I wrote, today....

Did a couple thousand words and don't like the direction it took me...but I'm changing nothing. Here's some of the more palatable part, when Vance coerces Rett into meeting him for lunch:

-----

Wesson’s was in one of those faux-Spanish buildings that had a courtyard in the back, done up in a plastic Italian vineyard style. Very comfortable, and I’d heard the pasta was good. 

Vance was still lost in his look at me but don’t look at me mode. Meaning people looked at him while trying not to look like they were looking. A crowd was waiting to get in but we were ushered straight to a table. Lots of irritated stares from them. 

He slid into a chair across from me, his face still half-hidden by a thousand-dollar hoodie and he took such a casual pose, I knew something more than a writing job was up. 

“Rett, it’s been months,” he purred. “What’ve you been doing with yourself?” 

Chit-chat? From Vance? This was a big deal. 

“Working on a new script,” I said. It’s the expected response from a screenwriter. No details needed. “Doing research. You?” 

“You ready for this? I’m associate producer on a new project that’s going to use AI renditions of Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh to do an honest sequel to Gone With the Wind. Unlike that made-for-TV thing with...what was his name? Timothy Dalton as Rhett? No Timothy should EVER be a Clark Gable character.” 

Is that what he wanted me to work on? “Is that even legal? What about copyrights? Trademarks?” 

“The lawyers have an okay from those who matter. Script was worked up by ChatGPT and made semi-believable by some real writers. It’s not Shakespeare, but what is, anymore? They have it storyboarded out and I’m picking clips from their films to generate from.” 

I huffed. “But you want me to rewrite the script?” 

“Rett, Rett, Rett, please, you’re too modern to make the story suit its time.” 

“Ouch. So was that the reason for this tete-a-tete?” 

“Tete-a-tete? Oh, my God, you’re reading the dictionary, again.”

“What the fuck, Vance!?” 

“Now, Rett, don’t get too loud. You’ll get thrown out and embarrassed and you can’t do that at Wesson’s; no one will ever hire you again.” 

Fortunately, a waiter came up and cut me off before I said anything stupid. Give me a chance to remind myself that while Van could be a dick, he also had those connections that mattered. And when he said no one would ever hire me, again, he meant he’d see to it. So shut the fuck up, Rett. 

I ordered a Caprese Salad and Pasta Pomodoro while he did an antipasti and eggplant parmigiana with a nice Chianti. I almost asked for fava beans, but I don’t think the joke would have played well, here. If at all. 

I stayed quiet till we had our wine, as did Vance. Making me a bit nervous. Which was his intent, I’m sure. 

Finally, as we began our salads, he said, “Okay, the job I’m referring to is a reality program I helped produce. The script is kind of clunky, and what we need is a smoother through line. Not merely bouncing back and forth between events we recorded and talking heads. Sort of a filmic touch.” 

“I’ve never done that.” 

He shrugged. “You’re a writer, Rett. I’d like you to look over the program as it’s currently done. See the footage we excluded. Make it into more of a story than just boring facts and actions.” 

“Give it a film feel? Really?” 

He nodded. “I have a lot invested in this project, and not just money. In fact, no money. If it flops, I lose nothing...well...maybe a hit to my untarnished reputation. But it’s an important work, and I really, really cannot emphasize enough that it must succeed. I think you can help with that. You have a fairly good understanding of one part of it.” 

I was actually getting intrigued. “What is it?” 

He took a sip of wine, looked me dead in the eye and said, “It’s the story of a skater boi who wound up being misused by an older man, but who built a reputation as a skateboard designer, and who is unashamed of who he once was.” 

The way he looked at me, with that Don’t trying try fucking with me, baby, I’ll fuck you up, expression he had. Making it obvious who he was referring to. 

The son-of-a-bitch knew about my interest in Smoke.

You see, Instagram had been my friend, about him. His actual name was Stephen Marlon Kratorski. He’d done the pro-sk8ter circuit and made it to the top ten. Been at it since he was eleven. Fifteen years. Now he was just a weekender and made his living designing specialty skateboards in Culver City.

Sk8ter to the stars... 

An image from a few weeks ago showed he’d beefed up a little, which actually looked really good on him. He still had those lovely pecs, partially hidden by a cut-out t-shirt, and fine legs, made even lovelier by cargo shorts that were a size too small for him, now. His face filled in some, but with scruff on it he was almost beautiful...especially now that I got a good look at his eyes and mouth. He’d also added another tattoo to his left arm...a sk8ter boy on his sled, probably him from an earlier time. 

