Love in a Cold Climate

I learn stuff when I write. Which is one of the reasons I love to write. I knew that the Thames froze over pretty often in years gone by but had never sat and wondered how and why. When I set out to write a book about the last one, held in 1814, I needed to find this stuff out.

This is the science bit so please concentrate.



Aside from global warming, there's a good reason why the Thames doesn't freeze up now - it's the bridges. Old London Bridge was supported by many piers, each one leaving a much smaller gap than any modern bridge - and this acted like a dam. Chunks of ice floated against the bridges - and like one of those pushing slot machines - the ice jammed up, and the river froze over. When the new bridge was built in 1831, the gaps were larger and the Thames didn't freeze again, or at least, not sufficiently to have a vast "Frost Fair" on the ice - and the famous fair of 1814 was the last one.

OK. That's your lot. On with the smut.

So - the reason behind the snow and ice science and the gratuitous pictures of half naked men in the snow?

Well, my book - Frost Fair is out tomorrow! So it seemed a good excuse.

Frost Fair is set in 1814 when the weather was pretty damned nippy to say the least. England was in a mini-ice age, but was gradually warming up.

It's officially a Regency in the time frame, but there's no drawing rooms, no Bath, no balls. (Well, there are balls--obviously, this is me we are talking about, but they are round and warm and squeezable and no-one dances in them.)


Gideon Frost is an impoverished printer, trying hard to keep his business afloat and only just managing it. To help make ends meet, from time to time he visits the areas notorious for male prostitution (Cock Lane, Lad Lane, and St Paul's Churchyard) to make a few extra shillings.

Then he falls in love--with a client--but not of the Lad Lane type, a client of his print shop and suddenly, when the object of his affection seems about to reciprocate, it's vital that Gideon's secret doesn't come out.

Here, as you can tell, my boys haven't quite got together yet...


Joshua was sure that he could help Gideon. As much as he longed to keep the man by his side forever, he couldn’t see him satisfied with the post of a valet forever. Schemes and ideas swirled around in Joshua’s head, each one more implausible than the last, each daydream sweeter than the one before. He imagined himself as Gideon’s mentor, his patron, setting him—one day—back in business with a new shop, a new press—“Sponsor: Joshua Redfern” across the shop door. And then one day, Gideon might turn to him in gratitude, slide his hand into his own and press those sweet lips to his face. Redfern felt himself hardening at the very thought of it, the way he always did whenever any daydreams of physical contact with Gideon plagued him.

He wondered how it would feel to have him naked and pliant, held tight against him. How his skin would feel, as his fingers traced the line of his backbone from that elegant neck, along the delicious curve of his back to the heaven—and entirely imaginary perfection of his arse. His cock
began to ache as he closed his eyes for a second and flexed his fingers, visualizing how that arse would feel as his hands closed over it. Lean, he was sure. Very little fat, and hard, harder when Gideon clenched... And what else, what delights awaited him... He shook his head and opened his
eyes, letting the vision and phantom body in his arms work its magic, letting the lust course down, down into his loins.

God. He was in danger of spending his seed here in his drawing room without even touching himself. If Gideon’s imaginary form could have this effect, what might his real body do? Whatever it might do, Joshua was quite sure it would not be a disappointment. He strode to the door and took the stairs two at a time, flinging open his bedroom door and slamming it behind him, grateful that he was currently without a valet.

In the seclusion of his room, he allowed himself to revisit his vision of Gideon, grateful, sweet and entirely naked in his arms. Releasing his cock from his breeches, he grasped it firmly, then groaned as the imaginary Gideon dropped to his knees and engulfed the end of Redfern’s swollen cock in that beautiful, wide mouth. Oh God, he thought. Would he look at me like I’m imagining he would as he swallows me? Would he welcome me as I move back and forwards in his mouth—like this? He pumped gently into his hand, his eyes tight closed as his vision lapped and sucked at him.

It was too much, too much. With one fist pressed hard against his mouth, he came, and his seed pulsed over his sliding fingers. It was needful, cathartic, but it wasn’t satisfying, and never would be until his dreams came true.

