Tuesday, June 9, 2015

Great Me2 Review!

As part of my wonderful ManLove Queer Erotica Special Sale And Celebration sale, here's a kick-ass review of my book, Me2.  Enjoy!



Brian Jewell from Edge Boston (and Bay Windows):
Until the most recent movie version, each iteration of Invasion of the Body Snatchers has been tailored to the up-to-the-minute fears of its generation. This eerie novel goes where the Nicole Kidman vehicle should have, drawing on conspiracy theories, urban anomie, identity theft and consumerism to create a subtle horror tale about erosion of the self. The nameless lead character is a shallow twink, over stimulated but isolated, who has acquaintances and tricks instead of friends, and products and catalogs instead of values. After a street crazy puts the idea of pod people in his head, our hero starts noticing strange things. People are referring to conversations he doesn’t remember and events he didn’t witness. Does he have a double? Is this doppelganger trying to steal his life from him? And does this interloper come from outer space, a secret government cloning lab, a disordered brain, or is he a thought experiment come to life? Christian keeps the reader guessing, using repetitive language and a deliberate pace to evoke our Everyman’s sense of disorientation and disconnection as he realizes that no one would notice if he were erased, while barreling towards a suitably trippy conclusion. Like a lot of good science fiction, this is as much a contemporary social satire as an unsettling fantasy.

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Me2: The Terror Continues

As part of my wonderful ManLove Queer Erotica Special Sale And Celebration sale, here's a kick-ass review of Me2.  Enjoy!


From gayinwa.com.au:
M. Christian is known as a writer of erotica, with stories in several spicy anthologies such as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica and Best Lesbian Erotica. This time he's playing in the sci fi genre with the psychological thriller, Me2. Fear not, however, as Christian has not forgotten to pen some sizzling scenes involving the gay hero.

At first glance, I was sure that this was going to be yet another cheesy addition to the growing number of sci-fi books and films about cloning. What comes to mind is the Sixth Day, a film in which Arnie Schwarzenegger´s character is secretly cloned and battles the people behind his cloning. Similarly, in Me2, the main character discovers that there is someone who is exactly like him, quite possibly a clone, taking over each part of his life. Christian is masterful in describing the Starbucks employee´s transition from bland but satisfied, to a blundering paranoid individual who questions his every move.

These kinds of sci-fi psychological thrillers aren't usually my cup of tea, but Me2 is suited to a much broader audience. I say this because the underlying tale lies not in the main character´s possible cloning by some secret government agency, but goes deep into theories of identity and identity theft. It questions how our identities are formed, especially queer identity. Christian seems to suggest that our identities come down to what we choose to buy, as we collect material possessions to mould our identities based on how we want other people to see us.

Christian also raises the question of the possibility of the Genetic Mirror Theory, which states that each person has a genetic twin. This idea that there could be more than one of us out there raises some hairs along the way, or at least gives you some food for thought!

Me2 is a chilling and gripping novel. At first I really did think it was a bit of overdone genre about cloning, but it turned into something much more philosophical and interesting. Worth a read.

Saturday, February 21, 2015

The Amazing R.Greco And M.Christian Road Show: Feb 27 - March 7!

(from R.Greco and M.Christian Presents) 

There's amazing and then there's amazing: join R. Greco and M.Christian on a whirlwind tour of teaching, performing and meeting and greeting, beginning in Las Vegas on February 27th with the Sin In The City convention and going onto San Francisco for shindigs at Wicked Grounds, the SF Citadel, and the Center For Sex And Culture!

Check out this kick-ass (and a half) schedule ... fun, fun, fun and more fun!



Sin In The City
Las Vegas
February 27th – March 1st, 2015
http://www.sin-in-the-city.com
Join hundreds of other kinksters and leather people in saying "Hit Me!" to our Sin in the City dealers for a double-down dose of fun
Tit-Torture For Boobs: A Breast Play Intensive
Saturday, February 28, 2015: 9-10:30
Breast play offers wonderful opportunities for intensely powerful play - but also comes with serious, even dangerous, risks. In this breasts-on seminar, participants will learn how to treat tits, both male and female, with exactly the right measure of sensuality and intensity to play well but also safely. Clothespins, nipple clamps, pinching, suction devices, gentle impact, bondage, and more will be demonstrated - as well as how to deliver effective aftercare. Additionally, participants will be given instruction in first aid, the dangers of breast play, and the limits of what boobs can take. 
Sex Sells: How To Write and Sell Erotica
Saturday, February 28, 2015: 11-12:30
The market for erotic fiction and nonfiction is booming! There actually is a secret to writing great erotica - and you'll discover just what that is in this fun, hands-on workshop with well-known erotica writer and teacher M.Christian. For the beginning writer, erotica can be the ideal place to begin writing, getting published, and - best of all - earning money. And for the experienced writer, erotica can be an excellent way to beef up your resume and hone your writing skills. M.Christian will review the varieties of personal and literary expression possible in this exciting and expanding field. He'll also teach you techniques for creating love and sex scenes that sizzle. Plus: current pay rates, how to write for a wide variety of erotic genres, where and how to submit your erotic writing, and more. 
Cupping: Using The Ancient Medicinal Technique For Erotic Play
Saturday, February 28, 2015: 3:30-5
For thousands of years, Asian cultures have been using 'cupping' as a remedy for a variety of ills – from muscle strains to just a wonderful way to relax. In this unique class, participants will not just learn how to use cupping safely but also how to use it to enhance all kinds of erotic – and kinky – play. Demonstrations will include not just how to use cupping on various parts of the body in new and exciting ways but also the different types of cupping sets that are available and what type is right for everything from advanced BDSM play to just soothing an achy back.


