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Today I am so pleased to welcome T.J. Klune to Joyfully Jay. T.J. has come to share an original story called Sandy and Paul’s Gay Porno Adventure. It is hysterical and all about dicks. The story is set in the world of Tell Me It’s Real and the upcoming sequel, The Queen and the Homo Jock King. Hope you enjoy!

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Sandy and Paul’s Gay Porno Adventure

A Tell Me It’s Real Story by TJ Klune

 

To understand me, it’s probably best to know that my education in the art of dicks began at the tender age of thirteen.

Shocking, I know, but don’t give me that look. It’s nothing as salacious as you’re thinking.

Mostly.

Discovering that I was quite possibly of the homosexual persuasion after seeing Bradley Church in showers after the eighth-grade horror known as dodgeball, I thought to myself, Well, now things make a bit more sense.

Because of penis.

And that was such a foreign thought to have, as I had never really thought about how nice penises could be. You see, puberty hadn’t been kind to Sanford Stewart, and I grew so much that my bones hurt and my voice squeaked and I had braces of all things, for fuck’s sake. I was pretty sure I was ugly duckling personified, not quite yet even glimpsing the queen swan I would one day become.

And since I was so busy lamenting over how my braces didn’t match a single goddamn thing I owned (which, honestly, should have been my first clue that I would never walk a straight line without a sway to my hips), I’d never really taken the time to notice anyone’s penis, not really even my own.

I understood it was there, don’t get me wrong. And I’d heard the stories the boys whispered to each other when we were ten that if you rubbed it long enough, it got bigger and then somehow girls got pregnant. Even ten-year-old me thought that sounded bourgeois and dull and just why would you want to rub it until girls got pregnant? So I did nothing with it, really.

And my parents, god love them, fumbled their way through the birds and the bees, but I was so distracted that my mother would even consider wearing the color combinations she’d had on that day that I cut the talk off early, demanding the she go upstairs and change before we left for lunch because I most certainly would not be seen in public while she wore pastels, my god, what did she think that did for her skin tone? She was not a spring, never a spring. My father had looked to interrupt to get the conversation back on track, but he’d quieted immediately after I began eyeing the flannel and corduroy like lumberjack chic was the Big Thing. A wise man, my father had been.

So no. I didn’t have time for such petty things as sex or sexuality. I was far too busy making sure my parents didn’t dress like Paul Bunyan and the Easter Bunny and staring at my face in the mirror, willing with only the powers of my mind for it to take on a handsome shape, for the braces to disappear, and for my outer self to match my inner fabulousness.

I spent a lot of time staring into that mirror.

But there Bradley Church was, fourteen and broad and, to be honest, a fucking jerk. And he was in the shower and I was in the shower and there it was.

His penis.

And for some reason, I felt the need to stare at it, surreptitiously, of course. It wasn’t much bigger than my own and never mind the cliché of being an American teenage boy discovering he might one day fart rainbows because of an experience in a middle-school locker room. It was a penis, and I decided right then and there I much preferred penises than rubbing on a girl and getting her pregnant. Of course, at that age, I knew impregnating a woman was far more involved than just rubbing on her, and it was one of the reasons I still grimaced at my parents every now and then, knowing exactly what sort of shenanigans they got up to when I wasn’t around.

Hearing my parents talk about sex wasn’t embarrassing. Knowing that they had had sex was mortifying. I was never going to be a member of the cliterati.

Bradley left the showers before I did, and I knew if I waited any longer, my best and dearest friend, Paul Auster, would start to worry. He didn’t shower at school like I did, because eighth-grade boys were assholes and Paul was fat, and those two things never went hand in hand. Ever. It was easier for him to avoid than confront, but I had no sense of mortality whatsoever, so I showered with the others and Paul would wait out by the lockers. I’d tried to stand with him in solidarity, but he’d rolled his eyes and told me I smelled awful when I sweat.

I was still thinking about penis by the time I’d dressed. We had one more class before we were done for the day. My parents wouldn’t be home until later, so it would give me plenty of time to research.

“Took you long enough,” Paul grumbled when I walked out of the locker room.

