The only common thread in this mostly never-before-published collection of eight stories other than that they are all gay male and that they came from habu’s wide-ranging, creative imagination is that their titles consist of one word, beginning with the letter D. In theme, the stories range from nostalgia to humor to intrigue and deception. The geographic setting for all, except one played out between India and Thailand, is the United States. The stateside locales of this collection concentrate primarily in and within 100 miles of Washington, D.C., but they also extend from the mid-Atlantic down to Charleston, South Carolina, and out to Mesa Verde, in Arizona. The age of the characters seeking connection ranges from elderly down to young men, and most hook-ups are of the older-younger variety.
From “Deceit”
He wondered what had happened to Sandy. He didn’t expect to find him here anymore, but he had an image of the young men—still as young now as he was then—in his mind, and he kept looking into the face of every young man he encountered while roaming around the crowded room, where everywhere seemed to be either dance floor or conversation pit or proposition auction, depending on what suited the men interacting at the moment.
He had moved around the room twice before he saw him. Reddish-blond hair, maybe in his mid-twenties, more beautiful than handsome, smiling prettily for an older man who had just handed him a drink where he was perched on a barstool and had leaned in to him. The spitting image of Sandy.
A dark-haired youth, not much more than twenty—small of stature, olive skinned—had been following behind Earl on his second circuit of the room. He caught up with Earl at the moment.
“Hello. I haven’t seen you in here before. Are you with anyone?”
Earl focused on the young man. He was quite good looking and a bit saucy. Earl felt himself go harder—he’d already worked up a half-hard just because of the musky odor of men in heat in hunting in the room. This lad would do—if the man pressing in on the younger man with the reddish-blond hair, who Earl was already thinking of as Sandy, was staking a claim in that department. Earl glanced back at the bar, where the deal between those two men seemed to have been set. With a sigh, he refocused on the dark-haired young man who had approached him.
“I’m new to town,” Earl answered.
The dark-haired young man touched the sleeve of Earl’s silk shirt, gave him a come-hither look, and asked in a throaty voice, “Buy a boy a drink? There are great possibilities if you do—and if you’re interested.”
While they were drinking their scotches—Earl had asked for a good brand so the young man would know he was well-heeled, if Tony, as that was what he’d said his name was, hadn’t gathered that already before he had approached Earl—the older man asked if there were other gay-friendly establishments around.
“There’s Dudley’s up the street,” Tony said. “It’s not as lively as here, though. And not as much variety. A younger crowd, with more than a smattering of straights. I find it so much more copasetic and stimulating here.”
Earl could tell that Tony was using sophisticated words—or trying to—and was striking Bette Davis poses because he was trying to make Earl. There wouldn’t be any surprise or indignation or beating around the bush. Earl wanted to tell him he was trying too hard. But then Earl didn’t want to start all over with someone else—not unless the red-headed guy became available.
“I meant I wondered if there were any places with rooms for short-term rent in the neighborhood.”
“Is that what you’re interested in, sugar?”
Tony had suddenly acquired a southern accent. Earl wanted him to shut up and just get on with it. The longer they talked, the less attractive Tony was. But the longer Earl was here the more needy he was.
“Is there a short-term fuck hotel nearby, and what do you charge?”
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