another story . . .

I was reading a book on writing and was inspired to write this . . .



by scavola

The staccato rhythm of typing sputtered in the throes of death and then broke as the man wiped tears from his eyes. He took a moment; did he have anything to add? As he looked through the icy window, his life flashed before his eyes. The book covered his childhood through his teen years. No, he decided.

“THE END”, he typed, and collapsed into the chair.

If only he could write a different story, a story of love without loss, or a story of overcoming loss.

Abruptly distracted by barking, he wiped at the window, clearing the frost. A black dog bounded about the edge of the lake. With the precision of a fire drill, the man jumped into his boots and ran out the door. He donned his coat, hat, and gloves as he ran, securing his body heat from the icy breeze. When he got to the edge of the lake, he doubled-over. Steam billowed from his mouth as he caught his breath and quickly surveyed the situation.

After tying himself off to the dock with a rope, he glided across the ice. With tell-tale cracks, he lay flat, distributing his weight as he crawled to the hole. Peering in, he saw a form floating.

I’m getting to old for this, he thought, as he slid into the icy water.



He woke with a warm glow . . . woke?

Fuck, he cursed to himself, recoiling. His hard cock had been nestled between the boy’s cheeks. Scrambling out of bed didn’t help, as the thick member jutted in the boy’s direction.

The boy winced; his eyes squeezing shut to hold back the . . .

His pants a damp heap on the floor, he snatched up the duvet, balling it in his crotch. “I’m sorry,” he blurted as he backed towards the door.

The boy was frozen, either frozen in terror or simply still frozen.

The man hurried to the kitchen to make some warm tea. Still, he couldn’t help but have noticed the tenting of the covers.


“Just tea,” the man said, taking a sip himself. He held the cup to the boy’s lips. A cold hand met his to steady the cup as the boy strained to lift his head. The man snaked his arm around him, supporting him.“That’s enough,” he said, as the boy choked a little.

“Thank you,” the boy sputtered through chattering teeth.

“You’re still freezing.” He took a mental inventory and came up short. “I’m sorry, but this is the best I can do.”

Without reservation, he spread the duvet back on to the bed and resumed his position. Under the covers, he slid his arms under the boy’s armpits and his thigh between the boy’s legs, holding him tight. The boy’s icy chills spread to him as he shared his warmth. The boy either couldn’t or didn’t resist.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “What were you doing out on the lake anyway?”

“I was just . . . I don’t know.”

“Well, you picked a fine time to do it.” The man chuckled, jostling the two. “My truck’s dead, the phone’s dead, the storm’s dumping a foot an hour of ice and snow.” He glanced out the window to a wall of solid white.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, I’m just glad I was here. I was supposed to leave yesterday. I got caught up finishing my book.”

“You’re that writer.”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“Ryan Devlin . . . I like your books.”

“You’ve read me?” The boy nodded. Interesting, as he only wrote gay fiction. “My name’s not Ryan though.”

“Really?” the boy asked.

“Ryan is my pen name, my real name’s Dustin.”


“Huh what?”

“My name’s Dustin.” The soft nape of his neck, the start of stubble on his jaw line, had he ever looked so young? “Why’d you choose Ryan?”

“Ryan was a . . . friend of mine, a good friend, who died.”

“I’m sorry.”

He grew comfortable in their warm embrace, too comfortable.“Do you want more tea?


“Can I get you anything?”

“No.” The man started to shift, to put a few inches between them . . . “Don’t,” the boy said. “Can you just hold me?”

“Are you sure?” The boy nodded, so he shifted back. “I’m sorry,” he said, poking the boy.

“It happens,” he said with a chuckle.

His thigh still between the boy’s thighs, he could feel the hard root. “So do you want to tell me what you were doing out there?”

“I was done.”


“My dad was yelling at me again, he didn’t like me being gay.” A story he knew all too well. “My dad didn’t like that my boyfriend was older, he called the cops.”

“And your boyfriend killed himself.”

“I tried to go on, but it seemed pointless.” While he’d like to say ‘it gets better’, he knew it wasn’t always true. “It was like I reached the end of my story.”

He couldn’t hold back the welling of emotion and the dam broke, tears streaming from his eyes.

The boy reached back, parting his cheeks. He snagged the tip of the man’s cock with his hole and then pressed on to it.

“Oh god,” the man moaned, penetrating the barrier gripping him to the squishy warmth. “We shouldn’t . . .”

“Please,” the boy said. He took the man’s hand, placing it between his legs, where he was still hard.

Gently rocking, he began to tingle, all his frustration bundled in his loins, and, tensing, bursting forth in blinding joy. It was a moment frozen in time, as he’d never left the lake. The rope, tied off to the dock, was taut. The black dog still bounded about, barking.

About scavola

author of the gay 'Duke' and GLBT 'ATL Engineering' series
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