Wednesday, July 31, 2013

NEW RELEASE: Pudding Jones


Award-winning reporter Emmer Richfield is the kind of guy who covers wars, the kind of guy who asks the hard-hitting questions. He is not--and he's certain about this--the kind of guy who does sappy human-interest stories about homeless people. Not just any human-interest story, this assignment is a mandate from the mayor: convince the people of Dodson that Foxton Industries' plan to build a mall - and oust the homeless population - is a bad idea by way of a feature on a homeless man named Pudding Jones. But Pudding quickly goes from just another story to a man who changes Emmer's life. But can Emmer return the favor before it's too late?


Four hours later, I slid into the back corner booth at Brandywine, opposite Pudding Jones. Tall and lanky, dressed in jeans and a red tank top, with black sandals on his feet, his long, dark hair was pulled back into a thick braid. He looked clean and smelled quite nice. If not for the photo in the file, I wouldn't have known he was the homeless man I'd been sent to interview. Beside him on the seat were a bunched up coat and scarf. I held out my hand across the table, but he just stared at me. "Hi. I'm Emmer Richfield. I'm the reporter from the Tri City Review."

Pudding frowned at me. "What kind of a name is Emmer Richfield?"

I raised an eyebrow and smirked. "What kind of a name is Pudding Jones?"

"Least it's not my real name. I like pudding and Indiana Jones." He folded his arms across his chest and glared at me, as if daring me to find fault with his logic.

I'd figured it wasn't his real name, but one never knew these days. "I go by Emmer because my first name is Emerald." I tapped the side of my right eye. "Mom saw my eyes and the first word she said was emerald."

"Why are you here?" He looked to his left and right, then back at me through squinted eyes.

Great. Did he have memory issues? "Because you said you wanted me to tell your story."

"Yes, I know that. But why are you here?"

I glanced around, wondering if I was being set up. "Because it's my job."

"Hmm. But why are you here?"

"Because you asked for me specifically." I sighed, rapidly losing patience.

"But why are you here?"

"Here as in the diner?" I gestured around. "Because this is the place you chose."

"It is, isn't it?"

I blinked several times and just stared at him blank faced. What. The. Hell. I shook my head and pulled out my laptop, opened it up and made a new file, which I somehow kept myself from naming Crazy Lunatic.

Pudding took a deep breath; let it out slowly and deliberately. "Suppose I should start at the beginning, hmm? To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born, as I have been informed and believe, on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously…."

While he talked, I wracked my brain. I had heard those words before. But where? It finally hit me, and I chuckled. "Copperfield."


"That's from David Copperfield."

"What is?"

"What you just said. To begin my life, yadda yadda. It's the opening lines of a book called David Copperfield by Charles Dickens."

Pudding scowled at me. "No it isn't."

I gestured to my computer. "I can prove it. I'll Google it for you."

He sat back in his seat and frowned at me with one eyebrow raised. "What's a Google?"

"It's a search engine for the Internet."

"What's an internet?"

"The Internet is…" I floundered. Shouldn't he know some of this? "Think of the Internet as a giant library, and Google is the librarian. If there's something you want to know, you just ask Google and it'll find the answer for you. Google knows everything."

"What does Google know about Pudding Jones?"

"Not much, probably."

He smirked. "Don't know everything, then."

"Well, I'm here to fix that." I smiled what I hoped was a disarming, genuine smile, instead of the sarcastic, annoyed one I was feeling. "Listen, I'm having a bad day, okay? So can we just skip all the crap and get to work?"

"Bad day?" Pudding's scowl deepened. "You ain't know what a bad day is. I know what a bad day is. I was young. Elementary school. I done forgot exactly how old I was. Don't matter no ways. Daddy, sometimes he worked the night shift. Those were the best times of my life, cause he was gone and not home to mess with me. I could sleep on those nights, you see. Every mornin' he would come home, 'cept one mornin', he didn't. Just…" he waved his hand in the air, "didn't. And I thought, Lord, could I get that lucky? Maybe he was dead. Died in a car crash on the way, and they just ain't had time to bring word yet.

"All morning, we ain't heard nothin'. I went on to school. I 'member I skipped down all the halls. I was so excited. Didn't matter Mamma and I'd have no money. I'd be free. Freedom's worth more than money. 'Bout half way through the day, sittin' in class, the intercom buzzed. It was the school secretary, relayin' a message from Mamma. Daddy'd come home, all nice and safe and sound. And my freedom was gone in an instant. In the blink of my eyes. Just slipped through my fingers. That's a bad day. You?" He stabbed his index finger at me. "You ain't know a bad day."

I swallowed hard, not knowing how to respond. "So…" I cleared my throat. "So your parents… your um… your father was abusive?" Could I even ask that kind of question? I had asked questions like Mister Senator, did you cheat on your wife, or did you know that boy was underage? Questions meant for sensation. But I had never delved into something like this before.

He chuckled, turned in his seat, put his back against the window, and stretched his long legs out. "You could say that. Could also say he was a hard workin' man, and I was a silly child to make up such nonsense. That's what they said, back then. All of them."

I didn't know who they had been, but I suddenly wanted to hit every one of them. "Did you make it up?"

Pudding looked at me then, turned those dark brown Labrador retriever eyes on me. "Does it matter?" he asked softly.

"Yes," I croaked the word. In the space of a few sentences, Pudding had gone from a story to a person. And it mattered more than I wanted to admit.

NEW RELEASE: Heart of Stars


It takes a bloody battle, the death of several of his men, and a near death experience of his own for Afron to see what lies in his heart for Makara. Now the barbarian won't let anything stand in the way of their destiny -- not even the prostitute's petulant (if half-hearted) refusal to see him.


But the next day greeted him with more of the same -- loneliness and longing, and a burning desire to see his barbarian. Makara went about his morning ritual, bathing with the required scented salts,anointing himself with cologne rumored to drive even the purest of men wild with lust, and rimming his eyes with the etching pencil, though not as dark as his employers would've liked. He chose a fluffy white shirt and a pair of silky black breeches; slid them on over his naked ass, enjoying the soft, luxurious fabric as it hugged his body and tickled his cock. Makara admired himself in the mirror -- his
short dark hair and well-built frame -- thinking he looked rather desirable today. Not that it mattered.

