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Last Monday Mykola (Mick) Dementiuk won his second Lambda Literary Award. His unique voice and his dedication to his craft has established him as a real force in LGBT fiction. Please join me as he answers questions about his writing and his remarkable life.

Mick, Coney Island 1958

Mick, Coney Island 1958

You just won another Lambda Literary Award, Mick – congratulations! Your first was in 2009 in Bisexual Fiction, this year in Gay Erotica. That’s wonderful recognition of your work.

Yeah, I feel nice, happy really, but now I’m on to editing another piece with very tight time limits and it’s getting close to the end that I’m a bit mangled, you know but nothing I haven’t handled before.

You never stop, do you? Your bio says your family immigrated to New York’s Lower East Side when you were two. What was it like growing up there?

Nice and quiet, peaceful, really. But then I started going to Ukrainian grade school… Boy, oh boy, oh boy, end of any peace in my life but all of the Ukrainian kids were like that. The majority were like me, exiles from World War 2 devastated Europe, as if we knew what that meant; we were nothing but “strangers in a strange land” and if I uselessly got in trouble I only was repeating what I’d seen my elders doing, that is being a rebel. Ukrainian school educated me into expecting nothing from anyone but the back of the hand from the world, of which there still were more whacks to come.

Your stories are often set in a New York that no longer exists but comes alive in your writing. When did you start writing them?

I more or less have been writing my entire life, even in my early teen years I always carried a little notebook and I would always be jotting things down. My dream of being a writer came when I’d won a 5th or 6th grade poetry contest; the teacher even hung the poem on the wall. I used to carry the notebooks but funny thing is, I’d jot them down, come to the end of my notebook, pick up another and forget about ever having kept a notebook in the first place! It wasn’t so much the actual writing, word for word that trained me, but just the mechanics of writing, the getting it all down. That’s why writing has never fazed me, also why I can do so much so often. And there is always something else to write about.

I read a comment from you somewhere that you didn’t expect to go back into the city again, even though you live nearby in New Jersey. Why is that?

New York City has drastically changed, I don’t mean a block or two here and there but entire communities have been erased, as if they never did exist in the first place. They’re been replaced by the Big Bucks of the wealthy and powerful. The community I grew up in, the Lower East Side, no longer exists. Gone are the mom and pop stores, the little bodegas where you get a can of cerveza and move on, all replaced with fancy clothing stores and chic boutiques, meaning if they cleaned up the Bowery of bums and winos they also cleaned up the Lower East Side of the writers and poets. But they’ve pretty much gone through all of Manhattan, Chinatown, Little Italy, the Ukrainian and Polish neighborhoods. Mayor Bloomberg had the right idea, make poverty neighborhoods trendy and chic while raising the rents sky-high, that’s the way to get the old out while moving in the new. But you have to give it to Bloomberg at least he knew what being a mayor is like, erase the poor like they never were there to begin with.

I don’t think I’ve read any author that carries the same intensity of focus on character, as if the story itself needs much less attention. Or maybe the character IS the story. Is that a fair assessment? How do you approach character and story?

I really don’t know, stories seem to come at me, sort of knocking me on the head. Some writers have specific techniques I don’t, I just write.

And you’ve got a lot of them down in writing. That’s a lot of work. Your writing has an immediacy to it that makes me think you draw heavily from personal experience. Is that true?

Personal experience? Perhaps, but I do recall many times as I’d wander the streets I’d see someone go by and instantly wonder what would happen if I went with him or her? Nothing, maybe everything, you just had to let yourself be open to life. That’s the trick, most of us simply can’t or won’t. Life calls…and we ignore it and go on with what we were doing. Cleaning bathrooms, eating trash or writing novels, I’ve done them all.

In 1998 you had a massive stroke that changed your life. I deeply admire your courage and tenacity in recovering. May I ask you a couple of questions about that?

Sure, shoot…

You had to teach yourself how to type again. What was that like?

carrots and me

carrots and me

I have to thank computers for being around in the late ‘90s otherwise I probably wouldn’t write at all. I can’t imagine using a manual typewriter, inserting in a sheet of paper, hitting the return shift after each sentence, pulling out the paper at the end, only to begin the process of inserting it again. Whew, that’s already got me tired and disgusted. Yet typists have been doing just that for so many years and years and years. I think it was Steven Jobs and Bill Gates who suspected something was wrong, that I needed help in the weird process so they got to work of creating computers. I’m glad they did that but I’m still waiting for my royalties. Oh, well, life goes on… but I’m not gonna wait forever!

I understand that all to well! How long does it take you to type a thousand words?

