REVIEW of SHELTER - A film by Jonah Markowitz

Reviewed by Robert M. Tilendis
here! Films, 2007
ASIN: B0013D8LCW; US $24.98

I first saw Shelter on its theatrical release in 2007. The film had gotten raves when shown at "Reeling" (Chicago's gay and lesbian film festival), and I was in the mood for a nice boy-meets-boy story. The film is a little more than that.

Zach (Trevor Wright) dreamed of going to Cal Arts (the California Institute of the Arts), but family obligations got in the way - his mother died, his father's not in good shape after injuring his back, and his sister Jeanne (Tina Holmes) is working her way through a string of boyfriends while Zach seems to be the one who's actually raising her son, Cody (Jackson Wurth), who's soon to start kindergarten. Zach spends his time, when not at his dead-end job as a short order cook, doing street art and surfing. His best friend Gabe (Ross Thomas), who comes from the high-rent district, is off on an extended trip, but while Gabe's away his older brother Shaun (Brad Rowe) is down from L.A. Shaun taught Zach to surf. Shaun is also gay, but that doesn't stop Zach from spending time with him. The inevitable happens, but the road there is more than a little roug

Read the full review on Wilde Oats.

About the reviewer:

Robert M. Tilendis is a writer and artist from Chicago. Although he seldom leaves the city these days (maintaining stoutly that in addition to being one of the liveliest places you can live -- City Hall alone is worth the price of admission -- it's also one of the most beautiful cities in the world), he's made his presence felt worldwide through Hunter at Random, his blog; Booklag, his online journal; and his work at Sleeping Hedgehog, where he is Editor, Green Man Review, and Epinions.

Somehow, he finds time to watch movies

Happy Birthday, Aubrey Beardsley!

March 16, 1898 – AUBREY BEARDSLEY, English illustrator and author, died (b: 1872): Aubrey Beardsley was the most controversial artist of the Art Nouveau era, renowned for his dark and perverse images and the grotesque erotica, which were the main themes of his later work. Some of his drawings, inspired by Japanese shunga, featured enormous genitalia. His most famous erotic illustrations were on themes of history and mythology, including his illustrations for Aristophanes' Lysistrata and Oscar Wilde's Salome.

Reprinted from GAY WISDOM for Daily Living...

from White Crane a magazine exploring
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From White Crane Books
THE 2013 LAMMY FINALIST  FOR LGBT NONFICTION:

OUT SPOKEN
A VITO RUSSO READER
THE TWO VOLUME COMPANION
TO THE HBO DOCUMENTARY "VITO"

Now assembled as a special two-volume edition for the very first time, A Vito Russo Reader is a companion piece to VITO, the highly-acclaimed new HBO documentary by filmmaker Jeffrey Schwarz.

 From the rough-and-tumble beginnings of the gay and lesbian movement in New York City in the late-1960s, A Vito Russo Reader travels throught he excitement and discovery, turmoil and tragedy that engrossed the next two decades -- until Vito's death from AIDS in 1990.

These books, like the film, bear witness to the makings of a remarkable man. 

Available Now at www.whitecranebooks.org

REVIEW OF HORROR: DARK AND LITE by Anel Viz

Reviewed by Christopher Hawthorne Moss

Silver Publishing, 2012
Vol. 1 197 pp. ; Vol. 2 118 pp.

Anel Viz proves himself master of yet another genre, this time horror, and likewise puts his individual stamp on it. Besides including stories with gay themes, you simply cannot expect any formulae with this author. Someday this reviewer will find a predictable story in a Viz work, then will examine the book to discover that the cover has the author's name incorrect. In other words, fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy ride with no certain destination.

The two volumes are each assigned the dark side of horror and the lighter side of horror. In each the horror is not always your typical modern horror story. Yes, there is a serial killer. There are Undead. There is a stalker of sorts, and there might be an alien. You may run into a couple shapeshifters, though hardly your garden variety of those. Even the convention of horror being actual, as perceived by the individual being dogged by it, cannot be assumed. In one story, for instance, the fearful situation proves to be quite everyday and simply being perceived as frightening.

Links to these nooks and more great reviews at Wilde Oats.

