5-star Amazon Review of BASHED

Woke up this morning to this Amazon review of BASHED and my head, like the Grinch's heart, has swollen to three times its normal size. I don't know if I will be able to pull a shirt over it today. I don't know if I'm worthy of such effusive praise, but was so tickled I just had to share it with you guys:

Abashed by Bashed, April 30, 2009
By Jeffrey Erno (Oxford, MI USA) - See all my reviews

I treated myself to Rick Reed this weekend, and truly I was not disappointed. In all honesty his book Bashed was one of the best-written stories that I've ever seen within this genre, and it is also perhaps one of the best stories I've read in my lifetime. Certainly I'm not qualified to offer a critique of his work, but due to the fact that I have only positive feedback to offer, I will go ahead and do it anyway.

Reed possess an expansive vocabulary and uses it expertly. His sentence structure is varied and flows like a river, carrying the reader effortlessly through the pages. In spite of his advanced intellect, his writing does not convey an air of condescension and pretentiousness as does that of many prolific authors. In other words, I do not get the sense that he's merely trying to impress people by using big words. His inclusion of minute, seemingly insignificant detail within his descriptions paints very graphic mental images that connect the reader to the setting and to his characters. Each character is fully fleshed out and is presented realistically in a manner that helps the reader develop an intimacy with them, regardless if they are the protagonist or the nemesis.

Can you tell I am in awe of his talent?

As for the story itself, what can I say? WOW! I was blown away. It is timely and poignant. It is deep. It is interesting and captivating and seductive. It is fresh and original. It is clever. (No, I'm not just trying to make use of every adjective I know--they're all true!) The story drew me into itself. The opening chapter snagged me and then once I was hooked it just kept reeling me in. I bought it. I believed it. I felt it.

The most deeply moving scene within the story involves the confession of one of the gay-bashing attackers. I gasped and sobbed as I forced myself to continue reading through my tears. It truly surprised me that I felt as much sympathy for the assailant as I did. This is due to how craftily Reed delved into the psyche of each character,be they good or bad.

And of course I loved the relationship of the central characters Donald and Mark. This relationship was the foundation of the story. It WAS the story. Oh don't we all long for such a relationship that transcends the limitations of life and death? How utterly beautiful.

Well, what do I know? I'm just a reader, and I know an author such as Reed surely receives an enormous amount of feedback. Take mine for what it's worth--not much. But I had to share what an impact his story had upon my soul. It was magnificent, to say the least.

Thank you Mr. Reed for sharing your talent. You're amazing.

William Maltese - Starship Intercourse 3

William's whipping out part three of...

STARSHIP INTERCOURSE

They’d fucked on the way back to the test area after a briefing in Section C. They later told everyone their car had broke down. But everyone — including Susan, who couldn’t wait to hear all about it — knew what kept the two from checking in on schedule.

Buzz had parked the car, leaning over for a kiss, and Patricia’s hand had strayed to his thigh. What she felt there, running down almost to his knee, made all her inhibitions vanish. It was big. It was thick. It was ten inches. Her cunt was already leaking for it, and Buzz understood her hand’s continual caress of his cock to be an affirmative answer to his unasked question (which, in truth, it was).

“I’ve a blanket in the trunk,” he said. “The car is too damned cramped even for necking.”

The way he said “even for necking” let Patricia know he, as well as she, had a lot more in mind than a few kisses. She also noticed how he reached into the glove compartment for a tube of lubricant before they got out. That she pretended not to notice assured him he was going to get his desired piece of ass.

It hadn’t taken either of them long to get undressed, Patricia audibly gasping at the sight of the tool upraised between Buzz’s legs. She doubted he’d ever get something so big inside her if he didn’t slop the damned thing with gallons of lubricant. She’d begun wishing he’d brought a much larger tube (of the latter).

Buzz noticed her apprehension at seeing his monstrous dork unsheathed and wasted little time in crawling between her legs. He gripped his cock and slipped its bulbous wet head smoothly along the mouth of her slit, stopping only long enough to smear his prick with cream from the tube.

He gathered one of her tits in his mouth, sucking and nibbling at its flesh. Patricia felt her nipple turn hard as he attempted swallowing it. Her pussy was leaking with the feel of his cock against its outer rim. He hadn’t even attempted to shove home yet. He wanted to make sure her hole was wet enough to take each and ever stiff inch of his pecker. The wetter she became, the more likely that full submersion was likely to occur.

Finally, he was ready, and he prayed she was, too. His cockhead pressed just inside the warmth of her dripping cunt hole. He paused, but only momentarily, before pushing his blood-engorged dick into her slot. Pussy walls yielded beneath the onslaught, folding back to let his battering ram push home along slick corridors: penis head and shaft violated her inner sanctum.

Patricia felt the fire his hard and bulky dick ignited up her cunt and how her pussy walls concaved to accept the phallic intruder. Her cunt trembled uncontrollably. She groaned.

“Buzz?” she asked weakly, not knowing what else to say. The heat in her cunt flamed higher as inch after inch of his prick buried inside her until it was submerged to Buzz’s big hairy balls. His hirsute scrotum pooled atop her upturned ass.

She felt weak, as if her breath had been taken away, as if his prick had been a pin, so long that it stuck her to her lungs, puncturing them.

“Easy, baby, easy,” he whispered in her ear. “You have it all … every inch.”

“All?” Patricia asked. She had difficulty realizing the reality of her feat. All? My God, how could I have actually taken it all?

She experienced the pleasure and the pain of his largess, digging her fingernails into his back, pleased that he muttered pain at her scratching.

His cock ballooned bigger within her, teased to new greatness by the increased friction caused by the rubbing of his penis against her juicy cuntal membranes. His hands reached underneath her, cradling her ass, pushing the moue of her pussy slit up closer about the base of his monstrous prick.

“It’ll be good, baby,” he promised; his inches slowly pulled out, his inches slowly slipped back in. “It’ll be really … really …really good.”

Patricia could tell it would be good, too. She’d been fucked enough times to know the beginnings of a good screw from a bad one. This one was one good poke. She had no doubts whatsoever that it was going to get even better.

Although, as he progressed to fuck even more in earnest, there were times she thought she was being torn apart with each violent plunge; the pleasure, though, always, far overshadowed any of her pain.

Buzz’s fingertips worked into the crease of her ass, finding the pucker of her asshole within the valley of her ass-cheeks. He spread the entrance, inserting a finger into her funky rear hole. She lifted her hips in a reflexive attempt to dislodge his finger, burying, as she did so, all ten inches of his dick up her ravaged snatch. Falling back downward, her ass sucked up his finger to its second knuckle.

“Oh, God!” she mumbled at the double violation of her body. “Oh, Jesus God.”

Buzz’s cock pulled out to its slippery head, then instantly plugged back full-depth. Like a locomotive and its cars, the train of his prick pushed up her front tunnel. He fucked her. God, how it fucked her. His balls frantically banged her butt before finally bunching up against the base of his cock in preparation for shooting his spermal discharge.

His finger up her ass felt his cock on the other side of a thin, separating membrane. The sensation of feeling his own pumping prong inside her pushed him even closer to the brink of orgasm.

His drilled her all of the way possible — hard. His cock throbbed. His body tensed. His nuts let go his creamy load and sent it far … far … far … up her acceptingly vacuuming hole.

She screamed her pleasure, ramming and grinding her hips into his lower belly, raking his back with her fingernails, biting his neck until she tasted his blood on her tongue.

Rome and Medieval Dungeons

Perceptive reviewer Elisa Rolle has reviewed my book, Let's Get Medieval, Jardonn's Erotic Tales, Two Books in One -- The Bishop of Grunewald, The Tortured Secutor.

Here's a link to the review:
Let's Get Medieval by Jardonn Smith


Those who know I frequently write stories of erotic punishments and interrogations should find the review and comments of interest to them, but for many of Elisa's regular readers, I'm sure this is a different cup of tea.

Fortunately, because of Elisa's careful choice of words, she conveys her likes and dislikes so readers will know exactly what they're getting into if they buy the book, so they can decide for themselves whether or not they're up to the challenge.

Reviews such as this are invaluable to an author, and a great service to book buyers.

In other words, Elisa Rolle is one smart cookie, and the interwebs are far better with people like Elisa posting her Reviews and Ramblings. While you're there, don't miss out on the man candy posts to spice up your day.

Here's my book at Amazon: Let's Get Medieval

Thank you, Elisa!

New Release! BASHED by Rick R. Reed

BASHED: A Love Story by Rick R. Reed
Release Date: Mar 26, 2009
ISBN: 978-1-60820-028-3 (print); 978-1-60820-029-0 (ebook)
Publisher: MLR Press
To order and for more details, click here.

