Friday, May 04, 2012

"And this above all else, to thine own self be true", by Lee Brazil

Good morning folks, thanks for having me over here at An Ecelctic Author. I'm Lee Brazil, author of m/m romance for Breathless Press and The Story Orgy. I'm a retired English teacher and a self confessed coffee addict. *sips from mug* Can't help it. Er...Actually, I mean I don't want to. Everyone needs a vice, right? Well, coffee is a pretty mild vice as vices go.
I'm a fan of many writers, and many genres. I began reading in earnest when I was in third grade. Started with the Hardy Boys and just...zipped through my public school library. In high school, I landed on Shakespeare for a few months. (Yes, it all started because teachers insisted we read Romeo and Juliet – but that my friends is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg!)
You see, in Shakespeare's Elizabethan tomfoolery, I found things he never meant to say. Like that bit up there. "And this above all, to thine own self be true."
In the play, Hamlet, this is an admonishment in a diatribe from Polonius to his son, Laertes. Polonius is advising Laertes to look out for his own best interests, to be, in short, selfish and think of himself and his own benefit first in the intrigues of the court.
Everyone who hears that line out of context sees it as a mantra for individuality, an underscore of the right to exist, to be yourself. And you know what? That's perfectly okay, because as another favorite of mine, Robert Frost, said, "The poet is entitled to all the meaning the reader finds in his work." See? Not just what the poet meant, but what the reader found.  J It works- go with it.
Isn't that the better interpretation anyway? We don't have the right to be selfish, to be jerks, to look out for our own best interests where they may conflict with society's best interests. We do have the right to be ourselves, and to expect that others will respect that right.
When faced with an impossible situation, to thine own self be true. That doesn't mean protect your own ass, not to us today.
It means do what's best for you. Make the choice that you can live with. The one that is right for you.
In my novella, Mark's Opening Gambit, Mark is faced with a choice. He's existed in a sort of limbo, balancing what he wants with what his family expects. Then he meets Mason. Mason needs more than Mark is allowing himself. Mark has to decide how he can best be true to himself. Is it in his best interests to continue as he has been? Or to change the course of his life to be with Mason?
Find out for yourself.

