arpeejay Posted August 4, 2021 Share Posted August 4, 2021 I want the algorithm! 5 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Tjdonger Posted August 6, 2021 Share Posted August 6, 2021 There are so many hot elements in this story that trigger me it’s amazing! Really like how much he’s enjoying getting bigger and now temporarily a beast…..may we have more please? 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Popular Post TQuintA Posted August 6, 2021 Author Popular Post Share Posted August 6, 2021 Part 2 – The College Con-Artist Chapter 16 I must have dozed off myself watching Flynn because I found myself waking up on the floor with him in my arms. He was lightly stroking my abs and just staring as my mammoth chest rose and fell with my breathing. “You should’ve woken me,” I said, a little groggily. “And miss out on staring at this gigantic muscle dude for as long as I can? Nothing doing.” “I should give you back your muscles—you don’t look like your normal self.” “You sure you don’t want another round? More sex as a giant muscle monster?” It was nice of him to offer, but I could tell from the edge to his voice that he was hoping I’d say no. “Nah,” I said. “I’ve missed you, and I want you to look like you.” “Okay,” he said, noticeably relieved. “You can have your muscles back,” I said, and instantly felt so much lighter as my muscles shrank from a beyond herculean 345 back down to my still magnificent and large 245. Flynn, on the other hand, burled back up into the muscular rectangle I was used to. “There you are,” I said. “There you are,” he responded. “I don’t want to ruin the touching reunion moment we have going on here,” I started, “but you owe me an explanation why you ghosted me all summer.” Then, I punched his shoulder. “Ouch!” he said with a laugh and rubbed the site of impact. “Be glad I didn’t do that when I was more than twice your size. “I do owe you an explanation,” Flynn said. He rolled over to where his pants were and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Maybe this will explain it,” he said, showing me the screen. “This is a confirmation for two plane tickets to New York City.” “It is indeed.” “This explains why you ignored me all summer? You were planning a trip to New York City for us?” “Hm,” Flynn said. “I thought you would’ve put it together. Used that big brain of yours.” “I’m smart, but I’m not psychic. You’re the mad genius at machinating schemes.” “True,” he admitted, then put his phone away. “Did I ever tell you about Prince?” “The singer who wore a lot of purple. Everyone knows who that is. I like “Little Red Corvette.” What’s Prince got to do with this?” “No. He’s an absurdly rich kid who goes to Crocker with us.” I shook my head. “I am completely unaware of any classmate named Prince. If he wasn’t in one of my classes, I probably haven’t met him. Is he in your business classes?” “He thinks I stole his slot on the wrestling team.” “Did you?” I wouldn’t put it past Flynn to do something like that. He scrunched his face up in surprise and slight offense. “No. I’m just a better wrestler. He was the last guy cut from the team at try-outs our freshman year.” “Had to ask,” I interjected. Flynn thought about it, then nodded in agreement. “Yeah, that’s fair. Anyways, something you said back in May made me think of him.” “And what did I say?” “That the rich guys at Crocker would buy my wrestling scholarship. Just to kick me out of this school.” “You sold your spot on the wrestling team?” “Yep. I sold my spot on the wrestling team.” He sounded proud of himself. “That’s why I needed to lend you some muscle a few times this summer. Back in May, I told the coach that I was having trouble keeping my muscles in top fighting shape. That I would be seeing a doctor as soon as I got back to PA. Then, throughout the summer, I had to show coach my body. That way, he could see me getting steadily less athletic. Less muscular. Without that, he would never hold try-outs again. At least, not for my heavyweight spot on the team. The same weight class as Prince.” “That needed the whole summer? Couldn’t you have just come back all weak and skinny?” Flynn shook his head. “Season doesn’t start ‘til November. The coach would’ve put me on a crazy workout regimen. Tried to get me back into fighting shape. Unless I was beyond all hope. Back in May, he called me every other day. Just to ask if I had any good news from my doctor. First I showed him that I lost 30 pounds. Then 50. Then 80. Today 100. At that point, I was too far gone.” “Meanwhile, you get to keep your hot physique in secret.” “Precisely,” Flynn said, practically bowing he was so pleased with himself. Then, he continued. “Back in May, I told Prince that, if he made it worth my while, I would intentionally lose a lot of muscle. I showed him my weakening stature as the summer progressed. Prince spent all summer with a personal trainer. He’ll be more than equipped to take my spot. He might even do better than I would’ve done. He wants it more.” “How much did Prince’s spot on the wrestling team cost him?” I asked. “Not one cent. Prince’s father has a lot of corporate holdings. Things like that. I sold my spot on the wrestling team for access. Info on his father’s business dealings.” “And that was a fair trade?” “Not even a little. I got the far better end of the deal. I used that information to invest my earnings from TGS-Max. And all my other my savings. I made a killing in the stock market this summer. You’re now dating a millionaire. After taxes.” “That’s insider trading!” I said indignantly. “Don’t be so naïve. Everything I did was completely legal. I made sure of it. Last thing I need is the SEC breathing down my neck.” “Completely legal?” I wasn’t buying. “Okay. Morally dubious. But it was legal.” “Then I guess congratulations are in order,” I said, fully doubtful that his millionaire status was legally earned. “Please, Vaughn, your enthusiasm is too much. It’s killing me,” he replied sarcastically. “And you’re just done with wrestling?” Flynn shrugged halfheartedly. “I never planned to wrestle forever. I mean, I like it fine enough. I get to roll around on the floor with muscular men. Show my dominance. That’s fun. But it was always a means to an end. Wrestling meant college. Period.” Urgently, I pointed out, “But if you lose your spot on the team, there goes your scholarship.” “I don’t need my scholarship anymore.” “Right,” I said. “You’re a millionaire. You can just pay your tuition.” “Even better,” Flynn smiled. “I