Barebacking with Rick
Current mood: contemplative
Category: Life

I was looking through some of my old non-fiction writing this morning when I came across an interview I did with a young man who is known in the porn industry as Dawson (see his photo above). I interviewed Dawson a few years ago for my column in Nightlines magazine, "Tales from the Sexual Underground."

Although some of the references are a bit dated now, Dawson's exclusive contract, as far as I know, with Treasure Island Media (TIM) is still in force and he continues to grow in popularity. I tried to not sit in judgment during the interview and continue to try to do the same, but thought the interview was an interesting jumping off point for thinking about and discussing one of the biggest hot button issues in the gay community today.

Here's my interview:

Bareback Portrait:

Treasure Island Media Porn Star Dawson

© 2006 Rick R. Reed

Treasure Island Media has been generating more and more controversy as the fledgling porn film production continues to grow in fame and—depending on your point of view—infamy. It's fair to say that this little San Francisco based company, for better or worse, has become the leading force in the rapidly growing porn sub-genre of gay bareback porn. The company, founded and headed up by Paul Morris, is attracting legions of fans for their hardcore sex videos, which push male-on-male sexual gratification to the limit and concerns about safe sex to the background, so far in the background, in fact, as to be invisible. That's what the many guys who are buying titles like, Plantin' Seed, Slurpin' Jizz, Plowed, and many others love about the films: the hot sex, the unbridled passion, and the complete lack of pretense for even the simplest of storylines. In fact, the company's slogan is "Documenting Male Sexuality for the 21^st Century."

            The very things that have been causing the company's sales to soar are the same things detractors deplore. In a March, 2005 story in the New York Gay Blade, writer Mike Lavers quotes Jon Winkleman, a member of the Stonewall Democratic Club of New York City, as saying that Treasure Island eroticizes HIV and AIDS. At a premiere of a recent feature starring Treasure Island Media star, Dawson, Winkleman passed out fliers that screamed, "Treasure Island Media makes snuff films." The film, Meat Rack, shows the handsome and vital Dawson (whose picture should appear in the gay dictionary next to the term, "power bottom") on a weekend sojourn to Fire Island. Dawson takes on what seems like dozens of tops.

            Recently I had a chance to talk with Dawson. I found him to be a surprisingly frank, gentle young man who knows exactly what he's doing. His previous two movies, Dawson's 20-Load Weekend and the subtly titled, Cum Sloppy Buttholes (filmed on location at last year's International Mister Leather competition) have garnered him a legion of fans and made him a stand out among Treasure Island's stable of comely male stars.

            I wanted to know more about this man, who was willing to take the semen of nearly thirty men in one weekend and put it on film and try to see if I could find out what made him tick. The surprising thing about him is that he seems very down to earth…and maybe even a little naïve about the controversy his on-screen dalliances are provoking nationwide.

            Where did the porn star called Dawson come from? The background he related was downright wholesome. He was born and grew up in small town Maine, where his father worked hard to support Dawson and his eight siblings and his mother stayed home. Dawson was the baby of the family and says that even though there were nine children, his parents spoiled all of them. "Being the baby I got spoiled the most." He attended college after leaving home, then moved on to Boston, but visits home frequently. "Family is very important to me."

            Dawson's life off-camera bears little resemblance to the wanton persona he portrays on DVD. But, when not filming, Dawson is a regular member of the work force in Boston, handling sales for a biotech company. He says that in his spare time, he loves "to be outdoors, playing tennis and hanging with friends."

            I wondered too about Dawson's love life. Dawson says he has "No significant other at this point. Not many people can handle the porn thing, let alone that it's bareback.  It'll take a special person to see past that." What about his family and friends? How do they feel about his newfound profession? "My family doesn't know and I'd like to keep it that way. My true friends see beyond their personal opinions but I have lost some friends.  I didn't expect anyone to even know I did a movie!  I was naïve and thought only me and a small circle of people would ever know but then it hit the local paper here in Boston. People that used to say hi around town were no longer talking to me. But I don't have regrets."

            So how did a small town boy end up in some of the nastiest porn going? It started with a fantasy. "I had always been a huge fan of TIM movies so I sent an e-mail letting the company know I was interested and the rest is history. I got to meet Max Sohl (director for Dawson's videos) and we hit it off.  He is an incredible guy with a great visual sense; the fact that we share a piggy mindset was a big bonus."

            What about critics who decry his choices as a roadblock to the fight against AIDS? "They need to get off their soap boxes. People are adults and if they decide to watch a bareback movie, that's their choice. Living in the US means you have freedom. I couldn't care less what someone who doesn't know me has to say about my decisions. It's my choice to have bareback sex and it is someone else's choice to watch it.  I know many guys who have watched my movies and get off on it but don't bareback.  If watching my movies fulfills a fantasy and gets them off, then it's worked."

            I wondered if Treasure Island takes any measures to protect its actors against AIDS and STDs. "They take steps to have the men checked out (for STDs) before a shoot and if a guy has anything they are encouraged to not perform. As for HIV, I have been positive for a while. It was after turning positive that I made the decision to look into doing a movie for TIM.  I had seroconverted a few months before I contacted them and put things in motion that wound up being Dawson's 20-Load Weekend. I don't make a point to ask what the other performers' (HIV) status is but TIM does and informs someone if they want to know if they are going to do a scene with them so they can make an informed decision."

            Dawson enjoys his new fame, but is still a little surprised at the attention. "It has been very strange getting recognized, especially outside of Boston. I'm just shocked at how many people have approached me and said they've seen my movies. But most of them have been complimentary." 