The next thing I found was podcasts he was doing on YouTube and other platforms about making specialty skateboards. The why this way was better than that sort of thing...and he had a lovely screen presence. Open and warm and a bit jokey, with a smile that promised heaven. During those clips, he wore an old LA Rams cap, backward, holding his longish russet hair out of his face. 

I had to check a previous video and saw that his hair had been a plain brown, so he'd colored it. Or washed it. Whichever. I’d been close to falling in more than lust for him and his best buddy looks, which would make him a serious rival to my need for sleek little Nicky. 

There was little more than a vague mention of his wife and kids on the web; just that they were part of his life. I got a bit more info about his current career. There’d been chatter about one of the cable networks bringing him on board as another of their reality shows. 

But I’d thought that would only be so long as no one connected him to the molestation clips I’d seen. Enough of his face was hidden by the blindfold and gag, and his body was different enough now, so that he had plausible deniability. And there was also the additional tattoo...and it looked like he’d altered the one he already had. With Georgie dead and the documents vanished...at least, I think they were vanished...then he would have been safe. 

But it sounded like that was not even a consideration, since Vance was involved. It was time to up my game.

I swallowed what I’d been eating, took a sip of wine to chase it down, and looked straight back at Vance.

“Oh? You mean Georgie?” I can fake ignorance really well.

Vance leaned forward, still very casually, and I think I saw a hint of a smirk on his face. “I hear you found his editing suite. Copies of his DVDs.” 

Okay, we were now in battle...and I was outmanned, since Ben and Liam were obviously on his side. 

“People don’t do DVDs, anymore,” I said. “Porn’s all online.” 

He nodded. “Yet still he burned some. Over a hundred.” 

“Do you have his paperwork?” I asked. “Title 18 section 2257 shit?” 

Vance leaned forward like a cat eyeing its prey. “I have everything. I was executor of his estate.”

Oh, fuck...paranoid writer kicked in and the only reason I didn't run screaming out of Wesson's was...my Pasta Pomodoro was killer.

I'm getting TN Done...

...ASAP. I've lost real interest in it and am fighting to keep going. Adding in a shower scene that turns out to be a dream is helping...yet still not grabbing my interest like it should.

But I started it, so I'm going to finish it. And I'm freeing myself to do whatever the fuck it wants...even if that includes madness or murder.

I'm up to chapter 11 and it's at 25K in wordage. Lots of sex, most of it non-con, and I'm posting for free on GayDemon because I don't want to go through the hassle of proofing and prepping it for publication.

I mean, I've done light proofing, so it's not too bad, but there are still a few typos. I don't care. It's being read for the sex, not precise English. And I've provided some pretty intense moments.

I've said my next project would be Blood Angel, but Dair's Window is knocking at my brain. It's set mainly in 2009 and 2010, in and around Seattle. The state had passed a domestic partner act in 2007 that many in the gay community felt was a cop-out, and Wallace, a man Dair is involved with, is helping push for same-sex marriage.

It also takes place 3-4 years after Adam, whom Dair loved, deeply, was killed in an avalanche. Lawsuits by Adam's estranged parents have kept Dair from really mourning him, but now Wallace has helped end those...and Dair's emotional state is getting to be rough.

I'm hearing a growl in my core that this needs to be finished, now. Preferably by the end of the year...if not sooner. Because if we can't overcome the fascistic crap Felon47 and the MAGAt Cult are pulling before the election in November, we're dead as a country...and hate of anything non-white or queer will prevail.

I want Dair's Window available by then. 

Odd realization...

Rett has forced  Liam to reveal just how deep he and Ben were into working with Georgie. They made money off supplying the man with guys to make use of, sexually. And they knew he recorded it. And their explanation is, the guys knew what they were doing and signed off on it.

-----

And all of a sudden, I was sad. And felt hollow. Like I’d just seen a truth I didn’t want to know about. There was nothing unusual about what they’d done. Nothing scary. You could find something like it in any town, any state, any country. 

Just some younger guys letting an older gay man buy some secret pleasure from them. Fill a life he felt was empty, if only for a moment. Maybe build a business to live off of, in the best way he could. No one would be hurt or killed... 

Well...not always. 

Not this time, anyway. 

This time was just a situation that, by being so commonplace...it was actually pretty natural. It had been happening for thousands of years. Yet too fucking many people in the world were demanding it be seen as wrong.