He paced to the door and opened it, grabbed the book off the wooden shelf just to the right of the opening. He flipped to today's page and frowned. No appointments. Makara sighed. Word of the limp-dicked whore had apparently spread. How long before the Nulphillium revoked his privileges and booted him out the door to find his customers on the streets? And how long would he survive that?

One of the other attendants came dashing up the stairs, breathless. "Afron is here."

Makara jumped at the words, though he quickly took a deep breath to settle himself. No. No more Afron. He fluffed out his hair, gathered his courage around him, and went to tell Afron to leave. He stopped on the balcony and perched himself on the rail, trying to look nonchalant as he pretended to ignore the throng of noise rising up from the ground floor.

He ran a hand through his hair and licked his lips as the barbarian sauntered through the lobby below. Even from this distance, the foreigner's musky male scent filled Makara's nostrils. Or perhaps he just imagined it did. Either way, he drew in a long, lingering breath through his nose and held it in until his chest hurt. He let the breath out slowly, cocked his eyebrow as the barbarian's head lifted and that violet gaze locked on him. Makara shivered. He toyed with the ruffles of his shirt as the barbarian mounted the stairs, eyes intent on him.

Afron gestured to the hallway behind Makara.

Makara folded his arms across his chest and raised his chin. "Didn't I make myself clear last time?"

Afron nodded. "I heard your words."

Backlist Feature: Orion's Way

Content Warning: BDSM 


Orion is a vampire with a tragic past. After running away from abusive parents at the tender age of sixteen, he was turned by a ruthless elder vampire and forced to torture and sexually abuse human feeders and submissive vampires. Though that's all behind him now, he still lives in the shadow of what he was, and it has cost him the loyalty of Xavier, the human feeder he loves. Malagan is Orion's closest friend--the vampire who saved him from brutality all those years ago. Malagan knows the dominant side of Orion--the side Xavier needs--is still there, lurking below the surface. But if Orion's going to find his way back to who he ought to be, he'll need help. And Malagan is just the man for the job.

Three months later, he had his answer, as Orion paced frantically around the library, clenching and unclenching his shaking hands. “I told you I couldn’t do this!” Orion hissed.

Malagan steepled his fingers in front of him and leaned back in his chair. “What happened?”

“What always happens! He ran away from me again! I found him at a club two towns over, being fed on by vamps from another clan.” Orion ran his hands through his hair, clutching his fingers at the ends and tugging. “He bore my scent. My mark. And they ignored it!”

Malagan shrugged. “Just as any other vamp would if they found a stray.” He tried unsuccessfully to keep the snide tone from his voice. Stray feeders were like stray cats—cute enough everyone wanted to pet them and feed them, but dirty enough no one really wanted to keep them.

“He’s not a stray!” Orion rounded on him, eyes glowing bright red, fangs descended. “You would do well to mind your clan and your borders!”

Though impressed and encouraged by Orion’s display of domi- nance, Malagan couldn’t let it go unanswered. He curled his upper lip in a snarl and stood. “You would do well to remember your place, Orion.”

Orion glared at Malagan, breathing hard, his internal war evident. At last he pulled his fangs up and took a step backward. “I’m sorry.”

Malagan crossed to him, tipped his head back with a finger under his chin. “Don’t be sorry. Be respectful. That’s all I ask. You know as well as I that a marked feeder far from his home is probably a stray. They likely didn’t ask if he had a Master, and Xavier likely didn’t offer the fact that he did. You are my dearest friend, but it’s not a situation I’ll go to war over.”

Orion nodded. “I know.” He looked away, but rested his hands on Malagan’s hips. “What am I to do, Mal? My heart is in chaos. If I cannot command Xavier’s loyalty, how can I command his love? Or anyone else’s? A vampire master who wakes in the night with no clue where his feeder has gone.” He shook his head miserably. “I see the looks the others give me. I have neither their respect nor their regard.”

Malagan leaned in and nipped at Orion’s ear. “You have mine, on all counts.”

“I’m grateful for that.” Orion raised his head to meet Malagan’s eyes. “More than you know. My Maker said he’d change my life. That’s what he told me, the night he found me. He promised me power, control, and I believed him.” He turned and stepped away, but Malagan caught him by the arm and pulled him close again.

“You had no reason not to.” Malagan fitted their bodies together tightly, ground his hips against Orion’s ass.

“I should’ve known better. I should’ve found a way to leave.” Though Orion finally leaned back into the embrace, his body was rigid.

Malagan tugged Orion’s neatly tucked shirt up and slid his hands up under it to touch the only slightly chilly flesh, fascinated by it, as always. Orion had never been as cold to the touch as most vampires. “And how many would be dead, if you had?”

Orion shrugged. “Maybe they’d be better off that way.” He pulled away, head hanging, and wrapped his arms around his middle tightly, shaking. “You should take Xavier. Or someone else should. Anyone.”


“No. He needs more from me than I can give. I’m not that man anymore.”

Malagan sighed. He’d watched his friend struggle these past few years, had tried to stand back and let Orion figure things out. What he should’ve done was shown Orion what he saw when he looked in Orion’s eyes. Shown Orion the strength buried under all that doubt and shame. He took a deep breath and quirked an eyebrow at his own idea. This might hurt a bit. Malagan grabbed Orion by the shoulder and turned him around roughly.


“Shut up!” Malagan snapped. “If you’re not a Master, then you’re a feeder.” He shoved Orion back against the wall and lowered his head to Orion’s neck.

It's All Relative

This is a no comment post. What does that mean? Well, it means it originally appeared as a guest post on a website but it didn't get any comments. I'm sharing it as a recycled post because I think it still has merit, and well, frankly I wrote the darn thing, so somebody should read it! LOL

This one originally appeared at The Steam Room Blog

Today, I want to talk about a tricky subject: family relations.

Anybody who knows me knows I grew up in a difficult situation. My mother was a codependent hoarder with manic depression and delusions. My father was a physically, mentally, and sexually abusive alcoholic. I had brothers and sisters, but they were all grown and didn't live with us. The rest of my extended family - aunts, uncles, cousins - frequently turned a blind eye to the way we lived.