And another excerpt... a little later when they DO get together.

Gideon’s hands were in his hair, and his head was tipped back as he cried out softly with each fresh attack. He hooked a leg around Joshua’s, and ground his hips and a sizeable erection into Joshua’s hip.

Joshua needed no further invitation, pausing only to divest himself of breeches and boots before throwing himself down on top of the man, claiming his waiting kiss with his mouth and his eager hot cock with one hand. To his delight, Gideon grasped him in one swift and mutual movement and then finally, face to face, they paused and looked at each other. Joshua gave a growl as Gideon’s hand moved on his prick, oh so slowly but sure, firm and so bloody good. Gideon’s fingers slid down the shaft, teasing his sac with each downward movement and Joshua copied the action, watching Gideon’s face as it twisted in pleasure, taking kisses whenever he could and trying to remember to breathe.

God, he wasn’t going to last, that was certain. It had been too long, and he’d longed for this moment, imagined this too many times. “Gideon...” he whispered, “wait.” He moved his hand over the hot flesh in his hand, pulling and squeezing, loving every sound that Gideon made.

“Too late,” Gideon groaned, and Joshua kissed his words away as warm liquid flowed over his fingers. Gideon’s hand tightened around his shaft, causing Joshua to spend a moment later, hot and far too fast, like a schoolboy with his first fumble.

“Gideon...” He crushed Gideon into an embrace and took kiss after kiss until they were both breathless. “Heaven.”

It sure seems like heaven to me! I hope you enjoyed the smut (and the science!) and if you leave a comment, you might win a copy. I can supply a download pretty sharply, but the print version won't be out for a few weeks, and then I'll need to get copies from the publisher, so you'll need to be a little patient. There's further excerpts on my website, and on the publisher's page.

Keep warm! Shared bodily warmth, remember! Enjoy the video!


Erastes
www.erastes.com

A Bluffer's Guide to... Gay Historicals

Along the lines of the other Bluffer's Guides I thought I'd do a Gay Historical 1-0-1 today.

Top facts:

* Sadly not yet published by Black Lace. I live in hope as they do have m/m/f plotlines.
* Covers. Usually pretty naff.(with the exception of those below)
* Committed Lusties, Erastes, Madelynne Ellis - hell, just about all of us!

In a nutshell

* There's not enough of it, for a start.
* Some Gay Historicals address the very real problems of being gay in a time when it wasn't just unacceptable, it was reviled and illegal. (Basically after Christianity kicked in) However, there were times when man on man love wasn't just acceptable, it was a normal part of everyday life. (The Greeks had a word for it.)
* Thankfully, due to pronouns they are not called things like "The Mediterranean Tycoon's Depraved Heiress" (With thanks to the Random Romance Title Generator)

The heroes

Not too different from the heroes in other historical romances. They are generally aristocratic (tall and handsome goes without saying - plus they are ALWAYS - always hung like horses, this is the law.) So, create your character: Rich, check. Commanding, check. Handsome, check. Cock of unusual size. Check and double check. OK, you can stop checking now.

The, er, OTHER heroes

Now here you can play around a little. You can either make your other hero a match for your arrogant alpha in every sense of the word (and sit back and watch those sparks fly and those buttons go flying (gotta have flying buttons, more later) OR you can create a sensitive little soul. A downtrodden artist, perhaps, or an impoverished tutor. A kidnapped sex slave or an abused and rescued young man. As long as you get a vast gulf between your alpha and your omega, it doesn't really matter. Any excuse to make that boy cry his little heart out because the rough tough alpha doesn't know how to handle him. Or rather - he doesn't know how to handle his feelings - he knows how to handle him all right. (hur hur) The important thing is the desecration of innocence - but don't worry. No matter how nasty the alpha is, your sensitive soul will fall in love with him as he tops from the bottom.

