Topher Lydon

Yeah, this was really late Spring. And man did it rain that year, we're talking swimming around levels of rain. And not having a jacket... or much of anything at that moment, I was always wet, like swamp rat wet.

Hugo was the definition of A-dork-able. Like waaaay out of my league hot, and yet he became the biggest dweeb when he tried to impress me. I can still see his face around those Muffins. I swear he must have practiced that speech in the mirror or something...

Always there for you buddy.

Gavin f-ing Rossdale... damn a whole legion of 90's teenage gay boys owe their awakening to this man.

Jimmy was born in England, Jimmy moved to Canada, graduated and went to University in 96, 97-98 were the Eastbourne Tales you read. This is spring of 98. He crashed out from University over a year and a half which is what ET covers. He returned to Halifax for about a day. Spent a day on the train over night. This is literally a week or so after he arrived. He has not, at this point, ever spent beyond a single day and a single date in London... which was November of 97 and a story I haven't mentioned. Probably won't do that one, to be honest that one wouldn't be much fun it's... right in the middle of the trauma and we've been through what Jimmy went through in that time frame, we don't need that... I don't need that again. Spring term 98 is coming to an end, summer is beginning. Jimmy is hovering at the 18 mark, his 19th Birthday is coming and... well... the monumental day that was of everything being flipped upside down. There is some blurring of dates for narrative effect and story flow, it can't be helped, real life rarely fits neatly into a story box. So Forgive the slip ups. As for Hugo, he was twenty when I met him. So Older than me.

story of my life, I hear you. Don't though. Your instincts are right here. This is perfect as is. You have a rare talent and a real eye. Whatever you write, I will read. Deal?

There’s that point when things stop being a game, a line where, if you cross it, things become real. Standing there in their shirt sleeves and trousers, barefoot on the rug in the middle of Hugo’s apartment, things were suddenly very real for Jimmy. The lame jokes, the nerves, the tender kissing—it all seemed to come to a quiet halt as they held on to each other in the wee hours of the morning, music playing in the background on a way-too-expensive Bose stereo. Fingers tracing over the

Yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes

And somehow managed to brain myself with a Lettuce today... Yep that's my day... :: rubs forehead :: I give up trying to function as a human being, and will go back to being a keyboard monkey.

Reed is a good character, an antagonist in this book who is absolutely right in every action he takes. It's rare to get that kind of opportunity to write such a character. It's like Tommy Lee Jones in the Fugitive. Doing what has to be done.

I know... I know... I hope they don't lynch me...

I hope it is a compelling one. 29 out of 33 Book 2 is chapter 21 and climbing.

This is one of the ones I love, my kind of story, my kind of soul in a page. It was worth the read, and worth the genuine smile it brings to me. A first kiss is memorable, and depending on who it is with, a promise for a lifetime. I cannot recommend this story highly enough. Read it and love it like I do.

I read this story a while ago, I remember it clearly and loved it then as much as I do now. A story with a soul is a rare thing to find. Well done.

double one today, because chapter 28 is short, and I felt that posting this as one gives you all a bit more well deserved read

Washington D.C. – November 23rd 1953 The heavy oak door of the Oval Office closed with a soft click, muffling the distant sounds of the White House. Inside, the atmosphere was a world away from the tense formality of the Cabinet Room. Here, in the quiet glow of a shaded desk lamp, President Dwight D. Eisenhower sat in a comfortable armchair, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. Across from him, Dottie occupied another armchair, her own glass held d

i've got one coming up this year... still settling the details. My cottage has Asbestos in the roofing... so they need to tear the roof off, and I can't be here for that... so new house time.

My Sam is... patient... like saintly so. Yesterday we're having dinner with his parents, and I am book babbling, like a genuine madman. His step-dad is always very amused by my... um... I am sure he thinks I am nuts... Sammy's an accountant, so... you know... the common sense of the pair of us.

That's how I saw it. No one had ever treated me with the kind of respect and profound sense of honour before that. A few have since, it's something I learned I was worth, and sought out.

I am often afraid I lack the skill to write some of these. This was one I was afraid of. To do Hugo the justice of how he pulled the magic of his easy being. But when the writing started it flowed. I remember these moments, and how they felt. And he was brave, Hugo was never the coward he thought he was.

Ties flew out of the wardrobe, a cascade of color, as Jimmy fussed. Holding one up and shaking his head, as he switched to another, trying his best to decide on how he wanted to define himself for what was his first date. What? You ask in shock. First date? But Jimmy’s been on dates before. Yeah, he has. Mostly impromptu things—burgers and walks, hanging at home, drinks down the pub. This, this was different. This was a real, honest-to-God, adult-type date, and Jimmy was going out

I love how SORR has become wide-spread usage on this site. It entertains me to no end.

Reed , Henry Reed, I will leave that there and say I like Henry. ALOT he's not a fan of Hoover.

I mean it is no secret, Hoover knew EVERYTHING going on in the White House at that era. And you are right, making a run at Cohn was probably the worst thing that could possibly have happened. His is singularly the worst possible man to 'threaten' in this way.

He's sort of FBI-ish... adjacent... ish. ... mmmmmmmmmmmmmm I can't say more, I am going to be a good writer and not annoy Mister @Jeff Burton who will shoot me