I Now Pronounce You Man and....

Who would give a law to lovers? Love is unto itself a higher law. ~Boethius, The Consolation of Philosophy, A.D. 524

Over the years, I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut on so many subjects. Not because I have no opinions on them, or that I have no feelings about them, but because I’m a poor ‘speaker’. Sometimes I dare to voice my thoughts on an issue, only to embarrass myself with my bumbling sentiment that seems to form itself in my head in one shape, only to spill from my lips in quite another, more twisted form.


Recently on an authors’ loop, the subject of same-sex marriage surfaced. I listened and listened, and felt the need to comment, to rise up in support of what I think is a social injustice. I DID speak up, but I wasn’t sure the sentiment that issued from my brain made any sense to anyone else.


That frustrated me. This emotion roiling in my head, no way to voice it adequately, not even in the written word.


But someone else—quite unwittingly—painted EXACTLY the picture I wanted to convey, simply by his random comments about his personal life—the LOVE of his personal life, to be precise.


I won’t divulge his name. But I WILL tell you that he talks often of his long-time lover, his husband, and that every time he mentions him, my heart hurts—literally hurts, but in a beautiful way—to hear the passion in his ‘voice’ for this man.


The funny part? He says very little, actually. It’s not his words that strike such a chord in my heart, it’s the depth of love in his tone. It rings so loud and crystal-clear, so deep, so true, so lovely.


I’d be one to say that marriage would not be my cup of tea; but, when I hear this man talk of his husband, I very much think how marriage WOULD be a blessed union if I were lucky enough to find a man who loved me as much as this man loves his husband.


It’s achingly beautiful, it’s poignant, it’s poetry, it’s Shakespeare, E.E. Cummings and The Song of David all mixed into one luscious melody of passion and care.


I’m not fooled for a minute into thinking this man and his husband don’t experience the same angst and marital trials that all couple face. I’m sure he does. But, even within the limited bounds of my knowledge of him, I know—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that he and his love see it through, they tough it out together. I just know they do.


If marriage could be like that? Oh, yes, oh, yes, sign me up for holy matrimony! IF, I say IF it can be like that.


The sad thing? According to this fellow author, his marriage is not legal in his state. So, in the eyes of the law, he is not really married.


Go figure.


A man and his lover who share more genuine passion, more true companionship, than most straight couples I know, and THEY aren’t considered ‘marriageable’ in their state. That’s a tragedy. A true tragedy.


When he writes tidbits about his lover, I soak up his words and roll in them like a cat in warm grass. They’re that full of love and devotion.


So, although I can’t verbalize my feelings very well, not in a strong political voice, I can at least use this man as an example to express MY confusion and frustration about a law that would prohibit him from marrying his lover.


My wish to you, this man with the beautiful heart who deserves the same privilege in the law’s eyes as any other couple—hell, maybe even more so—I wish I had the power to change the public eye for you. And for others in your situation. I can’t single-handedly, but I can at least use my lame voice.


Wishing you an eternity of happiness to you and your partner. Your husband.

Tess Mackall's New Release at Ellora's Cave...Twelve Days of Love...

Tess Mackall is a tough writing teacher--especially when it comes to 'showing, not telling' and as much bang for the buck, emotion-wise, in stories. Well, let me tell you. Tess practices what she teaches, and is a talented writer herself who DOES punch emotion and vivid color into her work.

Today marks the release of her new book at Ellora’s Cave, Twelve Days of Love. And, to celebrate this release, I want to dedicate my blog to this book.

Check it out!

Eden Riley left her high school geek days far behind. Or so she thought. But when she returns to her hometown and comes face to face with the local heartthrob, sparks ignite like a chemistry set on crack. Super-smooth Nick Lancaster sets her nerves jangling and thrusts her libido into overdrive. But can the former geeky girl overcome her insecurities and jump his sexy bones?

Nothing suits former jock and debate team star Nick more than sparring with the one-time nerd. He’s just itching to get up close and personal with her high-velocity curves and tangle with her on the nearest bed.

With Valentine’s Day fast approaching, all bets are off when Cupid draws back his bow and Nick has only twelve days to convince Eden she belongs with him, in his heart and in his bed.

EXCERPT:

Jingling bells mounted above the flower shop door alerted Eden that a customer had entered the store. She pushed the stem of a pink sweetheart rose into the small wedding bouquet she had just started and wiped her hands on her green wraparound smock. As she turned, she caught a man’s reflection in the glass doors of the refrigerated case.

She couldn’t help but pause and stare. His tall, lean silhouette appeared to be standing there among all those leggy gladiolas and giant spider mums perched in their vases. He reached up to the service counter with one hand and touched the small African violet sitting near the edge. For a moment it looked as though he’d brushed his hand over the big snowy-white spider mum in the cooler.

