Pre-Release Jitters For The Rosas of Spanish Harlem

In a little over 12 hours, “The Rosas of Spanish Harlem,” my fourth book with Loose Id will be released. I’m nervous about it. Very nervous, in fact. More so than with any of the others. I’m nervous because I don’t know how it will be received.

I know what you might now be thinking.

Weren’t you nervous with the first three? You didn’t know how THEY would be received.

The answer to which is, yes, I was nervous for the first three. But this is a different sort of nervous. It's more like an anxiousness, really. I suspect it has to do with more than just how it will be received. So many thoughts keep running around in my head regarding this particular story. For instance:

Is anyone going to want to read a story about an 18-year-old crossdresser hell bent on losing his virginity? Will people even consider this a romance? What will readers get out of it, if anything? And horror of horrors, what will the reviews be like? If “Learning to Samba” didn’t do well -- which, to me was my best book to date -- what makes me think "Rosas" one will do well?

And then there’s the follow-up question to the last one.

What IF this one does better? What does that say about me? Where does that put my writing? Will anyone take me seriously as a writer moving forward? Am I pigeon-holing myself by writing dark, smutty stories? I mean, this is fun but frankly it’s not the only thing I want to write.

There’s a part of me that says, “Fuck it! Ride the wave if it comes!” But there’s another part of me that quietly screams, “There’s more to this writing thing than erotica, you know!”

As you can see, I’m…anxious. Shit. Do I sound like Woody Allen?

Perhaps it’s my own inner demons struggling to take charge of who, what, where, when, how and why I write.

Dontcha just love insecurity and self-censorship?

Truth be told, I think another reason I’m nervous about “The Rosas of Spanish Harlem” is because it’s darker than my previous work. Much darker. It taps into areas most consider to be taboo. In fact, before accepting the story for publication, Loose Id made it a point to remind me -- and rightfully so -- that the story did not fit the typical romance arc. But “TRoSH” does so much more than just stray from the typical romance arc. It outright deviates and runs in the opposite direction. And yet, in my heart, it IS a love story. A disturbing one, but a love story nonetheless.

Loose Id said they were willing to take the gamble if I was. Naturally, I said yes.

Before I go any further, let me give you a bit of history.

In the mid-80s, Dana -- a photographer friend -- introduced me to one of his models, a street hustler who believe it or not was a shy, extremely handsome young man I would’ve given my left testicle to have sex with. There was something petulant, dark and sexually mysterious about him. It was as if he carried some sort of shameful secret. I found him stimulating in more than just a physical way.

After he started doing his solo thing, the room got quiet, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Then, as the model furiously increased speed and scrunched his face up even more, Dana softly asked what he was thinking. To which the young man replied, without skipping a beat, and almost as if he were in a hypnotic trance.

“My uncle.” A short while later, he added. “My cousin. My brother.” The model then proceeded to tell us snippets of things as he continued to masturbate, none of which made it to the actual video tape Dana eventually released.

When he left, the model collected his money and went on his not-so-merry way. Dana and I were both left to wonder if the young man had shared something that truly happened or if it was something he’d merely fantasized about. Dana was more inclined to believe it than I was and, regardless of whether or not it was true, it stuck with me. It reminded me of the fantasies I’ve had of my own cousins and two of my uncles. In fact, the young man’s story was so appalling, yet titillating and intriguing at the same time, I thought I’d write about it but I never did.

Until now.

Originally, when I first sat down to work on “The Rosas of Spanish Harlem,” it was intended as something to get me out of a long-term funk. It was never meant to see the light of day. At least, not like the previous three. I thought I might self-publish it…someday. This was only supposed to satisfy my need to write something…anything…and hopefully jump start my creative mind. However, after several conversations with other readers and writers where they asked why not, I too began to ask myself, “Why not?”

That I submitted the story was a surprise. That it was accepted for publication, was an even bigger surprise. That it was labeled as porn noir tickled me to the point of sheer delight, despite the fact that I could be “typecast” as that sort of writer. But maybe I already am.