Erotic Authors: Ralph Greco, Jr. & M.Christian 
Wicked Grounds, San Francisco
289 8th Street, San Francisco, CA 94103
Tuesday, March 3, 2015: 1:00PM to 3:00PM
http://www.wickedgrounds.com
Wicked Grounds is San Francisco's first and only kink cafe and boutique. We have a full cafe in San Francisco and host a wide variety of BDSM and related events, including workshops, classes, social gatherings, and munches.
Here's an opportunity to meet and greet Ralph Greco Jr. and M.Christian: two kick-ass smut writers and BDSM/sex educators who know how to have a good time ... either on the page or in the bedroom/dungeon! 
In town as part of a whirlwind tour of kinky teaching and sexy authoring, Chris and Ralph (to their friends) will be available to chat about being an editor for Von Gutenberg Latex Couture Fashion Magazine (Ralph) and Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions (Chris) and their BDSM classes (such as Sensual Caning, Basic Bondage, Cupping, Breast Torture, and more) and their renowned erotica writing class series! 
Come chat BDSM classes, get some books signed, and have a fun time with two fun guys...

Basic Bondage: Tie Me Up On A Budget with M.Christian & R.Greco 
SF Citadel Club, San Francisco
181 Eddy St, San Francisco, CA 94102
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
http://www.sfcitadel.org
THE SAN FRANCISCO CITADEL CLUB’s mission is to provide BDSM entertainment, education on alternative lifestyles, cultural and leather community events, and other resources to individuals, associations and communities who identify with having different ways of expressing their proclivities; to create a safe place to meet, entertain, explore and share enjoyment, happiness, laughter and pleasure within those communities locally and nationally; and to be open to the non-BDSM community to check our evening classes, weekend retreats and weekend entertainment events.
Let's face it, BDSM - especially bondage play - can be pricy: steel shackles, leather restraints, handcuffs, and other fun things don't come cheap. But in this class students will learn that tying someone up doesn't mean you have to break the bank. From Saran Wrap to Bungie cord, duct tape to clothesline, and more students will learn all kinds of tricks and techniques to not only restrain on a budget but how to do it safely as well as effectively ... and enjoyably!
Class from 8:00PM to 10:00PM, doors open at 7:30PM
Cost: $20 at the door, or $15 in advance
https://www.Purplepass.com/sfc342015


Sex Sells - How To Write and Sell Erotica With R. Greco Jr. And M.Christian
The Center For Sex and Culture, San Francisco

1349 Mission St, San Francisco, CA 94103
Thursday, March 5, 2015
http://www.sexandculture.org
The Mission of the Center for Sex & Culture is to provide judgment-free education, cultural events, a library/media archive, and other resources to audiences across the sexual and gender spectrum; and to research and disseminate factual information, framing and informing issues of public policy and public health.
The market for erotic fiction and nonfiction is booming! There actually is a secret to writing great erotica - and you'll discover just what that is in this fun, hands-on workshop with well-known erotica writers R. Greco Jr. and M.Christian. 
For the beginning writer, erotica can be the ideal place to begin writing, getting published, and - best of all - earning money. And for the experienced writer, erotica can be an excellent way to beef up your resume and hone your writing skills. 
R. Greco Jr. and M.Christian will review the varieties of personal and literary expression possible in this exciting and expanding field. They'll also teach techniques for creating love and sex scenes that sizzle, current pay rates, how to write for a wide variety of erotic genres, where and how to submit your erotic writing, and more!
$20
6:00PM - 8:00PM
http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/1133598

Leather, Lace & Lust: An Evening Of Erotic Storytelling and Sexual Merriment
The Center For Sex and Culture, San Francisco
1349 Mission St, San Francisco, CA 94103
Saturday, March 7th, 7:00PM – 10:00PM
http://www.sexandculture.org
The Mission of the Center for Sex & Culture is to provide judgment-free education, cultural events, a library/media archive, and other resources to audiences across the sexual and gender spectrum; and to research and disseminate factual information, framing and informing issues of public policy and public health.
Leather, Lace & Lust: An Evening Of Erotic Storytelling and Sexual Merriment 
Come one, come all* to an evening of lusty literature by many of the best erotica writers in the Bay Area! 
From the tempting tease of delicate lace to the steamy heat of hardcore leather, these authors and performers will amuse, delight, and most of all excite you in all kinds of new and provocative ways; This is an evening of witty, carnal, and provocative literary endeavors that will tickle just about every kind of fancy, a festival of playful sensual fiction that will make you laugh, cry, and get that oh-so-special tingly feeling in your nether-regions. 
In other words, a night of kick-ass erotica performed by ass-kicking writers!
Sponsored by WriteSex: Everything a writer needs to know about the business of publishing erotica! 
Our featured performers include:
• Molly Weatherfield: "Twenty years ago, a mild-mannered computer programmer decided to spend some quality time with her erotic fantasy life, and Carrie's Story - BDSM for smart girls - was born."
• Blake C. Aarens is an author, poet, screenwriter, playwright, and a Black Girl Nerd.
• Jean Marie Stine is the author of a number of pioneering works of erotica published in the late 1960 and early 1970s, beginning with Season of the Witch in 1968, which was filmed as the motion picture Synapse. Her erotic short stories and novelettes have been collected as "Trans-sexual: Fiction for Gender Queers."
• M.Christian is a recognized master of erotica with more than 400 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica and many others.
• Dr. Carol Queen is the author of Real Live Nude Girl: Chronicles of Sex-Positive Culture, The Leather Daddy and the Femme, Exhibitionism for the Shy, and co-editor of PoMoSexuals: Challenging Assumptions About Gender and Sexuality (winner of a Lambda Literary Award in 1998; with Lawrence Schimel)
• R. Greco's short fiction (erotic and ‘straight’ fiction) has been published in 7 countries, various anthologies and single author short story collections from Xcite Books in the U.K., C.F. Publications and with Renissance E Books. Ralph is also the co-host of an hour-long net talk program, “Peter Riot’s Smack Talk”, was a pre-school music teacher and has played his original music in concert festivals in Italy, the U.S. and England. 
Saturday, March 7th
The Center For Sex And Culture
1349 Mission St, San Francisco, CA 94103
Doors at 6:30PM, Event starts at 7:30PM
Admission: $10
*no guarantees

