The Year: Getting it in the End

This Week's Bullet Points

1. Woke Up in a Strange Place made a year end "Best of" list at It's Raining Men. But just to make sure I didn't get too full of myself another of my manuscripts was rejected this week.

2. The holiday season brings on many a TV marathon and I got snagged by Oddities last weekend, a reality show set in a strange antique shop. Now I know where to get that three foot sea lion penis I've been looking for.

3. Saw the trailer for the upcoming 80s musical Rock of Ages. It looked awful. Tom Cruise AND hair bands? Blech! But then I caught a glimpse of the fabulous Catherine Zeta-Jones playing a self-righteous crusader and singing "We're Not Gonna Take it." I'm sold.

4. If Joyful Noise were centered around Dolly Parton and Queen Latifah I would be interested in seeing it. But I don't want to sit through a crap teenage romance. Is there an edited version?

5. Woke Up in a Strange Place made its premiere on Daily Kindle Bargains this week. It's my first attempt at paid promo. We'll see how it goes. I've got three more weeks on there.

6. Elisa Rolle gave Woke Up a wonderful review on her site this week.

7. Ricky Gervais is the most annoying man on the planet. I will not be watching the Golden Globes.

Be a Sport

EXCERPT: Simple Men

Simple Men is essentially the story of Foster Lewis - the new chaplain of Verona College -and the school's football coach, Chip. Yet the side story of college ball players Brad & Jason has gotten quite a response from readers, some even suggesting they get their own book. This is the scene where I introduce those two troublemakers.

Football is an outside sport. Jason Jordan hated practice in the gym because it might rain. All the guys did. Nobody minded getting wet. They were ball players after all. Still, there was one good thing about practice inside: Coach Arnold wore his skin tight shorts. Any other coach would look like a caricature in those shorts, but Coach Arnold…The man could wear the hell out of those shorts! When they trained outside, the coach wore his usual sweats or pant suit. But on strength-training days, it was the shorts. They were mesh, shone off the fluorescent lights, and hugged tight around the Coach’s thick legs like a wrapped ham at Christmas.

Mmm. Ham. Jason suddenly realized he was hungry.

The team sat on the gym floor in designated rows. They had just finished with their calisthenics, the dullest part of strength training, and the Coach was going on about something. Jason really wasn’t giving it too much thought. He was caught up in Coach Arnold’s thighs. He rested back on his hands, his legs spread out, his mouth salivating at naughty fantasies. He was sure he wasn’t the only one. The coach had a bulge in his shorts that couldn’t be ignored.

Beside him sat his best friend, Brad Park. Brad was a bit of a troublemaker. In fact, they both were, but Brad looked the part more. He had a goofy grin and carried with him an air of mischief. Jason was a slyer sort of troublemaker. It was his looks that let him get away with most things – the sweet eyes, the mop head of hair – whereas Brad’s eyes were dangerously close to wide-eyed shiftiness and his hair was shorn. The two had been best friends since starting college, having connected immediately over B-movies and country music. They were not the most popular guys at school, but they were well-liked enough. Coach Arnold seemed to like them anyway, and that’s what mattered. You get in good with the coach and you’re set. Brad’s dad and half dozen brothers had told him this.

Brad had dated a few different girls, but none seemed willing to take his shtick for long. He wasn’t surprised by this, or even particularly hurt when a relationship ended. At the end of a lousy date, he still got to go back to his dorm where his best bud, Jason, was waiting, most likely with a copy of some dark, twisted movie filled with bad special effects and a freshly opened box of Chips Ahoy!

Jason was the type of guy who was invited to all the formals. He cleaned up very well. Yet he was never too interested in anything more than that. He had plenty of girl friends, but no girlfriends. He’d not had a girlfriend his entire time in school, though Brad knew he had been involved with a girl at least once before college. None of that mattered, though. When Jason and Brad were alone in their room, they had a blast watching the movies and pigging out on junk food. (Enjoy it, they were told. Your metabolism betrays you as you get older. And that’s just the first thing.)

They wrestled some…Well, a lot. They were, after all, on the wrestling team when football wasn’t in season. But some of the guys in the house – especially those in the floor below them – found their late night pinnings quite annoying.

Jason’s mind had shifted to one of these late night matches as the coach spoke. It was no longer the coach who was making his mouth water as he sat on the gym floor, but Brad. The coach was only a momentary salivation; Brad had been filling Jason’s thoughts for about a year now. By the feel of Brad’s pecker last night as they rubbed against one another in a spontaneous match – frotting, he had heard it was called – Brad felt the same. Nothing was said the next morning, though. Jason was a man of few words anyway. Why waste them on embarrassed utterings.

Jason heard Brad snicker. He leaned over Jason’s shoulder and pointed at his happy crotch. “Dude!” he said. “Watch the boner.”

Sure enough, Jason’s dick stood at alert, stretching his own mesh shorts. He owned the moment, shrugging with a smile. “Jealous?”

“Shit! I got that beat and you know it.” He reached to his own shorts as if he were going to pull the thing out. Jason loved that cocky grin. Brad was a bulldog, but he was a bulldog with a tender heart. He didn’t show that aspect of himself to too many people though.

“Guys!” the coach called from the front. “Something wrong? Am I bothering you?” The coach had one of those voices that could clear a stadium.

“Jason’s got a boner, Coach!” Brad blurted out.

Snickers and guffaws from the assembled players.

“Pay attention, guys,” Coach Arnold instructed the two troublemakers.

“I am, sir,” Jason said with a grin. He nodded at his penis. It was starting to subside.

Coach gave them a You two will never grow up look. “All right, everyone. Hit the showers. Remember, practice tomorrow at four on the field….as long as it doesn’t rain.”

The gym filled with the squeaking of shoe rubber and relief. Most of the guys were starving.

“You two,” he said, pointing at Jason and Brad with the rolled up coaching magazine he always seemed to have in his hand. The boys wondered if he ever actually read it. “I need to speak with you.”

