Tuesday, 31 January 2012

FIVE DAYS UNTIL BEHIND THE MASK

4 FEBRUARY 2012 - BUY LINK


BLURB:

The Downe's Valentine's Day Masquerade Ball has been an annual event for over a hundred years and where, four years ago, Gabe met Mike.

It's been over six months since Mike's death and Mike thinks that Gabe is ready to move on. How does Gabe know this? He receives a letter and a ticket to the ball, from Mike. Gabe isn't sure he'll ever be ready to move on, but in deference to Mike's memory, he attends the ball.

What Gabe doesn't know, is that his best friend, Tom, the one constant in his life since college, has also received a letter from Mike. Will Gabe be able to move forward and remember a long forgotten love, or will his world come crumbling down around his ears, again?

EXCERPT:

Valentine's Day 2011

Gabe stared out of the window as the taxi turned off the country lane they had been travelling down and onto the beginning of the gravel drive that led up to Downe Hall. The music could already be heard through the open windows of the large country house and laughter spilled out with it. He couldn't believe he was actually doing this… albeit under duress.
The house looked as magnificent as it had on his first visit there four years ago, when he'd been talked into attending the event of the season. The Thomas Downe Annual Valentine's Day Masquerade Ball was legendary and people came from miles around to lose themselves in the splendour of it all; the music, the costumes, the chance to be someone else, for just one night.
The grass verge on either side of the drive up to the gates was decorated with life size sculptures of naked men and women, covered with strategically placed white fairy lights, heralding the way to the house.
"That'll be eighteen fifty."
Gabe looked at the taxi driver and blinked owlishly. "Huh?"
"The fare," the man repeated, nodding at the meter. "Eighteen pounds, fifty."
"Oh, right," Gabe replied scrabbling in the pocket of his costume for a twenty pound note. He handed it to the other man mumbling, "Keep the change."
"Thanks, mate. Nice costume by the way. You meeting someone in there?" The driver's question was innocent enough and Gabe knew that he couldn't know how those words made his gut tighten and his heart ache.
"Not this year," he replied and opened the door before the man could remark further. Gabe stood looking at the bridge over the moat to the large open gates. He'd spent a fortune on his costume and the ticket itself would have kept his fridge stocked for six months, even though he hadn't paid for it, so standing on the drive and watching other party-goers just sail past him was kind of stupid. And then there was the added concern that if he stood there much longer, the organisers might drape him in fairy lights.
Besides, this was where it had all begun, it seemed only fitting that this is where it should end; where he should bury the past and move towards the future. He huffed a joyless laugh through parted lips. The future—what future? Mike seemed to think he was ready to embrace a life without him… but Gabe wasn't so sure.
It felt like a lifetime ago, instead of four short years, that he'd stood exactly where he was now, staring at the splendour of Downe Hall, listening to the music spilling from the windows, his ticket clutched in his hand, just as it was now. Then, of course, his friend Tom had stood beside him, nudging him and urging him forward.
Going to the Downe Valentine's Masquerade Ball had been Tom's idea back then. He'd had a real bee in his bonnet about it, made it sound like they were the losers of the year if they didn't attend, and how infamous the Downe Masquerade Ball was. If Gabe recalled correctly, the ridiculous corny expression, "It's the event of the year!" had left Tom's lips on more than one occasion. Tickets had been so expensive Gabe had almost balked at the price, but Tom had made it sound so damned exciting and had played to Gabe's more gullible, romantic side—before he'd known what he was doing, the tickets had been purchased and they were in the costumers, picking out their outfits.
Four years ago, Tom had been fit to be tied by the time the taxi had pulled up outside Downe Hall. Gabe had spent the previous week reading everything he could about the place and had known its history inside out. The Masquerade ball had originally been held in London, until the event had proved too popular in the late 1830s and in need of a bigger venue. Thomas Downe had then decided opening his country estate once a year to his friends, neighbours and the elite of London society was a much more feasible option. The history books had been rife with stories that said Downe's sister, Mary, had not exactly been enamoured by the idea, and although the siblings lived in the same house, apparently they didn't speak to each other for almost a year. He remembered staring up at the house as the taxi had come to a stop outside the mansion that night, and wondering how unsettling the atmosphere must have been with brother and sister walking the gardens, ignoring each other as they went about their daily life; their only communication being through the servants.
Not that communication on the taxi ride had been a problem for him and Tom that night. His best friend's lips hadn't stopped flapping since Gabe had arrived at Tom's to get dressed. The moron had been so over the top about the whole thing that Gabe had asked him on more than one occasion over the last week what was so special about the damned dance? Tom had merely shrugged and changed the subject, and had continued to behave like Tigger on speed, so much so that Gabe had been concerned Tom might've actually spontaneously combusted before they'd even made it to their first Masquerade.
Looking up at the awe-inspiring country estate again now, a fond smile curved Gabe's lips as the memory of that Valentine's night in 2007 surrounded him.



