Good Dragon / Bad Dragon

[ Free Me From This Bond (sequel to the sequel): Chapter 3 ]

Date: Sat, 18 May 2013 11:08:22
Re: I’m sucking your kok right now…
From: Keith
To: Zeke

Dear Zeke,

Yesterday I went out to the thrift stores on Haight Street and Mission Street and bought 5 colorful ladies silk blouses. 3 of them fit really well so they’re going to be new undershirts (my tshirts are a little threadbare because I have been neglecting those sort of things lately, and silk is so much nicer to wear than cotton, and if you don’t mind wearing out of fashion ladies clothing you can get nice silks for very little money), but the others are too small, so I am going to cut them up to make a flag. I remember seeing pictures of flags in your book or on your blog somewhere – if I find them again would it be ok if I borrowed one of your designs? I’d be happy to make any changes, too, or make an entirely new design if you want.

– Keith

Date: Sat, 18 May 2013 11:52:47
Re: I’m sucking your kok right now…
From: Zeke
To: Keith

Sure, you can use my “Don’t Tread on MOI” design, here:

Adapt it to whatever way suits you. I am honored, and most curious to
see how it comes out. Happy sewing, Keith!

– Zeke

Date: Sat, 18 May 2013 12:50:52
In my letter to Brody…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

…I added this at the last minute:

He is slandering me via gossip, causing others to hate and exclude me…and may possibly lead to violence. I have /many/ witnesses, should the matter come to court (which I really want to avoid). Those who participate in spreading defamation of my character are also complicit.

Nice touch, eh? I need to send a copy to Arwyn. In hopes he’ll cease and desist.

– Zeke

Date: Sat, 18 May 2013 14:44:54
Re: In my letter to Brody…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ It’s plain that you’re already famous in the ‘hood! }}

OMG yes, El! My Greatest Adventure Yet is about to take place. Gotta wear a purple hoodie in the ‘hood.

{{ Things are going to heat up like crazy. Be ready! }}

So you think I’m stirring the pot here in the Castro, do you? The secret’s in the sauciness.

Have netbook, will travail…er I mean “travel.” (Seeking refuge from mine persecutors that is. With a coven of mega-caliente bodyguards at my service. Though I don’t mind servicing /them/ too, in the least! Big guns call for big tongues.)

– Zeke

Date: Sun, 19 May 2013 12:33:52
You’re a Very Bad Dragon!
From: Zeke
To: Arwyn (via snail mail)

19 May 2013

Mr. Arwyn Miles:

This is to inform you that your slandering me throughout the Castro (telling people I’m your stalker) has caused unwarranted enmity against me by many, including bartenders. I demand that you /immediately/ cease and desist with defaming my character. Furthermore:

I also demand that you rectify your ugly gossip by returning to all those who’ve heard your vitriol against me, and tell them you’re /wrong/, that I am really a very nice guy. And that we are actually good friends. (Though I guess at this point, “were” good friends is more apt.)

If you do not correct your slander against me (for which proof I require, including being welcomed back by those bartenders who’ve 86’d me), you may expect a summons delivered to you within two or three weeks from now. I have /plenty/ of witnesses. Those who are not willing to testify, I will subpoena. One more demand:

That you present me with a handwritten profuse apology, stating /exactly/ why your gossip is wrong, and how you’re going to right this wrong.

I am most serious about this, Miles. My street activism is plenty difficult without your ill-tempered intrusion. You have most effectively destroyed a large part of the respect I’ve earned from our SF gay family…which took me years to establish. But almost overnight, you’ve wiped that out. You once respected me /immensely/ for many years, but since you’ve moved to the Castro your treatment of me has been frequently vulgar.

Slandering a person can put him in harm’s way, as well as ostracize him from local society to live a lonely existence. You have played your cards well, by increasing in great number those who treat me like a pariah. Should violence against my person ensue as a result of your slander, be aware I will have you /arrested/ and press charges to the law’s fullest extent.


Ezekiel Joseph Krahlin

Date: Sun, 19 May 2013 13:45:11
Dummy me…
From: Zeke
To: The Grand Squidlike Poohbah of the Andromeda Galaxy

I’m always sluggish to catch on. Why is Arwyn behaving so badly to me, breaking my heart like a China doll smashed on a junkie’s Ikea?

Of course! The cult has dispersed outta SOMA (thanks to our doubled-handed and superb teamwork to make all the gay bars there a lot friendlier and safe), and come scurrying into the Castro like dung beetles.

Arwyn does /not/ like to explain ANYthing, thus he knew I’d catch on soon enough: that we must feign hatred towards each other. Not just for my own protection, but that My Gordian Gumshoe can round up these scumbugs.with greater panache.

God, I almost thought our sterling friendship had been totally obliterated, ’cause Arwyn’s brain tumor drove him bonkers. What an imagination I have.

What an even /greater/ imagination Arwyn imparts upon this exhausted little sidekick!

– Zeke

Date: Mon, 20 May 2013 13:50:52
Da Poifect Storm it is…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanore

…with a slight redaction: “Da Poifek Storm.”

It just /feels/ right. Must be “da poifek titul.”

– Zeke (da poifek nob)

Date: Mon, 20 May 2013 14:21:03
A Final Appeal
From: Zeke
To: Eleanore

The Welsh goddess of Inspiration (who is Cerridwen) kicked my butt super hard last night, and forced me to type the following letter to U-know-who, then jog on down to the local PO and drop it in the slot. (No rest for the wicked, even less for the good! Everyone thinks I’m on meth, scurrying about so late in the ‘hood.)

My Sweet Friend Arwyn,

Seems to me that the tragic loss of your excellent parents has planted a terribly bitter seed in your noble heart! Just as Randolph’s three tours in Vietnam have done. Do you honestly think your raging grief over your Mom and Dad are anywhere /near/ as bad as Randolph’s own suffering over murdering many innocent families in a needless war? Yet Randy also endured the death of his own parents at an early age.

