The ultimate taboo – #MM #LGBTQ #PrideMonth @ReadersRoost

 

By Lil DeVille (Guest Blogger)

As the Very Naughty face of Naughty Netherworld Press, Lil DeVille has this to say about writing her spicy m/m erotica stories.

I first started writing m/m erotica many years ago, back when being published in an adult magazine was still the goal. This may not be politically correct to say now, but, when I started writing, m/m was the ultimate in taboo.

I read a lot of m/m erotica by other authors and, as it became more accessible on the internet, watched a fair bit of m/m porn, mostly on silly sites like “Bang Bus,” which has the premise of the bus driver picking up a supposedly straight guy and convincing him to have gay sex for pay, supposedly for the first time. It’s obvious that the performers are all paid actors, but they seem to be genuinely having fun.

I wanted my stories to be a little more imaginative than the premise of sites like Bang Bus. I’ve always enjoyed science fiction. I got the idea for the Cloned Heat series while watching the Clone Wars animated series. It isn’t that I envisioned the Clone Wars characters having orgies with each other. It’s more that I thought “if you have this many guys together all the time, surely some of them are bound to develop an interest in each other.”

I sometimes write f/f or mixed group erotic fiction, but I honestly find m/m to be the easiest and most fun to write. Sex certainly doesn’t solve everything, but it goes a long way when you have a group of horny worker clones ready to get busy at a moment’s notice. Every relationship is either a friends-with-benefits, friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, or frenemies that fuck relationship in the Cloned Heat world.

If only real life were that simple.

The Blurb

When Pingucury raiders attack their rig, hunky roughneck clone foreman Iker and his equally buff pal Peregrine are forced to flee. The friends encounter Ohannes, a sweet and submissive pleasure clone who offers them shelter. 

Genre

m/m erotica, sci-fi

Where to Buy

Amazon

99 cents

http://bit.ly/CH1AZ

Always free from Kindle Unlimited

The excerpt is the first chapter of The Stable Boy’s Roughneck Ride. It introduces Iker Macauley and Peregrine Varga, the two main characters in the Cloned Heat series. Iker and Peregrine are longtime BFFs with benefits.

Excerpt

Peregrine Cenric Varga knew trouble was coming when he heard the deafening roar of multiple motors and saw the dust cloud obscuring the setting suns on the horizon. The muscular 55-year-old roughneck clone turned to his foreman, 59-year-old Iker Mehmûd Macauley, who was looking through his binoculars at the approaching Pingucury raiders.

“Any chance for defense?” Peregrine inquired.

“Negative,” Iker replied, shaking his head. “We need to scatter to the four winds and hope that the military was prepared for this. I would have protested assignment to Igrobos had I known that we would be facing constant attacks from the Pingucury. I’m a simple Hangiri clone rigger, not a fucking career soldier or military clone.”

Iker gave his crew the signal to abandon the Hangiri rig, and the men hurried to their hover-chops, putting as much distance between them and the raiders as possible. The Pingucury were infamous for their brutality to captives.

Sometimes the raiders’ only goal was to steal the raw Gaccov brought to the surface by the Hangiri rig, but this lot also had bloodshed as their goal judging by their impassioned pursuit of the departing roughnecks.

“Scatter!” Iker ordered his team. “Try to keep them away from the settlements. Where the hell are the damn Xawei? They need to do their jobs and protect our people!”

“Drunk or fucking horny Gaccov execs with a uniform fetish, I imagine,” Peregrine mused. “Let’s make for that abandoned homestead to the North. Maybe there are old animal blankets or some hay in that stable to hide the chops under.”

“I hope that there’s a reasonably comfortable and well-hidden cellar to camp in until the threat has passed,” Iker mused. “Preferably one with rations and booze.”

The men cut the lights on their hover-chops and set the engines to coast. They cruised over the dry fields to the stable, where they parked the vehicles and covered them with old blankets and hay. They focused their attention on finding a hiding place.

