Valentine's Day Blog Hop!

It's that time of year - and what's better for Valentine's Day than a blog hop?

Leave a comment below, including your e-mail, for a chance to win a free pdf copy of any of my books - found at www.dcjuris.com.

It's that simple!

Good luck!!!

Friendly Friday - Featuring Lee Brazil!

Reality Check? 

How real do you want your fiction? No really, someone asked me that. When I stopped laughing, okay I still haven't stopped laughing, I told them I don't want reality in my fiction.  Why you ask? Well let's take this one step at a time. 

Let's see.  First off, I live reality every day. It's not all it's cracked up to be. Reality is weather and people and work and stress.  On any given day, I wake up, I start the coffee, and I take a shower and reality proceeds around me with unrelenting realness. 

Until and unless I escape reality by hiding in a book. You know, books...where sex is fun and no one really has to brush off the afterglow to get a towel afterward? Okay, that was bad.  It's a privilege to get the towel or washrag; it's a sign of caring, tenderness and affection.  Besides, failing to think of the towel ahead of time means you weren't really planning, now does it? Kind of blows your Boy Scout image. Anyway, the fetching of the wash rag has made its way into romance novels.  Yippee. Let's stop there, huh? That's as real as I want it to be. 

How about this? In books, sex in the shower is not only possible but deeply thrilling and fulfilling. Because in the book, no one slips on the soap that you knocked out of the soap dish and bangs his head on the tile surround. No one flails around trying to save himself from falling, and knocks sixteen different bath, body and hair care products off the shelf. No one has to tap dance on slick porcelain to avoid getting his toes smashed by the falling bottles. No one grabs the shower curtain to stop himself from falling, thereby ripping the curtain off the hooks and spraying the entire bathroom with water.  (Reality check #1 - Yeah- someone is gonna have to clean that up, and it's gonna totally ruin the mood- if there's any mood left after the near fall, and providing, of course, that no one has a concussion). Last but not least- where the heck do these book characters get the magical never ending supply of hot water? Seriously? I wish that were reality. I can barely get my hair washed and conditioned let alone blow someone before the hot water runs out. (Reality Check #2 -  I'll tell you what, when the water turns from hot to ice, no one is getting anything in the shower).

So, yeah - Shower sex.  One perfectly good reason why reality in erotic fiction is over rated. 

Besides, as Albert Einstein said, Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.

And here's an escape into a world I've created:

Truth or Dare #4 – Taking the Dare

Blurb

Morgan Hawke is happy with the status of his relationship with Dan Blake. After three years though, Dan's ready to move their relationship to the next level.

Having seen his brothers find love and settle into family life, Dan Blake has realized he's ready for change. The only problem with that is that his lover prefers to maintain the status quo. Dan's up for the challenge of changing Morgan's mind. He's got plans, and he's used to working behind the scenes to get his way. 

Morgan can't understand the changes he sees in Dan. They've come a long way from the office of the bar where they met, but he's not sure he's ready to move their relationship from the shadows to the front pages. Publicity is okay for Dan, he's got the weight of the Blakes behind him, but Morgan isn't sure he's ready to let go of the past he's been clinging to.  

Can Dan manipulate a happy ending for this script?

Want more? 

Here's an Excerpt

"Hey, baby." Dan's call from several feet away sent a dash of cold water in Morgan's face. He shivered. 

"Hey," his weak, hollow voice surprised Morgan. Earlier, in their room, hearing Dan call him "baby" had excited him. Now, his stomach churned a bit and the bitter, strong coffee Dan preferred sat like lead. At a loss, Morgan nervously shredded the buttery croissant on the table in front of him. He'd often wondered if Dan intentionally confused him, flipping from hot to cold, sweet to acid. But even for Dan this weekend's behavior was different. 

At first he'd attributed Dan's strange attitude to his long absence, worried that Dan was through with him, maybe searching for a way to let him down easily. The weekend had put those doubts to rest, but now Dan's open attitude made him nervous. 

To his shock, Dan leaned over to kiss his cheek lightly in greeting before sliding into the chair opposite him. He panicked over that while Dan sipped his coffee and grimaced. Morgan shook his head, trying to make sense of the other man's lack of discretion and became aware that Dan smiled at him peculiarly. 

