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Release Day Review: Two Pet Dicks by John Inman

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Book Info

About the Author
John has been writing fiction for as long as he can remember. Born on a small farm in Indiana, he now resides in San Diego, California where he spends his time gardening, pampering his pets, hiking and biking the trails and canyons of San Diego, and of course, writing. He and his partner share a passion for theater, books, film, and the continuing fight for marriage equality. If you would like to know more about John, check out his website at---- or follow him on Facebook
Publication Date
March 18, 2016
Chapter One

HI. MY name is Maitland Carter.

“Hey, you! Cuddleumpkins! Get your bony white ass out here and give me a hand!”

Sorry about that. That’s my partner, Lenny Fritz. He’s black and proud. And noisy.

Before we go any further, let me clear something up. Yes, we’re the two dicks in the title of this little masterpiece. But don’t get the wrong impression. We’re not dickhead dicks. At least I don’t think we are, although I might know a few people who would disagree with that assessment. We’re not anybody’s pets either, in case you’re wondering. No, we’re just dicks. As in private investigators.

For pets. Lost pets. Get it?

And while we’re in the process of clearing things up, let me clear up something else. When I say Lenny is my partner, I’m referring to his position as my business partner only. While we are most certainly as gay as geese, the two of us, we are not lovers.

Don’t get me wrong. We’ve had sex now and then. And when I say now and then, I mean every chance we get. But mind you only under the direst of circumstances. Like when we’re mutually horny and maybe between boyfriends and quite possibly on stakeout, and it’s late at night and there’s nothing else to do but watch some fatass bulldog sneak out of his enclosure with the intention of playing hide the Milk-Bone with the cute french poodle up the street, whose owner happens to be a client who is paying us good money to keep her precious Fifi’s hymen in place until she pays the stud fee on an animal worthy to impregnate the mutt. Yes, there are people who will actually hire people like us to do that.

So to recap—stakeouts are boring. Anything to alleviate boredom is a good thing, right? Thusly, in our quest to alleviate that boredom, Lenny and I may have hid the Milk-Bone a few times ourselves. In fact, we most certainly did. But we’re men. What do you expect?

Let me answer that question for you too, if I may. As far as men go, here’s what you can expect: Straight, homo, fruitarian, or Jehovah’s Witness, it all boils down to one thing. Men are ruled by their peckers and have no more sense of restraint than a swarm of whiteflies chowing down on every hibiscus blossom that crosses their path. Or a horny bulldog going after a french poodle. Trust me. I see it every day. After all, I’m a dick. I mean, private investigator. I understand the human condition. At least I tell myself I do.

Lenny and I stand six feet tall. We both weigh in at one seventy-fiveish on a good day and we both have all our teeth and those teeth are fairly even and straight. My hair is red and curly and Lenny’s is black and frizzy. His skin is a rich umber and mine is vanilla cream. There’s not an ounce of fat on either one of us except quite possibly between our ears. If you’re interested, Lenny is circumcised and I’m not. In both instances we’re rather impressive to behold, if I say so myself. We’ve been told we’re good-looking dudes, and while modesty forbids me to praise my own appearance, I can certainly attest to Lenny’s, for he is indeedy-do a good-looking dude. I wouldn’t be porking him in the stakeout van if he wasn’t, and I assume that goes for him with me as well. He admires my red hair, he says, and I admire the way he goes into an orgasmic meltdown with such enthusiastic fervor his come can fly right through the van’s side window and hit a mailbox four feet away.

But enough about us. Let’s get on with the story.

Lenny hammered on the storefront window with both fists, rattling the glass and making an unholy racket. He was standing outside in the pouring rain, and he didn’t look happy. I figured if he pounded on the glass any harder, the rain outside would be inside, and we’d all be drenched to our skivvies.

I stormed through the front door of our newly rented office space and stepped out into the deluge. In the time it takes to tell about it, I was as soaked as Lenny.

“There!” I screamed. “I’m wet! You happy?”

“It’s a start!” Lenny roared over the downpour. He had a hammer in one hand, and it looked like he was using considerable willpower not to bonk me on the head with it. “I need you to hold the ladder while I hang this shingle!”

