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by Barry Lowe
Category: Erotica/Gay-Lesbian Erotica/Humor
Description: Clarrie moves in to a new apartment only to discover the horny ghost of his favourite porn star, Randy Tucker, living in the wardrobe. Randy lives up to his name but Clarrie is repulsed by the ghost's attempts at seduction -- it's almost as bad as his bisexual boyfriend's. Ziggy, a lesbian clairvoyant, is called in to help Randy but the experiment goes badly forcing Clarrie to confront his attraction for the ghost or else move away.
eBook Publisher: loveyoudivine, 2010 2010
eBookwise Release Date: November 2010
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [77 KB]
Reading time: 43-60 min.
Randy Tucker, recipient of the previous year's award for
Best Cum Shot in Little Town Squirt, was at his favourite bar, The Glory Hole, a good twenty minutes before depression finally got the better of him.
"I've never been here before and been so totally ignored," he whinged.
That was unusual; Randy was 6'2" of solid muscle, so smouldering that his green eyes and his dark hair threatened to catch fire.
Clarrie, his drinking companion who had only consented to the experiment under duress, glanced up from the classified section of Queer Street, the local gay bar rag: "Get used to it!" He had little sympathy and, besides, he was desperately searching for a new wardrobe to replace the monstrosity he'd inherited with his new apartment. It was one of those old-fashioned free-standing imitation not-quite-antique 'robes with a mirrored front and a plywood back. The very wardrobe in which he'd discovered said Randy Tucker snoring obliviously earlier that evening.
It had not been an auspicious meeting.
"Who the fuck are you?" Clarrie demanded with the authority of a tenant with a watertight lease and an option to extend, to disguise the fact he was trembling with terror as he shone the flashlight into the dark recesses between his shirts.
"I live here," Randy declared with equal forthrightness.
This was too weird, even for Clarrie who'd always dreamed of finding a hunky burglar in his flat, because now he'd discovered fantasy induced not lust but diarrhoea.
"I'm going to be very calm. I'm getting back in bed and sleep the whole thing off. And in the morning I'm calling a second-hand furniture dealer and get them to come and take you away."
"And where will I live then?" the intruder demanded.
"You should have thought of that before you moved into my wardrobe. How did you get in here anyway?"
"Through the doorway. Like always."
"You've got a key? Wait 'til I get on to the landlord about that oversight."
"Okay, okay." Randy didn't like the edge to Clarrie's voice. He'd met enough nutters in his time to know when strategic withdrawal was the better option. Besides he could call a few favours with the skinheads down the block. They'd get this upstart good. Real good. "I'll get my gear and leave."
"Box of photos on top..." Randy searched vainly for his possessions. "Shit. Nothing's safe in this city any more."
Clarrie sheepishly pushed the cardboard shoebox into view with his foot. "These what you're after?"
"Hey, thanks. These are pretty precious. You had a look at them?"
"What did you think?"
"Okay. I guess."
Randy was flabbergasted. "Okay? These shots are great. Some of the best erotic photography in the world. Didn't you find them a turn on?"
The pile of clotted Kleenex tissues beside the bed that Clarrie was nudging away with his toe was a dead give-away "Um ... yea. I suppose I did. Did you take them?"
"Take them? Take them? That's me in them."
Clarrie was back on the defensive. "You can't be the guy in the photos. He's dead."
"Do I look dead to you?"
"Randy Tucker, the guy in those photos, was killed in a car pile-up three weeks ago. It was in all the papers."
Clarrie threw his scrapbook at the disbeliever. "See for yourself."