It’s time for Tuesday Tales!
Today we have a snippet from A Brush of Blue, Colors of Love #5. This time around we get to enjoy the first time Landon lays eyes on Montrell Pittman, the band leader on Late Night with Oliver, a popular new late night talk show. Our word this week is “Skinny”.
This story may have gay erotic scenes, strong social issues addressed and mature language. If those things offend now is the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales blog. Thanks for stopping by!
The band struck up something snappy and jazzy. I heard my name being called in a bouncy British accent. Debbie gave me a nudge and then I was out under the lights, the crowd on its feet as it cheered. Oliver was about seven inches shorter than me and a lot more jovial, dressed in a bold blue checked suit with a garish lime green tie. He sported a wild upswept hairdo. He grabbed me and hugged me, startling me slightly as hugging wasn’t something that I normally did without my hockey padding on. But I found my footing quickly, patted him on the back, and then turned to wave at the band. That was when my sight landed on Montrell Pittman sitting at the keyboard of a black, baby grand piano.
The man was stunning. Breathtaking. His smile was wide, his hair short and styled, his cheeks coated in fashionable stubble, and his clothes sleek and modern. Burgundy slacks and jacket with an ebony turtleneck. He jumped to his shiny black shoes when my intro ended, showing off just how well his burgundy suit with the slim cut, skinny lapels and tight legs fit his lean, long body. The audience hooted even louder. My eyes were locked on Montrell. Oliver pulled me along, hand on my elbow. The toe of my shoe caught on the carpeted riser the desk and sofa sat on, and I had to catch myself to save falling on my face.
I sat first, Oliver dropped behind his funky desk in front of a lighted mural of Manhattan at night, his smile warm and welcoming. “Welcome to the show, Landon,” he said as the crowd quieted. “This is a big deal for us as we’ve never had a famous goalie on the show before. Did you always know that you wanted to have men shoot frozen rubber discs at your face, or did that particular kind of insanity appear later in life?”
The audience chuckled. Hockey talk. That was good. Sticking to the game was my preferred line of dialog. I answered, Oliver made a witty remark, we all guffawed. My gaze kept flitting from Oliver to Montrell as he watched the interview. His eyes were light, not the dark sensuous brown that most Black men had. Were they contacts? I didn’t care. They were opulent and held my attention, as did his full lips, deep cheekbones, and strong chin. I wanted the man. In my bed. Soon. Tonight hopefully.
Copyright 2020 ©by V.L. Locey
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