Suffice it to say that, once I was old enough, I got out on my own as soon as I could. In fact, I moved 1,200 miles away. Part of me felt guilty, though, for leaving my mother behind in a bad situation. So in 2003, against the advice of just about everyone who knew me, I moved my mother up to NY State to live near us.

I shouldn't have. I really, really shouldn't have. Things between her and I went from bad to worse. She had me convinced, for a while, that the reason she was still abusive toward me and unhappy in general was because she didn't like where she was living. So, my husband and I talked, and we moved her in with us. Before we did so, we had a long talk with her about setting ground rules. She was going to be in what had originally been a separate little apartment, so it had a sink and a stove, but we wanted a level of control over what she brought into the house (remember - she's a hoarder) so we'd be sharing the main kitchen in the house. She assured me that she would stick to the rules - that she wanted to.

But, after a while, a coffee pot showed up back there. Then she started keeping some food in the cabinets. Then the stove - which we'd unplugged - got plugged in. And then she bought a microwave. All during this, we kept talking to her about the rules she agreed to, about how she said she wanted to participate in our lives but wasn't holding up her end of the bargain. I ended up blurting out one day "You need to move out." Yeah. Tact…is not often my friend.

I thought that, away from my father and the life that made her unhappy, she'd be a different person. I thought that, given the chance to have a relationship and enjoy a life with me and her grandkids, she'd be a different person. I learned that she is who she is, and no situation changes that.

It's not just my family, though. I'm not my husband's family's favorite person. His mother has issues with me because of how I raised our kids. She doesn't like that I held our kids to high standards, and didn't let them get away with things. I'm not talking about some unreachable standards - I expected them to do their homework, keep their rooms clean, help out around the house, and keep up their personal hygiene. That's really about it. To this day, I will look at our youngest (who is moved out living on his own now) and ask him if he has brushed his teeth lately. I mean, seriously - you can tell he hasn't. Why should he slack off like that? And why should anyone let him? She takes offense that I point these things out. ::shrugs:: Everyone has their ways.

I guess the biggest difference between my family members and myself is that I live in the now - in the present. I'm firmly planted in the here and now. I can't change what happened - I can't go back and fix yesterday. I can only make tomorrow better. Most of my family members live in the past. They're very much caught up in what happened years and years ago, or how they wish their lives had been. It's impossible to hold a conversation with my mother without her going off on a tangent about my childhood, her childhood, etc. etc. There are no fun little chats. There's no "So, Danny, how's the writing going?" or "I saw this great documentary on hyenas the other day…" Even when I try to start out that way, it's just more of the same. It's tedious and exhausting and unpleasant.

What's more, every time we do talk, which is rare, she always ends up back at the same thing: she wants me to tell I think she did her best by me growing up. Well, I don't think that, so I won't say it. I don't believe in lying to people to placate their sense of self worth. Speaking of that…someone noticed the other day that, when I hung up from a call with my mother, I didn't say, "I love you." They asked me why, and I said, "Um…because I don't." They dissolved into a long rant about how I should be glad to still have my mother, that their mother had died, etc. When they were done, I simply shrugged and said, "Your life with your mother was different than mine. If it hadn't been, you'd feel the same way."

My sister clings to her sense of family. She visits her father, even though her father was pretty much the same as mine (mom knew how to pick 'em). She still talks to and visits with our dysfunctional brothers. Every time, she ends up either feeling depressed or in some kind of insane argument. I don't see the point. Family is definitely important, don't get me wrong. But not at the sake of my own sanity. I've cut myself off from toxic people, and I'm not ashamed of that.

Maybe this is why so many of my characters have issues with their families? Take Calliph from "No Place Like Home," for instance. Bad blood between him and his brother (same with me and most of my siblings), his father is dead but wasn't a peach when he'd been alive (same here) and his mother is pretty much toasted mentally (same here). The one big difference is that Calliph still feels an obligation to his family, whereas I don't. But maybe that's why he's the way he is. Maybe he's a manifestation of what I feel I should be. I feel like I should feel some sort of obligation, but I don't feel any at all. I worry for what that means about me.

Thursday, July 25, 2013

Hot Paranormal Nights Blog Hop


For my part in the hop today, I'm offering up a tidbit of my sexy m/m vampire tale, "Orion's Way."


Orion is a vampire with a tragic past. After running away from abusive parents at the tender age of sixteen, he was turned by a ruthless elder vampire and forced to torture and sexually abuse human feeders and submissive vampires. Though that's all behind him now, he still lives in the shadow of what he was, and it has cost him the loyalty of Xavier, the human feeder he loves. Malagan is Orion's closest friend--the vampire who saved him from brutality all those years ago. Malagan knows the dominant side of Orion--the side Xavier needs--is still there, lurking below the surface. But if Orion's going to find his way back to who he ought to be, he'll need help. And Malagan is just the man for the job.


The moment Malagan walked into his kitchen, he knew where the dent in Orion’s car had come from. Orion sat at the table, both hands wrapped in gauze, nursing a cup of coffee. Orion hadn’t healed his wounds, and Malagan knew that spelled a nasty bout of depression on the horizon. He wiped his own bloodied knuckles on his pants—unhealed because he simply hadn’t taken the time—and went to pour himself a mug. He needed to feed, but he needed to see to Orion first. Caffeine would do in the meantime.

“I owe you some supplies,” Orion said, holding up his hands.

Malagan shrugged. “Mi casa es su casa, you know that.” He sat down across from Orion, nodded to Orion’s hands. “Did the car say something you didn’t like?”

Orion burst into laughter, leaned forward, and laid his head on the table, forehead down. He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Malagan reached his hand to the back of Orion’s neck, massaged the tight-corded muscles there. “I’m proud of you. What you did was incredibly stupid and ill-advised, but I’m still proud of you. Although you could’ve gotten yourself killed, and then I’d have had to kill Clay. You should think about that next time.”

“Will there be a next time?” he asked, turning his face slightly to see Malagan.

Malagan withdrew his hand and picked up his coffee to sip it. “Hard to say. Marco and the others are helping Xavier settle in now. He came with me willingly tonight, but one never knows with humans. They’re such a fickle bunch.”

Orion sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Thank you.”

Malagan nodded. He’d rescued Xavier for his own peace of mind as much as for Orion’s. “I discussed the situation at length with him on the drive home. He loves you, of course, as he always has. He wants to return to you, if you’ll have him. You should speak to him.”

