Today he’s one of six scheduled authors, all big names in LGBTQ literary circles, lined up for the reading. The publisher sent him copies of the other authors’ books to look over, but he didn’t bother opening the package until he arrived in town the night before. Ensconced in his hotel room, he laid across the tightly-made bed and flipped through the titles, pleased his own was on top.

JC Rio ... he still didn’t recognize the name, as if it belonged to someone other than himself.

This copy was crisp and clean, so unlike the battered, highlighted book he carried around with him, that he immediately grabbed the cheap hotel pen off the bedside table, scribbled his name on the title page, and stuck the book inside the top drawer of the table. He set it on top of the Gideon Bible, covering it completely. Satisfied, he closed the drawer, wondering who would find it and when. Would they read it? Would they know who he was? Who knew?

Turning to the other books, he glanced through them, unimpressed. A book of lesbian poetry, the author photo on the back cover showing a proud, fierce woman of indeterminate age with high cheekbones, dark skin, and short, blonde curls. Jimmy could tell by looking she was probably going to be a great reader, very dramatic. He hoped he didn’t have to go after her.

Another lesbian book, this a high fantasy -- no author photo on the book itself, but the publisher included a press kit with a picture of an earth mother type, wearing a flowing robe with long hair down her back, no makeup, a benevolent smile on her face. She looked more at home at a RenFest than any of the readings Jimmy had ever attended.

Then there was a transgender book -- at least, Jimmy thought it was transgender, he couldn’t really tell without reading it, but he couldn’t get past the first few pages. It wasn’t quite poetry, wasn’t quite prose, and was way too experimental for him. The author’s name was nothing but a bunch of lowercase initials, with an uppercase Y thrown in midway to screw things up. No photo, and the bio was conveniently obtuse. With a shake of his head, Jimmy tossed the book to the foot of the bed and didn’t think he’d remember to pick it up again.

A bisexual vampire book ... boring. He turned that over with barely a glance at the photo of the man who had written it. Then his heart stopped in his chest when he saw the final author he’d be sharing the limelight with at the reading.

Aaron Owing.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered, sitting up in his bed. One of the other books fell to the floor but he ignored it. The Aaron Owing? “You gotta be shitting me.”

In his hands he held Owing’s forthcoming title, Fuck Me Twice, which wasn’t even due out in stores for three more months. Before Jimmy came along, Owing was the youngest author their publisher had ever signed. Two years ago, when Owing was barely twenty, his sex-fueled memoir What Do I Owe? broke through the small press barrier to land a coveted spot on The New York Times’ bestseller list. Jimmy had found a copy in the public library and, too embarrassed to check it out, he hid it in his school bag and stole it instead. How many nights did he lie awake under the covers, flashlight in one hand, dick in the other, jerking off to Owing’s words?

And where had Jimmy come up with the idea to write a book about his own sex-capades in the first place? He had no illusions about anyone wanting to read anything he might have to say. But Owing had inspired him, no question about it. Jimmy still has that library copy tucked away on his bookcase at home. If truth be told, his own memoir follows the same pattern of Owing’s book. The words are different but the dynamics are the same. Jimmy hasn’t read anything else like it before or since.

Tomorrow I’ll meet him, Jimmy thought, turning Owing’s new book over in his hands to stare at the picture on the back. The man in it had aged a bit from the image in Jimmy’s mind, but otherwise he looked much the same as the young guy on the back of the other book Jimmy prized. Same careless hair, thick and brown, falling in light waves to his shoulders. Same soulful eyes, almond-shaped and wide. Same large mouth, same pouting lips, almost smiling.

Almost.

I’ll read with him. To him. Jesus.

Which meant Owing knew of him. Of his book. Somewhere in one of the rooms of this very hotel, Aaron Owing probably sat on a bed just like Jimmy’s and held a copy of Jimmy’s memoir in his hands.

Jimmy didn’t know whether to be pleased or terrified about that.