Farewell from the Bookshelf!

Please note that GLBT Bookshelf -- the community wiki which was the parent to this fiction blog -- went offline on May 31, 2016, after seven years' service to members.

All Gay Romance will remain online till the end of 2016 in order to give contributors every opportunity to recover materials uploaded here.

Many thanks to all who contributed over the years, and good luck to everyone in your future works!


From Tengo una Pistola by Bryl R. Tyne

M/M/Transgender Western Romance

My eyes recognized morning before my head did. I squinted into the rays escaping the muslin tacked over the small window. Blinking numerous times, however, failed to clear my vision or my mind. I rubbed my eyes . . . stretched . . . . Yep, it was morning.

Not that I dreaded mornings, no. Most mornings I hopped out a bed, eager for whatever the day may bring. But not today. Again, I stretched, my body reassuring me it had plenty a rest. And I had. But much like the residue adhering the hair and skin on my stomach to the sheet, my troubles glued me to the bed. She was still here, in my place.

Nothing were more aggravating than waking up without Mitch by my side. Guess he’d outgrown me. At twenty-six, he were well past prime settling-down age. Though, at the thought of him settling for the likes a Carmen as wife and mother, I laughed. My humor at the impending situation ended as easily as it had begun, as my worries shifted to Mitch leaving to make his own life with the wench.

Disrupting my thoughts, aromas of fresh eggs and fresher coffee wafted into the room; least he had breakfast going. I breathed the scents in deep as I climbed from the bed and threw on my clothes.

Maybe the she-devil were still laid up, fast asleep. If Mitch gave her a riding like only Mitch could give, wouldn’t surprise me if she slept well past noon. I shook the unsavory images from my mind as I tugged on my boots then crossed the den.

Wouldn’t do me a lick a good to start out the day on the ornery side a things. Besides, exactly when Mitch planned on leaving weighed heavy on how I approached the topic. Last thing I wanted were to piss him off, have him high-tail it out a here as fast as his horse would carry him. One day at a time, I reminded myself on a long inhale as I rounded into the kitchen.

First thing I noticed, Mitch weren’t at the stove. No, the polecat sat kicked back in his seat at the table. Grin plastered ear to ear, he hummed, fixated toward the stove, toward that shifty female looking to be cooking him breakfast.

She sure weren’t cooking for me, I made up my mind as I took a seat next to Mitch. I wouldn’t let her.

Two-timin’ bastard, humming . . . . I shook my head at his well-rested ass. Were only one reason he hummed. If Carmen had eyes in the back a her head, she’d a winced from the evil-intent cast her way.

“Sleep good, Denton?”

Mitch straightened in his chair. Coffee in hand, he turned to me. “Pretty good, I reckon. You?”

Funny what having a lady around can do to the size of a man’s balls. Though he put on an unusually tough front, I noticed the unsteadiness of his hands as he sipped his coffee. Score one for the old man.

“Buenas días, Senor Samms.” Carmen smiled at me, setting a piled-high plate before Mitch.

I could a done without seeing that kiss she so delicately placed on his cheek. She scurried back to the stove as, jaw set, I snubbed her greeting. Breakfast smelled damned good though. I eyed Mitch’s plate. “That an omelet?”

He washed his bite down with a swig of coffee. “And fried potatoes.”

“Potatoes? This time a year?”

“Pretty resourceful, ain’t she,” he said, matter-a-factly and with a wink.

My stomach rumbled as I looked toward those green and salmon colored skirts, ruffles swishing this way and that before the stove. All right, I’d concede, this one time, on account a the fact I needed a good meal to start the day. I picked up my fork, anticipating breakfast. Even afforded Carmen a slight grin as she set a plate on the table in front of me.

I weren’t going soft or anything; just showing my appreciation. Long as she stayed away from me and mine . . . . I shoveled in a heaping bite as Mitch busied himself eating. Guess I might have to accept he weren’t mine any longer.

Before realizing I hadn’t a cup, I grabbed for my coffee.

“Lo siento. Aquí.” Warm breath and soft lips brushed my left ear as Carmen handed me a steaming cup from over my shoulder.

I welcomed the drink but shied away. Damned perfume could knock a man silly. She settled in the seat opposite one grinning Mitch. Setting my cup on the table, I failed to see what was so damned funny between them and returned to my food as they commenced to chattering back and forth.

Last I knew, Mitch didn’t talk Spanish. He weren’t too bad though, I reckoned, but my attempts to ignore the banter tired. Being left out in my own place ate at me. They continued, until I shoved my plate ahead. Between them, it skidded to a stop. Senseless noise halted; two sets of eyes looked my way. Having garnered their attention, I addressed Mitch. “Since when did you start speakin’ her language?”

Carmen’s immediate giggle told me that may a been the wrong question to ask. Mitch held in another chuckle as he looked to Carmen. “Been practicing a while, I reckon.” With his head, he motioned my way. “Tell the man, Carmen.”

For a second, her eyes widened. She looked at Mitch as she spoke. “El es muy bien.”

I could see a pink tint coloring her cheeks as she used her fingertips to hide a glowing smile. Compared to yesterday evening, she appeared almost modest. Maybe she weren’t too bad, for a female. Or so I reckoned before she began batting those lashes again, and I felt what could be none other than womanly toes, in all their agility, making their way purposefully along the inside a one of my knees.

With a start, I got to my feet, stepping away from my overturned chair, which bounced once from the floor before settling into a slow rocking motion. Weren’t no way in hell I’d follow Mitch down that path.

I grabbed my hat and stormed outside. Plenty a work to be gotten to. Time didn’t wait. Not for me.

Excerpted from Tengo una Pistola by Bryl R. Tyne

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