Haven't blogged lately because I've been super busy. So a quick update. THE Scarlet Tide came out Friday and so far people seem to like it. I've just about hit the halfway point in book 4, called Dead End. Thursday I'll be at Lake Villa Library talking about Ghosts of Northern Illinois. And Matt is planning something for my birthday. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Rat Bastard

Well, the contract is all signed and sent and it's official...there will be a sequel to Pop Goes the Weasel! Yes, Patrick Carrington Weasley, better known as Weasel, will return around March in a little volume entitled Rat Bastard. This time around, Weasel has to not only deal with his stepfather, who hates his guts, but also with a new job. The job is at a country Inn that does little business, so it's right up Weasel's alley, as he can read mysteries most of the day. If only the local deputy sheriff didn't think Weasel was the arsonist that's been setting fires right and left. The job also takes away time that Weasel could spend with his boyfriend, Tony, but money has to come first. Other problems: Tony's ex-boyfriend wants to beat the crap out of Weasel. And there's still Cicely Talbot, who has decided she wants to marry Weasel even if he is gay. So when Weasel isn't dodging his stepfather, Cicely, and Tony's ex or pretending to be the legendary ghost in the area, he's trying to convince the local law that he's not a firebug...which would be easier if he didn't seem to keep setting things on fire.

Looks a bit like Weasel...or maybe vice versa.

Beware! Deflating ego ahead!

I was thinking about this anyway, but reading S.H. Allen's marvelous story Reboot in the Dreamspinner Press anthology Cuddling really made me ponder about writers and their egos (mine included). In my opinion, you have to have a pretty good ego to put a story out there and have people either love it or hate it. All "artists" have big egos. Joan Baez once said something about a person who gets up on a stage has a bigger ego than the person sitting and watching. Now, I agree with that...to a point. Big egos, yes...but very, very fragile ones. In Allen's story, a rock singer is enraged when a friend says that rockers don't really have to be able to sing well. The singer, Flynn, reacts in a very real manner. Rather than calmly explaining that the friend's supposition is full of shit, he throws a temper tantrum. Big ego, but prick it and WHOOSH! It's gone. What follows is in parts childish sulking and a "I'll show them!" attitude that is understandable but painful to read about. Writers don't get the instant gratification of applause that stage performers get. We get reviews, reader comments on Goodreads, and maybe, if we're lucky, someone will send us an email or post a comment on Facebook or something similar. And the nice comments make us all warm and fuzzy inside. The snarky comments on Goodreads get to some authors. We've all seen the Facebook posts. Some reader gives their book one star and they're ready to kick the cat, slit their wrists, and immerse their computer in a vat of acid. And let's face it--that's just the reaction the reader wanted. They say (whoever they are) that you should pay just as much attention to the negative comments as the good one so that you can grow and learn. Great advice...but I've never seen ANY constructive criticism on Goodreads. It's always "This book sucks!" or they seem to have expected something else, despite the blurb telling them what the book was about, and decide to take it out on the writer. I've been there. I've been plunged into depression due to a snarky comment on Goodreads. Why? Do I really expect everyone to like what I write? Of course not. Especially as I write humor. You either think it's funny or you don't. Gotta expect that. So, why do I get upset? Ego. Big fat ego. But then someone else says how much they loved the book, and I'm back to "Yeah! I'm good! Take that, world!" I'm such an ass. Another writer said, "You read what readers think about your stuff? That's the literary equivalent of cutting yourself!" Oh, so true. But I can't stop. But it doesn't bother me much any more. Some even make me laugh. Like the one that began, "I admit it. I read this shit..." Don't hold back, honey! Tell us how you really feel! Where am I going with this? Hell if I know. I'm a happy, jovial type. Love people, love the world. But if you come around my ego with a sharp pin, ready to deflate it, just watch out. I fall to pieces so fast that people get hit by the shrapnel. (The above joke about shrapnel was stolen from the brilliant Douglas Adams.)

This is from one of my ghost story book, Ghosts of Northern Illinois. One of the spirits said to be haunting Willow Creek Farm is that of a young girl named Lily. The house's owner has placed a small chair in her room for her, along with some toys.

Blurb for The Scarlet Tide

So...say you're wanting to know just what this new Duncan Andrews books is about. Let's just say you are for the sake of argument. Well, here's the blurb for the darn thing! Let me know what you think! Duncan Andrews, a private detective who specializes in paranormal cases, is back, along with his usual gang. Robbie Church, his boyfriend, is a ghost. Gina, a centuries old witch, is his best friend. And Daisy, Duncan's bulldog, just happens to be a zombie. Odd man out seems to be Nick, a history teacher. He’s a normal, living human. Duncan's latest case leads him to a rock band in Indianapolis called the Scarlet Tide. It doesn't take Duncan long to realize all of the band members are vampires. He sets out to destroy them, but runs into trouble with the charismatic leader of the band, Dominic Hunt. Duncan ends up under Hunt's psychic control, and is forced to examine his relationships with Robbie and Nick, as well as his attraction for Hunt. Can Robbie and Gina help Duncan break Hunt’s psychic grip? Is there any hope the vampire can be destroyed once and for all?

Cuddling: A Dreamspinner Press Anthology, which contains my short story "Quarter Moon Over a Ten Cent Town" can be preordered now at www.dreamspinnerpress.com!  Print or ebook!

Putting Yourself Out There

First, a writing update: I've just sent off a novel for consideration, and have begun work on another, the 4th Duncan Andrews novel, Dead End. The 3rd Duncan will be released in Oct or Nov and is called The Scarlet Tide. It's an odd feeling still when a book comes out. There's some pride, it must be admitted, but also some stark terror. People you don't know will be reading your baby, and judging it! And, especially if they're on Goodreads, they will be brutal about it at times!
And that's to be expected. They don't know you, so they couldn't care less that they are criticizing, in essence, your child. I'm not talking about constructive criticism here, either. You know the ones I mean. The ones that seem to go out of their way to read books they hate just so they can trash them. I had one that began, "I admit it, I read this pile of shit..." You know when it starts off that way, the rest isn't going to be fluffy and fun. Although I must point out that one of her peeves was that she lived in Indianapolis, where the novel was set, and that "most of the places mentioned don't exist." Honey, it's called fiction. We're allowed to make things up. P.S. Hogwarts doesn't exist either. So sorry.
It's not just the negative comments, though. I got a 5 star review that raved on and on about the book, but put a political slant on it that simply wasn't there. I know, I wrote the thing. I guess it just goes to show that people read things from their own perspective and can see things that certainly weren't intended.
Since I write a lot of humor, I don't expect everyone to like my books. Humor's a weird thing. You either get it or you don't. Can't be explained. I hope people enjoy my stuff and get a chuckle out of it, maybe even a guffaw or a chortle. If not, well, there's plenty of other stuff out there.
But really...the places I mentioned didn't exist? Sigh...

Cuddling: an anthology

I know I don't blog often. Usually this is because of a lack of something to say. I blog to get something off my chest, or to answer a question someone has asked me, etc. But hey! I have something to say tonight!

Cuddling, an anthology from Dreamspinner Press, is coming out August 12. It contains my short story, Quarter Moon Over a Ten Cent Town. The paperback is 17.99 and the ebook is 6.99. If you go to the Dreamspinner Press site you can even pre-order the darn thing! How cool is that? And you get stories by Anna Martin, Rob Rosen, Caitlin Ricci, Eva Clancy and many, many more!

Okay, that's the commercial. Really, buy the book.

I was thinking about my story in the book, Quarter Moon. There's a little bit of autobiography in there, just a smidge. For one, I live in a rural area. It's a 12 minute drive just to get to a small town such as the one described in Quarter Moon. A town with a Wal-mart? 15 minutes away. One with a Barnes and Noble, and a mall? That would be Rockford, 40 minutes away.