“The Rosas of Spanish Harlem,” in it’s edited and finished format, is nothing like what that handsome young model shared that day in 1985. In fact, as I wrote the story, despite the chapter-by-chapter outline I’d sketched out for myself, everything morphed and became something other than what it was or what I remembered. But all the tiny -- and some not so tiny -- nuances of the taboo are there. Only the grit was sanded down because otherwise I would have felt like I’d never be clean, no matter how many times I showered.

Looking back, I realize the model might have censored himself even as he shared, or told things out of sequence. Not everything made sense and there was a lot of detail missing. Now, as I write this post, it makes me wonder if perhaps he felt he’d be judged; not just by the events in his life, but the fact that he was aroused by them. In turn, I wonder if I might not be feeling the same and perhaps that’s why I’m feeling nervous about the story’s release?

Whatever the reason, I’ll stand by the story as I stand by all of my work. The human psyche, after all, is messy and complex; like life. And since life is messy, so too is art. I think that’s the beauty of creative expression. It doesn’t have to be pretty or clean or safe. It just is. And in the end, I suppose that’s the biggest reason why I allowed myself to say yes to submitting “The Rosas of Spanish Harlem.”

My Thoughts On Walt Disney World and A World of Peace

It’s the day after our vacation at Walt Disney World in Orlando. As glad as I am we came home early -- we shaved a day from our hotel bill and we’re back with our pets -- I can’t help feeling a bit…well…blah. Then again, it’s always difficult coming back from a good, fun vacation and settling back into reality. I find it’s even doubly so when we get back from Disney. You see, there’s always a part of me that never wants to leave. The worst, for me, is leaving the countries at Epcot, or The Magic Kingdom; especially at night, after the huge fireworks.

If only I could live on Main Street or one of the countries! But that wouldn't be real life, would it?

The first time I went to Disney was February of 1996. I was 33 and slipped into a childhood I never really had. I didn’t know what to do with the overwhelming emotions except to tear up with joy. I’d never felt such raw bliss.

I was also conflicted between the wonderful escapism offered at Disney and the knowledge that in a few days I’d have to return to my daily grind. Those feelings have not changed. If anything, they’ve become more powerful as I’ve grown older. Given the growing political and religious climates in our country, the feelings have become sharper still.

During that first visit to WDW, I found myself wondering why we all couldn’t just live in a world where everyone smiled and left everyone else alone? I kept looking at the happy faces, listening to the music as we walked along, and the child inside me kept screaming, “This is how it should be! Why can't it be this all the time?”

And then there was that voice. You know the one. The “Parent” voice. The one that says, “Because,” without ever backing the one-word claim or offering proof of why living such a fantasy life wouldn’t work.

We’ve visited Disney so many times I can see the chinks in the facade if I stare long enough. Yes, I know people who’ve worked there that report it’s not all smiles and sunshine behind the scenes. Yes, these people have called Disney all sorts of things, none of which come close to what Disney calls itself: The Happiest Place on Earth. And, yes, it’s a money pit; a place where people go and lose their souls to the devil, having to work double shifts just to pay for the plastic junk their children don’t really need.

However, removing all that from the equation, it’s still a place that I find to be magical. Only at Disney have I felt that just about anything I can dream is actually possible. Let me give you an example.

Several years ago, when we went up for my partner’s birthday, I snuck into the Muppet shop at Hollywood Studios to purchase a Kermit figure my partner really wanted. The purchase took a little longer than expected, what with the undecided just milling about but I texted my partner, pretending to be ill in the bathroom, as I completed my purchase then made arrangements to have Kermit delivered at a specific place and time.

The man I worked with moved heaven and earth. In fact, I’m still not sure of what he did or how he pulled it off. All I know is that the following night, while having dinner at The California Grill at the top of The Contemporary, Kermit the Frog, playing his banjo, was delivered to our table, as requested. It was flawless. We weren’t even staying at that hotel!