“We have a problem,” I said. “Something of which requires our immediate attention.”

“Oh?” He looked back toward the locker room as if he expected an angry mob to start pouring out after us.

“Yes.” I led the way toward our last class. “I believe I have become fascinated with penises.”

Paul tripped and fell into a wall.

“What the hell?” he hissed after me. “Sandy. Sandy.”

All through Social Studies, he kept glaring at me, trying to get my attention, but I was thinking about dicks and couldn’t be bothered with assuaging the fears of my friend. Being thirteen years old and discovering such a thing as sexuality was a terrifying prospect and I needed to get home and watch as much porn as possible in order to determine if I was, in fact, a homosexual. I’d never been one to watch pornography before, and I wondered where I should begin.

When the final bell rang, I waited for Paul to huff and puff as he threw his books in his bag and followed me as we headed toward the buses. He took me by the elbow and whispered furiously, “Why are you talking about penises?”

“Because,” I said, “I have become enamored with them.”

“What? Why?”

“Puberty,” I guessed. “Also, Bradley Church.”

“Oh god,” he moaned. “He’s such a douche.”

“Right,” I said. “But I expect that most penises I am enamored with will belong to douches. It seems like a thing.” Granted, I didn’t plan on doing anything with Bradley Church’s penis, but it was a nice thought regardless.

Paul followed me onto the bus and sat down next to me on the hot, cracked seat.

“You’re coming over,” I decided. “I can’t do this on my own. I need another opinion.”

“For what?”

“Research.”

“About penises.”

“Exactly.”

Paul huffed. “Just as long as we’re finished by the time my stories are on. You know I can’t miss my stories. Things are happening and Genoa City will never be the same again.”

I barely restrained rolling my eyes. “You have to be the only teenage boy who watches The Young and the Restless.”

“What are you implying?”

“Do I really need to say it?” I wondered aloud.

“Well, you want to research dicks, so. You know. No room to talk and all that.”

“Well played,” I said approvingly. “Just the right amount of cattiness. I’ll make a bitchy man out of you yet.”

 

 

“Okay,” I said as we sat in front of the computer. “Now. While the dial-up is connecting, I feel like we should talk about some things.”

“I feel like we should not talk about this at all,” Paul said. “And once this is over, never mention it again.”

“That’s probably not going to happen,” I said. “It’s obvious something is shifting here, and we should make sure we’re at the forefront of it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about the fact that we’re getting ready to look at penises,” I said. “And that you didn’t really fight me on this when I told you that you were doing it with me.”

“I fought,” Paul said. “Plenty.”

“Barely.”

“Still fought.”

“Semantics,” I said. “I think we may have to accept certain facts about ourselves.”

“Like what?”

“Well, let’s wait until we’ve seen the penises to decide definitively.”

“I never thought that I’d ever hear you say a sentence like that.”

“Times are changing,” I said. I looked back at the computer as the modem finished connecting over the phone line. My AOL Instant Messenger box popped open, so I put an away message on it as to not be disturbed: BBL *~*~dreaming of stars and the moon is bright~*~*.

“That’s so deep,” Paul mocked.

“Shut up.”

“I can’t believe you get to have AIM and I don’t. My mom says that she doesn’t want to take the chance that strange men would try and talk to me. It’s lame. Parents are lame. Everything is lame.”

“Well,” I said, “to be fair, you’re the type that would talk to strange men on the Internet and end up getting kidnapped.”

“No,” Paul argued. “Remember that time that we were ten and that guy tried to give us candy to get in his windowless van? I didn’t go with him.”

“Only because he was trying to snatch you by offering Raisinets.”

“Who does that?” Paul asked, sounding disgusted, and it was not because of potential kidnappers. “You can’t get me in your rapist van with chocolate-covered raisins.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that to him. He looked offended before he took off. Offended and slightly rapey.”

I was offended. It could have at least been an Almond Joy or something. Fuck Raisinets.”

“And this is why we’re best friends,” I said, patting his hand. “Okay. So. Where do we start?”

“Why are you asking me?” he said. “I’ve never looked up penises before.”

“Hmm,” I said. “Maybe just type penis into AOL and see what happens.”

