With the release of this story, I begin my countdown for the release of my third e-book, "Learning To Samba," which comes out 8/16. I hope you enjoy reading the story.
*****
My hands trembled as I fumbled the car key. When I finally managed to slip the car key into the lock I opened the door, careful not to make any noise, then slipped behind the wheel of the rental.
I don’t know what I was scared of. I was an adult. Finally legal to drink. It’s not like I was going out to murder anyone. And yet, I glanced about the dimly lit parking lot as if I were afraid I’d get caught slinking around. It was as if I were broadcasting to the world where I was, where I was going, and what I was hoping to do.
It was Independence Day weekend, 1984. I’d taken a few days off to vacation in Fort Lauderdale. The Marlin Beach Hotel -- once a happening, straight bar/restaurant featured in “Where The Boys Are” -- was falling into disrepair from it’s 50s heyday; but it had a certain edgy appeal.
The seediness was titillating and I walked around with a partial hard-on from the moment I checked in two nights ago. It was as if I could sense all the sex that had ever been had there, like I was being haunted by the Ghost of Lust Past.
Despite the holiday weekend, there weren’t many guests. Of the men that were there, none appealed to me. Winter, I’d been told, was the time to come down. That’s when they were stuffed to the limit with naked men from all walks of life, cavorting in the sun and swimming in the pool, which could be observed from the Jules Verne room.
After wandering the deserted corridors of the infamous hotel, cruising Birch Street into the wee hours of morning, and observing the men that disappeared behind bushes on the beach, I was more than ready to get laid.
But I didn’t want regular sex.
I wanted something different. Something dark and sinister. I yearned for someone to grab hold of me and possess me with his desire. I longed to be taken, by force if necessary, and used until he, whomever he was, was sated.
Apparently, there was only one place for that.
Which is why I sat in the rental, dressed in my tightest pair of acid-washed jeans and black tank-top. I was showered, cleaned out, and shaking internally at what I might find. But I swallowed back my fear, rolled down the window, and cranked up the engine.
“Good luck!” A voice called out, startling me out of my focused determination. I jumped and looked up to see the clerk behind the desk smiling at me. I watched him stride up to his car, parked beside mine, secretly hoping he wouldn’t ask to join me. When hunting for cock it was usually best to do it alone.
I smiled, feeling embarrassed, and nodded awkwardly. A short while ago I'd asked him where a guy might find something a bit less…mainstream.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” The man grinned as I slowly pulled out and waved goodbye.
I turned left onto Atlantic Boulevard, known by the locals as A1A, and drove north towards Sunrise Boulevard. From there, it was several miles to NE 3rd, then a quick right.
The bar was on a poorly lit street, in a particularly rough neighborhood. As I climbed out of the car, I wondered why it was that most gay bars I’d ever been to were in shitty areas. I pressed down on the lock, slammed the door shut and pocketed the key. Then I walked to the front entrance of the leather bar and stopped short.
“Scared, boy?” A deep, gravelly voice boomed in the night. I turned my head and drank in the sight of a huge, intimidating mountain of a black man as my eyes adjusted to the blue and black light.
I cleared my throat, noticing the way the bouncer sat on the bar stool, head cocked, scrutinizing me curiously. He wore a leather vest, a cap raked so low I couldn’t see his eyes, and a leather band around his left bicep. His arms were huge and his hands more like paws. Something impossibly long and unbelievably thick snaked down the inside of his left thigh.
Yes, I was afraid but I couldn’t let him know that.
“No!” I replied, my voice higher than I would have liked. To my own ears it sounded like a pitiful squeak.
The man laughed in a deep bass that rumbled in my chest.
“Don’t lie to me son. I can smell it on you.”
“Sh– should I be? Scared?”
The bouncer stood with a low grumble and leaned forward. I took a step back. But he only grabbed the handle and pulled the door open for me. The dull thump of dance music became a roar.
“Get your ass inside, son. This neighborhood isn’t safe for pretty white boys like you.”
I had to brush up against him in order to step inside and wondered if he’d positioned himself that way on purpose. But the moment I walked in and the door shut ominously behind me, the thought popped out of my head. I suddenly understood how Dorothy might have felt when she first stepped out of her freshly transported house. This was Oz, or at least a version of it, and there was no turning back.
I stood in the narrow vestibule, my senses assaulted by the loud music, the smell of stale cigarette smoke mixed with sweat. But it was so much more than that.
I sniffed at the air.
The place reeked so heavily of sex you could practically taste it. There was also an energy, thick with expectation, that permeated the air as surely as the scent of leather made my nostrils flare.
This was where I belonged, what I had been looking for. My pulse quickened and my cock twitched with arousal as I slowly moved forward.
The bar was to my right, just beyond the floor-to-ceiling beaded curtain. To my left was a leather shop. I decided to traipse through, like foreplay, and look at the contraptions and paraphernalia; some of which I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what they could be used for.
There were dildos, whips and paddles. Long, clear tubes of all sizes for your nipples, your cock. Tit clamps, cuffs and row upon row of tiny brown bottles. There were books, magazines and video tapes, racks of leather shorts, vests, caps. Cock rings, ball stretchers and several sizes of butt plugs.
There was a pounding in my head as I lost myself in the dark, seedy world of kink and fetish. Someone grabbed my ass and I spun around to see who’d groped me but there was no one there ready to stake his claim.
I crossed the hallway and stepped into the bar. It was even darker here than it was outside. I stood, in what I hoped was my best New York City stone-face, waiting for my eyes to adjust. Then, with hands in my pockets, I weaved through the crowd.
To my right was a throng of men surrounding the bar while to my left, another group watched two burly, hairy-chested men circling the pool table. I could see the glint of metal and knew quarters from the next challenger were already lined up.
I pressed on, pushing past a small group of men playing at the pig trough while others watched. The atmosphere in the room crackled with perverse anticipation.
I continued moving.
Out on the patio there was a small bar to my right and a built-in, one-person cage to my left. A crowd of beefy men stood in front of the bars. I struggled to get past them and saw one of them throw his head back and howl into the night while holding on to either side of the makeshift cell. I didn’t need to see what was happening to know he’d just come. Another man quickly took his place as the man who’d been drained emerged from the throng, working his cock back into his jeans and pulling up his zipper.
As I stood and observed the scene around me I realized that, aside from the leather, kink, and heavy sexual tension, it wasn’t much different from the other bars I’d been to. The men still talked, laughed, and flirted.
I began to relax, gradually becoming aware that no one would pounce on me unless I wanted them to.
I moved once again, heading to the door on the opposite side of the small bar. A small hallway led to private toilets the size of closets and just beyond, the space opened back into the main bar.
I sidled up to the counter and ordered a beer.
To my right, two men talked casually over the loud music while another was on his knees servicing them both. A handful of voyeurs stood around them like a protective barrier.
Above the bar, a smooth-skinned body builder lay in a sling suspended from the ceiling. He’d been blindfolded, wrists and ankles cuffed to the hanging chains. His massive legs were spread wide and, every so often, the bartenders would take turns working a large dildo in and out of the bodybuilders ass while patrons egged them on.
On a large bulky television, two bound hunks tag-teamed and wrestled a third down onto a mat. I watched as the two muscle gods tied-up the other with his own singlet then stripped and had their way with him using their fingers, their cocks, and toys that seemed to appear out of nowhere.
I was on sensory overload. As wild and crazy as New York could be, nothing like this ever happened in the clubs anymore. The viral spread of AIDS had seen to that, claiming practically an entire generation of gay men.
I was conflicted by the decimation I’d seen back home, and the carefree lust that surrounded me. What had been a sexually charged atmosphere, upon my arrival, now filled me with dread. I briefly wondered if I’d done the right thing by coming here.
How could I ever expect to meet anyone in a place this?
Then I saw him, across the bar, in the crowd of people. He stared at me intently while sucking down his beer. The rest of the world had fallen away as I forgot where I was. The only thing that existed was him, a dull thumping in my body that registered as music, and me.
I was transfixed as the big beefy man approached. He was totally cut and ripped, his dark eyes focused. Clad in leather pants and a harness, he wore a cod piece that set my imagination to wander and a metal band around his left bicep. A tribal tattoo went all the way around his right.
He looked into my eyes as he reached for something at his side and the next thing I knew I had a collar around my neck. I was so stunned I couldn’t speak. He gave me one of those smiles, the kind that said he knew exactly who I was, what I wanted and how I was going to get it.
“Let’s fuck!” His lips moved but there was no sound. At least, none that I heard.
And then I was in his arms. He held me in place with one hand at the back of my neck while pulling my hips towards his with the other hand. He held me tight and his amazingly wicked tongue penetrated my mouth, devouring me. I didn’t know his name but I’d never felt so aroused and so dirty all at the same time.
In that moment, I knew I’d be with him the rest of my life.
*****
Learning To Samba will be available from Loose Id as of 8/16/2011. Collared has also appeared on my Author Page on Goodreads.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Random Shoes
As many of you may know, I’m a huge Torchwood fan. Not sure if that makes me a Torchie or a Torchwoodie. Personally, I’d like to opt for the Woodie, please. At any point, when it was announced that Torchwood would move to America I thought there was no way possible that it would work here. Not only that but, given our country’s prudery, I knew they would emasculate the man I wish I could be; Captain Jack Harkness. But to my surprise, cable television picked it up, Russell T. Davies and Julie Gardner moved along with it and they’ve kept the remaining two original Torchwood staff true to their characters. So kudos to Starz, Russell and Julie as well as the amazing cast of Torchwood: Miracle Day. Mind you, I still prefer them in Cardiff -- they had a more awesome grit to them there -- but I like this one just fine. Besides, a dose of Captain Jack is better than a shot of testosterone any day.
To prepare for Torchwood: Miracle Day, my partner and I decided to watch the original Torchwood: Season One, which aired on BBC. Though we were hoping to finish all of them before the new season started, it just became impossible. Life, as always, gets in the way. We did finally finished watching it, for the third time, and as much as I enjoyed the entire show, there are several episodes that stand out for me. My favorites are listed as follows.
Episode 1: Everything Changes. This is of course, the most important episode because this is where Gwen Cooper (Eve Myles) and I both developed a crush on Captain Jack Harkness (John Barrowman.
Episode 6: Countrycide. This was gripping and butt-clenching suspense at it’s finest because it was real. No monsters, no aliens. Just real life. Sick, sick, sick.
Episode 9: Random Shoes. This episode, following a perfectly ordinary individual, is actually center around a character who’s not a part of Torchwood but desperately wants to be. Compelling and moving, this episode has made me cry each and every time I see it because it makes the simplest of things in life beautiful and reminds us that while we’re here, we need to stop and have a banana milk shake.
Episode 12: Captain Jack Harkness. In this episode, we learn a bit more about the illustrious Torchwood leader. We also follow him, and Toshiko, as they get sucked back in time to Cardiff in 1941. With all these characters trapped in a nostalgic era, one of the most romantic same-sex kisses ever. Leave it to the Brits to not be scared of showing a little male/male love!
•••••
In continuing with the theme of “random shoes” today was a major step for me because I finished writing my totally smutty story, “The Rosas of Spanish Harlem.” Why might this be such a coup you might ask? Well, that would be because since March, all I’ve written of substance, were blog posts. It seemed as if after completing, then submitting, “Learning To Samba” to Loose Id for consideration, something happened. I spiraled and for the months that followed, try as I may, everything I started just fizzled out and lost my interest.
Looking back, I think that after an emotional piece of work, as writers, we owe it to ourselves to write something light and fluffy or smutty. Something where we don’t invest so much of ourselves that snapping out of it, once the project is complete, becomes almost impossible.
