Happy Birthday, Pauline!

It's that time of year again: time to wish my very, very sweet friend, Pauline, another - and sincere - happy birthday!

Writers have different dreams than ‘civilians.’ Some of them are pretty obvious: big book deals; Pulitzers, Nobels, etc; “Honey, there’s a Mr. Spielberg on the phone; ” an Oprah sticker ….

But there are other dreams: less obvious ones. One of them, a very special one, even the most hard-core, hard-case, hard-assed grizzled hack has, but will never admit: a friend.

Not just any friend, but a friend who comes from them following your trail of silly little literary breadcrumbs. Not a fan, but someone more than that: a cherished pal, a smile on your face whenever they send a message.

I’m lucky, and very grateful, for many things: my various breaks and bursts of luck in writing; my cherished, so-wonderful Sage Vivant, my brother, Sam; the support of my mother; and – yes – some fantastic friends.

One of them, Pauline, is one year older today. I don’t really want to embarrass her but let me say a few things about this truly wonderful person.

Pauline is sweet and caring, smart and funny, giving and supportive, kind and generous – a real treasure to know.

Happy Birthday, Pauline: you’re a dream come true … for a writer or just anyone lucky enough to have you in their life.

Happy Birthday, Pauline -

It's that time of year again: time to wish my sweet friend, Pauline, another - and very sincere - happy birthday!

Writers have different dreams than ‘civilians.’ Some of them are pretty obvious: big book deals; Pulitzers, Nobels, etc; “Honey, there’s a Mr. Spielberg on the phone; ” an Oprah sticker ….

But there are other dreams: less obvious ones. One of them, a very special one, even the most hard-core, hard-case, hard-assed grizzled hack has, but will never admit: a friend.

Not just any friend, but a friend who comes from them following your trail of silly little literary breadcrumbs. Not a fan, but someone more than that: a cherished pal, a smile on your face whenever they send a message.

I’m lucky, and very grateful, for many things: my various breaks and bursts of luck in writing; my cherished, so-wonderful Sage Vivant, my brother, Sam; the support of my mother; and – yes – some fantastic friends.

One of them, Pauline, is one year older today. I don’t really want to embarrass her but let me say a few things about this truly wonderful person.

Pauline is sweet and caring, smart and funny, giving and supportive, kind and generous – a real treasure to know.

Happy Birthday, Pauline: you’re a dream come true … for a writer or just anyone lucky enough to have you in their life.

Pauline Likes The Rites Of Spring

I've said it before but it's always worth repeating: I have some fantastic friends - and one of my best pals is the always-sweet Pauline, who just sent me this great review of my new serial story: The Rites of Spring. Thanks again, Pauline!

Is it the future? Is it a parallel world? Is it NOW; a secret tribal world, existing around us? A world; a culture that is there, but which we don't see? M.Christian doesn't tell us, in this first chapter of his serialized novel; RITES OF SPRING. Perhaps he won't tell us. He may leave us to work it out for ourselves; choose the framework we like best.

Gazelle runs. It is what she exists for in this competitive culture. She will achieve the status of 'Messenger', when she has completed her run. Gazelle is proud. Her only purpose is to be the fastest; the best. She pushes herself through the pain barrier; the wall. Her run through the hard city streets, jolts and tortures every muscle in her aching body. Her run is musical, spiritual. Each bead of sweat chimes into a chorus of ecstacy. She's high on the endorphins rushing through her, from her dreadlocked hair, to her tortured feet. The glaring sun beats down on her aching body. The run is both final test, and trophy. The ultimate prize for all her years of training.

M.Christian's opening chapter of RITES OF SPRING, is written with lyrical style, panache, flair. Christian is a natural storyteller. He keeps us turning the page; always wanting to know, 'what happens next.' His use of language is rich and exotic and always a joy to a reader. Perhaps Gazelle's world is a metaphor for our own competitive world, where winning is everything; perhaps not. But I want to know; I want to find out. And that, along with great writing, from an accomplished writer, is what will keep me hanging on for Chapter two.

A Dream Come True

Writers have different dreams than ‘civilians.’ Some of them are pretty obvious: big book deals; Pulitzers, Nobels, etc; “Honey, there’s a Mr. Spielberg on the phone; ” an Oprah sticker ….

But there are other dreams: less obvious ones. One of them, a very special one, even the most hard-core, hard-case, hard-assed grizzled hack has, but will never admit: a friend.