Saturday, 28 January 2012

CONTINENTAL DIVIDE - COMING SOON

CONTINENTAL DIVIDE
BY 

LAURA E HARNER & LISA WORRALL


Two cops, one a cowboy, the other a Lord.  A secret government agency and human trafficking.

What the hell have Remington and Mainwaring got themselves into?  And will they be able to fight the bad guys while fighting their attraction to each other?

Coming soon...

Friday, 27 January 2012

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY

Hello my pretties and welcome to Flash Fiction Friday, where you will find one hundred words per week based upon a picture chosen at random by either myself or my cohorts in this marvellous adventure.  Make sure you follow the links both within the one hundred and at the bottom of this post to see what other delights await you.



Tom shivered, the polished wood of the table was cold against his bare ass.  He couldn’t remember how long he’d been in this position, legs bent, hands clasped between them. 
He remembered the guy in the bar, soft conversation and the ease with which the drinks slid down his throat.  Then nothing.
A shuffling from across the room had his heart leaping into his mouth when a barely human voice rasped, “Don’t scream.  It makes him mad.”
“Where are we?” Tom hissed, peering into the dark.
His blood turned to ice water in his veins when the voice replied, “Hell.”

A huge thank you to Tom Webb for being this week's guest star.  Make sure you head on over to his blog, Bear on Books to check out his wonderful reviews.

And make sure you do the clicky clicky to check out all the other one hundreds in relation to this week's pic.

Thursday, 26 January 2012

GUEST STAR: XAVIER AXELSON

Please join me and the gorgeous Xavier Axelson as he answers some questions and entices us with a taste of his new release, Lily.




Thank you for joining me on the sofa, Xavier Axelson and for agreeing to answer some questions for me.  


1.         So who is Xavier Axelson?
            A sensualist disguised as a demon.

2.         Tell me a bit about your current WIP / latest release.
           My latest release is Lily with Silver Publishing.  It is a paranormal romance about a father forced to accept the loss of a child.

3.         How do you work, do you pick a title first, or characters names, or how they look?
           The story comes first; usually followed by names and characters.  But, to be fair, it changes; each time I write it’s different.

4.         When did you know that writing was your passion?
            I really started writing around 4th grade.  I don’t think I’ve stopped since.

5.         What was your first book and how long did it take to get it published?
           My first published work was a short story called “Serpentinga” about a      descendent of Medusa who seeks revenge on the heirs of Athena and   Poseidon.  How long did it take?  Um, I was 34 then, so 34 years? LOL

6.         What some don’t realize is that writing is a discipline and you have to proportion a part of your day to it – how long does it usually take you to complete a manuscript?
            Again, this varies for me.  My most recent piece took about a week, while Lily took a couple months.  I do write everyday and set a goal of two thousand words, anything over is gravy.

7.         Do you outline your plots first?  Or are you like me and just go hell for leather?
            Hell for leather; I wish I was the outlining type, but hell and leather is more my thing. 

8.         Out of your body of work – do you have a favourite character?
            I really love Pryor from Lily, I find him sad, hopeful and incredibly             brave in          his ability to let go.

9.         If you were to offer advice to someone starting out, what would you say?
            Stay true to your own voice; don’t worry what anyone else is doing.

10.       Who are your favourite authors, in any genre?
           I’m going to pick the three authors I’m reading right now:  Frank Herbert, Virginia          Woolf and Jane Austen
          
11.       If you hadn’t chosen writing, or rather, writing hadn’t chosen you, what do you think
            You would be doing for a living?
            I’d be a chef.

