Click on image to enlarge.

Category: Erotica/Gay-Lesbian Erotica/Gay Fiction
Description: Silver Clitorides Award Winning Gay Male Erotica! From Alexander Renault, author of the bestselling novel of homoerotic vampires Soul Kiss comes his first ever collection. "Brazilian Whisper" explores ethnic differences between gay men. "Full Hunter's Moon" is the author's personal fantasy of an erotic adventure with a local business owner. "Cinema Scrimmage" explores the erotic life of a gay male character who is physically challenged. "Raven" focuses on relationships between older men and younger guys. "Justice Alone" is a dark tale of erotic revenge. "Shannon's Shadow" won a Silver Clitorides award for best online erotic story. "Brotherhood of the Equator" breaks many cardinal rules of erotica. "The Particle House," the author's personal favorite focuses on male escapades in a house with an agenda. "Samovar" is a tale of two men who meet in a foreign locale and what follows next. "Listen, Pandora" is an exploration of sexual tension between two men of different races. Plus other stories. Here is a unique collection of erotic stories no gay man should miss.
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler, 2005
eBookwise Release Date: March 2005

41 Reader Ratings:

Great	Good	OK	Poor

Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [153 KB]
Words: 34405
Reading time: 98-137 min.

INTRODUCTION

Being an erotica writer is glamorous. I would advise anyone to quit their day job, stay home, and write. You'll be rewarded with riches beyond your imagination. Forget those overrated 401-K plans. Who really needs health insurance? How often does anyone ever get that sick anyway? The odds are always on your side.

I was pondering all of this earlier in the morning when I was doing some illegal laundry in the basement of the house where my apartment is located. The guy in the apartment across from mine is a fix it genius-he knows all about every single greasy thingy under the hood of a car. Well, in the basement of the house are five washing machines and four driers, all disabled junk, the coin slots removed. Well, Mr. Fix It somehow got one washer and drier to work so we both do our laundry downstairs for free. I'm not sure how he got the electricity hooked up to the machines because there's no other lighting and you have to use a flashlight.

Every time I do my laundry I keep an ear open for the sinister electronic charging zing of Buffalo Bill's night vision goggles. If he ever got me I'd get the last laugh because anyone who read the book knows that Bill wanted Clarice's scalp to make a lovely wig. I shave my head but I suppose he could turn me into a lampshade since I'm not large enough to be a shower curtain or even a little business (skin) suit. But if you can survive the stairs while holding your laundry basket and detergent and flashlight you could survive anything, really.

Even if I had the coins to use at the Laundromat my POS car might gas me to death because I don't have the money to have the exhaust problem fixed until next weekend after I get paid for my civil service job-in mental health. Isn't that a riot?

All these luxuries of the writer's life aside, I am pleased to present you with this anthology and thank Renaissance for the opportunity to gather some work from the past several years. Forbidden Tricks includes stories that have been rejected more times than Andrew Dice Clay at a lesbian potluck. Some of them were left half finished while a few have been published online for which I am remain eternally grateful (and pleasantly surprised).

"Brazilian Whisper" was rejected three times for print anthologies. The reason cited in each case was that it's "too literary." I think this is another way of saying that no one takes a load in the face in the first paragraph, leaving the reader frustrated and bored. I enjoyed exploring ethnic differences between gay men and am rather fond of this one. I wanted to start off with something on the gentle side.

One of the best aspects of writing erotica is the freedom it gives you-you can imagine anything and put it down on paper via your laser printer. I've had a tiny crush on the manager of a local convenience store-married with children but oh so hot in an older gentleman's way. "Full Hunter's Moon" was my personal adventure with him and wasn't ever really meant for people to read but what the hell.

Dealing with editors is a strange dance because each has his or her preferences. You'll either slam them with something they must have or be tossed onto the slush pile. Or the trash bin which I like to call The Sayonara File. "Cinema Scrimmage" was originally titled "Bradley" and was submitted to a popular webzine. Since this particular piece explores a character who is physically challenged (my sister, a sports medicine physical therapist, helped me with the diagnosis), I thought it was unique. After six months passed I contacted the webzine and they told me it had been rejected within a week of its receipt and they had sent me an email (nope, never got it). I submitted it elsewhere and it was accepted for Jamie Joy Gatto's Mind Caviar in five days. Jamie Joy's great with titles and found "Bradley" boring. Her title was far better.

