Friday, November 30, 2012

QMO Magazine And My ManLove Collection

Very, very cool: the great folks at CMO Magazine just posted my press release for my new ManLove collection (from the great folks at Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions):

M.Christian and Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions are extremely proud to announce a special imprint commemorating Lambda Award Finalist M.Christian’s best queer fiction and erotica: The M.Christian ManLove Collection! 
Featuring special re-releases of M.Christian’s critically-acclaimed novels and collections, the The M.Christian ManLove Collection also includes a extra-special, brand-new, best-of-his-best of his queer erotic fiction: Stroke the Fire: The Best ManLove Stories of M.Christian...

Thursday, November 29, 2012

Ann Regentin On Me, Me2, and You

Ann Regentin wrote a brilliantly thoughtful analysis of the work Me2 thing for the Erotica Readers and Writers site ... I just wish she was talking about me and not my nefarious copycat (sigh):

Beside Ourselves 
Several months ago, I got an e-mail to the effect that someone had stolen M. Christian's identity to get a book published about stolen identity [Plagiarism Alert: Me2 novel by 'other' M. Christian]. I read on, at first horrified and then faintly uneasy, but as I had a serious cold at the time, exacerbated by prednisone and immune suppressants, I set aside my unease. I would deal with it when I felt better, but in the meantime, I posted the thing to my blog. It was the least I could do, regardless of what it was.

As you've probably guessed, it was a publicity stunt, a joke that was perhaps more corny than clever, but a book is a book and I did the obvious thing: queried here and there to see if someone would let me do a review.

The response surprised me. ERWA, obviously, gave me a green light, but not after some discontent was heard on the Writers list. A joke, maybe, but in very poor taste. Another place I queried turned the review down flat, with some there suggesting that they might not work with M. Christian at all in the future. At the very least, the publication would remain quiet on this one. Clearly, M. Christian had unwittingly struck a nerve.

Okay, it was a silly joke, but if we're going to tar and feather intelligent men for making silly jokes, we'll have to pluck every chicken in the Midwest. M. Christian is a good writer and an easy man to work with. I can overlook a bit of silly.

Not everyone agreed with me. There were a number of folks who had taken the whole thing at face value and were feeling tricked or even used, and they were angry about it. They just wanted to forget the whole thing.

I decided not to. I decided instead to think about why this story seemed credible in the first place. It was intended as an outrageous joke. It should have been taken as an outrageous joke. So what happened? Is it possible that we're writing in a time when someone could pull off such an identity theft? Are we writing in a time when a publisher would let a book go to print, even promote it, when such a theft might have occurred? Are we writing in a time when a writer in such a position would have little or no legal recourse?

Sadly, yes. That's the conclusion I've come to, anyway, and I have a fair amount of evidence to back me up. I even have some experience along these lines, not so much a matter of chronic problems, but more a question of a few, scattered folks who seemed bent on profiting from my work without actually compensating me in any meaningful way. This isn't a reflection on anyone whose site you'll find listed on my own, by the way. When someone pulls that kind of crap, I don't link to them.

Setting my own experience aside, I have seen evidence of this on a larger scale. The recent writers' strike was, to a great extent, about who gets to profit from new media uses of written material. There has been a sad but steady trickle of journalism scandals, and books published as non-fiction that probably should have been published as novels. There have been lawsuits involving writers like J.K. Rowling and Dan Brown over who had certain ideas first, whether a fictionalized account of a line of historical reasoning counts as plagiarism when an account has already been published as non-fiction and, most recently, about the difference between not-for-profit, online fan work and profiting from a printed version of the same material.

We are also writing in a time when authors are expected to do everything except print the book and put it on the shelves, and expected to do it all equally well. Being an author is less a question of being a good writer than of being a jack-of-all-trades. For example, a recent entry on an agent's blog indicated that as far as he was concerned, writing a novel and writing a query letter require the same set of skills. I have to ask, though, whether he would believe that any advertising copywriter could write a good novel, because a query is really advertising copy, and that's different from a novel. Writing a novel is also different from editing, copy editing, and running an effective publicity campaign. Those tasks were once handled by specialists. These days, not so much.

