Christmas With Wistan (Brandon Archer Series)

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The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Christmas with Wistan Copyright © 2005 Brandon Archer ISBN: 1-55410-658-3 Cover art and design by Martine Jardin All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by eXtasy Books, a division of Zumaya Publications, 2005 Look for us online at: www.zumayapublications.com www.extasybooks.com

DEDICATION This book is dedicated to Wistan. Without his intrusion into my life, it would have never been written.

Chapter One

I

knew I was drunker than usual that night, but then it was a few days before Christmas and that was a good enough excuse. Christmas had always sucked big time for me. My father was an alcoholic; and my mother--well, what can I say about my poor mother, except she was one of those women born totally without a backbone. I dreaded Christmas more than anything as a kid. My father had time off from his job on the police force, and he would drink indiscriminately, using the holidays as an excuse. Umm…sounded familiar, didn’t it? Anyway, then he just got mean. My brother and I used to go up to the attic and stay there until he passed out. I have always drunk although I would never have classified myself as a falling-down drunk. I have no idea what had suddenly taken me from my usual two whiskeys a day to too many to count. Like I said, could have been Christmas, or it could have been, that despite my fame and fortune as a top selling author, and the 1

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beautiful men waiting in line to suck my cock…and do various other pleasurable things to me, I was pretty miserable. Even my closest friends were beginning to give me that ‘what in the hell is going on with you?’ look. And then the worst thing had happened, at least according to the big boys at my New York City publisher. I had stopped writing. The fact, that all I could produce as of late was crap, and more crap, was not pleasing anyone, including myself. So, I drank. My agent nagged me. My publisher nagged me. I tried to write. I read what I wrote, and I drank some more. When I had my first best seller three years ago, which according to reviewers was the most innovative male/male erotica to appear in this genre ever; it went immediately to my head. My publisher, who had my manuscript sitting on his desk for two years, unread, and always called me Dougie, began to remember that my name was actually Brandon. The publisher was on his knees…literally actually…but that’s a whole other story. Dollar signs were in everyone’s eyes. Damned if I know how it really happened. I submitted a book. I waited, and waited, and waited. Then, I didn’t wait anymore. I began to phone and phone, and finally I got an answer. It was, “What manuscript? We didn’t receive a manuscript from any Doug Archer.” “Brandon 2

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Archer,” I told them for the tenth time. Eventually, they found it. Someone read it. I was offered a contract. By some miracle, I had found a niche. I knew I was a good writer, although I don’t know if I would have called myself a great one. My success appeared to be based on a carefully entwined method of timing and craft, which had somehow inched me out there above others. Anyway, it was beyond my understanding, and when I received my first royalty check, I didn’t give a shit. I was finally making a living from doing what I loved. People were actually willing to pay for something that came out of my head. It was wild! Although I never did have a shortage of willing lovers, now they formed a line…especially when they realised that much of the erotica in my books was based on my personal experiences. However exhilarated I was, I wasn’t allowed much time to bask in my success. Now I was told, “write…write…your fans are waiting.” They were gobbling it up as fast as I could spit it out. Sorry for the visual, but that’s about how it was. Between writing and fucking, I didn’t have much time to think about my life. Then, for some reason, I couldn’t think of a thing to put on that blank document page. I wrote drivel. Writers’ block. The dreaded writers’ block. It was a disease, and I had caught it. There didn’t appear to be any cure either, no convenient pill I 3

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could swallow. I drank. And as Christmas approached, and I read the reviews of new books coming out in the Times, I drank some more. So, what in hell is this story about? Is it about a successful author who floats down the drain in a sea of alcohol? Not quite. I was at the entrance of the drain, about to float down it when Wistan came. Now, you can either believe this story I’m about to tell you, or, you can say it’s the biggest crock of crap you’ve ever read. That’s completely up to you. The most important thing is, I believe it.

4


Christmas Eve: 2006

T

he snow was softly falling on the sidewalk. Instantly it melted, disappearing into the concrete. Jazzy Christmas music blared out of the speakers from Rockefeller Center. The angel watched the skaters diligently as they moved to the holiday beat. As I made my way down the channel gardens toward the majestic centrepiece of Rockefeller Center, there was no magic for me. The Christmas tree with its thousand lights held absolutely no appeal. I was drunk. I was cold, and I was afraid. The fear was not foreign to me. God knows I was raised on fear, fear that my father would finally kill my mother in a drunken fog, fear that my brother wouldn’t get up from the floor the next time my father hit him with his fist, fear that I would be swallowed up by it all. I stood there for the longest time watching those people. They were laughing. They were happy. It was Christmas Eve. I had been invited to a thousand parties, to a thousand dinners with a thousand people. I went to the small 5

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neighbourhood bar in Queens and drank with strangers. The tiny lights on the tree were stabbing my eyes as I looked at it. Everything was just too damned bright. I brushed off the top of my thick black hair, and let the empty Christmas music fill me. In spite of myself, I started humming some tune I vaguely remembered. I didn’t know what time it was, but it couldn’t have been more than seven o’clock. I looked at the skaters again. They flew by in a blur of colour and fabric, lovers clutching each other, children squealing, old people lumbering along. I felt a little dizzy, and I was cold as hell. I thought about going to the village, hanging out in the gay bars, finding someone to have sex with. I turned away from Rockefeller Center and tried to hail a cab. I think I bumped into a mailbox at one point, and then swore at an imaginary something in my way. I began to grumble about Christmas. I was no Scrooge, but I really did hate this season. For me, it was a waste of time, and a waste of money. People got excited about absolutely nothing. Most of us didn’t even believe anymore. As for my family, well, my dad was dead, and good riddance. My mother was half senile, nothing new, and my brother was a born again Christian. I had nothing against it, but given the diversity in our lifestyles, me an out of the closet, promiscuous fag, 6


and damn proud of it- and him a married with two kids, church on Sunday, high school guidance counsellor…well you get the picture. It wasn’t as if I’d be going there for Christmas. But hey, I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself. I had tons of friends…well, maybe less lately, but I had invitations. And my six foot, muscular frame which I pampered regularly in the gym, and my wicked good looks…not to mention the fact that I wrote sex…ensured that I never had to sleep alone, unless I wanted to. I rarely wanted to. Sex had always been my drug. It had kept me sane from the time I was old enough to realise what an orgasm felt like…and once I did…well…I never went back. Finally, after I’d stopped bitching about the evils of Christmas, I tried to hail a cab. One stopped for me, which if I’d been sober, I would have realised was a bloody miracle, given that last minute Christmas shopping was still going on. I didn’t give it a second thought. I crawled into the back seat and rattled off the name of one of the many bars in the Gay village. “Are you sure you want to go there?” A voice asked. I tried to sit up straight. “Of course I want to go there,” I slurred. “What in fuck kind of question it that? You’re the driver, drive.” “There is no one there except for men like you, 7

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Brandon, lost, lonely. They are not the answer,” a voice replied. “Look,” I said between clenched teeth, not realising that it was completely dark inside the cab; or that, outside the window, everything had froze in time… I shit you not. “Who in hell do you think you are, my mother? I’ll go where I damn well please. Now, drive.” There was slight laughter. “I’m not your mother, but I am here to help you. My name is Wistan.” I shivered. I suddenly had the presence of mind to realise that something was very wrong. It was pitch black inside the car. I couldn’t even see the light of the metre. I rubbed vigorously at the window with my fist. I peered outside. I couldn’t see anything outside either. Where in hell was Rockefeller Center? Where in hell were the people, the traffic, the street signs? There was nothing, just a void. I pulled on the door handle. It didn’t budge. “Okay,” I breathed. I was scared shitless. My heart was thudding in my chest like a drum, “is this some kind of a prank?” “I assure you it isn’t,” the voice replied. “I’ve decided to smile on you tonight. I’ve decided to help you save yourself before it is too late, Brandon.” “I get it. Frankie sent you.” That was my brother. “Well, you can forget it. I’m gay. I like 8


being gay and I don’t care how many lights I see, I’m not jumping the fence.” “It’s not about that. I know you’re gay. Actually,” he paused, “I find you quite sexually alluring. I believe nowadays they would call you ‘hot’. I can’t deny I wasn’t aware of how good looking you were when I chose you. Let’s keep that to ourselves, shall we?” Okay. This was getting weirder by the minute. “Well, thanks for the compliment, but would you mind telling me what in hell you chose me for?” “I told you, I’m going to help you to save yourself.” “I see.” My eyes were closing. Suddenly, I was so tired. “It’s okay, Brandon, sleep,” the voice said, sounding far away. “We will talk later.” “Save myself from what?” I managed, drifting off. “From you. Save yourself from you.” **** I woke up in bed, but it wasn’t my bed. Sitting up, I looked around at an empty room. The walls were white. There were no windows, and to my horror, I realised that there was no door. Now, this was bizarre. I was sure I was dreaming, and as I sat up, my head began to pound horribly. Hangover. Big 9