Not just any friend, but a friend who comes from them following your trail of silly little literary breadcrumbs. Not a fan, but someone more than that: a cherished pal, a smile on your face whenever they send a message.

I’m lucky, and very grateful, for many things: my various breaks and bursts of luck in writing; my cherished, so-wonderful Sage Vivant, my brother, Sam; the support of my mother; and – yes – some fantastic friends.

One of them, Pauline, is one year older today. I don’t really want to embarrass her but let me say a few things about this truly wonderful person.

Pauline is sweet and caring, smart and funny, giving and supportive, kind and generous – a real treasure to know.

Happy Birthday, Pauline: you’re a dream come true … for a writer or just anyone lucky enough to have you in their life.

Pauline Likes "Moving"

My sweet pal, Pauline, just sent me this lovely little review of my story, "Moving" (one of the stories for sale through Logical-Lust). Thanks!

A sultry tale of dominance and submission through bondage, from the delectable pen of M.Christian.

We are lured into the dark world of Syvia's dungeon seductively, as through Christian's protagonist we experience the fulfilment and relief of total obedience to a patient, yet wilfull mistress.

There are no bonds here, just a promise. No whips, no chains; no manacles whips or restraints. No pain. The subject is simply forbidden to move.

It's a journey of self awareness, understanding, learning and resistance.

He's exposed, naked. He can blink; he can breathe and that's it.

It's a gentle story of humility and the freedom of relinquishing control told in M.Christian's beautiful prose.

An exquisite story.

Pauline Likes Painted Doll

Another wonderful review from my great friend, Pauline:

In M.Christian's futuristic story, THE PAINTED DOLL, we never learn how the world has got to this point. But it doesn't matter, we know that this is the future, a chaos has taken place, the world has been turned up-side-down; the priority of the West is over, and there is an exodus to the East.

In a time of spiritual and emotional drought, memories are all that Claire has left. The perfect love that she shared with Flower, her only love, her soulmate, is told through electronic mail. Claire is also the alluring Domino, the Erotist, the expert in sexual desire and manipulation. We watch her as she delicately dips her brushes, and seductively applies her arrousing chemicals to her clients bodies; an unbearable, yet pleasurable torture. But Claire despises what she has become; the mask of the chalk faced painted doll is cracking.

M.Christian's irresistably poetic story is told through more than one narrative voice. An anonymous tourist, a killer, prowls the red light district. Christian is an expert weaver of tales and tells the story of THE PAINTED DOLL, with panache and confidence. Claire's story can speak to us all of an emotional awakening; a lament; the sacrifice we wished we'd made. The door we should have opened, into the rose-garden.There's resonance here with the best of stories; Christian's style is lyrical, he loves words and how he places them. THE PAINTED DOLL is a wonderfully crafted book to read for all those who love language.

Pauline Loves Dirty Words

My fantastic pal, Pauline, just sent me this great review for Dirty Words ... thanks, sweetie!

What is it about M.Christian’s DIRTY WORDS, that has me thinking of tapestry? In particular the Bayeux Tapestry, in Northern France? DIRTY WORDS is M.Christian’s collection of erotic, if not pornographic stories, displaying human sexuality at its most raw and crude. The Bayeux Tapestry, as I remember it, has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with Queen Matilda and her refined Ladies in Waiting, stitching away in chilly castles in Normandy, France, while their men folk sail off to conquer the unrefined British.

I think in my muddled way, my brain is drawing comparisons between two wonderful forms of story telling. I’ve been privileged to see the Bayeux Tapestry, three, maybe four times. And each time I’ve wandered around that museum in France, going from panel to panel, I’ve been struck by the tiny stories that it carefully tells. The journey across what we now call the English Channel. The logistics of transportation. The battle itself and the death of poor King Harold. Even a panel dedicated to those lonely ladies, stitching away at home. And there’s the little people. Those who don’t get noticed.

In DIRTY WORDS, M.Christian weaves us stories, that challenge and inspire. Stories of the little people; the dirty people. The people we try not to notice. In SPIKE, Christian gives us narcissism at its most extreme. Identical twin brothers sucking on each other’s cocks. No way! Shocking. But Christian doesn’t shy away from the truth about the two Spikes. Their self love is all consuming; dangerous; overwhelmingly passionate. It’s uncontrolled. The only control here, is finding out who is in control. Finally, carving out one’s own identity.

