Some Write It Hot

February 14, 2011

New Release Back In The Closet by KevaD

Filed under: New Release — dangerouslysexy @ 04:00
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Sometimes the best-laid plans don’t mean you get laid.

Chaz and Mike are inaugurating their life together as an openly gay couple. Bliss is inevitable, until a dead relative rises up and brings their plans to a screeching halt.

Chaz’s not-so-dearly departed Amish Uncle Silas has bequeathed his nephew his farm . . . and a $60,000 tax bill if Chaz doesn’t play by the rules.

With empty wallets, the duo and their kitten, TCT, head off for Iowa to live on the farm for ninety days – without electricity or plumbing . . . or sex.

While Mike finds trees to climb, horses to ride, and a big ax to play with, and TCT discovers a wide array of critters to chase and capture, Chaz faces a past veiled in mystery.

As a young boy, Chaz spent time on the farm. Why can’t he remember the giant oak tree or the ancient barn? Each time he tries to enter the barn, terror stops him cold.

Chaz will need courage he’s never had before, along with all the strength in his partner’s lusciously muscled body, to solve the riddles plaguing him. Keeping Mike and his axe from chopping off the wrong piece of lumber might not be a bad idea, either.


“Chaz, it’s a dick, not a birthday candle.” Mike rolled his eyes.

This wasn’t working out at all like I’d thought it would. It had become painfully obvious the best-laid plans didn’t always mean you got laid.
I looked up from between Mike’s muscled thighs. The un-bottled perfume of his heat and pearly drops of natural lubricant hung in the air.

“Then why do they call it a blowjob?”

I certainly didn’t know. I’d bruised myself the first time I tried to beat off. The epiphany – and me – came when I massaged my swollen member to ease the pain.

He flopped his head onto the pillow and rubbed his brow in an attempt to stave off the obvious headache. “I don’t know, man. Why do they call showing somebody your ass, ‘shooting the moon?’ The moon doesn’t have a butt crack through the middle of it.”

The size of the monster in my hands set my tongue on a collision course with my quivering nerves. “Actually, it has nothing to do with the moon. Well, not in the classic idiom of the earth’s singular satellite. The terminology relates to the concept of bringing darkness into the light. The adage purportedly has historical references as far back as Adonis. You see, Adonis, by popular opinion, somewhere along the line became confused, intertwined if you will, with a nonexistent god named Adidas. Thusly, Adidas holds reference to ‘false identify,’ which in turn may, at times, depending on the debate, also mean ‘to bring out the reality of that concealed.’ In layman’s vocabulary, ‘shooting the moon’ is a primitive means of revealing something previously hidden. I can explain it further if it would help?”

His left hand joined his right in massaging his temples. “No. I’ve got it. Thanks.”

A muffled shriek rose from my throat. “You’re losing your erection!”

“Ya think?” Rolling onto his side, he patted the black silk sheets. “Come up here and lay with me.”

Begrudgingly, I obliged him. It was to be our first time. Not just as a couple, but as an openly gay couple. Two virginal homosexuals surrendering our homosexual virginity to each other. A beautiful, life-changing experience, and I’d blown it . . . sort of.

Mike pulled me in close. Even had I wanted to resist, which I didn’t, the strength of the high-rise construction worker wouldn’t have allowed me to. Tall and lean, the man’s muscles had muscles.

His abs weren’t washboard, they were those warning strips the street department puts down to wake up drivers so they don’t cruise through a stop sign. I swear his eyelids could lift as much weight as my spindly arms could. I leaned against telephone poles. Mike climbed them – upside down.

Warm, wet, his lips pressed a kiss onto my throat. My cock responded with a few drops of its own wetness, then shuddered and throbbed when his hand engulfed it.

“Let me show you how it’s done.” The words, throaty, all man, thrust more blood into my erection than I thought it could handle. My testicles tightened when he dotted my chest with kisses, a trail of wanting to my waist.

“Mrrrrowwww. Ssssss.”

The Cat Too. TCT for short. A tuxedo kitten Mike had given me, the traitorous creature had abandoned me for Mike. Sat on his shoulder like a parrot.


I’d put it out of the bedroom. If it was going to throw a hissy fit every time Mike and I made – tried to – make love, we needed another plan.

Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz, bzzz. The doorbell? Great. Just fricking wonderful.

