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Two men, troubled by their past, cross paths where the desert and mountains meet the sky.
Short stories about human diversity and the vexing riddles of human sexuality.
Michelle ( born Michael) knew something was wrong before she reached puberty. She knew she wasn’t a boy, even if she looked like one. She didn’t fit in with the boys, nor could she understand their passion for football, or why they were so cruel.
It wasn’t until she reached college that her life’s path unfolded in her mind, after a few cups of coffee with the psychology professor. She would evolve, step-by-step become a woman, physically, on the outside just as she was inside.
With the hormone injections behind her, the hours of electrolysis, the counseling and planning, the new job in another part of the country, now as a woman, only the final operation remained. She didn’t expect to fall in love, not before that last fateful step that would complete her physical transition as a woman. Telling him, as it turns out, is easily the most difficult thing she ever faced.
Born in the Wrong Body, one of the nine tales in my recently published collection of short stories, Erotic Tales for Enlightened Minds. Available here, on Kindle, or by special order at a nearby bookstore.
You are about to read an epistle written by Antinous to his dear friend Lysicles, in which he describes a carnal encounter with the much older Cyprias, as it might have read if it actually existed.
Presented by Sir Richard Wadd
Lysicles
Though he endeavours often to keep me close to him, there are times when sensitive affairs of state preclude even my own eyes and ears from learning certain things that doubtless press heavily upon Hadrian’s shoulders. When, however, we are later reunited into each others’ arms, I do my best to help him forget – if only for a brief respite – the weight of those responsibilities upon him.
Such is my duty, and it is not one I take lightly. While Hadrian has made it clear that his sights are set on a lustrous future career for me, and that he shall do whatever he can to ensure that I achieve it, I have also made it clear to him that my present concern is only for his immediate comfort. And so, while I shall work hard to learn as much as I can from him concerning the business of administering a civil service, I shall also take pains to unburden him of its stresses when and wherever I see fit to do so.
It goes without saying that I will not knowingly add to his daily burden, nor bother him with the trivialities of others’ requests, petitions, or prayers.
At least, it used to go without saying, for it was always an unspoken understanding in my brain; something I intuitively knew without needing to articulate into private thoughts. Perhaps it was the shock of betrayal at the hands of Mordanticus; the sudden understanding that, simply by virtue of my proximity to Hadrian, I was in constant danger of being exploited by unscrupulous others as a tool to access his ear. That experience had the gradual effect of turning me into an extremely cautious fellow, to the point where I now find my defensive walls grown increasingly fortified when in the company of others – especially if Hadrian is not present.
Thus I was not entirely surprised to find the requests beginning almost immediately, mostly from those whom I know only casually. What is far more disappointing to me, however, is the fact that such petitions have also begun to come from my friends, or, at the very least, those with whom I have a friendly acquaintance.
The most painful event (for that it has caused the most grief in me) is the one that transpired a few days ago, in the company of Cyprias. I had gone to him to replenish my supply of soaps – both for me personally and for Vitalis who had officially replaced me as Keeper of Epeius. But I had also gone simply to visit, for I had not seen Cyprias since my ascension to Favourite and sensed that he was keen to see and congratulate me.
Indeed, he was quite effusive in his praise, and made clear his delight and pride in my new position. “No doubt,” he joked, “a small part of that success is owing to the enjoyment that Hadrian has consistently had from the fragrant cleanliness of his horse!”
I laughed, and was very gracious in agreeing with his somewhat farcical assessment. “May I pleasure you?” he asked me eagerly. His face was warm and sincere, and the desire in his eyes was genuine and loving. I thought of Hadrian, and of his schedule. He was very busy that day: he was at that moment taken on an arduous inspection of the Guard, and then we both shared the promise of a long evening of entertaining ahead. I resolved that, in our time together that night, Hadrian would likely not be in so demanding a sexual mood as on other, less strenuous days. The result was that I felt comfortable in my decision to share some pleasures with Cyprias. “But I will not be entered,” I warned him. “You may have my thighs: not my arse.” (For I was being cautious – just in case!)
This to him was quite amenable, and we fell into our familiar pattern: myself in his mouth to my climax, and then he behind me to his.
I have always enjoyed the warmth and wetness of capable lips around me – and it is all the more astonishing an experience when the mouth into which I am thrusting belongs to a man of stature above me. Gryllus, Cyprias, and Hadrian have all been such for me. (Decentius, however, has never taken me into his mouth, for he, at least, subscribes to the ancient fashion that demands of free men to abhor it.) Yet from these three, I have learned that rules are never so rigid as the cocks they would command, and human desires – expressed in their true and private authenticity – far outshine the dull and traditional edicts that supposedly govern them. That is why, though I am freeborn and a citizen of Rome, I may still have my backside opened and claim in truth to enjoy it. And that is why, though he is the emperor of the world, Hadrian may still take me into his mouth and happily swallow what my pleasure serves up to him. Such are the private exchanges of sensible people together, who share themselves beyond the glare of public scrutiny. And I am grateful for that, for it gives me hope that perhaps with Vitalis I may continue to share pleasures long beyond the end of our youth.