Ben and Liam had bought into that mentality, so were ashamed of participating in it. Fought to convince themselves they weren’t part of it...even as they used it for their own ends... 

The little hypocrites. That made me even more determined to show them they were a part of this world. 

I lifted Liam up and put him back on the couch. His shirt was still shoved up above his tits with his dick still lolling out of his briefs. He looked so young and vulnerable, I began to think he was underage, again. 

I touched his nips then pulled his shirt down his abs to trail my fingers along his treasure trail to his dick. I fondled him, for a moment, then slipped his dick back into his briefs. It was only the ass of them I’d torn. His cum was still drying on him, as was mine. 

I rubbed it. Spread it thinner. Then let my fingers drift down to tickle his basket, making him squirm. 

“Why is having sex with a man instead of a woman so bad?” I asked. “It’s just a connection between two people. Why do you think it’s okay to get other guys to offer themselves up to an older man, even help get them off...then act like you’re not that way?” 

“What you talkin’ about?” 

“The way you and Ben played me. Kept teasing me as i held back from trying anything with either of you. Let me believe you were underage. Then started acting like I was just some stupid, desperate faggot who’d do anything to have a pretty boy’s dick in my mouth. Joking like it’s a game. Getting pissy because I didn’t go along with it, in full. Thinking of me as a queer there for you to use.” 

“Rett...dude...you go it all wrong...” 

“Do I? So tell me, Liam, if I offered you six-fifty to help me get Ben off, would you say no?” 

“Don’t understand.” 

“I’m talking six-hundred and fifty dollars to just kiss Ben’s shoulders and neck, from behind, and pinch his tits. Like you did on Smoke’s video. Help me get him hard, again, so I can sit on his dick and get fucked. Isn’t that what you want me to do? Get fucked?” 

“That...that don’t make sense.” 

“You want the money, or not?” 

He shifted his gaze between me and Ben, and I could just see the gears whirling in his head. Thinking he might be able to get the upper hand if I got lost in being fucked by Ben. 

Except...why would he want to? I was offering him decent money to just play around with Ben as I fucked myself on him. Like his best buddy was a blow-up doll with a cool dildo. Split the cash with Ben. Not even, of course. He’d been fucked, so he was worthy of more. But it’s still a decent payout...and what if... 

“Make it a thousand?” he asked. His eyes sharp and cool. 

I had to chuckle, then I smacked his thighs and rose, my dick even with his face. “Seven-fifty,” I said. 

“Nine.” 

“Eight.” 

“Eight-fifty.” 

“Okay,” I said. And I cut off the tape that bound him.

I'm a writer...

But you wouldn't know it from how poorly I promote my work. I write mainstream books as well as MM erotica, but you wouldn't know it from how quiet I am about it. Friends and family are aware, as are some people on Facebook...but for the most part I do nothing to make anyone aware of what I've done.

I have a website for my mainstream books and I need to start talking about it. My books have something to say, and I need to start saying it out loud. Not worry that they might not be received or be misunderstood. I've had plenty of that with my MM books...and with The Lyons' Den.

This one, I think the dissing I got for it stemmed from people who couldn't get into the crazy writing style. Ace Shostakovich is telling the story, but he is a fictional detective developed by the main character, Daniel Bettancourt, and he's got a patois that is very off the wall. Plus, he's referencing Daniel's real-time thoughts, fears and concerns as well as memories. If you don't get into it by the third chapter, you never will.

It was an experiment in style that didn't really come together enough for just anyone to get into, and one I almost started to repeat with Dair's Window. But taking space from that story helped me see I was going about it all wrong. I want it accessible to any reader, not just a few.

I'll still have Adam telling Dair's story but not his own until much later in the book. We'll see what happens, there.

Meanwhile, I'm going to finish Taking Nicky as soon as I can. I'm probably halfway done with it, at 20,000 words. And it gets rough, in parts. Makes me uncomfortable.

Which is good.

I don't want to people...

After a lot of work at removing the smell of cigarettes from my clothes and things I brought back from San Antonio, I determined using Febreeze Air worked best at masking it. So I laundered everything after layering that on...and wouldn't you know everyone in the building wanted to do laundry, today.

I ran into other tenants left and right, and had to be pleasant when I just wanted to be left alone. But reality is, I wanted the smell of cigarettes out of my apartment more. So I tolerated them. Stayed polite. Did my thing and scurried back to my room. And life is back to normal.

Tomorrow, I am not leaving my space.