Orion shook his head. “You know I can’t.”

Malagan held up a hand. “Think about it. He’s not going to be up for anything heavy for a very long time. Might never be, now. Perhaps this experience will show him he doesn’t need the dangerously heavy hand he craves. Perhaps it won’t. Either way, the two of you can learn and grow together. As morbid as it seems, maybe this situation today was just what each of you needs to find your way back to what you once were.”

“What I was?” Orion smirked. “I was a monster.”

Malagan ignored the statement, focused on the present. “I’ve seen how you are with the new fledglings, with the vamps who come through my doors questioning everything, questioning their own sanity. You’re patient with them. You take time with them, make sure they’re comfortable and happy. And I’ve seen the light that comes into your eyes when you watch a BDSM session. You want to be the one holding the paddle. You want to be the one giving that joy to a sub. You deserve to be the one, and Xavier, flighty as the man is, deserves that from you. If I didn’t trust you, I’d never have let you live in the lair.”

Orion stood and paced to the sink to rinse out his coffee cup. “How can you trust me when I can’t even trust myself?”

A valid question, but Malagan doubted Orion would accept any answer he gave. He stood and joined Orion, slid his arm around Orion’s waist. “Like I said, I’ve seen it in your eyes.”

“I don’t know.” Orion shook his head and leaned into Malagan’s embrace. “I haven’t even picked up a whip since...” He broke off and looked away.

“I know.” Malagan pressed a kiss to the top of Orion’s head. “You never know until you try.”

“Maybe.” Orion sat his cup down on the counter and laid his hand over Malagan’s. He froze as his fingers made contact with broken flesh. He turned quickly and lifted Malagan’s hand. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing. Clay’s face is harder than it looks.” Malagan’s chest constricted as Orion turned his hand over and back again, touching the wound gingerly, scowling. “It’s nothing,” he repeated.

“Let me,” Orion murmured. He raised Malagan’s hands and licked Malagan’s knuckles one by one. At length he lifted his head, eyes crimson. “Tell me he looks worse than you.”

Malagan chuckled. “Far worse.” He pulled his hands away and stroked Orion’s hair. “Go speak to Xavier, my friend. You two have much to discuss.”

Orion obeyed, though Malagan didn’t miss the reluctance in his slow, calculated movements, or the way he hesitated at the doorway and looked back over his shoulder at Malagan before going on. The road to Xavier’s recovery would be long, but he wondered if the road to Orion’s wouldn’t be longer.

To enter to win a copy, just leave a comment below, and don't forget to include your e-mail address.

Good luck!!

****PLEASE BE AWARE:  I write GLBTQ romance. GLBTQ stands for gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, and queer. This means my works feature same sex relationships AND same sex sexual acts. If winning that kind of a book isn't your cup of tea, kindly pass on to the next blog in the hop and leave the spot open for someone else. Thank you.****

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Recent Hop/Giveaway Winners

Most of you know I had double surgery this past Friday, so I'm just now getting around to announcing/picking winners. I'm having issues getting into my e-mail from my laptop, so look for your prizes tomorrow, Thursday 7/25

When Sparks Fly - pdf copy of "Omarati" - Everyone who commented! (,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

Christmas in July - pdf copy of "Perfect Christmas" - Kyla Patton- kamclauc AT gmail DOT com

Hot Summer Romance - winner's choice pdf - heather1974 at gmail dot com

Mini Giveaway - golf theme - strive4bst(At) yahoo(Dot) com

Backlist Feature: A Good Bargain

CONTENT WARNING: BDSM, older/younger relationship


Awkward and unsure, David has finally reentered the dating scene. A hot, young stud-muffin named Brandon seems like the perfect start, but things get complicated when Brandon makes a startling confession. Is Brandon the right choice for David, or did David just get way more than he bargained for?


Fuck, I’m old. The thought forty isn’t old followed immediately—David had forty-year-old friends, and he didn’t consider them old. So what if he couldn’t run five miles every morning anymore? So what if he went to bed at ten now, rather than staying up and watching the late reruns of Family Guy at two AM like he used to? Age changed a man, and a man had to roll with it. Couldn’t fault him for being practical. But the hot young thing on the couch next to him expected... Oh, god. What did he expect?

“So...” Brandon raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you want to—”

“I don’t want to have sex. I mean...I do. There’s nothing wrong with you or anything. I don’t do this kind of thing. I don’t bring boys home. Men,” David corrected quickly. “I don’t bring boys home at all, of course. I’m not into that sort of thing. Not that I think you are. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. I mean...well of course there’s something wrong with it if the boy’s a kid, like, really a kid. Who wouldn’t think that was wrong?” Well, this is going to hell in a hand basket.

“I was gonna ask if you wanted to watch a movie. I don’t do this kind of thing either, yanno.”

“No. I mean, yes. Yes, let’s watch a movie. Of course I don’t think you’re that kind of guy. You could be, if you wanted to be. You’re gorgeous.” David blushed seven different shades of red and stood quickly, pacing over to the DVD shelf. Brandon had said movie. He meant, movie, right? Cops and robbers, space attacks, that sort of thing. Not porn? Oh god, please don’t mean porn.

“Whatdaya have that’s good?” Brandon came to stand behind him, peering over his shoulder at the shelf. The heat of Brandon’s body swirled around David, and his cock swelled.

“What haven’t you seen?”

“Is that Lake Placid? I haven’t seen it. I know it’s old, but”—his gaze swept up and down David—”I kind of like older things.”

David swallowed hard and fumbled for the DVD in question. “Lake Placid. Great choice.” He turned to head over to the television, but found himself nose-to-nose with Brandon. “Um...”

Brandon reached up and slid his arms around David’s neck. “Don’t worry. I won’t bite unless you ask me to.” He tugged David’s head down for a kiss.

Their lips just barely brushed together, but David’s cock leapt and his toes curled from the touch. He pulled away with a small gasp. “Oh. Wow.”

“Nice, hmm?” 

David nodded. “Very.” 

“So, how long have you been out of the game?” Brandon sauntered over to the television. He bent down to retrieve the remote control from its spot on top of the DVD player, his jeans tightening to outline his perfectly formed ass.