His father was a coal miner in West Virginia, in the humble low-church town of Covington. When he came down with black lung he decided to commit suicide, that his family may receive lifelong health insurance and income. Randolph was just 16.

Few years later when he went into battle, his mother died during his second tour.

Don’t really want to go into my own trials and tribulations here, just suffice it to say: I, too, My Blessed Dragon, have borne the loss of many great loves and friends. I have never known anything else in my life, when it comes to friends and lovers. And I guess my loss of you is simply the latest. But the silver lining in this otherwise-jet-black cloud, is that you are still alive, and within my geographical reach! Which is a most unique situation among all my previous loves. Before this, they have either disappeared by migrating elsewhere (a survival issue, based on economics), being carted off to prison where they got raped many times and contracted AIDS, gone insane from drugs or war, or simply perished unto death.

Do you not think that the horrid fates of both Randolph and myself, are every /bit/ as grievous as the sudden death of your own darling parents?

Your utter rejection of me two nights ago, shoves me back into a friendless and lonely life. FYI: before you began spouting evil gossip against me, many others in the Castro and SOMA have been doing such since decades before we ever met. Your unexpected compassion and many adventures lifted me from my isolation into a utopian dimension. Even beyond that: you /saved/ my life! In addition: you are so fukkin’ handsome, sweet and witty, how could I /not/ fall snout over tail for you? Yet now, what things about me made you so joyful, are things you suddenly (and cruelly) regard as “stalking” and an unbearable nuisance in many other ways.

To wake every day without your kind love, to stroll the Castro without your presence, to dine at Howard’s, to wander the city just like I did before we met, to lie down on my bed without your good thoughts: it is such an arrow through my heart I don’t think I really care to live in such grief much longer. I beg Odin for mercy. Either the forgetfulness of death, or the redemption of our hearts.

Do you not think that I weep every night over your undeserved abuse…after so many years of building a divine friendship? I surely don’t comprehend how you can go bowling, play billiards and softball, with such apparent delight, yet not have me by your side. I think this is a mental block caused by the tragic elimination of your parents. One can only get so close to you before the pain gets out of hand. You have PTSD, Arwyn, just like Randolph. Though of course for very different reasons.

Why do I rise above my griefs so well, while you and Randy do not? I can only conclude that we all have different barometers when it comes to suffering. What for one person may be an unbearable tragedy, for another is merely a pain in the butt. Or in other words:

What suffering may be seen as trivial by another, most likely impacts that person as devasting as was the Vietnam War to Randolph, or the death of your parents to your child self. For this reason (and realization), I do not want to muse further on whether or not your hardships are less severe than some other’s, including concentration camp survivors. Therefore, in spite of my own many crosses that I bear on behalf of myriad folks (including Your Own Precious Soul), I understand now that the /kindest/ thing I could ever do for you, is regard your own tragedies as more enormous and horrid than anyone else’s. For that is /precisely/ how it impacts you. The suffering of others is completely /irrelevant/ in this context.

So I will say to you now, something which perhaps I /should/ have told you much sooner. Though your ornery behavior to those who truly love you, pretty much blocks any chance I have to declare the following (though it be a letter which you may or may not ever read, much to my frustration and sadness):

I am so terribly /sorry/ that Jehovah saw fit to sweep away your most-blessed parents from your life, at such a tender age. But please realize: they are most happy in heaven, serving as your guardian angels throughout all your life’s difficult turmoil. In fact, I am certain they brought me to /you/, that you may have one true friend to ease your sorrows. Just as I also believe that Randolph brought you to /me/, for the same reason. I would think your parents are quite ashamed over your recent and crude treatment towards yours truly. In fact, you’ve probably broken their hearts.

And that I have joined them in a most terrible fight to win your soul back from the devil’s clutch! As someone who will always remain a faithful comrade, you must understand that my possible steps towards charging you with a criminal offense (slander and defamation), is to direct you back towards the right path. Should I go through with this–and the only reason I would is because you have not begun correcting this wrong within two weeks from now–I will always take the compassionate route. For examples:

I’d plead with the judge to force you to do community service instead of incarceration. Part of this service will include spending friendly time with me, your main target of enmity. (As anyone else would be, should he desire to get very close to your heart.) I would also require that you make /complete/ amends with me, by correcting your crude words that have influenced anyone who’d listen, to hate, isolate, and even bash me. You need to confess before each one how wrong you were, and that Zeke is actually the very best friend in the world. This includes /all/ the bartenders who think I’m your stalker, and have kicked me out as a result of your lies.

A further requirement is for you to profusely apologize to anyone you’ve either hurt or offended. Once my book becomes a bestseller (which I know it will, as I am cognizant of my incredible destiny), I can give you /tons/ of dough, that you may take them out for dinner, the movies, shopping or whatever. As for my up-and-coming affluence, I now choose to remind you:

If for whatever sad reason you refuse to renew our friendship, I will /still/ grant you 51% of all royalties from my books about you, once the profits kick in and I have a proper accountant and attorney. Simply because my love for you exceeds the bounds of petty arrogance, self pity and doubt. So now you know (if you didn’t know before, though I’m sure you did):

My love for you, Sweet Dragon, will pass every test you throw before me. No matter how many more weeks, months, years, centuries or millenia I must pass through before you finally embrace me in utter gratitude.

Again: I weep alongside your noble self, for the sudden loss of your cherished parents. I certainly feel their love for you flowing through my heart.

God bless you Arwyn, in every whichway possible! Please stop your attacks upon my infatuated soul. Please don’t force me to treat you as enemy, by continuing to call me your stalker! Please don’t force my hand and make me take you to court. I honestly don’t /ever/ want to go down that path, for both our sakes.

