A warm Welcome to author B.J Sheppard who stops by Love Bytes to talk about the release of The Rainbow Connection offers an excerpt and also leaves a Giveaway to our readers!
The following guest post was written by BJ Sheppard in character as Liam Adams, the lovable MC in The Rainbow Connection
The Rainbow Connection Blog Tour Posts Part III: When beds are not an option.
Let me paint you a picture. I’m 5’3, dark hair, pale skin, slender body. Good genetics and many nights spent on a dance floor have left me looking pretty good as I push my way to 30. I have never had much trouble picking up guys and for a while there, the frequency with which I would do so was a little on the alarming side. I once fucked a Greek Souvlaki vendor on a trip to New York for a free kebab and a ride to Barney’s. I’m not saying I’m the sexual authority; just that perhaps, in this instance, practice may have made perfect. I still longingly look back to those Central Park bushes and dream, wistfully of Giorgos Papanopilus; his grease-stained, candy-striped apron flung to the ground as we consummated our lust in a carnal meeting of dirty minds, myself bent over a trashcan in the biggest park in the greatest city in the world. I know my sex, and I know the strange places that one can go to indulge. If we leave the prospect of cruising aside, and forsake sex in a public restroom, then we are still left with a plethora of interesting and novel places to fuck, as documented in the pages of a good, steamy, male-male romance.
1) The Shower
This sounds sexy right? Many sports themed eroticas have captured ball play, off the field, in locations of this kind. These trysts however take place in a shower room big enough to house Annabel Chong’s Facebook friends list. I’m talking about more humble showering scenarios. Many a book contains the intimate wash-and-go-to-it sexual shower encounter in our MCs apartment/ house/ hotel/ double-wide. For anyone who has tried to tackle this daring feat, you will instantly understand the difficulties posed in attempting a vigorous fuck in a claustrophobic, glass-paneled box of awkwardness. For starters, this does not work for men the way it works for women. Our entry points are located inches further back and are directed at an angle much different to the stretching, sacred places of our female counterparts. When two dudes attempt to ride the wave, a few really devastating things often happen. First, oral sex in a shower is impossible (ladies, you’ll understand this one too). Whilst the guy stands there, water rippling over his rock hard abs, the pleasure-giver descends to their knees to suck at his erect ankle-spanker. And nearly drowns. With the water washing off their shoulders and straight down onto your face, you’re sucking blind, and since your mouth is full, with water going up your nose, this is completely reduced to ‘erotic drowning’. No man is worth that much, and the bastard never thinks to move out of the jet stream. Additionally, penetration is mathematically and biologically problematic. In a small shower cubicle, there are rarely any places to kick your foot up to open yourself up to your horny wash-partner. That leaves your butt-cheeks forming an almost impenetrable barrier to receiving the gift of ‘D’. If by some strange leap of the imagination, your feisty fuck-buddy manages to slip it inside while you have both feet firmly on the ground, the angle is all off. You can’t maneuver into a comfortable dick-taking position like you can somewhere normal, like a bed. Instead you are forced to stand there getting plowed in the wrong direction so his dick feels like its forcing its way into your abdominal cavity, with the ever growing chance it might pop straight through your sternum like a phallic space monster from a Ridley Scott movie. All this while trying to keep clenched enough so his pounding administrations don’t deliver an entirely unwelcome and unnecessary enema by way of the falling water. Shower sex is not a good thing; anyone who says it is is just plain wrong. But give it to me in a book any day. The thought is so much hotter than the practice. Books are the only place this torturous activity should exist between two men.