            What lies ahead for Dawson? "I just finished up the sequel to Dawson's 20-Load Weekend [which, I believe, was Dawson's 50-Load Weekend].  I'm disappointed that I won't be in Chicago this year for IML, as I had so much fun last year.  But I will make a point to be there next year."

Currently reading : High Risk By Rick R. Reed

3:30 PM - 27 Comments - 33 Kudos - Add Comment

A Little Light Erotica to Start Your Weekend Off Right
Current mood: hot
Category: Romance and Relationships

Here's a bizarre, x-rated little short story that I hope brings a smile to your lips, a chuckle to your throat, and a little tingle...you know, down there.

Maximum Surprise

by Rick R. Reed


Amelia knew she should never read those damn Cosmopolitan magazines. They had only brought her trouble in the past, with their disappointing promises of how to keep men happy and directions on how to achieve the ultimate orgasm. "Orgasm, schmorgasm," her mother, Helen, had said, when she had tiptoed up behind an unsuspecting Amelia, an Amelia who quickly reddened and felt a line of sweat form on her brow. "The only ultimate orgasm you've ever had is with a jar of Pond's Cold Cream and a handful of stinky fingers."

"Oh, Mother," Amelia had moaned, the tears beginning to flow as she flung the magazine across the room, "Why can't you just give a gal some peace?"

But now that her marriage was looming, and Amelia had hopes that orgasms could be a nightly affair, she read her Cosmo with less of a sense of despair. This particular morning, as she lounged in the kitchen with a tall glass of prune juice and a Granola bar—petting Sprinkles, who had settled herself on her lap—Amelia felt the smug superiority of a woman fulfilled. Even Helen had failed to rile her as she passed through the kitchen, stopping to grab her Preparation H suppositories from the refrigerator. "Stroking your pussy again?" Helen had grinned and Amelia rolled her eyes. "You know that damn stinky feline has to go when you do. Leave her here, and I'll have her exterminated —I swear to God I will." Amelia just grinned serenely, flipped a page in her magazine and tightened her sphincter muscles. It seemed the prune juice was already going to work. Amelia hoped she could hold off the distant, but insistent, rumblings of her bowels until she finished the article she was reading, "Maximum Surprise: How to Keep Your Man Guessing."

The article explained that spontaneity and the unexpected were the keys to keeping one's love -life interesting. In its boldest suggestion, the piece said that a woman could lose no points by conducting a little breaking -and-entering into her man's home, especially if the man was due home from work soon. There, she could get herself in the mood by going through his personal belongings and letting their tactile and olfactory cues direct her toward heights of passion that could only be assuaged when he came home to find a surprise wet and willing co-player in the high-stakes game of passion. What man wouldn't be delighted with the shock of finding his beloved, with the tires already pumped, so to speak, so he could hop on and go for a long ride?

Amelia grinned. She was off today, and thought the article would lead her to a unique way to consummate her relationship with Tom. The wedding night, she snorted, was for the young folk. Besides, once they were married, the plan would lose all its charm —she couldn't very well break into her own home, could she? Amelia slammed the magazine shut. She had probably waited too long already, she thought, hobbling bow-legged toward the bathroom, spine ramrod stiff, and praying she would make it in time.

She waited until three in the afternoon, to give herself a good couple of hours. She threw on some casual togs: a pair of powder-blue stretch pants with the crease already conveniently sewn in, and a white sweatshirt with a glittering Koala bear emblazoned across its front. Amelia felt it didn't matter much what kind of ensemble she wore—it would be shed soon enough. She planned ..ping clothes as she headed toward Tom's bedroom, leaving a trail of not-so forbidden passion for him to follow. She made sure to put on her most absorbent cotton panties, to soak up the aroma of female-in-heat that was certain to drive Tom crazy with desire the minute he opened his front door.

Walking the short distance to Tom's apartment in a kind of erotic haze, Amelia grinned lazily as she thought of how heated things would get in just a couple of hours—passion rising like the wail of a siren. Amelia failed to keep her hands from between her legs as she walked, already chastening herself because she had soaked through the polyester of her slacks, leaving what she was sure was an embarrassing dark stain. No matter, she thought, picturing Tom's drooling face once he opened the door and got a whiff.

Using a Sears credit card, Amelia made short work of the lock on Tom's door and entered. The apartment smelled like Tom: cigarettes, Old Spice and something vague and indefinable, but with the tang of overripe cheese—all of it so manly that it made Amelia gasp and reach up and twist one of her nipples through her Matronform bra, just to give herself a little sampling of the pleasure she knew was in store. She twisted hard enough to make herself cry out and her eyes to water, then wondered what was wrong with her. In the back of her mind, Helen whispered, "Nothing that a lobotomy wouldn't cure."

She began dropping clothing as she headed toward the kitchen, an amorous Gretel leaving a trail to her gingerbread house of love, whose doors would soon be flung open wide, her sweetest of treats available for lengthy sampling. In the kitchen, she raided the Frigidaire, but not for a snack. Half-naked—and not even aware she was panting and emitting strange little grunting noises—Amelia loaded herself up with a carrot, a cucumber and her best find, one that caused her to shriek with delight—a Swiss Colony Summer Sausage log, pristine in its wrapper of cellophane. "It won't be pristine for long," Amelia snickered. As an afterthought, she snatched a tub of Imperial margarine, thinking wildly that it might come in handy should Tom want to travel a back road to ecstasy. "It's not nice to fool Mother Nature!" Amelia shrieked, then collapsed into giggles.