“Listen, Coach,” Jason said. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I just get distracted. You know how it is. It has a life of its own. I’ll start wearing a strap if you want.”

“I don’t want to talk about your pecker, Jason. I have a favor to ask.”

“Anything, Coach,” Brad said. “What can we do you for?”

Riley on Marketing

This young lady has a good head on her shoulders. I love how worked up she gets. Thanks to my friend Volkan for showing me this.

Monroe

The absolutely fucking gorgeous, sexy, and disturbing work of Justin Monroe. I would love to work with him one day. I bet he has a great director's eye.

A Bear on Books Reviews 'Woke Up'

There is a small army of endearing readers who have connected so wonderfully to my book Woke Up in a Strange Place that they are taking it upon themselves to spread the word...and I love them for it! Today I received a loving, wonderful review from A Bear on Books, HERE. It touches me deeply to think of people responding to my writing in this way.

This Week's Bullet Points

1. Scarred for life. Last Sunday I was flipping through channels when I landed on that Spartacus series... just as a sexy muscular gladiator is getting his legs cut off. NOOOOO!! Must save the sexy!

2. Woke Up in a Strange Place was recently nominated for "Best Title" and "Best World Created" at the M/M Romance Group Choice Awards. I'm on my way, Mama! I'm gonna be a star!

3. The three 2012 CDs I'm most excited about so far: Madonna, Mumford & Sons, & Richard Shindell.

4. Meryl Streep gives the best interviews. Did anyone else see her on 60 Minutes?

5. If Michelle Williams wins the Oscar for imitating Marilyn Monroe I will be disappointed. I like her fine, but against the likes of Streep, Glenn Close, Viola Davis, and Tilda Swinton, all of whom j'adore, Williams' win would seem like the same ol' same ol'. The Academy seems to love to give that award to younger ladies.

6. The Hobbit trailer came out this week. It looks very good. And, damn! There be some mighty fine dwarves in Middleearth. Somebody hand me my battle ax.

7. American Horror Story season finale. I really liked it for the most part. Though, I have to say, the end with Jessica Lange was a bit predictable.

The Booty Enthusiast Club

Absolutbleu

Justin Monroe

Bon Natale with Daniel Garofali

Merry Christmas to us all! It's my three year blog-iversary!

Excerpt: Kid Christmas Rides Again

Today's excerpt is from my novella "Kid Christmas Rides Again," a slight piece of erotica illustrated by the wonderful Absolutbleu. The bit I've chosen is right from the start so all will be explained...well, most will be explained. Happy Holidays!

"Kid Christmas Rides Again!"

