Notes from the Pageant Circuit:Palm Springs 2013

BY KEN O’NEILL

Being a first time author, I wasn’t sure what to expect when I arrived at Bold Strokes Books 2013 LGBTQ book festival in Palm Springs. I thought perhaps it would be a pageant-like atmosphere, with one of us being crowned at the end. Because of the glorious desert climate I worried that the writers would be subjected to participation in a swimsuit competition. Wanting to have the best possible shot of winning, I texted my friend Shawn to schedule an appointment for some long overdue pre-trip manscaping. Immediately he texted back:

“Ken, have fun in Palm Springs. Sorry I’m in Mexico, Can’t help U get your smooth on. Better make peace with your inner Bear.”

I almost cancelled my flight.

Thankfully, I did not. Forced to forgo the Boyzilian, I boarded the plane in a far more natural state than was my want.  To my great relief there was no swimsuit completion. We didn’t even compete in evening gowns, which I wish someone had told me in advance because it would have saved me so much room in my carry on bag. There were however four days worth of talent competitions.

Well, no, not talent competitions. It was more like four days worth of talent celebrations.

My chief objective in attending the event (aside from winning Miss Congeniality) was to meet, and spend time, with my fellow writers. I’d been feeling like I needed a reminder that I love to write, and hearing author after author share their dazzling work I absolutely was reminded. I left each day inspired to work—committed to completing another novel.

But something even more wonderful happened. I wasn’t just reminded that I love to write. I was reminded that I love to read.

More specifically, I was reminded why I love to read. Reading takes me places I’ve never been.  It takes me into the lives of people different from myself. Even with every one of my body hairs intact, I will never really be one of Radclyffe’s wolves. But with a book in hand I can howl. Nor will I ever be a lesbian—or a woman of any orientation—but while reading I can pretend to be one.

On Thursday I attended a panel called Kiss and Tell: Scenes of Lesbian Desire. I was present for the session because I wanted to be supportive of my fellow Bold Strokes authors, not because I was particularly interested in the topic. But then something simultaneously wonderful and embarrassing happened. Ashley Bartlett began reading a sex scene from one of her “Dirty” series of novels. And my interest perked up—considerably. It’s been years since I was in High School, still I found myself reaching for my books and placing them in my lap for camouflage.

What was happening to me?

The answer was Obvi: I was being moved (or in this case turned on) by the power of a well-written story. And over the course of four days my colleagues stories moved me again and again—though only Ash’s words caused that particular type of movement.

Really this shouldn’t be news to someone who loves books, and yet it did come as a revelation to me. Sure, I like to read stories about gay men. But I also want to read books about the lives of lesbians and bisexual people and straight women and straight men. Bring me your transsexuals and your questioning. (Or is it queer? Does anyone really know what the Q stands for?) Honestly, I am totally game for a great asexual hero, too.

All I want—aside from Nell Stark’s tiara—is a great story and an interesting world and smart and pithy dialogue.

Oh, and apparently some hot, dirty lesbian sex.

Behind the Wheeler

Here’s a chance to meet Bold Strokes editor and author, Jerry Wheeler:

Are books of sex and horror (like mine) at the root of society’s ills?

BY DANIEL W. KELLY

In the 1940s and 1950s, two of my favorite subjects came under attack when comics like Tales from the Crypt were accused of creating evil children (the only kind I like), promoting lustful thoughts (a most welcome headache), and even leading to illiteracy (damn reading material!). In the decades that followed, violence and sex only escalated in popular entertainment. So today, with the death toll rising, finger pointing continues. Too many guns. Violent video games are to blame. The responsibility lies solely on the shoulders of Quentin Tarantino. What shocks me most about all this is that many people hoping to shift the focus off their guns are throwing their favorite video games like Grand Theft Auto and television shows like The Sopranos under the bus!

Then we have panic about the sexual threats of Jersey Shore, Glee, and Lady Gaga turning our youth into horny monsters, causing those who are perfectly straight to bend and go gay. So how do soccer moms explain the copy of 50 Shades of Grey on the nightstand to their children? Justify it as positive reinforcement to ensure the raising of horny heterosexual monsters, perhaps? Hey concerned moms. If you want to get off on the fear of actual horny homo monsters, check out my books. Very satisfying.

The bastardizing of media makes me wonder what effect erotic horror novels such as my book Combustion could have on society. Of course, Combustion is not being marketed to teenagers. If it were, it would probably sell a lot more copies. Let’s face it. Kids are into that stuff. I was. And look at the horrible effect it had on my young, impressionable mind; it made me…a writer.