And no, it didn’t cost extra to have it delivered. What it took was a handful of people that were either curious enough to see it through or willing to go above and beyond their job descriptions to make someone happy.

Fast forward to this past week.

My partner and I were riding the Kali Rapids at The Animal Kingdom. For those who don’t know what it is, The Kali Rapids is like a giant inner tube that seats 12 and bobs up and down on the water, with a very high chance of getting you sopping wet.

There were eight of us that day: my partner and I, a Brazilian couple, their two sons, and another couple we think were father and son. Perfect strangers, having a fun time laughing and teasing each other over the anticipation of getting wet. Then, when we all got drenched, it was glorious as we all laughed and shrieked, enjoying ourselves as children, despite cultural differences and grown-up demeanor. There was no hatred, no judgment, no categorizing or shoving one another into a box. It was clear by everyone’s reaction that the only thing on our minds was the experience.

It made me wonder. If eight perfect strangers could co-exist peacefully and share a “magical moment,” what other wonders could we share? How much further could we carry on with that feeling of living in the now? From there, my mind leapt to another thought, one that might be far-fetched but perhaps not as crazy as it sounds.

Is it possible that, perhaps, we can create a fun and peaceful environment, thus changing what we perceive as “the real world” even if it is only one moment at a time?

I realize I’m probably looking at the world through rose-colored lenses and that offering up a ride at Disney as an example of peace is perhaps a slight oversimplification of human nature. Still…if the thought is there, if it came to me, might it not be possible to carry out? I mean, if we’re willing to adapt to a peaceful unity and co-existence in the most fantastical of all places, why not in the real world?

I don’t expect to change the world or make anyone see things the way I do. But if each of us stopped for five minutes and made a conscious effort to live a moment with no judgments or preconceived notions of others; if we imagined positivity for a friend, a family member, a neighbor; if we put aside our political and religious beliefs and stood as one, what might we be able to achieve?

Alas, I’m about as close to a satisfying answer as I am to a prize of ten million tax-free dollars. However, if any of you have thoughts on the topic -- whether it be on ways to start implementing peace or a way to get to that ten million -- please feel free to share. I’m open.

I'd Like To Say…

that I'm being productive today but that would be a lie. The most I've done so far, other than wake up and get out of bed that is, is to scratch my balls, yawn, stretch and make coffee. I did play with the dogs for a bit and now I'm sitting at my desk, jonesing more caffeine with the girls snoring contentedly by my feet. I truly don't think it gets any better than this. The simple things.

Except for this, my new cover. I am sooooooooo friggin' stoked!


Learning To Samba will be available as of tomorrow, Tuesday, August 16, 2011, through Loose Id. I hope you enjoy the story and look forward to hearing from you.

Collared

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.

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.

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!

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."

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.

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!

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!

The Sun'll Come Out

The weather we’ve been having here in usually sunny South Florida seems to be reflecting my state of mind over the past few days; heavy and oppressive, dark and dreary. They’re Billie Holiday type of days. You know, the kind that are a little drizzly and somber, and make you want to say home with a bottle of wine and just stare off into space.

Interestingly enough, despite the conditions, I feel stronger mentally. Part of it has to do with a few things that have happened to friends and acquaintances recently. But then again, someone elses misfortunes can yank you back into a different reality. It helps that, frankly, I’m over feeling this way; tired of thinking about it. I can’t imagine living with this crap over an extended period of time.

I’ve finally also gotten the opportunity to get with all three therapists -- one in person and two by phone. I liked the last one the best. I felt most comfortable with him; he’s also the one I got to meet in person. So, the appointment is made and now I just wait for next Tuesday. Sadly, I have to pay out of pocket. It seems I haven’t met my deductible yet. However, I do welcome the health insurance company to ask why I need cognitive help. I’ve a lovely response for them which includes letting them know, under no uncertain terms, that their own bureaucratic bullshit has been adding to my stress!

I think the process of actually doing something towards my own well-being is helping tremendously. My partner has been very supportive, as have been many other friends; both geographically and via cyberspace.

