We have the fabulous – if a little stressed – Morticia Knight stepping under The Spotlight today. She’s offering up some sage writerly advice, info about Arresting Behaviour, her latest M/M erotic story, and a short excerpt that will make you want to read the whole damn book right this minute!
Welcome to the e-rotica blog, Morticia. Please take it from here. I’m off to follow your buy links 🙂
Thank you for letting me invade your blog today DC! 😉 I have just discovered a very important fact that prior to this past week completely eluded me: DO NOT (see – shouty capitals) EVER (needed one more) have a book deadline and new release scheduled within a few days of each other. It is crack-smokin’ madness. I suppose if I didn’t have a pesky job where I’m not only expected to show up each day – but they get snooty if I come in an hour late, or fall asleep on the counter when customers want to pay for merchandise – then maybe it wouldn’t matter. But you know, some people are just so picky about every little thing.
For those of you who are writers and still slaving away at the EDJ – you totally get what I mean. If I just sound bitchy (which I know I am anyway) it’s because I haven’t slept in three days and am experiencing the early symptoms of sleep deprivation. As a matter of fact – I think there are velociraptors with feathers in my kitchen right now. It’s alright – if I type softly – they might not hear me.
Because a book doesn’t just come out one day, everyone passes out cigars, pats themselves on the back and says, “good job”. You have to support it and remember why you cared about the characters and the story in the first place. When I finished writing Arresting Behaviour – my new MM erotic romance release – I had character withdrawal. This is the oddest thing, and happened to me stronger with these two hot guys than with any other characters in the past. I was so in love with them that I thought I would never be able to write any other people that meant so much to me, or had such an intense connection. Fast forward two books later, and I had to remind myself of their names. I know – I’m so fickle.
So read on for a little taste of my boys. Yum!
Native American Quinn and Detective Jake come from two opposing worlds. But when opposites attract, the result is explosive.
The Bondage Butcher has just claimed his third victim, and newly promoted homicide detective Jake Gutierrez is anxious to speak to the one man who has been intimate with all three victims—Quinn Verdugo. The reclusive and mysterious artist and poet stays just out of Jake’s grasp, until one night when they catch him trespassing at his ancestor’s ancient ruins.
Quinn is devastated by the recent murders, and for the men he once dallied with. Not trusting his heart to anyone since a cruel rejection in his teens, he trusts the police department of Mesa, Arizona even less. He is determined to find the bastard who is committing these gruesome murders, and take care of things himself.
When Jake and Quinn finally meet face to face in the interrogation room, both men are startled at the direction things take. Agreeing to work together, they have no idea the dangers they have yet to face. But what is more dangerous – the murderer, or the spark that has been created between the two very combustible men.
He was in dangerous territory by staying alone with the man at his place. There couldn’t be any nonsense going on between them. Besides, Quinn hadn’t exactly invited him over, he had just barged his way in. Now he was feeling foolish. Had he overstepped his boundaries? It was just that he’d been so upset when Quinn had told him about the previous night—a knot of fear had settled in his stomach at the thought of that sick bastard being alone with Quinn, touching him, getting ready to do God-knows-what.
He would be completely professional. He was only there to keep watch. That was it.
It was going to be a long night.
He also needed to head to the station early in the morning to make sure that the whole poetry night sting was set, and brief the lieutenant on his progress. Plus, he had to follow up on the list Quinn had given him of previous partners. He couldn’t just remain glued to Quinn’s side, even if that did seem like a nice idea.
He could feel a stirring in his jeans, and wasn’t sure all the resolve in the world would help him if he were to arrive at Quinn’s place with a hard-on.
They got there ten minutes later, and Jake felt he had himself under control. It was a gorgeous starry night, and he marvelled at the display in the sky this far out from the city lights. That was one of his favourite things about the desert—everything seemed much purer out there.
He jumped out of his truck as Quinn languidly got out of his car then walked towards him. He had the briefest sensation the man was going to punch him or something, because his pace quickened and he moved with such intent. The light from the waning full moon illuminated Quinn’s graceful and sexy form as he drew nearer. Just as he got to him, Quinn reached out, grabbed the back of Jake’s head and clamped his mouth onto Jake’s lips.