About an hour and a half to two hours. Don’t forget I use only my left index finger to do most of the typing, with sometimes my thumb or pinky when I use different capital letters. Anyway, that’s my usual writing for the day, a thousand words, but then comes the grueling editing and that seems to take forever! But it’s never done to my satisfaction while some publisher demands it and I give them what they want. It’s out of my hands. I feel like Pilate washing his hands of Jesus when I give my manuscript up.

Yikes–you’re faster than I am! Your style is compelling and unmistakable. Can you say something about how you came to it, and what view of the world fuels it?

By just doing it every day and never mind where the publication will come from. The first thing I wrote after I had the stroke was “Times Queer,” a memory on Times Square in the 1960’s when I first started going up there. Those were the days…. And in the slow way I was doing the typing, I never got more than a few sentences but the next day I added a few more until the story came out. And I think it’s a very good story, it shows the mood and feeling of what Times Square was like in those days, sexy but very playful unlike the crime and drugs which pretty much put the finishing touches into the Deuce, the name which 42nd Street was called back then.

I get a sense that you consider yourself an existentialist, and something of a literary outlaw. Is that true?

Sure, existentialist, but I don’t know of literary outlaw, that’s the first time anyone has called me that, but I like it! Anyway, I like William Burroughs, there’s a book about him called Literary Outlaw, I read it some years ago, he used to live on the Bowery, not too far from where I lived. But many writers once lived there, I used to live a few buildings away from Allen Ginsberg on 13th Street, but the entire Lower East Side was writer’s heaven, not so anymore.

You won a Lambda Award in 2009 for best bisexual fiction, and you often write transsexual characters or characters that blur gender lines. Can you say something about what these people bring to your stories that others can’t?

Maybe that’s the kind I go for, feminine men, you never know what you’re going to find under their skirts, a real woman or a somewhat man. I’ve been with both before the skirts revealed what they were. One was as good as the other to me. I adore female clothes. The hardness is there in any case, male or female. That never bothered me, I could go with anyone. You could say, I’m bisexual but I’ve always hated the term or any term to describe me, I’m simply a hard-up fellow, take me as I am, before I’ll take you!

(Laughing) Thanks for fair warning! Which writers do you admire?

Most I’ve read over and over since my teen years, Henry Miller, Dostoyevsky, Victor Hugo and assorted other classic writers. As for the living, there’s Victor Banis, whose Lola Dances I’ve read three or four times and will read it again. Victor has a way of taking you into the story and before you even know it you’ve read over fifty pages without even knowing it. Any writer who can suck you in like that is a writer I admire and want to be like.

Erastes, whose Standish, is a masterwork describing English gentleman in the 1880s (I assume, it’s the 1880s but the books not in front of me) who weren’t so very gentle with each other.

Alan Chin, with the book Island Song burst upon the gay literary scene sweeping all other so-called literary books aside. I loved his book.

There have been others, I intend to read Dorein Gray, Jon Michalsen, and a few others but I still haven’t read either but will do so sooner or later

Most of your stories have frequent sexual encounters — some with emotional context, but others, not so much. What does sex mean to you?

What can it mean? Sex means fucking!


Hmmm… Nope, never did it to someone I was related to. Sorry… (but I do know what you mean by relationship, I’m simply not that perverted though many have called me sick and a weirdo.)

You seem to be producing more shorter works lately. Is that a deliberate decision, or just the way your stories have been coming out?

They just come that way, no plan when I first start but beginning, middle and end that seem to fit together. I have no real scenario just get the story out and see where it goes. A fifty-page book, more or less, seems the ideal size to tell the story in.

Is there one piece of yours that you could point to and say, “That’s the work I’m most proud of?”

My favorite is my novella Baby Doll, concerns a boy who discovers his gay sexuality in the 1980s when AIDS was just rearing its ugly big head for all to see. Alan Chin wrote a strong review.

I wrote it in remembrance of a boy I used to see some years ago in the neighborhood, who used to experiment with teasing men in the same way that they used to play with him. These were seemingly straight men that would sometimes disappear off in hallways. I, too, was aroused by him but sadly we never seemed to hit off each going our own way. He was dead before we ever learned of AIDS existing, which it was for him.

Anyway, I wrote the story in about a week’s time. I had just lost a job and had no prospects or leads of getting another. Was a hot summer, really sweltering, and I recalled the boy I used to see a few summers ago on the streets. The story came out full force as one very long sentence. Sally Miller, my editor at the time, put in paragraphs, periods and commas, and I suppose that did very well. In my eyes, I wrote it as a Jack Kerouac On The Road unedited scroll sentence which I think still is the best sentence I ever wrote but of course my editor frowned at it and changed it. But really she made it readable so I thank her for that.