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time. Okay, now what? Was I being held hostage by some psycho fan? It was possible. Many big time authors had stalkers. “Okay,” I called out, “I’m awake. Where are you?” I managed to stand on my feet. I still had on all my clothes. That was a good sign. I think. Silence. Great. “Okay,” I called out again, “are you just going to leave me?” I began walking around the room, pounding on the walls. There had to be a hidden door somewhere. How in the hell did I get in here? Okay, I was scared shitless now. I waited, listening, scarcely daring to breathe. Sweat broke out on my forehead. “Hello, Brandon,” a voice said suddenly. I just about jumped out of my skin. I swirled around, not helping my headache, and blinked at the figure standing in front of me, amid a wave of nauseous dizziness. God, I didn’t feel well, and this…ah… man…in front of me…well, I actually closed my eyes, then opened them again, certain that I was hallucinating. I am not bullshitting you. He was almost eight feet tall, wearing a skin tight gold suit that might have worked well in an old episode of Star Trek…but it didn’t work well now, even as holiday wear. His hair was gold, and it shone like the Christmas tree lights in the Square, cascading down over his shoulders. Gentle blue eyes looked down at me. He smiled. He was the most 10


beautiful thing I’d ever seen. So, I asked the dumbest question possible. With my mouth agape, and a stupid look on my face, I asked, “Are you an angel?” He threw his head back and laughed…and it wasn’t just any laugh. It was loud and boisterous and it went on and on for far longer than I personally thought was necessary. Finally, he stopped, met my eyes, and yelled out, “Hell, no.” I sucked some breath through my teeth. “Then…who or what…are you?” “I’m Wistan. I’m the giver of gifts…the guru of talents. I’m the reason you can write.” “O…o…kay,” I replied. “What do you want with me?” The guy was certifiable. He needed help. He needed a fashion consultant, and I didn’t exactly fit the profile of the Queer Eye guy. “No, they can be a little stereotypical,” he said suddenly, “and I’ve seen your apartment, Brandon, you’re no decorator.” I narrowed my eyes. “Thanks. How did you do that? You just read my thoughts? And when in hell were you in my apartment? Believe me, I may have a lot of men going in and out of my place, but you, I would have remembered.” “I’m magic.” I nodded. “Right.” “What a sceptic you are,” he pointed at me. “Don’t you believe in anything anymore?” 11

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I paused, licking my lips. I was thirsty as hell. I believed in that. “That’s a complicated question. Let’s go somewhere for a drink, and I’ll tell you all about it…except you’ll have to change your clothes. I’m not walking into any bar--even one with drag queens--with you looking like that.” “I can take your thirst away,” Wistan told him. “Good, you and Joe the bartender. Let’s go,” I said, hooking my thumb towards the wall. “Now, if you’ll just show me where the door is...” “And then what? We’ll come back here and fuck?” I took a look at him. I wasn’t sure about that one. The guy was eight feet tall, and dressed like an alien. “Well…we can discuss it,” I muttered. Suddenly his eyes grew stormy. His voice boomed, causing the room to tremble. “Why are you throwing away the talent I gave you?” I took a step backward, placing my palms against the wall to steady myself. “I’m not throwing away anything. I…” “You can’t write anymore. You drink too much. Don’t you realise what would have happened if I hadn’t given you this gift? Do you think everyone has this gift? There is a quota, you know.” “No, I…I didn’t know that.” This guy was crazy as a loon. I understood the drinking too much part…but after that, he lost me. “You have given up. You waste your time 12


drinking and having sex with strangers. You do that to elude real love, which has been patiently waiting for you somewhere all along.” “Sure it has,” I sneered. “And what business is it of yours anyway who I fuck?” “None,” he shook his head. “Fucking is not your problem, Brandon. Actually,” he smiled softly, running his eyes over me, “you’re quite good at it.” “Who have you been talking to?” I demanded, narrowing my eyes. “I’ve been watching you.” “Now you’re a voyeur. I hope you enjoyed yourself,” I told him, a little unnerved by the thought that this weird guy had been watching me have sex. “I didn’t watch it for enjoyment…although I must say,” he laughed slightly, “never mind. The problem is Brandon, that you fuck the wrong people for the wrong reasons.” Brandon sighed. “Buddy, like I said…who I fuck is my business. You need to take your meds. You’re mad.” Wistan smiled. “Hardly. Although I have been known to cross the line.” He paused, then leaning down, he pierced me with his vivid blue eyes. “You’re afraid. It’s your fear that’s causes you to avoid love. It’s your fear that is preventing you from writing something other than garbage.” 13

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“For Christ’s sake,” I muttered, throwing up my hands. “Just tell me what in hell you want with me.” “I want to give you something.” I eyed him critically. I wasn’t sure I wanted anything this guy could give me.” “Tonight, I’m going to accompany you back through your life. I’m going to give you the power to see what you couldn’t.” I literally cringed. I didn’t want to go back. I shook my head. “Thanks, but no thanks.” “Brandon, some people live in the past. That’s not good, but you must deal with the past so that you can move on.” “What in hell do you care, if I deal with my past or not?” I growled at him. “I gave you this gift,” he sighed. “If you don’t deal with your past, you will lose it. I will take it back.” Brandon laughed uneasily. “You can’t do that.” He was trembling inside. Without his writing, he’d…he’d be dead. “I’d never make it without that.” “I know, and that’s why I chose you. That’s the reason I gave it to you, to save you. And yet you’re ready to throw it away by drinking.” I shuddered suddenly. Something in his voice gave me the creeps. It seemed to change in tone, suddenly sounding not quite human. 14


He leaned down, piercing me with those eyes again. I could see my reflection in them, not a pretty sight. “You’re not drinking because you can’t write, Brandon. You can’t write because you’re drinking. ” My mouth fell open. I narrowed my dark brown eyes. “I’m not a drunk,” I declared, my voice shaking with anger. “Maybe not…yet…but you are headed that way. You are becoming the one thing you never wanted to be, Brandon. You are becoming your father.” I think I lunged for him now, but I came into contact with nothing but air.

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Christmas 1996

I

watched the cases of beer appear on the doorstep. My mother was in the kitchen making cookies, half of which would never be eaten. My father was talking loudly. It was only noon, and he’d already consumed three large bottles of beer. The family wouldn’t come over this afternoon. In fact, they stopped coming over a few years ago. It was just the four of us, and it was the most frightening day of the year. Nothing we did was ever good enough for my father, especially when he was drunk. He would criticize everything, and my mother would just sit there like a dishrag and take it. I was looking for the first opportunity to get to hell out of the house before it got too bad. I was sixteen years old, Frankie was twelve. I knew I’d been here before. I never thought I’d have to relive this day again. I didn’t see the point of it. I watched my brother now, playing on the floor of the living room with some plastic toy, and a 16


decided lump came to my throat. My mother was humming in the kitchen. I almost hated her. Didn’t she know this day would turn to shit? Didn’t she know? I suddenly felt very weird. I was here, but I wasn’t really. Everything looked shadowy. Nothing can hurt you, Brandon. Why bring me back here? This is probably the worst point of my life. Exactly. You made a decision that day. You were going to put all your effort into getting out. Escape. That’s what you wanted. I can feel the tension already. How did I survive here? You wrote. You went to the attic when it got bad, took Frankie with you. You read him your stories, do you remember? Yes. My father was screaming suddenly. The turkey platter went flying across the table, just barely missing my mother’s head. “Can’t you do anything right, woman?” he screamed, spittle running down the side of his mouth. I grabbed Frankie’s hand under the table, and squeezed. I swallowed my fear. My mother was apologising, bending over to pick up the mess on the floor, gulping back her tears, which she knew always made my father angrier. I scraped back the chair. 17

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“Where in hell do you think you’re going?” My father demanded. My eyes fell on the cranberry stain on his undershirt. “To play upstairs with Frankie,” I replied boldly, trying to keep myself from stuttering. I did that when I was nervous. He literally glared at me. “Think you’re a big man now, eh?” “No, sir,” I coughed, my hand inching up Frankie’s hand to his wrist. We could always run outside to the neighbours if we were fast enough, or upstairs. Without my father’s knowledge, I had installed a lock on the attic door. We were a lot faster than he was, especially when he was in this condition. He rose, staggered. I looked at Frankie. “Run!” I told him. He scampered out of the dining room. For some reason, I didn’t follow him that time. I gripped the chair on both sides, and through clenched teeth, I said, “Don’t you touch me, old man.” He had beat on me enough in my life. At sixteen, I was finally getting big enough to take him on, or so I imagined. My father grabbed that chair so fast, it was like lightning. I heard my mother scream. I tried to get out of the way, but his fists came down on me like an avalanche. “Don’t you talk back to me, boy!” was all I heard before I started pleading with him 18


to stop. My mother kept her distance, moaning on the sidelines. If I’d been able to, I would have slapped her face. Finally, he stopped, either because he was worn out or he decided to take pity on me. I suspected it was the former. But, it hadn’t really happened to me again. I was just standing there somehow watching. It was like a trainwreck. This just had to be a nightmare. God knows, I’d had enough of those. Okay. So? What in hell is this supposed to teach me…I already know my Dad was an abusive drunk…and my mother was useless. Can we move on, please? He was standing in front of me suddenly. The scene was frozen in time. “You protected your little brother. You stood up to your father. And it wasn’t long after that…you were able to block his blows. He stopped beating you. You also got him to stop beating your mother. He was the one in fear. He feared you.” I swallowed. “He got sick. His liver was going. He wasn’t strong enough to…” “No, Brandon. You stopped it,” Wistan said. “Did you see your mother’s face when your dad was beating you?” “Yes.” “She loved you so much, but her fear prevented 19

