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The Cruising Chronicles: Outbacker

Copyright 2018 Harry F. Rey

Published by Harry F. Rey at Smashwords


We left our old life, working in a busy country hotel in Mildura at the top end of Victoria, quite suddenly one morning before dawn. Dad shook me awake;

“Mon lad, get up,” he said with an unknown fear in his voice and written plain over his face. I never asked why we had to go. I never did.

Like all those times before, I packed a solitary backpack, still dusty, with a few clothes and things sixteen-year old’s have while he hurried about the office, clattering about and knocking things over. Not many minutes later we set off in silence and in darkness, abandoning the few other staff that had loyally served him, the trunk full of things I didn’t know.

We drove straight out of town and crossed the state line into New South Wales just as the sun rose and began to bathe the bare brush of the land in some early light. The lines on the map just a different perspective on the roads sprawling out across the flat earth. No other activity passed our truck all morning, but the occasional farmer or doctor's plane would cut low across the blue sky as we made our way north. When by lunchtime I dared to ask where we were headed, all he said very quickly was;

“Time to go, son. Nae bother in hummin’ n’ hawin’ about the past now, is there?”

We were out to find us a new place to work, he said. The rent there had been no good, or the water stopped working, or some other reason that wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny. But we just had to drop in on a few friends dotted here and there around the outback, then we’d be in the clear. I wondered what mess he’d left behind this time.

In a way I knew why we had left; to get away from all the things I didn’t know about. I tried my very hardest not to wonder, as I had for as long as I could remember. Our journey took us through the great tracks that cut through the bare land of the backcountry; the great Australian interior; home to travelers, criminals and exiles.

Dad passed the time by telling me half-remembered stories of the land, or about great wars or what Bob Dylan was really singing about as we listened to tape after tape. I’d spent the year since stopping school working in his hotel, but this time with him was like a second education. Despite it all, the man who’d come from less than nothing, raised in a rainy Scottish orphanage before being shipped off to Australia, had the world to teach me.

Over days and days we drove on through fields of yellowed earthy brush plains and billowing wheat farms around the top of New South Wales. We reached so far north that we even skirted the edge of the tropics in the wet and humid green of Queensland, and passed through whole towns of dirt roads and blackfellas in the Northern Territory. We drove endlessly, crossing the dog-eared map that I’d lie in the back of the truck and study, on forever towards the horizon before a town might suddenly grow out of the bare earth.

Those days laying out on the back seat, kept cool by air blowing through the open windows, with my back to wherever the sun happened to be, I did little else but study the maps. I learned the highways, the names of the all the places in the bush and the lines that connected them, just like the road we were on. It was an unrealized, unknown fear of being lost on a whole continent that kept me reading, kept me learning the names of all the places we had named in this land.

Our stops offered some punctured relief from the journey, but we’d never linger, and each was essentially the same. Dad would make some calls from a payphone while I picked up supplies and looked for new tapes from whatever shops existed, casually avoiding stares or conversations. I easily looked like any other farm boy travelling through the harsh land for some unknown purpose. My tanned skin, sun lightened hair covered in a broad felt cowboy hat and a keen interest in maps and cassette tapes meant I easily blended in to every place without suspicion. It gave Dad all the time in the world to conduct whatever business had caused us to be here.

In the sunbaked hours of a dusty nothing I’d have to kill, I’d buy a chicken roll or ice cold lolly, and sit in whatever little green square or patchy cricket oval the village was centered around. On benches I’d flick through an AA Australian Road Atlas while paying the rest of the world no mind.

Here and there, though, I’d notice folk coming in and out of squat little outhouses, public toilets occupying the dead space between the green grass and black asphalt road. Cars and trucks would drive up and park nearby. Men would go in and men would come out, just one or two every so often. Only I, an invisible boy on an unseen bench, would even notice those who went in and the lengths of time they might spend inside. As times went on, benches and towns came and went, I’d find myself drawn to a spot where I could sit and watch those men. Watch and wonder what went on inside.

Sometimes we’d take our truck to a flat roofed house at the edge of town and sit for hours until dark, before Dad would get out and enter the house all of a sudden. At first, he’d pull together some bullshit story about visiting an old friend as we passed through, but towns later he wouldn’t bother, and I wouldn’t ask. I knew there were no friends, not in this state or any other.

