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121 Seiten
1 Stunde
Jan 17, 2016


Almost thirty, amateur boxer Daron Tulsa has a little mess on his hands. He just so happens to be falling for his best friend, Colm Frost, a sports-themed freelance writer for e-magazines. Life for Daron feels cataclysmically frostbitten because Colm is straight and has a stunning Hollywood actress girlfriend. For Daron, these major blocks leave Colm untouchable, both emotionally and physically.

As the Pittsburgh winter becomes a tempest of snow, ice, and cold, so does Daron’s heart. He realizes Colm will never be a part of his world and pulls away from the man. But when Colm’s girlfriend travels for her career, leaving him behind, two personal secrets unexpectedly unfold, which may eventually melt Daron’s heart.
Jan 17, 2016

Über den Autor

R.W. Clinger is a resident of Pittsburgh. He has a degree in English from Point Park University of Pittsburgh. His writing entails gay human studies, and includes the novels Just a Boy, Skin Tour, Skin Artist, Soft on the Eyes, Pool Boy, and The Last Pile of Leaves. He has published many stories with Starbooks Press as well as The Weekender, a novella with Dreamspinner Press. His gay mystery, Cutie Pie Must Die, is published with Bold Stroke Books. For three years he has held the position of managing editor for the literary magazine, The Writer’s Post Journal. For more information, please visit

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Frostbitten - R.W. Clinger


Chapter 1: I’ll Play Nice This Time

January 10

Malcolm Frost had to be someone’s nemesis in the boxing ring—mine. Not that it mattered to me, since I still wanted to undress the middleweight contender with my bare hands and roll my fingertips over his hairy and pert nipples.

He made me feel frostbitten.

I couldn’t have him sexually, though. Never.

I wouldn’t have him, or so I told myself.

Sometimes I wanted things I couldn’t have, Malcolm William Frost included. The world spun that way sometimes. Spiteful. Upsetting. Off its axis. Goodness and love had vanished from the planet on most days. Why couldn’t I get the guy I wanted? And why all the sexual tension between us?

The sexy and muscular boxer refused to have our chiseled torsos touch, even though I wanted to be physically close to the man. Never could we wind up in a heated embrace of mutual bliss because Colm, as I called him, had Melinda Moretell’s heart; a bombshell of an actress with her ditzy charm, model qualities, and numerous sexy stilettos. He loved Melinda. Every part of her. Everything about the Hollywood actress. To my understanding, the actress belonged to him, and the two were inseparable, lovers until their dying ends. To break their bond apart seemed unthinkable; something I wouldn’t dare accomplish, at least not on purpose. Both were intricate puzzle pieces that fit beautifully together. Never would they separate, or so I believed, and convinced myself, as one of Colm’s best friends.

Again, I studied Colm inside the ring at Ranard’s Gym on Nelson Street in downtown Pittsburgh. Memberships were steep and limited to use the gym, and both of us were lucky to have one. The man resembled fire on the mat, quickly shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet, jabbing his practicing buddy, Brian Beef Tarkin, in the chest. Colm threw a bolo punch and followed it up with two rabbits. Beef had the reputation of being a palooka, a weak and unskilled competitor, who usually lost a fight. Colm used the guy as turtle meat to practice on, throwing random left hooks and a haymaker, which sent Beef against the mat, head-first.

Pleased with himself, Colm took off his head gear. A smile spread over his handsome face. Pride etched around his stunning eyes. Accomplishment twinkled in his pupils. The man opposed being arrogant. Instead, he humbled himself with pride and came across as charming. I considered him the man of my dreams, yet untouchable because of a certain actress in his life that I believed he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, marrying and loving forever, until death.

There, positioned on the sideline, outside the ring, I studied the twenty-six-year-old yet again and ogled his delicious features: thick curly hair the color of a crow’s feathers, piercing marsh green eyes, and an English-sloped nose. He had pinkish narrow lips, broad shoulders with convex-structured triceps, a muscled hairy chest, erect nipples the color of molten brown, and an athletic hourglass shape. He stood at five-ten, featured toned hips, thighs of steel, and had a chunk of cock hidden in a canary yellow Champion trunk.

Colm helped Beef up and off the mat and escorted him to the edge of the ring. They shook hands and exchanged words of encouragement. The loser climbed out of the ring and headed for the showers. Colm crossed the mat, walked up to the ropes on my side, and looked down at me.

