May 16, 2015

Fortnight on a Flower Bed – by Andres Fragoso, Jr.

(c) 2015, Andres Fragoso, Jr.

I ran through the garden searching for my man, me Jose. Who was taken from me without someone asking me first if I would agree to his absence? I had just found him among the cacti, weeds, and the brown grass of the dessert. And I ran fast towards him. A voice yelled “Stop!” I froze on my steps and fell to the grass.

Hyacinth raised her leaves as I got up to shake myself, “Young man, watch your step in the flower bed,” she said in her royal demeanor. “What’s the rush? Why are you so haste?” Her round face grinned at me as if knowing my destiny, my destination, my loss, my hunger, me Jose.

Daisy flowered her white petals to a smile, placed her leaves behind her stalk and bent her stem, she giggled, “Where are you going lover boy?” She also seemed to know my love for me Jose, my reason for running, my lust for being with my man.

I kneeled by her to say. “After my me Jose, he’s waiting for me.” I tickled her gently. She laughed and her petals blushed.

Dandelion roared as he grew big and strong beside her, “Keep your hands off me Daisy!“ He firmly said. “Don’t you have your own?”

I sat back, placed my hands to my face, and cried, “I did. I do. I don’t know anymore. He’s gone from my side. He was taken from me too quickly if you ask me. I had just met the man of my dreams a bit more than a fortnight ago.” I composed myself and took a deep, calming breath.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned. “Young man, you should kiss a flower once, twice, thrice to bring you eternal love when you give your heart away,” Rose said in her splendor beauty.

I kneeled before her to give her kisses. “Three? What happened to a dozen on a vase or a single one with a chocolate diamond?“ I asked.

“Silly, silly boy, I said kiss a Rose. A dozen of me, you deserve for sure, but from the man you deserve. A single rose and a chocolate diamond you give when you propose.” She stretched to me and kissed my lips. “A castle garden of roses you would have from each the heart of those you have broken.”

Violet shouted aloud, “Be patient and you will see that the man you love in your arms will soon be.” Her scent impregnated my senses. “You will see that the months will fly by quickly. Our lived will wither away. Your love is eternal and never dies.”

I lay by the flowers on their bed. I sob, I cry, I hug myself thinking of me Jose. The sun shines in my eyes. Clouds float white and then dark. Thunder threatens like my fears for his warmth. I turn to the flowers with my tears raining on their petals, “It’s been almost a fortnight and I miss him so.”

“What do you miss the most?” Daisy asked as she’s held by Dandelion.

“I miss the lullaby of his voice, as he takes me in his arms. I miss the aroma of his soul when I inhale his scent in deeply. I long for the warmth of his hot body next to me in bed. It’s the sincerity of his words when he calls me baby that I believe in him. With the comfort of our nude bodies when getting ready for the day I no longer feel afraid of me. His texts of ‘I love you,’ through the day make me happy.”

Lilly bloomed from my tears on the soil. “Don’t despair like I did and lost Adam to Eve. Be brave and strong and you will see. The past is past so cherishing the memories will keep you free. The present is hard, but you will see. That your future truly is with only one and that is he,” she said to me.

I gather all of them in my arms and rest my head on them. “Oh, Daisy, I lay me down to dream how our wedding will be, when I find me Jose and he’s with again with me.” I close my eyes to sleep.

A kiss I feel on my cheek. “Wake up sleepy head.” Another kiss is stolen from my lips. I open my eyes and there he is. Me Jose has come back to me and brought me a red rose with a chocolate diamond on the stem.

“Marry me today. For that tomorrow I may leave again.”

“Yes. Yes. I will follow you to your end of the world.”

Another kiss from his delicious lips I keep. “This is our home, this is our flower bed, and this is our place. I will come back in a fortnight to forever stay.”

** ** **


Andres Fragoso, Jr.


** ** **


May 10, 2015

Wilde Oats – Issue 20

Wilde Oats

Issue 20.

Once again, Wilde Oats brings you a tasty and nutritious gourmet spread of entertaining stories and articles.  Our authors explore all aspects of life as a gay or bisexual man: love, humour, pathos, sorrow, loss, loneliness and happiness.

Plunge right in!

May 1, 2015

She’s a Romneyac – by Chuck Teixeira

(c) 2015, Chuck Teixeira

 

Romneyac’s Website was so crude it could lead to outlawing porn.  It allowed viewers to rate videos that studios upload.  Five leaden stars turned gold when the cursor grazed  them.  Clicking on only one star produced little alchemy.  Clicking on all five meant hands could soon be too sticky to touch the display.

Since their election defeat, Romneyac and his wife, Ann, had spent several afternoons healing on television talk shows.  Healing replaced job creation as a family value.  Not sure how much healing still needed to occur, Brother Theresa suggested that Website could elicit comments on less kinetic concerns.  Let the viewers provide redeeming social  value.

“Less kinetic?” Romneyac said.  “Website is motion — a continuous crashing through the boundaries between decency and feeling good.”