12.       What do you do in your free time?  And don’t say writing!
            I do a lot of reading and lately I’ve gotten into audio books but I also love the       beach, road trips, exploring and getting into mischief.

13.       What makes you laugh?
           Things that probably shouldn’t.  I have a twisted sense of humor.

14.       What irritates you most about other people?
           A False sense of entitlement.

And finally….

15.              Would you like to share with us your favourite joke? 
           The fact that Gay people can’t get married but people like the Kardashian’s           can is a joke.  Here, Here!


Thank you for coming to chat, Xavier Axelson and I wish you many sales. 
Thanks for having me!

It's been a pleasure talking with Xavier Axelson and you can find him at:-




And here’s a little taster of   LILY



Excerpt:
LILY
I am Lily's father, my name is Pryor. It was a year ago last Father's Day when she was taken from me. I still believe being Lily's father is the most important thing in this world.
Unfortunately, my daughter dwells in another world.
* * * * *
I glanced at the necklace. Ned's pressed close to me, but the necklace I hoped would bring Lily back to me felt closer. Ned was soft in his sleep; not the bull of a man he was when he's awake. I loved him soft and I loved him hard. It was his hardness that grounded me, that brought me in from the darkness. The necklace caught the light of the fading moon and I wondered where Lily was tonight.
The old clock on the nightstand hummed quietly; its vintage florescent glow a pale mockery of the necklace that lay beside it and yet I heard the clock, it won in that department. Time always does.
Ned moved against me, I could feel his arms pull me close, felt the bulge of his muscles, his arms thick and powerful. He had never loved a man before me. I had only loved Lily. Once she changed, I had little left to love; in fact, I was certain love had disappeared from my life all together.
The clock still hummed, never quiet; it's old and made noise as if time itself wanted us all to know that it was passing and with each minute Lily fell farther and farther into the darkness. The tears came then and at the same time Ned's cock pushed more firmly against my back. He grumbled, pulled me even tighter so that I could truly feel his penis--not hard, not entirely soft--on the edge of wanting. A tear fell and I gasped a little. Seeing the necklace; hearing the clock, feeling Ned's cock, his muscles, I fell away into him and closed my eyes.
"Why aren't you sleeping?"
"I was," I replied softly.
"No you weren't," his voice was sleepy; distant and yet he knew things, he knew I was awake, thinking about my lost daughter.
"It's Father's Day," I answered, skipping over my lie. "Do you think she will come?" I felt him nod and nodded in return against my pillow. Another tear fell.
"Come closer," he whispered.
"How much closer could I get?"
"Closer," he said again, a growl, a grunt; there was the bull I knew.
His lips brushed on my neck, a hand on my thigh stroking, touching, pulling a sigh from my mouth. I wiped a hand across my face.
"I never get sick of touching you," he whispered wetly, his tongue tracing my ear.
Smiling, I turned in his big arms and I could feel my thoughts ease. Ned had that way about him. 'Magic arms' I called him because he had this way of holding me that made me feel completely safe and for one man to be able to do that for another was amazing.
I kissed him and was happy to discover his breath was not bad but sweet, the trace of his toothpaste before bed still there and I smiled even as I kissed him. Ned sighed gently, his cock fully hard now, urgent, pressing. I reached down and stroked him through his boxers; he was already wet. I tried to pull my tongue from his mouth but he only pulled me closer, deeper; at one point I was almost certain one of us was going to stop breathing.
He finally relented but only because I jokingly squeezed his balls a little too tightly.
"Fuck, you make me nuts," he grumbled, we both laughed at his joke.

His hand reached for my cock; I slept naked so there was no flimsy cotton between his rough hands and my skin.
"You like that?"
I nodded, I did like it, I'd thought I wouldn't ever be able to like sex again, or any intimacy after Lily disappeared.
His hands were rough but I relished his edges; he touched me as if he knew me and, after a year, I guess he kind of did.
"You want me to suck it?" His voice was hoarse with his question; there was still a shy embarrassment behind it, as if he couldn't really believe he was going to suck cock.
"What do you think?"
My response excited him. I could see it in his eyes, even in the dark; the fading moon told me just enough.
When you had a daughter like mine, you learned a lot from the moon.

