'Chantilly Lace' by Em Woods

The lights were too bright. The restaurant was too busy. The room felt like a damn sauna. And life could suck.

Shea Laporte knew that better than most.

Here he sat, on the two-week anniversary of his break-up with his previous lover and said lover’s bank account, on a blind date from hell. He sighed and wiped the spilled coffee from his arm. It was a good thing he had rolled his sleeves up or he would have been seriously angry. The sloppy Joe—what was his name?—across from him, trying to slide his way into Shea’s bed, couldn’t keep from talking about himself. To top it off, the idiot had managed to knock over Shea’s drink.

If he had not been filthy rich, Shea would have been long gone. But Shea had suffered a lot worse than a bad date for the kind of comfort a man like this could provide. Recently, in fact.

“When are we going to fuck?”

The question caught him off guard. Shea blinked his way back to the present. “Excuse me?”

The man across from him leant back in his seat, his pale blue shirt stretching dangerously tight at the buttons over his round belly. He twisted his chubby fingers together and rested the whole meaty lot behind his head, revealing the sweat stains under his arms. “I wanna get dirty. How long are you going to hold out?”

Shea allowed one carefully manicured eyebrow to drift up. “Who do you think you’re having dinner with?”

“A whore.” His date leered for a split second before a spit-slick tongue ran over dry, cracked lips. “A high-dollar one, but still a whore. When are we gonna get to the fucking?”

“That’s right. A high-dollar whore.” Taking his time to gather his thoughts, Shea harnessed his anger. He had cultivated that image carefully—buying only the finest things with his lovers’ money, preening under the attention of the wealthiest man in the room—so he could hardly complain when confronted with it, now, could he? “A high-dollar whore, in fact, who requires certain things, an agreement, a contract of obligations, if you understand.

'Rush Around the Clock' by Silvia Violet

Finn McMurphy sat on his front porch grading an abysmal set of essays written by his music appreciation students. Some of them didn’t seem capable of writing a complete sentence despite having made it to eighth grade in an elite private school. He sighed and gazed out at his sunny yard. Daffodils, irises and his two lilac bushes were blooming, and he wished he could enjoy the beautiful spring weather. He’d thought working on the porch would at least make him feel as if he were taking part in the season rather than ignoring the beauty around him to grade homework. Perhaps the spring air would even help him psych himself up for rehearsals for the musical his principal had asked him to put together at the last minute.

He’d wanted to say no, to explain how busy he already was, but he knew the man was looking for any excuse to get rid of him. The principal detested that Finn was openly gay. He didn’t want him influencing students with his wicked ways, but the school’s board members weren’t willing to back the principal in getting rid of Finn without just cause. Not because they were concerned about Finn’s feelings or his right to a job no matter his sexual orientation—the board just didn’t want to deal with a scandal. On the whole, the parents at Langston Academy weren’t as liberal as the average Asheville citizens, but there were plenty of families who’d raise a fuss on Finn’s behalf, thank goodness.

Finn sighed. He was going to make the musical work even if it killed him. He wasn’t about to let that smug blowhard of a principal have anything to hold over him, but it meant working even harder for no more compensation. He already had to teach private lessons and play at weddings and other special occasions to make ends meet. He was still paying off medical bills from his mother’s long illness, and he was determined to hold onto the house he’d grown up in.

He reached down absently to pat Yip, one of the ludicrously spoiled Yorkies he’d inherited when his mother passed away. He scratched her ears as she pawed at Finn’s leg, begging to be held.

'It's Only Make-Believe' by Havan Fellows

“You don’t understand. I nailed it.” Dyer Cambell grabbed his best friend, Harry Verns, by the shoulders and started his Tigger bounce. “I didn’t just nail it…I fucking nailed it, man. That part was written for me—”

“Except for one main thing…” Harry looked over his shoulder at him with that look. It was enough to make him stop bouncing, but not enough to wipe the shit eating grin off his face.