Volume 1: Dark Horror

Val

In a tale told in a frank and daring style, Brad has become obsessed with an ex-lover named Val whom he found years later dying of AIDS. He begins to bring home prostitutes whom he makes dress and behave like Val. When he meets a young man who not only looks like his obsession but is named Val, he begins what seems to be a long-term relationship. The puzzling fact of the new Val starting to dwindle physically, becoming ill, leads to a mystery only the lover can solve. Other writers may ponder whether and how to inject sex into their stories, but Viz refreshingly uses sex to develop the very composition. The use of the men's sexual encounters and how they shift, change and ultimately fall apart is as unique as it is a skillful bit of storytelling. With a touch of "Pygmalion" and "Picture of Dorian Gray", Viz exhibits his dependable literary artistry.

Slasher

Lou awakes in a gay bathhouse and is ordered to join many others being interrogated by the police. A guest has had his throat cut and they are all under suspicion. Along with Lou is Jamie, a young man who works at the baths who, it seems, saw the murderer. When other similar deaths occur which point to the young man being either the slasher or his intended victim, our narrator does what he can to protect him and falls in love. In this Hitchcock-like story the reader must gather the loose ends of numerous clues to the identity of the killer, never knowing which is germane and which is a red herring. How better to sustain suspense?

The Matador

Three protagonists take center stage in this story of doomed love in a Spain in transition from a fascist to an open society. Soledad is a woman who has been used and cast off too many times. Adulio is the innocent who seems her best chance at happiness, until she begins to suspect her brother Luis, a dashing matador, wants to steal him from her. In the meantime something strange is happening to Adulio, a change that affects more than just his sexuality. Viz shapes the romance around the characters and their expectations, adding the mystery with a light hand and delivering a well woven triskelion of interlocking hopes and dreams.

Volume 2: Horror Lite

A Layover at Atatürk International

Airline passengers in Turkey watch dejectedly as their plane flies off for repairs with their luggage. The officials bus them to a hotel where they bunk two by two, thrown together with none of their belongings for who knows how long. Chase manages to get himself an attractive roommate, Viet Bloedrank, that he can only hope shares his tastes in bedmates. It does not take him long to discover "taste" is just the word for it. If you are expecting something sinister is going on, you soon learn that Viz can make the Undead just an everyday seeker of happiness.

Coffee and Aftershave

Skyler always arranges first dates at a coffee shop, and as the story begins he hopes the next one with Claude will prove to be a keeper. Earlier, though, he is unnerved by the fellow who sits next to him on the commuter train, a man who makes a great deal out of his aftershave and asks him if he has ever "done it" with a man. When he arrives at his stop, he notices the man is following him. Worse, when he meets with Claude the man shows up and follows them, Claude revealing that he has seen the man before too. The coincidence creeps out Claude too much to make love. It looks like Skyler's hopes with Claude are dashed. Skyler proceeds to make dates with other men, all of whom reveal having been followed by the strange fellow. It might be misleading to assume a typical horror plot is underway, but then it is always a mistake to assume anything typical is going on in Viz's work. The reader will be presented with something odd, but not what he thinks is happening.

Bryce Olson is Pregnant

When checking on Bryce, an acquaintance Russell has always had a yen for, he finds him holed up in his apartment hiding from aliens, convinced he has been impregnated by one in the form of his boyfriend, Ken. Russell decides to humor the man, mostly because he is concerned for his friend's sanity. He puts up with the anal probe stories and paranoia, but when the paranoid man and he perform an informal survey of the men from their community and discover that they all had sex with Ken and, when asked to explain why, all give the answer "it just sort of happened," Russ begins to wonder if Bryce isn't right about the man. Viz leads the reader through the process of investigation and its realignment of Russell's reactions gradually. The confrontation scene is priceless and handled by the author with a shrug and a smile.

The Stray

John has noticed that the cool dog that shows up at the door never seems to be in the area when his lover Farkas is there. At the same time he starts to meet some of his lovers' friends and family in an unusual bar. They all seem fascinated, even obsessed by the full moon, and he too starts to enjoy the wild camping parties in the woods. This was this reviewer's favorite story, enjoying not only the comfortable pace but the hilarious wordplay and jokes that Viz has planted. A Hungarian to English dictionary might add to your enjoyment.

What next is on Anel Viz's literary to do list? His fans can only wait and see, poised on the edge of their proverbial seats.

---

Links to these nooks and more great reviews at Wilde Oats.

EXCERPT - AN ISLAND INTERLUDE by Anel Viz

All he wanted was to rest , soak up some rays, get some underwater sightseeing done, come back to his RL refreshed.  Sometimes when you least expect it, someone swims into your life.



Artwork by Kit Moss.

Read the whole story, An Island Interlude at Wilde Oats.