She dropped the rest of her clothes as she made her way to the bedroom. There, she unloaded her kitchen delights on Tom's manly plaid comforter, and headed for his chest of drawers. Then she veered off course, thinking that the wicker hamper in the corner might be better suited to her needs.

Stark naked now, her thighs as slick as the back of an otter, Amelia rooted through the hamper, searching for the perfect pair of Fruit of the Looms: they had to be of a certain age, with the elastic perhaps just beginning to lose some of its zing. Gasping, she pulled out her fantasy's reality: white cotton briefs, going to gray with age, with a tiny provocative hole Amelia imagined out of which some of Tom's more bullish attributes might peek. They were stained in just the right places— the front with a yellowish oval, faded from years of washing but victorious in its war with bleach. "Aw, how cute," Amelia said as she directed her gaze toward the rear of the briefs. There, a skid mark the size of Amelia's middle finger snaked its way down, faded, but still possessed of a rich auburn hue. "How boyish," Amelia whispered, just before burying her face in the briefs, inhaling their heady man scent, deep and aromatic enough to just about send her reeling. Instead, she dropped to her knees, grinding the cotton into her face, taking in lungfuls of her man's most hidden essences.

Amelia hobbled to the bed, the underpants affixed to her head like a ski-mask, arms outstretched, feeling her way. Once she stumbled, and fell painfully to her knees. She grunted as her knees made impact with the hardwood floor. But, at last, she reached the bed, and collapsed face-up on it. Reaching up with one hand, she ground the cotton into her face, opening her mouth to stuff some of it inside, where she could suck, imagining the potent cocktail her own saliva and evidence of Tom's excretions would make. With her other hand, she found the carrot and grasping it, shoved it inside herself so deep that all that showed was its leafy green top, peeking out from Amelia's honeypot as if she had planted parsley down there. With her vaginal muscles, she sucked it deeper inside herself, until even the green had disappeared. "Whoopsie," Amelia said, quivering with her first orgasm. She groped for the cucumber then abandoned it when her hand came to rest on the Summer Sausage log. Not caring that she would be pushing the carrot in so far that only medical intervention could remove it, Amelia began savagely frigging herself with the seasoned meat.

So caught up in her machinations was Amelia that she almost didn't hear the creak of the front door opening.

Almost.

A wide Cheshire grin spread across Amelia's features as she heard the slam of the front door. Moving the underpants to one side of her face like a curtain. Amelia called out, "Honey! I'm in here!" She pushed the Sausage Log in deeper, thinking how she couldn't wait to get its man-sized replacement within her sugar walls. "Get in here, big boy, and show your mama what a man's good for!"

Amelia splayed her legs so far apart she feared dislocating her pelvis. She knew a puddle had formed on the sheet beneath her and she slid around in it. "Get that ass in here and fuck your mommy. Fuck her hard!" Amelia couldn't believe she was being so crude, but the foodstuffs, combined with the man-scents, had sent her into a frenzy of proportions that knew no bounds. She was blind with lust, crazed with it and in her fever had become nothing more than a vessel, a receptacle, an opening, a hole, a dike in need of plugging. "Mommy wants a man-sized load!" Amelia screamed. "Mommy needs yummy cummy in her coochie. Give it to me, Tommy! Ram it home!"

Amelia covered her face once more with Tom's underwear, wanting to block out her sight, thinking that by doing so, she would enhance the tactile. And knowing that, once the head of Tom's manhood touched her quivering mons veneris, she would have to be scraped from the ceiling.

She couldn't wait.

It was in the midst of writhing on the bed, sweat dripping from every pore, the roll of tasty snack meat going in and out of her so fast it was a blur, which Amelia realized someone else was in the room with her. "Tom?" she panted.

It was then she pulled the underpants aside, so she could see.

Amelia gasped. She pulled the tantalizing beef log from her sex with a loud farting noise that caused her flushed countenance to redden further.

A woman stood trembling in the doorway. She was older, perhaps mid-sixties, with a stiff upsweep of gun-metal gray hair with vague Nancy Reagan aspirations. Dressed in a cardigan sweater and camel-colored wool skirt, she clung to a pair of pince nez that hung on a chain around her neck. Her mouth was open and she looked as if she were about to cry.

"Who are you?" Amelia asked, tongue thick. She feared her heart would explode: already revved to the breaking point, this turn of events had caused it to pound harder than she thought possible. She realized Tom's Fruit of the Looms were still perched obscenely atop her head and reached up to fling them to the floor. Suddenly, the carrot popped out as if it had been shot from a cannon. It landed at the foot of the bed, causing the woman to back from the door, gibbering in horror, hands held aloft in self-defense. Amelia grinned sheepishly.

When she had her voice, the woman said, "I'm Tom's mother, Betty McGinnis. And you are?"

Amelia didn't know what to say, wondering if getting arrested would be preferable to facing the music. She decided the truth would eventually come out. She gulped and said, "I'm Amelia Bauers,Tom's fiancée." Amelia had turned white, and she gave a sickly smile. "I've been dying to meet you."

Currently reading : High Risk By Rick R. Reed

11:59 AM - 12 Comments - 24 Kudos - Add Comment

Sleeping in Seattle or THE BIG MOVE
Current mood: optimistic
Category: Life

You may have read a blog I posted a short while back. In it, I decried living in Miami (where I moved from Chicago in October 2006). For a variety of reasons, Miami just never clicked with me as a place I could call home. To this day, I still feel like an outsider here, like someone who will never really belong. Sure, Miami has the tropical beauty thing going, along with balmy winter days, but it also has the rudest drivers in the country (according to a recent article in USA Today) and the summers are a sauna in hell. The rudeness often extends beyond cars, too. To me, it just never seemed like a very friendly place. The language barrier is a problem as well. I don't speak Spanish and that's been more of a stumbling block than I realized before I came here. To give you an example, I virtually NEVER hear English spoken in the Bally's gym I go to. The default language here is Spanish. Adding to the isolation is the fact that Miami's gay community is surprisingly...well, not there. There's no gay newspaper, very few gay organizations, and only a sprinkling of gay nightlife, all mostly on South Beach.