There are new possibilities now. With changes in how books are printed and distributed, New York isn't the only game in town, and it's no longer necessary to buy a physical press, as Anais Nin did, in order to create or become something different. We can even make money in new ways. An interesting blog, maybe an e-book or related affiliate program, can generate a reasonable amount of spare change, never mind a potential publishing contract

In short, we're living in a time when pretty much anything goes in publishing, including a certain amount of lying and cheating. I don't think, though, that Alyson Press would have done that to M. Christian once word got out, or that M. Christian would have published the sale information of the book in the way he did. Certainly he wouldn't have mentioned it so enthusiastically in earlier interviews and pre-release e-mails. Very different things would have happened had this situation been a real crisis. Unfortunately, the fact that this turned into a tempest in a teacup indicates that we might well have a crisis on our hands, just not one involving M. Christian and Alyson Books.

Sadly, the tempest has obscured an interesting, timely book, [Me2] especially for erotica, even if it isn't necessarily erotica. If identity and personality are open to question or manipulation in an increasingly homogenous world, what does that mean for attraction? Are we falling in love with people, or with images chosen from a million, well-marketed possibilities? Where is the line between image and substance? Which of the two appeals to us more strongly, and what are the possible consequences? M. Christian poses these questions in a disturbing, thought-provoking way.

The book is also relevant to the point of irony where the resulting tempest is concerned, because I think the problems facing publishing are similar to the problems facing our narrator—or is it narrators? It's hard to be sure. Anyway, at the core of the publishing-related difficulties I listed is the desire on the part of nearly everyone involved, including writers themselves, to find or be the next big thing. Unfortunately, success like that isn't as easy to duplicate as writer self-help books claim it is, but the fact that the self-help books keep selling tells us how much we all want this. Agents and publishers set their criteria for both acquisitions and compensation on this desire, trying to minimize risk while maximizing benefit, and writers put up with an environment in which we can begin to believe even for a moment that Alyson Books would let a book go to press with M. Christian's name on it that wasn't written by M. Christian, simply because we want this badly enough.

Ours is a difficult, chancy profession, made worse by the fact that almost everyone can, in some way at least, write and even get published. It doesn't help that where things are published and by whom makes less of a difference than one might like to think. I've seen some darned good writing in personal blogs, and trite trash on the best-seller tables. So has everyone else. These days, being the next big thing isn't just about money, it's also about vindication. Vindication means different thing to different people, but whatever it means, it's usually important enough to sacrifice for.

What gets sacrificed, of course, is where the problem comes in, and it's not just an institutional issue. It's a personal issue, one that everyone in the industry must decide for themselves. There's no easy answer. Every approach has it's advantages and disadvantages, and every writer I know is coping in their own way. We're just going to have to get through this as best we can and see how the industry settles once we get used to what all of this new technology can do.

I'm not proposing changes here, sweeping or otherwise. That's not my job. What I'm suggesting is that we not shoot the messenger. Our discomfort with M. Christian's idea of a joke is what it is because of the context in which the joke was made, not the joke itself. "Wassamatta, your legs broken?" is funny when aimed at one's fit but recalcitrant teenager. It's offensive when aimed at someone whose legs are really broken.

Are the legs of publishing broken? I'm not sure. Certainly, the industry is changing, simply because communications technology is changing, and in the scramble to adapt, an environment has developed in which writers are worried. We see this kind of theft as a viable possibility, which makes it no laughing matter.

The book and the fuss surrounding its release have given me considerable food for thought, in part because I think I've met the narrator, or someone just like him. It's hard to tell, not to mention a disturbing experience.

I'm also writing in a climate of something just beyond unease but not quite into fear. There are stories, sometimes headlines and sometimes rumors, of writers losing control over the rights to their work in ways that rob them of compensation, and for a moment it seemed that M. Christian was one of them. He wasn't, though, and we'd prefer not to think about it anymore.

Clearly, I'm still thinking about it, and I probably will be for a while. Oh, and if you want to find out why I called this "Beside Ourselves", you'll have to read the book! 
Ann Regentin

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

A Great Ad For Stroke The Fire!