What went wrong with me? Why aren’t I a menace to society? I spent my youth reading Stephen King and watching pretty young things get hacked, slashed, and disemboweled. All it managed to do was make me very careful to avoid masked men with machetes (masked men with paddles are a different story). Despite watching Steve Austin get shot in his bionic arm and merely blow a fuse and witnessing Michael Myers take six bullets at close range and walk away unscathed, I feared guns could kill. That worry was cemented in 1984 when my young gay crush, model/actor Jon-Erik Hexum, accidentally killed himself with a gun loaded with blanks.

I didn’t even comprehend the depths of my aversion to guns until a friend brought his BB gun to my house for a Halloween horror movie marathon—because, you know, it was a crucial part of his costume. I was assured that it wasn’t loaded. But during one of my obsessive rounds of cleaning up after everyone, I saw the gun sitting unattended on the armrest of my easy chair, pointing directly at one of my oblivious dogs, who believed he was curled up on his safe spot. I nearly pissed myself. Mom always said, don’t point guns in the house. I demanded the BB gun be removed from the vicinity. I don’t care if people own them, I just don’t want them near my beloved babies Sheffield and Miss Fine!

As for the sexual influences that messed up my young life, truth is, I had cable TV in my bedroom! The sex and nudity in teen comedies and slashers focused on women. Wasn’t feeling it. But I did figure out the exact amount of minutes into The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas when the hunky guys sing naked in the shower. So I would set my clock for that scene every time it played on HBO. And boy, was I feeling it. By the time I was 18, I was working at a video store and had free porn at my disposal, much like lucky little bastards do on the internet today. You don’t know what that filth did to my sexual development. I lost my virginity six yeas later and have been with the same dick ever since.

And of course, I now write books about vicious monsters and sex-hungry men. As I continue developing the stories following Combustion, I’ve noticed that guns are rarely if ever used by the characters. Even main man Deck Waxer, detective turned paranormal investigator, wishes he still had his gun when in danger, but knows it wouldn’t be of much use. If I learned one good lesson from all that horror at a young age, it’s that guns only kill people, not monsters. So some of my men are equipped with psychic powers to take on the evil. Others have dicks so big they don’t need guns to prove prowess. And the men with small dicks and no psychic powers? They just go play with the guys with the big dicks and hide behind the guys with psychic powers. Yeah, that’s what they’re doing back there.

Maybe there’s a fine line between being exposed and being predisposed that determines if we turn out human or inhumane. I’m naturally attracted to men and dislike acts of violence, and learned to get an adrenaline rush from both through fantasy and imagination. I’ve always read horror. I watch hardcore porn. I play violent video games, as long as the only things I’m shooting are zombies and demons that ooze green blood. And I write sex and horror. However, like most people who enjoy the same crazy books, movies, and video games I do, I fear the consequences of extreme fictional situations in reality. Do we as a society really believe that those responsible for the too-frequent tragedies we’re facing didn’t have it in them before playing, say, a game of Silent Hill? If media influence is at fault, why do we read Catcher in the Rye in high school? The guy who shot John Lennon was obsessed with it!

Whatever the solution for minimizing life-stealing violence and risky sexual behavior, I hope we begin to realize that each of us just wants the same protections as everyone else, both physical and emotional. We shouldn’t waste so much energy on attacking civil liberties, emphasis on the civil. A few months ago, many of the very people who are now outraged and ready to revolt because they feel their 2^nd Amendment right is being threatened were fighting to rewrite constitutions to define marriage and defending initiatives to block the ability for lifelong American citizens to vote. Call them on it, and they will give you a list of justifications for their beliefs and argue that the issues are not the same. And they’re actually correct. Marriage and voting never killed anyone. But what is the same is that no matter who you are, it’s a terrifying feeling to think that your freedom is going to be taken away from you. I get it. Believe me, I get it. And I can top it. I’ve known what it feels like to not even have the same rights and protections as most. So if you ever try to confiscate my horror novels and porn DVDs, I’ll whip out my semi-automatic neighbor with a registered gun and he’ll shoot your ass.

Magic Between the Covers

By Jerry L. Wheeler

I’ve been asked more than once where I get ideas for my anthologies, and I have to say that inspiration comes from a number of places. My latest release for Bold Strokes Books, Tricks of the Trade: Magical Gay Erotica, however, is the first that was inspired by a story idea—that I ended up not writing.

My best writing buddies William Holden and Dale Chase and I were at Saints and Sinners in New Orleans in 2011, sitting on Bill’s balcony at Lafitte’s Guest House laughing uproariously at something, when a thought suddenly struck me.

“What about,” I said, apropos of nothing, “a guy who’s into BDSM falls in love with an escape artist who can get out of anything Daddybear puts him in?”

