Domestic Affairs: Tales of American Males

By Daniel M. Jaffe

Men Who Will Entice, Astound & Amaze You!

In this newest collection of short stories from award-winning writer, Daniel M. Jaffe, red-blooded American men make mischief while exploring themselves and others throughout the United States. These men grow exhausted fulfilling heaven's anointment as a West Hollywood sex angel, endure medical sacrifice in Minneapolis while saving gay men from global extinction, encounter joy at the moment of Palm Springs transcendence to the afterlife, discover unexpected romance with someone of ambiguous gender in Chicago, revel in the laid-back sexual camaraderie of South Florida's older gay community, struggle to cease vanishing into thin air whenever spotting their beloved on Harvard's campus, fall in love with a magical Texarkana circus masturbator, and worry about the mental health of an aging Brooklyn husband. These tales of fantasy, sci-fi, horror, romance, and good old-fashioned realism, evoke deep pride in the varied wonders of being an American male.

 

Praise for Domestic Affairs

 

"Readers will be in awe of Daniel M. Jaffe's collection of boundary-breaking and strangely intriguing short stories.... brilliant ... sensual and hilarious queer stories ... challenging conventional beliefs." -Foluso Falaye, Los Angeles Book Review

 

"These are entertaining stories ... addressing issues of queer aging, community, and the hilarious societal responsibilities of being a 'sex angel.' Jaffe's tales will appeal to a broad audience and keep readers rapt throughout. A volume of fun, absorbing, and contemplative tales." -Kirkus Reviews

 

"Challenging and exquisite,... Daniel M. Jaffe's charming short story collection Domestic Affairs depicts tender and erotic relationships between men in a variety of locales. With wit and warmth, Jaffe pulls off daring and playful experiments with form and genre.... [T]he book boasts exquisite prose leading to surprises and moments of devastation."  -Luke Sutherland, Foreword Clarion Reviews

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rattling Good Yarns Press
• Release date: Mar 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9781955826754

Book preview

Domestic Affairs

DOMESTIC AFFAIRS

TALES OF AMERICAN MALES

DANIEL M. JAFFE

Rattling Good Yarns Press

CONTENTS

Prior Publication Acknowledgment

Gayberry RFD

Still Life with Toupée

Out in Nature

The Great Masturbator

Sounds for Jamie’s Birthday

A Woman and Her Men

Helping Hands

Salumia

He Said, He Said

The Procedure

Enchanted

Longshot

Now You See Him, Now You…

Sans Everything

Reflections of a Sex Angel

Afterword

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright © 2024 Daniel M. Jaffe

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Rattling Good Yarns Press

33490 Date Palm Drive 3065

Cathedral City CA 92235

USA

www.rattlinggoodyarns.com

Cover Design: Rattling Good Yarns Press

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023952139

ISBN: 978-1-955826-75-4

First Edition

PRIOR PUBLICATION ACKNOWLEDGMENT

The following stories have been previously published as follows, in different forms:

Still Life With Toupée in Suspect Thoughts.

The Great Masturbator in Tented, ed. Jerry L. Wheeler, Lethe Press: NJ, 2010; reprinted in Best Gay Romance Stories 2015, ed. Felice Picano, Cleis Press: 2015.

Sounds for Jamie’s Birthday, as Sounds for Janie’s Birthday in Black River Review.

A Woman and Her Men, as God.com in Relief: A Quarterly Christian Expression.

The Procedure in Unburied: A Collection of Queer Dark Fiction, ed. Rebecca Rowland, Dark Ink Press: MA, 2021.

Enchanted in Wholeness, ed. Heather Tosteson and Charles D. Brockett, Wising Up Press: Decatur, GA, 2023.

Longshot, as The Eyes Have It, in Sex Buddies, ed. Paul Willis, Alyson Publications: MA, 2003.

Sans Everything in Dash.

Reflections of a Sex Angel, appeared partly as Resist Me, Please! in Riding the Rails, ed. Jerry L. Wheeler, Bold Strokes Books: NY, 2011; and partly as Herman’s Kosher Deli, in Dirty Diner, ed. Jerry L. Wheeler, Bold Strokes Books: NY, 2012.

