The Bi-Word

Double the choice, but just as hard to find true love.


Three tales of men who've played both sides of the blanket until they fall in love.


THE GROOM CLOSET


Richard Flanagan receives an invitation to his estranged daughter's wedding while he still pines for his dead lover. He hopes that when he gets back to his old home town, he can reignite a passion with one of his old college jock mates—if they're still amenable.


SUMMER AT RAINBOW COVE


Ty Cody is one of the hottest straight studs in town, and no one knows that more than his girlfriend, Tina. She also knows he has a wandering eye. When her father decides that she spend the ten-week summer break with the family in Europe—no boyfriends allowed—she hatches a scheme that will stop Ty from playing around while she's away. She gets him a job at a gay resort.


LOVE WITH A SIDE ORDER OF PELICANS


Single dad, Travis Black, takes his young daughter, Penny, to see the feeding of the pelicans, where they are befriended by town vet, Spike Donovan. While it's love at first sight between Penny and the pelicans, it's Travis who feels a strange attraction to the Pelican Whisperer.


Excerpt from: The Groom Closet


The last place on earth – in the universe – I wanted to be was at a wedding. Jake, my boyfriend of fifteen years, had held on as long as he could to marry me but in the end the insidious cancer claimed him before the state changed its marriage laws to allow – get that word? – allow two people of the same gender to legally tie the knot. I will never forgive the legislative bastards for that. To rub salt into the wound the very day we cremated Jake I'd received an invitation to a wedding. What perfect timing.


The invitation came with another sting: it was from my estranged daughter. Yeah, you heard that right. I have a daughter. An accident. A combination of too much liquor and a persistent female admirer on prom night. Almost nine months to the night, a caterwauling miniature of her mom entered the world and never gave me a moment's peace until I fled from the town where everyone minded everybody else's business but their own – to the city where I was engulfed by the sweet embrace of anonymity. There was no way I was going to be trapped into a loveless marriage even for the sake of a child. I was gay; I'd known it for years, inexperienced though I was. Hell, I was only eighteen. I had wild oats to sow and I'd never get the opportunity if I stayed in Breederville. Nah, not the town's real name, but I'll use it to protect the identity of the guilty parties.


I could understand Melinda wanting to mate with one of the most eligible young men in town. I'm quite a catch. No point in being modest. I cut quite a figure back then, and still do today. I don't look thirty-eight. I'm a good-looking cuss and I've kept my jock physique although these days it's courtesy of the gym rather than through the pursuit of sporting interests, although Jake and I used to play tennis with friends on the weekend. You'll understand, I hope, that I haven't much felt like it over the past six months.


Half a year in which I've not given any thought to that wedding invitation that I shut away in a drawer along with the cards from acquaintances who felt the need to send Hallmark condolences rather than make the effort at attend Jake's funeral. He wouldn't have minded; he found the whole tradition macabre. In the end, though, his sense of the ridiculousness of it all defeated even him; the pain almost unbearable. He knew there was nothing but eternal darkness once the lights inside his body were extinguished so we couldn't even claim the small comfort of meeting again in some sort of heaven or even hell. Death was final.


Jake begged me in his last days not to grieve but to grab life by the balls while I still could. In fact, he recommended I grab as many men by the balls as my fist could manage comfortably. He could be as sentimental as the next bastard when it came to our relationship but, with the end in sight, he absolved me of the guilt of finding a new man to share my life. "You need someone, Rich. You won't make it on your own. Just be happy that I won't be in pain any more. And I'll shuffle off in the superior knowledge that you'll never find anyone half as good as me again." He laughed at my shocked reaction until his face grimaced in pain. He was being brave for my sake. We'd been together long enough that we knew each other inside out.


Our friends tried to help me in the weeks after Jake's death but I needed more than sympathy; I needed intimacy. Jake was right. Even though I sought hugs and kisses in saunas and from bar pick-ups, they were never up to him. The guys may have been better looking or better built or had a bigger cock, but it made no difference – the pleasure was transitory and mechanical. Except for the one occasion. Oh, how that boy wriggled his way under my skin. A fine looking lad, probably ten years my junior. Solid body, good mind – he wanted to discuss more than cock size and who was going to top (we took it in turns) – and a keen appreciation of the world around us. Inexperienced – very – but a quick study. I pegged him as a virgin but he admitted to a little college experimentation.


We'd met in a bar. I was going stir crazy at home and thought a little friendly bar chatter would help ease me back into the gay gene pool. It was five months since the big event and I had mentally given myself a year to shake off the blues. Not that I would ever forget Jake, but life did have to go on and I didn't want to be a miserable moping bastard to my friends. I'd neglected them of late because there was always that inevitable question, "How are you coping?" Much less now because you've made me think about it, thanks for asking. They, and their questions, were a constant reminder, and a constant irritation, of what I was missing. I preferred the company of strangers who had no knowledge and even less interest in my past. The contact was momentary: all we cared about was achieving orgasm. The fleeting physical intimacy was one step up from masturbation.


The young man said his name was John, but he was obviously lying. I told him truthfully my name was Richard. On the few occasions I used his name he looked at me as if he had no idea to whom I was referring. After that, I skipped using his pseudonym. He was going to be just another short-lived substitute for Jake; one that I could hug and kiss for warmth and that gooey feeling that comes with holding another human being close.


He said he was in town for a weekend conference. From where he came I had no idea. He was skimpy on detail and I was not about to question him as he became skittish if my curiosity got the better of me. He obviously had something to hide, although he was not wearing a wedding ring. I guessed he was so far in the back of the closet he was in Narnia. Perhaps he escaped to the city from wherever he came on a regular basis to quench his gay desire. I didn't mind being one in a line of however many or few.


His conference, however, seemed the farthest thing from his mind when we awoke on Saturday morning. He was the first man who had stayed the night. Normally, they blew a load (or two) and left. John stayed. In fact, John stayed the entire weekend. We never left the house. I made breakfast and dinner when we felt peckish, but most of the time we screwed: in the bedroom, in the living room, in the kitchen, in the bathroom – in fact, the only room I think we missed was the garage and that only because there was no room to maneuver around my SUV.


I'd never felt as comfortable around another man as I did around John. Except around Jake.