I did work more on Taking Nicky. Chapter Ten. And Rett is fucking with Ben in a different way...literal, but not...and I can see where this is heading. Vance is going to get involved, after all, and shut Rett's plans down, hard. I may even do the thing where Rett disappears and someone finds a video of him being used and abused and sold to a sheik in Saudi Arabia.

I don't know. The UAE might work better. Nobody really thinks about them. Or I might do nothing and have Rett pull back from his evil. I dunno...both seem like cop-outs.

I watched another Midsomer Murders on Acorn, and also saw the newest episode of My Life is Murder.

Cozy murder mysteries...just what one needs in a time of turmoil and travail...

Consistency is alien to me...

As if it hasn't been obvious from how all over the place my posts have been. This direction. That direction. Doing this. Doing that. Nevermind this. Nevermind that. All jumbled together in a meaningless goulash of thoughts and intentions and nothings.

I've always had a problem sticking with things to the end. I lose interest quickly and the only reason I've been able to get anything done is I get mad at myself. I look at how many times I tried to give up on A Place of Safety over the space of more than twenty-five years, and it took me finally being disgusted at my inaction that I finally wrote it all the way through.

Oh, and as whined about in my posts throughout, it was not an easy task.

I sometimes wonder if the reason I like writing MM noncon stories is because I can find some shift in them to keep me interested enough to complete them. Screenplays I would write because they were easy, really. Dialogue, action, story, three acts, nothing really too demanding. Let the actors and director find the interior bullshit. But even toi complete them, I had to fight myself, at times.

Of course, screenwriting was something I was never very good at, and even had a writer refuse to let me into a writing group she moderated because she felt I would be a detriment to the others. But wouldn't explain what that meant.

I feel like I've been flying blind my whole life, even when I had information and direction from my characters. That's the worst kind of blindness...trusting in the people in your head, not knowing their true intentions.

I just got a slap of that with Rett's rape of Liam and his threat to do the same to Ben. Not planned. Just came out. And TBH, the next step would be making those two disappear into a grave or something.

Which makes me very uncomfortable.

Home, once again...

Flew back to Buffalo on Southwest, and even though the first leg of my flight was delayed forty-five minutes, I made my connection since it was only four gates down from where we arrived.

I don't like Southwest's new system of assigning seats and no free checked baggage. They've become just another airline, so why bother with them? It's almost sad.

But the whole world is fucked up, right now. MAGAts getting more upset over Bad Bunny singing in Spanish at the Super Bowl than the thousands of women and children raped and trafficked by Jeffrey Epstein and his monsters is proof that too many of our species are morally bankrupt.

As am I, possibly. I worked on Taking Nicky, on the flights. Dropped about 1500 words and rewrote Rett's interaction with Ben and Liam into something quite vicious. Rett rapes Liam in front of Ben, and loves having done it. What that means to me is, I need a reason for Rett to start doing this. It's not enough for him to get pissy because a guy called him an asshole.

But I'm not so sure I can find an adequate excuse without needing to rework everything about him, so far. And that's already published online. So I'll be doing a lot of thinking about it.

Tomorrow is groceries; canceling my mail forwarding at the PO; figuring out how fucked up I am, financially; and working out a plan for my trip back to San Antonio, next month. I'm already set to go via Southwest, but I won't need to check a bag. This time I can just do carry-on...but from now on I'm looking at other options.

God I'm so happy to be home. My plants missed me.

Goddammit...

I don't like the direction Taking Nicky is going. Suddenly Vance is showing up and filling Rett in on how stupid he's being, planning to do a practice run on Smoke but also take a well-known model/actor. I wanted to have Vance get involved in a much more organic way, sneaking around in the shadows so you don't know what he's up to...

But now it's like the story is stepping back from being cold, cruel and vicious in order to be self-indulgent. Rett and Vance are chatting in a Hollywood Bistro and Vance already knows too much about what's going on, which would make Rett seriously wary of Ben and Liam. And rightfully so, since that's the only way he could have learned of Rett's plans.

I may need to cut 1500 words to regain my intentions...and maybe even restart the whole 9th chapter...

Or is it 8th?

Whatever. I just can't handle it, right now.

The get-together at Kelly's grave can't happen on the 23rd because a couple members of the family won't be able to make it. So they are shifting it to the 20th. I was expected to go along with this and change my ticket, but I won't. It may seem silly, but the 23rd is my mother's birthday, and that is when I want to be there.