graduated already.” “What?” I sat up so fast that I practically knocked him off the mattress. “That’s what I was doing this summer. My plan to sell my spot on the team had two weaknesses. One, the coach was likely to never give up on me. I won a lot of matches for him. Two, I was afraid that they wouldn’t let me finish the degree. Payback for letting the wrestling team down. Even if I could afford tuition. So, I took eight online classes in three months. It was tough and intense. But I did it. I am now a graduate of Crocker University.” “Holy fuck!” I said, hugging him tightly. “I am so proud of you! Why didn’t you tell me that’s what you were doing?” “Because you would’ve tried to talk me out of it. Cramming a year of school and an internship into three months? While running a scam? It’s not the best idea, and you would make me well aware of it.” “I wouldn’t have.” “Yes, you would have. We both know it.” For the record, I wouldn’t have, but he was convinced otherwise. I rolled my eyes and changed the subject. “Is the trip to NYC to celebrate your graduation? Your millionaire status? Both?” “You still haven’t put that together?” Flynn asked, a little shocked. “Put what together?” “We’re moving to New York. Together. We’ll stay at an extravagant hotel until we find an apartment. Or condo. Or castle. Something that works for both of us.” I kept looking for the angle or the joke, something to explain what he was going on about. He couldn’t be serious. “That’s sweet, but I still have a year of Crocker left.” “Your last year is just working on your senior thesis. You said so yourself. You can do that from anywhere.” “But I have to meet with my writing group and advisor regularly. That’s part of the degree requirement. I have to give feedback on my groups’ chapters just as much as they have to give feedback on mine.” “That can all be done virtually.” “You’re serious about this?” Did he really expect me to just drop everything and run off with him? “I’m serious about this. Vaughn, if I didn’t know you’d say no, I’d be proposing marriage right now.” “Yeah, we’re way too young to get married, and I don’t know if I ever want to get married.” “See? I knew you’d say no, so I didn’t ask. But this? Moving to New York? You can’t say no to this.” “I have to meet—in person—with my writing group at least once a week. We’re supposed to meet unofficially two or three times a week on top of that. If I were to do it virtually, I’d be half-assing it.” “Come on! New York City! Is there any better place for a writer to live?” “No, but…” How was I going to explain this? “It takes time to get settled in. To find the apartment, to buy furniture, to move. And all of that is time I set aside to work on my first novel. And here, here I have resources and advice and readers on tap. I’d have to find all of those things in New York.” Flynn breathed heavily. “You’re going to hate this next suggestion, but hear me out. Promise to hear me out?" I nodded. "Do you even need to finish your degree?” Blood rushed to my ears. Was he about to tell me to drop out of college? He continued, “A business degree from Crocker, it opens doors for me. It gets me meetings with bankers and investors. Better rates on loans. That’s the only reason I finished my degree. If my degree didn’t do that, I wouldn’t have put myself through this summer. I would’ve simply walked away without a diploma. A writing degree from Crocker doesn’t guarantee you a publishing deal. We move to New York. We get set up. We hire a staff so you don’t have to lift a finger to do anything but write. And then you write. We get a place with an amazing view of the Atlantic, and you write while living with me in New York. Fuck the degree. You’re a great writer. I’ve read your work. You can get published without the degree.” “I might never get published,” I said. “It’s not just about quality of writing. It’s about market trends, and luck, and finding a compatible editor, and a million other factors. Even if I do everything right and do my best, I still might never get published. I have to think pragmatically. A degree from Crocker is going to come in very handy. It’ll get me a job at a magazine, or an ad company, or even—if it comes to it—as a teacher.” “Is this about money? Is that really what you’re worrying about? I’m a millionaire. We’ll be together. You won’t have to worry about money ever again. Ever. You can just keep writing and keep trying until you get it. I think you’ll get published right away. But I’m extremely biased. If it takes you 20 years, I can afford to support your writing career for 20 years. Hell, I could support you forever.” He pointed at himself and repeated, “Millionaire.” He was going to make me say it. I was trying to spare him, but he was going to make me say it. “And what will you be doing while I’m trying to get published?” “Building my empire,” he said. “Naturally.” “And will it be like this summer?” Flynn’s face grew very solemn. He had expected this conversation to go very differently. I continued. “You ignored me for three whole months. You didn’t respond to my calls or even tell me you were trying to graduate a year early. Today is the first time you ever even mentioned New York City. You completely cut me out of your life, except when I was helpful to your scheme. It hurt me really bad. I thought you’d cheated on me, or broken up with me, or something even worse. Is it going to be like that while you build your empire? Ignoring me for weeks on end?” Flynn looked like he’d just been found guilty at a murder trial and sentenced to death. I continued. “You have grand ambitions, and I would never hold you back from them. But I want a man who has as much time for me as he does for his ambitions. If that’s selfish, then I’m being selfish.” Flynn’s face was pale—deathly pale. “Are you dumping me?” The words, even phrased as a question, rocked me to the core. Defensively, I moved close to him. “No. Not even. I’m saying no to New York.” I held him close to me. “Let’s try long distance again. Show me that you can make time for me while you conquer the world. I’ll show you that I can be loving and supportive, even from the other side of the country. And I’ll move to New York when I graduate.” “We won’t survive long distance,” Flynn said. “I’ve seen how many guys are after you. And guys are always after me, too. Nine months apart? One of us will slip. And I’ll never forgive myself when it’s me.” Flynn looked me deep in the eyes. He pleaded with his eyes. He