Marshall Thornton's Blog, page 3
January 5, 2011
Sample from Desert Run - Available NOW
Inside, the place was one long room with a bar built into the middle and a pool table in the back. The décor was supposed to suggest the old west; the walls were covered in weather distressed wood, as though they’d gone out into the desert, found an old abandoned building, torn it down and tacked it up on the walls in the bar, which come to think of it, was exactly what they’d done. In one corner an old saddle was hung on the wall. There were rodeo posters and more than a few Marlboro ads, but only the ones with cowboys.
The bartender had an impressive handlebar moustache. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and had the kind of muscles that said ‘don’t cross me, I’ll beat the shit out of you.’ I politely asked for a Miller and he gave me a longneck, without asking if I wanted a glass. I looked around. No one had been offered a glass. I took a long gulp of beer. I told myself that it was thirst that made me drink down half the bottle. Warmth spread through my chest, but more than warmth, relief. I’d missing drinking. Missed it more than I’d let myself realize. It was like sitting down with an old friend about whom I had fond memories, and yet a friend I knew would turn on me if I let him. I finished the beer and nodded at the bartender for another.
This one I let sit in front of me. I knew if I drank at that speed I’d be out of money in a little more than an hour. My choices were to slow down or leave the bar completely. I slowed down. To distract myself from the beer sitting in front of me, a sweat breaking out on the brown bottle, I looked around the bar. There were about fifteen other patrons, all men, a couple sitting together talking softly, most by themselves. Women didn’t like to go to bars by themselves, still in a place like this someone usually brought a girlfriend or a wife. Sometimes girls came in pairs. Safety in numbers. Then I realized my mistake; I was in a fag bar.
Back when I was in the army, a couple of my buddies dragged me into a queer bar in San Diego as a joke. Built it up as a place where we were sure to score, something we wanted to do before we shipped out. It took about ten minutes before I got the joke. I made a big stink, because when you’re with your buddies that’s what you do, then we got out of there. It didn’t seem a good idea to make a big stink in this place. Didn’t look like too many of these guys would put up with it.
People who’ve never been in a queer bar imagine them to be dangerous places. I have to admit I was one of those people. Looking around, I realized that other than the fact it was all guys, there wasn’t a lot to tip you off. There weren’t any queens running around in make-up and feather boas, though it was a bright sunny afternoon, maybe they came in after dark. The crowd didn’t look like they were planning to band together and snatch some poor normal kid off the street and butt-rape him on the pool table. It was a pretty average kind of place. Except it wasn’t. When I looked closer, I could see that the body language was different. It was like every guy in the room was a hungry lion looking to pounce. Only there weren’t any gazelles. These lions pounced on each other. Maybe it was a more dangerous place than it seemed.
Getting up from the bar, I walked over to the pool table. I put a dime on the side and then scratched my name onto a small blackboard stuck on the wall. I’d played pool a lot while I was in the service. I wasn’t great, but maybe I was better than these guys. Maybe I could even get a couple side bets going. It was a risk, but then what about my life wasn’t?
I went back to the bar and waited with my beer. I tried to sip slowly, but that didn’t work so well. I was nearly finished. A kid at the end of the bar got up and put a dime on the pool table behind mine. He had a head of black curls floating around his ears and looked like he’d been drawn my Michelangelo – if Michelangelo had ever drawn a boy in gym shorts, a T-shirt two sizes too small, striped socks, and running shoes. He couldn’t have been much more than twenty, twenty-one. His face was round and his nose plopped in the middle of it like a dab of clay on a statue. His eyes were a deep sea blue. He was tall, a good four inches taller than me, at least. Which didn’t mean I couldn’t take him in a fight if I had to.
It was my turn to play and I was matched against an older guy in his thirties named Denny. Denny wore a wife-beater and a pair of Levis. He had on big black motorcycle boots. But I didn’t remember seeing any bikes out front. I introduced myself and suggested the loser buy the winner a beer. I figured I’d work it up to money later, if I turned out to be a shark. If I didn’t, at least all I’d lost was the cost of a beer. Denny accepted the challenge and ten minutes later he was at the bar buying me a beer.
The kid with the curls came over to take his turn. “I’m Harlan,” he told me. “What’s your name, man?”
The bartender had an impressive handlebar moustache. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and had the kind of muscles that said ‘don’t cross me, I’ll beat the shit out of you.’ I politely asked for a Miller and he gave me a longneck, without asking if I wanted a glass. I looked around. No one had been offered a glass. I took a long gulp of beer. I told myself that it was thirst that made me drink down half the bottle. Warmth spread through my chest, but more than warmth, relief. I’d missing drinking. Missed it more than I’d let myself realize. It was like sitting down with an old friend about whom I had fond memories, and yet a friend I knew would turn on me if I let him. I finished the beer and nodded at the bartender for another.