“What about it?” Bill answered. True smart-asses are born, not made.

“Ooooooh,” said Dale. “That could be fun.”

And, indeed, I thought so too. But after a couple attempts, I decided I couldn’t write it. I hadn’t the passion for, or a detailed knowledge of, BDSM. But the idea wouldn’t leave me alone, inspiring a whole anthology about escape artists and magicians and tricksters that I called Tricks of the Trade. But I needed someone to write the damn anchor story.

Enter Jeff Mann.

Jeff and I have been friends ever since I fell in love with his History of Barbed Wire, which introduced me to the BDSM kink. Sexually, it does nothing for me but his passion for it was evident in that (and most all) of his prose. So, I approached him with the premise of the story. To my delight, he loved the idea and a few months later, he had written my anchor story, “Inescapable.” I sold the book to Bold Strokes and put out a call for the rest of the stories.

Whenever I put out a call, I’m always amazed by the kind of work that comes back in response. I have a closed call list that consists mostly of authors I’ve either worked with in the past or those whose work I’ve enjoyed. And I’m always adding new names, but even my old reliables confessed that they had trouble coming up with something they thought worthwhile.

While magic seems like an easy subject to write about at first, making it credible is more difficult than it looks. But the thirteen authors in Tricks of the Trade made it look as easy as pulling a rabbit out of your hat. In addition to Bill Holden and Dale Chase, who supplied me with marvelous tales (Bill’s “The Magic Lantern,” about revenge on a turn-of-the-century homophobe and “Manly Magic,” one of Dale’s wonderful Western stories), ‘Nathan Burgoine turned in his usual bravura performance with a cruise ship time travel illusion called “Transposition,” Lewis DeSimone gave me a creepy tale called “And Now, For My Next Trick,” Rob Rosen got right to the point with “In Through the Out Door,” and Todd Gregory served up a wonderful meal for the feast day of Hecate called “Let’s Just Kiss and Say Good-Bye.”

Jay Neal took time out from putting his own collection of short stories together to weave a terrific tale about Victorian lapdances called “The Mesmerist’s Assistant,” Joseph Baneth Allen suppied an Atlantean illusion with “Old-Fashioned Expectations,” and Ralph Seligman churned out a hot story about a magician on vacation called “Magic Takes a Holiday.”

I’d never worked with Xavier Axelson, Mel Bossa, or Logan Zachary before, but I approached them because I’d enjoyed other things of their I’d read. Xavier gave me a beautifully lyrical story with a djinn called “Sons of Orion,” Mel (who should have won last year’s gay romance Lammy for Split) did a great story called “The Assistant” about a street kid who does magic to earn his living, and Logan came up with the creative concept of a magic duel during a job interview with “The Magician’s Assistant.”

The amount of talent in this book is staggering, and it was my pleasure to put it all together. Just as I hope it will be your pleasure to read it. So dim the lights—well, all of them except the one you read by—cue the music and let the show begin.

There’s magic between these covers.

Please don’t take my filthy erotic horror personally

BY DANIEL W. KELLY

In a recent interviewwith Bold Strokes Books, I was asked how much of myself can be found in my characters. I admitted that I might infuse a character with a specific asset or flaw of mine, but no character is a facsimile of me. For instance, my leading man Deck Waxer has some of the same 40-something complaints as me (knees pop when he stands up, back aches when he gets out of bed), but he’s not me. If we met, we’d get along really well because we have some things in common. But not everything.

So it was very disconcerting to me when a friend of mine (straight, but not narrow) began reading my new novel Combustion and before even getting past the prologue, posed this question to me in an IM: You think cum rags are hot?

I actually had no idea why I was being accused of such a thing. I didn’t even remember talking about cum rags and had to go refresh my memory. Indeed, there is an instant when a servant picks up cum rags while collecting the laundry in his masters’ bedroom where they worked him over the night before. My friend was completely fixated on the fact that I referenced them and concluded I had done so for erotic purposes.

In hopes of ending this five-minute conversation about me mentioning cum rags in my book for one second, I began making up reasons why I did so, and they’re not half bad. I proposed that while I don’t particularly think cum rags are hot, they stimulate the libidos of other gay men. I explained that cum rags drive home the intensity of the sex through the reality of the nasty aftermath. I pointed out that the cum rags further define the master/servant roles in and out of the sexual arena; the servant already satisfied the lustful needs of his masters, and now he has to suffer (aka: relish) the humiliation of cleaning up after them. I was sure I’d gotten through to my friend.

