eBook Details

Torn In Two

By: G.S. Wiley | Other books by G.S. Wiley
      Kelly Rand | Other books by Kelly Rand
      Lee Cairney | Other books by Lee Cairney
Published By: Storm Moon Press
Published: Nov 23, 2012
ISBN # 9781937058739
Word Count: 39,000
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Eligible Price: $4.99

Available in: Adobe Acrobat, Microsoft Reader, Mobipocket (.prc), Mobipocket (.mobi), Epub
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Categories: Romance>LGBTQ>Gay Romance>Multiple Partners Romance>LGBTQ>B/T/Q


Torn In Two by G.S. Wiley, Kelly Rand, Lee Cairney - Romance>LGBTQ>Gay

It is often said that bisexual men are 'torn in two' by the opposing expectations from society. They are often accused of being confused or riding the proverbial fence between gay and straight. To many others, their attraction to men makes them 'not straight', while their attraction to women makes them 'not gay'. It is this conflict that sets them apart and often ostracizes them from both communities. Torn In Two is a collection of short stories highlighting bisexual men, including their relationships with both men and women.

On the rebound from an ended relationship, Daniel visits his old friend Jude looking for some direction in his life. Jude and his wife Celeste offer him solace in their arms, and the comfort of Songs from Devil Lake. Then, in Syncopation, Jonathan Tager's budding music career is thrust into the limelight when scandal reveals his bisexuality. Everyone from his management to his new female soloist seems to have an opinion about it, too, but the one opinion that matters to Jonathan belongs to Peter Merritt, a British single father who has everything to lose if he gets too close to such a controversial celebrity. Finally, Phillip Farrell accidentally makes two dates on the same night—one with a woman, and one with a man. When the scheme inevitably falls apart and he has to come clean, he learns first-hand why "to assume" means to make An Ass Out of You and Me.
Reader Rating:   4.0 starstarstarstar (1 Ratings)
Sensuality Rating:   lipliplip
Daniel stood in the restroom of the Via train and thought he could feel the smooth tracks under his feet.

On airplanes he'd struggle to stay on his feet, swiveling around a cramped closet that rocked like a boat. The train didn't move at all. It glided so smoothly on the rails: it barely seemed to be moving until Daniel looked out the window and saw the scenery zipping past. The restroom was spacious enough that he could stand solidly enough to take a good look in the mirror.

He'd left his jacket in his seat, so all he wore was a blue T-shirt and jeans. He lifted the bottom of his shirt and saw a puffed-out scratch, and then higher, a bruise on his ribs. Hugo hadn't meant to leave that. He'd apologized afterward, when they smoked a cigarette on the bed, and he'd pressed his fingers against the tender spot at the top of Daniel's rib cage. Daniel leaned closer to the mirror and pulled down his T-shirt to see a dark purple hickey just under the collar line. He hadn't even realized Hugo had been leaving that. He'd been too distracted by the other pain.

Daniel sighed and stood back, brushing his hair out of his eyes. He was thirty-eight but looked at least 10 years younger. It was the half Thai blood in him that gave his skin an olive tone and his eyes a narrow, brown, youthful look. He took good care of himself, too. He looked like Jude and Celeste remembered him, he decided, and that would impress them. They would be less impressed by the hickey.

He pumped water in the sink, putting one hand and then the other in the paltry stream. He squeezed an impotent dollop of soap in his hands and sang "Happy Birthday" in his head. That's what Jude had told him to do years ago—sing "Happy Birthday" in his head twice as he was washing his hands so he could be sure not to get the flu. It worked, too. Daniel was rarely sick; he hadn't missed any dates at all on his last tour.

He grabbed a couple of stiff paper towels from the dispenser and wiped his hands, being sure to get between each finger before he tossed them in the garbage. When he opened the door, he was back in the world of people. The train made a barely perceptible hum. The little sounds of people—throats clearing, pages turning, the slide of fabric as bodies shifted position—formed a frequency of their own. He drifted his fingers over the nylon backs of seats until he reached his row.

Sitting there, his body still felt used. His wrists were still sore from being cuffed behind his back. He'd been on his knees on the hardwood floor with Hugo's cock in his mouth, pushing in and out like a lover. Daniel had been married three years to a photographer named Salena, but he'd gone back to Hugo anyway. She'd found one of the marks on his body and told him to leave. That was a week ago. He'd been back to Hugo once since then, mostly so there'd be pain on the outside to match how he felt inside. Faced with loss, he took comfort in following instructions.