David stifled a groan and tore his gaze away. “About eighteen years. Does it show that much?”

“Holy shit, man. You haven’t gotten any in eighteen years?”

David snatched the remote away and gestured to the couch. “That’s not what I said. I’ve gotten plenty.” Just not from men.

“You were with a partner or something?” Brandon flopped down on the couch and slung his left leg over the arm while David tried not to stare owlishly at his crotch.

“I was married.”

Brandon shook his head. “No you weren’t. Fags couldn’t marry back then.”

“To a woman. And don’t use that word. I don’t like it.”

Brandon shrugged. “It’s just a word.”

“No, it’s not. It’s a hateful, spiteful thing to say, and if you’d grown up like I did, you’d understand.” Anger rose in him, sending tremors through his hands.

“Wow. Okay, I’m sorry. It’s just word to me, yanno? Like how women call each other bitches or black people call each other—”

“Don’t.” David held up a hand to stop him from uttering yet another disgusting profanity. “I get your point.” He stared hard at Brandon, wondering what the hell had possessed him to go into a bar and pick up some youngster, probably the same age as his own son. “Fuck me.”

“I thought you’d never ask!”

“Not literally,” he said, shaking his head and scrubbing his hands over his face.

“Can’t blame me for trying, huh?” But disappointment showed clearly in Brandon’s slouched shoulders and petulant frown, bottom lip pursed just so.

“We shouldn’t do this. You should go.”

Brandon stood and stepped toward him, and when David took an involuntary step back, Brandon held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I said I wouldn’t bite, remember? You came into the bar because you were looking for something. Wanting something. Maybe even needing something. Right? So, why don’t you let me help you find it? I’m not talking about fucking, although, I gotta admit, if you said jump I’d say how high.”

“What do you suggest?”

Brandon came within touching distance. “Let’s just watch the movie, and see how the evening goes. Then let’s see how the night goes, and maybe how breakfast goes, if we get that far.”

“And after?”

“Well, I usually have lunch after breakfast, followed by dinner. I tend to repeat that daily.” He placed his hands on David’s upper arms, curled his fingers around the muscles there. “You’re not too shabby for an old geezer, you know?”

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Mushrooms - Phallic Symbols or Fantasy Fungi?

This is a recycled post. What does that mean? Well, it means it originally appeared as a guest post on a website that has since ceased to function. I'm sharing recycled posts along the way, because I think they still have merit and, well, frankly I wrote the darn things, so somebody should read them! LOL

This one was supposed to appear on a blog - I won't give the blog name - but after sending it in, they never posted it. I e-mailed them several times and got no response.


I've always been fond of mushrooms. Not eating them, but the look of them. I like the different shapes and colors. I enjoy the whimsy of the way they just pop up randomly and spread like wildfire.

In my mind, tiny toadstools always evoked images of fairies and gnomes, unicorns and castles - far away lands and fantasy adventures. That is, until my husband suggested mushrooms resembled penises, and that was why I liked them. O.O My beloved, fantastical harbingers of innocent dreams suddenly turned into something completely different.

At first, I argued with him. Mushrooms, after all, aren't all shaped the same. There's coral shaped, funnel shaped, trumpet shaped, puff ball shaped, lampshade shaped, noodle shaped, and even - yes, I'm serious here - an octopus shaped mushroom. How could something so varied look like something so…well…unvaried? Yes, penises come in different lengths and thicknesses, but they're basically all the same general shape. Let's face it - if he's got an octopus penis, he's probably not human. (Although if you find him, send him my way, 'cause I'm betting that's pretty damned entertaining.) 

And then one day I took a good look around. At that time, my kitchen was decorated in a mushroom motif. I had mushroom salt and pepper shakers, spoon rests, wall art - you name it, I had a mushroom version of it. And none of them…none…were coral shaped, or funnel shaped, or trumpet shaped, or puff ball shaped, or lampshade shaped, or noodle shaped, and no, sadly none of them were octopus shaped. I stood in the middle of the room and realized I was surrounded. By penises. 

Maybe my husband was right. Maybe my transfixion with fungi stems from my gender issues. Maybe my fervent desire for a penis of my own, attached to my body, has manifested itself into an attraction to mushrooms. Maybe it's an outward expression of an inner feeling of insignificance and of being half of a whole. O.o

Or maybe I just really like cock. :-P

Friday, July 19, 2013

Christmas in July Blog Hop

Since we're talking about Christmas, I thought I'd feature my sexy Christmas story "Perfect Christmas." Leave a comment below, including your e-mail address, and you'll be entered to win a free pdf copy of your very own!

Content warning: BDSM, multiple partner intercourse

Here's the blurb:

Depressed and lonely, Evan has nothing to look forward to on Christmas but his TV dinner and store-bought cookies, while his lover, Drake, spends the holiday traveling for business. But a special delivery changes everything, and Evan finds himself in the middle of a perfect Christmas. Worn out from his stocking stuffer, Evan's not sure how he's going to handle his present, but when Drake reveals that Evan's gift is a threesome with none other than their hunky friend Mike, Evan summons the energy!

And a sexy lil snippet:

Drake straightened, stepped back, and stretched. He flashed Evan a dazzling smile. “Now we can head to the bedroom.”

“I was starting to like the bathroom,” Evan admitted.

“Well, if you want to open your present, you need to go to the bedroom.”

Curiosity piqued, Evan slid down off the sink. Drake took his hand and led him to the adjoining bedroom. In the middle of their big, black lacquer, four-poster bed, naked except for a pair of black leather underwear with a silver zipper, was their friend Mike. The soft glow of candles surrounded them but no heat radiated from them; Evan recognized them as the flameless battery operated ones he’d bought online last year but had never used.

“How?” Evan managed to whisper, just before his jaw dropped open.

“I called him on the way here and arranged it,” Drake explained, his tone full of pride.

“I snuck in the backdoor after Drake got home.” Mike grinned sheepishly. “No pun intended.”

“Remember when you said you wondered what he was like in bed?” Drake asked, pressing his lips to Evan’s ear.

