The Author

'Louis leaned in and kissed Mark hard on the lips, running his hands over the rough cotton leggings that covered the thighs he wished to be between. It had been days since he'd rescued Mark from the tremulous seas, and this was the first time that his ward had been conscious and awake. The lips parted slightly and felt warm to the touch of his own heated lips. Tentatively, arms reached up and wrapped around his broad shoulders, pulling the rescuer closer to the one he'd rescued. He felt the pressure of his chest against the other, hearts beating rapidly; pushing blood through his system and filling his loins with lust and desire. Soon, however, the other men on his ship would stir and wonder where their Captain was.'

Note to self -- go back and edit "Mark" to "Margo"...

Being the author of several of the quick, easy and passionate romance novels on the market today is easy. Just let your mind go into the moment, lock onto your character and his or, ultimately, her driving forces; identify with them, feel what they're feeling, throw in a smattering of romantic day dream settings -- the decks of the HMS Cosmopolitan or the SS Prowler, the dusty streets of the "Wild West" towns, the prim and overdone Victorian-era London Townhouse or the modern and slick New York penthouse -- add a dollop of "they-want-each-other-but..." circumstances that will be overcome and -- BAM! -- in just over 200 pages, you've got a million-copy seller of the "romance of the week" book club.

But, oh, to be the author of so many of these over-wrought dalliances between "Biff" and "Jane" or "Thomas" and "Sarah" or ... in this case ... "Louis" and "Margo" is just ... well ... it's a job. But it wasn't always easy or quick. It was tough work for the first few times. But then I'd struck onto something -- and I was off and scrolling up the charts of paperback sales.

Well, maybe not me; but rather it was that alter-ego "nom-de-plume" that was getting that climb up the sales chart. Yep, it was "Roark Flaherty" that was going up the charts, not Michael Finnegan Brewster.

But, hey, the "hit of the housewife" that I was made it much easier for me to be the me that I really am: mid-30s, red-haired, blue-eyed, Irish and decidedly, admittedly and completely 100% gay. Oh, and I'm pretty well endowed. Well, I mean my bank accounts. But that other is a pretty impressive piece of me, too.

Roark Flaherty was the other... He was dark haired, dark eyed, and very heterosexual. He was the epitome of typical housewife afternoon fantasy; a cross between some soap-opera stud and movie-marathon magnet. And he never made public appearances. Never; because no matter how hard I tried, there's no way I could ever be him.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm no slouch in the looks department. But, hey, I'm a writer. If I was better, more like my alter-ego, I'd be up on the silver screen; melting hearts and making people swoon with my smoldering features.

But, alas, I'm just an average looking Irish-American guy. I'm about 6 feet tall, and tip the scales at 190. I work out, keeping my body relatively in shape; no, you can't crack nuts between my thighs or in my ass, but they don't wiggle and jiggle like Homer Simpson, either. I get my share of looks at the gym or at the bars; but, again, I'm not a "hottie magnet" that gets all the looks and all the numbers and all the free drinks lined up along the bar.

That's something that is highly underrated, by the way. The free drink; the drink you buy some guy as a way of "introduction". It shows that you have noticed him; and that you've paid enough attention to get an idea of what he's drinking; or at least enough attention for the bartender to know what he's drinking. Then it's just a simple offer of friendship (and 5 bucks from the wallet) and possibly -- if the guy isn't a total slob -- a meeting.

But being one of America's best selling authors of steamy romance doesn't get you a lot of free drinks. Instead, it gets a lot of "who?" and "what?" when talking to some guy. Oh, and the typical "Oh, yeah! My mom reads your stuff!" Not a winner there, either.

So, I often just buy my own drinks and meet some guys and don't get much beyond the "what do you do for a living" question with a quick and easy "I'm a writer" reply. Some want a bit more detail, but I just give them a little to make it easy.

Like I said, though, it wasn't always easy. I never could get into the characters. I mean, I could write some great scenes and some wonderful adventures for Sarah or Sally or Polly or ... well, whatever insipid "every-gal" kind of name I gave her, but I could never really get into the ... romance. The lust and the passion; it always eluded me and threw up road blocks to every attempt I made. And trying to write from the "lustful lothario" point of view didn't work either. I just ... well ... couldn't get it up with him, trying to picture her ... creamy white thighs and voluminous breasts... Yuck!

