Cupcakes

By R.W. Clinger

David Miles and Richter Layover are young lovers from West Hollywood who move to Snowden to open a liberal and fun bakery called Cupcakes. What follows is a string of extraordinary men who enter their lives and change their matrimony and the bakery forever.

Realtor Anthony Jarr, handsome and alluring, who lives above Cupcakes and considers himself an exceptional lover. When he meets Ryan Glayson, a professional cellist with a relentless urge for sweets, Jarr falls in love for the first time, turning his life into a topsy-turvy spin of surprising romance and selflessness.

The magnetic and strange Stefan Pavlov is one of Cupcakes' regulars. Although he comes across as being sweet and charming, he has secrets that are quite damaging, which are exposed during a heated summer along the lake. Erich Misslow, a part-time employee at Cupcakes, becomes enamored with Pavlov, who is almost three times his age. Erich has always enjoyed the company of older men, but does Pavlov have too much peculiar baggage to share?

Cupcakes also draws in Ken Eclipse, a charming underwear model with a taste for sweet men and sultry sex. Eclipse searches for Mr. Right like a slice of cinnamon cake for his appetite and personal needs. Can he find the man of his dreams at Cupcakes, or will he forever be single, enjoying the bakery's treats alone?

These employees, friends, and lovers combine together with their individual recipes of bliss and loss, and the little bakery called Cupcakes comes to life as the sugary flavor of a gay neighborhood along the lake bursts into life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: May 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781611525670

R.W. Clinger

R.W. Clinger is a resident of Pittsburgh. He has a degree in English from Point Park University of Pittsburgh. His writing entails gay human studies, and includes the novels Just a Boy, Skin Tour, Skin Artist, Soft on the Eyes, Pool Boy, and The Last Pile of Leaves. He has published many stories with Starbooks Press as well as The Weekender, a novella with Dreamspinner Press. His gay mystery, Cutie Pie Must Die, is published with Bold Stroke Books. For three years he has held the position of managing editor for the literary magazine, The Writer’s Post Journal. For more information, please visit rwclinger.com.

Book preview

Part 1: Richter and David

Chapter 1: Something Sweet Called Life

This tale is about love, tragedy, thrills, and a mix of sweets. I just want to get that off my chest here and now. It’s a compilation of romance stories among interesting men of various ages. Some of the connected stories are warm and fuzzy while others proclaim sadness and hardship. But each takes place around a bakery in downtown Snowden, Pennsylvania called Cupcakes, the place where my love and passion existed at its fullest. My home away from home that was built on the recipe of the men who passed through its doors—its employees, patrons, villains, and passersby—those are the people who made Cupcakes rise like yeast and fill my life. Those men were my world and my delight.

* * * *

Snowden was small in size but had a lot of zest. Its population was around 1900 and the town was bumped against Erie to its west. Snowy Branch Beach lined Lake Erie on its upper side. Brushton Creek Forest spanned its lower side, and various smaller Pennsylvania towns garnished its east side, none of which I wish to discuss in these pages. Houses lined the parallel streets, all of which were filled with happy middle-class families with Christian values and New England-like manners. It was a peaceful place with next to no crime, abundant with queers, and one of the most liberal places on the planet.

Rather Street was the center of town. Small businesses lined its sidewalks. Above these pleasures were its many apartments, which reminded one of big city life with a sprinkle of charm. Cupcakes sat near the north end of Rather Street, next to the lake. It was a three-floor brick building with parking in the rear, a haunted basement, and two queens who owned and operated the place.

I was one of the queens: David Miles. And my partner in the baking business was Richter Layover, a pop tart with blond locks, surprising blue eyes, and a body to die for. He was a Georgia peach and I had loved him for ten challenging years when this tale started. We were an odd couple of sorts since I’m black as coal with dark blue eyes and a jaw that could open cans of almonds. We were both thirty then, mature, monetarily thriving because of Cupcakes’ substantial business, and not at all unhappy in our gay marriage. Richter came from loads of cash since his father owned a few banks in Georgia. He refused to use his gifted money for our lives, though. Instead, the grands piled up in one of his daddy’s banks in an account with both of our names on it, and established a healthy retirement fund.