Blurb:
Three haters. Two lovers. And a collision course with tragedy.

When Donald and Mark left the Brig that October night, they had no idea their lives and love were about to be shattered by fag bashers, intent on pain, and armed with ridicule, fists, and an aluminum baseball bat.

The cowardly hate crime leaves one half of a couple alone and haunted—literally and figuratively—by the memories and denied promise of new love.

Bashed charts the course of a journey from grief to hope, from death to life, and from hate to redemption. Come along on a trip that encompasses suspense, horror, and—ultimately—romance.

Excerpt:
The night had turned cold while they were in the Brig, one of Chicago's oldest and most infamous leather establishments. A strong wind out of the north had blown away the cloud cover that allowed the city of Chicago to retain a little Indian summer heat this late October night. With the wind, the temperature had plunged nearly twenty degrees, from a relatively balmy 62, down to the low forties. But the wind had also revealed a sprinkling of stars, visible even with the ambient light from downtown. And the moon had emerged, almost full, lending a silvery cast to North Clark Street.

Donald wrapped his arms around Mark as they headed south on Clark, toward the side street where they had left their car. Even with his chaps, biker jacket, and boots, Donald felt the chill bite into him, vicious. He couldn't imagine how Mark was faring, wearing only a T-shirt and jeans. He'd get his boy into leather one of these days! It was just past three a.m. and the far north side neighborhood called Andersonville, once the province of Swedes and working class folk, and now the home of yuppies and gays, was quiet. A lone taxi headed north up Clark, looking for fares. Someone even unsteadier on his feet came out of the adult bookstore ahead of them, blinking rapidly, and looking around, perhaps for more excitement than he had found in the bookstore. Donald thought that once upon a time, he could have been the sad, singular man emerging from an adult bookstore while the rest of the world slept, but things had changed since he had met Mark six months ago.

"I feel almost-almost-like we're the only two people on earth," Donald said to Mark, pulling him in close for a sloppy, beery kiss. When he pulled his mouth away, he flashed the crooked grin he knew entranced his boyfriend, and completed the thought with: "And that's fine by me."

Mark grinned back, then rubbed his upper arms. "It's not fine by me. Not when it's this frickin' cold! Let's get home!"

They wrapped their arms around each other to ward off the cold, much as they had done the night they had met, back in March, in the same leather bar. And once again, they were just a bit boozy and flushed with need for each other. Tonight, the weather outside may not have been as frigidly cold as it had been last winter, when they had first laid eyes upon each another, but the heat and electricity passing between them was still burning as brightly as that very first night.

Donald stopped again in the middle of the sidewalk, pulling Mark close and planting a kiss on his cheek. There was no one around and in this neighborhood, such displays really were nothing to worry about, Donald thought. Hell, most anyone they encountered would either be sympathetic or jealous. He nipped at Mark's earlobe and whispered, "I love you, you know that?" He paused to breathe in Mark's scent and to nuzzle his nose in Mark's blond curls.

And Mark stopped, right there in the middle of Clark Street, on an early Sunday morning, and placed his hands on Donald's shoulders, so he would stop walking and so he could look right back into Mark's penetrating stare. "And I love you, Donald." He gave a small grin and looked down at the ground for just a second, almost as if he was embarrassed and then said, "And I always will. This is a forever thing."

Donald felt a rush of warmth go through him at the exact same moment a harsh wind, full of chill and with the smell of dark water, glided east from over Lake Michigan. He pulled Mark close and kissed him full on the mouth, his tongue lifting Mark's and doing a little duel with it. Neither of them closed their eyes, preferring instead to stare into each other's rapt gazes. Just as they were breaking apart, they stiffened as the roar of a souped-up engine shattered the still of the night. The backfire issuing forth from the car's muffler made both men jump. They gave each other a quick glance, then laughed.

The car, an old maroon Duster that had been tricked out beyond good sense, taste, or fiscal responsibility, slowed across from the pair. Three shadowy figures moved inside. One of them rolled down a window and a young male face, pale and marred by acne, in the moon's light, emerged making a kissing sound, exaggerated and prolonged. Donald heard the other guys in the car laughing. He stiffened and felt a trickle of sweat roll into the small of his back, in spite of the chill in the air.

Just as suddenly as they had arrived, they roared off, leaving them in a wake of sour-smelling exhaust. But they did not leave without casting a parting shot out the window: "Fucking faggots!"

Donald shook his head, glancing over at Mark, whose young face was creased with worry. "Don't let shit like that get to you. They're idiots. And chicken shits...it's pretty easy to call names at people from a speeding car." The pair continued south. Up ahead, they needed to turn and head east to make their way to the little side street where they had parked Donald's Prius. The street could usually be counted on for a spot, even on a busy Saturday night. Donald thought that it was more the fact that the street was hard to get to than the fact that it ran along the northern border of St. Boniface Cemetery that made it such a good parking bet.

"I know. They're just a bunch of assholes," Mark said as they continued east. Donald could feel the defeat and fear in his voice. He hoped the hotrod homophobes hadn't broken the spell of their night. Because Mark was much younger, he hadn't been exposed to some of the same ridicule and taunting Donald had, growing up in the late sixties and seventies.

Donald bit his lower lip, suddenly feeling all the shame and embarrassment he had once associated with being gay rise up again. It never really disappears, does it? His face felt flushed and a curious mixture of emotions warred within him. First, there was the shame, which he chastised himself for, but still couldn't stop the little inner voice that scolded him for the public displays of affection, even on an early Sunday morning and in a part of town that was very gay. Second, there was a more recent, more reasonable voice that was enraged, and asked, "How dare they?" This voice was ready to chase after the speeding car, shouting epithets right back at the cowards who hid behind the car's macho posturing and tinted glass. And the final voice, the other half of the fight or flee duo, just wanted to grab Mark's hand and run back to the car, jump inside, and make sure all the doors were locked before roaring off into the night themselves. Thank God they had a secure garage to park in at home.

"Yeah...assholes," Donald whispered, then spoke up, "I need to be getting you home, young man, it's way past your bedtime." Donald quickened his pace so that Mark would match his step and tried not to let the name-calling weigh too heavily on the evening. He was pissed about how a mood could be so easily shattered, especially by some more-than-likely suburban rubes that were not entitled to it. Fuck them! He wished he could make the mood come back, but not now, not with the "fucking faggots" still ringing fresh in his ears.

Maybe when they got home, Donald could put things to right. No maybe about it! He would light candles, open a bottle of wine, put on some trance music and urge Mark over to the couch. He would undress him slowly, gliding his strong hands over every inch of Mark's silky skin as he exposed it. He could already taste Mark's lips and the clean heat of his mouth.

They were almost to their car when they both tensed, slowing, as they heard the growling muffler of a car behind them. Donald closed his eyes, thinking, Oh God, please not again. Not them. They both stopped for just an instant. Donald didn't have to look back to know who was in the loudly idling car behind them. His heart began to thud in his chest and he resisted an impulse to simply grab Mark's hand and run the three or four feet it would take them to get to the car. But such a sissy maneuver was probably just the kind of thing those assholes would take particular delight in seeing. And the hot pursuit of a couple of scared queers would be the perfect capper to a boring night.

Donald spoke quietly, out of the corner of his mouth. "Let's just walk to the car. Don't look back. Don't even give them the satisfaction we're aware of them. We both know who it is. But to look back will just open the door to more shit."

Mark kept apace. "Right." His voice was clipped and Donald could pick up on the fear and tension in it.

Behind them, they heard the kissing sound again, over the beat of some heavy metal music, the bass throbbing hard enough to shake the car's frame. "Hey boys!" a falsetto voice, mocking, rang out through the autumn night. Donald wanted to freeze in his spot and could tell Mark did, too, by the way he tensed, unmoving. But Donald had enough presence of mind to keep moving forward, slowly, cautiously, the way one would back away from a lion about to pounce. No sudden moves. No eye contact. Donald had to remind himself to breathe.

A wolf whistle cut through the night air. "Hey if you guys are gonna suck some dick tonight, can we get in on the action?" The car's passengers erupted with laughter.

Donald dug in his tight-fitting Levis for his keys. His hand was trembling. His stomach was churning. He wished they had left much earlier. He wished they had parked on busier, more brightly-lit Clark Street. He wished they had taken a cab. He wished he had left his leather gear at home, just for tonight. He managed to grasp the keys just as they arrived at the car. Mark hurried around to the passenger side. When Donald met Mark's gaze, he saw that the younger man's eyes were bright with fear. He mouthed the word, "Hurry" to Donald.

