Andy Stevenson vs. The Lord of the Loins Read online

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  Zumaya Publications

  www.zumayapublications.com

  Copyright ©2008 by Kage Alan

  First published in 2008, 2008

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  For Milt Ford,

  Special Thanx To:

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  ABOUT THE ARTIST

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  KAGE ALAN

  Andy Stevenson

  vs.

  the LORD OF THE LOINS

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  ANDY STEVENSON vs. THE LORD OF THE LOINS

  (C) 2008 by Kage Alan

  ISBN 978-1-934841-01-3

  Cover art and design by

  All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is prohibited without the written permission of the author or publisher.

  Zumaya Boundless is an imprint of Zumaya Publications LLC, Austin TX

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Alan, Kage, 1970—

  Andy Stevenson vs. The Lord of the Loins / Kage Alan.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-934841-00-6 (alk. paper)

  1. Gay college students—Fiction. 2. Michigan—Fiction. I. Title. II. Title: Andy Stevenson versus The Lord of the Loins.

  PS3601.L327A84 2008

  813'.6—dc22

  2008027434

  For Milt Ford,

  Without your patience and guidance during my formative college years, I might never have seen my work in print while I'm still young enough to enjoy it.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Special Thanx To:

  Ralph (my Pookie!), Mom & Dad, Gladys Hurst, Jose Reyes (didn't I see you in a Subway commercial?), Miss Hayes (Agent Smith from the IRS is still looking for you), Miss Jenn-Jenn, Carolynn Neault, Kathleen (but-I-LIKE-using-dashes) Galloway, Miss Marianne (don't you DARE call me Diva!) Labahn, Jerry Yao, Honorable Adopted Little Brother Eddie Chi Kit Lam, Jay Taylor & Mike Sturm (who are not a couple), Christie Murphy (sweetness beyond words), the enigmatic Andrew Yee, Thuan, Kim (I just had dinner with Jay & Rick) Moon, Jay (I only have dinner with Kim) Estoye, Roger Reinsmith (1961-2007), Cindy Medley (the best day-husband a guy could ask for), my gals from Cadence (Snooky, Sandi, Carolyn and Dani), Mr. My-Dates-Are-All-At-Least-Eighteen Koyman, Von, Sylvia K., Sai, Christian, Edward Fong, Jonathan, Kendra Newland, Robin Curtis (who truly understands the meaning of joie de vivre), Will Trestrail, all the folks who we met during the first book tour and all the bookstores for having me!

  This book was written and edited to the music of Alphaville, Tears For Fears, Fiona, Sarah Brightman, Simple Minds, Inker & Hamilton, Real Life and E-Type, none of which was downloaded.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Prologue

  The beauty of a continuing story is that it has the potential to go beyond the original tale and achieve entirely new heights. The reality of a continuing story, however, is that it can tend to suck and not in the good way. Highlander 2, Galactica 1980, Star Trek V, Jaws: The Revenge ... hello???

  And then there's me. I'm Andy, just a typical 19-year-old college student from Detroit, Michigan. What's so special about me? Not a thing. Well, nothing until I went to California six months ago and had that whole cliched experience-that-changed-my-life thing and blah blah blah. I've heard it as often as you have, so I won't bore you with the whole sordid story down to the smallest detail. I'm not my mother. Well, maybe I'll tell you some of it just so we're on the same page.

  Suffice to say that I met someone in California who I was convinced was the anti-Christ, only he obviously wasn't. He's my cousin and, unfortunately for me, attractive. Okay, he's hot! I do want to make the distinction that he's my cousin by marriage only. It was California, not one of those other, less progressive states. Anyway, Jordan—that's my cousin—pushed me to come to terms with a major issue in my life. Not only did he finally get me to admit that I'm gay—I am, I double-checked—but he was also my first, which is how I double-checked. Oh, come on! It's not like Jordan and I didn't use protection. I'm kidding. No, we did. We used protection. After all, safety comes first ... then hopefully you both do, too. Sorry. Gay humor. Couldn't help myself.

  Right, so. I'd rarely left Michigan before, and well, who'd want to? I'd miss the daily season changes, our luxurious family-sized potholes and our colorful state tree—the little orange construction cone. In-state jokes, sorry. Anyway, I left home, went to LA, experienced a little of the beach and nightclub life and finally learned how to be comfortable just being myself. I also learned that a French Tickler isn't a masseuse who studied in Paris and that ribbed isn't always for her pleasure—very important information there.

  So, how exactly does one top an experience like that? If this was one of those early 80s family television shows, I'd be living happily ever after in some little Italian villa with Charo as my crazy neighbor or stepmother. It didn't happen like that, though.

  I went through the motions of finishing off my summer vacation back home, moved into a private dorm room at school and completed the first semester of my sophomore year—all without raising a single suspicion concerning my sexuality. I wanted to tell someone, and I tried to, but no one was picking up on the clues. It felt like everybody knew who I was, but that they weren't really paying attention to what I was saying, much like I imagine Andrew Ridgley felt when he released his solo album after WHAM split up. Yeah, exactly. You didn't know he had one, either.

