So….Ghost Fucking….

I have those “weird-in-a-fun-way” friends. A couple of them were joking back and forth yesterday, and one of them said, ” What if, every time you yawn, a ghost puts his dick in your mouth?” That reminded me of a story…

Once upon a time, I was living with this married couple. Yeah,it was like that, although I was mostly only fooling around with her. But that’s another story altogether. They’d moved to Indiana a few months before me, and drawn by the appeal of there being anywhere but here, I followed along.

My girl had a rich uncle who rented them a really cool old two bedroom,two-story, and I had my own large room connected to theirs. It was just a mattress on the floor and a dresser, but it was fine. I mostly slept with them anyway,so,whatever.

The house was nice, but the upper floor and stairs creaked like a motherfucker. You literally could not take a step on those stairs without it reverberating through the whole house, which was pretty annoying when you were trying to sleep while everyone else was up and about. And if you heard the stairs creaking like that when you were the only person in the house, well, old houses creak. And if you heard the disembodied voice of a man whispering in your ear in the middle of the night, it was probably just the neighbors. Or the wind.

I kept getting woken up when I slept in their room by a voice. Specifically, a man’s voice, laughing and talking really loudly. They had this wrap around porch balcony deal off their bedroom, and they kept the doors open so the night air could get in, and we all just figured that someone outside was being noisy, and I’m a light sleeper. So I mostly just started going back to my mattress on the floor at night in hopes of getting some actual sleep, which I did. For a while.

One night, the three of us were downstairs playing video games. It was pretty late. Their toddler had been asleep for hours, and we were all getting pretty tired, but my girl’s husband and I were right at the end of Super Mario Bros., so we stayed up, and she went to bed. We finished our game maybe twenty minutes later, and I went on up to bed while he stayed downstairs to play another game. 

*Creak,creak,creak!* up the stairs I went, and straight to my room, where I pretty much face-planted into the mattress, exhausted.

There was no way to sleep through those fucking creaking stairs, and the baby didn’t. As soon as I closed my eyes and started drifting off, she started screaming her head off. Generally, I tried to be a good little helper with the baby. I changed diapers, and fed her and since my room was closer, if she woke up, I’d go and see about her, but that night, I just could NOT make myself get up. I lay there,listening to her crying for like a whole minute, just trying to gather up the energy to crawl off my mattress. No dice.

A few seconds later, my girl came stomping through the door that connected her room to mine, and flitted by my bed in a huff. I watched her until she left my line of vision, but I didn’t have the energy to move or say anything. So I lay there and waited for her to come back by and bitch at me for not getting up. I could hear her in the baby’s room, soothing her back to sleep, and then a few minutes later, she walked back through my room.

She stopped a few feet from the foot of my bed, and I was on my side, pretending to be asleep, having little interest in starting a midnight argument over what my duties were and weren’t as the live-in side piece. She stood there for a couple of minutes, and I figured she was debating over whether or not to wake me up and yell at me, so I said nothing, and waited quietly for her to go away like the thunderstorm she was. I was hardly surprised when she called me at work the next day to tell me we “had to talk”, which of course meant that the next time she saw me, she was going to bitch for twenty minutes, IF I was lucky and kept quiet during her tirade.

The thing that I loved and hated about her was that she ALWAYS spoke her mind. Always. So when I went to the diner where she waited tables after work to get free food along with my ass-chewing,I was pleasantly surprised and mildly befuddled when I asked her what she wanted to talk about, and she just brushed it off, saying it was no big deal. Nothing was EVER “no big deal” to her, but I wasn’t about to question the gods of fortune when they gave me the opportunity of a free cheeseburger WITHOUT the ass chewing. In so many ways, I really am just a typical dude, except that I have a vagina and pretty spectacular pair of tits.

Weeks went by, and I’d all but forgotten those events, until the day we decided to take a two hour road trip to Louisville. She was driving with me sitting beside her, and hubs and baby in the back, and I was complaining about hearing weird noises and talking again. My girl went quiet for a second, and then she said, ” Yeah, I used to be able to make excuses for all that weird shit, but after the other week, I can barely sleep at night.”

Her husband, who was generally a pretty laid back and quiet guy, scolded, ” SHUT UP about that! I TOLD you not to say anything!” Normally,if either of us ” silly women” even hinted that we thought the weird noises in our house were of supernatural origin,he would have a field day, mocking us and teasing us about being big scaredy-cat girls. The fact that he was actually angry this time was pretty telling.

They argued back and forth for a few minutes, with her claiming that I deserved to know, and him asking what good it would do for me to hear it, until I finally forced her to just fucking tell me already.If old age and dementia claim all of my mind, this conversation will be one of the last things to go:

Her: You know that night we were playing Mario, and I went to be first, and then the baby started crying?