For dear friends who now journey in another dimension:

Michael Katz

Louis DePaolis

Alan Kafker

Mike Stahl

Mike Ward

Melody Mansfield

Alla Khromova Podrabinek

GAYBERRY RFD

1

Wanna go into the supermarket restroom so I can blow you, Daddy?

Sam’s reflexive ego surge and libido twitch give quick way to cerebral alarm: his flight landed barely two hours ago, he’s a stranger here in Wilton Manors, and some college-age kid approaches on the sidewalk to suggest blowing him in a public supermarket? Is Sam actually considering the offer? Really?

Sam registers the young man’s round-cheeked grin, stylishly shaved head, patchy beard stubble, muscular pecs under a white tee shirt, bulging upper arms. Tempting, but throughout his 64 years, Sam has never been one for t-room sex—shaking a stiffy at a stranger beside a public urinal, then ducking into a stall together, or sitting in a stall and tapping his foot in the hope of luring some under-partition action. Urine stink, smear stains, a tile floor wet with heaven knows what toxic brew. Not his style. He tilts his head, looks into the handsome young man’s big brown hopeful eyes, pastes a how-nice-of-you-for-the-invitation smile onto his face to buy a few more seconds of time tracking thoughts somersaulting in search of sure-footed response.

I love your bushy white beard, Daddy, adds the young man, boldly reaching out and giving Sam’s spongy white curls a squeeze. Very macho.

Macho? Sam?

What if, after Sam drops his pants in the bathroom stall, this kid were to beat him up and rob him? Leave him bleeding on the floor?

But if the kid’s motive were robbery, he’d suggest some isolated alley, not a busy supermarket, right?

Sam gives a fatherly pat on the young man’s tanned cheek.

This kid probably propositions men 10 times a day. Disease.

Or, maybe the kid’s as straight-laced as Sam, but so overwhelmed by Sam’s hotness that he just can’t help himself?

Sure. Because Sam’s such a catch: more carry-on bags under his eyes than he could have shoved under the airplane seat in front of him, and liver spots flecking the backs of his pale hands affording him that oh-so-sexy Dalmation look. The kid must be high on drugs.

Really? Is that what Sam thinks—that a handsome young man could find Sam irresistible only if strung out on crack? C’mon! Isn’t this precisely why Sam decided to vacation in Wilton Manors in the first place, nestled as it is in the crook of Fort Lauderdale’s lusty embrace? Hasn’t he come here to get back into the swing of men-men fun after the divorce?

Perhaps incidentally, but his primary reason for coming was to explore the sense of community, to gain a feel for the place, to see if he should consider retiring in this reputed Mayberry RFD sort of town known for its abundance of older gay men. Gayberry RFD.

And also known for its easy sex. Why can’t Sam plan for the future and enjoy the present simultaneously? Does one motivation necessarily preclude the other? No, of course not. Nevertheless—in a public toilet?

Corralling his ricocheting imaginings and inner debate, Sam clears his throat. Thanks very much for the generous offer, he says, but I really can’t. Again Sam tilts his head, now offering a smile intended to convey sincerity. Maybe some other time.

Okay, Daddy, give me your phone number.

Hmmm, is the kid serious enough to want more than a quickie? A date sometime with a handsome young man might be just what the doctor ordered, so to speak. And that would give Sam a chance to settle in, get into the rhythm of this new town before risking an encounter with a local stranger. Sam recites his phone number as the young man types into his cellphone.

I’ll call you, Daddy, okay? My name’s Edwin.

Edwin. Not Ed or Eddie, or even Edward. But Edwin, a formal-sounding, even old-fashioned kind of name. Solid. Sam gently cups both Edwin’s cheeks in his palms, plants a Glinda-the-Good-Witch kiss on his forehead.

Daddy, Edwin whispers, his eyes wide and glistening. He leans in for a kiss; Sam does not stop him. A soft kiss. A gentle kiss. A kiss implying affection more than lust.

