Friday, August 9, 2019

Flashback Friday: The Cover Model I Fell in Love With


Someone asked me recently not what my favorite cover out of all my books was, but who was my favorite cover model. She said, “You know, which one would you want to be with, if you could?” Of course, this friend knew my happily-married state and hastened to add, “If you weren’t already taken, of course.”

And I didn’t have to think long. The guy on the cover of Raining Men is, of course, super hot, but the first one I thought of us was Ollie on the cover of Dinner at Home. He’s the smiling guy in the forefront and there’s something about him, to me, that just seems so genuine and warm that I think, if he were real and I were in the market, he’d be someone I’d really go for. Cover artist Reese Dante and I went through looking at lots of male model images when we were trying to decide who would best represent my star-crossed foodie lovers, Ollie and Hank (tough work but someone’s got to do it), but when I saw Ollie, I immediately knew, that’s him. I also knew, in my heart, he was someone who could float my boat. See, the fact that he could cook, was kind, and had a little extra meat on his bones were all qualities I would ascribe to my perfect man.

Don’t you think he’s gorgeous?

And who are your favorite cover models? I’d love to know, so leave a comment below and let’s talk about it.

BLURB
It only takes a few days for Ollie D'Angelo to lose his boyfriend, his job, and his home. Instead of mourning what he doesn’t have, Ollie celebrates what he does: the freedom to pursue his real passion—cooking. He begins Dinner at Home, a home-catering business, and it takes off.

Late one night, Ollie catches Hank Mellinger, a streetwise hood down on his luck, about to rob his car. Ollie soon discovers that appearances aren’t necessarily what they seem. Hank isn’t a criminal caught red-handed, but a hungry young man trying to make a life for himself and the four-year-old niece he’s trying desperately to take care of.

Instead of calling the cops, Ollie offers Hank a job and a way to pull himself up by his bootstraps. Together, they discover they can really cook... and that their shared passion for food just might lead to a passion for each other.

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AllRomance eBooks

Monday, August 5, 2019

New and Notable: Thomas Kearnes' TEXAS CRUDE


Thomas Kearnes' debut collection, Texas Crude, chronicles the erotic, heartbreaking and sometimes outlandish lives of queer men in the Lone Star State. These sixteen stories tackle subjects most queer authors consider taboo: sex work, AIDS, the PNP scene, addiction, religion, violence. But Kearnes isn't here to pass judgement or offer easy answers. His balanced, dispassionate portraits of male/male intimacy in the reddest of red states has won him consistent acclaim since his career began in 2004. His publishing history includes appearances in queer venues as old-school as Blithe House Quarterly and Gertrude to rookie outlets like Screen Door Review and MoonPark Review. He's also placed queer fiction in respected "mainstream" venues like Gulf Coast, Berkeley Fiction Review, BULL: Men's Fiction, PANK and dozens more. With 125 published stories to his credit, Kearnes has slowly, steadily transformed into a veteran voice of queer short fiction.

REVIEWS
Amanda Krupman's review for Gertrude Press

"Jacket copy phrases like 'sordid passions,' 'alcohol and drugs,' and 'harsh landscape of scrub brush' accurately highlight some of the main themes running through Kearnes’s stories. But there’s more here—much more. Texas Crude fronts like its most valuable assets are smut and camp but, much like its characters, will reveal its full, complex humanity to you in good time."

Derek Berry's review in Free State Review
Texas Crude is a solid debut that displays not only Kearnes’ nimble prose and capable storytelling, but also a deep-felt humanity. This author eschews common gay fiction clichés for an exploration of the real.

EXCERPT

I WILL FORGET THE SOUND OF HIS VOICE

Tweak makes you ambitious. You fire off paragraph-length texts to friends you haven’t seen in months. You have marathon chats online with guys you’d love to fuck but know will flake. You disclose your extensive sexual history to men whose first names elude you. Our host Adam is higher than all the saints, has been for three days. This explains why some skinny dude stands before us, slipping off his Peanuts T-shirt with an enthusiasm that saddens me like last call on a Saturday night.