  I needed someone I could talk to, who could help me learn more about myself and who I could grow with. Most people look for this kind of relationship with a therapist. Me? I wanted a boyfriend. Jordan would have been the perfect candidate had I stayed in California. After all, he turned out to be an excellent role model, and what could be better than meeting the kind of man I want to share my future with? Meeting the kind I don't? No, I can do without that little drama entirely. I'm a much nicer person these days, so there's no reason for the proverbial bird to fly over and shit on my head.

  Naturally, this is exactly what happened right after Christmas break.

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  1

  I've matured. I mean, how long can somebody be the “bad boy” they've always imagined themselves to be? I'm like Captain Kirk! Okay, more like Mr. Sulu ... only I'm not quite sure why he comes to mind. Seriously, I must have matured because I smile quite a bit these days, and I find very little to be unhappy about. Why? Because life is good and I feel very alive.

  Yes, I've officially become one of those people, the kind who sincerely
annoyed me even six short months ago by the sheer fact I knew they were breathing the same air I was. Well, no more! I have tamed the beast and wrestled my inner bitch back down into that dark, miserable place within my tortured soul where it belongs, right next to that New Kids on the Block tape I once bought—I lied and told the cashier it was a gift. Please, we all know it was because Donnie Wahlberg looked good in tight jeans. Anyway, while I'm making a valiant effort not to be sarcastic, it doesn't mean I can't still make observations. Those are legitimate.

  For instance, the only thing worse than a summer in west Michigan is a winter in west Michigan. Students either gag on the lovely aroma of fertilizer or struggle to breathe at all in the sub-zero, lake-effect winds that whip through the campus and nip at the tips of our noses and toeses and...

  Wait. That's not a word. Forget that last bit. Either I feel like I'm a resident of Hooterville or I'm Nanook of the North. While Kira, my Siberian husky, loves this kind of weather, it makes me long for someplace warm, exotic and that serves some useful purpose, like Florida. You know—God's waiting room where old people go to die?

  An exchange student from Turkey I'd met the previous semester named Aydin spent the entire Christmas break traveling throughout Europe eating croissants, drinking the local elixirs and having the time of his life. Instead of spending my holiday doing something similar, I had the pleasure of freezing my balls off at home working somewhere I don't want to get sued for mentioning and then freezing said balls further when I returned to school; but at least I'm not alone. Two other friends of mine I met last semester, Ryan and Miss Kim, complain about the same thing.

  Ryan is unusual, and not just because he has balls that freeze. All balls freeze. It's a fact. While I found him to be unpleasant—sometimes extremely unpleasant—he abso-lutely despised me in the beginning because of several nasty comments I made about Guns N’ Roses in my music column in the campus newspaper. Once we started hanging out a bit in an English class, though, he slowly came around, as did my opinion of him. Of course, he doesn't miss an opportunity to tell me how awful he thinks my taste in music is, but he's short. What can you do but vent when you're short?

  We both have a passion for writing and also share some pretty strange ideas about the art. For instance, Ryan and I want to write novels, but feel that one isn't worth reading unless it's a minimum of 500 pages in length. We also feel that to break into the business, we'll have to outdo anything ever written by Stephen King because, you know, that'll happen. I get the feeling Ryan might be a little bit judgmental, too, and that's based on the fact he has bumperstickers declaring “No Fat Chicks” plastered all over the back of his car. As Kim is fond of saying, mostly when he's not around, “That is one emotionally scarred mutha...” You get the idea.

  And speaking of Miss Kim, she is one of the most uninhibited women I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, and not just because she claims to have balls that also freeze. You see, she's from Gary, Indiana, a place well-reputed to make anyone shiver in a combination of fright and awe when the name is uttered. Despite this, if the phrase “black is beautiful” was ever coined for someone in this current day and age, it's her. Well, her and Oprah. It's probably a good thing that Kim's never seen the bumperstickers on Ryan's car, though. The girl is on the buxom side of life, which I feel compliments her, and she has a wicked streak. It just isn't in anybody's best interest to incite her, especially Ryan's, who tends to incite everybody.

  One of Kim's major strong points—other than being the only one who would watch British films with me for a class I'd taken—is that she knows exactly what her sexual nature is and doesn't feel the need to apologize for it. The girl has presence, but it's her smile and deceptively gentle mannerisms that I see people respond to the most. She attracts quite a bit of attention from the local studs, only she's rarely interested in the ones who give it to her. Putting it kindly, let me just say that she's a bit on the cursed side in that she has a knack for being attracted to men she can't have. I asked her once why she rarely committed to any of the suitors who actually pursued her.

  "Oh, honey,” she explained, as if addressing a young child, “if I wanted a permanently-helpless-overly-hormonal-co-dependent-money-sucking penis-bearer, it wouldn't be much of a challenge. Instead, I want a buck who's going to treat me like the goddess I am, not expect me to be some here's-your-fried-chicken-would-you-like-a-beer-with-that barefoot-and-begging-to-be-pregnant bitch in the kitchen. That's not in my contract.” She held up her hand. “See no evil, hear no evil, date no evil."

  Who could argue with that? And where would you begin if you tried?

