About Like a Prayer
by AJ Wilde
43 pages
/ 10000 words
ISBN: 978-1-60370-591-3, 1-60370-591-5
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html, lit, Adobe and Sony optimized pdf, prc, epub
Dorian West is truly a lost soul, with a revolving bedroom door and an unhealthy obsession with a statue at his local church. Add to that an unrequited crush on his straight friend Josh, and Dorian's life reads like a sad catalog of loneliness and pain. Dorian finds release only through rough, anonymous sex and, oddly enough, art.
When he hits rock bottom, however, it is not Josh but Dorian's new lover Mark who picks up the pieces. Can Dorian find a way through the maze of fear and doubt to find peace? And will his lust for a statue of an angel lead him finally to everlasting love?
Sample
Dorian West sank slowly to his knees before the High Altar. He knew he had no right to be here, but still he came, drawn here as though by a silent voice, back to the church that had turned him away -- abandoned him -- just when he needed it most.
Rain pattered listlessly on the tin roof, no rays of sunlight coloring the stone floor today; all was gray outside and the stained glass windows stared down at Dorian, dull and lifeless, like his heart. Like his soul. Dorian ran his fingers through his long dark hair, then rested his forehead on the wood of the pew. It was cool, and soothed the persistent ache in Dorian’s temples. He twisted his hands into his hair and left them there, the gnawing pain more bearable than the dull thudding of his pulse.
Then he heard it again. He always heard it, and it was the real reason he came here. Not the guilt over his drunken partying, not the emptiness of waking to another nameless face on his pillow. Not that he even remembered fucking them -- but there they were, sneaking off with a shameless smirk, back into the shadows. The lost boys of the night, knowing they could always get a bed with Dorian West.
Dorian. The whisper from the darkness was faint, almost subvocal. But it was real.
Dorian got slowly to his feet, fighting the effects of his hangover. He fished a dollar out of his pocket, stuck it in the collection box and lit a votive from the altar taper. But this was not the High Altar: this was his altar. Dorian placed the votive carefully down, and looked up at him, his fingers tracing the medieval lettering on the nameplate as though he were reading Braille. He knew each groove, each line of the relief. Archangel Raphael: the Angel of Healing.
Dorian tentatively ran his fingers over the cool marble foot, stroking the toes, running his palm over the arch, then the ankle, and up the shapely calf. He gazed at the draped tunic, looking for all the world like it would move in the breeze, to the long white wings, the outspread hands. Then further up, to the muscular shoulders, bare throat, and that face, that beautiful face, with a fine jaw, full lips, aristocratic nose, and blind white eyes. The hint of earlobes and an unruly shock of wavy hair, topped off with a wide halo. The cold stone mocked Dorian. What was it about the statue that drew him? Of course it didn’t speak; it was marble. He was hung over, that was all. Dorian closed his eyes, and leaned his head against the angel’s knee.
“Can I help you, my son?” The sudden, deep voice and a hand on Dorian’s shoulder made him jump, and he whipped around. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” the voice continued, its tone one of patience inured through long years of dealing with the dregs of humanity. Dorian looked into the benign features of a tall, middle-aged man dressed in a black cassock and collar. “I’m Father Michael. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Oh, Father, it’s all right,” Dorian said, raking his fingers through his hair nervously. “You just startled me. I was -- thinking.”