Excerpt from the short story "Gifts of the Season" by Jenna Hilary Sinclair, published by Dreamspinner Press
Danny and his mother have been rescued from a car wreck in a blizzard by Mike, one half of a gay couple who live on a ranch. Danny is sixteen and still coming to grips with the fact that he's gay. Here, it's the middle of the night, and Danny is in the bedroom next to Mike and Harry's bedroom, staying the night until the weather clears. Poor Danny has a vivid imagination....
A lot of hours later—hours spent in Mike and Harry's home, eating with them, watching TV with them, spying on them every second—the storm is still going strong outside, but it's even stronger inside me. I'm in a big boat of a bed in one of their spare bedrooms. On the other side of the wall next to me is their master bedroom. Damn, this is torture. I've been tossing and turning for what seems like forever, listening, my face hot because I'm listening, wanting to hear…. But I haven't heard anything except the snow hissing against the window and the wind rushing up the side of the mountain. Once I heard voices, I think, past midnight, but maybe not. Not what I wanted to hear, anyway.
I've never been this hard. An hour ago I touched myself for maybe three or four strokes, and just that almost brought me off. I don't know how I stopped myself, but I slapped the sheet with both my open hands. That made a big noise—at least to me it sounded loud—and I cringed to think that maybe they heard me.
I'm still hard under both the heavy blankets Mike threw on the bed when he showed me the room, leaking I'm so excited, and I can't make it go away. If I do it here in this bed, they'll see the sheets, won't they? Know what I did. I bet their sheets are stained all the time, bet they get soaked with come, bet they have to wash the sheets every day. Bet they do it every morning and every night. Bet they do it more than once each time. I know I would, if I had a brown-haired man next to me in bed.
I give up the fight, and my hand grabs my naked dick sticking out through my briefs. I skim out of them and put them to the side before grabbing myself again. If I can't hear, I can still imagine what they're doing in the room next door. I know they're doing it.
They're coming together in the middle of their mattress, fumbling down their pajama pants, their big, big cocks springing up. I know they're big, men like that filling out their jeans, hands on cocks, lips on cocks, but I don't know what a mouth on me would feel like even though I want to know so bad, so it's got to be hands on cocks, and one of them, Harry, oh, yes, Harry, Harry is crying out here I come, I'm close even though I haven't heard him cry that out, but just the same I know what his deep voice would sound like. I imagine he's in the bed right next door and Mike's hand is jerking him off strong, and it's more than he can stand, that man's hairy arm moving so fast, the man's fingers that I saw over the beef stew dinner curled around Harry's fat, purple-headed cock, and Harry presses his head back against the pillow, I can see it, his eyes are squeezed shut and he gasps and jerks his hips up and comes all over Mike's hand.
I shoot right after Harry does, right up against the sheet, soaking it through to that nice blanket because I can't think of anything but that man's cock spurting like a volcano, and I forget to grab my briefs to soak up the spunk.
Did I cry out when I did that? I never do at home, can't with my whole family around. I don't think I did, but even so I listen while I gulp in air and my heart pounds for a while. Finally I calm down, my heart isn't going like a jackhammer, and my cock gets soft at last. I feel … I don't know. Not like I normally feel after I jerk off. I feel like it isn't enough, that I want more. But what more is there for somebody like me?
I roll over in the bed and tuck my hands under my cheek. I'm gay. Can I still be gay when I'm alone? I wish I had somebody so I could find out what kissing feels like and what a mouth on me would feel like.
Wish I had somebody to fuck, too. I've figured it out, what they do, cock up an ass. I don't know which I want more, to screw somebody like that or to be screwed. Does it hurt, to be screwed? How am I going to find out? I can't talk to anybody about this, can't pick up magazines in a place like Elk Ridge, for sure they aren't sold in a Podunk town like this. And I don't think there's anybody in my school who's like me, not many kids there anyway. If we'd stayed in Denver I might have had a chance, but not here.
Half an hour later I give up, because I know I'm not going to sleep, not with everything swirling around in my head, visions of cocks and cocks and cocks and questions about cocks. And asses. I get up as quiet as I can, put on my clothes, pick up my shoes, and crack open the door. There's a nightlight on in the hall, lighting the way down to the stairs, and I frown at that. Seems sort of pussy for two men to have a nightlight. But it helps me find my way downstairs.
I put on my shoes while sitting on the bottom step, and then I wander through the rooms, not touching anything, just looking. It's a ghostly light that's coming in around the edges of the windows, but my eyes adjust pretty quickly. I go through the living room that looks like it isn't lived in much and next to an office where there are two desks. I stand in the doorway and wonder if they've fucked there, Harry leaning over the papers with Mike behind him….
There's a Christmas tree in the big back room with all the windows, and they're open to the dark bulk of the mountain and the hint of full-bellied clouds. I can make out how the drifts have come up even higher against those windows since everybody went to sleep hours ago. We'd watched TV on the side of the room where there's a sofa and one nice recliner and one ratty old chair. The room's so big it runs the whole length of the house, plenty of space for where the pool table stands.
I flick on the light between the chairs because the embers from the fireplace aren't near enough to see by. I go over to what I'd been curious about all that evening as we'd sat around making conversation. Under the tree there are some gifts. Not that many. I go down on my knees and pick one up; the light is enough to read what the tag says.
That doesn't sound very exciting. I shake it, and there's the sound of cloth moving, and that's pretty disappointing. Damn, do they get each other shirts?
I pick up another one, a big, heavy one that clunks. Maybe it's a toolbox inside? That isn't any better. What would I get a man I lived with, somebody I fucked morning, noon, and night? The tag has some stupid-looking elf on it.
To: The Light of My Life
"Ahem," comes the sound of a throat being cleared from right behind me. I drop that box like it's caught on fire, jump up, and whirl around to see Mike standing there.
Buy link for "Gifts of the Season here
Information on all gay romances by Jenna Hilary Sinclair, including five star rated novel Admit One, here
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