The best bit about writing gay historicals
* Buttons. Oh GOD the buttons. I've coined the term breeches ripper before, but for me waistcoat ripping is far more exciting. Also cravats. You can have a LOT of fun with cravats.
* UST. (No, no, not there, Unresolved Sexual Tension. Buckets and buckets of it. "I'm homosexual!++ Argh! God he's pretty. I wonder if he's homosexual too? How can I let him know? What if he's not? All right... so he is - he's sleeping with Lord [Whossit] - how can I get him?"A writer of gay historicals have immense fun torturing her characters - making every glance count, and when one's passing the port (to the left, of course) at dinner, fingertips are just bound to brush against each other.
* It's much easier to get men together on a day-to-day basis. Whereas a hetero historical writer will have to write about dances, and chaperones and perhaps elopements men can simply hang out with each other, ride in each other's carriages (and no, that's not a euphemism!) without anyone fainting or ruining anyone's reputation. Of course it's pretty difficult to get them into sexual situation, but that's another post...

The best bit about reading gay historicals

* Buttons! Ok, Is it just me and the button porn?
* Appreciating that the author knows exactly what the difference is between a sailor's whipping and a double fisherman but that you don't need to know anything as silly as long as the hero gets tied up.
* Sponge baths.
* Cocks! (sorry, but it did have to be said.) Lots of 'em. Members, yards, rods, poles, perches, arbor vitae, gaying instrument. (yes, really.)

Top tip: beige...biscuit...blasé bleeding anachronisms

Check check check. You may think that it's all right to say your hero's breeches are beige but it wasn't so and any eagle eyed reader will Mock You. They will, however realise if you are trying and make a small slip-up, but they won't appreciate sloppy (or no) research, modern day speech patterns and contemporary men in fancy dress.

What not to say

* “Where's the lube?”
* He climaxed, spunk spurting over his fingers.
* "He's got such a cute ass."

What to say

* “Spit, and have done, man.” (other lubricants are available...)
* GOOD LORD, SHAG HIM ALREADY!
* I'm learning something! Oooo... cocks....

Over to you...

* What gay historicals would you like to see?
* What cliches are you sick of?
* Do you want better covers?
* Anything else?

And if you are interested in finding out more: (and in a more sensible fashion)

Speak Its Name has The Definitive List of Gay Historical fiction.
The Macaronis: Fiction out of the Closet


++homosexual is also anachronistic until the early 20th century, too.

Smut slot: A Friday Smutty art lesson

Chiaroscuro (Italian for clear-dark) is a term in art for a contrast between light and dark. The term is usually applied to bold contrasts affecting a whole composition, but is also more technically used by artists and art historians for the use of effects representing contrasts of light, not necessarily strong, to achieve a sense of volume in modeling three-dimensional objects such as the human body........

Yeah yeah - blah blah. It's been used by Rembrandt and it's still being used today - think of Frank Millar's Sin City and you get modern chiaroscuro. But for me it was a good excuse to write a sexy tale of an artist who falls in love - or is it under the thrall?- of the beautiful young man he's been commissioned to paint as Icarus Fallen.

Chiaroscuro is a novella in Aspen Mountain Press' "Night Moves 1"anthology and tells the story of Michel di Posco who is being paraded around 19th century Florence by his Patron, showing him off as his new prodigy.

It is a vampire story as the cover suggests - all four novellas are - but it's not the emphasis of the story. It explores the good and evil in humanity and vampires. Where are lines of light and dark drawn? Who is good? And who is evil?

I hope you enjoy these two smutty snippets!

Michel has his first sitting with Yuri.

I moved back to him then, ready to start work, my shirt drying on my body in the warmth of the room. Kneeling down beside him, I arranged the sheets beneath him into the shapes I needed to give the impression of lightness and softness.

His gaze did not move from my face and his was impassive, nothing in his elegant countenance showing any emotion except those ageless, deathless eyes. I turned to him and without words unbuttoned his waistcoat with eager fingers, which stumbled and faltered, finding themselves almost incapable of such a simple task.

I do not usually, I add at this point, make a habit of undressing my models; an artist who commits such a faux-pas even once would never find models to pose for him a second time.

But there was no thought of him undressing himself; somehow we both knew such an unveiling was no sexual act, no prelude to eroticism. I had moved above and beyond my lust for him. I was simply preparing him as I would any still life.

