I'm a thirty-something gay man with a dodgy heart. I sell books for a living. Who wants to read about that?

He shifted over without comment, lifting the blankets, and I scrambled into the warm sheets beside him. He smelled like soap and sleep and bare skin. He smelled familiar. Not the deja vu familiar of Guy or Mel. Familiar like...the ache in your chest of homesickness, of longing for harbor after weeks of rough seas or craving a fire's warmth after snow--or wanting back something you should never have given away.

He was probably selfish in the sack. Probably selfish and greedy and...unsophisticated. And hung like a horse.

The phone rang, picked up, and the same male voice announced, “Chris Powers." "Hey there, Chris. Are you aware it's a felony to make threats over the phone?" To give Powers his fair due, he got over his shock within a split second. “Try it, asshole. I dare you. My lawyers will have you for lunch.” He clicked off again. I did what any red-blooded American male would do. I called my big, ex-cop ex-boyfriend.

Have I ever told you, you look like Monty Clift? he inquired in a deep, seductive voice. Before or after the accident?

I'm a thirty-something gay man with a dodgy heart. I sell books for a living. Who wants to read about that?

I think it was Mark Twain who said, “Get your facts straight, and then you can distort them as much as you like.