Today is my 37th birthday. Just three short years from 40 and official creepy old guy status. Despite this troublesome stage of life inching ever closer, I really don’t dwell on my age very often. I don’t think I’m at risk for a midlife crisis or anything, unlike a certain relative who went out and got a BMW convertible once he reached COG age. It’s just not that big of a deal to me. One reason is that I continue to find things to keep myself occupied so I don’t sit around and take stock of my life on a regular basis. I try to move forward and work toward goals, rather than reflect on how few of them I have achieved thus far. Liquor helps me accomplish this.
One of those goals is writing books and seeing them published. I’ve written three new ones since December, one of which will be coming out soon. Last night, I got a cool birthday present: the first round of edits for that next book, KING OF THE PERVERTS. It will be out sometime this summer from Grindhouse Press, and in celebration of getting one step closer to legal curmudgeon status, I thought I would share the first few lines from the book. Here’s a tentative back cover description:
Poor Dennis. He’s a regular sort of guy who’s recently been dealt a shitty hand by life: he lost his job, his wife hates him and wants a divorce, and it turns out she was also cheating on him as well. And the baby wasn’t his. And he’s living on his brother’s couch. Holy fuck, that sucks. Dennis can’t imagine things could get much worse, and that’s why he jumped at the opportunity to take part in a new reality game show: a “sexcathlon” where the first person to achieve 10 increasingly difficult and perverted sexual challenges wins a million dollars and is crowned King of the Perverts. Dennis doesn’t care about the title, he just wants the money, but now he’s not sure he can make it to the end. Enduring a Golden Shower and following through with an Abe Lincoln are hard enough, but he’s losing his nerve and fears what act of perversion will come next. He’d like to drop out, but his Russian bear of a cameraman, Mongo, has other plans for Dennis and that million dollar prize, and he has to decide which is worse: winning the crown of King of the Perverts, or losing it.
And now, a selection from Part I:
THE GOLDEN SHOWER
Hearing the words coming out of my own mouth confirms that I have slipped into some alternate reality.
Up is down. Black is white. Peter Venkman’s voice echoes in my head. Cats and dogs and mass hysteria, all that jazz.
Before me stands, quite possibly, the hottest chick I have ever been in the same room with. She is five-alarm. Tall, dark hair, voluptuously rounded, and best of all, wearing nothing but a sheer lace thong. You really can’t classify them as underwear, more like the rumor of underwear. Like the eerie outline left on the ground following a nuclear blast. Saran wrap covers more skin than these babies.
And I am asking this woman to pee on me.
Her head jerks back like I had connected with a right hook to her jaw. “You want me to do what?”
Fuck me. Do I really have to say it again? Somewhere in the bathroom, my Albanian cretin cohort Mongo has planted at least one camera and quite possibly two or three to get different angles of this big moment. I swear I can hear him in the next room, on the other side of the paper-thin wall of this shithole motel he has found, stifling his laughter. I say a quick prayer, asking that he might choke on that laughter and die, slowly, and in agonizing pain.
I lower my head and concentrate on the scarred, faded bathroom tile under my knees. I wonder how many such acts have taken place in this very spot before I came along. I also wonder how often it has been cleaned after such acts have concluded. By the looks of it, quite a few, and not very often. I say another quick prayer of thanks for the heady decision to keep my pants on.
“Um… I said I want you to… pee on me.”
I can’t bring myself to look up at her and instead fixate on her lovely navel, which is quite lovely indeed. She stumbles back a bit and wavers, trying to balance through the fog of four appletinis. I was hoping that would have been a sufficient number of appletinis to keep her from running, horrified and disgusted, out of the room the second I told her exactly what I was hoping she would do to me, but now I fear she isn’t drunk enough just yet. Curse you, shitty Applebees bartender and your watered down, suburban-housewife-strength mixing skills!
* * *
So that’s how KING OF THE PERVERTS begins. More to come very soon.
In the meantime, I’m going to take advantage of my birthdayness to post some links to my stuff that’s currently available, most of which is either free or just a buck on Kindle. Thanks for reading and supporting a creepy old dude.
MUSCLE MEMORY: http://www.amazon.com/Muscle-Memory-ebook/dp/B004TGTFAC/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2
MUSCLE MEMORY 2: MORE MUSCLE, MORE MEMORY (the free sequel): https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/80094
MR. FLASHBACK (writing as Son Porter): http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006YAYVGE#_
WOLVES DRESSED AS MEN: http://www.amazon.com/Wolves-Dressed-as-Men-ebook/dp/B004ASNCWG/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=books&qid=1288983297&sr=1-1