Me: Yes, and you got mad at me because I didn’t get up and go get the baby right away.

Her: I wasn’t mad that you didn’t get up to get the baby; I was mad because I thought you and (husband) were in your bed fooling around, and not only were you both cheating on me with me right there awake and watching, but you didn’t even stop to check on the baby.

Me: Yeah,no. That didn’t happen.

Her: (exasperated) I know that NOW. That’s just what I thought before I went into your room and actually saw the guy in bed with you. THEN I thought you were cheating on me with some random dude you’d snuck into the house.

Me: (Internally pissing my pants) No one will ever sneak up those stairs.

Her: Yeah, I know. I was awake when you came up, and I watched you and some tall, skinny guy walk into your room and lay down in the bed, and I thought it was you and (husband). Then when I got a good look at him, I realized he didn’t look anything like (husband). He had black hair, and dark eyes, and he stared at me like he hated me. Scared the hell out of me, so I left to go see about the baby, and when I came back, he was gone, and I knew he couldn’t have gotten past me on those rickety stairs without me hearing him. I looked all over the top floor after I left your room, and he’d just…disappeared.

I never saw the guy, but the voice that had been waking me up for months only got louder, and I’ll never know if it was just my paranoid imagination that made it seem like the voice had gotten closer, until I could occasionally feel the huff of warm breath in my ear.I moved out shortly thereafter, much to their profound unhappiness. I’d been ready to end things with them for a couple of months, and having the boogey man for a bunk mate was just another reason to go.

I wouldn’t say that I was traumatized by all that weird shit. I mean, it was scary at the time, but not exactly “Amityville Horror” level by any stretch. Clearly, if that ghost/demon/spirit was trying to seduce me, he did NOT bring his A game. After a few months, I pretty much just relegated it into the category of an interesting story that I occasionally like to tell to freak people out.

But my weird friends’ conversation reminded me of it, and so then I did five whole seconds of internet searching, where I picked the most reliable and interesting news source I could find on the subject. That’s right, Buzzfeed. It’s actually really funny and informative…

I’d like to know more, and maybe I’ll do a follow up one of these days, but it’s 5pm, and I’m thinking Arby’s right about now. I would, however, LOVE to hear your ghost stories. I find that shit fascinating.

Redneck Soliloquy

True story-I was eight years old the first time I got falling-down drunk.  A neighbor brought my great-grandfather a quart jar full of homemade muscadine wine, and nearly blind and brittle-boned, he’d been absolutely forbidden by his wife, children, and grandchildren to imbibe even a thimble full of alcohol. By today’s standards, he would’ve been considered a bit of an alcoholic, probably, but in the 1920’s Alabama he came to adulthood in, with no air conditioning and a steady, humid ninety degrees in the shade more often than not, the only question that people had about day drinking in those times was whether you preferred bourbon or scotch. Needless to say, their moral compass was a little different from ours.

In 1906, Granddaddy was a five-year-old boy on a dusty, rural farm, milking cows, tending fields, and churning butter with a lit corn cob pipe between his teeth. If all that hard work and nicotine made him sick, his mother bought cocaine drops from the Sears & Roebuck catalog to heal him. Back then, a little kid getting drunk every now and then may have been frowned upon by the little old ladies at church, but legalities were of little concern when the local law enforcement, if there was one at all, would have consisted of one or two apathetic, overweight middle-aged white men who had their own farms to tend to.

So, when eight-year-old me saw the jar of dark purple liquid that looked an awful lot like grape kool-aid, and asked if I could have a taste, Granddaddy simply gave me an impish grin and unscrewed the lid. Twenty minutes later, my mother was furiously scolding her grandfather, who was laughing hard enough to bust a gut, and I was an inebriated, giggling heap in the middle of the old braided rug on the living room floor. My main recollection of the event was that muscadine wine is fucking delicious.

My grandfather wasn’t much better than his father-in-law, born and raised with that same backwoods disregard for propriety. He’d take us to some trailer out in the middle of nowhere and buy us two grocery sacks full of  cheap little red and white firecrackers, which he taught us to light with cigarettes right before going back in the house to sit in his recliner and watch old Westerns. At ten, I was the oldest and therefore left in charge of the cigarettes. When I asked him how to keep it lit, he simply said, ” Just puff on it a few times every now and then.” At 14, when my best friend hauled me out to the chicken house to partake of some purloined Virginia Slims, she was very impressed that I already knew how to blow smoke rings.

