It`s time for Tuesday Tales.
Today we have an excerpt from Reading the Play, Watkins Glen Gladiators #5.
Please do bear in mind that these snippets are unedited so please be kind if you find any mistakes.
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!
“Cut!” Leonard shouted after the camera panned back from my close-up. The office of the tire emporium was deadly quiet. All the employees had been hidden behind stacks of tires to give the massive space a feel of inner-city grit. Leonard’s remark not mine. I wasn’t sure one could get Watkins Glen to reflect inner-city anything and I should know. I’d spent my first six years of life living in Jakarta, Indonesia before coming to the states with my family. My older sister moved back and now lives there with her husband and new son, the cutest baby in the world, thank you very much proud uncle here. So every summer I go to my birthplace even though I grew up in Columbia, South Carolina. So yeah, I knew big cities. Watkins Glen was not a big city. It was a charming village that I adored but it was lacking in dark city grit. Unless there was a side street that I’d not discovered that had skyscrapers and subways. Neither of which was found here. Watkins Glen had wine slushie shops, trendy eateries, and a lake. Oh, and one sort of famous race track. “Okay, Baskoro, that was good but I need gravitas from you.”
I blinked the sweat out of my eyes. It was miserably hot in full gear, in early September, in front of a dozen bright lights.
“Uhm, I’m not sure exactly what you mean by that,” I replied foolishly, getting an eyeroll from Leonard the office manager slash man who dreams of winning an Oscar for a thirty-second local commercial starring an incredibly handsome but unskilled in acting hockey player.
“Baskoro, Basky, can I call you Basky?” he enquired, sliding from his little director’s chair to hurry over to me, his hand nervously moving his comb-over back over his sweaty bald spot.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” I muttered inside my mask.
“Okay good, so Basky, you’re not giving me enough panache.”
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