He nudged Harry and continued to his car. “Aw come on, you’re supposed to be my best friend. Be happy for me, I got the final call back. Rumour has it only two people were called back for the Micall part. If the other guy is who I think, I got this, man. Down the shots and spank the ladies because I’m in like Flynn.”

“And right there, that’s your problem—the ladies. You heard the same thing I did when we passed the director’s office. And Then There Were Two is a gay dramedy, they want gay actors to play the two male leads. Sure they love you, but they aren’t going to hire you.”

“That’s bullshit. They didn’t say they wouldn’t hire me. The director was just telling the bigwigs what they wanted to hear. Why would they tell me to come back—again, may I add—if they weren’t seriously wanting me?” Dyer clicked the key fob twice and unlocked the doors on his hand-me-down Rav4, a gift from his Aunt Pattie.

Harry climbed in next to him and buckled up. “Oh, so they aren’t seriously wanting the other guy they called back too? He isn’t bouncing all over the place, cussing like a sailor about how he’s practically got the part also?”

“Downer.” Dyer started the engine and pulled into the flow of traffic.

Harry sighed, “Look, I’m not trying to be a hard ass. I want you to get this part, you know I do. This show is a great concept, it could make a no namer’s career. But I don’t like the idea of you not looking at what might happen. This network is trying to get ahead of the curve with the GLBTQ crowd, they are pulling out all the stops to do this right from the get go. You’ve seen the press these auditions have gotten. Hell, we even had to use the back entrance to the locked parking lot. They will be blasted to hell and back if they cast a straight man as one of the leading gay roles. It will Titanic them before they even get around to shooting the pilot episode.”

'Walkin' After Midnight' by Hank Edwards

Dudebaker‘s was packed, and Floyd was busy behind the bar. He didn’t mind it, though, he liked to be busy. It made the time go by faster and the dollars in the tip jar multiply. And it kept his mind off things, most notably Trent. Floyd liked Trent, he guessed, but something was missing, just like all the other guys he had been dating, and there had been a lot of them.

The odd part about this thing with Trent was, they weren’t even dating. Floyd had just paid him a compliment, and now Trent seemed to think Floyd wanted to date him. Floyd liked to fuck, boy did he ever, but so far he’d just been able to find fuck buddies, not dates. He wasn’t sure if it was him or his choice in men or a combination of the two, but up to now, Floyd had pretty much set his mind to spending his life alone.

To make matters worse with the situation, Trent was one of the bus boys at Dudebaker’s. One thing Floyd had learned after he’d first started tending bar at the club was the bus boys stuck together. Like a pack of hyenas.

As he handed off a couple of beers, Floyd caught a glimpse of a handsome man next in line, the flashing lights from the dance floor like sparks in the man’s brilliant blue eyes. This guy was new, and something about him really caught Floyd’s attention, so he flashed a big smile and shouted over the music, “Hey, what’ll you have?”

This new arrival was just Floyd’s type—tall and lanky, with shaggy dark hair and those bright blue eyes. Floyd felt something ping inside him. It was an intense reaction, one he’d never experienced before, and though it confused him, his smile widened. The stranger returned Floyd’s smile and leaned in over the bar to be heard above the music, bringing those gorgeous eyes and full, soft lips tantalisingly close.

“I’m supposed to see Shawn Frost?” His voice was deeper than Floyd had expected, and it seemed to reach right down inside Floyd’s tight black pants and grab him by the balls.

“Shawn?” Floyd repeated, more to hear that deep voice once more than for clarification. As the owner of Dudebaker’s, Shawn Frost was not only Floyd’s boss, but also a trust fund baby with a more severe case of boyfriend ADD than Floyd had himself. And it looked like Shawn had already finished with his current twink of the week and was about to move on to this new hot number. Floyd cursed his luck of meeting him after Shawn then realised the man was leaning even farther over the bar and still talking to him.

