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Then I update you on the continuing progress of my newest book store: Voyeur's Book Store: Houston's Newest Gay Book Store. Browse the shelves 24/7. You will find something you like, from Gay Erotica to Ancient History. I am stocking the shelves with no intention of quitting. (Quitting is for quitters). I even review two adult DVDs . You should know before you go. Or, at least, know what you want to buy! My online book store will serve your needs as a consumer.
Then take a gander at a homo erotic story called Covered. You will take away a lesson, or, at least have a good time. Also, I review Becoming Gay, an award-winning self-help book.
And, finally my newest story, Pleasure Boat. And there is plenty of pleasure on board I can assure you, in this other homo-erotic story written by yours truly.
Enjoy reading, at your leisure. My other book store is still open: Voyeur's Books.
...at The Alley
If you find yourself in Houston...
You may discover the Alley Theatre.
See a Volatile, Outrageous Comedy : Alleytheatre.org A Behanding in Spokane @ The Alley Theatre. Enjoy the Arts in Downtown Houston.
Martin McDonagh, and English-born Irish playwright, filmaker, and screenwriter, has one of his latest works, A Behanding in Spokane, opening at The Alley.
Some of McDonagh's plays have an "exaggerated and poeticized" version of the English dialect spoken in Western Ireland. His writing incorporates coarse language and dark humor.
Either because of his play's coarse language, and dark humor, or despite them, McDonagh earned the Critics' Circle Theatre Award in the category of Most Promising Playwright in 1996.
Coarse language be damned...
McDonagh's play, The Pillowman, premiered at the National Theatre in 2003. He won an Acadamy Award, pursuing what is said to be his true passion, for his film: Six Shooter. And A Behanding in Spokane is set to premiere in NY in 2010.
Damn he's good!
Welcome to a gay-friendly travel-guide website where we study the art of Travel.
Book Store dot COM
voyeursbookstore.com: I am still working on filling the shelves and other details. However, I would be honored if you took a look at this Houston-based Book Store.
Visit the original website which is still up-and-running with more books to be added: voyeursbooks.com, for the latest book reviews on used books that are still hot!
-by James Legare
Making love is like playing the piano for an audience of one. (or, more than one if you are particularly fortunate.) Not every performance can be your best. But having sex with my regular sex-fix guy was not as satisfying those days. (It certainly was not due to a lack of practice. We had been having sex fairly regularly over the course of a couple of years.)
The thrill was gone due to his declining physical condition.
Or, I should say increasing. Namely, he had been gaining weight.
Don't get me wrong, not every trick, one-night-stand, or sexual play-pal that I have ever been with has been ideal in the physique category. I will come right out and admit that I have laid with a few dogs. But, I thought, as I sat up in bed that morning, seeing the reflexion of Mark's backside in the full length mirror; as he lay partially covered in the sheets, that he was getting down-right chunky.
And I decided right then and there, in the bedroom of Mark's trailer, that I would call it quits; tell him I'm leaving. So long and Sayonara Sam. Because as vain as this sounds, I was simply too attractive to waste my time with someone carrying too much around the waist.
I had a a firm swimmer's build, with Pectorals ripped enough to cut paper with. And I admired my body that morning as I pushed away the sheets and stood, full-frontal, in front of the full-length while Mark snoozed, silently, with his face hidden and his rather rotund ass showing.
A man's appearance is important. I wanted a lover who appreciated and reciprocated. I wanted someone as good looking as me.
Mark had picked me up at the gym the evening before, and, I hadn't even had time to shower and change after my work-out. That evening, as I rode with him to his place in his truck, was when I first had qualms about continuing this relationship. And that morning I was resolved to tell him the moment he woke up.
No more mister nice guy. Noo sirreeee; I remember thinking to myself that morning.
I bent over to get my socks, jock-strap, and running shorts. My ass-cheeks were as firm as they were on my 18th birthday; I had noticed in the reflexion. I stood entirely erect, pulling the jock-strap up; but I was standing slightly turned to the side this time. My Gluteus Maximus were rock-hard as I clenched them together, two concave indentations with one closing cleft, and let the elastic band snap a little further down then it should have been; more like mid-butt then around the waist.
Ahhh. Then I pulled it up completely with the soft cup making a white V showing a muted, but very masculine contour.