This is very cool: head over to the great site, Fallen Angels, and - ta-da - there's a very cool ad for my brand new best-of-my-best gay erotica: STROKE THE FIRE: The Best ManLove Fiction of M. Christian

Sizzling tales of bad boys, bruised hearts, and sweaty encounters. Lambda Award finalist M. Christian’s stories of men-who-love-men have been selected for Best Gay Erotica, Best American Erotica, and Best of the Best Gay Erotica. Evesdrop on what hot men who are doing hot things with other hot men say to each other between the sheets ... and up against the wall. Start reading the firey ManLove fiction of M. Christian with this personally selected collection of his best. 

"A wonderful book … just the thing if you are in the mood for an enjoyable quickie (or twenty)." -Mathilde Madden, author Reflection's Edge. 

[Don't miss the other books in "M. Christian's ManLove Collection from Sizzler Editions.] And don't miss his Lambda Finalist book, Dirty Words. 

"Fairy tales whispered to one another by dark angels whose hearts and mouths are brimming with lust." -Michael Thomas Ford, Lambda Award winning author Looking for It.

Sunday, November 25, 2012


Educated at Central high school, Leeds, where he met at 13 years old his lifelong partner, Graham Wilson, and Bangor University, Alan Bray spent a year in an Anglican seminary before building a distinguished career. Alan Bray, who died aged 53, was a rare combination; senior civil servant, gay activist and scholar. He lived with Graham in their Notting Hill apartment for more than 40 years. His book, Homosexuality In Renaissance England, first published in 1982 and still in print, is a classic. 
Pinned via pinmarklet

Friday, November 23, 2012

Sigmund Freud's Letter Regarding Homosexuality

Sigmund Freud's Letter Regarding Homosexuality 
In a response to a worried mother's inquiry about the sexuality of her son, Freud writes, “Homosexuality is … nothing to be ashamed of." 
The original letter and complete transcript can be read at Letters Of Note
(via BuzzFeed)

Monday, November 19, 2012

I (Heart) Iceland

The Mayor Of Reykjavík, Iceland Calls French Homophobes "Assholes":
Meet Jon Gnarr, the mayor of Reykjavík.

After thousands of French people protested a new gay marriage bill, he tweeted this:
The link in the tweet goes to this:

(via BuzzFeed)

Sunday, November 18, 2012

A Great Night Of Godless Perversity

I had a real blast performing at the Godless Perversity reading at the
Center for Sex and Culture last night - as I mentioned on my Classes And Appearances page.

For those poor, unfortunate souls (ahem) who couldn't attend here's a treat: the special, slightly cut down version of "Friday Night At The Calvary Hotel" that I performed. The full version, of which, is available in both FILTHY BOYS: Male-Male Erotica and my brand new best-of-my-best queer erotica collection, STROKE THE FIRE: The Best ManLove Fiction of M. Christian.

Oh, and if you want to read the piece I wrote, but didn't perform, just go to my Home Page of Imagination Is Intelligence With An Erection.


"Excuse me for saying this, but you're a freak," I said.

He certainly didn't look like a freak. He was actually kind of handsome: tanned, lean, with curly dark hair, and skin that was nearing, but not quite, leathery. He works outside, I thought: no button-pushing and fluorescent lights for him. Construction, maybe. Nothing heavy, though – he didn't have any serious heavy-lifting muscles.

Arabic? Swarthy Italian? A touch of the Hebrew brush? Hard to say. Definitely not from a place with snow-covered peaks. Hot sand, sweet wine, dates – that kind of place.

"Did Judith get the money to you?" he said, the smile staying on his face. His voice, though, was musical, a choir voice if ever there was one. If small talk was on the menu – and it wasn't – I would have asked if he was a singer. That kind of voice.

I nodded, slipping the security chain on. "Spoke to the bank this morning. The wire transfer went through yesterday. Thirty thousand dollars. A lot of money." I almost thanked him, but didn't; it was a lot of money, money I'd definitely earn tonight.

"It's just money," he said, with a dismissive wave of an elegant hand. "Don't have much use for it myself. Root of evil and all. I like to indulge in a different sort of sin, if you know what I mean. Is that it?" he said, nodding at my sheet-draped handiwork.

"That's it," I said, and damned if I didn't feel proud: kept thinking about my dad, about all the stuff we built when I was a boy -- but there's a big difference between banging together a tree house or a bookshelf and what this guy wanted.

"I made it in sections, held together with a couple of bolts. Strong as fuck but easy to haul around. The whole thing fitted right into a big gym bag; no one noticed a thing."

