CAUTION: Brainstorming session in progress

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Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Krewe Daddy - by Margie Church

"Krewe Daddy," the sequel to Margie Church's award-winning book "Hard as Teak," which also garnered her a Best Author Award for 2011, was released this week by Noble Romance Publishing.

I'm honored to post an excerpt from this book, and hope you find the story as intriguing as I do.

Hopefully, Ms. Church will now desist from mailing further pictures of me naked and handcuffed to that park bench by the duck pond to my wife.
I am tired of her laughter.


Drew's insecurities pushed him to have a foolish affair six years ago. It destroyed his relationship with Luis, and he's never been able to commit to anyone since. Now, he's taken control of his life and changed his submissive personality by becoming a model for Kevin Marks, and a wildlife enforcement agent in New Orleans.

These men haven't forgotten each other, or settled their differences. When they accidentally meet in a French Quarter gay bar, the years of regret, anger, and pent-up emotions erupt. Their passion is as hot as ever, their mistrust just as potent. When Drew's future is in Luis' hands, will he choose his lifestyle or love?


Drew Rothem returned the barbell to the rack, making the big wheels rattle. Sixty pounds might as well be a thousand, this evening. Can't do it tonight.His left shoulder and back ached from the wrestling match he'd had three days ago with an uncooperative suspect. The drug-crazed behemoth had tried to bust Drew in half by body slamming him to the ground. Gravel had poked clean through his uniform and pockmarked his skin.
While pain radiated through his back from his weightlifting attempts, the scene replayed in Drew's memory.
Dazed by the man's inhuman strength, Drew had let adrenaline take over to marshal every ounce of energy he possessed. In kill or be killed mode, Drew heaved the guy off him.
The suspect landed on the edge of the swamp, eliciting a painful grunt.
Drew had rolled to his feet while reaching for his service weapon. Come on,motherfucker. I dare ya. "Stay down. You're under arrest."
Foamy, blood-streaked, white spittle leaked from the assailant's mouth. With a shaking hand, the greasy-looking man wiped the drool away. A spreading stain of swamp water and muck covered his left side. Climbing to his feet, the suspect looked strong enough to be a human freight train. His breath left his lungs in dry-sounding barks. Not a trace of rational thought registered in those black eyes, rimmed with crazy ass high. Poaching gators was lucrative, but when the drug money spigot was turned off, this guy would be in deep weeds. The junkie was fighting for survival, and Drew stood in the way.
Drew leveled his .45 caliber SIG Sauer at the lunatic's heaving chest. "Put your hands where I can see them."
The man's gaze shifted as fast as scattering rats searching for an exit.
"You're under arrest. Put your hands up."
From the west, tires crunching on gravel signaled help was near—at least, that's what Drew hoped.
With his hands steady on his weapon, and his voice firm as cured concrete, Drew explained the options. "It's the gators or me. What's it gonna be?"
Sometimes, Drew wished those guys would choose the gators. People who pull stunts like this are too stupid to live. His backup had arrived and carted the asshole off to jail. For once, Drew hadn't had to transport a suspect reeking of swamp sludge. At least there's some reward for having to go to the hospital.
"Are you done for the night?"
The voice snapped Drew out of his fog. He turned to face his sometime lover, Kyle LaMontagne, who was mopping sweat off his face and neck with a towel.
"I am. I thought a workout might ease some of the pain in my back and shoulder, but I couldn't even move the big wheels."
Kyle lifted the shoulder seam of Drew's tank top and looked at his back. "That bruise looks like hell. Maybe you should try the sauna to loosen things up a little."
Drew wanted to correct Kyle for his repeated mispronunciation of the word sauna, but decided it wasn't worth the trouble. He hadn't heard anyone pronounce it correctly—sow-nah—since he'd left Minnesota.
"In this heat, I could stand outside and probably accomplish the same thing." Drew wiped off his bench and flung the towel over his shoulder.
"Are you going to work tomorrow, or did they give you a few days off to recover?"
While leading the way to the locker room, Drew contemplated an answer to Kyle's implied question about whether they could spend the evening, and maybe the night, together.
"The doctor gave me nine days on top of my regular rotation days off. I've got another week. What about you?"
"Off tomorrow, and then back at it."
When Drew arrived at his locker, he took a breath to steel himself before reaching over his head to take off his T-shirt. Pain, sharp as an ice pick, shot through his muscles.
"Jesus H. Christ." Waiting for the spasm to subside, Drew clamped his jaw shut and held his breath.
Kyle pulled the hem over Drew's head, helping to remove the damp shirt.
"Thanks, man." An angry throb started his ribs, bubbled its way to Drew's shoulder, then back down like a yo-yo.
"You sure nothing is broken?" The concern in Kyle's voice was evident.
If he could have twisted to look back that far, Drew would have. "The doctor said badly bruised ribs. Why?"
He shook his head. "I don't know, but it looks rough. You're purple, green, and red from here to here." He traced the shape of the bruise with his finger. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you hadn't even been wearing your shirt. You're going to have a mass of scabs on top of this mess, too."
Drew pulled down his shorts gingerly, then sat on his towel.
"The perp was shutting the tailgate when I surprised him, so he didn't have a chance to grab a weapon. He must have weighed two-hundred-fifty pounds. I felt like I was in a bad Rocky movie when he threw me down. If I hadn't turned before I landed, I probably would have had the wind knocked out of me. There'd have been plenty of time to get a gun or maybe a gaffing hook. No doubt, the guy was high enough to enjoy killing me." Drew shuddered. "Crazy motherfucker."
"You're lucky Skeeps showed up, too."
Drew nodded. Although Kyle and Drew were both in the Region 8 offices of the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries, they weren't partners. A court appearance that day for Drew's partner, Jordan Skeeps, had separated them. The situation could have been deadly for Drew, and everyone knew it.
He pitched his sweaty clothes in his bag, and then grabbed a fresh towel. Grimacing, Drew wrapped it around his waist, tucking in the end.
"I couldn't have gone two rounds with him, that's for sure." He shut his locker. "I'm going to hit the shower, and then go home. The doc prescribed some pain meds, so I'll camp out with some television and hope the pills take the edge off the pain. I didn't sleep worth a shit last night."
Kyle snorted. "You're getting to be such an old man."
The remark caught Drew off guard.
Kyle squinted at him. "What? Hearing going, too?"
Drew turned toward the showers. "I'll call you tomorrow. Maybe we can do some knitting together in the park."
Kyle's chuckles bounced off the lockers in the mostly-vacant room. "Sure. Take care of yourself, old man."
In the shower, Drew leaned on his right arm, and turned his back to the hot stream. At times, even the water pressure sent twinges of pain through him. Drew shifted, searching for a comfortable angle under the water. All the while, Kyle's comment about being an old man kept replaying in his mind.
Drew could still see Luis' dark eyes light up, and the lazy grin that spread across his beautiful lips when Drew teased him about being an old man. Eight years Drew's senior, Luis was well known as Daddy Luis.
Drew hadn't talked to Luis in almost six years, and yet the dull ache remained. The man rattled around in Drew's heart, never quite finding his way out. Teak Hildalgo had tried his damnedest to erase Luis from Drew's affections. Hell, he'd even followed Drew to Minnesota. And got stranded there when we fell apart. At least, Teak managed to be in the right place at the right time to meet Kevin.
Drew lathered his washcloth with soap. Washing his body with his left hand became a chore. Grunting, he forced his arm to move a little faster, hoping to work through the pain. Realizing the efforts were futile, Drew flung the washcloth against the shower wall. Landing with a slap, the cloth stuck for a moment before gravity claimed it.
His breath left his lips in a hiss. Maybe Kyle is right. These ribs might be more than just badly bruised.