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her from protecting you. Fear is a terrible thing…fear of pain…fear of love.” I took a breath. “She didn’t love me enough, apparently.” The bitterness in my voice was unmistakable. “Tell me, do you remember what you did when you got up off that floor?” “Yes, I went to the attic to check on Frankie and…I wrote.” “Why did you write?” “…to escape, to transport myself into another world…away from everything around me. I remember,” I smiled, “it was an adventure at sea…about a pirate who fell in love with this governor’s daughter. He took the buxom lass hostage and…well…let’s just say,” I laughed, “there were parts I didn’t read to Frankie.” “Of course you were secretly in love with the pirate!” Wistan commented, a twinkle in his eye. “Of course,” I chuckled. “You read to your brother often up there in that attic. Even with your father screaming and yelling downstairs, you wrote stories…stories that took you away from all the ugliness.” “Yeah,” I laughed. “Sometimes we’d act out the characters…or I’d make up a story…a scenario, and we’d make it up as we went along. My bother loved that. He’d always wanted to be the hero, and I’d let him…just because it took his mind 20


off…” I stopped. I didn’t want to talk about that anymore. Sobering, I said, “Now what?” “Well, this part I’m going to enjoy. It’s you, out on your own, your first job…sowing your oats. Out, gay, proud, having sex with almost everything that moved. Let’s go and have a look.”

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A Bar in downtown Manhattan: 1999 “Holy,” I said, “that’s me, waiting tables at ‘Mikes.’ I was working full time and attending CUNY at night. I don’t know how I did it.” “You had drive,” Wistan said softly. “You finally felt free, free from fear. Your father died in two thousand, didn’t he?” Brandon nodded. “Don’t make me go back to the funeral.” “I won’t. Tell me about this period in your life, Brandon.” “It was good,” I said, watching myself swiping my damp cloth over tables, and picking up empty glasses. I was so damn young then. “I was working,” I began, “and writing, going to school. I had just come out. I was exploring my sexuality.” Wistan made a sound in his throat. “You explored it, all right. Sometimes you never slept.” Brandon smirked. “Right. I was writing so 22


much then. It just poured out of me. I loved the writing courses at CUNY. My profs were fantastic.” “Um. One of them was pretty hot. Didn’t you do him in…?” “Never mind,” I said softly. “Did you get an A in that course, Brandon?” “Actually, yes,” I said, then, winked wickedly at me. Wistan shook his head. “As I recall, you also took your brother out often, didn’t you?” I nodded. “Sometimes he stayed at your place on the weekends.” “Yes, or when Dad got really drunk.” “Let’s take a closer look, shall we?” Wistan suggested. Suddenly, they were walking through a smoky, crowded dance club. “Night Encounters,” I cried out, looking back at Wistan, who merely waved his hand at him to proceed. “They tore this place down a while back. This was my hang out.” I paused, seeing two familiar faces standing around a small table at the back. “Those were my friends, Jay and Allan.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, there I was standing beside them, dressed in black jeans and tight red T-shirt. Jay had dirty blond hair. He had spiked it with a bit of gel in front. It 23

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looked quite ridiculous to me now. He was wearing a muscle top in a horrible orange colour, and I’d forgotten how plump he’d been. It made me laugh to think that Jay was now a chartered accountant on Wall Street. Allan was gorgeous. He was African-American, with thick black hair and large brown eyes. His skin was ebony, and his body…well...if I remembered correctly, tonight was the night I finally got to taste it. I was crazy about Allen. “This place rocks, doesn’t it?” Jay was saying, sipping on some fancy drink he always ordered. Allan moved closer to me. His thigh brushed mine. A little thrill ran down my spine. “I think it’s pretty boring tonight,” he whispered in my ear. “What do you say we cut out of here early, Brand?” I loved it when he called me Brand. I loved everything about him, from his sexy deep voice, to his muscular, hard body. He was a few inches shorter than my six two, but his body made him look a lot taller. “What about Jay?” I asked, daring my eyes to meet his. I wasn’t quite sure if I was reading him right, but my cock was hard as hell. I’d been waiting for him to make a move since we’d met in a creative writing class at the university. Although we’d only been out a few times, it seemed like we’d known each other forever. There was this delicious sexual tension 24


between us, but he was so gorgeous… that… well… I was sure I was misinterpreting him. Were you? No. Didn’t you realise that half the guys in that bar wanted to have sex with you, Brandon? No. That surprised me. Shit, wish I’d know that back then. “You almost had half the men in there anyway…even after Allan.” I nodded, remembering. “Can we move on?” “Not yet.” We were in the middle of telling Jay that we were leaving. He looked from one to the other of us suspiciously, then, giggled. “Are you going to be all right?” I asked him. He nodded. “I have my car. Don’t worry. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Allan raised a hand to Jay, and I followed him out. It was a cold night. It was snowing a little. We walked fast. I only lived a few blocks from the Club. How convenient. Don’t be a smart ass. When we reached the lobby, Allen pulled me inside and kissed me. The kiss was deep and intentional, filled with promise. I melted against his chest. I knew he was going to take the dominant role, but that was okay. I preferred 25

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being on top, but being on the bottom could be enjoyable too, providing enough lube was involved. I finally broke away from Allan’s embrace, deciding that if I didn’t, we’d never get upstairs. He smiled at me. Damn, he was a handsome man! We scrambled up the stairs to my second floor, one room apartment. There were no cockroaches, no rats, although I suspected at one time that there was a resident mouse. The sheets were clean…thank God, and I knew I had a fresh supply of condoms and lube by the sofa. Allan didn’t touch me again until I had unlocked the door. When I slid the chain over the lock and reached for the light switch, he wrapped his well muscled arms around my waist and kissed my neck. I turned around in his arms and slid my fingers through his thick hair. I couldn’t wait to get him out of those clothes. I’d been fantasizing about him naked every night from the first moment I’d set eyes on him. He picked up on my urgency as I kissed his mouth and pushed his blue navy jacket off his massive shoulders. He laughed as I dove for the bottom of his T-shirt, yanking it out of his jeans. He stood there patiently as I whipped it over his head and threw it aside. The dim light in my apartment didn’t afford me a clear view, and I wanted one. I pulled him 26


deeper into the room, and switched on a floor lamp near the window. When the light flooded the room, I actually whistled. He laughed a little embarrassed laugh. His torso was not just a torso, it was art, every muscle sculptured as if by the hand of God himself. I already had my coat off. Allan pulled my Tshirt off as well. “Brandon,” he moaned, coming close enough to flick his tongue out over one of my nipples, “you’re beautiful, baby.” Whether I was truly beautiful or not, he sure as hell made me feel that way. When he undid the belt of his jeans and pulled them down over his hips, I’d thought I’d died and gone to heaven. The sight of his cock made mine do somersaults. I slid down on my knees, and took what I could of it in my mouth. Looking back, if it would have been today…shit…I could have done so much more with it. But, in spite of my promiscuity, I wasn’t all that experienced…and giving a blowjob was still somewhat of a challenge for me…especially when it came to swallowing. However, Allan appeared to enjoy my amateurish sucking and pulling on his cock, because he made appreciative sounds in his throat and buried his hands in my hair. My, how times have changed. You’re a real pro now. Never mind that. Suddenly, Allan pulled me up into his arms, kissed me hard, and ran his hands all over me. 27