"What?" Something itched at the back of Morgan's mind. Inconceivable as it seemed, Dan was acting, putting on a show, playing a role for Morgan. Why?

"You're white. What's wrong, baby?" 

Morgan floundered for an answer. Dan knew bloody fucking well what was wrong. He was playing with Morgan, toying with him for some unknown reason, and Morgan was off balance.

Fuck. The waiter approached to refill their cups, and surely he'd heard Dan's  endearment? The young man remained expressionless as he topped up their coffee, and then silently indicated Morgan's shredded breakfast. Morgan nodded. His mouth was dry, and he doubted he could swallow anything anyway. The waiter scooped up the plate and left without speaking.

"Dan, someone will hear you." He managed in feeble protest. Sometimes being Dan Blake's lover was awesome. When you were the sole focus of those intent green eyes, the object of his attention, it was fucking glorious. But then, Dan was also a selfish bastard and an unmitigated prick at times. Like that nasty comment the other day about Morgan running when Dan called. Truth be told, he probably did run when Dan called, but mostly because he wanted very much to see Dan.

"Do you care if they do?" 

He glared at Dan, grateful for the shades that hid his emotions, the flare of anger. Dan didn't have to care. The Blakes had it all. Studio, money, acceptance in society, it was all theirs by virtue of being born Blakes. They didn't have to worry about ever working, courting the right kind of publicity and appeasing the fickle public. They didn't have to worry about hurting someone they cared about. Above all else, the Blakes stood together, united against public scrutiny. They stared down adverse publicity, weathered scandal, together. He didn't have that. 

Bio 

I’m an avid reader and former teacher of grammar and composition who believes that falling in love is the grandest adventure anyone can have.  In a nutshell, that’s every story I have to tell.  

Relocating from the crazy pace of life in Southern California's Orange County to the beautiful and leisurely atmosphere of the Illinois countryside has given me the time to indulge the desire to write that I set aside when I started teaching fourteen years ago. Readers can find out more about me and my writing by visiting me at my blog, Lee's Musings or finding me on Facebook.  Feel free to drop me a line at  lee.brazil@ymail.com  

Find Lee On line 

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Lee Blog  

Please Welcome Special Guest Sonia Hightower!

SONIA HIGHTOWER BROKE THE RULES

So...I broke just about every cardinal rule when I wrote my recently released erotic novel. I tackle a taboo subject...or two and I broke three rules.

First, we've got a priest, poor Father Delgado. We've got a confessional. (Gasp!) But no, the priest, himself, never does anything wrong... Rest easy. However, a lot of publishers will not permit a priest in an erotic tale in any way. So that's the first rule I broke.

The second rule I broke...adultery. See, this isn't a story of love, but a story of lust. Juan and Maria simply can't resist each other. The story does not condone adultery, but I'm going to leave you guessing as to what I mean there. There's a reason I call this erotic with a twist.

The third rule I broke: the lack of a HEA ending. It doesn't have one, because, really, what kind of adulterous tale ends happily? Adultery hurts all involved, those committing it may face repercussions, the innocent spouses are getting their hearts broke, and the children of the marriages will face the aftermath forever. So, no, there's no Happily Ever After in this... but there is a surprise.

Want to find out? Is your curiosity piqued? Buy the book. It's only 99 cents. :)

BUY HERE 

Blurb: 

Follow the confessions of Juan and Maria as they fall prey to lust at first sight. Can they stop themselves before it's too late, or will they become victims of their own sinful urges?

A new neighbor sends Juan running to confession to rid himself of the lustful thoughts he experiences. Each confession becomes more erotic, more sinful than the last. Can Juan stop himself, or will he give in to the desire that threatens his very faith?

The man across the street causes Maria to question her own morals. When she seeks out a priest for confession, she weaves a tale of exotic kisses and stolen moments. How can Maria find sanctuary in her prayers when her body demands she finds solace in her neighbor's arms?