The good news is the baby Jesus must have been listening when I wrote my blog complaining about feeling lost and isolated in a place I felt I could never call home. How else would you explain that within just a week or two of my posting that blog, my partner Bruce called me up and surprised me with some news: he had just been promoted. We were moving to Seattle.

Even though I have yet to visit Seattle (that comes in a couple of weeks), I immediately felt as though a great weight had been lifted off my chest. I was getting out! Living in a place where you feel like an outsider and does not feel like home isn't much good for the psyche. And even though I have no guarantees I will love Seattle, it does seem to offer much more promise in terms of gay life, culture, natural beauty, and just finding like-minded souls whom I might one day call friends.

The move is coming up quickly. We will probably bid our final adios to Miami in August.

Currently watching : Sleepless in Seattle (Special Edition) Release date: 1999-09-28

2:35 PM - 39 Comments - 51 Kudos - Add Comment

High Risk Gets Me Compared to Stephen King
Current mood: jubilant
Category: Writing and Poetry

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Okay, so this blog is about crowing about a great review for my thriller, HIGH RISK. If you'd rather wait until I write about something more earth-shaking, like a man blow drying his butt crack at the health club, or a woman pouring milk and tuna over herself and inviting neighborhood cats into her bedroom, then so be it. I will deliver stuff like that as well.

But the other day, I got a review for my thriller, HIGH RISK, that just sent me over the moon (usually I just moon passing cars while my partner, Bruce, drives, red-faced and clucking his tongue). Anyway, Tyler Tichelaar, a reviewer for the excellent book review website Reader Views, had this, in part, to say:

"Rick R. Reed has been compared to Stephen King, but frankly the comparison does not do him full credit. In my opinion, he is a far more polished writer than Stephen King. He does not bore the reader with pages of detail or scenes that fail to advance the plot. Reed creates tightly controlled prose, realistic dialogue, and intense situations, and I can only think his future novels will continue to show advancement in his writing talents. HIGH RISK is the most suspenseful thriller I have read in years. Highly recommended!"

Like the Grinch and his heart, my head swelled to three times its normal size. I mean, since I was a wee lad, Stephen King has been like a God to me. Part of me wants to say that Mr. Tichelaar is out of his frickin' mind to make such a comparison. And the other part wants to say, "Yeah, that's cool. King might be able to wipe his ass with hundred dollar bills, but someone said I'm better than him. So take that!"

Anyway, if you want to read the entire review, go here.

And if you want to see why Reader Views peed its pants in excitement over my sexy, gory, thriller that makes Fatal Attraction look like a stroll in the park, go here.

Currently reading : High Risk By Rick R. Reed

6:31 AM - 18 Comments - 33 Kudos - Add Comment

Where Did a Sense of Propriety Go?
Current mood: disgusted
Category: Life

I swear to GOD, sometimes I envy that guy from I AM LEGEND, living almost entirely alone in the world. This is a silly blog, a rant, and you can feel free to move on if you like. Fair warning: this is about assholes in every sense of the word.

I just got back from the gym where my delicate sensibilities are still reeling from what I was forced to bear witness to. An older gentleman (well, not much of one, to my eyes) had just gotten out of the shower and entered the common locker room area, where there are sinks and air hand dryers. Completely without any sense of propriety, he bent over buck naked in front of one of the hand dryers and proceeded to pull his ASS CHEEKS apart to blow them dry. This is not in a semi-private area, but one where everyone going into and out of the locker room has to pass through. I wanted to say, "Jesus Christ, man, have you no shame? That shit is nasty. Blow dry your ass at home! I don't NEED to see that, especially when I'm on my way to lunch."

But I didn't say anything. I have a sense of propriety.

I think it's great that often, as we grow older, we care less about what others think about us and what we do. But I think we can take that feeling too far, as is the case with pulling your ass cheeks apart in a public space to air dry them with a device most everyone knows is not meant for assholes, but hands. I mean, doesn't this guy think for, just a moment, how ridiculous he looks? Or if he doesn't care about that, how about what he's displaying to his fellow man?

It ain't pretty.

I can't wait to see what's next. Maybe next time he'll ask me if I wouldn't be so kind to put a daub of Preparation H on his 'roids.

Currently reading : Poop Culture: How America is Shaped by its Grossest National Product By Dave Praeger

10:34 PM - 45 Comments - 59 Kudos - Add Comment

Here’s Who Won a Free Signed Copy of ORIENTATION
Current mood: cheerful
Category: Writing and Poetry

A couple weeks ago, I had a little contest to help me celebrate the release of my novel, ORIENTATION.
To enter, all you had to do was post the book trailer for ORIENTATION on your MySpace page (the trailer can be found in my videos).

Today, we have the winner of a free signed copy of ORIENTATION, my new novel "about reincarnation and love" (see below for details and an excerpt). After a careful scientific process (of closing my eyes, turning around until I was dizzy, and then pointing to a name on a list of entrants with a certain appendage that shall remain nameless), the winner is:

Anthony from Portland, OR. Click on the link to check out his MySpace page. Congratulations, Anthony!

