Hello all you M/M romance readers!
It has been brought to my attention that yesterday was the International Day Against Homophobia. RIGHT NOW there is a blog-hopping even going on between May 17th and May 20th around the internet that SEVERAL of AMR authors are participating in. I encourage you all to visit Erika Pike's post on Hop Against Homophobia and view the official list. But below are the AMR authors (and links) who are participating in the hop.
Happy reading!
Tristan
Kayla Jameth
Michele L Montgomery
Rick Reed
Rachel Haimowitz
Wade Kelly
JP Bowie
DC Juris
Silvia Violet
Andrew Grey
Friday, May 18, 2012
Monday, May 14, 2012
The Way To A Man's Heart by Silvia Violet
It has often been said
that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, and several of the heroes
in my books believe in this maxim. I love to cook so it's natural for me to
write characters who are at home in the kitchen. In Astronomical, Blake catches Greg's eye as soon as Greg moves in
next door, but he seals Greg's interest by making him an amazing dinner. Greg
has daily fights with the toaster and wouldn't dream of trying something more
complicated, so being served a delicious chicken curry (http://www.marthastewart.com/274310/slow-cooker-recipes/@center/854190/comfort-food-recipes#/283153) thoroughly impresses him.
Then, the real kicker, brownies for dessert, but not just any brownies. These
have a surprise in the middle, Oreos.
The best
thing is, Oreo brownies are super easy to make, so if you want to wow a man or
you'd just like to impress the crowd at the next summer cook out, all you need
to do is stir up some brownie mix as instructed on the box but leave out the
water. Then add ½ cup softened
cookies-and-cream ice cream and ¼ cup chocolate fudge topping. Layer half the
batter in an 8x8 pan, cover it with Oreos, then cover the cookies with the rest
of the batter. Bake according to
the directions on the brownie mix and you'll have something sinfully good,
something to bring any man to his knees.
Astronomical
by Silvia Violet
Blurb:
A hot, kilt-wearing astronomy geek
with a powerful telescope. A tongue-tied librarian who likes his orderly life.
Where will their attraction lead them?
When sexy, kilt-wearing astronomy professor Greg MacIntyre moves in
next door, Blake Theriot knows he's in trouble. Blake is a research librarian,
and he likes things orderly and controlled. But in his secret fantasies, he
craves a big, powerful man like Greg to stir up his life.
Every time Blake tries to talk to his erudite neighbor, his brain shuts
down and his vocabulary is reduced to one-word utterances, but when Blake's
niece challenges him to invite Greg to dinner, he does. A few shots of
after-dinner whiskey loosen Blake's inhibitions, and the two men share a hot
kiss and the promise of more. Can Blake relax enough to give himself a chance
with Greg, or will his fear of letting go ruin his hopes for love?
Excerpt:
The front
door banged open, making me jump. I muttered a curse as I looked at the
spaghetti sauce I'd splattered on my shirt. I'd have to change before I headed
to work.
"Blake, are you in the kitchen?"
"Yeah."
My sister's shoes made a swishing sound as she walked
through the living room and into the kitchen. "It smells great."
"Thanks." I answered absently as I looked
through the spice rack for cayenne.
"Have you been outside lately?"
I shook my head. Renee had a conspiratorial tone in
her voice that told me trouble was coming. I focused on the sauce. I would not
fall prey to her scheme, whatever it was.
"You should come check out the view."
"What?" I tasted the sauce and added more
pepper. "Why?"
"When you told me your new neighbor was an
astronomy professor, I imagined someone even geekier than you."
Heat rose to my cheeks like it did every time I
thought about Dr. Greg MacIntyre. No one had caused such a strong a reaction in
me in years. The man was truly devastating. Tall and beefy with wavy red-gold
hair I longed to run my hands through, preferably while on my back throwing my
legs over his shoulders. No need to choose between brains and brawn with him.
But during the few conversations we'd had, I’d
babbled like a fool in response to his erudite remarks. If Greg was gay—and
he'd given me no solid reason to believe he was—he wasn't going to want a
drooling imbecile for a partner.
Renee started to say something else, but she was
interrupted by her daughter, Haley, rushing into the kitchen. "Hey, mom. I
thought I heard you come in."
Renee was raising Haley on her own and she worked
three night shifts a week as a nurse in pediatric intensive care. Haley usually
spent those nights with me and occasionally stuck around for a few hours the
day after Renee's last shift so her mom could catch up on sleep or run some
errands.
Haley turned pleading eyes on me. "Dr. MacIntyre
is outside. Can I go meet him now?"
My shirt was stained. I'd overslept and raced out of
the door without shaving or doing anything to tame my curly hair. I was rushing
to get dinner made because I'd agreed to fill in for someone at the main campus
library and had to go back to work.
But Haley had been anxious to meet Greg since he
moved in a week ago. She loved astronomy and all the mind-boggling math it
required. She'd seen Greg setting up a telescope in his backyard and hoped he'd
let her take a look through it. I couldn't deny her the chance to meet a
real-life astrophysicist, especially one so well-respected that LSU had lured
him away from Berkley for their Advanced Gamma Ray Survey Mission. I wasn't
sure exactly what the program's professors did, but their work sounded
impressive and expensive.
I sighed. I'd already made an ass of myself with
Greg, what difference did it make how I looked?
"Sure. Just let me—" Before I finished my
sentence, Haley shot out of the door. I nearly busted my ass racing after her.
Renee laughed as I stumbled down the porch steps.
When I reached the yard, my heart nearly stopped.
Greg was indeed outside, up a ladder, fixing a broken gutter, wearing nothing
but a utility kilt. A fucking kilt. Could he get any more perfect?
I stared, frozen to the spot. My mouth watered as I
took in his muscular legs, his round ass, the broad expanse of his back. He
reached up to hook the gutter back in place, and I bit my lip to hold in a
groan at the sight of his muscles flexing.
"Uncle Blake?" Haley snapped me out of my
trance. "Are you okay?" she asked.
"Uh…yeah. I'm fine."
Her lips turned up in a mischievous grin. "You
like him, don't you?"
"Who?"
She rolled her eyes. "Dr. MacIntyre."
I prayed her loud whisper hadn't carried across the
yard. "He's a nice man."
"Right."
Not a conversation I wanted to continue. "Come
on. Let me introduce you."
As we got closer, I had to resist the urge to look up
Greg's kilt. Sweat rolled down my temples as I wondered whether he was naked
under there. At least in the Louisiana heat, everyone was sweaty.
"Hi, Greg," I called.
He looked down and smiled. His green eyes sparkled,
and my cock responded. I so didn't need to be standing there with a hard-on.
Buy it at Silver: https://spsilverpublishing.com/product_book_info/products_id/1051
Buy it at Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Astronomical-ebook/dp/B007Z3QXU6
Silvia Violet
Surrender To Your Darkest Needs
Visit me: http://silviaviolet.com
Facebook: http://facebook.com/silvia.violet
Twitter: http://twitter.com/Silvia_Violet
Friday, May 11, 2012
Save A Horse, Ride a Cowboy
Our dear friend Mark Bowne was fond of that phrase!