Our purpose was as clear as it was confusing. We’d pick up things from people, take them somewhere and drop them off to someone else. Back at the Mildura hotel, there was an evident but subtle truth that a shadow business carried on all around me, one I’d never wanted to know about, but so evidently affected my life whether I knew why or not.

One afternoon that slowly turned into purple dusk a good month after we’d began the backcountry trip, we arrived at a town called Ceduna. My hazy doze left in an instant as the name of the rusty place located itself in my head. We’d reached one of the last outposts of man in the eastern side of the great southern continent. Somewhere not so far away was the sea. I could almost smell it. The A1 road out west clung to the rocks and edges of South Australia that frayed the Southern Ocean. Beyond us the sun set over a red, rocky, callus earth. I looked out to the horizon in front that gave way to an infinite dreamtime desert, to The West.

Out there existed a land of green treed roads and feather white beaches splayed along a sunset ocean. The red sun that sank in front of us pointed the way. I realized what all those tales from Dylan meant; it was about the escape of the west. This was a different west, but in my mind, it was the same; it was freedom.

“Am gonnae drop you off next tae the bottle-o, all right? Wait for me there and I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Tires whirled up red dust and he sped away. There was no cricket oval to sit by or toilets to watch. Just the open road. I kicked a rock that crumbled into a dirt clod, squeezed the twenty dollars in the back pocket of my cut-off denim shorts, and gazed around at the flat-roofed buildings with nothing on the other side but empty land. They were nestled to the side of the unpaved road as if afraid of being sucked into the desert by the great sandy monster. A breeze came in from somewhere and rustled the plants; perhaps from the ocean.

“Going west?”

I spun around in a whirl of sparkling red dust. The man chewed tobacco like the men I used to pull pints for back in the Mildura hotel. He wiped oily hands on dirty overalls then brushed his grizzled face, half-hidden under a frayed red baseball cap. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, the cap. I’d never seen anything like it. The words NY Yankees was embroidered to the front in green stitching. I caught a glimpse of a flat metal clasp at the back. The visor perfectly rounded to shield his eyes from the sun. It wasn’t something from Target, it was real. A genuine artefact from the great American dream.

“You deaf, mate?” Lips chapped from the sun twisted like he’d found an injured joey who didn’t want to be helped, but soft blue eyes radiated some kindness to me.

“Waiting for my Dad. He’ll be back in a few hours.”

“So you just going to stand around here?” He looked around the dusty road. “I got some coolies in the back. You can come help me with the truck. Standing round here a dingo’ll get ya.” He gave a smoky laugh and clapped me on the shoulder with a great oily hand.

I could do nothing but follow his Blundstone boots as they scraped across the brush toward a tin-roofed workshop. The low-fi buzzing of bugs in still air soon joined by the sound of machines plugged into electricity and the hum of an old fridge.

I found a perch on top of a pile of giant tires that gave me a side-peek to the road should Dad come back and wonder where I was. The truck with its hood popped took up most of the space in the confines of the open-ended shed. A closed door led to a connected house. I took another good look at the incredible red cap as he dived inside an eskie; even the back had a miniature Yankees logo stitched into it.

He must have been to America, I decided. He’d gone straight there after high school. Probably with an older brother. They’d been to LA then flown to New York for a few days, and right in the middle of Times Square, he’d gone and bought a red baseball cap. The kind bought by the gorgeous young blond boys that hit balls with bats in tight leggings then took showers together.

He threw me a beer and we cracked them open together. Embarrassed, I wiped dribbles of it from my chin.

Where did you get the hat?” I asked. He hooked one side of his mouth up in a quizzical smile, a brushy upper lip from an unshaved smack of dirty blond hair naturally blending into dirty blond skin. The lip looked like it could turn to a growl or a laugh with only a flick of an eyebrow.

“America.” He said, placing his beer down and diving back into the open truck surgery.

I nearly spit more beer out my mouth. If I was right about that, what else might I have divined? Sometimes I wondered if I had psychic powers, maybe from my mother, whoever she’d been. I always knew when a bar fight was about to break out. I could smell the change in air. The way men looked at each other dropped like a storm approaching. The violence always bubbling under the surface just ready to froth up and spill all over everything. I felt their feelings often before they ever did.

“When were you there?”

