Finally that whatever it was I had was gone with the help of some antibiotics. The only thing left is a lingering cough. I expect it to be with me for probably two months like it was last summer when I got this thing. However, it’s good to be up to my regular energy level.
I’m also back to writing. I know I was going to work on that M/F but, well, you know how I am. I can’t resist writing M/M especially when the characters rise in my mind and heart nearly fully formed and ready to tell their story. This one is going to be futuristic/sci-fi, entitled Fallon’s Jewel. I haven’t written the blurb yet and haven’t realized the entire story at this point but the basic storyline is on an outpost in space far into the future, an intergalactic cop, Fallon, gets mixed up with a pretty and vivacious rent boy whose completely lost his memory. He knows nothing of where he came from, his real name, parents, nothing, not even why he only has one eye and must wear a patch. Little does he know that he carries with him something incredibly valuable and there are a bunch of bad people after him for it. He comes to Fallon for help and guess what? They fall in love while fighting and running from bad people and finding out who Kenji really is. I’ve onlt written the first few paragraphs but I’m giving a sneak peak anyway. Hope you like it!
Terran Outpost A, Earth year 2586
Kenji woke from that dream…no, nightmare…again, sweating, sheets sticking to his heaving chest. He sat bolt upright and covered his face with his hands, as if to protect it from the ghostly knife that always went for his left eye…that is, after his unseen captors, faces hidden by shrouding hoods, poured some kind of vile, molten substance into it.
He forced himself to breathe normally while his own subconscious screams still rang in his ears. Cold heat prickled along the bare skin of his back and shoulders, coursing down into his abdomen and groin. No matter how many times his mind realized it was not really happening, he always felt acute relief to find his ankles and wrists unshackled and to find his own thin yet soft mattress and sheets under his body.
Finally, the drip drip of the sink in the corner began to replace his screams. He sighed. Damn Grady, poor excuse for a landlord, had promised to fix the thing. Last month. If it hadn’t been for the regulated atmosphere of Terran A, the place would probably be crawling with roaches and other vermin, like back on Earth.
Lifting his hand away, Kenji peered round the tiny room. He studied it, as always, as if to make sure it were really there, as if the haven of his rented room would have disappeared during his sleep and that friggin’ nightmare would actually be happening. Not today, thank God. The dingy walls with their network of cracks in the plaster still surrounded him. Ratty but comfortable reclining chair in the opposite corner, and the table with his golden statue on it still there, the one thing in his existence which gave him any solace.
He pushed back the covers and lifted himself from the bed. The statue drew him, the way it always did, making him want to kneel before it and just sit there, hands on his thighs, head bowed, his one good eye closed. Even before taking a piss, he needed his moments in front of the statue before getting ready for work.
The thing had always been in his possession even though how he’d gotten it in the first place, he couldn’t remember. Somehow, though, it anchored him, a possible connection to his parents—whoever they might have been. And he must have had parents. No one came into existence without them. No one was just plunked down onto a planet of any kind, fully grown, and worked as a rent boy in a club for roughnecks who liked other men.
“Who am I?” he whispered to the statue. Raising his face, he opened his eye and looked at it—the perfect likeness of a round, plump man seated in a cross-legged position, one hand on his thigh, from which dangled what appeared to be a chain of beads. Seemingly uninteresting the statue was at first glance, except for the man’s expression. Serene. Happy. Lips curved upward into a smile that seemed to be for nothing in particular. Perhaps a satisfaction in existence itself, the look of a person with nothing at all to worry about. Not life, death, survival, or even loneliness. As if somehow he’d understood it all and it could no longer cause him suffering.
Of course, the statue didn’t answer Kenji, but somehow, it made Kenji feel better simply to voice his question to it.
Kenji lingered, kneeling, until he felt enough solace to rise up and get ready for work. Best to get there before the other hustlers did and establish his territory. The place was competitive enough and then he had to give a cut to the owner for letting Kenji ply his trade in that particular bar.
Kenji turned the sink on and splashed tepid water on his face. Really, he couldn’t complain. At least he made enough to keep himself fed, get a new suit once in a while and rent a room that was clean and dry with running water and enough electricity to heat up a bowl full of it for a sponge bath. Which he did, and stood in front of the cracked mirror.
As usual, his reflection sparked the same question that kneeling before his statue did. Who am I? Who were the people who’d made his physical form? He wet the washrag, wrung it out and smoothed it over his chest. What did the people look like who’d given him the smooth tanned gold of his skin? Was it his father or mother…or both…who were slim and willowy to give him the musculature of someone graceful? And his hair? Sleek and inky black, darker than the darkest Terran night. Had they both had eyes the shape of almonds, with long, heavy lashes and arched brows?
Whoever his parents were…or had been, Kenji was grateful. They’d provided him with the right tools for survival. His face and body made him popular with the roughnecks, many of whom were beefy, bulging with muscles, their chests broad and hairy, their faces heavily stubbled, in need of constant shaving, so unlike his own, which never needed shaving, smooth and hairless, as if he were a child. But he wasn’t a child. He was a man, and had been for at least six Earth years. When he put the black patch on over his eye, he looked a bit older. The thing gave him a mysterious edge that made very often enticed customers to him first.
Not that he ever showed them what lay underneath the opaque patch. He looked at it now. There was an eye there, but it was so fucked up. Sightless, staring, a cloudy blue, the skin around it damaged, with a scar that ran up onto his brow and slightly down onto his cheek, a scar that the patch never quite covered. And if he ever would have let anyone get close enough to him to ask how it got that way, he couldn’t even begin to tell them. ‘I don’t know,’ was his legitimate answer for almost everything except how to give an awesome blowjob.