Available from Breathless Press

The son of a wealthy business man, Mark Addison is an expert at chess and hiding. Mason Grant labors with his hands in a menial position; he's open about who he is and what he wants in ways that terrify Mark. Their paths shouldn't have crossed, but now that they have...
They came from different backgrounds, yet each adheres to his own version of family duty and responsibility. One would make any sacrifice for his family's well being. For Mason Grant that means leaving school at sixteen and working hard while living as a man of integrity to set an example for his brothers.
The other would sacrifice anything to keep his family life calm. If that means hiding who he really is from his high society, narrow-minded parents, then that's what Mark Addison will do. He just wants to run his shop, host a few tournaments, play a few games of chess.
When Mason meets fussy, precise chess tournament director Mark, he isn't expecting much more than a few hours of uncomfortable sleep in his car while his brother plays.
One disdainful look from Mark changes that.
Excerpt
Mason surreptitiously glanced around the neat interior of Mark's Opening Gambit. The café-slash-chess parlor wasn't his first choice of places to spend a Saturday, but when his brother begged a ride to the tournament, he'd caved immediately, despite the exhaustion and body aches he'd earned the night before. Unloading trucks and stocking shelves at the grocery store wasn't a mentally challenging job, but the night shift paid a dollar an hour more and the extra money came in handy. Times were tough, and a guy without a high school diploma didn't stand a whole lot of a chance of doing something better. It also left his mom free to take the day shift at the hospital where she worked, and he was available during the days to ferry his brothers around to their high school events and activities.
Such as chess tournaments hosted by button-down dress-shirt-wearing, hot as hell, snooty men. He might have been a bit more eager to play chauffeur if he'd realized the Mark his brother had spoken of glowingly was such an eyeful. He'd stepped through the shop door behind Johnny to find his gaze locked with a pair of eyes so deep and golden it was like he'd stepped into honey. He couldn't glance away for the longest time, and it took the other man's slow flush to make him realize he was being rude. That first sight of the tournament host had sent a warm awareness through him. He really wished that the sight of Mark Addison—Jesus, even his fucking name was holier than thou—wasn't so appealing. Mark was perfect. Fucking perfect, or perfect for fucking, with his neatly trimmed brown hair, touched with golden highlights, his slim, wiry body, not the product of a gym but of a man who led an active life. His lips enticed Mason, and he wanted to pull the puffy lower one between his teeth and bite down, to suck it into his mouth and devour the man with kisses. He wanted to touch the pale skin and see if it was as soft as it appeared, as cold as it seemed, to stroke away the distance in those eyes and make the other man notice him.
The golden-brown gaze didn't warm in the slightest under his own admiring regard, but scanned his faded Levi's and tight T-shirt with disapproval. Mason half expected to be informed he didn't meet the dress code for the elegant little shop. Instead, Mark Addison looked him over and dismissed him as though he were beneath notice.
Shrugging off the snobbery, Mason slapped his brother on the back. "Go get 'em, kid. Or whatever you guys call it." He hoped to sleep in his car while his brother played and turned to leave immediately.
He met Addison's eyes again, tried for a smile, but the arrogant host stared right through him. "Students participating in the tournament are to be supervised by adults at all times."
The inflectionless voice grated on his nerves as much as the pronouncement. It wasn't like these were two-year-olds, for God's sake. It was Chess Club. By virtue of their very geekiness, they were mature, well-behaved teens.
Too bad such a sexy voice and face belonged to such a prick. Unfortunately for Mason, he couldn't focus on Johnny's progress through the tournament. All he seemed able to focus on was that slim figure moving between the tables, the unconscious grace of the small man's movements, the seductive draw of tightening khaki across his backside as he bent to survey a board or pick up something from the floor.
He scowled as Mark glared at him again, turning and facing resolutely out the window into the parking lot. In the reflection the glass provided, he watched Mark excuse himself from Ainslie, the kids' coach, and head in his direction, a determined expression on his face.
Good. The self-righteous prick had noticed him. Mark stopped right next to him, and they stood staring out into the parking lot together.
"Stop staring at me like that."
Mason snorted, turned to look down at the shorter man. "Like what?"
The older man twitched and licked his lips. Mason stifled the groan that wanted to escape. He shifted restlessly.
"You know. Like...that."
"Like I want to throw you over my shoulder and take you out of here and fuck you? Sorry. Can't do that." Fascinated, he noted the flush on Mark's cheekbones deepen, heard the hitch in his breathing, and knew that he'd been right. Chemistry burned between them.
"You..." Mark glanced cautiously around the shop at the kids concentrating so fiercely on their chess games, the proud parents and coaches peering anxiously at their little darlings. Mark stuttered to a stop before starting again. "Not here. We need to talk privately. Meet me behind the shop in ten minutes."