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Me2: Epilogue 2

As part of a huge - and much needed - marketing push, I'm going to be serializing a few of my all-time favorite books ... starting with the (ahem) rather infamous novel that I may or may not have actually written: Me2

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0092B8VOA/ref=cm_sw_su_dp

"Absolutely brilliant!" says Lisabet Sarai, author of Incognito and Fire, about Lambda finalist M.Christian's controversial manlove horror/thriller. 


He looks just like you. He acts exactly like you. He takes away your job. He steals your friends. He seduces your male lover. None of them can tell the difference. Every day he becomes more and more like you, pushing you out of your own life, taking away what was yours … until there’s nothing left. Where did he come from? Robot? Alien? Clone? Doppelganger? Evil twin? Long lost brother? Then you discover there are still more "yous." Can you be sure you are the real you? And how do you fight to take your own life back? 


An absorbing new approach to the question of identity, Me2 is a groundbreaking gay chiller you’ll remember for a long time – no matter who you are, or who you think you may be. 


(Despite rumors that this book was written by an impostor - but, rest assured, this is the real 'M.Christian.' Accept no substitutes!)


Epilogue 2
Me

Sitting in my apartment – surrounded by the things I'd been told to buy, showed how to assemble, and promised what to expect to happen when it was all done to specifications – I tried to ponder what to do next.
It didn't help that I could too easily see another me – surrounded by the things he'd been told to buy, showed how to assemble, and promised what to expect to happen when it was all done to specifications – sitting in his apartment, also pondering what to do next.
How do you think ... not like yourself?  If I'd been right – that is, if the me that had explained it all to me had been right – then we all were slightly different, a tweak here, a twink there, but only slightly: fed the same top ten books, the top ten shows, the top ten music, the top ten restaurants, told what to love, what to hate, what to want to be, what not to be, there was too good a chance that I was walled in by my carefully purchased, precisely assembled life; blinded by my carefully purchased, precisely assembled life to anything but what I knew.
I'd like to say that it came like a flash, a bolt, a surge, a spike of brain electricity.  It didn't.  It was bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but it was a process, one thing after another that lead from nothing to the answer.
The first was reflection, looking not into a mirror but downward and to the right – or wherever my copied soul lived.  What was the essence of myself?  I worked, I partied, I purchased, I drank, I fucked, I talked, I drove, I ate, I slept, I pissed and shitted, I showered and shaved, I flirted, I cried, I got angry, I got hungry, I got sleepy, I was late, I was early, I was on time, I was old enough to know better, I was too young to care, I was healthy, I got sick – more and more, I listed what I was.
It took a bit of time, but I found something interesting.  It was like a hole, a part of me – us – that was there in its absence.  You see all the numbers, but because you want them to be in order and complete, you don't see the four missing between the three and the five.
It all came in.  Nothing came out: I used, I didn't make.  That was one part, the next was what to make.
Not a flash, not a bolt, not a surge, not a spike of brain electricity.  Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.  I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument.  I liked to sing, but only in the shower.  I liked taking pictures, but really wasn't any good at it.  I liked movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them.  I liked clothes, but couldn't sew.  I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty.  I liked food, but burned everything I tried to cook.
So I sat down at my computer.  The answer was there all along: I could do what no other me had done.  I could tell the world what had happened to us.  I could stand out.  I could be the only me there was.
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me2

