I Met A Man (Gay Erotic Romance)
An ailing young American novelist, Clifford, retreats to a small villa on the Mediterranean island of Cyprus to finish his last novel in peace and seclusion before he dies. There he meets a man, Erol, at the Tree of Idleness café in the Bellapais mountain village square, who struggles with Clifford to help him live fully before he dies. More
When the young, blond, American author, Clifford, who has come to Cyprus to complete his last novel in seclusion, meets the dark haired young Turkish-Cypriot hustler, Erol, at the Tree of Idleness café, it’s far from love at first sight. Clifford wants to be alone, while for Erol, and his young friends, a hustler’s life is risky, rough, and sometimes very dangerous, and the chance of a stint as a houseboy is welcomed. But immediately there is something, some connection there, between them. Having Erol move in is not at all what Cliff expected to happen, and they clash immediately. But the sexual heat between them is too intense to ignore or escape. And in the old villa, and with the help of their friends, they battle with their desires and dreams until one man discovers how to live, and the other discovers how to love.
I recognized the American immediately. Layla had said he claimed to be seriously ill. I couldn’t tell that from his build. He was a handsome, athletic blond, straight out of the pages of the American men’s fashion magazines that Nazim liked to buy up in Nicosia to jack off to. But there was a drawn look about his face, a look of defeat and utter sadness.
“Hello, American,” I said as I eased myself down in the chair beside him at the table.
“Yes, I’m an American,” he said, a bit flustered. “. . . but how . . . ?”
“And your name is Clifford,” I said, and then I grinned. . . .
. . . .His nostrils were flaring. I knew he was interested—that he wanted me. But I also knew that he was struggling with himself.
“Layla told me that you needed a companion, someone who could help you at the villa,” I said.
“I told Ms. Ergun that I wanted someone a couple of days a week, and she convinced me I didn’t need anyone,” he said frowning. “But . . . ,” he hesitated, not wanting to make waves. Yes, he was very high strung, I thought. Stretched tight as violin strings. Needing to be loosened up—set free of something, something I could not name yet.