* * * * *

Drew plopped his gym bag inside the entryway closet in his Metairie apartment. The one-bedroom efficiency wasn't in the fanciest building in the neighborhood, but it fit his budget and his minimalist needs. He'd bought new furniture when he'd moved from Wescott, Minnesota. At least the place looked nice if he brought home a date, though few people commented on the sofa pattern on their way to the bedroom. Practical and comfortable were two words Drew used to describe his choices. Tonight, he was counting on the comfortable part to get through the night.
The angry throb from the middle of his back to his neck had worsened while Drew drove home. He never should have attempted lifting tonight, and now he'd have to take drugs to settle down the pain. He went straight to the kitchen to get the bottle of prescription pain relievers. Two tablets slid out of the brown bottle and into his palm. He turned on the tap to get the water running cold, while reaching for a glass.
Water gurgled, filling the tumbler. Drew popped the meds in his mouth, and then guzzled down most of the water. Clearing his throat afterward, he hoped the medicine would help, because at the moment, his nerves were ragged.
Jesus, you're in rough shape tonight, pal. What made you think you should go to the gym?
He'd planned to stop for something to eat on the way home, but couldn't endure sitting in his car one minute longer than necessary. Scanning the opened fridge, Drew grabbed a gallon of chocolate milk. Not bothering with formalities, he flipped off the plastic top and quenched his thirst.
Drew looked over the meager contents in the refrigerator for something easy to make. The lonely lunchmeat container got a nod. Half a loaf of bread sat on the counter next to the fridge. To Drew's way of thinking, only one conclusion could be drawn. A peanut butter and turkey bologna sandwich showed up on the dinner menu. Saying the sandwich was an acquired taste was an understatement. Luis had introduced him to the odd combination years ago. The guys at work hassled him and screwed up their faces in disgust when he ate the peculiar sandwiches at the office.
In the pantry, a handful of Cheetos remained in the crumpled bag. Drew snarfed those down with a few noisy crunches, then pitched the empty cellophane in the trash. Many people said he had the dietary preferences of a toddler. They are right.
 He put the milk jug, now considerably emptier, back where it belonged and shut the door.
Sandwich in hand, Drew headed to his recliner. With his dinner balanced on his lap, he pulled back on the handle to raise his feet. Thank God the handle was on the right side, or he'd have to camp out on the couch.
He chewed his sandwich while flipping through television channels. The weather reports forecast another day of wilting humidity and near one hundred-degree temperatures for tomorrow. Whatever. Except for those four wicked years in Minnesota, he'd lived most of his life in Florida. High temps and humidity were something Drew was well acquainted with. He was so glad not to have to endure another frigid winter. The summers were fabulous; fall was magnificent, but the rest of the year? If he could get used to sitting on an iceberg, bare-assed naked all winter, he might have enjoyed them. Not a chance.
Before long, Kevin Marks would be calling him to schedule autumn and early winter photo shoots for the Woodlands Collection. Three years ago, nobody could have convinced Drew the venture would become such a success. But Kevin's career as a nature and outdoors photographer had blossomed with every photo he'd taken of his boyfriend, Teak, and of Drew. Royalties from the photo sales supplemented Drew's investments nicely. If demand stayed brisk, an early retirement would be possible, thanks to Kevin and his studio, Marks on Redding. Best of all, they had such a blast together that Drew rarely thought of the long hours during the photo shoots as work.
Drew bit off another piece of sandwich, and wondered where they'd go and what they'd wear this time. Kevin spared no expense on their wardrobe, which the models got to keep. Drew always felt guilty that he couldn't wear most of the clothing in New Orleans' subtropical climate.
After stuffing the last of his sandwich in his mouth, Drew wished he'd brought the chocolate milk with him. He rose, with a lot less discomfort. The pills sure had taken the edge off the pain. Maybe I'll sleep better tonight, too.
Drew put his sandwich fixings away before taking a last, long drink of milk.
"I like chocolate milk." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shut off the kitchen light.
On his way to the bedroom, Drew made sure he'd locked the apartment door, and then checked the air conditioner setting.The full effect of the pain meds hit him hard. As though encased in cotton, his mind seemed to be buzzing like an electrical transformer. He performed an abbreviated version of his bedtime routine before climbing into bed.
After pulling the sheet over his bare body, he turned onto his right side. Doing so still hurt like a son of a bitch, but not enough to jar him into full wakefulness, like last night. He'd felt a hundred years old—an old man.
The thought triggered a memory of Luis' smiling face as he pulled Drew's lips to his. "Who are you calling Old Man?"
Even now, the sexy tone of Luis' voice made the corners of Drew's lips curl into a smile. He loved the low, husky tone that had always signaled Luis was turned on and ready for sex. He swore he could feel Luis' broad chest against his, the warmth of Luis' breath, and that first sensation of pressure against his lips.
Drew fell asleep fantasizing about those days and nights in Luis' arms.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Ginny's Capture - by Ellie Heller

