But when your long-suffering gay bestie has read 33 of your books about shameless heterosexual conquests, waiting so patiently for the book where he gets characters that he can identify with, love stories that give him his own happily ever after, with unapologetic sex scenes that take the gay character from a wise, asexual friend to a fully realized character all his own, there just comes a point when you just have to pull up your big girl pants and say, "I'll see what I can do."
Truth be told, it wasn't that hard to step into young Rudy Renfro's shoes. And it's not because I've been an LGBT ally and advocate for nearly thirty years, although that probably didn't hurt. And it's not because I am the Queen of Research, who can take apart, examine and put back together the pieces of the human experience with relative efficiency.
No, it was because as a writer it's my job to find the commonalities of the human experience, so readers who don't have these same circumstances, dreams and goals can figuratively walk in the shoes of people they might not have. When your reader can identify with the characters you write, good, bad and ugly, then you've done more than just told a story. You've broadened a perspective.
I like that.
I like it a lot.
So how do I reach a reader who might not know or think they can identify with the journey of an LGBT individual? What universal experience do we all share, that would connect us with someone whose desires are so different from our own?
The first step is realizing that those desires aren't so different after all. We all have our own closets in which we hide, particularly when it comes to relating to the objects of our affection. At some point we have all wanted that one person we thought was too out of our league that we'd languish in unrequited love rather than risk hearing the truth - that our crush could never feel for us the same way we feel for them.
We've all been there, and I've been there more times than I can count. I thought I understood what it felt like to want something so bad you could taste it, never knowing if it'll ever really be yours because the world around you thinks there's something inherently wrong with you that makes you deserve your happily ever after a little less. I've written reams about it from the heterosexual perspective. It took watching America's Got Talent for me to understand it from the gay perspective, when Brian Justin Crum destroyed with his rendition of the song "Creep."
If you identify with this song at all, this version will leave you gobsmacked. This isn't about loving who has chosen not to love you... this is about loving someone who simply cannot love you back the same way. If only 10% of the population is gay, the prospects of your feelings being returned shrink so much that you take quite a risk telling someone you have feelings for them, particularly if you don't know if you're going to get physically harmed for even harboring the thought. Think of how that might feel, to risk telling the person you want or love that you want or love them, and being treated lesser than because of it, like you really are a creep, or that there's something wrong with you, so much so they have to run away from you. That this version of the song dropped into my life when I was writing this particular story is no accident. It helped me understand my character in a way I was struggling to, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I wept openly once that connection was made.
My bestie told me something about growing up gay in the 70s and 80s that I had never considered. He felt alone, like he was the only one who had feelings like this. Of course he would feel that way. It wasn't like he saw his story represented back to him. This was something taboo in the media because of our own peculiar hangups when it comes to sex. So no matter what he did to fit in, there was a part of him he always felt would stand out. How lonely and isolating that must have been, feeling he was the only person in the world like himself. How liberating, then, to find someone who knew the language he happened to speak.
Walking in Rudy's shoes was a privilege. I made him stronger than I ever could have been at nineteen, but I broached that specific vulnerability with the experiences I have had, pining over people who simply couldn't return the favor. In that way, it became a very easy book to write. It became my story to tell.
And if I did my job right, hopefully the readers will identify with his journey, whether they are gay OR straight. This isn't just a M/M gay romance, even though that's there. It's not just about titillating sex scenes with hot guys, even though those are there. It's not about just sex because NONE of my books have ever been just about the sex. Like every other book I've written, it's a life story.
Enjoy this new snippet.
I glanced down at my phone at the missed call from a 323 number I didn’t recognize. That area code meant L.A., and there was really only one phone call I could expect from there. My hands shook as I returned it. I knew who it was the second I heard his voice. This was a good thing, because he didn’t bother introducing himself.
“How are you at songwriting?”
I cleared my throat. “Fair, I guess. I just started.”
“Come to my loft. I want to try something.”
With that, the call ended. I stood staring at my phone for a long moment. It was everything I always wanted, and it was right there in the palm of my hand. Literally. Everything else was forgotten as I raced upstairs.
I was back at Tony’s loft just a little before nine o’clock. Again my hand shook as I knocked on the door. This time, however, Lando did not answer. It was Tony, and the rest of his apartment was empty. Instead candles lit up the darkened space and wine chilled on the coffee table. I practically choked on my own spit. What the fuck did it all mean?
“Punctual,” he commented as he leaned against the door. “I like that. It shows you take things seriously.” He glanced over my more straight-laced clothes, and I cursed myself for not taking the time to change. I really did look like some clueless kid from the O.C.
It was time once again to bluff. I cleared my throat. “It’s a job, right?” I asked, because at that point I wasn’t really sure.
“It’s more than a job,” he replied softly, which made my heart trip happily to my feet. “It’s a calling,” he added as he opened the door wider. He didn’t move away from the door as I stepped inside, which meant I could smell the spicy sent of his cologne as I brushed past. “Make yourself at home,” he said as he followed me further into the room.