He kicked off his house shoes and shrugged his way out of his waistcoat almost without levering himself from the floor. He went to sit up to remove his shirt but I pushed him back down, moved around to his head and pulled it up and over his head. Looking back now, I can hardly believe just how matter of fact I was in disrobing him that first time.

So many times since then have we playacted our first moments, cheated as it seemed we were of the sensuality of disrobing by my concentration and haste. We peel the clothes from each other like the layers of an onion, taking hours to become fully naked for the delectation of the other. It seems inconceivable that that at first I did no more but tug the clothes from him as roughly as if I were undressing one of my small nephews for bathing.

But the muse was within me; I did not see him as he became exposed to me. Did not see the pure lasciviousness of him, the maleness of his sensual perfection.

All I saw—as more and more marble-white flesh was uncovered—were the tones and shades of his body. The places where the light hid, or gleamed in brightness. Places that were breathless in their mystery. A hollow at the base of his neck, a pair of matched and wonderful shadows on his cheeks, soft adumbration causing a sudden and unexpectedly glorious magic in an otherwise rounded hip. Shadows deepening in a delirious and dangerous fashion as the heavenly triangle of his hips curved inward to meet in an abundance of golden fleece so glorious that Jason would have cast aside his rancid ram skin and sworn allegiance to these bright crisp curls.

And even Buonarroti himself could not have done justice to the proud flesh that which rested between his pale thighs. The most perfect and the most sacred part of him. Buonarroti had a talent for understating a man's anatomy and his David was sadly underrepresented. This sublime column of flesh would be faithfully depicted, I promised myself, and my mouth watered at the anticipation of transposing it onto the canvas.
I realised I was staring at his member, and for the first time since the early days in my master's studio all those years ago, when the male model stood in the centre of us apprentices and removed all of his clothes, I blushed deeply.

To cover my embarrassment, I picked up charcoal and sketched furiously; ignoring the deep chuckle my subject gave.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And later....

I followed Yuri up the stairs and into the studio. It was much as it had been the time before, save that the curtains were drawn, no doubt to save the furnishings from the damaging sun.

He saw me glance at the windows. “The light; I hope that it’s not inconvenient?”

“No, not at all, the candles give you more colour anyway.”

He smiled, closed the door upon us and took hold of my arm, pulled me close. “I want you, Michel.”

“The work.”

“Can wait.” He was breathless and impatient, and God forgive me, once more I was swept away and I forgot all about duty and Bettano and even the consuming passion of my art as he buried his mouth in my neck and kissed me, causing my spine to shiver in delight.

He undressed me with rough haste, shrugging his few items off and pulling me to the soft rug beside him. “I have thought of nothing else than you for days, since we met. You consume me.”
He interspersed his words with kisses and all the while he stroked my cock, which shuddered with delight in his hand. “I want to take you Michel, want to fuck you and to spill my seed inside you. Do you want this? Do you? I think you are a virgin.”

The flutter of fear I felt at his words calmed as he kissed and stroked. His hand gradually moved further down my shaft until it left it completely and cupped my balls.

“Yes,” was all I could manage, gasping as his hand slid behind my balls and massaged the sensitive skin behind. Already he knew my body as well as I knew the intricacies of a canvas, knew every bump and crevice, every action to give me pleasure. “Yes.”

“I’ll take that as answer to both,” he said with a deep chuckle. He reached up to the settle behind us and pulled off the bolster cushions, put one under my head. “Roll over onto your side,” he ordered. I did as I was told, but in spite of the warmth of the room I shivered; I felt goose-flesh spring across my skin.

He settled behind me, lovingly. “Don’t be frightened, Michel.”

“I’m not,” I lied.

His hands moved all the while, over my shoulders, my back, my arse. I pressed back against his touch, relaxing more and more. Then one hand slid forward to take hold of my cock again while the other slid between my arse cheeks, and his finger slid up to find my entrance. Instinctively I tensed, but he kissed my neck and stroked my cock so slowly that I found that before I knew, it his finger had slid inside.