A long time ago.” His voice echoed from beneath the truck’s hull. “Before I took over this chop shop from my old man.” He came up for air and swallowed half the can in two great big gulps. A breezy interlude trundled over the brush and swept around under the tin roof, puncturing my lustful dreaming with the cold reality that night would come soon. “What’s your old man up to?”

The question was asked with the tone of underlying acceptance that men who leave their sons on dusty roads at the edge of great wildernesses were somehow up to no good.

We’re heading west.” I said.

“To Perth?”

“I guess. To the sea, anyway.”

Perth’s nice. Quiet. Although not as quiet as here.” He glanced at me. I could feel his eyes running across the lines of my bare leg, tucked underneath me, my shorts perhaps now riding up a bit too much for polite company. “Where’d you come from?” He now leaned against the truck, arms folded, inspecting me. A chill cut through my bones like a social worker had just entered the room, or I’d bumped into a teacher that asked me why I didn’t come to school anymore.

“Victoria. The country.” I swallowed a gulp of beer.

“Miss it?”

I shrugged and said: “Me and Dad get around.” The weight of his eyes lifted from me and he turned back to the truck.

“You know engines?”

“Uh, a bit.”

“Well get on over here and I’ll show you what I’m doing.”

I hurried over, eager for the opportunity to stand just a little too close. He did a double-take, but carried on pulling stuff from the underneath. He talked about the engine and I listened, nodding to most of the things I already knew. But every time he moved his arm I got a chance to touch against his hot skin. To smell the moisture emanating from him, the underlying musk of sweat and manly stuff.

I felt the night-time hunger that creeps up in the silence of my darkened room every time before I sleep. The great and terrible monster that watches over me, day and night, sometimes hidden, but always there, inside my head.

The monster has many faces. A boy at school a time ago in silky purple footie shorts that could barely contain his milk-white thighs of thick muscle. The young truck driver that sat and drank in Mildura hotel on his way to and from places. I always rushed to refill his glass, living on the winks he shot me and the times he called me son. Or any number of anonymous faces and bodies that pass me by on their ways and wanders. That let me just sit and steal their images for the goings on inside my head. Un-abreast of my thoughts and unaware that I feed their toned and tanned bodies to the monster in my head.


“You’re quiet.” Dad said to me as our truck shuddered through the night-time road, breaking the silent sound of darkness. “Did that bloke gie you the hat?” I pulled the frayed red brim further down my face, tucking myself and my monstrous smiles from Dad’s eyes.


“Good on him. Nice fella.” Dad said, now to himself. “Sorry it took me a bit longer, son. But that’s us all done now.”

I turned around in the seat, the brim of the hat pushing against the window and giving just the right amount of pressure against my neck to make it almost comfortable.

The lines of the road flashed into existence then out into nothing. Illuminated by the presence of our headlights. If we had not been here to bring the light, would there be any road at all? Did it actually exist, this thousand-mile-long line in the map, or was it simply laid out before us because we decided to travel on it? Part of me wondered if there was really any west at all. I’d never seen it. Only the sun rising in the east then setting over mountains and desert. Only my Dad and maps told me it was real. And one of them lied to me. One lied all the time.

“We’ll get some good grub tomorrow, all right? First thing. In a few days we’ll be there. You’ll like it, I know you will. A real beach, warm sand, endless ocean.”

This time the monster that came before sleep felt different now. Less like a monster, more like a friend. A friend who’d given me a beer once, and whom I’d helped with his truck while my Dad was gone for hours and hours. A friend who all at once made the monster real but showed me there was nothing to be afraid of. Monsters made you feel bad, not good, and I felt so good. Monster’s didn’t give you their favorite hat they’d brought all the way from Times Square.

“I’m telling you son, things are better out west.”

Maybe this lost old man was on to something. Going west meant going into the unknown. A someone still unfound. But now I had a token from someone else. My existence had been seen, acknowledged, desired. I’d been crowned with a gift. I was no more imaginary lines on a dog-eared map, or the watcher in the shadow. Now going west, I could be real.



The sands along Cottesloe beach were long and white and clean. The sapphire blue sea licked the fraying edges of the continent’s western rim, then mingled with the distant horizon. I walked alone, towards the dunes. And I walked naked.

I’d left my shorts on the beach towel a few hundred feet behind, closer to the water’s edge of the nudist beach. In the last half hour, I’d dozed in the sun, red cap covering my face. Yet I’d not seen a single other soul. I might as well be stuck on a desert island. Come to think of it, living in Perth isn't much different.