His breath was startled right out of him, but all he could do was melt against Quinn’s muscled body, and reach up to twine his fingers in the man’s glorious mane of hair. This was exactly what he wasn’t supposed to be doing, but all reason and sanity had disappeared once Quinn had locked lips with his.
There was nothing polite or reserved in the kiss. It was raw and feral, and everything Jake had dreamt it would be. They used their hands everywhere on each other’s body, as Quinn continued to plunder Jake’s mouth. He felt himself being guided towards Quinn’s front door. At some point, Quinn managed to get it open—no lock as he’d said—and they stumbled inside, still tangled up with each other. Quinn kept pushing Jake farther in, and he began to feel the smallest stirrings of concern.
It’s not right. I shouldn’t—not yet.
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A friend of mine asked if the boyfriend and I would model for her so she could test out some new equipment and lighting techniques. Never having modeled before, and being a girl who almost always says yes to trying something new, I immediately agreed to give it a go. Besides, if she was asking the boyfriend and I, she was probably pretty desperate. I mean, we’re not a couple of Quasimotos or anything but we’re no David and Victoria Beckham, either.
So, ignoring tiny details like my chipped and un-manicured nails, the fact that my flat iron had a nervous breakdown a few days ago and I had yet to replace it with a functioning one, or the thousand or so errands on my To Do list, I called my boyfriend and told him to be prepared for a photo shoot that night.
“How the fuck does one prepare for a photo shoot?”
“I don’t know, doll face. Maybe try not to sweat so much at work or something.”
“Did you tell them I’m not very photogenic?”
“Did you tell them I hate getting my picture taken?”
“Alright, I’ll do it. But you have to pick out what I’m wearing.”
“And my outfit should include jeans.”
I did manage to get a new flat iron that day, thank goodness. Also found the time to at least trim my nails. I never wear a lot of make up so when she told me to go heavy with it, it took a few tries but I think I did okay with that, too.
When we arrived at her studio, I showed her a couple of different outfits and let the photographers decide what we should wear. Then the boyfriend and I wandered around Yorkville with three photographers and tons of equipment in tow. We did whatever they told us and let them arrange and rearrange our bodies into positions they felt were pretty. At first it was uncomfortable, mostly because of the attention. Not just from the photographers but from some of the passersby who stopped to watch what was going on. Others complimented our cuteness as we canoodled. Some whispered their thoughts on whether or not we were famous. A couple of people snapped a couple pics with their cell phones just in case we were somehow important (sorry to disappoint, people. TMZ will not be paying good money for those shots any time soon).
After overcoming our discomfort, the boyfriend and I actually began to enjoy all of the different poses, most of which involved us smushing ourselves against each other. We hugged and held hands and kissed and attempted to gaze lovingly into each others’ eyes, hoping the photographers would get their shot before we cracked up laughing. I’ll be honest, folks, it was kind of sexy!
When the shoot was over, we arbitrarily chose a burger joint for dinner – The Gourmet Burger. I ordered the grilled Mahi Mahi burger and the boyfriend ordered the breakfast burger. Our first round included a couple of excellent beers and then we went for the martinis. Then we discovered their shots were CRAZY cheap. Somehow we had managed to accidentally find ourselves in what must be the only place in Toronto to offer $2 and $3 shots. Obviously we couldn’t pass those up. So we did a couple of shots. And then a couple more. And perhaps a couple more after that. At some point we declared our evening, which included our first ever photo shoot, quite a romantic if drunken success. We may have toasted to this a couple more times before officially calling it a night. Our bill amounted to well over $100 and, thanks to our somewhat inebriated state, we laughed the whole way home over how we managed to spend that much at a burger joint with $2 and $3 shots. But, hey, if we decide to use those photos as our engagement pictures, we totally saved money that night. Right? Right?
When Big Pulp put out a submission call for an anthology of queer fiction and poetry, I simply couldn’t resist submitting something. Although I don’t recall the call going out for micro flash fiction, I felt that a recent one hundred word story I wrote called Oh Harold just might be right up the editor, Bill Olver’s alley. Luckily for me, my gamble paid off.
