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.

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.