Strangely enough, despite the fact that “The Rosas of Spanish Harlem” was intended to be a fluff/smut piece, one of the characters decided to turn it into something else. The other characters were cool with what was going down -- a lot of sucking and fucking -- but an 18 y.o. twink, a high school grad, decided he was going to let me know that he was a femboy and likes to dress up in girls lingerie and put on makeup. All of this happened despite the fact that I wrote out very explicit character bios and a chapter-by-chapter outline. I still got to the end, mind you, even if it was slightly different than originally envisioned. Not to mention that the car I originally put them into, was different by the time they arrived.
For now, I’m putting the story aside and see if I can’t do the same with another story. I feel compelled to begin another one quickly. Meanwhile, whether or not “TROSH” is a romance or not, I’ve no clue. My first reaction, and instinct, is to say no. It is, however, a very smutty romp of a love story between what we think makes a man, and a not-so-pretty Puerto Rican with a penchant for cross-dressing boys.
So, as you can see, this post was all about Random Shoes. Now, go out there, take life by the balls and swallow it whole because it’s all over far too quickly.
Thanks for reading.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
What Causes Your Depression?
I’ve fought depression off and on for a couple of years now. Despite the fact that when I look back on my life and realize there were moments when I was attracted to all things dark and sad, it seems as if some moments were more intense than others. I haven’t been able to pinpoint them but I’m not sure that I want to. I mean, why look that far back -- especially since I can’t remember -- when I can look at what’s caused me to surf the butthole of depression in the recent past?
So that’s one of the things I’m doing in therapy and I continue to journal and blog about them. Some I’ll talk about freely. Some are just way too personal and those stay with me. That’s how this blog was born, actually. Obviously, though, that’s not the only thing it’s for; why focus on the dark when you don’t want to or linger in depression when you don’t have to. It’s like an alcoholic going to A.A. meetings and drooling over another person’s experience and reliving that horror over and over again. Too many people use meetings as a cloak, or crutch. I don’t want to do that here. I just want to share so others know they are not alone in what they feel. And, regardless of whether or not those feelings are skewed, they are REAL.
Besides, I gotta pimp myself out somewhere and I don't think street corners are safe.
Since starting this suggested task of blogging and journaling on my experiences with depression, I’ve become aware there is really no one thing that sets me off. It can be anything from the state of the world, health insurance woes, lack of money (it seems the harder I work, the less money I manage to hold on to; and I don’t even spend it!) over-eating, which leads to being overweight, which diminishes the libido, and so on and so forth. The list is rather long and would make James Joyce's run-on sentence look like a cakewalk.
One very strong item that pushes me over is anger. I have, or so it seems, a lot of suppressed anger. The funny thing is that when I was 19 and took my required “Intro to Psych” in college, the professor said the belief among the psychological community was that depression was anger turned inwards. I laughed, naturally. I thought, how was that possible? But several decades later, I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps he didn’t have a point.
But there seems to be more and here’s where I’m now very fascinated with the subject. You see, since starting this blog journey, I’ve begun to notice very similar traits in other people; people I’ve never met; people I’ve only known through Facebook. These people are all creative. They’re writers and actors, living the grind and trying to make ends meet as they balance two separate worlds; one in which we must be practical and do what needs to be done in order to survive -- even if we don’t want to do it -- and doing that which we love most. Expressing ourselves.
And this made me wonder. Is depression a multitude of things? Years of incidents keeping us from doing what we love that only end in mounds of frustration? Years of anger, at not being able to tell someone to shut the fuck up or fuck off? Is it money worries and the fear that we’ll never be able to fully do what we love because we have to work? Perhaps we are with people who don’t support us or feel they don’t really care about what we do? Perhaps we lack that one person that REALLY listens when we need it most, even if there is nothing they can do about whatever we’re experiencing?
Is it part of the creative process? Are we being impatient with ourselves, our work? Is it the long moments of stillness in between projects, between successes, where nothing happens and we feel like we’re spinning our wheels? Perhaps it’s a really bad review or the fact that someone rates us a 1 or 2 out of 5 without bothering to explain why?
Are we unhappy with our lives, our partners, our children, our friends, ourselves?
I could probably go on but I won’t. Why go someplace when you don’t need to? Especially because sinking into depression, as I mentioned to a FB pal -- a fellow writer -- feels like you have Dementors hovering nearby. They’re not sucking out your soul but their mere presence diminishes us nonetheless. And dagnabit, wouldn’t you know it? That’s usually when our magic wands are in the shop and no amount of mind tricks can produce the Patronus necessary to get rid of them.
So, for those of us who suffer from the big D -- as opposed to wanting a big D of a different nature -- let’s see if we can’t take a look at recent events surrounding that first slip. Personally, I want to pinpoint what it is that sets me off because, frankly? I want to stab that bastard in the eye, kick it in the balls and tell it to get the fuck out of my head. There is just NO room in there; it’s already taken up by cobwebs, stray odd thoughts and very strange plots. Besides, I’ve got too many things to do, stories to write and things to enjoy before my time comes.
So that’s one of the things I’m doing in therapy and I continue to journal and blog about them. Some I’ll talk about freely. Some are just way too personal and those stay with me. That’s how this blog was born, actually. Obviously, though, that’s not the only thing it’s for; why focus on the dark when you don’t want to or linger in depression when you don’t have to. It’s like an alcoholic going to A.A. meetings and drooling over another person’s experience and reliving that horror over and over again. Too many people use meetings as a cloak, or crutch. I don’t want to do that here. I just want to share so others know they are not alone in what they feel. And, regardless of whether or not those feelings are skewed, they are REAL.
Besides, I gotta pimp myself out somewhere and I don't think street corners are safe.
Since starting this suggested task of blogging and journaling on my experiences with depression, I’ve become aware there is really no one thing that sets me off. It can be anything from the state of the world, health insurance woes, lack of money (it seems the harder I work, the less money I manage to hold on to; and I don’t even spend it!) over-eating, which leads to being overweight, which diminishes the libido, and so on and so forth. The list is rather long and would make James Joyce's run-on sentence look like a cakewalk.
One very strong item that pushes me over is anger. I have, or so it seems, a lot of suppressed anger. The funny thing is that when I was 19 and took my required “Intro to Psych” in college, the professor said the belief among the psychological community was that depression was anger turned inwards. I laughed, naturally. I thought, how was that possible? But several decades later, I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps he didn’t have a point.
But there seems to be more and here’s where I’m now very fascinated with the subject. You see, since starting this blog journey, I’ve begun to notice very similar traits in other people; people I’ve never met; people I’ve only known through Facebook. These people are all creative. They’re writers and actors, living the grind and trying to make ends meet as they balance two separate worlds; one in which we must be practical and do what needs to be done in order to survive -- even if we don’t want to do it -- and doing that which we love most. Expressing ourselves.
And this made me wonder. Is depression a multitude of things? Years of incidents keeping us from doing what we love that only end in mounds of frustration? Years of anger, at not being able to tell someone to shut the fuck up or fuck off? Is it money worries and the fear that we’ll never be able to fully do what we love because we have to work? Perhaps we are with people who don’t support us or feel they don’t really care about what we do? Perhaps we lack that one person that REALLY listens when we need it most, even if there is nothing they can do about whatever we’re experiencing?
Is it part of the creative process? Are we being impatient with ourselves, our work? Is it the long moments of stillness in between projects, between successes, where nothing happens and we feel like we’re spinning our wheels? Perhaps it’s a really bad review or the fact that someone rates us a 1 or 2 out of 5 without bothering to explain why?
Are we unhappy with our lives, our partners, our children, our friends, ourselves?
I could probably go on but I won’t. Why go someplace when you don’t need to? Especially because sinking into depression, as I mentioned to a FB pal -- a fellow writer -- feels like you have Dementors hovering nearby. They’re not sucking out your soul but their mere presence diminishes us nonetheless. And dagnabit, wouldn’t you know it? That’s usually when our magic wands are in the shop and no amount of mind tricks can produce the Patronus necessary to get rid of them.
So, for those of us who suffer from the big D -- as opposed to wanting a big D of a different nature -- let’s see if we can’t take a look at recent events surrounding that first slip. Personally, I want to pinpoint what it is that sets me off because, frankly? I want to stab that bastard in the eye, kick it in the balls and tell it to get the fuck out of my head. There is just NO room in there; it’s already taken up by cobwebs, stray odd thoughts and very strange plots. Besides, I’ve got too many things to do, stories to write and things to enjoy before my time comes.
Friday, July 22, 2011
And The Award Goes To…
No, I haven't won any awards. At least, none that I'm aware of. I just wanted to get your attention and point out something I've always found curious. Actors and their acceptance speeches.
When I was younger, I used to wonder why actors would go up on stage and thank five million people at the Oscar’s, Emmy’s or Tony’s. Okay, so maybe five million is a slight exaggeration, but not by much. And, frankly, I’m not sure if the awards mentioned should have apostrophes or not. In a way, that’s what this post is about. Wait. You’ll see. Meanwhile, back to the actor’s and their awards.
Having known a few local actors, having volunteered for backstage work at a community theatre, and having become friends with members of The Dramatist’s Guild, I’ve grown to realize that no one body of work is possible without help and collaboration. Every person the actor meets, whether that person knows it or not, can help change the actor’s life and performance. They can even contribute to the actor’s success.
Hell, for that matter, much of life is like that, if not everything. But for this post I want to stick primarily with the writing process.
You see, as many of you know, writing isn’t just about sitting alone in a room, although it certainly feels like it for a great part of the time. There's a lot of inner turmoil over the choices we make for a character and the path we've chosen for them. The process can become all-consuming and I'm not even taking into consideration the work we do to pay the bills or the emotional problems involving a family member, a friend, even ourselves.
Like with actors, we face an incredible amount of external influence that affects us and the outcome of our work; whether negative or positive. From the person behind the counter who serves us our coffee and buttered bagel then let’s us sit there for hours on end while we write; to the idiot who flips us the finger as they cut us off on the road; to our friends, family, and anyone else who has uttered a kind word of encouragement.
While working on proof edits for “Learning To Samba” this morning, it struck me that just like with actors, there's a whole slew of people working behind the scenes to help make a writer become successful. So, without further ado, here's to a few necessary unsung heroes I’d like to thank at Loose Id.
First, to the Judith’s, the Jules’, and the Corina’s of the world who, after recommending my stories for publication, give their focus and attention to the words I put down on that proverbial sheet of paper.
Here’s to the line editors -- their names escape me at the moment -- who went through each and every single line of content. I’d go insane if I had your job!
Thanks, too, goes to those who proofed the manuscripts even after the editor and I did our best to polish it up further and get clean as a whistle. Thanks for catching what we missed, for pointing out flaws in continuity and suggestions to tighten the stories for better strength and readability.
Thanks to the M.T.'s who formatted the manuscripts and make the stories available for your e-reader, the Allie's who, amongst other things, write press releases, fix our blurbs and make sure the piece is marketable.
And let me not forget Loose Id, who thought enough of their editors to back them in their suggestion to publish me, as well as finance, who makes sure I get my royalty checks!
Mostly, I want to thank the readers. You see, I write to find out what happens next, because I must find out what happens if, but I also write to entertain. Hopefully I've done that. Besides, without the reader, my babies -- that mutual collaboration -- would simply be ignored, never picked up, and never told they are loved.
I'm grateful to you all. Grateful, flattered, and humbled.
How about you? Is there someone in your writing career you'd like to thank? You don't even need to be a writer. You might simply have to rely on someone to help you through the next stage of whatever you're working on or following through. Drop them a line. Say thank you. I've a feeling you'll make their day!
When I was younger, I used to wonder why actors would go up on stage and thank five million people at the Oscar’s, Emmy’s or Tony’s. Okay, so maybe five million is a slight exaggeration, but not by much. And, frankly, I’m not sure if the awards mentioned should have apostrophes or not. In a way, that’s what this post is about. Wait. You’ll see. Meanwhile, back to the actor’s and their awards.