XAVIER IS GIVING AWAY A COPY OF LILY TO ONE LUCKY WINNER AT THE END OF HIS BLOG TOUR - SO LEAVE A COMMENT TO MAKE SURE YOU'RE NOT MISSING OUT ON YOUR CHANCE :)

Wednesday, 25 January 2012

THIRST IS AVAILABLE AT AMAZON!



Woo hoo - Thirst is on Amazon!

BUY LINK TO AMAZON

HOW LOW DO YOU SINK BEFORE YOU SAY "HELP - I CAN'T COPE" ?


I don't know, what do you think?

Is it when you're climbing the walls at one in the morning trying desperately to listen to the rational part of your brain that's telling you you're being irrational?  That you can breathe?  That the shakes and the shivers and the manic thoughts and the racing pulse are all in your head?

Or when you are on the phone to the Samaritans in the wee hours of the morning talking to a complete stranger because you're terrified to close your eyes?

Or when you're stepping over the piles of crap that used to be your life and wondering where it all went wrong?

Or when you're friend says to you "Why didn't you tell me you weren't coping?" Then tries to make you understand that "It's alright for you to fall apart, it's alright for you to not cope.  But you have to tell me so I can help get you back on track."

But how do you explain that it's not alright for you to fall apart?  It's incredibly hard for you to lean on anyone.   That you're supposed to be able to do it all. And if you fall apart, HE'LL be right.  That you lived with a man for years who made you feel inadequate as a wife, as a mother, as a person?  That you've been wearing your game face for so long that you don't know how to take it off?  That as long as you keep smiling and being jolly and cut fast and loose with the wit and the wisecracks just like normal... no one will know.  No one will be able to see that where there was calm there is now chaos.  Where there was light there's so much dark you don't think you'll ever be able to see your way out.

And then they peel off the veil you've been wearing over your eyes for so long that you didn't see what was going on around you.  That they do know.  That you haven't been as clever as you thought.  You haven't been able to hide the fact that you're just a shell and the person you see in the mirror is someone you don't even recognise any more.

Is that when you say, I need to reach out?  Is that when you can reach out?  When you can say actually I think I might be in a bit of trouble?  That's when you find out who your real friends are.  The ones who've been there all along.  The ones who've seen you at your best and don't care that you're at your worst, because they know you don't want to feel like this... this isn't something you enjoy... something you relish.

And then you have that one friend who says, right.  I know this isn't you.  I know you've hit the bottom and right now we're working our way up.  The friend who takes your hand and says, okay... now we're doing something about it and rolls up their shirt sleeves and dives in whether you like it or not.  The one who makes you realise even if its only a tiny bit... you are worth something after all.

Mine's called Amanda.  Who's yours?

Monday, 23 January 2012

Sunday, 22 January 2012

UNOFFICIAL SIX

AVAILABLE NOW



"It didn't make any difference. Even when I was in his arms I couldn't forget. I wanted—"
Carter's eyes softened as he looked down into Max's. "You wanted?" he echoed.
Max closed his eyes against the spark of want, right, now that flashed through his body, setting his nerve endings alight. "I—I wanted it to be you."



Saturday, 21 January 2012

IT'S TIME TO QUENCH YOUR.... THIRST

AVAILABLE NOW!

Blurb:

Detective Max Bowman is hunting a serial killer terrorizing the city, who leaves victims drained of blood. No fingerprints, no clues, no ideas. Only a mysterious inscription carved into each body.

Frustrated with the lack of progress, Max takes a break in a local pub.  Attacked by the attractive man buying him drinks, he is left for dead in the alley behind the bar.

Waking up in Carter Gray's bed was the last thing he expected.  Who was this mysterious man?  What was his dark secret?  Why does he make Max tremble with anticipation every time their eyes meet?

It becomes apparent that Carter is the only one with the 'expertise' to help him find the killer.  But is his attraction to Carter clouding his judgment and is he refusing to acknowledge that the killer may well be Carter himself?