“Ike, we ain’t alone,” Peregrine whispered. “There’s someone up in the loft.”

“Shit! Well, we’d better bring ‘em with us before they have a chance to get themselves and us captured by the Pingucury. That’s the last fucking thing I need is a scared civvy to babysit. Anyways, I hope that it’s a civvy and not a nest of Pingucury.”

Iker climbed the ladder to the loft with Peregrine close behind. The men drew their plasma pistols, setting them to stun.

“Come on out, we ain’t gonna hurt ya,” Iker called quietly. “But we all need to find a better place to hide and quick. The Pingucury are closing in, and they don’t care much about the Uturn Convention rules for treatment of prisoners.”

About Lil DeVille

The mysterious Ms. Lil DeVille is an enigma who describes herself as a very boring middle-aged lady who writes very interesting stories. When Lil isn’t cooking up torrid tales filled to the brim with nuts-to-butts action, she enjoys baking and crafting.

Lil prefers that her real face remain a mystery. Perhaps it’s because she became disfigured after falling into a cauldron of chemicals like Two Face. Or maybe it’s just that her real face is as underwhelming as her actual personality. Either way, she prefers to share an artistic depiction of her inner spirit (at the head of this post) as created by the wonderfully talented Dina Dee.

Lil's Links

http://www.naughtynetherworldpress.com (main site)

http://bit.ly/NaughtyNetherworldNews (newsletter)

http://bit.ly/NNPPatreon (Patreon)

http://twitter.com/ReadersRoost (Twitter)

http://bit.ly/LilDevilleAmazonAuthor (Amazon author page)

Remember - every comment is an entry into Lisabet's Pride Month giveaway!

Review Tuesday: Horrorsexual by M. Christian - #GayErotica #Horror #ReviewTuesday

Horrorsexual: The Queer Erotic Fright Fiction of M.Christian

Sizzler Editions, 2020

If anyone asked, you’d probably say that erotica has little in common with horror stories. After all, erotica is supposed to make you feel good, with steamy anticipatory tension, ecstatic crises and pleasantly sated endings. Horror, in contrast, is designed to produce discomfort. If the reader doesn’t feel queasy, unbalanced, disturbed or disgusted, the author hasn’t done his or her job.

Still, when you peer a bit closer, you’ll see the two genres share some characteristics. They both intend to excite the emotions. Both often use shock to their advantage – the most arousing sex tales are the ones that break taboos. Furthermore, sex on the edge, sex that pushes the limits of the acceptable, sex that’s so intense it breaks down barriers – the best and most memorable sex – can be truly scary. Sex strips us bare and makes us vulnerable, and being naked is dangerous.

Nobody appreciates the synergy between sex and horror better than M. Christian. He has been writing stories that are simultaneously thrilling and terrifying for decades. Horrorsexual collects some of the best of his work in the genre, focusing on tales involving gay men – or creatures that masquerade as such.

The eleven short stories in this collection are wonderfully varied. My two favorites, “That Sweet Smell” and “Friday Night at the Calvary Hotel”, illustrate the huge emotional and thematic range of this author. The former chronicles the complex relationship between JJ, a powerful columnist, king-of-the-city type, and his minion Sidney who both admires and hates him. The palpable menace in this tale made me shudder, though there’s very little overt violence and essentially no sex. That doesn’t matter; the tension between JJ and Sidney is sexual regardless. Their dominance/submissive dynamic is distilled in Sidney’s lighting of JJ’s cigarettes.

I looked at the end of the cigarette. Paper wrapped around tobacco. His strong fingers crushed the far end, making tiny flakes of brown stick out the front, towards me. My right hand was in my pants pocket, tight around my lighter. I fought the urge to pull it out, to push it towards him, to open it, flick alive a hot flame, and do it for him. I fought hard, trying to concentrate on anything except the cigarette or JJ's eyes.