The wonderful HOW COYOTE STOLE THE SUN, gives us a drifter. A life without purpose. Or is it? The dog will cheat you, turn you over. Seduce you; rape you, steal your lover. Why? Just because he can. The odds are against dog. Even the elements are against him. The cruel sun pounds down on him and still dog wins. He doesn’t even want his prize and throws it away. But he still leaves with a smile on his face.

So who’s got the biggest cock? Mammoth or Monster? Ask Pup; he knows. THE HARLEY tells of biker culture. But not a biker culture like you’ve ever imagined it. Mammoth and Monster are crude, ugly, without any endearing features. They ride bikes and they fuck. Mostly Pup. There’s a competition going on for the Harley. Who gets it? Who deserves it? Perhaps Pup should decide.

The brilliant ECHOES is worthy of Edgar Allen Poe, at his most gruesome. Sex and Death, and all the horrors of beyond the grave. Guilt, and secrets coming back to haunt us. The sort of story that reminds me of why I check under the bed, on those dark nights.

I seem to have drifted a long way from the ladies stitching the Bayeux Tapestry. It’s about the excellence of great story telling. M.Christian weaves his exquisite words. The tapestry is another art form entirely. It tells a big story and lots of little ones. Moments in time. DIRTY WORDS tells the big story of sexuality. It also tells the little stories of those small people. Again. Moments in time.

Pauline Likes Rites Of Spring, Chapter 2

I can't say it enough: I am very lucky to have some truly fantastic friends - and one of the most-fantastic is Pauline. Just check out this review she sent me for Chapter 2 of my "weird science fiction, bawdy adventure, sideways humor, and delightful strange" project, The Rites of Spring:

In this strange new world, Gazelle runs. Every beat is torture on her aching body. She is proud, she is the Messenger; stopping, pausing to catch her breath, never occurs to her. Her vocation as Messenger, dictates her raison d’etre. It is what she was born to do. Simple as that.

M.Christian opens chapter two of his serialized novel, THE RITES OF SPRING, with the pounding beat of Gazelle’s feet on the hard, unforgiving concrete. The vista of The City opens up before her, spell binding her, mingling with the endorphins racing through her blood; a rushing anaesthetic for her suffering body.

The Elders have whispered tales of the old City, around night time campfires. The mysteries, the mythologies, all the old stories mingle in Gazelle’s consciousness as the City opens up beneath the glaring sun. The City is haunting and holy; so is Gazelle’s run. The City is an infrastructure of totems, just as Gazelle herself is.

And then a shock. The scent of testosterone; the scent of man. Another totem. For the first time Gazelle is distracted from the world of the City. She wants to stop, seeing first one man, then another; then thousands. The men are wild, wanting her; Gazelle wants them too. But she doesn’t falter. The rhythm of her run doesn’t change, but Christian changes the pace into a frenetic frenzy. Gazelle’s imagination tips on the edge of insanity as she craves the naked, erect cocks in her every orifice.

M.Christian’s use of words, his instinctive use of language is a delight. I’ve used the words, ‘lyrical’ and ‘panache’ to describe his stories before. But I can’t think of better words to convey to a reader, what a breathtaking experience it is to read the perfection of a master storyteller. I want to know more about this strange city, that is at once, so familiar and yet so alien. And as with all the very best serializations, I want to know, what happens next in THE RITES OF SPRING?

Pauline Likes Brushes

This comes from my very sweet friend, Pauline:

Through a variety of protagonists M Christian explores the character of the enigmatic and charismatic Artist, Escobar. The story is a step away from Christian's futuristic erotic fantasies, which were a delight in THE BACHELOR MACHINE and another new novel from Christian, THE PAINTED DOLL.

In BRUSHES we are taken into a new and succulent territory which is overwhelming with its elegant prose. The characters are exotic, strange but familiar too, with the reader relating to each protagonist's confusion, as he or she tries to unravel the mystery that is Escobar. Set in France, there is no doubt that Christian cherishes and knows that country well; in fact his style is worthy of travel writing at its best, being worth a comparison with Paul Theroux. As with Theroux's work you see the country in the prose. Christian's France isn't always beautiful, sometimes it's downright dirty; but it's always what can always be expected from M Christian; very, very sexy!

Pauline Likes Licks & Promises

I'm very touched - actually very, very, very, very touched - that my friend Pauline liked my new collection, Licks & Promises .. and even wrote a wonderful review of it. Thanks, sweetie!