Author's website

Author on Facebook

Sinful Urges on Facebook

An Open Letter to RWA & Romance Writers Ink

"Cass, please, just listen to me for a second. I love you. You love me. There's nothing wrong with that." John ran a hand thorough his hair. They'd been over this time and again. But this time Cassidy seemed serious about leaving him. Two seconds away from going down on his knees and begging, John reached for Cassidy's arm. "Please, let's just talk about this."

Cassidy pulled away, hands shaking. "You know it can't be. My family will never accept this."

"Baby, you knew this would be a struggle. But we're worth it, aren't we?" John crossed the room and picked up a framed picture of the two of them. "Remember this?" He held out the photo to Cassidy. "New Orleans, last year? Look at how happy we were together."

Cassidy took the photo and ran a finger over the glass. "We're always happy together."

"Exactly!" Encouraged, John pointed to another memento - an engraved vase friends had given them for their first anniversary. "Remember that? Our one year party? Everyone was there. Sure, not our families, but our friends, the people who really matter. Remember dancing all night? Remember Mindy trying to swing dance from the drapes?"

Cassidy burst into laughter. "She took out the buffet table."

"She did!" John couldn't suppress his own laughter. "And remember what else happened? How almost everyone toasted us? What did Bob and Alice say?"

Cassidy smiled. "That we were the best example of a happy couple they'd ever know."

"Yes! Baby,"--John took Cassidy's hands--"they were right. We work. You can't deny that."

"No, I can't." Cassidy sighed. "But my family can."

"So what? Did you like every girl your brother has ever dated? Hell, do you like his wife?"

"Not really, no. She's kind of a bitch," Cassidy admitted with a shy smile.

"Baby, everyone's not always going to get along with each other in the world. Some people are going to love you, some are going to hate you. But what's important is how you feel about yourself. And if I let you walk out that door, I'll hate myself for the rest of my life." John squeezed Cassidy's hands tight.

"Would you hate me? If I walked out?" Cassidy asked, voice barely a whisper.

John swallowed hard. This couldn't be it. This couldn't be how everything ended. "No. God...I could never hate you. Not for following your heart."

Cassidy smiled. "That's the difference, isn't it? You could never hate me for following my heart, but my family could." Cassidy pulled a hand away and cupped John's cheek. "That's the difference."

"Does that mean you're staying?" John held his breath, his entire life hinging on the answer.

Cassidy nodded. "Yeah. Where am I gonna go, anyhow?" Cassidy gestured around the apartment. "All my stuff is here."

John pulled the man of his dreams into his arms and held on tight. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve Cassidy, but he'd give his life before he ever let go.


Dear Romance Writers Ink,


You liked these characters two lines ago. You rooted for them. Did they become lesser? 


Or did you?


Sincerely,


DC Juris

Friendly Friday - Featuring Johnny Miles

In 1985, shortly after my first story was accepted for publication in Blueboy magazine, I became friends with Dana, the photographer, graphic artist, and chief art editor. He was a jack of all trades and had a penchant for Latin men. In fact, when he started filming solos, then later graduated to duos, trios, and groups, I’d sometimes be on set watching him work. If I was really, really, really well behaved, Dana would let me oil up the models though that was usually his job. Only he got to oil up and only he got to fluff.

To try and get the models to relax, Dana would often chat with them before hand, during, and even after. On one such occasion, there was a particular young hispanic who was extremely inexperienced. Having only ever done hustling before doing print work, he was very self-conscious about the way he posed, even with Dana’s coaxing. So, after a while, he just closed his eyes and started thinking about whatever it was he needed to in order to…you know…make things work.

While busy stroking away, eyes shut tight in concentration, Dana asked in a soft voice what it was the young man was thinking of.

“My uncle,” he replied without skipping a beat, sounding as if he were hypnotized or under some sort of magic spell. Then he added, “My cousin. My brother.”

He went on to tell us of something that happened to him that was both appalling and thrilling all at the same time. Both Dana and I wondered afterwards if it had really happened but life being what it is, it probably did.

The young man’s story struck me and stuck with me all these many years later. In fact, I’ve always wanted to write about it but never did. Until now.

And so, “The Rosas of Spanish Harlem” was born.