A little while later I get this IM: Are colonics supposed to be erotic? Here we go again. Rather than defend the sexual significance within my story, I simply replied that it’s a fetish for some, which actually is the point of its presence in Combustion; Deck Waxer meets a bevy of unique characters who eroticize various acts. I’ve never done most of the things described in the book. I swear it! It’s fiction. It’s fantasy. I wondered how my friend was going to get past the foot fucking or the dairy session with Milkman Stan. I even thought of prescribing The Pervert-Impaired Guide to Reading Combustion, a manual I’ve written for those who just want to experience the horror and not the sex.

It seems that my friend was transferring every thought and action in the book on to me, assuming that because I wrote it, it’s what I do, feel, and think. This is the very reason I tell my family to avoid reading my books at all costs. I might have to give my friends the same advice if this becomes an issue. I don’t write fiction to invite readers into my head—I write it to invite them into my imagination.

Should we equate the art with the artist, thereby hampering our appreciation of the art or our opinion of the artist? I don’t assume Stephen King enjoys pouring pigs’ blood over the heads of awkward schoolgirls. If I like an Eminem song that doesn’t have any gay slurs in it, I buy a used copy of his CD so that he doesn’t get a penny from me! Just because Mapplethorpe shoved a bullwhip up his ass for a photo…. Okay, bad example. But you get the point.

Granted, there are extreme cases in which it’s hard to separate the two. Seeing Joan Crawford being tortured by Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, I fleetingly think “Now you know how your daughter feels when she sees a wire hanger in the closet!” Watching the Jeepers Creepers ghoul hungering for the flesh of pretty young boys, my mind strays to the fact that director Victor Salva was found guilty of molesting the young actor from his horror film Clownhouse. Great flick, but try compartmentalizing art and the artist watching that film with this piece of knowledge….

I’ve also been just as guilty of reading an author friend’s book and assuming he was into the extreme sex acts that he was describing. In my defense, he wrote in first person, and I often find it hard not to read a first person novel like it’s a diary. This is the reason I usually stick to writing third person. I prefer to observe my characters, not become them, which is what it feels like I’m doing when I say “I” and “me” over and over and over again, as in this blog post, which is all me. My characters are not.

I think I’ve been possessed by my own inner demons…

BY DANIEL W. KELLY

I’ve created a monster, and it might be in me. And I’m scared. It feels like the right time to exorcise my Dan demons, for several reasons: I’m already counting the days until the fear-stivities at my house on Halloween; my new erotic horror novel Combustion is coming out this November (missing the ideal October 31^st due date by just a few weeks. Dammit it to hell!); and the way my fingers have been dancing across the keyboard to spell out stories is like the involuntary movement of a planchette across a Ouija board.

I don’t think of myself as an author. I don’t even think what I’m doing is writing. I consider it relating a story; I’m a storyteller. I’m not saying I’m a liar, but I do make shit up. I’m cursed with an overactive imagination. Like, in second grade, I drew a detailed picture of a ghost in chains rising from a grave then told my classmates this was a nightly occurrence in the cemetery next to my house. Granted, my house wasn’t next to a cemetery, but it was haunted. It’s just that, back then, Mom told us not to talk about it to anyone. So I fudged the truth. But now Mom’s gone, so I’ve recounted the happenings in detail on my website. It’s not like Mom can reprimand me from the beyond. Or can she…?

Since I was a kid, I’ve had stories scratching and clawing at the inside of my skull to get out. Yet, when someone says to me, “Oh, you’re an author,” I can’t bring myself to respond in the affirmative. I always reply with, “I have a couple of books published.” I just can’t see myself teaching workshops on the creative process, giving lectures on being an author, penning essays on the art of writing, running in literary circles, or winning any prestigious award. I think I’m too beneath it all.

My intention is not to trash myself. I’m just saying, I have simple tastes. I like what I like—correction. I love what I like—regardless of its worldwide recognition or disdain. I appreciate that erotic photography celebrates the beauty of sexuality, but I’d rather see perverted porn loaded with funky fluids and sloppy sounds. I get the brilliance of Edgar Allen Poe, but I’m more freaked out by a fatalistic urban legend whispered around a campfire. I think The Exorcist is a timeless masterpiece of tension, terror, directing, special effects, and thespianism, but I’d rather watch Night of the Demons over and over again for its 80s cheese, excessive cheap jump scares, low-budget demon gore, awful acting, and the unforgettable moment when b-queen Linnea Quigley sticks a tube of lipstick into her luscious silicone…I mean…prosthetic breast.