A little pink was beginning to show on the flesh tone where the band struck my buttock. I looked at it in the mirror turning a little more to the side.
I dressed and found my gym bag near the side table where I had left it in our haste to get into bed, and went into the kitchen, which was just across the hall. I sat down at the breakfast bar. I thought about how I would word it. I noticed I was a little hungry.
I remember now I hadn't eaten the evening before. We went directly from the gym, in his beat-up truck, to his trailer, for some enthusiastic straddling. I had practiced squats at the gym, as I always did, and again in his bedroom. Its all in the thighs and practice makes perfect; those days I had the dexterity to prove it.
I remember I had watched myself in that same full-length mirror that I admired myself in the following morning. I can't decide which had been better, sex with someone else, or, watching myself have sex with someone else.
But no more.
I opened Mark's refrigerator that morning for the first time ever.
The refrigerator light was broken, as were many things in Mark's trailer. A Styrofoam to-go container fell to the floor, and, a rotting salad spilled out. There was an unyielding half-gallon carton of milk emitting and odor. And then my hand came upon a plastic container with something rolling around inside. I could hear the contents rolling as I maneuvered it out of the crowded space of the refrigerator. I took it out into the light of the morning to examine it. The label said: Chocolate Covered Cherries.
I ate one.
To describe that flavor as sex for the taste buds would not do it justice. This was a multi-layered, sophisticated Cherry-Garcia-but-one-better than that flavor. These were savor-able bits of round delight that seduced with their texture when inserted into the mouth. They gave just right as one closed his jaw, tingling with anticipation, and then they squirt out their pleasure (almost like a mutual thing) to share with you.
And you would chew this in rapture; as the saliva glands joined in the action; forgetting the hazy Los Angeles morning outside the kitchen window, and orgasm with a different part of your body.
No. This was a flavor orgy. And I am ashamed to say that I had eaten every last one of those chocolate-y-cherry bombs of flavor before I had known it.
I looked across the hall into the bedroom. The bed appeared empty. Apparently, Mark had left while I was eating. I would tell him later.
Months went by. Our routine hadn't changed much. Mark would pick me up in his truck at the gym. We wouldn't go out to dinner, or a movie. We always went directly to his bed; one work-out after the other. A lot like squats at the gym. My strong thighs would get tired as I slapped him with the same rhythm.
It was like two sides of a coin. And I would always wake up before him. And, I would find that my hunger would re-awaken; to my surprise.
Like a ground-hog repeatedly seeing his own shadow, the scene would repeat itself with very little variation. I did not suspect that this part of the routine would be my downfall.
Calculating caloric intake was never my strong suit.
I would go directly to the breakfast bar and open the refrigerator door.
Some mornings it would be delightful eclairs hiding behind a half-spent plastic ketchup bottle. Other times it would be a Fannie-Farm Chocolates Sampler, or and exquisite gourmet potato salad left over from the type of catered event I would never think Mark would be invited to.
Once it was an apple pie with a crust as light as a cumulus cloud. Another time I discovered peanut brittle in a tin; and left the empty tin on the counter.
Now, as I look in the same mirror, I see a different story. Mark woke up earlier than I this time and left a note taped to the mirror. I am leaving you for someone thinner, it says...sorry to be so shallow.
Indeed I had gained weight in a major sort of way. And I can see it this morning hanging off of me as my body has assumed the general outline one would observe in a pear.
In fat, it would appear, I am covered.
Fiction: James Legare © 9-6-2010, all rights reserved.
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Kudos for Becoming Gay
Discussed at grand rounds in the departments of psychiatry at numerous medical centers throughout the country, in psychoanalytic societies, and symposia of the American Psychiatric Association, Becoming Gay is also the subject at meetings of the National Lesbian and Gay Association.
The author, Richard A. Isay, M.D., has also given plenary presentations at the Institute of Human Identity in New York City.
One of the many topics that are discussed in Becoming Gay is the phenonenon of heterosexual men who have occasional sex with other men: M2M. Here it is described as fleeting and anxiety ridden. And the point is made that heterosexual men do not need coercion to have sex with the opposite gender. The distinction is made between gay adolescent and heterosexual with homosexual feelings.
Of course, you have to read: The Homosexual Adolescent; a chapter in Isay's book, Becoming Gay.