I’ve just finished reading M.Christian’s superb collection of stories, LICKS AND PROMISES, and I’m trying to catch my breath. Such a fascinating display of twists and turns, demonstrating the themes of desire, lust, disappointment, betrayal, death and more.

There’s humour here too, in the brilliant “Regrets.” Who says Americans don’t do irony? Well, the Brits mostly, and I am one. But Christian shows that up for the silly concept that it is, in this wonderfully, intelligent piece of satire.

And there are tears in “The Waters of Biscayne Bay.” Grief and anger for a lost love and the fulfilment of a lover’s last wishes.

Christian gives us an innovative look into Edward Hopper’s great painting; NIGHTHAWKS, in his story of the same name. He teaches us, how to read a painting. Who is the woman with the red hair, in the red dress? Is the man sitting next to her partner, or are they two strangers desiring each other? Both, are lost in their thoughts. Christian subtly weaves a story around Hopper’s haunting painting. He walks us around this enigmatic couple, and we ponder about what might, or might not be going on.

There’s a lament in “The Waters of life" and a sense of loss as Christian reveals that the loved and revered art work is not what it seems. The loved one is not what he seemed, and we taste the bitter flavour of disappointment.

In “The House of the Rising Sun," a woman learns to love, and live again, after a betrayal, and in the wonderful “In Control,” just who is in control? The self important dom, who’s too mean to pay more than $50 for a sex toy, or the canny sub, who takes her pleasure, and leaves?

There’s a twist at the end of, “Her First Thursday Evening." A guy edits, and changes his lover’s first disastrous sexual experience, into one that is beautiful. But he can’t rewrite his own story; he wishes he could.

Through this wonderful collection, M.Christian shows the skill and diversity of a unique writer. He creates solid, fully rounded characters. He tells us stories that are enticing, he draws us in. He makes us laugh; very often he makes us cry. Christian loves language and words. Never, never dull, he encourages the reader to identify with and empathise with, his skilfully drawn characters. He brings us back to the simplicity of reading great stories, that stay with us long after we have closed the book.

Pauline Likes "A Light Minute"

My sweet friend, Pauline, just sent me this lovely review of "A Light Minute" - which is part of my recent release of short stories. Thanks!

Sexy, sexy sexy!!

I am so envious of M.Christian's talent, both as a writer and story teller.

As a wannabee writer myself, I am daunted whenever I read one of his erotic short stories. I sigh, shred another one of my efforts and face it - I am more of a reader than a writer, and how I relish being told a good tale.

In A LIGHT MINUTE, M.Christian gives us the agoraphobic Alyx. Her lover, Jo, has left her, packing their little world into boxes and Alyx has tentatively ventured into the world of electronic mail.

Through his enticing prose and quite remarkable imagery, M.Christian hits exactly the right note as Alyx hesitantly dips her toe into cyberspace and falls for the exotic Sasha. All Alyx has is Sasha's picture and Sasha's erotic emails. She's never even heard Sasha's voice. In this gloriously sexy short story, we see Sasha's developing control over Alyx, as she lures her out from the suffocating world Alyx has painstakingly constructed around herself.

"Watch me. Come with me Alyx." Sasha bids Alyx enticingly, after a mind blowing session of cybersex.

Sasha gives Alyx a phone number.

Be brave Alyx, or stay in your safe box. Action or in-action. Make something happen, or stay safe. It's a hard world out there. Have courage. That's Alyx's dilemma.

Pauline Likes Love Without Gun Control

This is very special: a lovely review of my science fiction/horror/just-plain-weird collection, Love Without Gun Control, by my wonderful pal, Pauline. Thanks, sweetie!

I am a junkie! A poor pathetic thing, crawling up the walls, shredding fragments of wallpaper and plaster beneath my broken finger nails, screaming for my next fix. Hollow eyed, I plead with M.Christian for just one more story. He’s a hard man. He turns away, telling me it’s for my own good. Then finally, finally, he relents. And I blubber my thanks through a mess of snot, spit and tears.

M.Christian sends me LOVE WITHOUT GUN CONTROL. And like any true addict, I find a vein, stick in the needle and overwhelm myself with the fix.

I’ve read all of his stories. Every tantalising word he’s ever written. I worry that one day he’ll stop. No more stories. What the hell will I do?