Sorry to all those who didn't win; I wish I could afford to give you all each a copy.

Didn't win and still want your own copy? Simply go here to order your copy from the publisher, or here to order from Amazon (or just click on "what I'm reading" below).

If you need a little more convincing, go here and read the first chapter. If you're not in tears by the end, you have no heart. To whet your interest, back cover copy and excerpt are below.

Back cover copy:

"Christmas, 1983: A young man, Robert, tends to his soul mate, Keith, who is dying from AIDS. Robert tries valiantly to make this a special Christmas for his lover, but loses the fight late Christmas night.

Christmas, 2007: Robert ventures out late Christmas night and finds a young girl about to fling herself into the unforgiving waters of Lake Michigan. He rescues her, and the two form a bond forged from an odd feeling they share of familiarity, and even love. Neither understands it, since Jess is a lesbian and Robert has never been attracted to women. But there's more...Jess begins having strange dreams, reliving key moments she couldn't know about in Keith and Robert's life and courtship. Robert and Jess begin to wonder if their inexplicable feelings might be rooted in something much more mystical than a savior/victim relationship.

As the two move toward and pull away from each other, Ethan, Robert's younger lover, plots the unthinkable. His crystal meth-addled mind becomes convinced there's only one way to save himself, and that is through Robert's destruction. Christmas 2007 spirals downward to a shattering climax in which both love and lives hang in the balance.

There's a murder attempt...salvation...redemption...

And a new love is born."


Excerpt:©2008 by Rick R. Reed:

Christmas night proved memorable for Robert, if only because it was the night the one great love of his young life was taken, stolen away by a disease he could never have imagined a few years before. The night was also memorable because there was a kind of Christmas miracle, even if it lasted only a few moments.

Keith came back to him. His Keith, the one who could make him laugh and make him feel "like a million bucks." For the briefest of moments, the real Keith returned, smiling and making of his death mask face a hint of what had been there before: a handsome, distinguished man whose cheeks were no longer sunken and hollow, whose green irises were rimmed in yellow no more, and whose smile could light up a room.

Maybe seeing the old Keith—handsome, devilish, strong jawed from his Mediterranean heritage—was just a figment of Robert's imagination, something he wished for hard enough that it came true. But the lucidity that came late that Christmas night was not his imagination. Something had clicked in Keith's fevered brain and for an instant, he came back.

But it was only to say goodbye.

Robert had spent the long afternoon cooking. Pointless, he knew, since Keith, in his best moments, could only keep down things like Jell-o and protein drinks; Robert had no appetite, himself. But in spite of a decided lack of hunger around the Harris/Jafari household, Robert had created quite a testament to culinary expertise in the marble-and-glass kitchen. Cutting boards crammed the counters where Robert had used his Wusthof cutlery to prep a garden of fresh herbs—mincing parsley, sage, basil, and thyme into stacks of fine green confetti. He cut garlic into translucent slices. Halved lemons lined up in an orderly row beneath the windowsill, ready to release their juices.

And there, near the sink, a twelve-pound goose waited for Robert's touch—to have its skin loosened, lifted, and infused with chopped herbs, to have its cavity stuffed with lemons and whole garlic cloves, and, finally, to be buttered and rubbed lovingly with extra-virgin olive oil and trussed. It would spend the rest of the day basking in the heat of an oven, religiously basted every forty minutes.

Robert had made oyster stuffing, rich with fresh-from-the-sea briny juices, sage, and fennel sausage. He had shorn the bottoms off artichokes, trimmed their leaves, and stuffed them with a mixture of bread crumbs, garlic and Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. In the sink, a mound of Yukon gold potatoes awaited peeling. Brussels sprouts needed to be cleaned, steamed, and tossed in butter, lemon juice, and garlic.

And when the kitchen windows fogged with steam from bubbling pots and the whole first floor of the penthouse was redolent with roasting bird, Robert stumbled into the little powder room off the kitchen and threw up. Afterward, he sat by the toilet, gasping and swiping at his mouth and nose with Kleenex that left shreds on his stubbled face. He started to sob, the tears coming easily, hating himself for being such a coward, for spending all this time, all this money, to prepare this glorious yuletide feast no one would ever eat.
He slapped his own face, punishing himself for being stupid, stupid, stupid. Who was he trying to kid? Did making a Christmas goose with all the trimmings wipe out a year of love, passion, and happiness? Did all the cooking, decorating, and wrapping of presents put a different face on Death, who paced the penthouse, features furrowed, waiting to take his own Christmas present, which lay, inches away from "delivery" on sweat-soaked Egyptian cotton sheets?

Why couldn't he accept what was happening? It was over. The flame had flared and had been snuffed out. He forced himself up, gripping the little pedestal sink, and splashed cold water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror above the sink, hating the vibrant, rosy glow in his cheeks, his fine, small-pored skin, twinkling blue eyes that betrayed not a hint of his exhaustion and despair, and his shining blond hair, in ringlets because of the kitchen humidity.

Why did Keith have to die?

Why did Robert have to live?

He closed his eyes for a moment, then walked into the kitchen, ready to feed the fabulous food to the garbage disposal. The work, like the preparation of the meal, would take his mind off things.

And then he heard Keith's voice, watery, weak, a shadow of its former self, call out. If the garbage disposal had been on, he wouldn't have heard it. But the sound of his own name coming from his lover's lips filled him with a kind of insane joy and optimism. The irrational part of him wanted to take it as a sign, a U-turn in the road toward death.

His Keith was getting better! Getting better in spite of the fact that all these other men with AIDS were dying quick, painful deaths. Keith would be the exception to the rule. He always had been. A sob caught in Robert's throat and he hurried toward the stairs.