Eden moaned slightly, his touch so obviously tender. Warm tendrils of longing tiptoed over her skin. She shuddered with the sensation, mentally chiding herself for giving him even a second thought, much less allowing him to affect her physically.

But Nick Lancaster had always worked his way under her skin, even in high school.

He was wet panties and get-naked-quick in one fine-looking package. Bottled sin. A walking aphrodisiac. And all that with just a “hello”. Why did she torture herself with this insane crush? She wasn’t exactly his type, was she? Eden patted her tummy to remind herself of the paunch that sometimes forced her to unbutton her jeans after she’d eaten. Yeah, it hadn’t disappeared, still there.

Nick tilted his head to the side as if to peek into the back of the shop where she stood watching, his mirrored reflection in the glass doors so damn lifelike she took a step back. An exaggerated sigh blew through the workroom’s open doorway, a sure-fire sign his patience had grown thin. He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and glanced up at the ceiling.

Eden squared her shoulders, inhaled a deep, cleansing breath and stepped into the showroom. Both Nick’s eyebrows quirked when she appeared and he grinned. She nodded, smiled and planted herself on the opposite side of the counter. He looked too damn delicious today in his dark green Polo shirt and navy blazer. Why did he have to be so handsome?

“Hi, Nick. I might have known I’d be seeing you. The countdown has begun, hasn’t it?”

A distinct V formed between his brows, his grin fading into a frown. “Countdown?”

“Yeah, countdown.” Eden gestured toward the large, heart-shaped day calendar on the wall behind her.

Emblazoned in sparkling gold against the bright red background over the heart’s two humps were the words “Valentine’s Day Countdown”. The number twelve was displayed in bright red and centered inside a pale blue and white wisp of a cloud with Cupid sitting on top, his bow drawn.

Nick focused over her head. “Oh!” Then he frowned even harder. “Well, what was that crack about ’might have known I’d be seeing you’ all about?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

He pursed his luscious lips and squinted his gorgeous green eyes. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

“Where the hell did you get that idea?”

It never failed. Every time he came into the shop, they ended up arguing. She always managed to make some snarky comment, and of course, he picked up on it. They’d been at odds since their freshman year of high school. Both had joined the debate team and had never seen eye-to-eye on a single subject.

Slowly but surely they’d gravitated to different ends of the spectrum in popularity too, which hadn’t made things any easier. He, with his Adonis good looks and nothing-but-net shooting ability, naturally floated to the top; she, with her wide hips, pimply face, geeky glasses and penchant for all things artistic, sank to the bottom.

Now here they were, all these years later, no further from that high-school type of relationship than when they’d started. Except Nick had taken over his father’s string of Chevy dealerships and she had moved back home last year, forsaking her managerial position at an up-and-coming art gallery in New York to take over her ailing mother’s flower shop.

Times and situations changed but evidently people didn’t.

“If you don’t want me as a customer, Eden, why don’t you just say so?” He leaned forward, folding his arms over one another on the counter’s faux granite surface, watching her intently.

Lemon drops. He always smelled of lemon drops—and some expensive cologne she couldn’t remember the name of. God, she wanted to reach over and ruffle that thick, wavy black hair of his. Oh shit. Wet panties alert! He managed to do it to her every time without even trying.

And oh how she wished he would. Fat chance.

“I do want you as a customer,” she said succinctly, trying to put an end to the verbal scuffle.

“So? What was that crack all about?”

“Nothing. Just pointing out the countdown is all. I’m a florist. Valentine’s Day is important to me.” Actually, her remark had been a direct jibe regarding his frequent flower-buying miles. He constantly had arrangements delivered locally and wired over a three-state area with each card signed, “Yours, Nick”.

“Your mother is a florist. You’re a stand-in.” He grinned, wet his index finger with his tongue and painted the air with an imaginary mark. “Score one for me.”

Her mouth dropped open. She had a damned art degree in her back pocket. He, on the other hand, had dropped out of college after year two thanks to a bum knee and the fact he’d no longer be able to pump up his already over-inflated ego with the roar of the fans. How dare he call her a stand-in!

“I’ll have you know that I started working in this shop when I was twelve years old. Every day after school, weekends, all summer long too. I’m the one who made those sweet little corsages for all your high-school dance dates. So don’t say I’m not up to the job.”

He jabbed the rigid fingers of his left hand into his right palm—time out. “Chill, girl. Damn. You’re gonna pop a blood vessel one of these days.” He shook his head. “I was joking, messing with you. But I really meant that as soon as your mother was feeling better, you’re gonna be out of here and back to that fancy New York art career of yours.”

Did she detect a note of jealousy? Impossible. Nick Lancaster had it all. Well, except for his divorce, that is. Her mother had told her all about it right after Eden had taken over the shop. Nick had shown up on Eden’s third day to place an order and their customary enmity from high school had picked up right where it had left off.