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Yanking on my pants, he tore them down over my hips and clutched my buttocks in his hands. “Brandon,” he murmured, kissing my neck, running his tongue down my throat to one nipple, then the other. “I want you.” That made me crazy. We moved with each other across the floor to the pull-out sofa, which of course, wasn’t pulled out. Allan pushed me down on it, and within seconds we were on the floor. The sofa was just too small to hold both of us. I remembered blubbering something about safes and lube being in the drawer of the table next to the sofa; and he must have heard me because suddenly I was on my belly, and something cold moved up inside my anus. I think I yelped, Allan laughed. One of his hands had reached under me to massage my cock, and the other was slipping its well-lubricated fingers up inside me. My stiff nipples rubbed against the threadbare carpet. I squirmed around some, liking the sensation, and felt the muscles in my ass relax. Allan’s fingers were applying pressure in a spot that was shooting little darts of pleasure throughout my groin. I must have moaned because Allan’s hand left my cock, and moved down over my hair to my spine. He said my name, then gently withdrew his moist fingers from between my ass cheeks. I was trembling, in part from anticipation, in part from fear. It wasn’t as if I’d never been fucked 28


before, but this was different. Allan seemed to know what he was doing, and I didn’t want to look like an idiot. His hands grabbed my hips and dragged me up onto my knees. He didn’t ask permission, and he didn’t warn me. He just entered me. At first there was pain, and he went slow, carefully, until the pain passed, then he began to thrust in and out. I cried out, might have cried out his name, I don’t know. Each movement he made increased the pleasure. This guy knew how to fuck! I started moving with him, and then I heard him moan. Guessing that was the right thing to do, I did it more. He cried out. I shot, my cock pumping out cum I didn’t know I had in me. Then I felt his own cream filling my orifice, and I sighed. I had made him cum too. That was nice. I collapsed on the floor. He did the same, rolling over onto his back. He looked at the ceiling, I looked at him. I wanted to touch him, and I did, in time, all night long. In fact, I kept him up all night long, in more ways than one. You were in love with him. No. It wasn’t love. Yes, it was. And when you were sure that it was, you did everything to fuck it up…especially when he told you how he felt. Can we go now? No, not yet. 29

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I found myself now standing in that lonely apartment. Wistan was standing behind me, his arms folded across his chest. I suddenly hated him, his smugness, his I know everything about you demeanour. “Who in the hell are you anyway?” “I told you, I’m the gift giver.” “You sure as hell don’t look like any Santa Claus I’ve ever seen,” I sneered. “They’re not those kinds of gifts.” “No shit. So, how did you happen to become this…gift giver…ah…person? What are you…an angel…an elf…the ghost of Christmas fucking past?” I was being nasty. I felt like being nasty. “No, I assure you I’m no angel. Actually, many, many years ago, it was decided that not everyone should be given the same gifts…ah…talents…in the world, so someone had to decide who got what. That’s what I do, I decide.” “Based on who’s naughty and who’s nice?” “Fortunately not, because that would mean that you, Brandon would have been excluded.” “Right. I’m on the naughty list. Very cute.” “Thank you, I think you’re very cute, too.” The guy was actually flirting with me. “Well, keep it in your pants.” “I intend to…for now. We’re not finished here. Let’s take a look at one of your Academy Award performances, Brandon.” 30


Giving me no time to protest, I was suddenly in the middle of some heavy-duty fucking in the back room of some sleazy club. Allan would be there any minute. I kept pumping into the backside of this guy whose face I’d hadn’t really seen yet, and checking my watch at the same time. “Damn…damn…baby…baby…” the guy was saying, moving his ass hard against my implanted cock. My performance had greatly improved. In fact, Allan had taught me more about giving and receiving pleasure than any man I’d ever had. This guy whose ass I was impaling was living proof; and his squirming around was starting to have an effect on my cock. I planted the palms of my hands on the wall on either side of the guy and shot into him. Where in hell was Allen? He was late. He had promised to meet him here at ten. It was pretty shitty way of breaking it off, wasn’t it Brandon? Did you really want to destroy the guy, or was it that you were too much of a coward to tell him to his face? I didn’t want to destroy him. I never meant to hurt him. You were just too afraid of what you were feeling. You never knew love. You had never felt loved, and when Allan told you he loved you…well… I stopped listening to Wistan. I suddenly wanted out of there…out of that room, out of that guy’s ass...out of this fairyland trip back to Oz that 31

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this guy…or whatever the hell he was…was taking me on. Then I saw his face. I would have done anything to take it back. The words came out of my mouth, cold, callous and I couldn’t stop them. I slapped the guy on the ass in front of me, called him the wrong name, and did my zip up with shaking fingers. “Is this what you wanted me to see?” Allan demanded. His deep voice sounded weak, vulnerable. He lifted his chin, but there were tears in his eyes. “I knew it would come to this. Why, Brand, why?” The pain in his eyes was too much. I looked down at the floor. “You are just too possessive, clingy…I’m not ready for…” I lifted my eyes. “It’s over, Allan.” He nodded. “I love you, Brandon. Down deep, I think you love me. You’re so tough on the outside, and inside you’re just a hurt little boy.” “Think whatever you have to,” I told him. “I’m sorry, Allan.” I didn’t realise that I was crying until the scene disappeared from my view and I was standing in some sort of a field. The wind blew around me, drying the tears on my face. “Happy now?” There was no answer, only silence. I looked around me. I was alone. Maybe it was over. Allan. I did love you, baby. I was just too afraid to lose you, 32


too afraid you’d walk away and I’d be alone. Alone. I was alone. I’m here, Brandon. I turned around to see Wistan standing there. “Let’s move on. Let’s move on to when you sold your first book. What was it called?” “Swallowed Whole..” “That’s an appropriate title.” Wistan grinned. “Did you employ some of the techniques Allan taught you when you wrote the book?” “Allan didn’t teach me to suck dick,” I told him. “He taught me to fuck. Juan taught me to suck dick.” “Oh,” Wistan nodded his head. “Did you ever see Allan again after that night?” My skin felt taut with the dried tears. “Yes, a few times, and he actually came to a book signing once.” “How did that feel?” “Seeing him was like having a toothache. I can’t explain more than that. I don’t want to explain more than that. “Did you ever try to see him?” “I picked up the phone a few times but…I never made the call.” “What about now? How does it feel now?” I shook my head. “It a distant pain…far away.” “Would you try and see him now?” “It’s been too long. He’s with someone else 33

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anyway.” “Ah, how do you know that?” “I just do.”

34


August 2002: New York City Publisher’s Office

“I

t’s a best seller,” Cab O’Brien told me, sitting back in his leather bound desk chair. “We didn’t expect that. It’s exciting, isn’t it?” “Yes, very,” I replied. I already knew that. I wasn’t sure why I was summoned here. “You’re ready for your book signing tour?” “Yes, very excited.” “Good. Now, we need you to start writing another book.” “Well, I have some ideas that…” “Good, good,” he said, pushing his chair away from the desk. “If you need anything. Shall we set a deadline for the next one, let’s say…January two thousand three?” That was six months away. “Well, I…” “Good,” he said, clamping a hand on my shoulder as he steered me out the door. You more than exceeded their expectations, didn’t 35

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you, Brandon? Yes. Three more best sellers between two thousand three and two thousand four. How stressful was that, Brandon? Immensely. Why? Did you feel like you were selling out? A little. And you really didn’t like these people…the publishers and agents…and editors. They really didn’t care about you. You were just a dollar sign to them. Did you hate writing the last one? Summer Heat was so contrived. I wanted to write something different but I was basically told not to break with the formula. Let’s take a look at your last book launch, shall we? Do I have a bloody choice?

36


November 2005: Reception room of a five-diamond hotel in Manhattan

W

hiskey, straight, no ice,” I said. There were a lot of people. I never liked these things much anyway. There were a lot of big shots around, but you never did get to see your grass root fans. Cab O’Brien was hobnobbing. He’d barely said more than a few words to me all night. I was just a vessel. I knew that. Hell, we all knew that. They took my work, and claimed it, and then held me hostage to it. Summer Heat. It wasn’t my best work. I wondered if it showed how much I really hated writing it. Didn’t matter. It wasn’t even my idea originally. My agent said, “They need a book. Why don’t you write a book about a guy who has a big boat and invites all kinds of men on it to fuck?” Brilliant! How much creative energy would it take to write this one? I could basically recycle all the sex from the other books, toss them into the 37

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mix with a big cock and a big boat…and the ultimate phallic symbol…wealth. Hell, that was writing. Hee haw! I swallowed my whiskey, and asked for another. Several men I’d slept with were there, milling around. One I remembered cried like a baby when he came. Oh? Which one was that? The macho one, with no hair. I would have never guessed. What about the blond God over there? Was he any good? Are these questions designed to further my growth in this crazy experiment, or are you just curious? A little of both. He was so, so, happy? What happened here tonight, Brandon? Well, I guess if you wait long enough, you’ll find out. It was only a few minutes past nine o’clock, and I was drunk, drunk enough to lose some of my social graces. Umm. Like father, like son? I am not my father. My father could have been the poster boy for the belligerent drunk. I admit I can be a little brazen, but I don’t get mean…usually. Everything was going fine until dear old Cab saddled up beside me and asked me if I’d been writing. It was just the wrong question at the wrong time. I had been trying to write. Maybe the 38


stuff I’d been writing would have been good enough for them at this point in my popularity. It was not good enough for me! It was ironic really. You could write the best stuff in the world, and no one would look at you. You get one thing by them, and eventually, you can turn out pure garbage…as long as you turn it out…because now no one cares what you write. “It’s the name that sells, my boy,” Cab had told me after I’d sold my first manuscript. Well, I was a name, and the name was writing crap. I didn’t answer him the first time Cab asked me that question. I thought if I ignored him, he’d go away. He didn’t. “Brandon,” he insisted. “Are you writing?” I turned to him, downed my drink, and managed to say, “Yes, if you can call it that.” “Good. When will it be finished?” I laughed, rather harshly. “Garbage never finishes. It goes on and on. You can see it in the streets, on the curb, in people’s houses. Hell, you can watch it float down the Hudson.” He narrowed his eyes at me, trying to smile. He was wearing tiny glasses with no reflection. He smelt of musk aftershave. Regardless of a man’s appearance or age, I’d always been able to find something appealing about every man I’ve seen…no comment please…but there was nothing at all appealing about Cab O’brien. “You’re 39