You see he never fails to surprise me. His stories move seamlessly from straight erotica to gay erotica and now, in LOVE WITHOUT GUN CONTROL, he gives me a collection of science fiction and horror.

In ‘Needle Taste,’ there is haunting despair, from the disciples of Owlsley, a serial killer. They take mind bending chemicals to enhance his hideous deeds. His followers can’t leave him alone and live in a desperate, deadly fascination of what has happened to those he has brutalised and killed. Prair replays the final moments of Owlsley’s capture in his mind and repeats the killer’s mantra; “the only sin is letting them go unpunished.”

‘The Rich Man’s Ghost’, reads like a fable and Christian tells the story with the skill of Aesop. Hiro Yashido sees a ghost, and to see a ghost means doom. He has not only seen the ghost, the ghost has seen him. His wealth, his overwhelming success in high finance is nothing. He will have to embrace his worst nightmare, poverty. Hiro Yashido fears nothing. He has not achieved his great wealth by walking on tiptoe. But he does fear the ghost and it’s curse. Ghosts walk between the bite and the bytes of the datasea and they are jealous. Hiro Yashido works hard to dispel the ghost’s curse and the ghost ponders on whether, or not to release him.

‘Wanderlust’, takes us out on the road. The story reads like a classic ‘road’ film and we embark on the archetypal American journey. The landscape unfolds with panoramic camera sweeps; gasping, breathtaking images of mountains, snow, jagged peaks and windswept pines. A cheap doll, embodies the idea of perfection, of absolute love. It is conveyed to the driver in his own overwhelming, Christ like beauty. He stops at a roadside gas station. The people he meets are spellbound by the ecstasy of his beauty. But sheer love has its opposite and hatred, and ugliness and the abject fear it brings, must have its say. He wants to say sorry. But all that he can do is drive away.

In ‘Orphans’, Christian gives us a drifter, seemingly, a man without purpose. He hitches lifts and meets people. Is he running from something, or running to something? He doesn’t know. Or he won’t say. What is the virus they speak of; the wasting disease that has taken their loved ones? Is it loneliness? Or is it something else? He apologises, it’s all he can do. Is this an allegory, a story for our times? Christian doesn’t tell us; but he certainly makes us think.

As if all that weren’t enough, Christian retells the story of Robinson Crusoe in ‘Friday’.

Combining Daniel Defoe’s style with a futuristic slant, the traveller’s ship crashes into the earth. Like Defoe’s hero he is stranded, like him he has to improvise to survive and like him he has his Friday.

As I said earlier, what the hell will I do if M.Christian ever stops writing? There’s a gem here, a jewel, a real talent. Where does all of this come from? Where does he get his ideas and images? “…eyes as dark as knots in old trees…” “…titles for them were as irrelevant as trying to take apart a static charge before a lightening strike…” Beats me! I’ve saved the title story until last. ‘Love Without Gun Control,’ and I’m going to read it now! Excuse me while I drool!

Pauline Likes Rude Mechanicals

This is very, very, very, nice: my great pal, Pauline, just sent me this review for my soon-to-be-released new collection, Rude Mechanicals. Thanks, sweetie!

In his latest collection of erotic short stories, RUDE MECHANICALS, M.Christian excels himself. He gives us stories that allure and arouse; stories that are so exquisite that we are compelled to keep turning the pages. Christian is a wonderful story teller; he takes us gently into areas we would probably have never ventured into. Places we never dreamt existed; strange, sometimes dark habitats, that scare and delight. And as if the superb stories weren’t enough, Christian loves, absolutely adores, words. He’s a poet. Using the right word, in the right place, economic where it matters, flamboyant when it’s appropriate; he’s a master craftsman, always dancing ahead of the reader, teasing, even taunting; follow him if you dare.

In “Blow Up,” Christian is writing about one of my favourite things. Fetish. The protagonist isn’t interested in Betty, the curvy shop assistant in the toy store. She makes a pass at him and he notices, and admires her round bounciness, but only in relation to his purchase. He makes a note of her phone number, mentally acknowledging that it will be useful to him later, when new stocks of his fetish arrive. Here, Christian places the reader in the position of voyeur. We see that this man is a connoisseur; he has established his ritual into a fine art. Christian paces the writing carefully and we watch as the narrator prepares himself, in a routine long established. He knows which shaving creams work best for him, and buys them in bulk. The ones which sting and chafe the skin. He knows which oils to anoint himself with. Which are too sticky, or too thin. His fetish is intriguing, and a reader can’t help speculating on the well travelled paths he has walked along, to arrive at, what is for him, perfection.

