Missing In Action

A week ago this past Friday, I wrote on Facebook that I would be scarce for the weekend to work on a story. I had an idea for a submission call that finally began to gel, only it might have be too late. I can’t say anything about the piece because I’m not done with it yet. Frankly, I’m not even sure if I’ll make the submission deadline but at this point I almost have to keep working on it. It’s not even a long story; the maximum word count is 5,000. I’ve done half that in one day. Hell, when I'm truly inspired, I can do that in one sitting! But that’s a rarity.

The problem with the way the short was working itself out in my head was that I wasn’t sure about the details. I didn’t think the scenario was plausible in reality though in my mind I could see it perfectly. Still, something wasn’t jiving. So, since I’m the type of person that must have some accurate details before I could suspend reality and bend it to suit my needs, I went off in search of…whatever I thought I needed. And can I just say? Research is a bitch when you don’t know what you’re looking for. Especially when it’s a period piece.

Still, I was determined.

Armed with the Ken Burns boxed DVD set that I borrowed from a friend, I sat down to start watching “The War.” Two discs and many hours later I was a sopping mess from the atrocities, the injustices, the prejudice. I felt, and this is no joke, like Lilu Dallas at the end of “The Fifth Element” -- overwhelmed, discouraged, and hopeless. The things we humans do to one another is nothing short of revolting and makes me wonder how we ever managed to crawl out of our infancy from caveman days.

I didn’t find what I was looking for in the documentary. Based on the details and the events that unfolded, as they were described, my hunch turned out to be correct. I couldn’t establish the scenario for my story because there was no physical way for it to occur at that time. But I’m holding on to the premise and changing a few things for when I do sit down to work on it.

I started writing a slightly different story than I had originally intended. Whether I finish it or not, will be a different story. I have one week left in which to do it. It’s a tall order. I guess we’ll see.

As the week progressed, I couldn’t stop thinking about the bombing of Pearl Harbor and American reactions. It wasn’t that much different from when the Towers were struck. The names and places have been changed in order to protect the not-so-innocent but, even in the aftermath of both events, I’m appalled by the similarities and the events happening within our own country now.

On top of what I was mentally processing, we started learning a bit more detail about a friend of ours in the UK who was diagnosed with mesothelioma. I’m not even sure if I spelled it right but, from what we’ve read, it’s a horrifying thing no matter how you spell it. My thoughts are with him and his partner.

While my mind was occupied with these things, as well as catching up on a backlog of freelance work, we started babysitting for an apricot pug and her newborn pups; seven tiny bundles of wiggles and squeals. One of them passed away, before we ever get to see him. Unfortunately, two remained that neither the owner, nor my partner, were sure would make it. I was determined that they would.

I held each of them in the palm of my hand and whispered encouraging words to them. I told them it was a beautiful world out there, though I didn’t believe, and that they’d find wonderful homes with lots of room for them to run around.

I fed them from a tiny bottle when they couldn’t nurse from their mom and told them they were going to grow up just as big and strong as their four brothers and sisters, already far larger, with features coming in.

On Tuesday, both little ones seemed to have stabilized. By Wednesday, however, only one of the two seemed to have heard anything I said. The other still didn’t quite grasp the concept of latching on to mom’s teat and suckling for sustenance. By Thursday, he no longer seemed interested in anything but sleeping.

It was truly heart breaking to watch his little body trampled on by the others as they crawled their way to mom. He looked like a wounded baby bird and I wanted him so badly to pull through. I held him for close to an hour that day, whispering things, holding him to my forehead, my heart. I wanted to transfer some of my energy to him. I even asked the Universe to shave enough time from my own life in order to give it to him so he could pull through.

Then, on Friday, no longer opening his mouth for even the bottle, his tiny body cold in my hands, the owner, my partner, and I all knew for sure he had to be put down.

Now I know what some of you might say; he was a dog, not a human. It’s nature's way. Only the strong survive. I heard all that and then some. It got to the point where all I heard was the voices of the adults in the Charlie Brown cartoons. The only things that entered was the fact that this little tiny creature passed before my very eyes and there was nothing I could do to help him.

I felt small and insignificant. I was angry. I was sad. I was frustrated and hurt. Which in turn made me realize that was exactly how I felt when watching “The War” and how I felt when reading what our friend has been writing concerning his partner and what they’re going through.

I broke down Friday night, after the work was done, and cried. I cried for the tiny little pup pug who never got to open his eyes, walk or crawl, let alone have his first taste of bacon. I cried for Bryan and his partner because I can’t help them with what they’re going through. But mostly I cried for all the people in the world that have endured lifetimes of prejudice and injustice and for all the people yet to come that would still experience bigotry and hate.

