Landon Griffin has everything going for him. He’s a high school senior on the brink of receiving a football scholarship, his dad is running for mayor of Madison, Texas, and his future with his girlfriend looks bright. But his simple life shatters when feelings spark for a guy he’s never met. Giving the stranger the codename Mystery Boy, Landon hesitates to step out of his comfort zone to solve the mystery. Living in a conservative town, he struggles to hide his new obsession while trying to figure out where he fits within the spectrum of sexuality. Can he dodge the constant questions from his friends and find answers before the escalating anxiety becomes too much to handle? Land On Me is Matthew R. Corr’s debut novel akin to the drama of Christopher Rice and the coming-of-age brilliance of Alex Sanchez.
Excerpt
OPENING HOOK
My ears rang. I’d heard gunshots in movies, but in real life, they are louder than you’d expect. My elbows locked and my arms shook. I wanted to drop the gun, but my entire body was frozen in place. All I could smell was the scent of hot metal emanating from the barrel of the weapon. My mouth was too dry to speak, and I could hardly swallow. I desperately wanted to reach out to make sure he was okay, but there was so much blood. It was so red, and it was coming out so quickly. I didn’t want to shoot him but he wouldn’t have stopped otherwise. Tears welled in my eyes. His blood was on my hands now.
About the Author
Matthew Corr was born and raised in beautiful New England. Coming out as a gay man in high school in his small town fueled his big city dreams. Matthew moved to New York City, where he gained a degree in musical theater. After countless performances on stages across the country, his passion for writing finally stepped into the spotlight. Matthew is a huge nerd for film and everything Marvel-related. He currently lives in Brooklyn, NY. Land On Me is his debut novel. To learn more about Matthew, and the release of his next book, please visit http://www.matthewrcorr.com
Trope/s: Anti-gay conspiracy, intolerance, corrupt legal system
Themes: Cost of unconditional love
Warning: References to rape
Heat Rating: 3 out of 5
Length: 121 070 words/ 355 pages in PB; 274 in HC
Is it a standalone book? Somewhat. Jake Blaine is the MC in this book, and it’s a semi-followup to Rape in Holding Cell 6, a book I wrote with his lover, Antony, as the MC…but it’s not absolutely necessary you read that book to follow this one (tho’ it might help, at the beginning).
When his uncle disappears, Jake goes to Palm Springs to find out why only to get caught in a web of fear, hate, betrayal … and what looks more and more like murder … with Jake targeted as the next victim.
Blurb
Was it murder? Suicide? Or did Owen Taylor vanish to avoid prosecution for rape? Everyone had their own idea, but the only note he left behind was sent to his nephew, Jacob Blaine, in Denmark … which was crazy, because Owen knew Jake was currently living in the States. Of course this happened at the worst possible time for Jake. He was helping his lover, Antony, fight bogus criminal charges; his estranged, anti-gay mother was battling cancer; his job in Copenhagen wanted him to return there — now; and worst of all … Antony was pushing him away. It was tearing him apart. But Uncle Owen had backed him up through some rough times, so Jake made what he thought would be a short trip to Palm Springs, to see if he could find out what happened. He re-connected with Dion, his first true love, and then he discovered other men had also disappeared. On top of that, an organization called PSALMS was spreading hate and distrust of the gay community as part of their plan to turn back gay rights. The more Jake dug into Owen’s disappearance, the more he found lies, deceit and treachery by members of the police force, people in the DA’s office, and even some of Owen’s friends. And behind it all was someone who would do everything they could to keep their true motives hidden. Even have Jake vanish, as well.
Excerpt
This is from the end of Book 1, Part 4, where Jake has Antony and their techie-roommate, Matt, do some research:
They read the message and Matt did some cross-referencing on his diamond-sharp laptop as I spoke, popping in with, “Okay, got that here,” and, “It fits.” He also found a chart showing Warren Philby had a ninety-five percent conviction rate and was talking about running for Riverside District Attorney in the next election. As a Republican with a Tea Party bent.
Already I hated the prick.
That’s when I noticed Tone looking at me with his quiet, wary expression, so I snarled, “You don’t believe my uncle’d molest a kid, do you?”
