Summary:
“Never have sex with the boss!” Chase’s sister Celia shouted the words with the extra emphasis only personal experience could provide. Fortunately, Chase’s situation was different. He was saying goodbye to the minor leagues, and he was unlikely to see his manager regularly ever again, much less play baseball for him. The opportunity to go to bed with Aaron Beck was Chase’s parting gift for leading the Rock City Ramblers to a second-place finish, and the gift was perfection.
Chase O’Rourke always played baseball well. From the moment he picked up a bat in a T-Ball league, the game came to him naturally. Seeing his sculpted body built perfectly for optimal batting and chasing down balls in the outfield, most observers thought big league stardom was the most important of Chase’s goals.
28-year-old Aaron Beck was one of the youngest managers ever in the minor leagues. He had baseball management in his blood from his World-Series-winning grandfather to his Uncle John who managed teams for more than a decade in the minor leagues. Aaron’s goal was clear. He would be a big-league manager by age 40.
Then Aaron got called up just months after Chase. They were not only both in the majors, they were working for the same team. Soon, high-minded vows to follow the rules and remain professional melted in the flames of passion. It was a brand new ballgame that Aaron and Chase were learning to play.
A Brand New Ballgame is a 52,000-word gay baseball romance with steamy scenes and a happily-ever-after ending. It has second chance and hurt-comfort themes.
Jack had friends from college who married men more than thirteen years older than them, but he didn't know anyone who dated their father's public nemesis.
Jack Madison is a 25-year-old graduate student working through his academic program while completing a book project on his famous father, baseball relief pitcher J.W. Madison. Charlotte, North Carolina is his home city, and also the home to the recent baseball expansion franchise the Charlotte Yellowjackets.
Mo Sadler is a 38-year-old big league relief pitcher nearing the end of his active playing career when an off-season trade brings him to Charlotte. After getting over the initial shock of being sold off to a team with little hope for making it to the postseason, Mo is pleased to be playing in close proximity to North Carolina's Outer Banks, the location of his treasured beach home.
An interview opportunity for Jack's book brings them together at Mo's Hatteras Island house and attraction blossoms into desire. There are only two big problems. Mo is Jack's father's legendary baseball enemy, and Jack abhors the celebrity spotlight. Both men know the relationship should be impossible, but the heart wants what it wants and won't give up so easily. Mo's money pitch in baseball is the slider. Faced with a relationship in the process of crumbling, he sets out to concoct a real-life money pitch to permanently win Jack's heart.
The Money Pitch is a 54,000-word gay baseball romance with steamy scenes, a happily-ever-after ending, a lucky rabbit's foot, and dancing on the sand. It is the second in the series Living Legends following A Brand New Ballgame. Multiple characters appear in both books, but it can be read as a standalone novel.
A Brand New Ballgame #1
Prologue
“Never have sex with the boss!” Isn’t that a rule? I heard my sister Celia say that once just before she slammed her purse on the kitchen table. The impact rattled the dishes in the cupboard. I asked her why the concept bothered her so much, and she frowned, blushed, and said, “Because I had sex with my boss. I know what can happen next.”
Romantic relationships between coaches and players weren’t much of an issue in professional baseball in the past. At least, as far as I know, they weren’t, but I’ll place big bets that I’m not the first player to celebrate a special day in bed with his coach.
Looking back, I don’t know who’s to blame. Aaron Beck, the hotshot 28-year-old manager of the A-level Rock City Ramblers, called me into his office to celebrate my call-up to the big time. I’d had an excellent season in the minors, and it was September. The big league front office assumed I could draw a few extra fans to the late season games and take the locals’ minds off the Charlotte Yellowjackets’ battle for last place in the standings. After contacting me with the news, they sent me a plane ticket for the next morning.
Aaron started it off with compliments about my baseball skills, and we ended up kissing hard and pressing our bodies together against the back of his office door. Breaking rules is always more fun when you do it with someone as sexy as Aaron.
Two hours later, reaching behind me, I locked the door of a motel room on the outskirts of town. Aaron started to pull his jersey up over his head, and I insisted, “No, don’t take it off yet!” I slowly traced my fingertips across his chest. “Don’t you love how a body feels in the jersey? Damn, I can stand in front of the mirror in my uniform touching my chest and get so fucking horny.”