My boyfriend Curtis lies at the bottom of the mattress. He lifts his gaze, coolly appraising our unexpected guest’s likely skill on all fours. Curtis wears only a sheer pair of briefs. Its gray hue flatters his toned, tan thighs and taut abdomen. I know it’s crass, but it turns me on when Curtis flaunts his physique. It proves I’m clever. It proves I’ve earned the envy of other men. Now shirtless, the guest frankly surveys my boyfriend. He lightly rubs the bridge of his foot along Curtis’s calf. You have a great body, he says. Curtis chuckles but doesn’t thank him.

I ask the stranger his name. Thomas, he says. Like the tank engine. He laughs at his joke, my first clue he made one. He must be a smart guy or some shit. Curtis asks what’s so funny. Thomas’s smile falters. He stammers about the children’s character he had in mind. I’ve never heard of the fucker. Children disturb me. Curtis laughs, but I don’t hear joy. He asks if anyone ever laughs at that joke. Thomas mumbles and absently rubs his petite, hairy chest. I can’t make out what he says and don’t know if Curtis did. We don’t speak again until Adam returns.

Our host carries a loaded pipe. He never shows anyone where he hides his tweak. House rule. I’ve partied with him two or three times, but never questioned this. His paranoia doesn’t curb his generosity. As long as the dope keeps coming, I don’t give a fuck about its source. On the way home from our first encounter with Adam, Curtis spent the whole ride speculating where he hid his goods. He vowed to suck Adam’s dick so hard and long, the bastard would spill. I watched Curtis do just that at our next gathering, but Adam opened his mouth only to moan, nothing more. Adam asks Thomas if he’s high and learns he gorged on Adderall last night. I’m surprised this fucker could be high on a drug I’ve never tried. It’s a stimulant medication for ADHD, Thomas explains. Way more powerful than meth. I want to ask if he has any left, but that might lead to more talk. I might have to suck him to keep the peace, but I won’t start before I must.

BUY

Monday, July 29, 2019

My #LGBT #RomCom, OUT ON THE NET Has a New Cover!


So proud of the new cover for one of my funniest, and most poignant stories! Thanks to RebeccaCovers for her wonderful design.

At left is the original cover, which I loved, but I truly think the new cover is much more engaging.

Out on the Net: A Love Story in Blog Form is all about a small-town young guy’s tentative steps toward self-acceptance and finding true love. Below is a sample of one of the saddest—and most hilarious—of those tentative steps.


BLURB
Ray Tolliver has bad timing. Cold feet? It doesn’t get much worse than accepting you’re gay twenty minutes before your wedding to a woman, yet that’s just what happens.

Join Ray as he recounts in his blog the hilarious and touching events that lead him on a journey toward true love. Although he originally starts looking for love in all the wrong places, will he eventually find another man who wants more than just quick sex? A man who appreciates romance, hearts, and flowers? Or will he find that self-acceptance and bliss do not always go hand-in-hand?

And what of Alice, Ray’s lovely, jilted fiancée? Will she find it in her heart to forgive the man who left her at the altar?
These questions and more are answered in this unique love story, told in the form of blog entries. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, but you’ll come away with a renewed appreciation for the power and difficulties of loving not only others, but yourself…

Get your $1.99 copy at Amazon (or #FREE if you're a Kindle Unlimited subscriber)