Seven years ago, he hadn't had to go to Hugo. Jude had been his boyfriend, and his mercies had been small and frequent. He'd run his fingers over Daniel's cheek until Daniel rubbed against his hand like a cat. He'd whisper in Daniel's ear when they woke up, telling him he was beautiful until Daniel rolled over and ran his hands over Jude's strong arms. Jude had gotten more buff in the last couple of years. Any time Daniel had seen him—usually fleetingly— he noticed the biceps that would surely be hard if he squeezed them with his fingers. He knew if he lifted Jude's shirt that he'd find abs just as firm. Daniel's own arms were firm like Jude's, too, but his build would be slight no matter how much he worked out. He'd never have Jude's broad shoulders or sharp eyes or the strong, commanding presence Jude exuded when he entered a room.

He rested his forehead on the window and watched the scenery pass. Toronto to Kingston all over again. If Salena was with him she'd be sitting in the aisle seat, knees together and lips pursed as she read a book. If she were there, Daniel would reach out and rest his hand on her knee, and if she looked at him they'd give each other polite smiles before she focused on her book again. Daniel always thought photographers would be greedy for the visuals. He expected her eyes to flit over everything when they traveled. But he'd never noticed her do that. She'd always kept looking forward. Buildings crumbled and children played around her without ever catching her notice. She never wanted the window seat.

He thought about these things as he rode. Hugo, the rough dominant who was somewhere back in Toronto, running his tattooed hands over his newly shaved head. Salena, who was also back in Toronto with her nose buried in another book, maybe sitting next to another man, although he couldn't bring his mind to delve into that deeper yet.

-- from "Songs From Devil Lake" by Kelly Rand


Jonathan always hated the way he looked on screen. It was something about his face. He looked like an idiot. Everyone said the camera added ten pounds. To Jon, it seemed more like it deducted about fifty IQ points.

Not that anyone else seemed to notice. Jon, along with his manager, publicist, and PA stared at the iPad screen in front of them as intently as if they were watching some groundbreaking achievement, like the moon landing. As they watched, the onscreen Jon stood up from his place at the piano and crossed the television studio to sit on Ellen Degeneres' couch.

The host leaned in close. The interview had only aired yesterday, but already this clip had three hundred thousand hits on Youtube. Jon didn't know whether he should feel flattered by that or not.

"Now, Jon." Ellen looked at him. "You know I have to ask you. The pictures." Ellen hadn't put them up in the studio, thank God, but everyone in the audience knew what she was talking about. Jon watched himself shift again on Ellen's couch, wiping his palms on his thighs. He'd been wearing leather pants, he remembered, and they'd constricted around his thighs as he sweated under the hot studio lights. They'd had to peel him out of them afterward. Definitely a wardrobe note to remember.

"Right. The pictures." Jon's voice sounded more confident than he'd felt. He was proud of that, both now and at the time. "Well, what can I say, Ellen? I like people." The audience responded with resounding applause. Jon's manager reached forward and tapped the iPad screen with one long, bright red fingernail. The clip stopped, freezing Jon's face with his eyes half-closed and his mouth half-open.

Jon looked up to see everyone around the table looking back at him.

"What?" Jon felt the nerves rising again. He wiped his hands on his pants. This time, he was wearing jeans.

"'I like people'?" His publicist, Keith, spoke first. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Jon felt a bristle of annoyance. "What does it sound like it means, Keith?"

"What Keith is trying to say," Jon's manager, Sheila, put in, smiling, "is that maybe it's something you might have wanted to discuss with us first?"

"The pictures were already out there, Sheila. Everyone knew about them." The photos of Jon kissing a guy in a hotel bar in Miami had shown up first on TMZ, and then everyone had jumped on them. It had been a stupid move, Jon couldn't deny it. He'd been tired and buzzed after a concert, the guy had been there, and Jon had let himself go for it. He hadn't expected to be caught by the paparazzi. He hadn't thought he was that famous. "Anyway, I just told her the truth."

Keith pressed the iPad again. The clip lurched to life. "I'm bisexual," Jon told Ellen, her television audience, and the world. "And I'm very proud to be so." That wasn't true. Jon had never considered it something worthy of pride. It was just part of who he was, like having brown hair and blue eyes and being nominally Jewish, although he loved bacon and eggs with a nice cafe latte in the mornings. He was proud of his music, of his accomplishments as a singer and an artist. He'd never been proud of something he couldn't control.

