Ken, the Go-Go Boy

Every author has at least one favourite character that they've created.  For me, it's Ken from my novella series, Go-Go Boys of Club 21.  Whereas I normally try to create believable and fully-realized three-dimensional characters for my fiction, Ken began as a rather one-dimensional character.

He was a sex-crazed go-go boy in a gay club.  In the first two of the five novellas that make up the series, his scenes were pure sex -- wild, uninhibited, risky sex.  He was the type of guy that would do anything for dick.

By the time I reached the third novella in the series, I felt like Ken needed a twist in his storyline.  To this point, we'd seen him hook-up a couple times with Dan, the slightly-creepy and older bartender who was always hitting on the go-go boys.  Dan was similarly one-dimensional and would also do just about anything for dick.

On a whim, after a hook-up, I wrote a mild hint of emotional connection between these two fuck buddies.  I took it and ran with it in novellas four and five -- and suddenly these two one-dimensional characters blossomed into three-dimensional characters.  They go from sex-crazed men who go on hook-up after hook-up with random men to boyfriends (albeit in a semi-open relationship).  It wasn't a sudden change in characterization that was typical of bad writing -- at least I hope not -- but it was a huge sense of growth and personal development experienced by the characters and that the readers got to follow along with.

While the series started with Ken and Dan being almost throwaway characters who were in the books just to up the sexual content, they very quickly evolved into primary characters who almost competed with the main characters for attention in the series.

The language I used in Ken's scenes was far different than anything I'd done before -- straight to the point, sparse, and an interesting word choice here and there.  He was also in present tense, compared to past tense for the rest of the book.  (Dan's scenes were also in present tense -- this choice was to make their sexy encounters feel more real and in-the-moment.)  But all of that evolved with the character to a slower style, but still punctuated with Ken's almost unusual method of narrating.

Compare his first scene in the series with his last:

First scene:

*****

Break time.

The washroom door clatters closed behind me. I admire the hot asses packed in tight denim, lined up along the urinal wall like grocery store merchandise. I saunter to the lone empty urinal at the end, admiring. I’ll have a lick of that, a bite of him, and good God, I’ll bury my face in that one!

As tempting as each ass is, I’m not here to rim or fuck. No time for that and no way to clean up before going back out to dance. All I’m here to do is guzzle some fucker’s hot, salty cum.

I swivel on a heel as I stop at the final urinal and steal a glance at the cock beside me. It’s thick, semi hard, and has a fat, delicious vein snaking up the shaft. It unleashes a golden stream that splatters against porcelain. I look up at him and take in the rest of his gorgeous body. He’s all muscles and body hair and sweat; he is one hundred percent man — exactly what I lust for ... except for his douchey ball cap, but I’ll let that slide.

He notices my stare of seduction and gives me the nod that says, “Game’s on.”

I recognize him from the dance floor. He knows how to use his body, how to move it in all the right ways. I’ve had my eye on him for most of the evening.

Around us, a symphony of flushes and footsteps fill the air, but neither one of us moves until the washroom empties out. Alone. Mmm.

Ball Cap finishes pissing, shakes his cock until it’s dry — and hard. Wide, not too long to take in my mouth, this is gonna be good.

*****

Final Scene:

*****

Dan and I say goodbye and head out to his car. We get in and he puts his key in the ignition, but before he can start the car, I grab his shirt and pull him to me, kissing him, shoving my tongue in his mouth. Fuck, I need him. He turns in his seat so he can lean over me, dominating me in the car. Fuck, he’s powerful and it just turns me on all the more.

When our kisses slow and stop, I say to him, “What did you think of tonight?”

“The birthday party?” he says, and I see a fire in his gaze. “It was incredible. You have no idea of the things I want to do to you right now.”

I kiss him again and grope his crotch. He’s hard, thick, and ready to do naughty things to me, I know it. My cock swells at the thought of what that might be.

“I think you should take me home now,” I tell him. “And we can do some of those things you have in mind.”