This one I let sit in front of me. I knew if I drank at that speed I’d be out of money in a little more than an hour. My choices were to slow down or leave the bar completely. I slowed down. To distract myself from the beer sitting in front of me, a sweat breaking out on the brown bottle, I looked around the bar. There were about fifteen other patrons, all men, a couple sitting together talking softly, most by themselves. Women didn’t like to go to bars by themselves, still in a place like this someone usually brought a girlfriend or a wife. Sometimes girls came in pairs. Safety in numbers. Then I realized my mistake; I was in a fag bar.
Back when I was in the army, a couple of my buddies dragged me into a queer bar in San Diego as a joke. Built it up as a place where we were sure to score, something we wanted to do before we shipped out. It took about ten minutes before I got the joke. I made a big stink, because when you’re with your buddies that’s what you do, then we got out of there. It didn’t seem a good idea to make a big stink in this place. Didn’t look like too many of these guys would put up with it.
People who’ve never been in a queer bar imagine them to be dangerous places. I have to admit I was one of those people. Looking around, I realized that other than the fact it was all guys, there wasn’t a lot to tip you off. There weren’t any queens running around in make-up and feather boas, though it was a bright sunny afternoon, maybe they came in after dark. The crowd didn’t look like they were planning to band together and snatch some poor normal kid off the street and butt-rape him on the pool table. It was a pretty average kind of place. Except it wasn’t. When I looked closer, I could see that the body language was different. It was like every guy in the room was a hungry lion looking to pounce. Only there weren’t any gazelles. These lions pounced on each other. Maybe it was a more dangerous place than it seemed.
Getting up from the bar, I walked over to the pool table. I put a dime on the side and then scratched my name onto a small blackboard stuck on the wall. I’d played pool a lot while I was in the service. I wasn’t great, but maybe I was better than these guys. Maybe I could even get a couple side bets going. It was a risk, but then what about my life wasn’t?
I went back to the bar and waited with my beer. I tried to sip slowly, but that didn’t work so well. I was nearly finished. A kid at the end of the bar got up and put a dime on the pool table behind mine. He had a head of black curls floating around his ears and looked like he’d been drawn my Michelangelo – if Michelangelo had ever drawn a boy in gym shorts, a T-shirt two sizes too small, striped socks, and running shoes. He couldn’t have been much more than twenty, twenty-one. His face was round and his nose plopped in the middle of it like a dab of clay on a statue. His eyes were a deep sea blue. He was tall, a good four inches taller than me, at least. Which didn’t mean I couldn’t take him in a fight if I had to.
It was my turn to play and I was matched against an older guy in his thirties named Denny. Denny wore a wife-beater and a pair of Levis. He had on big black motorcycle boots. But I didn’t remember seeing any bikes out front. I introduced myself and suggested the loser buy the winner a beer. I figured I’d work it up to money later, if I turned out to be a shark. If I didn’t, at least all I’d lost was the cost of a beer. Denny accepted the challenge and ten minutes later he was at the bar buying me a beer.
The kid with the curls came over to take his turn. “I’m Harlan,” he told me. “What’s your name, man?”
October 28, 2010
Sample from The Perils of Praline, or the Amorous Adventures of a Southern Gentleman in Hollywood
Praline Palmetier decided to move to Hollywood while watching an all-day marathon of the reality TV show House-Bound, Season Six. It wasn't that he fell in love with the stately palm trees and sandy beaches shown during the opening credits, or the trendy bars where contestants drank too much, or even the ever-present possibility of seeing a movie star around each corner. No, Praline fell in love with contestant number five, Dave G.
Had he been asked to describe the ultimate human specimen, Praline would have described Dave G. The young man was tall-or at least appeared so on television-with velvet brown hair and smoky gray eyes. Though he was not overly muscled, he was clearly athletic. In one episode he'd worn a thong that had shown off his body, including a delicious stream of dark hair running from just above his belly button downward. In short, Dave G. was absolute perfection.
It wasn't that Praline decided to move to California without angst. He'd been angsting most of the summer. Having graduated with an Associate of Arts Degree in Communications from Laccacoochee Technical College, he had no further plans-no career goals, no special calling, and definitely no aspirations for additional schooling, as he had attained a less than stellar 2.2 GPA. Somewhat anxiously, he spent his nights making Mocha Lattes at a sci-fi coffee shop called Java the Hut, and his days loitering on his mother's sofa, which was where he sat-well, slouched actually-watching the special House-Bound, Season Six reunion episode, when on came a commercial for the bestselling book, The Key.