“Billie,” reads like a ‘road film.’ Billie, is a biker, tough and butch. She and her Harley conquer the Pacific Highway. It’s a love affair; Billie is a top. No-one tops her. Not even the open road. She brandishes the Harley like a weapon, daring, intimidating the road, challenging it. “She is a Daughter of the Open Road, a disciple of Harley Davison.” Adrenaline rushes, it’s overwhelming. Billie cries out at the road -- then someone overtakes her. The shock; the anger, is almost too much for Billie to deal with, and what follows is a crazy race that will almost certainly end in death. The roar of the bikes is all consuming -- then Billie sees the biker’s face and everything changes…

In “Beep,” Christian takes a playful look at those messages left on our voice mail. They could be from anyone. You’ve won a holiday! the lottery! Or more likely, will you please call your bank about your overdraft! This message is none of these; it’s from a Mistress, and she wants his cock. NOW! His cock belongs to her. She sadistically purrs her instructions, and tells him what she’s going to do to him. Her intentions, are wild and erotic, even pornographic. His cock is instantly hard at the sound of her voice; steel wrapped in satin. It’s both chilling and hot and very, very sexy -- with a wonderful twist at the end.

Those gadgets have feelings too. Spare a thought for the lonely vibrator, discarded, abandoned, unloved and probably, unwashed, beneath your bed. In “I am Jo’s Vibrator,” the vibrator tells its story. It tells us about itself; it sells itself to us. Then, it tells us about its experiences with Jo and Patrick. Jo and Patrick approach the ‘Rabbit Pearl Vibrator,’ with trepidation and apprehension. They are nervous, Patrick more than Jo. Would Jo like the rabbit more than him? The rabbit knows better. Sex toys are for the pleasure of men and women. Jo and Patrick are very happy and so is the Rabbit Pearl Vibrator.

M.Christian’s writing is meticulous, but there’s nothing forced about it. It flows easily, from a lively mind, to his fingertips, to the keyboard. RUDE MECHANICALS is a big accomplishment, from a very accomplished writer. These erotic stories make us laugh, like in “Beep.” Sometimes, sex can be intimidating and the anticipation can almost overwhelm, as in “Blow Up.” There’s the dark side of desire in “Speaking Parts,” as Pell yearns for the enigmatic Arc. This story is like a lament, for a future that probably will never be.

But, for me, these erotic tales tell me that sex, in all its forms, is something to be celebrated. It’s joyous, it’s fun; it’s also hilariously funny. Well it is, isn’t it?

Even (so called) Friends!

Have fallen victim to my evil copy!

"I love a book that takes a satirical but biting look at society and its ridiculous conventions. The beauty of Me2 is the way it captures the preposterous and the real of modern life. The reader is left slightly confused and a bit afraid to look too closely at his/her own life for fear of finding the same soulless homogeneity the protagonist faces. Leave it to M. Christian to wrap this commentary in such a cozy blanket of rich fiction."
- Sage Vivant

"Me2 is an intelligent, if surreal book by M. Christian --at least, I think it's by M. Christian. he says he didn't write it --so who's the M.Christian who has stolen his name, identity and reputation as a writer of pornography and lots of other good stuff?

"Well Me2 is so gripping, it doesn't really matter who the hell wrote it! The reader is taken on a ride of paranoia and insecurity; a kafkaesque (can't spell) world of uncertainty as the protagonist's reality and identity are questioned. And following that, the reader's. Who are we/ Who am I? What is this weird place I call reality?

"Me2 raises questions that discomfort me --it leaves me afraid; agoraphobic -- claustrophobic. A horrid dread that won't leave me..."
- Pauline

Thanks!

As some of you may know things have been kind of tough for me lately. That's why I'm very touched by the folks who've reached out with their kindness and support. I can't believe I can actually say this, but there are too many to thank.

But I have to toss out some special hugs of gratitude to my beloved Jill; my cherished friend, Pauline; the fantastic Jude Mason; my sweet pal AF Waddell; the wonderful Lisabet Sarai; my friend Mick Dementiuk; Jim Brown; Donna George Storey; Oatmeal Girl, Remittance Girl, The Dirty Blond ... and others I'm ashamed to say have slipped my mind for the moment.