“Mmm ... I can’t wait.” He rights himself in his seat, buckles up, and starts the car.

*****

It was a wild journey with Ken -- and one that Ken noticed in himself.  Below is the moment he comments on this change in himself.  It remains my most favourite line I've ever written for the simple fact that it sound ridiculous, but fits in perfectly with Ken's character and how he's grown.  It's a line that I don't think I could pull off in any other book.

*****

I smile to myself, still mystified at this change I’m going through. It’s like I’m metamorphosing from a horny slut caterpillar into a beautiful and majestic cock-hungry butterfly that has a boyfriend with a tasty dick.

*****

:)



Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Seduced by My Best Friend’s Dad (co-written with Sandra Claire). He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.

Working Class Heroine

By Lisabet Sarai

I strip for the fun of it. Don’t let anyone tell you different. It’s not the money. I could make nearly as much working at the mill and keep my clothes on, but then I’d have to suck up to the bosses. Here at the Peacock, I’m the one in charge, and I like it that way.

Sometimes I think it’s a sort of revenge, for all the times I heard those nasty calls trailing after me: Honey Jugs, Monster Boobs, Bouncer. Not to mention those sweaty, awkward clinches in back seats, trying to please. Trying to be popular. Now they can’t take their eyes off my breasts, swinging back and forth in time to the music. Their tongues are hanging out. I can see the tents in their laps. They all want me. I know how to make them want me. I’m an expert. But I’m off limits. They can look, they can drool, they can beg me. But my job’s to turn them on and bring them to the bursting point, then send them home unsatisfied.

That’s my view, anyway. Some of the other girls think different. All in all, though, the Peacock Lounge is a pretty classy joint, not like some of the sleaze pits down near the railroad.

I love the moment when the lights come down, and the DJ introduces me. There’s this strange pause, as if I was floating. I can feel them out there, the audience, holding their breath. Then, I hear the first notes of my routine. Energy surges through me. I’m one hundred percent alive. My nipples get hard and my sex tingles when I step out onto the stage and meet their eyes.

That’s my secret weapon: eye contact. Up close and personal. I can bump and grind, shake my tits in their faces, bend over so they get a good look at the G-string settled in my ass-crack. It doesn’t do any good without my stare. I try to see their darkest fantasies. This one pictures me sitting on him, his mouth burrowing in my bush. That one wants me to hold his dick while he pees. That guy in the back, oh, he’s bad news. He aches to tie me up and beat me with his belt. Tough luck, feller. Dream on.

This is the voice of Stella Xanathakeos, the heroine of my erotic thriller Exposure. After seventeen years, nine novels and a raft of shorter work, it’s hard for me to decide on a favorite character, but Stella has to be near the top of the list.

I’d written three novels before Exposure. Stella was a real departure for me, the first working class heroine I’d ever created. Kate O’Neill (Raw Silk), Miranda Cahill (Incognito) and Ruby Maxwell Chen (Nasty Business) all have at least masters’ degrees. Stella has a diploma from a public high school in gritty Pittsburgh. Kate and Miranda are upper middle class, while Ruby is the scion of wealth. Stella grew up motherless in a shoddily built row house, which she inherited when her electrician father succumbed to cancer.

Stella doesn’t use fancy vocabulary. Her grammar isn’t always perfect. She’s tough, practical and assertive, a first generation Greek-American with strong ties to her heritage.

Even physically, she’s different from the trio in my first three books. They’re all petite (like me), or at least willowy. Stella’s a big woman, tall and imposing, with a lot of flesh on her bones in all the right places. She has the body of an Aphrodite, and she knows it.

“Just a moment, Jimmy,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper. I stand and face him, continuing the work he began on my buttons. One hand unfastens them from neckline to waist, the other from waist to hem. He’s transfixed, watching me. I see the fabric between his legs stir as he grows more excited.

My timing, as always, is perfect. The delay at each button is painful and yet he savors the wait, the building suspense. I don’t try to get into Jimmy’s head. I merely watch him as he watches me. His excitement feeds mine, and mine his, in a hot loop spiraling tighter with each breath.