2) The Beach
Imagine the scene. The waves are crashing, the sun setting on the horizon. Two men thrash in the sand, their lips locked in a tangle so erotic it feels like time is standing still. They are desperate, wanton. It needs to happen and it needs to happen now… well get off the beach then, you perverts. The whole floor is essentially made of dirt. The beach is not a good place to have sex and never will be, except within the covers of a romance novel. On the off chance that one of those sick puppies brought a condom with them (who even would?) there’s the eternal problem of lube to worry about. Lube mixed with sand is basically a recipe for disaster and the combination of the two can go nowhere but somewhere bad. If by some bizarre circumstance you manage to keep sand out of your slicked hole (and eyes and mouth and anywhere else it could go to ruin the fun), then you are no doubt bound to get caught fucking in public by a good Christian woman, walking her thoroughbred dog to her nightly elderly walking group meeting. You and your erstwhile lover will then find yourselves running from the police to avoid being arrested for indecent exposure, which is far from a good way to finish an erotic tryst. All that running with sand stuck to your ass like superglue and the rest giving you diaper rash with every movement of your leg, and you are looking at one of the worst places ever to have sex in the history of everything.
3) A Barn
See above, but substitute sand with hay and add the cloying scent of animal crap into the mix for the least erotic experience you can muster.
4) A Kitchen/Food Establishment
For goodness sake. You prepare food there! Quit spraying your protein hose over surfaces where you plan to cook meals. Quit rubbing your sweaty butt into the place you prepared a duck confit, only minutes earlier. You people sicken me. I’m calling the Health Inspector on you! And heaven forbid there was any handling of chili peppers before you got your groove on. There are certain places where hot sauce should never venture.
This is just a short list of the worst places imaginable to have sex in real life, but which provide some of the sexiest scenes we ever read in novels. And thank god we have authors to pen these scenes as something other than catastrophe. We can now safely think twice about doing anything that daring, stick to vanilla sex in the bedroom and read graphic accounts of seductive sexual encounters we will never have to experience, all on the pages of a wonderfully good book.
The RAINBOW CONNECTION: Volume I
Author : BJ Sheppard
Living a care-free party life-style, junior journalist and gay lifestyle reporter, Liam Adams thought he had it all; the money, the job, the endless supply of men in his bed. But when his work causes him to question the very foundation of the life he has built for himself, Liam finds certain areas are glaringly lacking. All it takes is one assignment to unravel the very fabric of his promiscuous antics, compounded by the arrival of a long-forgotten tryst. With the rusty screech of the mailroom guy’s trolley wheels, Liam lands head-first in the arms of something bigger; something more.
As the romance burgeons between Liam and the Mail-Manny of his dreams, each article he writes proves to uncover something new and never realized about himself, namely that all the one-night-stands in the world could never give him what he truly wants; love. In a slapstick commentary through the eyes of the world’s most hypersensitive journalist, watch as Liam’s story unfolds in the most ridiculous of fashions, leading him straight into the arms of love, via The Rainbow Connection.
The Rainbow Connections Volume I Buy Links:
If I were to take a meat cleaver to the brain and infuse my cerebrospinal fluid with strychnine, then attach my eyes to car batteries and gargle with gravel, still it would not be enough to emulate how bad I was feeling that morning. Turns out a gallon of ice cream and the trifecta of mismatched wines in the three for $10 bargain at 7-11 was not the greatest of ideas. In fact, I would claim it to be somewhere near the bottom of the list, as every jerky movement of the elevator threatened to set me to vomiting again, after only having stopped briefly an hour before. With my work shirt fastened like a noose and my Bono-esque indoor shade wearing antics, I zombie walked from the sliding doors and down the corridor, passing Lourdes’s office for fear the pitch of her voice would have my head explode like a rotten grape.
Safely tucked inside my office, I bolted the door (by lying down in front of it) and groaned loudly, like by groaning I could exorcise the demon of my classily acquired wine hangover and liberate myself from the tyranny of my own sorry state of being.
In amidst the multitude of phallus related e-mails from Marie, I clicked on one from Lourdes, bile rising in my throat at the thought of having to expend a single second more writing about the topic that had essentially ended my social life. As the window blared to life, all the tension left my body, sinking from every nerve, tendon and extraneous piece of sinew as I read the in depth analysis of my previous days effort.
Not what we discussed. But it does read better than a who’s-who of dick dives.
