A Visit to The Vineyard

I’m delighted today to welcome Michael Hurley to Beyond Romance. I’ve got a few questions for Michael. Then he’ll share the details about his new novel, The Vineyard. This post is part of his blog tour for the book. See the Rafflecopter widget at the end to enter his giveaway.

Lisabet Sarai: Any weird things you do when you’re alone?

Michael Hurley: Sometimes I sing sea chanties.

LS: What is your favorite quote and why?

MH: “The reasonable man adapts himself to the world: the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.” ―George Bernard Shaw

Think about it. We’re all so busy trying not to make waves, and we tend to resent the wave-makers, but without them we’d all be stuck in the middle ages.

LS: What is your favorite ice cream flavor?

MH: I love wedding cake ice cream. In fact, I love wedding cake. I could eat great huge mounds of it. It’s as good a reason as any other to get married.

LS: Which mythological creature are you most like?

MH: Sisyphus. I’m a slow learner.

LS: What are four things you can’t live without?

MH: Strong black coffee. A good pint of Guinness Stout. The morning paper. A sailboat.

Blurb

Ten years after college, three very different women reunite for a summer on Martha’s Vineyard. As they come to grips with various challenges in their lives, an encounter with a reclusive fisherman threatens to change everything they believe about their world—and each other.

Excerpt

Climbing up the dune, she stumbled from little avalanches of sand that slipped beneath her feet. The boy caught her and pulled her up. His hand was smooth and warm and young. It felt good to her to hold a boy’s hand again.

At the top of the dune, the salt air swept over and around her face and hair. The ocean was shimmering, limitless. There was nothing around them but the sea and the wind and the sand—which is why she had come to this, her new favorite place on the Vineyard. Only today she was going to have to share it with a gangly skinflint of a boy who stood there still grinning at her, the wind tossing a lone, blond cowlick back and forth on top of his head like a bobble-head doll.

Perhaps he expected another kiss. She assured herself he wouldn’t be getting one. After all, she had grown better at restraining her impulses in the two months since that first ferry ride.

“I thought you’d be married and off on your honeymoon by now,” Charlotte said, glad finally to be back on offense after nearly rolling down the dune.

She made a point of not looking at him. Teenage boys with racehorse metabolisms and zero body fat were very fond of not wearing shirts, and while the cheerleading squad down the beach probably found that exciting, Charlotte thought it was important that she not appear to agree.

She kept looking out to sea as she spoke, as if the water were far more interesting than the boy or what he might have to say, which in truth it was not. When the silence became awkward, she turned to see if he were even paying attention. He was staring off at the horizon. She followed his gaze.

“Long story,” he said, finally.

In the pause that followed, it became clear that the story, long or short, was not likely to be told. Charlotte sensed a wound that was something more than shyness. It provoked an unwanted and involuntary surge of maternalism in her.

“I’m Charlotte,” she said, extending her hand. “I’ve been told I’m a good listener to long stories.”

The boy looked at her and took her hand for the second time. He did not complete the introduction but simply held her hand in his. He wasn’t coy; it just didn’t occur to him that his name was at all important to her.

In his bare feet he was not as tall as she remembered, and he seemed younger. He wasn’t a child, but he couldn’t have been older than twenty-two, if that. Separated from the rough girl who had been hanging on him on the ferry, he looked less like a greaser and more like a California surfer. The difference somehow mattered to Charlotte. It felt weird that it mattered.

She hadn’t intended to be his company, nor had she asked him for his, but the top of the dune was not wide. When she wandered away the few feet it allowed and spread her blanket, he followed and sat beside her. He offered a half-empty bottle of spiced rum she hadn’t noticed he had been dangling from his left hand. She didn’t usually drink that early in the morning—or to be more precise, she never did—but somehow she sensed this wasn’t the time or the place to accentuate the differences in their ages and manners. She wanted to hear his story, and she wanted him to feel free to tell it.

Still, he said nothing. Instead, he sat next to her and peered out at the sea as if they were an old married couple, silent and content merely to have each other’s company.

The voices of the others rose and fell periodically on the air, coming from fifty yards away in the direction of skiff down the beach. That the boy’s friends didn’t seem in a hurry to join him suggested that they, too, knew he needed some space. Charlotte could hear them laughing and groaning and grunting, trying to pry the keel of their boat out of the sand with the help of the tide that slowly rose around it.

She leaned back on the towel and continued to follow the boy’s gaze out to sea. He had an odd intensity about him, as if he were expecting something was about to happen out there—a missile launch or mermaid eruption or something. On the third pass of the rum, he turned to look at her.

“We were supposed to be having a baby,” he said.

“We?”

“The girl and me—the one you saw on the ferry.”

"And . . .?”

