Straight Man Gay Two

By Danny Culpepper

How happy can a straight man be living life as a gay man?

Successful multimillionaire Brian Mallory has just acquired a fabulous new boyfriend, television star John Kaiser. He's also acquired an entire "family" of colorful characters that has turned his lonely, monotonous life into one surprising misadventure after another. From a flatulating, one-eyed Chihuahua to a pink tutu'd elf who can't keep his clothes on, the extended Mallory household has more than its share of oddness and eccentricities that keep Brian on his toes.

But as Brian and John begin building a future together, can John stop worrying that Brian might leave him for a woman, or for other reasons? Will Brian's arrogance help him or hinder him as he encounters awkward social situations he'd never experienced as a straight man? And the big question: How will Brian's business associates, old friends and family handle his new orientation?

Even if both men can overcome their personal obstacles to achieve a long-lasting relationship, will someone (or something) create a tragedy that puts the true meaning of "undying love and devotion" to the ultimate test?

Straight Man Gay Two invites you to once again join Brian and John on their humorous, adventurous and sometimes sad journey of falling in love with the wrong person who turns out to be the right person.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Danny Culpepper
• Release date: Jan 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9780984859634

Danny Culpepper

I live in Campbell, California and work for the County of Santa Clara. I love to write humorous stories (with happy endings) about flawed (but endearing) individuals readers can relate to. I think it's a writer's job to produce the highest-quality work because the writer is asking each reader to devote numerous hours to a story. A writer should never waste a reader's leisure time with sub-standard writing. Besides writing, I also enjoy crafting, beadwork, sewing, and any sort of design work. I have two small dogs, two turtles, and a loud cockatoo. I'm highly involved in refurbishing the Lending Library at the Billy DeFrank LGBT Community Center and devote most of my volunteer time to the center.

Book preview

Straight Man Gay Two

Daniel Marion Culpepper

Published by Sherrie Yvonne Johnson at Smashwords

copyright 2013 Sherrie Yvonne Johnson

ISBN 978-0-9848596-3-4

Hero is by the author

French translations provided by WordSharp.net

Professional proofreading services provided by WordSharp.net

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s colorful and vivid imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

This ebook is intended to be purchased, and once you’ve purchased it, it is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It (in whole or in part) may not be re-sold, copied, transferred, or downloaded for someone else’s use. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you received this book and you did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for you, please purchase a legal copy at an online retailer. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author and the author’s work product.

No part of this publication, however small, may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, emailing, or otherwise without written permission from the author. Daniel Marion Culpepper, Danny Culpepper, and D. M. Culpepper are pseudonyms used by the author.

Please visit http://www.straightmangay.com for more information about this book, the French translations, other publications, and to contact the author.

Dedication

To the memory of my beloved Patrick who believed in me and who will always live on in my heart. He deserved more kindness and respect from fellow human beings than he was ever given.

To my mother for all of her encouragement and positive words.

Thanks

It was harder to get this book off the ground than the first one. Many areas of the story required knowledge I didn’t have so I’d like to thank the following people for all of their help: Kevin at Arlen Ness Motorcycles; Kathy at Cruisin’ the Castro Walking Tours; Doctor David Breithaupt MD FACP; the volunteers who keep the National AIDS Memorial Grove pristine; MIS pros: Stephen, Matt, Mike, and Gary; Marty and John of WordSharp.net; Alicia of Robertson Publishing; and my wonderful sister, laughing partner and biggest motivator, Diane.

Disclosure

This is not a stand-alone novel. It continues on from my first book, Straight Man Gay. If you have not read it, you will not understand the significance of people, places, and dialogue in this part of the story because they evolve from events that occurred in Straight Man Gay.

Hero

As the battle raged on

Near Loch Torridon,

He sped to his love’s urgent need.

But the broadsword came down

At the base of his crown

And he fell from his great white steed.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Pbbbffftttt!

Chapter 2: The Power Of Medusa

Chapter 3: Out And About

Chapter 4: Curiosity

Chapter 5: The Snake Pit

Chapter 6: The Button Pusher

Chapter 7: A Little Song And Dance

Chapter 8: Utter Creepiness

Chapter 9: Lifestyle Choice

Chapter 10: T Is For…

Chapter 11: The Long Last Night

Chapter 12: Superman

Chapter 13: We Welcome You With Arms Wide Open?