Today Marks the two year anniversary of his death. It is a sad day because we are no longer able to talk to our friend and laugh with him and encourage each other with writing and LIFE in general. He was SUCH an inspiration! Mark was full of wisdom and encouragement and love.
So as we pause to say a pray of thanks that we had the privilege to know him-for a day, for a week, for a year, for a life-time-I ask that everyone, in honor of Mark, post pictures of cowboys! He would have loved that! Most of you post hot guys anyway. Today make it about COWBOYS for the author of cowboy romance! Mark Bowne.
In case any of you have not noticed, Mark's writing still survives on FICTION PRESS!
20 STORIES about spies, convicts, ghosts, miner 49ers, and YES cowboys are there for you to read. Take some time and remember an AUTHOR who never had the chance to be published because he left this life too soon.
Mark Bowne, we remember you!
Today Marks the two year anniversary of his death. It is a sad day because we are no longer able to talk to our friend and laugh with him and encourage each other with writing and LIFE in general. He was SUCH an inspiration! Mark was full of wisdom and encouragement and love.
So as we pause to say a pray of thanks that we had the privilege to know him-for a day, for a week, for a year, for a life-time-I ask that everyone, in honor of Mark, post pictures of cowboys! He would have loved that! Most of you post hot guys anyway. Today make it about COWBOYS for the author of cowboy romance! Mark Bowne.
In case any of you have not noticed, Mark's writing still survives on FICTION PRESS!
20 STORIES about spies, convicts, ghosts, miner 49ers, and YES cowboys are there for you to read. Take some time and remember an AUTHOR who never had the chance to be published because he left this life too soon.
Mark Bowne, we remember you!
Monday, April 30, 2012
Excerpt from Chris Quinton's new book Fox Hunt
Have you read any of Chris Quinton's books? Her new one Fox Hunt is available from Manifold Press HERE.
There were two motorbikes parked by the workshop when I pulled in off the lane. Mike’s Kawasaki and another, bigger, beast in black and chrome. As I got out of the car, my brother came running from the workshop, his face white in the swathe of light from the open door.
“Rob!” he yelled. “Ann’s gone!”
“Yes,” I said calmly. “Mr B has her and we have his money. Or rather, Dad does. Why the panic? Did you think she’d been nicked?”
“Bee?”
“As in Baverstock.” I peered more closely at him. “Mike? Are you okay? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m fine.” His smile seemed a bit forced. “Just a bit hung over, and finding her gone was a jolt.”
“I’ll bet. Too much imagination, Stud.”
“Huh!” Then he seemed to remember something, and the smile was turned up to full wattage. “Rob, come and meet an old pal who’s going to solve a problem for us.”
“Oh?” I said. “I wasn’t aware we have a problem. Apart from Dad.”
“Exactly. I meant what I said, you know. Those paintings could well be hot, and Baverstock may or may not know it. Then there’s Dad’s fall which might not have been an accident or even a fall. So-”
“Mike, you’re not making much sense.”
“Yes, I am. I don’t like the idea of you being here alone, or the panel when we’re both away seeing Dad, so – ”
“I am perfectly capable of looking after myself!” I snapped. “Will you stop equating gay with limp wrists! I’m not a fainting waif and I’m no pushover! It wasn’t me who ducked out of Karate classes because they interfered with my love life!” I had a green belt in Shotokan Karate, hardly Bruce Lee material, but it kept me fit.
“So,” Mike continued, ignoring me, “I’ve arranged a backup bodyguard.”
“What?” I scowled. “Who? Uncle Joe? What could he do? Huff distillery-breath on them?” It began to rain heavily, which did not improve my temper.
“What?” I scowled. “Who? Uncle Joe? What could he do? Huff distillery-breath on them?” It began to rain heavily, which did not improve my temper.
“Fox,” he said brightly. “He owes me a favour, so I asked him to stay for a while. Until Adam’s finished and gone back to Baverstock.”
“Oh. Did you.” Fox? What kind of name was that? If he was one of Mike’s friends, he probably smelled like one and was as house-trained; a spotty would-be biker with delusions of style. Or the real deal. This was Mike’s idea of being a responsible adult? My nerves had been stretched raw from the moment I received Lisa’s phone call telling me about Dad, and this was the last straw. I had a choice between anger or anger with violence, and the first swept over me before the second could get a toe in the door. Besides, satisfying though it might be, punching Mike’s lights out would get us nowhere. “Nice of you to consult me first,” I snapped. “You can tell your old pal Fox his company is not required, so he can jump on his toy bike and pedal off back where he came from!”
“Don’t be hasty, Rob! Just stop and think for a – ”
“I have, and foxes are superfluous to requirements!”
” – moment. He can sleep in my room – ”
“No! Of all the arrogant, stupid, selfish – if you’re so concerned about me and the bloody panel, why don’t you and Donna move in here? Hmm? Thought of that, Stud? So hop it, both of you!”
I spun on my heel and stalked into the cottage, slamming the door behind me. It was old, of solid oak, and slammed very satisfactorily. After a short pause, a bike fired up and roared away.
One bike. A sharp tattoo of brass on brass rattled in my ears as someone played a tune on the lion-and-ring knocker. I jerked the door open, smiling with all my teeth. “Fox,” I said, not feeling the need to moderate my words with Mike’s strange friends. “On your bike.” The figure on my unwelcome mat was clothed head to foot in dripping wet motorcycle gear – black leather topped off by one of those black full-face visored helmets that looked like a leftover from the Star Wars epics. He took off his gloves, and then his helmet, and ran his hand through his matted hair.
“Robert Rees,” he said. His voice was quiet, deepish and slightly husky, and started a slow curl of warmth through my blood. “Can I come in?”
In the light spilling from the room I could see he was pale, the almost transparent pallor that goes with naturally auburn hair. His was not just red, it was a copper mane that came past his collar in heavy waves. The warmth became a pulse of interest, and I flattened it quickly. I’d been dateless far too long, obviously. He was about my age as far as I could tell, just under six feet tall and looked as if he’d escaped from a Hollywood Brat Pack: all lean grace and cheekbones and thin high-bridged nose, and a gold ring in one earlobe. He also had a chin with a jut to it that begged to be introduced to a fist. He looked like fire and ice. He looked like trouble. ‘Can I come in?’ Who was he trying to kid? Not a chance …
The impulse sort of faded away and, “Yes,” I heard myself say. I was moving aside to let him walk past me before I fully realised what I was doing. His eyes were very green and as our gazes met, he smiled. The conviction I was imagining things edged into my mind and took over. This biker lout was no more trouble than Mike. A pest and a pain in the backside, but that was all.
“Thanks,” he said. “Mike told me to say he’s sorry he upset you, but he is worried.”
“Huh. I’ll wring his neck when I get hold of him, but it’s not your fault. You can stay for a day or so, I suppose.” I shut the door on the night. I felt oddly disconnected from my irritation with Mike and my unwanted guest, and couldn’t recall why he was unwanted, just that he was. The beginnings of a headache twinged behind my eyes. “Have you got any gear?”
“Yes, on the bike.”
“Bring it in, then. There’s another tarp in the workshop if you want to cover yours up. You look as if you could do with a hot drink. Coffee?”
