Saturday, May 26, 2012
Monday, May 21, 2012
Please refrain from any negative comments regarding the book by EL James. That’s not what this post is about.
I sold antiques at a flea market this past Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Naturally, I set a few copies of my suspense/mystery novel Whistle Pass out for sale as well.
Once ladies learned I had written Whistle Pass, the conversation invariably turned to Fifty Shades of Grey, usually with this line as the icebreaker:
“I’m reading that book I shouldn’t be reading.”
A quirky smile then appeared.
It didn’t take too many of these conversations for me to realize that the majority of women I spoke with weren’t as interested in the book as they were the idea of doing something edgy, maybe even bordering on taboo, something risqué and a bit devilish, with nothing really at stake. It was the thrill of the bragging rights that they had obtained a copy and were reading a book that they wouldn’t even say the name of in public. Or at least said they were.
My point is that for a number of these ladies, claiming to be reading the book (not a one of them said they had finished it – they were always “reading” it) set them apart from what had been mediocrity and initiated them into a group of faceless literary daredevils walking the razorblade of the forbidden. It was the “act,” not the book, that sent shivers up their spines, reddened their ears, and provided the courage to share with a complete male stranger the provocative thing they were doing.
Interestingly, in all of the conversations I had with these ladies in this unique setting, not once did the reader talk about the book at all. Not once. Their focus remained on the act of possessing and reading the novel. After the first couple of ladies, I started asking if the person had plans to go see the movie when it came out. The answer was always “no.” Maybe they were being honest, maybe that was something they didn’t want to answer. I don’t know.
I do know what one lady gave as her reason for not planning on seeing the film version. She said in effect, ‘I wouldn’t want to watch the movie because it probably wouldn’t be like I’ve imagined.’ Her answer made me smile. What she described is the goal we as storytellers strive for. She said the story took shape in her mind, and she didn’t want to lose that imagery.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is the power and joy of books.
Posted by David Kentner -- KevaD at 12:10 PM
Saturday, May 19, 2012
My latest release from Loose Id - Lust Plague
Saving the world should be easier.
When airship captain Kaysana meets Sten, the last thing she wants to do is have mad rough sex with him while bound by ropes and clamps but fate pencils in their appointment. The lust plague strikes. From her infected crew, zombies arise.
With her ship gone, she must rely on Sten, a human clone, a man who has fought all his life to master himself. She despises his kind and detests Sten’s growing hold on her. Though he never takes no for an answer, surely it’s the plague that makes yes slip from her tongue like melted butter? Or should she blame her own traitorous heart?
Hordes of slavering zombies await them. Sten and Kaysana unlimber weapons, don goggles, and set a course for the origin of the plague. Yet their victory will be hollow if they cannot also solve the puzzle of their hearts.
Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual situations, graphic language, and material that some readers may find objectionable: anal play/intercourse, BDSM theme and elements, exhibitionism, spanking, strong violence.
An excerpt from Lust Plague, showing a sexy side and also the effects of the plague.
Here’s your clothes.” Sten emerged from the aisle between the clothes racks and held up a skimpy leather outfit on a hanger.
“No way.” She shook her head. “Nothing that jeopardizes my air fleet standing. Walking around in that” -- she backed away -- “would do so and therefore end our agreement.”
“Uh-uh.” Sten grabbed her elbow. “It won’t. Who’s to see? Zombies? Wear it, and this.” He had a tan half mask hooked on the hanger -- with little catlike ears pricked up at the top and gold tabby markings striped across the leather. “Nobody’ll know it’s you.”
She opened her mouth to speak, paused, caught up in trying to figure out their agreement. “No. There may still be some normal humans. Hell, Sten. We have a world to save, and you want me dressed up like a cat?”
“A big, lickable pussy cat, yes.” His voice was hoarse. His eyes gleamed with lust. “Obey, remember?” He tossed the clothes onto the counter. “You can’t do this every time I come up with a new twist you don’t like.”
“Sten, this is just one of those sexual urges. Block it out. You can’t be making up new --”
Without giving her time to react, he pulled her to him, then picked her up around the waist.
“Hey!” She struggled, but his big hands grabbed hers and gripped them tight at the small of her back. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to spank you.” He hooked a timber chair with his foot and sat with her across his lap, head down.
“What? Why?” She spluttered, still thrashing, but the hand at her back pushed her firmly onto his lap, held her easily. Awareness of their size and strength difference left her suddenly floundering. She was small, and he was so damned big. His other hand pushed up the shirt, smoothed across her bottom. Toes shoving at the floor, she tried to rise. The first blow fell with a whack, reverberated through her, sent a liquid message into her flesh. Shocked, she stiffened.
“No,” she said in a hushed voice. “You can’t do this.”
“No?” In quick succession, he struck her again and again, alternating from one ass cheek to the other. His large hand gripped and pressed her wrists into the small of her back.
Kaysana made one last frantic squirming effort to free herself. If she moved her legs, he hit harder. If she stayed still…
Warmth built, turning hotter and hotter. Panting, hair falling across her eyes, she stayed put -- half-afraid to move, half anticipating the rush of the next blow. Each smack seemed to force a louder gasp from her mouth. Her bottom, of its own accord, rose up to meet his hand.