“And nothing. She lied to me. I heard about it from one of her girlfriends who called me from back home. Said she couldn’t keep quiet anymore. That she felt it was wrong. She said my girlfriend wasn’t pregnant—never had been. She just made that up to get me to take her away from her old man. Not that I can blame her. He used to beat her . . .”

Charlotte had not forgotten the girl’s blistering right hook, and now she realized where it came from. She must have given the old man as good as she got.

“ . . . but it was a damned lie just the same.”

Charlotte said nothing, which didn’t seem to faze him. “A damned lie,” he said again, looking back toward the sea.

“Is that why you were getting married?”

“She must have thought so, but I would have married her anyway—baby or no baby.”

“And so now you’re not—getting married, I mean?”

“You can’t build a marriage on a lie,” he said, looking at her with an expression of surprise, which she took to mean that he would have guessed someone so much older would have been a little wiser.

Charlotte let the proverb hang in the air. It was true enough, in theory, but in reality her own marriage and, she had come to believe, a great many others—perhaps even the majority—were rather elaborately built on a foundation of lies. True love was a myth, as far as she was concerned.

“’Think about it,’ you said to me, back then,” he continued. “Do you remember?”

“I do, but I was …” She started to explain her bizarre conduct on the ferry that she realized, as soon as she began, made no difference to anyone now. He cut her off.

“Truth is, apart from wondering why you was such a damn lunatic and where the hell you had come from, I didn’t need to think about it. In fact, I was pretty excited about it. That’s what I guess you didn’t know—and how could you. I’m sure I looked like just a punk to you.”

“Still do, actually.” She said this to be witty and cute, which it was not, and which alarmed her, as if her mouth had suddenly detached itself from her brain. She regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. Another lie told to the poor boy. He seemed rather Byronesque to her, in fact, and not at all like a punk, but she didn’t think he would understand why, so she left it.

“I was excited to be a father,” he continued, indignantly. A tear rolled down. He was struggling to keep his emotions in check. She had had no idea. She felt suddenly even more mortified at her glibness a moment ago.

It was either the best or worst of all possible combinations, depending on the eye of the beholder. Here was this painfully earnest boy, wounded and still suffering at the hands of a conniving and thoughtless girlfriend. Here was this older woman, herself conflicted and out of touch with her own feelings about love and sex and marriage. Between them was a half-empty bottle of rum, and all around them was sunshine and the sea.

About the Author

Michael Hurley and his wife Susan live near Charleston, South Carolina. Born and raised in Baltimore, Michael holds a degree in English from the University of Maryland and law from St. Louis University.

The Prodigal, Michael’s debut novel from Ragbagger Press, received the Somerset Prize for mainstream fiction and numerous accolades in the trade press, including Publishers Weekly, Kirkus Reviews, ForeWord Reviews, BookTrib, Chanticleer Reviews, and IndieReader. It is currently in development for a feature film by producer Diane Sillan Isaacs. Michael’s second novel, The Vineyard, is due to be released by Ragbagger Press in December 2014.

Michael’s first book, Letters from the Woods, is a collection of wilderness-themed essays published by Ragbagger Press in 2005. It was shortlisted for Book of the Year by ForeWord magazine. In 2009, Michael embarked on a two-year, 2,200 mile solo sailing voyage that ended with the loss of his 32-foot sloop, the Gypsy Moon, in the Windward Passage between Cuba and Haiti in 2012. That voyage and the experiences that inspired him to set sail became the subject of his memoir, Once Upon A Gypsy Moon, published in 2013 by Hachette Book Group.

When he is not writing, Michael enjoys reading and relaxing with Susan on the porch of their rambling, one-hundred-year-old house. His fondest pastimes are ocean sailing, playing piano and classical guitar, cooking, and keeping up with an energetic Irish terrier, Frodo Baggins.

Website: www.mchurley.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mchurleybooks

Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/author/show/5445584.Michael_C_Hurley

Visit all the stops on Michael's tour, for more chances to win:

November 3: Deal Sharing Aunt
November 3: Brooke Blogs
November 4: Laurie's Thoughts and Reviews
November 5: Unabridged Andra's
November 5: Andi's Book Reviews
November 6: Nickie's Views and Interviews
November 7: Bunny's Review
November 7: The Cerebral Writer
November 10: Lisa Haselton's Reviews and Interviews
November 10: Black Heart Magazine
November 11: Queen of All She Reads
November 11: MAD Hoydenish
November 12: Beyond Romance
November 13: Coffee Books and Art
November 14: Lilac Reviews
November 17: Book 'Em North Carolina
November 17: The blog of C.R. Moss
November 18: Our Wolves Den
November 19: Books N Pearls
November 19: Room With Books
November 20: Long and Short Reviews
November 21: Jersey Girl Book Reviews
November 21: Sharing Links and Wisdom
November 24: Margay Leah Justice
November 25: Booklover Sue
November 25: Zee Monodee - Author's Corner
November 26: Wake Up Your Wild Side
November 27: Writer Wonderland
November 27: SiMPLiSPEAKiNG
November 28: Beer, Books and More

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

Sapphic Smut: Tales of Lesbian Lust Out Now!