The idea was simple: change the public perception of Santa Claus. Even if it hadn’t been the right thing to do – even if the holiday hadn’t become a gluttonous season of tooth-rotting fervor – it was still the only thing that could be done. After all, Santa as the world had known him had just died of a massive coronary. See, he was trying to break up another elf fight (elves are known to be very short-tempered and are not at all stingy with the drink), and after years of stress and binge-eating he just finally collapsed in the tussle. Being that there was not a more jollier fella on Earth nobody could lay claim to the particular image he had trademarked. The era of the “bowl full of jelly” was ended, and the line would have to be retired from lullabies the world over. Besides, Christmas had become a more grown-up holiday of late, and the most recent Claus was looking a bit…um, lazy.
It was decided by those who decide such things that a younger, healthier Claus would he hired. A fit Santa. Trendy. A Santa who didn’t get sidetracked by cookies and milk. There had been way too many close calls the last couple of years. The old guy had become clumsy and was nearly caught by the curious on many an occasion while he snacked at their Santa-traps. None of the elves wanted to say it (unless they were drunk), but there was a sigh of relief that Santa wouldn’t have to be laid off. He had kindly died instead. That was the thing about Santa: Always thinking of others, right up to the gasping end.
The Committee to Oversee the Christening of Kringle (COCK) named our hero, a young gingerbread cookie house guard, to the task. It was a surprise to everyone, especially Father Time who had been eyeing the position for some…time. (Time was, and is, often wasted and he was woefully underfed.) The new Clause was the handsomest of men: a strong, clean-shaven jaw replaced the white beard, and a body built from years of lifting stubborn reindeer and carrying drunken elves home from pubs replaced…well, the rest. The Santa Suit was altered to fit the new guy as well. The Santa hat remained traditional (there was no need to get all crazy), but the sleeves of the jacket were cut so that the young guard’s 22-inch arms could breathe. The pant legs needed to be loosed to accept his thighs and still the thick red velvet barely held them. The consensus was that he looked altogether too bulgy. When fully dressed his chest, his buttocks, and his crotch looked like Christmas candies ready to burst from their wrappings. COCK was a bit concerned at first, but then thought maybe this was the direction they needed to go. The world was a frightening place and the committee eventually convinced itself that people needed a figure that signified impenetrable strength.
The sled was put away, the reindeer were laid off (the economy is a bitch, even at the Poles), and a new flying snowmobile, the Claus 3000, was provided. It was shiny and red and gold, with a flashing beacon on its very tip. (Rudolph’s lawsuit is still pending). There would also be no more ho ho ho! Instead, the new Santa would fly across the rooftops and shimmy down the chimney saying Hells yeah!
He called himself The Kid…Kid Christmas, that is. (Clearly, a fan of western films.)
All had gone as planned for the Kid at first. There was a week to go before his first outing as the new Claus and things were clockwork. There were a few minor glitches. There always are in such cases. His pants ripped out a few times (he really liked how he looked in his new suit, and flexed obsessively for anyone who would watch), and there was a tiny revolt from the unemployed reindeer…but they – um, that is to say, it was soon put down. The elves were warming up to him too. Even Father Time came by for a visit, grumbling his grudges. Yes. Everything was going quite smoothly, like a well-lubricated oingy-boingy.
And then the unthinkable happened (again): Kid Christmas was Chris-napped!
The last he remembered he was on a midnight shag and stroll and had stopped to lick one of the large lollipop fence posts outside the Santy-Shanty. (In all his twenty-three years he had been chided for licking the fence posts, but now – woo-hoo!) Then, there was a sudden, sharp pain in the bum and everything went dizzy, then dark. A poison peppermint dart had been shot into his muscular buttocks from afar. Later, in recollection, Kid Christmas had to admit that bending over to lick the lollipop fence post with his musculus bumulus high in the air was an easy red target, something very hard to miss.
When he awoke he was on the floor of a crystal ice cave, stripped of his new threads but wrapped warmly in a wooly throw. Unfettered by the cold surroundings (living in the Poles, one builds a tolerance), Kid Christmas threw off the throw. The reflection from the ice absorbed the absurd over-abundance of muscle. He was excited by what he saw, and could have stood there for a while in self-adoration, but first needed to investigate where exactly he was. As he felt along the walls, leering at his own rude reflection, there seemed to be no way out of the hall of ice. The room was solid, and the holders were too strong to break through. At least the company was pleasant. He made a mental note to have a hall of mirrors added to the Santy-Shanty.
A cool, crisp voice echoed from nowhere and ricocheted from wall to wall. “How do you like your new dwelling, Kid Christmas? I decorated it myself.”
“Who is that?” the Kid demanded. “Where are my clothes? Show yourself!”
“You won’t be needing your shocking threads any longer,” the voice replied calmly. “I’m having them altered.” A slender male figure with cool ice skin stepped from behind a wall. “I’m called Snow Globes.”
The Kid understood why: Snow Globes’ balls were enormous. They were a mesmerizing sheen and hung like ornaments tattooed with perfect blue snowflakes. No wonder the suit had to be altered.
The icy eyes of the chiseled captor wandered down Kid Christmas’ physique and rested on the Jolly-man-in-waiting’s own delicate area. Kid Christmas covered up with some embarrassment and envy. “It’s cold!” he excused himself.
“Well, I suppose certain things are going to look out of proportion with everything around them being so very, very large.” Snow Globes chuckled. “Still, I imagine your backside more than makes up for it. Ho, ho, ho…right?” He winked.
“I don’t say that anymore…Wait, what?” Poor Kid Christmas was flustered. His cheeks turned bright red. “What am I doing here? Let me out of this place.”
“Oh, one day I will let you out. Most definitely. My plan would be pointless otherwise. But you have to stay put for a little while, my strapping snowbunny.” Snow Globes walked forward. His balls chimed together in a sweet melody; the Kid couldn’t stop staring at them. The collection of reflections around them resembled something like an orgy; The Kid reminded himself again to get a hall of mirrors in the Santy-Shanty.
“You see,” continued Snow Globes, “once your suit is altered – which shouldn’t take too long – I shall take on the role as the Claus. Only I won’t be the creepy sugar-fiend known to the world. No. My plan is to totally destroy the name that has been built up by your predecessors over the years. Grown men will fear the Night of the Claus, and soon they will want nothing to do with you. ‘Bring me the balls of Kid Christmas!’ they’ll shout. Oh, yes! There will soon be a bounty on your bountiful booty.”
“But why? I don’t understand.” But why wait for an explanation? There was a crazy man standing in front of him! A sexy, lusty, boffo-balled, certifiable lunatic. “I won’t let you do it!”
Snow Globes wiggled his hips flirtatiously, making his balls sing with clinks and clonks like a captivating Christmas carol. The Kid was baffled at first by the seductive dance, but then felt the cave move under his bare feet. He heard the unmistakable sound of something coming…and coming hard!
“Have fun with Willie,” Snow Globes said as he quickly disappeared behind an icy divider. “And watch those pointy stalactites.”
“You mean stalagmites?”
“Whatever.”
Kid Christmas waited, standing battle-ready and booty-beautiful (by now it should be clear that the Narrator has a thing for the big guy’s triple-beeehind). Yet he was unsure as to where to direct his defense. The one called Willie did not have need of any hidden entrance, though. He broke through the floor with a shattering clamor, throwing the muscle-bound merry man across the chamber. Kid Christmas landed on his handsome face with a smash-rattle-oomph, his mighty rear high in the air. He was dazed, but not broken. Behind him, he caught a glimpse (how could he miss it?) of a lengthy and large, growling and snorting, libidinous and fully erect disembodied snow penis. It bowed its massive head, huffed a puff of cool air, and crouched like a bull ready for the charge. Intent and starved, it sped toward our hero’s helpless bum.

Galley Proof: The Blurb

Fiction writer Logan Brandish is perfectly happy in his peaceful small-town routine with his best friend, his cat, and his boyfriend—until he meets the editor of his next book, the handsome Brock Kimble, and the lazy quiet of everyday living goes flying out the window. Faced with real passion for the first time, Logan becomes restless and agitated, and soon his life and his new manuscript—a work in progress he’d always thought would be completed—are in a shambles.

But as Logan is learning, you can’t always get what you want… at least not right away. To take his mind off the mess, he takes a trip, but even the beautiful Italian, um, scenery can’t keep his thoughts from his erstwhile editor for long. Logan just might have to admit there are some things you can’t run from.

Available January 13, 2012.

Charlie on Jasper Lane

The wonderful artist (and my friend) Charlie Esquiaqui designed this gorgeous piece for me as a companion to the one he did as a banner for this site. I love this! It was an unexpected treat. It's very Jasper Lane-like. Charlie's in my head!!

The Killers - The Cowboy's Christmas Ball

The Killers new Christmas song! Brandon Flowers is lookin' so damn sexy!

Easily Overwhelmed

I am easily overwhelmed.

Ever since I was a wee thing I have worried myself sick. Literally sick. At en early age I became a list maker. During class I would make lists of what to do when I got home from school, I designed my outfits for school weeks in advance (though, what lil' gay boy didn't?), and I underlined every TV show I wanted to watch in the TV Guide. I designed for myself a structured life. We'll not get into the "why" because I really have no answers.