After finishing work for the day on Victor’s farm I’d driven straight here, to the edge of the cosmopolitan city. If only to dance naked in the crystal waters and watch the sun set across the ocean before driving into the city itself to try and find someone to make this whole day worth living.

I carefully worked my way up the edge of a dune, not wanting to lose a flip flop in the sand, then over the top and down into a crevice in the land where grubby brush grew. I knew what I wanted over here, in the sandy edges of the bits of the metropolis just waiting to be filled in. Hunting for monsters. The nice kind.

Even at nineteen, I knew almost by the moles on their backs the men who frequented the dunes of the nude beach of Cottesloe. They came in ones and twos, like the cruisy toilets in small towns back East. I’d quickly come to learn these places were bastions of disappointment, pits of crestfallen despair only imagined into existence by the horned out hopes of the particular kind of men they attracted.

I felt myself like a Californian panhandler who’d arrived just a few years after the goldrush had finished. With only the stories told in whispered bar-side chats and treasure maps pieced together from scrawled instructions on bathroom walls to go on. I walked around the beachside like it was some famed elephant graveyard, with no sign that an elephant ever stepped foot here. Yet on I walked, as I always did, eyes scanning the empty white beach, my cock flopping in the gentle afternoon breeze, ever hopeful to be found.

The thought struck me that I could stay here all night and all day if I wished, just waiting to pass by another soul, and not be missed. Dad was off on one of his adventures again, another scheme, another shot to make it into the bigtime. Perth was his land of opportunity, for him the goldrush was now. He made the most of it all he could, his son be damned. Running old biplanes packed with beer and cigarettes up to the Kimberley. He sold the gear to the miners and brought them back on all-inclusive trips to the casino. They paid him in wads of cash, Dad’s favorite thing. He’d found quite a niche for himself in the booming west.

The plastic of my footwear slapped the sides of a dune I mounted. The top of the mini hill gave a better view. I saw out to the sea, and the long trail of empty white stretching for miles. A wind whipped a spray of sand on my skin, and I felt the redness of a burn coming on. It would only hurt tomorrow as I worked on the farm. Today I would ignore it.

I cast both my arms up onto my hat and turned my bare ass to the wind in a pose for no one at all. My own personal purgatory. A body to be looked at, but no one to look. I was more than ready for my journey of sexual exploration, yet I remained unexplored, unfound, undiscovered.



The road spilled out of the great grey sky along reddened earth. I drove fast into approaching night, away from the setting sun and into the growing storm. Behind me lay the two-day journey west, and in my past that place would stay. I hadn’t been back for over a year, not since Dad won his seat on city council and had made it clear I needed some measure of respectability should I wish to be seen in public with a man such as himself, lest his good name be sullied.

Respectability was not something I was searching for, but a place on the map I needed to find before the storm hit hard. I drove in quiet, in comfortable aloneness. The windows rolled down and my ears primed for the first crack of thunder and the coming of the great rains. I raced against an unknown countdown and the encroaching sense of worry that I wouldn’t find shelter before the flood.

I wasn’t lost, just unfound in unfamiliar surroundings. Those wasted years out west had let my atlas-like knowledge of country roads fade into an old edition consigned to the bargain bin of useful knowledge. New asphalt highways and double-lane truck lines had replaced too many of the dotted connections that once wove together the towns around these parts. From South Australia to the top end of Queensland, the beaches of Sydney to the sleepy town of Mildura; all the ways of the backcountry were changing.

I wasn’t lost, just undiscovered. It was a fine life for me, selling farm equipment in the outback. The farm-wives loved me, bringing endless coolies and hot stews. The dad’s who’d lost their sons to the bright lights of the city took me under their outstretched wing. I sold them visions of how life might be. Automated corn husking machines and self-planting seed distributors, all wrapped up with a ninety percent bursary from the great Commonwealth of Australia.

They sent me back on my way at dusk with a wave from the farm house, and I’d give an appreciative honk or two from my car. Like those days I searched for monsters in the dunes of Cottesloe beach, I had no one to answer to. No permanent home drawing me back, just endless time to search for the things on my mind.

