Free The Right Words by Lane Hayes Page A

on the platter between us. He sat back in his chaise lounge with his right leg elevated on an outdoor pillow. He looked as though he were pondering the perfect topic, which struck me as sweet and silly. I chuckled softly and took another sip of wine.
    “What’s so funny?”
    I gave him an innocent grin and studied his handsome profile as he watched a pod of pelicans glide across the placid water below. His features were strong and masculine. A straight nose that hooked almost imperceptibly, high cheekbones, and a full mouth. Gay or straight, anyone would agree he was fine. I set my wineglass down as I recognized my thoughts might loosen my lips if I wasn’t careful.
    “Just tell me about yourself. Where did you go to college? What did you study? Um… what size shoe do you wear? I don’t care. Just talk.”
    “Ha! Shoe size?” I giggled and shifted slightly in my chair in an effort to get a little more comfortable. “That’s an interesting array of topic choices. Where shall I begin?”
    “Shoe size,” he said dryly.
    “Size ten. I’m five foot nine, so I suppose that’s all average, you know?”
    Michael pursed his lips but didn’t say a word. I had a good idea where his mind had gone and was tempted to call him out. Alcohol always encouraged me to loosen my inhibitions, but thankfully some semblance of good judgment kept me from talking about endowments versus shoe size and assuring him the size of my dick should rightfully qualify me for a larger shoe size.
    I hid my embarrassment, fussing with the pillow behind my back before turning back to answer him. “Let’s see. I went to San Francisco State University and believe it or not, I studied English and literature.”
    “Did you want to be a writer?”
    “Yes. Actually I did. I tried for a short time, but it’s hard to make a living as a writer.”
    “Not if you enjoy it.”
    “Sadly that’s not true. It was never a question of enjoying it. It’s that I enjoy eating too. Basic necessities win every time. I didn’t make a good starving artist.”
    “Hmm. So what’s your favorite type of literature? Are you a classics snob? Or are you into science ficti— No, don’t tell me. Erotica?”
    My eyes widened as I struggled to swallow the wine I’d just sipped. I coughed and gave Michael the dirty look he deserved, though maybe not the answer he expected.
    “Yes, I love erotica. Gay erotica, naturally. You?”
    He chuckled as he raised his glass in a mock toast. “Naturally. Do you write any?”
    “No. It gets tiresome trying to find new ways to say cock , dick , prick . You know?”
    “Well, there’s penis for the anatomy freaks. Schlong works for something a little different.”
    “ Schlong ? I don’t think I’ve ever called my dic—never mind.”
    “What’s the matter? Don’t get shy on me now. This is getting good. So no to schlong but yes to… what? Weiner ? Pecker ? Or tool ….”
    “Are you done?”
    “No more dick talk?”
    I shook my head.
    “Fine. Then tell me your favorite genre. Do you prefer fiction, nonfiction, poetry—”
    “You don’t want to hear—”
    “Yes, I do. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.” He scowled at me playfully.
    “Okay, okay. I’ll wake you up if you nod off. I love poetry.” I paused to gauge his reaction. Michael made an impatient gesture with his hand, indicating I should continue.
    “I don’t appear to have fallen into a catatonic state yet, so go on. What do you like about it? Do you have a favorite poem?”
    I was grateful for my dark glasses because this was a surreal conversation for me. It might be innocuous to most people, but I hadn’t had a discussion with anyone about literature and poetry in many years. It had begun to feel like a secret, as it had when I was in grade school. Brandon knew I was a hopeless bibliophile, but he didn’t share my interest. Nor did anyone else I knew. I was used to talking about colors and design or even music and movies. Not the one thing I