Aaron laughed. “Is it like a fetish thing for you, Chase?”
“Well, isn’t it for you, too? I mean, the first time I wore real baseball pants, um…” I swallowed my words when Aaron gripped my package. I bit my lip wondering if I’d shared too much about my fetish too soon.
He whispered, “Damn, you’re thick, aren’t you?”
I laughed with a hint of nervousness underneath, “Yeah, really thick, almost beer-can style.”
While I traced the Ramblers team logo across his chest with my fingertips, Aaron slipped his other hand underneath my jersey. I preferred the old-fashioned button-up style, but pullovers were still a baseball jersey, and that made them hot by definition.
Aaron growled, “You can leave mine on if you want, but you’re losing yours.”
I lifted my arms as Aaron pushed the uniform up over my head. I heard his breath stop for a moment. I knew he’d seen me naked before in the locker room, but the body looks entirely different when you’re in a room with a bed nearby. As the jersey fluttered to the floor, Aaron wrapped an arm around me while he pushed his face into my right pec. I growled, “Oh fuck, those nips are seriously sensitive.” I rose onto my toes as his teeth grazed the tip.
I mumbled, “Am I too thick for you?”
Aaron gave my nip a slurpy kiss and said, “I don’t think so, but I guess we’ll find out.” The smirk on his face sent a lightning bolt of electricity to my cock. I hoped he came equipped with condom and lube because I wanted my coach’s ass. I would have brought them, but I thought I was only receiving a verbal congratulations. A kiss was a possibility, but when he summoned me to his office, I didn’t think it would go further.
I wanted Aaron from the moment we met, and my ego’s big enough that I thought eventually someway, somehow I would have him. When we first met, he shook my hand in the Ramblers team office and then turned around to step behind his desk. I couldn’t help noticing how his snug jeans perfectly cradled his ass. Later, my heart nearly stopped when I saw his cheeks in tight baseball pants for the first time.
Aaron whispered, “You know I have principles. I wouldn’t do this if it weren’t…”
I held two fingers to his lips cutting off the words. “If you didn’t want to see what it was like to be fucked by a future Hall of Famer?”
My cock jumped again when he threw his head back and laughed hard. There’s something about a great laugh that’s so fucking sexy. I’m not talking about forced laughs like those when you hear a terrible joke and feel obligated to chuckle and moan. I mean those natural ones that come from the gut. I joined in the laughter when Aaron playfully bit my nipple making me yelp and causing us to tumble into the middle of the bed together.
He landed on top of me. I pushed his jersey clear up to his neck. It was time to let go of the uniform fascination and see more of Aaron’s body. He isn’t as ripped as I am, but he has a dark, black little trail down the center of his abs and perfect chest definition. Those nicely muscled pecs have the cutest little nips. If God were building the ideal guy for me to take to bed, he would look a hell of a lot like Aaron Beck.
I said, “The first time we met, I was pretty damn sure this would eventually happen. It might have been wishful thinking, but you were the one who bought those jeans that show off that hot ass.”
“Well, when I scored this managing job so young, I swore to myself I wouldn’t let my dick ruin it for me. But you’ve got as much to lose as me if word got out and caused a scandal. This can be our secret.”
I cut the words off with a kiss. Aaron has soft lips, and they are perfectly thick. They aren’t fat lips, but they also aren’t those thin, pursed ones I see on too many straight guys. Aaron’s lips are perfect for kissing. I gave the lower one my best sensuous nibble.
I cleared my throat and asked, “Do you have...”
“Condoms, check. Lube, check. Even though I said I don’t let my dick take control, I’m always prepared.”
I pulled back from the kiss and grinned. “The manager is ready for all situations. I love it.”
“Well, just because I don’t make a habit of fucking players doesn’t mean I’m celibate.”
I shook my head. “Correction. Getting fucked by a player.”
Aaron said, “I couldn’t believe you dared to whisper in my ear with the players and the press around. You know it was possible for someone to hear.”
“I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t leave without at least making a bid for that ass.” Yeah, I’m guilty of starting it. I guess my insinuation paved the way for my private invitation to the office. I added, “And they didn’t hear. You dropped the perfect excuse to let us slip off into the night.”
Aaron laughed again, and I ground my hips into his pelvis. He was as hard as me. He said, “I do have something for you. I wasn’t lying when I said I like to give a gift to my players who get called up to the big time.”