I shrug my dress onto the grass. “Take out your cock, Jimmy,” I murmur. “I want to see you. Touch yourself for me.”

Jimmy needs no second invitation. In a flash his fly is open and his erection is swaying in the night air. The taut skin on the shaft shines pale in the dim light. The knob is much darker. Without taking his eyes from mine, he cups the bulb in one hand, rubbing the swollen flesh against his palm. With the other hand, he grips himself near the root and begins a slow stroking.

“That’s lovely, Jimmy.” Exposed by the half-bra, my nipples throb each time he squeezes himself. I roll them between thumb and forefinger, wishing I could take them in my mouth.

There’s no point in removing the brassiere; he can see all my charms, and the black lace contrasts nicely with my dusky skin. But the thong is definitely in the way. I can feel myself blooming, unfolding in anticipation of having that hardness inside me. I suddenly lose patience with my gradual progress. Without ceremony, I push the panties down to my ankles and step out of them.

In twinkling city light, I think I must look like a goddess: breasts like globes, thighs like columns of marble flanking the dark entrance to the mystic grotto. Jimmy is hugely erect now, but he almost looks frightened, confronted as he is by the awesome mystery of womanliness. I feel a surge of affection that nicely seasons my lust.

Of course Stella is highly sexed. I find it amusing that she claims to be very discerning about who she beds, yet she has an erotic encounter with a stranger in the very first chapter. Like many real people, she’s capable of self-delusion. She’s smart, though, and amazingly brave, though perhaps a bit foolish in her persistent attempts to discover the truth about the murders that occur in Chapter 1. In fact, her stubbornness nearly kills her.

Stella was the first of my characters to literally speak to me. She sprang into being fully formed, unlike my other heroines, who really began as abstract concepts that I fleshed out as I wrote. In fact Exposure began as a short story called “Private Dance” which I wrote for an ERWA theme challenge—erotic noir. I sometimes wonder if that explains her vivid reality.

Exposure was also the first book I wrote that did not have a happy ending. Perhaps that’s why it has never sold well, though it has been through three publishers. Ultimately Stella unravels the web of treachery that spawned the murders, but in the process she loses her precious home—and her innocence. The novel’s conclusion is deliberately ambiguous in terms of which of her lovers, if any, she will return to. She’s damaged, her heart in some sense broken, by the deceits of those lovers and the terrible reality of evil she has encountered.

In Exposure’s three incarnations I’ve had some attractive covers, but none of them has presented Stella the way I envision her. When I was working with my first cover artist, Stella Price (at Phaze Publishing), I found this photo, which really captured the character for me. 

 

The artist told me it would be much too difficult to remove the background. The final cover for that edition was nice enough, but I’ve often wished I could have had my way. 

 

Of course now that I’ve tried making some covers of my own (including the one for the most recent, Excessica edition of Exposure) I know she was right. 

 

I sometimes think about resurrecting Stella in a new book. Perhaps she’ll manage to find the love she needs. Perhaps she’ll be confronted by even darker foes.

On the other hand, she has never been anyone else’s favorite. That’s too bad, because she deserves to be.

If you're interested, you can read another excerpt from the book, and find buy links, here:

http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2016/05/sunday-snog-225-exposure-erotic.html

A survivor ... not a victim

I've known since I saw this topic just which character my answer had to be - Alisa from Diggin' Up Bones, which was published by Phaze.

She's not a spy, or a kick-ass warrior women, nor is she really sure in herself.

What she is is a survivor.

* * *

"I just want us to be friends again."

Good ol' Zach, everybody's buddy. Even after she pushed him away, he had tried to remain her friend. The annual birthday and Christmas cards he sent her like clockwork testified to that fact. It was the other gifts, the treasured book on Valentine's Day, sent by messenger and without a card, the single red rose delivered on the anniversary of their first date, and the dozens of other little things that he anonymously sent to her that let her know he was still in love with her. And it all nearly broke her heart.

