Smoke

Shining machinery

Painting

I paint de temps en temps, but I have a way to go, compared with this!

Artistry of Male

I found this new blog which I'm sure youse guys (and dolls!) will find interesting.  It's called Artistry of Male and it has some amazing pics of men, not necessarily erotic (though some are) but always astonishlingly beautiful.

This image comes from there.  I love the tenderness, the affection, the love.

These images is also very heart-warming:

Touch

A short story, about a two friends just starting down a different road.

Touch.  It can be more eloquent than words.

While I'm ...

... moving across everything from the old laptop to the new one (it's taking forever!),  I thought you'd like this picture.

It's so tender, while also being erotic.

Love.  In all its facets.

Enjoy.

This guy's a beauty

But tell me, do you think his eye colour is natural or from contact lenses?

It's exactly the colour of the eyes of  Ben, from my new novel Zing Went the Strings of my Heart.  It's a sort of sequel to I Get no Kick from Champagne.  In fact, he pretty much looks like my mental image of Ben.

Here're the first coupla paragraphs:

It was late when Ben came out of the nightclub. Alone.

It had been a good session. Fluid Exchange had been the lead band, and he liked them. He suspected that the saxophonist was an exotic. He was also not a little puzzled by the lead singer’s energy field—a wizard? A bard? He hadn’t felt one quite like that before. And he was sure he’d seen an elf on the dance floor, and another, younger, talking with the saxophonist and the lead guitarist. If it hadn’t been impossible – a human, an elf and an exotic – he’d have said all three were family, from the way they interacted.

As always, just before he stepped out of the protection afforded by the doorway, he quickly scanned each side of the narrow street, in both directions. There was nothing. Yet a prickling alert made the nape of his neck shiver. He had learnt the hard way not to ignore these warnings.

He turned and sauntered towards brighter illuminations of the main street, deliberately affecting a nonchalance he did not feel. Away from the light spilling from the door of the nightclub, it was dark, and his sense of danger grew. Like all his kind, he could see very well at night. There were no recent infra-red trails, no fading traces of dangerous auras. Yet the prickling was beginning to feel like needles piercing his skin. Out of a side alley, a space only a few yards wide and not much longer, he felt the residue of a wave of malevolence, a dab of filth brushing against his mind and fouling his aura. He reached for the weapon he always kept in his handbag, widened his pupils, tuned his ears to maximum alertness and breathed deep the foetid scents of rubbish, piss, dogshit, and evil. His gun raised, he turned into the alley, and began to walk forward.

I Get No Kick From Champagne

This was the third novel I wrote, and the first one where I felt that I knew what I was doing. On rereading it, I've decided it's rather good. Well, it is!

I've just uploaded Chapter 2, and fixed up the formatting of Chapter 1.

It's a story about a laddish straight guy who discovers that he has much more in him than he ever realised. He finds that every preconceived notion about himself is wrong, and that he is both better and worse than he ever believed.

Enjoy.