A sizzling bolt of lightning shot across the sky above our heads, and we both ducked. Thunder followed about two seconds later. It was a fairly impressive celestial display, especially for San Diego, where it hardly ever rains.

“Are you nuts?” I yelled above the storm. “You’re holding a metal hammer and you want to stand on a metal ladder to hang a metal sign in the middle of a lightning storm! What could possibly go wrong?”

“Shut up and do it!”

I squeegeed the rain off my face like one of the Three Stooges and traipsed through a puddle to do as he asked, mumbling to myself as I did it, “Fine. I’ll be incinerated, but what do you care? No skin off your nose.”

“Stop mumbling,” Lenny snapped, ducking through my arms to climb the ladder in front of me. He climbed until his ass was in my face, natch, and there he stopped.

“Now hold the ladder!” he bellowed down at me.

No sooner had he said it than his foot slipped on the rung and he muttered, “Oh, crap,” as the hammer fell from his hand and banged me on the head.

He looked down at me reeling around, stomping through puddles, holding my head. “Maybe you should stand on the other side of the ladder,” he suggested.

So as soon as the last twirling star disappeared from before my eyes, I growled something unkind and quite possibly racist, fished around in a mud puddle to retrieve the fucking hammer, and handed it back to him.

“Just finish,” I growled. “I’m drowning here.”

Considerable hammering ensued, a few cuss words about the rain followed, and then a triumphant “Oho! It’s done.”

I stepped out to the curb as Lenny descended the ladder. He joined me, and together we gazed up through the downpour at the brand-new sign proclaiming a brand-new business in town. Two Dicks, the sign read. And that’s all it read. We couldn’t afford a sign big enough to add the words Private Investigators for Pets. Or even Pets. So the sign read simply Two Dicks.

Lenny and I stood in the gutter with what felt like the Mississippi River flowing over our shoe tops and stared proudly at the sign, the storefront, our very own door, and our very own shop window.

“Open for business,” Lenny proudly proclaimed.

I turned to him and saw his dark face beaming back at mine. His coal-black eyes, framed in curly lashes, were wide and excited, the whites as white as white can get. “We did it,” he said. “We finally did it!”

I felt a lump rise in my throat, and pressure behind my eyes started working its way toward my tear ducts. I figured it was either from the emotion of the moment, or the fact I was already coming down with pneumonia from standing in the rain like a fool. Lenny and I had been talking about this day, this joint venture, forever. And now it was a reality. Or at least it would be as soon as we snagged a few clients.

Lenny looked down at his hands. “I’ve lost the hammer again. Where’d it go?”

I patted my still-aching head and gazed skyward. “Beats me.”

“Screw it,” he said. “Let’s get inside before we wash away.”

“About time,” I grumbled.

Draping his arm over my shoulder, he led me through the front door out of the rain, and as we stood in our very own brand-new office, dripping water all over the nice clean floor, which rented for ninety-three cents a square foot, he pulled me into his arms and gave me a hug so enthusiastic it might have killed a lesser man.

“Partner,” he said and kissed me on the mouth. And he kept kissing me on the mouth until I was beginning to enjoy it.

“What are you doing?” I asked, licking his taste from my lips. “We’re not on stakeout.”

“What can I say, Mait? Grand openings make me horny. And we’re both between boyfriends.”

“Yes,” I groused again, “because our two boyfriends ran off and eloped with each other after you introduced them in the bar that night.”

“How was I supposed to know they were such sluts?”

“Well, they were with us. That should have been your first clue.”

“True.” He ground his crotch against mine. I have to admit it felt nice. Crotch grinding is always a pick-me-upper.

“There are no curtains on the window,” I said around his tongue, which was burrowing its way down my throat. I tried to swallow a gasp of desire before it got away from me. I mean, our two snuggling peckersreally felt nice bumping heads down below. And Lenny’s strong brown hands on my ass felt pretty nice too.