Love is king, and I am but a humble serf,

PS: I put /so/ much faith in you, Arwyn. And still do! I have absolute faith that our friendship will rise above the ashes in due time. And what a fine friendship it shall be! I already miss you more than I can bear. My lovely darling: you have nothing to fear from me!

So there you have it El: yet one more “final appeal” on an endless /string/ of final appeals. Who needs rosary beads if you carve out your very /heart/ to make your own? Suffering lima beans!

Date: Wed, 22 May 2013 15:02:38
Latest Missive to Arwyn
From: Zeke
To: My E-frenz

So I finally completed chapter 7 and printed it out to present to Arwyn, along with the following cover letter (which I actually placed at the end of this chapter):

22 May 2013

To My Mischievous Mesosaurus,

Sometimes you are very sweet to me. Other times you are /not/. So which one of My Lovely Luscious Arwyns should I respond to: the Bad Dragon or the Good Dragon? I believe you are putting me through a test, that I must decide for myself, which one of your two faces I should look up to. Of course I choose the Good Dragon. For it is absolutely /clear/ to me that you harbor tremendous love for yours truly…in spite of the angry facade you sometimes present to me.

In fact, I’m certain you would lose utter /respect/ for me, should I opt to drop you entirely from my world. That would be a greater sin than any you’ve committed against Your Little Pony Sidekick. This does not mean I will hound you (or even stalk you for realz). What it /does/ mean is this:

I will act accordingly upon any challenge you toss at my tail. This includes a legal cease-and-desist against your slander that foments hatred against one who truly loves you beyond all bounds. As for your feigned demand that I never send you any more mail, visit you at the bars, or even talk to you:

You got it, buddy. For as I’ve told you more than once, if you ever ask me to cease my attentions, I will do so immediately. Even though it will mean awful heartbreak for the rest of my sorry little life. And you did just that several nights ago. Though I know you don’t mean it at all, I realize you want to see if I’d actually /respect/ such a demand when I stated I would, in past conversations. Here is the very worst you can ever expect from me, as a result of your rejection:

I will from time to time say hi to you whenever our paths cross, and perhaps toss you some wisecracks as you move on. I will /not/ follow you, nor will I scream any sort of angry epithet. Please acknowledge (at least in your own reptilian brain) that I have /never/ stalked you, and never will. Your definition of “stalking” includes any person who cares to say hello, or hang out with you in the bars or elsewhere. In other words: your definition is BOGUS.

In addition, I will pause from time to time, on the sidewalk outside of one of your hangouts in the Castro. Mainly because it gives me great solace to view your presence, and see how well you are doing. But sometimes, also because I might have my latest chapter to present you (if you care to accept). You do /not/ have to confront or threaten me, unless that is your desire, you Goddam Drama Queen!

Also, whenever I have a new chapter or letter (or gift) to present you, instead of mailing it, I will keep it on my person so that whenever we see each other during my strolls, I will offer you my latest love offering. Should you reject it, I’ll simply shrug my shoulders, give you my blessings and move along. Just so you know:

Since you’ve /always/ accepted my gifts until recently, and have given me so much kind attention and adventures despite your sporadic cycles of rejection and hostility: you cannot expect me to obey every one of your commands, especially when they are in direct conflict with your sweet overtures. In other words, you’ve forced my hand to make a decision as to /which/ Arwyn I should listen to: the Sweet Wyvern or the Nasty Wyvern. I choose the Sweet, and always will. (“Wyvern” by the way, is an old-fashioned term for “dragon.”)

The fact you’ve given me signed permission to use your real name and photo in Book 2, tells me that you put complete trust in my tales about us, and that I will never use my gift to cause you harm in any way, shape or form. And I assure you, My Darling Demon: I will always /praise/ your glorious self no matter what. I understand perfectly why you’re yanking my chain:

You desire a totally dedicated friend or lover, who will /never/ be discouraged by your fickle downturns that cause me grief (at least for a little time). For you well deserve a comrade who is capable of discerning what you speak from what you actually wish. I will always answer to your wishes, and not your words. For you are a Master Trickster who expects those he loves to figure out the game. And the game is this:

Do not give in to superficial whim,
But keep showing my love through all the morass,
Though the object of my heart may behave at times
Like an absolute and ridiculous ass.

Arwyn, My Most Excellent Platonic Love: how could I /ever/ walk out on you, when I know full well that would break your darling spirit? Dump all the shit on me you want, I will /never/ hate you or disappear from your world. Even if it means loving you from a distance in whatever way I can manage. In a nutshell:


All my profoundest love (including that of your incredible parents),

Date: Thu, 23 May 2013 15:04:09
At the last moment…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

I inserted another permission form, this time with My Latest Missive to Arwyn:

I, the astoundingly magnanimous Arwyn Miles, hereby give permission to Ezekiel Krahlin to use my name in his novel, “Free Me From This Bond (sequel to the sequel),” which is Book 3 of his trilogy.




Note to Arwyn: the other book you recently gave your permission to, is the /second/ book in the trilogy. Just want to make sure that you understand, this form is for Book 3. And by the way: please do not add “do not duplicate” to this form, it doesn’t mean anything. Duplication is a necessary requisite for keeping records. Adding such a declaration does not mount to a hill of beans (which I think you should be forced to consume in one sitting, considering your recent and ill treatment of me). It will simply be ignored.

Note to my E-frenz: some days back when I approached Arwyn to thank him for permission to use his real name and photo for Book 2, he snatched the signed form from my hand and began to tear open the envelope.

“Whoa, stop that,” I exclaimed, “It’s already open at one end [ I used a scissors for a clean cut ]. I plan to frame this letter, along with the envelope.”

Arwyn then withdrew the form, whipped out a pen from his jacket’s inside pocket, laid the form out flat on the bench beside us, and printed the following alongside both name and photo permissions:


Really burned me, ’cause he destroyed the elegant balance between lettering and white space that would have looked so artful in a teakwood frame.