“Good.” Sten’s spanking hand slid down her cleft, and his finger dipped inside her just enough to make her close her eyes. “You’re very wet, Kaysana.”
She could hear the wry amusement in his tone but didn’t care, too lost in the mesmerizing slip and slide of his fingers between her folds and the stir of heat whenever a finger forged in deeper.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
To begin, I dislike the term “straight” as it implies the alternative is crooked or deformed. I’m heterosexual. Het.
I’m old enough I was raised in a society where homosexuality genuinely was considered the deformed alternative to being straight. When I was four, the federal government officially declared homosexuality a mental disorder and began a purge of homosexuals. The churches and public schools I attended embraced that ideology and ensured our young minds were properly educated to the dangers of the predatory insane lurking on every corner for the opportunity to take advantage of a child.
In my later public school years, no one ever did make a move to refute the idea that homosexuality equated to insanity, including my parents. That is, until a voluntary, pay for it yourself “field trip” took place in my senior year of high school. The school provided bus transportation and chaperones to an evening performance of HAIR.
For those not familiar with the topics addressed in that musical, I recommend renting a video of the musical, not the movie. At the time, interracial sex, not to mention same-sex sex, and public nudity were the demons sure to plunge our world into the pits of hell. HAIR has all of those and more.
There were two things in particular that struck me that night at the performance. The first being, how the young lady on the back of the stage during the nude scene had the most beautiful set of tits I’d ever imagined to exist. Yes, I still remember them, and everything else about her. I hope her life without me in her arms turned out well.
The second was the scene where a white man (fully clothed) had sex with a black man (also fully clothed). Holy hell. They were just actors playing roles, but the scene’s message bore into me. It was the first realization that what had been ingrained into my brain might not be reality.
When I tried to discuss that scene at school, with my friends, and at home, I was quickly reminded HAIR was a play, not real life, and there was no need for further discussion.
Place something in front of my eyes that stimulates my mind to question the ideals implanted in me, and I’m damn sure going to talk about it.
That was when I understood very few people in my circle of life understood me or the world in general. And, for the first time, I wondered how many homosexuals I had met, maybe even known and hung out with, who felt they had to keep their sexuality hidden from me. The societal beliefs I had grown up with began to disintegrate, but it would be years before I fully understood how much of a hold those beliefs had on my mind.
A year after high school, fate introduced me to an openly gay couple. Nope. They weren’t insane, and no one they shook hands with developed an obsession for the color pink. In fact, we had a lot of common interests and went to beaches and did a number of things together. Yeah, the evening one of them said how if I ever wanted to explore, they’d be open to a threesome scared the beejezus out of me, but no friendship lines were ever crossed. Note here that I also have and have had female friends who I never had sex with, though the opportunity existed if we chose to cross that line. Friendship is and was far more important to me than the sex that was so readily available during that era. I soon enlisted in the army to break away from the sex, drugs, and rock and roll lifestyle I’d been living and provide for my family.
In the army, I learned one of my friends I drank and bowled with was gay. He got publicly ‘outed’ during something that happened in the barracks he lived in. I never did know the full details. Within a few days, he’d been transferred (we were in Germany) back to the states, and the few of us who’d been his friends were questioned.
During the interrogation, I was told my friend had made it beyond clear that I was not gay, nor had any knowledge whatsoever that he was, though in truth, I did know as he’d told me shortly before whatever happened at the barracks happened. He’d protected me with what little he had to offer. You must understand the army at that time. Being gay was akin to being a traitor – those in the “circle” were presumed guilty by being in the circle. I strongly suspect my friend could have lessened whatever punishment he was to receive by sacrificing one or two others. He didn’t do that, opting to stand up for his friends to the very end. He was one hell of a man who happened to be gay.
I think that was the incident that shattered the hold my childhood indoctrination had on me. I became a man who happened to be het, others happened to be gay. That was how life worked, and, in my mind, still works.
Eventually, I began writing professionally. How my first published book was about two gay men is something I’ve discussed other times, other places. Whether the characters are het, gay, or lesbian isn’t an issue for me. For some folks, though, it is. I’ve heard from hets who wonder what the hell I’m doing writing books with gay men in them. I’ve heard from gays asking the same question. And then, there are some female readers who get upset because my stories in which the characters are gay men, don’t always have sex, because as one very nice lady asked, if the men don’t have sex, “What’s the point?”.
So, while I offend idealists, bigots, and an occasional reader, I’ll continue telling my stories without worrying about the sexuality of the characters. For you see, that’s how I live my life now. Why should I be concerned what sexuality my fictional characters are, when I couldn’t care less what sexuality my real life friends are?
“Oh, so you’re one of those heterosexuals who likes to say how he has gay friends.”
No, I’m saying my friends’ sexuality isn’t any more of your damn business than it is mine.
A gay person is born gay. A homophobe is trained to be homophobic.
That’s right…homophobia is a disease born of ignorance. Fortunately, there’s a cure. It’s called education. Be smart and get smart.
Posted by David Kentner -- KevaD at 1:45 PM