begged with his eyes. “This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Don’t blow it, Vaughn. Come with me.” I tried to talk, but there was crick in my voice. Was I crying? I managed to get out, “Are you saying it’s come to New York now, or it’s over?” “I guess I am,” Flynn said. He held me closer. “When I first met you, freshman year, my instinct was to have a weekend fling with you, and then say goodbye forever. I should’ve stuck to that plan. Because now I never want to let you go.” “Then don’t,” I said, clinging even tighter to him. “No one is forcing you to leave me or break up with me.” “Our lives are going two different ways. Nine months apart, and we’ll be entirely different people. I don’t want to do the long-suffering, self-deluding death by a thousand paper cuts. Let’s just end it now before we hurt each other any worse.” Now I was angry on top of hurt and sad. “Cut and run, like you planned on doing freshman year.” It was more an accusation than a statement of fact. There was venom in my words. “I told you it would end badly for us.” With that, Flynn left my room, and I cried myself asleep. When I woke up, there was a letter on my desk. I opened it and found a letter from Flynn. “Vaughn— I thought this was going to go differently. I thought that I was sacrificing one summer so we could be together forever. I see now that I made you sacrifice your summer with me without even asking. And you’re right. I’ll do it again. And again. Because I made a choice years before we met to always come out on top. If it comes to a choice between you and my dream, I know now that I’ll pick my dream every time. And you deserve a guy who’ll pick you. I wanted to make this work so badly that I even thought of buying a publishing company just so I could guarantee you a publishing deal. And when I had that thought, I realized we’d never work in the long run. Buying a publishing company—I see that as a romantic and grand gesture. If I’m right, you see that as cheating. I must be a rich guy now. Rich guys think they can buy everything. I thought I could buy you. I don’t think I’ll ever get over you. If you move to New York after graduation, look me up. Love, Trevor Flynn” END OF PART 2 34 6 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
DawnFire98 Posted August 6, 2021 Share Posted August 6, 2021 56 minutes ago, TQuintA said: “I told you it would end badly for us.” With that, Flynn left my room, and I cried myself asleep. When I woke up, there was a letter on my desk. I opened it and found a letter from Flynn. NOOOO! GODDAMNIT, FLYNN! 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
MadDog Posted August 7, 2021 Share Posted August 7, 2021 Even though I knew it would end like this the minute Flynn was introduced, you made it a fun journey to get there! 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
citizenies Posted August 9, 2021 Share Posted August 9, 2021 Thanks for the chapter 2 it was so well done. Sad they weren't to be, but it does open to a new story. Can't wait for the next chapter/s 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TQuintA Posted August 10, 2021 Author Share Posted August 10, 2021 Part 3 – The West California Wild Card Chapter 1 Senior year at Crocker stared in heartbreak, and the rest of the year was unexciting hard work. Phone calls from Jonah became my entire social life. Shafe was off traveling the world doing various bodybuilding contests, and goodness knows I wasn’t going to make friends with my classmates at this point. They still invited me places—cordially if coolly—but I never took them up on anything. I mostly just worked on my senior thesis. At the suggestion of my advisor, I slimmed down some. A massive bodybuilder-type composing YA fiction is a hard pitch. Besides, without Flynn around, being that big felt more isolating than erotic. Also, my issues with clothing (stretching out the chests, getting stuck in the sleeves, not fitting most things off the rack), were getting old. Throughout the year, I started shedding some beef slowly and deliberately. I still liked my muscles, and I didn’t want to suffer complete atrophy. My end goal was to be described as “buff,” maybe even “gym rat.” Clearly a muscular guy, but not huge guy. It would be a hard tightrope to walk. In part because I was now getting less muscular, my entire look changed. I started wearing more button downs. I stopped wearing jeans and sneakers to my meetings with my advisor. I don’t know if it was because I was getting older or what, but it felt like I needed a change. Other changes I had less control over. For instance, suddenly, I was getting quite hairy. It had always been inevitable: all my male relatives were hairy Welsh men; I’m actually surprised I didn’t get hairier earlier. I wasn’t Flynn-level hairy, but I had a decent carpet of brown chest hair that showed if I wore a V neck, and shaving every day became a hassle, so I grew a beard and moustache that I kept sharp and close to my face, which made me look quite sexy, if I do say so myself. I graduated in May, still north of 200 pounds of muscle, but not enough to round to 210. Flynn was right that New York was the best place to live to get into publishing, but moving there felt like following him, and we hadn’t spoken since the day we broke up. He just pulled up stakes, cut all ties, and left. I even swallowed my pride and tried contacting him a few times, but it was a chorus of crickets. So, I moved to L.A. I still had almost all of the money I’d gotten from TGS-Max, and my investments were doing well, so I was set to spend a few years focusing on getting published. And that’s what I did for the next five years. With my Crocker connections, I got an agent almost right away: a chain-smoking, tiny woman in her 60s named Natalie. She frightened me, but she loved my writing, and she encouraged me in all the right directions, so we were a good fit. On Natalie’s advice, I did some freelance writing to get my name out there, I sent out my senior thesis to publishers, I worked on multiple new novels, and I pushed myself creatively. Thankfully, unlike at Crocker, in L.A. I had a social life. I made a variety of casual friends, Shafe and his crowd frequently swung through on the bodybuilder circuit. I even started dating again. Mostly, it was meaningless one night hook-ups—we all have needs—but there were three men who almost became something more. One was this cute guy named Ash. He was fucking hot and a great time to be around, but