The moment, and my erection, waning, Mike rolled onto his back and sighed. “You get the impression this isn’t supposed to happen today?”
“There’s always tonight.” I whispered, kissed his forehead, then tumbled off the bed. Slipping into gray flannel shorts and a T-shirt, I opened the bedroom door. There stood TCT, back arched, tail perpendicular, eyes focused towards the entrance to our apartment. He hadn’t thrown a fit about us, he’d known before the bell rang somebody was at the door.

“Good, kitty.” I stroked his back. He responded by wrapping his fur ball body around my hand, sank needle-sharp teeth and claws into my skin, then left me bleeding while he bolted through the doorway and scrambled up the covers to lie next to Mike.

My cat. Yeah, right.

Wounded, both in body and spirit, I opened the front door.

“Chaz Westerbrook?” the woman asked – in a baritone voice.

“Yes?” I scoured the face. Nothing about it held any familiarity. Either as a male or female. The orange bouffant looked nice, in a Folies-Bergere sort of way. The Adam’s apple had a point capable of popping balloons. He was tall enough, that’s where my line-of-sight rested.
“Would you autograph this for me? Please?”

In his hand he held a copy of my debut novel, “A Kiss From the Shadows,” the first book of my gay love trilogy. A fan. My chest and ego swelled with pride.

“Certainly.” Taking the novel from him, I asked, “Do you have a pen?”

He unbuttoned the top three buttons of his lavender paisley sundress and pulled a pen out of his black lace bra.

I opened the cover. “Who would you like it to?”

“Jasmine. If you don’t mind?”

His smile was priceless. Really. All of the teeth were capped in gold with diamond insets on the canines. I didn’t want to ask why. He might have told me.

“To Jasmine,” I said aloud. “You will always be in my thoughts. Chaz.” It was true. How could I forget him? His chest was hairier than TCT. I handed the book back to him. “Have you ever considered filling in your cleft? You remind me of a young Kirk Douglas.” I left out the part about a young Kirk Douglas crossbred with King Kong.

“I get that a lot.” He embraced the book to his chest, licked it – yuck – and opened a lime green shoulder bag. “You seeing anyone?” The long-lashed, brown eyes looked a little too hopeful.

“Yeah, snow cone.” The growl came from behind me. “He’s in a relationship, so hit the bricks.”

“Well,” he huffed. “In that case . . . .” The book went in the bag. When he withdrew his hand, a sheaf of papers thumped against my chest.

“You’ve been served.”

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September 27, 2010

Are Critique Groups Necessary?  By KevaD

Filed under: Writing life — dangerouslysexy @ 04:00
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I’ve seen this question posed and discussed in various chat rooms, blogs, and sites. Given my experience with and without a critiquing group to support my efforts, I’m going to weigh in on the answer here and now.

Grab a Pepsi or a glass of wine. I’m never short-winded.

For two years I wrote and submitted my work to agents and publishers, knowing I would receive the literary brass ring in response at any moment. How could they not see I was the next King, Patterson, Bombeck, or Robbins?

After all, my family and friends loved what I wrote.

Ten novels and hundreds of rejections later, I was as devastated as I was determined to figure out what I, and I stress “I,” was doing wrong.

Could it be my own family and friends had no idea what they were talking about?

In a word… Yup.

The key here is to accept, if you’ve just started writing, you don’t know what you’re doing – – yet. But you will. You will as soon as you accept, you don’t.

Having awakened to the fact I needed the opinion of a total stranger – yes, in writing you need to talk to strangers (and the stranger the better) – I first tested the water at Absolute Write Water Cooler, a critiquing site anyone (writer or not) can join and sit in anonymous judgment. Posted a couple of sure-fire samples I knew would wow the crowd. Two days of patting the carpet later, I finally located my head they’d cut off and tossed back at me.

As author Amber Green is so fond of saying, “NEXT!”

Next was It’s a neat little free site designed for writers. Simply post a sample to be critiqued and, once you’ve critiqued three others’ works, your private posting receives three critiques. The experience was enlightening. Not only did I obtain what I thought were fair and unbiased comments and suggestions for improvement, I learned there were writers in the same spot as me – – totally lost and confused as hell.

Armed with just enough experience to be stupid, I went back to Absolute Write. They went after my hands this time.


Next was posting want ads on Absolute Write for a crit (critiquing) buddy, someone to evaluate my work in exchange for assessing theirs. A one-on-one situation where I could ask questions and receive honest answers from someone who hadn’t kissed my boo-boos when I fell off my training bike.

