Cover Stud Obsession

Some secret, I thought. Every guy I talked to seemed to know who I really was. I needn't have bothered to dye my hair. This was more of a concern for my publishers than for me, though, but this certainly hadn't been the plan. He was smiling, so it wasn't any form of a threat. But, shit, why did I bother to get a pen name for gay male books if everyone I met knew who I really was? Right now it didn't matter, though. He was a great-looking guy and, as I scanned the room, I saw that the Flescher crew had been cut down. The cover model, Doug James, was gone.

"You say you were at the panel session that included The Handyman," I said. So, you read gay male novels?

"Yes. There's a table over there, where it isn't so noisy," Sinclair said. "Let's take our drinks over there. Unless you—"

"No, that's fine," I answered. "I'm not here with anyone."

"But you write gay men's novels and you came to The Rowan Tree," he said as he guided me to the table in the corner—and around a corner, which cut down the noise from the bar. "The Handyman is literary but it also is quite explicitly gay. It's about active gay life."

"Yes, it is. I guess you could say writing it was a release for me. It's the first I've published, but I'm working on a couple of more. Are you asking if I am gay—actively gay?"

"Yes, I guess I am. I like more than your books. I like the looks of you. I took notice even from the jacket photo on your mainstream books. I was delighted to see you on the panel in this evening's session. There's no photo on the jacket for The Handyman, so seeing you on the panel was quite surprising."

"Surprising and delighted. Just those emotions?" I asked, not directly answering his question yet. Nonetheless, I was flirting shamelessly. He was a real hunk for his gray-beard age. I liked older men. I had been drawn to my book editor, Parker Parnell, sexually before we hooked up to get my books published.

"Aroused too. Is it OK if I say that?" he asked.

"Are you admitting to being gay too?" I asked.

"Certainly. I'm a top. Would it be too much to hope for that you're a submissive."

"Versatile, but a submissive mostly," I answered.

"Excellent." We were sitting next to each other in a bench seat, out of view from most of the barroom. He placed a strong, workman's hand on my knee under the table. "Is this being too forward—too soon?" he asked.

"No, I like to feel the hand there." It went farther than that. Symbolically, a guy putting his hand on my thigh established command. I was a submissive who liked to be commanded. I wouldn't tell him that, though . . . at least not yet. It was enough now for him to know that I took cock. We didn't need to get into how I liked to take it until and unless this went further. I wasn't in the mood to prevent it from spinning out, though.

"Is aroused a good expression for what you're going for in your erotica?"

I laughed. "It's good. If I couldn't get a response like that from a gay male reader of The Handyman, I shouldn't be writing books like that. So, you're gay and a top."

"Yes, gay and a power top." He paused to make sure I had absorbed the "power," which I had. I just smiled at him, assuring him that this didn't make me lose interest. "I'm actively seeking. I live here in Annapolis. Twenty-five years in the Navy, and now I'm an instructor at the Naval Academy, which is close by. And your book arouses me, yes, but not as much as you do in person. Are you actively gay too? I don't remember getting an answer to that. Is it good that I'm a top? Do you like a man to take control? Do you engage in casual sex?"

His hand had moved up my thigh and on the inside edge. I spread my legs wider to let him know that was fine with me.

"Yes, I'm a submissive. I want a man to be a man with me. Casual sex can be interesting."

"Yes, it can. And you're hard," he said in a low, breathy voice. His hand was on my basket.

"Yes."

"For me?"

"Yes, possibly," I answered, "probably." The truth was, though, that I had gone hard for the cover model, Doug James, earlier in the evening and pretty much had stayed that way. That I already was hard and panting low made it much easier for me to be so easy for this sailor, Stan Sinclair.

"I'm hard for you too," he said. "You can feel me, if you want." I put my hand on his crotch. He was hard and he was hung. "You're finished for the night at the book festival, aren't you?"

"Yes," I answered.

"You don't have to be there until sometime tomorrow?"

"I have a session to attend at 11:00 in the morning."

"No one waiting for you in your hotel room tonight?"

"No."

"Have you been done by a sailor before?"

"I'm looking forward to be able to write about being done by a sailor," I answered, with a laugh.

"I have a cottage on the water a short walk from here. I live alone."