What are you working on now?

Tentative title: A Ukrainian Melody, Sort Of…

Do you have plans for another full-length novel?

Yes, at least I’m trying to do one. Was in touch with Cerevana Brava Press, Somerville, MA who asked to see a novel I’ve been working on, A Ukrainian Melody, Sort Of… which looks at my early years of growing up in NYC. They publish mostly Eastern European authors or those who have had contact with the language and culture. My childhood years fit in with them completely. Just a rundown of how I became how I am, of course all fictionalized but I have to keep the story going.

I examine my life in the 1950-60s, way before my Times Square days, oh, what innocence that was, at least that’s how the world was befuddled into seeing me and my kind. It’s really about an accordionist who gets involved with a young girl at a wedding social with assorted other Ukrainian characters around, men, women, gays, you name it. I’ve still have a way to go with the story but I can guarantee it will be a good one, that is, if you like the kinky kind of stuff I write.

Sounds like a powerful story! If you could travel anywhere to see something particular, where would you go?

Russia at the age of revolution 1917. I was in Berlin in 1989 when the Berlin Wall fell but the constant celebrations proved to be too boring for me. Is this a Revolution? I wondered. Was there about a week and took the train to Vienna. Nothing there either. Rested a few weeks and caught a flight back to the USA. I’m still here.

And I’m very glad you are! Thank you so much, Mick. And thank you for making me ask myself about my own commitment to my writing: If I had to type with only one finger of one hand, would I push to produce stories with the productivity of Mykola Dementiuk?

Mick’s work and website can be found here:

various e-books
print books

Hi, folks. Joe Stalwart here. I’m a PI, a well-motivated character who overcomes obstacles in pursuit of a goal. My old buddy Lloyd Meeker asked me to come by and talk about writing conflict because he’s sulking and doesn’t want to deal with it.

Nah, that’s not really fair. The truth is he doesn’t mind conflict as long as it’s an authentic part of the story. It’s when it just gets manufactured for its own sake and shoved into a story that he gets pissed off.

But I’d better start at the beginning. Like I said, I’m a well-motivated character overcoming obstacles in pursuit of the goal. That’s the essence of a story, and I make a great protagonist, even if I do say so myself.

It used to be enough that one of my stories would start when a gorgeous dame walked into my dingy office while a solo saxophone played slow, blue, and hot, the movement of her hips making the kind of sweet promises men might kill for. She’d sit at my desk, cross her legs with a whisper of silk stockings and blow out a sexy stream of cigarette smoke. She’d have my attention, that’s a sure thing.

She’d hire me to solve a problem and then I’d go ahead and solve it. The reader would get a decent amount of conflict along the way, as well as some entertaining wise-ass dialogue. Sometimes the dame liked my solution to her problem and sometimes she didn’t. Hell, once in a while she didn’t even make it to the end of the story. So sometimes I got paid, and other times, well, you can figure it out.

Nowadays, though, that’s not enough according to most of the writing coaches that shout on every street corner in novel-land the way crazy preachers used to in Des Moines during the Depression. Don’t get me wrong, some of those folks know what they’re talking about. Others? Well, not so much.

The ones that get under my skin are the ones who tell you conflict is more important than story. They’ve made a goddamn fetish out of conflict and they don’t seem to give a shit about what else happens between the covers of a book as long as there’s conflict on every damn page. I kid you not. They look for it, and they keep score.

It’s a writing rule of some kind now, like everyone has to cheer for the Emperor’s new clothes even though he’s nekkid as a jaybird. And before you get yourself in a lather, this isn’t a rant about clichés and stereotypes, so back off will you? I’ll get to them someday when I’m damn good and ready.

So where was I? Oh, yeah. Conflict on every page. I got news for you. Sometimes a well-motivated character overcoming obstacles in pursuit of his goal has to sit down and think. I hope you’re not disappointed. A protagonist who takes time to think or reflect actually gives you a better story.

I can tell you from first-hand experience, being chased down the street by goons shooting at you or being tied to the to a chair and pistol-whipped is not conducive to productive thought or reflection.

You like that word, conducive? Bet you didn’t expect it, comin’ outta my mouth, did you? That’ll part of our conversation about clichés and stereotypes, the one we’re not going to have today.

Some of the writing honchos say conflict reveals character, and they’ve got a point. But stop the presses—a character engaging in conflict that’s not necessary to the story shows he’s too stupid to belong to the story and you should stop reading right there. That cheesy technique also reveals the character of an author who laces his stories with gratuitous conflict. Cheap thrills, I say.