“Wait,” Paul said. “Are we researching penises or, you know. Penises.”

He had a point. Penises sounded so clinical. But penises, on the other hand….

I typed in hot dick.

Paul giggled.

So did I. Because we were thirteen and I’d just written hot dick.

“I can’t believe you wrote that.” Paul turned an alarming shade of red.

“It has to be what it’s under, right?” I asked, trying not to match his blush.

I hit Enter.

“Okay,” I said. “We have seventy-nine thousand results. That should be more than enough to get started.”

“Just click one,” Paul said. “There. What about that one?”

“The one that says ‘XXX dick fuckers suck men ball licker twinkie good time’?”

“It’s certainly descriptive,” Paul said. “Though I have no idea what half of it means.”

“Touché.” I clicked on the link.

Ten minutes later, the website had loaded and Paul was complaining how much faster my dial-up was than his. Of course, he stopped complaining once the rather large nude black man appeared on the screen, pointing at us.

But not with his hand.

“Is that his dick?” Paul choked out. “I thought he had another arm.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s… much larger than I expected. I feel inadequate.”

“He has to be a mutant,” Paul said. “Like, the Hulk and gamma radiation. You wouldn’t like his penis when it’s angry.”

“There are videos,” I said, scrolling through the sidebar. “Which one should we pick?”

“There’s one called Sausage Pizza Delivery Special Good Time,” Paul said. “That sounds harmless. It even has a review left under it that say says ‘I want to nut in your butt.’ Well. At least it rhymed. Pick that one.”

“Only because you’re hungry.”

“Pizza is delicious,” Paul agreed. “And I’m always hungry. It’s sort of my thing.”

Nineteen minutes later, it had loaded almost halfway. “Okay,” I said to Paul. “Now, before we watch this, there are a few things we have to agree on.”

“Like what?”

“Like no matter the outcome, we’ll still be friends.”

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

I shrugged. “Because what happens if I watch this video and become obsessed and think about dicks all the time and you don’t? I’ll have to become an interior decorator and move to San Francisco and have sassy adventures. What then?”

“Oh,” Paul said. “I would move with you, I guess, and support your newfound dick addiction. Heh. Addiction. Classic.”

“You would?”

“Support your addiction? Sure.”

“Oh god, stop it. I meant move with me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked, sounding honestly confused. “You’re my best friend. I want to have sassy adventures with you.”

“Good,” I said, feeling relieved. “And also, I love you.”

“Me too. But what happens if I become obsessed with dicks? Or we both do?”

That was a chilling thought. One that I wasn’t quite prepared to deal with at the moment. Hopefully, the pizza delivery video would be enlightening and I would have a better understanding of what came next.

It took twenty-two minutes for the remaining part of the video to download, most of which I spent daydreaming about what sassy adventures I could have. I hoped most of them would allow me to wear a large sunhat. I’d always wanted a large sunhat. “You ready?” I asked Paul when the video was completely loaded.

He rubbed his sweaty hands against his jeans. “Is one ever ready to look at penises?”

“How philosophical of you.”

“You know I get philosophical when I get nervous. It’s a weird habit.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s only our entire sexual identity when we’re firmly encroached in the throes of puberty.”

He groaned.

I clicked on the video.

It buffered for seven minutes.

Then the magic began.

“Pizza delivery. I have an order for Rock Hardson.”

“Yeah, I’m Rock Hardson.”

“That can’t be his real name,” Paul said. “But if it is, then he is definitely in the right profession.”

“And why is he answering the door wearing a towel?” I asked. “There could be a murderer waiting for him and not pizza.”

“Sorry about that. I was just in the shower. It’s been a sweaty day.”

“Ah,” I said. “There’s the plot.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Hardson. I have the extra-large sausage pizza you ordered.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pizza delivery person wear shorts that small.” Paul frowned. “And you can see his nipples. That can’t be hygienic. For the pizza.”

“I didn’t order any extra-large sausage pizza.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you should open the box and look.”

“Who ordered the pizza, then?” Paul asked. “Is someone playing a joke on him?”

I shook my head. “And why would you need to open the pizza box and—”

“Maybe I should. Oh. Wait. That’s not a pizza.”

