Sendraguy
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In the English countryside, the best time to burgle property is the afternoon. Why; because, no-one’s about. That’s not to say the grand houses, manors and granges look deserted; not at all! Paddocks full of horses, enclosures of chickens, lines of washing, all speak of human occupation. As do the ever open gates and doors, awaiting the daily round of ubiquitous red Royal Mail vans. But don’t be fooled. There’s nobody there! For the most part, living in the countryside in England is
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Without his hair Glen felt cold and vulnerable, but losing his mobile was a disaster. Buying a replacement cell would be easy, re-listing that phone book almost impossible! - his contacts, his clients, his life, all stowed away in Marc Jesmond’s pocket. Worse still, he had nowhere to sleep. But Glen was a survivor, and, as he loitered outside the boys’ flat he knew that eventually they’d return from their Saturday afternoon’s shopping, and let the fox back in. When Dominic and Selby got back
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Morning The French call it La petite mort - men just can’t help falling asleep after they’ve cum. Strange then, that despite the onslaught of drink, drugs, and at least six orgasms between them, Glen and his boys didn’t sleep so well. Glen’s restlessness was well deserved; dreadful images fleeted across his dark soul as the hours dragged by. In the horrible business of yesterday none was guiltier than he. Though he hadn’t laid so much as a finger on Leon the boy’s fate was down to him. Fro
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Jim Appleby had seen the world; in fact, he’d sailed around it too many times to count, spent more nights than he cared to remember in bad company, and fought his way out of numerous tight scrapes. But Jim was finding life onshore a tougher challenge. With few family, and even fewer friends it was difficult for him to acclimatise. He never expected to make contact with his old sweetheart Amy Sadowitz - it was anybody’s guess where she was - but, working steadily through information given him
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Friday. Marc woke, feeling more optimistic than he had in ages. And he couldn’t account for it; maybe it was because the sun was shining! There seemed little else to account for it. As he stood by the toilet examining the stream of his urine, it looked like he was passing a respectable rosé. The medic had been right, there was blood present. So it was anybody’s guess how his semen would look; that would come later. Showering and dressing done, he walked out onto the balcony. The leaves on
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Marc stumbled, zombie-like around the kitchen making a coffee he hoped would restore him to the human race. The previous night, depressed and drunk, he’d made his way to bed, and, despite the surfeit of red wine, had managed to complete all his usual routines and ablutions. But foolishly, he’d taken a handful of painkillers before sleeping. Marc hated hangovers and was determined to wake without one. He got his wish, but the downside was that his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool.
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Marc’s desperate dash through the streets had caused a painful ache in his chest. He was in far from top form, and for some time had been trying to kick smoking, but right now he wanted a cigarette more than anything. Reaching the hotel, he staggered to a halt and leant heavily against the glass door at reception, waving to the commissionaire that he needed to catch his breath before going further. Recovered, he entered, mopping his brow and glancing around for directions to the Blanchland Su
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The night may have been magical, but the following morning was dull reality, and Leon had withdrawn into his shell, closing down most of the conversation in the process. Breakfast was a silent affair. Marc rose and began to clear away the dishes, ‘At least let me give you a lift back to your apartment’ ‘No thanks, I don’t mind walking’ ‘I’m not trying to find out where you live, I’ll drop you by the... ‘Everybody knows where I live. It’s where all the other guys live, in the middle o
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At a certain age many men start to have hair trouble; they lose it from the places where they should have it, and gain it in places they shouldn’t. And sadly, they themselves are rarely the first to notice this. Marc’s decision to have a tonsorial makeover at one of the city’s flashiest hair salons was long overdue. Within minutes of taking the chair, his wispy, faded hair was consigned to the floor, and replaced by a much sexier crop. But this morning his stylist was at the top of her game, and
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Living with the wrong person has got to be worse than living alone, hasn’t it? Is there a price worth paying to have somebody stick around, however badly they treat you? Leon was beginning to wonder. Right now, he couldn’t even remember how Glen Roberts had first wheedled his way into the apartment, much less come to occupy such a dominating role in his life. That first stopover, Glen promised, was only going to be for a few nights, and, judging by the paltry possessions he had with him, it a