And I want to give a warm hug to a new friend, Don, who not only sent me a fantastic note but also some great presents from my amazon wish list!

For Don - and for all my other wonderful friends - here's a little smut story that I tried to also make into a statement about the great people in my life:

Love
By
M. Christian

"You could have stayed with me," he'd said, the first time I went to Seattle to see him, but stayed in a motel. I hadn't even thought of it, and so the disappointment in his eyes.

I never went back. After he got promoted there wasn't any point.

You could have stayed with me evolves into a fantasy in which those four days play out differently: an invitation made earlier, my discomfort of staying in someone else's house miraculously absent. Fresh off the plane, strap digging into my shoulder (I always overpack), out of the cab and up a quick twist of marble steps to his front door. A knock, or a buzz, and it opens.

A quick dance of mutual embarrassment as I maneuver in with my luggage, both of us saying the stupid things we all say when we arrive somewhere we've never been before. Him: "How was your flight?" Me: "What a great place."

Son of a decorator, I always furnish and accessorize my fantasies: I imagine his to be a simple one bedroom. Messy, but a good mess. A mind's room, full of toppling books, squares of bright white paper. Over the fireplace (cold, never lit) a print, something classical like a Greek torso, the fine line topography of Michangelo's David. A few pieces of plaster, three-dimensional anatomical bric-a-brack on the mantel. A cheap wooden table in the window, bistro candle, and Don't Fuck With The Queen in ornate script on a chipped coffee cup.

Dinner? No, my flight arrived late. Coffee? More comfortable and gets to the point quicker. We chat. I ask him about his life: is everything okay? He replies that he's busy, but otherwise fine. We chat some more. I say that it's a pleasure to work with him. He replies with the same.

I compliment him, amplifying what I've already said, and he blushes. He returns it, and then some, making me smile. My eyes start to burn, my vision blurs, tears threatening. I sniffle and stand up.

He does as well, and we hug. Hold there. Hold there. Hold there. Then, break—but still close together. Lips close together. The kiss happens. Light, just a grazing of lips. I can tell he wants more, but I'm uncomfortable and break it but not so uncomfortable that I can't kiss his cheeks. Right, then left, then right again.

But his head turns and we're kissing, lips to lips again. Does he open his first or do I? Sometimes I imagine his, sometimes mine. But they are open and we are kissing, lips and tongue, together. Hot, wet, hard.

But not on my part. Wet, definitely—in my mind it's a good kiss. A generous and loving kiss. Hot, absolutely, but only in a matter of degrees as his temperature rises and mine does in basic body response.

Not hard on my part, but I am aware of his. Between us, like a finger shoved through a hole in his pocket, something solid and muscular below his waist.

Does he say something? "I want you," "Please touch me," "I'm sorry," are candidates. I've tried them all out, one time or another, to add different flavors, essences, spices to that evening. "I want you," for basic primal sex. "Please touch me," for polite request, respect and sympathy. "I'm sorry," for wanting something he knows I don't.

"It's okay," I say to all of them, and it is. Not just words. Understanding, sympathy, generosity. All of them, glowing in my mind. It really is okay.

I'm a pornographer, dammit. I should be able to go on with the next part of this story without feeling like … I'm laughing right now, not that you can tell. An ironic chuckle: a pornographer unable to write about sex. Not that I can't write about myself, that making who I am—really—the center of the action is uncomfortable, because I've certainly done that before. I've exposed myself on the page so many other times, what makes this one so different?

Just do it. Put the words down and debate them later. After all, that's what we're here for, aren't we? You want to hear what I dream he and I do together. You want to look over my mental shoulder at two men in that tiny apartment in Seattle.

I'm a writer; it's what I do, and more importantly, what I am. So we sit on the couch, he in the corner me in the middle. His hand is on my leg. My back is tight, my thighs are corded. Doubt shades his face so I put my own hand on his own, equally tight, thigh. I repeat what I said before, meaning it: "It's okay."

We kiss again. A friend's kiss, a two people who like each other kiss. His hands touch my chest, feeling me through the thin cloth of turtleneck. I pull the fabric out of my pants with a few quick tugs, allowing bare hands to touch bare chest. He likes it, grinning up at me. I send my own grin, trying to relax.

His hand strokes me though my jeans, and eventually I do get hard. His smile becomes deeper, more sincere, lit by his excitement. It's one thing to say it, quite another for your body to say it. Flesh doesn't lie, and I might have when I gave permission. My cock getting hard, though, is obvious tissue and blood sincerity.