The storm looked ever fiercer through the windshield. Flecks of rain began to plop down from the thundery sky. With one eye on the straight road looking for the off-ramp, I searched blindly around the passenger side glove compartment. Finally, I found it, the battered old red Yankees cap. I put it on just as rain began to shoot through the open windows, grateful for it protecting me like a helmet as I drove under heavens fire.

The turnoff appeared, unexpected as always. Ceduna, the sign said. A funny name, I thought, racking my memory for what clues in my travelling childhood came to mind.

Nothing did. I drove through comfortable suburbia; newly built red-bricked houses with lawns and garages. Not the country life I remembered from days gone by. The light now faded to less than nothing. Rain was patchy, and a thunderous rumbling felt hot on the heels.

I drove slow along a fresh paved road, passed a collection of older looking houses and a bottle-o. On the other side, the fluorescent sign of a savior beamed its light to me. The Ceduna Hotel and Bar. With a smile to myself, I pulled in and parked just as the thunder clapped. The lucky old hat protected me from the bouncing downpour as I ran inside, rapidly moving forwards to some kind of conclusion.


Sitting alone at a bar is a state of mind. It can feel like the bottom of a lonely heap, where everyone else around you are joined together in the chittering clamor of friendly banter; or it can feel like you're enthroned with some royal prerogative of social status, the mysterious man sloshing a drink, the subject of whispered conversations between couples who’d long tired of each other’s words.

I ventured somewhere between the two. The eyes of the Ceduna Hotel, the watering hole and social club of the town, had quickly marked me down as another lonely traveler just seeking shelter from the storm, so confirmed by my loud exclamations to the middle-aged landlady who’d happily indulged my complaints about the new roads.

Awfully confusing.” She’d agreed while clearing away the dish of the warmed up pie I’d wolfed down, and settling into a comfortable groove of setting down stubbies of Victoria Bitter at regular intervals in front of me, while progressively discussing the rain. There was nothing else to do in bar except drink and patiently wait for the karaoke competition.

I’d just finished my fourth stubbie when I finally agreed with myself that the man in the far side of the bar was staring at me. And had been all night. He looked gruff and burly, like a lumberjack who'd got lost down under and couldn't find his way home. He looked handsome as hell though, just my type. A bear of a man. Blond bearded hair wrought into rough skin. A smoldering look over a pint that drained itself without him even trying. He looked like someone who could pick me up and squeeze me till I could no longer move. He looked like the type of man I'd fantasized about since I was sixteen years old and stuck in the back of my Dad’s truck.

The landlady was over at the makeshift stage riling the crowd up for singing. The regulars were ready, they needed no cue. I took the opportunity to sneak over to the bathroom for a long piss and maybe even a quick jerk, but I had to pass by the staring man to get there. Part of me feared he wanted to start a fight, but that's not the energy I got as I walked on by.

A childhood growing up behind a bar had taught me these things. No, there was something else on his mind. An adulthood of searching out men to fuck with had taught me that.

I stood at the urinal, cock out, pissing over a pint and a half of beer out of me.

“Thought I recognized that hat.”

I looked around me with the sloppy turn of someone more drunk than they knew. The man from the end of the bar. What did he want with my hat? My favorite red hat with the green Yankees logo. The one I’d got… from that man. In Ceduna.

“It’s you.”

His grizzled chin laughed at the statement of the obvious. He stepped up to the urinal beside mine and I didn’t even pretend not to look. With one hand he undid the rusty zipper of his jeans revealing a thick, veiny and hard cock covered in untangled brown hair.

Without a word his hand dropped down to mine. Thankfully I’d finished as a bolt of attraction cut through me and turned my cock rock hard. This was not like the thrill of cruising; the searching for that unfound, undiscovered man that could be five minutes of fun or a quick lick before you fumble your dicks away lest someone sees. This was something else entirely.

This man was everything. The reason I believed in trawling toilets and parks and deserted beaches. He wasn’t some mirage of a man who’d given me that picture of all the things men can do. He wasn’t taking a piss. My hand gripped around the hardened meat and ample skin like I was some superhero who’d finally located his energy source.

How’s Perth?” He mumbled through his own quivering mass of nervousness. Clearly the last five years had meant something to him, too. He knew me. He remembered me. He’d wondered where I was and what I’d been doing out there all that time, across the red earthen desert. The one no one ever crossed without purpose.

