Chapter 1

Something Sweet Called Life

This tale is about love, tragedy, thrills, and a mix of sweets. I just want to get that off my chest here and now. It’s a compilation of romance stories among interesting men of various ages. Some of the connected stories are warm and fuzzy while others proclaim sadness and hardship. But each takes place around a bakery in downtown Snowden, Pennsylvania called Cupcakes, the place where my love and passion existed at its fullest. My home away from home that was built on the recipe of the men who passed through its doors—its employees, patrons, villains, and passersby—those are the people who made Cupcakes rise like yeast and fill my life. Those men were my world and my delight

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Snowden was small in size but had a lot of zest. Its population was around 1900 and the town was bumped against Erie to its west. Snowy Branch Beach lined Lake Erie on its upper side. Brushton Creek Forest spanned its lower side, and various smaller Pennsylvania towns garnished its east side, none of which I wish to discuss in these pages. Houses lined the parallel streets, all of which were filled with happy middle-class families with Christian values and New England-like manners. It was a peaceful place with next to no crime, abundant with queers, and one of the most liberal places on the planet.

Rather Street was the center of town. Small businesses lined its sidewalks. Above these pleasures were its many apartments, which reminded one of big city life with a sprinkle of charm. Cupcakes sat near the north end of Rather Street, next to the lake. It was a three-floor brick building with parking in the rear, a haunted basement, and two queens who owned and operated the place.

I was one of the queens: David Miles. And my partner in the baking business was Richter Layover, a pop tart with blond locks, surprising blue eyes, and a body to die for. He was a Georgia peach and I had loved him for ten challenging years when this tale started. We were an odd couple of sorts since I’m black as coal with dark blue eyes and a jaw that could open cans of almonds. We were both thirty then, mature, monetarily thriving because of Cupcakes’ substantial business, and not at all unhappy in our gay marriage. Richter came from loads of cash since his father owned a few banks in Georgia. He refused to use his gifted money for our lives, though. Instead, the grands piled up in one of his daddy’s banks in an account with both of our names on it, and established a healthy retirement fund.

I was parentless, but not brotherless. Darvon, my older brother by seven years, lived in downtown Erie with his wife and three daughters. He taught chemistry at a private college. His wife, Viviana Jackson, was a writer at the time, specializing in children’s books. Our parents died when we were little boys and we went from one foster home to the next until Darvon turned eighteen. He met Viviana then and her parents took us into their lives, and we’ve been surrogate children ever since, and happy. I’m not saying that my brother married his sister, because they aren’t even remotely related. I’m just saying that we were loved by Julian and Mezda Jackson, Viviana’s parents, and are still loved to this day as their own children.

Enough about me, though. The bakery called Cupcakes is our concern.

There was a special for the day on apricot strudel that you need to know about. It was buy one, get one free and the bakery was running out of the delight fast. The sign in the front window indicated as much. I suggest you feel free to enter through the bakery’s two front doors, smell the sweet smells, take in the glass cases filled with your favorite breads and baked goods, and try a slice, piece, sliver, or crumble of something sweet called life and happiness. 2: Bottom Boy

Most of the money to build Cupcakes came from Richter’s adult film days in West Hollywood. That’s where we met. I was a copy boy and he an actor. He started in the business at age eighteen and worked as a bottom boy for the next eight years. Of course we were involved for six of those years during that almost-decade, but I didn’t mind his career choice. Most men or husbands would have hit the roof with rage, but I thought it hot as hell, sexy, and not at all a threat to our relationship.

A few things led me to such an opinion. One, I wasn’t jealous of his sexual flings. Two, I didn’t care who was sucking Richter’s cock or doing his bottom because I knew with the deepest passion of my heart that he loved me. Three, I was the guy he came home to after his performed scenes. Four, he loved me to the fullest, claiming me an understanding saint and the best lover in the world, better than any top he had shared time with in front of a West Hollywood camera. Five, I regarded his sexual antics with other porn stars a total turn on. My bottom boy in our relationship was an aphrodisiac for me. Anytime a chiseled jock, police officer, mechanic, blue collar worker, military dude, daddy, or clergyman nailed his behind in a DVD movie was relentless bliss for me. I’d be a liar to say I didn’t enjoy watching my lover being banged by his well-built coworkers. Richter’s play on film was eye-awakening and dick-hardening for me, which he was very much aware of, and never judged me for.