The commercial claimed that all you had to do to succeed in love was imagine down to the tiniest detail exactly what and exactly who you wanted to love you and it would come true, stunningly and amazingly true-especially if you bought the book.
But there wasn't any need to buy the book, thought Praline. He had just spent most of his summer imagining down to the minutest detail what life would be like with Dave G. In fact, he'd concentrated so hard, so many times, that Praline was sure if he ever happened to meet Dave G. they'd fall instantly and irrevocably in love. And that's when he realized he had to go to Hollywood, as soon as possible.
When he told his mother about his plan, she nearly burst a vocal cord screaming, "Criminy Jickets!" As an upstanding Christian woman, Robin Palmetier refused to take the Lord's name in vain. "Praline, you cannot move to California! It is the most sinful, most dangerous, most seductive place on this entire planet!"
And then, in order to avoid a full-on conniption, she lit a joint.
Sitting crossed-legged on the living room floor, Praline waited as his mother pulled marijuana smoke deep into her lungs. At twenty, our charming hero had floppy, almost-naturally blond hair and crystal blue eyes. Inviting, sensuous lips sat above a wide jaw with the tiniest dimple in the center of its square chin. He had an open smile, pale skin that flushed quickly, a sprinkle of freckles on his perfect nose, and an ass that was so exceptionally round, and protruded so far out behind him, that he was mortified by the very idea of it.
His mama finally exhaled. "Is it because I gave your room to your step-daddy, Spliff, to grow his special Ganja Gold?"
"No, Mama, I don't mind sleeping on the couch," Praline assured her. And he didn't mind, though the couch was lumpy, narrow, and smelled like a bong.
Shortly after Praline was born, his unmarried teenage mother completed five weeks of a six-month cosmetology course and began making a few bucks styling her friends' hair in her pink and turquoise kitchen. She made many more bucks selling those same friends various mood-altering substances, mostly marijuana but occasionally a tab or two of ecstasy.
After a slight hesitation, Praline blurted, "I'm going to Hollywood because I'm in love!"
Robin screamed again, this time for an entirely different reason. "Why didn't you say so? That's wonderful, darlin'. What's her name?"
"Actually, his name is Dave G. and he's on a TV show called House-Bound. He's totally amazing."
Praline nervously awaited her response. He hadn't meant to wait until he was twenty years old to come out to his mother. It's just that this was the first time he'd been in love. It was one thing to tell his mother he'd found the love of his life, and quite another to explain that an attractive older gentleman had once given him a blowjob in an antique-filled condominium and he'd thoroughly enjoyed it.
It took Robin about twenty seconds to adapt to her son's coming out. While she knew her mega-pastor would not be pleased, she found it difficult to deny Praline the same God who'd so often looked the other way when it came to her own life.
"Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit," she said. "How'd you meet him?"
"Oh, I haven't met him," Praline explained. "That's why I have to go to Hollywood. So we can meet."
"You haven't met?" His mama looked confused, and not just because she was stoned. "You mean, y'all been typing back and forth on the computer? That's the new thing isn't-"
"No, I mean we haven't met. I fell in love with Dave G. while watching his TV show."
"Are you telling me you're gonna leave your mama and every little thing you've ever known to traipse across this big ole country after a man you've only ever seen on a TV show?"
Wow, Praline thought, she certainly put a negative spin on that. Maybe she wasn't quite as comfortable with his being gay as she seemed.
"Do you really think this is a good idea?" she continued, pinching off her joint.
"Why, Mama, you raised me to follow my heart no matter what," Praline explained. "That's exactly what I'm doing."
"Yes, but..." Finding herself cornered by her own parenting-style, Robin brushed a few ashes off her ample bosom and lost the conversational thread. "Darlin', do we have any of them jalapeno-flavored potato chips left? I've got the munchies."
Had he been asked to describe the ultimate human specimen, Praline would have described Dave G. The young man was tall-or at least appeared so on television-with velvet brown hair and smoky gray eyes. Though he was not overly muscled, he was clearly athletic. In one episode he'd worn a thong that had shown off his body, including a delicious stream of dark hair running from just above his belly button downward. In short, Dave G. was absolute perfection.
It wasn't that Praline decided to move to California without angst. He'd been angsting most of the summer. Having graduated with an Associate of Arts Degree in Communications from Laccacoochee Technical College, he had no further plans-no career goals, no special calling, and definitely no aspirations for additional schooling, as he had attained a less than stellar 2.2 GPA. Somewhat anxiously, he spent his nights making Mocha Lattes at a sci-fi coffee shop called Java the Hut, and his days loitering on his mother's sofa, which was where he sat-well, slouched actually-watching the special House-Bound, Season Six reunion episode, when on came a commercial for the bestselling book, The Key.