A shout out to Brad who turned me on to something called gorse. It’s a homeopathic remedy you mix with plain water. It’s qualities are reputed to balance you out emotionally. Whether it actually has those qualities or if it’s that I’ve chosen to believe that it works doesn’t matter to me. What matters is that even after one day, it seems to be doing the trick. It’s expensive as hell for the amount you get but, if it helps, the expense is worth it to me because the alternative just plain blows dirty donkey balls.

Some other good things are happening as well, which always helps one feel better and gives you more strength to pull out of the doldrums. Right now they might seem small and appear insignificant. I don’t even know if any of them will come to pass but I’m clinging to the positivity.

One of the more practical good things happening includes the freelance group I’ve been working with. They increased my hourly rate, without me even asking! So, I’m doing a happy dance about that.

The best part of all the good, however, is that the creative gears in my mind have once again begun to crank. Slowly, grumbling and squealing, but rolling nonetheless. I’ll take rusty and creaky any day over not turning at all. Rusty gears can always be greased up and oiled to run smoothly.

I’m grateful for everything going on, but this is definitely the one I’m most grateful for since I haven’t written much of anything, except for a few posts, since I submitted “Learning To Samba” to Loose Id this past March. Mind you, I haven’t started a new story yet but there are things percolating.

As I sit here wrapping up this post and reflecting on how far I feel I’ve come within, roughly, a couple of weeks, something ironic and -- dare I say this? -- symbolic is happening. I'm reminded of a song by Utah Saints called "Sun" from their album "Two." The sun just came out, I can't believe it. Everything looks kind of okay."

I think I’ll hang on to today by immersing myself in the energy of the good things that have been happening as well as the progress I’ve made. The other stuff? Well…I guess they’ll sort themselves out as I go.

Life: The Ultimate Pre-Existing Condition

Last Thursday night, before I went to see the therapist who would concur with my suspicion that I was suffering from depression, I made a list of things that were bothering me or that I had issues with. I figured if I armed myself with a list I’d be able to better explain myself when asked why I was there and what I thought was wrong with me.

Today -- after doing an initial phone intake with someone who said they’d get back to me with a list of therapists who accepted my insurance -- I realized there were many more things that have caused me to feel as though a Dementor has been hovering over me sucking out my soul; things I’d forgotten to put down on my list.

It’s not just about fear, anger or lack of determination. There’s more to feeling and being unfocused and demotivated. One of the things I forgot was the bullshit health insurance companies put you through. They won’t pay for this or they won’t pay for that. Or they’ll only pay “X.” Well, for what they pay or won’t, I frankly don’t see why they call health insurance a “Medical Benefit.” It’s of no benefit to me if I have to pay out-of-pocket more than what the insurance company is willing to pay the provider!

So, despite the fact that the following three words have become yet another topic -- like religion and politics -- not to be discussed in mixed company, I’m going to put it out there all the same. National health plan. Yes, I said it. Yes, I want one. And yes, I know it will raise taxes.

Now, I know there are those who oppose it. There are even those who say there's nothing wrong with health insurance the way it is. For just a moment, though -- work with me here -- just imagine a country where you don’t have to keep a shitty job you don’t like, where you’re underpaid or under-appreciated, simply because you need the health insurance for yourself and your family.

Let’s say you’re job is already stressful. Now add to that the fact that you’re unhappy, your spouse might be unemployed, or your kid needs braces or new glasses. You’ve just gone and added on a whole mess of even more stress to your life; which usually ends up in one of several ways. If you don’t wind up causing bodily harm to another, usually a loved one, you wind up doing it to yourself. If neither of those do the trick, just wait…your health could be jeopardized and your health impacted in ways you couldn’t have predicted. All because that stress has a way of manifesting itself in a physical form. Oh, and because of that, you now probably have a pre-existing condition, so your insurance premium will go up. We won't even discuss the differences from one age group to another or the cost for a man as opposed to a woman.