[Given my love of lesbian erotica, I just had to share this new release with you! ~Lisabet]

Blurb

Light hearted, sexy Sapphic smut is the theme of this erotic anthology, edited by Lucy Felthouse with assistance from Kev ‘Mitnik’ Blisse.

From coffee shops to exotic Indian adventures to cosy cabins in France, Sapphic Smut has it all. Fun with sugar, naughty spankings, seductions by strangers, seductions by friends, cougars and even a twist on a fairy tale abound in this exciting collection of lesbian stories from erotica’s finest authors.

This delicious girl-on-girl anthology contains stories from Lucy Felthouse, Kay Jaybee, Louisa Bacio, Sallyanne Rogers, Vanessa de Sade, Tabitha Rayne and Elizabeth Coldwell.

Amazon: http://mybook.to/sapphicsmut

Other links: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/sapphic-smut/

Editor’s Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/lucyfelthousewriter

Excerpt

Alana really couldn’t believe how flat Holland was. She’d been told by many people, but somehow, she still wasn’t expecting a place that made Cambridgeshire look like the Peak District. Her view from the train as she travelled from Schiphol airport to Amsterdam’s Centraal Station was unimpeded. Not so much as a hillock was visible.

And now, here she was, standing outside the station with crowds milling around her. A mixture of tourists, businesspeople and natives. She herself was a combination of two of those groups—she was here on business, but she’d deliberately extended her trip so she could spend a couple of days exploring the city. She had a day either side of her meeting, the boring part a filling to a sightseeing sandwich. Though, despite the boring tag, the meeting definitely wasn’t a bad thing, it was an appointment to cross the ts and dot the is on a very lucrative deal—certainly the trip was worthwhile.

After watching the insanity for another minute or so, she began to head away from the station, wheeling her small case along with her. Already armed with a guidebook and a decent map, she knew where she was going. 

Her map-reading skills were excellent, and she made the short walk to her hotel in less than twenty minutes. Anywhere else, she’d have gotten a cab, but it appeared they were a rare commodity in this city.

She’d checked in, dumped her bags and freshened up within another ten minutes, and was back on the street.

An online acquaintance had sent her a bunch of information for her trip—about the best museums, interesting things to see that might not be in guidebooks, and details on transport. It appeared that Amsterdam was unlike London, Paris and Rome, in as much as it had trams as its preferred mode of transport, rather than underground trains. Only one Metro line ran through the city, north-to-south. Everywhere else was utterly dependent on trams, bikes and being on foot.

And fuck, there were a lot of bikes. They zipped here, there and everywhere, not always staying where they were supposed to be, it seemed. The slim Dutch people atop the bikes were oblivious, just concentrating on getting where they were going.

Alana searched for the nearest tram stop, and quickly discovered she needed to be on the other side of the road to head in the right direction.

Crossing the road was a chore in itself. A dice with death. She’d thought Rome’s motorists were insane, but at least they were fairly predictable. 

Here, she was faced with crossing a road that held a cycle path, a tram line and a lane for cars. Shifting down the pavement, she stood at the conveniently placed crossing. It still didn’t make things much easier, but at least she could mingle in with the crowd. Traffic was much more likely to stop if it was going to hit a crowd of people than a single pedestrian. Right?

By some miracle, she reached the opposite pavement unscathed—except for her nerves, which were shot—and approached the tram stop. As if by magic, a tram arrived, and it was the correct number. Things were looking up.

After a few minutes, she realised that public transport in Amsterdam was nowhere near as easy to navigate as in the other major cities she was familiar with. There, their Tube or Metro stations always had plenty of large, unmissable signs telling you where you were. Piccadilly Circus, Anvers, Piramide. Here, it seemed you were left to your own devices. There were announcements on board the tram, but they were in Dutch—a language which she knew very little of—incredibly muffled, and pretty much drowned out by the sound of the tram’s motion and its passengers.

Sunday Snog #148: The Late Show (F/F)

My snog today is from my F/F short story The Late Show, coming soon in Best Lesbian Erotica 2015. The kiss is barely there - but there's enough emotion in this excerpt, I think, to carry a snog.

When you're done here, click over to Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog page and sample some of the other wonderful kisses on offer.

