Don’t Get Me Wrong…

By Jaime Samms (Guest Blogger)

…I'm not writing your truth. Whoever ‘you’ may be. I'm writing mine.

It all started way back when I was born a Libra: a natural peace keeper. It's one of those things we're known for. And really, I have to say, there is a very large part of my being that absolutely abhors conflict. So much so that growing up I tended to just not mention things that I knew would bring conflict on. I just didn't tell my family things they didn't want to hear.

Don't get me wrong on this point, either. I have never doubted that they love and care about me, I just decided early on it was easier not tell them things about myself that might bring that love or acceptance into conflict.

My thought process went like this:

-I don't like the unspoken pressure of being among the youngest and having to follow in the academic footsteps of seven straight A students before me.

-People wouldn't like to hear that I don't like that pressure, so I won't tell them I don't like it.

-I just won't be a straight A student. They'll never know if I'm capable of it or not, I just won't do it when I don't feel like it, and they'll think this is what I'm capable of and not bother me.

Okay, well, maybe it wasn't that well reasoned out at the time, but an older and wiser version of me can look back on those years and know that I was deliberately not working to my full potential because I didn't want to

A) admit I hated the pressure, or

B) field the arguments and disappointments if I failed to live up to it after I proved once I could do it.

Some people might call this behavior lazy, looking at it from the outside in. Those people wouldn't understand the depth of how much I hate fighting, or how difficult I find it to put myself in a position that might bring on conflict.

An older and wiser version of me also can see that I likely cheated myself out of advantages I could well have enjoyed were I to push myself and live up to my potential. Maybe. Probably. Oh well. What's done is done.

The point is, this is one of many examples, many things I kept quiet about in order to keep the peace. A person can't live like that forever, and eventually, older and wiser, I came to my senses, found safe outlets, safe places, safe people to be myself around, and I'm happier for it. But all that hiding and ducking left it's mark, and when I write a story, like my current WIP, it might look, on the outside like a story about a young cross dressing college guy trying to explain himelf to his boyfriends and his uncle, but at it's core, its more than that.

It truly is a reflection of my own struggle, my own fears, and my own hopes for a brilliant outcome. They say write what you know. I do. I might layer it in a veneer of not being even remotely anything like me, but that doesn't change what it is at the heart of it: an emotional experience I know I lived through. And really, it's a human experience, and isn't that universal?

And since I brought it up, I thought I'd share an exclusive little first (highly unedited, mind you) taste of the WIP in question.

****

“Where were you?” Uncle Jase asked as he slipped in the door. Fitting the show’s centerpiece had taken longer than either he or Mitchell had anticipated, and it was well past even bar closing time.

Caleb let his bag drop with a thud to the carpet. “Out, Uncle Jase.”

“Left some ‘za in the fridge for you.”

“I hate pizza, Uncle Jase. Pretty sure I’ve told you that before.”

“Listen, kid, I promised I’d take care of you, right? So eat some supper. You’re thin as a rail, you.”

Caleb turned from where he’d been hauling himself up the stairs. “You don’t have to look after me, Uncle Jase. I’m a grown man.”

“A grown man who’s moped about this house for the past month like an emo teenager, maybe. What’s up with that?”

“You wouldn’t understand, remember?”

“You ain’t even tried me yet, Son—“

“Not your son, Uncle Jase.” Caleb spread out one hand and rubbed at the palm with the fingers of the other. He rubbed all the color away, chasing the pink with the flat of his thumb, watching it come back each time. “Not even family, really. Not seriously. You can’t stand to look at me, to see me.”

“Caleb—“

"You try so hard to make me someone else, someone you can bear to look at. An accountant, for god’s sake. When I’m a musician. You want me to eat pizza. Gluten makes me sick. You want me to kiss girls, and I prefer dick. You want things the way you want them, and that isn’t the way I am.” He lifted his gaze finally, to find Jason standing over him.

Uncle Jase sank onto the step beside him. “Maybe a few weeks ago, I would have said I wanted you to get your head out of your fucking ass and see that you’re only going to get that ass kicked if you don’t forget all this shit and be a real man.”

Caleb stood. “You can try and do the honors, Uncle Jase. I will throw your fat ass down, and I’ll still want to fuck my boyfriend after.”

