Boxers vs. Briefs

I share this only because I have had a few people ask why all of my characters are brief wearers.  The truth is, this has always been the sexiest thing in the world to me.  A guy, fuzzy belly and chest, wearing nothing but tighty whities has always turned me on.  Of course, this is my own personal turn on and really out of fashion at the moment.

Is it that I grew up in the 80s and almost everyone I knew not only wore Levi 501s that hugged and cupped the body rather intensely?  Is it high school gym locker rooms in which the only question was the brand, rather than the style?  Before boxer-briefs were invented or mainstream, and boxer shorts were cotton sheeting, huge, and something that grandpa wore perhaps lent people into wearing briefs.  I'm not sure really why they are so out of fashion.  For some people, I'm sure it is a matter of what one is used to wearing.  Comfort also comes into it.  Boxer shorts, for me, tend to be rather uncomfortable.  I dangle a bit too much and tend to either sit on myself or in the process of standing up, nearly emasculate myself.

Of course, when it comes right down to it, I'm a man.  And like many men, I imprinted myself on what I liked  like some baby duck, and haven't been able to shake it since.  At that same moment when I realized that I liked men over women, I had that epiphany moment of what I find attractive.  A friend of mine invited me over one morning.  His dad was just waking up and walking down the hall to the bathroom.  Tighty whities, furry body, and an interesting bulge that I didn't understand at the time but now recognize.  Hey, what can I say, it fired on my brain and has stayed there ever since.  So... from that point forward, the one thing that will make me stop dead in my tracks, drool, and unable to pay attention to anything else, is a furry man in his white briefs.

I used to feel bad about this, thinking that I had a thing against non-furry people.  I just like what I like.  So... in my humble opinion, briefs shouldn't be maligned anymore.  They should be embraced and enjoyed.

Audiobooks

Well, having a job in which I basically have all the time in the world to listen to whatever I like and once I had gone through my CD collection of comedy, musicals, and classic rock, I turned to audiobooks.  I had never once thought that I could actually enjoy something that wasn't a physical book to read.  After all, I can usually read a book in just a few hours, and some of the audio books I've listened to takes days to listen to.  But, I have really enjoyed it too.

Always before, I can honestly say I have never thought about what a character really sounds like.  I mean, male or female voice of course, but inflections or accents?  Never.  Of course, not all of the books are home runs.  Sometimes, the voice is a bit too nasally.  Other times, you can hear a swallow, or a page shuffle, and that kind of ruins it.  But, I don't think I will ever go back to reading something alone.  The next long road trip I take, I'm loading up the iPod and listening to some good books.

Characters

I have always thought it interesting, the number of authors who state that their characters speak to them.  I have never had a character speak to me.  Perhaps I'm too much of an egoist in that all of my characters are me, at least completely in my mind.  I control them, they do not control me.  This may also be why all of my stories are in first person voice.  I have a very difficult time writing in third person, and perhaps that is why I do not let my characters speak to me.

I love the movie "Stranger than Fiction" with Dustin Hoffman, Emma Thompson, and Will Ferrell.  I love the fact that it is narrated by someone who is controlling the story but is not a part of the story.  My intention is to write a story from this third person omniscient narrative.  And let's face it, who wouldn't want Emma Thompson narrating their life?

Another point... I just read Suzanne Brockmann's latest book "Born to Darkness."  Before I read it, I made the mistake of reading some reviews of the book.  So I was expecting to hate the book, or at least be disappointed by it.  And yet, I enjoyed it.  No, it was not anything like her other books, but it was a great story.  And for all the nay-sayers, I just want them to realize that for an author, every once in a while, you want to write something different.  To take a vast leap sideways from what you normally write.  That is the purpose of art, to stretch and grow.  Perhaps I am biased, after all, being a gay man and having a mainstream author not only include gay characters but actually go so far as to have kissing and sex between two men in the story is a true boon.  But I also enjoy her themes of heroism, strong females, strong but loving men, and some kick-ass action as well.

So... in conclusion, a character is a part of the author, reviews are just as personal and unique as the people who actually write the review, meaning that one person's "hated it" is another person's "loved it."  

A New Beginning

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Distortion - Chapter 1

Japan 1891

The river flowed swiftly, churning and bubbling against the rocks submerged under the raging water. But the river was tamed, contained in a small eddy. This small pool of water was hungry to be free again. This slow, calm spot in the wild river cried out for the power once lost. It seethed and boiled under the calm surface, waiting. Waiting for the day it could be avenged against the humans who tried to tame it.