“—oh, because his dick is in it.”

“Are you telling me that a pizza delivery driver took the time to cut a hole the size of his penis and then put said penis through the hole?” Paul said. “And then tried to deliver it to someone? Does the Better Business Bureau know about this?”

“Are you sure it’s not a pizza? Because I could have sworn it was the extra sausage. Maybe you should get a closer look. With your mouth.”

“That doesn’t sound very sanitary,” I said, grimacing at the computer. “They don’t even know each other.”

“Seriously,” Paul said. “And am I the only one concerned where the pizza went? There are still grease stains on the box! Is the pizza still in his car? Did he leave it on the side of the road? Was it thin crust or thick?”

“I bet it was thick,” I said. “Because of the porno.”

Paul high-fived me.

“Your sausage looks ready to eat.”

“You mean extra sausage.”

“Yeah. Extra sausage. That’s exactly what I meant.”

“Wow, they’re really stretching that sausage thing, aren’t they?” I asked.

“Is he not even going to ask the pizza delivery guy his name?” Paul said. “It seems like that’d only be polite after he went through so much work to present his penis.”

And then the most magical thing happened. Something so life-altering that it would forever shape the landscape of things to come.

Rock Hardson began to suck on the dick poking through the hole in the pizza box.

“Holy shit,” I said.

“Something is happening in my pants,” Paul breathed.

Thirty-seven minutes later (including fifteen more minutes of ill-timed buffering), we had learned quite a few things. First, don’t just suck on a dick; you should also play with the balls too. Second, get the dick as wet as possible because it makes these really awesome squelching sounds and allows more slide with your hands. Third, it’s possible to lick someone in the butt and by the look of it, it felt really good. Four, condoms are very important when having sex with your pizza delivery driver, even if they randomly appear out of nowhere like they were magically wished into existence. Five, putting your penis into a butt is the most amazing experience ever, as so attested to by the pizza delivery driver who kept telling Mr. Hardson to “give me your spicy sausage into my calzone and make me your pasta fazool.” (Which, in retrospect, made no sense as pasta fazool tended to be a meatless Italian dish.) Six, when having your orgasm, make sure your pizza delivery person is on his knees while you jerk off above him. Also, when jerking off, grunt weirdly, breathe heavily, and expend your release all over the delivery guy’s chest.

The final thing I learned?

I was completely and irrevocably obsessed with dicks.

And also pretty damn gay.

“Oh sweat balls,” Paul said. “That was… something. Also? I’m confused and I have an erection. As if being fat wasn’t hard enough, now I have to be sweaty and like penises. And I want a pizza. What the hell. How is this my life?”

“My dearest Paul,” I said finally. “I think we might be queer.”

“Well fuck,” Paul said succinctly.


Blurb

Queen and homo jock kingDo you believe in love at first sight?

Sanford Stewart sure doesn’t. In fact, he pretty much believes in the exact opposite, thanks to the Homo Jock King. It seems Darren Mayne lives for nothing more than to create chaos in Sandy’s perfectly ordered life, just for the hell of it. Sandy despises him, and nothing will ever change his mind.

Or so he tells himself.

It’s not until the owner of Jack It—the club where Sandy performs as drag queen Helena Handbasket—comes to him with a desperate proposition that Sandy realizes he might have to put his feelings about Darren aside. Because Jack It will close unless someone can convince Andrew Taylor, the mayor of Tucson, to keep it open.

Someone like Darren, the mayor’s illegitimate son.

The foolproof plan is this: seduce Darren and push him to convince his father to renew Jack It’s contract with the city.

Simple, right?

Wrong.


Bio

When TJ Klune was eight, he picked up a pen and paper and began to write his first story (which turned out to be his own sweeping epic version of the video game Super Metroid—he didn’t think the game ended very well and wanted to offer his own take on it. He never heard back from the video game company, much to his chagrin). Now, two decades later, the cast of characters in his head have only gotten louder, wondering why he has to go to work as a claims examiner for an insurance company during the day when he could just stay home and write.

He dreams about one day standing at Stonehenge, just so he can say he did.

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