“Thanks. Black, no sugar.”
“Go on, then. And wipe your feet!”
By the time I’d put the kettle on, he was back, panniers draped over one shoulder, hair straggling wetly over his face. He dropped the panniers and held out a hand to me. “Thanks for the hospitality,” he said and I wondered if he was being sarcastic. “I am house-trained, I promise.”
That got a bit close to reading my thoughts and I could feel my colour rising. “So I should hope,” I snipped, shaking hands automatically. His paw was narrow and long-fingered and chilled, the grip firm without being a power play. I glanced down at our joined hands.
On the first finger of his right hand was what looked to be an antique gold ring, the armorial design on the bezel worn close to obliteration. Hmm. So the Brat Packer was wearing a fancy ring. That didn’t quite go with the image. I wondered briefly where he got it from, then it fuzzed and slipped from my mind. “Furniture isn’t improved by being dripped on,” I said sternly, determined to play the bitch to remind him he was here under sufferance, and if it sounded more bitch-queen, then tough. It might even scare him off. “These are the house rules and if you don’t like them you know what you can do about it. Since you’re the resident Doberman, you can sleep on the sofa in the living room. It’s a lot closer to the workshop than Mike’s attic. You can also do the cooking and washing-up for both of us while you’re here, so I can spend more time on Dad’s work. Do you have any problems with that?”
“No, Rob,” he said meekly. Too mealy-mouthed, by half.
Visit Chris Quinton's website for news on all her books!
Thanks for stopping by All Male Romance :)
Monday, April 23, 2012
Sedonia's Men Of Tokyo
Please forgive me. I just couldn’t help myself. A work I created and populated, born of the man in my life who means everything to me and the path my life has taken, has become so much a part of me that I couldn’t fight the need anymore.
What need am I talking about? Simply, my need, as an author and person, to allow myself to spend more time in this world, the world of the White Tigers. You might ask, well, if you love it so much, of course, that seems perfectly natural! Why wouldn’t you write as many stories as you can? Especially when there is a definite group of readers (bless all of you deep in my heart!) who also love that world.
It wasn’t so simple. Even though I adore the White Tigers and have gotten untold amounts of satisfaction and pleasure in writing this series, I was younger, less experienced and carried a strong belief that I had burned myself out, written myself out, that the series was done, nothing left, even though I had two more stories in mind (i,e, that of the twins Mod and Tatou and that of Jin and Wu Li who make an appearance in Men of Tokyo: Sudden Heat. I didn’t realize that it would be best just to continue this eries and not worry about writing books I believed would be more popular. Now I have taken the time to write to people who have signed the White Tigers Fanlist as well as all those good-hearted kind and supportive readers on sites like Facebook and Goodreads who have personally told me how much they loved the series or have written one after the other reviews saying how much they loved it. Yet others have written to me personally and expressed how much the White Tigers stories have been comforting, helped them in their lives and moved them deeply. How could I have been so short-sighted?!
Once I understood this truth, I set about to fixing it immediately and within an hour had half of the first chapter done of the next book in the series, Men of Tokyo: Forbidden Cravings, the story of Mod and Tatou, the twins who are so mischevous and lovable. They are crazy about Quan Chan and always tease him and make him blush, but they are also two of his greatest admirers and did everything they could to comfort him when his heart was broken in Men of Tokyo: Sudden Surrender.However, Mod and Tatou are also as deep and intelligent as they are mischevous and sexy and the story of how they came to be at the White Tiger is in the process of being told. The good news also is that for established readers of the White Tigers, Mod and Tatou’s story is an enriching addition to the series and for readers new to the series, Men of Tokyo: Forbidden Cravings can be read as a prequel to the whole series!
All that said, I’m just so happy to be working on this series again and below is a snippet from the first chapter (unedited) to give you a sense of the story. Hope you enjoy! And thank you again for reading this and for your support.
Warmly, Sedonia
http://www.sedoniaguillone.com/
Snippet:
Chapter One
London, England a few years back
“Mod, what the hell? You’ve got to be taking the piss!” Tatou stared at his brother. Like looking into a mirror really, except that their mother’s Thai features were more obvious on him. Mod’s dark eyes were a touch narrower. And the grin on his full, pouty lips was always slightly more devilish. At least Tatou thought so.
“I swear I’m not!”
In the main room of the suite, the girls’ pajama party Angela had invited them to rang on. Mostly girls, giggling. An occasional cackle.
“Then Angie’s taking the piss.” The words that had just come from Mod’s lips could not be true. Not of Angie, who’d been their mate since third form and had followed them to Uni.
Mod took a swig of his beer and clapped him on the back. “Ask her yourself, mate. She swears it wasn’t her idea. Someone asked her to pass the offer along.” He hooked his arm so that Tatou’s neck rested in its crook and pressed their cheeks together, giving Tatou a whiff of his brother’s beer breath. “Just think, a hundred quid for a few seconds’ snog.”
Tatou wrenched out of his brother’s loose hold, but not before an odd frisson went through parts of him it shouldn’t have, parts he’d worked bloody hard to keep under control for a long time. “There are so many reasons we shouldn’t do that.”
“Hey, guys!” Angie’s voice shot from the room followed by another shriek of laughter. The volume in the already smoke and music-filled room rose. The natives were getting restless. And they wanted what a hundred quid would buy them.
That did nothing to wipe away Mod’s shit-eating grin. The barmy bugger. He was always up for anything. But this? “First of all, Mod, it’s prostitution.”
That pulled a throaty laugh from his drunk brother. “Okay, T. And what are the other reasons?”
“Well, there’s one other, really.” Tatou stepped in closer. Gay they both were but that didn’t mean you sucked face with your own brother. He didn’t even allow that track in his thoughts, even when his mind tried to go there. ”In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re my brother? There’s got to be a few injunctions in the Bible that tell us exactly where we’re going to end up if we snog. Especially for a room full of horny chicks.”
For the first time since Mod had pulled him out of the party room to tell him what Angie and her fellow dorm mates wanted, his grin faded. “I don’t see the problem in that. We have our own forms of affection, or have you forgotten?” He leaned in and nuzzled Tatou’s cheek. His brother’s soft lips made his skin tingle. And other body parts that would remain nameless. He closed his eyes. They’d shared a bed in the family’s tiny flat all their lives and often helped each other fall asleep by what they called “fitting.” It had only been here at Uni that they each had a bed in their dorm room and only occasionally practiced fitting. Truthfully, he missed the closeness. They were best friends. Didn’t go anywhere apart. Not even meals. Not even dating, limited though it was in their twenty-two years at this point to an occasional threesome in which the third guy was the focus, not each other. They really were two halves of one whole. But now, it was time be…normal. Not to go in the direction his mind and body had been heading. Being in school, so many people in the dorm all the time had kept them both…apart, you could say. This was not going to help. Then Mod’s nuzzling lips whispered a trail toward his ear, toward the sensitive flesh of his earlobe…
With a hand on Mod’s chest, he pushed him so that Mod was forced to take a step back. “Forget it.”
