I don’t want a lover…

Never have. Which is funny, because my books are about connecting with others, becoming one with someone, in some way, form or fashion…even as I rebelled at the thought of putting that crap into practice.

There are psychological reasons for this, I know. For one, I cannot sleep unless I am alone. If someone else is in the room, I will, at best, doze through the night. And this includes animals. I once had a cat that insisted on crashing next to me at night, and I couldn’t handle it. So I shut the door and the cat had to get used to sleeping on his own. That wasn’t fair to the animal, so I haven’t had a pet since.

When it comes to men, I want one who’ll let me use him as I choose then go away and not bother me. A thought process that could easily lead to rape and serial murder. The ultimate fuck and be gone guys were John Wayne Gacy, Dean Corll and William Bonin…but then they had to dispose of the bodies and that’s another level of no fucking way for me.

In my books, the MC is yearning for connection. Loves the idea of coupling with someone. And even after being brutalized winds up in love with another man at the end…or woman, as in my one heterosexual foray into storytelling. And maybe, deep down, it’s something I really want…but I don’t think so.

I like the idea but not the actuality. I sort of half-assed tried it once and it was not a pleasant experience. And the book I’m writing now seems geared to leaving my MC alone at the end with his idealized memories of the one man he truly loved…who’s been dead four years. Not sure yet…but it would be a departure from my usual works.

I guess I’m just too much of a lone wolf, working his way through his psychoses in his books and finding he’s not just insane…he’s also fucking weird…

Derrick D…

I don’t understand my attraction to him. He’s not what I usually like. Blond. Snarly face. Not much hair on his body. Yes, he’s well-built and endowed, with a lovely ass…but he also seems really high-maintenance. Yet…I’m using him in Dair’s Window. Well…using a younger version of him as Bobby, an obnoxious closet case who may or may not have firebombed Dair’s home.

Fairview, WA…where most of the action takes place

I also worked up a rough map of where everything is in the story. I started to get lost but now have a lot of aspects of the events worked out. Dair’s home is in the lower right; it was once a lodge owned by his father, who signed it over to him before heading to Nepal to contemplate his navel.

I’m now at 347 pages and 74,000 words, and it’s becoming a much quieter story than I’d anticipated. Much more leisurely. Building to what I hope is a solid ending…but I no longer know what that is.

I hate and love it when that happens…

Update on DW…

Dair holding Adam

Once again, my characters have taken over the telling of the story and shown me what I initially had was crap. I’m now at page 275 with nearly 55,000 words and about 60% of the way through, and the second half of this book has changed, completely. And I’m not unhappy with that, but it may make it hard to meet my goal of having it ready to roll out at the beginning of September.

The thing is…I thought it would be a nice easy little drama to change from screenplay to book form. I’ve done that before with The Lyons’ Den and The Alice ’65…and I’m happy with how both of them turned out. But they were light and easy stories; Dair’s Window is proving to be deeper and darker than either, and I’m not sure if the HEA ending I once loved so much will work, anymore.

However, I learned long ago that if I try to force the story to be something it’s not, what comes out is garbage. I think I did that with the script and that’s why it never went anywhere. Now, by digging deeper into the lives of Adair, Adam, Jackson, Wallace and Marion, it’s becoming a real novel.

I can’t complain about that.

Spice it up…

Dair’s Window is coming along…so my goal to launch it at the UK GLBTQ Meet Up in Southampton in September is looking possible…at least, it was. But the story’s taking on a non-linear structure even more than I expected and that may take a lot of polishing to make it work right.

Now that I’m getting into telling the story, it’s opening up and exploring things I didn’t expect. Dair is the main character, about whom I already knew a lot; Adam is the lover who died, but he was something of a cypher, to me. Now his story is going places that trouble me but are needed for him.

Thrown out of his home at 15 for being gay, he does whatever he must to survive, becoming something like a feral cat. Meeting Dair changes him, in stages. But his past haunts Dair’s life after Adam’s death, and now there’s a question in my mind as to whether or not my MC can fully recover from his grief.