after four months together, he started talking marriage, adoption, and a house in the suburbs. None of that sounded good: no marriage, no kids, no suburbs. No thank you. We imploded as soon as we realized we had incompatible life goals. Malcolm was the next guy who was almost something more. He was cute and incredibly in shape. One of those Cross Fit guys. Every day he tried to get me to go to Cross Fit with him, claiming I was built for it and would love it. We had a lot in common in terms of dreams and tastes, and I could even forgive him for being the outdoorsy “let’s take a nature hike” type. Unfortunately, the sex was… terrible. I gave it a good try but, he just did not push my buttons. He was a selfish and lazy lover. I tried a dozen things—kinks and such—to make our sex life work, but without that vital spark, our relationship wimped out after a few months. Ira was the closest to becoming a full-fledged boyfriend. He was a fashionable, well-groomed, mustachioed lawyer I met at a gay club. He was witty and charming, fit but not obsessed with his body, and we got along famously (both sexually and outside the bedroom). I almost told him about being The Repository. Then, after a few months of being together, while telling an (edited) story about how I made my money, I showed him some photos on my phone of me from junior year of college. By this point, my weight was hovering just under 200 pounds. Far less than what I’d once been, but still muscular and fit. My six pack waxed and waned like cycles of the moon. Sometimes it was sharp and crisp, sometimes it was a cute little four-pack, sometimes it was a toned but not defined midsection like Flynn had, and sometimes I just wanted pizza. Ira knew I was close friends with a professional bodybuilder, but when he saw me at 240 competition-ready pounds, he was repulsed and disgusted, asking how I could have done that to myself. He was relieved I had come to my senses and shrank down to my current size. It was like my mother’s voice came out of his mouth. Around then, some of Ira’s less attractive features came out. He had a deep jealous streak, he had to “win” every conversation he had, and he often was overly harsh with criticism near to the point of cruelty. Before I got attached to him, I knew Ira had to go. But, again, I wasn’t lonely. The longer I was in L.A., the wider my circle of friends grew and the more one night stands I had a chance to enjoy. I’d also flown Jonah out a few times, and he had a standing invitation to live with me if he ever wanted to become a Californian. I even got a condo with a spare bedroom just in case he changed his mind. My parents had also come out to see the place. We’d been cold and standoffish since the summer after my junior year at Crocker, and the chasm had only grown. They were impressed with the beauty of my condo, but shocked that I lived in such a gay neighborhood and asked if I was ever going to “come to my senses.” My dad clearly meant spending less time at the gym, giving up writing, pursuing a more sensible career, and marrying some nice normal man like Jonah to start a family. My mom clearly meant “stop being gay.” That started a screaming match that left me hoarse for two days. I still dutifully call them on holidays and the like, but visits stopped. After five years, though, all the hard work and sacrifice was paying off. I’d had some short stories published in some prominent magazines, I was well-respected as a freelancer, and it was looking like I was going to get my first novel—Hollow Maple—published. It was a modified, much-revised version of my senior thesis. Natalie got a phone call from an editor named H. K. Riley, and he asked me to come in to talk about the book. According to Natalie, face-to-face meetings were rare and a sign of good news. I was excited. I met with the editor at his personal office. It was smaller than I’d hoped (because that meant he was less important than I’d hoped). But the man was really cute. He was clearly in his 30s, but could pass for late 20s in the right lighting. Soap-opera smile with shiny white teeth, dazzling dark brown eyes, well-styled (if over-gelled) black hair, and exquisitely dressed. Of course, the wedding ring on his hand and the picture of the woman holding a baby on his desk told me he was married and straight. When he met me, the editor was shocked that I was such a masculine, muscular man. At about 200 pounds, I was the most muscular writer he’d seen. Well, at least the most muscular writer who wasn’t writing about health and fitness. My dress shirt could not hide my developed pecs and thick arms, and some of my chest hair was visible through the white fabric even though I’d freshly manscaped that morning.. I reached out my hand to shake his, and he shook it politely but tentatively. “Mr. Riley,” I said, greeting him. “Please, call me H. K. Everyone does.” Really? People called him H. K.? “Well then, call me G. P.,” I joked. “Well, G. P., your novel is lovely, but I’d actually thought a woman had written it,” he said. “You wouldn’t be the first female author who published under a man’s name.” “George Sand,” I said. “Exactly,” the editor smiled. That smile was intensely appealing. Man, why did he have to be a married straight guy? “It’s written from a teenage girl’s point of view,” I continued. “So, I guess I did that right.” “We love this novel, we want to publish it, but there are two huge issues with it. Three now that I’ve met you.” I nodded, used to feedback like this, and heart-palpitatingly giddy to hear the words “we want to publish it.” Masking my internal celebrations with cool equanimity, I prompted him to continue. “It has no franchise potential. Teenage girls, who I assume are your target demographic, they like series. When they fall in love with a story, they want it to never end and to stretch over at least three books.” He put his hand on a chapter of my book, which was in front of him. “Your protagonist dies at the end of the novel.” “You’re not asking me to have her live, are you?” “Goodness no,” he said, straightening his tie. “The book would lose all impact. But, if you made her best friend one of two narrators, then the next book could be about her mourning her best friend’s death.” I was impressed. “That could actually work.” “Glad to hear it.” From his desk drawer, he pulled out a copy of my book with sticky notes and handwritten comments. “I’ve marked some of the places where the friend could be the narrator.” I took the book from