All in all, I can’t really say that I  regret my practically feral upbringing. Would I let my own child drink homemade wine, smoke cigarettes, and light badly made firecrackers unsupervised? Hell no, but even then, I have to quietly admit to myself that he truly is missing out in some respects.

I try to spin them as cautionary tales when I tell him about the past, and I’m not exaggerating, even as I omit how much we loved it. My fond memory of watching a childhood friend catch baby water moccasins with his bare hands becomes the reason I don’t let him wander around country back roads with his friends.  ” No son, you may not drive through the middle of town on a four-wheeler with no brakes. The world is not what it once was.”

The truth is, it never was, or not in my lifetime, anyway. It’s a constant, active choice on my part, every day, to not be the wild thing that I was raised to be. Those crazy-ass white people you see on shows like COPS, falling-down drunk, alternately spitting at police officers and openly weeping as they’re dragged to the ground in handcuffs for shoplifting at Wal-Mart?Those are my people.

I’ve looked on as my dad engaged in an honest-to-God knife fight with a stranger, that only ended when my uncle Jimmy Ray went and got his shot-gun out of the truck, prompting another onlooker to call the cops. That’s right, Jimmy Ray. Luckily, no one was seriously injured, but after that little incident, Uncle Jimmy Ray took all of us kids out back, made a homemade boxing ring with a few fallen branches, and made damn sure we knew how to fist fight. Just in case.

On the surface, a grown man in his fifties with Elvis hair and a hula girl tattoo teaching street-fighting to a bunch of children seems a little ridiculously violent and ludicrous. I have to admit, though, the man taught me a valuable lesson about overcoming fear by pitting me against my much larger male cousin, who puffed up like a peacock at the prospect of beating me down, but who then crumpled into the swing set like a broken doll at the first hit from my tiny hand. Would I organize and encourage an all-out brawl between my son and his cousins? Hell no, but some part of me will always wonder if they wouldn’t be just a tiny bit better for the experience. I don’t condone fighting, or violence of any kind, but sometimes, every now and then, it comes in handy in this world full of bullies to know what it feels like to take the hits and get back up again, swinging.

I’m Trying My Hand at Horror

Scared boy behind glass door


Smut will, of course, always be my first love. I have at least three works in progress in my favorite genre, but October always compels me to dip my toes in horror. Halloween is my favorite holiday. I mean, candy and ghouls. It’s a no-brainer. Writing horror, on the other hand, is harder than it looks.

Basically, there just aren’t that many new concepts, because from H.P. Lovecraft to Stephen King, the greats have pretty much covered it all. Usually, a writer’s only option is to try to put a new spin on a classic concept. I THINK I pulled it off? I’ll let you readers be the judge:

Also, feel free to donate a million dollars or so too me. I’ll give you a ride in my helicopter.


I Need More Hours in the Day


I’ve been busier than Annabel Chong in World’s Biggest Gangbang. I’ve been writing like crazy. I’ve published one novel, submitted a short story to an anthology (which was apparently rejected without so much as a “you-suck-lose-my-email-address-and-don’t-quit-your-day-job”), which I’m about to self-publish, along with two other things I’m working on at the same time, one of which is so good, that I may try to pitch it to a literary agent. My brain is in overdrive, and I really should be doing something work-related right now, but I miss my silly little blog.

I also pretty much live on Twitter for at least an hour a day, because there are literally thousands of awesome human beings out there trying to get published, and I want to read everything that every single one of them has written. In the last two weeks, I’ve probably added fifty free book samples to my Kindle. Now I just need to stop playing hashtag games and actually get to reading. I love it, though. Anything writing-related, count me in.

One thing I’m noticing among my Tweeps, is that there’s a lot of advice about how to finish a book, and while I’m far from a successful, award-winning novelist, I think I’ve got the how-to down pat:

  1. Sit down in front of your computer, or yes, even your typewriter, you fucking hipster, or even just with a legal pad and pen.
  2. Write that shit, and try not to worry about how much it sucks. Of course it sucks. That’s what revisions are for.
  3. Finish it and put it down for a little while. I think Stephen King suggests like three months or something crazy like that in On Writing , but I think it’s just whatever amount of time you need to gain some perspective in order to make necessary changes.
  4. Stop watching TV and playing on the fucking internet all the time. No, I haven’t seen Game of Thrones, or any of the other thousands of amazing and diverting things that are out there in the world, chipping away at our time. I’ve all but given up my personal Twitter and Facebook pages. Friends are calling to see if I’ve died. The thing is, if you’re sleeping, eating, and adulting in general, you’re lucky to get three hours a day to just do whatever you want. Personally, I use pretty much all of that time for writing-related activities, and I try to set aside Sunday for goofing off in between washing and folding laundry. I mean, I usually end up reading or writing, but occasionally, I’ll binge watch Netflix, go get coffee with a friend,or just stare off into space, or whatever my brain can handle.

