12 Sundays

By R.W. Clinger

Illustrator Aaron Braun isn’t getting any younger and needs to find a man to settle down with. At thirty-six, he isn’t not opposed to dating, boyfriendhood, and eventually getting hitched but it’s hard to find the man of his dreams. His best bud Ford McCannon has a string of sexy boyfriends and is no help in finding his Mr. Right.

Sometimes, though, love might be right across your mother’s street. Enter Fazan O’Riley.

While visiting his mother, Aaron remembers having a crush on adorable and straight Fazan. But he might not be so straight, and Aaron’s mother sets them up on a date one a Sunday afternoon. What follows are twelve Sundays of unlimited romance, dating, lust, and frustration.

Does Aaron have the strength to keep their affair alive? Or will Fazan run back to his private life, choosing singlehood for good?

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Jul 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685500993

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

12 Sundays

By R.W. Clinger

Published by JMS Books LLC

Visit jms-books.com for more information.

Copyright 2022 R.W. Clinger

ISBN 9781685500993

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Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

All rights reserved.

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

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12 Sundays

By R.W. Clinger

March 13

I will not be held accountable for Ford’s actions. Yes, I’ll make sure he gets home safely from today’s binge drinking…Something he calls the Best Beer Crawl in Pittsburgh. And yes, I’ll make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit, if he vomits somewhere in the bar. But no…I will not be held accountable for what happens in between. He’s thirty-six and can take care of himself. He’s not a frat boy anymore. He’s not in college like the rest of the men around us. Nor is he a child. Christ, he’s a grown man and has his own plumbing business, Mr. Plunger, and runs almost two dozen trucks around the city to do home and business repairs to pipes and sewage whatnots. He can take care of himself.

Or maybe not…

We spend an hour or more at Lucky Charms, a bar in South Side, and everything is green: the beer, the decorations, even Bobby, the bartender. Ford McCannon is on the bar with his shirt lost somewhere in the crowd. He has gold, silver, and green plastic beads around his neck that some twenty-one-year-old football jock has given him for a tongue-kiss. Ford’s doing a jig to a nameless Irish folk song that is probably from The Wheel of Time soundtrack. He’s making a complete ass out of himself on the bar, but looks as if he’s having the time of his life doing it. He kicks up his feet, yells something obnoxious in Irish that I can’t understand, and splashes green beer out of the mug in his right hand. The splashing coats the plastic beads and his muscled and hairless chest. The droplets glisten his tight navel and the onyx treasure trail that leads into his tight jeans. Ford doesn’t give a shit. He doesn’t even know I exist today because he’s had too many green beers, celebrating his homeland. I’m simply a friendly babysitter at a distance who admires his sloppy behavior. One who hopes that he doesn’t fall off the bar and break his neck.

Pete Castro, the owner of the bar, slips up to my side, points to Ford, and says, Your boyfriend is a wild one.

He’s not my boyfriend. We’re just friends.

These college guys love him. They ogle him like a piece of meat. Every single one of them wants him.

Most guys do.

Pete escapes my side faster than he arrives. Men—both old and young—love Ford Ian McCannon. His drinking. His wrenches. His hairless abs. His gleaming white teeth. His sparkling green eyes. His Irish setter he calls Twelve. His twin brother, Francis. His flat on Nelson Street, a few blocks away from the bar. His charming and lively personality. His Mr. Plunger white van that he drives; it reads We Plunge Anything! on both sides, and back doors. His protein shakes. His Catholic background. His easygoing spirit. His infatuation with Colton Underwood from The Bachelor, who I just happen to resemble. Shit! I call out. He’s going to fall off the bar, leaning a little too far to the right, into a six pack of