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Richard C Jones

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TRI
by Richard C Jones   

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Category: 

Gay/Lesbian/Bi

Publisher:  City Stone Publishing ISBN-10:  9780982387924
Pages: 

228

Copyright:  June 1, 2010 ISBN-13:  9780982387924

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The unusual love triangle I have written about is titled TRI and it is the story of Inanna, an exotic entertainer and Rajah, a spiritual spoken word artist turned rapper, and the tightly-wound writer they both physically and emotionally with, Tierre Tisdale Thomas.
From humble beginning to tragic end, TRI offers superb characterizations of desire, bliss, lust, rage, doubt, torment, and suffering. How this love TRIangle is revealed and resolved is deceptively simple: the novel expresses how in the short time of a few weeks and culminating in one explosive childhood game of Truth or Dare, true feelings of love can develop and unravel with equal depth and passion. Introduce yourself to -
Tierre: He fully discovers his identity as a serious author in the fiery union with a New Year’s Eve one-night-stand. In an unusual twist of fate, his artistic odyssey will take him from Rajah to Inanna, although only one of them knows who they are truly getting involved with…
Rajah: With dramatic insight and sensitivity, he becomes the link between his lover and sister which consumes them all in a combustible mix of sexual politics and pain…
Inanna: Where her brother is light, she is dark, and she doesn’t give a damn who gets theirs, so long as she gets hers!
Each chapter is uninhibited, offers a searing treatise on dating, relationships, and the tenuous situation gay men and bisexual women find themselves in sexually and romantically…

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YFS8lIzItTY Excerpt
You die the first day you live.
Sometimes a person has to go through the storms of life to smile at the rainbow. Life is a lot like a stage; it is a suggestion of a world where it is never quite clear if it’s lived on the verge of dawn or night, peace or conflict.
And it was with that mindset that Tierre began the first day of the New Year of the new millennium. Having gone from halo to hell in zero seconds, he was doing it alone. This to him came as no surprise.
On December 31, 2004, a handwritten list was placed on the bathroom wall facing opposite the commode. The list comprised of things he promised himself that would be changed in the coming year. Like a crab, he was feeling burdened, and he had to take care now not to be knocked over by the intensity of it all. He told himself he would become less restrictive on his points-of-view; take better care of his mental, physical, and spiritual health.
In the year 2005, Tierre decided he needed to branch out onto a new journey of creativity, love, and fulfillment. He visited an Internet horoscope site containing predictions for the year ahead. Tierre read its various snippets of his birth month aloud, studying its prophecies as if cramming for a particularly important exam. His horoscope assured him 2005 would be a transcendent year for him in the romance department. In the New Year, he was to meet a man and have a relationship unlike any other he ever had before, and this relationship was to catapult his heart to meteoric heights.
The song on the radio was It’s Raining Men. Obviously, The Weather Girls were singing about somewhere else besides San Diego, California, where Tierre lived, because, as far as emotionally mature black men were concerned, he’d been through a long drought.
For the previous year, Tierre had been essentially single, except for the mercy missions with a brotha he met at a sex party who was secretly really into white boys. For whatever reason, the clown never returned telephone messages or emails. Maybe it was for the best that the snow queen never called again. It had been such a long time since he found himself in one of those cliché hovering-by-the-phone-longing-for-it-to-ring situations. He’d forgotten just how depressing it was.
He also promised himself he would no longer disrespect his body with one-night-stands, become involved in a loving and nurturing relationship, (beginning with himself). He’d realize his true self-worth and potential continue to be a loving and giving individual, and to seek successes and victories in whatever he set his mind to. And he had to refuse to be deterred from these new goals. No longer would he reach out to hungry hearts or lips to anonymous lovers. He would be really kissing his love to death.
What used to be about love became frequency. What used to be about commitment was now a casual love interest, if that was what he could call it. Every time he gave his love away, not realizing that every seed spilt, a small part of his life died.
The year 2005 was to be a fresh beginning. Tierre would tackle unfinished business with a lion-like ferocity. The been-there, done that, and don’t-wanna-go-back philosophy that had been instilled in him for the last eleven years was about to be retired. Sometimes the truth is only one more step down the crooked road to happiness.
Tierre Thomas Tisdale is African American, articulate, athletic, and above average in the groin area. What more could a black man want or need? The well-kept, well-fit, and well-traveled Tierre considered himself ordinary and complicated, complete with flawed charms that were as inseparable as swirls in marble cake.
The year 2005 would be free of family secrets, career rivalries, and romantic disappointments. The changing of the guard also signaled that Tierre was emerging and recovering from the fissures of the past. The angry and jab sharp elbows into his tender heart had stopped. He wanted to break out of the shell of his shyness that imprisoned him. December 31, 2004 was a day to mark his losses and celebrate the love he had for himself.
But that would only happen once he recovered from his New Year’s Eve hangover. He was a man drunk with his own emotions. Tierre knew he had a soulful sincerity, bedroom physique, deep coco brown skin, and sinful hazel eyes. He stood at a mere five-foot-five and weighed a hundred and thirty pounds. Locs flowed mid-length to his neck, just barely, missing his baby-sized ears. Last night, he lay in bed unable to stop thinking of the intelligent, very logical, yet creative and impulsive discoverer of his secrets.
The last thing he remembered with any clarity was meeting a hip-hop hoodlum who looked like a lion with great power: deceiving boyish looks, genuine smile, and sincere charisma were all shields to mask the animal that was roaring inside. The beautiful black man had been both funny, charming, and an outspoken flirt, which wouldn’t have been so bad had he not done it openly right in front of the other patrons. Ordinarily, such blatant innuendo and compliments would have embarrassed him.
A part of Tierre felt as if he could flirt with the attractive man harmlessly, but the other more sagacious part of his mind knew that the lines between just having fun and becoming serious could be blurred very easily.
Having had more than a few drinks before he left his one bedroom apartment, Tierre’s head was spinning a little, but as he reached his North Park destination, a tall, medium-complexioned black man caught him in his arms. Tierre found himself to be flustered; taking a less than graceful step backwards on the club’s low and partially hidden steps. On the inside, the coffeehouse was large, but every square foot was jam packed with laughing, talking, lively patrons. Surely, the fire marshal would ticket the owners for such an overflow of guests. As he wound his way through several tables, Tierre blinked and tried to get used to the dimness of the popular establishment. His eyes squinting so hard he nearly gave himself a headache. Across from where Tierre stood, on a small stage, a noisy drummer was beating out a wild rhythm.


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