I was parentless, but not brotherless. Darvon, my older brother by seven years, lived in downtown Erie with his wife and three daughters. He taught chemistry at a private college. His wife, Viviana Jackson, was a writer at the time, specializing in children’s books. Our parents died when we were little boys and we went from one foster home to the next until Darvon turned eighteen. He met Viviana then and her parents took us into their lives, and we’ve been surrogate children ever since, and happy. I’m not saying that my brother married his sister, because they aren’t even remotely related. I’m just saying that we were loved by Julian and Mezda Jackson, Viviana’s parents, and are still loved to this day as their own children.

Enough about me, though. The bakery called Cupcakes is our concern.

There was a special for the day on apricot strudel that you need to know about. It was buy one, get one free and the bakery was running out of the delight fast. The sign in the front window indicated as much. I suggest you feel free to enter through the bakery’s two front doors, smell the sweet smells, take in the glass cases filled with your favorite breads and baked goods, and try a slice, piece, sliver, or crumble of something sweet called life and happiness.

* * * *

Chapter 2: Bottom Boy

Most of the money to build Cupcakes came from Richter’s adult film days in West Hollywood. That’s where we met. I was a copy boy and he an actor. He started in the business at age eighteen and worked as a bottom boy for the next eight years. Of course we were involved for six of those years during that almost-decade, but I didn’t mind his career choice. Most men or husbands would have hit the roof with rage, but I thought it hot as hell, sexy, and not at all a threat to our relationship.

A few things led me to such an opinion. One, I wasn’t jealous of his sexual flings. Two, I didn’t care who was sucking Richter’s cock or doing his bottom because I knew with the deepest passion of my heart that he loved me. Three, I was the guy he came home to after his performed scenes. Four, he loved me to the fullest, claiming me an understanding saint and the best lover in the world, better than any top he had shared time with in front of a West Hollywood camera. Five, I regarded his sexual antics with other porn stars a total turn on. My bottom boy in our relationship was an aphrodisiac for me. Anytime a chiseled jock, police officer, mechanic, blue collar worker, military dude, daddy, or clergyman nailed his behind in a DVD movie was relentless bliss for me. I’d be a liar to say I didn’t enjoy watching my lover being banged by his well-built coworkers. Richter’s play on film was eye-awakening and dick-hardening for me, which he was very much aware of, and never judged me for.

So the money for Cupcakes came from the Bottom Boy and his professional dick-days in California. But the bakery wasn’t all his, even if he paid for it in cash. My name was on the business and I owned fifty percent of its sweets. Whatever belonged to me in our relationship was his, and vice versa. Maybe this is why we were still involved.

One thing about queer porn stars, no matter how old they were or how they used their dicks, viewers never knew what their hobbies were off camera. Some liked NASCAR and others played touch football on Saturday mornings. Some men might have liked coffee, played in a band, or wrote poetry while Richter enjoyed baking. Hence, Cupcakes was born. Richter baked everything he could when he wasn’t in front of the camera. He had a passion for baking: cakes, breads, pies, brownies, tarts, and cupcakes. You named it and he baked it.

And while he baked, I attempted to apply my business degree from UCLA. I knew numbers, tax forms, and how to create a small business. I comprehended supply and demand as if it were elementary addition. I understood a business proposal and attempted many on paper. That is what I did before Cupcakes came to life in Snowden. After my copy boy position in the adult industry, I worked at a small corporation called Business Pros for Life in West Hollywood. Our clients were gay, loaded with the green, and hired me to do start-ups for their individual businesses, which included high-end restaurants, hair salons, queer bars, laundromats, home interiors, and knickknack shops.