How do you think ... not like yourself?  If I'd been right – that is, if the me that had explained it all to me had been right – then we all were slightly different, a tweak here, a twink there, but only slightly: fed the same top ten books, the top ten shows, the top ten music, the top ten restaurants, told what to love, what to hate, what to want to be, what not to be, there was too good a chance that I was walled in by my carefully purchased, precisely assembled life; blinded by my carefully purchased, precisely assembled life to anything but what I knew.
I'd like to say that it came like a flash, a bolt, a surge, a spike of brain electricity.  It didn't.  It was bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but it was a process, one thing after another that lead from nothing to the answer.
The first was reflection, looking not into a mirror but downward and to the right – or wherever my copied soul lived.  What was the essence of myself?  I worked, I partied, I purchased, I drank, I fucked, I talked, I drove, I ate, I slept, I pissed and shitted, I showered and shaved, I flirted, I cried, I got angry, I got hungry, I got sleepy, I was late, I was early, I was on time, I was old enough to know better, I was too young to care, I was healthy, I got sick – more and more, I listed what I was.
It took a bit of time, but I found something interesting.  It was like a hole, a part of me – us – that was there in its absence.  You see all the numbers, but because you want them to be in order and complete you don't see the four missing between the three and the five.
It all came in.  Nothing came out: I used, I didn't make.  That was one part, the next was what to make.
Not a flash, not a bolt, not a surge, not a spike of brain electricity.  Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.  I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument.  I liked to sing, but only in the shower.  I liked taking pictures, but really wasn't any good at it.  I liked movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them.  I liked clothes, but couldn't sew.  I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty.  I liked food, but burned everything I tried to cook.
So I sat down at my computer.  The answer was there all along: I could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to us.  I could stand out.  I could be the only me there was.
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me3

I'd like to say that it came like a flash, a bolt, a surge, a spike of brain electricity.  It didn't.  It was bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but it was a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.
The first was reflection, looking not into a mirror but downward and to the right – or wherever my copied soul lived.  What was the essence of myself?  I worked, I partied, I purchased, I drank, I fucked, I talked, I drove, I ate, I slept, I pissed and shitted, I showered and shaved, I flirted, I cried, I got angry, I got hungry, I got sleepy, I was late, I was early, I was on time, I was old enough to know better, I was too young to care, I was healthy, I got sick – more and more, I listed what I was.
It took a bit of time, but I found something interesting.  It was like a hole, a part of me – us – that was there in its absence.  You see all the numbers, but because you want them to be in order and complete, you don't see the four missing between the three and the five.
It all came in.  Nothing came out: I used, I didn't make.  That was one part, the next was what to make.
Not a flash, not a bolt, not a surge, not a spike of brain electricity.  Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.  I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument.  I liked to sing, but only in the shower.  I liked taking pictures, but really wasn't any good at it.  I liked movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them.  I liked clothes, but couldn't sew.  I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty.  I liked food, but burned everything I tried to cook.
So I sat down at my computer.  The answer was there, all along: I could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to us.  I could stand out.  I could be the only me there was.
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me4

The first was reflection, looking not into a mirror but downward and to the right – or wherever my copied soul lived.  What was the essence of myself?  I worked, I partied, I purchased, I drank, I fucked, I talked, I drove, I ate, I slept, I pissed and shitted, I showered and shaved, I flirted, I cried, I got angry, I got hungry, I got sleepy, I was late, I was early, I was on time, I was old enough to know better, I was too young to care, I was healthy, I got sick-more and more, I listed what I was.
It took a bit of time, but I found something interesting.  It was like a hole, a part of me – us – that was there in its absence.  You see all the numbers, but because you want them to be in order and complete, you don't see the four missing between the three and the five.
It all came in.  Nothing came out: I used, I didn't make.  That was one part, the next was what to make.
Not a flash, not a bolt, not a surge, not a spike of brain electricity.  Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.  I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument.  I liked to sing, but only in the shower.  I liked taking pictures, but really wasn't any good at it.  I liked movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them.  I liked clothes, but couldn't sew.  I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty.  I liked food, but burned everything I tried to cook.
So I sat down at my computer.  The answer was there all along: I could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to us.  I could stand out.  I could be the only me there was.
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me5

It took a bit of time, but I found something interesting.  It was like a hole, a part of me – us – that was there in its absence.  You see all the numbers, but because you want them to be in order and complete, you don't see the four missing between the three and the five.
It all came in.  Nothing came out: I used, I didn't make.  That was one part, the next was what to make.
Not a flash, not a bolt, not a surge, not a spike of brain electricity.  Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.  I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument.  I liked to sing, but only in the shower.  I liked taking pictures, but really wasn't any good at it.  I liked movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them.  I liked clothes, but couldn't sew.  I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty.  I liked food, but burned everything I tried to cook.
So I sat down at my computer.  The answer was there, all along: I could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to us.  I could stand out.  I could be the only me there was.
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me6

It all came in.  Nothing came out: I used, I didn't make.  That was one part, the next was what to make.
Not a flash, not a bolt, not a surge, not a spike of brain electricity.  Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.  I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument.  I liked to sing, but only in the shower.  I liked taking pictures, but really wasn't any good at it.  I liked movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them.  I liked clothes, but couldn't sew.  I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty.  I liked food, but burned everything I tried to cook.
So I sat down at my computer.  The answer was there all along: I could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to us.  I could stand out.  I could be the only me there was.
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me7

Not a flash, not a bolt, not a surge, not a spike of brain electricity.  Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.  I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument.  I liked to sing, but only in the shower.  I liked taking pictures, but really wasn't any good at it.  I liked movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them.  I liked clothes, but couldn't sew.  I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty.  I liked food, but burned everything I tried to cook.
So I sat down at my computer.  The answer was there all along: I could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to us.  I could stand out.  I could be the only me there was.
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me8

Not a flash, not a bolt, not a surge, not a spike of brain electricity.  Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.  I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument.  I liked to sing, but only in the shower.  I liked taking pictures, but really wasn't any good at it.  I liked movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them.  I liked clothes, but couldn't sew.  I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty.  I liked food, but burned everything I tried to cook.
So I sat down at my computer.  The answer was there all along: I could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to all of us.  I could stand out.  I could be the only me there was.
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me9

(Unavailable, but if he weren't this is what he'd have said)
So I sat down at my computer.  The answer was there, all along: I could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to us.  I could stand out.  I could be the only me there was.
So I started to write.
* * * *
Me10

So I started to write.
* * * *
Me11


So I started to...