I just received my copy of Clones, Fairies & Monsters in the Closet a few days ago, started reading it last night and I’ve already burned through the first six or so stories. So far I am thoroughly entertained. I especially loved the opening story, Just the Two of Us by J.W. Griebel.
This book is a definite must read if you like LBGT fiction about (and I might as well quote the official blurb, here) “Gay warlocks, lesbian warriors, transgender femmes fatale, bi-curious neighbors*, dyke drug addicts, super-queeroes, fag bashers, freedom fighters, bug chasers, boys in uniform, doctors, astronauts, murderers, prison bitches, survivors, drag queens and Clones, Fairies & Monsters in the Closet.”
Clones, Fairies & Monsters in the Closet is available for sale in e-book format at the usual online book retailers, including Amazon, and in print on Big Pulp’s Facebook page. The print edition might be available in other locations, I just found it there first.
*That’s my story, although having read the blurb, I kinda wish I’d written about prison bitches.
I went to my first ever spin class this weekend. It totally and completely decimated my ass. In fact, as soon as I finished having a fight with a woman in a parking lot and then eating a giant breakfast, I went right to Mountain Co-Op and bought a pair of padded bike shorts.
But back to the fight in the lot.
My boyfriend and I were waiting to pull into the lot. And waiting. And waiting. The couple in the car in front of us could not seem to make up their minds as to whether or not they wanted to turn in so they just sort of blocked the entire driveway while they thought about it.
They finally decided to turn into the lot and slooooooowly moved forward. We thought they were going to take a spot directly in front of them but at last minute they made a fast and wide turn. I figured they just saw the plum spot right by the diner’s doors. We slipped into the spot they had passed up and parked. My boyfriend got out of the car first – I was moving uber slow because of the fucking spinning class. He walked around behind the car to come round to my side and open my door. This is when the woman started screaming.
“You took our spot!”
My boyfriend thought she was joking. “If it’s any consolation you took my spot,” he laughed.
“You took our spot! Have some courtesy you douche bag!”
“Are you kidding me?”
“You’re a douche…and you’re ugly!” she yelled.
She came across the lot towards him. Her husband stood safely behind the driver’s side door of his car whilst giving my boyfriend the finger.
“What the fuck is your problem?” my boyfriend shouted at him. “Is your spot too close to the restaurant for you?”
“Don’t use that language,” she screamed getting right into my boyfriend’s face and – I am not kidding – weaving and sort of waving her arms. “I have kids in the car. How dare you expose my children to that language!”
I’ll be honest here, folks. I saw red at this point. Every nerve ending sizzled with white hot anger. Not over a dumb parking spot, of course. Who in their right mind would get upset over something as trivial as that? I was incensed because this woman was bullying my boyfriend. She shouted in his face, calling him a douche and ugly, knowing that he could not respond in kind. There was nothing he could do without looking as if he was verbally abusing and attempting to intimidate a woman. Of course the bitch’s husband still stood across the parking lot, hiding behind the safety of his car, shouting “Have some courtesy. Just apologize!”
My boyfriend started towards him but the wife kept shoving herself against him. She did not see me…
Until she did.
Her eyes widened to saucers as I stormed towards her. It could have been my favourite workout outfit that makes me look all toned and strong, my scary mad expression or – thanks to the one hour of hell in a bike seat – my tomato red face that made her back a few steps away from my boyfriend.
My own eyes narrowed to slits as I stepped between them. “What is your fucking problem?” I asked, not yelling but with a cold quiet.
“I have kids! I have children in the car!”
(What a stupid fucking bitch. Maybe she should of thought of that before she started hurling insults at some random stranger in a parking lot.)
“I don’t give a flying fuck about your kids. If you wanted the spot you should have put your signal on.”
“I did have my signal on!”
“Well, I didn’t have time,” she sniffed.
“Lady, if you get this upset over a parking spot, how the hell do you deal with real problems in life?”
She opened her mouth to say something stupid, I’m sure but then changed her mind and closed her yap. I took a step towards her and she immediately stepped aside. Walking past her, the boyfriend and I sailed into the restaurant.