We stroked each other’s dicks and looked deep into our eyes. Just saying hello after all this time. Two lost souls who’d clung to the edges of the great immovable expanse none could easily pass. Yet here I was. I’d returned. That’s the one thing to be said about my love of maps, my intimate knowledge of the roadways and byways of the great backcountry might be a little out of date, but it was still there. I had no fear of the land. No worries, no concerns. Travelling thousands of miles from here to there and back again wasn’t some taxing, perilous journey filled with dread. It was opportunity. It was freedom. The chance to wander into toilets and truck stops. Discover beaches and sit at bars where no one knew my name.

“I’m not there no more.”

Without warning he grabbed me into the most passionate of kisses. It burned with the intense desire and felt heavy from the weight of years. The man’s brush-face rubbed up against mine, it’s force and power knocking even my hat back. His hat. Our hard cocks in their sticky, sweaty state rubbed together as we moved in unison. I melted into his lips as he did into mine. Hands grabbing the floppy skin of his body, searching underneath his clothes and feeling the fistfuls of skin and fur that made me want to cum already.

“Quick, in here.” He said, dragging me into one of the cubicles and locking the door shut with a bang. I heard the wailing cry of the karaoke kicking off in the bar. Some woman trying to belt out Jolene in a thick Aussie warble.

He licked and kissed every inch of my face. Every nook and crevice he sunk his big wet tongue into like a great basset hound greeting a newborn pup. His hand still rubbed my cock and I fumbled around his belt buckle.

“Do it.” He whispered, dragging his jeans down to his ankles then turning against the back wall. Suddenly I had his whole ass in my hands. He leaned across the toilet, exposing the round of it covered in thick black hair; the crack velveted in masculinity, waiting to be penetrated. It felt like the first time I’d crossed that great big desert. It had both been the first time I’d ever done it and the last time it would ever be the first. This was oddly familiar; like the first time I would be with the man of my everlasting dreams, and the last time it would be the first.

I shoved down my own trousers and boxers, spat a wad of spit onto my cock tip already glistening, gave it two strokes and dived into his ass. He grunted to the screech of the songs’ chorus as the thud of music seeped into our hidden lair. He grunted again as I pushed passed dryness and friction, mixing sweat and spit and pure raw lust into a combination that let me smack with ease against his round cheeks.

His shirt rode up and I lathered my hands against his scrubby back. The smell of sweat and musk and piss made me high. The scent of sex in unfound places, the acts of hidden transgressions, my cock lost in a thicket of harsh hair slapping against untamed balls. His ass squeezed around my cock and I lost myself to the rhythm. The back and forth, the in and out, the squelch of man on man sex and the heady rush of fantasy brought me closer and closer to the edge. I was a sea bird soaring over a sandy coast, looking down on the spots of men lost in the empty dunes.

The walkabout was coming to an end. The searching for unfound treasures could be declared over. He heard me begin to pant as my strokes inside him fast forwarded. I pushed and shoved inside his hole, grabbing fistfuls of flesh with either hand and let the fucking take over. He rode on it like a rodeo; sucking it all in and clearly not wishing for it to end.

But end it must. Every road comes to a stop somewhere. I bit down on my bottom lip and my eyes closed in an involuntary spasm of ejaculatory success. This was not like coming from some blow job; where even if you manage to finish in his mouth, he’s worked it out with his hand. This was the real deal.

I cried in muffled pleasure, my wings clipped from the company around. But nevertheless, it happened. I buried my cock far and deep inside him as I came. I stroked and pushed once more as I bred my fantasy into life. My essence colliding into his.

I pulled out and he turned with a satisfied smile and a wad of toilet paper to wipe the sex off me. I didn’t know what words could be said now, and neither did he.

“I’m Tommo.” He said, searching across my face like an atlas that no longer made sense. The mix of beer and sex and lifetime fantasies that’d been fulfilled suddenly felt all too much to take in.

“Tommo.” I wanted to bury my head in that belly, roll around in his grassy forest of hair from now to no end. I let myself collapse onto his chest. He didn’t flinch. Tommo just wrapped his great big bear arms around me.

“Can I stay with you tonight?”

His hand stroked the back of the hat and he held me closer.

“You can stay with me all nights.”


Harry F. Rey is an author and lover of gay themed stories with a powerful punch. New M/M sci-fi and contemporary romance novels coming in July 2018 from NineStar Press and Deep Desires Press.

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