Thursday, November 16, 2017

Magic Mike --- teaser --- This Is Heaven



Enjoy this new teaser for Michael Ampersant's new book (from Chapter 30, "The Knight of Malta"):


A silhouette rises from the front row of the smaller bleacher, tiptoes high-heeled past the jury pen, tosses her hair, and scales the steps to the dais. Up there she raises one leisurely arm and points at random individuals in the audience, gleeful smirks of recognition on her face. And now she has recognized the lazy-yet-renowned A-squirrel in our midst and blows kisses and the mayor makes me stand up again. Barbette Bienpensant—not your typical John Lee fan you’d say—casts a deferential regard.




(Yes, apologies, the teaser gifs ain't really pole dancing, bear with us)

The audience, needless to say, has been asked to give a warm hand to the incomparable Jane—didn’t we mention this before?—there’s something of Magic Mike about the whole scene (movie: Channing Tatum: male strippers) and Alex, a few tallboys down the road, will suggest we’d do a Channing Tatum stage-wise during the next interlude.
Greta takes Jane’s hand. “Sister,” Greta opens the conversation. Jane giggles and replies with a kiss.
“We sisters met at the Lupo di Mare, the auberge of Italianate style nestled squarely near the central traffic circle of this charming seaside town—Jane—wasn’t it.”
“Yeahh,” Jane breezes.
“You were in need of something stiff and strong that evening.”
Jane giggles, then confronts the mike: “Every evening.”
“And so, you dialed the magic number, the cell phone connection of this young gentleman here who is with us tonight”—Greta points at me again—“having acceded to his rightful place on the jury of this important event.”
“His name is John,” Jane breathes as if she didn’t listen to Greta’s introduction.
“John is the innovative founder and CEO of Georgia Beaches’ foremost A-level service, Jane, isn’t he?”
“Yeahh.”
“Could you explain what the A-level does?”
“Oohh, A-level is like wonderful, exciting, awesome. Yeahh?”
“You had a chance to taste his levels already?”
“Awesome.”
“But John wasn’t available on Sunday night.”
“Yeahh—I mean nooh.”
“But John lived up to his inspiring standards and found somebody else on his list.”
“Yeahh.”
“Also named John.”
“Yeahh.”
“Could you describe the proud moment of our first encounter with the new John—or, as his pet name goes—with Ben.”
“Oohh.”
In the meantime, the blue stage backdrop has transmogrified into a body shot of John/Ben Fletcher—a picture that looks like one of the snaps taken by Alex on Sunday night and then photo-shopped surreptitiously; Greta points at it.
“Yeahh.”
“Would you mind sharing with us what happened next?”
“Yeahh, I mean, noooh.” She giggles and touches Greta’s mike. “He liked my Audi A8, you knoow?”
“And then?”
“He was a darling, Yeahh.”
“Could you explain to the audience…?
“That’s impossible, Yeahh.”
(The audience kicking in, taking up on Jane’s ‘Yeahh,’ ‘Yeahh.’)
“Ben took us by surprise, didn’t he?”
“I liked his wild thing. Yeahh. Inspiring.”


Are you still there? Then you'll like THIS IS HEAVEN:


("click")



Wednesday, November 15, 2017

We've recently discovered --- Killy Stein



...not really true, we discovered Killy Stein quite some time ago, but we never gave him his due, so here's a bit more of him, a little exhibition of his fabulous 3D work...





Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Sex Stick





By Perry Brass


(Perry writes per introduction: “Sex Stick” was one of the first stories I wrote for FirstHand Magazine back in the mid-1980s, when that magazine and the great writers who worked for it, like Lars Eighner and T.R. Witomski, were part of what has been called the “Golden Age of Gay Porn.” The story is actually based, somewhat, on my experience working my way back from Europe on a German freighter when I was 21 years old. The freigher was rife with very covert homosexual activity—you could smell it in the air. And “Sex Stick” recounts some of that atmosphere.)



    Hans, the German able-bodied seaman, approached from around the corner. I wondered what he was doing down there. It was as dark as a cave down in the second storage hold where I was working, and by orders he was supposed to be up front, scraping and painting the fore deck on the second shift. Hans was a looker. Your eyes, without any effort, could stick to him. First of all, he was built like a brick shithouse. He was all hard muscle and had thick, powerful biceps and forearms that weren't just for show but for real work. He had a thick neck and corn-silk white hair. He looked like a pale, blond bull. As he approached me, I thought about his small, blue eyes. There was something quick and sexy about them, like they were taking in everything. As if they did more than simply see, but felt as well. I was sure Hans' eyes had to be to his brain what a warm tongue was to a mouth. His eyes tasted as well as saw.

Hans, the able-bodied German

    But then, I couldn't even see his eyes. It was too dark, and I was supposed to be jotting down the stock numbers of barrels of naval stores in my manifest. Each barrel of this goo had a number with something like twelve digits in it. Part of the number showed where it came from and the date it was moved to our ship. I had to connect all these numbers, make some kind of pattern out of them, and then feed them to the ship's computer. It was a boring job, and I didn't let it take my mind off Hans for a second.
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