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joking,” he said. “No,” I replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’m going to go and capitalize on my name and try to get laid.” He wasn’t impressed. I didn’t give a shit. I went up to the blond in the Armani suit, and gave him my most flirtatious smile. “Hi, Bob.” “It’s Bill, actually,” he said, flashing white teeth. “Whatever. Let’s get out of here, shall we?” He grinned. “Sure.” Now, are we going to have to go through all this? Why not? Might entertain me. Didn’t entertain me. It was quite boring as I recall. I’m surprised you recall. Turns out this guy would have rather fucked himself, than me. Laughter. You’re learning already. Joy to the world. You’re disillusioned. Ah…ya think? Nasty, too. The king of the snappy comebacks. You have to be witty if you’re going to spend time alone, typing out shit you talk about in your head. It takes guts. It takes a mentally unstable person with a big ego. That too. So, this is the point where your drinking got out of control. If you say so. There was pressure to write what you didn’t want to write. The more you couldn’t do it, the more you drank. 40


Vicious circle. I blinked. We were back in that room again, the one with no door. I sighed. “Is it over yet?” It suddenly occurred to me that I sounded like the annoying kid on the family car trip. Damn, I felt like the annoying kid on the family car trip. “Have you learned anything?” “Yeah, I don’t like you very much.” “That’s okay. I need to show you an alternative life now.” “I already lead an alternative life. I’m gay, remember?” “Not alternative lifestyle…and don’t you hate that expression?” I looked at Wistan. “I never really thought about it much. So, what do you do for encores, throw darts at people?” Wistan grinned. “No. I think you understand some things now…but I want to show you an alternative reality. I want to show you your life, without the gift.” “What in hell for? You gave it to me already. It’s too late to take it back now.” “No, it isn’t.” “Maybe you already have taken it back,” I accused. “Maybe that’s why I can’t fucking write anymore.” “Blaming others for your problems won’t solve anything.” 41

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“Oh, shut up,” I said angrily. “You are getting on my last nerve, man.” “Good. It’s working then,” Wistan said calmly. “Now, prepare yourself. This would have been your life if I hadn’t of so generously decided to give you the gift.” “Um, sometimes it doesn’t feel like such a gift. Did I tell you that already?” “No, because you don’t mean it.” “Well, get on with the movie then,” I bit back. “Is it x rated?” “Actually,” he mused, “it is. It makes your sex life look like nursery school.” I couldn’t see him anymore. The room begin to fill with mist, a swirl of smoke and light. “In that case,” I coughed, “maybe you should keep your stupid gift.” Reserve your judgement for later, Brandon.

42


Part Two

I

was watching the cases of beer appear on the doorstep again. I knew it was Christmas. I knew that I was sixteen years old and that my father was going to get blind drunk and beat on us. My mother was in the kitchen making cookies. I hated those sugar cookies with the tiny sprinkles that stuck in my teeth. My father was already bitching about something. Dinner wouldn’t be served for hours, and all I wanted was to get out of the house. I had promised my mother to stay for dinner, but watching my father swill down beer was already making me antsy. When mom finally called us all to dinner, my father was tanked. My twelve-year-old brother Frankie was playing with some toy at the table, looking down into his lap. When my father started bitching at my mother, it began slowly. The turkey platter flew across the 43

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table. My mother ducked. “Can’t you do anything right, woman?” the old man screamed, spit running down the side of his mouth. “I’m sorry, dear,” my mother said over and over as she got down on her knees to pick up what was left of our dinner. I hated her. I hated her, and I hated him. I got up from the table. “Well, I’m out of here.” “Where in hell do you think you’re going?” My father demanded. “Going out with my friends,” I told him, meeting his eyes boldly. My little brother began to cry. I look over at him for a minute. “Better toughen up, kid, it’s not going to get any better.” “Think you’re a big man now, eh?” My father declared, getting up from his seat. I made a move to run. He reached out for me, clamping his huge hand around my arm. He was going to hit me, but that was all right. Maybe he’d wear his fist out on me, then, pass out. He did that sometimes. My mother screamed. I tried to get out of the way, but his fists came down on me like an avalanche. “Don’t you talk back to me, boy!” I took it, and then I took some more, my only thought was trying to manoeuvre enough to escape his clutches, and get out the door. Finally, I did. 44


When I got outside, I ran and ran. My mouth and nose ran with blood. I wiped it on the sleeve of my shirt, the one mother made me put on for Christmas day. To hell with it. I hated that stupid shirt anyway. Suddenly I stopped, looking around. I was out of breath, shivering with cold. I looked around at the Christmas lights strung outside peoples’ doorsteps. I imagined happy people inside. Finally I stopped outside a familiar tenement. It was run down, dirty, half the building had been condemned a while back. I yanked open the door with the cracked glass and went inside. It wasn’t much warmer inside than it was out. Climbing the stairs to the third floor, I walked down the dark, dank corridor to the last door at the end of the hall. It was open. “Hatman,” I said. “Are you there?” Hatman was just a nickname. No one had ever seen him without his white cowboy hat, which no matter how unkempt he looked was always very clean. I’d first met him last summer when my dad had beaten the crap out of me, and kicked me outside. It was the first time I’d ever been brave enough to talk back to him, and it was the first time I’d ever been out on the street after midnight. I was scared shitless. My dad had been pissed at me for getting kicked off the football team. I had been getting in a lot of fights at school, and the 45

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principal had decided that until he saw a marked improvement in my attitude, I could no longer be on the team. I was a pretty good quarterback actually, and my father had played when he was in high school. He was more than angry, and I didn’t help things was talking back. Hatman rescued me from the street. He took me in, gave me Kool-Aid of all things, and wiped the blood off my face. He was my friend. He understood. Tonight, he stood shaking his head at me, holding out a damp cloth. “What in fuck did you do now?” I shrugged, wiping my face. “Doesn’t matter. It’s my Christmas present, man.” I laughed harshly. Hatman came over and stood in front of me. He was a big guy, half white, half black, not what you’d call attractive. God knows how old he was, maybe forty. I wasn’t sure how he made his money. I suspected he sold drugs because he always had some. Many a time I’d smoked pot with him. And there were a variety of boys…young boys…around my age, who came in and out of that building regularly. I knew most of the boys who lived there with him. They always seemed to have money, and he never beat them…at least, it didn’t look like it. “Why don’t you call the cops, Brandon?” 46


Hatman suggested now, dipping the cloth in running water over the scummy sink, and handing it back to me. “He is a cop. They won’t do anything. I tried once. Nothing came of it.” “He’s going to kill you eventually.” “I can’t go back there, man. Can I stay here, with you?” Hatman nodded. “Sure, kid, as long as you want, but you know you can’t stay for free. You got to pull your weight. And what about school?” “Fuck school.” “Your old man’s a cop. I don’t want any trouble, you understand?” I didn’t. “You know what these boys do…the ones who stay with me?” I suspected, but I didn’t really want to say. I shook my head. “They sell their bodies. They’re prostitutes, whores, and they can’t be skittish. They do what ever the client wants…for a price.” “With men?” I squished the warm washcloth in my fist. “Of course with men. Come on, Brandon,” Hatman laughed, “you’re as queer as they come. You even told me what you did with your gym teacher in grade seven in the locker room…or was that just the pot talking?” 47