Monday, December 8, 2014

Me2: Epilogue 1

As part of a huge - and much needed - marketing push, I'm going to be serializing a few of my all-time favorite books ... starting with the (ahem) rather infamous novel that I may or may not have actually written: Me2

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0092B8VOA/ref=cm_sw_su_dp

"Absolutely brilliant!" says Lisabet Sarai, author of Incognito and Fire, about Lambda finalist M.Christian's controversial manlove horror/thriller. 


He looks just like you. He acts exactly like you. He takes away your job. He steals your friends. He seduces your male lover. None of them can tell the difference. Every day he becomes more and more like you, pushing you out of your own life, taking away what was yours … until there’s nothing left. Where did he come from? Robot? Alien? Clone? Doppelganger? Evil twin? Long lost brother? Then you discover there are still more "yous." Can you be sure you are the real you? And how do you fight to take your own life back? 


An absorbing new approach to the question of identity, Me2 is a groundbreaking gay chiller you’ll remember for a long time – no matter who you are, or who you think you may be. 


(Despite rumors that this book was written by an impostor - but, rest assured, this is the real 'M.Christian.' Accept no substitutes!)


Epilogue 1
Me

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to clothes they wore, the styles of their hair. 

* * * *
Me2

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to clothes they wore, the styles of their hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right and one was sitting on the left.

* * * *
Me3

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to clothes they wore, the styles of their hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right and one was sitting on the left.
Then there were three, sitting together in the Starbucks.  I know that's redundant, but that's the way things have been lately.  One sitting on the right, one sitting on the left, and the me that was myself who came in and sat down at the same table.  Differences, naturally, but only because there was one sitting on the right, one on the left, and one in the middle.

* * * *
Me4

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to clothes they wore, the styles of their hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right and one was sitting on the left.
Then there were three, sitting together in the Starbucks.  I know that's redundant, but that's the way things have been lately.  One sitting on the right, one sitting on the left, and the me that was myself who came in and sat down at the same table.  Differences, naturally, but only because there was one sitting on the right, one on the left, and one in the middle.
They told me then, about what was happening.  At first I didn't want to understand what they were saying.  But then my brain went from refusal to belief, from belief to fury, fury to wanting to work things out, wanting to work things out to deep darkness and then finally from deep darkness to understanding.

* * * *
Me5

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to clothes they wore, the styles of their hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right and one was sitting on the left.
Then there were three, sitting together in the Starbucks.  I know that's redundant, but that's the way things have been lately.  One sitting on the right, one sitting on the left, and the me that was myself who came in and sat down at the same table.  Differences, naturally, but only because there was one sitting on the right, one on the left, and one in the middle.
They told me then, about what was happening.  At first I didn't want to understand what they were saying.  But then my brain went from refusal to belief, from belief to fury, fury to wanting to work things out, wanting to work things out to deep darkness and then finally from deep darkness to understanding.
It made sense.  It explained what happened.  I'd just seen someone who looked like me, someone who'd modeled his life in the same way.  At work I'd been mistaken for someone who looked like me, someone who'd modeled his life in the same way: a me that Ebony had mistaken me for, a me who for some reason was a slightly better worker than I'd been.  At the community center, the dyke had done the same, mistaking me for ame who was slightly more caring and willing to volunteer than I'd been.  He hadn't been a doppelganger, he hadn't been an evil self; he'd just been a person who had chosen to be a type like myself.

* * * *
Me6

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to clothes they wore, the styles of their hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right and one was sitting on the left.
Then there were three, sitting together in the Starbucks.  I know that's redundant, but that's the way things have been lately.  One sitting on the right, one sitting on the left, and the me that was myself who came in and sat down at the same table.  Differences, naturally, but only because there was one sitting on the right, one on the left, and one in the middle.
They told me then, about what was happening.  At first I didn't want to understand what they were saying.  But then my brain went from refusal to belief, from belief to fury, fury to wanting to work things out, wanting to work things out to deep darkness and then finally from deep darkness to understanding.
It made sense.  It explained what happened.  We live in cookie-cutter apartments on cookie-cutter blocks, furnished with mass-produced furniture, assembled to look like rooms from mass-produced magazines or cookie-cutter TV shows.  They look alike, so much alike that I'd mistaken his place for mine, and cleaned up.  Of course the key hadn't worked.  Of course the super let me in; he wouldn't have been able to tell him from me or me from him.  He hadn't been an evil self, he hadn't been a me from a parallel reality, he'd just lived in an apartment just like mine, because we'd both chosen to be the same type of person.
And perhaps somewhere else in the city, in the state, in the region, in the country, in the world, another version of myself, a Tommy Hilfiger who used to be a Boy of Summer, was sitting down at that same moment to hear from other Tommy Hilfigers who used to be Boys of Summer that what had happened to him was very much like what had happened to them.