Uncle Jase laughed. “You see? Now that’s what I want to see. You standing up. Being tough, like I know you are. Right as rain, Caleb.

“Right as a whole lot of gay ol’ tap dancing in the rain, Uncle Jase. You know that. Don’t even try to tell me you don’t know.”

“Of course I know. I know that. I know it all, kid. I’m not blind, not stupid.” He curled his hand around the back of Caleb’s neck, like he had the day Caleb had found out he was no one. His voice dropped to quiet; soothing, and Caleb wanted to close his eyes, lean on the older man. “I got eyes, kid. I hear people talk. I know about bar fights, and like any good parent, I snoop in the back of my kid’s closet.”

Caleb jerked his head up, his heart skimming over actually beating, right into explosion. “What?”

****

So, what do you think? Is it worth it to read a book someone wrote about a person they could never possibly be, because at the heart of it, there might be something bigger and more important? I think it is.

Look for more about Jaime at her website: www.jaime-samms.net, or on her personal Livejournal: dontkickmycane.livejournal.com You can also follow her on twitter: JaimeSamms or look her up on Facebook.

What Comes Next?

By Jaime Samms (Guest Blogger)

Today was the day. The first day of life after the day job. It comes every year. As a contract worker, I know the end of the contract will come. I know there will be months and months of empty days ahead. I should feel excited and enthusiastic for the endless hours stretching ahead of me in which to write.

I am intimidated. Enormously so.

I would love nothing better than to curl up in bed with a good book or ten and just do nothing. No deadlines, no reviews to write, no responsibilities of any kind. Just me, my book and my beer.

What do I do with all that unstructured time? Organize it, I know. Slot it all into compartments for blog posting (sorry, Lisabet, for not organizing sooner), for answering emails and promoting, for spending time with the family, enjoying the summer I haven't had in about five years, and of course, writing.

It seems like a simple, straightforward answer.

And yet I can procrastinate like nobody's business. Why is that? And in asking myself this question every year, I have to wonder, do other writers get this feeling? When a day, or a stretch of days comes along with nothing but the time to write, do you? Or do you fill it up with other meaningless drudgery until suddenly the day is mostly over and your word count has barely begun?

Coming in print on 11 July! Fix This, Sir by Jaime Samms

It's always easier to run and hide than to face your problems. So what happens when you get your legs cut out from under you and running is impossible?

Jimmy's been hiding from his troubled past for a long time—in drugs, drink and dangerous sex. It's always been easy to find oblivion in the restraints of men who don't really care who he is or where he's come from. When tragedy puts him in a wheelchair and forces him to fix his legs—and his life—he's not so sure he has it in him to even try. Belligerence is the only weapon he has left.

Cliff is a physiotherapist with a big heart...and a dominant streak a mile wide. The instant Jimmy Phillips rolls into his clinic, he sees a submissive headed straight for self-destruction and every protective instinct kicks in. Ignoring the dangers of getting intimately involved with a client, Cliff takes Jimmy under his wing and pries under the broken man's guard. Getting behind the anger is a challenge the Dom in him just can't ignore.

What he finds is so much more than he bargained for. Now that he's reopened all of Jimmy's old wounds, he's not so sure he has what it takes to help his new submissive heal. All the control Cliff can muster can't hold Jimmy's crumbling world together, and now Cliff faces not just the loss of a sub, but his own fears that he was never worthy of Jimmy in the first place.

About Jaime: Jaime writes, romance, fantasy, urban fantasy, shifter stories about men, about life, about love. Her work is populated with mostly men, most of whom are into each other, and yes, we do mean into each other. You can find plenty of free reading on her website, http://www.jaime-samms.net. She also reviews for Dark Diva Reviews, mostly the same types of stories, and will happily spout her opinion on the books she reads to her kids, who she home schools. Finally, she's occasionally gainfully employed. She writes for the love it, and hopes to pass on that love to her readers, her kids, and anyone else who comes along.

Ghosts and Lovers

By Jaime Samms (Guest Blogger)

Paranormal erotic romance from Pink Petal Books

Buy Now!

