The Art of Touch by Dominique Frost

Title: The Art of Touch
Author: Dominique Frost
Cover Artist: April Martinez
Publisher: Loose Id
Publisher Buy Link: The Art of Touch
Genre: contemporary
Length: 20,517 words/ 79 PDF pages

Jared Hamilton is the director of the famous law firm, Hamilton & Hamilton. He’s a brusque, no-nonsense type that doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Thus, it is no surprise that he finds Kyle Washburn instantly and aggravatingly annoying.

Kyle is Jared’s massage therapist and is cheeky and irreverent. Jared doesn’t like cheekiness or irreverence. Unfortunately, Kyle also turns out to be absolutely brilliant at his job, which means that Jared can’t find an excuse not to return to the massage parlor when Kyle’s massages are clearly having such a beneficial effect. Jared is more relaxed and congenial than ever - well, as congenial as he can be.

It is only when another one of Kyle’s customers implies having had sex with Kyle that Jared realizes that he, too, finds Kyle sexually desirable - and that the thought of anyone else touching Kyle is unbearable. This revelation changes Jared’s perspective and his behavior, and he finds himself more and more attracted to Kyle with each therapy session. But does Kyle want him, in return, or is all that flirtation just part of the art of touch?
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Failing to read the excerpt in this case was an extremely good thing, because I might have bailed at the present tense within a paragraph or two. And that would have been a shame, because this turned out to be a lot of fun.


Jared specializes in being an uptight asshole, although he’s got enough covert sparks of humanity to go with it that everyone around him, from his sassy personal assistant to his wealthy uncle, looks out for him. Not that he likes that or appreciates it, because he doesn’t, and he’s loud about kicking and screaming at every sign of thoughtfulness, which he manages to lap up. Under severe protest, of course.

Kyle turns out to be another one of those persistent, pesky caretakers, and he’s just adorable. He gently contradicts Jared at every turn, performing his particular brand of magic, which turns Jared more nearly human. Unfortunately, that humanity returns in stages, and some of the stages are kind of ugly. Kyle teases gently or calls bullshit on him, which brings out more of that latent humanity.

The relationship between Kyle and Jared has to blossom more as a friendship, giving Jared time to rejoin the human race. A lot of details about the two men come out during this unfolding. It’s deftly done and develops the characters beautifully. When they do finally come together, Jared is a very different man than he began, and Kyle has revealed a number of depths.

The story is periodically humorous, although it doesn’t go for non-stop knee-slapping. Jared’s moments of foot in mouth aren’t glossed over with humor but are treated with the seriousness the offenses deserve. He’s not let off lightly, although he does most of the tormenting himself.

I really enjoyed the pacing of the story and the interplay between the men; their hidden details are unrolled slowly and in such a way that you can see them falling in love. There was one sex scene that seemed shoehorned in, and one element of the ending was probably meant to illustrate hidden depths but came so completely out of the blue that it was weird instead of illustrative, but otherwise the story was very nicely done.

Present tense stories usually leave me cold, because the form is hard to manipulate for character and development, with the action always stuck in the now. This story is among the best examples of present tense work in any genre I have read, and the development stacks up with the best. Warmly recommended. 4.5 marbles

A Thousand Word Excerpt from PD Singer

From Return to the Mountain by PD Singer

Adjusting his grip on the five iron, Gary addressed the seventeenth ball from his bucket. The Phippsburg municipal course wasn’t a good patch on the Wapiti Creek course, but the resort courted golfers who could be playing at Augusta or Plum Creek instead. The town spent a sizeable chunk of its Parks and Recreation budget on golf, and the course saw plenty of use. The Humphrey Chamberlin High School golf team teed off three times a week during fourth hour and spent plenty of time on the driving range and putting greens in exchange for some grounds maintenance.

Today was a driving range day, and Gary wasn’t getting anywhere close to the distance he needed on each ball. With grim determination and studied relaxation, he lifted the club behind his head and swung. If he’d been trying to practice hooking the ball instead of driving it, he’d be happier with his performance so far.


At this rate, he’d win the prize for “gets most use out of his greens fees.”