* * * *
Me7

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to clothes they wore, the styles of their hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right and one was sitting on the left.
Then there were three, sitting together in the Starbucks.  I know that's redundant, but that's the way things have been lately.  One sitting on the right, one sitting on the left, and the me that was myself who came in and sat down at the same table.  Differences, naturally, but only because there was one sitting on the right, one on the left, and one in the middle.
They told me then, about what was happening.  At first I didn't want to understand what they were saying.  But then my brain went from refusal to belief, from belief to fury, fury to wanting to work things out, wanting to work things out to deep darkness and then finally from deep darkness to understanding.
It made sense.  It explained what happened.  The man who'd called, who suggested I might have a good time – a misdialed phone, the mistaking of one name for another, the mistaking of one face for another.  All looking alike.  All acting alike – or mostly acting alike.  He hadn't been a me from a parallel reality, he hadn't been a me from the future; he'd just been a person who had chosen to be a type like myself.
And perhaps somewhere else in the city, in the state, in the region, in the country, in the world, another version of myself, a Tommy Hilfiger who used to be a Boy of Summer, was sitting down at that same moment to hear from other Tommy Hilfigers who used to be Boys of Summer that what had happened to him was very much like what had happened to them.
* * * *
Me8

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to clothes they wore, the styles of their hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right and one was sitting on the left.
Then there were three, sitting together in the Starbucks.  I know that's redundant, but that's the way things have been lately.  One sitting on the right, one sitting on the left, and the me that was myself who came in and sat down at the same table.  Differences, naturally, but only because there was one sitting on the right, one on the left, and one in the middle.
They told me then, about what was happening.  At first I didn't want to understand what they were saying.  But then my brain went from refusal to belief, from belief to fury, fury to wanting to work things out, wanting to work things out to deep darkness and then finally from deep darkness to understanding.
It made sense.  It explained what happened.  It hadn't been someone from a loop in time, it hadn't been an incubus wearing my face.  He'd just been a social image who'd been looking for what I'd been looking for: ourselves reflected back at ourselves, a fleshly and bloody copy.
And perhaps somewhere else in the city, in the state, in the region, in the country, in the world, another version of myself, a Tommy Hilfiger who used to be a Boy of Summer, was sitting down at that same moment to hear from other Tommy Hilfigers who used to be Boys of Summer that what had happened to him was very much like what had happened to them.
* * * *
Me9

(Unavailable, but if he weren't this is what he'd have said)
I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.
The same, down to clothes they wore, the styles of their hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right and one was sitting on the left.
Then there were three, sitting together in the Starbucks.  I know that's redundant, but that's the way things have been lately.  One sitting on the right, one sitting on the left, and the me that was myself, who came in and sat down at the same table.  Differences, naturally, but only because there was one sitting on the right, one on the left, and one in the middle.
They told me then, about what was happening.  At first I didn't want to understand what they were saying.  But then my brain went from refusal to belief, from belief to fury, fury to wanting to work things out, wanting to work things out to deep darkness and then finally from deep darkness to understanding.
It made sense.  It explained what happened.  He hadn’t been a demon, he hadn’t been a long-lost twin.  The man who’d killed me had just been someone who looked like me, who’d shopped at the same place, for the same look, to create the same kind of life.
And perhaps somewhere else in the city, in the state, in the region, in the country, in the world, another version of myself, a Tommy Hilfiger who used to be a Boy of Summer, was sitting down at that same moment to hear from other Tommy Hilfigers who used to be Boys of Summer that what happened to him was very much like what had happened to them.
* * * *
Me10

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to the clothes they wore, the styles of their hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right and one was sitting on the left.
Then there were three, sitting together in the Starbucks.  I know that’s redundant, but that’s the way things have been lately.  One sitting on the right, one sitting on the left, and the me that was myself, who came in and sat down at the same table.  Differences, naturally, but only because there was one sitting on the right, one on the left, and one in the middle.
They told me then, about what was happening.  At first I didn’t want to understand what they were saying.  But then my brain went from refusal to belief, from belief to fury, fury to wanting to work things out, wanting to work things out to deep darkness and then finally from deep darkness to understanding.
It made sense.  It explained what happened.  He hadn't been a long-lost twin, he hadn't been an identity thief.  The man I'd killed – and the man who'd been arrested for the crime – had just been someone who looked like me, who'd shopped at the same place, for the same look, to create the same kind of life.
And perhaps somewhere else in the city, in the state, in the region, in the country, in the world, another version of myself, a Tommy Hilfiger who used to be a Boy of Summer, was sitting down at that same moment to hear from other Tommy Hilfigers who used to be Boys of Summer that what had happened to him was very much like what had happened to them.
* * * *
Me11

We sat in a Starbucks.  Me and me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to clothes we wore, the styles of our hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right, one was sitting on the left, and I was sitting in the middle.
The three of us: sitting in a Starbucks.  I know that's redundant, but that's the way things have been lately.  One sitting on the right, one sitting on the left, and the me that was myself.  Differences, naturally, but only because there was one sitting on the right, one on the left, and one in the middle.
I knew what was happening to them.  Like all of them, I hadn't wanted to understand.  But then our brains went from refusal to belief, from belief to fury, fury to wanting to work things out, wanting to work things out to deep darkness and then finally from deep darkness to understanding.
There was no escaping it: it made sense.  It explained what happened.
Just as there was no escaping that somewhere else in the city, in the state, in the region, in the country, in the world, another version of myself was sitting down at that same moment to hear the same kind of story from the same kind of person.  Put some of them together and they make one book, put others together and you get a different book.  It was all a matter of perspective.

