Monthly Archives: September 2013

Behind the Green Curtain – Now Available (Kind Of)

For those of you awaiting news on Behind the Green Curtain, there’s both good and bad. The good news is it’s finished and uploaded on Amazon and Smashwords. The bad news is it’s only showing up as available on Smashwords right now. You can find it at Behind the Green Curtain on Smashwords.

I do hope to see it on Amazon tonight, but I am filled with doubt.

Here’s some more good news, though. If you like to save money and that sort of thing. The book is launching with an introductory price of $6.99, which will be good through Friday, September 20th on both Amazon and Smashwords. After that, the price will go up to $8.99. I’m not putting that information in the description, since it stuck around the last time long after I deleted it. So, you know, tell your friends and book club and the mail carrier, because I totally know your mail carrier is reading lesbian erotic romance in the mail truck on lunch breaks.

And you know it too.

Behind the Green Curtain Excerpt

One week until the September 17th release of Behind the Green Curtain. If you missed the synopsis on my Writing page, here it is –


Behind the Green Curtain

When Caton’s sleazy boss offers her a position as his wife’s personal assistant, she accepts the job with reservations, certain Jack Halston has ulterior motives.

After meeting Jack’s wife Amelia, though, it’s Caton’s motivations that begin to unravel. As vicious as she is beautiful, Amelia threatens Caton’s position and her sense of decorum.

As the attraction between the two women spirals into a torrid affair, Caton is drawn deeper into Jack and Amelia’s world of privilege and prestige, where everything is at stake and nothing is what it seems.


And here’s an official excerpt (you know, “official” because I’m an authority on myself)


Stepping off the bottom stair in the foyer, the insults she didn’t get the chance to lob bounded so wildly in her head, Caton didn’t hear Amelia behind her until a vice tightened on her arm and she was yanked around like a rag doll. Amelia’s fingers on her almost violent, Caton could feel her heart pound against them.

“You think that’s all that I am,” Amelia harshly whispered, mask further slipping. “But you do not know me.”

In the thick of it, Caton didn’t have time to contemplate the fact that Amelia had followed her for the sole purpose of continuing to fight.

“I know how you treat people,” she returned, though it wasn’t true. If anything, it was selfish. She knew only how Amelia treated her, and she was tired of being made to feel like a commodity that could be put to use and then disregarded. “I know it has no effect on you. Nothing has any effect on you.”

“That is not true,” Amelia countered, blistering gaze forcing Caton to avert her eyes. “Just because I am not screaming at the top of my lungs or bursting into tears every five seconds doesn’t mean I don’t feel. I don’t… I am not…” She couldn’t seem to find the words, or to admit them.

“What?” Caton returned her gaze to Amelia’s. “Frigid? Dead inside?” The descriptions proved themselves on target when Amelia flinched in response. “Please. I have never met anyone so completely devoid of emotion,” she continued, not sure why it mattered so much. “You could hit a kid and drive over the body. I could walk around here naked and you wouldn’t even be embarrassed. You would probably just ask why I didn’t have a banker box in my hands.”

Her shock at the scenario silenced Amelia for only an instant. “Let’s see,” she uttered. “Take your clothes off.”

With a heartfelt scoff, Caton turned to leave, tired of the game and Amelia’s quiet malice, which always felt on the verge of becoming a real knife in her back. When Amelia’s touch softened, though, simultaneously pulling her back, Caton crashed against her, feeling the give of the fabric between them, instantly aware that Amelia’s body at least had contour, despite the sharp planes and lines of her perfectly-pressed apparel.

“Take your clothes off,” Amelia said again, the request little more than a breath against Caton’s cheek. Half-plea, half-demand, Caton couldn’t tell which part was more sincere.

Words shivering through her, she knew she could – that she should – leave, but, meeting Amelia’s eyes, she also knew she wouldn’t.


Behind the Green Curtain: Cover Preview

Damn. Time is a bullet right now, moving a little fast for my reflexes. I do still have a book coming out on September 17th, though. Who knew?

Since time has gotten away from me, I have been lax in my self-pimping, but here’s the plan. At some point on Friday (fates willing), I will be sending a sneak preview to my email list. Early next week, I will post a different preview on my blog.