There’ll be an important moment…where Dair does a study of Adam, like this, in stained glass…slivers of translucent colors giving him a feel of three-dimensions…holding obsession…adoration…love…need…all combined into a perfect memory of a flawed man…a human being who was loved and dangerous…except to Dair…

Woke up growling…

Not sure what my dreams were, last night (I rarely remember anything more than that I dreamed), but this morning I woke in a foul mood and with some serious morning wood. And the first thing that came up on my laptop was this image in one of my Facebook groups —

Too young and slim as my type…I prefer guys like this…

But with Pretty Boy, first thought in my head was, “He’s the kind John Wayne Gacy or William Bonin would have kidnapped, raped and murdered.” And my dick gave a leap.

There was also a series of rapes in the Deer Park area of Houston, a few years back, where pretty white boys were fucked by a black guy over the space of a few weeks. He’d be one of those, too.

What’s funny is, while the idea brings a snarl to behind my heart, I’d be more interested in doing it to Buff Boi. Having control of someone like him…tying him down and ripping off his clothes…making him get off on being forcibly sucked and fucked is one of my dreams…

…and nightmares…

Chapter One of “Dair’s Window”

Adam and Dair

On the last morning we were together, it was late winter and warm comforters lay over us as snow caught in the barest of early light drifted soft against our bedroom window, and I held close to the man beside me as I gently sang…

“Dair it’s Adam. Dair it’s Adam.

 Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?

 If you were awake, now.

 We could have some fun, now.

 Foolin’ ’round. Foolin’ ’round.”

He sighed and shifted, and his hands grasped mine as my arms he wrapped closer to him. His body molded to me. His dark beautiful eyes squinting a bit tighter as he breathed in deep and contented, rubbing his morning whiskers against my forearms, and murmured, “Snuggle.”

Which I was happy to do. I loved the feel of his body. So strong. Well-formed. Touched with hair just right. He was not as solid as me nor as carefully crafted, merely human and real, with a thin layer of softness covering him. Someone to hold you and be held. To walk my fingers down his elegant back was a joy. To feel his skin through the shirt he slept in was beauty. To trail them over the soft brown hair cropped close to his head was fulfillment. Even the light scruff around his chin, for it to rub against mine as his nose nudged mine was to know heaven. I loved to caress the lines in his face, lines brought about by joyous smiles. I told him so many times they made him better looking than I, and on each occasion he would laugh and call me liar and draw me into his embrace…and I would know peace.

How could that have been possible? For me to find such a man? Nothing in my life had prepared me for it.

Nothing.

He was two years short of thirty, still, but so much older than that…yet so much younger. His full name — Adair Carwyn Llewellyn.

“Welsh,” he told me, explaining though I did not ask. “Dad was a nut about that. Not as sexy as the French, or even French Canadians, but…”

“Quebecois, mon ange,” I had replied, smiling.

“C’est vrai,” was his reply, but he pronounced it, “Set veray,” and I had to laugh. His French…ooh la…

And my name? Adam Henrí Lécuyer, of Terrebonne outside Montreal. I was three years his junior, but in age, only. In life? I often felt I was ten times older…except when I was with him.

He worked with stained glass, my Dair. That is why his body was strong; it required strength and agility. And with no hesitation I say he was an artist. Never quick. Never simple. Always patient. Listening. Watching. Waiting. All to build a bright, brilliant world of colors in a frame in ways that never ceased to amaze me. Not only flowers and landscapes and vistas of great beauty, but faces alive and in such detail, he was becoming legend. Compared to the likes of Tiffany, Richter and Chagall. His work even hung in art galleries and museums, now.

And I was there to see it happen. To support him in every way he needed. And also in ways he didn’t.

It is hard to believe, I know, because my living was not artistic. I worked as a ski instructor at his mother’s resort, in the winter, then as handyman and carpenter when the season was over. Glamorous, perhaps. Demanding, sometimes. But both jobs were very rooted in the here and now of reality, not a world of creation. The fact is, in the beginning I thought his actions and attitudes silly and self-centered, especially when he told me he cannot set the artwork into its frame — no, into her frame; I should use his words for his work — until she was ready to reveal herself to him. Even his portraits; he may have been working from a photograph or sketch, but still he would sit and do nothing but look at colored bits of glass. To my mind, this was the epitome of laziness. Self-indulgence.

Do not mistake me; I knew his work was excellent, but even after we egan living together I thought his reasoning silly and a bit self-indulgent. The sensibility of an artiste.