him. “What’s the second problem?” I asked. “There aren’t any cute boys in this book.” “It’s not a book about romance.” “Nor should it be, but your core audience expects at least one cute boy.” “Well,” I didn’t like this change, but I wasn’t morally opposed to it. “I guess since Cora is now one of the narrators, I could write in some scenes of her with her boyfriend Devon. I never actually described what he looked like, so I could make him a cute boy and expand his part in the novel a little.” “We are going to get along so well,” H. K. said, flashing me his pearly whites again. He reached across the desk to flip open my book to the third page. There was a big note saying, “Expand Devon’s character. Make audience LOVE him.” Having warmed up to me, H. K. spun in his chair like a little boy. “I am seldom this simpatico with first-time novelists.” “What’s the third note?” I said. Then a knot formed in my stomach. “You’re not going to ask me to cut the lesbian character, are you?” “God no. We love Hannah. If this book franchises well, the third book is going to be about Hannah.” I sighed in relief. “That’s a relief. So, what’s the third change?” “Again, I thought you were a woman. Natalie doesn’t normally take on male writers. She calls male authors sex-obsessed, misogynist, alcoholic assholes. Teenage girls aren’t going to buy a book with your picture on it.” “What?” I said, genuinely confused. “Don’t get me wrong. You’re a handsome fellow. We could put you on the cover of a romance novel as the model and the author. Middle-aged women would buy the book in droves. But teenage girls are different. Some of them, the more daring, might buy a calendar or poster with your picture on it, but not a book. Teenage girls wouldn’t trust a book about a dying teenage girl written by an adult man as traditionally masculine-looking as you. If you were a John Green type, we could pitch it. But you’re more of a Samuel Delany, with a smaller beard.” “Delany? So, you figured out that I’m gay.” “Natalie wouldn’t have taken you on as a client if you looked like that and were straight.” I didn’t know how that made me feel about Natalie. “Would you be comfortable publishing this under a woman’s name? We’d have a model pose as you for the author’s photo. We’d call her something like…” H. K. pondered for a second, then said, “Gloria Bowman. Assuming the name’s not taken.” I shrugged. “Sure. As long as the book gets published.” “Excellent.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “But you have such a good look, and such a good author’s name. G. P. Vaughn.” The drumming continued. “At Natalie’s insistence I’ve read your pieces in Glimmer Train and Harper’s. Have you considered writing a book for teenage boys?” “You want me to pitch a book off the top of my head?” H. K. shook his head. “Nothing like that. We have this book—still unfinished—that has been through several authors already.” He opened a drawer, rummaged through some papers, and pulled out a packet half as long as my novel. “The original author dropped out because he couldn’t handle all the feedback. But we still own the book.” Wistfully, he added, “And there’s such great franchise potential.” “And you want me to finish it?” “I want you to completely overhaul it. Make it a G. P. Vaughn original. Could you come back tomorrow and tell me how you’d fix it? I don’t expect anything too involved, just your initial ideas.” This all felt surreal. Too good to be true. “I haven’t had homework in six years, but sure.” “Great,” H. K. made a note on his phone, and then stood up. I stood up too. “It was great to meet you, G. P. I look forward to tomorrow.” I called Natalie and told her about the meeting, and she was thrilled. I expressed my concern at him offering me a second book when I hadn’t even finished the first, and Natalie laughed (so hard that she began hacking). “You’re new, and you’re cheap. And you’ve got the vibe they’re going for. You’d be a schnook not to take the chance. And don’t count your chickens, my boy. The contract for the first book isn’t signed. And they haven’t offered you a second book yet. They’ve offered an audition.” I spent the rest of that day and all of that night intermittently bouncing between four tasks. I spent a good chunk of the day reading and rereading the unfinished novel, and then re-rereading it. It was frustratingly terrible. I spent equally as much time writing copious notes. There was so much to change. So much! On top of that, I spent another good chunk of time texting/chatting with Jonah (and anyone else who would listen) about just how bad the book was. If H. K. thought this shit heap was worth publishing, what did that say about my book? I spent another good chunk of the day just stress-lifting. There was a gym in my building—it was one of the reasons I picked this building. I also kept a membership at a gym/spa downtown. However, I saved the gym in my building for serious workouts, and the spa was mostly to cruise guys in the steam room. For times like this, when I need exercise as a de-stressor, I kept a bunch of free weights in my condo. I don’t think there was one muscle I hadn’t worked out by the time I went to bed. At the meeting the next day, I showed H. K. my notes: half a composition notebook full of them. “You told me not to get too involved, I know, but I’m an all-or-nothing sort of guy. I know it seems like I’m tearing the book down and building it up from nothing,” I said plaintively. “But I’m keeping the combat system. That was one thing the first author nailed perfectly. He seemed more interested in battle terrain and war tactics than the plot or characters. And if you don’t have plot or characters, you don’t have a novel. You have the mechanics for a tabletop RPG.” H. K. snickered, and then continued to look through my notes, occasionally vocalizing his thoughts under his breath. As he finished reading the notes, with a pleased tone, he said, “You gave all the named soldiers, even those who died in the first chapter, backstories. You gave the main character a crippling fear of fire that he has to overcome at the climax. You made the enemy general three-dimensional—he truly thinks exterminating all of humanity is moral. These are all exciting changes.” “Thank you.” H. K. spun back and forth in his chair. “Why did you make half the characters women?” “It’s a dystopic future war that involves robots, zombies, and aliens. The Earth army is so desperate that they’re accepting 14-year-olds as cadets. They’d be recruiting