Hustlers and Hoboes and Funerals

Thank you all for the many kind comments and emails I received after my last post here. I’m truly grateful for the support.

It’s been two weeks since my father passed. The shock of it has receded—somewhat, anyway. This last week, I traveled to Virginia for the viewing and funeral. Much to my surprise and relief, both went off not only without a hitch, but without any hurtful antics from the people I thought might cause a ruckus. My mom’s funeral, almost exactly thirty years ago, was a fucking circus thanks to a couple of family members. Everything this week, though, proceeded smoothly. Several old friends from middle and high school who’d happened upon my dad’s obituary in the local paper stopped by to say hello after several decades. I was pleased to talk with a number of my dad’s colleagues from his department at the university, who shared stories about his teaching legacy.

Most importantly, I was able to grieve without enduring any shenanigans.

My dad and I had a great and close relationship. I shared just about everything with him; he knew he could count on me in a crisis. Neither of us harbored secret resentments or grudges. Throughout my adult life, neither of us left anything unsaid. If we argued—and late in his life, we argued a lot about his hoarding, his stubborn refusal to consider downsizing or moving into assisted living, and his insistence that long-expired food was safe to eat—we said what was on our minds, hugged it out, and would always conclude the debate with a reminder that we loved each other. Total frankness and unconditional love: I think it’s the ideal relationship a kid can have with his parent. I was very fortunate to enjoy it with both of mine. It’s why, when both died, I mourned and continue to be sad at their loss, but I don’t have any issues left unresolved or guilt eating away at me.

It’s also why, when at various events this week people would say to me, Your dad really loved you, I confidently could reply, Thank you. I know.

One of my dad’s neighbors down his old street held a reception after the funeral. During the last couple of years, she’d been generous with him, bringing him the occasional meal when she’d made extra, or picking up treats from the supermarket. She’d also been something of a pain in my ass during the same time period. Every one of her favors struck me less like real altruism and more like a threatening quid pro quo, with my dad getting all the quids and me having to take care of the quos.

She’d take my dad a yummy dinner and tell him that oh, by the way, did he know his sagging wooden shutters were really bringing down the tone of the neighborhood? He really needed to take care of that. She and her daughter might present my dad a miniature Christmas tree during the holidays, while hinting it was a real shame how raggedy his boxwoods were getting, when all the houses around him had such nice front yards. Then my dad would report back to me how nice she’d been and what she said, and I’d have to hire handymen and landscapers to fix things up, to keep on this woman’s good side. The neighbor felt like a homeowner’s association Karen determined to enforce an imaginary neighborhood standard by holding my dad’s welfare hostage.

I wasn’t happy about having to leap whenever she decided my dad wasn’t doing his part to keep up the tone of the street—nor was I thrilled about the homophobic microaggressions I’d endure whenever I had to deal with her in person. It was because of those that I wanted to skip the reception entirely. But my dad had always been appreciative of her kindness, so I went.

It was a nice reception, sure. There were little sandwiches on buns. I love a little sandwich. What I don’t love, though, is being cut down by a meddler making passive-aggressive comments about my Northern lifestyle, or when my aunt asked when I had to return to work, cutting in to titter, oh, he’s basically retired, isn’t he? No, bitch. I am not retired, basically or remotely. Why diminish my teaching and writing in that way?

And she, like so many others, said, “Your dad really loved you!”

And I smiled and said, “Thank you! I know!”

She thought my reply the most hilarious thing ever. “I know!” she repeated, as if I’d let loose some delicious riposte. “I said your dad loved you, and you said, you know!” She laughed and walked away, shaking her head, leaving me clenching my fists and wondering if I had the nerve to do an upper decker in her downstairs guest bathroom.

My words hadn’t in the least been unpleasant in tone. I didn’t at all get her condescension. If she were to die, wouldn’t this awful woman want her daughter to carry on secure in the knowledge that she had been loved? Did this woman down the street who only knew my father for a mere four years actually think her words would be a revelation? In her family, is love something that’s never expressed?

If she’d said, I’m glad you know, that would’ve been appropriate! But laughing at my confidence in my dad’s love? I can’t fathom it.

Let the people you love know it, friends. There never should be any doubt.

***

Moving on to some good news: I have a new story appearing in another vintage-style anthology of erotic gay fiction.

This particular collection is called Hoboes, Hustlers, and Outlaws: Bad Boys and Macho Men and will hit the shelves on October 1—exactly a month from today! The publisher describes it as “four tales of riding rails, selling tail, and sitting in jail,” and honestly, I couldn’t describe it any better than that.

(Although to be fair, I managed to get a sneak peek at the jail story and it didn’t involve much sitting. I’m kind of surprised the protagonist could sit at all.)

The novella I’ve contributed is called On the Block. It’s a tale set in 1979 of a young hustler working a small-town beat, who sees a magazine reporter as his easy ticket to the big time—yet it’s entirely possible the city slicker is using him for more than just a story. You will almost certainly be pleased to hear that it features some of the sleaziest and hottest sex I’ve ever penned—including a piss play scene that somehow I made humiliating not for the recipient, but for the guy doing the pissing.

I was so grateful and happy for the reception that my novella Sleazy A received when it appeared in Dirty Dorms and Fresh Men, this summer. Many of my friends and followers took the time not only to purchase and read the tale, but to message me and let me know how much they enjoyed it. More than a handful took photos of themselves (or part of themselves) with the book; a few even allowed me to post those on social media. And I loved doing it! The release felt less like a big party in which everyone celebrated gay erotic fiction. I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing with y’all.

So let the party continue! Like Dirty Dorms and Fresh Men, you can pre=order the new Hoboes, Hustlers, and Outlaws online, or ask your local brick-and-mortar bookstore to order it for you. Bonus points if you march into a religious bookstore and make the request. If you pre-order in time, you’ll receive the book on release day.

I’ll be writing more in the future about the background behind On the Block. While it is fictional—definitely more fictional than the semi-autobiographical Sleazy A, anyway—a considerable amount of the material draws upon places and people I knew back in my own street hustling days, distant as they are.

And as for my next story, to be published much later this year? While my first two anthology inclusions were rooted firmly in the past, let’s just say the next will take place in a distant future…

Order your copy of Hoboes, Hustlers, and Outlaws from Amazon (available October 1)

Order your copy of Dirty Dorms and Fresh Men from Amazon (available now!)