It was like a ripple of pleasure that started behind my balls and travelled all the way to the tip of my cock, like the disturbance caused by a pebble in a pond, wave upon wave of something like I’d never felt before. Within minutes, as his finger moved further and further in I found I was pushing back against him, as if wanting more. I did, although the fear was still there.

Something inside of me trembled when his finger touched a place deep within. The sensation was like nothing I’d ever experienced. I thought I’d spend myself immediately, but the urge passed, then returned when whatever it was he’d touched, he touched again. I gasped, arching my body like a bow, pushing my arse into his hand and leaning backwards to receive his kisses. “Again, again, I beg of you.”

He worked me for what seemed like hours, from time to time resorting to a little bottle of oil that he’d hidden beneath the settle. Such foresight and care made me love him more, and the scent of that the oil, pungent and deep, will ever remind me of him. Finally, he pulled his hand away and I felt his cock slip into the cleft.

“I love you, Michel,” he said. He did not so much as push into me, but pulled me by my hips back against him. It was uncomfortable, at first, but not painful. I blushed to feel my own erection wilt.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, his mouth at my neck. “It’s normal. Just breathe.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Want to see what happens next? Buy the book (and you get 3 other novellas too!)

An electronic copy is up for grabs for one lucky commenter!

Erastes

Gentlemen Behaving Badly: "Speak Its Name"

SPEAK ITS NAME is out now!

What is this Speak Its Name of which you speak?

Call it SiN for short. It's a three-novella anthology of gay historical romance. Published by Linden Bay Romance and containing stories from Lee Rowan, Charlie Cochrane and Erastes.

Three novellas? Sounds like a bargain!

It is! Aftermath from Charlie Cochrane is a tale of 1920's Oxford Undergraduates, Gentleman's Gentleman by Lee Rowan is a Victorian Spy drama, and Hard & Fast from Erastes is Jane Austen on Viagra.

SiN will be available first as an ebook, and then 4-6 weeks later in a print edition you can grasp firmly with one hand.
So - here's some snippets from each, and I hope you enjoy them!

AFTERMATH by Charlie Cochrane

When shy Edward Easterby first sees the popular Hugo Lamont, he's both envious of the man's social skills and ashamed of finding him so attractive. But two awful secrets weigh Lamont down. One is that he fancies Easterby, at a time when the expression of such desires is strictly illegal. The second is that an earlier, disastrous encounter with a young gigolo has left him unwilling to enter into a relationship with anyone. Hugo feels torn apart by the conflict between what he wants and what he feels is "right". Will Edward find that time and patience are enough to change Hugo's mind?

"Hugo!" Easterby's deep voice split the still sharp air of the April evening. Lamont didn't turn, nor was he steering a course for his own rooms. Edward kept up a pursuit, eventually abandoning words and grabbing his friend's arm. "Hugo, I only asked you to come and take a glass with me. Can't we do that, like any two civilized human beings?"

Lamont turned, hot tears welling in his eyes. "But we're not civilized human beings, are we? I told you before that a lost legion of temptations lies in your room and I haven't the armor to fight any of them. Don't tempt me, Edward. Please."

Easterby looked stunned. "I never meant to tempt you. I…"

Hugo laid a hand on his friend's arm, equally quickly removed it. "I know, you're innocence itself, honestly. But can't you see that I'm burning?"

"But your letters…I thought that you were perhaps warming to the thought of being close friends. There was so very much affection in each line. Or so I thought. Perhaps I simply imagined it all; wishful thinking on my part again." Edward turned away, gulping as though swallowed pride had stuck in his craw.

"Letters were safe, Edward. It was easy to pour myself into them, and like a fool I succumbed to the temptation to do so. I could kiss your letters and not be tainted. Having the same feelings while being so close to you is agony." He reached out again, merely brushed the wool of Easterby's jacket and shook his head sadly.

"Will you meet me tomorrow, then?" Easterby's voice was full of defeat and sadness. "Not in my room if you can't bear it. At a café or in the bar. Anywhere. I need to talk to you." He raised his hand, let it stop within a hair's breadth of Lamont's face. "I've missed you so much."