“No.” He frowned like he was insulted I’d even asked him that question.
“So what…is…it?”
“I dunno. It just doesn’t line up with…well, your father called your mother, asking about your uncle’s condos and — “
“Condos? He had more’n one?”
“Four. One he lived in; three he rented out. He also owns some other property.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, how d’you know my father called mom?”
“She…she told me.”
I nearly fell off the chair. “My mother called you?”
Tone blinked and looked away. “Uh…looking for you. I…I told her you were…you were out of the country.”
“When?”
“Day before yesterday.”
Man, I should’ve gone to see her the second I got back.
“What’d she say to you, Tone?”
He sighed. “She knows why you’re here. And she…she said stuff like, That’s just like you, to let people drag you down. Then she gave me her number and address — “
“I know that shit,” I said. “I’m goin’ straight over.”
“She’s moved, Jake,” said Matt.
“She sold her townhouse? She loved that place.”
“Just telling you what she told me,” Tone said. He gave me a slip of paper with a phone number and address.
“This is south side,” I muttered.
Tone shrugged. He wouldn’t know, but my mother was one of those types who only want to live around acceptable people. In her eyes, Southside was…borderline…at best.
“Matt, we’ll be right back.” I went around the counter, took Tone by the arm and guided him up into the bedroom, then closed the door, sat him on the bed and kneeled before him, looking hard into his eyes.
“Y’know, I had lunch with Mira. Is there anything you want to tell me?”
He hesitated then looked straight back at me, his eyes sharp as cut diamonds. “That therapist I’m seeing…that the state’s making me see. I…I asked him to talk with her. Told him she’s a psychologist and has a clinic in Paris and…and I wanted her to know everything that happened was on me. Not you.”
“She already knew that.”
“…Maybe. This verified it.”
“And you talk about me not tellin’ you things?”
“I…uh…I didn’t think she’d let you know.”
“Great defense. So what’s in those notes?”
He looked away. “You already know everything in them.”
I took a deep breath. “Tone…what. The fuck. Is goin’ on, here?” He just stared at the wall. No expression. I took his face in my hands and made him look at me. “Okay, whatever it was that my mother said to you — keep in mind…that bitch kicked me out of her home when I was seventeen. I haven’t seen her since, so what she knows about me and who I am is zero. Zip. Nada. Anything she says is just her messin’ with us.”
He shrugged me off and said, “But she’s right. You wouldn’t be here except for me.”
“You’re right, you little shit — I wouldn’t. I’d be fresh out of jail. Or still livin’ in Nana’s house. Barely existing. I’d never have met my brothers and sisters in Paris, or gotten to work with my Uncle Ari, or become a Danish citizen. I’d be an ex-con. But I’m here, alive, because of you. So what. Did. My mother. Say. To you?”
“Just…just what I told you.”
“Bullshit!” No response. I sighed and sat cross-legged on the floor. “You don’t wanna talk, don’t. But this is a woman who told her only child that she hates him bein’ queer.”
“Maybe…maybe you shouldn’t go see her…“
“I got to. Somethin’ is goin’ on with my uncle and the only way to get the truth of what she knows is a face-to-face.”
He ran his hand through my hair. God, I loved it when he did that. Then he whispered, “Should I stock up on alcohol?”
I sighed from the emotion in his voice and nodded. “Twelve-pack. No, fuck it — Tequila.”
“I’ll get some mixers and we’ll make a nice queeny night of it. A Christian, a Muslim, and a Jew had a party…“ He snorted. “Sounds like the setup for a joke.”
I made him look at me. “Hey, I’m half Catholic.”
His hand whispered over my cheek and his eyes grew hurt, again. “My all-American mutt.”
All I could think to say was, “Don’t let mom mess with us, Tone.” He ruffled my hair then got up and left the room.
I leaned against the bed. He’d lied to me. My mother’s crap comments weren’t bad enough to rip him up. There was definitely something else going on in his head, and he’d used them as a wall to hide behind.
Well…sitting on the floor wasn’t getting anything done. I got up, got dressed, and headed over to the insurance company where she worked. I wanted a professional environment around us, in case things got nasty, because she was damn well going to explain to me what the hell she was pulling.
Only it turned out she hadn’t worked there in nearly three years.