And that's not the only similarity. Way back in the day, I was in a relationship--I can hear my friend Matt asking "Was this before or after the dinosaurs?"--and we'd been together for about five years. Tension grew between us after a pal of mine, Chuck--who was straight, by the way--stayed overnight on our couch. I can't even remember the reason he slept over, but my bf became convinced that Chuck and I were having an affair. Of course, I didn't find out that this was what was causing the tension until about two weeks of the silent treatment had gone by. When I finally learned what the argument was really about, I laughed. Chuck? Really? Chuck? If I was going to go for a straighty, Chuck wouldn't have been my choice.

Now, when I wrote Quarter Moon, I certainly wasn't thinking about those days. At least not consciously. But maybe a little of that time creeped into the story. At least the notion that two people, even if they've been together for several years, can still make mistakes about each other and get their signals crossed. Life happens.

Short story, "Wrong Turn"

Wrong Turn by Stephen Osborne

I wasn't entirely sure I was still in the same city. The buildings suddenly had a different look to them, an indefinable shift in architecture and age. I couldn't really place my finger on it, but I felt like I was now on foreign territory.

One of the worst qualities I inherited from my father was the absolute inability to pull over and ask for directions. I suppose to do so would be to admit defeat and that the unerring Thomas sense of direction could go haywire. All I knew was that I had been driving for the better part of an hour without the slightest idea of where I was.

The clock on the dashboard read just after midnight, so it was actually a few minutes before the witching hour-- I've never known a car clock that kept good time. I made another turn for no other reason than instinct and the street where I now found myself was even darker. The pavement was slick with rain, and the few people on the sidewalks moved quickly, bundled up against the cold drizzle.

Ahead, I saw several young men heading towards a doorway. A neon sign in the window advertised some brand of beer. The men moved with the grace of dancers, jostling against each other playfully. I imagined that they were stage gypsies, fresh from a performance of a musical, going in to the bar for a few drinks and to dance the rest of the night away. The easy way they groped at each other told me that it was a gay bar.

I pulled the car to the curb. I hadn't planned on going to a bar, but I certainly wasn't going to be finding my way to the hotel anytime soon and something about the young men, one in particular, fascinated me.

I had only caught a glimpse of him before he and his friends disappeared inside, but he'd seemed uncommonly sexy. He'd been shorter than his companions and not quite as thin He moved with a confidence that I found particularly attractive. The quick look I'd caught of his face showed him to be quite handsome, with dark hair and a few days' worth of stubble on his cheeks.

It wouldn't hurt to check out the bar. I could even use asking for directions as an excuse to talk to him.

When I entered, it seemed to me that the noise level suddenly dropped. It wasn't a large establishment, but there were several dozen people, mostly young men, seated at the small tables or standing near the walls. I'm sure it was my imagination, but I felt like every eye in the place was on me as I strode slowly to the bar. The place was dimly lit, as gay bars invariably are, and I didn't really get a good look at the bartender until I sat down and she approached.

She was young, but her eyes had that weary look that said she'd seen and done it all. Her hair was long and wild. She looked at me questioningly and I swear she sniffed the air, although what she could smell besides the smoky atmosphere was beyond me. The smile she'd had ready disappeared and she spoke somewhat sternly. “What will you have?”

“Gin and tonic,” I replied.

As she made the drink she arched an eyebrow at me. “Not from around here, are you?”

“Is it that obvious?”

She placed a paper napkin down on the bar and set my drink on it. “I know everyone here.”

“I'm a bit lost,” I admitted.

“More than a little.” She rested her elbows on the bar and leaned her face towards mine. “Want a little advice?”

I knew I'd get it whatever my reply, so I said, “Sure.”

“Finish your drink and find your road quickly.”

I chuckled uneasily. “Are you always so welcoming of strangers?”

She managed a weak smile. “You seem like a nice guy and I'm just a little bit psychic. Bad things could happen to you here. I wouldn't want you to get hurt.”

I sipped my drink. “I really wasn't planning on sticking around. I just thought I'd ask for directions, and...”

Suddenly the dark-haired young man came up and stood at my side. He had a friendly grin on his somewhat round face as he nodded to the bartender. “You're not scaring off the customers again, are you, Carol?”

She cocked her head slightly and favored him with a genuine smile. “Now, I wouldn't do that, now would I, Shawn?” I could see they were used to bantering with each other. There was no stool beside me, so he stood at the bar. The stools were tall enough that I still had to look down slightly at him.

“I'm Shawn Jameson,” he said, offering me his hand.

It wasn't one of those clammy hands where you want to wipe yours off after shaking. It was more like a cozy fire on a wintry day. “I'm Kevin Thomas,” I told him. “I was just saying that I'm horribly lost.”

“I guessed as much,” he said, settling his back against the bar. He was scrutinizing my face and I must have blushed for he apologized. “I'm sorry. It's just that you remind me of someone I used to know.”

“Isn't that an old line?” I asked, using the opportunity to examine him in turn. The scruff on his face gave him that bad boy look I'm attracted to, but there was a youthfulness to his cheeks that made me realize he was younger than I'd thought. Now that I was over thirty, everyone seemed younger than me.

He laughed softly. “It may be an old line, but it's the first time I've used it. Can I buy you a drink?”

The drink turned into two. The conversation went easily, and we found we had many things in common. Eventually a stool was vacated and he pulled it over to sit next to me. I noticed he moved the stool very close to mine. As we sat and chatted, it was impossible for our knees not to brush together.

After our second drink he smiled at me. “Would I be too forward if I asked you to dance?”

I hadn't even noticed when I'd entered, but now I saw that there was a tiny dance floor tucked away at the back. There were only four couples presently dancing to the country tune playing. “I'm not much of a dancer,” I admitted. Remembering the ease with which he and his friends had moved I assumed Shawn would be an excellent dancer.

He stood and extended a hand, exuding old world charm. “Just follow my lead. Besides, it's country music night. If you can stomp your foot, you can dance.”

I let him lead me to the dance floor. It seemed to me that several of the couples there gave us odd looks, but I put this down to them wondering who he was dancing with. As we began to sway to the music, the song switched to a slow, torch song. I think it was Barbara Mandrell singing, but I'm not sure. With a sly grin Shawn pulled me close to him. I put my head on his shoulder and enjoyed the feel of his body as we moved to the music. I was feeling a bit drunk, although normally three gin and tonics don't have that effect on me. I can only assume that holding Shawn was intoxicating in itself.

As we swayed I closed my eyes, enjoying the warmth of his body but I opened them quickly when I heard a hiss coming from beside us. There were two young men dancing next to us and the blond one actually had his lip curled as he looked at me. Had he hissed at me? Was he Shawn's ex, angered that his old boyfriend had found someone new? Shawn, if he heard the sound, paid it no attention.

I rested my head on his shoulder and tried my best to ignore everyone around us. I heard him chuckle. “You smell really nice. Just the right hint of cologne.”

“Thanks,” I said, not sure of what else to say. When words failed me, I settled for clutching him tighter. I felt his warm hands on my back and just for a second it felt like his fingernails dug into my flesh. I took a sharp intake of breath and immediately he pulled away.

“I'm sorry,” he said. Even in the dim lighting I could tell he was blushing. “That was clumsy of me. Are you hurt?”

I couldn't tell if his nails had torn through my shirt or not. I actually felt like I might be bleeding slightly, but I couldn't quite reach around to feel. The pain wasn't bad, though, so I assured him I was fine. Truth be told, though, the air seemed to be getting thick in the bar and my intoxication was only increasing. I staggered slightly. “I probably should be getting back on the road,” I told him.

He didn't bother trying to hide his disappointment. “Are you sure? Let's have just one more drink.”

“No, really. It's getting very late.”

It took the better part of ten minutes to convince Shawn that I wasn't leaving because of anything he had done. He gave me very explicit directions on how to get to my hotel, making sure I knew that if I didn't cross the bridge on 10^th Street I was going to remain hopelessly lost. I gave him my cell phone number and he promised to call. Usually when I meet someone at a bar and give them my number, I give ten to one odds that they'll call. Somehow I knew Shawn would.

Before I could start for the door, he leaned in and kissed me. It was a soft, tender kiss and I must admit something about it—and him—aroused me. “I'll call tomorrow,” he promised.