 

The powerful cycle whipped around the corner and raced through the shadowy streets. I hung on for dear life, my arms around Haley's waist, my chest pressed against her warm back. I tried to ignore the effects of her closeness. I shut out the quivering pleasure set up by the engine's vibrations between my splayed thighs. Enough sex tonight, I told myself. Enough.

I couldn't see much, but after five minutes I knew we were going in the wrong direction. For one thing, we were climbing.

“Hey!” I yelled. The wind whisked my voice away. “Where are you taking me?” I pounded my fists against Haley's back. She paid no attention whatsoever. She might have been made of granite.

When the engine died, I snatched off the helmet. “What do you think you're doing? You think this is funny?”

Haley shook her head. “Not funny at all, Di.” Something in her tone froze my indignation.

I looked around. “Broad Hill. I haven't been up here since...” The town stretched below us like a set of toys, glittering and unreal.

“Yeah. Me neither.” She stepped toward me.

“Haley, please...no.” When she gathered me into her arms, though, I didn't fight – not her at least. I only fought myself. Her kiss was gentle as mist.

“I'm leaving tomorrow, Di. Come with me.”

Oh God. Her scent. Her voice. The flow of hard muscle under her sun-bronzed skin.

“I can't. You know I can't. I have a child, Haley...”

Her hands wandered over my curves, waking pleasure everywhere they touched. “We're good together, Di. We always were.”

“Yes, but ...”

“You made the wrong choice last time. Not everyone gets a second chance. Choose me, baby. I swear I'll make you happy.”

She cupped my pubis through my skirt, waking echoes of orgasms, recent and remembered.

“You deserve this, Di, after all the shit he put you through.” With a simple tweak of my nipple, she rekindled the fever.

She was right. I deserved better. I'd had better and I'd thrown it away for social status and acceptability. I'd thought that Haley was just a fling. I was so, so wrong.

Sneak Peek: Hesitant Heart by Morticia Knight

[Today's sneak peek comes from Morticia Knight's new M/M release, Hesitant Heart (The Hampton Road Club 1).  Read on for an emotional excerpt and information about her giveaway!]

Hesitant Heart by Morticia Knight
M/M BDSM Historical (1920’s) 

Blurb

Sam is a naïve young man who arrives in Hollywood to escape his brutal father. When the older, sophisticated Aaron rescues him, Sam discovers what it means to fully surrender himself to another.

Eighteen year-old Sam Cunningham is used to living with lots of secrets. He’s had to hide his true nature his entire life or else incur the wrath of his strict and abusive father. When he’s faced with a horrible ultimatum, he flees to Hollywood where he hopes he can escape the fate his father has planned for him.

Aaron Rubenstein is a wealthy and sophisticated man who loses himself in painting portraits of bound men to help stave off his loneliness and despair. Unable to find a lasting connection with anyone, he’s had to resort to paying lovers not only for their affections, but to be allowed to indulge in his darker passions. Aaron’s only respite is his nights at the Hampton Road sadomasochism club where he’s a respected Dominant.

Naïve and inexperienced in the ways men can please one another, Sam takes a job at a bathhouse where he first glimpses a beautiful older man. Aaron notices the sweet towel boy watching him with interest every time he patronizes the Temple of Eros bathhouse. A traumatic incident for the innocent towel boy triggers Aaron’s protective tendencies and he’s compelled to rescue the gentle Sam from the clutches of the Temple’s manager.

They embark on a journey together that teaches them both things about themselves that they never knew. As their bond deepens and Sam is trained for his first night at the Hampton Road Club, an unknown danger lurks. Will Sam’s father find him and destroy both men’s chance for true happiness together? Or will Aaron protect his boy and keep him for always?

Reader Advisory: This book contains a scene of branding.

Excerpt

“Sit down.”

Aaron had gestured to the settee that was on the other side of the room from where the large bed was. Everything had an airy elegance to it. Sam did as Aaron had instructed and waited until he’d pulled the small matching wingchair over and placed it in front of him. Sitting down, he crossed his legs languidly in the same manner as he’d done in the bathhouse private room—except for the fact that he currently wore clothes.

“Sam, I need you to tell me what’s troubling you.”

“I told you—”

“And you’re most welcome. But I already said we could work something out once you have employment. Don’t you believe me?”

Shaking his head vigorously, Sam blurted out, “Of course I believe you! You kept your word at the bathhouse, you’re being so nice to me. I’d do anything you asked.”

He noticed a slight grimace on Aaron’s face.

“Yes. I believe you would.” Aaron seemed to regard him intently. “You have to be very cautious not to give everything of yourself away to someone just because they’ve been nice to you. Someone could take advantage. You must be careful, little Sam.”

“But what about what you said earlier? About giving control?”

Sam watched uneasily as Aaron seemed to hold his breath as he stared at Sam. It was impossible to tell what was really going on behind his implacable expression.