“And just how many players have you ushered off to the majors in your first year managing at the A-level three times removed from the majors?”
He whispered, “Shh, it’s time to stop talking business. It’s time for you to lose those pants. I’ll lose mine, too. We’re gonna see how well you fit.”
“Don’t go too fast. If this will be the only time, I want to make sure I enjoy it. You’re not just a notch in the bedpost. You’re my parting gift.”
Aaron Chandler wasn’t an ordinary minor league manager for the Ramblers. He was only 28. It was nearly unheard of to put someone that young into a management position, even in the lower levels of the minors. The sports press had a field day when the front office turned Aaron’s mediocre minor league playing career into a managing position before he turned 30. Aaron told the media vultures that he was aiming to manage in the majors by 40.
I’m Chase O’Rourke, one of those hot rising phenoms in baseball. I’m still not entirely sure why I ended up here. Of course, I’m a good player. In fact, I’m an excellent player, but I’ve never had to work hard at it. God gave me a gift, but I don’t know why. Building the ripped body I need was harder work than playing the game. I guess some might say I’m a natural.
Aaron lay naked, flat on his back, looking sexy as hell. He reached to the right and fumbled for the condom and lube packets in his jeans pocket. “Are you ready for this?”
I shook my head. “Not yet.” I slid one of my hands behind his back and gave a gentle push. Following my lead, Aaron rolled over onto his belly so that I was staring at those perfectly round cheeks. I whispered, “Spread,” and his legs dutifully slid to the sides of the bed. I spit on my fingers and spread those cheeks even wider. He was almost impossibly beautiful. My fingers found Aaron’s tight, puckered hole. I was thick, and it was going to hurt going in, so I wanted to try and ease things up a bit.
Aaron moaned into his pillow as my two fingers slowly circled his hole. When I slipped one finger just inside up to the first knuckle, the moan grew more guttural and feral in tone. I heard the muffled words, “I want you.”
The second finger slipped inside while I gave the right cheek a playful swat with my opposite hand. A baseball guy’s ass is a thing of wonder. Core muscles are everything in the game, and it shows in those perfect glutes. Aaron didn’t turn into a gym slacker when he decided to manage. He knew how to empathize with his players. He even ran sprints with us, and they helped keep that sweet ass in perfect shape.
Grinning, I announced, “And he slides safely into third base!”
“What the fuck?” growled Aaron. “We’re off the field.”
Laughing, I said, “I always wanted to be an announcer. I asked my dad how you could get to do that when I was only six years old. When I was ten, for my birthday my parents arranged for me to meet a radio sports announcer in person, and he showed me around the studio.”
“Keep your mind on the game, and this game isn’t baseball.”
I asked, “Do you want it from behind, or do you wanna see my eyes?”
He raised his head just inches off the pillow and muttered, “I want to see your face. It drives me crazy. Staring into a guy’s eyes when he pushes past…oh, fuck!” My two fingers plunged deeper and cut off his comment.
I rolled Aaron onto his back and pushed his legs up over my shoulders. He was going to be the perfect fuck. I could feel a tiny lump growing in the back of my throat. Damn the majors!
Aaron tore the condom package open with his teeth and reached out for my cock. I asked, “Do you want to put it on?”
“Who wouldn’t want to touch your cock?”
I grinned and watched his fingers slowly sheath my thick dick. He followed it up by handing me a packet of lube and said, “You can do this part.”
By the time my cock head was lined up perfectly with his hole, we were both slicked up and more than ready. I ordered, “Keep those eyes open.”
Aaron cringed, but he didn’t close his eyes as I pushed hard. He pushed back, and when I slipped past his ring, it felt like his ass was a velvet-gloved fist pulling me inside.
“Damn, slow, please, fuck,” pleaded Aaron.
I took it slow. I wanted a gradual ride to the edge, and I wanted to stare down over the cliff with Aaron for a long time before we took the leap. As soon as I felt my balls starting to churn, I wrapped my slick fingers around his cock and began to pump.
He blurted out a question, “Will you let me cum?” Then he added, “I’ll only cum if you want me to cum.”
“You’re putting me in charge?” The man in control in the baseball dugout wanted to give it all up in bed. My mind raced thinking about the potential. Damn the majors!
“Please. Oh fuck, you’re so damn hot.”