As soon as I hit the fresh air I felt somewhat better. The atmosphere of the bar had been so thick and cloying that stepping outside felt like entering a different world. I walked slowly to my car, running through my mind every word, every movement he'd made all night. It had been years since I'd met anyone who affected me like Shawn Jameson.

I was so lost in thought that I didn't see the man step between two parked cars and move in front of me. I looked up to see the young blond man from the dance floor glaring at me. I began to step around him, but again he blocked my way.

He put a hand on my shoulder and growled, “Your type's not welcome around here.”

I had no idea what he meant but I didn't like him or his manner. I smacked his hand away. “I'm leaving, so you don't have anything to worry about.”

“Leave Shawn alone, as well,” he said.

“I'm sure that's something for Shawn to decide, not you,” I said, attempting to pass again. Once more he moved into my path. He was wearing a thin muscle t-shirt. I could see how athletic he was and I didn't want to get into a fight with him. “Look, I'm not even from around here. I'm just in town visiting my uncle. I'll be gone in a few days. I doubt I'll even see Shawn again.”

To my surprise this brought a smile to his face. His grin revealed abnormally long, sharp teeth. “I know you won't,” he said.

And then he began to transform.

It happened in seconds, yet I don't think I missed any detail. First his fingernails grew into gnarled claws and a thick fur sprouted onto the backs of his hands. His face contorted impossibly, with the nose becoming a snout and his mouth turning into that of a wild animal, with sharp fangs and a strong, dangerous looking jaw. Hair seemed to grow out of every pore. His chest expanded, straining even further the fabric of the shirt.

I was too shocked to move. My brain seemed only to be able to focus on the fact that I'd just witnessed the transformation of a werewolf.

Then he sprang.

In mid-air the shift from human to wolf was complete. His clothes shredded, falling off him. I was still frozen in place, but managed to raise my arms up in a feeble attempt to protect myself.

A swift movement came from behind me and suddenly something flew up into the air and collided with the creature. Howls of anger filled the air as I realized that another wolf, this one with dark fur, had saved me. The two animals hit the pavement with a furious crash and were fighting, teeth and claws snapping at each other. The wolf with the lighter colored fur realized it was over-matched and rolled quickly away from the other. With a snarl on its lips it slunk away, tail literally between its legs.

The wolf that had saved me looked back, staring right into my eyes before bounding off and disappearing down an alley. I knew those eyes. I'd been gazing into them all night. The wolf, I knew, was Shawn Jameson.

I slept little that night. When I got up a little before noon I showered and dressed, moving like an automaton. I knew--despite the craziness of it all-- that what I'd seen had been real. I got into my rental car and headed for my uncle's small apartment, intending to tell him all about it. I was nearly there when my cell phone buzzed. I knew that it would be Shawn on the other end.

“Hello,” I said, realizing that my heart was racing with the anticipation of hearing his voice again. I told myself that was stupid. He was a werewolf. Hell, I was certain that everyone in the bar last night had been a werewolf. I recalled how odd the whole neighborhood had seemed. It wouldn't surprise me to find that the whole area was populated with werewolves.

“How are you?” he asked.

“That's a loaded question. Do you mean how am I generally, or how am I after being attacked by a werewolf only to be saved by another wolf, who just happened to have your eyes.”

He laughed uneasily. “I was sort of hoping that you'd have convinced yourself that you'd just had too much to drink and hallucinated the whole thing. Most people would.”

“I guess I'm not most people.”

“You shouldn't have been there, of course. Humans aren't supposed to be able to cross the bridge into our little city. You shouldn't have even been able to see it.”

“You're telling me there's a magic bridge that separates Wolf Town from Human Town?” I replied, trying not to sound too amused by the concept.

“Hey, you already accept the existence of werewolves. What's a little bridge with a perception filter compared to that?”

“Point taken.” I could see him plainly, as if he were in the car with me. I could still feel his lips, his warm body pressed against me. “I want to see you again,” I said suddenly.

“I was hoping you'd say that.”

My uncle greeted me at the door and asked if I'd had lunch yet. Uncle Larry was one of my few remaining relatives and I enjoyed spending time with him. His cramped apartment was filled with bookshelves and seemed more like a library than a home. Larry was a retired professor and one of the wisest men I knew. He was the perfect person to discuss the events of the previous night with.

I opened my mouth, but only said, “I'd love some lunch.”

Somehow I wasn't ready to discuss werewolves with anyone. Not when I was falling for one.

I met Shawn on the Magic Bridge. Walking up to it, I began to see that he wasn't joking about it. My eyes told me that I was moving towards a dead end , but as I came closer the overhanging leaves of a huge oak seemed to part and reveal the bridge. I knew that it had been there all the time, but it wasn't until the last moment that I registered it. I don't know that I believed in a perception field, but the bridge certainly was hidden. As I approached, I saw that he was already at our meeting point. He was standing midway, looking out over the waters below. He was dressed casually in jeans and a flannel shirt. My first thought was that he was the hottest looking guy I'd seen in ages. Then I reminded myself that he wasn't entirely human.

He turned when he heard me approach.

“I wasn't sure that you'd show,” he said, grinning. He gave me a short kiss that made my heart race. What was it about this guy that drove me so crazy? He was dangerous. He was, literally, an animal.

“I had to come,” I said honestly. “I haven't been able to think about anything else. I've got so many questions.”

Shawn chuckled. “I'm sure you do.”

“First of all, who is Blondie?”

“Levon. He's in my clan. He's a bit of a fanatic and doesn't believe in mixing with humans. It's an old world school of thought, but there are still a fair number who think that way. To Levon and people like him, humans aren't to be trusted.”

“He would have killed me if you hadn't been there.”

Shawn's face darkened. “I'd like to think he was just trying to scare you off, but...honestly, I don't know.”

I had a dozen more questions, but he stopped me with a smile. “I'm hungry. Let's get some food.”

“Your side of the bridge or mine?”

He shrugged. “Yours.”

Uncle Larry moved slowly, having both a bad back and arthritis in both knees. He settled into his favorite chair, falling back with the air of a man who intends to stay there for an extended period. “Now, my young man, what have you been up to for the last several days?”

I tried to be offhand. “Just sightseeing.”

“Pshaw,”he said, waving a hand. “There's not enough sights in this city to take up more than a few hours of your time. You've met someone.”

There didn't seem to be any reason to deny it, so I nodded. “His name is Shawn.”

“I knew it. I can always tell. Last few times you've been here you've been grinning like a fool. Only one thing makes a man grin like that. So what's he like? What's he do?”

I almost laughed. Shawn and I had talked quite a lot, but with learning about werewolves and clans and moon cycles and transformations I never thought to inquire about something as mundane as what he did for a living. “You know,” I admitted, “I haven't the foggiest idea.”

Uncle Larry's eyebrows danced a bit. “I see. Like that, is it?”

“No, it's not what you're thinking. We've just talked a lot.”

“He's not Catholic, is he?” Larry had some set ideas in his head, and never hesitated to give you his opinion, no matter how politically incorrect or insensitive it might be. “I've told you about those gay Catholics. They've got the double guilt. They can be trouble.”

According to Larry, Catholics all suffer from guilt programmed into them by their religion. He thinks all homosexuals also have some sense of guilt, brought on by their sense of somehow having let down their parents or other family members. I've tried to tell him he's wrong about this, but he insists that it is true.

“Religion hasn't come up, either,” I told him.

He grimaced. “Yet you say you've talked a lot. What have you been discussing, the latest single from Madonna? You've got to thresh out the important things when you start to date.

I laughed. Talking about Shawn's being a werewolf, to my way of thinking, definitely fell into the category of important things.

I sat and watched television with Uncle Larry for most of the evening. True to form, he budged from his chair only once for a restroom break. Any running to the kitchen for snacks or drinks was done by me, and I wondered how long it would be before he was unable to live by himself.

Leaving Larry's apartment building, I began to make my way down to where my rental car was parked. The night was fairly quiet, the sounds of the city seeming far off and somehow separate from the street I was on. A cool breeze was blowing, and the moon cast a spectral glow. A cat, sitting on a fence post, paused from his grooming ritual to watch me as I came closer. Deciding I was no threat, he continued to lick his paw but some sound caused his ears to twitch and he suddenly bolted across the lawn.