My tastes are reflected in the types of stories I get off on telling. Friends advise me to stop with the gay horror porn and write a mainstream novel. I don’t even read that stuff. Why would I want to write it? “But, you have such a limited audience,” they argue. An audience that likes the same kind of whacked, raunchy, gruesome, campy crap I do! What more could I ask for? I’m thrilled when I hear from a reader who appreciates one of my stories, particularly because I didn’t write it to win his acceptance. I wrote it because it was the story I wanted to tell and the story I would want to read. I’m not aiming to be brilliant, poetic, or a master of prose. If, occasionally, I am, it’s totally accidental and I apologize (to myself).

I have no fear of aiming low. Poking around the internet, one thing becomes apparent quickly; no matter what the general public thinks, there is an audience for EVERYTHING. Those who contact me aren’t just readers of my books…they’re me. We live in the same twilight zone. We are obsessed with the same schlock. First thing I learned in Creative Writing 101 was “write what you know.” I write what I know (sex and horror), and certain readers know what I write.

But do I really write it?

I truly can’t explain where the stories come from. The ideas take on a life of their own as soon as they are conceived. For instance, Combustion has turned into something I never expected when I began typing it. Take the city of Kremfort Cove. I made it up for one of my previous stories, yet before I could start location hunting, there was no question in my mind that it needed to be the setting for Combustion. It also became so obvious that for many of the characters from my other stories, their final destination would be Kremfort Cove. As Combustion began to unfold, I realized that Kremfort Cove is where most of the stories still clogging my brain are meant to take place. Now, the bookhas become merely the beginning of a longer series. In the year that it has been moving toward its release date, the next four novels are already finished in their first drafts.

And this is where the possession rears its ugly head…in my head. Like George Lutz in The Amityville Horror, I wake up with a start every fricking night at around 3:15 AM and just lay there for about an hour, my mind filling with specific plot points, scenes, and word for word dialogue for “upcoming” novels. I learn how each novel will begin, how each is going to end. I am informed of what happens in the middle; I might not know the exact path, but I don’t worry. I sit at the keyboard every day, my fingers begin tapping away, and the stories unfold as if I’m watching a movie. I don’t have to stop and think about what’s supposed to happen next. It’s almost like it is being told to me and I’m just repeating it on paper. It’s supernatural, I tell you! I’m nothing more than a portal (which my partner has been saying for years).

This method (of my madness) is haunting me. During the waking hours, thoughts pop into my brain out of nowhere, distracting me from what I’m doing (such as listening to my partner tell me about his day). These probing thoughts explain how certain scenarios are going to play out, why point A is going to lead to point C, and the reason I introduced a seemingly irrelevant character in a book. I’ll find myself in need of a particular type of character for the novel I’m currently transcribing and immediately realize something along the lines of, “Oh, he already exists. A main character two books back had a minor exchange with him!”

This is why I’m convinced I couldn’t possibly be an author. When I talk to writer friends, they tell me they have this idea for a book but can’t find the motivation to sit down and start it, don’t know how it begins, and aren’t sure how it ends. Huh? I would think that if you’re compelled to write something, starting would not be a stumbling block! Inevitably, these friends enthusiastically say, “We should write it together!” Yeah. Tried that once, ended up writing the whole thing myself then got “this is cool but it’s not what I imagined.” So, friend, what exactly did you imagine, and why didn’t you write it? Needless to say, my standard answer to such suggestions ever since is that, unfortunately, I’m not a writer, merely a guy who tells naughty, gnarly stories.

And I will continue channeling these sexy spooky stories until the overarching plot connecting them all is ready to be laid to rest. I’ve already been clued in to how the series is going to end. Right now, I don’t know how many tales need to be and are going to be told before that end comes. I don’t actually have the time to stop and think about it because the Dan demons are running the show (they’re kind of pissed I stopped as long as I did to write this). I don’t question them. I don’t doubt them. They’ll tell me what’s ahead when the time is right. I just continue to follow my spirit guides on this journey toward the unknown.

Are coming of age stories and coming out stories still relevant today?

by Martin Delacroix

I’m Martin Delacroix. I write erotic, male/male fiction for adults of all ages. My short fiction appears in over twenty erotic anthologies. I’ve had three single-author anthologies published: Boys Who Love Men, Flawed Boys, and Becoming Men. I’ve had five novels published: Love Quest, Maui, Trick and Treat, Adrian’s Scar, and Convict Ass.

Many stories I’ve written deal with coming out issues for young gay men. Young gay men seem to like reading about the whole experience of revealing one’s sexual orientation to family and friends. Older gay readers seem to enjoy reliving their personal coming out experiences, through the lives of my characters.