I set my guitar case next to the sofa before I sat.
“Wine?” he offered as he poured himself a glass.
“I thought you didn’t want to contribute to the delinquency of a minor,” I shot back.
He chuckled as he sat on the sofa next to me, sprawling in one corner so that he could watch me with those clear eyes as he sipped the pungent red liquid from his glass. “You’re old enough to vote, live on your own, own a gun and die for your country. What’s a little glass of wine?” He paused as he studied me. “You’re a man, right?”
A shiver shot right through me. “Right.”
He poured another glass and handed it to me. I prayed he couldn’t see how my hand trembled as I took it. I sipped gingerly. Merlot was never a favorite, but I needed something to take the edge off of my nerves. That he watched how the glass touched my lips only frayed them even more. I put the glass on the table before I dropped it.
“I hope you don’t mind the candles,” he said softly. “But music is a lover. She deserves to courted. She begs to be seduced.”
His use of the feminine pronoun aside, I found myself thoroughly and completely courted and seduced. But I answered his question anyway with a slight shake of my head. “I don’t mind,” I stammered. He smiled before draining the rest of his glass before putting it next to mine on the table.
“Let me show you what I’ve got,” he said as he reached for some paper with lyrics written in bold handwriting. I scanned the first verse.
I felt you tremble when I touched your hand. One look in your eyes and I know I’m a man. I want to do something I thought I’d never do. Open yourself to me, let me lose myself in you.
My whole body caught fire. I cleared my throat again. “You just wrote this?”
“This afternoon,” he confirmed with that same potent stare. He sat forward, practically leaning over me. “I wanted to circle around the idea of breaking some rules. You know what I mean?” he asked softly as our eyes met.
I nodded. “I think so.”
“Show me,” he commanded in that same soft voice.
Part of me wanted to slip my arms around him and kiss that irresistible pout of his. The other part of me was scared shitless that he could never mean what I thought he meant, that this song was written because of me, because he had felt the same instant electricity I had. There was no way he could mean that, right? He was straight as a fucking arrow, right? He was Tony Ladykiller Rojas, right?
Out of desperation I reached for my guitar, because that had always been my sword and my shield. I played around with the melody until I came up with one that fit the situation I found myself, sitting in a candlelit room, drinking wine, next to one of the most seductive people I had ever known. The music was hopeful, tentative, gentle; inquisitive. The words bubbled out of my mouth before I could even stop them.
“Tired of pretending, playing the game. I can tell by your stare you’re feeling the same. Don’t put up a fight tonight. Give me your love tonight. Let’s break the rules of a game we can’t win.”
His face broke apart in a smile. “That’s it. Play me more.”
I nodded and kept going with the melody. He worked out the second verse of lyrics. “Needing you, wanting you, and tonight here you are. In your eyes, with your touch, suddenly I’m a star. Let me drown inside you. Let me make your dreams come true. Just say the word, baby, and I’ll break every rule for you.”
That he sang these words to me only compounded my confusion. I tried to focus on the music, making notes on the same scrap of paper where he added more lyrics. He pulled out his laptop so we could mix the music, filling in percussion, and he let me play around on his bass to underscore the rhythm. The more we tinkered, the better it got, and the closer he got as we recorded the different pieces to fill in the song. It proved the most frustrating, but most creative, hours of my life. When we were done, we had our first song. He poured me another glass of wine to celebrate. This time I practically guzzled the whole glass. I needed something to distract me from the look in his eyes, the sound of his voice, or the nearness of that incredible body.
He watched me for so long that I truly expected him to reach for a kiss. Instead he reached for more wine, pausing briefly to check his phone. There was a message there, but it was swiped away quickly. He resumed his spot in the corner of the sofa.
“I like you, Rudy Renfro. You’re young. You’re white. But there’s something about you. I think you’ve got something special. If you want this job, it’s yours.”
My eyes met his. He had just handed me the chance of a lifetime. How could I tell him that suddenly I wanted so much more? “I’d be honored to join Tonos de Oro,” was all I could manage to say.
“We’re glad to have you,” he responded in that same low voice that was doing a serious number on my nerves. He could have me any which way he wanted... but did he want it? That was the million-dollar question. He sat up and leaned closer. “We have a gig in two weeks. Big name club in Hollywood. Think you can be ready by then?”
I couldn’t stop myself even if I wanted to. “I’m ready now.”
That kissable mouth broke apart in a wide, slow grin. “Not yet, young Rudy. Not yet.” His gaze swept over my face, lingering on my mouth. “But soon.”
MASKED IN THE MUSIC releases September 25th. You can pre-order it now for the discounted price of $1.99. It goes up to regular price after release.
Fair warning... if you need a warning to read a book, this will NOT be the book for you.
No comments:
Post a Comment