A low growl came from somewhere ahead, possibly a repeat of the sound that had alarmed the cat. I stopped, scanning my surroundings. I could see nothing out of the ordinary. My car was still a half-block away. Maybe I'd imagined the sound? After all the talk about wolves it wouldn't be unlikely to mistake some common sound for Levon ready to pounce.

A shadow by a tree several yards ahead moved and the growl sounded again. Not my imagination, then. I suddenly wished I had a gun loaded with silver bullets, although where I'd get silver bullets--or even if they worked-- was beyond me. The shadow moved again and the pale wolf stepped forward, fangs glistening.

I spun around and ran. I could hear the wolf's paws scrabbling on the sidewalk after me. I knew I couldn't outrun it. Any second now I'd feel the creature leap onto my back and feel its teeth sink into my flesh; its claws shred my clothes and skin.

“Holy shit! What is that?”

I was barely aware of the young couple until I barreled into them. The speaker, a young man not yet out of his teens, grabbed hold of me to keep the two of us from crashing to the ground. He wasn't looking at me, though. His astonished gaze was fixed on some point behind me. I turned my head, expecting to see the animal ready to spring. Instead I saw that the wolf had turned and was disappearing back into the shadows. It took a moment for my heart to stop racing. I had been saved again, this time by two teenagers. Maybe killing me was one thing, but Levon wasn't willing to take out innocent bystanders. Whatever the reason, I was glad the young couple had wandered by.

The girl, a blond with over-sized glasses, stared off into the bushes where the wolf had gone. “I think that was some dog. A really big one!”

“Dude,” the boy said, finally releasing me so that I could stand on my own. “Are you okay?”

I tried to catch my breath. “I think so. Thanks.” I tried to say more, but my heart still felt like it was going to burst.

“What the hell was that?” the boy repeated. “That was bigger than any dog I've ever seen.”

“I don't know,” I lied. “It just started chasing me. I--”

The girl interrupted me. “We should call the police.”

The young man was visibly shaken. He asked me again if I was all right.

“I'm fine. My uncle's apartment is just down here. I can sit there for a while and recover.”

He nodded. “We'll walk with you. That thing is still around somewhere. Jennie, have you got your cell phone?”

The girl already had it out and was pressing buttons. “I've never called 911 before,” she said with a nervous laugh.

I nearly laughed myself, thinking of how the cops would deal with Levon in his wolf form. Not well, I thought.

I'm sure Larry was shocked to see me again, but he merely raised his eyebrows and deadpanned, “Did you miss me?”

I had finally calmed down but I still didn't want to try to get to my car again, not with old Levon prowling around somewhere out there. How did he find me? He must have followed me to Uncle Larry's, which was a disquieting thought. Attacking me outside of the bar in the heat of the moment was one thing, but stalking me showed that Levon was indeed dangerous.

I looked at my uncle and tried to smile. I had to tell him something resembling the truth. “I was attacked,” I said, “on the way to my car. Some kids came along, though, and scared the guy off. I'm fine. Just a little shaken.”

“You were mugged? In this neighborhood?”

I didn't want Larry to think he wasn't safe going down the street to get his groceries, so I went on. “It was someone I know. He seems to have something against me.”

We sat down. I chose a spot on the couch and Larry lowered himself into his favorite chair. He was frowning. “You seem to have made an enemy in a relatively short time. Does this have something to do with this guy you've met?”

I hesitated. Maybe I could get some advice from Larry without going into the whole story. “His name is Levon. He's not really an ex-boyfriend of Shawn's, but he certainly has an attachment. He's not playing with a full deck, so reason doesn't really enter into the picture. It's hard to explain.”

Uncle Larry nodded. “Apparently. I don't pretend to understand all the nuances of the gay lifestyle, but in my years I've learned that reason doesn't often come into play where love is concerned. Shouldn't you call the police? You say this Levon attacked you...”

“I don't want to bring the police into it.”

“But you say this young man is unbalanced...”

“I'll find a way to take care of him,” I said, although I couldn't find any conviction in my own words. I'd have to talk with Shawn and see if he could deal with Levon. It was the only way. After all, I stood no chance in a battle with a werewolf, unless, of course, I could find a weapon. “Do you have any silver in the house?” I asked suddenly.

My request took Larry aback. He thought a moment before shaking his head. “Nothing pure silver that I can think of. Why? What do you need silver for?”

I bit my lip. I would have to let my uncle in on a little more. I just hoped he didn't laugh it off. “I told you this Levon character isn't all there. He believes that he's a werewolf.”

Larry repeated my last sentence, incredulous. “And you want silver to do what, exactly? Make silver bullets? Shooting a crazy person is still murder.”

“No, but aren't werewolves supposed to be repelled by silver?”

Nodding, Larry said, “But as this person can't really be a werewolf, that won't work, will it?”

“If he truly believes himself to be a werewolf, his mind will tell him that the sight of silver is abhorrent to him, right? I'm clutching at straws here, but this guy must have followed me. I can't walk around looking over my shoulder all the time.”

“I still think you need to go to the police with this. Some idiot believing himself to be a werewolf and---.”

I interrupted him, wanting to steer away from talk of the police. “You must know something about werewolves and legends like that. You taught classes in folklore, didn't you?”

Uncle Larry smiled grimly. “That was a hell of a long time ago. We didn't study werewolves, though.”

“Still, you must have done some reading on them.”

“A little. You know me, always interested in the arcane and unknown.” Larry cleared his throat. “You wouldn't mind grabbing me a beer, would you?”

Smiling I got up and went to the kitchen. Knowing he could still hear me, I opened his ancient refrigerator and asked, “Are there any werewolf legends that concern this area? Any stories you know of?”

“Oddly,” he answered, raising his voice, “there are. I remember a story from years ago. There was supposed to be a werewolf that terrorized this very neighborhood. It was well over a hundred years ago, but I recall reading that a child had disappeared. The parents insisted they saw a huge animal taking away their baby. For quite a while after that, werewolf stories were pretty common around campfires and at Halloween parties. When I researched the story I was sure that I'd find that it was all an urban legend, but I did find newspaper accounts of the event. The parents really did believe that a werewolf had snatched their child. Ridiculous, of course, but it certainly provided for some good tall tales.”

I returned with a bottle which I'd already opened and handed it to Larry. He took it with a nod of thanks.

“According to the legends, werewolves are repelled by silver, right?” I asked.

My uncle drank deeply before replying. “There are many versions of the werewolf story. Most people's knowledge of werewolves comes from Hollywood, although in folklore werewolf tales are as varied as those of vampires. In some versions, men actually become wolves while in others they turn into a sort of hybrid, sprouting hair and fangs but still walking upright. Some tales tell of cursed men who became lycanthropes through no fault of their own, but that's not always the case. I remember reading about a way to become a werewolf by killing a coyote in a cemetery during a full moon. Supposedly then you skin the animal and put the carcass over your shoulders and recite an incantation. Instant werewolf!”

“Are there other ways to become a werewolf?”

Larry made a sour face. “It's all bunkum, of course. Surviving the bite of a werewolf is supposed to turn you into one. You can even be born a werewolf, some say, if one or both of your parents is a lycanthrope. How did you get me talking about this, anyway? This crazy guy of yours isn't a real werewolf. He needs to be locked up.”

I shrugged. “I just wondered if I could use his delusions against him. That's all.”

“Thinking that you are a werewolf isn't just a delusion. It's full out wacky-crazy.” Larry finished his beer and let out a small burp.

I stayed the night on Larry's sofa. I didn't want to go back out into the night and Uncle Larry was more than happy for me to stay. I could tell he was suspicious about all my werewolf talk, but he refrained from asking too many questions. Before I fell asleep, I thought of Shawn and how much I wanted to talk to him. I knew I wasn't going to be leaving the city anytime soon. I couldn't. I couldn't just walk away from Shawn. My feelings had already grown too strong. No, Levon or no Levon, I was staying.