Even as I write this, I must confess that I’m disgusted by this weakness, this ability to empathize with other individuals or groups of people. I saw myself, at the time, as Bella -- a character I dislike because all she ever did was cry, and the reason why I won’t watch any more of those melodramatic and sexless movies.

The other image that came to mind was that of Counselor Troi, on Star Trek: Next Generation. I used to think she was pathetic in her woebegone looks and the semi sci-fi gothesque appearance. But at least she was pretty with her curly hair and tight jumpsuit.

Looking back, as I conclude this post, it feels like so much more time has elapsed than just one week. I feel like I've been "Missing In Action" for much longer. I think it’s because when things like this happen, when my mind and heart go down the path of introspection, I retreat from friends, acquaintances, and the rest of the world. It’s the only way for me to process the events and emotions and absorb them into my psyche.

But I’ll tell you this. Now, more than ever, it’s important to take a moment and stop what we’re doing. Listen to the heart. Take the people we love by the hand and tell them how much they mean to us, how much we love them. It’s okay if some of them think we’re strange. They will anyway, so, what the fuck? We might as well express ourselves. Life, after all, is extremely precious.

And all we have is now.


P.S. The other doubtful one pulled through just fine. She's terrifically tiny but feisty, wiggly and demanding. And today, they're one week old!

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.

On Learning To Samba

Last night I received a cover proof for my third book, “Learning To Samba,” and nearly burst into tears. I don’t know if it was because I was tired from the many hours I’ve put in this week, the lack of chocolate, or that the artist captured the many nuances of the story. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful to her (I think it was Anne Cain) and Loose Id.

Unfortunately, I can’t show you the cover just yet -- it hasn’t been finalized --but I can tell you that it proves the old saying true, that a picture’s worth a thousand words.

Interestingly enough, it was yet another picture that inspired me to write “Learning To Samba,” a picture posted on the Facebook group, Inspired Writing, by fellow author Kayla Jameth.

If memory serves, I was in the middle of edits for “Lauderdale Hearts” before submitting it for approval, in addition to another major freelance crunch when I first saw the picture. I didn’t have time to respond to the image. And yet, I couldn’t get the visual out of my head. It lingered on my mind like a refrain from a song and touched me for some reason I didn’t understand. It spoke to me of love, loss, and deep emotion.

I asked myself if it was the shadows? The look on the model’s face? The sensuality of it all? The picture pulled at my heart and I found myself unable to focus until I wrote down what I felt; which was the point of the exercise.

Without judging myself, without self-censoring, and without fear of repercussion, here’s what I wrote:

He was a foreign exchange student living with my tenants. I knew I shouldn't have crossed that line but Raoul was so fresh, so young, so willing. I could breath again when I looked into his eyes and all the pain of losing my lover nearly ten years ago seemed to release itself from my veins. I didn't want to at first but when Raoul smiled at me and moved his hand away from the only thing remaining to be exposed, I could almost hear my partner's voice in my head, his love in my swelling heart as he whispered, "Go for it! It's time to be happy again. I'll see you on the other side." And as I gasped at the sight of the lovely, naked young man standing in shadows before me I caved. I let him kiss me. His tongue sought mine and his hands seared my flesh where he touched me and gradually possessed my soul one layer at a time.

The seed was planted by Kayla but with those written words, that seed germinated. It was then watered and nurtured by several: Treva Harte, Michele Montgomery, Serena Yates, Kayla Jameth and Kenya Ferreira; to name a few.

Compared to “Lauderdale Hearts,” which took something like 3 or 4 months to write, “Learning To Samba” took a very long time and almost never saw the light of day.

At the time, there were things on my mind already weighing me down. It was a tough period with mental challenges and personal issues I’d been ignoring haunting me at every turn. Like many, rather than confronting the issues, I repressed them.

I sank my teeth into the story to avoid the emotional crap but didn’t count on having to immerse myself into the main character’s position; a man who’d lost his partner of many years and now found himself alone at an age where, in the gay community, you might as well be dead.

It was a demon I had to face, a fear I needed to look at. I can’t tell you how depressed I got, wondering what it was like to lose your life partner, contacting family, friends, neighbors. The thought of going through all his stuff was daunting but at the heart of it all was the knowledge that if I ever survived my partner rather than the other way around, I don’t know how I’d move on; if ever.

On top of everything else the story dragged me into a depth I hadn’t known before, despite the fact that I knew I was only doing what an actor does; tapping internal forces and emotions, whether real or imagined.

Slowly, I pulled out. The story moved on. The character met a hot Brazilian medical student living at his sister’s house and, along with him, I found myself falling in love with the 25-year-old. The further away I got from dwelling on the past and negative emotions, the better I felt.