EXCERPT
A VISIT TO "Lollipop Park"
Oh, I know what you’re going to say when you see the title of this entry. You’ll roll your eyes and probably think that things are going to get juicy and scandalous.
Because everyone in Summitville knows what goes on at that little rest stop just north of town, on the way to the highway. There’s a reason people snicker about it and call it “Lollipop Park.”
Are you rolling your eyes and hoping in every sense of the phrase that I will not go there?
Hang on to your hats, boys and girls, because I did go there. Sordid. Seedy. Shameful. I know. I went there in real life and I’m going there now on paper. Hang on, it’s going to be a bumpy ride!
But I didn’t yet tell you why I drove out there just a couple of weeks after the disaster that was to have been my wedding day. And I haven’t yet related what happened there, so just hold your horses on your judgments, Mary. I am trying to learn to talk as I imagine a gay man would and it’s not coming easy. Case in point—calling you “Mary.” So stupid.
Anyway, Summitville, PA has no gay bars, no gay clubs, no gay newspaper. To the untrained eye, one might even claim the little riverside town has no gay people, but discerning minds know that in a town of 12,000, that can’t be true. If you take the more or less accepted rule of thumb of one in every ten people is gay (don’t ask me where I got that statistic; I’ve heard it all my life), that would mean there are at least 1200 people here just like me, or at least like me in that they prefer sausage over pie or vice versa.
I digress. Why did I stop by the rest stop, when I neither needed to rest, nor to pee? What made me go to that shadowy, stinking-of-excrement, gravel-fronted little rest stop with the obscene graffiti and lone men lingering too long in parked cars? What would possess a nice, clean, upstanding guy like me to wander out to a place known for anonymous sexual encounters?
Curiosity. Don’t give me that crap about killing the cat, either. It was curiosity. Because, you see, even though I knew now that I was a gay man, I had no idea what gay men did, where they went, how they met. Maybe if I lived in that big city to the west, Pittsburgh, with its gay bars and clubs, I would have a better idea. But here in Summitville, where when people think of “cornholing,” they think of a summertime game played with beanbags and slotted boards, I just hadn’t had much opportunity to know much about gay life—the ins and outs of it (yes, I hear you snickering…shut up!).
Ergo the rest stop, rest area, Lollipop Park, whatever you wanted to call it. It was my only frame of reference for where gay men met up. I had driven by many times, on my way to the mall, and had heard the whisperings and jokes about the place, had even pretended to find the idea of such a locale humorous. But when I was alone, I put the humor aside and toyed with the rumors I’d heard—that men sucked each other off in the woods nearby and sometimes even right there in the stalls; that guys picked each other up and went back to each other’s home for God knew what. Parcheesi? Root beer floats? I don’t think so. These ideas made me feel paradoxically sick and weak and, at the same time, queasy with desire.
So I decided that my first act as a gay man should be to meet another one. And my very limited frame of reference left this as my only option. The idea of driving up to Pittsburgh or down to Steubenville and setting foot in one of the gay bars there filled me with terror. I was so not ready to mingle with my more urban, and sophisticated, gay brethren.
So I was stuck with this seedy and unseemly choice. I pulled into the gravel parking lot, where several other cars were already sitting, and shrugged. What would be the worst that could happen? Okay, okay, I could be fag bashed or arrested…that would be the worst. But if I was careful, maybe I would come out of this at least knowing someone else like myself and maybe, oh God, just maybe, I would have my first sexual encounter with a man.
Whoa there, boy, you’re getting ahead of yourself! I quieted the lustful thoughts and the rising erection that both seemed to arrive of their own accord, with no prompting from me.
I sat in my car and looked around the little parking lot. It was around nine o’clock, dusky. A few fireflies danced in the air over the grassy area just ahead of our cars, where the Summitville park district had kindly put out a pair of decrepit looking picnic tables. Who would want to picnic here? And what was on the menu?
Shut up with the weenies comment, please!
Because of the dying light and the setting sun reflecting off car glass, it was hard to see any of the other occupants of the three other vehicles in the lot. One thing was for sure, though: from the silhouettes, I could tell that a lone male occupied each car. One of them was smoking; I could see the glow of the cherry at the tip of his cigarette as he brought it to his mouth and drew in.
What was I supposed to do now? I didn’t know, so I just sat in my car, the butterflies dancing in my stomach, for what seemed like hours, but was, in reality, only about fifteen minutes or so. I drew in a deep breath and gathered up my courage. Someone had to start something.
I rolled up my car windows and exited my Kia Soul, closing the door softly behind me. I used the remote over my shoulder to lock the car up as I headed to the little cinder block structure to my left. Even from here, the word, “MEN” beckoned in white on a blue background.