A whisper of My boy, escapes Sam. Edwin hugs him. Sam hugs him back. Then Sam turns and crosses the drive toward the supermarket, wondering what the custom is here for a first date—coffee? Or are drinks more the norm? Mid-crossing, Sam’s phone pings. He stops, pulls phone from pocket, and examines the texted photo. A close-up of a hairy muscular ass spread to reveal a pink pucker.

A car honks. Startled, Sam jumps, rushes to finish crossing the drive without turning to look back.

Edwin has sent a butt pic.

It’s a beautiful butt, Sam’s got to admit—muscularly spherical, covered in fine brown hair, centered by an invitingly pink wink. Had Edwin sent the pic after they’d gone on a couple dates, Sam might well be seduced to see the real thing in person. Or if, after a passionate evening, the photo were sent to serve as memento, Sam would feel flattered by such a gesture of intimacy. But for someone to send a butt pic immediately after Hello, my name is? After an invitation for a blow job in a public toilet stall? One man’s sexy is another man’s gross.

Sam deletes the image and blocks Edwin’s phone number, then looks back at smiling Edwin across the street. Unable to control a scowl, Sam shakes his head in disgust, sees Edwin’s smile turn into a frown.

Sam turns, strides through the supermarket parking lot, and inside. The whoosh of air-conditioning makes Sam realize the outdoor humidity, light as it’s been. He gives a shudder, then pulls a shopping cart free from a row and concentrates on the task at hand. A good thing Sam had the sense not to make a fool of himself. He can’t get carried away just because he’s on vacation. Just because he’s been sorely missing a man’s tender touch this year since the divorce…and for who-can-remember-how-long before that.

A few paces along the first aisle, Sam stops beside a glass deli counter displaying unfamiliar items: according to the hand-written signs, they’re called croquetas, tempting brown crunchy finger-shaped things; meat and chicken empanadas; flaky pastries—guava, cheese, guava and cheese together. And farther up in other deli cases, beyond familiar fried chickens, salads, and sandwiches of cold cuts, he notices bowls of collard greens, curried chickpeas. Sometime during his month-long vacation, he’s got to make a point of trying these local novelties. Today, though, he’s shopping just to stock up on basics.

Familiar Skippy peanut butter, Saltine crackers, and Chobani vanilla nonfat yogurt will make his apartment rental feel like home. Cheerios, Planters peanuts, Starbucks coffee—his preferred Italian roast. Gala apples and a bag of baby carrots. He’d expected a larger display of citrus here, but how many famous Florida oranges does he really need?

As for fellow customers—so many obviously gay men around his age and older, mostly white and presumably Latino, men with shaved heads and/or earrings and/or mustaches. A few wear colorful tee shirts stretched unselfconsciously over basketball bellies. But others are in loose tank tops displaying still somewhat muscular arms and shoulders. Good for them, continuing their routines at the gym even in retirement. Sam keeps fit by walking. Denim/khaki shorts or running shorts seem the norm, flip flops or sandals. So casual. Two separate male couples push one shopping cart per couple while selecting items from grocery lists—not a scene Sam could recall having seen back in suburban Cherryvale, NJ where he and Fred used to be the gay couple in the neighborhood, if not the entire town. The few assorted women shoppers here strike him as out of place, but maybe they’re lesbians; Sam’s gaydar’s pretty good, but he’s never had lesdar.

As he’s about to head to the check-out lanes, a nagging shadow-thought leaps into the light: why is he delaying experimentation with local food items? After all, he’s here to explore the town as potential future home. What’s he waiting for? Swiveling his cart, he goes to the frozen food aisle and grabs a quart of Dixie low-fat chocolate ice cream, a brand he’s never seen up North. And in the snack aisle, he picks up a small bag of lime-flavored tostones that look, from the picture on the bag, like thick potato chips. He even wheels his shopping cart back to the deli aisle, purchases assorted croquetas, empanadas, and guava pastries. A quarter pound each of collard greens and curried chickpeas, to boot. Sam’s proud of himself.