I knew it, and he knew it: It wasn't just flame to tobacco. It was more than JJ's cigarette that was being pushed into my face. The place was cloudy with smoke; breathing in was like taking a drag. I could imagine the end of it in his mouth, lips around the paper, sucking in deep drags of smoke. The tip of his tongue resting on the warm end, just for a moment. Sometimes the smoke would be as warm as blood, like breathing in the essence of life. I didn't want to light it. I wanted to take it in my own mouth and draw it in deep, mix his warm smoke with my own blood, just for once taste the air that he breathed all the time.

Despite its lack of gore, this story is dark indeed.

“Friday Night at the Calvary Hotel”, in contrast, has blood and pain, death and semen, yet the tone is almost uplifting. An impoverished and desperate man answers an ad seeking an accomplice in a crucifixion scene. In return for a large amount of money, he meets his nameless employer – young, handsome, cheerful, not at all what you’d expect from a lunatic – in a run-down hotel, and literally nails the other man to the cross he has constructed.

Though the setup is creepy, the purity of the stranger’s desire shines through.

There was a long—very long—minute, as he stared at what I'd made. "Something like that," he said, finally, turning his head slowly to look back over his shoulder at me, that wry little smile back on his lips.

"Ah," was all I could say, struck more stupid than usual.

"This is wonderful," he said, stepping up and running his hands over the smooth wood. "A perfect job."

I wanted to "aw shucks" and start in about the hours of sanding, the three coats of lacquer, the buffing. But then I remembered why he’d had me build it, and what he wanted to use it for.

He rubbed it a long time, like he was communing with it. Watching him stroke it, I noticed something about his hands. I asked, "Is this your (ahem) first time? I mean … doing this kind of thing?"

It took him a long minute to pull himself away. "Oh, no, not at all. It’s just something I developed—well, I guess you could say 'a taste for'—a long time ago. Every once in awhile I like to indulge myself, you know, when I can get away from the family business."

With these two stories as psychic anchors, the book ranges widely over the landscapes of lust and fear. “Suddenly, Last Thursday” is a eloquent, slow-building tale about cannibalism and madness. “Chickenhawk” offers a kinky revenge tale in which the protagonist, a thirty year old dwarf who can pass for fifteen, entraps then punishes the pedophiles who pick him up. “Whatever Happened To...” is kinkier still, featuring a consensual but extreme D/s relationship between two aged drag queens. In “Bitch”, a paunchy, middle-aged, worn-out queer nurses his bitter envy against the beautiful young men in the building across from his – the “peacocks” as he calls them – only to have his secret wish for their destruction come true. In the psychologically potent “Echoes”, a gay man trying to escape from his guilt about murdering his partner discovers that every new lover kisses, sucks cock or screws in exactly the same way as his dead ex. “Wet” and “Empty” are both vampire stories, though the vamps don’t follow Stoker’s rules. The moods of these two pieces are quite different, though both involve some disgustingly bloody and visceral scenes.

These are not simple stories, easy to untangle and assimilate. Sometimes I’d finish one, then immediately go back to read it a second time, to clarify the author’s thoughts or my own, or simply to revel again in the dark mood and evocative language. One story, “Counting”, a scifi tale set in horrific dystopia, I never did completely figure out. Nevertheless, it impressed me with its vivid descriptions of San Francisco after a total collapse of civilization:

My first month, and my first riot in the new place. I was caught outside, unable to recognize the neighborhood's tell-tales, the rhythm of the block: when the stores would be allowed to open, when the local Militia had to make its quota, and when the insane would be released from their camps to clean and scour the streets of anything valuable or edible.

I was walking back from work, head still in the maze of junctions, cross-connectors, light-boosts and mirror-boxes, trying to deduce a ghost echo in the inner-office trunk lines. I was too full of Mr. Buckner's system to notice the closed windows or the quiet. Running people are like smoke: a city-signal. Seeing them sprint past, chests rising, breath fogging the cool evening, looking behind as they ran, I turned as well. A wave rounded Market – a panicked sea of old Militia coats flapping, feet wrapped in threadbare carpets, eyes red and desperate. A thousand, probably much more, screaming and crying as only people can when they've tasted panic. I got no more than twenty feet before the wave broke over me.

