Apr 30, 2017

There are two types of billionaires --- Florence (5)

Michael is working on a new soap consisting of a series of flash stories featuring Jamie and Dex, the heroes of his flash Jamie 1.0. The whole thing is set in Florence, Italy, which we visited recently. Here's a brief fragment of the second part...hold on, let's start with an illustration again:

There are two types of billionaires

And now the fragment:

There are two types of billionaires: (1) unhappy billionaires, who are each unhappy in their own way, and (2) happy billionaires, who answer “whatever” when their valet inquires as to today’s attire and are then served with a bespoke Bond Street summer costume in understated grey. Our man belongs to the second category. What’s special about him: he’s faceless. You couldn’t even say he looks like a choir boy (hedge funds), or Osama bin Laden (family money), or Donald Trump (family money). He looks like somebody who refuses to look like anything.
“Huh?” I said.
“They’ll look anonymous. Totally. They could be caught on CCTV robbing a bank and broadcasted on cable networks and nobody would recognize their face on the bus or on the buffet of the Mar al Lago. They’ve had a face job. An expensive face job.”)

We don’t always get it right, but this time we do. Mr. Bond Street finishes his phone conversation, makes a beeline for yours truly, and introduces himself as “John.” He asks whether I like art. “Real art. Botticelli. Da Vinci. Warhol.” He chuckles. Of course we like art...

You find more of this on the pages of LustSpiel, here.

Apr 29, 2017


...the view from the Pic de l'Ours across the bay of Cannes, with the city of Cannes on the shoreline and the city of Nice (next bay, in the background) on the shoreline of La Baie des Anges. The back-background is provided by the Alps. From here (500 m elevation), you get a view of the entire Cote d'Azur.

Apr 27, 2017

"I cut a deal with Mephistopheles, I'll win" --- This is heaven --- teaser (25)

A few more weeks, and This Is Heaven is available on pre-order. Here, here, the teaser of teasers, John & Alex breaking up---or do they?

Alex would take me to the debate in his car, and I shouldn’t worry, he’ll give me a ride back, if necessary. We didn’t have much time to talk, and he’s sorry and apologizes as usual, and perhaps we could converse in the car. He had some time to think. He needs to share a thought, just a thought.

Ambulance paramedic that he is, or was, he knows the shortcuts of Georgia Beach, and in particular the spruced-up bike path that shares the bridge with the Davis Canal and leads from the parking lot through the ghetto up to Georgia Avenue. So we are supposed to talk, but he’s sitting behind the wheel and doesn’t say a word. People sometimes do this, especially in movies when they want the audience to focus on their effortless silhouette-—the low bridge of his nose with the mildest snub at the tip (not enough for a snub-nose but sufficient for the boy-component in a big brother), the eyelashes which are a bit too long for big brothers, the brows, wide and elongated (each and every single brow-hair perfectly aligned (like he’s employing an invisible, yet acrobatic cat that licks them twice per hour)), the jaw, which isn’t macho but large enough to support the seamless definition of his chin lines, the lips, closed at the moment but wide and misleadingly sensual, his smooth Latino skin, the fitting ears that seem to know everything, the black hair cut short on the side according to the latest fashion (a strange feature in an α-personality otherwise dismissive of trendiness)-—then there’s the prominent back of the head segueing into a muscular neck, the shoulders of course that do the big-brother thing all on their own, the biceps (ditto), triceps (ditto), all of this very much in evidence with him in a green tank top that would match the color of his eyes if anything on the planet could match the color of his eyes-—we arrive at the precipitous drop of his torso along the pecs and abs and down into the groin where the perfect bulge in his shorts is always in evidence due to his-—what he calls his anatomy-—and wrap up with his hirsute thighs and his dirty, sexy sneakers hidden in the pedal space underneath. And don’t forget the big hands on the steering wheel.

He's always served out of line

“You’re beautiful,” I say.