“That’s a decision to be made with prudent and thoughtful consideration. It’s not to be done lightly.” Aaron had said it in a severe tone, very unlike his typically smooth one. “Now tell me what’s actually bothering you. Be honest with me.”

There was an uncomfortable knot in his stomach. He was terrified to tell Aaron the truth, but he didn’t want to lie. He wanted to please Aaron, not have anything come between them. Even if it didn’t seem as if there either was or would be a ‘them’.

Sam worked his mouth open and closed a couple times as if he were warming up to the idea of speaking. “I…I’m not used to being alone. I don’t like it.”

Aaron’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”

Despite feeling more than a little silly, Aaron had insisted, so Sam continued.

“I shared a room with my two little brothers right up until I left home. I also have two sisters. The house was always full. When I came here, I was in the car with Louis.”

There was an almost feral glint in Aaron’s eyes and he practically growled out his words. “He never touched you, did he?”

“No!” Sam face heated. “He…he asked me to come live with him though.”

Aaron made a sound akin to a grunt. “I bet he did.” He took a deep breath and seemed to regain his composure. “And why didn’t you go with him? You had nowhere else. He could’ve taken care of you.”

“I didn’t like him like that.”

“I see.” Aaron appeared to relax, his tone calm again. “But when you arrived here, you were still alone, right?”

Sam wriggled around in his seat. Someone as strong and mature as Aaron wouldn’t understand about needing another person, about loneliness.

“It wasn’t what I would’ve preferred, but at least there were the other boys in the room. I wasn’t completely alone.”

Aaron fixed him with a compassionate stare. “Are you scared to be here alone?”

He had to drop his head. It was all so unbelievably embarrassing.

“Sam. Look at me now.”

The command in Aaron’s voice had been unmistakable and Sam didn’t hesitate to meet his eyes. The very sound of it had him all soft and melty on the inside.

“Don’t be ashamed to admit that you need the comfort of another person.” Aaron’s tone had softened. “Everyone does.”

Sam gasped. “Even you?”

There was the barest hint of a smile on Aaron’s lips, but it seemed to be tinged with a melancholy. “Even me, little Sam.”

His head was alive with all kinds of thoughts and questions. He needed to know more about Aaron, everything he possibly could. Swallowing hard to try and relieve the dryness in his throat, he then took a deep breath to give him the courage to ask his next question.

“So…do you have anyone?” He was sure his cheeks were a bright red, but he wouldn’t back down. He had to know. “I mean, so that you’re not lonely?”

If only Aaron would show more of his feelings.

Sam had caught a few moments that day where there’d been some emotion from Aaron, but for the most part, he’d maintained a slightly amused, even expression. However, there was something about what Sam had said that seemed to have affected Aaron strongly. There was a genuine sadness in his eyes. Even his shoulders had slumped almost imperceptibly.

“No.” He cleared his throat. “I have no one.”

Sam considered this, frowning. “But you’re so handsome and nice. I don’t understand.”

Aaron sighed. “It’s perhaps preferable that you don’t. I have specific needs that I require from a companion that are unusual, at best. There haven’t been any who’ve desired to stay with me under my conditions.”

“I’d stay with you.”

The startled look on Aaron’s face alerted Sam to the fact of what he’d just blurted out loud. As much as his cheeks continued to furiously heat up, he couldn’t take it back. And anyway, it was the truth. Wasn’t that what Aaron had asked for?

Buy Links

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(only $2.50 between now and November 14th!)

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To follow what madness I might be getting into, check out my blog here: www.morticiaknight.blogspot.com
 

Also on Facebook and Twitter: @morticiaknight

Leave me a comment with your email and you could win a copy of Studio Orders, the book which inspired The Hampton Road Club series. I'll draw the winner next Saturday.

 

Ten Days Away from the Web

So I just got back, last Tuesday, from a ten day voyage to a fairly remote and undeveloped Asian country. Partly business, partly vacation, overall it was a fabulous trip.

For the duration, I was almost completely disconnected from the online world. My mobile phone didn't work in this country. Searching out the rare cyber-cafe, I was able to pick up my business email twice (in ten days!) but for privacy reasons I didn't dare access my Lisabet Sarai accounts. (The country in question also happens to be quite conservative.) As for my blogs, well, forget it. There wasn't a chance. Even if I hadn't been concerned about confidentiality, the Internet was slow enough that Blogger would have been totally unusable.

The funny thing was - I barely missed the 'Net. I'd expected difficulties in getting online, and had prepared myself ahead of time for the fact that I'd be mostly out of touch. I'd pre-scheduled all my blog posts. I'd gone no-mail on my Yahoo groups. I'd warned everyone, in both my "real" life and my Lisabet world, that I'd be mostly inaccessible.