And that’s pretty much it. Better writers could probably give better advice, but I just write smut, so don’t expect too much in the worldly wisdom department unless it involves interesting ways to describe a penis. An even better bet would be to find other writers out there, who love to share their experiences and tips. I’ve gained so much from just chatting with people who love to write. This site, Twitter, Facebook, Tumbler-they’re everywhere, and you will never learn enough from them about what it takes to be good at what you love.


I Don’t Know How to Sell Myself

I’ve been working on practice queries going on three days now, because my query submission skills suck major balls, and not in that fun way that could actually be somewhat productive. I know I’m overthinking it; three articles into how NOT to write a query, and I’m waffling between beating my head against the wall and trying to convince myself that I don’t REALLY want a literary agent to read my stuff, anyway. Which is a total fucking lie. The truth is, I NEED someone to sell me for me, because I’m terrible at it.

A friend of mine told me that I should create a persona. I could create a fake name, set up a website, and do all this shit that would probably be great for hawking my gay fantasy erotica. Quite frankly, the whole process seems exhausting, and I’m a terrible actor. If I tried to create a sexy persona, it would just come across as clownish and ridiculous.


Tits McGhee


It’s not that I think there’s anything wrong with having a persona; I just don’t see how people have the time for it. I mean, I spent two hours last night researching orphans and servants in the 17th century, so that I can write maybe four fucking paragraphs about it that hold up to loose scrutiny. And then there’s the writing itself, which takes up a goodly portion of the free time that I’m not spending on Twitter shaking my fist  in the air at Donald Trump. Also, I don’t look remotely coquettish  while engaging in either of these activities, unless you think my nerd-chic glasses, an over-sized Bob Ross t-shirt, and plaid pajama shorts are the new Betty Boop. In that case, I’m cute AF.


Proof positive of my ‘Cute AF’ status.

Also, there’s no fucking way I’m putting a fake name on this stuff. I work my ass off; I’m not letting some slutty alter ego take all the credit while I stand off in the sidelines in obscurity. Plus, I’m kind of proud of my little endeavor. Every book I write is exactly the book that I personally wanted to read, and I’m just truly self-absorbed enough to really appreciate that.

Lastly, I hate the idea that anyone would ever think that I’m embarrassed about writing erotica. A LOT of people seem to have a stick up their asses about it, for either moral or so-called intellectual reasons. All I can say to that, is whatever, man. You do you; I’m not remotely interested in selling you on a new state of mind. There was once a time when I thought that adults being fans of Harry Potter was patently ridiculous, fool that I was. We are all victims of our own hubris at one time or another.


James Joyce

I mean, if it’s good enough for this guy… You only WISH you could be this eloquent in a dirty letter to your girlfriend, as do I.




My Bad Romance

So, I write romance stories that I publish as erotica, which is kind of tricky for me, because when I think of erotica, I tend to think of stories with light plot that mostly revolve around kinky sex. I LIKE those kinds of stories, but I don’t know that mine necessarily fall into that category.I just have to classify them that way in order to avoid offending those that don’t enjoy reading explicit sex scenes.Personally, I don’t particularly like reading romantic stories WITHOUT explicit sex scenes.Sex is a big part of most adult romantic relationships, and being able to bear witness to that part of it makes it seem more real to me.

I mean, I’ll still read non-explicit romance novels, but the whole time, I’m just thinking that the story would be infinitely better if the characters would just leave off with some of the angst and get down to the fucking already. “Twilight” is a prime example of this. I KNOW; I know, but I read it. I didn’t love it, but I read it.

A lot of grown ass, over forty women that I know consider this to be one of the most romantic stories they’ve ever read. Personally,if I had been in Bella’s shoes, the first date would’ve abruptly ended in a fight over music when Edward said he didn’t like music from the seventies. I would’ve been like, “Yeah, just let me out here on this dirt road in the middle of the shirtless werewolf infested wilderness.” No one who hates Bob Dylan and Neil Young could ever truly love me,and besides that, any guy, especially one who considers himself a musician, who lived in Chicago in 1918 and DOESN’T have fuck awesome stories about sneaking into Vaudeville shows to see Jellyroll Morton, well, that guy doesn’t fucking deserve immortality.

But I digress. The point is, those “romantic” stories are seriously lacking an important level of reality that I think is required in order for the story to really be able to wrap itself around you. People like to say that it isn’t sex that makes a relationship, but for most people, that’s total fucking bullshit. It doesn’t make the WHOLE relationship, but it’s certainly a big part of it.