One thing I couldn't see from my new viewpoint was where it would go from here–

Monday, December 1, 2014

Me2: Chapter 11

As part of a huge - and much needed - marketing push, I'm going to be serializing a few of my all-time favorite books ... starting with the (ahem) rather infamous novel that I may or may not have actually written: Me2


http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0092B8VOA/ref=cm_sw_su_dp

"Absolutely brilliant!" says Lisabet Sarai, author of Incognito and Fire, about Lambda finalist M.Christian's controversial manlove horror/thriller. 


He looks just like you. He acts exactly like you. He takes away your job. He steals your friends. He seduces your male lover. None of them can tell the difference. Every day he becomes more and more like you, pushing you out of your own life, taking away what was yours … until there’s nothing left. Where did he come from? Robot? Alien? Clone? Doppelganger? Evil twin? Long lost brother? Then you discover there are still more "yous." Can you be sure you are the real you? And how do you fight to take your own life back? 


An absorbing new approach to the question of identity, Me2 is a groundbreaking gay chiller you’ll remember for a long time – no matter who you are, or who you think you may be. 


(Despite rumors that this book was written by an impostor - but, rest assured, this is the real 'M.Christian.' Accept no substitutes!)


Chapter XI
Me11



"You've heard it a lot.  Hell, I know you've heard it a lot.  But I mean it, you to me – honestly, truthfully – I know what you're feeling, the shit you've been going through.
"There's a lot of things going on.  Real things.  It's not just in your mind, not just in the space between your ears.  It's not just you.
"That's the problem, too.  But at least you aren't alone.  So you can relax, if you can.
"I'm so glad you came in.  I've tried to track down a few others like us, but when I got close, they got pretty freaked out.  A few even got punchy.  Can't really blame them, I guess.  Some of them are pretty ... busted up.  So that's why I stopped looking, let them come to me.  Like you have.  So glad you're handling it ... as well as you are.  You seem to be one of the better ones.
"Have you figured it out yet?  No?  I'm not surprised.  A few of us have had bits of it – a part here and there – but none of us have had all of it.  Don't know why I did.  Luck, maybe.  Could be I've had more time to think.  I don't know.
"We're all the same.  That's what it's all about.  That's what's going on: none of us are unique.  No one is.  We've all become types, we wear nothing but costumes, we act only like we're supposed to act –and we like it that way.  We've made ourselves into what we want to be, how we want to be seen.  It doesn't matter what that is: rich, poor, stupid, smart, beautiful.  It doesn't even matter how we start either – no parents, one parent, both parents, whatever – because no matter how we grow up, we all want to be the same as everyone else when we do.
"It's always been kind of like this, but it's different now.  Worse, I think.  Things used to travel slowly.  But now it just rushes at you, doesn't it?  TV, the Internet, magazines, books.  Life – all of it.  Sometimes you feels like it's too much, right?  It's too loud, too crazy, too angry.  So you try to find ways not to feel tense, outside, alone: you listen to the top ten, watch the top ten, think the top ten are sexy, want to look like the top ten, want to become the top ten, because everyone else does.  It's safe.  It feels good to know what you're doing is what everyone else is doing.
"There's something else, too: the TV, the Internet, the magazines, the books are all made to get to the most people, right?  That's the way it works, isn't it?  They're successful when they get the most number of people to read the same thing, watch the same thing, think the same thing, become the same thing – and they keep getting better and better at it.  Something's a hit because it was made to be a hit – and we make it a hit because if we don't watch it, listen to it, be like it then we won't be like everyone else.
"Think about it.  We want to be wanted, so we buy what they're selling, so we become what everyone wants: a predictable model, a type, a unit.  Everyone's the same – and that way we not only know what we are, but everyone else knows what we are, too.  Then to stay that way, we buy what we're supposed to buy and live the way our types are supposed to live.  It goes round and around and around and around!
"Have you listened to your thoughts?  Really listened?  Close your eyes and pay attention: they aren't yours, are they?  They're stuff from movies, from TV, from all over the place.  They aren't yours because you're just what you've read or watched or seen.  You're just bits and pieces of stuff.  Stuff that other people are thinking about too, people who want to be the same kind of person you are.
"Even people who don't think they're not the same are the same, I mean.  They think they're special but they're not.  They're types too – just different types.  They think they're beyond all this shit but they're not – they've all read the same books, seen the same flicks, listened to the same music.  They all want to be accepted, but accepted by people like them, so they wear their costumes and put on their act.  Just like us.  Just like all of us.
"Maybe we're ... better at all this, being 'types' I mean.  Maybe we're so outside of it, being queer and all, that we just want it more.  You know: to be part of something we get and that gets us.  So we make ourselves into special shapes and shit and lives to do that.  Some of us talk a certain way, walk a certain way, create lives that are just like our type so we don't have to be different.  More different, I mean.
"No shit that some of us – some of 'me' you could say'broke'.  You could see why it happened, when you figure it all out.  Others, like you, have handled it okay.  That we have become a standard model of a person, I mean.  I'm just glad you saw me and came in, so we could talk.
"Others ... like me, too, I guess.  How many like me are there?  Sitting down and talking to others like you.  Explaining about it all?  Telling the story?  I don't know how many others – but there's more than one.  That's the point, I guess: that there's always more than one."