Ellie Heller is a very kind lady who for years has been helping others become published. Now, Ellie's time has come. And it was well worth waiting for.
I hope you enjoy this look at Ellie's debut story.
Be sure to check out her blog as it's not only entertaining, but educational. Yeah, you can learn something there. =)

Two years ago Deidra Montague royally screwed up with Guinevere. Now Dee secretly works for the fae council, breaking up potential zombie swarms, while Ginny–a mortal–attends grad school, preparing for a career helping survivors of zombie attacks. Even apart, Dee still watches over Ginny. How could she not, after learning that the woman she betrayed has been blessed as her mate? Now students from Ginny’s school are dropping out in alarming numbers and turning up infected with the zombie virus. When Dee finds out, she decides it’s time to extract her mate from the mounting peril. Only she arrives to find Ginny in the thick of things, trying to solve the problem herself. Just like old times. With drugged-up zombies everywhere, casket sales on the rise, and saccharine bubblegum pop constantly playing in the background, Dee decides it’s time to lay her heart on the line. Because she’s the only one who’s going to capture Ginny.

 Available from
Noble Romance as part of their Lesbians vs Zombies series.

Ellie's Web SIte
Chapter One

Deidra silently ran up the concrete stairs in the rear of the library. Last time she'd been on a university campus, the story behind the zombie virus had just broken and anti-military sentiment ran high. After a hellish day fending off protestors and the media instead of recruiting for ROTC, she'd sworn up and down she'd not set foot on campus again. But that was before students at this school—Ginny's school—began dropping out to become zombies, voluntarily. She'd had no choice but to go back on her word.

Her old army buddies would have ribbed her mercilessly. Good thing she now worked for the fae council instead.

Regardless of the ribbing, Dee would have come. Guinevere took her MSW courses here. She lived on campus, in one of the dorms, for who knows what reason. With the school a powder keg waiting to blow, naturally Ginny stood right in the middle.

Deidra couldn't sit by and watch the explosion. She needed to get Ginny out of there.

Huey, a hulking Viking of a man with a Were's leadership tattoos on his temples, waited on the landing. Four of his packmates flanked him.

"You want me to go ahead and secure the area?" he asked.

Deidra nodded. "Stay out of sight of our target. I'll disable the floor's sound system, then join you."

Unlike some of the fae and fully turned zombies, she could survive the subsonic waves piped along with the music. She didn't want the constant distraction, though, not tonight. In the service stairs, she quickly located the recently added wires and cut them. The students here were lucky the school could afford to rewire the building and install the special speakers. State schools did not fare so well.

The insistent buzz across her bones ceased.

Huey stuck his head out the door. "We're set. Just a heads up: she has company."


"Some leggy blonde who looks like the suburban idea of a rock whore."

Crap, the description fit Lilah Dantowitz to a tee. Deidra needed to get Guinevere away from her before the shit hit the fan. Behind Huey, the sound of the women's voices drifted.

"Make sure you detail someone to fix the wires when we leave," she whispered, before heading into the maze of bookshelves.

She followed the chatter, halting the moment Guinevere's voice became clear. The soft alto brought back too many memories. A shiver of desire raced through Deidra, leaving her flushed.

"I have a bunch of stuff I need to get done so I can spend tomorrow with you. Why don't you text me the time? I promise I'll be there," Ginny said. "Besides, I see Brad on his way, and I'm pretty sure he's going to want your attention for the rest of the night."

What was Ginny getting into? Deidra took a deep breath, her heart racing. Then she took another. Faint but distinct, the fetid odor of a zombie permeated the air. She moved closer, to get a good view and a better scent.

The blonde bimbo sauntered away, tucked under the arm of a brute. The rotting-flesh smell emanated from one of them, and she'd bet that meant Lilah. She had to be close to fully turned to smell like death, but she didn't look it, and none of the reports or videos had shown her acting like it.

Papa Dantowitz could afford drugs strong enough to keep his daughter "normal," even at this stage.

In spite of all their surveillance of the Dantowitz crime family, she'd seen nothing to indicate one of the children was infected. Having a family member with the virus was an interesting development, especially if the family actually was recruiting students.

Guinevere shut her laptop, then slid the slim rectangle into her bag. Ready to leave? That wouldn't do at all.

Deidra settled herself atop a desk out of Guinevere's sightline and away from the rancid smell.
"Still hanging out with young'uns, I see."

Guinevere froze in place. Then, slowly, she turned her face to Deidra. Those eyes, those impossibly cornflower blue eyes, gave her a thorough once over. "I've kept worse company."

Deidra tried in vain to stop the blush heating her cheeks. Seeing Guinevere redden as well didn't help her feel any less pricked by the jab. The Goddess had given her a hard task, to repair the breach between them. She bit her tongue to keep from saying anything, knowing Guinevere's Southern charm would impel her to fill the silence.