Hmmmm. Let’s see, Mr. Health Insurance Rep. Would that pre-existing condition happen to be called life? Our own mortality?

Imagine, if you will, the freedom to quit your job and work at a coffee shop simply because it pleases you. Or perhaps you like to get your hands dirt and cut someone’s grass, landscape their yard. Some of you might enjoy getting your hands greasy and play with car parts all day long, or woodworking, or metal. Maybe, instead of teaching, you want to go back to school and study music. You might be like me and discover you prefer to work from home instead of dealing with the hassles of corporate politics, commuting, and kissing ass.

I don’t know about you but, as I get older, there’s only one ass I want to be kissing and it belongs to the man in my life.

Better yet, what if you just want to work part-time because you want to use the rest of your week to work on your Opus? What a huge relief it would be not to have to worry about going to see the doctor or wondering where you’re going to get money for co-pays and office visits! How wonderful if, for once, you could walk away from surgery without later discovering you still owe several thousands of dollars to this doctor, that nurse, the anesthesiologist, and even the janitor for cleaning up your puke!

Frankly, it's close to impossible for me to meet this premium, for which I'm still paying the annual deductible. And that's just an individual plan! I shudder to think what it would be if I were straight, married, and with children.

So, at the risk of being called naive, I’m creatively visualizing a country where everyone, not just me, has full access to health care, regardless of who you are or what you need; mental, vision, dental, hearing, physical.

I’m imagining a plan where what you pay covers everything and that there are no out-of-pocket expenses or that it simply be a write-off, simply because when all is said and done, mental well-being will promote physical well-being. Which, in turn, makes us happier and live longer.

In my mind, what I’m seeing right now looks perfectly lovely.

The Mean Reds

In “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” Holly Golightly has a conversation with Paul Varjak, a struggling writer and sometime escort (implied in the book, not the movie). She asks him if he’s ever had “the mean reds.” Confused, Paul asks Holly if it’s anything like the blues. To which she replies, “No. The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?”

Paul says yes, and that’s when Holly confesses that when she gets that way, the only thing that helps her through is to hop in a cab and head to Tiffany’s. There, she calms down right away because of the quiet, proud look of the place.

I’ve never had a place to go to when I got the Mean Reds, felt melancholy, or experienced the blues. But there were things I’d do that would perk me right up.

When I lived in New York, for instance, I’d hop the subway into Manhattan and walk aimlessly through the Village. I’d sit and watch people rush by, wondering who they were, what they did and where they were going. I’d wonder what they were hiding, if they ever got depressed and how they got themselves out of it. I’d imagine elaborate stories for them and usually, by the time I was done, I was so involved in the lives I’d made up for them that I was no longer sad about my own.

Sometimes, I’d take in a movie. Woody Allen’s “Hannah & Her Sisters” once pulled me out of a huge depression when I was in my twenties. Later in life, once I bought a VCR, two personal favorites never failed me; “Victor/Victoria” and “Auntie Mame.” I’m not quite sure if it was the music, the happy endings despite their adversities, or just the pure entertainment that yanked me out of the doldrums. All I know is that they worked.

There were times when only music would help. Many a rainy, gloomy night I put on my Billie Holiday records and listen to her sad voice -- back when I had a turntable and the scratches, crackles, and pops helped add to the mood -- had a glass of wine, and allowed myself the luxury of a good crying jag.

At odd times, I’d remember something my mom said to me once, when I was a child. She said that if I stopped and acknowledged all the things in my life that were good, I’d be too busy to think about the bad.

There’s always been something that helped me through -- depending on the depth of the emotion -- whether it was sadness, melancholy, the blues or even the mean reds.

As a child, I was always prone to all things sad. Music, in particular the Spanish “boleros” made me want to pour a bourbon, pull out the box of razor blades, and crawl into an overflowing tub of extremely hot water and just close my eyes. If you’ve an ounce of Latin blood in you, or have ever dated a Latino, you know what I’m talking about.