A young boy sat on the bank of the river's eddy. He was playing with boats, folded out of rice paper. It was a gift granted to him by an American sailor. Fascinated by what he saw when the boats drifted on the calm surface, the boy watched in wonder. He knew in his heart that the water was powerful. In his mind he saw that the oceans controlled the surface of the Earth. Its lands shaped by its rivers. He saw it all in that moment. Whoever controlled the oceans, controlled the world. He discovered his destiny while staring into an angry river.

The boy only slightly heard the rustle of the plants, so lost in his revelation. A man stepped out from behind the bushes and walked to the young boy. This man was a blank, taught to obey in all things. If there was one slight spark of humanity left to him, it wasn't going to be discovered at this moment. The man, dressed all in black, grabbed the boy by the hair and hauled him up. The boy let out a whimper and a scream that was cut off as the blade sliced into his young flesh. The knife severed tendons, arteries, veins and his larynx itself. The assassin simply let the boy go, letting him fall into the water. And the water had its vengeance.

The boy's eyes started to go milky and his vision started blacking out. He felt his heart beating in fear, and then beat its last. As the last beat of his heart pushed yet more blood into the water, the boy felt his destiny slipping from him, all the while knowing that this wasn't supposed to happen. As the body died, the life force left it, floating away to join the ethereal cosmos. And the distortion wave started and spread over the surface of the Earth. Few on the planet could detect the wave and even less knew what it was they felt. As the wave reached itself on the opposite side of the planet, it convulsed and slowly moved forward through time, erasing the future and correcting it with the change just made.

Hawaii, 1941

All was peaceful aboard the USS Arizona. The sailors slept, the duty officers logged yet another boring night. The sun rose over Diamond Head and lit Waikiki. People started to rise, yet one more day in paradise. In the bunks below deck, a young sailor sat bolt upright in bed, clasping his chest in fear. He had felt an explosion. He felt a second that propelled him off the bunk and to the floor below. He felt the deck tip and he smelled smoke. He felt the ship slowly sink below the surface of Pearl Harbor. But nothing had struck the USS Arizona, nothing at all.

The sailor felt the press of bodies against his skin. He felt the fear and panic as the ship sank deeper and deeper before imbedding itself into the soft silt of the harbor floor. He couldn't stop shaking. His eyes told him that his bunkmates slept on, safe in their beds and innocent in their dreams. But his mind told him that something was wrong. He couldn't shake the feeling. He walked to the head and showered, hoping the water would help clear his mind. He took his normal shore leave and went sunning on the beach, all the while feeling the cold hand of claustrophobia grip him. In his mind, he felt the air get thinner and thinner as the bulkheads of the ship closed off, trapping him and many others below deck, under the water.

It was around four in the afternoon when the sailor finally stopped having strange visions. They stopped abruptly and he was finally able to take a deep breath. The memory of his visions would never leave him and he would always feel as if he and several others should have died that day in the belly of the ship he loyally served. The young sailor took his visions of that day with him throughout the rest of his life, never telling a soul about the strange knowledge that he somehow knew he should have died aboard the USS Arizona on December 7th, 1941. But he didn't. And yet the distortion wave continued to move forward, changing time.

Boston, 2033

Professor Zander Mitchell stood before his class at Boston University. His classroom looked out over the quad and you could see trees, tall and proud and ancient out the windows. But no one stared out the windows, for Dr. Mitchell was one of the more popular professors on campus, his lectures both fun and informative. He enjoyed teaching, and that knowledge surprised him. He had only taken a teaching post while finishing his doctorate to give him some extra money. But he found that he loved teaching. Today's topic was cause and effect. The lecture had been very popular with both faculty and students. The basic principle being that what had happened in history, once removed, would change the course of the world from that point forward. Today, they were going to discuss the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and its subsequent launching of the United States into war.