A man, black but scarred from a fire so now a ghost of himself, struck back at me as he passed. From behind, a woman, cradling a ruined arm, pushed me. I didn't have their momentum, hadn't seen what they'd seen, what had triggered their panic. I was treading water, and was doomed to drown.

A pack of wild children, a tribe drawn out of the alleys and shadows by the smell of sickness and opportunity, was suddenly around me – hungry eyes appraising my clean clothes, my worth, and the contents of my worker's bag. A cramp in my side came on so suddenly that I thought for a fraction of a scream that they'd knifed me with a piece of glass, a rusty sliver of iron or steel. Meat for the Dark Markets, old clothes for the camps. My breath was glass knives. My eyes were tiny and wind-burned from the cool night. My feet smashed, broke with each clawing stride.

They were jaguars. They were leopards. They were animals born and bred on the streets. I was the sick one in the herd that day. They sensed I was going for the alley. Stupid. I was so stupid. I moved, like drying clay, so slow, and they were there, blocking me in, forcing me towards the alley, to bring me down – and slice my throat.

The one story that didn’t really work for me was “Matches”, a fantasy about dying, leaving your worn-out body behind, and finding your perfect match in heaven. When a shabby apartment building blows up due to a gas leak, the overweight, sad, disappointed loner in Apartment 1A, who hasn’t had a lover in years, is temporarily liberated from his miserable existence. Beautiful and free, he soars skyward toward his equally exquisite and well-hung mate – until he’s resuscitated and slams back into the broken shell of his earthly form. Though the end was genuinely painful, the premise struck me as silly.

Horrorsexual also includes excerpts from M. Christian’s three gay horror novels: Me 2, Finger’s Breadth and The Very Bloody Marys. I’ve read all three (you can find my review of Finger’s Breadth here), and they fit the theme of the collection, but novels and short stories are very different sorts of beast. The excerpts leave a lot of loose ends. Of course, I’m sure the author hopes you’ll be sufficiently intrigued to buy one or more of these titles.

Horrorsexual will arouse you, challenge you, maybe scare you a bit. It will definitely raise a few questions in your mind about the nature of sex and of reality. It’s not a book for everyone, but if you’re curious, open-minded and brave, I recommend it.

Gay Space Opera! Starship Lovers by @creestorm79 #scifi #gay #mm #erotica

Blurb

The day Marty met the Defense Troopers is the day his life had changed forever. Men that could shift into machines…insane, but true. After fixing their device that allowed them to fully shift into bigger and better weapons, Marty was a wanted man…by the enemy. If he could fix the Defense Troopers battle capacitator then the enemy knew he could fix theirs.

Faruke is a Defense Trooper and second in command, it was his job to make people fear him…well that is until he met Marty. The other half to his soul. Now for the first time he was afraid. One of the most evil of his planet was after his mate and Faruke would do anything to keep his mate alive and safe from harm…even if it meant his own death.

Buy Links

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/2wk5WtI

Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/2Mt0gsg

Amazon AU: https://amzn.to/2Lelzsn

Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/2LdXodr

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/890693

B&N: https://bit.ly/2wnasYx

Excerpt

The door opened, and Bryton walked into the room carrying a tray. “Hey, Pops thought you might be hungry.”

Marty started to shake his head, but Bryton wasn’t about to hear it, “You will eat it, or I will get my man to hold you down as I puree it and pour it down your throat.”

“You know you really have an attitude. I would think with all that sex you’re having, you would be… I don’t know… skipping around singing Zipadeedoodah or something.” Marty said as he sat down and placed the tray on the side table.

Swirling his hips, Bryton countered, “I’m more the Pitbull and DJ Kass doing the Scooby Doo Pa Pa.”

