Dreams Do Come True

Yesterday was one of those days that’ll stick with me for a long, long time. You know the type — where something amazing happens and you hope to yourself that you’ll remember it always? Yeah, that was yesterday; I became a published author!

I sat down at my MacBook nearly eighteen months ago and thought to myself, “I’m gonna just do it. I’m gonna write a book.” And I did. Less than four weeks later, I had written a 120,000 word novel — I’d written Grif’s Toy.

Little did I know then that it’d be another seventeen months before it was published. I never could have imagined the ups and downs that were ahead of me; the amazing beta readers, the lengthy editing process, the learning of the ‘business side’ of being a writer…the font choices, the cover photo choices, the finding a cover artist, the Amazon process, the Smashwords process, the…well, you get the idea, there’s a shit-fuck-load of stuff that I didn’t even know that I didn’t know.

But, all of it — every damn bit of it — was forgotten yesterday when I saw my first book up for pre-order! It was AMAZING! I sat with my iPad in my lap, staring at the Amazon page, and yeah, I got a little misty-eyed. MY fucking book is there for anyone who wants to read it. MY book! Yeah, it still seems totally unreal!

So how did I celebrate yesterday’s event? Well, the book’s first chapter is set in this amazing restaurant here in San Diego called Bertrand at Mister A’s. It’s the main characters’ favorite dining spot, and it boasts stunning views of downtown and the bay. And, just by happenstance, I had made plans to meet a good friend there for happy hour long before I knew yesterday would be the day Grif’s Toy went public. I’d only been to the place once before — it’s pricy menu is well above this writer’s means — but spending last evening there was…just…apropos; perfect in every way!

This evening, twenty-four hours later, I’m still exhilarated, still dazed, still unable to comprehend a dream has actually come true. But, fuck if I did it on my own. There are so many people who’ve supported me. Hell, not just supported, but gone out of their way — spent time and put in a lot of hard work — in helping me succeed. All just because…well, to be honest, I don’t know why. I’m constantly amazed — fucking dumbfounded — by the caliber of friends I’ve managed to fall in with:

Preston Hultz
Ann Wright
JustJen Reviews
Beth Bellanca
Bey Deckard
Rhys Ford
Louis Stevens
Amanda Eisenthal
Twitter #posse

..and, God, literally countless others.

Yeah, tonight, a full day later, I’m still stupefied — but oh so happy and grateful!

Til later…



Fun In Writing

A few weeks ago, several of us who belong to a writing/reading group took inspiration from the pictures below and had some fun coming up with a story surrounding them. A friend led off with what’s happening at the time the pictures where taken, another took us on a journey of their first day together, and I followed up next with a prologue.

The writing itself was very enjoyable as I’d never attempted composing anything nearly as dark as the previous writers’ stories necessitated. It was also refreshing to step away from my first two novels (still works in progress) and let myself write something completely different.

Just a few notes quick notes, 1) it’s unedited, 2) I face great challenges with tense (see item number one), 3) this is my first attempt at third person (both of my books are in first person), 4) kindness is always appreciated (unless we’re talking about the bedroom *grin*), and 5) I in NO WAY advocate violence – sexual or otherwise – outside the realm of FICTION!



Basanizo distractedly dropped the spent butt of his unfiltered Pall Mall to the ground and ground it out with a heavy work boot. It joined the half-dozen others already there and he knew it would go unnoticed in the littered ally.

He pulled at the hoodie’s dark drawstrings as he stood in the chilly, shadowed passage, hidden from view by the aromatic dumpster.

He didn’t notice either the cool night air, or the stench wafting from the heaping garbage can; his focus was on one thing – Billy.

Tonight was the night. The night he’d dreamt about for more than two years. The night he’d planned for since…since Mario. Absently, he fingered the scar hidden beneath his well-groomed beard and was confident he wouldn’t make the same mistakes with Billy as he had with fucking Mario.

It hadn’t been Mario’s fault, really. The blame lay in his own stupidity and he knew it. Then again, he knew a lot of things he hadn’t two and a half years ago. Yeah, the fucking mess that had been Mario taught him a lot.

He now knew not to keep weapons – or anything sharp – within reach of the cage…the damn scar still hurt like hell in the mornings. He knew the chain and collar, secured in the middle of the cage’s floor with an I-bolt, would ensure his new toy couldn’t get anywhere near the bars of the entrance door. And, lastly, the one thing he didn’t need a lesson on was what not to do if Billy ever did manage an escape.