The sound of car doors slamming behind them made Donald's hands shake so badly, he dropped the keys into the gravel by the side of the road. "Fuck," he whispered. They were off busy Clark now, and the side street was dark. Empty. He couldn't see where the keys had fallen. He could see where they should logically be, but of course, that's not where they were.

Mark said, in a tense voice, "Hurry up, Donald."

Donald didn't have to look behind him to know that the car's occupants were no longer in the Duster and were getting closer. Each slam of a car door caused his heart to beat a little faster, his breath to quicken.

William Maltese - Starship Intercourse Part Two

And now, return to the days of Greenleaf Classics with your host and author, William Maltese, as he presents...


STARSHIP INTERCOURSE

by William Maltese

Chapter 2

And so, Lt. Buzz Shaw, communications’ expert, and Lt. Patricia Riley, ecologist, fucked aboard Starship 12B en route to a tiny galaxy in outer space termed on the charts as nothing more than Beta 10.

They both sank down into the padded flooring of the briefing area, not too far from the radio which would soon be broadcasting their latest instructions from the planet Earth. Patricia acted coy at first, trying to put off Buzz’s insistence, but her resolve (Had she actually had any?) was soon dissolved amid his kissing and caressing. After all, as he said, who would know four years from then, when they were scheduled to reach Beta 10, that Buzz and Patricia had fucked in outer space? Besides, it wasn’t like they hadn’t done it before. In those hectic days before blast-off, the two of them had gone at it until both were bordering on exhaustion. The doctor at the final examinations had eyed Patricia carefully. It’d been Dr. Kenault.

“Poor Doctor Kenault,” Patricia said.

Buzz was already naked and out of his flight uniform. His twenty-five years in outer space certainly hadn’t shrunk his cock any.

“What about Doctor Kenault?” he asked, handing her one of the preventatives, which she swallowed.

“‘Cut out the fucking,’” he said to me. “‘Or else you’ll be too damned weak to make the trip.’”

“Doctor Kenault said that?” Buzz laughed. “That meddling old buzzard.”

Poor Kanault, Patricia thought. He was old then. God, how old is he now that twenty-five years have passed, and he hasn’t been in suspended animation to preserve his looks? Patricia shuddered unconsciously. Buzz mistook it for a sign of passion.

“I’ll set these dials,” Buzz said, “so that when the message arrives, we’ll be able to hear it. I mean, there’s no sense in interrupting playtime until it’s absolutely necessary.”

Patricia again noticed his cock. It was ten inches of hard meat if it was an inch. Its fistlike head glistened in the low-light flashings of the machines.

Patricia stretched out on her back spreading her legs. After twenty-five years in bed, her muscles were more than just a little stiff. Buzz turned back from the radio, coming toward her, finally kneeling down. He lowered his body on top of hers, his prick mashing between their bellies. Patricia opened her legs farther, letting his lower body slip between them.

He kissed her, rubbing the wetness of his prick along her lower belly. After twenty-five years in deep-freeze, the fire in their bodies hadn’t been extinguished. If anything, defrost had allowed the flames to burn even higher. Already Patricia’s hole was leaking its juices, streaming them from her cuntwalls to dribble out the mouth of her hair-lined slit. She could feel the stream leaking out of her twat’s mouth, slipping stickily down the crease of her ass.

“God, baby, God!” Buzz muttered. He’d pushed his cock’s head to the doorway. He was previously planning on a lot of foreplay. But after a few minutes of actual body contact, he and Patricia both agreed — without actual voicing it — that nothing more was needed to prepare either one of them for direct action.

The prick’s thick tip pressed its way into her wet tightness, followed by inches of hard cockshaft as it sank deeper and deeper into the offered slit.

Their bodies seemed to fit together perfectly. He’d noticed it before when they’d humped. They seemed to belong together like two peas in a pod, like the right nut for the right screw. It was heaven. It was just as he remembered it.

“This is Lieutenant Shaw,” Dr. Kenault had said. “He’s to replace Williams on the Beta 10 expedition.”

Lieutenant Williams had been found to have a heart murmur. Nobody really knew how it had managed to escape notice until that late in the game. The Beta 10 expedition was scheduled for departure in less than two months.

“You’re replacing a good man,” Patricia had said. She’d meant, of course, as a member of the project. She’d little imagined that Buzz’s cock would soon be replacing Williams’ cock, also.
.
Patricia and Williams had been fucking around since the expedition’s members had been selected. Everybody knew they’d been doing the sex scene. In a way, it was expected. In one way or the other, the whole Beta 10 contingent had paired off in groups. It wasn’t always an equal dividing line, however. It was a well-know fact that Lt. Martin and Lt. Perkins were Lesbians. But then, Lt. Susan Pilon had done her share for the well-being of the operation by taking on three men at the same time: an arrangement which everyone, Susan and her three men included, had no objections to at all.

But because of Williams’ heart murmur, he was taken off the team. Taken off the team and taken off Patricia. Where they’d transferred him — five-hundred miles away as an instructor at Camp Piptolincan — his cock, no matter how long (and they’d measured it once as nine and a quarter erect inches), had been unable to manage the stretch now required to reach Patricia’s distant cunt.. After a few letters, Lieutenant Williams had settled down with a redheaded civilian nurse, and Patricia had decided that Buzz Shaw was better than nothing: anyway, his ten inches of hard cock sure as hell beat the Coke bottle she’d been doing herself with since Williams had left the scene.

She had, at first, been rather reluctant about Shaw. For one thing, he wasn’t exactly her ideal of a he-man. He was rather nice-looking (she thought a bit too nice-looking, if that were possible), and he exuded that air of self-assurance that is normally only found in the very rich. And Buzz Shaw, or rather Buzz Shaw’s family (which boasted governmental heads back to pre-World War II), did have money. In short, Patricia found him spoiled, conceited, and too cock-sure of himself to actually replace Williams in more ways than one. She might’ve managed not to succumb to his sexual charms (which at first she thought were nonexistent — she’d yet to find out about the ten-inch cock) — if it hadn’t been for Susan.

“Have you two been doing it?” Susan had asked. Though she already had three men humping her, she was always scouting around for more.

“I hardly think that’s any of your goddamned business,” Patricia had replied.

Susan tended to get just a bit personal at times. She figured since she didn’t mind discussing her sex life that everyone else would be just as candid about theirs. Patricia’s blunt reply had admittedly stung.

“I’m sorry,” Susan said, and she said it in such a hurt, downcast way, that Patricia was immediately sorry she’d been so rude. She’d told herself time and time again she had to be more understanding around Susan. Susan, despite her good looks, wasn’t really out to hurt anyone. Despite the fact that her IQ was near-genius, if not genius, she reminded everyone of the “dumb blonde”, and she seemed to prefer that role herself.

“I used to be a bookworm,” she’d once told Patricia in one of their infrequent girl-to-girl chats. “But I found out that a girl doesn’t get anywhere acting superior to the guys — or to the girls, either, for that matter,” she offered as an afterthought.

Patricia never bothered to delve into the meaning of that last bit of unsolicited information.
.
“It’s my middle-class upbringing,” Patricia had said, finally, feeling tinges of regret at her blunt reply to Susan’s innocent questioning. “I sometimes still get very upset over this sex thing.”

“Oh,” Susan said, immediately brightening up. She was always easy to forgive someone. She’d had years, before flowering into maturity, when she’d been really quite unattractive. Bad looks and a superior brain had made her very undesirable company. She still remembered those days, and even though the ugly caterpillar had metamorphosed into a beautiful butterfly, Susan never forgot her days of social ostracism. She always thought the day might come when the butterfly would somehow revert to the cocoon, coming out finally the ugly caterpillar again. She had nightmares about it that she never told even her doctor.

“I didn’t mean to pry, after all,” Susan said. “I mean, he’s just so damned cute, and Walter said he was hung like a goddamned horse. But then Lieutenant Williams was hung like one, too, wasn’t he?” Susan hurried on. “But Walter said this one is much bigger.”

Walter was Captain Reynolds, head of the Beta 10 mission as well as one of Susan’s paramours.

Patricia wondered just why Reynolds had been so goddamned observant as to the size of Shaw’s cock. It had been rumored, more than once, that Reynolds was kind of fruity, but as long as he kept his extracurricular activities private, and satisfied Susan sufficiently so that she would boldly broadcast his masculine virtues, no one had nearly enough reason to complain.

“That’s the only reason I asked,” Susan said, biting into a roll which was oozing yellow butter. “I’ve never really had a big, big one. I mean, Walter has a good-sized one, but he said Shaw’s must be at least ten inches.”

Patricia had choked on her milk.