Marty picked up his roast beef sandwich and took a bite. Bryton walked over to Faruke, “You know, he looks so innocent and sweet when he sleeps. Yet, when he opens his mouth he’s like that Alien creature which spits acid.”

“God, Bryton, why do you have to be such an ass. The man almost died.” Marty hissed.

“And if I recall, it was me who kept it from happening. Somehow I think I’m going to regret it.” Bryton muttered.

Marty snorted as he finished half of the sandwich, took a drink, then said, “This coming from the man who said he needed Faruke to live so he could have someone who could almost match him in sarcasm wars.”

Bryton shrugged, “I’m not the one who promised him dates if he lived.”

Marty felt his stomach knot and feared that half of his roast beef sandwich was going to come back up.

“What’s going on with you?” Bryton asked.

Marty looked at Faruke carding his fingers in his dark black hair. The man was so fucking gorgeous. He was so tall and had muscles on top of muscles and those eyes… son of a bitch, Marty could look into those turquoise orbs for days on end and never get tired of it.

“You really like him, don’t you, Marty?” Bryton softly asked.

Sighing, Marty replied, “I can be standing clear across the room and just a look from him makes me hard as a rock, Bry. I don’t understand it. He is so not my type. He always seems angry. He snaps orders instead of asks. He thinks he can tell me what to do all the time. He’s just not the kind of guy I would look twice at no matter how sexy he is.”

“I don’t think he’s angry as much as frustrated and pissed. Valkin said that he and Marston were best friends. The three of them used to do everything together and the day that Marston showed his true colors, he killed two of Faruke’s guys and damn near killed him too. Then you have to add in the fact that they had to leave the only home they have ever known, leaving behind their friends, family… it just can’t be easy.”

Marty nodded, stood up and turned to Bryton. “I just don’t know. I don’t understand any of this. How did we go from two average guys trying to live in an average world, to trying to save the world with men from outer space who can shift into machines?”

Bryton snickered, “Well it did liven up our lives, that’s for sure.”

“Bryton, I’m serious. What do we know about any of this? Did you see the size of those men who attacked this place?” Marty asked in awe.

“Marty, our side is just as big and if you remember correctly, we kicked ass too. They didn’t leave here unscathed. You were amazing coming up with those machines to help Valkin and the others fight off Marston and his men.

Faruke suddenly made a sound. Marty quickly turned to see those beautiful eyes looking at him.

Where to follow Cree:

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Review Tuesday: Love Under Foot (#gay #review #footfetish)

Love Under Foot: An Erotic Celebration of Feet
Edited by Greg Wharton and M. Christian
Harrington Park Press, 2004


Let it be a challenge. When I was offered the opportunity to review Greg Wharton's and M.Christian's anthology of gay foot fetish stories, this was my reaction. I'm not a gay male, and although I admit an occasional lustful reaction to the sight of some smooth, graceful woman's foot embraced by a strappy sandal, I find most men's feet, with their calluses, fuzzy insteps and gnarled toenails, distinctly unarousing. At the same time, I have often pontificated on the universality of the sexual urge and the remarkable flexibility of our erotic impulses. Under the right circumstances, any stimulus can become a turn-on. So why not feet?

Nevertheless, I'll admit that despite the exceptional credentials of the editors, I did not have high expectations for a collection which seemed to have such a narrow focus. I was most pleasantly surprised. The twenty tales in LOVE UNDER FOOT offer originality, diversity and unexpected thematic depth, as well as the promised hot homoerotic sexual encounters.

Feet are major players here, but other body parts are not neglected. Greg Herren's "Athlete's Foot" lets the reader vicariously enjoy an outrageously public oil wrestling session between two exceptionally hard bodies. In "Those Boots", by Bill Brent, used leather boots picked up at a BDSM swapmeet trigger an auto-erotic fantasy scene that had me panting. The shoe salesman in Duane William's "No Mean Feet" begins by giving a phantom foot massage to an ex-soldier's amputation stump; I'll let you imagine, or discover, where it ends.