Having known a few local actors, having volunteered for backstage work at a community theatre, and having become friends with members of The Dramatist’s Guild, I’ve grown to realize that no one body of work is possible without help and collaboration. Every person the actor meets, whether that person knows it or not, can help change the actor’s life and performance. They can even contribute to the actor’s success.
Hell, for that matter, much of life is like that, if not everything. But for this post I want to stick primarily with the writing process.
You see, as many of you know, writing isn’t just about sitting alone in a room, although it certainly feels like it for a great part of the time. There's a lot of inner turmoil over the choices we make for a character and the path we've chosen for them. The process can become all-consuming and I'm not even taking into consideration the work we do to pay the bills or the emotional problems involving a family member, a friend, even ourselves.
Like with actors, we face an incredible amount of external influence that affects us and the outcome of our work; whether negative or positive. From the person behind the counter who serves us our coffee and buttered bagel then let’s us sit there for hours on end while we write; to the idiot who flips us the finger as they cut us off on the road; to our friends, family, and anyone else who has uttered a kind word of encouragement.
While working on proof edits for “Learning To Samba” this morning, it struck me that just like with actors, there's a whole slew of people working behind the scenes to help make a writer become successful. So, without further ado, here's to a few necessary unsung heroes I’d like to thank at Loose Id.
First, to the Judith’s, the Jules’, and the Corina’s of the world who, after recommending my stories for publication, give their focus and attention to the words I put down on that proverbial sheet of paper.
Here’s to the line editors -- their names escape me at the moment -- who went through each and every single line of content. I’d go insane if I had your job!
Thanks, too, goes to those who proofed the manuscripts even after the editor and I did our best to polish it up further and get clean as a whistle. Thanks for catching what we missed, for pointing out flaws in continuity and suggestions to tighten the stories for better strength and readability.
Thanks to the M.T.'s who formatted the manuscripts and make the stories available for your e-reader, the Allie's who, amongst other things, write press releases, fix our blurbs and make sure the piece is marketable.
And let me not forget Loose Id, who thought enough of their editors to back them in their suggestion to publish me, as well as finance, who makes sure I get my royalty checks!
Mostly, I want to thank the readers. You see, I write to find out what happens next, because I must find out what happens if, but I also write to entertain. Hopefully I've done that. Besides, without the reader, my babies -- that mutual collaboration -- would simply be ignored, never picked up, and never told they are loved.
I'm grateful to you all. Grateful, flattered, and humbled.
How about you? Is there someone in your writing career you'd like to thank? You don't even need to be a writer. You might simply have to rely on someone to help you through the next stage of whatever you're working on or following through. Drop them a line. Say thank you. I've a feeling you'll make their day!
Monday, July 18, 2011
Smutty Excerpt From "The Rosas of Spanish Harlem"
The beach was practically empty when I climbed the steps up to the boardwalk from the street side of Brighton Beach. In the distance, to my right, Coney Island beckoned but I preferred the quieter end of things.
It was early morning, Thursday, July 7, 1977. Even the shop owners hadn’t opened up yet. I suppose I could have walked under the boardwalk but I usually left that as a treat for the end of the day, after spending hours baking in the sun’s rays. It was always much cooler walking beneath the elevated walkway. In a way, it was mysterious, foreboding and exciting all at the same time, what with all the people walking overhead, knocking sand on top of you, and the litter strewn about which frequently included used, cum-filled condoms.
Sometimes, if I was lucky, a guy would stand still long enough for me to look up the inside of his shorts. If I was really lucky, he’d have no underwear on. Not that they were aware, mind you. It was just one of those happy accidents where you happened to be at the right place, at the right time. In fact, if any of them knew about the pervy boy ogling their stuff they’d probably chase after me and beat me to a pulp. Brooklyn men weren’t exactly known for being gay-friendly; at least, not in public.
Despite the dangers, the thought of feasting my young horny eyes on a big pair of balls and a thick, meaty cock made me feel even hornier than I already was. Still, I pushed the thoughts away to take in the last few moments of silence.
Even the seagulls seemed hesitant to screech and squawk.
The only other people around were the city workers and the dirty old men -- most of them Eastern European immigrants -- who sat on the benches all day, facing the ocean to ogle whatever it was that caught their fancy. Binoculars were usually strapped around their necks.
I crossed the boardwalk to the beach side and made my way down the stairs and onto the sand, gripping the metal railing as I went. To my right were public restrooms. A big, beefy black janitor whistled, glancing from side to side as he unlocked the men’s room then disappeared inside with a metal bucket on wheels and a large mop with a dirty head.
As I trudged along the beach, sand between the bottom of my my feet and the flip-flops I wore, I enjoyed the sea breeze on my skin. Between that and the salty air, I relaxed enough to let the fight I’d had with my mom, earlier that morning, slowly seep away.
A part of me felt bad, but every summer it was the same. She expected me to get dressed and go with her to the factory where she worked. She’d say it would be good for me, that it would teach me discipline and fill me with pride at earning my own money.
I thought it was a load of bull. It would just turn me into yet one more drone shuffling off to do something he didn’t like and, eventually, give up on any dreams I might have had.
This particular morning she’d been more insistent than usual. She wanted to introduce me to the new foreman. She had the feeling he and I would get along famously. She’d gone on, adding that she was sure he’d want to give me a job; one that would allow me to earn enough to help around the house -- even if it was just a little, as my sister did -- and still save for my first year of college in the fall.
It’s not that I didn’t want to help. It’s not that I wasn’t grateful. I know how hard mom worked. I’d see it on her face when she came home late at night only to have a quick, small dinner, then go to bed and wake up to do it all over again the next day.
My sister had been working summers for nearly six years now, in between Spring and Fall semesters. She was saving up to get her own apartment and, I have to admit, it would have been nice to have money of my own rather than depend on mom but, to me, summer was a time to go off and explore. It was a time for adventure.
This particular summer, especially, meant more than any other. It was going to be special, perhaps even magical. Though nothing had happened in the two weeks since I’d been out of school, that hardly mattered. I still had two long months ahead of me and they beckoned with promise. I knew deep in my heart I needed to remain open to any opportunity.
Plus it was the last summer where I could still consider myself to be a kid instead of a teenager who’d just turned the wonderfully legal age of 18.
This would be the summer I’d stop being a boy and become a man. I’d lose my virginity, suck my first cock, and get fucked. Maybe I’d even get to fuck!
But that wasn’t where my fantasies led me.
In my wildest fantasies I always saw myself as being taken. Used. At times, even abused and sometimes taking on more than one cock. I wanted, no…yearned…to be mounted, penetrated and deeply fucked by a huge cock, feeling pubic hair against my smooth ass. I wanted to feel my jaw stretched to capacity as I looked up into the eyes of the man who would claim me as his boy; my daddy, my lover, my owner. I wanted to be possessed, body, mind and soul.
Not that my deepest desire mattered. I was too scared to find a man. Even if I managed to find the courage to go looking for one, I wouldn’t even know where to look. Not to mention that I was fairly sure no one would find me attractive.
I was too short for one thing; 5 feet, even. My hair was thick, blond and hung just below my shoulders. Mom always said it made me look like a girl. She was always after me to get it cut, which was the biggest reason why I went out of my way to leave it alone and let it fly loose.
The fact that I was slim and smooth didn’t help. Nor did my pixie-like face and puffy red lips. I wasn’t muscular like other boys my age and I’d always been the last one to be picked at any school sport. I might as well have been a flat-chested, teenage girl since the only thing that made me male, by definition, was a dick. And even that wasn’t very big. I was only about four and a half inches long. I liked to think that the doctor botched up my circumcision and stolen several inches from me.
Strangely enough, as a little boy, my sister -- who was three years older -- would dress me up in her clothes and put makeup on my face. She’d hand me a mirror and I’d just stare at my reflection, mesmerized by the pretty girl looking out at me. Then we’d have imaginary tea parties and talk about our dad who ran off and disappeared when I was barely a year old.
In a way, it was almost as if my sister saw something in me that I didn’t. Something I was afraid of -- or perhaps too young -- to see for myself or acknowledge. I only knew that I liked boys and wanted one desperately.
The rest, I tried my best to hide. Bad enough I wanted to be with another male.
Overhead, a rogue seagull screeched for food and hovered, daring to break the silence. It pulled me out of my reverie and, with a sigh, I buried all thoughts of men, sex, and my so far short past.
I settled on a spot and shrugged the oversized canvas bag from my shoulder. Pulling out an old, cum-stained sheet from my twin bed, I shook it out. It fluttered in the breeze, flapping before finally falling to the sand, where I anchored it with a flip flop at either corner, by my feet. Then I placed the bag at the top corner, to my right, and pulled out the thermos filled with grape soda. I propped it in the other corner, burying it a little in the sand.
Satisfied, I pulled out my towel and made a pillow out of it as the surf began to churn a bit more urgently. Pulling off my blood-red tank top, I then undid the top button of my cut-off jean shorts and let them fall to my ankles.
I imagined one or two of the old geezers on the boardwalk, sitting on their bench, binoculars glued to their eyes and trained on my slim, lithe body as they licked their sandpapery, wrinkled lips.
Eat your hearts out, I thought and bent over dramatically to step out of my shorts. Then I stood still a moment, hands on hips, wearing a white bathing suit that covered slightly less than a briefs and showed practically everything; especially when wet.
With a nasty, playful glee at whom -- if anyone -- was watching me, I plopped down on the sheet and proceeded to apply baby oil on every inch of exposed flesh. Then I leaned on one elbow and, after fiddling with my transistor radio -- using only my fingertips to avoid getting too much oil on the dials -- I found the AM music station I liked, laid down and closed my eyes with great satisfaction.
I was soon asleep under the hot, prickly sun.
Voices carried on the wind. A woman giggling. Soft whispers. A man’s laughing. Something about them made me stir. I could tell they were young but still a little older than me.
“No, papi. Stop it. I already told you. Not here.”
“Aw, c’mon, baby. Who’s gonna see?” The man was cajoling, somewhat syrupy. He definitely wanted something.
Roll your bod! Roll your bod! This from the radio, which was fading. The 9-volt battery was probably dying.
I came awake and slowly rolled over, realizing I’d probably been asleep longer than I should have been. Tomorrow I’d have a real nice sunburn.
I looked up slowly, discretely. A young Puerto Rican couple lay on a blanket directly before me, just mere feet away.
The woman was a typical latina; big boobs, wide hips, a sensual mouth. She looked to be in her early twenties. Her black wavy hair kept getting blown in her face. She’d reach for it and pull it from her mouth.
The man was about 24 and his skin was the color of caramel. His body was lean, toned, and perfectly smooth. His hair was black, and he wore it tight to his scalp. I got the impression he was quite a charmer. Otherwise how else could he get away with calling her babe or mami?
There was something about the wind that, although I could tell they were doing their best to keep their voices low, the whispers carried towards me.
I propped my chin on folded arms and closed my eyes to slits so it would appear as if I were still sleeping. It helped that my hair was loose and wind-tossed, covering half my face.
The young man’s fingers tugged at the side of the tiny, triangular patch of cloth covering his girlfriend’s pussy.
“Angel, no! Stop it, papi!”
She slapped his hand but I could tell she was just as aroused as he was. I could sense that all he had to do was push a little harder and he’d soon get what he wanted.
Pulse racing, my small cock now fully erect, I ground into the sand to readjust myself and continued watching them.
Angel succeeded in pulling the material of her bathing suit to one side and exposed her shaved pussy. I gulped and felt my Adam’s apple bobbing up and down repeatedly. I felt suddenly and unexplicably thirsty.
