EE-103 Hollywood Hot

Excerpt

But lovin’ don’t stop just ‘cause the law don’t allow! The loss of coverage by the Human Rights Commission didn’t affect Stanley and Brad. Dr. Stanley Harshbarger was an openly gay physician in his early thirties. His job didn’t depend on the approbation of the homophobes. While the Human Rights Commission was holding its meeting, he and his lover were jogging in the Park. The days were getting shorter, the air cooler, but the leaves were still on the trees in all the hectic colors of the dying summer.

Brad’s feet crushed in the cinders of the jogging path, easily striding through the cool, darkening light. Stanley had to strain to keep up with him. The exercise was like a glass of wine to Brad; hard work for Stanley, but good for his thickening waistline and fast-beating heart. When they were jogging, it was easy to see which was the superior of the two, which the weaker. Brad, the younger man, was a superb specimen of health now, tall, blonde, hair and beard blown back in the breeze he stirred with his smooth strides. Stanley was shorter, thicker, beginning to bald, panting for breath.

But off the jogging track, it was a different matter. Stanley was a brilliant young physician. Brad was a mental defective, not an idiot, but not clever enough to manage himself in a world of predators. In bed, they were as perfectly matched as mysterious love can achieve.

Back in their apartment, they stripped off the sweaty jogging suits and showered together. The hot water and the warmth of the apartment were good. They didn’t feel like dressing right away, no, not for awhile! The mood was languorous, sensual, lazy. They were safe and secure, no matter what went on in the world outside. Brad drew his lover toward the bed, nuzzled his face. “Let’s fuck, Stanley. I feel good.”

Harshbarger smiled and nodded. He felt good, too. He lay down on the bed, gesturing for Brad to join him. The tall blonde man sat by his side, reaching out his gentle fingers to touch the scars on Stanley’s body, the bright pink patches of skin grafts on his neck, his hands and shin. They were not ugly to Brad, but they always reminded him of the close brush with death that Stanley had undergone, and so they frightened him a little.