The Bright Gay Seas: A Gay Pirate Romance

By Guy New York

A swashbuckling gay erotic romcom about finding your place in the world...

When Matthew’s father catches him in the hayloft with the chandler’s son, there’s only one thing to do: sell him to the pirates! But once he steps foot on board The Queen’s Revenge, Matty realizes everything is not as it seems.
As they set sail to plunder the Caribbean, the black sails are pulled down, the pirates wash up, and soon they’re flying under the rainbow flag of Captain Swallow, the most fearsome (not to mention gayest) pirate in the history of pirates.
Onboard, Matty quickly finds himself falling for his new companion, Timmy The Twink, but love is never as easy as it should be. Tossed between battles at sea, a romantic marooning during a storm, and a vicious battle with Captain Breeder, the two lovers must endure and persevere if they are to find true love.
In this delightfully spirited and often hilarious romantic romp, you’ll discover the golden age of piracy in a new and far more colorful light than ever before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Shorts
• Release date: Aug 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781094412573

Guy New York

Guy New York is a bestselling erotica author, designer, and degenerate who spends most of his time either writing about sex or having it. Sometimes he does both at the same time, much to the chagrin of his partners. With more than 75 titles to his name — including four full-length novels, ten novellas, and numerous short stories — his books have been widely read and often burned. Visit his author site at www.guynewyork.com.

Book preview

Chapter One: Pirate Booty

A drunk father and a dead mother don’t sound like a good start to a love story. Their relationship failed for a number of reasons — death being the big one — so what did I know about love? I grew up dreaming of another life where things might somehow work out, but what that might look like was a mystery to me. How could I, a lonely oyster boy from the small port town of Shitsville, know anything of life?

But that ain’t the point, I guess.

It ain’t about what I knew or didn’t know and it sure ain’t about my dead ma. For better or worse, it does start with my dad, though: the aforementioned drunk who liked to say he ran our little stand there by the water but mostly just ran his damn mouth. At least when he wasn’t shoving his rum hole full of rum to the point that he couldn’t speak, praise the Lord.

The shack was small, the hours long, and the stench horrible, but on the bright side, I liked the work and it made me quick with a knife. There’s nothing like opening a thousand oysters a day to make a boy quick, and boy was I quick. I could shuck two dozen oysters in less than two minutes, and if that don’t impress you, you’ve probably never tried to pry open one of those beautiful bivalves all on your own.

But Dad, you see, never really got the hang of it. Ma showed me the ropes before she sent herself off to Davy Jones, and all Dad ever did was sit around grumbling, drinking, and scratching his balls. Probably the fleas. I hear that’s a thing that happens to old men, but again, what do I know? I’m only nineteen and far too pretty for fleas. They’d take one look at my balls, take a deep bow, and retreat with respect.

Anyways, it was a clear Sunday morning that Dad woke me up with a boot to the head. Thankfully he was still drunk from the night before, so the boot only grazed me. What actually woke me up was the sound of his ass hitting the floor when he fell over. But up I was all the same, my own head not much better than his, I suspect.

You see, the night before he had gotten right roaring drunk, so I did the same thing, only I snuck out, went down to the tavern, and met up with Robbie Brown to exchange a few tugs in the stable.

It wasn’t love, I did know that. But when you’re the son of an oysterman in the small port town of Shitsville, getting jerked off by a chandler’s boy ain’t too bad a way to spend the night. His hands were way softer than mine, thanks to all those candles, so we had ourselves a right nice time and I was feeling pretty good, in spite of the drink.

At least until the barman caught us, threw us out, and made a hell of a ruckus about telling our dads, having us thrashed, and maybe hanging us. I told him Robbie Brown was hung enough for the both of us, but somehow that didn’t calm him down. Some people have no sense of humor, I suppose.

But the next morning it seemed he had followed up on some of his threats, because even with Dad ass-down on the wet floor, his screaming made it clear as hell that he had my number and wasn’t going to put up with it. I thought about making a run for it, or even giving him a shuck for his money with my wee little oyster knife, but the truth is, even drunk, Dad was a whole lot bigger than me.

And he got up mighty quick.

I barely had time to dress before he dragged me out of the shack and into the street by my left ear. What a bastard, right? Dragging his own son out into the street by his left ear. Most dads would grab a wrist or maybe put a leash on their kid, but not mine. No sir. It was the ear for him, and so I hobbled along beside him as we headed down to the dock, all the while him raging on about how no son of his was going to get caught up in the homosexual lifestyle. No sir.

Now, it being Sunday and all, there wasn’t much happening at the docks. Our little village of Shitsville was a good Christian town, and there was no trading on Sundays. No booze either, which always made it rough. If you don’t like my dad drunk, you’d hate him sober.

Anyways, he dragged me down to the docks all the same, and it was only when we got out toward the end of the pier that I realized there was a new ship in the harbor and her colors were black. Black as night. Black as the sea in a storm.

Black as the short hairs of little Robbie Brown.

I don’t like to say it, but it took me far too long to figure what my dad wanted with pirates, for surely that was who they were. No navy ship would ever look so bleak, and the merchants that came to our little port town always flew the colors of England so as not to get shot out of the water before they could try to sell their tobacco and whatnot. But even after we were out on the dock, his hand still on my ear, I still hadn’t a clue as to what was to become of me. And even if I had, there wasn’t much I could have done about it, although in retrospect, I might not have put up such a fight.

But that’s getting ahead of myself.

Standing on the edge of the pier, right alongside a rough gangplank, stood four of the roughest, meanest, ugliest looking pirates I had ever seen. Now, everyone knows that pirates love oysters, so I had seen my fair share of them. But these champers were like bears in the woods, or maybe a drowned seal on the shore. Their hair was matted back, their clothes torn in unflattering — and unfashionable — ways, and their hands were the size of hams.

That part I liked, but I was smart enough not to mention it in front of Dad.

So we got up to the biggest man in front, with Dad’s hand still on me ear, and the pirate crossed his arms, cocked his head to one side, and then he spoke in a voice like gravel in a frying pan or barnacles trying to sing. It was deep, rough, and if I’m honest, it was a bit sexy as well.

Is this the wee lad who needs tending to?

That he is, boys, Dad said, nodding along like it was Christmas mass. I caught him last night in the stables with a chandler not much older than himself, and I don’t stand for no unnatural things in my house.

The big man took me by the chin and tilted my head to one side and then the other. He raised a lip with his finger to look at my teeth, he squeezed my shoulders like a prized lamb, and then he turned me around and started inspecting my hair. He growled like an angry goat, gave a look