“Papi, no. Please,” She sighed with a hiss then moaned as Angel inserted his fingers in her pussy. A small sound escaped my throat as if I could feel what he was doing to her. He cast a glance in my direction and I froze. After a moment, satisfied they weren’t being watched, Angel turned his attention back to the girl laying on her side before him.
She parted her lips and threw her head back, eyes closed. Angel chuckled. There was something lewd, sexy and seductive about it.
I watched him wriggle his fingers inside her, pumping them in and out a few times before pulling out completely and sucking on them. Then he shoved them in her mouth and brought them back down between her legs. He continued finger-fucking her.
“You’re so fucking wet!” Angel whispered into the wind.
“Ah! An– Angel. You’re such a pig!” Although she complained she did nothing to stop him. “Don’t you ever get enough?”
In response, Angel pulled his fingers out of her pussy then reached for the waistband of his black Speedos. He whipped out a large, fat uncut cock that looked very wet. My eyes bugged out at the sight of him casually stroking the thick, meaty shaft out in the open.
I briefly wondered if any of the old buggers on the benches could see and suddenly realized why they had those binoculars. For unexpected moments like this.
“Mira, mami,” Angel said. She glanced down at his cock and chewed her lower lip. “See what you do to me?”
Then he pulled the foreskin back, exposing the head. He looked even wetter as he rubbed the tip up and down her fleshy folds. She moaned. Then, slowly, Angel slipped his cock inside her, filling her completely, one glorious inch at a time.
Angel had stopped glancing around to see if anyone might be looking. Instead, he worked the entire length of his cock inside the woman’s pussy and they started to kiss.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispered.
“Shhh! It’s okay, baby. No one’s looking. Besides, there’s only a few people nearby.”
“What about that girl?”
I blushed at the thought she might be talking about me.
“That girl. Down there.” She raised her leg slightly and pointed towards me with her toes. I remained perfectly still, hair in my face. I still closed my eyes, just in case, and was grateful I’d rolled over onto my stomach when I did. I might have a small dick but an erection is an erection and I’d have given myself away. Not to mention that I probably wouldn’t be able to see what was happening as well as I was now.
“Honey, she’s sunning herself topless. You think she’s gonna care if we’re fucking out in the open?”
Seconds later I heard slurping noises. I dared to open my eyes and looked up to see them kissing. Their hips gently rocked to and fro, barely perceptible, but just enough to cause enough friction to make them sigh and gasp.
Unable to believe what was happening before me, my cock was drooling copiously. I could feel it oozing pre-cum as if it were a small faucet with a leak.
I angled my body, trying to get a better view as he placed a hand on the small of her back and pulled her closer to him.
Soon, she was moving back and forth, more quickly than he was. I could see a bit more of the underside of his shaft; it looked slick and wet from sweat and pussy juice.
My heart was pumping in my head and my dick was throbbing as I continued to watch. I longed to crawl on my hands and knees between their legs and lick them both but I fought the urge.
A bit more brazen now that he was lost in the excitement, Angel rolled the girl over, moving with her without pulling out. Now on her back, she spread her legs slightly and placed her hands near his ass.
Discretely, he thrust in and out of her. His moves would’ve been easy to miss if you weren’t looking for them. But I could tell. His ass cheeks dimpled as he ground into her; I could see the hollows even through his bathing suit.
As I watched them fuck, I pressed my own erection into the sand, moving my hips from side to side. I was close.
The girl suddenly gave a single, soft moan and her entire body shuddered. Seconds later, Angel sighed and I followed with a load of my own.
My heart was in my throat and, although I’d just cum, I was now hornier than ever. My pulse raced and hormones raged. What with having just watched the couple before me, the heat of the sun, and the sound of the surf, I could barely control myself. In that moment I understood how someone might become so frantic with desire they’d pounce on the first person they saw without thought or regard to consequence.
Fuck first, ask questions later. That pretty much summed up what I was feeling.
At that moment, even though I didn’t like girls, I’d have gladly eaten her pussy just to get a taste of him. Of course, I would have preferred to suck him and sample the juices from his foreskin but there was no chance of that happening no matter how much I wanted it.
Frustrated, I rolled over, sat up, and raced into the ocean water. It was warm but not so warm it wasn’t refreshing.
I imagined myself as a red hot poker, glowing brilliantly, while steam rose the moment I submerged myself. My breathing slowed and a moment later, I burst through the surface and bobbed in the water as my breathing went back to normal.
Good God! I’ve just got to get my hands on some dick! Please. I’m so fucking horny!
Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw movement. I glanced towards the beach and saw Angel stand. Even from that distance, I could see him reach inside the pouch of his suit and readjust himself.
He swaggered as he walked towards the ocean and, even though he was now soft, I could see the outline of his cock as he drew near. His balls looked to be huge, round and smooshed up against either side of the now soft piece of meat.
Obsessed with Angel, his cock, and the image of him fucking, I decided to leave the beach. I had to get off and masturbating alone wouldn’t do. I simply had to find cock! But where? How? It wasn’t the kind of thing they taught you in school. Then it hit me.
I know. I’ll go under the boardwalk.
With all those used condoms I kept finding I was bound to run into someone horny enough and didn’t care whether he got a blowjob from a boy or a girl. But would there be anybody there at this hour, cruising around and looking for trouble? I sure hoped so.
Frustrated and wet from the quick dip, I clambered out of the water, went back to my spot and packed up my stuff.
It was early morning, Thursday, July 7, 1977. Even the shop owners hadn’t opened up yet. I suppose I could have walked under the boardwalk but I usually left that as a treat for the end of the day, after spending hours baking in the sun’s rays. It was always much cooler walking beneath the elevated walkway. In a way, it was mysterious, foreboding and exciting all at the same time, what with all the people walking overhead, knocking sand on top of you, and the litter strewn about which frequently included used, cum-filled condoms.
Sometimes, if I was lucky, a guy would stand still long enough for me to look up the inside of his shorts. If I was really lucky, he’d have no underwear on. Not that they were aware, mind you. It was just one of those happy accidents where you happened to be at the right place, at the right time. In fact, if any of them knew about the pervy boy ogling their stuff they’d probably chase after me and beat me to a pulp. Brooklyn men weren’t exactly known for being gay-friendly; at least, not in public.
Despite the dangers, the thought of feasting my young horny eyes on a big pair of balls and a thick, meaty cock made me feel even hornier than I already was. Still, I pushed the thoughts away to take in the last few moments of silence.
Even the seagulls seemed hesitant to screech and squawk.
The only other people around were the city workers and the dirty old men -- most of them Eastern European immigrants -- who sat on the benches all day, facing the ocean to ogle whatever it was that caught their fancy. Binoculars were usually strapped around their necks.
I crossed the boardwalk to the beach side and made my way down the stairs and onto the sand, gripping the metal railing as I went. To my right were public restrooms. A big, beefy black janitor whistled, glancing from side to side as he unlocked the men’s room then disappeared inside with a metal bucket on wheels and a large mop with a dirty head.
As I trudged along the beach, sand between the bottom of my my feet and the flip-flops I wore, I enjoyed the sea breeze on my skin. Between that and the salty air, I relaxed enough to let the fight I’d had with my mom, earlier that morning, slowly seep away.
A part of me felt bad, but every summer it was the same. She expected me to get dressed and go with her to the factory where she worked. She’d say it would be good for me, that it would teach me discipline and fill me with pride at earning my own money.
I thought it was a load of bull. It would just turn me into yet one more drone shuffling off to do something he didn’t like and, eventually, give up on any dreams I might have had.
This particular morning she’d been more insistent than usual. She wanted to introduce me to the new foreman. She had the feeling he and I would get along famously. She’d gone on, adding that she was sure he’d want to give me a job; one that would allow me to earn enough to help around the house -- even if it was just a little, as my sister did -- and still save for my first year of college in the fall.
It’s not that I didn’t want to help. It’s not that I wasn’t grateful. I know how hard mom worked. I’d see it on her face when she came home late at night only to have a quick, small dinner, then go to bed and wake up to do it all over again the next day.
My sister had been working summers for nearly six years now, in between Spring and Fall semesters. She was saving up to get her own apartment and, I have to admit, it would have been nice to have money of my own rather than depend on mom but, to me, summer was a time to go off and explore. It was a time for adventure.
This particular summer, especially, meant more than any other. It was going to be special, perhaps even magical. Though nothing had happened in the two weeks since I’d been out of school, that hardly mattered. I still had two long months ahead of me and they beckoned with promise. I knew deep in my heart I needed to remain open to any opportunity.
Plus it was the last summer where I could still consider myself to be a kid instead of a teenager who’d just turned the wonderfully legal age of 18.
This would be the summer I’d stop being a boy and become a man. I’d lose my virginity, suck my first cock, and get fucked. Maybe I’d even get to fuck!
But that wasn’t where my fantasies led me.
In my wildest fantasies I always saw myself as being taken. Used. At times, even abused and sometimes taking on more than one cock. I wanted, no…yearned…to be mounted, penetrated and deeply fucked by a huge cock, feeling pubic hair against my smooth ass. I wanted to feel my jaw stretched to capacity as I looked up into the eyes of the man who would claim me as his boy; my daddy, my lover, my owner. I wanted to be possessed, body, mind and soul.
Not that my deepest desire mattered. I was too scared to find a man. Even if I managed to find the courage to go looking for one, I wouldn’t even know where to look. Not to mention that I was fairly sure no one would find me attractive.
I was too short for one thing; 5 feet, even. My hair was thick, blond and hung just below my shoulders. Mom always said it made me look like a girl. She was always after me to get it cut, which was the biggest reason why I went out of my way to leave it alone and let it fly loose.
The fact that I was slim and smooth didn’t help. Nor did my pixie-like face and puffy red lips. I wasn’t muscular like other boys my age and I’d always been the last one to be picked at any school sport. I might as well have been a flat-chested, teenage girl since the only thing that made me male, by definition, was a dick. And even that wasn’t very big. I was only about four and a half inches long. I liked to think that the doctor botched up my circumcision and stolen several inches from me.
Strangely enough, as a little boy, my sister -- who was three years older -- would dress me up in her clothes and put makeup on my face. She’d hand me a mirror and I’d just stare at my reflection, mesmerized by the pretty girl looking out at me. Then we’d have imaginary tea parties and talk about our dad who ran off and disappeared when I was barely a year old.
In a way, it was almost as if my sister saw something in me that I didn’t. Something I was afraid of -- or perhaps too young -- to see for myself or acknowledge. I only knew that I liked boys and wanted one desperately.
The rest, I tried my best to hide. Bad enough I wanted to be with another male.
Overhead, a rogue seagull screeched for food and hovered, daring to break the silence. It pulled me out of my reverie and, with a sigh, I buried all thoughts of men, sex, and my so far short past.
I settled on a spot and shrugged the oversized canvas bag from my shoulder. Pulling out an old, cum-stained sheet from my twin bed, I shook it out. It fluttered in the breeze, flapping before finally falling to the sand, where I anchored it with a flip flop at either corner, by my feet. Then I placed the bag at the top corner, to my right, and pulled out the thermos filled with grape soda. I propped it in the other corner, burying it a little in the sand.
Satisfied, I pulled out my towel and made a pillow out of it as the surf began to churn a bit more urgently. Pulling off my blood-red tank top, I then undid the top button of my cut-off jean shorts and let them fall to my ankles.
I imagined one or two of the old geezers on the boardwalk, sitting on their bench, binoculars glued to their eyes and trained on my slim, lithe body as they licked their sandpapery, wrinkled lips.
Eat your hearts out, I thought and bent over dramatically to step out of my shorts. Then I stood still a moment, hands on hips, wearing a white bathing suit that covered slightly less than a briefs and showed practically everything; especially when wet.