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It was the pot talking. Hatman walked around me now. He ran his hand over my dark hair, squeezed one of my broad shoulders, slid around my body to peer at my ass. “You’re a fine looking boy, Brandon. How old are you now?” “Seventeen…tomorrow,” I said, feeling uneasy. “Are you ready to spread your ass for horny businessmen?” I shook my head, then, I broke loose and ran. I wandered around the streets for what seemed forever, terrified of almost everyone I saw. I held out as long as I could. I couldn’t envision myself as one of the homeless people sleeping on the sidewalk. I couldn’t go back home. Three days later, I walked that same corridor back to Hatman’s door. “Remember, Brandon,” he said when he saw me, “I never tricked you into this. This is your decision, right?” “Right,” I said, swallowing. “The drugs will help get your through it in the beginning. I’ll always have plenty on hand. Here’s some condoms and lube,” he shoved a handful of stuff at me. Lighting a joint, he sucked some in, then passed it to me. Squinting against the smoke, he said, “I’ll have Randy take you out tonight. It’s twenty for a blowjob, fifty if they want to fuck you. Add on twenty or so for anything kinky. If 48


they want to fuck you bareback, then it’s never less than a hundred, okay? You got to protect yourself.” I sucked on the makeshift cigarette. The words sounded jumbled, unclear. Maybe it was because I was slowly getting stoned. “What’s bare…ah…back?” “Without a condom. You ever taken it up the ass before?” Hatman asked me. I turned red. “No. I…” He grabbed the lube that I was clutching in my fist and undid the cap. “Well, get your pants down. I don’t want you going out there a virgin.” **** This was a nightmare. I wanted out. Where in hell was that Wistan guy? This wasn’t me. I wasn’t a prostitute. I might be on my way to being an alcoholic, but I wasn’t a drug addict, although I have to confess, I’ve smoked my fair share of marijuana. This is a little farfetched. I can’t write, so I sell my ass on the street? This is what would have happened without the gift, Brandon. It’s not exaggeration. Without an outlet for your anger, without a way to express what you were feeling, you became a very angry young man. You didn’t write for the student newspaper, your behaviour got you ousted from football, your grades fell, and no 49

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one knew your suffering. Even in real life, no one knew it anyway! I didn’t tell anyone. I was too embarrassed. Everyone thought we were the ideal family. Mother stayed in the house to hide her bruises. Most of the time, Dad never hit me where anyone could see…except near the end…before he died. I don’t want to see anymore of this alternative reality shit. Sorry, Brandon…but you have to. It will take a lot more than this to make you appreciate your gift. Let’s go forward. You’re nineteen now. Yes, and I’m working at ‘Mikes’ and going to CUNY. No, sorry, it’s Christmas Eve, and you’re selling your wares in Times Square.

50


Times Square: 1999

I

t was damn slow tonight. Who in the hell would be out here on Christmas Eve anyway, aside from a bunch of weirdoes? If it wasn’t for the fact that Hatman had threatened to cut me off if I didn’t pay up for the cocaine I’d snorted, I would have packed it in. It was mild anyway, some light snow falling but nothing major, so at least I wasn’t freezing my ass off. And as for competition, there just wasn’t any. I’d been alone out here on this street corner for the last half hour. When the black BMW slid around the corner, I was ready. I sauntered closer to the sidewalk and waited for it to slow down. The automatic window made a grinding sound as it winded down on the passenger side. I pocked my head in. What I saw wasn’t half bad. Handsome, young, a toss of fair hair, blue eyes. He looked directly at me, and smiled. “Hello,” he said. “Hello yourself.” “What’s a nice boy like you doing out here on 51

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Christmas Eve all alone?” Cop. Maybe he was a cop. “Just taking a walk,” I said cautiously. “Um. Want to take a ride instead?” “Where to?” “My place. Get in,” He said, sliding his wallet out of the pocket of his black leather jacket. He opened it to show me that it was crammed with bills. “I can be generous…especially at this time of year.” Holy. I’d hit the jackpot. Good looking, and loaded as well. I opened the door, and climbed into the car. “Are you my Christmas angel?” “Maybe,” he said, pushing the stick shift into drive, and hitting the gas. He lived in a luxurious penthouse with a sunkin living room, and built in pool. He made me a drink I’d never heard of, and allowed me to melt into his black leather sofa. He sat down opposite me on a matching leather chair and lifted his glass in the air. “Merry Christmas,” he said. We drank. I studied him. He was shorter than I, maybe five ten, with a welltoned body, from what I could see from his tight designer jeans and green T-shirt. I wondered what a guy like that was doing home on Christmas Eve alone. “You like my place?” He asked softly, putting down his empty glass. I drained mine, and nodded. “Yeah. It’s great. 52


So, what do you do?” He smiled, “No, the question is…what do you do?” I grinned. “Anything you want.” “What I want right now is for you to be naked. Can you manage that?” “Sure,” I said, standing up. I shrugged out of my battered bomber jacket and pulled my sweater over my head. Holy. What happened to the nice tone I had? I guess I wasn’t spending a hell of a lot a time at the gym in this reality. My torso was attractive enough, but I was too thin. My angel nodded, his eyes shining. “Nice. Go on, the boots,” he breathed. I leaned down and undid the laces, then kicked them off, a little embarrassed that I had a hole in my wool socks. I took them off too. “The pants,” he said, his eyes washing over me. The air felt thick suddenly, tense. I cast a glance at the huge balcony door. The snow was falling heavily now. I began to slide down the zipper on my jeans. “Slowly,” he said. I slowed down. Ah, there was my cock. At least that hadn’t changed. I’d always been rather fond of it. It was nine and a half cut, and thick. It also seemed to know how to stand at attention at the right time, and stay that way for a reasonable period of time. The guy sitting on the chair rose. He walked 53

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over to me and ran his hand over my chest, brushing one of my nipples. Placing the other hand on the back of my neck, he titled my head, then moved his hand around and put his thumb in my mouth. His other hand was fondling my cock now. I was hard, trying not to squirm too much as his fingers slid over every inch of my scrotum. The other hand left my face. Taking a step backward, he looked down at my cock and began to fondle it with both hands. I stood quietly, waiting. It was his dime. “Any diseases?” “No,” I said. “When was the last time you were checked?” “Ah, I don’t know…last year? Don’t worry, I insist on condoms.” He nodded, gently slapping my cock back and forth now in his hands. He glanced up. “Is there anything you won’t do?” “Ah…depends,” I hesitated. “What do you have in mind?” He didn’t answer. “Turn around,” he insisted. I did. Cool hands covered my ass cheeks for a moment. “Nice, firm. How many men have fucked you?” “I don’t know,” I replied. “A lot, I guess.” “Did you like it every time?” “Not every time.” 54


“Do you like getting fucked?” My ass was being spread now, a dry finger making its way inside of me. I bit my lip. “Yeah, most of the time.” A hand moved around and grabbed my cock. The finger went deeper. “I’ve got some…” I grunted, “lube in my…” “Don’t need it,” he said it, squeezing my testicles now, “I’m going to do you dry.” Oh, great. “Don’t tell me men haven’t fucked you dry before?” Plenty of times, but it wasn’t fun. The finger went deeper. I caught my breath in my throat. His lips came down on my neck as he continued to play with my cock. My pre-cum was dripping into his hand. He removed it, and began moving his fingers around his palm. He withdrew his finger. I sighed with relief. “I’m going to lubricate you with your own cum. Good thing you’re a horny slut, isn’t it?” I wasn’t insulted by his change in tone. Clients often treated me like that…calling me a whore or a slut. It turned them on. I grunted as I felt his finger slide up inside me again. My cum wasn’t exactly the best lubricant, but it was better than nothing. He was holding me tight against his body, three fingers now making their way up inside of me, and the other hand beginning to jerk me off 55

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something fierce. “I want to see you cum, slut. You want to cum for me, don’t you, you dirty whore? Want to suck my cock?” “If that’s what you want,” I told him. “No,” he barked, making me jump some, “I want you to want to. Say it, say, I want to suck your cock!” “I want to suck your…ah….ah….” I was going to shoot. I couldn’t help it. This guy’s fingers were doing incredible things to my asshole, even if it was uncomfortable, and his fist was jerking me right into paradise alley. I came, shooting out straight, wondering if he’d ever get the cum stains off his fancy furniture. He pushed me on my knees. I went down hard on the fluffy rug, putting a hand out to steady me. I heard the zipper slid down on his jeans, and then watched him come around to the front of me. He let his pants fall to the floor. White bikini underwear tumbled down after them. He had his cock in his hands, rubbing it. Grabbing my hair, he pulled back my head and rammed his cock against my lips. I opened my mouth, and took it inside. As I sucked and licked his cock, he held onto my hair. After a few minutes, he placed a hand on my forehead and pulled out. He slipped to his knees. “Turn around,” he demanded, reaching out with his hands, “get your ass up here.” I scrambled around on my knees. Grabbing my 56


hips, he didn’t hesitate. There was no lube, and no condom. He just spread my ass, and dove in. Luckily he had a fairly average sized cock, and he was already wet from a combination of my sucking and his leaking. He pumped a few times, then came, pushing me aside as he got up off the floor. “That was pretty good,” he said, his voice suddenly sounding cordial like we’d just finished a good meal in the restaurant. “Want another drink?” I nodded, rising up off the floor. “That would be great,” I said, when all I really wanted was some coke. I watched him pouring brown liquor into glasses, carefully filling them with ice, and I reached for my pants. “Can I get dressed now, or…?” “Go ahead,” he said, giving me that smile he had given me in the car. He waited for me to zip up my pants, then handed me a glass. “Are you a cokehead?” He asked me suddenly, not bothering to put on his clothes. He let himself fall back on the sofa. “No,” I said. “I’m no cokehead. Why would you say that?” “I know the signs. Your nose is fucked up, you sniff a lot. Pretty expensive habit for a street whore.” I shrugged. 57

