Mix It Up

Yesterday, I decided to make a peach cobbler. Unfortunately, I only had about half the peaches that the recipe called for. I did have, however, a small container of mandarin oranges. I really wanted some cobbler, so decided that the oranges would work because I didn’t have nutmeg either, so I used vanilla. Why not? I like vanilla. I like mandarin oranges, too…sometimes.

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I try to follow the recipe, I truly do. Unfortunately, by the time I’ve gotten very far, I find myself gleefully tossing in whatever sounds good, seems like it’ll work, or just moves me in some way. I write like I cook. Um, or I cook like I write—same thing, huh? Actually, I do everything that way, really.

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Anyhow, I have six…or seven…let me look…four sips, a highball—two if you count my Illian Obsidian book, Cat Toy—and one novel so far at Torquere Press.

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You’ll have to keep an eye out for more of me there—I love that I can write all kinds of different size books and they’ll come out in a reasonable time—at a reasonable cost, too.
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In fact, they have two others of mine in the stack somewhere and more on the way. My work at Torquere is a good example of writing like I cook. It’s pretty much a stew—or a cocktail (*snicker*) of erotic male/male fiction that I’ve written.

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I’m having a glass of wine right now, but I have another highball and a couple of sips on my hard drive almost ready to go. (How’s that for a segue?)

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I’m going to post a couple of excerpts--one from my highball Civil Liberties, which is one of my most favorite ever, and one from a sip, Bar Back, then I’ll post a bit from the story I sent in for the upcoming Wedding Anthology (I’m not sure what they’re calling it)

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I thought about posting excerpts from some WIPs, but that just wouldn’t be fair. For one thing, I’ll probably change a million things before each story goes in. Well, anyhow, here are some excerpts:

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Civil Liberties
by J.J. Massa
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Dismounting from the back of Denny’s powerful motorcycle, Christian felt uneasy, unsure. He led the other man through the back entrance from the parking lot and up the stairs to his second-story walk-up.

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He wanted this man, had wanted him. Now that the man wanted him back, what should he do?

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Once inside his apartment, Christian turned toward his guest, determined to do things right. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked nervously.

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“I want you, Christian,” Denny stated firmly, walking right up to him, taking him by the shoulders and pinning him to the closed door. His mouth came down on Christian’s as he murmured, “I want you every way I can have you.”

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Oh, Christian was spinning, he felt like he was floating free, yet clinging. Such heady kisses, lips stroking over his, tongue seeking, caressing, sucking on his and all he wanted to do was climb inside this other man and stay there forever.

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Before he knew what was happening, his tight t-shirt was over his head and off, the top button of his jeans open, and long, elegant fingers caressing him everywhere at once.

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“Where’s the bedroom, Christian?” Denny murmured, and they turned, moving toward it.

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Shoes, socks, pants, boxers, all of it melted off, floated away somehow and both men were naked when Denny tugged Christian toward the large bed that dominated the room.

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“I can…I can touch you, too, right?” Christian scooted onto the bed, pulling the comforter back. “I told you, I’m sorta new at this and…its stupid, but I didn’t know if there were rules.”

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Denny grinned. “There are rules,” he said, sitting facing Christian, his hand stroking through the hair on his chest, fingers teasing a nipple. “You can touch me, if you want, but you have to tell me if you do or don’t like something. Do you have lube? Condoms?”
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BAR BACK
By J.J. Massa
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“Hey!”

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There he is, the new guy. Little bastard’s late.

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“’Bout time you got here,” I don’t bother to keep the growl out of my voice. The restaurant next door already closed and we’re starting to get busy. I damn sure need a bar back tonight.

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“I’ll make up for it,” he calls on the way by, getting right down to work stocking the beer cooler. Can’t fault him for that.

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Still...

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“Fuckin’ A right you will!” On your knees if I have my way. He’s a cute little son of a bitch; I can find all kinds of uses for him.

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The look he gives me falls somewhere between hopeful and hurt, and the gap is just too wide for me to try and bridge it right now.

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“I’ll, um, just get these glasses caught up.” He’s not looking at me now, just working.

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It makes me feel a little bad, like I’m being too hard on him. “We’ll talk in a little while,” I try to keep my voice soft, nicer. He shrugs, doesn’t look up.

