Dr. W. A. Frost's Ides of Revolution

  “It’s on the house, brother. That guy over there paid for it already.” The bartender handed you the Amaretto Sour, and pointed down the empty bar to a guy at the end. You didn’t recognize him. It’d be impossible for you to forget a gorgeous man like that. He shot you a glance with two big blue eyes, and you felt your stomach drop. He winked at you, grabbed his drink, and walked away. In your head, you know he wanted you to follow him. Trying to play it cool, you causally glance around the bar, hoping to see where he ended up, only to see him by the entrance to the smoking alley. He’s still watching you with that adorable smirk on his face. Despite the muscles, tattoos, piercings, and all around bad boy persona, there was a sense of genuine innocence behind his eyes. You knew he was a good catch. You down your drink and the remains of a tequila shot next to you, and approach the guy. Up close he’s even more delectable than before, his breath smells of Orange Tic Tacs, and a sprawling

  Deandre was an ebony God: tall, dark and handsome. He was a friendly, good-natured, all around great guy. He had a girlfriend, a steady job, and a dream life on Hawaii. Every day at lunch he’d throw on a pair of boardshorts and go surfing for thirty minutes or so; and it was a typical Wednesday afternoon that his life was effectively taken over.  It was a beautiful day. Blue skies, 89 degrees, sunny, and crashing waves. A beach full of tourists wasn’t enough to deter Deandre and his surfboard, so as he walked past sunburnt retirees from deep in the midwest, he payed no attention to the pair of eyes watching him like a hawk. Hiding from sight behind a surfboard of his own, the man’s blacked out eyes and curious demeanour strangely caught the attention of no one. Deandre paddled out to catch some waves, missing a few decent ones. His attention focused on the horizon, he didn’t notice the man slowly entering the water. Sporting glasses to hide his darting eyes, he searched his borrowed