenes written over the last twenty years, so once I sat down, it came rather easily. And as you well know, I had been out of writing for a long time, so I knew the first few stories were going to be bad as I got back in the habit. I think my craft has grown tremendously over the last year by sheer volume alone. But each of these stories would be needing heavy re-writes. J

In the last eight months, I somehow managed to write about two hundred ninety-five thousand words over six stories. And out of those six, four are first draft complete. Untitled Story Number One: Set in Hershey Pennsylvania and revolves around a plot to assassinate a sitting US Senator on the road to a presidential nomination and the contract killer who decides to stop it. The first draft is 96,345 words. Untitled Story Number Two: The story takes place in the US Virgin Islands as our protagonist deals with the loss of his parents after a sudden illness. He meets a boy at a house party and quickly falls in love. But everything isn’t as it seems and when the press catches wind of his budding romance, choices must be made by both boys that will alter their lives forever. A short story with 22,889 words. Untitled Story Collection Number Three: This chronicles the affair between two singers, one at the height of his career and the other climbing his way to the top. The idea of this story began with my short story already posted online at Gay Authors many years ago entitled Fractured. Told over a span of five years and through four short stories, this is a tale of addiction and the struggle to find one’s identity amongst the lens of fame. Total word count is 89,545. Untitled Story Number Four: What happens when a closeted boy gets a pride themed thong as a secret santa gift? Who gave it to him and why? Based on a writing prompt at Gay Authors and was my entry for last year's Christmas story. Sadly it was not finished in time as it was a complete mess even with help from two of our Awesome Dude writers who tried to edit it. Hopefully it will be retooled for this year's entry for Christmas. Word count 14,289 Untitled Story Number Five: In 2023, Tyler was forced into questioning his sexuality for the first time in his life. After reconnecting with an old friend he quickly falls in love. Now a senior in high school, he is pressured into raising his GPA from 3.5 to 3.7 from his father who has grand plans for his only son. As midterms approach, his barely passing grade in Calculus forces him to take drastic action on the very eve his entire world comes crashing down. Can his boyfriend save him from himself or will Tyler have to face things alone? In progress, current word count is 48,584 Untitled Story Number Six: In 1995, Daniel steals a car and runs away to the big city to escape his homophobic parents. He is caught after crashing the car and sent to a boarding school that specializes in gay conversion therapy. He returns at the start of summer and has to navigate the court ordered restitution to pay off the stolen car, his overly religious ex boyfriend who is trapped in denial that the only way he can survive is to lash out in violence. Can Daniel survive the summer before he turns eighteen or will he be trapped in a town he hates. In Progress, 22,923 Earlier this year, I made an end of year goal that I will have at least one story completed and readying for posting online. Thus far, I am well on my way to achieving this amazing feat seeing as I opened a restaurant last year and have just finished signing a Letter of Intent (LOI) on our first brick & mortar restaurant in downtown San Francisco. We have moved on to the financing stages and if all goes well, by mid August our very first restaurant will be opened and ready for customers. With a new restaurant opening looming above my head, I don’t know how much time I will have to focus on my writing. So to achieve this goal, I will choose one of the above stories to complete before the end of the year. If anyone has a particular one that interests them into reading more, I am taking suggestions. On a completely different note, in the mid-eighties, I read a book of short stories called Thieves World, a shared world fantasy series created by Robert Asprin and featuring some of the most well known writers of the seventies and eighties. My memory is that authors could use any characters already created or introduce new ones set in the city of Sanctuary. As the series continued, I became fascinated by multiple stories taking place in the same location independently of the other stories. Twenty years ago I tried, and failed, to mimic this by writing multiple stories set in the same small town of my youth. This would be a semi-autobiographical tale told through a fictional lens. For several reasons, this concept failed. I was not a good writer and the story quickly got away from me due to lack of plot and/or planning. Recently I revisited this concept and two of the above stories are set in the same location. I guess my hope, after I finish playing in this setting, is that maybe another author might want to jump in and play around in my world. Either by continuing any of the stories I post or creating new ones. But first I have to actually finish something. Wish me luck on signing my lease, I’m so excited to actually be able to see people enjoy my food in a restaurant setting instead of just doing take-out.