Man…I had a lot of catching up to do, with her.
About the Author
Kyle Michel Sullivan is a writer and self-involved artist out to change the world until it changes him…as has already happened in far too many ways. He has written books that range from sunshine and light (“David Martin”) to cold and dark (“How To Rape A Straight Guy”, which has been banned a couple of times) to flat out crazy (“The Lyons’ Den”) to mainstream (“The Alice ’65”). He has now ventured into SF-Horror-Suspense with “The Beast in the Nothing Room” and taken Capitalism to its logical extreme in “Hunter”. He is currently working to complete “A Place of Safety”, his Irish novel; “Darian’s Point”, a gothic horror story set in Ireland; and “Dair’s Window”, about an artist trying to rebuild his world after the death of his lover.
Kyle uses Tolstoy as his guide, and is trying to build characters as vivid and real as possible. He has a lot of fun doing it mixed with angst, anger, and amazement… but that’s the lot of a writer.
But while he doesn’t want to be there, a change of heart may be just what he needs…
Blurb
The oldest translation of a Gospel is returned to the world by a secret society long dedicated to its preservation. In it, Jesus explicitly condemns bigotry and homophobia. In a new world in which LGBTQ passengers receive preferential boarding for flights and the United States has elected its first lesbian President, Pastor Rick Harris is stalwart, closeted preacher who doggedly holds onto his increasingly unpopular convictions.
When an incendiary sermon goes too far and offends an influential family, Rick makes a painful choice to keep his job: He attends an atonement camp run by drag queens for society’s most unrepentant and terminally incurable homophobes.
Atonement Camp is immersion therapy for Pastor Harris, and it might be working. An open bar with pedicures, a devastatingly attractive roommate and an endless supply of glitter help him manage to make new friends. Soon, Rick and his cohorts learn the camp may hold its own secrets. Amid the smiling faces and scantily clad pool boys who staff the camp, a clandestine group plots to discredit the New Revelation and everything it stands for.
If Rick has the conviction to confront his own hypocrisy, he might be able to uncover the conspirators with help from his adopted flock—and find new truths within himself.
Excerpt
Chapter 1
Northern Syria
It was just after sunrise. The call to prayer from the nearby city’s rooftop loudspeakers receded as Dr. Michael Donahue’s driver left a familiar road for the makeshift trails that led deep into the desert. One faith bridged to the next, he thought. Before long, he wouldn’t need the light jacket, but he wore it anyway. It was a mysterious quest, and he tugged the jacket tight around his chest.
The jeep bounced over the rough terrain as Dr. Donahue carefully poured hot water from his thermos over his yerba mate leaves. His second mate would be less bitter than the first. Each time he made a fresh tea, the leaves lost more of their bitterness to the boiling water. The same leaves could be used again and again any given morning. It reminded him of his profession. Archeology was the sober study of the forgotten—people who lived, laughed, suffered, and died, their history diluted by each passing year. Dr. Donahue was determined to learn as much as he needed to reanimate their past with subtle detail, adding context to what would otherwise be merely more than a list of dates and details for his undergraduates to memorize before a test.
As promised, a man stood by the still-empty dig site. He was dressed in a Western style—no keffiyeh or other head dressing. With short sleeves and rugged boots, his attire was more practical than fashionable. Dr. Donahue always appreciated utility and function above much else. He acknowledged that his estimation of the man’s credibility was thus-far unearned, but he nonetheless felt more comfortable in the company of the familiar.
The site had been Dr. Donahue’s home for most of the past year. His team would return after Ramadan. Dr. Donahue’s research specialization centered almost primarily around the early Christian era. He took a certain guilty pleasure in casually admitting his atheism each semester to the newest crop of freshman at his university in Washington, D.C. Like all things, he saw it as a learning opportunity. One is not excused from understanding something just because they don’t agree with it, he’d remind them. The site itself was an early Christian refuge under the Roman Empire. Forgotten by time, but now rediscovered. Painstakingly, he and his team would uncover artifacts and consider what stories they told about the people who made them. Dust from the jeep’s tires made a gritty fog that enveloped the air. Dr. Donahue squinted, his eyes already dry. He coughed and plodded through the sand to the man silently awaiting his arrival.