I mean, how many times do I have to be tied to a chair and pistol whipped, or thrown in a car trunk so I can kick out the taillights and jump out just before the car gets onto the freeway, or crawl out as the car is being crushed in the junkyard just because “I know too much,” or “I’m getting too close”? Gimme a fuckin’ break.

I tell you, the phony writing coaches are like drug dealers in a schoolyard. They’re trying to get everyone addicted to conflict for its own sake, and that’s just plain tragic. Stories are ruined through conflict abuse. And like an extra-thick coat of paint on the wall, conflict can be used to mask more serious problems hiding underneath it.

They’ve got this thing that they like to call terrible trouble. Well, I can tell you that my favorite sidekick is named Terrible Trouble, and he’s around a lot in my stories. But he’s never parachuted in like a commando just to give readers a better adrenaline rush.

If you want a satisfying story, read a good book. If all you’re after is an adrenaline rush, go ride a good rollercoaster or take up skydiving. They’re not the same thing as a good story, and you can’t confuse them. You’ve got to make up your mind what you want.

Next time you’re caught in a pack of writers and you’re not sure you’re if you’re talking to a conflict junkie, there are warning signs to look for. They got buzzwords out the wazoo. If it’s not terrible trouble its micro-tension, or maximum capacity, or raising the stakes, or some other goddamn thing. They just never fuckin’ let up.

A while ago a bunch of writing pundits proclaimed that the sequel was dead. That’s one of the stupidest things I ever heard. Because of that, story shit supposedly has to happen faster, more often, and harder—and usually making more noise in the process.

Then at the end of the story, when it’s all over you’re supposed to be satisfied as a reader as if the point of reading the book was the same as going to Knott’s Berry Farm. As if a well-motivated character isn’t adequate if he has to draw breath or, god forbid, stop to think. I’m here to say the story is not just about conflict. It’s a story, ferchrissakes.

More often than not nowadays, the story ends by pointing to potential terrible trouble just around the corner, just in case it’s a hit and there has to be a series. You probably haven’t bothered to count the writers who take that idea and trample all over their story with it. It’s not worth doing a body count, but it’s still a damn shame.

Still don’t see what I’m getting at? No problem. I can overcome that obstacle pretty easy.

Let’s say you got a protagonist supposed to drive up to Topanga Canyon to scatter his murdered friend’s ashes. He does it, with hardly a whiff of conflict in the whole damn scene. Protag’s had this guy’s ashes sitting in an urn on his coffee table through the whole damn story and now, just a few scenes from the end, he finally figures out where he’s supposed to spread them. And he does it. It’s a moment of completion, and part of the protagonist’s movement toward his big sacrifice yet to come. He feels connected to his murdered friend forever, knowing they’ll see each other again. Kinda mystical. Let’s say the whole thing is six hundred words. Two fuckin’ pages.

But if those conflict junkies get hold of that scene? Fasten your seatbelt.

The protagonist looks at the beautiful dame still sleeping in his bed, tucks the urn of ashes under his arm and heads for the door. He’s left her a note, everything’s cool. A floorboard squeaks.

She wakes up. “Honey, come back to bed,” she calls out.

“Can’t,” he says. “Gotta set my friend’s ashes free.”

The dame isn’t impressed. She’s got a different agenda—that’s how we set up conflict. “If you come back to bed, I’ll give you a vewy special treat,” she pouts, licking her lips. She looks like Marilyn Monroe, all tousled and luscious.

The protag is noble, in spite of the fact that he likes the dame’s special treats. A lot. “Thanks, but no. I got business to take care of.”

The dame is insulted. “If you don’t come back to bed I’ll smash your guitar while you’re gone.”

The protag is a sensitive guy. He loves his guitar. “Then you better be out of California by the time I get back,” he says, and closes the door too hard.

He stands in the garage, and has a moment of inner conflict. Should he take his motorcycle or his beat-up economy car? He’s torn. How would his dead buddy prefer to make his last ride? He opts for the motorcycle. Wild and free. He pulls on his leathers, rolls out of the garage, fires up the horse and roars away.

It’s a beautiful day, and he guns it. He’s got to be back in town in time for an appointment with someone who wants to hire him on a new case, and he needs the money. That’s called a ticking clock, in case you can’t tell the players without a program.

He’s partway up the Pacific Coast Highway, the urn of ashes in his backpack when he’s pulled over by a cop for speeding. Protag apologizes and tries to be nice, ease out of the problem because he just wants to do the right thing with his friend’s ashes. But the cop is being a real jerk. Rising conflict ensues.