He stepped up close to it but didn't touch the sheet. He was breathing real slow and deep, like he was going to run in a marathon. Psyching himself up, I thought – either that, or trying real hard to keep his excitement bottled up.

"Not that anyone in this place would have cared," I added, prattling stupidly through my nervousness. The Calvary Hotel made other shitholes look like the Ritz. The morgue's body buggy could probably find its way there on its own, just out of habit. Hauling the stuff up the back stairs, I counted at least a dozen pitched sets of works and one – possibly two, I couldn't see if one guy was breathing – dead junkie. The place was perfect. Beg, scream, fire off a whole clip, the worst that could happen would ... fuck that, nothing would happen, that's what made it great.

He stood there, still breathing slow and deep. My nerves jangled so loud I was surprised he didn't hear them. "Want to see it?" I finally croaked out.

In a real soft voice, he said "Please."

So I pulled off the sheet, and there it was in all its glory. Freaky? Damned straight, but I'd done a good job, and a little burst of pride slowed my heart down a little, just enough for a question to leak out: "So, tell me, you Catholic or something?"

* * * * 

"Something like that," he said, finally, turning his head slowly to look back over his shoulder at me, that wry little smile back on his lips.

"Ah," was all I could say, struck more stupid than usual.

"This is wonderful," he said, stepping up and running his hands over the smooth wood. "A perfect job."

He rubbed it a long time, like he was communing with it. Watching him stroke it, I noticed something about his hands. "Is this your (ahem) first time? I mean ... doing this kind of thing?"

It took him a long minute to pull himself away. "Oh, no, not at all. It's just something I developed – well, I guess you could say 'a taste for' – a long time ago. Every once in a while I like to indulge myself, you know, when I can get away from the family business. Can I see ... the rest?"

He was almost dancing with excitement. I put down the toolbox, flipped open the latches, and handed him the stiff brown bag, then turned to open up the ladder.

"They're perfect," he said, his voice breaking with pleasure. I turned, catching sight of his deep brown eyes. Good eyes, kind and knowing eyes – but they were also junkie eyes seeking a fix. "Just perfect. I want to do it. Now," he said, starting to unbuckle his belt.

"You're the man," I said, a serious quaver in my voice. "If you're ready, I'm ready."

"I've been waiting to do this for ages," he said, sitting on the bed, kicking off his running shoes. "Again, I mean," he added. The pants followed. Then the denim shirt. He had on a pair of faded yellow ... well, it almost looked like a diaper, something wrapped around his waist and crotch. It didn't look comfortable, but then nothing about that Friday afternoon was even remotely comfortable – to either him or me.

There was something else. Something I noticed even though I didn't want to. He was hard. Very hard. I couldn't help but look, even stare. Hard as a fucking rock, his wrap-thing tented out by his cock. When he stepped toward me, I watched it, a big, stiff finger waving back and forth in his weird, loose underwear.

Before, what I'd made had been just a big wooden ... thing, like something Dad and I would build in the garage, but watching him step up to it, climb up on it, I couldn't lie to myself. I'd built a cross. He'd paid me to build a real, honest-to-goodness cross. Life-sized. Anchored to the wall of the Calvary Hotel with big fucking bolts.

But that's not all he'd paid me to do.

I was scared. No, fuck that, I was terrified. I wanted to puke, I wanted to run, I wanted to scream but I didn't.

Yeah, part of it was that 30 grand in my bank account, but a lot more was ... well, it was him. He wanted it. He wanted it bad, so it was all right to do it. He wanted it. He really did. Don't ask me how, but it was, really, all right.

After carefully, gingerly climbing the stepladder, he slowly turned around, balancing himself with one very tanned hand on the wood. When his back was up against it, he reached up, grabbed the right-hand peg, and pulled himself up onto the little step I'd attached, as per instructions, to the vertical beam. Then he was up there, hands spread wide, legs calmly crossed. He was up there, on the cross. His eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and regular. And his cock ... his cock was still very hard.

Small sledge hammer from the toolbox. Up the stepladder, slowly, carefully, bracing myself against the dirty wall. Another step, then two, his groin at eye level, then below, his cock still very hard, very obvious. A little stain, too – fresh. The smell of sweat and salty come in the air.