“There you guys are! What’s going on? The girls are going to come after you if you take any longer.” Angie, dressed in a pink silky nightgown and fuzzy slippers, danced her blonde-headed way over and put her arms around both their shoulders, swaying in time to the bass beat that made the floorboards vibrate. “I’ve got the collection going already. And…” She lifted her head up, a triumphant gleam in her hazel eyes, “There’s another fifty quid in it if you take your shirts off.”
Mod’s eyes widened. “Bloody hell!” He turned on Tatou. “T, if you don’t do this, you’re the bloodiest prat ever!” He narrowed his eyes. “Forget your stupid ideas of hell and damnation. Think of how we need this money for our trip!”
Ah yes. Their graduation present to themselves, partially funded by Mum and Dad after graduation. A whole summer in Japan. At that special place in Tokyo they’d found on the Net. Honestly, they were headed for one of the most expensive cities in the world. They could use all the extra dosh they could get. That hundred and fifty quid would go right into their travel fund. He heaved a sigh. “All right. Let’s do it.”
Angie let out a girl squeal. “This is going to be so hot!” She hooked her arms through both of theirs and led them back into the crowded room.
Shite. The common room of Angie’s suite looked more like what Tatou imagined the inside of Chippendale’s looked like on a weekend night, except that the patrons were dressed in nightgowns, pajamas and slippers and were draped all over the sofas, chairs and floor of the suite’s common room, full of pillows and blankets. And a few stuffed animals thrown in. The shrieks of delight drowned out the music as Angie led them to the front of the room where there was a small space away from the heat generated by all those horny college women. The sight made his heart pound and throat tighten. His mind fogged and his vision blurred. Up until this moment, he’d been as much the impish tease in their group of friends as Mod was, sometimes more so. Now, with all those pairs of female eyes on him and his brother, knowing what they wanted, were giving up money for, what was more nerve-wracking? All this lustful attention and expectation, or the fact that he was about to break his personal taboo? A hand clapped on his shoulder. He turned.
Mod was grinning at him, the corner of his full lips turned up. “C’mon, mate, let’s give ‘em their money’s worth, eh?” Before Tatou could answer, Mod released his shoulder. His hands went to the hem of his own t-shirt, lifted it off and flung it aside in one swoop. Eliciting, of course, another chorus of feminine catcalls.
Tatou glanced at his brother’s slim torso. Another shiver of electric heat travelled through him. Am I really so narcissistic that Mod turns me on?
Mod stepped up to him. “You’re taking too long,” he said and grasped two fistfuls of Tatou’s shirt. A sharp yank forced Tatou’s arms up and before he knew it, the air of the room hit his bare akin and another round of lusty girl cheers pounded through his head. A lot of these girls were mates but he swore he didn’t recognize them now, a feral lot of she-wolves in heat.
But then Mod’s hands closed around his upper arms and Mod’s dark eyes bore into his. The mischievous gleam he knew so well shone out of them, a direct reflection of his own, of course. But in private, they had their own world, a communication that didn’t always need words. Whatever Mod really felt about what they were doing, would surely come out later once they were back in their own dorm room two floors below this one. Especially if he thought Tatou was mad at him for it. Cheeky as Mod was, his brother’s concerns were his and he cared. Always cared… Tatou’s gaze fell on Mod’s lips. His consciousness registered that around them, the room had grown quiet, except for the music, which had fallen to a slow dance kind of love ballad.
Wordlessly, Mod pulled him close. Their bare chests touched, then pressed. Warm skin growing warmer from their combined heat. The embrace forced Tatou’s arms out. At first he let them hang at his sides, but then the temptation was too much. The moment took over and he reached around…let his hands rest on the small of Mod’s back. The hard ridges of muscles along his spine med Tatou’s fingertips. Tan-hued skin, smooth and perfect. Even though their Dad was English, there were some Mediterranean ancestors mixed in so the golden hue and shiny, dark hair came from both their parents.
Mod leaned in and pressed his lips on the side of Tatou’s neck. Tatou’s eyelids fluttered. That felt too good and he tilted his head. Mod feathered a small kiss there, right over the pulse, then licked. Tatou let out a breath and squeezed Mod’s back. Good thing their fronts were pressed together or all these women would get an eyeful of a hard-on growing in the front of his jeans. Their audience was getting well more than a hundred fifty quid’s worth as far as he was concerned.
Mod trailed those little kisses up, over his jaw and onto his cheek. Damn! The fire ignited deep inside him. The very desire he’d kept hidden for so long, tried to hide from himself was now welling up, burning like flames through dry leaves for all to see. Did Mod know this? The one thing he’d never voiced out loud, in spite of their closeness. He must have known anyway, sensed that’s how his brother wanted to be kissed and held.
Mod’s hand laced into his short hair, cupped the back of his head. Mod’ eyes burned into his, lids heavy, thick lashes giving them that lazy yet hot look. The next he knew, their lips were together. A pierce of hot wet moistness past the seam of his lips and Mod’s tongue clashed with his.
Another feminine chorus sounded behind them, but this one of nearly silent murmurs, sighs. Except for the music, you could have heard a pin drop. And but for the soft moist friction of their lips and tongues together. A sensuous dance that sent invisible threads of arousal and need thundering through Tatou’s body. Mod’s cock was hard. Tatou felt it, pressing against his through their pants. Hard, rock hard insistence. Shite, what would happen next if they hadn’t the audience? The answer was simple—everything Tatou had ever imagined and squashed away. Locked in the forbidden corners of his mind and soul.
Mod’s lips lingered. His tongue slowly, sensuously explored Tatou’s, every recess, glided over his teeth. Mod smelled good. He always did. Even with the beer. There was always an undercurrent of mint in there. His lips were soft, the sweetest velvet. Delicious. Addictive.
As if teasing the hell out of him, Mod ended the kiss. His hands slid back to Tatou’s shoulders and Mod gazed at him, heavy-lidded, cheeks flushed. Then the devil slid back in again. The gleam of mischief returned and Mod turned back to their audience. “Was that all right for you, ladies?”
Angie stepped forward, somewhat unsteady on her feet. Her pale cheeks show a reddish glow. Her eyes were glazed over. A smile pasted on her lips. “Perfect,” she murmured.
Mod grinned. He released Tatou whose knees felt slightly not solid. He wavered a moment then forced himself to balance. In the next second, Mod had bent over and snatched up both their shirts. He handed Tatou his shirt then reached for the beer he’d set aside on the nearby table before their…performance.
In a daze, Tatou worked his way back into his shirt, while ghostly tingles strayed through his lips, his neck, his cheeks. The memory of Mod’s chest against his remained in his skin. As he turned, he caught sight of Angie pressed closed to Mod, her hand pushed into his jeans pocket. She was slipping him their earnings, no doubt, while the guests of one her popular girls’ night in gatherings were whispering among themselves. Then she reached out and gently clasped Tatou’s wrist, pulling him closer. “Thank you guys so, so much,” she said, her eyes reflecting the delight she’d just been given. “You have given a group of exam-soaked women something to dream about besides failing finals and not graduating.” She kissed each of them on the cheek. “I will be forever indebted to both of you.”