"Robert?" Keith's querulous voice sounded again.

Robert rushed up the spiral staircase, tripping once, a startled laugh escaping from his lips. Who knew? This AIDS thing was still new. Who was to say there weren't people out there who could beat it? People with imagination and fortitude.

People like Keith.

Robert hesitated outside the bedroom door. Inside, it was quiet, and he dreaded going in there and finding Keith on the bed asleep, a sheen of sweat clinging to his sunken cheeks, his breath phlegmy and labored. What if Keith's call was a momentary peek through the twin curtains of fever and consciousness? Or worse, the product of his own, overly-hopeful imagination?

What would be, would be. Hadn't some virginal blonde even sung about it, once? Robert steeled himself, taking a deep, cleansing breath, letting it out slowly.
He entered the room.

Keith was awake. His face looked even more drawn and tired—the color of ash. Robert would have said it was impossible for him to look any sicker…even this morning…but now, he did. The smell of sickness and shit hung in the air, despite the cinnamon and vanilla-scented candles in the room.

But, oh, Lord! Keith was looking at him. Looking right at Robert. And, he was seeing him! For the first time in forever, their gazes met and connected. Robert approached the bed warily, as if sudden movement would send Keith plummeting back into unconsciousness.

"Honey? Can you hear me?" Robert stood, wringing his hands, heart fluttering, beating against his ribs.

"Yes, I can." Keith's voice was a croak. The bass notes that had made him sound sexy and assured had disappeared. Keith reached a bruised hand out over the covers and patted the bed. "Would you sit next to me?"

"Oh, of course!" Robert took two steps and weighed down the bed, leaning over to brush a strand of hair off Keith's forehead, biting his own lip at the heat radiating off Keith's flesh.

"I'm happy you're awake."

Keith swallowed. The swallow lasted a long time, as if it took all of the sick man's strength. He let out a weak sigh and turned his head. He looked up at Robert and managed a wan smile. Robert closed his eyes and gently laid his head atop Keith's.

And then Keith began to talk, his old voice suddenly returning, strong and sure. "I have a few things to say, Robert. And I need you to shut up and listen. No interruptions. The first thing I want to say is, 'Merry Christmas.' I'm sorry I couldn't be a bigger part of things for this, our first Christmas together, but that decision was taken from me and it doesn't look like Mr. Claus is seeing fit to give me a chance to make it up to you.

"The second thing I want to say is that I love you with all my heart. I searched forty-some-odd years for you, for what I've always dreamed of, and what I thought I couldn't have when you dropped, like a gift, like an angel, into my life last winter. You were what I hunted for all my life: a family. You are my family. Don't ever forget how precious that is.

"The third thing I want to say is that you're an idiot, running around, burying your head in the sand and trying to make a Christmas that neither of us has the capacity to enjoy. And last, I love you for that. I love you for trying…for hoping against all odds that this moment would come and I would let you know how much I appreciate you. For hoping that we might share one final kiss before I have to go. And my love, I do have to go. But I couldn't leave without you hearing these four words. You. Are. My. Family."

Robert wanted to cry, but there was cold stillness inside, almost as if the frigid air outside had invaded and possessed him. He lifted his head, stopping himself from recoiling at the feel of a crusty lesion on Keith's cheek. He reached down and squeezed Keith's hand, knowing with all his heart that Keith wanted to say all those things, but hadn't really.
The reality was, Keith had only enough breath left to whisper, "I need"—he swallowed hard and tears welled up in his sallow eyes—"you." Keith pushed out the word "you," as if he used all the breath he had left.

And that was all, really, Robert needed to hear.

Now, the eyes Robert stared down on were not only yellowed and red-rimmed, but vacant.

Keith was gone.

Robert patted his cheek. "I know," he whispered. "I'll always know."

Could it be that Robert already felt his lover growing cold? He bit his lip hard enough to taste his own blood and reached over to pull Keith's lids down over his eyes. Robert didn't know what Keith stared at now, but he hoped it was like the death lore he had read about, and that Keith hovered somewhere near the ceiling, taking one last look at the two of them on the bed before departing toward a warm and welcoming light and a place where there was no more pain, no more suffering.

Robert stretched out on the bed next to Keith's body, fitting himself against the bony form, wrapping his arms tight around it. He buried his face in Keith's neck, searching for a little of what Keith had once smelled like: not really a cologne, but bitter, like the incense Robert remembered from Catholic mass when he was a boy. But the smell of Keith, like his spirit, had moved on.

Robert closed his eyes. There would be phone calls to make. Arrangements. A new life ahead, one which would find him suddenly alone, freed from the burden of caretaker, and imprisoned in a grief he supposed would never leave him.

But now, there would be sleep. On this Christmas night, he needed to drown in the comfort of one last slumber with his lover, spoon style.


I hope you'll pick up a copy of ORIENTATION. I'm really proud of this book!

Currently reading : Orientation By Rick R. Reed Release date: 2008-05-10

5:23 AM - 10 Comments - 19 Kudos - Add Comment

Three, Two, One...LAUNCH! Win a FREE book!
Current mood: accomplished

Today's the official release day of my new book, ORIENTATION. For my faithful blog readers, I am offering a free, autographed copy of my new novel "about reincarnation and love" (see below for details). The book is already winning rave reviews and I'm very excited about this one because it's a bit of a departure for me. Although you'll still find a murderous subplot, paranormal elements, and plenty of suspense, this one has a surprising measure of romance and poignancy. Rainbow Reviews said, "From the grief of the initial chapters and the pain of the center core of the story comes the hope and joy of the final chapters, an encouragement to readers of all persuasions to hope for a miraculous "second chance.'"