Whenever things came in great heaping batches - even good things - I found myself disconcerted and dizzy. I remember the first packet I got from Colt Studio (Mmmmmm...) when I was a curious adolescent. (I had lied and said, Of course I'm 18!) It was the first porn I had ever ordered. I received it in a large brown package and it was stuffed full of postcards, pamphlets, and pretty men with powerful penises (enjoy that alliteration?). There were so many of them I didn't know what to do or where to begin. The will power, the sheer determination, it took to get through that packet without creaming my pants...well, I should have received an award. Or gone to a doctor because it had been at least four hours.

Shopping was - is - the same. Having money didn't change anything. I still come out of clothing stores sometimes empty-handed due to indecision. Why is there so damned much of everything...and nothing?

I remember the first time I saw the inside of my college gym. I had been working out since I was 13 or 14, but I had always done it at home. I was actually quite pumped by the time I hit college. Well, my mouth dropped at the sight of the weight room and it had nothing to do with the choice of men. My mind swam. There was so much equipment there. How was I supposed to decide what to use? I didn't get anything accomplished that first day. I was freaking out. I had to calm myself down, head home, and put together a routine from what I saw. It got much easier after that.

This sense of overwhelm has made its way into my writing career as well. I have such a long list of outlines and story ideas that I don't know how I will ever get to them all. Okay. I'll admit it. I won't. Yet the list sits there on my desk leering at me. Undressing me with its I's. And I say to all of those stories, "I want to write you! I really do. But where's the time? Stop harassing me!"

And that's what it comes down to, all this overwhelm, all this anxious tittering. I'm afraid I won't get everything I want done before I'm done. Not just in writing, but in everything. In life. I hate (Read: LOVE) to get all philosophical here, but that's what's wrong with the world. We work for the future and have become enemies of the now. We're always thinking three books ahead. At least I am.

All my damn lists! I wish I could live without them, and I'm trying. I am. But it's going to take a while. Maybe I should see a shrink about it. I'll need to put that down on my list of things to do.

D'oh!

Little Black Panties

This Week's Bullet Points

1. Whilst I was wandering around Goodreads this week, it was pretty damn awesome to see that my soon-to-be-released book Galley Proof (ETA Jan. 13th) has already been placed on some To Read lists. People want to read me!

2. I love Justin Monroe's twisted take on big bubble booty. Love it! Check out the circus shots and those of the trucker.

3. Got the classy cover for my upcoming digital short from Untreed Reads, "She's Come Undone." It's non-erotic and centers on a put-upon teacher. I'm very proud of it and am expecting a call from an indie filmmaker within minutes of its publication.

4. Starting on the third draft of SuburbaNights. There's the light at the end of the writing tunnel!

5. Watching ABC's Once Upon a Time, I can't help but think that Robert Carlyle (Mr. Gold/Rumplestiltskin) is a strangely attractive man. And then there's the sheriff...sniff.

6. Woke Up in a Strange Place was mentioned by novelist Dawn Kimberly Johnson on a year end list over at Kim's Writing Again! I'm honored!

7. The Golden Globes were announced today, and, in a surprise move, everyone in Hollywood was nominated.

Two Gay Dads Told They Will Be Grandpas

One of the most joyful things I've seen in a long time.

Arvinistic Profundity

Today, I was sitting on the porch, enjoying the nice weather - that of the breeze on this overcast day - and I looked over and out the gravel lane. It's days like this I can't help but ask myself, "Eric, what would you do if a zombie came a-stumbling back the road right now?"

Indeed, Eric. Indeed.

Madonna - La Petite Jeune Fille

William Orbit produced.

The Bigger The Better

EXCERPT: Another Enchanted April

Today's excerpt is from my book Another Enchanted April. The story centers on three young friends in need of change who take a vacation at a B&B, the beauty of which they are unprepared for. In this scene the guys are waking on their first morning there and quite astonished at the look of the place:

Tony woke refreshed the next morning as well, though he would never admit it to Jerry. Streams of sunlight peaked through the shutters and he stared at the high ceiling, smelling the flower perfumed air and at last appreciating the bed linens that had been his comfort all night. He didn’t want to move, but Jerry and Doug were most likely awake, and if history were any indication, Doug would be racing into the room very soon and tickling him until he got up. Doug tickled hard, and Tony really didn’t want finger bruises on his abdomen.

Tony reached for his cane which had fallen to the floor in the night. He admired the old furniture and the look of the room itself. This was most definitely an old place, decidedly un-American in its build. He, like Jerry, was not used to such fine surroundings. He hadn’t been able to work since the accident and got by on the small stipend the government claimed he could live on. That meant a very modest apartment. Anything else now made him nervous. Nothing was ever free or without strings.

Tony headed bleary-eyed to the French doors at the side of his bed. He was not prepared for what the opening of them would bring him. There was a balcony, its wall draped in vines and ivy. Below him were gardens and, beyond them, a small forest. A patch of trees, really. Finally, the sea could just be heard hitting the shore beyond that. Sea birds flew in the distance against a ferocious blue sky. He felt like Eva Peron on her balcony, ready to sing to the masses.

“Jesus Christ on a hang-glider!” he said, breaking into something of a smile as a warm wave, not unlike the waves he imagined on the beach below, rippled through him. He sat for a moment at the table on the balcony and watched the unexpected treasure before him. Unlike Jerry, he was not thrown into a dizzying fit of overwhelming awe. Awe of the more simple variety was good enough.

When at last he was able to stand, he left his room to find what Jerry and Doug had gotten themselves up to. Jerry was in the main hall, an old book in his hand, but he was staring in appreciation at the magnificent cavern above him. He had not changed from his boxers and t-shirt. Doug had risen as well by this point and had already headed out to the gardens, more at ease around beautiful things than either of his friends. Kind attracts kind.

“Can you believe this?” Jerry said. “I mean, can you believe this?” He gestured so wildly the book fell from his lap and slid to the floor.

“We’re still in America, right? We didn’t take any wrong turns did we? Like to Italy?”