This is one part travelogue and one part truckers guide. It's a quick read comprised of little vignettes on what philosophy of life the author holds but has no real plot. Like the author is actually a trucker and day dreamed what it would be like to pick up a hitchhiker to share in his travels. It's not bad by any stretch. The ending is just a bit abrupt for my taste. Jason

Why is it when I play with my husband, he always gives me the white queen?

This is why I wear slip on shoes...well, that and I never figured out how to tie my own shoes. It's getting awkward asking stranger on the train to help me out.

Seeing as I'm not a senior yet...I'll try baby food while I can still hate it without fear. PS. I enjoyed the story as well, though I had never read it until a few hours ago.

Have you ever read something you wrote twenty years ago and literally cringe in embarrassment? I have so many times it’s becoming a constant state of cringe. And believe me, I’m a master of cringing. I’ll give you an example of a cringe that came over me about six months ago.. Twenty-one years ago I wrote a fanfic about the members of Nsync. Which I find to be strange as I have never been a fan of their music. Nor have I been attracted to any of the members of Nsync, then or now. I always found my taste in men to be a bit on the nerdy side. Give me a man who wears glasses, a bit awkward in social situations, and I’m all in. If you add in a darker skin tone then I get a mental erection and it's all over but the moaning. A few of you might know my husband is ethnically an Indian who was born in Malaysia. He’s almost 5’ 10” and weighs 120 pounds skinny butt naked. Does he wear glasses? Check. Is he smart? Extremely. Is it any wonder why he gives me mental erections just by walking into the room? Back to the fanfic I wrote. It was twenty chapters and just over 100K words. The plot revolved around an assassination attempt of a US Senator at a concert in Hershey Pennsylvania. Of course the protagonist meets the members of this boy band and the plot is off and running to a climax I still believe is pretty good. But you ask, is the story any good? I can say honestly, it had some really good scenes, a fairly interesting plot, mixed together with some of the worst writing I have seen in a long time. Trust me, I read it, then I read it again. It wasn’t great by any standard. The tone was all over the place. Due to the main plot, it was a bit dark. After all it was about assassinations at the core. I tried to weave suspense throughout the narrative, and I think I tackled that part okay. But then I would have a scene of graphic sex, eight or nine pages of graphic detail. So it was this weird mix of death, humor, and jerk off material. Sound like a story you want to read? Yet can you believe at the time, I would receive up to fifty emails when I posted a chapter. I thought I was on top of the world. Which only goes to prove the theory that even a bad writer can get sympathy platitudes. I actually had an idea for a sequel. Thankfully it never materialized as I would have another novel to look back on and cringe. Why did I fail to write the sequel you might ask? A few months after I completed the novel, I kind of went off the rails with a love affair of cocaine and Oxycontin that I wallowed around for a few years. And that addiction morphed into a habit of picking less than ideal boyfriends that only fueled my drug addiction that caused me to choose bad boyfriends which fueled my drug addiction. And if any of you are wondering what life was like during that time of my life or if you are contemplating on getting a drug habit, I urge you to scroll down to the past blog entries and you can experience all the chaos that comes with those addictions. Or if you want to really experience what goes through a drug addict's mind, you can always read my poetry. I might have stopped writing stories but I never stopped writing. I poured all my mania, my anger, my drug addled thoughts into some pretty amazing pieces. In poetry I found a way to confront my demons and exorcized them one piece at a time. I am still rather proud of my poetry. Then I somehow gave up the drugs and the poetry. I swapped them for blog entries. Those posts really delved into the characters of my sordid past and focused on my journey into sobriety. They were funny, sad, and at times would drive any sane person mad at the stupidity of my actions. But through it all, I remained honest and wrote with an intensity that scared me at times and healed me at others. I showed the bad along with the bad, and was unashamed. Then just like real life, days turned to weeks, months turned into years, and slowly my life got on track. I’ve been clean for over fifteen years. I focused on my career that afforded me an amazing life in San Francisco. And that focus on career came with a hefty price. I had walked away from writing and found peace and a measure of what I thought was happiness. Then I met the man who would become my husband. That is when I found out there was another level above a great life. For five years I went from great to perfect. I had found my life partner, the person that would spend every night sleeping next to me. That person that can make me smile just at the mere thought of his name. And when he decided that our life needed something else to make it better than perfect, he brought a cat home named Peaches. And then somehow it got even better when he brought home another named aptly, Kali. And life is still perfect. And I know some of you might be thinking there