But Deidra caved first. She heard herself say, "Ilona explained to me what you were doing."

Shit, she hadn't meant to blurt that out.

Guinevere closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "As I recall, I did too."

"You certainly tried, but I wasn't listening." Stupid, stupid to bring this up now. Her group likely hung on every word.

Guinevere lifted her head and glared at Deidra. "And whose fault was that?"


They held each other's gaze, but Guinevere didn't respond.

Deidra knew this wasn't the time to explain herself. She looked away first. "I didn't come here for that. Well, I did, but there are more pressing reasons."

"Which are?"

"We have had a security breach, and your father's unit has been targeted. Zombies are being used en masse to break into homes and kidnap families."

With an oddly pensive look, Guinevere flipped her blond hair out of the way before sliding on her backpack. "How long do I have?"

"Give me a couple of days, and I'll text you the time and location." Deidra gave her a hard look.
"Don't do anything foolish this weekend. Stay on campus until we can extract you."

Guinevere raised her eyebrows. "Do I do foolish things?"

"All the damn time," Deidra said, with an exasperated sigh. "Will you stay on campus?"

Guinevere nodded.

Deidra lifted her wrist to her face, still keeping an eye on Guinevere. Entirely for show, as the Weres could hear every word, she pressed a button on her large wristband. "Amazon Two, we're out of here."

"Congrats on the group," Guinevere said.

Surprising. Oh, wait, she didn't know what kind of group Deidra ran, just that she was giving orders.

"Thank you," Deidra replied, and then, because she couldn't help it. "This group's okay, but I've had better."

The surprise in Guinevere's eyes counterbalanced the snort of a Were behind her. Good thing Guinevere couldn't hear the muffled laugh. Time to go. Stepping back, Deidra ducked behind the nearest set of shelves and then hurried to the rear stairs. On the way, she pulled out her phone and typed in the text message that would carry the spy program for Ginny's cell.

"You're looking great." Definitely the truth. Two years of grad school had been good to Guinevere. No longer on the thin side of lean and with her glorious blonde hair down past her shoulders, Guinevere looked content. Unfortunately, her contentment was about to be shot. Deidra couldn't keep her safe here anymore. She needed to get Ginny off campus.

Not to mention being without her mate led Dee to make poor decisions. Not safe for herself, much less for the men she now commanded.

"So that's her," Huey commented.

"Yep. Hands off," Deidra said, flinching as they hit the stairs and the humming music resumed. "The tall, leggy one you can have."

The Weres made various retching sounds. They'd smelled the decay caused by the zombie virus too. They staggered out the rear door of the building, holding their noses and throats and bellies.
Laughing, she shushed them, not wanting their group to draw attention in the frozen tundra of the parking lot.

Once everyone had settled in the van, with Huey at the wheel, one of the Weres grinned toothily at her. "Next time, boss, remember we like them when they don't smell like maggot-food."

"And we like them stacked."

"Nah, more than a handful is a waste. Me, I like a nice, round ass."

Traveling across town, Deidra listened to their increasingly ribald qualifications, wondering if she'd become one of the boys or if they were simply testing her limits. Finally, her phone vibrated, letting her know Guinevere's recent messages had downloaded. She checked them over, carefully shielding the light to protect the Weres' night vision.

"Guys." Her sharp voice stilled the discussion on how to tell if a woman might give good head. "We need to go over and stake out Smithbrook Coffin Company."

She looked over the group, their faces now serious; these days, caskets and zombies went hand in hand. "Looks like the Dantowitz kid and Ginny will be heading over there in the morning. I want to check it out before they arrive."

A series of grunts acknowledged they understood.

"Food first?" one of the recruits asked, as they pulled into the Were-owned strip mall where they'd left their cars.

Goddess save her from young Weres and their grocery bills. "Food first. We'll need to pick up extra munitions as well. Plan to meet back here at oh-two-hundred hours."

Huey turned off the engine and cracked open a window. They all took a deep sniff of the freezing air from the early March night. No zombie stench—they were clear. The Weres exited the side doors en masse before scattering to their rides.

"You heading back with me? Ezzy would love to see you," Huey offered.

Ah, she didn't think so. Given the pheromones he shot off right now, he'd prefer to be alone with his wife. "No, thanks, I need to make a report and get some specialized weapons. Tell Ezzy I'll catch up with her later."

As soon as she closed the door, the van took off. She ran to her car and headed out too. She had just enough time to get to her private stash of weapons and back before they were to meet up again.

By then, hopefully, she'd have figured out how to convince Guinevere she was sorry and that they should be together. Forever. The Goddess clearly didn't believe in easy paths.


Sunday, February 26, 2012

Whistle Pass - by KevaD

My latest fiction novel, the MM suspense tale "Whistle Pass" set in 1955, was released today by Dreamspinner Press.

I'm really proud of this story for a number of reasons, not the least of which is the fact it contains no active sex. Dreamspinner believed as I do that two men in life threatening circumstances beyond their control and falling in love, don't need to be naked to tell their story.

To Robert D.... thank you for asking me to write Charlie and Gabe's story.

By the way, fictional Whistle Pass is based on my hometown of Savanna, IL, a little river town whose business district remains almost as it was when I was growing up.

On the battlefields of WWII Europe, Charlie Harris fell in love, and after the war, Roger marched home without a glance back. Ten years later, Charlie receives a cryptic summons and quickly departs for his former lover’s hometown of Whistle Pass.

But Roger Black isn’t the lover of Charlie’s dreams anymore. He’s a married, hard-bitten political schemer who wants to secure his future by destroying evidence of his indiscreet past. Open homosexuality is practically a death sentence, and that photo would ruin Roger and all his wife’s nefarious plans.

