Tuesday, April 26, 2011


by Lou
Tim rubbed his darkly stubbled cheek over the hair at the junction of Rob's thigh, nosing his way to that softest of skin and breathed in the morning muskiness he knew so well. He felt the man's pulse under his fingers as they ghosted up his inner thigh to his groin. Glancing across at the tall mirror by the wardrobe, Rob eyed the reddened swell of Tim's backside as he shifted to a more comfortable position between his legs. Giving himself up to the warmth of Tim's mouth, Rob smiled, happy that was the only evidence now of yesterday's discord.

Thursday, April 14, 2011


Written for the Writing Lines Spring 2011 Drabble Challenge


"I'm just saying, reality is not her friend."


"A hundred bucks a head? No one will pay that for some crap spumante, limp sandwiches and the honour of meeting an ageing footballer and his bit of stuff; I don't care if it is for charity."

"Yeah. Shame that."

Tim put down the dish he was drying and looked at Rob.

"Do you even have a clue what I just said to you?"

Rob's mouth worked as he struggled to respond.


Twisting the tea towel, Tim flicked him across the back of the leg. "Doesn't work for you, either."


Written for the Writing Lines Spring 2011 Drabble Challenge.

"How much for a windscreen?"



Tim heeled off his sneakers and peeled his t-shirt over his head. "Yeah,  didn't really work for me, either. I think you have to be American."

"I think you have to be fourteen and in a food court, but that is neither here nor there", said Rob, sweeping the discarded shirt off the floor and tossing it across chair. "You really think it wise to tell me to "chillax" or anything approximating that when my palm is already just itching to smack your bum?"

Tim grinned, backing towards the bed. "Chill, old man."