He smiled and asked, What did you think, Daron?

The Liverpool accent had disappeared after living in America for twenty years; too bad for me since I thought it a turn-on. Colm moved from Liverpool to Greenwich Village with his mother, Eve, when he turned six. Eve functioned as a single mother, never married, and wanted her only son to have the best experiences in life, which she believed could only happen in America. The paperback romance writer felt that Pittsburgh had the slice-of-life they needed to survive, and the pair settled there, tucked in the polite city. Some two decades later, Eve now lived in San Francisco with a plumber, and sexy Colm just happened to live in downtown Pittsburgh, which pleased me.

You’re definitely a fighter. God has given you a gift, and you’re using it with expertise. Kudos, my friend.

He huffed and puffed for air. His silky and sweaty chest rose and fell as he waved me into the ring and said, You need to get in here so I can beat the shit out of you.

Always a gentleman, aren’t you, Colm? To tell you the truth, I’m good right here, I confessed, grinning from ear to ear. You already know you’re better in the ring. There’s no reason to prove it again, my friend.

Frankly, he could slip his lean and muscular body between two of the ropes and let me brush my lips and chin against its bulging physique. Then I could make his cock turn hard, and we could end up in the gym’s shower area together, naked and panting, sexually intertwined. That didn’t happen, though, and probably never would. Colm had Melinda for such sexual pleasantries, not Daron Tulsa—me.

Come in the ring, man, he begged. I’ll be gentle with you. He gazed at my twenty-eight-year-old, five-nine frame, blond crew cut, and Caribbean blue eyes. Colm checked out my block of hairless and suntanned chest, blinked a few times, and added, Trust me. That’s what boxing is all about…trust.

The last time you said that, I ended up with a misaligned collarbone.

He chuckled, staring down at me. I’ll play nice this time. Give me a good hit or two, and we’ll call it a day. What do you say?

Fuck it. Why not? The guy exceeded levels of hotness, came across as being sexy as hell, and a great boxer that I could learn many things from. I actually wanted to feel his sparring gloves make contact with my chest, muscular shoulders, and wherever else he wanted to strike me.

As he helped me up to the mat, I informed him, No face. Remember that. I’m a pretty guy for a reason. Boxing isn’t one of those reasons.

Why? Do you have a date with Chad tonight?

Chad dumped me for a waiter. You know that.

That waiter with the four toes on his right foot?

Yes. The guy looks like me, except he’s younger. Chad won’t be with him long. I rolled onto the mat, entered the ring, stood, and faced my competitor.

Colm chuckled at my loss. We bounced sparring gloves together and began to prance on the mat.

You need to pick better boyfriends, man. Chad was an asshole. He treated you like shit, and then dumped you. What the fuck was all of that about anyway?

What could I say? Life liked to kick me in the ass. Chad enjoyed blond guys and any dick he could shove into his mouth or ass. He excelled at being unfaithful and a liar. I became his emotional punching bag and nothing more when we were together. A few months with the asshole taught me to despise him, and then a breakup happened between us. Any longer, and I would have lost more than my heart.

Tell me about it. This is the third guy who dumped me in a year. There’s something wrong with me. Guys just don’t want to be around me.

You’re cursed. It happens to the best of us. That curse isn’t going to let up until the right guy comes along. Give it time, though. Mr. Right is out there for you.

Mr. Right stood in front of me, and he didn’t even realize it.

I’m not cursed. This is a lifelong thing that’s going on with me. It’s like a tumor that won’t go away. Permanency.

Shut up and hit me, Daron. Give me your best. Hand me some pain. He bobbed up and down on his heels, grinned, winked, and huffed, beginning our play inside the ring.

I carried out three consecutive body punches with textbook skill, none of which affected my competitor. Colm came across as a big guy, strong, and a better athlete. To knock him down seemed impossible, almost like knocking a steel building down. Usually, I never won a fight between us, not that I had ever planned to, of course.

He nailed me in the breadbasket with a potent right jab, taking the wind out of me a bit. Then he plowed my left shoulder and almost knocked me against the mat. I stood my ground, though, felt pain arc through my upper torso, and chuckled.

Is that all you got?

He laughed at me in play and prattled, Take this, fucker.

Then he executed a dirty fighting move with a head butt and low blow to

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