Dani Alexander Quotes

Gay sex, one. Straight sex, zero

Clean," Peter said.
"Can I get a water bottle or something to clean his hands?" I scanned the crowd. He drew my attention back to him with a pull of my hand.
"No," Peter said. "I'm ... clean."
I had missed who Peter was until that very moment ...
I broke. It wasn't a visible fracture. I didn't sob or explode into anguish. I didn't give in to my vomitus urge that came from the burst of self-loathing. But I shattered nonetheless.
"Well, you look filthy," I said, hitting redial on his phone and jamming it to my ear.

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Ask me for money, Peter." I grabbed his wrists and pushed him against the wall.

He looked everywhere but at me, no attempt to free himself. He was definitely stronger than I, but right that second I didn't care if he was being patronizing. If it forced him to answer me, then patronizing I'd take.

"No," he murmured.

"Ask me for money, goddamn you." I punctuated it with a slam of his wrists, hard enough to jar, but not painful - I hoped. The next time my shirt wouldn't be there to cushion it. I was
that pissed.

"I have!" He spat back, easily extricating his hands and pushing me away. I grabbed his arm, turning him around.

"For Cai. For sex. Not for you. You'd rather go fuck a bunch of strangers - "

"I don't fuck anyone but Darryl anymore," he denied. "It's just a show for a bunch of voyeurs. No one gets hurt."

"I get hurt!"

"I don't have any other way, Austin."

"You have me. Ask me," I said, hating the pleading sound in my voice.

"No."

"Jesus Christ, why the fuck not?"

"Because I don't want you to be a fucking trick!" The shout was so loud I felt the vibrations along my spine.

People aren't always who they seem, Detective. Am I anything like you thought?"
"No," I admitted. You're a million times better than I could have imagined.

Nah. A date with Peter the prostitute. Sounds like a plan. Be sure to bring flowers."

"I was thinking condoms. But your idea sounds more romantic.

You're rich, spoiled and used to getting your own way."
"Not true. If I had my own way you would have kissed me and ridden me like a cowboy while screaming 'yeehaw'.

Your daughter is gay? Where are all these gay people coming from? Gay friends. Gay daughters of friends. Gay sisters-in-law. Gay suspects. I ask one guy for a kiss and suddenly I'm living in Ancient Greece.

I'd rather have a footwear fetish than a sudden attraction to penises? Yeah, that sounded about right.

Out of curiosity, when do I grow up and become a fullfledged
man with a penis?"
"When words like 'hump day' don't make you giggle like a
twelve-year-old," he retorted, blowing smoke my way.
"Wow, that long?

Do you know what I did to the last guy that called me Tinkerbelle?"
"Slept with him?"
Darryl was silent for a second. "After that.

I honestly had no idea why I was there, or why I couldn't keep my mind of him. Him.I even had to keep reminding myself it was a him. Not a her. No breasts. And, I guessed, no vagina. Definitely a him. And my fantasies were filling with images of his mouth on naked thing of mine.
Naked things. With a guy. Naked things with a guy. Surreal

I looked at our hands, caked and coated in red, but entwined. The pristine moment when they were clasped like that earlier in the day seemed weeks ago.
"Clean." Peter said.
"Can I get a water bottle or something to clean his hands?" I scanned the crowd. He drew my attention back to him with a pull of my hand.
"No," Peter said. "I'm ... clean."
I had missed who Peter was until that very moment.
I had called him names and treated him callously. I had read every micro expression in a vacuum of how it related to Austin Glass. And in return Peter had cared for my wounds, treated me tenderly and assured me that he was HIV negative while bleeding out in a hallway of strangers.
I broke. It wasn't a visible fracture. I didn't sob or explode into anguish. I didn't give in to my vomitus urge that came from the burst of self-loathing. But I shattered nonetheless.

Blue eyes. No, not just blue, blue like glacial waters, like romantic poems, like heavens and moonstones. Cornflower blue. And-
Blue like romantic poems? What the everliving fuck? (Austin)

Let me know when you're done with this conversation. Peter needs his tongue bath. I mean sponge bath.

Whiskey, glass, pour, toss back, glare. Repeat. "Cop out," I slurred in retaliation, pointing the empty glass at Peter.
"Don't get drunk. Fuck. I need you sober," he yelled, snatching the glass out of my hand.
"There's the problem right there. You need me sober. You need my help. You need something from me." I laughed, tossing the bottle on the sofa, ignoring the glug glug glug as it emptied over my cushions. "And I just need you."
"Need me to what?" He asked with a huff, tipping the bottle right-side up.
"Nothing. I just need you," I whispered and flopped into a nearby recliner.

He's painting your living room as a thank you."
"Huh. My decorator might screech, but I'm okay with that."
"Your decorator? Seriously? How did you not know you were gay?

Fundamentally I believed that I was unlovable.

I hated smoking. The smell alone was enough to nauseate me. But right then, more than anything, I wanted to be that cigarette.