But then I watched some movie ... OK, it was a porn ... and in the "extra features", there was an interview with one of the stars and he gave away his secret for making hot and fantastic movies -- no matter who his partner was in the scene. He was only "gay-for-pay" -- that he was doing the movies strictly for the cash -- but he had his girlfriend back home that he did everything else with. What he said he did, though, was that he pictured her -- his girlfriend -- instead of the guy he was with. So he never "saw" himself fucking or getting sucked off by some of the great names in gay porn. Nope, it was always sweet Christy ... or whatever the fuck her name was.

So I tried it. Well, no, I did not try porn.

Again, I'm not the body for it! But I tried what he did. Only instead of imagining "him" doing "her" -- I imagined "him" doing "him"! And it worked! I was able to get into the heads of my men (and women) and make things work. It would be "Polly" in the tale -- but in my head, it was Paul. And it was no problem having Felipe get romantic and passionate with Ramona -- as long as it was Ramon. I was suddenly able to churn out story after story -- "Pauline Imperiled by Captain Jake" or "Sarah Saves Sam and San Antonio" or any of the other dozens of dramatic drivels I was able to send to the publisher and get paid for.

The hardest part about it now is remembering to go back and change Paul into Polly or Dane into Diane and remember to swap out the he for the she, the him for the her and all the rest. And, luckily, the editors catch any pronoun miss I make and chock it up to ... productivity.

Now, every man I see is a possible hero -- or heroine -- or a lustful lothario after nothing more than a quick romp in the sheets. Now my porn fueled fantasies can leap to life on the page, albeit in a tamer, more romantic version. Yep, that hot scene from "Butt Pirates of the Caribbean" can become a romantic tryst between Captain Jack and the Governor's Daughter Yvonne instead of 22 minutes of Captain Jack getting sucked off by the Governor and fucking the Admiral of the quaint little Caribbean Isle.

I've also made a few bucks -- very few -- by letting my imagination stay in the gutter and going full-court gay, hot, man on man sex for a scene and selling it to one of the magazines. "Friction Fiction" -- what I call my forays into quick porn stroke stories -- are a fun way to get some of the pent up lust out after writing a scene of passion and romance between "Sarah" and Steve. Or was it Sam? It doesn't matter.

What matters, though, is what my own life will be like. I really need to get laid. All of this Sam and Sarah and Steve and Dane and Jack and... Oh, fuck. I need to get LAID! Usually, when things got this bad; when I'd gone for ... well ... weeks ... with nothing and nobody but my hand and me, myself and I as a romantic partner, I could often find some solace online. I'll log onto one of my favorite sites -- hot-sex-now.com -- and get a little cam-to-cam action going with some other lonely guy. At least it was seeing another cock and I could imagine in front of me and maybe it was my hand slipping up and down.

But lately, I hadn't found anybody that got my juices flowing online. There were a lot of guys, but none of them sparked me lust and passion. Instead, I'd think about my current hero -- Louis. Louis was tall, dark, handsome; impressively built and sexy as all hell. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive-toned skin; of course he was muscular, with massive arms and a chest that you could lick for days and days and not get tired. And, while I could never get so graphic in my tales of passion, Louis had a cock to die for. In my head, his cock was about 8 inches long, thick and darkly olive-toned, with a base buried in black hair and a set of balls that were massive -- each the size of a hard-boiled egg. His cock had a curve to it -- like a ripe banana -- so that it would always be pointing up and filling any willing mouth.

Now that I think of it, all of my heroes are like that. Many of them have certain looks -- ethnic generalities -- that make them seem to be either Italian or South American. Of course, that is probably drawn from my own attraction to those types of men. Dark hair and olive or tanned skin just always seem to get my motor running. Throw in brown or dark green or hazel eyes... Oh, all bets are off, my friend, and my lust train has left the station and is hurtling towards some unknown destination!

Louis, my current hero, had been around in my head for years now and was in a few of my books; almost enough times for the Louis books to be considered a series. I don't remember exactly when he'd entered my stories; he'd been in my head for a long time, as one of my regularly recurring fantasies. What can I say -- I like 'em big, handsome, dark and HUNG!

There have been a few heroes that seem to be based on some current actor; some heart-throb of the silver screen. I've had a rogue Scot, an Australian stud or two and even a German bit of hotness. But so many more are just from those other fantasies I've had.

