Saturday, November 28, 2009
From a distance, the Gasconade is bluish-green. Up close or in it, the water is oft-times clear, always cool and refreshing. Float the river in summertime and the air is filled with aromas. Woods thick with trees of oak and black walnut. You will pass by high bluffs of grey rock, brown rock, carpeted with moss, and when the sun hits the bluffs at certain angles, they sparkle like jewels.
These sights and aromas are part of my story, Green River, one of three manlove tales in the MLR PRESS ghost anthology, Past Shadows.
My tale is set along the Gasconade in 1938. There's a bridge carrying traffic along U.S. Route 66, and under one of its piers lives a friendly spirt... well, it is friendly to the men working for the WPA (Works Progress Administration) to rehab the highway and its river bridge. The spirit likes to play wank the weenie when those men are skinny-dipping during their free time. The link in the title of this post will take you to YouTube where you can see a three-minute slide show that tells all about Green River.
"Blah, blah, blah," you grumble. "What's the candle picture all about?"
Glad you asked. It is the creation of Candle Artist Jfay, instigated by my request for her to re-create the sights and sounds of the Gasconade I described earlier. This past Tuesday, I received my candle, and I am here to state without debate that she has succeeded. She created a scent unique, and design which depicts the very bluffs I myself have seen. Want to know how she did it? Go to her web site and find out... here:
You can have one for your very own, and when winter winds howl outside your window, you can fire it up, inhale, and picture yourself on a float on the Gasconade. While you're at Jfay's site, you will also find a text excerpt from my Green River which inspired the candle.
For more excerpts, a picture of the bridge, and purchase links for the books, you can visit my web site here: http://www.jardonnserotictales.com/greenriverexc1.htm
And that, friends, should keep you occupied for awhile.
Monday, November 16, 2009
In fact, his woodshop teacher, if you massively fucked up, made you make the paddle he beat you with…called them “name signers.” You made, you signed it, he beat your ass black and blue with it. The less than stellar efforts were farmed out to other teachers for use.
This last one we’ve passed off as a ping-pong paddle. It is that shape. Although I know few ping-pong paddles made of ½ thick oak. But still.
So KD asked if he can make a paddle now. The brain boggles. Luckily SG reverts to HS wood shop and says no, dude, the project everyone starts with is bookends. You can do that for Christmas and then we do shelves and after that we’ll think about paddles.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
He told him he loved him. He told him he'd be back.
It's also about the resiliency of life and love and how both can surprise us at the most unlikely of times.
It's the first story I've written that's set in my new home, Seattle and you'll get glimpses of the beauty of the city and the Pacific Northwest as you join my main character on the 180-foot high Aurora Bridge, also known as the "suicide bridge." It's here where Superstar begins and ends as my main character, Leon, reminisces about his love for a grungy rock superstar before taking a fatal plunge. But someone is waiting and watching, and suicides don't always go off as planned...
Hope you'll check out the story, available only in ebook. You can pick up a copy here.
When Leon first saw him singing in a dive bar, he was mesmerized. But he didn’t know he’d be going home with the dangerously sexy lead singer that night. He couldn’t have predicted he’d fall in love. But then, Leon never expected his love to be reciprocated. Yet the hot singer with the gravely voice told Leon he loved him; told him he’d come back.
So, why, three years after that fateful night, is Leon perched at the edge of a bridge, ready to make a fatal leap?
Superstar is the story of a groupie and the rock star he loves. It’s the tale of a man on the edge, both literally and figuratively...and it’s a timeless story of love found and lost lost, all set to a driving rock beat.
Superstar is about promises made, promises broken, and dreams unfulfilled. And, ultimately, it’s about realizing that love can come along when one least expects it—and in the unlikeliest of places...
...I closed Olive’s that night. It wasn’t so much the crowd, or the beer, or even the cute allegedly straight boy in the cargo shorts and Cold Play T-shirt who made eyes at me throughout the night.
No. It was you.
And your music. Back then, you were just the lead singer in a band called Voiles and I was mesmerized by both your look and your sound. A bass guitar and a drummer backed you up, and if I passed either of them on the street today, I would not recognize them. For me, you stood all alone on that tiny plywood stage with a black curtain behind you. When that incredible, melodic, craggy voice emerged, it was as if the physical confines of the room disappeared. I could see only you…and what a view that was. Your tousled auburn hair, streaked through with gold, practically obscured your face. Your rail-thin body, packed into skinny jeans and a Ramones T-shirt, was like some post punk boy’s fantasy. And when you jerked your head to get the hair out of your face, the motion revealed a chiseled face, dark chocolate eyes, and a look that seemed both faraway and incredibly sad.
It made me want to take you in my arms.
I suppose that’s the effect you were after. I hate to think that the mournful gaze and the counter-culture, retro rock star clothes were calculated, just another part of the act as much as the microphone on its stand, the drum kit, the lights, the amps, the electrical cords.
