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.”

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!

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.

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.