Greetings, Beloveds. How long have I been speaking of my upcoming solo anthology? For far too long, to be sure. However, I am highly pleased to announce that the official release is less than 2 months away.
People often ask me what sets my writing apart from other contemporary LGBTQIA authors. That is a complex question to answer. You see, it is not just one thing, it is many. First and foremost, I do not consider myself contemporary.
To me, “contemporary literature” implies tending, mainstream, like most; those are three things that my writing and stories are not. Not that there is anything wrong with contemporary works. As a matter of fact, I enjoy many contemporary authors. However, if I were to classify my writing, I would call it antiquated and whimsical. I realize that my writing style is as unusual as I am, and with that, I am perfectly content.
I once asked a fan what was her analysis of my writing, and her words were humbling and honoring. She said, “There is something about the way you write about sex. You don’t write about sex as if it were just sex, but rather it comes across art.”
If I were to be completely candid, THAT is exactly how I see it. To me, sex is an experience, not an action. Every experience should be surreal and otherworldly, it should stay with you forever. Experiences should be something far from mundane or redundant. So should sex be. Intercourse is a merging of hearts and souls, what is more magical and unearthly than that? Not many things. However, when sex is defined as a carnal act, all of the magic is expunged and so is all of the beauty.
Why, you must be wondering? Why must sex be so appealing if it is simply an act that should appease our carnal need? Well, while that might be true for some, to me, sex and love go hand in hand. What is not beautiful about love? Love transcends the vulgarity of corporal wantonness. Love is an ethereal, tactile sensation that run deep and is paramount to everything and anything.
The fact of the matter is that love is love. Love eclipses gender, age, ethnicity, and boundaries of any kind. And if sex is love enacted, then it should be just as influential.
With that said, allow me to share tidbits of the “Syncopation of Ravishing Intensity” with you.
“Syncopation of Ravishing Intensity” is divided into seasons, with winter being the first in line. Also, I decided to use a variety of writing styles; first person, third person, past tense, as well as present. One thing they all have in common is the sensual intense element. Here are some excerpt from each season.
Excerpt of “Prismatic Slumber”
I dream in color. Like a vivid, luminescent prism, everything comes to thriving life, and then there he is with me.
Sleigh bells dangling from the edge of the bed jingle whenever I slide deep inside of his scrumptious cleft.
Silver tinsel, tangled around our feet.
How did it get there? When did we play with it? It doesn’t matter.
Only partially covered by a Santa Claus fleece blanket, our skin touches underneath—intense heat emanating from it. In the background Bobby Helms “Jingle Bell Rock” plays, only loud enough to drown our elate moaning.
Yet, I want more. I pine for more than just his body and skin, I thirst for the intimacy of his presence; for the puissance of his soul. More than that, I endeavor to monopolize it. Make him, in every sense of the word, mine and mine alone—for the keeping.
Droplets of perspiration trickle down my chest as I drift my manhood in and out of his dewy cavity, then land on his backside and slowly stream onto the blanket.
Even in my state of deep dormancy I can smell the mustiness of our combined scents and it entices every fragment of my being at a cellular level. Every hair on my body stands on end.
Perhaps, it’s the ferociousness of our intimate encounter, perhaps the fact that I’d been longing for this moment for quite some time. Either way, he is mine now, and I am relishing in the satisfaction that only he can bring—my night time companion.
Why is he only with me in my dreams? When did he start visiting me here? Where did he come from?
All inconsequential questions. They had no place here in my Holiday Repose.
Excerpt of “Metamorphosis”
The process of transformation from an immature form to an adult form in two or more distinct stages. A change of the form or nature of a thing or person into a completely different one, by natural or supernatural means.
I am a butterfly.
The beauty of life is found in the mundane matters of evolution. Therefore, I am a butterfly.
When I was an egg, the shell kept me from breaking free. It prohibited me from being whom I was meant to be. Yet, there was a miraculous event occurring; I was developing. Readying for the inevitable exodus which was about to transpire.
I suppose the world was not ready for me then. Perhaps, preparing for the spectacular event which was about to unfold.
I was being born. Born anew. Born from freedom, from evolution, from self.
My development came in stages—each one in the form of a man—every one more powerful than the last. Making me stronger, until it eventually transmuted me into the man I am today.
A Pieridae. Mystical, magical and powerful.
Excerpt of “Tyronian Rapture”
Cherry Blossom petals from a tree procured in Japan carried adrift with the breeze, the smell of humidity and grass rode past, wafting across beautiful Regina’s face and all I could do was sit and stare. She was lovely in every sense of the limited word, for her resplendence was akin to a celestial being. An angel, to be sure; like none I had ever laid eyes upon. She took my breath away, and I was content to let her.
Her large eyes, chocolatey. Her skin, like the finest grade of caramel. Her unwieldy, black curls pulled to the back of her head in a bun. And the conundrum lie in my desire to see them lose and entangled in my hands. A coveting more trenchant than my knowledge that it was ungodly. I was captured by my dear Regina’s beauty. Her full lips longed to be licked, while I imagined that her smooth skin and voluptuous curves yearned to be caressed.
From a distance I basked in her allurement, secretly—watching as she picked the wild flowers from the field in order to prepare a centerpiece for our dinner table for tea. If I could walk through the window ajar as a phantom, then as a phantom I would delight in her existence.
The impasse, my predilection. The penchant to fancy the reprobate. And, whilst my heart and mind remained enthralled by my point of desire, my body lay captive inside of this wretched place.
“Meredith,” Mother called, startling me from my hypnosis—Regina. Such was the effect she had on me. In my dreams I touched every inch of her exquisite dark sheath, then kissed every fraction, ensuring to not miss a spot.
Excerpt of “He and She”
She looked at herself in the mirror and didn’t recognize the person she saw. A stranger in the absolute. A woman who loved the hustle and bustle of the nightlife but was full of regrets in the morning. A woman who longed for the attentions of an outsider to fill the voids of desolation that she’d come to know as her closest ally.
Yet, it was more than that. Her reflection was a stranger, always had been. Looking at her mirror image, Yehanna considered that she’d been born with the wrong face. Perhaps the Fates had misrepresented what she was really supposed to look like—gotten it wrong somehow. She was a foreigner to herself, usurped the body of another, or at least that’s what Yehanna told herself on a daily basis.
Grazing her finger across one check in the dimly lit bathroom of a tattered old apartment, which was falling apart at the seams, Yehanna moved her face from left to right, then back again.
As a teenager she’d be diagnosed with Depersonalization Disorder, DPD for short. However, what the psychiatrist failed to realize was that Yehanna wasn’t depersonalized—as she knew who she was—she was just living inside of a supplement. A loaned body, that was not her own. One, that she often did not identify with, plain and simple.
Perhaps her true body had been left behind in some previous incarnation of herself, and this one was provisional. Either way, it didn’t matter. Yehanna had grown tired of the monotonous nature of her ever questionable existence, and the night was the only thing that offered her solace.
With the tip of her finger Yehanna brushed her nose from bridge to point, then across her top lip as if to check and make sure that her features were her own.
From her bedroom emitted the voice of a man whom was just now waking up and preferably sobering from Yehanna’s late night feat. “Yo! Umm, umm …” he stammered.
“Yeah, Yehanna,” he cut in as if he’d known her name all along, but Yehanna knew that he didn’t. “What time is it?”
“11:10.” she replied, her entire disposition displaced, and dejected.
There are nine more stories where these came from and they will all be available to you on January 27th, 2016. So, my dear readers, stay tuned for the release of “Syncopation of Ravishing Intensity“.