It came in the mail today, an advance reader copy of a Cleis Press anthology with one of my stories in the table of contents. I tried not to cry on the pages, I really did, but well, it happened anyway. BIG MAN ON CAMPUS, Edited by Shane Allison will be available at http://www.BarnesandNoble.com on September 10th, but I think you can pre-order it now. I just can’t quit thinking about it. This is a huge deal! I mean, just a few short years ago, if you said I’d be in a Cleis book, I’d laugh. I’m just not that good… and, well, now I am!
Here’s your sample:
by Martha Davis
I recently overheard Writing Sex, the new elective offered to creative writing MFAs, is a surprise to many students who brave the attention it brings to sign up. Mr. Jack Guedes demands the same heavy work load and strict structure as any other professor and those who want to use the class as a hook up with higher libidos are quickly weeded out and dismissed.
My intentions, although not the above, weren’t mastering the art form, either. Since I learned to read I’ve wanted to write, but the psychological thriller inspired my muse. Make you think suspense in the tradition of Alfred Hitchcock, I was good at. Very good. But the shower scene in Psycho doesn’t translate well in XXX screenplays and Tippi Hedren, fearing divebombing birds, found herself too busy running to ever see Rod Taylor naked.
Why then, would I surrender my squeezed-too-tight time and money to sit in this class? Face a certain public dismissal? Because every student in their scholastic endeavors comes across at least one TILF, one Teacher I’d Love to Fuck, and Mr. Guedes was mine. I’d give and do anything for one chance on my knees with his cock testing my gag reflexes.
His story, I had memorized. The only son of a small town Georgia pastor, when he confessed his homosexuality the results weren’t pretty. His father tried equal parts praying for his soul and knocking the gay out of his head. Neither method worked and he spent his teenage years exploring his sexuality in the pages of his journals, writing the words to fantasies he didn’t dare speak. Three years ago, while pulling a shift in my parent’s new and used bookstore, I came across his second book, Self Taught, in a large cardboard box of new arrivals. I spent many hours reading and rereading it, memorizing whole pages, came into my own sexuality and desires and learned how to master them through his words.
Monday, when the clock struck three, all whispered idle student chatter went silent as the classroom door closed behind its instructor.
“Hi, everyone!” He smiled and moved to the podium. “Welcome to Writing Sex. Formalities have few places among artists of the written word so if you refer to me as Mr. Guedes, I won’t answer. In this room, you can call me Jack. Forgive me if you become ‘Hey, you’ until I learn your names.”
I was too star struck to join the class chuckle. Southern accents are a big turn on for me and his educated, urban southern drawl was aural melted butter swimming in maple syrup. Damn, I was hungry!
No Wikipedia photo, and there were only a few to be found, did him justice. Taller than my six feet even and broad-shouldered, with the hot caramel skin of mixed black and white parentage, his coloring illuminated the crisp white of his shirt, top two buttons undone. And when he reached over a nearby chair to pick up his briefcase, his denim encased ass was full and round, so tight you could bounce a quarter.
My erection tested the stretch in my sweat pants and I adjusted my position under the desk to ease my discomfort. Did no good. I only grew harder. Suck his cock? Would probably never really happen, but if I could just touch him, lay my hands in some way, form, or fashion and explore his body hair…
“Your first assignment? Write a first time sexual encounter following the rules I’ve been preaching for the last forty-five minutes. Due next Wednesday. That’s two days away, people.” Jack’s grin took a rakish tilt. “Dedicate more of your time to writing and less to practicing in real life. Class dismissed.”