Still, it pleased the audience. They cheered and whooped again. Ellen didn't push the issue. She moved on to his new album and his upcoming tour, and Jon had felt pleased with himself at the time for diffusing a potential landmine.

Judging from the ten text messages from his agent and the three urgent voicemails from his manager he found when he came off-set, he hadn't diffused it so much as pressed the detonator while he stood on top of it.

"Look, Jonny." Keith flipped the iPad closed and pushed it away, as if it had done something to offend him. "I don't give a shit what you do on your own time, let's get that out of the way right now. You can fuck girls or guys or fucking chimpanzees for all I care. But when you choose to put that into the open, that's when it becomes my business."

Jon crossed his arms over his chest. "What did you want me to do? Deny the pictures are out there?"

"What Keith means," Sheila interrupted, still beaming. She always seemed to know what Keith meant. Jon sometimes thought they should just sleep together and get it over with. "...is that we thought you were going to call it a one-time mistake."

"It wasn't." With this particular guy, it was. That was just a one-night stand. Jon hadn't even known the man's last name. But men in general were a part of his life. They always had been. Jon wasn't proud of it, necessarily, but he wasn't ashamed, either.

-- from "Syncopation" by G.S. Wiley


My heart rate was already around 190 with the stress of running back and forth before Marty even stopped at our table.

"My, my. Phillip Farrell having dinner with a woman."

I scowled at him, but he lounged against the black-painted wall opposite our booth as if he had nowhere else to be. With his short, salt and pepper hair, grizzled face, and gym-fit body that was only now starting to sag a little, he wasn't bad looking but he wasn't half as good looking as he thought. Who else but a total poseur would wear leather chaps in a restaurant? Even in the dim gloom of romantic candlelight, I could see the malicious grin on his face.

"Hi, Marty. How's it going?" I tried for polite. I'd dated him for three years; I knew how much he would be enjoying this. Besides, he was like a cat: the more you pushed him away, the more insistently he'd try to sit on your lap.

Marty put a too-warm hand on my shoulder and leered down at me. "I didn't think you had it in you, dear." He'd smeared too much bronzer over his cheekbones in an attempt to add definition. He'd ended up more Boy George than Elizabeth Taylor, though. I'd always told him it was too much when we were going out, but he never took any notice. I didn't know why it had taken me so long to realize that he'd never listened to me at all.

I shot a look over at Gina, my date. She was staring at Marty with narrowed eyes. Her long, dark hair fell sheer down her back. Black, burlesque-style tattoos curled round her arms. That was what had made her stand out from the others in the coffee-shop where she worked. At the moment, I wasn't sure I wanted a new relationship, but I did know that I wanted sex, even so, it had taken me three weeks to get up enough courage to ask her out on a date.

With her carefully painted red lips and ripped black lacy top, you could tell that she didn't take her femininity too seriously. She would have been beautiful however she dressed, but there was an element of play in her display. Not like some of the pursed-mouth girls you often saw out at night falling out of halter-necks as they tottered on high heels, plastered with make-up. The future Conservative Wives of America (give them a few years) who looked worse than drag queens.

"Marty, we're kind of busy, so if you'll excuse us."

He mugged, playing to Gina. "That's not very nice, is it?"

Her welcoming smile caught on her face, but she scooted over a little on the banquette like she was going to invite him to join us.

I cut in quickly. I just wanted to be rid of Marty before he blew it all. Before our starter platter of chorizo and olives had even arrived, the spike of her high heel had been running across my crotch enticingly, snagging on the denim from time to time in a way that made me wriggle and push against the sharp heel of her shoe. Whenever our eyes met, she'd given me a wicked smile.

"Marty, come on—" I didn't want to beg. I knew Marty would pounce on any weakness I showed, and even though he'd left me, I knew I he wouldn't forgive me for ‘breaking ranks' as he'd probably put it.

"Bit desperate isn't it, dear?" Marty dropped his voice a little, but there was no mistaking the nod he gave towards Gina. I could already hear his screeching laughter as he retold this story—waving a hand in front of his nose and screaming about the smell of fish—to his little gang of bitchy queens who hung out in the Castro Café.

There was no doubt that she'd heard, too. Her eyes glittered and she scooted back to fill the gap she'd left in the booth.

-- from "An Ass Out of You and Me" by Lee Cairney

Torn In Two

By: G.S. Wiley, Kelly Rand, Lee Cairney