But, Johnny is here to talk about something I spend a bit of time ruminating on ...Reality in Fiction.
After Loose Id released my second male/male romance I received a unique compliment from Bryan Murphy, a friend, reader, actor and performer. He said he enjoyed reading “Lauderdale Hearts” because the characters and their situations were real to him. They were believable and thus, Bryan was able to accompany Blake and Ricky on their journey to falling in love.
Now, I know many people who would prefer to immerse themselves in something that’s purely escapist whether it’s television, movies or books. I understand the reason for it as well as the need. After all, I like escapism as well. Between watching Doctor Who, The Lord of The Rings Trilogy, and devouring all of J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter books, I can relate with the need for escape. That doesn’t mean there isn’t room for reality within that escape. As long as it rings true for me I can follow and enjoy the romp, no matter what genre.
As I writer, however, the problem for me is in believing not only the characters, but the premise as well. I need to understand the circumstances and feel as if I myself were, or could be, in that situation. I need to be sucked into the drama as if it were my own. I need to be moved and compelled by the adversity that’s befallen my characters. Most importantly, realistically speaking, I need to know something about the topic or character of which I’m writing.
Perhaps this is the reason why I was so surprised when, after mapping out “The Rosas of Spanish Harlem” chapter by chapter, it turned on me; even after it had already morphed, 27 years ago, from the story of a young Latino male to a caucasian and then to an 18-year-old high school graduate who likes to dress in girl’s clothing. It’s about as alien to me as trying to imagine myself in rich, conservative, religious middle America.
“The Rosas of Spanish Harlem” was never meant to see the light of day. It was an experiment in learning to let go and tap into the subconscious so that I might work on the next story unfettered. It was meant strictly for me, for getting off. It was intended to be nothing but pure smutty stroke material. Instead, it turned into a pleasant surprise with an unexpected outcome. What was even more surprising is that, after submitting the story for consideration, Loose Id said yes.
“Rosas” doesn’t fit the typical romantic arc expected in this genre. In fact, the story was described as “porn noir” and accepted for publication with the understanding that it was a radical departure for my publisher.
I don’t really know if “The Rosas of Spanish Harlem” will ring true to anyone. I hope it does. Especially to those who feel the need to dress in women’s clothing. I’d hate to think I made light of someone’s fetish or lifestyle.
Ironically, all I needed was some escape but, in that escape, what I found was something that, hopefully, might be someone’s reality.
An Excerpt from Johnny Miles's The Rosas of Spanish Harlem
Brighton Beach was practically empty when I climbed the steps from the street up to the boardwalk. I could have walked beneath it, but that was something I usually left as a treat for myself at the end of the day. After spending hours baking in the sun, it was refreshing to sink my toes into the cold damp sand beneath the elevated walkway.
In a way, it was mysterious, foreboding, and exciting. If I was lucky, a guy would stand still long enough for me to look up the inside of his shorts between the cracks and gaps of wood. If I was really lucky, he’d have no underwear on. Not that they were aware, mind you. It was just one of those happy accidents where you happened to be at the right place at the right time. In fact, if any of them knew about the pervy boy ogling their stuff, they’d probably chase after me and beat me to a pulp. Brooklyn men weren’t exactly known for being gay-friendly. At least not in public.
The other thing that intrigued me about walking beneath the boardwalk was all the litter. It consisted mostly of shattered glass bottles and empty cans. Every once in a while, you’d come across a syringe or a used tampon. But the one thing you could
always count on were used condoms—lots of them. I’d think of all that cock, all those people out there having sex, enjoying themselves, having a good time connecting.
I was hungry for the same thing.
Once I stumbled upon a condom that looked as if it had only recently been used. It had been stretched out quite a bit, and I was so intrigued I picked up it gingerly between thumb and forefinger and held it up. I was astonished at how much cum there was in there.
Unfortunately, the boardwalk could also be dangerous. More than once I’d seen homeless people hanging out. That wasn’t bad, because all they’d ask for was money; it was the group of older boys that scared, yet excited me. I had this fantasy that they would stop me, accost me, toss me around for a bit, then strip me naked in a playful manner and have their way with me.
In reality, what could happen to me was nothing like what I envisioned, and none of it had to do with sex.
Despite the dangers, the thought of feasting my young, horny eyes on a big pair of balls and a thick, meaty cock made me feel even hornier than I already was. I pushed my thoughts away and took in the last few moments of silence before the crowds came; the shop owners hadn’t opened up yet to hawk their wares and even the seagulls seemed hesitant to molest the quiet.
In the distance, to my right, Coney Island beckoned with all its gaudiness and tacky amusement rides. I used to love going there as a child. Any other time, and I would have stayed on the train two more stops—end of the line—but after the argument that morning, I preferred the quieter end of things.
I crossed the boardwalk to the beach side and drank in the vast expanse of ocean. The ocean breeze caressed my skin, and I inhaled the salty air deep into my lungs. All the tension I’d felt earlier seemed to evaporate.
