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4:PLAY (long short story)


4:Play ($2.99)

BUY: Amazon (US) | Amazon (UK)

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Title = Mature Audience


A short story in which two guys see what’s really in their hearts, with the support—and shining example—of two girls in the same predicament.

This story features in the short story collections, New Order (GLBT short stories) and 4:Play (full anthology).

* * *

REVIEW (on 4:Play):

"[This] is erotica with a story...[which] I would much rather read, than one of the many so-called erotic romances that serve as vehicles for written pornography."
-- Review @

"I'm a hetero guy and the Yin and Julian thing (in 4:Play) even 'did something' for me. I also tackle some DAMN taboo subjects but have never read a female's versions. . .all things kinky and morally objectionable, I'm game. LOL."
-- DE, Reader/Customer email, Jan 2012

* * *


“Maybe the eyeliner,” Julian said slowly. “You’re very, ah...pretty. I don’t mean sissy. Good-looking?” He shook his head. “God, I don’t know.”

He wanted to stroke himself while blowing Yin. He was dying to do so. He was sick of talking, wanted his hands to take over, go over Yin’s sexy, slender thighs and calves. But he waited to see what Yin would do next.

Yin’s hand went down, and Julian’s too, to their respective members. They stroked and pumped themselves till the program ended, watching each other in the mirror, both not making a sound. Julian shot a full load—Yin came in shorter spurts. Jacking off in the room together. It was the hardest they’d ever been.

Neither said a word till Julian noticed the time.

“Shit, I gotta go,” he said. It was 6.15pm. He was meeting his date at 6.30pm in town.

“I’ll see ya,” said Yin.


Julian tumbled out the door. Yin cooked and stayed in the dress and tiara till he went to sleep. He played his Queen and Nirvana records, singing till his lungs hurt, using the broom handle and hairbrush as his imaginary microphones. The sofa was his stage—the world, his imaginary audience.

But he sang for Julian, who was everywhere, while Yin was starring in his own rockstar fantasies. It was Julian that was his manager; it was Julian in the front row; it was Julian who was some celebrity photographer who always got the best shots of him. They trashed hotel rooms together; got banned from a major airline for “disorderly conduct”; got stoned on joints mailed in by fans to make the music that much more interesting.

So all the songs were for Jule—right down to the last note.

* * *

Excerpt originally published in Oysters & Chocolate.

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