  Ryan, on the other hand, once spouted that if he wanted a money-loving, mind-manipulating, life-devouring blood-sucker, he'd just date his ex-girlfriend again—or any other girl on campus. He also stated that, on the other hand, you have a whole new set of fingers. Carrying on a conversation with him could be a little difficult at times, and I was surprised that he and Kim were even able to be civil to each other during the occasions the three of us had hung out together.

  Before this past summer, I might have agreed with everything Ryan said just because it was bound to annoy somebody, but too much had changed. No, I'd changed. I could no longer live solely to piss off the population of planet Earth, but he could. I'd have to live that part of my life through him now.

  It was the first day of classes, and Kim and I were waiting in my room for him to show up. Somehow, and I'm not quite sure how, I talked her into taking a creative writing class with us. I was introducing her to the music of Real Life and Fiona to pass the time until, finally, a muffled pounding at the door signaled Ryan's arrival.

  "Look!” I all but shouted when I saw what he was wearing. “It's the younger brother from A Christmas Story. Can Ralphy come out to play, too?"

  "I really hate that movie.” The stifled response was agitated. “And do you have any idea how cold it is out there?” He was sporting a snowmobile suit, heavy winter coat over that, boots that added a bit of height to his 5'6” stature, a ski mask and a large, thick pair of gloves. The only indication that the figure in front of us was human was the set of blue eyes glaring at us from behind the mask.

  "Yeah, and don't go there.” As entertaining as it might be, the last thing I wanted to hear was Kim talking about her balls again. “Let me grab our coats."

  It occurred to me that cold was a small thing to deal with in life if that was my only complaint.

  "You know, things could always be worse."

  "I really hate people like you, too.” Ryan stated without skipping a beat. “And what is this crap you're listening to?"

  "It's Fiona.” Kim perked up. “And she's fabu, sweetie. Everything I do, she's sexing me. Meow, meow, meow."

  Okay, that thing she just did—the meow thing—is something I forgot to mention. I think she overdosed on cat food commercials as a child—the ones where you can hear the cat's thoughts—and has been mimicking them ever since. Ryan has his own theory, and it has to do with a certain slang term for female anatomy that also happens to be an alternative name for a cat. See what I mean about him inciting people?

  "Yeah, whatever.” Ryan dismissed her, which he knew would push one of her buttons. “Andy?"

  "I'm in the closet.” I chuckled and returned with Kim's and my coat. “Now I'm not.” Come on, people! I was running out of subtle hints here.

  "I don't get the joke.” Kim looked like she wanted to, mostly because Ryan apparently didn't either, and that meant she could one-up him, but she wasn't making the connection.

  "It's all that eighties music he listens to.” Ryan turned and headed for the stairs that would take us outside to the weather we were all, quite honestly, dreading. “It'll rot your brain and who the hell is Fiona, anyway?"

  "She's a singer who got her start playing in a couple of bands like the Dixie Dregs, then cut a twelve-inch dance single in New York City before deciding that wasn't the direction she wanted to go. In the end, she wanted to rock and
was signed by Atlantic Records."

  Ryan turned slowly back around and stared at me.

  "Have you ever heard of a rhetorical question?” he asked accusingly. “I really didn't want to know. I don't care. It's like that explanation you give about being named after Duran Duran's ex-guitarist. It couldn't have happened. He wasn't old enough and your parents probably never even heard a single song by the group anyway. They probably dragged you to Neil Diamond and Barry Manilow concerts as a child.” Ryan continued on, still mumbling the entire way. “Of all the useless information in the world to know ... Who gives a shit?"

  "I do,” I countered, but more for my own benefit than anybody else's. And my folks had taken me to see Neil Diamond and Barry Manilow before. Was that supposed to mean something?

  "Hon?” Kim took her coat from me and put it on. “If the last time you got a piece of ass was when your hand slipped through the toilet paper, you'd be bitchy, too."

  "Andy?” Ryan called back over his shoulder. “Are you coming out or what?"

  "I am out.” Somebody had to get that one.

  "You know, it sounds like English, but nobody understands what you're talking about. Now move it before we're late."

  The semester was officially underway.

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  Our only stop before class was the Commons. Ryan lived off-campus with his parents, so at least he had the good fortune of having a homecooked meal more often than we did. I remember driving my mother into fits of lunatic rage by constantly complaining about her cooking back when I was in high school, but I was a bit of a shit back then. It amazes me how much we think we know and how mature we think we are when we're younger. I mean, now that I'm nineteen, I'm so ahead of the game in those areas. Now I know everything. Unfortunately, maturity and knowledge—or is that maturity and wisdom—never took college food into consideration.

  A university will frequently name their Commons after someone of importance, much like they do many of the buildings and residence halls. In this case, however, no one wanted to be associated with where the supposed and often questioned preparation and consumption of what the lowest-bidding contractor called “food” went on. And let's face it, the image of sweet, elderly women with smiles on their faces, pictures of grandchildren in their pockets and kind words on their tongues as they handed you whatever it was you ordered ... oh, no. Not here. We had heavy-set women from one of the Baltic countries who would just as soon growl at you as smile.