Jerry laughed. The two strolled slowly through the hall, studying the paintings and feeling the plush sofas and lounge beds draped in soft, clear, and willowy fabric. Doug was used to this posh lifestyle. He had been raised in a well-off family who owned, and invested in, just about everything. But this was all new to Jerry and Tony.

At last, they headed onto the veranda. It seemed to Tony that Jerry was somewhat cautious, as if he needed some hand-holding before going outside.

“It’s like Oz,” Jerry said. The two stood on the veranda as the sun shone down on them. There was nothing for Tony to say or do but nod in agreement at the silly statement.

The gardens of the Manor House in Beechwood were as such: As stated, they were separated into levels and areas. The veranda had no railing along its edge nor any wall, so the effect was a dramatic drop to the next level. A dangerous fall if one was not aware of one’s surroundings. This thematic design was continued down all the levels of the gardens, giving the effect of large descending steps, or, in some cases, walls of vegetation and ivy like waterfalls. The flow of the gardens was, in this way, undisturbed, and served as an ode to the sea at the doorstep of the Manor House. Benches, tables, and places to lie down were afforded to each level. As many types of flowers and trees that could be imagined were in the gardens all the way down to the path which led to the small forest and out onto the beach. Statuary and ornate pots and vessels lined the walkways, and various fountains gave continuous sound to the gardens. The closer the garden to the patch of trees, the wilder it became. Indeed, those flowers nearest the bottom were not just ready to bloom, but to explode in magnificent color.

Tony was soothed. He instinctively took off the shoes he had worn all night and let the cool feel of the moss and stone relax his feet. It would be harder to walk for him without shoes, but how could he wear them here? It seemed rude.

They heard a steady stream of water as they descended that differentiated itself from the fountains around them. It was not as natural sounding and was often interrupted, as if something was repeatedly obstructing its flow. They followed the sound to a slightly hidden area on the second level. There, past tall wispy trees and statues of satyrs, Doug stood stark naked, cleaning himself underneath an outdoor shower with a detachable shower head. The sun shone and gleamed on his flesh and every muscle sang, every striation became a tiny river. Tony, knowing the effect Doug had on a lot of men, especially Jerry, offered his friend his cane so he wouldn’t fall over.

“Look at that,” Jerry said. “Has there ever been a more greedy sun? A more lusting morning light?”

Doug was, of course, all smiles when he saw them watching. He was Doug, after all, and had star billing in Holt’s Pride Parade, where he wore as little as possible. “Yeah, babies! Get a load of this!” He shook and flexed playfully for them under the stream, completely at ease.

Tony rolled his eyes. Something he did often when he was with Doug. It had become habit, even when Doug made sense. “Settle down, muscle boy. You’re not impressing me.”

Jerry meant to say something in agreement with Tony, but…he couldn’t. He had forgotten to breathe. Tony slapped him on the back to encourage life.

“If I knew my mom’s friend had this place I would have been here every weekend! Didn’t I tell you she was an awful mother? What a bitch.” Doug was not giving up his shower. He splashed and danced and sang a bundle of popular tunes. A show only made sense (at least to him) since he now had a couple of spectators.

His small audience, only half of which was truly enthralled, soon noticed a change in the showering showman, however. A very physical change in the form of a stiffening penis.

“Oh! Come on, Doug,” Tony said. “We get it. You’re sexy. Enough with the show. Put that away.”

But he noticed Doug was smiling flirtatiously past both he and Jerry. “Well, hello there,” Doug said. The greeting hurried over their shoulders. If it had mass it might have knocked them both down.

Tony and Jerry turned to see a young man in a blue baseball cap. He wore dirty overalls, no shirt, and a large pair of brown and dirty gardening gloves. He leaned on a shovel and smiled pleasantly in that way that all Italians have, the description of which lies somewhere between friendship and lust. “Good to see you all up and Adam,” the young man said. Clearly, this was the mysterious stranger from the previous evening.

“At them,” Tony corrected the gardener (it was better than calling him their ‘host’, he decided).

“What?”

“It’s ‘Up and at them.’ Not ‘Up and Adam.’ That makes no sense. It’s like saying ‘I could care less’ when you really mean ‘I couldn’t care less.’”

The gardener smiled broadly at this. His eyes glinted. The glint Tony had noticed the night before and only now re-remembered. Tony swallowed and felt the hairs on his neck bristle pleasantly. He swatted them back down.

“Sexy naked man standing right here,” hollered Doug from behind them. He was never too keen on shifts in attention away from him.

“Be careful of the mosquitoes,” the gardener said. “There are some around here that would make your pecker swell up bigger than what you are packing right now, though not in quite such a pleasurable way.”

Doug grabbed a towel and covered his nakedness at once, looking around for possible penile assault until he was dizzy from the looking.

“There’s a shower room inside that can hold twenty.”

Doug’s penis poked up from beneath the towel in keen interest. “Twenty?”

“Twenty.”

Without another word, Doug raced past them.

“I have a feeling there’s going to be a party,” Jerry said, watching Doug’s finely sculpted mass make the stairs in impressive time.

“Do I want to be here for this?” Tony asked.

“Where else are you going to go?”

“Sit back,” the gardener said to Tony. “Have a good time. Just relax. But, be warned, this garden can make you drunk from its scent sometimes. It can change a man.”

“Right,” Tony said in a dubious tone.

The gardener shrugged as if it was no big deal he was not being believed. Tony had the feeling that this same shrug would have accompanied an earthquake or an atom bomb explosion. As if the entire history of the world was no big deal. Then he winked at Tony. “I will see you later. I have work to do.”

He walked away, again, in a way that only the Italian man can perfect through years of being Italian.

“He winked at you,” Jerry said, nudging his friend as they watched the gardener stroll down the garden paths. “The hot gardener with the Italian accent winked at you and then he said he will see you later.”

“I know. Why do you suppose he did that for?”

The Head and the Heart - Heaven Go Easy on Me

Good folkie goodness:

For a Ride

Music & Wine

Of the arts, music has been very influential on me. There have been songs and scores which have inspired me to write entire manuscripts. I'm guessing I am not alone in this. Art has always inspired art. Music grabs hold of me like nothing else. I will forgo watching a movie to sit back and listen to music. This would have been unheard of in my teen years when I was a film nut. But things change. Things like quality.

