Colleen Anderson Likes The Very Bloody Marys

In celebration of the upcoming re-release of my queer vampire novel, The Very Bloody Marys, here's a rave review of the book from my pal Colleen Anderson:

From the title you might think this is about drinking, or murderous monarchs. If you thought one of these, you’re close to the heart of the matter. But really it’s both, about bloodthirsty vampire queens. Some are not so much queen as just murderous gay vampires. If you’re familiar with M. Christian’s work, you know he’s a prolific writer, and his writing includes erotic tales straight, gay, lesbian, etc. He’s very versatile. So I confess to thinking this book would be about gay vampires with a lot of erotica thrown in. Though it has sensuous details this is more the tale of a gay vampire trying to gain experience as a detective. It’s a murder mystery with the supernatural thrown in.

While vampire detectives are not necessarily new, a gay vampire detective is. Valentino is thrust into the crime scene on a personal level, since his mentor is missing. And the crime scene: Vespa scooting vampires are killing the folks of San Francisco and risking the outing of all vampires, who tend to live by a code so that they aren’t hunted down. Coupled with mentor Pogue’s disappearance, Valentino has two mysteries to figure out.

The book opens with three different beginnings as Valentino tries on his authorial voice. This sets the tone, and gives this character high twinkiness. Valentino is a flamer, vapid and vain. The character was so irritating and flittythat I nearly put the book down, but his way in the world was intriguing. I think M. Christian might have cut it down a bit but then I realized there is a good reason about a quarter of the way into the book on why Valentino is acting this way. He comes to discover what’s been done to him and his personality deepens as it’s unlayered.

Valentino relies on other supernatural help and Christian’s writing uses some very descriptive phrases. For being an undead guy, Valentino is vibrantly alive and given to over verbosity that doesn’t stop in describing his zombie driver: “One time–big shudder here–I had caught a look at his eyes, two puss-filled boiled-egg eyes staring, unblinking, straight ahead, and didn’t sleep well for a week.” Of course that should be pus-filled not eyes with cats in them, but I blame the publisher for not putting a proofreader on it or maybe they did and missed it. There are very few typos, which is a good thing.

You get a good sense of Valentino’s world as he sees it. “Finally, the Brass Ass of the Great Emancipator (Abraham Lincoln) led me through silverfish heaven to a narrow doorway between the piles…In it was Saul, tarnished silver hair, rainbow sweater unwinding in spots into primary colors, brittle bones showing where unwinding yarn couldn’t hide it, eyes like bleached robin’s eggs, Indian blanket in his lap hiding the bones I knew weren’t just brittle but also didn’t work, and, because of those legs, an ancient wheelchair.”It took me a moment to realize he meant realbones, not bony legs; the visual setting is very concrete.

Much of Valentino’s descriptions go into overdrive, with buckets of adjectives. They hit their height when he’s talking about his lover, Julian. “Oh oh oh Julian Julian Julian–beloved, adored, venerated companion, compadre, mate, playmate, partner, betrothed, idol, best friend, love, lover–oh oh oh Julian Julian Julian…” A bit much? Yes, but then this is the turning point for Valentino.

Events pick up with dire and catastrophic discoveries. I don’t want to give it away but let’s just say the Very Bloody Marys are brutal, relentless, sociopathic, fashion sensitive vampires. As the fog clears from Valentino’s eyes he finds his world isn’t as he suspected. Sure it still has a few supernatural beings but all is not what it seems. He still richly describes things but there is a darker vein now to the vampire detective’s perspective. “The inky blackness didn’t so much as run as steadily walk out of that doorway. A pooling, a billowing, a smoking, and then up and into arms and legs and a wide-brimmed hat pulled down over hooded eyes.”

When Valentino runs into Ombre, even the supernatural shade notices something has changed though the gay vampire tries to hide it. “It’s just that you seem different somehow. The flippancy is still there, that much is clear, but it’s like something else is missing.”

And Valentino has changed on several levels. In the process of discovering what has happened to Pogue, being threatened with permanent annihilation and in stopping the brutal gang, he earns his wings. He solves the mysteries, stops the Marys and finally grows up a bit after 200 years. M. Christian wraps up the tale in a very satisfying and unpredictable way. It’s one of the many bright spots in the story; very little is predictable. You won’t see this as another tired take on the vampire trope. It’s refreshingly bright and if not a complete happy ending, one with suitable revenge.

If you’re looking for a good, fast paced read, or if you like mystery or fantasy or gay fiction. Or if you just want something different and new, this book will be as satisfying as a vampire’s first drink of blood.

DIRTY WORDS And RUNNING DRY - Out Now In Print!

Here's some great news for all your folks who are fans of dead-tree editions: the fantastic folks at Sizzler Editions has just released two of my queer books as print editions - each for just $9.00!