Questioning the nature and origin of male homosexuality
"[As recent as mid-1980]...most psychoanalysts and analytically oriented psychotherapists still held tenaciously to the idea that normal development led only to heterosexuality..." pg. 3. Read Isay's excellent book for the remainder of the quote and more elucidation.
It is a common experience feeling different as a child, not being interested in sports, and having greater sensitivity. A stereotype isn't necessarily false. And Isay drew conclusions from the stories of patients relaying their early experiences, which seemed to contradict the commonly held hypothesis. Broadly, it is that homosexuality is a disorder that one develops early in life. It is more likely that sexuality is determined by genetics, rather than certain anxieties, or the absence thereof, early in life.
Becoming Gay is a must-read for any gay man. This is especially true with the cognitive dissonance (caused by justifying, blaming and denying) that is typical, unfortunately. And the relevance of Isay's book becomes clearer as one encounters the self-hatred. This is a self-help book.
This book review was written by: James Legare
Psychoanalytic Theory, dynamics of personality development, guides psychotherapy.
Models on Freud on Psychosexual Development. Follow the above link for details such as: "Sigmund Freud began his research into the workings of the human mind in 1881..."
The Books for a Better Life Awards have recognized more than 400 self-improvement authors.
James Legare (A work of Fiction!)
- by James Legare: © 9-11-2010, all rights reserved
I set out to sail despite the foreboding clouds on the horizon and the troubling wind which rattled the palm trees. Gil had called with an excuse about taking his daughter to soccer practice at the last minute. “...Sorry Mark. But as it turns out, Ted has to work this Saturday morning at the dealership. So, its my turn to take Jessica, you understand...”; I returned the cell phone to the pocket of my khaki shorts, tucking the Velcro together, after we mumbled non-committal plans to meet next weekend at a bar called Moby Dick's.
I stepped aboard Her Majesty, a crew of one; ignoring all the advice I had ever received warning me to never take a boat out alone. And I worked the rigging after lifting anchor; remembering how the deck-hand did it. It took awhile to master the slip-knots.
The skyline of an international city receded as I ventured in solitude; feeling more alone; listening to the waves splash against the hull. I steered with ropes while seated.
The wind was strong and I clenched as hard as I could to hold on to the ropes. Sometimes they would slip and burn my hands. But I felt like the craft was under my control.
After sailing for six hours the weather grew even more blustery. Tacking the boat became impossible and then it was wandering. This, despite my repositioning the sails so that the wind would slip broadly in an attempt to force the boat back on course.
First the ropes grew limp, then the sails ballooned dangerously; full from a sudden gale of amazing strength. The sails and spar fell from the mast with a crash onto the bow and then quickly disappeared into the Azul, moiling water.
The direction I was taken in by this sudden furry was random for two hours. The sky grew dark as the sun was obstructed by clouds.
I didn't have a compass. And no gauge for True North.
I was pelted with spritzing rain.
It grew cold.
I then saw a dark mass on the horizon. The wind and current took me towards it fast. At this point I had no idea where I was on the map, how fast I had been going, or in what direction.
The image of an Island, who's location I could not find on the map, anywhere near where I could have been, appeared in the diminishing rain and growing light offered by the departing clouds. As the boat got closer, the beige, shallow crescent of a beach became clear and the boat sped towards this emerald, but dangerous harbor.
This was no safe harbor.
Not hitting the coral would be a matter of chance; it occurred to me.
That late afternoon found me on that same deserted beach in front of a miniscule, but smokey fire. I had hung what clothes I had, which was what I was wearing, on some drift wood in an attempt to dry them. The acrid smoke hurt my eyes whenever the wind suddenly change direction. I squatted naked in front of the meager fire, coaxing it with a piece of board. It occurred to me that the board I was holding may have even been from another shipwreck.
I looked towards the emerald lagoon. The wreckage of Her Majesty made a comical angle; the aft submerged. It was gashed in the srarbord.
I had to swim ashore after Her Majesty crashed against the barrier reef. All the swimming lessons I took in high school paid off, I thought to myself as I stirred the small amount of kindling. There were no life vests on board.
Usually the deckhand brought the supplies, the life vests, beer, and ice.