Chapter 14: The Ultimatum

Chapter 15: Invasion

Chapter 16: The Hills Are Alive With The Sound of…

Chapter 17: Queer Here!

Chapter 18: How!

Chapter 19: C’est Le Destin

Chapter 20: Something Stinks

Chapter 21: The Bad Patch

Chapter 22: Revelations

Chapter 23: Master Of The House

Chapter 24: Pop

Chapter 25: Mere Mortals Cannot Abate The Sheer Magnitude Of Ominous Fate

Chapter 26: The Breath Of Life

Chapter 27: Undying Love

Chapter 1: Pbbbffftttt!

John – September 5

I am an X.

I am the twenty-fourth letter of the alphabet; the most provocative sound in the English language; the supreme connotation of sensuality, eroticism and lust. I have numerous meanings. Across a doorway, I forbid entry. To a pirate, I mark deeply buried treasure of jewels, silver and gold that thousands have died for and thousands more now seek. Depicted as crossed bones beneath a skull, I am poison. I am rendered over closed eyes to symbolize death. In a dark theater, I am voyeuristic pleasure. I am self-gratification, promiscuity, nudity. I am kinky. I am nasty. I am pornographic. I am the ultimate symbol of sexual power. I am an X.

With my head, torso, and limbs exposed, my body is in its most unprotected state—its most vulnerable position. In this way, I gave myself to my boyfriend and trusted him with my offering of complete submission. I yielded to his pounding strength, his rhythmic drive and his never-fading stamina. Then, as usual, I passed out.

So, now I am a groggy X sprawled dead center across this huge bed. My arms and legs are reaching diagonally, stretching, stretching, stretching to the four corners of my patented, motionless, memory foam world, trying to touch my sensuous lover with my fingers or my toes.

Could it be my lover is not here? I turn my head to the left and barely lift my crusty right eyelid. No lover. Pausing momentarily to gather enough strength to continue on my quest, I then turn my head to the right and imperceptibly raise my left eyelid for the briefest second, allowing my unfocused eyeball a fleeting moment to scope the vicinity. Again, no lover.

Well, this is not acceptable. This will not do. This is not the standard operating procedure of our devoted relationship, our binding commitment, our consensual contract. The standard operating procedure calls for my lover to be in the bed, preferably holding me, when I regain consciousness. We’ve discussed this many times. My lover is well aware of the undivided attention this X requires after sex. My lover has failed in the discharge of his duties. My lover must be adequately bitched at, but first… my lover must be found.

Brian? The instant that word passes my dry lips I know the feeble squawk isn’t loud enough to travel out the bedroom doorway and down the hall. I’ll have to perform the arduous, undesirable task of lifting my sleepy head off the pillow for better amplification. Brian!

Hang on. I’m coming back. I just wanted some tea, drifts back to my eardrums.

Succumbing to total exhaustion, I let my heavy head flop back down into its plush eiderdown cradle. God, that was draining! I’ll forgive his act of thoughtlessness if he brings me a cup of tea. I’ll pinch him if he doesn’t. That again, is the standard operating procedure and the wrath of a now fully conscious X who has been abandoned when he should have been cuddled.

I wiggle my toes and smile. At least he cleaned me up. I’m always flat on my back, smelling fresh and facing the skylight with legs spread wide if he’s cleaned me up.

I hear his footsteps. Did you bring me some tea?

Yes, love.

Thank you.

He settles into the bed. You’re welcome.

Blind as a bat because I refuse to open my eyes when I first wake up, I reach out with my fingers to touch his…his terry robe? Oh, no! We will have none of that! Robe off, please.

My lover knows I never allow clothes in bed and he immediately complies with my gentle request. I reach out again and my fingertips are met with warm, firm external oblique. I let my fingertips travel sideways to find the rectus abdominis which I trace to the lowest point of the pubic bone. I am in search of his massive warm penis and the fancy terminology I’ve picked up from my weekly massage class makes locating it that much more pleasurable. I bury my fingers in his tangled pubic hair, so very close now to my target, the corpus cavernosum. The moment I touch that lovely thick dick I’m at peace with the world and I smile. Mmm.