For now, here’s the cover. I have gotten some really positive feedback on it (“wow, that’s intriguing”), and some really negative feedback on it (“wow, that’s shit”). Shawna thinks it looks like an old movie poster. I like that it’s different (which I suspect is why some people don’t like it). If you have an opinion that won’t make me cry, feel free to share it. If you have an opinion that will make me cry, please pose it as constructive criticism and I will try to accept it with a modicum of dignity.

The Vaudevillians, Redhead and Surprise RuPaul

You know those times in life when everything goes wrong and yet somehow turns out better than right? That, in a tasty synopsis-y package, is the tale of how I came to meet RuPaul on Thursday.

It all began when The Vaudevillians had only a short stint in New York. Since we were already going to Europe, our chance of seeing it looked bleak. But we were already flying in and out of Newark, and, what was this? The Vaudevillians had a 9:30 pm show the same night we were landing just outside the city at 6:30 pm, giving us a three-hour window to get into Manhattan? And no more shows until the end of the month.

All right, then. Even with customs, it couldn’t take that long, and it only made sense to go while we were already there. Tickets? Check. Pre-paid hotel room? Check.

Of course, that three-hour window wasn’t accounting for weather, and why wouldn’t August 8, 2013 be the first experience I ever had being diverted to another airport because the thunderstorms in the area were hellacious and our plane was low on gas? Plus, two landings and one take-off in the span of forty minutes was the perfect way to prove my stomach is not made of steel. So, two-and-a-half hours later, we land in Newark, endure customs, get to our car, and leave our pre-paid hotel room siting empty to book a room closer to home.

Once home, though, the desire to see The Vaudevillians did not dissipate. It grew more gnawing. But rebooking would be insane. Three weeks away from home, and we would have to go again almost immediately, because the final show was August 29th.


I wanted to go see the Hill Town Plays in September anyway, remember? We could just see them while we’re there maybe… Argh, fuck it! Fuck funds! Fuck working! Fuck responsible behavior! We’ll just go at the end of August and accomplish it all in one fell swoop.

So, with this attitude in mind, we bought our tickets for The Vaudevillians for August 29th, the night of the last show. Success, Bohemians. We shall see art!

A day later, the show was extended through the end of October. We already had tickets for August. Well, wasn’t that a crazy, inconvenient occurrence?

Or was it?

The Vaudevillians

Why, oh why, did I long so deeply to see The Vaudevillians? Because Jinkx Monsoon is a talent, and a character, and, if the editing on RuPaul’s Drag Race is to be believed, an utterly beautiful, authentic human being. Her success is well-deserved and exciting, and I wanted to spend time in a room soaking her up.

Indulging in her was more like it.

Put quite simply, The Vaudevillians is a master work of theater, the kind of show that comes from real creative genius and sincerest affection.

Jinkx is a star. Major Scales is every bit her equal. The comedy is as solid as the crazy-good renditions of pop songs. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

Since 2006, Sandra Bernhard’s Everything Bad & Beautiful has topped the list of things I have seen in theater. It has finally been toppled.

Stalking RuPaul

As The Vaudevillians came to a close, and we were awaiting our check, the rightness of the wrongness came to fruition as I looked up to discover that RuPaul was in the house. Just as I got my wits and bits about me, he (out of drag) began to depart.

So I ran after him.

Following him up the stairs and through the restaurant above, I at last stalked him to the sidewalk and confessed that I just chased him up the stairs to tell him I loved him. Then, he hugged me and called me “kiddo,” and I was glad for crazy storms that diverted my plane to Philly.

The Hill Town Plays

The next three days in New York were devoted to Lucy Thurber’s Hill Town Plays, a thematically-woven set of five separate works at four theaters. We were supposed to see them all, but our scheduled performance of Scarcity was cancelled, so we ended up with a slate of only four – Ashville, Where We’re Born, Killers & Other Family, and Stay.

I knew before I went it would be tough. It was tough. I didn’t love everything put before me, but there were moments in everything that I loved.