Just like any other hot-blooded male ... well, um ... gay male ... I've had my share of fantasies about Sean Connery, Hugh Jackman, Russell Crow, Daniel Craig and others. Those men of the silver screen; the hot hunks of action flicks; those are the men I often imagine. Of course, the artwork of Tom of Finland and those that follow in his impressive footsteps, also give some of the men in my life a certain look. Damn-it, though. Why can't I find a guy like that in real life...?

So instead, I take out my passions on the page or in front of the web-cam. But not tonight; I am too revved up and hot and bothered to limit myself to a quick yank-n-spank cum shot. Nope. I want real flesh; real blood; real men; real cum. I want a hard cock, a willing mouth, a hot tussle in the sheets.

So, fully showered and dressed, I head out the door, hoping that one of my favorite bars in town will fill my needs and allow me to fill my mouth and we'll see what else gets filled, too. Luckily, living in the desert resort area of Southern California, there's the "gay zone" where you can find more than a couple of gay bars, restaurants and shops; all in a few blocks. And then a few other blocks over, you find another bar (of a more leather variety) and a few more shops... So within five-minutes, I can go from show-tunes and drag shows, to full dance bars full of twinkie boys to quiet and relaxed neighborhood bars. Then if those don't fit my needs, a few streets away, I find the leather guys, the bears and the ... rougher trade crowd.

I found a spot to park by the show-tune & drag bar and headed in. It was a typical Friday night, show-tune videos playing on the TVs mounted throughout the bar, lots of guys chatting, singing, dancing, drinking. Everybody was having a good time. I got to the bar and ordered my drink from Mickey -- a Long Island Iced Tea -- and he went off and made it. Another bartender came up and gave me a hug "hey, Finny! How ya doin' tonight?" I let friends call me Fin -- but Jimmy has this thing for rhyming names and calls me Finny. I tell him I'm doing well, just as my drink shows up. I lay down a five and walk away, leaving about a buck and a quarter for the tip.

I mingle and meander through the bar, saying "Hi" to those that I know -- either real friends or just bar pals. I find a place to set my drink down and take a breath. Its crowded tonight; but many Friday nights are crowded here. In a few hours, many of the guys will walk down to the dance bar or head for one of the other places around -- either closer to home or more in keeping with their darker desires. I'll probably be doing much the same, heading the few blocks south to The Hammer, the leather dive bar.

After about an hour of Show Line, I knew I wasn't going to find the object of my passion there, so I headed on over to Hammer, hoping I'd find something there. Every once in a while, I feel like that character from the 80's movie where she's a romance novelist and no man ever seems to match up to her hero -- Jesse. Even her publisher, played by that fabulous Holland Taylor, calls her on her obsession with her hero, questioning how she turns down all these guys because they're "not like Jesse?"

But tonight, I was sticking to my guns. I wanted hot, I wanted sexy, I wanted dark, smoldering looks, a built body, and a big cock.

I headed over to The Hammer, parked the car and walked in. I'd tossed the shirt I'd been wearing and went in with just my jeans, boots and a white tank top. I looked tough and butch enough and less like a romance writer. I ordered a drink and wandered through the dark and crowded bar.

There was a dance beat pounding through the speakers, courtesy of the hot local DJ that spun here every Friday night. The pool table was engaged, with a lanky boy bent over, his ass cheeks showing through his ripped jeans, as he lined up a shot. The lock on his collar knocked against the stick as he took his shot, but the cue ball rolled true, knocking the 6 ball into a corner pocket. He moved around the table to line up his next shot, and I continued walking by.

Just as I passed the table, a big man stood up and grabbed me as I tried to walk past. "FIN!" he cried out, "Long time, no see! Where've you been?" I turned and grabbed Steve's crotch, squeezed and gave him a hug.

"I've just been working hard. Deadline is coming up. Need to get the next one done for the Holiday season." Christmas was still over 6 months away, but books had to be put to press early to get them out for the big shopping season. Steve was one of my good pals in town; one who actually knew me and what I did for a living. We'd never hooked up; our friendship was more important than the sex we'd have.

He let go of me, gave me a kiss, and smacked my ass. "Not a lot of heroes here tonight," he smiled and laughed. "Probably have a long night of solo handiwork!" I smiled and nodded and headed on, thinking that he knew me too well.