Yeah, he’d overreacted with Mario – probably due to the searing pain of a knife slicing open his skin. But, what was it his worthless father used to say? Something about fucking hindsight. No, he couldn’t bring Mario back to the Land of the Living, but he could make sure he did things right this time around – with Billy.

Movement in the Dance Studio’s storefront bay window caught his eye. Billy! Well, Billy and his girlfriend. But, the street, which lay between him and his prize, provided enough distance that he easily blotted out her inconsequential shape.

Billy wore his usual workout clothing, and Baz didn’t need to actually see him to appreciate the sinewy muscle hidden behind the outfit. No, he knew everything about Billy; from the curve of his body, to his shoe size, to his love of heavy metal bands, to his addiction to Skittles, to his dream of becoming a famous contemporary dancer, to what his father looked like.

Not any of those things were important to Baz. In fact, they were completely meaningless to him, and they’d become meaningless to Billy after a few years, too. Well, except what his father looked like.

Senior looked just like his son – just as handsome as Billy – only 25 years older. Baz decided if money could buy something, it was looks – in the way of good nutrition, regular visits to the dentist, and designer clothing. And Senior’s looks were important because Baz wanted someone who would age well; Billy would be his last and final catch – Baz was planing long term.

His future captive went thought the motions of bundling up for the chilly night air and Baz knew his own painfully long wait was nearly over. The beginning was nearing – his beginning with Billy. His palms began to sweat.

Rubbing them down the front of his jeans, Baz fingers grazed over the tiny lump in his pocket. He dug his moist fingers in and pulled out the two pills. One was Billy’s – the benzodiazepine – and the other – an antipsychotic – was his.

Separating them, he stuffed the smaller of the two back in, and then dry swallowed the larger one.

He hated the fucking pills, but he realized long ago there wasn’t a choice. They didn’t make him normal – not normal like everyone else – but they sure the fuck kept him from eating his own gun like his shit-bag father had. 

God, how he despised the weak fuck his father had been. Not for the beating of his mother – which eventually led to her running off and him taking her place as the dick-wad’s punching bag – but because he was too stupid to lock her ass up and keep her.

He’d missed her at first. Missed listening to the exquisite sounds coming from their bedroom. Missed the anticipation of dick-wad’s nightly torture sessions. Missed hearing the solid whack of skin against skin. Missed the hardness, the pleasure, and the utter delight brought on by excited adolescence and the strangled pleas and cries coming from only feet away. It all changed the night she left for the grocery store and never came back…her hell ended and his began.

He worked his throat, his large Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, until the chalky pill finally slid past.

Though slightly watery eyes, he watched the pair emerge and stop just outside the door – like always. They leaned in and kissed tenderly – like always. Billy’s hand slid to her ass – like always. And, even though he couldn’t hear them, Baz knew they whispered their goodnights – for the last time.

He watched as she headed in one direction, toward her waiting Vespa parked on the sidewalk, and Billy in the another, toward the darkened side parking lot and his beloved vintage Chevy Camero.

Baz slipped from the alley, ducking into the shadows and protection the scant streetlights afforded, and his dick started to fill and lengthen. Only minutes separated him from his catch, from his prey, from the thing which was his.

He knew for certain Billy was meant to be his this morning at the coffee shop. The first confirmation came in the slight brush of their fingers as Baz handed over Billy’s Double Espresso Late.

As Billy waited for Baz to return his credit card, the casual, but unfailing, glance at Baz’s crotch was the last confirmation. He’d told himself that if the young man looked this morning – despite him looking every morning for months – it would be the final sign. The final confirmation. The final glance Billy would ever give his crotch without express permission…or he’d suffer the painful consequences.

Baz’s dick stiffened fully and he crossed the street.

He saw Billy make his way between their two cars. He’d had to move his fucking car three times in the last ninety minutes until he scored the spot right next to Billy’s.

Further confirmation.

The old key slid into the Camero’s lock as Baz strode up behind his toy.

“Hey Billy.”

The young man’s head turned at an awkward angle as he looked over his shoulder. Recognition briefly shown in his bright, trusting eyes before it was replaced by confusion. Baz could almost hear the question Billy was asking himself, “Why is he here – in this parking lot?”

Nonetheless, he stared a friendly, “Oh, hey—.”