Christopher Abbott was quite striking in Where We’re Born. I’ve seen him in a few things and he delivered on this performance in a big way.

Stay was somehow my favorite as a potential work and my least favorite as a finished work at the same time. And the only one after which Shawna aggressively rolled her eyes.

Killers & Other Family, I’m still not sure. I can’t figure out if it’s an experience I want to repeat or to diligently avoid in the future. Because I thought I was okay. Though they were numb, my legs still moved. Though I was shaking, I had managed not to lose my shit in the theater. Then, I emerged on the street, took a deep breath, took another, and went into all-out, hysterical bawl mode. Intimate venue, superb acting, extremely difficult subject matter, and, apparently, both my physical and mental selves are beyond my control.

The day before I found myself ill-prepared for the emotionally-aggressive Killers, I got in a few (much needed, as I was to discover) laughs at Ashville. And a few non-laughs. But, for our purposes, we’ll consider Ashville the “comedy” of the group. Now, I may be a little biased, but I do believe Aubrey Dollar was the most captivating of a very talented cast. Especially in the scenes where she got to get mad. And when she got to laugh. She has a good laugh. Now, I need to see her laugh alongside Christine Baranski in something.

Also, Redhead’s play was directed by Karen Allen, so I just want everyone to know I stood under an awning with Mrs. Indiana Jones.

I Once Saw a Man Poop His Daughter, Notes on Costa Brava

I earned an enemy in Spain. I’m not sure how. It was our first full day in the country, and we spent it in Barcelona. On the return trip on the train, things were going swimmingly. We were in an end row, back to the door corridor, and there was a woman sitting in front of us, a little younger than us probably. She had luggage to store overhead and worked on a laptop.

It was quiet for a stop and then a child-inclusive group of loud folk got on and the serenity was trampled beneath their sugar-buzzed conversation and tromping about the car. It was at this point I found one little noisemaker who was especially adorable and then the one behind him stopped mid-car to pull his foot up to his face and give it a deep sniff.

That’s when Shawna started calling them toe-sniffers as a gentle reminder that, on those rare occasions when I yearn for little people, I still don’t want to burden another human being with my genetics.

Anyway, they were loud, we were quiet, and they got off the train one stop before us, so we had to endure the shouty-shouts for most of the journey. But we did not participate in them. This is important, our lack of culpability for the train noise and distraction, only due to what happened next.

Just before our stop, the woman sitting in front of us turned back suddenly and looked between the seats at me with flat-out animosity. And I had done nothing.

All right. Whatever. This chic was having a moment and I was on the other end of it. But then… then… she stood up, pulled her suitcase down, and slammed it on the floor, all while staring at me with the same look of utmost loathing. At which point, I still did nothing, but the motion of the train caused her suitcase to fall over, which she apparently determined my fault.

When she at last went out to the corridor, it was most relieving. Unfortunately, we too had to disembark, so we were forced to enter her realm again. And she still hated me. And made sure I knew. And I still don’t know why.

Prior to that, we spent a full day in Barcelona, where we walked all about until everything got very sore, the sangria at lunch was far too strong, and I developed an ugly sun rash that turned my leg into a demon.

What a beautiful city, though. Almost unreal.

Since Barcelona’s air quality is undesirable, I did the city bandit-style and, while many adults looked at me like I was halfway to the asylum, one little boy jumped out of a doorway to shout “Bandida! Bandida!” with such enthusiasm I felt only mildly stupid.

The following day, we were in Tossa de Mar, where I found my first-ever unbroken conch shell in a planter within the castle walls high above the sea, and marveled at how many fantasy worlds exist within the real world.

That evening, we spent in Girona. It was our Spanish base, and where we spent the first night overindulging in tapas. Due to an acute bout of salad-lust, we ended up wandering through the entire old town, despite super-tired feets, and it was on our way back to the hotel that we saw the man pooping his daughter.

Pooping his daughter.

Holding her flat out on her back over the dirt next to a tree with her dress pulled up and panties around her ankles.

Pooping his daughter.

In other essential news, the chicken croquettes were unhealthily delicious, and I got three white peaches and a pound of the best cherries ever picked for two euros.