Despite the rash along his thighs, Brother Theresa resisted the urge to stir on his cushion. While he resisted, Romneyac seemed to come around.

“You may have a point. I don’t want Website shuttered before I’m ready to move on. What kind of comments you suggesting?”

With as much levity as he could simulate, Brother Theresa chatted up Website’s separating all black videos, Footage, from all white videos, FratsFootage usually presented emaciated young men on wrinkled red sheets — containers of lube on one side,  TV remotes on the other.  Often, the model watched naked women while he performed for the cameraman.

Romneyac was losing his patience. “I never view Footage.”

“There could be pop-ups,” Brother Theresa hazarded, “just before the cum shot, with questions like ‘Is this model really gay?’  ‘Is this model on crack?’  ‘Is crack an acceptable inducement to strip in cyber space?’”

“Too negative,” Romneyac said.  “And just before the cum shot?  No way!”

“What about after the cum shot?” Brother Theresa scrambled.  “Or after the slow motion replay?  Or after final credits, like bloopers?”

Securing an appointment with any Website executive required miracles, one with Romneyac himself succor beyond the divine.  Brother Theresa had used his own funds to fly to Salt Lake.  Then, the mix-up at Temple Square about whether Romneyac’s  appointment was with Brother Theresa, a pudge from San Francisco, or with her Holiness  from Calcutta.  And finally the awkward explanation that he wasn’t there to confer a  humanitarian award on behalf of his dead aunt.

Despite the hurdles, Brother Theresa would not yield — certainly not to the botoxed bully  behind the desk.  The models on Footage were little older than – and nearly as  unfortunate as — child soldiers in Africa.  They needed to be rescued, though mainstream  charities ignored them.

Frats,” Brother Theresa blurted, “Could elicit input to flesh out scenes.”

Frats is my favorite,” Romneyac said.  “So many guys who look like I used to.”

Brother Theresa seized the opening.  “When the varsity finds coach’s Levitra stash in the  locker room and fall so in love with each other that they forfeit the match on the field,  and when the geeky runt gets choked near death for refusing to write the team captain’s  senior thesis, pop-ups could ask, “If plagiarism enhances titillation, do more elevated  academic settings make better highs?”

Romneyac looked puzzled.

“Or,” Brother Theresa rushed to regain credibility. “The pop-ups could ask whether anyone  cared about coach’s family if alumni demanded his head.”

“And?” Romneyac groped.

“Richer studios that post samples on Website should pay more when a viewer follows a  link to their marketplace.  That extra money should go to poorer people, like the Footage  models, so they can earn their general equivalency diplomas and develop less marketable  skills.”

Now red, Romneyac shouted, “That is the most intrusive, most expensive, least effective  do-good nonsense I have ever heard.  And who do you mean by richer studios? Not  Frats. We own Frats.  We already pay too much in fees, taxes and other forms of  protection.”

The biggest prize apparently out of reach, Brother Theresa tried to salvage his mission.  “There are other rich studios. You can charge them extra, especially the foreign ones –  Twinkdom of Siam, Behind Bars in Rio, Up to Your Elbows in Berlin…

“Sure!”  Romneyac taunted, regaining some of his pre-election swagger.  “And have the  WTO all over our ass?”

Orphaned in a mattress-shopping mishap, Brother Theresa was no match for one of  America’s most intact families.  Had he believed the hype that followed his Christmas  interview on Oprah?  She hadn’t asked the tough questions that now piled on.  Why  ardor for black porn models?  What about only them aroused his sense of injustice? Was  it intimacy when a million other viewers came as close or in even higher definition?  What value any niche crusade?

“Let me be frank,” Romneyac said, “We have zilch control over working conditions in the  studios that advertise.”

“But,” Brother Theresa offered, “You could deny shelf space to any studio that refuses  oversight.”

“Amid all that decentralization,” Romneyac swelled then reined in his rhetoric, “Even  powerful people can’t exert much influence.”

Brother Theresa asked whether industry trade groups monitored the studios.

No.

Had Romneyac considered an inspection program of his own?

No.

Wasn’t Romneyac still concerned about peoples’ health?  Wouldn’t viewers sleep more  soundly knowing children’s fingers hadn’t worn down to knuckles weaving the blankets  on the bed?

“You’re losing me,” Romneyac said.  “But I’m open to commercially reasonable  deceptions.”

“I could visit the Footage studios,” Brother Theresa said, “Along with physicians to  examine models for bed sores and trauma.”

“No.” Romneyac shouted, “Too expensive.  Too intrusive.”

“I can administer aid myself,” Brother Theresa countered.

Romneyac lit up.  “And run your fat little hands over those slender,

sinewy bodies?”

Between the cynical baiting and the irritation in his trousers, Brother Theresa wasn’t sure how much more he could absorb.  “I’m not the saint in our family,” he finally said.

“I respect a man who knows what he wants and goes after it,” Romneyac laughed and extended a hand.  “Let’s shake on it.  At least until the healing’s done.”

 

~~ ~~ ~~

Chuck Teixeira

 

~~ ~~ ~~


 

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