'His Dream Lover' by Lee Brazil

“It’s my half day today.” As though having time off means you’ll be away from the hospital. Dr Oliver Gideon perched on the edge of the uncomfortable chair beside the bed in room 32B at Beachport Memorial Hospital and searched the pale face on the pillow for any sign that his words had been heard.

The night nurse had turned the patient’s face so he looked into the room. If he could see, that was. The comatose man’s eyelids remained obstinately closed after six months of long sleep. There wasn’t even a flicker of eye movement that Oliver could latch onto and pretend the patient dreamed, or merely slept. Those lids lay stubbornly still, immobile as the rest of the man.

Coma. It was supposed to have been a short-term state induced to enhance the body’s natural healing processes following Joseph Caldwell’s surgery. Instead, hours had stretched into days, and days into weeks, and still the man slumbered on, if sleep it could be called.

It didn’t matter that the patient’s eyes refused to open of their own accord. Oliver knew they were slate grey, almond-shaped and, when he was conscious, they telegraphed every emotion the man felt. Oliver knew that, because he’d stared down into those eyes on an operating table six months before, seen the interest in the grey depths turn to fear when he’d caught sight of the gas mask. Fear wasn’t unusual in his patients—he had a practised litany of words designed to ease the uncertainties of patients who were scared of losing consciousness.

Some people feared spiders, some feared the unknown. Joseph Caldwell, he sensed, feared losing control. He was a man who was accustomed to being careful. His whole being screamed caution and reserve, from the precisely trimmed hair to the neatly plucked eyebrows. If he peeked into the plastic carrier that held the man’s belongings he would surely find a pair of highly polished dress shoes, neat slacks, a button-down shirt and a tie. Even his build was a perfect balance of casual fitness, muscled but not buff, lean but not thin.

The patient had lost muscle and fat though over the ensuing weeks. Allowing his gaze to wander down the thin frame, skipping guiltily over the IV needles and catheter tubes, Oliver counted the man’s breaths for a minute. Each breath raised the thin sheet reassuringly, establishing Caldwell’s claim to life. Persistent, tenacious, clinging to life. He might look waxen and pale, but Joseph Caldwell lived, and that was something.

'The Line' by Angel Martinez

“Easy,” Rafael whispered, stroking soothing circles on his meal’s stomach. “Deep breaths.”

The young man beneath him whimpered as Rafael scraped glistening fangs over his throat. With his hands bound tight to the headboard, the human had no way to fend him off and the tang of fear sent spears of delicious desire through Rafael’s core.

The meal squirmed again and Rafael hissed in exasperation. “Hold still, Denny! Do you want a chunk ripped from your throat?” He thrust hard, pegging his dinner’s prostate. Denny arched and yelped in delight.

“Rafael, beautiful Rafael, please take me. Take all of me. Take what you need.”

Why, oh, why do they have to get so melodramatic? With a firm hand on Denny’s forehead, Rafael licked his pulse line, preparing the skin. He snapped his hips with each thrust, pleased when Denny’s legs wrapped around his waist. Precision was the key. Certainly, a vamp could just stab his fangs in and suck the life out of a meal, but where was the fun in that? Life was a buffet and it was so much better to be able to come back for seconds.

Pleasure building at the base of his spine and jaw, Rafael punctured through delicate skin, leaving two surgical-calibre entrance wounds. Hot blood hit his tongue as he fastened his mouth over the holes and sucked. He moaned and bucked, losing rhythm but not enthusiasm as the blood hit his system, sending wicked pleasure through his groin and head. Denny’s wail as he came could have been unpleasant, but he was only aware of it in a distant, sensually drowned way.

Rafael let his body collapse atop his lovely meal, finally still and dazed, as he released the coagulant from his feeding gland. Rule number five, always lick your plate clean and don’t leave a mess behind.

“That was transcendent,” Denny whispered into his hair.

Transcendent? Really? What century is this again? “Glad you enjoyed it. You were very tasty.” Rafael eased his cock out of Denny’s wonderfully tight ass and reached up to undo his hands. “Stay right there and go to sleep. I’ll see myself out, sweets.”