With a nasty, playful glee at whom -- if anyone -- was watching me, I plopped down on the sheet and proceeded to apply baby oil on every inch of exposed flesh. Then I leaned on one elbow and, after fiddling with my transistor radio -- using only my fingertips to avoid getting too much oil on the dials -- I found the AM music station I liked, laid down and closed my eyes with great satisfaction.
I was soon asleep under the hot, prickly sun.
***
Voices carried on the wind. A woman giggling. Soft whispers. A man’s laughing. Something about them made me stir. I could tell they were young but still a little older than me.
“No, papi. Stop it. I already told you. Not here.”
“Aw, c’mon, baby. Who’s gonna see?” The man was cajoling, somewhat syrupy. He definitely wanted something.
Roll your bod! Roll your bod! This from the radio, which was fading. The 9-volt battery was probably dying.
I came awake and slowly rolled over, realizing I’d probably been asleep longer than I should have been. Tomorrow I’d have a real nice sunburn.
I looked up slowly, discretely. A young Puerto Rican couple lay on a blanket directly before me, just mere feet away.
The woman was a typical latina; big boobs, wide hips, a sensual mouth. She looked to be in her early twenties. Her black wavy hair kept getting blown in her face. She’d reach for it and pull it from her mouth.
The man was about 24 and his skin was the color of caramel. His body was lean, toned, and perfectly smooth. His hair was black, and he wore it tight to his scalp. I got the impression he was quite a charmer. Otherwise how else could he get away with calling her babe or mami?
There was something about the wind that, although I could tell they were doing their best to keep their voices low, the whispers carried towards me.
I propped my chin on folded arms and closed my eyes to slits so it would appear as if I were still sleeping. It helped that my hair was loose and wind-tossed, covering half my face.
The young man’s fingers tugged at the side of the tiny, triangular patch of cloth covering his girlfriend’s pussy.
“Angel, no! Stop it, papi!”
She slapped his hand but I could tell she was just as aroused as he was. I could sense that all he had to do was push a little harder and he’d soon get what he wanted.
Pulse racing, my small cock now fully erect, I ground into the sand to readjust myself and continued watching them.
Angel succeeded in pulling the material of her bathing suit to one side and exposed her shaved pussy. I gulped and felt my Adam’s apple bobbing up and down repeatedly. I felt suddenly and unexplicably thirsty.
“Papi, no. Please,” She sighed with a hiss then moaned as Angel inserted his fingers in her pussy. A small sound escaped my throat as if I could feel what he was doing to her. He cast a glance in my direction and I froze. After a moment, satisfied they weren’t being watched, Angel turned his attention back to the girl laying on her side before him.
She parted her lips and threw her head back, eyes closed. Angel chuckled. There was something lewd, sexy and seductive about it.
I watched him wriggle his fingers inside her, pumping them in and out a few times before pulling out completely and sucking on them. Then he shoved them in her mouth and brought them back down between her legs. He continued finger-fucking her.
“You’re so fucking wet!” Angel whispered into the wind.
“Ah! An– Angel. You’re such a pig!” Although she complained she did nothing to stop him. “Don’t you ever get enough?”
In response, Angel pulled his fingers out of her pussy then reached for the waistband of his black Speedos. He whipped out a large, fat uncut cock that looked very wet. My eyes bugged out at the sight of him casually stroking the thick, meaty shaft out in the open.
I briefly wondered if any of the old buggers on the benches could see and suddenly realized why they had those binoculars. For unexpected moments like this.
“Mira, mami,” Angel said. She glanced down at his cock and chewed her lower lip. “See what you do to me?”
Then he pulled the foreskin back, exposing the head. He looked even wetter as he rubbed the tip up and down her fleshy folds. She moaned. Then, slowly, Angel slipped his cock inside her, filling her completely, one glorious inch at a time.
Angel had stopped glancing around to see if anyone might be looking. Instead, he worked the entire length of his cock inside the woman’s pussy and they started to kiss.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispered.
“Shhh! It’s okay, baby. No one’s looking. Besides, there’s only a few people nearby.”
“What about that girl?”
I blushed at the thought she might be talking about me.
“That girl. Down there.” She raised her leg slightly and pointed towards me with her toes. I remained perfectly still, hair in my face. I still closed my eyes, just in case, and was grateful I’d rolled over onto my stomach when I did. I might have a small dick but an erection is an erection and I’d have given myself away. Not to mention that I probably wouldn’t be able to see what was happening as well as I was now.
“Honey, she’s sunning herself topless. You think she’s gonna care if we’re fucking out in the open?”
Seconds later I heard slurping noises. I dared to open my eyes and looked up to see them kissing. Their hips gently rocked to and fro, barely perceptible, but just enough to cause enough friction to make them sigh and gasp.
Unable to believe what was happening before me, my cock was drooling copiously. I could feel it oozing pre-cum as if it were a small faucet with a leak.
I angled my body, trying to get a better view as he placed a hand on the small of her back and pulled her closer to him.
Soon, she was moving back and forth, more quickly than he was. I could see a bit more of the underside of his shaft; it looked slick and wet from sweat and pussy juice.
My heart was pumping in my head and my dick was throbbing as I continued to watch. I longed to crawl on my hands and knees between their legs and lick them both but I fought the urge.
A bit more brazen now that he was lost in the excitement, Angel rolled the girl over, moving with her without pulling out. Now on her back, she spread her legs slightly and placed her hands near his ass.
Discretely, he thrust in and out of her. His moves would’ve been easy to miss if you weren’t looking for them. But I could tell. His ass cheeks dimpled as he ground into her; I could see the hollows even through his bathing suit.
As I watched them fuck, I pressed my own erection into the sand, moving my hips from side to side. I was close.
The girl suddenly gave a single, soft moan and her entire body shuddered. Seconds later, Angel sighed and I followed with a load of my own.
My heart was in my throat and, although I’d just cum, I was now hornier than ever. My pulse raced and hormones raged. What with having just watched the couple before me, the heat of the sun, and the sound of the surf, I could barely control myself. In that moment I understood how someone might become so frantic with desire they’d pounce on the first person they saw without thought or regard to consequence.
Fuck first, ask questions later. That pretty much summed up what I was feeling.
At that moment, even though I didn’t like girls, I’d have gladly eaten her pussy just to get a taste of him. Of course, I would have preferred to suck him and sample the juices from his foreskin but there was no chance of that happening no matter how much I wanted it.
Frustrated, I rolled over, sat up, and raced into the ocean water. It was warm but not so warm it wasn’t refreshing.
I imagined myself as a red hot poker, glowing brilliantly, while steam rose the moment I submerged myself. My breathing slowed and a moment later, I burst through the surface and bobbed in the water as my breathing went back to normal.
Good God! I’ve just got to get my hands on some dick! Please. I’m so fucking horny!
Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw movement. I glanced towards the beach and saw Angel stand. Even from that distance, I could see him reach inside the pouch of his suit and readjust himself.
He swaggered as he walked towards the ocean and, even though he was now soft, I could see the outline of his cock as he drew near. His balls looked to be huge, round and smooshed up against either side of the now soft piece of meat.
Obsessed with Angel, his cock, and the image of him fucking, I decided to leave the beach. I had to get off and masturbating alone wouldn’t do. I simply had to find cock! But where? How? It wasn’t the kind of thing they taught you in school. Then it hit me.
I know. I’ll go under the boardwalk.
With all those used condoms I kept finding I was bound to run into someone horny enough and didn’t care whether he got a blowjob from a boy or a girl. But would there be anybody there at this hour, cruising around and looking for trouble? I sure hoped so.
Frustrated and wet from the quick dip, I clambered out of the water, went back to my spot and packed up my stuff.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Six Sentence Sunday
For my first attempt at "Six Sentence Sunday," here's the opening paragraph of Chapter 3 from my very first m/m romance, "Casa Rodrigo," which was published by Loose Id.
Bernardo stood on deck of the large galleon and looked out over a playful ocean. The salt air rushed at his face and ruffled his thick hair, still mostly black. Feeling exhilarated, Bernardo took a very deep breath and exhaled, as if exorcising his demons. There was a certain freedom that flowed through his veins. It was almost as if in the Caribbean, he could leave his life -- and the world he came from -- behind him. Here, he could be someone else.
Click here and visit Loose Id if you'd like to know more about "Casa Rodrigo."
Friday, July 15, 2011
Beyond The Mean Reds and Past The Crabby Pinks
No matter what I do or what I say, my life seems to be punctuated by lines from a movie or lyrics from a song or some show tune. For example, when I looked at the calendar this morning, I saw it was precisely four weeks ago that I admitted to myself I suffered from depression, had suicidal thoughts and finally started seeking help.
I wanted to break into song, “What a difference a day makes!” Except that it wasn’t a single day that had passed, even though it felt like it what with everything going on in my life. Once again, like the Magician from Frosty the Snowman, I’ve been “Busy, busy, busy!”
I’ve been re-sizing and re-cropping the hell out of penis photos for the people I freelance for; 9 DVDs down, 7 more to go. And that’s just for one website they’re launching!
My next session is this coming Monday and, hopefully, I’ll continue to retrain my mind with cognitive therapy. The first session alone was worth going to because the therapist made me stop and take a look at how negative I am with myself. Everyone else is wonderful; I’m the one that’s fucked up. Yeah, I know. Very skewed, which is what the therapist wanted me to realize.
Between that first session, gorse -- the homeopathic remedy I’ve been taking -- and the upswing of work have all helped tremendously. As has everyone I chat with on Facebook and the people reading this bizarre blog, which was supposed to be for promotional purposes originally. Like everything in life, it’s morphed into a combination of things.
Something else that’s worked in allowing me to feel better is the fact that my hours at the Box Office have gone down now that summer is here. Very little happens in the theatre in South Florida during summer. Then again, very little happens down here in the summer, period.
Except for me. Funny what one shift in perspective will do.
Now, however, it would appear something else has shifted in my mind. Unlike in the past -- when I’d question why something good was happening to me -- I’m just going along with it. You see, I’m one of those that, for some unknown reason, must self-analyze and examine every event in his life; at times, to my own detriment.
I can’t exactly see what’s shifted yet but perhaps it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m writing again. Perhaps not the deep, emotional thing that “Learning To Samba” was for me, but it’s writing all the same. As is journaling and blogging. And that’s good for my soul; even if it is something smutty with little to no plot. Then again, who’s to say that what I needed wasn’t something light, fluffy, and with no conflict or complex emotional story line? Perhaps all I needed was to string together a bunch of hot, steamy sex scenes?
In a way, I feel like the actor who’s nominated for an Oscar because of a deeply moving role, only to take the first dumb part that comes along after just for fun.
Hmmm. Just for fun. I think I might have just hit on something. This time, surprisingly, I have no quote or lyric and it feels…okay to just let it be. Oops! Nope. Guess not. There it is.
I wanted to break into song, “What a difference a day makes!” Except that it wasn’t a single day that had passed, even though it felt like it what with everything going on in my life. Once again, like the Magician from Frosty the Snowman, I’ve been “Busy, busy, busy!”
I’ve been re-sizing and re-cropping the hell out of penis photos for the people I freelance for; 9 DVDs down, 7 more to go. And that’s just for one website they’re launching!
My next session is this coming Monday and, hopefully, I’ll continue to retrain my mind with cognitive therapy. The first session alone was worth going to because the therapist made me stop and take a look at how negative I am with myself. Everyone else is wonderful; I’m the one that’s fucked up. Yeah, I know. Very skewed, which is what the therapist wanted me to realize.
Between that first session, gorse -- the homeopathic remedy I’ve been taking -- and the upswing of work have all helped tremendously. As has everyone I chat with on Facebook and the people reading this bizarre blog, which was supposed to be for promotional purposes originally. Like everything in life, it’s morphed into a combination of things.