"A cottage on the water in Annapolis? Sounds expensive. What kind of sailor did you say you were? Do you ride the waves?"

"I didn't say. I'm the retired admiral kind of sailor, but, as I noted, I still teach at the Academy. And when I get the chance, I ride the midshipmen. I came up through the ranks. I've fucked at every level of the Navy over the years. I hope that isn't—"

"That sounds lovely," I said. "You said we could walk there?"

* * * *

He fucked me on a studio bed on a screened porch about ten feet from the water's edge in a cove off Spa Creek, which ran into the Severn River and hence into the Chesapeake Bay.

He laid me on my back, butt on a bolster pillow at the side edge of the bed with my shoulders and head propped up on the wooden wall of the house so that I could watch it all—his bald head between my thighs, my legs spread and bent, the heels of my feet pressed into the side edge of the mattress. While holding my legs spread with hands gripping under my knees, he ate me out and licked and rolled my balls in his mouth and sucked my cock. He gave me merciless attention, agreeing with me that I was going to come for him—that he would relentless work me until I did. And when I did, exhausted and moaning, he rose over me, penetrated me with a think, long erection, and grasped my knees and rowed them in and out to the rhythm of his thrusts deep inside me as he took me higher and higher toward heaven and then over the edge in a rolling gush of an ejaculation.

The man was fit and virile, in complete command, and insistent on victory and a surrender from me that I gave him then and then again in his bedroom inside the house, backed to the wall, knees on his hips and arms flung around his neck as he thrust up, deep up into my passage. And in his shower after I'd knelt in front of him and taken his cock in my mouth, followed by standing but bent over, grasping my ankles as he mounted and fucked me from behind. And then a last time, a sneak attack, waking in his bed the next morning on my belly, with him straddling my hips and riding my ass.

Stan was good—no, he was great—and I told him so. But I didn't tell him the number of times he was inside me and pumping that my mind went to the book covers bearing the image of Doug James. I was being a slut in Annapolis, but I wasn't usually that casual about it. I blame it on Doug James possessing my brain. I ached to be fucked; Admiral Stan Sinclair did a credible job of meeting my need that night.

Over coffee at his kitchen island the next morning he asked, "Are you going to put me in one of your books?"

"You bet," I answered. "But I'll make you a general—at West Point. No one but you and I will know it's you."

"How will I know it's me."

"The studio couch on the porch and what you did to me there. Memorable. The river will be the Hudson rather than the Severn, but you'll know."

"Will I like what you write?"

"You'll be Superman," I said. "I want to keep it real," I added.

The admiral laughed. "Will you take my card for when you come to Annapolis again?"

"I'd love to."

"And can I be there when you come in Annapolis the next time?"

"You bet."

* * * *

"They used that model for the cover of your D.C. cop series novel, Gotta Keep Trying."

"Yes, I know they did. The one I'm sending you now, Snitches, is part of the D.C. vice cop Hardesty series too. I want the same guy on the cover of each book in the series. Another, younger guy can be different in each book, but the cop character should be the same guy for each." I could have said the cop guy should be Doug James each time. But I didn't necessarily want Park Parnell, my book editor at both Weld Publishing and its erotica imprint, Flescher, to know how stuck I'd become on Doug James. They'd already used James for the cover of the first book in the series, so I was saying just continue using him without revealing my specific interest in him.

I was writing this series of D.C. cop gay male books with him directly in mind now, though. I didn't want anyone else on the cover. God, I wished we'd hooked up in the spring at the Annapolis erotica book festival.

I was sitting on the balcony overlooking the sweep of the Shelter Cove yacht basin on Hilton Head Island. It was summer break at Shepherdstown University, and the publishing house had sent me down here to the South Carolina coast to try to get the mainstream novel, Alton's Folly, which was set here, finished and back to them. I just about had that finished, but the gay erotica I'd started to write was playing through. I didn't have much control over my muse. I worked on what the muse pressured me to work on.