My personal knight in font armor was well-respected author Barbara Sheridan. I was looking for a crit buddy. She was looking for someone with cop insight for a story she was writing. I had twenty-four years of what she needed, and she had twenty years of what I needed.

We entered into a temporary literary marriage of convenience with divorce decreed by the final keystroke.
Unlike my first wife, Barb didn’t pretend I’d disappeared on a Tibetan sponsored exploration of the Antarctic the next time we digitally bumped into each other. Instead, she referred me to a critiquing group looking for a new member. Not just any group, but ERAuthors… Erotic… Romance… Authors.

I mean, I’ve engaged in sex in places I won’t admit to, read Playboy for more than the articles, viewed confiscated porno flicks on a sheet suspended over jail cell bars (we had to affirm the quality of the evidence, don’t you know), assigned positions on my number scale to every woman in the bar and readjusted their placement with each emptied bottle of beer until all that remained were ‘tens’ (except for the guy in the corner with the cute heart and rose tattoo – he stayed an ‘I’m not that drunk yet’ eight), purchased mountain climbing equipment in case I ever met Dolly Parton, and shared every throbbing stroke of my unmarried conquests (except for one of his ex-wives) with my best friend. And contrary to popular belief, my parents did have sex at least once.

But these people have the audacity to actually write about that which I do, talk about, fantasize about, and watch. How dare they!

Yes indeed. How dare they pen expertly crafted plots, artistically cultivated characters who float across the page, and locations as exotic and real as the breath they steal from your throat.

When I read the excerpts of ERA’s members, I was absolutely intimidated. Each and every one of them is the very definition of the word ‘writer.’ Except one. Me.

They took me into their fold (apparently they like a challenge).

That was in April. In July, under the tutelage of ERA’s members, I completed a romantic comedy titled “Out of the Closet” and submitted it to four publishers.

Two of the four sent me contracts.

Holy crap.

Two years of beating my head against the wall believing I could do this on my own, and this fantastic assemblage of writers, through patience and sheer desire to help each other, helped me learn the skills to have not one, but two publishers want to print my work in just three – count them; one, two, three – months.

This small group of gifted people celebrate their successes with each other, and lend a supportive shoulder in defeat and personal time of tribulation. ERA exists for one reason – to encourage growth in their writing skills.
At times their comments may seem harsh. But sometimes it takes a strong slap through the computer screen to get my attention.

Someone asked me the other day what the most important thing is my writing has gained from being a part of this particular group of unique individuals.

I answered immediately. Honesty.

You can read more from KevaD at his blog

September 13, 2010

Meet KevaD By Evanne Lorraine

DA Kenther, quoting him, says he’s: Writer and author (the two are not necessarily the same thing), blazing a path to where I have no clue, spinner of tales, purveyor of misfortune, U.S. Army vet, retired cop, former auctioneer, son, brother, uncle, father, and grandfather, commentator on anything that strikes a chord in a moment of passion, and willing to share my trials and tribulations as I blindly plod my way through the swamp toward literary success… or failure.

I know a slightly different man. An author of poignant, funny, and gripping tales. A man generous with his time, gentle with his insight, and incredibly brave. Confronting armed drug dealers is nothing compared with the hazards of having dreams sliced, diced, and left to bleed out on the cruel pages of critiques by ruthless women and axe wielding grammar Nazis.

Out Of The Closet

Buy it here!

Here’s the Blurb for Out Of The Closet

Chaz never once thought the day he came out of the closet no one would be home… except the cat. And he was neutered.

Chaz is ready for the great reveal. He’s carefully prepped himself for his private coming out party with new clothes, a handwritten invitation to a romantic dinner, and a solitary long-stemmed rose. Just one little problem – – the object of his affection, the beautiful Karl, isn’t home.

While the cat that looks like a rat gnaws on his rose, Chaz doesn’t hear the rough and tumble Mike, the third member of the trio of apartment-mates, walk in the door. Mike’s not the least bit shy… about anything, including letting it be known how upset he his Chaz is in love with Karl.

Chaz and the cat consider the demise of Mike who is on a quest to sacrifice the cannibalistic cat, until Karl comes home and announces he’s getting married – to a woman.

Could it get any worse for Chaz? Maybe. Mike’s about to declare his undying love for Chaz. And he’ll even throw a man off a twenty-story building to prove it.

You can learn more about KevaD on his blog

Out of the Closet has a review here!

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