Sitting in Starbucks, listening to him.  Listening to me.  The other me.  A path in his talking, a winding road through my head, going from refusal to belief, from belief to fury, fury to wanting to work things out, wanting to work things out to deep darkness, and then finally from deep darkness to understanding.
We sipped our caramel macchiatos together, one side of the mirror facing the other.  Maybe one set of eyes a bit more frantic, the other set of eyes more exhausted.  Otherwise the same man here, the same man there: Tommy Hilfiger facing Tommy Hilfiger in a Starbucks that could be any Starbucks.  The hair was the same, styled and modeled and clipped in imitation of the same look seen in the same magazine, on the same model who was chosen to appeal to the greatest number of men.
What was he thinking?  I could almost hear the words in my head – but only almost.  The tone of voice was there, but the details were slippery, sliding from getting caught and nailed down.  He'd figured it out, after all.  I hadn't.  He was me, but a me that was farther along the road, waving back to my slower pace.  I might be able to think like he did, given enough time.
I thought about him.  I thought about me.  I thought about other ... hims and mes and Is and theys and uses.  One end of the road marked by a sideways, out-of-the-other-corner-of-the-eye, "Weren't you just here?" the first sign that something-may-not-be-right, that there might be someone out there who looks like me, acts like me, and who wants to steal what's mine.
The other end was this me, who had seen it all, pondered and thought, deduced, and then tried to tell others what he'd pondered, what he'd thought, what he'd deduced.
My coffee was warm in my hand, so I sipped at it.  Across the table, my coffee was warm in my hand, so I sipped it.  A delay, perhaps, of a moment, a pause, a consideration between the two of us.  One at this side of the road, the other at that side of the road.
But what was right?  No, not a road.  That was only one direction: this way or that way.  There were others, maybe many others.  Only some of them were just beginning, only some of them were finally ending.  He said that a few of us hadn't ... taken it well.  How not well?
Not well of tears?  Not well of sleepless nights?  Not well of sadness?  Not well of fear?  Not well of fright?
I could imagine that too well, and then did, as the coffee filled my mouth with warm excitement: a mirror-image walking through my life, stepping on my toes, taking my place in line, getting everywhere before me, moving in, taking everything.  I could see where that would push and push and push until I fell over into tears, from sleepless nights of paranoia, sadness of loss, fear of vanishing, and fright from being replaced.
But there were other kinds of not well.  Different direction I could have gone.
Not well of tears?  Not well of seduction?  Not well of temptation?  Not well of escape?  Not well of capture?
I could imagine that too well, and then did as the coffee filled my mouth with cooling excitement: a mirror-image fantasy lurking around every nasty corner of my life, crooking a finger at my conscienceless dick, licking duplicate lips, offering a perfect self-dream of narcissism, an enrapturing embrace of the one person I knew would be there and love me no matter what – but then there was the bad stuff of it, the swirling-down-the-drain shivers at the thought of gazing from now until whenever at my own navel.  I could see where that would shove me into tears from the allure of seduction, the tug of temptation, the fever to escape, and then the dark wish for capture.
But there were other kinds of not well.  Different direction I could have gone.
Not well of tears?  Not well of stalking?  Not well of pursuit?  Not well of corners?  Not well of desperation?  Not well of blood?  Not well of red and blue lights?  Not well of prison?  Not well of hail of gunfire?
I could imagine that too well, and then did as the coffee filled my mouth with cold dread: around every corner, behind every closed door, a leering face from a warped mirror; every step from behind belonging to him, every sound coming from him, every face at first his – until proven otherwise, every threat his, everything everywhere a scheme belonging to him.  I could see where that would shove me into frightened tears, drive me quivering insane from his real or imagined stalking, his real or imagined pursuit, his real or imagined face around every corner, then a moment when it didn't matter if he was real or imagined – it had to stop, then a moment of blood, then an afterworld of alleys and darkness escaping from the police, then an afterworld of bars and rape – or an afterworld of bullets burning hot holes through his body.
So many other kinds of not well.  So many different directions I could have gone.  Not a road.  No, that wasn't right.  So many stories with so many different versions of me.  I could see them as separate, unconnected, single stories – or even like a novel, with each chapter only looking like the same me on a trip from suspicion to seduction to smashing a supposed copy's brain to gray pudding – but in reality each me is a different one, lots of little stories instead of a big one in little pieces.
And I, sitting in front of another me sipping coffee, is just one more.  One more false chapter.  One more me.  In some books I'd be the end, in others only the beginning.
We got up to refresh our caramel macchiatos, he and I, perfectly together – as were the grins we shared at getting up together to refresh our caramel macchiatos.  Then we were broken, he doing something I wasn't doing – but only for a moment as I followed the turn of his head to look out the window, and saw what he turned his head to see.  Outside, looking in, worn and tired, scared and sleepless, Tommy Hilfiger over an older look as disguise, eyes too wide from too many shocks, was another me.

With what I hoped was a friendly beckoning, I crooked my finger at him; welcoming him into the company of himself.