Over the next several days, Shawn and I spent a lot of time together. Mostly we dined out or went to the movies, but finally I insisted that we go out to the bar where I'd originally met him. I'd noticed that all of our dates were on my turf, not his.

“Aren't you afraid of running into Levon?” he asked.

“I want to show him that I'm not afraid of him,” I said. “Has he said anything to you?”

Shawn chuckled. “Nothing that you'd want to hear. I've warned him that if anything happens to you that he'd have me to deal with, but I'm not sure that's going to stop him. Levon is quite the zealot when it comes to any of our clan mixing with humans.”

We ended up spending most of that evening at the bar. We sat at a small table near the back. Levon was there with several of his cronies. He made sure that he shot me evil looks whenever possible. Shawn and I ignored him.

Shawn finished his second beer and looked at me carefully. “Weren't you only supposed to be in town for a few days to visit with your uncle?”

“It's been stretched a few days.”

“Because of me?”

I nodded.

Shawn was silent for several minutes, gazing down at his empty beer bottle in deep thought. Finally he looked up with a sly smile. “Would you like to see my place?”

“I'd love to.”

His apartment, it turned out, was close by. We walked the short distance hand in hand. When we reached his place and he opened the front door for me, I wasn't sure what I was expecting. His apartment wasn't large, but nicely furnished. There was a bit of old world charm about it, which shouldn't have surprised me since it fit his personality perfectly. He fixed us each a drink and we went out onto his tiny little balcony to enjoy the night air.

Shawn leaned casually against the iron railing and gazed at me. “You know, I don't even know what you do for a living. Is there a job that you need to get back to?”

“I'm a writer,” I told him. “The job sort of goes where I go.”

He shook his head with a chuckle. “That's a bad thing. Writers like to tell the truth. Life here is a truth that can't be told.”

“Truth isn't an absolute,” I said. “It should be, but it isn't. Truth can be distorted and twisted. Like Levon. He thinks his view is the way things should be. That's his truth, and I don't think we're going to change his mind about that.”

“God knows I've tried,” Shawn said.

“Another truth is how I feel about you.”

His face instantly became serious. “And how is that?”

“I think I'm falling in love with you.”

Neither of us spoke for a few minutes. Finally he took the glass from my hand and set it down on a small wooden table. “Let's go into the bedroom,” he said softly.

Making love with Shawn was in turn wild and rough then soft and tender and then back to wild. At one point he forgot himself and his claws came out, piercing the skin on my back. I can't complain, though. In the heat of passion I also dug my fingernails into his flesh. We came at the same time, grunting and crying out in ecstasy. It was the most intense lovemaking I could recall.

Two days of apartment hunting had finally yielded at least one possibility. It wasn't a large place, but it was close to Uncle Larry and had several interesting shops nearby. The next day I went out again, but still couldn't find anything I liked as much, so I went back and signed a year's lease. I called Shawn to tell him the good news and suggested we meet for a celebratory drink.

“I'll meet you tonight in the bar where we met.”

“Sure you can find it?” he asked me teasingly.

I knew I could. It may have been the result of a wrong turn the first time around, but I now looked at my getting lost as a wonderful piece of serendipity.

To be honest, I did set out for the bar a little early, just in case I had trouble finding it. I didn't. The place hadn't really started filling up yet, so I settled at the bar and ordered a gin and tonic while I waited for Shawn. The same bartender, Carol, was working. She still had her wild hair and the sardonic, world-weary attitude but she managed to favor me with a smile as she set the drink before me.

“Lost again?” she asked.

I smiled back. “Not this time.”

She peered into my eyes as if trying to read my thoughts. Finally she nodded, “Yeah, I'd say you've actually found what you're looking for.”

The door to the bar opened noisily. I shifted, expecting to see Shawn coming in. Instead I saw Levon and several of his cohorts. They were laughing and talking until Levon caught sight of me. Suddenly the laughter stopped as he shot me a withering glance. I turned back to my drink. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the group settle into a booth off to the side. The laughter resumed, a little louder than before.

Carol ran a rag over the top of the bar and rolled her eyes. “Children,” she muttered. “You'd think they'd grow up after a while.”

It struck me as odd, hearing her refer to Levon and his cronies as children. The bartender wasn't all that much older but had obviously been through a lot. She exuded wisdom, so I could see where Levon came off, to her, as a child. I nodded and sipped my drink. Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone rise from Levon's booth and approach the bar. I prayed it wasn't Levon himself. I didn't feel like a confrontation with him.

It was Levon. He jostled my shoulder as he came up to the bar and asked for a pitcher of beer. As she was pouring he turned to me with a sneer.

“Aren't you on the wrong side of town?”

I took a large swallow of gin and tonic. “I'm meeting Shawn here, not that it's any business of yours.”

He leaned in close enough for me to smell his sour breath. “It is my business, that's the whole point.”

Carol intervened, telling him, “If you'll go back and sit down, I'll bring your pitcher over in a moment.”

Reluctantly he returned to his buddies. As Carol prepared a tray with the pitcher of beer and some glasses she said to me, “He's just a bully.”

“A dangerous one,” I agreed.

She shrugged. “True. But still, he's just a bully. If you continue to stand up to him, eventually he'll move on to easier pickings.”

I chuckled. “You've changed. The first night I was here you basically told me to drink up and get out.”

Another shrug. “Shawn likes you. I like Shawn. Therefore I like you.” She hoisted the tray and made her way around the bar to Levon's table.

Ah, if only it worked that way with everyone.

Shawn arrived minutes later. When he approached, I kissed him long and hard on the lips. I could feel his bemused smile as we pressed together. When we came up for air, Shawn's eyes were twinkling. “Nice kiss,” he said.

“Just marking my territory,” I said with a laugh.

Shawn nodded towards Levon and company. “Any trouble from him while you were waiting?”

I shook my head. “I can handle Levon,” I said.

I just hoped that was true.

Uncle Larry stood in the middle of what was to be my new living room and spun around. “I guess I've just taken the tour,” he said.

“I know it's small,” I replied, “but I can afford it.”

He waved a disparaging hand. “Who cares about small? All you need is a place for your bed, a kitchen area and somewhere for a good sized television. Everything else is just window dressing.” He pulled a long, thin package out of his jacket and handed it to me. “A housewarming present,” he said.

I opened the box to find a short, silver dagger. “A knife? You gave me a knife for a housewarming gift?”

Uncle Larry snorted. “It's a letter opener, you ass. You still get mail, don't you? Or is it all emails and Internet crap?”

“I get junk mail, pretty much the same as everyone else.” I could see he was disappointed in my response, so I thanked him profusely for the gift. “I love it. It will have a place of honor on my writing desk. As soon as I arrange to have my writing desk and everything else shipped here.”

He moved to the window and rested his butt on the sill. It was the closest thing to a seat in the empty room. “It seems awfully sudden, this desire of yours to move here.”

“It wasn't that sudden.”

“It couldn't have anything to do with this guy you've met, could it?”

Shrugging, I admitted, “Maybe a little.” I figured there was no harm in Larry assuming that he was partly the reason for the move.

Once my things had arrived and I'd officially moved in, Shawn and I celebrated by making love in my new—albeit small—bedroom. I found myself hoping that the walls of my new place were thick. When I laughingly suggested that we try to keep things down, Shawn took it as a challenge and attempted to get me to scream louder. He was quickly learning my g-spots and knew that nibbling on my neck or earlobe drove me crazy. We made love a second time, giggling like kids.

Afterwards, I drove him home. As I turned onto the Magic Bridge, he reached over and grabbed my hand.

“I love you, Kevin Thomas,” he said.

I pulled his hand up to my lips and kissed it. His skin was unnaturally warm, which he'd told me always happened days before the full moon. “I love you, too, Shawn Jameson,” I said.

I followed him up to his apartment, although I didn't go in. We did spend way too much time outside his door smooching, though. Finally I extricated myself. “I've got to finish unpacking tomorrow. I really need to get some sleep.”

“Call me?” he said, making the universal hand gesture of the invisible phone up to his ear.