Hugo nodded. He didn't dare say anything—his treacherous tongue would betray him. He gently grazed his own hand along Edward's, resisting clasping the fingers.


GENTLEMAN'S GENTLEMAN by Lee Rowan

Lord Robert Scoville has lived in a reasonably comfortable Victorian closet, without hope of real love, or any notion that it's right there in front of him if he would only open his eyes and take notice of his right-hand man, Jack Darling. Jack has done his best to be satisfied with the lesser intimacy of caring for the man he loves, but his feigned role as a below-stairs ladies' man leaves his heart empty. When a simple diplomatic errand turns dangerous and a man from their past raises unanswerable questions, both men find themselves endangered by the secrets between them. Can they untangle the web of misunderstanding before an unknown attacker parts them forever?

Jack said nothing. He didn't dare. The truth was stirring in him like a living thing, but he simply did not know what to say. No, he wasn't mistaken. I would love to have you take advantage of me! That would hardly do. In fact, he was grateful for his lordship's integrity. How wretched it would have been to serve under an officer who expected sexual favors, if the attraction were not mutual.

But was it mutual? Jack could not deny what he himself felt. And hope stirred again, a tenuous thread of possibility. A man who would not take advantage might be exercising self-restraint, not indifference. Did he dare speak?

Lord Robert was still fuming, oblivious to Jack's dilemma. "He must have thought me absurdly naïve. I suppose I was. It had never occurred to me that anyone would stoop so low as to make such an assumption about me. Or about you!" He looked up, his eyes full of some unspoken emotion. Anger? Guilt? "My dear fellow, I am deeply sorry. You must believe I never intended to subject you to anything like that. I can't do a damned thing about my own nature, and I'm grateful beyond words for your tolerance. I had no idea you would be offered such an insult."

"Insult, my lord?" Jack's chest felt tight, and his heart was suddenly pounding. Here it was, then—the chance of fulfillment or the destruction of all he had come to know.

"That you were my—that I would—" Lord Robert flung a hand into the air, helplessly.

"The only insult Captain McDonald offered," Jack said carefully, "was the assumption that I would be willing to lie with him."

It was Lord Robert's turn to hesitate. "I'm not certain I understand."

Their eyes met once more, and Jack could not look away. "He was not mistaken about my nature." And, since at this point there could be no going back, he added, "Nor my feelings for you."

HARD AND FAST by Erastes
Major Geoffrey Chaloner has returned, relatively unscathed, from the Napoleonic War, and England is at peace for the first time in years. Unable to set up his own establishment, he is forced to live with his irascible father who has very clear views on just about everything—including exactly whom Geoffrey will marry and why. The trouble is that Geoffrey isn't particularly keen on the idea, and even less so when he meets Adam Heyward, the enigmatic cousin of the lady his father has picked out for him... As Geoffrey says himself: "I have never been taught what I should do if I fell in love with someone of a sex that was not, as I expected it would be, opposite to my own."


I sat up, dazed, with the terrible realization of how much my life had just changed. He was smiling, just a little. He lay there, looking so delightfully debauched, his lips swollen from my mouth’s assaults, his eyes huge and so dark as to be almost black, that my heart twisted with emotion for him. He reached down and took my hand, still resting on his thighs, caught it in his hand and brought it up to his mouth. With slow, deliberate movements of his tongue, he licked my fingers clean, then turned my hand over and kissed my palm, his eyes closing as he did. It was such a simple and heartfelt declaration of love without words that I was unable to do anything but swallow hard.

Our situation and the danger of it came to us both as the madness receded. We had already been too long closeted together; we could not afford much more time. But our preparations to appear to the others of the house and his gradual re-dressing were delayed again and again by tenderness and kisses as he came to me, again and again.

“One more,” he said, pushing himself against the door and myself. “For I’ll have to live on this moment for who knows how long.” I too, saw the future stretching away from me with nothing more than circumspect glances, unendurable social contact and nights spent lonely, hard and longing.