Yes, I’ve carried the story around in my mind for 27 years. During that time the story has morphed and evolved into something extremely different from the original. In fact, it’s all different. There are very few similarities between the version I wrote and what supposedly happened to the young man Dana filmed. There’s a brother, and it takes place in Spanish Harlem. Aside from that, there are no other similarities.

One of the many things I find fascinating about writing is how one single planted seed can germinate, grow and blossom into something all of it’s own. Another thing I find interesting is how ideas transform themselves. I went from having the lead in the story be a young Latino male, to a caucasian man, and finally, to an 18-year-old high school graduate who liked to dress in girl’s clothing. Why? I don’t know. It just made sense that way.

I think once I started writing the story, even though it wasn’t meant to see the light of day -- it was originally only intended for me, to get me sparked again about writing -- Tracy wanted to explore his femininity. More importantly, Tracy didn’t want to be just another gay guy. He wanted to stand out and have the courage to be who he wanted to be no matter what.

In the story, like many of us, the young man is hellbent on losing his virginity except he doesn’t know how to go about it. But you know the old adage; be careful what you wish for?

Tracy winds up discovering something that, for many of us gay men of a certain generation was a fact of life: sex in public restrooms. As dangerous, frightening and repulsive as it sometimes was, discovering glory holes, foot tapping and all that other stuff that went on was -- for better or worse -- a rite of passage.

And isn’t it often the most dangerous, taboo things in life that attract us the most?

From that point on in, Tracy goes on an adventure through Spanish Harlem where the language is different, the music has a different flavor, and danger lurks in the most unexpected of places.

I don’t remember the name of the young man Dana filmed. I vaguely remember what he even looks like, though I can guarantee you nothing like the lead in this story. I only hope that -- if he’s still around -- he’s stopped being the victim, stopped living on the street, and found his very own happy ending.

Special thanks to DC Juris for not only having me, but also for encouraging me to submit the story for publication.

Blurb:

It’s summer of 1977 and sex is on Tracy McCarthy’s mind. He’s now 18 and hell-bent on losing his virginity when he spots Angel on the beach. After discovering restroom sex — and meeting the handsome Latino Angel Rosa again — Angel invites Tracy up to Spanish Harlem for more.

When Tracy makes the long trek by subway up to Spanish Harlem, he’s exposed to a vibrantly different way of living; one filled with spicy foods, rhythmic music, and sexually-charged men. Along the way, however, the waif-like, cross-dressing young man also discovers that on the path to finding what he seeks, dark and disturbing dangers lurk — in the minds of men, walking the streets, and in the hallways of Spanish Harlem tenements.

Growing up always contains surprises but will Tracy like the ones he finds on the way?

Excerpt:

Brighton Beach was practically empty when I climbed the steps from the street up to the boardwalk. I could have walked beneath it, but that was something I usually left as a treat for myself at the end of the day. After spending hours baking in the sun, it was refreshing to sink my toes into the cold damp sand beneath the elevated walkway.

In a way, it was mysterious, foreboding, and exciting. If I was lucky, a guy would stand still long enough for me to look up the inside of his shorts between the cracks and gaps of wood. If I was really lucky, he’d have no underwear on. Not that they were aware, mind you. It was just one of those happy accidents where you happened to be at the right place at the right time. In fact, if any of them knew about the pervy boy ogling their stuff, they’d probably chase after me and beat me to a pulp. Brooklyn men weren’t exactly known for being gay-friendly. At least not in public.

The other thing that intrigued me about walking beneath the boardwalk was all the litter. It consisted mostly of shattered glass bottles and empty cans. Every once in a while, you’d come across a syringe or a used tampon. But the one thing you could

always count on were used condoms—lots of them. I’d think of all that cock, all those people out there having sex, enjoying themselves, having a good time connecting.

I was hungry for the same thing.

Once I stumbled upon a condom that looked as if it had only recently been used. It had been stretched out quite a bit, and I was so intrigued I picked up it gingerly between thumb and forefinger and held it up. I was astonished at how much cum there was in there.