Running Dry: The Modern Classic of Gay Vampires

Manlove trilogy first time ever in one volume!

M.Christian's masterful queer thriller/horror series is now complete. He’s immortal. He drinks blood. But he's not a vampire. Doud’s totally unique – a being no one’s ever seen before – and he’s desperately lonely for a lover: a special someone who will not just join him in his bed but his strange life as well. But every time he thinks he's found someone it all goes horrifically wrong. Then one day a monster from his past returns: a thing of bitterness and fury he believed was long dead. Doud, with his friend Shelly in tow, begins a terrifying chase that begins in Los Angeles and ends in a blistering confrontation in the desert’s baking wastes. 

There, in the heat and the dust, Doud will confront what he is, what he’s become, his deepest and darkest sexual desires and lusts. Doud will get what he’s always wanted out of his long, strange life–but it will be nothing that Doud, or you, could ever have imagined!

Dirty Words: Lambda Finalist Man-Love Collection

Lambda Literary Award Finalist for best gay collection!

M.Christian shows just how hot and imaginative manlove erotica can be! From mischievous Native American spirits, to victims of cybernetic nightmares, these stories will enthrall, arouse, shock and – always – turn you on. M. Christian's well-crafted tales, filled with what some people call dirty words and dirty men, will touch you in ways you’d never expect. 

With a very special introduction by Patrick Califia. 

"A sense awakening experience, which enlivens and sweeps you away in the same narrative breath.... It’s dark, it’s dangerous, it’s horny, it’s mouthwatering, it’s witty and it’s sharp. Read my lips: Read this book."- Skin Two 

"To get the most out of M.Christian's haunting mix of rapture and horror, love of language and lust for flesh, read him out loud. If you have someone to read him out loud to, someone who knows that the best porn is also art, you're both very lucky." - Clean Sheets 

"Part folklore, part horror, part brutal romance - and all erotically kick-ass. Dirty Words takes readers in a tour of 14 contorted mental interiors and labyrinthine psychic dungeons inhabiting M.Christian's mind. Smart, hot, and vorpal-blade sharp, Dirty Words is perfect reading for those who love their sex fantasies in-you-face." -AVN

Mascara and Tears

Here's a little treat: the very short - but I think quite nice - story, "Mascara and Tears," from my queer erotica collection, Bodywork: out now from the always-fantastic Sizzler Editions.

Mascara and Tears

Lost in memories, Juan didn't care his mascara was running.

He'd started the night pretty. Spent his usual too much time picking and discarding this dress, that boa, that wig, those shoes, those hose, those boobs and sitting in front of the mirror playing with eyeliner, lipstick, blush and all the rest. When he'd left his little place he'd been what he wanted to be: gorgeous with just the right touch of over-the- top tacky.

For that night he had to be – he had to be more than just his usual devastating best. Tonight was their one-year anniversary. One year ago. He had to look his absolute best for that.

Done up, he'd though about going clubbing – showing off his gorgeous self to his friends, the other dames. It's what he'd been doing a year ago, exactly – going from this hot stop to that one, prancing and posing, whooping and playing with fans, dishing and laughing – when he'd met Alda.

Queens don't have kings. At best they have boyfriends, lovers and admirers. But Alda was different. He didn't wear a crown, didn't act like it at all but, sure enough, for Juan he was a king. From their first meeting he treated Juan like the queen that he was – held his hand, stroked his brow, told him when he looked gorgeous, said – and meant it – if this or that dress made him look fat. He was perfect, ideal.

He was a king in bed, too.

Though he didn't wear the toys on his hips like a regular leatherman, he had quite a hefty bag of tricks. In his car, parked on a dark street, looking up at a dark apartment window, Juan remembered one special time: It was after a Brazilian Carnival party – Juan done all Carmen Miranda with fruit balanced on his head – when Alda took him into an alley. Slipping on a cheesy Spanish accent Alda rumbled out "Fucking bitch – you're gonna take it and like it" and lifted Carmen's skirt, tore off her pantyhose, yanked down her panties, spat on his hand, got her all good and wet and open, slipped on a handy condom, and fucked her right there with her face pressing into dirty bricks. Sure, Juan liked it rough and wasn't new to it, but he wasn't Juan, he was Carmen and Carmen protested and fought as Alda's big dick slid into her. Squealing with pain/pleasure as Alda fucked her South American ass until Carmen ... well, Juan ... couldn't take it anymore and hard to (had to!) haul his own cock out and stroke himself as Alda. It was love, and a lovely fuck – and Alda came (jerking like a man shocked) just as Juan did, his own come painting the brick walls with shiny jism.

In his car, Juan looked up at the dark apartment window, mascara streaking his cheeks. He thought about Alda, about the other times – many in his king's apartment. 