With eyes still closed, I pucker up for a kiss… and feel nothing. I clear my throat and pucker up again. His lips find mine and I am in Heaven, tasting the sweetness and the spearminty, cavity-fighting freshness of my loving, caring boyfriend the way I have a thousand times before. No matter how many times I kiss him, it always feels the same: powerful, intense and full of burning desire.

Still blind and now sweating a little, I crawl to him; the X, with horny juices flowing, now becoming a parasite; a mollusk that will adhere to the side of his muscular body, stroke his penis, and beg him to cancel his meetings and spend the day making passionate, earth-shattering love to me.

No, he says, holding out my tea. Open your eyes and take your cup.

I release his penis and do as I’m told. It was a rough night and I really need the caffeine this morning.

I have to drive out to Lilting and check on some properties. I’ll be gone all day, and no, you cannot come with me. You have rehearsals in the morning and your class in the afternoon. Do you want to drive or do you want Jack to take you?

I lean back against his chest and sip my tea as I contemplate his rather prickish authoritative attitude and whether a small tantrum would be worth the effort this early in the morning. Probably not. I’m too exhausted to expend the energy it would take, and as Papa Brian always says, a tantrum lacking voluminous energy is nothing more than an embarrassing, puerile fit that makes me look like a wee tike being forced to eat his cabbage. Besides, we’re going to spend more time learning how to massage the pelvic region today and that is my most favorite region. The decision is made: I’ll drive.

I snuggle into his side to enjoy what little time I have with him before we start our busy day. I look up into his eyes. We need to get our dog tomorrow.

Ah. Can we put that off just one more day?

No, Brian. We’ve moved the date too many times now. I sip my tea petulantly as only a talented actor can do. I’m beginning to think you don’t want a dog.

That’s not true. If you want a dog, then I want a dog, but I have to meet with Lars to go over the new sales projections.

Yeah, right. I’m getting ready to turn petulance into pouting puss. I do a great pouting puss because I can push out my lower lip and scowl like a bulldog.

It’s the truth. You know how eager he is, how motivated he’s become. His business is taking off and I want to make sure he has whatever backing he needs so he doesn’t get scared.

Why would he get scared if things are going well?

He’s a designer, not a businessman. The financial part of it baffles him. He gets terrible migraine and Vidal thinks he’s developing an ulcer. I want to introduce him to Simon. I think they can work together and right now, with the Rittersby property still in escrow and Robert gone, Simon needs more things to keep him busy. Lars can stick to designing and Simon can deal with the finances and marketing.

I attempt to engage his guilt. "But it was our day, Brian. It was our day to get our dog. We were going to do this as a couple; a bonding moment that would bring us closer."

I know, but I can’t go tomorrow, love, and I know this is important to you. Why don’t you go on your own and pick out one you want? I trust your judgment completely.

You do? Seriously? I’m pissed that he doesn’t want to go, but I’m beyond flattered that he entrusts me with such an important decision, one that will affect the next several years of our lives.

Absolutely. You have impeccable taste, John.

I think about that for a moment. I do, don’t I?

You most certainly do. I trust you to bond alone. He bends to give me another gentle kiss. And I’m sure you’ll pick the perfect addition to our loving household.

Brian – September 6

I have no idea what the hell just tumbled out of the open hatch of the pet carrier because if that’s a dog, then I’m a bloody peacock. I need to rethink my choice of words the next time I tell John I trust his judgment because I’m almost speechless. So… this is our dog? What breed is it, exactly?

He dumps a bag of supplies (dog food, bowls, leash, blankets and garish toys) near the door and shrugs off his coat, as the beast rights itself and then attempts to keep itself upright on the slick wood floor. Isn’t she just the cutest thing you’ve ever seen? Erma says she’s a purebred, not-quite-long-haired Chihuahua. She’s from a very distinguished pedigree but her papers got lost.