I hate to think that.
But it wasn’t just your look that caught me, entrapping me in a snare that I would find impossible to free myself from for the next three years. It was your song. Your sad, sad song. Your voice was that of a man who had smoked two packs of cigarettes a day for decades: scarred, veering on raspy. It was the voice of a man much older than your years, which appeared to number in the twenties. You were the love child of Leonard Cohen and Rufus Wainwright.
Your lyrics, coal black, smoldered around age-old topics like lost love, loneliness, alienation, and an inability to find home. Cheery stuff.
It had me sobbing into my beer most of the night.
And when I wasn’t sobbing, I was imagining what you’d look like naked.
There was a curious combination pulsing inside me that night: lust, despair, hunger…
But I never had any real hopes that I would actually be meeting you that night. No idea that I would actually see what the wiry body under those clothes looked like. No clue that I would come to know the feel of those swollen lips on my own...
Get your copy of Superstar here.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
I’m expecting an old crone, candle-making seeming to insinuate black-magic or even witchery. I’m pleasantly surprised by Jfay, wax artisan, who is an attractive woman, late thirties, with an absolutely charming southern accent, “Y’all come on in.” Her brown hair is perfectly coiffed. Her eyes are dark chocolate. Her lips are colored with just a hint of pale red. “I thought we could have cold Coronas and jalapeño snacks while we discuss the candle in question.
Our chairs are grouped around a round coffee table upon which sits opened beer bottles punctuating a bed of ice cupped within a large punch bowl parenthesized by two smaller bowls almost overflowing with spicy home-made chips.
“You’ve a candle color definitely in mind?” she asks and drinks some of her beer straight from the bottle.
“I’m thinking black, maybe representing the dark and the unknown but, to be quite candid, I’m not quite sure why I think it should be black; just that it should be,” Kenneth says. “If you can, please, include at least some brown, since I have an unmistakable feeling that those we seek are buried in the ground. You might slip in a bit of white by way of insinuating my hoped-for enlightenment.”
“All which can certainly be done,” Jfay says and reaches for a jalapeño chip which she puts in her mouth and crunches between her white teeth. “Scent?”
“Pine scent,” Kenneth says.
Before I can stop myself, I say, “And clove.”
This is Kenneth’s candle, and I’ve inadvertently intruded; I’m supposedly there as an interested bystander soaking up pointers. “I am sorry,” I say. “That just slipped out.”
“Pine and clove?” Jfay queries for clarification.
“Just pine,” I say. “I hope there’ll be no more such uncontrollable outbursts on my part. I don’t know what got into me.”
Exerpt From BLACK CANDLE READER, by William Maltese
BLACK CANDLE READER, by William Maltese, is one of the stories in MLR Press' newly released ghostly anthology, LOVE ME DEAD, in which Kenneth Black is a Candle-Reader, one of those possessed with the power to read into a candle's flames to seek knowledge and find answers to secrets thought long hidden in the past.
He is on a quest to find the burial spot of missing family members thought to have been killed by Nazis and buried in a mass grave somewhere in a forest long long ago.
Come take the journey with Kenneth which leads him to the doorstep of Candle Artist Jfay to commission the perfect candle to show him the way. Thus the BLACK CANDLE READER Candle is born from the pages of William Maltese's story and brought into reality by Jfay.
You can find both on Wick'd Reads at http://www.wickdreads.com/lovemedead.htm
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Sex is as old as... All right, sex never gets old, only we do (please, don't remind me). Sex, as a concept, though, has been alive longer than most species, hence, the "which came first" argument. Sexual fantasy surely sprung to life shortly thereafter. The truth is, since time began, men and women have fantasized their respective ways into many a satisfying orgasm. One can find page after online page of Top-10 sexual fantasies for both men and women. Obviously, we all do it—fantasize, that is.
Even us LGBT... folk.
But, I've yet to come across a Top-10 online list for any of us. Maybe I'm not perusing the correct venues. If so, someone point the way!
I mean, hasn't everyone fantasized, for example, surprising your straight neighbor in his laundry room only to coax him over his washing machine while on the heavy-duty spin cycle? (Okay, maybe that's just me). But, maybe, you've pined for your UPS guy to invite you into his truck to personally help your with your package? Or maybe, you've fantasized about shopping with your BFF, only to have her lend you a hand in the dressing room? (Maybe, not)
Time to share your most private thoughts. What turns you on?
Email your fantasies to Top10SexualFantasy@gmail.com
Anonymous emails accepted—preferred. (Please only specify - sexuality & gender of person leaving poll data)
Your privacy will be respected. All information - name, age, sex, email, location, etc. - will be kept confidential.
At the start of the new year, Top-10 lists for everyone across the LGBT Spectrum will be posted on my site for all eternity to drool over.
Let's show them what we want!