I have a website: http://www.martindelacroix.com/ Through it, I frequently hear from young gay men who have come out, or are considering it. Many of these young men are athletes: surfers, wrestlers, skateboarders, triathletes, hockey enthusiasts, volleyball players, and BMXers. In fact, you might say my website is an unofficial sounding board for young, gay athletes. And based upon what I hear from these young men, coming out is not much easier than it was twenty years ago.

In these days of Ellen DeGeneres and the “It Gets Better” campaign, I think we sometimes want to believe being queer has become cool and acceptable in youth culture. But it’s not the case. The young men I hear from often feel lonely and scared, particularly those who live in rural areas of our country. They long for a loving relationship with another male, but are frightened of the consequences, should they come out.

I think it’s important to write coming out stories. I believe they offer hope and encouragement to young gay men. I’m happy my stories have pleased so many. I’ve received dozens of e-mails and comments via my website, thanking me for such stories, and I intend to keep writing them.

Here’s what one young man from Canada, said about his experience in coming out t his parents:

“For anyone who still has yet to come out, you don’t need me to tell you it gets better after. But the closet does things to you that people aren’t meant to go through. The constant introspection and over analyzing and the fear, it stops. It goes away and it doesn’t come back.  Remember that telling people isn’t so much a clarification for them but a fight for you and your life. No matter how much it feels like your environment is dictating to you, remember you can give it the finger and change it however you like.”

I find his statement inspiring.

Don’t you?

I Know It When I See It

by Greg Herren

I was on a mystery writer’s panel once at a literary festival, and the panel was asked, how do you create a character? Where do you start?

            The other panelists—all accomplished, successful, award-winning mystery authors—gave really good answers; things I’d heard before, advice I’d been given before, and I nodded as each of my fellow panelists explained their process of character creation.

And then it was my turn.

I looked out into the audience—it was an older audience, all dressed very well, and they were extremely conservative looking, if you know what I mean—and cleared my throat. “I decide what kind of sex life they have—you know, what they do in the bedroom and how they feel about sex, because that directly influences every other aspect of who they are as people. If someone is incredibly sexually repressed, that shows up not only in their interactions with other people but also in how they dress, how they view the world, and it shapes who they are more so than any other part of their personality.”

I was shocked to see people in the audience nodding, and the moderator, a mystery writer whose work I respect, said, “You’re absolutely right, but I would have never in a million years thought of that.”

Sometimes, being a pornographer comes in handy.

My first fiction publication was, actually, an erotic short story—and so was my second.

I had never once, in all of my dreams of becoming a published author, ever considered writing erotica—and in all honesty, writing that first story was incredibly difficult for me. I kept getting embarrassed as I wrote, and would have to stop. It was a constant struggle for me until I finished the damned thing. I don’t know how many times I told myself I just can’t do this and almost stopped. Yet I persevered—the story was for an erotica anthology called Men for All Seasons, and when I finally managed to finish writing it, I also submitted it to Men magazine. The anthology editor bought it—and the very next day the editor of Men emailed me and offered to buy the story. Flush with excitement at another possible sale, I responded, I’ve already sold the story elsewhere; but I have another I can rewrite and send you on Monday, if that’s okay? (It was a Friday afternoon.) He responded with an affirmative, and I spent the weekend writing my second erotica story.

Late Monday afternoon he bought the story.

And that’s how I became a pornographer.

Sometimes I write pornography and sometimes I write erotica; unlike Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart, who famously said about obscenity and pornography, “I can’t define it but I know it when I see it,” I actually can define pornography—and there is a significant difference between pornography and erotica, at least in the world of fiction.

To me, pornography is writing about sex itself; the characters really don’t matter, the setting doesn’t matter, and there really is no story. Two men (or two women) meet, are attracted to each other, have some blistering hot sex, and then go their merry ways. We don’t know anything more about them than we did when we first met them.

Erotica, on the other hand, is about the characters; and needs to actually tell a story. Erotic fiction, to me, has to meet the standards of fiction—there has to be a change of some sort in the main character by the end of the story; the sex itself needs to be revelatory to the character in some way. (When I teach workshops, I say “If you can change the sex scene in your story to nothing more than and then they fucked, and the story still works, then it’s erotica.”)

An example of this differential is my story “The Porn King and I,” originally published in 2002. In this story, my main character (who is nameless) goes into the Tower Video store on Decatur Street in the French Quarter and sees a poster of a lazingly hot gay porn star. He rents the video and takes it home to watch. As he is watching, there are three sex scenes unfolding: the one in the video itself, the one in his head where he is imagining himself having sex with the porn star, and his own actual masturbation. The only thing we learn about him is that he has a thing for the porn star and lives in the Quarter. He doesn’t change from beginning to end, and if you remove the sex scenes from the story, there is no story.