Eden had related the entire scene to her mother at home that night and was shocked to learn that Nick and his wife, Jenna, had called it quits. He’d caught her dead-to-rights with her masseuse.

The vision of Jenna’s toothy white smile, platinum pony-tail and deep cleavage bouncing up and down right along with the whimsical sashay of blue-and-white pompoms rollicked in Eden’s mind. The cheerleader prom queen sure had screwed up her life. How the hell could she ever want anyone but Nick?

Eden tucked her fingernails into her palms and squeezed, jolting herself back to the present. Who was she to talk? Her judgment where love was concerned wasn’t so great either.

She picked up the order book and scratched out Nick’s name on the appropriate line. “I won’t be going back to New York.”

“What do you mean?” He leaned in closer.

The lemony scent became downright heady. Have mercy. Her nipples poked at her thin cotton sports bra. Tingles of lust wound their way straight to her pussy. Maybe she should start keeping a supply of clean panties on hand.

He rapped his knuckles on the counter. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes.”

“You looked like you spaced out for a few seconds.”

“Just thinking. Now what would you like to order today?”

He shook his head. “Not so fast. Why aren’t you going back to New York?”

“Mom’s not going to be able to return to work. She’s now on dialysis.”

He glanced down at the floor then back up at her. His usually devilish eyes had softened. “I’m sorry to hear that, Eden. Your mom is a nice lady. I hope her condition improves.”

Eden averted her gaze. He was being nice. And Nick Lancaster’s “nice” wasn’t something she could take. As long as he played the fool with her, she could handle him, but this side? No.

She pressed the pen against the paper. “Thank you. So how many dozen roses? One for each of the Twelve Days of Love? A dozen different women or just one special lady this time?”

He choked with laughter, sputtering, “The Twelve Days of Love?”

She rolled her eyes. “Florist marketing. If you can have the Twelve Days of Christmas, why not the Twelve—”

“Days of Love,” he finished in a sarcastic tone.

Eden perched her hand on her hip and stared at him.

He licked his lips. Lusty butterflies fluttered in her lower abdomen, sending a delicious pleasure-pain to body parts she didn’t even know she had. Her stomach somersaulted. She wondered what it would feel like to kiss him. Damn. She had to stop doing this. They didn’t even like each other. She wasn’t his type—no pompoms. He’d laugh his ass off if he knew how I felt. As long as she didn’t see him, she was fine. But if she had to talk to him, be near him…

He came around to her side of the counter. “How long have we been rubbing each other the wrong way?”

Eden skirted past him and walked over to the display window. She twisted a pot of heavily leaved philodendron so its back side faced the sun. “Forever. I’ve got a wedding tomorrow, Nick. I hate to rush you, but…”

When she turned from the window, he was standing in front of her almost nose to nose. She stumbled backward and he caught her, resting his hand at her waist. He stared into her eyes. How had she failed to notice those little gold flecks swimming in the dark green depths of his? His breath soughed warm over her face—more lemon drops and something else—his unique male scent.

And his hand—was it on fire? He took it away and the temperature of her skin where he’d been touching her plummeted.

“What will you be doing that night?” he asked.

“Wh-what night?” Surprised she’d found her voice, she hurried back to the counter and picked up the order book again.

“Valentine’s.”

“Oh.” She shook her head. “I’ll be lucky to get out of here by nine. And love will be the last thing on my mind, I can assure you.”

“No date, huh?”

“I don’t have time for dating. Can we do the order?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets before he moved back over to the counter. “So you didn’t leave any broken hearts in New York?”

Where the hell is he going with this? And why?

“I’m not exactly every man’s idea of the perfect date. Now if you don’t mind—”

“What’s a man’s idea of a perfect date?”

Exasperated, she blew out a burst of air. “I don’t know and don’t care. I have more important things to do these days than worry about the likes and dislikes of men.”

“What’s more important than love? You’re the florist.” He pointed to the Twelve Days of Love calendar.

“Exactly what is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re willing to sell the product of love but you don’t believe in it.”

“And you’re driving a Mercedes but you sell Chevys.”

Nick propped his hip against the counter, grinning. “Nobody’s ever challenged me the way you do, you know that?”

“Nobody’s ever pissed me off the way you do. You know that?”

His expression sobered. He looked wounded. “I don’t mean to.”

Deep down she knew that. Guilt crested inside her. “I guess we’re just oil and water, Nick. No harm done.”

An awkward silence rose between them. They just stood there staring at each other until Eden couldn’t take it another second.

“You still want to place the order?”

“Yeah,” he said, soft and low, in an almost-defeated manner.

A few minutes later, Nick had placed an order for roses to be delivered on Valentine’s Day to seventeen different women. With every name and address he read to her from his BlackBerry, Eden jabbed the paper a little harder with the pen. Her stomach churned at the thought of all those women. In her mind, she pictured them with pom poms, blonde hair and long, tanned legs.