I'd been working on the third Hardesty cop book, which I was going to title Retribution. I'd been dreaming of Doug James's body, which wasn't all that different from Steve Whathisname's body, which was draped naked on the sofa facing the TV in the condo living room in back of me. I'd met Steve down in the yacht basin, where he ran a charter boat business, taking a tourist boat called Savannah's Delight over to Savannah, Georgia, twice a day Thursdays through Mondays. He worked on boat maintenance the other two days. This was Tuesday, and he'd been upstairs here working on maintenance of me from last evening. He was stretched out, playing with himself and watching gay male porn DVDs on the TV set. He had been calling me to come in and ride his cock when Parker called from New York.

I knew what Parker was calling about, but I wanted to steal a march on him. I was close to having the Alton's Folly manuscript finished, but I—or, rather, my muse—was pushing the erotica ones, and I wanted him to take Snitches at the same time. I also wanted to clearly establish that the guy who had become the driving force for this cop series, Doug James, would be used on the cover.

"So, you're ready to hand in the Alton's Folly manuscript?" Parnell asked.

"Yes, just about, but I want you to take Snitches at the same time—and the prospectus on the next one in the Hardesty series, Retribution. And I want you to pledge to get the same guy on the cover of the whole series."

"That's a lot of want, Nick," Parnell said. But he laughed. "I can ask about the cover art but maybe you should come back and fight that battle with the book designers yourself. You know that publishers demand to have control on the covers. You could hand in the other manuscripts then too. But it shouldn't be all that hard to convince them it's good to keep the same cover guy for the series. It's time you check in with New York anyway."

Steve Whatshisname had pulled on athletic shorts and padded out to the balcony behind the high chair I was sitting in, the bar-top height of the chairs and table dictated by the need to get the full sweep of the harbor above the balcony wall. His hands had started on my shoulders, but they worked their way quickly down to my nipple, which he was squeezing and thrumming between thumbs and forefingers. "I'm hard for you, baby," he whispered in my ear. "A guy is doing marvelous things with another guy on the TV. Come in and ride me and mimic what's doing on the screen. We can scroll back to get it from the start."

"You want me to come to New York? Now?" I asked on the phone. I didn't directly answer Steve, but I didn't try to push him away either. I could feel the hardness of him pressed into my back. He ran a hand down my bare chest and under the waistband of my athletic shorts, finding, grasping, and slow-stroking my cock.

"As soon as you can," Parker answered from down the line. "Marketing wants Alton's Folly in the Christmas section of the fall list. That's the best sales spot. And I'm anxious to read Snitches. The first one in the series blew me away. That cop of yours is a firecracker—having a guy working the vice he's a captive of himself is hot. And, speaking of that, there's incentive for you to get here this weekend."

"Oh? What?"

"I think you're obsessed with this cover model, Doug James, you keep insisting gets used for the covers for this series. He'll be at a party I'm giving Saturday night. If you haven't met him already, I'll introduce him to you."

"And supply a bedroom?" I asked, with a laugh. It was sort of a trembly laugh, because Steve was doing wonders with his hands on my body. I'd only paid him for last night. This lingering into the next day was all his idea.

"You can stay with me—in my bed, of course, while you're in New York."

"Sounds good. But what I'd meant was a bedroom during the party. I can't deny I find this James guy sexy as hell."

"Good luck with that," Parnell said. "So, I can expect you this weekend? You've got a key to the house."

"Yeah, sure. I'll send an itinerary when I get one. Gotta go now, though. I need to get off the phone." I clicked off. I was close to getting off otherwise. I'd slouched down into the chair and raised one ankle to the balcony railing. Steve had my shorts pulled down to below my balls, and he was working my cock hard with one hand and one of my nipples with the other. His face was buried in my throat and he was making low guttural sounds.

We fucked on the sofa, both of us looking at the TV and mimicking the fucking going on there. Steve was on his back, and I was stretched out on top of him, my toes buried in the arm of the sofa between that and the cushion edge and under his arm pits. My fists were buried in the sofa cushion beside his knees, he was holding my waist between his calloused hands, and I was raising and lowering my ass on his erection—a reverse crab position.

And I was thinking of Doug James, who had the same muscular build and thuggish look as Steve did, while I fucked myself on the tourist boat captain's cock.

