The Song by Eric Alan Westfall ♥

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 The Song Jutoh

He’s mid to late thirties; black hair/eyes; fringe beard, mustache. Muscular, hairy. Gold neck chain. No shirt, black shorts, black trainers, no socks. Legs spread wide, seated on a nondescript couch. A slender, muscular, dark-haired man, also with a mustache/beard, very short hair, possibly naked, rests his head on the seated man’s thigh. Three fingers of the seated man’s right hand are curled into the sleeping man’s mouth.

See the photo here

Dear Author,

Here I was: Thirty-six, closeted, virgin, in Berlin for a conference. In what moment of craziness I had booked into the hippest hetero-friendly hotel (as opposed to gay friendly) I don’t know… but here I was, surrounded by hot men, from the concierge to the hotel guests. But none tempted me as much as this couple: From Paris, they were on a week’s vacation as well, and I would run into them almost every night, at the hotel’s health club. One was shy and spoke little English. The other was a hunky doctor with a deliciously hairy chest and piercing eyes that wouldn’t let you go. Watching them cuddle, nuzzle, exchange loving glances all the time drove me to voyeuristic distraction. His husky voice and flirtatious banter would make me harder than I would have thought possible. And he knew it! His young lover seemed bemused by it all. And then on my last-but-one night, after a frustratingly erotic display of foreplay at the rooftop jacuzzi (all apparently for my benefit) the Hunk beckoned me over and invited me up to their room…



 contemporary with a twist
Tags: a church’s lawyer/chief financial officer; a doctor without borders or boundaries; a wounded warrior; a three-way; a downstairs darkroom; a delicacy of dildos; several first times; strands of glowing color twining in the dark; many songs, but only one song
Word count: 50,418

Thanks to Averin for setting me on the right road and making this a far better story than it would otherwise have been; to Enny for her above and beyond efforts in creating a fantastic cover, and to Kaje, for recommending Enny.

Off and on for thirty years, you encouraged me with your gentle, “Just sit down and write, damn it!” The “I know you can do it,” was often silent, but always there. Eighteen years after the aneurysm took you away, I finally did. Some of us take longer to listen than others. This is for you, my love.

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