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After that, though, I’m too damned busy to do much more than pour drinks and bark out orders. The bar’s hopping, but I’m getting plenty of opportunity to notice that sweet little ass every time he bends into the beer cooler. And he’s doing a lot of it. Or bending over the glass-washing sink… and now, his hand is on my back, he’s trying to stretch up and get a glass overhead.

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“Sorry…” he looks guilty, embarrassed, like he’s not supposed to touch me… or something.

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I turn, facing him. “I’ve got it.” My thigh brushes his groin as I reach for the glass. Hmm, yeah, he’s hard. Hell, so am I. “Here you go.” I’m smiling--of course I am.

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“Thanks.” He slips away; fixing the drink that goes in that glass, not looking at me.

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“So what made you late?” I ask. We’re having a lull now. Everybody’s drinking, talking; nobody needs anything.

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“Domestic stuff.” He’s looking like he wants to say more.

I’ll help. “Girlfriend?” I reach past him for a bottle.

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“Uh,” he’s uncomfortable. I can help there, too.

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I plant a hand on his shoulder as I put the bottle back where it came from.

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“Boyfriend?” I keep my voice low, neutral.
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Don’t Ask
By J.J. Massa

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Coming soon to http://www.torquerepress.com/

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“Captain Smith,” Falk greeted him smoothly, not looking up.

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“Uh, yes,” Zack murmured, unsure of how to proceed. He hadn’t seen Falk since they parted ways upon returning to Washington after their liaison—tryst? This was a situation Zack had never been in with man or woman.

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Falk did look at him now, his face infinitely patient, almost amused. “I’ve read the notes from the Pavarato case. Why don’t you have a seat?”

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Feeling more than a little self conscious, Zack made his way to a chair in front of the desk. After a covert glance at Falk, he sat down, back ramrod straight, eyes trained straight ahead.

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“You’ve read the notes,” Zack repeated back to him, more for something to say than of necessity.

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The minutes ticked by in the quiet room, every shift and shuffle echoing in the silence. It was quiet, too quiet, Zack couldn’t stand it. Finally, he looked at Falk who was leafing through a folder in front of him.

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“I believe we covered that,” Falk murmured after a moment, lifting his eyes to lock gazes with Zack. “Come here,” he ordered, his voice going hard. “Remove your jacket.”

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Zack wanted to refuse, meant to even, but he was up and moving before his brain fully processed the command. The instinct to obey was deeply ingrained in him now, even as a captain. Even though Zack was an army officer and a lawyer, he’d never really commanded anyone.

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“Yes?” he murmured, fighting to keep the word sir behind tightly gritted teeth, as he carefully removed his jacket, folding it over the chair where he’d been seated.

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“These notes…stand here please.” With a nod, Falk indicated the floor two feet in front of his chair. Zack stopped in front of the implacable FBI agent, waiting to see what he would do next. “You weren’t as thorough as I had hoped, Zack,” Falk observed, his chair swiveling toward Zack as he tossed the folder down on the desk. “On your knees,” he ordered, his voice turning to ice when Zack hesitated.

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As Zack lowered himself to the floor, kneeling, Falk spread his legs wide, edging slightly forward in the cheap office chair. Like one of Pavlov’s infamous dogs, it was as if he couldn’t help but obey when Falk Thayer issued an order. Zack didn’t want to think about that too closely.

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“What’s wrong with my notes?” Zack asked, his voice thick and husky.

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Falk reached over and tipped Zack’s face up, two fingers under his chin. “You could have asked more questions, Zack. When was the last time Pavarato’s roommate saw him on the phone? Where did Pavarato’s First Sergeant see him on that Friday?”

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Zack bit his lip. Falk was right. He hadn’t even been paying attention, just asking questions and writing answers by rote. If not for the other man’s fingers under his chin, he would have hung his head in shame.

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Falk brushed a thumb across Zack’s lower lip, freeing it from between his teeth. “I know you can do two things at once, Zack,” Falk murmured in a low, intense voice. Zack felt himself harden under his blue service uniform pants. “Bring yourself off—and me at the same time. And let me see you do it,” he ordered coolly hooking his index finger under the waistband of his pants.

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“That…why?” Zack asked, stalling.

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“You were thinking with your dick in Minnesota, Zack,” Falk growled. “Maybe you’ll remember what you learned with it.”
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And that’s it for now.

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See you next month!
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J.J. Massa http://www.jjmassa.com/

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