“Are you all right, honey?” Susan had squealed, running around the table and giving Patricia a slap on the back that was loud enough to draw the attention of those who hadn’t already noted Patricia’s gagging.

“I’m fine,” Patricia tried to say, but couldn’t get it out. She gagged again, and Buzz Shaw had left his tray to see if he might be of any assistance.

When Buzz arrived, Susan had slapped Patricia’s back once more, and Patricia was almost completely recovered from her ordeal. She was, all the time, despite her gagging, attempting to conjure in her mind’s-eye the actual dimensions of a ten-inch cock. She’d remembered just how large Williams’ had looked, and how they’d measured it with a tape measure.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Buzz had asked.

“Fine,” Patricia had said, finding her face not two inches from Buzz’s crotch. Her imagination singled out the lengthy crease in his pants, which she was sure must be concealing his flaccid prick. It was right then and there that she decided she was going to one day soon be able to tell Susan just what it was like to be jabbed with a ten-inch spike of hard male meat.

(to be continued)

Two Bram Stoker Award Finalists

When the Bram Stoker Award finalists were announced the other day, I couldn't have been more pleased. Although I share the credit with a passel of other fine writers, two of the anthologies that featured my work in 2008 were named finalists for the most prestigious award in horror literature. And that's out of only four finalists in the "Superior Achievement in an Anthology" category.

The two books are Like a Chinese Tattoo, edited by Bill Breedlove (and featuring three of my short stories, along with the twisted work of Cullen Bunn, David Thomas Lord, and JA Konrath) and Unspeakable Horror: From the Shadows of the Closet, edited by Vince Liaguno and Chad Helder (and boasting the talents of Kealen Patrick Burke, Sarah Langan, and many others, including yours truly). Unspeakable Horror is a groundbreaking collection of queer horror, and I'm so happy to see it make the final cut.

Winners will be announced in June in Los Angeles. I am very proud to have been a part of these two collections and have everything I can possibly cross that one, or both, will take the prize. Hey, a tie could happen, right?

Meanwhile, why not pick up your own copy of one of the nominated books and give yourself hours of reading terror:

Click here to purchase Unspeakable Horror: From the Shadows of the Closet

And here to purchase Like a Chinese Tattoo.

Here's a little sample from my story, "Sublet" which was in Unspeakable Horror: From the Shadows of the Closet:


And then the boy moved, walking in a kind of lazy, jerking fashion across the floor to the other side of the room. He reached up to some bricks in the wall and it looked as if he were trying to move them. He turned then and looked at Ian with such a plaintive, woeful stare that Ian was shocked by the emotion he suddenly felt: sympathy. There was anguish in the boy’s gaze as he ran his hands ran over the bricks.

And then the boy was rushing toward him and Ian was so terrified, he squeezed his eyes together, collapsing back against the bed, and curled into a fetal position, waiting for the touch of the stranger.

But there was no touch. Ian lay still, every muscle tight, in the little ball for what seemed like hours, but was, he realized, only minutes. Slowly, his breathing returned to normal and he allowed his body to uncurl, to relax the muscles a tiny bit. He allowed himself finally to open his eyes.

And the room was empty.

And a taste of "Moving Toward the Light" one of three stories featured in Like a Chinese Tattoo:

There is only darkness. She blinks, trying to focus, but the black presses in: a warm presence, engulfing, suffocating. She reaches out, wondering if she is floating in a vast, starless sky...and her hands connect with wood. Reaches up...and her hands connect with wood. Hard wood, she realizes now, supports her back. She takes in a great quivering breath, wondering how much air is left for her. This is too unreal, she tells herself and once more reaches around herself, fingers groping like subterranean insects, sensing only by touch.

The box in which she has been trapped is little bigger than she is. At best, there is only a few inches on either side of her, above her. Before the panic sets in, she touches the holes drilled in the top of the box.

IM Goes Academic

I was recently amazed to be contacted by a PhD candidate, asking if he could interview me about my online hook-up serial killer novel, IM, for his dissertation. Not that the book isn't study-worthy, I had just never thought of it that way. So when D. Travers Scott contacted me, I had to look over my shoulder to make sure he wasn't talking to someone else. Maybe he got me by mistake. Weren't PhD dissertations supposed to be centering around people like James Joyce or Dickens?

Once I got over the initial shock, I found that Mr. Scott (hopefully soon-to-be Dr. Scott) was interested in IM because of its links to the Internet and modern technology as part of modern-day storytelling.

And, by the way, D. Travers Scott is an excellent writer in his own right, author of the acclaimed One of These Things is Not Like the Other. You should check out one of his websites here or here for more information about him and his writing.

Anyway, I thought our little dissertation interview was a fascinating process. I hope you do too, since it gives you insight into the book as well as the creative process.

DTS: So, to start, I was wondering if you could tell me how the idea came about to center a murder mystery around online dating/hookup sites?

RRR: I started writing IM a long time ago (when I was single) and I would be lying if I said I didn’t avail myself of online hook-up sites. After a while, two things amazed me: the sheer number of guys hooking up (either inviting strangers into their homes or vice versa) and the fact that we all casually dismissed the danger this anonymous way of meeting was putting us in. I know I am not the only gay man to invite a stranger into my home. And I began thinking, as all writers do at one point or another, what if… What if that hot guy you were inviting over was a killer? I started thinking how easy it would be for that killer and how simple it would be to commit an almost perfect crime: there would be no real life links to the deceased, you were invited in to your victim’s home, he often would put himself in a vulnerable and defenseless position…and on from there. Online hookups could be a perfect scenario for a sadistic killer. I just went from there.

DTS: What technology themes are there in any of your other works?

RRR: I use technology quite a lot in my work, probably starting with an early short story, “Online” in the vampire anthology The Darkest Thirst, about an unwitting woman who invites a vampire into her home via an online lesbian chat room. Vampires, according to legend, need to be invited in by their victims. The Internet is also an important part of my novella, VGL Male Seeks Same, a light romantic comedy about a man creating an online persona to find a man, and its sequel NEG UB2, where the same character from VGL Male is diagnosed HIV positive and discovers the online bias now against him. Blogging plays an important role in that story. I think the Internet as a community is here to stay, and growing.

DTS: How is Timothy Bright different from your other villains? Were there any aspects of his character that you emphasized or de-emphasized to 'fit' with his use of the web and messaging? That is, did you have any ideas about what sort of killer would be an online killer?

RRR: I don’t think I really consciously thought about Timothy being an online killer. I wanted to make him very innocuous looking, which is why I made him slight and blond, sort of elfin. I thought it was creepier to have someone who looked like the antithesis of evil cast as a monster. His appearance does come up throughout the book, though, and he lies often about what he looks like when he’s online (he never posts a photo), making himself beefier and manlier. The interesting thing, I thought, was how many of his victims ignored this disparity when he showed up at their door.

DTS: There seemed to be a few references to alcohol and substance abuse in the book. Was this an intentional theme?

RRR: From my own experience with these sites, “party and play” is a very common factor on almost every one I’ve encountered. I just thought it was realistic to have some of the characters using party drugs to enhance their experience.

DTS: What impact do you feel the Internet and modern communications technology has had on the gay community? For example, some people applaud how it empowers rural queer kids to find community, others say it has isolated us, weakening community ties and public meeting places like bars or leather events.

RRR: I think the world is constantly changing, whether that’s positive or negative is up to interpretation. As I said above, this way of connecting and communicating with others is here to stay and will probably continue to grow and make further inroads into all of our lives. I would need a good crystal ball to know how this will affect humanity and the ways we interact. It’s a kind of evolution and only time will tell what its benefits and downfalls are.

DTS: Telecom companies often advertise with phrases like, "stay always connected." How do you feel about this idea of being connected, given that your online presence lets you connect with readers, but you also have a novel about connecting to killers?

RRR: The Internet has been a wonderful way for me to reach out to readers that hitherto would have been unavailable to me. I am old enough to remember that one of the few promotional routes available to me were book signings or conventions, where I reached relatively few people. The Internet, and social networking, has exploded, and although there’s a lot of “noise,” I think I reach many more people than I used to before it was around. As with anything else in life, this way of connecting has its dangers and potential for abuse.

DTS: The initial victims presented in the book -- I'm thinking of the first kills especially but then also somewhat with Mark, the close call -- seemed like somewhat flawed people. They seemed vain, superficial, reckless, and/or closeted (particularly in contrast to Ed and Peter). Was this intentional? Were you intending any kind of commentary in that about aspects of urban gay men or culture? Or about the kind of men who would use hookup sites regularly?