In an interesting twist, two years later I was contacted by an editor from the original webzine that rejected "Bradley" but praised "Cinema Scrimmage" and requested more submissions. See? Editors all have different personal tastes. Sometimes you just catch one of them at the wrong time.

"Raven" originally appeared online at Velvet Mafia because it's "edgy" in its exploration of the taboo subject of relationships between much older men with younger guys. It also touches on the father/son phenomenon although the piece contains no incest (I do have some standards). Since ravens are dark and considered to contain "magic medicine" according to Native American traditions,

The most disturbing story I've written, according to what I'm told, is "Justice Alone." This dark tale of revenge is probably the only story in this collection that might work well if expanded into a novel and given more detail-it feels half-done. I originally submitted this to Greg Wharton for his webzine suspect thoughts. He liked it a lot but tossed it over to Sean Meriwether at Velvet Mafia because Sean was working on an electronic issue with the theme of revenge. Wharton made a good call and I was thrilled to be included in Velvet's edition. It was the first time I appeared at Velvet as "Raven" actually came a year later.

After my mother was diagnosed with fourth stage metastatic cancer I obtained a Visa card (don't ever obtain a Visa card), went to the store, and bought myself a computer system and began to write. Like a Zen master slapping his student across the face with a wooden ruler, not to be cruel but to wake the student up into the present moment, I began to realize that we're all going to die. If you have something you want to say you'd better do it now and do it loudly.

The first story I ever wrote was "Shannon's Shadow," loosely based upon experiences in my adolescence. It's an experimental piece without punctuation. A friend suggested that I submit it to Jamie Joy's webzine Ophelia's Muse which is based upon tragic erotica. I returned one Sunday night after visiting my parents, who live three hours away, to an email from Jamie Joy. She "loved" the piece and accepted it for publication. I almost fell off my chair. I can hardly put into words my reaction when several weeks after it was posted, "Shannon's Shadow" won a Silver Clitorides award for best online erotic story for that month. Jamie Joy soon became my best friend and creative muse. She gave me my first break.

In another interesting note, the person who formats stories for Renaissance felt that "Shadow" was out of place within the collection, probably due to its strange experimental style. I was glad that the person paid enough attention to notice that it doesn't quite fit into the book. However, this story has been my lucky talisman.

"Brotherhood of the Equator" may be the weakest story in this book. It was rejected four times for print anthologies. It's disjointed and breaks many cardinal rules of erotica-the reader needs to know who's doing what to whom and should never have to guess. "Equator" has enough cooks in the kitchen to spoil a good stew but I included it here because, well, I think it has some hot sex in it.

One of my favorite stories of everything I've written is "The Particle House." It was published online at Scarlet Letters and I was so excited to have been included in such an outstanding website. This one bubbled up to consciousness as a house with an agenda. I wrote it in one sitting and changed little during the editorial process. It's a weird trip.

I remain a little bitter over "Samovar." This one was submitted to an editor who was working on a print anthology of travel erotica who strung me along for over a year. While waiting to see the final edit, and a contract, he told me that although it's a good piece, he didn't have enough time to edit the story and therefore rejected it. A year seemed like enough time. I then submitted it to another editor working on a travel erotica collection who was kind enough to reject the piece in less than one week. She was far more professional about it. All I can say at this point is that I hope my readers like the story even though I'm told it gets boring at times. You can't please everyone.

"Listen, Pandora," is an exploration of sexual tension mixed with a racial theme. I could get some hate mail over this one from people who may not understand the deep ravine of discrimination. I currently live in central Pennsylvania, a highly intolerant place after you step off the Penn State campus, and I have grown tired of racial hatred. "Pandora" is my way of bringing people together albeit it a complicated, emotionally incomplete way.