I was lost in those thoughts when I walked into the guy, smack into the middle of his back. And a very muscular back it was. He was 6'2" inches tall, and had a well built physique, honed by hours of gym time or very hard manual labor. He was wearing only a pair of snug jeans; the white t-shirt he'd been wearing was stuffed into a back pocket.

"Excuse me," I said, glad none of my drink had spilled on him, just the floor. "I'm sorry. I just didn't see you there!" He turned to look at me and I noticed his green eyes almost immediately. Then the rest of his body filled my eyes as he continued his turn.

"No problems, friend. I shouldn't have just been standing in the middle of the floor." A smile crossed his lips, making his eyes light up. I continued to gawk at his body -- the big and furry pecs, the rippled abs, the dark patch of hair working from the chest down into his jeans. The bulge riding just behind the fly of the jeans was also noticeable -- even in the dimly lit bar. He took a step back, stuck out a hand and introduced himself. "I'm Rand."

I took his hand and felt his firm grip. "I'm Mike. But please, call me Fin."

"Fin? Interesting."

"It's from my middle name -- Finnegan." I explained. "Most of my friends call me Fin."

"Well, Fin, it's nice to meet you. Can I buy you a drink?" He smiled and nodded his head at my nearly empty glass. Before I had the chance to answer, he called out to the bar "hey! Johnny! Another round for Fin and me over here!" Johnny nodded and waved and began fixing the drinks.

Rand headed over and picked up the drinks and dropped some cash on the floor and came back.

"There. That's better." He smiled and took a sip from his beer, as I slugged on my cocktail. I was admittedly nervous. I mean, here, in the flesh, really there, was my Louis! Tall, dark hair, tanned skin; definitely the Latin Lothario look that's been in my head -- and books -- for a while now. I found it hard to meet his eyes; he just fit my desire so well. "What's wrong, Fin? Wrong drink?"

"No, no..." I faltered. "It's just ... um ..."

"He's nervous!" was called out from behind us. My pal Steve had been watching the whole thing and knew what I was feeling. Rand looked over my shoulder at Steve and nodded.

"Nervous, eh? What's to be nervous about? We're both guys in a bar full of guys wanting to be with guys. Where's the harm in that...?" His eyes looked directly into mine and I could not turn away. My mind just kept reeling with all of the parts of his body that I wanted to see; to touch; to lick and taste and savor. I must have smiled and blushed a bit, as Rand reached out and put a hand on my shoulder.

"Relax, Fin, I won't bite," he said. "Much." A sly and knowingly sexy look played on his face and I blushed even more.

He moved a bit closer to me. I could feel the heat of his body and could nearly taste his skin. His hand slowly rubbed my shoulder and moved towards my neck. With a quick motion, he pulled me closer and put his lips to mine, planting a powerful kiss on my mouth. His tongue flitted against my lips, trying to find a way inside as he pulled me closer to him. I could taste the beer on his lips and felt his muscular build against my body.

I parted my lips and allowed our tongues to touch; to wrestle in our mouths. His hand pulled my head closer, our noses rubbing and our lips mashed together. I could feel his body against my own; his chest felt firm against my chest; his body was warm and firm against mine; I could feel the bulge in his jeans, his cock and balls snared snugly inside. My own cock was stirring and firming up in my jeans and I wondered if he could feel it.

My body responded to his; feeling his mouth and hands on my face and body. I was melting in a pool of desire and yet a certain part of me was stiffening with that same desire and lust, as well. He slid his hand down my back, paying extra attention to my ass. He grabbed and squeezed through the jeans and I could feel my hole pulse in response. He dragged me over to the wall and then out to the patio area. He pushed me against another wall and pushed his tongue into my mouth again.

As my own tongue bore into his mouth, I could feel his teeth nibble and bite at it. He was hungry for lust. And so was I. I used one of my hands to feel his hairy chest and play with his nipples. My other hand slipped further south and felt his hard cock through the denim that covered it. We both seemed to be hot and horny and wanting each other. I massaged the throbbing muscle through the jeans and wondered how big it really was.

I didn't have long to wait. Rand pulled back from our kiss and looked deep into my eyes. "I want to do more with you than we can -- legally -- do here at the bar. I want to feel your hand on my cock, without the jeans in between." I nodded in agreement and pulled his hand to my chest.

"Follow me" I said as I headed back into the bar and then out the door.