How my life had reversed in so short a time. From being determined to grant him no quarter, to stand against him in every endeavor, now I was his to command. Just a pressure behind my neck brought my lips down to his; the smallest of his touches had tamed me, just as I fooled myself that I had mastered his recalcitrant nature. I brushed the back of his hair with my fingers, curling it where it had been flattened, and I wanted to say how my heart felt but he had confounded me—as ever.

I tried, knowing that something was needed of me. We could not open that door and resume our lives without some declaration of our intent. And yet, I thought—rational in spite of the glow of new found love—what intents could there be? This madness could never happen again, not in his aunt’s house, and would, inevitably sink to degradation, hidden away in the class of houses that such...tastes were enjoyed, becoming as vile as it was rumored.

I was not sure we had escaped scandal as it was, but to repeat the experience (although every inch of my body wanted to repeat and repeat and repeat) would be insanity of immense proportions.

“Heyward...”

His eyes hooded in a sensuous manner and he leaned against me, his hands almost kneading my chest, like a cat does. “I think, my dear Geoffrey, that now perhaps we might be a little more intimate than that? At least in private.”

From Josh Lanyon, author of Adrien English Mysteries

"Dashing spies, bold Regency bucks, and the flower of English manhood vie for readers' attention in this smart, original and engaging trilogy.This is not your mother's historical romance!"

I hope you'll give it a try, please leave a comment to win a copy in print or ebook, whichever you'd prefer. All three authors will be on hand during the day to answer any questions you have, or perhaps share further snippets!

Erastes
(and in spirit, Lee Rowan and Charlie Cochrane)

Why do women like my cock-filled gay porn?

Guest Blogger: James Lear
Fag Hag: Kristina Lloyd


Filthy. Funny. Gay. Three words to make many women prick up their ears. (I said *ears*! Quit with the anagrams.) James Lear ranks highly on all these fronts (I said *ranks*) so we're thrilled to have him on Lust Bites. James's Back Passage (Cleis Press) is a brilliantly funny riot of shagging and sleuthing, and I have never read a book with so much come in it. Ahem. I mean, I can highly recommend it. It's topped the Lesbian and Gay Bestseller charts on both Amazon UK and Amazon US, and is also - woo hoo! - a finalist in the Lambda Literary Awards. The results will be announced tomorrow at a super swish ceremony in New York so we've got our fingers and legs crossed on Lust Bites (okay, just our fingers) and we're all rooting for James's Back Passage.

James is here today to tell us more about his Back Passage, his latest release, Hot Valley, and to mull over a question that's been puzzling him: Why do women like my hot, cock-filled gay porn?

When I started writing gay erotic fiction, I assumed that the readers would be almost exclusively male, and that they’d be reading it for one reason only. Much to my surprise and delight, I’ve discovered that a very significant percentage of my readership is female, and that they’re far more forthright in their enjoyment of the books than men. The majority of the reviews on Amazon, both in the UK and the US, are written by women, and I’ve had no end of really great, positive feedback from female readers both in person and online.

Thinking about it, I suppose I should have known. I remember girl friends back in the day telling me that they enjoyed reading about sex, and that a good dirty story got them far more excited than looking at pictures of knobs. But I’d assumed that they would need some point of identification – that there would have to be a woman in there so that they could imagine it was “about me”. Nothing of the sort, as it turns out: my readers tell me that they enjoy reading about men in sexual situations for all sorts of reasons, that they enjoy the wider range of roles available in same-sex coupling (as opposed to the formulaic approach of so much hetero stuff) and that they can get into sex scenes whatever the genders.

And there’s another surprise: these readers are by no means all straight women. Many of them are lesbians, and they’re right in there with the rest of them getting off on descriptions of two men fucking.

So what exactly is drawing in this female readership – and why are they so much more articulate in their appreciation of erotic writing than men? I think men take a more functional approach to porn, both written and photographed: they choose what specifically turns them on, they consume it and they get off. That’s what I assumed when writing the four erotic novels I’ve done to date. The basic deal is that there are two good wanks per chapter (one for older readers), and, in the “down time”, enough plot and humour and good writing to keep you entertained.