Conversely, my story “The Sound of a Soul Crying” is erotica because I can change the sex scene to and then they fucked and the story still works. The story is about an empath, who is awakened in the middle of the night by another man’s emotional pain. And as the story unfolds, we learn that the empath himself is lonely; his gift has rendered him unable to connect with another man. Yet he continues to feel, and sense, the other man’s pain—until they actually do have sex with each other, but in their minds. They aren’t together. The sex heals the other man, and they encounter each other in person in a French Quarter club. They’re drawn to each other, having seen the other in what they thought were dreams, and so they begin the process of getting to know each other. That story was erotica; the sex was important but incidental to the story itself.

There are exceptions, of course—I’ve read some erotica that was nothing but lush, smoking hot sex from the very first word to the last. And of course there are similarities between the two forms; the line between porn and erotica is frequently blurred, and really, that line is subjective—everyone defines it their own way.

I guess I know it when I write it.

Read! Read! Read!

By Jerry L. Wheeler

I’m writing this the day after the death of one of the pillars of my writing foundation, the incredible Ray Bradbury—influential to me not only for his wonderful stories, but also for his personal encouragement.

I had first read Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man, which contained “The Veldt,” “The Exiles,” and “Marionettes, Inc.” among other brilliant science fiction. From there, it was a short hop to his other short story collections, notably The October Country and Silver Apples of the Moon, and then on to Something Wicked This Way Comes and, of course The Martian Chronicles and Dandelion Wine until I had devoured them all.

Somewhere along the way, I wrote him a fan letter in which I confessed my ambition to become a writer, something I hadn’t even told my parents. Weeks passed—long enough that I even forgot I wrote him—but I got a reply. Handwritten, no less, on his personal stationery. I remember the paper was thick, with a blue line drawing of Bradbury surrounded by books in the upper right hand corner.

His chicken scratch handwriting was difficult to decipher, but he thanked me for writing and offered encouragement and advice on being on a writer. “Read! Read! Read!” he exhorted. “The lessons you learn from the pages of others will show up in your own.” I lived those words for years even though I can’t recall anything else he said in that letter.

I framed it, and it hung in every room I lived in for years. Unfortunately, it was destroyed in a fire that swept through an apartment building I lived in—along with my extensive collection of Mad Magazines, Batman comics and the entire Beatles catalog on Capitol Records (yes, I’m old). That letter was the only item I genuinely shed tears over losing.

I took Bradbury’s advice, and many many years later, I have a writing career of my own thanks to that generous, talented man. He and the worlds he opened up to me will always occupy a special place in my heart. Along with Edgar Allan Poe, his stories gave me a love of short fiction I carry with me to this day—one that, I hope, is reflected in the anthologies I edit.

Nothing pleases me more than looking back on a collection I’ve edited and considering the variety of stories there. Take, for example, my most recent—The Dirty Diner: Gay Erotica on the Menu—released by (who else?) Bold Strokes Books. The sheer breadth of approaches these authors have taken on an admittedly unique theme is astonishing—everything from bittersweet love stories to bizarre, surrealistic takes on lust and longing. I love these authors, and nothing here will disappoint.

I find it fitting that during the recent outpouring of sympathy and expressions of loss on Facebook regarding Bradbury’s death, many of the authors in this collection commented and paid tribute to him. It appears I’m not the only one affected by his art or his passing. We are all the better for his genius and vision and all the worse for his departure. But he has finally crossed the divide and now knows the truth of what lies beyond, finding the place he has imagined all these years.

Rest in peace, Mr. Bradbury. We miss you already.

Scared stiff: give it the old fist pump if horror makes you hot….

by Daniel W. Kelly

If you’re like me, you know there’s nothing like a good bump in the night to get the heart racing and the nerves tingling. The thrill of it causes your pulse to pound, starts the adrenalin flowing, leaves you saturated in sweat, and has you looking over your shoulder to get a good glimpse of the seductive devil who’s back there, about to slip inside your soul….

Isn’t it amazing how one paragraph could be describing either an incredible sexual encounter or a horrifying experience with the supernatural? While the psychological ramifications of exposure to one or the other are totally different, the physical responses are virtually the same. So is it any surprise that the horror genre has always crossed the line between titillating and terrorizing?

For starters, the monster is most likely to desire the innocent and virginal—while preying on the promiscuous and sexually active. Also, horror imagery often takes the sensual and perverts it with disgusting twists: demons with slimy, puss-squirting tongues they insert between supple human lips in order to possess the unwilling; creatures with grotesque, phallic appendages they use to savagely penetrate and poison beautiful human bodies; alien species with gaping, oozing, teeth-lined orifices resembling pulsating vaginas and anuses, which need to fill their void by sucking on flawless human flesh.