I look down, dumbstruck, at his proud animated face and then I stare at the entity trembling before us. Really? I’m wondering what distinguished pedigree could have possibly hatched this speckled freak of nature that surely would have been aborted had someone paid closer attention to what was emerging. Is it growling, John?

I don’t think so. Erma says she has a small respiratory infection like asthma or bronchitis. He holds up a plastic bottle and gives it a shake. She gave me these pills for the phlegm.

Good. That’s good, love. I turn back to the creature trying its best to pass for a dog, and scrutinize it. There’s not much to it: a little patchy skin with a few tufts of hair here and there, some tiny, shaking bones that serve as legs, a pathetic excuse for a tail, huge ears—and one bulging eye. Is it always going to keep its left eye closed like that?

Actually, she lost it a while ago in a freak accident involving a cactus so her lid was sewn shut. It’s all healed, though. It just weeps a bit now and then with some brownish goo.

Oh, brown goo. That’s interesting. And um, its back. Is that normal?

She was born with a bit of spinal damage so she’ll always be a little hunched and she’ll lean to the left, but Erma says she’s not in any pain. It’s just slightly crooked, and she may walk in circles until she gets her bearings, but she should straighten out in a day or two.

Hmm. And the bowed legs…?

Yeah, those are deformed too, but there’s no pain and she can walk and run just fine. Erma says she has a great appetite, he volunteers, grasping for something positive to say about the one-eyed, phlegm monster.

I stare harder at this microscopic lump of flaky skin, patchy hair and brittle bones, trying to find something—anything—positive to say about it, too. Um, there’s a certain… effluvium coming from it, isn’t there?

He gives me a look that’s both crestfallen and shocked. You think she stinks?

Of course not, love. Stink? No, definitely not. I just… Well, there’s a tiny, pungent, yeasty essence emanating from it, isn’t there?

That’s probably from her rash. It’s just a skin condition, like mange. Erma gave me a cream that will clear it up in no time at all, and a head cone she can wear so she doesn’t lick it off.

Good for Erma. She’s on the ball. I’m sure everything is fine.

As we stand in the entryway, watching the alien canine that’s staring right back at us with its one big eye, a small pbbbffftttt breaks the silence. The alien turns to look at its rear end.

Okay, it farts, too. That’s great.

You don’t like her, do you? You hate her. You hate everything about her.

There is no way I will look down into those deep blue eyes in that sad, forlorn face and tell the love of my life I despise this teeny-tiny, embarrassing, smelly creature he is so proud of. I think she’s perfect, John. I think she’s exactly what we were looking for. I’m happy she’s ours.

He gives me a squeeze. I’m so glad you’re okay with her. He looks up into my face, beaming with joy. You know, when I saw her I said to myself, ‘She’s absolutely adorable. She’s just darling. Brian will love her.’

You see? I said you have impeccable taste.

He rests his head on my shoulder, happy and excited. What will we name her? Erma said they called her Betty at the shelter but I don’t like that name. It’s too fuddy-duddy. Besides, she’s almost deaf so it doesn’t matter if we change it.

It’s deaf, too? This creature just gets better and better. Another pbbbffftttt flies out of the alien’s ass, reminding me of someone else who continuously broke wind. Why don’t we name her Carol?

John lifts his head and gives me an evil glare.

It was just a little joke, I soothe.

Well, I guess I wouldn’t mind something like that, but only because I stole you away from a beautiful woman—who was a shrew. What about ‘Lexy?’

Our newly acquired, asthmatic, one-eyed, spinal-damaged, bow-legged, practically deaf, smelly, farting, not-quite-long-haired, purebred Chihuahua is newly christened Lexy. John is happy and that means I’m happy.

With the initial introductions over, we spend the next few days trying to stay out of Lexy’s way because it seems small, one-eyed dogs with a few sharp teeth and poor vision want to explore their surroundings independently, and they have a tendency to snap at anything that comes near them. That includes fingers, hands, wrists, arms, toes, heels and ankles. The worst place to encounter the vicious beast is the hallway. It’s nearly two meters wide and still, two grown men find themselves high-stepping and jumping as fast as they can to stay away from a quarter-stone, stinky, snapping devil-rodent with pointy teeth and zero depth perception. The fact that we haven’t been able to herd her back into her crate means we probably have to get used to dodging her whenever we come across her, especially when she’s under our bed—which seems to be her favorite stronghold when contemplating a surprise attack on feet. Our only forewarning is the sound of her toenails on the wooden floors, and while she might very well have a respiratory infection, I swear that creature is actually growling at us.