“What good does /that/ do?” I enquired once he returned the envelope and form to me.

He blushed, turned his face away, shrugged shoulders and replied: “I don’t know!”

“Well, Arwyn, it doesn’t change a thing. I’ve already scanned the form and backed up it with triple-redundant online storage.”

In fact, my E-frenz, I did so immediately after receiving the signed page in my mailbox. Preventing its loss was just /too/ important to delay.

Date: Thu, 23 May 2013 15:45:32
Re: At the last moment…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ At least we now know he can write! }}

He spelled the second “do not duplicate” as “do not dublicate”. But we’re getting somewhere.

– Zeke

Date: Thu, 23 May 2013 16:34:02
Detective Fantasy
From: Zeke
To: My E-frenz

So here’s my latest fantasy about Arwyn, this time as a detective executing a bust in one of the gay bars South of Market:

I’m enjoying a second vodka tonic while seated at the middle end of the counter, closer to the front entrance. Other than barkeep Gary Clayton and myself, there is no one particularly interesting or nice at the Hole, at this time. Eight other patrons complete the scenario. So I keep to myself, thinking how lucky I am because of My Hummingbird Serpent, whether or not I’m presently graced with his company. I really need no one else: my heart’s chalice runneth over with Arwyn lullabies.

There is a sudden commotion just outside the entrance, easily heard above the pimped-out speakers loud as Boeing engines. Highway to Hell by AC/DC rocks the room. A worm of panic starts to crawl up my gut and into the esophagus once I realize there is /no/ other exit ‘cept for the entranceway itself! A bevy of plainclothes gumshoes explodes through the leather curtain like gangbusters, and snatches up all but two patrons (one of them myself, natch). Their captain is Arwyn, who orchestrates every move while his boys whip out those toothy plastic handcuffs to bind the Sinister Seven.

No, not Douglas too…I wept on his shoulder once, during the Brain Tumor Fiasco! I declare in silence. For now is not the time or place to chat with /either/ him or Arwyn (or anyone else for that matter). Arwyn suddenly turns to me and glares:

“What the /hell/ are you up to, Zeke? You should’ve dashed to a corner for safety the moment we barged in!”

“Right!” I snap out of my mental fog to zip up the backpack and re-don my jacket faster than spit in a downwind gale.

“Now go to that corner over there, right below my photo,” he points to his left and slightly up. “Move it tadpole!”

Now tucked away into a dark, protective zone with Arwyn’s broad back blocking me from seeing or being seen, I observe just twelve feet from 10 o’clock, Douglas’s desperate stare. As if I would single-handedly sweep aside Arwyn and his agents, to liberate this skunk from the shackles of a well-earned fate.

Guess my “amigo” Douglas hasn’t a clue as to my utter allegiance towards Arwyn, who is both my savior and cherished guardian. This next thought crosses my mind:

Why on Mannanan’s green isle would I ever betray one so good to me, that Douglas may escape? Then this:

How /dare/ he think I’d emote the least bit sympathy for his plight, when I know full well that Arwyn is the most righteous dragon among /all/ righteous dragons!

The criminals are summarily goaded into a rigid line with a pair of sleuths gripping their arms on each side. Four more flatfoots bring up the rear while Arwyn and myself search for dropped contraband. I find two plump packets of cocaine, a zip gun and one piano-wire garrote. Arwyn searches the toilets…something which he /forbids/ me to do in my capacity as assistant. Just his way of showing class towards the one he loves most. (He does, however, permit me to lower the flush handle, that I may feel useful. Nice guy.)

My Betrothed holds several evidence bags before me, that I can deposit the discoveries. He then hands me a 10-spot.

“Go to the Eagle, VAMOOSE!”

“Cheapskate!” I retort while scampering on outta there.

Hole in the Wall Saloon is now totally vacant of all customers but one, the barkeep, and Arwyn. I quickly depart for Eagle Tavern while four squad cars skid away containing the dismayed varmints. Douglas sneers at me from a rear window, like I screwed him over.

What a maroon, I snort, as his frown rapidly dimishes in the distance till I am left with nothing more than a useless memory.

Too bad, I elaborate to no one in particular (except perhaps yourself, Adroit Reader). Arwyn would /never/ target anyone who is decent. Now the four squad cars are but tiny dots along the horizon, then blip!: all gone.

Ta-ta Douggie boy! For I know as sure as 41 Lutetia circles our home star every 3.8 years, that Arwyn defends and protects the truly innocent from buttfeeders like you, Druggie…er, I mean ‘Douggie!’ Your willful friendship with Edmund even after he accused me last month of threatening to stab him to death (and did so right in front of you) speaks mountains. Mountains of /what/ I care not to say. But you’re buried in it now.

So I enter the Eagle Tavern and order a club soda with lime. As I sip my lacklustre beverage I daydream about tonight. When I’ll once more be enfolded in the leathery wings of My Benevolent Dragon, his shimmery snout nuzzled against my breastbone. And as I drift off to blissful slumber, Yours Most Truly shall muse:

Ah! Not all Reptilians are bad.

[ I should also add here, Beleaguered Reader, that they have awfully nice equipment, too! ]

Here’s yet a /second/ detective fantasy I conjured up some days back, but until now have not bothered to put down on keyboard and plasma:

(To be continued, you lucky e-dawgs, you!)

Date: Thu, 23 May 2013 16:57:43
Re: At the last moment…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ Nerves }}

Posiblemente, pero pienso que mi novio es mas listo en mente que eso. Asi, aqui esta mi propia conclusion:

He intentionally mispelled, just because he’s quite the trickster. Knowing I’d be all over it like dark on sourdough. Of course it /could/ have been a certain degree of nerves when it came to approving a photo. For this marks a high level of trust towards me, an author about to publish not one, but /three/ novels, each centered around My Shamrock Shamus. And of course you can observe the slightly quivery strokes as compared to Signature the First.

