Excerpt From “Translation”
J. Scott Coatsworth
“Vado a letto.”
Dominic stared dreamily out the window at the vibrant ivy climbing the brownstone across the street and at nothing at all. His desk was littered with paper, half-empty cans of Wild Cherry Pepsi, and his iPhone, attached to his ears via a long white cord.
It was another Monday morning in the office.
The sexy male Italian voice on the instructional podcast repeated itself. “Vado a letto. I am going to bed.”
In the window’s reflection, he could just make out his boss, Dante, in the office behind him. Dante was behind his desk, his handsome Italian features drawn tight in concentration. “I’d like to vado a letto with him,” Dominic whispered.
“What?” Kristen was at the desk next to his. She looked vaguely annoyed at the interruption, frowning at him.
He pulled out the earbuds. “Nothing,” he said, smiling privately. “Just a little Italian study time.”
She grinned. “Still doing that, huh?” She glanced over her shoulder. “He’s out of your league, you know.”
“Shut up. At least he plays for my team.”
“If he’s even single.” She stuck her tongue out at him and went back to work.
Break time was over. He stared at his screen, where the layout for page seventeen waited.
It was easy money, writing copy for a home decorating magazine. In Habit paid the rent, so he could spend his nights writing the great gay American novel. He’d finished one already and had sent it off to a dozen publishers in the hopes of getting his big break.
Sometimes he wondered if he spent his most creative hours and energy on the magazine at the expense of his true passion. Maybe cranking out copy dulled his writing muscles.
Five years out of college, and he’d been published in two prestigious writing journals (which paid next-to-nothing) and had his first novel rejected by ten of twelve publishers. “We’re sorry, it’s just not what we’re looking for” was the universal refrain. Add in his short story and poetry rejections, and he was closing in on seventy. If that old rule of thumb was right, he was only thirty rejections away from getting published. Really published, with a paycheck.
If only it were that simple.
He finished page seventeen’s layout, and the next three, and then took a bathroom break. He needed to be away from his desk for five layout-free minutes.
The bathroom was gloriously empty. Remodeled last year for the DIY issue, it was lined with earth-tone tiles, sparkling steel urinals, and one of those sinks with the wide ceramic bowl that sat above the granite countertop.
It was Dominic’s sanctuary. As he relieved himself, he stretched his arms out overhead and rested his head against the wall, letting his mind go blank.
The door swung open, and he pulled his arms down in a rush, embarrassed.
“Ciao,” his boss said, standing at the urinal next to Dominic.
“Ciao,” he replied. “Come stai?” He tried not to let his nervousness show. Dante always affected him that way. With his curly dark hair, olive skin, and smoldering Italian good looks, he was exactly Dom’s type. But the man’s effect on his nerves was especially bad here, when his pants were literally down. Dante’s cologne was almost overpowering.
“You are becoming good,” Dante said, clapping him on the back.
“What? Oh, the Italian.” Dominic smiled in spite of himself. “Grazie,” he said, blushing. “My friend Enrico is helping me learn a few new phrases.”
Dante had transferred to In Habit three months earlier from the company’s fashion division, and Dominic had been enthralled by him immediately. He’d restarted the Italian lessons shortly after.
“We are… how do you say it? Working up a new feature on modern Italian designers for October,” Dante said casually. He was not pee-shy, clearly. “I thought you might want to take a part…”
His English was good, but not perfect. That was one of the things Dominic found most attractive about him. Dante buttoned up his fly and went to wash up.
“Take part?” Dominic shook his head. “I’m not that good with the language yet.” Truth was, Dante was a hell of a lot better with English than Dominic would ever be with Italian.
Next to each other in the mirror, they were about the same height, but where Dominic was thin and blond, Dante was… substantial. Not heavy. Just solid, a real man—that old tall, dark, and handsome thing.
J. Scott Coatsworth has a new MM romance/LGBTQ short story collection out: Love & Limitations.
Love & Limitations is Scott’s fourth short story collection and his first one featuring his contemporary MM and LGBTQ+ stories:
- I Only Want to Be With You: Derrek likes Ryan. Ryan likes Alex. Alex treats Ryan like trash. So why can’t he see who really loves him?
- The Boy in the Band: It’s hard for a trans kid in high school, just like it was for a gay kid two decades before. Can Ryan and Justin find common ground in time?
- Translation: Dominic has a thing for Italian guys, especially his boss, Dante. His roommate Enrico has a thing for him. No matter how this ends, someone is going to get hurt.
- Slow Thaw: As the Antarctic warms, so does the chilly relationship between scientist Javier Fernandez and new arrival—and trans man—Col Steele as they contend with a disaster on the ice.
- Ten: After the death of his husband, Chris faces a gay mid-life crisis—at thirty-five—as he jumps back into the dating scene for ten dates in ten days.
This is the first time these stories have been collected in one place, and the first publication of “The Boy in the Band.”