Lenny smiled as if he knew exactly what I was thinking, which I’m sure he did. He ground his crotch against mine a little harder. “It’s a monsoon out there, honeybuns. There’s nobody on the street to look in.”

“Don’t call me honeybuns.”

“Okay.” Lenny’s voice had ducked down an octave or two, like it always did when he was feeling amorous. We were both as hard now as the handle of the hammer we’d used to hang the sign, which, as far as I knew, was still lying in a puddle somewhere outside. The hammer, I mean, not the sign.

Lenny was already going for the zipper on my fly, and he had that sexy look on his face I knew all too well, so I figured there wasn’t much point in trying to turn the course of future events. Licking my lips, I reached for his fly as well. What the hell. When in Rome….

And that’s when the front door opened behind us, and Lenny and I practically jumped out of our skins. Thank God the door hadn’t opened twenty seconds later or the Two Dicks sign hanging outside would have been right on the money.
Old friends and business partners, Maitland Carter and Lenny Fritz, may not be the two sharpest pickle forks in the picnic basket, but they have big hearts. And they are just now coming around to the fact that maybe their hearts are caught in a bit of turmoil.

Diving headfirst into a whirlwind of animal mayhem, these two self-proclaimed pet detectives strive to earn a living, reunite a few poor lost creatures with their lonely owners, and hopefully not make complete twits of themselves in the process.

When they stumble onto a confusing crime involving venomous reptiles, which is rather unnerving since they’re more accustomed to dealing with misplaced puppy dogs and puddy tats, they take the plunge into becoming real-life crime stoppers.

While they’re plunging into that, they’re also plunging into love. They just haven't admitted it to each other yet.

Editor reviews

1 reviews

Not My Cup of Tea
Movie Potential – ★★★☆☆
Ease of reading – easy to read and follow
Would I read it again - No

Reviewed for Divine Magazine

To be quite honest, this could have been a barrel of laughs, but the humour just wasn't my cup of tea.

The story is told in 1st person, past tense, through only one character's POV. Right off, that's not my style. I can never really get along with 1st past, but this one wasn't so obvious that it was uncomfortable or jarring to read. However, I'm also not a fan of the characters talking to readers, which this does, at first in the first 4 pages, then in small instances.

For me, the humour was trying too hard. Just about every stereotype that crept up was made fun of – gay, fat, drag, sexist and more. It came across in a more good-natured meaning than cruel or truly vicious, but it still isn't the kind of humour that I find funny. I don't really think it's funny to make fun of people that way, though this was attempted well over a dozen times, in increasingly short-sighted, uncomfortable ways. Every ounce of humour was sarcastic, which also isn't a favourite of mine.

Funnily enough, the best and funniest parts of the story were when the author wasn't trying at all. There were a few slapstick comedy moments, some ridiculous instances that were purely for the entertainment value, but there were also sweet moments. The chemistry and relationship of
the main couple worked for me and I really liked their dynamic and how it adapted.

I do think the story was dragged out for a really long time. All those missed-moments, where they almost caught a pet, but didn't, which all  led to “funny” moments or injury, just didn't work and didn't seem necessary. A few times, the character Maitland was more concerned with laughing his ass off than saving Lenny from danger, particularly when the rooster was pecking his head, which could have been seriously dangerous.

There's a lot of “harrumph”-ing. To me, that's a noise and not a word, but I let that slide. It was the constant use of it that bothered me. As with sounds being mentioned, then vocalised right next to each other. Only one is necessary. Both was overkill.

The author was really fond of exaggerated imagery, metaphors and such, using long paragraphs of what a situation was 'like' as description for what was going on, in a comedic manner. Again, this didn't work. Neither did the use of the word “titties” for a man. Nope. Not for me.


Overall, it's a simple matter of this book and I not getting along. As this is my first John Inman, it may be either that their writing doesn't work for me or this is just one odd ball in a bunch. I'll have to read more of his work to decide.

If you love slapstick comedy, don't have limits on what you think is funny and you love two gay guys getting into all kinds of shenanigans, then you'll love it.

For me, though, it was simply trying too hard to be hilarious.
#1 Reviewer 126 reviews
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