And they giggled.

Yep, she was definitely wasting panty moisture on thoughts of Nick. Her five-foot-four, big-hipped frame capped off by average-sized breasts would never stand a chance against all those big-busted beauties. Even her soot-black hair was a sharp contrast to what Nick wanted.

“All right. I think I’ve got everything. I have your credit card on file. How about the card? The usual ‘Yours, Nick’?”

“Yeah.”

He sounded dejected. She would too if she’d just spent seventy bucks a pop on seventeen different women. No. That wasn’t it. Nick had money. Apparently their antagonistic relationship had gone a bit too far today.

Maybe this was his last order. How would she feel if that was the case?

“Thanks, Eden.” Nick headed for the door, stopped short just as he reached it, waited the space of a few seconds, then opened it. The bells jingled. He continued to stand there with his back to her. A car alarm blared out in the street. He closed the door and marched back to the counter.

Eden just knew he was going to cancel the order and that would be the end of Nick and her silly schoolgirl crush. Head held high, she braced herself for whatever he was about to say.

“I think it’s a case of practicing what you preach,” he said matter-of-factly.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re right. I should drive a Chevy and you should believe in love.” His shoulders relaxed and he let out a long breath as if he’d been holding in what he’d said. And now that he’d spit it out, he seemed relieved.

“We’re back to that?”

“Yes, and I think we should do something about this,” he twirled his finger in front of him, “this oil-and-vinegar thing we have going on.”

“Water. Oil and water. You mean try to get along?”

“Whatever. And exactly. After all, it’s that time of year. The Twelve Days of Love.”

She smiled. “Okay, Nick. I’ll try if you will.”

Maybe they could get along. Of course, it wouldn’t help the physical side of things as far as she was concerned. But he didn’t come into the shop more than a couple of times a month. It might be nice not to feel so angry and wet when he left the next time.

“Good. I’ll pick you up at your mother’s house at seven.” He strode toward the door.

It was as if the floor fell out from under her. She grabbed the countertop. Blood rushed to her head and her heart drummed so loudly she thought surely the vibrations would bring the roof down on top of her.

“What!”

Nick spun on his heel. “Seven o’clock. Jeans will be fine. Twelve days, Eden. Twelve days of practicing what you preach. I’ll be driving a Chevy when I pick you up too.” He yanked the door open so the bells jingled, grinned, offered her a little salute and closed the door behind him.

Buy Link: http://www.jasminejade.com/p-9071-twelve-days-of-love.aspx

You can find Tess at: http://tessmackall.com/

And…Risqué Newsletter: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/risquenewsletter

'Candy G'....

My m/m novel, Candy G., is now on the ‘Coming Soon’ list with Dreamspinner Press. Next to the thrill of receiving the contract from the publisher, I think this has been the next-most-exciting milestone of my writing journey. To see my baby, my novella, on the publisher’s site with the cover and blurb. I still sort of get teary-eyed just thinking about it.

 So, without further fanfare, let me introduce you to my boy, my Candy G, who will be released on March 2.

Candelario Gonzalez is an alpha male on the outside, dubbed Mas Chingon (the Baddest) by the community—in the beginning, because he was the exclusive legal counsel for San Antonio’s most powerful drug lord, then later he retains the formidable title and reputation when he risks his own life to walk away from the corruption.


On the inside, though? Candy is a softy, a hopeless romantic who’s been raised in a culture steeped in old-world Latino customs, romance and superstition. Underneath the Mas Chingon persona, he’s gentle and sensual, but has a fiery dual side—moody, possessive of those he loves.


Candy’s been drawn from real-life Hispanic men who’ve crossed my life’s path—men who’ve made an impact on the romantic woman in me, who’ve added their own individual spice to my memories.


So, that being said, here’s a blurb for Candy G., and an expert.


Blurb:

What kind of man drives a bulletproof Mercedes and carries a high-powered pistol in the glove compartment along with his boyhood teddy bear? Candy G does, that's who. Once the exclusive attorney for the most powerful drug lord in San Antonio, he turned his back on Teirso Flores and walked away. But at what price?


Moving on with his life despite the threat of Teirso’s revenge, Candy meets gorgeous, street-wise Carlos Alvarez, and thus begins a passionate love affair rife with secrets, danger and specters from the past that just won’t let go. When truths are revealed, will the one thing that brought their worlds together be the test that strengthens their love or the knife that severs their bond forever?


And an Excerpt:
(Warning: Language)

 Even amidst the crowded nightlife on the riverwalk, people trained admiring gazes on Carlos. How could they not? Clad—much dressier than usual—in white linen pants and a black silk shirt that highlighted his glistening platinum hair, he was stunning. In a rare act of grudging capitulation, only to make me happy, he’d allowed me to buy the outfit, and I’d chosen well.