Since I’ve been working on this collection, I’ve been asked a few questions. Here’s a sampling:
You normally write novels; why short stories?
It mainly has to do with my interest in human diversity. There are scenarios that make great novels. Other situations people find themselves in can be told on fewer pages. Born in the Wrong Body, for example, is a story about a woman born in a man’s body who goes through a series of sex reassignment procedures. Having normal female desire, she falls in love with a man, who doesn’t know her history, before the final operation that will create a vagina from her penis. Her heart beats just like everyone else’s, yet her circumstances are vastly different. That’s what makes her story interesting, though the essence of her story can be told in a couple dozen pages.
Who are you writing these stories for?
When I first started publishing, it surprised me such a large percentage of my audience are women. Why, I’m not sure. They’re entitled to be as intrigued as men are in man to man relationships. They get turned-on by reading about two men having sex just as men do with two women having sex. I think they’ll be equally interested in this collection of tales, especially Two Husbands, a story about a straight wife married to a bisexual man, and the way she deals with the situation in the end. This is the first time I’ve included women in the main relationship on a sexual basis. Basically this book is for intelligent people with open minds who are fascinated by the diversity of human nature.
Which is your favorite story?
That’s tough to decide. Writing them, I was totally into them all. If I had to chose, it would be Charlene’s Daughter. Not that I condone incest or sex with under-age girls, but I do understand human nature. This story gets you in the gut. Maybe because of the way it’s told. Maybe because the characters are flawed but endearing. Maybe because the story would make a good novel. I am also fascinated by the concept in Two Husbands.
Are these stories erotica?
Although there are erotic scenes in this collection, I wouldn’t classify the stories as erotica. Erotica is about and revolves around sex and sexual tension. Short stories are snapshots of certain events or certain chapters in a person’s life; in this case, life changing chapters. The stories in Erotic Tales for Enlightened Minds revolve around circumstances that lead to romantic self-discovery.
Why don’t you use traditional publishers?
I did, once, my first novel. The first publisher that read it, bought it. Thrilling as that was, it turned into the most dreadful experience I’ve had in my writing career, and put a very badly edited book on the market in my name.
What do you like best about writing?
Other than the creative process, I like most hearing from people who have read one or more of my novels. I like reader input and opinions. A writer learns from things like that. I like hearing from people who have enjoyed the story and perhaps have identified with one of the characters. By virtue of reading my novels, the reader knows me. I hope the response will be as gratifying for Erotic Tales for Enlightened Minds.
Use the link below to order a copy in paperback. Click here for the Kindle version.
November hasn’t provided me the time to generate as many posts as I may have liked. I’ve been working on my next book, a collection a of short stories called Erotic Tales for Enlightened Minds. I’m seeing it as my most interesting work to date, dramas that involve the human condition in its infinite varieties, created for men and women that have an interest in such things.
The first draft of some of these tales are currently posted on this site. But as I say, they are first drafts. Think of them as rose buds; genuinely pleasant to look at, though you don’t see the petals or smell the fragrance. This is where an author’s work begins. The story has been outlined, but to smell the fragrance and see the colors depends on the author’s propensity for just the right keystrokes.
It should be available on Amazon by the end of the year. In the meantime, if you haven’t read any of my novels, you might give one a try. Or if you have and enjoyed it, try one of the other ones. Just click one of the links to Amazon in the right margin.
Born in the Wrong Body
Out shopping one day, shortly after I turned sixteen, I walked down a well-lit hallway that led to the public restrooms. Rounding a turn in the hall, the two doors came into view on opposite walls. Before turning away from the women’s room, as I stared at the door, quick flashes of a more Utopian life passed through my mind. A middle-age woman glanced my way before disappearing inside. It would have felt natural to follow her in, though that would have made her gasp in horror.
That’s because I still looked like a man, barely a year out of a late puberty. Not a masculine man, a wimpy one. Still, during puberty, my body had changed in a way that broke my heart. When the other girls at school were looking at their new breasts in the mirror, I was looking at a penis that had gotten larger.
Call it a temporary lapse, me wanting to forget my body’s configured differently than the other women that use that room. Given certain circumstances, I would have these fleeting fantasies of feeling normal; usually followed by memories of the day my mother, after catching me looking at myself in the mirror in a pair of nylon panties, went through every drawer in my room and threw out all the female intimates I had hidden; or those days in junior high PE class, changing into those awful gym shorts, invariably humiliated when Johnny Perkins taunted me, mocked my slender hairless body, my girlie white skin, my small boyish penis.
It was my sense of self, my feminine sensibilities that urged me to use the restroom I felt most comfortable in, instead of facing the lifelong dread of making myself go in and pee with the men. It didn’t matter the rest of my world saw me as a man, for me it was impossible to accept. It didn’t matter my shoulders were small and my protruding nipples sometimes felt swollen and sensitive, as if they were about to blossom into full blown breasts (but never did); I was stuck with the basic shape of a male. It didn’t matter if I secretly shaved my underarms and legs; I still looked like a man. But I’m not. Not then, that day at Macy’s; not now. I’m a woman. Born a woman and destined to stay a woman for the rest of my life.
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