Love isn’t for everyone!
Although Orlando is the youngest and newest of Cupid’s helpers, he’s a natural when it comes to pairing and tripling up gay lovers although he sometimes does tend to get a little too involved – physically - in the task at hand. As punishment for one misdemeanour too far, he’s assigned a hopeless case that has defeated even the most seasoned of helpers. Jesse is an unapologetic slut who doesn’t understand his best friends’ preoccupation with ‘love’ until the day he catches Orlando sniffing his underpants at the Laundromat.
Ebook ID: 5112_1036
lyd Category: His and His Kisses
Length: 60 pdf Pages / 9500 words
Formats Available: pdf, prc, lit, zipped html,
lrf, epub, RB,
Ebook Cover Price: 2.50
“You swore to uphold the traditions and values of the Cupid Corps,” the Big Guy snarled from behind his outsize desk. His attempt to look impressive and boss-like failed miserably. Let’s face it; you can’t bring off the alpha male look in swaddling clothes. Plus, the guy was corpulent. You know what I mean? An obese guy swathed in a very large and ill-fitting nappy screams infantilism, not power.
Of course, when I’d sworn that oath I was lying. It was a cushy job and I saw it as a means of connecting with humans and the possibility of cheap, tawdry sex. Of course, that was also against regulations. But, what the hell? I got results. Maybe not always playing it by the book, but results is results any way you look at it, right? Apparently not!
That’s why I was in the Big Guy’s office receiving a right royal carpeting. It was all a lot of blah blah blah to me.
“Are you listening to me?” the Big Guy yelled.
“Yes, sir,” I lied, hoping he wasn’t about to ask me what the last thing he said was. So I did what I do best. “I’ve given a great deal of thought to what you’ve been saying and I will accept whatever punishment you deem appropriate.”
Crawling usually works for me but not, it seems, in this case. “Of course you’ll fucking accept whatever punishment I deem fit, you little ass-lick. Don’t think I’m not wise to your tricks.”
He leaned over to the intercom. “Sam. See if you can dig up the file on that character that seems to have defeated even our best operatives. Bring it in here when you find it.” He turned to me. “This is your last chance. No one else has managed to land this guy. He’s been a thorn in our side for years now and it’s time to get tough.”
I wondered just how tough I could be if the Corps best men had failed in the past with all the mod cons at their disposal.
I said as much. Big Guy’s eyes twinkled for a moment. “You have a certain reputation, Orlando, for, shall we say, your unorthodox techniques. If you land this character, we’ll turn a blind eye.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You’ll be out on your ass looking for new employment.”
My objection was cut short when Sam knocked and entered with a file as thick as my wrist. I felt like screaming at them to get with the twenty-first century and invest in a computer system. No one used Manilla folders and stapled sheets of hand-written notes any more. Except the Cupid Corps. Samantha, Sam for short, had been Big Guy’s secretary since they’d grown up together and she was hopeless at new technology. I was surprised she could even work anything as modern as a stapler. I know, because I’d been given the task of attempting to train her on a keyboard. No dice. She dug her heels in and went right back to her manual typewriter and carbon paper.
In the process I had won myself an implacable enemy. She took every opportunity to blacken my name with the powers that be and made sure any written complaints about my behaviour were brought to management’s attention. Always neatly typed and in triplicate.
“In trouble again, Orlando,” she smirked as she handed the file across the desk.
It would not do to bait her in front of the Big Guy so I ignored the jibe and she left the office deprived of a verbal retort.
The Big Guy flipped through the file perfunctorily, licking his lips, and then tossed it at me. “Oh, yes, this will do nicely.”
“How long have I got?” I asked.
“This character is a tough nut so… hmmm, let’s say a fortnight.”
I really was in the bad books. Normally, a special case was given six months or more with an option to extend. Obviously they wanted me out of the Corps, the sooner the better.
I grabbed the file and stuck it under my arm, clicked my heels together and nodded briskly, “Thank you, mein Fuhrer.”
I’d wanted to say that to the old fart ever since I’d joined the Corps and now was as good a time as any. He was determined to be rid of me although I would give this task my best shot. It was only in the privacy of my own cubicle that I opened the file to read about the subject of my intervention. After the first page, I knew I was fucked.
Barry Lowe’s dreams of winning the Nobel Prize for Literature faded about thirty years ago when he realised what he wrote best was about the wild, whacky, wonderful world of sex and that his vocabulary would never rival Patrick White’s or even Evelyn Waugh’s. Since then he’s been happily churning out the odd gay sex comedy for stage as well as a mountain of newspaper columns and an avalanche of erotica for print and eBooks. He is also the author of Atomic Blonde, a biography of 1950s sex goddess, Mamie Van Doren. He lives in Sydney, Australia, with his long-term partner, Wally.
Check out his website at www.barrylowe.net.