Personally, I can't find anything sexy about stinky gym shoes or sweaty socks. But I'm willing to believe, from the energy and enthusiasm in Sean Meriwether's "Sneaker Queen" or Paul J. Willis' "Aromatherapy", that someone might. Could you come from being tickled? Stories by Wayne Courtois and Jason Rubis suggest that it's distinctly possible.

Most of the tales in this collection treat their subject matter with a light-hearted (or perhaps I should say light-footed) sense of fun. Charles Anders' "At the Right Foot of God" imagines a religion founded on the precept that feet are the province of Divinity -- complete with the appropriate foot worshipping rituals. In "Days of Wine and Toesies", Sean T. Gold serves up a tale of a dinner party flirtation where playing footsy takes a hilariously unexpected turn.

A few of the stories have a darker edge, most notably Simon Sheppard's gritty "The Footwhore of Babylon" and Ian Philips' folksy but tragic "Shrimpboat Willie". These stories provide a satisfying counterweight to the happier tales of cruising, looking for the perfect sole.  

All of this would have made LOVE UNDER FOOT sufficiently entertaining to justify my time in reading it. Three exceptional stories, however, raise this book above the level of fun foot-porn into the domain of literary erotica. All three convey an emotional intensity that nearly brought tears to my eyes. In William Dean's "The Alabaster Arch", the object of desire is not even animate, yet its power reaches across half a world, calling to those who recognize it. "Lotus", by G. Merlin Beck, turns deformity into mystery, and lust into awe.  And M.Christian's "Happy Feet" juxtaposes past and present in the mind of an aged ex-dancer whose feet were the darlings of Kelly and Astaire.

Feet are featured in all three of these stories. The tales are clearly at home in this collection. At the same time, they transcend fetish and orientation, demonstrating that arousal is universal and that desire is an essential attribute of the soul, regardless of its source.

That is the truth that brings me back to erotica, as a reader and a writer, again and again.

Review Tuesday: Filthy by M. Christian (#outrageous #gay #erotica @MChristianZobop)

Filthy: Outrageous Gay Erotica by M. Christian

Alyson Books, 2006

M.Christian will do anything. That's what you'll be ready to believe if you read much of his work, and most particularly, this latest collection of his MM stories. The subtitle "outrageous" is appropriate, as much for the ancillary action and the themes of these tales as for their sexual content. The truth is that M.Christian can imagine anything, and describe it so convincingly that you can't help but believe that he has actually been through the experience.

In the chilling yet ultimately uplifting "Friday Night at the Calvary Hotel", we are meet a nameless drifter who accepts thirty thousand dollars to indulge another man's unusual kink: a lust to be crucified. "Suddenly, Last Thursday" introduces us to Sebastian, a diabolically talented chef who understands the incestuous relationship between physical and sexual hunger. "Imago" portrays the peculiar liberation of suspension bondage, being completely immobilized, mummified, blindfolded, gagged:

Breathing a cavernous roar in his ears, his heartbeat the trot of steaming horses, vision nothing but soft black, taste of his own sweat trickling down from his upper lip, touching nothing but steaming self, reflected back by his insular cocoon, ... between floor and ceiling, self and other, here and there.

"Heart in Your Hand" is simultaneously graphic and romantic in its portrayal of a relationship based primarily on fisting.

M.Christian does it all: sentimental nostalgia in "Happy Feet" and "Flyboy", gritty noir in "Bitch" and "The Hard Way", self-deprecating humor in "Moby", and futuristic angst in "Utter West". The latter was one of my favorite stories in the book, as much for its haunting depiction of adolescent desire and loss as for its portrayal of uber-suburbia of the future and its discontents. Another favorite was "The Greener Grasses", with its searing D/s scene and its final ironic twist.

The sex in these stories also varies, from gentle and tentative to rough and urgent. None of the stories, though, is only about sex. I found myself wondering whether gay men would be turned on by these tales—and whether they would be able to tell that M.Christian is in fact (if not in fiction) straight. In "About the Author", M.Christian imagines, in his usual vivid detail, the disillusionment of a gay man discovering that his favorite author of queer smut is actually one hundred percent het.