Unfortunately, the boardwalk could also be dangerous. More than once I’d seen homeless people hanging out. That wasn’t bad, because all they’d ask for was money; it was the group of older boys that scared, yet excited me. I had this fantasy that they would stop me, accost me, toss me around for a bit, then strip me naked in a playful manner and have their way with me.

In reality, what could happen to me was nothing like what I envisioned, and none of it had to do with sex.

Despite the dangers, the thought of feasting my young, horny eyes on a big pair of balls and a thick, meaty cock made me feel even hornier than I already was. I pushed my thoughts away and took in the last few moments of silence before the crowds came; the shop owners hadn’t opened up yet to hawk their wares and even the seagulls seemed hesitant to molest the quiet.

In the distance, to my right, Coney Island beckoned with all its gaudiness and tacky amusement rides. I used to love going there as a child. Any other time, and I would have stayed on the train two more stops—end of the line—but after the argument that morning, I preferred the quieter end of things.

I crossed the boardwalk to the beach side and drank in the vast expanse of ocean. The ocean breeze caressed my skin, and I inhaled the salty air deep into my lungs. All the tension I’d felt earlier seemed to evaporate.

Yes, this is definitely where I need to be today.

The only other people around were the city workers and the dirty old men—most of them Eastern European immigrants who sat on the benches all day, facing the ocean to ogle whatever it was that caught their fancy through the binoculars strapped around their necks.

Overhead, a rogue seagull screeched and hovered nearby, daring to break the silence and beg for scraps. It pulled me out of my reverie. With a peaceful sigh, I gripped the metal railing and made my way down the stairs, onto the sand.

To my right, a big, beefy black janitor with a shiny, bald head whistled, glancing from side to side as he unlocked the public men’s room, then disappeared inside with a metal bucket on wheels and a large mop with a dirty head.

I trudged along the beach, sand between the bottom of my feet and the flip-flops I wore, until I found the spot. I shrugged the oversize canvas bag from my shoulder. I pulled out one of my old cum-stained sheets from my twin bed and shook it. It fluttered in the breeze, flapping like a flag before finally falling gently to the sand, where I anchored it with a flip-flop at either corner. Then I placed the bag at the top corner, to my right. I pulled out the thermos filled with grape soda and propped it at the other corner, burying it a little in the sand.

Satisfied, I pulled out my towel and made a pillow out of it as the surf began to churn a bit more urgently. I pulled off my bloodred tank top then undid the top button of my cut-off jean shorts. They fell to my ankles.

I imagined one or two of the old geezers on the boardwalk, sitting on their bench, binoculars glued to their eyes as they trained on my slim, lithe body.

Eat your hearts out, I thought and bent over dramatically to step out of my shorts. I envisioned the old men leering and licking their sandpapery, wrinkled lips as I stood up straight, hands on hips.

I still wore my sister’s pink panties.

With a nasty, playful glee at whomever—if anyone—was watching me, I plopped down on the sheet and proceeded to apply baby oil to every inch of exposed flesh. Then I leaned on one elbow, and after fiddling with my transistor radio—using only my fingertips to avoid getting too much oil on the dials—I found the AM music station I liked. My favorite song was on. “Afternoon Delight” by the Starland Vocal Band.

Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight

gonna grab some afternoon delight.

My motto’s always been: when it’s right, it’s right.

Why wait until the middle of a cold, dark night.

Half humming, half singing, I lay down, closed my eyes, and was soon asleep under the hot, prickly sun.

* * * *

Voices carried on the wind. A woman giggled. There were soft whispers, and a man laughed. Something about them made me stir. I could tell they were young but still a little older than me.

“No, papi. Stop it. I already told you. Not here.”

“Aw, c’mon, baby. Who’s gonna see?” The man was cajoling, somewhat syrupy. He definitely wanted something.

“Roll your bod! Roll your bod!” This from the radio, which was fading. The nine-volt battery was dying.

I came awake and slowly rolled over, realizing I’d probably been asleep longer than I should have been. Tomorrow I’d have a real nice sunburn.

I looked up slowly, discreetly. A young Puerto Rican couple lay on a blanket about 10 feet away from me.

