(Update: Just received an e-mail where you can purchase the book here. And I'll post more links as I get them)
Every year around this time...Superbowl Sunday...Lori Perkins edits and publishes a new football anthology. While I was going over final edits, I asked if I could write a post with a preview and include her raw introduction. The answer was yes.
I've been in all the football anthologies since Lori started doing this, and I'm in the new one again this year. I don't have a cover yet and I don't have all the exact details. But I will post them soon. The title is: HUDDLE: EROTIC TALES OF FOOTBALL MENAGE. And I've read all the stories already while I was checking my own edits. I loved them. A few are written by authors I've read before and always enjoy...(Lisa Lane).
For now, here's the raw intro, below that is an excerpt from my story, SUPERBOWL SUNDAY AT THE GAY BAR.
Who doesn’t love Super Bowl Sunday? Too much beer and booze, food that’s proven to be bad for you, and a smorgasbord of beautiful, well-toned man-ass on big screen TV. And everybody’s loving it. In public. Does it get much better than this?
Well, yes, if you read the stories in this sizzling anthology of football love and lust.
This year’s football sextravagnza features threesomes (and a foursome) of all kinds by some of our favorite Ravenous Romance authors. Johnny Murdoc returns with his M/M/M high school farewell, while husband and wife writing team of Lisa and Tommy Lane show us, in explicit detail, what happens when the power goes out while watching the game. Derek Clendening gives us some tail at a Tailgate Party, and Courney Sheets lets us into the opposing team’s locker room just before a big game. Ryan Field shows us what a gay Super Bowl party is like, and Stacy Brown serves up some very Hot Wings for two old flames.
So, grab a beer, a handful of Doritos, and enjoy!
By the time my third Super Bowl Sunday party at the bar approached, I was a senior in Princeton and I’d already made a few close friends that I would hang out with at the gay bar on weekends. One of those friends was a feather of a guy named Joe Kremlish. Joe had mousy brown hair that always looked a little greasy and mussed, a long thin face with a square jaw, and the smallest, beadiest eyes I’ve ever seen on a human being. His body was rail thin and he stood with a slump, which created a sunken chest look. He wore loose stucco painter paints and beige jackets whenever he went to the bar. Though to look at him most people would never have guessed he was gay, he tended to speak with a slight lisp. When someone made a risqué comment he would blush, lean over, and cover his mouth with his hand. Sometimes I used to say shocking things on purpose, just to see his typical reaction.
My nickname for him became Mary Joe. It wasn’t meant in a derogatory way. It was more of a good-natured, affectionate campy reference, because he was always so skittish about everything. He reminded me of a timid little girl named Mary Joe in a book I’d once read. He didn’t go to Princeton with me. He was a few years older and he’d already graduated from Rutgers in New Brunswick. He worked at a posh hotel in Princeton at the front desk. I met him one night during my junior year after I’d tricked with a pharmaceutical salesman who worked for Johnson & Johnson. After we fucked, the salesman checked out of the hotel, walked me to my car, and patted me on the ass. I never saw him again either. But when I climbed into my car and realized I’d left my watch on a nightstand in the hotel room, I went back inside to see if I could go up and retrieve it before the maid went in to clean up the mess.
Mary Joe was working the front desk that night. I’d seen him before at the bar in New Hope and I knew he was gay. I flirted with him, made a few jokes about the salesman’s big dick that made him blush, and he let me go back to the room to get my watch. After that, we struck up an unlikely friendship and started meeting at the bar in New Hope every Friday and Saturday night. It was nice to have a friend to stand around with and talk to when there was nothing else going on. Neither one of us were heavy drinkers; we didn’t care too much about dancing in the disco. We both usually went home alone, but always with smiles on our faces because we’d entertained each other all night.
On the night of the Super Bowl Sunday party during my senior year at Princeton, I phoned Mary Joe at the hotel and told him I’d meet him at the bar earlier than usual that night. He took a quick, nervous breath and told me his sister in Lawrenceville had invited him to a Super Bowl party at her house, along with his Uncle Harv and Aunt Nan. I laughed and said, “Are you joking? You’re going to sit in your sister’s house, with her screaming little kids, eat bad food on paper plates with plastic utensils, drink beer, and listen to the straights during halftime when you could be with me in New Hope surrounded by hot men all night? Have you lost your mind, dude?”