“Feathers” a long short story I wrote a few years back has recently re-released through Lethe Press and is available exclusively from the fun folks at All Romance E-books. The story combines themes near and dear to my heart: animal rescue, horses, grieving, and manlove, all wrapped up in one heartfelt and juicy package. In honor of the hawk at the story’s center, I’m donating part of my proceeds from this story to the Audubon Birds of Prey Center in Maitland, Florida.

They do rescue and rehab of raptors: hawks, owls, falcons, eagles, and other hunting species. It’s an awesome place to visit and if you can spare some money, the birds and staff will be most appreciative!

All Romance E-books is now offering the short story collection as a download.

And it already has reviews, smoochy kisses and hearts! For readers who prefer e-books, this is a nice alternative for small presses to offer their works. It’s more financially feasible for a press like Lethe to offer titles through an e-book distributor like All Romance E-books plus it saves on trees and shipping and carbon emissions and all. They’re portable and don’t take up space like hard copies do. Give one a try!

My publisher has given me the okay to sell signed/inscribed copies of Rough Cut privately, so if you’re interested, please shoot me an email: vincent@vincentdiamond.com. If you’re in the U.S., I can manage one for $22. If you’re outside the U.S., let’s talk and work out a shipping and exchange rate, okay?

“Heated” appears in Best Gay Erotica 2009, from Cleis Press, edited by Richard Labonte. The book is a finalist for the Lambda Literary Awards in the Gay Erotica category.

A few steps beyond the barn, my boot knocked into something heavy. One of our oxygen canisters, probably discarded by one of our guys in the middle of firefighting and forgotten. I tucked it under one arm.

It was dark behind the barn but a little glow from the security light back by the manure pile made the walk navigable. Passing the corral, I heard a grunt or groan or something. I stood still for a few seconds, wondering if it were an escaped horse. But it didn’t sound like a horse.

There it was again. A throaty groan. Definitely human. I peeked through the boards of the round corral. A figure crouched near the gate, hanging onto the sides, bent over.

“Hey, are you okay in there?” I kept my voice quiet.

No answer.

I stepped around the boards and found the gate. The latch had some kind of weird clip on it; it took me a few seconds to open it. The figure rose and turned away from me.

“Are you all right?” Now I could see his slender build and the tank top I’d given back to him hours earlier.

“I’m fine, man, I’m okay.” His voice was thick, teary.

I let the gate close behind me. Crickets chirped and an owl hooted from the woods on the north side. His breathing was still harsh. Shook up and showing it.

“You ever been in an emergency before?” I asked.

“No,” he said, still facing away from me. “Well, we had a horse break down at a show once. Does that count?” He gave a shaky laugh and turned to look at me.

I could see his face in the dim glow. His eyes were wide and face and neck were smudged with grime and ash. He raked a trembling hand through his gritty hair.

“You did a stupid thing going back into that barn.”

“But at least Stacy’s safe. And the baby.” He put one palm on his forehead, eyebrows crunched together. “God, we lost two horses! Fuck!”

“But you saved most of them,” I said quietly.

“Yeah, I guess we did.”

“Do you have any idea how much worse it could have been? If your whole barn had been wood?”

“I guess you’re right.” He stuck out one hand. “And thanks to you.”

I took his hand, gave it a manly shake. “What you’re feeling is just adrenaline wearing off. Tomorrow morning you’ll probably feel like you got run over.”

He moved closer to me, keeping hold of my hand. “Maybe not just adrenaline.

The eye contact is what tells you first. A full, direct gaze that says he’s interested. A smoky, come-hither look that say he’s horny. A heated stare that says come here and fuck me.

In the dimness, his hand on my neck startled me at first. Then his fingers moved down my arm, the heavy coat protecting me from any real touch. I moved to slide it off but he shook his head. “Leave it on.”

His jeans were loose over his hips. He leaned on the fence and planted his hands on the rough boards. I tugged his slender arms up higher and pressed him closer to the fencing. His back arched as I stroked down his torso. I went from his fingertips to his neck then down to his waist. With each stroke I pressed harder and harder until I was scratching down him. He groaned.

“More.”

Lethe Press published Rough Cut: Vincent Diamond Collected in June, 2008. I’ve got a couple of new stories in the book and this excerpt is from “Irish Cream”.

Most mornings I’m here with Jerry Sputmeir and Steve the Sleeve. Steve did some time back in the day, and well, we just like using the names from the old days. Makes it kinda homey. None of us were made guys but we worked the game. Jerry was into the numbers up in Brooklyn, and Steve did some loan sharking in addition to his regular burglary gigs. Me? I’m not spillin’. Suffice to say that the horses and me, we go way back.