But then one day I returned from repairing the door to a neighbor’s shed to find him seated on this old lounging chair he kept in his studio…well, he called it a studio, but it was only a garage near his house; I had just begun to rework some its bedrooms into a true workplace.

I had seen him sitting there, before, hunched over with his fine legs crossed, and asked him about it, especially since the days were now colder.

“Thinking,” he had told me. “That’s all, just…thinking.”

I blithely thought that was he was doing this time and was about to call for him to come inside, with me, but I held back. Something about this moment was different. He had focused on two pieces of glass — in his left hand, one that was a red as deep as blood and gleamed like a ruby; in his right hand, one so very pale that shifted between a soft blue and a clearness as clean as a freshly cut diamond. Both were caught by the last ray of sun dancing through a window before it vanished behind the mountains. It cast sharp colors against the bare wood floor, but what caught me was his face; it was wrapped in a light frown as his eyes shifted from one to the other, holding each at slightly different angles so their colors changed with the light.

I froze in place. Almost held my breath for fear I would startle him.

He positioned them side by side, then one atop the other, then switched them around. His demeanor reminded me of the youngest children in my skiing classes. So focused on doing everything just right. Turning their feet just so. Holding their poles at the proper angle while drifting down the beginner slopes. Even on snowboards, they maintained this sort of focus. Blocking out the world and all its distractions. A focus only someone innocent can manage.

Oh, dear God, he was so beautiful, sitting there. Shadows around him. A touch of the sunbeam glancing off his hair. His dark eyes searching for something. Inspiration? Agreement? Acknowledgement? Understanding? I wanted to know but dared not break the spell.

Finally, he shifted and slowly rose to his feet to head for his workbench. I silently moved closer to keep him in view and found him crouched before a small mound of shattered glass that gleamed in dark shades of amber. He would pick one up to look through then place it back on the pile, never toss, never drop. Over and over he did this…until he found the one he wanted. Then he stood up and turned on a strong lamp above his bench and, from what I could tell, looked at all three resting side by side in the palms of his hands.

I had been chilled and hungry when I walked up the drive, and somewhere in the back of my mind I still was, but to watch him like this cast aside all other concerns. I felt as if I were seeing him fresh and new.

I silently maneuvered inside to the lounger and sat to watch as he laid the pieces together on a backlight and turned to another small pile of red glass to go through the same process. Then he did this with the blue, each time placing another sliver of glass with the others.

I was so focused on watching him it took me several moments to realize there were a dozen sketches of me tacked to the wall on his left, each from a different angle, with a different expression of my face. Exactly right and well-detailed. I could not remember him ever doing them. Had he taken photographs of me without my knowing?

I saw him weave a little and take in a deep breath, his whole being still focused on the glass spread atop his bench. He backed up to the lounger. I could see he was planning to sit so I straddled it to let him glide down at its foot. He shifted back and felt my leg and looked around at me…and his frown became a smile. His dark eyes grew light and open. All without the least bit of shock or surprise.

His voice was a whisper of reverence as he said, “I’m trying something new. Dunno if it’ll work, but why not?”

I replied in the same tone, “Do you wish to tell me of it?”

He softly moaned into saying, “Let’s how it goes, first. ‘Kay?”

I smiled and nodded and drew him into my embrace, running my hands softly over his arms and chest. He was cold…so cold.

“Your muscles are tight,” I said. “And I think I hear your tummy saying it wishes to be fed. Have you eaten, today?”

He took in a deep breath and gave me a gentle shrug.

I nodded. “Then it is good I took a steak from the freezer and brought with me some of that potato salad you like. And we can begin with a nice mushroom soup. Would that be satisfactory, monsieur?”

“I would love it,” purred from him.

“Then as you take a nice hot shower…” He looked at me, feigning insult, so I added, “To remove the dustings of glass I see on you. Very hot. Very careful.” I held his hands and saw little cuts on his fingers and ached for him. “Oh…and tend to these, as well. By the time you are done, dinner will be served. No need to dress; we are very informal.”

He chuckled and caressed the line of my chin with the backs of his left fingers as his right hand wound itself in with mine. He was almost back into my world.

