Tales from the Sexual Underground In Print and Ebook!

UPDATE: I'm happy to announce that Linda Reilly is the winner of the autographed book. Congratulations, Linda!

I'm happy to announced that my new collection, Tales from the Sexual Underground, is now available in both ebook and print editions. It's a collection of my steamiest writings on things your mother most likely wouldn't approve of, and includes both fiction and non-fiction. It's subtitled "Fact, Fiction, and Stranger than Fiction."

Pick up the ebook directly from MLR Press here.

The Kindle version here.

And the trade paperback here.

And if you do slip between my covers, please let me know what you think.

TO WIN YOUR FREE SIGNED PRINT EDITION OF TALES FROM THE SEXUAL UNDERGROUND, LEAVE A COMMENT BELOW AND A WAY TO REACH YOU SHOULD YOU WIN. 

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Read on for a synopsis and excerpt.


From the back cover:
I wanted to write about people who were not just out, but out there, people who lived their sexual lives in ways most of us could only imagine...and for whom the flavor vanilla had absolutely no appeal. I interviewed porn stars, prostitutes, self-proclaimed sex pigs, and delved into bizarre sexual practices. It was eye-opening, arousing, and a lot of fun (but never, never good clean fun). I also include here my favorite dirty stories. They all explore a side of life that exists not in the twilight zone, but in my favorite destination...the sexual underground.

Excerpt:

This piece highlights the fact that our most sensitive sex organ is not between our legs, but between our ears. 
(Chicago el photo by my dear friend, Venus Zarris)

Red Lining

The writer sits alone on the train, thinking how the stops between North and Clybourn and Fullerton will bring him from darkness into light: a metaphor for heaven. There’s a book open on his lap, something by Henry James or James Joyce, who knows? The obtuse words and their connections evoke little response when his blood flow is heading southward. Sometimes he thinks about a quote applied to Errol Flynn and how God gave him a brain, and a penis, and only enough blood to run them one at a time.

You get the picture.

He’s sitting in the last car of the northbound train, because there’s always been this vague rumor that the last car is the one to board if you’re gay and want to cruise. He’s never seen much evidence of this, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth giving it a whirl.

And then the book below him blurs even more as the artist boards the train and sits across from him. How does he know he’s an artist? Even though the evidence is circumstantial, it’s pretty convincing. He carries a battered black leather portfolio, his faded jeans spattered fetchingly with paint in various hues. The other accoutrements: shaven head, oval rimless glasses, and an expression of being elsewhere also contribute to this portrait of the artist as a young man. Wouldn’t it be lovely to think that maybe he has boarded this last car for the same reasons as the writer?

Then their eyes meet and all doubt is erased. Gay men, like straight ones, may have scores of lines designed to charm and seduce, but nothing beats the language of the eyes for communicating desire. Forget the smile. There is something in this liquid connection that transcends gestures as pedestrian as words and body language. The eyes have it. The artist’s are pale blue, behind the glass, and his stare, held for a few seconds longer than what’s appropriate for a stranger’s glance, says everything the writer needs to know.

When the train reaches Belmont, the artist gives one more meaningful glance and the writer rises to follow, clutching his James Joyce in front of his loose-fitting jeans. There is a moment when the writer wonders if he is doing the right thing, but when they get off the train, his doubts vanish like an ethereal wisp of smoke. A smile confirms what he’s known all along, and the artist’s question of having the time to stop by, seals the deal.

They walk to the artist’s apartment, a studio above a store on Clark Street. They’re naked in an instant, clothes falling to the floor in a frenzy. Bodies mesh. Lips connect. It’s an old story, and hungry as you are for it, dear reader, the writer leaves the rest to your imagination. Think sinew, skin, muscle and bone connecting, orifices explored, juices released. As the writer says, it’s an old story.

You, dear reader, may wonder what his name was. How the hell should the writer know? That would spoil the reality of the writer’s fantasy.


Pick up the ebook directly from MLR Press here.

The Kindle version here.

And the trade paperback here.