Hi, everybody I know Lisabet's away, so a few of her friends have decided to drop by and…er…blog sit. Yes. That's it. Blog sit. It certainly isn't a party, and most definitely not a sizzling one. You know. If anyone should ask or anything. I know you must be thinking, if it isn't a party, then why are all these characters, who aren't Lisabet's characters, here? Well. There's a simple explanation for that. At least, I know why mine are here. You see, they never seem able to let me go anywhere in the blogosphere without they have to come too. Just to see what's going on. Just to try and show off their stuff. They like attention, and I'm just the facilitator. At least, it feels like that some days. Even after their stories are written, sometimes, I feel like I am a window onto the wider world for my characters. Or, perhaps, that they are a window for me, into an inner world where story muses dwell and occasionally, gift me with their view of the world.

So without much more fan fare, might I introduce Tim. He's blind, which may or may not be why he see ghosts. We never did figure out if that had anything to do with it, but I don't really think it matters. The ghosts don't seem to care…

Blurb

Tim has seen more since he lost his eyesight than he ever did before, but he's in very real danger of overlooking the one man who's been watching him a long time.

Timmy has lost one family member after another, and now he's losing his eyesight, as well. It's no wonder he holds tight to the ghostly lover who always seems to meet him in the park in dead of night when he's tired of being alone.

Lately, though, Tim's been hearing other, less friendly voices out of the dark, and his long-time friend and neighbor, Mark, is worried. When he tries to intervene and suggest Tim start acting more like the blind man he is, Tim refuses his help only to find he can't hang onto his ghosts without paying a very personal price.

When his ghost lover finally says good bye, Tim finds he maybe should have listened to Mark after all, only now, it might be too late.

Excerpt

"What happened?" Was there concern in the voice? It was hard to tell. Tim closed his eyes and tried to remember what his visitor looked like. He was only a husky voice these days.

Tim could remember his sound, his smell, remembered his name, but how he looked was slipping away. Tim drove his memory back, imagined dark eyes, intense, unwavering, a gaze only for him. It seemed so far away now. "Okay, well," Finality. His visitor was getting ready to leave.

"Nothing happened."

"Then what are you doing out here?"

"Look—" Tim cleared the nerves from his throat and tried again. "Looking for you."

"What makes you think—" The question hung, half asked, in the damp air. Tim wondered if there was fog tonight.

"I would find you?" Tim turned his head to where he imagined he might see the speaker's face, if he could see anything in the dark. "You're always around, Gordie."

"How do you know?" Suspicion? Fear?

Tim leaned away, reached up to find an arm and moved his hand up to the shoulder, not quite daring to go further. "I heard you. You took tomatoes from the neighbor's garden and you slept on our porch with the cat." He gripped the flannel shirt under his fingers and leaned closer, lowered his voice. "You took my father's shirt, and you sometimes climb up into the tree outside my window." His voice was barely a whisper now and Gordon's nearness sent a shiver through him. "I bet you watch me sleep."

There was a snicker, and Gordon jerked Tim's hand free of the fabric, crushed it in a tight fist.

Tim grimaced, but didn't utter any sound.

"I watch you do a lot of things, Tim‐tim."

"Why do you watch?" Tim asked, trying not to let the pain into his voice. He felt his way through the thick air, the threat, his own uncertainty, to find lips. "When you could do it with me?" he whispered against those lips.

Gordon drove him to the ground under his weight. "What do you want me to do with you, Tim‐tim?"

Tim didn't mind the reassuring weight holding him down. It was warm when they did this, and almost felt like what they did together mattered. He ran a hand over the smooth, cool skin of his companion's cheek, sliding his thumb along the side of his nose and over his lips. He raised his other hand to the man's forehead and slipped his fingers over the lines of worry there, down his face, gently over his eyes, exploring with his hands what the darkness hid. "Kiss me."

"Kiss you?" The body above him rose a little, and Tim clung to a handful of flannel and tiny buttons.

"I always wanted to, when you used to come at night and peer in the windows. I wanted to sneak out and talk to you, meet you. But I never did."

"Why?"

"You stopped coming."

"No. Why did you want to meet me?" There was a hint of wonder in the question, and Tim relaxed his grip to reach up and read the emotion with his fingers, in the slack set of the man's jaw, his lax lips. He touched Gordon's bottom lip with his thumb and smiled.

"Because you could have snuck into anyone's porch, peeked in anyone's window. You kept coming back to mine. Maybe I wanted to know why."