Much of the other gay erotica that I've read has leaned heavily on the physical. This author, though, is at least as interested in the emotional and yes, the spiritual, dimensions of sexual encounters as he is in muscular buns, tanned pecs, thick uncut cocks, salt, sweat and jism. I don't know how a gay man would react to these non-physical complexities, but they suit my preferences perfectly. If your tastes match mine, you should pick up a copy of this intriguing collection.

Review Tuesday: Spring of the Stag God (#gay #erotica #fantasy)

Spring of the Stag God by J.C. Herneson

Bear Bones Books/Lethe Press, 2010

J.C. Herneson’s gay erotic fantasy Spring of the Stag God sat on my bookshelf for years before I opened it. The publisher sent it to me, unsolicited, back in 2011, along with Simon Shepard’s Sodomy!, which I’d agreed to review. The raw but evocative cover both intrigued me and made me blush. A snarling, muscular, tattooed man, his tangled red hair crowned with massive antlers, masturbates an enormous green cock in each hand, while his own rears up proudly, drooling semen. The image is both gorgeously drawn and incredibly obscene. More of these drawings, by artist Kupopo, decorate the title page and introduce each section—full of eloquent curves, stuffed holes and dripping organs.

One review of this book on Amazon says “I’ve never read anything like it.” I have to agree with this sentiment. Spring of the Stag God has the logic of filthy dreams tempered by a hint of pagan spirituality that glorifies the rituals of the flesh.

The book, which is divided into three sections, unfolds in a mythical realm inhabited by both men and orcs, a brutish but massively powerful race of warriors. In the first part, “A Stag God is Born”, the fifteen year old human youth Ashlan suffers from strange, wild dreams brimming with eroticism. When his uncle takes him anally, the experience triggers the change latent in Ashlan from the start. He begins his transformation into the Seven-Tined Stag God sacred to the Split-Hoof tribe of orcs.

The Stag God is one with the forest, a creature of the elements. He epitomizes fertility. And he takes, sometimes brutally, the male bodies he encounters, both human and orc. To be penetrated by the Stag God’s massive cock is devastating and painful, but it can also be transcendent. Male-male fucking is a sacrament in Herneson’s fantasy world.

In the second section, “The Stag and the Bear”, Ashlan seeks out the fearsome Bear God as his mentor and master. He battles his way to the stormy mountain peak where the Bear resides. The Bear claims the young god's ass and wins his devotion and service. The interlude with the Bear pushes the Stag God further along his path to divinity.

The third section, “The Stag God’s Apostle”, was my favorite. This section most clearly articulates the contrast between the Stag God’s magical world of untrammeled animal lust and the self-denying, repressive spirituality of men, as represented by the Patriarch of the Lord of Light. Yet even the so-called godly succumb to the lure of raging cocks and hungry assholes.

You’ll find a lot of fucking in this book, much of it rough to the point of pain. Some of it unquestionably deserves the label rape. However, you will find tenderness, too, and a sense of redemption that comes from the merging of bodies and the indulgence of desire. The young orc Hadra who is ravaged by Ashlan in Part One becomes his devoted apostle in Part Three, ready to lay down his life for the God who made him aware of who and what he is.

I’m not a gay man, but personally, I found some scenes in this book deeply erotic. This is may be because I also believe that flesh and spirit cannot be separated.

However, I suspect many readers might be offended by this book. It’s not for the squeamish, and anything but politically correct. My reluctance to take it down from the shelves had some justification.

The only thing that really bothered me about Spring of the Stag God, though, was some tendency toward repetition. The plot is highly original, but the scenes of sexual excess all tend to be described in the same way, using the same terminology. After a while, I’d really read enough about “nethers”!

This is a quibble, though. If you enjoy non-consensual homoerotic fantasy, Spring of the Stag God will satisfy that craving.

