QSFer Bud Gundy has a new queer sci fi book out: Accidental Prophet.
Intelligent, handsome, and struggling to make his rent, thirty-year-old Drew Morten loses his only worthwhile relationship when his grandmother dies. A famous television anchor, Claudia Trenton, leaves Drew the legacy of her secret memoir. From the fate of a vanished medieval prince to a top-secret NASA study about a mystifying space object, her unreported discoveries hum with wonder.
But history merges with the present and upends Drew’s life when he has a terrifying revelation. Teaming up with a brilliant woman who receives the same vision and a handsome man whose arrival is either fortuitous or sinister, Drew follows the clues in his grandmother’s memoir and races against time to save the world from an apocalyptic nightmare about to be unleashed in downtown San Francisco.
As catastrophe looms, so does the question: Who, or what, is the real enemy?
Drew moaned in a way that an untrained ear might mistake as menacing. But when he saw the slight smile on Tom’s face, he knew they were feeling the same intoxication.
He caught a whiff of Tom’s heavy man smell, untainted by cologne. Drew took a deep sniff and they shared a knowing, smutty, and fraternal smile. The mood deepened, and their eyes filled with a wholly unexpected but clear understanding of what this moment demanded, as binding as any loyalty oath between men, maybe more.
Gay men put as much blind faith in the brotherhood of testosterone as other guys do, often stupidly, but this felt solid and true. Drew thought of the Sacred Band of Thebes, the ancient world’s fearsome, elite army that marched into battle as pairs of grimy, sweaty, and devoted male lovers, providing the setting for most of his early jack-off fantasies. War drums filled his ears.
Tom kicked off his shorts, and his dick reared up from a tangle of dark hair. Stunted but thick, it looked like a gay heraldic symbol: a rigid curve tipped with a glistening bubble, thehomo rampant. Tom stood wide and gave it a slap, and after a few tight bounces it settled, the bubble now hanging as a silky thread.
Drew tore of the rest of his clothes to show Tom his dick, which was longer but less hefty. They gripped each other by the shoulders, looking down as they batted their boys around. With a muted roar, Drew brought them together, stroking both as one.
Tom grunted before impatiently jerking away and dropping to his knees. Drew took charge by cupping the back of Tom’s head. He surrendered this round by going still. Drew beat off the powerful urge to ram his authority home, but his pace signaled the drilling to come. He closed his eyes to focus on the jolts streaking from his crotch and exploding in fizzy bursts.
Without warning, Drew’s mind filled with a bizarre image of a huge, misshapen tornado churning around a skyscraper in downtown San Francisco, rising to a breathtaking height. Emergency sirens, screeching tires, and thousands of terrorized screams filled the air. Formed by millions of tiny fragments circling at the same speed, the terrifying funnel moved as one, all-knowing and apocalyptic. A woman screamed, “Victor!”
Startled, he opened his eyes. The sight fled, and the screams went quiet.
Thrown off-balance, he looked around, as if the reason for the inexplicable vision was among the plain furniture or the clothes spilling from Tom’s duffel bag beside the bed.
He still had time to revive himself before the softening became a problem, so he gripped Tom’s head with both hands and pounded. It violated the pacing rules for even the ruthless escalation he knew Tom would accept, but he couldn’t think of another way. Tom responded enthusiastically, but it failed to reignite Drew’s lust. His concern mounted as he felt himself deflating. His thrusts went tentative.
Tom took confident control by grabbing Drew’s ass, a stern order Drew obeyed by going still. Tom powered like a pro, twisting his hand for constant movement, but with the situation deteriorating, Drew worried Tom was only trying to reverse a disappointing turn. Not sexy.
The funnel. The sirens. The screams. “Victor!”
Drew scrunched his face and gave his best effort, but the truth arrived with a limp. After gaming it out for a bit longer, Tom sat back, panting, and wiped his mouth.
“Am I doing something wrong?”
“Sorry,” Drew said, blushing. He stepped back and pulled on his pants. He shook his head, trying to scatter the vivid image of the weird tornado, and silence the disquieting screams.
Tom stood, visibly worried and shrinking. “What’s wrong?”
If he explained about the vision, he’d sound insane. His mind raced for a believable lie. He muttered a lame excuse about Long Island Iced Teas, but he knew Tom wouldn’t buy it.
Tom offered a cautious suggestion: “Some guys think my dick is out of proportion…”
Drew gasped. “Dude, your dick looks like it just conquered Scotland!”
Tom huffed a grateful laugh, but it bothered Drew. It wasn’t the first time he’d assured a man about his dick. He always respected a guy with the frankness and courage to ask, but Tom wouldn’t have worried if he felt the unshakable allegiance of the warrior code.
Bud Gundy is a Lambda Literary Award finalist. He’s won two Emmy Awards and is an executive producer at KQED, San Francisco’s PBS and NPR affiliate. He started his television career in 1983 and is an avid history and science buff.