I put one hand on his arm, to balance. He was hot; the skin was slick with sweat, though not dripping. Just a light sheen. I felt his pulse, distantly, as I put the tip of the nail against his wrist, between two bones.

Then he said, "Please, do it now," and so I did.

The nail was sharp and the sledge was heavy, very heavy, and I put a lot of muscle into that first swing. I don't know what I was expecting – the nail not to go in at all, or the nail to go all the way through, biting into the wood with the first swing – but I didn't get either. The nail dented his flesh, breaking his skin, sinking deep into his wrist – but not all the way through.

He clenched his teeth, but didn't scream. His breathing became fast, but still deep, and his eyes were squeezed tight shut. "Again," he hissed between his straight whites, "do it again." He groaned, deep and heavy – the kind of groan I thought only came from sex.

Again. This time the nail went through, but this time I'd swung at it with everything I had, trying to hit the dull gray head even though it gently rose and fell with his steady pulse. There was the bass sound of steel hitting wood, and for an instant it was Dad and I again, building a soap box racer, a bookcase, a birdhouse, a tree house – anything but driving a nail through a man's wrist.

Blood welled up quickly around the nail, then started to slowly drip down onto the floor in heavy, steady drops. It was very thick, I remember that. Drip. Drip. Drip. It smelled of copper.

"The other one," he said. "Do the other one."

I walked down the ladder, surprisingly calm inside, and moved it. Back up, new nail in my hand. I knew how to do it now. I knew what it felt like to drive the nail now: the surprise and shock was gone.

Before he could ask, I swung again, this time driving the nail straight through, wrist to bone in one clean swing. I felt a flash of pride in a job well done – right before the bile rose in my throat and I had to swallow it down.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you..." he said, his voice distant, lost, but also joyous, ecstatic. His blood was a steady metronome drip, but not in time to his pulse – that was shown by the hard, throbbing lift and sink of his cock. "Thank you--"

He was mumbling, his words gone soft, lost in his perverted indulgence. Happy, so happy. I had to really listen to make out the words. Actually, it was only two of them, over and over again: "Thank you, thank you, thank you..."

He screamed. He screamed loud and long and hard. Not a frightened or pained scream; he screamed like it was the best time of them all, the best time ever had by anyone.

I was scared. Not because I thought anyone would come a-knockin' – after all this was the Calvary Hotel and a scream was just part of the general ambiance – but because for a beat, a single moment, I was jealous. I wanted to feel what he was feeling, know the bang, pop, wow of the best time you could ever feel.

I watched him for what seemed like hours. His breathing slowed; his body sagged like it was melting from stone, or he was falling asleep, emptied through that roaring voice, that soaking come. His eyes fluttered, then stilled, and his head gently fell onto his shoulder.

Then his breathing, without any kind of warning, just stopped. I stared for a second, maybe two, then my own heart started to race.

I watched him for another couple of hours, frozen. I watched him till the sun went down and the place got really dark. Finally, I got up and switched on the lights, knowing what I had to do.

It took me a long time; luckily, I'd booked the room for two days and nights. Getting him down was a bitch, but I managed. I wrapped him in a sheet, being careful what I touched, and locked him in the side room. I didn't think they'd be able to lift prints from the plastic tarp, but just to be safe, I bundled it up. Toolbox, tarp, and everything else I could think of went out the window and down the fire escape. And the cross. I'd burn it, I decided, when I got home, feed its carefully built pieces into my fireplace. Ashes to ashes.

Then I left. Went back out into the world, fear riding my back, thundering in my heart. I went out via the lobby, paying the pockmarked night clerk for another week, paying in cash.

I didn't think I'd ever go back. Funny how you sometimes do something you'd never, ever dream of doing. Like nailing a complete stranger to a cross. Or going back to check on his body.

But, three days later, I climbed the fire escape and slipped inside. The bed was still pushed against the door, the door was still nailed shut, the room was still dark and windowless, and the sheet was there, in the middle of the floor. But he was gone.

No body. No crime. I left, hoping to leave that Friday night at the Calvary Hotel behind me. I tried to forget all about the guy, the cross, the nails, the hammer in my hand, the body. But sometimes I'll remember, everything coming back to me in one trembling recall.

Especially at Easter.