As the title of the posts suggest, I fucking hate bullies. Unless that bully is me. I will bully the shit out of a woman who messes with my boyfriend.
See, my best friend had a baby a while ago and as part of her baby gift I have been working at her coffee shop a couple shifts per week for free while she’s on mat leave. Then she decided to simply shut down the store so I’m finally off the hook (phew!). It was my last shift yesterday and my goal was to help her push last of her remaining stock in the pushiest way I know how. And apparently I am beyond pushy when I set my mind to it. Here are a couple examples:
Customer: I’d like an apple cake.
Me, opening the pastry case and arbitrarily choosing a lemon square: We’re out of apple cake. You will have to have a lemon square.
Customer: Oh, okay.
Customer: I’d like a peach Italian soda.
Me, noticing we’re out of peach: Orange is way better. Try the orange.
Customer: Orange? Really? It’s good?
Me: It’s the best. Trust me.
Customer: Okay then. But just a small, please.
Me: No way, you’ll taste it and then kick yourself for not ordering a large.
Customer: Yeah, you’re probably right. Okay, a large then.
Customer: I’d like a medium Italian roast.
Me: Sure, did you bring your own mug?
Her: Um no. Was I supposed to?
Me: You don’t have to, you just get a huge discount if you do.
Her: Okay. Next time I’ll bring my own mug.
Me: That’s okay. We’re selling our travel mugs for 50% off. I’ll just sell you one of these and then you can use that for now on. Plus you get your coffee for free today.
Customer: That would be great, thank you!
*Next three customers in line also thank me for selling them travel mugs.
Me, noticing a customer looking at the travel mugs: What a great deal, huh?
Customer: Yeah, I think I’ll get one.
Me: One? You should buy, like, twelve to get some of your Christmas shopping out of the way early. Honestly, wouldn’t it feel great to be so ahead of the game?
Her: You’re right! That would be a lot of stress off my shoulders during the holiday season. I’ll get one for each of my coworkers.
She buys six mugs. Came back an hour later and bought six more.
In addition to the above conversations:
When we ran out of small iced drink cups, I simply held up the medium and the large and said, “What size?” No one asked if I had anything smaller.
I sold an iced coffee as an iced latte to a super bitchy customer. She didn’t know the difference.
I told an obvious manager type who was buying a cookie that he should show some love and buy his whole team cookies so they wouldn’t be jealous of his. He agreed and bought eight more cookies.
I up-sized about a dozen lattes simply by asking Are you sure you don’t need a larger size? You look tired.
And finally, and I realize this has nothing to do with liquidating inventory but I could not stop myself from having this little conversation:
Customer: Can you break a hundred for this coffee?
Me: Sure, no problem.
I take the hundred and give him his change.
Customer, stuffing the money in his wallet: It’s kind of awkward paying for a small coffee with a hundred dollar bill.
Me: It’s only awkward if you don’t tip.
We stare at each other for a few seconds.
Customer: You’re right. That would be awkward.
He takes some money from his wallet and puts it in the tip cup.
The theme on the e-rotica blog is usually sexy, quirky and a little bit fluffy. I like to steer clear of the heavy stuff over here. Today, however, Irony in its saddest form has forced me to go in a different direction.
Dr. Henry Morgentaler, a pioneer, champion and godsend in women’s rights, specifically in the pro-choice movement, died today at the age of 90.
After surviving the holocaust, this man emigrated to Canada, where he opened the country’s first abortion clinic in Montreal. His goal? To give women the opportunity to have autonomy over their bodies, their future and their well-being without running the risk of medical problems, future infertility and loss of life. Despite a lifetime of legal battles, bombings and direct attempts on his life, Dr. Morgentaler remained dedicated to his cause. Unlike many pioneers in human rights issues, Dr. Morgentaler was able to see the full results of his efforts within his lifetime.
Largely due to Dr. Morgentaler and his peers, abortion has practically become a non-issue in Canada. Other than on American news channels, I have never seen an anti-abortion protest or even an anti-abortion ad like I’ve seen in the USA. As a teenager, I once accompanied a devastated sixteen year-old friend to an abortion clinic and, with the exception of an extra-high security system that included bullet-proof glass and multiple check-ins, it was not much different than any other clinic. No picket signs, no angry protesters hurling blood or condemnation in our direction. No parental signature or exorbitant fee required – we’re in Canada, after all. Like any other non-cosmetic surgical procedure, it was free.