This is going to cost him, as well as make him late. This is raising the stakes, one of those writing workshop terms I mentioned earlier. He doesn’t have the money to pay the damn ticket, and might not get the new assignment if he can’t get back into town in time for the appointment.

Back on the road with that high-priced citation in his pocket, the protag takes risks on the road to make up lost time. He hits some sand on a curve and spins out. He comes to, his arm is pretty badly banged up, and so is one leg. He sees the urn lying in the ditch next to his ripped up backpack.

Another round of internal conflict—protag beats himself up for not being more careful. Then he argues with himself as to whether he’s able to go on to Topanga Canyon. An inner voice tells him he’s a quitter—a flashback to an old failure when under enemy fire he couldn’t drag his army buddy back to safety in time to save him. After moments of intense angst he resolves to go on to Topanga Canyon and to hell with his busted up body and the appointment in the city.

As he drags himself to the urn, a scorpion hiding under a rock stings him as he pulls himself along. Now he’s in terrible trouble, plus he’s got a real ticking clock. He’s got to dump the ashes right there in the ditch because he has to get to a hospital quick. He has a moment of self-loathing, apologizes to his friend and empties the urn, says a brief word. That’s the best he can do.
He’s beginning to feel the effect of the scorpion venom. He hobbles to the motorcycle, finds it’s still functional and jumps on. Sweating and semi-delirious, he weaves his way back toward the city (and guess what, no cop bothers to stop him now—how’s that for author fuckin’ convenience?) and collapses unconscious at the emergency entrance of a hospital.

That’s a different story, isn’t it? And you’ve already read or watched a scene just like it at least a zillion times. Paint by numbers predictable. Big fuckin’ deal.

But the original scene is about the friend’s goddam ashes, not the stupid motorcycle trip, which didn’t even exist in the first one. In the first there’s no ticking clock and no scorpion. The reader is just going to have to deal with a genuine quiet moment and try to stay awake all on his own.

Because here’s the point. Conflict isn’t the only way to reveal character. Remember that old saying, that actions speak louder than words? Well, that’s the essence of character. Character is shown through action. That action may or may not be in response to a threat or conflict, but it also might be the act of observing a scene, or holding vigil. It’s all meaningful action that reveals character.

He likes Donald Maass’ new book, Writing 21st Century Fiction, a lot. In fact, that’s his current favorite. One of the best pieces of enduring writing advice Meeker ever got, he told me, was from Jim Frey: “Just tell the story.” He’s got that sucker taped above his computer.

I approve.

To celebrate a contract for my short story Enigma with Wilde City Press, I’m part of a promotion that shares favorite summer memories and traditions of several authors. Check out what might appeal to you!

Help Wilde City Press celebrate the start of summer and July 4th. Enjoy 25% of your entire cart from Wednesday July 3rd through Sunday July 7th with the coupon code: WildeFreedom.



What is your favorite July 4th / Independence Day memory or tradition?


Shae Connor

My favorite July 4th tradition is putting the watermelon in the pool.

See, my extensive extended family mostly lives in and around a small Georgia town, and the main gathering place for as long as I can remember has been the house of one of my grandmother’s sisters. (Both my grandmother and her sister are gone now, but some things just don’t change.)

Every year on the 4th of July, everyone who’s in town gathers at that house for a cookout. There’s a big grill out back, where the manly men types cook the meat. There’s also a pool, and every year, there’s a watermelon that goes in the pool. The kids play with it in the water most of the day, and then after everyone eats, the watermelon gets fished out, washed off, and sliced for everyone to dig in. The water in the pool chills it perfectly, not too cold like it would be from the fridge.

Now I want some pool-cooled watermelon!

I’ve been making up stories for as long as I can remember, but it took me a long time to figure out that maybe I should start writing them down. I started out writing fanfic well over a decade ago, and in 2010, I moved into original fiction. (Though I do still get waylaid by a fanfiction plotbunny now and then.)

Shae is new to Wilde City. Look for Fringes, her Charlie Harding Presents erotic sci-fi short due out later this summer. Visit her at:


Owen Keehnen

I am not sure if it was the exactly the 4th of July, but I do recall the fireworks. I was probably 20 or so and felt very grown up. I was in my first real apartment with my first real boyfriend. It was night and to escape the heat we climbed out my bedroom window onto the roof. We spread a sheet on the graveled tar and were lying there just holding hands and watching the stars. There was heat lightning to the south. The small town fireworks began about a half hour after dusk and probably lasted a total of five minutes. When they ended, I turned to him and said, “I love you.” I didn’t know exactly what those words entailed, but I knew how I felt and at that moment there wasn’t a doubt in my mind. It was such a feeling of complete contentment. We ended up falling asleep out there on the roof and climbed back inside around 3 a.m. He’s gone now, but whenever I see fireworks I think of him and that rooftop and that moment. It always brings a smile.