Caught up in foggy, tangled events, Charlie turns to hotel manager Gabe Kasper for help, and Gabe is intrigued by the haunted soldier who so desperately desires peace. When helping his new lover places Gabe in danger, the old warrior in Charlie will have to take drastic action to protect him... or condemn them both.

Dreamspinner Press Buy Link

The Round Thing in the Urinal is Not a Mint & other restroom ruminations

Bathroom humor abounds, but nothing touches the reality of the men’s public restroom.
Come on, admit it, ladies, you’ve wondered what we do in there, if the stories are true.

They are, and then some.

Picture eight men lined up facing a wall, apparently fascinated with some spot that always seems to appear above a urinal. We’re talking those four foot tall porcelain jobs – manly piss pots - not those dainty little bowl contraptions bolted to the wall. There has to be such a spot because every penis carrying member of the male genus to ever step foot up to a urinal darn sure stares at it. I’ve looked for the elusive blemish myself, and nearly peed on my foot.

Which reminds me…. If your male other half ever walks out of a restroom with freshly shined shoes, now you know what happened.

Owners of restrooms really ought to do men a favor and stencil some dot to dot artwork without the lines drawn in above the urinals. Nothing targeting the primal instincts though. The last thing I want to hear is the guy next to me shout “Tits!” The entire line would have to violate man-code and look. Nothing too elaborate either. “Excuse me, does anyone know if this is a Picasso, or could it be a Jackson Pollack?” would send shoulders hunching as the line slipped into a traditional synchronized turtle pantomime.

I’d suggest a car, but someone would inevitably scratch a NASCAR number where the door should be and ruin the surprise for the rest of us.

Then again, I’m not accounting for the ambidextrous few capable of controlling their stream with one hand and negotiating a BIC with the other. There’s always at least one showoff in the crowd. Eh. I guess we’ll just have to continue studying the paint swirls.

Flea markets at county fairgrounds are the worst as the restrooms are the largest. Lots of space to avoid looking at each other in. Equate the scene to a crowded elevator. Every pair of eyes is glued to anything not breathing. Fairgrounds’ restrooms are also where you’ll find the greatest diversity of men and their urinal habits, including – you knew I’d get to it – the one member of the species who toes the big round aromatic disk in the bottom of the urinal. Hang around just short of a cop wondering what you're doing, and I promise he will show up.

What the fascination is with that disk, I honestly do not know. For some reason, that round object has the ability to chime the hunter’s bell. Men take careful aim and pee on the thing like it’s some animal in the wild, scuff it, and take pride if the disk has worn to penny size and their weapon’s final burst sends it down the drain. I’m surprised there aren’t “Urinal Target Champ” pins handed out we can stick on ball caps. Belt buckles would sell well I suppose.

Our time is short. Let’s move to the sink. Well… a few men will. The majority simply walk out the door, content their mission was a success and a few drops didn’t leak through their clothing once they stuffed Henry back in his hiding place. And yes, they were careful not to shake too many times for fear of being noticed. Another man rule. There is a fine line between shaking and playing.

Whoever created the must-be-primed soap dispenser was either a pervert, or a woman. I am convinced of that. A man standing at a sink, rapidly pushing a button attached to a long, hard shaft until white creamy liquid spurts out the end…. You get the picture. Someone, somewhere giggles every time their invention royalty check arrives. Now complete the mental vision with a drop or two of pearly juice that seeps out the shaft’s end and pools on the edge of the sink. That’s just wrong. Not one single man has or will ever wipe up that spot.

Next comes drying. These days, men usually have a choice between paper or hot air. In colder weather, hot air wins every time. Given the choice however, men will usually go for paper. I suspect it’s a control issue and some gratification in adding their tangible contribution to the overflowing trash container – leaving their mark so to speak since peeing on the door jamb is frowned upon. Either way, these sanitary minded gentlemen have fulfilled their societal expectations and can return to the masses, hands proudly cleansed. Right up until they open the door six men who didn’t wash their hands opened ahead of them.

And what’s the first thing he’ll grab? Why, your hand, of course.

Lunch anybody?

Saturday, February 25, 2012

A Tryst of Fate - by HC Brown

Good morning, David.* Ducks for cover* Sorry to interrupt but you did promise to be good today. * raises brows*  

Who the hell left the door unlocked! Heads are gonna roll!
I turn my back for one minute, and a bestselling author wanders in. Without chocolate, I might add....

Okay, today I've left the whip and leather in the dungeon and dropped by to chat about my new time travel release A Tryst of Fate.
Hang on a minute don't all rush off at once.

No chocolate, no floggers, no leather. What'd you expect would happen?
Wait a minute. She brought an excerpt. And a smile. Nice smile. Oh! Raspberry syrup too.
Okay, you can stay. I'll find the leather later. There's some around here somewhere. I know there is because I stole a cute little ensemble out of your car during your last visit.
Well, HC, you have the floor, the syrup, and apparently, my staff's undivided attention.

This story is not my usual fare but it is a hot and very sexy m/m romance.  My Muse butted in the day I started to write Time to Live for the Timeless Desire Collection. I'd just finished Lord & Master and the Georgian era wouldn't leave my mind. I had a fit of the giggles thinking what would happen if a gorgeous American  say six-five , built like a linebacker and gay would cope if he was sent back in time to London in 1775.  My mind suddenly filled with the image of my hero, Colt Daniels, millionaire art dealer.  I gave him a kick butt personality but his Achilles heel was an obsession with a portrait of the delicious Lord Alexander Swift. I added a dash of conflict and misadventure and I had my story.
Tomorrow I'm holding a release party on my blog with giveaways including a copy of A Tryst of Fate. So do drop by and join the fun.

I hope you will enjoy my new release from Silver Publishing, A Tryst of Fate.

After inheriting a Georgian house in Berkley Square, London, Colt Daniels, millionaire art dealer, finds himself obsessed by a portrait of the home's former owner, Lord Alexander Swift.