everyone.” H. K. nodded. “And how would you end the first book?” I began manically expounding. “I’ve put a lot of thought into this. Too much thought. There was this passing reference in the book to the Death Knell, the first alien ship that invaded Earth. There were literally two sentences about it. Two, and it was the most interesting thing in the whole book. If we made our main characters’ mission to find and secure the Death Knell, rather than just find and secure any alien spaceship, that would add an element of mystery to the book—what will they find on this ship, one of the few that humans were able to shoot down at the start of the war? Why were humans able to destroy that ship but so few others? Also, the dialogue that President Krixby has, it keeps harping on how innocent and harmless we humans were, how peaceful humans and all of the seven space-faring civilizations were before the war broke out. As the book’s currently written, Krixby’s preaching the gospel truth, but I just found it disingenuous. So, what if, on the Death Knell, we find out that the colonists on Neptune’s moon Triton were the initial aggressors? That’s why the other six space-faring species want to obliterate us. That could be a gut punch of a book ending. And, it sets up a sequel rife with moral quandaries. Humans aren’t innocent victims anymore. Do we Earthlings stand by the colonists and keep fighting an unwinnable war, or do we turn on a group of fellow humans and hand them over to the aliens and try to broker peace? That would also suggest Krixby is a liar, calling our main characters’ blind loyalty to him into question. There’d be factions now. Those loyal to a charismatic defector I’ll make up whole cloth, and those loyal to Krixby. Also, can I change the name Krixby? Please? It just sounds like I’m mispronouncing ‘crispy.’” I stopped talking, a little shamefaced. I’d gotten overly animated during that explanation, and I realized I was leaning over H. K.’s desk. “I’m sold. The book’s yours.” “That simple?” “That simple.” H. K. spun around in his chair again. “Can I publish this one under a pseudonym too?” “Why? I really wanted your picture on the back of the book.” “Books like this are not my cup of tea, really. I have nothing against a book like this; I just don’t want it to be my legacy.” “Fine.” H. K. tapped his index fingers against his desk like they were drumsticks. “Miles Uhler?” “Good a name as any,” I said. “I’ll send the contracts over to Natalie this afternoon. I want to see the revised first ten chapters of Hollow Maple by Sunday, and the revised first five chapters of Death Knell in two weeks.” “You’re calling it Death Knell?” “You said it was the best part of the book.” Then, in a joking tone, he added, “We could always call it President Krixby.” “Death Knell. Works fine.” We shook hands. Over the next six months, I worked closely with H. K. I even met his wife Paula and infant son Oliver at one lunch meeting. Six months later, the book was ready to go to print, and three months after that it would be on shelves, so the company was already promoting them. The whole time, my mind reeled that I was somehow getting two books published at once, even if one of them was under the name Gloria Bowman and the other Miles Uhler. That seemed beyond unlikely. But, sure enough, I soon found myself at a party H. K. was throwing at his unbelievably snazzy apartment. We’d become pretty good work friends, maybe even real friends. This wasn’t a press party or a book release party. It was H. K.’s birthday party. We’d gotten close enough as friends that he invited me to his birthday party. And it was at that party that I met the next man who would radically alter my life. 22 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Popular Post TQuintA Posted August 10, 2021 Author Popular Post Share Posted August 10, 2021 Part 3 – The West California Wild Card Chapter 2 The party was packed with way more people than I thought there’d be. But as I wended my way through the crowd, I soon realized that the only people I knew at the party were Paula and H. K. With nothing else to do, after I said my hello to the hosts, I began scoping out the guys. Unsurprisingly, most of the guys at the party were self-evidently straight. Straight guys tend to congregate in groups, and this was a straight guy’s birthday party. There were some who raised a few eyebrows, a few who pinged my gaydar ever so slightly, but none of them seemed really worth the time and effort it would take to see if they were gay. Then I saw him. More precisely, I saw his ass. He never let me live it down, but the first thing I saw about him was his ripe, luscious, round ass. In my defense, at the moment I first saw him, he was bent at the waist entirely in half, his torso against his legs, his hands stretching down past his feet. So, his ass was front and center. And, when he stood back up, I was thrilled to see the rest of him was just as pleasing as his ass. He was an inch or two shorter than my 6’. His legs were thick and filled his sheer, crimson pants deliciously—the pants just a little too tight for his juicy thighs, scandalously showing off every curve of his lower body. His waist was taut and shapely, his abs clearly prominent through his shirt. His shirt was a daring choice, too. It was a short-sleeve button down: electric blue with white polka dots. But it was a size too small, so it showed off his small but present pecs. His arms were wiry but looked strong, and his hands were expressive, even as he just stood there. In a room where everyone was dressed in California business casual—myself included—his clothes made him stand out in the most enticing way. The more I looked at him, the more I liked. His face was a work of art. His nose was pert and cute. His head was shaved clean. The exposed scalp just begged to be rubbed, kissed, and licked. His eyes were an off-blue. I later learned they were actually grey and tended to take the color of the shirt he was wearing. He had a well-maintained goatee that was a deep black. His lips were red and kissable—he may have even been wearing a tinted lip gloss to draw attention to them. I was stricken immediately. He was standing alone by one of the windows, so I took my opportunity. I walked over to him and extended my hand. “Hey,” I said. “I couldn’t help but see you stretching. Nice to meet you.” After too short of a pause, I added, “Some party, huh?” He shook his head disapprovingly, not turning his body to look