Anyway, this one morning, I’m on the rail. It’s mid-January, cold for Florida, about forty, and misty. The horses come onto the track at the west end, skittering around like hockey pucks, cantering sideways, all antsy. These days, exercise riders wear vests and helmets. Some wear gloves to grip the reins. A spooked thoroughbred can take off and hit forty miles an hour, so if one starts to run away with you, you’d better have gloves to help you haul his ass in.

Exercise riders still ride butt up though, just like the old days. Nice.

This gray jogs by, tossing his head, kicking up dirt, being feisty, ya know? And when I see the kid on him, it arrows right through me.

Liam.

The strawberry blonde of his hair. The cool green eyes. The muscular chest.

It wasn’t just that this kid looked like Liam, it was the way he sat the horse. Some exercise riders use brute strength that’s where they get those fabulous arms but some use finesse and sweet talk with their charges. That’s what this kid was doing. I saw him leaning over the gray’s withers, stroking the horse’s neck, even its chest. That took some doing with the way this horse antsed around.

What it took was great legs.

I closed my eyes and remembered Liam’s legs. Their strength tight around me, so tight I couldn’t move or breathe or think. And didn’t want to.

Liam’s legs

Back in the fifties, things was different, and not just at the track. Men wore hats and suits everyday, and the only guys wearing jeans were the boys mucking out stalls. You tipped your hat to women, you were polite, you took care of business without a lot of drama.

That also meant if you walked the other way around the track, you didn’t advertise it. Sure, there were queer guys back in the fifties; we just didn’t make a big deal about it. I never saw guys living together like they do nowadays, least not in the tri-state area. Not in my crowd. My guys learned not to make jokes about women with me, and by the time I was in my thirties and running my own crew, it wasn’t a matter of discussion. Not in my earshot.

I wasn’t even at the track when I met Liam. It was at Leprechaun Farms down to Ocala. I was visiting the trainer””on certain uh, collections business, let’s just say””and he was giving me the tour of the barns. Horses never really did much for me, beyond what they could earn for me at the betting windows, but even I knew these were special animals. They gleamed. They had the look of conditioned athletes: the bulging muscle, the thick veins just beneath their smooth pelts. Healthy as, well, horses. It was May and the barn had fans running in all four corners. It was still warm, though, and I sweated beneath my pinstriped suit. I fanned myself with my hat.

Jimmy, the trainer guy, was talking my ear off about bloodlines and race cards and numbers. After ten minutes of this, I kinda tuned him out. Some splashing and whinnying came from the north side of the barn so I edged over, just to see what I can see, ya know? And hoping to catch a breeze.

What I caught was an eyeful.

There was a stallion on the padded area with the hose set-up. Tied on both sides of his head but he tried to rear up, front legs pawing at the air. He bellowed and I’ve never heard a sound like that “deeper than a regular whinny” more of a groaning. The way people might groan in bed.

David slowed the truck to admire Marcus’s broad-shouldered form over the course: a simple-looking fold at the waist, hands up to the gelding’s crest, legs long and steady in the stirrups. It looked easy; David knew better. He’d fallen off twice while cantering the ring, the scanty English saddle a wobbly-feeling affair after growing up on a cattle farm and riding Western all his life.

David saw one of the farm’s senior grooms, standing at the gate. “Hola, Ramon!” he called.

“Buenos noches, senor. Como esta?” Ramon had emigrated from South America as a teenager and his accent was luscious, redolent with tones of coffee and chiles and sunsets.

“I’m fine,” David said. He nodded to Marcus. “He’s out there again.”

“Every night, senor, every night.” Ramon shook his head. “He ride ’til his legs shake. Two, three hours sometimes.”

“But he doesn’t compete?”

“Nunca.”

They watched Marcus figure eight through the jump course, guiding Smarty Pants with gentle reining, head turns and weight shift in the saddle. They took a corner, too sharply; Smarty Pants balked at a four-foot fence and sent Marcus crashing into the standard, knocking the first pole down. He pinwheeled over the horse’s neck, one arm out, the other over his head. David heard the thwock! of Marcus’s back on the PVC pole and Smarty’s nervous whinny. Marcus lay still in the sand between the jump standards.

Whoa, that looked bad.

David leaped out of his truck, and ran over the gravel of the drive, his long legs kicking up rock. He climbed through the ring’s fencing, four steps behind Ramon. David kept his eyes on Marcus, who hadn’t moved. Smarty Pants stood still near the jump, ears flicking anxiously about, popping his tail in agitation.
Ramon got to Marcus first.