He teed up another ball and checked his club. Maybe he’d selected wrong, or maybe he’d just found the real reason the club’s unknown first owner had hurled it into the rough. Gary’d purchased none of the clubs in his bag; they’d been foundlings left unclaimed at Wapiti Creek and donated to the school. Not all of his clubs possessed completely straight shafts.

Two golfers away, Seth took his backswing with his driver and attacked his ball. Gary helped Seth admire the flight, and long seconds later, the ball bounced among the few others that had made it out to 230 yards today. Seth had probably landed most of those, too, because they fell in a tight grouping in a very nearly straight line out from his position. Gary had landed one or more balls in front of every one of his six teammates.

If the coach came over to try redirecting Gary’s shots again, one or both of them would scream. Instead, the coach summoned Seth. “Morgan, see if you can’t straighten Richardson out.”

Like that would work anyway. But Seth might help with his swing.

After taking one shot with Gary’s club, proving the damned thing could send a ball anywhere an expert wanted, Seth returned it to Gary. “Okay, settle your stance behind the ball.” Feeling far too aware of the desirable presence behind him. Gary obeyed, and tried not to shiver when Seth touched his arms with warm hands.

“Check your grip, and—oh, here….” Instead of explaining, Seth tried swiveling Gary’s hips in a little circle, hands on his waist. “Your back’s stiff.”

No shit. And that wasn’t all. But Gary tried to gyrate easily under Seth’s direction, settling in a straight line once the wiggling stopped. Damn this for being in public, damn the clothing and damn all for this being about golf. Wanting to take a half step back and find naked Seth to press against wouldn’t make his next shot go one degree closer to his target. Swallowing hard, Gary told himself to do nothing Seth hadn’t advised, and why couldn’t the guy use more words and fewer touches? Seth had a firm grip on Gary’s shoulders now, massaging them in circles. “Okay, now take your backswing, but don’t swing.”

Poised in a position he desperately want to uncoil, Gary lifted the club into the air and let Seth pat one shoulder higher.

“Feel that?” Seth asked.

Hell yes. Gary felt hot breath on his neck and fingers of fire through his thin cotton T-shirt. And he felt his left arm’s extension just a little differently, with the three neurons still paying attention to what he was supposed to be concentrating on.

“Come down and then backswing again.” Seth made that same little push, and then he stepped out of range. “Again, and swing.”

Something felt different, and it wasn’t just Gary’s groin. He stepped forward and addressed the ball.

“Go for it,” Seth encouraged him, and like any proper Seth-struck ball, the stupid thing sailed off the head of Gary’s club into the sky, landing a highly satisfactory 140 yards out and nearly on a line with the demo ball. “Do it again.”

Hot damn. It worked. The temptation to undo what he’d just learned to get Seth to come close for another bit of hands-on coaching was very strong, but he’d probably screw up again without a lot of trying. That was the way of skills, a few good attempts, a few not so good. Better not mess up deliberately—he did want to hang on to the better motions. Gary teed another victim and exiled it by 120 yards, although his hook was back enough to land it farther to the left than he wanted.

“Set your ball.”

Seth’s thin frame at his back was setting both of Gary’s balls way more than he wanted—bending to tee up brought too many of his late night fantasies back. Shaking the thoughts away like flies, Gary gave himself half a face full of blond curls. At least his halo of fluff kept Seth from seeing the neon glow of his cheeks.

“Backswing.”

Couldn’t they just run behind the clubhouse and fall into a writhing, naked heap, instead of doing this “wiggle your ass around ’til your back is loose” thing, or the shoulder rubbing that made Gary want to drag Seth’s arms around him and crush their mouths together?

No. They could not. Seth reached around to fix Gary’s grip, turning his hands slightly on the grip to turn the shaft. Couldn’t Seth just tell him? No. Seth never found the words for instructions, just the little pats and twists that made Gary need to handle his other shaft until he could concentrate on anything related to golf. His grip for that would be just fine, even if it would be better for Seth’s coaching, or better yet, for his help.

Oh, damn. They were still on the golf course. With something approaching desperation, Gary nailed the ball for 160 yards straight out and a small “Wahoo!” from Seth. Wahoo indeed. Wahoo would be when he got somewhere private and took care of his stiff dick.
**********
Thanks, Pam! This was a scene from her new book, Return to the Mountain. Top of my TBR list now!