His extraordinary appearance combined with the romantic atmosphere—twinkling lights and mariachi music wafting on the gentle evening breeze—brought a swell to my chest, not to mention my cock. I, like the admiring passersby, couldn’t take my eyes from him. My Carlos, an elegant, dark panther prowling the San Antonio night scene.


The last time I’d been to the riverwalk had been with Jorge. Remembering that had been the night Carlos returned to my life, the date that marked this anniversary, the thought sparked an inward grin. Maybe Jesse was right. Maybe it was silly to celebrate the occasion. I didn’t care. I was happy.


The waiter seated us near the river’s edge, and Carlos eased into his chair, carefully placing a Walmart sack he’d been carrying on the table. He stared dreamily into the reflection of hundreds of lights dancing off the gently moving water.


I stared at Carlos.


Sensing he was being watched, he raised his gaze to me. He should have been used to my admiring him, but he blushed anyway. “You’re making me self-conscious. You know I don’t like dressing up.”


My fingers toyed along the thin line of grout between the tabletop tiles. “I’m sorry. You look very good, chico.”


He tugged at the cuff of the shirt. “All dolled up, I feel so—”


“It pleases me.” The sincerity, the pleasure in my voice surprised me. “You’re so beautiful. My heart is happy tonight, bebé.”


Apparently it touched him. A tender smile filled his eyes, and he rested his elbows on the table, propping his chin on clasped hands. “You look pretty fucking good yourself, Candy.”


“Thank you.”


“You draw so much attention wherever you go.” He glanced around the busy sidewalk, the restaurant’s multicolored lights sparkling in his dark eyes. Returning his focus to me, he said, “That makes me proud.”


“If anybody’s looking, it’s at you, mi amor.”


“Sure. Whatever.” He blushed again.


Leaning forward, I murmured, “Can you not see how beautiful you are?” Every detail of his face, his body, which I’d memorized since I’d first seen him, sent wonderful palpitations to my heart and warmth to my groin. “All day, every day, all I can see, whether you’re with me or not, is your face in my mind. And then all I can think of is touching you, making love to you. Me vuelves loco. You make me crazy.”


The smoldering brown gaze pierced me, roamed every inch of my face. “How crazy?”


Burning up under the intensity of his stare, I pulled back in the chair. “Crazy enough to think about forgetting dinner and… well…. There’s all the time in the world.”


Excitement flashed in his eyes, and he picked up the sack. “I have something for you.” He slid his hand into the bag and pulled out a CD. Holding it to his lips for a moment, he handed it to me, and the happiness in his face, so simple and boyish, melted my heart.


La Paloma. He’d bought a new La Paloma CD. Love swept through me, bringing tears to my eyes.


“Bebé.” My fingers lovingly brushed over the case. “Thank you, mi querido. After my baby-ass tantrum, breaking the other one, I don’t deserve this.”


Tucking his chin, he winked over the rim of his glass. “No, you don’t.” He paused as the waitress placed menus in our hands.


The very pretty girl, her hands clasped behind her back, rested a genial—though somewhat coy—smile on Carlos and asked what we wanted to drink. I told her two Coronas. Nodding and throwing another bold, appreciative glance at my lover, the young lady thanked us and sauntered away.


Carlos hadn’t seemed to notice the flirty employee. He picked up the conversation where he’d left off. “Like I said, you don’t deserve a new CD. But you’re the only man who’s ever played music for me when he fucked me.”


I laughed hard. “Ah, chico, I think you’re trying to be romantic. But you make me sound very pathetic.” Funny thing, though. Carlos, in sharp contrast to his streetwise persona, was the most romantic man I’d ever known. His drawings, his poetic talk, just his pure sensuality. Everything about him painted a picture of beauty, idyllic eroticism.


Fire blazed behind his wide eyes, and he lurched to touch my hand. “No. No. I… I love that you play your… song for me.”


“Thank you, then, bebé, for La Paloma.” I laid the CD on the table. “I can play it every night for you now,” I playfully threatened.


His tongue swiped, languorous, seductive, across his bottom lip. “And that means you have to fuck me every night.”


The little tease. The silky touch of his finger sent pleasure coursing through my veins like a powerful opiate. “You think you can stand being fucked every night, chico?”


A brow shot up. “I’d give it my best shot.”


The cute waitress returned to place our beers on the table and take our orders. At the sight of Carlos’s hand on mine, the sex in both our eyes, she cooled considerably as she listened to our selections. When she headed back to the interior of the restaurant, I sucked in a deep breath and pulled the jeweler’s box from my pocket.