RRR: To be quite honest, no. I think a lot of my writing flows from my subconscious and what you say about these characters make sense and while I wouldn’t say it was wrong, I would be the first to admit that my only intention was creating real people who are often flawed…and many of the adjectives you used above. I will say that I think hookup sites are used by all different sorts of men for all different sorts of reasons and to blanket characterize the group as a whole would be ridiculous.

DTS: If you had to sum up the moral or lesson of IM, what would that be?

To realize that the Internet can often be a lot of smoke and mirrors and even if you think you know with whom you’re hooking up, use caution. Meet first in a public place. Tell someone you trust where you’re going if you’re meeting up with someone. There are no guarantees for either bad or good resulting from Internet interaction, but there are precautions that might help tip the scales in your favor.

To purchase IM in trade paperback go here.

To purchase IM as an ebook, go here (for Kindle) or here (for other ebook formats).

"Not Even My Husband Knows!" The Secrets of Erotica Writers

Last weekend, when I was in Las Vegas at Epicon, the big annual gathering of electronic publishing professionals, I had the pleasure of meeting many others of my ilk: namely those of us who toil a good part of our lives away in solitude writing stories that we hope will entertain, inform, and provoke thoughts and emotions.

One woman I met at the Thursday night party seemed a cheerful sort. She came right up to me and began telling me about all the erotica she writes and publishes. She's quite a name among erotica e-book readers. But then she said something that surprised me: "Nobody knows I write erotica. Even my best friends and my family don't know. Not even my husband knows!" She laughed and I laughed with her, but then I was thinking, "But aren't you proud of what you do? Why would you spend all the effort and time on something that no one near and dear to you even knows you do?" I assume family and friends know at least that she's a writer and have just not delved into the subject matter of her work...or perhaps they don't know at all. Later in the conference, a male erotica writer confided that he needed to keep his identity as a writer of erotica separate from his real life because he also coached Little League baseball. He didn't think writing erotica would go over too well with the parents of the kids he coached. And I think he may have something there, though I think some of the kids might think it's way cool.

But the coach did make me begin to understand this need for anonymity the successful writer I met on Thursday felt she needed. And that was brought home to me the other day when I had lunch with a friend here in Seattle. I was telling him about Epicon and the people I'd met and happened to bring up that I'd met several people who wrote erotica.

He grinned and sort of rolled his eyes and said, "You mean porn?"

Now, this isn't the first time I have heard of erotica being equated with porn, but I did have a flash of further understanding about why someone would choose a nom de plume under which to publish their erotic writing. I don't think my friend's assertion was all that uncommon. I did try to explain that there was a difference, but found it hard to do. I think, the short answer would be that erotica uses sex as a way to bring out emotional themes and to propel a story, whereas porn is there purely for the sake of titillation. Porn does not need character development, a plot, or any commentary on the human condition. It's unfettered, one-handed reading. Nothing wrong with that, in my mind, if that's what you're in the mood for and no one's getting hurt. But all this talk at the conference about being "in the closet" as an erotica writer made me wonder how many others out there automatically think "porn" when they hear "erotica."

I am not above writing the occasional porno story. But the two book covers above, the first for Fugue and the second for MANamorphosis, demonstrate stories that are all about sex, but I don't think are porn. Fugue, in particular, is quite graphic, XXX-rated, yet I think,in the end, it's a story about power in a relationship and the varying ways we experience love...and it's themes like that, I think, that differentiate erotica from porn.

What do you think? For you, what separates erotica from porn? Really, I wanna know. Please leave me a comment below.

William Maltese - Vintage Pulp 1

SURE, I’M GOOD! … BUT WORTH 1000 BUCKS?

If I’d been a genuinely smart author, way back when, first starting out and pumping out books for Greenleaf Classics (while I was busy pumping something else as well), I would have held on to a helluva lot more copies of my books than I did. Instead, I passed along all my author comp copies to friends and associates, like Jesus passing out bread and fishes.

Actually, I guess, compared to some other authors — very few who survive from the time of Golden Pulp Fiction —I managed to save at least one copy of all my books, with the possible exception of MASTER BLACK, which I wrote as Wm. Lambert III (if anyone has an extra copy, please send it along).

What’s happened, of course, is that those pulp books have since become hot items (in more ways than one) for collectors, for just the very reason that so few of them, considered as disposable as toilet paper in their day, have survived. You thumbed through them, you jacked off to them (I didn’t call them “one-hand reads” for nothing; and, yes, I do hold the trademark rights to that phrase — one-hand read), you got their pages all stuck together with your dried cum, you gave them a toss in the wastepaper basket, and you went down to the dirty-book section of your local sleazy hole-in-the-wall and picked up a couple of the more recent offerings. In those days, the halcyon days of pulp-fiction erotica, Greenleaf was putting out as many as four straight fuck-books and four gay-fuck books on a monthly basis.

While, over the last couple of years, I’ve noticed the decided increase in the amount of money anyone has to shell out for a good many of those early smut books, mine included, even I was surprised to find a copy of my straight STARSHIP INTERCOURSE erotica, written by me as Lambert Wilhelm, offered up the other day for the asking price of $1000.00. Of course, the cover is by none other than Robert Bonfils, an illustrator who has only recently started receiving critical praise for his work, but still …

I’ve decided to provide all of you frothingauthor.blogspot.com readers with a free peek at what, these days, you’d have to dig deep into your pockets (and not just to play with yourself) to see … because, as luck would have it, I do still have one author’s copy of STARSHIP INTERCOURSE in my collection, not only signed by me but by Robert; I’m holding on to it in order to pay for some very plush days of retirement.

Therefore, with no additional fanfare — feel free to unzip, pull out, and grab hold — for …


“Hi,” he said. “Remember me?”

Patricia Riley — Lieutenant Patricia Riley — yawned, stretched, lazily blinked her eyes, then suddenly realized where she was.

“My God, are we there?” she asked, sitting up with a start.

“No,” Buzz Shaw replied with a smile. “I just got lonely.”

Patricia looked about the cabin, noticing the neatly lined suspended-animation cylinders holding the Captain and the rest of the crew. She then turned her attention back to Buzz, who was still grinning like a little school boy.

“You’re mad,” Patricia said. “Absolutely dotty. Do you know what Reynolds is going to say when he finds out about this?”

“What do you mean, when he finds out?” Don’t you mean, if he finds out? I’m sure as hell not going to tell him. Are you?”

“Hell, yes,” Patricia said, indignantly. “You’ve committed a breach of orders. They’ll court-martial you for this. It’s my duty as an officer on this ship to see that those orders are carried out to the letter. You had no authorization to defrost me until we reached Beta 10. You were instructed in the briefing that no one was to be defrosted before Beta 10 unless it was an emergency. Then it was to be Captain Reynolds.” She looked at his smiling face, finding it really impossible to be mad at his baby-faced grin. The impossibility to feel anger annoyed her.

But then Buzz Shaw had always annoyed her. He wasn’t somebody she ever would’ve believed to be Space-Corps material. He was more of the country-club, cotillion, lawn-party, high-tea set. He wasn’t the dedicated sort of gung-ho person one expected to be wrapped in the cobalt blue of the Experimentation Squad. He was too carefree, too happy-go-lucky, and too unobservant of rules and regulations. He’d been that way from the beginning.

“You bastard!” she said finally. “You silly-assed, goddamned bastard!”

“Such language for a lady,” he smiled.

“They’ll have your head for this,” she said, trying to let some form of seriousness creep into the conversation, sink into his head. “They’ll cut the goddamned thing off, shove it in one of the vacuum tubes, and jettison it back to Earth before the rest of your body gets there.”

“How about a kiss?” Buzz laughed. He’d always thought Patricia a bit too serious. Not that they hadn’t had some fun times together. They’d surely had some of those. That’s why he’d decided long ago to defrost her when his turn came up to receive the periodic communiqués beamed to them from Earth.

“Like hell, I’m going to give you a kiss!’” Patricia almost screamed. Her attempt at impressing him with the seriousness of the situation had apparently gone way over his head.

“Hey, baby,” Buzz grinned. “When I pushed all those buttons, I thought I’d defrosted you. You’re just as frigid as ever.”

“My God, my God,” Patricia muttered hopelessly. “What more can I say than that?”

What more could she say? What more was there to say? Here they were, the only two conscious people in an intergalactic vessel in outer space. She was suddenly at a loss for words.

“Come on,” Buzz said, extending a hand. “It can’t be all that bad. Who the hell is going to know four years from now that Lieutenant Shaw defrosted Lieutenant Riley and fucked her in outer space?”

“Who fucked who, where?” Patricia asked. She retrieved her hand, which she’d extended for help in getting out of her suspended-animation tube. “Nobody is fucking this baby, anywhere.”