Something else that’s worked in allowing me to feel better is the fact that my hours at the Box Office have gone down now that summer is here. Very little happens in the theatre in South Florida during summer. Then again, very little happens down here in the summer, period.
Except for me. Funny what one shift in perspective will do.
Now, however, it would appear something else has shifted in my mind. Unlike in the past -- when I’d question why something good was happening to me -- I’m just going along with it. You see, I’m one of those that, for some unknown reason, must self-analyze and examine every event in his life; at times, to my own detriment.
I can’t exactly see what’s shifted yet but perhaps it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m writing again. Perhaps not the deep, emotional thing that “Learning To Samba” was for me, but it’s writing all the same. As is journaling and blogging. And that’s good for my soul; even if it is something smutty with little to no plot. Then again, who’s to say that what I needed wasn’t something light, fluffy, and with no conflict or complex emotional story line? Perhaps all I needed was to string together a bunch of hot, steamy sex scenes?
In a way, I feel like the actor who’s nominated for an Oscar because of a deeply moving role, only to take the first dumb part that comes along after just for fun.
Hmmm. Just for fun. I think I might have just hit on something. This time, surprisingly, I have no quote or lyric and it feels…okay to just let it be. Oops! Nope. Guess not. There it is.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Captain Jack Is Back!
He's back! Captain Jack. And, no, I don’t mean Captain Jack Sparrow, though I do like that character quite a lot, just not in the same way.
I’m referring, of course, to my very first Captain Jack; Captain Jack Harkness. A character who has a way of making you swoon just by saying hello. A man for whom I carry a torch and that I’ve missed greatly. The man I want to be when I grow up.
For those who have never seen it, "Torchwood" was created by Russell T. Davies, the man responsible for reviving "Doctor Who" in the U.K., thus spreading Whomania once more amongst the geeks and nerds of the world. Davies is also the man behind the brilliant "Queer as Folk," which first appeared on the BBC before it was redone here in the States. But I digress.
Torchwood is an organization that, according to its illustrious leader, is “outside the government and beyond the police.”
When the show was on BBC America, my partner and I watched religiously. It had an enormous impact on me; mostly because the writing is so fucking brilliant! As I writer, I both admire and envy what the creative team has done. It’s what I hope to achieve with my own writing, someday. Not necessarily the sci-fi bit, though I do have plans to work on a sci-fi piece. I'm talking about taking the reader by the hand, yelling, "Run!" and taking them on a wild romp. I want to make the reader experience emotional highs and lows along with the characters. I want to make them scream with agony and roil with suspense. I want them to melt, and even burn with desire, when characters in my stories kiss, have sex, or make love.
"Torchwood" is back now, and it’s here in the States. I have to admit that I had my doubts when I heard they were bringing the show to American television. They’d never do him justice and probably make him all hetero or demasculate him completely. But when I found out Russell T. Davies and Julie Gardner were executive producing, I breathed a sigh of relief. They wouldn’t let their fans down. They’d stick true to the characters.
Only Gwen and her husband Rhys have joined Captain Jack for this one. If you want to know why Ianto -- the coffee-bringing hottie whom I adore -- and the others aren't in this series, I'm afraid you’ll have to watch the previous ones to find out. I don’t believe in spoilers. But I will say this, when I saw Captain Jack -- played brilliantly by John Barrowman -- suddenly appear in the first episode of "Torchwood: Miracle Day," I gave a little gasp and my breath caught. I felt like a little school girl whose crush had suddenly smiled upon me.
Oh, and when he said, “come with me,” I was more than ready!
That’s all I’m going to say on this first episode of what I call the American Torchwood, which premiered on Starz this past Friday, July 8. What I will do, however, is repost my "Ode to Captain Jack," which I wrote a couple of years ago, in honor of the man that’s made an impression on my life as surely as the events I’ve experienced have molded me into who I am today.
For those who've read the post before, please forgive me. I trust you'll humor me in rekindling of Captain Jack Harkness. Oh, and if any of you actually know Barrowman, Davies, Gardner, or any of the other talented and marvelous people involved with bringing "Torchwood" to life, please be sure to pass this on and let them know I'd happily become their go-fer, just for the opportunity to say that I was a part of it.
*****
This entry originally appeared on a different blog I used to write.
I carry a Torch. Or should I say a Torchwood? His name is Captain Jack Harkness. Yes, I know what you must be thinking. Who the hell wants to hear about this loser's love life? But you see, it's not about my love life. Not in the traditional sense.
Those of you reading, who might know me, could possibly be smirking at this moment and wondering where I'm going with this. How does this relate to erotica or porn even? Frankly, I'm not sure. I only know that when my partner and I first talked about creating this blog it would be more commercial, a bit more artsy and incorporate things other than what is normally featured in our Horndawg Productions Blog. We wanted this one to be affiliate related, meaning porn, but different. We wanted it to be sometimes quirky, with gay-related issues, themes, art. And, hopefully, fun.
When the subject of Torchwood came up as a blog post, my partner said, "Nah, John Barrowman. You love John Barrowman. Do it on him. Then you can explore his singing and talk about his books." Which, I am appalled to say, I have not yet explored. One of them is actually sitting on the nightstand by my side of the bed. I plan on reading it once I finish at least one of the 12 other books I'm working on. Of course, he was also in the Cole Porter movie biography, De-Lovely. But I didn't know who he was then.
So if I'm such an ardent fan of Barrowman, why haven't I listened to his music? Why is this blog not coming out the way I had intended? The answer hit me several attempts and several hours after sitting down this morning. It's because it wasn't John Barrowman, though extremely talented, that I loved. I barely know him. In fact, I don't know him at all. No, the man I love, other than my partner of 13 years, is a television character from the BBC America show, Torchwood, written by one of the most brilliant writers on television, Russell T. Davies, who also wrote the original Queer As Folk (not the American version which was based on Russell's) and the smash reincarnation of Doctor Who.
In Season 1 of Torchwood, Episode 1: Everything Changes, the scene opens with Cardiff P.C. (Police Constable) Gwen Cooper, played by Eve Myles. Some discussion ensues, with P.C. Andy, about the "poor bloke" found dead, face up in an alleyway while mad rain pours over them, thick and heavy. The CSI team is scurried away amidst grumblings and along comes a large, black S.U.V. A team of 4 people climb out and stride to the crime scene with bags of equipment, gadgets, attitude and their fearless leader, Captain Jack Harkness. You don't know his name at this point, but I fell in love with him the moment I laid eyes on him. I know it sounds cliché. But it is true and no other words can describe it so succinctly.
As he stands there, drenched in the heavy rain, wearing his military, period trench coat, communicator in ear, he says, "There you go. I can taste it. Estrogen." Only it sounds like he says Eas-trogen. Perhaps how they say it in Great Britain? Don't know. His very brief monologue continues, "Definitely estrogen. You take the pill, flush it away, it enters the water cycle. Feminizes the fish. Goes all the way up into the sky and then falls all the way back down onto me. Contraceptives in the rain. Love this planet. Still, at least I won't get pregnant. Never do that again!"
I never stood a chance. He had me at Eas-trogen.
Captain Jack Harness, the courageous leader who can never die, Head of Torchwood-Cardiff, is a cocky, arrogant, selfish, self-centered, egomaniac with a dash of flair. He is debonair, dashing and hauntingly handsome. He is a cross between Rhett Butler and Captain James T. Kirk. And he's omnisexual. He'll fuck anything; human, alien, female, male. And the man who plays him, John Barrowman, is openly gay. The delight and relish I feel when I hear people, women in particular, say, "He's gay? No!" is almost perverse. But back to Captain Jack. It's his openness and the freedom with which he says things you would not normally hear on American television. It's his bravado, chutzpah, balls and determination, along with so many other qualities and great lines, that made me fall deeper in love with Captain Jack Harkness. And then, while sitting at a bar, when he tells Gwen Cooper -- who has been stalking them to find out who Torchwood really is -- he says, "The 21st century is when it all changes. And you've gotta be ready." So here I am. Ready. Waiting. Willing to do whatever He bids of me. Alas, he relies only on his team.
Torchwood is an incredible piece of sci-fi. You really can't call it anything else as it consists of a team of people who fight aliens. Only here, on Earth. No one ever leaves the planet. Well, except for Captain Jack but that's another tale for a different post.
I became addicted to Torchwood, despite it's sci-fi-ness. And, although we have DVR, I never wanted to leave the house on Saturday nights. There was only one other show in my television watching history that made me stay home on Saturday nights and that was decades ago, when Golden Girls was on national television.
Several episodes into Torchwood, my partner sprang a very nasty little secret he kept from me. He said, "You know, this is a spin-off of Doctor Who." He was referring, of course, to the new Doctor Who but it was a show I had no desire to see. I had the displeasure of witnessing bits and pieces of it in the very early 80s on PBS and had absolutely no desire to watch it. But here again, I digress. But never fear, I will elaborate on Doctor Who in a later blog post. This ode is about Captain Jack.
As much as Torchwood is sci-fi, though, it is more than that. Much, much more. It's also about people and the relationships we have with loved ones, or the lack thereof. It's about our friends, family and fellow earthlings. It's about all of the wonderful things wrapped up into life. Beauty, love, ugliness, the choices we make that affect our future. It's about the drama in our lives. But in the end, it's also a love story. Many love stories, filled with all the complications and sadness and joys we feel. It is, in my opinion, one of the most amazing pieces of television I have ever seen, if not the best.
There are many reasons why this show is as wonderful as it is. I'll leave you to find them out on your own. But I will share my two top reasons. The first is that the show does not shy away from projecting some of our worst frailties and conditions, throwing it up on screen and embracing them; along with all our other flaws, as well as all of the good we can accomplish if we set our minds, and hearts, to it. One of the other things that makes this show brilliant is it's lack of fear in exploring sexuality and sensuality. In almost every episode, there is girl-on-girl, boy-on-boy, boy-on-girl-on-boy snogging. It's all done without pretense, without excuses, without remorse. It simply is and it is simply wonderful and refreshing.
There are several team members on the Torchwood staff. They are all rich, deeply textured and real. But the other one I have a crush on, is Ianto Jones, played by Gareth David-Lloyd. He is their "get it done" man. Coffee. Front Of House. Guard. Clerical Worker. Clean-up Man. And he's Captain Jack's fuck buddy.
It's implied several episodes in and is done so simply, so matter-of-factly, it's truly nothing short of brilliant. As the season progresses from that point into Season Two and, finally, Torchwood: Children of Earth the love story just evolves so beautifully. It has all the nuances of people who might feel something for each other but never acknowledge or awkwardly approach. In fact, it's frequently the things that are not said on this show that were the most moving of all.
Torchwood: The Complete Second SeasonTorchwood: Children Of Earth
I cannot, and will not, tell you any of the plot lines. Spoilers! Suffice to say, however, that each episode has a marvelous story to tell. I cannot pick one that stands out in my mind as a favorite as they are all favorites for various reasons. Although there was one episode where Gwen Cooper's fiancee, Rhys Williams, played by Kai Owen, appears naked in Episode 10 of Season 1. Kai is a burly, beefy, yummy type bordering on bear. I would jump his bones in a heartbeat!
As I wrap this up, I am listening to the Torchwood soundtrack. The Season One Box set is sitting to my right, and my mug of coffee, in honor of my Torchwood love, is to my left. However, Ianto did not bring it to me. I had to get it myself.
I do not ever remember . . . no, scratch that. I have NEVER, in my 47 years, in all the time I've sent watching television, been so moved or so inspired as I have been by Captain Jack Harkness and Torchwood. When I grow up, I want to BE Captain Jack. Strong, courageous, someone that others can look up to. The character has had a huge impact on my life. In fact, I can truly say that many of the things I have done lately, things I normally would not have had the courage to do, has been since I've seen this show. It might have something to do with my age, the feeling that -- now that I'm in my 40s -- I'm running out of time. But I like to think that there's also a dash of Captain Jack in there somewhere.