“I have something for you, chico.” Reaching across the table, I handed the box to him. How clumsy I felt. Romance ruled my heart but never showed itself very well in my actions. I felt I was too old-world for a contemporary man such as Carlos. Just as his fingers touched the lid to open it, I blurted, “You’ll probably laugh, Carlos. It’s… it’s…. You might think it’s silly.”


Upon opening the box, his hand shot to his chest, and he swallowed hard. “Candy….”


“It is silly, isn’t it?”


“Oh, no, no.” His mouth gaped open, and he brushed a hand through his hair. Shaking his head slowly, he whispered, “It’s… it’s… a dove. It’s the most—”


“Listen, you don’t have to—”


Carlos bounded from his chair and cornered the table so fast I didn’t have time to react. With his arms wrapped around my neck, he pulled me close, and I breathed in his spicy, earthy scent.


“You like it, then?” I wanted to cry, I was so happy that he was pleased.


Pulling back, his arms still circling my neck, he sighed. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life, Candy.” His voice, so low, caressing, whispered close to my ear, “I love you so fucking much, Candelario Gonzalez. I love you so goddamn much.”


The sidewalk was crowded with customers, and they surely gawked at us, but I didn’t care. Love for Carlos gushed from my heart, and all I wanted to do, needed to do, was hold him, touch his lips. Although the thoughts that swirled in my soul were passionate and lyrical, the words that spilled from my mouth were idiotic. “So I don’t need to take it back? Well, it was custom made, and—”


“I love it, cariño.” Oblivious to curious gazes, he pressed his lips, which tasted of salty tears, to mine. “I love it so much.” He straightened and leaned back against the table.


“Then you’ll wear it for me tonight?” I rested my hand on his waist.


“I’ll wear it for you tonight.” Hunger darkened his eyes, softened his voice. “Let’s eat fast, then, so we can—”


“Nah, chico.”


“No?” He cocked his head to the side.


“Nah. I reserved a room at Mansion Del Rio.”


Excitement sparked in his eyes. “Ah.”


My sexual juices were stirring, my cock swelling, at the vision of making love to Carlos high above the river with the nightlife pulsing below us. “Would you like that?”


Squinting, he eyed me. “Can I order a banana split from room service in the middle of the night?”


How could he turn even the word banana split into an aphrodisiac? Dios, how my dick ached.


“You can order anything you want in the middle of the night.”


“Can I order you to fuck me in the middle of the night?”


“You can.” Resisting the urge to pull him onto my lap, I growled, “But by the middle of the night, mi amor, you may be begging me to stop fucking you.”


For a moment our gazes locked, and we said nothing, fucking each other with our gazes. As though coming out of a trance, he lowered to his haunches, resting his hand on the table to steady himself. “Put it in now.”


“Put… what… in now?” My mind lagged behind his, still writhing with him on an imaginary bed.


“The earring.” He reached to remove a silver stud from his earlobe. “I want you to put it on me.” Laying the discarded earring on the table, he snorted. “Sort of like getting engaged.”


“Getting engaged, eh?” I pulled the diamond dove out of the box, removed the back from the post, and bent to insert the earring. Each time I touched Carlos was like the first time, and the light stubble on his cheek, his smooth skin against my fingers, sent shivers through me. “You realize, bebé, in my old-fashioned world, that means I own you.”


As I put the earring on his lobe, he nuzzled into my hand and purred, “You already own me, Más Chingon.” His hand covered mine.

The Process of Becoming......

Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death. ------Anais Nin

The moment I opened the door, the club’s aroma hit me in the kisser. Scents which hadn’t touched the old schnozolla since my single days—cigarettes smoke, booze, aftershave, perfume, perspiration and…popcorn? Okay, so this joint did popcorn, maybe a cheaper alternative to peanuts. Club smells. Familiar, even after my seven year hiatus from the Houston nightlife. 

Every man who hunched over the bar turned in unison at my entry. Raised brows and narrowing eyes in their previously bored faces spoke the universal club language: new dame on the scene. My legs nearly gave out under me. Fear. Unadulterated fear.

I stood on the threshold, swiped a palm down the skirt of my snazzy red dress, and gave myself only a split second to decide—turn back and run or step through the door. Nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, I walked into the joint and asked one of the men, “Is this where the Parents Without Partners meetings are?”

He took a draw on his cigarette, blew a stream of smoke, and scanned me from head to toe through half-closed lids. He jerked his head toward the opposite end of the club. “They meet back there.”

With a shaky nod, I made my way past the row of men to the back of the club. Every eye followed me. I could feel them.

I crossed the club to the back room and found the meeting place. The usual skeptic, critically appraising stares met me, but I braced my padded shoulders (this WAS the 80’s, after all) and proceeded to sit at a table. A big, amiable teddy-bear of a fellow picked up his drink, scooted over to sit beside me, and introduced himself. Chuck—my first acquaintance at Parents Without Partners—became a good friend, and he made it possible for many more new friends to cross my path.