The woman was a typical Latina: big boobs, wide hips, a sensual mouth. She looked to be in her early twenties. Her wavy black hair blew in her face. She reached for it, pulled it from her mouth, and tucked it behind her ear.

The man was about twenty-four, and his skin was the color of caramel. His body was lean, toned, and perfectly smooth. His hair was black, and he wore it tight to his scalp. I got the impression he was quite a charmer. How else could he get away with calling her babe or mami?

It was obvious to me they were doing their best to keep their voices low, but they might as well have been talking out loud. Their whispers carried in the wind, and I could hear them as clearly as if they were beside me.

I propped my chin on folded arms and closed my eyes to slits so it would appear as if I were still sleeping. It helped that my hair was loose and wind-tossed, covering half my face.

The young man’s fingers tugged at the side of the tiny triangular patch of cloth covering his girlfriend’s pussy.

“Angel, no! Stop it, papi!”

She slapped his hand, but I could tell she was just as aroused as he was. I could sense that all he had to do was push a little harder and he’d soon get what he wanted.

Pulse racing, my small cock now fully erect, I ground into the sand to readjust myself and continued watching them.

Angel succeeded in pulling the material of her bathing suit to one side and exposed her shaved pussy. I gulped and found myself inexplicably thirsty quite suddenly.

“Papi, no. Please.” She hissed, then moaned as Angel inserted his fingers into her pussy. A small sound escaped my throat, as if I could feel what he was doing to her. He cast a glance in my direction, and I froze. After a moment, satisfied they weren’t being watched, Angel turned his attention back to the girl lying on her side before him.

She parted her lips and threw her head back, eyes closed. Angel chuckled. There was something lewd, sexy, and seductive about it.

I watched him wriggle his fingers inside her, pumping them in and out a few times before pulling out completely and sucking on them, one finger at a time. Then he brought them back down between her legs, finger fucked her some more, and pulled them out only to insert them in her mouth. She slurped on them noisily, greedily.

And all I could do was imagine I was her.

“You’re so fucking wet!” Angel whispered, his voice carrying on the wind.

“Ahhh! You’re such a pig, Angel!” Although she complained, she did nothing to stop him. “Don’t you ever get enough?”

In response, Angel pulled his fingers out of her pussy, then reached for the waistband of his black Speedos. Out flopped a large, fat, uncut cock. My eyes bugged out at the sight of him casually stroking the thick, meaty shaft in the open.

I briefly wondered if any of the old buggers on the benches could see what I was watching, and suddenly realized why they had those binoculars. For unexpected moments like this.

“Mira, mami,” Angel said. She glanced down at his cock and chewed her lower lip. “See what you do to me?”

He pulled the foreskin back, exposing the head. He looked even wetter than she did as he rubbed the tip up and down her fleshy folds. She moaned. Slowly, Angel slipped his cock inside her, filling her completely one glorious inch at a time as he placed a hand on her ass and pulled her hips closer.

Angel had stopped glancing around by this point, and I doubt either of them cared anymore if anyone was looking. With the length of his cock inside her pussy, they started to kiss.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispered.

“Shhh! It’s okay, baby. No one’s looking. Besides, there’s only a few people nearby.”

“What about that girl?”

“What girl?” Angel asked. I blushed at the realization she was talking about me.

“That girl. Down there.” She raised her leg slightly and pointed toward me with her toes. I remained perfectly still, hair in my face. I closed my eyes just in case, grateful I’d rolled over onto my stomach. I might have a small dick, but an erection is an erection, and I’d have given myself away. Not to mention that I probably wouldn’t be able to see what was happening as well as I could now.

“Honey, she’s sunning herself topless. You think she’s gonna care if we’re fucking out in the open?”

Seconds later I heard slurping noises. I dared to open my eyes and looked up to see them kissing. Their hips gently rocked to and fro. Their movement was barely perceptible, but it was apparently enough to cause the right amount of friction. One of them sighed, the other gasped.

Unable to believe what was happening, I could feel precum oozing from my cock as if it were a small faucet with a leak.

Soon she was moving back and forth more quickly than he was. I could see a bit more of the underside of his shaft; it looked slick and wet from sweat and pussy juice.