Nothing could keep me from it and he knew it.

Back at my car--now actually mine, not a rental--I felt like singing. I didn't know where our relationship was headed, but we'd said the word. Love. There was no going back now.

I thought the car handled oddly when I pulled away from the curb, but I was on such a high that it didn't really worry me. It wasn't until I'd turned at the end of Shawn's street that I could tell there was something wrong with the left front tire. I pulled over and got out to find it was flat.

I couldn't help but think Levon and his claws had something to do with it. The tire was in good condition and I was fairly sure I hadn't run over anything that would cause a puncture. I looked around. The area I was in was mostly apartment buildings. Down the street was a hamburger joint, but it had closed for the night. On the opposite side of the road was a small park, complete with children's swings and slides. I could see shadows moving, darting between trees. Wolves. One was a pale wolf. They were rapidly moving towards me. Levon and his cronies.

I jumped back into the car, cursing myself for forgetting my cell phone. I turned the key in the ignition, thinking that-- flat tire or not--I would have to make a dash for it. No sooner did the engine start, however, than the car shook violently. The wolves had converged.

One had leaped onto the hood and was snarling at me through the glass. At least one other was on the roof, which sounded as if it was going to crash down on me at any moment. The pale wolf was at the driver's side door. One swipe of his huge claw and the window shattered.

I'm pretty sure I screamed. If I didn't, I should have. I figured I had just seconds before his razor-sharp claws would be pulling me out of my car and ripping me to shreds. Somehow I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the letter opener Larry had given me. I'd kept it on me, thinking that it might be an effective weapon. Seeing the ferocious animals rocking my car, I knew how foolish that thought was. I had no chance fending off werewolves with a cheap letter opener.

As Levon reached in I jabbed the point of the opener into his arm. He yelped loudly and retreated several steps, but I could see by the fury in his eyes that I'd made a mistake. I may have hurt him, but that only pissed him off more. If his intent had been only to scare me, that was gone now. There was murder in his eyes.

He threw himself against the door, rocking the car. I heard more glass breaking. I gripped the letter opener tighter.

The pale wolf reached in to grab me. I shrank back just as a large shape hit the pale wolf in the side. There were howls from the other wolves as two figures fought on the sidewalk.

Shawn must have been watching from his window and had noticed that my tire was flat. Whatever the reason, he'd come back out to check on me. Now his dark wolf was biting and snarling, wrestling with the pale wolf.

The battle was short but furious. The dark wolf bit into the side of the pale wolf's face, drawing out a howl of pain. The pale wolf broke free and ran towards the park. The dark wolf then turned his attention to the others. He leaped up onto the hood of my car, swatting the wolf there savagely across the face. That was all it took. The remaining wolves all turned tail, running off to join Levon.

The dark wolf—I still had a hard time thinking of it as Shawn—looked up at the moon and let out a triumphant howl.

It was a magnificent creature, for sure.

The next time I met Shawn at the bar it was obvious that the story had made the rounds. Shawn had gone to the restroom when Carol set my drink in front of me. She favored me with a smile. “On the house,” she said when I tried to pay for the drink. “A sort of welcome to the fold.”

“Thank you,” I said, unsure of her exact meaning.

“Shawn's made it known that messing with you is messing with him. I doubt if you'll have any more trouble from Levon.”

I'd actually run into Levon once since the incident. He had avoided looking at me, but I couldn't help but see that he sported a new scar running down his cheek.

Shawn returned, kissing me on the forehead before resuming his seat. He looked from me to Carol and then back to me. “Isn't he something?” he said, grabbing my hand.

The wild-haired bartender nodded. “He must be,” she replied. “He's put up with this lot,” she indicated the patrons of the bar, “and yet he's still here. So, yes, he must be something special.”

Shawn beamed and kissed me on the lips. I drank in his essence, his scent. I could feel his passion

.

I still wasn't sure just what sort of life I was getting myself into, but I knew that I loved Shawn.

I was even beginning to love the wolf within.

No Sex Please...Frankly, We're Bored!

Over on Facebook--what, writers waste time on Facebook?????--some of us author-types were discussing sex in romance novels (mostly M/M romances, since that's what the writers concerned wrote mostly). I can only go by my own tastes, of course. And...it's not that I'd a prude, by any stretch of the imagination, but I am of the opinion that with this subject, a little goes a long way.

Okay, I'm a sucker for romance. I admit it. I like a good falling in love story as much as anyone. And do I object to a well placed sex scene? Not at all. Some of them are quite good, and even add to character development and plot. But (or should that be "butt?") it's often overdone, and I find myself skipping scenes. Come on, honestly, how many times can you use the word thrust before it becomes laughable?

I recently read a book by, from what I can tell, a very popular gay romance writer (certainly much more popular than me, if Goodreads is anything to go by) and every other chapter, literally, was a sex scene. It was as if the author was thinking, "Oh, my goodness, I've written 10 pages and they haven't hit the hay again! Better get their clothes off!" and insert thingy and boinky boink and another chapter was done. I was enjoying the actual plot of the book, but found myself skimming a lot. I mean, it was the same two characters! I get it! They like each other! It did fill out the book, though. Probably added 30,000 words, all sex scenes. By the end, I was so annoyed that I hoped a very large anvil would fall on the two guys before they could get their skivvies off one more time. And it was a shame, because the writing was good, and the plot was interesting, until it became secondary to the boinking.

Do we need a blow by blow description, so to speak? Especially EVERY time the protagonists get frisky? And, I must point out, this wasn't a book touted as Erotica, just romance. I'm probably alone on this. I know I get some complaints from people because my books, for the most part, have little or no sex in them. I guess I feel like there's enough of that out there. Take a break every now and then. Read something, or write something, that doesn't have a sex scene every other page. Again, not talking about erotica here. If I pick up something that promises that it's erotica, I expect a lot of sex. I guess I'm just saying I miss good old boy meets boy or man meets man romance.

Yeah, I'm alone on this.

Short story, "Crystal Ball"

Crystal Ball

by Stephen Osborne

“Let's do the Tilt-a-Whirl,” Ron said, pulling on my sleeve. “We haven't done that yet.”

I made a face. “There's a reason for that. It's a crap ride. It just spins you around until you want to throw up. Thanks, but I can just stick my finger down my throat and get the same thrill and it won't cost me a ride ticket that I paid a dollar for.”

In truth, I was losing my carnival spirit. Ron and I had been there since morning and now that the sun was setting I was finding that my legs really weren't up to standing in a long line for a ride that lasted all of a minute. I would have suggested we call it a day and head back to the car, but Ron was still full of energy and, besides, we still had tickets left to use. I knew that Ron, frugal soul that he was, would never depart until each and every ticket had been used.

Ron continued tugging. “You won't get sick, Theo. If you could stand the Rocket to the Moon ride, you can do the Tilt-a-Whirl.”

I refused to move. “I barely survived the Rocket to the Moon. Ten more seconds of that thing and you'd have had my lunch in your lap.”

Ron and I have been friends forever, but we couldn't be more different. He's straight and works construction. I'm a retail fag. He's got a huge chest and boxes for fun and recreation. I'm thin and my only workout consists of running around the block with my dog, Cheshire. His hairline is beginning to recede --something I would never call attention to—did I mention he's a boxer?-- and my own mop is still growing thick and full. True, there are a few gray hairs at the temples, but I can live with that. Also, I'm single, and he's got a girlfriend. A girlfriend who, despite his protests, I know doesn't like

me. I can tell by the way she looks at me. It's written all over her face. She thinks that when she's not around that Ron and I are fucking. I know that's what she thinks and it's the stupidest idea ever. For one thing, Ron is just about the straightest straight guy I've ever known. For another, he's not my type. Don't get me wrong, I love him like a brother. I just don't love him. Not even slightly.

Penny (that's the bitch's name) will make little jokes every now and then which really aren't jokes but not-very-subtle accusations. “I'm going to the grocery store. Theo, do you think you can keep your mouth off his cock while I'm gone?” Ron insists that she says things like that to show how cool she is with him being friends with a gay guy. Love can make you so delusional.