"Overtime Andrew (The Blur)" was a fun story to write because it was born of tremendous frustration. Unable to find a boyfriend while being trapped in a boring job as an office manager, Andy came to mind one afternoon while a cleaning crew was working at our office. We can find erotic stories in the most mundane and drab environments, often with surprising results. This one was rejected by the editors for Best Gay Erotica 2001, 2002, 2003, and 2004. I just gave up after that but I hope you enjoy it.

"Ring of Fire" was rejected for three print anthologies. One editor told me it wasn't "hot enough" while another told me it was "too intense" in its dance around the campfire of consent. When I was in my local Barnes Ignoble and found the third anthology I had submitted it to for sale on the shelves, the fact that I wasn't in it was surely a sign that the editor had rejected it. I'm not an idiot.

The final story is "The Magician of Coal." Sex is an undeniably changing experience that alters our perceptions of self and others. We can run and try to hide from our desires, which many people accomplish with much success via multiple health problems and drug and alcohol addictions, especially sedatives, but some of us do open that door. The light is blinding and can be excruciating at first. No wonder so many Republicans and born again Christians are walking around yapping to themselves, wearing sunglasses.

Desire partially led to the recent demise of my eight-year marriage. Actually, a succession of events, including my mother's death, and the nightmare of creating a 400 page anthology with thirty writers exploring the deaths of their mothers, conspired to change me on fundamental levels. Sex changes our self-perception. Sometimes the Magician pulls that damn rabbit out of his hat before we can look away.

In the traditional Tarot, the Magician stands before a table upon which lies a wand, a cup, a sword, and a pentacle (not to be confused with "pentagram," the symbol for all that Satan-worshipping crap). He holds a kind of lightning rod, his own special wand, straight up into the air and collects energies from the universe and transforms them into the contents on the table.

The Magician is the transformer and hence "The Magician of Coal" is really about the transforming power of making love, how sex really does change everything. Sometimes the soft white rabbit, sometimes three swords through your heart, personal erotic exploration either via actual experience or in written words, is nothing less than magic.

BRAZILIAN WHISPER

Brazilians do not fuck around when it comes to delineations between the masculine and the feminine. Almost from birth Brazilian men are tutored in toughness, and told to hold their place at the head of the table. Faggots need not apply.

At age twenty-two, Enrique was making his way through American culture studying secondary education. Being bilingual had its advantages, however, for Enrique had always wanted to be a teacher. The Brazilian was self-conscious about many things, a holdover from his adolescence, but mostly about his stature. He'd always had a tendency to over-exaggerate his tougher mannerisms, maybe to compensate for his lack of height. At five feet two-inches tall, most men towered over him.

Naturally, forced by his upbringing, Enrique kept tight reigns on his softer side. The part of him that loved to teach, to reach out to eager young minds and lead the way, also shackled him by the price a man pays for having a certain flair--a more creative and passionate side. The body language of his walk, how he used his hands when he spoke, the way he held his head, Enrique felt it all had to be constantly kept in check, often making him appear, stilted, rigid to others.

America held promise for Enrique, and after a few summers of language camp he headed west, hoping to find a land where teachers were well-respected. He'd secretly hoped his idiosyncrasies would not lead him astray, down an invisible fork in the road toward a life of his innermost sensual yearnings. In time he grew to know what was inside him, the essence of a sleeping cub that threatened to awaken, to grow and to roar.

Danny's body, flesh and hair, was a delicious, fiery phenomenon. Take something sensitive but hot, mildly sore, then lightly pinch it. Consider the ruddy edge of a hardened nipple engorged with blood, the mottled flush of a spanked buttock. Once you have that in your mind, sprinkle salt all over it, then splash it with a bit of warm olive oil. See how it gleams, raw and slick? That was Danny's body. Add a shock of curly hair atop his head, then imagine Danny's face awash with freckles looking sexually playful, wearing a mischievous grin.

The youth of Danny's face was contradicted only slightly by the chest hair peeking out from under his collar, a paintbrush of orange. Built much larger than his brothers and father, he had obviously inherited his maternal grandfather's genes. He had a solid, muscular build beneath swirling sprays of red hair, alternating between soft and delicate to thick and coarse. In most places the hair appeared to be lightly painted on his body, the prettiest accents of perfection--almost feminine, like a Bosch painting.