Promising.
I went inside and thought of uttering that old Bette Davis line, “What a dump!” and then chastised myself for being such a queen.
But the shitter, er, the restroom was not exactly a sight for sore eyes. It was dingy and dark, the only illumination came from a bare, low-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling. The paint-peeling industrial green walls looked like they would be damp to the touch. Flies buzzed around, obviously delighted with the luxurious accommodations. Cigarette butts and toilet paper littered the floor. Twin pieces of reflective metal, trying hard to find their motivation as mirrors, had been affixed to the wall above a pair of old, dripping, and rust-stained sink. On one wall was mounted a dispenser out of which one could get a condom for just a quarter. What was that doinghere? The whole place stank of urine and shit.
Isn’t it romantic?
If this was gay life, perhaps I should crawl back to Alice on my hands and knees and beg for forgiveness.
But, as the saying goes, “in for a penny, in for a pound,” I thought I should at least check out the rest of the place. See what some witty scribes had written on partition walls…
I headed over to the two toilet stalls and, after wiping the seat with a piece of single-ply toilet paper, I nervously sat down. Even though I had wiped the seat, I didn’t feel comfortable enough to lower my cargo shorts.
The first thing I spied was some graffiti that said, “10-4 good buddy, this is the place, pull down your pants and fuck my face.”
Charming!
I wondered what poet wannabe had written those lines on the wall and if any burly trucker had ever heeded its siren call. I searched in vain for more rhyming couplets, but none of the other graffiti matched its poetic flair. In fact, the rest of it was downright crude, exhortations to suck and be sucked, to fuck and be fucked, penis sizes, and messages left by people who cared so little about their privacy that they left phone numbers.
I could not imagine calling one of those numbers…or what kind of person would be hanging out on the other end of the line.
I stiffened—and not in a good way—as I heard footsteps. It was then that I noticed the hole drilled into the partition wall. It was just the right size to fit a hand—or, oh my Sweet Jesus, another part of the anatomy—through and positioned at waist height.
Did people really use that hole for what I thought they did?
Was there no romance in the gay world?
The footsteps neared my stall, and because there was no front door, I locked eyes with my new restroom buddy. He stopped in front of my stall and stared at me. I didn’t know what to do. Even though my shorts were up, I placed my hand over my crotch.
He had his hand over his crotch, too, and was rubbing it suggestively. He squeezed and I could see the outline of an erect cock beneath the denim.
Suddenly, my mouth felt dry and my heart was beating at double its usual rate. Good Lord, when had it gotten dark outside?
I eyed the man and he met my stare almost with a challenge in his eyes. He was about my age, but had long, stringy blond hair. He was too skinny and his bare arms (he was wearing a grimy wife-beater) were tattooed up and down their sinewy lengths. A hoop earring dangled from one ear, peeking in and out from the strings of his platinum locks as he glanced down at his own crotch, as if making sure it was still there.
My mouth was dry and I wanted to lick my lips, but was afraid of giving the wrong idea. I was learning fast that the language spoken here was with the eyes and not-so-subtle gestures.
Finally, he smiled at me and I saw he had what my mom used to refer to as “summer teeth.” Some are here. Some are there.
Suddenly, he reached for my crotch, as if to give it a neighborly squeeze. I swung my legs around to ensure his intended was out of his reach.
He sighed impatiently and ducked quickly into the stall next to mine. For a long time, there was silence and I dared not hazard a peek through the hole in the wall to see what my new buddy was up to.
But finally, I could stand the suspense no longer. I leaned forward a little, positioning my eye so it was level with the hole.
Boy, did I get an eyeful. Mr. Summer Teeth had had no compunction about dropping his drawers and working himself up into a frenzy. A huge cock, what I would estimate to be between eight or nine inches, rose up from between his tanned thighs. He worked it hard and there was a drop of precum poised at the slit in his head.
I have to admit it. My mouth wasn’t so dry anymore.
I watched. I think I was a little in shock. All kinds of things were running through me, making me feel both nauseous and lustful. I wanted that thing. I needed to get the hell out of here now.
He must have noticed me peering through the hole because the next thing I knew that big missile was coming right through it. Hey, buddy, watch it! You could take out someone’s eye with that thing!
Suddenly the cock was right in front of my face, dripping precum. With just a slight lean forward, I could have the pleasure of tracing a bulging purple vein with my tongue.
Did I touch it? Did I take it in my mouth?
Are you crazy? I ran out of there as fast as I could and if it didn’t mean being labeled as a drama queen, I would have said I rushed out screaming into the night.
As I drove away, tires sending up a spray of gravel behind me, I wondered if I would ever make a very good gay.