EXCERPT

I more than half expected him to rip off his clothes as soon as we reached open water, but he only kicked off his shoes and socks.  I watched him from the deck as he stood at the wheel in his white shorts and short-sleeved shirt, a white captain’s cap on his head.  And he was wearing a watch.

I had no trouble visualizing the body underneath his clothing.  Short (five foot five at most, maybe five-six), narrow-waisted and slim with the gentle musculature we call a “swimmer’s build”, the even tan on his smooth, unblemished skin, his back and chest hairless, forearms and legs almost so, and just a faint trail of fine hairs running from his navel to the sparse curls capping a crotch he might have shaved.

“Are you sure someone hasn’t come by and run off with the blankets and whatever else you keep there?”

“Not a chance.  No one knows the island even exists except me.”

“And now I will, too.”

“But not where it is.”

He was right.  With no view of the compass I had no idea where we were headed nor any way of taking our bearings.  If I had to steer by the sun and stars I’d be lost.

It took us nearly three hours to reach his island.  No wonder he wanted to get such an early start!  In the beginning we passed dozens of small islands, most of them flat and apparently uninhabited, though there may have been homes built on some of them.  They were too distant for me to make out details like that; he kept well out to open sea.  As we approached the end of our trip there was not an island in sight.  I knew we had reached the island when for the first time he headed straight toward land.

Friday Cay was as small as any of them, perhaps two or three square miles in all, but the terrain was hillier and more varied.  We had not come close enough to the others to tell for sure, but it may have had a more irregular shoreline as well, which would make for better snorkeling.

We pulled around a reef to anchor along a beachless section of the shore.  As far as I could see, there was no spot suitable for camping.  “We hike to the lean-to,” he said.  “It’s not far.  I built it just above a nice stretch of beach, but I always leave my boat here.  It’s more sheltered.”

“And we’re supposed to swim to shore holding the food over our heads to keep it dry?”

“Silly.  And you think I’d swim dragging our liquor supply in a net behind me?  We paddle in using the inflatable.”

“So you brought liquor, did you?  I expected you would.  Vodka for your martinis?”

“No, rum.  It fits the castaway scenario better, and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper too.  Okay, time to get undressed.  From here on no more than flip-flops for the walk and a tee-shirt in case you need to protect your back from the sun.”

“Mightn’t it get chilly at night?  I brought a sweatshirt.”

“Unlikely.  You can bring it, but you can’t wear it.  I have one in the storage bin too.”

“And what about a hat?”

“Hats are allowed.”

We loaded what we’d need into the life raft.  I asked, “Shouldn’t we take the first-aid kit too?”

“I keep one in the storage bin.”

We pulled the raft up above the high-water line, put on our backpacks and headed up a steep rise.  At the top we turned to the right and followed a natural path back down to the beach, about three-quarters of a mile from where we’d cast anchor.  I felt not a breath of wind on the island, though it had been blowing pretty strongly on the open sea, and if you looked back you saw the water far out was choppy.

The vegetation was fairly thick, but not high.  There were even a few trees.  I wondered if we’d be doing some hiking around the island.

“Nothing much to see,” he said. “If you look out from the highest point there’s nothing but empty ocean on all sides, and the island itself is just as empty.  Why bother?”  However, by the time I left I had walked every inch of it.

We spent the day snorkeling, splashing around in the ocean, and of course drinking.  We wrestled a bit in the surf, but he made no advances, paid no attention to my body, and kept his speech free of the sexual innuendo to which I had become accustomed.  Had I misjudged him, or was it his turn to tease me?  If so, I deserved it.  Now it was my turn to be wary.

But when we returned at night and lay naked under the blankets, the tarp-covered lean-to roof above us, the embers of our fire glowing ten feet away, he asked, “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?”

Read the whole story, An Island Interlude at Wilde Oats.

 

About the author

Anel Viz is a regular contributor to Wilde Oats. A native New Yorker transplanted with only mild success to the Midwest and who has spent much of life in French-speaking countries, returned to his childhood passion of writing fiction and poetry a few years ago. He looks forward to devoting himself to it full time, having recently retired from college teaching. He writes in a variety of genres and enjoys pushing the envelope, both in his literary experiments and his treatment of sex. In addition to his Wilde Oats stories, his publications include 4 novels, 3 novellas, 7 short stories, 3 prose poem cycles, and Kaleidoscope, a short-story anthology. His 2-volume anthology, Horror, Dark & Lite, was released by Silver Publishing at Halloween.

website: http://bookworld.editme.com/AnelViz

EXCERPT: Fat Faggots Offer Drugs for Sex. by Thomas Kearnes

Artwork by Kit Moss

 Not every gay story is glamorous.  Sometimes a guy needs to make do with what he can get.  Sometimes he gets more than he could hope for.