His cock pulsed in my hand and his abs began to clench. I held off from the stroking while I continued to slide forward and back in Aaron’s ass. His hard cock rested lightly cradled by my fingers.
“Oh, don’t stop,” pleaded Aaron.
I loved being bossy and controlling in bed, but I was a perfect angel for the manager and coaches on the field. I did exactly what they told me without complaint. In bed, it was a different story.
I started to stroke again, and Aaron’s abs clenched once more. He was close, and I was close. It was time to ride the crest together for a while. When Aaron yelped, “Oh God, I’ve gotta cum,” after I stopped stroking, I stared into his eyes with an evil grin.
“Do you want me to stop? I can stop right now.” I froze the rocking of my hips to emphasize the point.
“No, no, please. Please!”
I growled, “You’re so damn sexy,” and I started to rock my hips fast pounding hard, listening to the slap of my balls against Aaron’s ass. My fist began to pump again, too. I was ready for us to leap off the edge together.
Aaron was a shooter. He let go of a massive load blasting it over both of our chests. I shuddered from head to toe when I came. I gasped for breath, shut my eyes and plunged my cock deep inside to the hilt. Best damn fuck ever!
And, when I thought it was all over, I fell onto the surface of the bed at Aaron’s side. He turned his head toward me and the expression of bliss filling his face was dazzling. My breath caught in my throat just before we shared another kiss.
After locking our lips together in a gesture suffused with fading passion, I laid my head on Aaron’s sweaty chest and listened to his heart pound. In a smartass voice, he asked, “Was the parting gift as outstanding as you hoped?”
I slapped his chest. “Don’t be an ass about it, but yeah, it was worth waiting for, and you?”
“I’ll be sad to see you go, but make sure you kick ass in the big leagues and who knows what could happen someday.”
While the sound of his heart pounding gradually slowed in my ears, I repeated the word, “Someday.”
The Money Pitch #2
1
Mo
It was a blustery, gray winter day, and the ocean whipped itself into a frenzy of whitecaps. I welcomed the arrival of company even if the reason for the visit was an interview I was dreading. Although J.W. Madison’s retirement meant that he was no longer an active rival, some days his shadow loomed large in the back of my mind.
The knock on the front door cleared the memories that clung tighter to my conscious thoughts as the years ticked away. I greeted Jack with a hearty handshake. His grip was slightly tentative, but I made sure I held on tight with well-practiced warmth honed through so many meet-and-greet events with baseball fans.
“Great to see you again, Jack. And who is the beautiful young woman with you?”
The words elicited an instant blush from the woman in question. She was slight and dark-haired. Dark-rimmed glasses added a thoughtful touch to her appearance. Her immediate efforts to regain composure and self-consciously straighten her knee-length skirt told me she was thrown off-guard by my comment or something else about me.
Jack immediately stuck a pin in her balloon. In a matter-of-fact voice, he said, “This is Angela, and no, he’s not interested.”
Jack, a proud young gay man himself, was one of a small cadre of men who knew the secret of my orientation. In concert with his father, relief pitcher extraordinaire J.W. Madison, they held my secret in detente with what I knew about J.W.’s past. It was an uneasy balancing act like a seesaw creaking back and forth as the riders carefully shifted their positions.
Angela asked, “How do you know?”
Jack held up a hand. “I do. That’s a subject for another interview at another time.” He turned toward me and flashed a smile laden with wicked humor and a spoonful of charm. “May we come inside?”
I pushed to the side of Jack, purposefully snubbing him, and wrapped an arm around Angela’s shoulders. “Yes, do come inside. The weather is nasty out there today. The ocean gets lonely and forlorn in the winter. Then he acts out and takes his frustration out on those of us crazy enough to cuddle up close to the water in a house made of sticks.”
My 3,000-square-foot getaway cabin on Hatteras Island was five years old, and I knew that each year of its existence was a gift from Poseidon. Someday the God of the Seas would take it all away in the fury of a hurricane eyewall.
I spent most of my winter days on the beach alone. After the lunacy of a six-month baseball season, I appreciated the solitude. Three of my best friends in the big leagues spent most of their winter camped out on the Outer Banks, too.
They were the source of my social life in December and January. We met in local restaurants to share lunch and occasionally invited each other over to go all out preparing a grilled dinner when the sun graced us with a warm winter day.