She does have one redeeming quality: Erma said she’ll use a litter box for crapping and peeing and thankfully, she does.

John spends numerous evening hours trying to play with her, but how do you play with a dog that’s dwarfed by all of her toys, can’t see well enough to fetch anything and doesn’t have enough strength to initiate a tug-of-war? I feel sorry for him as he crawls around on his hands and knees, trying unsuccessfully to catch her interest with a variety of items that squeak, rattle or hold globs of nut butter. Observing the sad scene from over the top of my book, his efforts are heartbreaking to watch because he truly loves this little aloof thing and he’s giving it everything he has. This wasn’t the relationship he expected with our new dog. He had really wanted to bond with her.

Success is finally achieved one night when, after an exhaustive bout of enthusiasm, he gives up in frustration and sits cross-legged on the floor with his back against the wall to pout. Lexy, sensing a lack of his undivided attention and non-stop fawning, looks up at him with a gaze of canine pity, climbs into his lap, curls up into a tiny ball, farts a few times, and falls asleep. Having finally achieved a victory, he sits there for two hours, so as not to disturb her snoring slumber. When I finally convince him to wake her up and stand up, it takes me another fifteen minutes to rub out his cramped leg muscles and slap the numbness from his butt, but he doesn’t mind; he’s finally bonded with his beautiful baby.

***

Busy preparing her breakfast (from a twenty-five quid gourmet dog food cookery book), John warns loudly from the kitchen, "Now remember: She’s never to be let out onto the balconies and decks until we get guards installed around the bottom rails."

I’m barely paying attention as I read my newspaper, lounging on one of the sofas with my big feet propped up on an ottoman, out of harm’s way. Yes, love.

He sets down her meal and a small bowl of water on a rubber mat. I’m serious, Papa. She fits under that lower railing and she’ll fall right off the edge and into the river. She’ll drown.

That sorry bag of bones will probably die the second she hits the water, I mumble as I turn the page.

Pardon?

Nothing, love. I promise I’ll be careful. No Lexy on the balconies or decks. Absolutely not. Understood.

Chapter 2: The Power Of Medusa

Brian – September 9

There is one thing I must remember when I make a promise to John without paying attention to what he’s saying: My big ass will be pounded, coarsely chopped, well-seasoned and fed through a grinder if I break that promise. My word is everything to him and if I stray from it or babble something out of casual indifference and boredom, he will swiftly end my life.

***

It’s Friday night and, as usual when John doesn’t have an evening performance, he and the lads are going out to a club. While John and I share several social activities, the nightclub scene isn’t one of them. I’ve never felt comfortable in crowded spaces with strangers. I have a history of mild agoraphobia and the attachment to a celebrity boyfriend hasn’t improved my condition. That’s why I rarely even appear at the most low-key fundraisers or charity events. When I do, I head for a far corner or the back wall or sometimes (depending on the atmosphere), I pull out my mobile to ring Jack, and head straight for a back door without breaking stride.

If I compare those undesirable social functions to wading through a dark, noisy club, swarming with hundreds of people staring up at me (most of them single and on the prowl), I can’t even fathom lasting more than a few minutes before my anxiety kicks in.

We tried it just once a week ago. I agreed to meet John for a drink at one of his favorite nightclubs after a late business meeting in Croydon. I had no idea it was Hard Body Night. If I had known that, I never would have consented. Squeezing my way through that sea of half-naked, overly-cologned, and sexually aroused male bodies got my lower half nothing less than poked, grabbed, groped, and rubbed harder than a genie’s lantern. I was mauled by everything ranging from hands and thighs to asses and pricks. By the time I found John and the lads stationed behind the frenzied dance floor, I felt quite violated, extremely pissed off, and found eight slips of paper with names and phone numbers (one thoughtfully scribbled on a sealed condom) shoved into my back pockets. Luckily for me, the blatant fondling was bestowed upon me everywhere I went. My solitary trip to the toilet instigated the fastest act of urination I’ve ever performed in my life. I felt as if I was the only bloke using the facilities for their intended purpose. I’ve never seen so many mirrors at odd angles outside a carnival funhouse.