“Dr. Donahue.” The professor extended his hand to the stranger.
The man took his hand and smiled. “Thank you for coming. Your research associate mentioned your name last year when he worked with us, and we immediately knew we needed to meet with you.”
Dr. Donahue fanned the remaining traces of the sand from his face. “We?”
The man flashed a half smile. “Consider us like yourself, Professor. Archeologists.”
“I would assume, but that doesn’t answer my question.”
The man chuckled. “By the end of the day, I expect that to change. Come. Follow me,” he beckoned.
Still confused, the professor followed the man down the makeshift stairs to the dig site.
“We’re not certain where it was found,” the man said, waving his arm over the site, “but this is likely close and as good a spot as any.”
“What, exactly, was found?”
The man frowned. “Technically, it was never lost. Let me be more precise. This is where it will be rediscovered.”
The professor felt his frustration growing. “What, and by whom?”
The man turned to face the professor, still smiling. “The oldest copy of the Gospel of Mark ever discovered. I’m what we refer to as a Custodian—a group of people committed to protecting this draft as we have done for more generations than our history may account for.”
The professor’s jaw dropped. He looked for answers in the man’s eyes to questions he could not manage to formulate.
“Every truth has its season, professor,” the man said, lowering himself to sit next on an empty crate near an assortment of digging tools. “This region has been plagued with war. We fear that if the artifact is not returned to the world now, it may never be.”
If his research associate hadn’t already vouched so strongly for the meeting, the professor was certain he would have already left the madman in another cloud of obscuring sand. Instead he asked: “Why have you kept it in the first place?”
“It contains a passage not found in any modern text. What’s the American expression? ‘One man’s waste is another man’s treasure’? That’s how our forefathers saw it. They saw something worthy of protection until the world was ready for the message. That time is now.”
Dr. Donahue smiled. His birthday was the following week, and the realization that his research associate might have set this up as an elaborate practical joke began to seem like the most likely explanation. It wouldn’t be out of character for him, he thought.
“So, where is it?” he asked, playing along.
The man pointed to a black chest. Taking the bait, Dr. Donahue carefully lifted the lid, expecting some puppet to pop out and exclaim “Happy Birthday!” Instead, the heavy lid creaked open to reveal a scroll bound in plastic and wound over on itself. His smile faded. Even without the aid of his radiocarbon dating equipment, he could tell the document was old. Very, very old.
About the Author
Evan is a member of the LGBTQ community who fancies himself as a playboy socialite, living in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Between work and lucid moments of sobriety, he writes a little. His debut novel is a light-hearted work that still manages to confront religious hypocrisy and contemporary LGBTQ struggles to balance their loss of culture with new-found civil rights. His friends say the book is great! Hopefully, you will as well.
Extraordinary Things is a continuation of Leo and Caleb’s love story from Terrible Things.
It should not be read as a standalone.
Blurb
Leo and Caleb have been through hell—addiction, destruction, and even a five year separation—but they’ve come through on the other side with their love stronger than ever.
Caleb knows he’s earned Leo’s forgiveness. He wants to believe he deserves it, but just when Leo needs him more than ever, a voice in his head insists that maybe he doesn’t. It’s so loud, he can’t block it out. So loud, he’d do anything to silence it.
Including risking everything he and Leo, and the rest of Star Shadow, have built together.
Excerpt
“If you don’t want to buy another house, you just need to tell me,” Leo said, and then wiggled out of Caleb’s grasp, walking over to their big oversized walk-in closet. “Then I’ll tell the realtor,” he said, his voice muffled. “But I feel stupid going to look at all these great places, when you end up hating all of them.”
“I don’t hate them,” Caleb said quietly. That was true. He didn’t hate them. There wasn’t even anything really wrong with them, but there was this voice that kept telling him it was a mistake to move. A mistake to buy a new house, even though they had enough cash they could buy ten houses. “I just like this one.”
“I do too.” Leo walked out of the closet, wearing only a pair of skintight briefs, leaving nothing to the imagination and sending Caleb’s pulse through the stratosphere. His voice and expression had softened, and Caleb thought if he kissed Leo, he wouldn’t push him away. Not now. “I just wouldn’t mind having some additional space.”