What need am I talking about? Simply, my need, as an author and person, to allow myself to spend more time in this world, the world of the White Tigers. You might ask, well, if you love it so much, of course, that seems perfectly natural! Why wouldn’t you write as many stories as you can? Especially when there is a definite group of readers (bless all of you deep in my heart!) who also love that world.
It wasn’t so simple. Even though I adore the White Tigers and have gotten untold amounts of satisfaction and pleasure in writing this series, I was younger, less experienced and carried a strong belief that I had burned myself out, written myself out, that the series was done, nothing left, even though I had two more stories in mind (i,e, that of the twins Mod and Tatou and that of Jin and Wu Li who make an appearance in Men of Tokyo: Sudden Heat. I didn’t realize that it would be best just to continue this eries and not worry about writing books I believed would be more popular. Now I have taken the time to write to people who have signed the White Tigers Fanlist as well as all those good-hearted kind and supportive readers on sites like Facebook and Goodreads who have personally told me how much they loved the series or have written one after the other reviews saying how much they loved it. Yet others have written to me personally and expressed how much the White Tigers stories have been comforting, helped them in their lives and moved them deeply. How could I have been so short-sighted?!
Once I understood this truth, I set about to fixing it immediately and within an hour had half of the first chapter done of the next book in the series, Men of Tokyo: Forbidden Cravings, the story of Mod and Tatou, the twins who are so mischevous and lovable. They are crazy about Quan Chan and always tease him and make him blush, but they are also two of his greatest admirers and did everything they could to comfort him when his heart was broken in Men of Tokyo: Sudden Surrender.However, Mod and Tatou are also as deep and intelligent as they are mischevous and sexy and the story of how they came to be at the White Tiger is in the process of being told. The good news also is that for established readers of the White Tigers, Mod and Tatou’s story is an enriching addition to the series and for readers new to the series, Men of Tokyo: Forbidden Cravings can be read as a prequel to the whole series!
All that said, I’m just so happy to be working on this series again and below is a snippet from the first chapter (unedited) to give you a sense of the story. Hope you enjoy! And thank you again for reading this and for your support.
Warmly, Sedonia
http://www.sedoniaguillone.com/
Snippet:
Chapter One
London, England a few years back
“Mod, what the hell? You’ve got to be taking the piss!” Tatou stared at his brother. Like looking into a mirror really, except that their mother’s Thai features were more obvious on him. Mod’s dark eyes were a touch narrower. And the grin on his full, pouty lips was always slightly more devilish. At least Tatou thought so.
“I swear I’m not!”
In the main room of the suite, the girls’ pajama party Angela had invited them to rang on. Mostly girls, giggling. An occasional cackle.
“Then Angie’s taking the piss.” The words that had just come from Mod’s lips could not be true. Not of Angie, who’d been their mate since third form and had followed them to Uni.
Mod took a swig of his beer and clapped him on the back. “Ask her yourself, mate. She swears it wasn’t her idea. Someone asked her to pass the offer along.” He hooked his arm so that Tatou’s neck rested in its crook and pressed their cheeks together, giving Tatou a whiff of his brother’s beer breath. “Just think, a hundred quid for a few seconds’ snog.”
Tatou wrenched out of his brother’s loose hold, but not before an odd frisson went through parts of him it shouldn’t have, parts he’d worked bloody hard to keep under control for a long time. “There are so many reasons we shouldn’t do that.”
“Hey, guys!” Angie’s voice shot from the room followed by another shriek of laughter. The volume in the already smoke and music-filled room rose. The natives were getting restless. And they wanted what a hundred quid would buy them.
That did nothing to wipe away Mod’s shit-eating grin. The barmy bugger. He was always up for anything. But this? “First of all, Mod, it’s prostitution.”
That pulled a throaty laugh from his drunk brother. “Okay, T. And what are the other reasons?”
“Well, there’s one other, really.” Tatou stepped in closer. Gay they both were but that didn’t mean you sucked face with your own brother. He didn’t even allow that track in his thoughts, even when his mind tried to go there. ”In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re my brother? There’s got to be a few injunctions in the Bible that tell us exactly where we’re going to end up if we snog. Especially for a room full of horny chicks.”
For the first time since Mod had pulled him out of the party room to tell him what Angie and her fellow dorm mates wanted, his grin faded. “I don’t see the problem in that. We have our own forms of affection, or have you forgotten?” He leaned in and nuzzled Tatou’s cheek. His brother’s soft lips made his skin tingle. And other body parts that would remain nameless. He closed his eyes. They’d shared a bed in the family’s tiny flat all their lives and often helped each other fall asleep by what they called “fitting.” It had only been here at Uni that they each had a bed in their dorm room and only occasionally practiced fitting. Truthfully, he missed the closeness. They were best friends. Didn’t go anywhere apart. Not even meals. Not even dating, limited though it was in their twenty-two years at this point to an occasional threesome in which the third guy was the focus, not each other. They really were two halves of one whole. But now, it was time be…normal. Not to go in the direction his mind and body had been heading. Being in school, so many people in the dorm all the time had kept them both…apart, you could say. This was not going to help. Then Mod’s nuzzling lips whispered a trail toward his ear, toward the sensitive flesh of his earlobe…
With a hand on Mod’s chest, he pushed him so that Mod was forced to take a step back. “Forget it.”
“There you guys are! What’s going on? The girls are going to come after you if you take any longer.” Angie, dressed in a pink silky nightgown and fuzzy slippers, danced her blonde-headed way over and put her arms around both their shoulders, swaying in time to the bass beat that made the floorboards vibrate. “I’ve got the collection going already. And…” She lifted her head up, a triumphant gleam in her hazel eyes, “There’s another fifty quid in it if you take your shirts off.”
Mod’s eyes widened. “Bloody hell!” He turned on Tatou. “T, if you don’t do this, you’re the bloodiest prat ever!” He narrowed his eyes. “Forget your stupid ideas of hell and damnation. Think of how we need this money for our trip!”
Ah yes. Their graduation present to themselves, partially funded by Mum and Dad after graduation. A whole summer in Japan. At that special place in Tokyo they’d found on the Net. Honestly, they were headed for one of the most expensive cities in the world. They could use all the extra dosh they could get. That hundred and fifty quid would go right into their travel fund. He heaved a sigh. “All right. Let’s do it.”
Angie let out a girl squeal. “This is going to be so hot!” She hooked her arms through both of theirs and led them back into the crowded room.
Shite. The common room of Angie’s suite looked more like what Tatou imagined the inside of Chippendale’s looked like on a weekend night, except that the patrons were dressed in nightgowns, pajamas and slippers and were draped all over the sofas, chairs and floor of the suite’s common room, full of pillows and blankets. And a few stuffed animals thrown in. The shrieks of delight drowned out the music as Angie led them to the front of the room where there was a small space away from the heat generated by all those horny college women. The sight made his heart pound and throat tighten. His mind fogged and his vision blurred. Up until this moment, he’d been as much the impish tease in their group of friends as Mod was, sometimes more so. Now, with all those pairs of female eyes on him and his brother, knowing what they wanted, were giving up money for, what was more nerve-wracking? All this lustful attention and expectation, or the fact that he was about to break his personal taboo? A hand clapped on his shoulder. He turned.