I maneuvered myself off the lounger and stood then drew him up to his feet. He leaned against me, caressed my neck with his lips and worked them around into a kiss. He pushed himself closer to me. Held me as if I were the only thing keeping him from falling over. Nestled his face in the crook of my neck as we wandered from the garage to the entrance. He stumbled a little on the steps up, but I kept hold of him.

His home once had been a lodge, itself, and our bedroom had been the dining room. It was perfect for our king-size bed, over-stuffed chairs beside a table and lamp, dresser and armoire (since closet space was non-existent). A wall of shelves held a TV and books, and each of us had a nightstand. A woven carpet covered much of the floor; the rest was polished wood. Its French doors faced north and had a balcony to step onto. From it, a brook could be seen cascading down the hillside and over a lovely waterfall to pass the house and connect with a creek, far below. Waking to this, each morning, had added to his sense of beauty, and mine.

I leaned him against the dresser and helped him slip off his work boots…then removed his work pants and shirt, like you would a child. This left him in his Jockeys and socks, both looking so perfect as accents to his sturdy, elegant legs, it was all I could do to remember to breathe.

I wrapped an arm around him to guide him into the bathroom. I had finished having it added it to the room only the month before. The shower was walk-in with thousands of translucent tiles in blues and greens and whites and clear in no particular pattern, just happy and bright.

He stopped and leaned against me to remove his socks…and I slipped my hands down to pull at the cotton briefs. He chuckled and stood up straight. Let me take glide them off him to revel him. Unlike me, he was circumcised, but I didn’t care. I found the beauty of the hair on his chest and belly and crotch and legs so perfect, I had stopped shaving my own…and loved how he would trail his fingers through mine.

He was ready for more than a mere shower. I ran my fingers around him. Tickled his groin. Watched him grow thick and hard. Felt his hand draw up the inside of my thigh to caress me through my jeans. My breath grew deep and my needs cried to meet with his…so I reached in and started the shower. I could do with becoming clean, as well. I undressed as he leaned against the wall, watching me, his hands consistently touching my shoulders and arms and hands.

Then I was as naked as he and I guided him into the shower. The water was hot and the steam was wonderful. First, I rinsed him from the shoulders down with the portable shower head, to wash away the dusting of glass. He stretched his arms up over his head and turned before, like a water sprite displaying his beauty. Then I put our feet into sandals and changed the shower to streams from above and washed him…and he awoke completely to also wash me…and our bodies melded together…and our kisses grew strong…and he held me tight to him, face to face, as he slipped between my legs and I slipped between his and we shifted back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, rubbing each other with our thighs, sensations screaming through my body in ways I still see as perfection, until he shuddered and slammed against me and I let loose and exploded and realized he and I had finished at the same time and the kiss we shared then was that of joy and pleasure and oneness.

At that moment, I would have died before I let anyone hurt him. To find that capacity in myself, I wept from happiness. Fortunately, the shower helped me hide this.

Finally, he bit my ear and said, “I’ll help you with dinner.”

I chuckled, deep and soft, knowing already his best meals were those not burnt or had been under-microwaved, and said, “You may prepare the soup. It’s Campbell’s in a can.” I pulled back to gaze into his eyes. “And I remember also some haricots-vert in the pantry.”

“Harry-coh ver?”

This time I laughed. “Green beans. With lemon and butter? Pinch of salt and pepper?”

“Mmm…may I have dinner with you?”

“I would be most proud…”

I dried him off then dried myself, we wrapped in towels and retired to the kitchen. The steak, I broiled to perfection as he whipped the soup into something frothy with cheese and onion and celery seeds, under my directions, and we feasted with a fine pinot noir to accompany the meal. And that night we made love for hours before drifting to sleep in each other’s arms.

That is the night I knew we would be as one until death parted us. I had no idea how true that would be.

Or how soon.

Oh, that last morning. I wish that I had stayed with him just for a little more. Held him close for just a while longer. But on that occasion, in response to his request all I did was pat his behind and say, “I would love to, but that could take all morning and I must be to the slopes by nine or your mother will fire me.”

His voice was a soft low growl…almost like purring. “She won’t. She loves you more than me.”

“I am not sure how to understand that comment,” I said, walking my fingers down his hip and leg to draw them back up the hairs on his thigh.

He chuckled, deep and low. “Any way you want, baby.”

