Thursday, September 15, 2011


What I love about romance and specially M/M romance is that anything goes. The jock falls in love with the geek, the vampire goes down on a werewolf, and the shifters, well, the shifters are the ones having tons of fun. If you don’t believe me, ask Tomcat Jones.

The dictionary defines pansexual as a person who participates in (or is open to) sexual activities of many kinds, and I think in our core, we’re all pansexual, if not physically, at least, in our little tricky fantasy world.

One of my favorite moments of True Blood is when Sam has this sexy, teasing dream about Bill. I was disappointed that the producers didn’t as a minimum let them kiss properly, but I understand where that came from: the gnawing voice inside each of us telling what’s appropriate and what’s not.

However, what that televised dream proved is that even Sam Merlotte, straight as he is, deep in his most forbidden place has a hint of curiosity. Never to mention Jason, who after drink Jessica’s blood had 10 seconds of Hoyt riding him. Yeah, womanizer Jason.

Many of you might say, but it’s just TV.

And I’d tell those of you, writers are human, and as that, reflect what humans think. In the same way, any master of horror is human enough to have that darkness inside them. Gory scary creations do not come from sunshine and flowers but from fear and torments that are inherently human too. Nevertheless, this is Manly Romance by Gabbo, not the Corner of Gruesome Bitches, so let’s go back to passion, lust and the prohibited.

When two (or three) guys fall in love, they’d do it with their bodies. Hell yeah, that’s one of the best parts of having the same equipment. However, most importantly, they’d do it with their hearts, and in the most subliming stances with their souls. That is what romance is about: our inner core.

Whatever we read touches us. It caresses our Psyche intimately and triggers a response in outward and inward levels. Arousal is human, as much as a couple of thousands of years of repression are trying to force-feed us otherwise. When you deny your body, you’re denying an intrinsical part of you.

Mind, body and soul are a sacred trinity; each is responsible for the other and could not be separated without serious damage.

I don’t care if you like it kinky, or vampy or alien. It’s up to you to accept what’s your pleasure and act accordingly. And when I say act, please read, read accordingly, because not all have the nerve (and the stomach) to walk into a dungeon and get lashed, no matter how hot is the deliverer.

Monday, September 5, 2011


Finally, NASHVILLE DREAMS is in both Amazon and Barnes & Noble e-book stores, and I'm happy to give you some inside into the story. But first, I want to show you the two guys who inspired the protagonists.

First, football player Mark Sanchez inspired Country singer David Dillard.  David is a man who wants to find love, and the only way to do that is to face  his inner truth publicly.

Violinist David Garret inspired David's love interest, street singer Jonah Stalham. With a broken heart, Jonah wants to stay as far from love as he can until David enters his life. Stalham is the last name of a Lady in a portrait at the Tennessee State Museum.

Here is the moment, when, after an argument with his manager, Bill hears Jonah singing for the first time.

When he came out of the store, a male voice accompanied by an acoustic guitar caressed his face. He crossed the street --looking for the source of enchantment-- and saw a group of people surrounding someone.
He walked in a trance, following the merman’s baritone. He tried to imagine to whom that enchanted voice might belong, and nothing came up. The guy must be sitting on one of the columns of that Bank’s entrance because the crowd circling him blocked the view.
Bill finally scooted between the transfixed people and discovered the source of the spell. The guy had long legs nicely framed by a well-worn pair of jeans. The cascade of slim, sunny-wheat hair reached below his five o’clock shadow --a hot sign for a little pass noon. An army surplus jacket effortlessly disguised a stretched smiley face t-shirt. The eyes, those were what captivated him more than the dreamy voice. Big and brown like sweet honey.
Most of the time, when people play for money on the street, they try to please the audience with cheesy songs or whatever is on the top ten that month. This song, however, was something he’d never heard before. It was a melancholic song sang with vitality mostly reserved for Flamenco. The voice was mesmerizing, but beyond that, the guy’s presence sent something roaring inside him, a mix between anger and hope.  
Conflict swirled inside him. Bill knew the burning sensation. This stranger had ignited a bigger resolution to kick Mike straight on the crotch and to vent things that were more personal with retaliating rage. What if he just grabbed the guy and kissed him there in the middle of the street, and the truth came out soaring finally?
Two things could happen, the hot-as-Hell street-singer would punch him in the face for being a fag, or the guy would return the kiss and grab his ass with abandon. This was fucking Nashville, there were no paparazzi lurking in the corners, waiting to catch the downfall of celebrities. And he didn’t even consider himself a celebrity, he was just another singer, with better luck than the one making him think all this nonsense.
He thought of giving the guy a couple of tens, but a different idea nudged him. “You wrote that, dude?”
“Yep. All by myself.” The guy grinned.
“Usually, I don’t give people money. But, I can buy you a meal, if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure. Why not?” The guy was noncommittal.
“There’s a Boxed Joker’s close. Would you like that?”
“My favorite.”

Who can tell me the real name of the franchise I named Boxed Joker's in NASHVILLE DREAMS?