Excerpt:

Pain, lots of pain. Max tried to force his eyes open, but only one would comply; the other already swollen shut from the impact of a closed fist. He wasn't sure how long he'd been lying in the alley behind the bar. He dimly remembered a tall blond man with piercing blue eyes who introduced himself as Tony, or it might have been Tommy, buying him a beer, followed by way too many shots, he'd stopped counting after the fourth; remembered laughing and joking with him, flirting and being flirted with in return. Nothing seemed out of place. Nothing that was until the man suggested they go somewhere quieter.
Instead of heading out into the brightly lit street, Max had found himself being jostled from both sides into the alley behind the bar. The blond held onto him on his left and from nowhere a dark haired man grabbed his right arm. Too late Max realized that everything was out of place, just as the blond man's fist connected with his face and his knee with Max's groin.
The two of them punched and kicked him, and all he could do was curl in on himself on the ground and hope he could minimize the damage. He didn't want to think too much about the sharp snap he heard when a hard boot connected with his ribs, nor the meaty sounds of flesh upon flesh. Max was assaulted by a wave of dizziness and he felt darkness reach out to engulf him in its warm embrace, but he mentally shook his head and stubbornly refused to let it claim him. He felt hands grabbing at his keys and his wallet and then more pain as a boot connected with the muscle in the left cheek of his ass. His head was pulled back by a vicious hand twisting in his chestnut-colored hair, his glassy brown gaze locking onto piercing blue as the word "Fag" was spat at him and his head was slammed back down on the dirt.
Max heard their retreating footsteps and he tried to lift his head, the pain in his side causing a cry to fall from his lips at the movement. He coughed and cringed as he saw dark splatters of blood hit the ground. Wiping the back of a shaky hand across his lips, he stared at the stain of red on his skin. He stumbled to his knees, trying to use the wall beside him to pull himself up. His legs buckled, and he crashed back to the ground, a deep groan wrenched from him as he fell. Suddenly, he felt two strong arms, one around his shoulders and one under his knees, lifting him as if he weighed no more than a small child. His head lolled to the side, coming to rest on a firm shoulder and he had a glimpse of jade green eyes looking down into his as the dark claimed him once more.
* * * *
Carter pulled open the door of his black 1968 Ford Mustang and eased his ward carefully into shotgun, slowly reclining the seat to make the position more comfortable. Taking off his heavy woolen coat, he rolled it and slipped it behind the man's head to prop up the semi-conscious man. He gazed down at the battered face he had been watching all night from his dark corner of the bar, aware how beautiful it was underneath the swelling and bruising. The man's name was Max that much he knew, because he had heard him introduce himself to his assailant. He frowned, furious with himself that he had realized too late the blond twink and his accomplice's plans for the young man. If he hadn't been distracted, if he hadn't been so thirsty…
Carter slid behind the wheel, his green eyes glittering in the muted glow from the dome light as he closed the door behind him. A small smile lifted his lips as he headed his car toward home. The two men who had robbed and beaten Max and left him for dead had already paid for what they'd done. Glancing into his rear-view mirror, he parted his lips and ran his tongue down his elongated incisors.
They wouldn't be hurting anyone ever again, and he wasn't thirsty anymore.

Friday, 20 January 2012

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY

Hello my pretties and welcome to Flash Fiction Friday, where you will find one hundred words per week based upon a picture chosen at random by either myself or my other cohorts in this marvellous adventure.  Make sure you follow the links both within the one hundred and at the bottom of this post to see what other delights await you.




His palm was smooth against her mouth as he pulled her into the shadows.  His scent surrounded her and she instantly knew it was Matthew.  She’d joked with him an hour ago about his excessive use of Old Spice and they’d laughed together.  God, had that only been a few hours ago?  Everything had seemed so normal, just another frat party and now; from their hiding place, she could see three of her friends gazing sightlessly at the ceiling, their blood a stark red against their skin.
“He’s here,” Matthew hissed and she mumbled against his hand.
“Where.”
"Behind you."

A big thank you to Matthew Darringer for agreeing to guest star this week, make sure you click on his link to find out what he's been up to and if you leave a comment add your name

Thursday, 19 January 2012

CHICKS WITH DICKS... REALLY?



I am an M/M writer... hopefully those of you who have read my blog before are aware of that.  And, yes, I am a woman... not a man.   And I am a straight woman.  Therefore, I cannot profess to claim that I know the inner workings of every single gay man's mind.

As far as I am concerned, I write erotic romance where the two main characters happen to be men.  Simple as.  Normal, everyday men.  They're not all superstars, actors, millionaires... they're ordinary run of the mill guys, fathers, lawyers, accountants.