“Maybe,” Caleb said, clearing his throat as he began to unbutton his own shirt, “maybe we could look into an addition.”
Leo gave him a soft, chiding look, like he could see right through Caleb, straight into him, into all those ugly places that he tried to hide, and tried to hide from. “Maybe,” he said. Even though they both knew perfectly well that there was no extra room on their small, beachfront lot for an addition. If they wanted a bigger house, they would need to buy one. But for right now, Leo seemed to have let the problem go, and so Caleb decided that now when they had so much to celebrate, what was the point of continuing to argue about it? They’d figure it out—someday, anyway, Caleb reasoned.
“Hey,” Caleb said, shucking his shirt and reaching for Leo again, his hands sliding up his soft curves, reveling in the way his skin felt against his hands. “Hey, let’s go to bed.”
Leo gave him a sly, lopsided smile, reaching up and intertwining his fingers through his curls, pulling Caleb down so their lips were nearly touching. “And what do you think I was trying to do, this whole damn time?”
“Torture me?”
“Maybe just a little,” Leo acknowledged, raising himself up so their eyes were nearly level. That deep, endless blue was something that Caleb had gotten lost in for the first time at the age of sixteen, and he’d never ever gotten over it—and the truth was, he never ever wanted to. Leo was as much a part of him as his red hair or his too-big hands or his mediocre ability to play the bass. Even when they’d been separated, and it had been years since he’d seen Leo, there’d always been a part of him yearning to be with him again, to feel that hot wild blue gaze wash over him, calming and exciting him, somehow all at the same time.
“I love you,” Caleb said, even though the words didn’t feel like enough to possibly explain the feelings surging through him. Love and lust and tenderness and winding through all of that, a golden thread of abject gratitude.
Leo was the toughest person Caleb knew—the most relentless, and possibly the least forgiving person on the planet. So if he’d forgiven Caleb, and they’d moved on, that must mean Caleb deserved that forgiveness.
“You look,” Leo said thoughtfully, tapping a finger on Caleb’s bottom lip, “you look like you’re not thinking of what you should be thinking about.”
About the Author
A lifelong Oregonian, Beth Bolden has just recently moved to North Carolina with her supportive husband and their sweet kitten, Earl Grey. Beth still believes in Keeping Portland Weird, and intends to be just as weird in Raleigh. Beth has been writing practically since she learned the alphabet. Unfortunately, her first foray into novel writing, titled Big Bear with Sparkly Earrings, wasn’t a bestseller, but hope springs eternal. She’s published eighteen novels and six novellas.
Confessions of a Gay Curmudgeon recounts the adventures of Viktor, a fifty-year-old gay man in New York City trying to get back into the land of the living after the breakup of a twelve-year relationship. The novel examines the lives of a group of middle-aged gay men, exploring new facets of their sexuality while dealing with all the changes middle age brings.
Excerpt
SATURDAY AFTERNOON—FLOUNDERING
My erections aren’t what they used to be.
Well, Dr. S told me to write about the first thing that comes into my mind, so it’s what I’m doing. “Don’t think. Just write,” he said. “Stop censoring yourself, Viktor. This will help you in your therapy too, Viktor.”
Okay, okay. If that’s what the shrink ordered, let’s see if this works. We’re supposed to listen to our shrinks, right? That’s their job, right? They know how to get us out of whatever fucking funk we’re in, right?
So here we go. I’m writing about the first thing that comes to my mind and it’s my erections. Here it is, a lovely Saturday afternoon, sun shining, snow melting, spring a’coming, a perfect time to enjoy life. And what am I doing? Sulking in my apartment obsessing about my cock.
Hell of a problem to have on a day like today, isn’t it? Shit, be honest, Viktor. You’re supposed to be honest with this writing thing, aren’t you? That was Dr. S’s other directive, wasn’t it? Honesty. He was full of directives last session, wasn’t he? Oh well, maybe I need some directives.
So where was I? Oh yes. Gorgeous day, shitty mood, focusing on my cock when I should be enjoying life.