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“I know where you could get all the cocaine you want, and still have money in your pocket,” he said, lifting an eyebrow over his drink. That captured my interest. I drained the glass. “Where?” “You’d have to work for me,” he said softly. “Doing what?” “Fucking, of course…but I deal with only selective clientele. It’s by appointment only, and it costs. They pay for our discretion.” I knew what he was talking about. “You’d have to dump your pimp,” he said. “I don’t have a pimp. I went independent awhile back.” “Not a smart move. Any talent needs a manager. You want to work for me, or not?” “I’ll think about it,” I said. “Don’t think too long,” he stood up, half empty glass still in his hand. “And there’s one thing, once you’re in, you’re in until we let you go. There’s no getting out.” “All the coke I want?” He nodded. “And fancy clothes, nice place to live,” he looked around the penthouse. “You need a haircut…need to hit the gym…but you’ve got the look, and you passed the test.” Holy shit! I’m only nineteen years old. Aren’t I getting in a little deep here, Wistan? Wistan? He was like nowhere. 58


I was walking. It was Christmas Day. I knew that. That guy, the one back at the penthouse, I didn’t even know his name. He gave me some coke before I left, said it was a Christmas present. I was high as a kite. The streets were practically deserted; even the homeless were at some mission somewhere eating turkey dinner. Everything was closed. Church bells chimed somewhere in the distance. I finally spotted St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and stopped to rest on the stairs. It finally dawned on me. I was going to die out here. I hadn’t exactly lied about not having a pimp anymore. The truth was that Hatman didn’t want me around anymore. I had ripped him off for too much coke. Now I was homeless. Okay, Wistan, I get it. Without the gift, I’m a goddamned loser. I don’t think we need to see the end of this movie. You already gave away the whole plot. The ending’s just too damn predictable. We’re almost done, Brandon. There’s one more thing you have to see. What? What else would you like me to see? Me in rehab? Me in the joint? Oh I know, my death. You’re going to pull a Dickens on me, and show me my gravestone? You’re going to dress up like the Grim Reaper, and point to my name with one long, bony finger. The only answer was silence. Either he had stopped appreciating my dry humour, or he wasn’t listening to me anymore. 59

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I stood up, shivering now. The wind was cold. I could see the snow drifting off the snow banks, and blustering across the vacant streets. I pulled my thin grey ski jacket up around my neck. I started to walk again, but I was walking to nowhere. I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t go to Hatman, unless I had his money. The only place to go was back to that penthouse. I would be out of the cold, but I would be finally have to say goodbye to what was left of my soul. I slipped and fell, wetting the knees of my pants. I got back up, and trudged on. The snow picked up…swirling and dancing around me. It whipped around me, turning into a cyclone, pushing me along. I couldn’t see anything. Then I was standing still. I was standing in a cemetery. I don’t know how I got here, but then, ha, I didn’t know anything anymore. Was this real, or make believe? Was I really standing here in a graveyard, or was it all in my head? Where did all the snow go? I thought you weren’t going to show me my gravestone? It’s not your gravestone. I blinked, looking down, my eyes trying to focus. I think I gave out a shout, then, I howled. Going down on my knees, I plummeted my fists on the ground. No, Wistan. That’s not fair. But you weren’t there for him, Brandon. You weren’t there to protect him anymore. You didn’t have the strength. You had no place to let out your pain. 60


Bitter tears poured down my face. The inscription on the headstone blurred in front of my eyes. Frank Archer-Born 1984-Died 1999. It should have been me. It should have been me. Don’t, Wistan, don’t take it away. I promise…I promise never to take it for granted again. I promise not to waste it. I’ll give up booze. I’ll give up sex…well…maybe not sex…but I’ll stop drinking. Please, Wistan…please…. “Please what, Brandon?” A voice laced with sexy overtones flooded my head. My eyes snapped open. I looked around. I was still in that damn room without any doors or windows. My clothes were gone this time. Umm. What was that all about? I scrambled up to a sitting position. “Okay, now what?” Then as if by magic, a man appeared. He was totally naked, and he looked exactly like… “Allan?” I choked. No, I was definitely dreaming again. The image smiled. “Not Allan, Wistan, but you seemed kind of put off by my appearance before, my wardrobe. I thought I’d present you with a more enticing vision.” “What…I don’t understand?” Coming over to the bed, he sat down. I stared at him with a mixture of horror and fascination. “I won’t take your gift, Brandon. I think you 61

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understand so much more now.” I nodded. How could I not? “And you will go to AA.” “Yes. I kept telling myself that the drinking was under control. It wasn’t. It’s my crutch. Thanks, Wistan,” I said softly, reaching for his hand. “Merry Christmas, Brandon.” He let his gaze trail over my body. “Ah…Wistan…” I began. “Umm,” he said, moving a little closer. “You never did tell me exactly what you are, and can you actually…ah…?” He laughed, touching my thigh with the tip of his little finger. “I can like this. Don’t you want to?” “I’m…I’m not sure,” I said, surprising myself. Well, there was a first time for everything. His hand squeezed my upper thigh now. “Please,” he said, Allan’s eyes looking back at me with an expression that was quite unique. “Are you allowed to do this?” He let his tongue run over his lips as if he were anticipating a good meal. “Once a year,” he said. My eyes widened. I was speechless. Wistan pulled himself up closer to me on the bed, his gaze settling on my cock. He lowered his mouth to my sex, and kissed it softly. A soft flutter ran down my spine. “You’re beautiful,” he groaned, “absolutely gorgeous. It’s a wonder I 62


could keep my hands off of you long enough to teach you the lesson.” His tongue came out now and licked the length of my cock, pausing at the tip to lap around the edge. I moaned, instinctively widening my legs and laying back. If I appeared rather wanton, that’s because I was. I wanted him to ravish me. He took my cock into his mouth, sliding a hand up over my chest and squeezing my left nipple. I’m going to make your wildest fantasy come true, Brandon. I can read your thoughts, remember? Oh, kinky…yeah. You are so sexy…so uninhibited. When I read your work, I can hardly keep it in my pants. Did you really suck a guy’s cock under the table at a writer’s convention? More or less. What about the guy with the twelve-incher? Is that a true story? Absolutely. I felt my arms rising suddenly. I looked up to see silk ties descend out of nowhere, binding my wrists together. “Hey,” I protested, laughing, while his mouth was washing over my erection. This was hot. Wait. It’s going to get a lot hotter. My cock pulsed in his mouth. He sat up, smacking his lips. Allan’s eyes looked at me, but Allan wasn’t in there. It was Wistan. Reaching 63

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down and grabbing my legs, he pulled them wider, giving me a laugh that might have come from a devious child. Again, silk ties dropped down from nowhere, this time encircling my ankles. It was some technique he had. He ducked his head down again, this time his tongue flicked out and moved over my balls. I closed my eyes. His head brushed my cock a few times, as his tongue dipped lower, moving up between the cheeks of my buttocks. I clenched my fists. My cock was throbbing. I wanted his hands on it, but he kept them to the side while he began to work magic with his tongue at the entrance to my anus. His tongue was quickly replaced with one finger, then two, deliciously soft and oiled with something slippery. As his fingers moved in and out of me, I cried out, cursing something in the air above me. Wistan laughed again, softly, still continuing to slide his fingers in and out, forcing my hips up and out in the air. His other hand landed on my aching dick. I would have kissed him in gratitude if I could have reached him. Who are you cursing, Brandon? Never mind, just keep playing with my rod. Yeah…finally… shit…are you trying to make me crazy? Maybe I want you to beg. Wrapping his fist around the base of my cock, 64


he began to pull and tug on it, continuing to do finger play in my ass. Jesus, Wistan. I moaned. He gave my cock another squeeze, then moved upwards with his lips. Clamping them around my right nipple, he began to lick and nip, matching the tune he was playing between my cheeks below. Casually, he continued to play with my cock and in my ass, yanking and pulling on one nipple, then the other. I couldn’t take it anymore. I’m going to blow! Now come on, Brandon, you gorgeous hunk you…you can hold on longer than that…especially if you want to fuck me. I closed my eyes. I wanted nothing better than to fuck his ass good, in part because I was horny as hell, and in part out of revenge, I think. The ties instantly disappeared, and he sat back on his haunches, running his hands over his chest, playing with his nipples, glancing down at his fully erect organ. “Well, hunk, what are you waiting for?” I was so stunned for a minute, watching Wistan inside Allan’s body doing these erotic things to it, I couldn’t move. Then suddenly I did. I reached out for him and pulled him down on the bed. He fell on his stomach then, lifting himself on his knees, presenting me with his gorgeous ass. Allan always did have a great ass. I grabbed his hips, nudging my close to bursting cock between his ass 65