Amen to West Hollywood for Richter’s flesh-career and my degree from UCLA. That was the beginning to our own business, and all our happiness. Cupcakes was in the making, and neither of us realized it.

* * * *

Chapter 3: Head East, Young Men

What drew us East? Rather, who drew us East? That is the question to ask how Richter and I went from living in California and ended up in Pennsylvania. I blame Anthony Jarr. How couldn't I?

That delicious jock was a friend from my childhood: grade school through high school. When I decided to apply at UCLA to obtain a degree in business, and eventually moved to the sunny state of California, Jarr became lost and had a semi-nervous breakdown. Our friendship didn’t fall apart, though. Instead, it only grew stronger. The thirty-one year old with red-hair and fern-green eyes, was a hottie with his model-like body and survived his breakdown. He worked for his real estate license, and turned into one of the leading realtors in northwestern Pennsylvania. Such a career prompted him to call me two years ago while Richter and I were living and working in California.

Jarr woke me from a nap and said, There’s a property you have to look at here in Snowden.

Snowden by the lake? Snowden in Pennsylvania? I was groggy and thought I was dreaming.

Yes, that Snowden. The same small town where we lost our virginity at sixteen.

He lost his to an older gentleman by the name of Clide Costing, although I called him Clide Accosting because he practically raped Jarr. I lost my boyhood innocence to a high school swimmer named Robert Meldershon. Both stories were different and happened in opposite seasons, but each transpired in Snowden inside the dirty bathroom stalls at the Snowden Movie Complex.

Anyway, those sexual tales are only for the strong. Let me get back to Jarr and why he called me in California.

Why should I look at a property in Snowden?

Because Richter and you want to open a bakery, right?

He knew that we did, since I talked about it with him all the time via Facebook, e-mail, and text. Richter wanted something with a classical look and I wanted a cheap place that we could afford. Tell me more and cut to the cake.

You mean chase. Cut to the chase.

No, I said, cake.

He ignored me, which I didn’t blame him for. The Hostetter Building is for sale in Snowden. Do you remember it?

Yes, I did. The swimmer who had taken my virginity had lived above the Hostetter Pharmacy, inside one of its two apartments. No longer was the pharmacy there, or the two apartments. The place had sat empty for the last five or so years since Mr. Edwin Hostetter passed away from emphysema. Hostetter had willed the property to his thirty-something year old son who lived in Stockton County, Oklahoma, but the cowboy didn’t want anything to do with it. Instead, Mr. Oklahoma decided to put a For Sale sign on the building and its rear parking lot, which Jarr insisted that Richter and I take advantage of, claiming, Another opportunity in Snowden will not come up for years. This is yours for the taking. Don’t think otherwise.

What our conversation entailed was life-changing. The price of the building was just right and Richter and I had decided that the once-pharmacy on the first floor would work perfectly for Cupcakes. We could live on the second floor apartment and rent out the third floor apartment. Other aspects of a move from West Hollywood to Snowden included: Snowden needed a bakery, Richter’s days in the porn industry were limited, and he and I could be with my brother, his family, and my best friend Jarr again. The plan and move was cost effective, but it was a risk. Richter and I just weren’t moving to a different state to live, we were changing jobs, lifestyles, and blowing up our worlds with new drama.

I would have done it all the same way because everyone involved won: Jarr with the sale of the Hostetter Building, Richter because he could bake for a living and be with his family, and I got to keep Richter, gained my relationship with Jarr back, and was the proud owner of a bakery called Cupcakes.

* * * *

Chapter 4: Grand Opening

Cupcakes … is to die for, according to food editor, Wayne Rightsville, of the Snowden Post. If you want something yummy, serious, or teaspoon-perfect, drop by the place and try anything!

Wayne wrote a fabulous review of the bakery before it opened for business, which pleased Richter and I. He mentioned the original Tiffany windows over the front doors, the mahogany floor that squeaked when