I leaned over him to brushed my lips over his thick, lovely lashes and he finally opened his eyes.

“Café ou thé?” I asked.

“Coffee — s’il vous plaît.” Spoken in his hideous accent. But then why should he know French? We lived 2700 miles from my place of birth, close enough to Seattle to be nice, not so close as to be a problem, and high in the mountains to be next to heaven. Never did I think I would find a world so lovely.

I pulled the elastic on his shorts, let it snap back against him and rose from the bed, singing like Earth Kitt.

“C’est si bon.

 C’est un café au lait.

 And I bring it today.

 Maybe on a tray, okay?”

I slipped into his moccasins and pulled on a thick robe to scurry across to the kitchen, still humming. I know he watched me go; I heard him chuckle. Heard the mattress move as he stretched to stay warm under the covers. Drifting. Dreaming. Thinking. I hoped he would there stay all morning. He had been up late fighting with the design for a window that had been commissioned by his grandfather, and it had taken me an hour to bring him back to my world, to sleep.

Ah, his Gran’pere. Reverend Samuels, the father of his mother. He was a very, very old man whose church was nice but no cathedral; Fairview was too small for such an extravagance. Yet, he considered the one stained-glass window behind the altar as common and uninteresting — a simple painted design of Jesus seated on a rock, preaching to his followers. He asked if Dair could make one far more elegant and wonderful. One that would, perhaps, bring people in to view it. Bring more people into his church. I know Dair wanted to please him.

I know also he was aware of Dair’s growing acclaim, so wondered if that had more than a little to do with his request. Of course, I suppose this only. I could not tell the true inner workings of the man’s mind, nor did I care to; the only thing that mattered was, Dair loved and respected him, and he was always polite with me.

So I kept the suspicion to myself, because I knew Dair would do anything for the man…and this made me love him all the more. So to keep him happy, which made me happy, I was polite to him, as well.

I was never polite with Marion, his mother; she was far too much of a friend to me. Round in a pleasant way, always neatly dressed in resort casual, She owned and operated Tidwika Lodge, the oldest ski resort in Fairview. Her eyes were Dair’s eyes, always on the verge of a smile, as were her lips. She was trimmer than him, but not by so much, and her height was almost his, making her seem tall. And while she was my employer, I grew to love her like she was of my own blood.

He was right about her; she would never have fired me. She knew I loved her son beyond measure. Had I not been caught in that avalanche, nothing could have come between us.

The avalanche. Ooh la…

When I heard it coming, I rushed my class to cover on the intermediate slope. All but one was safe when it crashed in upon us. I remember feeling more angry than afraid.

And then nothing. Just darkness and silence.

And I knew I was no longer part of Dair’s existence.

You may wonder how it is possible for one like me to speak in the physical world, but it is not so difficult to understand. I have attached myself to a conduit who lets me tell my story through him. Many writers speak of their works finding them rather than them finding their works, and I was able to locate one who has kindly opened himself to me.

But only truth is allowed in my new existence, so please believe me when I tell you of how lovely his art was. How decent a man he was. I do not say this because I love him. Loved him. I say it because it is true.

Or it was true.

Now?

Now I wonder if this was the right thing to do, for now I know everything that happened to Dair in the years since my death, and as I watch him wander through his home…no, our home…I know he also is remembering our last morning together.

The morning my story ended.

And his almost did, as well.

“Dair’s Window”…

It’s coming along. I’ve hit page 41 of it and am getting into a section that needs to explain what happened to Dair five years earlier…and hit my first roadblock. I can’t figure out how someone learned of a character’s death. It has to make sense, and what I have right now is…they were contacted. But how? By whom? Where did they get the information to make the contact? It’s not working, as it, and that has to be right.

Dair and Adam

This is the feel I want for Dair and Adam, in the story, but it’s hard to capture since it’s being told by Adam, speaking in first person, laying down the history, then present day being told in third person. It’s proving to be difficult. A bit too removed.

I’m not sure which of the following two I want to use as Adam’s look —

Jarec Wentworth as Adam?
Arnaud Dehaynin as Adam?

Either would work, though Jarec might be better; he’s in prison for extortion and Adam is something of a thief, so his persona is already on the wicked side, even though his look is angelic…

Man…this won’t be all that easy…