But what kind of irritates me is some men's approach to women writing M/M.  I have gay friends and I know they wouldn't mind me saying they can be sluts... just as every straight man and every straight woman can be. But I also know that sometimes, when you meet a nice guy, it's not just about the sex.  You actually want to get to know him, spend time with him... god forbid actually date him and fall in love with him.

I know as a single woman with a broken marriage and several non-starting relationships behind her, I don't think every person you sleep with is treated with the same reverence and basically sometimes all you need is a  fuck buddy, not a partner.  But I refuse to believe that all gay men do is fuck... I'm still of the firm opinion that 95% of them make love and want a lasting commitment.

And that's the kind of story I want to write.  Doesn't necessarily mean I've turned one of my characters into a chick with a dick.  Just means that I think if a man can make love to his wife.... then a gay man can do the same with his husband.

Thoughts?

Sunday, 15 January 2012

SENSUOUS SUNDAY... Get Ready to Sin...







REVIEW: FINAL ADMISSION BY SUE BROWN

BUY HERE - NOW THIS MINUTE - IF NOT SOONER


RATING:  5 LULU'S


BLURB:
James Trenchard is a dick. Everyone in Bingwell, Brock, and Bacon says so, and after Ethan’s first encounter with the man, he agrees. Ethan resolves to avoid James but ends up working closely with him and discovers the lawyer's hiding a secret from the world. Ethan also realizes he's falling too hard too fast. Ethan has to decide if he should help James and risk getting entangled in the mess James has gotten himself into, or move on. But walking away from love is never a simple decision to make.


REVIEW:
I love Sue Brown - there - I've said it. It's out there and I don't want to take it back. I have yet to read anything of hers that has left me feeling short-changed and when I picked up Final Admission, she didn't let me down.


The Queen of Angst strikes again in a poignant love story revolving around a devastatingly all too common situation, but one that is hardly ever mentioned. Ms Brown handles it with flair and aplomb and the utmost sensitivity. 


Meeting Ethan gives James a reason to want to live again. To love again. And the gentle way this big, muscled, mountain of a man soothes James' tired and empty heart, makes your own heart skip a beat and wish he was yours. 


I loved every word and could not put it down from start to finish, and will be adding it to my list of Sue Brown favourites and eagerly awaiting what she has in store for us next.

UNOFFICIAL SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY

RELEASED ON 21 JANUARY 2012
           
            "Are you afraid?"
            "Should I be?"

“I don’t know,” the vampire directed the question to the man who had joined them. “Do you think he should be afraid?”
He reveled in the fear that widened the boy’s eyes as the moonlight glinted off their elongated incisors, and laughed when his companion said menacingly, “Very.”
The boy didn’t even have time to scream as they fell on him.


Saturday, 14 January 2012

CRITIQUE PARTNERS & THE ESSENTIAL PART THEY PLAY

I hasten to mention that this is not what my CP looks like :)

A Critique Partner, Beta-Reader, Proof-Reader, whatever title you want to give them, they are an essential part of a writer's entourage (of course I use that word very loosely, I have no entourage unless you count two kids and a dog - it's just a flash word and I like it).

What do they do?  They take your manuscript and look at it with fresh eyes.  Let's face it, how many times do you actually read your own manuscript?  Too many times to count.. until the words all blend into one big black splodge, like a weird Rorshach test.

They weed out our appalling grammar, sentence construction and gaping plot holes.  Not to mention the words we love to make up.  What?  That's just me?  *blushes and moves on*

But there is something else they do.  They help you polish your manuscript and although the saying is that it's not possible to polish a turd, I beg to differ.  They don't just tell you you're crap or make a load of suggestions or comments for the sake of it.  They want you to be successful.  They thrive on your achievement and want you to be the best you can be.

So, if there are more track-changes on your manuscript than there is on the London Underground, you may well sit with your mouth hanging open, and the vague thought of "What the hell does she mean?  I know how to write!" but then you have a moment of clarity like a light bulb illuminating above your noggin.  She's right.  And you polish your turd and your CP comes back to you jumping up and down and doing the Snoopy dance because not only have you run with some of her suggestions, you've managed to add another two thousand words in the process and delved deeper into the character - which is what your reader wants - and what will ultimately lead to your success.