The commercial claimed that all you had to do to succeed in love was imagine down to the tiniest detail exactly what and exactly who you wanted to love you and it would come true, stunningly and amazingly true-especially if you bought the book.
But there wasn't any need to buy the book, thought Praline. He had just spent most of his summer imagining down to the minutest detail what life would be like with Dave G. In fact, he'd concentrated so hard, so many times, that Praline was sure if he ever happened to meet Dave G. they'd fall instantly and irrevocably in love. And that's when he realized he had to go to Hollywood, as soon as possible.
When he told his mother about his plan, she nearly burst a vocal cord screaming, "Criminy Jickets!" As an upstanding Christian woman, Robin Palmetier refused to take the Lord's name in vain. "Praline, you cannot move to California! It is the most sinful, most dangerous, most seductive place on this entire planet!"
And then, in order to avoid a full-on conniption, she lit a joint.
Sitting crossed-legged on the living room floor, Praline waited as his mother pulled marijuana smoke deep into her lungs. At twenty, our charming hero had floppy, almost-naturally blond hair and crystal blue eyes. Inviting, sensuous lips sat above a wide jaw with the tiniest dimple in the center of its square chin. He had an open smile, pale skin that flushed quickly, a sprinkle of freckles on his perfect nose, and an ass that was so exceptionally round, and protruded so far out behind him, that he was mortified by the very idea of it.
His mama finally exhaled. "Is it because I gave your room to your step-daddy, Spliff, to grow his special Ganja Gold?"
"No, Mama, I don't mind sleeping on the couch," Praline assured her. And he didn't mind, though the couch was lumpy, narrow, and smelled like a bong.
Shortly after Praline was born, his unmarried teenage mother completed five weeks of a six-month cosmetology course and began making a few bucks styling her friends' hair in her pink and turquoise kitchen. She made many more bucks selling those same friends various mood-altering substances, mostly marijuana but occasionally a tab or two of ecstasy.
After a slight hesitation, Praline blurted, "I'm going to Hollywood because I'm in love!"
Robin screamed again, this time for an entirely different reason. "Why didn't you say so? That's wonderful, darlin'. What's her name?"
"Actually, his name is Dave G. and he's on a TV show called House-Bound. He's totally amazing."
Praline nervously awaited her response. He hadn't meant to wait until he was twenty years old to come out to his mother. It's just that this was the first time he'd been in love. It was one thing to tell his mother he'd found the love of his life, and quite another to explain that an attractive older gentleman had once given him a blowjob in an antique-filled condominium and he'd thoroughly enjoyed it.
It took Robin about twenty seconds to adapt to her son's coming out. While she knew her mega-pastor would not be pleased, she found it difficult to deny Praline the same God who'd so often looked the other way when it came to her own life.
"Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit," she said. "How'd you meet him?"
"Oh, I haven't met him," Praline explained. "That's why I have to go to Hollywood. So we can meet."
"You haven't met?" His mama looked confused, and not just because she was stoned. "You mean, y'all been typing back and forth on the computer? That's the new thing isn't-"
"No, I mean we haven't met. I fell in love with Dave G. while watching his TV show."
"Are you telling me you're gonna leave your mama and every little thing you've ever known to traipse across this big ole country after a man you've only ever seen on a TV show?"
Wow, Praline thought, she certainly put a negative spin on that. Maybe she wasn't quite as comfortable with his being gay as she seemed.
"Do you really think this is a good idea?" she continued, pinching off her joint.
"Why, Mama, you raised me to follow my heart no matter what," Praline explained. "That's exactly what I'm doing."
"Yes, but..." Finding herself cornered by her own parenting-style, Robin brushed a few ashes off her ample bosom and lost the conversational thread. "Darlin', do we have any of them jalapeno-flavored potato chips left? I've got the munchies."
July 28, 2010
Boystown 2: Three More Nick Nowak Mysteries Now Available!
In the second Boystown collection, Chicago private investigator Nick Nowak finds himself involved with a young man who murdered his stepfather but refuses to assist in his own defense, hired to find the murderer of a dead porno star, and, in a case that traps him between the two men he loves, searching for a serial killer’s only living victim. Set in the second half of 1981, Boystown 2 follows Nick as he juggles his deepening relationship with Detective Bert Harker with the return of his ex, Daniel Laverty. Which man will he choose? Or will he be able to choose?
http://www.torquerebooks.com/index.ph...
http://www.torquerebooks.com/index.ph...