Oh, come on. It’s not just about my cock. I know that. After all, I did my share of screwing around when I was younger. Not that I was the biggest stud around in my heyday, but during those few glorious weeks my sex life got going, I learned how to have a good time. Yes, I did! But then I met Gio and fell in love. And he fell in love with me. And we had twelve years of bliss—more or less—until he left me last year.
“And I’ve been floundering ever since. Floundering? Ha! Flopping around is more like it. So I’ve been seeing Dr. S—ahem, Dr. Singsirinavin—I’ve been seeing him to help me out of this predicament. Seems like a nice enough guy, serious, quiet, with a scrawny body and a bit of an accent, though I’ll be damned if I know from where exactly. These shrinks never tell you anything about themselves, do they? I’ve been seeing Dr. S for a year already, and you would think by now I’d have an idea, but I don’t. To tell the truth, I don’t have much of an idea about anything, including whether he’s helping me.
But I’m trying. Goddamn it, I’m trying, you’ve got to give me that. Didn’t put all my eggs in one basket, either. Went to my primary-care guy too, to complain about my cock. Dr. Agnostulopolini. Different accent, different mystery country. Had to change doctors when my cheapo company switched insurances and I had to find someone new.
“And I’ve been floundering ever since. Floundering? Ha! Flopping around is more like it. So I’ve been seeing Dr. S—ahem, Dr. Singsirinavin—I’ve been seeing him to help me out of this predicament. Seems like a nice enough guy, serious, quiet, with a scrawny body and a bit of an accent, though I’ll be damned if I know from where exactly. These shrinks never tell you anything about themselves, do they? I’ve been seeing Dr. S for a year already, and you would think by now I’d have an idea, but I don’t. To tell the truth, I don’t have much of an idea about anything, including whether he’s helping me.
“And I’ve been floundering ever since. Floundering? Ha! Flopping around is more like it. So I’ve been seeing Dr. S—ahem, Dr. Singsirinavin—I’ve been seeing him to help me out of this predicament. Seems like a nice enough guy, serious, quiet, with a scrawny body and a bit of an accent, though I’ll be damned if I know from where exactly. These shrinks never tell you anything about themselves, do they? I’ve been seeing Dr. S for a year already, and you would think by now I’d have an idea, but I don’t. To tell the truth, I don’t have much of an idea about anything, including whether he’s helping me.
“But I’m trying. Goddamn it, I’m trying, you’ve got to give me that. Didn’t put all my eggs in one basket, either. Went to my primary-care guy too, to complain about my cock. Dr. Agnostulopolini. Different accent, different mystery country. Had to change doctors when my cheapo company switched insurances and I had to find someone new. He doesn’t know anything about me and doesn’t seem to care, either. Every time I ask a question, the side of his face twitches like he’s having a stroke. “Doctor,” I said last time, “my libido seems to have disappeared.”
“You know, it does fall off with age,” he says. Translation: you’re getting old.
“But not this suddenly, Doctor. Could it be the new blood pressure medicine you prescribed?” Translation: Fuck you. Don’t give me that you’re-getting-old shit. I’m fifty. That’s not old.”
About the Author
Andy V Ambrose grew up in the Boston area and moved to New York City after college. He worked in book publishing for many years, wearing many hats: Editorial, Copyediting, Proofreading, and Production. This is his first novel featuring Viktor, a fifty-year-old gay man trying to get back into the world of the living after the end of a twelve-year relationship. To relax, Andy loves to ride his bike, read, watch foreign and independent movies, and travel. He’s only made it to three continents so far but hopes to visit the rest soon. He lives in New York City.
Confessions of a Gay Curmudgeon recounts the adventures of Viktor, a fifty-year-old gay man in New York City trying to get back into the land of the living after the breakup of a twelve-year relationship. The novel examines the lives of a group of middle-aged gay men, exploring new facets of their sexuality while dealing with all the changes middle age brings.
Well, Dr. S told me to write about the first thing that comes into my mind, so it’s what I’m doing. “Don’t think. Just write,” he said. “Stop censoring yourself, Viktor. This will help you in your therapy too, Viktor.”
Okay, okay. If that’s what the shrink ordered, let’s see if this works. We’re supposed to listen to our shrinks, right? That’s their job, right? They know how to get us out of whatever fucking funk we’re in, right?