“Guess I defrosted the wrong bitch,” Buzz pouted. “I was really tempted to push the buttons for Susan. Now, she wouldn’t have bitched. She would’ve been pretty damned appreciative.”

“I guess you should have,” Patricia said, lying back down in her tube, crossing her arms as if she were a Pharaoh being laid out in the sarcophagus. “As a matter of fact, you can just freeze me back up and go defrost Susan.”

“And what makes you think I won’t take advantage of you once you start to go under?”

“You wouldn’t!”

“And just think what would happen if I didn’t get my rocks off fast enough. Everyone would wake up on Beta 10 and find my cock frozen up your cunt.”

“Ach!’ Patricia said, sitting up again. “You are damned impossible. And I suspect you’re a little perverted to boot.”

“The truth is,” Buzz confessed, “I haven’t got time to defrost Susan.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s time for me to check the ship and see if it’s in working order.”

“You haven’t done that yet?” Patricia was flabbergasted.

“Come, now, sweetheart,” Buzz consoled. “Things can’t be too bad. We’re all in one piece, all the machines are still making noise, and we are still moving.”

“And how about the message? You know your whole purpose in having been defrosted according to a schedule was to accept the message beamed from Earth.”

“I thought if you’d help me check out the ship, we’d have a few minutes to talk before the message. I mean a guy could get pretty damned lonely with nobody but the machines to talk to.”
“Just talk?”

“Or whatever.”

“What does that mean?”

“I thought maybe we could fuck. I told you that.”

“I haven’t been taking preventatives,” Patricia said.

“No fear,” Buzz smiled, extending his hand again. “I just happen to have some on me.”

“You just happen to have some?” Patricia asked immediately. “You just happen to?”

“Sure,” Buzz said. “I picked some up before boarding. “No one even noticed them in the pocket of my flight uniform.”

“You were instructed to bring nothing,” Patricia said. “Nothing at all except what the regulation set out. This goddamned ship has a maximum-weight capacity.”

“Now, how many excess pounds to you think I added by smuggling aboard one small box of preventatives?”

Patricia shook her head disbelievingly.

“Your time is fast arriving,” she said. “One of these days you’re going to do something you weren’t supposed to. Then look and see what the hell is going to happen.”

“Gee,” Buzz said. “Just because I wanted to fuck a fifty-five-year-old woman? Such static?”

“Just who in the hell do you think you’re calling a fifty-five-year-old woman?” Patricia asked indignantly.

“It’s the year two-thousand-three,” Buzz said.

“My God!” Patricia replied. She automatically checked her body for signs of age.

“You asked me once why I became a member of the Space Corps,” Buzz said. “Now you know. Who else could look twenty at fifty?”

“My God,” Patricia breathed. “Twenty-five years of my life gone in one night’s sleep.”

Unresisting, she let him help her from her capsule.


(to be continued)

Note from Jardonn: William's web site (Link HERE) has more pics of his pulp classic covers, as well as his library of hot erotic fiction still in publication. Best of all, he has an extensive collection of artwork based on his photograph that he calls "'Artists Do' William Maltese."

Best of the best of all, he's put together excerpts of Starship Intercourse from his Greenleaf Classics days for posting to this blog. It is a rare treat, ladies and gents, for here will be words you will find nowhere else -- not unless you were clever enough to save such material from when it was in print.

Rick Reed - EPPIE Winner

Oh, great, another award, big deal. News Flash! This one is a big deal.

Last night at EPICON (stands for Electronically Published Internet Connection - Convention) in Las Vegas, the EPPIE AWARDS were presented for outstanding writing in e-book formats, and Rick R. Reed took first place in the GLBT catagory for his novel, ORIENTATION .

Published by Amber Quill Press, Rick's novel is a complex thriller of past lives, of Robert and his long-dead lover Keith, of mysterious dreams and messages channeled through a woman Robert has saved from suicide, and of Robert's current lover, Ethan, whose meth-addicted brain believes that only by destroying Robert can he save himself. It all culminates to a shattering climax in which both loves and lives hang in the balance.

You can read more of the synopsis and an excerpt at Rick's web site HERE.

Thousands of 2008 titles in this catagory alone were culled down to seven, and Rick Reed's Orientation took home the prize. If you scoff at my assertion this is important, just look at the size of Rick's humongous trophy. The smile says it all.

Good work, Mr. Reed. Bask in your glory, and know we are smiling with you and for you.

James Buchanan's Hard Fall gets Nymphed

James Buchanan's Hard Fall was a topic of discussion here a few weeks back before its release. Had to do with the Mormon church -- the discussion, that is.

The book itself deals with a law man in Utah who clings to his Mormon faith while functioning as a closeted gay. Not exactly what you'd call a common theme in the oft-times predictable storylines of gay erotic fiction, but apparently Mr. Buchanan has created a credible story with compelling characters.

The book's only been in release for a few days, and already has received high marks from respected reviewer Chocolate Minx at Literary Nymphs.

FIVE... 5... Count 'em, FIVE NYMPHS... the tops.

Way to go, James! You made for a happy Minx.

Read the review HERE.

Elisa Rolle on ratings

Prolific book reader and insightful book reviewer Elisa Rolle has explained on her blog why she does not give ratings to the books she reviews. It is in response to a question posted in comments regarding a book she sort of liked, but not with great enthusiasm. Link here:

Elisa Rolle - My Reviews and Ramblings

She also tells why when she is forced to give a rating, such as at Amazon, she gives the top by default.

Elisa's blog is worth a visit. Her reviews are entertaining and the eye candy she posts nearly melts the ice caps. Do partake.

I'll be signing books in Vegas Baby!

At the Erotic Heritage Museum
Wednesday March 4, 2009

EPIC book signing!

Attendees of EPICon 2009 will be presenting and signing their books at the Museum from 7 PM - 10 PM. Wander around, view some lovely erotic art and meet some of your favorite erotic authors...including yours truly!

eroticheritagemuseum.com/index.php
3275 Industrial Road
Las Vegas, Nevada 89109
011.702.369.6442

The Museum Charges Admission:
Adult: $20.00
Senior: $15.00
Student (18 and older): $15.00
Las Vegas Residents: $15.00
Retired Military: Free
Members: Free

A Valentine's Weekend Release: IM

With the advent of the high holy day of all romantic holidays, Valentine's Day, I wonder how many of us will go lookin' for love...online. I especially wonder because my serial killer thriller, IM, has just been released in a brand, spanking-new edition from MLR Press. What does one have to do with the other, you might ask. Well, with the romantic weekend coming up, many of us might hop online, looking for a little companionship. As food for thought, I post the following from my novel, IM:

IM is about a serial killer who uses gay internet hook-up sites to find his victims. The excerpt here gives you a front-seat view to a murder, through a killer's eyes...

Excerpt from IM © 2009 by Rick R. Reed

LAKE SHORE DRIVE at night has its own excitement, especially when one is hurtling toward a rendezvous with an unknown destiny. On one side of my car, Lake Michigan bears silent witness to the streams of cars heading north and south, headlights like glowing insect eyes, piercing the night. The other side of the highway is crowded with high-rises, their glass, chrome and concrete rising into the night: hives of activity within, quiet sentinels without.

I have a cold bottle of Samuel Adams between my legs, a Marlboro burning in the ashtray. Normally, beer and cigarettes are not my vices. I care about my health, you see. But these are props, the same as the deeper-pitched voice I use, same as my word choice, which is much less sophisticated than someone with an MA in English from the University of Chicago. The beer and cigarettes are part of my costume. Tonight I wear faded, ragged Levi's 501s, the crotch faded, the buttons moving in an inverted question mark, emphasizing the bulge in my crotch.

When did gay men turn into no-charge prostitutes? Has it always been this way?

Whatever. I'm also wearing a Bulls T-shirt, the sleeves cut off raggedly, the neck cut low.

I take a swig of the beer, letting its cold bitterness snake down my throat, and turn up the tape player. Ironic. Leonard Cohen is singing, "There Ain't No Cure for Love."

I press down on the gas; ahead is my exit: Irving Park Road.

When I arrive, I see the apartment is a red brick six flat, identical to others all over the city. I ring the buzzer, and the guy doesn't even bother to ask who it is. No difference. We never exchanged names anyway.

Trudging up the stairs, waiting for the shotgun-cocking sound of a lock being turned, a chain sliding back into place. Someone waits to admit me. Someone I don't even know.

What a friendly world this is.

A door opens above.

What waits upstairs?

I round the bend and I see him. Nothing like his description, but who expected different? I am nothing like what I told him. No matter. As long as you're male and reasonably young and acceptable, you're in.