I gestured to the sofa in the living room. It was positioned to allow for a stunning view of the ocean through floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows. “Please, have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Vodka?”
Angela laughed softly as Jack sternly said, “Coffee will work fine.”
I retreated to the kitchen to fetch mugs of hot coffee. Filling the mugs drained the last of the pot I’d made just an hour earlier when I hauled myself out of bed. I planned to have two hours to prep for the conversation, but my body had other plans. Jack was fortunate that I didn’t answer the door clad only in boxers.
“How is J.W. these days?” I called from the kitchen.
“He’s on a cruise with Mom off the coast of Barbados. Retirement is treating him well. In fact, I think they get home today.”
I grinned. J.W. did know how to take advantage of the rewards for sharing his talent with the world. Daryl Pratt, the catcher who made J.W. more of a pitcher than he ever would have been on his own, asked about retirement plans at J.W.’s “Farewell to Baseball” party. In a flat tone, lacking any sense of irony, J.W. said, “Fish, sand, and a beautiful woman at my side. No baseball.”
I handed the mugs of steaming coffee to Jack and Angela. I brewed it from beans ground at my favorite shop in Kitty Hawk. Hanging on to my mug, I settled myself into my favorite chair. I positioned it carefully so that I could see the approach of any cars making their way to my house.
Unlike most beach residents, I was successful in finding a place at least a quarter of a mile away from the nearest neighbor. I paid plenty for the extra beach property. 1962’s Ash Wednesday storm took out a whole row of houses, and the previous owners of my land swept up a broad swath of beachfront property that they kept free of housing until they sold me a small parcel for a premium price.
I pulled my right knee up toward my chest while I sipped my coffee. In response to Angela’s intense concentration on me and the furniture, I said, “I had this custom-made. They build so few chairs that comfortably fit a six-foot-four-inch frame. Also, since Jack failed to do so, let me introduce myself properly. I’m Mo Sadler, a sixteen-year veteran in the baseball big leagues. This spring I will start my first season with the Charlotte Yellowjackets.”
Jack stared at his tablet computer while I introduced myself. He spoke in a pinched voice. “I know that this might be a difficult conversation, but I didn’t think it was possible to write an authoritative work on my father’s life and career without referencing his relationship with you. Your careers are intertwined. I think you would agree. Let me get out there in advance a comment that I’m sorry if any of my questions dredge up painful emotional memories. You are welcome to decline to answer at any time.”
After his apologetic speech, Jack looked up. Nothing much changed in his overall appearance since I first met him when he was a teenager basking in the reflected gleam of his father’s stardom. He still had that intelligent sparkle in his deep, chocolate-brown eyes and the tousled black hair inherited from his father that screamed out for someone to push the mop back off his brow.
Jack’s body matured. It was now the frame of a 25-year-old man. His shoulders were broader, well-developed pecs were visible as they filled out his diamond-checked winter sweater, and I noticed the sinewy veins that stretched over the backs of his hands. I was never attracted to J.W., but Jack had something smart and hungry in his expression that his father lacked. Looking away was difficult.
“You won’t drag any more secrets out of me than J.W. already did. He’s a little wicked that way. I hope you don’t mind me being open with my opinions of your father. If you relax a little, I’ll try and relax along with you.”
For a few moments, Jack’s actions didn’t match his words. His eyes roamed over my body like a scanner gathering precious data. “That’s the purpose of this interview. I will make no judgments. What passed between the two of you is history now anyway.”
“Yes, we shook on being friends at his retirement party. The silence in the room was deafening.” I leaned forward in Angela’s direction and held my hand to the side of my mouth uttering a poorly-concealed aside. “At least that’s the public story. Sometimes when I see his photo or hear his name, I still want to clock the bastard.”
She smiled uneasily and scribbled a note with a stylus on her tablet computer. As I watched my guests, I realized I had them both on the edge of discomfort. In my opinion, that’s how every nosy interviewer should feel.
I set my coffee mug on my side table and kicked off a flip-flop before leaning back in my chair. “So what did you want to ask? I think this is a charming little project. Most men aren’t the subject of books in their lifetime unless they are a political figure or an actor. Maybe J.W. is a little bit of both.”
Angela scribbled again. Jack said, “I’ll get to the heart of things as I understand them. I don’t like to beat around the bush. We’ll start with serious matters, and then we can branch out to lighter topics.”