Massive Gay Kiss-In Held In Paris 

People gathered in front of the Hôtel de Ville on Nov. 15 to demonstrate support for the “marriage for all” bill as the equality debate heats up in France.
The demonstration

(View Entire List)

Thursday, November 15, 2012



Happy “Dick Day"

Eric Idle from "What About Dick?"
Eric Idle has declared it “Dick Day,” and so “Dick Day” it must be. The Monty Python alum has been working with a group of British comedy legends and also Russell Brand on a project called What About Dick? which is being released online today for the low, low price of six dollars. Why not five dollars, which seems to have become the standard price for purchasing funny things online? We assume it has something to do with the exchange rate from American dollars into British currency. Then again, maybe it’s just twenty percent funnier than anything else on the Internet. 
Releasing comedy specials online is nothing new. Louis C.K. just announced he’ll keep doing it, but What About Dick? is a different kind of creature — sort of a play/comedy hybrid. The show incoroporates songs, elements of stand up comedy, and seems a lot like a play, but Idle insists “it’s not a play that you have to take completely seriously because it’s sort of a send up.” We are not well-versed in the Queen’s English, but assume “send up” is a British phrase meaning “crazy awesome comedy with Eric Idle.” 
Whatever it is, with a cast that also includes Eddie Izzard, Tim Curry, Billy Connolly and Tracey Ullman, we’re pretty sure it’s worth the six bucks, or pounds or Euros or whatever. 
You can also hear Eric Idle, Billy Connolly, Eddie Izzard and Sophie Winkleman talking about the play on the latest episode of The Nerdist Podcast
(via What About Dick?)

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Bitten By Books Likes The Very Bloody Marys

Here's a very nice review of The Very Bloody Marys (out now in a new edition as part of the M.Christian ManLove Collection)

Bitten By Books:
Valentino, a daylight hemosapien, is training to become a vampire cop for the Le Counceil Carmin. He has been training for over a century and his boss/trainer, believes that he is worthless. Valentino readily agrees with him. 
Valentino is running late for work as usual and is worried that his boss, Pogue, will get angry with him, again. He jumps in a cab with a driving corpse and heads to Pogues home. Ombre who is a liaison for the Counseil tells him that Pogue is missing and Valentino has been chosen to look for him. Ombre believes that the Very Bloody Marys have something to do with it. 
During the night Valentino must not only find his boss and the Very Bloody Marys but he needs to figure out how. As the night goes on his To Do list becomes bigger and bigger. 
I had a lot of fun reading this book. It was a nice change to have a bumbling vampire and watch him fight Vespa riding vampires. He tries so hard to make it look like he knows what he is doing but in the end it is all for not. The cast of extras were wonderful additions to the story. Saul a wizard who owns a cat that talks and is addicted to cat nip, a chef who is a coroner who works at a morgue/restaurant was hysterical. A worthy under dog story.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

What Do You Have To Say For Yourself?

My pal Matt Skaggs over at Enter the Octopus was kind enough to interview me about me, Me2 (out now in a brand new edition), and all kinds of other fun things. Here's a quick taste:
It’s my true pleasure to introduce you to my friend Chris, also known as M. Christian. He’s a fine writer and is capable of incredible range, from the erotica he cheerfully describes as “smut” to haunting science fiction and engrossing nonfiction. Get to know this “literary streetwalker with a heart of gold” here, and at his website 
Would you mind introducing yourself to my readers? 
Well, let’s see … Hello, my name is Chris, and I’m an alcohol .. I mean I’m a writer, usually under the name “M.Christian.” 
When did you start writing? 
I’ve pretty much always known I wanted to be a writer .. hell, I remember trying to write my first story in the 4th grade … but it wasn’t until high school that I really began to work at it. Unfortunately it took about ten years or so of trying before I got enough of the bad stuff out of my system to get published. But since then I’ve done okay: 300 short story sales, edited 20 anthologies, and published five novels (Running DryThe Very Bloody MarysMe2Brushes, and Painted Doll) and four collections (Dirty WordsSpeaking PartsThe Bachelor Machine, and Filthy). Oh, and some articles, reviews, couple of columns, two felony … I mean, a whole bunch of other things as well. Yeah, that’s what I meant…. 
How would you describe your work? 
I like to call myself a “literary streetwalker with a heart of gold,” meaning I consider myself a noble hack: willing to do pretty much anything for anyone anytime … just leave the cash on the dresser. Kidding aside I really just love to write, to tell stories. When I first started out I tried to be the next R. A. Lafferty, Sturgeon, Bester, Zelazny, Dick, etc. — pretty much what every writer does but then something clicked and I really started to enjoy the work itself. When I got an opportunity to write smut I gave it a shot — and sold my first story, and then another, and another, and another, and so on. I still write a lot of erotica but because I’ve published so much of it, I’ve been able to expand out into lots of other genres: horror, SF, thrillers, non-fiction. 
To this day I love a challenge, more than anything because I didn’t know I’d be a good smut writer until I tried. Who knows what else I might be good at? Sometimes it doesn’t work, but when it does … oh, man, it’s a kick in the pants. 