One of the things I used to looked forward to all week was winding down on Friday nights, putting in a good CD, opening a bottle of wine, and simply soaking in the music and the alcohol. Yes, I drank alone on occasion. When you're an writer that's not alcoholism. It's your life's prologue.

In college I had my dorm room at Hanover College, whether in Wiley Hall or the Ogle Center, streamed with Christmas lights all year long. Growing up a Jehovah's Witness and forbidden to have such decorations I may have over-decorated for a bit thereafter. I would turn the Christmas lights on and sit back in my comfy green camping chair with a wine glass, and tune out. Saturday nights were for partying with friends, but Friday nights were all mine. Just me and Nina Simone or Aimee Mann, Sarah Brightman or Joni Mitchell. Anything lilting and melancholy usually served the purpose. I never listened to the groups everyone else seemed to be all ape-shit about in college. I didn't care for Rusted Root, and I don't care who thought they were "awesome." And Phish? I didn't smoke enough pot to like Phish.

When I stayed for a summer in the Phi Delt fraternity with my friend Maxie it was the most musically fulfilling time of my life. It had a sort of evolution where I was being introduced to new music by him and, in turn, he by me. It was wonderful. An entire summer of downloading music and drinking gin. It was a summer filled with Ani Difranco, Dar Williams, Lyle Lovette, Dave Matthews, and Bob Schneider. And Dylan. Of course Dylan. (Still, I'll never forgive Maxie for drunkenly proclaiming one night that Emmylou Harris was dull. The travesty! But, in the end, I kind of thought the same of his favorite, Dave Matthews, so we're even. I guess.)

When I got my own apartment the Friday night music tradition continued. I remember specific moments listening to Bob Dylan's "Time Out of Mind", Gillian Welch's "Time (The Revelator)", and Duncan Sheik's "Humming." Wine is the great social lubricator and so it is with music as well. If you want to really zone in to a new CD - to really get to know - crack open a bottle of wine and let the music do its stuff. Just sit back, relax, and be open to it. Meet your new friend. (It doesn't always work, though. Sometimes you come across a CD like The Verve Pipe's "Villains." I could NOT get into that.)

I haven't done this tradition in a few years. As I said earlier, things change. It died out like my own private Lilith Fair. Whether by time or circumstance, I just haven't been able to kick back with some wine and listen to some good music. And I miss that. I miss the Ways of the Lush. That alcoholic blush. (I'm kidding! I kid.) Things just got in the way. Maybe I need to get hold of Maxie again. Maybe I need to stir things up. Yes. I feel the need for evolution.

Emmylou Harris: Goodnight Old World

My favorite song from Emmylou's latest. Gorgeous piece.

Weight Training

This Week's Bullet Points

1. Bob Hoskins playing "Smee" - the same part he played in Steven Spielberg's 1991 film Hook - in Syfy's Neverland was some fun casting. Didn't make me want to watch the whole movie, though.

2. I'm trying to choose some of my more mainstream short stories to send to literary journals. I could use some help if any of y'all have any recs.

3. Laura Nyro is being inducted into the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame! Who knew this would ever happen? I love it! If you don't know who she is rent the film version of Michael Cunningham's A Home At the End of the World.

4. I got the galley proof of Galley Proof this week. You have no idea how long I've waited to say that. Makes me giggle. My book Galley Proof is set for release January 13th.

5. By the by, did you see the cover Anne Cain did for Galley Proof that I posted yesterday? No? What kind of blog reader are you? Here it is:

6. I am unimpressed so far with the monsters on NBC's Grimm. Just sayin'.

7. Elisa Rolle's wonderful Rainbow Arards were announced this week. Woke Up in a Strange Place got an honorable mention. I feel a bit like Miss Congeniality. ;-) I'm kidding! I kid!

First Look: 'Galley Proof' Cover

The cover (by Anne Cain) for my upcoming book Galley Proof, set for release January 13th. I love the image of Rome beneath the guys. Wonderful!

An Excerpt & A Recipe

I am guesting on Silvia Violet's blog today, HERE. Come by, read a bit from Woke Up in a Strange Place, and get the recipe for my mom's delicious chocolate penuche.

Beaches and Cream

Which Head?

So, um...does anyone get the feeling that something...er, ELSE is happening in this ad? Just wondering.

Excerpt: Suburbilicious

From Book 2 in my Jasper Lane series, Suburbilicious. Here we find gay dad Terrence on a father/son outing with the son he had no idea existed until recently. This is taken from my original version before sent to the editor.

Tessa, the name of Terrence’s one-night trist with the puzzle that was heterosexuality, had put together the trip to the father/son camp as a surprise for both Terrence and their son, Christian. She had done this because she knew that they needed to spend more time together. Of her own admission, she hadn’t even let Terrence know about Christian (Terrence called him Chris, for reasons of obvious aversion) for the first sixteen years of their son’s life because she wanted him to be raised with her own ideals. She realized the folly of this now, and sought to rectify the error by any means she could.

It was a long drive from Jasper Lane in the compact minivan; an all-nighter. They would have been there sooner but Terrence insisted on stopping by every antique store they passed, and there were a lot of them. Chris liked browsing, so this was not something he fussed over in the beginning. But by the time they were through browsing (or the shop owners had thrown them out), the minivan kept getting more and more compact.

“Dad, no more!” Chris eventually had to put his foot down. He said it with a bight smile, though. He said everything with a bright smile. He could have said “Rupert Murdoch is president” and still be smiling as the world collapsed around them.

