Johnny Murdoc

Almost two years ago, I posted this scan from a notebook where I’d started writing a story:

That story became a project, and that project had a lot of ups and downs, but today I’m pretty excited to show you this:

Expect an announcement soon.

As it’s Halloween and all, I thought I’d give you guys an excerpt of “The Howling in Dunwich Hall.” This scene emphasizes the creepy, but don’t doubt for a minute that the story isn’t filled with the sexy, too.

It was definitely hoodie weather at Washington University. I kept my hands tucked in my pockets as we walked. London zipped up his leather jacket. My skin pimpled when the cool wind picked up. The wind whistled through empty tree branches. It reminded me of Halloween. Fall always did. Back before my parents died, they used to take me out each year. Halloween was the closest we got to a real family holiday.

As we walked, London kept up the vigilant and/or paranoid behavior of watching all around us. He often looked into the park but more than once I caught him looking behind us, like someone might be following us.

“Am I boring you?” I asked.

“What? No.”

We cleared the stretch of businesses and restaurants. There was a dark stretch of street between the shops and the dorms ahead. We’d left the bustle of students and locals behind us.

On our left, across from the park, were large houses that sat back far from the streets. Lines of wrought-iron fences separated the public sidewalk from private property.
Beyond the pockets of light from the street lamps was only darkness, sometimes punctuated by glowing windows.

“You just keep looking around, like you’re looking for someone.”

“Sorry, I—” London glanced over his shoulder.

“Like that.”

“It’s just… something feels wrong. Do you feel it?” The wind picked up as he said that.

“What did you mean ‘weird shit’ happens to you all the time?” I asked.

“I think you’re about to find out.”

This is where I would have considered whether or not I’d made the right move, letting this relative stranger walk me home down a dark, lonely street but I didn’t have the chance.

The sidewalk groaned beneath us. It reminded me of the sound that rattled through the pipes in my dorm the night that Brian and I were attacked by tentacles in the toilet, only louder. The asphalt vibrated beneath my feet. I reached out and grabbed London’s arm, either for stabilization or comfort. The ground continued to shudder.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Something big. We should move.” London started walking faster and I followed, never letting go of his arm. We cut into the street, away from the park. Leaves rained down from above, shaken loose from their trees by the vibrations in the ground. Along with the groaning, the park echoed with the sounds of creaking branches and blowing leaves.

London locked his arm against mine and started running. “Come on.”

I’m an asshole. London isn’t the one who’d been attacked by a tentacle monster, I was. Now something was happening again, and I’d put him in danger.

“There’s something I should tell you,” I said. “The thing with the toilet—”

The manhole cover directly ahead of us popped out of the ground like a discarded beer cap, spinning through the air before crashing down onto the street, cracking the asphalt. London skidded to a halt and I almost fell beside him.

“Motherfuck!” London said.

Less than two feet separated us from the open manhole. The cover continued to dance on the ground like a coin, losing momentum but still wobbling in a circle. From the darkness of the sewers, something stirred, just barely visible in the black, inky well.

It wasn’t until the first tentacle peeked out and slid across the asphalt that I really believed it was happening again.

“Hell,” London said.

“We should go. We should be going now.” I tugged at London’s arm. His muscles felt impossibly tight, impossibly hard beneath his leather jacket. London inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring. He exhaled quickly and then inhaled again in short, staccato bursts, like he had done back at the pub. Like he was sniffing the air.

“This is bad.” London looked at me.

And, as an extra little bonus, a snippet of the sex scene is tucked below the cut:

Read the rest of this entry »

Photo by Rob Wolfsham, taken from my front porch

Rob Wolfsham just left my house. He arrived two days ago, expecting to stay over for the night as he moved to Pittsburgh. Just as he got here, it started to snow. We went out to dinner at Blueberry Hill and watched the snow come down outside. We walked around the Loop as the snow collected. I don’t know how it felt for Rob, but I enjoyed it. The city can be beautiful in the snow if you let it be.

It snowed a lot. Rob stayed an extra night. We didn’t do a lot, trapped in our house, but it was nice to have someone around to discuss writing and life and sex. We played the Ungame, watched Away We Go, and talked.

I forgot to mention on Monday that the second part of my interview with Dr. Dick went live. You can download it at his site, or on iTunes. I really enjoyed talking to him. It’s nice to chat with someone who takes writing and erotica seriously. Let me know what you think of the interview.

I’m trying out a new thing, where the last few posts on my Tumblr aggregate here once a day. Let me know what you think of that, too.

If you haven’t checked out my new story, you should:

It’s short. I just wanted to write something fun and release it into the wild. You can thank me by writing me or by sending me flowers. Instead of flowers, you could send dirty pictures or donate to me via Paypal:

filthy + anonymous called it:

“Here,” he says.

“Here?” I ask.