But Arwyn is the most fearless and confident man I’ve ever beheld. Thus I conclude yet another tricky little trap of mischief he’s conjured up, to keep me on my padded werewolfian toes. IOW:

Whether or not this “dublicate” mispell was simply a case of “da noives,” or something far more suggestive, remains “dupious.”

Badda boom badda bing.

– Zeke

Date: Fri, 24 May 2013 14:17:30
Comical conversation…
From: Zeke
To: All Gay Studs Who’ve Landed on Uranus

…with barkeep Casey at the Eagle Tavern:

Casey is a tallish man mostly skinny, but with the beginning of a paunch. Guess he’s around 38, but has such a sweet face, he could be 32. Wears suspenders which turn me off….nonetheless, I’d love to yank them down, pull up his tight T-shirt and lick those pectorals for days. He’s got a /very/ pronounced and independent rump that makes me drool uncontrollably. Maybe age has mellowed his beauty into perfection, like Gouda cheese. I address him during a lull in patronly service:

“This is the first time my boyfriend Arwyn’s gone through male PMS, since we got married almost two years ago. He’s almost 53. Now, he just wants to have me lick his rectum and slap me silly. Sounds rather hormonic, don’t you think?” At which point in my monologue, Casey turns his back to me and crouches down to select this or that refrigerated ale. He’s got a /really/ fine set of shoulder blades and tight round buttox. So I add:

“All he’s doing is reversing our roles!” Casey then stands up with three bottles in his hands. He grins and shrugs his sexy shoulders in response. So I goad him further:

“Wondering if you can give me some tips,” (he chortles in reply, the darling fellow. So I conclude with the following bon mot before departing through the leather curtains:)

“Maybe even let me practice on you first, before I bite the anal bullet. Ha ha. Have a /wonderful/ night!”

– Zeke

Date: Fri, 24 May 2013 14:21:15
Arwyn Leaves His Mark
From: Zeke
To: Carmen G. (Twosome Press)

I thought you would enjoy learning that My Lovely Arwyn has given me signed permission to use his /real/ name, AND his photo, for Book 2 (“Free Me From This Bond – the sequel”). Which you may view here:

Not that you should save this for your records, as I am totally out of moolah, and have no idea when I’ll have the finances to self-publish my next novel. But, more than likely, our gay community will cover all expenses for any further publications. In which case I will recommend Twosome Press as my first choice.

Arwyn’s wisdom always amazes me, even if gained only with hindsight. His refusal to permit me to use his real name in Book 1, serves to whet my readers’ curiosity as to who the /real/ Arwyn Miles is! Of course, they must purchase Book 2 of what is obviously to become a trilogy. (In fact, I’ve almost completed Chapter 8 of Book 3…I’m /way/ ahead of the curve.)

Had he /not/ refused, there would be slightly less intrigue in discovering the true hero of my opus. In fact, I don’t even need his permission for Book 3. I can just switch back to Arwyn Miles, simply because my real-life hero is clearly revealed in Book 2. It will only take 2-plus-2 for readers to figure out the /true/ star of my tales.

My Detective Dragon /always/ knows how to play his cards to the max! Even if I must have my tender feelings battered for a time. He’s a tough guy, who demands an /equally/ tough lover. Arwyn is /such/ a brilliant master of intrigue. He /is/ the true author of my current tales, I cannot praise him enough.

I figure you’d be amused to learn of this latest twist in My Gay-Mystical Plot.

– Zeke

Date: Fri, 24 May 2013 14:53:14
Re: Arwyn Leaves His Mark
From: Zeke
To: Carmen G. (Twosome Press)

Carmen wrote:

{{ Well, that is great, but as you say, it is a confusing wisdom!! He is the master of intrigue! }}

We only live a block apart these days. Now, he’s telling everyone I”m his stalker, and getting me kicked out of all the gay bars in the Castro. Sometimes he’ll holler “I hate you, I hate you!” from across the street, and keep it up for quite a few minutes.

It’s all I can do to keep from rolling on the sidewalk in hilarity. For this is his way to keep me outta the bars just before a major bust. Too dangerous for me to patronize them at this time. So I just go to the gay bars South of Market, where Arwyn and I first met, and so many folks there love us both. In fact, they brought us together in the first place.

So sometimes I scream right back at him, feigning barely controllable rage. This way, certain criminals are deflected away from yours truly…after I’ve played the decoy and drawn them all out of the woodwork to target me.

All in a day’s work as a detective’s assistant!

– Zeke

PS: I haven’t found out yet, on what day Arwyn’s gonna throw me a surprise party and ask my hand in marriage. Personally, I’d like him to be married to /more/ than just my hand, but Arwyn’s a strange one alright. But I gotta “hand” it to ‘im. Heh.

Date: Fri, 24 May 2013 14:59:11
Re: Arwyn Leaves His Mark
From: Carmen G. (Twosome Press)
To: Zeke

Ha ha Zeke, you make me laugh so much!

You have yourself a good weekend!

Best regards,

Carmen G.
Publishing Consultant

Date: Fri, 24 May 2013 14:59:51
Re: Arwyn Leaves His Mark
From: Zeke
To: Carmen G. (Twosome Press)

Carmen wrote:

{{ Ha ha, I love the signature sheet! }}

Yeah, I had fun with it. Never dreaming that he’d actually sign it of course, but I thought “what the hey.”

Book 1’s cover has Randolph’s pic, Book 2 will have Arwyn’s and Book 3 will have moi! A perfect trilogy.

– Zeke

Date: Fri, 24 May 2013 14:27:08
The Hat that Loved Me
From: Zeke
To: The Mad Hatter

Later on I get off the orange Italian street car, which I hate because its wheels are slightly off-gauge, which causes migraine inducing headaches as it screetches along the tracks. Soon as I step off at Market & Van Ness…a blast of wind blows my wolf hat away before I even have a chance to hold it down. This is unusual, as I /always/ keep my headgear firmly secure from such blustery events.