Caddy Gary Richardson hungers for the lush life of the wealthy golfers he escorts around the course at Wapiti Creek. The contrast between his tiny trailer at the edge of a mountain town and the luxurious ski and golf resort is something he’s learned to live with but not like. Gary wants the fancy condo and late-model car not just for himself but for his childhood friend turned lover, Seth Morgan. He’d settle for security for the two of them, but even that seems out of reach.

Seth is content with Gary and enough spare cash for greens fees at municipal golf courses. Going pro is beyond his means, even if he plays well enough to win on the championship resort courses. Gary would do anything to fulfill Seth’s dreams, even things he’d rather keep to himself. When an unheard of opportunity knocks, Gary can answer or resign himself to living on tips from affluent tourists.

But Seth can’t live with that answer when it means his trust has been betrayed. He has to let go and hope the man he loves will find his way home.

From Dreamspinner, Amazon, All Romance eBooks and other fine eTailers.

It's kind of, well, unkind. Kindof. Or kindof not.

This is a reaction to a piece on Jessewave's, where Rick R Reed spoke about kindness. He called for civilized discourse in all things. and I'm fully behind that. However,  what is civilized can also be perceived as unkind, depending, and what an observer may just take as an opinion may be fighting words to someone who's much closer to it. I can only control what I say or write, I cannot control how others perceive it.


There are times when I can review kindly or I can review honestly. Honesty without snark is what I strive for, and at times I have asked experienced reviewers to read over posts to make sure I haven't stepped over the boundary. It may be that I've missed the mark at times. It may also be that the neutral statement of a negative opinion, as Anel Viz put it in the comments to Rick's thread, doesn't feel so neutral to someone. I am mindful that there is a person on the other end.

What Rick said except in one instance didn't set me off as badly as some of the commenters did, and much of this post is in response to them. What some folks are defining as kindness looks a lot more like protection from honest opinions. And is that actually kind? Because the truth is going to come out sometime. The truth can come out with civility, and that is the best one can ask.

Sometimes the most damning review is to summarize a couple of of plot points. Sometimes it's to quote a few lines of text. If the author's own words create the unkindness, then the reviewer is SOL. Walk on by isn't always an option. I have been approached for reviews outside of Wave's umbrella for whatever reason, and those folks get the option of not posting if I can't honestly rate at 3 or above, and they get that because it takes some courage to ask. Some people have taken me up on that. Others have said post. But at Wave's it's buffet rules--we touch it, we take it. I would have bailed on more than a few books had that been an option.

As did Val, I reacted to these words of Rick's: even if that output was utter garbage. It was still someone’s baby

No, this is not someone's baby. A brainchild unleashed on the world has to follow a social contract, which is: it provides something of value in exchange for the audience's limited resources of time and/or money. If it doesn't enlighten, entertain, educate, or provoke thought, it's already violated that social contract. And if it has, a signpost saying so isn't unreasonable. And it won't always be perceived as kind. I might spend as long writing a negative review as I spent reading the work, trying for something that sounds neutral and I HATE that. I have limited time on this planet, and someone's  book just sucked up an irreplaceable part of it. Who has been unkind here?

And yeah, it would be a whole lot easier to just read established names and not review, lest I be perceived as unkind. There are days when this seems like a very, very good idea.

In a review, no one is entitled to more than basic civility. A review isn't meant to provide writing advice to the author, though if it does that's nice. Should a review contain at least one crumb of praise? What if the one praisable thing is "It was written in complete sentences"?  The cries of "snark!" will ring out for that one, but there are books that are just that bad. The authors who write them and the publishers who offer them still want our $6.99.

A friend refers to the "include praise" bit as Suzuki reviewing, after the way she taught her kids to play violin. Seize on the one good thing and ask them to do it again, with a little tweak (to fix the total fail part.) That's fine, it's good teaching.

Reviews aren't teaching except by accident; they are an assessment of a finished product. And authors are not five year olds with miniature violins playing for mommy and teacher. Don't mistake a review for instruction, and don't mistake a reviewer for mommy who praises the smallest accomplishment. If it's being offered for sale, it has to meet that social contract and it's the reviewer's job to mention if it has or hasn't or to what degree. That  can be done without snark, but kindness is often in the eye of the beholder. Best I can promise is honesty.