I’d done it. I’d taken the huge step to becoming social. That horrific first step, now a thing of the past.

That traumatic experience was my first attempt at an organized social event after my divorce. And, yes, this story actually DOES have something to do with writing.

My first novel is due for release in March. I’ve seen a mock up of the cover, I’ve completed the first round of edits and sent them to the editor. Congratulations, C. Zampa, you are officially an author. 

Or…whoa, back up there, girlie. Welcome, step right up to the next phase of this author-lady stint—promotion. You’ve got to set up a platform to promote yourself and your book. Facebook, Twitter, blogs, websites…and loops.

Upon hearing the word loops, I was immediately transported back to the door of that nondescript club for my first Parents Without Partners Meeting. A scene that intimidates me. 

Joining loops and mingling with new faces is, for some people—especially for me—traumatic. My, redemption, I thought, was the fact that, unlike real-life clubs, loops are only in cyberspace. I told myself it would be easier, as these were merely email addresses with no faces. How hard could that be? Surprisingly, it can be just as hard. 

Fortunately, I’d already been a member on various cyber groups—mainly author fan groups and a writing workshop—and had made some wonderful friends long before my book was finished. But, no, they said, I needed more exposure. Ay-ay-ay. More groups? More strangers? 

I have joined more cyber author groups, and it’s the same experience as my initial outing into the single world after my divorce. It’s scary. Scary as hell. I stand in the doorway, seeing this huge gathering of already-in-progress chats, and I scout for my ‘Chuck’ in the group, a face I know, somebody to reach out a hand and lead me around. My fortune IS that I DO already have friends who mingle in these groups as well, and—just as any real-life club, I find myself hanging onto their coattails. 

Some groups are so busy, jumping into a chat is much like tossing yourself over Niagara Falls in a dinghy. You get immediately carried away in the rapids and disappear before they ever see your face. Your ‘Hi from a Newbie’ is quickly silenced by the force of the already-gushing currents.

How do you survive? Just how good of a swimmer ARE you? 

 Me? As a kid, I nearly drowned my swimming coach AND myself in an Olympic sized, very deep pool and pretty much ditched all hopes of swimming after that in the real world. And I’m not sure I’m a strong swimmer in the cyber pools either. I’m not sure my voice is loud. I don’t demand to be seen and heard, unless I’m very comfortable in the forum. Then just watch my mouth run ninety-to-nothing. But cutting through waters where big, big schools of fish swim is hard. Very hard for many. And, like I said, it’s scary. 

If your comments should go unnoticed, do you sit and pout or just persist? Oh, come on. Is it EVER the better option to pout? Now, now, you know it isn’t. 

But is it worth it to persist, to push though the thick crowds of other fishes until you are finally recognized? Personally, I’ve found it can be. For a skittish fish like me, the attempt has produced some wonderful friends, some of them very dear. Some of these bigger fish have mentored me, and guided me around the cyber waters until I felt comfortable swimming on my own. Some have been instrumental in helping to build my confidence as a writer, and have encouraged—even pushed me—to get my work submitted. And they were there to cheer me when I was accepted by the publisher. So, considering this? Hell, yes, it’s worth it to persist in the cyber sea. There is nothing like the warm, genuine support I’ve found through the loops. The ears to listen to my fears, my cheers, my cries, my why’s. 

Just as in my Parents Without Partners experience, groups CAN have drawbacks. Every aspect of life has its own unpleasantness. I look back on my PWP outings, and remember many of the other ladies hissing because the men liked to dance with the me, new girl. And they snickered because the new girl always wore a dress or skirts. But I toughed it out. I dressed how I wanted to dress, and faced the leering tootsies every Tuesday night. I kept wearing my skirts and dresses and—go figure—very soon the other snarling dames were wearing the same. In other words, if it’s a place you feel you’d like to be, then stick around. Ignore the negative facets that might rear up, and focus on what you like about the group.

As I said, I’m navigating my way through some very large author/reader groups, and once again, I’m terrified. But I’m trying. Because, as Anais Nin said in my opening quote, I can’t make friends by remaining in the state I’m in, constantly looking in and not moving. And I certainly can’t put the burden on the other members of the group to take me by the hand like a toddler and shelter me. I DO expect them—and all groups—to be courteous, to do their part to make a new member welcome. That is to be expected and necessary for the group itself to form a genial impression. The rest is up to me. 

Anais also said this: I will not be just a tourist in the world of images, just watching images passing by which I cannot live in, make love to, possess as permanent sources of joy and ecstasy. Get it? I have to take part, too. This isn’t just a racket where everybody has to cater to me. It’s a two-way street and I have to participate. 

Or, as Dale Carnegie said: Inaction breeds doubt and fear. Action breeds confidence and courage. If you want to conquer fear, do not sit home and think about it. Go out and get busy.