It happened so fast, I could not locate either the direction of the hat’s escape, or its present location between thundering traffic and its likely location (albeit temporary). A bright yellow bandana remains firmly wrapped to my scalp, as I give up finding my cap, and cross the street in existential surrender.

Simply accepting the loss of my favorite hat, I figure that, for whatever reason, My Guardian Dragon decided that I look better w/o it.

“Oh well,” I figure, “At least I have a great story to tell Gerard when I arrive at the Hole.”

So I walk up one block to 10th street, and proceed south towards Folsom. But no sooner do I approach Mission Street, than this motorist seated in a van calls out:

“Is that your hat?” He points to a spot on the sidewalk barely 12 feet behind. And there is my wolf hat, patiently resting near the curb awaiting my retrieval!

I quickly run back and snatch it up before a hobo w/shopping cart adds it to his collection of sales-worthy items. Then I run up to the kindly driver:

“Thanks, man! I thought I lost my favorite hat for good. You won’t believe how I lost it, but found it once more, thanks to your stopping me and pointing it out.”

The motorist was a somewhat handsome fellow with long gray hair cascading down to his shoulders. The passenger window was open, so I extended a hand to shake his.

“Let me tell you my story that led up to your role as redeemer.”

So I told him how the Van Ness wind tunnel suddenly blew away my wolf hat, without any sign as to its present direction. So I quickly wrote it up as a loss, and strolled on to the next block, and walked down 10th, never expecting to reclaim that hat ever again.

“It must’ve stuck the velcro strip to somewhere on my back, where it hung for a time without my having any idea,” I concluded. “But it finally dropped off right when you saw it fall to the sidewalk, and called to me.”

His name is Albert (I soon learned), and I handed him my card that included my phone number and URL to “Free Me From This Bond.”

Before departing for Hole in the Wall, I invited him to keep in touch and spend some time over coffee where we can shoot the oxen. With that, I took off for the Hole, and Albert drove away.

“What an amazing true tale,” I think. “Can’t wait to tell Gerard!”

Alas, that was not to be. For the moment I enter the saloon I find Gerard and tell him I’d love to impart a true story that just occurred on my walk from the Castro to SOMA. He seems rather aloof, and grumbles:

“Not right now. I’ll ask you about it later.”

His frigid voice indicates that will /never/ happen. No problemo in my eye: Gerard just canceled his friendship with yours truly. Arwyn will be made aware, soon enough.

Seems to me there is /no/ shortage of backstabbing queers in /every/ gay bar, who go out of their way to drain decent patrons of all their joy, faith and hope, the moment they make themselves vulnerable. For no other reason than placing trust in their own gay brothers. Such creeps are no better than hetero fundamentalists…perhaps even worse, ’cause they know better, but choose to play the devil’s card.

They are more corrupt than even Nero, who boiled lovely young lads in a vat of olive oil. (Perhaps this is how we got the term “extra virgin”…a-hommina-hommina.)

Date: Fri, 24 May 2013 14:28:56
Skin in the Box
From: Zeke
To: All Horror Story Afficionados

In memory of Don Walz, a really good friend who was homeless for almost 7 years before hooking up with Constance, and moving to Sonora around 6 years ago. She phoned me this past Tuesday (May 21) to tell me the horrid news, that he recently passed away. Sadly, he inherited his father’s tendency for bad health and bad habits (high cholesterol and drinking too much booze and eating junk food). This is a true story that I’ve been meaning to write down for over 15 years. Now comes the time.

FYI: you may read Don’s obituary at:


Well, some years back (I guess 1997), Don drops over with his sweet pitbull/boxer mix named “Babe.” Which doggie I helped raise, as Don is homeless and therefore can’t be there for her every single moment of the day.

Click on image for a larger view.

So I whine as usual to Don, about how impossible it seems to find a decent gay man, that I could have a nice friendship with, forget about a lover. Well, his sympathy inspires him to look around. Just two days later he returns (with Babe in tow) to inform me:

“I know this really great guy named Chris, who told me he’d be /very/ interested in getting to know you.”

“Well what does he look like,” I query, “Is he at least somewhat handsome?”

“I think he is,” professes Don. “Can I bring him over tomorrow night, so you can check him out?”

“Of course,” I reply, “that sounds like a great plan.”

So the next night, around 9 PM, Don brings him over. I find Chris to be terribly handsome, even with his balding shock of golden-blond hair. He is about 36. (I am at that time, 47.) He is modest in appearance, but nicely built. Dark blue eyes framed in round wire rims, well formed shoulders and arms, trim waist and a tight, round butt. And a basket that didn’t hide its ample girth beneath chocolate twill slacks. IOW: boner material.

So we talk awhile about rather neutral things, until he announces he needs to get home before his roommates show up from their respective jobs. It is better (he says) that all housemates hit the sack around the same time, else no one gets any sleep. And here I was, about to unzip those pants and start tongueing that juicy wanger into hard bliss.

Shortly after Chris departs, Don returns and I tell him that I’m impressed. “So please give Chris my number,” that we may arrange our next get-together.

Chris shows up three nights later with a bottle of sparkling rose-ay. I provide the pot, and we are soon on the road to mutual orgasm. But something blocks the way. Don’t know what it is, but Chris suddenly pulls up his boxer briefs and slacks, exclaims he must leave right now, to tend to important business. Even though he’s barely been over for 45 minutes. So I say “okay,” and he departs for places unknown. I jerk myself off, I am that turned on. I could still taste his fat crown and shaft upon my eager tongue, hours later.