And then, I let go. I sailed through the days, enjoying the journey - immersed in new sensations, gathering new knowledge, freed from the burden of maintaining my digital persona. Of course, there might have been various emergencies exploding (I did get a new cover, and several frantic messages from blog tour hosts), but there was nothing I could have done about the fact in any case.

I learned a bit from this experience. I don't absolutely have to check my email every few hours. I don't have to read and comment on all my colleagues' posts. I don't have to suffer from cyber-slavery. The Internet will chug along perfectly well without me, and vice versa.

All right, I admit that the first thing I did upon returning was check my email.

Perhaps I need a longer disconnection next time!

Diving In

By Kay Brandt (Guest Blogger)

An award-winning pornographer dives into the world of erotic fiction.

Excerpt from The World of Cherry available November 22^nd via eXcessica publishing:

CHAPTER 1 – The Lady and her Club


Only a special and specific type of woman do I hire. I look for women who have substance—a story to tell—and not just with their beautiful bodies, but also with their intelligence. Women desire women who can pleasure their minds as well as their pussies, and the girls I recruit need to be the best at both. They must also present themselves in a professional manner and be willing to do whatever the job entails. I never try to hide my own desires either—I let every new hire know they must service me first. Their skills have to be assessed before I place them in my company and like any other business owner would, I take it upon myself to be the judge of how qualified they are. Some are utterly gifted, and they naturally become the most requested items on the menu in my stable. 

The Cherry Club, a private oasis for the most discerning ladies who want their affairs with other women to be totally discreet as well as deeply, romantically, wonderfully sexy, is my namesake—my baby. For the past three years I've run my operation from very secret locations. Not one soul, outside of my dedicated personal assistant, Dusty, and the paying members, know where the club will be located until the day of their visits, as the venue moves and changes as needed, and that is how it must stay, no exceptions. I've learned far too well how dangerous it is to expose yourself, even to those you think you can trust. Losing the Cherry Club would be devastating—it is my life's blood, the reason I'm alive and without it I would lose my mind. Within the club, my members are completely free to be who they truly are.

And so am I.

My entry into the world of explicit storytelling was a strange, and totally unexpected event. I had sent my resume to a “small creative company” that was seeking a writer/director for hire. The four desperate years leading up to finding that job post were riddled with writer's block and depression as a screenwriter. I liked the idea of writing books, but it felt like a rather claustrophobic activity, incomparable to the freedom of scripting the moving picture. When I read the job post, I thought about how great it would be to become a member of this unnamed boutique production company as their writer. No mainstream studio egos to deal with, or star trips, and no bozo executive assistants who could care less about a writer with multiple scripts sitting in development hell for years without pay.

Working with a small group of “creatives” who just want to make movies and not waste time doing the perpetual script runaround seemed like a welcome relief. Indie film-making always appealed to me. I was a big fan of the art-house film movement in the 1980's and 1990's. Most of my favorite directors during those two decades made their first movies in film school with miniscule budgets and yet they succeeded with limited theatrical releases. Their names became known for being experimental and that turned me on. I wanted to follow in their footsteps, and make my own great indie pieces. The road to artistic gratification was as elusive as the dominant world of corporate entertainment, though. My inspiration dwindled, trying to please the moody fluctuations of a downsizing industry and was tired of the games. I had sunk to an all-time low, and gone back to retail as a store manager selling high-end luggage. At that point, it was clear I was giving up, and gladly, as it meant striving for the impossible was over, or so I convinced myself.

I wasn't expecting the voice of a quirky man who sounded rather square when the owner of the unnamed company called me. The first time I spoke with Dan O'Connell, the sixty year-old owner of Girlfriends Films, it was like talking to a relic from the '50's. He sort of blurted out that this small production company I'd sent my resume to was an all-girl x-rated film outfit. He was a pornographer, essentially, wrapped in an unassuming exterior, who just, you know, built a company that only made movies based on his fantasies. He had placed that advertisement because he was seeking a mainstream screenwriter/director to take his company to the next level of success.

I remember standing in my bathroom, listening to his explanation of why he chose lesbian for the 'model' of his business, and thinking, is this guy for real? He invited me to the office so he could show me around, and introduce me to the 'family'. I agreed, and went to the plain, no frills, office in an industrial center, smack in the armpit of porn valley. I actually prayed before going in—not because I was asking God for the job, but because I was very unsure about what I was getting myself into.

Far from the typical billionaire-screw bag porn company owner one might imagine a guy like Dan to be, he wore earthy sandals and inexpensive clothes. I met his burly VP who was warm and friendly, as well as the rest of the quiet, harmless office staff. The colorful, butch dyke camera girl with a jet black Elvis Presley hairdo was my favorite of the bunch. I instantly saw myself working side by side with her. Dan explained that his brand was growing rapidly and needed a second director, besides him, to meet the five to six movie a month output. I shared my experience working within the realms of erotica.