Bryl R. Tyne
Bryl R. Tyne is a wrangler by nature and a writer by choice, published with Noble Romance Publishing, Ravenous Romance, Dreamspinner Press, and STARbooks Press. You can find out more about Bryl at: bryltyne.com
This post is X-posted to the The Rainbow Studio Blog, Defying Description Blog, and Bryl R. Tyne's Blog.
Monday, November 9, 2009
This post addresses a piece written about one of my Jardonn books, The Tortured Secutor, at the web site, Speak Its Name. Posted as new entry on Frothing Authors blog, and in comment field at Speak Its Name.
I'm all for talking history, so lettuce.
Disclaimer says author submitted this book to Erastes for review. True. In January 2008... back when Erastes and I were members of a Yahoo manlove author's group... back when Erastes's Speak Its Name review site was five months old... back when Erastes was the main reviewer, along with a few author/reviewer partners of whom I was familiar.
I thought we might make a good pair. My Jardonn's Erotic Tales.com site was four years old, generating around 5000 unique visitors and 200,000 page hits per month. My Tortured Secutor book was two months old and its events set in ancient Rome, so I offered to send the book (print paperback copy was offered, but instead, a pre-correction layout, PDF file was emailed at Erastes's suggestion), and placed a link to Speak Its Name on my Jardonn site.
All right, Speak Its Name got its link and Jardonn got nothing. No review. No reciprocol link. No big deal. I figured Erastes didn't understand the unwritten courtesies of webmastering and would eventually come around with the link. I dropped it, left my link on Jardonn's site sending traffic to Speak Its Name as it was, and forgot about the book review. For the most part, I also forgot about Speak Its Name.
Now, nearly two years later, the manuscript is reviewed... not by Erastes... but by an underling... not just an underling... but a fellow-author unknown to me... and I thinks, "Wonderful! This will entertain me." In the very first paragraph I saw a typo... taht instead of that... and I knew finishing the piece from there would be difficult. Still, I trudged forward, soon realizing the underling's piece is filled with misrepresentations conveniently composed for purpose of making me appear the fool, and I thinks, "Wow! What the hell has this place become? What is this place all about?"
I waste time reading more reflections from authors analyzing books written by their competitors, and understand I've been lured into the syrup of a very ugly place. My heart sinks further as I realize that for the first time ever, I will respond to a negative review. More time devoted to unproductivity (is that a word? god, don't let me screw up the language), the only consolation being that since the piece is not really a review of my book, technically I still have never responded to a bad one.
Believe me or don't, but it's not the piece about the book that coerces me to respond, it's the two-year delay and the implication I just recently sent the book here for review.
I'm all for talking history, and now, the readers, those savvy purchasers of books and the only folks who really matter, know the history of Jardonn Smith, Erastes and the web site, Speak Its Name. Add a footnote: best I can see, there still is no link from this place to my web site, but my link from Jardonn's Erotic Tales to Speak Its Name still sits functioning on my main page.
Damn those Google alerts. This is one Jardonn incident I wish Googlebot had not found.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Just wanted to let you know that my ebook short, NO PLACE LIKE HOME, is out today and yours for only $2.25. It's a gay romance twist on THE WIZARD OF OZ and, like me, is a little different.
And when you visit the AmberAllure site today (November 8) only, you'll find that my EPPIE-Award winning novel ORIENTATION, is the daily deal...75% off the regular price!
Burl is horny. And his lover, AJ, is in the kind of sleep that approaches comatose. What’s a boy to do? In the middle of the night, Burl slips away from the house he shares with AJ, looking for just a little release for his pent-up passion. AJ won’t mind; after all, he says he doesn’t care where Burl gets his tires pumped, as long as he gets to ride.
But what Burl finds in straying from his own backyard is not quite the kind of excitement he had in mind. From boxer-shorted bears, to men who aren’t quite what they seem, to homicidal ebony gods, Burl doesn’t know quite what to make of the bizarre world outside...and the people in it. From the snow-capped peaks of the Adirondack Mountains (and the Sodom Sin Mountain Ski Resort), to the dangerous streets of the lower east side of Manhattan, Burl discovers that it isn’t always easy—or safe—when you go looking for love in all the wrong places.
What lessons does Burl learn on his quest? Does he discover, really, that there’s no place like home? There’s only one way to find out—start reading!
Check out more details and get your copy here: http://www.amberquill.com/AmberAllure/NoPlaceLikeHome.html
Friday, November 6, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
Like an actor who fears being typecast, after appearing in pretty much the same role, in a series of very successful movies, and thinks it might be to his advantage to get out of an assumed rut, I have to confess that my success in the 80s in writing very popular and internationally best-selling mainstream hetero adventure/ romance novels had me, at the finish of my ninth such book, thinking it was time for me to move on.
At least for the moment, until boredom sets in again, or until I’ve been tapped out of ideas, I’m enjoying my return to a still-remembered and exciting-once-again familiar landscape.
Visit the William Maltese web site for latest info on his books currently available and those under construction. http://www.williammaltese.com/