at me. “You’ll have to be more original than that.” “Okay. I like a challenge.” I offered him my hand a second time. “Hey. Nice to meet you. What song makes you most nostalgic for childhood?” “Oh. I like that question.” He turned to me with an amused smile and thought about it for a second. “The theme from Peanuts. I hear it, and I want to be five again. And you?” He turned his shoulders to me, clear body language that he wanted to talk to me now. “Five, huh? My kindergarten teacher taught us to sing a bunch of songs from the early 1900s. “Moonlight Bay,” “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” “When Irish Eyes are Smiling.” Any of those makes me want to be five again.” “Solid answers, each, but the question was to name one song.” “I colored outside of the lines a little. I did that when I was five, too.” He smiled wanly. “I take it you don’t know anybody here.” I stepped close enough to him that I could smell his cologne. “Even if I did, I’d want to talk to you.” He put his hand on his chest, his long fingers splayed across. “My, aren’t we laying it on a bit thick?” “As long as I’m not flirting with a straight guy, I’ll lay it on as thick or as thin as you like.” “I’m enjoying thick, but I reserve the right to change my mind.” “Excellent,” I responded. “Do you know anyone at this party?” “Now that I’ve met you, I know everyone at this party. Most of these people are terrible bores.” “Then point me out the people who aren’t.” He pointed at a woman in a magenta pant suit. “That’s Miriam Lloyd. Always call her by her full name. She’s an ad exec at H. K.’s company. As long as she doesn’t start talking about her cat, she is the funniest person at this party.” He pointed at a handsome man with shockingly blue eyes and well-styled blond hair standing next to a taller man with buzzed brown hair who was wearing sunglasses inside. “That’s Dave and his husband Luke. Dave’s a famous TV actor. You might recognize him. I don’t know what Luke does, but they’re charming company, always down for a good time. They’re a package deal, though. You’ll never get one of them alone.” He pointed at two women arguing in a corner. “That’s Lizzie and her sister Janelle. They’re both with the Getty. If you ever wanted to know what it was like to be part of the Algonquin Round Table, invite them over for brunch. But make sure to supply pot and plenty of gin.” He looked around the party. “H. K.’s pretty good company too, but every conversation will eventually come back to his job.” “I’d say you’re pretty interesting,” I commented. “Oh, cliché. That’s strike two, big man. And you were doing so well.” “Why do I feel like I’m auditioning to have a conversation with you?” “Because you are. I’m only here because it’s H. K.’s birthday. As soon as they cut the cake, I’m out the door unless you give me a reason to stay.” “Fair enough.” Then it hit me. “I never asked your name.” “That is the least interesting thing about a person. It was nice meeting you,” he said, and with that, he left me alone at the window. Taking the hint, I began circulating the room, doing my best to mingle. Miriam Lloyd was indeed hysterical, but I bowed out when she mentioned the word “litterbox.” Lizzie and Janelle were fascinating to listen to, but I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. And Dave and Luke had vanished—I assume to find a private place to fuck. After half an hour of trying to fit in at this party, I noticed that the entire couch was suddenly empty, so I grabbed a drink and crashed on the cushion farthest to the right. I sat there for ten minutes, just nursing my drink, when suddenly, I felt a weight in my lap. It was my mystery man. He was sitting in my lap, his lower back pressed into the arm rest I had my right arm on, and his legs stretched out across my legs and onto the couch. This close to his crotch, I couldn’t help but notice that he had a sizeable bulge. “I apologize, Muscles.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Now that I’ve talked to the other people at the party again, I have to admit you were better company than I gave you credit for. But your opening salvo was essentially admitting that you came over to talk to me because you like my ass.” “I do like your ass,” I agreed unabashedly, putting down my drink and placing my left arm over his thighs. “But I also talked to you because you have the best outfit of anyone in this room and looked like pleasant company.” “Good answer,” he said. “And you didn’t even flinch when I jumped into your lap. Yep, Muscles, I think we’re going to be good party companions.” I had to call him something, and at that second, the perfect nickname popped unbidden into my mind. “Well, Puck, I actually liked it when you jumped into my lap.” “And he keeps impressing me,” he said. “I randomly assigned you a nickname, so you randomly assigned me one. Better than the one I gave you. You didn’t go with “Mr. Clean” or some other obvious reference to my shaved head. I’m clearly a fairy. I’m dressed garishly. I’ve kept you on your toes. I have a spritely quality. Puck’s a good nickname. I’ll take it.” “I figure you’d appreciate it.” “Now then. How do you know the birthday boy, Muscles?” I was about to answer, but he put both of his hands over my mouth. “No, wait!” he spouted. “Let me guess. A body like yours? You’re his personal trainer. He’s been on a health kick these past two years.” I shook my head. Puck still had his hands pressed on my mouth, so he guessed again. “There’s a lot of marketing and fashion people here. You’re a model.” I shook my head again. He still had his hands pressed on my mouth. “One more guess, and then I’ll let you tell me.” He pondered for a few seconds. “You exude confidence; you were bold and daring approaching me. And you have no problem talking to strangers.” He was struck with inspiration. “Motivational speaker.” I shook my head again. He brought his hands down to his hips haughtily. “Really? I give up.” “I’m an author. H. K.’s publishing me.” “H. K.’s in fiction—he’s in charge of YA. You’ve written a YA novel?” I nodded. “Technically, I’ve written two.” “He’s publishing two of your books!” “Yes, but under pseudonyms. He’s publishing one of them as Gloria Bowman.” “You’re Gloria Bowman?” Puck asked, his hands flying to his cheeks in surprise. I nodded. “You’ve heard of me?” “All this time I’ve been flirting with Gloria Bowman. You are much hotter in person, Miss Bowman.” “How could you be familiar with me? Gloria Bowman’s first book isn’t even