I'm not going to pray or weep or anything. The notion that there is a God left me long ago, after I read the full bible, cover to cover. It's an amazingly horrific book in so many ways. The teachings of Jesus are good as a foundation for living a decent life, but it all really boils down to doing unto others as you want them to do unto you. Plain and simple.

But a guy in the sky who's capricious and sadistic? Count me out. I think once we die that's it.

But if there is a God, he'll need to ask my forgiveness for the evil he's allowed in the world.

Fukkk...

I was working on Taking Nicky, today, when things kept cropping up to distract me. Things dealing with my late brother's apartment, phone, and what to do with a lot of his things, as well as getting the hospital bed he was using collected, along with other items. 

So I'd just start getting into where the story wants to go...and have to break away. Once...twice...several times. Till I lost the plot. I'll see what I can do, tomorrow. It was going in an interesting direction...but one that may be too careful on my part. I do not want this to be a sacred piece. I want it cold and hard. 

This is what I did do...

--------

Instagram was my friend, here. Turned out Smoke’s actual name is Stephen Marlon Kratorski. My bet is he really got his nickname from his initials. He’d done the pro-sk8ter circuit and made it to the top ten. Been at it since he was eleven. Fifteen years. Now he was just a weekender and made his living as general manager of a skateboard manufacturer in Culver City. 

An image from a few weeks ago showed he’d beefed up a little, which actually looked really good on him. He still had those lovely pecs, partially hidden by a cut-out t-shirt, and fine legs, made even lovelier by cargo shorts that were a size too small for him, now.

His face filled in some, but with scruff on it he was almost beautiful...especially now that I got a good look at his eyes and mouth. He’d also added another tattoo to his left arm...a sk8ter boy on his sled, probably him from an earlier time.

The next thing I found was podcasts he was doing on YouTube and other platforms about making specialty skateboards. The why this way was better than that, sort of thing...and he had a lovely screen presence. Open and warm and a bit jokey, with a smile that promised heaven. 

During those clips, he wore an old LA Rams cap, backward, holding his longish russet hair out of his face. I had to check the previous video and saw in that his hair was a plain brown, so he'd colored it. Or washed it. Whichever. I was close to falling in more than lust for him and his best buddy looks, but also love. 

Which would make him a serious rival to my need for sleek little Nicky. 

There was very little about his wife and kids on the web; just that they were part of his life. I got more info about his current career. Seems one of the cable networks was bringing him on board as another of their reality shows. Which I could see happening...

So long as no one connected him to the molestation clips I’d seen. Thing about those was, enough of his face was hidden by the blindfold and gag, and his body was different enough, so that he had plausible deniability. And there was also the additional tattoo...and it looked like he’d altered the one he already had. With Georgie dead and the documents trashed...at least, I think they were trashed...then he was safe.

If not? Well...we'll just have to see.

So I decided the first thing I needed to do was find out what happened to Georgie's paperwork, and Ben and Liam were the ones to focus on.

Physical manifestations...

The last couple of days, while dealing with what little my brother had in his life, the next chapter of Taking Nicky has begun to take shape. Rett wants to do a trial run of his plan to kidnap Nicky and force Ben and Liam to assist. 

They decide to pull it with Smoke...whose real name is Stephen Maxwell Krasner. He's a guy Georgie paid to do a bondage/jack-off scene a few years earlier.

Only Smoke is married, now, has a couple of kids and works a regular job. It was one thing for him to go along with Georgie's servicing to make some money while being a sk8ter boi; it's another considering he's got a family...so he's not interested in anything more.

Only Rett doesn't care. He's fixated on Smoke and he is blackmailing Ben and Liam to help him get to the guy, anyway.

I think they're going to freak out and connect with Vance, a friends of Rett's, and ask for help to stop him. Instead, Vance uses them to get to Rett. He's long had a desire for Rett's ass, and here's his chance. Things snowball from there.

Thinking about this sort of story has kept my mind from getting lost in the death of my brother. That hasn't been easy, but a lot's been done and he's set to be cremated on Monday and interned on Thursday. It's all paid for...and it was not cheap.

My sister will represent the family at the internment, so I'm heading home on Sunday. We're going to have a gathering of the family at his grave on our mother's birthday, next month. I will have Taking Nicky fully written and posted, by then, and be working on Blood Angel.

I waste too much time just surfing the web and getting into useless arguments with the MAGAt Cult online. They are nothing but rabid dogs, and all you can do with such an animal is put it down.

And I don't mean verbally...and it's too bad that's not allowed...