I think I've posted this before, however it wouldn't be this version as I've spent some time, perhaps too much, reworking the words and structure. It's hard for me as I'm a person that the more I work on something the worse I make it. I need a constant reminder that little is more with me. Anyway I've been working on this novel, a gay horror story, a niche I see is void when visiting amazon or chapters or b&n. Here is the first few pages, as I've left them, I'll post the others as their rewritten. On this particular novel I've written about 80% of the book, the last 20% is still to be birthed.
The drive out to the lake had taken a bit longer than he had remembered it, probably because the group would always car-pool and so, he assumed, the company reduced the appearance of time. It had been the first he had ever been at the lake house by himself. It sat dark and eerily quiet, just the sound of wind, whistling through the tree tops, the trees moaning under their own weight, and the sound of the lake, washing up on the beach.
As though someone else were there to see him and, as though, he was about to do something devious, he crept past the house, looking over his shoulder and jumping at the smallest of noises. He knew, with certainty that nobody was near; even the other house sitting on the lake was devoid of life, the empty driveway and lack of light were a dead give-away. Still, though, its windows remained empty eyes that were watching him. It would be another couple weeks before anyone else would visit the place. Still, though, in his mind an image materialized of a stranger standing in one of the large bay windows, tracking him. Though it was only his imagination, the image, on a loop, ratcheted up his nerves and he found himself looking and looking again, at the plate glass windows, searching for the shadow of a person behind the reflection that the moon cast. It took great effort for him to put those thoughts and images away and ignore the persistent feeling that he was being watched. Pulling a mini mag-lite from his pocket he walked past the house and down the beach. Dimly, the light, illuminated the path before him, he had forget how dead the battery was. The trail dodged back and forth between trees and ferns and soon the foliage blocked what little of the moonlight there was. He began to feel his feet sinking, slightly, into the ground and he knew he was close. The sounds of a trickling stream guided him toward his intended spot.
Water lapped at the beach, catching his pant cuffs, in their wake. Kneeling, he plunged his hands, wrist deep, into the icy mud patch, where the small stream trickled into the cold waters of the mountain lake, he began moulding his creation. His lips were moving, as he recited the same set of words repeatedly, under his breath. It was important, he had read, to do this. Attempting his best at getting the incantation right, he found himself over pronouncing each word. It was a mystery to him, why he was so concerned about getting it wrong. The words were not his language and he was pretty sure that he was butchering each syllable. In hopes of finding some recordings of the words, he had gone online, so he could hear them spoken but, after a hard search, found nothing.
The shape below him was forming into a man, a large oversized muddy one. His freezing hands were infecting the rest of his body; the shivers crept up his arms and down his spine. It was summer but only for another few weeks and then fall would take the reins. In a week, when he and the guys would be up here, it would be a bit colder, still. There was a large coffee in the car, a travel mug with a plug in heater, to keep it warm. The idea of wrapping his hands around that mug, feeling the warmth filter back into his fingers, comforted and motivated him. Mosquitoes that had somehow lived past the days of a warm summer sun swarmed around his head. There were light trails of mud markings all over his face and neck as he, gingerly, attempted to swat them away, while trying to remain clean. By now, he thought, the mud had to be so thick the mosquitoes wouldn’t be able to get to his skin. The image he must be making, a man covered in mud moulding another man out of mud, struck him as funny. The flash light, illuminating the quiet night, bobbed with his silent laughter and began to dim, futher, as the batteries died. His time was almost up. It was almost done anyway, just one more thing, a piece of the person it was modeled on.
Arms out, keeping his hands away from his clothing, he stood up and walked into the water; then leaning over began to rinse his hands free of the mud and clay. Once clean, he pulled the object from his pocket and, moved back towards the mud figure, he forced it into the chest, where the heart should be, and then he smoothed mud over the hole. It was almost complete. Last but not least, using his thumb nail, he carved some letters into the things forehead. These had been easy for him to remember, without having to write them down, having gone through a Kabbalah stage, at one point, they were familiar to him.