is a “but” coming. You would be wrong. My life is still perfect. We started our own business. I’m doing something I love. And yes it’s slow getting off the ground, and we are still struggling to be successful. But I’m happy. Throughout that feeling of happiness, I had a growing feeling deep down in the darkness of my heart. It was a feeling I had lost long ago. That feeling that urged me to get back to what I’ve always said was my first love. Even before the love of drugs, I had a love for writing. From my earliest memories, I have wanted to be a writer. And for a multitude of reasons, I slowly lost that love to create stories. Yes, I wrote poetry, blog entries. Those were things that were needed at the time for my own sanity. But I wanted to get back to crafting stories. So I made a plan to get back to where I knew I wanted to be. Firstly, I would gather all my writings that were posted in various places under a bunch of different names before I settled on Jason Rimbaud for a pen name. I had numerous short stories and novels, mostly on Nifty. And I’ll admit that in those early days, I wrote a bunch of stroke material. Secondly I wanted to start writing seriously again. So in July 2022, I made myself a promise that I would write at least two hours every day. And thus far, I have stuck to that promise without missing a single day. I have written a bunch of flash fiction, even a few short stories since then. I also wrote a bunch of blog entries that no one will ever see due to the fact they focus on my husband and our lives together. They are way too personal to ever share. The flash fiction stories were a way I could dip my toe back into serious storytelling. I needed to relearn how to write stories. I had been writing true to life ramblings so long I had forgotten how to structure a real fictional narrative. And that was a huge challenge for me. Then in mid-November, I saw a writing prompt somewhere and got this idea about a story involving a pink jockstrap. And I got really excited about this premise. So excited that I actually wrote it. And then I got brave enough to ask a few people to help me with the edits and beta reading. Was the story great? I’m not sure. They gave me amazing feedback and insight but by the time I was somewhat satisfied it was New Years Eve. It’s a bit too late to post a Christmas story after New Year’s so I think I’ll save that until next year. I do feel a bit bad as they had to wade through lines upon lines of crappy writing and I never posted it. But that’s not what this post is about. And judging from their feedback, I have a lot to relearn about story structure, plot, and characterization. I mean, you can’t walk away from something for twenty years and expect to be mediocre when you return after only six months. My passion for writing was not diminished in the slightest. Their critique actually started a fire inside me. So what I’m really saying in this post, I am actually re-writing that old fanfic about Nsync. Of course I removed all mention of Nsync. I created my own fictional boy band. I also updated the story to be more modern and expanded the cast of characters. I cut entire chapters and trimmed certain scenes, plus added a bunch of new content. And then there’s the sex. I had to tame the sex a lot. I didn’t eliminate it all together, because for some reason not only am I getting back into reading light erotica I’m also interested in writing it again. What am I saying with all this? I rewrote the entire story completely. Now I’m going back and adding/cutting/expanding the story from the beginning. My goal for this year is to finish the story and see if anyone would like to host it on their site. I’m relishing the journey of finding my voice after so many years of writing tongue-n-cheek blog entries. And I think some readers might find this change confusing as they expect a more cheeky tone in my writings. I know in the long run I will feel more fulfilled in doing something that makes me extremely happy. And for a guy that has no reason to be as happy as I am currently, I am grateful.

Thanks to Camy for bumping this thread, as I have never read this particular story from our beloved Cole. There was a time in my past, when I worked for a restaurant much like the one described, and can attest there really are Maître-D's like the one described. And yes, they do have that much power over the seating but rarely have such an overt attitude of superiority. Nowadays in the era of CEO's who wear shorts and tank-tops, one can never judge a book by its cover. Especially in the Bay Area. That being said, I thoroughly enjoyed this little tale. I could point out a few things that bothered me about the plot, but as Cole knows first hand, who am I to judge anyone. The entire first scene was beautifully written and evoked such longing and compassion, that it could have ended right there. Tom is a remarkable young man that restaurants have in spades. I have met many "Tom's" over the years and have been close with them because of their willingness to serve others. Cole has captured the spirit of why there are so many great memories made in restaurants. The staff is almost more important than the food in creating these memories. You might go for the food, but you return for the staff. Thank you for this lovely tale.

Thank you for your offer Rec! I have a few people looking at it to see if its even worth posting or not. I am so out of practice I think it might be shit so they are trying to help me with the narrative. I think they might have their work cut out for them. J