Mod was grinning at him, the corner of his full lips turned up. “C’mon, mate, let’s give ‘em their money’s worth, eh?” Before Tatou could answer, Mod released his shoulder. His hands went to the hem of his own t-shirt, lifted it off and flung it aside in one swoop. Eliciting, of course, another chorus of feminine catcalls.
Tatou glanced at his brother’s slim torso. Another shiver of electric heat travelled through him. Am I really so narcissistic that Mod turns me on?
Mod stepped up to him. “You’re taking too long,” he said and grasped two fistfuls of Tatou’s shirt. A sharp yank forced Tatou’s arms up and before he knew it, the air of the room hit his bare akin and another round of lusty girl cheers pounded through his head. A lot of these girls were mates but he swore he didn’t recognize them now, a feral lot of she-wolves in heat.
But then Mod’s hands closed around his upper arms and Mod’s dark eyes bore into his. The mischievous gleam he knew so well shone out of them, a direct reflection of his own, of course. But in private, they had their own world, a communication that didn’t always need words. Whatever Mod really felt about what they were doing, would surely come out later once they were back in their own dorm room two floors below this one. Especially if he thought Tatou was mad at him for it. Cheeky as Mod was, his brother’s concerns were his and he cared. Always cared… Tatou’s gaze fell on Mod’s lips. His consciousness registered that around them, the room had grown quiet, except for the music, which had fallen to a slow dance kind of love ballad.
Wordlessly, Mod pulled him close. Their bare chests touched, then pressed. Warm skin growing warmer from their combined heat. The embrace forced Tatou’s arms out. At first he let them hang at his sides, but then the temptation was too much. The moment took over and he reached around…let his hands rest on the small of Mod’s back. The hard ridges of muscles along his spine med Tatou’s fingertips. Tan-hued skin, smooth and perfect. Even though their Dad was English, there were some Mediterranean ancestors mixed in so the golden hue and shiny, dark hair came from both their parents.
Mod leaned in and pressed his lips on the side of Tatou’s neck. Tatou’s eyelids fluttered. That felt too good and he tilted his head. Mod feathered a small kiss there, right over the pulse, then licked. Tatou let out a breath and squeezed Mod’s back. Good thing their fronts were pressed together or all these women would get an eyeful of a hard-on growing in the front of his jeans. Their audience was getting well more than a hundred fifty quid’s worth as far as he was concerned.
Mod trailed those little kisses up, over his jaw and onto his cheek. Damn! The fire ignited deep inside him. The very desire he’d kept hidden for so long, tried to hide from himself was now welling up, burning like flames through dry leaves for all to see. Did Mod know this? The one thing he’d never voiced out loud, in spite of their closeness. He must have known anyway, sensed that’s how his brother wanted to be kissed and held.
Mod’s hand laced into his short hair, cupped the back of his head. Mod’ eyes burned into his, lids heavy, thick lashes giving them that lazy yet hot look. The next he knew, their lips were together. A pierce of hot wet moistness past the seam of his lips and Mod’s tongue clashed with his.
Another feminine chorus sounded behind them, but this one of nearly silent murmurs, sighs. Except for the music, you could have heard a pin drop. And but for the soft moist friction of their lips and tongues together. A sensuous dance that sent invisible threads of arousal and need thundering through Tatou’s body. Mod’s cock was hard. Tatou felt it, pressing against his through their pants. Hard, rock hard insistence. Shite, what would happen next if they hadn’t the audience? The answer was simple—everything Tatou had ever imagined and squashed away. Locked in the forbidden corners of his mind and soul.
Mod’s lips lingered. His tongue slowly, sensuously explored Tatou’s, every recess, glided over his teeth. Mod smelled good. He always did. Even with the beer. There was always an undercurrent of mint in there. His lips were soft, the sweetest velvet. Delicious. Addictive.
As if teasing the hell out of him, Mod ended the kiss. His hands slid back to Tatou’s shoulders and Mod gazed at him, heavy-lidded, cheeks flushed. Then the devil slid back in again. The gleam of mischief returned and Mod turned back to their audience. “Was that all right for you, ladies?”
Angie stepped forward, somewhat unsteady on her feet. Her pale cheeks show a reddish glow. Her eyes were glazed over. A smile pasted on her lips. “Perfect,” she murmured.
Mod grinned. He released Tatou whose knees felt slightly not solid. He wavered a moment then forced himself to balance. In the next second, Mod had bent over and snatched up both their shirts. He handed Tatou his shirt then reached for the beer he’d set aside on the nearby table before their…performance.
In a daze, Tatou worked his way back into his shirt, while ghostly tingles strayed through his lips, his neck, his cheeks. The memory of Mod’s chest against his remained in his skin. As he turned, he caught sight of Angie pressed closed to Mod, her hand pushed into his jeans pocket. She was slipping him their earnings, no doubt, while the guests of one her popular girls’ night in gatherings were whispering among themselves. Then she reached out and gently clasped Tatou’s wrist, pulling him closer. “Thank you guys so, so much,” she said, her eyes reflecting the delight she’d just been given. “You have given a group of exam-soaked women something to dream about besides failing finals and not graduating.” She kissed each of them on the cheek. “I will be forever indebted to both of you.”
Monday, April 16, 2012
As HAL BODNER explains it...
When Tristan told me he was going to put me in the Author Spotlight this week, it was very hard not to be infected by his enthusiasm. However I had no idea what being in the Spotlight entailed so I asked him. “You could do a blog post,” he told me.
Now, THAT brought me up short. As some of my fans know, I am a virtual computer illiterate when it comes to things like blogs and posts and tweets and texts and twoots and such. Oh, I can “surf the web” as we used to call it back before the Millennium, but I’m rather baffled by this modern ability to stay in constant cyber-contact with everyone from your first grade teacher to your current co-workers to that hot guy you met in Grand Central Station back in 1986. Frankly, I don’t understand how people have the time to do all that texting and twooting. I tried to text once on my boyfriend’s cell phone and it took me forever to type even a short message.
So when Tristan brought up the Dreaded Blog, I panicked a little. Fortunately, I have some author friends who are far more cyber savvy that I am and, with the help of their advice and a couple of calming Vallium, I decided to give it a whirl.
Apparently an author’s blog is supposed to give you, the reader, some useful insight into one of several things: the author’s creative process, the author’s life, the author’s choice of wall paper pattern for the guest bedroom – you know, the important stuff. Given that this is All Male Romance, I thought it might be interesting to let y’all in on how I became what we call in the trade a “guy-on-guy” romance writer.
The guy-on-guy part is easy. I’m gay in case ya’ll hadn’t already guessed that. What you may not have realized is how gay I am. In fact, I suspect it is impossible to be more gay than I am! If there was a contest, maybe Liberace could have beaten me but he had access to all those fabulous outfits—a distinctly unfair advantage. Or perhaps Paul Lynde, or Harvey Fierstein, or Bette Davis.
So when Tristan brought up the Dreaded Blog, I panicked a little. Fortunately, I have some author friends who are far more cyber savvy that I am and, with the help of their advice and a couple of calming Vallium, I decided to give it a whirl.