Two days later Don returns (w/lovely Babe who quickly runs to my bedding and curls herself up in blissful rest), to ask how it went with Chris. So I tell him:

“Not so well. We seemed to be hitting it off when all of a sudden he felt compelled to leave,” I reveal. “But thanks just the same for trying to brighten my world.”

Don clears his throat and begins to confide: “Guess I need to tell you about my association with Chris, when we were housemates two to four years ago.”

“Okay,” I agree, “tell me.” At that point, we are mightily stoned on some kickass ganja, and I was ready for a good tale, though not one so fraught with terror as the story he is about to tell.

“I lived with Chris from ’94 to late ’96. We had three other housemates. This was in a flat now part of the Inner Mission projects, around 14th Street and Guerrero. So one night when I got home, all the roommates were there except Chris. They were gathered around the kitchen table, over a cardboard box that sat on the table, and was partly opened in spite of the bold printing that declared: DO NOT OPEN.”

“Interesting,” I interjected. “Do go on.”

“Well, my housemates were trembling as I reached for the box and opened it.”

“Yeah?” I goaded, while totally snockered on some of the best weed I’ve smoked in a long time.

“So I opened the box to discover what looked like the human skin of a middle-aged male, folded up.”

“How did you know it was folded up?” I challenge, though starting to shake from fear.

“Well, I carefully unfolded it, to discover the skin of a dude about 5-foot-10, including the testicle sac and anus on the opposite side.”

“So it was a real skin?” I goaded.

“So it seemed. I folded up the skin and placed it back in the box, and in the refrigerator where my housemates discovered it.”

“And then what, Don?”

“Next morning I confronted Chris, to ask him what’s up with the box.”

“Oh! You weren’t supposed to see it,” declared Chris. “I’m a member of the Suicide Club. And my initiation was to steal a human skin from a funeral parlor. I’m sorry if the box upset you: you weren’t supposed to open it.”

“Well,” continued Don as I start to freak out, “All three housemates quickly moved to other residences, except myself. I lingered on for a few more weeks.”

“Well, how did you keep an association with Chris after that?” I query.

“Very cautious,” he replies. “We never spoke to each other after that, except to plan next week’s groceries.”

A certain rage grew in my heart after hearing that ghastly tale. And I accuse:

“Don, get the fuk outta here. How /dare/ you introduce me to a potential boyfriend, knowing all the time he’s a fukked up grave robber…or worse!” I further lecture:

“You need to see a priest: perhaps Father Young from the Holy Redeemer. How on earth could you keep such a scary revelation harbored in your soul, for so many years? You need help, and advice, that I can never do for you on my own. Other than that, get the hell outta my room NOW!”

I am /most/ upset that he turned me on to some really high-grade pot before telling me this ghoulish tale. Turned my euphoric high into a nightmare of astounding proportion. But I was already stoned outta my skull, helpless to find solid ground.

He then grabs his pup’s leash and excuses himself in record time. A few days later I decide to question Chris about this, by calling him up.

“Hello? Chris here,” he answers.

“Hi Chris, this is Zeke. A mutual friend of ours, Don, invited you over to my place about a week ago. I enjoyed your company, but you had to leave early for some reason.”

“Yeah, I remember. Sorry ’bout that, but I /did/ have a really nice time, and would like to see you again, very soon.”

“Well that’s nice,” I agree, “but first I must ask you about something Don told me after you left.”

“Okay, what’s that?”

“He said that he and your roommates discovered a strange box that you put in the fridge, and they opened it to discover a human skin, totally intact.”

Chris starts to choke, but finally replies: “You think everything Don says is true?”

“No I do not,” I respond. “But his story is so disturbing, I just had to ask.”

Next thing I know there’s a sudden “click” on the phone, and we are disconnected.

I’ve seen Chris two times since then…both times within three years of our initial meeting. Each time our paths crossed, he scurried to the other side of the street before I had a chance to confront him. Otherwise, he has completely disappeared from my world. Yet here it is almost 16 years later, without any resolution to the eerie tale.

Don and I have had many adventures, most of them good. But two times in our friendship they were very, very bad. This is one of them. I will save a future time to tell the other bad tale. It will make your skin crawl beyond this present confession.

Whether it’s in a box, or not.

– Zeke

Date: Fri, 24 May 2013 15:03:01
Re: Skin in the Box
From: Keith
To: Zeke

For some reason i seem to be reading a lot of very spooky stories lately. Some new agers would try to convince me that if I see something scary, i created it and am responsible for it (like starving babies covered in flies are just experiencing their past karma). I always preferred cute cartoon animals baking pies and delivering them to nice unicorns, holding hands and writing love notes, riding in little wooden boats together over tales of skin-flaying and secret societies.

I guess depending on what you’re into, whatever you’re not will find you and remind you it exists. Speaking of which, I have very limited experience with drugs (doctor prescribed or illegal) but I’ve been reading that ketamine has helped people with debilitating anxiety, but I am also /terrified/ of those “rave drugs” because I’ve heard other similar stories, like yours, from people who were around the party scenes of the 1990s.

Like, people fukked up on this-or-that and deciding that someone in their group is the devil, and playing god with that person by shooting truth serum (Windex) into his blood before hacking him up. And SOMA leather queens drugging guys in the bars, taking them out into the woods and slitting their throats (or just infecting them with AIDS while they’re fukking their unconscious butt holes). I really don’t like this kind of stuff. I am running toward the end of my unemployment and having a hard time finding a job, so i’ve given up weed so that I can save money, but I don’t know if that’s even worth the trouble if things are really going so badly. if things do not change I will be leaving San Francisco this summer.

Date: Fri, 24 May 2013 15:34:36
Re: Skin in the Box
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ I’m all ears for the next gruesome tale. }}

Yes, the ears, the ears…my god the ears!