So what's ORIENTATION about? Pretend you're in a bookstore (but don't close your eyes!) and read the back cover copy:

"Christmas, 1983: A young man, Robert, tends to his soul mate, Keith, who is dying from AIDS. Robert tries valiantly to make this a special Christmas for his lover, but loses the fight late Christmas night.

Christmas, 2007: Robert ventures out late Christmas night and finds a young girl about to fling herself into the unforgiving waters of Lake Michigan. He rescues her, and the two form a bond forged from an odd feeling they share of familiarity, and even love. Neither understands it, since Jess is a lesbian and Robert has never been attracted to women. But there's more...Jess begins having strange dreams, reliving key moments she couldn't know about in Keith and Robert's life and courtship. Robert and Jess begin to wonder if their inexplicable feelings might be rooted in something much more mystical than a savior/victim relationship.

As the two move toward and pull away from each other, Ethan, Robert's younger lover, plots the unthinkable. His crystal meth-addled mind becomes convinced there's only one way to save himself, and that is through Robert's destruction. Christmas 2007 spirals downward to a shattering climax in which both love and lives hang in the balance.

There's a murder attempt...salvation...redemption...

And a new love is born."

So how can you win a FREE signed copy of ORIENTATION? It's simple. All you have to do is post the book trailer for ORIENTATION on your MySpace page. You can find the video on my page under "videos.' MySpace makes it easy to post the video on your page with just one click (the link should be there). Starting today, and over the next two weeks, I will be spot checking everyone's page who have notified me they are participating to see if the trailer is, indeed, there. At the end of two weeks (on or about June 5, I will select one of you as the winner and will get in touch with you for how to send you your book).

Don't want to wait? Simply go here to order your copy from the publisher, or here to order from Amazon (or just click on "what I'm reading" below).

If you need a little more convincing, go here and read the first chapter. If you're not in tears by the end, you have no heart.

I hope you'll pick up a copy of ORIENTATION. I'm really proud of this book!

Currently reading : Orientation By Rick R. Reed

5:23 AM - 26 Comments - 44 Kudos - Add Comment

Where Did THAT Come From? Orientation
Current mood: thoughtful
Category: Writing and Poetry

Sometimes, you think an idea for a book comes from an obvious place. For my new release, ORIENTATION, I had thought the idea for the book--a paranormal love story/mystery involving reincarnation and the possibility of romantic love between a gay man and a lesbian--came from wanting to write a story about reincarnation. I asked the question all writers ask when contemplating a new work of fiction: what if? What if a gay man died and was reincarnated as a lesbian? What if the dead man's lover met up with that reincarnation? Would the old feelings surface? Would two souls be drawn to one another, regardless of deeply-embedded sexual orientation? I thought it was a compelling question and set out to explore what might happen.

Often, at least for me, the real buried truth behind a book doesn't surface until long after the book is finished. Such was the case with ORIENTATION. Without diminishing the original thoughts that inspired me to write the book, I am just now realizing how it's about me personally...and about how something deeply psychological was an underpinning for the book's creation.

Many of you probably don't know that, once upon a time, this out and proud gay man was closeted...and married. To a woman. Ellen and I met in college, fell in love and were married a year after graduation. Our marriage lasted for seven years and resulted in the birth of our son, Nicholas. Going though a very painful divorce, a hurt Ellen accused me of deception and a lot worse, and I can't blame her. But the fact of the matter was that I really loved her, with all my heart (the fact that eighteen years after our divorce, we're still friends says a little something about the depth of my affection for her). Did we have a good sex life? Well, that's kind of a nosy question, but it may surprise you to know that the answer is yes, very good indeed. When I realized that I had to lay down the shield and the sword and stop wrestling with who I was at my core, it was a heart-breaking and emotionally wrenching time. I loved Ellen, but that love was ultimately not compatible with who I was at my very center. I needed to find a place in the world for the man who had hid behind the mask for so many years.

You may wonder why I'm sharing such a personal story with you. The fact is that I think this love is at the heart of ORIENTATION. Although Ellen is not a lesbian, I am a gay man and our love for each other transcended that difference--at least for close to ten years. And I think that's how I could write about the odd couple of Robert (a dyed-in-the-wool queer who had lost a lover to AIDS in its earliest days) and Jess, a heart-broken and jilted young lesbian with conviction and truth. I believe that, very deeply, my own relationship was the impetus for my story. But as I said at the start, I didn't immediately realize it.

I just think it's interesting to see how a writer's (and my own) mind works. Sometimes the machinations behind the creativity are not immediately apparent, even to the creator.

Here's a little excerpt from ORIENTATION that I think shows how Jess and Robert wrestled with feelings that were inexplicable, confounding, and seemingly without logic. But then isn't that the way with almost any love at some point?

Excerpt:

Cold air filled the room. Dingy gray light trickled in through the tightly shut blinds. The radiators clanked and Jess could tell the heat had been off for a while. The chill seeped into her bones. She pulled the comforter tighter around herself, shrinking down into the cocoon of warmth her body heat had created. It took her several minutes lying there, staring up at the ceiling, for the dream to come back. When it did, it didn't seep in slowly with an image here and there, but came back whole, like a short movie she had watched.

Why had she dreamt about Robert? And why was he that young in the dream? Her age, really. Jess turned on her side and supposed it was logical she should dream of the man who had come along and saved her life, rescuing her from self-destruction.