Obviously the nuts and bolts aspect of the writing also works for women, who, I am reliably informed, “enjoy” erotic writing in exactly the same way as men. But it seems that female readers have less rigid ideas of what will work for them; they’re open to a wider range of stimuli. Some get off on the depiction of men as vulnerable, passive sex objects; others like the depiction of strong, rough, masculine figues (there are plenty of both). Some like the romance aspects, and the happy endings; others go for the historical or genre trappings. The Back Passage, my biggest seller and the first for US publisher Cleis, is a 1920s country house murder mystery – basically, it’s Agatha Christie and Gosford Park with yards of cock – and that, more than any other, has got female readers’ juices flowing.

But this isn’t just a question of sexually-open women enjoying male/male erotica as part of a smorgasbord of literary stimulation. There are several female readers, and indeed writers, who are choosing to specialise in m/m material. One reader told me how she actively seeks out m/m erotica, and scares male shoppers by hanging around the gay section in bookshops. Several female romance writers have found their way to m/m fiction and explore it with a completely new sensibility.

We’re used to the cliché of gay men finding points of identification in movies with strong female leads; I wonder if this move towards m/m erotica signals a similar quest among women who are dissatisfied with the traditional roles they’re given in m/f books and films and are looking for material that takes them on a wider imaginative journey. I well remember watching a Jeff Stryker gay porn movie with a butch lesbian friend of mine many years ago, and her stomping around going “I wish I had a dick as big as Jeff’s so I could fuck anyone I fancied!”. I’m certainly not suggesting that this is some form of literary penis envy, but I do think that gay porn has a liberating effect on women’s imaginations.

Gay male readers also enjoy the books, thank God, but are far less likely to engage in discussion of them than women. As for officially straight men – and I know that they’re out there reading these books, checking out gay websites, cruising the gay/bi chatrooms and the saunas – they probably wank themselves silly and then chuck the book in the bin. I would love to know what they think, but I resign myself to the fact that I will probably never find out. One female reader tells me that she likes to get all steamed up with a good bit of m/m erotica and then leap on her husband to try out lots of new ideas. Do us a favour and get him to read a bit too, and report back.


Perhaps the new one, Hot Valley – an American Civil War epic – will grab the men as well, as it’s got lots of fighting and shooting, as well as some extremely dirty bits involving officers and foot soldiers, life in army camps and prisons and a huge variety of uniforms for the characters to take off.

I started writing erotica at a time when I was stalled in my “legit” writing career (I write novels under my “real” name, Rupert Smith) and needed an outlet. Now I find myself in a situation where the porn is outselling the literary fiction. It’s also had a healthy effect on my other writing, getting me in touch with the very basic functions of fiction: to excite, entertain and delight, not to be clever-clever. James Lear has liberated Rupert Smith, and it’s a happy symbiosis.

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Please note: the man in the suit is Rupert Smith. James, I'm told, is kept under lock and key at a home for elderly nymphomaniacs. One of these guys will be along later today. I don't know which. I am worried.

Check out Rupert's website for more on the proper books and visit James to explore the improper stuff.

FREE FILTH! Up for grabs: The Back Passage and Hot Valley. Add a comment and this double dose of depravity could be yours!

Coming Attractions

This week at Lust Bites we're all feeling a little queer.

We kick off the week with cowboys. Big butch sexy 'Kate Pearce' cowboys. Saying yee-ha and everything. And hot on the heels of those sturdy ranch hands, on Wednesday, is our guest, deliciously dirty gay-romp author James Lear, with Kristina Lloyd acting as his beard.

(I expect they're exchanging rugby players backstage as I write…) Some of you may have already thumbed Mr Lear's Back Passage and perhaps now you'd enjoy giving his Hot Valley a little of your attention. What? It's his new book, okay. God, you people…

At the end of the week our very own grande dame Portia da Costa will be here to give us a tease of her brand new novel, Suite Seventeen – featuring a very naughty and capricious hero.

And, really, no one is happier than me to announce that naked Lionel over there will be gracing our sidebar all week as part of a concerted effort by us to distract you from whatever you are trying to do.

Tilly aka Mathilde Madden
Just enjoying the view…