Fifty year old American novellist, journalist and blogger, Damien has arrived in Sydney to write a story about the 2010 Mardi Gras. He is travelling incognito because in a recent blog he criticized the relevance of the parade and bemoaned the fact it had drifted so far from its roots as a commemoration of the Stonewall Riots - the first time the fairies fought back.

He is met at the airport by Simon, a young Australian who has been asked to look after him and give him a real "Taste of Australia."

Set against the backdrop of Sydney and its world-famous and colorful Mardi Gras, the two men find they have a lot more in common than either at first realize.

For a look at photos of the parade itself, click on the book cover.

EXCERPT

Chapter One

Fuck. I nearly dropped my GMS sim card on the airport terminal floor. Turn fifty and your swollen knuckles start bitching about all the years you've abused them, bashing a keyboard too hard. The bastard didn't want to go into the little slot. Trying to do it with a laptop case stuck under one arm and a wheeled suitcase balanced against my hip didn't help. Got it. I turned on my cell. Four bars. Great.

Should I call Aaron and let him know I'd survived being cooped up in a flying coffin for twelve hours—stage one of his unexpected munificence of an all-expenses-paid trip to report on Sydney's Mardi Gras? I tried to do the math in my head. Seven o'clock Saturday morning here. What would he be doing? Was it still Thursday in San Francisco or Friday by now? Crossing the dateline and having to get my head around the fact it was now tomorrow always threw me into a funk. No, definitely Friday. He was probably running around like a chicken with its head cut off trying to get the weekend edition ready for publication.

Usually, my employer needed general anesthesia and a three hour operation to part him from his money, but a month ago, I'd blogged about Mardi Gras' decline in my regular column, Damien Dishes the Dirt, criticizing the way a political statement about the Stonewall Riots had turned into nothing more than a tawdry commercial extravaganza. A torrent of vitriolic posts had followed. The worst was from someone who called himself Patrick85, a regular respondent who called me a bitter, wanking, Yank queen who couldn't get his "arse out of the past," as he'd so quaintly phrased it. That had hurt.

Subscriptions to Aaron's online gay newspaper had doubled, so he was ecstatic. "Go to Australia and give me another story, first hand this time," he'd said.

"Mr. er . . . Stanton?"

A young body invading my personal space dragged my gaze away from my cell up into eyes that most observers would simply describe as pale blue without a trace of any other color. To me, they seemed to be trying to carry on a conversation of their own, an important conversation, about life and death or something of equal significance.

Strange. I blinked to break contact and nodded, suddenly lost for words. Then the speaker's attire registered. In his khaki, button-up shirt and shorts, dark brown hiking shoes and rolled down white socks, he looked like a clone of the late Steve Irwin or one of his junior employees.

I glanced around. Nope, no crocodiles needing wrangling here, just the usual cross-section you'd expect in a cosmopolitan city of four and a half million people.

"Welcome to Sydney, mate. Mr. Reynolds asked me to meet you. I'm Simon Jennings." He held out his hand. The words might have matched the outfit, but the expression in his eyes and the voice didn't. His enunciation was crisp, with just the hint of the expected Aussie drawl.

Great, now I didn't have to call Aaron. I replaced the cell in my pocket and grasped his hand. My brain/mouth connection finally clicked into gear. Was the delay due to jet lag or his presence? "Pleased to meet you, Simon, but please . . . call me Damien." The surname wasn't really Stanton, but I preferred to keep my real identity private. The Internet may have its good points, but the world was full of crazies. I had one name for my novels and another for my blog, which was syndicated to Aaron's paper. Neither of them was the real me.

His handshake surprised me. I'd expected typical Aussie brash confidence; instead, his skin was moist and his grip just the hard side of softness. Almost immediately, he let go and wiped his hand against his shorts.

Why was he so nervous? It wasn't as if I was the intimidating type. Mild-mannered reporter was the usual tag people gave me. It was only when they caught the barbed tail on my tongue that their attitude changed.