Gordon kissed his thumb and leaned close again, kissing along Tim's jaw to his chin, pausing just before their lips met. "Because you left your curtains open." His hand snuck under Tim's t‐shirt. "All that pale flesh on display. You did that on purpose."

"Maybe." Tim squirmed to get the hand where he wanted it, in full contact with his chilled side. As Gordon's hand roved over his stomach and chest, he closed his eyes, and the image of his partner's face came back to him. Long black hair and narrow features, dark eyes, a sharp nose and thin, almost pointed chin. Most of all, he remembered the lust, shining from his eyes and accenting his smooth, hairless features. He saw again the fine lips curved in a satisfied smile as he watched. Tim's hips lifted, creating friction that met with movement against him and made him moan. He turned his head, searching for lips and tongue. He found them, as eager for contact as he was.

Gordon thrust a hand inside his jeans, and they both squirmed for contact, Tim shivering as cold fingers wrapped around his hardness. He ground up into Gordon's grip, jerking his hips against Gordon's erection, and moaning into his mouth.

Memories washed through Tim, of spreading himself, naked on his bed and waiting for the telltale shimmer of moonlight on glossy leaves as Gordon climbed the tree outside his window to watch him. The excitement of knowing he was under scrutiny always made it better for Tim. Even when the view out his window began to blur as his eyes lost their focus, just knowing there was someone there turned it into something other than a solitary, lonely activity. The sensation of eyes on him became addictive, made it easier to forget for a little while all the other things that weren't right in his life.

"Tim‐tim." Gordon's voice in his ear brought him back to the present. "Come for me, Timtim. Like you used to, moaning, with your head thrown back, your throat exposed." His mouth travelled down to cover Tim's throat with possessive, hungry lips. He licked at Tim's Adam's apple, sucking the skin between his teeth, then travelled back up, close to his ear. "Come in my hand, Tim‐tim."

Even as he spoke, his own hips moved, faster, harder, against Tim's body, crushing his buttocks against the cold ground. Gordon's fist clenched hard around Tim as he came, groaning into Tim's neck and jerking spasmodically against him.

"Don't stop," Tim gasped, hammered his hips up into Gordon, moving his cock inside the tight grip, clamping his teeth around a harsh shout as he finished and sagged. They lay, for a while, Gordon's lips roving over Tim's face and throat, and Tim's hands traveling up and down, swarming over Gordon's body while the flush of orgasm cooled.

When they finally parted, and sat up, once again side by side, the smell of Gordon's coat, his sweat and their sex mingled, filling Tim with a sad longing. Gordon had drifted out of his life a long time ago. He sighed and stood.

"One of these days, Tim‐tim," Gordon said through a cloud of cigarette stench, his voice immediately level with Tim. "One of these days, someone else will find you instead of me."

"Nah." Tim stood, snugged his jeans back in place around his hips, and oriented himself back the way he'd come. "You'll always find me first. Or I'll find you."

"How do you know?"

Tim glanced back over his shoulder. He couldn't be sure exactly where Gordon was, but he felt the other's presence somewhere behind him. "You hum."

"I what?" Gordon removed the jacket from Tim's shoulders. "I hum?"

"Yeah." Tim put a hand on Gordon's chest and felt the deceptive solidity through the soft material. "I can hear it. The less I see, the better I hear you. It's like…" he smiled and let his hand fall. "I don't know what it's like, but I like it."

"I knew I should have left a long time ago," Gordon muttered, but Tim heard the teasing under the words. More seriously, he asked, "Does anyone else hum?"

"No." Tim shook his head and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Sis yells. It's all she ever did, even before she was a ghost. I don't get along so well with her as with you."

"We never used to get along, when—"

"When you were alive?"

Bio: Jaime Samms has been writing for various publishers since the fall of 2008, although she's been writing for herself far longer. Often asked why men, what’s so fascinating about writing stories about men falling in love, she's never come up with an easy answer. She's always written stories about men in general, and about men in love when she first started noticing these things. For a long time, she thought she was pretty odd.

Right now, you can find her work on her website, for starters. If you flip through the pages of her site, you’ll find plenty of free reading. she also writes for Freya’s Bower, Loveyoudivine Alterotica, Pink Petal Books, Dreamspinner Press and Total E-Bound.