Chris realized this was par for the course with his father, this semi-parenting of Terrence. For their trip, Chris had packed a few items of basic clothing that he could reuse; he had also brought camping gear, and Terrence had helped him pack the tent in the back. There would be plenty of room for them in the mini-van, he had first supposed. But that was all before Terrence began loading his “basics” into the van. Terrence had brought luggage. He had packed every creature comfort he could think of: an electric toothbrush, his iPod, his laptop (and a small library of the best of Falcon porn), and the latest issues of every magazine he subscribed to, all 26 of them. Chris just laughed as he stood alongside David and Cliff, the three watching Terrence struggle with his load of unnecessary necessities. “That’s our Terry!” their expressions seemed to say.

Once they finally arrived at the camp, which consisted mostly of pines and lakes spotted by barren patches designated for the tents (the only stable structures was the check-in and the latrines), it was Chris who realized exactly what type of vacation his mother had planned for the two of them. He wondered when Terrence would notice, but, thankfully, he didn’t seem to be paying too much attention to what was going on.

God, thank you for laptops and gay porn DVDs!

Terrence had completely missed the three crosses at the camp’s entrance, and, to Chris’ relief, his father had even skimmed over the rather obvious Christian feel and look of the check-in as they approached it. Chris held his breath the entire time, but there was no grand explosion of horror. Terrence was completely unaware even without his DVDs. Chris thought it would have been humorous, if it weren’t so sad. Instead of paying attention to the crucifix-decorated welcome forms he was signing or the “Jesus loves you” pen he was holding or the collar-wearing older man who was welcoming them, Terrence was busy checking out the only other father to arrive as of yet, a cute GQ-ish number with gorgeous, executive hair and wearing a plaid shirt. Chris was thankful for this, otherwise their vacation together would have ended sooner than…well, a gay man’s vacation at a Bible camp.

The old priest or preacher or shaman – whatever he was – the old man who had welcomed them shook Terrence’s hand, but Terrence hardly noticed. He had caught the other father’s eye, trying to reel him in. Quickly, Chris acted. He pulled at his father like an anxious child ready to go to the fishin’ hole and soon enough they were out the door with the directions to their designated campsite.

“Did you get a look at that!” Terrence whispered. “Oh, daddy!” Then, remembering he was with his son, he straightened up, somewhat embarrassed.

“This ain’t the Dunes in Saugatuck,” Chris jibed. “Here are the directions. It’s not too far. I’ll drive.”

They first carried the large green army tent they had borrowed from James (well, Rick gave it to them technically without telling James) from the minivan. Sitting it down, they surveyed their surroundings. They were given a spot at the rear of the campground near the woods and the lake. Terrence liked this. From here he could watch the other fathers arrive, and slowly divide and conquer.

“I wonder where Paul Bunyon from check-in will be?”

Chris shook his head in mock disappointment. “This isn’t a monastery, Dad. Mom sent us here to spend more time together.”

“And we will,” Terrence assured him. “But I’m sure there are going to be times when you want to be alone with the other boys your age.”

“Right.” Chris smirked.

“I’ll start unpacking!” Terrence proclaimed excitedly as he sauntered back to the minivan. It was the sauntering that made Chris giggle. Terrence was like a chameleon, he changed every five minutes, trying the butch routine here, the more fem there. Turned on by superheroes one day and cowboys the next. Even his hair was a constant show of changing personal taste. When Chris had first met Terrence the year before his head was shorn as clean as a cue ball. Now, he wore a stylishly messy blond mop. Chris sighed. What a great dad!

Chris busied himself with unpacking the tent so that the canvas lay square on the ground. He set the pegs and rods to the side, knowing that one of the competitions described at check-in was the raising of the tents. Kind of like a barn-raising, he supposed, but pointless. When done he watched squat on the ground as Terrence fumbled his way in and out of the minivan. It was immediately an enjoyable show, so he tore open the beef jerky he had bought at one of the previous nights’ numerous pit stops and chewed hungrily.

“Hello, young man,” came a kindly voice from the dirt road near the campsite. The preacher/pastor/shaman who had checked them in earlier was walking toward their site, kicking up dust onto his black ensemble with his shiny black shoes. “Christian, right?” he said, coming to a stop in front of Chris. Terrence remained by the minivan, still fighting with his luggage. Chris was able to keep an eye on his father over the preacher’s shoulder.

“That’s right,” Chris replied with his trademark smile. He was hoping desperately that Terrence would be too consumed with his testy luggage to actually recognize the old man was an old man of the cloth, and was relieved when the old man didn’t repeat his name, Father Donaghan.

“Very appropriate for this place, your name is.” He chuckled. “I just came by to tell you something I forgot. Check-ins are always so confusing for me. The older I get....” He wasn’t a bad old man, Chris thought. Rather grandfatherly in fact. Wilford Brimley-ish, but not as hefty. “I came to invite you to the prayer circle this afternoon” (Terrence straightening, ears seeming to perk up to the sound of danger) “, a circle of Christian and brotherly love” (Terrence turning in their direction, a deer caught in the headlights) “a joyous praising of the Lord.”

At once, Terrence dropped his luggage and bounded into the woods, desperate for escape. Father Donaghan heard the luggage drop, but was too slow to see Terrence flee into God’s wilderness.

“Looks like you’ve overpacked my boy,” he said, noting the spilled luggage.

“Looks like,” Chris agreed anxiously.

Kindly refusing the old pastor’s generous and continuous offers to help him get things settled, Chris finally saw Father Donaghan off and at once leaped into the forest after Terrence. It didn’t take him long to find his father. The sounds of a cell phone’s keys being punched frantically led him around a thick wall of ferns and brush.

“What are you doing?” Chris asked.

“Calling your mother,” Terrence hissed. “She did this on purpose. Did you know about this? Oh, it’s an evil plot! I’ve never been more Barbara Stanwyck than now.”

Chris took the phone from him without much struggle. Terrence simply wasn’t expecting it.

“What are you doing? Give that back!”

“You’ll get it back when we head home. Not a moment before.” He closed the phone before Tessa could answer and stuffed the cell into his pocket. “Now come on. Let’s get things unpacked. Christian or not, you’re going to have fun here. And you’re going to have that fun with me. Got it?” He turned to go, expecting Terrence to follow.