Evan nodded, mouth too dry to talk. Not that he didn’t find Drake’s boyish good looks and curly blond hair attractive, and not that he didn’t feel content and fulfilled with their relationship, or their sex life—he did. But there was something about Mike—an animal magnetism in those large, dark eyes—that had always tempted Evan. Mike was the tallest man Evan knew, towering well over six feet, with a hunky build and chestnut skin that bespoke of exotic travels, action and adventure, and completely belied his ordinary, down home life as bartender at the local gay club. Evan would never have acted on his fantasy, of course, but with Drake giving permission and Mike willing, how could he say no?

“Aren’t you going to unwrap your package?” Mike wiggled his hips, flickering light glinting off the metal zipper.


****PLEASE BE AWARE:  I write GLBTQ romance. GLBTQ stands for gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, and queer. This means my works feature same sex relationships AND same sex sexual acts. If winning that kind of a book isn't your cup of tea, kindly pass on to the next blog in the hop and leave the spot open for someone else. Thank you.****

Grand Prize Info:

We are going to also offering two Grand Prizes!! In order for readers to take part, they must leave their comment and email address. Two winners will be chosen at random and notified no later than July 29, 2013.

1st Grand Prize: (1) $100 Amazon Gift Card

2nd Grand Prize: (1) $25 Amazon Gift Card

Thursday, July 18, 2013

Hot Summer Romance Giveaway Hop

For my part in the hop today, I'm keeping things short and sweet, since I know you're all hopping your behinds off!

Leave a comment below, including your e-mail, and you'll be entered to win your choice of one free pdf of any of my titles, found at

Good luck!!!

****PLEASE BE AWARE:  I write GLBTQ romance. GLBTQ stands for gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, and queer. This means my works feature same sex relationships AND same sex sexual acts. If winning that kind of a book isn't your cup of tea, kindly pass on to the next blog in the hop and leave the spot open for someone else. Thank you.****


There are two grand prizes. #1 is a Kindle Fire. #2 is a $50 gift certificate.

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Backlist Feature: Buried Treasure


After his last long-term relationship ended because of his nightmares, Mark closed his heart to the possibility of finding love again. He's certainly never considered Gabe, the orderly who works at Miller's Retirement Home where his father lives. But there's more to Gabe than meets the eye, and if Mark is willing to let Gabe in, he might just discover the most important buried treasure of all.


“You know, you don’t have to come by every week.” Gabe wiped his mouth with a napkin and sipped his coffee to wash down the Danish he’d just devoured. He’d gone to a lot of effort to snag this date, and he was going to enjoy all of it, right down to the food. Not to mention the view. Even tied back in a ponytail, Mark’s hair made Gabe itch to run his fingers through it. He’s always admired men who were able to pull off having longer hair and still look entirely masculine. Although with his towering height and those bulky muscles—deliciously visible under his dress shirt—Mark couldn’t possibly look anything but.

Mark jerked his head up to look at Gabe, glaring. “That’s odd coming from someone in your position.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you visit weekly. Some of our residents don’t ever get visits, just phone calls on birthdays and holidays, and some don’t even get that much.” Gabe inclined his head and frowned. “But it’s hard on”—the heat of a blush filled his cheeks at the choice of his own words, and he cleared his throat—”it’s difficult for you, never knowing which dad you’re coming to see. It is stressful for you and him. Besides, not to sound cruel, but it’s not as though he enjoys your visits when he’s like he is today. Not that you can predict it, of course. Maybe you can call ahead? I can...” Gabe trailed off and cleared his throat, hoping Mark hadn’t noticed his slipup. An orderly wouldn’t be answering the phone, after all, and he wasn’t ready to tell Mark the truth about his real role at Miller’s. Not just yet. “I mean, the girls at the front desk can tell you how things are going.”

“That might work.” Mark nodded. He pulled off another chunk of doughnut and popped it into his mouth. “I just feel guilty not putting in the effort. We’ve already lost so much time together over my decisions.”

Gabe snorted. “You didn’t decide to be gay anymore than I did. Evelyn came by yesterday, by the way.”

“My sister was in town?” Mark’s eyes went wide and his mouth turned down into an almost childlike pouty frown, bottom lip sticking out just so.

“She didn’t stay or anything. She said she was passing through on a business trip,” Gabe offered, hoping to soften the blow that Mark’s sister had been in town and hadn’t bothered to see him. “She dropped off some early birthday cards from her kids.”

“She didn’t visit with dad?” Mark’s frown deepened. He shifted and looked out the window, absently stirring his coffee.

“She can’t stand to see him like that.” Gabe gnawed on his bottom lip. Watching patients fade away wasn’t always the worst part of his job. Sometimes, watching their families splinter apart was even worse. He wished he knew some magic words to heal the growing rift in Mark’s family.

“Yeah? Well, neither can the rest of us.” Mark pushed his coffee cup away and glanced at his watch. “I have to get going.” He pulled out his wallet, tossed down some money, slid from the booth, and walked away.

Gabe heaved a sigh. He’d known Mark would be a difficult catch— the man was aloof and seemed to be one of the most antisocial people on the planet. Though there was surely a reason for Mark’s private nature, Gabe suspected that something else lurked on the inside, underneath all that bravado: a soft-hearted, passionate man. And even better, Gabe knew in his gut that Mark was someone he could reveal his own hidden secrets to, and finally not be rebuffed. He quirked an eyebrow as Mark came back to the booth.

He hovered for a moment, driving a hand through his hair. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Gabe shrugged. “Thank yourself. You paid for it.” He pointed at the cash Mark had left.

“Yeah. Well, thanks for the invite, anyhow.” Mark lingered at the table, and Gabe couldn’t help but seize the opportunity.

“Wanna do this again? We could make it a weekly thing, you know? Get together for lunch every Wednesday.”

Mark frowned. “Wednesdays are bad for me. I do the dad thing,”

“Right.” But Gabe wasn’t about to give up that easily. “Thursdays, then? Or Fridays? Or Mondays? Tuesdays, even?” He smiled what he hoped was the sweetest, most irresistible smiles in the world and batted his eyelashes at Mark. “Please?”

Mark’s frown deepened and he glanced again toward the door of the café and back several times, and Gabe half expected him to start pacing like a caged animal. Mark sighed and nodded. “What about just next Thursday?” Another quick look at the door. “I don’t want to get your hopes up if I can’t commit. You know, because of a work conflict or whatever.”