You can find her on the web in various places:

Jaime Samms' website

Jaime's Livejournal

Facebook

Twitter: jaimeSamms

Is It a Job, or Isn't It?

By Jaime Samms (Guest Blogger)

When can an author definitively claim, "I am a writer." This is my job, this is what I do for a living? Is it when you get that first contract? First royalty statement? When you use royalty earnings to pay the first bill, buy the first birthday gift, make X number of dollars? When you have made enough to pay taxes on that income?

Let's face it, monetary reimbursement isn't always a good indicator of talent or even success.

Everyone measures success differently, after all, and only our indulgent, consumer-based society has placed the definition of that word squarely in our quarterly financial statements. Success on an emotional, spiritual or intellectual level usually has very little to do with our bank accounts. At least, that's so for me, and I'm not just saying that because there's often very little in my bank account, either. My sense of fulfillment rarely has anything to do with my financial solvency :)

As for talent, let's talk about Vincent Van Gogh.

The artist who created Starry Night died a little-known pauper, having only ever sold one painting in his entire life. Now a single painting of his costs millions of dollars. Maybe I can count myself successful when I can afford to buy one of his paintings with my royalties. No one could doubt me then. Hopefully, not even I could doubt me then.

So maybe you measure by the number of words written, the number of releases or sales, or by your first novel, your first book in print. It's so hard to tell.

I've logged thousands and thousands of words over the years. Many have been published. Most haven't and never will be. I have novels published and books in print. And yet, at the end of the day, can I call myself a writer? I do have a day job correcting people's tax returns. The spectacular irony there is that I'm one of the best clerks in my department and I have never in my life filled out my own tax return. So can I really call myself a tax expert, either?

Back to Van Gogh, he spent some time in his life as a missionary and as an art broker. I wonder, if I could ask him now, what he would say to the question "What do you do?" Would he say "I'm a missionary." or "I'm an art broker." Or would he simply answer; "I paint."

I know for sure how I would answer that question. "I write." It's what I do, it's as natural as breathing, as deep in my soul as loving and hating.

So. Is it a job? Or is it just...me?

What do you do? How do you define yourself? Does your job make your soul sing?

Find out more about me on my website, my blog and join me on facebook and twitter:

Jaime Samms website

livejournal

Face Book

Twitter: JaimeSamms

Interested in what I write? Check a new release: Finder's Keepers

All his life, Rory Sanders just wanted please the people he loves and always thought he failed, until the day Gabriel Stark rescues him from Kane's abusive hand--and Rory's own misconceptions of what it means to be submissive.

His search for a way into the world that lets him live out his need to serve others has left Rory Sanders estranged from his family and without a lot of friends. When he meets Kane, he thinks his dreams have come true. Those dreams are shattered when he discovers Kane is less interested in his submission than his total subjugation and humiliation. Unable to figure out how to please Kane, Rory is left in a dangerous and humiliating position, bound and helpless in a fetish club where he at last meets people who understand.

Gabriel Stark is not only the private investigator called in to figure out who Kane is and why he has been abusing submissive men, he's also a professional Dom and the man of Rory's dreams come to life. It remains to be seen if Gabe can overcome his own losses and mistakes and be the Dom Rory needs, or if he will let his own past be the ruin of yet another submissive who needs his help. That Rory is physically, emotionally, and intellectually everything Gabe has been looking for only makes Gabe more determined not to get emotionally invested in Rory's recovery.

Keeping Rory safe from Kane might be more than Gabe can manage on his own, and the result of failure could cost the submissive his life.

My Love Affair with Gay Romance

By Jaime Samms (Guest Blogger)

Morning/Afternoon (whatever it is where you are!)

Some of you might know me. I'm Jaime Samms. It sounds so pretentious to say 'multi-published author', but hey. I guess I am. I'm still kind of getting used to that. For the most part, I write my stories because I love to write. That other people might get something, even just an hour or two of entertainment out of my efforts is a fantastic feeling.

I started writing a long, long time ago. I started letting other people read my writing, well, less long ago. Why? Because I was a little concerned that maybe I was off my rocker. When I set out to write a fantasy story, I spent way more time writing about the two heroes of the story hanging out, chatting, and...flirting. And not with the bar maids, either. Imagine. So I turned the story into a romance, and introduced those heroes to the bar maids. And got nothin'. They thanked the pretty girls for their beer and turned back to each other.

