When the idea for Life is a Stevie Wonder Song hit me, the title wasn't on the radar yet. I knew I was going to write my first Gay for You novella. I knew it would be a May-December. I knew the Catskills would be the setting and I knew that my leading man would be an author and lover of old vinyl record albums.
My muse took over and I had my rough draft done in about eighteen days. As I had worked through the story, one performers name came up repeatedly. His songs and the joy that they bring stood out to me. They perfectly reflected the emotions of both Stephen and Declan as they met and then slowly fell in love with each other. When title time came, the name of the book sang out loud and clear. I hope you enjoy reading this wonderful tale of one man's self-discovery as much as I did writing it.
Life is a Stevie Wonder Song releases next Wednesday, December 30th. You can preorder your copy today at the following retailers:
Authors know that their muse is a fickle creature. Best-selling spy novelist Stephen Ramsey has been in a hate-hate relationship with his inspiration for months. When Stephen's publisher lays a legal ultimatum upon him, with a rapidly approaching deadline, he knows he must do something to kick-start his creativity or face the unemployment line. His daughter comes up with a possible answer: a summer camp for the creative soul. With nothing to lose, Stephen packs up his laptop, phonograph and beloved record albums and heads from Greenwich Village to the Catskill Mountains.
There, among a horde of college students attending for extra credits, is Declan Pomeroy, a photographer of fey creatures who is twenty-two years younger than Stephen. The woods are a magical place, and he quickly finds himself falling under the spell of the free-spirited photographer. Confusion wars with desire inside Stephen as he succumbs to the feelings welling up inside. But, sadly, summer camp always has to end. Can a man who has just found himself really leave the person that makes his heart sing?
A sharp rap on the door a week later jolted me out of my zone. My eyes were dry. I looked over my shoulder at the door, my mind still lingering on the rambling oration I had been writing. No, it was not the next Mick Dell. What I had been writing for the past two days was literary vomit, if I were being honest. It was stream-of-consciousness crap for sure, a fifteen-page run-on sentence hidden under the regurgitation of masticated wordage. By God, it felt good to put words on virtual paper, even if it was just journaling.
"Come in," I called loudly over Hall & Oates on the record player. Declan peeked around the door. A slight arrhythmia occurred in my chest. I hurried to save and close the Word document. A lot of what I had been spewing out revolved around the young man entering my space. For as slight as he was, he certainly filled the bungalow. "Would you like a beer?"
He smiled in that weird whimsical way of his then rushed over to stand in front of the old portable record player I toted everywhere.
"Wow, you have vinyl," he said.
I closed my laptop and placed it on the round table in front of the loveseat.
"A whole box," I offered as I pushed to my bare feet. I noticed that Declan had no shoes once more. He had nice feet. Small and well formed. My feet belonged on an orangutan according to my daughter. "Do I have to card you?"
He laughed softly and shook his head. His hair flowed around his head with the movement. The lamp highlighted small streaks of summer gold amid the dark brown.
"I'm twenty-two. Man, these are awesome." He dropped to his knees to flip through the box of albums. I went to the fridge as he whispered to himself. "I don’t know any of these bands," he told me after I tapped his shoulder with a cold one. He was clad in brown cargo shorts and a white tank top cut low under his toned arms. The shirt hung off him. Declan took the beer, sipped it gingerly, set it beside him on the floor, and continued examining my music.
I sat down on the loveseat, wildly curious about what had brought this photographer of fey creatures to my door this evening. For a long while, I contented myself with simply enjoying his reactions to some of the more obscure groups he found. His face and eyes were expressive, amazingly so at times. He barely touched his beer. After about ten minutes passed, the record needed turning over. I rose and walked over to the desk the player rested on.
"So, what brings you here tonight?" I asked casually as I lifted the needle from the record and flipped it over. When he didn’t reply, I looked down at him. His gaze rested on me. A surge of raw lust raced through me to see him kneeling there. The album nearly slid from my fingers. What was going on with me? I was straight. I had been married three times and had a child two years younger than this capricious young man.
"It’s a full moon. Do you want to come capture the fey on film with me?"
God yes. "Really?" I asked as I lined up the hole in the album with the spindle. "Sure."
Declan smiled. His teeth were white and straight. I wanted to kiss him. No, it was more than a mere want. It was a crazy, irrational, wild need to kiss him, taste him, and feel him pressed tightly to me. My cock began to lengthen. I turned from him sitting there on his calves so enticingly.
"I'll be back at midnight," he announced as he sprang to his feet. "Wear as little as possible."
Out he went. A June bug flew in as Declan exited. The massive beetle bounced around the lampshade. The crickets outside quieted as my captivating guest bounced through the grass. I let the album slide down the spindle, then bent over to pick up the bottle of beer my neighbor had left behind. Would it be too weird to drink after him hoping to taste him on the glass?