The thing with sex is that it bonds people closer together, which can be really great or really fucking horrible. I once dated a Republican ( A REPUBLICAN!!!) for nearly a year because he was so great in bed.I was blinded by the “D” enough to ignore his creepy stash of guns and inherently false sense of moral/racial superiority. I should’ve ditched his ass when he said that people with tattoos were “trashy”, but instead, I’m ashamed to say that I briefly turned a blind eye because he took me out on actual dates to nice places, paid for everything,held the door for me, and went down on me often and willingly. Orgasms can really fuck up your whole life, under certain circumstances.

But that’s what makes a love story real. I mean, hopefully, most people make better choices than Bella Swan and I do when it comes to relationships, but even individuals that make seemingly perfect romantic partners have little quirks and imperfections that will eventually make you want to push them off a cliff. For instance,I’m funny, smart, and people tell me I’m pretty, but I curse a lot, I’m a total literature-obsessed nerd, and I play the ukulele for fun. If listening to me try to perfect that weird chord in that song from “The Jerk” for the tenth time in a row doesn’t drive you completely around the bend, then me going on ad nauseum about my favorite books or movies most definitely will.

These kinds of weird and annoying quirks are why make-up sex was invented. Make-up sex really is awesome, and while it may not cure the ills of your bad romance, it certainly makes it worth sticking around for a little while longer, and THAT is the shit I want to read. Okay, so you’re a century old vampire with horrible taste in clothes and music, and you have to continuously resist the urge to murder me, but you’re pretty and your long piano-playing fingers make me see God. Will we live happily ever after? Fuck no, but let’s live in the moment,here.THAT is all  “real” love is anyway – seizing the day by the balls and hoping for the best.

To this, some might argue that books full of kinky three ways and multiple orgasms aren’t reality, either. To them I say, sorry,but that’s just not YOUR reality. Personally,  I’ve done shit that would make a hooker blush. I’ve had three ways, watched other people have three ways because I was too stoned to join in. I’ve been in relationships with more than one person;with both men AND women-one of them was a trans man who I only broke up with because he was a cocaine addict, and I loved most of these people in varying degrees.

I may be kind of slutty, and I may have slept with more people than I can count on all of my fingers and toes, and I may have tried sexual positions that some people have only seen in internet porn, but in spite of what a lot of people seem to think about us slutty types, I can say that pretty much all of those encounters meant something to me.

I find it discouraging that for so many people,  there seems to be a pretty big disparity between really dirty, kinky,  tie-me-up-and-make-me-scream sex and what many people consider to be romance.  If anything,  I’d say that the opposite is true. It takes a lot of faith and trust for many to reveal their kinky fantasies,  and two, or three, or five people that can pull that off without giving in to insecurity and doubt are most likely developing a level of trust that will get them through the tough times. People who help you explore every facet of yourself without judgement are people worth holding on to. That’s real love right there.

How Are Women STILL Embarrassed to Buy Condoms?!

So, I’m watching a little Adult Swim the other night in my hotel room, and I see this commercial for Trojan’s new XOXO condoms…..

xoxo condoms

In case you don’t already know, these are basically a new line of condoms geared towards female buyers, which, okay. I’m not against making things look feminine and decorative. I’ll probably try them out myself. What irks me is, when I was watching the promo video, one of the key selling points was basically, ” Now we can BOTH buy condoms without feeling embarrassed.”

Okay, society, WHAT.THE.ACTUAL.FUCK?

I’m not saying you’re less of a woman if you choose not to shout out your sexual escapades from the rooftops, and yeah, I get that buying rubbers from the leering teenage boy behind the checkout counter who’s giving you that “I know what YOU’RE about to do” expression while the little old lady in line behind you is staring at you like you’re a total hooker can be awkward. I get that it’s weird, but it SHOULDN’T be.

It really just pisses me off when the world at large tries to make me feel bad for doing something that I enjoy when it doesn’t hurt anyone. It makes me want to go into a grocery store, grab the biggest box of Magnums I can find, take them up to the cashier and ask them if it’s possible to order the economy size in neon blue. I mean, I WON’T, because then I’d embarrass the teenage boy, and even though he kinda deserves it for being all up in my business, that’s not how I roll. But, I think about it really hard when he’s giving me that look that I answer with a shit-eating grin and a wink.

Nothing changes overnight, I know, and we’ve come a long way, but it’s still something to work on. Buy the box of pretty girl condoms, but for the love of Pete, don’t do because you’re embarrassed. You’re doing a good thing, and you shouldn’t be ashamed of it, ever.