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cheeks, then drove in for the ride of my life. After all that teasing, I was surprised just how much stamina I had left in me. I slapped his ass a few times, slowed down, and actually began to savour each thrust, each time my balls slapped against his skin. Baby. The sweat was pouring down my chest, dripping off my forehead and I began to speed up, go in, then all the way out to the tip of my cock, then back in again, moaning as each inch of me buried itself inside of him. I did it again and again, then my body began to shake like an earthquake and I emptied my load inside of him. My head fell forward; I wrapped my arms around him and collapsed with exhaustion, and a sense of peace that I hadn’t felt in a long time. Lying there on the bed, trying to get my breath, I closed my eyes. I heard a voice in my head. Thank you, Brandon. Thank you, gorgeous. You’re going to be fine now. I’m glad I gave the gift to you. Remember what I told you. The love of your life is waiting out there for you. I turned over on my stomach, and opened my eyes. Except for the ticking of a clock somewhere, there was absolute silence. I turned my head to the side, and stared into the face of my alarm clock…9:32 a.m. I sat up, gasping, as if I had been deprived of breathing for an incredibly long time. I looked around a cool, dark room. I was home. I 66


was in my own bed. I began to laugh. What a stupid dream. What a crazy dream. Stretching, I got out of bed. Padding naked to the adjoining bathroom, I took a pee. Yawning, I walked back into my bedroom, and went over to the window. I pushed back the blind to look outside. The sun was shining brightly. The ground was lightly dusted with snow. It was Christmas Day, wasn’t it? Going out into the living room, I picked up the television remote, and searched for that station that always had the date pasted at the bottom of the screen. Although I already knew it was Christmas before I reached it. There was nothing on but church services, and choirs singing. I sunk down onto my leather sofa, and turned up the volume. Some tenor was singing ‘Ave Maria’. I glanced over at my computer. Could I still write? Did I want to write? Of course I did, but I wasn’t very happy with the drivel I was publishing right now. The ‘formula’ was wearing thin. I wiped the back of my mouth with my hand. My jaw was rough. I needed a shave. I needed a…no…a drink was the last thing I needed. I closed my eyes. The tenor was lulling me off to sleep. When the phone rang, I just about jumped out of my skin. I leaned over and picked up the cordless. “Hello.” “Brandy.” It was my brother. He was the only 67

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one who ever called me that. “Frank,” I said. “It’s been a while.” “Yeah. So, Merry Christmas.” “You too.” There was silence. Then Frankie said, “I had a dream last night.” I started to laugh. “What?” “Nothing. What was your dream about?” “You. I dreamt about you.” “Was it good?” “It was weird, that’s all. You weren’t you. You were someone else.” “Oh.” “Are you going to call Mom?” I sucked some breath. “Ah…maybe I’ll go visit.” Another silence. “Do you want to come with me?” “Brand. Are you…?” “I’m fine. And no, an alien didn’t come down from space and take possession of your brother. I had a dream, too.” “Oh. And?” “Listen, Frankie. I’m not going to be straight tomorrow. You have to accept that. I’m gay. I like being gay. I’m not changing.” “Brandon, I…” “Let me finish. I will try and be more accepting of your choices, but I want some respect from you. 68


I deserve that.” “It’s not because you’re gay, Brandon. I don’t care about that. I don’t even believe everything the church says.” “Could have fooled me.” “You’re my brother. I owe you everything, and I don’t think we need to go into all that.” Tears came to my eyes. “Okay.” “It’s the drinking. It’s because I can’t stand to see you going the same way as Dad. I can’t live that again.” I heard him clear his throat. I knew he was trying not to cry. “I’m going to AA as soon as the holidays are through, Frankie. I promise.” He was crying now, apologising in between gulps of air. I gripped the phone, squeezing it a little. If he’d been here with me, I would have held him. “Are you all right now, little brother?” “I’m fine. What time do you want to go and see Mom?” “I’ll come pick you up around noon?” “Sure. Then, will you have dinner with us? I asked Mom to come, but she doesn’t go out of the house much anymore.” “Maybe the both of us can talk her into it.” “I love you, Brandon.” “I love you back. Now, let me go so I can 69

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shower and shave and get on the road.” We hung up. I felt a little scared, but it was a good scared. I had said it. I was going to go to Alcoholic Anonymous. I was going to give up drinking. **** I watched him crawl naked across the floor to me. “Please, please,” he said, “you’re a god.” I was laughing again. This guy could make me laugh like no body I’d ever known. “Well,” I managed, my laughter dying in my throat as I felt his hands moving up my thighs, “since you put it that way.” His mouth moved over my cock now, a cock that needed no encouragement. It was already drooling cum. Drooling cum…I liked that. I’d have to use that in my next book. That’s right, I was writing again. I was writing about a guy who had to buy his clothes from the Big and Tall shop, called Wistan. I pitched the idea to my New York City publisher, and well…he hated it. He said it was stupid…it wouldn’t sell…and you know…I didn’t care. I’ve sold it to an e-publisher. That’s right. I’ve found a place with heart…people who care about good writing, and the freedom to actually create. It doesn’t matter if I don’t get an advance…an advance I would have to pay back if my book 70


didn’t sell anyway. My creativity had gone nuts. I was writing like a demon, and prepared to sell it all to this little gem of an e-publisher I’d found called Ruby Red. Oops, back to the matter at hand. I had met Leon at an A.A. meeting. He was really cute, and he just loves erotica. All I have to do is read him the sex scenes out of my newest book, and he’s all over me. Excuse me. He is all over me at the moment…ahhh…. yes…ummm. Right now, he’s sucking my cock like there’s no tomorrow. My heads back, my eyes are closed, and I’m thinking of Wistan. Wistan. After I got off the phone with Frankie, I went in to take a shower. I was convinced I’d had one of those prophetic dreams…the one’s that are divinely inspired? No one could have convinced me that an eight foot guy with shitty taste in clothes had took me hostage in a cab to show me the way….and that’s not all he showed me, if you remember right. Well, anyway, I was taking my shower and guess what I discovered hanging off my left wrist when I raised my arm to wash my hair? A pink tie…a silky thing that I’d never seen before…except in my…ah…dream. What do you think I did then? Well, I turned off the water, lowered my head against the tile wall, and shook. I trembled all over. Believe it not, ladies and gents, that was no dream. 71

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Leon is bringing me to the brink at the moment, so if I’m conspicuously silent for a few minutes, don’t worry. I’ll…be…ahhh…ahhh…holy Jesus…he’s good at that. My cock is pumping. I wrap my fist around the base and squeeze. Umm… sweet. I pull him up into my arms and kiss his lips. I can taste myself in his mouth. He wraps his arms around me and holds me tight. He seems tired. We’ve been at this awhile. That’s okay. He closes his eyes, and I push his fair hair off his forehead. I’ve been seeing him for a few months! Surprised? Me too. Anyway, I’ve been dry for twice that long. It’s not easy. Sometimes I want a drink so bad that I just about climb the walls…but I call my sponsor, and my brother. Frankie has been great. I’m in therapy too, a group for children of alcohols. Frankie and I go together. I’ve stopped blaming my mother for everything, and I’ve almost forgiven my father for the abuse. Holding Leon now, I smile. It feels good to sleep beside a warm body every night. You know, I don’t know why Wistan chose me to visit Christmas Eve. Frankie still believes it was all some fantasy I had. I have given up trying to convince him otherwise. It’s not important whether anyone believes it or not. The main thing is I listened. I still have my gift, and I have so much more now. Wistan came to me because he must have felt the gift he gave me was too 72


precious to waste. Either that, or he was just looking to get laid.

The End

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR Brandon Archer has published male/male erotic with the big New York publishing houses. Growing tired of that world, he decided to give the smaller publishers a try and publish with Ruby Red Books. So far, he has been very pleased and is considering publishing more with them. Brandon lives in New York with Eric, the love of his life, and their two ghosts, Wistan and Max.

Christmas With Wistan (Brandon Archer Series)

Christmas with Wistan

Christmas with Wistan

Dreaming of Brandon Archer

Dreaming of Brandon Archer

Dreaming of Brandon Archer

Alexander, Brandon

Brandon Sanderson

Curse of Brandon Lupinus

Christmas with Daddy

Christmas with Danny Fit

Christmas With the Professor

Christmas With Tiffany

Christmas With a Stranger

Christmas With the Dead

Christmas with Daddy

Christmas With the Stallions

Christmas With the Professor

Christmas with the Duchess

Christmas with Tucker

Christmas with Her Boss

Christmas with Her Boss

Christmas with the Prince

Christmas With a Vampire

Christmas With the Dead

Christmas with the Stallions

Christmas With Tiffany

Christmas with Tucker

Christmas with the Stallions

Christmas With Danny Fit

Christmas With Eve

Christmas With Wistan (Brandon Archer Series)