During a conversation with author, Jake Williams, Colt discovers Lord Swift and his cousin had mysteriously disappeared from the cellar one evening, shortly after Alexander's illicit affair with the rogue, David Fitzhugh. Jake reveals Colt bears a remarkable resemblance to Fitzhugh.

Colt decides to investigate Alexander's strange disappearance and ventures into his cellar late one night to look for a secret passageway. When his flashlight fails, Colt finds himself transported back in time to 1775 and there he comes face to face with the man of his dreams— Lord Alexander Swift.

Watch the book trailer here:

Chapter One

Colt Daniels lifted his bidder's card. "Thirty thousand."
"The bid is thirty thousand pounds. Come now, ladies and gentlemen, this portrait of Lord Alexander Swift by Benjamin West is dated 1775 and is in extraordinarily fine condition." The auctioneer at Sotheby's surveyed the silent crowd with a critical gaze.
Taking a casual pose, Colt flicked his gaze to the opposing bidder. The man in the slick Italian business suit met his gaze with a slow smile. Colt lifted his chin and stared at the painting. From the moment he had laid eyes on the portrait of the handsome young man in the Sotheby's catalogue, he had wanted to buy the painting. Lord Alexander Swift's troubled gaze held a distant loneliness, as if reaching out to Colt across the centuries.
A strange twist of fate had brought him to London in the form of an inheritance on his thirtieth birthday… A distant relative had bequeathed him the townhouse once owned by Lord Swift in Berkeley Square. Over the past year, he had restored the house to its former glory and now he required this painting to complete the task. During the years Lord Swift had owned the property, the painting had hung at the top of the stairs, facing the front door. For some unexplained reason, Colt had a compelling desire to finish the house by restoring the painting to its original position, in time for the anniversary of Alexander's death on June fourth.
"Forty thousand." The man in the suit lifted his bidder's card.
Colt sighed. With his fortune to back him and the prestige of being the owner of some of the most famous galleries around the world, he rarely had people bid against him for very long. They should know better. If Colt Daniels wanted a painting, Colt Daniels would go to any price to secure a purchase. He cleared his throat. "Seventy thousand pounds." He shot the opposing bidder a cold stare.
After the usual pause, the hammer came down and Colt moved to the clerk to settle the account. "Have it shipped to 42 Berkeley Square, Mayfair." He turned and strolled back to the painting to gaze at Alexander.
Warmth pooled around Colt's heart. He reached out to touch the man's pale cheeks, tracing a finger over the long blond curls, tied back in a queue. The young man appeared to be about eighteen in the portrait, slight of build with delicate features, yet Colt's research revealed West had completed the portrait on Swift's twenty-fifth birthday, the day he had inherited great wealth and lands from his father. Colt rubbed his chin. One would think His Lordship should be overjoyed on such an occasion, and yet Alexander's blue gaze followed him with heart-wrenching sadness.
"West has captured the essence of his subject, don't you think?"
Colt turned to see Business Suit gazing at him with a friendly smile. "Essence?"
"My name is Jake Williams. You may have heard of me?" replied Business Suit in a cultured Boston accent.
"Can't say that I have, sorry."
"Ah—so you don't know about the letters." Jake Williams inclined his head toward the portrait. "The love letters between Alexander and the Honorable David Fitzhugh. In a time when the crime of sodomy held the death penalty, to write love letters to a man… my God, can you imagine the implications?"
Colt straightened his shoulders. "You have these letters?"
"I most certainly do! Copies of the original documents are in my book, The Gay Lords." Jake took a card from his jacket and gave it to Colt. "I know you're restoring Alexander's house; perhaps we could meet over lunch and I'll give you the details I didn't put into print."
In truth, Colt craved information about Alexander. Living in the young lord's house and seeing each room as if through Alexander's eyes, Swift had become his obsession. With a laugh, he met Jake's hazel eyes. "I'm free now."
"Great, how about having lunch at The Square? It's a great restaurant." Jake smiled. "We can walk from here."
"Sure." Colt followed him out of the foyer into the busy street and they turned in the direction of Bruton Street. "So how did you come by the letters?"
"I bought them, along with a few other sundry items, at an auction—in Boston, of all places!" Jake fell into step beside Colt. "At first I thought they were written by a woman until I researched the names. Most of them begin with 'my love' or 'my dearest', so until I took note of the addressee… well, what a bombshell."
"How did the letters end up in the States?"
"I believe, due to the anti-sodomite movement at the time, Fitzhugh took flight to America." Jake sighed. "Of course, there is no proof he fled England under suspicion of sodomy. Nothing I researched points to him having a gay lover during his life. I do know he joined the colonists in the War of Independence and died in Boston in 1790." He stopped outside a bookstore. "Look, I'll grab a copy of my book. You must see the portrait of David Fitzhugh."
Colt stared into the shop window, his gaze not focusing on any item. His mind reeled. Even in this enlightened world, homophobia caused misery and distrust. He reflected on his own youth. Sure, he had taken his share of beatings from the local thugs, but now at six-five and built like a linebacker, no one crossed him. On the contrary, the beatings and the snide remarks, had made him more resolute to succeed in everything he did. He respected love in all forms. Gay, straight—who the fuck cared as long as that wonderful connection happened between two consenting adults? He almost felt sorry for people who could not see love if it hit them smack in the face. So many refused to recognize or understand that the sweet love between two men, or women for that matter, held the same deep emotion as straight love. Anger welled from deep inside fueled by the oppression he knew Alexander would have endured during his life. Those twisted sons-of-bitches would not have understood how cruel they were to deny the freedom to express love without prejudice.
 In Alexander's time, for a gentleman to touch a man's arm or cast a suggestive look could lead to prosecution for sodomy, a hanging offense. God knows, in those days they used the sodomy accusation to destroy many people's lives.
"You gotta see this." Jake thrust a book into Colt's hand. "Kinda spooky, don't you think?"
Colt gazed down at the glossy illustration. A trickle of ice slid down his spine. The portrait of the Honorable David Fitzhugh depicted a tall, muscular man with dark flowing hair—and the royal blue eyes that stared back at him were his own.