Alda liked westerns. His little apartment had been decorated with the stuff of them: barbed wire, a saddle over the foot of his big bed, paintings of lonely-looking cowboys, wrought-iron fixtures sporting his bottomless collection of cowboy hats. On Alda's twenty-sixth birthday Juan had surprised him – doing an Indian princess was surprisingly hard (without making himself look like a cheap costume shop reject) but he was pleased with the result.

And, seeing him, Alda was as well. Juan almost didn't have enough time to even start the patter he'd been rehearsing all day before Alda grabbed Pocahantas like a starving mountain man.

"Ain't you the most beautiful thing I've ever done seen," Alda said, tossing one of his hats on his head and tearing at Pocahantas – removing her simple buckskin with one swipe of his meaty (though fine) hand.

The Indian princess squealed in protest – but not for long: it's hard to argue when a condomed cock is filling your mouth.

"Tasty as sweet corn," Alda said, slowing moving her mouth up and down on his cock, fucking her face with his big dick. Pocahantas tried to force him away but the cowboy was too strong for her (that and Juan didn't really want to escape). Savagely, persistently, he filled the girl's mouth, pushing and pulling his cock into her till – with a hearty "Yippie Kay Yay!" that must have startled the neighbors – he came: hot cream jerking out of his cock and warming the inside of Juan's mouth.

Pocahantas and the cowboy fucked and sucked each other till they couldn't – till their bodies refused to come any more: it wasn't until late the next day that Juan could turn, dazed and blurry, to wish his lover, "Happy Birthday."

One year. In his car, Juan looked up at the window. Remembering other times, other kisses, chats, dinners, breakfasts – other comes and laughter. He remembered and cried, his tears marking his face with the stigmata of a sad drag queen.

Starting his car, he blew a kiss to the dark apartment window. Driving away he remembered one more thing, one of the last things Alda had said, before the machines stopped beeping and the crying really started: "The king is dead, sweetheart – long live the queen."

Touching Praise for FILTHY BOYS

Check out this very nice review of Filthy (now reprinted by the great Renaissance/Sizzler as Filthy Boys):

From Amazon (review by DonovanBrown): 

Erotica That Reads Like Literature

I have enjoyed M. Christian’s work for a long time. His solo collection Dirty Words and his two multiple-author anthologies co-edited with Simon Sheppard, Rough Stuff and Roughed Up, are among my favorite volumes of erotica.

Which brings me to Filthy: Outrageous Gay Erotica, a new collection of gay erotic stories by M. Christian. To say this is a great book is an understatement. It runs the gamut of emotions, from anger to sadness to ecstasy to envy.

Here are capsule reviews of some of my favorite stories from Filthy…

“The Greener Grasses” in one short story captures the entire paradox of trying to reconcile a leatherfetish lifestyle into the humdrum world of 9-to-5 jobs and dishes to be washed more than volumes of scholarly non-fiction ever has.

“Flyboy” is a wistful tale of a man who has two lovers, one flesh and blood and one as big as all outdoors. Guess which one gets him in the end. You might be surprised.

“Love” reads as a tender valentine to all the gay men, imaginary or otherwise, who have inspired the author over the years to create his amazing tales of erotica.

“Suddenly, Last Thursday” is a haunting, harrowing riff on Tennessee Williams’s play Suddenly, Last Summer.

And “Friday Night at the Calvary Hotel” is an amazing tale that gets my vote for one of the top ten best short stories ever.

Filthy transcends its genre of erotica and enters the realm of literature.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Billierosie Likes Dirty Words

My fantastic pal, Billierosie, sent me this great review for Dirty Words (out now in a brand new edition from Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions)... thanks, sweetie!

What's also cool is that this edition restores Patrick Califia's very special introduction.

What is it about M.Christian’s DIRTY WORDS, that has me thinking of tapestry? In particular the Bayeux Tapestry, in Northern France? DIRTY WORDS is M.Christian’s collection of erotic, if not pornographic stories, displaying human sexuality at its most raw and crude. The Bayeux Tapestry, as I remember it, has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with Queen Matilda and her refined Ladies in Waiting, stitching away in chilly castles in Normandy, France, while their men folk sail off to conquer the unrefined British.

I think in my muddled way, my brain is drawing comparisons between two wonderful forms of story telling. I’ve been privileged to see the Bayeux Tapestry, three, maybe four times. And each time I’ve wandered around that museum in France, going from panel to panel, I’ve been struck by the tiny stories that it carefully tells. The journey across what we now call the English Channel. The logistics of transportation. The battle itself and the death of poor King Harold. Even a panel dedicated to those lonely ladies, stitching away at home. And there’s the little people. Those who don’t get noticed.