A picture is worth...

If I make a hole in one joke, is someone going to throw tomatoes? Anyone who can come up with something better is invited to do so, look here for directions. 100-1000 words is great.

Prelude to the Night by Angela Ploughman

Title: Prelude to the Night
Author: Angela Plowman
Cover Artist: Valerie Tibbs
Publisher: Loose Id

Publisher Buy Link
Genre: historical, vampires
Length: novella 136 pages, 34k

Victorian England is a place of double standards and hidden mysteries. A chance meeting at the opera propels dutiful, innocent Christian into the seductive arms of an older man.

Valentine has come to England searching for a reason to live. He walks in the darkness listening for that siren's song which will recall him to life. He may have found it in beautiful young Christian but can he persuade Christian to give up the conventions of society and walk a more dangerous path?

Between the two there are perils in the London fog which could separate them forever. The conflict of his comfortable life on one side and the dangers of loving Valentine on the other threaten to tear Christian apart. Whichever path his choose, listening to the music of the night is likely to cost Christian his soul.
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This novel takes us back to a more formal time, when young men escorted their mothers to the opera and liked it, and young women could lose their reputations at a glance. Christian is the man of his family, his father being deceased, and is responsible for his mother and sister. It’s a year past the date when Oscar Wilde went to prison, and Christian doesn’t plan to tell a soul where his desires lie.

The writing is beautifully atmospheric, its slight formality and period word choice take us back 120 years. I had no trouble at all feeling transported to London of the late nineteenth century, where culture and appearances reigned in the well lit quarters, ruffians lurked in every dark corner, and modern conveniences like antibiotics didn’t exist. The story is framed as a flashback so there isn’t much question about which choices are made, but the language of the frame is lovely.

Valentine is a fairly standard vampire, the Count of somewhere Carpathian, centuries old and bored with having seen it all twice. He’s entirely too fascinating to Christian, and tends to turn up in the strangest places because of his attraction to the young man. It’s totally an insta-want/insta-love on his part, but to Valentine's credit, he doesn’t use Dracula’s less pleasant methods to obtain his desires.

It’s insta-lust on Christian’s part, though perhaps not of his volition. He, of course, is torn, but the choices become no longer his in a way that was both startling and perfectly in period. This was equally horrifying and suitable, and made me adore a secondary character.

I enjoyed this book, although in places I was thinking I’d read “generic vampire trope,” but something unique in the ending and the lovely language rescued the book from the mundane. 4 marbles

A Thousand Word Thursday story from A.B. Gayle

An Extra Scene From Leather + Lace from A.B. Gayle

Rancid, that’s the word I was looking for. Not tangy or any of the other wanky descriptors emblazoned on the outside of the pack. Ever since good old Minos of Crete slapped a goat’s bladder on his tickler, inventors have sought Nirvana: condoms that taste as good as the real thing. Brother, nothing tastes as good as the real thing. Sure, they smell divine and, at first, the chocolate flavour might add a touch of decadence to the proceedings, but after a few decent sucks, the damn lingering lilt of latex inevitably returned. Unfortunately, the orange, coconut and banana varieties tasted just as putrid. Compactylon, retractylon, sensatylon or whatever the rival brand is called might have been better, but thanks to the huge bag of bucks donated by the manufacturer to tonight’s charity, we were stuck with these goddamnawful things.

In a way, it was my own fault for taking too bloody long to finish the guy off. I should have been as efficient as my fellow participant. Talk about a fucking Hoover! Cycling his clientele through like a bottling plant. Cock in mouth, quick suck, full condom, next please. Trouble is, I’d been trained to believe that if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well and, judging by the moans of appreciation coming from somewhere above my head, the guy connected to the dick in my mouth seemed to agree.

Next time, our customers should be charged by the minute, not by the load. That way, my tally would match the Hoover or Dyson or whatever the twink working beside me was called. Dawson. That’s right. Dawson the Dyson. I might suggest that when we finally come up for air. Much better than his current porn star tag. Mind you, he was definitely well versed in the art. Probably did this every day for a living, whereas I made more money in my usual line of work. A lot more. Come to think of it, I should have just calculated my earnings and donated the money instead of wearing out my knees and getting a serious case of lockjaw.