* * * *

Parker Parnell lived in a six-bedroom brownstone on West 142nd Street in Hampton Heights, North Manhattan, near the City College of New York. He hadn't been born rich, but he had acquired a Russian oligarch boyfriend, Yevgeny "Someoneorother," who had died and left him the Manhattan house with money to keep it up. It's what he had recommended I do as well to free myself to write, but I hadn't found a sickly gay Russian oligarch yet. That wasn't fair to Yevgeny, though. It appears his terminal sickness was a garroting for trying to swindle fellow Russian oligarchs and for being under suspicion of spying for the Americans.

In any event, Parker had the bedroom space to accommodate me while I was in New York to consult with the Weld Publishers Flescher-imprint designers and to attend Parker's Saturday night party. I came back from the Flescher offices to the party, which had started without me, on a high, as I had won my point of using Doug James—they could use the same image on every cover—on the covers of my D.C. vice cop Hardesty books. Parker met me at the door.

"There's someone I want you to meet, up from Washington," Parker said, in sotto voce. I wondered why he was whispering. I could hear the party going on on the second level, which was a full-house sweep of living, sitting, and dining room space.

"Doug James is here, as you promised?" I asked, as we moved to the stairs.

"No, he hasn't arrived yet. He's expected, but he hasn't arrived. No, this is someone from my past. Sebastian Westgate. I've told him about you and he wants to meet you. Very hush hush. He's a spy, you know?"

No, I didn't know. I had never heard of Sebastian Westgate before. But I had no trouble picking him out of the crowd when we got to the second floor. He was standing, straight as a tree, next to the fireplace. Two young men, who I recognized as cover models Flescher used, were flanking him and chatting away. As soon as Parker and I reached the top of the stairs and entered the adjacent sitting room, though, the man's steely gaze turned to us, and in less than an instant I was shivering from his cold, piercing stare. In just that instant, the man's assessing stare had stripped and fucked me cruelly.

And my response was to want him to do so.

"I thought that a spy could give you some inspiration for your writing," Parker whispered to me.

"Good thinking," I said.

"It's rumored that the man runs a stable of men who seduce spy targets in other countries and sucks them dry of their countries' secrets."

"I can feel the plotlines jumping out at me already," I answered.

"So, you do want to meet him—and maybe go upstairs with him. He's made clear to me that he wants to take you upstairs."

"Yes."

He was pushing sixty, but he was tall, ramrod straight, ruggedly handsome, and lean. He was dressed peculiarly but also leaving the impression that it was the rest of us in the series of rooms who were underdressed. He wasn't Asian, but he was wearing a gauzy white Philippine Mandarin-collar barong Tagalog shirt that fell in a straight line down his chest and beyond his waistline. The cut of the shirt showcased the slimness of his body, but the transparency of the shirt showcased the hardness of that body and how sinewy he was. His nipples stood out and showed through the flimsy shirt material. It also showed that he had a dragon tattoo on his left pectoral that moved over his shoulder and down his left arm.

He was gray-headed, the hair in a Marine-style buzz cut, and a close-cropped beard and mustache. His black trousers were impeccably pressed, and, as Parker and I entered the room adjacent to where he was, he took a hand off the hip of one of the young men he was talking to. It was obvious that young man had been quite fine with having a possessing hand from this imperial-bearing man on his hip.

"That's him, in all his glory. Sebastian Westgate," Parker whispered, his tone almost reverential. The man continued undressing me with his eyes, fully in command, and I melted to him.

Parker walked me to the man and then guided the two young men Westgate had been talking to away, leaving the two of us alone in a sea of partygoers.

"Ah, Nick Hampton, the author," Westgate said in a deep baritone. "Or should I say G. P. Hardd, also the author?" He smiled at me a smile that was on the lips but didn't make it to his eyes. The image I got was of a snake, but a very dangerous, mesmerizing one—or perhaps the wary dragon perched on his shoulder and licking at one of his puffy nipples. He put a hand on my hip and I left it there. I was his for the taking. He knew I was.

"So, you know who I am," I said. "That's flattering—I hope."

"Yes, it's meant to be. I've read you in both of those pen names," Westgate said, "and I could easily believe you have other pen names producing even steamier stories. You write very well. Your graphic scenes are very arousing and show that you have considerable experience in what you write. And you look great. Parker has told me more about you."

"So, you and Parker are old friends?" I said, a little flustered that this was moving so fast. Had I done something to signal that I was easy?