Find H.C. Brown on the web.

Monday, February 20, 2012

Nether Regions - by Jadette Paige

Jadette's contribution to the Lesbians vs Zombies: The Musical Revue line was released today by Noble Romance Publishing. I hope you enjoy this excerpt from a really good story.


In the age of Amazons, fighting spirit and a courageous heart revealed a warrior’s true strength. Threso proved her prowess a decade earlier, in an epic battle against invading Spartans. Now, as she enjoys the continued peace, she looks forward to a possible future with her young recruit, Kreousa. But the gods lay a challenge to discover who has the strongest warrior spirits: Amazons or Spartans.  Because the gods have a wicked sense of humor, the Spartans are undead. To make matters worse, they have chosen the unseasoned Kreousa to accompany Threso. Will Threso lose the one woman who has instilled a song of love in her?

Buy Link
Jadette's Blog


Chapter One

Threso leaned back on her hands while she soaked her tired feet in the pool under the small waterfall. Her naked body still glistened from the quick swim she'd taken to wash off the sweat. Mist floated in the hot summer air, soothing her skin with a light, cool touch.

The run through the hills had revealed that her new apprentice, Kreousa, was in prime condition. The past two days' drills with sword and spear had revealed the same, along with an admirable ability to move in time with the senior trainer's drumbeat, but nothing tested a trainee's endurance like a run that began at dawn and lasted into the afternoon.

Kreousa lay not far away. Threso let her gaze wander to the reclining figure. Thick, red hair, streaked with blonde strands, spilled about the young woman's slender shoulders and away from her face, revealing the gentle curve of her ear. Lithe legs stretched straight, then bent at the knees, and the taut belly muscles moved up and down in a controlled rhythm. Her breasts, though small, were firm. Threso's mouth watered to taste one of the peach tinted, pebbled nipples.

Kreousa had arrived in the city scant days ago, to train and learn a warrior's art. Threso had not foreseen an immediate attachment forming between them, much less the nagging distraction of lust. Simply put, she wanted the young warrior. But she hesitated to act on her desires.

While she had at times been assigned to school a student in the gentler arts, such was not the case with this one. And the queen preferred the new recruits to couple with others of their own generation, to instill stronger fighting bonds among them.

But seeing Kreousa like this brought to mind the type of future she dreamed of, enjoying their hard-won peace with the right woman.

Here in this secluded spot, a stopping point on the return to the city of Mytilene, magic surrounded them. The waterfall played a peaceful, soothing melody solely for their ears. Even the low chirps of the birds overhead added to the serenity of the moment.

Plucking several blades of grass, she tossed them at Kreousa's bare breast, hoping to distract her wayward thoughts. But the grass clung to the younger woman's damp skin, raising a sudden desire to take back the grass as an excuse to touch that beautiful, golden skin.

"Are you not exhausted?" Kreousa's sudden question cut across the peace surrounding them. Kreousa looked over, her lips curving in a smile as she brushed the grass from her breast.

The young woman's gut growled with hunger. Threso stifled a grin; the young ones were always hungry, and denial of that hunger was part of their training. But those blue eyes seemed to shine with another hunger, which perhaps need not be denied.

Threso's heart thudded in a faster rhythm. "Do I look so aged? A morning run is nothing but a child's playtime. And you? Has this jaunt tired you so much that you cannot even sit upright?"

Low laughter came from Kreousa. The slightly raspy tones added to Threso's need to taste her.
Rising so that she, too, leaned on her hands, Kreousa licked moisture beading above her plump lips. "If you were to say it was time to learn of the more sensual aspects of a warrior's life, I would somehow find the strength to act accordingly."

"Truly?" The teasing was close enough to impertinence. "Come hence and display your meager knowledge, so I might judge your worthiness."

Kreousa sat straight and slanted a wicked grin at her. "Oh, ho, is this a challenge, my teacher?"

Impertinent indeed. Yet impertinence could be a delicious spice. Threso tilted her head in assent. The heat of anticipation traveled over her skin as she pulled her feet from the cool water. She waited until Kreousa had crawled nearer before she braced up on her hands and knees.

How long had she held back her desire to touch, and to feel this woman's touch? Only two days? The need had budded the first time she'd heard the young woman's voice, and bloomed the first day they'd worked together, wrestling in the sandpit, straining muscle to muscle, sweat-slicked skin to sweat-slicked skin. But the need was deep-rooted, like a lifetime without fulfillment.

She stared into Kreousa's clear eyes. The scent of grass and water filled the air about them. Soft wind swayed the trees, dancing in the leaves, throwing spots of moving shade and shadow. "Have you ever visited a woman's nether regions?"

Kreousa's throat worked. She shook her head.

Threso half smiled. She let her gaze wander over Kreousa's breasts to stop on the hard nipples. "But you have played with yourself. Sliding your fingers across the bud there, yes?"

A pink tongue swept over Kreousa's bottom lip. Yes, she was ready and willing.

Threso blew out a soft breath. "I want you to explore my hidden bud of pleasure."

Trembling so slightly the movement showed only in her braids, Kreousa hesitated. Then she nodded.

"But . . . ." Threso sat amidst the softer grasses. She spread her legs wide so the young warrior had a full view of what lay between them. "You are student. Remember that."

Moments drifted by as she allowed Kreousa to look at what awaited her.

Once Kreousa lifted her gaze to meet hers, Threso continued, her own breathing slow and shallow with expectancy.

"You may touch me with your fingers only to spread my nether lips. Your tongue and lips are all that is allowed to caress what lies between."