Her animosity towards me has increased to the point that this morning when Ron suggested we go to the carnival she suddenly developed a headache. I'm sure she thought Ron would decide to stay at home with her but he shocked her by saying, “That's cool. Theo and I haven't had a day to ourselves in a while.”

He totally didn't pick up on her aggravated mood. I foresee a breakup in their future.

Anyway, Ron was trying to guide me over to the Tilt-a-Whirl of Death, and I wasn't budging. It was then that I saw Madame Olga's Fortune Telling tent. I don't know how I'd missed it before, since it was close to the corn dog stand where we'd had lunch but there it was, nestled a little behind the Whack-a-Mole booth. There was nothing flashy about Madame Olga's. Every other booth or display at the carnival had flashy neon signs. Not Madame Olga. Her dark tent just had a wooden sign above the entrance, telling passersby that here was Olga, Fortune Teller. In the fading sunlight, it was hard to even read the sign. Olga desperately needed some bling to advertise her business.

I went to tug on Ron's shirt, but he wears his t-shirts so tight that there wasn't enough material to grab so I ended up just pinching his arm. “Let's go over there instead.”

He looked. “A fortune teller?”

“It'll be cool,” I insisted. “I bet she looks like Maria Ouspenskaya in The Wolf Man. Let's go. I want to know if there's love in my future.”

“Maria Ouspen...what?”

I quoted in my best gypsy voice, “Even a man who is pure in heart and says his prayers by night may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms...and the Autumn moon is bright.”

He blinked at me uncomprehendingly. I really have to get him to watch more movies.

We approached the tent and I swear it seemed like we were walking into some sort of weird Twilight Zone dimension. The noise of the carnival seemed to fade away and the air got colder. The sun had completely vanished and the shadows cast by the trees around the little tent gave the area a creepy feel. Ron pulled back the flap covering the entrance and we went inside.

We found Madame Olga seated at a small table in the center of the tent. I had expected that she'd look like a regional theater version of a gypsy, but old Olga had taken things even further. She had the whole gypsy costume going, with puffy sleeves, rings on every finger, and huge dangling earrings, sure, but to top this off she had apparently used several bottles of fake tanning product that, instead of giving her a swarthy look, made her look jaundiced. She wore a bad Cher wig which just didn't suit her wrinkled face. By the way Ron stopped suddenly right next to me, I know he was as shocked as I was. I didn't know whether to laugh or to pretend we'd walked in by accident and graciously back out of the tent.

“You young men want your fortune told?” Olga asked. The gypsy accent was as thick as it was fake.

“I don't know,” Ron said in a fairly quiet voice. For a construction worker who likes to box, he can be pretty shy around people he doesn't know. He held up some of our ride tickets. “Do you take these?”

Olga gave out a hollow laugh. “Do I look like a Midway ride? Olga takes only cash. No tickets. No credit cards.”

Ron smiled weakly. “We don't have that much cash on us. Sorry to have bothered you. We'd better just...”

Madame Olga ignored Ron and stared into my face. “You want to know about the love of your life,” she said simply.

I gulped. Something about her gaze made me forget the tacky wig and the theatrical accent. Somehow I knew that this woman just might be able to see into one's future. “How much?” I asked her.

She shrugged. “That depends on whether you want me to read your palm, if you want a Tarot reading, or if you want me to use the crystal ball.”

“How much to read a palm?” Ron asked. I knew whatever sum she said would make him balk.

“For you,” she said steadily, “I make a special price. Ten dollars.”

Ron's eyes bulged. “Ten bucks just to--”

I held up a hand and pulled out my wallet. “I'll pay for it.”

Olga took the bill with a smile and Ron and I sat down in two rickety chairs opposite her. She took Ron's right hand in hers and examined it. “You are very strong,” she said, “and you take great pride in your strength.”

That wasn't such a stretch, considering Ron's bulging muscles and the tightness of his t-shirt. I could see a smirk beginning to form on his lips. Her next words wiped it away.

“You have a great secret. You have been cheating on your loved one.”

Ron gasped and I could see the color drain from his face. Madame Olga had struck a nerve. Ron looked at his own hand as if expecting to see the word cheater written there. “What else do you see?” he asked, a little desperation showing in his voice.

Olga ran a finger over his hand and nodded. “She knows. Your girlfriend knows that you've been seeing someone else. She plans to break off your relationship.”

Ron looked at me and then back at his palm. “Holy shit,” he muttered.

I didn't know what to think. On one hand, I was hoping Madame Olga was right because that meant that I'd be free of his bitch girlfriend, but I was also annoyed that Ron was seeing someone and that he hadn't confided in me. When had he planned on telling me? Hell, I kept nothing back when telling Ron about my relationships. Well, that is, back in the days when I actually had relationships. Lately there hadn't been much to discuss.

When Olga finished his reading, Ron slumped back into his chair, obviously drained. She turned to me with a little half-smile on her face. “Would you like me to read your palm as well?”

I had my eye on the large crystal ball in the center of the table. Crystal balls, at least from what I'd seen in movies and on television, saw into the future and it was the future I wanted to know about. “What does a crystal ball reading cost?”

Her eyebrows arched. “Twenty-five.”

I fished my wallet back out and handed her the bills. She stuffed them into a seemingly invisible pocket on her puffy shirt and then hunched over the crystal ball. She gazed intently for several moments before saying, “You have already met the love of your life. You met him several years ago, but then fate tore you apart. You will never have another love as strong as the one you felt for him.”

My heart sank. I had hoped she would spout out some good news, like I would be meeting some tall, dark and handsome soon that would sweep me off my feet. I knew deep down, however, that what she was saying was true. I would never find someone like Greg again. I leaned forward and looked into the crystal ball, trying to see what she was seeing. It just looked like a glass ball to me.

Olga went on, “You will be reunited with him, very soon. You will rekindle your romance, and you will be very happy together for many years to come.”

She continued to talk, but I wasn't hearing what she was saying. Something about work and money, but it meant nothing to me. I could only think about Greg and her prediction that we'd meet up again. I knew it was impossible, but part of me hoped to the heavens that she was right. As I looked into the crystal, I thought I saw a tiny black shadow forming in the center of the glass. I peered at it, hoping it would take some sort of form.

Greg had been twenty when we met, fourteen years younger than me. We met at a party thrown by my friend Renata and I'd be lying if I said it was love at first sight. Quite the opposite, actually. Oh, he made it plain from the first that he was interested in me. He just wasn't my type and I really didn't want to start seeing someone who wasn't even old enough to get into a bar legally.

The first time I saw him was in Renata's kitchen when I was trying to see if there was something other than beer to drink. I found a cooler with cans of soft drinks floating around in icy water and was pulling out a Diet Pepsi when someone else plunged their hand in and somehow managed to grab hold of the same can. I looked up to see a thin young man with long brown hair and a cute face smiling at me. “Sorry,” he said, releasing the can. He flashed me a grin and stuck out his hand for me to shake. “I'm Greg,” he said. The hand was dripping icy droplets. I shook it quickly and told him my name was Theo.

Yeah, he was cute, but too young. I thought that his slightly bucked teeth made him more attractive—you know, an imperfection that somehow is endearing, but after he pulled out a different can and walked away I didn't give him another thought. I snapped open the tab on the soda and began to roam back through the crowd looking for Ron and the Queen Bitch...I mean, Penny.

I found them in the living room, where most of the throng seemed to have gathered. I forced my way through the crowd and finally managed to get next to Ron. As I came up, I saw a faint look of distrust and dislike cross Penny's face before she put on her fake smile.

“You should like this party,” she said, speaking loudly to be heard over the music. “There are lots of fags here.”

Some people can say fags and not mean it as an insult. Penny wasn't one of them.

“Maybe you'll meet someone,” offered Ron with a smile.

“I doubt it,” I said, turning to him and ignoring the fact that Penny was standing next to him. It was pretty easy to ignore her. “The only one I've met so far was some kid out in the kitchen. He was skinny, had long straight hair, stick-out ears, and an overbite. I think he was an elf.”