Warnings: Bullying, suicidal ideation and attempt, past physical abuse, deadnaming
Publisher | Amazon | iBooks | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | QueeRomance Ink | Smashwords | Universal Buy Link | Goodreads
Excerpt
From “Ten”
Sundays were the worst.
Those lazy, quiet mornings, sitting in the big bay window seat across from Ari with our legs entwined.
That happy time was long gone.
Instead, I was waiting out on the sidewalk, leaning up against the railing of the MARRS Building boardwalk. The wind blew chill, going right through my windbreaker, and the sky was slate gray. It never snowed in Sacramento, but it sure seemed to be trying.
I stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets, wishing I had a pair of mittens. As an Arizona boy, I wasn’t used to the cold, even Sacramento cold.
I stood at the corner of 20th and K in the heart of gay Sacramento, waiting for a guy named Bryan. Spelled with a “Y”, of course. We gays are nothing if not predictable.
Christmas music played from speakers in the eaves of the building behind me.
My husband Ari had passed away on New Year’s Eve the previous year. He’d been hit by a street-racing Mercedes when we were crossing J Street, and it had been twelve agonizing days in the hospital before he took his last breath.
Three seconds. That’s how far behind him I was, checking something on Facebook. I didn’t even remember what it was.
Three goddamned seconds.
After a year of being alone, of beating myself up for those three seconds, I’d finally decided that it was time to start dating again. Ari was gone, and nothing would bring him back. He would want me to go on.
Still, my heart wasn’t in it.
My mother was sick with worry. Every day I got a call or a text or an email asking if I was okay.
Ari would want me to have someone again.
I was thirty-five, and all alone.
I’d challenged myself to go on ten dates in ten days—maybe I’d find someone new. If not, at least I’d have a reason to be alone.
And so, Bryan.
He was twenty-five, hung, and had no head, at least if his Grindr profile was to be believed.
What was it about gay guys and their abs?
Then again, I’d swiped right when I saw that gorgeous chest, so I guess I’m part of the problem.
Grindr photos never lie, right?
Bryan arrived on time — a point in his favor — and he was young and beautiful. Blond, blue eyed, and yes, all of twenty-five. I laughed under my breath. I had underwear older than he was.
I’m no slouch at 5’11”, but he was taller than me.
Ari had been just my height, with black hair and dark brown eyes. Medium, dark, and handsome.
Bryan and I hugged and headed down to Pizzeria Urbano. We grabbed a couple slices and took them outside to the patio. Lavender Heights was quiet today—the cold weather, most likely—and the people-watching was practically non-existent.
“You look just like your photo,” Bryan said between bites, flashing me a big white perfectly aligned smile. No one had natural teeth that straight, or that white. “What are you, like forty?”
Little shit. “Um, thirty-five,” I replied. “And you have a head.”
“What? Oh yeah, the Grindr thing.” He grinned again, and I had to shield my eyes. “I don’t want my parents finding me on there.”
That surprised me. “You’re in the closet? I thought your generation was past all of that.”
“Nah, I just don’t want them in my business. It’s bad enough I have to follow all the ‘house rules.’ But hey, I like dating older guys.”
Ouch again. And he lived at home.
But damn, he was cute.
I tried to get us back on track. “So what do you do?”
“I’m a personal trainer.” He eyed his pizza. “I hardly ever eat this shit.”
Of course you are. “Yeah? Where?”
“At Lord’s Gym in South Sac.” He poked me in my less than perfectly flat stomach. “Hey, I can get you back in shape—you eat pizza and carbs like this all the time, right? Come in some time and I’ll hook you up.” He finished his slice, licking his fingers.
“Suuuuure.” I mentally added a new Grindr rule—from now on, any swipe-rights had to have a head.
Bryan was totally wrong for me. Too young, too athletic, not too bright, and he had all the manners of an untrained puppy.
“Wanna go back to my place?” he said, panting.
Oh my God, that tongue.
Ari wouldn’t mind.
What the fuck are you waiting for? Ari whispered in my ear. He’s hot.
I laughed. Of course it wasn’t him. But it’s exactly what he would have said, given the current situation, and if Ari wanted me to … “Sure.”
Bryan took my hand and led me back to his place, just a couple blocks away.
The next day, I started an Evernote to keep track and rate my dates. I don’t usually sleep and tell, but I gave Bryan a four and a half for date-ability, and a ten in bed.
Author Bio
Scott lives with his husband Mark in a yellow bungalow in Sacramento. He was indoctrinated into fantasy and sci fi by his mother at the tender age of nine. He devoured her library, but as he grew up, he wondered where all the people like him were.
He decided that if there weren’t queer characters in his favorite genres, he would remake them to his own ends.
A Rainbow Award winning author, he runs Queer Sci Fi, QueeRomance Ink, and Other Worlds Ink with Mark, sites that celebrate fiction reflecting queer reality, and is the committee chair for the Indie Authors Committee at the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA).
Author Website: https://www.jscottcoatsworth.com
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