In addition to the four poems he contributed to Falling Awake, Owen has two other projects coming soon to Wilde City. The LGBT Book of Days is a fun and comprehensive guide to thousands of the most important dates in LGBT history – it’s great for reference and trivia and a real treat to compile. The second is a humorous novel called Young Digby Swank, a gay coming of age story about growing up Catholic which is hilarious and heartbreaking and heroic all at the same time. Visit Owen on facebook.


Hank Edwards

Hank’s Favorite 4th of July Memory

Meet Josh Stanton, orphaned at a young age in the mid-1800s, he has always been considered an outcast in Belkin’s Pass. Now he’s grown into a quiet, well-educated young man full of secrets, the least of which is his love for his best friend, town deputy Dex Wells. But when the ancient vampire Balthazar begins feeding on the residents of Belkin’s Pass, Josh’s secrets prove to be the turning point in a battle for the souls of the townspeople—but at what personal cost? —- Cowboys & Vampires, available now at Wilde City Press.

Visit Hank at



What is your favorite Summer memory or tradition?

Geoffrey Knight

My favourite Independence Day moment has to be when Will Smith socks that mean old alien in the chops after they have the dogfight in the canyon and he says something bad-ass like, “You aliens just wrecked my July 4 barbecue and now I’m gonna have me some E.T. burgers because you guys suck!” Oh … you mean a real Independence Day memory, not a scene from the movie! I guess I’ll answer the Best Summer Memory or Tradition question instead.

I don’t think I have one particular memory or tradition that stands out because I love everything about Summer. Being Australian, Summer means lots of public holidays: Christmas, Boxing Day, New Year’s Day and Australia all happen in the space of a month or so, so January pretty much means lots of delicious seafood and days at the beach and your skin feels dusty with sea-salt the whole time, which is a feeling I love. Now that I’ve moved to an island it’s even better; Sydney beaches can get really crowded but up here I can walk from one end of the beach to the other with my dogs and not see a soul. And yes, of course I go in for a skinny dip! 😉

“I want to see.” … “Nash, we’re in Egypt, in the ruins of an ancient city, standing in front of a secret door! Aren’t you curious?”
“Curiosity killed the – ” … “No, I’m not curious.”
The lie was unconvincing enough to give Ryan the confidence to sway him.
Sway him with a kiss. …
“Curious yet?”

You can read Nash’s answer in Cairo Curse, book two in the Vampire Lair series. Visit Geoff at


Lloyd Meeker

My favorite summer tradition is honoring the solstice. In one old tradition, Midsummer Night was the time to leave a small dish of brandy in the garden as a gift to the fairies, which I’ve always thought was charming. Inviting the goodwill of nature is always a sensible idea!

I mark the solstice by honoring extremes – the dark of winter in the southern hemisphere and the light of summer in the northern – and the inevitable swing of the one toward the other. It is the wisdom of the Tao, the dance of light and dark, each with the spark of the other in its core.

This idea may seem pretty dry, but try this little experiment: sit on a playground swing and build momentum. Make the point furthest back winter solstice, when movement forward begins, and make the point farthest forward summer solstice, when graceful retreat begins. Feel the delicious centrifugal force as you move, your weightlessness at both far points – and remember the earth, held in her arc by the sun.

Gay PI Russ Morgan doesn’t mind being fifty but hates being single. He’s made peace with being a psychic empath, and he’s managed to build a decent life since getting sober. As he uncovers obscene secrets shrouded in seeming righteousness, he might have to make peace with a sword of justice that cuts the innocent as deeply as the guilty. —- Enigma, coming soon to Wilde City Press.

Visit Lloyd at


Clare London

I wish the UK had July 4 celebrations as well! This summer so far, we’ve had sleet, flood rains, gale force winds and then occasionally a sunny, hot day. I think this is the reason most of our sentimental celebrations take place in the latter half of the year. Or why the British talk constantly about the weather.

It seemed sunnier in The Old Days, when I was young(er). One happy memory is of an annual trip with friends to Henley-on-Thames, for a barbeque/picnic beside the river. This was the irresponsible time before kids and mortgages! We always arranged a game of rounders (like baseball, but not), competing with way more enthusiasm than skill, and helped along (or hindered?) by huge amounts of alcohol.