Tell me something good about your life," I whispered, needing to hear that he wasn't as broken as I thought him to be.
Peter breathed into the handset for about two minutes. I began wondering if he was about to hang up, or had fallen asleep, when he answered. "You."
It was so quiet I almost didn't hear it. And then he hung up before I could ask him to repeat himself.
I fell asleep, grinning, with the phone still clutched in my hand and my milk souring on the coffee table.

Do me a favor, Oz?"
"Sure?"
"Don't ask them about ass-sex when they answer the phone. Marta feels guilty when you have no friends to visit.

I grew up Catholic. I was not above guilt trips.

Peter to Austin:
Hard-ons don't make you think less. They make you think stupid. Which makes me think you must have one 24/7.

I would just like to throw out there that we can all stop talking about putting things up my ass. No fly zone. Do not enter. No parking.

Yeah well, I keep trying to explain to my dick that you're a lying, manipulative whore, but it has selective hearing and chooses to focus on the last part.

Peter to Austin: Here are the facts, Austin. You've been engaged four times.
You've cheated on every single one of them. You're cruel
sometimes and superficial and spoiled and really fucked up
emotionally. You talk about my being inscrutable, but you treat
nothing as if it matters to you. Something terrible happens? You
make a joke and shrug it off. You feel too much? You get angry
and lash out at me. So no, I'm not in love with you. I'm fighting
it every fucking step! I just wish I could stop it.

I followed Peter heedlessly, or more specifically, my penis followed blindly.

We have to go," I replied, ready to throw everything I felt for Peter in the nearest trash and tie up the bag. Let it fester there with my already condemned sanity.

Hard-ons don't make you think less. They make you think stupid.

I made a mental note to call. Later.
Tomorrow. Next month. Or January.

Do you know why I like dogs and not cats? Because when
you're talking to dogs, they don't walk away in order to rim
themselves.

~Austin to Cai's cat Begone Cai's, also known as the "fucking hairball with the crazies.

I was not gay.
First, I masturbated to images of women. I fantasized about women. Sure, there were men in my fantasies, but they were always doing women. Everyone did that. There were never solo men in my fantasies. Or my porn-discounting the previous night's anomaly. Therefor, I wasn't gay.

I've given up my living room, guest room, job, career, heterosexuality and my stance on no pets in the house, but I'm not giving up my room. I'm drawing a line.

Do you know any gay guys?"
"Why? Are you switching teams?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe."
"Yeah, I know some gay guys. And you do, too."
"I know some gay guys?" News to me.
"Jake and Terry."
"They're not gay," I argued.
"Yeah? You better tell them to stop sleeping together, then.

McCleary was an unpolished, semi attractive man in his late thirties or early forties. His hair was grey. His suit was cheap. His cologne was cheaper and his attitude was a hundred percent asshole. He have me an instant boner.

What is wrong with you?" He glared at me.


"I'm somewhat sure I'm suddenly gay," I shrugged, "My father and mother are hypocritical abandoning homophobic assholes. The former defending my chief suspect in the biggest case of my life - something I'm sure you had a hand in. I'm obsessed with your freckles, your bunny slippers and your lips - which I should be getting points for not kissing while you're incapacitated, by the way. I'm dating a whore while working on the vice squad - points to me again for not arresting your ass for that - and I'm ridiculously horny. Oh, and my fiancée won't talk to me.

You are not welcome here."
"You said that the first time you kicked me out. [...] Then [...] I thought to myself, 'what a great hospital. I bet they could use a million dollars.' Guess what? They did!" [...]
"I am still his mother." [...]
"Yeah? Good luck with that. I'm still rich.

Most people showed gratitude or happiness in a smile or a bouquet of flowers-Peter sucked cock.
Not a whole lot of debate on which of those choices was my favorite.

My father married my mother three days after they met.
Your father also killed and maimed people for a living. How about we just place him in the Not-To-Emulate pile?
Shattered Glass by Dani Alexander (Chpt 14)

You know what I find ironic? My homophobic mother offers
you her cabbage rolls as a truce and you respond by asking her if
it was 'tacit approval' to suck my cock."
"She shoved a phallic symbol my way and told me to eat it.

What I knew, beyond a doubt, was that if I continued to deny who I was, I'd end up with my service revolver in my mouth.

"Better cock than steel," I said wryly, checking my reflection one last time before I exited the car.

At some point all of this is going to catch up with me," I said.
"What is?"
"Gay, boyfriend, job loss, career in the toilet, gay, criminals in my house, criminals in my bed."
"You said the gay thing twice."
"It deserves double billing.

Bunny Slippers watched my appraisal for at least a full
minute before clasping his hands and resting them on the table.
"You stand in the doorway, clothes sticking to you like you just
got out of the shower and didn't dry off." I hadn't dried off
actually. "Your hair is wet like it's been raining, but it's near
ninety outside. You glare at me for a good ten minutes before
you come over. Sit across from me in my booth, without an
invitation. Don't introduce yourself. Don't say hello. You
announce you're not gay, but that I made you gay, and I am
confusing you?
Well, when he said it like that.

I was not insecure. I was a perfectly normal combination of arrogant and narcissistic.