So here we go. I’m writing about the first thing that comes to my mind and it’s my erections. Here it is, a lovely Saturday afternoon, sun shining, snow melting, spring a’coming, a perfect time to enjoy life. And what am I doing? Sulking in my apartment obsessing about my cock.
Hell of a problem to have on a day like today, isn’t it? Shit, be honest, Viktor. You’re supposed to be honest with this writing thing, aren’t you? That was Dr. S’s other directive, wasn’t it? Honesty. He was full of directives last session, wasn’t he? Oh well, maybe I need some directives.
So where was I? Oh yes. Gorgeous day, shitty mood, focusing on my cock when I should be enjoying life.
Oh, come on. It’s not just about my cock. I know that. After all, I did my share of screwing around when I was younger. Not that I was the biggest stud around in my heyday, but during those few glorious weeks my sex life got going, I learned how to have a good time. Yes, I did! But then I met Gio and fell in love. And he fell in love with me. And we had twelve years of bliss—more or less—until he left me last year.
About the Author
Andy V Ambrose grew up in the Boston area and moved to New York City after college. He worked in book publishing for many years, wearing many hats: Editorial, Copyediting, Proofreading, and Production. This is his first novel featuring Viktor, a fifty-year-old gay man trying to get back into the world of the living after the end of a twelve-year relationship. To relax, Andy loves to ride his bike, read, watch foreign and independent movies, and travel. He’s only made it to three continents so far but hopes to visit the rest soon. He lives in New York City.
Wonderland is the hottest club in River City, but it’s time to close. It’s a different world now, and club owner Chester doesn’t see Wonderland having a place in it. What will that mean for resident bartender and hotty bottom Brandon Sweet? Or for headliner, the Queen of Hearts? Or customers like Jesse and Colton, whose open relationship and threeways are the stuff of legend? This group of friends navigate the changes in their lives until one night when everything changes for good.
Excerpt
Jesse Sterling liked dick.
There was no denying that. If there was a twelve-step program, he’d be standing there saying, “My name is Jesse Sterling and I’m a cockaholic,” and he would have been saying it proudly.
Jesse sucked his first dick at thirteen, and he was hooked. All those after school specials about drug dealers who gave new customers that first hit for free? That was Jesse with dick. He was hooked from the first time a guy’s hard dick touched his lips.
He liked all dick: big ones, small ones, cut ones, uncut, curved, straight. He even liked soft ones because he knew they wouldn’t stay that way for long. Not around him.
Through his teenage years, he got his hands (and mouth, and ass) on as much dick as possible. He got them out, got them hard, and got them off. Nothing made him as happy as discovering a new dick and what made them cum. Every dick was unique in how they liked to be stroked or sucked or ridden, but one thing they all had in common…. they were all beautiful.
Well, not all, he sometimes reminded himself. There’d been one that was just…just not good. That had been long ago though, and there’d been dozens of dicks since to wash the taste out of his mouth. Literally.
And then he had met Colton.
Colton Wainford was perhaps the only other man on earth who loved dick as much as Jesse. And Colton’s dick? Perfection. Perfect length. Perfect girth. Perfect rigidity. Simply, perfect.
That they had found each other, that of all the gay bars in all the world, they had walked into the same one on the same night, and paused to take in each other’s sculpted bodies before stumbling and tumbling into a bathroom stall to appreciate each other’s dicks, that was also pretty perfect.
That bar had been Wonderland, nearly a decade earlier, and that’s why, when Brandon texted with the news of pending closure, Jesse had thrown his phone onto the couch, and exclaimed loudly. “Fuck! That sucks dick!”
“What does? Who does?” Colton called from the bedroom. “And do I get some too?”
About the Author
Rob Browatzke has been writing for as long as he can remember, and is pretty darn excited for someone else to be reading his stuff finally! When it comes to gay bars and booze and drugs and drama, he knows what he’s talking about. He came out in the mid-90s, and liquor and drama went hand in hand. He has 20+ years of experience working in gay clubs in Edmonton, Alberta, and his current Wonderlounge is every bit as amazing as Alex’s Wonderland. Rob is now 8+ years clean and sober, although there’s still a bit of drama once in a while, for old times’ sake.