In the 1990's I had scraped together every cent I had to launch an indie theater company for the purpose of producing my own stage plays. The first play I wrote and produced just happened to be about two lesbian strippers who were in love with each other. The irony of that moment, and how I suddenly felt this sense of bizarre destiny, still haunts me.

I tended to write about the complexities of love, sexual characters and romantic entanglements. When I was writing erotic lesbian stage plays, it wasn't abnormal, as porn-based theater in Los Angeles was the trend at the time. I never imagined the plays were a foreshadowing of my future career as a pornographer, but that's precisely what they were. The journey I was about to embark on was like nothing I ever would have imagined.

Dan sent me home with a handshake, a hopeful sentiment and a box full of lesbian XXX movies to watch as 'research'--to see if I was really the one to hire. Having been given the assignment, I did my due diligence. The stories and girls performing in his pervy films hit a creative chord in my soul. I emailed Dan the next morning with absolute conviction that I was the right candidate and I wanted to start immediately. He responded positively, and told me to write a short script, no longer than five pages, featuring two girls meeting for the first time. One should be older, as fans of lesbian XXX loved the older/younger combo.

Believability, heavy seductions and underhanded manipulation—the three key ingredients for powerful lesbian porn. I proceeded to write a sweet little story about a woman with a home-based cosmetic business interviewing a new girl to do sales for her. Of course, the products must be tried during the interview, starting with a sensual hand massage.

Dan was clear that dialogue and story setup were very important and that his brand was associated with a popular catch phrase in the adult biz, “story porn.” Apparently, after a decade of lackluster 'gonzo' flicks, which often times didn't offer good quality material—the sex sucked as well the production value—the buyers of porn were desperate for a change. Dan's 'accidental' style of B-movie amateurish, fly-on-the-wall type of jerk-off film was a hit and beginning to take over larger portions of market share.

He invited me to jump in to the film-making, after buying the first five-pager I wrote for him, and the next one and the next, until I was writing/directing four to five movies a month. All the scripts were original, convincing yet fantasy setups that almost entirely took place in a house, as I had no other choice for locations. And when he said low budget, he meant much lower than my lowest guess, and I usually had two days to complete a release, which had to include four lesbian sex scenes, dialogue, story setup and conclusion. My dream of making low budget indie films had arrived in an unfamiliar and shocking package. The dry spell was over and I was happily back in my element.

My creativity soared during the ten months I worked for Dan. I wrote like a wildfire of inspiration, tapping into an old well of passion for erotic storytelling that had long dried up since my stage plays closed. I admit to running in fear my first few times on set, terrified at the mere suggestion of being in the same room with naked women having sex at my command. The typical excuse I used was traffic—had to leave before traffic got bad—until Dan put his foot down. It was a surreal experience, that beautiful women were engaging in all aspects of my scripts—from dialogue to the first kiss, and then whatever else I wanted them to do—willingly.

Pornstars were surprisingly easy to work with, many of them actresses previously, and I developed a core group of performers that were my favorites to hire. The results of my directorial works was better than expected, considering how nervous I was to take the helm with the lovely nude ladies doing the deed often and repeatedly in front of me—making love until I was good and ready to call 'cut'!

The fans wanted longer, more luscious sex scenes and I was thrilled to oblige, and gave the buying audience what they wanted. The longest sex scene I filmed was more than one hour long, start to finish. There was no stopping me—I had been sucked into the forbidden side of movie-making and rediscovered an affinity for explicit content. Soon, I had a loyal following of fans, each with their own set of demands for what turned them on. Churning out unique, sexy stories and making them happen on a shoestring budget became a daunting task eventually. I didn't just want more—I had a hunger to strive and achieve more—wanting to create what no one else had ever done in porn. My movies had won awards for Dan, and I knew I could win them on my own. Clearly, it was time to move on.

I announced publicly my plan for Jewelbox Films—a high-end line of all-girl content—and it quickly came to fruition. There were articles in AVN written about me and my new endeavor, and I reached out to an old friend—a filmmaker I dealt with when I was working for a post production house during my last, broke years producing for stage—who was the owner of one of the biggest and most successful adult film companies in the business. He took a meeting with me right away, and partnered with me to launch Jewelbox Films with two groundbreaking films, “Cherry 1 and Cherry 2”. While writing those two scripts, I also wrote fourteen X-rated boy/girl features for his in-house director which were shot, produced and went on to win awards and critical acclaim.

