Anyone who knows me or has read my writing will probably guess what I'm going to talk about, here. It is my weakness, my Kryptonite, the thing I can't stop writing about no matter how completely unpopular it gets. I could be dangled over a pit of ravening zombies, and I wouldn't renounce this kink. That guy who put his hand in the fire rather than sign? I'd put my hand in the fire rather than stop lovingly stroking my pet kink like an evol cat in a James Bond movie.
And then after I'd put my hand in the fire, I'd put my other one in too. I'd put all my limbs in, and eventually write by using some complicated gripped-between-my-teeth apparatus, probably with my own blood because everyone got so enraged by my dumb little obsession that they apparently burned me and stoned me and took away all my pens.
Which seems extreme, at best, because really my obsessions isn't anything grand or strange or nasty. I don't secretly want to lick the insides of a cat. Though if you've read my story "Tastes Like Chicken", I'm sure you'd think otherwise.
No no no. My obsession is only this: an uptight repressed guy who's secretly so horny he could die.
Yep, I'm that specific. No, I don't know where this kink came from. In fact, when I think about it, it doesn't even seem like that much of a kink.
Though for me, something - anything - always becomes a kink, when it starts informing your work. You want to write a story about daffodils and daisies. Maybe a nice park bench. Some trees. You want your characters to stroll along in this idyllic setting with not a care in the world and then BAM!
Sudden uptight repressed guy who's secretly so horny he could die.
And you didn't mean to put him there! Oh no no no. You thought your hero was going to be Grag Ungargruff, from the planet Me-tee-thy. God only knows why Grag is busy strolling in some park filled with daisies, but this is my example so stuff it. He was meant to be strolling and being all testosterone-y, and now suddenly he's like Gabriel Gray from off of Heroes.
Great, brain. Thanks a lot for being a useless kinked out pile of nothing. What happened to Grag? I was going to give him a loincloth! I can't give uptight repressed guy a loincloth. A loincloth would frighten him- he needs tweed and tank tops and layers, lots of layers.
And no, I have no idea why the layers turn me on. But they do. And they do so more than a loincloth ever would. In fact, everything about uptight repressed guy does it more for me than a loincloth ever would- so much so that I ended up writing a whole novel about this kinky obsession of mine.
It's available on the Kindle, right now. Out in paperback on Monday. Want to see which won out- Grag, or my kinky obsession? Find out here:
When Madison Morris decides to hire an assistant to help run her naughty bookshop, she gets a lot more than she bargained for. Aggressive Andy doesn't quite make the grade, but continues to push her buttons in other areas, while uptight and utterly repressed Gabriel can't quite take Madison's training techniques. One makes her grasp control, while the other makes her lose it. But the lines are blurring and she's no longer sure who's leading and who's following. In the midst of kinky threesomes and power plays, can Madison work out what she really wants?