Wearing knee pads would have helped too. Especially as my outfit would have disguised the fact. I should have remembered from bitter experience what spending hours in this position felt like, and it wasn’t as if there were plush pile carpets in the games room of the Hotel Paradiso.

When I arrived, I’d been surprised that the Blowjob for Bucks segment was being conducted so openly, but apparently the phrases: testing a new range of condoms specifically designed for oral use, infection prevention strategies and all for a good cause had magically morphed into something legal, or at least worthy of a blind eye from the vice squad. At least, I hoped so.

I took another long, slow slurp along the sheathed shaft in my mouth and barely suppressed a shudder at the taste of the latex. Maybe that was the reason for my stupid agreement to participate. One sucked condom too many. In the process, a Trojan virus must have wormed its way into my brain, short-circuiting any common sense that would have warned me that coming back to Australia was a bad idea. A very bad idea. Especially, considering I’d been taking such pains to keep my whereabouts secret. My carefully shored up defences had started to unravel when I heard through the grapevine that Fred was now in charge of the hotel where we met. Possibly my self-imposed exile was starting to wear thin, and there had been a Freudian slip when I sent him a Good Luck email. “You’ll need it,” I had added, “but if anyone can make a success of that dive, you can!”

The invitation to participate arrived soon after. “It’s about time you came back, anyway.” Fred seemed keen for me to have a chat with Master D, an American BDSM expert who was also part of the re-opening extravaganza. He had to be kidding. A leather man was the last person I wanted to speak to. Tonight, it was all about seeing whether my ex was still in the scene without being seen. Catch my drift?

Poor Fred nearly had a coronary when I turned up a couple of weeks later, dressed to impress. He’d never seen me in drag before, but after he picked himself up off the floor and stopped laughing, he could see the potential. “Some straight friends of mine are coming, and they might prefer to be sucked off by someone who looks like a girl.”

Yeah. Especially when that girl bears a stunning resemblance to Stevie Nicks.

Okay, I know. She’s not your usual subject for impersonation, but with all the other female rock stars being done to death, once I got that curly wig on my head, the image kinda stuck. Who would have thought I’d ever be grateful for the pretty-boy face that had been the bane of my existence growing up, or could quit worrying about my lack of inches or the fact that no matter how much I ate, I never put on any weight? Once, my muscles would have been a dead giveaway, but since escaping from the all-controlling whip wielder, both metaphorical and physical, I’d lost a lot of my previous gym-bunny condition.

Ah, finally. The cock in my mouth swelled and jerked, filling the condom that I had carefully smoothed on ten minutes ago. Damn it, Dyson was already onto his third punter and my next one was still sheepishly taking out his flaccid member. While he readied himself, I applied some more Papaw ointment and waggled my jaw to release the aching muscles. Once I started again, my allotted stint sped by, and I soon passed my companion’s tally. Nice to know that I still sucked with the best.

Leather + Lace

An Opposites Attract novel (available from Dreamspinner for preorder--releases March 22)

Swathed in chiffon and lace, Steven Stanhope owns the stage as Stevie Tricks, lip-synching the songs of the famous gypsy queen. But after he escapes an abusive Master/slave relationship, the only collar he'll allow around his neck is black velvet.

After a four-year absence, Steve is ready to reclaim his life and the property he left behind. But is it safe? Definitely not if his ex is still into leather. To find out, Steve appears at a charity night for the local BDSM community, using the anonymity of his stage persona to mask his identity.

Instead of his ex-Master, Julius, Steve finds a tangled mess centered around another Master of Leather, Donato Rossi. In order to unravel their ties to the past, Steve and Don must find common ground and work together. In the process, they learn that when it comes to love, sometimes you have to make your own rules.

Vanity Fierce by Graeme Aitken

Title: Vanity Fierce
Author: Graeme Aitken
Cover Artist: not available
Publisher: Random House Australia
Amazon Buy Link: [amazon_link id="B008JVXCDO" target="_blank" ]Vanity Fierce[/amazon_link]
Publisher Buy link: Vanity Fierce
Genre: Contemporary/recent historical
Length: 375 pages

The ultimate comic novel of gay Sydney – Armistead Maupin meets Melrose Place at the Mardi Gras!