Waiting in the check-out lane closest to the exit doors, Sam notices the Restroom sign in a far corner. No, the mere fact that something’s local does not necessarily mean it warrants a try. He was right to delete Edwin’s butt pic and block his number.

How ya doin’, honey? asks the cashier, a heavy-set woman around Sam’s age, with ham upper arms and a few gray curls sweat-pasted to her temples in defiance of the air-conditioning.

Just fine, thank you, ma’am.

These are yummy, she says as she scans the UPC code on the bag of tostones. The spicy ones are even better. Great with a beer.

Thanks, I’ll give those a try next time.

That’s when a man older than Sam, clean-shaven and thinner with sparser hair, limps lightly out of the restroom while whistling Zippity Do Da. The man carries no purchases, just glides toward the automatic exit doors and out. A moment later, Edwin also steps from the restroom. He saunters past the first few check-out lanes in Sam’s direction but studiously avoids looking at Sam. Just as he passes Sam—still without looking—Edwin gives an exaggerated lick of his lips and loud thurp.

The cashier glances over at Edwin, grins, then turns to Sam and says, You naughty boys sure know how to make the most of what the Good Lord gave you. Ain’t I right?

I suppose so, Sam mumbles, shocked that this grandmotherly type understands what’s going on, shocked that she knows Sam’s gay, shocked that she assumes he’d possibly be open to such behaviors, shocked that she seems even to approve.

Just as Edwin reaches the front automatic doors, before stepping out, he glances back over his shoulder and, behind the cashier’s back, flashes Sam the finger.

You have yourself a blessed day, honey, the cashier tells Sam.

I’ll do my best, he mutters, carrying his two plastic bags toward the automatic doors where he hesitates. Not wishing to encounter Edwin in the parking lot, Sam sets the bags down on a grimy gray plastic chair, pulls a tissue from his back pocket, and pats his brow that doesn’t need wiping. He takes a pennysaver from a stack of flyers by the exit door, pretends to leaf through it, as if anyone in the supermarket were looking or cared.

Shoving the pennysaver into one of his bags, Sam exits, scans the parking lot, and deems it safe from Edwin. Sam dodges a couple cars backing recklessly out of their spots, then walks down Wilton Drive, reminds himself that he was as polite as possible to Edwin under the circumstances—Sam could have typed something patronizing and rude in reply to that gross pic, but chose not to. Surely Sam’s entitled to block any number he wishes on his own phone. As for his scowling and head shaking, well, they were reflexive reactions, nothing intentional. He didn’t merit Edwin’s later rudeness.

Nevertheless, Sam’s bothered all the way to his Airbnb, past Rosie’s Bar and Grill, a Chevron station, and Thai Me Up restaurant, past assorted office buildings and a spa advertising discounts on early afternoon massages by young men, past the glass-plated storefront of an inviting ice cream parlor, past a block of bars with middle-aged and older male patrons snacking and chatting at high-top tables. He’s sure they’re all looking at him, evaluating, judging. They probably all recognize him as out of sync with the social rhythms of this place.

When Sam and Fred moved into their white split-level more than a decade ago, Sam wondered to what extent they would be accepted in that suburban South Jersey development populated with generic floorplan designs, all resembling one another except for variations in aluminum siding paint color. A street with neat front lawns and sidewalks, one curbside oak tree per property, an assortment of rhododendron, azalea, boxwood, and forsythia softening the brick fronts surrounding each requisite picture window ornamented with wooden muntin grilles. An elementary school down the block, a supermarket and dry cleaners less than five minutes up the main road in a plaza holding a CVS Pharmacy and TD Bank. Sam’s law offices no more than a 15-minute drive from the house even in heavy traffic. And their home was practically within walking distance of a High-Speed Line station where they could catch light rail service across the Delaware River to a station smack dab in the center of Philly’s renowned Gayborhood.