It’s hard for me to say that the book is only about “X” because it’s layered and textured with my own struggles. I wrote about what I knew: fear, worry, and my love of New York. As for the sex, I’ll leave you to wonder what’s real and imagined. However, I’ll say this: once upon a time, in a magical land called Florida, a 20-something-year-old from New York met a man from the land of Mouse, who pressed buttons he didn’t know existed. The result was eye-opening and gave him said 20-something-year-old a new appreciation for fetish; at least…enough to dabble. Or dribble. Or drool. Or…whatever.

“Learning To Samba” will be released on Tuesday, August 16. It will be available through Loose Id at the following link: http://www.loose-id.com/Learning-to-Samba.aspx

Meanwhile, since I cannot yet show you the cover, here’s the picture that started it all. Thanks, Kayla.

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.

What Causes Your Depression?

I’ve fought depression off and on for a couple of years now. Despite the fact that when I look back on my life and realize there were moments when I was attracted to all things dark and sad, it seems as if some moments were more intense than others. I haven’t been able to pinpoint them but I’m not sure that I want to. I mean, why look that far back -- especially since I can’t remember -- when I can look at what’s caused me to surf the butthole of depression in the recent past?

So that’s one of the things I’m doing in therapy and I continue to journal and blog about them. Some I’ll talk about freely. Some are just way too personal and those stay with me. That’s how this blog was born, actually. Obviously, though, that’s not the only thing it’s for; why focus on the dark when you don’t want to or linger in depression when you don’t have to. It’s like an alcoholic going to A.A. meetings and drooling over another person’s experience and reliving that horror over and over again. Too many people use meetings as a cloak, or crutch. I don’t want to do that here. I just want to share so others know they are not alone in what they feel. And, regardless of whether or not those feelings are skewed, they are REAL.

Besides, I gotta pimp myself out somewhere and I don't think street corners are safe.

Since starting this suggested task of blogging and journaling on my experiences with depression, I’ve become aware there is really no one thing that sets me off. It can be anything from the state of the world, health insurance woes, lack of money (it seems the harder I work, the less money I manage to hold on to; and I don’t even spend it!) over-eating, which leads to being overweight, which diminishes the libido, and so on and so forth. The list is rather long and would make James Joyce's run-on sentence look like a cakewalk.

One very strong item that pushes me over is anger. I have, or so it seems, a lot of suppressed anger. The funny thing is that when I was 19 and took my required “Intro to Psych” in college, the professor said the belief among the psychological community was that depression was anger turned inwards. I laughed, naturally. I thought, how was that possible? But several decades later, I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps he didn’t have a point.

But there seems to be more and here’s where I’m now very fascinated with the subject. You see, since starting this blog journey, I’ve begun to notice very similar traits in other people; people I’ve never met; people I’ve only known through Facebook. These people are all creative. They’re writers and actors, living the grind and trying to make ends meet as they balance two separate worlds; one in which we must be practical and do what needs to be done in order to survive -- even if we don’t want to do it -- and doing that which we love most. Expressing ourselves.

And this made me wonder. Is depression a multitude of things? Years of incidents keeping us from doing what we love that only end in mounds of frustration? Years of anger, at not being able to tell someone to shut the fuck up or fuck off? Is it money worries and the fear that we’ll never be able to fully do what we love because we have to work? Perhaps we are with people who don’t support us or feel they don’t really care about what we do? Perhaps we lack that one person that REALLY listens when we need it most, even if there is nothing they can do about whatever we’re experiencing?

Is it part of the creative process? Are we being impatient with ourselves, our work? Is it the long moments of stillness in between projects, between successes, where nothing happens and we feel like we’re spinning our wheels? Perhaps it’s a really bad review or the fact that someone rates us a 1 or 2 out of 5 without bothering to explain why?

Are we unhappy with our lives, our partners, our children, our friends, ourselves?

I could probably go on but I won’t. Why go someplace when you don’t need to? Especially because sinking into depression, as I mentioned to a FB pal -- a fellow writer -- feels like you have Dementors hovering nearby. They’re not sucking out your soul but their mere presence diminishes us nonetheless. And dagnabit, wouldn’t you know it? That’s usually when our magic wands are in the shop and no amount of mind tricks can produce the Patronus necessary to get rid of them.

So, for those of us who suffer from the big D -- as opposed to wanting a big D of a different nature -- let’s see if we can’t take a look at recent events surrounding that first slip. Personally, I want to pinpoint what it is that sets me off because, frankly? I want to stab that bastard in the eye, kick it in the balls and tell it to get the fuck out of my head. There is just NO room in there; it’s already taken up by cobwebs, stray odd thoughts and very strange plots. Besides, I’ve got too many things to do, stories to write and things to enjoy before my time comes.