I tossed princesses and lusty wenches at them, damsels in distress and adventurous women who knew what to do with the business end of a sword. They ignored them all. (Though the did get in a tiff over the princess' brother...)

But they made up. And this is where I finally gave in to the obvious. They just wanted each other, and it was time we all admitted that fact. The scene that followed... :D Use your imagination. I did. And honestly, I never looked back.

I never read a conventional romance again, either. I don't know why, but they just don't seem as...romantic. Is it because of the way society views the whole idea of two men (or two women) together, that in order for them to show their romantic side it encompasses a whole 'nother level of trust and courage and mutual understanding than it does for a het couple? I think that's what appeals to me the most, in fact. In the world as we know it, for the most part, there is an entire set of personal strength a guy has to have to admit his love for his boyfriend to the world that often het people don't even think about. Nobody looks or thinks twice about seeing hubs and I walk down the street hand in hand. But if I was a guy? Or he was a girl? It would require something of an extra effort on my part to make that gesture.

So there it is, in part. My love affair with the gay romance genre is all about that inner strength to stand up and say "This is my man. This is who I love." That appeals to me immensely, and it's a characteristic almost all the guys I write about either have, or are searching for.

As for that couple that started the whole thing, way back at the dawn of my writing career, I never did finish their story. It kinda sucked. (not like That!!!) Ooh. Maybe that was the problem.... Heh. In any case, they remain my archetypes, my muses, and some day, I hope maybe I'll write their story. Or maybe, I do every time I take up my pen. If you're interested in reading any of those stories, you can find them at the links below.

My latest effort: Good to Be Home, you can find at Loveyoudivine Alterotica. (The fIrst book in the series, Who Says Shamrocks Aren't Lucky, is free!!!)

Blurb: Ian's budding relationship with David seems to focus on the one thing David is both fantastic at, and loves; sex. Ian's not sure he can keep up. When David's past comes calling, and David goes running, Ian is not sure what to think. He has no idea where he stands with his new lover, only that he's sure he doesn't want to share.

Excerpt: He was already getting out of the bed, wading through the dust floating in the sunbeams. The morning light shimmered through the hair on his legs and brightened his skin to a warm glow. Two weeks of watching him parade around my flat nearly naked most of the time and he was still the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. Or had the dubious privilege to piss off like that. I hopped out of bed after him.

"David! Wait."

He stopped, turned, hand on hip, and glared at me. "What?" He eyed my aching erection, but his expression didn't change.

"I'm sorry."

"Do ye even know what for?"

I swallowed hard again but said nothing. So much for my erection.

"That's what I thought."

For a long minute, we both just stood there, watching each other. The sun dimmed. The room's temperature seemed to drop along with my hard-on. Finally, he shook his head and snatched up a shirt from his chair by the window.

I blinked. When had it become his chair? I guess since he sat in it every evening with a beer and a book, or a sketch pad, his feet tucked up, hair falling in his face, and just looked comfortable. And he'd only been doing it for two weeks. How fast had that happened?

"You can drive me home, yeah?" He disappeared inside his shirt for a moment, then yanked it down, stretching the tight fabric over hard muscle.

"What?"

"Home. I do have a place of me own." He stood gazing about the room, bare arsed and sexy as hell, but clearly pissed. "Where the fuck are me trousers?"

"Here." I picked them up from where they were jammed half under the bed and handed them over. It was odd how my hand shook that much.

Good to be Home: http://www.loveyoudivine.com/index.php?main_page=document_product_info&cPath=6_62&products_id=679

Shamrocks:

LYD Link: http://www.loveyoudivine.com/index.php?main_page=document_product_info&cPath=6_62&products_id=671&zenid=d76096117fc5d2ca2b5715a59a04729

Where can you find all this writing? Free on my website: www.jaime-jaime.samms.com

At Freya's Bower: http://www.freyasbower.com/index.php?main_page=page&id=49

Loveyoudivine Alterotica: http://www.loveyoudivine.com/index.php?main_page=index&cPath=6_62

Total E-bound: http://www.total-e-bound.com/authordetail.asp?A_ID=133

Pink Petal Books: http://pinkpetalbooks.com/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=26

And coming soon to Dreamspinner Press.

....wow. I guess I am multi-published.