Wilde Oats is an online literary magazine. It celebrates gay and bisexual fiction. It embraces the joys and agonies of life for gay and bisexual men, from hard gritty realism to wild flights of romantic fantasy.
Wilde Oats has gone through some big changes in recent months: we have moved to a new server and changed our appearance. The journal is published three times a year - in April, August and December. Between issues, you can find out what's happening, read snippets of new stories, see new artwork, and keep up to date by visiting us here.
Monday, February 25, 2013
My parents arrived for Thanksgiving with my sister in tow and, as a special surprise to me, my grandmother. Cindy confided to me that Grammy had warned her that the folks at home would be burning crosses on her lawn when they found out about me, and that if they could not change my mind with this visit I would be cut out of the family will. I guess she had come to take part in a gay intervention. I hoped the rest of them had slightly less aggressive agendas.
I found them at their Santa Monica hotel the afternoon of their arrival, and I decided to walk them down the Third Street Promenade. It was a perfect, blue-sky L.A. day. After fifteen minutes of strolling, we picked an Italian place that had a table available outside. We-everyone but Grammy, who wasn't ready to face me yet-sat silently and looked over the menu. The waiter came, we ordered, and when the menus had been collected, the conversation turned to the weather and how the local teams had been faring in football. I could tell the "topic of interest" was being politely ignored, and I gathered my strength. It was time to throw down.
"So, Dad," I began. He was sitting directly across the table. "I guess we should talk about me being gay."
Silence. We all sort of tried to look at one another. Clearly everyone was surprised by my outburst.
Dad had not expected to be challenged in such a manner, and I could tell Cindy was looking away, perhaps to stifle a laugh. I looked desperately toward her for support. She looked at my father.
He said, "Well, Jay, all I have to say is: if you're going to do that, you might as well kill somebody."
I think my sister's bread fell out of her mouth.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
|(c) Eve Le Dez|
Hawk glanced down the table quickly, trying for nonchalance. He always looked, but the view never changed. Either Concho had a locker full of black leather pants and vests, or he always wore the same ones. Hawk knew there'd be black boots under the table, and the belt with its hammered silver circles that echoed the man's name. He wore nothing else, save a silver chain around his neck and a black head scarf that served to keep long, greasy black hair out of his face. A narrow black mustache framed his thin lips, and his dark, almost black eyes were fixed on his bowl.
"Hey, why don't you come sit up here, keep me company while we eat?" he called.
He had to strain to hear the quiet, "Nope."
Hawk slowly finished his sandwich, vowing he wouldn't say anything more, but the pressure of silence was too great, and as he stood to return his plate to the recycler, he asked Concho's slender back and broad shoulders, "Why not?"
And Concho replied, as he always did, "Because I don't like you," then went on spooning up his soup.
Read more at http://www.wildeoats.com/fiction_hawksflight.html.
About the author
Brian once tried to live a normal life, but was unable to figure out what it was. Now, when not writing down the stories characters insist on whispering in his ears, he photographs the beautiful Oregon coast, as well as his friends and family when they will hold still for it. Brian reads almost anything, loves listening to jazz and pop, and sings along when he remembers the words. The rest of his time is spent in trying to keep his multiple personalities happy - or at least not fighting one another. Brian believes that his writing would still exist only in a dusty pile of spiral-bound notebooks if it weren't for the dedication and encouragement of some great online friends and his writing group, the WordCrafters.
Illustration: Eve Le Dez
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
|Art by Charlie Cochet - see below.|
Tom closed his eyes and lay back in his seat, feeling relaxed and exhilarated at the same time. The colonel's hand reached across and stroked the back of his head. Tom didn't react fearing that if he did, the colonel might stop. Then he leaned in and loosened Tom's tie and gently unbuttoned his shirt. The sensation of Dore's sweat against his face and the taste of his warm, thick saliva made Tom's head reel.
Dore said things to him that afternoon no man should ever say to anyone but his wife. Later, in the colonel's musty, dimly lit office, Dore ordered Tom to take off his clothes. He obediently disrobed, but fumbled with the khaki shorts that would reveal his arousal. In one swift motion, the colonel yanked them down around his ankles, undid the buttons of his fly and forced himself on Tom. The pain frightened him, less because of the brutal discomfort than the blinding desire that accompanied it.
Read the story in its entirety on Wilde Oats.
About author Richard Natale.
Richard Natale is a Los Angeles-based writer, reporter and columnist for such publications as the Los Angeles Times, L.A. Weekly, Buzz magazine and Variety. His play "Shuffle Off This Mortal Buffalo" won the National Playwrights competition and was staged in Los Angeles and Kansas City. His feature film "Green Plaid Shirt", which he wrote and directed, premiered at L.A.'s Outfest, was a closing night selection at the Palm Springs Film Festival and was shown at more than 20 film festivals around the world. It remains a best-selling DVD through Wolfe Video. Natale recently completed a novel, Junior Willis, set in Los Angeles in summer, 1969. He is at work on a second novel, Café Eisenhower, set in Eastern Europe following the fall of the Berlin Wall, the first chapter of which was excerpted in Wilde Oats under the title "Refrigeration Blues.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Monday, February 4, 2013
Friday, February 1, 2013
The ball was still well underway when the President managed to slip out. He hurried away knowing that if she caught him leaving, Harriet would come after him. He thought he would fall asleep the moment his head touched the pillows in that big canopied bed. He hoped he would dream, dream not of Nikolai but of Rufus, the love of his life.
But instead he lay on his accustomed side of the bed, this time in the Presidential quarters of the White House exhausted but far too keyed up to sleep. He had heard the clock chime the three o'clock hour, knowing that morning was both too long and too short a time for his weary mind and body. He congratulated himself on his promise, in his inauguration speech, not to run for a second term. He did not think he could take another day like the past one.
"Ah, Rufus," Buchanan sighed aloud. He patted the counterpane next to him. "I don't imagine they would have let us share this bed. But I still miss you and wish you were here."
As he lay on his back with his hands folded prayerfully on his chest he thought he felt the edge of the bed sink under some pressure.
"But Jamie, I am here."
James stiffened. He dared not turn his head toward the familiar drawl. "Rufus?" he croaked.