P.S Don’t fuck around with the brief again or I’ll castrate you. You might be my favorite employee and wine companion, but if I have to read another of your therapy sessions in this magazine, I’m likely to take us both down in a murder-suicide that will rock the ages.
Even through my impending aneurism, I still managed to laugh.
In the twilight of my most painful working day ever, with little to do but swallow ineffective painkillers and gradually rehydrate to the point of drowning, I began to look back over what had happened with Manny. If I ignored the fumble with that muscle bound shower rapist, then everything was fixable. Surely he would understand if he just heard me out, right? Or not, I guess. At that point I was singing in the clowns, knowing that boys like me don’t get our happy ever afters’, when Lourdes sauntered into my office, for some unbeknownst reason wearing a kimono, and dragging behind her the man of my dreams/the biggest fuck up of my adult life. Manny seemed to be struggling in the tiny woman’s grasp, something that made me reassess the sheer terror that resided in the booze-addled editor (*note to self: tread carefully with that one). When she had dumped the much larger man down in front of me, she smiled as if she were Santa Claus, and she was bringing the best present ever in the form of a pissed of mailman.
“Liam, you smell like the floor of a college bar,” she hissed, as I sniffed at my underarm, the hints of au de sauvignon tickling my nose hair and threatening to recommence the onslaught of my vomitty ways. Though he wasn’t looking at me, it was impossible to miss the slight smile as it escaped his mouth, try as he might to contain it. “If you’re going to become a lush, well you know I’ll be there every step of the way, but try to salvage some kind of dignity before you drag us all down.” I frowned at the woman, wishing looks could kill as she turned her attention to Manny. “And as for you Mr. Collins,” she chided, completely oblivious of the fact that his surname was Jacobs; “if you want to stay in my impeccable graces, then you will sit down and listen to what the boy has to say.”
Both of us feeling like we had just been put on probation seemed to satisfy the old dragon, as she nodded her head once, closing the door behind her as she swept away in a storm of well-meaning arrogance and Channel No.5. Manny sat down in the seat across from my own as I shyly sunk down into the leather of the chair, hoping upon hope, that now would be the moment the earth would open up and swallow me whole. I gave it a second, then two, and when it seemed like the earth’s appetite was not for skinny white boys, Manny opened his mouth.
About the Author :
It’s always difficult to write about yourself, especially when, like me, you have no idea what you’re doing most of the time. I have always loved to write, from a very early age with some rather extravagant dinosaur fairytales to more recently when I found my writers voice and finally put it to good use. It has been a dream of mine for a long time to write a book, and since finding a genre I am comfortable in, the ideas have been pouring out of me. I hope it never stops.
In my spare time I like to hang out with my friends, write and record music and read all the books I can lay my hands on. I currently live in the south of England, but from here on out, who knows what will happen. Each day is its own.
These books are hopefully the first of many, and while there are readers enjoying my work, then there will always be new things for me to say. If you want to know any more, please feel free to contact me at any of the links below. Thank you for reading.
My name is BJ Sheppard and all at once I found myself an author. Such a strange sensation to actually feel you deserve the thing you had aspired to for many years. After all, all it took was computer access and an inner world that reads like a Sheryl Crow song to pound the keys and translate my crazy ideas onto the page. I feel like I could have business cards printed. Maybe wear a black roll neck and perch my glasses on the tip of my nose. I could drink whisky and smoke a cigar and do all those really stereotypical things I imagine all writers do. Perhaps I could get laid a little more? This is not the end. Nor the beginning. Hell, it isn’t even about me. My boys write themselves; I really don’t have that much say in the matter. As long as my characters need a voice, I have two chubby typing fingers and a need to please— watch this space: there is more to come.
7/29/14 Rhys Ford
7/30/14 Prism Book Alliance
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7/31/14 Hearts on Fire Reviews
8/1/14 Boy Meets Boy Reviews
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8/3/14 The Novel Approach Reviews
Rafflecopter Prize: An e copy of The Rainbow Connection