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Marc Jesmond arrived at the small town of Deadlock. He got out of the car and looked around. So, this was the place where it all began; where his parents, freshly arrived from Italy set up their first business? He recalled his childhood, how his father would bring him to see the café, and proudly explain that nobody makes ice cream like the Italians. It was all so different then; the place was thriving. Deadlock was the hub of a mining area and every evening the High Street buzzed as workers,
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There are three sorts of people in the United Kingdom: those who work, more or less: those who don’t, never have nor will: and those who live on their wits. This latter group incorporates a wide spectrum of people, from benefits cheats to dowager duchesses, street buskers to heirs, pickpockets to politicians. It was this last group that Glen Roberts belonged to. Born and raised in the Midlands, he moved to the north east when he secured a place, studying media, at the University of Newcastle upo
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Gay men could have it all. Unfettered by wife, kids, family and the tedious observances of mainstream society, talented, able, hard working gay men could have it all, and lead the kind of life that their ‘straight’ counterparts could only aspire to. And Gerald Campfire and his partner Robin Parnaby did appear to have it all. Their home lay within the estate of Brandon Hall, approached by means of a long drive, through mature, beautiful parkland. Here, the two men shared a rented cottage - altho
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Marc walked home, confused and dazed. There was an unreality about his present situation. Even the attractions of a seven figure inheritance could not compensate for the horrible revelation of his mother’s actions. She’d told him often enough that he was unworthy to inherit the business. And he’d assured her just as often that he didn’t want it. Now his mother had made sure the whole lot would be sold from under him. Marc knew that hiding his sexuality from the family was an issue that refuse
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Marc Jesmond's a single guy nearing 40. He's a shy, unfocused sort of man, meaning nobody any harm, but he's about to undergo the most challenging time of his life, leaving him depressed, suicidal, then mad. and I mean angry-mad. Just how will he cope?
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Marc paused at the doorway to his bedroom, and lit a cigarette. His eyes lingered on the back and broad shoulders of a muscular young man who was busy dressing. ‘That was quite a hammering you gave me last night’ ‘Three. It was three hammerings!’ Marc flushed to recall it, his face crumpling like a melting candle, ‘Tell me about it. God, my manhole looks like a blood orange!’ If the rather tasteless observation was designed to lighten the mood, it didn’t. The young escort was busy
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So, Death is nothing at all? Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room. I am I and you are you. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still... Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for you for an interval. Somewhere very near, just around the corner. All is well.* Simon Hogarth paused, studying himself in the tiny mirror hanging behind the church vestry door. A tired, gaunt face belying its twenty ni
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Two funerals and a revelation! Following the death of a teenage boy a young priest comes to terms with his faith and sexuality.
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Market Forces: Part 1 Youknow that feeling; when you wish the earth would swallow you up? But today, the earth’s icy cold and hard; and there’s no chance of me getting swallowed. So I turn, awkwardly, face away from the street, and look blankly at the tarpaulin that shrouds our market stall. A few seconds later, and I can breathe again; the girls have passed by! Then three elderly women approach. One has the words, ‘Has this quince and lime conserve been sourced locally?’ My moth
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Michael's not looking forward to Saturday, and helping his mother out on her charity stall. But he's wrong; he's about to get an early Christmas present and the best one ever!
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Just read an article here in the UK stating that 89% of male students at the University of Bath claimed they would/do kiss male friends on the lips as token of friendship. I'd expect uni students to be liberal in outlook, but I'm not sure that attitude travels further than the campus. There's loads of man on man hugging and kissing on TV right now, but I reckon that the streets of Britain wouldn't be a safe place to try that out.