Baz’s fist shot out and landed a harsh blow squarely on Billy’s temple. The young man staggered ever so slightly and then began to drop like a sack of potatoes.


Shooting an arm out, Baz grabbed Billy around the the chest, pulling him close, and used his free hand to open his own car’s back door. It couldn’t have been more perfect.


He quickly maneuvered them both into the back seat, Billy laying across him – pulled tight up against his own slightly heaving chest – and Baz used his heal to pull the door closed.

Just a few more tasks and he was home free.

Baz relaxed for a moment and, unable to resist, leaned forward, sinking his nose into the soft brown hair he’d longed to touch for so many months. Billy’s scent was heady; earthy with a definite tint of musk – he smelled like a man. His man.

He slid his hand between their bodies and dug into the pocket of his jeans. Carefully, Baz pulled the pill out and palmed it safely in his fist.

Billy’s beautiful face lay resting on his chest – almost as if he were asleep. As Baz lifted the man’s strong chin, he noticed blood slowly seeping from his prey’s eyebrow. He knew it was only the first drop of many more to come and smiled in happiness and gratitude.


Squeezing the back of the young man’s jaw until his full lips parted, he slipped the tablet under the waiting pink tongue.

Baz sighed with a mix of relief and anticipation as he gently laid the man’s bleeding head back down onto his chest. Patiently, he’d wait for the pill to dissolve.






Flying High
I sat on the plane last night, traveling home from the dreaded day-job, listening to my iPod as it pleasantly drowned out everything around me. It shuffled through one of my playlists and landed on Macklemore & Ryan Lewis’ 2012 Same Love

One of the ‘perks’ of living on the road (and climbing the ranks of  airline status programs) is frequent upgrades to first class on many flights. The real perk being free cocktails. I’d had several by the time Same Love began playing and a comforting, warm buzz was nicely burning away the stress of yet another week on the road.

Alcohol tends to mellow me. Meaning, unlike some folks who get loud, or rude, or even angry when drinking, I chill and tend to take on a “Isn’t everything wonderful and right with the world” outlook. It also makes me pretty damn horny. *wink*

Anyhow, the section of lyrics below (which I’ve listened to countless times) really stuck me—again. The last three lines invoked, as they often do, strong feelings of gratitude and hope. Gratitude for the straight men (and women) who are at the forefront of supporting us—we couldn’t do it without you. And, hope that the ideas about/perceptions of gay people continue to grow and shift in the positive direction they have over the last decade or so. I look forward to the day when the only concern gay teenagers face is which boy or girl they’re going to ask to the prom—and not wondering whether they’re good enough, or if it’s safe enough, to attend said prom.

“…The same fight that led people to walk-outs and sit-ins
It’s human rights for everybody, there is no difference
Live on! And be yourself!
…When everyone else is more comfortable remaining voiceless
Rather than fighting for humans that have had their rights stolen
I might not be the same but that’s not important
No freedom til we’re equal
Damn right I support it…”


Grif’s Toy (the book)
Firstly, as many of you know, I recently had feedback returned to me from beta readers. Beta reading is a pretty thankless task; folks meticulously read through your work, take the time to make notes (sometimes quite extensive), offer ideas, criticisms, praise (hopefully much more of the latter than the former *smile*) and receive precious little in return. Thus, with that in mind, I’d like to take this opportunity to sincerely thank the amazing folks who’ve been so incredibly gracious with their time—please know that I’m eternally grateful to each of you!

Secondly, with said feedback returned, I begin the task of rewrites; i.e. putting some of those amazing ideas and criticisms in place…which will only serve to improve the book and, thus, the reader’s experience.

Lastly, the task of locating a publisher for my novel, and its rather avant-garde subject matter, still looms ahead. But, I can’t really focus on that right now; rewrites are the current priority.

Til later…



The first post of my first blog =)

I guess I should start out with a friendly caveat. Although I’m perfectly capable of using correct grammar, correct punctuation, and correct sentence structure I probably won’t here. To be honest, I really don’t want to put that much thought/effort into it. Creating a work of art isn’t the blog’s purpose; it’s about having fun putting my thoughts to paper and not giving once tiny shit about Personal vs. Reciprocal pronouns. So, for example, I’ll be using dashes interchangeably with em dashes , smiley faces, and an extraordinary number of ellipses…and I’m gonna enjoy the hell outta doing it =)

The reason for the blog? That’ll be in the next post. Right now I wanna test actually publishing this one =)