coming out for three months.” “I’ve read the galleys.” “H. K. showed you the galleys?” I was a little shocked that he would do that. “Of course not. They were on the table when I was here for dinner one night. I only read a chapter or two before he noticed and snatched the pages away. What I read made me want to read the rest.” “Thank you.” His tone changed. He was clearly joking, but he did so through faux-sincerity. “With a book that sad, did you have a really depressing childhood?” “Just normal levels of depressing. I went through a Depeche Mode phase. I lost my baby blanket. You know, things like that.” “Oh, she’s quick-witted.” “I’ll have to be to keep up with you.” “What’s the other book? An equally depressing book about a girl, but this time she’s in the foster system and wants to play jazz violin?” “No, but I like that and may steal it.” “Then, what is the other book about?” “It’s called Death Knell.” He slapped my chest hard, interrupting me. “Shut up! I read some of the galleys for that one too. You’re Miles Uhler and Gloria Bowman?” “Don’t tell me you liked that book as well?” “God, no. That book was terrible. It’s ridiculously silly. Robots, zombies, or aliens. Pick one. All three is over-egging the pudding.” “Thank you!” I said. “But it explains why H. K. is publishing two of your books. You saved his neck, Muscles.” “How?” “He’s very, very new in his position of authority. Just eighteen months ago, he was a glorified coffee boy. I exaggerate, but he had nowhere near the clout he has now. Part of his promotion was predicated on him finally publishing that god-awful book his predecessor spent all that money on. They had to buy the rights to this obscure 1970s card game to develop the book, and then it went nowhere. It went through development hell. If he can’t get that book to generate a profit, he’s out on his rear. But no one wanted to write it because it was that bad. It’s toxic. Passed around from person to person to person. You’re a good enough writer, you didn’t know how doomed the book was, and you were willing to do it, and probably on the super cheap.” He stopped and leaned in close to me. Then, he whispered, conspiratorially, “Did he hold Hollow Maple hostage to get you to write Death Knell?” I laughed. “Not really, but if I hadn’t said yes so quickly, he might have.” “I knew it. The bum.” “You know a lot about him. How do you know the birthday boy?” I asked. Then, after a brief pause, added, “Unless you want me to guess.” “Oh, you don’t know?” I shook my head. “Well, it goes hand in hand with my name as one of the least interesting things about me. H. K. calls me E. C. But no one else really does.” “E. C.?” “It’s short for Evelyn Charles.” He held out his hand for me to shake. “Evelyn Charles Riley.” “H. K.’s brother!” I said, taking his hand and kissing the back of it. “The one and only.” “You don’t meet a lot of men named Evelyn. Is it like Evelyn Waugh?” I asked. “No idea who that is. I didn’t know there were any other men named Evelyn. It’s a family name. A family last name at that. A way to keep family history alive and connected to our roots, or something like that. H. K. was named after our mother’s mother’s maiden name. I was named after our father’s mother’s maiden name.” “So, what does H. K. stand for?” “Hammond Kenneth.” “I see why he goes by H. K. The other choice would be Ham.” Then, I added, “Should I keep calling you Puck, or should I call you Evelyn?” “Call me what you want. I have a million names. I’m E. C. to my brother, Evelyn to my parents, Evie to a few ex-boyfriends, Brad when I’m at work, Sasha Goodtime when I’m in drag, and Puck to this deliciously handsome stranger I met at my brother’s birthday party. I answer to all of them.” “Puck it is.” “Good answer, Muscles.” Then, he stopped himself. “Should I still call you Muscles? Or would you prefer Gloria?” “I have a million names too,” I said. “My most recent ex called me Vaughn. A few friends from high school call me Gerry. Some really close friends call me The Repository.” I flexed my bicep. “But I prefer you call me Muscles.” Fuck. I was so deep in the flirting that I’d just let it slip that I was The Repository. “Muscles it is.” Somehow, without getting out of my lap, Puck lifted his left leg and wrapped it behind my shoulders. It was more friendly than an overtly sexual gesture, but he was basically straddling me in the middle of a party. “I am really happy we met.” I looked at the leg draped over my shoulder, and then asked. “Are you a dancer?” “Is that what brother dear told you?” “H. K. didn’t even tell me he had a brother.” “Well, that hurts a little. You’re close enough to get invited to his birthday party, but he doesn’t tell you I exist.” “If you’re not a dancer, what are you?” “I’m a stripper.” I nodded. “That’s why they call you Brad at work. Few women and gay men want to watch an Evelyn strip.” Puck put his head in his right palm and rested that elbow on his knee. “You keep getting more interesting. Most guys, as soon as they learn I’m a stripper, either get all high-horse moral and judgy, or they think I’m easy and make a clumsy pass.” “I’m not most guys.” “No, you are not.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, and took a selfie of us together. I smiled pretty for the camera, and Puck held his head close to mine. “I’ll post this to your Insta if you want.” “Don’t have an Insta. Not really a social media kind of guy.” “Curiouser and curiouser.” He handed me his phone. “Give me your number now.” I gave him my number, and then he grabbed his phone back incredibly quickly. “Sorry, Muscles, they cut the cake.” He kissed me on the eyelid, and then bounced off my lap and onto his feet. “Where are you going? Maybe I could tag along.” “Some other time,” he said. “I guarantee you of that.” He left without giving me his number. 28 2 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Shade Posted August 10, 2021 Share Posted August 10, 2021 Your characters are phenomenal. It feels like so much work has gone into this, and it is appreciated. 4 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TQuintA Posted August 10, 2021 Author Share Posted August 10, 2021 25 minutes ago, Shade said: Your characters are phenomenal. Considering the overwhelmingly positive reaction I got to Flynn, I was honestly terrified to have Flynn dump him and then to introduce Puck. So, thank you for this. 5 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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