Apparently an author’s blog is supposed to give you, the reader, some useful insight into one of several things: the author’s creative process, the author’s life, the author’s choice of wall paper pattern for the guest bedroom – you know, the important stuff. Given that this is All Male Romance, I thought it might be interesting to let y’all in on how I became what we call in the trade a “guy-on-guy” romance writer.
The guy-on-guy part is easy. I’m gay in case ya’ll hadn’t already guessed that. What you may not have realized is how gay I am. In fact, I suspect it is impossible to be more gay than I am! If there was a contest, maybe Liberace could have beaten me but he had access to all those fabulous outfits—a distinctly unfair advantage. Or perhaps Paul Lynde, or Harvey Fierstein, or Bette Davis.
Let me be clear. I am in no way effeminate. I’ll have y’all know that I was a major jock in my twenties and thirties, spending hours at the gym (and NOT just in the sauna, thank you!) and pretty good at competitive fencing -- foil only, none of that brutish hacking with a saber or flinging am epee around like a whip. I had a twenty-eight inch waist and six-pack abs back before they were fashionable and people who saw me without my shirt just assumed I was malnourished. So, I’m not at all girly.
But I am…dramatic.
I am dramatic as only a consummately gay man can be. Someone once told me that, if I’d have been born straight, I would have been Tony Randall. Moreover, I have a wickedly quick wit and a tongue sharp enough to slash tires at fifty paces. And I can quote extensively from Sondheim and Cole Porter lyrics while flinging lines from old movies around the room with reckless abandon.
Finally, do you remember the aforementioned washboard abs? On a twenty-something guy living in West Hollywood? On a SINGLE twenty-something yadda, yadda, yadda? Let’s just say that, in the guy-on-guy venue, I was very popular at parties.
Which brings me to the second part of the original query—how did I become a romance writer. To this, I must honestly answer thus: I have no freaking idea!!!I started my literary career as a horror writer. BITE CLUB, my first novel, was a huge success. But, insofar as the horror writers community is concerned, it had three things working against it. It’s funny; it’s gay; and it’s a vampire novel. I don’t even want to begin to try and tell you how difficult it was to get my peers to read it!
The situation with paranormal romance authors (and readers) is completely different. They adore “gay”. They salivate over “vampires”. And they lap up “funny” like fresh cream. So a funny, gay paranormal vampire romance would be a sure fire winner, right?
Sadly, I never managed to write one of those! In truth, I wrote only two paranormal romances before becoming known as a romance writer. I constantly marvel at how quickly that happened. I certainly never intended it.
IN FLESH AND STONE was the first thing I wrote after my husband died. Jimmy passed away very suddenly and unexpectedly of complications from food poisoning of all things. Suddenly, I found “funny” was beyond me, at least temporarily. Someone I’d met in the horror community had recently become involved in establishing a romance publisher. She’d read BITE CLUB and loved it and urged me to tack a whack at writing something for her.
My first attempt was a disaster. I foolishly thought I needed to write a traditional “bodice ripper” with a frail young female protagonist. I very rapidly discovered that I had NO IDEA how women felt about sex. Even my descriptions of the male body, as told through the eyes of the heroine, practically SCREAMED, “A gay man wrote this!” Consequently, I threw the thing out and thought that would be the end of it. A few months later, my friend called wanting a manuscript. I explained the problem and she verbally beat me about the ears and shoulders. To make a long telephone call short, she told me I should just forget about what I THOUGHT a romance should be and just write about what I knew—guys having relationships with guys.
I’d been toying with a couple of ideas for a gargoyle book in the BITE CLUB universe but I’d never taken it past the pondering stage. I was also still devastated from losing Jimmy. And, one day, I was farting around on the computer, trying to write something--anything!—when an opening sentence sprang into my head:
”The only time Alex could remember being surrounded by so many naked dicks was many years ago in the steam room at the gym.”
”The only time Alex could remember being surrounded by so many naked dicks was many years ago in the steam room at the gym.”
That’s all it took. The result-- only five days later—was IN FLESH AND STONE. The book just poured out of me in what ended up being very close to its final form. I think, in many ways, it was cathartic. It was something I needed very badly to write as a way of helping myself move on after Jimmy’s death. To this day when I re-read it, I’m shocked to think that those are my words on the page. It’s intensely poetic, incredibly passionate and deeply moving – not to mention hot and steamy where it needs to be. And, I STILL get teary-eyed when I read that last scene!So, FLESH was followed by FOR LOVE OF THE DEAD which I didn’t like nearly as much. Eventually, I returned to my comic horror roots with the BITE CLUB sequel, THE TROUBLE WITH HAIRY which came out in February. I’m fairly certain there will be a few more installments in the “Chris and Troy” universe. I am very much hoping there will be more than a few additional paranormal romances within the next couple of years. I’ve found the genre to be incredibly rich and I’ve a great number of ideas I’d like to take a whack at.
And who knows… perhaps I’ve a funny gay vampire paranormal romance novel in me yet!
~Hal Bodner
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Chapter 1 of DAMMIT! by Michele L Montgomery
Dammit!
Excerpt:
CHAPTER ONE
“Do you think it’s at all possible to make this yellow thing go any faster than it already is? I have a flight to catch and it’s one I can’t afford to miss. It’s not like we’re stuck in traffic here. Its three a.m., there’s no one in front of you.”
“No, no. Not possible. Snow make it hard to drive. Why you leave before sun shine? Maybe it make snow go away, eh?”
Michael groaned and slid down further in the backseat. His fingers tapped on the door, showing his impatience. He looked out all of the windows and cursed the falling snow. And it wasn’t just falling. Oh no, that would be putting it lightly. It was coming down in blizzard fashion, and he had to fly in this?
Michael exhaled. God, how he hated to travel; it was like a train wreck waiting to happen. Or a plane wreck. Whatever. Turbulence that felt as if the damn plane were attached to a bungee cord that could snap at any moment, lost luggage, then an engine failure that caused an emergency landing had just about sworn him off flying for good. Just the thought of it made him shudder. The lost luggage thing hadn’t been so bad, though. He did get to shop for some replacement clothes and found a pair of jeans that made his ass look fabulous, if he did say so himself, so there was that sparkly plus to an otherwise crappy experience. But still.
Flights after that had somehow managed to go smoothly, but now this mess. First, his alarm clock had malfunctioned, waking him up to Ozzy at two o’clock in the morning. And who in their right mind plays Ozzy at that time of the day? Damn alarm clock. It was supposed to go off at four. He’d lain in bed glaring at the evil thing, trying to decide if he should just get up, get his shower, and have his coffee, or go back to sleep. Getting up had won out because he couldn’t trust the alarm would go off again at four. Needless to say, the damn thing was
now in the incinerator.
To make matters worse, the snow had continued to fall, all the way to the airport, “making” the cab driver proceed cautiously, as in driving twenty miles an hour all the way down the freeway. This lovely ride was now coming up on an hour long, and he lived not twenty minutes from the massive circus tent the people in Colorado called D.I.A. The cab driver, who drove like it was a Sunday morning with nowhere to go, was doing his damndest to make him late, but somehow, someway, they were finally pulling up to the departures curb.