The guy has a good body and his lips curl into a grin as I head toward him, dragging on my Marlboro. He's wearing a pair of black bikini briefs. His moment of glory: this is what he's worked for all those long hours at the gym. Finally, someone to appreciate the shaved and defined pecs, the smooth washboard belly, the bulging biceps that I just know he will somehow maneuver to flex for me.

But he's much older than what I had expected. Mid-40s probably. His reddish-brown hair is thinning and the blue eyes are framed by crow's feet (a bottle of "eye-revitalizing" cream is in his medicine cabinet, I bet). The goatee, a desperate ploy to make himself look younger and hip, is embarrassingly ineffective. A cougar tattoo snakes down one of his arms.

"How you doin'?" I exhale a cloud of smoke and pass him as he opens the door wider to admit me.

"Great. Now that you're here."

The apartment is small, crowded with "contemporary" furniture: a black leather grouping in the living room, chrome and glass tables, spare jagged-looking twig and dried flower arrangements. On the walls, Herb Ritts posters of absurdly pumped-up young men in various settings: a garage, on the seashore.

The guy leads me into the bedroom. Platform bed, comforter thrown back, striped sheets. The nightstand holds the tools of his true trade: a plastic cup full of condoms he probably never uses, a couple of little brown bottles filled with butyl nitrate, a leather cock ring, a metal cock ring, and a large pump bottle of Wet. On the lower shelf, a stack of neatly folded, but ragged, white towels.

A dresser faces the bed and atop it, a color TV and DVD combination. On the screen, a wildly muscled dark-haired guy tries to sit on one of those orange traffic cones. Amazingly, he's beginning to succeed.

I grin.

The guy drops the black briefs and sits on the bed. Hoarsely: "Why don't you get undressed, man?"

"Why don't you do it for me."

Instant supplicant, he's on his knees before me, working the buttons on my jeans. I'm sure his eyes are glistening. Already his breath is coming faster.

I push his hand away. "Hold on." I lift the goateed face up to my own and look in his blue eyes, where nothing but desire and trust mingle. "I want you to lie down on the bed. Lie on your stomach."

He gets up and does as he's told. The half-moons of his ass practically glow in the darkness. A thin, whiter line disappears in his crack, where his thong was. The definition in his arms shows up perfectly as he raises his arms above his head to clutch the pillow.

His legs are parted, waiting.

"I just need to do something real quick. You stay right there." I look back at him as I exit the room. "You're a good boy, right? Do what you're told?"

"Yes, sir."

In the kitchen, I go quickly through the drawers until I find the one with the knives. For the first time, I get hard, and I think of the blood pumping, filling the spongy cavities.

The blood. Essence of life.

I strip down, leaving my clothes in a pile on the kitchen floor. I hope that I don't bring any cockroaches home.

I hold the butcher knife I chose to my side, concealing it with my arm, and head back to the bedroom.

He still lies there, waiting and trustful, thinking he's about to be penetrated.

And he is.

I move quickly to the bed and the guy is perfect: he closes his eyes, pulling the little brown bottle to his nose and inhaling deeply, for what seems like about 30 seconds in each nostril. Then he moves the little bottle to his mouth and inhales through that as well.

Just as I raise the knife, he turns to hand me the bottle of poppers. He sees the knife in my hand and for a moment, he doesn't know what to think.

What's wrong with this picture?

The confusion registers in his eyes, then it's replaced by terror. He half sits up, scuttling to the other side of the bed. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing, man. Don't get so excited. Can't we just do a little fantasy scene here?" I smile and imbue that smile with kindness and a hint of mischief. I'm able to keep calm. I want him to be reassured. It will be so much easier to enter him if he's relaxed.

Visibly, he grows calmer. His features relax, but a hint of wariness remains in his eyes.

"I kind of get into fantasy." I let a small laugh escape, as if I am embarrassed by this admission. "Couldn't we maybe pretend we're doing a little force scene here? I want to rape you, man."

He chews on his lower lip, and I notice he's gone soft.

"Look, we don't have to do this if you're not into it." I put the knife on the floor. "I just thought it would be kind of exciting." I smirk. "Did you really think I'd hurt you?"

"Well, no, of course not."

Of course he thinks I wouldn't hurt him. I suppose that's what everyone thinks.

Until someone does hurt them.

"Look, maybe we should just forget this. Not everybody is into the scene." I laugh. "But it can be kind of fun."

The guy's thinking; I can see it. And I know I've got him now. He rolls back over on his stomach, hugging the pillow. "Sorry," he says. "You just can't be too careful these days. Know what I mean?"

"Really."

He wiggles his ass at me. "Why don't I pretend to be sleeping."

"Perfect." I pick up the knife and move toward him.

In the background, a guy on the screen moans and shouts: "Oh shit, man, I'm gonna come!"

To purchase IM (and to read the first chapter), click here.

A Phoenix Rising Followup

A lengthy thread of comments on Kimberly Gardner's book evolved into discussion on more books and Proposition 8 and... well, the end result is information worthy of its own post. It began when author James Buchanan noted the success of Phoenix Rising and books of the M/M Romance genre:

JB: And they said nice girls wouldn't buy that shit...

Author Z.A. Maxfield followed with: Or write it. ;-)

JB: Yeah, but can I send your Stake President a copy of Hard Fall?

ZA: Please do!

JB: Yeah, but then I’d get a bill when he had an aneurysm and had to be rushed to the emergency room and the Relief Sisters had to go help his wife and their ½ dozen kids… sheesh we finally got the missionaries to leave us alone. The Elders were getting desperate, sending the female Elders out and they’re the rare, big guns you know (24-25 year old unmarried gals as opposed the 19 year old boys)

ZA: yep. You know, I always feed the boys but it's funny how those no on prop 8 signs seem to have kept them away as nothing else has.... Shun the non-believers...

These were references to missionaries from the Church of Latter-day Saints, or Mormons, who played a significant financial role in California's Proposition 8, which banned same-sex marriage in the state, and the authors were asked to explain.

JB: Various lay positions in the Mormon Church. The only paid position is the Janitor, all others are “called” into service. Elders (Missionaries) are usually boys between the ages of 18-21, but if a girl hasn’t gotten married by 21 she can go on a mission…and those women are FANATICAL. The Relief Society is Women who have been called to take care of the sick and elderly in the church. They bring meals, drive elderly members to Dr’s apt’s yadda. If you simply stop going to church and stop tithing (10% required) they send the older, more experienced Missionaries out to your house with a vengeance…often bringing the Stake President with them to discuss your absence. SG finally got rid of them when the Stake President said, “Well if you really don’t like the church, you should petition to have yourself removed from the rolls.”

His answer: “That would mean I cared…” They stopped coming, even when they’re in the neighborhood, although as with ZA we always fed them. It’s like being a door to door salesman with nothing people want to buy. SG did his two years among drug addicts in Northern England…he refuses to travel anywhere in Great Britain because of that time…

OH…and Hard Fall.. next book coming out…Gay Mormon Back Country Sheriff in Utah…

ZA: I cannot wait for that book, when again?

JB: It is in formatting…so soon

End of discussion!

James Buchanan's upcoming Hard Fall is shown in column right, as is the I Do Anthology of which Z.A. Maxfield was a contributing author. The proceeds from sales of I Do go to the Lambda Legal Defense Fund in their court battle to overturn Prop. 8, and was organized by contributing author Alex Beecroft. Book cover link takes you to Amazon.com where you can learn more about the project, see a full list of authors involved and, if you wish, purchase the book.

Thank you to Z.A. and James for taking this conversation to a good place. Comments to this post are definitely encouraged.

Jardonn

Kimberly Gardner is Rising

Normally we don't ooh and ah about book awards because there are so many that only pertain to a limited audience. But this one here is a big deal, and since Kimberly Gardner is an author we can get in to (soon you'll know why) I am going to announce it here and now.

Kimberly's Phoenix Rising, published by MLR Press, made the top ten for AllRomanceEBook's The Best of 2008 Awards and we are very much impressed because out of all the thousands of titles released in 2008, both M/M and F/M, making the top ten is a major accomplishment.

If you're wondering why, here's a little excerpt from the book:

The rain had stopped and a thumbnail sliver of moon cast silvery light over the yard. From the rear of the garage the ground sloped down. About ten yards down the slope, the manicured grass gave way to a line of trees and wild growth where the shadows grew thick and heavy.

"That's Fairmount Park," Jimmy said from the bathroom doorway. "It backs up to this property so there aren't any neighbors, not unless you count the deer."

"How far does it go?"