EXCERPT

Dewey gazed dumbly at the baggie he held. He and Margene certainly could use the cash. Dewey, however, possessed so little imagination he couldn't fathom life if dealing drugs became his second career. He couldn't imagine anything better than what fate God had coldly tossed in his lap. Margene would want him to walk two miles for more Virginia Slims once Christopher left.

Impatient, Christopher snatched both the baggie and the pipe. "I told you," he said, "I'm on a tight schedule."

"We won't need to smoke it all," Dewey said too quickly. "It's strong stuff. You can take the rest home like I promised." He paused. "Does your girlfriend smoke it, too?"

"I thought you hadn't tried this."

Dewey's heart dropped into his stomach. He felt himself sinking onto the bed, his head bowed like a puppy gruffly disciplined for pissing inside the house. Now he knows I'm a liar, Dewey thought. Nobody likes liars. Dewey summoned the courage to glance at Christopher and was relieved to discover his guest ignoring him, too busy loading the pipe with a fat white crystal.

Dewey pretended he hadn't been caught. To his relief, Christopher pocketed the baggie after finishing the bowl and produced a disposable lighter. Dewey watched in rapture as the immense and bright rolls of white smoke escaped his lips. He had always found it deeply erotic to watch men expel crystal meth smoke. He liked to imagine those same mouths ravenous for his own ignored cock. The last man who had sucked him off was so inept that Dewey developed a rash from the irritation.
 Christopher took five hits from the pipe before offering it to Dewey, but Dewey didn't mind. After all, Christopher was under no obligation to share. One or two of the men Dewey had serviced hadn't shared at all. Dewey took an enormous hit, sucking on the stem until gasping for breath. He exhaled an endless procession of white smoke, and Christopher chuckled. "Damn impressive, big boy," he said.

"I can do a lot of cool shit with my mouth."

"Let me see that pipe again."

They passed it back in forth, Christopher always taking more hits than Dewey on each rotation. They finished the first bowl and began another. Once that bowl was cashed, Dewey succumbed to the sensation of floating atop a jet stream, fluttering over the continent. For a moment, he forgot Christopher stood before him. The sound of a zipper opening slapped him back to reality. There was the business of the blowjob.

"Get on your knees, big boy," Christopher said with surprising softness. "It's what you want, right?"

"I'm an expert at getting guys off."

"Like I said, you fat boys are the best-kept secret on the internet."

Dewey couldn't understand why no matter how differently his tricks behaved, the experience of sucking their dicks never changed. Soon after beginning, Dewey lost himself in a torrent of silent commands and stern warnings of how devastating it would feel to fail the man in his mouth. (There was no ecstasy until Dewey deluded himself into believing, as always, that sexual subservience all alone can bring one joy.)

Christopher actually warned him before he came. Dewey slipped the man's erect cock from his mouth and let the semen splatter his face. Dewey excused himself and quickly washed his face in the bathroom. He didn't want to return and find the bedroom empty, as if the encounter had occurred solely in his imagination. When he did return, he found Christopher lying on his back atop the bed. He wasn't relaxed, though. Dewey noticed the tension in his limbs, his jaw. He dreaded this part of each encounter with a new man.

READ the entire story at Wilde Oats.

About the author

Thomas Kearnes is a 35-year-old author from East Texas. He is an atheist and an Eagle Scout. Despite often writing about gay themes, he has enjoyed mainstream success in venues such as PANK, Storyglossia, SmokeLong Quarterly, Night Train, JMWW Journal, Word Riot, Eclectica, wigleaf, 3 AM Magazine, Prick of the Spindle, Underground Voices and elsewhere. He has also maintained a presence in the gay literary scene with appearances in Blithe House Quarterly, Velvet Mafia, Gay Flash Fiction, Harrington's Gay Men's Literary Quarterly, Cleis Press anthologies, Pink Narcissus Press, ManLoveRomance Press and the much-anticipated debut issue of Educe Journal. He is a columnist for Flash Fiction Chronicles and a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee. He is currently on work at a personal website that will archive his published works. Until then, he can be contacted at trkearnes@yahoo.com  or through Facebook. He loves hearing from readers