Get your $1.99 copy at Amazon (or #FREE if you're a Kindle Unlimited subscriber)

Tuesday, July 23, 2019

Turn Back Tuesday: My Hate Crime Love Story, BASHED

Cover art by Aaron Anderson

Do you believe that real love never dies? 


That's the premise behind my ghost/love story from Dreamspinner Press, Bashed. Bashed is a haunting blend of romance and suspense, wrapped up in a timely story that could have been ripped from today's headlines.


BLURB
It should have been a perfect night out. Instead, Mark and Donald collide with tragedy when they leave their favorite night spot. That dark October night, three gay-bashers emerge from the gloom, armed with slurs, fists, and an aluminum baseball bat.

The hate crime leaves Donald lost and alone, clinging to the memory of the only man he ever loved. He is haunted, both literally and figuratively, by Mark and what might have been. Trapped in a limbo offering no closure, Donald can’t immediately accept the salvation his new neighbor, Walter, offers. Walter’s kindness and patience are qualities his sixteen-year-old nephew, Justin, understands well. Walter provides the only sense of family the boy’s ever known. But Justin holds a dark secret that threatens to tear Donald and Walter apart before their love even has a chance to blossom.

The GLBT Roundtable of the American Library Association gave it a highly favorable review and recommended the book for public libraries.

In part, the review said:

"A gripping thriller told from multiple points of view, Bashed delivers what readers have come to expect from Rick R. Reed: a violent and emotionally wrenching tale of realistic horror. The story is told by three characters: two perpetrators of a horrifying hate crime, and the man who survived the attack...The violence is graphic, as is the sex, but neither is gratuitous..."

BUY
Dreamspinner Press ebook
Dreamspinner Press paperback
Amazon Kindle
Amazon paperback
Amazon audiobook


Thursday, July 11, 2019

Throwback Thursday: M4M



Taking a gay man's life journey from finding love to losing love to finding it again...within his own heart and beyond. 

BUY
Amazon
Dreamspinner Press

BLURB

Finding and keeping love can be a challenge in the modern world of blogging, social media, and online dating, as one man will learn in this trilogy.

VGL Male Seeks Same
Poor Ethan Schwartz. At forty-two, he’s alone, his bed is empty, and his HDTV is overworked. He’s tried bars and other places where gay men are supposed to find each other, but it never works out. Maybe he should get a cat?

But his life is about to change…

NEG UB2
Poor Ethan. He’s received the most shocking news a gay man can get—he’s HIV positive. Until today his life was perfect, with a job he loves and Brian, who could be “the one.” The one to complete him and fill his lonely life with laughter, hot sex, and romance.

But Ethan’s in for another shock. Could Brian have infected him?

STATUS UPDATES
Alone again, Ethan wonders if life is worth living, even with a cat. When an old nemesis sends a Facebook friend request, Ethan is suspicious but intrigued. It seems this old acquaintance has turned his life around, and the changes might hold the key to Ethan getting a new lease on life… and love.

BUY
Amazon
Dreamspinner Press