“Don’t move him!” David shouted.

The gelding snorted and moved away as David tore through the arena. Ramon knelt down, one hand grasping Marcus’s wrist. “Boss? Boss, esta bien?”

Marcus lay on his back, damp arena sand clumped on his neck and face where he had fallen. His eyes were open, their soft brown filled with pain. He breathed through clenched teeth.

© 2006. Vincent Diamond. Reprint and sub rights available.

Read “Bruised” and “Back in the Saddle” for just 49 cents at the Amazon Shorts website.

From Hot Cops, Cleis Press and edited by Shane Allison.

You never know what you’re gonna hear when you’re eavesdropping. It could be anything: the innocuous plans of a domestic duo, a hushed confession, a quick make-out session.

A low-voiced threat.

A Sunday morning, probably six o’clock or so. The rave was over, the partiers taking off in loud cars, their engines gunning and tires squealing as they left the warehouse in downtown Jacksonville. Up in the warehouse office, I heard the thump of equipment cases being slammed shut, imagined some of the guys squatting and hefting the big speakers from the four corners of the room. I should have been down there; it was my job to be humping some of that weight but I was SO tired.

Tired of doing these damned all-nighters. At twenty-eight, I looked young, all blonde hair and boyish features that let me get away with infiltrating a college dorm or a ravemaster’s street crew. But I was in over my head on this undercover op and floundering.

That morning, I was on the sofa in the warehouse office and I heard the door rattle open. Jason’s voice, a little breathless and high-pitched and then Conrad’s murmuring, low as a foghorn, sexy as hell.

Jason was one of the kids who hung around the crew. Barely out of high school, with a kid’s swash of acne across his forehead and a wispy goatee. He had a crush on Conrad that was nearly painful to watch. Fixing Conrad’s cranberry juice drinks, making sure the DJ booth was swept clean, rubbing Conrad’s shoulders and neck if Donalita wasn’t around, and sometimes, even if she was.

I lifted my head and could see them through the tangle on the equipment table and boxes stacked around the room. Jason grabbed Conrad’s hand and did a twirl under his arm, giggling, off-balance.

Conrad spoke, his deep voice solemn. “Jason, you are stoned, my man.”

“I’m not!”

“Did you have a little party tonight with Marcos?”

“Maybe.” Jason stumbled against Conrad’s broad chest, laughing. “Maybe not.”

Conrad put both hands on Jason’s head and held him still. “I told you about that shit. You shouldn’t be messing with Marcos and his supplies.”

“Screw Marcos.”

“No thanks.” Conrad smiled.

“Then how about me?” Jason surged upwards and planted his mouth against Conrad’s. “Please, I love you so much, Conrad. I just wanna be with you.”

Conrad elbowed him back. “Whoa, whoa. Jason, stop.” He forced Jason away.

© 2006. Vincent Diamond. Reprint rights available.

“Slide into Desire”, in Screaming Orgasms and Sex on the Beach. Edited by Shanna Germain, Pretty Things Press. Release TBD 2008.

“Walking the Blue Line”, in Hot Cops. Edited by Shane Allison, Cleis Press. Available here

“Shepherd”, in Love in a Lock-Up. Edited by Eric Summers, Starbooks Press. Buy it here

“Lions and Tigers and Snares”, in Men of Mystery: Tales of Erotica and Suspense. Sean Meriwether and Greg Wharton, editors. Haworth Press

“Not to Forget”, in Coming Together for the Cure. Edited by Alessia Brio, Phaze Books

“Wrestling with Gators”, in Country Boys. Editor Richard LaBonte, Cleis Press

“Bruised/Back in the Saddle”, a two-for-one deal at Amazon Shorts

“Horse Sense” in Truckers (writing as Rob Kilmer). Editor Johnny Hansen, Cleis Press

“Back in the Saddle”, in Clean Sheets 3/22/06. Editors Storch, Germain & Noble

“A Question of Taste”, in Best Gay Romance 2007. Editor Graham, Cleis Press

“Still in the Gate”, in Play Ball. Edited by CB Potts, Torquere Press

“Tropical Daze”, in Best Gay Love Stories 2006. Edited by Nick Street, Alyson Publications

“Deep Trouble Undercover” in Best Gay Love Stories 2005. Edited by Nick Street, Alyson Publications

“A Cold Night’s Sleep”, “Dangerous Days”, “Haunted”, “Horsing Around” and “Cold Hands, Warm Heart” first appeared in Ruthie’s Club, edited by Neil Anthony and Father Ignatius. www.ruthiesclub.com