We still have photographic evidence of the fun. A gal sitting in her bikini, draining the last cupful of fruit punch from a litre-sized jug. A chap with his younger brother hauled over his shoulder, running towards the river to throw him in. Various self-inflicted rounders-bat injuries on sunburned shins. Clare, clutching river weeds to her chest because she lost her tube top when she dived in…

Oh those lazy, hazy afternoons of summer!

Meet Freeman, a quiet man who’s not used to sharing his plans, his history, or his emotions. He’s returned to the city on business, a case that has nothing to do with the people he once left behind: his ex-wife, his male ex-lover, and his ex-business partner. He has no plans to engage with any of them again – until he meets Kit, the provocative young man who’s going to pull Freeman from the safety of his shell, whether he wants to or not. —- Freeman, coming soon to Wilde City Press.

Visit Clare at


Eric Arvin

I’m a big music slut any time of the year, but I especially love summer music or music that makes me think of summer. Every spring I make an awesome playlist for the warmer months. There be lots of frivolity and even some slower tunes in the mix. Here are a few from this year’s playlist:

Boys on the Radio by Hole
Mad About You by Belinda Carlisle
Love This by Cosmo Jarvis
Love Profusion by Madonna (Madonna has a lot of great summer tunes)
Car Wheels on A Gravel Road by Lucinda Williams

Midnight City by M83 (they’re last album was a summer spectacular)
I’m Like a Bird by Nelly Furtado
Soak Up the Sun by Sheryl Crow
Summer Fling by kd lang (from her album Invincible Summer)
Summertime Clothes by Animal Collective

Wicked Game by Chris Isaak
Spaceman by The Killers (again, they’ve got a lot of great summery songs)
Boys of Summer by Eric Himan (a great version of the Don Henley classic)
For the Summer by Ray LaMontagne
Summer Days by Norah Jones

Summertime by Ella Fitzgerald
Summer Moved On by A-ha
Freeway by Aimee Mann (Mann’s voice just sounds like summer to me, other Mann Summer songs include 4th of July and Fifty Years After the Fair)
Free Falling by Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers
End of the Innocence by Don Henley

If I Ever Feel Better by Phoenix
Birmingham by Shovels & Rope
Ramona by Night Beds
Singing in My Sleep by Semisonic
Lightning Bolt by Jake Bugg

Eric Arvin resides in the same sleepy Indiana river town where he grew up. He graduated from Hanover College with a Bachelors in History. He has lived, for brief periods, in Italy and Australia. He has survived brain surgery and his own loud-mouthed personal demons. Eric is the author of The Mingled destinies of Crocodiles and Men, and various other sundry and not-so-sundry writings. He intends to live the rest of his days with tongue in cheek and eyes set to roam.

Visit Eric at


Patrick Darcy

Without a doubt, on a cold summer night in Dublin, I dream of being naked on an Ibizan beach. Preferably Playa Es Cavallet, the gay nudist beach. It’s a bit of a trek; you have to get past the German and Dutch naturalist before getting to the promised land of sexy, naked homos. I see it now, hot muscled hunks, with tattoos and great big…….

The beach is all white sand lined with cool beach bars, and the sound of funky music fills the air. Such a great relaxed vibe and beautiful people cruising each other. To say it’s sexual would be an understatement.

Summer is all about being naked, however, there are occasional problems. As a weak and feeble man, I am constantly being shown up by my hardon. I want to be dignified and European. But I’m Irish, I see a hot naked guy and, well, my cock just has to show its appreciation. Total nude beach faux pas. Oh the shame of it! The only saving grace is that my buns are rather pert. So I spend most of the day laying on my front, peaking through my Roy Orbison shades at all the beach talent.

OK. now I’m horny!

Hi! I’m Patrick Darcy. Rugby player, Irishman and writer of full strength gay erotica. Follow me at, as I comment on life in Dublin, hot men and all the things that make me tick. There are two big passions in my life: great sex and rugby. Quite often, these are combined! I love the thrill of competition, the power, the intensity, the brotherhood of rugby.

Oh, and I love being naked!


Anne Brooke

My favourite summer memory is my mother’s homemade lemonade. She only ever made it in summer as she said it was an outdoor drink and needed a big dose of sunshine to make the bubbles pop. Apparently winter would make the whole drink go grey and flat, and as I was young I believed her – and in a way I still do. Homemade lemonade only ever appeared about three or four times a year and only when we were very good and she was pleased with us. It wasn’t ever something she prepared for either but, in our family group, she would slip away quietly and after a while one or another of us would realise she was missing. From then on the excitement would mount and then – at last! – half an hour or so later she would reappear with a huge jug of lovely lemony-yellow bubbly drink and a selection of glasses. Drinking it meant you had enough sugar in your system to last you well into the next month, but it was like a blast of sunshine and citrus in the mouth, I can tell you. Sheer bliss!