I remembered my high-school swimming lessons. I was on the varsity team that competed against other high schools. I thought about how I felt after the coach patted me on the back in the locker room as I tossed my soggy swim suit into the locker.
Then there was afterward in the gang showers. My physique was as hard as a rock even at that age. And I noticed the other guys noticing. And we pretended not to look at each other.
I was an eighteen year-old with a hard-on.
I was startled by some bamboo rustling and I dropped the piece of board to walk to where the sand met the jungle. Among the arching bamboo trunks, in the partial shadows, I saw a man, in the distance, with almond colored skin and eyes of the same, approximate, almond-inspired shape.
He was as naked as I. Although, it looked like he had an archer's bow slung over his shoulder with a quiver of arrows with magnificent plumes.
On a volcanic island, such as this, with mild tropical winds, there was no reason to wear clothes; other than as a social convention brought from the mainland, as useless as a timepiece.
The man, apparently thinking he was unnoticed, walked into the shadows where he disappeared completely from anyone's gaze.
The volcanic cone of this island, which was not marked on any map I had ever studied, was thick with the green of jungle. I turned to look at my fire. It was out.
I spent what was left of the afternoon looking through the jungle at the base of that impressive cone.
Twilight came early as the sun made progress towards the watery horizon facing the opposite side of the island. The shadow of the cone would spread quickly across the lagoon. I would imagine what was left of my boat was in inky darkness.
In what lingering, premature twilight there was, I saw magnificent cascades of orchids, exotic butterflies, and pristine pools fed by waterfalls.
I saw no sign of him.
I returned to the beach. My clothes I would imagine, would be as damp as when I placed them carefully on the driftwood by the fire. But, when I got back to that spot, the clothes were gone. Only the driftwood remained. And the charred remnants of an unsuccessful fire.
There was at least one thief on the island, I thought to myself.
I stood naked on the beach and saw the growing shadow of the cone; watched the gentle waves lap the sand that partly encircled this protected lagoon. And I felt a gentle breeze that first caressed me, and then stirred the bamboo forest behind me where I would imagine he retreated after taking all my clothes.
I lay on the beach feeling the soft pressure of the sand against my Deltoids as the first brightest stars penetrated the velvety firmament. But first there was a planet. Venus hung in the sky. And the moon, near the horizon and magnified, was still pale but grew slowly silver.
I bent my knees and forced the soles of my feet into the sand. With my elbows bent, my hands cradled the back of my head as I examined the sky.
It was like this island was a place removed from the world; I thought, with the single cone formed over the centuries by hot magma. And the base of the cone expanding broadly before touching the water. It was fertile enough to support a dense forest with strange lichen and carpets of exotic moss crawling with beetles that reminded me of jewels.
I thought of the man who must have been in the forest. Perhaps he had been watching me as I laid on the beach earlier. But now I had the seclusion of darkness; concealed, except for the moon.
The same moon that made a silver streak in the water betrayed me.
I imagined his muscular arms pulling the bow loaded with an arrow; aiming at his prey; the string growing more taught as the tension built. I was becoming aroused thinking about him. Perhaps he was wearing my clothes. I chuckled at the thought. He would have to wait for them to dry.
In the silence it was easy to listen to the gentle rhythm of the water. The waves were regulated by the coral reef. I thought I felt the slight rumbling of volcanic activity; magma forcing its way through rocky crevices deep beneath the visible island. There was the sensation of the vibrations through the sand.
I was aware of my own presence at the foot of a cone formed by contrary forces, the upward thrust of magma, and then the infinite exposure to the element of water; water that thundered, pounded and drizzled.
Then, in the ample moonlight, I saw the upside-down image of his face. He was standing over me. Then he was kneeling beside me. And we both had the knowledge that the island provides, so no words would have to be spoken.
In his case, perhaps they never were.
He was engorged and we both slowly guided him into my mouth. He knelt; buttocks touching my chest with knees on either side of me. I assumed the same position I had while star gazing.
And I can tell you that a place, while having a geographic property, can also take on a magic all its own that you may find nowhere else on Earth. We were in that place as we shared an intimacy; alone in the world except for each other.
This was a moment we both wanted to linger. As Venus remained and the moon made steady progress, we remained on the beach.
Sometimes we were where the ocean could touch us.
It was as though we were two halves of the same soul that kissed.
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