I lived in the US for quite a while and I’ve traveled extensively throughout the country. I always looked upon their religious and/or anti-abortion ads with interest. I cannot say I’ve found them personally offensive, exactly. I understand that the United States is so much different than Canada in the aspect of politics and communications. There is a lack of subtlety in political and religious advertising; perhaps it is out of necessity. Americans are much more direct in their conversation and in there opinions. In other words, they say shit that you just couldn’t get away with here. I’m not going to lie, I usually enjoy America’s straight forward speech and penchant for blurting out their opinions regardless of whether or not it is solicited or contrary. I often find it quite refreshing. I mean, I would just love to spout out an argumentative sentence without carefully formulating it beforehand to ensure it validates my point in the least offensive manner.
Now, I just mentioned that I’ve never seen an anti-abortion ad or billboard in Canada. Unfortunately, I have to follow up that statement by saying, until today. Today, on the day of Dr. Henry Morgentaler’s death, a huge 18-wheeler rolled down Yonge Street, and it was completely covered in graphic and disturbing anti-abortion advertising. I was not the only person to stop and stare, jaw dropping to my shoelaces. On the truck was a picture of an aborted foetus alongside a woman with a sign in her hands that read, “I regret my abortion. It felt like being raped again.”
Oh. My. God.
Can I just say that this is not okay? Even those who believe that abortion should be illegal should be against this form of advertising. Think about it, what if a pro-choice group drove down the street with an image of a woman being raped to prove their point of view? Or a picture of a pregnant tween with a caption above her head that says, “I was raped and my parents are forcing me to keep the baby. I feel like I’m being raped again.” It is simply unacceptable, especially in Canada, where our rights were clearly established and outlined on January 28th, 1988, when the Supreme Court struck down Canada’s abortion law, deeming it unconstitutional.
I am posting an image of the truck at the bottom of this post so that you may choose not to scroll down if you do not want to look at it. Before that, however, is a two-minute CBC video about Dr. Henry Morgentaler.
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As I accidentally put my elbow in my bowl of ice cream, a series of thoughts flooded my mind. Consecutively, yes, but my brain might as well have conjured then simultaneously; they came that quickly.
Holy Hell. Only I would put my elbow in ice cream.
I don’t give a fuck. I’m eating it anyway.
Um, I’m eating the ice cream anyway not my elbow.
You can’t lick your elbow.
Every time I read that stupid spammy message on Facebook that tells me that its a fact that I cant lick my own elbow, I always think, “Why the fuck would I want to lick my own elbow?”
When it has chocolate chocolate fudge ice cream on it, that’s when. Now I know.
Knowledge is painful.
Actually, cold ice cream feels kind of good on the elbow.
I wonder if it would feel good or bad to have sex in a giant bowl of ice cream?
Probably good. And there very very bad.
My boyfriend’s right; I am a weirdo.
For some reason, perhaps to fully bring home the fact that I am, indeed, a weirdo, I then sighed, “My boyfriend’s right.”
My boyfriend happened to be in a dead sleep on the sofa when I stuck my elbow in a bowl of ice cream. I had been trying to wake him all morning through various forms of conversation, prodding, a few threats and perhaps just a little shoving. Even the promise of chocolate chocolate fudge ice cream didn’t get so much as a grunt. When I whispered, “My boyfriend’s right,” however, the asshole bolted upright, fully awake. “Wha? Huh? Wadiddya say? What am I right about?”
“Are you serious? Did you seriously just wake up because you think I think you’re right about something?”
“What am I right about?”
“You’re not right about anything. You must have dreamed it.”
“That sounds plausible. I’m going back to sleep.”
“Wait! I want you to stay awake. Do you want some ice cream?”
“It depends. Are you offering me that ice cream stuck to your elbow?”
“You might as well have it. I can’t lick it.”
“You’re such a weirdo.”