Friday, September 25, 2009
NEW COVER: No Place Like Home
Every once in a while, I like to amuse myself (no, not that way!). I mean, in my writing, I like to step away from the crime, horror, gore, and dark deeds that seem to take hold of me for most of the stuff I write.
Occasionally, I like to write something that makes me laugh.
No Place Like Home was one of those projects.
And now it has a new cover by the amazing cover artist, Trace Edward Zaber. I thought I would share it with you. The book comes out November 8 from Amber Allure (the GLBT imprint of Amber Quill Press) and it's a short and silly e-book that I hope will make you laugh as much as it did me.
Trannies and Psychos and Bears…oh my!
Burl was horny. And his lover, AJ, was in the kind of sleep that approaches comatose. What’s a boy to do? In the middle of the night, Burl slips away from the house he shares with AJ, looking for just a little release for his pent-up passion. AJ won’t mind; after all, he says he doesn’t care where Burl gets his tires pumped, as long as he gets to ride.
But what Burl finds in straying from his own backyard is not quite the kind of excitement he had in mind. From boxer-shorted bears, to men who aren’t quite what they seem, to homicidal ebony gods, Burl doesn’t know quite what to make of the bizarre world outside…and the people in it. From the snow-capped peaks of the Adirondack Mountains (and the Sodom Sin Mountain Ski Resort), to the dangerous streets of the lower east side of Manhattan, Burl discovers that it isn’t always easy—or safe—when you go looking for love in all the wrong places.
What lessons does Burl learn on his quest? Does he discover, really, that there’s “no place like home?” There’s only one way to find out: start reading!
Dawn's pinkish light filtered through the gray as Burl drove on, now well into the Adirondack Mountains. Gradually, his destination became clear. Even to him.
After six hours, Burl pulled up, with a spray of snow, in front of the Sodom Sin Mountain Ski Resort. He planned to have a few hot toddies in the lounge and a slow, comfortable screw in one of the guest’s rooms.
Feeling slightly out of place at ten o'clock in the morning in a ski lodge in his ensemble, Burl chose an unobtrusive spot near a window and ordered a hot buttered rum. Outside, the snow was coming down steadily, making Burl think of the last bukkake party he had attended and how he had come home to AJ accusing him of smelling like bleach.
“How droll,” Burl thought when a waiter, clad in tight black jeans and cable knit sweater, set his drink before him. A cinnamon stick, carved into the shape of a circumcised penis, garnished his mug. Burl glanced around quickly to ensure no one was looking, removed the stick, stood, dropped his jeans to the tops of his thighs, bent over and inserted the garnish deep inside himself. He sighed when he felt its tingle.
Glancing around once more, he put himself back in order, sat, and sipped his potable with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. In spite of the diversion (“Shouldn’t that be perversion, hon?” AJ taunted in the back of his mind), Burl knew it would take a lot more than a stick of cinnamon to satisfy him.
“Hi there! Wanna get lucky?”
Burl jumped, the cinnamon stick ejected and rolled to one side of Burl’s ass cheek. He squirmed and turned to see a man who reminded him of a middle-aged Tonya Harding, albeit a Tonya Harding with a bleached blond crew cut and soul patch.