What weren't logical were the feelings the dream had brought on. Jess felt a strange kinship toward the man, a warmth she couldn't quite explain. Sure, she supposed she was grateful for his coming along and saving her from a very permanent error, but the feelings in her gut ran much deeper than gratitude.

They were almost like love. Romantic love.

Jess laughed out loud. Even in her most confused adolescent years, Jess had always been sure she was a lesbian, through and through. No boy had ever turned her head. But she thought now of Robert with dreamy-eyed wonder.

Dream being the operative word. You know how dreams can stir up emotions. I wouldn't worry too much about it. Yet the feelings the dream brought on alarmed her. Forget about it, Jess. They're leftovers from the dream.

Speaking of leftovers…Jess sat up, ravenous. She knew there was no food in the house, but a twenty-minute walk would take her to one of her favorite restaurants, a little health food hippie joint that had been there for years and served the best pancakes on the north side.

Jess started toward the shower knowing that right after breakfast, she was going to walk out to Sheridan Road and hop on a 151 bus and get herself back to this Robert's.

After all, she had never even said thank you. And, in spite of her own grief and depression, she still felt bad about slipping away from him, without even the slightest sign of gratitude. He was a caring soul, of that much she was certain. He would be worried. She ignored the longing she suddenly felt to see him again. That was too bizarre.

A man? I mean, come on. Really!

BUY Orientation from the publisher.
ORDER from Amazon.
READ the first chapter of Orientation.

5:09 AM - 21 Comments - 38 Kudos - Add Comment

Home
Current mood: sad
Category: Life

That song's going through my head this morning. You know the one, from West Side Story: that plaintive cry for a place the tragic young couple will never find. It's called "Somewhere." It has lyrics that go something like, "There's a place for us; somewhere a place for us, peace and quiet and open air--" I could go on, but I would be guilty of copyright infringement; I probably already am.

Why am I thinking about "Somewhere" besides the fact that I'm a gay men and everyone knows all we do is obsess about two things: dick and show tunes? Seriously, folks, the fact is I'm thinking about "Somewhere" because I think it's really a song about home. Finding a home. Finding that place that connects with your soul and your spirit. Home. It's such a little word, but so big in import and meaning.

See, this morning, I'm feeling depressed and out of sorts, because I'm feeling kind of adrift and without a home. Oh sure, I have a house (and a lovely one; you can see some pictures in my photos section) and many things to be grateful for.

But the one thing I still don't have, after nearly eighteen months in Miami, is a home. And I've come to the sad realization that I may never feel at home here in this tropical, sun-infused paradise.

What? Are you crazy? Some of you, just shaking the snow and ice of winter off yourselves, might be asking. What are you, some kind of ingrate?

Maybe I am. But all I know is that I grew up in a small, lovely town on the banks of the Ohio River, right where Ohio, West Virginia and Pennsylvania come together, a town rich in history and nestled in a valley at the foothills of the Appalachian mountains. I spent most of my adult life in Chicago and have to say if it's possible to be "in love" with a city, then I am guilty of being in love with Chicago. When I left, I thought my grief and mourning for the city I had called home for almost eighteen years would dissipate as I got more enmeshed in my South Florida life.

Not so.

I still feel like a fish out of water (and not a Florida grouper, either). I wonder if it's possible that my feelings of loneliness and isolation are because somewhere the Midwest and its charms are imprinted on my brain. I wonder if delights such as cool autumn nights, watching a snow storm outside from the snugness of my own warm home, and the first warm breezes of spring can have an almost spiritual and sense memory connection with a person. I wonder if I spent too long in a place to ever feel "at home" somewhere else...especially when that someplace else is so entirely different.

The trees here are beautiful, so are all the flowers and the green. The balmy air and the ocean breeze can be wonderful. But these things don't belong to me and I still feel like I want to go home. I want to be around people with whom I feel more of a kinship (and who speak the same language!). I want to feel the change of seasons. I want the excitement, and yes, renewal that comes for me not every spring, but every fall.

I don't even know if I can put this into words that make any sense. All I know is "somewhere" is on my mind this morning. And, for me, right now, "somewhere" is anywhere but here.

7:00 AM - 41 Comments - 61 Kudos - Add Comment

Quick Follow Up to My Sex Addict Blog
Current mood: horny
Category: Writing and Poetry

Thanks to all of you for your comments on my sex addict blog about Beth Walsh, the heroine of my new book, High Risk. It was an interesting bit of synchronicity that this morning I woke up with a notification from Dark Diva Reviews that High Risk had received their highest rating.

What was interesting was that the reviewer, A.J. Llewellyn, had this to say (bold face mine):

"High Risk is a high-octane thriller that asks the question: What if you picked up the wrong guy? A cautionary tale with surprising twists and turns, it is a page turner despite an unlikable heroine in Beth and increasingly sadistic, tortured psycho in Abbott. Rick R. Reed knows something about addiction, which actually makes Beth a sympathetic character in spite of her extreme behavior. Abbott is also intriguing and original enough to stand out from the typical literary bunny-boiler. Reed's intense pace, crisp dialogue and bare-boned yet atmospheric language make this a must read. You'll want to sleep with the lights on and toss out your Phillip Glass CDs after reading this book."

You can read the whole review here. I just thought it was ironic that A.J. would bring up sexual addiction in the review when I had just posted this blog. I know that the review was written before the blog. It seems sex addicts, or talk of them, is popping up everywhere these days.

Which reminds me: have a great weekend! Don't overindulge!

Maybe when you aren't making the beast with two backs, you might want to relax with a good book.

4:49 AM - 19 Comments - 35 Kudos - Add Comment