Anyone observing the class would notice the man standing at the lectern. He was tall, about six-four. He had blonde hair and bright, deep blue eyes. He was also a hulking man. He was corded with muscles. They stood out against his clothes, marking him as a man who was very strong. But his quick, easy movements belied the thought that he was only strong. He moved with a grace and agility that was both surprising and subtle. His looks were both classical and striking. His nose and a sturdy chin were the only strong features on his face, the rest being works of almost pure sculpture. His fair hair and skin lent his cheeks to become rosy, either from passion or embarrassment. His eyebrows accentuated the grace of his eyes. His lips were both full and kissable. Of course it was all an assumption, as far as anyone on campus knew, Dr. Zander Mitchell didn't date, let alone kiss.

His deep, rich, melodic voice carried the lecture along, discussing the reluctance of the United States to enter war until Japan had forced the issue by creating public outrage, when the distortion wave hit. Zander clutched his stomach and felt the room spin around him. He watched as the writing changed on the board. He saw the style of dress on his students change. He watched as white males replaced half of the women and almost all of the non-white men. In his mind, he felt the change, found new knowledge in his brain that had not been there before. As the wave passed, he knew that something terrible had gone wrong. But none of his students even noticed, except for the fact that their professor had stopped speaking. He clutched the side of his desk, gasping for air, feeling clammy and sick at the same time. Zander tried desperately to keep the knowledge in his head, but the facts and figures slipped away. When the nausea finally passed, all he knew was that Japan had attacked the United States in 1941 and one man had masterminded the whole thing.

Seeing the panicked look in his students' eyes, Zander continued on with his lecture, fighting down his own panic. Today's lecture was on the successful invasion of England in early 1942, allowing the German forces to be successful with the invasion of the Soviet Union that summer. Japan had taken advantage of the situation and attacked Burma and India, in order to stop the supply line to China. His lecture ended on the cold war fought between the German Republic and the Empire of Japan and the eventual collapse of both nations' empires into sovereign states in the late 1990s. His lecture concluded with the United States assistance in Africa and India to stem the flow of disease and how medical know-how had improved since the invention of gene therapy in 2003, the same year he was born. Zander quickly finished the lecture, the passing of time not easing his anxiety one bit.

Dr. Mitchell made his way to his office, clutching his books and papers, still fighting this almost obsessive need to scream how wrong things felt. He sat in his office, reading all he could about the Empire of Japan and the conquest of the Pacific. He remembered one name and one name only. He had been chanting it from the moment the nausea had hit. Yamamoto. He searched in every record he could find. Not a single one. The man was a blank. There was something so very, very wrong. The feeling was so strong, he found himself standing outside the door to the dean of the department.

Jeff Forester had never been one of Zander's biggest supporters. He had disliked the simple beauty of the man. His quick wit and easy-going manner grated on Jeff's nerves. Forester would never admit it, but half of his feelings were lust. Of course Jeff's wife would never suspect that her husband was lusting after one of his colleagues, Jeff had made sure none of his past infidelities came back to haunt him. But nonetheless, it was with an unsympathetic ear that Jeff listened to Zander and his ramblings on how wrong things felt.

"Look, Mitchell, what you are saying is crazy." Forester ran his hands in an agitated way through his hair. 

"Two hours ago, we were still in Boston. The President is still the President. The fifty-nine states in the Union voted for gay rights in 2005. Nothing has changed," said Forester in a condescending tone.

"Jeff, I know that what I'm saying makes no sense, but I just know in my gut that there is something incredibly wrong." Zander wanted so badly to be believed, even if it was by this condescending prick. "I can't explain it, but there is something not right," said Zander. Even to his own ears, Zander thought he might be crazy.

Forester looked at Zander and felt the usual stirring of lust, the pained feeling of want. His own needs made him edgy and short with the man, they always had. "There is nothing I can do for you. You asked me if I had ever heard of a man by the name of Yamamoto. I told you no. What else do you want?" Forester demanded angrily.

His tone made Zander furious. Not once, but twice he had had to fend off Jeff's drunken advances. The man was a classic closet case, and he felt for anyone who couldn't come to terms with his sexuality. But damn it! This was important. "You are the resident expert in Japanese history, I was hoping you had heard of Yamamoto. You haven't. I'm sorry I wasted your time."

