Green Eyes — an erotic novel (sort-of)
Retired computer science academic; living on the French Riviera, writing laconic-erotic prose. The “Green Eyes” were recently shortlisted for the (LGBT) Lambda Literary Award. Michael’s shorts appeared in Gay Flash Fiction, Temptation Magazine, the Bear Magazine, LustSpiel, and the German yearbook Mein Schwules Auge.
Alpha males, delicate souls, and a killer-psychopath hit it off in an impossible scramble for the last happy ending.
Yes, the GREEN EYES take you on a roller-coaster ride of gay romance (“When bipolar John meets mesmerizing Alex in the cruising area of Georgia Beach, little does he know about Alex’s haunted past…”). And, yes, the book is about lithe, tapered bodies, perfect abs, and outsized male organs. It’s about love. And hurt. And murder. And redemption. Glands fire. People talk during intercourse. There’s a hilarious supporting cast. Expectations are met.
Yet we do more. We have Nobel laureates. We have an even-handed discussion of the orthographic skills of the Tea Party (“No pubic option”). We have educational content about the mysteries of vasocongestion. We have neologisms (“Ikea moment,” “Armani minimum”). You learn about the 302 neurons that constitute the brain of a microscopic worm—and how this all relates to the IQ of John’s hated, child-abusing father. You participate in an in-flagrante masterclass. You get a hitchhiker’s guide to gay sex. You learn about the unheard-of provisions still on the Georgia books prohibiting all but intra-marriage intercourse (Title 16, Ch. 6). You hear about Torre’s observation (“The other line is moving faster”). You’ll be amazed by our avant-garde art and music, or by the voracious appetites of two desperate housewives (“Consenting adults, unite”). We have secret drugs, Agatha Christie, Sherlock Holmes, Albert Camus, Mark Twain, and countable near-death experiences. Pizzas are undercooked. Our bears (hairy middle-aged homosexuals) are ticklish. And there’s a table of contents.
Are you still there? Then you will like the book.
From Chapter 18 — “Agatha Christie”
One two three, infinity (I’ll explain later). My ass.
Alex had already left his perch as a grand horizontal when I woke up. Better even, or worse, the sheer fact that I could fall asleep testified to his untimely departure, since nobody, not even straight people, would be able to fall asleep with the Green Eyes on top of you. And I slept, because I had my usual morning glory, and I was alone, as outlined already, no external stimuli present, only my sleep, and sweet dreams perhaps that I don’t remember. I’m too old for spontaneous erections, it’s either sexual or it’s sleep (not quite true, I remember now, I had one just yesterday, but still). Sometimes I have trouble falling asleep, and sometimes I don’t know whether I did actually fall asleep before waking up in the middle of the night, but then I feel my boner, and know I slept, realizing that my sleeping is better than feared, and thus comforted fall asleep again (only to wake up at a later time with another boner (I think I should stop now)).
Alex was gone, at least he was not the cause of my erection, and my bed was otherwise empty. Where is Alex? Perhaps he’s brewing coffee in the kitchen. I get up, and my pendulous organ–I had learned the term “pendulous organ” from Alex only hours earlier–my organ was still not very pendulous on the way to the kitchen, the place where Alex was not brewing coffee.
My world falls apart, and it’s only the second, or third, time in 24 hours. Detumescence (another word I had learned from Alex) strikes, and through the haze of my upcoming tears I look around. There’s a sheet of paper on the kitchen table, a location where experienced tricks in my days used–in the days I still brought tricks home–used to leave their goodbye messages when they had been brought up well-enough to signal goodbye before leaving–after getting up as quietly as possible, hoping to undisturb my sleep, getting dressed quietly, not using the bathroom in order to avoid noises, finding some reusable sheet of paper, and some pen, and then writing in very readable hands, usually, like, like drawing a Valentine heart, signed “M,” or perhaps even signed “Michael,” or, in extreme cases, writing a grammatically well-formed sentence along the lines of “Sorry that I have to leave early, Michael”–sometimes even the word love was used, carelessly, perhaps, but carefully written, since most tricks live near the literacy threshold, rarely write anything, whence their writing hand is unblemished by later excesses.
Where was I? Yes, In the place where experienced, well-brought-up tricks would leave their messages (Mother: ‘Michael, there is another thing that you should never forget, your exit should always be graceful, and should it happen that genetic destiny strikes and you end up as a loose homosexual, so loose that his nights are spent as one night stands in the company of other loose men, even then your exit should always be proper and good-byed’), in said place I found a re-used sheet of paper with the not-so-readable words “Dear John, I had to go, I love you, Alex,” and a little Valentine heart drawn under the text (he could have encircled the text with the Valentine heart, it would have been prettier, but he didn’t).
No home number, address, email, homepage link, twitter, tweet, something. Alex was gone.