"The park? Miles and miles. Fairmount is the largest municipal park in the country. When we were kids we weren't allowed back there. My mother was sure we'd wander off and she'd never see us again."

"But you went anyway."

"Of course we did." Jimmy laughed. "Tell a kid not to go somewhere and that's the first place he wants to go. I remember when Laton was in high school, he used to take his girlfriends back there and make out."

"How do you know?"

"I followed him a couple times. You know, the kind of stuff little brothers do."

He didn't because he didn't have any brothers, but he liked listening to Jimmy talk. Knowing these little details made him feel closer to Jimmy, like they could actually be friends. "Did he ever find out that you followed him?"

Jimmy shook his head. "Are you kidding? He would have kicked my ass if he knew."

They both laughed.

Adam let the curtain drop and stepped away from the window. "How about you. Who did you take back there when you were in high school?"

Jimmy's cheeks flushed. "I went to boarding school in New Hampshire."

"So you never snuck into the woods with anyone to make out?"

Jimmy's hesitation was just enough to tell Adam there was something here. A little thrill raced through him.

"Who was he, Jim?"

Jimmy shook his head. "I don't remember. That was a long time ago."

Adam stepped up close. Jimmy could easily have moved away but he didn't.

Adam slipped his hand inside Jimmy's open collar and stroked the warm skin. Jimmy's pulse jumped under his fingertips as Adam leaned in. "Tell me."

There was a pause. Jimmy's lips parted. He swallowed. "His name was Christopher," Jimmy whispered. "Chris Daley. He was the first boy I ever kissed."

Adam leaned closer, stopping with their lips no more than a breath apart. "You took him into the woods and kissed him?"

"He kissed me." Jimmy's lashes fluttered down.

"Show me how." He didn't know where this little game had come from or where it was going, but he liked it.

Jimmy's hands slid around Adam's waist. The man drew him close. He pressed against the hard length of Jimmy's body. Jimmy's mouth claimed his, the kiss starting slow, the contact soft and just a little tentative, the way a teenage boy might kiss.

Adam's fingers caressed the back of Jimmy's neck before sliding into the close-cropped hair. He sighed as his eyes drifted closed. But when his lips parted, Jimmy broke the kiss.

Adam opened his eyes. "What-"

"He asked me if I liked it," Jimmy said, his words slow, his tone dreamy and far away. "And I said I did. Then he put his hand on my cock."

Adam's breath caught. He could imagine it, Jimmy so young and unsure, never even kissed let alone had another boy's hand on his cock. God.

"How old were you?"

"Fifteen. We were both fifteen."

Adam slipped his hand between their bodies. With a fingertip he traced the hard length of Jimmy's cock through his pants.

"So hard," Adam murmured. "Were you hard for him, Jim?"

"Yes," Jimmy breathed, "so hard ... from the kiss, you know? And it was nothing really, just a kiss. But, God ..." Jimmy's hips pressed forward, silently asking for more contact.

Adam squeezed Jimmy's prick before sweeping his thumb over the head where a damp spot on the fabric of his pants let Adam know just how much Jimmy liked this game.

"Did he fuck you and make you come?"

"I came," Jimmy said, hips rocking against the press of Adam's hand. "He kissed me and I came in his hand."

God, it was too much. Adam laid his head on Jimmy's shoulder. They were supposed to be talking. He should be telling Jimmy why he couldn't live here, why he couldn't be Jimmy's fuckboy.

Jimmy squeezed Adam's ass, angling their bodies so their cocks bumped. "God, Adam, I want to fuck you so bad."

Adam moaned. He wanted it too. "Let's do it. I want your cock in my ass."

"Can't," Jimmy said, "no condoms or lube out here."

Adam didn't have anything on him either. Shit. Suddenly, inspiration struck.

"We'll just kiss and use our hands. Like you did with that boy all those years ago." He rubbed against Jimmy, begging with his body, cock against cock.

"Adam, I don't-"

"You going to make me beg?" Adam flicked his tongue inside Jimmy's ear. "Please, Jim, I want to hold your cock in my hand, make you come." He nipped at the pulse in Jimmy's neck. "Please, let me kiss you and come for you."

Now you stop right there, Ms. Kimberly Gardner. We know good and well Adam's little bondage fantasy will be played out, and since you obviously are a talented wordsmith we now have more than enough reason to buy the book. Apparently, many others agree, proven by the fact your Phoenix Rising rose above countless others to make the list.

On that note (the note of me being a man rising just thinking about this), Jardonn and Jasper extend to you a sincere CONGRATULATIONS and wish you much future success in your writing adventures.

Jardonn

Jardonn's Hugs and Hickies

I know we've built a reputation for writing bondage and torture into our erotica, but Jasper and I can write love scenes as well. Write... er, right, Jasper? Allow me to post some examples:

From Jasper's Maggie Pie --

She journeyed with him to their beginning -- their second beginning, the night he showed up on her porch, his porch, the night of his confrontation with three men outside a Holyoke tavern. He appeared before her near midnight as a weathered alley cat, the hair on his head matted with dried sweat. His shirt waved in the breeze, overlapping his jeans, its buttons unbuttoned, most buttons missing. The matted hair of his chest and belly centered his open shirt, splotches of red dotted his knuckles, the backs of his hands. He told her of his deed, of his manhandling of her husband, his pummeling of her husband’s two friends, not knowing how she would respond, not knowing if she would be pleased or displeased. He surrendered to her, desperate for her acceptance.

She took his scarred hand, led him directly into the grey-shrouded turret, near this same bed in this same room. She stripped him of his tattered clothing, guided him to lay flat on her mattress, exhibited for him her newly-found skills, unknown even to her until executed. With her mouth she praised him, with her tongue she painted him, and with her throat she controlled him.

Bud had no choice but to reach for the bedposts. His reach was involuntary, but of his own doing. The overwhelming ecstasy of her touch stripped him of all notions that he was the dominant partner. The power of her touch weakened him, sapped his strength, erased his ability to defy her. He stretched himself, demanding to be punished. Then as now, she punished him with denial. Their first session, a session of discovery, of secret desires learned in silence by movements and responses, sealed their reunion, rekindled their passion, while leaving their pain a distant memory. She controlled him, and her domination allowed him to exonerate himself from all guilt. With Julie in control, Bud’s demons were extracted, taken from him, no longer his responsibility, no longer his problem. With Julie in control, Forrest Richter was dead, buried and forgotten.

Now as then, she became weary. She laid atop him where she had begun, keeping his penis imprisoned, crushed to the depths of her vaginal walls. Her head fell next to his, between his cheek and the crook of his shoulder. Her fingers encircled his triceps and biceps. Julie drifted into sleep.


And now from my Thomas Coleman Full Nelson, from the book Hard Working Men --


Thomas basked in my praise. Sprawling before me with eyes closed, he snored off and on, moaned and groaned off and on as I licked and kissed and manipulated muscle with my hands. With no regard for his sore ribs or anything else, I saturated his body with my spit, buried my face into his untreated armpits and glossed over their bushy blackness. My lips clamped his biceps, my jaw opening wide to engulf their thick and hard power. My face inhaled his belly, so soft at its surface, so concrete beneath. His perfectly-matched nuts were assaulted with tongue and lips, their cropped hairs tugged with teeth, their sperm-bulging skin nibbled with mouth and twisted with fingers. His feet, his sturdy, size ten, fur-topped feet were painted with my spit, each toe sucked, each sole and each ball joint massaged with fingers and licked with tongue. And his tits, so firm, so tiny and so hidden with his arms down, now were wide open with his arms up. Little nickels with little tips became little dimes with rising tips, hardening tips, as I sucked and licked and slurped and finger-pinched. My baby's baby bottle nipples were treated as such without mercy, because my eyes were locked onto his frantically bouncing cock. My assault upon his tits produced a phallic ballet of involuntary clenches. The contractions of his scrotum were my doing, not his. His mighty cock bobbed and weaved with power and grace. He spit silky, pre-orgasmic lubrication, strands of the stuff glistening in window-filtered moonlight and tethering his cock head to his belly. Overflow of his manly syrup sugar-coated his ready-to-explode mushroom, its bulging sheen inviting my mouth to taste. All of my beautiful Thomas joined his scrotum in convulsing, as he arched his back, sucked in his belly, thrust his tits deeper into my mouth and fingers.

Oh, how he suffered, how he writhed in uncontrolled ecstasy, flexing and posing and thrusting and groaning like a heroic, chained muscle-stud. And when I could no longer bear to watch him struggle through my cruel extension of our nine years of frustration, I finished him.


See? No chains or ropes, simply two people upon a mattress making love. You and I are true romantics, Jasper.

Jardonn