THE GOOD LIFE, CONT: THE END FOR TONIGHT

Well, my day is coming to an end, and so is my blogging spree. I imagine that my blogging pace will resume to something like normal tomorrow.

It seems like a good idea to end my one year blogging anniversary with a look to the future, so I'm going to post some small excerpts from just three stories I'm working on. I know I don't post new stories that often, but I wanted you all to know that I'm working hard on several. Some of them, I know what they are, and what shape they're going to take. Some of them I'm working on for specific anthologies, and some of them I'm writing for the hell of it, which is mostly the best kind of writing there is:

Igor walks through the kitchen, through the living room, into what would be called a bedroom if the entire apartment wasn’t made of beds. Yuroslav follows him and closes the door behind him. In this room there is a mirror, a tall vanity mirror on the back of the closet door. Igor looks at himself. He watches in the mirror as Yuroslav stands in front of him and his hand disappears between them. Igor feels Yuroslav’s hand on his crotch but he doesn’t take his eyes off of the mirror. In the mirror, he watches a show. Yuroslav unbuckles his belt and slides down his zipper. Igor is wearing fancy silk boxers that are not fancy, and not made of silk. Like everything else in Igor’s world, they are a thing pretending to be another thing. Beneath the silky fabric, his penis is thick and Yuroslav wraps his hand around it, giving it a couple of strokes. “You have the biggest dick,” Yuroslav says. Yuroslav is not a stranger to penises, but Igor is immune to the compliment. He does not care how big his dick is.

“How much does he owe you?” I ask.
He looks back over his shoulder at me. Through his wifebeater, I can see a tattoo of a cobra coiled up on his shoulder blade. Ah. “More than you got,” he says.
“Okay. Well, can I buy from you?”
“Man, I ain’t gonna sell to some dick come knocking on my door.”
“I can pay up front,” I say.
“Shit. Don’t I recognize you?” He leans against the doorframe and drops a hand down to scratch at his crotch. I can’t help but look down, and I can see his dick bounce around underneath his boxers as he scratches. It’s big, and I blush.
“Maybe. We probably went to school together.” I didn’t want to come off like I knew him too well. I’d seen him around school, of course, but I didn’t know he was Cobra when Stevie told me to run over here and pick up some pot. I’d done more than just see him around, in fact. I sat right behind him one semester, and spent more than a few hours staring at the nape of his neck wondering what it would be like to lean forward and kiss him.

I may have made a mistake when I dragged Dax, the bartender from Black Jack’s, into the back room of the empty bar and threw myself at him. In my defense, I will say that I had no idea that Brady Bunch moments happen in real life, that I had no idea that I would step out of the back room with Dax’s cum still smeared across my beard to see Elliott standing there. The look on Elliott’s face suggested that he had seen everything that I had just done, or enough of it to get a good idea. I’ll use short hand in writing this, because I don’t have long to write it: Elliott was the not-so-secret love of my life. Apparently, I may have been his as well, at least until he saw me kneeling in front of a nearly perfect stranger getting a facial.

And, of course, there's Crash Course, the comic. It should be coming out early 2010. Trust me, I'll let you know.



I just wanted to thank you all again; you've been great fans, some of you great friends. I look forward to hearing from you all, and I look forward to turning you all on with a few new stories, soon.

Thanks,
Johnny

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