Without hesitation, Kreousa nodded.

"Then, shall we begin?"

The moment had arrived. She would for the first time experience the touch of a woman she desired, rather than one she must educate for the benefit of another.

Reclining with her hands resting loose in the grass at her side, she kept her knees bent and legs spread. She didn't watch as Kreousa drew near. The suspense of waiting added to her spiraling need. Anticipation beat against her chest as she awaited the first touch.

It came gently, sweetly. She grasped handfuls of grass and bit down on her bottom lip. Pleasure throbbed deep in her core as Kreousa spread her nether lips.

Her first tongue-swipe arched Threso's back. Oh, the wonder! Desire flooded her pussy.
Kreousa's tongue was a magical tool sent down by the Goddess Cybele. The young Amazon swept a second lingering touch over the tiny button between Threso's legs. Erotic heat pulsed deep in her pelvis.

"Ah, so good. Again, faster, followed by a slow lick," she managed to pant instructions.

A soft pinch to her left nipple along with the slight suction on her pussy brought Threso's hips back to the ground.

"Uhh, yes. Just so." She tried to control her speech, but with the intoxicating ecstasy throbbing near completion, she had difficulty keeping her breathing even. She concentrated on the water falling over the jagged stone wall to drop into the grotto below, holding the climax at bay. I am a warrior. I can control—Aah!

Misty, shining droplets turned to diamonds raining over their bodies, and sparkled in dazzling undulations. As if water could catch fire. Could become tiny sparks of sunlight. Desperate joy burned through her. By the goddess!

Threso relaxed slowly, the tension draining from her body. She sighed, stretching in the cool grass along the edges of the rocky outcrop overlooking the small pool. Kreousa crawled and rested her head on Threso's belly.

The swollen languor of her release stayed with her, and she drew comfort knowing Kreousa felt at ease to lie upon her.

At this moment, the young warrior belonged to her. With a lazy move, Threso threaded her fingers through the loose red strands of Kreousa's hair. The goddess not only blessed the young woman with a fluent tongue but with shining beauty, as well.

Releasing a chuckle, Threso brushed a kiss on Kreousa's brow. "You've drained me, kitten."

She glanced at the lowering sun. "It is time for us to return. The ceremony will begin shortly, and our queen would look with disfavor if we are late."

"But she would understand, wouldn't she?"

The queen would understand all too much, and might separate them.

She patted Kreousa's head, scratched behind one ear. "Rise, Kitten. We must return."

Kreousa smiled shyly as she leaned closer.

"Tonight, my sweet, your turn will come."

A low giggle escaped the young woman. She nodded and came to her feet.

Laughing, Threso slung her bow and quiver over her shoulders, and stood. Side by side, they started toward home, the city of Mytilene.

"Run with me," Threso called, and broke into an easy lope along the trail.

Naked but for the sword-belt, and the bow and quiver across her back, Threso thrilled with the rush of air across her skin, the sheer joy of the run, and knowing the footsteps behind her were Kreousa's. Life was good; peace was good; yet she was still young enough to fight and die for queen and goddess.

The path narrowed and steepened. She half slid down one section, then jumped the last few feet. She landed on her feet and stopped. Apriate, the Queen's General, was running up the flat strip of the path toward them.

The older woman hailed them.

Threso saluted, though she made no effort to hide her grin. "Hail, Apriate. What brings you so far out?"

"Looking for you. The celebrations are about to begin and your mother was worried." Apriate nodded at Kreousa before facing Threso. "She promised me some almond loaves if I came to hurry you along."

"She has a way of tempting people." Threso very well believed her mother had manipulated the older warrior. Of course, almond bread would be merely the excuse, but a well-trained warrior knew when to exercise discretion. "Let us go then. I would hate to delay you from receiving your payment."

Apriate laughed and motioned for them to lead the way.

Threso sprinted ahead, enjoying the fresh wind against her face. The trees and vines along the path blocked the view to the city. The way opened up wider as they drew nearer to the city's high gates.

No guards stood on the threshold.

She halted and reached for her blade, drawing it out. Holding the blade up, she motioned for Kreousa and Apriate to stop.

She glanced at the other two warriors. Both held their weapons in hand, ready for whatever they might find.

Threso led the way. She ran, bent over, until she reached the wall surrounding the city. A few strides from the gate, she slowed. She brushed against the rough stone, her eyes and ears and even her nose alert for any cues, until she reached the opening. Easing forward, she took in the interior of the marketplace beyond. Nothing stirred. The unnatural silence weighed upon her.
Slipping the gap, she worked her way through the empty streets.

Surely the harvest ceremony had not already started. If so, her caution was making them even tardier, but she'd rather be careful than walk into an ambush.

Cybele, Blessed Goddess, be with our warriors.

She repeated the plea over and over as she covered distance to the spot where she was sure the queen would have gathered everyone. In times of crisis, all residents knew to go to the Petra stone, which rested deep within the confines of their great temple of Panagia.

After a final turn, the massive stones of the temple came into view. There, before the columns, stood the residents of Mylitene. They were frozen in stone, their faces lifted to the heaven above.
Threso stopped, and motioned the others to hold position behind her. Had everyone become an unliving stone? Everyone in sight. Rage surged through her. By the Great Goddess! Who and what had done this? She spoke softly. "Do not look up. The people have become stone, frozen by something in the sky. Whatever did this might still be there. We must look no higher than the temple."

"You remain here, young one," Apriate told Kreousa.

"I am a warrior also! I will fight."

"You are yet a virgin to battle. Errors will be made. We will not risk your life." Only the care with which Apriate enunciated gave sign of her irritation.

Threso gestured for silence. "Let her be. She will fight with us. If the goddess so decides, then she will die with us."

With such magic in play, they seemed destined to fight against the heavens themselves, which did not bode well for them.