– Zeke

Date: Sat, 25 May 2013 13:12:20
So I got restless two nights ago…
From: Zeke
To: The Dragons of Mordor

…and stepped out for some air. Carrying of course, my latest chapter (“Da Poifek Storm”) of Book 3, in case I might bump into Arwyn. But the night was well under way (11 PM or later), so I didn’t really expect to see the lad. And I did not. Wasn’t at Twin Peaks, wasn’t anywhere around. Probably sound asleep after laughing into the pillow over his latest antics of which I am the hapless dupe.

So I recross Market Street to return hovel. The air is crisp and wholesome thanks to a slight, chill breeze off the Pacific. But the moment I reached the opposite corner I suddenly heard someone screaming at me from the northeast corner by K&D Liquors. It’s Arwyn!

“Get outta here, Zeke! I never want to see you again! You’re disgusting, you make me puke!” He hollered a flurry of insults which came so fast and furious I can’t even remember all the cussing hurled at me from across the Castro divide. And he still boomed unkind words as he continued hiking up the hill towards 16th Street.

So I marched up that same hill on /my/ side of the street, wielding Chapter 7 with boisterous echoes:

“I got another fukkin chapter for you, do you want it, you goddam skunk!”

But My Devious Draco continued to scream at me with a fountain of expletives. So I began to cross the street in a trot to confront him. But he then crossed the other way and I followed back to my side. Upon which he returned to his.

“God damn it Arwyn, you don’t /belong/ here any more, get outta the Castro!” I waved my printouts in the air like a threat. “Do you hear me? You /blew/ a great friendship right outta the water. You’re a fukkin sadist. Loser!”

But he had just turned into an entranceway and disappeared. I still hollered back with all sorts of bloody insults while trying to discover upon which steps he had climbed to enter one of the Edwardians close to 16th. Alas, no luck: he had utterly vanished.

Assuming he had already entered a front door and could still hear my thunderous accusations, I kept it up for about another minute. Then I finally departed for my SRO. My lungs felt totally cleaned of all mucous and other dusty debris, thanks to both the maritime blanket of cold and a passel of hardy screams.

I believe his plan is to make us the center of intrigue here in the Castro (in a “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolfe” sort of way). Thus accelerating my fame as Beloved Gay Activist, by first telling barkeeps et al I’m his stalker, which then gets me 86’d from all the booze joints in the ‘hood. Then Book 1 gets published and takes the world by storm. And the bartenders’ heads shall spin.

“The Castro ain’t big enough for the two of us” is such a /fun/ game, I can’t thank him enough. Nonetheless, whatever My Wyvern’s intent:

Always good to see Arwyn. No matter from which circle of hell we next emerge.

Aaargh! My One True Love is a blast. A dragon fart blast.

– Zeke

Date: Sat, 25 May 2013 15:04:31
Letter and Card from Constance
From: Zeke
To: The Dragons of Mordor

Received a lovely wedding card in the snail mail today. Didn’t open it till I arrived at Howard’s Cafe, to enjoy their superb strawberry shortcake and a cup o’ golden java. It is my very /first/ wedding card, arriving as it did well before the event. Which date I’m still not privy to, but I’m sure it’s gonna be quite soon. Else Arwyn wouldn’t be punking me so much these days. Maybe it will be on my birthday, July 1. (Perhaps my first book will be released on that day, too!)

Constance was Don Walz’s partner, up there in Sonora. She phoned me last Wednesday in tears, and thanked me for being a good friend to him. Though Don himself rarely got in touch since departing Frisco almost 8 years ago. Anywayz, I did speak with him (via telephone) two-three weeks past, told him Arwyn and I will soon be wed. As a surprise they sent me this card, though sadly it was returned to them by the PO, in spite of the address being correct.

So when I spoke w/Constance, suggested she resend the card, as it will most likely get through this time. Eureka, it did! As you can gather by the shamrock stickers, she’s a proud Irish gal. As is Arwyn Miles (ha ha).

The wedding card itself is blank inside, though it contains three folded pages, upon which Constance wrote her sweet regards. Though her handwriting is most difficult to figure out, so I’ll just have to get back to you, and update this missive with a full translation.

UPDATE (translation of her letter, please keep in mind she was understandably distraught during its composition. Don’s full name BTW is “Don Ray Walz”):

May 23, 2013

Greetings Zeek [sic]:

What a sweetheart you are and Don Ray taught me to send a card inspired and what a pretty card it is. God I love that guy but you know he suffered enough!

We’re going to have a (Milly and Sonia might make it) wake for him on Sunday.

My sister’s flying out from Arizona and my cousin’s driving down from Reno.

My best friend Barbie showed up today. She lost /her/ Don a while ago so she knows what it’s like. Took me out for dinner and we had wine and toasted to Mr. Walz. Got me a bunch of groceries in these cool SF bags. God I’ve known her almost 30 years so she’s family.

So I’m feeling so much better but yikes I’m afraid when everyone’s gone. Hey I’m one tough cookie. I’ve got Don Ray’s grandmother’s China cabinet. He’s always going to be with me.

I’m so excited to be back online. But getting address gonna be difficult. Hey snail mail’s always better.

“Congratulations” happy honeymoon.



Now the pics (Click on any image below, for a larger view):

And finally, a snapshot of Constance and Don, taken on a better day (several years ago):

Well, they’re heteros anywayz, so I shouldn’t get /too/ emotionally wrapped up. Sad (true that), but nothing compared to /most/ gays who live out their painful lives from cradle to grave withOUT any loved one by their side. No photos, no memories, no nothing. Why the hell do most breeders /expect/ queers to emote for them, whenever /they/ go through crises? When very /rarely/ do they give the same sort of love to their LGBT friends? I say: go fuk ’em.

GayFolken: stop appeasing your hetero overlords, ya got nothing to lose!


One Response to Good Dragon / Bad Dragon

  1. johnofphilly says:

    Great illustration (Good dragon/Bad dragon). Poor Babe had to deal with pregnancy.

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