 

You heard the man! And I’ll be willing to bet you’ll find your Chuck-fish in the crowd, just like I did.

Now, go, little fishies! Swim!

Leader of the Pack and All That Jazz...

I want to see these bad, bad, bad, bad men come to grips with their humanity. ----James Ellroy


He stepped in the joint, and like sharks gliding silent in the deep, we smelled fresh new talent. Every female gaze, including mine, immediately zoomed in on him. The guys knew immediately—just male instinct, I suppose—he was going to be a threat, he was going to be trouble with a capital “T”. They knew he was competition because his kind always was.


Louie. His name was Louie. He wasn’t very tall. Oh, hell, he was short. Not even particularly handsome. Waves of red hair, freckles. Not the average Joe we dames usually went for. But something about the way Louie wore his jeans and white T-shirt, something in his cocky grin, the savvy glint in his green eyes shouted bad boy. Very good bad boy.


For me, it was love at first sight. Red-headed Louie—I don’t even remember his last name—stole our hearts.


Louie, the predecessor to the Fonz, the copper haired Brando of Red Bluff Elementary. The new reigning king of Mrs. Smallwood’s second grade class.


One Friday night at Jackson’s Skating Rink, bad boy Louie asked me to skate with him and—there, with the rink dim except for the romantic multi-colored lights dancing over the walls and floor—I lost my heart to him. And thus, in second grade, wearing my blue rhinestone trimmed glasses and pigtails, I began my love affair with bad boys.


My preference in fiction—films, books, to read AND to write—are dangerous men. In my opinion, Scarlett O’Hara could have saved herself so much grief and time had she only shared my taste in the wicked pleasures of rakes like Rhett Butler instead of boring ol’ Ashley Wilkes.


Hey, let me at the script for Peter Pan, and I’ll free Captain Hook and toss little Pan to the giant crocodile. I shiver and fantasize about Lucius Malfoy in the Harry what’s-his-name film. You can have your Mel Gibson in The Patriot. Give me Col. William Tavington. And—am I ever ashamed to admit this—as much as I liked good-looking Hawkeye in The Last of the Mohicans, I’d never have thrown myself from a cliff if the evil Magua took me captive.


In the fiction world, are these bad asses REALLY…well…bad? Or are they just flawed? Are they tormented souls who, as James Ellroy suggests, we want to force to come to grips with their humanity through our writing?


Are we literary co-dependents where our lotharios, mob guys, street-wise punks, highwaymen and pirates are concerned, with an unconscious need to reform them?


In true, everyday life, are these Robert Mitchum/James Dean types really what our hearts desire? Would that kind of guy REALLY make us happy, or have we romanticized them?


If we DO lust after these menaces-in-men’s-bodies, even in our non-fictional world, what is their allure? Our own unrequited dream of living on the edge, flirting with danger, being the sensuous yet pure beacon on his dark, tortured sea?


Remember the song from the sixties, Leader of the Pack? Part of the lyrics, I think, symbolized a common conception of these misunderstood rascals: They told me he was bad, but I knew he was sad. Get the picture? the crooner asked her friends. Yes, we see, they replied. And, because he WAS sad, that’s why, she says, she fell for the leader of the pack.


Powerful stuff these scoundrels have, the angst angle. Is there room in our hearts for the guys from the RIGHT side of town, the guys who AREN’T sad and tormented?


As little Louie was an automatic threat to the second grade male population—by simply by BEING Louie—are naughty boys a threat to the real-life guys in white hats?


In one of my favorite films, Crossing Delancey, the heroine apologetically announces to the hero, “You’re such a nice guy.” His response? So pitiful, yet so true-to life—he shudders and says, “Oh, what a thing to say!” Bless his heart. She did NOT mean it as a compliment, and he knew it. In the film, she preferred the womanizing anti-hero, an arrogant ass of an author with an ego the size of New York City. Of course, in the end, our good guy won out, but it was a continuous, painful, uphill battle for him.


Crossing Delancey may have been a fictional story, but it personified a true state of many female psyches. Even mine. I related to the heroine. I, too, dig that wicked allure, that I’m going to break your heart and you’re going to beg me for more attraction which is old as time, still alive and well.


Do bad boys really reform for us? Or do we write them because it’s our only way to mold them into the sexy-attentive-obsessively passionate-romantic-good and bad at the same time-always handsome lovers we want them to be?


Russell Crowe said, and I thought this was very interesting:

I like villains because there's something so attractive about a committed person - they have a plan, an ideology, no matter how twisted. They're motivated.


Is that what it boils down to? Are we attracted to something as simple as their…commitment? The powerful drive in these bad boys, whether it’s evil, just a little mean or just plain tortured?


If you love bad boys, if you write bad boys, I’d love to know why.