The strength of his back tapered to a waist that hung like a halo above the firm and perfect globes of his buttocks. A spray of chest hair gathered like a cyclone brewing above his middle, the tail spinning wildly in circles over the rippled muscles stretched over his taut stomach. The triangle spray beneath his navel spread into a fiery bush, topping his formidable cock and low-hanging balls. Danny would never know that if his Grammy Catherine were alive and saw him naked as an adult, she would proffer a sheepish smile with the knowledge that her grandson inherited more than a few blessings from her husband.

An attentive young man who absorbed information, Danny was also an excellent student. But his energies were mostly expended dealing with his Irish-Catholic family. He waited for the day when he could grab his Master's degree in Counseling Education and flee to a quiet place all his own.

Enrique stood naked before the full-length mirror on his bedroom door. His teaching fellowship had allowed him to move into his own apartment, and for the first time in his life he had a tiny lot of freedom.

His own body was a mystery to him, and Enrique took advantage of his new freedom to explore it more fully. He observed how the whites of his eyes contrasted against the dark skin of his face. He noticed he had little body hair other than his pitch-black pubic bush. His genitals seemed smallish in comparison with the men in his pornographic magazine collection. As with most men it was a critical, unhealthy comparison.

Although Enrique finally had some privacy to explore his own body, instead of enjoying himself, at first he felt shame. If his father were alive he would surely smash him to smithereens in a bitter second. His shame grew with the increased heartbeat he felt inside his chest each time he stared at his naked body in the mirror. Blood rushing to his engorged cock, fueling the extreme attraction and tingle he felt when he viewed himself naked. His nightly jack-off sessions required too many purchases of glass cleaner.

They first met at a graduate student banquet on a Friday afternoon. Danny, ever the giant klutz, made a sudden turn of his torso. That was all it took to dump the cheap-tasting pasta dish covered in thin tomato sauce onto the sleeve of Enrique's freshly-pressed white shirt.

After the obligatory show of embarrassment and apologies, Danny insisted on going with Enrique to the men's room to help him clean up. They both knew it was a hollow gesture since the shirt seemed obviously ruined, the orange stain lingering.

Enrique unbuttoned his top, pulled the tails out of his gray slacks and stripped to the waist. Danny did not let it escape his attention, noticing how Enrique's skin contrasted coolly with the pristine white of the shirt's fabric. As Enrique rinsed the sleeve of his shirt, a fine spray of water splashed against his chest, making him appear as though he was lightly perspiring. Danny could not keep his eyes off him.

Danny had never seen such fine skin up close. This tiny man before him appeared as if coated in a shade of chocolate. Danny's eyes followed the muscles of Enrique's arms, to his taut stomach, along the black line below his navel, which disappeared seductively behind a leather belt.

Suddenly self-conscious of his gaping, it felt safer for Danny to study Enrique by way of the bathroom mirror. Through the reflection, Danny's eyes were transfixed on Enrique's chest, glued to the hardened nipples that were even darker than the rest of his flesh. Danny's mouth became wet, wanting to taste those ripe nubbins, to take them between his teeth.

A moment, still as an invisible angel, hung motionless between them, waiting to make up its mind about something, and then forgetting the question entirely. Enrique glanced up, caught Danny's eyes. The tension grew too overpowering for both men. Danny shifted quickly to hide the firmness in his pants. Enrique's eyes darted away as he turned and grabbed some paper towels, drying his chest and stomach, his back to Danny.

Danny finally broke the tension and laughed while observing the still too present tomato sauce stain on the shirt sleeve. He apologized again, and insisted on buying Enrique a new one. Enrique agreed.

It rained on Saturday, so the shopping mall was more crowded than usual. Danny used his credit card to buy the replacement shirt, but secretly held his breath while the store clerk ran the card through the machine, praying he was not over his limit. He had insisted on a shirt that was twice as expensive as its predecessor, and they both knew it.

After shopping, it was pizza, coffee, and long, easy conversation. The second time they got together they went to the movies, choosing to watch a romantic comedy. Enrique was so nervous that morning he skipped breakfast because his stomach ached.

It's too difficult, he thought. All this ambiguity's too difficult.