Fred had wanted to buy a three-story, brick-fronted, historic row house in Philly’s Gayborhood itself, but Sam argued that he often worked late, and had to go back and forth to the office several times over the course of a weekend whenever an elderly client was suddenly hospitalized and needed his will updated last-minute, so shouldn’t they live close to his office in suburban Cherryvale? After all, he said in a voice soft enough to imply awareness that the remark might sting, it’s my law practice that’ll pay the mortgage wherever we live. Fred silently acquiesced.

Not a week after they moved in, Sam was hose-watering the azaleas under their living room picture window when a woman stepped from the house across the street and made a bee-line for Sam, marched right onto his lawn, strode so close that he could smell the sharp menthol fragrance of her blond ponytail’s shampoo. He stopped watering and smiled, delighted that a neighbor had come to offer welcome.

If you’re taking care of the property, she said—not hello or my name is—"If you’re taking care of the property, then I guess it’s okay you two gentlemen bought the place."

Sam maintained his smile as he assured himself he couldn’t possibly be correct in interpreting her remark as a slight.

You’ve probably noticed, she continued, resting fists on jeans-covered hips, that there are lots of kids on this block.

Sam had, in fact, noticed. Hadn’t Fred acknowledged the previous day how he enjoyed the lilts of the girls’ ditties in the driveway next door while skipping rope? "Cinderella, dressed in yella, went upstairs to kiss a fella…"

For sure, said Sam, I’ve noticed some children⁠—

And you’ve probably noticed, she continued, her eyes beading directly into Sam’s, that most of the kids are boys.

Were they? Sam hadn’t noticed because to him, kids were kids, so—Hey, wait a minute. Just what was this obnoxious woman implying?

And that boy over there, she pointed to a skinny, pimply-faced adolescent peering nervously across the street from her front porch, "that one’s my son."

Sam hadn’t a clue how to respond, so he simply waved. The boy darted inside.

A word to the wise, said the neighbor tapping the side of her nose, her tone practically shaking that index finger in Sam’s face. A word to the wise. She spun on her heels, crossed back to her house, followed her son inside. She even slammed her front door as exclamation point.

Sam quietly rolled up the green hose and hung it carefully in the garage on its pegboard perch beside the stack of blank canvases he’d just bought for Fred. Then Sam stepped into the house, interrupted Fred’s unpacking of his collection of Picasso art books, and related the conversation verbatim. Fred grew red in the face. You should have thanked the bitch for introducing her son, and said, ‘Oooh, girlfriend, he’s just my type.’

They shared an uncomfortable laugh. Just as they would do again a few weeks later when their next-door neighbor, the rope-skippers’ hair-bunned grandmother, introduced herself while she and Sam were coincidentally wheeling respective trash cans to the curb beside their adjoining driveways. We say hi to one another on this block, she said. But we never invite one another into our homes.

Nice to meet you, replied Sam.

She nodded, crossed the street, rang ‘the bitch’s’ doorbell, and was granted holy admission to that sanctum sanctorum.

Why is it these women feel comfortable saying such things to me? Sam asked Fred.

Because their men won’t dare be seen even talking to the neighborhood fags in the first place.

In ensuing weeks, any time Sam was out front weeding or mowing, picking up dog dirt left by somebody’s untethered canine (probably the bitch’s bulldog, spat Fred), or planting crocus and daffodils along the short concrete path between driveway and front porch, neighborhood men walking by on the sidewalk either hurled scowls or stared unflinchingly straight ahead as they sped up until beyond Sam’s property line. None of them uttered a word.

Things’ll change, Sam tentatively reassured Fred. Just give them time.

Sam proved right to a significant extent: after a couple years, the grandmother next door died and her family moved away; the new neighbors who moved in were comfortable escorting their little princess and cowboy to Sam and Fred’s front door on Halloween; ‘the bitch’ took to nodding from behind her picture window most mornings as she peered out at Sam leaving for work; and some of the men even began offering unsolicited advice on how to trap lawn-churning moles "and by the way, Sam, I’ve got this legal question and can’t see spending a fortune on a