He was going there. He was casting bait into the deep water immediately. I admired Jack’s chutzpah. He didn’t want to bother with fishing for a mullet or a croaker. He was trying to catch a marlin. It was possible that he had twice the guts of his father. Flashing my best innocent glance, I said, “I’m not sure what you have in mind.”
“The Cy Young year. I believe that was 2009.”
I felt the prickles and goosebumps appearing on my right forearm. I pointed at them. “Look at that, Angela. He does know how to cause a reaction.”
I saw the hint of a smile on Jack’s face. He reached up and pushed the waves of coarse hair off his forehead before leaning forward to listen to my response.
“I was the 10th reliever to win the award that celebrated the year’s best pitcher. It’s a rarity, and it hasn’t happened since. Is that what you wanted to know?”
“And you suckered my Dad into…” Jack held his tongue. The bitter tone in his voice was unbecoming. Angela glanced at him before looking back at me. Uneasiness hung like a dark cloud between us.
I chuckled softly to reduce some of the tension. “Ah, yes, that one game. I know J.W. still identifies it as the turning point. I’m not so sure. He likes to look at everything through his own distorted lens.”
“You got him thrown out of the game.”
I lowered my foot to the floor and held a hand over my heart. “Me? I was simply playing the game. Is it my fault that your father isn’t the best chess player out there? He surrendered his queen.”
Jack set his teeth. He went there, and he was on the edge of losing his cool. “I had to stop him from hurtling a beer bottle through the TV. I was there the night that they announced the award.”
I rubbed my stubbled chin. “Does he still hold that grudge? Even after all of his other awards, and frankly, his lifetime record outshines mine. You would think he would be satisfied with that.”
“But he didn’t win that award. Yes, it still bothers him. We don’t bring it up at family holidays.”
An image flashed into my mind of J.W. smashing a wine glass in his fist after Auntie Eleanor brought up the name Mo Sadler. I saw his Neanderthal brow casting deep shadows over the entire table as he said, “That name is never welcome in this household!”
“And you blame your family’s holiday dysfunction on me? Honestly, Jack, I’ll share with you all of the details that I can about that season. I think J.W. and I agree to disagree now. It’s all ancient water under a rickety old bridge. By the way, how is your degree coming?”
My change of topic was successful at melting away some of the tension. Jack leaned back against the rear of the sofa and said, “Oh, forgive me. I didn’t even properly introduce Angela. She signed on to my research group. I’m paying her extra for this personal project. We’re keeping it under wraps for now. I got the okay from the publisher. I think Angela will be listed as a co-author once they publish the book. She is brilliant with words.”
I smiled warmly in Angela’s direction before returning my focus to Jack. “And it’s a history degree for you? Will I have to call you Dr. Madison soon?”
“Yes, a doctorate in American History. I’ll start work on my dissertation next fall if all goes well this spring. The topic is something historical about pitching in baseball. I suppose that’s not a surprise.”
“Apples don’t fall far from the tree.”
Fortunately, the change of topic enabled us to return to the 2009 season later with significantly less emotional investment. Jack and Angela stayed for five hours. We broke for a lunch of cold cuts and veggies. By the time the interview wore down, we were all laughing at some of the funnier moments in J.W.’s long, storied career.
Jack might have thought his actions went unnoticed, but his gaze lingered long on me in the midst of our conversations. I caught him staring at the back of my hands and my chest. I wondered if he was too nervous to look below my waist. The more wolfish guys in the locker room wondered what was down there. My endowment was more generous than most. It drew attention, but it wasn’t always an asset.
To my surprise, Jack’s voice was warm when it came time to leave. We shook once again, and I clapped my opposite hand on his elbow. “It was great fun to see you again. It’s hard to believe you’re all grown up now. Adulthood is treating you well.”
Jack said, “I never thought I would say something like this, but I agree about enjoying the visit. I hope it’s not so long before I see you again. I’m sure we’ll cross paths at baseball events.”
“It is a small world.”
Declan Rhodes is an author of gay romance. He is fascinated by exploring male/male relationships in a world changed by worldwide progress in lgbtq civil rights.
He is based in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and loves men, cooking for friends and family, travel, and long walks along the shore of Lake Michigan not necessarily in that order.
A Brand New Ballgame #1
The Money Pitch #2
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