Saturday, November 10, 2012

"The Greener Grasses" From Stroke The Fire

Here's a nice little teasing treat: the starting of "The Greener Grasses" - which is in both Filthy Boys and the best-of-the-best (well my best) queer erotica collection, Stroke the Fire ... both available from Renaissance/Sizzler Editions.


When I got home, Terry was in the kitchen, working magic in a pan.  It was a Thursday, so I knew the steaming mixture was rice, shrimp, tomatoes, onions, and all the rest that went into creating Terry's magical paella.  It was wonderful: spicy without being too spicy, full of elegant flavors – and it was always on Thursday.
"Hi, honey, how was your day?" he said as I walked in.  Terry's glasses were off, lying on the kitchen counter, so they wouldn't steam up.  I could have been bleeding from the eyes and he wouldn't have been able to tell, wouldn't have changed the typicality of walking in the door, Thursday or not.
"Fine," I said, struggling to keep the teeth out of my words.  My lover, my husband – or wife, depending on how he was acting, or I was – was working in our kitchen, making me a wonderful dinner.  But all I wanted was for him to throw me down on our Spanish tiled floor, undo my belt, zip down my fly, fish out my cock and suck me, right then and there.
"That's good," he said, adding something sharp and flavorful to the mixture.  We'd been together for five years, and I still didn't understand what went into that pan, just that it was good.  Always had been good, and always would be good.  "Mr. Lawrence behaving himself?"
Mr. Lawrence was my boss, he'd been in Paris for a month, and wouldn't be back for another one.  I'd told Terry that at least a dozen times.  "He's fine, too."
I got a beer out of the fridge and watched him cook for a minute.  Tell me to suck your cock – order me to suck your cock.  Fuck me till I bleed.  Make me stand naked in the rain.  Make me jack off into your mouth.  Shave me.  Cut me.  Mix my come with my blood and drink it down.  "That's good.  I'm glad," Terry said, never taking his eyes off his pan.  "I love you, sweetheart."
"I love you, too," I mumbled, finishing the rest of my beer.  Pierce my nipples.  Put your fist up my ass.  Carve your initials in my back.  Whip me.
Then he did something nasty.  He put the pan aside, wiped his hands on his Kiss the Chef apron, got his glasses from the counter, and walked over to me.  Kissed me.  Not deep, not hot, not hard, not viscous – just his soft lips to mine.  Then he did something worse: "I'm so glad you're here," he said, when our lips separated.
Restrain me, wrap my cock and balls in fishing line, make my dick hard and blue.  Maybe needles; maybe current, voltage; maybe a single, quick touch of a smoldering cigarette – maybe a lot of things, but surprise me, shock me.  "I-I am, too," I stammered.
He went back to his cooking.  I got another beer.  I usually only have one, but he didn't notice.  I loved Terry – loved him with all my heart – but I also hated him like I'd never hated anyone before.
"Dinner will be ready in just a sec," he said, stirring, stirring, stirring, his head becoming hazy in the steam from his pan.
"I can't wait," I said, walking away.
* * * *
Dinner was good – as it always is on Thursday nights.  We talked as we ate, saying nothing really important, nothing different.  They say that domesticity isn't pretty ... well, what we had was a serious form of ugly.
"You seeing Robert tomorrow, right?" Terry said, sipping a glass of red wine.
"Yeah," I said, pushing rice, shrimp, tomatoes, and onions around on my plate.  Robert: Mister Robert – not Master, not "Sir", just Mister.  Mister Robert had made me scream, cry, bleed and come too many times to count.
"Give him my best," Terry said, smiling.
"I'll do that," I said, smiling back, my face painful from tension.  Terry was a sweetheart, a treasure and a prize – he understood that sometimes you need more in a relationship than just one person, one way of doing anything.  If he didn't, if he'd thrown things and screamed I'd be much happier.
After dinner, we watched Buffy.  Terry laughed and smiled the whole way through.  I wasn't paying attention.  Cover my eyes.  Tie me up, make my wrists and ankles burn when I pull against them.  Light a candle; fill my nose with the smell of hot sulfur.  One burning dot, then two, then three – wax splashing on my rigid body: making me scream, making me hard ... so hard.
After, we went to bed and had Thursday sex.  Paella sex: spicy without being too spicy, full of elegant motions – and it was always on Thursday.  Good sex.  The problem was, I wanted great.  I wanted fantastic.
After, Terry faded into sleep.  I couldn't, though.  Wide awake, I looked out our bedroom window at the bright moon shining on our carefully manicured garden, the blackness of distant trees waving gently back and forth in the distance.  I'd done it before, for a long time – but that night, that Thursday paella night, I balled my hands into fists until my palms throbbed.


Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

8 Reasons To Support Marriage Equality

(8 Reasons To Support Marriage Equality)

A-Touring I Will Go!

This is very, very cool: as part of the release of my best-of-my-best queer erotica, Stroke The Fire, the great Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions have signed me up for a fun blog tour - running from November 25th to December 17th.

Stay tuned for info on what blogs I will be on but for now here's the cool logo the tour-organizer created for me:

Sunday, November 4, 2012

What About Asstrology?

A clip from Eric Idle's What About Dick? A once in a lifetime comedy event from the procreators of Spamalot. Exclusive Download only from from November 13th 2012. 
Starring Russell Brand, Billy Connolly, Tim Curry, Eric Idle, Eddie Izzard, Jane Leeves, Jim Piddock, Tracey Ullman and Sophie Winkleman.

Thursday, November 1, 2012


This is a nice little Halloween Treat: the very cool Jan Graham gave my queer vampire/horror/comedy, The Very Bloody Marys, a nice little mention on her blog:
I don't always read romances, although they are one of my fav genres. It's just that sometimes a girl needs a little more excitement, something different to dwell on rather than a HEA tale. What book could better at Halloween than, a queer vampire horror story with a touch of erotica thrown in. I was in my element, tucked up in bed, lights out, reading a bloody vampire tale. I still haven't finished it but I love the way this author writes. His books always make me think, there's usually some kind of twist in the plot and I never know what to expect when I read one of M.Christian's stories. So if you want to take a look at what I'm reading, there is a little blurb below and to find out more about the book or to buy it just scroll over the title...

The Very Bloody Marys by M.Christian

A gang of Vespa-riding vampires are killing San Franciscans so indiscriminately they threaten to not only drain the city dry--but risk the discovery of vampires everywhere. Gay vampire cop Valentino is called upon to stop the group calling themselves The Very Bloody Marys before the situation gets worse. Unfortunately, it already has. You see, Valentino is still only a trainee who is in way over his head now that Pogue, his mentor, is missing. And this brutal gang is tough, smart, and very, very bloodthirsty.

And Worth Every Penny -

A Kansas State Board of Education candidate linked to the Westboro Baptist Church only raised a measly $5 for his campaign and doesn’t plan to spend it. 
Jack Wu’s financial disclosure report, published by the Kansas Secretary of State, shows the Republican candidate only raised $5 from July 27, 2012 through October 25, 2012.

“I don’t like asking for money,” Wu told the Associated Press. “It’s not my style.” 
In contrast, his opponent Democrat Carolyn Campbell raised $13,518 and spent $12,101 during the same period. Much of that money was spent on ads that highlight Wu’s relationship with the Westboro Baptist Church.

The infamous Topeka-based church regularly pickets the funerals of military service men and women with vulgar signs. The Westboro Baptists believe God is punishing the United States because of its tolerance of homosexuality. Wu has said he attends the Westboro Baptist Church, but is not an official member. 
According to his campaign website, Wu believes that students in Kansas should be taught that “God created everything.” His education plan consists of removing “lies of men and of the devil” — such as the theory of evolution — from schools.