If, however, you think you can do without one... you are sadly mistaken... because I couldn't do without mine.  Not only is she my CP - she is one of my closest friends and I would be lost both without her fresh eyes and ideas and her love and support.

GUEST STAR: MATTHEW DARRINGER

Today, I'm handing the reins over to my friend, MATTHEW DARRINGER.  
Matthew's writing is hard-hitting, in your face, no holds barred and I want to thank him
for giving us a glimpse of his talent and future writing plans.








·         Godless Faggot

By Matthew Darringer

I appreciate this opportunity to guest blog. I invite people to check out my blog http://matthewdarringerwrites.blogspot.com/ should they have the time and inclination.

I am a not-so-simple, bisexual guy from Bakersfield California with a checkered past and an HIV+ father with whom I am forging a relationship. I am atypical. My father was never around when I was growing up, but I am grown man and I choose to make sense of him rather than remain angry. His story draws me to look past his HIV status and the fact that he is a drug addict.

He has been clean almost four months as I write this.

My father, who is 50, has spawned eight children with three women trying to “go straight” even as he sold himself as an escort beginning in the storied days of the Lords of Bakersfieldhttp://www.bakersfield.com/news/columnist/price/x647995334/The-Lords-of-Bakersfield . My father is gay and has always been gay. Gay was not OK in the Darringer family, but I believe same-gender orientation is genetic. My father is gay and my brother Kyle and I are bisexual.

His father called him a godless faggot and for that I deeply hurt because my namesake is not a bad person. He has just made some bad decisions. Though my father is no saint, his father should never have been that evil. I would like to think that a parent—no matter how disappointed in his child—would as his default love his child. My grandfather did not and in fact my grandfather raped my father repeatedly as a child. My father says he would have been gay anyway, but still, my grandfather is a hateful bastard.

I want to write my father’s story as a gay escort these past thirty-five years and it is hard for me. I could write his story easily if he were a stranger, but he is not. That makes it tough for me. I look like him. I sound like him. I have done things he has done.

In writing his story, I will have to confront my own sordid years despite being half his age, but I am at peace with who and what I am. I am in school going for my PhD and I am in a great relationship with my fiancé Kate. I am openly bisexual and I am healthy.

Being at peace with those who have wronged us is not one of my goals because I am an eye-for-an-eye kind of guy, but my father who has wronged me has my peace. I choose to engage with him and to write his biography.

Where it will take me, I do not know, but for now I choose this path.
·         
matthewdarringerwrites.blogspot.com




Friday, 13 January 2012

GUEST STAR: S A MEADE

On the sofa with me today, eating some delicious chocolate biscuits left over from Christmas, is the flabulous S A Meade.  Take it away, honey... I'll just have the last one...







            After Lisa kindly agreed to let me invade her blog, I’ve been wracking my brain for something to write about. I mean really giving the old grey matter a stir. I thought deep thoughts about writing and stuff while I was driving around the gorgeous Wiltshire countryside. I stared at shampoo bubbles running down the drain while I blearily considered what profundities I could bore you all senseless with and I came up with precisely…nothing, nada, zilch, sod all.
            Then, while drinking my coffee this morning, I was going through the Facebook updates and saw a link to a blog post from the lovely Sue Brown about the glorious snogging scene that sent her on the writer’s road.  Then, while I was sitting here this afternoon resisting the call of ‘Angry Birds’ and generally feeling pissy and twitchy, this song came on the radio. It is one of those rare songs that I can remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I first heard it. It’s beautiful, evocative and Sting wrote it with the Wiltshire countryside in mind. It’s also the song that set me on my writer’s road.
            I lived in south central Arizona for several years and if there’s one thing I really disliked about living there, it was the relentless summer heat, especially during the monsoon. (Bear with me, this does lead somewhere). After work, I’d go and pick up my son from the summer ‘Kid’s Kamp’. On one particular day, I’d picked him up and was driving home. It’s not a long drive, five minutes or so. Eva Cassidy’s version of ‘Fields of Gold’ was on the radio and I stared across the flat, tumbleweed-infested expanse of desert dirt and longed for England. Then my brain clicked into some crazy gear and, by the time I pulled into the garage, I had a half-baked idea for a story in mind all because I saw a couple making love on the edge of a field of barley.
            Three months later I had the first draft, a very long first draft, of a novel – one of those sweeping historical thingies, the kind I devoured back in my younger days. When I’d finished that, I wrote another one and I haven’t stopped writing since - all because of one beautiful little song.
            And the footnote – we had to move back to England about a year and a half ago and where did we end up living? Wiltshire, of course.
            So, my question for you is, what inspires you?