The night I met Luke Milton, the last thing I was looking for was any kind of relationship …

“What the hell are you doing?” …
“Waiting for you …”
“You’ve not covered up your mark.” … “You must have taken some stick for it from the office.”
“Why should I cover it up? You gave it to me. That’s worth all the stick in the world.”

Read the rest of Luke and Alan’s interactions in The Beginning of Knowledge, available now at Wilde City Press. Visit Anne at


Ewan Creed

I’ll set the scene for you – a rowboat, a bottle of wine, a low moon, and a good man. We had met on the beach that morning and clicked, so after hanging out all day I invited him out to dinner and then for a ride on the lake. There was just something about him. It was so easy to talk to him. I told him more about myself than I told my best friends and he shared just as much about himself. That evening was nothing special in the scheme of things, and yet perfect at the same time. It was one of those connections you just don’t forget. He was the first person I ever told that I wanted to be a writer.

Meet Alex, a man caught up in the leather bar scene of 1975, a man consumed by the feeling of sexual abandon and freedom. One night Alex gets more than he bargained for and is transported into a dark carnal wonderland of sexual abandon and perpetual desire, a world that can trap a man for all eternity. —- The Leather Bar Mural, available now from Wilde City Press.

Follow all of Ewan’s release dates HERE.



If you could escape to anywhere in the world this summer, where would it be?

J.P. Barnaby

J. P. Barnaby’s Summer Escape

J. P. Barnaby, an award-winning gay romance novelist, is the author of over a dozen books including the Little Boy Lost series, the Forbidden Room series, and Aaron. As a bisexual woman, J.P. is a proud member of the GLBT community both online and in her small town on the outskirts of Chicago. A member of Mensa, she is described as brilliant but troubled, sweet but introverted, and talented but deviant. She spends her days writing software and her nights writing erotica, which is, of course, far more interesting. The spare time that she carves out between her career and her novels is spent reading about the concept of love, which, like some of her characters, she has never quite figured out for herself.

J.P.’s new Rentboy series is coming to Wilde City press later this year. Visit J.P. at



I live in New Zealand and summer here starts in December. For someone born in the UK, seeing bikinis and sun lotion next to Christmas trees and decorations just isn’t right. A holiday somewhere hot and sultry with exotic cocktails might be most people’s idea of summer bliss. However, I’d like to escape to celebrate my summer Christmas in Canada with snow, caribou, and lots of mulled wine.

Living in clean, green New Zealand, I am an author, foodie, wine buff and Art Historian. I write M/M romance, particularly paranormal, sci-fi and fantasy, and like to add passion, and a twist, to my tales. I grew up on Dr Who, Star Trek and The Night Stalker. I never leave the house without at least one notebook, ready to jot down anything the muse may whisper. Visit me on facebook.


Charlie Harding

I would scoop up my partner Scotty Rage and we’d meet up with our 10 closest friends at a beach somewhere. Seafood, cocktails, sand, sun and the people we care about… Our favorite combination!

Charlie Harding joined the ranks of adult performers in February 2012. He has won multiple awards including “Best New Cummer,” “Best Daddy,” “Best Ass Eater 2012” and “Manly Man”. Charlie has also put his multiple college degrees to work building network of business ventures including launching his own line of personally selected gay erotica at Charlie lives in Atlanta, Georgia with his partner and fiance, Scotty Rage.


Ethan Stone

I would love to go on a cruise to somewhere warm but not too hot. I want a place with a beach, cool clear water and some hot cabana boys. The hot cabana boys are not just for eye candy, they’d be there for inspiration. The whole trip would be for inspiration since I’ve been having a hard time with writing lately. Being in a relaxing environment with pretty eye candy all around me could really help with my writing block. Additionally, it would benefit my health as well. If I were to lay shirtless in the sun, soaking up all that vitamin D, I’d have all the energy I need for anything that happened to come up. 🙂

Anyone wanting to contribute to the “Save Ethan’s Mental and Physical Health” Cruise feel free to use Paypal.

“Did you like what you saw out there?” …
“You’re a very … talented dancer.” …
“Anything else you liked?”
“You fishing for a compliment, Holt? You don’t seem the type to need your ego stroked.”
“Maybe it’s not my ego I want s…”

See if Jason Holt ever gets around to telling Quinn what he wants stroked, Past Tense available now at Wilde City Press. Visit Ethan at