Ron laughed. “Don't knock it. You know what they say. Once you go elf...”

As the night went on, I noticed that every time I moved into a different room, Greg would soon follow. Then he began to try to make eye contact with me. You know, the gay bar little stare and nod that shows you're interested. I would nod back politely and then immerse myself in some conversation with anyone around me. It didn't work. Greg tired of the subtle approach and went for a more direct line. He came right up to me.

“Has anyone ever told you that you're hot?” he said.

I chuckled uneasily. “It doesn't really come up all that often, actually.” I don't know what I meant by that, but it seemed like I had to make some reply. Greg had picked his moment well. Ron was off getting another beer, and Penny was...well, I assumed she was in the bathroom or something. Frankly, I didn't really care where she was as long as it wasn't around me.

Greg tapped his soda can against mine. “I see you don't drink either. Alcohol, I mean.”

I shrugged. “Occasionally I do. I'm designated driver tonight.”

He grinned. He really did have a sweet smile. “I'm not really legal to drink yet. I don't turn 21 until June.” He moved a little closer to me.

“Yeah,” I said slowly, “when I became legal to drink you probably hadn't even hit puberty yet.”

Now it was his turn to shrug. “So?” he asked. How does one argue with So? After a pause he went on. “Are you busy this weekend? I thought it might be nice to go out to dinner and a movie. There's this movie I've been wanting to see, and I hate going alone, and--”

I cut him off. “Look,” I said as gently as I could, considering that I had to speak loudly to be heard over the music and the crowd, “you're really sweet and cute and all that, but you're out of my age bracket. I make it a point not to date anyone who could, in a theoretical sense, be young enough to be my son.”

Greg nodded sagely. “Oh. So you're an ageist.”

I didn't like the sound of that. An 'ist' is never good. Communist. Fascist. Republican-ist. “No, it's just that I--”

“You don't think we'll have enough in common to make a good couple,” he finished for me.

“Well, yeah.”

“Wouldn't it make more sense, if you aren't an ageist, to go out with me and find out for sure rather than just assuming I'm like other guys my age?”

He had me there. Of course, part of me wanted him to convince me to go out with him because he really was cute as hell. The other part of me knew I'd feel a little like a dirty old man going out with a bit of eye-candy. Decisions, decisions.

While I was trying to figure out how to answer, he suddenly leaned his face up to mine. His hands went behind my neck and he pulled my head down a few inches to meet his. Our lips locked.

Fuck, what a kiss. It was one of those that made your toes tingle. His face seemed to melt into mine. It was like our lips, our tongues, were made to be together. If the music hadn't been so damn loud I'm sure I would have heard bells ring.

When we finally came up for air, I muttered, “Dinner and a movie sounds good.”

Hey, it was a really good kiss.

I had to endure the obvious jokes from Ron, of course. Cradle robber. Did I have to help him out with his homework? Was it hard to burp him after he ate? Things like that. As the weeks went by and I saw more and more of Greg, the jokes ceased to bother me. Hell, I added some in myself. We had to take my car when we went out on dates since Greg's was a Big Wheel. I referred to myself as Woody Allen's gay cousin. That, I guess, was my way of dealing with the age difference. Not to ignore it, but to embrace it and have fun with it!

Greg and I had three official dates before we went to bed together. It just happened. We had planned to go out to a movie, but then we started kissing and one thing led to another. He surprised me when we got to my bedroom by pushing me onto the bed and leaping on me. God, he was wiry. With an evil grin he said, “Let's wrestle for top.”

I thought he was kidding at first. I mean, I had thirty pounds and four inches of height on him. I soon learned he wasn't kidding. I could tell from the effort that he put into the wrestling that he really wanted to win. Who'd have thought, with his elfin features, that he'd be a top? Guess that's what you get when you assume things.

I let him win.

The first time we fucked it was all passion and fury. I swear they must have heard us several zip codes away. After a short breather, we went at it again, this time all sweet and tender. Greg's face was so beautiful when he came. He looked like he was listening to the singing of angels.

After six months we began to talk about him moving in with me. It made sense, since we spent all our free time at my place anyway and his apartment was tiny, cramped, and infested with cockroaches. Even Ron was supportive of the relationship, despite the kidding. Penny wasn't, of course, but fuck her anyway.

Then disaster struck. I'd known, of course, that somewhere in town was Greg's father. Greg didn't talk about family much, but I gathered he and his dad didn't get along. Greg's mother, I learned, had died in a car crash years ago. So his dad was a known entity, but I had sort of assumed he was out of the picture. I found out I was wrong when he knocked on my door one evening.

He was of a slight build like Greg, but that's where the similarities ended. He wasn't a particularly attractive man and the permanent scowl he seemed to wear didn't help matters any. He introduced himself and practically shoved his way into my apartment.

“We need to talk,” he said stiffly.

By talk, he apparently meant that he'd talk and I should just listen, for whenever I tried to speak up he talked right over me like Ann Coulter on a talk show. He accused me of “enticing” his son, of breaking up their family, and of consorting with the devil. He didn't actually say that last one, but he was thinking it, I could tell. I tried to explain the situation, but Greg Sr. already had his mind made up. He had decided that the thing to do was to ship Greg out to join the navy. That, he was sure, would make a man out of his son. During Greg's two year stint we were to have no contact whatsoever. When he paused for breath I finally got a word in.

“Greg is of legal age,” I reminded him. “You can't make him join the navy or anything for that matter. And you certainly can't tell me that I can't have any contact with your son.”

The man glared at me and I thought for a moment he was going to haul off and slug me. Finally he just curled his lip and stormed to the door. “We'll see,” he said, slamming the door behind him.

I didn't see Greg until the next night, when he came to my apartment just a mass of long hair and tears. I held him as he cried. Just when I thought he'd cried himself out, a new flood would start. We went to bed where I just held him close.

Finally he got to where he could speak. “I've got to do what my dad says,” he sputtered in a choked voice. “He says he'll disown me if I don't do this.”

I didn't think that would be a bad thing, but I kept quiet.

The tears started again. Greg held me fiercely, gasping in between sobs. “I don't know what to do. I love my dad, but I love you, too.”

I felt like a heel. One the one hand, I could see how it must look through Greg's father's eyes. Here was this older guy having an affair with his son. Hell, I was closer to his dad's age than I was to Greg's. I didn't know what to say, so I just held Greg until he finally sobbed himself to sleep.

In the end, of course, his dad won out. Greg insisted that after his two year stint he'd come back and we'd take up where we left off, but I knew it wouldn't happen. Before he left, we had one last kiss. It was as sweet and tender and electric as the first had been.

Madame Olga was still speaking, but I was still reminiscing about Greg. Then she asked me something that shifted my attention back to her. “The young man you love, he has recently contacted you, yes?”

My heart sunk. I had been hoping that despite the trappings that maybe this bewigged woman actually knew something of the future. Apparently not. “No. Haven't heard from him in over two years,” I told her numbly.

Olga looked slightly confused but covered with, “Then he had tried to contact you. You will hear from him soon.”

That didn't seem likely.

The reading was obviously over, so Ron and I made our way back out into the night. The carnival throng was quickly dispersing, everyone making their way back to the parking area. As we ambled along, Ron said, “So, was she right? Have you heard from the elf?”

“No,” I said. “I would have told you if I had. Unlike you, I don't keep secrets! How long have you been having an affair, and with whom?”

Even in the moonlight I could tell he turned bright crimson. “I was going to tell you. After all things are pretty much over between Penny and I anyway.”

“Who's the new love?”

Ron beamed with the pride of new romance. “Her name is Rachel. You'll love her. I've already told her all about you. Actually, I should call her. I was supposed to go over to her place tonight and I didn't think we'd be out this late. Can I borrow your cell phone?”

I pulled it out of my pocket and handed it to him. We stopped walking so that Ron would be able to dial. I love him like a brother, but walking and dialing a phone at the same time is beyond his abilities. As he looked at the phone, a wide grin spread over his face.

“You've got several missed calls,” he told me. “And a text message.” He shoved the phone in my face.

The message was short. Just the words I'm back followed by a familiar name...