After a few steps he heard a rustle in the brush and turned to see Terrence still hidden behind leaves and trees. His fingers pulled away the leaves just slight enough so that he could see out. “Is he gone?” he whispered loudly. “Is the church man gone?”

“Stop that!” Chris whisper-shouted back. “Stop hiding behind bushes. You look creepy!”

“Don’t talk to your father in that tone of voice!”

“If you don’t come from behind there I swear to God, I’ll...”

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll scratch every DVD you brought with you!”

There was an audible gasp, more rustling, and then Terrence emerged from nature as if nothing had happened. “Let’s go raise a tent,” he said, walking briskly past his son.

Pretty Mens

Thanks to Jennifer for this. DE-lightful!

Quite the Page Mother

How is Paul Richmond's GORGEOUS cover for my book Woke Up in a Strange Place NOT up for any year end awards?!

I mean, seriously! THAT is a gorgeous cover. Sigh. Okay. Daddy feels better now. Carry on.

Movies That Moved Me This Year

I'll be honest. I don't believe I'm much of a film buff anymore. At one time I was, but over the last few years I've become disenchanted by film. Maybe this has to do with knowing too much about the actors involved, about their lives. Maybe I think the special effects have taken over the plot. Maybe I just haven't connected on any level to many films. Maybe I just can't be bothered. Whatever the reason, I'm sure I will discuss it in a future blog piece. I will prattle and prattle about it. Today, however, I thought I'd look back and chat about the films I have seen this year. The ones that stuck out the most to me anyway. Not one of them is from 2011, by the way.

I saw quite a few films aimed at a younger audience this year. Animated features mostly. I thought Tangled, Disney's beautifully animated retelling of Rapunzel, was very cute. The songs were mostly forgettable, but I did enjoy the song in the barbarian gay bar scene. I also liked the tune Counselor Deana Troi...er, Rapunzel's mother...sang at the beginning. My big complaint on that film is the lack of ass on the hero, Flynn. Give that boy some booty! Him and those red-headed twins need to get something filthy going on.

Toy Story 3 was genuinely touching. Especially at the end. I got a lump in me throat. I was never big on the Toy Story franchise (or their annoying Randy Newman songs), but I really liked this entry.

Alice in Wonderland was one of the prettiest films I saw all year. It deservedly won the Oscars it won for sets and costumes. Despite the wonderful performances by Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter and Helena Bonham Carter as the Red Queen, though, the rest of the film felt flat and rushed. Tim Burton is not an epic film director and that end battle suffered because of it.

Coraline was by far the best animated film I have seen in a long while. Based on Neil Gaiman's tale, the wicked animation style and dark story thrilled me. I lovered it!

Of the Oscar-y type films I saw, a few stood out. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button was much better than the backlash told me. Brad Pitt gave his best performance since Fight Club, and Cate Blanchette and Tilda Swinton were marvelous. And that final scene with the baby? Lawdy!

Meryl Streep and Viola Davis - who will most likely be competing against each other this year for Best Actress - were both amazing in Doubt. The final scene with Streep was very powerful. My issue with this film is Phillip Seymour Hoffman. Aside from his turn in Magnolia, I'm just not a fan of his.

Eat Pray Love was a better film than people give it credit for being. I found it very touching in scenes. The father/son goodbye with Javier Bardem was lovely, and the whole Italian part of the trip was nostalgic for me. Sigh. I miss Italy...and its food.

I finally saw the great Maggie Smith in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, the film she won her Best Actress Oscar for in 1969. I went in thinking I was going to see Smith in a performance akin to her wackiness in Travels with My Aunt, but it turned out to be quite different. I've been shouting "Assassin!" at odd moments ever since I saw it. Now, the only Oscar nominated performance of Smith's I have not seen is 1965's Othello.

I at last saw Suspiria all the way through. Dario Argento's bloody ballet film about Satanism at an all girl's academy is fun camp and often very creepy.

Volver might be my new favorite Pedro Almodovar film. Penelope Cruz is very good as a mother protecting her daughter, all the while being visited by the ghost of her own mother. There are some neat little twists to this tale that I didn't see coming.

Clint Eastwood is the star of 1971's Southern Gothic masterpiece The Beguiled, but Geraldine Page and Elizabeth Hartman steal the film. Eastwood plays a Civil War soldier, a Yankee, who is wounded and captured by Page. He is nursed back to health at her all girls school, a wilting southern mansion. Just when you think you know where the plot is going it shifts. This reminded me of the writing of my favorite writer, James Purdy.

The best film I saw all year was 1947's Black Narcissus. A film about a group of nuns led by Deborah Kerr at a secluded convent in the Himalayas. The film is gorgeous to look at, and the themes of lust and madness are never more deeply etched then when Kathleen Byron is on screen as Sister Ruth. She is now one of my favorite film villains EVER.

So, that's it. That's what I've been watching this year. You'll notice not a single sparkling vampire or transforming robot in the lot. Why? Well, because I'm better than you. Haha. I kid. I kid.

Or do I? BOW TO ME!!

Every Time I Think of You - by Jim Provenzano

Jim Provenzano has a new book, "Every Time I Think of You." I had the chance to read it and was honored to offer a blurb for this wonderful work.

Underwear is Fun to Wear!

Annie Lennox - God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

First posted this last year. One of the best Christmas songs (and videos) to be released in some time.

Bullet Points

1. The Walking Dead - They found the girl and now they're going on a two month hiatus? Those monsters!

2. House Hunters - Where do they find people who can afford these homes?! What percentile of the population can....Oh. Wait.

3. It would be so awesome to see Helena Bonham Carter win an Oscar for her role as Miss Havisham in next year's Great Expectations. That role was made for her.

4. My book Another Enchanted April made a Goodreads year end list!

5. How did I become a fan of Emma Stone? I just seems to have happened without my knowing. First Zombieland then the world!

6. The review for Kid Christmas Rides Again was the top visited review of the year over at Brief Encounters. Awesomeness.

7. I have a date for the release of my next book from Dreamspinner Press, Galley Proof: January 13.