Even when I put aside the verbal and physical abuse from my childhood, the poverty and embarrassment of living off welfare, there were stretches of time where I would just mope and sigh.

Now, I know sadness is a part of life. Everyone experiences it. Without sorrow, how would we recognize extreme joy?

The problem is that those moments of sadness have become longer and deeper. All those sure-fire things that once helped, stopped working. I’ve lost the ability to “snap out of it” and have come to a grinding halt.

I lack motivation and focus.

Things that used to please me no longer appeal. I’ve tried writing a new story for the past three months and other than line edits for “Learning To Samba,” everything I’ve started was soon put down. None of it interested me.

I’ve pulled away from practically everyone I know. I’ve ignored e-mail, Facebook and all other forms of communication. In fact the only thing I’ve immersed myself in is my freelance work and the p/t gig I picked up at the Box Office; which, incidentally, I detest.

The sex drive has toppled and plummeted so far it makes the stock market look like a day at the beach. Jerking off no longer brings me pleasure and what’s worse, aside from the fact that I haven’t been fulfilling my husbandly duties, is that even ogling cute and adorable boys no longer thrills me.

In short, I just don’t care.

Then, about a week ago, I woke up with the realization that it had been three days since I’d showered, shaved, or brushed my teeth where I was once meticulous about hygiene, sometimes showering two and three times a day.

That morning, my soul was so heavy I lacked the strength and courage to get up and out of bed. I could’ve closed my eyes and been perfectly content to never wake up again.

I hit rock bottom.

Strangely, all I kept thinking of was how selfish and unfair it would be for my partner to have to deal with telling my family, getting rid of my things, and planning a memorial service.

After many hours, I managed to crawl out of bed, brush my teeth, and head to the computer where I e-mailed someone who had once been a therapist and life coach.

A short while later, my partner came home from work.

In speaking with the therapist today, I realize there isn’t any one particular thing that pushed me into surfing the butthole of depression. It’s been a whole laundry list of items: being laid off; the inability to find work (at first); trying to catch up on all I still owe and save at the same time, after two years of being unemployed; wanting to move from this Godforsaken place; the death of my beautiful Emma; my inability to write and my guilt over staying home writing -- when I was able to do so -- while my partner burns away at a job he no longer likes but needs to keep because he has no other choice…

I could go on, but I won’t.

Of course, it doesn’t help that I’m turning 49 in three months and I’ve a sneaky suspicion some of this might actually be hormonal; which my Mom has been saying all along. She’s even joked about me running away with some 20-year-old for a weekend and maxing out my credit card to rent a convertible.

I’m sure my partner would let me do it, if that’s what it took. However, since I don’t believe that would work, nor do I have the money to afford boy or car -- plus I’d feel guilty my partner couldn’t come with me -- I have some work cut out for me. But I’ll do what I can to get it going because I’m tired of surviving. I yearn to thrive!

Sadly, the therapist isn’t in a position to help long-term. However, he said he’d guide me if needed, and I got out of today’s session what I was expecting; he pointed me in the right direction.

I’ve already taken the first step. Admitting I needed help, which wasn’t easy to do, and speaking to a therapist was crucial. Now I need to talk to my doctor about anti-depressants, testosterone therapy, and make a list of everything that’s helped make the chains still binding me.

I thought long and hard about whether or not I wanted this much personal stuff out there. But in the end I decided it was important to, hopefully, help someone else through it. Perhaps you’re experiencing what I’m going through. Or perhaps you know someone who is. Depression is real and it’s an arduous thing to get out of.

With any luck, sharing this journey will help me climb out of this disgusting vat of muck. Acknowledging the problem has helped remarkably.

Strangely, even writing about what’s been happening with me --to me? -- feels as if it’s helped. I’m hoping that if any of you reading are experiencing the same thing or know someone who is, maybe it will help you, too. After all, since life doesn’t come with a User Guide, perhaps it’s about each of us doing our part to educate one another on the process of “getting older” and knowing what to expect.