S.A.Meade wrote Stolen Summer, which you can buy here: http://www.total-e-bound.com/product.asp?P_ID=1338
You can also find her on Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/kestrelrising
She has two books coming out in the spring – Orion Rising on 26 March and Mourning Jack on 6 May. Both published by Total E-Bound.

Thank you for coming honey.  I am already half way through Stolen Summer and it is wonderful, so make sure you click on the buy link. 

Wednesday, 11 January 2012

MASQUERADE - 4 FEBRUARY 2012

Three Writers
Three Stories
One Location 
MASQUERADE - 4 FEBRUARY 2012


BUY HERE
BLURB:  Threatened by his father with disinheritance, Lord Edwin Nash is sent to London for one season to find a wife. In London, Nash discovers he is the lamb, the sacrifice of the society matrons, to be shackled to one of the girls by the end of the season.

At a masquerade ball, Nash hides in a study to avoid the ladies vying for his attention.  He is discovered by Lord Thomas Downe, the Duke of Lynwood, the handsome stranger that Nash had met the day before.  Nash is horrified when Thomas calmly tells him he knows the secret that Nash had hidden for years and that he sees through the mask that Edwin presents to the rest of the world.  As Nash shares a secret dance and kiss, he slowly relaxes in Downe's company.

As Nash plays the dutiful lamb to society, Downe introduces Nash to other men like himself, and he realises he is not alone.  Then his father demands that Nash return, engaged to be married, and Nash realises his time with Downe is coming to a end.

BUY HERE
BLURB: Infamous American blackguard and blockade runner, Captain Anthony Charles, has made a fortune in gold, running contraband between England and the Confederate States at the height of the Civil War in 1863. Anthony knows good brandy and fine cigars and his English clients appreciate him for it, but the captain also craves young submissive men. When he wins a young prostitute at an auction, Francois becomes his slave for seven days.


Francois has turned to prostitution to survive, but he is more than a whore. While most men who enjoy his favors treat him cruelly, he is stunned by this temporary owner's kindness. Being a slave to this blue-eyed Master is no difficult task. Both men find that love may not be as elusive as they thought. Will the separation of oceans and time test their love or bring pain beyond bearing?

BUY HERE
BLURB: The Downe's Valentine's Day Masquerade Ball has been an annual event for over a hundred years and where, four years ago, Gabe met Mike.

It's been over six months since Mike's death and Mike thinks that Gabe is ready to move on. How does Gabe know this? He receives a letter and a ticket to the ball, from Mike. Gabe isn't sure he'll ever be ready to move on, but in deference to Mike's memory, he attends the ball.

What Gabe doesn't know, is that his best friend, Tom, the one constant in his life since college, has also received a letter from Mike. Will Gabe be able to move forward and remember a long forgotten love, or will his world come crumbling down around his ears, again?

GYPSY KNIGHT BY PATRICIA LOGAN - AVAILABLE NOW!!

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Gavin Kentworth, Gypsy half-breed knight, has just returned to Sheffield, the estate in England where he grew up.  He's brought along his lover Malik Shahosseini, a warrior crusader who fought by his side in the Holy Land.  Gavin has returned to keep a vow to his friend and mentor the old Lord Sheffield, who he's just buried.  He is to serve the young heir to a mighty dynasty, the teenaged Thomas James, new Lord of Sheffield.

Gavin is honored to serve young Thomas but has forgotten the beauty of Thomas' older sister Bree.  Malik, though deeply in love with Gavin knows that his lover must marry and have sons.  He sees Bree as Gavin's opportunity for everlasting love.  When Gavin finds himself falling for the beautiful young virgin, he is torn, not wanting to give up the man he also loves.

When Lord Thomas becomes the target of a vicious killer, the knights realize that they have more than love to worry about.  Then, unexpectedly, Gavin's shameful past comes back to visit him as well.  Join our three in an all consuming menage of action, adventure, love and sex that burns up the sheets.