Stephen Spear is everyone's golden boy (including his own). Blond, blue-eyed, blessed with every talent and advantage, he has the world falling at his feet. And he's ready to trample all over it.
When Stephen falls for Ant, the only gay man he knows who still has chest hair, he is astounded to find his desire unrequited. Or is it? Ant is so inscrutable, it's impossible to be entirely sure.

But Stephen is determined to get his man. And if the wiggle of his cute butt isn't enough, then scheming, lying and manipulating is second nature to him. He's too young to realise that love can be tricky enough without adding any extra complications.

Vanity Fierce is a love story that's big on outrageous schemes, dark secrets and firm muscles.

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I had read one of the author’s shorts a while ago, and so when he inquired if I was interested in this novel, I was ready to read and I enjoyed it on several levels.


The odd genre listing is because while Vanity Fierce was a contemporary when it was new (1998), it’s definitely a look at a very specific time, and simply isn’t transportable into current day. Which is fine—we need periodic reminders of what went before, because it affects our world now.

Our protag, Stephen, introduces himself to us while he’s in the Australian equivalent of high school and brings us along for the next few years of his life in Sydney, while he’s exploring his sexuality and trying to find his place in the world. Not that this is really a coming of age story either—Stephen isn’t that introspective. He is a lot of fun though.

He’s cheerfully amoral, with most everyone he meets getting wrapped around his little finger in short order. He’s not manipulative so much as able to see what people would like to do and then making it very easy for them to do it, particularly if it’s to his benefit. Some of his late teen exploits are coffee-snort inducing. (Do you want to preserve your sister’s virginity? he asks the wide-eyed brother of the nymphet he’s chastely dating, and the boy can’t get on his knees fast enough.) He builds a reputation as the over-achieving golden boy with a bright future ahead of him, the joy of his aging actress mother and the perplexity of his restrained but surprisingly complex father.

And then it’s into the world—and he seems to expect to coast on his past, except he’s having some trouble reconciling himself to being a not-nearly so big fish in a much huger pond, and his wiles have to adapt. There are—horrors!—people who don’t provide what he wants in exchange for a bit of carefully bestowed attention. And the real world has a lot of temptations—it’s more fun to hit the clubs than to hit the books. Once he’s come out to his parents, Stephen goes on to attend university with much wrangling over what he’s to study: something interesting and artistic, or more mundane but steadily lucrative, like law. He’s living in a raucous neighborhood, considered so disreputable that its name changes to something more proper depending on who’s talking. The transvestite hookers at the bottom of the stairs are occasionally friends and confidants, as well as funny and philosophical.

And into this mix drops the one man that Stephen is totally smitten with, and for a variety of reasons, can’t approach directly. Ant (short for Anthony but I never did quite get away from 6-legged picnic crashers) has dropped Stephen square into the friend zone, and Stephen is desperate to get out. He’s not used to being told “no” for any reason, and his plots and ruses to change Ant’s mind fuel a large section of the book. He needs a good smack for some of his tricks, but he made me laugh for his charming naughtiness.

This story doesn’t especially feel like a romance, even with Stephen’s pursuit of his unrequited love, who seems to be absolutely random in his choices and decisions. It’s more like a memoir in its structure, with the feel of the narrator telling stories from his life over a beer or six, shaded for maximum entertainment rather than strict truthfulness. It’s a really good time even when Stephen’s coming across as less than admirable (you’ll still snicker). Ant and Stephen have some wildly differing agendas.

About that HEA—it’s more of an HFN—and it’s an amazing thing. The last quarter of the book shoves Stephen into some serious growth, and it made me sniffle, in the best way, even with the foam. And I challenge anyone to read that last line and not smile.

The style has a flavor of Australia, enough to place it, but the slang isn’t overwhelming and indecipherable, and the whole is very accessible for the American reader. The descriptions are illustrative enough that we aren’t left in the dark about the implications of living in Woollahra or being gay in 1995.

Humorous (and yes, I nearly wrote humourous) with a serious undercurrent, and very entertaining. 4.25 marbles