His therapist had suggested he make art, “Take your anger and frustration out in a creative way, write, paint or draw. Get it out, quit harbouring it.” He wasn’t sure if his therapist would have approved this particular work of art, knowing she had meant for him to create a Rembrandt, make his own Picasso, or become the next Stephen King. Instead, with his inquisitive mind, he had gone home and typed ‘therapeutic art’. One link had led to another, as they usually did, and soon he was looking at Golems. It wouldn’t ever walk, it couldn’t talk, and nothing would ever come of it, he knew, but it was the action, the creation, that he was capitalizing on. Through his efforts the anger that resided in his heart would be transferred into the mud man, lying before him, and then, with the next rain it would wash away. Symbolism, that’s all it was. The same way divorced women used to throw their wedding rings into the Truckee river, running through Reno, Nevada, back when Reno was the divorce capital of the world, he would throw this memento, of his betrayed love, into the mud effigy and let nature cleanse him of the hurt.
Feeling strange, he stood up, the hairs on his body were raised and his goose pimples followed suit. It was as though electricity were coursing through his body. Looking up he scanned the skies, thinking a storm must be brewing. This high up in the mountains, he knew, storms could approach without warning and lightning was a dangerous thing. But all was clear, not a cloud to be seen, only the stars were looking back at him. It must be working, he thought, all that negative energy leaving his body, dispersed back into the world from whence it came. Already, he felt better. This might work; he could sense the success in the air. For once, therapy was paying off.
Cool, he thought.
As was his ritual before weekends at the lake house, it was to Goliath’s Aidan went.
The place was busy and there was a waiting list for a room. Music was blaring, as it always was, a little too loud. Opened doors revealed more ass than face, as he walked by, tops and bottoms, face up or down, looking for their missing halves. Debauchery surrounded him. People were getting blowjobs in the shower and a man, in a sling, was gliding back and forth, on a glistening cock, his grunts echoing their way down the corridors. A small crowd had gathered at the door and Aidan had to bump the shoulders of the men, some jerking off, as they watched, in order to get past.
Standing at over six feet tall and solid, like a linebacker, Aidan was a big guy. In the microcosm that was a bathhouse, you only needed to combine his size with his sexual proclivity, being a top, and you were left with a popular persona. If he wanted to fuck someone, there was hardly a wait. Eyes turned to him as he walked down the hallways and their bodies turned with them. Tonight, though, regardless of how worked up he was, frustration prevented him from relaxing. Walking down the halls, a large convoluted circle, Aidan noticed he had company, a man following close behind. He recognized the hurt in this man, could read it on his face, and knew the other man could do the same.
Sitting in the porn room, the level of quality, in both film and performance, told him the movie was, at least, ten to fifteen years old, he watched as men walked around, towels around their waist cruising one another. There were cubicles facing the screen, a few full with action. Despite how bad he thought the porn was he had found himself slightly excited. His follower, a slightly smaller man, had walked into the room. He was mildly attractive, Aidan thought, nice body. They kept the gaze going, in typical bathhouse code and then the man walked over.
It always came to this, Aidan had come to understand. The goal, as it had been the all the previous times, was to tempt himself. Aidan wanted to know he could turn down sex, prove that he was strong enough to withstand the temptations thrown at him. Outside, in the real world, he had failed. This, as he saw it, was his boot camp. Walking around, sitting, watching, he could witness all the things he could be doing, people he could be doing, everything he enjoyed doing, but say no, force himself to not engage that part of his mind, and body. Self-control is what he lacked and why his relationships always ended and so this was his work out, his attempt at gaining strength.
The man with the hurt eyes walked towards Aidan and, with the slightest shake of the head, Aidan said ‘No.’ A missed step, a sure thing blown, the man staggered a foot or so, unsure of what had happened, then, in true bath house style, pretending that, in fact, nothing had happened, he turned and walked from the room.
Aidan sat, listening to the pleasure, emanating from all around him, and let the desire wash over him.