Yes, this is definitely where I need to be today.
The only other people around were the city workers and the dirty old men—most of them Eastern European immigrants who sat on the benches all day, facing the ocean to ogle whatever it was that caught their fancy through the binoculars strapped around their necks.
Overhead, a rogue seagull screeched and hovered nearby, daring to break the silence and beg for scraps. It pulled me out of my reverie. With a peaceful sigh, I gripped the metal railing and made my way down the stairs, onto the sand.
To my right, a big, beefy black janitor with a shiny, bald head whistled, glancing from side to side as he unlocked the public men’s room, then disappeared inside with a metal bucket on wheels and a large mop with a dirty head.
I trudged along the beach, sand between the bottom of my feet and the flip-flops I wore, until I found the spot. I shrugged the oversize canvas bag from my shoulder. I pulled out one of my old cum-stained sheets from my twin bed and shook it. It fluttered in the breeze, flapping like a flag before finally falling gently to the sand, where I anchored it with a flip-flop at either corner. Then I placed the bag at the top corner, to my right. I pulled out the thermos filled with grape soda and propped it at the other corner, burying it a little in the sand.
Satisfied, I pulled out my towel and made a pillow out of it as the surf began to churn a bit more urgently. I pulled off my bloodred tank top then undid the top button of my cut-off jean shorts. They fell to my ankles.
I imagined one or two of the old geezers on the boardwalk, sitting on their bench, binoculars glued to their eyes as they trained on my slim, lithe body.
Eat your hearts out, I thought and bent over dramatically to step out of my shorts. I envisioned the old men leering and licking their sandpapery, wrinkled lips as I stood up straight, hands on hips.
I still wore my sister’s pink panties.
With a nasty, playful glee at whomever—if anyone—was watching me, I plopped down on the sheet and proceeded to apply baby oil to every inch of exposed flesh. Then I leaned on one elbow, and after fiddling with my transistor radio—using only my fingertips to avoid getting too much oil on the dials—I found the AM music station I liked. My favorite song was on. “Afternoon Delight” by the Starland Vocal Band.
Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight gonna grab some afternoon delight. My motto’s always been: when it’s right, it’s right. Why wait until the middle of a cold, dark night.
Half humming, half singing, I lay down, closed my eyes, and was soon asleep under the hot, prickly sun.
* * * *
Voices carried on the wind. A woman giggled. There were soft whispers, and a man laughed. Something about them made me stir. I could tell they were young but still a little older than me.
“No, papi. Stop it. I already told you. Not here.”
“Aw, c’mon, baby. Who’s gonna see?” The man was cajoling, somewhat syrupy. He definitely wanted something.
“Roll your bod! Roll your bod!” This from the radio, which was fading. The nine-volt battery was dying.
I came awake and slowly rolled over, realizing I’d probably been asleep longer than I should have been. Tomorrow I’d have a real nice sunburn.
I looked up slowly, discreetly. A young Puerto Rican couple lay on a blanket about 10 feet away from me.
The woman was a typical Latina: big boobs, wide hips, a sensual mouth. She looked to be in her early twenties. Her wavy black hair blew in her face. She reached for it, pulled it from her mouth, and tucked it behind her ear.
The man was about twenty-four, and his skin was the color of caramel. His body was lean, toned, and perfectly smooth. His hair was black, and he wore it tight to his scalp. I got the impression he was quite a charmer. How else could he get away with calling her babe or mami?
It was obvious to me they were doing their best to keep their voices low, but they might as well have been talking out loud. Their whispers carried in the wind, and I could hear them as clearly as if they were beside me.
I propped my chin on folded arms and closed my eyes to slits so it would appear as if I were still sleeping. It helped that my hair was loose and wind-tossed, covering half my face.
The young man’s fingers tugged at the side of the tiny triangular patch of cloth covering his girlfriend’s pussy.
“Angel, no! Stop it, papi!”
She slapped his hand, but I could tell she was just as aroused as he was. I could sense that all he had to do was push a little harder and he’d soon get what he wanted.
Pulse racing, my small cock now fully erect, I ground into the sand to readjust myself and continued watching them.
Angel succeeded in pulling the material of her bathing suit to one side and exposed her shaved pussy. I gulped and found myself inexplicably thirsty quite suddenly.
“Papi, no. Please.” She hissed, then moaned as Angel inserted his fingers into her pussy. A small sound escaped my throat, as if I could feel what he was doing to her. He cast a glance in my direction, and I froze. After a moment, satisfied they weren’t being watched, Angel turned his attention back to the girl lying on her side before him.
She parted her lips and threw her head back, eyes closed. Angel chuckled. There was something lewd, sexy, and seductive about it.
I watched him wriggle his fingers inside her, pumping them in and out a few times before pulling out completely and sucking on them, one finger at a time. Then he brought them back down between her legs, finger fucked her some more, and pulled them out only to insert them in her mouth. She slurped on them noisily, greedily.