Apr 17, 2017

He's clad in widely-cut pants --- Florence (4)

Michael is working on a new soap consisting of a series of flash stories featuring Jamie and Dex, the heroes of his flash Jamie 1.0. The whole thing is set in Florence, Italy, which we visited recently. Here's a brief fragment...hold on, let's start with an illustration:

"He's clad in widely-cut pants."

That's actually Savonarola being burnt on the stake there, in the background, but never mind. And now the fragment:

A black guy has materialised next to the fountain and is taking pictures of the Loggia, meaning he’s taking pictures of me taking pictures of him taking pictures of me and so on. It would be a new come-on for me, and the fun part is in the wuzzy reciprocity—who is to say who is coming on to whom? Whether the guy is actually aware of my presence remains to be seen (the Loggia holds a dozen statues and six dozen sightseers as we speak), but I am becoming increasingly aware of him, unmistakably. I’m a natural.

He’s the Kenyan type, long and stalky, ebony-black, clad in a half-open Hawaii shirt that leaves nothing to the imagination, wide strong shoulders, shiny tapered pecs, the torso funneling down to the small of his back along effortless abs. Obama has a beautiful, round crane, infinite lips, infinite teeth, and wears stylish grey flannel pants, widely cut, much wider than the fashion on the Via Tornabuoni. I know about these pants: guys wear them to hide their third leg. He’s also wearing elaborate sandals about which more later...

Apr 15, 2017

We need a room --- This is heaven --- teaser (24)

We've finished the second draft of This Is Heaven, finally. And now we have to hurry up, teaser-wise, otherwise we'll never see the end of the tunnel. This fragment is from Chapter 27. John and Taylor will have "full sex," as John put it, and Alex will put in a cameo appearance. Since this is a teaser, it's just the beginning of the chapter. Enjoy:

We’re walking to the Atlantic Sands Hotel, which, as you know, is not far. We’re quiet now. That’s fairly typical with a new trick on the way to the venue, you’re either quiet or you talk a lot. It happened barely a week ago under very different circumstances on the way to Godehart’s place, where it ended in an in-flagrante masterclass of Wagnerian proportions. Let’s see what we’re in for this time.

The walk takes us along North Surf Avenue, low dunes to left, occasional multistory condos to the right, all stylized as beach holiday homes gaping at the sea. The structures would be pretty if they weren’t too large—-comely porches transposed into five story balconies—-the proportions don’t work, not for me. The bay-windows are prettier than the Sands Hotel, though, which jumps right out of a LEGO box. Giant neon letters on the roof mirror its name. I point at the letters (just to make sure). Taylor nods. We enter through a back door and arrive in the lobby from the wrong side, none of the reception people has seen us coming.

The way we look, drained by the heat, shabbily clad (me), untidily clad (Taylor), in sneakers, shorts, T-shirts, we may not even own a motorized conveyance, let alone money, they could easily turn us away. Too late. An assistant manager has made eye contact (‘What are you doing here?’).

“We need a room,” I say. She’s more tactful that Luke, the receptionist, in that she doesn’t lower her gaze; she’s casting it at the entrance where it rests for two seconds (‘has she decided to ignore us?’), but then returns it to me. Squeaky footfalls break the silence, somebody has a hand on my shoulder, in passing, and—it’s Alex, in full alpha-mode.

“I have an urgent appointment with The Professor Bienpensant,” he says, “replacing Mr. John Fletcher of Monroeville, Georgia.” The receptionist couldn’t care less—-a place like this hosts five hundred sex acts per day—-but Alex is simply too beautiful not to evoke second guesses and wistful smiles. The receptionist keeps her libido in check, however, and asks: “You know the room number?” And yes, Alex knows the room number and disappears squeakily in the direction of the stair well, ignoring the convenient elevator nearby.


A place like this hosts 500 sex acts per day

We were lucky that Alex showed up so soon, because—-would he have arrived only two minutes later, he would have witnessed the humiliating scene of an impoverished assistant professor of French brandishing exhausted credit cards which are then, one by one, put down by the booking system of the Atlantic Sands Corporation. I skip a few details—-Taylor saves the day with his own credit card. Nobody asks about our age. We use the elevator.