I know it sounds goofy. Hell, a grown man like me going on about some silly show? Characters who aren't real? What can I say. I guess inspiration comes from the oddest and most unexpected of places. Yes, I'm showing my inner geek, the nerd within I have fought to control. You might even say I'm gay for Captain Jack and his staff!
We've watched the first two seasons of Torchwood twice, the third season once. We will soon watch them again, back-to-back. I find I'm needing the escape, needing to reacquaint myself with old friends. I'm needing . . . a little Captain Jack to hold my hand and boost my courage, my morale and give me a shot of much needed testosterone. No. Not THAT kind.
But then again . . . mix a little Captain Jack with some Ianto and Rhys and that's quite a little orgy I can get into!
I’m referring, of course, to my very first Captain Jack; Captain Jack Harkness. A character who has a way of making you swoon just by saying hello. A man for whom I carry a torch and that I’ve missed greatly. The man I want to be when I grow up.
For those who have never seen it, "Torchwood" was created by Russell T. Davies, the man responsible for reviving "Doctor Who" in the U.K., thus spreading Whomania once more amongst the geeks and nerds of the world. Davies is also the man behind the brilliant "Queer as Folk," which first appeared on the BBC before it was redone here in the States. But I digress.
Torchwood is an organization that, according to its illustrious leader, is “outside the government and beyond the police.”
When the show was on BBC America, my partner and I watched religiously. It had an enormous impact on me; mostly because the writing is so fucking brilliant! As I writer, I both admire and envy what the creative team has done. It’s what I hope to achieve with my own writing, someday. Not necessarily the sci-fi bit, though I do have plans to work on a sci-fi piece. I'm talking about taking the reader by the hand, yelling, "Run!" and taking them on a wild romp. I want to make the reader experience emotional highs and lows along with the characters. I want to make them scream with agony and roil with suspense. I want them to melt, and even burn with desire, when characters in my stories kiss, have sex, or make love.
"Torchwood" is back now, and it’s here in the States. I have to admit that I had my doubts when I heard they were bringing the show to American television. They’d never do him justice and probably make him all hetero or demasculate him completely. But when I found out Russell T. Davies and Julie Gardner were executive producing, I breathed a sigh of relief. They wouldn’t let their fans down. They’d stick true to the characters.
Only Gwen and her husband Rhys have joined Captain Jack for this one. If you want to know why Ianto -- the coffee-bringing hottie whom I adore -- and the others aren't in this series, I'm afraid you’ll have to watch the previous ones to find out. I don’t believe in spoilers. But I will say this, when I saw Captain Jack -- played brilliantly by John Barrowman -- suddenly appear in the first episode of "Torchwood: Miracle Day," I gave a little gasp and my breath caught. I felt like a little school girl whose crush had suddenly smiled upon me.
Oh, and when he said, “come with me,” I was more than ready!
That’s all I’m going to say on this first episode of what I call the American Torchwood, which premiered on Starz this past Friday, July 8. What I will do, however, is repost my "Ode to Captain Jack," which I wrote a couple of years ago, in honor of the man that’s made an impression on my life as surely as the events I’ve experienced have molded me into who I am today.
For those who've read the post before, please forgive me. I trust you'll humor me in rekindling of Captain Jack Harkness. Oh, and if any of you actually know Barrowman, Davies, Gardner, or any of the other talented and marvelous people involved with bringing "Torchwood" to life, please be sure to pass this on and let them know I'd happily become their go-fer, just for the opportunity to say that I was a part of it.
*****
This entry originally appeared on a different blog I used to write.
I carry a Torch. Or should I say a Torchwood? His name is Captain Jack Harkness. Yes, I know what you must be thinking. Who the hell wants to hear about this loser's love life? But you see, it's not about my love life. Not in the traditional sense.
Those of you reading, who might know me, could possibly be smirking at this moment and wondering where I'm going with this. How does this relate to erotica or porn even? Frankly, I'm not sure. I only know that when my partner and I first talked about creating this blog it would be more commercial, a bit more artsy and incorporate things other than what is normally featured in our Horndawg Productions Blog. We wanted this one to be affiliate related, meaning porn, but different. We wanted it to be sometimes quirky, with gay-related issues, themes, art. And, hopefully, fun.
When the subject of Torchwood came up as a blog post, my partner said, "Nah, John Barrowman. You love John Barrowman. Do it on him. Then you can explore his singing and talk about his books." Which, I am appalled to say, I have not yet explored. One of them is actually sitting on the nightstand by my side of the bed. I plan on reading it once I finish at least one of the 12 other books I'm working on. Of course, he was also in the Cole Porter movie biography, De-Lovely. But I didn't know who he was then.
So if I'm such an ardent fan of Barrowman, why haven't I listened to his music? Why is this blog not coming out the way I had intended? The answer hit me several attempts and several hours after sitting down this morning. It's because it wasn't John Barrowman, though extremely talented, that I loved. I barely know him. In fact, I don't know him at all. No, the man I love, other than my partner of 13 years, is a television character from the BBC America show, Torchwood, written by one of the most brilliant writers on television, Russell T. Davies, who also wrote the original Queer As Folk (not the American version which was based on Russell's) and the smash reincarnation of Doctor Who.
In Season 1 of Torchwood, Episode 1: Everything Changes, the scene opens with Cardiff P.C. (Police Constable) Gwen Cooper, played by Eve Myles. Some discussion ensues, with P.C. Andy, about the "poor bloke" found dead, face up in an alleyway while mad rain pours over them, thick and heavy. The CSI team is scurried away amidst grumblings and along comes a large, black S.U.V. A team of 4 people climb out and stride to the crime scene with bags of equipment, gadgets, attitude and their fearless leader, Captain Jack Harkness. You don't know his name at this point, but I fell in love with him the moment I laid eyes on him. I know it sounds cliché. But it is true and no other words can describe it so succinctly.
As he stands there, drenched in the heavy rain, wearing his military, period trench coat, communicator in ear, he says, "There you go. I can taste it. Estrogen." Only it sounds like he says Eas-trogen. Perhaps how they say it in Great Britain? Don't know. His very brief monologue continues, "Definitely estrogen. You take the pill, flush it away, it enters the water cycle. Feminizes the fish. Goes all the way up into the sky and then falls all the way back down onto me. Contraceptives in the rain. Love this planet. Still, at least I won't get pregnant. Never do that again!"
I never stood a chance. He had me at Eas-trogen.
Captain Jack Harness, the courageous leader who can never die, Head of Torchwood-Cardiff, is a cocky, arrogant, selfish, self-centered, egomaniac with a dash of flair. He is debonair, dashing and hauntingly handsome. He is a cross between Rhett Butler and Captain James T. Kirk. And he's omnisexual. He'll fuck anything; human, alien, female, male. And the man who plays him, John Barrowman, is openly gay. The delight and relish I feel when I hear people, women in particular, say, "He's gay? No!" is almost perverse. But back to Captain Jack. It's his openness and the freedom with which he says things you would not normally hear on American television. It's his bravado, chutzpah, balls and determination, along with so many other qualities and great lines, that made me fall deeper in love with Captain Jack Harkness. And then, while sitting at a bar, when he tells Gwen Cooper -- who has been stalking them to find out who Torchwood really is -- he says, "The 21st century is when it all changes. And you've gotta be ready." So here I am. Ready. Waiting. Willing to do whatever He bids of me. Alas, he relies only on his team.
Torchwood is an incredible piece of sci-fi. You really can't call it anything else as it consists of a team of people who fight aliens. Only here, on Earth. No one ever leaves the planet. Well, except for Captain Jack but that's another tale for a different post.
I became addicted to Torchwood, despite it's sci-fi-ness. And, although we have DVR, I never wanted to leave the house on Saturday nights. There was only one other show in my television watching history that made me stay home on Saturday nights and that was decades ago, when Golden Girls was on national television.
Several episodes into Torchwood, my partner sprang a very nasty little secret he kept from me. He said, "You know, this is a spin-off of Doctor Who." He was referring, of course, to the new Doctor Who but it was a show I had no desire to see. I had the displeasure of witnessing bits and pieces of it in the very early 80s on PBS and had absolutely no desire to watch it. But here again, I digress. But never fear, I will elaborate on Doctor Who in a later blog post. This ode is about Captain Jack.
As much as Torchwood is sci-fi, though, it is more than that. Much, much more. It's also about people and the relationships we have with loved ones, or the lack thereof. It's about our friends, family and fellow earthlings. It's about all of the wonderful things wrapped up into life. Beauty, love, ugliness, the choices we make that affect our future. It's about the drama in our lives. But in the end, it's also a love story. Many love stories, filled with all the complications and sadness and joys we feel. It is, in my opinion, one of the most amazing pieces of television I have ever seen, if not the best.
There are many reasons why this show is as wonderful as it is. I'll leave you to find them out on your own. But I will share my two top reasons. The first is that the show does not shy away from projecting some of our worst frailties and conditions, throwing it up on screen and embracing them; along with all our other flaws, as well as all of the good we can accomplish if we set our minds, and hearts, to it. One of the other things that makes this show brilliant is it's lack of fear in exploring sexuality and sensuality. In almost every episode, there is girl-on-girl, boy-on-boy, boy-on-girl-on-boy snogging. It's all done without pretense, without excuses, without remorse. It simply is and it is simply wonderful and refreshing.
There are several team members on the Torchwood staff. They are all rich, deeply textured and real. But the other one I have a crush on, is Ianto Jones, played by Gareth David-Lloyd. He is their "get it done" man. Coffee. Front Of House. Guard. Clerical Worker. Clean-up Man. And he's Captain Jack's fuck buddy.
It's implied several episodes in and is done so simply, so matter-of-factly, it's truly nothing short of brilliant. As the season progresses from that point into Season Two and, finally, Torchwood: Children of Earth the love story just evolves so beautifully. It has all the nuances of people who might feel something for each other but never acknowledge or awkwardly approach. In fact, it's frequently the things that are not said on this show that were the most moving of all.
Torchwood: The Complete Second SeasonTorchwood: Children Of Earth
I cannot, and will not, tell you any of the plot lines. Spoilers! Suffice to say, however, that each episode has a marvelous story to tell. I cannot pick one that stands out in my mind as a favorite as they are all favorites for various reasons. Although there was one episode where Gwen Cooper's fiancee, Rhys Williams, played by Kai Owen, appears naked in Episode 10 of Season 1. Kai is a burly, beefy, yummy type bordering on bear. I would jump his bones in a heartbeat!
As I wrap this up, I am listening to the Torchwood soundtrack. The Season One Box set is sitting to my right, and my mug of coffee, in honor of my Torchwood love, is to my left. However, Ianto did not bring it to me. I had to get it myself.
I do not ever remember . . . no, scratch that. I have NEVER, in my 47 years, in all the time I've sent watching television, been so moved or so inspired as I have been by Captain Jack Harkness and Torchwood. When I grow up, I want to BE Captain Jack. Strong, courageous, someone that others can look up to. The character has had a huge impact on my life. In fact, I can truly say that many of the things I have done lately, things I normally would not have had the courage to do, has been since I've seen this show. It might have something to do with my age, the feeling that -- now that I'm in my 40s -- I'm running out of time. But I like to think that there's also a dash of Captain Jack in there somewhere.
I know it sounds goofy. Hell, a grown man like me going on about some silly show? Characters who aren't real? What can I say. I guess inspiration comes from the oddest and most unexpected of places. Yes, I'm showing my inner geek, the nerd within I have fought to control. You might even say I'm gay for Captain Jack and his staff!