Michael let the cab slow to a rolling stop, then threw open the door, prompting an angry outburst from the driver, in a language Michael couldn’t hope to understand. If he had to guess, he was pretty sure the guy wasn’t thanking him for the great conversation and charming company.
He checked in with the skycap and then ran to the security gate, arriving breathless, ticket and ID in hand, only to come to a parking lot of people of all shapes, sizes, and colors, none of them moving or looking at all happy. Everyone and their mother had decided to travel at the same damn time as him, just his luck, and here he’d thought that by taking the early flight, the airport would be quieter, certainly less busy than this. Somberly, he stood in line and tried to ignore the couple behind him with their two screaming kids. Who in their right mind traveled with kids? The poor things had to get up early, probably missed breakfast, and then got dumped into this madness.
Time ticked on. And on. And on. Then finally, after twenty minutes of thanking God he was gay and would never reproduce, it was his turn. Like a well seasoned traveler, he had his shoes off, his pockets emptied, and his belt and laptop in the plastic bin, ready to go. He walked through the machine, then heard a noise that sounded a lot like, Ahhh! That same noise his aunt had made at him when he was little and doing something he wasn’t supposed to. He froze in place and stared at the security guard on the other side of the yellow line, motioning for him to come hither. Fear took hold like a fist in his belly, his heart thumping, and he stood there, paralyzed, because everyone was staring at him as though he were public enemy number one on the US government’s No-Fly List. Oh God, he knew he’d done something wrong or that guy wouldn’t be signaling to him, pointing him out and making his face heat up and break out in a sweat.
“Sir, please step this way. You’re holding up the line.”
“Oh, good Christ, why me?” he said, wishing he could disappear right at that very moment. He moved toward the guard, the cold tile floor making his bare feet all the more uncomfortable, his eyes wide and unblinking.
“Arms out to your sides, sir,” the guard said. He sounded annoyed, at that.
“Yes, sir,” Michael said, doing as he was told. Like this, of all things, was exactly what he needed to have happen, and right now? Why was it every time he traveled, shit happened to him?
Up one side and down the other went the wand as he stood there sweating from embarrassment, but it was amazingly quiet. He cocked his head to the side and snickered as if to ask, now what?
“Please step to your left and the next available guard will be right with you.”
Michael groaned and looked at the man. “But…why? Your wand thingy didn’t beep.”
The guard raised his left eyebrow, lowered his head. “You’ll want to Step to your left now, sir.”
“But, what about my stuff? My laptop cost me a…”
“It’s safe and sound. Please, step to your left. Next.”
And with that, Michael was dismissed. He fought the urge to growl again and did as he was told. Did he look like a terrorist? And, for that matter, what did they even look like? He moaned inwardly, sighed and rolled his eyes. Why had he even agreed to do this? Oh, that’s right, he hadn’t. He was being forced to do this. Well, not exactly forced, but if he didn’t do it, he’d be worse for the wear, and a shitty cousin, on top of it. Then he saw what the man in front of him was being put through, and his dick suddenly woke up. Perfect. Just perfect.
“Frisk? They frisk you now?” he said to no one in particular.
“I’m putting it up to a free feel, personally. Perverted bastards. I swear, if a man touches me, I’m throwing down on him. Nasty creatures, groping paws all over this hot body. I want a woman!”
Michael looked to his right, and a laugh escaped before he had a chance to swallow it down. The girl standing next to him had red and orange hair and eye makeup so thick he was sure if he’d scraped his nail across it, no one would’ve been able to tell, bright pink eye makeup, at that; the girl must have been color blind. “What are they looking for?” he asked.
“Fuck if I know. What do they think, that we’re all armed and hiding said weapons in our bodily orifices? Not very sanitary!”
Michael grew lightheaded as a wave of panic shot through his body. He swallowed hard a few times, his throat like sandpaper scraping against rock. “Oh shit, do they actually check those open ports? Here, in front of God and everyone?”
“Hell if I know. This is my first ride since all the bullshit started with those insane, flying acrobat wannabe’s. All I know is that no man is touching me. Do you hear that?” she yelled, raising her voice with every syllable.
One look at Mr. Gorgeous—tall, muscular, blond, and blue-as-sky eyes—frisking everyone, and Michael’s dick started dancing about in his pants. He was a goner, just wonderful. Six months without any action, whatsoever, and little man down below starts his happy dancing at the mere idea of being groped by a beefy, blonde TSA agent. “This is so not my day.”
“Next!”
“Good luck, Mister. Don’t let them shove their fingers up you, unless they have a glove and lube!”
He swayed with dizziness. “What?”
“Cavity search. Haven’t you ever watched Lifetime?”
He was pretty sure his heart was going to go ahead and explode from stress. Or maybe he’d just have a nice aneurism and escape this humiliation altogether. When he walked up to the rather large man standing near the… “I have to undress?”
“Sir. Please raise your arms out to the side and spread your legs.”
“With my clothes on, right?” Though the guard was all kinds of hot and muscular, Michael wasn’t good with having a stranger’s digits entering his body, at any time.
“Yes, sir.”
Once Michael did as he was instructed, he saw the man slip a pair of latex gloves on, and he yelped, “Oh my God! What are those for?”
“I’m only going to frisk you.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Random search, that’s all. Do you have something to hide? You seem a little nervous.”
“No! No, nothing to hide. I emptied my pockets and took off my shoes and belt, so I don’t understand why I’m being… Oh!”
“Sorry, sir. It’s part of my job.”
“Touching a man’s penis is part of your job?”
“No, sir, that was a slip. I apologize. Please turn around.”
Michael turned, as he was instructed, and jumped as that big hand had made its way up the inside of his thigh and back down again. As far as his dick was concerned, this was foreplay, and it made him achingly hard.
Add sexual frustration to his already overdone day. And it hadn’t even hit seven o’clock in the morning yet.
“Okay, sir. You’re free to go.”
“I’m clear?”
“Yes,” the man answered with a gleam in his eye Michael took as lust.
“Right, so you didn’t find anything?”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact I did find…something. But it’s not a danger to anyone other than you if you don’t get it taken care of.”
The man grinned, patted Michael’s shoulder, and said, “You’re just fine. Next!”
Michael didn’t miss the other man’s suggestive look or what he’d been looking for. Random search, indeed. He offered a slight nod, cleared his throat, resumed his regular breathing pattern, and concentrated on walking to his personal items, with a hard on he was doing his best to hide.
“Oh man, that looks painful. If I was into dudes, I’d sure take you into the restroom and help you out with that.”
Michael couldn’t have been any more embarrassed if he tried. Make-up girl again. “Have you no couth?”
She laughed and sauntered over to her items, then came back to sit beside him. “None. Not at all, whatsoever. What’s the point? If you hide your true self from the world, they’ll never know you were here. It’s not like I’m ever going to see these snobs again, and if I do, they’ll remember me. You? I’ll remember you cuz when Mr. Sexy back there felt you up, you popped a woody and he, while you were turned around, grinned like a schoolboy. He liked it.”
“Oh, you’re bad. Shameless is what you are. And for your information, men have no control over how their penises react to certain situations. It’s a normal reaction.”
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