My pulse was pumping in my head and my dick was throbbing as I continued to watch. I longed to crawl on my hands and knees between their legs and lick them both, but I fought the urge.

A bit more brazen now that he was lost in the excitement, Angel rolled the girl over, moving with her without pulling out. Now on her back, she spread her legs and placed her hands on his ass. He corkscrewed discreetly, pushing in and pulling out of her ever so slightly. His hip movement would’ve been easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. But I could tell. His ass cheeks dimpled as he ground into her; I could see the hollows even through his bathing suit.

As I watched them fuck, I pressed my own erection into the sand, moving my hips from side to side. I was close.

The girl suddenly gave a single, soft moan, and her entire body shuddered. Seconds later, Angel sighed, and I followed with a load of my own.

My heart was in my throat, and although I’d just come, I was now hornier than ever. My pulse raced and hormones raged. What with having just watched the couple before me, the heat of the sun, and the sound of the surf, I could barely control myself. In that moment I understood how someone might become so frantic with desire they’d pounce on the first person they saw without thought or regard to consequence.

Fuck first; ask questions later. That pretty much summed up what I was feeling.

At that moment, even though I didn’t like girls, I’d have gladly eaten her pussy just to get a taste of him. Of course, I would have preferred to suck him and sample the juices from his foreskin, but there was no chance of that happening, no matter how much I wanted it.

Frustrated, I rolled over, stood up, and raced into the ocean. I imagined myself as a red-hot poker, glowing while steam rose as I submerged myself. A moment later, I burst through the surface and bobbed in the water as my breathing went back to normal.

I’ve just got to get my hands on some dick. Oh, please! I’m so fucking horny!

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. I glanced toward the beach and saw Angel stand. Even from that distance, I could see him reach inside the pouch of his suit and readjust himself. He swaggered as he walked toward the ocean and, even though he was now soft, I could see the outline of his cock as he drew near. His balls looked to be huge, round, and smooshed up against either side of the now soft length of meat.

Obsessed with Angel, his cock, and the image of him fucking, I decided to leave the beach. I could no longer stay there. I had to get off, and masturbating alone wouldn’t satisfy me. I simply had to find cock! But where? How? It wasn’t the kind of thing they taught you in school. Then it hit me.

I know. I’ll go under the boardwalk.

With all those used condoms I kept finding, I was bound to run into someone horny enough who didn’t care whether he got a blowjob from a boy or a girl. But would there be anybody there at this hour, cruising around and looking for trouble?

I clambered out of the water, walked back to my spot, and quickly packed up my stuff.

© Johnny Miles, January 2012

All Rights Reserved

 Like what you read? Click HERE to purchase!

Find Johnny online at:

www.johnny-miles.com

http://johnny-miles.blogspot.com

Guest post at The Purple Fantasy Den

Go check it out!

http://vicktor-alexander.blogspot.com/2012/02/im-not-man-but-i-play-one-in-real-life.html?zx=88aaba631affb073

Adventures in Gluten Free Eating

So I've tried a couple new gluten free products, and wanted to share my thoughts.

1. Schar brand Cioccolini - biscuits w. cocoa filling. OMG YUM! These are really good! They're dry, but they have a nice texture, and the middle is creamy. They have a pretty good shelf life, too: I bought them, opened them, then forgot about them for probably a month, and they're still fresh.

2. Schar brand Ciabatta rolls. These were pretty good, as gluten free rolls go. I didn't follow the instructions - I just popped them in the oven for a sec, and then another two I just ate without baking them. Yum!

3. Schar brand Classic White Bread. Very good, especially toasted!

4. Schar brand Crispbread cracker-like things. Um...yeah. Not for me. Really like eating styrofoam.

5. Schar brand Table Crackers. Really, really good! Think unsalted saltines. Good stuff!

6. Schar brand Wafers - chocolate hazelnut, cocoa, and vanilla. Y.U. M. Like sugar wafters, but gluten free.

7. Schar brand bread crumbs. I may have shared this one before - I can't remember. These were pretty good. Not quite what you're looking for if you want fried chicken, but not bad at all!