We've watched the first two seasons of Torchwood twice, the third season once. We will soon watch them again, back-to-back. I find I'm needing the escape, needing to reacquaint myself with old friends. I'm needing . . . a little Captain Jack to hold my hand and boost my courage, my morale and give me a shot of much needed testosterone. No. Not THAT kind.
But then again . . . mix a little Captain Jack with some Ianto and Rhys and that's quite a little orgy I can get into!
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
The Power of Yes
Paul Boynton wrote a book called “Begin With Yes.” I will state up front that I’ve not yet read it. However, I find it fascinating that, with one slight shift of the mind, things have begun to happen in my life. New, fun and exciting things. Some which I can share, some which I can’t just yet. But it's all because I said yes to reaching out and seeking help.
I first noticed the power behind yes when a friend of ours invited us on a cruise for his 50th birthday. We almost said no but, because we said yes, we not only had a fabulous time and got to meet new people, we enjoyed our first cruise and got to meet Treva Harte; someone I’ve grown quite fond of and truly enjoy.
That was two and a half years ago. If we hadn’t said yes to going on the cruise, we never would have met Treva and I never would have gone on the thrilling, emotional roller coaster that is writing and getting published.
Over the course of time that followed, many things happened that either made me feel elated or down in the dumps. There seemed to be no in between. Unfortunately, more and more things kept happening that pushed me further into muck and the result was an extreme depression that was crippling to say the least.
Since talking about the depression and realizing I need help, things have begun to change. I don’t know why but I was hesitant about reaching out. Perhaps this is a guy thing? It’s like admitting that I’m weak, I suppose. I don’t know. I haven’t quite analyzed that yet.
What I do know is that, after speaking with my partner then speaking with a retired therapist, I said yes to myself, yes to help and yes to life because the alternate images running through my mind were far too horrible and unacceptable. I can’t even bring myself to say it.
As a result, my first therapy session went very well. Mind you, you can’t do a hell of a whole lot in 50 minutes. It’s more of a “getting to know you,” figuring out what’s wrong, and what you’d like to see happen sort of thing. But as I’d already met with Ray to do an interview sort of thing, we were ahead of the game. We went through a host of different scenarios that pointed out just how negative I’ve been with myself practically my entire life!
And yet, with that one small shift of awareness and realization, already I feel immensely better. Of course, it helps that now, on top of the freelance work possibly going into more billable hours, the release of “Learning To Samba,” my third gay romance, will be released by Loose Id this coming August 16th!
I’m elated beyond belief and, though I know every moment in life can’t be spent in this constant state of extreme high, I look forward to my next appointment with my therapist and the changes that will come.
I guess Paul was correct. It does begin with yes!
I first noticed the power behind yes when a friend of ours invited us on a cruise for his 50th birthday. We almost said no but, because we said yes, we not only had a fabulous time and got to meet new people, we enjoyed our first cruise and got to meet Treva Harte; someone I’ve grown quite fond of and truly enjoy.
That was two and a half years ago. If we hadn’t said yes to going on the cruise, we never would have met Treva and I never would have gone on the thrilling, emotional roller coaster that is writing and getting published.
Over the course of time that followed, many things happened that either made me feel elated or down in the dumps. There seemed to be no in between. Unfortunately, more and more things kept happening that pushed me further into muck and the result was an extreme depression that was crippling to say the least.
Since talking about the depression and realizing I need help, things have begun to change. I don’t know why but I was hesitant about reaching out. Perhaps this is a guy thing? It’s like admitting that I’m weak, I suppose. I don’t know. I haven’t quite analyzed that yet.
What I do know is that, after speaking with my partner then speaking with a retired therapist, I said yes to myself, yes to help and yes to life because the alternate images running through my mind were far too horrible and unacceptable. I can’t even bring myself to say it.
As a result, my first therapy session went very well. Mind you, you can’t do a hell of a whole lot in 50 minutes. It’s more of a “getting to know you,” figuring out what’s wrong, and what you’d like to see happen sort of thing. But as I’d already met with Ray to do an interview sort of thing, we were ahead of the game. We went through a host of different scenarios that pointed out just how negative I’ve been with myself practically my entire life!
And yet, with that one small shift of awareness and realization, already I feel immensely better. Of course, it helps that now, on top of the freelance work possibly going into more billable hours, the release of “Learning To Samba,” my third gay romance, will be released by Loose Id this coming August 16th!
I’m elated beyond belief and, though I know every moment in life can’t be spent in this constant state of extreme high, I look forward to my next appointment with my therapist and the changes that will come.
I guess Paul was correct. It does begin with yes!
Monday, July 4, 2011
Happy Independence Day
July 4th is off to a rousing start here in our household!
Not.
We yawned, stretched and managed to crawl out of bed at…gulp, dare I say?…11:00 a.m. I guess that’s what we get for staying up until 2:00 in the morning, watching “Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban!”
But I guess in a way that’s what freedom is all about, isn’t it? The ability to do pretty much anything you want, almost anywhere, anytime. Even if that something is nothing.
The cat was pacing maniacally when I got downstairs, meowing and flicking his tail to show his displeasure. The pugs, who were spinning, barking and making weird chirping noises -- even more than usual -- made me feel like a complete and total heel. Though, in their defense, 11:00 is rather late for them to get fed. They normally eat around 7:30.
So, after quickly getting over my guilt, my partner and I had French Toast, cleaned the house up a little and now, here I sit with coffee in hand, working on this blog post and answering e-mail I hadn’t checked in a couple of days.
One of them concerns freelance work, which has stepped up quite a bit over the past few weeks. Personally, I’m hoping it continues because maybe that way I’ll be able to quit the p/t job I have that I really don’t enjoy. We’ll see.
Meanwhile, in replying to the folks I freelance for, I stepped back mentally and thought what a cool thing it is that I do. Aside from the writing, this is the very first “job” I’ve ever had that’s satisfying. And what a weird way to earn a living! Most times all I do is…well, I guess you can call it data management. Basically -- for those of you who have asked what I do -- after getting a list of scenes and sites that need to be updated, I make sure that the raw content provided by producers of adult gay entertainment is transferred from where it resides, to where it needs to go. That way, members…or would they be subscribers?…can look at pretty pictures of naked men, view trailers and decide whether or not they want to peruse the entire scene online or download it.
I do other things as well. Sometimes they have me write copy, scene descriptions and, on occasion, make up stuff about the models. I guess they like what I’m doing because they’ve not only increased my hourly rate without me asking, they’ve sent buttloads of new scenes for one of three sites they’ll be launching this year. This means I get to look at a lot of material consisting of pretty things kissing, frolicking, and cavorting. Oh, and penis. Loads and loads of penis. In fact, when you combine all the scenes, there are literally thousands of them! And I get to look through each one to delete, touch-up, re-size and sometimes re-crop the penii that will appear online.
I wonder, though. With so much penis, would it be penii or a school of penis? A herd of penis? Or maybe it's a flock of penis? Nah, can’t be. Sounds too much like a musical group.
Sometimes, when my partner comes home from work -- after a day of wrestling with big, wet dogs, nasty cats and having to put up with whiny pet owners who can often be worse than parents of human children -- I’m all bleary-eyed and drained. Yes, looking at penis all day can be exhausting! Seriously, it’s true! There are times where I feel that if look at one more penis, I swear I’ll poke my eyes out. But then I have a glass of wine and I forget all about them.
I still feel guilty about it, though. Not because of the work I’m doing but, because I’m actually having fun. It’s a unique job and, in a way, I have to be grateful to the Universe for having thrown this my way when I needed it most.
In a way, I can’t help thinking that if it weren’t for our forefathers, perhaps I might not even be here to write this today, let alone do the kind of work I've been doing. Who knows where we would be, or what sort of country this would be like. Yes, it might be better, but it could also be a lot worse.
So, in honor of Independence Day, I’d like to say thank you to our forefathers for putting their foot down and fighting for what they believed in. I’d like to thank our country’s veterans, who have fought and died so we can do pretty much anything we want; even if it’s sleeping in late. I’d also like to thank the brave men and women who are still abroad, doing something I could never do. May you all come home soon. Safely.
But above all else, Happy Independence Day to you all; especially those of you fighting against the chains of addiction, fear, and hopelessness. Sometimes, the largest battles we fight are the ones raging within ourselves.
Not.
We yawned, stretched and managed to crawl out of bed at…gulp, dare I say?…11:00 a.m. I guess that’s what we get for staying up until 2:00 in the morning, watching “Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban!”
But I guess in a way that’s what freedom is all about, isn’t it? The ability to do pretty much anything you want, almost anywhere, anytime. Even if that something is nothing.
The cat was pacing maniacally when I got downstairs, meowing and flicking his tail to show his displeasure. The pugs, who were spinning, barking and making weird chirping noises -- even more than usual -- made me feel like a complete and total heel. Though, in their defense, 11:00 is rather late for them to get fed. They normally eat around 7:30.
So, after quickly getting over my guilt, my partner and I had French Toast, cleaned the house up a little and now, here I sit with coffee in hand, working on this blog post and answering e-mail I hadn’t checked in a couple of days.
One of them concerns freelance work, which has stepped up quite a bit over the past few weeks. Personally, I’m hoping it continues because maybe that way I’ll be able to quit the p/t job I have that I really don’t enjoy. We’ll see.
Meanwhile, in replying to the folks I freelance for, I stepped back mentally and thought what a cool thing it is that I do. Aside from the writing, this is the very first “job” I’ve ever had that’s satisfying. And what a weird way to earn a living! Most times all I do is…well, I guess you can call it data management. Basically -- for those of you who have asked what I do -- after getting a list of scenes and sites that need to be updated, I make sure that the raw content provided by producers of adult gay entertainment is transferred from where it resides, to where it needs to go. That way, members…or would they be subscribers?…can look at pretty pictures of naked men, view trailers and decide whether or not they want to peruse the entire scene online or download it.
I do other things as well. Sometimes they have me write copy, scene descriptions and, on occasion, make up stuff about the models. I guess they like what I’m doing because they’ve not only increased my hourly rate without me asking, they’ve sent buttloads of new scenes for one of three sites they’ll be launching this year. This means I get to look at a lot of material consisting of pretty things kissing, frolicking, and cavorting. Oh, and penis. Loads and loads of penis. In fact, when you combine all the scenes, there are literally thousands of them! And I get to look through each one to delete, touch-up, re-size and sometimes re-crop the penii that will appear online.
I wonder, though. With so much penis, would it be penii or a school of penis? A herd of penis? Or maybe it's a flock of penis? Nah, can’t be. Sounds too much like a musical group.
Sometimes, when my partner comes home from work -- after a day of wrestling with big, wet dogs, nasty cats and having to put up with whiny pet owners who can often be worse than parents of human children -- I’m all bleary-eyed and drained. Yes, looking at penis all day can be exhausting! Seriously, it’s true! There are times where I feel that if look at one more penis, I swear I’ll poke my eyes out. But then I have a glass of wine and I forget all about them.
I still feel guilty about it, though. Not because of the work I’m doing but, because I’m actually having fun. It’s a unique job and, in a way, I have to be grateful to the Universe for having thrown this my way when I needed it most.
In a way, I can’t help thinking that if it weren’t for our forefathers, perhaps I might not even be here to write this today, let alone do the kind of work I've been doing. Who knows where we would be, or what sort of country this would be like. Yes, it might be better, but it could also be a lot worse.
So, in honor of Independence Day, I’d like to say thank you to our forefathers for putting their foot down and fighting for what they believed in. I’d like to thank our country’s veterans, who have fought and died so we can do pretty much anything we want; even if it’s sleeping in late. I’d also like to thank the brave men and women who are still abroad, doing something I could never do. May you all come home soon. Safely.
But above all else, Happy Independence Day to you all; especially those of you fighting against the chains of addiction, fear, and hopelessness. Sometimes, the largest battles we fight are the ones raging within ourselves.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)