Review Tuesday Moved to Thursday: Ross Deere - Handyman by Hans M. Hirschi (#review #glbt)

Ross Deere - Handyman by Hans M. Hirschi

Beaten Track Publishing, 2016

Normally, when I am doing a review, I try to ignore what authors say about their work. I like to consider each book as an independent artifact and draw my own conclusions, without being unduly influenced by the authors’ own opinions. In the case of Hans M. Hirschi’s erotic gay novella Ross Deere – Handyman, I’m having some trouble with this policy, since this review is the direct consequence of a post on his blog.

The title of that post was “Sex sells writing, they say, but when is enough enough?”. In his essay, the author expressed some discomfort the amount of explicit sexual content he was encountering lately in fiction, and in the marketing of fiction. At the same time, he gave an almost embarrassed plug for his own new book, in which he’d ventured into erotica for the first time. “Sex, Sex and More Sex!”, exclaims his light-hearted trailer for Ross Deere – Handyman. When I indicated some curiosity, he generously sent me a copy.

I have to agree with Mr. Hirschi’s evaluation of the book. “Sex, Sex and More Sex” is a fine description. Ross, the title character, is an easy-going, attractive young man who more or less accidentally finds himself in the business of providing sexual services for pay, mostly to men. In addition to his carnal skills (which are considerable), Ross can also offer expertise in fixing broken faucets, assembling furniture, re-shingling roofs, and so on. Thus he’s “handy” both literally and figuratively.

The book is framed as a sort of confessional memoir, as Ross looks back at a decade working as a handyman/escort. He introduces the reader to his favorite clients, gradually sharing his history of erotic escapades. As the book proceeds, Ross reveals that he’s also involved in a serious relationship, that he thinks he’s falling in love, and that as a result he’s eager to get out of his current business, lucrative as it is.

Mr. Hirschi writes well. He captures Ross’s sexual adventures with skill and grace, successfully conveying the variations in personal dynamics and sexual preference that distinguish each of the clients Ross discusses. I found Ross charming and could well understand why he’s so popular. However, for the most part, I didn’t find any of the delightfully detailed sex scenes particularly erotic.

This is not due to my gender or sexual orientation. Like Ross, I consider myself a “try-sexual”. I often find gay erotica intensely arousing. The sex scenes in Ross Deere – Handyman, explicit as they are, did not succeed in getting my motor running (as they say), even though that was clearly the author’s intent.

I shouldn’t be analyzing, perhaps, but I believe that the key to this reaction lies in Mr. Hirschi’s own conflicted feelings about writing erotica. I get the sense that he believes sex and love are two quite different things, and that the former carries far less emotional weight than the latter. Indeed, this dichotomy is clear in Ross’s determination not to jump into bed with his lover John, though in other circumstances he’d be rimming a stranger within ten minutes of meeting him.

Ross Deere’s encounters with his clients feel shallow, all sensation and no feeling. I’ll admit that casual sex sometimes turns out that way, but not always. Even without love (or at least the sort of happily-ever-after, committed emotion that wears that name in popular fiction), sex can be a powerful, intense, moving experience. The recognition of this truth lies at the heart of the (admittedly fraught) distinction between erotica and porn.

I don’t mean to suggest I didn’t enjoy this book. I found it entertaining, and educational, too, in terms of giving me a more nuanced understanding of the nuts and bolts of gay sex. However, I wouldn’t label it as erotica. My definition of erotica is fiction that explores the experience of desire. Ross Deere – Handyman contains tons of sex, but very little desire.

Re-reading this review, I realize that it says as much about my own prejudices and predelictions as it does about the author’s. So be it. I guess there’s no such thing as an objective review.

If you want sex, sex and more sex, with an engaging, surprisingly realistic hero with whom anyone would fall in love, Ross Deere may be perfect for you.

And by the way, I love the cover. Though Ross is described as blonde, this guy has exactly the right attitude!