And possibly the most important reason sex is almost obligatory in horror? We are most vulnerable when we’re naked: in the shower as the knife-wielding masked killer stands just on the other side of the curtain; skinny-dipping in the middle of the night, unaware of the man-eater swimming just beneath the dark surface; making love in the backseat of a car at Lover’s Lane as the hook hand latches on to the door handle. Well, all that, and because of, you know, the obvious: sex and the satanic are often linked and are both considered taboo. So how better to draw in an audience than by serving up a whole lot of bare boobs to the beast?

Ironically, when I was an impressionable teen in the 1980s, there was a disconnect as I was bombarded by visions of curvaceous, scantily clad women being sacrificed to vicious specters on the covers of the plethora of horror paperback books and VHS boxes that lined my local bookstore and video store shelves. Upon digesting the media, I was never particularly upset when the lusty busty babe got the axe—I was too busy hoping her boyfriend would be the last man…um…‘standing.’

The horror genre is marketed to the straight man—particularly straight male adolescents. But this isn’t simply sports or cars we’re talking about. There’s something incredibly metaphorical about horror. It’s the big bad monster trying to punish those who partake in the natural acts of lust and love. And who better to relate to a relentless outside force trying to stop their desire for instinctive, impulsive passion than gay men?

In my time as a writer of gay erotic horror fiction, I’ve discovered something the heterosexual male horror community doesn’t fully comprehend: many gay males are voracious devourers of horror books and films. We’re not merely the prissy, disposable first victim or the psychosexual-woman-hating-cross-dressing killer they’ve always presented us as (hint hint: toss in a little hairy man buns now and then!).

Thanks to the niche communities the internet creates, I’ve been contacted by readers who are just like me. They love men, they love sex, and they love horror—but are generally required to subject themselves to woman parts in order to get to the scary parts (I know, there’s a gay joke in there about how the woman parts are the scary parts). As if the feedback to my gay erotic horror stories isn’t sign enough that there is an audience for it, I’ve found another very interesting gauge. On my personal website, I have a page called Stud Stalking. It’s a detailed list of every horror movie I come across that features even the slightest glimpse of scrumptious man epidermis. The response to the section has been overwhelming from gay horror fans like myself, from requests for more recommendations to other titles I need to add to the list.

I love writing erotica. I love writing horror. My first published strictly erotic stories appeared in jerk-off magazines, and I told myself this was just a way to get my foot in the door and that eventually I’d be able to get mainstream horror stories published. Then I began to realize that every time I went to write a horror story, it was with a gay man’s perspective. I didn’t want to write about women in peril (the market is flooded with that approach), and it didn’t make sense to try to put on the straight man beard. Sure, those options would sell more books to more people, but I really wanted to write horror I would like to read myself. I’d simply enjoy writing it more, which would most likely mean better, more genuine storytelling.

So, I began penning horror stories ‘starring’ gay men. I say starring because when I write, I try to make the story feel and flow like a horror movie. I want the read to be fun and fluid, not bogged down by excessive ‘smart’ prose and philosophical thought. That’s just not the kind of horror that grabs me by the throat and squeezes until I can’t breathe.

And because horror has always gone hand-in-hand with sexual content, and because the only thing that truly distinguishes gay characters from straight characters is that they—to put it bluntly—love and lay others of the same gender, it felt so natural for me to go balls-to-the-wall with the sexual situations (often literally). But to be clear, in the world of my characters, I don’t want all my men to be raped and ripped apart by heinous monstrosities (Although, it does happen occasionally. What can I say? It’s a classic horror convention). I want them to be happy, horny men who find love, score some ass, and find themselves in ungodly situations they must survive in one piece so that they can live another day to score some more ass.

My stories and novels are not intended to be what has become known as ‘torture porn,’ where the implication is that the consumer is getting sexually aroused and stimulated by gore and extreme violence. I’ve simply combined two of my favorite things—scares and sex—with each having its own place in my stories. The horror is there to give readers the willies, with the erotica as the tension relief—a chance to get off. Basically, an emission intermission. I guess you could even call it the horror-gasm.

And that’s the way the fun and fear unfold in Combustion, my first full-length ‘gothrotica’ novel. Those who have been reading my stuff for awhile will get satisfaction from my usual playful approach to the erotic horror genre, and are sure to recognize some of the names and faces (and asses, and cocks, and balls, etc.) from my previous stories. And if Combustion is the first book of mine you pick up, you’ll soon be getting very cozy with the boys, beasts, men, and monsters—and hopefully staying up all night to reach the graphic climax….