Even through the strong scent of popcorn, he could smell Danny's tasteful cologne and was surprised to find it made him strangely aroused. He could not stop licking his lips, even though his mouth was dry. Enrique felt like a man on a wire, tipping back and forth between the dry land of Brazil, and slipping into the deep end of the pool of impending pleasure. Something had to give.

The third time they agreed to meet was different, which was made obvious as soon as Enrique opened the door to his apartment. Danny looked relaxed and confident in his comfortable jeans and a pale yellow t-shirt. He bore a fistful of flowers in one hand, and a six pack of beer in the other. The yellow shirt gave the ruddy hue of his skin a healthy glow.

The two men stood there on each side of the threshold staring at one another. Enrique quickly glanced at the flowers and his face grew solemn, as if he were about to swear an oath, or perhaps put his hands in the air as a sign of surrender.

After stepping through the door, Danny offered him the flowers, but it was not a smile he saw on Enrique's face: it was a look of confusion coupled with a hefty hint of fear. Suddenly, Enrique slapped the flowers out of his hand, leaving Danny so stunned he dropped the six pack. It clattered to the floor. A beer burst open spraying foam across their shoes, then bubbled its way into the carpet. Danny turned and slammed the door shut, trapping himself between it and the brewing rage in front of him. Enrique gave a quick, nervous glance at the triangle of Danny's face. His eyes cast down to his mid-section, then to the flowers lying skewed across the floor.

Danny took a step closer. Enrique lashed out, slapping him full across the face. It was an open-handed, yet hard hit that landed with enough force to make Danny's head jerk to the side, but not so hard that Danny lost eye contact for more than a few seconds.

Enrique made the mistake of trying it a second time, same hand, same speed, coming from the same direction. What he had not expected was how swiftly Danny would grab his wrist in mid-blow, a thick vein popping out of the large muscle of his bicep. Enrique tried desperately to snap his own hand back and was suddenly embarrassed by the scene. His childish tantrum was easily followed by quick domination as his arm hung in the air gripped by the strong hand of his sudden enemy.

Danny pulled him closer, forcing Enrique's hand onto the curve where Danny's neck and shoulder met. The bulging veins on the backs of Danny's hands were blue against his sheath of pink skin.

"You think I'm some stupid faggot, spic?" Danny spat out the words like bullets. Enrique's gaze was pained, defiant.

Enrique lurched, and slipped his wrist free of Danny's grasp. He moved forward with both hands now, grabbing Danny's hair on both sides of his head. Each hand was harshly gripping Danny's curly red hair. "You know you look like a fucking circus freak! A fucking clown, man!" A wetness brewed in Enrique's eyes.

Undeterred, and with the focus of a cat, Danny slowly moved his hands up Enrique's forearms until he was softly touching the sides of Enrique's head. Danny had to look down to meet the little man's gaze. The redhead moved Enrique's hands from his hair, placing them onto Danny's shoulders. Danny could feel the Brazilian's hands become crystalline, and for a moment it seemed those brown hands would turn to ice and shatter. Enrique's hands remained carefully where they were placed, then softened as Danny tenderly cupped Enrique's cheeks. Danny leaned down into him and whispered, "You're so beautiful." He opened his mouth over the center of Enrique's forehead. Danny's head lowered as he released his tongue to meet Enrique's skin.

Danny continued, tracing a tiny line of saliva over the Brazilian's nose, then around the circumference of his full, brown lips. Danny licked them slowly until Enrique's lips parted, at first hesitantly. The Brazilian acquiesced, allowing Danny's tongue to invade his mouth. The dark man moaned softly, because he could not stop himself, his own tongue joining in the dance. Enrique released his grip on Danny's hair, then moved his hands down to Danny's firm chest. As if on autopilot Enrique's hands came to rest on the black leather belt encircling Danny's hips.

Danny unbuttoned Enrique's shirt, and his counterpart unhooked Danny's belt, fumbling, his hands shaking. Soon those nervous hands met with the buttons of Danny's fly. After pulling off Enrique's shirt, then his own, Danny quickly unsnapped Enrique's pants, then slid his hands down Enrique's back. Danny cupped his ass firmly, a finger finding Enrique's primitive vortex.