Hot Man and a Quickie ~ Delivering a Different Kind of Salami

The Hot Man:

...as always, is romance cover model John Quinlan. I chose this image because (gasp!) it might finally be spring South Carolina. Hopefully, it won't be long until John's not the only person wearing shorts and going barefoot. The Bradford pear trees have lost their vicious, hay-fever-inducing blossoms and the peach trees are dressed in pink.

Places to stalk John:

http://irishjohnquinlan.blogspot.com/

http://www.johnquinlan.org/

http://twitter.com/johnjquinlan

The quickie: (from Breaking Glass) 

     Snatching the last piece of his costume from the show organizer's hand, Dylan raked his hair from his eyes before he yanked the perforated leather hood over his head. The mask limited his field of vision and made his face hot, but he could tell from his reflection in the mirror—visible through the open door of the men's room—it obscured his identity. Turning to peer through the doorway again, he watched the younger performers strut between the tables full of chattering females as casually as if they were delivering sub sandwiches instead of their personal salamis. Tugging at the waistband of the silk boxers, he wished the elastic was tighter. These things were made to come down.

     He couldn't figure out what had possessed him to make him agree to this nonsense. Goddamn you, Joe Gilante. The big Italian bastard's taunts were damn sure what kept him from walking out. Joe would never let him live this down if he bailed. He didn't have trouble getting it up. Maybe he’d buy a new watch from Teague when he took Joe’s money, something he could rub in the man’s face several times a day.

     "The bride’s the one in the red dress," the show manager whispered, tying the laces on the back of Dylan’s hood. "Be sure you pose for photographs with her and give her a lot of attention." He patted Dylan on the shoulder. "They’ve been drinking for about ninety minutes, so they should be ready to drop their inhibitions… along with your shorts."  His laughter tickled the back of Dylan’s neck. “If you’re lucky, maybe a few will have cold hands. My boy here’s undefeated.”

Dylan cast a look at the other half of the finale, a curly-haired guy about his age, wearing dark-rimmed glasses. He looked like an accountant. Pulling off the glasses, the guy folded them. The stage manager slipped them into his shirt pocket while the performer pulled the leather mask over his head.

     "Good luck, dude. Nice suit. Try not to get cum stains on it." The other man held out a fist while the stage manager scurried behind him to tie his mask.

     "At least I can afford to get them cleaned if I do." Dylan gave the performer's cheap suit a scornful glance, bumping his outstretched fist harder than necessary.

Thanks for dropping in. Have a great week!