Gabe grinned widely. Success! “Sure. Next Thursday to try it out. You never know, you might find once a week of me just isn’t enough.” The comment earned him a half-hearted chuckle before Mark strode away, pausing at the door to cast a look over his shoulder.

Gabe waved, grinning as Mark left. He sat back and sighed. So. He’d managed to chip at that frosty exterior of Mark’s after all. He downed the rest of his coffee in four gulps and signaled the waitress again.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Mini Giveaway: Golf Theme

Here's a fun little giveaway featuring some golf stuff I found!

There's a ball & tee set, an iron brush, a putting stencil, a ball towel, and 2 hand towels.

To enter, just leave a comment below and tell me your favorite sport or sports memory. Be sure to include your e-mail. Contest ends 7/19/13 at Noon EST.


****PLEASE BE AWARE: I write GLBTQ romance. GLBTQ stands for gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, and queer. This means my works feature same sex relationships AND same sex sexual acts. If being associated with that kind of a blog isn't your cup of tea, kindly pass on. Thank you.****

Friday, July 12, 2013

Flash Fiction - False Advertising

Flash Fiction - "False Advertising" by DC Juris

"Put your load here." I bit my bottom lip to keep from laughing as I looked at the ad for my lover's newest modeling gig. "It's um…"

"It's awful!" Ken wailed. "I knew it was a moving company, but I had no idea that's the verbiage they were going to use."

"It's not all that bad. You look sexy," I offered.

"I look like a douche! Put your load here? For God's sake!" He buried his face in his hands and moaned. "This is awful. I'm never going to live this down. I can hear them now. Hey Ken, got a load for ya!"

I stared down at the ad, an idea forming. "Is this your only copy?"

He shook his head, still hiding his face. "I have dozens. Everyone has dozens. It's everywhere!"

I headed to the kitchen, fished in the drawer under the microwave and grabbed out the scissors. I cut off the top of the paper, licked the back generously, and stuck it to my forehead. I looked up at it over the rim of my glasses. Hopefully it would stay. I unbuttoned my shirt, shrugged it off, and slid off my jeans, strutted back into the living room in just my boxers and socks. "It does have its uses."

Ken looked up at me and burst into laughter.

I moved the paper to my chest, held it just above my belly. "Or how about here?"

He beckoned me over and I knelt between his legs, slid my hands up his thighs.

"I love you," he murmured before he pressed his lips to mine.

Photo Credit: >zurijeta / 123RF Stock Photo

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Backlist Feature: "Follow His Heart"

Content Warning: Multiple partner intercourse, twincest 

"Follow His Heart" is the third and final installment in The Sky People Trilogy


Tristan awakens on Torottu, but the portal wasn't meant for humans, and he's been near death since his arrival almost ten months ago. That's okay, though, because now that he's awake, he and Jinsu can start their life together. The problem? Jinsu has no idea who Tristan is—the return trip through the portal erased his memory of Earth, of their relationship, or Tristan himself. Winning Jinsu's heart again won't be easy, especially if Kelan, Jinsu's twin, has anything to say about it. Kelan loves Jinsu, too, and he won't be put aside for Tristan. Not again. Tristan knows his only chance for happiness—and the only chance for Jinsu and Kelan—is to follow his heart.


Tristan stood in what was surely the most massive throne room ever made. Thick round columns lined each side, spanning the distance between the floor and the ceiling like silent guards. The floor itself looked to be made of some kind of stone, but Tristan noticed that no one's feet made any noise on it, including his own. The wall on the left side of the room was not a wall at all, but a single long, large window. At the tops of the remaining walls, where they should've met the ceiling, were multicolored sheets of glass, reminding Tristan of stained glass windows, but with larger pieces and no soldered lead holding it all together.

In front of him, several feet away, was an ornately carved chair in which a thin, lanky man with shortly-cropped black hair lounged almost lazily—one leg crossed over the other, left elbow resting on the arm of the chair. Galdrin, he presumed. The only other color in the room besides the windows was the vibrant red of Galdrin's outfit.

The plump man bowed to Galdrin and took his place slightly to the right of the chair.

Tristan squared his shoulders and stood straighter, facing Galdrin head on, looking him directly in the eyes. He'd never met anyone with such a title—hell, he didn't even know the name of the mayor in the town he'd lived in—and he was a little uncertain what was expected of him. Now for his coup d'état.

"Koma bon Jinsu?"

Hard to keep the smugness from his tone and off his face, especially when Galdrin's eyes widened like that and he sat forward just that much in his seat. "You know some of our tongue."

Well, so much for the advantage of surprise. "You know mine."

Galdrin inclined his head. "Somewhat. I am Emperor Galdrin."

"Where is Jinsu?" Tristan didn't care if Galdrin was God; he'd go through anyone to find Jinsu. Period.

"Would you like something to eat?"

"No. Where is Jinsu?" He took a step closer, but stopped when Galdrin leveled an glare at him that teetered on the line between imperial and deadly, and Tristan couldn't tell which side of that line it favored.

"A drink, then, perhaps." Galdrin gestured to a small table off to his right, several ornate glasses and a pitcher atop it.

Somewhat my ass. "Where is Jinsu?" Though truthfully, Tristan couldn't remember ever having been as hungry and thirsty as he was at that moment.

Galdrin gestured to the plump man. "You have met Berata. He is the healer who saved your life."

"And I'm grateful. Where is Jinsu?"

"What do you want with Jinsu?"

Tristan swallowed hard, wondering how much he should tell. How much did the emperor already know? Instincts told him to keep the details to a minimum, but what if the emperor knew everything, and this question was some sort of test of his honesty? Maybe that was why Jinsu wasn't there. Maybe they had interrogated him until he'd told them everything, and then they'd killed him.

Tristan took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing mind. I've been watching too many bad movies. Best to tell the emperor everything. Tristan related his tale to the emperor, who kept his thoughts on the subject to himself—didn't utter so much as an um or an ah. He told the emperor about Jinsu's illness, and how they'd found the portal, how the journey had seemed to rip him apart, and how he'd awakened on the floor. He finished his tale, and the emperor sat back, rubbing his thumb along his chin, forehead wrinkled and eyes narrow.

"You present an interesting dilemma for me, Tristan."

"Listen, just take me to Jinsu and he can explain everything. I know you must not trust me or believe me—"

"Oh, I believe you."

