Sample 60 Saturday: Tales from the Sexual Underground

Every Saturday, until I run out of books--or decide to go to page 70--I will present an excerpt, page 60, from one of my books. No matter what it says--funny, filthy, scary, dumb, or tantalizing--you'll get it here.

And I'd love to hear what you think. Leave a comment below and let me know if this made you want to read more.

Let's continue the chronological tour with my collection of erotic stories, essays, and, er, anecdotes, Tales from the Sexual Underground. When the book appeared in March of 2010, Rainbow Reviews said, "Aside from the fact that he is a solidly good writer and I enjoy his versatility in genre writing, whether in the realm of horror, the suspense thriller, erotica or romance, what attracts me to his stories most is that they are highly imaginative, they push boundaries and they challenge me as a reader. Tales From The Sexual Underground accomplishes all of this and more. And while a handful of the stories in this collection took me outside of my comfort zone leaving me wide-eyed and breathless, the thrill and anticipation of what was to come as I continued to turn the page was like an aphrodisiac."

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SYNOPSIS
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.

Page 60:
Neg. UB2. That’s common internet parlance for “negative—you be too,” and it irks many poz people. Maybe it irks them because:

Negative. UB2.

It’s late and the leather bar I’m sitting in is at the prescient moment just before the bartender shouts, “Last call!” Just before the lights come up to change the dark, smoky, sexually-charged universe that the few remaining men in the bar inhabit. There is the smell of desperation in the air, as these few look around for someone with whom to spend an hour, the night, their lives. Should we go next door to the baths?

An acquaintance sits next to me. I’ve seen him before, maybe even done him once in the backroom. We chat off and on, as our predatory gazes scan the room. We know nothing about each other, really. That’s about to change.

“So what are you gonna do?” I ask.

He fingers the chain and leather harness across his broad chest, glistening with sweat and a matte of dark, going-to-gray chest hair.

e takes a drag off his cigar. Contemplation. “Dunno. Guess I’ll go home and cruise the net.”

“That works for you?”

“Shit, yes. It’s like ordering a pizza.”

I recall when we exchanged our HIV statuses at one point; not tonight. He’s poz. Makes me wonder: “So, do you tell these guys about yourself?”

“What do you mean? Top? Bottom? Stats?”

“No. You tell ‘em you’re poz?”

“Hell no.”

The bar’s hot. Blue smoke hovers near the ceiling. I feel a chill. “Why not?”

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