And all I could do was imagine I was her.
“You’re so fucking wet!” Angel whispered, his voice carrying on the wind.
“Ahhh! You’re such a pig, Angel!” Although she complained, she did nothing to stop him. “Don’t you ever get enough?”
In response, Angel pulled his fingers out of her pussy, then reached for the waistband of his black Speedos. Out flopped a large, fat, uncut cock. My eyes bugged out at the sight of him casually stroking the thick, meaty shaft in the open.
I briefly wondered if any of the old buggers on the benches could see what I was watching, and suddenly realized why they had those binoculars. For unexpected moments like this.
“Mira, mami,” Angel said. She glanced down at his cock and chewed her lower lip. “See what you do to me?”
He pulled the foreskin back, exposing the head. He looked even wetter than she did as he rubbed the tip up and down her fleshy folds. She moaned. Slowly, Angel slipped his cock inside her, filling her completely one glorious inch at a time as he placed a hand on her ass and pulled her hips closer.
Angel had stopped glancing around by this point, and I doubt either of them cared anymore if anyone was looking. With the length of his cock inside her pussy, they started to kiss.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispered.
“Shhh! It’s okay, baby. No one’s looking. Besides, there’s only a few people nearby.”
“What about that girl?”
“What girl?” Angel asked. I blushed at the realization she was talking about me.
“That girl. Down there.” She raised her leg slightly and pointed toward me with her toes. I remained perfectly still, hair in my face. I closed my eyes just in case, grateful I’d rolled over onto my stomach. I might have a small dick, but an erection is an erection, and I’d have given myself away. Not to mention that I probably wouldn’t be able to see what was happening as well as I could now.
“Honey, she’s sunning herself topless. You think she’s gonna care if we’re fucking out in the open?”
Seconds later I heard slurping noises. I dared to open my eyes and looked up to see them kissing. Their hips gently rocked to and fro. Their movement was barely perceptible, but it was apparently enough to cause the right amount of friction. One of them sighed, the other gasped.
Unable to believe what was happening, I could feel precum oozing from my cock as if it were a small faucet with a leak.
Soon she was moving back and forth more quickly than he was. I could see a bit more of the underside of his shaft; it looked slick and wet from sweat and pussy juice.
My pulse was pumping in my head and my dick was throbbing as I continued to watch. I longed to crawl on my hands and knees between their legs and lick them both, but I fought the urge.
A bit more brazen now that he was lost in the excitement, Angel rolled the girl over, moving with her without pulling out. Now on her back, she spread her legs and placed her hands on his ass. He corkscrewed discreetly, pushing in and pulling out of her ever so slightly. His hip movement would’ve been easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. But I could tell. His ass cheeks dimpled as he ground into her; I could see the hollows even through his bathing suit.
As I watched them fuck, I pressed my own erection into the sand, moving my hips from side to side. I was close.
The girl suddenly gave a single, soft moan, and her entire body shuddered. Seconds later, Angel sighed, and I followed with a load of my own.
My heart was in my throat, and although I’d just come, I was now hornier than ever. My pulse raced and hormones raged. What with having just watched the couple before me, the heat of the sun, and the sound of the surf, I could barely control myself. In that moment I understood how someone might become so frantic with desire they’d pounce on the first person they saw without thought or regard to consequence.
Fuck first; ask questions later. That pretty much summed up what I was feeling.
At that moment, even though I didn’t like girls, I’d have gladly eaten her pussy just to get a taste of him. Of course, I would have preferred to suck him and sample the juices from his foreskin, but there was no chance of that happening, no matter how much I wanted it.
Frustrated, I rolled over, stood up, and raced into the ocean. I imagined myself as a red-hot poker, glowing while steam rose as I submerged myself. A moment later, I burst through the surface and bobbed in the water as my breathing went back to normal.
I’ve just got to get my hands on some dick. Oh, please! I’m so fucking horny!
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. I glanced toward the beach and saw Angel stand. Even from that distance, I could see him reach inside the pouch of his suit and readjust himself. He swaggered as he walked toward the ocean and, even though he was now soft, I could see the outline of his cock as he drew near. His balls looked to be huge, round, and smooshed up against either side of the now soft length of meat.
Obsessed with Angel, his cock, and the image of him fucking, I decided to leave the beach. I could no longer stay there. I had to get off, and masturbating alone wouldn’t satisfy me. I simplyhad to find cock! But where? How? It wasn’t the kind of thing they taught you in school. Then it hit me.
I know. I’ll go under the boardwalk.
With all those used condoms I kept finding, I was bound to run into someone horny enough who didn’t care whether he got a blowjob from a boy or a girl. But would there be anybody there at this hour, cruising around and looking for trouble?
I clambered out of the water, walked back to my spot, and quickly packed up my stuff.
© Johnny Miles, January 2012
All Rights Reserved