In DIRTY WORDS, M.Christian weaves us stories, that challenge and inspire. Stories of the little people; the dirty people. The people we try not to notice. In SPIKE, Christian gives us narcissism at its most extreme. Identical twin brothers sucking on each other’s cocks. No way! Shocking. But Christian doesn’t shy away from the truth about the two Spikes. Their self love is all consuming; dangerous; overwhelmingly passionate. It’s uncontrolled. The only control here, is finding out who is in control. Finally, carving out one’s own identity.

The wonderful HOW COYOTE STOLE THE SUN, gives us a drifter. A life without purpose. Or is it? The dog will cheat you, turn you over. Seduce you; rape you, steal your lover. Why? Just because he can. The odds are against dog. Even the elements are against him. The cruel sun pounds down on him and still dog wins. He doesn’t even want his prize and throws it away. But he still leaves with a smile on his face.

So who’s got the biggest cock? Mammoth or Monster? Ask Pup; he knows. THE HARLEY tells of biker culture. But not a biker culture like you’ve ever imagined it. Mammoth and Monster are crude, ugly, without any endearing features. They ride bikes and they fuck. Mostly Pup. There’s a competition going on for the Harley. Who gets it? Who deserves it? Perhaps Pup should decide.

The brilliant ECHOES is worthy of Edgar Allen Poe, at his most gruesome. Sex and Death, and all the horrors of beyond the grave. Guilt, and secrets coming back to haunt us. The sort of story that reminds me of why I check under the bed, on those dark nights.

I seem to have drifted a long way from the ladies stitching the Bayeux Tapestry. It’s about the excellence of great story telling. M.Christian weaves his exquisite words. The tapestry is another art form entirely. It tells a big story and lots of little ones. Moments in time. DIRTY WORDS tells the big story of sexuality. It also tells the little stories of those small people. Again. Moments in time.

Excerpt From Running Dry: The Complete Series

Wheeee!  This is very cool - the very fun Gay/Lesbian Fiction Excerpts site just posted a teasing taste of my newly released Running Dry: The Complete Series (from the fantastic Sizzler Editions).  

Here's a bit of it - for the rest just click here.

 

EMPTY

 "You want some?" came a voice from the next-door stall: deep and mature, but not old; faintly lyrical but not threateningly exotic; alluring and tempting, but not shallow or jaded.

"S-sure," he stammered as he leaned forward to undo the latch, gently push the door open.

The similar sound of a cheap bolt being drawn back made his heartbeat race, a stroboscopic cascade of imagination making his eyes blur.

When he did appear, Vince saw that his voice was ... and could not be anything but, his: a face with lines of experience, but not aged; unique features, but without the fear of being too foreign; a sensually wry smile on delicate lips, but not mockingly lecherous.

Not old, but he immediately put his nearly-elegant and almost-refined face between thirty and forty; not local, but he dreamed of Cinzano umbrellas and waiters with thick mustaches ... a land within sight of an-always-turquoise Mediterranean; and a truly happy grin and an honestly playful dance of gray eyes. He wore simple but too-clean clothes, to be working simply: dark jeans, a pair of new-ish tennis shoes, and a black, well-washed, turtle-neck.

Standing, framed by the battered metal of the narrow bathroom stall, he looked down at Vince for a moment, as if doing the same cascade of imagination – and, as he did, Vince felt himself faintly blush: wondering how this handsome-but-not pretty man, who maybe (maybe-not) came from a warm land on a side of that southern sea, and who had asked to come over and suck his cock, saw him.

The floor of the bathroom was tiled, smudged and streaked here and there with whatever the owner of the Crooked Crow couldn't, or wouldn't be bothered, to clean, but it didn't stop him from kneeling down in front of Vince. The blush, at which Vince's face further warmed, didn't go away as the stranger put one hand, and then the other, on either side of Vince's thighs and gently – almost lovingly – parted them.

"You're new at this, aren't you?" the man said, with humor – but not laughter – in his voice. It matched the calmness in his touch; his playful, but not catty, tone. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

"O-Okay," Vince said, his own voice coming out too many stepped-up octaves high.

From his right thigh, the man's hand deftly slipped further up, between Vince's legs to wrap firmly, but still kindly, around his hard cock. Vince's blush remained – but then faded quickly: he'd half-expected (and half-not) that his cock would fail him, that his naïveté would leave him at half-mast, and less-than-full-steam.

This time the other man did laugh – but with and not at – and squeezed Vince's cock ever-so tighter. "I think we'll have a good time," he said.

All Vince could do was nod – and that came as a basic, deep-down reflex.

Then the other man, the stranger, dipped his head down and – with a neat, smooth, and Vince suspected well-practiced gesture, put his lips around the head of his cock. The contact was almost an electric shock: a bolt of sensuality that made – another basic, deep-down reflex – Vince hiss, and then softly moan.

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