"That's nice," "Can I take it out?" "I hope you're alright with this." Basic primal sex, a polite request including respect and sympathy, and the words for wanting something he knows I don't—any one of them, more added depth to this dream.

My cock is out and because he's excited or simply doesn't want the moment and my body to possibly get away, he is sucking me. Was that so hard to say? It's just sex. Just the mechanics of arousal, the engineering of erotica. Cock A in mouth B. I've written it hundreds of times. But there's that difference again, like by writing it, putting it down on paper (or a computer screen) has turned diamond into glass, mahogany into plywood.

Cheapened. That's the word. But to repeat: I am a writer. It’s what I do. All the time. Even about love—especially about this kind of love.

He sucks my cock. Not like that, not that, not the way you're thinking: not porno sucking, not erotica sucking. This is connection, he to I. The speech of sex, blowjob as vocabulary.

I stay hard. What does this mean? It puzzles me, even in the fantasy. I have no doubts about my sexuality. I am straight. I write everything else, but I am a straight boy. I like girls. Men do not turn me on.

Yet, in my mind and in that little apartment, I am hard. Not "like a rock," not "as steel," not as a "telephone pole," but hard enough as his mouth, lips, and tongue—an echoing hard, wet and hard—work on me.

The answer is clear and sharp, because if I couldn't get hard and stay hard then he'd be hurt and the scene would shadow, chill, and things would be weighted between us. That's not the point of this dream, why I think about it.

So, onto sex. Nothing great or grand, nothing from every section of the menu. A simple action between two men who care about each other: he sucks my cock. He enjoys it and I love him enough to let him. That's all we do, because it's enough.

He sucks me for long minutes, making sweet sounds and I feel like crying. He puts his hand down his own pants, puts a hand around his own cock. For a moment I think about asking him if he wants help, for me to put my hand around him, help him jerk off. But I don't. Not because I don't want to, or because I'm disgusted, but because he seems to be enjoying himself so much, so delighted in the act of sucking me, that I don't want to break the spell, turn that couch back into a pumpkin.

He comes, a deep groan around my cock, humming me into near-giggles. He stops sucking as his gasps and sighs with release, looking up at me with wet-painted lips, eyes out of focus. I bend down and kiss him, not tasting anything but warm water.

I love him. I wanted to thank him. I hope, within this dream, I have. The night that didn't happen but could have.

For me, writing is just about everything: the joy of right word following right word all the way to the end. The ecstasy of elegant plot, the pleasure of flowing dialogue, the loveliness of perfect description. Sex is good, sex is wonderful, but story is fireworks in my brain. The reason I live. The greatest pleasure in my life.

And he has given me that, with nearly flowing letters on an agreement between his company and I, between his faith in my ability and myself. He looked at me, exposed on the page of a book, in the chapter of a novel, in the lines of a short story, and didn't laugh, didn't dismiss or reject. He read, nodded, smiled, and agreed to publish.

Sex cannot measure up to that. Bodies are bodies, but he has given me a pleasure beyond anything I'd felt: applause, and a chance to do much, much more with words, with stories.

He doesn't have a name, this man in my fantasy. There have been a lot of them over the years, and a lot more in the future, no doubt. Gay men who have touched me in ways no one has ever touched me before, by making love with my soul through their support of my writing. Each time they have, this fantasy has emerged from the back of my mind, a need to give them the gift they have given me: passion and kindness, support and caring, and pure affection.

I worry about this. I worry that they won't understand, take this secret dream of mine as being patronizing, diminishing them to nothing but a being with a cock who craved more cock. I've confessed a few times, telling a select few how I feel about them, how I wish I could do for them what they have done for me, to be able to put aside my heterosexuality for just an evening, an afternoon, and share total affection together.

Luckily, or maybe there really isn’t anything to worry about, the ones I've told, they smile, hold my hand, kiss my cheek, say the right thing and to this day, even right now, make me cry: "I wish we could too, but I understand. I love you too."

Am I bi? I know I'm physically not—I simply don't get aroused by men—but that doesn't mean I don't adore men, or for the ones I care about, the men who have touched my soul through their support and affection for my stories and writing, I wish I couldn't change. More than anything I wish I could give them what they have given me.

With a cock or a pen, with a story or hours of wonderful sex, it all comes down to one thing: love.