Making my two babies, the Cherry films, was a challenge of sheer dedication and belief. I was given a large sum of funds, much more than the standard porn budget, and five days to complete production of both films, back to back. It just so happened that during those five days the worst storm of 2010 hit L.A., which caused numerous issues to work around while we filmed, but the results were extraordinary. I had a nearly 90 person crew working 17 hours a day until we shot the last scene. For five incredible days, I was surrounded and supported by gifted and talented people both in front and behind the camera and the results were awe-inspiring.

The Cherry films went on to be not only pornographic hits, but worldwide successes. Both films swept the prominent adult industry awards in 2012 across AVN and XBIZ and received mainstream acclaim as well. I'd followed in the footsteps of the filmmakers I most admired in my youth, but in an entirely different field—one in which I found fame—but more importantly, where I found my soul. My goal had been accomplished.

Sadly, in the afterglow of my proud achievement, the industry as a whole took a drastic turn. Downsizing due to piracy, and other insidious issues corrupted the adult sector at its core, and the company that funded the films was sold. I went on to make several more award-winning films after the Cherry movies and then ultimately came upon the crossroads of fate once again. The stories living within me needed a broader range of expression, and film-making could no longer capture what I needed to express. It was time to venture out and thrust myself into the challenge I'd been running from for too long.

It was another one of those strange and unexpected events—the moment I realized my stories, the entire story, not simply the setup leading to sex, but the deeper world where the characters exist—was what I truly write. The world of books, of writing erotic fiction, is where I wanted to be. The inspirations had already been born on screen. The elusive freedom of writing for film had lost it's power over the endless and boundless expression of writing for the page. My stories have come to life once again, but this time, nothing is held back. From my imagination to yours, the next journey begins.

About Kay

For two decades, Kay Brandt has been a theatrical writer of both stage and screen. Best known for her cinematic work as the writer/director of forty-five erotic films, including two of the biggest budget all-girl films ever made, “Cherry 1” and “Cherry 2” which won AVN and XBIZ awards and were distributed worldwide. Ms. Brandt specializes in the all-girl/lesbian art of storytelling, and her company, Jewelbox Films, develops high-quality erotic films for broadcast. She has written many films for award-winning companies, such as Digital Playground, New Sensations, and Girlfriends Films. 

https://twitter.com/jewelboxfilms

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http://www.excessica.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=2&products_id=767

 

Sneak Peek: Random Acts by Mia Kerick

Blurb

Bradley Zelder can’t find his way in life. After struggling for nearly a decade, he has yet to complete his college degree. Working as a school custodian, living in blue-collar Landsbury, MA, his love life is as empty as the rest of his existence. But on his way home after another disastrous date, his truck breaks down in upscale Oceanside. When he thinks life can’t get any worse, a man who is the epitome of Boston elite and everything Bradley finds attractive and intimidating helps him move his truck to the side of the road. Ashamed of his lot in life, Bradley almost lets the opportunity slip away, but he comes to his senses in time and tracks Caleb down.

From a random act of kindness, romance begins to grow, filling all the dark corners of Bradley’s empty life—until a random act of violence threatens to take it all away. Bradley must step up and be the man Caleb believes him to be. Caleb rescued him from a life without hope. Can Bradley rescue him in return?

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Author Bio

Mia Kerick is the mother of four exceptional children—all named after saints—and five nonpedigreed cats—all named after the next best thing to saints, Boston Red Sox players. Her husband of twenty years has been told by many that he has the patience of Job, but don’t ask Mia about that, as it is a sensitive subject.

Mia focuses her stories on the emotional growth of troubled young men and their relationships, and she believes that sex has a place in a love story, but not until it is firmly established as a love story. As a teen, Mia filled spiral-bound notebooks with romantic tales of tortured heroes (most of whom happened to strongly resemble lead vocalists of 1980s big-hair bands) and stuffed them under her mattress for safekeeping. She is thankful to Dreamspinner Press for providing her with an alternate place to stash her stories.

Mia is proud of her involvement with the Human Rights Campaign and cheers for each and every victory made in the name of marital equality. Her only major regret: never having taken typing or computer class in school, destining her to a life consumed with two-fingered pecking and constant prayer to the Gods of Technology.

Mia has published four works of adult contemporary gay romantic fiction with Dreamspinner Press and four novels of contemporary LGBT fiction with Harmony Ink Press. Mia Kerick's books are recommended reads in the LGBT blogging/reading community, have spent many weeks on Amazon Hot New Releases and LGBT Best Sellers lists, as well as other notable bestseller lists, and have won awards for excellence in YA literature.  

Author Links

Website: www.MiaKerick.com

Blog: www.miakerick.com/blog

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Twitter: @MiaKerick (https://twitter.com/MiaKerick)

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/mia.kerick

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