Simon stood still for a few seconds, biting his lip as if trying to remember his cue. "Er . . . Mr. Reynolds asked me to look after you." Without even asking, he swiftly extracted the bag from under my arm, lodged it under one of his and grabbed the handle of my case.

Not the laptop . . . we were a twosome, seldom parted. "I can . . . ." Before I could retrieve it, he set off toward the exit.

"No worries, mate." His words floated back over his shoulder as he gripped the bag closer to his body. At least he wouldn't drop it.

We were a similar height and build, both around five-ten, but his legs must have been longer as I almost needed to run to keep up. After a while, I gave up trying and concentrated on dodging people. An obstacle course would have been easier to negotiate than the crowd resulting from four airbuses spewing out their loads as soon as the morning curfew lifted. Many of them were probably visitors like me, arriving for this evening's parade.

The heat hit me like a sledgehammer as soon as I walked outside. I'd worn a jacket because the temperature inside the plane was freakin' cold, as usual. The Qantas stewardess—no, sorry, customer service manager—had provided a couple of blankets, but even though I could stretch out on an airbed, I'd still had difficulty falling asleep. The sooner they discovered matter transference, the better.

As I followed Simon into the nearby car park, a trickle of sweat ran down my spine and onto my ass. I pulled off my tie, stuffed it in my pocket and slung my jacket over my arm. Shit, it was still early morning, what would it be like later? In a way, heat was good, at least for all the boys who'd be wearing nothing more than underwear and a wide smile tonight.

My escort stopped and I nearly ran into his back. Was he on speed or something? All his movements seemed like that. Sudden.

He gripped my shoulder to stop me from falling. "Sorry, mate; I forgot where I left the sports car." This time the worry was evident in his eyes and it wasn't just from the slight frown between them.

Visions of cruising up Oxford Street, the centre of Sydney's gay community, in a sexy convertible distracted me as we wound our way amongst the vehicles. If any of my old buddies were still around, they'd take one look at my companion and shit themselves with envy—young, good-looking kid with sun-bleached hair. Though I suppose I shouldn't think of him as a kid; he was probably in his early twenties.

"Here's the ute, mate." The parking lights on a shiny, black pickup flashed. Geez, what happened to the sports car? I clambered in. The back section was covered with a tarpaulin so I couldn't see inside. I was pleased he didn't throw my bags, but rather stowed them carefully.

As he climbed into the cab and slid behind the wheel, he turned to me and said earnestly, "Fair crack of the whip, mate, I reckon you must be ready to hit the sack now after your long flight. Do you want to go straight to the hotel?"

The concern seemed genuine, but once again the words sounded more like something he'd been taught to say rather than coming naturally.

If I'd managed to convince Aaron to put me up at the Park Hyatt on the waterfront at Circular Quay, I might have been tempted to take Simon up on his offer. I could have lain in bed and gazed across at the pearly white tiles on the Opera House roof as ferries bustled around to different parts of the harbor. But Aaron had warned me I'd be staying in a cheaper hotel in the center of the city. Not worth spending the day in.

"I slept on the pla—"

"Beauty, mate. I was hoping you'd say that. Mr. Reynolds wants you to have a real taste of Australia, so how 'bout we check out the sights first." Simon took a deep breath after speaking and stared at me as he waited for my response.

What was he waiting for? A score? Nine out of ten. I'd been a keen student of Aussie slang during my last visit. The 't' in beauty should sound more like a 'd'. "Sounds great. It's too early to check in anyway, so I'm in your hands . . . mate."

Simon blushed. I nearly didn't notice it at first as the color hardly registered against the goldenness of his tan.

He seemed nervous as he started the engine, tentative. I shrugged. There must be some reason I was participating in a gay version of Crocodile Dundee meets visiting US reporter. Hey, I didn't mind being a participant in a mystery if my co-star was young and handsome, as long as it wasn't written by Stephen King.