“Here,” he says. He starts rubbing his cock through his jeans. We’re on the blue line, coming back from a friend’s book release party. Our friend Isaac managed to write a book, a boring book about nothing that appealed, somehow, to self-absorbed hipsters everywhere. Then he managed to get it published, and he had a party, and we were there. He read from his book and it was every bit as boring as the first time he told us the stories. Stories about doing nothing and then going to brunch.

Now we’re on our way home and Christopher is rubbing his cock through his jeans. He’s pulling loose the top button. I lean in and whisper into his ear: “I was hoping you’d fuck me when we get back to your place.”

“I’ll fuck you,” he says. “But right now I want you to suck my dick.” The car is empty.

This story is about sucking my boyfriend’s dick on the blue line, but it’s about something else, too.

Click here to download a .pdf of this story. | Click here to read the story online.

I meant to write about this when I read it last week: The Kitchen theater is staging an adaptation of Samuel R. Delany’s Dhalgren.

New York Magazine wrote about the adaptation and the book itself last week. I’ve never read the book, except that I have. I should say that I’ve never read the whole thing. It’s a hell of a book and one day I will tackle it properly. In his introduction, William Gibson writes: “…Dhalgren is a prose-city, a labyrinth, a vast construct the reader learns to enter by any one of a multiplicity of doors.” The book deals with a number of themes, including race, gender, and sexuality. The book has plenty of graphic sex in it (for those of you who, like me, dig that sort of thing), and enough literary gymnastics to make it worth the time to read it (for those of you who, like me, dig that sort of thing). Basically it has something for everyone, even if it’s an intimidating read.

Samuel R. Delany, if you’re not familiar with him, is an incredibly talented, influential and significant writer, an out gay man long before it was popular to be one, and he helped drag science fiction into the present day. He was one of the first to talk about sex and sexuality in a meaningful way.

If you haven’t read his work, you should.

It’s one of my goals to write a book as big and as important to science fiction, literature, and sexuality as Delany has. If I can achieve a fraction of that goal, I’ll be a happy writer.

I know it’s been forever (in internet time) since I last posted, but it’s been a busy holiday. We just got back from Chicago and had a fantastic time, but I’ll say more about that later. First, I have an announcement:

The second issue of BLOWJOB is available!

Issue two contains two stories, both about boxing: “Rough Love” (formerly titled “Boxer Boy”) and “After the Fight.” It also has boxing tips, several photos courtesy of the US Army (No, really! Thank you, public domain!) and a handy infographic breaking down the frequency of penis euphemisms contained within (completely accurate, and designed by my partner, Evan Disaster).

Blew Magazine had this to say about Issue #1:

It brings us back to the good old days before we had instant around the clock access to porn and had to actually use our imaginations to get off. Back when we had to rely on Sears catalog underwear sections and the one gay porn mag we stole from the corner mart that was so dog eared and worn that we had to tape it back together. The art of erotic story telling has become a lost art, and were glad to see that someone has revived it and brought it back to life. It’s classic and nostalgic…

You can buy Issue 2 (as well as Issue 1) via the PayPal cart in the right-hand column of this site. If you buy both together, you save a dollar and shipping costs the same! (Make sure that you select “Both Issues – $5.00″ in the drop down menu to save!) Both issues of Blowjob are also available at Chicago Comics and Quimby’s in Chicago.

Blowjob is not only the best way to read my erotic stories, it’s the best way to support me and my work.

Erotic fiction writer (and all around nice guy) Natty Soltesz has a new website/blog that you guys should check out. You can find it at:

All of these projects have been a blast, but in the end I always come back to the Nifty Archive and this website. As long as I’m interested in writing erotica, I feel I’ll be invested in both of these outlets. What they don’t offer in monetary benefits is made up for with an enthusiastic, responsive readership and a non-judgemental, democratic, anything-goes nature.
They help to remind me that I started writing for one reason only: to give myself a boner. And though I enjoy trying different things and taking my writing to different areas, there’s a lot to be said for writing purely for one’s own enjoyment. I like what I write. Maybe you like it too.

Natty’s an inspiration to me as a writer, and he’s always good for a dirty story. Some of my favorites are “Hippie Crack,” “Perfect Day,” and “All-U-Can-Eat.” Make sure you check out his stories page, where you can select stories by theme or content, like “rimming,” “underwear,” and “straight(ish) guys.” (I’m definitely stealing that feature of his site when I redesign my own.)

I read this story the other day over at The Outlet, the blog for Electric Literature.

It’s called El Camino Real, by Jason Stout:

In 1979, when I’m eight years old, my dad, drunk out of his gourd on Schlitz and high on crank, runs over some guy with his brand new El Camino. I don’t know this when I’m eight. I just think his car is cool. It’s cherry-red with a huge, white vector stripe and vaguely resembles the Gran Torino from Starsky and Hutch. He drives it as he leaves town and us later that year.

Read the rest: El Camino Real.