Whoa. He hadn't expected that. Maybe Mark's buttoned-down appearance was deceptive. Mason looked forward to cracking that calm reserve and proving to the man that the clothes they wore didn't define their roles. He nodded in acknowledgment, and Mark wandered away to check on the progress of the tournament. Mason headed straight to the front door, aware all the while of Mark's furtive glances. He exited the shop and headed to his beat-up old Jetta, so at odds with the shiny BMWs and SUVs that surrounded it in the parking lot.
A brief stop at the car to pick up some things he'd need, and he strolled casually around the corner of the building, thankful that the chess café was at the end of the strip mall and not in the middle. Behind the shop was a Dumpster, and strangely enough, a wrought-iron table and two chairs on the cemented area that should have been an unloading bay. Mason noted with interest the ashtray and coasters on the table. A few potted palms provided a bit of shade and some privacy, but not enough for anything too intimate. Mark had created a little garden back here. Mason's absorption in the details of the environment convinced him that he'd overestimated Mark's intentions. More private than the store itself, yes, but hardly secluded enough for any real interaction of a physical sort.
He spied Mark peering through the back door of the shop. At the grocery store where Mason worked, the back doors were battered and grimy. Not so at Mark's Opening Gambit. The door to the back room of the shop was a shiny, pure white, fresh scrubbed, or painted or whatever. Not so much as a fingerprint marred its pristine surface, much like not so much as a hair on Mark's head dared stray out of place. It made Mason want to grab a crayon and write on the walls, muss up the environment just like he wanted to muss up those locks of brown hair.  Mark's sweet lips pressed tightly together, and his cheeks flushed, from anger or arousal maybe, as he caught sight of Mason.
Mason found his gaze drawn to those lips, wanting to pry them apart and soothe the tension from them with caresses of his mouth and tongue. He licked his suddenly dry lips in anticipation as Mark approached.
Honey-colored eyes sparkled with emotion as Mark came within touching distance. Mason fought the urge to yank him even closer as Mark halted, gazing up. He felt again the strange drowning sensation as he stared down into those eyes, unable to glance away. Thank God Mark seemed to experience it, too, because whatever angry words he'd been about to spout died on his lips as Mason ran a big, calloused palm along the smooth-shaven curve of Mark's jaw, feeling his indrawn breath as much as he heard it. The softness of Mark's jaw on his own work-roughened skin was thrilling, and Mason bent down, tilting his head to the side before smoothly bringing their lips together. With the merest brush of contact, he paused to allow Mark the chance to refuse the kiss, to pull away, to slap his face, to ream him out for having the gall to touch.
When no protest came, he sighed with relief. His eyelids drifted shut, and he pressed his parted lips more firmly on the soft, sweet lips below his own. Carefully, ignoring the throbbing demands of his body, he tasted the plump curves that had held his gaze. Not wanting to startle Mark, Mason ran his tongue lightly over those sensual lips, sliding his hand from the taut line of jaw around to the nape of Mark's neck, burying his fingers in the fine, silky strands of hair there.
Mark's unresisting acquiescence was far from the response he wanted. He guided the man's head to a better angle and slipped his tongue into the waiting cavern. Mark trembled in response. Mason wanted Mark to burn as he did, to feel the same urgent desire to throw caution to the wind and make love here in the open behind the shop. He wouldn't go that far in this public setting, of course, but he wanted to strip away the distance in Mark's eyes and make him a part of the present, force him to respond, to reach for Mason with the same urgency that Mason yearned for him.
He'd nearly given up when Mark shoved him abruptly away, glaring at him with angry golden eyes. Instead of the passion he'd hoped to inspire, the other man appeared scared, panicky even. Mason stepped forward, guilt urging him to offer comfort.
Mark scowled at Mason and pushed backward, dropped into one of the wrought-iron chairs, and reached into a pocket to pull out a packet of cigarettes. His gaze darted left and right as though searching for someone. "No. What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Guilt at causing Mark's near panic, anger at being pushed aside, and, to some degree, sheer exhaustion had words spilling from Mason's mouth before he could evaluate them. "Hey, I get it. No means no. Yeah. Like I'd want to kiss a wax doll again anyway."
He spun on his heel and stalked away from the little oasis in back of the strip mall, ignoring Mark's harshly indrawn breath behind him. He shoved a hand into his pocket and curled his fingers tightly around the condom and lube he'd shoved there. Thinking with his dick. Fucking lucky he hadn't gotten knocked on his ass literally instead of figuratively.

___________________________________________________________
Lee Brazil
I’m an avid reader and former teacher of grammar and composition who believes that falling in love is the grandest adventure anyone can have.  In a nutshell, that’s every story I have to tell.  Relocating from the crazy pace of life in Southern California's Orange County to the beautiful and leisurely atmosphere of the Illinois countryside has given me the time to indulge the desire to write that I set aside when I started teaching fourteen years ago. Readers can find out more about me and my writing by visiting me at my blog, Lee's Musings or finding me on Facebook.  Feel free to drop me a line at lee.brazil@ymail.com

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