As much as she hated to do it, she had to be firm. She wasn't ready for him yet—and didn't know if she ever would be. She loved him too much to ask him to wait.

"I don't think we can be friends. Now, if you don't mind, I have some work to do." As he pulled his foot back, Alisa gently closed the door and locked it. Leaning against the heavy wood, she allowed the tears to flow. So many years and so much wasted time. Smacking her palm against the door in frustration, she slowly slid down to the floor and brought her knees up against her chest.

It was so unfair. She had just started pulling her life back together, back to the point that she had considered dating again. She needed to find a nice, non-threatening man first, someone who was as opposite from Zach as she could get. Setting his height aside, he was the most physically overwhelming person she knew. His striking features gave silent testimony to his partial Native American heritage and captured feminine attention instantly. His hands—she shivered just thinking about them. So firm, with calluses from farm work and his digs, just rough enough to lightly abrade her skin. His strong, broad shoulders begged a woman to curl up against him and let him shelter her from all the world's problems.

Laughing softly and without humor, Alisa admitted that was part of the problem. If she had told him, he would have smothered her, trying to fix it all for her. She feared he might even have killed for her, if it came down to it.

* * *

Alisa suffered one of the most horribles act another human being can do to another, a voilation of trust, a violation of the body. She suffered rape at the hands of someone she thought she could trust, which destroyed her life. And her relationship with Zach, the love of her life.

She turns away from him, unable to ask for his help, and unwilling to bring him into the dispair she felt.

* * *

Gasping softly, she dropped to her knees, her legs too weak to hold her. Tipping her head into the spray, she flipped her hair over her shoulder and let the water wash away her tears, as they streamed from her eyes.

The emptiness of not having Zack's arms to hold her as she cried returned, along with the horrible, terrifying memory of another man holding her down, violating her.

* * *

When Zach comes back into her life, she finds the courage to try again, to push out the dark memories and embrace what should have been.

* * *

Looking into his eyes, she sank down another inch. She felt her body stretching to accommodate him. Trying to relax her muscles, even as she worried it would hurt, she lowered herself another inch.

Zach groaned softly, his hands caressing his thighs. His touch exhilarated her. She was taking control of her life. She was intimately joined with the only man she had ever loved, and she was obviously turning him on.

She'd been using a battery-operated boyfriend for a while now, but it didn't compare to the real thing in length or girth. The heat and curve of his cock added a dimension plastic never could. Sucking in another deep breath, she held it and ground down against him. Alisa thought she'd pass out as he seemed to fill her completely, his cock pressing against all of her slick inner walls so deliciously.

Zach's hands fisted in the bed sheet as she slowly rocked back and forth on him. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as he restrained himself. Her heart bursting with love for him, she tightened her pussy around his cock.

He raised his hands to her breasts, his thumb rolling over her rock hard nipples. Looking down, the sight of his tanned fingers pinching and tweaking her coral colored nipples on her otherwise fair skin caused her pussy to clench in pleasure.

"I need more," she whimpered, jerking against him. "I don't know...I feel so...please, Zach."
His eyes watchful, he moved beneath her. Alisa gasped at the sensations caused by just the slight movement of his cock within her. Closing her eyes, she tossed her head back and gave herself up to the bliss—trusting Zach completely to keep her safe.

* * *

Alisa, although she is just a character, is like many women, and never reported what happened to her. She felt shame, felt it was all her fault, that somehow, she had done something to bring in on herself.

In many ways, this story is my best work, and my most heartbreaking. I love this story.

In the end, Alisa made the choice to be a survivor, and not a victim. She isn't my most charismatic character, or my sexiest. But she is my favorite. The one that I feel the closest to.

For anyone out there who has been through a horrible violation of trust, you are not alone. Whether it was rape, abuse or incest that you SURVIVED, it's never too late to open yourself up to help.

The National Sexual Assult Hotline is 1-800-656-HOPE It's free. It's confidential. It's 24/7

Visit http://www.rainn.org/ for more information on how you can get help, or how you can help others.

Remember - you are not alone.