"You…you do?" What the hell?

"Why would I not? You clearly know Jinsu, and of our world, you were found with him in the cave where our portal is located, and you can speak our language. The problem is not what I believe. It is what Jinsu believes."

"What do you mean?" The tiny hairs on the back of Tristan's neck stood up, and a cold dread crept up his spine.

"As I said, you present an interesting dilemma. There is a reason why our two worlds do not interact. Call it a failsafe. Your people might call it fate or a higher power. Do you know how long you have been here?"

Tristan shook his head. He didn't too much care for the emperor's ominous, Darth Vader tone, and half expected the character's trademark heavy breathing to follow everything Galdrin said.

"Going on ten months now."

"Ten months?" Tristan echoed, horrified. He'd lost ten months of time with Jinsu?

"Ten months," Galdrin confirmed. "You were near death when they found you, or at least they assumed you were." Galdrin glanced at Berata for a moment, then went back to scrutinizing Tristan, the glare of his icy blue eyes made Tristan want to curl into a ball and hide away. "There is no easy way to say this, and I have never had to break such news, so forgive me if my delivery is lacking. The fact of the matter is that Jinsu does not remember you. We do not know why it happens, but it is a side effect of the return trip for my people. The humans die…and we forget them."

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

NSFW!!!! Let's get smutty!

This is a recycled post. What does that mean? Well, it means it originally appeared as a guest post on a website that has since ceased to function. I'm sharing recycled posts along the way, because I think they still have merit and, well, frankly I wrote the darn things, so somebody should read them! LOL 

This one originally appeared on, which appears to now be, but I can't find the post. So, I'm sharing it here! It was originally written for the Back to Smut Bash, which happened Sept 2, 2011 through Sept 7, 2011. 

(no, really - there's sploogy cock photos)

Disclaimer: I did not take, nor do I own, the photos used in this post. At this point, I don't even remember where I got them (it's been going on 2 yrs now, folks). If these photos are your property and you want them removed, please e-mail me at and I will comply immediately. 

So. Back to Smut, eh? Well, count me in! I mean, who doesn't love smut? Obviously you and I both do, or we wouldn't be here, right? In trying to pick my topic for today, I realized I've got a couple things to talk about.

First of all, let's talk about cocks.

Okay. I know what you're thinking: What the hell does a pre-op transgender guy know about cocks? Oh…you weren't thinking that? Well, ya are now, aren't ya?  But seriously, though, it's no secret (or I try not to make it one, anyhow) that my ::ahem:: junk isn't "real." But that's precisely one of the things I want to talk about: strap-ons.

This one is mine:

Yeah, didn't think you'd get to see a writer's dick today, didja? It's a plus size harness (because I don't skinny dip—I chunky dunk), and yes, my cock is purple. I have other toys, and even other strap-ons, but this one is my favorite. Like some transmen, I'm comfortable using both my "natural parts" and my purchased ones, but I have to say, I like my purchased ones better. And here's why:

1.     No messy clean up. When you're done, just take it off, toss it on the nightstand, and deal with it tomorrow. Nobody has to sleep in the wet spot.
2.     Too long? Too thick? Just switch it out for a different one.
3.     No lag time between "sessions." Aside from a bad knee, I can keep up with just about anyone.
4.     No confusing innuendo. If the strap-on is on, then "its" on.
5.     I never have to worry about teeth. Think about that for a minute, fellas.

So, why don't more stories involve strap-ons? I honestly don't know. I've gotten a lot of feedback from readers about my transgender stories, which feature Derek, an FTM (female to male) transman. Many of my now die-hard readers initially read my first work "Even Guys Cry" with a little bit of hesitation. Some of them had never read stories involving a strap-on, and they weren't sure how sexy that could even be, what with one of the participants unable to really feel anything physically. But overall, they love Derek, and even the staunchest of "I only read regular m/m" readers has confessed to forgetting Derek's not an "anatomically correct" male. Which just goes to prove that if the sex is written well, it doesn't matter if his cock is flesh and blood, or latex.

The only drawback is that lack of physical sensation. I don't feel if my partner is tight or hot or anything like that. But the other side of that coin, is that, taking away my sensation leaves me completely open to my partner's. And there's nothing hotter or sexier than watching your partner's reactions, knowing you're the one in control of them, the one making them happen, and knowing they adore you for it.

That's the key. That's the importance of the strap-on, at least for me. And if you're not convinced by now that a strap-on can be sexy? Go buy one and watch your lover give it head. ::raises an eyebrow:: You can thank me later.

Okay, so, moving right along…. Let's talk "real" cocks now.

We all know cocks get a lot of attention, and they should. After all, they're beautifully shaped, soft and hard at the same time, and they're able to simultaneously give and receive pleasure. What's better?

Writers spend a lot of time extolling the virtues and of the cock. Seems like every story contains at least one velvety head and one smooth, hard shaft being worked to an explosive, mind-numbing climax. But what about the creamy middle?

That's right, I wanna talk about semen. Cum, splooge, spunk, jizz—whatever you want to call it—I don't read nearly enough about it. I'm one of those guys who likes to embrace the entire act of sex, from the shy flirting, to the sweet foreplay, to the down and dirty, shoved-up-against-the-wall fucking. And I like to embrace every part of the act.  I like hot stories that talk about wet, thick tongues, skillful, soft fingers, smooth (or hairy), tight balls. And sperm.

Too many writers leave out descriptions of sperm. I know why this is—a lot of publishers shy away from it; view it as that line that crosses over into porn. I've personally had an editor tell me to take out a part about sperm because their readers don't really like "that kind of stuff." But I have to believe that there are other readers like me, who enjoy hearing about it.

Just as much as I want to know how long and thick his cock is, I also want to know what his sperm is like. Is it thick and ropy, or is it more liquid and thin? Is it mostly clear, or is it white? Does it sputter out, arch gracefully into the air, or dribble up and down over a hand and wrist? What about taste? It's a proven fact that what a man eats affects how his ejaculate tastes.  Is his sperm sweet? Salty? Bitter?  Does it smell like anything?

And I wish characters played with semen more. What's more flattering and hot than a lover who likes to dip his fingers in the cookie jar now and then?  Semen: It's not just for swallowing anymore. ::grin::