With that Zander stood, furious with himself for hoping that the man could help. Forester was a dead end. In his heart, he knew he would be. But it was the fastest way to find out. Now there were just more questions, not more answers. Zander walked across the quad to his car. He had a thing for classic automobiles. He had a sleek little BMW roadster that he loved to tool around in. It served his purpose. He needed something small and sleek to drive around town in. Zander crawled behind the wheel and instantly relaxed into the soft leather seat. He started up the engine and drove across town, to his little condo overlooking the Charles River. The condo was expensive, but affordable with the royalties from his book. The down payment had been the most difficult to part with. It was the only thing he had left from his parents, both killed in a car accident his freshman year in college. He had no other family. That year had been so tumultuous for him. He was so vulnerable and he fell prey to some things best left unknown. His thoughts drifted to Eric and the old pain still flickered inside. So much so that he almost missed his turn off. But Eric was in the past, beyond his past. It had been over eleven years. Zander pulled into the slot just for him in his complex and turned off the engine.

All Zander could think about was a long, hot shower. As he climbed the steps to his condo, the hope and desire that a long soak under the spray would settle his nerves and relax him actually had Zander moaning. The keys took forever to turn in the lock. The door swung open and he called out for the lights. He trudged to his bedroom and slipped off his clothes, ever mindful of taking care of them, he folded them and placed them in the hamper. Once nude, Zander stretched. He caught sight of himself in the mirror. His body was so muscular; it embarrassed him. It wasn't as if he had meant to build his body so strong, it just happened. He thought of the football scholarship, the only way he could afford to attend school. But football got him thinking about other things, things he'd rather forget. Zander looked at himself again, he ran his fingers through the thick, curly hair covering his chest. He let himself grin as he gave in to the need for a good, strong scratch. He actually chuckled as he ruffled the hair on his belly; feeling the skin relax and the tenseness of his muscles begin to ease. Of course while standing in the mirror, eagerly scratching his belly, his eyes trailed down between his legs. The piece of meat lying there might as well be dead. It hadn't responded to any touch, his, male or female for eleven years. He was starting to wonder if it really was psychological or perhaps it had fallen into the realm of physical malady. Of course what thirty year old would want to go see the doctor about impotence when there was no one in his life to be excited about anyway? His own sick humor made him chuckle as he headed towards the shower. This shower alone was what made the price of the condo worth it. It had six jets and a rainmaker overhead. He turned all the jets on full and enjoyed the heat and wet that fell over his body. Instantly, the muscles that had been almost permanently clenched loosened. Zander stayed under the spray for almost an hour, and only the hot water heater emptying got him out then.

For the rest of the evening, Zander tried to relax. But reading term papers about the rise of the German Republic or the secession talks of Quebec from the United States was just a reminder of what was wrong. Finally, after a workout and another shower, Zander got online and surfed the chat rooms he frequented about history. He was searching for something, for anything that would indicate that someone else would feel that time was wrong too. He surfed and looked for almost two hours before he found someone who also felt as he did. But this stranger's feeling had to do with ancient Europe from the time of the Crusades. The incident was wrong, but the feeling was the same. They both felt this undeniable sickness inside, something that screamed out that there was something horribly wrong. It wasn't until almost three in the morning that they found a third. He also felt that time was wrong. But his was a feeling that there was an error around the time of the War of 1812. Three different time periods, but all of them felt that the time we lived in was horribly, horribly wrong. The three men kept talking long into the night. Dawn was just breaking the horizon when there was a knock on the door. Zander closed up his robe and walked to the door. His look at the privacy screen had him looking at two men, all in black with sunglasses. He opened the door. Both men held up badges.

"Professor Alexander Mitchell?" asked man in black one.

"Yes," replied a confused Zander.

"Would you please get dressed and come with us," the second man in black said. But it wasn't a request. It was a demand.

"Excuse me, but who are you and what do you want?" Zander said, trying to keep the new sense of panic out of his voice.

"I'm sorry sir, we don't have any details. Just that this is a matter of national security," man in black one said. And just to emphasize his point, he stuck his hand in his pocket, showing off his big, shiny gun.

Zander swallowed and nodded. He invited the two in and went to his room to change, grateful they didn't insist on following him. He dressed quickly, going for layers, not knowing what he would be facing. Within two minutes he was dressed and ready to leave. He came out into the hall and found the two exactly where he had left them. They followed him out and escorted him to a roomy car. They held open the back door and closed it securely behind him. He felt for but wasn't surprised when he didn't find handles. The two men crawled into the car and started it up, driving quickly out of Boston to the south. The windows were so tinted, he couldn't really see. After a while, the late night and anxiety caught up with Zander and he slowly let his eyes drift, catching himself from falling asleep once, then twice, but failed the third time his lids closed.