On every level, I was out of my element and my comfort zone, and clutching John’s hand as a small security blanket gave me only a modicum of reassurance that everything would be all right and I would survive this unsettling situation.

The hardest thing to deal with was the staring: a veritable sea of hungry eyes trying to make contact and send an explicit message; to hook up, as they say. While John and the lads easily ignored it, I couldn’t. It was difficult to know where to cast my gaze so I wouldn’t catch someone’s eye. I didn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression by accidentally acknowledging a wink, a wave, a smile or a blown kiss.

How do you convey to hundreds of brazen gay, horny men that even though you’re in a gay nightclub you’re not, in any way, attracted to them or looking for a piece of ass or a blow job? I spent most of my miserable hour of discomfort looking down at my left hand holding my scotch glass and my right hand holding John’s hand. Escaping that pleasure dome of barely restrained testosterone and sliding into the safety of my limo was pure relief. When John suggested we do it again sometime, I confessed to being miserable with every minute of it. He confessed, too: It was a test to see if there was the slightest possibility I would be aroused by other men. I assured him that arousal was definitely not what I felt toward the men in that club.

We both agreed the gay nightclub scene was not for me and felt very satisfied with that. Even so, he made damned sure I tore up every single phone number. But not wanting to seem wasteful or unappreciative, we did use the complimentary condom when we got home. It was top shelf, too; heavily ribbed for maximum stimulation! Thanks, Rupert!

***

I open the front door and Prissy bursts through it like a jettisoned torpedo—a scrawny torpedo, with his rickety legs pumping hard and aimed straight for the sliders.

TOURIST BARGE! OUTTA MY WAY!

He’s followed closely by a trotting Ben and I begin my warning: Ben, don’t let—

I know, I know, he says as he passes by. He can moon the bloody barge all he wants but don’t let him fall off the damned balcony because you won’t pay to have his pink ass plucked out of the river.

Jeff is next and, as always, hits me with one of his cheeky quips. Nice jeans, honey. Love the holes. Rough and tough. Very eighties.

As with most of his harmless prattling, I let it go. So where are you off to tonight? Which club has the honor of your royal presence for the next three hours?

Snatch Moe’s, I think. He glares at Martin just coming through the door. "I wasn’t consulted about anything, just told what to wear."

Martin walks past him and collapses into one of the living room sofas. Let it go, man. I didn’t tell you what to wear. I just told you to get your ass moving and pick something.

Oh, yeah, right! And—

Hey, hey, hey. No fighting. Not tonight. Tonight is special. John hurries out from the bedroom, eager to smother any quarreling before it turns into an argument and eager to spring his big surprise. I have someone I want you all to meet and you need to be in a happy mood so she doesn’t get scared.

Martin looks at me. Oh, Jesus. You finally got him a dog?

"He didn’t finally get me a dog. We…We finally got our dog. I picked her out all by myself."

Martin stands up, plants a grin on his face and folds his arms across his chest. You picked it out… alone? This, I’ve gotta see.

John is definitely insulted by Martin’s words and I should tell him to belt up, but once he sees that mongrel—once they all see it—John is going to need a lot of soothing because they’re going to laugh until they piss.

Don’t be so mean. She’s a cute little thing. She’s adorable, isn’t she Brian? He peeks around the living room here and there, crouching down, making kissing noises and calling out her name: Lexy, Lexy. Come on, girl! Come on, sweet baby!

No Lexy.

He looks under the sofas, the club chairs, the big console to the left of the fireplace, and then the one on the right. Come on, little girl. Don’t be afraid. Come out and meet everyone, darling.

Still no Lexy.

He stands upright, hands on hips, and ponders. Well, she was here a minute ago.

Maybe she’s in the library, John.

He pads off down the hallway to the library and comes back a few minutes later. No, she’s not in there and all the other doors are closed. She’s not under our bed or in the dressing room, either.

