Saturday, January 2, 2016

Karla Tangh's Fun Review Of Dirty Words!

This is very, very, very fun: Jarla Tangh just posted this wonderfully whimsical review of my queer collection, Dirty Words!

Here's a tease. For the rest just clock over to Jarla's site.


'Lo People,

Time to give M. Christian some more Hairy Eyeball for his Dirty Words.

Does the idea that there is a hardened penis available to be inserted into a variety of holes give you a reason to pay attention? Her Tangh-i-ness sure likes it when males aren't afraid to kneel, bend over, or stand so that this reader can get primo viewing of the "act." I read Skin Effect and The Bachelor Machine first, but I think that those books were all literary hors d'ouevres before Dirty Words spread its pages and showed off its tight sentences, wet imaginary plunges, and provoked climaxes. And if you like your stories veering towards the dark and twisted, there's more than one nugget of guilty pleasure here. This is an unashamedly M/M Action collection with twinges of loving feelings here and there but Dirty Wordsain't real Romantic. Nope. These stories are mostly about scoring.

To make it easy for potential readers of this collection, Her Tangh-i-ness will return to the following rating system.

TAMTT *Take A Minute to Think* This means the sexiness might have to grow on you.

WT *Wet* Self-explanatory. No?

H/OA *Hand/Object Assisted* Requires immediate action after the story climax.

FAPP *Find a Partner Pronto* Try this one at home, Folks.

*Spoiler Alert*

Her Tangh-i-ness greatly appreciates pithy plot summaries. However, for those who must have a virgin reading experience, read no further, and eyeball elsewhere.

*Spoiler Alert End*

DIRTY DEEDS FOR DIRTY BOYS (AND MEN) PATRICK CALIFIA
If you like LGBTQI Erotica, you've read Mister Califa's work. So when he has something to say about what M. Christian does on a page, there are those Readers who will listen a little harder.

INTRODUCTION M. CHRISTIAN
Mind you, this is now Her Tangh-i-ness's third romp with a M. Christian book. I don't know about you but I am in awe of someone who can say the following about the act of writing: Hell, it even kinda follows the Sexual Response Cycle: Excitement (an idea comes to mind), Plateau (putting it together), Orgasm (riding the high), and Resolution (typing "The End"). Excuse me, I have to go and type something to get my own jollies.

SPIKE
H/OA *Hand/Object Assisted* Fiction. Two, identical twin, blond brothers cum to decide one must follow and the other must lead. But not before some mutual oral service and a fistfight. Her Tangh-i-ness keeps one of those studded belts featured in the story so she can vouch for its effectiveness.

HOW COYOTE STOLE THE SUN
WT *Wet* Fiction. A man called Dog meets with a man called Roc. Two naked kids playing outside tell Dog, this habitual thief, of a man with "Stuff" who lives in the areas. Dog decides this "Stuff" is worth the challenge. There follows a titanic suck, a colossal f*ck, succeeded by a theft. Dog learns that all his efforts have been for naught. The two naked kids end up with a new toy.

THE HARLEY
WT *Wet* Fiction. Mammoth and Monster, two bikers, settle on a contest to win the wheels of a deceased rival. The true joy in this story can be found in the precision of the descriptions. He was Pup, and the one thing that was an absolute proven fact about the kid was that he could pull gas out of a bike without a hose. Mammoth makes off with the bike while Monster opts for Mammoth's former bedwarmer.

ECHOES
TAMTT *Take A Minute to Think* Fiction. Care to examine intimacy issues? A murderer cycles through other men hoping to escape the corpse of his lover. He even has sex with a Black guy and freaks out halfway through. For Chev, sex transforms into dread. Guilt seems to drive his need for punishment. Like an addict, Chev keeps seeking intimacy and the horror of it all lies in Chev's being his very own monster.

Monday, December 28, 2015

Very Cool: The Cover Of The New Edition Of Finger's Breadth!

How very, very, very cool is this?  Check out the cover for the new edition of my queer erotic/SF/thriller/horror novel Finger's Breadth - coming in a brand new edition very soon from the always-fantastic Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions.


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–