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350 pages, ebook
First published October 20, 2013
Damon Suede grew up out-n-proud deep in the anus of right-wing America, and escaped as soon as it was legal. He has lived all over and along the way, he’s earned his crust as a model, a messenger, a promoter, a programmer, a sculptor, a singer, a stripper, a bookkeeper, a bartender, a techie, a teacher, a director... but writing has ever been his bread and butter. He has been happily partnered for over a decade with the most loving, handsome, shrewd, hilarious, noble man to walk this planet.
Though new to gay romance, Damon is an award-winning author who has been writing for print, stage, and screen for two decades, which is both more and less glamorous than you might imagine. He's won some awards, but he counts his blessings more often: his amazing friends, his demented family, his beautiful husband, his loyal fans, and his silly, stern, seductive Muse who keeps whispering in his ear, year after year.
Damon would love to hear from you... you can get in touch with him here.
"Having a kid is like having your heart walking around outside your body for the rest of your life."
"In high school I felt like an ugly unicorn." Trip grabbed his buckle firmly. "Big fucking shank hanging off me."
Silas fell back on the couch. "Hey, I like unicorns. Unicorns are just weaponized ponies."
"God, I think I wanna f@ck me now."
"I figured you'd set up the Big Dog pavilion, peeing on your hydrants."
"Mister, I'm about to write you a reality check. Or would you prefer the cold, hard cash of truth."
"Kiddo, there's so much in that thing I can taste his precum."
"I'm being serious. Speaking from vast dick experience, that's a pretty manageable dickiness as dicks go."
Silas relaxed. "I try to do something terrifying every day. Keeps my heart on its toes."
Trip chuckled. "Your heart has toes?"
"Maybe. It runs around enough."
"Thwit-thitit-thwit. Silas spasmed around his fingers, and pleasure boiled out of him onto them both."
"Switt. Swiiit-thwit. He bowed hard as the lava burst from him onto his face and shoulder and Trip as well."
"He scoffed and tested the trigger of the airbrush. Phht-pssst."
"…blew out the back of Trip's head. Ker-pow!"
"Silas gasped. 'Nhhauuuhhh!'"
"Trip squeezed her hand. Crick-crickkk-crick."
"He fidgeted with the pen in his hand, capping and uncapping and recapping it with his left hand: clickitaclick-clickita-clickit."
"He felt like he'd eaten a hash brownie that was giving him a prostate massage."
"...the madness of claiming his horny barbarian on a stoop, taking Silas apart with his bare hands to get at the sticky gold inside."
"And not Lovecraftian fthooloomarula bibbity bobbity monster mash."
"You cleared out of here like shit through a Shriner"
"His prick resembled a nelly golf caddy disguised as a bright orange buffalo wing"
"Silas battled for breath like a gladiator strung for whipping"
"She paused and used her tongue to unfurl the word like a poisonous scarf"
"like a stupid walrus pining over a seagull"
"ladled charm over him like high-fructose concrete"
"[his balls] rode high like anxious tangerines behind the short, thick penis"
"making his auburn hair float like hot Einstein"
"Awkward stillness filled the entire open Unbored space like inflatable felt dinosaurs"
"More excuses scrambled to the front of Trip's mouth like incontinent puppies"
"yells into the phone like a walking spleen"
"He felt uglier than a lard bucket fulla armpits."
"My fucked up hands."
Trip gave a slow, appreciative whistle. "Nuh-uh. Sexy."
"I always tell people I got it doing construction. Working with toxic waste."
"You mean like acid?" He balanced his chin on Silas's pec.
"No. Like Kim Kardashian."
‘You just find something you would die for and live for it instead.’
‘If you love live, life will love you back.’
‘You are my demon and you possessed me. Body and soul.’
"Worrying is praying for something you don’t want.”
“We are a race of powerless control freaks. That’s how mythology happens.”
He wanted to be gone. He wanted to be home. He wanted this past year over and the world on the other side of the door he could lock. He wanted a real kiss at midnight from a future who didn’t feel like his past. Fucking fool.
“You read comics?”
“Hell, yeah.” Silas rubbed his hard tummy in mock satisfaction. “Talk nerdy to me"
“You have a gift. Not just your talent, or your smarts, or luck, or-“ He paused and closed his mouth, as if trying to slow his breathing. He poked Trip’s chest. “Looks. You, Mr Spector, have the cultural DNA and magical zip code to weave beautiful bullshit, and you’re a fool to waste it”
Pop culture. Nobody does bullshit better than us. Right? China took over manufacturing. And the Middle East has us on fossil fuels. That’s just geography and politics. We’re a nation of whacko immigrants. Scavengers and con men. We crossed the ocean on faith, stole some land, and then stone-cold made up a whole country out of nothing but balls and bullshit.
It’s all new turf. No secrets. No plan. No map. Just treasure.
That’s where the spark started. Two artists alone in the woods, surrounded by fake monsters.
Stay here. Don’t hide. No one can judge someone else’s heroes.
From across the room, Silas watched Trip shake hands and answer questions, feeling a lazy, borrowed pride at how beautiful and talented Trip was without realizing it.
Achievement unlocked.
Each turn you have to chose, no matter what. You can’t not move. No skipping. No coping mechanism. Your only choice is to choose.