She’s probably hiding in a new place.

Prissy, flush faced and followed by Ben, marches in from the balcony. Clearly, his mooning performance was a success, garnering accolades from his captive river audience. Who’s hiding?

Martin is still grinning as he walks over to me. "They got a dog. Brian let Johnny pick her out—alone."

John lays a look on him that could sear a hole through his forehead but then turns his attention once again to finding his little Lexy by checking the kitchen, pantry, wine closet, and then finally returning to us. That’s strange. I don’t know where she could be.

Now, at this precise moment, Martin and I are standing next to each other just inside the entryway, facing the living room with our backs to the front door. The lads, including John, are (more or less) standing in front of us and facing us with their backs to the living room. Also at this precise moment, my twenty-twenty vision zeroes in on Lexy’s pale, skeletal body toddling across the living room’s east balcony—outside! Martin sees her, too—just as John starts to turn around.

"Johnny!" he shouts.

Scared shitless, John and the lads jump in fear. Wha—what? What’d I do?

Martin smiles uncomfortably. Nothing, man. I just… I don’t think that shirt looks good on you.

Everyone looks at John’s shirt with extreme interest, especially Martin and me. He’s right, love. I have to agree. The color is too…

It’s too bright! Yeah, that’s it. It’s too bright. You’re kind of pasty, you know?

As John studiously stares down at his shirt, I have never before appreciated his peculiar pickiness and vanity regarding clothes until now—or his apparent inability to remember that I’ve never noticed what the hell he was wearing in the past. He runs his hands over the fabric. You think so? Should I change?

I nod vigorously. Yes! Oh, yes. Most definitely. You need to change right now!

Martin points down the hallway. You guys go with him.

Jeff looks at him as if he were a crazy man. Who are we, Tim Gunn? He’s a big boy. He can change his own damned shirt.

Well, yeah. But you can help him pick out a better color, right?

Time has never passed more slowly than those few moments trying to convince three vain, gay men to go into a dressing room and help another vain, gay man pick out a different shirt. You wouldn’t think it would be that hard of a task. Once we finally do get them down the hallway, we have no idea what to do about the dog still happily prancing about on the balcony. Aside from a few hysterically whispered phrases consisting of, Holy shit! Bugger me! and, Fucking sod all! How the hell did her ass get out there?, we don’t even come up with a plan of action before the lads are back in front of us, begging for approval of the too-quickly-changed shirt. It’s clear we have to get them out of the flat as soon as possible.

I’m starting to sweat as the cumbersome exodus to the front door begins, and helping them on with their coats without letting them turn around is a bloody nightmare.

Two steps from the door, Jeff looks up at Martin. You’re not coming with us?

No, I’m uh, staying here. We’ll probably just argue about something stupid so I’ll shoot some billiards with Brian.

Jeff is crushed by the words but I’m grateful for Martin’s sacrifice as I rush to help everyone get their butts out the door and into the atrium. My final hug from John leaves me with a pick ax piercing my heart as I look over his shoulder and helplessly watch as Lexy wanders to the far railing, peers out at the view, lifts her nose and sniffs the air, then wanders under the railing and tumbles over the edge of the balcony. Oh, God! The unthinkable has just happened. I close my eyes and squeeze John tightly.

Hey, big Papa, easy on the hug. I’ll only be gone a few hours. No need to crack my ribs and squish out my innards.

I release my grip and kiss his forehead, hoping he doesn’t notice my trembling lips. Sorry, love. I want you to have a nice time; okay? I want you to really enjoy yourself tonight and…and be happy.

He gives me a puzzled look and glances at Martin as if to say, I’m about to leave you with a nutter. Please take good care of him. He smiles up at me. Um, okay. See you two later. When you find Lexy, give her a snack.

As soon as the door closes, we bolt for the sliders, even though it’s hopeless and John’s baby is long gone. We run to

Reviews for Straight Man Gay Two

[Kathryn Perez · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

excellent story. not just raunchy, but romance and class. the end was abrupt, but gave me the biggest smile. I would love to read more about the quirky, gay, straight and otherwise characters!

[Sarena · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

This book did not go all the way to the end!!